Down through the tunnels,
below the purple crater,
Down past the citadel
and its restless antechamber.

Sleep you with Metallia
in her royal fire?
There shall join you Nephrite
and the lives that stoke her higher.

Down through the thunder-skies,
you walk upon a bed,
Where a master and a pupil
are lying tail-to-head.

Down through the gardens,
Its flowers dark in bloom.
Past frozen Jadeite
Keeping vigil in his tomb.

Down, down again,
As dark as it is deep.
Tread you softly at the bottom
For the Kingdom is asleep.

Six paces there and six paces back again, Sir's black claws clicked upon the sleek floor. The clicks turned to soft thumps as he wandered to the woven throw-rug (an item artfully pinched from a human hearth many years ago). Nearby, swiveling their heads to watch his course, were two youma, former shoveling companions turned advisors. Both were taller and slimmer than Sir, their skins respectively green and a mottled brown. And both were watching Sir with distinct trepidation, as though dreading when their leader's pacing would turn to talking.

Then suddenly, it turned. "You've searched the sixth tier?" asked Sir suddenly, his thick, grey tail swinging heavily as his stalking came to a halt.

"Yes, Sir," replied the green youma.

"And how much is left?"

"One hundred and one sacks of rice, and eighty fish, Sir." This time the brown had answered.

"I see."

The grey youma began his pacing again, black eyes flicking back and forth across the room, keeping time to the thoughts that formed within his head. Thoughts of food, mainly. He knew they were running out; he had known that since the sole supplier had been reduced to dust at the hands of Sailormoon. Yet he'd assumed there would be enough, enough at least to give him time to devise new means of feeding his army. However, the party sent to move the meat into a frozen outer passageway had brought back dismal news: eighty fish. Eighty fish and one hundred sacks of rice.

Then his mouth was working again. "You," he addressed the green youma, "inform the cooks that the fish shall be served in a stew, no more than two pieces for each person."

"Yes, Sir." The green inclined his head in a short bow.

"And you, my friend," Sir spoke now to the brown.

"Yes, Sir?"

"Send someone to speak to Kunzite. Perhaps get something out of him, this time."

"Yes, Sir."

Both attendants bowed again, awkwardly, and left the room.

Sir turned and watched them go, wondering if perhaps he should have pressed them, too, for ideas. But what was the use? They were of scarce help to him, knowing little more than how to move ash from below ground to above. And himself? Certainly, he was stronger than the rest of them, and certainly he had been the first to act - with authority and organization - when the lights had gone out in Kingdom. That had earned him his name, at least. But now, but now....

He resumed his pacing about the room, back and forth, with clicking claws, now seemingly louder since the other youma's departure.

So loud, intrusively loud, that he had to stop.

His appropriation of Beryl's bedchamber had days ago seemed effortless, as though the objects within it had forgotten their previous owner and bowed down to him. Yet now, as he walked up and down, the room seemed to turn its back on him. The gold cups, ornaments, and mirrors reflected his grey-faced countenance like alien eyes, and spurned him.

Tread you softly at the bottom

And he left the room.

"Kunzite-sama...."

Warm, so wonderfully warm the voice was. He was dreaming again, one of those dreams which, in retrospect, seems nothing at all but in the sweet moments right before waking. Zoisite was nowhere to be seen, but the softness, the gentle carnality that accompanied his presence- it was everywhere in the dream. It was the dream. And his light tenor kept calling Kunzite's name.

Then he woke. And for one terrible moment, Kunzite knew the dream was over, and his waking conscious soured once more.

"Kunzite-sama."

He jumped, suddenly very awake. That voice, no longer blanketed in dream-speak, was still there, talking right in his ear. He sat up as quickly as his aching body could raise itself, and turned his head in the dark.

"Zoisai-"

The youma drew back, startled by Kunzite's sudden move, nearly dropping the bowl it held in his hands.

"My apologies for waking you so suddenly, Kunzite-sama," it said.

Kunzite narrowed his eyes and drew his head up. The demeanour that he tried to maintain when facing his captors, that natural superiority, was becoming more and more difficult in his neglected condition. Yet it was imperative he keep it - if only for the sake of his pride - and so he looked down his nose at this intruder.

