How Londo had done this for so many years without going insane?
The royal court had lost none of its frivolity since the days of Cartagia. A stranger who saw only the palace's glittering halls would never guess that just outside the gates half the city was still in ruins, two third of the Centaurum was missing or dead, and the treasury bankrupt. Such matters did not touch the gaiety of the perfumed lords and ladies.
Their laughter scraped at Vir's fraying nerves as they passed by his throne, stopping to grab his attention, their smiles broad and white while they eyed him hungrily, considering what use he could be to them. Vir kept his gaze at a vague point on the opposite wall that he hoped made him look attentive, as even glancing at one of the wives of a courtier had ended with her husband nearly shoving the woman into his lap.
It wasn't hard to be flustered and bumbling at a time like that. The real challenge lay in not letting it make him angry. He pressed a hand to his temple, trying to massage away some of the headache building behind his eyes. He had hours spent listening to the invocations of the priests to all 49 gods (including Zoog), followed by the oaths of fealty from the surviving members of the Centarum, and then several more hours on obscure traditions, being swept from one event to the other, all the while trying to ignore the Keeper sinking its tendrils into his mind and the bombs beneath his feet.
"Majesty?"
Vir started as Durla appeared at his elbow, wearing the amused half-smile Vir had seen on the lips his family, his teachers, and his fellow ambassadors. The smile of someone secretly laughing at him. He sighed inwardly and drew the tattered remains of his mask around him. "O-oh! Prime Minister Durla!" he stuttered.
"Can I be of some assistance, Majesty? You seem distressed," said Durla. His tone was neutral but Vir couldn't help but feel patronized as the taller man leaned down to speak with him. Vir's headache gave another throb as he debated his next words under the cover of appearing surprised at Durla's question.
"Me? Oh I'm just…it's only that…" Vir lowered his voice, "It's been a long day and I'm starting to get a bit tired. I think I'll retire soon. That is what the Emperor does, right? 'Retires', he can't just say he's going to bed." Vir gave a nervous laugh. Durla must see through it, must know Vir had served as ambassador for half a decade and he would not have survived it if he was truly this vapid. But the man's condescending expression never wavered nor his tone shift from that of someone speaking to a rather dim child.
"Majesty, I'm afraid that's simply not possible. The celebration will be going on for hours yet, and the Emperor must be in attendance," Durla said.
"But…if I'm the Emperor, shouldn't I be able to leave when I wish to?" said Vir, and perhaps it was the headache but he couldn't keep the edge out of his question. Then again, a bit of exhausted petulance wouldn't hurt his image.
"A romantic notion, your Majesty, but flawed. Your life is not your own anymore. You are a public figure now, the most public figure on Centauri Prime. You must be available at all times and in all capacities to your people. Now they are celebrating, so you too must celebrate."
"But what are they celebrating?" Vir said, looking out over the milling crowd that filled the throne room. "They don't know me and we've just…" He glanced at Durla, who watched Vir with a warning glint in his eyes. "…lost Londo. Shouldn't they be in mourning?"
"They're celebrating your coronation, Majesty. Do not judge them for it, there has been very little to celebrate these past years." Vir nodded to himself, feeling the niggle of shame at his own attitude. Until Durla went on. "That being said, they are celebrating Mollari's death. 'The Assassin' some have taken to calling him; others 'the Executioner', that one has been around for quite awhile, only now they speak it openly. The better informed call him 'the Drunk'. At this point, I imagine there is very little you need do to be more popular than he. The common people will have their tantrums, he was a tyrant but he was their tyrant and as they see it the Alliance had no right to kill one of their own, but without the spectacle of their nobility on the chopping block they will soon move on to the next entertainment. I'm sure the Court will make a great show of their grief, and some of it may even be real, as I'm sure many regret missing their chance to do the deed themselves."
Vir's hand gave a throb of protest and he looked down at his hands clenching the throne's armrest in a death grip, his fingernails burrowing into the plush fabric. He took a silent breath and released it, surreptitiously flexing to restore feeling to his fingers. He was no duelist, but he would have given a great deal in that moment to have Londo's coutari blade in his hand. Anger crackled in his stomach and along his skin, flushing his cheeks. He kept his eyes downcast and breathed until he could speak without his voice giving him away. "Well, it's nice to know that I'll be popular," he said with vapid cheer.
Durla's thin, mocking smile returned. "As you say, Majesty. With your permission, I shall return to the fray. There are several ministers to whom I must give my regards. I will have the servants bring along some jala to refresh you." Vir did not mention that he no longer drank jala, and gave a nod of what he hoped looked like appreciation as he settled back into the throne. Jala had been Londo's favorite, and Vir had avoided the drink since they parted. Probably for the best, in case Durla had poisoned it... Great Maker, there was a thought. Durla wouldn't poison him this early, would he?
He will not, not unless he is ordered. A voice whispered in the back of his mind. The voice of the creature, Shiv'Kala. The thing that had tortured Londo, that held his people hostage; just stopping by to remind him it could read his every thought. The anger in his chest flared again but he damped it in the coals of his exhaustion. The Keeper gave a dry chuckle at the back of his mind.
Not yet, he reminded himself. He could not think of what it was, couldn't allow himself another glimpse of the thing taking shape in his head. Whatever it was though, whatever it would do, he couldn't acknowledge it. Not yet. He could feel the creature's curiosity; its tendrils digging into his mind like roots, sucking at his thoughts as if they were water. It couldn't find what he didn't know yet, could it? It couldn't…
"Vir Cotto!" Vir's head jerked up at a shrill, familiar voice ringing out from the far end of the room. A woman was shoving its way through the crowd, garbed from head to toe in black. Behind her trailed a smaller figure also in black, holding to the back of the woman's dress for dear life. Whoever it was, she moved without any regard for the lords and ladies dancing at the center of the room, shoving and even elbowing them aside as she strode forward. It took Vir a moment to realize why, or who, until he recognized the petite form of Londo's wife Timov, and a young woman he did not recognize. Vir jumped to his feet, and had already begun to bow before it even occurred to him he had no idea where they stood now in terms of rank.
"My lady Timov, what are you doing here?" Vir said as Timov swept to a halt in front of the throne.
"I could ask you the same question," Timov said arching an eyebrow. "This is rather sudden for all of us. My husband not even buried and you already sit upon the throne. Would you care to explain to me this rapid turn of events?"
"I…well, I guess I'm here because Londo made me his heir," Vir said weakly. Behind Timov the gazes of the courtiers were turned toward the throne with silent fascination.
