Redemption

Chapter 2: Hell’s Island

A huge palace, delicate crystal spires and battlements born from the mountain itself. Acres and acres of scilliant gardens, filled with the sweet scent of life. The soul of the castle slowly beating, playing to the music of the everyday. In the midst of the sacred gardens, a temple of glass and light, a reflection of the heavens above. And on the silver altar, the Void Hunter sat and brooded.

Many new thoughts were floating through the palace in the last few days. The panic of the Gods had more than doubled the size of their forces, bringing him many new, strange minds. Even as he hid from those who might love him, he had the one-sided companionship of the souls of every nearby living being. He let his mind expand, far from those friends he couldn’t allow himself to have. Beyond the faint buzzing of humanity, to the very edge of space, to the minds deep within the oceans. A living world, a vista of all encompassing beauty, that only he could know. Smiling, he felt a faint tugging as a familiar presence approached the castle. Their spy was back from the Sanctuary, then. Idly, he groped for that mind, wondering what was happening on the greek island...

...and something was suddenly, horribly wrong.

*****

Nachi went off to send out his manuscript, as the others combed through the shopping district for essentials. Or rather Ares and Ushio combed the tourist shops, while Morte followed a few meters behind, a silent, surly shadow they preferred to ignore.

Ushio was enjoying himself immensely. Despite his dignity and his ideals, it was clear that Ares was still kid. An impressionable, enthusiastic kid. Though the Parthenon could not impress a child of the Sanctuary, the young bustle of Athena’s ancient city was a contagious, and the excitement was lightening his own heart, lifting the veil of age until he felt just as young.

Ushio, the not-quite-saint, had money of his own, and was sampling it’s long-forgotten power to buy fleeting instants of joy. Every trinket that caught their eye, every temporary shine that could colour their lives, was added to the pile. And it was as they were inspecting some very dubious statues of Athena and Apollo in very close embrace, that Destiny started playing again, strumming up its slow background music.

It was not the mad rush of soaring trumpets and drums, the beating heart of battle. Nor that sad, melancholy tune, the tired warrior’s slow return, his regretful gaze dropping at last from the silenced battlefield. Not either the insane crescendo of hope reborn, eyes burning in the fires of resurrection, or the own music of each hero unchained. It was a simple, light tune, a duet of piano and drums, a promise of things to come. A music for the beginnings, for the making of new friends, for the start of new quests. A music to the Northern Star.

A white armour, advancing through the ranks of the every-day, shining her light into the darkest recess. Turquoise hair floating in the breeze of her passage. A pale, perfectly sculpted face, a shining crystal lit from within by a genuine warmth. For Ares and Ushio, the music was now a full orchestra, a insane meshing of symphonies, playing to the rhymes of their beating hearts.

With an impish smile, she bowed to them.

"I really do hope your gaping fish impression isn’t a permanent feature," she said. "I had time to kill you both twenty times while you stood there; I though the greek saints were meant to be at least half competent."

Ushio was the first to get half a grip on himself, his voice stuttering and his face still red.

"Who... Who are you?"

She bowed again, showing off her armour. "Bel of Alcor, Dzeta God Warrior. Currently sent to Greece to be ambassador to Athena’s Sanctuary."

"I’m..." started Ares.

"Ares, bronze Shield Saint, I know. I heard the speech you gave the Pope; it moved me a lot. That’s why I followed you; I know my parents would have wanted me to follow the one who embodies the true spirit of the Sanctuary. Who’re you?", she said, turning to Ushio.

His soul churning and clawing within him, he finally answered "Ushio, water Steel Saint."

"What is a steel Saint?" she asked, a glint of amusement in her eyes.

"A steel Saint..." answered Ushio, slowly, his heart sinking dully into a black sea. "A steel Saint is a pathetic loser, a failed Saint, an incompetent who’s never shown a hint of Cosmos. What’s it to you?"

The joy on her face faded at once, whipped off by the lash of his pain. "I didn’t mean..." she mumbled. "I didn’t want to hurt you..." she nearly cried, her smooth composure in tatters.

"It’s OK," he said, tears streaming down his face as he lifted it to the sky. What the hell is happening to me, he thought. It’s as if I’d never seen a woman in my life before, as if I was fourteen again. Much as he tried to stop them, the emotions all adults kept looked up were bursting to the surface, and coming out as the water from his eyes. Hating himself, and the impression he’d be giving. "It’s not you, it’s just me..."

To their surprise she reached up and carefully wiped away the tears, softly caressing the pain away. "There’s no need to be ashamed," she murmured softly. "I liked your speech and your guts as well."

"Yeah," said Ares, putting his valid arm around his shoulder, and breaking their touch. "There’s no need to feel down, buddy!"

I hate you, Ares. "Thanks," he said.

Just don’t monopolise her, Ushio. "No problem, brother."

Her composure resurrected, the Northern Star twirled and faced them again. "Well? Aren’t you going to invite me into your little group?"

Ares extended his hand, but Ushio beat him to it. "Welcome," he said, "to our crusade."

*****

Children, Nachi thought, a smile on his lips. Children, he thought again, as the smile grew bitter. I’m about to throw away my life with a bunch of kids. Ares, the bleary-eyed idealist, who had yet to learn how uncaring the world could be. Morte, all innocent cruelty, and Ushio, red and blushing like an adolescent on his first date. As for the asgardian woman, Bel... Her body was sixteen years old, but she was wearing her maturity like an unfamiliar cloak, as if she had learned it from a book. She was intelligent, certainly, but she had none of the social instincts of her age, no true understanding of how other people worked. She had aged, yes, but she had never grown up.

So I’m going to die for these kids, he concluded. Why? Why risk all that I’ve become, waste my life? Why? And then he saw Jabu’s hand, closing on air where Morte’s neck had been, and he knew why. Kids always see the world only in terms of black and white. And, just sometimes, that’s the way it is.

*****

That night they camped on the outskirts of Athens, by unspoken agreement. They felt luxury was something they’d have to earn again, that their cause would somehow be betrayed if they took the easy way out. They sat around their home-made fire in the chirping night, thoughts concentrated into the flame. Then Bel asked about their personal heroes, the idols who had brought them to sainthood, about who they thought most deserved the title Hero. That was he way she phrased it.

Barely suppressing a smile (he could imagine her ticking off the category "getting to know each other better" in her mind), Nachi willingly took the first plunge:

"None of you will have heard of him. My master was the only one to tell me his story, and even the Sanctuary’s library does not mention his true name. We know him only as the Mad Wolf, though that was the name given to him by his enemies. And boy did he have many. But I’m getting ahead of myself."

"He was Wolf Saint around the end of the roman empire...", he curtly cut through their chorus of groans "Listen to me! I am not telling you about this because he was an old Wolf Saint, but because he is my hero! I’ve never even mentioned this to anyone else before!"

"Do go on," said Bel, mollified, caressing his cheek. "We didn’t mean to put you off."

"He was a Saint at a time the world desperately needed Saints, a time of chaos and warring gods. The bounds of loyalty were far looser then, Saints changing sides as the whims of battle took them. He was a poet, and an idealist. And he was appalled by the suffering the gods caused, ignored or actively inflicted on the people of the time, and couldn’t what he saw as Athena’s passivity, the fact she could not save the entire world all at once. So he struck out on his own."

"Everything he did was marked with insane daring. Conscious that he was far too weak to take on the gods unaided, he crept into Athena’s Temple one night, and stole Niké, the sceptre of Victory. At one stroke, he had the entire Sanctuary as his enemies, but he didn’t care. He brought down what was left of the Roman empire, preferring the uncertainties of chaos to the stability of a moribund imperial system. Everywhere, he fought to bring down evil, in whatever form it took. He fought with the great god Marduk against the outer demons, then turned on him for the mindless devotion the god demanded from his worshippers. He helped Asgard fight off the Frost Giants, going out for the final battle with Niké in one hand and Odin’s sword Balmung in the other. But as Asgard’s influence spread, and their domination grew cruel, he returned and destroyed their armies, ending asgardian expansion for centuries to come."

