Cross the Last Sky or why listening to "Meet the Monkees" with Jeddy on the brain is a bad idea™ by Sarah Rodriguez Everywhere, bodies, corpses. Stretched out lengthwise on the frightful bloodsoaked ground. Backing up away from the oasis. Towards the bled. Carrion swooped down from the sky, skimmed across the dunes, landing as they discovered some bit of flesh not already torn from bone. They took no notice of him, the staggering man in the blood-soaked uniform, searching, searching... Searching for the keeper of his soul in the morass of corpses. "Aiie!" he screamed, catching a glimpse of what appeared to be his Prince at the corner of his eye. He dove toward the body, waving his arms frantically to get the birds away... They stared at him, then went back to eating. He moaned, crawling closer, trying to bat away the birds. One of them lifted its head, squawked at him. He drew back slightly. I can fight youma but I'm afraid of a bird... No weapon. He couldn't do anything, but threw himself at the body, driving away the birds. No, no, no no no no no... It was him, only a dessicated corpse... He brushed the wet sand from his face, and almost cried in relief. It wasn't him, maybe he got away... "Jadeite! Jadeite!" An anguished cry. "Jadeite!" He stumbled to his feet. "Rei! I'm-" The ground spun him to his knees, into the bloody sand. "Rei," he muttered weakly. "Rei..." "Where is he?" the woman demanded. "Where is Endymion?" Her eyes were tinged with red rage. "Where is he?" "I don't know, I was looking for him..." His tongue, swollen with injury and thirst, made it difficult to speak. "Can't find him..." The woman's face faded into another... The face of the Dark queen, then melted back and forth, back and forth, good-to-evil, Rei to Beryl, over and over... He stared into Rei's face, seeing her tongue flick over her teeth in Beryl's manner. "You... who are you?" >*< "You know, this is your fault." Endymion swallowed hard, looking... confused. Bewildered. "How?" "I was waiting for you! I was looking for you! And she came for me." "That's not-" "Stop!" That woman... "You can't do this! Dead scream..." He dodged the attack. "I knew you loved him... But I'm going to kill him." "You can't kill someone who isn't here." He forced a vision of Endymion's whereabouts into his mind. With his princess. His revenge incomplete. "You bitch," he snarled. "I only saved him... Which is what you should be doing, shouldn't you?" "You didn't save him." "He will die today." "It was my doing." "No!" She spun the time staff over her head, preparing to- In his vision, he saw Endymion's death. There was a strange emptiness, and an even greater realisation. He had betrayed his prince for nothing- he had brought the world to death. He, and those like him, had commited the ultimate betrayal, turning their backs on everything, letting it all fade as they indulged themselves in their own decadent corrupt ancient evils. And for nothing. The world had ended, because of him. For him. To show him. A vision he wouldn't see. An utterly worthless sacrafice of so many lives. But his queen would save him. She had promised him thus. She couldn't always be there, but... She had to try, and if she didn't... she would be dead. And there would be no point to his being alive at all. He didn't bother to dodge the attack. >*< Maybe they were just dreams, but Jay Tsumeta still didn't like the way they made him feel. Nothing -real or imagined- should make him feel so... wrong. Nothing so dark. Nothing so... unnatural. These dreams made him feel like some sort of abomination. He raised a hand, rolling it from back-to-front across his forehead. His fingers trailed along his flesh, a cooling touch to his strangely warm skin. Strangely hot. Though not to him. "Sir- Sir? Are you ill?" He lifted his head from his hand, coughing spasmadically as he turned to face his accuser. One of the so-called attendants. He forced a smile, feeling the strain the expression put on his face from some sort of distance. "No, I'm fine. Fine." She smiled. "Good." She remained there, staring at him. "Is there something else?" "Yes, sir. Would you care for something to eat?" "No, thank you." He let his head fall against his seat. "Nothing." "Yes, sir." The attendant departed. Again, he coughed, that same dry, painful cough, a slow tickle at the back of the throat to accompany the constant pain. Pain... Pain exploding with blood from his throat, his lungs, red waves of agony crossing his vision. He bent over, clutching at his side, coughing into the handerchief, the tearing feeling in his chest making him almost loose control. The coughing eventually subsided, and he let his head drop into his hands, one of which held the handerchief, saturated with fresh and dried blood. Weakened, he collapsed against the window, drawing deep shaking breaths, the sound of each inhalation rattling around in his chest. He shifted slightly, Leaning his forehead on his lower arm, leaving his mouth open, letting the blood drip... drip.... He breathed in