Cover your heads and mock not flesh and blood
With solemn reverence: throw away respect,
Tradition, form and ceremonious duty,
For you have but mistook me all this while:
I live with bread like you, feel want,
Taste grief, need friends: subjected thus,
How can you say to me, I am a king?

- Shakespeare, Richard II

The world that had dissolved in violence began to pixelate back into focus. Suddenly, Londo gasped as his consciousness awoke, his vision swimming. Instinctively, he reached for his neck, clawing at the sensations that reverberated in his memory. His chest heaved wildly as he found oxygen filling his lungs, blood racing, hearts pounding. His body violently shook as he gulped for air.

"Pa'tazio," a soothing voice poured over him, pulling him from away from his violent emotions. The ancient Centauri word stirred something in his memory. It was a term of endearment, a title bestowed upon a cherished relative who had returned from a long journey. In the long past, the title had been given to travelers returning from religious quests, earned upon the traveler's safe return to his House. The word denoted warmth and respectful affection, and it was a stark contrast to the many formal titles Mollari had been accustomed to hearing for almost two decades: "Your Majesty," "Your Grace," "Your Highness." Each of these were uttered for respect or its pretense, but none symbolized the boundless warmth contained in "Pa'tazio."

As Mollari's eyes snapped open, he saw a feminine figure kneeling by his side. She touched him very gently, as if to reassure him that her touch was not meant to harm him, and unbuttoned his collar to relieve his choking sensation. Her comely face embodied serenity, and she gracefully extended a pale hand and centered it between his hearts. Something about her reminded him of Delenn's elegance, for she had the regal bearing of a Minbari. Her palm hovered above his chest, and she closed her eyes softly, concentrating on the task at hand.

His ragged breath was fed by the adrenaline pumping through his body, and the fire and pain still echoed in his nerves. But slowly, he felt a warmth blossoming in his chest which emanated from her palm. The warmth slowed his breath and melted away his tension, pain, terror, and shock. He lifted his head for a moment, still breathing hard, trying to shake his blurred vision away. His eyes rested on the intent figure of the Guardian before he finally laid his head back upon the ground, letting his eyelids sag with fatigue. The heat she provided to him was imbued with a steady sense of calm, and soon it reached the depths of his body and his mind, allowing him to drift in and out of consciousness and finally into a light sleep.

The Guardian, Cassiella, did not move until she had pacified the emotions overwhelming the Emperor, allowing him to recover in a restful sleep. His rending had been particularly violent, and the smooth transition of such a soul was a delicate matter that required great skill and care. She had been chosen for this task by her brethren for her experience, her character, and her compassion. Although in life the universe might not have been kind to Londo Mollari, it had taken pity on him in this matter, for her guidance was reserved for those in desperate need and kings, and he was both.

After some time had passed, Mollari's eyes fluttered open. Cassiella noted that this time, his chest rose and fell slowly. His hands did not shake, nor did his chest convulse with tremors. However, she could feel agitation rising once again within him, but it was a different sense of distress than the emotions which had violently possessed him the first time he awoke. His bewilderment was reflected in his eyes which now surveyed his surroundings at a rapid pace.

"Great Maker, where…" his voice faltered, "where am I?" He sensed his connection to his body was oddly, indescribably transformed. His senses felt different, more vibrant and colorful, yet he also felt strangely detached from his body, as if he was connected to it by a much thinner thread. But even as he pushed himself up onto an elbow, he knew. He knew where he was, or more precisely when it was. After. It was after. He remembered every moment, every breath – and every lack of breath – that had led to this instant. At the thought, he felt uncontrollably nauseous, and his rising sense of confusion and alarm propelled his dueling hearts to beat faster.

The Guardian returned her hand mere inches in front of his hearts, and the hearts slowed again, returning to normal.

"This is a bit silly, I don't even need them anymore," he said, trying to talk himself into believing it, his words heavily accented in a melodic Northern Centauri accent. How could this be? He still seemed to inhabit a body that looked and felt very much like his own, but everything seemed unexpectedly different. As his agitation subsided, guided by the Guardian's assistance, he realized for the first time that the darkness that had inhabited his mind for so long was oddly absent, even though he felt perfectly sober. His hand darted to his shoulder, and the demon he expected to find there was gone. He sensed its absence in his mind. A profound sense of freedom overwhelmed him, shortening his breath into jagged gasps again. Bittersweet emotion overcame him, and he hid his face from the Guardian with a gloved hand, his jaw trembling. His soul had yearned for this day from the moment the Keeper had seized hold of his nerves and the Drakh had inhabited his every sober thought. He had dared dream of this freedom only in unconscious slumber, knowing that he could receive it only in death. He gladly would have accepted that fate long ago, had he not been keenly aware that another would have to take his place, bent into subservience under the long arm of the Drakh. After a life riddled with depraved choices, he had borne his duty to bear the Keeper upon one shoulder and the weight of protecting Centauri Prime from the Drakh on the other as a penance for his misdeeds. Now, he was free. Free. His eyes burned, and he ungloved his hands, dropping the gloves on the ground beside him. Mollari squeezed his eyes closed with one hand, trying to regain his composure.

