Her last sensation before unconsciousness was of the mocking voice that came from the centre of the light in her mind.
You have done well. Rest now.
And she did.
Sinoval had been master of Cathedral for over a year and a half. He was acutely aware of just how few of its secrets he understood, even now. There were many chambers he had never entered, there were countless soul globes he had not seen or spoken to. There were towers and turrets and parapets he had never walked. There were voices he had not heard.
But he had seen the Well of Souls, and that sight had thrown all others into perspective. He did not entirely know what it was, but he knew that he would understand when the time was right, and so he did not ask. He could feel it in his waking dreams, growing stronger and stronger each day. Soon, he would know everything.
And he would wish he did not.
He walked up to the vast door, noticing that it looked.... different from the last time he had been here. A subtle change, but a change all the same. Still, he raised his hand to the glowing seal in the centre of the door and felt its spirit wash over him.
The door then disappeared. It did not open, it was merely as though it had never been.
He walked in, aware that G'Kar and Londo were only a few steps behind him.
The chamber was vast, impossibly so. As he looked out across it he wondered if it was even bigger than Cathedral. There were a billion tiny lights glinting into the horizon. The perspective of the room seemed so extraordinary, so out of place, as if he could take one step and be at the far end of the room, and yet walk forever to reach something within arm's length.
He made for the altar. It was a stable point, and possibly the centre of the room. Lights seemed to brighten as he walked past them, over them, beneath them. He could hear their soft whispers, individual voices of those dead for millennia, now joined into one form.
The shrine was there now, directly before him. Kozorr's flower was there no longer. He had brought it in offering, as custom and law demanded. The Well of Souls had rejected it, and him, knowing he had come to betray them.
Welcome, Primarch, spoke the booming voice of the Well itself. The voice changed frequently, but now it was strong and authoritarian, an old and wise king who had been a warrior in his youth, now welcoming a young and arrogant princeling to his throne room. Welcome, Preacher. Welcome, Emperor.
Sinoval turned to look at his companions. Both seemed astounded by their surroundings. Mollari appeared to be muttering prayers under his breath. "Great Maker," he breathed. "Where...?" He looked around. "Where is that voice coming from?"
"As well ask where the air or the water or the earth comes from," replied G'Kar.
"The voice comes from the stone beneath our feet," said Sinoval. "And from the air around us. It comes from the bones and the heart and the muscle of Cathedral."
True, Primarch.
There was a sudden shimmering, as one globe seemed to glow brighter and the others faded. A figure appeared before Mollari. It was a Centauri, tall and proud, and dressed in a fashion that seemed, to Sinoval's eyes at least, to be old.
Does this form please you better, Emperor? asked the image of the Centauri.
Londo looked at it in mute horror. "Great Maker," he breathed again.
Do you know who I am?
"I recognise you, yes. I have seen your image in paint and tapestry. You are my however many times great grandfather, the first Emperor Mollari."
In a sense. I am the part of him that lives on eternally, the part that did not slip away beyond the dark wall that is the end of all things.
"I never knew.... I never knew you took him. His death was.... not a matter of public record. He fled, yes? He.... you.... abandoned the homeworld after the revolution, to seek allies elsewhere, and.... never came back."
Death claims all. He was found and saved.
"And you are now.... here? A part of this Well of Souls?"
We were complete long before his death. He is a part of Cathedral, sheltered and protected from storms by the walls around us. He is a part of Cathedral, and thus a part of us.
"I.... Please, take that image away. It does not exactly put me in an optimistic frame of mind." The image faded. Sinoval saw G'Kar look at Mollari. The Centauri was shaking. "It is a good job for you that I am sober," he said hollowly. "If I were drunk, I would have a word or two to say to you, my ancestor."
"Why did you call us here?" asked G'Kar. "What.... do you have to say to us?"
We know the answers to all questions ever asked, save one alone. We see what is to come, as we see what has been. The accumulated wisdom of the galaxy is ours to wield and command.
This was not to be our time. We were to be a remnant, a legacy once all others had passed from this realm to the next. We were to be a reminder of the covenants forged of old. We were to be memory.
But that is not to be. We have returned early. This galaxy is changing. The times of the First Ones are fading, but they will not go easily. You two.... you two are the sole hopes of your peoples. Preacher and Emperor. Be warned, and be ready. Accept what has been shown must come to pass.
Our Primarch has denied his destiny, and it has led him here, to a fate he does not yet understand. Deny yours, and a similar fate will befall you.
And.... we wished to see you. We wished to have memories within us of those who may be the last true leaders of your peoples. There are Centauri here. There are Narn here. But you two.... you may be the last. Now, if your people die, something will live on.
The voice faded. Londo swore. G'Kar whispered a prayer.
Sinoval stood alone.
"My people will not die!" roared Mollari at last. "I will not let them die! Do you hear me?"
The Well of Souls did not respond, although it was a question to which it surely knew the answer.
"I will defend you, Delenn," Neroon said. "No shadow will touch you while there is breath in my body."
Delenn looked past him to the creature walking towards them. She recognised it as a Drakh. Not one of their warriors, or a magus, but a Drakh all the same. She remembered the carnage they had wrought at Kazomi 7. She saw again the children they had killed, the hopes they had destroyed, the people they had made mad with their Keepers.
She had found it difficult to hate anything or anyone since she had seen what had happened to Earth, but she did hate the Drakh.
Behind it walked two Shadows, their inky-black carapaces seeming to meld and dissolve in the flickering shadows cast by Parlonn's candle.
And yet she could sense that they were uncomfortable here. There was something about this place they disliked. Maybe Ivanova had been right after all. Maybe her mysterious friend was here.
"Come from this place," hissed the Drakh. "This flight is futile."
"Step no closer," said Neroon. "You may come no closer."
<Did you think we would let you betray us?> came another voice, a different voice. Delenn knew it was the voice of one of the Shadows. The Drakh was now directly in front of Neroon. <We made you ours. You.... are ours.>