For the 2nd Anniversary of Petrichor. It's been a rough year and I've posted very few updates but thank you to everyone for being supportive. It's the Makaria/Hotaru POV I've promised and finally delivered.

If some parts of the thought processes seem a little twisted / hard to understand / weird, that's on purpose because Makaria is also kind of weird. She was raised from birth knowing her death was going to kill everyone in the SilMil, and has only known the insides of her castle her whole life, as well as having direct contact with only two people. There is a reason Iapetus is drawn to her, and it's because she's weird and he's weird.

Playlist: Gleam, Mamamoo; Destiny, Mamamoo; DNA, BTS; Bing bing, ONEUS; Heaven, Ailee


10.

Something without an end was, contradictorily, something without meaning. Immortality created imperfection, perversely paradoxical as it might sound. Because they had no set reminder of death over their shoulders, they could not fully discover their potential. Because they had no promised end, they could not truly live.

The princess of Saturn was born with the promise to bring the end, and it was what taught the long-lived residents of the silver kingdom the fear of death – and, by extension, the value of their lives.

Makaria did not protest that her fate was to die. It was not because she had been told from birth about the outcome of her destiny. No, Saturn was the planet of silence, and in silence one contemplated things, and inevitably one concluded that life would always, unerringly come to its denouement in the form of death.

Makaria did not protest her death, and neither did she protest her life. Her life, for the freedom of her people. She did not suffer, not in the way the Saturnians feared she did. All princesses were born with their duties, and this was merely hers. She did not delude herself into thinking that her duties would be gone if she were like the others. Different, perhaps, but they all had their duties. This was merely hers, given with her birth. It was a heavy burden, but not one she could not bear.

She was content, truly. As long as Makaria guaranteed the end of the Silver Millennium, she paid herself as the price to give the people of Saturn their liberty, their freedom.


9.

"A second Torch?"

Dione combed her hair meticulously, despite the fact that Makaria wore it short, and it naturally stayed rather tame. Still, each lock received care, and Makaria never knew what she looked like with wild, tangled hair.

It was something the woman from Cocoon enjoyed, and Makaria did not have the heart to rob her of her hobby. She was and always would be weak to the woman that left her home to come find her, giving up everything – including her own name – to serve Makaria.

"It was argued that a Saturnian should also serve the princess of Saturn at her side," said Dione. Her calm words did not voice the unsaid – that she was a foreigner, an immigrant, and even if she took a name of the Silver Millennium, some would never forget that she was of Cocoon once.

Makaria could never stand up to anyone, passive or aggressive. She could not leave her castle, could not engage. The soldier of silence, silenced. Out of her own choice, though most would not think so.

"Do not let anyone tell you otherwise of your true value," she said instead.

From behind her, Makaria heard a quiet huff of gentle laughter. "I do no such thing, my princess."

And Makaria, Makaria would have to take Dione's word for it. She always worried that the Torch would suffer quietly where she didn't have to, didn't deserve to, but what would it mean, if the soldier of destruction stepped out of her castle?

What would it mean, if the soldier of silence broke the silence she had kept?

The thought frightened her.

"Who will be the second Torch?" she asked instead, to change the subject. Admittedly, she was curious. She never met people, not in person. The rare communications with her that weren't through Dione as a messenger was done by screens, and Makaria always noticed the edge of fear in their eyes. Some dealt with their fear by blustering, trying to appear bigger and braver than they felt. Others were quiet, eyes tracking her like she was a threat and they were desperately avoiding engagement.

Makaria wondered if it would help, for her to reassure them that she was no monster, just a guarantee of the inevitable in person, a covenant in flesh and blood. It probably would not. Having a second Torch would make them happy, in that they would have even less need to speak to her directly.

Dione sighed. "A young boy named Iapetus. Enceladus tells me that he is a genius, with an unparalleled talent in illusions."

A genius. Never having been around those her age in her life, Makaria wondered what it was, to be a genius among those that were not. If he knew what it meant to be different.


8.

Her hopes were dashed with the cruelty of reality, the reality of herself.

Fool, Makaria said to herself bitterly, though she kept her face schooled into a calm mask. It was easy, something she had practice with.

Dione had said herself, he was a young boy. A genius, Enceladus had said.

