Author's Note: This chapter covers the rest of "Grey 17 is Missing"; some dialogue is quoted from that episode. As always, gapfillers are my own.

Part 36—Languages of Sacrifice

The power of memory can be wondrous and terrible. That thought was in my mind as I slowly changed into the garments Lennier had set out for me. I had worn the simple wrap I thought of as my "battle dress" many times before… yet this time, as I put it on and then eased into the white supplicant's robe that went over it, I felt as if I were putting on far more than clothing. I was donning an identity—one that I must wear wisely for the sake of the lives in the balance. And I still did not know if I was up to the task.

My mouth felt dry, and my fingers trembled as I fastened the robe. From out in my sitting room came soft chanting and footsteps as Lennier and Rathenn prepared it for the meditation rite I would shortly undergo. A hint of incense drifted in, clean and sharp as a winter morning on Minbar. With a bittersweet pang, I thought of Sinclair. That same scent had been in the air the last time I saw him on my homeworld, among the Rangers. He had given so much—not just to the Anla'shok, but to all my people, and so many others besides. Could I give as much if the need arose? I was no great soul, as he had been. Yet he had left me this charge. I felt awed by that, as well as unsure.

For a moment, I heard Dukhat in my mind's ear: Modesty has its place, Delenn. It keeps us from getting caught up in our own glory. But false modesty… now that is just an excuse for not wanting to be bothered. Be bothered about things, Delenn. Do what is before you to do, and let the Universe take care of the rest.

He had said this shortly before my investiture as Grey Council. I had risen to the occasion then; I vowed I would do so now, even though the prospect humbled and in some ways terrified me. I laughed a little, remembering the exasperated kindness on Dukhat's face as he said those words to me. It took an effort of will not to dwell on what came so soon after. This was not the time or the place for that. If only I could conjure some magic to bend space and time so Dukhat and Sinclair could have met. They would have liked each other. For all they were born under different suns, they were brothers beneath the skin.

Thoughts of them both were with me as I emerged from my bedroom. Lennier was lighting the final candle, Rathenn quietly praying. They met me three steps shy of the place where I would sit. We bowed to each other, and Rathenn spoke the first lines of the ancient rite. "In this time and in this place; in the name of Valen, and Valeria before him; may truth guide your mind, compassion your heart, and courage your soul."

He bowed again, and now it was Lennier's turn. "For there is no truth without compassion, and no compassion without courage. This we know and ever strive to live by."

"In Valen's name," I murmured, and took the place prepared for me.

The candle flame burned bright and steady, a small fragment of the light of the Universe. I watched it dance atop the braided strands of wax. Three colors: blue for faith, white for pure intent, gold for the sunlight that sustains life. I was dimly aware of Lennier and Rathenn, settling in as guardians by my door. That part of the ritual predated Valen; it was a relic of our ancient clan wars, when those ascending to leadership often needed protection from attack by rival clans. Valen had adapted it for the Anla'shok, building on existing Minbari custom to guide us toward a new way of understanding ourselves. He had been a clever teacher, guiding the Minbari, his students, to a wholly new place by using ancient traditions as stepping-stones.

Worthy of the Jesuits you told me of, old friend, I thought, as if Sinclair were by me to hear it. As my eyelids fluttered closed, I saw him in my mind's eye—a tall figure in EarthForce blue, walking through the Zen garden with me, smiling as he bent his head to catch something I was saying. Then the image shifted and he was bending over me in Medlab, worry in his gaze. He had risked his own life to save me from the Soul Hunter, leaving me with quite a debt to repay. By carrying on as Entil'zha in his place, I might at least begin to do it.

My mind drifted further, and the image changed again. Now I saw Sinclair prowling the corridors of Babylon Five, sweat beading on his forehead, eyes wide with terror. Two of his own had kidnapped him, made him believe he was back aboard the Valen'tha at the Battle of the Line. My heart went out to him, as if I were in that place and time with him. He had been so afraid, so alone…

Caught up in my vision, I lost all sense of everything else. "I am your friend," I murmured, just as I had then, and watched the terror slowly leave his face. He had trusted me even in the depths of it. Even though I wore a wholly Minbari face, the face of his then-enemy.

