Chapter Text

✩ ✩ ✩ Innocent ✩ ✩ ✩

Աsually there didn’t need to be so much talking, but a blue moon must have been shining on the old Sanctuary. Pope Ares didn’t mind working in the dark of night, but he would have rather not had to don the mother’s apron. Alone in his chamber with that loyal fool who’d polish a piece of cerulean sea glass b’tween his thumb and forefinger, constantly jumping from deep in thought to alert as if he’d heard his name called.

     He was silent for a trifle too long. Those dark green eyes smoldered into shiny bloodstone as he stared into the basins of fire. Illuminated by the orange flames, a whisper of his shadow swayed smoke lines on the tapestry b’hind Pope Ares’s golden throne. That man’s soul must have played round the rows of Greek columns that lined the grand halls. In the jeweled moonlight from the wide skylight that cooled the royal red carpets trimmed in gold thread. Danced in the stars that drew out their constellations. Dissipated within the air with their breaths and the lull of night. Because he simply wasn’t there. It was wise not to rouse those who stared off into their thoughts, but Pope Ares was wiser.

     “Shura.” The Pope put a bite in it like he were calling a hound.

     And those gemstone irises were swallowed by a growing black pupil when he showed his face. Eyebrows pulled back to reveal the whites of his eyes, stained with tired pink threads. A familiar face he’d make when he ruminated. But not quite the same face from all those years ago when he signed himself away.

     “I saw Aiolia the other day.” He was unbearably slow.

     Standing directly next to Pope Ares’s throne in service was an honor, the hand on his shoulder was enough to make the Capricornus Saint kneel. There was a satisfying clatter of his armor, the gleam of those horns was more than regal, too bad his face told a different tale. Cute as a puppy, Shura, despite being stiff, had a flopsy-ness to him. So, he’d earn the hand on his hair, then maybe a tickle under his chin. The tilt of his head and his attempt towards a confused face was unmistakably begging for a doggie cookie. And maybe a quiet sort of groan when the long nails scratched b’hind his ears. Pope Ares almost let himself laugh.

     “You did such a good job.”

     Those brows pulled back again, but caught a warmer glimmer. The Pope said what he said, but the fool must have heard who’s a good boy? Or maybe he was simply reminded.

     “It was for the good of the Sanctuary. For Athena.” Pope Ares said, trying a lullaby tone.

     “Aiolos.” He pursed his lips to keep from showing the terror in his eyes again. “I did it.”

     “Most of the others wouldn’t. Or wouldn’t be able to.”

     When those thoughts tugged his attention to orbit again, the Pope figured it was time for the clicker and the treat. The suction of the preserve jar lid was enough to make the man at least blink after so much staring. And like a good little drone, he kept his mouth open a hair to watch his master ease the pit out of a shiny purple Kalamata, still slick with the tang of vinegar.

     “Eat.” The Pope said.

     And Shura listened because he always did. A babyish hum came b’fore the pitted olive was rolled b’hind his teeth. Usually, Tamahagane cold with his slow quietness, the Saint of Capricornus almost became demure when he closed his eyes to chew. So delicious it was when he hid himself in shyness—showing his belly like a terrier. It was too bad that Shura, just like the rest would be gone soon.

     “You’re loyal to me, aren’t you?” The Pope said.

     “I am.” After the olive was swallowed, he chewed on his words.

     A master at looking awkward, he had a hesitation in his voice. There he went again, questioning, grasping at innocence in that big empty head of his. And fuzzy in the eyes he must have taken off into his mind, once more bringing the chill. Without that loyal moron’s presence, the room was too cold.

     ‘Neath the crimson mask, Pope Ares didn’t stifle a snarling frown. Both of them were guilty, was it truly such a big deal? Every man was guilty of something, nothing they do, did, or had done in the light or the dark night was truly any different from any other sin. It was only natural.

     “Why do you ruminate so much?” Pope Ares said, trying to be kind, if he was even capable.

     “I don’t.” A steady lie Shura had been Pavlov-ed into telling when he was pushed too far.

     “No. You don’t trust in me. That must be it.”

     “I do.”

     That wasn’t quite good enough. Fully worked up, those dark brows pulled back in distant horror more than a means to placate. The Pope had been fond of a subordinate so obliged and steadfast, not such a terrified rat. Even the caress with the pad of his thumb ‘cross that loyal fool’s cheek, wiping where the single traumatized tear would trail, didn’t do the trick of soothing. What was with those fearful eyes—looking almost as the Pope’s, they were bloodshot and achy.

