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amataraRating: G
Summary: Finding Na'Toth in a cell on Centauri Prime stirs up some of Londo's personal demons. G'Kar observes, and is given something unexpected.
Timeline/spoilers: Set during the mid-S5 episode "A tragedy of telepaths" (but rest assured, it is certified Byron-free!). Spoilers for all of Londo's arc up to that point, and some of G'Kar's.
Disclaimer: Owned by JMS and Babylonian Productions.
Thanks to:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
hobsonphile, for the kind words of encouragement, meticulous edits and spot-on suggestions.
Acts of contrition
Narn was burning. Or, no, not burning – choking.
He stood at the base of the Kha’Ri palace, shielding his eyes while eddies of dust whirled around him like derwishes. Yet through some odd stroke of providence the maelstrom did not touch him, and the wind that should have been scouring his face felt merely cool, almost soothing against his skin.
Beyond his field of vision, someone was weeping, a harsh lamenting sound that tugged at his hearts. He began to take a step towards its source, but his legs wouldn’t obey him, and as he glanced down he remembered the reason for that.
Of course. He couldn’t move, could he? Ever. He had always been trapped, buried up to his waist in something: duty, responsibility, fear –
This particular instance it was pebbles he found himself buried in, a whole mound of them, round and smooth and ruddy. That made perfect sense to him, given that debris was still hailing down from the sky. The mound only reached up to his knees, which did surprise him a little, as his legs felt absurdly heavy, far heavier than seemed reasonable given the pitiful amount of weight that held them down.
For a second he thought he spied a metaphor coming. Luckily, the wind whipping his coat made for a very convenient distraction. It was hard to concentrate, in any case, with the noise of falling rocks and the cries of wounded ringing in his ears.
Or – no, not cries. Laughter. His, more precisely. The raucous laugh that filled his head was most definitely his own.
Well, that couldn’t be right. He didn’t feel in the least like laughing, and besides, he hadn’t even opened his mouth to do so. But he was laughing nonetheless, which turned out to be a case of terrifically good timing, as he suddenly found a white-and-gold-clad arm draped across his shoulder.
“Ah, Mollari! Isn’t this marvellous?”
A beaming Cartagia trained huge black eyes on him, head bobbing up and down as if to praise his good humour.
“Yes, I can see you share my appreciation. What a moment, is it not? What a spectacle! Death, wrought in fire! Why, if there is art as splendid as this, let the artist step forward and I will pay him his weight in gold! Have you ever in your life seen anything remotely like it?”
Yes, he wanted to say, I have, a thousand times, in a thousand dreams. But his voice seemed to have fled along with the laughter, and he could only nod mutely, yes and then no, as he realized too late what the right answer had to be.
“Oh my, we’re positively speechless, are we?”
Cartagia smiled dangerously, pursing his lips.
“You would be well-advised to remember your manners, you know. I am very impatient with rudeness. Or,” he frowned, “are you, perhaps, not Mollari?”
Of course I am, your majesty, he wanted to say, and stab out those eyes with his fingernails. Instead, he just blinked in silence.
He swallowed down something that was not hesitation. His hands were trembling, but not with fear.
“Well, if you’re not Mollari, who are you then? You don’t belong here, do you? You’re only dreaming this.” A malicious giggle. “This isn’t your dream, by the way, you’re just stealing it. You do know that, do you not? You made this happen, really, so you have no right to dream it. No right –”
“SHUT UP! Shut UP, you petulant, monstrous –”
He was shouting then, hearts bursting, storm roaring to life in his veins, while Cartagia screeched in furious counterpoint. “How dare you insult your god, you infidel –” The jewelled hands came up, fingers clawing for his throat.
Desperate, he wrenched away, to find himself chest-deep in rocks once more.
Except this time the storm was no longer sparing him. The derwishes spun around his head, filling his mouth and eyes and ears with dust, and all the while the pebbles kept falling, only they weren’t pebbles anymore, but eyes, Narn eyes, round and smooth and ruddy and alive and they were seeing him, seeing everything, and –
Who –
Why was he here?
What had he done to this place?
The dust was blinding him. He couldn’t see.
He was Na’Toth, watching the sky come down, screaming defiance in the face of destruction.
He was G’Kar, bruised, tortured, yet hardly contained by a prison cell, still bearing the weight of his world.
He was Cartagia, eyes ablaze with the flames of the pyre he would turn their planet into.
He was Vir, sick with horror as he drew out the needle.
He was Londo Mollari, whore to Refa, selling out his dreams for a promise of glory.
He was Londo, looking down on it all from the viewport of their flagship: the screaming, pyre, needle, lash, pebbles, eyes, death –
Who was –
Did he have anything worth –
“Lights!”
He rose, bolt upright between the covers, struggling to unpin himself. Like the sheets, he was drenched in sweat, hearts slamming against his ribcage as if he had duelled for hours. Blearily, he fought to get his bearings.
Great Maker, that – that was a bad one.
Blood roared in his ears, and he forced himself to slow his breathing, sucking in air through his teeth and puffing it back out. Gods, why was it so infernally hot in here? Had that blasted Narn turned up the heating again?
Still shaking, Londo thrust both feet out of the bed, then pushed himself up and started, half-blindly, towards the washroom. There was a crash as he bumped into something hard and unyielding – a chair, he thought vaguely – that went clattering to the ground. He managed to grab the door and pulled himself in by it, finally stranding at the basin and turning on the tap.
The water was cool and silky on his face, and he indulged in the sensation for a long moment, until reality took over and he started to feel cold. Cursing himself for not putting on a robe, he hurriedly dried off and reached for the glass he’d filled earlier. His balance was still less than perfect, though, and in his lingering post-dream disorientation he ended up knocking it to the floor.
When it hit the tiles was when the coughing started.
It was worse than he remembered from previous times, more vehement, as if his body had decided to drive the message home with force. He clutched at the basin as something wet and massive loosened in his chest, making him retch for a moment in helpless disgust. Mercifully, the fit tapered off a little after that, and in a few instants he found he could breathe again.
He rinsed his mouth and washed his hands, taking comfort in the mechanical actions that required so little effort. The dream was still hovering at the edge of his consciousness, and the image of Na’Toth, rotting in that lightless cell, flashed through his mind once more.
Dear gods, how were they ever to get her out of there?
Stepping carefully between shards of glass, he turned toward the door and reached for the knob with numb fingers. He really should see Dr. Franklin, he thought, as he straightened to favour his still-aching lungs. Ah, well, he told himself that every time this happened – which it was starting to do with alarming regularity – only to ignore it afterwards.
It didn’t help, of course, that after that infernal heart attack, he’d spent enough time in Med Lab to last him till the end of his days. Two maddening weeks of forced immobility, interrupted at regular intervals by Franklin’s insufferable prodding, and without even decent food to help distract him! The thought of repeating any part of that experience, if only for an hour, was unbearable enough to make him stuff down his discomfort for the umpteenth time.
