Disclaimer : I do not own Saint Seiya or the Lost Canvas in any way. Only the plot and original characters (and style of writing XD) belong to me :)

This story is dedicated to Yukitarina ^^ Thank you for all your support since the beginning !!! *^_^*

(Dear readers: may I suggest listening to Vivaldi's four seasons "winter" movements 1 and 2 of that season while reading this? ^^ I actually wrote it while listening to it and it really inspired me ;) )

I'm sorry, this is sort of a tale written for Christmas but it somehow turned out to be a sad tale though more mellow than actually tragic. Hope you all will appreciate it none the less :)

Merry Christmas 2009 to everyone :)

(And yes, you can read this without having read Hell Is But A Passage. It remins in the same universe though, as I will remain loyal to my own view and universe of Saint Seiya ;) )

SNOW

It was so special… The snow. Each snow flake different from the other, each of them utterly unique. Each snow flake flowed through the air, sometimes swooning, sometimes swaying, until they reached the ground to their utter death and destruction: to melt or to mingle with the soft lofty heap of white slowly growing about the plains. The snow was always white when it fell from the sky, pure and unmarred, like a fresh new soul or dust falling from an angel's wings. The wind, though it may try, could never destroy their exquisite beauty, and the more they swirled and twirled along with the tempest winds, all the more beautiful it became. They were flowers, the snowflakes. Microscopic and rarely looked upon flowers of ice. Flowers that reduced the surroundings to utter silence and peace, something so rare upon this world. There, all was but calm and beauty.

He did not know how long he stood there, watching as the snow fell from the white sky, the wind playing with his long hair, as the snow came tumbling down his long tresses, its exquisite whiteness contrasting with their deep dark aquamarine color. Soon, he found himself almost as white haired as the now itself, so cold as he was the snow would not melt upon him, he, the child of winter, born out of the snow itself. Pure, unmarred, fragile and unique as the snowflakes he so eagerly looked upon as they continued their journey down from the sky, falling restlessly upon the darkening plains of the world about him. He stood there, motionless, his head raised towards the sky with his eyes semi closed, his features betraying none of his emotions if ever he had any, feeling the snow's cold and soft touch upon the skin of his bare face as if it were the first time he were discovering its sensations.

There had been a time when there had been no snow, no ice, no coldness in his world. All had been but gardens and soft grass to lie upon. He seemed to recall a time when he had run amongst gardens of purple and red flowers; reeds and willows swooned over the still water of a lake where nympheas silently raised their flowery heads towards the sky, reflecting their purplish and white shades in the water beneath them as he had bent over the railing of a small wooden bridge amongst the trees. Of the furniture, house and family he had had, he remembered nothing: only the gardens remained in his mind like a past souvenir and lost Eden of a life he no longer could claim upon.

He remembered the day they had come to take him away from the gardens of Eden: the tall young man with the golden hair and the pale and pure young woman with the dark aquamarine hair that so resembled his. They had tempted him, just like the snake with the fruit of knowledge, forsaking in exchange the sweet and carefree life he had led until then. Many roads they had trodden, across dust and wind, under a burning sun in a country where lofty gardens of nympheas never could grow. He had hated the heat, the sun which burnt his pale white skin, this unpleasant contrast with the coldness of the hard marble walls of the temples he had been given as a new home. No more loftiness and sweetness in the air, only the hard and dusty ground on which he had fallen so many times during his hard trainings. The days had been long and straining for his young and small body of a child, the nights even worse than the days, as he heard the moans of his companions recovering from the day's hard labors and pains. He had known then that this, this was hell. He had only left his Eden for the terrible realities of Hell and he had longed to die, to no longer feel and be constrained to a world and a life that were not his: where sufferings were the daily routines of the young and the old, where no future of a life with joy, freedom and loftiness would ever be possible for any of them. Yet, he had taken the fruit willingly, and did not blame anyone for the path he had chosen to take; even today, he knew he would still have made the same choice.

