Don't own, don't get paid, don't sue please. A longer note next chapter, right now way too sad. RIP Michael O'Hare. You will be sorely missed.

The White Star itself seemed to reel in grief through hyperspace, aware of the loss, of the weight it should have carried, gone from this time.

Inside, the silence reigned through the hallways. Clawing silence, oppressive silence, the silence that screamed.

In his quarters, Marcus Cole sat against the wall, staring out into the space he couldn't see. He remembered all that Sinclair had done for him, all the guidance and teaching and care the man had given him, all of his wisdom, all his knowledge, all he was and ever could be, and it was all gone.

Gone, but never forgotten.

In his quarters, Lennier sank into a deeper layer of meditation, trying to escape the pain. He had tried to work through it, as he should, but it was too much. All of his training about discipline, about destiny, all that which told him to be happy for his friend, embracing his destiny and serving Lennier's own people in way Lennier himself could never hope for- ALL of it was for nothing. No dry statements about honour or duty could quench this fire-storm of hurt.

There was no relief from the loss.

In her quarters, Susan Ivanova was lying on the floor. The bed could go to hell. Her Link, thrown across the room some ages ago, could go to hell. The rest of the universe could go to hell. She didn't care anymore. How could she? Every time she did, God kicked her in the gut as punishment. She officially didn't give a crap anymore. She didn't need anyone. She didn't need anyone... She just needed silence. And vodka, when she got back to the station. And to forget.

God, she missed him.

In her quarters, Delenn's candle broke into infinitesimal fragments. Her tears, the prism through which she saw the world right now, were heavy on her tired eyes, but they would not spill. Strange, that the one thing she felt might allow her to shed the bladed edge of pain in her heart, and her own, treacherous body denied her of it.

How could the universe have taken him, now of all times?

In his quarters, John Sheridan turned to continue his pacing, his heart and mind at war. His mind, the well-trained mind of a soldier, told him to drag his mourning XO out of her hole and put her to work, give her a task to occupy her mind- they were at war, dammit! And grieving and other such emotional activities should wait for the quiet that followed war! His heart, that beat quietly under his EarthForce issue armour, told him that this loss was too great, was not just another loss, to be brushed aside until time was willing to wait for the pain to pass- though he'd not been there in body, John only just realised, Sinclair's spirit had guided them all through the harder times. Like a warm, solid, invisible glow, his light, his aura that still permeated the station had whispered in his ear at night, when he was lost in the chaos of Babylon 5, had whispered secrets of what to do, of how to fix things, of how to be the station's CO. The station itself had never changed hands. John was never the King, just the humble Steward, the guardian of the throne, the rightful seat of one Jeffrey David Sinclair, The One Who Was, the one they'd lost, the King who'd now never return to his throne. Sinclair. Entil'Zha. Valen. God.

The light was gone, his footsteps were in darkness.

And the King's noble steed, the steadfast White Star, continued to bear it's solemn way home, light it most important rider and weighed down with the terrible, tragic burden of news that soon would shake the placid, unknowing station to its core.