The general bowed in a smooth, sweeping motion, his auburn hair tumbling around his chest and shoulders. "At your service, Beryl-hine."

"Have you located him yet?"

"I believe I have, my Queen . . ."

"If you have, I am grateful, for your sake. The Goddess Metallia may be endlessly gracious, but we are not. You came within two days of missing your deadline, Nephrite." Her voice was teasing, husky. Nephrite chanced an upward glance and saw Beryl lounging on her onyx throne, her cobalt blue dress draped smoothly over every curve and crevice in her perfect body. Her form was beautiful, yes, but it was a beauty marred by the sallow skin, the spiked shoulders, the reptilian eyes, the wicked fangs revealed by her mocking half-grin. He could barely suppress a shudder; the Queen of the Dark Kingdom always inspired him with awe, terror, and most of all, a revulsion that roiled his gut. "And you know what happens to people who miss their deadlines, don't you, General?"

Beryl gave a little downward nod, a tip of her pointed chin. Nephrite knew what this meant; she was threatening him with the Catacombs, the torture chambers where her enemies and her disfavored followers alike awaited a long, painful death and interment in a mass grave - after the soul had been stripped from their remains and fed to the Goddess Metallia. Nephrite was not a squeamish man, not a weak man, but he could not help but blanch, just slightly. The Catacombs were more fearsome than a thousand simple deaths.

"Yes, my Queen."

"That's a good boy, Nephrite. So, where do you believe -" she put a painful, poisonous emphasis on the word believe - " you have located our fourth General?"

"I have found him," Nephrite said firmly, "on the New Earth."

"We know he is on the New Earth!" Beryl snapped. "The Goddess Metallia has already provided us with that information. If you do not know more . . ."

"I do, Beryl-hine," Nephrite was quick to continue. "He is on the continent called Europe, in a country called England. His incarnation is of noble birth, but he has renounced his title to join a monastery . . ."

"A monastery?"

"A . . . house of religion. The men who live there forgo sex, wealth, power, and dedicate their lives to doing good deeds and serving their god."

"One god?"

"It's not like Shinto, your majesty. In Europe, they believe there is only one god."

"How quaint. But this is of no interest. So our fourth General has devoted himself to goodness and piety. The irony amuses us, but we will break him of it soon enough."

"Indeed, your majesty."

"And how old is his incarnation?"

"Perhaps eighteen years, majesty."

"Attractive?"

She's asking me for no good reason; she only wants to see me squirm, thought Nephrite. She wants to see me falter, not know. The cold stone floor chilled his knees, even through his uniform. How much longer would he have to kneel here? "Yes - although not as beautiful as you, my Queen. He'll be pleasing enough to the eye, once we clean him up. The inhabitants of this New Earth are absolutely filthy: like beasts."

"Yes," Beryl mused, shifting on her throne. "Like beasts . . . is there anything which would prevent us from simply snatching him away? Could he fight us?"

"I believe not, your majesty. He seems to be unaware of his powers. But . . . at the risk of displeasing your majesty, I might speculate that some other forces are somehow involved. I encountered no active entities, but there is a sort of a . . . shield . . . around him, a spell or an illusion that passively defends him. It's a kind of an anti-glamour; it makes him blend in, escape notice. I believe it may this that prevented me from finding him for so long . . ."

"And thus it is this shielding, wrought by some unknown force, which has prevented you from locating our future recruit for almost half a year . . . not your own bungling incompetence?"

Nephrite gulped; Beryl was clearly in a vicious mood. "I would not venture to presume, Beryl-hine."

"Whatever the case may be, now that you know the whereabouts of this man - what is his mortal name?"

"Augustine. Augustine Lancaster."

"This Augustine -" Beryl rolled the name slowly, speculatively, from the tip of her tongue - "you see no reason to delay his immediate retrieval?"

Even if Nephrite had seen any reason to leave this human where he was, he would not have said so. Beryl was always dangerous, but she was particularly dangerous today; ire glinted in her eyes. Her patience had been worn thin by the six months Nephrite had needed to pinpoint this mortal. But I needed that time! he thought. How could I be expected to locate one man among millions in so little time! That I found him before Beryl killed me is nothing short of a miracle. It isn't fair, he fumed. Not fair at all. But then, fairness was in short supply in the Dark Kingdom. "No, Queen. The shield - if I am not mistaken about its presence, which I may very well be - should not prevent us from removing him to our Kingdom. He is not aware that he is anything more than mortal; he will be unable to fight us. The other mortals certainly pose no problem."

"Good. Then you will bring him to us within the space of one day. We remind you that this deadline is firm; if you fail to meet it, your screams will be loud and long. Understood?"

Beryl's long, almost bony fingers caressed the crystal sphere which stood before her on a tripod; she did not take her gaze from Nephrite, who resisted the urge to squirm. "Indeed, majesty."

"Excellent. Then we await your report, and our General to-be. Dismissed."

