Where No Shadows Fall

[songhay]

Chapter 4: Coping and Dying

Part 1

John Sheridan died a long time ago. He wished he could remember how many years, the exact date of his death; his crossing from man to mist to myth. But his soul, well, his soul refused to recall the precise moment when his light flickered and extinguished like so many flames before him. No, John Sheridan didn't truly want to remember his death, for to remember meant he had to feel. And if he felt, then he would hurt. And if he allowed the pain to come, to wash over him, a tiny pebble in an unforgiving wind, he would simply crumble, the wind casting his remains to the farthest reaches of the Universe.

If John had a body, he would've laughed. For there were no winds in the Universe, just darkness, silence, and time. So much time. Endless loneliness.

And John Sheridan, surrounded by thousands of stars, never felt so alone in his life or in death. How could he?

Delenn. The name vibrated around him, an echo from long ago.

Delenn. The name burrowed inside him. Raw. Sweet. Bitter.

Delenn. The name singed the star, compelling his soul to remember, to never forget, to never give up hope.

And John had given up hope. It had been months since he felt Delenn's soul leave her body-since her death. Yet, her soul hadn't reached out to his. No, Delenn was still out there somewhere. A place where John could not follow. No chance of rescue. No help. Just her. Alone.

Like him. So alone.

And perhaps that was the fate he deserved, to exist with only half a soul.

The moment the depressing thought formed, John felt the electrical pull. Soft and coaxing. John knew it well, but he wasn't in the mood. Not now, not for her.

The tug grew stronger. Their bond gave her a direct link to him. But he could ignore it; he had in the past.

Stronger. Harder. Determined. She never requested his presence with such urgency before. And their link, nor her, was so strong as to compel him to do her bidding. Yet today, the force on him was strangely penetrating, unusually powerful, and annoyingly persistent.

Giving in, John went; his star not happy with the intrusion. Wallowing in Delenn's abandonment and his loss was an act best done alone.

But he went, led like a trained poodle that wanted nothing more than to bite the hand of the smiling kid holding the leash.

Just when John could take it no more, his surrounding brightened before him. Darkness and solitude gave way to artificial lighting, blue and yellow painted walls, and a redhead.

"Hello, John."

John brought his hands up, then looked down at his legs. He had a body. John felt strong, young, invincible. The way he did as a man of his twenties. A man too young and inexperienced to realize that invincibility was a high-stakes game that only dumbasses and the insane betted on.

John didn't bother with searching the room for a mirror or something to show him the image she'd created. She settled on the image of him she most liked. He could alter himself if he wanted; he'd done so before. But really, what was the point? If she preferred to see him this way then so be it. He wouldn't be here long.

"Hello, Anna."

She smiled at him, and she too appeared much younger. Like she did when they'd first met. Freshness and beauty personified. But that was ages ago. As old as the room they were standing in.

John glanced around. It was Anna's apartment, the one she'd shared with his sister, Liz. He'd spent many a day and night in the overpriced, undersized flat. She'd even gotten the height right, the ceiling only two inches higher than John's six two height.

He'd always liked the place though, it smelled of daisies, chocolate chip cookies (his favorite), and the future.

But this was an illusion; a trip down memory lane John had no interest in taking.

He squared his shoulders and asked, "Why have you brought me here, Anna?"

She smiled. The same sweet, shy smile she gave him whenever he asked her out on a date.

And she pulled at his heart, made him see her as the girl she had been, the woman she would grow into, and not the thing the Shadows had turned her in to.

John shook his head. No, he remembered that all too well.

"Just tell me."

Anna moved closer, her flower print dress reminding John of Kansas in spring. She was so lovely. Always had been; her red hair and pale skin gave her an ethereal glow John used to find enchanting. Now, John saw only the woman who'd he'd failed to protect.

Standing before him, Anna reached out, her soft fingers finding his. She twined them, her delicate hand so familiar, so soft, so vulnerable. Then she smiled up at him, her eyes alight with love.

