= = = N = = =

This is nearly greater hell than being energy. For an hour at least I’ve lain here awake, in Rachael’s body, unable to move – not even to open her eyes. After a desperate bout of claustrophobia, I’ve managed to relax. I’ve spent most of my time reflecting on my actions of yesterday…

I was an idiot to take that girl’s energy, and desperately lucky I wasn’t caught. Surely those annoying senshi still guard this city. If one of them had found me, I’d have been finished. But then…it helped me find Rachael. I’d never have had the energy without it.

A confused blur of semi-conscious thoughts join mine. Rachael is at last waking up. Her side of this joining has been undetectable until now – she being too exhausted even to dream.

With her effort and mine, we manage to open her eyes and see the familiar footboard of her bed, but then her eyes fall shut again.

“Where the hell am I?” Rachael asks in a groan of a thought.

Her feelings turn from confusion to fear and then to panic as she tries to move her body and can’t.

“Hush now,” I soothe her, as best I can, thinking in a quiet voice. “You’ll be all right. You’re just exhausted.”

A different tenor of fear takes over now…that same terror as yesterday - that she’s lost her mind.

“You’re not insane, Rachael. It’s me. I’m here with you…sharing your energy…keeping you alive, at the moment.”

Thoughts flash through her brain. Perhaps she’s still in the library, dreaming. Maybe she hit her head.

I grow more frustrated.

“Why are you so stubborn?” I demand of her, not for the first time. “I’m not imaginary! Why is this so difficult for you to accept? You’re smart enough, for a human – but you don’t know everything.”

She’s not convinced. If she had the energy, she’d be crying.

“You rest now,” I tell her gently, giving up. “Go back to sleep. Maybe you’ll have come to your senses when you wake up.”

. . .

When she wakes again, she opens her eyes with less difficulty, looking around the room briefly before laying her head back down. It’s dark…but moonlight floods through the large uncurtained window.

She tries to stretch, but manages only to briefly tense all her muscles, then gives up dispiritedly. A slight tension remains in her stomach…fear for what she’s about to discern…

“Nephrite?” she asks aloud, in a tone that says she very much hopes I won’t answer.

“I’m still here,” I think to her, amused at her responding start of fear. “Relax.”

“Easy for you to say,” she thinks grumpily. “You don’t have someone camped out in your brain.”

“Yes I do, of course,” I argue. “For now, it’s my brain too, and your thoughts sharing it. We’re…joined. Everything you are, I am too.”

“But how?” she demands, ever the pragmatist. “Are you a ghost?” She stiffens as she thinks this, and her heart suddenly aches.

“No…not really. I’m not dead,” I assure her, though sometimes I couldn’t swear to that. “It’s…complicated.”

She makes a face at this, as if it confirms she’s inventing me.

“I’m pure energy,” I struggle to explain. “More than a ghost – if they existed, because I have powers.”

“Ghosts have powers…so they say,” she tells me tiredly. “I’ve never believed a word of it. But perhaps I’d better re-examine my beliefs.”

“What sort of powers?” I pursue, as curious as she about my own state. I have no answers.

“Well. They say they can knock, and write on walls…and throw things. And they make rooms cold, and carry scents.”

“You seem to know a lot about this,” I observe.

“History,” she answers with a bit of a smile. “Social history. People’s beliefs in magic and superstition – myths and religions. It’s fascinating, even if you don’t believe it.”

“And you don’t?”

“I don’t believe in anything,” she dismisses, then smiles. “Including you.”

I ignore this provocation, steering the subject back.

“Well…again, I don’t think I’m a ghost. I can have a body.”

“True,” she affirms, sharing my feeling of relaxed reflection. “Ghosts can too, but you can’t touch them, as far as I know. And you were surely solid.”

A hot flash of emotions blazes over her, and of course over me too…lust and resentment, remembering my various very ‘solid’ actions. The pain in her backside has faded to a vague warm tingle now, barely discernable – yet she’s still mad as fury over it. But at the same time she’s desperate for me.