Nephrite - who had remained bent on one knee, his head lowered, throughout the entire audience - bowed lower still, and teleported, his signature energies fading away into the darkness. Beryl sat upon her dark and massive throne, her eyes unfocused as she gazed into the shadows of the vast cavern. Such a dark place, such a cold place, such an empty place, and the half-awakened hunger of the Empress Metallia always whispering in the back of her mind: she found herself aching, consumed, as she tapped her long nails on the round black crystal before her. But things were coming together; the threads were starting to come clear, to join. Once you have the fourth one, it cannot be long, she thought to herself (or was that the Empress, the Goddess, the Terrible One, whose unconscious murmurings intersected her own mind?) The Sun Realm will fall, and Serenity will be defeated before the war can even begin. Again. This time, the victory will be complete. This time, the victory will be total. I will drink the blood of my enemies, and scatter their bones, and let their names be left to the winds and the dust; this time.

Beryl sat in the empty throne room, waiting, waiting.

"Hail Mary, full of grace, blessed art thou among women . . . " Augustine was in the middle of saying his two hundred and sixty-eighth rosary when the anger flared up in him again. "Oh, fuck this, fuck this, fuck this!" He hurled the rosary at the wall of his cell. Hard. Midway in its flight, it burst into flame. "Not again," he whispered, half horrified, but he knew that the horror was hypocrisy. In those interior corridors of his heart, where desires he dared not admit to rattled their chains, he wanted this to awaken in him again - the heat, the power, the anger. A ball of fire whooshed into his hand, hovered a few inches above his palm.

Augustine grinned, slowly, slightly, and the crucifix that hung above his pallet exploded in a blazing pillar. Oh, it felt so good - so alive! He was shaking, sweating with the joy of it; with one slender hand, Augustine reached and brushed back a stray strand of the coppery-blond hair that had slipped tight cloth band he wore wrapped around his forehead. All the other Brothers kept their hair cropped short; they could not concern themselves with anything vain, unnecessary, worldly. They had tried to shear Augustine, too, when he entered the monastery, but he had firmly refused. "Touch my hair," he said, "and I will kill you." Perhaps the flatly menacing tone of this statement had convinced the Abbot to make an exception - or perhaps it was the fact that Augustine's father, Lord Lancaster, was donating a considerable sum to the monastery, which persuaded Abbot Joseph to turn a blind eye to the newest Brother's personal eccentricities.

And they were more than eccentricities, at times - Augustine was a small man, an almost effeminate man, but a dangerous one. When he was overcome by his infrequent but explosive fits of white hot anger, things happened: fires started, blades of ice appeared, flurries of pink petals with razor-sharp edges swirled in the air. The other Brothers quickly learned to avoid the reluctant monk; a servant of the Abbey with whom Augustine had quarreled was found dead in the first week, slender icy daggers protruding from his spine in a dozen places. After that, no one spoke to Augustine; no one came within hearing distance. He attended meals, daily mass, and vespers, but not the midday services; he did no work in the gardens or libraries. He spent his long lonely days in his cell, presumably saying his rosaries. And thus it had been for four long years.

They would love nothing better than to burn me as a witch, Augustine thought, as he glared at the charred remains of the cross with a smirk. But they can't. They're too afraid . . . and besides, there's Daddy's money. Lord Lancaster had given his son over into the tender care of a monastery - a distant monastery at that; halfway across England - with the explicit instructions that the boy be kept alive and whole, but never released into the outside world, and to insure these instructions be remembered, he donated a sizable sum to the Abbey each year. "Augustine is not to leave these grounds," Lancaster had said. As to why, exactly, he was all but imprisoning his firstborn son, the Lord was less explicit - although the monks guessed soon enough, when Augustine's tantrums raged with fire and ice and flowers.

Yes, Daddy was afraid of that, Augustine thought with a low chuckle: and indeed, he had been. Augustine, with his wild coppery hair, slight frame, huge green eyes, and sharp features, resembled neither his father nor his mother, swarthy and stocky - nor anyone else in Lancaster's holdings. His son's fey appearance, combined with his mysterious, frightening powers, made Lord John Lancaster - usually not a superstitious man - give some credence to the tales of fairy changelings. But ultimately, it was not Augustine's tempers, his balls of fire and his blades of ice, or his possible otherworldly origins, that drove his father to forcibly retire him to a monastery. Augustine's incarceration (albeit incarceration in a house of god) was decided when his father found him, naked, in a rather compromising position, with the son of a visiting noble. The next morning, the visiting noble and son were packed out of the house, and Augustine was packed off the monastery. And there he had spent the past four years, consumed with the strange, irrational angers . . . and the visions. Visions of a woman with fangs and snake eyes and long red hair; dreams of a man so beautiful that even a glimpse of him made his heart ache; dreams of a world of cold and darkness and hunger, populated by red-eyed monsters. I am cursed, Augustine thought with a mixture of pain and perverse pride. I am spawn of the devil, or something like that; why else would I carry these visions inside of me, and bear this terrible smoldering anger like a cross?

He looked at the ruined crucifix above his pallet; the mangled rosary in the corner; the dark, tight walls of his cell; and he was uncertain if he would fall to his knees and beg forgiveness, or try to summon up the fires and the terrible anger once again. And as Augustine Lancaster, son of John Lancaster, balanced on this knife-edge of emotion, the corner of his cell brightened, and a man appeared before him in a strange spiral of light. The man wore a crisp gray uniform, knee high black boots, and his chestnut-colored hair flowed past his shoulders. He was grinning.

