Work Text:
He talks to her, sometimes, after she is recalled to Earth, but it isn’t “talking” in the traditional sense of the term—at times when Lyta is stressed, she feels a pull of calm flower in her stomach, spreading through her bloodstream like holy infection. It’s like she has swallowed an enlightening substance—the kind that makes you feel God in each pang of your heart and in each pang of your hunger, the kind of substance too dangerous to bring up around the wrong people. Enveloped in his light, in his song, she falls into slumber every empty night. No one has ever sung to her. Kosh is the first—in so many ways.
He talks to her in different hues, ephemeral flashes of outside emotion. The intensity, at times, is too unbearable to handle—when she opens that door in her mind, some beautiful serenity hits her like a transport crash and she cannot allow herself to relax. She can’t; it’s too harrowing. But she feels something at his song—something like a Knowing, a lull that winds vines around her, holds her in the place of comfort. It shouldn’t be like this—-she does not have a Vorlon inside of her, she is simply Lyta Alexander—but she has a Knowing.
Kosh is the first. He exists, writhing within her, hiding himself at all the right times and showing his presence in the mildest of ways—almost invisible, as if he is morning dew on the Earth trees she has missed for so long, as if he is a brush of skin into skin, her faint sign of life. She doesn’t know how or why—it makes everything easier, life in uniform order. She has the box and she peers in and she tries to sing along, but she can’t quite match the tune.