the same time, through his mouth, sometimes breathing in a little bit of the blood, making him cough all the more. He could feel the eyes on him, watching him warily, two for each passenger, all staring at him, all the owners wondering what in hell was wrong with him, why was he coughing like that, why was he on the train? why was he infecting the air with whatever malady was afflicting him? and what was wrong with him? He straightened up, leaning against the window, watching the landscape pass as the train sped through it- or, as he felt for one particular second, the world moving around the stationary train? Either way, it was dizzying him, and he closed his eyes, trying to be quiet, trying not to cough, trying to make the pain go away. "...here he is. The one who was coughing..." The woman's voice, that damn attendant. He squeezed his eyes tighter, then relaxed them, faking sleep, pretending something. "Sir. Sir." There was a hand touching his shoulder. "Wake up, sir." He kept his eyes closed for as long as he could without them thinking he was pretending, then opened them, blinking sleepily, blearily, making his eyes look that fuzzy blue of new awakening. "Wha- what?" he mumbled, his voice harsh and pained, and bringing blood to his lips. He wiped it away with the sleeve of his plaid suit-jacket. "Sir, we got you a doctor. He might be able to help." He would have laughed, only he never did, anymore. It hurt too much. "I don't need a doctor. There's nothing a doctor can do." "But you need-" "What I need is for you to leave me alone. Please." His vision was slightly blurry, as he looked up to the woman and the man with her; dressed in a fine black suit, clean shirtwaiste, looking every inch the physician. "Sir, let me look at you." "No." The colours of the clothing and skin were melting together. He let his head fall back, loll around on the back of his seat. "Leave me alone, sir." "I'm afraid I can't do that." "Yes... You can." His consciousness was starting to pull away from him. He abruptly tugged himself back to reality. "I'm going back to my box." He opened his eyes, stood. For a moment, he stared at the crisping outlines of the dining car, the way the colours were actually right, for once, then turned away from the two, leaving his booth, his untouched tea behind him, leaned on his cane, took a falting step away, stumbled. Hands reached out to catch him, steadying him, keeping him from falling. He pulled away, only to have them woman grab his arm and try to seat him again. He shook her off. "Good day, sir, ma'am." "Young man-" He walked out of earshot, slowly, half supported by his cane, half by the wall. It was slow progress back to his box, the little room where he could find privacy. The panneling on the walls was dark; he examined it as he dragged himself along. The whols and grain of the wood were entrancing, and he looked away only when he came to windows into others' boxes. When he arrived at his box, he pushed the door open, staring at the floor, too exhausted to look up. Dragging himself inside, he collapsed next to the window. "You didn't have to do that, you know." He hadn't noticed the woman, and groaned. "You shouldn't be here... This is a private box." She sounded amused. "Why would you want to be alone? You have so little time left." His mind screamed, insolent, but he was too weak to say it. "I hate people. All people. You too." "Ah, but sir, you don't even know who I am. You should at least look before you make judgements. Your judegements are important, as are all; they shouldn't be superficial, nor made in haste." He rolled his head around, looked at her, and was supprised to have heard such wise words from such a young woman. She couldn't be over twenty, and held the loveliness of youth; long, black hair, deep violet eyes, pale skin, water fat and healthy. So unlike him. In his native language, he spoke: "And who are you?" There was no answer. The woman dissappeared at his words. He passed a hand over his eyes, wondering vaguely if the woman had been a hallucination born of fever and exhaustion. Yes, that must have been it; it was the only thing that made sense. And he needed something to make sense. It was getting too rare, nowadays. Abruptly, he began coughing again, feeling the pain, nothing but the pain, letting it fill every inch of his being, overtaking him, making him more conscious, making him less tired. The pain, at least, made sense. Unlike the woman, however he explained her presence. He closed his eyes, pondering her words- Your judegements are important, as are all; they shouldn't be superficial, nor made in haste. What did that mean? The world started to spin, fade away- he was falling, no longer feeling that constant pressure on him... Everything paled; the train, the window and what passed outside, the cane his hand rested on, the seat in which he sat, his body... No! He shook himself awake. He couldn't sleep. Couldn't sleep. He had gone for this many days without sleep, he could hold out just a little