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Chapter Text

Anla'Shok Compound, Tuzanor, Minbar

"You're joking."

Standing beside the room's only desk, Sech Durhan fixed him with a flat stare. "I assure you, we are not."

Marcus's disbelieving laughter caught in his throat. He turned to Sech Turval, seated behind the desk. "Nobody mentioned this to me."

"The requirement was unknown to us," Turval said. "But new research confirms it is vital for the bond's recognition."

"Bit of an oversight for something so crucial, wouldn't you say?"

Durhan's gaze slid to Turval. "A pertinent question."

"It is an ancient ritual that has not been enacted for millennia, not since before Valen. The relevant scrolls were... incomplete." He paused, steepling his fingers. "The Warrior Caste archivists were, I should add, equally unaware. Though one might expect warriors to be more diligent about martial traditions."

The denn'bok master cleared his throat. "We shouldn't dwell on the past. The bond's validity is what matters now."

"Well, it is irrelevant who is responsible. I'm not doing it."

The words came out firmer than Marcus had intended, surprising everyone. Turval and Durhan exchanged a long look, and he wondered what kind of rock-paper-scissors mental game they were playing.

Whatever it was, Turval seemed to have won. Or lost. "Marcus, you agreed to this. In front of witnesses."

"I agreed to the wedding. To the symbolic gesture and occasional formal appearances. I did not sign on for domestic arrangements and... matching toothbrushes." He gestured vaguely. "Or whatever peculiar rituals Warrior Caste members perform at dawn."

"The aesthetic coordination of personal items is not stipulated," Durhan rumbled.

Marcus stared at him, speechless.

"We know the situation differs from what you expected," Turval said in a measured tone. "But the oath you swore binds you to the tradition in its entirety."

"That's not how agreements should-" Marcus rubbed his face. "Does he know about this?"

"Neroon has been informed." A faint smile touched Durhan's lips. "His enthusiasm mirrors your own."

Marcus wasn't surprised. In their last encounter at a Religious Caste poetry recital, the warrior had played the enthralled audience member with consummate skill, while acknowledging Marcus's existence with all the consideration one might reserve for a potted plant.

"There must be an alternative? A ceremony, a vow, something that satisfies the requirement without cohabitation."

"There is none. We checked," Durhan said, "Thoroughly."

"It is only nine days," Turval added in a conciliatory tone.

"Nine days every year," Marcus stressed. "With my current luck, I'll be doing this until I'm a hundred."

Silence fell over the room. Marcus stared at the floor, tracing the precise geometric patterns in the crystal. He could refuse. Pack his things and leave tonight. But go where, exactly? He'd made himself a stranger to his own world long before he'd ever come to Minbar. Besides, the shame wouldn't be his alone. It would affect Neroon and Delenn's reputation and it would tarnish the Anla'Shok. Proof that humans had no honor. 

No, he'd made his choice months ago, when he'd stood in that hall and sworn that bloody oath. Everything after was just... aftermath.

"When exactly would this be?"

"Neroon suggested around the Tennar'vel," Durhan answered. "It would be convenient since you already have a formal appearance scheduled."

"Of course, it is just a suggestion," Turval said quickly. "Other arrangements can be made."

For a moment, Marcus fancied the idea of making the warrior come to him instead. He could insist Neroon share his own cramped quarters at the compound. The ones with the communal toilet, no kitchen, and the relentless predawn wake-up calls. The image of the Warrior Caste Elder, stripped of his private space and his precious silent meditations, made for a rather satisfying picture. But he knew the pettiness wouldn't change the situation, only poison it from the start.

Marcus took a deep breath. "Alright. I'll do it. I will go stay nine days at his home in Yedor."

"Your home," Durhan corrected. "Technically."

A harsh laugh escaped him. "I can't wait for the housewarming party."

Chapter Text

Between Tuzanor and Yedor, Minbar

"Friendly crowd," Marcus remarked in English, glancing at the two Worker Caste Minbari in front of them.

Anla'shok Malen didn't reply.

"I take it you drew the short straw?"

"I volunteered," Malen said. "Someone needed to ensure you did not try to entertain strangers with one of your jokes."

Marcus turned to the window with a faint smile. They had just left the station, and he could still see Tuzanor's crystal towers.

"I hope I'm not pulling you away from anything important."

"You are not." She paused. "It is a welcome distraction, actually."

"Ah, the course of true love never did run smooth. Is Ashen driving you mad with all the inconsequential details? I told you this would happen."

"No. You mentioned seating arrangements, food options and color schemes. Three things that are very consequential."

"What is so important about a color scheme?"

His voice carried, drawing a pointed look from one of the workers.

"For starters, color signals clan and family hierarchy," Malen answered in a more confidential tone. "It defines where people stand and how they address each other."

"Hmm... I don't recall that from my Shall-Fal."

"Marcus, you must have noticed all the warriors in black wearing different colorful accessories."

"I assumed it was a stylistic choice."

A spark of playfulness lit her expression. "It is both."

"I see." Marcus paused. "So, what is it then, if not Ashen?"

She sighed. "It's his clan. They are being remarkably..."

"Overbearing?"

"Attentive."

"Well, meticulous is the Religious Caste's way," he said, gazing at the towers fading in the distance. "Or so I was led to believe."

"Meticulous itself is fine. It is the inconsistency I find problematic. Each time we go to the temple, a new priest appears with a new requirement that I had never heard of."

A snort escaped Marcus, earning him another sharp glance. "That sounds rather familiar."

"Yes, I guess we all have unmet expectations."

"At least your situation stems from affection." Marcus took a deep breath. "I should be grateful, really. It's only nine days."

"I was under the impression the two of you were on good terms. He seemed happy at the Shall-Fal."

"He was happy. But then he started treating me as if I had kicked his favorite dog for no good reason."

Confusion clouded Malen's features.

"Small creature? Furry? Domestic animal?"

"I see." She frowned. "Why would someone kick a domestic animal?"

"That is not the-" Marcus waved his hand. "Forget about the dog. The point is, given how things have progressed over the last couple of years, his sudden coldness feels unprovoked. And if this is how he behaves with witnesses present, I'm not holding my breath for the private performance. Especially in his home."

"Well, technically, it is your home too."

"Right. He'll probably just assign me a corner and draw a defensive perimeter around it."

"I believe you are overthinking. He spared your life when he did not have to. He deemed you honorable. Worthy. And then he married you. He treats you as Minbari. I doubt any other human who has faced Alyt Neroon in combat can claim that."

"No." Marcus's voice dropped to a rough whisper as he rubbed his neck." They likely can't claim anything at all."

His hand stilled. For a moment, Marcus was back on Babylon 5. He could still feel it. The cold deck plating grinding into his back. No air, only fire in his lungs and the frantic drumbeat of his own heart. His world narrowing to Neroon's face, etched with fury, so close Marcus could see the rage in every line. The certain knowledge that it was the end.

"Marcus? Are you listening?"

He blinked. The transport's interior swam back into focus. Malen had leaned closer, her concern evident. The two Minbari across from them were now openly staring, and Marcus forced a tight smile in their direction. 

"My apologies, Malen. You were saying?"

"Are you alright?"

"Yes, just a bit stuffy in here," he said, working to steady his breathing.

"You complained earlier about being unusually cold."

"I'm fine," he insisted, avoiding her eyes. "You were saying?"

She settled back into her seat. "I was talking about Shaal Mayan's performance at the festival. You should invite your husband."

Marcus winced at the word. "I don't think Alyt Neroon is the sort who swoons over love poetry."

"Her work has grown more sentimental lately. But you never know. He may like it."

A humorless smile touched Marcus' lips. "I'll be sure to ask him. Right after he assigns me my corner."

Chapter Text

Worker District, Yedor, Minbar

Alyt Neroon stood on the platform, awaiting their arrival. The warrior was alone - a relief for Marcus, who felt too frayed for further diplomatic niceties. They exchanged formal bows and the requisite courtesies. The ritual felt so rehearsed, he had to resist the urge to ask if Neroon had practiced in the mirror.