He rubbed his eyes, deciding to stay up and start thinking of how to break out Na’Toth. He didn’t expect he would sleep again tonight anyway.
Pushing his way through to the bedroom, he was distracted enough not to notice, for the space of a whole five seconds, the Narn sitting stiffly upright on his sofa.
******
“Lights!”
The word, choked off and breathless as it was, cut through G’Kar’s half-slumber as efficiently as any scream.
Not a second later, he was sitting up and fumbling for his weapon, just in time to hear a dull thump, followed by the sound of wood slamming on wood. In another few moments he was racing into Londo’s chamber, adrenalin flowing – then came up short as he surveyed the scene, momentarily confused.
Londo was nowhere to be seen, though the bed had clearly been slept in, and the only sign of the disturbance he had heard was an upturned chair beside the nightstand. The door to the washroom was closed, which was unusual, since Londo had an odd fixation with leaving his doors open. That was probably, G’kar had thought, with no little schadenfreude, a relic from older days. He remembered all too vividly those times when drunk or hungover were the only two states that Londo seemed to occupy; in both of those, having the washroom door open at night might well prevent some – unfortunate situations. The thought of an inebriated Londo crashing into doors in the dark never failed to amuse him.
He was pulled from his reverie by the noise of breaking glass. Instantly, he was up against the wall, one hand curled around his weapon, the other grasping the polished brass handle. He took a deep breath, was about to burst in, when he heard –
– coughing. Subdued but unmistakable, coming from the other side of the door.
Startled, G’Kar stopped to press an ear against the wood, drew back when the coughs increased in violence, to be replaced by a strangled heaving sound. He shook his head in mute amazement. Despite all his chuckling about Londo getting outrageously drunk, he hadn’t really imagined him the type to –
Besides, now that he thought about it, they hadn’t had any alcohol that evening, and very little to eat for that matter. Instead they had shared dinner in silence, except for those few moments when there were no servants around, in which they talked in hushed tones about Na’Toth. Londo had been uncharacteristically quiet during all of it, devoid of his usual appetite, and for once, G’Kar had refrained from comment.
He removed his hand from the latch and, with measured steps, went to sit on the couch.
It would be wisest, he knew, to just get out of here. It was clear Londo had not been attacked, so he truly had no business staying. But as he listened to the sounds, and then the silence, emerging from behind that door, he found he could not tear himself away. Even worse, he realized: for some obscure reason he was actually – damn him twice over – feeling pity for Londo Mollari.
So it was that when the door finally creaked open, and a wan, rumpled Londo came out, G’Kar was still there.
“Who – G’Kar? What in the gods’ names are you – ?”
There was a brief flash of rage, a furious gesticulation of hands. Then both of these went out like a light as Londo steadied himself against the table, passing a hand across his face.
“Great Maker, G’Kar.” The hand dropped away, along with what remained of the bravado. “You startled me.”
G’Kar lowered his eyes in acknowledgment. “I heard you cry out, so I came to check on you. For all I knew, another of those assassins had dug his way through the wall and was cutting you into little – pieces.” The corner of his mouth twitched in a smile as he thought of Centauri ‘pieces’, and how many there were to cut.
Londo worked up a weak grin of his own. “You would have liked that, yes, G’Kar? At least, if they’d started with the – ah – dispensable pieces? As long as I’m alive to become Emperor, who cares if I’m missing one or two, hmm?”
The smile became apologetic, turned into a grimace as Londo reached the edge of the bed and sat down gingerly. “I didn’t mean to wake you. It was just that –” A sigh. “I – I had –”
“A nightmare,” G’Kar finished. Of course; it was all clear to him now. “I know the kind.”
If that statement surprised Londo, he didn’t show it. Instead he just nodded, resignation in his eyes. “Yes. In fact, you probably do know the kind. Intimately.” He sucked in a long, unsteady breath as G’Kar sat up straighter, his curiosity piqued.
“I dreamt – about the attack on Narn.”
G’Kar started, taken aback at the unexpected honesty. Out of reflex more than conscious thought, his mind produced a cynical remark that he prepared to toss across the room, the predator in him coiling in anticipation. But at the last moment, something stopped him.
Londo was looking – shaken. Vulnerable, even. A pallor had crept into the puffed aristocratic cheeks, and G’Kar watched him swallow once, hard, to keep back whatever it was he was fighting. Quite suddenly, he had the irrational impulse to ask Londo if he was all right. He’d already opened his mouth to say the words before he realized, disgusted, what he was doing. Bah, the man needed his protection, not his sympathy! Besides, if he did dare to ask the question, he’d never live it down.
Still, when he finally answered, the sarcasm sounded oddly tame.
“To be honest, Mollari, I would have thought your moment of glory in the eyes of the Centauri Republic would make for some more gratifying dreams.”
He paused, finding he lacked the energy for his customary baiting. The hollowness in Londo’s face hardly helped to strengthen his resolve; the Centauri’s gaze had locked briefly on his while he talked, then flinched away to settle somewhere around his left shoulder.
With shocking suddenness, G’Kar was reminded of nothing so much as the look in his father’s eyes, on those hushed nights when he came home from servant duty looking transparent, stripped of pride, like a badly made copy of himself. The association felt sacrosanct, dirty, and he squashed it with more than a tinge of horror, averting his eyes to lock out that gaze. The voice, though, that he couldn’t block.
“Would you believe, G’Kar,” Londo murmured, “despite what you may think of me, that I never took pleasure in slaughtering innocents? Not even –” a joyless bark of laughter, “not even if they were Narn. Nor did I feel ‘gratified’,” he rolled the word around in his mouth, stretching it out like an obscenity, “upon finding your aide chained to a dungeon wall.”
At the mention of Na’Toth, G’Kar’s head snapped up. The wave of emotion that filled him was immediate and acid-sharp, surprising him by its intensity; it was uncanny how little was needed to rekindle the rage in him, rage he had believed he’d uprooted ages ago. He had started to think of Londo as a friend, an equal, but the clinging image of Na’Toth swallowed up all of that, leaving him nauseous and disgusted at the cowardice of the Centauri race as a whole, and of this man in particular.
Suddenly, inexplicably, he wanted very much to see Londo cringe.
“Ohh,” he breathed, eyes glinting, “but there you betray yourself, Mollari. You know as well as I do that in the eyes of a Centauri, no Narn is innocent. We are all, our entire race, guilty of ignorance and barbarianism, are we not? It is a crime engrained in our genetic structure, so not even a pouchling can be acquitted from it!”
He laughed harshly, feeling a mad surge of triumph at the hurt in Londo’s eyes. “Admit it, Mollari. That conviction is engrained in your race’s genes. And whatever else you may be, you are first and foremost a Centauri, in every sense of the word.”