     Did that man know his god wouldn’t approve? Did he know she would deem them guilty when he wanted so acutely to be innocent in her eyes?

     Damn it all, what a ridiculous idea, the Pope tightened his grip round his pet, the thumb that once was gentle drew dangerously close to the windpipe. It didn’t matter ‘bout guilt or innocence, as the overseer of that Sanctuary, all that mattered was what he wanted. Shura understood that much so far. The flicker of those eyes back to reality, absolutely bloodstone ‘gainst the roaring pyres proved it.

     “Of course, I trust you, Pope Ares.” That’s what he wanted.

     At that time, he could convince himself he wanted that more than the Capricornus Gold Cloth. More than his plan. So acutely did he want it that he took his hand away from where he would have snapped the bell collar and lifted his mask.

     There was a muffled noise the dog made and tried to swallow down. Typical of a frog to start croaking in the face of a swan. Shura had a roughness to him. Not as pretty as the others, he was dowdy as he lacked a certain shine. But he turned fair when those brows loosened and his lip quivered when Saga let his white hair spring up and flow languidly when it was tossed.

     “I trust you, Saga.”

     He relaxed his eyes as if sleep tugged at the lids, and his mouth hung open, betraying speech with pieces of half gasps and sighs escaping. Adoration looked good on those who were so pitiful. But was it really adoration that Saga wanted?

     Darkness of ev’ry kind and proximity of the body could set a man aflame and make a once innocent enough thought drip with black guilt. It wasn’t quite enough to look down and see that man—just like his now master—kink his neck and gaze up at him as if he were The Creation of Adam. Maybe he’d be more tender if the thumb when to his cheek again.

     “I don’t quite like ‘Saga’.” He used to, but as of recent, his sentiment became more true.

     “Pope Ares.”

     “Try armoire.” It had been so long since he whispered that he ran a shiver down both their spines when he leaned in to smell the salt on that man’s neck.

     “Mi amor.”

     That was it. That was what Saga wanted. He took that man’s chin in his hand to turn his face from side-to-side, not quite to look at it, but to ensure those eyes followed him. Without sounding like he was correcting his master’s shoddy Spanish, Shura’s voice was creamy. And he never fussed when he was touched, obedient ‘nuff to hum something of an affirmative when he was brought closer and handled. Shura had become a trusty Great Pyrenees, as valuable as two men. Perhaps it was time to pull on his leash.

     “That’s what I want.”

     “Si tú quieres, yo quiero, amor.”

     There was no need for anymore words after that, Shura was so good at fulfilling wicked whims. So proficient at being led past the curtains, down the long hallways, outside to the balcony with the sprawling mattress dressed in red velvet. So entirely excellent at being upside down and backward, crying to the moon like the dog he was.

     Perhaps the Capricornus Gold Cloth was in Saga’s possession for a small spell. It would be completely his in a little while, but for then, he’d lay with its current owner. Finally distracted from his guilt and worry, he fought sleep. So faithful Shura was, that he did what he was supposed to and whispered little things in his native tongue, one foot in a dream, one leg b’tween his master’s.

     It had been so acutely what Saga wanted.

✩ ✩ ✩ Amor ✩ ✩ ✩

AFTERNOON PLACED THE SUN HIGH IN THE BLUE GREEK SKY. But it was still much too cold without his lap dog to warm him. And much too uncomfortable as Shura had left his guilty stink b’hind, the kind that made the Pope want to pace, and wring his hands. Look over the Sanctuary, to Athena’s Colossus and worry. To pull his eyelids back and think of all the things that used to be.

     So, to relieve the itch and remember who he was, he’d do the thing he typically did and rally one of his pawns.

     Rose essence was sweet enough to calm his nerves when it swam through the room once the great door opened. Pope Ares could always rely on the other Saints to approach him with their pretty chests puffed and bow their heads like the knights they tried to be. But the most beautiful of them all came with a crimson rose in his mouth, easing in with slow and wide steps, and coating the thorns powder pink with his glossed lips.

     Knowing as a mouse, the Pisces Saint would bypass taking the noble knee when he was sure they were alone—and would be for quite a while. Sauntering up to take his place by his master’s side, teasing a try at climbing in his lap with a courtesan’s flirty cut of the eyes and a dancer’s limber gait.

