Resonating Light

By Spirit-hime

Chapter 3

***

It was only in the chill hours of morning, when the light seeped, cold and weak, through the dusty window, and the platinum clouds hid the breaking dawn from the eyes of Tokyo, that he finally began to stir. Kunzite had sat with him through the long hours of the night, had watched the sky gradually brighten as the minutes ticked by; the only sign that time was actually passing.

The black-haired Prince groaned softly, stirring beneath the blankets. The movement brought on a sharp gasp of pain, and Kunzite was already by his side, hand gently stroking his face. "Shh, it's alright now. Just lie still." His voice was a deep, soft growl that was warm and comforting like velvet.

Endymion's eyes opened slightly, and those deep blue eyes like spheres of polished sapphires met his, so identical to the eyes that he remembered that Kunzite's breath caught in his throat. He looked dazed as he stared at his surroundings, and Kunzite could see that he was not entirely awake.

"Endymion-sama?" That sharp blue gaze returned to his face, piercing even despite the sleep that lingered in them. The Prince stared at him a few moments, seeking some sort of recognition.

And then the recognition came, and--to Kunzite's own horror--fear. He could see it in the way that his eyes suddenly widened, the way his breathing, already a little labored, quickened, and the color drained from his already pale face. Kunzite realized what it must look like--that the man who had attempted to kill his beloved, who had nearly killed him, who was the very reason for him being in this position right now, was looming over him, and he himself was injured and defenseless. Kunzite suddenly felt himself flood with sympathy for the man, though it had been a very long time since he had felt such a thing.

"Don't be afraid," he said quickly. "No one's going to hurt you. You're safe here."

"Who are you?" The Prince asked groggily, still watching the white-haired man with a mixture of fear and mistrust.

"My name's Kunzite. I'm your--I'm a friend. You have nothing to fear from me. I won't harm you." He could see that his words were having very little effect--and why should they? For all his Prince knew, he really was the enemy. "Please believe me," he continued softly, almost desperately. "I know what you must think of me, but I swear to you, I am no enemy of yours. I'm here to help you."

"Where's... where's Usako?" He glanced around the empty room, as though she may be hiding in a corner somewhere.

"Usako? Is that... Princess Serenity? Don't worry, she's safely with her guardians. You protected her well. She's completely unharmed."

"Serenity. I remember..."

"Yes?" Kunzite prompted. He needed his Prince to remember. Not just Serenity, but everything. He needed to know who he was, what he was capable of. And he hoped, a little selfishly perhaps, that some part of him would remember his old guardian.

Anything the black-haired Prince was about to say dissolved behind another wince of pain. Kunzite sighed, laying a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "Don't worry about it now. Just get some rest. There will be time enough later to remember." Kunzite only hoped that was true.

"I... need to get to her... Serenity..." He was already slipping out of consciousness, despite his own protests.

Kunzite ran his fingers through the thick strands of black hair. "It's alright, Prince. Sleep now. Just sleep." His eyes slid closed, lapis lazuli vanishing behind thick eyelashes, and Kunzite could feel him sink back into the dark, dreamless void of the physically exhausted.

The white-haired man sat back on his heels, swallowing his disappointment. At least he was making some sort of progress. Despite how badly he had been injured the night before, it looked like he really would pull through. Kunzite did not dare feel any sort of relief at this thought, however. He did not dare to have much hope for anything, at this point.

And now, as before, there was nothing left to do but wait. But unlike the long, bleak waiting of the dark hours of the night, the daylight, dim though it was, brought with it a sort of optimism, and a newfound sense of purpose. He became restless, no longer content to merely sit by in the shadows. He paced the room, watched the streets through the dusty little window, repeatedly checked his barrier for flaws. No longer weighed down by the shadows of the night, he found himself searching for any menial task available in order to keep his mind and hands occupied.

