Word Count: 3517

The more he saw of them, the more Ganymede wondered where the memories came from.

Did they come from him, from somewhere deep inside his subconscious, buried beneath the passing of time and the memories of a new life on a different world, to rise again in response to the encouragement from some sort of mental trigger he remained unaware of? Perhaps they were inspired by the events in his own life, his soul’s attempt to find a parallel between the two, to connect the lives of two different boys from two different times into a single existence.

Or did they come from this world—this moon with its decrepit castle and barren land and the large, imposing planet that hung, formidably, in the dark, star-strewn sky. Did they wait here as if sleeping, resting patiently for his next arrival to reveal their stories and secrets one by one?

Whatever the answer, the memories pulled at him, intrigued him, called to him time and again, until he could no longer refuse the temptation. No matter the events that occurred on Earth, the heartache or the anger his life as a Senshi often caused within him, eventually he found himself coming back, returning to a place that had once been home, whether or not it would ever be again—and he did not want it to be, but even still he couldn’t resist, couldn’t refuse the impulse to see, to know.

With each visit he discovered that specific rooms in the palace encouraged certain feelings to arise within him, as if some part of him could remember being there even though each new discovery felt as new as if he were seeing it all for the first time. There was a room on one of the lower floors, with a scarred wooden table and battered chairs, that elicited a tense anxiety, and he felt overly confined between its faded walls. His feelings of unease grew stronger when he walked down the two halls lined with portraits, one of which he thought must house paintings of a line of monarchs, the other of which he suspected held portraits of a line of Senshi.

He avoided that hall, did not wish to see the many faces staring down at him.

But the sitting room and the bedroom belonging to the previous Sailor Ganymede was a moderately comfortable place. He went there often, carefully exploring the furniture and the possessions that once had been his—and which, he thought, still were.

“You’ve been quiet,” a voice said.

The memories came without warning, and played out with different levels of clarity each time. Occasionally he could see things very clearly; more than once he’d witnessed a single extended scene before it blended back into time and space. Other times they would come in fragments, descending upon him suddenly and disappearing just as quickly, with no explanation as to what was going on or how he might see them in more detail.

Sometimes he wondered if it might have something to do with how closely he was able to concentrate on them, as the latter always happened when he was burdened by company.

Ganymede turned from the ancient armoire he’d been inspecting to see that a scene had coalesced by a table on the other side of the room, near a set of tall windows that, in the memory and so he assumed in the past as well, overlooked a flowering garden at twilight. Two men sat with plates of food and cups of drink between them—one pale and fair, his eyes lowered modestly and his shoulders stiff beneath the starched fabric of a white and black jacket, and the other auburn haired and severe looking in the characteristic green of Jupiter, staring boldly across the table and drinking from a crystal chalice filled with a red drink Ganymede assumed to be wine.

He stepped closer for a better look, though nothing about the scene changed as he did so. The fair haired one, Liesel, did not look up from his meal, nor did he make any move to respond. He looked distracted, as if his mind were full of thoughts he felt no compulsion to share.

“Where is your Lord Chancellor?” the other man, Valhalla—Serge, he reminded himself—asked.

Though he could not answer the question on his own, the term that ended it was not entirely foreign to Ganymede. He remembered hearing it last time. “Your Lord Chancellor kept me occupied,” Serge had said. Both times with the “your” attached, almost as if it were meant to be an accusation, though Ganymede had no idea what his past self was being accused of, or what this “Lord Chancellor” even meant to him.

A hindrance to them, perhaps? That’s what it sounded like.

“He’s been occupied with other matters as of late,” Liesel replied. He sounded as distracted as he looked, his voice withdrawn when last time it had been free and animated.

They were older this time, Ganymede noticed—not so young as to find amusement in adolescent mischief, but not so old as to bear little resemblance to the two youths he’d seen in the field. Liesel was taller than he’d been then, likely taller than Ganymede was at present, though he didn’t expect it was by a great amount. He was still thin—“willowy,” Ganymede thought was the appropriate term—and he had his long, silvery-blonde hair bound back in a fashionable plait strung through with a string of black pearls.

