Disclaimer: Babylon 5 and its characters belong to J. Michael Strazcynski. Chenann is my own invention, though certain details of her life come from the B5 universe. The words are my own.

Author's Notes: I wrote the first half of this story long enough ago that it staggers me to recall. Fifteen years later (!), I've finally gotten around to finishing the thing. I started writing it partway through Season 4, back when the show originally aired, and reached some "what if" conclusions of my own about certain characters and plot elements that subsequently turned out very differently. Therefore, this story qualifies as partly AU. It takes place roughly between "Racing Mars" and "Rumors, Bargains and Lies". The explanation for why Garibaldi has apparently turned against everyone is different here than in the B5 canon, and the character Wade works for President Clark rather than for Edgars Industries. I've also taken some liberties with the Drakh Keepers, though they are fairly similar to the canon version.

Choices and Challenges is a sequel of sorts to my earlier story Trial by Fire, which is available at . Certain events in TBF are obliquely referenced here, and this story assumes that Delenn rescued David Sheridan from captivity on Mars, as occurs in Trial by Fire. Both stories, however, essentially stand alone.

Real-world quotations include When You Are Old, by William Butler Yeats; "With You" (Pippin, Stephen Schwartz and Roger O. Hirson); and assorted lines from "I'm Getting Married in the Morning" (My Fair Lady, Alan Jay Lerner and Frederick Lowe), "Skylark" (Johnny Mercer and Hoagy Carmichael), and "As Time Goes By" (Herman Hupfeld, made famous in the movie Casablanca). I also quote the Prayer of St. Francis of Assisi.

Choices and Challenges

Chenann knelt on a cushion in the middle of her private study, her eyes focused on the single candle that burned in front of her. The flickering flame, the faint sweet scent of the melting wax, the softness of the velvet beneath her knees and the quiet sound of her own breathing should have conspired to distract her unruly conscious mind while her inmost self got down to the business at hand. She needed an answer to an important question—one that had vexed her ever since she'd received the message crystal from Babylon 5.

Normally, she found meditation effortless. After a lifetime in the Sisterhood of Valeria honing the mental disciplines that enabled her to use her powerful Gift, achieving the quiet of mind necessary to make choices was second nature. But after nearly an hour of kneeling before the candle, she still felt as unsettled as a novice preparing her first ritual meal. She needed to decide what to do, but the detachment necessary to make that decision eluded her.

She sighed and lifted her gaze from the candle flame to the study window. Outside, the winter sky was turning the luminous purple of evening. She watched the sky awhile, letting the beauty of it soothe her mind and relax her tense muscles. Then she blew out the candle and stood. Her knees felt stiff; she rocked back and forth to loosen them while she considered what to do.

She walked over to her desk and picked up the data crystal that lay at one corner of it. She stared at the crystal for several seconds, as if she expected to see the answer to her dilemma written across its shiny surface. Then, with a shake of her head, she walked across the room and placed the crystal in the player.

A sphere of light appeared. It stretched into a column, flared and resolved itself into the image of a slender woman. She wore a robe of rose-colored silk, edged in gold and grayed blue. Long, dark hair spilled past her shoulders, shining against the bright silk as if it had a life of its own. Not for the first time, Chenann wondered if it felt as soft as it looked. Against the gleaming dark brown of the woman's hair, her narrow crest of gray bone stood out in sharp relief.

The image bowed—a graceful motion from the waist, low enough to show profound respect but not so low as to indicate any sense of inferiority. The hand gesture that went with the bow conveyed respectful greetings and a slight shading of filial affection, just enough to satisfy propriety. Chenann felt a pang of wistfulness at the gesture, though it was no more than she might have expected. I have seen her twice since babyhood. Should she come running to hold my hands? I should be happy she has sent me this. She did not have to.

With an effort, she silenced her thoughts and simply listened as the image spoke. She had heard the words so often, she could repeat them from memory. And yet she was no closer to deciding how to respond.

