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Chapter Text

Never in his life had his instinct told Shura to run from a fight.

He received the honor to don the Capricorn Gold Cloth, bequeathed to those with resilience in their heart. The Gold Saints would lay down their lives to protect Athena at a given chance, but for Capricorn Saints especially, it would mean walking the narrow path with grit and persistence against those who would wish harm upon the goddess. 

It would mean rushing into her enemies and cutting them down where they stood.

But here and now, as Shura leaped out of the chamber of the Pope, with a baby in his arm, his gut told him to flee as fast as he could.

And Shura did, even when he rarely depended on his gut feelings. He had to, especially when he had witnessed an assassination attempt on the goddess he was sworn to protect, at the hand of the Pope himself.

(And Aiolos. Aiolos who just stood by, eyes widening with the silent screeching of ‘you shouldn't be here’ at the sight of him walking into the chamber. Gentle Aiolos who adored and loved him, was now quick on his heels to shoot Shura down.)

The wind howled in his ears, and the heat of Aiolos’ missed shot that singed his hair was a severe reminder that his dearly beloved, dearly adored comrade was out for blood. He would have retaliated in kind were it not for the gentle presence in his arm—the goddess he's sworn to serve—reminding him that cutting down fellow saints shouldn't be the answer to his predicament.

Then came the shot on his back, the world spiraling around him, the vibrance of Aiolos’ cloth in the moonlight—

—and he hated all of this: the heartbroken look on Aiolos’ face, the swelling of ‘how could you?’ and ‘why?’ from his equally broken heart, the shock and sorrow in his heart, quickly twisting into rage and hatred in that single instance.

He knew that he became unworthy of Excalibur the moment it was launched with hatred. Shura didn't care, not at that point at least; watching it fly to claim the man's life was satisfying. And even if that last-ditch attempt only managed to clip the Sagittarian’s wings, that was enough to buy him and his goddess time to escape.

Escape and survive.

He supposed running away from a fight, too, is a kind of a fight as well.

For all his rank as a Gold Saint, Shura was no god. There was a limit of too much blood he could shed before the world finally crumbled around him, shifting with the sound of his armor against the ground. The air stank of blood—his, he realized that it was his, pooling around him from the clean shot near his heart—and it was a miracle at all that he could still breathe.

The goddess shook in his arms, wailing and crying as if asking for help. Maybe she sensed death approaching.

Two men of ordinary origins came instead.

‘Escape and survive,’ he had told himself not long ago, ‘escape and survive so that Athena may live!’

So Shura closed his eyes amidst the panicking voices of these humans, gathering what little life he had left and letting his cosmo sing the tale of Athena and her saints. 

The men who found him listened from the start until the end, and, having recognized their agreement to care for the goddess in his arms, Shura finally sighed with relief and let darkness claim his soul.

The first thing that came to his senses was the bright white. Then came the hushed whispers of women. Then came the loud stampede, the languorous pain in his chest, the terrible headache, and, finally the light finally adjusting into—

—a room. He was in a room. He was alive.

He can still fight.

Even as darkness claimed him again, it was with relief that he fell into its embrace. He was alive and he would return to his goddess’ side to fulfill his purpose.

Chapter Text

Three years. He had spent the last three years in a coma.

Thinking about it always made Shura restless and angry. Mostly the latter, because he would then be reminded of the moment of his fall, the audacity of that man to shoot Shura down while he was holding Athena in his arms.

He knew Aiolos that he was a loyal supporter of Athena. It was unthinkable for him to stand by as the Pope aimed for her death.

Or maybe Shura didn't know better.

Maybe Aiolos was, in fact, among the people who believed that Athena would invite ruin to Earth. Maybe Shura was too enamored to see the truth under his nose, blinded by the gentle smiles reserved for him after a good day's training, after a job well done, after trades of shy glances and stolen hugs and—

—Shura gasped, shaking and trembling, and dragged himself to the nearest stone bench amidst the peaceful wisteria blossoms. The garden sparkled under the light of the full moon—a peaceful sight that should have calmed the hearts of those viewing its glory. Yet his heart remained unmoved by the view, raging at the memory of his adored betraying him, and betraying Athena, of all things.

He reached for the spot over his chest, the hole that was sewn back and had miraculously recovered—the hole where the Sagittarius arrow pierced through his back. He recalled the stench of his own blood, gushing out from that place, and the pinprick pain all over his body as it bled out. Shura tried his best not to puke, lurching forward and wheezing as he fought to suppress it.

Then came the remembrance of how he walked out of Sanctuary, with only the cloth in his back and the Capricorn Cloth in his possession. He had nothing, nothing of worth.

But he had Mitsumasa Kido and Vander Guraad to help raise the future goddess.

The thought never failed to fill him with hope, pushing him to get back on his feet. He would still recall the life he was forced to leave behind for his service to his goddess, he would retch about it, but he would remember that not all was lost.

And he would get up again.

The wisteria garden was in full bloom when the Capricorn Cloth rejected his call.

Shura actually threw up to the sides, both Kido and Guraad attending to him with concern. Their helpers were scrambling somewhere in the background, getting ready to clean up. The air was tranquil and peaceful amidst the sudden rush, and yet Shura felt the silence was the final judgment of his goddess: You are unworthy.

And so Shura fell, the broken remains of his dignity and hope scattered to nothing.

(But not for long.)

He was gazing at the wilting wisteria tree when Mitsumasa Kido approached him with steel in his eyes. It was the look of a man who was ready to die for his ideal, the look that Shura witnessed in the eyes of his past comrades.

“I need to take Saori and leave.”

Had it been anyone else, Shura would have throttled Kido to death right there. But this was Kido, so he let him explain: the sudden change of Guraad’s interest, the Capricorn Cloth being secured in a maximum security compound just below the building they're in, the bad feeling that the man had been having for the past couple of days.

It had only been a few days since the gold cloth rejected his call. Shura hadn't even processed what this meant to him, and couldn't even grapple with this new reality he was forced to live by.

But he remembered walking on an attempt on his goddess's life.

If there was something that he learned in the past few years, he must not wait for things to make sense first before he made his decision. Better to err on the side of caution than to risk Athena's life.

“I'll go with you,” he replied, and Kido looked surprised at his easy agreement. Had the man known that Shura, too, had already harbored a fleeting suspicion towards Guraad from the moment he awakened, perhaps it would have made sense in his head. “But I cannot leave without the Capricorn Cloth. We'll need to find a way to steal it.”

So Kido found a way.

And so Shura started running again, even when he had lost the right to the gold cloth, even when his goddess reproached him—

—it mattered not. If Mitsumasa Kido, an ordinary human, strived to protect Athena even with his limitations, Shura would strive even harder.

Chapter Text

If there was a single event that made Shura realize that his goddess was a divine with a mortal heart, then it would be that moment when Saori awakened to her cosmo for the first time.

The morning started pleasantly, first with running and meditation, followed by practicing basic forms of swordsmanship. Prior, there was no need to practice the art of wielding weapons, as Athena frowned on the use of them. But ever since the Capricorn Gold Cloth refused his call despite his wish to protect his goddess, he would have to explore other avenues to defend her from harm.

(That, and Kido had been insisting he to pick up other forms of art if Shura was planning to stick close and look after her. ‘A diverse set of skills would be of use to you and her. Besides, there’s more to fighting when it comes to defending the world,’ or so their benefactor shared with him during one of Shura’s training sessions.)

Unfortunately, these other avenues proved to bring risk to her, Shura realized, when he hurried to the room from which he heard the yelp of Saori’s attendant. The young girl, now four years old, had the biggest grin on her face the moment Shura walked in. She had been holding the sheathed sword close as if it were another toy, and her attendant turned as white as a sheet with each passing moment.

Probably from Saori’s antics. Or the fury on Shura’s face. Or maybe both.

“I’ll take it from here. Attend to your next task,” he said quickly, acknowledging the maid hurriedly excusing herself while making his way towards the goddess-incarnate. When he was finally standing before her, Shura fell to his knees, his forehead scrunching at the impish grin the girl flashed at him. “Athena-sama, can I have the sword?”

“I found it first, it’s mine!” she argued, rising to her feet before she started running to the door. “You’ll have to catch me first, stupid Shura-nii!”

And she was gone, leaving the door open as if an invitation to give chase.

It took less than three minutes for him to exit the room, swoop the girl—along with the sword in her grasp—to his arms, and deliver them to the courtyard of their current hideout. The young girl looked stupefied in his arms, eyes looking at him with wonder.

“Caught you, Athena-sama,” he kindly offered, suppressing the proud smirk that threatened to break from his lips, “now please, can I have the sword back? It is a dangerous thing.”

She was still bedazzled, but at least Saori was enough to hand it back. Those blue eyes still bore on him (she was judging him, contemplating the right punishment for his unworthiness surely?), and Shura was about to look away—

“You’re so fast, Shura-nii,” she exclaimed with awe, her expression bright, “Is that because of… that? It feels like it whooms, and then you go whoosh! Will I be able to do that too?”

Shura stared at her. While her description made no sense, he perceived the way her soul stirred—the way her cosmo blinked to mimic what he had done. “Athena-sama, you can feel it, then?”

She tilted her head, the wonder in her eyes diminishing. She had placed her hand over his chest, where Aiolos shot him years ago, and looked at him with confusion.

“Mmm, but it doesn’t feel like whoosh,” she explained, “it feels… it feels like I want to curl… Shura-nii, are you hurt? Did someone make you cry?”

He said nothing to that accusation, opting instead to demonstrate his skill to deliver them to Kido’s study room. The man was both surprised and relieved upon his arrival. Questioning, too, when Shura dropped her on his lap without proper explanation and disappeared to the roof of the building in quiet contemplation.

“Did Saori upset you with one of her tantrums?” Kido asked the first question among many when the man finally found out his secret hideout. Shura had reproached him then, quickly taking the man with him with a single jump. He landed on the courtyard with grace, as expected of an ex-saint, and led the man to the nearest bench.

Kido looked unperturbed, despite having been carried off without his consent. Shura appreciated and admired his nerves of steel for that.

And because of that, too, he told the man what happened without further delays: how she awakened briefly to the presence of her own cosmo, how she had reached out to meet with his own and scryed his despair.

“Have I sinned, Mitsumasa?”

Kido looked back at him with genuine surprise. “Where is this question coming from, Shura?”

“Athena is slowly awakening to her divinity, and yet the first thing that she recognizes is…” his chest hurt and his heart burned with rage; every time he closed his eyes, he saw Aiolos with that heartbroken look and Shura wanted to scream ‘why why why, you should have killed me, finished me then so that I don't have to suffer this pain!!’ 

“...”

He looked at the man and saw understanding dawning in his eyes. Shura's cosmo once sang about his tale to him, and the man pretty much saw and knew what the saint felt when he fell from the sky.

It sang of his devotion and admiration towards Aiolos, too, after all.

“You're worried that you have stained her divinity when she found out about your hurt. But Shura, if there’s something I’ve learned in life… is that you must value something first before you can protect it. Saori is learning about this through you. So no, Shura, I don’t think that you’ve sinned. In fact, I think that you are doing her a great service.”

Chapter Text

Sometimes, the various people working under Kido would gossip about the broody man who never left the side of their master’s daughter. His name was Shido Kido, and many postulated that he was the oldest among the children that Mitsumasa Kido had gathered from around the world and the only one who obtained the honor of having his name. Some even went so far as to theorize that he would be named the heir to Mitsumasa’s wealth, instead of Saori Kido, his little sister at this point, whom he had been taking care of since she was a child.

Then Shido Kido disappeared on a warm summer night, right after their yearly relocation in China. The household was thrown into chaos and rumors ran amok throughout the workers under the household: ‘Is he a traitor working for Guraad?’

But their young lady laughed when the question was voiced in the open. They were all gathered for clarification, and here was Saori Kido, looking at them all as if they had turned into Scyllas. 

“Shu—Shido-niisan is taking a break and will be uncontactable for an unforeseeable future. I hope none of you decides to quit because of the lack of his pretty face!!"

Funny how one jest made by the young lady was enough to make everyone in the vicinity fluster, their suspicion forgotten. Saori certainly took comfort in it, if only to appease her worried heart at the reason behind her brother's departure.

Even as he made his way to the top of the ledge that overlooked the great waterfall of Rozan, Shura's heart was filled with doubts.

It had become so from the very moment they stepped on this land. Shura wasn't keen on Mitsumasa’s choice of China as their relocation space for the year, his gut telling him that it was an unreasonable poor choice. But a hunch was still a hunch, and Shura couldn't argue based on it when this decision was made with his goddess' safety—and her entourage's—in mind.

Then he felt an unknown cosmo brushing against his own, firm and surprised. Shura had never rebuked a connection so fast, he suffered from the whiplash.

That cosmo reached out again several times, days after the first incident, and Shura rejected its advance every time, until it finally stopped, poised immovable as if waiting, expecting for him to reach back when he was ready.

Shura chose to chase it to the source himself.

He regretted that choice upon sighting the prone old man… and the young boy who quickly jumped between that man and Shura—with such a laughable spark of cosmo to boot.

‘Now, don't be like that, I still remember the days you started your training, Shura. Or do you go by Shido these days?’

His heart constricted upon the remembrance of his old life, how this man was the very proof of those halcyon days, but Shura managed a respectful bow. “It has been a long time, Roushi.”

“The Cloth is in fine condition, despite what had transpired,” Roushi commented upon laying his gaze on the Capricorn Gold Cloth. Then he looked at him with sorrowful eyes, and Shura knew that he wouldn't like the old master's next words. “The arrow shot by a Sagittarius Saint never misses, young Shura.”

It must have been the hole on the Capricorn chest piece that gave it away—not that Shura expected the master to miss it or anything. But he wished that the man hadn't brought this too sore of a topic right now.

“You mean he chose for me to die of concussion and blood loss—in misery, mind you—rather than of quick, painless death?” he replied hollowly, “I would expect that of Milo, but not him… Never him. This brand of sadism is just going to be added to the list of who Aiolos truly is, then.”

If Shura hated the topic, his distaste grew even further when Roushi’s glance turned from sorrow to pity. “You are angry.”

“Of course I'm angry,” He growled. Ten years' worth of resentment buckled under his control, and Roushi’s words were unraveling the layers Shura had built out of necessity to protect his goddess… From himself.

“We vowed to protect Athena with our lives. Everyone was fixated on the part of Athena inviting ruin, but none of them—none of them, even Shion-sama—paid heed to her rising against the gods with her brave knights! Aiolos was the one who believed this, who convinced me that this was just! Aiolos who stood by as the Grandmaster aimed to kill our goddess! Aiolos who shot me down and almost murdered our goddess, Aiolos—!!”

The more he uttered that damn man's name, the more he thought back of that night, of another perspective unraveling before his eyes. Aiolos never missed his target—this, he would admit to be true. Therefore, he had shot him knowing that Shura would survive.

Aiolos who vowed to protect Athena at all cost.

Aiolos who was there on that fateful night; perhaps he was trying to convince the Pope not to take the plan. 

Aiolos, with his brokenhearted face, who fell before the might of Excalibur. 

Shura's hateful Excalibur.

“—why did you do it?”

Shura fell to his knees, his vision blurry from tears as the question he had been asking for the past ten years was finally voiced out.

“Shadow, young Shura. A dark shadow had befallen Sanctuary since then and shrouded its fate until now. It had hurt you deeply.” The old master said with a weary sigh. “The Capricorn Gold Cloth does not respond to your call out of consideration for the wounds in your heart. If you open your senses and reach out to it—you know that I'm telling the truth.”

Shura bristled, but he did heed the master's advice. He felt it almost immediately, the faint calling of that familiar warmth, the will of the Gold Cloth urging him to recuperate, like a chiding mentor worrying over their sick disciple.

New tears blurred his eyes again, this time out of relief.

“Stay and recover here for a while,” he heard Roushi’s encouragement, the Capricorn Gold Cloth echoing his advice, “You need to prepare for the fateful battle at hand. Athena needs her knights.”

Chapter Text

The old master took in a disciple.

The realization took a few hours to dawn on Shura, and it shouldn't have shaken him this much. But this was Roushi, who had not taken in any student for as long as anyone remembered, so Shura had expectations.

The boy with that little spark of Cosmo called himself Shiryu. He was a little too old to start training, the shine of his cosmo too faint. Shura might have not aired his thoughts, but Roushi’s chuckle gave him away.

“You have that poor tendency to overlook the potential a person possesses, young Shura,” the old master warmly chided, perhaps chucking that fault of Shura's character as an immaturity of youth. The ex-saint had faced harsh criticisms in the past; this little non-scolding couldn't compare. “Why don't you get to know the boy, see if you can temper that flame.”

He didn't like the prospect, but Shura followed the old master's advice out of respect for the man.

Three days into the plan, Shura had thrown Shiryu into the raging lake thrice. He considered that maybe the waters of Rozan would temper that headstrong quality of Shiryu's character. Or maybe it would do otherwise and reinforce that stubbornness into a spirit as sturdy as the shield of the Dragon.

Either way, an extreme between the two, because there was no such thing as moderation in tempering the way of the Saints.

Shura didn't get an earful, but the disappointed look cast at him was enough to make him yield. Scowling, he eventually dragged the yapping boy from the water, fully expecting that he would throw the boy back on the morrow.

Tomorrow didn't come the way he had expected.

“Shura-san, how are you so strong?”

The question came out unbidden, a genuine question filled with curiosity, right after Shiryu failed to burn his cosmo yet again. Shiryu finally stopped and listened for once; this was, after all, a complete change of pace in comparison to the three days of Shiryu's miserable attempts to summon his cosmo.

That, and it was a question rarely asked his way, not when his peers made the distance between them uncrossable for productive discussion—

—his thoughts briefly drifted to Aiolos, who was not of such ilk.

Shura shut that line of memories down, opting to focus on the curious gaze on him. It reminded him of his goddess a long time ago, and that fact helped him shore up the pain.

“I train,” he honestly said, “every day, every moment. When I fall short of achieving my target, I train again. And again. Your effort won't betray you, Shiryu, because the old master is your guide.”

“Oh,” the boy looked dejected, and Shura couldn't help but raise his eyebrow. Was he among those who wanted life hacks for saint training? “I was hoping that you have shortcuts or something.”

“Unfortunately the Capricorn Gold Cloth looks down on those without the courage to persist,” he explained, chuckling at that dejected face. It reminded him of Saori when someone or something did not meet her whims. “And the Dragon, too, seeks such people, Shiryu.”

Shiryu's eyes brightened with interest. “You can hear it talk?”

“Sometimes. And not like the way we speak like this,” Shura admitted, pushing down the urge to smile with pride. “Keep training and give yourself time. One day, you will understand what the Dragon wants to tell you.”

Later that night, he tried calling the Capricorn Cloth once more but to no avail.

He had expected it, felt the gentle impression the cloth left on his psyche: ‘Not yet, not yet, not yet.’

“Then when?” he whispered in desperation, his forehead touching the flat part of the headpiece. “Saori grows older, inching towards her destiny, and you still deem me not ready…!”

He thought he heard the echo of his voice: “Give yourself time. One day, you will understand what the Dragon wants to tell you.”

With a heavy sigh, he pulled away, glaring at the cloth. “Damn cloth, you're getting cheeky with me.”

He thought he felt the faint trace of laughter, so Shura made himself comfortable next to it and basked in that small comfort.

Chapter Text

The Saints trained and honed their bodies to support Athena in defending the peace on Earth. The system deemed as the Sanctuary was meant to preserve the knowledge attained by these Saints, to keep them strong. One of the avenues to achieve this was through the usage of Clothes.

From the Age of Myths, Clothes had always been the companions of Saints, the indisputable witnesses of their bearers’ lives. Records of their legendary endeavors continued to live on, even after their bearers had passed away. Athena herself blessed these intelligent armors, and they eventually grew into more than just tools of war—

—they became torches for the new generation to carry on. 

Of all the bearers that had come to wield it so far, the Capricorn Gold Cloth loved Shura the most.

How could he not be the most loved of all its bearers? A rejection from the Cloth was as good as an exile, and yet the Cloth stayed with Shura, as if desiring to keep an eye on the boy whose blade was broken the moment he used it from a place of hurt... for a selfish reason.

The Cloth stayed, its acknowledgment a balm on Shura's weary soul.

The Excalibur was a holy sword bestowed by Athena to the most faithful saint of all. It was meant to cut evil, open the path where there was none, and pave the way through the sea of Athena's enemies. The honor of wielding this greatness—the duty to open the path, the starter of battles—fell unto the Capricorn Saint.

This was the first lesson Shura learned from the cloth, a vision imparted as proof of its acknowledgment towards its future bearer.

There were many lessons after that one, all in the form of visions of the past. All of them always took place from a first-person perspective, as if Shura was immersed in the thoughts and feelings of the previous bearers. He experienced the emotions of his predecessors as they burned their cosmos to great heights, obtaining the feel of what Excalibur was to each of them.

So he instantly recognized the telltale of a vision when he found himself sitting on the ledge overlooking Sanctuary, the emotions of his predecessor flowing like an undercurrent. The weight of Capricorn Cloth on him almost made him tear up, but Shura pulled himself together; the cloth always had wisdom to offer during times like these, and Shura was not going to start ignoring it just because the petty Cloth refused his summon.

“I heard Hasgard challenged you to a duel, and you accepted it,” came another person’s voice. Shura’s heart twisted when his predecessor turned, seeing the Sagittarius Saint entering the view. The vision that was shown to him never portrayed the exact features of the people who interacted with his predecessor—that there’s no face depicted on that Sagittarius Saint, only a blurry face that he could not discern—but the stutter in Shura’s heart was real.

“He wanted to test his mettle and I wanted to see how sharp have I tempered my blade,” the previous Capricorn saint thoughtfully replied. “It was fun.”

“It must have been an experience if it makes you this giddy,” the Sagittarius pointed out. Shura could imagine the other man’s lips twisting into a smile, a mimicry of Aiolos’ mirth whenever he found Shura’s antics funny, and his chest coiled.

Shura's predecessor grunted, but the peaceful warmth in his bosom gave no ire (it was suffocating to Shura, why was the Capricorn Cloth showing this to him, Why did it decide to tear his ages-old wound now?). “It brings me closer to understanding the way of the sacred sword. ...closer, sharper, surer…”

‘... So that I may open the path for your arrow to fly. May you guide us to victory.’

Shura woke up to the sickening remnants of adoration deep in his bones, the lingering devotion of his predecessor towards his fellow Sagittarius comrade, and hurled to the side of his makeshift bed.

“Do you truly loathe that man, Shura?”

The voiced-out question caught him off guard, just as much as the sight of this man clad in the Capricorn Gold Cloth took him out. Shura couldn't make out his exact details at first, but the view of him became clearer with each passing moment, like tiny starlight phasing and shifting to make up the man's image.

Shura had never seen the man's face, but he instinctively knew that the man standing before him was his predecessor.

And he's asking the very question that Shura avoided for a long time.

“Yes,” Shura answered, though he knew that the man before him recognized the cracks in his voice. “I hate him for almost killing me. I hate him for the hurt he inflicted on me. I hate him for his betrayal.”

He waited for that man to rebuke him, but his predecessor only leveled his gaze for a long while, before finally crossing the distance between them—

—since when had Shura been so small that the man had to kneel, so that they could see eye to eye?

“No wonder Capricorn loves you,” he said, hand stroking Shura's head. “To be so hurt by your adored, and yet you're still here, keeping that faith alive.”

Shura lowered his head. There was anger and hurt filling his heart and head once, and now all of them was traded with sorrow so bottomless that he just wanted to curl, wanted time to stop.

“Only the most faithful can wield the Excalibur, Shura,” the man said, tilting Shura's tearful, child face so that he couldn't run from him, “those who were lesser had tried and died miserable deaths. You would have been, had it answered your call and let yourself go on a rampage. You know this. You've felt it the moment you clipped his wings.”

Shura knew what the man was talking about. He felt it ten years ago, when that grace left him when he released that single Excalibur to harm that which he held dear, even when he was already dying—

—he aimed at Aiolos’ neck and missed.

“What do I do?” He softly asked, vulnerable and broken and lost. The only thing he was sure of at this time was the identity of his predecessor, unsaid and yet known; Shura's way out. He pleaded, reaching for those arms and crying for help. “Cid, what do I do?”

The grip on his shoulders was firm. It grounded him, and Shura felt a little less afraid.

“Accept the truth, Shura. The one you've whispered to yourself every night in your prayers. The one that is untainted by your pain. The one that remains true, even after all these years. Reforge your broken blade with that truth as your conviction.”

Shura woke up to dried tears on his cheek and a prayer on his lips. He wanted to say the words, to believe that he still loved that man after all these years—

—but his chest throbbed, his hatred burned, and the truth drowned under the weight of sorrow once again.

Chapter Text

Were he to be any lesser teen, Shura would have had an existential crisis from those visions alone.

He showed up to oversee Shiryu's training as well—or rather, to retrain himself again, as he had opted to stop showing after that first vision in a long time utterly demoralized his spirit.

When the Libra Saint spotted him, bewildered and concerned, Shura shared a reassuring smile. “The Capricorn Cloth told me to try again.”

“That is good news,”  the old master hummed. Shura almost swore that his wrinkles became less after the reveal—or maybe Roushi took a look at him and saw something in his face.

“Something on my face, Roushi?”

Shura certainly didn't expect the slow laughter nor the twinkling mirth in his eyes. “Nothing, young Shura. I've just remembered a memory from when I was a trainee… the previous Capricorn Saint once scolded me for exactly that. He was an intense man, but he had his softness here and there.”

Most of his retraining session was spent on meditation and reflection. The sound of rushing water helped drown the chaos in both his mind and heart, making it easier to put his experience under scrutiny and pick apart the emotions associated with it.

The emotions associated with the realization that Aiolos was trying to kill him on that fateful night, for example.

Recalling the memory itself required a great deal of effort; he thought back to the moment when he crashed ten years ago, how the pieces of his consciousness clung to the remaining sense of life in his body, rejecting the call from death's door as Shura bled his life away. He remembered the regret, upon realizing that his service to Athena ended before it even started.

He thought about how Aiolos was the one who brought about that situation, the harbinger of his and his goddess's death, and, as he reiterated his feelings about that fact, he was sure that it was more of contempt.

When he thought about Aiolos’ heartbroken face, Shura made the effort to stop that line of thinking before he slipped. Sometimes, it's a swift process with little noticeable impact.

Other times, Roushi had to help him walk away from the thoughts.

“When you can't see a way to tackle a problem, perhaps trying a different approach would help,” the old master chided him, after several tries, “spend your time with young Shiryu today. You need the break.”

“I felt your Cosmo waver a while ago, Shura-san,” came the statement, too timid to come from Shiryu, of all the banters they had bantered these last few months. Shura noticed, giving the boy a raised eyebrow that made the trainee almost fall from his pointed finger.

“I'm just telling the truth!” The boy stammered, yelping as he wobbled on his stance. Shura was already by his side and corrected his posture, before more was said, much to the boy's shock and relief.

“Yes, while throwing your focus away,” Shura grunted in response, the pettiness born of frustration welling out before Shura could stop himself. “Keep working on your focus, or you won't even brush the basics of destruction.”

“You mean I'm nearly there, Shura-san?!”

‘Athena, him and his mouth…’

Shura was not surprised that they ended up halting the training altogether and took a break. He was displeased, but there was nothing to be done since Shiryu was already past his limit—

—that it was such a low bar in comparison to Shura's training, he vehemently quelled the biting words down. Roushi had plans for the boy, and he wasn't planning to be on the receiving glare of the old master for fucking over the program.

“You're doing it again, Shura-san,” the boy said, as he laid on his back with eyes seeking Shura's. “Your cosmo flickered again, like sparks of fireworks. Did someone piss you off?”

“How come you could sense the underlying motive of my cosmo and still not figure out the essence of destruction?” he wryly complained, turning silent when the topic was raised again. Shura was never good at lying to keep up faces, so he could only sigh and squat down, as he started telling the watered-down version of the truth. “Yeah, I'm pissed with someone, since he doesn't explain why he did terrible things to me.”

It was cute, the way the young dragon's eyes widened in surprise, and how Shiryu quickly jumped to his feet. “You're hurt, Shura-san?”

He was no longer a saint, but he still had the capability of one. Cute of this trainee to be concerned about him. 

“I’m good, now sit down,” he chided, still leveling the firm stare he reserved for some of the trainees seeking his advice during one of those training sessions back in Sanctuary. The way Shiryu followed his instruction so swiftly didn't help Shura's case; those trainees were just as eager as the boy here, and the similarities only served to remind the life he had—a life that he treasured and could not return to.

“Sooooo, who are you pissed with, Shura-san?” Shiryu prodded, forming fists as if he were ready to punch an invisible enemy. “I’ll be happy to help you get even!”

He didn't come to this spot to spill his heart, nor did he expect Shiryu to be so earnestly vested with Shura's problem. The whole situation tickled his funny bone, anyway, and the fondness that arose from that question made him want to cajole the young dragon's question. “There's this guy…”

The words kept flooding out, filtered, and changed in some parts. The narrative, however, remained consistent: the person that he admired hurt him badly and Shura had no idea why that man did it.

It was laughable how Shiryu just tilted his head and replied with, “Then why don't you ask him the reason?”

Shura stared at him as if the boy had grown a second head. “That's…”

He couldn't chide the boy for saying that. In the grand scheme of things, Saori eventually had to gather forces of her own to convince Sanctuary that she was not an omen of humanity's destruction. There was also the Guraad problem that he needed to solve soon. Hell, the reason why he was here in Rozan at all was to prepare for what was to come.