Kunzite stood perfectly still. The discipline of millennia kept his gaze locked at his feet, his hands clasped behind his back, even though a tension - an anticipation - thrummed along his nerves, through his veins. He could hear Jadeite shifting slightly behind him, scraping his boots on the stone floor. The younger general felt the tension as well, but did not have the iron control of Kunzite. Of course, Jadeite had come here what - only two centuries ago, when they had finally recaptured him on New Earth - and was the newest, the weakest, of the generals. He would succumb to the urge to fidget. Kunzite did not let his lip curl in a sneer, but it gave him satisfaction to nurse his contempt inwardly. In the meantime, he listened to Jadeite shuffling - and, of course, Beryl tapping her fingernails on the sphere of dark crystal before her: a rhythmic, ghostly deathwatch. This place could really give me the creeps, Kunzite thought; but he quashed that thought before he could take it any further. No such weaknesses would he permit in himself. He was like diamond, without fear and without flaw. He found himself breathing to the rhythm of Beryl's fingernails; in-out-in-out-in-out. The air was cold and dry.

"Soon," Beryl muttered absently. She wasn't talking to him or Jadeite, Kunzite knew; she was speaking to herself, and only to herself, and the hungry silence. And, perhaps, to Metallia, with whom she claimed to have a special rapport. "Over the space of centuries - almost a millennia - I have gathered these three. And now, I will have the fourth and final one: the circle will be completed. We will bring the Sun Realm to its knees, and as we destroyed Selenity's Silver Millennium. And as we then destroyed the Moon Realm. And the Realms of the Planets. As we have devoured so many worlds so long ago, so shall we devour them. Indeed, my mistress, it will be as You foretold, and Your hunger will be fed." She hissed these words with a soft but bladed malice; Kunzite did not have to look up to know the look on Beryl-hine's face was one of both transfixed awe and deep, thick venom. He could hear that terrible expression even in her voice. Not for the first time, Kunzite found himself questioning his Queen's sanity: but that was too dangerous a question. Such thoughts were thoughts of treason, and treason was death. Beryl might be slightly unhinged, but Kunzite knew he could not take her on; even coming within a few feet of her made him dizzy and nauseous, so great were her powers. She was a channel for the force of Metallia: and who was he to question the goddess? But still -

"Where is that Nephrite? He will suffer as none have ever suffered -" a sudden flare of psionic energy in the middle of the throne room cut Beryl's rant short; the brilliant flash of Nephrite's teleport illuminated the close, heavy shadows of the Dark Kingdom for a splinter of a second. The second General materialized some twenty feet before Beryl, carrying a limp, bloody form in his arms. Most of its bones seemed to be broken; its joints bent at all the wrong angles. Where there should have been a face, there was only a bloody pulp. He dropped this wreckage of flesh to the floor, and knelt deeply before Beryl, who rose from her throne.

"So our loyal hunter Nephrite has finally returned with his quarry."

Nephrite perceived the danger in Beryl's bearing; his voice was tight. "Hai, Beryl-hine."

"Silence, baka!" Beryl snapped. "We did not give you permission to speak."

Nephrite started to open his mouth, but then thought the better of it, and remained kneeling beside the body which he had brought with him. Beryl paced slowly, majestically, toward the kneeling General. Her blue dress rippled closely around her long legs; her pointed jaw was tightly set. Everything in her bearing spoke of danger. The Queen of the Dark Kingdom stood before Nephrite, scarcely inches away from him. She buried one long, slender hand in his auburn hair.

Kunzite watched this scene from the corner of his eye; he even felt a twinge of pity for Nephrite. To come within a hand's breadth of Beryl was agony; to be touched by her! The pain must be unthinkable. But to his credit, Nephrite did not scream, though he did tremble. Beryl jerked his head upright. Kunzite glimpsed the tortured expression on Nephrite's face; his teeth were clenched together, his lips drawn back.

"My queen . . ." he whispered.

"You fool! You incompetent fool!" screamed Beryl, shattering the silence in the vast cavern. She backhanded Nephrite with a strength belied by her slender form, and he flew backward several feet. "Look what you have done! He is covered in blood - every bone in his body is broken -"

"We can heal him, milady . . ." Nephrite croaked, still sprawled on the ground.

"If he is even alive! Nephrite, if he dies, it may take centuries before he comes to a suitable incarnation again, and that is time we do not have! Your orders were to retrieve him, not to mutilate him, you worthless slime! Listen to me, Nephrite, and listen well: if this man - this Augustine - dies, then you will die as well, and a thousand times more painfully." Beryl crooked one finger at Nephrite, a beckoning gesture. He crawled toward her. She held out her hand, bony, sallow.

"Beg our forgiveness."

Nephrite kissed Beryl's hand, and pressed his forehead to it. Kunzite noticed, with a mixture of sympathy and satisfaction, that tears were streaming down the second general's face.

Beryl smiled; there was nothing mirthful about it, though. Her fangs almost glinted in the shadows, as did her eyes. "You have displeased us greatly, Nephrite, and do not think that your punishment is over. Pray to the Goddess Metallia that this mortal lives until we can make him our own. Dismissed!"

Nephrite teleported away. Kunzite straightened himself, and prepared to step forward.

"Kunzite."

"Yes, my Queen." Kunzite bowed deeply, but did not kneel. After all, he was the first of the Generals; he had no need for such obsequies as Nephrite did.

"You are now responsible for our fourth general-to-be, seeing as Nephrite has mishandled this assignment at every step."

"It is an honor, my Queen."

"Very well." Beryl prodded the mortal body with the tip of her delicate blue shoe. "He still lives."