Vir saw movement out of the corner of his eye and had only a second to react as the young woman at Timov's side took two long steps, drew her arm back, and delivered a full-armed slap across his face. Pain bloomed across his cheek as his head snapped to the side. Even the Keeper seemed surprised, as the faint buzzing Vir had sensed at the back of his mind since he received it went silent.
"You bastard!" he heard her shriek. "You were like a son to him. How could you?"
Despite the pain, one thought rang horribly in Vir's mind. The woman had just struck the Emperor in a room full of guards. The punishment for such an attack would swift, certain, and final. "Don't hurt her!" Vir said, putting up a hand to halt his guards. He sucked in air and shook his head to clear his vision, and once the stars faded he saw…nothing.
No one had moved. The court only stared at the spectacle before them, some tittering behind their hands. The guards weren't even looking at him, their attention was fixed on Durla. Vir's gaze drifted to his Prime Minister and saw the man was smiling as if entertained by a show. The woman, in the meantime, was panting with rage and looked ready for a second blow.
"I…uh, never mind," Vir said. The woman drew her arm back again, but Vir was already on his feet, and caught her wrist mid-strike. "Please stop that," he said gently. Her eyes flashed and she opened her mouth for a retort.
"Senna!" Timov snapped, and the young woman turned. "This isn't the time." She paused and tilted her head to the side, considering. "Maybe later."
The young woman, Senna, nodded and Vir didn't stop her as she tugged her wrist free with a glare and returned to Timov's side. Timov put her arm around Senna and drew her close. "Vir, this is Senna, my ward. You may remember the late Lord Refa, of whom my husband was so fond. She is his daughter." Vir noted Timov made no attempt to apologize for Senna's attack.
"I see," Vir said. He knew Refa as the head of a Great House must have a family, but hadn't really thought of it beyond that, as he'd had as little to do with the man as possible. Well, besides play an unwilling role in his death. His head was still spinning from the slap, and the pressure from the silent gazes of the court was suffocating, but he gave Senna Refa a short nod nonetheless. "My lady."
"You will of course forgive her," Timov said in her sharp, crisp tone. One that brooked no argument. "She was close to my late husband and feels a certain sense of betrayal that he was replaced so quickly."
"A necessary step in a time of such crisis, Lady Timov," Durla said as he detached from the crowd to take his place at Vir's side. He glanced at Vir and down to the throne in a silent command to sit, and Vir saw Timov eye the both of them as he complied.
"As I am still the dowager Empress, Durla, the title remains 'your Majesty', a detail you would do well to remember the next time you order your toadies to keep me away from the palace," said Timov, regarding Durla the same as she might a piece of manure stuck to the bottom of her shoe.
"A simple mistake. I assure you it will not happen again," Durla said, but the chill had returned to his gaze as he spoke with Timov, and he did not explain what exactly the mistake had been.
Timov sniffed. "Indeed. Come, Vir, we must talk and this room is far too noisy. I have a few questions to ask you about your new position."
Vir gave Durla an apprehensive look, and found the Prime Minister's already focusing on him, his eyebrows arched in warning. Vir turned back to Timov and said meekly, "The party will be going late into the night, Lady Timov, and since I'm Emperor, the Prime Minister has informed me that I really do need to stay. Maybe tomorrow we could-"
"What nonsense is this?" Timov interrupted. "Vir Cotto, you do not 'need' to stay unless you choose. The Emperor is not bound to the whims of empty headed courtiers. If you wish to leave, you may leave, if I wish you to come with me you may accept or decline but it is your prerogative. My husband certainly wouldn't stand for this and neither should you. I can assure you, the court will have no trouble emptying the palace wine cellar without your supervision."
"But I-" Vir glanced desperately between Durla and Timov. He wasn't ready to navigate this kind of power play so early, and he had forgotten all about Timov in the confusion of the past days. As dowager Empress, and therefore one of the most powerful woman on Centauri Prime, she could be his best ally, if not for Durla. Standing up to his Prime Minister so early would destroy the image he was cultivating and cause suspicion he couldn't afford.
Luckily, Timov seemed to recognize the situation and drew herself to her full (if unimpressive) height, and said, "As the widow of the Emperor, I am now his official voice in this world. Vir Cotto, you have a responsibility to commune with your predecessor on the eve of your reign. That is our tradition, after all, and we must keep to it even if all else is collapsing into barbarism around us." She gave Durla a pointed look.
"She is right," Vir said to Durla with a shrug and as pathetic voice as he could muster. He got to his feet, straightening his white jacket self-consciously, and descended the dais to Timov's side.
"Stand up straight, Vir, no slouching," Timov muttered out of the corner of her mouth, then stepped forward to lead their small procession out of the throne room. Eyes glittered with interest as they passed, and he could feel Durla's gaze digging into his back. He focused on bobbing tail of Senna's dark hair as she walked beside Timov. She had the poise of a high lady, but then she would as a daughter of House Refa. Where Timov was all business, her steps swift and no-nonsense, Senna's spine could have been iron. She carried herself with enough of the cold arrogance of born nobility to make Durla look like a displaced commoner.
There was no doubt that Vir was the least imposing of the three of them. As a child his posture was always hunched, cringing away from his father's gaze; from the gaze of everyone in House Cotto. Being invisible had helped him too when Londo's mysterious guests came and went, high lords like Refa and clients oozing obsequiousness as they plied Londo for attention and favor. No one ever noticed Londo's attaché except Londo himself, when he asked what Vir thought of this or that visitor. Londo had never chastised him for speaking his mind, but as the deals grew darker and the visits more suspicious, Vir made his disapproval known and Londo had stopped asking. Then he sent Vir away.
Vir had learned some confidence on Minbar, some poise from watching the graceful Minbari, but it was still easy to fall into his old ways. Like slipping on a comfortable and worn set of clothes, he had let those hard lessons fall by the wayside when he realized that they would not serve his purpose against Durla or the Drakh.
The creature stirred against his throat as his thoughts woke it. Curiosity rose off it like a miasma, curiosity it wanted him to feel. It wanted him to know it listened, and that it intended to sniff out the exact nature of whatever plan that required him to hide behind cringing subservience. Vir took a deep breath and blanked his mind, filling it instead with memories of his childhood, of the relief he felt when he passed through a crowded room without notice or punishment. The Keeper let him feel its suspicion, but refocused its attention on the black-clad form of Timov before him.
You will tell her nothing of what has happened. It spoke with Shiv'Kala's dry whisper, and Vir bit his lip.