"The Keeper is no longer one with you," the Guardian spoke softly to her charge, sensing his thoughts. "It must answer to its own destiny."

At that, Mollari opened his eyes, staring hard at the Guardian. He hadn't ever thought of the Keeper as a being, only a thing, a tool of the Drakh that relayed his thoughts and actions to them. But the Guardian's words were imbued with compassion, and he realized that she considered it a life, rather than a vile and cruel means to an end.

Seeing that he abruptly recoiled at her words, she bowed her head, "A being cannot choose its existence. It was born into its lot, as you were born into yours."

Mollari considered this for a moment before his thoughts returned to his last moments, frozen in the instant in which the Keeper suddenly took control of his hands. "What of G'Kar?" he asked with sudden intensity, his hearts seizing his throat again. His hands had been wrapped around G'Kar's throat, squeezing his air passage closed. It had been a horror to watch his own hands clawing into his friend's throat, pulling him into eternity.

"G'Kar has his own path to walk." Cassiella softly answered, her face etched with patience.

Relief rushed his senses; hopefulness in him grew. "Then...then he is not here? In…this place?"

As she replied, quietly, he felt her sense of calm descend on him. There was no accusation in her voice or her eyes, only compassion and finality. "The one you call G'Kar has arrived."

"Then…" Mollari tried to question her, but the Guardian silenced him with her palm.

"He is finding his own way, as all here must do."

Mollari's sadness at the news of G'Kar's death was defused by the calm Cassiella sent to him with her mind, and her quiet reassurance steadied him against the revelation.

The Guardian rose, gazing down on him. He finally turned his attention fully on her, noting that she was but a wisp of a being, covered by the thin folds of a silken robe that seemed to reflect the light around her. Her skin was pale, as if the light cast by her robe reflected itself on her skin, but her face was tinted with the pale pink of life. Mollari pushed himself to his unsteady feet, noting at last that he was in a lush meadow. A rolling fog had surrounded the meadow, obscuring everything beyond his immediate view. But his attention was distracted by the Guardian's last words. "What do you mean, 'find his own way?'"

"There is a path for each soul here," she stated candidly, "no one can force you to walk a path that is not your own. I can guide you and assist you, but ultimately, the path you walk is your own choice."

He gazed at her for a moment before slapping the grass from his imperial white clothes, and then he straightened to his full height, again regarding the delicate figure before him. "And what of this?" he patted his chest. "It feels…very real."

Her answer reminded him of the teachings of the temples, the places that he had visited long ago, and the fabled stories of Centauri mythology. The temples taught that each Centauri had a divine soul that joined with a host body, and both the divine and the host had a soul, one belonging to the celestial and the other to the terrestrial, the former called the "higher spirit" and the latter called the "lower spirit." And whereas in life he had felt only a unity, now he could discern a distinction between the two. The link between the two had not been severed, in fact if anything, the death of the body forced the lower spirit to cling to the higher spirit for survival. A celestial soul chose its host carefully, and if the terrestrial host was debased and immoral, the most powerful celestial souls could leave the body, killing the terrestrial soul still inside its host body, allowing the celestial soul to return to the divine, preserving the celestial soul's virtuous nature. But if left together over a lifetime, the souls intertwined into a permanent bond, forever changing each other, allowing the terrestrial to join the higher spirit.

Cassiella's reply was so low that Londo was forced to lean toward her to hear it. "Your mind cannot yet imagine your twin souls without projecting a physical manifestation of your terrestrial soul. During your transition here, you will see that your body will respond, growing lighter, younger, stronger. The maladies of old age will fall away. Your hearing and eyesight will be restored. All of these things will come to pass because the body here reflects the state of your lower spirit embodied in its physical form."

He knew, already, that she was telling him the truth. During the end of his reign, he had acquired a terrible and persistent pneumonic cough which he had suspected would eventually prove fatal. His chest had burned from the cough, and he had been coughing up blood for months. It had gotten progressively worse, but he had refused to see a doctor, despite the constant urging of Royal staff (with the exception of Prime Minister Durla and certain other conniving ministers who he suspected would be just as glad of his death), for fear that anything more than a cursory examination would result in yet another innocent person's death when the presence of the Drakh was discovered. It was the same reason he hadn't had a thorough medical examination since the day he was crowned. In addition, he had almost completely destroyed his liver by imbibing endless quantities of alcohol whenever and wherever he could to dull the senses of his Keeper, giving him a few desperate moments of peace. His liver had protested, sending out sirens of dull pain to his brain for years, but his liver had managed to survive his abuse for as long as he needed it. His persistent memory problems had been especially troubling, for the one organ he desperately needed to protect his people was his mind. But even the intermittent lapses in memory had gone without treatment, for he suspected they were caused by the constant abuse his nerves and brain suffered at the hands of the Drakh, rather than old age.

