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A Circles of Time Story:
A Change of Time

by Annie 

London, 1230

"Many years ago, things were much different. There were more people,
living in places we have never heard of. They had magic, and they used
it every day. How do I know all of this?" The old woman smiled, "I
remember it. I was only a small child then, yet it is as clear as
though it were yesterday!"
The children who sat at her feet held her gaze, drinking in her every
word, amazed at the stories she was telling.
"What happened to this wonderful world?" one of the children asked
breathlessly.
The old woman’s smile faded a bit. "I remember that, too. One night, I
was looking out at the sky, and I saw a flash of light, on the moon.
Then, there was nothing. I asked many people about it... but they did
not know what I was talking about. This lovely world, the beautiful
queen, her daughter, the princess, they were all gone. No one seemed
to remember them. No one mourned their presence, as I did. It was as
though they had never existed. And no one noticed anything, for every
person could not remember it." She leaned forward, almost whispering.
"But I remember."
"Oh, Granny, do tell us," begged a child.
The old woman leaned back in the wooden chair. "Once upon a time," she
began," there lived a magnificent queen. She was beautiful, smart, and
her kingdom loved her. She had a daughter..." As the old woman went
on, a figure slipped into the room, unnoticed by the children and the
woman.
The stranger knelt by the fire, warming up, and listening to the
story. A smile curved her lips, remembering old times, times long
gone. Then she disappeared.

The evening of June 25, 1178 had brought down a glorious empire, an
empire now wiped out from memories. A time, and place now only brought
back by old stories, legends only children believed.
But one person remembered. She remembered the wonderful times, times
that had to be brought back.
And she was the one to do it.
She was the one, the only one able to help others bring about the
Kingdom, the Kingdom that had fallen. A Kingdom which would one day
rise again.
That was her job, the only thing left in her life that mattered.

Sailor Pluto landed on the Moon, her lone figure standing out against
the harsh, desolate emptiness.
Everything was gone. Because she, Uranus, and Neptune had awoken
Saturn to destroy what was left, the Moon was now empty. It was as
though it had never existed.
And, for the most part, it never had. Every single trace of the
Kingdom of the Moon was gone. Pluto had made sure of that. Only
legends remained.
She had taken everyone’s memory, and took out the Moon Kingdom, magic,
and people. She had laid a spell over the planets, to ensure their
safety, that no one would ever see the glory that they had once been.
Her job, once admired and honoured by all, was no more. In it’s place,
was the long-lasting job of watching over the Earth, and making sure
that the future would happen as she promised herself.
And she whatever she had promised herself, and Serenity, must happen.
The Moon Kingdom, would, one day, rise again.

Florence, 1503

The dark ages were truly dark. Candles were hard to come upon, and
days were short. Winter had fallen, once again, over Italy.
Yet Leonardo da Vinci  kept hard at work. He was a nobody, yet he
intended to make his name known all over Europe.
He drew his dreams, and expanded on them. His dreams were wondrous
things. Full of happiness and laughter, and strange machines, that
everyone took for granted.
He was a stranger in his own dreams. When he dreamt, he looked around
himself, like a young child, at the world.
He followed people, and sometimes understood what they were saying.
Once, in his most favourite dream of all, he had gotten onto a great
white bird, with coloured feathers on it’s tail, and sat down. On
cushioned seats, so comfortable he hardly dared to get up. He had
heard a voice, coming from the ceiling, and looked up in amazement.
The voice spoke a strange tongue, one he did not understand at all.
Then the voice spoke another tongue, one he understood some of. But
the most important word he had heard was Italia, Italy. And the year!
The magnificent year!
Leonardo smiled, pausing in his work. The future, the looming future,
he had been there! And Italy still existed.
He returned to his drawing, of the great white bird he had sat in. He
wrote of the strange words from the ceiling, and of the future.
Yet the future was not the only thing looming upon him now. A
silhouette was.
Leonardo looked up, surprised, and slightly annoyed. He never let
anyone into his private chambers, let alone a stranger.
"May I be of any help to you, my lady?" he questioned.
The lady looked not at him, but at his work. "Why are you drawing
this?" She demanded. She spoke with a slight accent, one he could not
recognize.
"It has been presented to myself in a dream."
"What did you dream of?"
"A large white bird, but it none of your ladyship’s matter. It would
make yourself pale with anguish, and thou would not understand my
babblings."
She glared at him. "What time did you dream of?"
"The far future, my lady. Five hundred years."
"Speak of this to no one, for they would call you heretic, and kill
you. Limit yourself to your art, and all shall be amazed in your
presence."
He looked up at her, unknowing. "Yet how could your ladyship know all
this?"
She smiled slightly. "The future and I are one. The past and I are
one. The present and I are one." With that, she whisked his drawings
into her hand, turned, and disappeared.
Leonardo rose, looking at the empty space she had left, and went off
to sleep.
In the morning, he could remember nothing of what he had been doing
the past night. It did not matter, as work came to him later that day.
She was Francesco del Giocondo’s wife,  wanting to be painted for a
portrait.
Da Vinci later called the painting "La Gioconda", but she is most
known as "Mona Lisa".

