(A/N) There is the idea of making this a series, because I've been commissioned for it, but it's not going to happen anytime soon, given my timelines, so you may consider this a one-shot. I rather like this two, and let me make emphasis in it, Milo and Camus are not involved at this point of the story, if they are, and they'll be when the story is completed, it'll only after the Hades episode, ok? Have fun!

Disclaimer: I do not own Saint Seiya, but I do own plot, OC and a bar of chocolate.

Milo's Ray of Hope.

Pretty Hair.

Scorpio Cain awoke with the vibrant glow of his cloth, a powerful urge overtaking him. Without a second of doubt, the white haired man called the golden cloth forth, feeling its comforting weight on his shoulders and walking out of his temple swiftly. It was late, a pale sliver of white was all that remained of the moon and the night was dark and hollow. Walking purposely through the secret passages that lead to Athena's temple, the Scorpio Saint was not surprised to see the Pope coming out to meet him. Guidel was an old man, intuitive and with a tight connection to his surroundings, as all Aries Saints, and despite the rumors that said his own pupil, Shion, was to take his post before the year let out, Guidel was still a respected and responsible leader to follow. Cain dropped into a bow, knees touching the ground as his hair, white and long, hid his eerie glowing red eyes from view.

"You have felt it too," The Scorpio said quietly, his voice low and hissing, always biting even if he was honestly trying to be respectful.

"You may leave when you are ready," Was the Pope's calm answer, hands folded over his chest and hidden behind the long sleeves of his tunic.

"Then the child shall start his training before the week ends."

Guidel watched as the tall and stiff Scorpio turned and left, his stride long and imposing and his figure exuding an aura of power and viciousness. He felt a small surge of pity towards the unfortunate youth who was to become the next Scorpio Saint, The Sanctuary's Assassin by excellence.

Then he returned to his prayers and forgot entirely about the matter.

"Harder, Celinae, harder… the line must be tense, or the fish will scape!" The man yelled over the sea's roaring, urging the young child as he struggled to keep his footing and tensing the line.

The waters looked black under the disappearing moon, the first echoes of dawn still an hour or two away, and yet they had already filled their webs once. The man seemed to be on his forties, roughed by the sea and covered in old scars that hid a secret story each, with skin tanned deeply by the long days spent in the sun. The child was small and somewhat petite, not older than seven, with wild blue hair and bright eyes to match. He struggled bravely against the ropes, pulling as hard as his small body could, eager to please his father and careful to keep his balance on the gently swinging boat. They remained on the sea until the sun was high in the sky, fighting against the elements to fill the webs as much as they could before they had to go back to the small island. Each rode a small boat, remaining together by the linking web, a thin mass of almost transparent thread that was made by hand by the island woman.

"Look boy, that's Canis Major there," Taking a slight brake from their exhausting work, the man raised his hand to the skies, still dark and plagued with stars, and pointed towards a group of stars.

"Why is it called that?" The child looked in awe at the shapes that suddenly were revealed to him, and delighted himself with the story he knew was coming.

"Because it's a dog. And it's pretty darn big," The father made a gesture of content, laughing as the child nodded eagerly, pleased that he could share one of his passions with his son.

"And that one?"

"Ah, that's Cygnus there…"

At sunset, they returned, tired and sweaty, but content with the large amount they have caught. Enough to eat for a week, and to sell in the market at a good price. The father knew his boy was growing, and his talent was natural. He knew it wouldn't be long before he could allow the young boy to go out alone. But that day was different, and things would never be the same afterwards. A man was waiting for them under the protecting shadow of their doorway. A tall man with white hair and strange red eyes that wore torn blue pants and a black long sleeved shirt. The child tilted his head to the side, not afraid, because it was not in his nature to fear anything, but curious at the stranger. The father, however, tensed, for he knew this man and he feared what he would ask.