But now, as far as he could tell, all of these ailments had disappeared. The water in his lungs and weight in his chest were gone, the constant ache from his liver had dissipated, and his thoughts had a crispness he hadn't known for years. "Could be the sobriety," he muttered, under his breath.

The Guardian inclined her head toward him inquisitively.

He waved a hand at her, shaking his head, "Never mind, it's nothing."

Seeing Mollari on his feet and feeling better, with the flowing movement of the wind, Cassiella gracefully extended a palm toward him, slowly bringing it closer to her breast, beckoning him to follow her. She turned, her silken robe billowing around her. She began walking toward an unknown destination, leaving him to stare after her.

Mollari narrowed his eyes, watching her figure disappearing into the distance. Looking around, he realized he was all alone. Although he would have given half of Centauri Prime for just one moment alone, one moment of peace without the Keeper and the Drakh, suddenly, solitude was not a feeling that he relished. He began striding after her, quickening his strides to close the distance between them. In a few moments, he had closed the gap. Breathlessly, he realized that even the astral projection of his body was out of shape. "Lady," he fell in step beside her, "where are we going?"

The Guardian walked onward without acknowledging his question. Mollari furrowed his brow in annoyance. "Where are we going?" he probed again, exasperation evident in his voice. "Why won't you tell me?"

All of a sudden, he stopped in his tracks. The Guardian sensed this change and smartly turned back toward her charge. A shiver wracked Mollari's body. "Before, when you said the Keeper would have to answer to its destiny, what did you mean?"

She looked at him and hesitated, something maudlin in her eye. "It shall be judged, as all things are judged," she said.

Judged. At the word, his hearts jumped again, beating quicker. She felt the ice of fear seizing his body, almost knocking her back with its intensity.

She closed her eyes, feeling his waves of terror. She was using every tool at her disposal to counter his wild emotions, which were raw from the transition he had endured, but still the powerful emotions threatened to undermine her efforts. He will not survive this if he cannot quell his fear, she thought, trying to guide him with her mind. A soul could endure a great deal, but without an anchor, a soul could suffer a tragedy worse than damnation – the painful slide into nothingness, excommunicated from the universe and existence. But helping him through these stages was her job, her calling, her duty. She had to prepare him for what lay ahead. Cassiella breathed in slowly, her eyes steady as she channeled serenity, and as she breathed out, her breathe filled him with peace, quelling his hearts once again.

Even as she sent him peace, Cassiella could feel his pain reverberating in the core of her own body. She pressed it down, but it hurt her, the feelings that were devouring him with their fire. He was terrified of the judgment that was to come. She stepped forward, easily slipping her hand into his to comfort him, to reassure him. But her efforts were met with the opposite effect.

Mollari's face suddenly went blank at the touch of her hand. He did not shrink from the touch or react outwardly, but although his face was guarded, Cassiella could feel his well of emotions surging forth. He had been Emperor of the Centauri Republic for almost two decades, and as a man inclined toward an excessive epicurean lifestyle, he had always delighted in overwhelming his senses with fine food, alcohol, sex, laughter, music, and art. But although his appetites had never changed, his ascension to the throne had required that they be suppressed. As an ambassador, he had barreled into a room, commanding its attention with his joie de vivre. He displayed his affection with his broad gestures and showered his acquaintances with affectionate physical contact. But he had been denied these sensory flourishes since becoming Emperor. It was not because he couldn't appreciate the use of his sensory faculties anymore, but because decorum and the presence of the Keeper required it. His gloved hands cruelly robbed him of human touch before the public's eye, and he refused to allow the Drakh to intrude into his intimate moments, so he had been robbed of both public and private touch.

This small act, of putting her naked hand in his ungloved hand had reminded him of all he had given up during the last brutal decades of his life. The grief of all that he had lost overwhelmed him, and he could contain his pain and tears no longer. "Forgive me," he managed at last, pulling himself together, "an old man should not weep when a beautiful woman holds his hand." He turned from her, not letting go of the soft grasp of her hand.

His words overcame her, and she understood that although they were alone, although she was his Guardian and privy to his innermost feelings, he was still a Centauri emperor, the symbol of the proud Centauri people, and she patiently waited while he regained his composure. She had accompanied many souls, indeed many kings, to their final destination, and she had marshalled genuine compassion and sympathy for each of them. But in his reaction to this, the smallest of gestures, she had gleaned that he had been mercilessly robbed of everything precious to him. He had spent his years as Emperor in solitary confinement, and it had left him with nothing but an empty chasm in his chest, filled only with inaudible pain and desperation. She looked at him with pity, carefully erasing it from her eyes before he turned around again.

"Pa'tazio," she gazed at him intently, "come, the moments are passing. We should go."

Turning, her hand glided gently out of his, leaving him both speechless and desperately wishing that he could recapture the fleeting moment that had just escaped. Watching her retreat toward an unknown destination, he closed his eyes, willing himself to follow her. He knew perfectly well what was at the end of this path, and even the thought of it was enough to paralyze him, for it was his greatest fear. And yet, if staying here, alone, was a choice, then it was really no choice at all.