Pisces Saint Aphrodite wondered if he would ever tire of the hypnotic scent
of roses. The heady fragrance tickled his senses and energized him. A
soft breeze wafted through the endless garden, stirring the sea of red,
white, pink and green into gently undulating waves. The elegant blooms
nodded on their thorny perches as though acknowledging Aphrodite's
presence. He surveyed the boundless expanse of foliage and sighed deeply.
"Ten years..." he murmured almost wistfully. Had it really been a decade since he won the right to wear the Pisces Cloth? He plucked one perfect blood-red rose and absent-mindedly crushed it in a powerful fist, then turned his back on the floral audience, striding purposefully toward the ancient temple. His blue-gray cape billowed out behind him like the sail of a ship as delicate, fallen petals swirled in his wake. The metal soles of his boots clattered noisily against the cold marble steps and echoed throughout the inner chambers of the 12th House. The dark interior was bathed in a dim, cheerless orange glow supplied by the low flame of simple oil-filled brass bowls that hung down from the cavernous ceiling on long chains. As Aphrodite moved across the empty expanse, the pale flickering light danced off his shining Gold Cloth, splashing prismatic yellow streaks over the stone floors and walls. Although the Pisces Saint did not feel the need to accessorize the stark temple, at the opposite end of the main entrance hung an enormous, intricately carved gold-framed mirror, which reflected his stunning beauty whenever he entered the great hall. To Aphrodite, no work of art could compare to his own image. He reached the deeper recesses of the sanctum and smiled as he entered his bedchamber. Aphrodite's personal sanctuary stood in complete contrast to the dark emptiness that cloaked the rest of the temple. Dozens of candles in varying sizes and colors illuminated bright, opulent fabrics that draped over the frame of an antique wooden canopy bed. Large, plump cushions covered the mattress and spilled onto the floor. Aphrodite quickly shed the Pisces Cloth and glanced down at his naked, muscled torso before donning a plain white, thigh-length tunic. He cinched a thin gold chain around his waist and glided on bare feet toward the luxuriously decadent bed. It was then that he noticed an unusual-looking rose nestled among the pillows, and realized an unknown intruder had penetrated his refuge. Other than the infrequent dalliances with beautiful messenger boys who were occasionally sent from Sanctuary, there had been no visitors on the grounds for quite some time. Whoever left the flower had somehow managed to slip in and out of his temple completely undetected...and there were very few living individuals who could accomplish such a feat.
Aphrodite leaned over and retrieved the young bud. He held it aloft and studied the pale, silken petals tinted ghostly blue, warm salmon and burnt apricot. There was a familiarity about the rose that disquieted the Gold Saint. An abrupt sound of surprise escaped his lips as an unnoticed thorn caught the tip of his thumb. Such an occurrence happened so rarely that he was somewhat mesmerized by the appearance of a pinpoint drop of blood. As he licked away the tiny crimson bead, Aphrodite held the blossom beneath his nostrils and breathed in deeply.
Then he knew who had delivered the rose. Aphrodite sat on the edge of the bed as his thoughts propelled him backward in time.
Ten years ago, Pope Ares had decided the trainees might be inspired to persevere if they were allowed to glimpse some of the newest successors to Sainthood firsthand. The most recent victors were ordered to visit a few training camps before being installed into their corresponding temples. Young Aphrodite had no complaints. His first stop was the southeastern coast of France. The warm beaches of Cote d'Azur were a welcome change from the bleak tundras of Greenland where he had spent six arduous, bloody years in his struggle to win the Pisces Cloth. Hundreds of children had died vying for the twelve Gold Cloths, and the truth was, Aphrodite quite enjoyed the lofty position he had attained. The names and reputations of the Gold Saints were already known both far and wide by many hopeful candidates since the training for the highest level of Cloth was far crueler and more brutal than anything a Bronze or Silver Saint could ever imagine. Aphrodite had dutifully roamed among the young, wide-eyed admirers who looked upon the arrival of the Pisces Saint as if it were a visitation from the Pope himself.