One way or another, he would have to deal with Aiolos in the future. And when they finally met, Shura could…

“... you're not wrong,” he grumbled, pinching the bridge of his nose. He could feel Shiryu’s gaze on him, respectfully expectant, and it was just too damn much that Shura just had to reach for his forehead and—

“Ouch!” The boy hissed, “What was that for!”

Shura leaned away, returning to his feet, as Shiryu rolled on the ground and hissed from the forehead flick. What was he imitating now, a squirming earthworm on a heated rock?

“For being distracted,” Shura rebuked, quickly leaping back to the rock that the boy was supposed to destroy with a burst of cosmo days ago. Gracelessly, he sat on it, his arm pulled up in a stance to cut. “The heart of destruction, the Big Bang… If you could just focus that into a single point, even better into a single line—”

By all means, Shura merely made a slow slashing motion across the rock under him, but it split in two all the same, and then crumbled haphazardly as if it had been gouged from within. He already leaped to the side, by the time the rock finally crumbled into dust and flashed a teasing smirk at the trainee.

“—you can cut down anything, Xiao Long.”

Much to his surprise, Roushi didn't comment on the way Shiryu's homework split instead of exploding. He had chuckled at the sight of Shiryu hugging Shunrei at the sheer joy of his success.

“I never expected that Shiryu, of all people, could make you this soft,” the damn old man teased. Shura avoided the teasing glance… Mostly so that he could hide his smile as he felt pride at Shiryu's accomplishment.

“I was taught to repay my debt,” he retorted, even when the statement was only half true. Not all people had the knack and resilience to even start the path set for a Capricorn Saint, and here Shiryu stood, subverting Shura's presumptions of the boy. 

“I have only given him hints,” he added, noticing how Shiryu joyfully waved at him. A part of him swelled with joy too, and Shura let it out by waving at him just as enthusiastically. “Who knows that Shiryu has the knack for this path.”

Chapter Text

When he decided to visit Rozan, he did not expect walking away from it would be this hard.

Shunrei refused to let go of him, her hug both awkward and heartbreaking. Their interaction was almost minimal, herself being too shy and reticent whenever she was aware of his presence, and yet if their farewell evoked such emotion in her… Shura certainly underestimated the effect of his company.

And here he was, ready to tease Shiryu to hell and out if the trainee acted out like this. Instead, Shiryu was panicking at the side, clearly inexperienced in dealing with the inconsolable girl.

Not that Shura was capable in that department himself; were he a better man, Saori would have fewer bouts of tantrums.

“I’ll write to you,” Shura promised, patting the girl’s head in an attempt to calm her down. It should be working, if she tilted her head and finally wiped her tears away.

“You better, Shura-gege,” finally, finally, Shunrei pulled away, though Shura thought that she had delivered a shocking blow to his brain through that honorific alone, as she extricated herself, “Come on, Shiryu, we don't know when we'll meet again!"

The reluctance that clung to the boy had long vanished, replaced by an ease similar to Rozhan's flowing water. Shiryu made a deep bow, one that Shura instinctively knew was meant for a senior who studied under the same teacher.

(No, Shura was certainly not flustered from the gesture alone. Nope. No way. …fine, he's a tiny bit moved that Shiryu gave him more credits than he deserved.)

"I cannot thank you enough for guiding me this far, Shura-gege," Shiryu courteously said, standing up straight once after he made his point known (while flustering Shura even further because dear Athena, he's no one's gege, he only stayed in Rozhan for a year tops… And didn't Shiryu favor his Japanese parentage more than his Chinese?!). A soft smile was on his lips as he continued, "The next time we meet again, it will be as proper saints of Athena."

Shura felt the weight of Roushi's glance on him, awaiting his response. For all intent and purpose, the trainee wasn't aware of the depth of Shura's angst with the Capricorn Gold Cloth. But this boy innocently pointed out a way for Shura to move forward, even when he was still barred from wearing the Cloth itself, and Shura could not hold grudges over a gesture made in good faith.

So Shura closed his eyes, swallowed the blossoming pain in his chest, and finally opened his eyes again, offering a resolute smile.

"That's a promise, Xiao Long."

Saori ran to him as Aiolos' arrow pierced through his chest on that fateful night: assuredly and with fervor.

If he almost toppled from the force of her ramming itself—nope, no one's looking.

"You're late! You're so late, Shura-nii!!" She complained, her fists balling and punching at his side. There was no sign of his goddess's gentle cosmo—or rather, it was there but… it was more like a presence of life than anything else.

She was still a young girl who hadn't awakened to her divine self.

It must have been blasphemous of him, to sigh in relief at the realization of it all.

"I'm sorry, but things did get dragged out even when I tried to resolve it as fast as I could," he apologized, hand gently stroking her bead in his attempt to placate her. "Now, the airfield isn't a proper place to reunite. Should we visit your favorite Cafe, grab your favorite pancake, and go home?"

They did just that—and more.

Mitsumasa had hired a proper butler for her. His name was Tatsumi, and he was hired a few weeks after his disappearance. The man was trained in the arts of self-defense, and it showed in his gait; the man was ready to throw himself in the line of fire and become Saori's shield.

And then there's the brat.

He wasn't particularly keen when Guraad finally sank his teeth because of said brat, his soldiers quickly cutting the escape route where Saori, Mitsumasa, and said brat were located. The old man had signaled to him that they'd be alright, that Shura must prioritize the security of the Capricorn Gold Cloth foremost, and joined Tatsumi on the rendezvous point.

He should have defied Mitsumasa's dying will back then. Maybe he'd be able to get all three of them to safety, save Saori the stern, aggrieved face.

“Shido-san, you're breaking the armrest—”

The boy, Seiya if memory served him right, shut up the moment Shura snapped it in two with his bare hand, as if to make a point. There was recognition passing the boy’s face, his attention affixed to the remains of Shura's sharpened cosmo on his hand.

He flashed a look at Saori, forced to swallow her grief upon the tragedy that befell them, and saw steeled determination behind blue eyes. She knew. She saw what he saw, what Mitsumasa envisioned.

'Oh, how quickly she grows out of her mortal shell…'

“It is time, Shura-nii.”

He knew that she was not talking about the jump that they had to take, to throw confusion over Guraad's force. No, the glimmer of that gentle cosmo might be dim right now, but Shura knew that Saori wished to arrive at their target by the time her awakening was completed. Now was the time to start waging war—

(—and then, he would be running in the direction of Aiolos, to disperse the cloud of hurt and confusion that had its grip on him for most of his life—)

—and they had to bet on this brat.

“Well then, you hear Athena-sama, brat,” he growled, startling the flabbergasted Seiya as they witnessed the Kido heiress climb onto the motorcycle that Tatsumi had preemptively prepared. Shura wondered just what faces would the brat make by the end of their casual jump. “Your first lesson in Sainthood: jump. ...Don't worry, you won't die as long as I'm around."

'You're going to die protecting Saori, after all, not in nowhere ditch like this.'

Chapter Text

The Silver Saint living on this island was supposed to be a loyalist to Athena, an ally to Shura’s clandestine plight. Roshi was the one who recommended her, through a shared dream conveyed on the night after they escaped from Guraad’s force, and he departed for the island the morning after.

(He had let Saori hug him for a little while, waiting for her to stop shaking and start gathering the broken pieces of her heart. Mitsumasa Kido was in the hands of their enemies and he was going instead of being the rock for his goddess to rely on.

‘You will get back up again,’ he told himself as he waved at her, golden rays of dawn reflecting a teary but resilient blue gaze, ‘and even if you do not by the time of my return, Saori, I will be there to pull you up.’)

When Shura landed on the island, with a speedboat he took from Kido’s garage, it was with the expectation that he'd be received with hostility. But the silver saint whom he was supposed to meet was there, standing on the shore as if she had been expecting his arrival.

Amicably so, if Shura had to add. This lukewarm reaction was not something he expected, given his reputation as a (dead) traitor of the Sanctuary.

“Eagle Marin?” he prompted, his cosmo bristling upon her muted presence. Non-hostile she might be, but between warriors like them, it only took split seconds for things to change, Shura wasn't keen to be caught off-guard.

“Correct,” she confirmed, pausing for a short moment. “I couldn't believe it when the old master said that you survived that night, but seeing is believing.”

The mention of Roushi lessened the tension in him, at least. He would have to judge her trustworthiness himself, eventually, but knowing that she was an ally fighting for the same cause, for the protection of Athena, was reassuring.

“Someone didn't do his job thoroughly,” he drawled, then frowned upon seeing the silver saint forget under his glare. His thoughts went out to Aiolos, then to the silver mask affixed on her face. “But we're not here to discuss the past. …No, the past can wait. I want to talk about the training plan for the future Pegasus Saint.”

It was hard to believe that this boy was even among the candidates for the Pegasus Cloth, with how feeble his spirit was. Mitsumasa was dead set on the boy, and yet Shura's faith in him only diminished with each failed attempt to burn his cosmo.

It was even worse than watching Shiryu struggle through his training.

Time passed so quickly; before long, it was already seven days—seven days of grueling training for Seiya, seven days of failure, seven days of Shura watching the boy's training from the shadows, seven days of unworthiness; the boy would have noticed his presence a long time ago, had he just been able to burn his cosmo and sensed Shura's hidden one.

On his back, the Capricorn Cloth within the box murmured a tale: of one of its companions in his quest to sharpen the blade that he inherited from a dear friend; a blade that wasn't his, so he made it his own; a blade that started from luminous spark, uselessly formless.

Then the tale was cut short when Shura felt the shift, the moment a state of destruction was reached, a flicker of Big Bang from the tiny star that he looked down on. It looked like a powerless punch, from a layman's perspective, but Shura saw the blip that was Seiya's burning cosmo.

The rock shattered, the brunette blinking as if he had just realized something that he had forgotten to do before tilting his head to the tree perch on which Shura had hidden himself. Then came the irated scowl as Seiya waved at him.

“Shido-saaaaaaan, I didn't know you were here already!”

Eagle Marin’s expression might be covered by her mask, but Shura just knew that she had the smugest smile twisting behind it. ‘He’s not as hopeless as you think,’ as she wanted to say, and Shura only offered her a shrug.

He thought he heard the Capricorn Cloth’s chuckle of ‘such a child’ echoing in his head, as he leaped down from his perch. Shura wondered if it was aimed at Seiya—

“Well, I'm here to ensure that you're not slacking, Seiya. Come at me, then. Show me what you got.”

—or a quip for himself.

Shura winced at yet another chiding in the back of his head, as he leaned on the box that kept it safe. Marin was attending to unconscious Seiya not far from where he sat, returning to where he was only after ensuring the boy didn't sustain critical injuries.

He scowled; jumping stone wasn't meant to kill, but to subdue.

The Capricorn Cloth gave him a mental equivalent of a light slap over the back of his head. ‘He still could have died,’ the verbal echo remained, and Shura was startled at El Cid's likeliness that echoed the words.

Huh. Since when had his predecessor taken an interest?

“He's safe,” the Eagle saint opened without preamble and struck into the heart of the matter, “though I must admit, Roushi explicitly told me that I shall be the one in charge of Seiya's training.”

‘Back off and let me do the job.’ Oh, he read the messages between the lines well, alright. Shura sighed, knocking the back of his head to the box of the Cloth. It shimmered in his mind’s eye, and Shura knew that it was chiding him for being a kid, again.

“A hunch. And his lack of patience. And persistence. And—”

A knock on the box. A sigh. Marin might have her face hidden behind that damned mask, but Shura felt the judgment nevertheless.

“He's right about you,” she said, unapologetic and sharp, “for all your dedication to sharpen yourself, you lack the vision to see the potential of what someone could become.”

If looks could cut like his Excalibur, the Eagle Saint would have been shredded by now. He recognized that opinion, a fond outlook now twisted into denigration—a mixture of things that Shura wasn't ready to deal with simply because Leo Aiolia was the brother to the man who almost killed him. “Does the mouthpiece of the Leo saint have any more to say than my inadequacies?”

That Eagle saint had guts, at least, to look him in the eye and replied with, “Seiya possesses the grit to pull this off. Whatever shade of Aiolos you see in him, please get over it.”

Chapter Text

Shura had always been a man who would not hesitate to go the long mile to get things done.

So when Tatsumi aired the proposal, to invite the scrutiny of Sanctuary using the Capricorn Gold Cloth as bait, he went with the plan despite the torn expression made by his goddess.

‘Oh, his goddess Athena, that stubborn but gentle sister of his.’  

There were questions on her face, inquiries that she couldn't bear to ask. As they inched towards their goal, to take over the Sanctuary that was supposed to protect Athena, so too they inched towards the inevitable encounter with Aiolos.

‘Oh, Aiolos, the man who almost murdered him, the man whom he looked up to, the man who betrayed him, the greatest obstacle that he has to overcome.’

She looked surprised when he genuflected before her. Hell, surprise was cutting it short; Saori looked so embarrassed Shura believed that she would have whacked him in the head with her staff to make him stop teasing.

…

Alright, maybe reaching out for her hand to ask for her blessing was a bit much. She could whack him for that and Shura would have let her.

“We have worked so hard to reach this point, Saori. Athena .” He had to emphasize her second identity, whom he swore his allegiance to. “When the time comes, I will do what must be done.”

‘You shall have your divine rights restored, and I shall have my due answer. ’

Shiryu had quickly made a beeline to where Shura was hiding—the back of the van that they turned into a makeshift medical bay—right after Saori made it clear that the Capricorn Cloth was the prize of the tournament. Shura was tending to his Glock, masterfully picking it apart before proceeding to clean it. His face spoke of so many questions, but what irked Shura the most was the judgmental glance that the teen leveled at him.

“Aren’t you the Capricorn Saint, Shura-san?” He demanded, “What's the meaning of this?”

The allegedly Capricorn Saint shrugged, his attention focused on the grip of his gun as he started cleaning. “It is my idea and Sa– Athena agrees. She needs protectors and resources, and it wouldn't do when a Gold Cloth lay useless around here, unable to give its goddess the edge that she needs.”

The brief silence that followed was enough to steal Shura's attention—and Shura almost regretted looking back, because that's fucking pity and shock on Xiao Long’s face —

“Ge,” Shiryu's voice bristled with sorrow. It had been years since they last met, and still, this foolish boy referred to him with such respect. “The cloth… Surely the Capricorn Cloth is not rejecting you…?”

—he almost tore at the fabric in his hand as he put away the rising rage and shame and ire back into the box. Compartmentalization. Discipline. Patience.

Resilience.

“No,” he reassured, steel in his voice despite the softness told with gentility. Shura tuned in to the familiarity of maintaining the parts of his gun, grounding himself to calm those scalding emotions. “But I'm in no condition to wear it, and Saori needs someone who can.”

‘I was hoping that it could be you,’ he had looked up and considered saying it, but the words stopped in his throat, and Shiryu looked back at him, waiting for that wishful thinking to be voiced.

Shura shook his head instead. As much as the prospect sounded promising, he was not planning on snatching away the beloved disciple of the respected old master. “If that is all, Xiao Long, you should go back. We can catch up after this is all resolved.”

Dragon Shiryu fell and Pegasus Seiya rose to the sky.

In that single instant, his thoughts drifted back to that night of fate—the night he fell to earth, shot down by his hunter (his friend, his adored, his beloved)—and how he struggled to get more distance from his pursuers. So surely, Shiryu would have to face the same fate, that Shura had to brace himself to deliver the sad news to Roushi, upon the death of his dear disciple—

—but Seiya stood up to deliver his Suisei Ken to Shiryu's heart, and it saved the boy's life.

He should be greatly relieved by this outcome, that no one's dying (yet) in this little excursion of theirs, but he thought about Seiya and his faith and stubbornness and wondered what drove Aiolos to discard them when he decided to shoot him down.

Shura swallowed his bitterness and clenched his fist.

(From that same vein of his thought, however, as he looked at Shiryu's prone body being carried away, the image of a dragon in his back teeming with life, relief washed over him just as assuredly as his own bitterness.

'You don't share my fate. That's good. That's a relief.')

Chapter Text

Guraad’s force eventually discovered the site where they held the Galaxian War, much to Shura's expectation. He was quite disappointed that the raid started so late he wondered if Guraad was losing his edge in picking talents.

Shura was the one who leaked their location after all.

When Mitsumasa was still alive to manage their affairs, the military forces under Guraad's purview reacted way swifter than this. But Shura would save his gripes with that senile old man later. Right now, his priority was to ensure Saori's safety, as well as the Capricorn gold cloth being displayed overhead—

—the very same one that was about to be carried away by this upstart Phoenix Saint.

“Whoever taught you that nonsense about hatred should have been put to death,” Shura declared, his arm brandished. Excalibur hummed under his skin, like a whirring engine. The Capricorn Cloth's wordless chiding rang at the back of his mind as if begging him to stop this foolishness.

But only he stood between Athena and this calamitous saint, so Shura would do what must be done.

His arm, his prideful arm that bore the weight of Excalibur, burst under the pressure of his cosmo.

The realization that even his body betrayed him in this crucial moment dawned on him too late. His adversary had already closed in for the kill, and Shura missed the move that damned bronze Saint flung on him—

—and then he found himself fleeing in the night, Saori, baby Saori so fragile yet so gentle, in his arms. The wind rustled above, the air supercharged with lightning and fire. Aiolos.

Unlike that fateful night, Shura chose to make his stand.

The hateful Excalibur aimed true. What was supposed to be a clean slice across the gold wings now tore at the neck of his beloved-adored-lovely hateful brother-confidant-friend enemy of Athena.

When Shura made his way to the fallen Sagittarius, blood pooling around Aiolos as the man struggled to breathe, his heart was filled with triumph.

“How does it feel? It hurts, doesn't it?” He sneered. Aiolos looked just as pathetic as he sounded: gasping for life, battered and broken, reaching out to Shura as if asking for forgiveness… Or maybe for mercy.

It made Shura's blood boil.

“You’re begging now? After shooting me to my death? ” He shrieked because even after the years of reframing the event that scarred him for life, the hurt had never gone away, festering into ugly resentment that had no outlet.

He had endured so long for his due answer.

And Shura drowned in his rage, like the mockery of a name borne by the same mythical existence, and helplessly realized that his resilience was for naught, for Aiolos heaved his last breath without even shedding him the much-needed reprieve—

—and everything faded in red, petals of spider lilies scattering around him; another mockery of senseless death.

Shura recognized the cosmo first, then the muted presence, then the form of a man standing before him—a man clad in gold armor.

Virgo Shaka frowned, his voice tentative. “It appears that your death is greatly exaggerated, Capricorn Shura.”

Chapter Text

Virgo Shaka.

If anything else, he was a man built of virtue.

The only thing that Shura disliked about that man was his arrogance. A man closest to god was still a mortal, after all, and no less than one had the right to judge another mortal.

The only indication that the golden-haired Saint had visited without an explicit ill will was that he had chosen to set aside his helmet—to reveal his identity before Shura. Virgo Shaka looked as distant as he remembered, immaculate in poise and tranquil in presence— 

—unreadable, even in space that was not his. 

It was enough reason for Shura to keep his guard up.

“I am more surprised that the news of my survival hasn't spread like wildfire,” he prodded, testing the waters. There had been people like Roushi and Marin, even within the Sanctuary, and Shura had to discern soon where the Virgo Saint stood. “But it doesn't matter now. It is time for her to take back what’s rightfully hers.”

Shaka looked pensive, as if he was weighing between options that had not been revealed. It added to Shura's anxiety, though he hoped that nothing showed on his face. 

“Saori Kido, the Pretender,” the Virgo Saint mused, almost considerate. “Your survival alone was miraculous, but to think that you are so brazen to rise against Sanctuary using such underhanded means… using an innocent girl to bring ruin. Perhaps it is better to nip this rebellion in its bud and spare you and that unfortunate girl the suffering.”

That declaration alone was a death sentence; even Shura acknowledged Shaka's cosmo, its essence and mastery, far outclassed his own even when they were gold saints. Here, within the realm of Shura's mind, the Virgo Saint could obliterate his sixth sense, killing Shura in the process, and there would be nothing he could do to stop it—

—but then stepping to his side was Athena, with her knowing smile and her radiance.

“Sorry I'm late, Shura-nii,” Saori wanely said. Her hand cupped around his fist—the same hand that wound the simulacra of Aiolos in his mind, the same hand tainted with his blood—as if trying to stop the tremor that Shura desperately tried to hide. 

She was like a gentle breeze, pushing his awareness away until everything else was distant. Saori was kicking him away from his own mind, he realized, and Shura hated it, hated to be so helpless like this—

“But it's alright, let me take things from here.”

—but the girl smiled, confident and keen, as his awareness faded, and Shura silently prayed that she got this under control.

Shura woke up to the smell of antiseptics and the blinding light of—

—the makeshift medic area. The spare truck that he helped set up to accommodate the wounded and deceased during the Galaxian War.

So many questions rose to the forefront of his mind, and they were the reasons Shura jolted from whence he lay, groaning at the burning pain from his right hand. He thought that he heard someone's rushed footsteps, the soothing presence of Saori—of his goddess—closing in, until he finally sighted the girl herself: red-eyed from tears, puffed out cheeks from crying, smiling as she gathered herself. She was already barrelling to his side before Shura could even utter a word, the desperation in her hug stopping him from gracelessly yelping in pain.

“Stupid Shura-nii, you shouldn't have jumped the gun! Now look at you!”

A part of him wanted to protest; protecting her was his duty, even if that meant paying with his life. But he felt the moment she slipped, her frame shaking as she buried her face on his chest. He saw Tatsumi just outside, staring at him and shaking his head, as if to say ‘Take off your saint mask, she doesn't need it right now.’

So Shura gently gave way to a part of him that forever cherished the time he shared as her brother, reciprocating the hug with his own; the small part of him defined that she helped cultivate into something more than just a ghost on the road for vengeance.

Chapter Text

Apparently, Shura was out not for a day, but for the whole week. He did recall passing out again after that brief moment of lucidity, his consciousness nebulous throughout the day.

During that period, he learned that many things happened:

• Phoenix Saint stole the Capricorn Gold Cloth,
• Seiya, Shiryu, and the rest of the participants of the Galaxian Wars vowed to be the sword and shield that protect Athena,
• The newfound bronze group chased Phoenix Saint and his band of Black Saints to Death Queen Island,
• Phoenix Ikki was the brother to Andromeda Shun,
• Yes, that hateful saint was the older brother to the gentlest person he had ever seen (Shun was already paying the price for being that gentle—for being himself),
• The Phoenix Ikki unfortunately didn't return with them,
• They managed to survive by the skin of their teeth, especially when they were faced against Silver Saints, of all things,
• They recovered the Capricorn Cloth,
• Saori was in danger, but the bronze kids managed to fend against them.

Perhaps he should start putting more faith in those four.

Then Seiya made a fool of himself right in front of Shura—something about Tatsumi being bald too early in his years, which offended the man enough to start chasing the boy around. It was followed by more light banters traded among their little friend group. Shiryu was lightly chiding Seiya, while Shun, that Andromeda Saint, was giggling at the whole antics. The blond one, Cygnus Hyoga, threw out some smartass remarks, holding himself a poise that reminded him of that stoic temple-neighbor—

—Shura tried not to consider the possibility that the boy and that frigid man were anything related, for it meant that he would be pitting kin against each other.

He sensed the approaching presence first, gentle and warm even when it was still a mere spark, and it threw him off that none of them seemed to realize Saori's—Athena’s—approach. None saved for Seiya, who stopped and stared at the door with expectations.

When the door swung open, Saori's confident face greeted everyone in the room, Shura noticed how Seiya’s skittish grin, too, brightened the room.

…

Maybe it is a good time to rehearse the shovel talk.

“I’ve made a deal with Shaka-san.”

Of all the topics that Shura expected from Saori, this was not it.

“What does he want?” He growled, barely restraining the wariness in his voice. He would follow his goddess to the ends of the earth if required, but Saori tended to be bold when the situation demanded prudence. “When did this happen? Tatsumi would have never let you face the enemy alone—”

Saori still held her gaze steady, looking at him as if she had made that decision without regret.

The fight with Phoenix Ikki. The moment he fell. The telepathic breach by the Virgo Saint. His decided doom. Saori. Saori who appeared out of nowhere.

Saori, who was pleading for his life.

“It's nothing severe,” she softly interjected, warm hand on his fist. The room was spinning, and gripping the bed sheet with his fist didn't help matters. “He only asked for us to meet, to verify that I am truly Athena.”

‘Lies,’ he had wanted to spit out. In that mindscape of his, Saori's cosmo had been pure and profound, and Shaka might look holier than thou, but he was not known as the man closest to god for nothing.

Maybe part of being Athena meant that Saori could read the thoughts of any living being that she wanted. “You suspect that he has other motives.”

“He has other motives,” he insisted again, hoping that his urging would change the girl's mind. “Our encounters may have been brief, be they when we were still young or during this recent incident, but I know that he's no fool. He knows that you're Athena. That does not mean that he sides with you.”

Shura's heart fragmented in sorrow at the sight of his stubborn sister, who smiled gently at him as her grasp on his hand tightened. There’s no stopping that determination of hers, and he regretted being the influence of that grit when she was growing up. “Be that as it may, he is the first among the Gold Saints to recognize my existence amicably. He is our way forward, Shura-nii—your way forward to finally meet that man, too.”

Virgo Shaka looked muted under the moonlight, unlike the severe presence that graced Shura’s mind a few weeks prior. The bronze saints had banded together and made a wall between him and Saori, upon the slightest approach. Shaka simply paid them no heed and, much to Shura’s surprise, genuflected before them.

“Ever since our encounter, I have been convinced that you are the real Athena, Saori Kido,” he confessed, “unfortunately, this situation poses a problem, a disastrous one in the long run if we do not tread this carefully.”

And there it was, the real motive behind his visit. Shura didn’t even wait for Saori’s cue to spring his question. “Then speak of this situation. Something must have happened in Sanctuary that you have to visit us yourself.”

Shura never remembered Shaka having his eyes opened, even during the times he conversed with others. But they were opened now, bright and clear and horrifyingly intense, and they sought Saori’s approval. “The Sanctuary wants the return of Capricorn Gold Cloth. They are willing to overlook your impudence in exchange for it.”

His fingers twitched, ridden with the need to throw an Excalibur at this man. Impudence? When it concerns the very goddess they swore to serve? “It appears that you are the one being impudent here, Virgo Shaka.”

“You are simply too shortsighted to see the bigger picture, Shura,” the man countered, those bright eyes leveling a glare at him. Shura felt the prickle of distraught at the lack of his title. “I am grateful for the personal sacrifice you’ve made that night when you carried our goddess from the shade of evil. But know that we must let the sleeping lion sleep for a while longer, for her advent right now is…”

Shaka paused pensively as if another revelation was made clear to him.

“Oh, Athena… the time of your crowning has yet to come,” he pleaded, “even now, the people who believe in you are preparing the path for your advent. The return of Capricorn Cloth, too, is part of it...so that we can avoid potential bloodshed among ourselves. So please, I beseech you, grant me this favor.”

Chapter Text

That night, Virgo Shaka left without the Capricorn Gold Cloth.

“I can see that all of you,” he had stopped briefly to level yet another gaze on Shura, as if to emphasize that, really, it was never about everyone, “need the time to adjust to this request of mine. I will return by tomorrow’s first light.”

He didn’t say he would not take the Cloth by force if necessary, but the implication was there. Even after claiming that he was on their side, Virgo Shaka didn’t seem to put Athena’s will as his first priority.

What a damn holier-than-thou prick.

Suffice it to say, Shura got the unsaid memo (it was hard not to when the man glared so intensely that his hairs stood on end). So when the Virgo Saint started walking away, so too Shura went—

—and that same warm hand found itself reaching for his wrist. Saori looked at him in anguish, pleading with him to say otherwise. ‘Tell me to say no, and I'll do it for you, Nii-san. I would defend your right over it,’ her eyes seemed to say, even under that steel of her resolve.

Saori, this stubborn, sentimental sister of his.

“It’s alright,” he assured her, with a small smile and an even smaller voice, “I won't be long.”

A beat passed before Saori let go of his hand and asked Shun to accompany him. ‘Be my representative,’ she said, and ‘return with my brother back safe and sound’ as if Shura was incapable of taking care of himself.

Ah, but his sainthood was about to be revoked… he would be useless moving forward now, wouldn't he?

“Ah, you bring one of the boys with you.”

The Andromeda boy was already on his guard, warily observing the Virgo Saint as if expecting some kind of aggression. So prudent of him, a wise character to have… If only the mastery of his cosmo could be tempered further… Andromeda could rise further and become a Gold Saint—

…surely this prick was not tolerating the boy's presence in hopes of winning him over?

Shura groaned with utter disdain. “Treat Andromeda like he's Sa-Athena herself. He's accompanying me for her peace of mind.”

“Such pragmatism, much like what I remember of you,” Shaka noted, a pleased smirk on his face, though it quickly turned into a frown. “You've made her too attached to you. When she comes to preside over the Sanctuary, it will make the separation from her old life even harder.”

He thought that he needed to defend Saori's upbringing for this, but Andromeda—Shun—was already stepping forth before him. “There’s nothing wrong with cherishing those one holds dear! Besides, why must Saori-san forsake the people who have supported her so far? They have been the reasons that drove her to move forward.”

“Because she is Athena, and we are her saints,” Shaka calmly explained, but his tone was pressing and severe. “She is going to defend this world against other divine forces. She will send us to war and some of us will be killed—some, whom you mentioned as her support throughout life. …Now, can you tell straight to my face that this will not hamper her judgment in the future?”