John wanted to rip his hand away from her. To turn from the love and trust her eyes revealed. He didn't deserve her love, want her trust.

"I was taught," she began, her voice a soothing massage, "like you, that upon death the soul would travel to one of two places. Heaven or hell." Yeah, Sunday morning service had pounded that bit of faith into him. "I never imagined any other afterlife."

Neither had he; although, they both had studied other cultures. Hell, one didn't have to go beyond Earth to discover various ideas about life after death. But the idea of a Heaven and Hell seemed to be the most prevailing understanding. If only it was that simple.

Anna laughed. "In the end, John, I guess it doesn't really matter what one believes during life, death is the ultimate enlightenment, the great teacher of all things cosmic and eternal."

Yes it was.

Anna released his hand and stepped away from him. She moved to the three-sectioned sofa, sat, and bid him to join her.

Reluctantly, he did, leaving one cushion space between them.

"I don't remember my death, John."

He knew. She'd told him before. Why was she telling him again?

"I remember the planet, the Icarus . . ." She looked down, her hands suddenly gripping the folds of her dress. "The creatures you call the Shadows. Yes, I remember them well, their voices grinding in my head, toxic thoughts and vile intentions."

John was doing some grinding of his own, his back teeth working with barely repressed anger.

She'd died alone. But not truly dead. No, they'd used her. Her mind. Her body. Her memories. But John had been the one to finally and fatally kill her. Not the Shadows, but him.

"I know; I'm sorry." More sorry than you will ever know.

Her slim fingers reached for him again, forcing John to unfurl the fists he didn't know he'd formed.

"After I died, I had a lot of time to think." Anna chuckled, her eyes twinkling. "In death, I guess we do all the thinking we should've done while we were alive. Then, we have the erroneous belief that we don't have enough time to talk, to think, to do. Here-" she gestured to the room, but John knew she meant the Universe-"we have endless time to ponder our mistakes. To even make new ones. And then more than enough time to fix them."

John could see some truth in her words, but they mostly rang hollow. He wished she would just get to the point so he could leave. Really, what good does rehashing old wounds would do? Some things were just better left dead and buried.

Like him.

Like her.

Like his bond to Delenn.

Anna tightened her grip on his hand, compelling him to focus. He did, giving her his full, uninterested attention.

"What is this all about?" He knew he sounded weary, in spite of the impossibility of true fatigue.

"This is about you." She gave him a pointed look. "And Delenn."

John did pull away from her touch then and stood.

Anna remained where she was, her eyes sympathetic, as if he was the saddest creature she'd ever laid eyes on.

Dammit, he didn't want her god damn sympathy.

"You need to get past this, John, or you'll lose her forever."

Yeah, that's what Valen . . . Sinclair had said. But it wasn't him. It was Delenn. She was the one who didn't join him where no shadows fall. She was the one who married and loved another while claiming to still mourn him. She was the one who-

"There's nothing for me to get past. I'm perfectly fine. Been fine. Will always be fine."

Pathetic liar. You haven't been fine for longer than you want to admit.

"It's not your fault."

John stopped his pacing and whirled to face his second wife.

"What wasn't?"

She stood but didn't advance. Good, he really needed his space, and she seemed to understand that.

"My death, John, it wasn't your fault."

Yeah, right. The woman was delusional. Of course it was his fault.

"I blew up the planet. I killed you, Anna."

She shook her head, red locks falling in to resolute eyes.

He stepped towards her. "I killed you. Me. Not the Shadows. I did it."

More head shaking.

Dammit, the woman was stubborn, as hard-headed as any Narn he'd met.

"No, John, it wasn't you."

She sighed. "I took that mission. If you recall, you asked me not to go, to select an assignment closer to where you were stationed."

John vaguely recalled the conversation. It had been so long ago.