A few weeks prior to Aphrodite's fateful visit the child Misty had been delivered to Cote D'Azur. The solemn 6-year-old could not or would not speak and was therefore an easy target for some of the more ruthless and cowardly boys. On the day of the Gold Saint's arrival, the normally perfect weather had turned inclement, and seemed to trigger the worst in a particularly vicious pack of prepubescent bullies. The exceedingly beautiful Misty was merciless attacked by nearly a dozen assailants. The boy had resisted fiercely, tearing at them like a wild beast, all the while never uttering a word. He had broken one attacker's nose and kicked out another's tooth, but was eventually subdued. They dragged the terrorized urchin to a secluded stretch of beach, ripped the clothing from his body, and proceeded to sexually assault him. When the degenerate mob had finished ravaging Misty, they continued to torture him, kicking and spitting on the defenseless boy. As Misty lay nearly unconscious, motionless in the wet sand, bleeding from several wounds on his face, torso and between his buttocks, the inhumane youths laughed and joked in the unrelenting downpour.
Lightning cracked the charcoal sky and thunder shook the dense grit beneath Aphrodite's feet as he jogged easily along the fretful seashore. Wearing only a pair of cobalt blue satin shorts, the warm hard rain felt like a soothing shower to the fledgling Saint. He was determined to enjoy his last taste of freedom before the prescribed duties at the Temple of Pisces became his entire world. Above the storm's din, the sharp sound of levity reached his ears. Curiosity pulled Aphrodite toward the direction of the noise. He slowed his pace as he came upon the aftermath of the gang rape. Neither the victim nor the violators had noticed Aphrodite's mute approach. He paused a few feet away and studied the scene with detached reserve. The Gold Saint had witnessed and experienced much worse horrors in his early years. Only a lucky few had ever escaped similar treatment at the hands of the more psychotic trainees. He shivered at the reemergence of long buried memories. His remarkable beauty had made him a popular target from the very beginning of his training, and he too had suffered unthinkable molestation and sexual abuse at the hands of older, stronger boys. Though such behavior was certainly not condoned, more often than not a blind eye was turned to the frequent incidents. Aphrodite suspected it was also used as a way to weed out the weakest candidates...even if it meant death for some of them. It was survival of the fittest at its most brutal. Fortunately for Aphrodite, he had turned out to be one of the most ferocious candidates ever known. He had quickly learned how to turn his pain, fear and anger into a formidable weapon of vengeance. Those attackers he could not defeat by sheer force, he would exact revenge upon later when their guard was down. The training grounds in Greenland had become a dangerous place to sleep for certain young savages.
Aphrodite's indifference turned to mild disgust. Above all else, he hated inequity. To attack another without provocation was intolerable, but he also knew if one wished to rise to the position of Saint, one had to learn how to defend oneself from every onslaught. He still had not made his presence known, and he would have never interfered had he not heard one of the assailants remark, "You're right! This kid does look like Aphrodite!"
"Eh?"
The mindless aggressors turned toward the small sound and froze. Though his sky-blue hair was drenched and plastered against his bare back and shoulders, the offenders recognized him immediately.
"Aphrodite!" a voice in the stunned crowd whispered. The circle parted as the young Saint stepped forward.
"Who dared compare this scrap of a boy to Gold Saint Pisces?" he demanded, motioning to the prone body of Misty. His query was met with nervous silence. "Well? Speak up!" Aphrodite commanded impatiently.
One of the attackers sheepishly broke away from the cluster, averting his gaze.
"What is the child's name?" Aphrodite asked.
"Misty," the anonymous boy answered.
The youths clumsily lifted the dazed and battered Misty to his feet and attempted to wrap his torn, wet garments around his waist. As the rain slowly washed away the blood and sand, Aphrodite was unexpectedly drawn to Misty's entrancing cyanite eyes, saffron hair and exquisite, delicate face.
"Clean him up and see that he receives medical attention...or you'll deal with me personally. If he dies, so do you," he quietly warned as his ice-blue eyes pierced the group. "All of you."
"Yes, Aphrodite!" the shame-faced, frightened boys answered in unison.
The small one did remind Aphrodite of himself...six long years ago. The Pisces Saint sighed. Had he ever been that young? Though only 12 years old, he suddenly felt ancient. He glanced up at the angry clouds, then turned his back on the sullen assemblage and continued his barefoot run along the deluged beach.