Hearing his qualifications read to her, all the preparations he'd gone through to become a Torch, Makaria despaired. Days, years filled with intense lessons, subjects beyond what those his age should have been attempting to master. Trained in combat, and in the magic of illusions. Taught to be an adult as a child.

All to be a Torch, to serve her as her representative and retainer.

Iapetus was young. Taller than her – a feat not difficult to achieve, according to Dione – but young, as seen in his slender lines and not fully changed voice. The robes he wore, embroidered with the symbols outlining his status, looked too big for his shoulders. They may have been tailored to fit him, but the weight of their station looked ready to crush him.

He bowed, dark blue hair brushing against the rings dangling in his ears. "It is an honor."

Was it? Was it truly such an honor? Then why did he sound so blank, devoid of passion and joy and the things that made life beautiful?

Was this what she paid for with her life? A person washed away of his own life, forced to serve her, not knowing anything else but a path determined for him by others?

After Iapetus left for a tour of the castle with Dione, and to settle into his chambers, Makaria sank into her seat and buried her face into her hands.

She was death, destroying everything she came into contact with. She had failed to be the price for liberty for her people, enslaving and robbing Iapetus of his freedom with her existence.


7.

For all that she ruined and stole from him, Makaria gave Iapetus free reign. It wasn't much, because it was what she gave Dione as well, and for that Makaria was always sorry to him in her heart that she could not give him more, that the only thing she could give him, other than the inevitable she represented, was so meager.

She was always filled with mixed feelings when she heard his reports. He was excellent, in his insight and his decisions. Makaria could not have asked for someone better, because she would not be able to imagine someone capable of coming up with the things he did. Iapetus cared about Saturn, and it was obvious in every word of his drafts, every decision he made after careful research and consideration.

"Have you told him?" Dione asked, when Makaria mentioned just how skilled Iapetus was.

Makaria blinked. "I've told him he should do what he wants."

Dione let out a puff of breath that wasn't her usual quiet laughter, but rather a sigh of exasperation.

"Silence holds many things," she said, reciting the famous Saturnian proverb, before she added her own twist to it, "but sometimes, my princess, words must be said to convey what is not known."

Makaria did not respond. Truth be told, she didn't know how to tell Iapetus. What would she say? That she admired his passion and work ethics, that she was sorry he was a victim of her existence but she was grateful for his being here, nonetheless? What an insult that would be to the proud Torch.

But she did not know words the way she did silence, and so Makaria stuck to what she was comfortable and familiar with – silence.

Dione was wise, for it was not long after that when Iapetus exploded, patience with her run out like sand in the top half of an hourglass.

"Doesn't it infuriate you?" he demanded, eyes wide, teeth bared in a grimace.

He was alive, and rebellious towards death. It was a beautiful sight, and Makaria knew right then and there that if he asked, she would let him go. She would give him anything he requested, whatever that remained with her after the price was paid. Not that there was much of her left, after the price, but anything she had.

But he had asked a question, so Makaria gave him the truth, the truth she knew as such.

"No," she said, because she was not infuriated.

"No?" Iapetus laughed. It was not a laugh of joy, lacking any mirth. "No. Because we're all just going to die. Because none of us matter, is that it?"

Makaria's heart broke, and she acted impulsively, reaching out to hold Iapetus in her arms if only so she could just hold onto him, to try and convey that he was not someone who did not matter because he would die. None of them were, but especially not him. He stiffened, but he was warm in her embrace, and he did not throw her off.

Savoring the feeling of him alive in her arms, Makaria spoke, the words of a coward that had avoided this for so long. But silence had not conveyed what she had felt, and so clumsy as they were, words would have to do.

The princess of silence broke the silence.

"Who told you that you didn't matter?" Was it me, with my silence? "Who lied to you about your worth?" Did I do that terrible thing to you?

He froze, and Makaria found that she had lied to him, earlier. She was infuriated, that he would believe such a thing. Not at Iapetus himself, but at what led him to believe such lies.

And the source was herself, was it not?

She was furious at herself, in a way she had never been. It spilled over like an overflowing cup, and the anger spilled over herself onto others.