I share her sudden hunger – unsure if it’s purely hers or my own as well…but there’s little to be done about it now. I say nothing, at any rate – for I don’t wish to embarrass her.

“But you say you’re not dead,” she reasons. “So how could you even consider that you’re a ghost?”

I don’t answer her immediately, but at her question, a brief mental image comes to me – the scene of my grisly death. Rachael gasps in horror. I try to suppress the image, but she latches on to it – analyzing every detail, her mind a turmoil of questions.

“Who is that?” she demands, seeing Naru’s tortured face weeping over me. Naru’s name springs to my mind like a reflex. A strange experience begins then as Rachael starts to rifle through my memories unchecked, plainly much more skilled than I at gathering information from another’s mind. I try to stop her, but I can’t. She uses my automatic responses as her guide.

In no time she has reconjured the whole scene with Naru, before the Youma arrived, and manages to replay all the events until the arrival of Sailor Moon.

At this, however, Rachael’s mind reaches the limit of acceptance.

“Sailor Moon?” she yells mentally. “I’m obviously dreaming. Or else you are.”

“Why?” I ask, feeling emotionally exhausted from the randomly re-lived experiences.

“Because it’s a myth. A pretty little Japanese myth. I read all about it myself not six months ago in an old book.”

“I wish she were. But I’m afraid not,” I tell her, then add resignedly, seeing little point in stopping now, “Search for yourself.”

She sifts through my memories again, with greater ease now as I aid her, going right back to my first mission and Sailor Moon’s annoying interference with it.

Rachael’s mood has changed. The more she learns, the more solemn she becomes, and the questions she asks less animated and more logical.

“Who is that?” she asks repeatedly, putting names with faces. Beryl, Jadeite, Kunzite, Zoicite…

“I’ve seen her before,” she recalls as I identify the latter. “She was there…smiling when you died.”

I smile myself, slightly, despite my thorough loathing.

“’She is a ‘he’, believe it or not. Though perhaps more of an ‘it’…”

“He’s horrible,” she comments, feeling my violent hatred for him, and afraid herself – remembering his cold calculating viciousness.

I’m growing weary. Rachael asks me no more, reflecting quietly over the information she’s already gathered. She’s strangely fixated on my various victims, feeling a sympathy and sadness for them that I never did. I fall asleep to the strange sensation of my own memories flashing through my head at the whim of another…

= = = R = = =

“Nephrite?” I think gingerly, after a time. There’s no response. He hasn’t left me. I still feel his memories lurking in my subconscious. He must be sleeping. How can be asleep if I’m not? I don’t understand any of this!

At least I can relax now…think without being overheard. Talk about Orwellian! To have someone actually IN your head. And not just anyone. A ‘Dark Kingdom’ general…

I ate up that whole myth so voraciously. So bizarre and fascinating…but also so plainly fantasy. People on the moon! Aliens and magic crystals! It’s beautiful nonsense.

Or so I believed, until now.

How can it be true? But how could I have imagined all this? I’m not creative enough. And I can’t be dreaming. It’s too long and involved…too real. It must, somehow, be true.

But how can I believe that? How can I go on wondering what else might be true? How can I separate fact from fiction when everything from Atlantis to the Loch Ness Monster to the fucking Easter Bunny might be real?

Calm down, Rachael. And be quiet, or you’ll wake Nephrite.

I take a deep calming breath.

So…let’s say it’s true. He’s actually one of Beryl’s four kings. And he’s been alive for…thousands of years? Or reborn, as Sailor Moon was? How??

I think you’d better forget about ‘how’ for now, and get some facts straight…

Well – what’s he doing here? I thought he died. He certainly seems to think he did.

I told you – no questions like that. Besides – I don’t think even Nephrite knows the answer. He doesn’t seem entirely convinced he’s not dead.

A qualm of sympathy goes over me as I think of his lost hopeless expression the night I met him. My heart softens toward him, for it had hardened when I learned of what he’s done…how he’s hurt and used people…especially poor Naru.

