Galen was precisely an inch and a half taller than he was. That was such a tiny thing to harbour so much envy over, but there it was. Emotions were rarely rational, and jealousy even less so. Galen's magic came from the cold, the sterile, the scientific. Vejar's came from the imaginative, the fantastic, the spiritual.
He didn't need to watch Galen perform more parlour tricks to know that his magic had grown stronger. Something had freed it, while he had been left to wither. Left here in the dark.
"How are the others?" he asked bitterly, trying to make conversation, however futile or pointless. As if he really cared. The technomages had abandoned him just as much as Delenn and Lethke had.
"That's not what I came here to talk about, cousin."
A mission of some kind. Yet another tempting and honourable and glorious opportunity to be killed or mutilated or generally to suffer for the good of someone else.
"I'm not listening," Vejar snapped. He turned back to his mirror and looked at himself. For now, the mirror was just that — a mirror. There was no magic in it, but then there never had been.
Or that was what people would think. The first lesson Vejar had ever learned was that there was magic in everything. A sunrise, a morning breath, the touch of a lover, the opening and closing of a fist.
Someone had once asked Elric if he could make the dead live. Elric had smiled that curious, thin smile of his and stretched out his hand, spreading his fingers wide and then clenching them together so tightly that the veins on his wrist bulged.
"Life begins with death," he had intoned. "Just as all things are born, so do they die. All flesh is dead, and look!" He opened his fist again. "Dead flesh obeys my command. Yes, I can make the dead move."
Vejar always remembered that. There was magic everywhere.
And a mirror was one of the most magical artefacts ever forged. It destroyed illusions, saw through to the soul, pierced masks and glamours and enchantments. It was brutally honest and callously genuine.
He did not like what he saw there. He saw a man old before his time, staring with deep-set eyes back at his own. A man with clammy skin and a sickly pallor.
Behind him stood someone who seemed twenty years his junior, tall and vibrant and determined.
"You have changed, cousin," the young man said to him.
"So have you," Vejar replied bitterly. There was a month difference in their ages. "Have you fallen in love at last?"
"No, although not for lack of trying. I have a mission, cousin. A purpose."
"Good for you."
The old man, whom Vejar could not in any way identify as himself, raised a hand and another ball of fire formed around it. He held it there for long seconds. There was no pain. There was not even any sensation. He could feel nothing.
"You have changed," Galen said again. "I remember when you chose to remain behind. I remember seeing the fire in your eyes, the conviction that you were right and damn all the consequences." The young man looked at him sadly. "What has happened to you, cousin?"
"I did not choose to stay. I was asked to stay. Elric.... he wanted me to observe her, to be ready when the time of her choice came, to ensure that she reached it."
"Ah," Galen replied, a faint smile playing over his face. "That explains a lot. I assume all went according to plan?"
"You know the answer to that. She chose. It damned her and me and it cost her more than either of us can imagine, but she chose."
"She was the salvation of an entire race. In a hundred years, will it matter what it cost her?"
Vejar rose slowly. "How dare you?" he hissed, still looking at the mirror. He could see a flame beginning to rise in the old man's sunken eyes, a flame to match the one in his fist. "How dare you? What do either of us care what will happen in a hundred years?"
"Why did you not go to Babylon Five?"
"What.... What do you mean?"
"I cannot believe you were not invited."
"You know why."
"Assume I do not. Tell me."
Vejar closed his eyes, not wanting to see either person looking at him. He saw the vision, as he had so many times before. "Death," he whispered. "Death will come to Babylon Five. Everyone there will die. Everyone! He will spare no one, not a single soul."
"You could try to warn them."
"And would they listen?" The rage in his voice surprised him, and for a moment he thought someone else had spoken. "That station is cursed, and has been since the idea was conceived. It will bring nothing but pain and destruction and death, and they all know it! I've done enough for these people. I won't be a part of their doom!"
"No," Galen said quietly. "But you can be a part of their salvation. There is something I need your help with."
"I have helped you enough already. I knew once that you would get me killed. Are you trying to prove me right?"
"You can remain here until the end of time while the galaxy collapses around your ears and not raise a single finger to stop it, if you like. Or you can do something. You can help. You can raise arms against a sea of troubles and scream defiance at the tempest."
"How did you get here?"
"I'm sorry?"
"How did you get here? We are some way from the.... sanctuary, are we not?"
"By ship, of course. Did you think I would grow wings and fly?"
"They know." Vejar sighed. "They know. You have as good as told them you have come. The Vorlons know. You have forced my hand in this. There is no choice."
"There is always a...."
Vejar opened his eyes and, without thought, without motion, without equation, he hurled the ball of fire directly at the mirror. There was a single moment when he thought he could have stopped it, but he did not want to.
The mirror exploded, his image shattering into a million pieces. Shards of glass flew into the centre of the room. One of them was aimed directly at his heart.
It would be so easy to let it pierce him, to let himself die here. He would be at rest, at peace, free from the memories of what he had done to Delenn, free from Galen's conscience.
He looked down, and saw the shard caught in his right hand. He did not even remember trying to catch it. Blood was welling between his fingers.
He turned around and looked at Galen. His friend was completely unscathed.
"Choice," Galen said, slowly and deliberately.
"What do you want me to do?" Vejar replied.
Centauri Prime.
His home. The home of his ancestors, of his friends, of his wife. The place where his daughter's ashes lay, at one with the soaring winds. The place where his garden could be found, derelict and abandoned and unloved.
Centauri Prime. Where his friend ruled as Emperor. Where stood the throne his family had sworn for centuries to protect and serve.
His home.
Words reached his ears. A conversation more than a year old. On Brakir, in the fading shadows of the Day of the Dead.
These.... outlaws. If you do join them, what if they begin to raid Centauri shipping, even attack Centauri worlds? Would you really attack your own people?
And his reply.
I've thought about that. A lot. But.... what can I do? The raids and the attacks will happen anyway. If I join, then.... eventually I hope to be able to change that.
But I will do what I have to do. If I must kill my people, even my friends, then I will. That is a soldier's job, after all. To kill.
All eyes were on him. The captains of the Brotherhood Without Banners and the representative of the Tuchanq.
Jorah Marrago stood up.
"It won't be easy," he said.
The Drazi snorted. "As we thought. Coward."
Marrago looked at him with the stare that had caused more than one raw recruit to fall silent and start shaking. "That is not what I said. I said it will not be easy, not that I was afraid of it. There is a wide difference between caution and cowardice, but if you do not believe me, that is your privilege. All the riches in the galaxy will do you no good if you are dead.