To Mollari, upon his return
Londo's quarters are obnoxious. I hate them. His portrait stares down at me, those regal, steely eyes, no depth, no dimension, just floating and judging from his heavy gilded frame. I despise the portrait.

Mr. Garibaldi would not let me in for fear I'd disturb the crime scene, but either he and Zack have completed their investigation or he finally succumbed to my wrath, because when I arrived here last night the guards were gone from the doorway, and the security seal gone from the door. There is still a placard where Mollari's name used to be: "Quarters Sealed by Order of Babylon 5 Security," but the quarters were not, indeed, sealed. I can only assume that Mr. Garibaldi has taken pity on me, for he knew I would return here the moment he was gone. He would not say as much, but I think he is concerned for me. I would not say as much, but I am grateful for his concern.

And here I am. This room is awful -- the air is thick and heavy and perfumed, the bed too soft, the carpets too plush. Everything smells of musk and Mollari. It is making me sick.

And -- yes, here, just like this. I'm seated at Mollari's desk, just so, I've taken the position he was in when I last saw him, in his transmission to me. He sat here, yes, one hand around this glass of brivari, still untouched, the syrup thick and crawling up the sides of the crystal now. I cannot feel him when I touch the glass. I smell the brivari, and it smells of him, but not of him, at the same time. He is present in this room, and absent just the same. He is. Not here.

I lean forward, as he did, switch on his terminal. Carl Sandburg, that human poet, two words, a security code.

"Carl Sandburg," I say, and the message shimmers on screen. I've read it enough, too much, too many times, I think. I close it again.

"Computer, begin recording, private message to Londo Mollari."

The computer beeps. I am sitting too straight; I hunch, as he did, I take a drink off the old, sticky brivari; it wears a coat of dust. He had one hand on his chest; I clap my breastplate in a salute.

"Mollari," I begin.



Hello, Mollari. You wished me to return home; I have returned home. Naturally, you chose the most self-centered and melodramatic means possible of achieving that end, but achieve it you have, and here I am.

I'm going to make a rather bold confession here -- it turns out I'm not a very good detective. And in this case, my better judgement tells me to leave the sleuthery to Mr. Garibaldi and his team, because I have no idea where to begin to search for you, and I can't stand being wrong. So instead I'm sitting here, in your quarters, drinking your old dusty brivari, in the hopes that I can somehow commune with you that way, that perhaps I'll find your essence here.

Last time I lost a friend, it was when Mr. Garibaldi disappeared, and I wasted no time going off to look for him. Needless to say, I did not find him, but I found something far more significant.

I found you.

If I hadn't gone in search of Mr. Garibaldi, I would not have been in a position to make a deal for my people, and I would not have learned that it is possible, after all this time and all this blood between us, for you and I to be on the same side.

We have common goals, Mollari. There was a time when we did not, but now, I believe, what unites us is far stronger than what divides us. I did not believe you truly wanted peace, but now I am willing to believe that you do. And I yearn for the chance for you to prove it to me -- for you to return, so we can prove it, over and over, to one another.

Delenn told me of your desire to contribute to a fund for Narn war orphans. Quite a step from the man responsible for orphaning those Narns to begin with, and while I will never forgive you for that, I find I have profound respect for your willingness to admit that you were wrong.

Did you know that was all I ever wanted from you? An admission of guilt -- not in words, for you are nearly as good with words as I am and the more you twist them to suit your whims the less weight they carry. But when I looked into your eyes in that cell and I made a deal for the sake of my people, I saw such emptiness in you it was all I could do not to save you myself. Or kill you, either one, for they are much the same thing in these cases.

I saw such profound emptiness in you, and that struck me more than any hatred ever could. You killed millions of my people not because you hated us, but simply because you could. There was no passion, no righteousness, no agenda -- just a cavalier drive for more power, more influence, more territory, more blood.

You never even hated me, but that is all right, for I hated you enough for both of us.

Things have changed, since then. I no longer believe your heart is empty. You are so fraught with pain now that sometimes I think emptiness would be a blessing for you; if you weren't plagued with emotion you could fulfill your destiny and be no worse off than you were years ago when you accepted Morden's offer to slaughter my people.

If I could restore that callousness to you I would do it in a second, and I do not envy you your fate, nor the guilt that you will bear until the end of your days.

But here, in the quiet, sitting in your room, Mollari -- I admit I am glad that callousness is gone. It's only fitting that it should be replaced with misery and sorrow, but your heart is no longer empty, and you are capable of more love than you might have ever thought possible. Certainly more than I ever thought you capable, and it astonishes me, and scares me, and makes me irredeemably sympathetic.

You mean more to me than any other creature in this universe ever has, and your life has affected mine more than I can say. So listen to me, Mollari, and hear me well, wherever you are.

I forgive you. I see that you are hurting, and that is enough. You should hurt. And as you hurt, I will stand beside you, and share your pain, and forgive you as much as I can. I forgive you the mistakes of youth and ambition, I forgive you for being seduced by power. I forgive you for your lack of perspective, for you have moved so far beyond that now that it seems a lifetime ago, and we are not the men we were then. I do not forgive your people for what they have done to my people, but I forgive you.

Time to end the war between us, time to end the war for all of us. Swords into plowshares, Mr. Sinclair once said to me, a human term, and apt, I think.

There will be a rusty gun on the wall, sweetheart
The rifle grooves curling with flakes of rust.
A spider will make a silberstring nest in the darkest, warmest corner of it
The trigger and the range-finder, they too will be rusty.
And no hands will polish the gun, and it will hang on the wall
Forefingers and thumbs will point absently and casually toward it.
It will be spoken among half-forgotten,
Wished-to-be-forgotten-things.
They will tell the spider: Go on, you're doing good work.
-- AEF, Carl Sandburg

Go on, Mollari. You are doing good work. And I will continue to work by your side. Just come home, untangle yourself from whatever mess you are undoubtedly in and come home, and I will -- yes.

You asked if I would spend these last weeks and months with you, and I say now, how can I not? I love you, Mollari, so desperately that I am paralyzed. I love you with a love I did not know I was capable of, and my place is at your side until the end of both our days. And you will keep hurting, and I will keep forgiving, for as long as it takes for both of our races to learn peace. I will be with you. I will hold you. I will not let you go. You asked, will I stay? Yes. Yes, Mollari. Come home.