Shun’s expression faltered briefly, but it soon reshaped into conviction. “I put trust in Saori-san that she will do what must be done.”

Shaka grew silent at the answer, turning his attention to Shura right after. At that point, Shura knew that the Virgo Saint hadn't addressed his question to the Andromeda Saint. No, it was meant for him—and Shura soon realized that, unlike Shun's faith in her, he had watched her grow into the girl struggling to fill the role that was supposed to be hers, were it not for the intervention by those trying to usurp her rights. And Shura knew by heart that the girl was just as determined as she was sentimental.

His participation in the upcoming war would only deter more than serve her interest.

Shura bit his lips, dark eyes hardening. “You ask for a hard bargain, Shaka.”

He must have imagined that firmness on Shaka’s personage softened, sympathy written all over his face.

“But you will do what must be done, nonetheless. You will do anything and everything to secure her victory.” the blond rebuked. “The Capricorn Saints have always been acknowledged as the most devoted among the Gold Saints, for they were the first to throw their personal interest in order to serve Athena. It was true on that fateful night when you fled the Sanctuary… And it will be so too, when you relinquish your right to the Gold Cloth.”

Shura should have been used to that weird feeling of weightlessness when he communed with his own Cloth. Yet, even as this would be his final time doing so, perhaps the sensation left a bitterness that he could not let go.

When he came to his awareness, Cid was already standing before him.

The open space around then was new, a clearing in the forest with a crater supposedly made as a consequence of a big fight. Surprisingly, the scenery looked very definitive, as if it was cut out directly from memory. Cid's memory, Shura presumed.

“This place is where I completed Excalibur,” Cid confessed, his forlorn gaze averted to the sky above, “it is also where my life ended.”

The significance of this—of Cid even sharing this glimpse of his life when Shura was about to say his goodbye—shook his core. “How did you feel, when you completed it?”

‘Do you have regrets? Is that why you're still here, instead of being with your companions?’

“Proud. Happy. Fulfilled.” The man frowned and closed his eyes. “All my life, I tempered myself to become the sharpest sword, the unyielding sword—to cut open a path that my comrades could follow through.”

Cid stopped briefly, finally turning his attention to the present company. He looked nothing less than a memory of two centuries past. ...No, he looked like a warrior ready to bring the fight to their enemies' door. 

“And here, even as I exist in spirit, my task, too, remains the same," he declared, quiet steel behind resolute gaze, "This is not a goodbye, Shura. I shall cut open the path for you, and you will follow it. We will meet again.”

Shura opened his eyes to the light of dawn, the Capricorn Gold Cloth warm to the touch. It gleamed under the first light, shining with a radiance that captivated Shura just like the first time he laid his eyes on it. Cid's words reverberated in his head, and the tightness in his chest melted away.

‘This is not a goodbye.’

Like a golden comet, the Capricorn Gold Cloth shot up and flew away in the direction of Sanctuary. It left a beautiful golden trail in the sky as if urging Shura to follow suit—

—no, as if urging him and the followers of Athena's plight to march forward, as Saints and common people alike.

Shura turned away from the glorious sight, facing Saori and her new protectors. He took in the view: the mutely respectful bronze Saints, worried Tatsumi, Virgo Shaka and his expression of acknowledgment, and then Saori—

—Saori, who still looked at him with guilt as if she had done him a great disservice.

Shura smiled. “I told you that I won't be long.”

Then she rushed at him, arms circled around him and face on his shoulder like they did in the past—when he was about to go on a long journey. He patted her head as she sobbed, and he realized now that even as he let go of the world… It had not truly left him. He was entrusting it to Saori to carry it on his behalf.

If it's Saori, he knew that this decision is worth the price.

Chapter Text

“There is another reason why I was sent to retrieve the Cloth, Shura.”

The Virgo Saint was about to depart when he said it, in the presence of both Shura and Shun (he supposed the boy would be a constant presence whenever Sanctuary was involved now). They stared at him, waiting for an answer to come, and were greeted by a slight frown.

“Leo Aiolia was supposed to retrieve the missing Capricorn Cloth, in place of his brother. However, I convinced the Pope to let me tackle the task,” Shaka explained, ignoring the myriad of emotions passing through Shura's face that the man was barely able to contain.

“The reputation of Sagittarius Aiolos as the celebrated hero of Sanctuary hinges on the fact that he killed the traitorous Capricorn Saint. If it were discovered that you’re alive, they would send assassins your way,” the Virgo Saint explained, his glance cold, ”and I doubt that Athena possesses the power to fend off against the full might of the Gold Saints—not as she is right now. The news of your survival must be handled with care… and used against those who wished harm unto her.”

So the prick was being a prick because of reasons. 

“Well, you should have come to us starting with that,” Shura wryly replied, eyebrows knitted together, “I counted you among those who wish her harm.”

Shaka shook his head, a pleasant smile plastered on his face—a smile that Shura found too condescending. 

“You are still as shortsighted as you were all those years ago. No, it was far better to talk with Athena first and have her break the news. You will do whatever it takes if it concerns her interest, after all.”

The pressure in the air left with Shaka's departure, though what rolled into their little group was the unrest that rolled along as Saori decided to wait.

At the very least, it was a wait not born out of hesitation—or, that was what he could glean from the drive in Saori's eyes.

“There are preparations to be made before we proceed to our next step,” she started, her eyes gleaming with that quiet determination. Shura wondered just what had the Virgo Saint said to get her riled up like this. “Our destination is the Athena temple beyond the Pope’s chamber. You are the Capricorn Saint, Shura-nii, so I was hoping that you could share with us any information that we can use to our advantage.”

It was a reasonable request, one that Shura had envisioned and rehearsed for so long that the words had been burnt to memory. And yet, Shura couldn't help but close his eyes, as the memories of running through the temples swooped in: greeting each guardian as he passed by, the wind behind his back, the overlooking view of Sanctuary from the temple of the Water Bearer, Aiolos’ grin as he declared that the loser must forfeit their right to tonight's roasted chicken, Aiolos’ laughter when he lost on purpose, Aiolos admitting his defeat and setting aside part of his roasted chicken unto Shura's plate during the trainees' dinner gathering, Aiolos, Aiolos, Aiolos—

Shura let out a quiet sigh and rubbed his brows. “I might need a drink.”

Saori looked apologetic. “Want me to break the old Merlot?”

He thought about those smiles that made his stomach flutter. He also thought about almost bleeding to death with his goddess safely tucked in his arms. 

“Yes,” he muttered again, a bit desperate if he had to confess, “Yes please.”

Thus preparations were made. Countermeasures were planned. Strategies were concocted. Their trusted people were contacted. Shura thought and wrote so many scenarios he could think of that he kept a separate log to refresh his memory.

So of course he had foreseen their guide to the Sanctuary being a turncoat all along. Sagitta Ptolemy looked confused as life left his eyes, bullet-ridden body toppling over after Shura cracked the trick of his shadow arrows. And Shura himself, too, would have put his personal Glock back into its holster when his hair stood on ends, like a sick premonition he had when he walked into the Pope's Chamber—

"Nii-san!!"

—he never knew Saori could move so fast, a billowing white that rushed at him to push him away. There was the smell of lightning, the air supercharged with cosmo, then the sound of something zipping in, lodging unto something.

Saori should have fallen to the ground, given the momentum, but she fell back to him instead, startling Shura so profoundly that he didn't realize the pooling red at first.

The pooling red that drenched Saori's white dress.

The world grew still in his head as he watched Saori spasming in pain in his arms. He barely registered the cacophony of chaos cascading unto him, the bronze saints screeching the name of their patron goddess, and Shura could only cling to the weakening form of his sister, with a golden arrow protruding from Saori's chest—

—and the lingering Cosmo lacing that blasted arrow, one that he recognized so well.

Aiolos’.

Chapter Text

The god-killing arrow. Saori was struck by the god-killing arrow.

Shura had no idea that such a relic existed in modernity, having always believed that it was a thing of fairy tales. But there it was, lodged on his sister's chest, eating away at her Cosmo to inch closer to its intended target: Saori’s heart.

Distantly, Shiryu pleaded for him to loosen his grip on her, so that she had the space to breathe.

(It took him a few moments to ground himself, too—to realize that his breathing had been frantic, his vision too red, his blood boiling with rage. Was it not enough that that man spilled Shura's blood? That he craved for the blood of their sworn patron goddess, too? 

Has everything stayed the same for the last decade?)

He registered that Seiya tentatively reached out for him—for Saori, really—and Shura handed her over… if only to gather his bearings first. Seiya had gently laid her on his lap, by her request, her upper body propped up so that she could breathe.

And the way she looked at him. 

Oh, the way she looked at him as if Shura was about to make the biggest mistake of his life.

“Only the Pope can undo this,” he declared, the boiling rage he had compacted into determination—into a savaged need to destroy. The Pope was also the one who desired Saori's demise, so if he had to resort to violence to get him to comply… Shura was more than ready to cross that line.

Seiya, too, seemed like he was resolute to do just so.

“Then we go to the Sanctuary,” Seiya quickly agreed, as he gently lifted Saori, ready to carry her wherever needed. The rest of the bronze saints, too, straightened their stances in a solid agreement. “We'll climb up and drag the Pope down if we have to.”

Shura acknowledged that determination with a nod.

What he tried to avoid was the worried, pained look that Saori cast at him as they came to this decision. ‘You are being reckless,’ it seemed to say, an unsaid accusation that urged him to rethink a better way.

But the time to run had ended.

Now was the time for retribution.

“Out of respect for your dedication towards Athena, I would not raise my hand against you,” Mu, the Aries Gold Saint, declared upon greeting him and the entourage by the front of the first Temple. “Nor will I impede you in your attempt to make an audience with the Pope. However, not all Gold Saints share the same stance as I do. They will try to stop you where you stand. The least I could do is repair those battered Cloths.”

And just like that, the bronze cloths reassembled upon Mu’s plight, and the Aries Saint issued orders to his apprentice to gather the required materials and to carry the clothes inside (with telekinesis). Mu’s and his glances exchanged briefly, and Shura waited for something to be said: a condemnation, a rebuke, a welcoming—

—Aries Mu simply turned around and said nothing, then walked back into the Temple.

Shura made no fuss about it because it followed with the sound of clanging metals. The Aries Saint was performing his part; it was this fact that drove him to remind the bronze saints that this repair was needed, even if it cost them an hour of the twelve-hour time limit that the fire clock so deftly reminded them.

Saori's hand weakly grasped his knuckle, startling him from his reverie.

“Nii-san,” she urged again, her voice soft and weak and Shura grappled again with the crushing guilt for letting this happen under his nose, “you have to return to me.”

The hammering stopped, filling in the air with silence. The time to depart was finally upon them and Saori was blessing him to go, understanding that even without the Capricorn Cloth by his side… he still must go.

So he kissed the knuckle of her hand in return. There was little that he could offer to reciprocate her benediction, so Shura cast a knowing glance at Tatsumi. ‘Protect her while I'm away, do your duty,’ were the unsaid words that passed—words that the butler, too, knew by heart. He took in the view of the bronze saints who had sworn fealty to her, the determination in their eyes, and the belief that they would succeed.

Something more than just fury-tempered determination filled his heart, infused into the depths of his bone. It must have been faith—

“I promise.”

—and Shura wished not to betray it.

It was Shiryu who hesitated to move forward when Aries Mu raised his hand against Shura, Shiryu who raised his cosmo and declared that he would not leave Shura to duke it out against a Gold Saint by himself.

What a filial child, no wonder Roushi adored the boy.

“Move along, Xiao Long,” he drawled. Shiryu stiffened where he stood, eyes wide and ready to defy his words.

As much as he wanted to see how stubborn the boy was when their goddess was concerned, he did not need the Dragon Saint taking his blows courtesy of Aries’ Crystal Wall. Shura scoffed and flared his Cosmo. “Go. This is Gold Saints' business.”

Shiryu left with utmost hesitance.

“Roushi’s beloved disciple is fond of you,” the Aries Saint pensively noted. It irked at the edge of Shura's senses, an almost condescension that reminded him of a certain blond man, but he wrapped that irritation under a glare. 

Mu frowned, his Cosmo simmering and bright like the Crystal Wall behind him. “I’m afraid that I'll have to break his heart, or that you'll break his with your hubris if you insist on pressing on. Only Saints may pass, Shura. A renegade who is already abandoned by his Cloth like you has no business beyond this Temple.”

Chapter Text

‘It hurts, it stings, it hurts, it stings—’

Those were the words that passed through his head during one of the training sessions when he had just started his saint-to-be training. Shura twisted his ankle and didn’t know better, too proud even to cry from pain and alert his caretaker that something was wrong. When his swollen ankle became too much to hide, Aiolos noticed it, face paling under the full moon when they were walking for the trainees' dinner to be held in the Temple of Aquarius.

He had swept Shura off his feet, then, and Shura was the talk of the whole Sanctuary after said man dragged him to the caretaker, and had a small dinner in their company instead.

His ankle still stung, but that was also the first time his stomach fluttered from the sight of his senior’s smile and sincere care. 

The hurt didn’t feel as bad afterward.

‘Hurts hurts hurts hurts hurts—’

There was a hole in his chest, made by the same man who set his stomach aflutter. He was dying, but his goddess was safe in his arms, so he kept putting one foot after another. Every part of his body ached, every part of his body grew numb, every part of his body felt cold—

—but they all paled in comparison to the blight in his heart that set his thoughts to flames. Aiolos did this. Aiolos dared to. 

‘Aiolos, Aiolos, Aiolos, Aiolos.’

Nothing compared to this betrayal of trust.

‘Pain pain pain pain—’

Excalibur was a technique bestowed upon the most loyal to the goddess, wielded by one with utmost conviction. It was not for one with poor mastery of the self, for those lacking the discipline swiftly fell off the path of righteousness. It was not for one with too many doubts in themselves, too ridden with them that they couldn't discern right and wrong.

It was not for one whose choices were made for their own sake.

But Shura felt the hope Saori—Athena—instilled in him, so he burned his Cosmo, burned it so thoroughly so that it might. Sharpen, sharpen, sharpen, into a blade that almost robbed him of his arm. Even as it hurt him, even as it pulled his arm apart, even when the pain trumped his grief over the greatest betrayal of his life—

‘You have to return to me.’

—how could it compare to seeing Saori—the goddess, the sister—wither from that god-slaying arrow, waiting for her death?

The air tasted like steel, like compressed thunder, like burning air—and when Shura’s arm moved to slash the Crystal Wall behind the Aries Saint, it tasted like golden stardust.

For a man who had just lost the fight, Aries Mu’s expression looked too soft. “I was afraid that you’ve become unworthy of bearing it.”

There were too many implications behind Mu’s comment—too many for Shura to think over, but at least he was mostly sure that Shaka was in with this man.

Shura lifted his head, his expression unreadable. “Had you been serious, the wall would have stayed. One look and I know that you've put much effort into mastering the art.”

Mu just shook his head, a satisfied smile on his lips. “This art exists to protect Athena and her devout followers from our enemies, much like yours exists to open the path for her warriors to push forward.” He frowned, “much like how Aiolos’ should have guided us to where we should go.”

A meager part of him, the one that still questioned why that night happened the way it did, quivered at the mention of that man's name. But Shura drew himself into that depth, the faith that his sister had for him, and replied sternly, “All the wrongs that he had committed must be set right. It's why we are all here—”

He shut up when he felt the slight tremor in spirit, the Cosmos belonging to the bronze saints flickering before they were flung to the ends of space somewhere around the Temple of Gemini.

Shura instantly paled.

“Go,” Mu urged, belying a panic that he too was trying to hide, “they need all the help they can get. I shall stay and look over Athena as well.”

The Capricorn Saint gave him a curt, thankful nod and rushed to the exit.

Chapter Text

The fact that Taurus Aldebaran laid one look at him and let him pass was proof that Shaka must have pulled strings.

Granted, the Taurus Saint appeared to be ready to stop him (Shura was ready to brandish Excalibur in retaliation). But a moment passed, and Aldebaran hummed as if he had found what he was looking for in Shura and deemed it satisfactory.

“You may pass,” he simply declared, walking back to the first step of the stairs of the Temple of Taurus. 

The sheer incredulity of the situation alone made Shura blurt his thoughts out. “Just like that? Not even a taste of the Taurean Great Horn?”

There was an amused smirk on the Taurus Saint's face as he showed the piece of broken horn to him—the piece from the Taurus Gold Cloth itself. Shura could sense the lingering Cosmo branded on that golden piece—Seiya's.

He didn't realize that he had been holding his breath as the truth dawned on him. “The boy—Pegasus tapped into the Seventh Sense, didn't he?”

“For a brief moment, yes,” Aldebaran confirmed, pride mixed with uncertainty painted on his face. Worry passed through that firm face too, when they both sensed the flickering Cosmo of the Dragon Saint past the Temple of Gemini.

Shura's stomach dropped. Aldebaran might have seen the anxiety on his face as clear as day.

“Go,” he stated again. “They can't go through the Temples with luck alone.”

The truth had never sounded so dreadful in his ears. Nevertheless, Shura affirmed it, throwing a respectful look at the gold saint, before he continued with his climb.

The Temple of Gemini was quiet.

Shura remembered the days he strolled through it, with Aiolos by his side more often than not. He might be expected to bear the Capricorn Gold Cloth soon in the future, but as long as he was still a trainee, any passages made must be with the supervision of a gold saint or, at least, parties that had gained the approval of the Pope himself.

Whenever they made their trek to the top, the Temple had always been quiet. But it wasn't without signs of life; Aiolos would come inside and greet the empty halls as if its guardian was present, and Shura would notice the shift in the air, in the Cosmo, as if the Temple had a will of its own and acknowledged Aiolos’ greeting.

Shura tried doing it once when he was finally worthy of wielding his armor, but no such shift happened whenever he greeted the usually absent guardian when he passed by. Gemini Saga’s presence among the junior saints was scarce when he was admitted, and it continued to be so up until Shura's run-away.

And now that the Capricorn had returned, the Temple of Gemini felt as empty as ever—save for the lonely Gemini Cloth in the middle of the room, alone and masterless.

Shura didn't even want to think about the implications of seeing it. He could think of why a Cloth sat there without its owner: rejection from the cloth, death of the bearer—

—or simply that it was a trap meant for Shura, because the moment he touched the damn thing, he felt a familiar Cosmo blaring from the golden cloth, sensing the space compressing and warping around himself. Before he could even brace himself, it dragged him—away from the desolation of the Gemini Temple into the endless dimension that opened up infinitely beneath his feet.

Maybe it was a trick of the eye, but he thought he saw the tears running down from one of the Cloth's faces before the path to the Temple closed off—before Shura was ultimately flung into Another Dimension.

By any thinkable means, Shura should have been dead. 

The only reason that he's not—well, again, he might have underestimated the depth of Shaka’s mastery of Cosmo, because he knew that it was his Cosmo that extended into the unending dimension, pulling Shura from the wormhole that would have sent him to oblivion… into another.

When he landed on the marble floor atypical to the Temples of Sanctuary, he had instinctively recognized just which one.

It was—he didn't expect it to be littered with sculptures of human faces.

Nor did he expect the person before him to stand and be the guardian of this Temple specifically. And by the looks of it, the man guarding the Temple of Cancer looked just as surprised as himself.

“Well, what do we have here… is today the day of resurrection or something?” The man drawled, still with that heavy Italian accent that Shura recognized. They did their saint training together for a short while when they were all still naive children with dreams of protecting the world by serving their goddess.

Salvatore’s eyes used to shine with much determination too, like Shura's own. Now they looked at him as if he was the greatest offender deserving his due punishment. The spiking Cosmo that gathered on the tip of his finger, too, might as well bore the ill wills of the world.

“Sal?”

He thought that he saw the face of the current Cancer Saint’s broke into—something. But it disappeared quickly, like a candlelight flickering out in the darkness as its life expired, and was replaced with derisive smirk.

“The name's Deathmask now. Been awhile since I last heard people calling me that,” he replied, pointing his finger at Shura, “...why do I even bother telling this when I'm sending a traitor back to the Underworld anyway?”

Before Shura could even speak, he could feel the severing of himself—could feel himself leaving his body, see it falling to the marble of the Temple—and the pressure throwing him apart as he was ejected once again to the ends of space.

Chapter Text

For the short moment that he spent with Salvatore and Aphrodite, Shura found that they were acceptable presences. 

He wouldn't say that they were tight-knit—Shura’s stubbornness always left Aphrodite clicking his tongue with disdain and Salvatore with scuffs from their amicable sparring—but they tolerated him enough to sit by his sides during dinner, or when they were training together.

Sometimes it meant that they pushed Shura to defend themselves before Aiolos’ stern lecture, for they all knew that the man had a soft spot for the soon-to-be Capricorn Saint.

Then came their knighting ceremony. The celebration. The laughter. The fateful night. Shura's supposed death as a deserter.

He was wrong, he thought, as he rose to his feet while tasting the ash and death in the air. Salvatore showed this view to him once, when they were still newly knighted. He had falsely assumed that nothing had changed between them years after Shura's supposed, undignified death. Some old faces from his old life and already he fell prey to sentimentality.

It's hard not to when the man, along with Aphrodite, were among the few people he was somewhat comfortable with—from his old life. But judging by how quickly the former threw him into the entrance of the Underworld, he must assume that there was nothing left of what meager camaraderie they had in the past.

Time sure had changed things.

Shura felt the distant Cosmo belonging to Shiryu, flickering like inflamed wick yet so fine like glimmering stardust. Seventh Sense. 

His shidi, who continued to sharpen his Cosmo again and again—

—Shiryu was fighting.

So Shura put one foot forward after another and remembered to breathe; he was still alive, he still had a shidi whom he had to get to, and he still had to save Saori.

Halfway through, he felt Saori's cosmos reaching out to him, appealing to him to follow her back to the Land of the Living.

Shura gently refused her plight. A while ago, Shiryu's cosmo flickered in and out—not quite losing its luster, but rather escaping the confines of space before returning or being yanked back to this gate of hell.

‘Do you know what's happening?’

She went quiet for a moment, but maintained the steadiness of her presence. ‘I tried leading Shiryu out of here, but the Cancer Saint keeps sending him back here.’

Of course, the guy would do just that. Shura started running towards the direction of Shiryu's flickering Cosmo, burning finer and sharper. 

‘Do you trust me to bring him back?’

Saori seemed taken aback by the question, a flicker of concern in her Cosmo. It was unlike a doubt, but rather a reminder that even as Athena, she could always rely on him like old times. 

‘Of course, brother.’

‘Then return and conserve your strength. Wait for me.’

Her presence left him, but not without a murmur of blessing that made his whole body warm: Athena’s cosmos lingered within him, though it slowly trickled away like sand falling in an hourglass, and gave him the strength that made pushing forward lighter.

Shiryu's Cosmo slowly diminished in the distance, weakening before the might of his old acquaintance’. 

Shura picked up his pace.

The gate of hell—Yomotsu Hirosaka—was oppressive even during his first visit with Capricorn Cloth donned. Now that Shura was without it, halfway trekking through the ashen hill itself already made his breathing difficult. Thus, when he finally reached the front of the gate, Shura arrived with short breaths and sore thighs and—

—and Salvatore briefly gaping at the view, followed by the man's kick connecting with his chest. His surroundings spun and twisted, twinning with the Cancer Saint's derisive laughter and Shiryu's shrill shout for his name.

“You hurried here!! I wonder why the Dragon brat’s Cosmo felt familiarly sharp,” the man snickered, his tone borderline hysterical, “It was you!”

His earache roared and his joints and ligaments screamed at the strain from the mere act of standing up and steadying his form. Shura gritted his teeth through the pain, however, driven by the gut feeling that was pricked by that emphasis on Salvatore’s accusation—of something that Shura instinctively knew that he was missing.

“I’ve played little in his development,” he wheezed—a mistake, for the air suddenly tasted like iron, so much so that Shura coughed. There was no blood, not when they were all just spirits in this realm, but the very air he breathed might as well taste like it. “Ev-everything that he has achieved… it is by his merit.”

There was a blur, and only when he took notice of the billowing black that was Shiryu’s hair did Shura realize this series of events: Salvatore had closed in for the kill; Shiryu had thrown himself between him and the man; the Cancer Saint delivered a supposed killing blow that would have slain Shura on the spot, and; their only saving grace was Shiryu’s Dragon Shield, now cracked under the heavy blow.

“You were always a stubborn little shit, back then. I just never imagined that you’re stubborn enough to come back from death,” Salvatore exclaimed, hands reaching out for the collar of his shirt. Shura flailed pathetically—an exercise of futility as the mand dragged him, bringing him nearer to the chasm of no return.

“Hell, you must be one spiteful bastard! To be shot by Aiolos, of all people, and live for so long—”

He didn't understand, couldn't fathom the change in character of this man who was supposed to be a fond acquaintance. Time changed people, and yet Shura's thoughts couldn't help but rewinding to those halcyon days—and Salvatore's spite mismatched the images in his memory, nor was the hatred in his eyes as his face inched closer against Shura's.

‘Can a person change so much?’

“—guess you're not as saintly as they make you be.”

Salvatore lifted him like a ragdoll, fully intending to throw him into hell.

Then Shura saw light: green like water and sharp like a blade, slicing through tendons and ligaments and bones—

—and then he heard Salvatore's howls of pain, his own body crashing against the ground with a loud thud, Shiryu’s crystal clear threat:

“Only you, Deathmask!! I will cut you down where you stand, for hurting Shunrei and Shura-gege!”

When he chanced a good look at the Dragon Saint, all he saw and sensed was the teen's Cosmo burning with rage and purity, sharpening into a blade—

—sharpening into Amagire.

Chapter Text

It was ridiculous, the way Salvatore simply reattached his torn limb as if Shiryu had not slashed it clean prior. The Cancer Saint had the gall to look so smug about it, flexing his wrist and arm as if to further convince them that the view before them was real.

In this damned gate to hell, where only the soul existed, if the will of the person was just that strong… Miracles like this could easily come to pass. This was what young Salvatore demonstrated to Shura when they were still comrades-in-arms: the former made minor cuts on his arm, only for them to heal immediately.

Shura didn't expect Salvatore's will to be so driven that it could fix a mutilated limb.

(“It takes a will of steel, you know?” Salvatore explained fire in his eyes and warmth in his grin, “You have to be so determined and stubborn, so incensed that you wish to punch death in the face. …Hmm, come to think about it, that stubbornness of yours could have made you a candidate for the Cancer cloth. Well too bad, Shura, I'm nabbing it first, wahahaha!”

He remembered Salvatore’s laughter, annoying and prideful, an offense to his ears. But it was also frank and light, too, unsubtle and blunt like a rock. The Capricorn cloth would have liked him for it Shura had wanted to say, but the boy was already dragging by the arm, telling him that they should return to the realm of the living before the Pope became aware of their little unauthorized excursion.)

“As expected of a Gold Saint,” Shura grunted, pulling at Shiryu’s arm so that he could rise back to his feet. The latter had responded in kind, helping Shura get up, except that it also made the sinews on his ribs pull—ribs that were probably broken from Salvatore's unkind kick.

Shura hissed from the pain, one that he eventually realized was more than physical. Already he could feel the drag, the weariness on himself—on his soul.

Salvatore might have grown up to be an asshole, but he mastered the Cancer’s art well.

“Well, he doesn't act like one,” Shiryu coldly interjected, words dripping with disdain. “That man only serves his interest. He kills innocent lives, takes their souls, and makes trophies out of them.”

Shura remembered the faces carved in the walls of the Cancer temple, the dread pooling at the base of his stomach spreading, seeping into the cracks on what remaining faith he had in his fellow Gold Saint. 

He's an asshole, yes, but surely Sal would never cross that line—

“You know what, I hate it, that stubborn face of yours,” Salvatore drawled, shaking Shura from his weary thoughts. There was loath on Salvatore’s expression, as clear as day, so confounding that it made Shura try to reconcile again the boy in his memory and the man that he had become. “Stubbornly believing that we're all set to do good. But I know better, Shura! I know better than you, what kind of place you – what we call the Sanctuary!”

It was a bellow that sent chills down his spine, one that drew the attention of the undead legion around them—Shura had not noticed them gathering in the first place. And when he looked at those faces closely, he realized, with utmost dread, that they had the same faces as the ones on the walls of the Temple of Cancer.

“It is where the strong rules and the weak crumble,” Salvatore waved, detestation warping into glee, “Now die a weakling and never return, Shura!”

And like marionettes on their strings, the legion of undead sluggishly moved forward, aiming for the damnation of his—and Shiryu's—soul.

Shiryu's right.

Shiryu's damn right, his point proven over and over again with every dead soul desperately flinging themselves against him—a pitiful attempt to kill him—and Shura simply shoved them off, one and two and another. Each time they flailed away and failed, dropping to the ground and being stepped on by the others who moved forward to replace them, Shura heard the whispers: ‘It hurts it hurts it hurts please save me save me let me go’.

‘let us go.’

It dawned on him then, upon hearing the wails of these souls, that they were kept here—suffering, tormented, damned—on Salvatore's whim—

—and when he saw Deathmask's knowing, grinning face, all Shura saw was red.

But all that Shura could hear right after… was Shiryu's cry of outrage. “Deathmask!!”

Then came the launch, a trail of Cosmo that burnt to the seventh sense, as Shiryu waged another fight against the boy once named Salvatore.

“Cancer Cloth!! Can't you hear the cries of these people?! Why are you still defending this man's injustice?”