But her husband is alive, shouldn't she at least know that? He wasn't sure how their connection worked, whether it was anything like telepathy, but the Keeper seemed to hear him.
Nothing, it said, and went silent, ignoring the rushing of Vir's questions and thoughts. He tried projecting hope, the hope that he could at least have this, that at least he wouldn't have to see the suspicion in Timov's eyes and the outright hatred in Senna's. But the Keeper said nothing more.
Timov stopped in front of the private offices of the Emperor, the ones Vir had not yet had the time to see in the whirlwind of the coronation, and pushed open the heavy bronze doors without hesitation. Vir's breath caught at the sight that opened before him and he wandered past Timov, hypnotized.
The massive room had been decorated as almost an exact replica of Londo's office on Babylon 5. Only the size was different, on a far grander scale than anything feasible on the station: after the huge bronze doors there were plush couches for receiving guests and broad windows that looked out over the gardens. The ornaments and gifts that had filled their quarters on Babylon 5 were scattered across the bookshelves and the desk. He recognized them all; the stone carvings from Drazi, glass ornaments from Minbar, bottles of expensive Human liquors, and Londo's own collection of Centauri religious statuary. Yet for all that they had crowded their room on Babylon 5, they barely covered the vast empty shelves and desk of the Imperial offices. Against the grand dimensions the ornaments seemed small and sad, as if no more than tawdry souvenirs.
It was all here. Vir had not expected this, had not thought Londo cared. During the first year, Vir had called and written every week, but without answer. At the time it had just seemed further proof that Londo saw no need for his old friends now that he was Emperor. Vir had sent the boxes of Londo's belongings back one at a time, the first parcel went with the wild hope that it might prompt some reaction. Happiness or anger, it didn't matter. When it went unacknowledged, Vir started leaving little notes stuck to each gift or trophy with the memory of where it came from, or a joke if Vir didn't remember. There was never any reply. He assumed the boxes went unopened. Wandering the shelves of ornaments with a Keeper at his throat and a lie on his lips, Vir could begin to understand why Londo might surround himself with memories of friends he could never speak to again.
One item in particular caught his eye. Vir frowned and plucked the ornament from the desk. It had been sitting in a place of honor at the center, but whatever value it had must have been purely sentimental. It was a simple shot glass from the Zocalo on Babylon 5, but the sight of it made Vir's heart clench with homesickness. The trip to Centauri Prime was only supposed to last a week. By now, friends like Ta'Lon and Mr. Allan would know he wasn't coming back. Word of his coronation would be filtering back to the station. After ten years, Babylon 5 was the only home Vir had ever known. He would probably never see it again.
He heard an impatient cough from behind him and turned to see Timov and Senna settled on one of the white velvet couches by the window. Timov nodded for Vir to take a seat across from her. Vir sat, feeling more like a guilty child than an Emperor. Which was a bit unfair considering he hadn't killed Londo and hadn't done anything wrong.
Well, nothing except usurp Londo's throne and upset all his plans to defeat the Drakh. Suddenly Timov's gaze weighed heavier on him. Surely she couldn't know? Not if she was alive, he didn't need the Keeper to tell him that. Now he was squirming and while that might help the image he was trying to create, it certainly wasn't helping his case.
"Well, Vir," Timov said in her prim voice, which lowered in dire warning, "explain."
Vir shifted and looked down at his hands. "What is there to tell? I came to see Londo because I heard…things. About the proscriptions, the executions. I had to know why it was happening, maybe see if I could stop them." Senna gave a disbelieving sniff.
"So, you came as his friend, hoping to reason with him? What if he had refused to listen?" Timov said.
Vir floundered. "I don't know, I guess I would have tried to find another way."
"And did you?" Timov said.
Vir's heart dropped to his shoes and he looked up, aghast. "Are you asking if I killed Londo?"
"It would not be the first time such things have happened. After all, someone had a hand in offing that madman, Cartagia." Vir froze, feeling his hearts would stop. He could feel the golden needle in his hand; see those dark eyes go wide with shock then blank in death. Did she know, how could she know, no one knew even when he had felt them watching him and judging him and… "And good riddance, I say. Oh there's no need to play the innocent, Vir, everyone knows he was murdered; just as everyone knows it was my husband who did it. You needn't cover for him anymore." Vir released a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, but a cold sweat had broken out as his hairline and the face of the long-dead Emperor, his predecessor now, hovered smirking at the back of his mind.
He closed his eyes against the image, and said with as much calm and dignity as he could muster, "Lady Timov, Londo is my friend. I would never hurt him."
"You mean he was," Senna said. She looked up from her folded hands and glared at Vir.
"Senna," Timov admonished. "I want to believe you, Vir, truly I do, but time can change even the best of friendships. You had not seen Londo for many years, and he was not kind to you when you were together. Great Maker knows my husband could be difficult. No one would blame you for feeling resentment toward him."
"I—what? No! Maybe we didn't always agree, but—"
"The throne can be a tempting prize for anyone. I have seen stronger men than you go mad at the thought of it," Timov continued.
"No, listen! I didn't want the throne. I didn't even know Londo wanted to give it to me until that day!" Vir said.
"But once given, it may give any man ideas," Timov said.
"I guess? But I didn't—"
"The ink was not even dry on the page!" Senna Refa said, her accent thickening with her anger. "What good is loyalty when you have the key to the throne in your hand, yes?"
"After everything you did for him, he practically owed you the throne, didn't he, Vir?" Timov said. Her rosebud lips twisted around the words as if they left a bad taste.
"Stop!" he cried, and somehow he was on his feet, his hands clenched in shaking fists at his sides. Tears strangled choked his throat and stung his eyes. "Just stop it! How can you even say that? I would give up the throne a thousand times over if it meant none of this was happening, if it meant having him here and safe." His voice cracked midsentence, and he scrubbed the white silk sleeve across his eyes and tried to swallow back the tightness in his throat. It wouldn't budge and words came out a furious whisper. "He's my best friend, I would do anything for him, I did—!" He bit back the words before the Keeper could make him. One tear burned hot down his face and pressed the palm of his hand over his eyes. Old shame reminded him that he should turn, that he shouldn't cry like a child in front of these women. He gasped, try to force them back, but they wouldn't stop. It was either laugh or cry, and once started he wouldn't be able to stop until they were certain he was mad.
