Redemption

Chapter 1: Doom of the Sanctuary

Athena drifted in the world between worlds, the place no god had been: the silence before the Final Death. For the first time she understood the many mortals she had seen, the look of total peace as they quietly, without fuss, let death envelop them. The Earth she had fought so long to protect was safe, and Man free to choose his own path, without the warring of the gods. For the first time, her role was finished, and she had won.

Saori had already faded away, and now Athena, immortal goddess of wisdom and war, venerated by 88 saints, object of love and inspiration for poets since millennia, lay back, and quietly, without fuss, let death envelop her...

The darkness exploded.

*****

Had any one been looking up on that cold winter night, they might have noticed the five shooting stars as they tumbled slowly towards to a world they should never have seen again. Over the last few years, the human race had got used to astronomical catastrophes, gods of death and portents on a grande scale, so a quintuplet of strange stars would have barely raised an eyebrow. So, though they spun strangely, twisting as if to escape some gossamer thread that was trying to hold them back, there was only two pairs of eyes to observe, to notice, to hope and to dread. And they faded into the dawn and the Earth, and all was quiet in the heavens again.

*****

On that night, a nine-year-old boy was born to the world on the outskirts of Athens, tired and utterly confused. He was obviously some sort refugee, his eyes speaking of horrors seen, far, far beyond his age. His blond-haired, vague face was wont to twisting into a variety of strange expressions, as if he wasn’t used to wearing it yet. His body, remembering it’s needs faster that the mind, slowly wandered the dark streets, looking for sustenance. It finally found the door to a local bar and entered.

Various catcalls were made, but the boy just stared around, totally puzzled. For several minutes he just stood, and stared, as the voices grew louder. Finally, it being just after midnight, drink and machismo taking their effects, one of the revellers strode forth to push him out. Though voices called on him to stop, he slowly reached forwards…

When the police arrived on the scene of the bloodbath, they found the torn-up corpse of three men, and a group of drinkers who had fled. In the midst of it all was the blood coated boy, rocking back and forth and crying faintly to itself: "Don’t hurt me, you don’t have the right to hurt me. Don’t hurt me…"

Under normal circumstances, he would have been sent straight to some specialised orphanage, but recently the Sanctuary had announced that it needed many, many more new recruits to refill its devastated ranks, so the Greek government had a heaven-sent solution for all troublesome orphans. He was shipped off to Sanctuary Island with a hundred other hot-headed firebrands. Until he reached it, he spoke not a word, deep in thought about what his body had done. He knew he was a killing machine, and he knew he had killed, but he knew that he had been wrong to not reign in his actions. But then the ship accosted, and as he stepped onto the sacred ground, a sense of peace settled over him. He had been here before, and he had known companionship here. Something stirred, as he saw a masked figure stride towards them. Though she was covered from head to toe in black, her mask painted in stripes of the same colour, none the less he recognised her. "Shaina", he murmured, as she drew near.

Her ears heard the faint murmur. But her eyes had also seen the five stars in their fall, and though she suffered under the black of mourning, she knew the strength of false hopes too well to try and rush destiny. It might ruin all. So she noted him down for special attention, but not a single movement betrayed that she had heard.

"Attention, all of you. You are here in the Sanctuary, the sacred isle of the goddess Athena. You are here to become her Saints, the ultimate warriors, the soldiers who never give up. To do this, your bodies will be pushed far beyond their limits, your spirit will be stretched to liberate your own cosmos, and your minds will be formed to Justice, Honour and Courage. Little by little, you will learn entirely what I mean by these words, and when I speak them to you again, you will be ready. You will also learn the order and the hierarchy of the Sanctuary, but now know two things: I am your master, Shaina, Ophiuchus Saint, a name you will learn to hate. And whatever I say is the law for you, far more than if it had been written on stone tablets on the top of some mountain. Am I clear?"

As they all nodded their heads, terrified by her presence, she reflected on how much she had grown to hate the discipline she was forced to maintain. There was no other option, especially when she had so many disciples, but she often wished these children could become Saints without her having to beat them into the mould. She supervised the training herself, to make sure it didn’t get out of hand, and she ensured that a lot of humanity was present, to leaven the threats and the occasional beatings, but still… She wished that, just once, she’d have the time to do like Dhokko and Crystal, and love a student from child to saint. Even as she became outwardly as ice, shielded by her grief, her heart warmed and trembled as it never had before.

Shifting her attention back to the task at hand, she asked them their names, in a much lighter voice. "Deir", "Kito", "Malo", "The Masked Death" were some of the responses. Sighing, she changed the last one to "Morte", warning him that "Death-Mask" had unpleasant connotations in the Sanctuary. The she got to the boy, who hesitated for a long time, before merely answering "Ares".

Ares! The god of war! Had he heard, had he known what had happened in the sanctuary, the devastation wrought under that name? Once she had all their names, she just walked away. This was the crucial test. By their reactions once they were just abandoned, she could gauge the best training for each of them. She sat down in the shadow of a discrete boulder, and proceeded to watch them for the day.

A cloud floated above the sanctuary. All those who lived there could feel it. Soon these disciples would feel it as well. It wasn’t a cloud of exterior threat, or even the brooding evil of Saga turning honour into an instrument of evil. It was far worse than that in a way. It was a grimness, a heaviness that seemed never to go away. When the Bronze Boys, the Gold Saints and Athena had died, so many ideals, so much enthusiasm had died with them. The entire order had become pointless in a way, its meaning stripped away by the very victory they had so craved. Even the ultimate evil was something you could fight, something to fire the soul, a challenge. But nothing could fight this ultimate emptiness, the soldiers of god brought down to find their own path in a world that didn’t need them. The time for heroes was at an end; scientists, politicians were what the world needed now.

A case in point: Saints no longer rebelled against the Sanctuary. They just drifted away, bit by bit, and the Sanctuary let them go, unable muster enough feeling to even care.

A presence interrupted her reverie. Ares was standing before her.

"What now?" he intoned, in a small, pitiful voice.

She stared at him. Never had this happened before. He had followed her despite her attempts to hide. He had to have a huge potential to have done that, yet he came towards her, meekly, like some soft lamb. A lamb in the body of a wolf. She let her gaze dwell on him, wondering how long he would stand there mutely awaiting directions. Fortunately her own face was hidden behind the mask of grief. She fingered it idly; She was finding it more and more useful as time went on. Last month, she had risen up in front of the assembled saints, and proclaimed how degrading it was for women to be forced to hide behind a layer of steel. They had all listened. And they had bowed their heads, and assented. There had been no argument. She, a woman, was now the sanctuary’s strongest surviving fighter. More than two thousand years after the first woman had crept, face covered, into an order of men that despised her, those men bowed to the woman that outranked them, and let her show her face to the light.

But she never had. The older disciples had set aside their masks immediately, followed more timidly by the younger ones. Then Marine and June, the female saints, had broken the habits of a lifetime, and dared the world with their naked faces. But she never had. She had freed them, but remained bound herself. The revolution had been won, but the new world was not for her. She had painted her mask in black, and wore it always, a silent tribute to the old world that had passed away.

And behind it she could become hard, become the Ophiuchus Saint, the killer without remorse. Few people had glanced at her true face; all were dead now. And, sheltered behind her mask and her sign, she had started loving the world again. Because the world would never know, because it could never hurt her again, she could love it.

Ares was still giving his best impression of a marble statue, waiting for the universe to do something to him.