I think of her for a while, remembering her agony when she lost Nephrite…wondering about her…nearly crying in sympathy. My thoughts are starting to drift again. I’m so tired. My mind is filled with stars…

= = = N = = =

When I wake up again, it’s daylight. I open Rachael’s eyes and glance around the room, at last able to sit up slightly. She’s so hungry. How the hell do I feed her? She can’t even get up. I hope she can last until she regains enough strength.

A strong rush of fear goes through me…unfamiliar and confusing. It’s not my feeling. Rachael is plainly awake…eavesdropping and pretending sleep.

“You’ll be alright,” I reassure her, holding back my anger at her conniving. “I’ll leave you soon, when you’re strong enough. Then I’ll look after you.”

She’s quiet for a while…thinking of what she learned yesterday. I notice there’s no more doubt in her. She believes me – though she’s still wont to shake her head, overwhelmed.

She begins to question me, more respectfully than before – asking specific questions…about the Dark Kingdom and Beryl…about the Moon Kingdom and its destruction…trying to cover the bare-boned ‘myth’ she learned with more facts. Here is Rachael the scholar, I reflect with some affection. I aid her as best I can, teaching her my history.

She takes it all in greedily, and still wants more…a thousand little queries, recreating life back home to the smallest detail. But then, she asks a different question - where was I born and what was my mother like?

I don’t answer. I can’t. It’s not something I let myself dwell on anymore. But Rachael won’t be put off, asking why I don’t remember…how can I not?

“I believe that I didn’t grow up there,” I tell her grimly and somewhat unwillingly. “There are no children in the Dark Kingdom. I believe Beryl took me from somewhere else. Took all her generals.”

“Well, of course – she took you from Earth,” she says gently. “You and the other three…you were Endymion’s guardians. Don’t you know that?”

That…can’t be true. It can’t be…

“Hush,” Rachael urges, frightened by the depth of my anger and revulsion. “Calm down? Try to think. Beryl must have brainwashed you…all of you generals. But try to remember. Can’t you see that it’s the truth?”

I would kill her, if I could…to shut her up. To stop these lies. My mind torments me like someone’s driving a spike through it. Can’t she feel the pain too?

I shake her head violently, trying to stop the agony.

“Stop it – shut up, do you understand me? I won’t think this way! You shut up about this now, Rachael – and never another word…or I’ll leave you now and let you die. Do you understand me??”

She must, for she obeys. Her mind is quiet, apart from sadness. I clear my head and the horrible piercing torment eases then stops. I lay her head back exhausted on the pillow, her brow wet.

“I’m sorry, Nephrite,” Rachael says then, ruefully. “So sorry…”

“Forget it,” I order, “Talk about something else.”

She ponders a moment, then ventures hesitatingly, “Please…would you think about the stars?”

She sounds so wistful, I feel slightly mollified towards her, and acquiesce.

Unhurriedly, I wander through my amassed knowledge…the planets, the stars, the galaxies…their names, their order, their composition, their relationships with each other…their powers.

Rachael ‘listens’ wide-eyed and speechless, her heart nearly bursting with respect and even awe.

“Nephrite…you’re a scholar,” she murmurs aloud. “Astronomy, astrophysics, cosmology…you’re a genius.”

Her tone of respect is so sincere it touches me, but I belittle it, uncomfortable.

“I’ve studied. That’s all.”

“But how you’ve studied!” she breathes. “You’ve worked so hard. You ought to be revered…but you aren’t.”

No, I reflect – sharing the memories she’s conjured of my life at court.

Not revered. Barely even appreciated. Certainly not by Beryl or my rivals. Zoicite fills my thoughts, along with an answering hatred and thirst for vengeance. Always provoking me…ridiculing and belittling…spoiling for a fight. The little pretty-boy, trained at nothing but the art of manipulation, deception, dishonour and ruthlessness. He taunts me, but I can do nothing. He hides behind Kunzite. Alone, I could destroy him, but he’s too sly…aware of his importance to Beryl and his safety in Kunzite.

But now…all that is meaningless. Beryl’s approval means nothing to me -no more than my life. All I want is revenge. Now nothing would save him from me.