Londo started to huff at that, then stopped and drew himself up with something like pride.
“Ah, yes. Yes, G’Kar, I am Centauri. That is my crime, then, hmm? But if you truly believe that means what you claim it does – well, then you are gravely mistaken, G’Kar. Gravely mistaken!”
Wincing at his own raised voice, Londo pushed himself back to his feet, made for the clutter of cupboards that passed for a kitchen. It was with a tug of satisfaction that G’Kar watched him reach for the Brivari bottle, hands less than steady.
“What if I were to tell you,” he continued, angrily rummaging through the drawers for a clean cup, “that when we went to war with Narn, it was no more the will of my people than it was of yours? And now I am speaking of the people, G’Kar; not the schemers and opportunists that make up the High Court – of which I,” he added quickly, sensing that G’Kar was on the verge of interjecting, “can be considered to be part. But the hardworking citizens of Centauri Prime. And yes, before you ask, they do exist. They exist, G’Kar, and they are as tired of war as you are. True, they may have no love for the Narn, but they certainly do not wish you all dead, nor did they wish to see your Homeworld flattened.”
G’Kar hissed, lips curling into a sneer. “And you expect me to take your word for that? Don’t play me for a fool, Mollari; you are obviously less than objective. Give me one reason to believe why your people would be any different from that band of assassins ruling them. If they are so tired of war, then why did they not speak out?”
That one hit home, and he was rewarded by Londo fidgeting, tucking away a strand of hair that had spilled across his neck.
“Or perhaps,” he ploughed on, “I should cling to platitudes like ‘it’s the thought that matters’, and thank them for their kind consideration?” He crushed his fist against the cloying softness of a pillow, feeling the old twinge of betrayal stir its head.
Having uncorked the amber-filled bottle, Londo regarded it oddly for a moment, then, with a grimace, shoved it away.
“That is unfair of you, G’Kar,” he bit back with renewed vigor, “to accuse them of not speaking out. You seem in possession of quite a – selective – memory, no? Unless my memory betrays me, it was Vir, of all people, who single-handedly smuggled out two thousand Narns about to be transferred to work camps! Have you forgotten that? Do you not, in any way, respect him for that?”
G’Kar’s eyes followed Londo’s as they roamed the rest of the kitchen, looking for another drink. Unsurprisingly there was only water, Brivari having sufficed on all previous occasions, and Londo filled his glass wearing a frown that was more confused than irritated.
“G’Kar, if there is anyone whose very existence proves that the Centauri race is not – as you deem it – rotten to its core, but can still be capable of goodness – surely it is Vir. So there is no need to ‘take my word’ for it. You need only to look at him to know it is true.”
G’Kar shifted, the mention of Vir making him faintly uncomfortable. In fact, much as he had been impressed – but not grateful; one should never thank justice – by Vir’s feat as ‘Abrahamo Lincolni’, it was hardly his strongest memory of the boy. Several others came to mind, including one of that day Vir had stumbled into his quarters babbling about – oh, irony! – Na’Toth, alive, locked in a cell in the Kha’Ri buildings. He had known Vir was lying; would have known it even if Londo had not sent him word, for the boy was such a miserable liar that even a child would have seen the truth in his eyes. G’Kar still remembered the unease he had felt, yet could not show, at his own faultless acting job; could still see Vir’s look of devastation, matching the false one he wore plastered on his face. And he recalled those breathless moments in the elevator, when the boy had apologized for the actions of his people. If he closed his eyes, he could still see the blood trickling from his arm as he counted “Dead, dead, dead –,” each drop nibbling another inch from Vir’s hunched frame.
“I will grant you,” G’Kar began, reluctantly, “that Vir Cotto is an – exceptional – specimen of your race. He is, I believe, the only Centauri I saw express any measure of regret when the war broke out. And he did save many of my people. But now you be fair also: he saved them from the rest of your people, did he not?”
It was true, he thought, while Londo took that in: the boy was better than all the rest of them put together; was, perhaps, a better person than anyone he knew, Centauri, Narn or other. Yet in the grand scheme of things, what had that changed? Na’Toth was still in chains, emprisoned for the crime of being Narn; his world had still been besieged yet again, millons of lives lost; and all the Virs in the universe couldn’t do a thing to reverse that.
“Don’t be naïve, Mollari; one man’s goodness is hardly enough to absolve an entire species from decades of repression. I concede your point about Cotto, but he is an exception, an aberration among your people; not proof for your argument!”
Londo’s eyes narrowed, spitting fire, and for a moment G’Kar was certain he would leap to the offensive. Then his shoulders relaxed and he just shrugged, defeated.
“As always, you are free to believe or disbelieve me, G’Kar, as suits you best. But, quaint as it sounds, the truth is that the war – this war, I do not speak of the past – had nothing to do with hatred at all; merely with – politics.” He held up a hand as G’Kar jumped, seething. “Please, let me finish. After that, you can rage and curse me all you want.”
Ambling back toward the centre of the room, Londo repositioned himself on the bedside. Suddenly he looked drawn, tired, once more; or perhaps he had never stopped looking it since they’d started to talk, and G’Kar had simply neglected to see it once the novelty wore off.
“G’Kar, whatever else you distrust from me, this you must believe. To me, it was all just a means to an end: to reinstate a forceful government – to be once more the proud people we were. You, more than anyone, know about pride, yes?”
G’Kar rolled his eyes, unmoved by the pleading tone. Truly, how self-delusional could one be before it just became unreal?
“Oh, I know about your pride, certainly; not to mention the size of your ego. You, the benevolent guardian of the Centauri people? You were never that selfless, Mollari, and something tells me you never will be.”
Something about that statement nagged, as if it was untrue in a way he couldn’t yet fathom. An image flashed before him of a milder, sadder Londo, a Londo racked with coughs and bent with age, and while he knew where it came from – Londo’s own mind – it still unfailingly took him by surprise. He’d never understood the meaning of that image, or why it came back to him at odd moments, and far more frequently than was reasonable. Clearly it was a dream, a figment of Londo’s imagination; it was impossible that it should be real. Yet it had always felt real, both the image itself and the jumbled mass of emotion that clung to it; more real, perhaps, than the man who was sitting in this room with him.
He was shivering, G’Kar noted, in that ridiculously pompous nightgown of his, reaching up a hand to draw the fabric more closely around his neck. That didn’t help, of course. Though the room was quite chilly, G’Kar doubted the shiver came merely from cold.
