Part 10—Sundering
The war dragged on, and time dragged with it. We struck more human bases and colonies, advancing toward their primary solar system. They fought harder than ever, fueled by terror that we meant to annihilate them. All to no avail; every Minbari life they took was simply one more added to the scales, one more death to avenge.
With Lennon gone, I had no allies in my quest for peace. Satai Morann and Satai Hedronn, both of whom were sickened by the carnage, were unwilling to act against the majority of the Council—and without such backing, the people would not be swayed either. So ingrained was the Minbari habit of deference to the Grey Council that the majority would have won any dispute that became public, or else there would have been a schism so deep it could bring civil war. I shrank from that, though in the small hours of night aboard the Valen'tha it sometimes seemed a viable—if terrible—possibility. Innocents would die no matter what I did—either more humans in our ruthless crusade, or our own people turned against each other if I broke with the Council and denounced the war. Which path would bring less bloodshed? And by what right did I choose whom to sacrifice—I, who had begun all this with two ill-chosen words?
No mercy. I was the one who needed mercy now, and so I went to the one place where I hoped I might find it. In the first month of winter, when the cold closed in, I took a brief leave from the Valen'tha and went home to Tuzanor.
"He will not receive you," Elder Callenn said, when I arrived snow-swept and chilled at the Mir clanhold. As was proper, I had gone first to pay him my respects before visiting my father's house. Callenn welcomed me with more warmth than I expected, offering me tea and fruit as if he meant it rather than as an unpleasant duty. I thawed out, ate and drank enough for good manners, and then asked how my father was. And received Callenn's shocking reply.
I was startled into bluntness. "Why not? Is he ill, or—"
"He is not ill." Callenn's lip curled, and he spoke through his nose. "He opposes the war against the humans. He is likely to make his displeasure known to you as clearly as he can, should you go to him."
I almost blurted out the truth then and there, but stopped myself. Callenn knew I had called for war in the first place, knew my vote had been the deciding one. I had a bad feeling about his unusual warmth toward me, and his clear disapproval of my father. "And you, Elder?" I said, as if speaking of some triviality. "What are your feelings in the matter?"
He was silent for some moments. Then his gaze darkened. "They took our greatest one from us," he said. "And have taken more since. The Drala'Fi was only the start." One hand tightened around his cup. "You have done what is needed, Satai Delenn. You said no mercy, and you were right. They do not deserve it. They are destroyers; they do not deserve to live."
No mention of how many humans we had destroyed. The tea I had drunk threatened to climb back up my throat. I forced it down. For once in my life, I had won my uncle's unqualified approval—for an error in judgment that had cost tens of thousands of lives, and would cost more yet unless I could somehow achieve a miracle. Only iron self-control kept me from showing how much it sickened me.
I thanked him for the tea what graciousness I could muster and then left for my father's house.
ooOoo
The sun was low in the sky, the thin curve of golden Elleya just visible over the shoulder of Grandmother Mountain, when I reached the little pathway that led to my childhood home. The house seemed smaller than I remembered, though perhaps that was an effect of my spending so many cycles in the vast halls of the Valen'tha. The sunlight struck a warm glow from the timber and blue-veined stone. I hoped it was an omen.
I reached the door and tapped the triangular chime that hung just outside it. The shimmering bell-sound echoed through the cold air. I waited, my breath coming in white puffs. Even my hood couldn't keep out the chill for long; the top of my head was getting cold, and my ears were beginning to tingle. I clasped my hands to stop their shaking. Was my father here? What was taking him so long?
Finally, I heard a step on the other side of the door. Then it opened, and my father stood in the gap. He looked old; there were lines around his eyes and mouth that had not been there the last time I saw him. With Dukhat, I thought, at Father's naming-day, and my heart gave a painful lurch. How had he grown so frail and bent in so short a time?
