Chapter 2

The room she'd lent him turned out to be larger than Maria's entire interior. A servant gave him the key and showed him about, then left him alone. He returned to Maria to gather his essential personal belongings near mid-evening and by the time he made it back to the presidential residence, it was dark and the hallways were quiet and empty as he made his way through them. He slid his key-card into the slot and stopped short as the door opened. Ivanova was sitting on the couch, a book in her hand, looking for all the world as if these were her rooms. Maybe they were.

"Finally," she said, snapping her book closed and standing to greet him. Long brown robes fell to hand gracefully to the floor and Lennier almost couldn't stop himself from staring. Were those Entil'Zha robes? "I was beginning to think you were going to spend the night on your ship. Or," she added, quirking a very Ivanova smile, "perhaps out on the town? Lennier the night creature, living up the clubs."

"You wanted to speak with me?" he guessed, ignoring her joking comment.

"Bingo," she nodded. "It's about Delenn."

"What about her?" he was automatically defensive.

"She's not doing well," Ivanova informed him. As if he hadn't noticed. "I mean, she appointed me as Entil'Zha. Me. Just that is enough to show that there's something seriously wrong with her judgement."

He offered her the obligatory congratulations on her new position. "You're not a bad choice. Why would you say that?"

"I'm not a Ranger," she stated, "I certainly don't speak Minbari, and I'm hardly the Entil'Zha type, you know?" Her voice lowered and her veiled head tilted down. "She only chose me because I wasn't happy back in EarthDome. I think she believes that being Entil'Zha will somehow help me get over Marcus." She shook her head a slipped a hand under her veil to rub one eyes. "What am I saying? I've been over him for a long time."

There was a brief silence, punctuated by a deep sigh from Ivanova. "Anyway. We need to get Delenn back to how she was; being like this isn't healthy. She hardly eats and I don't think she sleeps. I lost one friend already this month. I don't want to lose another."

"What do you suggest we do?" he asked, "She talked to me as if I was a stranger."

"I don't know," Ivanova admitted. "I'd hoped she would respond to you—she only shows me a false front. We used to be close. It's not like her to shut me out like this, and to be honest it hurts. I miss him too, you know, it's not just her! He was a damn good friend and—" she cut herself off with a ragged breath. "And she loved him," she finished, obviously changing her mind about what she was going to say, "She has the right to grieve more than me."

Lennier nodded, unsure of what to say after the short speech. He'd felt sorry for Ivanova for the past twenty years; she'd taken Marcus's death the hardest. And with good reason—it had been plain to see that they were entirely in love with each other, despite all she'd done to deny it. He was thankful to whatever powers at be that she continued to speak.

"Just go to her and talk," she suggested tiredly, "I will too. Go for walks, get her out of the house for a while. I think the worst thing for her right now is to be alone."

After making sure he knew his task, Ivanova left Lennier alone. She also left her book, he noticed after she'd gone, though he wasn't sure if that had been intentional or not. Curious and bored, he picked it up and sank onto the couch, flipping it open. Letters and words in Interlac scrolled across the two screens, and it took him a moment, as it always did, to decipher them.

…showed me a chart of the command structure based on some ancient empire. He put me at the centre, the cheeky little… He said it was 'cause I'm the heart of everything. I would've gotten mad, more than I already was, that is, but then he asked if it had made me laugh. I said it had, and he told me—with the stupidest smile I have ever seen—that his purpose there was done.

Of course, the way my luck runs, all the good moments are cut short. Not to say that that was a good moment, but—ah, never mind. Anyway, John called and told me to turn on ISN, and lo and behold, that blockhead Clarke had declared martial law. It still hasn't really sunk in, everyone—

Lennier shut the book with a clack. Admittedly, he'd known it was her diary almost as soon as he'd read the first sentence, but the temptation to keep reading had been too much. In order to stop himself from peeking again, he stood and walked to the door, intending to return it, but realized he had no idea where she lived, and set it down on the kitchenette's counter instead to remind him to give it to her next time he saw her.

As he prepared for sleep, it occurred to him that it seemed a little odd for Ivanova to be reading her own diary. She'd never been a sentimental person, or at least he'd never thought of her as one, so why was she reading her old diary? Or, perhaps a better question: why did she even have a diary?

Maybe if he read some more, he would find out.

He shook his head. No. That would be even more of an invasion of her privacy. He eyeballed the small metal book. He could always meditate a lot and forget everything he read…

Berating himself for his recently-developed lack of self-restraint, he made his way over and picked the diary up, opening it and scrolling through the text. The dates on the entries were scattered and irregular, and as he looked more closely, he saw Marcus's name in every one. Slowly, he closed the book and set it down. He hadn't read what was actually written, but he didn't need to to know why Ivanova had been reading this book. It wasn't really a diary, just exerts from one, only the bits and pieces she'd written about Marcus. There were even two letters he'd written her.