The sun scaled the vast platinum dome outside, finally making a sparkling appearance through a ragged patch of blue. He had wiped most of the caked dust from the window, though it seemed that nothing could wash away the thin brownish layer of grime that coated it, and swept away the piles of dirt that covered the floor. Goodness knows how a building could fall into such disuse in Tokyo, where wasting space was almost considered a sin, but Kunzite did not ask questions. Records showed that it was not set to be demolished for some time, so as long as they remained undiscovered, the place was theirs to inhabit for the time being.

The young Prince spent much of the time in his unconscious stupor, the sound of his slow, rhythmic breathing the only sign of life out of him. A few moments brought him back to the waking world, but these times were brief, flickers in the dark, and Kunzite was unable to get any more words out of him after that first conversation. At the very least, he seemed to be improving, and by the time late afternoon rolled around, and the sun was beginning its warm, comfortable descent, even Kunzite had to allow himself to believe that his prince was going to live.

***

When he opened his eyes, the first sight that greeted him was the golden evening light that tumbled through the grimy little window, catching little dust motes and scattering long shadows about the room. The room itself was small, unfurnished save the soft Japanese futon he was neatly tucked into, and smelled of dust and old age. The walls must have been white once, but were now various shades of yellow and brown, with a vast assortment of cracks and signs of water damage near the ceiling. Though the faded wood floor seemed to have been recently swept, he could still see the thick cobwebs higher up, tangled amongst the shadows. At the moment, he was the room's only inhabitant.

He had no idea how long he had been here, or for how long he had been out. Memories twisted at his gut: blinding light and unbearable pain and strange new emotions that had been lying dormant for what seemed his entire life, and Her...

Chiba Mamoru squeezed his eyes shut, taking a firm rein on his thoughts. No, best not to get worked up just yet. He needed to clear his head, needed to assess the situation, needed to think. Carefully, he laid out the issue in his mind, framing and organizing the information, as though his near-mortal encounter, the discovery of his soulmate, his memories spanning thousands of years and more, his possible kidnapping by an evil organization bent on world domination, were all merely facts in a typical textbook equation.

The future doctor in him won the argument for most important issue, and he immediately turned his attention to his injuries. Breathing was still a painful experience, and he tentatively ran a hand across the source of the sharp pain in his left shoulder. The wound was probably deep, and fell just shy of his heart--not exactly the healthiest place to be struck by a giant beam of energy--but, to his own surprise, was already neatly bandaged and cared for. Well, of course. How else could I survive an injury like that? Still, the revelation was rather disconcerting. Why injure him, capture him, and then treat the same injury that they had inflicted upon him in the first place?

Which brought him to the next important issue on his list. Unless that memory of the white-haired man kneeling over him was merely a dream, then there was no doubt as to where he was right now. Granted, this decrepit, crumbling room hardly looked the way that he would expect the Dark Kingdom to look, but who could account for evil's taste in interior design? And if that was the case, then he was, as some of his classmates would have called it, in deep shit. The fact that they had treated his wounds did very little to ease his fears; if anything, it was even more unnerving. He had seen war movies, darn it; he knew what was done to torture victims. If they wanted him alive, then obviously they planned to use him for something. Perhaps he was being used as a hostage, in which case, Usako might be bargaining for his life even as he lay here. Or maybe they planned to extract information from him, though there was only one important piece of information that he knew he needed to hide, and that was Sailor Moon's identity. His thoughts froze there. Had he inadvertently mentioned her name already? He could not remember anything that was said when he had woken up. He knew that he had been worried for her--of course he had--but what if, in his incoherent state, he had let her other, more secret name slip?

Either way, the damage may have already be done, and there was little he could do about it now. The important thing was to concentrate on getting out. He may not have had the strength of a sailor senshi, but he still had some of his own tricks, and he would not sit idly by while these hellish creatures used him for their sadistic purposes.