A cool hand came to rest on the back of his neck and Vir stiffened and dropped his hand from his face. Timov was looking up at him, her brows drawn together with grief and understanding. "Oh, Vir," she said. "I know, dear. Hush, I know." She drew him close against her, wrapping her arms around him and pressing her chin to his shoulder. One hand stroked patted the back of his hair as if he was a child. He wondered if his own mother had done this for him.
Timov did not let him go until the trembling stopped, and the last of the tightness in his throat eased. Vir drew back, looking down at the petite woman. "You knew?"
Timov sighed and looked away. "Well I couldn't know for certain. I believe you are a good man, Vir, but you must know why I would suspect. More than just friendships have been sacrificed for the throne."
"So you believe me?" Vir said with relief.
"Of course not," Timov said, and the relief winked out. "Not entirely. Oh, I do not believe you killed my husband, but then I do not believe that Cartagia had any hand in the death of Prime Minister Malachi, even if it was to his benefit. You too could very well be a convenient pawn for someone else. And you are hiding something Vir. I don't know what it is, but even now you're not telling me the whole truth."
"Can you understand that I'm doing it to protect you?" Vir said, feeling small and miserable and ridiculous even as he said it. The Keeper sent a shiver of warning down his spine, an unnecessary reminder of its presence.
"To protect me from what, Vir?" Timov snapped and Vir realized he had a hit nerve, more like an old wound covered by iron and ice. "The court? Do you think I'm afraid of them, of little social climbers like Durla and his toadies?"
"He's protecting you from the ones who killed Londo, Lady Timov," Senna said from her place on the couch. She was frowning to herself, part in grief, but her eyes were distant as if she was just beginning to see a shape through the fog. "Isn't that right, your Majesty?" Senna said, as she looked up at Vir.
Vir looked between them, the solemn young woman on the couch and Timov, whose lips had drawn to a tight line. There was just the barest quiver of her chin as she looked at him. In that moment he realized: this was what Londo had faced every day, and he had been a fool to think he could avoid it. It was going to be worse than facing a woman who thought he had murdered her husband. It was going to be days, years, of silences and evasions as he danced to the tune of Durla, protecting the secret of the Drakh, all without explanation. All of this on the chance he could save their lives and no one, maybe not even Londo, would understand or forgive.
"Yes." Vir closed his eyes. "The Court is more dangerous than either of you know. The safest thing for you to do is to leave. Go…somewhere else, anywhere. Londo would have wanted it that way."
"I know," Timov said. Her tone was sharp, but its edge was that of a blade dulled by wear. "He already sent me away once. As if he needed to. We rarely saw each other after the coronation. In all those years, I attended only a few necessary court functions. We rarely spoke. He barely looked at me."
Vir lifted a hand to pat her on the shoulder but stopped before he touched her, his hand hovering. Timov was looking away from him and towards the ceiling. She blinked rapidly, but her voice remained steady. "We met once after the executions began. Only once. He was drunk, of course." She gave a derisive sniff, even if it sounded more like a sniffle. "I demanded to know why he was allowing it to happen, all the blood, even his own friends. And do you know what he said to me, Vir?"
Vir shook his head and lowered his hand.
"He asked," and Timov gave a small cough to clear her throat. "If I truly believed him capable of that. And I said…I didn't really know anymore. He had no answer for that, not even to deny it. He took another sip of that foul brivari of his and he said that I should leave the capital, never speak to him again, never contact him."
She turned to him after a moment. Her eyes were shining, but her cheeks dry. "Tell me, Vir, did he know then that this was going to happen? Are you saying he was trying to protect us?"
Vir looked down, unable to meet her stare. He knew. Even if Londo hadn't told him, Vir knew. He nodded.
"I see," was all Timov said. Senna stood and went to Timov's side, placing an arm around her and allowing Timov to lean against her while Vir looked on helplessly.
"I can make arrangements for you, if Londo hasn't already," Vir offered.
Timov's head snapped up. "And why in the world would I let you do that?"
"Because…we just agreed you shouldn't be here?" Vir said.
"Vir Cotto, if you think I'm going to leave the capital I'm afraid you have another thing coming! It's clear to me that you need all the help you can get against this threat at the heart of our Republic. I should have recognized it sooner. The executions, the secrecy, that monster Durla now Prime Minister? Bah, I have been unforgivably out of touch." She fixed Vir with a look. "I still believe there is something more you are hiding Vir, and it isn't only to protect us. But I am the dowager Empress and now without some power of my own. In the meantime, however, I am at your service."
"No, Lady Timov, no this isn't what I meant!" Vir said, but the woman plowed on.
"I understand you cannot inform me, have no fear. I can be discreet as well. But there is no rule that says the Emperor cannot meet with the voice of his predecessor, and we shall do just that. Come, Senna. The Emperor is tired and we have a great deal to do."
Vir gaped as Timov swept from the office. On the one hand, he was beginning to understand a bit of why Londo may have taken a position billions of light-years away, on the other he could not help but feel the tiniest bit lighter as he snuck his way through the hall to his bed before any courtier could see.
The week past in a flurry of celebrations, ceremonies, and meetings. Vir was introduced to each of his ministers, though he was given no chance to speak with him alone as Durla managed every encounter. There was always too little time for Vir to ask questions or give an opinion before he was swept off to the next engagement. Nevertheless, Timov found time in the afternoon to steal an hour for his "communions" with Londo's spirit. He wasn't sure what Londo would think of the idea of Timov as his represented of in the realm of the living. Probably laugh and grab a drink, which was something Vir would very much like to try himself. For some reason there was never brivari or alcohol of any kind offered to him at the official state dinners, or the various receptions. He could not say he minded, it was certainly preferable to the excesses he had come to expect from Londo's many stories of court life, but it was one of many small things over which he had no power despite his new position.
At the moment, he was sitting in the Imperial offices again, staring at a stack of well-wishes and ceremonial decrees that needed his signature so that the ship of state may continue upon its merry road to ruin, when the door opened and revealed Durla.
He was carrying a folder under one arm and hardly glanced at Vir as he closed the door behind him. He wore his usual black coat with gold embroidery at the wrists and collar, but for once he did not move with his usual long, purposeful steps. He seemed careful, distracted even as he laid the folder in front of Vir and handed him a pen.
"Sign this," he said. Vir accepted the pen more out of surprise than willingness, but held it poised over the page.
"What is it?"
"A routine order, nothing that concerns you," Durla said. He wasn't even looking at Vir, but rather back to the door as if impatient to be on his way.
