Sometimes, if he concentrates hard enough, he can see reality through the eyes of his formerly-hallowed corpse.
Where the eyes would rest, anyway, if they had not been consumed by maggots. Tiny, negligible creatures that exist in their miniscule presence solely to be an annoyance to some higher being. Their entire purpose — and purpose, what an easily weaponized concept, what a naturally wounding concept — is to repurpose the dead into nutrient. To the majority of the universe, to more intelligent creatures who would look like titans in the eyes of a maggot -- these little lives are nothing beyond repulsive.
He must be similar to the maggots, he must have annoyed some truly higher being with his objectively repulsive essence, because the afterlife is neither paradise or eternal scorching punishment.
It’s darkness.
There’s just enough light for him to see the endless. The infinite expansion of this lonely realm. There’s just enough light for him to see his hands, the pilled cloth of his suit around him that flattens when he tries to touch it, to experience some kind of sensation in this void. There’s just enough light for him to see his hands and recall what they’re responsible for. There’s too much light.
It can’t be like this for other people.
Can it?
Perhaps if he had been a better man when he was alive, he’d get to experience something with more substance than this. Maybe he’d be rewarded, even! If he had refused them, he would have died right then and there, a stubborn martyr. Willing to face erasure rather than cause harm. Maybe God would be kinder. A lot of people assume you get some sort of confirmation when you die, that the existence of God or lack thereof is revealed after you pass and you’re enlightened, but Morden has found nothing to either prove or dispute this theory. Maybe, he thinks now, this is where everyone else ends up. Maybe there’s a sense of humor; maybe there’s nothing at all. Maybe there’s only cruelty.
He still doesn’t regret any of it.
--
Adira Tyree had convulsed when the poison was introduced to her system. Seized. Her eyes dead before the rest of her body. Her body jerking and flailing in uncontrollable movement until its rapid sinking - until it’s contrasted by a freeze, an exile, a limp crash.
Oh, well. Pity.
It had to be this way! The Shadows wanted Londo dead, but he’s still useful. Still necessary. Still entertaining as he tries to find his way around in the dark, in oblivion, feeling the surroundings he cannot see or identify even by touch. Stumbling. This was tragic, Morden supposes, but sometimes you have to go to great lengths if you want to succeed, if you want everything in the universe to serve you. He’s still so fun to play with.
It’s nice to have Londo Mollari back in his grasp. Refa lacked that spark - he touched with a cockiness too similar to Morden’s own - he wasn’t quite as fun to mold. It’s challenging, to feign sympathy, to avoid taking credit for his accomplishment, but Londo either doesn’t care or is too distraught to notice. Objectively, it should be obvious - the ability to form sentimental connection was banished from his personality long ago, and while he is a good liar, he is less skilled at pretending his corruption away. But there it is, that omnipresent foolishness yet again. The mistakes. He is the only exception to Mistakes And Downfalls. He is in front of the Shadows, and they are behind him, and they are above him, and he is blessed to be their servant.
--
He’s always wanted to watch a Vorlon in agony. Even before the Shadows, he was fascinated by the indestructible. This is perhaps why archeolinguistics was so enamoring, in the Before Times -- to see evidence of something as ostensibly permanent as communication, something that can only extinguish when stars align into action — and to witness its decay, its slow evaporation into the void he’s destined for. Lost and ancient and lost. How that void eventually absorbs everything, even if it requires catastrophe, even if it takes a while to do its job.
Vorlon involvement, too, was inevitable. Their own brand of arrogance washes over every aspect of their interactions with the universe, and yet they’re still so foolish. No being in history has ever been truly untouched by flaw.
The Shadow request to eliminate Ambassador Kosh was a gift made from flesh and alluring destruction, adorned with a bow of viscera. One of many demented, ill fantasies to be brought into fruition. He breaks them in. Kosh likely expected this, he had to have that awareness - he agreed to help them anyway. So: a Vorlon with a weakness. This is good. A Vorlon with the faintest scar forming over his indifference. How odd.
He watches, inanimate and unblinking, as they tear into him. He absorbs it all. He flutters within -- it’s a satisfying display. It’s a beautiful and satiating sight. Morden as the divine and damned witness. The light Kosh emits flickering flickering flickering like a neglected neon sign - open! closed! open! closed! Come on in! Don’t leave! Get out! Welcome, enjoy your stay! Get out! I am forever in your service! We are only transactional here! A noise from Kosh that cannot be translated, but the Shadow voices shriek with amusement. A drop of darkness injected into his true form -- overrated, by the way — something planted inside of him and expanding, so gradual, snailslow, until the darkness grows infectious, spreading over his entirety, every shred of light stolen, and then Ambassador Kosh collapses in on himself, like being siphoned out of this dimension, like the self cannibalism of the serpent, and after the mist of darkness clears, there’s only more darkness. Darkness, and ash.
--
He learns the hard way that there’s no sensation here — that the blankness, the utterly inverted nature of this realm extends to every aspect of life. Everything that chained him to the last threads of humanity -- mere barebones definition of human then, completely inhuman now -- everything that he tried to embrace and suppress has been taken from him. He tries to touch himself
and
it is a negative phantom, it’s like reaching into something incorporeal, into obscuring fog. You stay conscious for a fraction of a fraction of a fraction of a fraction of a second after the conclusion of a fatal attack — the thought in this moment, the typical final words to the universe, is usually fuck. Sometimes well, great, what am I going to do now. But always disappointment. Always regret -- almost always regret.
He regrets some things. He regrets not letting his associates tear Londo Mollari into ornamental viscera. He regrets not taking extra precautions. More recently, he regrets trying to touch himself. There is no flesh -- there’s not even a nothingness. His body is only conceptual -- only a memory. Brain in a vat. Mind disembodied in cage.
But it still takes a while to set in.
He can only imagine how it must look, if anyone’s watching -- his hands running frantic over the void where his thighs should be, logically, if the world was truly kind without condition. His arms trying to grasp onto anything, any possible feeling, any paper shred of existence he can forage up. He attempts to run his fingers through his hair, the texture of the restraining gel always an odd comfort back in life. He’s a cloud. He’s color and the absence of it. Transparency.
He’s a shadow.
So, okay, he can’t feel anything. He can still imagine. Maybe that can simulate it. Maybe that can be enough. Morden’s problem, of course, is always the fact that nothing is ever enough. Nothing is enough! Even in this void, in this lack of all -- he’s still insatiable, and there’s nothing to feed him with now. He’ll starve forever, only feeling the pangs as unwelcome torturous emotion, pain without pain.
It is instant, when he tries to imagine it - mouths and lips and fingers and teeth and the inability to draw any meaningful distinction between pleasure and punishment — his body collapses - the noise of ancient earth computer shut downs booming around him with comedic timing - paralysis - he can’t move - he can’t move - he can’t even pry his mind ajar. Only fear now.
Maybe there is someone watching.
--
The void again. It’s always the void. It’s inevitable. He’s drilling it into the narrative.
The void again, but different this time. There used to be enough light for him to see his hands, and now there is no light at all.