She sighed. She already knew quite a bit about her charges, and she would have ample time to learn the rest in the years ahead. Thus rationalising away her strict training schedule, she called her disciples together, instructing them to follow her to the Sanctuary’s foundry. There she selected a battered sheet of metal for each of them, binding it firmly to their left arm. After half an hour of work in complete silence, she assembled them

"These are your personal shields, the symbols of what you yearn to become. Of the heroes you might be." As she spoke, her voice seemed to change the world around, her words echoing from the past as they could feel it was not just her, but generation upon generation of holy warriors speaking through her mouth. "There are 88 Saints, 88 constellations in the night sky, each sworn to protect Athena and her ideals. Justice. Honour. Mercy. You will not be as ordinary men, you will be far beyond. Once you’ve set fire to the Cosmos, the energy within you, you will be able to scorch the sky and tear apart the land."

A brief pause, as she let that sink in. "But, like the heroes of old, you must protect those weaker than you. No matter what dizzying height of power you reach, there will always be others far beyond you. Your goal is to become the Saint of the Shield constellation, and wear that sacred armour into battle. It is an armour of bronze, the..." she caught herself saying "weakest", and smiled at the idea. No one who had lived through the Sanctuary’s last few years would ever make that mistake again. "... the most numerous type of Saint, Athena’s loyalest warriors, sent wherever trouble brews in this world. The front-line warriors of every holy battle. Above are the Silver Saints, who come to the fore when evil... when our enemies become too strong, when an enemy Hector needs our Achilles in return. As for the saints of the twelve Zodiacal constellations, the Gold Saints..." She paused again. She had used the big empty words, justice, sacred, honour, but words were not enough here. No-one who hadn’t grown up within the Sanctuary, who hadn’t felt those incredible auras permeate the island for miles around, could even begin to imagine their awesome presence. "Let us just say, if they ever walk amongst us again, you will see the true nature of power."

She let another few second go by, then brought them down from the heights of dreams, firmly into the world of now.

"But that does not concern you yet. Back to these shields. You will carry them always, sleep with them, eat with them, bathe with them and maybe die with them. They are your defence, they are your life. If you lose them, my training is at an end. They are deliberately crude, now; you will learn to care for them, to improve them, make them bigger, as the years go by. Come, I have something else to show you."

"Why?", said Morte in a querulous voice, barely believing his own courage. "Why should we do what you say, snake woman?"

Shaina didn’t even turn round. Her fist impacted with the ground at her feet, and split it. The crack extended backwards, and Morte tumbled into it, barely catching the edges. Ten seconds of desperate clawing at hand-holds and screaming in terror before Shaina lifted him out. "That’s why," she said simply.

Soon after they were standing at the entrance of a foreboding cave. To an adult, it would have seemed nothing special, just a vaguely interesting cave, to explore with torches and picnic, maybe, on a Saturday outing. The children, however, could sense what Shaina knew: the smell of Death, of defeats, that lay heavily upon it.

"This will be your final test. When you are ready, when you feel you are ready, just enter here. There are," she smiled grimly, "two tests, or at least one test in two parts. You’ll know what I mean when you are ready. But I must warn you, you will emerge a Saint, no longer a disciple, ready to take your place in Athena’s armies... or you will emerge a corpse. You choose the moment to enter, but know this, not one has gone in with less than four years of training and come anywhere close."

She paused a second.

"Now, I know you’re all hard headed, unloved children. You’ve been through a lot, suffered a hell of a lot. But in the words of my favourite movie, believe me, you ain’t seen nothing yet."

*****

The Earth continued its eternal round, marking the passage of years. Bones grew, muscles firmed, minds aged, hearts grew confident, as the clouds of childhood gave way to the storms of adolescence. They still listened to her, and did as she said, because she could beat them into a pulp if they disobeyed. But already their eyes were answering back, murmuring "just you wait". It was time for them to take up their own training, to push themselves beyond their limits, to understand they had no limits but the ones in their minds. Several insane attempts had been already made on the cave, but soon, the boys started to feel, one of us will go there seriously, emerge as a man and a Saint. Just let it be me.

Shaina had even begun to sense the flare of a cosmos to be in some. There would be a new shield saint ere long, of that she was certain. But she had other worries. A definite dark shadow had joined the brooding despair that permeated the island. She could sometimes sense it when she flared her cosmos, but it faded as soon as she concentrated. It was always at the limit of her perceptions, a sombre cosmos that seemed to be playing with her. Someone out there was watching the island, someone who shielded his presence from everyone but her. It was as if it was hesitating, making up its mind, waiting, thinking... judging. And what would happen, she wondered, if they were judged deficient?

*****

It is given to few of us to be heroes; those who are born and bred for it so often shrink from the ultimate test, and then a coward stands before the tanks rolling down the path of history, facing them down with nothing more than his human dignity. Then there are the villains, heroes looking the other way. As the world turns, and man shifts into new alliances, there will be both of these aplenty. A small girl, looking up to her turquoise-haired fathers, destined to live two lifetimes at once in the freezing north. A psychic soldier broods the thoughts of others, knowing he will have to break their hearts and his own, praying to delay that fateful day. Another one writes at his desk, stuck at "The Pegasus meteors smashed through the lion’s defences". A one-eyed warrior gazes through the ice, seeking a doomed ship, the rose of remembrance still clutched in his fist. A resurrected knight kneels before his dark mistress, pledging her far more than just loyalty. A fiery-haired girl who plays in the sand, pretending to ignore the stares the local boys pretend not to give her.

These are some of those who will shape the new destiny. The men and women who will decide the future, more than the powers of the gods themselves. For the gods fear that future, a future that escapes from under their shadow. For the time of Man is upon them.

And in a remote valley of the Sanctuary two potential heroes were fighting it out in a most unheroic manner. It was a microcosm of the world, Morte, the leader, against Ares, the outcast. They were finely balanced in strength, with maybe a very slight edge to Morte. But Ares was always alone, and Morte never was. It was as simple as that.

The circle of leering faces held Ares while Morte pummelled him. Blow after blow, scream after scream, until Morte’s own hands were burning with pain. Until that, and beyond. Until the valley echoed to a symphony of screaming and breaking bone. Until the screams subsided, sealing a mouth that might never speak again. Until fully half his acolytes had braved the crowd and slinked off in disgust. Until the object in front of him was no longer human. And then he hit some more. All his hate was focused on this one rival, the one who made a mockery of him. The withdrawal that made a mockery of his fake friendliness. The aloofness that mocked his own popularity. The hesitation that mocked his own empty certainty. The dignity that mocked his false honour. But most of all, the horrible strength that showed that his was not the only path you could walk.

Pausing a second, he drew long, halting breath. Firmly gripping the remains of Ares’ face, he prised out his left eye, ripping it out of its socket. He held it up, gazing into it, before smiling and crushing it in a single spasm, the mess dripping out through his white knuckled fingers to the sound of someone being sick. One of his acolytes stepped forwards.

"That’s enough. Let’s go now."

Morte looked around at the circle of faces. Could they not understand, could they not see why he had to discard his honour for this one. Ares was he enemy, the reverse of them all, the anti-Saint who’s very existence made all their lives pointless. Like so many before, he thought he could discard honour once and re-acquire it later. He could not yet feel the sinking spiral of his future, each further horrible action justified by the fact that the circumstances were exceptional. But that was still to come; in fact that was not how it was to end. It is said the only true Saints are the ones that have been through evil and have emerged beyond, redeemed. His evil had started; redemption, or death, was still to come.

But he knew none of that as he gazed in hatred at the remains of a man before him. "I’ll just finish this", he said, bringing back his foot. The only noise was a huge crack as it smashed into Ares’ shield. The shield split in two, the arm shattered, Ares’ body lifted off the ground and flew off twenty meters, collapsing in a pool of blood. He held the pose for a few seconds, staring at his defeated opponent over his raised foot. "Now the sanctuary is pure. Now you can never be the shield saint."

He lowered his foot and walked off proudly, his henchmen following at a distance, trying to avoid looking at each other, leaving behind only the shuddering body.