And what an odd package it was. A young male, distinctly un-youma in his appearance: soft skin (the colour couldn't be told in the light of the cell), no horns, no tail, and eyes that actually showed their whites from time to time. His sleek, black hair was drawn back in a plait, his hairline lifting gracefully from a finely boned face. Likely, Kunzite thought, this one was of the showy fighting breed, whose females Beryl had used so often against the Senshi. Yet even their good looks had been crude, not nearly as gently threaded together as the one who sat now before him.

And so oddly deferential. Never, since this rigmarole began, had any youma called him Kunzite-sama.

"I brought you some food, Kunzite-sama," said the youma, his eyes lowered. He held out the bowl.

Kunzite's eyes flicked down to it, his aloofness quavering at the offering. His mouth seemed to flood with a rank, acetone taste, as hunger was teased out of his stomach and into his throat. Without a word, he took the proffered bowl (and a crude wooden scoop that was offered as his utensil) and commenced eating.

It was only after the first few bites did he realize that the youma, instead of vanishing as the others did when they delivered him food, was still there, sitting neatly on the floor a few paces away. Kunzite looked at him, then back down at the food, then back at him, hoping to deliver without words the enmity he was beginning to feel at the other's presence. It was odd - and certainly uncomfortable - to first be addressed so reverently by a member of the enemy ranks, and then to be watched while he was eating.

But the youma didn't move, and he stared at Kunzite with eyes that were shrouded in the dark. Kunzite continued eating, hoping to be left alone if he ignored the other long enough. The food was the usual bland mix of rice, water, and white, limp fish. Though today, there was distinctly less fish, and the rice grains floated farther apart in the tepid water. Yet Kunzite was glad for it; each mouthful extinguished the dull ache in his head, and brought to his cramped muscles a warm flow of energy.

Yet the youma did not leave. He was now sitting on his bare heels, his eyes still as intent upon Kunzite as they had been when the former Tennou took up the bowl. And now Kunzite, his mind more alert for the food in his belly, was beginning to grow self-conscious. Oh, he'd gone without clothes nearly since the fiasco began, and he'd been looked at plenty by Sir's hoardes... but never by one of them alone. Not just one, sitting quietly, not jeering or spitting, but rather, calling him Kunzite-sama.

He didn't enjoy it at all.

He shot a glance at the bars in the cell door, yet no other youma faces could be seen peering in. If this was another way of making sport, this young youma was doing it all on his own.

Finally, the silence was broken.

"I'm afraid those meals will be getting smaller, Kunzite-sama," said the youma.

Kunzite said nothing, but put down bowl before him. The smile he felt creeping onto his face was caught before it could appear. He had wondered how long it would be until that troublesome matter of food was deliberately brought to his attention. It was amusing to think of how satisfied the youma had been with themselves, as though Metallia had been something trifling, expendable. But it was a victory that Kunzite could not allow for himself; Sailormoon, not the youma, was the one who had started them on the path to famine. Yet it did please Kunzite to sense the demons' tension, to know that he was one of the few souls in the Kingdom who knew where food might still be found. And to know that they knew it, and to keep quiet about it. They had yet to hurt him, really hurt him, and so he said nothing.

But the youma persisted. "You will starve with the rest of us if you don't help us out, Kunzite-sama."

Kunzite looked away.

Then, as though sensing his own futility, the youma changed rails altogether. "You know we have Zoisite, don't you?" he said in a low tone.

Kunzite had been anticipating this as well. We have Zoisite. Do you know what we're going to do with him? Do you know what will happen if you don't help us out? Kunzite let out a sigh through his nostrils, hoping to convey his familiarity with this worn insinuation.

Yet the youma surprised him again. "I know you cared for him, Kunzite-sama." The tone was gentle, not at all derisive.

Kunzite raised his eyebrows at the youma. Then they dropped and creased into a frown. Another trick, another joke, that's all this one was up to. All he had to do was wait for it. He exhaled shortly, snorting.

"Sometimes," the youma said softly, his cheekbones blue in the dim light and his eyes shadows above them, "I would see you with him."