Outside the station, Malen made a swift exit, while Marcus and Neroon continued in silence toward the heart of the Worker District. As they passed, onlookers halted, their stares fixed on the pair. Marcus had expected curiosity, not aggressive scrutiny. It made him feel like a freak in one of those ancient roadshow attractions. All it needed was a barker: Ladies and gentlemen! Step right up for the Human Anla'shok and his warrior spouse! Only today, two for the price of one. An unfair thought, perhaps. Neroon would doubtless get top billing. Marcus glanced at the warrior beside him. He seemed largely unbothered. Occasionally, someone would offer a nod of recognition, which he would return with silent economy. Otherwise, he marched ahead, his focus fixed forward.

Finally, they halted before a small, modern building with a modest garden out front. Once inside, Neroon led the tour with the clipped efficiency of a field briefing. First stop: the main room. For communal meals and receiving guests. Marcus wondered whether that privilege extended to him. Well, technically he wasn't a guest. Next, the cooking facilities and laundry unit. He was free to use them, Neroon stated. Terrific, he thought. He could burn dinner and dye his robes pink in one go. Back in the main room, Neroon gestured to the internal garden behind glass doors, noting that it was shared with three other households. The emphasis wasn't lost on Marcus.

They reached the final stop. His room. Neroon gestured. Marcus stepped inside. Dominating the space was a horizontal bed. He froze.

A bloody horizontal bed.

The sight baffled him. Was this a peace offering? His eyes shifted to Neroon, still standing at the threshold. "You arranged for a bed."

"My assistant handled the logistics."

Marcus couldn't decide whether that was better or worse. Or even if it made any difference at all.

"Thank him for me." He smiled tentatively. "And offer my condolences. Alien-proofing the guest room can't have been a thrilling assignment."

Neroon stared. A nervous laugh escaped Marcus, loud in the quiet room. The pause stretched, and he began to doubt his grasp of Vik. Had he mispronounced a word? Used a funeral greeting by mistake? Finally, the warrior gave a slow nod.

"I will return for the evening meal."

And with that, Neroon departed, leaving a silence more profound than any he had brought with him.

Marcus dropped his bag and crossed to the window. The view was of the internal garden, but over the rooftops he could see the few crystal spires of the city center. Yedor was mostly built of stone and humble materials, lacking Tuzanor's ethereal beauty. To Marcus, it felt more grounded. Accessible. Like home. A shame he rarely had reason to visit.

His gaze returned indoors. He checked the extra door next to the bedroom entrance. An en-suite bathroom. No shower, but that was to be expected.

Standing in the middle of the room, Marcus took it all in. A very nice corner, all things considered. He recalled Malen's words: He treats you as Minbari. Maybe she was right. Maybe he was overthinking. He let out a short, amused laugh. Disappointing really. He'd worked up some excellent complaints.

Chapter Text

Neroon's Home, Yedor, Minbar

They sat across from each other at the low table in polite silence, each with a bowl of meat and vegetables. Marcus took a slow bite, his gaze wandering to the polished denn'bok mounted on the wall behind Neroon. The weapon rested open and horizontal, like a sacred relic. Intricate patterns covered its surface, and although he couldn't distinguish all the finer details, the design felt oddly familiar. He tried to place it, but the memory kept slipping away before he could grasp it.

The display looked rather martial for a dinner setting, and the other decorations did little to soften the impression: an old banner bearing the Star Riders crest, a framed document with old script. Ancient Vik, perhaps? The only anomaly was a sculpture tucked in one corner, carved from a translucent green stone into the form of an… animal?

He took a sip of water. The whole place belonged behind a velvet rope. The Minbari Warrior, Domesticated. Please do not touch. The absurdity caught him mid-sip. A choked laugh escaped, and he sputtered, barely avoiding spraying liquid across the table and prompting Neroon to look up.

"I trust the food is acceptable?"

"It's excellent, actually."

Neroon gave a curt nod and returned to his meal. Marcus couldn't tell if it signaled approval or mere acknowledgement, and the ambiguity bothered him.

"I've never eaten anything like it," he pressed. "Is it braised?"

"It is. A regional specialty."

"It's lovely," Marcus said with a smile. "It was kind of you to prepare it."

“I did not prepare it. I arranged for it to be delivered."

His smile faltered. "Well, still thoughtful of you to… arrange it."

There was no follow-up to that, and the silence settled again. Marcus’s gaze drifted back to the sculpture. Its small pieces were moving now, rotating and shifting against one another in a gentle motion.

“It's moving," Marcus said, nodding toward it.

The warrior glanced over but did not answer.

“What is it supposed to be?”

"What do you perceive it to be?"

"An animal, I think. I can't determine which, though."

Neroon acknowledged this with a tilt of his head. Marcus waited for more. Nothing came. Apparently, riddles were part of the evening's entertainment. A spark of annoyance flared as he looked at the sculpture again. He'd been so certain earlier - standing in that bloody room with its horizontal bed - that this wouldn't be as difficult as he'd feared. He felt like a fool.

"I have not received your acknowledgment of the festival itinerary."

Marcus startled at the sound of Neroon's voice. He turned to see the warrior had finished eating and was now watching him.

"Itinerary?" 

"For the festival. It required your confirmation."

The festival. Of course. In his distraction before leaving Tuzanor, the message had completely slipped his mind.

Marcus swallowed, his throat tight. “My apologies. Consider it confirmed.”

He scrambled for something to say, desperate to shift Neroon’s attention from his mistake.

“I know Shaal Mayan is performing.”

“Yes.”

"Are you a fan of her work? Maybe we could attend."

“We will attend." Neroon paused. "It is on the itinerary.”

"I see," he muttered. "I must have missed that detail."

Abandoning further attempts at conversation, Marcus focused on his meal. The day had stretched too long, better to just let it end.

When he finished, he stood and gathered both bowls. "You arranged for the meal. I'll clean."

He left without waiting for a response.

In the cooking area, Marcus found the cleaning unit full. He began unloading the spotless ware, reaching for a bowl and placing it on a shelf beside a similar one. A presence at his shoulder made him tense and he turned to find Neroon standing close. Too close. Marcus's breath hitched. He took a half-step back, his spine meeting the counter's edge.

"A problem?" he asked, his hand drifting to his neck.

Neroon reached into the cupboard, retrieved the misplaced bowl, and moved it one shelf higher. "It belongs here."

"My mistake." A nervous laugh escaped him. "I'll add bowl-placement protocols to my study materials."

The warrior met his eyes, and for a heartbeat, his gaze held something almost apologetic. "Things must remain in their proper places."

Marcus only nodded.

Neroon held his gaze a moment longer, then stepped back and left without another word. Marcus stood alone in the cooking area, working to steady his breathing.

Chapter Text

Anla'Shok Compound, Yedor, Minbar

The pike whistled as Marcus spun it, a dark blur cutting the air. His opponent lunged, but Marcus flowed around the strike, using the other's momentum to unbalance him. Before he could recover, Marcus reversed his grip and slammed the butt of his pike into the man's ribs - a sickening thud that would have shattered bone in a human.

The young minbari stumbled, his composure fracturing. He retaliated with a desperate flurry, and a strike, faster than the others, slipped through Marcus's guard. Pain flared hot and sharp. Marcus stepped back with a hiss, gritting his teeth as he forced his numb fingers to tighten on the shaft and reset his stance.

His opponent came in again, overconfident. Their pikes met in a series of percussive cracks: high, low, high. But the young minbari fought like someone performing a memorized dance. Predictably, he committed to a powerful overhead strike. Marcus didn't meet the force head-on. Instead, he angled his pike, catching the blow and guiding it aside with a grinding scrape, dropped low, and swept the man's legs from under him. The young minbari fell with a breath-stealing crash onto the hard ground.

