A misting rain was settling low over Dronya, bringing a fresh, damp chill that was a pleasant contrast to the stifling heat and press of bodies that packed the city’s pile dwellings and caverns. It was quieter too, away from the cacophony of voices and chaos of frantic arrival filling the already overstuffed air. Here, there was only the furious roar of the river far below in the gorge, and if Neroon closed his eyes and breathed in the smell of wet earth and moss, he could pretend he was home in Tinarel, standing amidst its many waterfalls. He stood on the very edge, at the limits of safety where the spray of the white waters rose to meet the falling rain and a slip or misstep could send him tumbling into the abyss, and dreamed of Tinarel. He imagined he could almost see her through the mist; her crystal towers glinting through the thousand miles of marshes, plains and valleys that separated her from him.
When he had first come to Dronya he had thought of little else but returning to Tinarel, desire for his home all bound up in the need to regain his rank, place and purpose in the caste, and most of all the trust, if not affection, of his Shai Alyt. He had long since given up on all of that as entirely hopeless, accepting his new place and finding comfort in what service he had earned among the Night Walkers. He had even come to like the little life he had created here. It hadn’t been easy, and he was sure there were plenty of Alyts who would scoff at it, but it meant everything to him. Secretly, he was even a little proud of himself, for surviving his disgrace and making something of it.
But now Shakiri’s scheming had forced him to turn back towards the past again. Valen’s Ban was broken and Tinarel had fallen to ash and smoke, and those Star Riders who had survived the slaughter had fled here, to Dronya, to Neroon, and now they were waiting for him to decide whether to abandon Tinarel to her fate, or fight.
Whether to rescue Branmer, or let him die.
If I do it, he thought, if I go back… then I must do it because it is the correct course of action, not because I entertain some naive dream of forgiveness or am bound by some decades old promise. Tinarel was but one city, and Branmer one man, and it was the fate of Minbar itself that was at stake. There were other clans, other cities, other castes to think about. He could not let himself be led by personal vows or ambition, or even fears. First Minbar, then caste, then clan. That was the order of things.
It was a hard choice to make alone.
Harder still to make, when you are caught amidst a maelstrom of hundreds of people pulling you in a hundred different directions, all certain that if they just shouted loud enough you'd hear them over everyone else. So, he'd retreated outside to find somewhere he could hear his thoughts long enough to decide.
And, so, of course, he had been followed.
He heard the clumsy slide and stagger of Alisa’s feet slipping on wet rock before her mind brushed against his. He was only surprised she was the first one to come looking for him.
“You could really tell it was me just from that?” Alisa remarked with a huff, coming to a stop beside him and shuffling her feet so they were right on the edge. “Don’t worry, I won’t fall.”
“Famous last words of many a fool,” Neroon remarked, “and stop that, it’s rude.”
“I’m not doing anything!” Alisa snapped indignantly. “You’re thinking really loud. Even a P1 could pick up on you. God!”
“Perhaps I need to refresh my security training then,” he replied, glancing sideways and down at her. When she’d arrived the cut on her cheek -courtesy of being too close to a window when an explosion hit- had been bleeding afresh, now it was no more than a line of healing pink. It would probably fade further in time, but there would likely always be a scar.
“Oh, don’t worry about that,” Alisa scoffed. “I’m like a proper war hero now. Everyone's gonna think I’m really cool and hot.”
“How can you be both at the same time?” Neroon pondered, selfishly enjoying the distraction from more serious matters. He had been relieved when he’d seen her among the evacuees, white faced and shivering beneath Beziel’s cloak, and was glad that her spirits seemed to be returning. It had been… strange to see her looking so diminutive. It didn’t suit her. She was a survivor; strong, scrappy, and quite singular. “Wouldn’t that make you merely room temperature?”
“I know you’re being deliberately obtuse when you do that, y’know?” Alisa jabbed his arm playfully. “I’m glad I survived too. Mostly because of Shakat, if you’re looking for someone to thank. A lot of us wouldn’t have made it out without him.”
