DISCLAIMER: Don't own, don't sue, don't ask, don't tell. Somebody else owns the characters. I borrowed most of the Minbari language from god alone knows where, and the plot is cliched enough that I'm not sure I even want to be associated with it. ;)
SPOILERS: up to Grey 17.
The Scent of Roses
Marcus had never before appreciated just how many muscles were attached to his ribs, and just how often he used those muscles. Now, lying in the medlab at the tender mercies of Dr. Hobbs, he felt like he'd never be able to move again. Sitting hurt, lying down hurt, and never mind trying to lift his arms, shift his legs, or have someone touch him. It was made worse by the boredom; Marcus knew he had never dealt well with enforced idleness, and since the rest of his injuries were relatively minor, he didn't even feel poorly enough to be forced to pay attention to healing.
"Are you finished yet?" he asked the doctor sweetly.
She didn't fall for it any more than Stephen would have. "No," she answered, running another scanner over his ribs. They both looked up at a small sound from the door, the sort of sound someone used to moving soundlessly would make to indicate their presence before intruding into a private conversation.
"What are you doing here?" the doctor snapped, stepping in front of Marcus as if she could protect her patient.
"That is between Marcus and myself," Neroon answered, posture stiff, dark eyes locked on the human Anla'shok still confined to the bed.
"After what you've done?" Dr. Hobbs began to object, but Marcus cut her off.
"It's all right, doctor. If your examination can wait, I'd like to hear what the Alyt has to say to me." His own green eyes never left the face of the Minbari he'd last seen three days before, half-delirious immediately following the surgery they'd had to perform to patch one of his lungs where his rib had pressed into it.
Dr. Hobbs glared, but took her equipment and left, pointedly not engaging the privacy lock on the door. Their conversation would be audible to anyone near the door. Marcus' lips twitched into a slight smile, before settling back into a neutral expression.
"Alyt?" he asked, switching to Adronato, both to spare Neroon from having whatever he had come to say become public knowledge, and because he had few chances now to speak his adopted language. "I was told the Ingata had left the station." He had learned, in his time training on Minbar, that the Minbari rarely said anything in a straightforward manner; his remark would convey to Neroon all of the questions he had regarding the other's continued presence, without Marcus needing to be rude and intrude into Neroon's privacy.
"It did," the Minbari acknowledged, coming further into the room and sitting stiffly in one of the chairs pulled up near Marcus' bed. "My shok'na is much in need of command experience, and the Ingata's present patrol is one with few surprises and fewer enemies."
They sat in silence for a moment, Marcus pondering the unexpected appearance of his former adversary. Neroon wore his full uniform, despite his ship having left, so whatever he was doing here, it was official in some capacity.
"I did not expect to find you still in bed," Neroon began, trailing off to indicate that it was a question.
"Humans don't heal as swiftly as Minbari," Marcus explained. "I'll be here until the end of this week at least, and I won't be returned to even light duty for some weeks. It will probably be two months or more before they allow me to begin sparring again. It will be a very boring recovery, and I will undoubtedly disobey the doctors and set it back farther. I've never been good at being idle."
Neroon almost smiled at that. "Few Warriors are," he paused a moment. "I will not apologize for the injuries I gave you, but I regret not learning more of your species before I faced you in battle."
Marcus did smile at that. It was the closest thing to an apology for his injuries he would ever get; for Neroon to actually apologize, the Minbari would have to be sorry not just for his injuries, but for the denn'sha itself, and that would dishonour the reasons they both had for fighting it in the first place.
"There is an ancient human philosopher," Marcus offered. "His name was Sun Tzu. He said that in battle, the greatest advantage you can possess is knowledge of your enemy. I have always found this to be good advice."
Neroon nodded. "The Warrior Caste has a similar saying."
Marcus shifted into a slightly more comfortable position. "May I ask what you will do while the Ingata is away?" For a while, he thought Neroon wouldn't answer, but finally he did.
"I will learn about my enemy," the Minbari offered. "If you will teach me."
Marcus chuckled weakly, wincing as the movement jarred his aching ribs. "Neroon, if I were to teach you all about humans, we would still be sitting in this room long after our grandchildren had passed beyond the veil. We are a diverse species."