*****

How Ares survived was a mystery. Certainly a will of steel still animated his shell, and drove it inch by inch out of that place. But he would never have made it. Even the great Seiya could only deny the flesh so far; even he could not have crawled out of that valley. But Ares did. Someone helped him, guided him; a dark presence carried him those last few meters. And it was thus that Shaina found him.

She suspected who was responsible, but until Ares spoke, she could not punish anyone. And Ares was wasting away, in silence. His dead eye gazed onto nothingness, his arm withered down to a useless appendage, to which still clung half his shield, as if he wanted to deny his defeat, as if he could still become Shield Saint. The rest of his body healed, but his soul could not. The disciples that had been responsible for his beating covered him in cruelties to hide their gnawing guilt. He put up with a week of misery, then walked straight to the shield cave, and entered its dark reaches. Though Shaina waited two whole days, he never re-emerged.

*****

A week later, Morte was standing before the same entrance. There was a faint whiff of dawn in the air, though the darkness was still total, completely shrouding the scene it would soon have to abandon. He had slipped out the day before, and had spent the night in silent contemplation before the cave. For the first time since he had arrived in the Isle, he felt doubt, and craved solitude to sort it out. The question that was haunting his dreams, over and over until he could think of nothing else, was always the same: was he yet ready?

He was experiencing full on, for the first time, the terrible absoluteness of this challenge. It was not something you could beg, or bribe, nothing that friends or contacts could see you through. Pretence, wit, excuses - none of that would ever matter now. It had come down to the line, the brutal honesty that forbade artifice: he would be Shield Saint, or he would die, and nothing he could say would change that.

Shaina had warned them that the test came in two parts, saying that they would understand that when they were ready. He’d always though she meant there were two traps within the cave, but now he knew the first one was outside. He knew that given five more weeks, he would be ready. He’d felt the first glow of his cosmos, his body and mind were approaching their peek, his confidence was nearly perfect. Just a bit more time. But every day that passed bore the risk of taking the armour from him for good. Ares entering the cave a week ago had given him a horrible jolt. In his heart of hearts, he knew that Ares was nearly as strong as he was, and far more independent. It had been the first real attempt at the armour, the first one that might have worked, and even now, several other potentials were gearing up for their own try on the cave. That was the most terrible thing; he had to go in now, if he was not to risk losing all, but at the same time knowing he was not yet completely ready.

For seven hours, he just sat and stared at the entrance, until it seemed to fill the entire universe. Then, finally, when the sun was high in the sky and the sounds of training had spread around the sanctuary for quite some time, he entered.

It was utterly dark past the first ten meters, though the cave has well hewn and easy enough to follow. Morte advanced carefully, every instinct on edge, feeling around with his rudimentary cosmos. He crouched as he moved, his shield raised, eyes just peering over. Five minutes into the cave, his pride took over, and he straightened up and quickened his pace slightly, determined to win his armour with head held high. After a while, the darkness began to slacken, and he emerged into what looked like a small arena, with twenty meter high perfectly smooth wall opening up to the sky above. As he stared around it, blinking his eyes, there was a rumbling behind him, and when he looked back the passage way was blocked by a huge stone. At that, he felt a rush of exaltation; five years of training had come down to this, the bridges were burned, there was only one way out.

He looked around carefully, scanning every inch. The floor was covered in sand. The walls were perfectly smooth, the sounds of the tide were wafting through. And, on the other side... Set in an alcove, it seemed like a metallic door, studded with some sort of points sticking out. As he got closer, he realised they were knife blades, sliver-thin and razor-sharp. They covered the entire surface of the door, barely half a centimetre between them. There was nothing else, no way to get a foot-hold on the wooden frame beyond. He tested one of the blades with the edge of his shield, and was appalled when his protection was cut right through.

As he stepped back, wondering, his eyes caught a glimpse of something in the sand. Lifting it out, he recognised Ares’ remaining half-shield, now shredded beyond recognition. It stopped his own urge to throw himself, shield first, onto the blades. Instead, he reached out with one hand, gingerly, screaming as the blades shredded his flesh, but pressed on, finally pushing at the wood. The whole frame slid slightly backwards, but not much, and further attempts just tore his hand even more. He drew it back, carefully, and tried to staunch the blood gushing from it. It was then that he noticed that most of the blades were coated in old blood, and for the first time, he shivered at the though of what Ares must have gone through.

For the first time, he sat down and thought. Just thought. He had a lot of time before him before hunger started to gnaw, and he needed to make the right decision. Despite his arrogance and his aloofness, he was far more intelligent than anyone credited him, and had already found the solution. He was only waiting, as thinkers so often do when confronted by the truth, to see if he could conjure up some more palatable alternatives.

Shaina had constantly drilled into them that they must adapt, that they must master their innermost fears, that they must be willing to step out of their fixed mould. Yet during these long years of training, they had clung to shields, hiding their bodies behind them, seldom putting them down. To be without a shield was to be naked and defenceless; a blow not blocked by some form of protection was a deadly blow. So, he thought, looking up at the door and swallowing hard, what he had to do here was cast aside the shield that had sheltered him all these years.... and offer his defenceless breast to the knife blades, push the "door" forwards with his very body. Obviously Ares eventually came to the same conclusion, and must have died on the door. He shivered, then composed his mind. He would meditate, and then, when his body and spirit were ready, he would throw them both at the last barrier before the armour.

No... He wasn’t going to meditate because he was preparing, he was going to meditate because he was afraid. Afraid of failing, afraid of dying. That wouldn’t go away just by sitting crossed legged for a few more hours. It would just increase, eating away at his resolve. A line from an old song crossed his mind:

"............can it be you fear to die?

Will the world remember you when you fall?

Could it be your death means nothing at all?"

With a scream, he ran towards his nemesis, his heart pumping madly, adrenaline lacing his body. He closed his eyes as the blades pushed into his flesh, endeavouring to wrench the door forwards by sheer will power.

It had moved all of three meters before he realised he was going to die.

The blades had cut too deep, his life blood was already staining the floor. Nothing he could do would save him any more. Every move would just drive them deeper into his flesh. He pushed forward, cursing his presumption on attempting the quest too early, wishing at least to see the armour before he died. But his willpower had faded, and the door moved not. His head lolled forwards, his eyes blurring as the blades slashed into his jugular and throat. He saw a trail of dried blood stretching under the door, further than his own. Ares had been farther! His anger burned bright again. His last vision would not be his rival surpassing him! And with it, his cosmos awakened, burning as it never had. It was no longer a vague feeling just beyond the horizon; it was the real thing, pure and undiluted. A warrior is a tripod, he recalled, body, will and cosmos, and he pushed forwards with all three. The blades now opposed as much resistance as shadows. Ten meters further the door collapsed in font of him and he emerged from the corridor. And it was then, his eyes veiled by blood, that he sensed rather than saw the sacred urn before him. Tearfully he stumbled forwards, hands outreached. Just as he was about to lay his hand on the prize, a sardonic voice behind him intoned "Congratulations."

*****

A few minutes later, Shaina, waiting by the exit to the test arena, saw Morte emerge slowly. She wasn’t surprised. Though the rocks in the cavern had blocked her six sense, so she couldn’t sense what was going on, she knew that Morte and Ares were her most promising students, the only ones with a chance of succeeding. Ares had never emerged from his premature attempt, but Morte must have succeeded. Just as she was about to congratulate him, something about him chilled her. Though he bore the terrible scars of the test, and had emerged through the exit, he had neither armour nor urn. How could he have got through it all without earning the Shield armour? He emerged into the sunlight, and then collapsed on the ground, sobbing miserably, a pitiful shadow of himself. And suddenly there was another presence in the tunnel. His face was marked by the trials of the arena and the week’s fast while he had waited for his rival’s arrival, his eye was still gone and his arm still withered. But his valid eye glowed with pride and vengeance, and his withered arm was encased in the brilliant red Shield that gave his new armour its name. His entire body clad in the sacred scarlet cloth, Ares emerged behind his fallen bully, fully smiling for the first time in years. He looked up at Shaina and had just enough time to give her a smirk and a salute, before collapsing from utter exhaustion. Meanwhile Morte slinked off, covered in tears, blood and shame, as Shaina and her remaining students stared down in astonishment.