Kunzite nodded once, confirming her assessment.

"But he is in too precarious a condition to be dedicated to the Empress Metallia and granted the powers of the Kingdom."

"Yes, Beryl-hine. I believe that it would kill him -"

"And we cannot have that, no. We have waited too long for this incarnation to appear, and now that fool Nephrite jeopardizes it all - but no matter. I leave this matter in your capable hands, my Lord General."

"I seek to be worthy of your trust, my Queen." And Kunzite sincerely meant those words. Nephrite was now persona non grata, so Beryl was treating him with unusual courtesy - but her favor was fickle; her temper could turn. Kunzite did not want to bear the brunt of his Queen's wrath, and he knew he would if this bloody mess of a mortal died on him. Why did Nephrite have to bungle this situation so badly - but Kunzite was a cold, calculating creature, and did not dwell long on that thought. He knew he could turn this situation to his advantage; if he could mend what Nephrite had broken, that would be a great credit to him - and a blow to his most powerful rival. Kunzite knelt, and scooped up the limp body in his arms. He noted, with distaste, that blood was getting on his uniform - red blood, at that. These Earth mortals were odd animals, indeed.

"I will bring him to the healing youma, Lady, and I will personally supervise his recovery." If he doesn't die when I teleport him, that is, Kunzite thought. This mortal was a mess - he heard it coughing in short, wheezing gasps, and a crimson bubble of blood appeared on its lips. Kunzite knew very little about medicine, but he was almost certain that wasn't a sign of good health.

"Yes. We expect that within two weeks, this Augustine Lancaster will be ready to become General Zoisite. We have waited many years for this, Kunzite: do not disappoint us."

Kunzite simply bowed his head, and his form faded into bars of blue energy, and then total darkness. The mortal felt terribly warm, almost feverish, against his chest, and the stickiness of its blood was seeping through his gloves. Kunzite welcomed the numb, blank instant within his teleport, before he materialized in the Wards.

Nephrite poured the last of a bottle of rice sake into an ornate metal goblet. He was in his personal quarters, getting drunk, and he had some wonderful booze to get drunk on: right now, he was sipping an excellent, excellent rice sake, flavored with peach nectar, vanilla extract, and the spices grown on the remote mountains of Mars. Nephrite had taken this particular bottle from the Ruby Palace almost a century ago. He half-closed his eyes, remembered the night of that victory. The Mars troops had launched a last-ditch, kamikaze assault on the forces of the Dark Kingdom, and they had fought with the frenzy born of desperation, and for a time it seemed that the Dark Kingdom troops would be forced to retreat . . . But I, thought Nephrite proudly, I maneuvered my troops perfectly; a band of youma around the back - wedged the enemy into our ranks - total slaughter. The war ended that night; we destroyed the city walls, razed the city, took the palace. Our crystals glowed with the energy from the killing. He threw back his head and swallowed the sake in a single gulp. By now he was drunk enough that it didn't burn as it went down; his throat felt pleasantly numb, and warm. He remembered the chaos - the fires, the screams, the red blood and the green blood running the in the gutters - battering through the doors of a palace with a single blast of energy, letting the youma loot and rape and bring the city to its knees. Nephrite smiled, but his smile quickly turned to a frown. Although his troops, his tactics, his power had ultimately defeated the Mars Realm - bringing the forces of darkness to triumph after a draining war and a grinding siege - it had been Kunzite, the bastard, who had stolen the glory, the credit, Queen Beryl's royal favor. Kunzite had infiltrated the palace early on that night, battled and defeated Commander Ari, captured her husband, and presented them to Queen Beryl. When Nephrite had finally pressed his way to the palace and broken through the shields, he found the single crowning prize, the captors rightfully his, to be gone. He growled drunkenly, gnawing on the memory, and smashed the bottle (a slender flask of faceted red glass) on the floor. The hard shattering sound satisfied him, but not enough.

Telekinetically, he retrieved another bottle of wine from his wine racks, and set to work on it. It would be his sixth bottle of wine for the night; it took an awful lot of booze to drown out his pain, these days. The icy agony of Queen Beryl's terrible touch still lingered on his face and forehead.

"Don't you think you've had enough for one night?" a familiar voice queried.

"Get the hell out," Nephrite snapped, brushing a strand of hair back from his cheeks as he slurped up his wine.

"Oh, you're always terrible when you're in your cups," Jadeite said, grinning just a little, as he pulled up a chair and sat opposite Nephrite.

"I'll kill you if you don't leave now," snarled Nephrite. He noticed, from a rather detached haze, that his snarl had a somewhat slurred sound to it.

"You're too drunk to kill a fly," Jadeite replied, his good humor unbroken.

Nephrite considered. He was just sober enough to know just how drunk he was, and even though Jadeite was younger and weaker, he was probably a match for Nephrite in his current state. Besides, after being punished by Queen Beryl, he did not think he could manage an attack even if he weren't so thoroughly inebriated. Fighting Jadeite seemed to be out of the question; continuing to drink, regardless of his presence, seemed to be the next best option.

"What do you want?" Nephrite snapped.

"Just to talk to you. And to see you get drunk. It's always so amusing." Jadeite still wore his gentle smile - he had an almost elven look, with his short blonde hair and his pointed chin - but his eyes were cold. Nephrite didn't miss this; in fact, he felt he was noticing it for the first time, pierced by the quiet cruelty snapping in Jadeite's gaze. He glared at the younger, weaker general.

