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It is the middle of the night, and the Emperor is walking the halls of the Centauri Imperial Palace in silence. He knows it makes the courtiers talk, but he can't help himself, as it is the only semblance of privacy he can have any more. And anyway, he can't sleep.
The palace unsettles him; there are too many high ceilings and gilded corridors, and far, far too many rooms. After so many years thinking a three-room suite luxuriously spacious, even the Imperial Bedroom seems terrifyingly huge. At night, though, he can wander out of the tremendous modern wings and through the winding corridors into the ancient heart of the palace, now mostly servants' quarters and kitchens, silent for a few hours between the end of the evening's revels and preparations for breakfast.
Londo must have loved it here, he thinks at times like this. Gilded corridors would have suited his sense of grandeur (even if many of them had still not been fully repaired, the Imperial budget not being what it once was. And he always had acted as though he had a bevy of servants ready to fulfill his every need, even when it had been, as it so often was, only him. He had done his best. It was little wonder to him, in these last few years, that he had seen no invitations from His Imperial Majesty Londo Mollari. Now that he was Emperor, he did not wonder at all.
He barely knows the names of the old Emperors in portraits lining the main halls; here, in the innards of the palace, are images of noblemen and warriors wearing livery that hasn't existed in centuries. Londo could have told him their names, or at least their houses, and why they might have been important. He just wonders how many of them died in pointless battles for reasons no one now remembers.
The Imperial Palace never entirely sleeps. Sometimes, as he walks, he can identify the signs of servants keeping carefully out of his way, impatient for the Emperor to move on so they can get back to their midnight work. He does them the favor of ignoring them. Their whispers, he knows, will be through the servants' halls by morning and through the rest of the court by noon. There is a popular ongoing debate as to what keeps the Emperor awake these nights. Some argue it is a guilty conscience; his presence at the deaths of the past two Emperors seems more than coincidence. Others believe it is merely the shock of coming across the corpse of an Emperor slaughtered by a Narn prophet. They believe he will recover soon. He tries not to wonder which party in these arguments respects him the more.
They are both right, after all, in their own way. He will never think of Londo without guilt, or of G'Kar without regret. There is so much more he could have done. But he has told no one of what else he found that night, of the horrible dead black thing on the floor. He thought for a moment, when he first saw it, that it was Londo's doom given flesh at last, that terrible burden he had carried all those years, and he was grateful that at least it had died with him. What it truly was he has never been quite sure, and hopes he never will be, although he may suspect. Sometimes, though, it haunts his dreams, and he wakes wondering if Londo ever really knew it was there, and if he would ever really know if there was another. On these nights he walks the halls of the Centauri Imperial Palace, and tries not to jump at shadows.