"With my birth, the Saturnians paid the greatest price." She tightened her grip on him. Unique as her situation was, unwanted as she was by the rest of the Silver Millennium, it had never changed that she was princess of Saturn, born to be the sailor soldier of silence and destruction.

Her worth was great despite – or perhaps because of – all that.

"Their lives are theirs to live, because I am promised to vanquish destruction with my life for all those in this solar system. Their freedom is theirs, because I am the price of their liberty. Your life is yours, to do as you will, because I have guaranteed your deaths."

Iapetus pushed her back, unfreezing at last from the shock that had held him still. The leaving of warmth was mourned, but Makaria let him push her off. It had been too forward of her, and he had allowed her to hold him for far longer than she had expected anyways.

Rather than leave, however, he looked into her face, as if searching for something. She met his gaze – dark purple, alive, and so beautiful because of his vibrant emotions – and said with her silence to take what he wanted.

"Don't hold yourself back from living," she whispered. "I am the consequence that was taken before you were aware, the price for all your actions, in the past and in the future."

Coward that she was, Makaria could not confess to her crime, not directly.

"Doesn't it infuriate you?" Iapetus asked, after a moment of silence. He appeared confused, repeating the question from earlier, but Makaria read the silence and what the question truly asked.

If before, the question had been an accusation, it was now that of clarification. Makaria couldn't help but smile. "How could I be angry when it let me meet you and Dione?"

They were her world, in her life.


6.

Iapetus – changed, after that. In his methods.

He had always observed her, but where it had been with a sense of duty, he now tracked her with burning eyes that did not just look or see, but searched. He inquired silently, constantly.

He spoke, of course, reporting about what had happened, what he did, and so on. What was going on. Makaria had confirmed his free reign, and now he looked for – something else.

Dione did not approve of Iapetus and his new change. Her first Torch was stressed, and for that Makaria was sorry, but she would not be able to do what she wanted.

"Let him act how he wants."

Dione's slightly creased expression spoke volumes about the headache she was suffering, and Makaria was deeply apologetic. The report she just gave had given Makaria a view of what Iapetus looked like to others. A side of him that he never had shown her.

It would be foolish to think it was because he viewed her as someone special, especially when objectively, she was. His princess and the person he was raised and sworn in to serve. It would be foolish because that was all that was.

Iapetus smirked, pulling up one corner of his lips, and Makaria quietly resigned herself to being the greatest fool in all the Silver Millennium. She already had many epithets, so it was hardly a burden, and compared to some of her other titles it was almost tame.

"Princess," Dione almost pleaded. The guilt towards her first retainer doubled, because Dione only wanted what was best for her, Makaria knew. She knew.

But to know and to do were, Makaria learned for the first time, two very different things.

"I will be the one to take the consequences," she promised, trying to take Dione's worries.

"See?" Iapetus said.

Unfortunately, Dione did not see, or find any relief.

Time to be uncomfortable once more, then.

"Iapetus," she said before Dione could further protest. She needed to speak privately to her first retainer, because silence wasn't enough sometimes, and words needed to be said. "Would you bring us the afternoon snack?"


5.

Dione had known Makaria for a very long time, perhaps knew parts of Makaria better than herself.

"Princess, his behaviour will only grow worse, and he said himself he would only listen to you. These are not the actions befitting your representative."

Makaria was a coward and fool, and so she could not tell Dione that she did not want Iapetus as her representative. Or, well, she did, because only a Torch could have contact with the reclusive princess of Saturn and she did want contact with him, but she wanted more, selfish creature that she was.

But death took everything, so perhaps it was her nature to be so selfish.

"But Dione," said Makaria, who by existence alone had already robbed Iapetus of everything and would do so again at the end, "Iapetus did not have the same choice you did."

That was why Makaria could only give him everything she wanted, because she was, in their relationship, the offender. He was a victim. She held the power, despite the injustice of it all, and that was why all she could ever dare to get from him was what they had currently.

If his actions were not befitting of her representative, if his actions would bring her harm, then what right would Makaria have to protest it? It was just and fair retribution.

"Iapetus is ambitious, and gifted," Dione said pragmatically. "Even if he had a choice, he would have never settled for anything less than the best of what he could achieve. He would have become a Torch. Later than now, but he would have."

Dione did not know that those words condemned her more than they comforted her. That he was the exception, in so many ways, and that it hurt Makaria for it.