He began to push himself up off the futon, and nearly fell back again as the room did a flip-flop around him. He gritted his teeth, pushing himself up despite the throbbing, grinding pain that twisted at his frame and the nausea-inducing lightheadedness that caused the floor to lurch beneath him. When his vision began to fade into blackness and he felt his limbs go weak, he knew he had no choice but to stop. Panting and shaking through the sweat that glistened on his tanned skin, he slumped back against the wall behind him, halfway into a sitting position. Stars danced behind his eyelids, little fireworks bursting in white and purple and red. It was no use; he could no more get himself to his feet than he could launch himself to the moon. Escaping in this condition was pretty close to impossible right now; not unless it involved someone carrying him past the Dark Kingdom defenses on a gurney.

Bunching his hand into an angry fist, he pounded the wall behind him, sending a flurry of broken plaster sprinkling to the floor. No matter what he did, no matter who he had once been or who he was supposed to be now, he was still completely helpless. He was alone in the dark, blind and voiceless, and as before, completely useless. He clutched at the floor, willing himself to sit up or lay down or do something, but all Mamoru could do was remain panting against the cold wall, waiting for his breathing to even out, and for someone to appear and carry out whatever sadistic plans they had for him.

Nothing made him feel more pathetic.

***

Kunzite carefully mounted the dilapidated stairs, keeping an eye out for that one broken step that had nearly sent him sprawling on the way down. At least they were climbable; it would certainly be a waste of energy to have to hover his way up the stairwell every time he bothered to go for a food run.

A plastic bag rustled at his side, its contents sending a wide assortment of mouthwatering aromas wafting throughout the deserted hallways. He could not even remember the names of half the food items he now carried, but he knew some of them involved some form of noodle. He had no idea what sort of food his Prince would like now, and so had opted to buy a wide assortment of dishes from the nearby takeout place.

At some point during the day, it had occurred to him that his Prince would be hungry. This revelation had come partially out of his own unusual feeling of emptiness, which had rather confounded him at first. Eating was not a common practice at the Dark Kingdom--Metallia's energy offered somewhat of a replacement for normal food consumption, and being that only a very small fraction of the population was human, the regular finding and storing of food was considered a waste of time and energy, and thus was not encouraged. The Shitennou had still eaten purely for the enjoyment of it, and Beryl did like her wine, but it had been a long time since Kunzite had even thought about eating. Now his prolonged stay beyond the Dark Kingdom's borders was bringing back all those trivial aspects of human life that he had forgotten about, and that included regularly forcing oneself to consume something that resembled food, even if it did come from a greasy restaurant that smelled like old cooking oil.

He was not sure whether eating takeout for the next few days was the wisest move, but he had found the kitchen to be somewhat inadequate for fine dining, and for that matter, he could not remember the last time he had attempted to use a stove (or really, if he ever had). So for the sake of his Prince's wellbeing and his own dignity, buying all of their meals was probably the safest idea.

He had also realized, upon reaching the muggy, overheated streets and noticing a few curious glances, that walking around in public with a sweeping white cape--especially when one is six foot four, crowned in long white hair, and positively imposing even when among monsters that could give the most well-adjusted human being nightmares for a month if he so much as glared at them--is not highly recommended for blending into the streets of Tokyo. Thus, he also had to use some of that carefully-hoarded money to purchase a new shirt. The pants and boots of his typical grey uniform could stay, as they appeared rather ordinary, but the heavy jacket with the elaborate epaulettes and high collar, along with the cape that shone brilliantly in the sunlight, just simply would not do.

He now tugged uncomfortably at the royal blue shirt he wore (the nice sales lady had insisted that everyone was wearing them), feeling rather naked without the extra ten pounds of fabric hanging off of his shoulders. To make himself feel better, he left the top few buttons undone in a most finicky manner, even though this move seemed to earn him more looks from the female (and occasionally male) populace than it may have otherwise done. With the sleeves rolled up to relieve some of the intense heat of the Tokyo streets, he now felt like he resembled a bona fide human being.