Yes, that had been a real surprise. Shakat, who hated humans perhaps even more than Neroon did had, but who had risked everything to get Marcus and Alisa out of Tineral alive and deliver Branmer’s final orders to Neroon. Get them safely to Babylon 5. That was it, nothing else, and he was already half-way to fulfilling that order which meant everything after that was...
…up to him.
It was the sort of power he’d dreamed of once, but now it was nothing but too much weight on his shoulders and salt on his tongue.
“Everyone’s wondering what you’re gonna do,” Alisa shuffled closer. “Whether you’ll try to take back Tinarel or fortify Dronya and Helazel. Or…” she didn’t need to say the last part. He would never submit to Shakiri.
“I’m not even sure if they will follow me if I did go to Tinarel,” Neroon said slowly. “The Star Riders, yes, perhaps, only because I am their only option… but the Night Walkers? I’m not so sure.”
“Of course they’ll follow you! Look, even without trying I pick up a LOT, and I’m telling you, man, they think you’re either mad, or the most perfect, loyal and honourable Warrior to ever live,” Alisa laughed, rolling her eyes. “When you showed up here they thought you’d be gone in a month, but instead you stayed, you stuck it out, and took every bit of shit they threw at you and just kept going, all for a man who dumped your ass and demoted you, like, fifty ranks. They think you’re Jielkar when Keshari sent him into exile.”
“It wasn’t quite fifty,” Neroon remarked dryly, “and it wasn’t… my motivations were not always particularly pure.” They weren’t even pure now. Or if they were, would they last returning to Tinarel? Would they last seeing Branmer again? “How do you know about Jielkar anyway?”
Alisa shrugged. "I figured if I’m gonna live out my life on Minbar I should know about more than just the Religious Caste. So I asked Mr Brahms if he’d send me some stuff, like a Warrior starter manual kind of thing. You guys have some really good epic poetry, if you ever wanted to export it there would be a lot of nerds back on Earth who would be really, really into it… you know, on second thoughts, actually, maybe don’t do that.”
“Rest assured I have no intention of doing so,” Neroon replied. “It is not for vapid consumption.”
“Sure whatever,” Alisa snorted, “anyway, the point I was trying to make before you sidetracked me, is that I think you know they’ll follow you and that’s not the problem. It’s him, isn’t?”
Neroon closed his eyes and swallowed. This was why he tried to stay clear of telepaths. At least a Minbari telepath would have paid him the respect of silence, but Alisa was constitutionally incapable of keeping her mouth shut, just like Marcus. It must be a shared human trait; a complete and total lack of any sense of boundaries or concern for feeling.
“I know, I’m really annoying,” Alisa kicked at the ground. “I drive the temple masters crazy.”
“I can imagine,” he said quietly, opening his eyes again. “Alisa, I can’t have this conversation with you, you’re eleventy-three.”
“Eleventy-four actually,” she said, drawing up to full height and puffing up her chest, in such an uncanny imitation of himself as an arrogant adolescent that he almost laughed. “Fine, keep it to yourself, but I can feel it, you know, buried under all that clan, caste duty stuff…”
“Alisa,” he said firmly, putting the full force of feeling behind his words. It was an offensive tactic for dealing with telepaths that he’d learned in academy and never seen a use for until now. “We are done talking. ”
Alisa flinched, backing up to put distance between her and his thoughts. He regretted her hurt expression a little, but not enough to apologise. “Alright, alright, I’m going!” she snapped, beginning to stomp back the way she’d come. “There’s no need to be such an asshole about it. I just wanted to help.”
“You weren’t helping, you were prying,” Neroon muttered at her retreating back. It was too much, really, to have some damned human teenager trying to crawl inside his head. As if he didn’t have enough to worry about. Worse, now all the churning miasma of feeling he’d been pushing aside in his pathetic attempt at being a good little Warrior had risen to the fore again.
He’d thought he was past this, damn it, but it was all still there; that weak longing for belonging and affection, knotted together in his chest with anger at the injustice served him. Had he not always been loyal? Had he not spent his life in devoted service? Hadn’t he deserved better than to be cast aside?
Ha! He’d been an idiot to believe all of Branmer’s fine words and pretty promises. They had never been anything more than the sophistry of seduction and he had never been anything more than a tool at the Shai Alyt’s disposal.