Slowly he had learnt to live with the fact that there would never be any going back to the gardens of his childhood, that this would be his life until its very end, a life that would be robbed from him whence still in the morning of his life; he was a flower, a flower plucked too soon and set into a vase, everyday watered and looked upon in awe at its beauty, the onlookers forgetting that a flower, plucked from its stem, would never last too long into a vase, no matter how much care it was given. It would rot, and die, as it would have in the gardens from whence it came, though faster and in a more tragic way than it would have, had it been left to live and die in its rightful place. To be chosen by the gods was not an honor or a pride; it was a curse for he knew it meant to be deprived of every joy and happiness any normal human being had the right to claim upon. And to preserve the liberties of everyday men was the very reason for which he himself had been ridden of them: to fight for others to have what he could not claim any longer, to give others the chance to continue to live happily and carefree when he would never be given this chance. The humans, the everyday humans, lived in a world of illusions, not seeing the true and terrible realities he had been confronted with, this reality and knowledge he had been given in exchange of his Paradise lost. Yes, it was Hell, but he had no other choice than to accept it. For this was reality; it was Hell but it was the world they were all living in: the garden and the nympheas had all been but a dream, an enclave where the hard and terrible reality had never marred its sweetness and beauty of nature.

Then she had returned, unmarred and still as young and fair as the day he had left the softness and tranquility of Eden's gardens: the woman with the dark aquamarine hair, so much like his own, her eyes a mirror to his own soul, her sad smile the personification of his hidden sorrow. He had been weak, frail and broken, then; too small and fragile for his age. All had thought that he would die. He had been looked down upon, he had been dragged across the dust and dirt of the training grounds, and they had believed he no longer deserved to live, that another would come and take his place. It did not matter. He was just another one of them, of those many young boys that would not all have the chance to claim one day an armor as their own.

He had pronounced blasphemies, crying out to who would listen that there was no honor in beholding a golden cloth, but only a duty and fate of certain death; fighting to claim back their freedom when this fight was already all planned out and the end known to those who pulled the strings. They would never be free; they would always remain pawns in the hands of the Gods. Yes, there was no honor in being a pawn on a chessboard, no matter how important the chess piece was; there was no pride, only acceptance. But then, he had not been ready to accept. The smell and softness of Eden's garden still dwelt too strongly in his mind. He could never except to live in Hell in such a state; he had not been ready.

Put away, forsaken and accursed by the others, she had still come towards him with compassion and had slowly and carefully scooped his small and fragile form in her white and lofty arms, and he had laid his head against her breast, delighting in the sweetness of her fragrance and gentleness of her caress. She had been like the Virgin Mary, the one who had opened the gates to the celestial palaces of the new Heaven, the heavenly Jerusalem, except the Heavenly city had been no city at hall but a bare white plain of cold and white.

But it had become his own and very special heavenly home. Hell suddenly seemed so far from him amongst the beauty of the snow and soon he had forgotten all about the garden and the nympheas; paradise lost became truly lost even to his souvenirs. Snow… So pure, so special, so… everything! Long he had wondered how his life would have been without his meeting with the exquisite beauty of these pale microscopic flowers of ice, he who was after all, a child of winter, a creator of ice, made out of ice itself.