Only the elders in the small village around the port knew of the secrets of the island. How within its depths lay a secret training center, where the elder knew how crying, trembling children were taken into the very heart of the island, to the small dead volcano and the lush green valley, and how only hardened, cold men came out. How out of almost twenty that arrived, only one survived. The last child that had left the island had been said to have white hair and demon eyes.

"It has been a long, long time," Cain spoke quietly, in that same detached tone that made something crawl up the father's spine, and the child shudder with an unnamed feeling, "Since the island itself has procured the successor."

"Will I ever see him again?" The father didn't bother trying to stop the inevitable. He would only get himself killed before his son's eyes, and he wanted to make things go as smoothly as possible. Cain smirked, but even that was empty, void of true emotion.

"Perhaps," He conceded, his eyes dead, "But you will not recognize, or like, what you will see."

And that was the very last time Celinae saw his father. He was taken by the tall stranger, who hid from the sun and hated the light, who lead him away from his small hut and his wooden toys. He returned a year later, to train at the very same island, but away from the village and his father and all those memories that by then seemed only dreams. And as he was slowly and methodically stripped of all remains of humanity, he looked at the sky and recalled those legends he had been told on a boat in early mornings, and remembered it had been real.

He let out a hiss of anger at himself, and roughly rubbed his arm against his eyes when he felt them water. He would not cry about something so silly, so stupid. He would not give Cain the satisfaction of making him cry about it. Dead. He had seen the dead, it would be his job, one day, to become the chosen assassin of the Sanctuary, he knew he would have to kill on cold blood one day. He knew people died everyday, it was just the way life went on. Dead. He would not cry.

"Are you alright?" The soft voice made him blink, and turn to look wearily at the source.

It turned out to be the quiet disciple of the Aquarius Saint. What was his name? Celinae found he couldn't remember and he didn't care. The other boy was his age, with long greenish hair and a pair of deep and dark green eyes that seemed to reach the bottom of his soul every time they fixed on him. Polite and somewhat gentle, it seemed almost a lie that he was the so called prodigy of the Ice Saints. Celinae couldn't really picture him taking his master's place. Cain, his own master, was quiet and detached outside battle, but once he was into it, his body would be taken over by a fury and a passion that made his eyes almost glow as he let himself go into the fight. In a loud contrast, the Aquarius Saint, Leshy, was known for his direct, lethal attacks that usually made short, impressive battles. He seemed disdainful to the point of seemingly hating fighting. His apathy was frightful.

"Yeah," And there was Leshy's apprentice, his priced pupil, asking Celinae if he was alright, when he clearly wasn't, but he wasn't going to cry, even if he really wanted to and his father was dead.

Dead. His father, with his stupid crooked nose and his stories about the stars and their legends, with that stupid bad habit of humming as he rode the sea waves, with his awful cooking skills and his stupid, stupid smug grin. He was dead, and he was never, ever going to see him again.

"Oh," The other was saying, and Celinae had this random thought, a silly thing to notice really, that this boy had nice hair, "I'm sorry I interrupted then, I'll go," He turned to leave, that stupidly pretty hair bouncing ever so slightly as he turned, and Celinae found he didn't mind the company. Truthfully, he didn't want to be alone.

"Wait," Pausing for a second, the to-be-Ice Saint turned a bit to look at him, and again, he had the feeling those eyes were reaching to the very bottom of his soul. Celinae swallowed hard, "Celinae."

Those unreadable eyes fixed eerily at him, as the other tilted his head slightly, looking at the offered hand as if pondering a difficult question. After what seemed an eternity, but couldn't have been more than a few seconds, he shook it, a small, almost shy, smile appearing on his face, and turning it a lot more inviting.

"Eliot."

Celinae, for some strange reason, grinned like an idiot and Eliot wondered what he was getting himself into.

"You have pretty hair."

Eliot blinked, looking at the sky for a long moment, not entirely sure of how to answer that. In the end, he gave a mental shrug, having long ago given up any hope of understanding what went through his friend's mind and tilting his head to the side, as it was his habit, he nodded slowly.