And yet, still. He wanted so much for Branmer to look at him and find him worthy again. To love him.
Testament to how deeply Branmer had settled in his heart, that even after all these disappointments he was still impossible to extricate. He’d once thought of them as a perfectly matched pair, but now you could not find two minds more unalike. Or perhaps it was only that he finally understood that what he had perceived as small differences, hardly worth any concern, had all that time been the lines on a map where impassable borders were drawn. He’d seen a glimpse of it once, all those years ago in Tinarel. In a spot just like this, with the rushing roar of the river and slippery moss loved rock underfoot, though instead of rain it had been the spray of a waterfall that had misted the air and soaked through their clothes. He had been a pace behind, a hand hooked in Branmer’s belt to stop him from falling.
He was still a priest then, and wore a white so pure it shone blindingly in the refracted light of the rapids below.
Really, it should have been Neroon in the lead. He knew the way better and Branmer’s left arm was still swallowed in a cast, but even then he had deferred to him, slipping naturally into a subservient role that had been habitual long before it was ever enshrined in rank.
“How much further?” Branmer said without looking back, his cast scraping along rock as he negotiated a tricky bit of footing. He hadn’t said a word as to how he’d come by his injury, just turned up in Tinarel a few days ago with a broken arm and face grazed raw all down one side, smiling as if nothing was out of place. His parents didn’t say a word about it, but Neroon knew Shaal Eiyamer well enough to tell she was utterly furious. “Neroon? How much fu-”
“Just around the corner,” Neroon said, steadying himself against the cliff face. Branmer was going faster than he would have liked, overeager to reach their destination, and Eiyamer’s words from that morning were still ringing uneasily in his ears.
“You keep him out of trouble, do you understand?”
“I, honoured Shaal, of course, I would never-”
“No, no, don’t you try to pacify me. You know what he’s like, always eager to throw himself into trouble,” Eiyamer snapped and then took a long breath, exhaling tiredly. “I need you to promise me that you will protect him. Even from himself if necessary; that you will protect him with your life. Swear that you will, swear on your honour.”
It had seemed in the moment an absurdly strange requirement for what was nothing more than a light excursion, but he had quickly realised Eiyamer was asking for more than that. Protect him with your life, for the rest of your life. And Neroon had said yes, because of course he had, because what else could he do? He would have done it without needing to be sworn. He would have done anything for Branmer.
Branmer, who was now edging round the turn, out from under the curtain falling water, set eyes on their objective and surged forward. Neroon had to yank him back from the precipice, unhooking a hand from his belt the better to cage an arm around him, keenly aware of Branmer's heat pressed up against him.
“Easy, Neroon,” Branmer said cheerily, as if hadn’t almost fallen to his death. “I’m in no danger.”
Tell that to your mother, Neroon thought grimly, but all the same he was glad to be in company of this easygoing and lackadaisy Branmer over the sophisticated and mercurial High Priest who lived and breathed deep secrets and schemes. This Branmer was his friend, the other his superior. “You need to be more careful.”
“I know,” Branmer sighed, but let Neroon hold him steady as they surveyed the devastation together.
They were overlooking what at one point had seemed a solid, unassailable section of cliff, which had collapsed two weeks earlier during a torrential rain storm. The broken remains of a tree lay below them, twisted up in a slide of mud and crushed beneath a massive segment of crystal shot rock. More interesting though was what the collapse had revealed; the narrow entrance to a cave.
“The Workers haven't been up to secure it properly yet,” Neroon said, “but the foreman told me it looks like it goes deep into the rock.”
“I wonder if it links up with any of the other cave networks,” Branmer said thoughtfully, bringing a hand up to slide over Neroon's where it curved around his waist. Neroon had taken off his gloves for better purchase, and so they lay warmly skin to skin. “Perhaps we're about to stumble on some ancient Star Rider secret. Come on.”
“It may not be safe to enter,” Neroon said, but still climbed after Branmer as he scrambled clumsily up the slip and slide of rock and mud to the cave entrance, his injured arm flapping for balance. He looked dangerously close to falling and breaking the other one. “We didn’t bring equipment for serious caving.”