The remainder of his stay on the French Riviera had been uneventful. The weather had rapidly cleared, but he continued to be haunted by thoughts of the unusual child Misty. Wherever Aphrodite prowled on Cote d'Azur, he felt the unseen boy's penetrating stare following his movements, as if the child was trying to memorize his every breath. The Pisces Saint had been assigned a simple wood-frame beach house that rested upon stilts in the sand. When Aphrodite retired to the shack in the evenings, he could hear Misty scurry beneath the small structure. There he slept until Aphrodite awoke in the mornings, which the Gold Saint found quite distracting.
On the final morning of his two-week stopover in Cote d'Azur, Aphrodite stood over the low cot inside the beach house and leisurely packed his meager belongings into a small cloth bag. A soft shuffling of tiny feet pulled his attention to the doorway. Misty waited bashfully on the threshold, one hand hidden behind his back. He dared not enter without permission. Aphrodite had not actually seen the boy since the day of the rape, and a few telltale bruises still marred his perfect, cherubic face. Aphrodite had no use for compassion, mercy or sympathy. They were wasted emotions, and it was the absence of love that had molded him into the fearless and cold-blooded Gold Saint Pisces. He did not grant the boy entrance.
"If you're here to thank me, don't bother. It would serve you well to channel your energy elsewhere. And do not mistake my assistance for kindness...or interest." He glanced at the child with feigned contempt. The gleam in Misty's unforgettable eyes had thankfully not vanished after the traumatic attack...nor had it loosened his tongue.
"Do you really believe you can become a Saint?" Aphrodite challenged. "You may find that death would have been preferable."
Misty blinked at him. He seemed not to hear, but instead stared in calm, silent awe at the older boy. The Pisces Saint sighed and turned his back on the child. Misty's admiring gaze affected him more than he cared to admit. He spun around again, intending to chase the youngster away, but Misty had already vanished. On the floor just inside the doorway laid a single rose. Aphrodite moved slowly across the room, dropped to one knee and retrieved the gift, studying it closely in the early morning light. It was the most glorious and oddly alien blossom Aphrodite had ever seen. The petals were tinted an ethereal palette of pale blue, somber pink and deep orange. They were hues he had only seen in his memories. Aphrodite had very few recollections of his life prior to being sent to Greenland, but the color of the rose pushed his thoughts to his birthplace in Sweden and the perfect, serene sunsets he had witnessed through the tiny window of his simple home. A faint smile of remembrance played over his lips as he returned to the cot and placed the rose carefully inside the satchel.
It would be several months after he had taken his rightful place in the Temple of Pisces that Aphrodite received any news from Sanctuary. In addition to the usual bland announcements, the messenger had related an interesting tale to the Gold Saint. It seemed that one by one several trainees at Cote d'Azur had been mysteriously and irreparably injured. An epidemic of slashed Achilles tendons, fractured kneecaps, and multiple severed digits had befallen a select group of boys. One unlucky pugnacious male had the extreme misfortune of being caught alone on a desolate hiking trail and savagely castrated. While the unnerving matter was being investigated, Aphrodite and Misty's attackers already knew who was responsible, but they were not inclined to reveal the truth. The child had not yet learned to kill, but he had made sure his enemies would never be capable of wearing a Cloth. The crippled youths were quickly dispatched to Sanctuary where they would spend the rest of their pathetic days in servitude. Aphrodite was actually rather surprised at Misty's taste for revenge. He was almost proud that he had decided to step in and aid the boy. Misty had a good start in his fight to win a Cloth, but Aphrodite knew there were no guarantees in the game.
With each fleeting year of the Pisces Saint's decade of service at the temple, his thoughts turned less toward the past and the heavenly child Misty. Even the rose had eventually succumbed to the plague of time and crumbled into dust.
Somewhat regretfully, Aphrodite forced his attention back to the present. For reasons he could not fully understand, the Gold Saint imagined the rose he held was the same one presented to him by Misty years ago. It pleased him to think that it had somehow been reborn, as well as his forgotten fascination with the boy.
"Merci..." a warm, unexpected voice breezed in from the doorway. The Gold Saint immediately stood, preparing to annihilate the sudden intruder.