"He fought with the gods and heroes against the Titan Chronos, when he escaped from Hell, but disappeared in the hour of victory. The only male to ever serve Arthemis, he fought along with her Amazons against the Sumerians gods of death. He was killed in that epic battle, but managed to fight his way back through the gates of hell itself. Everywhere he went, he fought, always for justice, living his life on the knife edge, his entire existence a challenge to those who would close their eyes to injustice."

Nachi took a breath, pausing for the first time. He was pleased to see he had their total attention; in their minds was dancing this strange figure from ages past he had resurrected for them. "Of course, it couldn’t last. As a story, as an ideal he could have gone on, but not as a real man in the real world. He was an aberration, a bubble floating in a sea of chaos, forever destined to be snuffed out. But he lasted long enough to see his beloved Sanctuary again, once. It was being over-run by Apollo, the god of the Sun. Without her Sceptre, Athena could not keep him at bay, and his troops were all over the island, massacring, raping and pillaging. But at the eleventh hour, the Mad Wolf returned. A lesser man, or a more rational one, would have given Athena back her sceptre, or fought beside her in battle. But that was never his style. He took on Apollo, alone. And he lost. He lost horribly. Again and again, he lost. But each time he rose to his feet again, Apollo was that much weaker, and eventually their combined cosmos exploded, destroying both of them. He was like Icarus, who flew too near the sun, but brought it down with him when he fell."

"When Athena and Zeus eventually managed to call a much chastened Apollo back from the realm of the dead, the Wolf did not return. His last act of defiance happened in the Hades. As usual, it was insane, and this time round, it didn’t work. He tried to steal Hades’ power, and use it to separate our world into two, spin off a pale copy for the gods to live in, and free men from their influence forever. This was too much for Zeus, who was forced to destroy his soul."

He sat back and looked at the stars. "But whenever I think of him, this man whose name I do not know, me, reserved, afraid, timid, I change. When I hear about the man who defied the Gods, and so nearly won, it sets my blood boiling and my soul burning, I hear the tam-tam of war beating within me, I feel alive again. His image was with me when I got the Wolf armour, his image was with me as I fought to recover from the horrible Gemna-Kan, his image is with me whenever I go down in combat, whenever I want to give up and die. I might be far weaker than him, but if that Wolf saint could take down the gods, his inheritor will live up to his memory!"

"And now you are a rebel, just like him," finished Ares. "And we only have a vague idea what we’re up against, no plan, no clues, no allies. Nothing."

"You’re wrong, Ares. We have each other. And I hope that’s all we’ll ever need." He smiled as he said that. Telling the story from long ago had awakened a part of him long dormant. Who was the biggest kid here, after all?

"You’re right, of course, Nachi. No doubts allowed tonight! You started this, Bel," he said, turning to the Northern Star. "Who is your hero?"

"Oh, that’s easy," she answered. "My fathers, definitely."

"I can’t help but notice that "s" in a very strange place," rejoined Ares. "Fathers?"

"Yeah, the Asgardian twins, Bud and Syd. They were the only God-Warriors who survived your assault on our country. They brought me up together, and forged me into what I am. Their love never allowed them to shrink from their duty to me, and they never let me grow soft, or take the easy way out. You cannot imagine a lifetime spent under the guidance of these great men; I would willingly die for them tomorrow, and I can’t imagine more perfect heroes anyone could have."

"Yes, but which was your true father?", Ares insisted.

"True father? They both were; that was never important. I do know my mother was Princess Hilda; they never told me explicitly, but there was never any doubt, either. She was the only woman of any personality at their level. But they never told me which of them had planted the seed that became me, never even dropped a hint. I’m not sure," she added with a smile, "that they knew themselves."

"Well, I imagine they must have been up to a lot to while away those cold Asgard nights..." Ushio started. A blast of cold air slammed past his ear, stunning him. Bel slowly lowered her fist.

"Do not," she said, clearly enunciating every word, "insult my family ever again." The clouds faded from her face as fast as they had come, and were replaced by a sunshine smile. "Anyway, you’re up next! Who is your hero, so I know who I’m not allowed to make fun off?"

Still trembling from shock and stunned by how fast her mood had changed, Ushio was barely able to stammer: "You... You attacked me!"

"Yes, but that’s in the past," she said, dismissively. "Now it’s your turn to do the talking!"

He held her gaze for a few seconds, then laughed and turned up his arms in defeat. "Here is where I have to admit I don’t have any hero, or idols."

"Oh, but you must. Everyone has to have a hero!"

"You tend to lose your heroes as you grow older, I’m afraid. But if I had to chose, I’d go for... Let’s see... It’s a bit off the beaten path, I’m afraid, but I’d have to say the US President JD Roosevelt."

A silence followed, as the shear incongruity of that choice sunk in. "I wasn’t really thinking along those lines..." Bel started, before Ushio cut straight in "He brought a great nation back on its feet, he gave hope back to thousands of his countrymen, fought injustice in his country and through the world, and fought, and helped win, the most horrible war humankind ever inflicted on itself. He inaugurated the end of the Empires. He did all that the Sanctuary dreams about and more. What every Saint swears to do, and never can. Sure, we saved the world from destruction, time and time again; but the likes of him made the world worth saving. Gandhi might be another hero of mine, maybe. But he wasn’t a warrior. And Roosevelt was." And he did that all without the help cosmos, was the unspoken undertone. There was no mistaking the comradeship the quasi-saint felt for an ordinary man who achieved so much.

"Are you utterly crazy!?", injected Nachi. "He completely annihilated our country! How can you admire the american who destroyed us?"

" "Us", Nachi? You weren’t even born then. Neither was I. Fifty years ago, people you never met committed atrocities, and were brought down. But because they worked under a vague name called "Japan", and put a bloody sun on a white sheet to prove it, suddenly you defend them against a great man, because he came from a place where that found stars and stripes the more stylish thing to go for."

"But, he was a politician, a crowd-pleaser, he... he had no honour, he never faced death in battle."

"It’s easy to have honour... very easy indeed... When you’re a saint who has the power to scorch the air and tear the earth. When you’re an ordinary man, and a cripple at that, it’s so much harder." He continued, ramming the point home: "It’s easy to die in battle, it’s far more difficult to forge a world where battles need not be fought. If you don’t understand this, Nachi, you’re not the man I thought you were. Not the man who stood up to Jabu when he played the warrior supreme."

"Anyway, that’s certainly the most interesting choice we’ve had so far," said Ares, moving quickly to nip the budding argument.

"I totally agree", said Bel. "So, congratulations Ushio!" She pointed straight at Ares, pretending to glare down her finger. "You next!"

"I’m going to be a let-down, I fear. I have to go back to the Saints again, and be far less original. Anyway, you’ve all been talking of victors, of people who won against incredible odds. My hero wasn’t someone like that. His story didn’t turn out well, he didn’t return home to the cheers of his loved ones. He didn’t win, bring down invincible opponents. He just made a choice, and died for it. He was Oriol, the Lizard Saint, but he was originally from Vanaheim, the Vanir sanctuary.