For a moment, he lay on the ground, humiliation and anger warring on his face. He pushed himself up and offered a shallow bow. Marcus returned the courtesy. Around them, the small crowd began to dissipate.

Still holding the training pike, Marcus walked toward the edge of the hall, his breathing labored.

"I see you took it upon yourself to instruct young Telonn," Malen said.

He shrugged, setting the pike against the wall and grabbing a towel from the floor.

"I needed the exercise." He wiped the sweat from his face. "Mutually beneficial arrangement."

Lowering himself to the floor against the cool wall, Marcus let out a controlled sigh as the ache in his side intensified.

"I doubt he considers it a benefit," she said, observing him. "His trainer, however, may appreciate the help. Telonn has been... difficult. Closed views, shall we say."

"Aren't they all like that?"

"Maybe. Although I prefer to believe I was more enlightened." A faint smile touched her lips. "But probably only a little."

Malen settled on the floor across from him, legs crossed.

"My lessons were not so painful, though," she said, frowning. "Are you alright?"

"Fine. Just a bruise."

She seemed unconvinced but did not press. "So, what brought you here? You did not come all the way across the city just to humble our novices."

Marcus let out a sharp breath. "I am cabined, cribbed, confined, bound in."

"Is that more of your Shakespeare?"

"Macbeth." He leaned his head back against the wall. "A man feeling trapped."

"I see." Malen paused. "Should I assume the atmosphere at home remains... tense?"

"Tense is generous." Marcus said, pressing the towel against his face. "This morning, we had a lovely discussion about socks. Apparently, one of mine migrated to his side of the laundry unit." He dropped the towel and shifted against the wall. "You'd think I'd committed a territorial violation."

"He is a warrior. Order is his nature."

"So, he keeps reminding me. Which is rather funny. I thought that was a more Religious Caste trait."

Malen smiled but said nothing.

"You know," he said. "Every day I wake up half expecting to find a diagram on the floor, outlining my approved pathways through the house."

"Your capacity for exaggeration never fails to amuse me."

"Who's exaggerating? Yesterday he informed me I was meditating in the wrong place."

"He used those exact words?"

"It was implied when he called my garden incursion a chaotic search for inner peace."

"You said the garden is shared." Malen's tone remained gentle. "Perhaps he was concerned about disturbing the neighbors."

"With my silence?"

"With your propensity for friendliness."

Marcus pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense. "I'm wounded, Malen. My Lenn'a is not that terrible. I'm perfectly capable of managing a simple conversation with the neighbors."

"Yes, but can the neighbors manage you?"

He huffed in amusement.

For a while they stayed there in silence, listening to the distant sounds of clashing pikes. Marcus thought of Neroon standing in the doorway that morning, holding up the errant sock like evidence of some cardinal sin. Every courtesy the warrior gave him came with unexpected rules, unspoken boundaries.

"The truth is," he said, "every day I feel like Alice in Wonderland."

"I thought you were Macbeth." Malen looked confused. "Who is Alice?"

"A girl lost in a place where everyone speaks in riddles, the rules change without warning, and no one ever arrives on time for tea."

Malen's eyes widened. "Never? What a horrific thing!"

He glanced at her, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Keep this up and I might make a proper human of you yet."

Pushing himself to his feet, Marcus took a careful breath.

Malen rose with him. "Are you certain your injury does not require attention?"

He waved dismissively. "It's not an injury. It's a bruise."

Marcus reached for the pike still resting against the wall and crossed the hall to return it to the training rack. Malen followed.

"You know," he said, turning to her. "I have been complaining too much. That is not what I came here for."

They walked toward the changing rooms.

"No, you came here to get away from your husband."

Marcus winced. That word again. "And also, it's been three days. I need my latest updates on the wedding drama."

"Well, sorry to disappoint you, but Ashen has been noticeably quiet."

"Ah, a good man. Holding the fort so you can get a break."

"He is." Malen's expression softened. "Neroon is a good man too."

Marcus didn't answer.

Chapter Text

Hall of Remembrance, Yedor, Minbar

In the turning of white stars, I have known truth

Light that burns alone, perfect and distant

Marcus searched for a position that didn't send a fresh twinge through his side. The hall was freezing. Apparently, hypothermia was part of the spiritual experience. Flexing his stiff fingers, he tried to coax some blood back into them. He'd left his coat at the door like some trusting idiot, and his formal clothes were about as insulating as tissue paper. Or perhaps the painkillers had simply worn off. He really should have taken another pill before the recital.

Now I am learning the nearer light

The voice that answers, the touch that warms

Yes. Warm. Capital idea, he thought. The poet's next verses blurred into a meaningless hum. Marcus gaze drifted to Neroon, who sat utterly absorbed, as if the words were revealing the meaning of life itself. Had Marcus misjudged him? Did Neroon genuinely enjoy this sort of thing? Those sporadic conversations they had after the Denn'sha came to mind, when the warrior had patiently listened to his absurd ramblings about Camus and Kant. Marcus shifted, and the movement tugged at a bruised muscle. He drew a careful breath and fought to focus.

Love is the quiet distance between knowing and being

William would have liked that line. It sounded familiar, actually. Like that poet his brother had been obsessed with as a teenager. Rumi. What was it? Love is the distance between you and everything. No. The bridge. Love is the bridge. He could almost hear William reading it aloud, earnest and insufferable.

The silence listens, waiting for another soul-

How long had they been sitting? What was that last bell? The third or the fourth? He'd lost count somewhere around metaphysical longing. The throbbing in his side sharpened into a stabbing rhythm. He shifted again - what he assumed was a tiny adjustment - and caught Neroon glancing his way. Maybe he shouldn't move so much. Pointless anyway. He needed to stand, to do anything else but sit while everyone else achieved poetic transcendence.

Time moves, but a single meeting can last an eternity

All distant fires fade before the nearest flame

The final words hung in the air, but Marcus barely registered them over the ringing in his ears. It didn't matter. It was time to find warmth and take another pill. Or several.

People began to stir, murmuring to one another. Neroon stood up, but Marcus waited, letting others around him rise to form a living shield. Then he made his attempt.

A mistake.

The transition from seated to standing sent a tearing jolt through his side. He froze halfway up, one hand bracing against the seat. A gasp escaped.

Neroon leaned forward. "Are you injured?" he asked, his voice low.

Marcus blinked. Was that English? They hadn't spoken in English for months. "What?"

"Yesterday. This morning. Now." Neroon's tone carried an edge of impatience. "Are you injured?"

Marcus hadn't realized the warrior had been watching so closely. He forced his arm back to his side, trying to appear casual. "A pulled muscle. The cold aggravates it."

Neroon held his gaze, a long and silent assessment broken only by an approaching Star Rider elder.

"A stirring recital, was it not?"

They both pivoted to pleasantries. Marcus smiled through it, counting breaths. Just a few more seconds. Then they'd pay respects to the poet. Twenty minutes of nodding appreciatively, talking about verses he did not hear. He could manage that.

When they were alone again, Neroon gestured toward the exit. "Come. We will get your coat," he said in Vik.

"What about Shaal Mayan?"

"We will return."

Neroon didn't wait for a reply, turning to lead the way. Marcus followed, grateful for the temporary reprieve, even if it came with its own awkward tension.

Chapter Text

Center Square, Yedor, Minbar

The festival swirled around Marcus, a gentle river of color and conversation flowing through the square. He had found a quiet spot near a tall pillar strung with luminous crystals. Neroon had been drawn into a conversation with some Warrior Caste members, and Marcus had taken the opportunity to drift away. He suspected the warrior found it easier this way. Or rather, everyone found it easier. Having a human hovering nearby only distorted the social geometry they were all used to.

The extra dose of painkillers had dulled the constant throb, leaving a numbness that made everything feel slightly distant. But the cold from earlier had settled deep, and even wrapped in his coat, Marcus couldn't quite shake it all.

