A Dark, Distorted Mirror. Volume 5 : Among the Stars, like Giants. Part 4 : Hopes, Aspirations and Dreams

Some of the stars go out, as a small shadow falls across him. It becomes greater, spreading and growing. There is a sound like an intake of breath, sharp and cold, a brush of wind against his cheek.

"Oh, this one. I had heard, but I had feared. So you are the one I have sought for so long? You accomplished nothing, my son. This one shall outlive all here. His words shall outlive this galaxy. He is touched."

"Enough with the prophecies! Just heal him!"

"Do you doubt me? You.... warlord. You remember a prophecy, yes. I see it in your eyes. Not mine, but the fate still hangs above you."

"I remember, witch. And I still live."

"For now, yes. But this one shall outlive you. Do you wish to know his fate, warlord?"

"Mother, do not...!"

"This one shall befriend an Emperor and meld peoples with his words. His passion shall inspire them, his heart make them kneel before them. He shall be the mouth of the river that flows through his people's souls.

"And he shall see his world die and be powerless to prevent it. He shall die at the hands of one he once called friend, but his words and his legacy shall live on. Not forever, but as close to it as makes no difference."

"Heal him, woman. I have no patience for your mysticism."

"You shall see, warlord. And yes, I will heal him — but because the whispers of fate say I will, not for your threats."

There is a warm pressure on his eyes. The few remaining stars die and the shadow grows. Slowly, it takes shape and form. A woman. A Centauri. A noblewoman.

A seeress.

He moves with the speed of a striking snake. As soon as he can see her form, he seizes her neck and squeezes. There is a crunch of bone and she snaps, falling limp and boneless to the ground.

Slowly he moves from the bed, his vision returning — blurred and unclear, but there all the same. Da'Kal holds him tightly and passionately. G'Sten stands proud and tall, nodding in admiration. The other has fled. G'Kar has not heard his voice for some time.

And there, chained and beaten and bloodied in the corner, lies the Centauri noble who did this to him. He looks up, defiant.

"A gift, nephew," G'Sten says.

"Kill him," Da'Kal hisses. "Kill him."

"Not yet," he says. His knife is still at his belt and he pulls it out. The light reflected from it is dull and faint, but he knows full vision will return with time. He knows somehow that one day he will see to the ends of the galaxy, see wonders that most people cannot even contemplate.

"He would have blinded me, taken my eyes and my vision forever. Let such a fate be his, then.

"An eye.... for an eye."

Blind.

G'Kar huddled in the darkness.

Blind.

* * *

Breath came slowly and darkness filled his vision. He could barely move. For a moment that seemed to last forever he thought he was dead, and his soul lingered in his decomposing corpse. It would be fit punishment for the sins of his life, he supposed, and he wished he had spoken more to Sinoval about such matters when he had had the chance. A golden opportunity to learn about death and what followed it, and he had failed to seize it.

"G'Kar," he whispered. He was not sure if he had actually spoken the words aloud or only in his mind. If he had died, should it not have happened as he had foreseen? It had been a dream. A death-dream. Those never lied.

But the truth they told was not always what it appeared to be.

Or perhaps nothing was written in stone, and any fate could be avoided.

Or perhaps stones could simply be shattered and ground to dust.

"G'Kar," he said again. His fingers twitched. He strained his head to look at them, and struggled again. Yes, they moved, the smallest distance, but a movement nonetheless.

He was not dead.

Unless this was just a hallucination. A dream.

Was he a Centauri dreaming he was dead or a ghost dreaming he was alive or something in between?

He could smell smoke. It was not the braziers drifting from the feast of his dream, or his life, or whatever it had been. It was the smoke of death and madness and in its black cloud it carried with it the screams of his people.

"I cannot rest here," he whispered, and struggled to pull himself up. His muscles would not obey him, but he persevered, and managed to lift his legs over the edge of the bed. They were hideously lumpen and heavy, like dead flesh moving.

The floor was cold and hard beneath his feet, but that was good. A sensation at last. He could feel something other than pain. He could not be dead.

Through his blurred vision, something slowly swam into focus.

A meal. Food, and a glass with something in it.

He reached out with the one arm that seemed to obey him and touched the glass. Jhala. And fresh, too.

Part of his dream. No, in his dream he had been drinking brivare and Earth liquor and Minbari water and.... other things. Not jhala. A powerful thirst suddenly burned in his throat and he tried to lift the glass. It seemed impossibly heavy, and he had to support his arm with the other one, forcibly heaving the glass to his face as if it contained molten metal.