Jun. 25th, 2006

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Our good Captain Sheridan once accused me of being unable to spend five minutes without either yelling or laughing. (Of course, he never saw me attend a public function at the Emperor's court; believe me, I was quite capable of remaining entirely silent during those occasions, either due to blessed sleep - any member of a Noble House knows how to sleep standing, for how would we survive our Emperor's speeches, eh? - or for reasons of survival, as under the late Cartagia.) Now I will admit that I never saw any reason not to reveal to the universe at large when something annoyed me, yes. But there is a difference between this and the kind of fury I only felt twice in my life.

When I saw her poor, dead body covered by sheets, the flowers I had picked for her still in my hands, I fell silent. I did not yell, I did not curse, and I do not believe that there were words in my mind at all. Later, I held the broche I had given her in my hand, knew that she had loved me, truly, and that I might as well have signed her death warrant. The fury in me still was not loud, but it consumed me utterly. It was then that I discovered one could make very elaborate plans indeed in this state, yes? It was not divorced from calculation at all, which made it different from all my other occasions of anger. I came up with a scheme to destroy the man I believed responsible for her death, and it required patience, minute precision, and the deception and use of the one being who had never deserted me. I did not care, not then. All I cared about was my rage, and it demanded more than death. I could have poisoned Refa at any time. In fact, I had already done so; one more ingredient to make the dose lethal would have been easy to accomplish. But I wanted to see him humiliated first, I wanted him to die as slowly and painfully as possible - I wanted to destroy him.

A little less than six months later, I found out that Refa had not murdered Adira. Her killer had been Mr. Morden, and he had played me like a puppet. The rage came back, and again, it demanded far more than death. Though there was death that day, so much of it, and thankfully for far better reasons than one man's vengeance. Every one who stayed on the island of Celini did so for love of his people. They were the ones who saved Centauri Prime, and each of their names is burned in my memory.

But to return to Mr. Morden, who when he realized what was happening for the first time since I had the doubtful pleasure of meeting him lost his composure entirely and screamed at me: "You don't know what you've done, Londo!"

"What I have done," I repeated. "Oh, Mr. Morden, I have not even started with you yet."

Eventually, his head was put on a pike, as a gift for Vir. About the previous hours, I shall only say that he might have envied Refa, in the end. I am not proud of this. My father used to say that a man who does not offer his enemies a clean death does, in the end, become the dirt under their feet, and I believe this is true. But then, I do not believe I would act differently if I had the choice again but only the same information, except for one particular method in dealing with Refa, which I shall never stop to regret. At any event, what made that all consuming ice fill my veins after Adira had died was not rage at Refa, or Morden, oh no. They were guilty, but there was one far guiltier than they, the one who had made it possible for them to murder my beloved, and it was my utter loathing for him that made me conceive the deaths I did for Refa and Morden both.

Who makes me angriest? Why, myself.


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