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Joseph Michael Straczynski

source : IRC

update : 10.V.2006

update : 17.II.2012

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The dream was the same. It was always the same.

The chakat lay on the ground before him, its four legs bound by ropes, horns scratching the dry ground beneath its head. The sun was hot overhead.

A voice, always the same voice, whispered from behind Londo. You know what you have to do. What you have always done.

Londo stared at the creature, and its gaze met his own. The eyes that looked back at him were fierce, proud, unbowed. And somehow familiar. In the dream it said to him, soundlessly and wordlessly but with absolute clarity: It is duty. You cannot fight duty.

I can't do it, Londo thought back, and looked down. The sword was in his hand.

Yes, you can, it thought at him, and it struggled to raise its head, exposing its throat. Waiting for the death blow.

Sobbing, Londo brought down the sword, and watched the life fade away in the creature's eyes.



* * *



Tears fresh on his face, Londo awoke to the sound of bells. Bells that had tolled for one hour each morning every day for the last six days. Six days since he had taken on the role of emperor; six days since the bombardment of Centauri Prime had left vast tracts of the capital city devastated and in flames. All work stopped while the bells tolled, and the world was momentarily united in silence for those who had died in a conflict that should never have happened... a conflict that had been secretly engineered by the alien race known as the Drakh to produce rage and resentment in his people - emotions that he would have to nurture into something darker with the passing of years.

That was, after all, his job.

The
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