"In Valen's name I greet you, honored mother," Delenn said. Her voice was clear and calm, her bearing regal without arrogance, her face serene except for a sense of hesitation so slight that only another Minbari would be aware of it. "I hope you are well, and the Sisters also." She paused, and the hesitation deepened—not much, but enough to notice. "I have good news I wished to share with you. I am to be married fourteen days from now, to Captain John Sheridan." Even on the fifth viewing, there was no mistaking the light in Delenn's eyes as she spoke her beloved's name. Then a thread of irony crept into her voice. "Elder Callenn will have told you that I have the blessing of the clan of Mir in this. I would be grateful for yours as well." Another slight hesitation, most likely at the unconventional suggestion she was about to make. "If you wish to attend the ceremony, you will be most welcome." An almost-imperceptible straightening of the shoulders, as if a weight had been lifted from them. "Please convey my respects to Elder Callenn, and to the Eldest of the Sisterhood. Farewell." Delenn bowed again, a graceful repetition of her opening obeisance. Then her image disappeared.

Chenann gazed thoughtfully at the empty air where the image had been. It ought to be a simple matter, this unexpected invitation. She should send a graceful acknowledgment, wish Delenn every happiness, and leave it at that. The Sisters of Valeria did not customarily leave their chapter houses except when their talents were needed—or when there was a death in a Sister's birth-clan and she wished to pay final respects. For her to go all the way to Babylon 5, to actually attend Delenn's wedding to an outworlder—such a thing was unprecedented. Not wrong, exactly, but not according to tradition, either. That thought prompted a wry smile. A daughter whose kinship I cannot formally claim, transformed into the living bridge of Valen's prophecies, plans to marry an outworlder of a race we named enemy and nearly destroyed for killing the leader we loved. And this particular outworlder has an infamous name still among many Minbari, despite his deeds on our behalf against the Shadows. Sheridan Starkiller. What can tradition possibly say to this?

She thought about Sheridan Starkiller as she wandered back to the velvet cushion and sat down on it. She did not light the candle; she was done with attempting to find an answer in meditation. The quiet mind brings detachment. Perhaps I cannot make this choice from that place.

Who was this Sheridan, really? She knew so little of him—a name bestowed in anger, a look in her daughter's eyes. And a formal account from Delenn of the Shadow War—from beginning to end, telling her part and his, sparing nothing—and yet somehow still leaving things unsaid. He had courage, this Sheridan—that much was certain. The killing of the Drala'Fi might not have been honorable, but no coward would have taken on a Minbari warship in a flimsy vessel like Sheridan's under any circumstances. And when Delenn had asked for his help against the Shadows, he had defied his own government to give it—again, not the act of a coward, or of a man without honor. And yet...

She stood, walked to the window and rested her fingertips against the cold glass. A light snow was falling, the pale flakes barely visible in the dim purple light. Staring out at the fall of night, Chenann recognized and faced the real source of her agitation. I do not wish to judge him by the actions of Dukhat's killers—nor yet by the Black Star. War is war, and sometimes it forces us to do things we despise later. But he is not Minbari. How can he truly know her? How can he understand her? How can someone so alien possibly make her happy?

Delenn loved him, or at least believed she did. Her emotions shone like sunlight through the careful formality of her message. Chenann had sensed those same emotions in the accounts Delenn had sent of the Shadow War: love and trust, and not a little pride. She cared for this man, admired him, trusted him. And Delenn was no foolish adolescent to be led astray by curiosity or misplaced guilt or even the simple romance of the different, no matter what Callenn thought. Callenn was a tiresome carper anyway. How the same parents had produced him and her own beloved husband, Chenann would never know. If he opposed this match—which he most certainly still did in his heart—then that was a point in its favor.