longer, till he reached his destination. Sleep wasn't safe until he reached the cathedral. He could be forgiven, and the sins, the dreams, could go away. Then he could sleep. You won't reach the cathedral, Jay. That voice... The woman! A figment of his imagination- and the fever. He resumed his staring. >*< "Mr Tsumeta, this is your stop." He jerked out of his reverie, his conscious attempt to quiet the dreams- only to find the same attendant. "Mr Tsumeta, you don't have much time to get off." It was funny, the way the English mispronounced his name. "Alright," he muttered, struggling to his feet. "I'm going." He pushed past her, into the dark-panneled hall, each step a struggle, each step a mastery of himself, of his illness, each step accompanied with the repetition of the words "I will not fall, I will not fall, I will not..." over and over, till he stood on the train platform, trying to get down without falling. "Sir, let me help you." A young man, healthy, beautiful... He was tall, blue-eyed, with long auburn hair.... He felt an instant distrust-hate-jealousy. "I'm Sanjouin Masato." He held out his hand. "Tsumeta Jay," he whispered, barely able to stay on his feet. He didn't shake his hand; he was barely strong enough to stand. "Please..." A strong, steady arm supported him. "Here." He found himself being guided off the platform, tripping over his own feet, stumbling with every step. "Thank you, sir." "It's quiet alright." Masato frowned. "This won't do. She'll have to fix you." "What? Who? He was beginning to feel groggy, noticing only (and barely that) that the other man was still supporting him, leading him through the crowd as though he knew exactly where they were going. "I knew you couldn't keep your mouth shut." He squinted, noting for the first time that his vision was blurring again. "That would be what you think, wouldn't it?" Masato's voice. He couldn't see the other speaker, but Masato released him. He was too weak to stand, and he fell, his cane landing beside him. He began coughing, painfully, not able to breathe... There was blood pouring down his chin, onto his shirt, soaking it, soaking his suit. He collapsed. "Now see what you've done, Zoisite." "It wasn't my fault..." "We have no choice but to take him back now, whether he likes it or not..." >*< There was no more blood. No more pain, no more. The constant pressure on his lungs was gone, as was the stinging ache in his throat . He was lying on his back, as he hadn't done in years (because, of course, of the fear of drowning on the blood he coughed in his sleep), cold, uncomfortable. Cold... bad... That had been so conditioned in his mind that he sat up, trying to get away from whatever was making him cold, wrapping his arms around himself, realising that, for the first time in his eternity, it did not hurt. What in the name of god? And then coughing, painfully hacking up pieces of his lungs, his esophagus, blood. The pain grew; a sharp agony, spreading, pulling his chest apart, destroying him. A shadow from where he sat formed a sword, shattering him. The pieces of him exploded, flying into all the air, falling to the floor, coming back together to form one man, him at the feet of... A woman. A woman, body frighteningly elongated and twisted, eyes an unblinking saffron, red hair cascading all around the distorted form, catching on the spikes at the shoulders. Strong, strangely coloured arms, spikes at the wrists, long hands and unnaturally tapering fingers, ending in claws that would set fear into the heart of a mountain lion. He didn't want to look at her, turned his eyes away, looking at the floor. All he could see was black. Polished, shimmering, shiny black, like night, like evil. Cold and smooth beneath his skin; hard as rock and shimmering with a life of its own: a trapped, malevolent life. It repulsed him, and he lifted his head slightly, glancing out the corners of his eyes to see nothing but more of that sickening black. Black, dark, black stone, a floor, extending outwards to where the shadows fell. Endless shadows. An endless floor. A room without boundaries, a world without end, here in this room. He had been here before. He had seen this place, this woman; he knew her. Faintly, there had been that dream, she had been there. Beryl. She had called him something, then, in his dream. Made him better. Something, someone grabbed him by his hair, pulling him to his feet. Instinctively, he kicked backwards, almost smiling as he felt his foot hit hard. There was no reaction, but spinning him around, as though to disorient him, or to perhaps show him, himself. One he had known, tall and imposing, sapphire eyes shadowed and dark, auburn hair the perfect frame for the paled face and strong build. He wore a uniform, grey, rather unbecoming, tall boots, jacket trimmed in yellow, with epaulettes on the shoulders, seemingly ruby. He recognised him. Sanjouin Masato. The man who had saved him. He hadn't been in his dream. The woman spoke, a voice that was not her own echoing madly through