Nephrite poured himself a second glass of wine. "So talk."

"I visited the Healing Wards. It seems like the mortal's going to live."

"I'm thrilled," Nephrite said dryly.

"You should be. Queen Beryl really would have killed you."

"I know."

Jadeite blinked once, perhaps a little taken aback by Nephrite's blank indifference. "Why did you attack the mortal like that in the first place?"

Aha, thought Nephrite fuzzily. The truth shall come out. Jadeite, short on psychic brawn, but long on brains (and ambition) was trying to analyze the situation, map the unfamiliar territory represented by the new general-to-be. Well, Nephrite saw no harm in telling Jadeite.

"He attacked me," Nephrite said.

Jadeite leaned in an inch closer, his expression rapt. "How?"

"Magically, of course. With fire, crystals of ice. And pink petals, would you believe it? Seems pathetic, but they cut like a bastard."

"So he did know that he wasn't just human," Jadeite observed. "And you told Beryl he was unaware."

"I thought he was . . . I sht - still - think he is; he doesn't have any idea what his powers mean."

"Did you speak to him?"

"Of course not," Nephrite snapped. "He doesn't speak Lunarian."

"Oh, that's right," Jadeite said absently. "They only speak that in Japan."

"Yeah. Where the Old Earth capital used to be . . . I wish I could remember it." Nephrite's tone took on a drunken gentleness.

"What?" Jadeite's voice sharpened with disdain.

"Old Earth. The Moon Kingdom. Endymion . . . what Queen Selenity looked like, the Earth Prince, the Moon Princess."

"Queen Beryl freed us from their false mind-tricks ages ago," Jadeite snapped impatiently.

"Yes, yes, we've all heard that a million times." Nephrite's voice strengthened; he seemed more earnest and frightened than drunk. "But don't you wonder . . . I mean, I know about Selenity, Endymion, the Moon Kingdom and Old Earth, but I don't know. I can see them, remember them, but they're not my memories. It's what Beryl put in my head, what she supposedly restored to me; I can't remember myself on Old Earth, and I can't remember myself reborn on New Earth either. You get drunk enough . . . and you wonder who's really using the mind tricks." Nephrite grinned ruefully.

"You're getting terribly close to speaking treason, my friend," Jadeite said. His tone was not at all friendly.

"Please, please; don't we all hate the bitch-queen? I'd kill her in a second, if I could. But I can't."

"So you make a drunken sot out of yourself instead." Jadeite's voice dripped disgust.

"Damn straight." Nephrite picked up the wine bottle and drank straight from its mouth. Wine splashed on his face and his neck, down the front of his uniform. "It still hurts . . . her touching me. It's pain like you can't imagine."

"I think I can imagine," Jadeite said, a hint of humor in his tone. "She's punished me, once or twice."

"But it hurts more every time . . ."

"Yes, yes," Jadeite said, waving one slender hand impatiently. He'd come to gain valuable information, not to witness Nephrite's maudlin antics. The man was a disgrace: to himself, to his title, to his queen. "So this human attacked you - Augustine, is that his name? - and you blasted him back."

Nephrite's face contorted with hate. The ferocity of his curled lip, his glaring eyes took Jadeite aback. "Yes, I attacked him," Nephrite hissed. "I beat the shit out of the little pretty-boy. I listened to him scream. And you know what?" He leaned close to Jadeite, alcohol heavy on his breath as he spoke quietly, venomously into the blonde general's ear. "I'd do the same thing to you if I could."

Jadeite shoved Nephrite backward with one white-gloved hand. This was too much; Nephrite was clearly too far gone to be of any use to him until he got some of the booze out of his system. His sudden mood swings, his anger and his sorrow, were both disgusting and frightening. "I don't think you'll get the chance, though," Jadeite said icily, and teleported away.

Nephrite sighed, and licked a last drop of wine from the neck of the bottle. The pain and the emptiness . . . he brushed a strand of wavy hair back from his aching head, and fetched himself a flask of liquor. He wasn't drunk enough, yet, to not feel the pain of Beryl's touch and even worse, the pain of the missing-ness, the incompletion.

Augustine floated upward from unconsciousness. His body throbbed in one solid, aching pulse. He groaned, and was horrified to discover that even groaning made him dizzy with pain. His throat, his chest, his jaws . . . he started to cry, but choked himself off before he could really begin to sob. That would just make the hurt worse.

The first thing he noticed was the pain. The next thing he noticed was that he was being carried in the arms of . . . somebody. He did not know who; he glanced upward, his vision blurry, and saw a strong, angular man's face. Augustine realized that his cheek was brushing against this stranger's bare, tanned chest. Tan skin, white hair, silver eyes . . . the dreams . . . I dreamed about this man, he thought, back at the monastery . . .

The monastery . . . my father, my mother - the cell, the crucifix, the rosary, the stranger - who was also wearing a uniform and had long hair, like this man did. Augustine mind scrambled loosely through a jumble of memories. This isn't the monastery. This isn't father's castle. This isn't anyplace I know. So where am I?

Where, indeed: he could see little more than shadows, what seemed like stone walls, and the cold of the air invaded his bones. Augustine began to speak; his words came out in a sort of twisted croak, and sounded strange to his ears. "Where am I?"

