EndTimes


It was the cape that first told us. We who worked with him, who watched him go 
about his duties, we noticed first that the swirl of the cape as he came round 
the corner, the flutter of the fabric behind him as he traversed the hall, had 
lost some of its energy.  Had lost, and continued to lose, slowing, fading, day 
by day growing weaker. 

Of course it was not the cape but the man who wore it.  He was fading, losing 
his energy, losing his life, just as he and we knew he would, knew he must.  We 
had never stopped hoping and we could never believe that he would stop, yet the 
truth confronted us, and we had to acknowledge it.  The Entil'Zha weakened.  
John Sheridan was dying. 
.......

He arrived soon after the summons went out. We were accustomed to seeing him 
here for his work often brought him to the side of The One.  This time however, 
he strode with an urgency that chilled us. 

Over the years, his garb had changed.  In the beginning, in the days of covert 
operations, we saw him in clothes that bore no marking save the Isil'zha on the 
shoulder of his suit jacket.  When the dark times of war came again, the black 
uniform of the Army of Light returned, the badge framed in the triangle of grey.  
In these last years he had finally donned the uniform of the Anla'shok.  He 
looked at home in it at last. 
.......

They all came, each one Delenn had summoned, and each of them spent time with 
The One, alone, in small groups, all together. These last seemed celebrations, 
joyous tributes of remembrance, and laughter rang often.  The smaller ones were 
sadder, quieter moments of goodbye.  Many of them left those meetings in tears.  
Many, but not him.

Two or three times each day the Ranger's boots echoed in the hallway, moving to 
Entil'Zha's door and inside.  The door closed behind him, remaining closed, 
barring entry even to Delenn.  He would emerge at last not with the red swollen 
eyes of the others but wearing the mask of emotions he struggled to control.  We 
saw disbelief, fear, wonder and horror, pain, determination, and hope.  No one 
spoke of why. 
.......

They were often three now in these endtimes: Sheridan, Delenn, and David. The 
manchild seemed to know that his questions must be asked and answered now, 
seemed to know the time was short.  He asked and was answered, and seemed to us 
to grow now before our sight, the child entering his father's study, the man 
emerging. 

And then, after some days, it was Delenn who emerged, tearful, strong, leaving 
her husband and her son alone behind the door to speak the words that must be 
spoken, the words not even she could share.  That door opened next to allow 
David to pass and we cringed to see the mantle of sadness on his young 
shoulders. 

Sadness and something more.  Confusion.  Anger.  Resolve.  A chill trailed his 
path through the hall. 
.......

We never heard the words but we heard the voices. The young one rose quickly in 
volume, in pitch, and in intensity.  The other, subdued with age and wisdom and 
sadness, crooned lower until pushed beyond endurance, rose then for a moment, 
then collected itself and faded back. 

It went on for some time, and rhythms of sound told us the argument waltzed over 
and over the same ground.  Nothing was accomplished save the hardening of one 
heart and the breaking of another. 
.......

The One was gone. Delenn was the only one who did not seem surprised.  She 
meditated and fasted, observed the rituals of mourning, yet she no longer wept 
and seemed to have put grief behind her.  It was done. 

It was harder for the others.  They expected certain rituals -- the deathbed, 
the burial -- and without these, they were dazed, unable to give form to their 
loss, expression to their grief.  They huddled together sharing strength and 
stories, meals and memories.  Except for the two. 

David mourned alone.  His mother tried to comfort him, but he rejected even her 
embrace.  He fasted, and meditated, and trained his body.  Delenn seemed most 
concerned about this.  The others tried to soothe her, to reassure her that 
physical exertion would help him to give vent to his emotions.  Delenn was 
unconvinced. 

As for the Ranger, we had not seen him, not since his voice and David's danced 
their angry dance.  Some said he had gone to the training camp, gone back to 
Valen's temple.  Delenn sent word when Entil'Zha left us.  There was no reply. 
.......