Lacerta Saint Misty moved into view, his Silver Cloth shimmering brilliantly in the candlelight. Aphrodite's breath caught in his throat. At age 16, the broken child had matured into a perfect warrior...and a dazzling vision of beauty.
"I see you made it to Saint after all," Aphrodite noted. The boy wasn't a Gold, but Silver was adequate. "How were you able to enter this House without my knowledge?"
Misty shrugged indifferently. "Some Saints have the power of teleportation at their disposal...I can manipulate Black Holes."
Aphrodite nodded, impressed by Misty's ingenuity. He held up the rose, trying to regain his composure. If it was all just an illusion, he did not want to spoil the dream. "I assume this is yours?"
"No, it's yours...and so am I..."
The Gold Saint lifted an eyebrow inquisitively at his Silver counterpart.
"I knew from the day you rescued me on the beach...that I loved you," Misty anxiously confessed. "It was because of you that I survived and fought to win this Cloth. I thought it was time I thanked you properly for your help so long ago, and..." He paused and seductively tossed his honey- gold mane, reaching up to brush back a stray lock from his face as he gazed at Aphrodite with admiring, hungry eyes.
"And?" the Pisces Saint wondered aloud.
"I've waited ten years for this," Misty answered quietly. He suddenly emitted a soft gasp of yearning and fell toward Aphrodite. He tilted his head up and planted his mouth firmly against the Gold Saint's glossy, pink cotton candy lips. Aphrodite was momentarily taken aback, and the rose fell from his grasp. It was a decidedly strange sensation to feel the outside of a Cloth pressed against his body. He quickly recovered and wrapped his sinewy arms around the younger Saint, returning the urgent kiss. As Aphrodite gently pushed open Misty's peach-soft lips with his tongue, he felt the boy tremble beneath his Cloth. The Gold Saint pulled back and beheld the magnificent aquamarine eyes that had captivated him so long ago.
"Happy Anniversary," Misty whispered.
A broad smile emblazoned across Aphrodite's face as he moved onto the bed, dragging the boy with him. For a brief moment, he wondered how his Gold brethren would react to the sight of him becoming intimate with a lesser Saint, but just as quickly Aphrodite decided he did not care.
"So tell me, what do Silver Saints wear under their Cloth?"
FIN
"Ten years..." he murmured almost wistfully. Had it really been a decade since he won the right to wear the Pisces Cloth? He plucked one perfect blood-red rose and absent-mindedly crushed it in a powerful fist, then turned his back on the floral audience, striding purposefully toward the ancient temple. His blue-gray cape billowed out behind him like the sail of a ship as delicate, fallen petals swirled in his wake. The metal soles of his boots clattered noisily against the cold marble steps and echoed throughout the inner chambers of the 12th House. The dark interior was bathed in a dim, cheerless orange glow supplied by the low flame of simple oil-filled brass bowls that hung down from the cavernous ceiling on long chains. As Aphrodite moved across the empty expanse, the pale flickering light danced off his shining Gold Cloth, splashing prismatic yellow streaks over the stone floors and walls. Although the Pisces Saint did not feel the need to accessorize the stark temple, at the opposite end of the main entrance hung an enormous, intricately carved gold-framed mirror, which reflected his stunning beauty whenever he entered the great hall. To Aphrodite, no work of art could compare to his own image. He reached the deeper recesses of the sanctum and smiled as he entered his bedchamber. Aphrodite's personal sanctuary stood in complete contrast to the dark emptiness that cloaked the rest of the temple. Dozens of candles in varying sizes and colors illuminated bright, opulent fabrics that draped over the frame of an antique wooden canopy bed. Large, plump cushions covered the mattress and spilled onto the floor. Aphrodite quickly shed the Pisces Cloth and glanced down at his naked, muscled torso before donning a plain white, thigh-length tunic. He cinched a thin gold chain around his waist and glided on bare feet toward the luxuriously decadent bed. It was then that he noticed an unusual-looking rose nestled among the pillows, and realized an unknown intruder had penetrated his refuge. Other than the infrequent dalliances with beautiful messenger boys who were occasionally sent from Sanctuary, there had been no visitors on the grounds for quite some time. Whoever left the flower had somehow managed to slip in and out of his temple completely undetected...and there were very few living individuals who could accomplish such a feat.