There was a war between Vanaheim and Asgard, and the Sanctuary intervened on Asgard’s side. The problem was that no one from outside knew the exact emplacement of the Vanir sanctuary. Oriol did, though. His oath to Athena imposed him to fight on her side, his promise to his own kind to keep their hideout secret. Anyone else would have betrayed one of these oaths, but he kept both of them. He slipped out one morning, painted his face with the colours of War, said his goodbye to the world, put on the Lizard armour, and secretly made his way back to his homeland. There he called his stars, shouted his hate to the universe, and single-handedly assaulted the towering walls and the mighty gods of Vanaheim. He died in that deliberately hopeless battle, ripped to pieces by the powers of his friends and family, and with him died the only man who could betray their secret. The Vanir..."

"...went on to invade Asgard, until Athena brokered peace between the two clans," completed Bel. "They eventually merged, to form the Asgard of today. But I never knew that part of the story, and I suppose I owe a debt to your Oriol. Still, don’t you think it’s a bit depressing, to have a hero who effectively killed himself?"

"It wasn’t his death; it was the fact he chose that over betrayal. If you can’t live by your morals, there’s no point in having them."

"I see that; but he should never have served two masters. That was his undoing. Well," she concluded, "that’s all of us then. It’s fascinating, the heroes we chose say a lot about ourselves..."

That standard conclusion was interrupted by Morte, breaking his veil of silence for the first time: "Don’t I get to say something?". The astonished gathering turned towards the sombre figure. After letting the silence became painful, Morte started to speak, in a soft, subdued voice:

"My hero is not some figure from aeons ago, some half empty legend you feel you can pin your ideals on. It was someone I once knew, a human being with all his flaws. I met him in Sanctuary; he was everything I had ever looked up to in a Saint. He was honourable and kind, and, more important than anything, he was authentic. He was shy, but he never pretended or conformed. Every time he did anything, he would do it because he decided to, for no other reason. His entire soul was on display, every day, everytime he would stop a crippling blow he was entitled to, give a defeated enemy a smile, slide through the worst slurs and insults, treating them as the garbage they were. Everytime he made a decision, he made it as if the rest of the Universe didn’t matter, that he would be true by his own definition. To cap that picture up, he was very strong as well." The Death saint looked up at the gathering stars, then continued, his voice even quieter than before. "I said he was all that. I was not. I adored admiration, attention, I adored being the leader. And yet everytime I saw him, I was reminded that mine was not the only path to travel, that he was far better than I could ever be. So I hated him. I hated him because I could not become him. I hated him because he did not hate me, did not envy me, didn’t even care about me. I wanted to turn him into me, I wanted to bring him low, smash that delicate perfection.

So I trapped him after training one day, I beat him into a pulp." He took a deep breath, and kept his eyes fixed upwards. "I prised out his eye and shattered his body. I thought I shattered his soul, planted the seeds of my own hatred deep within him. And he hated me, oh how he hated me. And when it finally turned out that he was the strongest, after all that, he held aside the hand of the Pope when it would have killed me. Even hate could not destroy his soul. He saved me while he still wanted to kill me! That man is my hero, a far better one than any of yours."

*****

Minds build their world, a rich tapestry of ideals and truths, loves and hates, painted with facts, friends and enemies. A living tapestry, breathing in the new and letting the old dissolve. Gradually. The mind wobbles but rights itself.

But betrayal is the worst of all crimes, a red-hot blade that slices through that tapestry, through your certainties, turning the walls of your mind to smoke, leaving nothing but a lonely child, crying to a world he no longer understands.

And your world is built around your enemies as much as your friends, and their betrayal can be just as wrenching. All the hate in Ares’ being, suddenly without the target it so desperately needed, surged through him as a blinding rage. He exploded into the Horseman, wanting to beat the fury back into being with his blows, the hero and the villain trading their masks for the second act.

Ares raced forwards, flying on his need to hate, as Morte faded before him, neither breaking the fight nor hitting back. The others were left far behind, as they continued their own personal dance, the only two people in the world.

Still Ares hit, still his fists played the ancient mantra of flesh on flesh. Still Morte ducked, and bled, and fled, still his eyes sought the eye of his bully, and still Ares refused to gaze at the sadness and hope that were contained there.

"Don’t do this to me!", the Shield Saint screamed. "You are the monster, you are the traitor, the bully, the coward, the one who crippled me! The one who killed half of my world! There is nothing on earth that we share!", he screeched, his body aching with the remembered pain, his fists tingling with a novel guilt.

And still those eyes would not leave him, a nearly dead enemy who would not lift a finger to defend himself. Morte just backed away, until he could back away no longer. Even now, at the edge a precipice, he would not take a step forwards towards the one who would forgive anything but his friendship. A withered hand reached out for his, clasped it tightly. Then legs fresh from five years of Sanctuary training send them careening, up, onwards, into the rushing void.

"Let’s see how sincere your sudden conversion is," Ares sneered, as they soared towards the sun, before plunging down, clasped fists first, towards the deadly ground. Two lovers falling in the strangest of embraces. "With a flick of your wrist, you can send me down to hit first. A flick of your wrist, and you’re guaranteed life. We each hold a sword of Damocles over the other. If we hit the ground together, if you risk your arm, and your life, alongside me, I might forgive you. But you’ll just betray me again, I know it. I might die today, but everyone will know you for what you are, scum!"

Morte looked straight into his eye, sustaining his gaze as the world raced towards them. "You really don’t get it at all, my poor Ares." He grinned and flicked his wrist. The other way.

As Ares’s enraged eye grew with astonishment, Morte’s body flipped forwards, flesh and blood barred straight at the ground, a human shield before the Shield Saint.

He looked up and smiled, as the entire weight of the Earth smashed into his back, breaking his body to break their fall.

*****

They lay there, two beings far from the world, holding each other, a lifetime changed in one instant. In the heartbeat that separated love from hate, their worlds had touched, and were reborn together. A new brother, a new friend, most of all, a new trust.

And simple words can never be enough for such moments, none can carry that weight of meaning without betraying it. Only rituals can hold onto such symbolism without breaking under the strain. And so it was not with the wild flurry of grandiose promises that two young souls concluded their rebirth, but with a simple exchange of names.

"Before the Isle, before the hate, I was another person, another name. Morte died in his defeat; I am Hawol, once more."

"Hawol... I think I can go with that." His voice grew serious again, slipping effortlessly into the rhythm of their created mystique. "Before the Isle, before the hate, long before I knew Morte, I was another person, another name. My name was Harum," he finished, his unfocused eye looking straight to the past. "But I think, I’ll stay Ares for the moment."

The hinge of fate had half-turned. Morte was dead, but Ares still had his years to live.

*****

Images have a power on the mind like no other. You can argue with some people, shred their best lines, and win the logic hands down, without ever bringing them close to doubting. Arguments are useless; you’re not fighting their words, but the images in their minds.

And the one Nachi, Bel and Ushio saw walking towards them was on that level. When they saw a stumbling Morte emerge from the morning mist, supported every step of the way by a willing Ares, they had no doubt. The how of it they would never understand, but had anyone questioned the true friendship between Shield and Death, they would have laughed in their face.

Ares faced them all, his joy, his release from hate illuminating his face, a supporting arm around his old enemy. "Let me introduce you all. This is Hawol, a friend of mine."

Their sarcastic retorts died on their lips. They could not trust the Death saint, but neither could they deny the feelings of the one who had become the heart of their little group. Nachi was the first to speak, putting all their ambivalence into one word.

"Indeed."

Sensing their restraint, Ares gave his best attempt at a sly grin. "But now we do have one ace in the hole, n’est-ce-pas? Something even the Sanctuary doesn’t have, something we alone possess." He nudged Hawol. "We have someone who knows exactly who we are fighting, who knows where to find our enemies." And it was the not-quite-redeemed traitor to speak, to seal the end of one treason with another.

"When I left the island, I went as far as I could imagine, both physically and mentally. I hated the Sanctuary so much, all I could think about was finding its opposite, somewhere I could be finally free of its sickly influence. The Sanctuary, Athena’s temple on earth, the place men are closest to heaven. So instead I went to hell on earth."

