Disclaimer: Once again, I don't own Sailor Moon and am not making money off of it.
Author's Notes: This time, it's from Jaedite's POV. This whole work is a great exercise in control over verb tenses. No one cares, but pay close attention to the switches between past perfect and present and imperfect… Ok, I'm a dork.
I've decided to make this a 3 part story of vignettes. Depending on how long my burst of creativity lasts, I may choose to do something about Minako and Kunzite.
Also, thanks to those of you who reviewed. I really appreciate it. I don't like ransoming work for reviews, but I understand why authors do it. It's nice to know that someone enjoys your work. But, on to the story!
+ + + + + + +
It is because she did not cry that he is afraid.
At every other parting she had wept. Never begged him to stay, for she had too much dignity, but there had been tears. She had shown her weakness willingly.
This time, not a word. Not a shudder in her lips. Her embrace was cold.
They had fought before his departure, but she had not been angry when he had left. In fact, she had not been angry when they had fought. He had done the screaming.
"Why can't we try to change it?!"
"It will happen no matter what. I would prefer for it to happen in the way that I expect. I will die prepared."
"But perhaps we could prolong it. We could have another year, Rei. Another week, another day!"
But she had refused. Rei and her damned visions. He hates them, and he hates her. He hates the sword she gave him, though she presented it as a token of her love. But he knows she offered it to him because she saw it in her dreams. He believes she asked the swordsmith to cut the edge so fine that it might cut a falling hair. So that when it slices through her flesh, it will enter easily, and she will not feel it.
There is nothing but death in her embraces. In the months before, he could hear her gentle breathing and still think of the end.
Where will it happen? She did not tell him. When? She never tells him the details.
But it will be soon. That was evident from their farewell, and from before when he felt her slipping away. When he awoke to an empty bed. When her hand would pull away.
When she gave him this sword…
He holds it now, staring at the cold steel with an impassiveness that belies his true state of mind. The others think he is praying—preparing for the impending battle. He is, but not the battle close at hand. He thinks of one many months from now, or perhaps years. He hopes it is years.
He does not pray for honor in battle, but that her death will be quick when it comes. He prays that he will show mercy, that this blade will do its work well.
Love tells him to fight his future. Love tells him that he can.
But Rei…Rei does not believe it. Rei does not want to try.
Sometimes he feels the same way, just as he does now while sitting alone on his bunk, holding her sword, remembering the cold determination in her face and how she did not return his kiss. Enemy ships lurk nearby while he feels helpless, bereft of hope and love. Bereft of purpose, for what is the good of anything if she is right?
At this moment he believes he can be conquered. In moments like these he believes he can become her foe.
Perhaps prophecy fulfills itself. Perhaps the despair she has brought upon him will become his true undoing. What if he forgets everything she has told him? Tries to act as he would without knowing the future? Will it all be different then?
"Jaedite!" barks his general, taking him from his thoughts. "The battle has begun."
He sheaths the sword, but he does not hurry from his quarters. What he does is much more rash: He pauses before reaching to unclip the weapon from his belt, decides that it is not for this battle.
He hopes to return it to her. He hopes the blade will be unscratched, unused. Or even better, that it will be lost. Destroyed in battle. Then he will tell her that her vision was wrong. He will kiss her and she will kiss him back. He will feel the smile on her lips…
Yet, a warrior must have a weapon… He is unsure.
"Jaedite!"
He can debate no longer, but rushes from the cabin into the corridor. He sees not his friend, who called.
Fire is sweeping through the ship; his enemies are upon him. They are dark figures, cloaked in shadow, yet they and stand no chance against him. He unleashes his power, crying out against the wall of blackness, and it scatters backward into the flames. Laughing, he goes to find his brothers.
But there are so many; so many and so little space to maneuver. He cannot see the others. Still he fights. He takes a weapon lying on the floor, raises it to the ready. Two rush him from nowhere. He swings; they fall. Yet two more replace them, and two more and four and seven… The blade he holds is shattered. His feet propel him backward, but never the other way.
Eventually, his back slams against something solid. It is Zoicite's back. He sees Kunzite to his right, Nephrite to his left and a wall of his enemies coming closer. They are surrounded.
He smiles, still uncomprehending his danger, still fired by battle lust. He reaches for the weapon that hangs always at his side.
But the sword is not there…
It lies upon his bed, of no use to anyone.
And his enemies draw ever closer.