It was the beginning of the end, as humans loved to say so. She did not know it then. Humans, amusing things, with their sense of power and their frailty, always frail in the end, with their kind Death walked hand-in-hand. It had astonished her in the beginning, that these things born incomplete lived so very little, if the sickness had not gotten them then the old age would. In the beginning she could not understand death, she had been too young, too hopeful. Now she saw its face wherever her tortured mind and soul decided to carry her body. Death flickered and sprang everywhere, like flames of Hearth’s Fire. And Hestia respected Fire.

Hestia thrust both palms into the waiting flames in welcome, behind her the girl squeaked in horror. She smiled, pulling the lovely flames closer to her breasts in a lovers embrace, nurturing and worshiping the fire of life. The hearth burned well, she was pleased.

This was a reclusive small grove, a temple of sorts built sparingly, directly behind the awesome Temples of the Kyoko and Goddess Athena …were she to turn back she would see the looming statue of Athena cast her shadow through the land. She had two companions here, Althea and Arachne. Priestesses chosen to serve Athena for a one year sentence, they couldn’t leave or have any sort of outside contact with the world, their one single purpose was to serve faithfully. An activity they performed with excellence, expected excellence certainly but excellence nonetheless. Hestia grinned as Arachne, a homey looking girl, wrung her hands desperately in her robes.

They despised it when she did this, pulled the sweet flames from their bounds and released them over the baren ground of the unadorned temple, dancing within their midts, her bare feet stepping upon marble lithely. Oh, well, what were their fears over this small but terrible need of hers? She wouldn’t bring them to harm, they knew and they didn’t object but they feared anyhow. Strangely she enjoyed the fear as much as she felt compassion for it, it brought a new taste to her dancing, the fear was palpable and it vibrated within her veins.

But fire…oh, the delicious fire was life, was her cosmo, her being in burning flames. Everything that she was, that she could ever be within the flames. The girls thought, and she must admit she had led them to, that she used the flames to see into the future but they weren’t quite right…the flames were a mirror indeed but directed towards the present, they enabled her to understand the relationships between events and scrutinize them like a scientist did with his beloved microorganisms. She wasn’t a forseer, that wasn’t her gift…she just watched, she couldn’t even choose. In this manner, it was a curse…but also a marvelous gift.

The flames grew high and bold, casting the orange light upon the marble, shadows from the columns danced in response to the ever-moving fire. She laughed delightedly when she stepped in. There was a cackled and the girls shrieked and if possible the fire grew stronger and leaped about wildly. If the girls had had enough courage and stared into those wild flames they would have seen it’s core. They would have seen the woman twisting and withering in the center, trapped in a dance that spoke of pain and anguish but also of beauty and joy. They would have seen the way her womb pulsed with sensuality, the way the fire embraced her as if she was it’s own, a part of it’s nature. They would have seen something else…a wicked gleam, a beautiful smile, a look of hatred. They would have seen her, in complete ecxtasy.

Instead they ran to the safe parts of their chambers where the stone wouldn’t get so unbearably hot. They fell to their knees and they prayed to a goddess who couldn’t or wouldn’t answer them. Their dark eyes stared at her statue with unblinking, devoted eyes, adoring an image.

And still Hestia danced and danced with abandonment, burning with another form of devotion…was it blasphemy? Was she a heretic? The girls couldn’t know for certain…all they knew was fear. And the answers found in fear were twisted truths. Those which could never stand.

And then lightning thundered all around her, forbiding. And the lightning bore him forth as if he were but a part of it. Master of Lightning as she was the lady of Fires…brother. Darling beloved brother. Blood of her blood. Come to kill her or beg her to stop with her madness or love her wildly and thoroughly and carelessly. She couldn’t be certain which, she wasn’t even certain she gave a damn.

*****

Ophiuchus Morrigan sat up startled and only a bit frightned. Damnation!

It was then that she felt them, the intesely burning cosmos coming from the direction of her hut. Shaina…and that… boy, the strange one with the ancient eyes on his beautiful face. Mellissa too. And no Gabrielle, well that she already knew, poor devil. She smirked when she felt the raw rage that was pouring from Shaina, she had expected as much. She bent her head towards her lap and studied her claws, black vicious things, they weren’t even human-looking anymore, it had been long since she had honed them to the powerful tallons. She wondered how long it would take the next Ophiuchus to master the claws and it’s deadly poison…Asclepius’ gift from Athena. How long would it take for the girl to become addicted to the poison? To the violent screams resounding from her opponents as they died in agony.

She smiled under the mask feeling the warm sliver brush her lips, it was good.

*****

He coughed madly, wheezing desperately for air, the attack would kill him eventually.

It was the visions again, the terrible clairvoince. The mists were lifting and a scene unfolded before him, Apus felt himself pitched forward, as if descending. Blood was rushing to his head, blood was filling his lungs, so much pain. He fell into hell.

He saw torches everywhere first, flamming brilliantly agains the darkness but these were eery and offered no comfort, next he sensed rather then heard the scream of thousands of…drums. It was a song? Apus listend attentively, wielding smoothly to the flow of this dream, of this vision…of this awoken nightmare. A song? No, foolish…it was a call. The call of battle. Terrible and thunderous it sounded and relentless. The next images he saw was of a ruined castle, a field that had gone red with blood. His heart beat against his chest in protest. Die, little one, die. And in this field there were lovely angels…dark-eyed, dark-haired, diabolical death angels. In the shape of warriors, in the shape of Godlings, in the body of Saints. So many beautiful bloodied angels, praying upon each other with swords and spears and bare fists. Gore. battles and death and so much…blood.

A vision of hell…and the dark angels all around the falled empty corpses, singing insolently, their heavenly eyes turned to the countless bodies and bloodied ground.

Apus clutched the side of his desk with claw-like fingers that dug into the wood and prayed he wouldn’t fall. Yes, calm yourself man. He watched helplessly as the fountain pen slowly rolled and fell from the desk. It made little clatter his beloved treasure but it spurred a nice bit of ink on the floor. He concentrated on that as his breath returned to him ever so slowly. The ink on the floor…that black inticracy. Better than the hell vision. Harmless black ink.

But the paintings in his mind refused to fade and he saw her. The beautiful one, the screaming one, the bleeding and dying one. She stood bereft of power, friends or hope and with blood pooring down upon her, her armor was drenched with the marvelous red liquid, her pale cheeks stained. She was a vision of blood and none of it was her own. She was stunning light, beauty incarnate, her hair the darkest cascade, her eyes the abyss. She cut into his soul and forced him to his knees.

Goddess.