My gaze locked with his. I felt briefly dizzy, as if the deck had dropped from beneath me… and then we were aboard the Valen'tha, Sinclair shackled into the neuro-scanner in the presence of the Grey Council. His dark eyes stared into mine, truly seeing me for the first time as a fellow sentient being. They held pain, and fear, and a fragment of hope… hope that he could make me understand. Help me, he begged silently. Please.

I felt tears on my cheeks. The words I'm sorry stuck in my throat; they could not begin to touch the terrible wrong we had done him. Something brushed my forehead, light as a snowflake. A comforting touch, but made by no hand. Then I heard Sinclair's voice in my mind: Open your eyes, Delenn.

I did so, and saw him there before me. Twin gasps came from near my door, but I paid them scant heed. All my attention was on the tall figure in the candlelight, wearing the mottled bronze robe of Entil'zha and leaning on a long staff in his hand. The same eyes, dark and kind, in a lined face. Not the face of Sinclair, the human, but the one he had worn as Valen. A Minbari face.

He sketched a blessing gesture in the air. Go now, he said, mind to mind. Leave the past behind and take up what is yours to do, for those who went before and those who will come after. They are your charge now. Care for them well. He bowed to me then, as equal to equal, and held out a hand toward my heart. I mirrored the gesture as his image slowly faded.

"Goodbye, old friend," I said softly. Then there was only the candle flame, and Lennier and Rathenn sitting silent behind me.

I took a deep breath and let it out. Leaned forward and gently blew out the candle. Wiped a last tear from my face, stood and let my white robe fall at my feet. Then I turned to Rathenn and Lennier. They looked awestruck to have shared such a vision. None of us spoke of it; it was too precious to put into words.

"I am ready," I told them instead. "Let us go."

ooOoo

The ritual itself I recall in flashes of memory now, most of them bright as raindrops in the sun. Lennier's presence near me on the dais at the front of the conference room we had converted for the purpose, and the quiet pride on his face as he handed Rathenn the ancient Book of Vows. Rathenn's voice, deep and sonorous as he recited the necessary prayers and took my oath of fidelity to the Rangers who would be my charge. The taste of the dark red zidik on my tongue as I sipped it from a crystal goblet—bitter, oh bitter as the blood I might soon be impelled to ask others to shed. As bitter as this will the loss of each life be, for as long as I serve. The ancient words sank in as I spoke them, engraving themselves on my heart.

John and Susan and G'Kar were all watching from amid the crowd of Anla'shok. I could feel their silent approval even from several feet away. Likewise, that of the gathered Anla'shok themselves; it buoyed me up, warm and strong as the first spring winds in the mountains. I wondered briefly where Garibaldi was, and Marcus—it seemed strange that they were absent—but I assumed they would slip in when they could, and after the first few moments was too caught up in the ritual to notice anything else. Not until the end, when—as Garibaldi might have said—things nearly went to hell, did I learn how wrong I was… or how close we had come to tragedy.

My old friend Tanivel brought the folded robe of Entil'zha to the edge of the dais. Lennier retrieved it and gently shook it out. I stepped forward and held my arms up. Two Anla'shok joined us on the dais. With Lennier in the middle, they wrapped me in the robe. I stood motionless, accepting their ministrations as if helpless to do it myself. They would do many things for me at need, my Rangers; in turn, I must do all I could for them. As the two Anla'shok stepped down, Lennier pinned a Ranger brooch on the robe near my heart. The ritual was almost complete, with no sign of Neroon. I had scarcely spared him a thought for the past while. I had been right, it seemed; he could not harm me when it came to it. However deep his anger with me, and with the religious caste by extension, he was Minbari enough not to sully this ceremony with even the threat of bloodshed.

