The pin quivered against the wound and he applied more and more pressure. Not quite enough to break through the skin, just enough the make him shudder at the thought that he'd need to press yet harder. He pushed again, angling the thick-girthed pin a little more obliquely, ready for the moment when it broke through. No blood beaded up; there was no room for blood, yet.

Again, he pressed, and the skin opened with a tiny pop, like the noise of lips parting in sleep. Now that he was in, it was easier. He dug around with the pin, not too deep (for it did hurt). With his other hand, he squeezed the little dome that his skin made over the parasite, burrowed as it was near his kneecap. It moved, and Jadeite's heart beat faster as he worked both pin and finger to keep it from digging deeper into him. His concentration was rewarded, and with a sigh from its host, the tick was ushered into the open air, blood-swollen and glistening.

Jadeite crushed it between his fingers. It was black from his blood. Blood ran down his fingers and welled up to fill the little opening left by the tick's exit. It looked like tar. After all, Zoisite was the only one among them who'd kept his blood red. Nephrite, by the time he died, was running liquid jade through his veins. He flushed green whenever he was angry. And Kunzite.... Jadeite didn't know what colour Kunzite's blood was. All he knew was that some months after Kunzite had entered into the Kingdom, his hair, once black, had started growing in white. Jadeite remembered that. What a skunk, black hair flashing pale where it parted!

He swabbed the wound with vinegar, then water. He couldn't find any bandages, and he wondered what Kunzite did when Zoisite scratched him.

It was their house, after all. When Jadeite had woken to find himself shivering and powerless, he'd dragged himself, not knowing where he was going, simply knowing that if he'd given in to sleep then, he might as well have packed up and mailed off what little flicker of life he had left. And so through the tunnels he'd lurched, this way and that, until up from the gloom that was either his weak eyesight or the Kingdom's namesake darkness, that unmistakable tower rose. There had been no guards, no magic, and the doors were not locked. No one was home.

That had been two weeks ago.

And what things he had found in the abandoned mansion! Food, water, lanterns that lit! There was heat, still, for Kunzite, being a creature so gifted in all things electrical, had constructed some sort of a generator, which sat in the foundation of the old building and murmured with the life bottled within it. It wouldn't last forever, Jadeite knew, but neither would the youma who were hacking away at the stone sky above him. He'd last, down here, until he desired to leave.

And leave he could.

For Jadeite, during his fourteen-day squatting, had found a way out of the Dark Kingdom. Not simply an iced-up passage bound for the blinding sun and carnivorous wind that tormented the D-Point-- no, this was a real way out. He'd found it in what he assumed to be a sitting-room; its flickering light, like a television set in the dark, had drawn him to it.

Perhaps Kunzite's generator was what kept the little portal alive. There it was, nestled into the wall, shrunk a bit as though from loneliness. It sparked and dimmed with such melodrama, like a fit person feigning illness; Jadeite had nothing to lose from trying it out.

Some would say it worked, but some (including Kunzite) would say it was broken beyond repair. For while it did indeed transport its passengers out and away from the Kingdom's boundaries, it cared little for their desired destinations. To compound the problem, the little portal liked to make itself scarce when the user wished to return home. The first time, it hadn't been so bad; Jadeite had only to wander the streets of Bath for a few minutes before he'd found the wavering portal and returned to the familiar darkness. The second time, by far the worst, he'd been tossed into deep water at night. Salty water, at that. As he'd swum about, searching for his ticket home, he'd realized that for the first time since he'd woken up, his life was truly in danger.

His most recent trip had been ten minutes ago: an uncomfortable venture into the rainforest. Which rainforest, he didn't know, but it tore his pants, soaked him to the bone, and left him with a bloodsucking tick embedded in his thigh. Perhaps, he thought to himself as he lowered his ragged pant leg, he'd simply stick his head through next time.