The knight of Valhalla was the most changed, further removed from the arrogant boy than Liesel was from the playful one, though this was mostly due to the coat of neatly trimmed hair that covered his dour face.

If Ganymede had to make a guess, he’d say they were close to their mid-twenties.

“Should we be expecting him to make his return any time soon?” the knight asked. He looked bitter, as if the current subject of their conversation had been little more than a nuisance to him over the years.

“Not for another week,” Liesel said. “You’ll have gone home by then.”

Frustratingly, the vision stopped there. The image of the two young men drifted back into the past, the food, drink, and rich furnishings going with them, and Ganymede was once again left in a deserted room full of dust and broken things, staring around him as if he could find them whole again.

Thus far, the memories had benefitted him very little in his search for answers. He still had not seen anything to explain when or why or how the war had started. In fact, most of what he’d seen during his infrequent visits had involved these two—whether it was due to his close relation to Valhalla in the present or because the knight had been of great importance to him in the past, he had no idea. He barely even understood that much. In each memory their interactions seemed different—in the first they’d met as youths, in the second they’d quarreled as adults, in the third they’d interacted pleasantly as teens again, and now here they’d been as adults once more, clearly still allied but full of a tension Ganymede did not want to jump to conclusions to identify.

Beyond this he had seen nothing to help him. He had heard of no Moon Queen, seen no Princess, come across no tales alluding to their life or their rule or any sort of influence they may or may not have had on the wider universe beyond the moon of Earth. Admittedly, Ganymede knew little more than that he had known Europa and Valhalla at some point long ago, but he thought the lack of memories regarding the war were just as telling in their absence as they were frustrating for not bearing him the answers he sought.

He felt no guilt in decrying the Moon Queen. He felt no need to offer her respect and allegiance, for he had no proof that she deserved it, or that she had ever received it from he or his people in the past. Those memories had yet to make themselves known if they existed. So far, he couldn’t believe they did. Instead, he strengthened his resolve with what he didn’t know as much as with what he did know, and continued to operate as he had since he had been made aware of the worlds beyond Earth, and the life he had once lived among them—he gave his loyalty to those who had proven themselves in the present, and he explored his memories of those he knew and had known then as they came to him.

More often than not, the visions involved this man.

“I don’t believe you’ve ever allowed me to see your room before,” the same rough voice sounded again. It put particular emphasis on the word “allowed,” as if he had ventured inside before without permission, which Ganymede, having seen such an instance firsthand, knew to be true.

This time the voice came from Ganymede’s right, beyond the door into the bedroom, and when he turned to follow he found himself immersed into the sort of memory that seemed to exist as more than ghosts or figments of his imagination. This kind seemed far too real. He could see the room as it had been long ago, could see the two figures as if they existed on his plane, or as if he existed on theirs, and if he closed his eyes he thought he could feel what Liesel felt, a fluttering of panic, but also a grim determination.

He forced himself to watch instead, glancing quickly around the room to take in the sight of it in its former glory—walls papered red, ceiling high and painted cream, with gold molding formed in decorative designs, and a crystal chandelier hanging from the center. One wall was hung with large paintings, a blend of realistic portraits of people Ganymede assumed to have had some measure of importance in the moon’s history, and other more impressionistic landscapes. Another wall, the one opposite the door, showcased the large, four-poster bed with its luxurious canopy, and still another wall to his left held the French doors he knew led out to a balcony.

The floor beneath his feet was laid with dark wood, though it was mostly covered by a plush rug. Scattered throughout the room were other pieces of furniture—bedside tables, a vanity and accompanying stool, a large wardrobe, comfortable chairs, a quaint letter writing desk, and a fireplace whose marble mantel held all sorts of crystalline knick-knacks and porcelain vases filled with pink and peach and cream colored flowers that looked like roses.