“Do you know, G’Kar,” Londo muttered, “how easy it would be to simply – blame Refa? To say that he abused my good intentions to get what he wanted?” Wincing a little, he shifted to straighten his spine. “Only – that would be a lie. It was me, what I wanted: to gain respect, to fulfill a – a destiny. True, he used me, yet I was the one who allowed him to, knowing his intentions were not honourable. But,” a crooked grimace, “of course you already know all of that, don’t you, G’Kar?” His voice grew suddenly very small. “Great Maker, why must you always know everything?”
G’Kar blinked. In truth, he hadn’t known; the facts, yes, but not the motivation. He would have, of course, had he realized what to look for at the time. As it was, during those hours spent in Londo’s mind, he’d been so convinced of the man’s drive being a hunger for power that he hadn’t even bothered to look for another reason. Then, later, after their tacit agreement to let the past be the past, he’d just quit thinking about reasons altogether.
The silence that followed was thicker than the one that had come before, and it took long seconds for Londo to speak again.
“Well – there you have it, G’Kar. When I realized the scale of what Refa had planned, I was– cornered. I had dreamed of a rebirth of glory, but forgot to consider the price. So when that price was asked from me, I felt – an obligation – to pay it. To see it all through to the end. That was, perhaps, short-sighted of me. And selfish, given that the price involved the burning of your world; a world which was not mine to bargain with.”
Londo lowered his eyes, resting his hands on his knees. “So my crime, G’Kar, is not one of malice, but of presumption and cowardice. Frankly, I do not know which is the most despicable – but I am sure you will be able to enlighten me, no?”
G’Kar stared, baffled. In all the years he had known Londo, he had never witnessed such a display of openness, had in fact never heard any type of confession from the man, however much he had hungered for it in the past. As it turned out, a simple apology had been enough. Yet now that he had the confession, what in G’Quan’s name was he supposed to do with it?
Mind churning, he struggled to sustain his indignation for a moment longer, knowing he was entitled to it, but his anger had shrunk while Londo talked, until it felt like an ancient and dying thing. When he spoke, his voice sounded hoarse to his own ears.
“Then – you admit what you did was a crime?” He looked down at his own gloved hands, then up again to see Londo still hunched in the same position.
“Yes.” The reply was so soft G’Kar had to strain to catch it. “Yes, I do. But,” a shaky breath, “unlike you think, I have had my punishment, G’Kar. Watching from orbit as your world went up in flame, knowing that all those lives were on my head – that was my punishment. Or, at least – my first. Seeing Na’Toth in that cell was another. And there have been more, like – like forcing Vir to become a murderer.” Slowly, almost painfully it seemed, he straightened and met G’Kar’s eyes. “I can only guess at what is still to come.”
Londo trailed off, breathless. Somehow, there was a new, fragile kind of dignity about him that made the hairs on G’Kar’s skin stand on end. The familiar vision rushed up to him again, the dream-Londo overlaying the real one, and this time the two could almost be the same person. It was all he could do not to look away.
Still, he was the first to break the silence.
“So – over this, you have nightmares.”
It was a statement, not a question, and Londo’s answer was less than a nod.
“What kind of nightmares?”
Londo started, as if shocked at the privacy of the question. “Well – what do you mean, what kind of nightmares?”
“I mean,” G’Kar breathed, dangerously, “What - kind - of - nightmares? You said I would know them – intimately! So what are they, then? Tell me! The kind where you wake up confused and frightened, just to realize that it was all just a dream, that everything is all right, and you fall back asleep clutching your pillow and sighing? Thàt kind!? Or,” he was fuming now, leaving Londo to shake his head mutely, desperately, “ – or the kind that I have had, that Na’Toth has probably had every night in the past two years; the kind where you wake up screaming and drenched in sweat, and you know the nightmare doesn’t end when you’re awake, it’s still there, and the screams you heard in your dream are real, and the dead are real, and their faces are burned into the back of your eyelids, and you –”
“– and I wake up shaking and sick to my stomach because I caused it, and I could have prevented it, and it eats me alive that I didn’t – Yes! YES, G’Kar, thàt kind –”
Whatever else Londo might have shouted out was cut short by a rib-crushing bout of coughing.
G’Kar stared, mouth open, for long seconds, before realizing he himself was holding his breath and becoming giddy from lack of air. Immediately after that, he saw Londo sway on the edge of the bed, looking ready to drop.
He was at his side an instant later, grasping his shoulders and shaking them, hard.
“Mollari. Mollari!”
A beat, as he waited for Londo to focus. Then, almost gentle, “Lie down. You are going to pass out.”
Londo let out a breath through pursed lips. “No – No, I’m not, you annoying creature, I –”
“Yes, you are. You just spent the last half-minute making the – if I may say so – profoundly unappetizing display of heaving up your lungs. That, and you’ve hardly eaten. Do you expect me to believe you are fit to, as Mr. Garibaldi would say, ‘run a marathon’ right now?”
“Please, G’Kar, don’t – patronize me. Just leave me alone.”
Ignoring the protests, G’Kar moved to press Londo down on the pillow. His own insides were still quivering with emotion at what had happened, what he had heard, and for some reason this made him suddenly protective of the man.
Perhaps that was why, by the time he’d got Londo flat on his back and under the covers, G’Kar felt strangely reluctant to leave. Giving in to the impulse, he pulled up the fallen chair next to the bed, sat down, and watched Londo breathe: watched the hiccoughing rise and fall of his chest; the eyes that fluttered against their lids; the hands folded over his stomach, as if for protection.
And this time, G’Kar did ask.
“Mollari – are you all right?”
Londo sighed, but didn’t turn his head.
“No, G’Kar. I’m not – ‘all right’. I thought that you, of all people, would see that. See the splendid irony that, because of what I did, the choices I made – I will never be all right again.”
His eyes blinked open once more, fixing on the curtained ceiling of the bed.
“But that’s only – proper, isn’t it, G’Kar? Because we both know – that neither will you.”
Startled, G’Kar looked down to find Londo’s arm stretching out to him, fingers barely brushing his knee. He took the arm with gentle firmness, meaning to replace it on top of the bedspread, but Londo’s hand clamped onto his wrist with surprising strength. Short of breaking the man’s thumb, he had no other choice but to allow the contact until Londo himself let go, muttering, voice already thick with sleep:
“We will get her out of there, G’Kar.”
And at that, he drifted off to fitful slumber, leaving a bewildered Narn to contemplate all things lost – and gained – that day.
Summary: Finding Na'Toth in a cell on Centauri Prime stirs up some of Londo's personal demons. G'Kar observes, and is given something unexpected.
Timeline/spoilers: Set during the mid-S5 episode "A tragedy of telepaths" (but rest assured, it is certified Byron-free!). Spoilers for all of Londo's arc up to that point, and some of G'Kar's.
Disclaimer: Owned by JMS and Babylonian Productions.
Thanks to:
hobsonphile, for the kind words of encouragement, meticulous edits and spot-on suggestions. Acts of contrition
Narn was burning. Or, no, not burning – choking.