“So? Our species evolved in caves. We’ll be fine,” Branmer responded glibly, and pointed to a faint bioluminescent glow coming from within, lighting the pockets of crystal deposit which studded the entrance. “We won’t even need torches.”
“Are you sure this is a good idea wi-” but it was too late, Branmer was already disappearing in one last flash of brilliant white. One day, Neroon thought, as he attached a guideline (he'd had the forethought for that at least), one day you’ll lead and I won’t follow, and then you’ll be sorry.
A breeze hit his face as he entered, cool and fresh and bearing with it the reassuring suggestion of another exit somewhere within. Less reassuring was a small collapse further ahead, which Branmer was squeezing past, stepping carefully so as not to crush the countless luminescent flowers that constellated underfoot. It was bad luck to destroy sefili flowers, so the folk tales went. No doubt that was some throwback to the days when Minbari had dwelt in caves, and light had been a scarce and treasured resource.
“Come on!”
Swearing under his breath, Neroon scraped past the cave-in and popped out just behind Branmer. They were braced together above a sharp drop, navigable by way of a set of rocky outcrops, descending like steps.
“I must admit,” Branmer murmured near his ear, “I did have ulterior motives wanting to come here. I wanted to get you alone for a bit. Bless my parents, but they do hover.”
Neroon twisted to look at him in the small space, so close he could see every freckle and fine line shadowing his eyes. They had lost their daylight green and were glassy blue in the cave glow. “Branmer,” Neroon said firmly, “what happened?”
Branmer met his eyes briefly, almost sheepish. “I was racing some Fire Wings out at Oristi and I crashed my flyer taking the Koletz turn.”
“You were racing Fire-!” Neroon broke off in disbelief, taking a deep breath to steady himself “-but you’re a terrible pilot!” He considered Branmer again; the broken arm, the grazes scabbing over… he had taken it for a minor accident, a fall perhaps, but now… “How bad was it?”
“Oh, bad,” Branmer laughed shakily. “I almost died. I was unconscious for a couple of days, laid up for nearly two weeks. Woke up to my father standing over me looking, well,” he plucked at his tunic, “whiter than my robes.”
Neroon clenched his fists at his sides. No wonder Eiyamer was furious. No wonder she’d made him speak that vow. “You imbecile.”
“That’s what my mother said,” Branmer replied, with a snort. “Hardly how you should address a high priest, you know.”
“A fool is a fool whether he wears high honours or not!” Neroon cried, loud enough to echo out through the cave, reverberating back. Another thought occurred and only compounded his fury. “Why didn’t you tell me?!”
“Because I knew you’d react like this!” Branmer hissed, glancing furtively around as if he thought the stones might overhear. “You think I don’t know it was stupid? I’m the one who almost died! You… you have no idea what it’s like, to… to face your own mortality and realise you’ve done nothing of purpose with your life!”
“What are you gibbering about?” Neroon snapped, in no mood to deal with self-pitying nonsense. “You’re a high priest! You serve at the highest levels of society - you’re respected - beloved even! In Valen’s name, half your caste is in love with you! What more purpose could you possibly want?”
It was the wrong thing to say. He could tell by how still and strange Branmer’s expression went.
“Let’s just move on, shall we,” Branmer said, voice a little too brittle and bright, and without warning he turned and plunged down the drop. Cursing and fumbling, Neroon set another anchor point before descending hastily, the line rattling as it spooled from his belt. He hit the bottom hard, running into Branmer’s back.
“Well, you didn’t get far. What was the point in that?!” he groused, meaning to say more, but then he looked over Branmer’s shoulder and his breath stopped.
They had emerged into a wider cavern, crowded with stalactites and stalagmites and sefili joining with bioluminescent algae that crept the walls. On one side water had pooled into a shallow basin to cast reflected light across the subterrane, illuminating a vast scrawling canvas of drawings: hunts chasing across the cave; the faded outline of ancient star maps; strange divine beings descending with wings spread to meet bowing figures; and most arresting of all - a single handprint, pressed into the wall like a signature.