Thus dressed, with the food bouncing at his side and the ancient floor creaking beneath him, he arrived at the closed door with the tarnished plastic doorknob--once transparent and shaped like a delicate crystal--and pushed it open.

He was awake. In fact, he was sitting up--in a sense--and looking far more conscious than Kunzite had seen him in days. He turned when Kunzite entered, his movements hindered by his injuries, but the controlled swiftness still betraying that athletic agility that seemed to come so easily to him. His eyes, no longer dulled by pain and fatigue, shot straight up at Kunzite's face, so sharply that Kunzite nearly stumbled back. No longer were they flooded with the helpless, miserable fear of a cornered animal. Instead, they were hardened into knives of blue ice, a chilling sort of hatred frozen in their depths. There was no anger there, no irrational passion. Just cold, cold hatred.

Kunzite had been around a long time. He had inhabited the depths of Hell--for, he was certain, that was what the Dark Kingdom really was--had seen entire kingdoms crushed to rubble, had seen human beings murdered in cruel and unthinkable ways. Very few things could shake him, he thought. But this... this bitter, icy, relentless gaze seemed to shake him to his very soul.

The room felt infinitely colder now, and he nearly shivered in response. But somehow he managed to collect his scattered thoughts, which had haphazardly strewn themselves about the room in the wake of that terrifying glare, and stuffed them back into place, focusing his mind on something slightly more constructive than squirming like a pinned insect below his Prince's silent wrath.

"Thought you might be hungry," he said vaguely after a sharp clearing of his throat, starting towards the man who sat propped against the crumbling wall. He crossed through the beams of golden evening light, dust motes parting around him before wafting back into their slow, drifting pattern. The dark haired Prince said nothing; merely continued to lock Kunzite beneath those sharp blue sapphires, boring holes through him as though he were no more substantial than the air around him. Despite his weak and disheveled appearance, his somewhat humble position on the floor, and his compromising situation, it seemed as though he was the one looking down on the Dark Kingdom soldier, and not the other way around.

Neither had removed his gaze from the other's eyes, silver stubbornly meeting blue, but now Kunzite broke the contact off, using the action of kneeling down as an excuse to glance away. He looked his Prince over--carefully avoiding those eyes, which seemed to sting him every time he dared glance their way. He certainly looked better than he had before. Color had begun to return to his cheeks, and his breathing did not appear quite as painful. Still, his position against the wall did not look the least bit comfortable, and Kunzite suspected that he was still too weak to help himself much in that respect.

He pushed the bag of food out of the way, leaning forward. "Here, let me--" his hand paused in the process of reaching out, because at the moment his hand had come anywhere near the black-haired Prince, the man started, as if burned. The eyes still bore their inexorable cerulean chill, ever fixed on Kunzite, but his breathing had quickened, and Kunzite could see the rapid pulse pounding in that soft part of his throat. So some part of him really was still frightened, even if the rest of him was fearless.

Kunzite retracted his hand slowly, uncertain of how to respond. Shifting uncomfortably beneath the unceasing gaze, he turned back to the bag of food next to him and busied himself with emptying its contents. The man watched him steadily the entire time, as he focused intently on the task of opening containers and setting them out on the floor.

"Why am I here?"

The question came so abruptly that Kunzite nearly dropped the little styrofoam container of udon in his hand. He carefully righted it, thankful that the lid was still on. "You don't remember me, do you Endymion-sama?"

"Of course I remember you," the black-haired Prince spat. "The guy who tried to kill the girl I--who tried to kill Sailor Moon. How could I forget?"

Kunzite set the container of udon next to the others, watching the fat little buckwheat noodles floating in their sauce. He wondered how he had really intended to finish that sentence before he stopped himself. The girl you what, Prince? Love? I know you love her. Everyone knows that.

"You never answered my question. What am I doing here?"

He glanced up at the Prince he was sworn to protect--though it was only a glance--before continuing with his task as though it were gravely important. "Because you were badly injured," he answered gruffly. It seemed like a silly answer, somehow, but he could find no other answer to give without launching into an hour-long explanation. And Endymion definitely was not ready for that yet.