"Yes, but where?", said Ushio, not even trying to hide his disdain. "Where did you sell your soul, Morte?"

"Where else?" Hawol responded, holding the Steel saint’s gaze. "Death Queen’s island, of course."

*****

He stood before his mistress, and bowed deeply, his body an offering to her mercy. The masked Earth Hunter did not glance up at the throne, nor at the Void Hunter that stood along-side it, wracked by doubt. The Void Hunter could no longer probe his mind, and that blindness worried the psychic soldier more than anything. So now, he too was reduced to listening, as their spy described the results of their first offensive.

His voice totally even, he gave his report. As precise as a machine behind the iron mask, he detailed all that had happened, letting no untrue word pass his lips. But even the loyalest of servants do not reveal everything they had seen; they interpret, they omit. So it was with him. He did not mention the intense admiration he had felt for the Sanctuary, nor the doubts that had crowded his mind throughout his time there. Most of all, he did not mention the steel hand that had grabbed him as he was leaving the Isle, nor the confession it had wrung from him. Nor did he talk of the final blow that had killed him, sent his body to rest off the coast of ancient Greece. Finally, he omitted to say that his killer, clad in his armour, was even now kneeling before his mistress, in his place. These details, he felt, were superfluous.

*****

"Death Queen’s island," went on the voice, "the last place of true freedom on earth." The piercing black eyes laced from face to face, impaling all those who tried to fight against it. In sparkling white robes that slashed against the darkness of his island, the anti-pope, the high priest of those who rejected the Sanctuary, had a presence that very few could match. He was big, imposing, black eyes and black hair, his skin blackened as well by years on that grimmest of islands. But others were bigger, more imposing still, and looked even harder. No matter; they would have withered looking into those eyes, a gaze that had seen to the depths of hell and found it amusing.

His title was merely Master; and there was no mistaking the capital letter. Like Jabu, there was a feeling of the past about him, of times long gone. But unlike the Pope, it was not a dusty irrelevancy; it was the excitement of combats of ages past, of legendary battles, of blood upon the bronzed sword as poets sang. There was a strange honour about him, an impression of savage nobility, in the best sense of the word; he was a definitive Hero.

He seemed to probe deeply into their souls, judging the impact of his words. Respect, acceptance, yes, and of course the inevitable scepticism. Good.

"Centuries ago, the Sanctuary and Death Queen’s island were founded as opposite side of the same coin," he continued. "The Sanctuary for Justice, and this island for Freedom. But then the passing of years wore them both away. The Sanctuary grew soft, degenerating into meaningless honour and empty ideals. And Freedom spiralled deep into cruelty. There was never a place as horrible as this was, a betrayal of all it stood for originally. And then we saw the arrival of Lord Phoenix," he concluded, gesturing towards the small statue that still managed to tower over them all. He made a careful note of those who kept their eyes on him, rather than turn towards the statue. "He was no god, but he was more worthy than any of them. He rebelled against both this place and the Sanctuary, and embarked on a war to cleanse them both. He failed." The speaker paused, giving that nearly sacrilegious comment its full impact.

"He half failed. The Sanctuary became, if anything, softer and more pointless than before; an annoying irrelevance. But he certainly cleasened this place. He showed that the true meanings of Freedom lay in strength. The strength to live you own life, and to give it meaning." He continued, letting an almost evangelical fervour creep into his controlled tone. "Your existence is only validated by the strength of your fists. Any other ideal must be built on that strength to survive. And your life is only given meaning by those you share it with. That is the truth of the freedom we offer you; the freedom you make yourself." He left it there, his eternal stare transfixing each of them where they stood. There were about fifteen this week, new students come to join their ever growing community. Most of them bore the marks of previous hardships, or even previous training. Some, he was sure, were from the Sanctuary, despite their denials; there was always a sizeable contingent of those who couldn’t hack life on the greek island, for some reason or other.

This was the best contingent he’d seen in a long while. Several were following his speech with open scepticism; they were always the most promising. Too many of the denizens of his island just took his ideas at face value, worshipped strength and maintained a mask of coldness to ward off the cruelty he had warned them against. But they never heard the second half of his speech, the one he never put into words...

There were several possibles here; a lavender haired girl with the look of the cold about her, her beauty a cloak for her power. The red-haired man who so visibly lusted after her, and who’s battered body spoke of hard battles fought... and won. And finally, their companion, the one-eyed cripple, who’s every moved reeked of the Sanctuary.

"Listen up, all of you," he said, quite unnecessarily, seeing how much their attention was fixated on him. "What you were before is irrelevant; I don’t care who or what you were. Your life starts again now. What you are is students at the place closest to Hell, and Heaven, on this earth. Hell is the place," he said, sweeping his arm over the burned landscape, blasted colours and brooding volcanoes. "Heaven is what you must make of it. You may dispose." The voice swung like a scythe, slashing directly at Ares. "Except you."

Minutes slowly passed as the others filled out, moving as slowly as they dared, hoping to witness whatever would ensue. When they were alone, he finally turned towards the blond boy. "What do you think of me, child of the Sanctuary?" Ares eye flickered for a second at the accuracy of his guess, and then paused in reflection, looking up at the Master of Death Queen’s Island. Black eyes, not a hint of white in them, long black hair, offsetting his silvery-white cloak. That gaze as sharp and hard as razor blades, though still full of fervour and idealism. And his speech... There was only one term that could adequately describe him.

"High Priest."

The Master smiled, briefly showing his teeth. "Indeed, that is the best description I’ve heard so far. High Priest of some lost ideal, preaching to the uninterested masses, eh? I was right, you will indeed go very far on this island. You might even become one of the "priests" here, who knows? But first I must introduce you to the realities of this place."

He never saw the fist move. Only Jabu, the other High Priest, had ever moved so fast. One second he was quietly listening, the next he was spread-eagle in a rock-face, nearly buried under an avalanche. The blow hadn’t done that much damage; the Master had no way of knowing he was already a full-fledged Saint, a warrior of the last hope, and not just a rootless trainee. But it had still taken the wind out of him.

As he struggled to get on his feet, he heard the voice continue, as even as ever: "Always remember that this place is no picnic; that to live by the sword is to keep it unsheathed, every moment of every day."

A short series of gasps, as Ares brought his stunned body back to some semblance of normality. The other just walked away, calling back over his shoulder:

"I will delegate you to Gol, one of my most promising students. She will ensure that your training does not go to waste."

For a moment Ares felt like dropping his disguise, calling out his true name, and challenging this black Saint to a duel of equals. But he let his fists drop; they still needed information if they were not to stumble perpetually in the dark, dancing to someone else’s tune. And it was all to their advantage if their strength was thought of as merely great potential, rather than the hallmark of spies.

*****

The fire sparked again, sending flaming embers and their gazes up to the sky. The smell of cooking rabbit enveloped them, growing warm and fuzzy, fading the hard day away.

"That was close," murmured Ushio. "When he called you back, I thought he had us for sure."

"Nah, I’ve just become one of his favourites," answered Ares. "Some have it and some don’t, obviously."

Neither of the others picked up on that; tiredness, the heavenly smell of proper meat, and their anxiety drew a sullen blanket over conversation. And they were waiting.

The moon dropped below the horizon with unexpected suddenness, leaving only the stars to an uneven fight against the lengthening shadows. And two of the shadows were moving.

Slowly, every sense feeling for the slightest presence, Nachi and Hawol entered the circle of light. While the others had infiltrated the island posing as ordinary trainees, that was not an avenue open to the Horseman who had left barely four days before, nor to the author who’s picture was on the inside of a few million books. Fortunately, Hawol knew the island, so they hid in its depths, prowling in search of any hidden signs.