But could this marriage truly be right? She folded her cold hands and tried to reason it out. Callenn had wanted to stop it because he feared genetic taint, of all the foolish things. The "taint" of Valen's children was spread throughout the Minbari Federation by now, and it had done the Minbari no harm. It wasn't differences of genetics that worried Chenann. It was the other differences, of culture and custom and thought. So far as she understood, humans saw the Universe one way and Minbari another, and while each might be right in its own way, they could not join together. Could they? Could the hearts of her daughter and the man who would be her son have found enough in common to let them live happily with their differences? Was such a thing possible between Minbari and humans?

I know so little of humans. How can I even ask this question? Perhaps I should go, if only to learn about humans first-hand. It may be that we are not so different after all—or at least, not in the things that matter. Perhaps Delenn and her Sheridan have discovered this.

It was a sobering thought—that the Minbari might have far more in common than most of them realized with the race so many judged as over-emotional and barely out of barbarism. Chenann could think of several people who would not thank Delenn for forcing them to face that truth. If she attended the wedding ceremony, she would be giving it the Sisterhood's stamp of approval. Should she—could she—do that? If the Sisterhood objected, what would happen?

And if Delenn brings herself more trouble by this—not because Sheridan is the wrong man for her, but because blinkered nitwits like Callenn don't care for the truth she is telling them—the Sisterhood would be a powerful voice on her side. Do I not owe her this, as a servant of truth—and as the mother who bore her, even if the Sisterhood has since become my only kin?

Once more, Chenann looked out at the sky. The snow was falling more thickly now; but in the single clear patch that remained, high up and to the west, a star was shining. Bright and clear, with a hint of blue. Tanas, the Star of Faith. The old tales called it Valen's Star, because its light first reached Minbar just days after his death.

She bowed her head in acknowledgment of the omen. She would have faith in her own instincts, which were telling her to go to Babylon 5 and judge for herself. She would meet John Sheridan face to face, and watch him and Delenn together. And then she would decide whether to bring Delenn to her senses or give her the blessing she had asked for. Either way, she would help her daughter—and tradition be damned.

ooOoo

"I will miss your cooking terribly," Delenn murmured to her prospective father-in-law as she took a dripping plate from him and carefully wiped it dry. The scents of red pepper and coconut milk hung in the air, mingling with the rich aroma of coffee. Real coffee, given to them by Ivanova as an early wedding present. Delenn was looking forward to tasting it. Apparently, real coffee tasted nothing like the strange stuff of the same name that came out of the station's numerous dispensers. John called it "swamp muck" and made a face whenever he drank it. The fact that he drank it anyway made no sense to Delenn, but she chalked it up as just another mystery of human behavior. But if real coffee tasted anything close to what it smelled like, she was in for a treat.

Chuckling softly, David Sheridan scrubbed the last plate. "You want my advice, order out a lot." He rinsed the plate and passed it to Delenn with an affectionate look. "I can give you a few pointers before I go."

She grinned at him. "My taste buds would appreciate that. Especially since fresh eggs are so difficult to come by!"

"I heard that," John said from behind them, as he set down three dirty glasses with a thunk. He shook his head at them and heaved an exaggerated sigh. "Mocked by my nearest and dearest. It's a hard universe."

Laughing, Delenn tossed a spare dishtowel at him. "And now you must help dry dishes. Another affront to your dignity. Poor John."

He slipped an arm around her waist and gave her a brief squeeze before picking up a knife and swiping his towel across the blade. "Oh, feel sorry for me. Less than two weeks away from marrying the most wonderful woman in known space." He glanced over Delenn's head at his father. "And with my Dad here to share it. Such a hardship."

David polished off the last of the glasses, then turned to lean his back against the edge of the small sink. "You won't mind my filming the ceremony, will you? Your mother and Lizzy will kill me if I don't bring them a vid."