*****

"He is most unwell" the nurse kept repeating, like a child that had learned her first sentence and kept on replaying it. "He can’t have any visits"

Shaina, feeling that if she had to say "I’m his master, I must see him, it’s very important" once more she’d scream, pushed the orderly aside and strode imperiously into the Saint section of the Sanctuary’s hospital. Ares, sitting up in bed, looking out a window, burst into a wide grin as he saw her. That brought her up with a start. It was as if the catharsis of gaining the armour and humiliating his hated rival had lifted the malice from his mind completely. She had come to sermon him severely on his treatment of Morte, but suddenly felt totally wrong-footed.

"Um, I’d come to talk to you... to see if you were well", she finished lamely.

"You mean you’d come to chew me up about Morte," he corrected, still grinning.

"Yes... that too." Damn, she hated losing the initiative.

"Well, better get to it then," he said genially, spreading out his arms. "I must say, Shaina, you are looking particularly stunning today"

What the hell has happened to him, she wondered. He’s lost his worry, his resentment, his surly look. Had she changed that much when she became Ophiuchus Saint? It seemed barely possible.

"We need to be sure that you can be an honourable Saint of Athena, and frankly the evidence doesn’t seem to point that way. Physical vengeance might be acceptable, but not the exquisite cruelty of destroying his dreams as he was reaching them."

Ares looked out the window again, staring off into the distance, his face serious once more. "One for many," he murmured. "One act of vengeance to repay all I’ve endured, one man to suffer for the many, one act of cruelty so I never have to do any again." He looked straight at her, his eyes intense. "A redemption of some sort. As I entered that cave, I swore to Athena that if she would grant me just this one thing, I would lay down my life in her service forever more."

"One does not presume to bargain with the goddess."

"Of course one does. When you swear loyalty to her, you’re really saying: as long as I think you are the incarnation of Justice and Peace, I will follow you. Nobody should ever swear blind; along that route tyranny lies. I went beyond that. I knowingly committed one evil, and I laid down the price that was to redeem me. I will serve Athena until my dying breath, not because I must, not because I "approve" of her, but out of gratitude, because she will forgive me. Because if I ever desist in her service, I will become the lowest scum on Earth. Anyway" he said, relaxing again and raising one hand in mock salute, "I swear eternal allegiance to Athena, and promise to duck whenever her representative from hell, the one and only Ophiuchus-Shaina, is ever in the neighbourhood. That OK?"

For the first time in so long, Shaina felt like laughing. She felt relaxed again, as if had been released from her pain at last. Maybe Ares wasn’t the only one changed by all this. "Well", she drawled, "I suppose that miiight do. Just add beautiful and witty to my name, and I think that’ll just do." She found herself smiling, looking down at this child who was glancing up with wide eyes enthusiasm. Then he casually reached up and removed her mask. She was far too stunned to do anything, as he detailed her features. "You don’t look as much like the devil as I thought" he said. Indignation was fighting to get control back from utter surprise. He’d used the same words as Seiya, long ago; more to the point, he obviously knew they were the same words, by the way he kept smiling.

"Wha... What..." she finally managed.

"I just wanted to say this to your face. Thanks for everything, Shaina. There were times were I hated you, but I realised you were the best teacher in the end. I’ll be eternally grateful. And, by the way, you are very beautiful," he added, delicately replacing her mask.

With that, he turned over in bed and seemed to fall asleep, leaving Shaina as shocked and glazed as if she had just been hit with a several ton hammer. He had just casually reached into her soul and rearranged it in the space of a few seconds, then gone off to sleep as if it wasn’t something very important. She stared down at his sleeping form, and once again the question trotted in her mind. Who was he? He’d known her name at the beginning. He’d known too much of the Hades war. Was he the son of one of the dead Saints (her mind came down hard on the brief image of Seiya dallying with some mistress) or, could she hope, the reincarnation of one of them, one of the five stars she’d seen? She looked over his bedside table and smiled: on it was a copy of Nachi’s "Sacred Wars", which at least solved the mystery of how he knew Seiya’s words. She looked at the nameplate at the head of his bed, reading "Ares". She took up a pen and completed it to "Ares, Shield Saint of Athena" before leaving the room.

*****

They were just four of them this time. Below them were the arrayed ranks of Saints (so few) and guards, and before them was the new Saint, Ares, about to be sworn in. But here, the very top, was reserved to veterans who had fought in the sacred wars. Nachi, who had just arrived the day before, Marine, Shaina, still brooding, and of course the Pope himself, still hidden behind his mask. They each were thinking their own thoughts as they gazed across the assembled multitudes.

The Pope was struggling under the weight of his responsibilities. An immense lassitude hung over him. Every day he struggled to keep the Sanctuary alive, keep everyone motivated, try and reawaken the great ideals that used to burn there. Instead he was trapped in a never-ending cycle of short-term decisions, planning for the next two days at most, while the Sanctuary itself became more of an irrelevancy at each passing moment. He was old, very very old. Not physically, he was in his late twenties, but mentally, which was far worse. He had ceased to dream, ceased to look forwards to tomorrow. His future loomed before him, every day worse than the one before. With a sigh, he stepped forwards to greet the new Saint, feeling he was the high priest of some forgotten religion, performing a pointless, empty ritual for tradition’s sake only.

Nachi watched him move, his thoughts also on the emptiness he saw on the Isle. That was why he had tried to break out, to start a new life. He knew that many resented this, especially the fact he was so good at it. His first book, "Sacred Wars" had catapulted him to literary stardom. Tours, galas, discussions peppered his hectic life ever since. Some of the surviving saints, put off by his treatment of the events, had tried to write their own versions, but had not yet even been able to find even a publisher, let alone a place on the best sellers list. Nearly everyone in the Isle disliked him, even those who admired his works. Yet the place still called to him, and he always came back, sooner or later. And every time it got worse. His next book, "Doom of the Sanctuary" had been nearly finished for three years now, and always he put off finishing it, hoping he would find something, anything, to re-ignite hope, to end this glorious saga on some positive note.

Marine was standing with her star disciple, Seika. Now that she had put aside her mask, the difference between the two was striking. It wasn’t the difference between dissimilar faces; it was the far more memorable contrast between nearly identical faces. It was strange; every common feature merely served to highlight their essential mismatch, until that was all anyone would ever see in their faces. The difference. And there was no love lost between the two. Marine had tried to mould Seika into another copy of her brother; though she was almost too old to become a Saint, she had the power, if not the motivation. And it was Marine’s unlassable attempts to force this motivation on her that kept them at daggers drawn. Despite this, Shaina was sure they would come to love and cherish each other, the last family of what had been a living legend. And she hoped that Seika would earn her armour soon, so the two would stop driving each other apart, before it became too late.

Ares strode forwards, in full armour, like a young bride on her marriage day. That was the image that formed irresistibly in Shaina’s mind. He was so happy, so positively radiant. "Ares, do you take this armour as your own, to love it, to cherish and honour it, in sickness and in health...". He saw her, smirked and waved. She nearly waved back. That smirk, though. She’d seen it somewhere before... The world stood still for one horrible moment, and then slowly collapsed around her. NO! How could... The black veil drew across her eyes, as she fainted. Or at least she tried to faint, tried to deny reality by escaping it. Her body fought back, not understanding, a killing machine not attune to the emotions coursing through her. Suddenly the world snapped back into focus. Her body was right. She would have to face this; having stood up to the Sea-King, she would not back off from this. She opened her mouth to shout her hate to the universe, when an immense cosmos flared up at the corner of the Sanctuary...