He did not smile, or even bow in greeting. We merely stared at each other, both of us barely breathing. His face wore a closed look and his eyes were shadowed. I bowed my head, finally, as an excuse to stop seeing them. "Father," I said. Apprehension made me use the formal mode. I could not believe Callenn was right, that my own father would not receive me, yet it appeared he was. No, I thought. It is not true. He will see I am here because I need him… I need him to help me, shelter me…
"I am not well," he said. His voice was flat. "I have lost my daughter."
Shock kept me mute. Seconds passed. My heartbeat pounded in my ears. "I am here," I said finally, faintly. "Here in front of you. Will you not welcome me, Ava'mai?"
He flinched, and in his eyes I saw deep pain. Then they turned hard again. "My daughter would not demand the blood of an entire people to avenge the death of one man. Even such a one as Dukhat. My daughter would have sought the truth before calling for war. My daughter would have had some mercy. You called for none. You are not my daughter. You are lost." He stepped back slightly and began to close the door.
I could have spoken then. I should have spoken then. But pride stopped me. Wounded pride, and a hurt so deep I could not bring myself to fully acknowledge it. He believed this of me—that I still wanted the humans slaughtered, even after so much time. He did not ask if my heart had changed, did not even seem to consider that it might have. Did not ask how it was that the daughter he loved and raised and thought he knew could have said no mercy in the first place.
If he thought this, then there was no point in explanations. He would not hear them. So I said nothing—merely bowed to the closing door and turned away. With every step I took back down the path, I listened—for the creak of the door opening, for a footstep behind me, for his voice calling my name. No sound came except the sighing of the wind across the snow.
I walked on through the lengthening shadows, until my sight blurred and I could see no more.
ooOoo
I went back the next morning, after an uneasy night at an inn in Tuzanor. Elder Callenn would have welcomed me under his roof, but I could not stand to be near him. The anonymity of the inn suited me better, though not much. I scarcely slept, could eat only a little flatbread and half a cup of tea at breakfast. Then I was out of the inn and hurrying homeward. I would talk to my father this time. I would tell him everything, break down and cry like a child. Never mind pride or self-control. I wanted comfort, craved it. He would give it. He always had before.
The house was empty when I arrived, the doors locked and the windows shuttered. I don't know how long I stayed there—ringing the chime, pounding on the front door, calling for my father. I remember tears, warm on my frozen face. Aching hands, reddened and bruised inside my gloves from the cold and the impact. Breathing hard, struggling for composure, before I went to see Callenn.
"Your father left last night," he said. He sounded disapproving. "He went to the temple library in Yedor. Some obscure document or other, probably to do with Valen. He did not say when he might return."
The news left me hollow. Gone, until who knew when. Gone so he would not have to see me. I knew that as surely as I knew my own face. My leave was up in two days; I could not stay longer. Should I follow him? I shrank from the memory of his hard eyes, with anguish deep beneath. If he had left so abruptly just to avoid me, he would only do it again. Coward that I was, I couldn't face that.
I thanked Callenn and left, for Tuzanor and then the Valen'tha. And I wondered, with a bleak feeling as I reached the ship's landing bay, if from now on the Valen'tha would be the only place I could call home.
ooOoo
Less than three months later, I received word that my father was dead. There had been a nine days' blizzard, worse than usual, and he had gone out on the first clear day afterward to check on those who lived on the slopes by the clanhold's western boundary. The updrafts near the mountains were tricky at best, especially during the Moon of Storms. One of them caught his flyer and smashed it into the mountainside. He died instantly, they told me—more than likely so fast, he did not even have time to recognize his danger.
It took several days to reach home. They had built the pyre on the Burning Ground by the time I arrived, and Callenn, as chief mourner, oversaw the preliminary rituals. The funeral itself began with three days of chanting and meditation, during which the entire Mir clan present reflected on my father's life, and how it had touched theirs. He would be remembered, celebrated, honored, before the shell that had held his soul in this life was put to flame.