"You thought we were spending too much time apart. You were right, but it was an opportunity I didn't want to slip through my fingers. So many vied for a spot on the crew, but only a prestigious few were selected. I was so proud to be among that elite group."

That John remembered. He was proud of her, too, in spite of the gnawing foreboding he couldn't rid himself of. He'd ignored it, chocked it up to a soldier's paranoia, a husband's concerns. Nothing more. But it was. Damn, it was.

"I should have done more, made you turn down the offer."

Her laughter rang in his ears, an independent woman's mocking ripple of feminist waves colliding into him.

"John, you were married three times." She lightly touched his elbow. "And while that macho, military attitude may have worked with the men and women under your command-" she clicked her tongue, a chiding sound-"the women you chose to marry would never be so cowed. Not Lochley. Not me. And certainly not Delenn."

John huffed, hating that she was right. Hell, what man in his right mind would marry women who did whatever in the hell they wanted to because they thought it was the right thing to do? That had led to a divorce, an untimely death, and . . .

Twenty years. Not a minute longer.

"You should never have gone to Z'ha'dum."

She released his elbow.

"Hindsight is twenty-twenty." She sighed, her face suddenly wistful. "Bad things happen, John. I didn't want to die, didn't want to leave you alone."

She moved away from him, her slim shoulders slumping then stiffening when she turned to face him again.

"I blamed myself for my death and your sorrow for a long time."

He hadn't known that.

"I can't tell you how many times I wished that I had simply listened to you, heeded your concerns. But I wanted that excavation so badly; wanted to finally make my mark."

John knew the feeling, the Agamemnon his opportunity to show he was more than a jarhead, a man worthy to lead.

"As soon as we landed, I knew I would never leave that place alive." She shivered. "The contempt and corruption hung thick in the air, polluting everything in its wretched path. I sensed it; we all did. But we saw nothing." Another hard shiver. "Until it was too late."

John reached for Anna this time, tugging until she accepted his embrace. He enfolded her in his arms, wishing, wishing. Just wishing things could have been different.

"When you blew up the planet, John, my soul was already here. You only destroyed the physical manifestation of me, the only part of me the Shadows could hold, control, use against you."

She snuggled closer, her body soft, tender, tortured.

"We can't out run our fate. We can run; we can hide, we can pretend and ignore. But in the end, it comes for us, whether we are ready or willing. As cruel as it was, John, my fate led me to that ghastly planet. I had choices, options. But I chose Z'ha'dum. And I died."

Anna raised her head from his shoulder. Their eyes met and the twinkle returned. "I also chose you, John. And I lived. I laughed. I loved."

She kissed his cheek. "And you love her. More than you ever loved me."

John made to protest but Anna simply shook her head. "Like I said, there isn't much to do here but think. And it didn't take much thinking to realize that obvious fact."

She stepped out of his embrace and John waited for the sense of loss to overcome him. It didn't. It hadn't since the time he hugged her and wished Anna a safe voyage to Z'ha'dum. Not when she "returned" to him that fateful day aboard Babylon 5. And not when they reunited after his death. That feeling, that warmth she used to evoke by her mere presence was gone, apparently never to return.

"I learned to cope with my death, John, and so must you. You can't continue to blame yourself for my death no more than I could continue to hate you for binding your soul to another."

Hate him? He didn't know she'd felt that way. But damn if he didn't understand. Yeah, he was all over that emotion.

John ran a hand through his hair-thick and dark the way it was when he was but a young man wooing a pretty college student.

But John didn't hate Delenn. He could never hate her. She'd loved him. Gave him a son. Mourned him. For too long. Far too long. Then she'd moved on, gave her heart to someone else. The same way he'd tucked his memories of Anna away, freeing his heart to love again, opening his soul to Delenn.

No, John Sheridan could never hate Delenn. But he was angry. At her. At him. At Chimir. At life. At death.

"I love you, Anna."

And he did. He'd never stopped. Never would. But . . .