He stood at the base of the Kha’Ri palace, shielding his eyes while eddies of dust whirled around him like derwishes. Yet through some odd stroke of providence the maelstrom did not touch him, and the wind that should have been scouring his face felt merely cool, almost soothing against his skin.
Beyond his field of vision, someone was weeping, a harsh lamenting sound that tugged at his hearts. He began to take a step towards its source, but his legs wouldn’t obey him, and as he glanced down he remembered the reason for that.
Of course. He couldn’t move, could he? Ever. He had always been trapped, buried up to his waist in something: duty, responsibility, fear –
This particular instance it was pebbles he found himself buried in, a whole mound of them, round and smooth and ruddy. That made perfect sense to him, given that debris was still hailing down from the sky. The mound only reached up to his knees, which did surprise him a little, as his legs felt absurdly heavy, far heavier than seemed reasonable given the pitiful amount of weight that held them down.
For a second he thought he spied a metaphor coming. Luckily, the wind whipping his coat made for a very convenient distraction. It was hard to concentrate, in any case, with the noise of falling rocks and the cries of wounded ringing in his ears.
Or – no, not cries. Laughter. His, more precisely. The raucous laugh that filled his head was most definitely his own.
Well, that couldn’t be right. He didn’t feel in the least like laughing, and besides, he hadn’t even opened his mouth to do so. But he was laughing nonetheless, which turned out to be a case of terrifically good timing, as he suddenly found a white-and-gold-clad arm draped across his shoulder.
“Ah, Mollari! Isn’t this marvellous?”
A beaming Cartagia trained huge black eyes on him, head bobbing up and down as if to praise his good humour.
“Yes, I can see you share my appreciation. What a moment, is it not? What a spectacle! Death, wrought in fire! Why, if there is art as splendid as this, let the artist step forward and I will pay him his weight in gold! Have you ever in your life seen anything remotely like it?”
Yes, he wanted to say, I have, a thousand times, in a thousand dreams. But his voice seemed to have fled along with the laughter, and he could only nod mutely, yes and then no, as he realized too late what the right answer had to be.
“Oh my, we’re positively speechless, are we?”
Cartagia smiled dangerously, pursing his lips.
“You would be well-advised to remember your manners, you know. I am very impatient with rudeness. Or,” he frowned, “are you, perhaps, not Mollari?”
Of course I am, your majesty, he wanted to say, and stab out those eyes with his fingernails. Instead, he just blinked in silence.
He swallowed down something that was not hesitation. His hands were trembling, but not with fear.
“Well, if you’re not Mollari, who are you then? You don’t belong here, do you? You’re only dreaming this.” A malicious giggle. “This isn’t your dream, by the way, you’re just stealing it. You do know that, do you not? You made this happen, really, so you have no right to dream it. No right –”
“SHUT UP! Shut UP, you petulant, monstrous –”
He was shouting then, hearts bursting, storm roaring to life in his veins, while Cartagia screeched in furious counterpoint. “How dare you insult your god, you infidel –” The jewelled hands came up, fingers clawing for his throat.
Desperate, he wrenched away, to find himself chest-deep in rocks once more.
Except this time the storm was no longer sparing him. The derwishes spun around his head, filling his mouth and eyes and ears with dust, and all the while the pebbles kept falling, only they weren’t pebbles anymore, but eyes, Narn eyes, round and smooth and ruddy and alive and they were seeing him, seeing everything, and –
Who –
Why was he here?
What had he done to this place?
The dust was blinding him. He couldn’t see.
He was Na’Toth, watching the sky come down, screaming defiance in the face of destruction.
He was G’Kar, bruised, tortured, yet hardly contained by a prison cell, still bearing the weight of his world.
He was Cartagia, eyes ablaze with the flames of the pyre he would turn their planet into.
He was Vir, sick with horror as he drew out the needle.
He was Londo Mollari, whore to Refa, selling out his dreams for a promise of glory.
He was Londo, looking down on it all from the viewport of their flagship: the screaming, pyre, needle, lash, pebbles, eyes, death –
Who was –
Did he have anything worth –
“Lights!”
He rose, bolt upright between the covers, struggling to unpin himself. Like the sheets, he was drenched in sweat, hearts slamming against his ribcage as if he had duelled for hours. Blearily, he fought to get his bearings.
Great Maker, that – that was a bad one.
Blood roared in his ears, and he forced himself to slow his breathing, sucking in air through his teeth and puffing it back out. Gods, why was it so infernally hot in here? Had that blasted Narn turned up the heating again?
Still shaking, Londo thrust both feet out of the bed, then pushed himself up and started, half-blindly, towards the washroom. There was a crash as he bumped into something hard and unyielding – a chair, he thought vaguely – that went clattering to the ground. He managed to grab the door and pulled himself in by it, finally stranding at the basin and turning on the tap.
The water was cool and silky on his face, and he indulged in the sensation for a long moment, until reality took over and he started to feel cold. Cursing himself for not putting on a robe, he hurriedly dried off and reached for the glass he’d filled earlier. His balance was still less than perfect, though, and in his lingering post-dream disorientation he ended up knocking it to the floor.
When it hit the tiles was when the coughing started.
It was worse than he remembered from previous times, more vehement, as if his body had decided to drive the message home with force. He clutched at the basin as something wet and massive loosened in his chest, making him retch for a moment in helpless disgust. Mercifully, the fit tapered off a little after that, and in a few instants he found he could breathe again.
He rinsed his mouth and washed his hands, taking comfort in the mechanical actions that required so little effort. The dream was still hovering at the edge of his consciousness, and the image of Na’Toth, rotting in that lightless cell, flashed through his mind once more.
Dear gods, how were they ever to get her out of there?
Stepping carefully between shards of glass, he turned toward the door and reached for the knob with numb fingers. He really should see Dr. Franklin, he thought, as he straightened to favour his still-aching lungs. Ah, well, he told himself that every time this happened – which it was starting to do with alarming regularity – only to ignore it afterwards.
It didn’t help, of course, that after that infernal heart attack, he’d spent enough time in Med Lab to last him till the end of his days. Two maddening weeks of forced immobility, interrupted at regular intervals by Franklin’s insufferable prodding, and without even decent food to help distract him! The thought of repeating any part of that experience, if only for an hour, was unbearable enough to make him stuff down his discomfort for the umpteenth time.
He rubbed his eyes, deciding to stay up and start thinking of how to break out Na’Toth. He didn’t expect he would sleep again tonight anyway.
Pushing his way through to the bedroom, he was distracted enough not to notice, for the space of a whole five seconds, the Narn sitting stiffly upright on his sofa.
******
“Lights!”
The word, choked off and breathless as it was, cut through G’Kar’s half-slumber as efficiently as any scream.