"Then teach me of yourself," Neroon returned, so swiftly Marcus was surprised. "If you cannot teach me of all humans."
Marcus blinked, then nodded slowly. "If you wish it, Alyt." He yawned. "Come at the end of the week? You may assist me in returning to my quarters."
Neroon bowed to him slightly, then got up and left the room as quietly as he had entered it. Marcus, feeling the effects of a combination of bemusement, drugs, and sheer physical exhaustion, quickly fell asleep. He didn't even notice when the doctor returned to finish her tests, but she smiled as she completed them, and thought that if the Minbari who had caused the damage could make her patient sleep without having to be drugged into it, then maybe he wasn't such a bad sort after all.
Marcus wasn't really surprised when Neroon appeared in the doorway to medlab just as he received the last of his discharge instructions. His ribs still ached, and moving was an adventure, but it was a relief to be returning to his own quarters. At least there he had a decent selection of books, and he didn't have to put up with the idiocy that the modern publishing companies insisted on putting out for mass consumption.
"Alyt," he greeted the other, falling into step slowly beside him as they walked down the halls, heading for a lift that would take them to brown sector and the rooms Marcus occupied when on the station.
"Marcus," Neroon returned. "You are healing well?"
"As expected," Marcus grimaced. "I wish I had your healing abilities. This will be very tedious."
"Perhaps I may be of assistance?" Neroon inquired. "In return for teaching me of humans, is there something I might give you, to keep your mind occupied?"
Marcus grinned. "The history and language of the Warrior Caste. It isn't taught as part of Ranger training, and I was very interested. I scoured the library in Tuzenor, but there aren't many texts on the subject written in Adronato."
Neroon shook his head. "There wouldn't be. The Castes don't share their private legends and histories much; the public histories are all anyone needs to know, so it is all they are told."
Marcus shook his head. "I must say, that's the one thing about your people that baffles me. The entire concept of obedience without understanding makes very little sense. How can you follow an order, or even a tradition, unless you understand where it comes from?"
"Have you never had faith in anything?" Neroon asked.
"Not blindly. Many of the bloodiest wars in humanity's history have been fought over religion; I like to think we've learned to question and understand our beliefs if we're going to be willing to die for them."
"Your people have more than one religion?"
Marcus snorted. "We have hundreds of belief systems. Many of them only have a small number of followers. Others have followers from every region of earth and its colonies. But we do tend to follow the beliefs of our ancestors, mostly. For example, most of the command staff of this station comes, originally, from the same general area of earth, so our faiths are similar. But others, like Dr. Hobbs, come from a different region, and have an entirely different belief structure."
"Will you tell me of your ancestors?" Neroon asked. "And the region they came from?"
Marcus nodded, opening the door to his quarters and gesturing his guest inside. He made tea for them both, gathering his thoughts as he moved about the sparsely decorated space. They sat on cushions at the low Minbari-style table, each for his own reasons staring at the Minbari altar with its many candles and a single flower that sat across from them. The flower puzzled Neroon; it was not a Minbari plant, and it had never been their tradition to use plants in religious observances anyway. Perhaps it was a human custom?
"How far into the past would you like me to delve?" Marcus asked after they had each taken a sip of their tea.
"As far as your records go," Neroon answered.
"Hmm. Well, my father's family comes from an island country called England. That region has a rich tradition of stories and legends. It isn't the oldest culture on earth, but it's among them, and my family has always passed stories and traditions downs to the children. This place reminds me of one of the legends of my father's ancestors, actually. There was once a great king – a king is something like the Shai Alyt – named Arthur. He was a child of two sides of a great war, between the incoming Roman Empire and its Christian faith, and the older island populations and their nature-based religion. This king, himself a son of the island and the old ways, married a daughter of the newcomers and built a great city called Camelot. In his palace there, he built a great round table. Round so that every man who sat at it was equal; there was neither head nor foot, neither master nor servant. And from this place he tried to bring peace and understanding to his people."
Neroon's eyes glittered with interest. "Did he succeed?"
