boreas.
prologue
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A dark cloud had settled over the Sanctuary. Perhaps that cloud had first been wrought by the death of Aiolos, blood and tears and dishonor, or perhaps the first seeds had been planted and nourished even long before then. Whatever the case, something in the Sanctuary had grown cold, a distinct lack of the godly cosmos that should have been present to guide them from the start.
The rain in Greece was usually warm by contrast. It was warm the day Mu had departed from the Sanctuary, a light drizzle in early spring. Camus had confronted him on the steps of Aries, the water tracing thin paths down the slopes of his face and his gaze turned to the horizon. Even in turmoil, he carried that same serenity; the end of the world surely would be something as beautiful.
"Comrade," he had clasped Camus' hand, tight and not quite unsteady, "Watch the sky."
There was something in his eyes that Camus had been unable to identify at the time. Subtle feelings— those things seemed so distantly out of his reach, things that even Aiolia grasped and crushed between his fingers, shaping them into strength and conviction. It pulsed between their conjoined hands.
And then Mu had looked away, shattering it completely with Camus only slightly wiser. He had left without carrying a single one of his belongings with him, and with only a bid of farewell to a select few in his grace. Camus had silently watched him leave the borders of the Sanctuary, and then glanced to the sky— a sun veiled behind a thin sheet of clouds.
As the year passed, the sky grew darker, and the rain grew colder.
Milo returned with blood caked on his hands for reasons he didn't understand in their entirety. Camus had been present once, watched him wash them as if they would never again come clean, his skin rubbed raw and his expression in knots. Something about his fiery demeanor slowly became somber, a passion stained in blood and confusion, suffocated by heavy air.
He had reached out and grasped the other's wrist, and Milo had abruptly done the same, hot water dripping from their fingers and soaking into the fabric of Camus' sleeve. It trickled slowly to the marble floor, accumulating a small puddle that touched the tips of their shoes. The intense look in Milo's eyes was much clearer than the haze of that spring day, and perhaps Camus had finally better understood.
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The day that the rain was cold enough to chill him was the day that Camus decided he would leave, without carrying a single one of his belongings with him. It was on the steps of Aries Temple that Milo furiously approached him.
"Why, Camus?!" He made a wild gesture, his entire form tense. "What purpose will you serve there? What of duty?!"
Camus shook his head. "It is not forever... I will return. I have already made arrangements with the Pope to allow my absence here."
"But, we—" he stopped himself and shook his head as well, though entirely out of some kind of frustration. "When?"
Twelve Gold Saints, twelve temples, slowly corroding and slowly falling apart. One comrade dead and two soon to be departed, one missing without a trace and one anchored to an old cliff. It was reasonable that most were beginning to feel the loss of balance— becoming paranoid and angry. Something was happening, something they could not grasp nor control, and though they were the most powerful, they felt powerless.
"... I will return," Camus repeated, unwavering. "Watch the sky."
Milo grit his teeth, and for a moment Camus thought he would storm away, unforgiving. Instead, he reached out and grasped Camus' hand so tightly that he thought it might be crushed.
"You had best. We're friends."