Word Count: 510

“Serge...”

She sat on the edge of the mattress in her bedchamber on Ganymede. In her hands was cradled the memory stone. The memories that swirled within did not even encompass a third of Liesel's life, yet she held it reverently, as if it were the key to finding the answers to all of her questions, though by now she'd come to realize and accept that some questions would likely remain unsatisfied, her quest incomplete. Still, the memories came in pieces, shards of thought and feeling to be placed in order, but the large gaps between them remained.

It was night on Ganymede. She sat with the lights off but the window curtains open. The room was dark but for the reddish glow of Jupiter, the silver of its other moons, and the twinkling of stars. The balcony doors were closed to the tepid evening, the palace silent but for the frequent creaking caused by the shifting and settling of old wood.

Before her stood the ghost of another figure, a broad man in a deep green tunic, with dark auburn hair pulled into a tail and a neatly trimmed beard covering his face. His green eyes were sharp but not cold. They stared into her own with a warmth that seemed at odds with the severe look upon his face, his mouth curved into a frown, his forehead lined above furrowed brows. To the side of her face he brought a hand rough with callouses; his thumb stroked her cheek with what seemed to be an uncharacteristic gentleness.

“Serge...”

It was not her voice that spoke, but one from long ago.

She had learned of him over her frequent visits. Three years she'd had to study him. Always her eyes sought him out among the other figures that populated Liesel's memories, her ears attuned to the sound of his voice. She knew the touch of his hand, and the phantom caress of his lips against her own.

Sergius Martel was a boy of Earth turned into a man of Jupiter. History showed that his was not the attitude of the typical Knight of Jupiter, his demeanor severe, rigid like the fortress he commanded, and turbulent like the weather that often assailed his namesake. He reserved his kindness and warmth for those secret, forbidden moments with Liesel in the deep, dark quiet of the night behind closed and locked doors. Only then did the tension in his shoulders loosen, and his usual distant gaze grew soft with familiarity.

He leaned close and brought his mouth to her neck; she felt the scratch of his beard against her skin and shivered. His free hand grasped one of hers and pulled it away from the memory stone, his thumb tracing over the glowing scar that stretched across her palm.

“Serge...” she sighed.

“Serge...” another voice overlapped hers. “Not here... not now...” it said.

“You are over-cautious,” Serge said.

“No one can know...”

No one.

Just the darkness and shadows, the stars, and the wide, looming face of a distant world.