"Thank you," Then he smiled almost smugly, "Yours needs trimming. And brushing. Lots of brushing."

Celinae glared darkly, punching him lightly on the shoulder. It was true. He was letting his own hair grow long, but unlike Eliot's straight and smooth mane, his was a riot of knots and wavy curls that just wouldn't lie tame. Currently, he had pulled it back into a low ponytail, the tips brushing his midback, between his shoulder blades, and spiking nastily. Eliot chuckled as the blue eyes narrowed dangerously.

"Well, sorry," Came the caustic reply, "Some of us are not favorites of the… the… the hair gods," Sticking his tongue out at him, Celinae laid back, huffing and returning his gaze to the sky.

"Hair gods," The taller of the two asked slowly, blinking again, bewildered.

"Yes."

Eliot gave his friend a side look, but decided, for the best, not to ask about whatever insanity was going on in Celinae's mind. He sighed, and looked at the sky with content.

That, Celinae thought, was the day he had been waiting for almost for ten years. He was seventeen, skilled and ready. He knew it, and his master knew it too. It had been ten years of beatings and harsh lessons, of the law of force and the understanding of death. He had learnt to kill, to do it flawlessly, honorably, quickly, effectively. His master had tried to teach him how to enjoy it and failed, so he learnt how to ignore it instead. He was reckless and shameless, loud and aggressive, but everyone knew to leave him be, or regret it. That day, however, he awoke subdued and somewhat uneasy. He knew what he had to do, in order to conclude the harsh training. His master was always quiet at meals, but that day was almost foretelling.

In the end, he just had to prove he was human still.

"You don't have to die," He blurted out and kicked himself mentally when the red eyes fixed vacantly on him, like they had when his master had asked a question and he had given an inadequate answer, "I mean, I just have to defeat you and-"

"I don't have anything to live for," Was the cold, final reply, and Celinae let his eyes drop to the plate in front of him, repressing the need to flinch.

In that moment, he knew he would kill his master before the day was out.

He was sore. As he stood straight, body drenched in sweat, every muscle in his body screamed in pain. He was aware he was bleeding in a hundred little cuts, his cloths torn and covered in blood, his and his master's. He stood straight though, back stiff and though his eyes were tired, he fixed them on the eerily red ones of the Pope's mask. Around him, students and other Saints cheered him for the spectacular battle he had given, and the honorable way in which he had fought. He could almost feel the compassion flowing through that mask towards him, though, and he resisted the urge to flinch, stubbornly keeping his eyes dry.

"Recite your vow," The Pope voice echoes over the stadium, which is suddenly stonily silent, and Celinae felt his throat tight in reflex, before he allowed himself to fall to one knee, eyes fixing on the floor.

"I vow," He started, his voice bouncing into the silence, unnerving him further. Still, he sounded firm, if a bit tired, "From this day onwards, to pledge my life, my heart and my soul to serving our goddess, Athena almighty, and her chosen avatar, the Pope. From this day onwards, her battles and her goals are my own, and her word is my command. From this day onwards I wear a cloth she has given, sworn to follow her unfalteringly, conscious that my duty is to gain this honor everyday. From this day onwards, I forfeit my humanity in order to protect her, her temple, her Pope and her will. I, Scorpio Gold Saint Milo, vow this, swearing obedience and loyalty to death and beyond."

His words reached into the stadium, and after a second or so, the Pope nodded almost graciously, turning to those in the stands.

"Mourn, Sanctuary, for a Gold Saint has died," In the stands, every breathing could be heard, "But rejoice, as a worthy successor has risen."

The new Gold Saint let out a hiss of breath, half a laugh and half a whimper, and made his way to the temple, his temple, amidst the victory cries of the multitude. He needed space to breath, somewhere to hide from the monstrosity he had just done, and for which he was being celebrated. He had killed his master on cold blood, and everyone wanted to congratulate him about it. Finally, after a litany of excuses and fake cheerfulness, the long haired young man reached the cold stones of the temple. It seemed cold and empty, without the poisonous presence of his master breathing down his neck for being too emotional, or far too weak.

