She sleeps curled up to her pillow, watched over by a shelf of stuffed animals, their shining eyes illuminated by the gentle moonlight tracing a path through the violet drapes that span her windows. Save for her breath, and the gentle rustle of the wind against the window, it is quiet, so very quiet.
She dreams.
She dreams of a time when the people she now calls mama and papa were not her parents, but her fellows, when it was not love that shone in their eyes, but fear, fear of what she was and what she could do. She does not like this dream, but it is one that comes often. Sometimes she wakes up crying, others not, but she almost always wakes, and she is always sad when she does.
She does not wake this time.
Her next dream is bitter sweet. She feels a kiss against her forehead, smells the faint scent of aftershave as a father she barely remembers, and now will never know, tucks her in for the night. The only other image she has of him, she does not want to remember : his form outlined in flame, the last flickering dregs of madness fading from his eyes along with his life.
She wakes this time.
She sits up in bed, breathing a little faster than usual. She is careful not to cry, although the tears are so close that anything, anything at all might set them free. Then her mama would come, or papa, probably both, and they would hug her and kiss her and make it all better. At least they'd try.
She looks into her mirror.
Through the darkness she sees her reflection. She has dark purple hair and her skin is pale, but its complexion flawless. In the moonlight she is almost beautiful, until she sees her eyes.
She does this every night.
They are old eyes, ancient eyes. They are a dark violet, the shade just before purple fades to black, the colour of the winter sky. She wonders what others see in them. Do they see a sweet innocent young girl, or do they see something else?
She knows what she sees.
The others wonder why she always keeps her distance in a fight. Some of them think her weak, others think her cautious, but none of them are right. Only once before did she get close enough to see it, to see her eyes staring back at her in the eyes of the enemy. Hopefully she will never see them again.
She remembers.
For a moment her enemy had been surprised, and then amused by the little girl with the glaive, and then it had seen her eyes, really seen them and it had understood. In that moment she had struck, her power, the power of death itself, tearing the youma to small, bloody pieces. Then it was gone, scattered on the winds, but still its eyes had remained, burned into her soul, reflecting her own eyes back at her, Death's eyes.
She tries to forget.
She is crying now, because she knows what she is, and what she will do. One day, maybe soon, maybe not, she will end everything. The power will come to her, it will thunder, it will roar, it will scream in her soul, but it will never make a sound. It will be Silence, perfect and complete and it will destroy everything. And worst of all she will love it, the terrible ecstasy of her power, the unbearable beauty of utter desolation.
The doors opens.
"Hotaru, honey, what's wrong?"
She sniffles and tires to turn away but her mama is too strong. A wave of aqua blue hair falls over her as her mama pulls her into a hug. For a moment she fights, then gives in, sobbing and sobbing against her.
"Was it a bad dream?"
She looks up and for a moment she does not see her mama's beautiful ocean blue eyes, or aqua hair, or even her finely fashioned features, or the elegant cut of her nightgown. Instead she sees what she will be. She sees the burnt out skull, the hollow eyes sockets, the rags.
"Hush now," her mama whispers, pulling her so very, very close. "It's all right."
She shakes, trembles and weeps and then pulls away, making sure to keep her eyes shut. "I'm okay, mama," she says. "I'm okay now." She isn't.
Some time later her mama leaves, promises to come back if she needs anything, then is gone, the door closed behind her. Again the room is dark, quiet. The door creaks open a fraction and her other mama appears. She is carrying a walkman in her hands.
"To help you sleep," her other mama says, handing it to her. In the darkness her crimson eyes shine with a light all their own, filled with the fire of eternity.
She turns it on.
The music fills her ears and she closes her eyes. Hopefully this time she will not dream. Will not dream of dead worlds and ruined cities, or a weapon forged of iron that shatters the very fabric of reality.
But just as she starts to drift into sleep she hears it again, softly, just below the music. It is a symphony of nothingness, a rhapsody of quiet, and it is the most wonderful thing she has ever heard.
It is the song of Silence and it plays for her alone.
Author's Notes
This is my first Sailormoon fanfic, but hopefully not my last. I have to admit that I've always had a soft spot for the senshi of Saturn, perhaps because she's been through so much and somehow survived. Her character just so… deep and this was just my take on what she might think of on those long lonely nights when sleep won't come, or won't stay.
Whatever the case, what did you think? Should I quit writing, give up my day job, or what? Heh. Please drop me a line, I live on feedback.
Oh, and by the way, as the title suggests this is part of a series, focusing on each of the senshi in turn.