He wondered if Shiryu realized the strength in his voice, filled with such conviction that it had stopped the poor souls around them from advancing. Maybe it had moved the will of the Cancer Cloth too, so much that it disassembled, returning to its dormant form—a downright rejection against his former owner.

It certainly made the Cancer Saint furious.

“Bah, I don't need a Cloth to send you to the depths, boy!!” He screeched, making his stance. Shura gritted his teeth at the view; Sekishiki Meikai-Ha was a technique meant to send souls to the mouth of the Underworld. If the man unleashed it here, would it send them into the depths? Judging from the triumphant smirk that Salvatore wore on his face, it would seem like it, the faded blue light of his Cosmo dancing like purgatorial flames. “After I’m done with you, I'll send that ghost back to his tomb!!”

And yet, it pales in comparison to the brightness of Shiryu’s Cosmo, burning like jade, flowing like the running water of Goroho, sharpening like the edge of a blade—

“I will prove to you that justice shall prevail here, Deathmask!”

—and Shura knew the result before they even clashed against each other, before Salvatore’s Cosmo blipped under the pressure, before that man was pushed back to the edge and fell into the depths of the Underworld.

It had become a battle of resilience, after all; Salvatore simply lost it somewhere during the battle, and Shiryu triumphed because of it.

Chapter Text

When they found themselves back in the familiar hall of the Temple of Cancer, it was to a squirming Shiryu on the ground, left arm helplessly reaching for his right as if the gesture was enough to deter the pain.

Shura wasted not another moment to tend to him, helping him to sit up and lean on the wall. Shiryu’s right arm looked normal in passing but the teen screamed upon the gentlest trace of Shura’s fingers down the troubled arm. He cursed under his breath; he was not good at healing arts, but at the very least he knew bits about pain suppression. So he burned his Cosmo, channeling it from his palm into Shiryu's arm.

It should work; this technique, too, was what made his journey through Praesepe bearable after all.

“...this Cosmo… Roushi?”

Shura almost shook the boy for that comment alone, only to realize that there was a hint of familiar Cosmo reaching out for him and Shiryu both. 

“Glad that you two made it out alive,” Roushi remarked, a hint of relief in his voice—relief that was short-lived and quickly transformed into sternness. “What happened to your arm, Shiryu?”

Roushi might have thrown the question at his disciple, but Shura felt the underlying ire directed at him. The Old Master knew, in that single moment, and Shura took a deep breath as he prepared himself.

“Your pupil is a genius, Roushi,” he relayed, deciding that maybe praising Shiryu's outstanding feat would have shielded him from further scrutiny. His hand glowed green as Shura applied the pain-killing arts on Shiryu's troubled arm. It was a brief thing, and Shura noted the more relieved expression on Shiryu's face as the art took effect. Good. “He managed the first step to master Excalibur.”

There was a long pause following Shura's explanation, but perhaps it was more profound when Shiryu looked at him with wide-eyed disbelief. Shura could see the questions in his eyes—

—pupils that widen and register the sight around him. Pupils belonging not to a blind man.

“Shiryu,” he breathed out, throat tight with relief. “Your sight... it's back.”

That pair of eyes blinked, shocked and awe mixed as the teen rubbed his eyes again. Shiryu blinked again, and this time, he looked back at Shura with confusion as much as gratefulness. “...how? Why?”

“Your battle with Deathmask enabled you to burn your Cosmo to the highest level. Naturally it stimulated your life force and healed your eyes,” Roushi supplied, his attention affixed to Shiryu… and yet Shura could feel the weight of accusation from Master's figurative glare on him, “and perhaps, because of this, too, that you can unleash a technique borne by the Capricorn Saints.”

Shun caught up with them not long after they wrapped up their communication with the Old Master. He would have updated him right then if not for the sudden burst of Cosmo from the direction of the Temple of Leo alerted them, especially when they realized that it was Seiya's.

They pressed forward.

It didn't mean that Shura was letting the Dragon Saint slide from questions that he should have shot earlier.

“I have never shown you the form, Shiryu,” Shura shot the question without preamble, “but you successfully brandished Amagire.”

(Amagire was. It was not Excalibur, per se. The Capricorn Cloth whispered about the many endeavors that the Capricorn Saints of old explored. Amagire was among them, a truant blade that breaks as easily as it reforms.

It fitted Shiryu, he thought, in a way that it can be reforged anew, that flavor of resilience and stubbornness that Shiryu possessed.)

When he chanced a glance at the teen, Shiryu only looked back at him with that puzzled look.

“But Shura-ge, you did show me the form once,” he replied, “it was when you were visiting Goroho… You were wearing the Capricorn Gold Cloth and performing on the spot when you showed me how to burn my Cosmo for the first time.”

Shura had not donned the Capricorn Cloth ever since that fateful night.

The mere idea of it scalded him. Even then, he instinctively knew that he wasn't worthy of the Cloth, even when it did not rebuke him for retaliating back with hatred. 

He wanted to say to Shiryu that it couldn't be him, the one who imparted that knowledge.

But then came the burst of Cosmo, the taste of supercharged air, and the flickering Cosmo that belonged to Seiya.

He shook his head and started running again, signaling the others to follow close.

There was not much to do about it now. He just had to save the conversation when they reached the Temple of Capricorn—

—Amagire was once El Cid's sword, after all.

Chapter Text

Seiya flew.

Or rather, Seiya was kicked out of the Temple so harshly that the force sent him flying out of the Temple of Leo. Fortunately, Shura sensed the incoming quickly enough to instruct Shun and Shiryu both to catch the teen.

Said Pegasus’ state wasn’t a pretty sight either. Even while being propped by his fellow bronze saints, Seiya barely could stand on his feet. There were gashes on his limbs—on every open part of his body, really. Some parts of his armor were singed, turning the underlying alloy reddish and scarred. It was as if Seiya was struck by lightning and barely dodged the fatal strike.

By all means, Seiya should have been dead. That he was hanging by at all, even after facing the might of Lightning Bolt, meant that…

Shura held his breath and shook his head, steeling himself as he stood up. He was too busy surviving Salvatore’s ordeal a short while ago. Now that the Temple of Leo was within his line of sight, it dawned on him that the moment he had been waiting for was at hand.

Leo Aiolia, after all, had been a big part of his old life.

“Come, this is not the time to fear,” Shura steadily declared, as though he was reassuring the bronzes. If it was more to convince and steady himself, the bronze saints needed not to know. “Athena needs us.”

Stepping into this Temple in particular… brought back memories.

He remembered Aiolia as the younger brother to Aiolos, a presence almost akin to his older brother: eyes shining with chivalry, bearings brimming with confidence, and a Cosmo burning with pride. He was a promising trainee; Aiolos prided him for his brightness, while the rest of the dwellers of Sanctuary envied his talent.

So Shura wasn't surprised that, right after they stepped into the hall, Aiolia’s fist of lightning missed his head by hair-breadth. A scare.

Much like how his brother never missed his mark, Leo Aiolia, too, never missed his strike.

Judging by the wilted look that the Leo Saint cast on him, it seemed that Leo Aiolia had the ghosts that he had battled against for so long.

“Impossible,” Aiolia whispered faintly, as if any louder would have made his demons materialize. Shura heard the words nonetheless, each of them rekindling the insipid hope that the Leo Saint might see reason, might be swayed to see their righteous path; that he could be convinced to let them pass through the Temple without much fight. “You're supposed to be dead.”

When he saw fury mixed with sorrow in those eyes, Shura killed that hope and steeled himself, offering a smug smirk in provocation instead. “Long time no see, Aiolia. Intent to clean up after your brother?”

They were close, once upon a time.

Aiolia was the brother to the person whom he adored (Shura swore never to proclaim this out loud), and Shura was the junior to that person too. Of course, their paths crossed whenever Aiolos was too tied up with his responsibilities to give guidance to his brother (‘it’s not a brother-sitting duty, as Salvatore once pointed out, Shura…’), so much so that the man asked a favor to look after Aiolia instead. What was once a session became two, and more; sometimes Aiolos would be there too, and this is how they became fast friends—before Shura's life as he knew ended, at least.

It was also how he got to know how Aiolia worked. It was not once or twice that he gave him pointers on the basics of their martial arts, nor the moments he noticed how Aiolia favored using his left limbs, not the fact Shura knew that the man favored centering himself low on the center—

—he once taught this man, after all.

So it wasn't a surprise to Shura—to either of them, really—when he avoided Leo's Lightning Plasma, launching himself as quickly as he saw an opening and then leaping to deliver a cosmo-enforced round kick to the man's head down to the ground.

Too easy. Too easy. 

Unless Aiolia wasn't as composed as he projected.

“You're distracted, Aiolia,” Shura chided, that insipid hope—of Aiolia being amicable enough to listen to his plight—tasted less like iron and more like honey. Perhaps some things didn't change as much as he presumably believed; perhaps Salvatore was the anomaly, and Aiolia the norm. “It has been a decade and you still fall for this trick?”

The man coughed with great difficulty, muffled by the cracked floor of the Temple. He was trying to speak, probably, or maybe gathering his crushed bearings and whatever was left of his pride from that single blow. Shura felt a twinge of pity at the thought of it—at the sight of Aiolia wincing as he slowly got back to his feet. He had expected fury plastered on the man's face, but the heartfelt sorrow caught him by surprise.

“You're real. You're real and alive,” he muttered again as if trying to convince himself again that the Shura that kicked him down was no ghost. Then, Aiolia's expression steeled, and what came out of his mouth afterward made the pieces fall in place: “I didn't believe it when Shaka told me… It is you.”

Chapter Text

Aiolia decided to come along.

Shura thought that his once-junior had lost his head.

“We already caused enough commotion here,” he hissed, Shaka's words reverberating in his skull. ‘Our enemies in the Sanctuary must not know that the supporters of Athena walk among them,’  was what he was told, and nothing screamed more of that than a Gold Saint leaving his supposed post during this operation. “If you start making trouble, it'll only make my trek harder.”

“Don’t get the wrong idea, Shura,” Aiolia growled, with a hostility that triumphed over his attempt to dice Shura with Lighting Plasma. “I need to hear an explanation from the man who spared you.”

Had they not been rushing on their ascent, Shura would have stopped and gaped. The words, filled with ire and confusion both, threw every presumption he had about this man out the window.

“You don't intend to stop us?”

Aiolia's silence spoke volumes, even when it only spanned for a brief moment. His quiet admittance afterward, however, was the damning evidence that Shura had presumed wrongly: “A person like you would rather perish than abandon Athena. And if you have been by her side all this time… Then who have I and my brother been fighting for all these years?”

Seiya insisted that he could walk for himself, telling them that he had rested enough. One look at him and Shura knew that the teen ran on pure stubbornness.

And that stubbornness, too, was what made him jump off Shiryu's back (he had offered to carry the barely-conscious teen), not far from the entrance to Temple of Virgo. Seiya had stumbled on his feet, a flash of pain crossing his visage, and that was the moment when Shura decided to interfere—

—Aiolia had jumped in first, however.

Shura had to stop himself from intervening. He had not sensed any ill-intent when the Leo Saint moved, and this fact remained so when said man proceeded to grab Seiya—to steady the teen more than to hurt him—and did a quick check. Then came the sincere apologies, Seiya's guffawing as Aiolia burned his Cosmo to heal, the pout and frown from said bronze Saint, and, finally, a muttered ‘thank-you’ at the man who caused the problem in the first place.

Truly a curious person, this Pegasus Saint.

They continued with their trek, all of them easily spotting the Virgo Saint waiting by the entrance. Shaka looked beaming, for a Gold Saint who was supposed to keep the intruders at bay. Then again, if Shura were the one manning the Temple, knowing that the envoys who supported Athena had grown in number, he wouldn't be able to hide his giddiness too.

“I am satisfied that you decided to side with righteousness, Aiolia,” the Virgo Saint didn't even give said man the space to deny that accusation. Shaka gave each of them a once-over, a frown briefly passing through his visage, one that quickly took over his expression as a whole. He had briefly laid his gaze on the direction of the clock tower, and Shura instantly understood Shaka’s sudden discomfort. “Come, there's no time to waste. We have to reach the Pope's Chamber soon.”

The fire on the Virgo sign died when they departed for Temple of Virgo, but Shaka joining the entourage eased some of his anxieties, at least.

After all, he was also the Gold Saint dubbed “the man closest to god”. With him in their entourage, who could stop them?

The bronzes’ surprised outcry was understandable.

The Temple of Libra should have been devoid of life, Roushi’s lingering Cosmo aside. Thus, when they arrived and were greeted by the view of a block of ice in the middle of the Temple hall, questions popped into Shura's head—

—questions that became moot when he realized that it was more than just a block of ice. It was a freezing coffin. In it was the Cygnus saint, and the faint Cosmo that lingered on the surface of this travesty (this magnificence) was none other than the Aquarius Gold Saint.

Shura wanted to balk. 

There were rumors around the Aquarius Saint that he was a cold-hearted man, a walking model of precision and ingenuity. He knew that he and those who followed Saori were challenging the authority of the Pope; facing Hyoga’s teacher, too, was one consequence amongst many that they had to face eventually.

‘But for that man to go and murder his disciple like this…!’

He didn't have time to contemplate over this gaping view, however; Aiolia's Lightning Plasma shook him from his stupor, making him want to punch his junior for this recklessness. The only reason Shura didn't react just as so was, as the icy dust settled among them, how the ice coffin remained intact.

“It appears that that man has perfected it,” Aiolia growled, “there’s no getting out for your friend.”

“Not necessarily so, no.”

All eyes were quickly on Shaka, impeccable and serene still even as Shura felt the unknown, approaching force, coming from the outside—

—as if heeding their wishes to liberate their comrade, the Libra Cloth appeared before them in a flash of golden light. The edge of Shaka's lips tilted as he made a respectful bow, and only then did Shura realize Roushi's quiet presence at the backdrop of his mind. It vanished when Shura focused his attention as if the Old Master was running from a sweeping gaze.

Considering what happened in the Temple of Cancer, he supposed minimal contact served better for them. For all the uproars their ascent had brought them so far, it was localized to the Twelve-Temples area—and Shura preferred to keep things that way.

Nonetheless, the Libra Cloth was still there, glinting gold in its glory, Shaka standing next to it as he serenely turned to face them.

“The Libra Weapons should be able to break him out of that icy containment,” Shaka explained, his gaze finally laid down on Roushi's beloved pupil. Shura instantly had a terrible feeling about this. “The better question is whether you have what it takes to wield one and break Cygnus out without killing him, Dragon Shiryu.”

Chapter Text

There was tension in the air, and Shura blamed this so-called ‘man closest to god’ for instigating it.

Even if the matter-of-fact delivery was unintentional—Shiryu would have to be the one to pick a weapon and break the coffin still, no matter how the news was delivered—Shaka could have told the teen not so callously. Now, they were faced with a contemplative Shiryu, who was testing the weapons and explaining to his friends how each weapon served different use; that the Libra Saint, the adjudicator among the Gold Saints, was entrusted to wield them where necessary, and, thus, was expected to make a fair decision.

Despite the calm and collected exterior, Shura could sense Shiryu's cosmo wavering in indecision.

He shot a glare at Shaka, who frowned upon his dissatisfaction. “I can sense your agitation even with my eyes closed, Shura. Why are you upset?”

“You're putting unnecessary pressure on the boy,” he chided, brows furrowing. “You could have been encouraging and reassuring. Instead, you chose to be forceful, providing an illusion of choice when there's no choice at all.”

The frown turned into a smirk of amusement. Aiolia looked at him as if he had grown a second head.

However, Shura didn't immediately react to their querying look, opting to wait for either of them to respond. And respond Shaka did, if only with a peal of laughter tinted with glee.

“Oh, Shura, his presence grows on you, doesn't it?” Shaka cajoled, in that soft voice of his. It's making Shura regret his inquiry. “I remember that you'd never give the kid glove to Aiolia when he trained with you. Now, a mere ‘push’ from me, and you're coming to his defense. Long ago, I would never even dare to imagine you care.”

The comment shouldn't have stung at all… But it did. Years ago, when he lived among them, all of his attention and dedication were to master Excalibur. It was the way forward to serve Athena, he believed. And to achieve that, other people are distractions, businesses that he shouldn't be interfering with—

—at least, until Aiolos dropped Aiolia when the man was on a busy schedule. Or when Aphrodite convinced him to go to Rodorio and seek the view with him. Or that time when Salvatore dragged him to the mouth of the Underworld to show him tricks solely available to the Cancer Saints.

“We're pressed on time already. Xi—Shiryu doesn't need the extra pressure,” he defended, even when the argument felt weak. From the edge of his vision, Aiolia still stared at him as if Shura had turned into a monster that he did not recognize.

…at least, in that man's eyes, he's no longer a target worth vanquishing, if he decided to respond to Shura's argument.

“You’ve changed, Shura,” he started, the tone of his voice outlandishly tentative, “you were never one to treat others with kid gloves. …Heh, you never cut me some slack either, and yet here we are.”

“Oh, but Aiolia, I do think that you're incorrect,” Shaka interjected. Briefly, Shura thought he heard a trace of disappointment in the man's voice. The smile that plastered his face, however, made that impression fleeting—a distraction from the glint of gold from the Libra blade that Shiryu had chosen among the assortment of weapons before him.

Shiryu, whose Cosmo shone brightly, unhindered by pressure nor challenges, flowing around him like rushing water—

“Shura never changed, you see,” the Virgo Saint continued, “he's still bad at seeing what a person could have become, the potential of a person given the right push.”

—and when that teen swung the sword, the frozen coffin cracking and bursting into steam, Shura stood in muted awe.

Cygnus Hyoga was dying.

That, in itself, was a tremendous feat on its own. The freezing coffin meant a case to seal the dead; that the Cygnus Saint was stubborn enough to cling to the remains of his life spoke of his grit.

But what surprised him more was how Shun stepped forward and offered to revitalize the frozen teen by burning his Cosmo to the brink.

“That's a crazy idea,” he had interjected without missing a beat, “you'll be draining your life too—”

“He won't be. I'll stay with Andromeda and oversee the process,” Shaka easily interjected back, still maintaining the serene smile that made Shura want to punch him. Given how beneficial this arrangement is, however, Shura opted to hold his tongue and straighten himself.

“Catch up with us when you're done,” Shura replies tersely instead, taking in the view of those three again. “Saori would be sad if you were to fall, too.”

“Shura-san…” he heard the Andromeda weakly speak, but whatever words the teen wanted to say had been, once more, interjected by the Virgo Saint, who was waving his in a gesture to shoo them away.

“Go,” Shaka urged, his voice distant as if he was both here and somewhere else—as if he was perceiving a great danger that needed to be weathered. It sent chills down Shura's spine, which evoked a bad taste in his mouth. “Athena needs you.”

“Is it alright to leave Shun with that guy?” Seiya prompted as they continued their ascent. Shura presumed that this was why the Pegasus Saint opted to run next to him: to ask for answers.

“We can trust Shaka, his eccentricity aside,” Shura affirmed. From the edge of his vision, he saw the worry on Shiryu's expression melt away. “Saori trusts him, my opinion notwi—”

It felt like an itch now, the bad taste in his mouth that he had carried after exiting the Temple of Libra. It was a dissonant feeling that forced him to be alert, that something was wrong somewhere, and Shura had only realized what when Aiolia, who was leading their run, suddenly stopped, looked to the sky—

—and screamed, “TAKE COVER!!”

Then he saw them, the bright lights flying from the direction of the Sagittarius Temple, rushing in an arch… Towards them. Shura knew what they were, and understood that they meant certain death. His body was already on the move to kick both Shiryu and Seiya to the side—and straighten his form.

This was what went through his head: he was the sword that protects, the blade that never breaks.

And when Excalibur was launched, a sweeping force that collided against the myriad arrows of light aimed for their lives, those thoughts singled out into one voice: ‘I am here to cut through and make the path.’

(‘And if Aiolos stood in their way, then—’)

Shura stomped the thoughts away, along with the myriads of grief that entailed and steeled himself. This was no time for sentimentality; he had known that this moment was coming, this eventual faceoff beyond the Temple of Scorpio. “We have to hurry.”

Chapter Text

The Temple of Scorpio that lay before was devoid of life.

Shura was prepared for a fight against the Scorpio Saint guarding the Temple, his near-useless arm aside. But now that they were inside the building after that narrow escape, he chose to count his blessings. He would have sighed in relief from this little reprieve. Still, the moment he heard the sound of clashing blows right above the Temple, he knew they were quickly faced with another problem: how to make their way to the Temple of Sagittarius without becoming its guardian’s pincushions.

The tug on his sword arm made him hiss… and realize that there was so much the effect of cosmo-induced painkillers could support him before it failed.

“We need to stop the bleeding,” Aiolia said curtly—it was Aiolia who had reached for his arm—before guiding him to sit down. “You're going to be a burden if you're caught off guard from blood loss.”

There was the sound of clashing blows again, almost akin to having a cannonball blasted on the roof of the Temple.

“There's nothing to be—” he winced briefly, when Aiolia put pressure on the many lacerations on his arm, the consequences of shooting Excalibur in that too short of an instance, “—afraid of, Seiya, Xiao Long. Temples of Sanctuary are built to withstand this… This kind of aggression.”

The walls shook upon another bombardment as if that damned man himself was trying to rebuke Shura's reassurance. But it was the last blast before everything turned silent.

Aiolia let out a sigh of relief as he refocused his Cosmo on Shura's arm. Shura noted the tension on his face dissolving into confusion and anger, even if they were restrained. “We should be safe for now. Even the greatest of Sanctuary needs time before he can launch another wave.”

“We could use the gap between the waves to climb the stairs then!” Seiya offered. It was a plausible idea, Shura thought, and he knew that both Shiryu and Aiolia, too, agreed with a nod.

“Then we wait for the next wave, to see how long it takes for that—for Aiolos to redraw his bow,” Shura concluded, eyeing the fire clock burning in the distance through the slits of light.

Aiolia went beyond basic aid for his arm.

He could have left Shura with basic stopping-the-blood-loss treatment and stopped, but the man proceeded to heal the stretched and torn sinews, too. It felt like the work of an amateur, but Shura was grateful, if not equally puzzled too.

He never thought that Aiolia would be interested in healing arts, of all things.

“You don't have to go this far, Aiolia,” he commented, right after the Leo Saint pulled away. Shura lifted his sword arm, the hundred cuts feeling more like a dull pain. “But thank you.” 

“Don't thank me yet. We might need you to shield us again,” he replied quietly, the guilt in his voice true, “my Lightning Bolt does not provide enough cover to save us from those lightning arrows.”

“Then I'll just have to wipe them out when he sends them raining on us,” he answered, a chuckle escaping his lips. “I have two hands, you know. I can weather two blasts to protect our collective asses.”

“The next temple is his, Shura,” he hissed, the underlying frustration finally showing up—if only to disappear like a lion tucking his claws away. 

(The Aiolia of his past could barely restrain his emotions like this.)

“I am aware, yes,” Shura replied dryly, brows furrowing. “What are you trying to say here?”

The man had looked at him as if Shura had grown another head (this would be the second time of the day, Shura noted), at least until something in his head flipped—something that made the look of realization dawn on the Leo Saint.

“You have to understand, Shura. At this point, fighting Nii-san is inevitable,” the man explained, shooting a tentative glance in the direction of Seiya and Shiryu who were quietly discussing. “He calls this move the Sky-shattering Arrows of Light. He swore before me and the Pope that he would never use it unless the Sanctuary was on the brink of destruction. It is meant to annihilate the enemies of Sanctuary, utterly and completely, no matter the collateral damage. Do you understand, Shura?”

Many emotions stirred in his heart. Shura couldn't help but trace this new information, flipping it around in his head. Born from this knowledge was, yet again, a fury that once tainted his heart. 

There was pain on Aiolia's face—pain from fear of losing someone. It put a lid on the simmering rage, helping Shura find his balance as he gazed back at Aiolia.

“...between our lives and his,” he uttered quietly, muted by the dread born of the pressure just outside of the Temple. Seiya and Shiryu had quickly stood alert, attention directed to the Temple upstairs. 

Shura kept his gaze level, refusing to let the words die; he had prepared himself to face Aiolos, to stand by Athena's side, to cut the path for the others to follow through. “I will choose our lives, Aiolia. I will always choose our lives and Athena's.”

The haunting look that passed through Leo Saint's face remained with him, echoing with the sound of arrows clashing against the Temple of Scorpio. It was gone from his sight as soon as Aiolia turned on his heel. To be disquieted by the presence of the would-be murderer of one's brother and to choose to remove oneself from the conversation were justified reactions, Shura supposed—

—hell, Shura, too, was disquieted by the words spouted from his own lips. He had expected his world to contract and diminish upon voicing out the righteous murder they were about to commit. But all he could feel, however, was the cold and empty hollowness, overwhelming even the fury that he had to bear for the last decade—

—if only for that single moment.

Chapter Text

Shaka arrived just when they were about to depart for the Temple of Sagittarius.

He looked poise as if he had just climbed the stairs without having to defend against Aiolos' sky-shattering arrows. Oh, Shura saw the man serenely burn his Cosmo, lifting a ball of light to shield himself and Shun from harm.

Granted, the frown on his lips was evidence that even the Virgo Saint saw this situation as unfavorable.

“It is good that we caught up to you,” Shaka said, briefly checking on the Andromeda Saint catching his breath. Shun had been carrying Hyoga on his back, who was still unconscious. At least the Cygnus Saint looked flush, not pale as if he were inches away from death. “...even more favorable that Milo isn't here. I have suspicions, but it is better to talk about it while we're moving.”

No one contested that proposal; the fire on the Scorpio sign had burned out, after all.

So they moved out, Shaka leading their charge while the rest of them followed close behind. Despite the statement, none was keen to prod the topic, too wary and on the lookout for another wave of attack from the Temple of Sagittarius. Like a bad jinx, as soon as the thought crossed his mind, Shura saw the myriad flashes of light from the Temple above.

It's different this time; he had preemptively prepared himself to face this eventual wave of attack. But before he even took his stance, Shaka had already stopped running, his Cosmo quickly rising—

—for a moment, Shura felt that he had taken a glimpse of the man's capacity—the depth of his being from which his Cosmo originated. It was vast, a culmination of light tempered for a hundred times. Then Shaka bellowed, the windows to that depth shutting out, the ball of energy coming from him launched and clashed against the myriad of arrows above them.

When the dust settled, the rest of them being too flabbergasted to speak, Shaka turned to him with a mysterious smile on his face.

“I will handle the upcoming assaults. You should conserve your strength for the upcoming battle.”

The logic was sound, and yet Shura couldn't help but wonder if there was more that he wanted to say. Shaka had said that while looking at him, blue eyes sparkling brightly as if Shura had done something worth praising.

And when Shura looked back at him, it felt like gazing into that vastness of the Universe.

Shaka weathered three other blows before they reached the gate of the Temple of Sagittarius.

The fact that he had to, at all, was driving Shura's anxiety to the roof. He had expected the Sagittarius Saint to dish a total of two waves throughout their ascent. The fact that he did more implied that Aiolos was shooting them out of desperation, like a cornered rat.

Cornered rats were unpredictable; Shura distasted facing one.

The front hall was empty, though Shura could sense the Temple owner's Cosmo just beyond the space, at the main hall. Part of him childishly wished to observe all this unfold, without his intervention; the surrealism of him returning to walk this hall again… he had dreamt this for a decade, and now, his dream was about to come true—

—then came the off-putting feeling all around them, the space bending against its natural state. It felt much like gazing into Shaka, but instead of a berth of life... all Shura saw was an expanse of void.

And then appeared the rift, the bent space, the pressure—all of them aimed at everyone. The bronzes were already panicking; Aiolia had instinctually raised his Cosmo to repel the trap, just like Shura had done a brief moment prior.

There was the moment when Shaka opened his eyes again, his gentle Cosmo overflowing, encasing the panicking bronzes in safety. However, there was none deployed for himself as the space warped and twisted, as if he had deliberately wanted to be dragged into it.

Shaka smiled willfully despite it all.

“I’m afraid that this is as far as I can assist you, Shura,” Shaka declared serenely; Shura felt his stomach turn. “The owner of this technique is, ah, quite troublesome, you see. If possible, I want his attention on me, while you do what must be done.”

He had made his anger into a sword, sharpened it so finely that it would not blow back on his feeble self. His anger was mainly directed to Aiolos, the first love that hurt him so badly, that Shura almost died from his attempted murder. But here and now, at the precipice of parting, he thought that he could spare that anger towards Shaka, for this bullshit reason of sacrifice. 

“You have to be kidding me,” Shura yelled, arm throwing slashes of Excalibur at the warped space as if they would break it down. They were merely devoured by the endless space beyond the rift, “get back here, dumbass! Don't play the hero!!”

“Remember, Shura,” Shaka serenely replied, “see the potential of a person, of what they could become—like you see the vastness in me. Look at Aiolos and see what he could become.”

The rift closed.

And everyone was at a loss for words.

The only thing that shook Shura out of his muted reverie was the burning Cosmo beyond the reception hall.

It equally shook him, too.

If Shaka was akin to vastness, this Cosmo felt like entanglement, dressed in despair and self-hatred—

—and it called out in its owner's pain.

It called out for Shura.

Chapter Text

There was a blackout curtain that separated the main and receiving hall.

Shura never recalled this piece of decoration to be present during his adolescent years, so this must have been a recent addition. The curtain was black, and made of heavy fabric that refused to sway even at the display of Shaka's Cosmo before said man was dimensionally expelled.

For something that looked so frail, its presence felt more like a noise dampener—if Cosmo were akin to noises. And yet, despite it being there and muting the presence beyond, Shura could still sense the weight—

—Ailoia lightly punched his arm, blue eyes cast on him begrudgingly. “Now you're thinking twice about this? Don't tell me you're going to turn away after that gallant speech?”

