Word Count: 828

Shards of glass and reflective pieces of mirror clinked and tinkled together with the sweep of a broom, scratching over an old wooden floor already heavily gouged. The entire hall glimmered as the sun threw beams of light through the broken windows, making a once dark, gloomy hall golden and lively. In those mirrors that still remained partially intact, the sky showed blue with feathery wisps of soft white clouds.

The breeze through the windows was warm. It caught strands of Ganymede's hair which tickled her cheek; she brushed them back with a careless motion of one hand. Her movements through the hall were sedate, the path she made not quite methodical, her steps executed as if in dance, as the broom she'd brought from Earth made steady progress in clearing the floor.

There was a freedom here that hadn't quite existed before. The world opened itself to her as if welcoming her home. From beneath her feet she could almost feel the energy that wended its way through solid ground. It creeped up the walls, seeped through the cracks of windows and mirrors, swirled through the vacant eyes of half crumbling statues. Life sent vibrations through the air, carried in on the wind, soaking into the Earth from the sun, wrapping her in a warm embrace like the comforting arms of a mother.

Or a father. Impossible as it was for his presence to be here, Ganymede preferred to think of him instead.

Not from far away but from long ago music drifted into the hall to match her steps, a long forgotten melody that nonetheless found voice in her quiet humming. The whispers were absent for the time being, though Ganymede could sense the memories just there beneath surface, at peace for the moment under the quiet thrum of energy that passed from moon and Senshi.

She became aware of a solitary figure more by a gentle shift in the wind than by sight. It brushed along the back of her neck like the ghostly tips of fingers, sending delightful shivers down the length of her spine. The name came up from the depths of her soul; red painted lips drew up into a smile as her breath caught in her throat.

“Serge...”

He was there when she turned around, clothed in the green and brown of Jupiter, but without the armor that both protected and encumbered Valhalla in battle. His outward expression seemed hard and callous, but in the green of his eyes Ganymede saw the flicker of emotion—defiance, protectiveness, and longing.

She danced over to him, her feet carrying her in small, quick turns along the floor. She came to a stop mere inches away, peered up at him with mischief and intrigue.

He was little more than ghost and memory, and yet she could feel his body heat as surely as she felt the heart of her moon beating in her chest.

Thump-thump... thump-thump... thump-thump...

A hand came up to her face and she felt the roughness of his palm against her cheek. Another took her right hand from the broom, tracing over a line in her palm that didn't appear there, but the memory of which Ganymede could feel etched into her skin. She took a soft, raspy breath, leaned in, and touched her lips to his.

This was the best sort of magic, she thought. Not the agony of fire spreading through ones veins, but this sweet, gentle pass of breath from one soul to another, the beat of two hearts sharing life. It bathed her with warmth from within as surely as the sun did so from without. She fed off of its strength and drew hope from its simplicity.

The war couldn't touch this, couldn't take this from her.

His lips went to her jaw, his hand trailing up from her palm to take her by the arm and pull her those last few inches closer. Ganymede turned her head, felt the scratch of his beard along her face, against her neck. He felt solid and real, smelled of sweat, of grass, of rainwater and old parchment, yet even as his mouth marked a trail from her jaw to the choker at her throat his image began to fade from existence, bleeding back into the past from a present in which he did not belong.

Her eyes found their reflection in one of the mirrors. There he still looked as real as he felt, his face pressed to the neck of a white jacket. Not her eyes but Liesel's glanced back at her, his lips drawn into a small, distant smile. On his forehead was a familiar symbol—an open heart which ended in a bolt of lightning—and on his right palm a scar she knew to have been self-inflicted.

It glowed with a golden light. Like life. Like sunshine. Like the love she so often saw in Chris's eyes, pulsing with the steady beat of her own heart.