It moved closer, moving slowly and gaining in intensity every second. Not a word was spoken, but there was no need. "You are less than nothing", screamed the cosmos. "We can eliminate you without even noticing it, and we will then go and purify our bodies from the unthinkable sin of having been anywhere near you." A ripple of pure joy paced through the assembled Saints. No matter what their power, these were enemies, a chance to fight, kill and die. A chance to be Heroes once more.

The cosmos resolved itself into three figures, trying their best to fill the entire arena with their presence. One of them, obviously their leader, stepped forwards. If he had written a book entitled "Arrogant body language", it would have been a best-seller. He was completely covered by a huge black armour, the traditional black knight of children’s stories. The blood-red edging of each armour-element just made him even more ferocious. "Cower, scum", a deep voice intoned from within the black mask. "For I am War, Apocalypse Horseman, come to cleanse this world of your filth. Who wants to set the pattern by being the first to die before me?"

Ares had by that time reached the centre of the arena, so he was perfectly placed to step forwards at this point. Not a word passed his lips, though his every move screamed defiance. A chuckle winged its way from War’s helmet. "No, I don’t think you’re strong enough to even interest us. But one of us has a bone to pick with you, I think. Come forwards and claim revenge, Death." At this a fourth figure moved up beside him. No-one had noticed him, his presence swamped by the huge cosmos of the other three. His armour was a beautiful blend of delicate colours, a stained glass-window come to life. He held a transparent scythe above his hate-flushed face. A gasp went out as his ex-friends recognised Morte, back to betray his masters and his friends. He raised the scythe in a mock salute and screamed: "Today I drink the blood of every single one of you! And Ares, you who made me into this, you’ll eat that bloody shield before I’m through with you!"

He moved forwards, levitated by anger, towards where Ares was waiting for him. And the hate in Ares’s eyes was the perfect mirror of his own.

War made an indulgent gesture at the pair, then straightened. "Now for the serious stuff. I hope you all enjoyed this day, because it is your last!" The three remaining horsemen threw themselves forward, where the Saints of the Sanctuary were waiting with an equal thirst for death and glory.

"You did this to me" murmured Morte, his voice low and deadly. "You humiliated me, you ridiculed me. You waited for me, then just as I was stretching out my arms to claim my dreams. You turned them to ashes when you said "Congratulations. It seems you’re even stronger than me. I hope you enjoy knowing that despite that, you’ve wasted your entire life, jerk." No one has ever hated like I do now!"

Ares, without responding, just lifted his crushed arm meaningfully. "Die!" The word was hardly out before Morte had covered the distance separating him from the bronze saint. The scythe flashed, met the shield coming up. Ares screamed as the ethereal blade cut through the metal of his armour, slashing his already mashed arm, cutting through to the very bone beneath. In a flash the scythe was out again, swinging down in an overhand blow to decapitate him. A twist, a backward flip, and the air was empty on the weapon’s path. Morte pressed on in, shredding rock and air as the Shield Saint twisted like a snake, every instinct focused on the blade.

"You going to keep running forever? You’re less proud now, now that the odds are even, that I’m not some poor armourless skunk, eh? Unfortunately for you my blade has tasted your blood. How does the expression go: you can run but you can’t hide!" He licked at the blood at its edge, then lifted the bloody scythe high above him. It started to glow with a sickly red light, as the air around him darkened. "Execution! Your very lifeblood will be your tomb!" He hurled the scythe at Ares, who jumped out of the way. But it twisted in the air, following his movements. He tried to run, but it moved faster, careering into him, turning, slashing, sniffing out his blood until his entire body was just an incarnation of pain.

"It won’t stop until you’re dead," smirked Morte, though his face was strained. "Your blood is in my body now, so my power is in you! It burns my body to destroy yours!"

An idle thought got through to Ares pain-wracked mind. "You were right Shaina. Fight in silence, and your opponent will say too much." Using that thought as a crush, his brain slowly crawled back to reason, out of the sea of pain that overwhelmed it. In that instant he saw what he had to do. He somersaulted his battered body into the air, the scythe in hot pursuit. "Red Tornado!" he intoned, calling the traditional attack of the Shield Saint. Spiralling through the air he careened into Morte at the speed of sound, projecting him several meters away. He landed on his feet, just, as Ares looked down at him, bloodied but alive. The scythe was besides him, silent.

"I’ve won now. You can’t invoke Execution again. Your body is far too weak after my blow. It wouldn’t survive a second attempt." The words were barely out of his mouth before he cursed himself for saying them. He should have known - he had known, but chosen to forget - and as the waves of Morte’s mounting cosmos battered him, his mouth intoned it out for him: "Never, ever, proclaim that you’ve won. It’s plain suicide, the jesters of fate will never let that past." Such was the speed of Morte’s "Extinction" that those words were very nearly his epitaph.

As it was, the world rose to a blinding white, then faded to a soft golden hue before dissolving into grey mist. Traditionally at this point most people would say things along the lines of: "I don’t feel anything. It doesn’t even hurt. Is this what it is to de dead?" But Ares had no intention of doing things by the book. Moreover, he’d recognised this form of attack, and realised he’d been sent to death’s ante-chamber. He grinned wryly. Another wannabe Deathmask onto his first attempt. They never seemed to realise that unless they were ready to follow their victim through, to finish the job, they could never know if he’d be back. His good mood faded as suddenly as it had came. How had he known that? There wasn’t enough in books or training to realise that; you had to have experienced death first-hand. So it was true. He had been through the sacred war. His instincts had remembered what his brain couldn’t. He ran over the vaguely familiar names. So, was he the heroic-but-stupid-sorry-did-I-say-stupid-I-meant-stubborn Seiya, the terminally frozen Hyoga, the "Sorry that I killed you" Shun or the smouldering Ikki? Maybe he was even one of the all conquering duo, those who had manipulated even the gods, Saga or Kannon? Shakka, the one who thought he should be a god or maybe Shura, pride and honour and blindness. So many choices, so little time. He settled for the moment on Shiryo, always his favourite. Chortling to himself, he proclaimed to the assembled darkness "You may now call me Shiriyu, until such time as I find out who I really am." Audience response was muted, but he still went on: "Dragon fury!", waving his hands around and failing to produce anything at all. Then he collapsed, howling.

Madness. So that was Morte’s little trick. In the beginning a sort of drunken euphoria, but now he could feel the soft and delicate tendrils probing his mind, ripping chunks of it, erasing his very existence. He moaned softly, clutching his ears, willing it stop, as his thoughts fought against him. But Ares, whoever he was, was anything if not resourceful, and as the madness started probing his memories, he used that as a lever open a way into them for himself.

He stood alone and peaceful at the start of a dirt road. It seemed to have started with the Universe itself, and stretched ever forwards. Drawn by he knew not what, he walked down it, content to go on forever. For here, some vague, some blindingly clear, were his memories. And as he approached the ninth year, he smiled with pleasure. The road was paved in gold now, and it glowed ever brighter. So this was who was. He still didn’t have the real name yet, but he was floating on bliss at what he saw of his childhood. "Stop!" shouted a voice behind him, breaking that perfect moment. He glanced down at where he was about to put his foot. The gold here was so brilliant it was hard to look at; but below his foot the road stretched out in total darkness. He glanced again. It was a darkness of pain and suffering rather than of emptiness. His heart pounding, he brought back his foot and turned to face the long lost voice that had warned him.

She was standing there, still the perfect angel of god. Her anxiety was plain on her face, but it melted before her joy. She was forever the same, simply perfect. "Eleanor!" "Harum" The adolescent warrior melted into the arms of the nine-year old ghost, and they both held each other, daring the universe to separate them. He kissed her, tenderly, as he remembered doing on the very day when in another life two young children had promised themselves to the other. The same age, their bodies too young to know desire, but their souls so totally merged, as if they were born separately only by mistake. Physical love was a mere optional extra, a distant completion they had promised to try as soon as they got older.