She clasped her hands around his. "I know, Johnny, and I love you. When we married, I thought that existence was all there was for us. That once we died that was it; our time together would be truly over."

So had he.

"You never promised me forever, John, and I never expected it."

Her hands were so warm, her words even warmer, thawing the edges of his heart.

"But you and Delenn are different. You two are connected in a way I could never fathom. Beyond time. Beyond space. Beyond life. Beyond death."

Anna's hand found his chest, the placement over a heart that beat only when he thought of Delenn.

"Beyond regret. Beyond grief. Beyond. Anger."

One finger rested on his chin, smooth and beard free.

"Let go of the anger, John, and claim the other half of your soul."

She stepped away, her red hair swirling about her, the shape of Anna Sheridan fading, melding into blackness, the illusion crumbling around them.

John reached for her, suddenly horrified of being alone with his thoughts.

But she was gone, her parting words clipping his conscience before she disconnected their electrical link. "Anger is a lonely fortress, John, keeping you in and Delenn out. Tear it down or live there forever."

Connection broken. John was alone again.

But he didn't want to be alone. No, John wanted . . . He just wanted. Delenn. But he couldn't have her; didn't know how to escape his so-called fortress.

He wanted to though. God knows he wanted nothing more than to do just that. Time, he knew, was not his friend. Had never been kind to him.

Yeah, now that angered John Sheridan.

Time. Limited fucking time. Twenty years and no more. Screw that.

Part 2

John whirled, the jacket of his Earthforce uniform swinging with his swift movement.

He walked and walked, his mind unconsciously forming the image around him. But he paid it no mind; he simply needed to walk, to clear his head, to get away. From himself.

When John finally looked up, he stood in front of his office on Babylon 5. Not caring why he created this particular scenery, John entered, found his old desk, and sat in the familiar chair.

It squeaked, and he smiled. Some things never changed.

John propped his feet on the desk, placed his hands behind his head, and closed his eyes.

Tired. So tired.

"I've never known you to be the nap-on-the-job kind of guy, Sheridan."

John's eyes snapped opened, his feet quickly thudded to the floor. He frowned at the intruder.

"I didn't invite you here, Michael."

Michael Garibaldi slid from the shadows, his bald head as shiny as ever.

John huffed. "I thought you would've given yourself some hair."

Michael shrugged. "No point pretending. Besides, "he settled in the chair opposite John's desk, "it makes me look dignified."

Not likely. But who was John to judge? He reached up and thumbed his beard. He too had preferences.

"Why are you here?"

John didn't like this. Perhaps he could've shrugged Anna's demanding call off to former wife concern. But Michael appearing, out of the blue, well, that was stretching coincidence a bit far.

"Just thought we could talk. You know."

No, John did not know. But he was beginning to feel manipulated.

"Did Sinclair send you here?"

Michael crossed one leg over his knee. "Not Sinclair exactly."

John was so not in the mood for Michael's coy, Security Chief bullshit.

"Just give me Sinclair's damn message and get the hell out."

Michael tsked, and John refrained from knocking that smug smile off his friend's face.

"It doesn't work that way, John."

Of course it didn't.

John leaned back in his chair, waiting for whatever lesson the "powers-that-be" wanted him to learn. Why not. He had nothing better to do than lament eternity without Delenn.

Michael uncrossed his legs then shook his head as if he didn't quite know why he was there either.

"Do you know how many times I swore I'd never take another drink only to find myself hording booze and lying to family and friends?"

John sat up straight. He knew Michael struggled with his addiction. Hell, it had caused more than one fight between them, threatened their friendship, John's trust.

"More than I'd like to admit," Michael admitted, not waiting for John's reply. "The Twelve-Step Program," he huffed, "easier said than done."

Yeah, John could only imagine. Michael Garibaldi had one of the strongest personalities John had ever known. The man was formidable, but alcohol wasn't a foe easily defeated. Michael had fought that battle and lost. Repeatedly.