Well, wasn't that interesting? Vir placed the pen to the side of the page and lifted it, his eyes scanning the official legalese until the meaning clicked in his head like the cocking of a gun
"This is a military order," Vir said, and looked up to Durla. "But we're not at war with anyone."
"Just sign it, your Majesty," Durla sighed. "This is a matter of urgent national security. It cannot wait."
"I can't sign something if I don't understand it, Prime Minister," Vir said. "It says here you're deploying troops to Centaullus, our cultural capital. Why would troops be needed in a university town?"
"Majesty, it is a complicated matter and I do not have the time to explain," said Durla.
Great Maker, he's afraid. Vir folded his arms and settled back in the chair. "Then I don't have time to sign it. Tell me what's going on, Prime Minister, since I'll probably be finding out from someone else soon enough."
Durla's brow furrowed and he looked at Vir as if seeing him for the first time. His lips twisted and flashed sharp canines as he considered. "Very well," Durla said, turning to face Vir. "I will be brief, as the details will likely escape you. There have been pockets of civil unrest since we released the news of Mollari's death. The people are angry, a turn of events our intelligence services did not anticipate. They are blaming the government rather than Alliance. At the moment, the protests are concentrated amongst the students in Centallus, but with the proper show of force I am confident the whole matter can be swiftly resolved."
"But if you use troops, people are going to get hurt," Vir pointed out.
"Such is the way of things, Majesty. If they didn't want to be hurt, then they shouldn't have joined with insurrectionists." Durla pushed the pen back towards Vir.
"Wait a minute, you said they're protesting because they're angry their Emperor has been killed and no one is doing anything about it. That doesn't really sound like insurrection," Vir said, and pushed the pen away again.
"They are moving against the government. There is no other word for them. That being said, no one could not have anticipated their anger being directed at the government rather than the Alliance."
"Of course not. That would require actually paying attention," Vir snapped, and drew himself short. He was showing his hand too early, but there was no way around it. He just had to keep going. "Prime Minister, I can't let you send troops against people whose only crime is being angry that their Emperor is dead."
"It's true, the cause for their anger is understandable."
"Then you'll forget about sending in troops."
Durla's eyebrows rose. "Of course not. We can't be having civil unrest at a time like this."
"And what time is this?" Vir said leaning forward. "You keep going on about this not being the time, but it was your idea to direct their anger towards Alliance. Well, now they're angry! Soon they're going to take matters into their own hands, because we won't. Why? What are you waiting for?"
"If our allies have not informed you then it is not my place to say," said Durla.
"This is about the—!" Vir cringed as a shiver of pain from the Keeper went down his spine and he lowered his voice. "This is about them? About him? You know about them?"
Another a shiver of warning trickled down Vir's spine as the Keeper called his attention. 'This one serves us knowingly. You will not interfere with him.'
'He's going to cause a civil war!' Vir shot back. 'If he sends in troops, the people will go mad! The whole planet will erupt, and none of us will be able to control it!'
The Keeper went silent, and Vir realized with shock it was listening to him. Listening and no longer certain.
"They have given me their full support in this," Durla said. "Majesty, I advise you to give me free rein in this for your sake as well as theirs. If the troops are not enough, the best solution may be to call upon the fusion bomb planted beneath Centallus. We shall tell the people it was smuggled there by Alliance spies. A terrible thing, really, that such powerful weapons can be so easily concealed in so small a package. It will take care of the dissenter and allow us to say we did our best to protect them against the larger threat."
Vir jaw dropped. "Are you insane? Did you seriously just threaten to use one of their weapons? Do I really need to tell you that I will never give you permission to kill millions of our own people?" At some point Vir had gotten to his feet, his breath thundering in his ears. Durla still loomed over him, but this was quickly remedied when Vir grabbed him by the collar, feeling more rage than he had felt since the Drazi spy on Babylon 5. "There is nothing you can threaten me with that will make me allow that!"
Durla's eyes were like chips of ice. "You are only Emperor as long as you are useful, Cotto. I can assure you, misguided bravery such as this will not lead to a long and fruitful reign."
"Go ahead then, kill me. I dare you." Vir dragged Durla closer. "I'm sure the people will calm down right away when they hear they've lost two Emperors in two weeks."
Durla hesitated. It was brief, but Vir saw it. Durla had not considered that threats might not work, that his usual path of blood would only make the road too slippery to walk. And he was wondering: how was Vir still holding onto him? Why had the Drakh not pulled him back? Why weren't they defending him? All this passed over Durla's face in the blink of an eye.
Vir struck.
"How much time do we need?" Vir said. Durla's gaze flickered at Vir's use of "we", but he was already off balance and perhaps some old instinct to obey a superior's command pushed him over.
"Ten years. Our military buildup will reach peak efficiency, and our allies say their own arrangements will enter the final stages. The effects, I'm told, will be devastating." Vir nodded, even if inside he reeled. Durla was watching him, but a slight change had come over him. Some of the self-satisfied slyness had drained away to be replaced with speculation.
"Ten years? Fine. First things first, I am not going to sign this," Vir released Durla's collar and picked up the order. With a single motion he tore it down the center without taking his eyes off Durla. "Next, you are going to make an announcement. Tell the protestors that they have been heard. Tomorrow I'm going to address the city…no, I'm going to address the entire Republic."
"And what exactly are you planning to tell them?" Durla said. His voice was cold but held a note of something, curiosity, maybe fear. For the first time, Durla was listening to Vir rather than simply smiling while Vir talked.
Vir balled up the last of the order and tossed back onto the desk. "I don't know yet. I'm buying time, Prime Minister. Time to consider a plan that doesn't involve killing our own people before the Alliance gets its chance. Don't forget I'm cleaning up your mess."
Durla's mouth twisted, but there was nothing he could do. He was trapped, and even worse, he was intrigued. "Very well. If you can resolve this without force, I shall stand corrected. Perhaps you are not the fool others have said you are, Cotto," Durla said, eyes glittering.
Vir laughed. "Oh no, I'm a fool. I'm the biggest fool in the galaxy. But I've been cleaning up messes for a long time, Prime Minister. If there's one thing I'm good at, it's that."
"Very well, Majesty," Durla said after a moment. "We will do it your way this time. But remember, some day there will be a reckoning, and a bloody one at that. Let's hope your mercy is not misplaced." He turned and walked toward the door in sharp, calculated steps; the heavy bronze doors slammed behind him.
"I'm sure there will be, Durla," Vir murmured, not caring that the Keeper listened at his shoulder. "And one way or the other, I don't think mercy will have much to do with it."
