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President John Sheridan strode confidently into his quarters, stopping abruptly at the sight that greeted him. Scattered about the floor, tables and countertops were volumes upon volumes of his family's history. His usually composed wife stood in the center of the chaos, frazzled beyond what John would have ever believed.
"Delenn?" he questioned, concern apparent in his features and in his voice.
"It is missing, John," she cried, grabbing up another stack of the bound tomes, quickly thumbing through them. "You must help me!"
John took a step, tripping forward on a half-hidden pile near the door. "Ooof," escaped his lips, but he righted himself before his wife saw him. "What's missing? What's going on here?"
"The Seventh Chronicle." Delenn dropped her current search, looking forelornly at her husband. "I was going to put your legacy in order and in an honored place," she tried to calmly explain. "But 7 is missing!" She began to wildly search around for a new storage box to continue with.
John leaned on the table, trying to find an answer to what was going on in his quarters, but stopped as his hand rested upon an open booklet. He closed it, grinning as he saw the cover design. "Uh, Delenn," he interrupted her digging. "It's right here." He held it with the cover clearly visible to his wife.
The Minbari sighed in exasperation at her love's denseness. "Of course that is there, John," she declared. "I placed it there myself."
"Then what's the problem?" John frowned.
She took the book from his hands and holding it between her thumb and middle finger, shook it vigorously. "Where is the rest of it?!"
"The rest of...? Oh!" He finally understood. "Delenn," he started, taking her by the shoulders and steering her to the couch. After removing the mess from it, they sat down. "This is all there was this year."
"This cannot be, John," she announced knowingly. "You said this volume contained chronicles by Catherine the Bald -- and there is nothing. I realize it has been a while since I have been able to continue my reading of your family history, but I distinctly recall that much. And," she emphasized dramatically, "look at the size of this one. It is, it is... it is puny!"
John chuckled, amused by her remembering the hair-pulling out comment and, where had she learned such a word, probably from Garibaldi. "Oh, well, that was my fault," he admitted. "I used to know these backwards and forwards, but it's been so long, and so much has happened, I got 7 and 8 confused. Cathy pretty much wrote number 8 by herself."
"Ah." Delenn relaxed a bit. "So, I have worried for nothing that I lost part of your legacy, when it is only that you are getting old and losing your memory."
"Hey, I have a lot on my mind these days," he defended, pulling her close to kiss her and change the subject. Delenn began to return the embrace, pausing only long enough to place the book in a safe place.
Several minutes later, when they slowly parted, grinning like children at each other, Delenn picked up her questioning. "But why is the volume so small?" she asked.
John sighed at her persistence. "Actually, it's because of Cathy. Legend has it that number 7 was the largest to date, but a jealous colleague or advisor -- or someone -- wanted to stop her from fulfilling her destiny as a Michaels' chronicler and managed to get some kind of legal action against Cathy publishing." John looked perplexed. "Everything slated to be included in 7 from Cathy had to be pulled. But it was straightened out by the next year and Cathy's stories filled number 8."
"John, that is the dumbest thing I have ever heard," the Minbari stated emphatically. "What kind of explanation is that?"
"Well...," he leaned in conspiratorially, scanning his quarters dramatically for the slightest hint of eavesdroppers. "I have heard rumors that it was a small year because career over-workloads, pregnancies, natural disasters, family interferences and exhaustion took its toll on the writers..." He resumed his normal speaking voice. "But I have to go with the official explanation, because if there is another truth, it's buried deep in our past."
"All right." His wife seemed reluctant to accept it, but finally acquiesced. "Then I suppose I will have to see who was able to get the job done." She flipped open Relativity 7. "Elaine thanks some of my favorites -- Erin and Gina and Maura. Oh," Delenn declared delightedly, "there are new writers -- Joanne and Sheila! How exciting."
Glancing over Delenn's shoulder, John read Elaine's Twenty Minutes of Apologies, "Mariann Howarth and Cathy -- they are some of the best artists," John continued. "Even with all the silly legal hassles, Cathy did an outstanding job proofreading again! Elaine says they were so lucky to have her as always!"
"That is still the most absurd excuse I've ever heard," Delenn muttered under her breath.
John ignored his wife's comments, trying not to grin. "And Elaine has the usual great stuff to say about Jill!"
"Well, I suppose I have my evening planned, John." She settled back into the couch with Relativity 7.
"Hey, what about this mess?" John surveyed what had been a very tidy home only a few hours earlier.
"That is so sweet of you to offer to finish putting the volumes in order," she answered absently. "I've cleared that bookcase over there for them." She pointed, then stopped, glancing up at her husband. "What purpose does reading the words backwards achieve? Is it a spiritual journey? An exercise in logic? Or is it just a human thing?"
"What?" John asked for what seemed the hundredth time since he'd walked into his quarters.
"You said you knew the historys backwards and forwards. For what purpose?" she repeated.
He opened his mouth to explain, but stopped. "Spiritual," he announced wisely, knowing the energy was better saved for the job ahead.
"Thank you, John." Delenn returned to her reading.
President John Sheridan paused long enough to kiss his wife on the top of her head before taking on one of the more enormous tasks of his life since the war.
Elaine Gustainis