Makaria was almost glad when the knock on the door announced the return of Iapetus. He left for paperwork after the delivery, and despite lacking an appetite, Makaria made herself eat everything he had brought without tasting much.

She felt like she swallowed something more than food – immaterial, and yet heavier, and not easily digested.


4.

Three of Saturn's moons were in view when Iapetus came to speak with her.

Taking her eyes away from the moon that was his namesake and onto him, Makaria waited for him to break the silence. His eyes were that of someone who had come to a resolution, or were on the edge of doing so. Something was about to change, she could feel it. Maybe not in a good way, necessarily, but certainly for good.

"What would you do," he began, "if I were to resign being your Torch?"

Her heart nearly stopped in that moment, and Makaria learned why death was so frightening, why so many feared her without ever having even seen or met her. Death, the inevitable, that which parted even the strongest of bonds so easily.

In a way it would be a kind of death, if he were to resign being her Torch. Because Makaria would never see him again.

But it would not be death, because he would still be alive elsewhere, the rational part of her thoughts pointed out, even as her heart wailed.

If Iapetus could read thoughts, then in that moment he might have been utterly horrified at what he saw of her. Or, perhaps less horrified, given the reputation he was building for himself, and more disgusted than anything.

Makaria wanted to be selfish, like death. She wanted to hold onto him, never let him go, and she was disgusted at herself.

"I would let you go," she said, and the words felt so empty, carved out of something as hard and cold as stone – that of duty to be upheld. There was no warmth that made them, and she knew she said it so woodenly that it would sound insincere.

And yet she was being honest, because she had to, if he wished to leave. Iapetus, her greatest victim, who was threatened with her existence but did not receive the freedom of his own life, he was the last person she could force to stay with her.

"And if others disagreed? If they refused to let me resign, forced me to keep my position?"

There was something burning in his dark eyes, and Makaria wondered if he knew, if his gaze was something condemning her to burning.

Although to what end, she didn't know, because his line of questioning seemed rather odd. Where was he going with this?

"It would depend on who the opposing party was," Makaria said, and it was a non-answer, meant to earn time, but also because she did not know who would stop him.

Other than her.

"If they were Saturnian?"

Makaria was a Saturnian – the princess of them all. She reminded herself of that power, the importance of not abusing it.

"I doubt they would disagree." I certainly would not.

"Then," he persisted, because Iapetus did not give up, "the Silver Millennium."

Iapetus looked almost desperate, wild, and so she answered, to the best of her abilities. "But if they tried to force me to do something I didn't want to?"

He sounded vulnerable, Makaria realized, and wanted to weep at how she had failed him, failed to secure his liberty, failed to give him confidence in her or himself by crippling him. Her silence had not conveyed what she felt, and she had hurt him.

"Then I suppose I'll have to try my hands at diplomacy. Admittedly," she added, "I might not be very good at it. After all, I can't even convince my retainer of my sincerity. But I'm sure I can manage something."

Whatever it took. So far in her life, her very birth and existence had been enough to secure what she wanted.

Iapetus, she wanted very much, but he also deserved his own life, and she had missed him the first time around.

And so, whatever it took to guarantee him that, she would give.

Even if it broke her heart to let him go.

He stared at her. "Why?"

This was the easiest of his questions to answer tonight. "Because you are precious to me."

Makaria said it wholeheartedly.

She expected him to leave, because he had now realized the doors to his birdcage was wide open. There would be none to keep him trapped in its bars, and if there were any that dared try and restrict his wings, she would step in.

She did not expect him to kneel to her.

"Iapetus?" She didn't understand why he was kneeling, why he had bowed his head, was this an illusion? A dream?

"I swear myself to you. My body, my heart, my soul, all of myself, for now and forever. This, I swear out of my own choice."

Makaria gasped, because if she didn't then she would have stopped breathing and possibly fainted from a lack of air. Surely this wasn't real, surely, any moment now, this cruelly sweet pipedream would be shattered by bitter reality?

"You gave me liberty," he said, his own words following the vow he gave, "then this is what I choose to do with that freedom you granted me. I choose to stand as your Torch, to represent your will and fight in your name. I choose to bear my title proudly and defend Saturn against whatever threats. This is my pride, my choice, my freedom."