The sun set over the domes and spires of the capital, blood red and streaked with trails of smoke from the burnt out ruins. The smoke did not come from the destruction itself, though it had taken days to quell the full extent of the inferno in the aftermath of the bombings. These days, the smoke rose from squatters who scrounged what lives they could amongst the ruins of their former homes, burning what was too damaged to be saved or sold for food.
Vir's wrist twitched to close the heavy white curtain against the sight but stopped, and forced himself to look. Millions of people, of his people, already hurt and haunted and starved. This time exhaustion was not enough to hold back the tide of rage that swept over him. They needed shelter, food, medicine, and it was all denied so the Drakh could harvest their anger against the Alliance. Ten more years of desperation and want, only to be thrown into a second meat grinder they could not hope to survive. Not that there would be any choice. With the bombs beneath their feet it was a choice of dying to the Drakh or dying to the Alliance. It wouldn't matter if the Alliance didn't make war on civilians, the Drakh would force the Centauri forward until they had no choice. Their lives meant less than nothing to the Drakh. After the last child had died in battle, the Drakh would launch their own war from their new home world.
Once Vir might have wept at the thought, or fought down horror that rose with the bile in his throat. Instead he felt only a strange, icy calm. It was as if all other thoughts churned beneath the surface of a frozen lake while he walked across the hardened surface. All sound faded to a background hum even as his vision sharpened, and Vir Cotto gazed out over the jagged ruins of the capital, and saw the stark reality of his people's genocide.
Funny, that he had once wondered how he would save the lives of the protestors in Centaullus, hardly daring to consider the larger specter of an entire planet on the verge of annihilation. He shouldn't have worried. Really, it was all so simple.
He closed his hand around the Keeper at his throat. The creature, too wrapped up in deciphering Vir's thoughts to notice the threat, spasmed and jerked beneath his hand like a living heart. It screamed in his mind, but Vir only waited for it to stop sending bolts of pain through his nervous system and listen. "Tell Shiv'Kala I need to talk to the Drakh.
"Then speak, little Centauri. The Drakh listen." Vir stiffened, and turned. The setting sun washed the Imperial bedchamber in crimson and glinted on the stony surface of Shiv'Kala's skin, shadowing the creature's eyes.
Vir swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. How long had Shiv'Kala stood there? His skin prickled, the same chill prey must feel when it feels the brush of a predator past its hiding place. "Not just you. All of you, the Drakh nation."
"The Drakh Entire does not grant audience to slaves," said Shiv'Kala. His form, bathed in the red light of the sunset, blurred at the edges and became insubstantial. He seemed ready to dissipate into the shadows of the coming night like smoke.
"Wait!" Vir said, and perhaps it was his imagination but Shiv'Kala snapped back into focus and the tilt of the Drakh's head held a note of surprise. "Either you let me talk to them or our deal is off."
"You do not get to decide the conditions of our agreement, little Centauri."
"Then detonate the bombs." Even from beyond the wall of ice, a thrill went up Vir's spine as he spoke those words.
"Do not try to bluff, little Centauri, we are in your mind and can see your thoughts at all times." But perhaps something Shiv'Kala found there had caught him off guard, for he no longer seemed as certain.
"Then you know it's not a bluff." Another pause and even as the cold pooled in his stomach and fear churned beneath the lake, Vir knew it was true and somehow that was important. "And I am not 'little Centauri.' I am Emperor Cotto the First of the Centauri Republic, and if I'm not allowed to speak to the Drakh Entire as a representative of my people then we really are no better than slaves. Worse, actually. Even a slave can file a complaint with the government against their master. Are we less than slaves to you? If so you might as well kill us now."
"You would do well not to tempt me. Your race means little to us," said Shiv'Kala.
"If that's true then why shouldn't we fight now? If we are nothing to you then I see no reason to believe you won't use the fusion bombs once our usefulness is worn out. Contact your government, Shiv'Kala, or whatever you call it, or use the bombs now. Do it, or you'd better kill all of us because I know my people and whatever survivors are left will find you, all of you, and when they do they will…"
"They will what?" Shiv'Kala said. His eyes glittered in the dying light.
"…Well, whatever it is, it will be unpleasant and really, really slow." Whatever ice keeping Vir from what was now the boiling lake of fear on the other side was melting by the minute, and a small voice that was left over from what had once been shy, clumsy little Vir Cotto was gibbering with terror at the corner of his mind. But really, it was no different than facing the monsters of the Technomages. At least that's what he told himself.
Shiv'Kala was watching him, and with each passing second Vir could imagine the ice being replaced by the flash of heat and short (probably very short) agony as millions of megatons of bombs exploded beneath his feet. Finally, Shiv'Kala spoke.
"I have spoken with the Drakh Entire. Killing your people would draw unnecessary attention at this moment. We have agreed. You will have your audience."
Vir gaped but quickly shut his mouth. "When, where? Don't tell me you agreed to all of that just now?"
"The Drakh Entire is vast, it is eternal. We know each other's minds even as I know your mind. There is no need for debate, for all voices join the greater voice."
Vir's eyes narrowed. "You didn't want me to speak to them. They overruled you."
"There is no dissent in the Drakh Entire," Shiv'Kala said, but was that an edge of irritation in his voice? Vir found it was becoming easier to catch the emotions of the creature, as alien as it was. "Lie upon the bed. Your body will no longer be your own once the connection has opened."
"Now?" Vir said, his voice rising almost to a squeak.
"Yes, little Centauri," Shiv'Kala said and there was, some hint of smug amusement. Why was it suddenly so clear? It was as if Vir could feel the emotions coming from Shiv'Kala, even as the Drakh's face remained impassive as ever. "Already you feel the connection opening. Quickly now, or your fragile body will suffer when your will stands before our race."
At first he'd thought it was the falling night, but Vir realized then that his vision was darkening at the edges, his sense dulling. His legs wavered and he fell forward, catching himself against the bedpost. Already his vision was narrowing to pinpricks and the only sound he could hear was his own breathing. The bed rose to meet him and he had only a distant impression of its softness as all sensation faded, along with the smell of powder and perfume that made up the Emperor's quarters.
He was falling.
Silence was eclipsed by the murmurs of a thousand voices. Vir opened his eyes.