The strange man's eyes widened a little. He lowered Augustine down onto something - something soft - a bed, he realized - and called "Youma! Youma! Tarou no rononshi, kaeru seuji-e, baka!"

"Please." Augustine said. "Please: Where am I? Where the fuck am I?"

Kunzite looked down at the mortal in his arms. Attractive, he thought, now that the blood had been cleaned off, and the healing-trained youma had repaired the worst of the breaks and the swellings. Beautiful, even, or was that handsome? The human was good-looking in an androgynous sort of way. Once he was infused with the power of Metallia . . . He'll be as striking as I am, Kunzite thought, without vanity or jealousy. It was simple fact. If he ever wakes up, that is.

For nine days now, the mortal had been unconscious.

The first two of those days had been terrible, nerve-wracking suspense. The youma in charge of the wards, Jariki, told Kunzite frankly that the chances of the mortal dying were at least as good as the chances of him surviving. Kunzite had threatened Jariki - and all the youma at the ward - with the most terrible of tortures, which he described in graphic detail, should the mortal die. Jariki had visibly flinched, but stated firmly that this was not her fault. She would do the best she could; the patient was in terrible condition. Kunzite had spent those days on edge, sitting at the mortal's bedside, carefully monitoring the healing youma, keeping a fierce watch on the human's state. If this mortal died, not only would Kunzite bear the onus of the responsibility - and hence Beryl's wrath - it would also be a terrible setback in the war they were now fighting. He cannot die, Kunzite thought with a fierceness that surprised even himself.

And over those two days, the mortal's breathing had stopped once or twice - at one point a swollen knot of flesh had ruptured, and spouted fountains of red blood - but his condition had stabilized. The intensive healing energy the youma fed into his body made the shattered bones knit, the organs function, the bruises fade. At the end of nine days, the human's body seemed a little battered, but overall in decent repair. But he wasn't waking up. Beryl's two week deadline pressed at the forefront of Kunzite's thoughts as he spent his days watching Augustine coalesce. The mortal would be no good if he were a vegetable, damnit!

"Ihh dohhn't knohhw," Jariki had said, her speech painfully slurred and lengthened as she spoke from only half a mouth, rivulets of drool running down her ruined chin. Her youma form was more hideous than most, and that was saying a lot. "Ihht cooulld be braaihhn sssswehhlin-guh. Ohhhr a piehhce of bohhne fromm hissss sssskulll, ihhn hisss braaihhn. Ohhhr braaihn bleedin-guh. Ihht coulld be . . ."

"Just make him wake up, and do it now!" Kunzite had screamed into her lumpen face, his temper exploding unexpectedly. That had been two days ago; still no signs of revival.

Kunzite sighed. He was carrying the mortal back from his bath, to his bed, as had been the routine over the past week or so. He supposed he could have let one of the youma do it, but he didn't quite trust them . . . this creature must be treated delicately, delicately. He noticed that the human's pale cheek was resting against his bare chest; a single strand of coppery hair fell across the mortal's nose. He could feel his breathing on his skin. Beautiful, indeed . . . but that was not the point. Not at all. Wake up, he willed silently at the feather-light burden in his arms. Wake up!

But nothing happened. Any moment now, he would put the mortal back on the bed, and pull the blanket back up, and begin another long bedside vigil, watching the youma come and go. And then . . . the mortal began to speak!

His voice sounded terrible, parched and cracked. The tortured cadence of it hurt even Kunzite's ears. And he couldn't understand a word the mortal was saying; it wasn't Lunarian. Most of the New Earth doesn't speak Lunarian, anymore, Kunzite absently reminded himself. Apparently they don't wherever he's from. Ah, well: the Goddess Metallia would give the mortal command of the proper language, along with many other things. Meanwhile, what mattered was the simple fact that yes, thank the Powers, the mortal had regained consciousness. Kunzite lowered the now-awake mortal onto the bed with incredible caution, and called for the nursing youma in attendance.

"Youma! Youma! The mortal's woken up; get over here, idiot!"

The youma entered the dark, cavernous room, carrying a pitcher of water and a small doctor's bag. She quickly set these items on the floor - there was no table; even the healing wards were ascetically furnished - and trotted over to the mortal. Kunzite stood back, and let the youma examine him. She was young, but seemed capable. She was also rather attractive, if you could overlook the fact that her skin was green and she had talons. Kunzite couldn't recall her name.

The youma held the mortal's head between her claws. The mortal stared at her, huge emerald eyes opened as wide as the oceans, the mouth gaping. Kunzite could almost see the mortal quivering in terror, staring this monster face to face. He allowed himself to grin a little. Welcome to the Dark Kingdom, kid. We're going to rearrange your world.

"Looks good, my Lord. The pupils are both equally dilated. I can't feel any swelling, or any other irregularities in the skull. Make sure he stays on the bed, and stays awake. He looks like he's about to go into shock, though, start hyperventilating - give him a glass of water. Speak to him," the nurse youma instructed with a curt competence.

"He doesn't speak Lunarian," Kunzite protested.

"Just speak calmly; keep him from panicking; keep him awake. I'm going to go get Jariki - with your permission, my Lord Kunzite." Kunzite nodded at her; she seemed to know what she was doing. The youma turned and jogged off, her long red curls bouncing behind her.

Damn, Kunzite thought. Why do I feel like the situation just got out of control, when I thought this would get it under control?