"It's ok," Then Eliot was there, standing in the entrance with that same patient half smile that invited him in, almost casually leaning against a pillar, and before he realized it, he was hugging him fiercely. A bit awkwardly, Eliot patted his back, leaning to whisper comfortingly on his ear, "It's alright to cry, Celinae, no one will know."

"Milo," He muttered suddenly, pulling back and looking at his friend strangely, "My name's Milo. Celinae died."

But Eliot only nodded and didn't ask, pulling him back into his embrace again, allowing him to brake down, because he was just seventeen, and he had just killed his master less than an hour before. And Milo cried, because it wasn't fair.

He was alone, but he was used to it by then. Eliot had left for Siberia with his master again, and something told Milo he would be a Gold Saint when he returned. In his boredom, he had sought out and met the rest of those who were destined to become Gold Saints, and he found he didn't really disliked the lot. Mu of Aries was quiet in a complacent way, polite and well mannered, but he spent most of his time with his former master, Shion, or with Pedro, future Taurus Saint. And Pedro was a big brute with too lax a sense of humor, not quick enough to keep up with Milo's wit, and even though he wasn't all that aggressive, he felt somewhat out of place when he was with them, as if he were intruding into something. Saga of Gemini was always away from Sanctuary, always involved in missions that took him away from home, and in those rare occasions he was around, he spent most of his time melancholically watching the sea by Cape Sunion. He taught Milo how to play chess, though, and they played when loneliness was too acute, preferring not to talk much if they could avoid it. Deathmask of Caner frankly creped him out, the decorations of his house, and the not so friendly insinuations to his person made Milo avoid that house as much as he could, but still, he was a decent enough opponent, and Milo made it a habit to train with the vicious Cancer Saint at least twice a month. Who really got on his nerves was Aioria, the future Leo Saint, who was always trailing after his brother, Aioros of Sagittarius, and telling everyone who would stand still for two seconds, how great and powerful he was. It was just hero worship, Milo knew, but the kid was certainly grating on one's nerves. Then there was Aaron, the petite apprentice to Syn of Virgo, walking around with his eyes closed and never, ever tripping down. Milo made it a sport to follow the quiet blond around, hoping to catch a glimpse either of his eyes, or him falling face first against the ground. Neither happened, ever, but at least it kept his mind busy. The Old Master, who lived far in China and never, ever came to Sanctuary was supposedly the most powerful Saint of them all, guardian of the Libra cloth and who rumored had lived well over a hundred and fifty years. Aioros of Sagittarius always treated him like a child, despite the fact he wasn't all that older than him, and pranced around in a display of being 'the good boy' that made Milo angry in a strange irrational way. He learnt rather quickly to edge away from Shura of Capricorn, unless he needed a faith buster. All that boy talked about was devotion and love to the goddess, and though Milo himself had his life firmly anchored to their goddess and her imminent birth soon, Shura took it to the extreme. The only round temple in Sanctuary belonged to Aquarius Leshy and his apprentice, Eliot. Leshy was the type of person who made temperature drop almost instantly in a room when he entered. Tall, with short light blond hair always slicked back and with icy silver eyes that made people shudder when they were fixed on them. Milo tried to avoid the stoic Gold Saint as much as possible, while still visiting and spending time with Eliot, but the visits were getting scarce, and Leshy took them both away to Siberia for long periods of training. Milo hadn't seen his best friend in well about five months. The last temple belonged to Pisces, and Milo avoided it like the plague. Mostly because had gone and confused Aphrodite of Pisces with a woman upon meeting him, and he really didn't want to face off with the consequences. Those roses were a lot sharper what most gave them credit to.

And despite having met all of them, or at least most, despite being a well known warrior among Sanctuary, Milo was alone.