I lived through those three days as if encased in ice. The fasting required of me as a principal mourner was easy; I had no desire to eat, did not even take the little water allowed. Beneath the numbness that enveloped me, fierce grief waited—but even that awareness was blunted by the sheer depth of pain. It was too much to acknowledge, too much to feel. So I drifted, unable to feel anything.
Mayan was there as well, honored with me as a foster daughter. She was uneasy around me; I could read it in the stiffness of her body, the hesitance with which she spoke the ritual words of condolence. And I thought—does she condemn me, too? Believe me lost to rage and vengeance, as my father did?
I feared the answer too much to ask. A wall of silence grew between us, increasing by the hour as we sat near my father's body in our household temple and chanted and prayed. I am lost, I remember thinking. Lost to everyone. Lost to myself. And I don't know the way back.
I could not face the gathering on the fourth day, after the nine chosen clan-kin carried my father's body to the Burning Ground and Callenn lit the funeral pyre. As the rest of the Miri left that place, to go break the fast and tell stories about my father, I turned away from the pillar of flame and smoke and began walking in the opposite direction. I did not know where I was going, did not care that the others would be shocked by my absence. I needed to get away. So I left, and let my steps carry me where they would.
The morning was overcast, the wind bitter as dead hope. I walked quickly, heading down the road toward Tuzanor. What took mere minutes to traverse by flyer took much longer on foot; by the time I reached the outskirts, my face hurt and I was chilled through despite the many layers of heavy garments I wore. I welcomed the pain. At least it was something. I wished I could cry—but the ice around my heart felt so thick, nothing could break it.
I wandered the streets for long enough to change the slant of the thin light from morning to mid-afternoon. Once or twice I thought I heard footsteps behind me, but dismissed it as illusion born of days without food or water. I barely saw the buildings and parks as I passed them, took scant notice of the few people out on such a frigid winter day.
After a time I reached the older part of the city, with its narrow streets and grey stone houses. A memory stirred, and I slowly took note of my surroundings. I had halted in front of an old temple. It looked familiar. I frowned, searching for the elusive memory. Then it came. This was the temple I had found when I was eight cycles old and lost in Tuzanor, during the summer Festival. There was a storm, and I was frightened, and I ran…
It will be warmer inside, I thought. Shivering with cold and fatigue, I walked up the steps and went in.
The sanctuary was deserted, as it had been so long ago. Someone kept the place tended, though; the banks of memory-candles on the far wall glowed in the dimness. I remembered those candles. Like small, bright stars in the shadows. I had taken shelter here, and fallen asleep, and dreamed of Valen. And then my mother and father had found me…
I went to the wall of candles and found a match. The remembrance prayer fell from my lips almost without thought as I touched the match to a burning candle and then lit a fresh one. For you, Ava'mai, I thought as the wick caught. The tiny light blazed up. I bowed my head. A fierce need to weep swept over me, but I couldn't make a sound.
I heard a step behind me. A familiar hand gently clasped mine—small and delicate, the warmth of it a shock against my cold skin.
I did not need to look. I knew it was Mayan, with me as she had always been. Even when we were far apart. The wall between us was gone, vanished like snow in sunlight.
The ice around my heart broke. Suddenly I was sobbing, drowning in grief. Only Mayan's arms around me, her forehead pressed to mine, kept me from being swept away.
ooOoo
She took me home after a time, to her own small house not far from my father's. I drank a little tea and then slept as she sat beside me, singing a lullaby and holding my hand. When I woke, I was finally able to eat. And talk. I told her everything, poured out my heart as we knelt by the table, the remnants of our supper going cold. The Prometheus, Dukhat's death, the madness of grief that had made me cry out No mercy. My horror when I saw my own words made real in dead human bodies. The peace mission, Lennon and Tennet, the EarthForce soldiers whose lives I had spared as the one small gesture I could make against the savagery of the war. I spoke of the soldier with the flame-colored hair, whose apparent connection to me still made no sense. "He knew what the Vorlon said. He knew Dukhat's secret. Lennon must have told him before he died." I toyed with the handle of my eating utensil. "That much at least I can guess. But I don't know why he seems so… familiar. As if our souls recognized each other, even though we had never met. Until that moment, I never saw a human face to face." I swallowed hard. "Not alive, anyway."