He… no, they! He suddenly reminded himself, opening his eyes for the first time since his long contemplation of his souvenirs amidst the still falling snow flakes. They were children of the snow, made out of ice, unable to die in the cold save enclosed in a block of ice, unable to feel the cold of the snow, becoming one with the cold nature of the long lost plains of Siberia. Yes, they, the young woman with the long dark aquamarine hair and he, they were the same. It had been no surprise in the end whence he discovered her true nature, who she truly was to him; just as he was not surprised to never see her age. Her revelations had been but the confirmation of his own speculations and discoveries. For though all answers were not enclosed in books, there still was much to be learnt from the ancient writings of their ancestors and much indeed he had learnt himself. It had first struck him because of the hair: no one had hair of this color anywhere else across the world or if there was, he had never met any. Then it was her eyes and how they had mirrored his soul on that day she had come to take him away from Hell and opened for him the gates of His evenly Jerusalem. Then her smile had betrayed her: that sad smile which would graze her lips whenever the snow would fall heavily and swirling in the wind in a mad dance about her, covering her hair but never melting, just as it was doing today upon his own dark aquamarine hair. He had stood beside her, she only wearing a light dress of ancient Greece; he remembered how she had seemed like a goddess to him on that day. But her smile, her sad smile grazing her lips had been that of a mortal, one who had seen the hard and terrible realities of Hell and lived through it, only to find refuge in this Heavenly home which was the snow; the snow which helped to heel and ease the heart and soul with its calm and pure nature.

He had not been the same, that day when finally he had returned to the desolated plains of Hell. They had not recognized him, and if they did, they did not show it. He was a child of ice, as cold as the cold winter wind of the storms of Siberia. Wherever he would walk, a freezing gust of wind would sway across his passage, and all would shiver in cold and bow their heads to him in awe and respect. Yet he had never worn his golden cloth with pride or happiness: his feelings concerning their role in this war were still the same, as if the ice had simply frozen them in his mind in eternal snow, never to be forgotten nor changed, nor marred in any way. But of his thoughts and feelings, he spoke no more, keeping them deep in the depth of his heart, never betraying his hopes, fears, love or hatred.

And thus, his reputation out passed him; people would bow before him as he walked by, their awe ever growing as his knowledge would grow and library would count more and more books upon its shelves. He had heard the servants whisper amongst themselves, seeing him as the most learnt and intelligent man of all the sanctuary and he had secretly smiled at their credulousness. Yes, he was still a flower, just not a plucked flower slowly decaying in a vase anymore; he was a flower of ice, slowly falling from the sky that would soon meet its end: pure, fragile, unique and short-lived. He had somehow known he would not live to see his 21st winter. He had always known his life would be taken away from him at the noon of his youth. He was barely twenty, twenty springs as they would say; but deep in his heart he preferred to think of his life as twenty winters; for winter was his season, his nature and his essence.

Suddenly he felt the warmth of fire coming close to him and he turned around only to face his journeying companion and friend of many years. Such an unlikely pair they had been: fire and ice, brought together, yet never annihilating each other for too hard was the winter in him and too strong was the fire in the other.

His companion smiled at him nonchalantly, yet he did not reply, remaining expressionless and still, the snow having covered his hair now almost completely of its white hue though he made no motion to brush it away from his long dark tresses. His companion continued to walk forth, passing him by and continuing his way up the small hill before them as he watched his retreating back, the angel dust still pursuing its journey down from the darkening sky, as though it were bidding him goodbye for the last time.

One day, he thought, one day he had dreamt to be reunited with spring: to meet the pale nymphea of his childhood memories; a flower of ice and a flower of spring repelling fate and the games of Gods forever. But that day had never come and he had resumed his task as the white fool on the chess board. His spring was now long gone; his winter now coming to its end. If there was another chance indeed, if like he had learnt, another life would be given to him in years to come, he hoped to meet the spring of his life and marry it to the winter of his heart. No soul was ever born again the same, yet he wished to remember all his hopes and fears, love and hatred in the afterlife that would be his for they were part of what he was and had been in the past. Whatever would be his name, his friends, love and feelings in another life? He had no idea at all. Suddenly he found himself smiling sadly as he turned around, in the hope of meeting the mirroring eyes of his soul, that of his Eve and Virgin Mary all in one, that of his own parent and long lost friend but there was no one there; only the wind… and the snow.