He turned his gaze away from his smarting leg and looked up at the mirror set before him. In the light of the lamp, his hair shone honey-gold, only a little damp from his excursion. The flare of the wick caught his eyelashes, made them seem white, while underneath his eyes glittered and moved like black marbles. They weren't black, of course, though sometimes Jadeite wondered if he was destined for a metamorphosis like Kunzite's. Jadeite turned the mirror on its swivel, so that its lacquered back was facing him.

If he looked out to the left, he could see the little portal's light dithering down the hall. Its sibilant whisperings, so human that they'd raised the hairs on Jadeite's neck the first time he'd heard them, were inaudible where he now sat. No storms played outside the window, no swamp plants stirred and rustled below. The place was filled with an expectant silence, the kind that muffs a house when its owners are absent, and Jadeite was getting tired of it.

But he wasn't ready to leave yet. He rose, his boots tapping on the hollow floors, leaving trespass echoes as he wandered the lovers' tower.

Hatsumomo found himself breathing through his mouth, the smell of blood and vomit being so bad. He hadn't known blood would smell like this - or that it smelled at all - but there it was, curling up with the stink of fish, and invasive concoction that spread quickly and snuggled into every nook within the cell. Hatsumomo's nose, by far his most faithful organ, was not prepared for this abuse.

The funny thing was, he couldn't stop grinning. Despite the smell, despite the fact that his limbs felt like dough, despite the disgusted look that Zoisite was giving him, he couldn't wipe from his face that indefatigable smile.

A moment ago, a lightning storm had rushed through his limbs; he'd been all movement, strike after strike. Fast like lightning, too; he remembered watching as his hand, full of that white-hot energy, had seized the sword from the youma's belt. He remembered the sound that the weapon made as it bit into one youma, then the other.

Does lightning make a sound?

There, Zoisite-sama. Now I've killed, too. We have something in common. Of course, the words didn't come out; they merely crowded into his mouth and pushed his lips into that intractable grin.

They stood for a moment like that: Hatsumomo wobbly and smiley, Zoisite limp and glassy-eyed. The latter was well enough to stand, though, and when he parted his lips, Hatsumomo's ears pricked up in anticipation. Thank you. That's what he wanted to hear.

"Kunzite-sama," was what came out instead.

"Pardon?"

"Kunzite-sama." Zoisite's voice was hoarse, but the words came out in well-practiced cadence, confident and resolute. "Kunzite-sama," he said again, this time with an edge of annoyance.

Hatsumomo stood dumb. What was he supposed to say?

"Stop staring at me!" Zoisite barked, and Hatsumomo jumped. The little king's eyes were feverish, and they glittered narrowly up at him from their purple beds.

Hatsumomo, grin now faded, felt his mouth opening and closing. I'm sorry, Zoisite-sama. But didn't you see what I did?

Zoisite filled the silence. "I was wrong," he said lowly, his voice regaining its clarity. "You aren't a liar. But you are awfully dull. The door of the cell is open, don't you see? I am going to go. You said they locked everyone up, didn't you? Well, everyone includes Kunzite, does it not?"

"I... I suppose so, Zoisite-sama."

"Well, then, we must go get him." With that, Zoisite strode past Hatsumomo, straight into the light of the doorway. But on his way, his boot slipped in the blood, and he stumbled. He would have fallen right over - his strength was merely an affectation - but Hatsumomo was behind him, holding him by the arms.

Zoisite floundered, furious, making sounds that would be curses, were he not too angry to think of any. His feet didn't seem to obey him, and Hatsumomo held him up, watching the light shine off the red-gold crown of his head as he struggled. Zoisite's upper arms fit nicely in his grasp, and Hatsumomo liked the way the small shoulders hunched and folded in on themselves.

"Let me go!" Zoisite hissed as regained his balance.

Hatsumomo withdrew his hands.

"Zoisite-sama, perhaps it would be wiser to give yourself some time to gather your strength? You'll have a hard time getting to Kunzite in your state." It was blunt, a bit too blunt, but Hatsumomo didn't know what else he could put between Zoisite and further humiliation.

The young kind turned and looked at him. His rheumy eyes had lost their spark; his brow settled complacently. Blunt, but true. Zoisite gave a great sigh, his shoulders sinking.