His gaze swept the crowd until it found Malen weaving her way toward him. She arrived with a look of amused relief.

"You survived the recital," she said.

"Apparently." Marcus touched his side discreetly. "Though I'm not convinced my body will forgive me."

Her amusement disappeared. "Is this your bruise from yesterday?"

"It is a bruise. Just one with ambitions."

"Marcus, you need to have that checked."

"Tomorrow. I don't want to derail the itinerary." He shifted his weight, feeling his limbs oddly light. "I've endured enough silent stares to last me a lifetime."

Malen looked confused by the remark but didn't push it. She turned her eyes toward the crowd.

"So, did Neroon enjoy the recital?"

"He seemed to. We had a brief discussion with the poet afterward. He was frightfully effusive. I was afraid they would start bringing refreshments."

"I told you. You never know," she said with a warm smile.

Marcus nodded slowly, though it took him a moment to remember what she'd told him. Something about Neroon liking poetry. Right. He opened his mouth, but a young Minbari interrupted them - stark warrior black, bold blue paint on his face - bowing with precise formality.

Marcus answered with a shallower greeting, trying not to stress his side. "Tavren."

"The stars light our path to another meeting," Tavren said, making the age-old Vik phrase sound entirely sincere.

"They do indeed. Anla'Shok Malen, this is Tavren. Neroon's assistant."

"One of his assistants," Tavren corrected gently. He greeted her just as formally. "It is always an honor to meet one of the Anla'Shok. I hope you are enjoying the festival."

"Immensely." She pointed at his face. "I was at a storytelling earlier. Were you one of the performers?"

"Yes." Tavren brightened with excitement. "I was the Seventh Star. The Iron Blood clan."

A chill and momentary dizziness washed over Marcus, and he leaned slightly against the pillar. "Iron Blood?"

"It no longer exists," Tavren said. "The Severing of F'harel'tun is a foundational tale about the origins of the Warrior Caste. The Iron Blood clan was one of the first nine."

Malen turned to Marcus. "It is a beautiful story. Full of foreshadowing. I think you would have enjoyed it."

"A shame I missed it," Marcus said.

"The story is a favorite of mine." Tavren's gaze drifted toward Neroon's distant silhouette. "You could ask Elder Neroon for a private recitation. He knows all the old stories. And he is a very gifted storyteller. The children love him."

"Neroon tells stories to children?" Marcus gave a short laugh, which sent an unexpected small spike of pain through the numbness. He wondered if the painkillers were wearing off already.

"Yes, he has great patience with them," Tavren said.

Marcus had no reply to this. He tried to picture Neroon surrounded by energetic little Minbari, calmly handling them for story time, but he couldn't.

"Forgive me, but I must go. I have another commitment, and I still need to remove the paint."

"Of course," Marcus said.

"Before you go, let me commend you for the performance. You were very engaging," Malen said.

"Thank you!" He turned to Marcus, seeming to remember something. "Oh, let me ask before I go. Was everything as expected with the bed?"

"Yes, it was. Neroon told me you arranged it. Thank you, Tavren."

"I am glad. It was hard to find the artisan. She is the only expert on human ergonomics in all Yedor. Elder Neroon was very concerned that it be correct. And completed before you came. He insisted on overseeing everything himself."

The noise of the festival receded around Marcus. Neroon oversaw it himself? That did not match at all with the dismissive tone the warrior had used when showing him the room. Marcus's head felt lighter, and he gripped the pillar trying to center himself.

Tavren gave a polite farewell and slipped back into the stream of festivalgoers.

"Are you alright?" Malen moved closer, switching to English. "You look pale."

"It's just the lights," he said, giving a vague gesture with his free hand.

Malen took a small step back. "You failed to mention he commissioned a bed for you."

"It must have slipped my mind," Marcus muttered. "You know... Travel fatigue. Being stared at like a curious exhibit. Besides, he acted like it was a logistical afterthought."

"He reviewed the design himself. It does not sound like an afterthought."

Marcus managed a small smile. "You know, you've gone all romantic since your impending nuptials."

"That is not true," Malen said, the amusement returning to her voice. "I was always like this."

Marcus tried to joke it out, but the world tilted. Not dramatically, just a degree or two off- axis. He reached for the pillar with both hands now. They both felt clumsy, disconnected.

"Marcus?" Malen said, voice edged with concern.

He looked up, and the luminous crystals blurred into streaks of light. He tried to focus on her face instead, but her features wavered.

Marcus felt a solid presence at his side. A low voice called his name. He opened his mouth, searching for a reassurance, a clever remark, anything. The words wouldn't form. His vision grayed, and his knees gave out.

Chapter Text

Marcus stood in one of the compound's internal gardens. Sunlight filtered through the glass ceiling, warm on his shoulders. The scent of Minbari flowering vines filled the air. When had he returned to Tuzanor? He couldn't quite remember the journey back.

"You're late," a voice said.

He turned. Delenn waited at the garden's edge in white robes, holding a... pocket watch?

"Late, late, terribly late."

"Sorry I'm late, Entil'zha." He took a few steps toward her.

"The Queen will have your head."

"Queen? What queen?"

She disappeared down an unfamiliar corridor. Marcus followed. The path stretched and contracted with each step he took, and a wave of dizziness washed over him. He stumbled, catching himself against the wall. Delenn passed through a door, but when Marcus tried to reach it, it shrank and vanished.

He found himself before a wall of doors, hundreds of them. Some were tall and imposing; others were so small and low he'd have to crawl to go through them. Minbari script appeared on the surfaces, rearranging itself whenever he grasped a meaning.

A door at knee-height creaked open. Durhan's face appeared. "Whichever you choose will be the wrong one."

Directly beside it, another door opened, and Turval's face appeared. "Contrariwise, whichever you don't choose will be the correct one."

Marcus glared. "That's the same thing."

"Not at all," Durhan said.

"Completely different," Turval agreed.

"One is a matter of action."

"The other, inaction."

"So which door do I choose?" Marcus asked, exasperated. "Or not choose?"

They looked at each other, then back at Marcus. "That you must answer yourself."

Both doors clicked shut. Marcus was alone again.

A voice drifted from above. "You are overthinking this."

He looked up. Malen sat cross-legged on a stone ledge sticking out from the wall. She grinned. "Just choose one."

"Which one?"

"That depends on where you want to go."

"I don't know where I want to go!"

"Then it does not matter which door you choose, does it?"

Her smile widened. She began to fade, becoming translucent, then transparent. Her grin lingered last.

Marcus chose a medium-sized door, but the handle was too high. He stretched. It moved higher. He jumped. His body felt heavy, as if his bones were lead.

The door opened anyway.

Inside, the floor was a chessboard. Telonn occupied the center, holding two pikes that looked like flamingos, their long necks writhing. The young trainee wore red armor; polished to a brilliant shine.

"We spar now," Telonn declared. "Warrior Caste rules. Which you should know."

Marcus grabbed one of the flamingo-pikes. It squirmed in his grip, neck twisting away.

"First point to me," Telonn said. "You are holding it wrong."

"You just gave it to me!"

"Second point. Arguing with your opponent shows weakness." Telonn's pike remained perfectly still in his hands. "Third point. Your stance is too wide. Fourth point-"

"How are you scoring? We haven't even started."

"Fifth point! Still arguing!"

Malen’s voice returned. "You will know what to do. Or you will not."

"That's not helpful!" Marcus shouted.

"I never said it was."

A bell rang, and a chill shot through him. The training hall dissolved, and Telonn and the flamingo-pikes disappeared.

Marcus was now at the Hall of Remembrance.

Shaal Mayan sat on a mushroom reciting poetry in a language he couldn't place. He tried to sit, but his knees hit his chest. He stood again, and the ceiling pressed down.

"Who are you?" she asked, unaffected by the room’s warping.

"Marcus Cole. Anla'shok."