     And when he’d bend his back and put those hands on the Pope’s arm when the armrest of his throne would have done, he could steal breath out of the lungs.

     “I came, just like you said, Pope Ares.” After the rose was plucked from his mouth, those lips came entirely too close to the Pope’s begging neck. “Ain’t that nice of me?”

     “It was expected of you, Aphrodite.”

     “I always meet expectations, don’t I?”

     Mmm, Pope Ares was sure if he had a looking glass, his neck might have been stained carnation on his left side as his most gorgeous pawn switched to his right. That thin model-esque hand unabashedly rubbed a tight circle on his chest. And his Saint was sneaky with his other, grabbing gingerly at the Pope’s darkened hair to bring it to his narrow straight nose.

     “Of course, mi amor.” The Pope said.

     Just as the tales of the god of war and goddess of love, Aphrodite could make Pope Ares say just about anything as he’d been so in love. And anything he did say, as the Saint of Pisces often didn’t meet any expectations. Too much of a wheedling pink smile, a bit of a weakling due to laziness and pride. And he was known to run off to play as well as abscond with his little friend. The fairest Saint was and would be Pope Ares’s prettiest little object, but such was prizes—like the damn Sagittarius Cloth—they had a way of creasing the brow when they evaded their true owners who so acutely wanted them.

     The thought stiffened the Pope’s shoulders and like a regular kitten, Aphrodite kneaded them and purred something sweet. Mi amor? You’re funny, Pope Ares. Proper cajolers had something of a magic touch, the steady massage was naughty enough to relax his top half but excite every muscle in the bottom.

     “So, why’d you call me? Miss me?” Aphrodite said letting his fair hair tickled the Pope’s collarbone when he did his work trying to melt him down.

     Such indignance, Pope Ares tried to scowl to himself, but he felt himself be carried off by the whim of a seraphim. The Pisces Knight had no business asking those airy questions of his master, putting his hands anywhere near him, flipping that bouncy aqua hair and blinking with his cyan tide pool eyes. Building alliances where they needn’t be and being loyal to anyone other than his master. Pope Ares wouldn’t even allow that man to be loyal to his own beautiful self.

     “A little birdie told me you’ve been gallivanting. I had to remind you of where your loyalty lies.” The Pope only assumed.

     “Never. My job being right under you is too important.” Aphrodite said a little too kindly. “Deathmask’s just my acquaintance, promise.”

     Damn liar. Shura would have already been taken over Pope Ares’s knee and flogged if he were to act so cheeky and disloyal. But he couldn’t do that to his beautiful Aphrodite, those round eyes, shiny as mirrors dressed with fluffy dark pageant lashes were nothing but a snare.

     One day he’d have to punish his love to realize his plan. But while the others would be crushed under the Pope’s hand and all the galaxy, he couldn’t let a body as lithe and artisan as Aphrodite’s be ruined. As much as he wanted to send someone so disobedient to another dimension then drop them on the pavement, perhaps he’d let that man wander forever in a time the never was. If that was even what he wanted, Athena help his soul.

     “I miss the old times, Saga.” Aphrodite committed the sin of revealing his master’s face, pulling off the mask with those skinny fingers.

     Never did Saga think his lover could bend space and time as he could. Gaping up at those pouting lips, the charming beauty mark and the hypnotic crystal eyes of a nymph, they were standing on level ground, sent to the past. The place he so acutely wanted to be.

     Was it over so soon? No, that time he would savor it. The feeling of those silken lips on his, the heat of that body, the shape of a perfect Roman marble, in his lap. Aphrodite had given Saga what he wanted, as his Pisces Gold Cloth folded into its box and was placed by his feet as those thin fingers caressed his cheeks. Those lips not letting go of his.

     It would have been so easy to wrap his claws round his Aphrodite’s neck and latch on ‘till the Pisces Gold Cloth was completely his. To open the wormhole to nowhere and let such a perfect flower drift of in the breeze forever. But when they pulled their heads away—the sound of their lips separating delivering the first chill—Saga had been swayed again by the face of an angel.

     He could tell from the heavy inhale and the tightness of his chest, his expression betrayed him. Brows pulled back, he felt the stretch of his eyelids when he begged himself, why. Why would he want to do such a thing to his amor. And before the room got too cold and his mind took him to his reality, his Aphrodite used his own Another Dimension to keep him anchored to the past.

     “I know what you need. What you’ve been wanting.”