"Not at all," John replied with a grin. Then he sobered. "I wish they could be here. But with all the straight routes blockaded, and the roundabout ones chancy at best, we just can't risk it. I'd never forgive myself if—"

David rested a hand on his son's shoulder. "They'll understand." Then, in the deadpan tone he reserved for joking around: "Just make sure you settle this business with Clark before the first grandchild comes along, would you? You can't ask your poor mother to miss that."

John picked up a glass. "We'll do our damnedest," he said, with a wry twist to his lips that showed he was only half-kidding.

"Will your parents come?" David asked Delenn.

She shook her head. "My father has been dead for some years—and my mother is a Sister of Valeria. They do not leave their chapter houses except when their gifts are needed. Save for those sent to found other houses, it has been nearly fifteen hundred years since a Sister went offworld." She picked up a spoon and dried it with meticulous care. "But I will have a friend or two. My cousin Rathenn, who will come with the Rangers, and Shaal Mayan—"

"The poet?" David pushed himself away from the sink and took the dry silverware from Delenn. "I've read her work. Picked up a collection of it at Powell's Used Books a couple of years ago. Powell's can get anything. Lord knows how good the translation is, but I liked it. Reminded me of Yeats, oddly enough—I don't know if you're familiar with his work—"

She nodded. "John lent me some of it." A touch of humor entered her voice. "In a great, fat tome full of poems, big enough to stop a door with. I am halfway through it."

"She's really only marrying me for my library," John deadpanned.

Delenn stared at him, wide-eyed. "How ever did you guess?"

"She's good," David said with a chuckle. "Keep this one, John."

He caught her hand and kissed it. "I intend to."

With a burbling snort, the coffee machine announced the completion of the brewing process. John poured three mugs full and placed them on a tray, along with a sugar bowl, spoons and a small pitcher of half-and-half. "Took me four trips through the Zocalo to find a grocer with fresh dairy goods," he said. "Snagged the last carton of half-and-half. Much better than the powdered excuse for it we're usually stuck with." He grinned at Delenn and his father. "Granted, half of it's going to Susan as a thank-you for the coffee… but we get the rest. Must be a good-luck omen."

"You'll like this," David told Delenn as they moved into the sitting room and John set the tray down on the low table. "There's nothing quite like a good cup of coffee—and whatever his other culinary shortcomings, John does make excellent coffee."

"Thanks, Dad—I think," John said as he handed a brimming mug to Delenn. She cupped it in both hands and inhaled deeply of its fragrant steam. It reminded her vaguely of hofcha, a dark brown mushroom with a smoky taste much prized by Minbari cooks. But the coffee smelled richer, and also a touch sweeter. A difficult scent to define in Minbari terms, though no less delicious for that.

She watched with interest as John poured half-and-half (half of what?) into his cup and stirred it. The coffee lightened to a rich browny-gold. David, she noticed, put nothing in his coffee. He held his cup close to his face, blowing across the coffee's surface to cool it. What was the correct procedure—cool the liquid first or mix it with something? What was the right proportion of cream to coffee—or was it merely a matter of personal taste? And what did one do with the sugar? Was it meant to be mixed in as well, or eaten in spoonfuls between sips?

"You'll probably want to taste it first," John said, before she'd decided which question to ask. "Just to see how you like it."

A matter of taste, then. Delenn smiled into her cup as she raised it to her lips. I might have guessed as much. Humans are so informal compared to Minbari, they have hardly any rituals at all. Strange, how often I forget that. I suppose because I feel so easy with them. We have so much in common, it is hard to remember the differences.

She took a cautious sip, then another. She held the second sip in her mouth for awhile, letting it linger on her tongue while she waited for the somewhat thin taste to catch up with the richness of the aroma. After a third sip, she began to realize that it wasn't going to. Perhaps she should add something to it. It wasn't unpleasant—certainly not "swamp muck"—but it wasn't nearly as luscious as the scent of it had led her to believe. She put her mug down and reached for the pitcher, just as David picked up a spoon.

"I think I need a little sugar." He dipped up a scant spoonful and stirred it into his coffee. "Nice to see you still make it strong."