Aphrodite leaned over and retrieved the young bud. He held it aloft and studied the pale, silken petals tinted ghostly blue, warm salmon and burnt apricot. There was a familiarity about the rose that disquieted the Gold Saint. An abrupt sound of surprise escaped his lips as an unnoticed thorn caught the tip of his thumb. Such an occurrence happened so rarely that he was somewhat mesmerized by the appearance of a pinpoint drop of blood. As he licked away the tiny crimson bead, Aphrodite held the blossom beneath his nostrils and breathed in deeply.
Then he knew who had delivered the rose. Aphrodite sat on the edge of the bed as his thoughts propelled him backward in time.
Ten years ago, Pope Ares had decided the trainees might be inspired to persevere if they were allowed to glimpse some of the newest successors to Sainthood firsthand. The most recent victors were ordered to visit a few training camps before being installed into their corresponding temples. Young Aphrodite had no complaints. His first stop was the southeastern coast of France. The warm beaches of Cote d'Azur were a welcome change from the bleak tundras of Greenland where he had spent six arduous, bloody years in his struggle to win the Pisces Cloth. Hundreds of children had died vying for the twelve Gold Cloths, and the truth was, Aphrodite quite enjoyed the lofty position he had attained. The names and reputations of the Gold Saints were already known both far and wide by many hopeful candidates since the training for the highest level of Cloth was far crueler and more brutal than anything a Bronze or Silver Saint could ever imagine. Aphrodite had dutifully roamed among the young, wide-eyed admirers who looked upon the arrival of the Pisces Saint as if it were a visitation from the Pope himself.
A few weeks prior to Aphrodite's fateful visit the child Misty had been delivered to Cote D'Azur. The solemn 6-year-old could not or would not speak and was therefore an easy target for some of the more ruthless and cowardly boys. On the day of the Gold Saint's arrival, the normally perfect weather had turned inclement, and seemed to trigger the worst in a particularly vicious pack of prepubescent bullies. The exceedingly beautiful Misty was merciless attacked by nearly a dozen assailants. The boy had resisted fiercely, tearing at them like a wild beast, all the while never uttering a word. He had broken one attacker's nose and kicked out another's tooth, but was eventually subdued. They dragged the terrorized urchin to a secluded stretch of beach, ripped the clothing from his body, and proceeded to sexually assault him. When the degenerate mob had finished ravaging Misty, they continued to torture him, kicking and spitting on the defenseless boy. As Misty lay nearly unconscious, motionless in the wet sand, bleeding from several wounds on his face, torso and between his buttocks, the inhumane youths laughed and joked in the unrelenting downpour.
Lightning cracked the charcoal sky and thunder shook the dense grit beneath Aphrodite's feet as he jogged easily along the fretful seashore. Wearing only a pair of cobalt blue satin shorts, the warm hard rain felt like a soothing shower to the fledgling Saint. He was determined to enjoy his last taste of freedom before the prescribed duties at the Temple of Pisces became his entire world. Above the storm's din, the sharp sound of levity reached his ears. Curiosity pulled Aphrodite toward the direction of the noise. He slowed his pace as he came upon the aftermath of the gang rape. Neither the victim nor the violators had noticed Aphrodite's mute approach. He paused a few feet away and studied the scene with detached reserve. The Gold Saint had witnessed and experienced much worse horrors in his early years. Only a lucky few had ever escaped similar treatment at the hands of the more psychotic trainees. He shivered at the reemergence of long buried memories. His remarkable beauty had made him a popular target from the very beginning of his training, and he too had suffered unthinkable molestation and sexual abuse at the hands of older, stronger boys. Though such behavior was certainly not condoned, more often than not a blind eye was turned to the frequent incidents. Aphrodite suspected it was also used as a way to weed out the weakest candidates...even if it meant death for some of them. It was survival of the fittest at its most brutal. Fortunately for Aphrodite, he had turned out to be one of the most ferocious candidates ever known. He had quickly learned how to turn his pain, fear and anger into a formidable weapon of vengeance. Those attackers he could not defeat by sheer force, he would exact revenge upon later when their guard was down. The training grounds in Greenland had become a dangerous place to sleep for certain young savages.