Playfully she slipped out of his arms, breaking an embrace that no other power in the world could ever dent. He smiled down in adoration, as she looked him over appraisingly. "You’re really changed, Harum" she said slowly, her eyes dancing merrily. "You haven’t even said anything unpleasant yet. Don’t tell me my Harum has gone all soft and stodgy!" His grin widened, a world of cheerful banter and sharp teases reborn from the dead. "I preferred to let my lips do another sort of talking. And you didn’t seem to be complaining all that much, really."

She pouted, then relented. "Come and tell me that again, up close." And their lips fused for another eternity. Eventually he broke away, glancing down the dark trail of his memories. "Why’d you stop?" she murmured. "I feel that had gone on long enough," he teased "sure it was fun, but you’ve still got improvements to do. Girls today, I tell you! They think they can just blink their eyes and need do nothing else to make men go crazy..." his voice was cut off as her mouth covered his for a passionate few seconds "...though I might accept a second opinion on that." They stood for a second, holding hands and smiling fondly at each other. He turned to face the darkness. "What happened there?"

"We died. Please," she implored, coming in close and hugging him "you don’t want to go there. I know it’s your memories, and that you must go out there some day, and then I’ll lose you. But for now, just stay here. Stay with me." He closed his arms around her and held on tight, until she became as insubstantial as mist, the road and his one love fading together. "Will I ever get to see your annoying face again", he whispered, his heart loaded with all the weight of love. "I’ll always be with you, until you choose to walk that path alone... Remember that, and never lose heart." The images finally faded, merging into the sharp glow... of a scythe coming straight at his neck.

His body moved with extraordinary swiftness, striking out instinctively against the body of the weapon, and sending an astonished Morte flying for several meters. He landed smoothly, his face torn with bafflement and rage. "You... you... you survived! How..."

"Just one thing Morte my friend. I just wanted to thank you. You’ll never know what, but no-one has ever given me a greater gift than you just have."

Morte glared at him goggle-eyed, his expression incoherent with fury and bewilderment. His right hand, still holding the scythe, was bringing it up and down spasmodically. "Wha... What... What...", his mouth kept on repeating, before winding down with no further prompting from his brain.

"Maybe I should patent this as a technique", Ares though idly. "The Ares utter confusion method. Guaranteed to work against trainees who betray the Sanctuary and return to attack it as the Apocalypse Horseman Death, and whose names start with M. May give incomplete results in other situations; only use as directed." He grinned; for the first time, he felt truly joyous, buoyed with elation and exalting in the fight.

Morte seemed to finally make up at least part of his mind, and lifted up the scythe. "Execution!!" He screeched, and released it straight at Ares. The man and weapon met in a flash.

Morte strode over to his fallen enemy. He got a grim satisfaction when he noticed that the blade had not only cut him in half, it had impaled itself in the rock beneath. He felt an unaccountable lassitude. So much of what he had done over the last few weeks had been aimed at Ares. He had dreamed, slept and eaten vengeance. And now he was growing hungry from it. Now he would have to live with what he had done, and think. He didn’t like what he had become, and he would have to spend a lot of time just himself now. He considered the idea of laying down his life against the other horsemen. It would slightly make up for his betrayal, and........ He froze utterly. His heart missed about a dozen beats as the world dissolved around him. The Shield armour, the one that would have been his, was there, split in half by the death scythe. But it was empty.

And for the second time in two weeks the same voice was behind him, capsizing his universe. "I really think it’s over now, don’t you?" In a flash Morte extended his hand, calling the scythe to him. But the pieces of the Shield armour closed around it, trapping it where it stood. And Morte let his arm fall, slowly, so slowly, his entire life collapsing with it. Ares was wounded, armourless, exhausted; though he had his back to him, Morte was still in fine condition, his armour intact, his body a cutting edge killing machine. But it made no difference now, and they both knew it. He could have had the power of the gods themselves, and it still wouldn’t have changed anything. He had shot his bolt. He had lost.

*****

The pope gazed down over the scene, calculating, judging, thinking. This... challenge was bringing out the fire in him, dispersing the old clouds in his head. He realised why Hope had been imprisoned with all the terrors of the world. Without challenge, there could be no hope. But for the moment, he was analysing the situation, using the talents that had made him pope in the first place. And he was trying to gauge who was watching them.

Granted the power of the Saints dramatically collapsed after each sacred war. Granted War and Famine had the strength of the silver saints of old. But War was stuck against Nachi, by far the weakest of the sacred war veterans, now. And Famine was having a hard time against modern-day silver saints. He had wounded one already, but the pope had carefully rotated them out of combat whenever they started to weaken; with so few saints, the sanctuary could not afford to spend them as freely as Saga had. Pestilence had already gone under and, much to his surprise, Ares had got the better of Death. These could not be the main forces. They were pawns, sent out ahead, sent out to see if it was a queen or a lesser piece hiding on the sanctuary’s square.

Finally War managed to finish Nachi off, sending his body spinning down the staircase. With a howl he was rushing at the pope, screaming invectives, fists forwards, his body taut with an irresistible force. The world held his breath as the distance closed. The pope gave a final look around, seeking out the invisible observers he knew must be there.

"Pegasus Meteors!"

War flew upwards impossibly fast, his body and armour broken open like an eggshell, spewing blood as he went. He finally came back to rest at the foot of the pope, his blood washing over the white cloak of Athena’s envoy. The pope had barely moved his hands.

He knelt over where War lay, visibly beyond any human help. "That attack was in honour of an old friend. He too, had a bit of War in him, but in a very different way." Tears started coming to his eyes; the death of a young warrior - for he could now see that War had been barely 13 - was always hard for the old to bear. "Do you have any last words, last wishes?"

"Yes" answered the dying boy, all hate faded from his eyes. "I have died as I wished, died in flames, died long before my body grew cold and killed me from the inside. I died a warrior!", he finished in a murmur, his heart speaking directly though his mouth.

"A noble epitaph, indeed." The pope straightened and looked over his domain. "I will have it carved in the rocks of the Sanctuary, as a reminder to us all. Sleep easy, young warrior." He silently called upon the power of his sign. The unicorn stirred for a moment, then was silent. "In the name of Jabu, Grande Pope of Athena, I bless your courage, and wish you a peaceful journey to the other side."

Famine, the last Horseman still on his feet, glanced up from his battle and suddenly realised the precariousness of his situation. Obviously the idea of being defeated had never crossed his mind. The idea entered now, chasing everything else before it. He was that most dangerous creature, desperate and cornered but still exceedingly powerful.

"Feed!" He raised his hand, and his form turned black, no longer a person but a portal into some dark world. A snigger escaped from the darkness. "I’ve called on the souls of the dead to feast on the living. They will eventually turn on me, but I’ll have had my vengeance, and you will have joined them!"

The howl of the damned rose to crescendo, screaming their hatred of all that lived and breathed. Their screams echoed off the rocks and fed back on themselves, a nearly physical cacophony covering, drowning and simply annihilating every other sound. In the confusion, no-one heard the shout "Thunder Claw!", and few saw the figure appear in the sky, arcing to earth in a second, cutting straight through the dread portal. But everyone saw Shaina rise to her feet again, just in front of Famine’s body as it faded to the mist. And the dead to scream their frustration.

Jabu glanced down at her, and nodded his gilded helmet in approval. He hoped the hidden observers, whoever they were, had noted the resolve and determination of the defenders of Justice. He finally transferred his attention to the last Horseman still alive, the renegade, Morte.

He stood armourless, head bowed, in front of the victorious Ares. The pope climbed down, saints and guards falling in rank behind him. Ares fell exhausted to his knees, while Morte raised his tear-streaked face to the pope’s, then turned his gaze away, baring his naked breast for the ceremonial blow.