Yes, Goddess but hurt and wounded. Athena of the arms, of war, of wisdom…Athena bereft.

Apus screamed and succumbed to the gound. She was in his mind, she was in his soul, he must write it! He must record it all! Athena lost! Lying on the stone floor, feathery moss-green hair covering his eyes, Apus reached blindly for his pen, his lover, his one friend.

In his mind she was dancing, a battle dance, followed by her battle cry. The spear was in her hand, the breastplace shone and the helm struck shadows onto her beautiful face. She was glorious and doomed. There were forms gnawing at her feet, enraged spiritis. He wept for her. In the vision he even tried to reach her, better to die by her side then to sit and watch her die. Her death would be his death. But try as he might he could not, try as he might it was his vision, his curse, his predictions of the future.

The glorious one battled, mighty and raging, her oponents fell before her spear and shield and she screamed her laughter, haughty that the weak warriors had opposed her. So many men and women came against her, so many different armors and they would never stop, warrior after warrior, endless. And each wave stronger than the last. And she all alone. But she murdered one after the other…a goddess of war. See how she smiled, a wanton and vicious grin. She was adoring it, adoring the bloodshed, loving everyone of her victories even when her followers were no more, even when all she could claim was War and the death of thousands.

Athena, his goddess. Athena, the death of all.

Tears ran the path down his cheek, the pain in his chest was excrutiating. Fire spreading across his body. Which pain was worst his or hers? He wanted so badly to see her eyes. Athena, beloved lady of war…so full of anguish and madness.

Outside of the vision, in his world, in his temple, he saw a pair of sandled feet, he heard a scream. "My lord Apus! Help! Send help! The Scholar is down!"

Lying upon the stone floor that not even the hottest days of Greece could warm, Apus smiled in vain. The vision had fled him and he was glad…glad to be free of the visions of the massacre…his goddess enraged and alone and fighting a battle that trully was…in vain. He felt himself being lifted off the ground, he saw their blurry faces, heard their concerns, felt them doctor him. He laughed through blood drenched lips, he wanted to scream: I saw her die!

Instead he waited until they were certain he was fine, until he was almost too medicated to do anything, until his body had been defeated and then he called out to one of the younger scribes, a sweet-looking blue-eyed boy who looked at him now with worriers and perfect adoration. Apus wanted to weep.

"Bring your pen and your book, I will dictate and you will write. The story must be written, for her." And he smiled beautifully at the small boy, it was all he could do for her. He couldn’t wash the blood from her hands, he couldn’t keep her from the pain, he couldn’t even stop her from killing. Apus was The Scholar not a warrior but he could write…yes, he could write. And he could show her that her battles, her glorious wars, had all been fought in vain and maybe she would wash her own hands of the blood.

******

Asleep in her bed she shared the same visions as Apus only hers came through in the worlds of the nightmare. She lay in the plush bed, in her pretty little lace nightgown, a perfect doll. Her body was no longer that of a small child but it was still far from womanhood, now it was almost a parody, too innocent to be touched and tainted, too lovely not to beg to be touched. The promise of beauty that had been kissed upon her was now too damned obvious for comfort, her lips were soft and entirely kissable, her cheeks sweet and smooth and round, and the lashes fluttering against the pale cheeks, exquisitely dark and the budding breasts were there also to confuse, to seduce, erotically hidden beneath the tight bodice of her gown. She was a doll of a child.

And she was in pain again as she had been for the past couple of weeks. She had lain in the bed that night praying hoping against hope that maybe the dream wouldn’t come. But it had anyway. Throughout all of it she did not cry out, she was too proud to cry out for her Grandfather or her nanny, she was too proud to be a child, too frightned to be a woman. She had forsaken the little Budhist images that might have kept her from harm during her sleep, she had no belief in them. She was eleven and she had no dreams, no hopes, no sweetness…all she had were nightmares in the night. And one witness to them. A doll that was both hideous and a little beauty, with a mop of red silken curls and large auburn eyes that stared unblinkingly at the ceiling of their canopy bed, lifeless friend, the last doll she would ever own, a doll the child-woman hated. A doll who had been granted a brighter future than her own.

In the dream she crawled through a stone corrindor, it was long and narrow and the stones were hot and burned her hands and knees. The corrindor was endless but she crawled on, fearing the abyss that gnawed at her feet each time she dared glance behind her. In the dream she never wanted to crawl through the corrindor because the further she got the more she feared, a revalation too great for her understanding, great and terrible. Nevertheless she was pushed forward to continue, to follow the dark gray stone and maybe reach the end. Maybe half way through it, she could never be quite certain, it began. The beating drums. She gasped and wanted to weep, the damned drums, the awful pattern, the way it made her blood boil and wicked thoughts brought to her mind, how unfair. She wanted to remember, because it had been part of her or another life, the drums, they beat…for her.

War. In her head she heard screams, she heard the sound of crying, a thousand voices in perfect, harmonious unision. And the little corrindor getting smaller until her back was touching the ceiling and she had to bend her head to keep from hitting it. Her heart beat faster, she was getting close…closer than she had before, there it was…yes! There it was, the little wooden door, a door with no handles, a door she would have to push to open…escape.

His voice. Strong and lovely, a lover’s silken voice only it made her skin crawl. In the dream she heard his disembodied voice, and she was carressed, the skin on her upper arms slowly prickled with goosebumps.

Defy him? Yes, but she needed to know why, in her heart she knew there lived one who wanted badly, so very badly to…win. Defeat him and his smooth, buttery voice, voice she could spread and pick the deceptions from. She had been injustified and that made her burn at least that’s what the strong one told her. But the strong one refused to speak to her during the nightmare, it was not an abandonment, no, the strong one would never abandon her, it was a union. An union of violence and blood and of their minds. The strong one earned to destroy the voice, yearned to see red.

The strong one laughed inside of her but she could not tell why, all she felt were the caresses, the disembodied caressess, they made her blood grow hot and her breath come stronger, she felt the burning touch on her neck, her arms, her legs and thighs, a thousand hands massaging her. It felt…so good.

She was melting, reeling. And she wondered would it be so terrible to linger here with the voice, with the sweet touches?

Yes, because it was not her nature. The strong one would scream in rage.

Fear? Fear was urging her on, towards the door. Yes, if she could only reach it, it would all be safe. She heard his laughter, cruel, cold and mocking. She was withing a fingertip of the door. Desperately she fought against him, called to the strong one for help and placed both her small palms on to the door. It wasn’t wood after all…it was steal, strong and bitterly cold, she cried out and heard his laughter. Mocking, ugly laugh. She panicked and pushed with all her might. Nothing. She screamed.