Slowly he turned around again and raised his eyes one last time towards the grey towering sky of nightfall. The flakes continued to tumble down obscuring his view and he soon found himself obliged to lower his gaze towards the horizon but something had changed. Something in his heart seemed to have begun melting as he opened his eyes wider in awe and surprise. For an instant, his heart suddenly leapt into his chest: someone was standing before him after all, mirroring his eyes and his heart, contemplating the sadness and despair of his soul; but it had not been her: his Eve, his Mary, his long lost sister; it had been another. It had been a pale face of porcelain, encircled by dark swaying tresses and a pair of grey orbs looking back into his dark aquamarine ones. Her smile had been warm, like spring suddenly blooming in the midst of the Siberian winter storms of snow and ice: it had been the smile of a Goddess.

Slowly, he had felt as though tears would trickled down his cheeks, warm salty tears such as he had never felt upon his face save for the long lost days of his childhood in the Paradise Lost. But no tears had come, and only small flowers of ice had formed upon his long dark eyelashes. The Winter again, had had its way and the Goddess, had been blown away with the dark cold wind of the night. An illusion. An illusion of his heart's desire. There was no spring and would never be any spring in his life. Nor in the past one, nor in the one to come. He was desperately alone; alone with his sorrows and loves and hatreds, alone in a world of Hell, except in his Celestial Jerusalem: in his land of pure white snow. He was the Prince of winter as she called him, his Eve his Mary, his long lost sister. Yes, just as he had been the Prince of Winter, Arianne had been its Princess, and he, the blond headed warrior, had been its king. They had been three, and would remain three forever, no matter how much the people of Bluegrad would strive to become as snow themselves. There would never be more than three children of winter. His master had been the glaciers of the high plateaus, his sister had been the ice and he had been the snow: exquisite, fragile, unique and short-lived.

Snow was not meant for spring, and spring was not meant for snow. He had forsaken spring in the long lost Gardens of Eden; no spring flower would ever come to save his frozen soul.

His sad smile still upon his lips, he began to walk up the hill beyond which his companion had already disappeared and passed by the area where the mirage had been; and surely enough, there amidst the snow, was a patch of emerald grass surrounding a small pool of melted snow. But what touched him the most was the pale purplish, fragile nymphea gazing back at him from the middle of the little pool. So it had not been a trick of his mind after all.

Slowly he bent down to pick the flower but suddenly chose to leave it as it was. A plucked flower, no matter how much care it was given, would only die and wither in a slow state of decay and unhappiness; just as he himself had been plucked from Eden's garden and slowly died everyday under the admiring stare of the passersby, decaying slowly from the inside, only surviving because of the dire cold in his heart and soul. No… It was better to leave the flower to be… Perhaps, somehow, this act would change the life forever of someone in the future. A smile began to graze his lips as he stood up once more. Flowers were scarcely seen in the cold hard plains of Siberia, who knew who might come to pass upon this flower before its death?

Resuming his walk up the hill, he suddenly felt a sudden surge of hope flow through his veins as if the future would finally be not as grim as he had foreseen. His end was at hand, yet he knew, somehow, that he would no longer be a fool upon a chessboard, whether in what remained of this life or in the next. The game would change and freedom be his again.

A sudden cry of impatience caught him out of his thoughts as he found himself looming down towards his fiery friend.

"Degel, what ever in the world are you doing?" his companion yelled out.

He simply answered with a short nod of the head and the other simply sighed and begun walking again albeit more slowly so that his companion would have the time to catch up with him.

Kardia had always been so impatient, he thought, sadly, even when it came to running head first into the open mouth of death itself.

The Scorpio smirked as his friend finally came shoulder to shoulder by his side.

" Lost again in your thoughts, weren't you, Degel?"

But the Aquarius did not answer. Yes… Degel… Such was his name. Long had he thought that his name was linked to his cold nature, he was after all made out of ice itself. But now, he was not so sure. He had never been as cold as is master and never would be. Perhaps the answer to his name had not been there at all. Degel… Or Dégel? What if his name had meant the melting of ice? He was not a glacier, he was not ice, he was but a snowflake: pale, fragile, unique and short-lived: short-lived because he would undeniably melt too soon. Spring, somehow, had finally caught up with him and unfrozen his heart: the heart of Aquarius Dégel.

