* Withered leaves tumble from dying trees along a forlorn path,
Gentle voices raised in child's song, lullabies of old,
Though void of sheltering greens, reds, and gold
The bare branches still form a canopy of night,
Shadows bending down to enfold those banished from grace,
Pools of bitter dark ice to swallow up those forsaken,
The wind is howling, a voice of horrid accusation,
Walk softly, for you walk among the dead …
The Grail has become her urn …
I bear the bell of atonement,
It is for me that the cursed bell tolls *
* * *
WEAKENED BY DESIRE
* * *
They claim I have a heart of ice, impervious to feelings of compassion, remorse, love …they say I am hard, bitter, a she-devil of power and might, consumed by the need for revenge and the lust of battle, of blood and sacrifice and horror. They taunted and twisted my own perceptions of myself as much as everyone else's, they broke my trust, betrayed my loyalty, damned me and those who were still true. I, with hair of golden stardust, of dark eyes a penetrating blue, I wielding the great sword of ages hence, I a martyr of love and faith. Upon the wings of Death, I am lifted, a scent of rot and overripe blossoms heady in the air, a tumultuous sky swollen with rain and threatening a rampage of thunderous noise and jagged spears to be thrown across the sky. My voice, the last thing heard by living creatures before death, my howls of agony, anguish, demands for retribution. Justice at my hand, truth by my side, I carry conviction, I carry my own anathema… the deadly blade secure in my steely grip. They lie and gossip, casting shady glances to the shadow of Death herself, my touch rumoured to be the icy chill sending shivers down the spine, my hauntingly beautiful face the last thing seen by those condemned to death …either twisted by rage, or without any expression at all. I am a beast, a cold-blooded murderer, beyond regret and beyond anything but my ever lasting quest to avenge what I could not guard.
Do you know …I think they could be right.
For countless aeons I have wandered amongst the stars, occasionally visiting the small blue and green planet I once called home, and sometimes I find myself looking instinctively for the glorious crystal spires in the distance, the gleaming city of peace and prosperity promised us by fate and destiny and all that righteous, sweet-sounded bull. I am not the only one to have undergone a startling transformation of course.
The dark black skirts are normal now, though missed are the rainbow colors of old, and the soft grey-almost white tunics have been stained so many times with blood that even cleansed, after they become once we have powered down, I still can see the marks of life lost, lifeblood spilt. Of course, it is never as bad as it was that first time, when we emerged drenched with blood, our outfits all crimson and black, our hair matted with the sticky substance that courses through the veins, our skin caked with drying, chipping blood. It was disgusting and terrible, and now it is merely a memory that stirs nothing more than a vague sickness in my stomach.
The wings are strong and powerful, like those of the angels depicted in tales of old, but they too are black, darker than pitch, almost greasy in appearance and somewhat equivalent to the wings of ravens. I suppose it would have been she who made that connection first, not that it matters. Strange, how they all still have the bows, one of azure, one of crimson, one of pale gold, one of emerald …the Thunder Maiden wears hers in her hair, holding up that pony-tail still, a symbol of forgotten youth perhaps. The Ice Queen has hers drawn tight about her throat, the color somehow seeming as faded as the chilling fragments of ice in her gaze. The Fire Warrioress has hers bound loosely in her wealth of lustrous violet-black hair, she looking like a vengeful wraith in a black-and-white painting. Mine once …ah well, it has fluttered away on the winds of time since then.
Those who were once so distant, we gradually began to understand that we were farther than they. My counterpart, who could both be my gravest of adversaries and my dearest of friends, the child-like fighter never without her Glaive. The Timeless One, with eyes so sad and empty, standing alone as always, though now we all stand by ourselves. The woman with the close-cropped, messy blond hair and the easy laughter, she laughs no more, nor do smiles grace her lovely face, strangers to she as they are to the rest of us. And the soft-seeming one, who truly had more backbone and conviction than her lover, who passed herself off as the tough one, she has still her violin, and I remember the final dying notes of that endless day, echoing always in my mind.
There are some who believe he has become worse than I, and those who think otherwise. The advisors have no say in the matter any longer, they long ago gave up their right to guide us, they long ago realized the futility of it all. I remember bearing them to the cold, dead silver sphere in the Earth heavens, I remember standing before a place full of memories and ghosts, and I remember using the dreadful blade to slice my arms in the ancient pledge binding my life and soul to this one last duty. He never did that.
He relinquished his tie to the Dream Warder, abandoning his throne to vines and jet-black petals. The roses, with silver stem and jagged leaves, with dark blossoms and crimson thorns likened to the tears he could never shed once the violin's singing had ceased. He wholly embraced the silent, dangerous shadow that had been nipping at his heels since his first life ended in a blaze of pain and wrenching loss. He is more dispassionate than I, we all believe him to no longer feel a thing, but I am still regaled as being Death Incarnate.