Rathenn's voice rose in the final acclamation. "As it was done long ago, so now we name she who will lead us. So now among the Rangers, let her be known as Entil—"

A murmur and a flurry of motion from the rear of the room made him break off. There was no time to feel fear, or anything except blank shock as Neroon pushed through the crowd toward the dais, black cloak billowing behind him. He carried a denn'bok, extended for combat. The near end of it glistened darkly with fresh blood.

Behind me, Lennier's breath caught. A small sound, but enough to tell me what he had done. It wouldn't be Garibaldi, I thought as Neroon glared at me from under his hood in the weighted silence. Marcus, then…

I felt, rather than saw, Lennier come up beside me. Neroon lowered his hood. Above his rage-filled eyes was a bright red gash on his forehead. A shiver started deep within me; it took every ounce of control I had to keep it from showing. Marcus had gotten in one good blow, at least. If Neroon had killed him…

He hurled the denn'bok down. It struck with a clang at my feet. "There is now blood between us," he said, his voice a low growl. Beside me, Lennier stiffened. "And there is blood between the warrior caste and the humans. I do not think they would die for me. But they would die for you." He paused, as if working himself up for some final, virulent condemnation. "Entil'zha."

The title came out like an epithet. It echoed in the chamber as Neroon turned and stalked out.

Lennier bolted from the dais toward a side exit. I stared after him, willing myself not to move or cry out or show anything except stoic courage. My Rangers needed that from me now—needed to see that I would not break, that my strength was their strength.

They would die for you, Neroon had said. Had Marcus?

I beckoned to three Rangers standing nearest the dais. "Find Lennier and assist him," I told them quietly. "I believe he has gone looking for Marcus Cole. Your aid may be needed."

The closest of the three, a young human woman of Asian descent, briefly bowed her head. "Entil'zha," she said, and quickly left, the others following behind her.

Somehow, I found the right words to dismiss the gathering. Somehow, I managed not to give way to the emotions roiling inside me: fear and grief for Marcus, fury at Neroon, and an unexpected depth of anger at Lennier. I had told him to say nothing, and he had defied me. For which act Marcus had likely paid with his life. The still, small voice that told me Lennier went to Marcus on my behalf, to safeguard my life, went unheeded for the moment. Acknowledging it would make me responsible for Marcus's fate, and I felt responsible for quite enough as it was.

"Who the hell was that guy?" John sounded more than a little angry himself. He and Susan were the only ones besides me left in the conference room. "And how did he get aboard my station with a deadly weapon?"

He was speaking to Susan, I realized after a moment. "Don't look at me," she said, with equal heat. "My job is in C&C. I am not down there at the passenger bays with an ID scanner and a sidearm. He probably came in on a liner or a Minbari cargo transport. Even if he had his own flyer, since when do we treat Minbari ships like potential threats?"

"All right, all right. I'm sorry." He held out his hands in a peacemaking gesture. "I just don't like it that he was able to get so close to Delenn." He looked at me then; the fear in his eyes was well controlled, but there. "He could have swung that thing and cracked your skull, so fast no one could've done a damned thing to stop him."

By no one, he meant himself. I could see it in his face. Through the dark curtain of my anger at Lennier, a glimmer of light appeared. At least Lennier had not broken that promise, or it would be John I grieved for now.

"So who was he?" John asked again.

"Neroon. Of the Star Rider clan. Warrior caste." It was hard to get the words out. I did not mention that he had been Grey Council, nor did I bring up our mutual history. I didn't want to think about it. The room seemed cold; I drew my robe of office tighter around me. The bronze-colored silk gleamed in the ceiling lights. Its softness was a small comfort amid an ocean of trouble. Neroon had meant to kill me. Would have done so, but Marcus got in his way. I tried for a calming breath, but it caught in my throat. Lennier had been right. What had I wrought, breaking the Council as I did?

"Delenn?" John laid a hand on my shoulder. "What's wrong?"

"This is my doing." It came out in a whisper.

He pulled me toward him, hands on both shoulders now. "I'm sorry, but I don't see that. I know Minbari are really big on the whole collective-responsibility thing, but I do not understand how—what was it, Neroon?—how his decision to get violent and then bust in here and disrupt things is your fault."