The bird had taken one look at the opened doors of his cage, and still chose to stay with her.

It took everything Makaria had in her to not cry of joy, and it was difficult indeed.


3.

She read about the different planets in books, and sometimes there were amethysts – mined from Saturn and exported, before being brought back with new books – with images retained in them to show her what those words pointed to.

But they paled, compared to the gift of illusions Iapetus possessed.

"The storms of Jupiter are loud," he said. And in her own room, she heard them, the roiling of storm clouds, the crash of thunder, the howling rain and wind. The building she was in – that Iapetus had been in – groaned, the might of the storm threatening to tear through its walls, for what was a measly wall against the might of the storm?

And he, magician who fooled the senses, he wove a dream for her so that she might feel the might of that faraway storm's effects on her own skin, something she never could do in reality. "So loud that one might not always be able to sleep through the night, and then the next day be forced to look into the mirror and find one's face marred with dark bruises under the eyes. Though the locals have adapted to it, and even enjoy it to the point of dancing in them."

Jupiterians outside the window danced in the storm, hair and clothing plastering to their skins as they were soaked in a matter of seconds. A bucket of water could not have drenched them more thoroughly than the unrelenting rain, and they just laughed and danced, the beat of their hearts and thunder the only drums they needed.

Lightning turned the dark of the night obsolete, if only for the scant moment it spread across the sky, and then darkness returned until more lightning returned to renew the cycle.

A magnificent sight, truly. Makaria appreciated this, the insight into lives that she never knew, but indirectly, inevitably touched. His smooth voice narrating the illusion for her, Makaria explored in her own room a world she could not touch.

That was the compromise she negotiated with herself, to not be so selfish. She could have told Iapetus that she liked the sights of Saturn best, because she was its princess. That the lives of Saturnians were what interested her most. Not the storms of Jupiter, the clouds of Venus, the waters of Mercury nor the deserts of Mars, but the quiet people of Saturn, those she loved most.

And the Saturnian she loved most would bring her just that with his illusions.

But Makaria knew he went to other planets to not just act as a Torch – her Torch, possessive as it was – but also to bring her sights from them.

That was something good for Saturn, and Saturnians, and as the princess of Saturn she should be encouraging it, which was why she did not tell him about her preferences. Because it would be so selfish, to keep him tied to Saturn (to her).

(It was selfishness, a dark part of her purring in delight at the thought that he thought of her, did something out of his way for her, and Makaria knew it)

Makaria kept her silence.


2.

Sometimes, when she was alone and her mind wandered, she imagined what it might be like, to have more people in her life.

She never imagined it when Dione or Iapetus were with her, because they filled her life with vitality and presence and contact and comfort and made her life actual life instead of a simulacrum of one, but she did, when she was alone.

This was not the kind of thing she imagined, Makaria thought to herself, seeing those who had finally brought another measure to take away what little she already had. They feared her, she could see that all-too clearly despite their valiant efforts.

And maybe, Makaria thought, they were right to, because to her, they were all the same in weight. Even if they had been traitors to the Silver Millennium, even if they were the worst criminals, she might have looked upon them with the same eyes, disinterested and objective.

Death took all, and did not discriminate.

Iapetus began stepping forwards, his eyes alit with a dark fire that promised nothing good to the bringers of bad news, and Dione, though she shed tears, stopped him from going further, grabbing his shoulder. Both actions snapped her out of her thoughts.

But she was not death, not completely. She was also Makaria, born and raised in Titan Castle.

And there were lives that she cared very much for.

"That is acceptable," she said out loud, accepting with her own words the chains they were about to place upon her.

"Princess!" Iapetus protested, the word torn out of him like a scream.

For the first time, Makaria gave an order to Iapetus. She added an apology, but it did not soothe the devastated look on his face.

But she hadn't expected to be forgiven, either, so that was alright.

(It was not alright.)


1.

When Makaria became Sailor Saturn, Dione was there. Dione, who had been there in her life for so long that there was very little of her life she could recall without the other woman present. She was a mother to her, a teacher, a mentor, a comforting presence and a friend. In a way, it was a relief to see her when she awoke as Sailor Saturn – just as much as it was tragic, that she had to see Makaria as Sailor Saturn.