Still no-one spoke; nothing had been found. The anti-sanctuary had proved remarkably humane, despite its fearsome reputation. Finally the dams burst, and everyone started talking at once, giving their opinions, stories and theories; none of which left them any closer to the truth. They had found no trace of gods or goddesses here, apart from the dead heroes of the previous war. And sending out just four random warriors made no sense at all; Death Queen’s Island’s attack would have been all or nothing. And besides, the Horseman were not Black Saints; they must have got the armours from somewhere else. But where?

Hawol - Morte - had been given his upon arriving on the island, when the intensity of his hate for the Sanctuary had become apparent. He had been a detail, filler in the Horseman ranks, to take their numbers up to four. Obviously very few of the black saints had been willing to participate, as they were far stronger fighters than him.

Hawol finally summed it all up, and laid down their plans for the future, spinning out their tasks:

"Ares, I think you’ve got the most potential; try and sound out this Gol girl, see if she has any ideas; if she’s the Master’s favourite student, she’s close to the centre of power here. Ushio, continue talking with anyone you can; any rumour, any hint might give us something to go on. Bel," his voice paused for the first time, "Bel, see if you can befriend any of the older black saints here. I’ve seen very few women around, they must be pretty lonely." In any other circumstances, saying that to the Northern Star would have been a one way trip to oblivion; but the island was grating on them, and even Bel accepted that the sooner they found what they wanted, the sooner they could leave, away from the reek of sulphur and the infected earth. Even the blast of cold air she sent towards Hawol was half-hearted.

"I said "befriend", not "sleep with", I’d like to point out."

"That’s why you’re still alive," she answered with a smile.

"Anyway, you do that. Just ask them about themselves; there’s nothing a man loves more. Any they can’t talk about themselves without talking about the island." Weathering out the second, more playful blast, he continued: "As for me, I’ve found a cave, near the volcano. I think we should make that our meeting point; come down whenever you need to. I’ll be there. Is that all right, Nachi?" he asked, turning to their leader.

The wolf saint looked down in admiration, marvelling at how they had slipped into their respective roles. He was the leader, there had never been any doubt; the oldest, the most experienced, the most mature. But he was making it up as he went along; coping with the unforeseen responsibilities. Whereas Hawol, and the ancient Morte, was a natural. He seemed to socialise by instinct, lead without thinking. His overpowered brain fed him the ideas that he projected onto others, as if by magic.

And despite all this, Nachi knew he was the better leader, as Hawol recognised, as they all did. Not because Hawol was an ex-traitor, not just because they mistrusted him. But because he was a kid. An incredibly clever, gregarious kid. He did not know enough about the world to understand it, not enough to lead them to victory. And, most of all, he could not emphasis with anyone but Ares, could not get their trust. So Hawol remained the vice-president, the prime-minister, the chief advisor: the brilliant one who should never be allowed quite to the top.

Ares, the heart and soul of their group, was just as intelligent, but never had the urge to lead, to order around; whereas Hawol was visibly restraining that very urge with great difficulty. But still, he had changed a lot when he ceased being Morte; he deferred to Nachi because he knew that was in their best interests, swallowing his pride. And he had purged the hypocrisy from his soul, probably in that climactic battle with Ares: before, he would never had admitted to sending others out, while lying in a cave doing nothings himself. Anyone looking at his trembling, sweating face, at his bandaged limbs and at the many scars that still bore the traces of Ares’ fists, would have understood why. But before, he would have found some excuse, some flowery phrase to let himself off without admitting it.

"Fine by me," Nachi concluded. "I wish us all the best of luck; meet again by this campfire tomorrow." They stood up, Wolf supporting a trembling Death. A rustling of leaves, and there were only three figures by the fire again. And they sat back and watched, as the flickering embers drifted lazily into the sky.

*****

The sun had long since set over the accursed island, over all the hopes, fears and dreams that coursed like living lava through its veins. The stars above were the last witnesses, ever-vigilant and immobile witnesses to mere human drama. And, breaking from tradition, one of them was winking.

Remi, black Lynx Saint, was idly raking the sand with his toe. At his side, Angela, the Black Ursa Major, was staring at the blinking star, hovering just on the horizon. She smiled; his own constellation, the mighty Great Bear, glowered in the sky just above this artificial star.

Remi dipped his toe into the water, shivered, and blamed it on the cold. No going back now... He drew it across the sand, leaving a long line. A brief hesitation; Angela’s attention was still on the horizon. He brought his foot round, raked a second, shorter line crossing the first. Fear was squeezing his stomach; nothing was irrevocable yet. So far the figure at his feet was a mere christian cross, meaning nothing. He looked again at Angela; a captain of the Death Guard, probably the second most powerful warrior on the island. His childhood friend; he could trust her with his life, he was sure. He brought his foot round a last time, drew the second crosspiece. He was trusting her with his life.

Angela glanced down, saw Remi’s toe trembling over the Cross of Lorraine. The emblem that had been furtively scrawled in the dust and on the walls of occupied France. The symbol of the French Resistance.

"I’ve heard the rumours," she said. "Is it true?"

In that second, he knew she was one of them, that she was gained to the cause, that he would not die tonight by his friend’s hands.

"It is true," he answered. "The Master has gone insane. And with all the resources of the Death Guard behind him..." he shivered, thinking of all those flawlessly loyal black saints, the soldier-spies lurking in the shadows throughout the world, ready to die and kill in an instant on the Master’s command. Such a perfect weapon, in such flawed hands. "I asked him," he continued, "I went all out and bloody asked him. And he answered. He confirmed it, out of his own mouth! He wants to get rid of the last rampart that protects us all! He wants to let the human race die; he wants to destroy the Seal of Humanity!"

The slowly world turned, the stars rotating in the sky, as they considered the enormity of what he’d just said.

"How many are we?" she finally asked.

‘We’, he thought. She was definitely among them now.

"Three higher-ranked trainees, eleven saints, two amongst the Death Guard. And you." She didn’t contradict him. "That’s all I feel we can risk for the moment."

"And what’s that?", she gestured out to sea, where the blinking star had finally faded.

"That’s the Allies," he answered.

*****

"Concentrate!" she shouted. "Don’t let your mind wander!"

"Trying to..." grunted Ares, as another sliver of rock pierced his defences and slashed at his skin. For here was training, Death Queen’s island style.

The rivers of lava that wracked the infernal place gave rise to some unusual geological features. A waterfall of molten rock was constantly churning, diving into the sea far below. If the urge took you, for some unfathomable reason, you could stand knee deep in the water, scalded by the steam and torn at by flying shards of shattered rock. That is what Ares was doing.

He supposed that he should take it as flattery that they were training him at such a place so soon; but his mind could focus on little else but the deadly air around him, thick with steam and stone. He had to walk the tightest of balancing acts; keep his strength up just enough to avoid a fatal encounter, but not enough to give the game away. Just as he thought he had found the right balance, another shard got through, and he had to fight down panic, fight down the urge to call on his cosmos, the one defence that could not be broken. And the one that would spell his instant death at the hands of the Black Saints.

And, of course, there was Gol, at least twenty sources of distraction all to herself. When one sees a red-head, one always has to fight against stereotypes of "fiery", "intense" and such. In her case, there was no need. Her hair flamed as red as a sunset, and her soul flamed even more. There was a brooding darkness to her as well, he could tell, but it seemed more part of that fire than against it; Gol, the dark flame.

When he had awoken by the dead fire that morning, that hair had been the first vision he had seen. Then her hand, slapping him awake, and her voice, shouting. A brief glance at Bel and Ushio, also aroused by the noise, and then his first view of her face. Half dragged, half heckled, he had groggily followed his new mistress towards the barely rising sun.