She had power of her own, she knew she did, in the past things had happened around her when she flew into rage, things would break, people would becomed deathly sick, she killed a prize horse once when ridding. She remembered the chestnust mare’s hide glistining with sweat against the snow as the poor animal fought against the convulsions which were killing it. She remembered feeding all her anger into it, she had been fascinated. It was a shame about the horse, she had wept.

She shrieked as the metal door groaned and with a burst of streength the girl knew she did not posess the door was torn from it’s hinges and fell into the darkness below. The girl crawled forward like Alice in Wonderland maybe this was her hole, she would fall and fall and fall…in perfect disgrace. The child laughed. Yes, to fall into a world gone bizarre, gone terribly mad. Twisting all the streength in her body she did so, falling, falling.

And a hundred, thousand, million faces greeted her from the abyss, as the abyss took form and shape and color…faces that seemed to know her. She was falling, her body cascading in frightning speed, she tried so hard to look at the faces even as the colors flashed before her…she wanted to see them! Beautiful, terrible faces. Some in rapture with love, some in rage, some all knowing, some so full of sorrow she wanted to reach out to them, some were hurt and wounded…but they were all afraid. Afraid of her.

Angels, they were all her angels and maybe, just maybe, the strong one was their devil. They feared the strong one, it was alright, sometimes the girl feared her too. She did not want to see the faces anymore, she did not recognize them, rather they were puppets of actual people, unreal to her, nothing she could summon care for. She twisted in the air to face down, face the approaching ground. She didn’t fear anymore, everything made sense now, as if by living the dream, she had gained power, absolute power over herself. Now all she wanted was to see the end and maybe the strong one would be there.

It was the home of an ancient, powerful army, the girl knew instinctively, the kind for a battle field. It took place in ruins, ancient ruins…an arid ground, a valley of stones and hills and the sea bitting at it’s heals…and it was the dark of night. She saw many buildings, twelve temples, and a huge looming structure that was ridiculous in comparision to the others, forbidding and strangely familiar. Like a home she had fled. Home for the strong one? Yes…the strong one was singing to the child, the strong one’s voice was sweet and the melody sung haunting, if only the girl could understand the strong one. So yes, she had lived here before…the strong one had walked this place in a different body, no, many different bodies…so this was home. The child was floating down, gently, like a little petal plucked from a flower, her gown flared gently in the breeze, the image of a ghost. A ghost with a doll’s face.

It was then that she saw it and her mortal mind almost broke even as the other being inside her screamed with glea. A giant. A monster. A statue of a goddess. She shrieked but her voice did not come, her mouth opened again and again and again and the sound wouldn’t come. A huge thing, horrible to her eyes, marble and tragic…and hers, her face, her body, her shame. A shield by her side and a headless creature in her hands. Victory, her Nike…how did she know that? Because the strong one thus whispered in her ears…or in her head, she sang victoriously, relentlessly eager to show her the amount of her power.

The girl-child was floating down, now she was eye level with the humongous statue, it was basic craftsmanship but extremely ancient, the work of a generations loyal dedication. To the girl it was hideous. Her mauve hair flowed before her in dream-state waves, the statue bespoke of power. A goddess had to be powerful to inspire such work in an ancient civilization. Yes, the strong one was powerful, power the girl could only dream, hope for.

She was landing and now she could hear clearly the drums. Only those were not drums precisely…she was listening to thundering screams. Chaotic screams…and steal clashing, and the roar of the hoofs of horses upon the ground. Her soul took her to answers which her mortal mind would never find…a battle. She was listening to the sounds of War. She wanted to flee, she wanted to see…her mind was contradicting with that of the strong one. She felt the strong one stir at the sounds, stir at the sight of warriors…yes, for she could now discern the shapes as humans, but thank the strong one she was not landing among the bleeding humans…she would land before the statue. The air was cold and her little naked feet ached for warmth as the tips of her toes finally touched the ground, she had landed. And found that the ground was wet with slime.

It was dark but the stars and moon illuminated everything for her, she was standing before, or rather behind a temple. She was all alone but those stars! Those stars shone brighter than she had ever seen them but most disturbing was the red tint to the darkness above her, as if the sky had been painted in blood. And the cold slime on her feet, the child gathered the silky tresses of her gown and pulled them up to look down at her delicate feet. And wished she hadn’t. Blood covered the ground, it hadn’t been slime, it was oozing, dripping rubious blood. She was entraced by the site of her pale feet in the pool of blood. The stench was suddenly overpowering, nauseating and she wondered why she had not noticed it before. It sickened the child to her stomach and she fell to her knees gasping and panting.

This was horrible, this was what those terrible nuns in the catholic prepatory school had tried to beat into her soul. Hell. She sobbed, she wanted to scream but her voice refused to come.

Because in the dream she had no voice.

The blood was drenching her gown, she was being bathed in it…it was coming from everywhere, pooring endlessly on her. She struggled to her feet, slipped suddenly, arms flaying she colapsed like a little rag doll, a little broken thing. For a moment she lay back down upon the ground, feeling the disgusting liquid wet her back, slidding underneath her, a morbid caress. The girl felt panic set in, felt the sheer horror of it all, she stared at the stars above, shinning brilliantly before her, little diamonds in the sky and hated them passionatly.

Vomit rose up her mouth, in her position it began to strangle. She fumbled and flipped on to her stomach, regurgiating violently upon the ground, her throat ached, her belly burned and the puke was a sick yellowish color. She coughed and choked and for a moment could not control herself. Her dress was ruined, she looked a perfect horror, she was scared and she was all alone, laying in a pool of blood. The smell was disgusting, the smell alone would have driven her mouth. She stumbled up, carefully to her feet and again felt the urge to vomit, she brought her hands to her mouth, tears welled in her eyes.

Maybe it was a prayer, maybe it was a chant but in the end it was all the hope summoned in a little girl’s heart. Hope she could not, try as she might, have faith in because she knew from the first that she had been doomed. She knew why her grandfather wept at her feet, she knew why Tatsumi worshipped her so entirely unasked, unquestioned. But most importantly she knew why strangers couldn’t bare to meet her gaze for very long and why those poor fated, hateful children were brought to her so many years ago.

She was damned.

She heard the ringing sound of steal meeting steal and flinched with her entire body, this time she kept her feet firmly on the ground.

Why was it that in this dream she could hear but not speak.