John took a long swallow, clearly savoring the taste. "I like my coffee with a little backbone." He glanced at Delenn. "So how do you like it?"

"It is… interesting," she hedged. "Not quite what I expected."

"It's all right if you don't like it," he said. "You won't hurt my feelings. Much. I might sulk for a day or two, or maybe a week. Ten days at the outside. Well, okay, maybe a couple of weeks if you really hate it. But no more than that. Well, maybe a month—"

She burst out laughing. "All right, you terrible man. You have made your point. And now, perhaps, I will try a little half-and-half or sugar, and see if that helps."

It did; a dollop of half-and-half gave the coffee a richness that made it far more palatable to Delenn's taste buds. She promised to take David up on his offer to make her Turkish coffee, though she couldn't help wondering what she had let herself in for. It couldn't be too dreadful, she reasoned; so far, she'd enjoyed every dish David had made. If there was time before the wedding, and if she could find all the right ingredients, and if she could bring herself to ask such labors of Lennier, perhaps she would invite him to a ritual dinner. He certainly merited the honor. In less than two weeks, he would become her father—and then he would be gone, and it would be too late. The way things had been going, they might well not see him again—though she would keep hoping otherwise.

David lingered long enough for a second cup of coffee, then bade them a cheerful goodnight. As John walked away from the closing door and back toward the center of the sitting room, he found his thoughts turning toward the wedding day—a scant twelve days from now, he realized with mild shock. Twelve days to deliver all the invitations to the Rangers and prospective guests on-station, to make the arrangements with Brother Theo and whomever Delenn chose as co-officiant for the ceremony, to put the finishing touches on the ceremony itself and to set up some kind of reception for afterwards. Which meant they'd need to see about food and drink and space… He sighed and scrabbled at his hair. So many complexities for such a simple thing—the formal declaration of love between him and the woman who held his heart. Sometimes it seemed as if it should be enough just to speak a few well-chosen words while gazing deep into her eyes…

Oh, well. At least I don't have to go hunting for a tux!

A pair of strong, slender arms wrapped around him from behind, and a warm body pressed against his back. "Such a sigh," Delenn murmured against his neck. "Tell me what world weighs so heavily on your shoulders."

He turned to face her, full of love and contentment. "I was just thinking about everything we have to do. And how little time we have to do it in."

"Then we had best get started." But she made no move to leave the circle of his arms.

"Invitations," he murmured, nuzzling her hair. She smelled of moonflowers, an odd but delicious scent halfway between apples and lemons. She lifted her face, and his lips found hers in a long and tender kiss. And another, and another…

Reluctantly, he pulled away a little after the fourth kiss. If they went on like this, they'd end up in bed… which he wouldn't mind at all, except that then they'd only have eleven days in which to get everything done. On the whole, he'd prefer to spend their wedding night awake and enjoying himself rather than catching up on the sleep he was going to need if they didn't get started on at least one of their many tasks.

"We've got work to do, love," he said, with a nod toward the cards and envelopes piled on the side-table. Some things you still did the old-fashioned way.

With a wistful grumble, she snuggled close in a last hug, then released him. "You're right. I wish you weren't." She scooped up a handful of invitations and passed them to him, then curled cross-legged in the corner of the sofa next to the table that held the remainder. "Why does twelve days suddenly seem like such an eternity?"

"Eternity?" He skootched the second side-table around in front of the sofa, so he could sit next to her while they worked. "We've got barely over a week to finish everything—including a party after the ceremony, which I completely forgot about… why are you smiling like that?"

"Don't worry about the celebration afterwards," she purred. "The Rangers have it well in hand."

He put down the envelope he was about to address. "Delenn, what—"

She smiled at him, in the way that meant he wouldn't get a word out of her, and tapped the envelope. "Never mind. Write."