“No, I—” he stopped, wanting to ask how Aiolia didn't look even winded by the roiling despair. But the words died on his lips as he saw the sight of the bronze saints looking at him with both uncertainty and worry—for him.

… did he look so pathetic to warrant their pity?

“—never mind,” he curtly replied, looking at the curtain and recognizing that he might be the only person among the group who held it with great attention. It wouldn't matter; the guardian of the Temple beyond it would answer his unvoiced questions. All he needed to do was to step forward—with his comrades. “Let's go.”

Sagittarius Aiolos stood quietly at the hall's exit, looking more like a statue than a human.

There were so many times when he imagined this encounter. In most of them, he imagined shouting at his almost-murderer, launching a full blast of Excalibur, or starting combat that would have shaken the earth and sky just like in myths of old—

—or straight up murdering him, like the simulacra that Shaka pulled over his mind a few weeks back.

In any of them, Aiolos’ face was all blurred, perhaps due to the failure on his part. How could he reconcile the man he had looked up to and adored all his adolescence, the noble soul bearing gentleness and courage both, with the harm that he exacted on Shura? Was he smiling when he shot that arrow? Was he frowning? Was he in tears? Was he with regret so profound, the guilt showed on his face? Shura wouldn't dare to guess.

He was very sure, however, that Aiolos’ expression wouldn't have been like the eerie sight before him: eyes devoid of hope, body moving gracelessly and gracefully both, the Cosmo that screamed for them to get away, get the hell away, don't look at me, don't—

—and when the Sagittarius Saint unleashed his first strike, the Atomic Thunderbolt, Shura fought back head-on with Excalibur, alongside Aiolia's Lightning Bolt.

From that point onward, everything was a blur.

There was nothing graceful in the way Aiolos carried out his offensive. The man in his memory preferred to take his opponent one by one, a gesture to respect the honor of his enemy. Aiolos was a devout soldier of Athena who fought fair and square, and it showed in his moves.

That same man had thrown so many punches that would have been fatal to him and Aiolia, had they not avoided the blows right at the few seconds before impact. It would have made sense if the man had been aiming for Shura's end, but to actively seek Aiolia's death too?

“Nii-san!” He heard Aiolia shouting, fervently and desperately, “Nii-san, it's me! It's Aiolia!! Snap out of this!!”

It was Aiolia's choice of words that caught Shura's attention (though he would have realized this when it was far too late). Aiolos ignored the desperate plea and went for them both. But unlike the physical blows that should merely kick them away, the Sagittarius Saint drew out his bow, aimed at him—

—right behind him, he felt that chill, that shift in space as it tore itself apart. 

So many things happened in a second.

Shun's Rolling Defense was already swirling around him—around everyone trying to weather the myriad blows of Aiolos’ Atomic Thunderbolt again. This time, it went at them twice as quickly and savagely. And even after Shun's quick thinking, they were hurled back, into the endless abyss behind them.

Except, there was something else.

He felt the Cosmo first, burning with dissonance. Then came the pressure, the strength that pushed and dragged them out of the space-rift maw, the sound of metal clashing against stone, the steps of a man whom Shura finally registered.

“Biting more than what you can chew again, Shun?”

They might have crossed paths once, a confrontation that ended with Shura's defeat. It was hard to forget the ferocious presence belonging to Phoenix Ikki.

Chapter Text

The circumstance around Phoenix Ikki, in itself, was a miracle.

Sanctuary wasn't a place one could easily walk into. The whole complex had an ancient protection cast by the goddess herself—or so what Shura learned years ago when he was a mere trainee. It was the first and foremost pragmatic proof that Athena was real, not just a historical blip or a fictitious tale narrated by the elders. The protection was in place to protect Athena, who was supposed to be in her Temple, right beyond the Pope's Chamber, and the Twelve Temples preceding it meant fortresses that stop trespassers. One must climb through the flights of stairs and pass every Temple, or risk obliteration by said protection.

Unless one was with the authority that (almost) rivaled the goddess.

If he had not noticed the faint trace of Shaka's Cosmo on the Phoenix Saint, Shura would have thought that this man might have the making to be ‘the next person closest to a god’.

‘Just how many tricks does that prick have under his sleeve?’

Shura opted to shove that thought away first, then to rise back on his feet upon the next burst of Ikki’s Cosmo. His was like a taunt against the Sagittarius Saint before them, though considering Ikki's expression twisting into a frown, Shura wagered that the man was testing the waters—whatever it could be.

“That is one nasty piece of work,” the Phoenix commented. Aiolia, who finally found his bearings and stood right next to Shura, shot the Capricorn-bearer a questioning, wary look.

Well, Shura, too, was interested in the comment made by a person who was supposed to be dead. “Pray tell what you mean, Phoenix?”

Phoenix Ikki shot him a disgusted look. Shura wondered whether it was from the grotesque sight of Aiolos or Shura's (and everyone's) inability to deal with it.

“That man has been inflicted with the Demon Fist. … No, this is far more potent than that. He’s more like a rabid dog than a human now,” he replied, and every word that the Phoenix uttered had turned into stones that fed on Shura's dread at the bottom of his stomach. “Putting him down is a mercy, at this point.”

Maybe Aiolos sensed the threat posed by the newly arrived Phoenix Ikki—and Shura thought that it was a valid reaction. Ikki's Cosmo might feel like a twinkling star (ironic, considering such was the namesake of his brother's), but it underlined that stubbornness to persist, to shine unendingly.

Maybe he looked at the Phoenix and saw something else.

Because in that brief moment when Aiolos' attention was on the Phoenix, he had let out a deafening bellow, in a voice so broken with despair: “SHURAAAAAAAA!”

Shura refused to be daunted by that hateful screech, refused to back down when the man who shot him down years ago now sought violence—against him. His mind had never been so clear, even when Aiolos resumed his rampage—even when, upon release of his Cosmo, upon the dissonant rifts that continued to spawn and spit out Aiolos’ lightning strikes.

It was chaos all around him. The bronze saints barely had the reflex to avoid each blow; moments longer and Shura knew that they would not last, even with Ikki's presence to support them. He heard Shun's scream, as another rift opened up to swallow him whole, then Ikki's equally horrified bellowing too, as he followed his brother too.

In that decadence of violence too, Shura was muted to where he stood… At the sight of Aiolos’ pitiful form: clad in Sagittarius Cloth, its golden gleam losing luster—

—some parts of them were botched with deep black, as rutilant as the man's despair.

A rabid dog, indeed.

He knew what to do. Hell, he promised Aiolia in the Scorpio Temple.

So Shura sharpened his senses (the flow of Aiolos' Cosmo trying to drown him in pain, in agony, in hatred) and his Cosmo (sharpen sharpen sharpen, into a blade that shall cut a path for his comrades) and launched for their adversary. Aiolos stood in the way of their goddess's survival, so he would be cut down, he must be cut down, even if—

—the blow came from nowhere, and it was all on Shura. Something was barreling down on him, pushing him away right before his Excalibur connected with Aiolos’ head. It was a warm glow, a prideful presence, a noble heart.

“Sorry, Shura… But I refuse.. to have my choice be made… By you.”

Shura didn't understand what was happening, at first: the hatred encapsulated the Temple shattered, crumbling into a void; the space rifts spawning indiscriminately a few moments prior finally stopped.

When Shura finally managed to lift his head and took a good look at where his adversary stood, he still didn't understand what he was seeing, too shocked to realize just what had unfolded before his very eyes. 

Aiolia. Aiolia, standing in front of his dear brother. 

Aiolia, whose chest was hollowed from the impact of his brother's fist.

Aiolia.

Chapter Text

In movies, Shura found that scenes with powerful impact were often played in slow motion.

He understood the reason why: a differentiation between a normal and special scene; to heighten the emotion surrounding the moment; an attempt of signification, an emphasis of a plot point.

And when Aiolia's prone body dropped gracelessly to the ground, Aiolos quickly followed suit to safeguard him from the fall, that Shura knew that this was real, that this was no movie.

He wanted to scream at Aiolia for this fatal decision, but the words died on his tongue when the man chortled in his blood-ridden gasp. Shura knew death, and he's looking at one person who was greeting them in the face. 

What more could he do than shut up and offer the dying man the space?

“Oh... I was right… It was the Demon Emperor…” another hacked wheeze, and Shura, who was kneeling by the man's side, Aiolia's dying wish trumping the need to punch his brother who led everything to this point. “He adores you too much… You dumb rock..”

“Hey, didn't you promise that you won't out my secret?” Aiolos’ words were hushed, but Shura could hear the tremble on it, a short moment before it fell apart. “... I've done all this so that you could be safe. Oh sweet sunshine, the best of us—”

And Aiolos’ breath hitched as Aiolia reached for his neck, a half hug that spelt strength even when the man was already half step into death. “Did I live up… To your wishes… Brother?” He murmurs.

It was the moment that Shura stood up and stepped away, knowing so much that everything exchanged beyond this was nothing strategic—

—only sorrow. Everything beyond this was only sorrow.

The fact that even Seiya didn't even propose to move forward to the next Temple already… was telling that Aiolia's decision, too, impacted him greatly.

Ironically, it was Hyoga who approached him, all resolute and pragmatic. Maybe it was the aquarius in him. Maybe it was his resolution to face the man who had taught all the world had to offer, a few Temples above. “Should we move forward to the next Temple?”

The teen’s gaze was on the Fireclock, the fire burning on the Sagittarius sign had just burnt out. Climbing the stairs would have finished the flame on Capricorn by half and brought Saori closer to her doom. But Shura needed not answer the loaded question himself when he felt it: the soul of a noble heart, flickered away.

When he turned around to the direction of the guardian of the Temple, Aiolos looked like death had taken him as well: crumpled to the ground as he hugged the corpse of his brother, wings folded in hopelessness

“...You have my permission to go.”

In all scenarios of him encountering Aiolos again, leaving with grief hanging above them was never among Shura's imagination. “And our feud?”

“You know where to find me, Shura. I won't run.”

There was nowhere to run, now that they’re three Temples away from saving Saori and righting the Sanctuary. Shura understood that—and the nuances of what Aiolos was trying to say. Just like Aiolia chose the life of his brother, Shura would choose the life of his sister-Goddess.

“We have our cue,” Shura declared, all heads turned at him, “Athena needs us.”

When they started climbing the stairs to the Temple of Capricorn, he tried not to stumble upon the sorrowful wailing coming from the Temple below. Because he knew that should he stop, he would see the landmark drenched in a grief ever expanding—

—the color of sorrow.

So he gritted his teeth in a mixture of feeling and yelled, "keep moving!"

Chapter Text

The overlooking view from the connecting stairway between Capricorn and Sagittarius Temples brought back memories.

Most of them were when he had to climb and report back to the Pope, after finishing tasks entrusted to him. Some of them were of walks with his brother-in-arms, from the senior Gold Saints whom he looked up to (Aiolos, Aiolos, Aiolos), the friends who became Gold Saints almost around the same time as he did (Salvatore, Aphrodite), to the juniors whom he sometimes helped with their training (Camus, Milo, even Aiolia).

Now he climbed the stairs alongside the people who stood by their goddess.

The situation between now and then was strikingly different. Yet, it felt the same: to run back to the Temple Shura was responsible for taking care, together with trusted companions at his sides, even if grief served as the backdrop for his ascent.

Thus, when they finally arrived at the front gate of the Temple of Capricorn, stepping into its halls felt like a homecoming for Shura.

Judging by the faint, reassuring Cosmo at the furthest part of the Temple, he was not the only one sharing that sentiment.

The Capricorn Saints held the reputation of being the ‘most loyal of all Gold Saints’. In passing, this would have sounded more like a show of vanity, as if it was a statement that the rest of the Gold Saints held lesser respect towards their matron goddess.

But Excalibur was not just a technique.

It was an honor, endowed by Athena to the Capricorn Saint in the age of myth. It was a prestige, demanding commitment—and sometimes, much more—of its bearer: discipline, persistence, patience, conviction, stubbornness, resilience. Its bearer was meant to be the vanguard, the unbroken blade that promised victory.

All of such aspects are embodied by the statue in the middle of the Temple, depicting the benediction of the faceless Capricorn Saint by Athena, supposedly an image from the age of mythology—

—and standing before that statue was Capricorn El-Cid.

“Took you long enough to reach here, Shura.”

El-Cid. In the flesh.

The bronze saints agreed not to interfere with the fight. 

Granted, Shura had to lay down his most severe glance on the Pegasus Saint to emphasize his point. Seiya looked like he was ready to defy his explicit request, only to let out a frustrated sigh upon Shiryu's silent plea, before yielding to his request.

Another thing that Shura owed the boy, once again.

Hyoga was more restrained, opting not to contest Shura's decision to take on whatever El-Cid had in mind. Shura paid his strictness no mind; it reminded him of the temperament of a certain Gold Saint guarding the Temple next to his own.

As expected of Aquarius Camus's student, he supposed. 

The bronze saints made their positions, observing safely by the periphery of his vision—his and El Cid’s. Shura considered if his predecessor would make this face-off a battle royale, a fight to teach them all a lesson or two. El Cid launched at him instead, predictable in his choice and honor and conviction—

—the past spirit of Capricorn-bearer was here for Shura, after all.

(He had always been there for Shura.)

It felt more like a dance, this duel of theirs.

Everything that El-Cid had thrown at him so far was something that Shura had already learned during his saint-to-be training—and some. There were the ways El Cid sharpened his Cosmo, expectedly similar to how Shura sharpened his—at least, until the moment the previous bearer launched his Excalibur. The air parted in its wake, its flash carrying the weight and edge that Shura had yet mastered. Despite the lethality of that technique, however, those slashes missed him completely—every one of them Such an incredible feat should more than just nick the skin of his cheek, nor of his arm.

El Cid was more than capable of severing his head, right there.

(But that was not the point of this fight, was it?)

The further they traded blows—the more chances given to Shura to grasp and analyze the structure of El Cid’s technique—the keener the incumbent Capricorn Cloth bearer became. This dance went on until that one second when Shura saw it: the potent sharpness that cut through the air—

—so honed, so pure his Excalibur was that Shura mistook his Cosmo akin to Saori’s; akin to a divine.

In one breath, Shura pushed for that perfection.

When that blade clashed with El-Cid's own, whirling dust and supercharged air settling back after such a violent affair, only then did Capricorn El-Cid stop in his place, with a proud smile on his face.

Despite playing an important part in Shura's life, El-Cid was a mystery.

When he claimed that he was the previous bearer of the Capricorn Cloth, Shura was ready to call out on his bullshit. Had it not for the Cloth shimmering right after that mental declaration, a vouch from the Cloth itself, Shura was ready to throw hands at... at the ghost, as ridiculous as that might sound. He was stern but helpful, providing insights whenever appropriate: during training when Shura was stumped with particular roadblocks, when dealing with difficult people, and so on. Shura thought that this might have been what it felt to have an older brother.

(The saints in the Sanctuary might have been his brethren-in-arms, but no one understood his thought more than the ghost that resided within his Gold Cloth).

It might have sounded childish, deranged even, that, having faced the man in the flesh (more than just a voice in his head, more than just a shadow in his vision, more than just a dream), Shura wished to make him proud. 'Look at the result of your guidance, are you proud?'

Standing across the room, Shura saw exactly that.

And yet, whatever joy that that spawned from this encounter trickled away when he eyed El-Cid's proud bearing slowly crumbled into whisks of light.

“You have attained what I achieved in life, Shura,” El-Cid declared, the edge of his lips tugged to make a modest smile. “When we last saw each other, I told you that I would cut a path for you. And now, I have fulfilled my promise.”

Shura didn't understand before, but now, as his senses expanded and contracted, his cosmo sharpening to a height he had never felt in his life—

—as El-Cid touched Shura's arm with his own, a meager of understanding dawned on him.

'This is the sword that cut even those blessed by the divine.'

“Go forth, Shura. Go forth with my blessing and cut open a path for her,” he beckoned, words a faded echo as El-Cid imparted his last words along with the knowledge of cutting the divine, “worry not for the fates of others. As long as you make the way, every thing else will fall in place—her safety, his salvation, and everything else in-between. This is all fated, after all."

Chapter Text

They were too quiet, considering the Capricorn Gold Cloth simply returned to him in a flash of gold. The bronze saints looked surprised, though only for a brief moment, before Seiya finally cried out, “We should hurry to the next Temple.”

Of course, Shura easily agreed—especially when they all realized that the hour of Saori's doom inched nearer. The fire clock in the distance showed three flames, the one lighting the Capricorn symbol flickering to its demise.

It surprised him, and the other bronzes more so, when the Capricorn Cloth glowed in gold, the shards of light coalescing into the form of that man. Shura had thought that El-Cid had nothing else to give, having dispersed into nothingness, and yet—

—like the last flicker of dying candlelight, he emerged. And like the unyielding blade that he was, the remains of his light made its stride toward Shiryu.

There was no reason to be alert, not when all that was left was a silent will bearing no ill will. The bronze saints felt it. Shura knew it by heart. And thus, when the spirit surprisingly made the gesture to pat the Dragon Saint's head, like a benediction that he granted Shura moments before too, before it dissipated into nothingness once more—Shura had to remind himself to breathe, to stifle the growing knot in his throat, to hold back the pressure in his eyes.

Only when he felt the creases of his emotions straightened did Shura manage a forlorn, but admiring nonetheless, whisper, “Thank you for everything, my friend.”

It was Hyoga who froze where he stood, when they felt that moment of chill.

The Temple of Aquarius was upon their sight, a silent monument that breathed frost—and something else. Shura had wondered priorly why they did not encounter the Gold Saint watching over the Temple of Scorpio. But that moment of chill was twined with a thrill of hunt, a desire to fight. 

Something that he remembered of Scorpio Milo, the young man who, more often than not, had always been spotted near Aquarius Camus.

And their Cosmo burned; they had been waiting for the arrival of the usurpers.

“My master's not alone,” Hyoga’s words were quiet, almost timid. However, none of them missed the crisp resolution that bit the air around him like frostbite. He'd lay down his life for Athena first to make their path, and every one of them knew this to be true. “We should be ready for that man to join the fight.”

Shura thought about Scorpio Milo from those halcyon days, eyes bright and shining and eager as he practiced with Aiolia during their group training. He thought about his promotion, the boy clad in Scorpio Cloth standing next to the newly anointed Aquarius Saint. He thought about his spirit, eager underneath calm, and—

—he wondered, how his Cosmo shone brightly back then, just as much as it did now.

“Time to find out,” Shura crisply responded, pushing down the urge to balk; there was a terrible feeling in his gut, a foreboding for things to go sideways.

Nevertheless, it did not stop him nor the others to push through.

Aquarius Camus’ glare had always been cold and distant, as far as Shura's memory served. But now, standing across him with Scorpio Milo by that man's side, there was a glint of… Something; something conflicting that warred against each other, like gazing into the water under a frozen lake—

“It is most unfortunate that the most loyal of us returns to bite the hand that feeds him, much like this student of mine,” Camus’ words were crisp, and the air temperature around them dropped as his Cosmo burnt. “I shall lock you all in Freezing Coffin as a reminder for others of your hubris.”

—it took Shura a moment to realize, as his Cosmo clashed against the man's sharp yet brittle own, that it was rage, twined with grief.

Shura did not understand these sentiments, carved under the layers of frost that Camus shot every time he made his blows.

That was, until Hyoga joined in, his frigid Cosmo burning like his teacher's, even if it's just a mere snowflake in comparison. In that single moment, Shura felt that frost tremble—cracking then crystalizing then cracking once more—and realization dawned on him: Camus treasured his disciple still… just as much as he treasured his principle.

And maybe that too was what drove Scorpio Milo into the skirmish. Perhaps he saw the conundrum in his lifelong friend's eyes and decided to take on the burden of executing his ward, along with the returning traitor of Sanctuary. Diamond Dust brushed past him like a spring breeze—such a snowflake, never too cold for this man, having stood by the Aquarius Saint for as long as Shura remembered—and Milo's eyes glinted coldly with both trepidation and condemnation: ‘You have brought this upon yourselves.’

“As much as it's interesting to see you lose your cool like this, Camus,” he drawled, scarlet nail drawn, “I can not stand by and let them do what they want. …Oh, don't give me that look. You'll get your coffins, that much I promise you.”

It was the only warning that Shura noted before Milo rushed at him.

Shiryu was already standing before him, intercepting the blow from the Scorpio Saint, before Shura could even blink.

“Let me and Hyoga face them,” he urged, Cosmo bursting with encouragement and pride. Amagire glimmered with brilliance, a testament to Shiryu’s quick learning of the seventh sense. He was far from mastering it, having awakened to it mere hours ago, but there was a sharpness that clung to him that tempered the spirit—

—a sharpness reminiscent of El-Cid’s Excalibur.

“And leave you two behind like this?!” Seiya cried out with incredulity. The only reason that Shura let such a pathetic act slide was the recollection of Andromeda and Virgo Saints being swallowed up by the void, as well as the memory of Aiolia's limp body in the arms of his beloved brother.

And now, he's going to leave two of his comrades behind.

(And now, Shura would have to leave his junior behind, too.)

The Scorpio and Aquarius duo gave them no reprieve, launching a combination of Restriction and Koltso that would have paralyzed them. For the briefest moment, Shura felt his junior's Cosmo shine, the quiet step of Shiryu's Amagire as it dispelled the incoming attack—

—and the gust of wind that followed, the one that was akin to El-Cid’s.

It knocked both him and Seiya out, far enough for Hyoga to cast an ice wall that separated them.

Amidst the clashing Cosmo beyond the wall, the frustrated Cosmo next to him, his own raging with indignity, Shura heard his junior's cry: “Saori-san’s waiting, gege!”

Shiryu was right. Shiryu was right, and yet—

“Catch up with us soon, Shiryu! Hyoga!”

—Shura gritted his teeth, casting a trepidation at the Pegasus Saint, who wearily gave him a nod that he was ready anytime the senior was, before finally resuming their ascension.

Chapter Text

The warring Cosmo behind them grew faint as they continued their ascent. Even so, part of Shura's senses couldn't help but be led to feel the burning Cosmo blazing in the distance: the vague rush of Shiryu's newly upgraded Amagire, roaring against Scorpio Milo's piercing Cosmo; the fleeting bite of Hyoga's Cosmo clashing against Camus’ immaculate frost. 

When the traces of their clash dimmed, silence settling in the aftermath of the battle, Shura had to give the wavering Pegasus Saint before him a hard push. Seiya stumbled, rage and anguish roiling under his skin. He was trembling from the effort to contain his rage—

—Shura knew. Shura understood and felt that despair under his skin just as much. Dragon Shiryu may be the boy's comrade, but he was also Shura's didi.

So instead of reprimanding the boy for this pause, Shura threw another glance at the fire clock. The flame on the Aquarius symbol flickered to nothingness. Another hour had passed and Saori's death inched closer. He knew the message was well received when Shura felt Seiya's Cosmo drift to calm, sharpening to an edge as the Pegasus Saint recomposed himself.

Good. It is better to focus that rage on something that can help their advancement.

Shura gave the boy a curt nod before they both resumed their advance.

It had always been impossible to describe Pisces Aphrodite with a single word.

He was a friend. He was charming. He made the air shine around him, the world a stage for his show. He was flamboyant. He was beauty and grace, poise and elegance, wit and levity—

—if Aphrodite were privy to these (honest) poetics that Shura kept to himself, the man would have bursted out laughing. Anyone who didn't know better would think such laughter ridicule; those who knew better—and Shura could count on one hand the number of people that Aphrodite considered close—would understand that it would be the most honest, truest expression of his merriment.

Pisces Aphrodite, after all, lied as easily as he breathed. 

(Shura saw through the bullshit that he proudly wore like a second skin; Shura and Salvatore both. He remembered the quizzical look that some of their seniors threw at them, the good-natured comment passed along from Aiolos’ mouth one day after he was done tutoring Aiolia with his hand-to-hand combat training: “Let's just say, some of us were prepared for a fallout if a fight breaks out among you three.”

It was an unusual thing, this friendship of theirs: to the eyes of the general public, an impossibility; to himself, a treasure.)

Now, faced with the friend from his old life, Shura saw no such pretenses. The roses that carried his Cosmo were far from beautiful, now baring only fierceness and ferocity, a deep apprehension to kill. They aimed for his life, too hard to be avoided with mere jumps, too fleeting to be cut down—

—and yet, if anything else, this frenzy and drive to stop and kill him (and Seiya, who was struggling to keep himself safe, too), the utmost rage and distaste and, surprisingly, doubt that echoed Aphrodite's clear eyes… Shura had never seen him this honest, this

Desperate.

The core of Aphrodite's fighting style hinged on the usage of the poisonous roses native to the Pisces Temple’s surroundings. This made him unsuitable for tasks that required him out of Sanctuary for an extended time. At the same time, it also meant that he had the home-field advantage should he be forced to defend the Temple. Granted, such circumstances also meant that Sanctuary would be under siege, with the Temple being the last line of defense for Athena.

Perhaps this was the root of his apparent desperation, laced in the Piranha Roses thrown at him and Seiya both.

“I shouldn't have been surprised to see you alive,” the Pisces Saint grounded, borderline screeching at Shura really, as if the man's survival for the last decade personally offended him. There was something more than just desperation there; Shura wouldn't dare to say that it was spite, but it was a close thing. “Aiolos has always been soft for you, after all.” 

Another rose flung in his direction, one that Shura almost missed avoiding. Aiolos’ face rose to the forefront of his thoughts, grieving and lost, and the only thing that kept Shura from falling apart at all (because despite everything, Shura also understood loss, and couldn't help but sympathize with the tragedy befallen upon an old flame that he's yet sure to deal with) was Saori’s life hanging by a thread—and the unsettling pull coming from the Capricorn Cloth that urged him to sense.

So sense, Shura did.

He didn't expect to be hit by the sudden scent of decay, cloying around Aphrodite like a deranged curse, nor the vision in his mind’s eye, the view of El Cid’s back on view with his Excalibur brandished against a man of monstrous stature, with Cosmo just as rancid. Shura felt the determination in his predecessor's stance, the answer that laid in his blade as he rushed forward and cut—

—the purity of such a blade, flawless enough to cut down evil born of delusion.

“Shura! Shura!!”

It was Seiya’s scream first that startled him from his wrongly-timed reverie. Then came the pain from the roses flung at him, making their places all over his torso; one of them had stabbed right at his heart, a white one that slowly grew red as if feasting over Shura's life. Then came the pained laughter, ringing like a broken bell in Shura's head, as Aphrodite rejoiced in dealing the surefire blow that would kill him—if not outright, then later, in excruciation.

And yet, even faced with assured death, all that Shura could think and focus on was that singular feeling, that purity to cut down evil. The evil that was cloying at the Pisces Saint's Cosmo, like strings binding a puppet.

There was a nudge on his shoulder, a gentle press that encouraged him to press forward. 'Open the path, Shura, and carry my will.'

Thus, with Excalibur brandished out, Shura rushed forward and aimed for his once friend's neck.

He thought that he smelled the scent of a rose—the white rose that Aphrodite particularly liked. There was a steady presence that kept him propped up, a wistful sigh belonging to a man, and then a familiar Cosmo burning through his system, then a fond whisper:

“You really are one stubborn brute.”

before darkness finally descended on him.

Chapter Text

Shura knew better than to be lulled by the swaying motion that rocked him to rest. And yet, he couldn't help but relish in it; the first thing that he felt when he came to was the pain that made his vision swim. He had unceremoniously let out a pained grunt, too, which perhaps made whoever was carrying him stop on his step.

“And the sleeping prince wakes,” Aphrodite drawled; Shura first recognized him from the scent of the white roses the man loved, before he did that ephemeral tenor. The Pisces Saint resumed his climb, and Shura only realized afterward that he had been carried on the man's back. “I've stopped the blood loss on you from our… little skirmish. And before you asked, yes, I have also detoxified both you and the Pegasus Saint there.”

Aphrodite flicked his head towards said Bronze Saint. Seiya looked haggard, but well enough to walk on his own feet—unlike a certain Capricorn Saint on the back of another. There was a scowl on the boy's face, followed by an apprehensive inquiry.

“Why are we wasting our time walking up the stairs like this?” He demanded, “We should hurry up! There's too little time to waste, time better used to force the Pope to undo Saori's curse—!!”

To his surprise, Aphrodite stopped on his step and gave the boy a level stare, as if Seiya had overstepped and personally ruined his beloved rose patch. His quiet consternation was apparent in his Cosmo, blanketing them with safety even as they wasted more time talking: a feel of prickliness that reminded Shura of rose thorns.

At the very least, that was the extent of hostility that Aphrodite was gracious to show. And then, he turned on his heel and continued with his leisurely ascent, treating the boy like a fly undeserving of his attention.

Or at least, it seemed as such; else, he wouldn't even bother going into a monologue that explained the pace they were taking.

“This garden poisons everyone that walks through it. Running through it as quickly as possible sounds like a solid plan, but for someone as feeble as you, you'll die before you reach the Pope's abode,” Aphrodite blandly replied. “My protection can only extend so far, and I'm carrying this dead weight here because clearly, you're too exhausted to be of help."

Oh, Shura wanted to complain that the man had a hand in making this situation, too. But the thought was muted just as soon as  Aphrodite let out a huff of frustration.

“Beside,” he continued, “if that man can be convinced to back down at all, we wouldn't have been driven so far into this mess.”

That man, Aphrodite had emphasized.

