Still don't own Sailor Moon.
He lay in a field of flowers. The flowers were perfection; every petal carefully arranged and held in place. He held still lest he ruin it.
He had ruined perfection before.
The sun beat down upon the field. It was far too bright and warm in his opinion. He had once loved the warmth and fierce energy of the sun. Now he longed for a cooler, less colorful place.
He had once belonged to this bright world that people considered perfect. He had been the ruler of that place. He had been the brightest. He had filled it with beauty and color.
He had destroyed it.
But before he had destroyed it, he had found her, and her home.
It had been the opposite of his place; pale and cold and peaceful. It was unsettling after living in a place filled to the bursting with color and life. But both places were bright, both beautiful.
He knew that he had loved those places, loved the people and the bright hum of life.
He felt nothing for them now. They were merely names and dates; the places were of no more consequence than a name on a map of a place he had never been. He knew had had loved; whether or not he was capable of such feeling ever again was another question entirely.
He wondered what she would have thought about his curious condition.
She. Mercury, now Mizuno Ami. How would she, the girl had once loved, have diagnosed him?
His thoughts drifted once again to their place. A place of peace where they could escape from their duties and formalities for a few blissful moments.
A place he had destroyed, along with any happiness he had ever known.
Perhaps, he mused, it was better not to feel. Grief and rage, after all, had caused him to annihilate the places he had loved so much.
He wished he still had that cool, soothing peace. Even if he could never go there again, it would be a comfort to know it still existed.
A movement at the corner of his vision distracted him from his musings. He looked to the side, carefully holding his head still, so as not to disturb the flowers.
All he could see of the person was a silver shoe. An elegant heel, with white wings on the sides. The voice, too, was as cool and elegant as the shoe.
"She knows nothing, and remembers you not, Zoicite." He stares sideways at the silver shoe.
"Does she remember anything…else?" His voice is rough and scratchy. How long has it been since he has spoken?
"No." The voice is noncommittal.
Relief and sorrow clash within him. Relief, because she does not remember. Sorrow, because she does not remember.
Then, with a start, he realizes that he can feel again. Joy, something he thought he had lost, bubbles up inside of him, drowning out the grief.
A cool hand touches his forehead. He suddenly exhausted. Who knew feeling took so much energy?
"Thank you." He murmured.
His eyes slid shut and he falls into a peaceful, dreamless sleep.
Please,as always, let me know your thoughts.
~commontater