In no way do I own Sailor Moon, just the plot and an occasional OC.

Built on Shifting Ground

Chapter One:

The Warrior

She fell more than sat on the sand. The stuff quickly adhered to her skin, clinging to the sweat and the blood. The scent on the air was sweet and spoke of water, the bodies of the scouting party she'd encountered, downwind. The sand stung, grinding in her wounds as she tried to crawl the few inches forward toward her communicator. The transmission? Still unsent. Dropped the moment the horsemen came galloping over the dune, confirming the nature of the men she had, in the original message, categorized as only potentially hostile. Potentially, she laughed into the sand and hair plastered to her face. It sent fire up her torso as broken bones rubbed against themselves while the sand dug deeper into various gashes. Still, it took a few moments to stop laughing. Finally she lay still. Quickly, she edited the message.

"Sisters. Danger. Ignore the rule. Find me now." But it would not send. She cursed aloud. Evidently, she had not yet passed out of the Earthling transmission zone she'd unwittingly entered into the night before looking for the camp. No outside help for two more days.

She closed her eyes and sought to remember. In a moment the images she sought came forth from short-term memory and she saw, by moonlight and points of distant torchlight, a large camp now several km away. 50+ tents, minimum occupancy, she estimated at 5, maximum 10, horses kept in a large pin on the east of the camp. 250 to 500 soldiers. This attack had only been a scouting party, just eight men from that medium-sized encampment, armed for speed: light armor, sword or bows only. She needed to move. She was only an hours or so ride from their camp and she had no idea when they would be expected back, when they would be missed or looked for. But she knew better than to be found with the bodies when they did look.

Another memory shimmered into place. The top of the ridge, the highest point of the dune. She had surveyed the land for just a moment before moving. There lay an outcropping of trees and scrubs far in the distance like a green beauty mark on a vast expanse of hot skin. It would be quite a walk to get there, and a rather obvious place for a killer to flee to when the Earthling's went looking for one. But, she reasoned, she did not have much of a choice. She was too weak to teleport home and god knew there was nowhere to hide out there. Besides, water would let her clean her wounds and not die of thirst before even her accelerated healing rate could begin to seal the deep gashes and lacerations. Though the lagoon was not visible from the troth of the dune, she remembered the general direction. She made her decision and braced herself mentally against the pain.

How she made it off the ground, she'd never quite remember although somehow she did. But she would remember the walk. The weight of each step- like shackles on her legs, sinking into the deep sand then having to be pulled out again to advance. Like running in water. A hot, burning sea that rubbed your skin raw, undulating waves to be climbed and descended. It combined worst challenges of travel by land and sea, hills and heat, unstable footing and extra resistance. And the light was shifting. She wagered she'd been walking for an hours when, over another low dune, the lagoon became visible in the distance. They could have reached the bodies by now, if they had left when she did. She prayed they had not as she hobbled the remaining distance to the lagoon.

When she first reached the shade of a tree, she cried out in joy as the temperature dropped 15 degrees simply for lack of direct sunshine. She felt the ground under her feet through the sand-worn holes in her shoes. She had wished for her fuka violently during the fight, but dared not transform lest one of them escape and report that a senshi had been found, if anyone in that camp knew what one was, sneaking about an Earthling military encampment. It would defeat the purpose of wearing civilian clothing this whole time. Besides, by now she was too weak to transform if she tried. She reached down into the small pool for water, and hissed as it grazed a cut on her forearm. She drank. And drank. And drank, then permitted herself a few moments of rest as her now distended stomach tried to dispatch the water to demanding organs and limbs.

She woke twenty minutes later, her body trained to accept the perfect amount of sleep from a nap and no more. Two days. She need to stay alive for two more days. She looked at the horizon. The sun was beginning to set. Two and a half hours since she'd left the bodies. They would be coming for her. Soon.

She pushed herself forward, head throbbing with the exertion, and began to wash her wounds, bandaging them with pliable palm fronds and bits of string from her light robe. Satisfied with the work, she began to meditate, to accelerate her healing and beg the goddesses for help. There was no use trying to escape. Weakened as she was, she could not outrun them, only delay their encounter. And when they did meet, she would be weaker for having exhausted her energy trying to flee. So she meditated there as the sun fled the sky, chased by the waxing half-moon.

The moon felt her fear and heard her prayers for help. It performed a bit of glamor magic on the girl and the land around her to give her a story until help would arrive. It masked her tracks, making them look like caravan tracks leading back to the bodies and off into the desert, far from her. As for the girl, it dressed her in a slave girl's costume and manipulated her flesh so that the wounds looked like lash marks. And to prevent her exposing her identity, it suppressed her magic and kept her in meditations when a few soldiers from the camp found her. To them, she was quite obviously a runaway, beaten and unconscious from exhaustion, useful only as a source of information, while the rest of the men followed the tracks of into the desert after the real killers. In her meditations, the goddess Selene warned her of the magic done to help her, so the girl would be prepared to lie until the senshi rule kicked in: three days, no contact, and a search party is sent. But by the second day, they would be looking for her, preparing themselves should they need to help her escape. Two more days, she had to lie for two days and try to survive alone in enemy territory. Or at least men who she had made her enemies.

Two men selected for the task picked up the escaped slave and carried her on horseback back to their master, while the others travelled on after the caravan. Their king had demanded that anyone found be brought to him to be questioned. And they had no intention of disobeying. They laid her limp form on the red rugged floor of his tent and bowed low.

"My King, she was found, as you see, alone, arms chained, whipped, at a lagoon. North of Kashima by two hours ride. Her tracks were the only set out to the lagoon from where the bodies were found." Said the archer in green.

"Was she unarmed?" the man inquired, walk over to the girl's form.

"Yes, King." The archer answered.

"Have they found the caravan?"

"No King," the blue swordsman answered, "We just received a communication from them. They believe the caravan disbanded deep in the desert. Tracks go off in the direction of the four cities, and an abandoned cart was discovered there."

"Very well. Raiders must be back again. Send out the patrols better armed. I'll send notice for reinforcements tomorrow. Unless there is any other useful information"

"Just one thing my lord," Blue said looking at the ground, "The killings, the bodies, they're so, well, so neatly done. This looked professional, my King. Soldier-like. Someone who knew how to make quick work of killing."

"What was used?"

"Broad Sword and brute strength." Blue responded.

"Meaning?" The leader asked, slightly annoyed with the imprecision of his answer.

"Three men had their necks broken, sir. By hand." Answered the Archer.

The leader nodded but said nothing, dismissing them with a wave. He bent down to examine the girl. Beautiful, to be sure, although badly beaten. Odd looks for these parts, but the land was becoming increasingly full of strangers as the war stilled and trade resumed. Whip marks, but her body looked strong. Perhaps before she had been made a dancer or pleasure slave, because she was too pretty not to have been one of the two, she had been a farm slave. 'Or a soldier' his mind whispered. But he dismissed the thought for now. It would have to have been a long time ago; she was too sleek and slender to be one now. And she had clearly not been strong enough to ward off whoever beat her like this. He crained his head to see her face. A piece of hair was attached to the blood on her lip, obscuring his gaze. Gently, he pulled the piece away. Her eyes opened and his heart caught at the beauty of their color and depth. She looked at him disorientedly.

"What is your name, girl?" He asked in a hard voice, with a hint of warmth underneath the gruffness, drawing himself back up to his full height.

The memory of the vision flashed before her eyes 'lie with as much truth as you can. Use facts but not the whole truth and you will be safer', so she answered weakly,

"Minako."