This whole situation was bizarre, to begin with. Having gone through almost all of the Temples, Shura had expected the animosity that Aphrodite aimed at both him and Seiya. Shouldn't the Pisces Saint, the last line of defense, be siding with the highest authority of the Sanctuary right now? And yet here he was, escorting a man who was declared a traitor a decade ago to the Pope's chamber—while carrying said man on his back.

That man.

Shura didn't miss the lack of deference in his tone, so different compared to when they first took on their duties.

“Why are you helping us?” The question was eventually blurted out, having burrowed in Shura's head for a while. The jigsaw puzzles in his head didn't fit, and they only fed his curiosity to the point of frustration. “To be honest, I was ready to fight you to the end when I stepped into your Temple.”

(Prideful. Aphrodite reveled in that word, just as much as he was defined by it. Among the ranks of Sanctuary, it meant that his battle prowess was his pride, even if his station prevented him from flaunting it around. Treating him with respect, thus, was to meet his mettle with every ounce of one's strength.

Shura was ready to do just so.

Unlike Salvatore, who turned his back on the ideals that Shura had upheld for so long, Aphrodite had not given him a reason to offer less than an honorable fight.)

To Shura's surprise, Aphrodite chuckled, his next inquiry light. “You’re that eager to beat me up? It's been more than a decade, Shura, surely you've grown out of your ‘fight me’ phase?”

“...I was trying to be respectful?!”

Aphrodite snorted at that, disrespectfully so. What was so funny about being considerate?!

“You didn't grow out of that righteous outlook, at least. Salvatore discarded that long ago since it no longer served his purpose—but I bet you've witnessed that for yourself already, haven't you?"

Shura found his mouth dry, the words at the tip of his tongue failing to be voiced. Just another of Aphrodite's weapons among them three really: a masterful eloquence that could silence his adversaries.

At least the Pisces Saint was generous enough to keep their conversation afloat.

“...Why am I helping you, hm,” he paused, letting the silence speak of his consideration. And yet it did not spare Shura of the sheer shock caused by the words after. “I suppose you should learn about this first, then: the Pope is dead, Shura. The Pope has been dead for a long, long time.”

To be fair, he did try to maintain his composure.

But in the face of such an unbelievable declaration, Shura couldn't help but jump off Aphrodite's back so quickly that he almost tumbled down the stairway. Fortunately, Seiya was quick to help him stand, even when he looked just as aghast.

If they were going to have this conversation, Shura would rather have it face to face—or side by side.

Aphrodite simply regarded them with a cool gaze, perhaps understanding already of what went through Shura's mind, and gave him a quick nod. He resumed his climb, as well as his storytelling.

“There is a man driven by a curse, you see. He covets the power to change his life—to save the world, even. He came by a prophecy, and it foretold this: Athena shall bring ruin unto the world.”

“That's a load of bullshit and you know it,” Shura scathingly interrupted. He remembered the many experiences that El-Cid shared with him when he was the Capricorn Saint. If there was anything that would have left them in ruins, it would be Athena's failure to defend the world.

He hated how Aphrodite made no remarks against his words. ‘Do I really, now?’ his eyes seemed to say, echoing a shade of distaste similar to Salvatore's. 

“It doesn't matter whether the prophecy is true or false,” Aphrodite conceded afterward, words as heavy as the pressure of the Pope's chamber right before them. “What matters is that it spurred this man to commit the crime of murdering the Pope, of corrupting a fellow warrior, of attempting the murder of Athena.”

Aphrodite looked at him knowingly, imploringly. ‘Sagittarius Aiolos might have been the arrow that almost killed you, but this man is the root cause of your misery. What will you do?’

Shura closed his eyes and sighed and—

“What kind of question is that? Those things can be settled later! We need to save Saori first before we can talk about grudges and everything else!” came the derisive sputter from Seiya, of all people, his voice true and assured like his namesake. “Shura-san, don't listen to this monologuing prick! We'll deal with whoever that man is after we save her!”

—the way Seiya scowled and Aphrodite gaped and flustered—he couldn't help but smile. The stand-in Pope was beyond the first gate, the pressure against them immensely. Even so, his heart was at ease—at ready.

“Mn,” he found himself nodding to those points. The fire clock burned in the distance, the flame in Pisces strong still; he hoped that this would be enough time to convince this fraud to fix this mess (there's always choosing violence, then forcing the man to undo this fault). “Time to threaten the stand-in Pope.”

Chapter Text

When the three of them entered the vicinity, Shura expected a reception as hostile as he had experienced in the Temple of Sagittarius. However, what awaited them inside the chamber was dead silence.

And standing at the center of the front hall was a man too familiar to be ignored. What rendered them muted where they stood was more than the Pope robe that the man wore, more than the gentle, pastoral Cosmo coming in waves.

“You have arrived,” the man forlornly stated the relief in his words so palpable that even Shura could imagine a weight had finally been lifted off his shoulder—a weight that now settled on Shura, as he failed to reconcile this man and his supposed sins. “Welcome back, Shura.”

Gemini Saga looked at him as though Shura was the answer to his questions, rather than the usurper that would bereave him of power.

The Gemini Saga in Shura's memory was a kind and gentle man.

They rarely interacted outside of their capacity as fellow Saints of Athena. This was even less so when Shura was still just a trainee. But during the few times they did, there would always be Aiolos in the periphery, having trained with that man together from the beginning.

Both Saga and Aiolos were stellar examples that many from Shura's generation looked up to, and their fast friendship was the talk among fellow trainees. Courteous and polite, encouraging and inspiring—were it not for the publicly known origin that Saga was a war orphan left at the steps of the Sanctuary, adopted by the Pope himself, Shura would have thought that the Gemini Saint might be of noble blood, or at least, the young master of a well-known upstanding family.

(This image would have been upheld untarnished, had they not had that chance encounter. Shura remembered that one moonlit stroll when he was about to retire to his bunk after one grueling training session. There was a gathering crowd by the Amphitheater, two trainee recruits about to be beaten down by the senior trainees out of some foolish initiation ceremony—

—and Saga was there, sitting among the viewing crowd with a devilish glance and a demeaning head tilt. He snapped his fingers, and the air around them shifted imperceptibly, though Shura could tell something was amiss. Then came the yelp of said seniors as they fell on their footing, a whiff of Cosmo residue coming from a sneakily tampered space, and then the sound of bones cracking as the Scorpio and Aquarius saints-to-be's fists connected with the faces of their bullies.

The Gemini saint-to-be’s eyes met his, then, a playful smile on his lips as he gestured a pointed finger to his lips. ‘Keep silent and run along now, or maybe you want to enjoy the show?’ as if he wanted to say.

That was the first time Shura realized that there's more to Saga than what the public said.)

Comparing the figure before him with his memory, Shura noticed how the man had been weighed down since the last time they met. Gone was that lightheartedness in his eyes, replaced by a mask that Shura couldn't quite put a finger on. There was a somberness that draped him like a veil, and it made his forlorn smile almost insincere.

Despite so, he set those unsettled feelings aside and stepped forward. Saori's life was on the line, and they needed him to undo that cursed arrow now. “I will make my point clear: come down with us and undo that god-killing arrow.”

The unsaid ‘or else’ lingered in silence, accompanied by the burn of his Cosmo as Shura sharpened Excalibur in his arm once again. Seiya’s invigorated Cosmo by his side was an added assurance that he realized he sorely needed; his whole body was still in pain from the aftermath of his skirmish with Aphrodite, so much that even brandishing Excalibur now felt like a herculean feat.

If he couldn't finish the job, he could trust Seiya to finish it for him.

“I'll offer you an even better solution,” Saga replied silkily, unperturbed by Shura's threat. Perhaps he had seen through the fatigue that finally ate at the last of Shura's strength. Perhaps—

“The statue of Athena beyond this chamber… if you remember, there is a shield right by it. It is a divine armament that Athena went into war with. It is capable of undoing the curse of that arrow… All you need to do is to point its light in the direction of the curse, and the divine shield shall take care of everything.”

—Shura blinked. By his other side, Aphrodite bristled on his feet, and Shura could feel the slight tremor of his friend's calm Cosmo, as if he was trying to keep himself together.

Suddenly, everything felt wrong.

“Why are you telling us this?” He quickly prompted. At the edge of his thought, the will of Capricorn tilted in alarm, as if telling him to watch out. He should have saved his inquiries for later after they secured Saori's life, and yet… Shura couldn't help his curiosity. “What are you trying to achieve here?”

He didn't expect Saga's face to contort into something that Shura saw in Aiolos’ face, mere hours prior, as he held on the corpse of his brother. 

“Nothing, Shura, I have no excuse... but rather, a request. I want to ask you to take my life with that evil-severing Excalibur,” Saga confessed quietly, “after all, if it is pure and strong enough to break Aphrodite out of the thrall of the Demon Fist… surely it is capable of severing this evil that dwells in me.”

The murder of the Pope; the attempted murder of Athena; posing as the Pope to control the Sanctuary, and; coercion of fellow Saints to further his personal agenda. Pisces Aphrodite iterated the sins of the sinner, and Gemini Saga pleaded guilty to every one of them—each confession tantamount to treason, punishable by death.

When he stepped into the Pope Chamber, Shura didn't expect that they would make him an executioner to a former comrade. It was he who requested for Aphrodite to list down Saga's sins, more for Shura's peace of mind and resolve than anything else.

(It's different, this killing that they asked of him. Salvatore's blood in his hand was in Shura's attempt to save Saori, but this… This was, at best, mercy killing, and at worst, an execution not condoned by his sister-Goddess.)

Perhaps it served to strengthen Aphrodite's resolve, too. The slight tremble of his Cosmo slowly stabilized with each admission, returning back to that calm wave, as he finally closed with a question, “do you have any last word, Gemini Saga?”

The man was on his knees, bowing down as if offering his neck—as if he was prepared to not be given such luxury like the fate of any traitor. Saga lifted up his head, his expression gentle. “Move on and live freely, Aphrodite.”

Shura could almost see in his mind's eye how Aphrodite's shoulders squared up. There was so much weight in those words, so much that even Shura, evermore a novice in matters of heart, understood—and now, he cursed himself for making Aphrodite figuratively nail this man's coffin. The only relief that he could provide for both of them was a quick swing—a quick, painless death—and then it would all be over.

So he sharpened his blade once again, aiming for Saga's neck at ready—

—and the restless Cosmo returned, a trembling hand over his own like a scared silent plea of mercy. Aphrodite's trembling hand.

“... I’m sorry, I. I can't.”

And Shura’s heart perhaps broke a little, when he saw the heartbreak in his friend's face.

Then it froze all over when he heard the quiet chuckle from the sinner before them, feeling the shift of space around him as that man's Cosmo burned to the height.

“Oh, you foolish boy,” Saga drawled, and there was no trace of gentleness left in the way he spoke, “didn't I tell you that this silly affection would be your undoing?”

Again, the space around them pulsed. He wasn't sure what went down in that short moment, only realizing that so many things happened almost at the same time: Aphrodite's and Seiya's shrill scream; Saga slowly rising to his feet, the blue of his hair faded into gray; and his sword arm—

—his sword arm, cut clean from his shoulder, severed out through Gemini Saga's space-cutting trick.

“Thank you, Aphrodite,” the man sickly mocked, his voice so eerily clear in Shura's head despite the overwhelming pain and blood and hurt, “now there's truly nothing in the world that can kill me.”

Chapter Text

Shura's head was a visceral mess.

There was… He could sense traces of compulsion in the way his thoughts scattered. His surroundings were suddenly a blender of colors, the noises around him a cacophony of wailings and curses. Layered on top of that chaos were pain, blood, tears, warmth, light—

—a comfortable weight on his head, as someone stroked his hair. His scattered thoughts slowly gathered, and the reminiscence left behind upon its coalescence was of a man in Capricorn Cloth, standing defiantly against his adversary despite having a missing forearm. Despite those injuries, the man was standing up even if Shura instinctively knew just how much blood was lost upon such severance. Even now, Shura felt how his limbs refused to move despite his desperate attempt, his body almost just as broken as this man—

—El-Cid turned his head around, defying the script that told of the past. This was how Shura knew that the scenery before him was more than a memory; a mere memory would not offer him a teasing smirk that tasted more like both a rebuke and a challenge. 

‘Perhaps you just need to get even more stubborn than I am,’ the phantom’s lips didn't move, but Shura acknowledged the unsaid words all the same, ‘Now, get up.’

The words snaked around his thoughts and metaphorically yanked him to the surface, his vision turning white as that brief respite turned again into a cacophony of chaos. Shura jerked back in response, gasping a mouthful of air and feeling the hard surface of the alabaster surface beneath him—

—the alabaster surface that was drenched in blood.

He briefly choked on it, the blood.

For a moment, he saw red, only realizing a split second after that the blood was his own and he was drenched in it; that he was hunched over on the ground, cheek uncomfortably pressed against it. His mouth tasted like iron and his limbs still weighed like lead. His thoughts were starting to fray again, his left side burning with pain—

—the memory of his left arm being severed before his eyes unhelpfully rose to the forefront of his mind.

The only thing that kept him from hyperventilating was the quiet remembrance of El-Cid’s stubborn back. Stubborn, even as he lost his limb. 

Shura summoned what meager fortitude he had left and burned his Cosmo, trying to wrap it around his body at least to give him a feel of which parts of him were not salvageable.

‘Just the missing left arm,’ he silently concluded, closing his eyes as he willed his Cosmo to burn around his left shoulder, right at the joint where his left arm was attached prior. He needed to halt the blood loss, and with this objective in mind, Shura stubbornly persisted. El-Cid's words rang in his head again, even as his vision swam with black spots, and Shura took strength in the solace that the words provided him.

When he was sure that the burn was properly done, Shura put all of his strength into his right arm and pushed.

The world tilted sideways as he propped himself to sit. The air reeked of blood and rose and plasma, the space around him flickering into an endless void—

—and standing before him was Pisces Aphrodite, burning his Cosmo so ferociously that Shura could see its edges sparkling red, almost like rose petals shimmering in the wind. In the near distance, Seiya rushed in, his blazing Cosmo so akin to his namesake: an arrow of light piercing through the space trappings belonging to the Gemini Saint.

They defiantly clashed against Saga’s Cosmo, trying to break through Another Dimension's weaving, weathering the push that would have sent them to the edge of space.

And it worked.

There was surprise marring their adversary's face, twisted with displeasure as the space around them finally returned to the view of the hall of the Pope's chamber. But it was short-lived, as Saga's frown quickly turned into a jeer.

“I commend you for surviving through Another Dimension,” he sneered, and Shura simply knew that things were about to get ten times worse, especially with how Saga's Cosmo burst to an even higher height. The man raised his arm, his index finger pointed upwards as if to challenge the heavens. “Now show me whether you can withstand the Galaxian Explosion.”

As the gravity of the stars gathered, threatening to crush them to dust, Shura steeled and sharpened himself.

It was the least he could do, at this point.

His body refused to move, while his Cosmo burned like a wisp, at risk of giving out amidst the storm. The only thing that kept him from collapsing altogether was his sheer refusal to back down. If he was going to be disintegrated here, Shura would not give this man the satisfaction of seeing his face contort with fear.

Aphrodite's Cosmo burned even brighter, even when its shine paled in comparison to Saga's encompassing one. Perhaps the Pisces Saint sensed Shura's resolve too, and was moved by the meager remains of his pathetic strength.

(There's no beauty in Shura's persistence, no grace in the way he had to crawl out of the Sanctuary's scrutiny and then secure his sister-goddess’ safety. He had to discard life as he knew, had to hide the pride of a saint that his foolish young self prided on—

—Shura had to build himself back up from the parts of his broken self. That process was far from beautiful, a gruesome thing that led to the grueling Shura who ventured forth to hand Saori's birthright to her on a silver platter while taking vengeance to soothe his grievances.

There was nothing beautiful that came out of the ten years of suffering that Shura had to bear.

Aphrodite chose to stand by his side, still.)

Shura saw the man's back and found comfort in his choice.

Perhaps that was also why he missed the weakened, but gentle Cosmo slipping into the stage like the fall of a veil. Then came another slip, another will descended into play—then another, and another, like the gathering of twinkling starlight against the might of a singular star. They burned so ardently, so stubbornly, and it dawned on Shura that it all started with the persistence of a girl turned sister turned goddess—

—why should he be startled that she would be the one to push for the final strike, her wish carried by her most ardent followers?

Her wishes and his comrades’—they had been pinned on the wings that Seiya had nurtured. It was a pair made of shimmering light, beautiful to behold and equally strong, so ready to carry them before this tribulation and beyond. All he needed now was an opening, a path to follow through.

How could Shura not rise and meet their expectation halfway, after witnessing their resolve?

Aphrodite said nothing; his overflowing cosmo, now insistently flowing to support him, however, spoke of the surviving trust between them.

(Once upon a time, when they were made of three and were just foolish boys with lofty goals and aspirations, they would lightly exchange and share Cosmo among each other like this. A decade since then, Shura took comfort in how there was little change in the way Aphrodite's Cosmo trilled under his skin.)

Shura soaked in the offer, letting it sharpen Excalibur in his right arm. He thought back of Cid and his blade, sharp enough to dispel the evil brought by the god of delusion, sharp enough to cut the flesh of the dream gods, to cut an armament strengthened by Athena.

Then he made the swing, an Excalibur meant to sever evil, and cried out: “Go, Seiya! Go and save Athena!!”

The pressure dispersed, the trappings made by the traitor undone, the light left behind by the Pegasus Saint befuddling—

—and the Gemini Saint knelt on both knees, his gold cloth broken in two and a white rose sticking out of the crevice made in between.

That was the last thing that Shura remembered before everything faded to black.

Chapter Text

What shoved Shura from unconsciousness was the gentle Cosmo that insistently prodded at his tired, pitiful soul. It tugged at him, trying to rouse him from slumber—

—maybe it wasn't the divine Cosmo that eventually woke him up, but rather the utmost pain all over his body as his awareness returned. He heard commotion around him, people screaming something like ‘tie him down, bind him!!’ and… The scream…

It took his scrambled mind a moment before he realized that his own scream was among the chaos that ensued.

There was yet another wave of gentle Cosmo enveloping him, a reassuring presence that Shura was too in pain to recognize. It was calm… and then it was numbing, enough for Shura to ignore the subdued pain throughout his system and finally to open his eyes.

It was a miracle that he had not gone blind, having expended so much of his Cosmo to the brink. But seeing Aiolos’ forlorn face hovering over his own felt more like a true miracle after everything that occurred in the last twelve hours.

Shura blinked. Aiolos was still there, his Cosmo burning ardently—and the man flinched when he realized that he had caught Shura's attention.

It was difficult to move away, to deal with… whatever this was, and what the last decade of his life factored into the equation. Shura could feel Saori's warm Cosmo nearby, though, and he trusted her judgment; if she permitted Aiolos to be here and help ease his pain, then he was no longer a threat. Not anymore, at least.

But he was delirious with blood loss, his filter was down so badly that he couldn't help the question that exited his lips, “...you won't shoot me down this time, yeah?”

He might have imagined Aiolos’ choked sob; the soothing Cosmo belonging to the Sagittarius Saint becoming more like a blanket wrapping around his head rather than a veil dissociating him from hurt. Shura was already slipping back to unconsciousness before he could make certain of the man's expression.

When Shura came to, with his thoughts being more lucid and his body less feeling like it had been run through by a truck, it was nighttime.

He was... he presumed that he was in a house, instead of a medical facility appointed by Kido Foundation. The first thing that he registered of his surroundings was the soft bed, then the heat of summer, and then the cool breeze flowing from the opened window to his right side.

Then he recognized Aphrodite's blue hair, his attention devoted to the book in his hand. He almost instantly peeked away from it when Shura stirred. Their eyes met, the shock on Aphrodite's face quickly turning into veiled alertness as the man stood up from his chair.

“And the prince rises again. How're you feeli—” There was that telltale of a smirk before Aphrodite caught himself and shook his head, “No, don't answer that, you look like shit, probably feel like shit too. Let me get the caretaker.”

Just like that, Aphrodite was gone like the wind before he could inquire further. When the man returned with a group of people who were supposedly in charge of his care. They made a thorough check of his condition, gave him a quick wash and a change of clothes, and served him food.

(Shura ignored that amused look on Aphrodite's face when his stomach growled. He was famished, alright?)

The process in itself was an ordeal, and perhaps the discomfort showed on his face too much; Aphrodite, who was waiting and had been observing quietly at the corner of the room, approached the leader in charge and shared a few words. They were enough to make them gather their things, make their respective bow, and excuse themselves. Silence returned to the room again—

—for once after a long time, Shura was not that eager to break it, not when it provided him the space to think and let the events that happened so far sink. The lack of his left arm felt more pronounced now, and Shura wanted to do something to... just...

The moment he shifted his weight, his right reaching for the stump where his left arm was supposed to be, Aphrodite was already making his return to the chair by the bed. He said nothing, but the way the man's gaze bore on him… Shura knew that he was waiting.

… No, he was doing more than that. Aphrodite was assessing, preparing scenarios in his head, and tailoring his reaction around them.

(Aiolos’ stricken face might have been the last image that Shura remembered before passing out, but he remembered a haunting moment that stuck with him, despite the blurriness.

He remembered seeing a hunched-over Pisces Saint in the distance, so hauntingly still as he clung to the knelt-down corpse of the Gemini Saint. It felt like, perhaps, if the man just stayed there unmoving, Thanatos himself would be moved by his silent plight and take him away—to wherever Gemini Saga was going.)

He had lost an arm. Any other man would have been mulling over that loss now, grieving over the price that was paid to save a goddess' life. Shura chose to seek Aphrodite's gaze head-on instead, and said, “I am sorry that things end in such a way.”

Aphrodite blinked dazedly, but the surprise flitted away just as soon as it appeared on his face. He shook his head distractedly, and Shura wondered whether this response fit in any scenarios that he had considered prior.

“Saga died with dignity, even after the terrible atrocities that he did—that I have known about but could not take action against. That is all thanks to your effort,” he replied, his gaze moving away and stopping at the outside view of the Sanctuary in the distance. What the man was seeing, Shura dared not to assume. “I regret my weakness, for it has led you to…”

The words trailed off into silence, the guilt in the air deafening.

Shura's fingers itched, scratching at the bandage that was wrapped around his left shoulder. It was an attack made with cruelty and efficiency, something that Shura was sure that Saga was capable of but the man could never take it under any circumstances, considering his upright nature. He didn't put much thought into it, back during the fight, but now that the crisis had passed…

“What's done is done,” he interjected, projecting pragmatism into his voice in his pathetic attempt to cover up his mounting distress. Shura would deal with this another night—preferably in his lonesome. “If anything else, I just want to know in detail… What truly transpired? I never recall Saga to be so ruthless to pull such schemes.”

He could see Aphrodite's expression turning from guilt to disappointment before it finally settled into that careful mask reserved for business. 

“I suppose Athena-sama would forgive my prudence and share with you some of the findings in the aftermath of—everything,” the Pisces Saint conceded, his tone brisk, “better to answer your questions now than to drive you so crazy that you would try finding out about it yourself. Knowing your luck so far, you'll probably end up injuring yourself or worse, and then call it a day.”

It all started with the friendship between two. Then came the camaraderie, then the common shared goal, then the amicable rivalry, then the culmination of said rivalry as the Pope determined his choice with confidence.

The prophecy of the Fall—of Saori bringing the end to the world as they knew it—only served to muddy the water, a catalyst to hasten destruction.

What was unsaid between the lines, however, Shura could almost imagine it clearly: jealousy, born of insecurities; loyalty, enough to blind a person from their true purpose; charades—

—goddess, charades. He was not sure which one was worse when Aphrodite laid down the truth as the man knew: that Saga was temperamentally fragile, his situation was further exacerbated with the Pope's demise; that Aiolos was what kept the Sanctuary from falling apart altogether by choosing to be the accomplice to the Pope's murderer, and; that Aphrodite had long helped Aiolos to keep this godforsaken play for a decade, at least.

‘The arrow shot by a Sagittarius Saint never misses, young Shura.’

In the distance, he saw the first ray of dawn, illuminating the Sanctuary and the nearby civilian settlements. Blood could have been spilled here, and yet, no such tragedy came to pass. Shura survived. Saori lived. Athena returned. 

How much of Aiolos’ interference factored into this outcome?

“I need to speak with Aiolos,” Shura eventually said, breaking the thoughtful silence that blanketed the room once Aphrodite was done with his explanation. His thoughts flitted to the image of that man once more, and Shura acknowledged that the anger was still there—just like how some of it had turned into the need for clarification, for reparations. So he straightened his back and lifted his head, his gaze filled with determination.

“I need to hear it right from his own mouth.”

Chapter Text

He forgot just how steadfast his sister could be, given the right tools and leverage.

When she found out about his plan to escape the compound and scale the peak of Star Hill (Aphrodite did mention that Aiolos was on house arrest until Athena meted out appropriate judgment and that he was confined to Star Hill until further notice), she refused to meet with him face-to-face and chose to send Shaka, of all people, to deter him from going.

For some reason, despite being one of Saori's confidants in carrying out her tasks (being the bodyguard of the heiress of the Kido foundation frequently put him on such a spot), she had chosen Virgo Shaka, of all people!

(Granted, he remembered the man being quite thorough with his commitment, someone with an upstanding work ethic if he recalled correctly. Still, for her to show favor to the one person who sometimes grated at his nerves—this was just a deliberate show of favor!

If his pride was a bit bruised from this—no, it wasn't.)

“I simply find it hard to understand the urgency of your request,” Shaka mused serenely as he sat on the visitor chair. A part of Shura wished that the man would remain lost in Saga's Another Dimension so that he didn't have to deal with this, but that would have meant the certain death of Andromeda Shun and Phoenix Ikki; they wouldn't have been able to return on their own, and they were truly lucky that the Virgo Saint managed to anchor their return as well.

“Aiolos is on house arrest and will not be leaving anytime soon. You need time to recover—both physically and mentally,” the serene smile quickly turned into a frown, “the answer to your questions is not going anywhere, and there is virtue in resting after a long-fought battle.”

Shura read the unvoiced thoughts beneath the displeased expression: 'ten years of struggling and you still ask for a fight? Did you grow out of your trainee days at all?’

Unfortunately, as much as Shura mustered his will to glare back, Shaka's reasoning was foolproof. He supposed that he should fall back to his second plan, then: escaping this accommodation and finding a way to climb the Starhill Peak—

“Since you don't look like you are going to sit back and rest,” Shaka's eyes opened, blue eyes gleaming with the threat that he would unleash divine wrath on him if necessary, “why don't we seek compromise?”

—Shura bit the bottom of his lips, before grumbling. “I'm listening.”

Oh, if there was no other alternative if it was required to scale the damn peak, he would (grumbly) do it. But Shura was also a pragmatic man; if there was less painful choice, he would prefer doing just that.

However, the smirk on Shaka's face did not inspire confidence, so Shura braced for—whatever herculean tasks this man was going to throw at him.

“You may not be aware of this, but we've narrowed down the casualties as consequences of this useless civil war. The list is disheartening, Shura, especially when we should be bolstering our ranks to prepare for the upcoming war. Time marched on, and the prophecy encroached us closer with each moment.” Shaka continued, that smirk on his face growing even more demonic much to Shura's consternation, “I need you to train the bronze saints, to improve their capabilities so to speak.”

Of course, when Shaka dragged him to the training amphitheater, filled with faces from both his old and new faces alike, Shura should have intervened with Shaka's explanation of how the training should go:

“If you can take down our resident Capricorn Saint here, all of you win. Of course, there will be no Cloth involved, and this is not a duel. You may all come at him together.”

…This prick.

‘Best of luck! You're clear to go if you remain standing by the end of this bout!’ the bastard managed a telepathic message before he withdrew to the audience line. The bronze saints—Unicorn, Bear, Hydra, and others who were not with him during the climb—eyed him warily. But there was that daring gleam in their eyes despite it all, and Shura knew that this made a good start.

His balance was still off, with his left arm missing, but Shura knew that he would have to adjust to this change quickly—much like how these bronze saints would have to improve to prepare for the upcoming holy war.

“Well, you heard the basta— Virgo Saint,” Shura declared, right hand extended to beckon for the first strike. The taunt was enough to rile the Unicorn and Hydra saints to make an offensive stance, and Shura smirked. “Fair warning, I won't pull my punches just because I lost an arm!”

That was enough for the bronze saints to rush at him, their determination waiting to be polished and sharpened.

(In the distance, he noted Saori's distant but warm Cosmo—watching, waiting, expecting.)

Shura was one short of knocking down the last of them when the air supercharged like a moment before a thunderstrike.

It had made Shura pause briefly, but it was enough for Bear Geki to land a hit, who had managed to grab and throw him towards one of the alabaster pillars nearby. Shura barely avoided impact by executing Jumping Stone to buffer the crash, and the pillar, unfortunately, broke down in the process. He landed on his feet with grace, his attention affixed to the forest to their east—

—Bear Geki had only realized the disturbance right when that sharp Cosmo reverberated. Then came a sudden gust, and then the sound of falling trees; at that point, Shura knew that whoever was sparring no longer had any intention of keeping the fight friendly.

“All of you, stay here! Or else I swear, I'll break your legs!!” He threatened the bronze saints (and the other silver present in the audience seats), before rushing to the direction of the mayhem. He could feel Shaka's Cosmo on the periphery of his senses, and Saori's growing closer.

A moment later, he cursed under his breath when he finally discerned the fighters’ Cosmo: Aphrodite and Shun.

(There was also the brush of Phoenix Ikki’s Cosmo, so faint that Shura suspected that he was hiding his presence.)