"Well," he said in very quiet, very sad voice. "You might as well come along. We'd better leave before any more youma show up."

They stepped over the threshold, eyeing the passageway it opened on to. Dark and straight on both sides, anonymous like most of the Kingdom's tunnels. Hatsumomo nearly groaned. But Zoisite surprised him again.

"This way," he said, and in a gait tempered with care and guarded weakness, he started walking.

Hatsumomo followed, taking care to remain a step behind his former cellmate, watching the bob and swing of the tangled, tawny ponytail. Didn't you see what I did, Zoisite-sama?

What I did for you?

The guard could not have picked a worse time to break the news to Sir. He'd been having enough of a time berating his diggers into digging harder, faster. They kept wanting to stop; they leant on their picks, hanging their heads in manner more honest than exaggerated. Sir and his guards would shout at them, telling them to keep digging if they wanted anything to eat. One tossed his tool away and declared, right to Sir's face, that he'd rather starve to death than dine with him. But the insurrection had been ill timed, and Sir's guards were able to remove the dissenter without interference from the other youma. Perhaps they were simply too exhausted to make a fuss.

To make matters worse, Nephrite refused to help him. He must have known an easier way down, but there was simply no getting an answer from him. Of course, Sir had yet to try forcing an answer out, but was reluctant to take such measures. Better Nephrite think of him as an ally against the kingdom that killed him, than a hungry youma who didn't give a damn about who killed whom.

Nephrite simply stood there, a half-head taller than the youma king, shaking his head slowly, blithely. Sir wanted to grab a fist of that chocolate-coloured hair and twist it until it came out at the roots. Instead he stood, seething, watching as Nephrite's sapphire eyes darted nonchalantly about the room.

No, this was not a good time for more bad news. But it came anyway, whispered into his ear by a breathless youma.

"Both of them?" Sir's voice echoed through the cavern. Then it dropped to an urgent hiss. "How, pray tell, did Zoisite manage to kill two guards?"

"Sir, in the blood, Sir, there were two sets of feets-prints."

"I ordered Zoisite to be put in cell alone!"

"We knew, Sir..."

The demon was silenced by a mighty shove from Sir. He stumbled, tripped on his tail, and landed heavily on his backside.

"And now he's gone!" Sir felt like killing someone. He felt like killing Nephrite. He wheeled about, drawing his short sword, if not to kill, then at least to gouge a couple of times, good and deep.

But Nephrite was gone.

"Yours as well, if you wish to stay."

Zoisite lost Hatsumomo as soon as they'd found themselves on grey, ribboned path leading up the black escarpment. The latter was behind him, somewhere, deliberately hanging back, and Zoisite wished briefly that he hadn't invited him along.

He went up the path as fast as his knees, which had a horrible sick feeling in them, would take him. He'd been pleased with how well he'd managed so far, guiding himself and Hatsumomo through the tunnels, congratulating his memory as he went. No youma had crossed their path, though once they had frozen, listening to a distant echo, like many hammers all pounding out of turn. Too far away, though, to be of worry. Zoisite allowed himself to feel proud; he deserved to feel proud, he thought, to have found his way home in such a state.

Now, he wanted to cry.

No tears came, though; just a low, heavy feeling in his too-empty stomach, a weight that pulled his heart down as well, and made his breathing come slow. And so his dry eyes beheld it all.

The swamp grass, the trees, and the luminescent, rubbery flowers were gone. Not simply dead and dried up, but gone. Below the house stretched instead a great, dry plateau of slate. And when Zoisite looked up, he could see the spires of his home, not shrouded in the low cloud, but stretching feebly toward a dome of rock.

He went in, not caring whether Hatsumomo followed. The house was still warm, like a body moments after death.

Is that what I felt like?

Zoisite's feet carried him first one way, then another, touching a chair, a table, a wall. His eyes weren't seeing a thing, and his ears no longer listened, even though one never knows what dangers might have been waiting for him. All strength he had left contracted to his fingertips, and he ran them carefully over the knotted stone of a windowsill.

