But still he came alone. This was something he had to do alone.
As he walked beneath the night sky of Brakir, seeing the glow of the comet passing overhead, he spotted other outsiders, others here seeking…. perhaps the same things he was seeking.
A Minbari woman was standing on a balcony above him. She was short, slender and pretty, and her bearing spoke of power. She was looking up into the sky, and toying absently with an amulet draped around her neck. A human, his clothes stained and muddy, was sitting in a corner of an alley, starting at shadows and whispering names under his breath. A Narn, one Marrago knew he recognised, walked into the doorway of a temple, where hundreds of Brakiri knelt in prayer and meditation.
And a Brakiri, wearing the uniform of a captain in the Dark Star fleet, walked purposefully towards an abandoned building. He stopped before it, staring silently for a long, long time.
Marrago moved past them all. They had their own stories, but so did he.
He had rented a room in a quiet inn, not remotely surprised that the enterprising landlord had increased the rent tenfold for the Day of the Dead. He had paid. The funds he had gathered from various mercenary jobs were not inconsiderable, and what else did he have need to buy?
He sat down, trying to remember what he had been told. 'The dead will come to you.'
"Are you here?" he asked softly. "Lyndisty, are you here?"
There was no answer. He was not sure if he had been expecting one. The whole concept of the Day of the Dead sounded strange to him, and he had been weaned on ghost stories, usually bloody and melodramatic. His father had disapproved, of course.
But if there was even a chance, however slight, that he could see her again…. There were some things he had to say to her.
Softly behind him there came gentle footsteps, whispered breaths of the dead. His breath became very cold in his mouth. And he turned.
It was not Lyndisty.
A man was standing before him, young and handsome, dressed in the uniform of a Centauri officer, a kutari at his side. For a moment Marrago did not know this man, but then he spoke, and there was understanding. "Jorah?" the man said. "Jorah, is that you?"
Only one person had ever called him that. Even to Londo he had always been known as Marrago.
"Barrystan," he whispered.
"By the Great Maker," Barrystan said. "Look at you. You look old."
"I am old," Marrago said. "Older than I look. Sometimes older than I feel. But you…. you look just like you did when you…." He stopped, not knowing how to say the word 'died'.
"Has it been that long, then?" Barrystan sat down, as did Marrago. "How long has it been? Time doesn't seem to pass the same way there."
"It must be…. twenty-five years. Perhaps even more. Yes, twenty-five years since Immolan."
"Twenty-five years? Great Maker! That explains why you look so old." He suddenly straightened. "Lyndisty! How is she? She must be a young woman by now. Did you….? Is she…? Did you even hear me when I asked you to look after her? I don't remember."
Marrago fell silent. He remembered hearing his old friend's last request to him. A young wife, a baby daughter. Could he look after them?
How could he tell Lyndisty's father that she was dead?
"I heard you," he said. "She is fine. A beautiful young woman."
"Is she married yet?"
"No, but there are several candidates. I think she enjoys the attention. She has…. a way of looking at the young men, a way of moving her eyes that draws them all in. She got that from your sister. Exactly the same tilt of the head."
"And Drusilla?"
Another pause, as Marrago thought of something to say. Drusilla had become selfish and spoiled and shrewish. The two of them spent as little time together as they could. She played the Game of Houses and took young lovers to her bed and enjoyed intrigues and gossip.
But he remembered a time when he had danced with her at Barrystan's wedding, and watched her eyes sparkle with love for his friend, her new husband. He remembered as the light in her eyes died when he told her of his death. He had married her for honour, and she him for protection. There had never been love there. Her capacity for love had died when he had.
"She is well," he said simply.
"You did it, then?" Barrystan said. "Thank you, Jorah. Many would not have…. Thank you." Marrago did not say anything. There was very little to say. He had come here hoping, praying, for a chance to talk with Lyndisty one last time, to tell her he loved her one last time, to tell her that she had been the light illuminating his world.
He had never expected that he would have to tell the truth to one of his oldest friends twenty-five years after he had died.
"I cannot believe how old you look," Barrystan said again.
"I am old. I have been old for a very long time."
"Still playing at war? Are you Lord-General now?"
"I was. I…. serve the Republic in another way now. One better suited to my talents."
"What fool of an Emperor let you go from being Lord-General? Who is Emperor now, anyway? Turhan cannot still be alive?"
"He's been dead for a while. No…. a…. you won't believe this. Londo Mollari. Emperor Mollari II."
"Mollari? Never! Well…. he got it after all. The thing he wanted most in all the world."
"The thing he wanted most as a young man. I think now he only sits on that throne because there is no one else. Age…. is an…. uncomfortable thing, Barrystan. I am not sure if I would not have preferred to have died like you, a young man, still with all my hopes and aspirations and dreams."
"You saw my daughter grow up. You made love to my wife while my ashes were floating in the night winds. You could breathe clean air. You could drink warm brivare and eat fine foods. You are alive, Jorah. Death is a cold place, sometimes. Enjoy life while you have it."
What could he say? That he had watched Lyndisty die, that he had seen Drusilla shun his every gentle touch, that he had breathed air filled with the ashes of his people, that he had tasted only blood and bones?
Life was a cold place sometimes as well.
"Did we ever listen when we were young men, Barrystan? Some things do not change with age."
"No, I suppose they don't. Well, Jorah. Since you've awoken me from whatever it was I was doing, at least try to listen to me. You aren't that old, and whatever has happened to you, you are still alive, and it can always be made better. There is no going back when you are dead. There is nothing."
"Really?" Marrago whispered. He did not want to believe that. He did not want to believe Lyndisty had an eternity of nothing stretched out before her. "There must be something? Heaven, Hell? The infinite pleasure palaces of Emperor Creoso?"
"Whatever there is, I have not found it. You are alive, Jorah. So live!"