She was alone, more so than she had ever been before.

Marcus…

Her body shook as she tried desperately to draw in some breath. A last, frantic urge to survive, to endure this brutal, pain-maddened assault. She had no time to think, no energy to rationalise. She could only see the woman who had killed the one she loved and who was now trying to kill her.

She clawed out with her fingers, desperately trying to reach the pike, hoping beyond hope that it was still within reach.

It wasn’t.

Choking I’m choking Marcus help me Marcus you can’t be dead Marcus help me

Lyta closed her eyes, willing at last to surrender. She would not be alone when she died. At least, she hoped she wouldn’t be. She hoped that she would meet up with Marcus again. She hoped that…

Her fingers touched the pike’s cold surface and she instinctively wrapped them around it. For a moment she thought she was hallucinating, but then she felt it stick to her skin, the tackiness of Marcus’ freshly spilled blood.

Acting almost on instinct, she extended the weapon. She had never wielded one before. She had never even seen one before, but that hardly mattered. There were many subtle fighting styles and techniques involved with the fighting pike, some of which took decades to master. Not even the legendary Durhan had learned them all.

Lyta didn’t care. She wasn’t planning on fighting anyone with it.

She manoeuvred the pike around and brought it up into Ivanova’s side. The Shadow agent started and loosened her grip on Lyta’s neck, allowing the telepath to breathe at last. Gasping, almost gagging for breath, Lyta brought the pike up again. The blow was harder this time and Ivanova fell back. She too seemed breathless and in agony.

Lyta pulled herself up to a kneeling position and looked at Ivanova, breathing harshly, but her eyes still as dark. Slowly, almost without realising what she was doing, holding the pike in two hands, she swung it in a deadly arc.

There was a slow, damp crunch as the weapon struck the side of Ivanova’s head. The Shadow agent slumped to the ground, her body engulfed by spasms and twitches. Low moans and gasps came from her mouth.

Lyta dropped the weapon and slumped to the ground herself. It took her every effort to remain conscious and to simply breathe. Her side ached, the bruises from her beating by Security Officer Boggs seemed more sore and painful than before. Her head pounded, both from Ivanova’s attack and from her ordeal in breaking past the sleepers. She was certain that she was partially concussed. Her vision was swimming.

After a while she was dimly aware of gentle hands shaking her. Marcus! was her first thought, but then she relived his death, remembering it in agonisingly slow motion. Then she thought about the security guards, and she was gripped by sheer panic. But then… but then…

Her eyes opened almost dreamily and she found herself staring at the concerned face of a Narn. His red eyes seemed to peer into her very soul. Gently, he helped her up to a sitting position. She rested against him for a moment, allowing herself the hopeless illusion that he was Marcus, come back to life to be with her. Then reality intruded, as it always did.

“Miss Alexander, my name is Ta’Lon,” the Narn said. “I have been sent here to help you and Marcus Cole…”

“He’s dead,” she whispered. “He’s… dead.”

“I know. I am sorry I arrived too late. We… we have to go. I have a shuttle that can take us away from here. Sooner or later people will discover what you have done here, and then you will be in trouble.”

“Why… why come and help me?”

“The one I work for believes you may be a great assistance to him. He has been told about your… silent companion.”

He meant the Vorlon. She knew he meant the Vorlon. “I don’t care,” she whispered. “He couldn’t…” Kosh couldn’t save Marcus and he wouldn’t help her. She hoped to never hear his voice again. “I…”

“Can you walk? I can carry you, but…”

“No. I can walk. I just want to…”

Lyta staggered to her feet and moved forward, haltingly and unsteadily, towards Marcus. She knelt down beside him. He was dead and his face was marked by the same grief and anger and confusion that had marked his whole life. Not even in death had he found peace.

“You left me alone,” she said, almost accusingly. “You… left… me… alone… Oh, Marcus!” She began to cry, slow, halting tears. She simply leaned over his body, crying. She couldn’t think of anything else to say, she couldn’t think of all the things she should have told him, all the things they should have done…

It didn’t make sense, but then life didn’t. All she knew was that she was alone again.

“I’m ready,” she said, as she hobbled away from Marcus, throwing the bloodied pike aside. She never wanted to look at it again. She shot at glance at Ivanova. Impossibly, the Shadow agent was still alive, but much of her face was caved in, covered with blood. Her eyes were rolled up into her skull and she was whimpering softly, trembling and shaking. Lyta walked away. She didn’t… she couldn’t… she just wanted to be away from here.

Ta’Lon did not need to carry her. She could carry herself. She always had before and she would have to again.

Outside the door they both ran into General Hague.

For a thousand years the Grey Council had been the leaders of Minbar, the nine greatest of the Minbari, who led with wisdom and courage and grace. Formed by Valen at the end of the last Great War, the gathering of nine had ended centuries of bloody civil warring on Minbar. From then on, no Minbari would ever kill another. All of Minbar trusted and followed their nine leaders who inherited the legacy of Valen.

So when did the Nine fall? The death of Dukhat? The bloody, genocidal war against the humans? The ascension of one as proud and as arrogant as Sinoval to Holy One? The moment when Delenn – perhaps their last hope – was declared Zha’valen? Or had the Council always been corrupted by darkness and that darkness had simply never been evident before?

Regardless of where it began, it ended at the Battle of the Second Line.

It is easy to speak of if only… If only Delenn had gone straight to the Hall of the Council and not wasted time talking with her clan… if only Sinoval had killed Deathwalker instead of exiling her… if only Sheridan had escaped the trap on Vega 7… if only wise Hedronn had spoken up against Sinoval’s ambition… if only Sinoval had had Sheridan freed a few moments earlier… if only Dukhat had reacted quicker… if only Delenn’s casting vote had been different…

Dwelling on the past is largely futile, for it cannot be changed, but still, that does not stop anyone trying…

When Delenn and Lennann arrived at the Hall of the Council it was to find the columns of light dead. They slowed and hesitated. There had been no acolytes on duty outside the Hall – an unprecedented event. Even when the Council was absent, the acolytes were always there. And the Council should not be absent. Yes, Sinoval had sent them away to meditate, but they had been recalled. This was wrong. This was very, very…

Delenn stumbled in the darkness and had to sway to regain her balance. Her equilibrium was not ideal at the best of times since her change, but this was no accident. She had tripped over something.

“Lights,” she called out. The nine columns of light appeared and Delenn saw what she had tripped over.

“In Valen’s Name,” Lennann rasped. Delenn was silent. She could not think of any words to say to greet the sight of Satai Dulann’s body. Her throat had been crushed. Not far from Satai Dulann was Satai Matokh, a warrior… and another behind him, and another…

Four of the Nine lay in the circle, their bodies twisted and broken. Almost half of the Grey Council killed. In the centre of the circle was another, but he was not dead…