"No. Who are you?" She continued her recitation, the verses flowing. "A man between two worlds, belonging to neither. Speaking words learned, not born. The title he wears. The oaths he made. The honorable warrior. The failed-"

"She always does this. Asks the questions you can't answer."

Marcus looked down, recognizing the voice. A small mouse sat at the base of the mushroom. "Will?"

"You're not supposed to be here."

"I didn't have a choice," Marcus said.

"Everyone has a choice."

The mushroom grew taller, lifting Shaal Mayan and William out of sight. Marcus reached for his brother, but his arms refused to obey.

Another bell rang, and the cold spread through him again. When Marcus opened his eyes, he was back in a garden, but this time it was at Neroon's house.

Frost covered everything, but he noticed a rose, impossibly red against the frozen white. Marcus approached it, but before he could touch it, the rose spoke.

"You don't belong here."

He stopped. Another familiar voice. "Susan?"

The rose withdrew into the frost, petals closing.

Frightened, he stepped back and nearly stumbled into something. A long table set for tea. Ashen sat at its head, surrounded by parchment diagrams and what appeared to be a half-complete architectural model of a temple.

"Oh no, no, no!" Ashen cried when he saw Marcus. "You cannot sit! This table belongs to the Third Syllable!"

"Are syllables part of the hierarchy now?"

"They have always been. How could you not know this?"

A grin appeared beside Ashen. Then Malen materialized around it, appearing and disappearing between blinks.

"Tea?" she offered, though the cup in her hand kept vanishing.

"I don't want tea. I want to leave."

"Everyone wants to leave. No one ever does."

She gestured toward the garden’s glass doors. "It is good you are here. The Queen will arrive soon."

"Who is the Queen?"

"You know the Queen."

Malen faded, becoming transparent again. Ashen and his diagrams dissolved with her.

Marcus pulled out a chair. The table stretched and more seats appeared, filled with Warrior Caste Minbari. They stared at him, whispering.

Freak.

Human.

Doesn't belong.

"Silence!"

Everyone froze. Neroon stood at the head of the table now. The warrior wore red robes instead of the traditional black, and his eyes were fixed on Marcus.

"You," Neroon said, pointing, "broke the rules."

"I didn't mean to-"

"Intent is irrelevant."

Delenn reappeared. She stepped forward, unrolling a scroll that seemed to stretch endlessly.

"Article One: unsanctioned migration from the designated alien quadrant to the primary warrior sector of the laundry unit."

"It was a sock!" Marcus protested.

"Article Two: Incorrect placement of a food bowl."

"I was trying-“

"Article Three: Chaotic meditation within a shared enclosure. Article Four: Excessive heat generation. Article Five-"

With each accusation, the table grew longer, pushing Marcus farther away. The cold intensified, and he could feel his fingers growing numb.

Tavren appeared carrying a tray, his face painted white.

"I brought you a blanket," he said, holding out empty hands. "The Queen was very concerned you'd be cold."

"There's no blanket."

"I know. I could not find the artisan who makes blankets for humans." Tavren looked distressed. "I searched everywhere.”

Marcus's teeth started to chatter. "It's fine."

"Off with his head!" Neroon shouted suddenly.

The warriors at the table rose and moved toward him in unison. Marcus tried to run, but his legs were too heavy. Hands grabbed him and pinned him to the ground.

"Wait-" He gasped. "Please-"

Neroon towered over him, pike raised. Marcus tried to lift his arms to protect himself, but they wouldn't move. The cold had reached his chest and he couldn’t breathe.

Neroon prepared for the strike. "You were always going to end here."

Marcus screamed. A bell sounded, and the world dissolved into black.

Chapter Text

Anla'Shok Compound, Yedor, Minbar

"There you are," a voice said in English, far too cheerful for the drilling pain behind his eyes.

A human face slid into view, hair so vividly red, Marcus swore it had no business existing outside a warning beacon.

"You've been sleeping off your poor life choices for a while now," she said.

"Where...?" The word scraped in his throat.

She stepped out of his line of sight. "The Anla'shok compound. You've been our honored guest since last night."

Marcus attempted to push himself up, but his head felt too heavy, and his arms trembled with a profound weakness.

"Ah, ah, ah. Not so fast." She reappeared holding a cup with a straw. "Small sips. Don't drown yourself."

He obeyed, the cool liquid blessing his parched mouth. As he drank, memory returned in disjointed pieces.

The recital. The soul-deep cold.

The crystal lights blurring into streaks.

Malen's concern... Tavren's earnest face...

The conversation about the bed

Then a rose- Susan's voice- you don't belong here-

and Neroon's pike lifting over him-

A wave of nausea made him push the straw away. "What happened?"

"Well, the short version is: you powered through a fractured rib, self-medicated with a questionable amount of painkillers, and your body eventually declared consciousness optional."

So it wasn't just a bruise. He'd been an idiot. And he'd passed out. In public. In front of everybody.

In front of Neroon.

"How bad is it?"

"Hairline fracture. Very treatable. Bone-knitting and rest." She set the cup on a side table. "Of course, knowing you're injured is essential. Given your social calendar, I'm surprised you let it get this far."

Marcus stopped his careful inventory of his body's aches. "Social calendar?"

The doctor turned her back to him and walked to a counter.

"You're a popular man, Ranger Cole. I can't step out for five minutes without being accosted by a trainee or an instructor asking for an update. Sech Durhan called. Entil'zha Delenn called. Twice." She glanced over her shoulder. "She sounded very concerned."

Marcus closed his eyes, taking a careful breath. Of course Delenn knew. He could picture the delicate frown, the quiet disappointment. This was all so bloody stupid. The scale of his humiliation knew no bounds.

Holding a datapad, the doctor returned to his bedside.

"You gave yourself a minor concussion during your impromptu introduction to the pavement. So." Her smile widened, "I need you to tell me your name, your date of birth, and the color of Zippy the Zero-G Hedgehog's little alien friend."

"Seriously?"

"Humor me. It's in my contract."

He sighed. "Marcus Cole. Twenty-third of September, 2226. And I haven't the faintest idea who Zippy is."

"A children's cartoon. You never watched it? A tragedy," she said, tapping on the datapad. "It's philosophically underrated."

She bustled toward the door. "Hold the fort; I need to go tell the anxious masses you're no longer at death's door."

The room fell silent.

This was his fault. All of it. He'd let a novice rile him up, as if he had something to prove to a bunch of starry-eyed kids. Then, too proud to admit he was hurt, he'd tried to brute-force his way through the pain, creating the very spectacle he'd hoped to avoid.

Marcus let out a shaky breath, the memory of Neroon's pike in his dream merging with the warrior's concerned voice in the hall: "Are you injured?"

He should have known. The absurd always wins in the end.

The door hissed open. Malen stepped inside.

"They told me you were awake." She moved to his bedside, eyes scanning him. "How are you feeling?"

For a moment, Marcus saw her flickering grin. "You will know what to do. Or you will not." He pushed the phantom image away.

"Like I was mugged... by a cargo hauler," he said, his voice still rough. "What happened?"

"You do not remember?" she asked gently. "One moment you were speaking to me, the next you were on the ground. We tried to rouse you, but you were... not entirely present. Mumbling. It seemed best to bring you here immediately."

"You carried me here?"

"I would have," she said, a soft, almost imperceptible smile touching her lips. "But your husband was faster."

The image struck him with such profound mortification that Marcus didn't even notice the disturbing word. He forced himself to get up, completely forgetting his current condition.

"Neroon? Neroon carried me here?"

The doctor re-entered without ceremony, tapping at a monitor. "Like an unruly sack of potatoes," she confirmed cheerfully. "I'm not going to lie; it was a sight. Very chivalrous, if a bit grim-faced."

Malen gave the doctor a look that could have frozen plasma. She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a quieter tone. 

"You tried to protest. You kept insisting you were not a... dam-sell-ee?"