235 years later

The little boy came running down the frozen hill, his face expressionless as ever, on his way back from the hard training of the day. His dark aquamarine hair swayed in the freezing air of Siberia, contrasting with the pale whiteness of his surroundings. The little boy raised his head towards the sky and thought the weather was promising snow for the evening.

Just as if the sky had heard his musings, large snowflakes began to fall around him, covering his hair with its pure and unmarred color. The snow began to sting his dark orbs and he soon found himself obliged to lower his gaze towards the ground. Suddenly, a strange thing caught his attention amidst the pale white plains. Slowly walking towards it, he realized it was a patch of greenery, something unheard of in those far out regions of the north. And still, there it stood, gazing back at him with its small pool of molten snow, mirroring his small face in the water's reflection, and in the middle of the pool, there stood a nymphea. A nymphea… Pale and fragile like the first flowers of spring, strangely close to the nature of the snowflake, this small microscopic flower made of ice whose life was never meant to last too long. Yes, truly enough though crazy as it might seem, a nymphea stood there amidst the white desolated plains of Siberia, a nymphea, just like in Monet's paintings: perfectly unmarred. Suddenly, a warm touch came trickling down his cheek along with the tumbling snowflakes from the darkening evening sky and he realized he was crying. Yes, he, the prince of winter as his master called him, was crying warm tears of sheer joy and happiness at the sight of one small flower as though its sight had triggered some long lost memory of his from days long past… Of days of Eden lost.

"Camus?"

His master's voice.

"Camus, you should hurry up back inside, the snow will not stop anytime soon. You will be better inside by the fire."

"I am coming master Deneb," he answered back his voice betraying none of the emotions now boiling inside of him.

Slowly he rose to his feet, not daring to pick the flower from its pool, as if plucking it would have broken the charm forever. It had felt like spring again, just as in the days long gone of the orphanage where spring had been everlasting and no winter would come to sweep away the flowers and lofty grass from the plains.

He was in the winter of his life. Spring would come again, somehow into his heart and the snow which he was now would melt away, revealing beyond the flower of ice, a flower of petals full of colors and of life.

The shack suddenly stood before him and he engulfed himself inside the small house, taking his time to settle before the fire, taking out a book from his room as his master would throw a log or two into the burning fire of the hearth.

Outside, the snow continued to fall, its snowflakes sometimes swooning, sometimes swaying, lost in the mad dance of the wind like pale dust fallen from an angel's wings. They were flowers, the snowflakes. Microscopic and rarely looked upon flowers of ice. Flowers that reduced the surroundings to utter silence and peace, something so rare upon this world. There, all was but calm and beauty.

Author's notes:

Degel : De gel meaning in French, made of ice.

Dégel: dégel, meaning in French the melting of snow and ice

A nymphea: a water lily. I used the French word as it is a reference to Monet's paintings called the Nympheas which represent water lilies in an Eden like garden.

I am a great fan of William Blake's poetry which is why I have used the allegory of lost Eden, the fall from grace into Hell and the redeeming of the soul by entering the heavenly Jerusalem as an allegory throughout this story. I like to think of Degel (Dégel ;) ) as someone who has the soul of a poet which is why I have him describe the worl din those terms. The same goes for his portraying of Arianne, the dark aquamarine haired woman who came to take him away from his home in order for him to become the new saint of aqauarius. She is both Eve (since she tempts him to go look out of the garden of his youth to enter another life) and Mary (the new Eve in the biblical texts) since she is also the one who brings him salvation by stripping him away from the hellish world he had fallen into.

I remained vague concerning what Degel had found out about Arianne as I have not yet uncovered this in my other story ;)

Merry Christmas to you all! :) Yukitarina, I hope you will like this story ^^