For a moment they just stood there, listening to the steady drip of water into the pool as their hurried breathing settled into a gentle pace, and then Branmer moved, reaching out to place his own hand over the print. He seemed a little lost in himself. “We must be the first people to set foot here in a millenia.”
“Maybe,” Neroon mumbled, coming closer to examine the hunting scene. There was a battle next to it. Minbari fighting Minbari, while the spectral beings watched from above. “These must be-”
“The Vorlons,” Branmer said reverently, trailing his fingers along their wings. “How strange to stumble upon this now, of all the moments in my life. It’s almost like a sign.”
“A sign?” Neroon asked uneasily. He could see that Branmer was going off into one of his religious moods.
Branmer’s hand dropped back to his side, he straightened to look sadly at him. “I’ve always admired your dedication to duty, Neroon. It’s not in your nature to refuse service, or to run away, no matter how inconvenient or difficult. And I know it has been difficult.”
Neroon shrugged the sudden compliment away awkwardly. “The same could be said for you.”
Branmer’s mouth twitched into a half-smile. “No, that’s not true. It’s never been true. I didn’t choose the priesthood out of some great sense of duty - I chose it because of all the paths open to me it provided the most power and greatest freedom with the least sacrifice. The truth is that I have been running from duty all my life and I… after I crashed, lying there waiting to be pulled out of the wreckage with all that weight pinning me down and my own mortality made painfully plain to me, I realised I could have died without fulfilling my purpose. My duty.”
Neroon shook his head. “But you have never shied from that duty either, regardless of the cost.”
“Not the duties of a priest,” Branmer said, stepping close to lay his hand over the black of Neroon's uniform, over his heart, “the duties of a Warrior.”
“I-” Neroon reached up to fold his hand over and thread their fingers together. He could not quite believe he had heard correctly. “Are you sure?”
“I have never been more so,” Branmer said, and then, regretfully, “I wish I could say you were the first to know, but my mother has that privilege.”
“How did she react?” Neroon asked, thinking of the promise she had extracted. He understood her urgency now. She couldn't have been happy by the revelation, not because she harboured the petty prejudices of her caste, but because she knew all too well the dangers a Warrior’s life entailed.
“Hard to tell,” Branmer laughed, “she told me that in this world everyone must die. None of us has any choice in that. Our choice is how we wish to live.”
It sounded exactly like the sort of thing a Warrior would say. “She approves, then.”
“After a fashion,” Branmer said, and stepped closer, bringing them almost nose to nose. “And you?”
“How could I not?” Neroon said, stroking his hand. “It is just… so sudden.”
“My decision perhaps, but the calling has been there a long time. I ignored it and ran from it… but no more.” A worrying fervour had entered his expression, gleaming brightly in his eyes. He looked strange and otherworldly in the light of the sefili, as if touched by some ancient power, perhaps the old gods themselves. “I have read Valen’s prophecies in his own hand, Neroon. That time is upon us soon, and when the Great Enemy returns I do not want to meet them as some useless, empty handed priest, but as a Warrior, in the company of Warriors.”
“You are hardly useless, even as you are.”
“Perhaps,” Branmer said, “but a priest has no right to carry a denn’bok, or to command Warriors, or fight by their side, and that is the calling of my heart. I am destined to fight in this coming war, with you by my side, shield to shield like Dravek and Helvain, or Rashok and Neraia. We have always been meant to fight together, you and I.”
“Is that a vow?” Neroon said faintly, lost in Branmer’s dream; the two of them together on the battlefield.
“After a fashion,” Branmer smiled, passing in one moment from ethereal and holy to sly and hopeful, “isn't it past time we made certain vows to one another, and wore them openly?”
It was everything Neroon had ever wanted. There had always been Caste between them, but now there would be nothing separating them. So what if it came dressed up in nonsense about Valen’s prophecies and religious conjecture? What did that matter when Branmer spoke Warrior vows and kissed him beneath the light of the first stars and the watchful eyes of the old gods? What did any of it matter?
