Fic: No Choices At All (Londo, gen)
I'm not sure if I'm jumping the gun (what with timezones), but here's my entry for the 19th.
Title: No Choices At All
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Up to and including series 5
Summary: "Once I had all the choices in the world, and no power at all, but now I have all the power in the world, and no choices at all."
A/N: Per The Kingdom of the Blind, the Regent's name is Virini.
Also, I had loads of trouble figuring out what to write and how to go about it, so I may end up coming back to this at a later date and fleshing it out more.
Disclaimer: Not mine. :D
The first day of his imprisonment had been arduous. Tiring, at best. The keeper sat on his shoulder just to the right of his imperial sash and its eye, as always, was trained on him.
Hateful little thing, thought Londo, and then sucked in a breath.
“Mollari. You are in distress.” He hadn’t heard the Drakh come in but, judging by the direction of the keeper’s eye, it was standing right behind him.
“Distress?” said Londo bitterly. “Well, I have just become emperor of my people and do not have a single bit of power over how they’ll be ruled, so yes, I suppose you could say I am in distress.” He sighed and turned to face the Drakh, who was staring at him with the same look of nothingness it always had.
“Your feelings are inconsequential, Mollari. The only thing that matters is that you serve.”
“Serve? Bah!” He looked around for a glass to throw. “Serve the Drakh.”
“There is nothing else in your power to do,” it said.
He felt the weight of the keeper on his shoulder. “All right, I see we are at an impasse,” he said. “But am I to only know you as ‘a Drakh’? What shall I call you?” There was silence. “Your name.”
From Londo’s small experience with the Drakh, he could safely say that their faces all showed the same thing: nothing. Blankness. Complete and total apathy. He doubted they even knew true emotion and, from the sheer wretchedness he felt at having the keeper attached to him, he was glad of it. But as he stared at the Drakh, a small flicker of something crossed its face.
“That is unnecessary to know. You know us only as Drakh.”
“If I am to be kept in this prison, I would like at least a name to give to you.”
The Drakh seemed to consider for a moment, and then a thin smile crossed its lips. “You may call me Virini.”
His hands had almost reached the Drakh’s throat before he felt it, a prickling around his throat, a hand slowly tightening. It was strange, really; there was only the outside force where he’d expected an attack on his mind. Londo collapsed to his knees and the keeper wound itself further against this throat. The Drakh stood before him, small patches of grey against the blackened spots of his vision.
“Mollari,” it said as Londo lay gasping for breath, “you have nothing to fight against, unless you wish for the death of all Centauri. You will rule as we dictate.”
And it turned and left the room to the sound of Londo choking as his keeper throttled him into blackness.
--
The first thing Londo saw on awakening was a liquor cabinet stocked with empty bottles.
“Oh, Great Maker,” he muttered, “must I endure this pitiful symbolism here, too?”
He drew in a small breath and gasped as a wave of pain rushed down his throat. The keeper lay quiescent on his shoulder, its eye closed. He reached a hand up to his throat, expecting blood but feeling only a raised strip of flesh where the keeper had been. He glanced down at where it lay, reaching a hand across to feel the extent of its attachment to him, but snatching it back before he could touch it. There was a small pain in the back of his neck. That was all he needed to know.
Fool, he thought to the keeper. Incompetent murderer. “Pitiful, vengeful lunatic.”
The keeper’s eye opened and swivelled up to look at him.
“Vengeful, yes,” the Drakh’s voice whispered through his mind. “Remember that.”
And then it was gone. The keeper’s eye closed. Pitiful lunatic, Londo thought down at it and lay back to rest.
--
Memory is a terrible thing.
It hadn’t taken long for Londo to work out that the only way the Drakh had any control over him was through physical action. He could think what he liked at any time, but say those things out loud and he’d be throttled into unconsciousness. Or, worse yet, forced into killing someone else.
So, he’d taken the Regent’s path and jumped into a bottle whenever he had the opportunity.
And, when he didn’t, he escaped into his dreams. The only problem was, his dreams had begun to mould themselves according to the things he’d done, the things he could remember, and the moments in his life that had really stood out. And that left him with few options.
“Well,” said a voice, the same voice that had been plaguing him for some time now, “I have to admit, Mollari, your mind is far clearer than I would have given you credit for.”
Londo opened his eyes. “Oh, Mr Morden, again you come to infuriate me. I much preferred it when you were simply a head on a pike.”
Morden flashed him a smile as he took a seat opposite Londo’s couch. Between them was a small table, normally occupied with various Centauri liqueurs, but now puzzlingly empty. As was, Londo discovered, the drinks cabinet, apart from a few bottles containing only the smallest hint of a pale blue liquid. “Great Maker, not again,” he muttered.
“I see they aren’t being kind to you,” said Morden cheerfully. Londo glared at him and his voice lowered to a sudden intensity. “It is them, isn’t it? Mollari?”
Londo sighed. This kept happening and he never could figure out why. It was his dream, after all; surely, in his dream, he could limit his memory of Morden back to his death and his place above the gates of the Centauri palace.