Not a second later, he was sitting up and fumbling for his weapon, just in time to hear a dull thump, followed by the sound of wood slamming on wood. In another few moments he was racing into Londo’s chamber, adrenalin flowing – then came up short as he surveyed the scene, momentarily confused.
Londo was nowhere to be seen, though the bed had clearly been slept in, and the only sign of the disturbance he had heard was an upturned chair beside the nightstand. The door to the washroom was closed, which was unusual, since Londo had an odd fixation with leaving his doors open. That was probably, G’kar had thought, with no little schadenfreude, a relic from older days. He remembered all too vividly those times when drunk or hungover were the only two states that Londo seemed to occupy; in both of those, having the washroom door open at night might well prevent some – unfortunate situations. The thought of an inebriated Londo crashing into doors in the dark never failed to amuse him.
He was pulled from his reverie by the noise of breaking glass. Instantly, he was up against the wall, one hand curled around his weapon, the other grasping the polished brass handle. He took a deep breath, was about to burst in, when he heard –
– coughing. Subdued but unmistakable, coming from the other side of the door.
Startled, G’Kar stopped to press an ear against the wood, drew back when the coughs increased in violence, to be replaced by a strangled heaving sound. He shook his head in mute amazement. Despite all his chuckling about Londo getting outrageously drunk, he hadn’t really imagined him the type to –
Besides, now that he thought about it, they hadn’t had any alcohol that evening, and very little to eat for that matter. Instead they had shared dinner in silence, except for those few moments when there were no servants around, in which they talked in hushed tones about Na’Toth. Londo had been uncharacteristically quiet during all of it, devoid of his usual appetite, and for once, G’Kar had refrained from comment.
He removed his hand from the latch and, with measured steps, went to sit on the couch.
It would be wisest, he knew, to just get out of here. It was clear Londo had not been attacked, so he truly had no business staying. But as he listened to the sounds, and then the silence, emerging from behind that door, he found he could not tear himself away. Even worse, he realized: for some obscure reason he was actually – damn him twice over – feeling pity for Londo Mollari.
So it was that when the door finally creaked open, and a wan, rumpled Londo came out, G’Kar was still there.
“Who – G’Kar? What in the gods’ names are you – ?”
There was a brief flash of rage, a furious gesticulation of hands. Then both of these went out like a light as Londo steadied himself against the table, passing a hand across his face.
“Great Maker, G’Kar.” The hand dropped away, along with what remained of the bravado. “You startled me.”
G’Kar lowered his eyes in acknowledgment. “I heard you cry out, so I came to check on you. For all I knew, another of those assassins had dug his way through the wall and was cutting you into little – pieces.” The corner of his mouth twitched in a smile as he thought of Centauri ‘pieces’, and how many there were to cut.
Londo worked up a weak grin of his own. “You would have liked that, yes, G’Kar? At least, if they’d started with the – ah – dispensable pieces? As long as I’m alive to become Emperor, who cares if I’m missing one or two, hmm?”
The smile became apologetic, turned into a grimace as Londo reached the edge of the bed and sat down gingerly. “I didn’t mean to wake you. It was just that –” A sigh. “I – I had –”
“A nightmare,” G’Kar finished. Of course; it was all clear to him now. “I know the kind.”
If that statement surprised Londo, he didn’t show it. Instead he just nodded, resignation in his eyes. “Yes. In fact, you probably do know the kind. Intimately.” He sucked in a long, unsteady breath as G’Kar sat up straighter, his curiosity piqued.
“I dreamt – about the attack on Narn.”
G’Kar started, taken aback at the unexpected honesty. Out of reflex more than conscious thought, his mind produced a cynical remark that he prepared to toss across the room, the predator in him coiling in anticipation. But at the last moment, something stopped him.
Londo was looking – shaken. Vulnerable, even. A pallor had crept into the puffed aristocratic cheeks, and G’Kar watched him swallow once, hard, to keep back whatever it was he was fighting. Quite suddenly, he had the irrational impulse to ask Londo if he was all right. He’d already opened his mouth to say the words before he realized, disgusted, what he was doing. Bah, the man needed his protection, not his sympathy! Besides, if he did dare to ask the question, he’d never live it down.
Still, when he finally answered, the sarcasm sounded oddly tame.
“To be honest, Mollari, I would have thought your moment of glory in the eyes of the Centauri Republic would make for some more gratifying dreams.”
He paused, finding he lacked the energy for his customary baiting. The hollowness in Londo’s face hardly helped to strengthen his resolve; the Centauri’s gaze had locked briefly on his while he talked, then flinched away to settle somewhere around his left shoulder.
With shocking suddenness, G’Kar was reminded of nothing so much as the look in his father’s eyes, on those hushed nights when he came home from servant duty looking transparent, stripped of pride, like a badly made copy of himself. The association felt sacrosanct, dirty, and he squashed it with more than a tinge of horror, averting his eyes to lock out that gaze. The voice, though, that he couldn’t block.
“Would you believe, G’Kar,” Londo murmured, “despite what you may think of me, that I never took pleasure in slaughtering innocents? Not even –” a joyless bark of laughter, “not even if they were Narn. Nor did I feel ‘gratified’,” he rolled the word around in his mouth, stretching it out like an obscenity, “upon finding your aide chained to a dungeon wall.”
At the mention of Na’Toth, G’Kar’s head snapped up. The wave of emotion that filled him was immediate and acid-sharp, surprising him by its intensity; it was uncanny how little was needed to rekindle the rage in him, rage he had believed he’d uprooted ages ago. He had started to think of Londo as a friend, an equal, but the clinging image of Na’Toth swallowed up all of that, leaving him nauseous and disgusted at the cowardice of the Centauri race as a whole, and of this man in particular.
Suddenly, inexplicably, he wanted very much to see Londo cringe.
“Ohh,” he breathed, eyes glinting, “but there you betray yourself, Mollari. You know as well as I do that in the eyes of a Centauri, no Narn is innocent. We are all, our entire race, guilty of ignorance and barbarianism, are we not? It is a crime engrained in our genetic structure, so not even a pouchling can be acquitted from it!”
He laughed harshly, feeling a mad surge of triumph at the hurt in Londo’s eyes. “Admit it, Mollari. That conviction is engrained in your race’s genes. And whatever else you may be, you are first and foremost a Centauri, in every sense of the word.”
Londo started to huff at that, then stopped and drew himself up with something like pride.
“Ah, yes. Yes, G’Kar, I am Centauri. That is my crime, then, hmm? But if you truly believe that means what you claim it does – well, then you are gravely mistaken, G’Kar. Gravely mistaken!”
Wincing at his own raised voice, Londo pushed himself back to his feet, made for the clutter of cupboards that passed for a kitchen. It was with a tug of satisfaction that G’Kar watched him reach for the Brivari bottle, hands less than steady.