Marcus shrugged. "For a time, I suppose. Then he was betrayed and killed by his own bastard son, and the kingdom reverted into chaos before eventually being completely conquered by the oncoming Christian forces. This was all at least two thousand years ago; the bloodlines have since become so intermingled, there is no way to separate the original people of the island from their conquerors. They combined to make a new people, who rose to become one of the greatest nations of earth for a time."
Neroon blinked. "The populations mixed? Just like that?"
Marcus nodded. "Humans make communities, Neroon. If we don't have friends and family around us, then we make them out of whoever we find. It is part of why we built this place, instead of shutting ourselves off and licking our wounds. We like to reach out to others, even if they're completely alien to us."
Neroon nodded. "I have noticed this, but I don't think I could have explained it. My clan also is very old, from a very old region of Minbar. The Star Riders have a story of a great Warrior, from before the time of Valen. He was born of a Warrior father, but his mother was of the Religious Caste, taken in a raid. He too was a child of both worlds."
"And?" Marcus asked eagerly. "Did he meet an unpleasant end?"
Neroon shook his head, amused. "No. He lived to a very old age, and died in his sleep. But when he was a very young man, he was challenged to fight denn'sha with a Warrior who did not believe that one not born entirely of Warrior blood deserved to wield the denn'bok, and to dishonour the traditions of the Warrior Caste.
"The other Warrior was much older, and much stronger, and had much more training. But the young Star Rider believed that it was the calling of his heart that mattered, not the blood that flowed in his veins. And he was proven right; he won the denn'sha. But he always regretted it, according to the stories that were passed down to his children. He wished the other Warrior had lived. Not because he wanted to die, but because they were both Warriors in the service of the same goal, the same belief, and in a sense it was like killing part of himself.
"Several centuries later, when Valen's Ban stopped the denn'sha, the story was largely forgotten. We had a new set of legends and stories to bind our people together. But the Star Riders remember that long before we were the people of Valen, with all of his traditions and rituals, we still shared the same heart. I sometimes think that the Minbari have only one heart, or one soul, and that we are all simply bits siphoned off and then returned to it when we die."
Marcus smiled. "What about the Id'Minbari?"
Neroon shrugged. "Who is to say how far a bit of the Minbari soul could be flung, if it needed to be? We are not of the same people, you and I. But we are of the same heart, and Warrior to Warrior, I am glad that I corrected my ancestor's mistake. I did not kill a Warrior who fought the same battle as I, just because we were both convinced ours was the right way to fight that battle."
Marcus nodded, and then yawned. "I'm glad too."
"You are tired," Neroon observed, standing. "I will leave you now. But perhaps tomorrow, you will tell me the significance of the flower that adorns your altar?"
"Oh no, Alyt. Not tomorrow," Marcus smiled an obscure little smile, and showed his guest to the door.
Some days later, when Marcus was feeling stronger, they set out from his quarters and walked in the direction of the gardens. The human's step was much more energetic than it had been, although not quite up to his previous standards.
"Where are we going?" Neroon asked, as they headed deeper into the gardens of Babylon 5 than he'd ever been before.
"We're going to the labyrinth," Marcus grinned, a small bounce infesting his walk again, making his denn'bok swing at his hip.
"What is a labyrinth?" Neroon asked, brushing aside a bit of foliage.
"I forgot that you don't have them on Minbar," Marcus admitted. "It's a pity; they'd be amazing made from crystal. A labyrinth is a maze."
"Why do you wish us to become lost?" Neroon asked, still puzzled but trying to contain it.
"Not that kind of maze. They're usually laid out in either a circle or a square, and as long as you only turn in one direction, all of the paths eventually lead to the center. They're often used for meditation and contemplation, although there is also a tradition of them being used as popular trysting spots at one point in earth's history. In ancient times, King Mynos of Crete kept one beneath his palace. At the center was a horrible monster, and every seven years there would be a great sacrifice and captured young people would be sent into the maze to feed the monster. But the more modern ones are simple mazes of hedges or bales of straw, often with a special plant or statue at the centre."
"What lies at the center of this one?" Neroon wondered.
"Ah, that's the question, isn't it? What is at the heart of the Babylon 5 labyrinth?" Marcus' eyes twinkled as he wondered theatrically. "Gold? Jewels? The greatest treasure in all the land? A coffee bush?"
Neroon shot him an irritated look.