"Do you have anything to say?" said the pope, his voice hard.

"Just get it over with quickly", murmured the broken traitor.

The pope nodded, and drew back his hand.

"No!" shouted Ares, struggling to his feet. "Don’t kill him, whatever you do."

"What?" The hand hesitated.

"Please, let him go."

"The entire island thanks you for your role in this battle. But why should he be spared?" The hand still hadn’t moved.

"Because I made him this. Because I defeated him, his life is mine. But mostly because I hate him, because every fibre of my body wishes for him to die. Because I cannot allow my desire of vengeance to stop me from doing what is right." He moved between the Pope and his intended victim. His battered body screamed revenge, the vision of Morte crushing his eye drifted before him, but still he stood firm. "Because of all that, because it could so easily have been me there instead of him, I implore you to stop. For me."

"I’m sorry. I can’t let the feelings of one man trump the law of the sanctuary." The hand moved impossibly fast, shooting over Ares, straight for Morte’s throat... and closed on thin air.

The wounded Nachi turned to face his master, still cradling Morte in his arms, his eyes aflame. "I never thought I’d see the day you would casually put to death a defenceless child, Jabu. If this is what the Sanctuary has become, we might as well have let Saga keep it, all those years ago."

Such flames in his eyes... Jabu looked from him to Ares, and saw the same burning there.

"Would you presume to defy the will of Athena’s Sanctuary, both of you? Nachi, are you so bitter about your pathetic performance against War that you betray us?"

Ares took a deep breath and let it out. The entire universe took its breath at the same time. In. Out. It was one of those moments of choice, of destiny. A decision you could never go back on, a move that changed you, and the world, forever. For this traitor you will give up everything? No, not for the traitor. For me, for what I must believe if I am to stay human. He breathed in a saint, and breathed out a rebel.

"Yes. For the honour of Athena, we will defy her Sanctuary."

The wolf saint then spoke, sealing his own fate: "I might be the weakest of the sacred war veterans, I might have lost pathetically as you said, but I still know what is right. You remind me I am week, yet better that than you, who have become so strong you ignore Justice. As Seiya did, standing over the body of Siegfried, as Athena herself did, forgiving the man who had tried to kill her, so shall I. Me alive, you…"

"Yeah, yeah, we’ve all got the point," said Ushio, Steel Water Saint, stepping forwards with customary curtness. "I’m with you."

Jabu stared at all three, tears welling up in his eyes beyond the mask. Such fire... Only once had he seen such passion before. In the eyes of the bronze boys as they fought and won their hopeless battles, going down with the name of Athena on their lips... Here was suddenly hope for this generation. Another battle, with him taking the role of the Saga, the return of Saints willing to die for their ideals. A phrase from the past stirred in his mind. From before the Kido foundation, from before the storm that had been the sacred war, from a simple mother teaching her son about the world. "The Truth is worth more than the blood of a thousand men." On the blood of these three, I will purify and rebuild the Sanctuary.

As grand pope, he was aware of the awe with which his every move was viewed. He had become one of those old sages; every one of his pronouncements was deep and true, no matter how cryptic. The mask and his high office both ensured that. But now, for the first time, he really felt wise. He knew this was the right decision, felt it in his bones. He reached up freeing his head from the golden helm, letting it fall to the ground. The mask soon joined it. He no longer needed these props; he knew what was right. And so he stood in front of the assembled multitude, a man again. Six years after the women-saints had showed their faces to the sun, the pope himself followed their example, his eyes burning anew with the same passion as the now rebels.

"So be it. You have until tomorrow evening to leave this island. Past that date, you are the enemies of the Sanctuary, and of loyal Saints everywhere. May Athena, in her wisdom, show us all the true path before too much blood is spilt."

"No!" screamed Morte, brushing Ares aside, and throwing himself at the foot of the pope. "Don’t make Ares a hero out of this. Don’t let me live in shame, having to thank his generosity with every breath I draw. Kill me! I deserve to die!"

"Indeed. And many who die deserve to live; can you give life back to them? But no; these men have stood up for you. They have put risked their own lives, worth so much more than your own, for you. And if you cannot thank them for that, you have become far worse than the lowliest scum of the deepest hell. That is all. Come, Saints and all those loyal to the Sanctuary. We have much to prepare if we are to weather the storm that is so nearly upon us."

*****

That night, as the rebels said their last goodbyes to the only home they had known, two fighters on the sacred isle received an unexpected visit. As Shaina restlessly paced her cabin, she saw a ghost coming up to meet her. "Ares..." And it could have been no other. The eye, the arm, the face, the smile... an angelic Ares coming to meet her, clad in brilliant white armour, edged in gold. "I’ve found out who you are, Ares."

"I know." He stood there for a moment, his ethereal gaze sliding softly over her. There was a sad wisdom in his eyes she had never seen before. As she stared at his shimmering body, both glowing and fading like sunlight playing on crystal water, she knew that this Ares was far older than the one who was saying his last farewell to the sanctuary at that very moment.

"Have you come for me, master? I won’t try to resist; I owe you that much."

"Don’t worry, Shaina. I just came to beseech you to keep my secret a little while longer."

"So that the others won’t discover your true name?"

"So that I myself won’t. Ares needs to be protected from that knowledge a bit longer, or he’ll never assume his own destiny. My own destiny."

Shaina shivered briefly. The Ares-to-be stretched out his hands towards her, beckoning. "Come. I must show you to some old friends."

The masked saint hesitated a second, then put her hands in his, and hand in hand, they faded from the world...

Elsewhere on the island, another warrior was stretching his exhausted muscles fully for the first time in more than a week. As he did so, the faceless rock he had been disappeared, and a sombre figure stood in its place. One of the hidden observers the pope had feared was briefly silhouetted against the night sky as he raised his tired arms, rubbing the blood back into them. A very interesting week, even so, he thought, scratching his jaw. They had learned so much about the Sanctuary in such a short time. He even got to respect it in a way. A place of honour, maybe the last one still in existence. He sighed. Next time he came, the rocks would probably he running with blood, at the orders of his mistress. Oh well...

But the second encounter that night was not destined to be as gentle as the first. A black-clad hand was suddenly clamped around his throat, spinning him against the rock face and choking him in one smooth gesture. "Who sent you?" intoned a voice from beyond the grave. Very far beyond, in fact.

*****

Jabu looked around his office, rubbing the fatigue from his eyes. Ten hours of preparation, discussion, debate, plans and plots had come down to just this: they had no idea of who their mysterious opponents were. Messages had been sent out to all known saints, detailing the recent events, and calling them to battle. The silver saints would guard the sanctuary. Meanwhile, the bronze saints would scour the world to find their enemies. Already the urgency of the situation was working a subtle magic on everyone concerned. Saints who had vowed to have nothing more to do with the Greek Island were back, pledging their eternal loyalty. The pope felt dizzy at the prospect. Little by little, the Sanctuary of Athena, the hope of mankind, was reliving before his very eyes. A breath of pure wind, the breath of dreams, was sweeping through the ruined temples. The hours he had just lived, tiring though they had been, were the most exalted of his life so far. His decision to forgo the ancient symbol of the pope had been accepted without a murmur. A boxer discarding his robe, a pope discarding his mask: a ritual that marked the start of the fight. Someone had thrown down the gantlet; never had it been picked up with such enthusiasm. Now the final preparations, and then he could turn the page on this glorious day.

Five faces stared down at him. These were the elite guard, the inner circle, the veterans of the last war, just returned to the sanctuary to be the armoured fists of Athena.