It had been several days since Delenn had welcomed visitors. Many had tried to 
call, to pay their respects, as the humans put it.  She had declined, politely, 
firmly, asking for privacy for herself and for her son.  They seemed to 
understand. 

This request however she had granted.  She had agreed to see them, to hear what 
they had to say.  No one believed that they came only to pay condolences.  
Shakiri of the Grey Council, G'Tran of the Narn, Lord Collara of the Centauri, 
and Senator Adams from the Earth Alliance, all sought audience with Delenn, 
together.  Even the lowliest acolyte could see that this visit was political. 

She met them in the garden in the soul-baring light of the afternoon sun where 
the air carried voices on every breeze to any who would listen.  Her guests did 
not seem to appreciate the beauty of the spot. 

They spoke of war, of enemies and danger.  They made their request in words 
heavy with foreboding, fraught with demand.  She demurred, with reference to 
prophecy and the wishes of The One.  They protested, citing the needs of the 
Alliance.  Asserting the wisdom of the universe, she declared the matter closed. 

They took their leave with annoyance, the perfunctory words of condolence given 
grudgingly, accepted without the meeting of spirit.  Delenn withdrew to meditate 
as the group stamped out, their irritated mutterings drifting to the ears of the 
young mourner in the shadows. 
.......

She was still in meditation when Turval arrived. The old teacher did not ask, 
only hobbled slowly to Delenn's rooms.  He entered the space, straightening as 
he drew a deep draught of the incense-laden air, and waited for his eyes to 
adjust to the half-light of the candles.  Gingerly then he lowered himself to 
the cushion beside her, joining his spirit to hers in meditation.  Together they 
prayed, the flame of memory reflecting in the jewel of future. 
.......

He dressed himself differently now, this we were quick to notice. Gone were the 
well worn, the mismatched, the comfort-first trappings of adolescence, replaced 
not with the soft robes of mourning but with the suits of business and the 
leathers of battle.  His boots sounded in the halls early and late, and when we 
was with us, he was not with us.  Closeted away, he was praying and training, 
but more and more training, training in the arts of combat. 

Delenn, done crying for her husband, wept now for her son. 
.......

When Turval returned they walked in the garden. They spoke of time and need, of 
fear and misunderstanding, of friendship and loyalty and love.  The wind that 
carried an approaching storm chilled the dampened air, and Delenn shivered in 
its embrace. 

Before the teacher took his leave, she bid him wait, excused herself, returning 
with a bundle which she offered to him.  He demurred insisting it would not be 
accepted.  Citing again the need, she pressed him.  The master accepted the 
package, shaking his head sadly.  It would not be accepted he reiterated, not 
from him, perhaps from her, possibly not even from her.  The fear was great, the 
fear, and the pain.  But he would try.

Delenn thanked him as he took his leave. 
.......

It was not accepted. A Ranger arrived the next day carrying the same package to 
Delenn.  We announced his arrival in hushed tones, embarrassed to interrupt her 
meditation.  She would come in just a moment she assured us. 

The Ranger stood at attention in the hallway, the bundle balanced on his 
outstretched hands, a precious offering.  Perhaps that was what caught David's 
attention as he made his way from the gymnasium to his room.  He prodded the 
messenger with questions about the package, its source, its destination, its 
contents.  The Anla'shok's answerless replies were far more polite than 
questions of the youth in the sweat-soaked clothing.

When Delenn arrived to claim the treasured parcel, the manchild remounted his 
inquisition.  For her part, she spoke only to the Ranger until David had trailed 
her back to her rooms, his litany of questions rising to the level of demand.  
Only when the doors had closed on them could we detect Delenn's voice, the soft 
cadences of a wise and worried mother.  Mother and son, the voices continued: 
patience and ire, wisdom and pain, another angry dance.
.......

The delegation from the Alliance did not return but their concerns did not 
leave. There were dangers on all sides of us, that we knew, and without The One 
to lead us our enemies loomed a little larger. 