"Right, don't tease the Minbari," Marcus mimed writing a note down on an invisible notepad. "Honestly, I've no idea, although I've heard all the stories. I've never had the time or the inclination to walk it on my own. We'll find out together." Thus saying, he plunged into the winding path between tall hedges, Neroon pacing him quietly.
About halfway through, listening to Marcus chatter about some obscure and not entirely relevant bit of human trivia, only about half of which he understood, Neroon realized that he did feel calmer and more contemplative. The quiet, the light scent of whatever plant made up the walls of the labyrinth, and the inability to do anything but continue slowly forward to the center all seemed to be focusing his thoughts in a way few things other than hours of denn'bok forms ever managed.
As his thoughts focused, he realized that they were almost entirely centered on the enigmatic man walking at his side. Somehow the human had burrowed farther into his defences than anyone else outside of his family had ever managed, and in a shorter time. There was just something about the man, who seemed so ceaselessly and effortlessly cheerful but who carried a core of darkness within him that called to Neroon's own. You couldn't stare up into a deathblow and declare that you stood between darkness and light unless you had, in fact, stood in both at different times. Every Warrior knew that. It was one of the reasons why one of the last steps to becoming recognized as a member of the Caste was known as the Trial of Shadow, where each supplicant was faced with the darkest parts of their own soul.
Neroon had come through that test unchanged, and now he believed that he had never truly given himself up to it as he should have. His true Trial of Shadow had come much later, unremarked in a corridor somewhere in Down Below, when he stared into green eyes and faced what he had become. It was why he was still here, though the Ingata would not return for him for several weeks. It was why, instead of making life difficult for Delenn or announcing his presence in any official capacity, he was walking in the gardens with the human he had so nearly killed.
It had not been a good moment for him, when he stared into Marcus' eyes and saw reflected in them the face of a fanatic, the darkest side of everything he had accused Delenn of being. He had fought for what he believed was best for his people, yes, but his own pride and arrogance had blinded him to the truth of that belief. His eyes were opening now, seeing the world outside the bridge of a Sharlin cruiser. He began to believe that it would do his Caste a great service if more of their youth faced not the inside of their own minds, but the world outside of their halls and rituals.
And so he had stayed, to learn more of the world he had caught a glimpse of in the young human's eyes. To learn why this place, this neutral ground, existed. To learn why a human would choose a life among the people who had nearly wiped out his entire species, and come to embrace that life to such an extent that few born to it could have exemplified its values so clearly. To learn what the shadows of his own heart were, and to hopefully shine enough light on them that they never again rose up and put an innocent life at risk.
"We're here," Marcus broke into his thoughts. The expression on his face was amused; Neroon was growing better able to read the shifts of human facial muscles, beneath the ridiculous amounts of fur they were covered with. Particularly this one.
"And what have we found?" Neroon asked, looking briefly up into the clearing they had come to, before returning his gaze to his companion's face.
"The heart of Babylon 5," Marcus answered.
Neroon took another, longer glance around the clearing. "There is nothing here," he observed. It was true. Even the grass stopped at a given point. The center of the labyrinth was nothing but bare floor, covered in some sort of green stone.
Marcus nodded. "Precisely. Oh, they thought about any number of things, monuments to peace, symbols from a variety of cultures and planets for understanding and cooperation. But in the end, this was what the station was mean to be. This is what we are meant to represent."
"Green rock?" Neroon asked, still puzzled, but more interested in the glow in Marcus' eyes than in the center of the clearing. His eyes were greener than the odd rock, anyway.
"Not at all," Marcus grinned, his eyes twinkling even harder. "It's slate. What they used to make chalkboards out of; you write on it with a stick of chalk – calcium carbonate, a mineral found on earth – and then when you're done, you can wipe it off and write something else."
"I do not understand," Neroon admitted. "What does this – chalkboard? – have to do with Babylon 5?"
"It's a blank slate," Marcus explained. "It's an old Human expression. It means that it is a fresh beginning. We can write a new future using it, create a better world for those who come after us."
Neroon meditated on that all the way back to Marcus' quarters, and still wasn't sure he'd grasped all of the subtleties of it. He resolved to look the expression up in the computer in his guest rooms.