I, Sailor Venus, the Senshi of Love, so gentle and kind and pure. I, the golden girl almost twin to the daughter of the moon. I, her first-sworn defender, the General of the Senshi, the one bound to the blade while still within the cradle. I, one of her closest friends, the first to take up the wings of pitch and yet the last to allow the candle of hope to flicker out. I, who killed Beryl, who stood my ground countless times over so she could defeat what was beyond my power to maim. I, who unlike her could never quite grasp forgiveness, who could never quite hold tight to love. I, named by the Senshi who still stand at my side and at my back, as the quintessence of heartless destruction and gruesome torture.
When *she* fell …I could scarcely see for the tears, burning and bright, would not clear my eyes. When I failed to do my duty, when I failed to reach her quick enough, failed to steal death from her by taking it into myself. Something within me broke with the Ginzuishou as it shattered into thousands of glittering shards before turning to powder and dust and eventually nothing before even touching the ground. Something appalling torn loose from its cage within my spirit, my soul, my honor and my heart, something that enveloped me in an explosion of brilliant white, dripping red, and vacant black. Something that ripped my humanity to shreds, that allowed me to take a step outside myself, allowed me to rid myself of pity, sympathy, guilt …all that had made me weak and hesitant, all that had helped me succeed in failing my best friend, my Queen, my Usa-chan, my sweet Selenity.
Sorrow clings close about my heart still, like a heavy mantle I cannot shake free, sorrow that has a tight grip, like a vise, upon my black, wretched heart, sorrow that cannot produce tears to cleanse the unseen blood from my cheeks, sorrow that cannot make tears to wash away the dirt from my clean hands. Sorrow and duty are all I have left. Duty to make right what once went wrong; to force others to feel the loss I have known. And yet, I know it is impossible, my doom is secure.
After she falls, like Selenity of old, I will be completely drained, given into the eternal peace of death. I am sure I will suffer for a long, long time in the deepest, dankest pits of Hell, and I cannot help but admit to yearning for that. I will never ascend to the Heaven that harbours the angel taken from us so many years ago. None of us save perhaps her King, her soul mate and one true, her one and only love. I doubt even he. Fate is a cruel mistress, and destiny likely more unfeeling and uncaring than Endymion – Mamoru… probably worse than I. I deserve such ghastly caretakers however, for the vile deeds I have committed since *her* passing.
I am hollow, an entity of callous disregard for prayers whispered before the blade of justice silences the tongues, the Angel of Death – chosen handmaiden of the demons who have haunted my life since before I was even born. I have let myself become obsessed with the idea that atonement will come, that *her* death will not be allowed to go unpunished. They pronounce my crimes, and they tell of the pitiable creature I have become. I am a fiend, a bitch; I am like no terror that has ever been unleashed upon mankind, upon those who stole away our bright and shining future. They all agree that unspeakable things have occurred, and that we are all responsible, I above all others. They state with quiet voices how I have sunken low, how I now tread the inevitable path staked out for me at the moment of *her* sudden passing. They belittle the name I once held proudly, and they demand nothing that I can give them, they insist upon my weary acceptance of what they have all bought into themselves. I must acknowledge who I was, whom I am, how I have changed. I must face my jurors at the gates of eternity. I must reopen a grievous wound that has never fully healed. I am something that cannot be allowed to exist any longer, a foul testament to the worst fate of mankind, only accessible along a path none should have to walk.
The senshi, I believe, are right.
* * *
THE END
* * *
Well, as everyone can tell, this is a dark story about Minako, something that I didn't really expect to crawl forth from the recesses of my mind …but you can never tell, really. There are many questions in here that I have left for the readers to answer for themselves as they like and I would appreciate some responses to this story. Generally, I see Sailor Moon & Co. as having a lighter air than most anime shows, certainly more so than Cowboy Bebop, it to me is usually a story about love, friendship, people standing by each other in desperate times and proving that there is at least a little bit of good in everyone – well, most everyone. I feel sort of bad now, Minako has always seemed to me to be one of the sadder, more troubled senshi, despite the bubbly blonde exterior she has in the dubbed version – the only version I know, save for the manga text. I've always felt that Minako is a capable leader with a mind for strategy and, like all of the senshi, a devotion to the princess and their duty of protecting her. Minako is certainly not as foolish and stupid as she has been portrayed in the dubbed version, but then again, the majority of the characters are horribly mangled in that version. Anyway, this is just something I thought that Minako would think about, if the future took a detour down a dead-end street. Oh, and the poem at the beginning is also a creation of mine.
Hugs, kisses and sweet *day*dreams ~ Aldrean Treu Peri, Neo-Moon Guardian ~
See you, Space Cowboy!