Aphrodite's indifference turned to mild disgust. Above all else, he hated inequity. To attack another without provocation was intolerable, but he also knew if one wished to rise to the position of Saint, one had to learn how to defend oneself from every onslaught. He still had not made his presence known, and he would have never interfered had he not heard one of the assailants remark, "You're right! This kid does look like Aphrodite!"
"Eh?"
The mindless aggressors turned toward the small sound and froze. Though his sky-blue hair was drenched and plastered against his bare back and shoulders, the offenders recognized him immediately.
"Aphrodite!" a voice in the stunned crowd whispered. The circle parted as the young Saint stepped forward.
"Who dared compare this scrap of a boy to Gold Saint Pisces?" he demanded, motioning to the prone body of Misty. His query was met with nervous silence. "Well? Speak up!" Aphrodite commanded impatiently.
One of the attackers sheepishly broke away from the cluster, averting his gaze.
"What is the child's name?" Aphrodite asked.
"Misty," the anonymous boy answered.
The youths clumsily lifted the dazed and battered Misty to his feet and attempted to wrap his torn, wet garments around his waist. As the rain slowly washed away the blood and sand, Aphrodite was unexpectedly drawn to Misty's entrancing cyanite eyes, saffron hair and exquisite, delicate face.
"Clean him up and see that he receives medical attention...or you'll deal with me personally. If he dies, so do you," he quietly warned as his ice-blue eyes pierced the group. "All of you."
"Yes, Aphrodite!" the shame-faced, frightened boys answered in unison.
The small one did remind Aphrodite of himself...six long years ago. The Pisces Saint sighed. Had he ever been that young? Though only 12 years old, he suddenly felt ancient. He glanced up at the angry clouds, then turned his back on the sullen assemblage and continued his barefoot run along the deluged beach.
The remainder of his stay on the French Riviera had been uneventful. The weather had rapidly cleared, but he continued to be haunted by thoughts of the unusual child Misty. Wherever Aphrodite prowled on Cote d'Azur, he felt the unseen boy's penetrating stare following his movements, as if the child was trying to memorize his every breath. The Pisces Saint had been assigned a simple wood-frame beach house that rested upon stilts in the sand. When Aphrodite retired to the shack in the evenings, he could hear Misty scurry beneath the small structure. There he slept until Aphrodite awoke in the mornings, which the Gold Saint found quite distracting.
On the final morning of his two-week stopover in Cote d'Azur, Aphrodite stood over the low cot inside the beach house and leisurely packed his meager belongings into a small cloth bag. A soft shuffling of tiny feet pulled his attention to the doorway. Misty waited bashfully on the threshold, one hand hidden behind his back. He dared not enter without permission. Aphrodite had not actually seen the boy since the day of the rape, and a few telltale bruises still marred his perfect, cherubic face. Aphrodite had no use for compassion, mercy or sympathy. They were wasted emotions, and it was the absence of love that had molded him into the fearless and cold-blooded Gold Saint Pisces. He did not grant the boy entrance.
"If you're here to thank me, don't bother. It would serve you well to channel your energy elsewhere. And do not mistake my assistance for kindness...or interest." He glanced at the child with feigned contempt. The gleam in Misty's unforgettable eyes had thankfully not vanished after the traumatic attack...nor had it loosened his tongue.
"Do you really believe you can become a Saint?" Aphrodite challenged. "You may find that death would have been preferable."
Misty blinked at him. He seemed not to hear, but instead stared in calm, silent awe at the older boy. The Pisces Saint sighed and turned his back on the child. Misty's admiring gaze affected him more than he cared to admit. He spun around again, intending to chase the youngster away, but Misty had already vanished. On the floor just inside the doorway laid a single rose. Aphrodite moved slowly across the room, dropped to one knee and retrieved the gift, studying it closely in the early morning light. It was the most glorious and oddly alien blossom Aphrodite had ever seen. The petals were tinted an ethereal palette of pale blue, somber pink and deep orange. They were hues he had only seen in his memories. Aphrodite had very few recollections of his life prior to being sent to Greenland, but the color of the rose pushed his thoughts to his birthplace in Sweden and the perfect, serene sunsets he had witnessed through the tiny window of his simple home. A faint smile of remembrance played over his lips as he returned to the cot and placed the rose carefully inside the satchel.