“What if I were to tell you,” he continued, angrily rummaging through the drawers for a clean cup, “that when we went to war with Narn, it was no more the will of my people than it was of yours? And now I am speaking of the people, G’Kar; not the schemers and opportunists that make up the High Court – of which I,” he added quickly, sensing that G’Kar was on the verge of interjecting, “can be considered to be part. But the hardworking citizens of Centauri Prime. And yes, before you ask, they do exist. They exist, G’Kar, and they are as tired of war as you are. True, they may have no love for the Narn, but they certainly do not wish you all dead, nor did they wish to see your Homeworld flattened.”
G’Kar hissed, lips curling into a sneer. “And you expect me to take your word for that? Don’t play me for a fool, Mollari; you are obviously less than objective. Give me one reason to believe why your people would be any different from that band of assassins ruling them. If they are so tired of war, then why did they not speak out?”
That one hit home, and he was rewarded by Londo fidgeting, tucking away a strand of hair that had spilled across his neck.
“Or perhaps,” he ploughed on, “I should cling to platitudes like ‘it’s the thought that matters’, and thank them for their kind consideration?” He crushed his fist against the cloying softness of a pillow, feeling the old twinge of betrayal stir its head.
Having uncorked the amber-filled bottle, Londo regarded it oddly for a moment, then, with a grimace, shoved it away.
“That is unfair of you, G’Kar,” he bit back with renewed vigor, “to accuse them of not speaking out. You seem in possession of quite a – selective – memory, no? Unless my memory betrays me, it was Vir, of all people, who single-handedly smuggled out two thousand Narns about to be transferred to work camps! Have you forgotten that? Do you not, in any way, respect him for that?”
G’Kar’s eyes followed Londo’s as they roamed the rest of the kitchen, looking for another drink. Unsurprisingly there was only water, Brivari having sufficed on all previous occasions, and Londo filled his glass wearing a frown that was more confused than irritated.
“G’Kar, if there is anyone whose very existence proves that the Centauri race is not – as you deem it – rotten to its core, but can still be capable of goodness – surely it is Vir. So there is no need to ‘take my word’ for it. You need only to look at him to know it is true.”
G’Kar shifted, the mention of Vir making him faintly uncomfortable. In fact, much as he had been impressed – but not grateful; one should never thank justice – by Vir’s feat as ‘Abrahamo Lincolni’, it was hardly his strongest memory of the boy. Several others came to mind, including one of that day Vir had stumbled into his quarters babbling about – oh, irony! – Na’Toth, alive, locked in a cell in the Kha’Ri buildings. He had known Vir was lying; would have known it even if Londo had not sent him word, for the boy was such a miserable liar that even a child would have seen the truth in his eyes. G’Kar still remembered the unease he had felt, yet could not show, at his own faultless acting job; could still see Vir’s look of devastation, matching the false one he wore plastered on his face. And he recalled those breathless moments in the elevator, when the boy had apologized for the actions of his people. If he closed his eyes, he could still see the blood trickling from his arm as he counted “Dead, dead, dead –,” each drop nibbling another inch from Vir’s hunched frame.
“I will grant you,” G’Kar began, reluctantly, “that Vir Cotto is an – exceptional – specimen of your race. He is, I believe, the only Centauri I saw express any measure of regret when the war broke out. And he did save many of my people. But now you be fair also: he saved them from the rest of your people, did he not?”
It was true, he thought, while Londo took that in: the boy was better than all the rest of them put together; was, perhaps, a better person than anyone he knew, Centauri, Narn or other. Yet in the grand scheme of things, what had that changed? Na’Toth was still in chains, emprisoned for the crime of being Narn; his world had still been besieged yet again, millons of lives lost; and all the Virs in the universe couldn’t do a thing to reverse that.
“Don’t be naïve, Mollari; one man’s goodness is hardly enough to absolve an entire species from decades of repression. I concede your point about Cotto, but he is an exception, an aberration among your people; not proof for your argument!”
Londo’s eyes narrowed, spitting fire, and for a moment G’Kar was certain he would leap to the offensive. Then his shoulders relaxed and he just shrugged, defeated.
“As always, you are free to believe or disbelieve me, G’Kar, as suits you best. But, quaint as it sounds, the truth is that the war – this war, I do not speak of the past – had nothing to do with hatred at all; merely with – politics.” He held up a hand as G’Kar jumped, seething. “Please, let me finish. After that, you can rage and curse me all you want.”
Ambling back toward the centre of the room, Londo repositioned himself on the bedside. Suddenly he looked drawn, tired, once more; or perhaps he had never stopped looking it since they’d started to talk, and G’Kar had simply neglected to see it once the novelty wore off.
“G’Kar, whatever else you distrust from me, this you must believe. To me, it was all just a means to an end: to reinstate a forceful government – to be once more the proud people we were. You, more than anyone, know about pride, yes?”
G’Kar rolled his eyes, unmoved by the pleading tone. Truly, how self-delusional could one be before it just became unreal?
“Oh, I know about your pride, certainly; not to mention the size of your ego. You, the benevolent guardian of the Centauri people? You were never that selfless, Mollari, and something tells me you never will be.”
Something about that statement nagged, as if it was untrue in a way he couldn’t yet fathom. An image flashed before him of a milder, sadder Londo, a Londo racked with coughs and bent with age, and while he knew where it came from – Londo’s own mind – it still unfailingly took him by surprise. He’d never understood the meaning of that image, or why it came back to him at odd moments, and far more frequently than was reasonable. Clearly it was a dream, a figment of Londo’s imagination; it was impossible that it should be real. Yet it had always felt real, both the image itself and the jumbled mass of emotion that clung to it; more real, perhaps, than the man who was sitting in this room with him.
He was shivering, G’Kar noted, in that ridiculously pompous nightgown of his, reaching up a hand to draw the fabric more closely around his neck. That didn’t help, of course. Though the room was quite chilly, G’Kar doubted the shiver came merely from cold.
“Do you know, G’Kar,” Londo muttered, “how easy it would be to simply – blame Refa? To say that he abused my good intentions to get what he wanted?” Wincing a little, he shifted to straighten his spine. “Only – that would be a lie. It was me, what I wanted: to gain respect, to fulfill a – a destiny. True, he used me, yet I was the one who allowed him to, knowing his intentions were not honourable. But,” a crooked grimace, “of course you already know all of that, don’t you, G’Kar?” His voice grew suddenly very small. “Great Maker, why must you always know everything?”
G’Kar blinked. In truth, he hadn’t known; the facts, yes, but not the motivation. He would have, of course, had he realized what to look for at the time. As it was, during those hours spent in Londo’s mind, he’d been so convinced of the man’s drive being a hunger for power that he hadn’t even bothered to look for another reason. Then, later, after their tacit agreement to let the past be the past, he’d just quit thinking about reasons altogether.