Because there was no one to wake him early in the cloudy days he wanted to stay in bed, so he did stay in bed all day, and no one came and told him flat out his hair was a mess resembling of a bird's nest, so it stayed that way. There was no one about to show of that annoying stupid pretty hair he liked to comb so much.

And Milo wondered why he was counting the days until he saw Eliot again so eagerly.

The ceremony of Aquarius new Gold Saint's vows was a private affair, only consummated Gold Saints were present as the now tall and regal man bowed and presented himself. Milo stood among them, apparently indifferent to what was happening, bordering almost on disrespectful annoyance. His heart tightened in anticipation, wanting desperately to hear the new name that Eliot had so blatantly refused to share with him, holding his breath without even realizing it as he recalled the words that he, himself had said almost a year before. There.

"I, Aquarius Gold Saint Camus, vow this, swearing obedience and loyalty to death and beyond."

The new Pope nodded, and as Guidel had done with Milo, so long ago, and spoke in that eerily soft voice of his.

"Mourn, Sanctuary, for a Gold Saint has died, but rejoice, as a worthy successor has risen."

They all bowed and welcomed Camus among them, but Milo noted there was a certain melancholy in his eyes as he looked at him, and for some reason, the taller man escaped the room and hid into his temple without speaking to him.

He watched the shoulders tense, the whole frame held together so tightly it seemed about to snap. Milo walked towards him without even noticing, and the words escaped his lips before he could stop himself.

"Are you alright?" The softness of his own voice echoed into the past, to a time where he could clearly remember their roles were reversed. Camus shivered.

"Yes," His voice was still cold, detached and dismissing, and for some reason, Milo felt the need to cry. He held it back, though, and nodded despite the fact Camus couldn't see him.

"Oh, I'm sorry I interrupted then, I'll go."

He turned to leave, the words being an invitation on their own, for things to be mended between them. Camus made a strangled sound in his throat, and raised his face to look at him, eyes pleading for something neither of them were quite sure of.

"Wait," Finally he found his voice, an echo of what Eliot had been once, gentle, yes, but infinitely marked with melancholy. A hand was offered, elegant long fingers stretched towards him in invitation, "Camus."

"Milo."

And both smiled when the blue haired man sat down next to him, in their old star gazing spot. It felt as if time had gone still, and they were still students, apprentice to two harsh masters who were trying to break them, and who had found comfort in each other. That night, for some reason, Camus hugged him first, and Milo was the happiest man alive.

It was a slow, methodical thing to do, and even though he was in the brink of tears, he had demanded to do it. His own body was still recovering from the various injuries, all of them inflicted by the star pupil of the man whose corpse he was now cleaning and tending to. No, he wouldn't cry, because he knew what death was and that it was necessary and how it would make Camus really, really mad at him if he were to see him broken, but he couldn't but let out a hiss of breath as he untangled a few knots in that lovely hair, that stupidly pretty hair. Running his fingers through it, he watched mesmerized for a moment as it fell down in a cascade of dark green, slipping through his fingers like silk. Letting out a heart breaking laugh, Milo buried his face into the crook of the cold neck, remembering a time he could still hear that steady heart beat, strong and constant, the only anchor he had to reality.

"Even in death you have to show the hair gods do love you, eh?" He whispered hoarsely as he slip the tunic over the body, his heart shattering every time a limb fell lifelessly to the side, "God, I'm so mad at you right now."

"Milo?" Turning to the door with a glare, he found Mu looking at him almost shyly, almost apologic of interrupting.

"Yes?" His own voice was hissing, angry and frustrated and even though it wasn't Aries' fault, he just wanted to snap at the world at large.

"It's time."

He nodded and stood up, easily carrying Camus' frame into his arms as he walked out, the white tunic covering his body flowing like silk as they walked towards the mausoleum where they would be buried. Athena and the others were already there, and only through his own training he prevented himself from crying.

"I'm going to miss you," He whispered as he placed the body on the stone box that would house it through eternity, "You and your stupidly pretty hair."

(A/N) Review!