the empty chamber. Her mouth moved with the words, but it was not her whom he heard. "Jadeite... My Jadeite... You've come home." He opened his mouth to speak, only to go into another fit of coughing. Masato had him by the shoulder of his suit jacket, supporting him, keeping him from falling. "No, don't speak," he whispered in his ear. "Just listen." He straightened, making no response. "Welcome to my kingdom. Our kingdom. Jadeite." She called me Jadeite. Like in my dream. "Ah, but you don't remember us. You don't remember your home. This is all new to you." He wanted to speak, to scream: this is not my home, this is my nightmare! But... he couldn't. He couldn't do it. It was impossible. He couldn't speak, couldn't even open his mouth. "You don't understand, do you?" The woman was being kind to him, much more kind than in his dream. "Don't worry, you soon will." She waved a hand at his dark-haired companion. "Nephrite- take him to the Chamber." He drew back. "My Queen-" "Do it now, Nephrite!" Visisbly shaken, he said: "Yes, my queen." He bowed, then grabbed ahold of his arm, and he had the vague sensation that he had ceased to exist. >*< The chairs in his chambers were soft- almost too soft. Quite, actually. And warm. Luxuriant. Wonderfully sumptuous, and, like the rest of the furnishings, unuterably decadent. But really, they were too much. He always fell asleep sitting in them, and this was no exeption. It was getting quite inconvenient. He'd have to get new chairs. "Have a nice nap there, Jadeite?" "Ya- what?" Startled, he uncurled from the velvet-covered chair, on his feet in an instant, ready to defend himself against any attacker. Instead, he paused, sat back down, crossing his legs and leaning his head in his palm, blinking several times. "What is it?" "Beryl wants to see us. All of us." "Ah, shit! Am I late?" He jumped to his feet. "How long have you been here?" Nephrite waved a hand languidly. "I just got in- and you're not late. Even if you were, I doubt she'd be angry." His voice was muffled as he put on his shirt. "Even so- I don't want to risk it." He combed through his hair with his fingers, pulled on his jacket, jerked on his boots, rushed to button his jacket. "Jadeite- wait!" Without a word, he dissappeared, rematerialised in Beryl's throne room- only to find the place empty. At a loss, he spun around, searching for someone, anyone. "You should have waited." Nephrite appeared beside him. "You could have told me!" he accussed. Nephrite shrugged. "I tried." He glared. "Bastard." "You shouldn't be saying that." "And why the fuck not?" "Because you're so kind." There was anger, in him. And Nephrite was the recipient. Pulling on his new found powers, he prepared to attack. His favourite attack. Fireballs. Nephrite ducked the attack easily. He quirked an eyebrow. "That was out of character, Jadeite. And not well-aimed, either." He scowled, watching Nephrite stand, brushing his long lustrous hair away from his face. "Beryl didn't really want to see me." "No... She's asleep." "Then why..." "This isn't your time." "What? I don't... understand..." "Of course not. But... Jadeite, you're tired. You hate your life." "I- what?" "You hate your life. You hate yourself. You hate your compatriots. "More specifically, you hate Kunzite. You blame him for the ruination of your life. You had a good life before he found you." "But no... You found me.... I didn't have a good life, I was dying, I-" "No, no, Jadeite, you don't really believe that, do you? That was a false memory, a memory that Kunzite implanted in your brain. That wasn't real... You had a good life, Jadeite; you were happy. And her took all that from you." Jadeite found his limbs frozen. Nephrite was lying to him... Trying to make him believe something that wasn't true. Most likely, he was plotting against his superior and required Jadeite's existence. "I don't believe you..." "Yes, you do. Because it's true. It's your life, Jadeite. You know that, don't you? You want your life back, Jadeite. I know that. I know you believe me." "No. I don't believe you." He straightened, feeling his own body returned to him. "You're lying." "Very well." Nephrite nodded to him politely. "Believe what you will." He teleported away, and Jadeite was alone in an evil place. He squeezed his eyes shut, feeling the familiar sparkle of a teleport as it overcame him. It wasn't real, though. None of it was. He was a dream, his own nightmare. I won't give up... He would wait for the sun, the morning that would smile at him, the beautiful break of dawn. He wouldn't abandon himself to his nightmare, he swore to himself that he wouldn't. There were still doubts, though. What if Nephrite had been telling the truth, and it wasn't just that he wanted to use him in a plot against his superior...? That couldn't be possible, he thought. It would make no sense to any ends, the dreams within dreams within lies. And Nephrite was no altruist. Neither was he, and he wouldn't give him aid. Even though he didn't know who he was anymore.