"A damsel?!" Marcus squeaked, the outburst sharpening the pain behind his eyes.

The doctor snorted, utterly failing to hide her amusement.

"Yes, that is the word. You repeatedly insisted you were not a damsel." Malen's brow furrowed. "What is a damsel?"

"Nothing. Absolutely nothing," he muttered, sinking back into the mattress.

Perfect. Not only had he been carried through the streets of Yedor like cargo, but he had done so while weakly protesting his starring role in a medieval romantic farce. Neroon's opinion of human fortitude must have reached new depths beneath contempt. 

A new, horrific thought struck him.

"Malen... please, tell me he's not outside that door right now, waiting."

"No, he left once the doctor assured him your life was not in danger." She paused. "He did, however, leave standing instructions for updates on your condition."

Marcus exhaled slowly, a complex knot of emotions tightening in his chest. A part of him - a tiny part of him - was stung by the clinical efficiency of that departure. The greater part, however, was swamped with relief since he felt entirely unprepared to face whatever reckoning awaited him.

"You should rest," Malen said gently. "I can give you the less embarrassing details later."

With a quiet farewell, she left.

The doctor returned to his side and folded her arms, her expression finally losing its teasing edge.

"You know, I'm not going to ask where you got those painkillers. But I will be confiscating the rest. Your judgment on dosage is... dangerously aspirational."

Marcus thought of the half-full bottle of pills in his bag. In his room. In Neroon's house. He considered lying, claiming he'd taken them all in one foolish gesture. But he lacked the energy for even that small deceit. Besides, it wouldn't change the core, humiliating truth. He had behaved like an idiot.

So, Marcus just looked at the stark white ceiling and gave a small, defeated nod.

Chapter Text

Anla'Shok Compound, Yedor, Minbar

Neroon arrived as Marcus was fastening his coat. The bone-knitting therapy had done its work; the sharp pain was gone, replaced by a dull ache and tired muscles.

"He needs to eat. He needs rest. And, this is the most critical part," the doctor said, flashing a grin at the towering Warrior Caste Elder, "he needs not to be an idiot."

Marcus stared at her, caught between horror and admiration for her audacity. She wasn't done.

"Also," she gave Marcus a pointed look, "he should avoid taking enough painkillers to tranquilize a pak'ma'ra. Especially on an empty stomach."

Marcus braced for Neroon's disapproval. But all he received was a faint shift of posture and a slow blink. Somehow, it was more unsettling than being shouted at.

The journey to Neroon's home was suffocating. Marcus kept waiting for the righteous dressing-down about responsibility. And order. But the warrior piloted in complete silence, eyes forward, the line of his shoulders immovable.

Marcus opened his mouth several times, but no words came. He considered an apology, some feeble explanation for the spectacle he'd made. But what could he possibly say? Sorry for collapsing in front of your people and forcing you to carry me through the streets because I was too proud to admit I was injured? He thought of asking about the bed, having spent the last hours obsessing over Tavren's revelation in his mind. But the question felt too confrontational for the cramped space.

Below, Yedor revealed itself in layers he hadn't noticed before. The city had many more gardens than he'd first realized, he noted with a pang of regret. Perhaps he should have sought calm in one of those quiet spaces instead of smashing his frustration out in the training hall.

They landed with barely a tremor. Neroon disembarked without a backward glance. Marcus followed.

Once inside, the warrior gestured to the low table. "Sit. I will bring the meal."

So Marcus sat. Neroon returned with two bowls, and the silence descended again.

At some point, Marcus's gaze drifted, as it had so many times, to the mounted denn'bok on the wall. The intricate carvings were still nagging at him, like a word on the tip of his tongue.

"Is the food not to your liking?" Neroon asked.

Marcus blinked, drawn from his thoughts. "No, it's...it's fine. I'm still feeling the medication, I suppose."

"The healer said you must eat."

"Yes, I recall," Marcus said, smiling. "Before she advised me not to poison myself with pharmaceuticals anymore."

The joke died, unacknowledged.

Marcus forced a thin smile. "You don't have to worry. I will take care of myself."

"I believed that. Right until I had to scrape you from the pavement."

Heat crawled up Marcus's neck. "Right, that. I should thank you. For...carrying me."

Something changed in Neroon's expression. Anger? Contempt? Disappointment? He couldn't tell. Then, as if a shutter had closed, the warrior's gaze lowered as he continued eating.

When Neroon stood to clear the table, Marcus automatically rose. "Let me-"

"Sit down."

"I've been sitting for two days."

"Then sit for one more."

Neroon didn't look back as he carried the bowls away.

Marcus sat. For three measured breaths. Then he was on his feet, following the warrior into the cooking area.

"You don't need to take care of me."

He reached for the bowl still on the counter, but Neroon's hand closed over his wrist. "I said sit."

The motion froze him. They almost never touched. And never without the barrier of gloves. Neroon's grip was firm, his skin warm and startlingly real.

He released Marcus, took the bowl, and placed it in the cleaning unit. Marcus stumbled back, his heartbeat a frantic drum in his ears.

"You cannot be trusted to make rational decisions," Neroon stated, his back still turned.

Marcus rubbed the back of his neck, trying to steady his breath. "What is-" He swallowed, his Vik faltering. "What is that supposed to mean?"

Neroon faced him. "You were injured and did not report it. You ingested a dangerous quantity of drugs. Then you sat through a recital while barely conscious, risking a more severe collapse."

"I genuinely thought it was a bruise."

"You thought it was serious enough for drugs," Neroon countered, "but not serious enough for a healer. That is selective reasoning."

"I was trying not to disrupt the itinerary. I know that matters to you."

Neroon leaned against the counter, crossing his arms. "Why would a schedule matter more than your health?"

The question, so simple and logical, struck a raw nerve. It made Marcus feel small, being constantly lectured by someone who seemed to regard him as stupid.

Pressure built in his chest.

"How am I supposed to know what matters to you?"

The words came out faster and louder than he had meant. Neroon remained unmoved by the outburst.

"You don't talk to me," Marcus's voice trembled. "Your whole life, it's all so ordered. Everything has a place and a function." His breath hitched. "What is my function here, Neroon? What is my place?"

Silence stretched between them.

"Say something!"

"You are not that important."

Marcus barked out a laugh. The words stung, even if confirming what he'd always suspected. "I know."

"No," Neroon's voice was commanding, "you do not. This act, that your sacrifice is always necessary, that you must be the one to bleed for every problem, ignoring those who stand with you, ignoring your own limits. It is not heroism. It is arrogance. You believe your suffering is a unique gift. You are not that important."

Something curdled in Marcus's stomach. A wave of cold nausea. In Neroon's words, he heard the chilling echo of another voice, another rejection. Calling him selfish.

The warrior stepped toward him, and Marcus instinctively stepped back, his shoulders meeting the wall of the cooking area.

"Let us return to the main room and sit down," Neroon said, his tone deliberately calmer.

"Why?"

"You do not look well."

Marcus laughed, the sound brittle. "Since when do you care?"

"Marcus-"

"You know what?" He said, pushing off the wall. "You accuse me of ego while you can't even tolerate a misplaced bowl."

"Yes," Neroon shot back, his forced calm evaporating. "Your disregard for order is well noted."

"Disregard? You act like I'm-" He stopped, scrambling for the words in Vik. His mind was racing, everything feeling clumsy. "I thought...I thought we were friends."

"Friends?" Neroon repeated the word as if it were a profanity.

"Yes!"

The warrior's eyes narrowed. "You are a liar."

The air vanished from the room. It felt like a full minute before Marcus could react. "What?" he whispered.

"You lie. Constantly," Neroon's voice was terrifyingly calm again. "You lied about your injury."

"I genuinely thought-"

"You lied to Shaal Mayan. You barely heard a word she spoke."

"I was being...polite!" Marcus snapped, the word coming out in English before he could stop it.

"Polite," Neroon repeated.