If he breathed deeply enough he could have sworn he could almost smell them, along with another distinct scent—some sort of perfume or cologne.

Serge, the knight of Valhalla, stood near the center of the room. He paid no mind to his surroundings despite his observation and instead kept his olive green eyes trained on his companion.

“Liesel…” he said with uncommon tenderness, seeking the other man’s attention for himself.

They were dressed in the same clothes as before, and so Ganymede assumed this memory to be a continuation of the previous one, perhaps some time after they’d finished eating, as the darkness outside now attested to—though it being so far away from the sun and with only Jupiter showing prominently in the sky, Ganymede had no idea how it was possible for there to be obvious periods of daylight and nighttime.

Slowly, Liesel approached the letter writing table, which was littered with neat stacks of papers, envelops, and an array of fountain pens. He reached for neither, but instead grasped the hilt of a conspicuously placed dagger fashioned into the form of a miniature sword, the small pommel and cross-guard each inlaid with red stones like rubies. The fair haired young man turned with it in hand, finally raising his eyes to meet those of his friend.

Ganymede observed that there was not such a vast difference in height between the two men—not like the entire foot that separated him from Chris—though Liesel’s fancy boots had a decent sized heel on them, and Serge’s breadth surely made him the more imposing of the two.

“Liesel…” the knight said his name again, part concerned and part bewildered, looking from his eyes to the dagger in his hand with some confusion. Certainly Liesel’s retrieval of it seemed somehow out of place.

“There are old rituals,” Liesel began, “that my people used to perform in ancient times, before the ceremonies the priests conduct to tie one life to another. They were said to bind two souls together by blood.”

Serge raised a cautious brow as he replied, “You know better than to put stock in pagan rituals. Your people gave them up long ago. They held no power then just as they hold no power now.”

Liesel smiled sadly. “But isn’t it a nice thought?” he asked.

“Where is this coming from?” the knight questioned in return.

“I can’t give you everything you want,” Liesel explained, “not the way you might prefer, but… I can give you this.”

He held the dagger in his left hand and raised his right so that his palm was facing the knight. Ganymede had a split second to register the thought that Liesel must have been left handed before Liesel held the blade of the dagger against his empty palm and dragged it across the pristine skin with a wince and a hiss of pain. Blood gushed from the self-inflicted wound, spilling from his palm to streak toward his wrist and soak the cuff of his fine jacket.

Serge’s normally stern eyes widened comically, but he could not spring forward quickly enough to stop him. “Liesel!” he cried.

Liesel stared at him. His expression was more open in that moment than Ganymede could remember seeing it in any of his previous memories, except perhaps that afternoon by the fountain when the two of them had first met, when Liesel had been a merry adolescent and Serge had seemed to care little for making friends. Now his expression was warm and tender, but there was pain and longing there, too—emotions that he could not resist no matter what arguments he used or how many attempts he made to adhere to the expectations that he been placed upon him when he’d been young.

He held the dagger with its blood-soaked blade out to his friend.

“You have your duty and I have mine,” he said, his voice quiet but sure, gentle but determined, “but in whatever small way my duties will allow, I swear my loyalty and my devotion to you in blood and in spirit, though no law will ever recognize it, and I vow to always remain faithful and true for as long as I live, and after… until the end of time.”

When Ganymede closed his eyes his heart fluttered in a maddening rhythm, he felt a twinge of pain in his left hand, and his palm felt slick with blood that was not there when he reopened his eyes moments later.

The knight of Valhalla never took his gaze off of his suddenly daring companion, taking him by the shoulders as he stared in wonder. “Do you have any idea what you’re saying?” he asked.

Liesel’s mouth quirked into a small, ironic smile. “I’ve not had so much wine that my faculties have been compromised,” he said in a manner that sounded teasing.

Ganymede found himself wondering if there had ever been an occasion in which they had been.