Maybe because the mortal was gathering energy, making a tiny psi-fire flicker above his palm. He tossed it at Kunzite; Kunzite countered the psychic projectile easily. This mortal clearly had no training, but the fact that he was attacking him at all . . . Well, at least it didn't look like the human was going to slip back into unconsciousness at the moment. He was already readying another attack - a wicked-looking crystal of ice.

"Stay still," Kunzite gritted from between clenched teeth. "I don't want to hurt you. I'm trying to help you." His tone wasn't at all calm - at least it didn't feel that way to him - but the mortal paused in his attack, and seated himself cross-legged on the bed, gazing warily at Kunzite.

He said something, in a strange, guttural language; the anger in his tone needed no translation, though. His huge emerald eyes sparkled stormily; his pointed chin was set in a stubborn grimace, and his dark-blonde curls tumbled down his bare chest in artful disarray. The mortal looked both fierce and vulnerable . . . and . . . well, very beautiful.

"It's all right, little sakura," Kunzite chuckled. This time his tone felt genuinely calm and friendly. He could see the tense, lithe body of the human - Augustine was his name, he remembered - relax just a fraction of an inch. But the fear and cunning of a hunted creature still stiffened the angular lines of his face. And you're right to be scared, Kunzite thought at the lean, lovely man seated on the bed perhaps ten feet away from him. You're sitting in front of the most dangerous man in the Dark Kingdom, servant of an even more dangerous woman, who is servant of an even more dangerous goddess. And the Dark Kingdom, my friend, is a pretty damn dangerous place.

Beryl grinned ever so slightly, running her tongue across her fangs, keeping her reptilian eyes hooded, as she lounged bonelessly in her throne, one hand draped across the dark sphere of crystal before her. Kunzite, her strongest General, her first among the Kings, stood at the foot of her throne, his head respectfully bowed. Kneeling before him, facing her, was the mortal Augustine, the soon-to-be fourth general. Indeed an attractive creature, Beryl thought. At least Nephrite was right about that much. And such spirit!

The human was struggling, twisting. He bit at the Dark Kingdom uniform he wore, spat on it, and tried to bite Kunzite's hand holding his shoulder. He did not kneel before Queen Beryl out of respect; he knelt because Kunzite held him there, the stronger General's hands clutching the mortal's shoulders. The mortal thrust his chin out at Queen Beryl, and spat out some curse. It was an unfamiliar word, but Beryl could tell by the sheer hatred in the tone that it wasn't a friendly word.

Jadeite and Nephrite stood a few paces back, on either side, bent at the waist, half-bowing before Beryl. She paid them little mind; it was Kunzite, and this mortal boy, that she was interested in. "We commend you, General Kunzite, for bringing this human back to health."

"I thank you, my lady," Kunzite said, his voice deep with a respect that Beryl suspected was less than genuine, "although I can claim little credit. It is the knowledge and the efforts of the healing youma which are responsible for his recovery."

This humbleness was mere show, Beryl knew. Her first general was nothing if not vain; however, he was also wise enough to not indulge his vanity before his Queen.

"Indeed. Nevertheless, you have handled this mortal far better than did General Nephrite -" Queen Beryl smirked, ever so slightly, as she noticed her second General wince, almost imperceptibly, at the edge of her field of vision "-and therefore, we will continue to make him your responsibility. Once he has been inducted into the Dark Kingdom, filled with the glory of Metallia and made into our fourth General, he will be your trainee and apprentice. You, General Kunzite, are to make this sorry sakura -" Queen Beryl gestured at the slender man struggling at Kunzite's feet - "into a warrior befitting the might of the Dark Kingdom."

Kunzite did not look happy.Oh, I knew you wouldn't like it, Kunzite-sama, Beryl thought, running one finger through her wild tangle of curls. But you are the best one to teach him; if you make him into half the warrior you are, Metallia will have done well. And besides that, I don't trust you. You have too much time on your hands, and you're an ambitious man. I mean to keep you busy. You'll further no designs upon my throne when you're occupied with teaching a pupil and reporting to me daily on his progress, ne?

"My lady," he said, "If I may speak . . ."

"Certainly, Kunzite," Beryl drawled with an air of languid generosity.

"I am currently very involved in designing a series of spells to unravel the defenses of the Sun Realms. I am also the coordinator of spy operations in that area, and the commander of any raids and battles we are able to carry out. In short, I am the head General in the war effort against the Sun Realms . ."

"We are aware of this, Kunzite-sama," Beryl interrupted. "And we commend your fine work, and wish for you to continue. However, seeing as our designs upon the Sun Realms have not yet escalated to the point of open war, we do believe that you have adequate time to train another General, and, in fact, that your involvement with our sundry military activities will in fact be an excellent opportunity for this man -" she flicked a claw at Augustine "-to learn the art of war firsthand. And you, in turn, should make your new trainee an aide to you, not a hindrance."

"My Queen -" Kunzite began to protest, but Beryl cut him short.

"Do not anger me, General. Nephrite could most certainly tell you how unwise it is to defy me or disobey me."

"Hai, Beryl-hine," Kunzite said, his voice taut. "I will train this fourth General, along with my other duties, until you see fit to command otherwise."

"Good, then." Beryl leaned forward in her throne, very slowly. "And is it your assessment that the human - Augustine - is in a condition sufficient to be filled with the power of Metallia?"

