100 Themes

I doubt I will get all one-hundred done, especially if I continue writing in this weird mess that I've created here. I've written four so far for this particular 'story,' and my drabbles tend to range from 50 to 5000 words. Perhaps they're not technically drabbles? Ah well!

Disclaimer: I don't own Sailor Moon. If I did, it never would have gotten published, as I never would have sat down to plot it out, and all the characters would have been stick figures on napkins. Be thankful I don't own it.

Rating: T for implosions.

Spoilers: Up through Stars. Which is when this takes place, even if its in the future at the moment.

Warnings: Um... implosions? Darkness? Character death(s)? (Its okay. I gave them bandaids afterward!)

Theme: 46. Time

"Serenity," Endymion gasped as he reached toward her, willing the bubble to extent just a little bit further. Small Lady was gone from her side, having merely blinked out of existence. He could not lose her, too.

"Come on, you can make it." Their fingertips were so close that if they breathed they would touch, but just when he was feeling a moment's hope, his wife began to slowly drift away. "No! Pluto, do something!"

The Timekeeper's voice cracked when she responded, the emotional and physical strain evident. "I'm trying, but there's just... I can't..."

He was no longer listening. The winds of time crumbling around them whipped even through the strong barrier, and he could only watch as it battered and pounded against his wife's body. Above the tempest's roar, he heard her call to him. "Endymion."

The he watched as the air of time around her shifted, and her eyes and face grew younger, silver hair darkening to honey. Eyes that he had not seen in over a millennia grew wide with fear as the rapid decent of age slowed to a stop. "Mamo-chan?"

Before he could respond, time once again picked up. In horror, he watched as she aged much faster than she should, as a crystal around her body shattered and splintered beyond repair. A keening wail started slowly as her hair turned grey, not silver, as she seemed to shrivel in on herself with age and heartache. The noise was deafening, louder even than the buffeting winds around them, when she finally turned to ash before his eyes.

It was not until the winds stopped, when everything outside the protective bubble merely ceased to exist, that he realized the sound came from his own throat.