And to the child She was a very real and complete entity. The strong one. She heard the Strong one’s call in her soul, felt her powerful voice tickling in her head as She whispered huskily to the child. It had gone on since she was a babe, and she could not remember a time without the Strong one. She had never spoken of the strong one, not to her grandfather, not to Tatsumi, not to any tutor or nanny she had ever had. She had never spoken of the Strong one to any but that ghost that haunted her, that Hestia. And it had been a confession, a sin that had weighed heavily upon her soul and lay there still.

She was terrified of the Strong one, she was terrified of the thought that one day that entity would be the only one in her mind and she, the child, would be no more. Powerful thoughts for a little girl. But these were all her fears and none of it concrete, none of it the truth.

Truth and Justice? The child took a step forward, she saw light flickering below her, she saw a flight of stares ahead of her and another leading downwards towards a darkened temple. There were twelve of them, she could not see them all, but around, the fifth or six she saw blasting forms of light, she heard thunder. It spelled danger, so she would continue up, where she could see half of the form of the statue. Where she was compelled to go. Carefully she climbed the first step, then the other, and another. Bravelly she fought her fear, she fought the urge to run down those steps and face that other fight because she knew that above, in front of the statue she would finally see it, the face of the nightmare.

In dreams you forsaw events with utter conviction, perfect certainty and in these premonitions you trusted, competely. In nightmares you prayed to be wrong.

She was crying and she was so ashamed of it, she was helpless and so afraid but still she went up and her bravery was at that very moment unmatched. The ringing of steal, the battle cries, the screams, they were coming from above! She faltered only once. And then finally she saw it, she saw the real battle ground at the statue’s feet.

Bodies, countless, twisted corpses, strown about as if offerings to the horrid statue. She saw women, men, warriors with faces she recognized and then didn’t, warriors whose eyes looked to the heavens, whose bodies were broken and tortured. The blood was theirs. And something glittering defiantly against all that darkness…something…

They glittered in a huge mass by the statue’s right foot, they were prizes taken from the battleground. Little tokens for the one who had defeated them all...

The child heard a curdling scream and light thundered about her, unknown power blasting against her, she fell backwards and curled into a ball instinctively. Her heart was in her throat. There was another defiant scream, and another blast, followed by the threatning explosion of light then a voice over powered everything. A voice that was both powerfully strong and mild. A woman’s voice. A voice that sounded downright bored.

"Come now, did you honestly believe that you could face me and not die? But I believe in Justice and my Wisdom and so I will send you to Hell from whence you came. Doesn’t that sound fair?" For this voice everything came alive, the girl’s soul rejoiced, the stone on which she lay shone brightly, briefly, come to life. This time the white light was everywhere, drowning everything at once. Drowning the girl. This attack was much more powerful than the previous ones, the ground shook under the strain of it, the child clutched at the stones, another silent scream escaping her lips. And then with a last scream from the first voice it was over and all fell silent and the darkness washed over her again. It was over wasn’t it? Yes, it had to be.

She looked up, a tiny, pathetic shivering form among dead pathetic forms. Her eyes searched for that voice that voice that resounded exactly the same as the voice in her head. She wanted so badly to see, wanted so much to touch that which she knew grew inside her small body, that which the child had entrapped. The strong one. She looked up and saw her, in all her bountiful glory and fear gripped the child’s heart in it’s claws, it was enough to make the bravest warrior fall to his feet and beg for mercy. It was enough to make a child beg for mercy.

She was all words sacred, She was all things made in fear, She was all knowledge uncomprehendable. And She was made flesh and more beautiful flesh the child had never scene. She was the Strong one, and never in the child’s wildest imaginings had she spawned this image. The child fell back upon her heels, half croutched, half sitting and made no attempt to shield herself from the Strong one. All the child wanted was to look upon her, devour her with eyes as the Strong one was slowly devouring her soul. The child sat there, pale and wide-eyed, it was mock stupidity, it was deranged obsession, love gone wrong.

The Strong one’s beautiful features were the Child’s own. The Child was looking upon herself, only made woman, only made…

The Strong one wore full armor, an intricate golden assemble that fitted her body snuggly, enhancing a fully curvaceous form, her helmet was hideous by design, at least in the Child’s eyes, and that managed to cast shadow upon her face, create a fascinating display of light and darkness upon her, mauve hair cascaded from the helmet, brilliant in this dark night, a shield too large to seem of obvious use covered her left arm, strange designs covering it’s surface making it look more like a relic than a method of defence. But it was the Strong one’s right side that caught the child’s eye…because the fate of the first voice, the screaming one, the angry one, had been decided there.

Once he had been a very beautiful male, maybe he still was, maybe if you ignored the little river of blood that drooled from his mouth and his chest then maybe you could still see the beauty. He was a warrior too, his hair was a long curling mass of blonde curls, his eyes were wide open and shown a vivid blue…too bright for a corpse. And he was impalled upon her spear.

Yes, it was child’s features on Her face. The child’s dark, heavily-lashed eyes, eyes that on the Child made her look adorable and lent a doll-like quality. The child’s little rosebud mouth, soft and full and tiny still. The pale porcelein skin, fine and unblemished. The child’s silky mane. Every feature twisted in insanity, for never had the child’s eyes posess bloodlust, never had the child’s lips curled that way, never had her skin been stained by blood. Never had the child seemed so mad and wise.

The warrior was still alive, of all evil, of all madness and cruelty, it seemed absurd to the child and she shook her head in denial, in pain. Smilling, the man reached towards the child where she sat in the shadows, he reached with shaky hands, and his lips trembled and opened with great endevour. The child was horrified but strained to listen to his words.

"My lord, my love…I have…failed." The Strong one regarded him for a moment curiously, huge omnious eyes glittering, the kind of look an animal gave it’s prey once that no longer presented any interest...a cat with a dead rodent. She made a small snarling sound then with a flick of her wrist flung him violently free from the spear and straight at the child.

The child flinched and shielded herself with little plump arms.

She had shielded in vain. He flew straight through her, she cried when his body passed through her own she melted away as if in dream...this was a dream. He landed beside her with a hard thump, a harsh sound, metal hitting stone, the child stumbled to get away from him staring at his eyes, emerald eyes that stared upwards unseeing. Dead eyes. Breathing heavily the child turned on her heels towards the Strong one but the movement was too fast, too violent, utterly ungraceful and to the ground she fell and felt no pain.

"Come out, half-brother. Come out, he was the last of your warriors and I recognize that he was powerful, he does you honor. But I am more powerful still." Her voice was magical, her eyes so calm suddenly, even if she was drenched in blood and that nasty little smile still flickered upon her lips. " And I will destroy every last one of you because it is my birthright, it is my prophecy. In the name of Methys."