"I would not have brought him before you otherwise, my lady," Kunzite said.

"Good. We have waited centuries for this. Let us wait no longer."

Kunzite needed no further instruction; after all, he had seen the filling, the unmaking, the making of both Nephrite and Jadeite, the latter less than a century ago. And he himself had once been overwhelmed by the will of the goddess Metallia, although he almost certainly did not remember it. None of them did. None of them could. It was a pain that defied memory. Even I, thought Beryl, cannot recall the time when I became a vessel for the Goddess. But she remembered the other three, their faces creased in agony, their screams splitting the air, the rushing glee of Metallia coursing at the tips of her fingers. This is the last one we shall make, Beryl thought, not without regret. After this, she would never hear cries as wracked with pain, that sweet screaming hymn that she (or the Goddess Metallia, slumbering within her) adored. But this also meant a fulfillment of destiny, a completion of a circle. This is the last of the four. Soon, soon, soon . . .

As these thoughts, these emotions, flashed through Queen Beryl's soul, as they often had before, Kunzite was forcing the struggling, terrified human up the steps of her throne. A few pink cherry petals flickered in the air, and Augustine's wide green eyes sparkled with hatred, but he could not escape. Kunzite had his arms pinned behind his back, and pushed him forward, savagely, inexorably, until the human was kneeling mere inches from Beryl, Kunzite holding him down. She could smell his terror; she licked her lips.

"Release him, Kunzite-sama," she grated, and Kunzite did; he descended the dias without turning his back on her, his eyes fixed on the ground. A cascade of white hair fell about his shoulders, glinting ice in the shadows. And the boy before her, trembling, trying to run, but transfixed by her power - that boy had the blaze of fire. His hair was not quite as red as her own, but still . . . it matched his inner flame. And she could see that he had one; even now, though he was a mere mortal, awed and abased before the Queen of the Dark Kingdom, the high priestess of the Shadow Goddess, paralyzed by the force seated scant inches in front of him, she could see his lips twisting, trying to choke out words of anger; his eyes were narrow and alight with rage.

"Pretty one. Pretty little Augustine."

He twitched with recognition at his name, again tried to speak.

"Your name is Zoisite, now. Zoisite." Beryl spoke this not only at him, but into him; she forced her consciousness over his. She noticed, through half closed eyes, that tears were streaming down his cheeks; his wet emerald eyes were pools of pain and anger; his hair was fire against the shadows. "Zoisite. Zoisite. Zoisite."

With her left hand, Queen Beryl clutched the dark crystal sphere before her; she felt it quicken at her touch. With her right hand, she wound her fingers into Augustine's - no, Zoisite's - hair and pulled him toward her. She brushed his forehead gently, fiercely with her palm, brought her fingertips down over his eyes, and let the darkness, the shadows, the very quintessence of the Dark Kingdom and Metallia's lifeblood, flow into him. The sleeping goddess roared in her slumber, and like the fiercest of rivers surged from Beryl into Augustine/Zoisite - no, he was Zoisite now, only Zoisite, and Zoisite was screaming redly and hotly. His eyes were sheets of flame; sparks danced at his fingertips, at the corners of his mouth, and a small bubble of blood burst from one nostril. Already, the blood was no longer red; rather, brown with a greenish tint. In a remote, glacial corner of her mind, Queen Beryl worried that the mortal vessel had not been healed completely enough, that it would disintegrate, that at this last moment her plans might fail; but such worry was dwarfed by the volume of Zoisite's screams. Beryl's consciousness was filled with the pale, pretty face upturned before her, contorted in agony as the darkness flooded him and changed him. Beryl smiled; Beryl threw back her head and laughed. Zoisite screamed.

"Zoisite," she repeated. "Zoisite, Zoisite." The world had narrowed to her and her general, her minion, her slave, and the intensity of Metallia racing between them. Pain in the darkness. Ecstasy in the darkness. The sakura, the pretty new general, collapsed before her, a streak of green blood on his face. His panting filled the cavern. His stiff, gray uniform was wet with sweat.

"What is your name?" Queen Beryl asked.

He responded in perfect Lunarian: "General Zoisite, Beryl-hine."

"Whom do you serve?"

"You, my Queen. And the Goddess Metallia." His voice held a sharp edge of pain, confusion.

"Yes, General Zoisite. Excellent. Excellent. Your obedience will be well rewarded," Beryl purred, soothingly, lovingly. "Yes, little sakura. Of course. Of course." She saw him relax before her, sprawled at her feet. He bowed his head, let it touch the floor. Beryl kissed her fingers, and brought her fingers to his lips. His emerald eyes swam with tears.

Beryl gestured at Kunzite, standing back in the shadows, with one elegantly long and yellow-tinted hand. "Take him away. His training begins now. You will report to us tomorrow on his condition."

"Hai, Beryl-hine." His head respectfully lowered, Kunzite ascended the steps, and scooped up the quivering heap at Beryl's feet. The electric blue bars of his teleport were quickly swallowed up by the gaping shadows.

Beryl clutched the crystal ball before her, feeling drained, tired. But the presence of Metallia, the gentle pressure at the back of her mind, the waves of darkness washing over her fingertips: all these things calmed her. Soon, the shadows whispered. Soon, she whispered back, through crimson lips drawn over dreadsome fangs.