"The first step," he said, drawing John's attention, "is admitting that one cannot control one's addiction or compulsion. That was a hard one for me."

It would've been for John as well. Soldiers were taught to always be in control of their fate, their life, their choices. If they ever lost control, that spelled death. For them. For others.

"But you made it, Michael, found your way to the other side."

"I was lucky."

John disagreed. Michael worked hard to regain control, to be something other than what he'd become.

"Not luck, Michael. You beat it, was stronger than your addiction."

Michael shook his head. "I had good friends. Friends like you and Delenn who looked past the irresponsible drunk I'd become and remembered the man I used to be. And then there was Lise."

Lise, Michael's wife, his soul mate. John envied him, that unbreakable bond; the one that drew Michael's soul to Lise's ten years after a heart attack claimed his life. They were together in death as they had been in life, alcohol addiction no longer a daily battle, a cross to bear.

"None of us can do it alone, John. I tried, and I failed."

"What are you trying to tell me, Michael? You no longer have to contend with that addiction."

"True," he admitted with a relieved smile, "but I never forgot the steps. And when I look at you, all stone-faced and sad, I'm reminded of one."

John didn't bother with the obvious question; he knew Michael would tell him. At least when he did, the man could be on his way.

"One important step is to help others who suffer from the same addiction."

John leaned forward, his hands flat on his desk.

"I'm not an alcoholic, never have been. You know that."

"I know. It's not exactly the same but you do need my help. Hell, you need someone's help."

No he didn't. He only needed to be left in peace.

"I believe Anna already beat you to the punch. She came, she talked, she left. Apparently I have anger issues."

"That obvious." A snort. "But that's not what I'm talking about, John."

"No? So what in the hell are you talking about?"

Michael seemed to relax even more in his chair, unfazed by John's bout of frustration.

"Alcoholics have the Twelve-Step Program. I lived and breathed that program, accepted my addiction, my fate to have to deal with that addiction for the rest of my life. But you, my friend, you've never truly accepted your own fate."

"What fate? I'm dead if you haven't noticed, Michael. We're both dead, what fate is left for us?"

"Kubler-Ross, John, the Five Stages of Grief."

John's hands balled into fists, but he remained seated, forcing himself to listen despite the urge to end the link with Garibaldi.

"I always thought you handled your death and rebirth a little too easily. I mean, you actually died, John. Lorien, from what you told me, brought you back to life."

That wasn't exactly what had happened, but it was close enough.

"But twenty years." He shrugged. "It's better than nothing for sure, but it could not have been an easy pill to swallow."

No it hadn't. But I had no choice.

But John had enough psychology classes in college to know of Elisabeth Kubler-Ross' theoretical stages of coping and dying.

"Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance." Michael ticked each one off with a finger.

John had never felt so tired. He wanted nothing more than to curl up and sleep the rest of his existence away. Kubler-Ross was long since dead, so why did he feel like she had been haunting him for years, staying quiet and out of sight. But there. Always there with her damn stages.

"How far did you get? Did you even make it past bargaining?"

He had. In truth, he flew right past denial, shoved past anger, and slammed right into bargaining. All of this before he left Z'ha'dum. He'd wanted to live, no matter how long, if he could see Delenn again, have her in his arms, in his life. No, denial, anger, and bargaining were the easy stages. While the last two . . .

"Depression." John stood, unable to stay seated and feign a calm he didn't feel.

Michael stood as well, the casual shirt and slacks fitting his body.

"You never made it to acceptance, did you?"

It wasn't truly a question. That was the reason why Michael Garibaldi, above all others, was here. Who better to understand than a repentant alcoholic?

"If I didn't accept my fate, then how could I expect Delenn and David to? It wasn't fair to them. I got my bargain, my Delenn, my family, my twenty years."

But it still hadn't been enough. The more he got, the more he wanted. The happier his life with Delenn was, the longer he wanted to experience it. It wasn't fair. It simply wasn't fair. He had everything and nothing. How could he ever accept that?