"Because I broke the Grey Council." My voice stronger now, I looked up at him as I continued. "When I went to Minbari space, to take the Council to task for its cowardice… those of the warrior caste would not hear me. They refused to join the fight against the Shadows. So I told those who believed the prophecies, who cared for the words of Valen, who saw the truth and would not turn away… I told them to follow me. And they did." The crack of Valen's staff, breaking in my hands, echoed in my mind. "Five of the Nine came. With the ships that helped save Babylon Five from Clark's forces. Religious caste, worker caste… they followed me. But the other four…" What else has changed, Lennier had asked, when Neroon first appeared and made his threats. The full consequences of what I had done were too painful to put into words. John was looking stunned at what I had revealed; behind him, Susan was open-mouthed.

"You know," John said quietly after a time, "when I told you to give 'em hell, you weren't supposed to take me literally…"

It took me a few seconds to realize he was trying for humor. A strangled hiccup escaped me that might have been a laugh, or something else entirely. "Don't joke, please. It's too grave for that. No Minbari has killed another in a thousand years. Nor tried to, that I know of. Until now. And I—"

"You are not at fault." He shook me gently. "Neroon and the warriors made their own choices. The results, and the blame, are on them." He touched my cheek, with a look so full of compassion it made my throat hurt. "You can't be responsible for everything, Delenn. Certainly not other people's wrong decisions. Only your own, and I can't see that you've made any in this. Would you really not have made that call, not brought those ships and your people here? Not have stepped up as Entil'zha when needed? What better choices were there?"

I covered his hand with mine. "When did you learn such wisdom?"

"When I met this Minbari lady I know." He squeezed my fingers. "She's amazing. You should meet her sometime; you'd really like her."

I couldn't help laughing a little at that. Until Susan, her face somber, said, "So who was it that got in Neroon's way?"

My brief lightness fled. "Marcus."

"Goddamn it," Susan growled, and left the room at a dead run.

ooOoo

My quarters, when I reached them, were mercifully empty. Had Lennier been there, waiting, I would have given him a tongue-lashing far beyond what he deserved. With too much time to think on the way here, I had belatedly realized that I left Lennier a loophole. I want your word that you will not tell him about this, I had said. Him meaning John… and, by implication, anyone else on the command staff, who would be obligated to tell John in turn. And so Lennier went outside the chain of command, to the one person he knew who could slow Neroon down long enough to make a difference—and who had no obligation to tell John or anyone else. Marcus's death—if he was dead—was at least in part my fault. I knew too well how Minbari could get around our sworn word, given sufficient motivation and the sincere belief that it was necessary to save life or honor. I had done it myself more than once. I should have been more precise, I thought as I carefully hung up the mottled bronze silk robe and changed to everyday clothes.

I came out of my bedroom and saw the message light blinking on my Babcom unit. Not half an hour old, the message was from Dr. Hobbs, Stephen's successor in MedLab One. "Ambassador? I thought you'd want to know—your aide brought in a badly injured man a little while ago. I gather he's a friend of yours. We've stabilized his condition; you may want to come and see how he's doing."

The message ended. I stood rooted to the floor as the Babcom unit shut itself off. Marcus was alive. Neroon had not slain him. It crossed my mind to wonder why, but I swiftly shut that thought away. It didn't matter. What mattered was a fallen Ranger, and whatever I might do for him.

ooOoo

Lennier was there when I arrived, hovering in the doorway of the ward where Marcus lay. The look he gave me said he knew he had broken the spirit of his promise and regretted the necessity, but not the outcome. We would talk about that later, I decided as I approached. "Has he regained consciousness?"

Lennier shook his head. "Dr. Hobbs is hopeful he will. Unfortunately, she cannot be certain."

The litany he gave me of Marcus's injuries was terrible. Concussion, broken ribs, a punctured lung, contusions beyond number, a cracked femur, blood loss… He had been beaten to the point of death, and it seemed only his stubbornness had kept him alive this long.