Shura sensed their Cosmos burned to the height first, before he saw them on the clearing made as a consequence of their fight; before he saw Andromeda's shine so intensely that he could sense the flavor of seventh sense imbued in it; before Shun launched himself at Aphrodite with a cry of outrage; before Aphrodite’s petal-like Cosmo swirled around him in an attempt to defend himself; before that hastily-made defense fell away at will, as if Aphrodite was letting things be done, for Shun’s attack was ferocious enough at best to leave grievous wounds, and at worst to kill—

—Shura was already standing between them, Excalibur brandished and ready to cut through that fierce force.

Shaka was already standing in front of him, a step earlier than Shura in his attempt to diffuse the situation. His barrier was already ready, diffusing Shun's Cosmo with practiced ease.

As the Virgo Saint was facing Shura, Cosmo focused on weathering Excalibur at moment's notice, however, spoke volumes of just who the man was perceiving as the real threat here.

“Calm down, Capricorn Shura,” Shaka's voice was stern, an emphasis on his rank as if it meant something. Well, it did; the Capricorn Saint was deemed as the most loyal among the golden ranks of Athena's warriors: the first to charge through, the first to make the kill, the first to cut at their enemies, the first to slay first and question later— 

—except, the ones who stood before him were his comrades too, weren't they?

The realization washed over him like cold water, and he immediately withdrew Excalibur in response. He didn't miss the way Shaka let out a soft sigh, though Shura wondered if it was from how he backed down or because of Saori, who had finally made her presence known, making the stride to where they stood. Trailing behind her were Aries Mu and Phoenix Ikki, the latter finally making his entrance with a scoff.

“Nii-san,” she greeted with a smile, her presence pristine like the war goddess she had truly become. But Shura helped raise her to the person she had become today, and that smile was one that she used when she was putting up a brave face.

“Saori,” he greeted back and gave her a curt nod, ignoring the way Shaka's closed eyes twitched. Oh, Shura would maintain decorum when it was required of him; that their goddess chose to refer to him with familial honorific meant that he must reciprocate in kind. 

She needed that familiarity, it seemed, judging by the way her tense shoulders relaxed. Then her eyes wandered to his left shoulder, and she averted her eyes, her expression souring with guilt and pity.

(Aphrodite looked at him with the same expression the night prior, too.)

Shura wasn't sure whether what he felt was anger or distress or a sick combination of both. Foolishly, it made him want to scream, run, or hide. There was frustration bubbling in his chest, lacking an outlet and threatening to overflow into something unkind. The little training bout he did with the bronze saints at least sated that frustration a bit, but having witnessed his sister-goddess treat him like this—it had only made his frustration double down, and Shura had no idea how to contain it any longer—

“As you have observed for yourself, Athena-sama,” Shaka's voice silkily broke the awkward silence, and Shura would never admit out loud that he was grateful for it despite the unvoiced emphasis on proper decorum, “Capricorn Shura has recovered well. I recommend for his release to be effective immediately.”

—he scowled instead, trying to hold his arms together, only realizing a beat after that he was missing an arm to complement the gesture. At that point, he just released a sigh; this was just going to be something that he would have to adjust to very soon, very quickly. 

Saori still looked like freeing him from bed rest would be a great discourtesy, as if Shura needed more time to recover (he certainly did not, it would make him go mad, actually) but eventually she sighed and yielded. “Granted.”

“Excellent,” Shaka might have beamed, or maybe Shura was still high on adrenaline because there was no way the man could look that giddy. Then, the light in his face vanished, the light smile swapping into a begrudging frown, directed at the Pisces Saint who cowered behind Shura's back, and then the Andromeda Saint whom the Phoenix Ikki helped with standing back up. “Now, if the both of you could explain why you two, as Athena's treasured knights, are trying to kill each other?”

Shura wondered about that too, because he certainly didn't miss Shun's intent to kill and Aphrodite's intent to take that attack at will. There was a story here, and this would be among the things that needed to be resolved as soon as possible.

Chapter Text

Shura could no longer hold back the need to pinch the bridge of his nose. 

It had been one headache after another after securing his freedom as an independent, disabled but still very capable Saint who served the protector goddess of this earth. First it was Shaka’s whole ordeal (fine, the training wasn't that bad of an idea, considering that he was able to convince Saori that he was well enough to defend himself), then the fight to the death between Shun and Aphrodite despite Sao– Athena's visible presence, then the explanation that they offered right after they were separated.

“He murdered my teacher!” Shun—gentle Shun who had always watched his tone, chosen his words, and been warmly polite—had roared. If this boy were anyone else, perhaps he would have leaped at the Pisces Saint again to cause harm, Saori's presence be damned. “I demand justice for his death!”

“He has every right for it,” Aphrodite had softly, uncharacteristically agreed, and that admittance left Shura just as confused. “I was sent to Andromeda Island because Cepheus Daidalos had long refused summons by the Pope. My directive was to execute him if he showed no signs of cooperation.”

‘The boy has the right to my life,’ was what Shura heard from that crisp confession.

(How could he tell them to realize that, once they started serving the goddess, their lives were no longer their own? That their fates were in Athena's hands, whether they live or die? That grudges are to be set aside in favor of their shared loyalty to protect her? Did Shun miss the 101 to be a trainee? Did the Cepheus Saint botch his task? He had expected Aphrodite's resignation over his own life, the man still had shreds of conscience on him after the harrowing decade, but Shura had expected Shun to be wiser about this.)

Saori had to invoke her authority right after, declaring that she would have this matter investigated as part of unveiling just how much the conspiracy went. What information that Aphrodite had relayed to him the day before had not covered everything, that as much as Aiolos was being cooperative with the investigation… He was also showing signs of disorders that hindered and/or befuddled his recollection. Thus, they would need any remaining parties who were in the know of the conspiracy—and Aphrodite was a part of it.

And so the Pisces Saint secured his life, and the grudge of Andromeda Saint remained unsettled.

Shura pinched the bridge of his nose and rubbed his face. 

“Having cold feet right before your proper meeting?” Virgo Shaka’s serene voice broke him from reverie, and Shura was reminded that he was, once more, stuck with this man as his company. Saori was quick to order him and the Virgo Saint to make the audience with Aiolos a priority, and she did not leave room for any arguments or bargains.

“You wish,” he grumbled, giving the Virgo Saint a brief look. They had to delay their so-called meeting to accommodate with—whatever the Virgo Saint was occupied with the other day. Now, with Saori off Sanctuary grounds to attend to her business as the Kido heiress (the decision faced much consternation of most dwellers, voices that were swiftly slain down with her argument of ‘a number of saints of my choosing will attend me, and I have survived for so long outside of this hallowed grounds without the Sanctuary's protection’), they were supposed to enter Star Hill via the Pope's Chamber. 

Shura was supposed to meet this prick at the Temple of Virgo, before resuming his ascent. To none of his surprise, its guardian certainly took his sweet time making preparations.

“I certainly expect nothing less from the most loyal of us,” he acknowledged, the tease in his voice grating on Shura's nerves. The man had been spending too much time with Saori because surely there was no other explanation as to why Virgo Shaka seemed eager to fluster. “Shall we proceed, then?”

It eventually hit him just how undermanned their defense was when they reached the Temple of Sagittarius.

“We entombed the dead, yesterday,” Shaka quietly supplied, as if reading his thought. “I was in charge of the procession, and it was also why I couldn't have come with you if you were to meet Aiolos yesterday.”

Shura stopped on his track, giving the other man a placid gaze. Shaka followed, taking in his gaze while patiently waiting for the other to speak—because such was the kind of person Shura was and remained: he only stopped when there was something that needed to be voiced.

“Gemini Saga, Cancer Sal– Deathmask, Leo Aiolia,” Shura stopped briefly at the Greek's name to compose his tone, “Scorpio Milo, Aquarius Camus. That's everyone among the Gold ranks?”

“Double the numbers for the Silver Saints, on top of the Gold. Mu had been working over the clock to secure the Cloths and perform the required postpartum rites,” Shaka pensively responded, and Shura wondered whether he imagined the tiredness in his voice. “I had hoped for her ascension to be less bloody than this.”

Shura thought of the Temples that they had to go through before arriving at the Pope's Chamber. There would only be Pisces Aphrodite, recently put on house arrest like the Sagittarius Saint, to greet those who climbed up.

Hypothetically, anyone who dared cause Athena harm would be immutably stopped at the Temple of Virgo; Virgo Shaka's title as the man nearest to godhood wasn't an empty title, after all—

—anyone, save for Hades or Poseidon themselves, at least.

“Should we be worried that much, especially when we have you among our ranks?” Shura blurted the words out, only realizing a beat later that he really should have kept them to himself. The Virgo Saint looked at him (looked at him, open-eyed and surprised) as if he had grown a second head, and Shura quickly turned on his heel to avoid that gaze. No, he was not going to let that man have the satisfaction of seeing him fluster (he was not!).

“My,” Shaka drawled, outright amusement in his voice, “I didn't know that you put so much faith in me.”

Shura cursed under his breath; this was why he would rather not give any inches to this man. “Ugh, we're wasting time. Let's just go.”

Aphrodite had agreed to accompany them through the stairway of roses, but no more past that.

“I'm on house arrest, remember?” The man wryly reminded and shook his head. Shura was just tired of this bullshit because the decision of whether that man could be confined to the Temple or not was on Athena's hand. While she was away, that right was bequeathed to Virgo Saint.

(No, he was not bitter about it. He wasn't. …Okay, maybe he was, but just a smidge. Also, that part of him was easily squashed by the other part which agreed with Saori's pragmatism.)

Shura shot the Virgo Saint a glance, to which the other replied with a raised eyebrow. For a moment, he thought that Shaka would disagree, until the man himself said, “You are one of his colleagues trusted to carry out his machinations. Having you in the room may help paint a better context to his side of the story.”

Aphrodite did not instantly respond to that explanation, opting to cast a glance at the Pope’s Chamber before them instead. Shura expected longing in that gaze, considering how that building was likely where Saga occupied the last ten years. What he did not expect was the following smile, almost dripping with chagrin in its twist.

“Not today,” Aphrodite finally decided, his voice light despite the gleam of animosity in his eyes. “Perhaps one day, I can sit down in a room and breathe the same air as that man without trying to strangle him to death. If there’s someone I hate more than myself right now, it would be Aiolos and his cowardice.”

Chapter Text

There was a teleportation mechanism inside the Pope's Chamber, within a secret room adjacent to the sleeping quarter. It only opened with a talisman written with Athena’s blood and inscribed with a prayer that only the Pope was privy to. Saga knew of this knowledge; masquerading as the Pope gave him enough time to learn this, and more.

Aiolos, however, was the person who divulged this information, in the aftermath of this bloody dispute.

Under any circumstances, that alone would have assured his death sentence; possessing such information meant his collusion with Saga (how many secrets only known by the Pope did they find out—did they exchange between each other?). However, they had only recently buried their dead, their ranks crippled, and their morale at an all-time low.

(Shaka might have been silent about the matter, but Shura could tell of the quiet unrest in the air during his short medical stay: some of the Sanctuary dwellers were considering leaving the area. While the civilians were free to do as they wished, active members of the Sanctuary who bolted from their duty were considered traitors and thus were eligible for execution.

Not that the Sanctuary had enough manpower to enforce just that.

This bloody scandal caused a mess of great proportion.)

He and Shaka both knew and understood, however, that Sagittarius Aiolos, too, had the veneration of the people in his hand; Saori's presence might assure the mass, but the ones who held these people together so far had been Aiolos, for better or worse.

Thus the Sagittarius Saint of their generation lived for another day, even if under great scrutiny.

When the mechanism transported them both to the building at the Star Hill, the first thing that came to Shura's vision was the small study room, packed with bookshelves on all three walls; the second thing was the stuffy air, only made less so with how the door nearby had been left open to allow fresher air to come in, and; the third thing was Aiolos, who was sitting on a nearby chair at first, then rising to his feet. 

Aiolos looked gaunt as if the last ten years had finally caught up to him (just like how Shura had burned with rage for so long), but he offered him and Shaka both a courteous, tentative smile. The mask of a smile.

“You're finally here. Welcome.”

The roiling anger reared its ugly head yet again; the audacity of this man to act as if he had not been a part of the forces bent on harming Saori—

Shura took a brief moment to take a deep breath before he schooled his expression carefully.

“Aiolos,” he greeted back, his utterance void of emotion. He remembered the steadfast oneness that he had to achieve to wield Excalibur—and clung on to that feeling to keep himself composed.

Aiolos made a nod before gesturing to them to follow him. Shura did not miss the way the man's face twisted with pain, and part of him wondered why no sense of relief descended to appease the vengeance (hurt? bitterness? he was not sure, but it was a terrible thing that had bloomed and withered and coalesced and rotted for the last ten years—something that he had yet to define, unable to be named) in his heart.

There was a quiet laughter in his head, the Capricorn Cloth singing the song of revelry. ‘Because it's not vengeance that you seek, or are you still blind to what you search for in him?’

Shura looked at Aiolos’ retreating, a sense of loss in his gaze, as his world renewed.

“Why?” Shura had witlessly blurted out.

That Shaka was disgruntled enough to kick his foot under the table was evidence of how foolish he might have been. They had been led to the front yard of the house by the hill, and had been sat down on a table set made for outdoor gathering. Aiolos had genially served tea and Shura had been restraining himself from blowing up for whatever audacity this was. 

Despite the kick under the table, Shaka had been uncharacteristically quiet as if waiting for the moment to become undone.

Aiolos only gave him a wane smile, one that was helpless as well as knowing. “You will have to be specific about your question, Shura.”

There was a smidge of silver on the right side of the man's head, right over the top of his ear. It was unnoticeable under the low light of the room, but now it stood up under the morning sun, catching Shura's attention so much that his eyes couldn't help but wander.

Hey, at least the small distraction was enough to drown the horrid embarrassment in his bowel.

He saw Shaka making a furtive glance at him. ‘Cold feet, after all,’ as if it had said, echoing their little exchange at the Temple of Virgo.

Again, this prick.

“Why does Aphrodite bear much animosity towards you, for starters,” Shaka eloquently flung back, a civil smile in place. “We mentioned your name to him during our ascent through the rose stairway.”

The man didn't immediately answer, his gaze briefly wandering to the shadow of the Temple of Pisces in the distance. “He doesn't like the choices that I picked, to keep Sanctuary safe. It forced Saga to masquerade as the Pope, when the alternative was plausibly better.”

“He thinks that I should have usurped and taken the position myself,” Aiolos shook his head, “it would have been easy to overpower Saga then, even after considering his prowess. There were two of us, and there were many opportunities to catch him off guard. Then, we could shove Saga somewhere until we figured out how to—deal with him. Or to come up with some other solutions. Something.”

“That does sound like a viable plan,” Shaka agreed, and yet there was only pity in his voice. “But it does not sound like one you have the heart to carry out either.”

It was eerie to hear the hollow laughter that fell off this man's lips, he whose heart was unfettered and carried people's wishes so easily. “He was my brother, my friend… He was my family, my rival.”

Then his gaze returned to Shura, adorned with pleas just as much as resignation. He looked miserable, just as much as he looked dignified, even when Shura started to grasp just what the man was about to convey.

“Even if it is to ensure the safety of our goddess, I do not have the resolve to—” Aiolos gulped, struggling to get the words out as if they were barbed, stuck in his throat and refusing to be let out, “—to cut down those I hold dear. I could not bear killing Shura years ago, so why would you think that I could do so to Saga then?”

In retrospect, he should have shown better restraint than this: him suddenly standing on his two feet, the table buckling, and their tea spilled all over. 

Aiolos winced at his sudden outburst, though his expression quickly turned sardonic.

Shaka looked dismayed, though he offered nothing more than a stern glare at him. “I will give both of you the space to resolve this. Remember your duty and don't go overboard, Capricorn Shura.”

And just like that, he smoothly made his exit.

The emphasis of that title weighed like a lead, reminding him who he was in the grand scheme of things. Amidst the simmering anger rattling against its cage, Shura remembered that they all needed this man alive, Athena needed his support in the coming battle against the other gods—

—and the Capricorn Saint always, always put his goddess first and foremost.

“Tell me everything,” he quietly growled while gently unclenching his own fist. The faint smell of his blood—so blatant his effort to contain himself back from sharpening Excalibur was that his nails dug into the skin of his palm—helped anchor him, help fasten his cage of rage. 

“Tell me why you stood there and did nothing when Saga attempted murder on Athena,” he ordered through gritted teeth, the memory of carrying Saori away from danger resurfaced as clear as yesterday. “Tell me why you shot me down on that night, instead of the betrayer who sought for her demise. You owe me this much.”

Aiolos had been holding his breath throughout, it seemed. He seemed rattled, his eyes wandering at Shura's bleeding hand, before finding their way to meet Shura's own upon the verbal order. For once after a long time, Shura saw the sharpness in that gaze, a lilt of the Sagittarius Saint that he used to know from a life they were forced to discard.

(Once upon a time, such a gaze made Shura's heart skip a beat. Today, it made his heart clamor and weep.)

And then, Aiolos sighed.

“It all began with the prophecy of the Fall.”

Chapter Text

He knew of that prophecy.

It was something that he learned afterward, when he was scouring information about the Sanctuary. Shura learned about this firstly from Roushi, though he only found out more from Eagle Marin. It was divided into two parts, with the first telling the great catastrophes brought by the god of the seas, Poseidon, and the god of the Underworld, Hades, in their endeavor to dominate the world. 

The second part told of Athena and her descent from the divine realm to rise against their invasion. She was foreseen to reincarnate as a human, fighting alongside the people who call Earth their home.

As if having read the thoughts on Shura's face, Aiolos gave him a knowing, stricken smile.

“There are three parts of that prophecy. The public knows of the first and second, but the third part is only known to a select few—by my design.”

Shura felt the puzzlement rising out first, then came the dread. “This third part, is that the reason why it is called the Fall?”

(It had struck him as odd, when he first heard it from Marin. For its ominous name, no parts of the prophecy point to anything that dictates a fall—literally or metaphorically, for whatever intent and purpose.

“Maybe it is a warning for us, not to get complacent. A warning so that we can keep our edges sharp and endure when the time comes,” she shrugged, “rare enough that a god waged war for the dominion of the earth. It is even rarer when two are foretold to do so in one generation.”)

Aiolos nodded and then sipped on his tea. Shura waited, even when the last of his patience was put to the test from biding his time.

“I was present when it was first foretold,” the man confessed quietly, finding his half-drunk tea much more interesting than the traitor who had returned their supposedly long-lost goddess. “The Pope—Master Shion summoned Saga and I, a few days before… before your escape. It was an auspicious night to practice scrying the future, using the Crateris Cloth as the catalyst. Saga was to be named as his successor, and myself his aide. Learning the art has become a requirement.”

“It was foretold that the gods of the seas and the underworld covet dominion over the Earth, and Athena was sent to defend it against their conquest,” he continued, head tilted just enough so that their gaze met again. Shura could see the last signs of fear in those eyes, before they slinked away; a choice was made, and Aiolos was done running.

“The third part of the Propechy told of her failure to defend the world, the triumphs of the other gods,” he confessed, “this was what drove Saga to take matters into his own hands. If Athena would be the one to invite the world's destruction, then it is better to remove her and find another way to fight them off. And I, having witnessed that prophecy with him, agreed."

It felt like a hollow victory, having heard the reason behind that ten-year-old betrayal.

The rage that rattled under his skin was somewhat appeased, and yet what was left in its shadow was the sheer dumbfoundment from knowing that, somewhere along the line, Aiolos had lost faith.

Aiolos!! The star of their generation!! The venerated Sagittarius Saint known for his devotion to the cause!!

His head was spinning, his ears were ringing—

“And so you followed that man's vision and shot me down,” Shura reasserted, “because you lost faith in Athena.”

—and yet that stubborn lump of flesh in his chest, beating still with fervor, still clung to the hope that he had heard wrongly, that there were still layers that needed to be dug!

Aiolos’ expression looked stony for one moment, before the man quietly nodded along to Shura's assertion.

“But you missed the shot. Killing me would have guaranteed Athena's demise… killing me would have secured Saga's goals—your own,” he babbled back, the rage under his skin buckling. He needed for this man to stop spinning the tale any longer, before his patience snapped and made him do things Shaka would have considered as going overboard.

“You never miss a shot," he pressed further, his eyes searching for more—pleading for more, "So why, Aiolos?”

‘Why must you take this lie so far?’

Aiolos looked pained, his brave face finally breaking apart, as if each of Shura's words was an Excalibur blade made real, slashing at him mercilessly.

When Shura thought that he needed to brandish the real one to extricate the truth himself, the Sagittarius Saint sagged on his chair helplessly, as a prey resigned to its fate.

“Because if I did not shoot you then, Saga would have,” he quietly, shamefully admitted, his face buried in his hands, “I would rather condemn you to a life of strife and bear your hate, than let yourself die. I loved you too much to let you die a traitor's death.”

Those poets made moments like this sound like they never ended, lasting forever and remaining still for eternity.

Those poets were liars, Shura mused.

The world kept on turning, the cold wind billowing, the sun kept on climbing, Aiolos remained on his chair, and Shura… Shura felt the anger beneath his skin finally recede; quenched, just like how his curiosity was sated—

—and from its ashes, he felt something akin to hope taking root.

The Capricorn Saint let himself fall to his chair—he didn't remember rising up throughout this confession—and stared. Aiolos shot him down to save his life—

“You could have shot Saga down instead,” he found himself yelling, bedazzled by himself, even, by this strange anger coming out of nowhere. It even surprised Aiolos enough to make him startle and gaze back. That made Shura rise to his feet again, his blood boiling. “What, he has been your comrade longer than I have, so you decided to shoot me, the junior, is that it?”

“... Even back then, both of us together wouldn't have been able to take him down?” 

Aiolos was right—at least, that was the last rational part of Shura whispered in his head, but he simply shoved that noise to the back of his head and opted to make his way to Aiolos’ side—

—and reached for the neck of his tunic.

“There could have been something!! We could have made things work—” Shura's voice wavered, and he hated it, how he couldn't stop shaking and now, the bastard knew too, “—you asked too damn much out of me, god damn it!!”

There was no strength in his grip; Aiolos could have freed himself from it and Shura would have let him. Instead, the man opted to scoot closer, his hand reaching out for the back of Shura's head. It was a head pat, one that coaxed Shura to come closer, to rest his head for comfort.

He remembered the times in which Aiolos offered his lap for Shura to lay his head down; the quiet nights shared under the stars, while they sought repose from too much training (Aiolos, running away from one more task from the Pope; Shura, seeking for a quiet place to calm his mind).

Those memories, ones that were thought to have transformed into resentment, were the only things that halted Shura from slinking away.

“I'm sorry, for the things I have put you through in these past ten years,” the man rasped, “No apologies of mine—not even my life could make up for the grievances that I have caused you. Even so… Even after everything, thank you. Thank you for living on. Thank you... for coming back, for giving me the chance to see you again.”

“You're a goddamn moron, you know that?”

Aiolos winced. Shura paid no heed to it and continued with the verbal lashings. He had ten years worth of them to spare and no sliver of kindness to hold them back.

He would take this half-assed half-hug offered by this godforsaken fool, though; it was comforting. And welcomed. And sorely missed. Fuck.

“You shot me down, then contemplated killing yourself for three years,” Shura felt the man shudder under his accusation. Good, he should know how moronic this man had been and become, after listening to the rest of his confession… While burying his face on top of Shura's mop of hair. 

Bastard. 

“Learned of my and Sao— Athena's survival from Roshi, had second thoughts about this whole ordeal, acted like an ally to the false Pope to prevent a civil war and to keep the army intact until Athena is fit to resume leadership, and now… We're here. With six gold saints dead, six silver also dead, six others out of commission, a demoralized militia, and a mutiny among the ranks waiting to happen.”

Even having briefly summarized the consequences of Aiolos’ actions, Shura didn't miss the slight pause of Aiolos’ finger stroking his hair. The dirt on Aiolia's grave had yet to dry—

—Shura would be lying if he said that the Leo Saint's gaunt face had not haunted his sleep.

“You bastard. You goddamn bastard. I hope you're ready to be worked to the bone, under the very goddess you've lost faith in,” he muttered, thumping his forehead against the Sagittarius’ chest in frustration. And yet, never in his life had he felt lighter on his feet. “If this world is going to burn anyway, at the very least I will make you pay for the hardships that you've put me through.”

He thought that he heard a sniveling sound, and probably imagined the wetness on his hair. There was hope in his heart, a lightness born from the ashes of his rage—and Shura made it known by replying to the hug with his own.

Chapter Text

By the time he finished his first interrogation, the sun was slipping from the zenith.

Aiolos somehow convinced him to take leave ('the gall of this man!'), claiming that surely Shura had other matters to attend to.

Well, Shura certainly did not. This was still an official interrogation, so, like the reasonable man he was, he cleared out his schedule for the day. He was already expecting that this interrogation would take just as long. Now, having finished too early, he was left with too much time on his hand and nothing to do—

—nothing to do.

‘But it wasn't nothing’, Shura mused, taking a long look at his lone arm. While past grudges had been resolved, and closure obtained (closure, Shura realized, was what he had been seeking from the man who shot him down, not vengeance), they were left with a Sanctuary in need of rebuilding to fend off against invasions by other gods.

They all had much to do.

Perhaps he should spend his free time checking on the recruits and trainees, to see how bad their morale was due to this recent scandal and if there was something he could do for a short-term fix.

He was expecting to remain with his thoughts alone for the rest of his descent, down to the backside of the Temple of Pisces at least. However, he saw Aphrodite's familiar visage by the entrance of the Pope Chamber, a rueful expression on his face as his attention focused on the rose on his hand—and then on Shura.

“You were waiting?”

The Pisces Saint arched an eyebrow at him. “Precautionary measures, mostly. I was surprised that Shaka let the two of you be in the same space alone, but I suppose that I worried over nothing if you look this lax.”

Shura wanted to respond, sensing too many layers of presumptions from that comment—layers that he had no energy to delve into right now. His mouth uselessly opened and closed instead.

Much to his consternation, Aphrodite’s lips twisted, his expression giddy. “So, monsieur ex-traitor, did you finally confess your undying love for him?” 

He wanted to say that Aphrodite's out of his mind, the statement catching him off so badly that he stopped on his track lest he tripped the stairs. 

Instead, he stared back as if the Pisces Saint had grown a second head, or maybe the tail of a sea dragon somewhere. “Where the fuck does that come from?”

It was even more dumbfounding that Aphrodite had the gall to blink at him, as if he had not just spouted the most nonsensical thing that had graced Shura's ears, before spouting yet another nonsense, “Aiolos could never, that coward, so surely it must have been you?”

Shura groaned as he pinched the bridge of his nose. 

“We talked and it was civil,” he pressed, walking past the man as if leaving him behind would lessen this incoming headache. Aphrodite, of course, naturally followed two steps behind him; already Shura could feel the poison around the rose garden dispersing at the man's will. “He told me why he shot me down.”

Then Aphrodite's footsteps stopped. Shura couldn't help but follow, turning his attention back to said Saint. The Pisces Saint looked incredulous, Shura thought, an expression rarely associated with this man.

“And you expect me to believe that you just, what, forgive and forget? Without even a squabble? A fight?” Aphrodite retorted, giving that look as if it was Shura who had turned into a Scylla.

But was it really that odd? For him to let go of past grievances because things have been cleared up and they have other things to prioritize?

Then he saw Aphrodite's face contorted with incredulousness, as if the gears in his head suddenly clicked into place. “Hold— wait, did you say that he tells you why he shot you down?”

“Why is this suddenly business to you?” Shura quickly interjected, prickly walls up before he could even will them to stay down. He didn't like the way Aphrodite's gaze changed from disbelief to… was that exasperation?

“Because it's that coward, of course. I never thought that he still had the backbone to profess his love—" Now it was Aphrodite's turn to look like a fish out of water, "After all that had happened, he still dares?”

It shouldn't have discombobulated Shura much, the way Aphrodite said it. And yet, he found the words pinned him to the ground, his thoughts racing. ‘Professing his love? Aiolos did? When—’

“Oh, you silly goat,” the Pisces Saint's expression softened as he comfortingly put his hand on Shura's limbless shoulder. It should have come as a pity, this gesture, but Shura knew that Aphrodite was being sincere.

Perhaps it was that sincerity that made Shura want to blanch. 

“You have always been so down badly for him, so much so that you can't even see. Then let me tell you one thing about Aiolos, something I learned while I was working with him,” Aphrodite looked him dead in the eye.

“If he is such a faithful Saint of Athena, he would have murdered Gemini Saga without hesitation or died trying. Even if he did manage that, he probably would have taken his own life afterward, as an atonement for his transgressions. Instead, Aiolos chose to hold on for a decade, to wait for your return. That's not the kind of love that a man bears for a fellow brother-in-arms.”

He rushed through the empty Temples following the Temple of Pisces. 

Shura didn't even think to stop by the Capricorn Temple, willing his feet to keep him moving. It grounded him from the storm that was his racing thoughts, set aflame by Aphrodite's sympathetic analysis. ‘Aiolos had loved him, still loved him—’

He couldn't wrap his head around that premise.

‘Do I love him back?’

It was that thought, resurfacing so quickly right after Aphrodite was finished with his opinion, that made him sprint away. ‘Did I love him that way?’ was what rose to the forefront of his thoughts next, followed by ‘What about these past ten years?’

The number of questions grew inside his head. As if they had their weight, they made him slow down and catch his breath, just as he got through his own Temple and finally arrived at the Temple of Sagittarius.

