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streets and waved as they passed, faces lined with worry and the dirt of rebuilding momentarily eclipsed by smiles. Londo nodded back at them through the open window, even more sure now that his decision was the proper one.

Once outside the capital city, they turned to the old roads, which were now overgrown and little used. The crowds grew smaller and appeared less often, until they disappeared altogether. From time to time Londo glimpsed a lone traveler walking along the road who looked on, astonished, at the passing parade. The rest of the time he was left alone with his thoughts, and he little cared for the company. He did best when the business of rebuilding left him no time to dwell on his situation, or the choices that had brought him to this point. But alone in the carriage, with only the bumps in the road and the silent forests on either side to keep him company, he was left only with his thoughts, his doubts, his recriminations-- - and the occasional whisper from the Keeper residing invisibly on his shoulder, reminding him of the things they needed him to do upon his return to the palace.

He wanted a drink desperately, but since his gradual discovery that alcohol was the one thing that could buy him a moment's privacy from the Keeper (don't think it too loud, don't let them know you've figured that part out yet, it's the only tool you have), he saved that for moments when it could be used to his advantage.

By night they camped by the side of the road, where he could at last contact the royal palace by viewer and receive updates on the state of his people. Then a few hours of fitful sleep, and back on the road again.

On the third day out, another procession caught up with his own. The carriages were white, lined with white veils, and drawn by pure white
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