The knight kept his hands on Liesel’s shoulders and stared at him for some time, his gaze boring into Liesel’s, perhaps discerning for himself how serious his companion must be. Though Ganymede knew Liesel to be experiencing a thrill of anxiety at his own behavior and the potentially reckless decision he’d made, he appeared quite sure of himself, leading Ganymede to assume he’d been planning this for some time—but for how long? Days? Weeks? Months or years?

Finally, Serge seemed to find whatever answer he was looking for in Liesel’s expression. He gently released his hold on him and took the offered dagger, examining the blood on the edge of the blade as he deftly slid one of his fingers over it.

“I do believe this is the first time you’ve shed blood,” the knight observed, his mouth quirking at the corner when he lifted his eyes back to his host’s.

Liesel returned the smirk with a small smile. “It’s for a worthy cause,” he said.

A quiet chuckle served as his only response as Serge lift his left hand as Liesel had done with his right, turning his palm to face him. With his right, he brought the dagger to his palm, lightly pressed the blade against it for a few seconds, and then quickly slit his palm with a flash of metal and a glittering of red jewels. He made no sound as he did so, nor did his expression change, as if the pain he felt in injuring himself was inconsequential when one compared it to what his actions meant.

When he was done, he set the dagger back onto the table, careful not to place it close to any of the documents or loose sheets of paper, lest the blood stain them. Then he stepped forward. His bleeding palm pressed against Liesel’s; his free hand slipped behind him, into Liesel’s hair.

“My life and my loyalty I’ve pledged to Jupiter and Valhalla,” he said, returning Liesel’s steady gaze, “but everything else I pledge to you.”

They inched closer to one another, never breaking eye contact. Ganymede closed his eyes for them and felt again the fluttering of his heart, the stinging of his palm, the press of fingers against his scalp, and then…

Then nothing.

He opened his eyes again and looked around. The scene had vanished, the room had returned to its former state—the bed near to collapsing, its hangings tattered and ghostly, the furniture in various states of disrepair, the paintings darkened and faded to the point where he could barely make out their subjects anymore, the letter writing table no more than a heap of broken wood on the dusty, frayed rug beneath his feet.

Ganymede moved to examine it, carefully sifting through the debris, but he found no dagger among the wood and the scattered pieces of paper he could not read.

“Your hand, Poppet,” a different voice said. This one was female and full of warmth and kindness, though when he looked around the deserted room Ganymede could find no source for it. “It’s scarred,” the voice observed.

“Mmm,” he heard Liesel’s voice murmur in agreement. He could almost hear the smile in it as he said, “I meant it to.”

The voices faded as all the memories inevitably did, until all he could hear were the jumble of whispers that greeted him every time he visited his moon, their words indistinguishable but for the sound of his name.

Ganymede returned to his feet and gave the room one last look before he moved to leave. He felt he’d disturbed this place enough for one evening. In moments like this, no matter how he felt about it at other times, his moon certainly felt sacred.

He made a motion to summon his phone from subspace but stopped himself at the last second, his eyes trained on his right palm. Carefully, he tugged at the fingers of his glove, pulling them loose until he could slide the glove off entirely, holding it at his side while he examined his bare palm.

He almost thought he could feel it still, the thin blade pressed against his flesh, opening it to the cool air and spilling his blood down his palm, but that couldn’t be. It must have been his imagination, active as it often was when he visited this place. It hadn’t been his blood that’d spilled anyway, he reminded himself, nor would he allow himself to believe that the effort had actually resulted in anything more than a feeble promise between two foolish men—morbidly romantic as it might have been to witness.

They’d both said it themselves: it was a pagan ritual. In the end, it meant absolutely nothing—only what they wanted it to mean, and that could have easily changed between that moment and the moment it all came to an end. It certainly held no value now, hundreds of years later when neither of those men even existed as anything more than feeble memories. Their lives had ended he knew not when, but the fact remained that they were dead and gone.

When he looked at his palm, curious despite himself, there was nothing abnormal about it. It remained perfect and undamaged—flawless but for the natural lines on his pale, pale skin.