I realize at last that Rachael is still ‘listening’ and recording all I think. Her heart is still filled with wordless respect, and even…submission. Wonderingly I realize that she has at last achieved the mind-set I desire of her.

I would have been satisfied with merely the pretext of respect and obedience – as given by all my former subordinates…but Rachael gives them both purely. I find it amazingly refreshing…and delightful.

Wishing desperately for my body, I decide to make do with hers.

I reach her hand up and stroke the softness of her cheek – so strange and wonderful to experience both touching and being touched simultaneously. Rachael tenses slightly – the hand and cheek being hers, but not the will behind the action.

I move to trace her mouth with a fingertip. She stiffens further, beginning to try to wrest control of her body from me.

“Stop it,” she says aloud.

“Hush,” I think gently, a memory of the Japanese girl I took flashing briefly through my head. “Close your eyes, Rachael, and be still.”

She tries to obey and lies quietly as I run my borrowed fingers through her hair. Yet when I run both hands languidly down her torso, feeling her soft breasts beneath her shirt, she resists again, feeling self-conscious and ridiculous.

“Stop it, Rachael,” I order again, smiling at her reaction despite my sternness. “I told you. Close your eyes. Pretend it’s me. It is me.”

She again attempts to be still, but with difficulty. It’s a strange experience, I’ll grant her…for me as well. Although they’re her hands I use, and her body I touch, I feel the pleasure also. It’s deliciously odd.

Rachael permits me, protesting only with a gentle moan, to disrobe her until I’m running ‘my’ hands over her soft warm flesh. When my touching grows more intimate, her protests and embarrassment increase, but we both know – she has no wish to stop.

“I wish you were here, Nephrite,” she murmurs hungrily. “It’s you I want.”

“I am here,” I think to her, moving a fingertip in a slow deliberate circle over her center. “I feel everything you feel…how could we be closer?”

Her body tenses again, but in readiness. The pleasure is so sweet…the climb up so much more exquisite than I’ve ever known it…

“Oh god,” she mutters, writhing slightly, fighting not to take control of my actions. “More…faster…please!”

I obey gladly, and as I do, I slip two fingers inside her.

Overwhelmed by shocked self-consciousness and pleasure, she comes hard…wave after wave of ecstasy falling over us both.

Time seems to stop and we lie desperately still, clinging to the fading sensations…

“Jesus…,” I think dreamily at last, apparently having picked up the expression. “That was like nothing I’ve experienced before…”

Rachael giggles to herself.

“No, I suppose you haven’t. No man has, obviously.” She stretches languidly, then rests her head on her arms. “Except that Greek fellow…that seer…what was his name?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I confess, trying to gather my pleasure-addled wits enough to follow her.

She stares unseeingly, searching her memories.

“Hell.” She exhales frustratedly. “I can’t remember it. But I remember the story. He was walking along, and saw two snakes mating, and hit them with his staff. And this pissed off some god or other…and he was turned into a woman, as punishment. Typical Greek misogynistic story, of course…”

“Why are you telling me this?” I demand, shaking her head in mock impatience. She laughs and shrugs.

“Because,” she insists, a smile in her voice, “You and he have a common experience. He settled a bet between Hera and Zeus over who enjoyed sex more – men or women – because of course, he was the only one in a position to compare.”

“Ah.” Comprehension dawns at last. “And what did he say?”

“He said,” she answers, feeling slightly embarrassed now. “That women get nine times more pleasure from it.”

“That’s a bit steep…but not that far off,” I tease her.

“Well, it’s only a myth,” she sighs, then laughs again. “But then again, so are you.”

“I object to constantly being referred to as mythical,” I warn her, but she just laughs harder and I can’t stay angry.

“Go to sleep, Rachael,” I advise, settling my thoughts to do so myself. “After a little more rest you should have enough energy to live by yourself. And perhaps I’ll have enough to look after us.”

“Yes, my lord,” she responds with marvelous obedience, laying her head down and shutting her eyes – a smile still on her face.