"I spent most of the morning looking for you, you idiot," were her first words. "Why couldn’t you sleep in the main campment, like the others?"

Still dozy, he had looked at the disk of the sun, just clearing the horizon, and wondered at her definition of "morning".

"I’m supposed to train you," she went on. "The Master told me too; I might as well tell you that I don’t really see why, I’m getting my armour in a week, and I don’t have time for distractions. So if you can’t keep pace, tough. And, I must say, you every move stinks of the Sanctuary; and I hate that."

Her intense gaze bore into him, daring him to respond. But he hadn’t endured five years of Shaina to bow down to the first wannabe black saint who crossed his path. "If your training is any better than theirs, I’ll be sure to tell you," he answered.

Their gazes were still locked; and he would have won, he was sure, if she hadn’t swept his legs from under him. "Well, there’s certainly room for improvements, that I can see," she concluded.

And that was why he was standing beside her in the steam, dodging invisible slivers of rock.

"Concentrate!" she shouted again.

I am, he thought again. I’ve never been so much in my life, trust me. The steam parted for a few seconds, allowing him to see those deadly shards, and avoid them with ease. He took advantage of the pause to get back to the problem at hand; how was he going to find out anything from Gol at the moment? Dodging rocks seemed not the ideal time to bring up the politics of the island, somehow. Just as he was thus distracted, a huge chunk of lava broke off and plunged down just in front of them.

Gol did a back-flip, as the explosion clawed at the air around her, landing just beyond its reach, but Ares took the full brunt of it. His surprised figure was buried under the boiling lava, as huge volumes of water turned instantly to scalding steam, blasting out hundreds of meters in each direction.

Gol shielded her eyes, peering into the mist, searching for her disciple, an expression very close to worry crossing her face. She had seen what such accidents could do to the human body, and was not relishing the thought of seeing what state Ares was in.

Every nerve in his body screamed its agony, screeching their message through to his overloaded brain. There was no feeling of cutting, or burning; it was a white sheet of agony stretched tight over his skin, a platonic Pain that lifted off to a higher level, to a universe where only it existed.

It was on a knife edge; a moment of ultimate decision where no conscious thought can make a difference. A mere thirteen years of honed instinct decided the fall of the balance. The Ares who gave under, who let the agony smash his soul and seep out through his broken limbs was not far away; but this was not to be his day. Instead he let it rip through his body, sailing upwards, upwards on a wave of adrenaline and pain so pure it was pleasure. Surfing that tornado up to a veritable orgasm of ecstasy, he let his energy explode, sending the rocks careening from his indestructible body and twining the vapours in a twister to his glory.

And they faded up into the sky, revealing his scorched figure, eyes aglow with insane pride, the joy of victory howling on his face. For now he truly knew what it was to be a saint. The Shield Saint, the one who shall never be broken.

Gol, looking on, let the first smile touch her lips. For just a moment, her hard demeanour faded, and a simple, uncomplicated smile shone through.

"Wow," she said.

*****

"Concentrate!" she shouted.

Sweat covering his face, Ares swallowed his biting reply. Ever since that epiphany in the lava, Gol’s vocabulary was basically reduced to two sentences: "Concentrate!" and "You can do better than that!". Sure enough, after a few more seconds of fruitless effort:

"Come on, I know you can do much better than that!"

So briefly then, in the gleaming steam, she had glimpsed the Ares from the other side, Ares the ultimate warrior, the one who could crawl back through the mouth of hell. And her teaching had switched from indifference to passion; she was determined to make her student into that other Ares again, always pushing him beyond his limits, that brief vision blazing the path to follow.

"Come on, let’s go over that again," she said, picking up one of the fading embers, indifferent to the burning heat. "You have cosmos, I’ve seen it! Watch!"

She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath and turning the ember towards the sun, as if asking for its blessing. Several seconds ticked by slowly, lost forever to the world. Then she opened her eyes again, and a much fainter voice said:

"There... do you see it now...?"

A river of black flames was coursing over the ember, serpenting madly and breaking over itself, like waves on a beach. It flowed quickly over her hand and started creeping down her arm when she dropped it.

"Your cosmos is in the flame, and the flame is your cosmos. If I can, then you certainly can as well. Do it!"

Without much enthusiasm, he screwed up his eyes and visualised the fire. He had cosmos, taught to him by a much better teacher than she; but he knew that it was still pointless, Shaina had made that very clear. The Shield constellation called to him, bathing him it its aura, extending his own; but there was a price. A very slight price; but still a price. He was no longer an empty slate on which anything could be written. As his cosmos increased along the traditional lines of the Shield saint, all the other manifestations were closed to him. Fire, the quintessential weapon of Death Queen’s Island, was forever denied.

And so he closed his eyes, and sat back, and visualised a flaming cosmos that could never be his, as the shadows grew slowly longer.

*****

"What are you looking at, fucker?"

Ushio continued gazing out at sea, ignoring provoker and provocation. The sea had always been the symbol of freedom to him; even now, trapped between a dying sun and a burning volcano, it just absorbed those flames, made it its own, and continued to call to him, a sweet, deep voice speaking down the generations to the mind before the dawn of consciousness. Against that melody, the rasping of human voices had not the slightest chance.

"I’m speaking to you, fucker!"

It promised a return to the womb, whispering an infinite wisdom. Retreat to childhood, let yourself be carried by something greater that yourself; abandon the fight, just drift, let me make all your choices for you. He licked his lips. So... desperately, worryingly tempting.

"Pay attention, idiot!"

Of course, man had mastered the sea, exploring its depths, manipulating it to suite his needs. Canals, ships, submarines, oil flows; so many scars it bore. And yet it was always the same, it would always be there, long after the canal diggers and ship captains and every other man were less than dust in the wind.

A fist swung, impacting on his chest; a warning, merely. But it burst a dam, and they set upon him, trying to smash a silence they could not understand.

Blood down his face... again, no matter what he did, man returned eternally to the water. How could one not surrender to such a perfect immensity? All I ask, is to be buried at sea...

"That’s just a warning; next time we’ll really get serious, got it?!"

Had the water perfectly claimed his soul? Was there not any ultimate spark left within him...

A last fist swung, the parting shot.

...there was.

"Bel!", he screamed, the spark setting fire to his entire soul, the Water steel armour shooting out of the sea, covering him in a fraction of a second.

"Raaaaahh!" A fury of flesh and metal was set upon them, drowning their screams with their own blood. They never had a chance; the sea-monster was unchained, and knew no pity.

As their lives faded around him, he fell to his knees on the beach, catching the last rays of the sun, and the last droops of blood as they fell to the earth again. He looked down at the bloodied metal that covered his body. A sad smirk. A miracle of technology, indeed!

The last spark, the last fire of life within him, was love. And that love merely caused him to kill. He had been selected, trained, modified... created, in a way, merely to kill. To rival the Saints, to hold his head high amongst them, to teach them that man and his science were a force to be reckoned with. So he had become a greater killer than all but the most bloodthirsty of them, sold his soul on the altar of war.

And they were better at it than him. During the sacred wars, him and his brothers had been nothing more than an annoyance, a very slight thorn in their enemies’ side. They had never brought a Saint down in open battle; the cosmos burned always brighter than the strength of man. They had sold their souls, and all they had bought was bitterness.

And now his last pure sentiment, the last thing that could redeem his battered soul, his love, was just another trigger for his urge to kill. To kill, and be bad at it.

