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the telepaths arrayed against the forces of the Shadows, she had often been surprisingly unconcerned as to what the outcome would be.

Everyone on the firing line had been preoccupied first and foremost with survival. In the midst of the war, even as Sheridan had planned, plotted, and come up with strategy after strategy, somehow the thought that they would make it to the other end alive seemed a hopeless one.

But for Lyta, even survival had seemed less important than something else she believed she was witnessing: The slow, steady, downward spiral of the Vorlons. They had been light to her. Light and strength, knowledge and wisdom. To many races, they were like unto gods, and her close connection to them had given her a sense of ... personal elevation. But as they had fought the Shadows, as the war had heated up and the Vorlons had become more brutal and ruthless in their struggles, she had witnessed what she perceived as a darkening of the pure Vor-lon soul. And as they had slipped from grace ... so, in some ways, had she.

She had never stopped hoping, though, that it would turn around somehow. That the Vorlons would turn back from the path of destruction. That they would rise, like the angelic beings that they were, and once again reclaim the majesty of their race. That they would once again become the pure, regal beings that she had once known.

But they had not chosen that road. Neither, however, had they further deteriorated. Instead they had simply ...

... left.

Left, in the company of the Shadows. The opposites, the yin and yang to one another, going beyond to some unknowable, incomprehensible realm where dwelt all of the older races. And in that departure, Lyta Alexander had been left with a sense of... emptiness. There had been so much remaining
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