A/N: I don't own Sailor Moon. This fic is a continuation of "A Circle of Summer," which focuses on Makoto and Nephrite. This is a multi-chapter work.


Often, Ami dreamed of Galaxia, and the Cauldron at the heart of the universe.

She would dream that she stood shoulder-to-shoulder with her sisters, staring down Eternal Sailor Moon. Ami dreamt that she called upon the Aqua Rhapsody with her Mercury Harp. In the dream, Ami was ready to kill Sailor Moon, who wasn't even fighting back.

It had been two months since their most recent resurrection; two months and Ami still could not look her own reflection in the eyes. Two months of these dreams.

It was as though her mind was telling her, "Never forget. This is what you did. This is what you are capable of."

Sometimes Ami thought of her Mercury Harp; she yearned for the living instrument that seemed to be another part of her soul, the last artifact of her planet from the days of Silver Millennium. But she didn't dare to summon it. She dreaded the music it would draw from her fingers.

September dawned, but the heat of summer was slow to break. Ami's birthday loomed on the horizon. For the sake of her friends, Ami agreed to a night out. Really, for the sake of Usagi (who needed this joy, she had spent her last birthday alone, how could her Guardians let her down so badly?) It just so happened that Ami's was the next birthday after Galaxia's surrender. Just a matter of luck. Usagi wanted the celebration so badly. Ami could stand it.

Ami could stand it.

But how?

How could Ami look her sisters in the eye, after what she had done? How could she smile so hollowly and act like everything was fine?

The fact that she could manifestly look her sisters in the eye, the fact that life did go on, only baffled her further. The facts seemed to seethe in Ami Mizuno; her failure, life's continuance, Usagi's forgiveness. Even her brain couldn't reconcile them all.

Evening on September ninth found Ami curled up in front of her computer. She couldn't go on like this: she needed help of some kind. And rather than turn to her sisters (she couldn't face them, and that was another source of shame), Ami took refuge in the Internet, that vast anonymous ocean of information. On the Internet, people only knew what you told them.

With her signal scrambled, Ami surfed— a forum here, a study there. She rose and fell among currents of Japanese, French, English, whatever language she could read, even just a little.

It was past midnight on September tenth, her birthday, and she was rubbing at her eyes when she idly clicked a video on a francophone blog. An original composition, said the caption, based on an eighteenth-century French lament.

The tinned sound of a mandolin filled Ami's headphones. There was a beat, like the sound of feet hitting a pavement. The melody gave a sense of disconnect: going through the motions of your life while your inside is tearing apart. Your mind might scream, but still you have to hit the sidewalk and buy your daily bread.

Ami opened her eyes.

The screen focused on a mandolin, held in a pair of slim, pale hands. Ami glimpsed a sharp chin, and a fall of coppery-blond hair.

She began the video over again, this time listening more intently. The song seemed like a reflection of her own inner anguish. Tears sprang to her eyes, and she played the song a third time.

"I should go to bed," Ami thought, but she clicked a new video posted by "Zed."

Hmm, his username was "Zed," like the letter. Odd.

Zed opened the next video by saying, "This next song is rather more high-spirited. I like to think of myself as a pirate when I sing it. I yearn for the sea— the horizon— new worlds. Of course, you can travel far away, but you always bring along your own demons." He sang, "In the port of Amsterdam, where the sailors all meet…"

This song by Jacques Brel conjured up a seaside port, a miserable meeting-place of souls that had given up their light. The way Zed sang— Ami felt a strange kinship. She heard the questions she had asked herself so often. What was the point of pretending? What use were vows, beauty, honor? What did it mean, in the face of such a world as this?

It wasn't cheerful. It didn't assure Ami that things would be all right. But it drew out her pain like venom from a wound. She found herself crying, and she was a little shocked, but she was relieved to know she could still weep, that the terrible emptiness that had taken hold of her had not erased her capacity to feel.

She took off her headphones and heard rain falling outside. The summer heat had broken at last.

Ami washed her face, and returned to her computer. She was a disciplined soul, and she would not lose all night in music— such was the folly she afforded herself at the age of fifteen, but she was wiser now.

She stayed up until two-thirty.

When she did drive herself to sleep, her dreams were cyber-drunk with different alphabets. Right when her alarm went off, Ami had been dreaming of the high seas and the port of Amsterdam.

It was a marked improvement.

Ami went about on her birthday humming in the rain. Sure, she was humming old French laments, but she still felt better than she had in weeks. She even managed to enjoy the celebration her friends held that night. For the first time, Ami felt that her salvation had perhaps been worthwhile.

