many people have already died fighting this war of yours? Sheridan said. How many more will die before you come down off that mountain and get involved?
For the first time in millennia, fear governed Kosh's action. He struck out at Sheridan three times, the discharges of his essence nearly killing the Human.
Impudent, Kosh said.
Incorrect, Kosh said.
We are not prepared yet, Kosh said.
Yet it was only Kosh who was not prepared, not prepared to die.
The ancient enemy ascended through the station to his level, bent their steps toward him.
Sheridan had simply spoken the truth. As Kosh had stood on high and watched, the fabulists had gone, and they had been but the first in an escalating series of losses.
The forces of chaos had begun by forming secret alliances with some of the younger races, encouraging and provoking them into vicious wars with their neighbors. Now the enemy openly attacked the younger races, killing at will. And from a planet near the enemy's home on the rim, Kosh's buoys had sung a disturbing song. The two fabulists who served chaos were rebuilding an ancient force that hadn't been used for many millennia. Billions already had died, and billions more would die. The maelstrom hungered to subsume all.
Only in banding together to fight the maelstrom could the majority of the younger races survive. They would not fight, though, if they believed themselves overwhelmed by an invincible enemy. They must have hope they could win, and that hope, as Sheridan had argued, could only be provided by the Vorlons. And so Kosh had brought the Vorlons into the war, had engaged the enemy directly for the first time since their ancient agreement had been reached. With that one battle, he had provided Sheridan the victory necessary to draw the others