She heard a soft sigh come from behind her, the child turned half-expacting to see the dead man walk but saw one that was the exact counterpart of the Strong one and he was standing before her, she sat at his feet. He was a tall man, lean and golden skinned, he wore a loose crimson robe that revealed a naked, muscular chest, chains adorned that rippled chest, very long golden hair swept the ground, his eyes were a violent indigo color and they frightned her more than the Strong ones because his eyes bore pain.

Do Gods feel pain?

No.

"Athena." He was adressing the Strong one, she cocked her head in a predatory manner, spear tight in her fist, legs parted in her stance, a warrior of ancient quality. "My sister, I loved him." He was watching The Strong intently...the child understood, he was looking to see her weakness, he was preparing to attack her, the Strong one understood that too and smiled sweetly.

"And I loved my warriors, every last one of them and they are all gone now. I will not let their sacrifice be in vain." He snickered and bent to collect the dead man in his arms, breathing softly, the golden man smoothed the dead one’s hair gently.

"He was my very best, my most faithful." Soft voice, hard eyes, loving hands that carressed the torn body tenderly in his arms. He wiped the blood from the parted mouth, and then placed a hand over the man’s breast. A warm yellow glow eminated from that hand, engulfing the body and, the child’s eyes opened wide, made the body whole again. "I loved him, such a simple deadly thing, love. He deserved to be made whole, he was faithful." With his index finger the man carressed the body’s lower lip.

The Strong one laughed, a cold, merciless laughed. The man frowned at her.

"Faithful? I had some of those. Once." She twirled the spear casually in her hand, her black eyes observent.

"And you did not deserve them." The man smiled a dangerous smile then lowered his mouth to his lover’s lips and kissed them fully. A kiss both giving and possessive. He parted from the dead one and placed him upon the ground then in a fluid motion rose elegantly and stepped through the child towards the strong one. His body was eminating that same gold aura.

"What I deserve is Justice but that was denied, my fate forsaken. So what I want now," her body began to glow too, the white aura constant about her, "is what you deserve, what I want is War."

The child’s heart was beating faster, cruelly trapped within it’s cage. She still didn’t understand, she wanted to, so badly, she almost…almost knew…what did she cage inside herself? Blood and death? War and Justice?

"When you decided to come to this horrid little creation, when you decided to be made flesh and mortal, my darling half-sister, it was then that you resignated Justice."

"My Justice, my rules." Her cosmo burned mad about her, white fire…dancing among the bodies, bringing life to stone, tears in the statue’s eyes. And the strong one, angry as she was, was filled with Sorrow. The Golden One awarded her with an almost compassionate smile, a sad look.

"Do you think you will be trusted, loved, by your mortals when this is over?"

"Love me?" Her powerful voice went soft, thinking. "I do not need to be loved, I need to love."

"Perhaps. But they will not understand, half-sister, that to create a perfect world for them you had to murder the one they lived in. You will be left alone, that is, pretending that you succeed, of course. You will not, it is madness. This is the world as it was made, this is the natural way of things, this is the law. And we all abide by it."

She sighed softly, the spear in her hand dropping a bit, then she nodded at him as if accepting some terrible truth. She seemed hurt to the child then, so hurt…and yet her eyes flashed and her shield was up. Hurt yet defiant, yearning for Victory, yearning to be wiser, prouder, stronger.

"They were not meant to understand a goddess’ fate. And I will fulfil mine, I will take the King of Heaven from his throne." Her cosmo was everywhere, burning, burning…burning the child! Brilliant and vicious, magnificient!

"I wish I could apologize but those such as we make no apologies or accept them. So now you will be destroyed and I will miss you." If hers was strong, his was…ever more brilliant…ever more strong…his was…

The sun.

And everything turned to fire, turned to ashes.

And her nanny found her in her bed that morning, rocking back and forth nonstop, whispering softly…a little lullaby.

"Peter, Peter, Pumpkin eater. Had a wife and couldn’t keep her. So he put her in a pumpkin shell. And there her kept her very well. Peter, Peter, Pumpkin eater. Had a wife and couldn’t keep her. So he put her in a pumpkin shell And there her kept her very well. Peter, Peter, Pumpkin eater. Had a wife and couldn’t keep her. So he put her in a pumpkin shell. And there her kept her very well…"

They sent her to the doctor, they filled her small body with medications, they all talked to her, gently, lovingly, trying to coax the child into responding but they just wouldn’t understand. Maybe they didn’t want to and her unfortunate grandfather would stare at her, severe and knowing and suddenly burst into tears as he hid his face in her lap. Weep and stare that’s all they did for her. It was fine with her, absolutely alright because she understood what their weak mortal minds could not begin to comprehend. They couldn’t reach her because she lived in a cage, a cage that slowly squeezed the life of her, a cage that would one day simply melt into her skin and become…her. A cage whose name was Athena. Gods help her.

*****

Soft, wet kisses brushed upon her collarbone, followed by sharp little bites, butterfly touches, the contrast was enticing, a little groan escaped full flushed lips. Callosed fingers brushed her back, massaging her slowly. She was melting into that embrace, revelling in the sheer power of this cosmo that held her captive, the smooth lips that now brushed the valey between her breasts. She could feel the warmth of the sun on her tingling skin, the hands played with her hair, explored her neck. Then lips enclosed hers forcefully, a deft tongue delving into her mouth, carresing her insides mockingly. She did not kiss back, even when she felt the heat from that mouth awaken an old call in her, something of the flesh. She was proud. She would not give in. When they parted a sharp sigh escaped her lips, it held nothing of the sensual, nothing of pleasure, just simple unmistakable lament. The hands that were supporting her suddenly ceased their exquisite decent upon her body and embaded themselves on the fresh bleeding wound upon her back. She smirked painfully and opened her eyes to look upon her brother.

"Little Brother." A little devious smile, undisguised hate.

"You were always such a prude." Bored voice, superior voice. Beautiful boy, young, amazingly so…only just a child. But a delicious child at that. She fingered his jaw with her index, touching reverentally the face of a King.

King of kings.

"Vain, so vain. I had forgotten how vain you could be, my darling. My King."

"Yes, your King, your Master." And this body he had taken was beautiful indeed, dark and light…light and dark. Shadows playing in his eyes. Black eyes, so black they might have been pupiless, hair that too was ebody, glossy and lusturous, thick and straight and preyed upon his collar, skin that was in essence dark but from lack of exposure to sun had turned pale, perfectly so, lips that were androgenous in their soft fullness, too lovely for words. And young, must not forget that, a boy, a child, a teen not yet a man.