Marcus was yawning again as they reached his door. "Thank you. I had a lovely time; it's been too long since I've been able to enjoy something so simple."
"Then I am glad to have been able to enjoy it with you," Neroon returned. "Perhaps tomorrow, you will share another mystery with me? Such as the flower on your altar?" he asked every time they parted. It had become almost a ritual.
Marcus smiled another enigmatic little smile, and shook his head. "No, Alyt. Not tomorrow."
Days passed, and then one morning Neroon arrived at Marcus' quarters quite early in response to a message the Anla'shok had left him. He was unsure why Marcus had specified such an hour, and equally uncertain why the human had insisted that he left his armour (although not his denn'bok; Marcus himself was too much a Warrior to ask that) in his room. He was dressed simply in black pants and a robe, not dissimilar in style to the clothing Delenn had worn regularly before her change.
"Thank you," Marcus said as he opened his door.
Neroon had to pause a moment to take in the other man's appearance; it was the first time he'd seen Marcus in anything but his uniform or a set of hospital robes. The Anla'shok wore black trousers and a high-collared emerald-green shirt, in the style Neroon had learned was called 'oriental'. His hair was brushed back and held at the base of his neck by a small silver ornament, and his beard was neatly trimmed. He carried a small leather case, and Neroon could tell both by its battered appearance and the care with which Marcus handled it that it was both old and precious.
"You do not need to thank me," Neroon returned. "Where are we going?"
"You said you wished to learn more about humans. Well, today is a holy day for my religion; I thought you might come, and see what and how we believe. If this is acceptable?" sudden doubt showed in Marcus' eyes.
"I would be honoured to share your worship, if you are certain my presence will not offend," Neroon answered, touched by the offer.
Marcus shook his head. "You'll see. We're lucky; this is the holiest day of the year, by the calendar of my faith. It's been a long time since I've been able to attend services for it." His eyes grew shadowed. "The last time I did, it was with my father, and he carried this." He held the leather case up for Neroon to see, and opened it to reveal a book inside. "This is our family holy book; it's passed on from generation to generation, the names of my family recorded on the first pages. It's been part of my family for nearly six hundred years. I only bring it out twice a year; the rest of the time it's kept in a special case, to keep it from harm. It was one of the few family possessions that survived."
"Survived what?" Neroon asked, seeing his human companion's eyes darken.
"Ah, that is a story for another day," Marcus answered, his smile returning but not quite touching his eyes. Neroon had never before noticed how often human eyes betrayed their emotions, but now that he knew what to look for, he wondered what he would see in the eyes of those he knew. What sorrows, what horrors, lurked in the eyes of Sheridan Starkiller? Of Kalikar Garibaldi? Of shok'na Ivanova, who seemed so angry with the world? And how many of those horrors had he and his put there, in their misguided quest for vengeance at the cost of everything else, even their own honour?
"If it is a tale for another day, then what is it you intend to teach me today?" Neroon asked.
"Not me," Marcus smiled, leading him down an unfamiliar corridor and into a small room. Neroon would have known the room for a place of religious observance instantly; they all seemed to collect a feeling of quiet serenity, as if the hushed worship of those who prayed within them seeped into the very walls. "Today's story is someone else's to tell."
They took seats in the back corner of the room, concealed in the shadows, as the room slowly filled with humans. Neroon saw no other aliens, but Marcus' warmth at his side ensured he did not feel out of place. All of the humans, like Marcus, seemed to have dressed in their best. Many wore some sort of ornament around their necks.
"Is there a significance to that decoration?" Neroon asked quietly in his companion's ear.
"Yes," Marcus returned. "You'll see." The gathered crowd of humans stood as a man in simple robes moved behind the altar at the front of the room.
"Be seated," the priest called, and waited until the rustling of clothing subsided. "We gather on this, the holiest day of our faith calendar. We gather to remember that God gave up his only son to die on the cross for our sins. We gather to remember that on this day, Christ the son of God rose from the dead…"
Marcus murmured responses and prayers in time with the rest of the congregation, sometimes opening the ancient book on his lap and reading along out of it, other times singing what were obviously ancient and well-loved hymns. Neroon watched it all from his seat in the corner, fascinated by the simple belief system that was so similar to, and yet so different from, his own. Equally fascinated by the insights it gave him into the humans, and their actions both during and after the war with his people.