"Yes! A concept with which you are clearly unfamiliar!"

Neroon took a sharp step backward, leaning again on the counter. "Were you also being polite when you concealed your bond to Ivanova from me?"

Marcus's heart stopped, a cold pit opening in his stomach. 

"You stood in a hall full of my people and made an oath," Neroon said, his gaze boring into Marcus. "To the Caste, to the clan. To me. You promised honor and loyalty while lying about yourself. Was that to be polite?"

"Susan... has nothing to do with this," Marcus managed, his voice unsteady.

"She is at the core of you. And you are bound to me. She has everything to do with this."

"I never..."

"You pledged your life to me, and then you walked away and tried to trade it for hers."

"I survived," Marcus whispered.

"By accident, not by choice. And then you came to me and acted as if none of it had happened."

"I didn't know," Marcus said, his voice hollow, "that you saw our agreement as something...personal."

The look Neroon gave him was withering. "Personal?" He almost laughed, a harsh sound. "This is about honor. And honesty. I believed that you, even being human, understood these things. I was wrong. Tell me, when you agreed to this, was it a performance? Or did you have any true intention of honoring the promise you made? Did you end up here by mistake?"

Silence fell, broken only by Marcus's ragged gasps. Under Neroon's unyielding stare, he was terrified. Afraid to lie, but even more afraid to tell the truth.

Then, without another word, the warrior turned and walked away.

Marcus listened to the footsteps recede down the corridor. His hands were shaking. He leaned against the wall and tried to remember how to breathe.

Chapter Text

Neroon's Home, Yedor, Minbar

Marcus woke with a sharp inhale, a phantom blow landing squarely in the center of his chest. For a long disoriented moment, he lay rigid, suspended in that unnerving space between dream and waking, Neroon's voice still echoing inside his head.

You were always going to end here.

After their confrontation, he'd stayed in the kitchen for some time, propped against the wall as if it were the only thing holding him up. Exhaustion had eventually dragged him to bed shortly before dawn, but sleep had offered little rest.

The routine of dressing took twice as long as it should have. He fumbled with the fastenings of his robe three times before deciding the precise layering was just not that important. Once done, Marcus sat on the edge of the bed. Midday light cut across the floor in geometric shapes, and he stared at them for a long time, as if they held a meaning he was too thick to see.

Neroon's question kept looping endlessly in his mind.

Did you end up here by mistake?

Mistake? The word didn't fit. He had walked into this arrangement willingly. Eyes open. Spine straight. Even if a little wary of the consequences.

The first afternoon bells drifted through the window, the sound pulling him to his feet. He couldn't hide from Neroon forever, waiting for a clarity that refused to come.

But when he finally stepped out, the house was unexpectedly empty.

Marcus stood in the main room as he considered what to do.

He could leave. Go to the compound, find Malen, lose himself in her life for a change. Delay the inevitable for a few hours. Maybe a day. Besides, he still needed to return the pills to the doctor.

The thought of her deciding to collect them herself, of that unnervingly bright smile appearing at Neroon's home, was enough to propel him into motion. However, when at the door, his feet refused to carry him through the threshold.

A deeper fear seized him: that to leave now would be to stamp a final seal on the warrior's worst opinion of him. It would prove Marcus was not merely a liar and a fool, but a coward.

So he stayed.

To pass the time and quiet his mind, he attempted meditation. But the light was never right; the posture never comfortable. He considered using the garden, but Neroon's previous critique stopped him. 

A chaotic search for inner peace.

The warrior was probably right.

Defeated, he paced a tight loop around the main room, mulling over the previous night's accusation.

You are a liar.

Marcus had denied it, of course. But even as the words left his mouth, he'd known. He'd lied. Not outright, perhaps. But through silence and careful omissions. He'd never spoken about Susan. Never revealed what she'd meant to him.

Still, the betrayal in Neroon's voice had caught him off guard. That the warrior's sense of duty and honor might be rooted in such a deep personal feeling was something that Marcus couldn't quite parse.

The whole thing just reminded him of his first months on Tuzanor, forever missing subtleties, feeling stupid and lost. The inadequacy was achingly familiar. Marcus was sure William wouldn't have stumbled here. His brother would have seen the intricate picture from the start. He would have understood. 

Without conscious thought, his attention was captured once more by the denn'bok on the wall. He'd studied it several times, the recognition always hovering at the edge of his memory. Crossing the room, he stood in front of it, close enough to make out the carvings.

They were beautiful, a fluid script winding along the shaft. It was Vik, but not in the contemporary form Marcus was used to. He squinted, trying to parse the words, barely making out what might be strength before hitting a wall.

Frustrated, he took a deliberate step backward, and in that moment the pieces finally clicked into place.

The weapon was identical. A perfect match for the one Neroon had given him at their Shall-Fal. Marcus remembered receiving it from the warrior's hands, feeling the weight in his grasp. He knew what it said. Neroon had told him.

Integrity is my strength.

Light-headedness washed over Marcus. The walls felt closer; the air suffocating. He had to get out. Stumbling forward, he burst through the glass doors and into the internal garden.

The day was waning, and the air was pleasantly cool. He found a bench and lowered himself onto it, his breaths coming in short gasps. He forced himself into a measured pattern: inhale for four, hold for seven, exhale for eight. With each prolonged exhale, he pushed the image of the denn'bok from his mind, focusing only on the scent of the vines and the cool stone beneath his hands.

The tightness in his chest began to loosen.

"Are you the human?"

Marcus's eyes snapped open. A minbari child stood before him. He blinked, half-expecting the small face to be a figment of his exhausted mind.

"Are you the human?" the child repeated in crisp Lenn'a, proving themselves very real.

"I am," Marcus managed, still disoriented.

"Can you use a denn'bok?"

"I'm..." He searched for the right words in the Worker Caste dialect. "I'm alright."

The young minbari seemed to consider this, then pointed at the weapon on Marcus's belt. "Can I see it?"

His gaze dropped to the collapsed pike. The one given to him by Sech Durhan. The one he had used to strike Neroon on Babylon 5. Marcus's breathing quickened again, and he pressed one hand against the back of his neck in a grounding pressure.

He looked at the child. "Are you alone?"

"Yes."

"Do you...live close by?"

They pointed to the right entrance adjacent to Neroon's home. "My mother said I could talk to you if you behaved adequately."

The formal word sounded absurd in the youthful voice.

"Your mother said that to you?"

A thoughtful pause. "She said it to my father. But I was in the room."

Marcus laughed. A small, but real, laugh.

"So," the child continued gravely, "is your behavior 'adequately'?"

"I try very hard for it to be."

"Good," they decided, climbing onto the bench beside him. "Sech Vahrenn says that trying very hard is enough."

Marcus doubted that was exactly what Sech Vahrenn - whoever that was - had said, but he let it stand.

"Do you live here now?" the child asked.

For a brief moment, Marcus thought of his specially commissioned horizontal bed. "I...I think I do."

The child frowned. "You don't know?"

"I do. I live here now."

"Are you going to practice in the garden?"

Marcus wondered if, for Neroon, that would be better or worse than mediation. "I suppose I could."

"Elder Neroon does that sometimes. He lets me watch."

Marcus blinked. Of course he does.

"Can you tell me a story?" the child asked abruptly.

"A story?!"

"Yes, Elder Neroon knows a lot of stories."

"I'm sure he does," Marcus said. "What kind of story?"

"Like Duvai's Stand and...oh, or that one about the siege of Tinarel."

"I'm afraid I don't know any warrior epics."

The admission felt weirdly like a failure. Another way he didn't measure up to the position he now occupied.

"Oh." They kicked their small feet against the bench leg. "Then tell me a human story."

"A human story?"

Marcus took a moment to absorb the sheer absurdity of the situation. Here he was, sitting in an alien garden, his life in tatters, being asked for a bedtime story as two suns hung low in the sky. Should he laugh or scream?

