that she had wanted to say, wanted to understand. So much that had been left unresolved.
The Vorlons had changed her, altered her essence, made her their vessel, and then they had left her. She had sensed their departure, and part of her had called out to them in the same manner that once, all those months ago, she had sent out psychic pleas to them, begging them to come to her aid when she had floated helplessly in the depths of space, at the edge of Vorlon territory. Bring me with you, she cried out. Don't leave me like this! Don ft leave me wanting to know the answers without even comprehending the questions!
This time they did not answer. This time... they simply left, without so much as a backward glance. They had left, and Sheridan had been responsible for it. She had known that he had to do it, known that he had saved so many lives by ending the Shadow War. She had even known the selfishness of her attitude. How could the hopes and desires of one telepath compare to the safety of millions? Yet, unreasonably, for a brief time, she had hated Sheridan for what he had done.
And so while others celebrated the end of the war, and the preservation of their lives, all Lyta could do was mourn the end of the life for which she had fought. When she had met the Vor-lons, it was as if she had come fully awake for the first time in her existence ... and with their departure, she was being told to go back to sleep.
Every day she dwelt on this, even though she wished that it would be otherwise. Every day she searched deep within herself for the answers, and every day she reached out with her abilities to sense if-somewhere-any trace of the Vorlons remained. And every day she was met with disappointment. As a result, it was an effort of pure will for her not to go through