"Always," said Lennier, carefully keeping hold of Delenn's hand as her breathing slowed and fell into the regular pattern of sleep. The raspy whistle that had marked her breathing during this illness was gone, he noted with approval. Carefully he removed his hand from hers with the hint of a glancing caress. He rose and went to the fire, added some of the well-seasoned pullar wood, coaxing the embers to a fiery blaze. Then he swept the ash back into the base of the fire.
He looked around the room with satisfaction, everything was in its place. Except, he noted, the framed photo that normally stood on the stand near her bed. Worried that he might have knocked it off earlier when he had changed the bedclothes, he looked behind the stand and then under the bed. Looking up from his crouched position, he saw the edge of the silver frame poking out from under her pillow. Gently he eased the photo out, afraid it would fall to the floor and break in the long night to come.
Setting the photo upright on the stand, he stared at the couple, looking at him from happier times. "John Sheridan," he muttered under his breath. "Gone but not forgotten."
He sat back in the chair and watched the firelight flicker over the silver of the frame. He had hated John Sheridan. Hated him for years, blamed him for so many things that were beyond any one man's fault or responsibility; how could he have done that? He no longer recognized the man he had been. The emotions were still there but now he acknowledged them as false, based in bias and untruth. They were overlain by newer memories, years of working with and beside the human who loved Delenn.
Glancing up at the mirror, he saw that Susan was still walking back and forth in the snow. Flakes dotted her hair; grey streaks now outnumbered the original chestnut brown. The quiet joy he felt when he observed her was so different from the violent turbulence of his long-ago love for Delenn. Looking down at his mentor he felt only the deepest friendship. And that was the way it should be.
A soft chime sounded from the other room, and Lennier quietly left the room after a quick assessment of his charge and his friend. The com station was glowing softly and he swiftly crossed the room to silence the alarm before it repeated and woke Delenn. Checking the signature on the message he smiled broadly and touched the button to accept the call.
"Ranneth," he said, "It is good to hear from you, sister-of-my-mother! But why are you calling so late? You should be in bed."
"As should you," retorted the elderly Minbari, her shrunken form hidden in her robes like a small child caught trying on an elder's clothing. Her wizened face, split by a broad smile, lit up the small screen. "I am often wakeful. My physician says it is my soul trying to make the most of the time my body has left. In any case, I merely called to see how you were doing this Anniversary Day."
"The ceremonies were less personal and more political, I felt, but everything went well," replied Lennier. He settled into a chair in front of the screen. Leaning forward he gazed at the screen. "It has been too long since Susan and I visited you."
"I agree. It is." Ranneth tried to look solemn but her eyes sparkled. Then soberly, she went on, "I saw part of the vidcast. Delenn looked tired. Is she all right?"
"She has not been well. And the stress of this day is not getting any easier with the years." Lennier shook his head. "I somehow thought it would."
"No," said Ranneth sadly. "It never gets any easier. Everyone says it does, but those words are solely meant to make others feel less badly."
"It is hard to see someone you are fond of in pain. The only wish is to make it stop." Lennier's hands moved restlessly on the desktop, re-arranging and straightening various small items.
"When pain stops you are dead, Lennier," Ranneth said sharply. "When you are older you will understand that." Her voice softened. "She would prefer the fiery pain of remembering to the cold barrenness of forgetting."
Lennier nodded. He knew she was right but it still hurt. The hurt was a measure of the depth of his concern, and loving concern was what gave his life meaning. To serve and to protect, always; that had been his vow and it was an immense comfort to him that he had been given a second chance to fulfill that promise.
Coming out of his inner thoughts, he realized he had missed a question. "I am sorry, what did you say?" he asked, making the gesture of humble apology.
"I said, are you taking care of Susan as well. This is not an easy day for her, and she is less likely to admit to it than Delenn," Ranneth repeated patiently.
"Of course," answered Lennier, his heart warming at the thought of the remainder of the evening, to be spent in conversation and comfort. "I was just about to make her some tea."
"I will not keep you then," replied Ranneth. "Visit soon, Lennier. My eyes long to see you and yours."
"Soon," agreed Lennier, giving the word the full heft of his sincere promise.
After the call ended, he sat silent for a moment, considering all the changes in his life, and all the constants as well. He rose, paused to tend to the fire, then went to the kitchen and laid out the necessary items for tea. The water had been set to boil and hold temperature when they had finished the evening meal, so it took only a few moments. When it was ready, he put it all on a tray and carried it into the living room, setting it on the low crystal-topped table which separated the couch from the fire, which was now burning well.
Lennier opened the door to the terrace, the chill wind blowing in around his ankles. "Come in, Susan," he said, and held out his hand to his love.