An hour later, John gazed tiredly but triumphantly at the stack of completed invitations before him. Delenn was just putting the finishing touches on another. He watched her draw the thin brush she'd been using down the thick, cream-colored paper and then around in a delicate flourish. She made even the simple act of writing graceful, a ballet for the hands.

She was frowning at the envelope now, tapping her lips with the blunt end of the brush. Absent-mindedly, she began to chew on it. At John's quiet chuckle, she looked up. "What?"

"I used to chew on pencils and pens like that. Pencils were the best, because I could squish the eraser into all kinds of weird shapes." He rolled his shoulders to work the kinks out of them. "Lizzy and I had a debate once over whether the metal bands around erasers or the plastic bits at the ends of pens tasted better. I think I was eleven years old to her eight."

Delenn laid the brush down. "You miss her."

"Yeah. More than I'd've thought, sometimes." He stood up and stretched, savoring the feel of his back muscles cracking. "Kind of unusual among siblings that close in age, at least among humans—but Lizzy was never jealous of me, the way some kids get. Maybe because I was a boy instead of another girl, or maybe she was just born nice. She shared a lot. Of course, it probably helped that she could fight me to a standstill despite being three years younger—and I knew it, so I didn't cross her." He turned to smile at Delenn. "Someday, when all this nonsense with Clark is over, I'd love for you to meet her. And Mom. They'll love you as much as I do."

"I would like that." Her answering smile turned wistful. "I wish you could have known my father. You would have liked each other. He was curious about everything, just as you are, and with a heart as big as all of Minbar. He would gladly have welcomed you as a son."

He sat back down next to her and took her hand. "You've come quite a ways from your family, haven't you?"

She tucked herself into the curve of his arm in lieu of reply. "Maybe your mother will come after all," he continued after a pause.

"I don't think so." She looked up at him with a wry smile. "She has no obligation to. We are not even kin, by formal reckoning." At his curious look, she settled more comfortably against him and continued. "When one joins the Sisters of Valeria, one renounces all other kinship ties. The Sisterhood becomes family and clan, as it has done since the days of its founding. It came into being centuries before Valen, when our people still warred with one another. Clan feuds had gone on over this or that almost since the dawn of our history, and we had finally begun to sicken of it. The Sisterhood of Valeria was our first baby step on the road to ending the madness of war. Those chosen to join it swore allegiance to no clan, but to all Minbari everywhere, and to their fellow Sisters. That way they could use their gifts for all of Minbar, not simply to give one clan advantage over another."

"So your mother had to… renounce being your mother?"

Delenn nodded. "But a mother remains a mother in certain ways, whatever tradition may say. She gave me life; no tradition can change that. And so I asked her presence and her blessing at our wedding in acknowledgment, to honor her as a daughter should. She will likely respond in much the same way; she will thank me and wish us well, but no more."

He hugged her gently. "I'm sorry."

"For what?" She reached up to touch his cheek. "We will pledge our hearts surrounded by friends. That is all I ask."

He kissed her forehead, then released her. "I should let you finish up that last one and get out of here. You look like you can barely keep your eyes open."

She stifled a yawn as she picked up the brush again. "It has been a very long day. And I think the coffee did not help. I have felt very sleepy since drinking it… what are you smiling at?"

"You," he said, chuckling. "Everybody else gets woken up by coffee. You go to sleep. You're just not like anybody else, are you?"

"No," she said, with an impish smile and a proud lift of her chin.

"Thank goodness." He brushed his fingers across her cheek, then stood. "How about a cup of tea before you go?"

"Please." Now her smile held a touch of shyness. "I find I am reluctant to let the evening end… even if I am too tired to do anything but talk awhile."

"Remind me not to feed you coffee next time, then." They shared a last, affectionate grin—then he went to the kitchenette to put the kettle on.

Chewing once more on the end of her brush, Delenn watched him go. As he busied himself with tea-making, she picked up the last envelope. She dipped her brush in fresh ink and carefully wrote the name of Michael Garibaldi.