"Your majesty of vanity." She uttered the words in pure hatred and suddenly the world flew backwards, her eyes could not follow, his cosmo collapsed upon her, horrible and dominating and she was flung yards away, bleeding and broken. She chuckled against the stone pavement, gathering her defences about her, at least she would stand. The flames that were her cosmo surrounded her, brilliant and red and gold. She stumbled to her feet, her gown torn and swaying about her knees. "Vain, foolish King." She spat.

The boy smiled and placed his hands upon his hips, so like a cat. And downing awful mortal clothing, faded black shirt sporting a hideous band of some sort, ripped blue jeans and boots that had seen far better days. A teenager, with an attitude. She giggled.

"Very amusing, little King of fools." He smiled, wicked smile for one so beautiful.

"Perhaps, but king nevertheless. You, my dearest sister, are an outdated, unloved, unwanted goddess. So that makes which of us the fool?" He laughed a little bit, it was a sweet sound, his voice was soothing to her ears, it was her brother’s voice, deep and true. Her body trembled to the sound of it. "But," he lifted an eyebrow at her, superior, almighty, so suddenly grave, "I did not come here to fight."

"Oh," She smiled and lifted her fingers to the wound on her back, she touched it lightly and brought the hand up, smiling mischeviously she licked the blood slowly from her fingers. "Could have fooled me." He shrugged as if to say ‘this does not matter, this is not important’.

"May it be engraved on your soul, if you had one. You had to bring me to extremes I do not cherish, why? For love, sister? For your pride? This," he spread his arms, "is a game. At times interesting, at times dreadfully boring and futile. But it is a game and nothing more and these are the pieces in my hands."

"Pieces." She nodded. "I remember, pieces. Pieces placed one on the other, pieces that tumble down." In her head she laughed, she cried, she screamed. Pieces, little pieces…intricate design, loveless design, cruel fate. In her head she had died and had been reborn mad and depraved. Depraved of love, of recognition…

"Depraved. Just that, Depraved." He was smiling at her, patiently, and she hated him more for that, that little cynical smile. She was insane, yes. "You set the pieces in your insanity, in your illusions. And so now we will play."

"Play. An odd way to refer to the cycles, brother darling." Flames danced in her head, she saw him among them, stranger to them, withering, screaming and it was enough to make her laugh. She brought them to her, gathering the furnace close to her body, using a skill that was once for love into hate.

Because she had lost everything, because there was no place for her and all she had was a vague remembrance of love. Pure, unblemished love. Love that would protect, would cure, would yield life. Love denied. Maybe it was pride. Maybe it was boredom. Maybe she was just tired. It didn’t matter, her essence was forgotten, she had sworn to start this cycle, she had sworn to end it. One way or the other.

"You do not want to be my enemy." Forceful, thundering, warning her. "Because I like to win. And I always do win." She shook her head, said a silent ‘not yet’ to the waiting inferno within her.

"Not always, you do not always win." One corner of his lips curled up, his eyes flashed violently, a wave of cosmo was unleashed and then brought to control, so quickly, it was almost a dream. A nightmare. She might have feared had she not been mad.

"And you think you will? Win? This will be a most intriguing game, beloved sister."Gruesome mask of a smile, "I will look forward to crushing you. But…why? Why have you become my enemy?" Pretty smile, sad smile, feigned innocence, feigned pain. "You are so lovely, even in this pathetic shell, mortal shell. I never understood how those like us could bare such a thing. Shell and body, mortal. Gorgeous Hestia. Lovely sister, gentlest of sisters, I would have downed you in gold and red. I would place you upon a throne and love you because you look that good to me, a creature to be kept for love."

A blattant, wicked lie. Cruel that he should say this to her.

She had been forsaken.

"You ask me why and I will asnwer you because you I could never deny. Brother, lover, king!" She giggled. "I was bored!" He ran a slender hand through his dark hair in an annoyed fashion, it set her into hysterics, she doubled over, almost tumbling to the ground, her hand clutching her wounded stomach. It took her a moment to pull herself together, to straighten up and smile mockingly at the king. "You are nothing to me. None of you are. And I was bored."

He smiled impishly at her, walking up to her. She counted his steps, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen. Thirteen steps it took to close the distance between them. Thirteen gods it had taken to rule the skies. But these gods had fallen and only a few remained, untouched but not untainted. She had been one of those to descend. And now…so many millenia latter, she was not quite certain why she had done it.

She had been young. And foolish, more so then the king…because she was not like her two brothers, she was not like her niece, she had not come with a purpose, she had come to dream.

She had come because none needed her.

"Because a useless goddess does not deserve her place among the gods." He was snickering at her, enjoying her pain.

"Do not read my mind if I cannot read yours!" She screamed, he was so close, so terribly close…she could smell sweat on him, human scent, she could also smell a cheap fragrance…some sort of cologne or aftershave. This was just a host to him, then. "Yes, of course it is. Why would a king live in the body of a mortal." His had closed upon her wrist. He pulled her tightly against his body, she stumbled and then wielded, she was a tall woman and so they were eye to eye. Both looking for weakness, both looking for failure.

"She will never be strong enough, that is her doom and her fate. She will never amount," he leaned forward, lips moving against hers, eyes closed in a lover’s abandon, she could feel his heat, his warmth, "…she will never amount to anything. Because she is trapped." She did not resist this second kiss but responded to it fervently, clinging as much as ensnaring, giving and taking. At a touch from his tongue she opened herself to him, tasting him, blood in his mouth, no, that was her blood, her metalic, foreign blood. Hestia liked that taste.

Hestia should not kiss. Hestia should not feel this tight bulge against her thigh, his erection pressing into her. Hestia’s body should not respond to it, aching and willing.

Hestia was pure, unsoiled, untouched, unblemished. A perfect, white goddess. Motherly and giving. Protector. Benevolent. Unpassionate. Wise. Understanding.

And she had been all of that, until they condemned her. Until she was made flesh. Until the flesh made the goddess inside mad. Until goddess and mortal melted into each other’s embrace and neither knew the true essence of the other. And Goddess and Mortal were one and insane. She had been…young.

And now what was she?

Forsaken. Dreamer. Unloved. Hopeful. Mad. Hurt.

They parted, and he pushed her head against his shoulder, stroking her hair smoothily, lovingly, pretended love.

"So beautiful, my love, my Sister." His whisper was hot against her forehead, his hands divine. "Don’t be my enemy be…mine."