They waited until the room cleared after the end of the service before standing and approaching the priest.
"Thank you, father," Marcus said softly, shaking hands with the old man.
"Thank you, my son. It is always refreshing to see a new face in the crowd, though by the look of your bible, you are no stranger to worship. But your friend, I think, is?"
Marcus smiled. "Alyt Neroon of the Star Riders, this is one of the priests who serves the human population of Babylon 5. His branch of faith is called 'Anglican', because it comes from England, the island of my ancestors we were discussing. Father, this is Alyt Neroon of the Minbari; we've been exchanging information about our cultures, and I thought hearing you speak might teach him more in one morning than I could hope to explain in a lifetime."
Neroon bowed, and was pleased when the human bowed back instead of reaching for his hand, as often happened. "It was my honour to hear your story," he offered to the priest.
"If you learned something from it, I'm pleased, though I don't hope to make a convert of a Minbari," the old priest smiled.
"We need to be going so the chapel can be prepared for another service," Marcus broke in gently. "Thank you again, father."
They left quietly, and were some distance down the hall before Neroon found the words he was searching for. "Was today's lesson meant to help me understand why you were so willing, in the war with my people, to lay down your lives in a hopeless cause?" he asked.
"No," Marcus shook his head. "Any Warrior would do the same, and you've already learned to see some humans as Warriors. Today's lesson was about forgiveness. I wanted you to see more of why we created this station; how we can work hand in hand with the people who almost committed genocide against us, to build a better future. This is only one faith of many, and I cannot teach you those I do not follow myself, but perhaps it will help."
"I see," Neroon pondered. "Every time I think I begin to understand you a little better, I uncover a vault of information I had never previously considered."
Marcus flashed him a quick grin. "At least life's never boring. What else did you learn?"
"That our people are not so different, in the way we think and believe. At least, if most of your faiths have something in common with this one, we aren't." Neroon shook his head. "I'm not sure I understand how that can be."
Marcus' grin was out in full force this time. "Do you remember Jeffrey Sinclair, who was commander of this station and then later Ambassador to Minbar and Entil'zha?"
Neroon nodded. "I remember him." He paused. "I will tell you something that is not commonly known. Before Delenn broke the Grey Council, I was Satai. I know who Jeffrey Sinclair is, and I know who he was."
Marcus' eyes widened. "No wonder you and Delenn don't get along."
Neroon snorted. "It has nothing to do with being Satai; we've loathed each other since we were children. We attended primary school together, before declaring the calling of our hearts, and we were rivals for the highest grade every year. We've gotten better at working together over the years, but I am afraid we haven't ever managed to get over some of it. I doubt we ever will. And now you know the entire secret behind the tension between Neroon of the Star Riders and Ambassador Delenn. Secretly, we are still schoolchildren trying to best one another."
Marcus couldn't contain the laughter that burst forth at that revelation. "Oh my! Somehow, that's a perfect explanation. But if you know who Entil'zha Sinclair was, then this piece of the puzzle may put it all together for you; on earth, Jeffrey Sinclair was raised in a Jesuit orphanage. The Jesuits are another branch of the same faith that the Anglicans are part of. He was educated by them until he was an adult, at which point he joined Earthforce. And now he has gone back to be Valen, and lead the Minbari of a thousand years ago into peace. He'll become the closest thing you have to a figure of religious worship, and his own faith is firmly rooted in an old-fashioned branch of one of earth's dominant religions."
Neroon's eyes widened, and the implications of that thought chased him all the way back to Marcus' rooms. "I'd invite you in for lunch, but you look like you need to go off somewhere to think for a while," Marcus chuckled as he keyed open the door.
Neroon nodded distractedly, but as the slight perfume of the flower blooming on Marcus' altar hit his nose, he remembered to ask. "Perhaps tomorrow, you will tell me the story of the flower on your altar?"
Marcus smiled a little sadly. "No, Alyt. Not tomorrow. But soon."