He moved closer to Kunzite.

"I would see you touch his hair- like this." Quicker than Kunzite could pull away, the young demon's hand reached out and tangled itself in the hair behind Kunzite's ear.

That touch, Kunzite knew as soon as he felt it, was full of magic. Not Metallia's magic, not spell-magic- but a natural, effortless, blood-born kind. He knew it, for when he should have grabbed that intruding hand and maybe snapped a finger or two, he instead stayed motionless, as though locked to the ground. The hand remained in his hair, winding strands about its fingers.

"I think about you and him a lot, Kunzite-sama," said the youma, fingers moving farther into Kunzite's hair. He moved closer, almost in Kunzite's lap. "I know what you do with him at night."

And at last, Kunzite knew exactly what this demon was. How could he not know, when Zoisite, whose touch was similar, had so often been accused of being one as well?

"Incubus." What bit of his speech that made it through his parted lips was barely a whisper, for his mouth, his tongue, and every other piece of his body seemed suddenly empty of will.

"Don't worry, Kunzite-sama," murmured the demon, lips parted in a smile that no longer hid his glossy black teeth. "Just lie back. I'll be your boy."

And it was so easy, much easier than Kunzite would ever admit to it being. There was no shame, no hatred, no malice, as he was sure he would be feeling as he let himself fall backwards onto the stone floor. The same haze that had filled his dream seemed to be in possession of his body once again, and he gazed with blank eyes into the demon's face as it hovered above his. The youma worked his gift; the touch he bestowed on Kunzite's body was precisely what the silver king wanted to feel, starved as he was by his dreams. And Kunzite, his mind empty of everything but sensation, didn't move at all as the demon kissed him once or twice, and then set down to business.

"A good thing I fed you before I began," said the youma. Evidently, all his skill did not prevent his voice from wavering a bit as he sat down upon his captive. "But you know the food will stop if you don't help us."

Kunzite didn't reply. He was back in his dream; all he seemed able to do now was feel, his eyes staring glazed at the face above him. If anyone was going to make him talk, it would have to be in a way other than the spoken word.

But that was precisely what the youma knew how to do.

"Come..."

He rose.

"... and help us out."

And fell again.

"Tell me..."

Up.

"... what you know."

Down.

And as the demon began to move faster, Kunzite became aware of another sensation in his dream. It felt as though he was speaking, though not with his mouth. The words formed convulsively in his mind, words having to do with the precise topic of his interrogation. And as they formed, barely recognized by his touch-only consciousness, they were plucked right from his head.

"Good, Kunzite-sama.... Thank you, Kunzite-sama...."

The youma was smiling; Kunzite could see that. It knew it was winning, and Kunzite knew it too, though he was quite beyond caring.

But there was something else, too. A little bit of information that Kunzite forgot, and that the youma never knew. Never knew, at least, until near the end of the act, when Kunzite's arms raised from the ground, and his hands closed around the youma's slender throat.

And as his assailant tried to pull away, Kunzite's hands gripped tighter and tighter. With each squeeze, out went the lights in the youma's head, and away went each bit of knowledge he had harvested, one by one. Finally there was just one left, and it flickered out as the demon's eyes rolled up into its head:

That Kunzite, quite simply, was a dangerous man to sit on.

Perhaps if the voice on the other side of the wall had not started muttering, and perhaps if it had not muttered something that had so plainly revealed the identity of the mutterer, Nephrite would have reached a cathartic moment in his thought.

After all, sitting alone in the dark was a cultivated talent of his, and while it had before leant him the ability to talk with galaxies light years away, it had just now been bringing him to the verge of personal revelation. Of course, it had nothing to do with his What am I doing here? problem. However, as he had retraced his thoughts, exploring his memories just prior his current situation, he'd found himself mulling over and over his so convincingly real dream of dying.

And he had realized- or at least he had been on the brink of realizing - that real or not, that memory made him feel good. Of course, there was nothing good about losing his kurozuishou to Zoisite, nor was there anything good about being stabbed through the shoulder by an oversize grapevine. But earlier, when he'd charged his way through Zoisite's youma and hoisted Naru's small, warm, pyjama-clad body into his arms, that had felt good. Dream or no, the sense of mastery, the sense of doing something completely of his own will, and even (though he'd hate to admit it) doing something to the aid of another - that had made for a pleasant memory indeed.