She leaned across the table. Her fingers closed around mine, stilling my restless hand. "I should have known your heart had changed. I wanted vengeance myself, when we first heard how Dukhat died… but then afterward, when we saw the dead children on the first colony world we struck… I could not believe you would condone that, no matter what the humans had done." Her gaze flicked away from me. "But when you did not reply to my message… I didn't know what to think. I should have known you better, Delenn. I do know you better. I'm sorry."
I squeezed her hand in silent forgiveness. "I never got it. I would have answered if I had."
"I know. I should have remembered that, too."
Silence fell between us. A comfortable one, despite the painful subjects we had been discussing. There was another such subject on my mind, but I was not certain how—or if—to broach it. There has been too much silence, I thought. "What of Branmer?"
She withdrew her hand and stared down at the table.
"You don't have to tell me," I said softly.
I watched her fingers curl around each other as she weighed whether or not to answer. I knew she and Branmer had begun the courting rituals before the war; I also knew, as did everyone else on Minbar, that Branmer had been so enraged by Dukhat's slaying, he changed castes in order to fight the humans. My heart has become a warrior's heart, he had said, in a fiery public speech in Temple Square. It cannot rest until Dukhat is avenged. I am no longer religious; I cannot pray, or study, or guide. I must fight, draw blood, see our enemies dead at our feet. From this day, I am warrior-born; how I will die is in the hands of the Universe.
"We are no longer courting," she said after awhile. "We had one night of watching, before…" She gripped her hands tight together. "He says he is not the same person… that he cannot know if I can love the man he has become. Or… or if there is room in his heart to love me any longer." A single tear fell on the table. "He says he will not know until the war is over. So he released me. I deserve better, he said." She brushed the tear away. "As if anyone could be."
I was around the table in a heartbeat, holding her as she had held me. She wept a little, then tried to smile as she struggled for composure. "You are blaming yourself for this, too. I know you, shonamai. Don't do it. You did not make this choice. Branmer did."
"But he would not have, if I—"
She pressed a finger to my lips. "He chose. As was his right. If you take responsibility for that, you take that right away from him."
Gently, I moved her hand. "I know that in my mind. But not in my heart."
"It will come," she said.
We held each other a little longer. Then Mayan reached for the teapot, and I let go and went back to my place. "I don't know what to do now. I must end the war before we slaughter them all. I cannot let us be guilty of destroying an entire race." Even if we did not need them, I thought, but didn't say it. What Dukhat and I had discovered, and what the Vorlons had said, about another Shadow War coming was not for Mayan's ears—and it was immaterial. Shadow War or not, potential allies or not, we had no right to decree the humans' destruction. Our crusade against them had long since gone beyond justified revenge, if it ever had been justified. We should have talked to them, I thought, with the familiar guilt of better than two Earth years. We should have found out why they fired on us, instead of lashing out. Or we should have made contact when Dukhat wanted to, cycles and cycles ago.
Mayan looked troubled as she poured more tea. "If what we are doing is wrong… then there must be some way to stop it. Even if we cannot see it yet. The Universe would not let us commit such a crime and offer no pathway out of it. Somehow, that moment must come. The right choice must be possible. Otherwise, there is no choice at all."
She had voiced my own deepest fear. "What if…" I had to force myself to say it out loud. "What if there is no choice? Only error—and its consequences?"
She set the teapot down and stared at me. "You cannot believe that."
Once, I would have agreed. Now I was not so sure.
"There will be something," she said. The quiet conviction in her voice was a sturdy ship's deck beneath my feet, a sun-warmed rock to lean on. "You will know it when it happens."
"I wish I had your faith."
"You do. Just remember it, that's all."