The black-haired man seemed to be trying to digest this. "You captured me because I was injured?" He asked, rather disbelieving. "Or do you mean that my being injured is what enabled you to capture me?"

Kunzite shook his head at a container of vegetables. "You were not captured. You were rescued." He set the container on the floor, lining it up next to the others. "And your injury would have left you vulnerable to much more than being transported to the other end of town, let me assure you."

"So this isn't the Dark Kingdom," the Prince said after a few moments of thought.

"Does this look much like the Dark Kingdom to you?"

"Don't know. What does a kingdom composed of slimy, ugly scum, not to mention youma, look like?" The black-haired man asked scathingly.

Kunzite knew he was trying to bait him, but he was not buying it. "Much darker. Hence the name."

"Then what is this place? And what am I doing here, if not in the Dark Kingdom?"

"This is a refuge. And I told you what you're doing here. You're here to recover from your injuries."

There was a tense silence, in which Kunzite found himself lining up packets of soy sauce in a neat row. He could still feel those eyes like a weight on the top of his head.

"Do you expect me to believe that?" It was not really a question, or even an accusation. Merely an observation, made with all the cool sureness of an expert in the field. "You must think that I've forgotten just who I was fighting against before, or that my injuries have rendered me incapable of thinking rationally. You'd be a fool to think that."

"You're probably right in that respect. You may believe whatever you want, but there is much that you don't know yet. Perhaps you should wait to hear the full story before making judgments."

"Enlighten me, then."

Kunzite again glanced up, evenly meeting that glacial stare. "Later, perhaps. When you're feeling better."

"Where are the rest of my clothes?"

"Folded up in the other room. You can have them back, if you like, but I doubt that laying around in a full tuxedo and cape would be especially comfortable, especially given their rather bloodstained condition. I suppose if you undid your transformation, you'd have another set of clothes at your disposal." Judging from the slight flare of anger on the black-haired man's face, this was the wrong thing to say. Of course--Endymion's transformation was the only thing protecting his normal, civilian identity from being discovered. Even without the mask and half of his outfit, he was still protected by that strong magic that protected all sailor senshi, so that even a casual glance at him on the street would prevent his enemies from recognizing him. His Prince probably figured that this was one of the few lines of defense that he had left. Kunzite nodded. "I see. Well maybe we can get ahold of some more comfortable clothes for you later on. Now, I think it would be wise if you got some food in your stomach." He placed a set of chopsticks, sealed in their little paper wrapper, in front of the carefully arranged array of food.

The man's eyes left him for the first time, casting a distrustful glance at the meal that had been laid out before him.

"If my intent was to harm you, I would have done it by now," Kunzite said carefully. "Poisoning your food would hardly be the most efficient means of killing you."

The Prince still made no move to eat, and the white-haired man sighed, gathering up the bag containing the meager portion that would pass for his own meal, and rising to his feet.

"You can't keep me here," the Prince said decisively.

"I don't doubt it. But I intend to try." He stepped towards the door, heavy boots stomping hollowly across the bare floor. "You'd best eat something. You need your strength." Then, without even a glance back at the dark-haired Prince, he retreated to the dark hallways, away from the room with the dust motes dancing in the golden sunbeams.

The moment the door clicked closed behind him, Kunzite slumped against the wall, drinking in a deep, steadying breath from the cool, dark air. That chilling hatred. How could he have remained in the same room as those intense ice-blue eyes another second? If his Prince had been angry, if he had shouted and demanded and flooded the room with righteous anger, that he could take. But this, this silent contempt...

He swallowed, getting ahold of himself. No one ever said that protecting the Prince of the Earth would be easy, after all.

With his hand decisively clenched around the bag, he dragged himself through the gloomy corridor to the adjacent room where he would eat his own solitary meal and figure out how either of them would survive the next few days.