Before Neroon really knew it, five weeks had passed. Marcus was healing faster than expected, and Dr. Hobbs had privately admitted to Neroon that it was mostly because the Minbari had been keeping him calm and quiet, and out of trouble. She predicted clearing the Anla'shok for full duty within the next two weeks, if he continued to improve at this rate, although he would need some time to regain his conditioning.
Neroon wasn't sure how he felt about this news. Happy for Marcus, of course; it was good that the young human was healing so swiftly, and would soon be able to return to the work he loved. But Neroon would miss their discussions, and the research they prompted him into. He had learned much in the weeks he'd spent with Marcus. Much about the humans, and much about himself. They had shared legends from their birthplaces, traded languages, told jokes and sung songs.
They had explained to each other their religious beliefs, and outlined their families. Neroon had, for the first time, spoken to someone outside of his clan about the death of his sister on the Dralafi, as well as of his other sister at home in Yed'oore who had chosen the Worker Caste and served the clan as one of its greatest chefs. Of his senile old aunt who kept pressing him to marry, of his father who taught the pike to first-level students of their clan. Of his mother the priestess, who had loved a Warrior enough to leave the temple and minister to a small but ancient clan in a small household chapel.
And yet, though he now understood humans much better than any other Minbari save perhaps Delenn, he still did not understand Marcus. The more layers he peeled away, the more there seemed to be. The young human had more protections wrapped around his soul than Neroon had seen in even the most jaded warrior, all crowned by a wicked smile and a twinkling pair of green eyes that urged you to share the joke and look no deeper.
Neroon rang the chime on Marcus' door, wondering where they would go this night. Marcus had said little, only that he wished them to enjoy dinner together. Perhaps one of the human restaurants on the Zocalo? Although knowing Marcus, it was far more likely to be a restaurant catering to one of the many alien species.
Marcus answered the door in casual clothes, again surprising Neroon by being out of his uniform. His feet were bare, and as he gestured Neroon into the room the Minbari caught the scent of unfamiliar spices.
"I thought I'd cook for us, if you don't mind," Marcus said, setting out tea and plates. "It's nothing fancy, just a stir-fry, but it should be edible at least." He dished up, waiting Minbari-style for his guest to take the first bite.
Neroon did, and was surprised by the slightly sweet taste of the sauce coating the fried human food that lay over noodles. "This is excellent," he complimented. "Thank you for your trouble in making this meal."
Marcus smiled. "Thank you for sharing it with me." He took a bite himself. "Don't worry, I won't make you be all formal and meditate between bites. Dig in, and let me tell you what I heard from Garibaldi earlier today…"
Dinner passed in a haze of good food, good tea, and easy conversation. Neroon was no longer surprised by how comfortable he was with this human. Sometimes it surprised him when Marcus wasn't by his side, as he'd turn to share some observation, only to find himself alone. Somehow the young man had wormed his way deep into Neroon's life and heart, and the Minbari Warrior was no longer sure what he'd do when the Ingata returned in only a few short weeks to carry him away from his human.
"You're quiet tonight," Marcus observed.
"Merely thinking," Neroon returned.
"Mmm." Marcus stared into the lit candles on his altar for a moment. "Do you still wish to hear the story of the flower on my altar?"
Neroon sat up straighter, all his attention focused on his host now. "I had begun to wonder if there was a story, or if you were simply teasing me."
Marcus shook his head. "No, there is a story. I've told you many of the legends and histories of my father's people, but I haven't spoken of my mother's ancestors. The flower is part of their story. Several centuries ago, my mother's ancestors lived in a small house in a small town, and that house was covered with this flower. They were famous for it, because it was a very hard flower to grow, especially in such amounts.
"There were three sisters; the eldest was very brave, and because their father was ill, she took on much of the man's work around the house. And the second girl was very clever, and also accomplished at women's tasks, and she kept the house. But the youngest girl was a gardener, and could make anything bloom, no matter how withered and dead others thought it was.
"They came to the attention of a mysterious sorcerer who lived nearby – or far away; it doesn't matter, for the way to his castle was hidden by magic, and none went there unless he wished them to, and then the way was always short. When this sorcerer was much younger, he was betrayed by those he called his friends, who wanted to steal the secrets of his work. He protected his work, which could have caused great harm, but in doing so he was turned into a hideous beast. He hid himself away from the rest of the world, with only his garden for company, swearing off magic forever.