He felt his head droop. Have to eat. Have to eat if I am going to find Kunzite-sama.

He knew where the food was kept. He descended the narrow stairs, aware that Hatsumomo was once again behind him. His thoughts grew clearer as he drew closer and closer to the store-room, knowing that if he just ate - and maybe cleaned himself up - he could think of a way to get to Kunzite. Yes, it would take some thinking. He'd need his strength.

When they entered the store-room, Zoisite stopped dead, Hatsumomo bumping into him from behind.

"Someone's been here," said Zoisite.

"How can you tell?"

"Kunzite-sama and I never ate this food. We kept it for... you know, just in case. But you see, some is gone."

Zoisite knew that Hatsumomo couldn't see, otherwise the oaf wouldn't have caught his foot on every second stair. But Zoisite saw, and as he looked into the glass cases, frosted up at the corners (bless Kunzite; the generator still worked!), he noted the little containers were slightly fewer than they once were.

Maybe... had they ever eaten...?

"We must keep our eyes open," said Zoisite. "You saw no one when you came in, did you?"

Hatsumomo shook his head.

"Then whoever it was may be gone."

It had taken fifteen minutes between them to pry the ice-frozen lid from one of the containers, and another fifteen to find a match for the fire. Normally, a tiny bit of magic would have been enough to turn the rock-solid food into a proper meal, but magic seemed scarce, and Zoisite ground his teeth quietly.

Finally came dinner.

They ate. They gobbled. They guzzed the stuff - remnants from some long-forgotten stew - only bothering to chew what couldn't be stuffed straightaway down their open throats. Zoisite didn't look at Hatsumomo, though he felt, with some irritation, the other's eyes on him. But it was hard to tell him off when he'd rather cram more food into his waiting mouth. The fire was high and warm, and Zoisite wondered briefly where the smoke would go, once it left the chimney, now that there was no sky.

Zoisite pushed his empty bowl away and looked across at Hatsumomo, that long half-face lit up in the firelight. One dark eye glittered at him. Zoisite wished again that he hadn't invited him along.

"I'm going to take a bath," he announced. "You can have one when I'm done." There. That was gracious enough.

"Thank you, Zoisite-sama," came the quiet reply.

Zoisite was dreading this part. He'd left Hatsumomo down by the fire, to tend it, to keep a lookout for intruders. Zoisite's task was more difficult.

First he'd had to climb the main stairwell. His boots had gone tock-tock-tock on the steps, far too loud for his liking. Tock-tock-tock he went, stair after stair, up to where the landing was, swallowed in darkness. The worst part was when he had stopped mid-step, and still heard the tock-tock-tock, though farther away. Hatsumomo was supposed to watch for intruders, but Hatsumomo was downstairs. Zoisite wasn't ready for a fight. Not here.

Once he reached the landing, he veritably flew the short distance down the corridor. He knew the door by touch, flung it open, and slammed it behind him.

He was home now. The great bed, all posts and drapes and sheets, rose up from the floor like a marooned ship. No storm light came through the window to catch the outline of the pillows, no breath of wind stirred the cloth that hung from the frame.

Zoisite went to it and, with little further thought, pulled back the counterpane and pushed his face into the mattress with a sigh. That was a good smell.

Now, down to business.

He picked up the lantern that sat by the bed, turned its spark-switched, and watched as the room was filled slowly with its yellow light.

His clothes came off, piece by piece, his jacket whispering to the floor, his boots and belt making a terrible clatter.

He moved methodically, placing the lantern in the neighbouring bath-room, leaning over the tub to reach the faucet. The plumbing hesitated for a moment, then the faucet jumped and shuddered, sneezing out water which grew warmer by the second. (Bless Kunzite again for that generator.)

As the tub filled, Zoisite turned to the mirror. In the lantern light, he really didn't look so bad. His hair was slightly disheveled, and the shiners were something of a worry, but really, not so bad, considering.