"You pretended, tried to prepare them as best you could. But you never prepared yourself, accepted that you would get no more time with them, with Delenn."

John's knees buckled. Michael's strong arms caught him, holding him, providing the strength John no longer possessed.

He helped John back to his seat, careful eyes watching.

"Thanks; I'm fine now."

No he wasn't. More pretending. More lying. More denial. Perhaps he never made his way through stage one. John almost laughed at that frightening realization.

Anger and acceptance. Coping and dying. How could he manage it all in the limited time Delenn had before her soul was lost to him forever?

John closed his eyes, cutting the route of his burning tears. How long he stayed like that he didn't know, but when Michael spoke John's breath caught at the sudden breaking of silence.

"I always knew Delenn would be the one."

"How?" How could Michael know what had taken him so long to realize?

Michael scratched his bald head and smiled. "You had to see your face, your eyes whenever you looked at or spoke about Delenn. She intrigued you from the start, off-balanced you with that giving but fierce way of hers.

He had a look? No one had ever mentioned that before.

"She was good for you, John, drew you out of your shell, and Delenn out of hers. You both were better, stronger people for having the other. You know, I never believed in this whole business of soul mate's or even the idea of life after death."

Michael snorted and left John on his side of the desk, reclaiming the chair he'd sat in earlier.

"I thought I would die and that would be all Michael Garibaldi wrote. 'That's all folks,' and all that. Nothing more. No me. No Lise. No nothing."

"But the Minbari had it right."

"Yeah, who would've thunk it? They had it right. And, I for one am glad they did. I wouldn't trade more time with Lise for all the Looney Tunes and whiskey in the universe."

Michael leaned in, moving the chair closer to the desk, closer to John.

"But you, my friend, you're throwing it all away. Delenn loves you. I was there after you died. I saw how your death ripped her apart, leaving crater sized wounds where you had once been."

He moved the chair again, this time directly next to John. Michael's stare was hard, unforgiving.

"She mourned you for a damn long time, John, and it hurt like hell to watch her pain. And, yeah, I was there when she took vows with Satai Chimir. She loved him, too. He was good for her, made Delenn smile, something she'd deprived herself of after your death."

John wanted to scoot away, shut out Michael's words, but he couldn't. He knew this was something he needed to hear, to know, to understand.

"She was happy with him, John. You must accept that. She deserved that happiness and Chimir gave it to her. But . . . she didn't give him all of her."

John's spine stiffened. She had given all of herself to Chimir. Like Michael said, she'd loved him, was happy with him.

"I think-"

"She didn't, John, trust me. This I know."

How could he possibly know? Unless . . .

"She told you this?"

"Hell no."

"Then how?"

"Susan. She told Susan and . . . well, you know how that goes."

"Delenn would never reveal such a thing unless it was true," John said, feeling the first embers of hope.

"No, they were tighter than a fat lady in a corset," Michael agreed. "Susan knew all. She was the holder of Delenn's secrets."

"Someone could've just told me this. Susan, perhaps."

Yeah, his former commander could've, should've opened her big mouth and enlightened him.

"You have to learn your own lessons, John. Knowing is only part of the battle. You have to earn the rest. We're all here for you, but you have to want the connection more than you want to hold on to the pain of death, the sense of betrayal at Delenn's marriage, the guilt over Anna's death, and the misguided notion that you need to suffer as a result."

Michael stood, ran a hand around the collar of his shirt, and walked towards the exit.

"Move past depression, John, so you can accept your death. Only then can you live. Only then will Delenn see your star as the beacon she needs. You can bring her home, John . . . if your star is bright enough to show her the way."

Michael stepped into the hallway. "Is your star, your love bright enough, John, to guide Delenn to where no shadows fall?

Was it?

John jumped from his chair, feeling lightheaded. He had some thinking to do. No, he corrected himself; he had some healing to do.

"Is your star, your love bright enough?"

God, he hoped so.