He threw the picture across the room, wishing that his memories were as easy to dispose of. It was disgusting. His behaviour lately hadn't come even close to achieving the standards he set for himself. He'd become slovenly. He'd been ignoring his legion, and the two demons under his command just couldn't cope with three hundred youma on their own. Perhaps if he had still had as many demonic officers under his command as he'd had in the days of the Moon Kingdom, it wouldn't have been quite so bad, but Serenity had slaughtered them all. Perhaps if he'd still had human slaves to serve him, his quarters would at least have been livable, but they'd died out during the long years of imprisonment behind the veil that Serenity had created, while Metallia raged and Beryl, too closely linked to the demon goddess, had taken out her anger on any human or youma foolish enough to cross her path. No, they were sadly fallen from what they had been a thousand years ago, even ignoring the most recent, most important loss.

Zoisite . . .

He hadn't realized how he had felt about the younger demon until he was gone. He'd thought that the boy was only a diversion, albeit one of long standing. Just another demon that he'd trained, just another pretty face and fine, lithe body in his bed. He hadn't realized how deep an impression a thousand years of constant companionship had made. He found himself turning to his left every few minutes, expecting to see a familiar face there, and momentarily puzzled when he didn't. And then it always hit him.

He's dead. Zoisite is dead.

The boy would never be by his side again to smooth his life in the thousand and one little ways he had never noticed. He wouldn't be there to help confuse Beryl and divert her formless anger, and he'd never look up from the rumpled sheets again with that quiet, mysterious smile on his face while he tried to decide what he would do to his lover next. But if Kunzite was honest with himself, the sex was the least part of what he was missing. Zoisite had been his second-in-command, the one person he could trust to see that his orders were correctly carried out. Losing him was like losing his right hand.

In fact, Zoisite had almost been a son to him, as well as a lover. It was an odd thing for a demon to think, perhaps, but true nonetheless. He'd taught the youth everything he knew.

If only it had been enough.

He couldn't cry. His demonic body wasn't equipped for emotional tears. That had been an oversight on his part, and on Metallia's. It might have given him the emotional release he needed now. Instead he stood here, dry-eyed and expressionless, while a storm raged inside him.

He went and retrieved the photograph, turned it over so that he could take one last look at it. Green eyes stared back at him, sparkling with mischief.

I . . . loved you?

He wasn't sure--didn't know if he was even capable of love--but what other reason could there be for the turmoil inside him? He had lost lovers and proteges before, and it had never felt like this. He'd always been able to erase the dead one's face from his mind, and go on. But none of the techniques he'd used before seemed to be working this time.

He'd been about to destroy the photograph, but he found that he couldn't bear to do that, either. Instead, he set it back in its place, and stared into green eyes unflinchingly for a moment.

My love. I will not ever forget.