Moreil looked at Cathedral with a mixture of longing and terror.
"Death," he whispered as he heard the voice. "You see," he said, to the trapped Mi'Ra. "It is Death come at last."
She looked at him. "You are mad," she said simply, and turned to flee.
The Wykhheran tore her apart with one blow.
"Death," Moreil said again, with more than a hint of satisfaction.
John Sheridan stopped and saw someone staring back at him, a man he did not know. A man who had been able to save his daughter from Orion, to see her grow up. A man who still loved Anna, who had never captured Delenn.
He turned, reeling, and stumbled into another man. A man who had never become a soldier, but a farmer. He had looked up one night to see the sky raining fire.
Staggering, he saw countless images of himself in a white robe, an Earthforce uniform different from any he knew, a Minbari warrior's outfit, a uniform that seemed part-Earthforce part-Minbari with a strange badge on the shoulder. He saw himself sorrowful, hateful, a murderer, a peacemaker, a leader, a servant, a killer.
Finally he stumbled to a halt, collapsing to his knees. Above him the sky beat like a black heart and clouds of lightning split the darkness. There was a smell he had never noticed before the smell of an abattoir.
A figure approached him and he looked up, half-afraid of what permutation of his life he would see now.
The mirrors shattered and a familiar figure stood in front of him.
"We do not have time for mirrors any longer," Sinoval said.
"You," Sheridan whispered, understanding dawning at last. "What is this? Some sort of trap. You.... oh, God. You did something to me on that space station. You.... took something, or gave me something. All those dreams.... those mirrors, the voice, the questions....
"All of that was you."
Sinoval nodded.
"So what is it then? Are you trying to drive me mad? Am I a drooling wreck wherever my body is now, staring at bright lights and pretty colours? Is this all just a plan for revenge?"
"Do you truly think so little of me, Sheridan? Do you truly think I would be that petty?"
Sheridan paused, and bowed his head. "No, I don't." He looked up. "But if it served your goals, you would drive me insane in a second, wouldn't you?"
Sinoval seemed to consider that. "It would take longer than a second, but yes, I would. Fortunately for you, that was not my goal. We do not have a great
loud noises, the same loud noises over and over again. There was water in its eyes. It seemed to be in grief, and the Wykhheran had never known a Master behave in grief.
The smaller Sin-tahri female on the floor was dying slowly. Was that why the one who acted like a Master grieved? What was she to this one? The Wykhheran did not know. Perhaps his lord would tell him later.
The fight was hard, but then the Wykhheran had expected it to be. Despite its size and age, the Sin-tahri would fight hard and well, a sharp tooth of metal in its hand, one wielded as if it were a claw. The claw struck quickly, but hard, and it caused pain.
Pain was nothing. The Wykhheran had been forged to feel no pain.
The Sin-tahri staggered back, standing over the fallen female. It would not take another step back, guarding her body. Was she special? She was smaller and weaker, but she could be a priest, some Sin-tahri equivalent to the Priests of Fallen Midnight?
But she did not look like a Master. The Wykhheran had seen her through his lord's eyes. She was weak and afraid. Her wounds had come from herself and that was surely a sign of weakness.
The Wykhheran did not understand these Sin-tahri. They were too strange.
It lashed out and the Sin-tahri fell back over the body of the female. Tasting blood in its mouth, the Wykhheran moved forward, and then the voice spoke.
This ends now.
The voice of the Chaos-Bringer, last legacy of the Masters. His voice. The one spoken of, whispered in moonlight and midnight and madness. Known among the Faceless, the Z'shailyl, the Wykhheran, even the Zarqheba.
Sinoval. The Chaos-Bringer. Enemy of the Light. Wielder of Darkness.
The Chaos-Bringer had spoken and the Wykhheran obeyed. The Masters had charged them all, speaking through the spark created at Thrakandar. They would serve the Chaos-Bringer. They would obey his words.
This ends now.
The Wykhheran stopped, ever eager to obey. Even when the Sin-tahri drove its tooth into it, the Wykhheran did nothing. It remained still and peaceful as the Sintahri hacked it apart, even to the point of ultimate death.
It died as it had lived. Ever obedient to the Masters.
Later, when the battle was over, Dasouri sent some of his crew to find their captain. They found him in his quarters, beside the dead body of a mighty and horrific beast. He was kneeling on top of Senna's body, furiously trying to beat life into her hearts, tying bandages around the wounds on her arms and legs and body that no longer flowed with blood, vainly crying out the name of a different woman altogether and heedless of the fact that she too was quite dead.