Paris, 1554

While Leonardo da Vinci was discouraged to bring his ideas out into
the world, another man, with dreams far worse, more complicated, and
far more horrific wrote his dreams down, privately.
His name was Michel de Nostradamus, a French Jew, who claimed he was
not one.
He had visions daily, and each night he wrote feverishly in his
journal, trying to capture the horrendous images that were stamped in
stone in his mind.
He told the King of France, what was to become of his lineage. He told
him of a horrible revolution that would take many lives, including the
future king, queen, and prince. He told the king all of this, and
every time the king laughed in his face.
"Nothing will become of the French crown!" The King exclaimed. "The
people of France will always love us, even if they have no bread
themselves!"
"But you do not understand," Nostradamus begged with him, "Revolution
is already brewing in the air, even now! Within two hundred years,
everything will explode! A man called Guillotin will invent an awful
machine, that, Mon Dieu, will take off people’s heads!"
The King spat out his wine. "Preposterous, Nostradamus! That will
never happen! But," he quickly added, seeing the anguish on
Nostradamus’ face, "I will place an order, that no man is permitted to
create anything that will hurt another man."
Nostradamus nodded, slightly relieved.
"Now get out of here!" The king ordered.
He backed away, and left the King’s Court, on his way home.
"I believe you," he heard a voice say.
Nostradamus looked around him, and saw a woman leaning against a wall.
He cast his eyes down, noting that she wore little.
"I know how you must be feeling," she went on, "I see the future as
well. But it is not all bad, you must know."
"Is it?" He said angrily. "I see strange explosions and people dying.
I see foreign lands in turmoil, while others laugh at them, enjoying
their own wealth."
She smiled at him, sadly. "I know all that. Yet you must see as well
the good side of the future. The plague is gone, as well as other
diseases which run rampant through the streets of Europe. There are
medical and scientific advances being made daily, to improve the
world. Technology is a wonderful thing, and no more are people being
called heretics, and burned at the stake."
"So you may be right," he admitted. "The future can be good, as well
as bad. But as you must have seen," he gestured towards the Court,
"the King of France does not believe me."
"There are other people whose opinions count," she told him, "let them
know, and let them make their own decisions for themselves. Write down
what you," she suggested, "and publish it. Other people will help
shape the future, the King of France will not."
He stared at her eyes. "Who are you, that you should know all this?"
He detected more knowledge that she was telling him, in her eyes. She
had obviously seen more hurt, more pain, than he had ever seen in his
visions. He did not know how, but somehow he knew that she was
important to the future. She was connected to time itself.
While Nostradamus had been pondering all this, the lady had vanished,
without a trace. By the time he reached his home, he had completely
forgotten her, thinking only about publishing his visions.

Vienna, 1800

She had to walk up all the way to the tiny room where he gave piano
lessons. She had figured, why not? It might be useful someday. But
now, walking up all those flights of stairs, she was not so sure.
Why have they not invented elevators yet? She moaned silently. I’m
going to have to wait 150 years... damn technology. Can’t I just give
them the blueprints?
Then she caught herself. You’re not a little girl anymore, Setsuna,
she thought. Quit complaining and go up the stairs, the steep,
never-ending staircase, where waits a half-deaf, incredibly rude, but
ingenious man.
She finally reached the top. She knocked on the door, and he grunted
to let in her in.
"I’m your new piano student," she said.
"Ja, ja, whatever. Sit down, and you will learn."
She sat, and endured the piano tutorial. However, at its’ end, she
became quite hesitant.
"You will come back tomorrow for the next lesson, ja?"
She was deep in her thoughts on how to address the matter at hand, and
did not hear him.
"Fraulein? I am the one who is deaf, not you!"
"Oh, yes, Herr van Beethoven..."
"Ja? I haven’t got all day, you know."
"I really enjoy your music very much," she said finally, "and I have
an idea of what you could write..."
He groaned aloud, slapping his hands on the piano. "You and every
other young person in Austria! But your ideas are no good! You must
have music inclination, have much knowledge-"
"Mein herr," she interrupted, "I am not suggesting music... I am
suggesting what you could do to think of music."
He faced her, looking directly in her eyes. "And what is that?"
She pointed out the narrow window. "Do you see that woman there? Her
name is Therese. She passes here every morning, and looks into your
window. Why don’t you talk to her?"
"Therese?" he snorted. "But she is a nobleman’s daughter, I am just a
poor composer."
"You are more famous than anyone will ever know," she said seriously.
He rolled his eyes. "Fine, and what will happen when this young lady
and I get to be friends? Her father will break us up."
"From that," she said evenly, "you will an inspiration, for a
wonderful piece of music. Let me see your handwriting," she said
suddenly.
"What for?" he asked suspiciously.
"Oh, just let me see it!" What a stubborn man, she thought.
He quickly scribbled something on a piece of paper. He sighed, "If
what you are saying is true, then I will call the music this."
She took the paper, and smiled slightly.
His handwriting was a complete mess, and she could hardly read what he
had written.
"It says: ‘Fur Therese’!" he growled.
"I see," she said calmly. She got up, "Auf wiedersehen, Herr van
Beethoven."
She floated down the stairs, humming a beautiful tune, one that was
not called ‘Fur Therese’, but because of his atrocious handwriting,
‘Fur Elise’.