Now, decades too late, he saw his blunder. He had not understood the obvious: that a war of faith would require Warriors of faith, and having none himself he was always fated to disappoint Branmer. Worst still he had insulted him, by laughing at that nonsense about Minbari souls being reborn in human bodies. An unforgivable mistake.
“You look lost in yourself.”
Neroon opened his eyes to Dronya again, the bittersweet memory of that lost cave in Tinarel slipping like mist through his fingers. It was Kershan who had found him, treading with agile lightness of foot where Alisa had blundered about like a wounded ingata. Despite himself, Neroon was relieved to see his friend. “I suppose Alyt Aiashon is growing impatient for a decision.”
“If she is, she doesn’t show it,” Kershan came to a stop beside him, taking a moment to adjust how his cloak sat wrapped around his shoulders. He was dressed in traditional Night Walker armour, with its practical short hems and padded plates. “She’s quite inscrutable, our Vana.”
“You would think she would resent it.” But she had never been the resentful, jealous type. It had been her with the true sense of duty, not him. “Others might, to be Vana Alyt and second-in-command of the entire caste, and find yourself waiting on the whims of some lowly Denndoyna.”
“Hasn’t that always been the case for the Shai Alyt?” Kershan grinned cheekily. “Afterall, you only came to Dronya because we were refusing his orders.”
“There was more to it than that,” Neroon said uncomfortably. He’d been in disgrace and looking for a place far from Tinarel where he could hide himself in work and duty until Branmer’s anger cooled, but it never had.
“I know,” Kershan’s expression softened, and he came close enough to bump their shoulders together and share warmth. “That’s why I came out looking for you. I was worried.”
“This is my decision to make.”
“Yes, it is,” Kershan nodded, “but that doesn’t mean you must make it alone.”
It was on his tongue to send Kershan away, as sharply as he had sent Alisa, but this was Kershan, who had seen him at his worst and weakest and stayed with him when there was nothing to gain, who had planted himself stubbornly like a seed in his heart and grown until his roots were too deep to dig out. “I already know what I must do, that is not the problem.”
Taking that as an invitation, Kershan used the end of his cloak to wipe the damp away from a rock and sat down, gesturing for Neroon to join him. “Sit, you look like you’re dying on your feet.”
Neroon obeyed, shuffling until he and Kershan were cosseted together against the damp chill. “My instinct is to take back Tinarel as soon as possible, crush Shakiri beneath my heel and secure Branmer’s position as Shai Alyt. Falling into a defensive position here will only prolong the conflict and we cannot afford to be distracted from the greater war, which, if Shakiri is working with the Great Enemy, is surely his intention. ”
“And what stops you from taking this action?” Kershan said, though, of course, he knew. “The Night Walkers of Dronya and Korya will support you, and you know secret ways in and out of Tinarel that make Shakiri’s occupation a vulnerable one. Strike fast and the war could be over in a matter of days.”
Neroon swallowed uncertainty, knowing he could admit this to Kershan. “I still love him.”
“Yes,” Kershan said tightly. He hadn’t had a high opinion of Branmer even before he knew the details of Neroon’s demotion. “Poor choices of the heart aside, I do not think it is interfering with your strategic faculties if that’s your concern.”
“No, I think I am sure of myself there, but,” Neroon reached for Kershan’s hand, "I cannot allow myself to hope again. If I do and he turns me away again….”
Kershan squeezed his hand. “It will not break you, my friend, I will not let it.”
“I should be stronger than this,” Neroon said sadly, but he had given too much of himself to Branmer and could not get it back.
“There’s no weakness in sharing another’s strength. We are Minbari, we are not supposed to walk into battle alone.” Kershan let go his hand suddenly to search a pocket. “Here,” he said, pressing some kind of fern into Neroon’s cloak pin. “Fazeril. It’s supposed to ward off evil spirits. I picked it on my way.”
“Does it work?” There was certainly something wicked and fey-like about Branmer at times.
“No,” Kershan grinned, “not really, but if you crush it and rub it on your skin it does keep the insects from biting, which around these parts is pretty much the same thing.”
Neroon barked a little laugh. “Come along then, we’d best not keep Aiashon waiting any longer.”