His? His whore? One of many? To be hunted and preyed upon? And then left a little shell of herself. To be hated by all of the others. And forget the bleeding, dying, hurting mortals…so graceful and crude. She had loved them…completely. She lay against her brother’s chest, beathing evenly, collecting herself…her thoughts seemed to escape her more frequently lately. The shirt was soft agaist her skin, his hair smelled nice, some shampoo with artificial scent of sorts…honey, maybe, some kind of flower. She did not know. She should not be occupied with such thoughts. Gods were wise. She smiled, lips curving against his chest.

"And if I say yes, will you give me all my heart’s desire? Will you give your whore a treasure of her own?" She asked him sweetly.

"You would be a queen, never a whore. Fire child, sweet sister, sweet lover. And I would lay upon your feet my world." He smiled, mortals would like this smile, this politician’s smile, "I would give you anything."

"Little brother, do you know what a thing like myself would wish for? A thing that is mad? That is alone?" She touched a soft kiss to his lips, chaste kiss, mocking kiss. "A thing that has been forsaken?" She shoved him aside, he stumbled, eyes wide and angry mouth opening to scream, cosmo leaking.

"She will never be ready. You are a fool to think otherwise, I will spend time saving you from yourself no more, Sister Dear. All you will have is destruction, is death, that will be your cycle." She shook her finger at him, her own cosmo drowning her in its firey mists.

"But you said I could have all I wanted. And all I want," her lips curled into a vicious smile, victorious smile, "is revenge. Burn, the little host, burn."

She opened her arms and the flames cascaded from her like water from the fountain, flames that leaped uncontrolled, unleashed, powerful and terrible, consuming everything in it’s midsts. Consuming him.

Hestia can be found in the center of the flame. Look for her in fire’s purest form, purest position. Because Hestia like her fire is pure. And Hestia like her fire, can be unrelenting and unforgiving. So burn, little body, burn in her name.

"Eternal flame." He roared, enraged, she laughed. Through the haze in her eyes, she saw him leap, be consumed by the flames and finally flee.

When she had called the flames back to her body, when everything went still again and the veil was lifted, Hestia stared at the place where he had stood, at her blood painting the listless grey stone, everything in this place was grey and she had painted it red. It seemed fitting.

"She will be ready, little Brother. I promise you that because revenge is all I have, is all I want." She stroked her wounds idly, wanting to make the whole bigger, it would not kill her. Nothing killed her. She was not like the others, she had never died. Never died.

"I did not come to this world to be saved, I did not come to this world to save, I did not come to love or to hate. I came to set it free. And set it free I shall."

But it was all in all, a little promise, a little vow, spoken through the lips of an ancient creature long gone mad, long gone wanting and so utterly alone, in so much pain. It was revenge born of pain, born of pride. A being that long had ceased to be a goddess and had become a weaver. Only to watch and to place the pieces where she saw fit, hoping that these pieces would know the answers to the riddles. Praying that the pieces would be strong and not break. Because she had come a goddess and had been made mortal and had lost herself in the process and now she was made Weaver, because even if she had not come to love she had fallen in love. And loved them all and that was her weakness, she loved them with all that she was, all her fire. It was her mistake, it was the crime for which she paid and fought for. She was unloved but loved nonetheless. It was revenge born of love.

"Gods keep their promises, even the mad ones do."

*****

Achilla Marin stared at the lifeless corpse of her mentor and did not lament. His brown curly hair was matted with blood, his blood, his face disfigured beyond recognition. Her cloth donned her body for the first time and maybe that was the reason for her disregard of her teacher, maybe she just didn’t care. There wasn’t much in her teacher to care for, he had only just been competent. Only just. It was a shame that she had surpassed him so soon into the training…maybe he could have taught her more. Probably not, he was a fool, she sensed that. Fool. And the Eagle had shrieked defiantly for her. She had felt it’s wings touch her soul. She was the Eagle in a way she knew her teacher could never have been.

She welcomed the touch of chillsome metal against her flesh because that cold against was real, unlike the one that gnawed at her heart.

The sanctuary is a lie. Corrupt. Athena is no more. Athena is in the Orient. Forsaken.

Words whispered over and over in her sleep. Words that came in dulcet tones from a male voice. Words she did not understand. Words that devoured her. Words that kept her from enjoying this new glory. This that was hers.

The Eagle. Achilla. Hers. Marin’s.

And that was something they couldn’t take away. So when the Kyoko called her over to him, she kneeled bravely and ignored that hiss in her brain that exploded:

Silly thing, to think that of him, the devouted priest to their goddess. Kind, genorous, gentle, wise.

Then why did she hate him?

Weavers. She fought against the urge to look upon that masked face, she fought to remain calm as the Kyoko preceeded to welcome her as one of Athena’s Saints.

Saint. Strange word. Strange goddess. But hers, yes, like the Eagle. Athena too was hers.

She felt the Kyoko’s hand against her neck, heard the crowd cheer, wished she could see her teacher’s face again, wished she could ask him just one more question…But the Achilla cloth was beating to the sound of her own heart and it was the single most glorious moment of her life, her pride swelled so much she thought her heart would burst from it. She had succeded where others had failed because she was, indeed, one of their greatest children. She knew this and hated it. Hated how the other girls looked at her now, she sensed it at the least, sensed their jealousy, specially that girl, Shaina, her one time friend…forever rival. Shaina who stood tall in the crowd with a boy by her side, a boy the Achilla Saint had never seen in Sanctuary.

A boy she vaguely remembered…almost a man. Silver-gold hair, blue eyes, a godlings face. A boy who now smiled at her.

She flinched and thanked Athena for the hateful mask upon her face, a mask that would not let her enemies know her motives. A mask that would keep love at bay. Protection, curse. Hers.

She bowed to the Kyoko, bowed to her superiors, eight gold saints, all in their prime and joined the awaiting crowd.

She would remember the applauses forever. It was her one moment of glory. One of the few she would experience throughout all her life, a moment where her birth, her sex, her being would not matter. Because she was one of them, she was a Saint of Athena. She was part of a family.

But you know, you know everytime you look at this hell-place. Dead stone without it’s goddess, without it’s soul. You know that there is evil worked in this place, evil prevailing. You know that it is rooted, deep and not found in one but many. You know it is the work of the Heavens, of the Weavers, of the Gods.

She was stumbling but it did not matter, because they were chearing her on, they were congratulating, their faces were a blur, her eyes could not see…she would vomit if it continued and she fought the bile in her throat.

Later that day she laughed until she wept when they brought the child to her. She had been sitting in the cottage she and her teacher had shared, had been savoring that single moment of privacy when they had invaded her dreams, her wishes and brought the boy to her.

He said he was ten. He was small for his age, scrawny, pathetic by all standards, yet he stood bravely, with his chin held high and his brown eyes promised trouble, mischief couple with innocence.