He had so many memories of this place. Shura needed only to set his eyes on the stairway leading to the backdoor, and he would be reminded of his and Aiolia's break after the additional lessons that he promised his junior, or; if he walked inside and looked at the narrow hallway leading to its living quarter, he could imagine the candlelight, the hunched over form of Aiolos over the table as the man failed yet again to drag himself to bed, or; if he looked at the foot of the pedestal on which the Sagittarius Cloth was displayed, he would recall its Saint being on his knees, holding on to Aiolia's cooling corpse in his arms.

‘After everything, after becoming the person we are now—can I still..?’

Shura looked at the Sagittarius Gold Cloth with imploring eyes, as if asking for guidance.

That was when he noticed the blackened parts of its left shoulder guard, festering and spreading like a sinister rot—like a prologue to the prophecy that they had to endure soon. It was enough to jog him from his internal strife, and then to proceed again with his running.

He needed to have a chat with their resident Cloth Master, now.

Chapter Text

If there were something that Shura was glad about right now, it would be that Saori had the pity not to let him stay in the same room as the Aries Saint alone.

They weren't close. Much of his knowledge of Aries Mu was from the tidbits that Aiolia shared during their saint-in-training life: he was the future Aries Saint of their generation by profession, a quiet kid with composure unbefitting of his age. The few exchanges Shura had with him during that mess of civil strife affirmed his old presumptions of this man.

Then, the dust settled; the Aries Saint visited the Temple of Gemini, where its guardian Cloth was enshrined. Rumor had it that the man had never looked so indignant when he was faced with the badly damaged Gemini Gold Cloth and opted to deal with its logistics personally.

Shura had the faint recollection of slashing the Cloth cleanly, into two parts…

…Surely Mu was not going to blame him for it, especially when he was fighting for his life? A cloth can be repaired, but what of his severed arm? In this case, was he not the one with the bigger loss here?

Ever the graceful, perceptive woman she had become, Saori cleared her throat, in her attempt to remind them that the very cloth displayed before them took precedence over petty squabbles.

“Mu-san, if you would please provide insight into this—situation?”

Her hesitation was apparent and understandable. The matter at hand, after all, was right before their faces: the Sagittarius Gold Cloth on display, its shoulder guards having turned glistening black, like a festering rot that ate at the radiance of the Gold Cloth. Shura might have little knowledge regarding clothes, but he was put off by the coldness, the isolation, that it evoked.

“... With all due respect, Athena-sama, this matter is more complicated than I have previously thought,” the Aries Saint explained grimly, his tone tentative. His eyes met Shura's briefly, and the Capricorn Saint found it a portent of doom. “This is a sign of the Underworld's influence.”

Mu avoided his gaze from Shura as if he was the most wretched thing, for keeping hope. The man opted to gaze on Saori instead, pleading for her judgment—for her guidance.

To be fair, if he were in the man's shoes, Shura would rather not look at himself, too. Already his businesses were still inconclusive, and now more evidence survived to condemn Aiolos as a traitor with worse sin than the Pope's murderer—

—what could have been worse than the sin of colluding with Hades?

“I shall hear Aiolos’ defense from his lips,” she gently responded, her warm Cosmo gently lighting the inner walls of the Temple of Sagittarius. It put Shura's heart at ease—and Mu's too, considering how his tense shoulders quickly sagged. “But Mu-san, surely you could shed more light regarding this? Because it feels like—”

There was a quiet tugging in the periphery of his senses, and Shura thought that he saw the shade of El-Cid by the armor's side. The spirit had gently traced the side of that gold armor—the side that quickly turned black upon the touch.

He was gone, the moment Shura blinked from the shock. Saori's Cosmo grew ever ardent, her hand on his limbless shoulder.

Somehow, Shura knew that this gesture of reassurance was not for him, but for someone else.

“—it feels like the Sagittarius Cloth is crying for help.”

'This is overkill', Shura thought as he looked at Aiolos and Saori standing in front of the problem at hand, with the remaining gold saints on active duty circling them. For all his title and prowess, Aiolos wouldn't be able to overpower four Gold Saints without risking his neck.

Then, the sinner slowly knelt to his knee, pulling the golden knife that he had kept hidden from the sleeve of his robe.

For a moment, Shura was living that night again, when he rushed out with Saori in his arms. That golden blade had almost taken her life then, too, and it took everything in his willpower to restrain himself from stepping forward to disarm the man. And he knew that the other Saints struggled not to jump the man at first breath.

Then, much to everyone's surprise, Aiolos offered the blade to her, a forlorn smile on his lips.

“You are our goddess, the bringer of justice, the wiser among us. Thus I beseech you: for the sin of committing this atrocity, I shall gladly pay with my life.”

Maybe, when Saori ordered the Gold Saints to attend to her, it wasn't meant for her protection.

Maybe it was more for Aiolos’, for the moment Shura heard those words leave that man's lips, the rage that he thought was snuffed quickly returned, sharper than even at the thought of Aiolos’ offense years ago. ‘After all this, you dare give up? You dare run away still? You dare proclaim this stupidity before the very goddess you're owed to—’

The Excalibur that went for Aiolos’ limb might have been blocked by Mu’s Crystal Wall, but Shura's knuckle was just as swift, his punch landing cleanly on the man's right cheek. And just as swiftly, Aldebaran's build was already dwarfing his back, the man's arms restraining him where he stood.

From the edge of his view, Shura caught a glimpse of Shaka's blue eyes, opened and displeased.

Shura was too enraged to give a shit.

But he quickly refocused on the situation at hand when their goddess scooted close, kneeling to Aiolos’ level as she helped the staggering man straighten up as best as he could. She shook her head then, and wryly replied, “What kind of a wise goddess would execute her Saint based on a lie, Aiolos-san? Although, you kind of deserve Shura-nii’s punch.”

He could trust his sister-goddess to see through Aiolos’ bullshit, alright.

“Shaka-san and Mu-san would know better, but I sense no enduring malice that connects you with the Gold Cloth. Having seen you face-to-face clears up much of my doubt in you,” she serenely declared. The Nike in her hand shone with divinity, and they all knew to kneel upon the revelation of her decree. 

“Heed me, Aiolos, my Saint, noble bearer of the Sagittarius Gold Cloth!” She called forth, and Shura saw it, that brief moment when whatever was left of Aiolos’ hope for the future—for her—rekindled in his eyes, even if mildly, “the punishment for lying to me, for making us think that you have colluded with the Underworld—I hereby that it has been settled by Capricorn Shura.”

“It is my honor,”  he dutifully bowed, like at a time when she was the spoiled heir to Kido's fortune and he was a mere guard by her side. “Though I sincerely hope that you could forgive the way I carried your sentence, and for overstepping your boundary.”

He heard the small chuckle, and Shura couldn't help the smile on his lips.

“I trust in my Saints’ judgments,” she replied, a dash of mischief in her words. 

(Same old Saori, even with the strength of the Sanctuary in the palm of her hands.)

“As for the problem at hand, heed my order, Sagittarius Aiolos! You will look for a solution to this problem. Aries Mu will assist in this endeavor,” she ordered, her attention flying back to the others. “and with this, I hereby declare the Sagittarius and Pisces Saints freed of house confinement. Our day-to-day remains as is until further notice. Have I made my will clear?”

“Your will be done,” Shura acknowledged, finding the echoes of those words coming from his comrades comforting. Much so, when Aiolos’ was among them, firm and resolute.

Chapter Text

“I'm sorry for dropping by without notice.”

She wasn't sorry, not really. Shura watched her grow up to become a person worthy of respect—a capable leader of the Kido conglomerate. It was a position that Mitsumasa Kido groomed her into, thus the business mask often remained affixed on her face out of habit, a distance that obscured her true intent.

Not to Shura, though, and nowadays, probably not to Shaka. She had been entrusting more tasks to the Virgo Saints—which meant there was a degree of trust between them, enough to imply tacit understanding.

(No, Shura was not jeal– protective, he was above such petty things.)

That aside, the tone of her voice read something urgent, but the matter was likely personal rather than business. He spared a glance at Seiya, standing behind her so laxly despite being her guard for the day, who gave him a shrug.

(One of these days, he would set this boy straight; coming in clutch in their last excursion aside, how could Shura entrust Saori to him when nothing of him looked prepared?)

“You could have dropped by at dawn and I will not be inconvenienced,” he replied lightly, “Do you want to speak about this inside, or…?”

He spared another glance at Seiya, then back at his sister-goddess. ‘I can shoo him away if this is about confidential matters,’ as if to say.

Shura ignored the pout on the face of that Pegasus brat.

“Outside would be alright, it would be a shame to waste this good weather,” she replied, her eyes twinkling with mirth, “And yes, nii-san, Seiya can stay. What I am about to tell you is not sensitive.”

So they remained—by slabs of alabaster fashioned as a set of rustic outdoor tables and chairs. Shura had just finished smoothing the surface last night, finishing along some of the few pieces of marble furniture that he could manage. Everything was done with this kind of occurrence in mind.

(Perhaps he should endorse the Saints to live among the people for a few years—and not limit this experience only to the higher ranks. Broaden their views, learn about the lives they were meant to protect, and acquire some taste and probably a degree of consideration.)

That, and Saori was right; sometimes it could be a waste to stay inside the Temple of Capricorn, with the weather as fair as this.

Then it might as well have rained thunder for Shura when Saori said, “I have to be away for a few weeks, nii-san.”

It truly had been a lovely day, until the goddess herself decided to make the world her playground—because unfortunately, said goddess also played the role of a human, who happened to have a major influence in the world of mortals. Shura understood, having spent ten years living in that sphere. It did not, however, make the incoming headache lessen.

He also knew that they were approaching spring. The high society picked up its pace around the time, and Saori had to make an appearance, sooner than later.

“Sanctuary matters aside,” he raised his hand; he wasn’t finished, and she would be better off listening to his side of things before discussing anything else, “because, knowing you, Saori, I surmise that you have already spoken about this with Shaka on your way up. Now, have you decided on your security details?”

“Seiya would be my bodyguard for the whole journey,” she replied, perhaps too readily for his inquiries, “Shun, Hyoga, and Shiryu would join us halfway— …Shura-nii, what are you doing?”

He looked at her as if she had turned into a gorgon, sparing a glare of distaste at the Pegasus brat again (he ignored the indignant yelp), before rising to his feet. Shura pulled his phone from the pocket of his jeans and started shooting messages.

“If you think I would let you roam the world with only one bronze saint with you at all times, I’d call you crazy. Crazy, Saori, whether you're the goddess Athena or not. No, Shiryu will also join you throughout the journey, and you,” he shot a glare at the Pegasus Saint, who perked up just as quickly. 

Gods above and below, with or without seventh sense, he needed to whip Seiya up to speed in the matters of guarding one of the most important people on earth.

“You’re coming with me to the training amphitheater, now,” he scowled at the boy again, then shot Saori another look before she could even voice her complaints. His phone beeped just as quickly, and Shura mentally thanked his didi for accepting his impromptu request at short notice. His attention fell back to the Pegasus brat again. “I will see for myself whether you’re fit to guard Saori throughout this travel.”

Amagire was nothing like Excalibur, though it was not to say that the former was lesser than the latter.

Excalibur was swift, a cosmic lethality sharpened into a single edge that carried the weight of its wearer's conviction. Said conviction factored into how the blade could be used, and for Capricorn El-Cid to use it to cut down gods, once upon a time… It spoke highly of his character.

Amagire was a blade meant to break upon use—and then to be reforged, and used again in subsequence. It flowed like water, broke away upon a clash, and rejoined when it met its vein. It carried its master's will in every piece broken, every plate remade, every drop reforged; it made reading its flow, and the intent of its master, hard.

Shiryu's thoughts, however, were so loud to Shura's senses that the Capricorn Saint had to hold back from aiming for every opening that his didi glaringly offered. Like this one opening he made when he drew his arm too far away from his heart, in his attempt to launch Amagire. Shura just needed to swing his Cosmo to strike that spot, sharp enough to stun but not lethal, and—

—he thought he saw a victorious smile on his didi’s face before he heard the warcry, the zipping of white light, and the dwarfing presence behind him that quickly constricted his movements. Then he heard Seiya's giddy laughter as he launched them both to the air with a cry of, “Pegasus Rolling Crash!”

Shura didn't even manage a curse when the crash wiped him out.

“It is unlike you to pull your punches.”

Shura grumbled under his breath, hand checking on his sore jaw while he let the other man examine his neck, fingertips flowing with Cosmo meant to speed up healing. No matter how hesitant he was with having someone else trace such a vulnerable spot, Saori had been worried upon seeing him unconscious, and Mu, who volunteered to oversee the impromptu spar, was thus tasked to check on his condition and to help him heal.

...Yeah, the whole thing left him not only with a bruised jaw but also a bruised pride. It was embarrassing, really.

(But now, he was assured that Seiya and Shiryu can work together well.)

“I want him to learn a lesson, not dead,” he grunted, shoving the other's hand away once the pain subsided. “I’ll take it from here, thanks.”

The lilac-haired man did not seem like he took offense from Shura's too curt of a response, as he calmly withdrew his hand upon request. He also did not seem to want to leave Shura be, soon; Shura recognized a silence that hid questions when he sensed one, and this was certainly it. “... You have something to say to me?”

The man nodded, then shot a look at the field. Shura only noticed now that their numbers had grown, with some bronzes now practicing against each other. Some trainees had also gathered around to witness this little spectacle, prolonged now with a tactical skirmish between Shun and Hyoga.

And where Mu's gaze lay stood Saori, who was cheering on the fight, and Aiolos serving as a referee.

He wasn't sure of the brittle feeling that flitted by his chest when he took a look at him. And now he dreaded the inquiries to be made by the Aries Saint.

“We have successfully pinned down the cause of the blackening, and right now, we are trying to resolve it. It is getting somewhere, but,” Mu didn't even try to tone down his hesitation, those lilac eyes showing no intent of backing down, “we may need your assistance for the next steps.”

Well, Mu wanted to talk business. Perhaps Shura was wrong to think that the others were out to pry the details of the relationship between him and his attempted murderer. “If it is within my power, I will help.”

That Mu didn't look settled after his assurance was only adding to his dread. The determination on his face remained, still, so Shura waited for him to spill.

“Perhaps you're aware that the Cloth retains a degree of sentience? That it records the experience of its wielders and keeps it with them as memories?”

Shura thought about El-Cid, the memories that came by him, the gentle lilt of the Cloth. He knew what Mu meant, but the last time he disclosed to anyone that there was an old spirit residing in his Cloth, a certain Leo Saint looked at him as if he had grown a second head. 

(Shura ignored the way his heart twisted by bereavement; to think that Leo Aiolia grew up valiantly, and now he was a mere annotation to Sanctuary’s list of casualties during their civil strife.)

“The former, yes. The latter, I was not aware,” he confessed, laying down the lie as confidently as he could. Mu looked convinced, at least, considering how he simply nodded.

“There is… An evil in the Cloth. A stain, so to speak,” he started again, the wariness in his voice foreign to Shura's understanding. Perhaps his confusion showed because Mu's expression twisted into helplessness. “It is not to say that the Cloth has turned evil. Think of it as a recorder of memories, thus it remembers the history of its past bearers. The previous Sagittarius Saint had likely encountered said evil, and it left an impression so great that its echo remained with the Cloth.”

Explanations aside, Shura still had not caught on how he could factor in helping. At the very least, the implication of Mu’s statement slowly dawned on him.

He thought of El-Cid’s spirit, a shade left behind by the previous bearer, rehashing its memories as if it were yesterday. A reverberation.

“An echo of evil,” Shura parroted, contemplating the possibility of something else like El-Cid, but cruel and unkind. “But to resurface now… How, and why?”

When the Aries Saint's eyes avoided his gaze again, casting their attention on the Sagittarius Saint across the theater. The man looked engrossed with the task at hand, as the friendly clash between Cygnus and Andromeda quickly drew to a close. It reminded Shura of those days, when the man observed his sparring with Aiolia—

—if he still made that kind of face today… Surely there were still things that remained the same, even after all these ten years?

Perhaps Mu caught wind of his stray thoughts, he could never truly know. But the way his next words exited his mouth might as well convince Shura that the Aries Saint was capable of such a feat. 

“Only Aiolos can answer that question,” Mu replied, the hesitation in his eyes had disappeared. Perhaps he was already certain that Shura was on board with the plan already, no matter the discomfort this might become. “I may need your help to pry it from him.”

Chapter Text

“This is it? The whole itinerary?”

Considering how thorough and dedicated Tatsumi had always been with his work, the question might as well be an insult to the man's pride. But Mitsumasa Kido was no longer of their world, his thoroughness that borderlined paranoia saving his asses more time than they could count. Shura would not let go of this habit so soon, not when he was still alive—and certainly not when Saori was off to take on the world and seize her fate, now as the goddess charged to guard the world/

(It took a surmountable effort to hold himself back from joining her entourage. A Gold Saint going with her as her security detail was not overkill; she was their goddess, the king piece on the chessboard. But this travel was meant to be kept hush-hush, and a Gold Saint's vacancy when the dust that followed the takeover of Sanctuary barely settled… It would not look good for morale.)

Tatsumi only scowled, which was an improvement, really; the last time Shura had asked in such a way, the butler had scolded him at the top of his lungs, ‘You ignoble Saints have no idea the amount of work I put to keep things in line!’

“Consequences of holding the Galaxian War still hound us. Getting this many opportunities for public appearance in itself is a miracle,” the butler waved his hand, an assurance that things were in control. “Most important work now is to teach your brats to deter those with improper advances without causing diplomatic incidents. The birthday of that young master Solo is around the corner—and she won't have you loom behind her to scare the guests away.”

Shura might have bristled from that as he handed the itinerary folder back to the butler. “I didn't loom. You can't blame me for giving the stink eye to the young men trying for her hand. It was either that or letting Mitsumasa do something worse.”

And Shura knew that Tatsumi got what he meant, in the way the butler's expression twisted into tacit displeasure. Tatsumi harrumphed in response and took the proffered folder with a sigh. There seemed to be more that the butler wanted to say, but Saori was already walking towards where they were—the very reason why Tatsumi was pausing in the first place. “Be well, Shura.”

Trust the man to impart a most curt farewell, one that Shura did not mind. The man was pragmatic, much like himself; there were simply things to be done and no time to tarry. Such ease, so natural as if they would see each other soon without doubt, spoke of their long-term trust, and Shura valued this gesture, now that things had changed—were going to change in the future.

Saori stood before him, a warm smile on her face with her arms behind her back.

“You have nothing to worry about, Shura-nii. I have addressed every concern that you raised regarding my security,” she teased, her smile turning playful. But he knew almost instantly that there was more that she wanted to say, in the way she tentatively eyed his left side… His limbless shoulder.

It was still a sore topic to delve into; Shura did manage with his remaining right arm, his reflexes quickly adjusting to the change. The fact remained that he was without a left arm, and there were times when he abruptly woke in the middle of the night from the memory of that fight against Saga.

And no matter how guilty his sister-goddess felt, how much she wanted to seek his forgiveness, he couldn't... simply because Saori was not to blame for his loss.

“You are not at fault for what I have lost in that fight,” he finally said, his words blunt even after carefully contemplating the words in his head. It was simply not in his nature to be delicate. “I would have traded both of my arms if they were the price for your life.”

“Shura-nii…” the mirth in her voice was gone, her smile twisting into that of forlornness. She looked both scandalized and stricken, yet the first thought that flitted at the forefront of his mind was Shaka’s chastisement: ‘You have made her too human while she has to bear the destiny of a goddess.’

But what good is a goddess who cannot understand the plight of the humans under her protection?

He thought of Mitsumasa’s words then, even more relevant now that she had witnessed a loss on her side—that she would have to face such situations in the future—and gently reached for her hand. She tensed upon contact at first, then relaxed just a moment after.

To think that this hand used to be so small…

“The other Gold Saints would stone me for saying this, but they did not watch you grow up into the person you are today,” Shura grasped that hand and lifted his head, his gaze filled with determination. 

“Even if you're not Athena, Saori, I would do it all over. I would have fought for your life, would have forfeited my arm to secure it. But you must know and understand that those are my choices, like how the other Bronze Saints will choose to lay down their lives to protect you. You must not feel responsible for the choices we make—and will make in the future, for we make them of our own volition.”

Saori grasped back at his hand, her eyes wide, glinting like glass. She bit her lips and then nodded in silence.

The easy acknowledgment was enough to lift his spirit. His only regret would be that he had no left hand left to wipe the gathering tears in her eyes, hopefully, the last ones that would be shed for a long, long time. 

(She would lose so many in the future, and Shura would be there to remind her that there would be no time to dry her tears, no time to look human.)

“Take heart, Saori,” he implored, his Cosmo ardently burning. In the distance, he could feel the warmth of the others’ burning in response to his calling. Aries, Taurus, Virgo, Pisces, and then the Pope's Chamber—golden shimmer in the unseen ether, along with the bright silver and bronze around them. 

“Lament not the end that will come. Instead, cheer on the legacy that we will leave behind, cheer on how they will flourish into the future.”

He looked at the distance, the copter that brought Saori's entourage growing smaller as it covered more distance. Even so, he could still feel her Cosmo burning, gentle and prudent.

‘The legacy that they will leave behind…’

When that presence by the Pope's Chamber dimmed, the echo of his own words was what propelled him to make the stride in haste, to the direction of the Sanctuary:

‘What kind of story do I want to leave behind?’

And thus, Capricorn Shura made another climb, with a single purpose in mind.

Chapter Text

Aiolos carried an air of charisma that made people feel both at ease and awed in his presence.

However, having been at the receiving end of his arrow, as well as been witness to some of his lapses of judgments, Shura had acquired immunity against it. It came hand in hand with kicking said man from Shura's pedestal; if he took the cover away, what was left of Aiolos was a man desperate to fix his mistakes, who left his own wound festering as if he deserved the pain.

He was a very different man.

(And so was Shura, wasn't he?)

“There had been too much that happened between us, Aiolos,” he started, breaking the awkward silence between them: he, who had taken Aiolos’ offer to wait in the study, sitting on the visitor's chair, and; Aiolos, who opted to stand by the table, his attention divided between wanting to hear whatever Shura was about to say or wanting to bolt out of the room in order to escape the oppressive atmosphere.

… Fine, his unannounced visit might have put the man ill at ease. But he would apologize later if his apology was needed at all, because more important than that was—

“I am well aware of my transgressions,” Aiolos replied. Though there was a kind smile on his lips, it did not reach his eyes—in a way that hid shame, instead of insincerity. “You are the living legacy of them after all, much as it pains me.”

“It's not—” To say that it was incorrect was the height of lies, but this was not the kind of direction that Shura needed. The Capricorn Saint felt the lump in his throat too hard to swallow, but he found courage in the remembrance of this man's eyes light up whenever Saori interacted with him.

So Shura forced the words out of his lips.

“—do you want it to remain that way?” He asked, while quietly lowering his gaze to the man's shoulders—anything to avoid that inquisitive glance. There was nothing to be scared of. Hell, it should be Aiolos begging on his knees for a chance to fix things, not Shura awkwardly offering this olive branch.

Aiolos shifted on his feet, making the stride to sit across him. Shura focused on the man's hand, intentionally brushing against the side of his own before tentatively, decisively settling right next to it. Close but not touching, as if testing their boundaries.

“It feels impossible to wish for otherwise,” Aiolos’ voice cracked with his confession, and yet Shura could only focus on the sliver of seeping out from the crevices. “There is no forgiving what I did to you, as well as what the consequences of my choices did to you and our home.”

And that was the crux of the problem, wasn't it? That Aiolos, despite his willingness to make amends by carrying his weight, affixed himself to the sins of his past—sins that Athena herself had pardoned. Here was Shura, wishing for amends, yet Aiolos was still stuck on the night he made that terrible choice.

Fucking Fates and their love for irony.

That stubborn rage returned—and this time Shura fought the urge to throttle the man causing it by reaching for that hand, clinging on like a vice reminder to both himself and this fool of a man.

“I forgave you already back then, when you told me that you made that dumb choice out of a misguided belief to prevent my death,” he blurted, trying to temper the spite in his words and half succeeding. Now he sounded less spiteful and more testy. “But I can no longer be the same boy from before—before that night. Too much had happened.”

He heard Aiolos slowly taking a deep breath, the tentativeness around his voice slowly going away as he said, “It is a great injustice even to ask you that.”

It shouldn't have prickled at his funny bone this much, and yet, listening to this man agreeing with him as if it would pacify Shura—well, there was a time when Aiolos tended to be like this too, when he had unknowingly aggravated Shura with silly little things, wasn't there?

“I agree,” he chuckled, “I considered throwing you off Star Hill if you even so much entertain the idea. But then… It begs the question of what you want of me now, doesn't it? What you want of us.”

Looking at Aiolos now shouldn't have twisted his heart so much, but Shura dared now. He had dared since the moment that tentativeness departed completely, leaving brown eyes gleaming with desperate hope.

“I want you to be happy. Live long and well. Love the darling of your life. For all the misery I've caused you, I want you to experience triple the joy,” He confessed, and it would have sounded like the lofty ideals of a spurned lover if Shura hadn't heard the words from the man himself. No, every word spoken by that man was sincere, as true as the arrows launched from his bow.

Aiolos wanted him to be happy.

Shura wanted just as much.

“I think I know what I need to be happy,” he smiled, genuinely smiling for the first time with Aiolos present. It was nice to have things go his way, especially so when Shura finally got through Aiolos’ self-serving guilt. “We can't go back to things as they were… So, let's start over, Aiolos. Tell me about yourself since then. Tell me how have you been. Tell me everything.”

To gaze at the myriad stars above, together with Aiolos, shouldn't have felt this special. But here he was, his back against a rock, Aiolos’ shoulder brushing against his own and their hands entwined.

Aiolos spoke about everything and nothing: everything, for it told of his life after that night, and; nothing, for too many parts of them a rehash of what the man told him during his first interrogation.

Shura oddly found that he did not mind.

He did mind, however, when Aiolos’ voice quietly drifted off, his gaze cast away from the sky. "Something wrong?”

“... What about you, Shura? … How have you lived?”

If he thought back to the anger that he clung to to keep his sanity in check, to propel him forward one step further each time, the past almost, almost felt like a distant memory. Perhaps it was because of Aiolo's kind gaze, now-morose eyes settling on him like a comfort—like a bewitchment.

“You sure you're ready for personal slander, Aiolos?” he joked, his grip on their twined hands secure. 

Aiolos’ guarded expression softened as the man chuckled. Perhaps he didn't expect Shura to take the conversation in a breeze. “Can't be slander if it's the truth? Besides, it's you. I always take what you're willing to give.”

Shura sure hoped that Aiolos would stand by his words, because the more he mulled over the things he wanted to say, the more foolish the words sounded in his head. Should he even voice them now, his grievances that Shura was used to voice into the void? Right when he had Aiolos by his side, right when that was all that mattered now?

(But it mattered to Aiolos, enough for the man to ask the question himself.)

“I have lived through the last decade hating you,” he started, finding the words surprisingly easy. “Everyone in the know knew, I think. I didn’t bother hiding my resentment of you, and everyone simply fell into step with my pace.”

He told him about his encounter with the two people who saved his and Saori's lives, never thinking that he would go this far to survive. He also told him about how his and Vander Guraad’s relations fell apart, how he and Mitsumasa Kido had to whisk Athena to the safety of obscurity; how he met the Old Master through sheer chance, discovering that Roushi finally took in an apprentice, and many more tales of his life outside of the Sanctuary. Through it all, Shura felt Aiolos’ hand twitch in his grip: sometimes too much, when he mentioned his close brush with death.

But there was one thing that he almost forgot to tell Aiolos, and it was only when the Capricorn constellation rose in the eastern part of the sky that he was reminded at all.

“I hated you, Aiolos. I loathed you so audaciously that even the Capricorn Cloth deemed me unfit to wield it,” he finally confessed, seeking security in their twined hands for once throughout this night. Aiolos, much to his surprise, easily gave in with a strong grip. “It wasn't an experience I would wish for anyone, and yet… If I were to live this life again, I'd do it the same.”

The man's breath hitched. Shura was not sure whether it was from the confession or from his sudden gesture to scoot closer so that he could lean his head on the man's shoulder. “...You truly would change nothing? at all?”

“Mm,” Shura hummed in response, peeking at the Sagittarius constellation in the distance, chased by the Capricorn in the night sky. It was an old tale already written in the sky, and Shura was so slow to realize this so late. He closed his eyes and continued, “Because it leads me back here, right next to you. A conclusion beyond love and hate…”

He felt Aiolos’ grip on his hand tightening and felt his own heart swell in response.

“... It is a good ending. It marks a good start.”

The sky was bathed with the light of dawn when they were ready to leave Star Hill.

There was no need to stay longer, when the Sagittarius Saint finally found the way to solve their existing problem. He should have been leaving this place yesterday, or even days prior; Mu had implied so when he confronted Shura and implored for his assistance. That, and the fact that Saori cleared him from house arrest.

Perhaps this place, too, was a fixture to him—like how that fateful night became a fixture for Shura to hold on, to survive the years following the pain.

When he saw Aiolos outside, bathed in that golden light, with a radiant smile that bewitched his heart once upon a time, Shura knew this was the moment in which they could let go of their shadows, the payoff of their resilience.

“Shall we go, then? Wouldn't want to keep Mu waiting.”

An outstretched hand that Shura eagerly reached out to with his own, careful steps falling into place, and a smile in return of Aiolos’ willingness to move forward.

“Yes, let's.”

A good start indeed.