It would be several months after he had taken his rightful place in the Temple of Pisces that Aphrodite received any news from Sanctuary. In addition to the usual bland announcements, the messenger had related an interesting tale to the Gold Saint. It seemed that one by one several trainees at Cote d'Azur had been mysteriously and irreparably injured. An epidemic of slashed Achilles tendons, fractured kneecaps, and multiple severed digits had befallen a select group of boys. One unlucky pugnacious male had the extreme misfortune of being caught alone on a desolate hiking trail and savagely castrated. While the unnerving matter was being investigated, Aphrodite and Misty's attackers already knew who was responsible, but they were not inclined to reveal the truth. The child had not yet learned to kill, but he had made sure his enemies would never be capable of wearing a Cloth. The crippled youths were quickly dispatched to Sanctuary where they would spend the rest of their pathetic days in servitude. Aphrodite was actually rather surprised at Misty's taste for revenge. He was almost proud that he had decided to step in and aid the boy. Misty had a good start in his fight to win a Cloth, but Aphrodite knew there were no guarantees in the game.
With each fleeting year of the Pisces Saint's decade of service at the temple, his thoughts turned less toward the past and the heavenly child Misty. Even the rose had eventually succumbed to the plague of time and crumbled into dust.
Somewhat regretfully, Aphrodite forced his attention back to the present. For reasons he could not fully understand, the Gold Saint imagined the rose he held was the same one presented to him by Misty years ago. It pleased him to think that it had somehow been reborn, as well as his forgotten fascination with the boy.
"Merci..." a warm, unexpected voice breezed in from the doorway. The Gold Saint immediately stood, preparing to annihilate the sudden intruder.
Lacerta Saint Misty moved into view, his Silver Cloth shimmering brilliantly in the candlelight. Aphrodite's breath caught in his throat. At age 16, the broken child had matured into a perfect warrior...and a dazzling vision of beauty.
"I see you made it to Saint after all," Aphrodite noted. The boy wasn't a Gold, but Silver was adequate. "How were you able to enter this House without my knowledge?"
Misty shrugged indifferently. "Some Saints have the power of teleportation at their disposal...I can manipulate Black Holes."
Aphrodite nodded, impressed by Misty's ingenuity. He held up the rose, trying to regain his composure. If it was all just an illusion, he did not want to spoil the dream. "I assume this is yours?"
"No, it's yours...and so am I..."
The Gold Saint lifted an eyebrow inquisitively at his Silver counterpart.
"I knew from the day you rescued me on the beach...that I loved you," Misty anxiously confessed. "It was because of you that I survived and fought to win this Cloth. I thought it was time I thanked you properly for your help so long ago, and..." He paused and seductively tossed his honey- gold mane, reaching up to brush back a stray lock from his face as he gazed at Aphrodite with admiring, hungry eyes.
"And?" the Pisces Saint wondered aloud.
"I've waited ten years for this," Misty answered quietly. He suddenly emitted a soft gasp of yearning and fell toward Aphrodite. He tilted his head up and planted his mouth firmly against the Gold Saint's glossy, pink cotton candy lips. Aphrodite was momentarily taken aback, and the rose fell from his grasp. It was a decidedly strange sensation to feel the outside of a Cloth pressed against his body. He quickly recovered and wrapped his sinewy arms around the younger Saint, returning the urgent kiss. As Aphrodite gently pushed open Misty's peach-soft lips with his tongue, he felt the boy tremble beneath his Cloth. The Gold Saint pulled back and beheld the magnificent aquamarine eyes that had captivated him so long ago.
"Happy Anniversary," Misty whispered.
A broad smile emblazoned across Aphrodite's face as he moved onto the bed, dragging the boy with him. For a brief moment, he wondered how his Gold brethren would react to the sight of him becoming intimate with a lesser Saint, but just as quickly Aphrodite decided he did not care.
"So tell me, what do Silver Saints wear under their Cloth?"
FIN