The silence that followed was thicker than the one that had come before, and it took long seconds for Londo to speak again.
“Well – there you have it, G’Kar. When I realized the scale of what Refa had planned, I was– cornered. I had dreamed of a rebirth of glory, but forgot to consider the price. So when that price was asked from me, I felt – an obligation – to pay it. To see it all through to the end. That was, perhaps, short-sighted of me. And selfish, given that the price involved the burning of your world; a world which was not mine to bargain with.”
Londo lowered his eyes, resting his hands on his knees. “So my crime, G’Kar, is not one of malice, but of presumption and cowardice. Frankly, I do not know which is the most despicable – but I am sure you will be able to enlighten me, no?”
G’Kar stared, baffled. In all the years he had known Londo, he had never witnessed such a display of openness, had in fact never heard any type of confession from the man, however much he had hungered for it in the past. As it turned out, a simple apology had been enough. Yet now that he had the confession, what in G’Quan’s name was he supposed to do with it?
Mind churning, he struggled to sustain his indignation for a moment longer, knowing he was entitled to it, but his anger had shrunk while Londo talked, until it felt like an ancient and dying thing. When he spoke, his voice sounded hoarse to his own ears.
“Then – you admit what you did was a crime?” He looked down at his own gloved hands, then up again to see Londo still hunched in the same position.
“Yes.” The reply was so soft G’Kar had to strain to catch it. “Yes, I do. But,” a shaky breath, “unlike you think, I have had my punishment, G’Kar. Watching from orbit as your world went up in flame, knowing that all those lives were on my head – that was my punishment. Or, at least – my first. Seeing Na’Toth in that cell was another. And there have been more, like – like forcing Vir to become a murderer.” Slowly, almost painfully it seemed, he straightened and met G’Kar’s eyes. “I can only guess at what is still to come.”
Londo trailed off, breathless. Somehow, there was a new, fragile kind of dignity about him that made the hairs on G’Kar’s skin stand on end. The familiar vision rushed up to him again, the dream-Londo overlaying the real one, and this time the two could almost be the same person. It was all he could do not to look away.
Still, he was the first to break the silence.
“So – over this, you have nightmares.”
It was a statement, not a question, and Londo’s answer was less than a nod.
“What kind of nightmares?”
Londo started, as if shocked at the privacy of the question. “Well – what do you mean, what kind of nightmares?”
“I mean,” G’Kar breathed, dangerously, “What - kind - of - nightmares? You said I would know them – intimately! So what are they, then? Tell me! The kind where you wake up confused and frightened, just to realize that it was all just a dream, that everything is all right, and you fall back asleep clutching your pillow and sighing? Thàt kind!? Or,” he was fuming now, leaving Londo to shake his head mutely, desperately, “ – or the kind that I have had, that Na’Toth has probably had every night in the past two years; the kind where you wake up screaming and drenched in sweat, and you know the nightmare doesn’t end when you’re awake, it’s still there, and the screams you heard in your dream are real, and the dead are real, and their faces are burned into the back of your eyelids, and you –”
“– and I wake up shaking and sick to my stomach because I caused it, and I could have prevented it, and it eats me alive that I didn’t – Yes! YES, G’Kar, thàt kind –”
Whatever else Londo might have shouted out was cut short by a rib-crushing bout of coughing.
G’Kar stared, mouth open, for long seconds, before realizing he himself was holding his breath and becoming giddy from lack of air. Immediately after that, he saw Londo sway on the edge of the bed, looking ready to drop.
He was at his side an instant later, grasping his shoulders and shaking them, hard.
“Mollari. Mollari!”
A beat, as he waited for Londo to focus. Then, almost gentle, “Lie down. You are going to pass out.”
Londo let out a breath through pursed lips. “No – No, I’m not, you annoying creature, I –”
“Yes, you are. You just spent the last half-minute making the – if I may say so – profoundly unappetizing display of heaving up your lungs. That, and you’ve hardly eaten. Do you expect me to believe you are fit to, as Mr. Garibaldi would say, ‘run a marathon’ right now?”
“Please, G’Kar, don’t – patronize me. Just leave me alone.”
Ignoring the protests, G’Kar moved to press Londo down on the pillow. His own insides were still quivering with emotion at what had happened, what he had heard, and for some reason this made him suddenly protective of the man.
Perhaps that was why, by the time he’d got Londo flat on his back and under the covers, G’Kar felt strangely reluctant to leave. Giving in to the impulse, he pulled up the fallen chair next to the bed, sat down, and watched Londo breathe: watched the hiccoughing rise and fall of his chest; the eyes that fluttered against their lids; the hands folded over his stomach, as if for protection.
And this time, G’Kar did ask.
“Mollari – are you all right?”
Londo sighed, but didn’t turn his head.
“No, G’Kar. I’m not – ‘all right’. I thought that you, of all people, would see that. See the splendid irony that, because of what I did, the choices I made – I will never be all right again.”
His eyes blinked open once more, fixing on the curtained ceiling of the bed.
“But that’s only – proper, isn’t it, G’Kar? Because we both know – that neither will you.”
Startled, G’Kar looked down to find Londo’s arm stretching out to him, fingers barely brushing his knee. He took the arm with gentle firmness, meaning to replace it on top of the bedspread, but Londo’s hand clamped onto his wrist with surprising strength. Short of breaking the man’s thumb, he had no other choice but to allow the contact until Londo himself let go, muttering, voice already thick with sleep:
“We will get her out of there, G’Kar.”
And at that, he drifted off to fitful slumber, leaving a bewildered Narn to contemplate all things lost – and gained – that day.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2009-10-06 07:04 pm (UTC)Which reminds me of how I heard slash fic described for the very first time: on TV, by a Kirk/Spock shipper who said that what slash authors do is take, for example, the scene from STII where Kirk watches Spock die, and remove the wall. I still adore that description - it's a lovely way to explain the concept of slash without being at all judgmental about it.
(no subject)
Date: 2009-10-07 05:33 am (UTC)I have to ask, since you seem interested in the theories behind all of it--have you read Henry Jenkins "Textual Poachers" or Camille Bacon-Smith's "Enterprising Women"? They're a little out of date now (as in, pre-Internet), but have some interesting discussions of fandom. Jenkins has an insiders POV as a fan himself, Bacon-Smith is more academic and I don't always agree with her assertions (ironically, I remember I disagreed with what she claimed about h/c but I can't remember WHAT she said) but is still a fascinating read... I actually found fandom through them instead of finding it on my own. :) Yay for graduate classes in audience theory!
(no subject)
Date: 2009-10-11 02:16 pm (UTC)"Audience theory" - now that seems like an interesting course! Not that I have any idea what it entails, but if it introduced you to fandom, it must have been something special! :)