"Very well. This is the tale of the Great Rogue... Potato of 2226."

The child's eyes widened. "Po... Po-tay-toe?" they tried, the English word clumsy in their mouth.

"Yes, a creature of great menace. Very... round and ... starchy."

The child leaned forward, utterly captivated.

"It escaped a storage crate on a colony ship," Marcus continued, his tone grave, "and evaded capture for ten days. The crew was thrown into a state of high alert, and a bounty was placed for its capture. Dead or alive."

"What happened?"

"There were lengthy negotiations. Eventually, it returned peacefully in exchange for full immunity and a dedicated herb garden."

Silence.

"You made this up," the child accused, betrayed. "You are not 'adequately' at all."

Marcus laughed. Unrestrained this time. A real, rolling sound he hadn't heard from himself in a long time.

A throat clearing interrupted, and they both turned. Neroon stood in the threshold of the glass doors, still in his formal robes as if he had just arrived from the street. He was watching them with an unreadable expression.

The child slid off the bench and bowed hurriedly. "The human was telling a story. Do you know the po-tay-toe one?"

The warrior looked briefly alarmed but recovered quickly. "Good evening, Nirel."

"Yes," the child said, bowing again. "Good evening, Elder."

"The human's name is Marcus. He's an Anla'Shok," he corrected gently. "And you should not be here. Do you not have chores before the evening meal?"

Nirel's face showed a silent protest before they exhaled a soft sigh of resignation. "Yes, Elder."

They turned to Marcus. "Thank you for the story, Anla'Shok. Even if it was not true."

"You're most welcome," Marcus said with a small nod.

The child scurried away through their own doorway.

Marcus didn't stand.

Neroon didn't move.

Silence stretched thin between them.

Without a word, the warrior turned and walked back inside. Marcus sat alone a moment longer, his heart pounding. Then he rose, drew a steadying breath, and followed.

Chapter Text

Neroon's Home, Yedor, Minbar

They sat at the low table in the fading daylight. Neroon was rigidly upright, gaze fixed somewhere beyond the far wall. Marcus's mind scrambled for a question, an apology. But the words tangled before they reached his throat. He cleared it, swallowed, tried again.

"Is Nirel a male or female name?"

It wasn't what he meant to say, but it made Neroon face him. Marcus felt the weight of the warrior's attention settle on him, and a long moment stretched thin between them.

"It can be either. But Nirel is a girl."

"Ah." Marcus dragged a hand through his hair, releasing an awkward laugh. "She asked me for a story."

Neroon's stare remained on him, but the warrior offered no reply.

Uncomfortable, Marcus's eyes drifted around the room. They snagged on the green sculpture in the corner. Its translucent segments were shifting again, each piece moving in what seemed a patternless dance.

"That... sculpture," he said, gesturing with a tired lift of his chin. "I still don't know what it is."

Neroon glanced at it. "What do you see?"

A spark of weary annoyance flared in Marcus's chest. Must everything be a lesson? He schooled his features into neutrality, and as he did, his gaze landed on the mounted denn'bok. The glint of the carved script seemed to pulse in the dim light. Integrity is my strength.

Marcus drew a slow breath. "I see..." He forced his voice even. "I see I owe you an apology. Several, in fact."

Neroon shifted almost imperceptibly, a rustle of fabric on the mat.

"I am sorry," Marcus whispered. His fingertips drifted to the edge of the table, pressing there. "For the idiocy with the injury. And the pills. For forcing you to... well." He waved his hand vaguely, a gesture to encompass the indignity of forcing Neroon to carry him through the streets of Yedor. "It seems I do need saving, after all." A hollow laugh escaped him.

Neroon remained impassive, his stare burning through Marcus. "Why did you conceal it?" he finally spoke, the question devoid of inflection.

"I told you; I thought it was a bruise at first. And then..." He exhaled through his nose. "Then, I didn't want to admit I needed help."

"Why?"

"You know why. You said it yourself." He offered a humorless smile. "So eloquently."

Neroon nodded once. A stiff movement that could have meant anything.

"I should also apologize for the... other thing. Susan." His throat tightened at the name. "It wasn't a calculation. I just didn't think it was relevant to our... agreement. I didn't understand the oath was meant to be that comprehensive. That personal." He swallowed. "I didn't end up here by mistake, Neroon. I made a choice. A conscious one. But I think... I didn't understand what that choice meant. For you."

"And what did it mean for you?"

Marcus faltered. His gaze drifted again to the sculpture. It had stopped moving, its pieces now locked into a unified form.

"I think..." He drew a slow breath, gathering his scattered thoughts. "When I agreed to this on Babylon 5, I felt it was my responsibility. Because I invoked Denn'sha. I'm the one who dragged you into it. I also believed it was something necessary to move things forward."

"The war."

"Yes." Marcus braced his arms on the table. "And also... I believed it wouldn't matter."

Neroon's eyes narrowed. "It wouldn't matter?"

"The war, the Shadows... I believed I wouldn't survive long enough for any of this to become real. And when you suggested the timing, I thought you felt the same. That we'd go through the motions, and fate would handle the rest."

"So," Neroon said, anger creeping into his voice, "you lied."

Marcus leaned back, feeling his shoulders tense. Of course the warrior would see it that way. Even if Marcus had ultimately fulfilled the letter of his promise.

"And after?" the warrior pressed, his voice relentless. "The war was won. She lived. Why did you come to Minbar at all?"

"I gave you my word. Since I had survived, I was bound to keep it."

"And she rejected you."

The words cut, but Marcus couldn't deny it.

The light shifted as evening crept across the floor. He watched it vanish from the back of his hand.

"I need to know," Neroon said, breaking the silence. "What is your intention now?"

"I'm here," Marcus said, confused. He spread his hands helplessly. "I'm here. I've-"

"If she changes her mind?"

"She won't. What I did was...unforgivable."

"But if she does."

Marcus's mouth opened, then closed again. He could not honestly promise what Neroon wanted, so he gave the only truth he had.

"She won't."

In the near darkness, he couldn't see the warrior clearly, but he felt the intensity of his gaze. The moment dragged, broken only by the soft chime of the door.

Marcus startled, his heart kicking against his ribs, while Neroon rose with an unruffled grace.

The lights came on. The door opened. Footsteps. A faint commotion in the kitchen. Muffled voices. Something set on a counter. More footsteps. Then the door closed.

Neroon did not return immediately. When he did, he carried two steaming plates. "The evening meal has arrived," he stated, his tone matter of fact.

Marcus didn't know how to react to this untimely interruption, so he just followed Neroon's lead. They fell into the ritualized motions of the meal. The food was spiced in a way that was both foreign and deeply comforting. He hadn't even been aware of his own hunger until the first bite.

"It's quite good, actually," he said, feeling the warmth settle in his chest.

Neroon didn't look up. "I thought it preferable to subjecting you to my cooking."

Marcus's lips twitched in a small smile. "Surely it's not that dreadful."

"It is."

When they finished, they rose without a word and cleaned together. With the last of the cutlery put away, Neroon turned to face him. They stood on the very spot where, just a day before, the warrior had leveled his damning accusations. Neroon looked as though he was waiting for the right words to form. Finally, he said, "Life will be very unpleasant if we do not find a way to coexist."

Marcus let out a breath that was part laugh, part sheer exhaustion. "True."

Neroon studied him for a long moment. "Tomorrow," the warrior said at last, "I will accompany you to the station."

"Right." Marcus blinked, the sudden normalcy of the statement almost jarring. "Thank you."

Neroon inclined his head. "Good night, Marcus."

"Good night."

The warrior turned and left, his steady footsteps receding down the corridor until the place was utterly still.

Marcus stood alone, unsure if he'd imagined the small shift in tone, the faint easing in the air. He exhaled, a slow release, and felt his shoulders slump as the tension he had carried for hours unraveled. Then, he turned off the lights and made his way to his room.