"Ban, I want you to get through to the underground empire of Poseidon, check if anything still remains there. Ichi, do the same thing with the Hades castle in Germany. Marine, you go up to Asgard, see if anything is amiss there. As for you two..." he glanced at the two steel saints, were they stood motionless, still coping with the shock of Ushio’s betrayal. "…get some rest", he added generously. "I’ll need you both soon enough. Ichi, I nearly forgot, on the way back have a look at the remains of Death Queen Island. We must be sure no black saints survive there. If any of you see Shaina, tell her she is to stay here for the time being." That was nearly it. He waited for the prompting. Two minutes passed agonisingly slowly, none wanting to commit the irreparable. Finally Sho cleared his throat, and murmured the inevitable question:

"What do we do if we come across the rebels?"

Jabu leaned back and closed his eyes. He briefly wished the mask still hid his doubts. "A vaincre sans peril, on triomphe sans gloire": no challenge, no glory. The only way to know if the rebels were in the right was to make the challenge total, to let death be the arbiter of it all. The Truth would only be reborn through the flames of hell.

Forgive me, Nachi. His eyes snapped open. "If they cross your path, kill them. That is all."

*****

It was a grim gathering. Six adolescents, their faces bronzed by the sun, lounging around and trying to ape the dignity they knew must be theirs. In a bar of downtown Cairo, the reincarnations of the egyptian gods faced each other. Ancient gods pretending to be children pretending to be gods. Older, and more impressive by far, was the honour guard that surrounded them, ten warriors whose firm looks and reinforced bodies kept the other revellers at a distance.

"Well," said Horus, sniffing at the beer he had felt forced to order. "It comes down to a choice, right? I mean, we gods are supposed to be good at this, right? If the Seal is in danger, we must intervene, no?" He ran his hand through the first growth of his beard, murmuring "right, right...". Oh shit, he thought, rebellion flaring up in him as the silence dragged on. For the first time he felt he must act for what is right, and assume the consequences. The consequences....

He brought his fist firmly down on the table. "I will not see Egypt lost in a bloodbath! This conflict does not concern us, that damn seal can protect itself far better than we can. We shall remain neutral in this pointless war!"

Anubis, the oldest of the children, nodded slowly, suppressing a slight shiver. The same image was playing in his mind. Aeons ago, when he and his brothers had looked upon humans as pawns, they had sought to extend their empire. The greek gods were embroiled in their fight with the titans, so they had despatched a group of warriors to attack their temples on the mainland of Greece, planning to follow themselves once they knew the power of their opponents. But they never got that chance. From the Sanctuary, a group of Saints had been sent south in retaliation. Ten silver saints, with ten bronze saints as backup. And six gold saints.

He shivered again, remembering that horrible day. Six puny humans walking through the all-conquering egyptian armies as if through water, their cosmos in perfect harmony, new messiahs outshining the sun and walking on a sea of blood. Aligned against them, six gods tasting fear for the first time, their dark confidence fading like shadows before the human fury. Seven days the desperate battle had raged, gods against men. And by the end of the seventh, only one Gold Saint still breathed the air of the world. The temple echoed to his weary, tired, desperate steps. He barely made it, before collapsing, half dead, on the Pharaoh’s empty throne.

For they had fled. The great gods of the underworld, of the surface world and all that lived in it, had fled before the wrath of men they could not break. From that day on, no egyptian god had ever made the mistake of underestimating the powers of their human warriors. They had forged an elite army that could fight at their side, as equals, that dreamed to rival the Gold Saints themselves. But even so, they sometimes woke screaming from dreams of the blood-washed face of Aron of Gemini, as he tottered through their best blows and faced them down, closer and closer...

"Never again," he whispered. "Never again will we fight the Sanctuary. We will send one warrior, as we must for honour, but that is all." Five suddenly old faces looked at him, and nodded solemnly.

*****

It was a very subdued farewell. Morte’s defeat and subsequent betrayal had broken his circle of admirers, and Ares had never cultivated popularity. So few that were there to see off the new rebels were an eclectic group, Saints and trainees, assembled out of respect, curiosity or admiration. The Air and Land Steel Saints were there to see their brother off. Like true brothers, they did not question, or argue, or seek to justify; they just loved, and wished each other luck, no matter where life would bring them.

Geki timidly bear-hugged the wolf saint, silently wishing he was leaving as well. Though they had been forever in the shadow of the bronze boys, maybe even because of that, they had bonded just as strongly, bonds that the years and even betrayal could not break. Wiping aside a tear, he handed Nachi a small piece of paper. An elegant hand had scribed: "Good luck, may we all find what we are yearning for. Your friend, Jabu". The wolf saint nodded and slid the farewell into his pocket. Geki slowly turned and left, unwilling to watch the ultimate departure.

Ares spent most of the time looking around anxiously. He half noticed a few respectful voices expressing their admiration, and wishing him luck. He vaguely thanked them, but the one person he was hoping for was nowhere to be seen. All night he had searched for her, but her absence was all he had found, all over the island.

Morte had directly entered the boat the night before and sat there brooding, his mouth sealed by pride and shame. Now Nachi and Ushio climbed on as well, casting a last look over the Island that had been their life. Ares was on the gangplank when he saw her. The small crowd parted in astonishment as Shaina’s beautiful face walked towards them. The mask was discarded, her peaceful features suffused with the radiant sunshine of someone reborn to the joy of life. The assembled men were truly seeing Shaina for the fist time; the Ophiuchus Saint, the ultimate, faceless warrior, was now forever Shaina, the sweet, stunning, and above all desirable woman.

She moved up to her surprised disciple, relishing the fact the tables were turned. Ares could only murmur disconnectedly as she gave him a long, sisterly hug. Finally releasing him, she guided him onto the waiting boat, and waved at him from the shore.

Over the sound of the starting engines, she shouted: "Goodbye, my favourite disciple and master. I thought I had nothing more to learn, but you showed me wrong. Go take the world by storm, and show them what a student of mine can do!"

Ares timidly waved back, still unsure of what to think of the new Shaina.

She broke into a grin, then finished: "I nearly forgot: I have a personal message from an old friend of yours. Eleanor wishes luck and love to her dear Harum."

Still grinning, she turned and walked back, leaving a pole-axed Ares staring after her as he floated away on the sunny waters of the Mediterranean.

*****

During the three hour passage, Nachi was at his portable computer, typing away. Weariness having eventually dulled bewilderment, a bored Ares was trying to read over his shoulder, all the while pretending to intensely scrutinise the empty sea beyond.

"... and so we bid our last farewells to that beautiful, hallowed, rotten, magnificent island. That reflection of paradise had chased us out, unable to confront the hate that shall rend it asunder. The warriors of the last hope had joined the dark legions of the world, and only a Wolf and his Pride still carried with them the seeds of resurrection, as they sailed off into the burning sun, with Death as their companion. Wolf, Water and Shield, all turned their backs to the new darkness; and thus came to pass the DOOM OF THE SANCTUARY."

"Hey, that’s about us!", blurted Ares, discarding all pretence.

"Yes," answered Nachi, grinning. "You’re the first person to read the sequel to the critically acclaimed Sacred Wars, "Doom of the Sanctuary". I’ve had it almost finished for two years now, but I wanted to end it on a positive note."

"But that isn’t really all that..."

"It is, in a way; it shows all honour isn’t dead. Anyway, we’ll need a lot of money if you want to find out what’s truly happening; these final few lines are good for an advance of a quarter-million US dollars. Anyway," he said, his face growing serious as he gazed out over the shining Mediterranean, "our chances of survival are nearly non-existent. This replaces all the tombs we shall never have, all the monuments that will never get erected in our honour. It’s my monument."

The silence between them stretched out, muting conversations and drawing a brief veil over the blazing sun, until Ares, shivering, turned away in search of someone cheerful to talk to. He was in the middle of an intense debate with Ushio on whether greek or japanese women had the better legs, when they finally docked at Athens.

And it was at that moment that the dark cosmos that had haunted Shaina faded from the Sanctuary forever.