He slowly lay back in the water, eyes closed, not even wanting to look back on the doomed earth. The current gently drove him out, away from the shore he did not see. The waves washed over his face, briefly, as he started to sink. The light faded slowly, the blessed water washing his bitter memories away. Just as his descent started to slow, he blew the air out of his armour. The myriad of bubbles rose to the surface, last souvenirs of his existence, as he fell away from them, returned to primitive form, an aimless rock. A drumming in his head, growing sharper, beating out his last seconds, a dead hand crushing his lungs. The return of agony, then its fading. Slowly, ever so slowly, too slowly. As the rushing and pain faded finally to blackness, he extended a last finger to the surface world.

*****

He had known love twice, once in the fires of youth, and again, later, in the midst of his second life. And as Master of the island, there had never been a shortage of young, beautiful, naïve desperate, passionate girls. But sex was a portal to love, and love was the paler reflection of friendship; and anything that was close to that most sacred of things was not to be taken lightly. And so he had remained ever aloof, and ever alone; even mere love was too important to abuse and break and throw away.

But there was something about Bel, a terrible innocence in her every act. She was flirting with him, of that there was no doubt. She was flirting with him with an unselfconscious dedication, like a schoolgirl given a tricky homework assignment and determined to do her best. She had that worrying innocence of the child who walks into his parents room while they are making passionate love, and who refuses to be shocked, because he has no idea that he should be. Bel, likewise had no concept of crudeness, of shame; that flirting or sex were in any way different from eating an apple or watching the sunset.

And he found he enjoyed it. There was no tyranny of the emotions, no fear or joy of hurting the other, no worries for the future, no reason to pretend they were anything else but the Master of Death Queen’s island and a woman from the north, flirting and enjoying each other’s company. She wanted to find out about his past, about the island’s past; she had never hidden the reasons she was talking to him. And so, a rare smile tempering the blades in his eyes, he started his story:

"It all began the day I died."

*****

A glowing light. Pain. Cold. A slow groan, confirming he was still alive; and hating it. The smell of blood. And again, Pain. Crushed lungs and frostbitten skin, still sticking to a bed of ice. Ice?! The shock jolted Ushio awake; he opened frost-rimmed eyes and took a shuddering breath.

And he was indeed in bed, in a king sized, perfectly sculpted bed, were it not for the fact it was made entirely of ice. The room enclosing it was made of stone... cold stone, his feet registered. The water armour was in a corner, his clothes neatly folded just under it. He looked down at his own naked body, and winced at the sight. It had never been especially pretty to look at, but now...

His feet propelled him slowly across the room, as a coughing fit hit him. He desperately fumbled with his clothes, all the while trying to rub some heat back into his limbs. Not to his surprise, the latest fashion of Death Queen’s island was very bad at keeping the cold at bay. The armour... the armour had a heating unit, he recalled. It covered him in a flash, and the blessed warmth started spreading through his body. It seemed the man-made armours did have some advantages over their mystical counterparts, after all.

As his body receded into that fuzzy heat, his mind took over again. The first thing he noticed, dispassionately, was that he no longer had the urge to die. His body was half destroyed, and its urge to get better, to fight back, was almost overpowering. More than that, though, was the mystery of where he was, and how he had got there. No-one discards a murder story three pages from the end; curiosity might kill cats, but it brought Water Saints back to life.

He glanced out the window; it was rocks and flowers under a soft, shifting, subdued light. Water everywhere, dripping, making the sound and the light of the place. And nothing in the slightest way enlightening from this perspective. He pushed open the door, and gasped, looking around in utter astonishment. For the sky was ice.

*****

There were shining corals all around, glistening as the water dripped lazily over them. The sound of dripping filled the air, the choir of the coral cathedrals. The light played with the colours and the water, a moving, visual symphony far purer than any work of man. Truly another wonder of the world, that would stop anyone dead in their tracks. Ushio gave it barely a second glance.

All his attention was fixated on the sky, which was the white of ivory. Or rather the white of ice, and no wonder. He could just see the sea through that pearly luminance, and seven graceful columns rose to meet it, towering far above him.

Seven. He licked his lips, slowly. Seven. Barely suppressing his trembling, he turned round, keeping his eyes firmly on the ground. Seven. He let his gaze slowly rise to the heavens, his mind seeing it before his eyes confirmed it. Just behind the house he had laid in, a huge square pillar dominated the scene, an impression of irreducible, invincible massiveness. About twenty meters up, a symbol had been lightly sculpted into the white surface.

He collapsed in a coughing fit, despair hitting his heart again. On top of everything else... The sculpture was a trident. So this was indeed the under-water kingdom of Poseidon. Poseidon. The Sea-King.

*****

"I had a friend," he said. "Once." The Master sighed, the diamond gaze fading for a second in recollection. "I met him on the day the world ended. Not the entire world, of course, but mine. My personal battle of Armageddon." His eyes were now looking straight at the past, reliving his last day again. "I had known love by then, and I had known hate. They had left, leaving me behind, leaving a coldness dressed up as pride. Like others like me, I huddled close to Lord Phoenix, warming my soul in the fires of his hate, following him off to war. And it was there I met my only friend." Another long sigh. "We fought. There was never any doubt as to who was the stronger. He had no chance of winning. He was wounded, tired, and much, much weaker than me. And yet... and yet when it came to the shove, his soul made of fuzzy friendships and ideals proved the stronger, and mine shattered like the ice it was. He killed me, and in the same breath proved the value of friends. He killed me, and I saved him. It was the least I could do; he killed me, and I remain eternally grateful to him."

He stopped for a second, his mind returning to the present for an instant. Seeing Bel’s questioning look, he realised it was maybe not the best place to end his story, so he pressed on:

"I was healed," he said. "Someone made the decision, someone took the choice for me. After dying once, after passing through the irreversible gate, I was allowed back to life. After a long trip through darkness, I returned to earth, a star coming home. I sometimes wonder if my last gesture of friendship bought my ticket back, if there really is redemption, and love, up there. But I doubt it. There were other stars that fell along with me, five in all. If I returned, and my friend did not, it wasn’t virtue that selected us. I don’t know who sent us back, or for what reason; I don’t really care. I had been given a second chance at life, and I was going to make the most of it. I learned that even Ikki, the phoenix of eternal hate, had changed in the battle I died in, that he had joined those he had fought against. That he had destroyed this isle. And so I returned, and rebuilt it, dedicating my life to the dreams of those I knew so briefly. The Phoenix of war flies for ever over this island, but always I watch, always looking, always seeking the Dragon of friendship, the true thing, the one that can only come authentically in the heart of battle." For a second, a hint of the mystical twisted his voice, before the customary irony returned. "Phoenix and Dragon. Ikki and Shiriyu."

He stood up suddenly, shaking the dust from his clothes, shaking the old dreams from his mind. He nodded to the Northern Star, and concluded: "I have to go now. It’s been nice flirting with you. See you tomorrow, maybe."

Bel smiled back, the grin lighting up her entire face. "Maybe," she answered, her grin widening. "Maybe." It was the most pleasant way for each to bid the other adieux; they too had been friends, but both knew it could never last longer than one conversation.

*****

He felt more than heard the singing in the distance. It was the soft singing of innocence, the sweet memories; a song that stripped the present away, and sang to a time where everything was simple, where light and joy were his only companions. A time he had never known, thought Ushio, as he raised his head; but still, he could feel those memories, coursing through his mind, almost as if they were his. A song of such total innocence that the singer could only be an angel from heaven, or the deepest fiend of hell.

And it was as he straightened up, trying to find the source of the voice, that he noticed the shadow on his feet. The shadow of a trident. His panicky eyes flipped up, and looked straight into the face of a god.

He was standing atop the coral cathedral, long hair billowing in the wind. Washed and bleached by the eternal ocean, it seemed to stream like sea-weed. He stood completely naked, the light shining at his back, shadowing his divine features, his right hand gripping the trident. The pose of a god waiting to be worshipped.