The Imperial bedchamber was gone. Instead he stood in a circular room, like the Centaurum but vast and lit by only a single pillar of light at the center of the floor. Seats rose before him in an endless tower, and in those seats rows of red eyes glinting in the darkness, rings upon rings of them like stars rising into an endless night sky. The Keeper throbbed at his shoulder and he wrinkled his brow, eyelids squeezed tight. None of this was real. His body was in his quarters on Centauri Prime and the Drakh were scattered for light years about the galaxy, not here before him now. But what was real when it came to Shadows and telepaths? They could choose to kill him now and he'd be just as dead.
A clawed hand closed around his upper arm and he jerked as Shiv'Kala swept passed him into the center of the room. Its robes folded about it like wings as it tilted its head back and in its rasping voice addressed the Drakh Entire in a language Vir could not recognize. The strange tongue echoed with staccato of hisses and cracks like crumbling stone. The eyes above shifted, looked down on Vir.
He thought at first it was his imagination, or part of some madness he really should begin to expect, but a whisper went up from the Drakh and despite the sibilant crackling of their tongue he found he could understand the words.
"Who is this one…
he would speak to the Drakh Entire…
…bring him forward…
bring him forth…let him speak…
silence him…
no, let him speak let him speak…
LET HIM SPEAK."
Vir reeled back as the whisper grew to a roar like a crashing tide. Shiv'Kala turned to him slowly, as if turning on an axle, and gestured with one clawed finger for Vir to stand in the middle of the room.
His first step was halting. After so many days of stuttering and cringing, of hiding his thoughts behind the mask of an idiot, it was hard to remember who he was, who he had been. The self he had built piece by piece over council meetings, through wars and disappointments, from smuggling Narns to freedom and facing Refa's telepath, from stabbing Cartagia to gaining the strength not to do the same to himself. It was learning to leave little Vir behind, the disappointment to his family that had been banished to almost certain death on a station far away. It was looking out into the council chamber when he returned to Babylon 5 from Londo's coronation, to a sea of faces that had voted for Centauri Prime to pay reparations even while it lay in smoking ruins. It was continuing to speak for his people, even through months of silence, through threats and curses, to hearing nothing from his government except bile against the Alliance, and nothing from his friend except vague threats and half-truths, never why he shut Vir out.
It was learning about Londo, and the Drakh, and the threat to his world and saying take me instead.
He raised his head.
"I am Emperor Vir Cotto the First of the Centauri Republic, and I would speak to the Drakh Entire."
A hush fell over the room, the sound of millions of creatures growing still.
He wished in that moment for Londo's confidence, or G'Kar's skill at oratory, Delenn's calm collection. He wished… well, he might wish for a great number of things, but at the end he would still be just Vir Cotto, and he had a job to do.
"Your plans for Centauri Prime will fail."
His words echoed like a tolling bell in the silence. "It has already begun. The people you are trying to control will find ways to outmaneuver you. They will track you down and drive you off the planet. Everything you've worked for and everything you've built will be destroyed." They were the words of comfort he whispered to himself every night, and they ran through him like iron, straightening his back and strengthening his voice.
The thoughts he could not say were building at the back of his mind and throat, waiting to be released. The Keeper twitched at his shoulder. It too wanted to know, but it could not squeeze out what was not yet there.
"No matter how many resources we put into developing new weapons it will never be enough to keep up with the Alliance. Our ships are new, yes, developed while you ruled over Londo, and the Regent, and when the Shadows controlled Cartagia," he could not keep the anger from his voice, "but even with your technology, they will not be enough. The Alliance is making new designs every day. They have hundreds of worlds, billions of people from every civilization working together. Even now they're outfitting Alliance members with White Star technology, technology that was taught by the Vorlons." An angry hiss went up from the crowd, building like a thunderstorm, but Vir ignored it. "You are outnumbered!" he shouted over the din. "You are outclassed!" The hiss grew into a roar. "And you will be defeated!"
The Keeper dug into his shoulder, and Vir bit back a scream as a sensation burned through him like acid poured into his veins. His knees buckled and his hand flew to his throat, stopping just inches from the creature. Shiv'Kala was glaring at him as the roar grew to an earsplitting cacophony, like the sound of an approaching tornado.
He was losing them.
Vir wrenched his hand away from his throat and pointed to the center of the crowd. He gathered himself, and simply told the truth.
"The Alliance is vulnerable. I know, because I was there. They fight each other every day over stupid, meaningless things. They're too wrapped up in themselves to care about anyone else, and it's was all Sheridan and Delenn can do to keep them from going to war with each other." Slowly, the storm began to die as one by one Vir felt the chill of each Drakh's eyes as they turned back to him, considering. "There's nothing to keep them together anymore. If they fall apart it will be soon, while everyone is too busy looking out for themselves to work together. But this won't last forever."
"Every year we pay them reparations is a year we are weaker, and every year they get stronger. The longer we wait, the stronger the Alliance will become, and the further we will fall behind. Someday, the Drakh technology will not be enough." Vir's eyes scanned the crowd. "My people are already angry at the Alliance. Continuing to pay the Alliance reparations won't make them any angrier. Now the drain on our resources is just that, a drain. Even if we channel every credit to our military it will never be enough to take on the entire Alliance."
Vir blinked and saw it, all of it, and it took his breath away. All the pieces that had floated, unconnected in his subconscious, little grains of sand building up until they formed an island just out of the corner of his vision. And finally, now, he looked and saw it laid out in all its glory. The Keeper at his shoulder stilled, and Shiv'Kala whipped towards him, ember eyes growing wide then narrowing with anger.
"We must declare war on the Alliance. Now, and on our own terms! An official declaration will bind the Alliance to the rules of engagement. Civilian targets will be left alone, while we strike into their heart. We could take back dozens of former colonies before they even knew we were there. It will take months of debate before they will be able to field any kind of army. You will have your revenge."
Vir stopped. He was panting as if he had run a race, all the words streaming out before Shiv'Kala could stop him. Even now Shiv'Kala drawing towards him, moving across the floor like a shadow.
Vir opened his mouth to continue when Shiv'Kala struck, a single clawed hand catching Vir at the throat, and lifted him from the ground. Vir gasped, flailed, his fingernails tearing at the dark hide as the ember eyes burned into him.
"You! You think I cannot see what you are planning? Your thoughts are open to me." Vir screamed as the Keeper flexed its tendrils, like hot wires being plunged into his brain. His legs kicked, finding no purchase, though he knew he was lying in his bed, knew he should be able to wake up.
