It was a ship only of the dead, a place where a man who had striven all his life for greatness had faced his end, screaming to the heavens in defiance, promising revenge, pleading for mercy. It was a ship where the Enemy had sent one of their darkest, oldest and most powerful minions to destroy someone they had only ever seen as a tool.
It was the place where Sonovar had died.
The ship had been left where it was, a ghost ship to give rise to myth and legend. Maybe, in decades to come, young warriors would search for it, seeking it out as wanderers sought the Holy Grail, the Sathra Stone, the lost worlds of the First Ones and other legends.
He knew of the legends that would come, that Sonovar was not truly dead, that he would return when the time was right. His creed, wrought of inferiority and near–insanity, would rise again, and others would follow in his footsteps, dreaming of the day when Sonovar the Great would return.
So be it. The Minbari now carried their own destiny. Let them dream of lost heroes. That was their place. Besides, in one respect, they would be right. Sonovar was not dead.
Somewhere, in a wall in one of the oldest space–faring vessels in the galaxy, was a globe, within which raged a spirit, cursing the denial of his chance at reincarnation.
In a thousand years, he would return. There always had to be a balance. Sonovar did not understand that now, but he would. There was enough time for both of them to learn.
For now, this was a ship only of the dead. Which was fine, for it was the dead that Sinoval, Primarch Majestus et Conclavus, had come to meet.
He found the chamber where the final battle had taken place, where he and Sonovar had fought the undead monster the Shadows had sent against him. Sonovar's body lay where the last breath had left it, slumped in the corner, the wounds from the Shadow Beast still terrifyingly visible.
"You had decided for yourself by the end, Sonovar," Sinoval said softly. "You knew what you were, and what more can any of us ask for?"
He said nothing more. It was not Sonovar he had come to see.
He sensed the new arrival long before he heard or saw or smelled him. Sinoval had trained his five senses as well as anyone, and his perception was acute. Lately, however, he had discovered a new sense one of life and death, one of many minds speaking and thinking as one. The Well of Souls was a part of him now, just as he was a part of them.
Then came the smell, the smell of death. He knew who it was to be then, and straightened, his hand brushing against Stormbringer, his darkly forged pike. A soft warmth greeted his touch, one that he could sense even through the fabric of his glove.
"Greetings, Primarch," said the voice, one filled with age and understanding and great wisdom.
"Greetings, Forell," he replied. "Or would you prefer another name?"
Even without his new senses, he could tell that the thing before him was a dead body. He had been a warrior before he was a Soul Hunter, and he had been one of the best. Even a child could see that the wounds that marked Forell's body were fatal. Half of them would have been fatal. But still he moved, still he spoke, still a dark light shone within his eyes.
It was Sinoval's other senses that could detect the dark cloud hovering above the Minbari's body, sense the forces moving him, manipulating the husk for their own purposes.
For one, final message.
"Names are forgotten now," he said. "We are the nameless, the lost, the reviled. All we wanted to do was help them to the stars. How did you know to come here again?"
"I just knew."
A faint, revolting smile touched Forell's mangled face. "As we knew you would."
"You have a message for me, yes?"
"Yes. One last message.
"For millennia we tried to create people, to change the younger races for the better, to mould them and shape them and make them better, make them better in every way there is. We wished to show them the stars.
"The being we tried to create is you. You, Primarch, are a force of pure chaos, a bringer of anarchy. Where you walk, buildings crumble, cities die. You bring change. You brought change to your people, to the Soul Hunters, to Cathedral. You are everything we wished the younger races to be.
"But now we are gone. We are lost and reviled. Our teachings will not be remembered. Our ways will be forgotten. They have won.... or so they think. Let them have their brief triumph. Let them have their single few moments of cold, sterile, passionless order.
"We have you.
"Destroy them all. For us. For yourself. It does not matter. They tried to kill you. They will try to destroy your people. They will try to destroy the whole galaxy, by making them things they are not. There can never be order, never be the uniformity they demand! And in demanding it, their discipline will go so far as to leave only death behind. Only the dead are ordered."
"No," Sinoval replied dryly. "They aren't. Believe me. I know."
Forell smiled again. "You would. Well then, not even the dead are safe from them. You are the only hope now, not just for us, but for all that lives.
"Avenge us! Remember us! Help them all to the stars. Free them from order, before it kills them all."
"A galaxy of order will destroy all that lives, yes," Sinoval said softly. "But so would a galaxy of only chaos. Did you ever realise that?"
"No.... but now we do. Such is the prerogative of hindsight. After all, why do you think we left?"
"You have told me nothing I did not already know, and everything you have asked of me, I would do already. Maybe you made me too well. Or maybe I just made myself."
"Maybe. Well, our last message is delivered. Now we can rest."
"Wait! There is one thing I wanted to know. One thing you can tell me."
"Yes?"
"What is it like.... beyond the Rim?"
Forell smiled again, and in that one instant, everything changed. The hatred, the anger, the death.... everything was gone, replaced only by a child–like sense of wonder, a sense that even the oldest who lived could find something new.
"Beautiful," was all he said. "Truly beautiful."
Then the body slumped to the ground, dead once more. Sinoval smiled slightly, and turned to leave.
Once again, and for ever more, it was a ship only of the dead.
It was going to be a beautiful day.
The sun rose slowly, the sky becoming crimson, the land becoming alive again. A dead world, one devastated and torn and poisoned, was now coming slowly, ever so slowly, back to life.
Satai Kats saw the sun rise as she arrived back on Minbar, and she smiled. This world was her home again. It was the home of all her people again. It was the home of the new Grey Council.
For a thousand years they had remained among the stars, distant from their people, both literally and figuratively. No longer. The Grey Council were of the people now, and would be so always. They would work with the people, live and die with the people.
It was ironic, she thought. But after Kalain's purge, and the bombardment and the wars and all the grief and the loss and the torture, it was the worker caste who had changed Minbar. It was their philosophies and beliefs that had changed the Minbari people.
Oh, some of the warriors lived still, but Takier was the last vestige of an old way, and he knew it. Also, unlike many of his caste, he had accepted it. Tirivail and Lanniel were the new order of warriors, changed, stronger, wiser.
And, although no one mentioned his name, although he was reviled and hated, everyone knew who was responsible.
They called him the Cursed, but Kats would never think of him that way. Never.
Her heart soared at seeing her home again. Kazomi 7 was a wonderful place, filled with majesty and power and hope, but Minbar was her home. It was good to be back.
Of course, her good mood had more than just her return home to recommend it. Someone was waiting for her.