Ushio, fortunately, was a cynic. As the shear majesty of the scene wore off, he was able to take in more details. The skin was scared and bronzed in a way that spoke more of a man in time than of an eternal god. As for the face... he risked another glance at it. And one eye gazed down at him.

One eye... Ushio stumbled backwards, risking a look over his shoulder, at the mega-pillar. He hadn’t seen it properly at the time, but a sailing ship was lying near its massive base, frozen in eternal ice. And surrounded with roses...

He looked back at the figure, hope and fear clawing at him in turn. All this ice... "Hyoga," he said. "Is that you?"

A brief flash was all that answered; the flash of three prongs of steel, coming straight at him...

*****

Bullets had been the problem. If anything stood for the gulf that yawned between the Steel and the true Saints, bullets and guns did. Saints were essentially immune to the weapons of man; guns and bullets were too weak to take down a normal saint in full battle, and as for the rest of the weapons man’s deranged imagination had turned on themselves... they were just not the same scale. A bomb could kill a city. A bomb could kill a Saint, maybe; but a bomb was not the ideal weapon for killing one man. Especially a man who could outrun the wind and strike like the lightning.

So they had come up with the idea of taking all of that weaponry, and shrinking it down to a size that could worry a Saint. Human size... And then what a better idea than to make the weapon human, beat the saints at their own game. It must have seemed amusing, ironic, maybe even poetic at the time; thus were the Steel Saints born. Of course, the armours had taken the most work... teams of experts had worked on them for years, testing, improving, discovering fantastic new things to do with metal... And then of course, the boys themselves... Less cutting edge, but still interesting, of course. Flesh and blood to mould, rather than metal and plastic... And of course, the inevitable modifications... Nothing drastic, the armour was the main fighting unit, but there was no drawback to helping the human body step over its limits... eyes that see farther, reflexes to match the Saints’, muscles that move that much faster... yes, but...

But despite all that, Ushio knew, he was still human. Still human, in a way the saints were not. Bullets and guns... If someone was to shoot at him when he was without armour, he would take the bullet and he would die. If the gun-man’s attention was to flicker a second, if he hesitated for an instant... then that hand would never work a trigger again. But if not... During his training, after a lot of hewing and hawing, it had been made clear to him that there was nothing he could do against an opponent with a gun. Nothing. The measliest punk in a dark alley could end his existence without thinking about it.

And so he’d sulked, and studied, and searched, moving from the half-backed theories of one half-crazed guru to another, watched martial art movies till his brain screamed, all for nothing. He could not avoid a bullet without armour, nor could he stop it. Without cosmos, some things were just impossible. And cosmos was the one thing he would not even consider; the one thing that would make a mockery of the ideal of ordinary men, not of Saints. But, as he sat up in bed late some nights, his brothers already asleep... ideas, crazy ideas would come to him. You could not avoid the bullet, yes... But maybe, just maybe, you could roll with it, take the impact, let it carry you, not kill you. It might not work, but it was all he could do, all he could hope to do...

So as the trident flashed towards him, ripping through the wet air as it soared, faster than sound, instinct took over. The trident of Poseidon, the Sea-King and god of the oceans, would not even notice the Water armour any more than tin-foil; for all extents and purposes, this was a deadly bullet aimed at his naked breast. He fell backwards, head first, his hands coming up to meet the weapon that was plunging at his throat, letting the impact carry him backwards, his legs coming up to entwine the shaft of the weapon, wincing as the tip grazed his windpipe, drew blood, then he was over, over, hanging on for his life, flipping, rolling, rolling over, rolling the momentum away, rolling for the rest of his life...

Ushio came to a final, shuddering stop, on his knees. He slowly let the trembling subside, one of the most powerful weapons in existence clutched tightly in his fist. And he looked up into the eye of his enemy, and held that gaze.

And the god smiled, as the song faded in the background.

*****

The sound of knocking could be heard from some distance away. Sometimes there was a pause, filled by fits of coughing, but the hammering soon resumed. There were three pairs of eyes watching Ushio as he toiled; he was aware of two of them. He finally got the fifth cross up, slowly scratched the name in the new wood.

It had taken him some time. Ever since his return to Death Queen’s island, he’d spent the days investigating, asking around... putting names on the faces of those he’d killed. The bodies had still lain, unnoticed, on that tiny, dismal stretch of beach; after a lot of searching, he’d found a small, forgotten corner of the island, a small, flower-covered piece of paradise. It was tiny, just enough for the six bodies, but it was enough. He wondered idly if anyone had found it before, and what symbolism it had had for them. But the flowers would certainly grow tall, now. Six thugs and one killer; it would be fitting if all that remained from their encounter was the blossoming of petals.

He moved over to the last mound, and turned towards the figure that had stayed hidden in the darkness, convinced that he could not see her.

"You can come out now," the water saint said. "Help me with this final cross."

She stumbled out into the light, blinking and surprised. She hesitated for a second, then picked up the cross with him, and together they hammered it into the soft soil. As they stood there, looking down at the ground, he mumbled softly: "You were his lover, weren’t you?", just as she said "You were his killer, weren’t you?"

They stood there for a second, each deep in thought. Finally, as much to herself as to him, she started: "He was cruel. He was a vicious bastard, he didn’t care about anything and anyone... except..." Her voice broke."...except me. He showed me a face no-one else ever saw, a face made of tenderness, of love. When I nearly drowned of this blasted coast, only one man dared jump in to save me. When I was sick, he always cared for me; when he was sick, he never let me return the favour. Just... details like that. Details for what I can never put into words... And then, five days ago, there was a cold emptiness by my side, a gulf that will never be filled. No one knew, no one had noticed his disappearance. And then, two days later, this man was lurking around, asking questions, trying to find out his name. I thought he had come to add a notch to his gun, to add another name to his list. If that was the case, I would have killed him, paid a life with a life. But instead... instead, he just wanted to show respect, something neither of us had ever had in our lives." She stepped forwards, scratched the painful letters in the soft wood. "Good bye, sweet prince. I saw you as you were on the other side, the tender lover; and though the shadows by my side will grow forever longer, every passing instant will just hastened the time where we will be one again."

Ushio wiped away a final tear, and turned to the final figure, the blond woman in red armour who stood watching them in silence. "Thetys... sing for them, please. Just like I heard you down there in the Poseidon, let the siren let loose her anthem for those who have gone."

It was simple; it was wonderful. It was not magnificent, it was not sublime. It was not a song of Art, full of tricks to deceive the senses, an attempt to rise to the divine. It was a simple song, a song for men, not gods. Thetys knew every trick there was, and she used none of them. The song seamed to be born from her lips, without effort, the words bouncing out, echoing briefly and then dying. As the other two listened, they huddled closer together; the girl reached out to take Ushio’s hand, and together they looked up at the tomb of the man they had known in such different ways.

A wooden cross, of course. Saints knew death too well to try and deceive it with huge stone tombs and monuments to eternity. A man lived only as long as the memories of those who knew him; the cross was just a symbol, a ritual, a release for those who remained behind. Just like the words of the song, the wood would fade, and next spring would be nothing left to mark his passing. But, just for one moment, it would last forever.

Still singing, Thetys moved out to the sea, the mermaid returning to her element. The last words faded forever as she dived. Her body surfaced a few times, and they could hear snippets of song, floating over the water. The girl lay her head on the Water Saint’s shoulder.

And together they stood, tears on their face and the music still echoing in their hearts, as Thetys dived permanently, off to join her own lover, deep beneath the waves. They stood for a moment, then, after a final look at the line of crosses, they parted, not looking back nor saying a word, off to their respective destinies.

And after they had all left, the final figure emerged from the deepest shadows. Rubbing his chin thoughtfully, he sat down on one of the makeshift tombs, and gazed out at the sea. For a long, long time.