He was her brother. Her little lost brother so she did something that startled them both and rattled each to their core. She fell to her knees and hugged him tight against her, feeling his thin frame poke against her, he was so painfully thin. After a while he hugged her back. She pushed him away and rose to her feet and swore she would never do that again until his training was done.

"What’s your name?"

"Seiya." Small voice, proud, huge brown eyes. A confident child, even if baldy abused. Her charge.

And she vowed there and then that this little creature, this little brother of hers would be the best there had ever been, he would have all she could teach.

And then he would have more.

Seiya, Pegasus Saint.

She whispered it every night to herself...like a prayer.

He kissed her lips first, a warm, salty kiss and she screamed in rage when she lunged forward he had gone. She felt him press against her back and felt his kiss upon her neck, she arched and clawed at him. She clawed at empty air...he had fled.

He had blocked her every blow, he had danced three steps ahead of her tune. He has smirked, he had laughed and now he loomed over her smiling his superiority.

She hated that.

Shaina sprang to her booted feet effortlessly, dusting her pants off and unconsciously wiping the blood from her mouth with the back of her hand. She glared at the blonde boy furiously and luminous blue eyes blinked back at her and then narrowed in amusement.

It was like this from the first. A year ago when she had come upon him at their hut, their forsaken little home, a year ago when she had challenged him in frustration, in her rage...it had been like this...

She had been drowned by him.

He was strangely unstopable, his cosmo flared and flooded all before him, even Morrigan had succumbed the day she attempted to break them apart. That day the Ophiuchus fell before a boy...nothing but a boy.

That day, Shaina changed masters. That day she swore she would learn from this boy and would be one day like him...unstopable.

And Marin had become Achilla and her master dead and cold and buried. Would this be Morrigan’s destiny? Good.

Nobody knew where Luca came from and if by chance there was someone who did know him that person wasn’t telling...and Luca was quiet about the matter...and concealed his cosmo and himself...Shaina had the most disturbing feeling that if she were to ever know...ever to feel him as he was she would burn...and it would be lovely.

Here she stood, hurt but used to the feeling, lovely but dirty, willing but not prepared. She was fourteen years old...this summer she would challenge Morrigan and it would come to an end...but first...

"The little ghost, yes, there is the little ghost." Luca was looking at her curiously from under a cloud of blonde bangs and looking rather beautiful as he squinted under the glare of the sun. Not that Luca ever looked anything but dazzling...he was almost too feminine in his beauty, his lips too generous, his cheeks too rounded and soft. Not a warrior but he certainly burnt like one. He sat upon the ground, legs crossed before him, eating some dried fruits impishly as if he thought that it was enough for today...as if he was bored.

" Don’t use the mind powers." She grumbled, she was hungry for the fruit but she was also tired and not particularly amused. He smiled and patted the ground next to him. She snickered behind the mask and slumped down to the ground ungracefully, in front of him. Not next to him. Never beside him, she felt this meant something, this said something about her as a warrior. They ate in companiable silence for a while. Strange that she had grown so used to him so soon, it was so bloody easy to be with Luca, to talk to one of her native home...even if he swore he could not remember it...could not phantom his ancient tongue, his homeland he had forgotten the roads to. Still, he was cast from the world, utterly alone and maybe that’s what she liked in him that he too was lonely and outcast and forgotten by someone or something.

Like Melissa, her one time friend...like the little lost ghost.

"She is as she was foretold she would be." Luca’s sweet voice cutting coldly through the workings of her mind, those colorful tapestries. She glared at him in annoyance.

" I said to cut it out." He smiled impishly.

"Can I help it if I find it funny when you are mad?"

" What the hell do you mean?"

" Don’t you believe in destiny, Ophiuchus Shaina?" Again that bright smile, too bright, too innocent and eyes that were cold as steel.

"I am not Ophiuchus." A warning in her voice even as the breath of hope bellied it, he looked about to laugh as if he enjoyed this imeansely.

"You are exactly as you were meant to be on this momentous day."

"Cut it out, destiny is an understatement."

"Funny that coming from someone who swore to protect an outdated, sexist, politically incorect diety."

"Shut up." And he did enjoy this...steel eyes glinting and lips stretching into a cat’s charicature. She rolled her eyes. "Why do I put up with you?"

"Because I keep you from going mad, in a world that hates you I am the last friend. The very last." Little smile. She snorted, dropping the tasteless raisins she had been chewing on.

"What makes you think I want a friend."

"Silly me, you need no one." Mocking voice, nasty little smile she was so glad her face could not be seen...so glad. Then the unexpected came, his eyes glittered and he twisted his face towards her catching her hands in his own. "Let me read your destiny."

"Read my destiny?" She blinked once, maybe twice both startled and stunned. "My destiny..."

"Yes, and you won’t belive in it, so what does it matter? But let me read it!"

"Humm..." She smiled despite herself...her destiny being read by Luca..."I won’t belive a word." He shrugged.

"Aries pride. You might think of challeging Mu someday..."

"If you say something I don’t like..." She trailed off but he nodded in understanding.

"You will kill me."

"Oh, yes."

*****

"One will come to you in love," she moaned as he suckled her breast, pulling his head into her breast, drowning him in the clouds of her crimson hair, "Oh, my darling, oh my love..."

"Continue." His voice, so calm, so detached...she giggled.

"One will come in perfect trust and will be a brother in arms to you, my general."

"How wonderful," he murmured as he turned his attention to her neck, kissing and nibling as he pinched the wet nipple between his forefinger and thumb, she gasped and he smiled.

"Another will be a perfect beast, hated by all...and he will seek in you refuge." He bit his way down her navel, licking and sucking playfully to ease the pain of his nips...as she would mind something like that.

"A third will be an extremist." His hands quickly undid the rest of her tunic, puling down her undergarments a soft sigh of aprovel at the sight of her escaping his lips. As if this were a first time for them...

"There will be one who will be unimaginative and weak and you will use and discard him." The last part of which came in a tremble as his hands expertly tried her womanhood, gently rubbing at the knot of nerves withing. He smiled wickedly at her.

"Tell me more...who will be the others?"

"Two more...a madman. And an outcast. Someone forsaken...by her." He chuckled into her thigh.

"Forsaken and a madman, my love, I know something about that." He parted her legs and joined their bodies.

She smiled, "Find them, rule them. You must, I weaved the thread, I set the motion and you...are my hand."

"And I will strike."

*****

End of Ophiuchus Three: The Weavers.

Millie speaks: This chapter is dedicated to messa’s Altair Lisa...because she put up with more than all others and did more than most.