Lennier leaned back against the wall. Even after all this time, Ivanova was still in love with Marcus. He laughed harshly. Marcus was dead. That was almost more pathetic than him being in love with a married woman! But it was cruel of him to laugh, even though he wasn't making fun of her. He pitied her as he tried so hard not to pity himself, because if one of them deserved happiness, it was her.

With heavy feet, he made his way to the bed and eased himself down. He stared at the ceiling for a long while, even after turning out the lights. He'd gained another person to fix.

The next day dawned grey and cold. A fine misty rain drifted in through the open window, cooling the room and stirring the gauzy curtains. Lennier sat up and swung his legs to the side, stood, and crossed the bedroom to stand by the window, sticking one hand out to catch some of the raindrops he'd missed so much during his extended stays in space.

He leaned sideways against the frame, letting the gentle damp sprinkle over his bare feet and looking out over the city. He'd never been particularly fond of Yedor, always preferring the serene hills of the countryside that his childhood self had frequented to the bustling streets where he'd been born. Then again, this was an angle he rarely saw—the wealthy area. His parents had been poor members of the worker caste, and when they'd died, victims of the brief epidemic of a mutated form of an old Human disease called tuberculosis, he'd been left to wander the dark and dirty alleys of the poor regions until a young acolyte had taken pity on him and brought the grimy child to a small rural monastery. His caste and clan were changed to that of his saviour and within a year it was entirely forgotten that he was a poverty-stricken orphan with no real family or connections.

And now, here he was, standing on the balcony of the president's guest room, in love with the most powerful woman in the galaxy.

Shaking his head, he turned away and closed the floor length window. He padded to the main room and found a small light flashing on his communications unit.

"Play messages," he ordered. The comm. unit beeped and switched on to display an image of Delenn's face.

"Good morning," she said, sounding and looking tired, "I was hoping you would join me for breakfast around seven. Don't bother calling to accept or decline; I have so many messages on my comm. unit I no longer notice when I receive a new one. Either I will see you or I will not."

The screen went blank and Lennier looked at the clock. 0710, it read. Cursing his sluggishness, he went to scramble out of his pyjamas but stopped as he remembered he had nothing to change into except his Human-style clothes or yesterday's robes. And as much as he would prefer to not have Delenn see him in pants and a short-sleeved shirt, appearing before her in already-worn robes was not an appealing course of action. His gaze fell on a door to a closet and his hopes rose.

He opened it quickly, wishing that there would miraculously be robes in his size inside. It was empty, except for his battered suitcase lying unzipped on the floor, and with a disappointed sigh, he bent to pick it up. He brought it out and spread the clothes out on the floor, looking for the least weathered ones. Finally, he found them: a pair of beige pants and matching shirt with a black jacket that had cost him a week's pay. It was the outfit he wore for job interviews.

He changed into it hurriedly and dashed for the door, only barely remembering to check his appearance in the mirror first. He straightened out the wrinkles from the shoulders of the jacket and then, at last, he was gone, out into the hallway and moving along at a light but fast jog. He made it to her quarters—he supposed it was her apartment now that she no longer lived on a space station—within two minutes, and frowned slightly as he waited for the door to open. Why couldn't he get himself out of the past? Why did everything keep coming back to Babylon 5?

The answer came quickly and it almost seemed to slap him in the face with its obviousness. Babylon 5 was where every truly important thing had ever happened to him.

The door slid open to reveal the young servant who'd brought the tea out the day before. "Yes?" she asked in Adronato with a thick accent he didn't recognize, her voice quiet and shy.

"Is President Delenn in?" he asked.

She shook her head, "She is in the eating room."

"Dining room," corrected Delenn, striding out into view.

"Apologize," said the girl, bowing to the president, who smiled at the new error. Lennier bowed as well, savouring the first real smile he'd seen from her since his return.

"Anann," she said, coming over to bend down to the servant's height. The child looked down at the floor as Delenn spoke into her ear, as though telling a secret. "This is my friend, Lennier. He used to be my assistant when I was an ambassador, though I have never seen him dressed quite so strangely." She smiled again and straightened to face him.

"I'm sorry for my lateness," he said, "I overslept."

"It's alright," she said acceptingly. "Come in."