I pinned my hopes on that stubbornness. It seemed to be all Marcus had left.

The stillness of him, stretched out on the diagnostic bed, was a weight on my heart. He hardly seemed to be breathing. I found myself praying silently: he could not die, he must not die. Not this way. Not for me. Please, I thought, and did not know who I was appealing to.

"It should never have been allowed to happen. Not for my sake." Those words were for Lennier, though I didn't look at him as I said them.

"If not for yours, then who else?" he replied.

Surprise sharpened my response. "He could have been killed."

A moment passed before Lennier spoke again, with quiet confidence. "Delenn, all we know is that we will die. It is only a matter of how, when, and whether or not it is with honor. He did what any of us would have done."

What he said next was so unexpected, I gaped at him. "Respectfully, Delenn, I think this is the one thing about your position you do not yet understand. You cherish life. Life is your goal. But for the greater part to live, some must die."

I did not want to hear that, and looked abruptly away from him as he continued. "Or be harmed in its defense, and yours. There is no other way." He paused and seemed to gather himself; I had the sense he had not intended to be quite so candid, but did not exactly regret it, either. He believed what he had said and trusted me enough to say it. Though his words troubled me, his trust was a gift. It dawned on me then, with a fierce, hard pang, just how much I cherished it—and him, and all who might risk or lose their lives before this war was over.

"The doctors say that Marcus will recover, and that is what matters—" Lennier broke off at the sound of booted footsteps behind us. Neroon strode into MedLab and over to where we stood. The sight of him brought back all the anger I had spent the past hour and better struggling with. Beside me, Lennier tensed, as if ready to drop into a fighting crouch.

I glared at Neroon. "Have you come to finish what you started?"

His cold look matched my own. "If I wanted him dead, he would be dead."

Lennier spoke up, his tone sharp with challenge. "Then why did you stop short?"

"That is between the two of us. I would speak to him alone. One warrior to another. Then I will go."

"He will not hear you," I said, just before his meaning sank in. One warrior to another…

"Then I will speak briefly."

I glanced at Lennier, and saw that he had taken Neroon's choice of words the same way I had. Beaten unconscious or not, somewhere in what should have been a battle to the death, Marcus had won Neroon's respect. A mere human, daring to call himself a Ranger, daring to take on a gifted warrior-caste alyt for the sake of someone Neroon saw as an abomination and a rival for power… and now here was Neroon, calling him warrior as if he meant it.

May your god keep you, Marcus Cole, I thought as I gave him one last look. Then Lennier and I left the room. We lingered in MedLab a few feet away, just in case we were wrong about Neroon's intent.

Neroon's voice was a low rumble… interrupted, to my surprise, by a soft reply from Marcus. He could barely speak, but he was managing to get a few words out. Whatever they were, they made Neroon laugh. A real laugh, as if pleasantly surprised by whatever Marcus had said.

Lennier caught my eye. "One warrior to another…" he said. Only now, with its easing, did I see the true depths of his own fear for Marcus. What little remained of my anger with him vanished. I still did not agree with what he had done, still found hard to accept the notion that anyone should be willing to die for me… but Lennier had not lightly bent his promise. As for the larger issue, uncomfortable as I found it, I had to acknowledge that he might very well be right.

"I am sorry to have caused you distress," Lennier said as we left MedLab together. "Though I cannot apologize for what I did. As, I suspect, Marcus will not."

"You did what you believed was right." Reassured that Marcus would live, I could almost manage a smile. "And next time, I will know to word things more exactly."

ooOoo

Much later that evening, the day finally caught up with me. Long past time for meditation and sleep, I could not settle to anything. I paced around my sitting room, tried to read, brewed a cup of tea I didn't want, tuned my doubleharp and then sat with my fingers motionless on the strings because I had no idea what to play. Eventually, I realized I was waiting for the soft chirrup of my door-chime and John's voice over the comm. I wanted to see him—no, needed to see him. We had had no chance to talk over everything that had happened… and it had reached the point where my day felt unfinished if I could not talk to John about it. Especially a day such as this.

