disclaimer: There's a music stand sitting in the corner of my room with an etude book that scolds me as I sit here typing this, instead of practicing my All-State music. This is its fault. Oh, and I don't own Sailor Moon.

-the music stand-

The music stand stood in the corner, forgotten, lonely, and empty. No sheets of music stood upon it, no elaborately printed name graced the cover of the sonata that was missing. It stood alone, a gleaming silver in the otherwise empty corner.

It wasn't so long ago that mounds of music would sit on the stand. In former years ompositions by Handel, Mozart, and Beethoven had sat proudly there, showing off their covers to the various passerby.

But everything had changed since then.

It stood alone in a barren corner. Every morning its owner would look at it sadly, give a brief sigh, and move on. Every evening its owner would approach it, a piece of music clutched in her worn hands, only to turn and walk away, to leave the music stand empty and bereft of its purpose.

It had been two years since its last use. It had been two years since a painting had been reverently placed behind it—the work of Kaiou Michiru's protégé, Hiko Kazuo. It had been two years since it had not occupied a household of grievance.

Death is something that is anticipated. Humans are negative creatures, preferring to notice that life can end in the blink of an eye rather than using their time to rejoice over a butterfly emerging from its cocoon, whole and beautiful and full of life.

So this death was not unexpected. And, in a morbidly comforting thought, the mourners agreed that it could not have been a more peaceful, restful death.

She would have preferred to go out with a bang. Ten'ou Haruka was not one to appreciate dying in her sleep.

The funeral had been an elaborate affair. It was not every day that one of the founding Senshi passed away. Her body was paraded through the streets, and every newspaper was at the burial.

She would have hated it. But she would have laughed at them just the same.

It was the last day that Kaiou Michiru played her violin. Just one last song. The music stand left its corner to make a pilgrimage to the palace, where Haruka lay resplendent in her crystal casket. The Queen had requested that Michiru play one song before Haruka was placed in the palace crypt.

The song was Liszt. Consolation No. 3.

When she was done she placed her violin back in its case, gracefully followed her lover into the tomb, and a little less gracefully exited it.

Two years had passed in silence.

The others tried to subtly get her to play. They hinted that the Queen wished for her to play at the next ball.

She suggested one of her students play.

They mentioned that they'd quite forgotten how Joplin's The Entertainer went.

She hummed it for them.

Eventually they quit asking. Eventually they stopped prodding and pushing her into her music. Instead they just waited, hoping, praying, knowing, that someday her violin strings would sing again.

Her violin did not sit abandoned, however. She had it regularly tuned and kept up, and as a treat she allowed her younger students to practice with it or play upon it at a recital. It still sounded as resonant and warm as it always had.

Only the music stand stood alone.

The painting had been moved to a better-lit area a year before. The piano that had stood not far from it had been sold. And the lamp that was once used to light the pages of music had been removed. No one but the maids ever touched the music stand.

She gazed at it early one morning, the pink sun of a dawn edging up over the horizon. Her once aqua hair was swept back in a gray knot, and the eyes that had once shone so brightly were much duller.

Her wrinkled fingers clutched tightly to a piece of handwritten music that they had held every evening for the past two years. But never had she approached the music stand in the morning.

Slowly, tentatively, she took a step towards the music stand. An image of a young woman flashed across her eyelids as she blinked. The woman was smirking, her blonde hair sweeping gracelessly across her forehead, her eyes penetrating.

Another step. This time it was the same woman, only older. Though her eyes were still as intense as ever, there was laughter in her smile and it was apparent that time had developed her sense of humor.

The last, final step. An old woman, her short, once blonde hair now steel gray. Wrinkles and laugh lines were etched delicately into her skin, giving her the appearance of a woman who had borne hardships and struggle, but not without a little fun.

She set the music on the stand.

Her fingers were stiff as she opened her violin case. It was a combination of rheumatism, lack of practice, and the coolness of the early morning. She stretched them awkwardly before removing the bow from the case. The bow fell familiarly into her hand and her fingers clutched at it knowingly.

She still felt the same pain she'd felt two years prior. Two years ago she'd wanted to cry as she played at her lover's funeral. But she wouldn't. She couldn't.

She hadn't.

She stood and positioned the violin, wondering if she could do this. It was the farthest she'd come in two years. Against her chin the grain of the wood was both comforting and painful, reminding her of both happiness and grief.

But she knew that without this, her music, whatever life she had without Haruka would be unfulfilled. Her destiny. Haruka. Her music. Those three things were uppermost in her mind, in her heart. And now her destiny was drawing to close; had in fact already closed. Chibi-Usa had assumed the throne and the Amazon Senshi had taken over. She had no real purpose left to fulfill as far as her destiny went, except to pass on. And Haruka had died. So there was another important aspect of her life that was gone. Now all that was left was her music.

She lifted the bow, a wave of insecurity washing over her as she did so. She hesitated. Suddenly a breeze swept through the room. It scattered the rose petals from the vase of flowers that stood on a table at the opposite side of the room. One of them drifted ever so purposefully towards her to land gently on the music.

She smiled.

That morning the sweeping strains of a violin drifted in the wind.

-end-