Morden glanced at the mirror, where an angry red wound had broken out along his neck. “Very funny.”
“Yes, I thought so,” said Londo, reclaiming his seat. “What have you come to talk about this time, Mr Morden?”
“Why, revenge, of course. Namely my revenge against your betrayal. Isn’t that what you expected?”
“Ah.”
Morden leant forward. “So, tell me. It is them, isn’t it?” His eyes flickered to Londo’s shoulder and he smiled thinly. “Emperor?”
“Do you know, I don’t think even an entire drinks cabinet would help me to deal with your existence inside my own mind. At least, when I’m awake, you are still dead.” He caught Morden’s look and added, “Oh, fine, yes, it’s them. Are you satisfied now?”
“Entirely.”
“Good. Now, please leave.”
Morden shrugged. “All right.” He stood and checked the wound around his neck in the mirror, where it had faded to a thin white line. He caught Londo’s eye. “Not the most threatening of tricks,” he said. “Or have you just gotten weak in your convictions, Emperor Mollari?”
“No,” said Londo. “I am just tired of you. If I had wanted a reaction, I would have reminded you of the destruction of the Shadows’ island. You do, remember, don’t you Mr Morden, how completely hopeless you were to them at that moment?” He pretended not to see how white-faced Morden had become, his clenched jaw. “Good day, Mr Morden. Please, pay my absolute loathing to your associates in whatever place you inhabit within my mind.”
“Of course,” said Morden, “if you’ll do just one thing for me.”
“And what is that?”
“If you’ll remember me to your associates once you wake up. I take it that’s what you’re calling them now?”
“Good day, Mr Morden.”
Morden smiled and turned to leave, then stopped. “One other thing, Mollari. The Shadows waited for centuries before they got what they wanted. A victory is worth almost anything to them. Don’t make the mistake of thinking that the Drakh are any less patient than the Shadows were. And don’t think that you have any options beyond working for them for the remainder of your life. As revenge goes, yes, it is entirely satisfying.”
--
Londo woke slowly, and thought.
The Drakh were, indeed a patient people; he had the Drakh-infested urn as proof of that. And as rash and impulsive as the Centauri so often were, they did not have the ability to kill their own Emperor when he came stumbling down the hall, reeking of spirits and pleading for an escape. Which left him with only one option.
Londo closed his eyes. He didn’t have the option of centuries, but he could -- though it grated at him -- wait long enough for an opportunity. He’d seen his own death, after all, and there wasn’t much to fear beyond that. Now, with the rigidity of Drakh life on his side, he only had to make sure that it went the way he planned. And he only had to make sure he put in a perfect performance.
He could wait.
Title: No Choices At All
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Up to and including series 5
Summary: "Once I had all the choices in the world, and no power at all, but now I have all the power in the world, and no choices at all."
A/N: Per The Kingdom of the Blind, the Regent's name is Virini.
Also, I had loads of trouble figuring out what to write and how to go about it, so I may end up coming back to this at a later date and fleshing it out more.
Disclaimer: Not mine. :D
The first day of his imprisonment had been arduous. Tiring, at best. The keeper sat on his shoulder just to the right of his imperial sash and its eye, as always, was trained on him.
Hateful little thing, thought Londo, and then sucked in a breath.
“Mollari. You are in distress.” He hadn’t heard the Drakh come in but, judging by the direction of the keeper’s eye, it was standing right behind him.
“Distress?” said Londo bitterly. “Well, I have just become emperor of my people and do not have a single bit of power over how they’ll be ruled, so yes, I suppose you could say I am in distress.” He sighed and turned to face the Drakh, who was staring at him with the same look of nothingness it always had.
“Your feelings are inconsequential, Mollari. The only thing that matters is that you serve.”
“Serve? Bah!” He looked around for a glass to throw. “Serve the Drakh.”
“There is nothing else in your power to do,” it said.
He felt the weight of the keeper on his shoulder. “All right, I see we are at an impasse,” he said. “But am I to only know you as ‘a Drakh’? What shall I call you?” There was silence. “Your name.”
From Londo’s small experience with the Drakh, he could safely say that their faces all showed the same thing: nothing. Blankness. Complete and total apathy. He doubted they even knew true emotion and, from the sheer wretchedness he felt at having the keeper attached to him, he was glad of it. But as he stared at the Drakh, a small flicker of something crossed its face.
“That is unnecessary to know. You know us only as Drakh.”
“If I am to be kept in this prison, I would like at least a name to give to you.”
The Drakh seemed to consider for a moment, and then a thin smile crossed its lips. “You may call me Virini.”
His hands had almost reached the Drakh’s throat before he felt it, a prickling around his throat, a hand slowly tightening. It was strange, really; there was only the outside force where he’d expected an attack on his mind. Londo collapsed to his knees and the keeper wound itself further against this throat. The Drakh stood before him, small patches of grey against the blackened spots of his vision.
“Mollari,” it said as Londo lay gasping for breath, “you have nothing to fight against, unless you wish for the death of all Centauri. You will rule as we dictate.”
And it turned and left the room to the sound of Londo choking as his keeper throttled him into blackness.