Paris, 1897

She was a young scientist, working on her doctoral thesis. Not that it
was coming along too well. What she had decided to study was what many
other students like herself had decided to use as well.
"I need something... original." She mumbled fiercely under her breath.
She had never been one to fall under pressure, and certainly she
should not over a simple thesis!
She sighed. Was it all going to be over because of this thesis? Her
scientific career, down the drains?
No, she told herself, I am going to do this. If not for me, then for
Pierre, my beloved husband.
She took a look at the outside world, busy in the early morning
market. She shook her head, she had never thought that her life would
turn out this way.
Born in Warsaw, Poland, Marya Sklodowska had dreamed of becoming a
teacher, perhaps, but instead she had decided to make the decision
that few girls took, studying mathematics and physics at the Sorbonne.
There, she had met Pierre, married him, and changed her name. Gone was
simple Marya, the Polish girl, there was now only Marie Curie, the
scientist.
She smiled brilliantly, thinking of her past, instead of the thesis,
blank, in her hands.
Marie tried valiantly to think of what she could study, something
interesting, something no one had hardly ever studied before.
"You are close," someone behind her laughed.
Marie jumped, turning at who had been speaking to her. "I beg your
pardon, madame?"
"Study something no one knows about very well," the woman said.
Marie gave her a scathing look, she never enjoyed being interrupted by
anyone, least of all this scantily clad woman, no doubt a beggar or a
prostitute.
"Madame, I hardly have any doubt that you would be of no help to me,
nor would you know of what I am doing."
The other woman shook her head. "Marie, I am doing you more help than
you ever will have known. Do something mysterious for your thesis!"
"Something- mysterious?"
"Yes, at least, that is what Henri Becquerel thought of it."
Marie turned back to where she had been sitting. Henri Becquerel...
where had she heard that name before?
Then she had it. Only one year earlier, this same Henri Becquerel had
given a lecture on something formidable, something he had discovered,
and called "the mysterious radiation".
Marie turned to look back at the woman, but she was gone.
"Thank you, madame!" Marie shouted to the air. "You have helped me in
more ways than you know!"
Marie grinned, radiation! Why had she not thought of it earlier?

Tokyo, January 27, 1979

Setsuna sat in an uncomfortable hospital chair. Every few minutes,
looking around. When she felt something, almost a tear in time, she
got up.
She took the elevator (heaven bless them!) to the maternity ward, and
looked in through the glass wall.
She smiled at a fidgety blonde newborn, whose tag read ‘Ten’ou, Haruka’.
"Haruka-san," Setsuna began, "you are the first of the senshi to be
reborn. Welcome to this world! It sucks at times, but what can you do?
When you are older, I will come and visit you again, and you will know
who I am. Have faith, Haruka, and everything will turn out all right."

She visited the hospital once more that year, and again the next year,
seeing the reborn senshi as mere babies.
However, on January 6, 1983, she cried.
She saw the tag that read ‘Tomoe, Hotaru’ and knew that it was wrong.
She saw her daughter, although not really her daughter, there, and wept.
"I’m sorry, dreadfully sorry, Hotaru, for the things that will come in
the future. But you must know, you will overcome the evil. You will be
Sailor Saturn once more. Unfortunately, you will never know you were
my daughter. Keiko and Souichi are your parents, now. Love them like
parents, forget about me."
The tears fell from her eyes, and looked at her baby, and for one
split second, locked eyes with her.
Hotaru understood, though only a few hours old. Her eyes relayed love
to her true mother.
Setsuna smiled sadly, "Good-bye, daughter."

As Setsuna exited the hospital, she remembered the times in her
long-lasting life that had been empty, void of friendship and love,
filled only by her job, and listening to the legends. She had listened
to the legends shared by other people, legends only children believed.
One day, Setsuna knew, she would be the one sharing the legends,
legends which came true.

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