The young Sheridan spent much time in the company of his father's people but not 
his father's friends.  Humans were his companions, those and a few of the 
warrior caste, but no one we recognized, nor anyone we trusted.  Franklin and 
Ivanova both tried to reach out, to touch the heart crying for its father, 
closed to its mother, but both were turned away.

The Ranger did not try.  In truth, we had not seen him since before The One had 
left us.  It seemed strange, wrong, the chilling, sickening sense that one acted 
counter to the wishes of the universe, that one blocked the path of unfolding 
prophecy.
.......

In time Delenn went to him, alone, unannounced, taking with her the bundle she 
had  once entrusted to Turval. She returned empty handed but dejected, relieved 
of the package but not the burden. 
.......

Rangers brought reports of the first skirmishes, birth pangs of a war to come, 
dying born again. Delenn listened politely, then sent them away, pointing them 
in the proper direction.  We could not know if they were welcomed there, if they 
were heard or heeded. 

Delenn turned to stillness, David to action.  He did not interrupt her 
meditation for good-byes.  She did not break his resolve with pleas. 
.......

The first reports extolled the brazen tactics, the strategic ingenuity of the 
young Sheridan. His father's son, they said, warrior and leader, risen to the 
top by genius and charisma.  His mother did not rejoice but she did remember. 

The tide turned as, in assault and accolade, it so often will.  The new hero 
fell, first from favor, ultimately to the enemy.  The robe of mourning returned 
to our house.
.......

He came with the dawn brushing aside those who said she was not available, 
settling himself to meditate beside her. After a time, he persuaded her to rise, 
and in time, to eat a bit, and when they sat in the soft light of the garden, 
she tried again to persuade him.

He listened in silence to words he knew too well.  He answered without rancor or 
vanity, with a courage and compassion that shamed us, and with terror. 

He would do what must be done, what perhaps he should have done sooner, but he 
would not do what she asked, what Sheridan had asked, what they all asked of 
him.  He would give everything he was but he was not that, did not know how to 
be.  She pleaded but he held firm, firm in the fear we could hear on the breeze 
that swirled their words to a greying sky.  

Battles took the Ranger away, battles that did not frighten him as much as her 
request, as much as the wish of a friend gone beyond. 
.......

Turval came often to meditate with her, to console her. They did not speak of 
the war but it weighed on them as on us all.  It did not go well for us, for 
anyone.  As deaths added to deaths, claims of victory seemed hollow.  Honor and 
justice and truth faded to words, rallying cries for bodies stripped of spirit. 

She spoke of it only once to the master as they parted.  Three words only she 
whispered, a simple question: was I wrong?  The elder clucked his tongue, shook 
his head, and took his leave. 
.......

The teacher was with her when the Rangers came bearing the gift  she had dared 
not hope for. David was alive, barely so, freed from his captivity by a small 
task force, brought home to her now.  They carried him to his mother wrapped 
tightly in blankets and bandages, swaddled like the infant she had nursed.  She 
settled him in his bed, sent for the healers and chased them away again, and 
kept vigil over her son.

In and out of consciousness, the young man battled enemies only he could see.  
He screamed for his mother, her frightened child awakened from a dream.  He 
cursed her, fighting off her ministrations, his mother's waking nightmare.  One 
dream he dreamt over and again, moaning his fear, howling his terror, waking 
with one name always on his lips.  She sang him back to sleep.

Vigils keep watch, keep wait, and in time, what is awaited arrives.  David began 
to heal, to strengthen, to know where he was and why.  He and Delenn talked now, 
conversations long overdue.  He would speak of his captivity, and she knew he 
must, but with each word she heard his father's voice again, and the pain was 
doubled.
.......

Turval was with her more and more now as the reports of the fighting became 
graver. Bands of Rangers fought bravely but it was not enough, they were not 
enough.  They were few, they were many, but they were not one.  We were without 
The One.  The universe grew dark.

....... 