Three days later, Ami plugged in her electronic keyboard and picked away at the keys until a song emerged— a little bit Mozart, a little bit Yoko Kanno. Inspired, she realized, by Zed.

She decided to write to him. Her email opened courteously: she said that she enjoyed his blog and his music. He hadn't posted in a few weeks, was he doing alright? And she added, please forgive her errors— French wasn't her first language.

Ami expected nothing. Maybe a cursory thank-you; probably not even that. She fiddled with her song and gave it a title— "A Thousand Snows."

Twelve hours later, Zed wrote back.

He was immensely gratified to hear that his little blog had helped someone out. He had just fallen behind in posting, but thank you for asking. What was her first language, if she didn't mind his asking? A bientot— until next time!

Ami found herself wanting to keep the conversation going. She had always found socializing online to be easier than face-to-face interactions. So she composed a reply and informed Zed that she was Japanese. She considered, then attached an audio recording of "A Thousand Snows."

She signed the message MA.

Zed's next email was practically an explosion. He thought her song was terrific— she expressed her feelings with such clarity (Ami was bemused to read that, thinking "If only I could feel my feelings with such clarity,") and if it wasn't too much, could he ask about life in Japan? He intended to study abroad in Tokyo in a couple of years— he must be coming off as a total boor, but it was really so interesting! He had a lot of questions!

Ami emailed back, and so began their correspondence.

Three months passed. Autumn arrived like a gray cat stretching out on the bed of Tokyo. "MA" and "Zed" exchanged emails at a brisk pace.

They kept their secrets. Ami did not explain where her nightmares came from, and Zander covered his anxiety with a scarf of wit. But between questions and answers, context and creativity, it wasn't long before their conversation expanded to encompass all manner of subjects, although the music and drawings they shared with each other always contained a shadow, a minor key… something.

In late November, Ami's anxiety began to climb once more. It was almost Makoto's birthday, and Ami still could not look her best friend in the eye. Not after the way that Ami had failed them. But she had to do something. She had to tell someone. Ami spent an hour composing an email to Zed about this— using no real names, no clear allusions as to why she might feel like a failure. No whisper of her life as a Sailor Guardian. But enough for Zed to understand.

It took him two days to reply, and his reply was unusually brief. He said, "I don't know much about your life, but I don't think you're a failure in any way. From the way you talk about your friends, they're good people. Maybe you can trust them," with a cherry blossom emoji as a final note of comfort.

Maybe you can trust them, he said.

And it was suddenly so… so logical.

Of course Ami could trust them. She had been so confused lately—like that had been Galaxia's last curse, the fog that left even the Soldier of Wisdom scrabbling and scrambling, forgetting the most fundamental fact: that they were her sisters.

They gathered at Makoto's place for a grand birthday dinner— there was nothing Mako liked better than gathering her friends close and feeding them— and after dinner, Ami went to the bathroom to compose herself. She had to say something. She had to trust them.

When she came out—

"Ami! What is it?"

Usagi immediately noticed that something was wrong, just by looking at Ami's face. The question broke all other conversational threads; everyone turned to Ami.

Ami sat down, and Usagi took one hand and Makoto took the other. Ami said, "I need to get something off my chest. I think— I mean, I feel— I know how lucky I am to be alive, but Usagi, after how I let you down—"

"Ami—"

"Please let me finish," Ami said to Usagi, "I'm not sure that I deserve your forgiveness. After attacking you— just knowing I'm capable of it, I've felt so—" Empty and Guilty warred in Ami's brain, and neither won; to her mortification, she found her eyes filling with tears. Usagi caught Ami in a tight hug.

Ami composed herself enough to say, "Mako, I'm sorry for spoiling your party—" but she lost her track when she looked over and saw Mako was holding back tears.

It was like a dam broke: when Ami began to cry, her fellow Guardians opened up, too, first Mako, then Rei, and finally Minako. Usagi drew them all in until they were all kneeling or sitting on the floor, weeping together, admitting to the burdens they had carried all summer and autumn. And they loved each other, and in loving each other were able to forgive themselves.

In the future, when Ami thought of that night, an old phrase came back to her: "The cure for anything is salt water: sweat, tears, or the sea."

She had been adrift in an ocean, but her sisters and her Princess brought her back to shore. And she had rescued them, in her way, she realized.

Ami's next email to Zed contained a brief line: "Thank you for your advice. It helped my friends and me." There was nothing more on the subject: nothing more needed to be said.

She added, "When will you come to Tokyo? I look forward to meeting you."

For Ami had decided, Zed was her friend. And she would somehow repay him for a good bit of counsel.