     That’s what he wanted. He wanted it so acutely that he followed b’side his angel faced lover, together as Gold Saints instead of master and subordinate. Past the curtains, down the long hallways, to lay ‘mongst the shallow water. Impossibly crystal and tantalizingly hot the two of them did more playing than washing.

     Caught in a nostalgic kind of dream, they laid on top of each other—Saga wasn’t so good at not being suffocating, he found after holding his treasure tight enough to make him complain. And Aphrodite splashed a little water, feisty as a fish, b’fore settling down to comb and treat his lover’s dark hair that finally found its original color as Saga found his original heart. It was just like how he remembered, down to his amor’s voice that turned lazy and syrupy when it was lifted into a singing sort of Oooh.

     It had been so acutely what Saga wanted.

✩ ✩ ✩ Guilty ✩ ✩ ✩

THAT DAMN AIOLIA WAS FINALLY OUT OF HIS HAIR. It was such a shame the golden brat, needed an extra push, he was too much like his brother.

     Pope Ares tried to focus on the sound of his footsteps as he paced ‘cross the marble floors, trying desperately to hide from his reflection in the tiles. The wine didn’t quite help him forget despite making him dizzy, and his sprawling to-do list was locked up in the back of his mind. Had he swallowed the key, his throat bothered him, so. And there was a nervous itch on his side he snapped at himself for scratching.

     He would be successful, he tried to tell himself though anxious whispers to himself in the quiet. He’d write it down on parchment hundreds of times in red ink and slanted script b’fore tossing it all in the fire. He put his hands on either side of his head and grit his teeth when he saw the visions. All of them, even his puppy and his amor, marching under her rule. Damn it, he tried to think of something else, anything else.

     If it wasn’t Aiolos—the bastard—it was Kanon. Torturous laughter climbing over the crashing waves ringing in his ears. You’re evil incarnate. He was guilty.

     When he’d stoop down and struggle he’d always find himself loosing hair in a collection of thin strands. His condition turned it silver and brittle as straw, made his eyes sting with tears that never broke to the surface. He’d have to get what he wanted, that was the only thing that would make it stop.

     Which one would he summon to satisfy the itch? A laugh that felt more like shouting fought its way out of him when he wondered.

     He could wring Shura’s neck, string him up by a prong collar and send him to space with the Galaxian Explosion. Or maybe he would force his Aphrodite under in the bath, then hold him in Another Dimension ‘till the end of time as a beautiful, jeweled fish.

     Pope Ares’s chest heaved when he pulled his eyes open wide as they could get, lip trembling as he tried to keep smiling when his face was nothing but horrified. His stomach seized so much from entertaining that maniacal laughter, he fell to his knees in the direction of Athena’s Colossus. Perhaps his body was trying to ask for salvation, his mind was too far gone.

     It must have been an hour of howling at the moon alone in his chamber as the stars shinned down on him from the skylight. Then those heavy stone carved doors creaked open at the end of his chamber. Had his howls sounded the alarm? He hadn’t the time nor control to send out a proper summoning.

     And like smokey mirages, they were bathed in shadows, only identifiable by the shape of their shining Cloth. Shura and Aphrodite walked with an organized but slow lockstep, steady and quiet, they approached.

     Rearing back and using his arm to shield his body, Pope Ares called their names and watched them pass each basin of fire. Their eyes turned into melting gemstones as they stared through their furrowed brows. No longer was Shura in his mind, reliving his terror, nor Aphrodite languid and easy in expression. They continued forward.

     “Shura. Stop!”

     The Capricornus Knight always heeled to his master. He always listened. He had to, it was what Saga wanted.

     They continued forward.

     “Aphrodite. Please wait!”

     While the Pisces Saint was more than disobedient, he always gave a reassuring flirting smile with those pink lips. He was always in favor of him. He had to be, it was what Saga wanted.

     They continued forward.

     And when they got closer Saga threw the stolen Pope’s mask to the floor so he could scream with eyes painfully wide. Had they really come to stop him? He let himself shrink and tremble when they stepped into the light of the starlit sky, the razor fins and scales of the fish a the horns of the sea goat gleamed ‘neath the light. Their Cloths and their brightened eyes caught the glimmer of a shooting star that headed for Athena’s Colossus. She must have sent them.

     Waaah!

     If Athena really had sent them. The real Athena. Then he supposed that’s what he wanted.

     He wanted it so acutely that he would have surrendered to his amor and the one of innocent heart.

…