He followed as she turned and went into the living room and from there, the dining room. Sitting down, she said to Anann, "Would you tell Falor to make a plate of French toast?" Anann nodded and bowed, and then hurried off. "I think you will like it. Mr. Garibaldi introduced me to it several years ago."

Lennier smiled his appreciation. "Is that girl…" he paused, searching for a way to say it politely, "Isn't she too young to work as a servant?"

Delenn picked up a flimsy from a stack on the table casually, not seeming at all offended by the question. "She's not truly a servant," she explained in Interlac. "She was raised on one of our outer colonies. Her parents abandoned her as an infant and left, so the village took her in. I'm not entirely clear on this part—she does not speak of it—but I believe the colony was attacked by raiders and she was one of the few to escape."

"What is her native language?" he asked, remembering her stumbling attempts at Adronato.

"A dialect of Vree," she told him. At his surprised expression, she clarified, "There were very few Minbari living in her area of the colony. The families that raised her were Vree."

"Were they killed in the attack?" he asked. A movement seen from the corner of his eye made him believe, for a second, that he wouldn't get an answer as it would be impolite to discuss it in front of Anann herself. However, as the girl walked over to stand beside Delenn's chair, Lennier got his response.

"Yes," said Delenn, "It was only her and five other she'd never met before." Anann waited patiently for Delenn to finish speaking before she informed them that they would be ready for the French toast in two minutes. "The French toast will be ready for us," Delenn corrected gently. To Lennier, in Interlac, she said, "She speaks only Adronato and Vree." He nodded and turned his attention to Anann.

"Thank you," he said, "For telling him for us." The child's face lit up and she bowed happily.

"You are welcome," she replied.

"I have adopted her, somewhat," said Delenn. Anann stood politely out of the way of the adults' conversation, oblivious that she was being discussed. "She shares my apartment and I take care of her. In return, she takes care of any minor household chores so that I have more time to work." She turned to Anann, effortlessly switching languages, "You are a great help, always. Go and play now, if you want."

"Thank you," she beamed. Lennier observed her with interest. It was strange to see a Minbari girl acting with such open emotion. She seemed almost Human.

"She keeps me company when John is away," Delenn said, also watching Anann fondly as the girl took out an interlocking block puzzle and expertly put it together. Correctly placed, the blocks lit up and collapsed inward to make a cube. Lennier looked up, noticing Delenn's slip. She seemed to realize her mistake and her face clouded over. "When he was—I mean, she keeps me company when David is away."

Lennier opened his mouth to broach the topic, but a man in a chef's protective clothing brought out a plate piled high with squares of some sort of mottled brownish-gold substance. He supposed that must be his 'French toast', but it looked repulsive, like drastically overcooked flarn. He tried to keep the disgust off his face as the dish was set in front of him, along with a bottle of dark gold liquid.

"It's actually very good," Delenn assured him.

"If you say so…" he chuckled, hesitantly taking a bite. It was mushy and almost wet inside, but the taste—oh the taste! He'd grown up eating simple, rather bland food, even when he's served with Delenn, and of course, living by himself, he'd eaten the cheapest, longest-lasting food he could find. This was definitely the best meal he'd had in a very long time.

It went down fast, but even in that short, few minute span, Delenn had visibly retreated into herself, shutting down her facial expressions as she got more and more consumed in her work.

"Thank you for breakfast," he said. She didn't look up and he wondered if she'd even heard him. A minute of silence later, he repeated himself. She still didn't respond. "Delenn?" he questioned. Finally, at the sound of her name, she reacted.

"Yes?" she asked.

"I said thank you for breakfast," he told her.

"Oh, you're welcome," she said, looking faintly surprised that he was still there. "Did you want anything else to eat?"

"No, thank you," he and stood to leave, but remembered what Ivanova had said to him. "It's a nice day," he commented even though it was raining, "I'm thinking of going for a walk."

She had her head bent over again, working studiously, and she didn't take the hint of an invitation.

"Well," he said. "If you need help with anything, call me. I'll be—"

"Good morning!" said an overly cheery voice. Ivanova marched into the room, a large smile glued on her face. "I have decided that all three of us are going for a walk. Come on, Delenn, pack up and let's go. You can finish it later." Delenn raised her head, about to protest, but Ivanova got there first. "Nope, I don't want to hear it. You haven't gone outside for a week. Also you don't start really working again for another two days. Relax. Take some time for yourself."

Delenn sighed and, seeing she wasn't escaping this one, set her pen down. "Alright," she agreed. "But only a short walk. I need to finish this." As she followed Ivanova out, Lennier caught a glimpse of what she'd been working on. They were the plans for John Sheridan's memorial service.