But Dione did not let such things stop her from doing what she wanted, as usual.

"It is an honor," she said, and gave a quick but firm embrace. Then, she let go and stepped back. In that brief moment there was love, and forgiveness, and reassurance, and there was nothing that could stop Sailor Saturn.

She expected to not see him, expected for him to denounce her for what she did the last time she saw him. She expected to not be forgiven.

Iapetus, as always, surprised her, bursting into the room, wild-eyed and desperate, falling on his knees. He begged her, pleading for her to live.

Ironic that he asked her for something she could not give, and yet, in that moment, she wanted very much to do so.

If she was just Makaria, she would have without question, but she was Sailor Saturn. She was destruction, the end that came to all. She was selfish death, about to lay claim to all, and that included herself.

They were out of time, regardless of what choice she made.

She decided, impulsively, to claim one more thing, and leaned in to kiss Iapetus – a soft brush of lips, pressing skin on skin, it should have been nothing special, just simple contact, and yet it wasn't. Almost instantly Makaria nearly regretted it because she wanted more, so much more, but there was just no time.

Regretfully, Makaria stepped back, and saw his thunderstruck expression. How had he received it – had he liked it, or had he been repulsed?

She quietly sighed, but still buoyed by that one bit of exhilarating contact, it came out as a laugh.

The last indulgence done and over, Sailor Saturn left before she could be delayed any further in her duty. Makaria left before the shock could wear off and reveal how he received it. How he felt about her kissing him.

She landed on the moon, on the castle stained with the blood of star-crossed lovers who no longer drew breaths from lips that had once shared kisses. She, along with the three that had summoned her, were the only remaining sailor soldiers in this star system.

And it was time, now.

Without a word, in silence, she stepped forwards – and swung down the Silence Glaive, with absolutely no hesitation. It was a death sentence, upon not just all before and around her, but also herself, just as it had been foretold.

The world ended.


0.

"I'm sorry for kissing you, back then," she apologized.

It was the second time speaking to him in this life, because Mukuro was elsewhere, and had to appear via Chrome. That had been quite a miraculous day, to meet not one but both of her Torches. Rei might have had both Phobos and Deimos with her from the start, but Dione and Iapetus – Chrome and Mukuro – were reborn as humans, not as butterflies or the like. It was serendipitous, that both would enter her life at the same time.

Mukuro looked at her with disbelieving eyes. In this life they were mismatched, one a dark indigo, the other a red with a number in it. He was reluctant to speak of it, almost ashamed, and she hoped that he could one day not have to be so wounded. "I beg your pardon?"

She fidgeted, heat rushing to her cheeks. "I didn't ask for permission," she confessed. "I practically forced myself on you, and that was – I know at the time it was, well, dire and we were out of time but that's no excuse when you didn't even . . ."

"I didn't what?" he said very quietly, and though he was of Earth now, there had been a time when his soul was Saturnian, and all Saturnians knew it was the quiet ones that were most dangerous.

"You didn't even, well, feel the same way I did," Hotaru finished lamely.

He looked at her, still in disbelief. Then, he reached out, hands encircling her face – gently, despite the frustration in his eyes – and leaned close to kiss her eyelids, her temple, her cheeks, her forehead.

Not her lips, though he had his reason for that.

"The moment I get my body back," he said between kisses, "and get to you in my own flesh, I am kissing you, permission or not. Will you be repulsed if I do so?"

Hotaru stared, a lifetime and more after's guilt being resolved and forgiven now. "No?"

"You don't sound certain."

"No," she said firmly.

Mukuro smiled, lips curling upwards in a smooth movement like silk. "Good. Then we'll be even, and afterwards, you can do whatever you want to me, and rest assured, Hotaru, I won't mind."

Her face was hot now, and she tried to hide it, but Mukuro wasn't particularly interested in letting her go. Not that she blamed him, because he didn't have much time with her, but still, it was embarrassing when her face felt like it could rival a tomato.

Maybe one day, she could actually tell him in words, to his actual person, what he felt. Right now, there was an unspoken agreement between them that until his body was his once more – something he refused to let her help with – the silence needed to be kept.

But silence had a way of communicating some things. Or maybe it was that some things could be carried over even in silence.