Solitude

G’kar sat on the edge of the small bed in his cell. The headache he had from the Dust he had taken was slowly fading. It felt as if a knife was being slowly pulled out of the back of his head, but the side-effects were worth the information he had gained.

It had been easier to see inside Londo’s head than he had thought. He had assumed it would be like flipping through files, but it was almost like the memories were tissue paper and he was handling them too roughly.

He had found what he was looking for; he even had a name to go on: Morden.

He believed he knew of this Morden. A dark-haired human male with a stupid face and silly questions. Now it looked as if those questions weren’t that silly after all.

Perhaps he had missed other important opportunities by brushing people off. What did this mean to his people? To his position? The same option had been given to him and he had waved it off. He should have said his desire was for Morden to disappear. He doubted it would have done any good, but at least he would have done something.

But he had just stood by and let all of it happen, right under his nose. Right under everyone’s nose. Even the nose of Londo Mollari, the one who had known the right words to say.

Now, he knew how Londo truly felt. His anger and thirst for revenge paled in comparison to his remorse. He had pushed it deep within himself. Tried to forget it, to drink it away, to hide behind posturing, but there it lay.

He thought for a moment. Would he have done the same thing? Of course he would have, and Londo knew it. Still, he had seen the truth laid bare and had turned away in horror. He was working. Working so hard to twist reality into something more manageable, tangible, but it kept slipping through his fingers.

If it had been G’kar, and he had done the same to the Minbari he would have had a celebratory feast. Dancing through the corridors and perhaps having Londo scalped and his crown fashioned into an amusing hat.

Londo had a fantasy much the same, with a lovely jacket in place of the funny hat. G’kar had to admit they were more alike than he was comfortable with.

But then Londo had been sent some pictures from the attack. They had made G’kar sick. It was one thing to see a battle from space, but up close was another story. Burned corpses littered the ground, in some cases groups had melted together and it was hard to tell how many Narn were joined together forever. It did not give him the honor he thought it would. Perhaps others thought highly of him but he didn’t think very highly of himself.

And G’kar would have made the same wish if he had thought of it. Both of the men were patriotic, they each wanted their side to win, but they both agreed on one thing: this is not the way.

He closed his eyes and tried to clear his mind, but it seemed jumbled, as if it were cluttered with too many thoughts, which made sense because it was. He did breathing exercises, concentrating on his breath. The thoughts were still prodding him and if he stopped concentrating they flooded him, washing over him in waves.

It made him feel dirty.

Everything about him seemed dirty. He wished he could take a shower, but that was out of the question. He had a scheduled time for that and it had already passed for the day.

Only 58 days to go.

He wished he had some more Dust. No one was around him. He surely couldn’t do anything to harm anyone. He just wished the pain would go away.

He had since learned that he had taken well above the recommended dosage. The headaches were supposed to last a day, but the doctor had told him he might be hurting the better part of a week.

He realized that the pain made the thoughts dull slightly. What a tradeoff.

An image swam to the surface and suddenly he was in the body of a very young Londo, his father carefully explaining why he was not to shed tears over Narn. That it made him look weak. The man was smiling gently but there was something in his eyes that told Londo that his father was very, very angry. A group of courtiers was attempting to have a civilized tea just yards away from a tree of freshly hanged Narn troublemakers, some of them smaller than young Londo.

“Now, I know they look like people, but they aren’t,” the man insisted. “Do you cry over your spoo? No.”

The boy hiccupped and wiped his tears away. He nodded and drew his form up, trying to push the upset feelings away. He gathered himself and strode over to the table of courtiers, apologizing for his behavior and making the excuse that his fifth teeth were shifting and it was quite painful.

He didn’t think anyone believed it, but it didn’t matter. The excuse was clever and he had remembered himself within a short amount of time. He looked up and his father was beaming at him, pride having replaced the anger as some of the ladies asked a slave to bring strong, iced wine to numb his mouth.

Londo was surprised that they were allowing him an adults indulgence, but he took the cup happily, thanking the lady with the highest prose he could think of. The adults had tittered and Londo quickly discovered they were now addressing him as one of their own.

When he had walked away when the party was over, his father had chuckled at his sons uneven steps, though Londo was trying his hardest to walk in a straight line.

He stopped and put his hand on Londo’s shoulder. He turned to look at the corpses and Londo forced himself to look on impassively. “Remember Londo, it’s not what you do, it’s how eloquent you explain yourself when it counts. Today you are a man. You need to learn how to drink it away like everyone else. It’s an honored tradition. You are expected to live up to your name.”

Londo nodded, his face blank, but his mind feeling torn and raw with horror and denial. He walked away thinking of nothing but his family name. It’s the only thing he could think about without being sick.

G’kar felt anger wash through him, not at Londo, but at the situations that had made them the men they were. He thought to his own childhood and his own father teaching him about G’quan and the higher purpose they served as Narn.

There is a greater darkness than the one we fight: it is the darkness of the soul that has lost its way.

G’kar meditated on this for a moment before he heard a noise and Garibaldi entered his cell.

“How are you doing?” the human asked seriously.

“Besides wanting to die from this pain in my skull I think I’m doing fairly well,” G’kar said rubbing his head as if it would do any good.

“You’ve got no one but yourself to blame for that,” Garibaldi pointed out with a raised eyebrow.

“Trust me, I know.” G’kar groaned.

“You’re going to be here for a while,” Garibaldi said. “Is there anything you want? Anything I can bring you?”

G’kar thought for a moment. “Paper… and a writing instrument of some sort, if you can. If it isn’t too much trouble.”

“I’m pretty sure I can handle that.” Garibaldi said with a somber nod of his head.

“You are a good man, Mr. Garibaldi,” G’kar said. “Thank you.”

Silence and time can do peculiar things to a person. Some go mad, some exercise, and some find their thoughts becoming so loud one cannot help but confront them and discover their true self.