"You thought you could trick us, little Centauri? I know your mind. You hoped that a war would bring the Alliance here. They will come with their ships, and their scanners, and their telepaths. You thought they would find us, and when they do they will know the truth of our presence here." Shiv'Kala lips drew back from sharp teeth like chips of stone. "We will not play your game. The Drakh have been patient before. We will wait. We will grow stronger, and when we strike it will be—"
Shiv'Kala stopped. The claws at Vir's throat loosened and he dropped to the ground, his knees collapsing beneath him as he landed, driving him to all fours. Shiv'Kala was no looking at him, but rather up at the crowd, his slender form like a black obelisk within the pillar of light.
The room had gone silent.
Then the whispers began. Like a crack racing through crumbling stone, the hissing and clacking spread through the ranks of Drakh, and grew to a roar. Shiv'Kala's head tilted back, his eyes following the sound. His cragged lips parted. Then he turned to Vir, alien features twisted with what could only be fury. He turned to Vir and his clawed hand made an imperious, slicing motion through the air. The Keeper at his throat pulsed, and Vir gave a strangled cry as the floor dropped out from beneath him and he was falling. Shiv'Kala, the room, and the towers of glittering red eyes vanished, until there was nothing but rushing blackness and the howl of wind.
Vir's jerked upright in the bed, his entire body spasming as if to catch him from the fall. He was still dressed from head to toe in white, and cold sweat chilled on his skin. His head throbbed, and the Keeper burned on his shoulder, sending out little pulses of pain like a pinched nerve. His hearts thundered in his chest and he winced as light jabbed his eyes. After a moment the terror and dizziness passed.
It was morning.
Vir started up, dashing from the bed and throwing open the door to the Imperial chamber. The halls were empty except for a few sleepy eyed servants and the two guards flanking his door. It was just past dawn. How long had he been unconscious, speaking in that strange in-between world of the Drakh Entire? What had happened there? His hearts were beginning to calm and he placed a hand to wipe the sweat from his forehead and closed the door, turning back into the room.
"You have made a grave mistake, little Centauri," Shiv'Kala said.
Vir recoiled, stumbling back against the door. Shiv'Kala's black robes swept the floor as the Drakh took a step toward him, blotting out the light from the window like an eclipse.
Panic twisted Vir's gut but somehow he managed to keep his expression still, or perhaps his face was too numb with terror to betray him. "The Drakh Entire has rejected my proposal?"
Shiv'Kala's mouth tightened. "The Drakh Entire is of one will. No single voice may drown out the greater hive. You are an outsider, and our slave. You have convinced them of nothing."
The words hit Vir like a hammer blow, and his carefully gathered courage shuddered. So much had been riding on that, and yet it was poorly planned, poorly executed. Stupid, stupid, how could he have hoped to accomplish anything with a plan he couldn't even think of? Londo had been right, there was no choice but to wait them out and hope someone else came to save them all. He had damned his planet in the first week, millions would die, billions, how could he have been so stupidly reckless, how could he—
"Of our own will the Drakh Entire has decided: the Centauri have our permission to go to war.
Vir gaped. He could not prevent it if he tried. Shiv'Kala was looking at him with undisguised loathing. Shiv'Kala continued. "You will fight on our behalf, as our disguise and our shield. You will make the declaration today, and you will not disappoint us."
"No… no of course not," Vir said, dazed. But they knew, surely they had to know. They read every thought in his head! They had no hope of winning a war against the Alliance before the remaining ten years was up. The Alliance would send spies, telepaths, every weapon at their disposal to learn the terrain. They would not invade the planet without scanning the surface, and when they did they could not help but find the fusion bombs.
"You underestimate us," Shiv'Kala said. "We still possess the art and weapons of our masters. The Alliance will know our vengeance. They will fall."
"Right, of course," Vir said. Perhaps the connection was still there. He could see lack of conviction in Shiv'Kala's voice, the hard edge of an envoy unhappy with his message.
"Your people will fall with ours, little Centauri, and do not forget the weapons already here. Go now, prepare yourself. We will be watching." Shiv'Kala spared him one last look before walking to a corner of the room where the shadows of the bedpost were black on the wall. Vir blinked, his eyes crossing as tried to follow Shiv'Kala from one movement to the next. The Drakh stepped into the shadow as if it were a door, its black robes melding into the corner, and was gone.
Vir washed and dressed in a sort of strange haze. On the one hand, he could see it all now; the plan, and it brought the world into such a fine detail of focus that he fancied he could make out every grain in the intricate woodwork of the furniture. On the other it was so vast, so beyond his control once it started it seemed his view of the world was fuzzy at the edges, as if he could not take in everything at once. A sort of tunnel vision enveloped him as he washed and dressed, rubbing the last traces of sleep from his eye. He caught his own reflection in the mirror as he headed to the door. The Imperial white washed all color from his face, leaving his eyes as dark hollows. Was it his imagination, or were the faint touches of gray at his temple already more pronounced? The Imperial seal dragged at his neck and for once it felt heavier than the Keeper. The creature was like a knife at his throat, eye glittering like a blade, capable of killing him with a thought. But a knife was nothing compared to the millstone around his neck in the form of his seal of office. It carried with it the billions of lives under his protect, and what could the Keeper possibly threaten that compared to that?
A war. Great Maker, he was going to start a war. Thousands, if not millions would die, and that was if he succeeded. Billions if he failed. The collar of his shirt was creased at the edge and he reached to straighten it, only then noticing his hands were shaking.
Two guards stood outside the Imperial chambers and they snapped to attention when Vir poked his head out the second time. He did not recognize one, there were too many guards for him to learn every name, but the second one was Darro. Vir remembered him as the guard with the broken nose. He cleared his throat and said, "I need you to send a message to Prime Minister Durla." The guards snapped to attention, as if the mention of their former captain was of far more note than the presence of the Emperor. It probably was.
"Yes, Majesty? And what message should I bring?" said Darro.
"Tell him to see me in the Imperial offices as soon as he receives the message. Tell him…" It swept over Vir then, the magnitude of it. His mouth went dry and he closed his eyes against a wave of dizziness. "Never mind, I'll tell him myself."
Darro nodded and turned to leave but Vir stopped him with a hand on his shoulder, turning him back. "One more thing."
"Your Majesty?" said Darro, his brow crinkling with confusion.
"Before you see the Prime Minister, I need you to take one more message. Go to Timov, the dowager Empress, tell her…" Vir opened his eyes, but when he spoke it was in a whisper, if the air itself was being crushed from his lungs.
"Tell her I'm sorry."
Author Note: Thank you for reading. I put countless hours of work into this fic and would much appreciate any feedback you can give! Also, check me out on Tumblr (same username) to chat or generally geek out over B5!