Gently brushing aside some of the petals, Tempesti scrutinized the floor beneath. Colorful tile greeted her, sweeping geometric patterns chipped and broken with the passage of centuries, all radiating from a single point of overgrowth. Beneath the living and the dead she knew the Tower’s heart still beat, faint but growing stronger as the planet revived itself. The state of it was shameful, its caretakers long gone. She was the only one left. The last line of defense. The planet’s anchor.

Warm hands took hold of hers. Their grip was insistent, just tight enough to let her know that they could hurt her, should they wish. That her cooperation was just a formality.

They intended the taking of her hands rather than her wrists to symbolize her willingness with every step. They were not wrong, even without their grasp she would follow them below. Into the Crypt. Pass her own tombs without flinching, ensure that her bare feet made no sound as they descended. Show no sign of acknowledgement as she passed the stained glass images of her former selves. Stand before the Shrine of Purgation. Kneel to receive the Tyrant’s Blade, meet the gaze of the golden harpy adorning its hilt before drawing it across her own skin with a single decisive motion. First the right arm, then the left. Hold them out over each altar and allow the blood to flow freely. Her blood the force that bound her to this place, this binding her contribution to anchoring the soul of the planet. If she faltered, if she died, it would only expose her own weakness as the spirits drew the life from her body. If she survived, he would bind her wounds. Gently. The mercy a reward for her fealty. Her fealty owed for her life. Her life preserved for the sake of the planet. A trinket passed from his hands to hers, a token of the friendship he said existed between them before they escorted her back to her quarters.

Then she was back.

Sailor Tempesti opened her eyes, tears drying on her cheeks, the sharp pain lingering in her forearms, heart still pounding. Grief and fury in equal measure rose within her, a flashover threatening to consume all that stood in its way. A spasm of terrifying rage clenched every muscle as each unprovoked pang of shame, dread, fear, rushed through her mind. Every time she felt wrong for transforming, every time she refused to look at the Tower for the guilt of not being within its walls. The fact that her mind could finally assemble these pieces into a recognizable form did little to appease her.
An object.
An anchor.
A sacrifice.
No.
The ferocity of her refusal startled her but she refused to turn away.
This was her] planet.
Her responsibility.
Her Tower.

Returning her gaze to the clump of overgrowth, she summoned a small pair of gardening shears from her subspace, grateful for her undying interest in exploring the planet’s flora. Her touch was gentle as she separated the dead growth from the living, her rage subsiding as she tended to the windflowers that grew along the cracks in the shrine. It was easy to lose herself in the task. It had never been her duty, of course, but she knew the steps. With the dead vines removed, Tempesti focused her attention on the centuries of grime coating the mensa and crystals that lay beneath. Any interest she might normally have in keeping her fuku clean went forgotten as she poured water from her water bottle onto the surface, wiping furiously with her long white sleeves until, little by little, the filth vanished. Or transferred itself to her sleeves. Either way. The crystals came next. Restoration. Protection. She didn’t know the old words but she knew their purpose. With her sleeves seemingly at capacity, she summoned forth the facial wipes from her subspace. It was unorthodox, no doubt, but it was the intention that mattered. She couldn’t say how long it took, but by the time she exhausted the package of wipes, the facets of all four crystals revealed their former sheen. Carefully shoving the dirty wipes back into their plastic pouch before recalling them, she allowed herself a moment to admire her work. She was no priest, but after who knows how many centuries she suspected the shrine would be less than picky about its caretaker.

Tempesti smiled, oddly at peace despite the day’s revelations. While she would undoubtedly have to contend with whatever waves of anger these memories brought, she knew who she was and who she refused to be. She knew that she could never again yield to the fear of who she was, never again allow herself to become a passive participant in her own life. No one would claim power over her and no one would claim power over her world. The cruel games of rulership would never again claim her soul. She was a protector. A nurturer. Worlds past and present needed all the help they could get, and as long as some part of her remained, she would offer as much of herself as she could.

For a few moments the Tower’s silence grew more powerful, time almost seeming to freeze as some tumultuous part of her quieted and stilled, instability quelled as she became truly whole. The senshi lacked the ability to fully articulate the sensation, but she knew that the volatility of her bond with her starseed was no more. To call it serenity would have been inaccurate, but it was close enough. The knowledge that she would never again harm someone without intending to was more than enough to push down some of the anger lingering beneath the surface.

The realization that the crystals on the altar had begun emitting a faint, unearthly light came slowly as though some internal fire within them rose in response to the newly steady energy she radiated.

With the softest of light on silent wings they arrived. Tempesti might call them butterflies if not for the gentle glow they cast as they fluttered tranquilly around her.

Tempesti couldn’t say where they came from, the teruda, but she knew them.

And it seemed, somehow, That they knew her.