"But the garden began to die, and he could do nothing. So when the sisters came to his attention, and he heard that the youngest could make anything bloom, he took her to help his poor flowers. She knew he never meant her harm, and she pitied him, and she poured all her love and all his sorrow into the soil, and his flowers grew in such abundance as had never been seen. But her sisters were worried for her, because she had been gone for so long and they could not find the sorcerer's palace. So he allowed her to go free. But he did not realize that she had made his heart bloom along with the flowers, and when she left, both began to wither.
"By the time the girl realized what was wrong, it was almost too late to save him. But she returned, and because she loved him even though he was a beast, because she would bear his loneliness with him, because she could make anything grow even when others thought it dead, he healed. They were married, and they lived in the house the sisters had once lived in, surrounded by the flowers, and so did their descendents until my mother left that house to marry my father and join him on the mining colony Arisia."
Neroon remained silent for long moments after the story was over, staring at the little flower. "What is it called?" he finally asked.
"A rose," Marcus answered. "My mother brought one of the family bushes with her. She tended it until she died, when I was ten. Then my father tended it until he died, six years later. Then I tended it, until I was drafted into Earthforce during the Dilgar war. And then my brother tended it, until I came back to Arisia and he was free to leave to join the Anla'shok. And then I tended it again, until my brother came to warn me about creatures called Shadows."
Neroon's eyes grew wide, but he didn't interrupt the human's story.
"I didn't listen to his warnings, and I was the only survivor when they came for our world. My brother died in my arms, begging me to finish the work he started with the Rangers. Our friend Hassina, who I thought I might have cared for more deeply in time, died with him. Appropriate, really; they were more suited to each other, I think. I gathered all I could from the ruins of the colony; there wasn't much. The smallest, deepest vault survived; it had our family bible, my parents' wedding rings, and a single flower that my father placed there when my mother died. It was still blooming when I found it; perhaps my many-times-great ancestor put some spell on it. I don't know."
"I had no idea," Neroon said softly, aching for his companion.
Marcus shook his head. "Few people do. Sinclair knew; I think Sech Durhan suspected. Now you. I've never told the others, not even Delenn." He smiled slightly. "I didn't think I'd ever tell that story to anyone."
Neroon bowed deeply. "I am honoured that you chose me, then."
"More than you know," Marcus whispered, gaze fastened on his dark rose as if it held all the secrets of the universe. "I wish to chose you for something else, if you'll allow."
Neroon nodded. "Anything within my power, I will give you."
Marcus stood and crossed the small room swiftly, catching the rose up gently and kneeling before Neroon. "To my ancestors, you'd be just as much a beast as that sorcerer was. But under that, I see a Warrior with a soul that calls to my own; a man with intelligence and curiosity and a strength of belief that I can lean on as a rock in a storm. In training, they ask us to participate in the Nafak'cha ceremony. I didn't, because what little I had left to give up, I couldn't give to any of them. It is something in my mother's family; when we love, we love deeply and forever. It's why we always wait. And what I have to give can only be given to the person I've been waiting for.
"So I give this to you. I give you my secrets in the Nafak'cha. Will you take this rose, the symbol of my family and the symbol of a heart that learned to bloom again when I thought it was dead? Will you take my heart as your own, Alyt Neroon of the Star Riders?"
Neroon stared at the human before him, stunned. He knew his own feelings had deepened over their acquaintance, until he was certain that he had never met another so suited to him, but he had determined never to speak of such things, thinking Marcus would eventually find someone among his own people. But then, for an Id'Minbari, which people counted as his own? The people of his blood or the people of his heart? And had Neroon learned nothing from the ancient stories of his own clan, which proclaimed the calling of one's heart superior to all other claims?
"If you will take mine, and raise your pike in its defence," Neroon finally responded. "Marcus Cole, may I court you according to the traditions of the Star Riders clan, since I do not know the traditions of your people?"
Marcus smiled. "I would like nothing better, Neroon."
Of course, it would be lovely to say that they lived happily ever after. And they certainly lived, and they were certainly happy. But being Marcus and Neroon, they also lived in interesting times.
END