The bed was empty when she went to wake him and in the first moments terror 
drove her to rage. She railed at the guards who could let him be taken from 
under their noses, who could fail to keep his own home safe for him.  Turval's 
touch stilled her. 

The teacher took her to walk in the garden, told her of his meeting with her 
son.  An unexpected meeting it was for both of them there in the predawn 
greyness of the Ranger training camp.  David had come to reclaim a package, 
Turval assured her, and to deliver it to its owner.  Her mother's heart cried 
frantically of his weakness and the danger.  Her soul flew with him on the 
journey he must make. 
.......

David came home again, wise enough now to know he was too weak to be of any use, 
but by the time he  had returned word had begun to reach us of the change, the 
turn in the tide of battle, the surge in the morale of the troops. Delenn did 
not ask nor did David offer any tale of when or where or what, but this time the 
package had been accepted. 
.......

Wars go beyond. They do not die and all of them seem to return again one day, 
but in time, for a time, they pass out of our experience and leave us time to 
heal.  Wounds are tended, warriors welcomed home.  We speak of peace and hope 
that this time we can believe ourselves.

Now is such a time.  The danger is past, driven down by those who follow The 
One. 

....... 

Deep in memory we find recognition of the step we hear again in the hall. After 
so long the boot heels snap in just the same way, the hands are still thrust 
deep into pockets, and Isil'zha still gleams in its place.  The Ranger has come 
back. 

He finds Delenn in the garden, David at her side.  Their greetings are flavored 
with joy and tears.  The young man leaves them to the conversations of old 
friends and they sit and sip tea and remember. 

In time, she asks him what made the difference.  Wonder widens her eyes as he 
tells his story, a tale of a young man's courage and an old man's fear, of their 
journey together through torment to peace.  He speaks to her of her son, of him 
about whom the future swirls like a robe of blackened velvet. 

She has heard the story of David's rescue, has listened to her son speak with 
gratitude of the Rangers who fought to free him, has watched him wake from that 
recurring dream shouting Michael's name in a voice of newly kindled hope.  Now 
she hears the rest, the stories David has not shared, of their time in hiding, 
when the young man's faith in himself, in his rescuer, and in something greater, 
kept them both from despair. 

He speaks of David's return to him, healing but not healed, weakened but 
resolute, bearing to him the package, that which he had refused from Sheridan's 
hand and from Delenn's.  He turned David's gift away as well though his soul 
rejoiced to know that at last the young Sheridan too could give it.  Perhaps, he 
muses to the bittersweet sky, that was what began to open his heart. 

They had talked long together, talked and prayed, he and her son.  They spoke of 
the gift and why he would not accept it, of the greater gift for which it stood.  
Of his father and of his mother, of Sinclair and of Valen, the young man spoke, 
of these who had accepted.  Through David's eyes he saw them again; in David's 
words, heard them.  In meditation beside him he heard them speak to him, to call 
him by his name and remind him of his destiny.  He weakened but did not yield. 

He kneels before Delenn now taking her hands in his.  He tells her what her 
heart has long known though her lips dared not speak it: that this child-man is 
special, called to do as his father and his forefather have done, to lead as 
they have led, to follow where they have gone.  She signs her understanding, her 
heart too full for words. 

He stands now to leave her but she holds him with her question, the same 
question, not yet fully answered.  His answer is a question, the question with 
which David changed his heart, the question spoken in the voice of Valen and of 
Sinclair and of Delenn and of Sheridan, the question of his own heart, and of 
David's.  He answers her with the question to which he, as they, has at last 
said yes.  Will you follow me into fire...?

She takes his arm in silence and together they walk through the long hall to the 
door where David waits, the hastily packed bag slung on his shoulder.  She 
neither objects nor seems surprised.  With an embrace and a bow, she bids her 
son farewell.

They turn to leave, the One who is and the One who will be.  The One who was 
watches.  Into fire, into storm, into darkness, into death, they will follow and 
be followed.  This is what he was born for. 

The cape of the Entil'Zha dances on the breeze behind him.  The One lives. 


EndTimes		1