--
The first thing Londo saw on awakening was a liquor cabinet stocked with empty bottles.
“Oh, Great Maker,” he muttered, “must I endure this pitiful symbolism here, too?”
He drew in a small breath and gasped as a wave of pain rushed down his throat. The keeper lay quiescent on his shoulder, its eye closed. He reached a hand up to his throat, expecting blood but feeling only a raised strip of flesh where the keeper had been. He glanced down at where it lay, reaching a hand across to feel the extent of its attachment to him, but snatching it back before he could touch it. There was a small pain in the back of his neck. That was all he needed to know.
Fool, he thought to the keeper. Incompetent murderer. “Pitiful, vengeful lunatic.”
The keeper’s eye opened and swivelled up to look at him.
“Vengeful, yes,” the Drakh’s voice whispered through his mind. “Remember that.”
And then it was gone. The keeper’s eye closed. Pitiful lunatic, Londo thought down at it and lay back to rest.
--
Memory is a terrible thing.
It hadn’t taken long for Londo to work out that the only way the Drakh had any control over him was through physical action. He could think what he liked at any time, but say those things out loud and he’d be throttled into unconsciousness. Or, worse yet, forced into killing someone else.
So, he’d taken the Regent’s path and jumped into a bottle whenever he had the opportunity.
And, when he didn’t, he escaped into his dreams. The only problem was, his dreams had begun to mould themselves according to the things he’d done, the things he could remember, and the moments in his life that had really stood out. And that left him with few options.
“Well,” said a voice, the same voice that had been plaguing him for some time now, “I have to admit, Mollari, your mind is far clearer than I would have given you credit for.”
Londo opened his eyes. “Oh, Mr Morden, again you come to infuriate me. I much preferred it when you were simply a head on a pike.”
Morden flashed him a smile as he took a seat opposite Londo’s couch. Between them was a small table, normally occupied with various Centauri liqueurs, but now puzzlingly empty. As was, Londo discovered, the drinks cabinet, apart from a few bottles containing only the smallest hint of a pale blue liquid. “Great Maker, not again,” he muttered.
“I see they aren’t being kind to you,” said Morden cheerfully. Londo glared at him and his voice lowered to a sudden intensity. “It is them, isn’t it? Mollari?”
Londo sighed. This kept happening and he never could figure out why. It was his dream, after all; surely, in his dream, he could limit his memory of Morden back to his death and his place above the gates of the Centauri palace.
Morden glanced at the mirror, where an angry red wound had broken out along his neck. “Very funny.”
“Yes, I thought so,” said Londo, reclaiming his seat. “What have you come to talk about this time, Mr Morden?”
“Why, revenge, of course. Namely my revenge against your betrayal. Isn’t that what you expected?”
“Ah.”
Morden leant forward. “So, tell me. It is them, isn’t it?” His eyes flickered to Londo’s shoulder and he smiled thinly. “Emperor?”
“Do you know, I don’t think even an entire drinks cabinet would help me to deal with your existence inside my own mind. At least, when I’m awake, you are still dead.” He caught Morden’s look and added, “Oh, fine, yes, it’s them. Are you satisfied now?”
“Entirely.”
“Good. Now, please leave.”
Morden shrugged. “All right.” He stood and checked the wound around his neck in the mirror, where it had faded to a thin white line. He caught Londo’s eye. “Not the most threatening of tricks,” he said. “Or have you just gotten weak in your convictions, Emperor Mollari?”
“No,” said Londo. “I am just tired of you. If I had wanted a reaction, I would have reminded you of the destruction of the Shadows’ island. You do, remember, don’t you Mr Morden, how completely hopeless you were to them at that moment?” He pretended not to see how white-faced Morden had become, his clenched jaw. “Good day, Mr Morden. Please, pay my absolute loathing to your associates in whatever place you inhabit within my mind.”
“Of course,” said Morden, “if you’ll do just one thing for me.”
“And what is that?”
“If you’ll remember me to your associates once you wake up. I take it that’s what you’re calling them now?”
“Good day, Mr Morden.”
Morden smiled and turned to leave, then stopped. “One other thing, Mollari. The Shadows waited for centuries before they got what they wanted. A victory is worth almost anything to them. Don’t make the mistake of thinking that the Drakh are any less patient than the Shadows were. And don’t think that you have any options beyond working for them for the remainder of your life. As revenge goes, yes, it is entirely satisfying.”
--
Londo woke slowly, and thought.
The Drakh were, indeed a patient people; he had the Drakh-infested urn as proof of that. And as rash and impulsive as the Centauri so often were, they did not have the ability to kill their own Emperor when he came stumbling down the hall, reeking of spirits and pleading for an escape. Which left him with only one option.
Londo closed his eyes. He didn’t have the option of centuries, but he could -- though it grated at him -- wait long enough for an opportunity. He’d seen his own death, after all, and there wasn’t much to fear beyond that. Now, with the rigidity of Drakh life on his side, he only had to make sure that it went the way he planned. And he only had to make sure he put in a perfect performance.
He could wait.