And for a moment, there had been a little twinge in his conscience, and he'd thought to himself (in the most fleeting of thoughts) that he'd like to feel that way again.

But then, Zoisite had spoken up on the other side of his cell wall, and away went all of Nephrite's happy meditation. He was filled once again by confusion, angered even more by the walls around him. And dream or not, imprisoned or not, the loathing Nephrite felt for Zoisite was stirred up once more. That plaintive, obsequious way the copper-haired king had always spoken Kunzite's name, now done just out of sight and out of reach, brought to the fore all the reasons Nephrite hated him.

Suddenly, all he wanted to do was to get out of this dark, little room, find Zoisite, and fix him so he'd never be able to call on Kunzite again. Of course, this desire merely served to make Nephrite even more furious, for as he stalked faster around his pitch-black cell, the less likely it seemed that he would ever see the other side of that wall.

That is, of course, until the door opened.

They sat opposite each other, each at one end of the cell. The beam of light fell between them, making little but the glitter in their eyes visible to one another.

Hatsumomo was awake again, and he had told Zoisite everything. He had begun telling him as soon as he'd regained consciousness, for he'd awoken to find Zoisite in a fit of rage, striking at the walls of the cell and cursing. Yet explaining their situation, in terms as clear as he could manage, seemed merely to stir the young king up even more. For fear of being struck again, Hatsumomo had retired to one end of the cell and had waited, silently, for Zoisite's fire to die down.

And at last it did, and Zoisite did not so much sit down as subside, his body folding in on itself in a way that only total exhaustion could force it.

Hatsumomo watched him with a most guarded fascination. Quite understandable, seeing as Hatsumomo had never, in his time as a servant, been permitted to look at anyone higher than the youma with which he worked. But when he had, on rare occasions, caught a glimpse of Queen Beryl-sama as she entered her chambers, or when he, on cleaning duty, had picked up from the floor a scarlet strand of hair, that forbidden fascination had overtaken him. And it overtook him now as he watched Zoisite, everything from the Tennou's sweaty bangs to the small, clenched fists driving him to distraction. So absorbed was he in simply looking, that he at first did not notice the break in the silence.

"What did you say your name was?" Zoisite's voice was sharp and alert, though perhaps so only with effort.

Hatsumomo's mouth opened in silence for a moment. Since his disastrous attempt at explaining things earlier, he'd resolved that he would say no more to his cell-mate. Yet now he was being asked to speak.

"Hatsumomo," he said as clearly and confidently as he could.

"A ridiculous name for someone as dull-looking as yourself," Zoisite said promptly.

Hatsumomo felt stung, but compelled himself to reply. "It is what the youma called me, Zoisite-sama."

"They must have been making fun." Zoisite sounded a bit livelier now. "You said you were Beryl-sama's chamber servant?"

"Yes, Zoisite-sama."

"I thought youma were employed to do such things."

"They were, Zoisite-sama; I worked with them." Hatsumomo kept his eyes lowered as he spoke.

Zoisite's tousled, gold hair flopped as he cocked his head. "And yet they locked you up?"

"They locked everyone up, Zoisite-sama."

There was a silence.

"You're a liar," Zoisite then said with contempt. "How dare you lie to me, you dull-faced liar with a stupid name."

And that was the end of their conversation. Zoisite tossed his head and look away, leaving Hatsumomo to do little more that stare.

He brought his hand up to his lip and nursed the cut there with the cuff of his sleeve. It stung and was swelling a bit, but as Hatsumomo equated the cut to he who had given it, he who was now hunching his thin shoulders just outside of the light's path, it felt less and less like an injury. Nor was the sting of Zoisite's remarks near as sharp as it had been when he'd said them. It was as though the blows, as soon as they were delivered, became merely touches, the nature of their dealer excusing them. Soon, all Hatsumomo could think of was the shape of the hand that had hit him, and the sound - not the words - of its owner's voice.

And suddenly, he knew why people liked Zoisite so much.