Two choices lay before me: I could stay here and wait, or go and find him. I dumped the cold tea into the sink and left.

Instinct led me to the War Room. He was there, alternately scanning a handful of dispatches and staring up at the vast map of known space that dominated the chamber. His feet were propped on a nearby railing, and he looked as if he had not slept properly in days.

"You have stubble on your chin," I said as I sat down beside him.

He blinked, startled; then his face lit up. "Delenn! I meant to come by… how late is it?"

"One in the morning. If I have your time measurements correctly."

He gave me a wry look. "You know you do. Trying to find a way not to scold me too blatantly for staying up too late?"

I laughed softly as I put my own feet up next to his. A surprisingly comfortable way to sit, this. "You have caught me. I believe this is where you promise to take better care of yourself in the future?"

Instead of joking back, he stared morosely at the dispatches. "I can't. Not until…" A shrug. "Not until." He tilted his head back and let out a long, weary sigh. "Sometimes I'm so tired, I can't see straight. But the damned war never takes a vacation day."

My sympathy was too acute for words. I took his hand. He glanced down at our interlaced fingers. "So. How are you holding up?"

"Well enough, now that Marcus is on the mend." Dr. Hobbs had called and told me a few hours ago.

He perked up. "That's great! You tell Susan?"

"Right away." She had seemed near tears for a moment, then blinked hard and muttered something about how it was "just as well; I'd have missed that pain in the ass." She and Marcus had circled around each other like a binary star ever since they met; I wondered if this incident would bring something out, or if Susan was ready to acknowledge it. Caught up as I was in my own affair of the heart, I couldn't help hoping so.

John was running his thumb across my palm, a sensation I found delightful. "Once she realized the Rangers had Marcus well in hand, Susan about tore this place apart looking for Neroon. Warrior caste or no warrior caste, I wouldn't have wanted to be him if she'd found him." His expression turned sober. "Would he really have tried to kill you? Even with all that about Minbari not killing Minbari?"

I had thought about this a great deal since leaving Neroon in MedLab. Here, with John, I felt I could voice those thoughts for the first time. "I believe he would have. And this troubles me greatly." I paused, to work out exactly how much to say; with all the other troubles on his shoulders, I did not want John to know that Neroon had approached me with threats considerably before the Anla'shok ceremony. "He was on the Grey Council. My replacement. Which unbalanced the Council by giving the warrior caste a majority. No caste has had one since the castes and the Council were formed. And of course, the warriors who held that power were not among the clans sending their sons and daughters to the Anla'shok." I stared at the starmap without really seeing it. "There have been times throughout our history when the warrior and religious castes were rivals for dominance. Always before, the balance of power in the Council checked things before they went too far. Now…" I turned my free hand palm upward, the Minbari equivalent of a shrug. "Neroon said there was blood between us. That does not bode well."

"What does that mean, exactly? I had the sense it was a ritual phrase. Or something like it."

"It is a formal declaration." My grip tightened on his hand. "Not of war or feud, precisely—but of the potential for it. A… what is the phrase? Shot across the bow?"

He let out a breath, not quite a low whistle. A common human expression of surprise or dismay. In this case, both. "I'm sorry. This has got to be the last thing you need right now."

My answer to that was to lean against him for comfort. It helped somewhat. Not enough to banish my worries, but I did feel better having shared them.

"Maybe nothing will come of it," he said after a time. "Marcus fought him pretty hard and survived. Maybe Neroon and the rest will take that into account."

"One can hope," I said. Silence fell between us again, comfortable and easy. A random thought occurred to me, and I broke the quiet. "Whatever happened to Mr. Garibaldi? I had thought he would be at the ceremony, but he never arrived."

He shifted slightly and chuckled. "Funny you should ask. You would not believe the story he told me about Grey Seventeen…"

I listened as he continued, my head against his cheek, warmed by his presence and the sound of his voice. I could stay like this forever, and the need for sleep be damned.