He remembered, quite suddenly, a night he'd had like this some time ago, warm water and lantern-light. It had been a bad day, though what exactly had been the problem he couldn't remember. But he recalled standing like this before the mirror, angry about something, his anger spilling over into a beration of his own appearance. It had been so unlike him, and Kunzite had paused in whatever he'd been doing and stepped over, meeting Zoisite's eyes in mirror.

"No," he'd said, placing his hands on Zoisite's shoulders. "Don't be ashamed. The beautiful should never feel shame."

Kunzite's voice had been low, swallowed in uncharacteristic feeling. And Zoisite, standing as he was now, alone in the bathroom, heard it as clear as day.

Kunzite-sama. I will find you.

He slid into the bath, remembering, and trying weakly to ignore what the combination of memories, warm water, and a full stomach was doing to him. Now was not the time for this. But he didn't stop his hands as they wandered lower, his left accustomly moving around, behind, his thumb hooking forward into him. He pushed it deeper; his body was fruit, his thumb seeking out the pit. The water was warm and he was tired; his erection wasn't going to last. His right hand saw to that.

His eyes went into the kind of focus that they always did before he came; everything was fascinating, but not at all for what it was. He had no Kunzite-sama to look at, and so his vision roved, eyes dawdling on the faucet, the wall, his own open-mouthed reflection in the jittering water.

It was the kind of orgasm that he regretted as soon as he reached it, more a collapse than a climax, sweet enough but lacking. He leaned forward, letting the tips of his bangs float in the water.

He didn't know what made him raise his head; there had been no sound but his own breathing. Nevertheless, he looked up, and as his head turned, his eyes caught the blur of movement at the bathroom door. A face, had there been a face? He'd tolerated Hatsumomo, but if that oaf was peeking at him....

He strained his ears, angry with the dripping faucet for making so much noise. No, he could hear nothing else. After some hesitation, he turned away from the door again. The sooner he find Kunzite, the better.

At first he thought they were Zoisite's footsteps. But that had made no sense; only minutes ago Hatsumomo had heard the rattle of the pipes and sound of moving water. Zoisite was in the bath. Still, though, the tapping of boots was unmistakable, a rhythm for the rhythmless crackling of the fire.

Hatsumomo raised himself from his seat, unwilling to stray beyond the radius of the firelight, knowing too well the variety of things he could encounter. The place was probably crawling with youma; it had been foolishness to even leave the cell.

He wasn't sure if he could kill again.

Slowly, Hatsumomo left the light and noise of the fire behind, searching for the source of the footsteps, hoping that his knees weren't creaking as loudly as they seemed to be.

He went through an arch, back into the foyer, blue with darkness. There were tall windows, but they were as dark as the inside of the house. After all, the outside was inside, now.

"Who are you?"

Hatsumomo wheeled to the sound of the voice. It wasn't Zoisite's.

The shadows were moving, there, at the other end of the foyer.

"I said, who are you?"

Hatsumomo lost his nerve. He certainly wasn't ready to kill again, let alone fight in the dark. He retreated to the hearth, walking quickly backwards, knowing that running away wasn't going to help, but certain that he would have better chances facing the other in the light.

By the fireplace, he waited. The bootsteps approached, quickly, purposefully. Hatsumomo wondered if perhaps he should take up the poker. No, better not come off as hostile. After all, the voice had said, "Who are you?" not "Who art thou?" It was not a youma.

The firelight gleamed on the red-tinted leather boots. Their owner materialized from the feet upward; soon Hatsumomo could see the grey pant legs, one torn at the knee, then the belt, the jacket - just like Zoisite's - with the red piping. His shoulders were broad.

Finally, his face appeared, a pale oval crowned with pale curls. His eyes were sparkling blue slits. His mouth, rather sure of itself, was shut tightly, turned up at the corners. He was giving Hatsumomo an unmistakable you-should-know-who-I-am stare, his hands behind his back.

"I said, who are you?" Jadeite seemed to speak without opening his mouth. "And does Zoisite," he nodded upwards, "know you're here?"