A note: I have yet to bring myself to read past volume 10 (I don't want any more of my favorite goldies to die... ;_;) so I haven't gotten to the part where Sisyphus actually admits he loves Sasha (not am I in any hurry to do so). Dialog is loosely based on the Argentinean edition of the manga (published by Editorial Ivrea), so I won't make myself responsible for how much it differs from the actual thing (because I don't really know)
Also, English is not my mother tongue (merely a hobby), so I'll apologize in advance for any glaring error that might be found in there. Un-beta'ed because it was written in the spur of the moment at 4:47 am (urge to publish included)
Needless to say, Saint Seiya The Lost Canvas Myth of Hades belongs to Kurumada Masami and Teshirogi Shiori-sensei (thank the gods for that)
I'll shut up now ;P
-Gentle lies-
A Saint Seiya The Lost Canvas fanfiction
By thelostpleiad (here known as november11)
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He wondered, at some point, when he had stopped wanting to save the world.
The thought itself was wrong, for a Saint. A fabled defender of humanity, a protector of justice and the weak, could not bear such heresy. He lived for the good of all. He had accepted that, had struggled for it to happen, and yet all his resolve, his deliverance, had vanished at the sight of a mere smile.
It took him but a moment, on that potentially disastrous trip back from Italy, to realize that Sasha has that effect on people.
It is not that he can't be objective, no. It is a matter of tried and true, even on the most crooked or reticent of Saints. She has a smile worth facing armies for, and the knowledge that the ones he is able to provoke are only fleeting make him wish for the real thing. Even if it isn't him, if he isn't included. He has been good at watching over her so far, he can keep his distance and watch some more, he decides.
And so he listens dutifully as she speaks of Alones and Tenmas, blue-green eyes wide and shinning like the brightest stars and his own lips hiding a sigh. It goes on like that –days, weeks, months–, because that's the way it is supposed to be.
His plan backfires, however, as the girl starts walking the road into womanhood, and the changes are noticeable enough for even Aldebaran to comment. The guise Sisyphus wears is well-placed and he can laugh it off. The change of subject that follows is strategic, though.
Sometimes, after he has walked her to her room and bid her good night, he wonders how it would be if he had been born ten years later or Sasha perhaps a dozen before. All sorts of scenarios spring for even such a specific topic, all of which are eventually rejected. Every single one ends up with his alternate self turning into a stranger who is more a man than a Saint and he convinces himself there is little point in entertaining what-ifs.
Instead of weighing down on him, he is aware the age difference works to his advantage. It helps him remember it's not meant to be.
As time goes by and Sasha –Athena– keeps walking down the road, he learns to live with that.
But then, the Holy War strikes and the hardest blow shows them no mercy. Hades materializes and his sole presence is a blow to the precious heart Sisyphus not-so-secretly cherishes, and while there have never been any real fingers pointing in his direction, he'd feel better if there were or if lances or swords would do so instead. Only two people blame him for that which he did on the past; one is the one that looks at him from the other side of the mirror every morning, the other one reflects his arrow with a wave of his hand like a pesky fly and the pain –extraordinary– feels oddly refreshing.
He would not be surprised if he wouldn't wake.
The dream doesn't feel all that different from reality, except that there is no respite. He would smile, if his face wouldn't crack from the effort; it is as it should be.
But then, the nightmare turns for the worse. He could have stood being tortured in her fake hometown for an eternity, but the moment her white dress catches his eye, the air in his lungs turns to needles and ·it hurts·.
His cosmos flares as does his anger –at the world, at himself–, black tendrils changing gold to fathomless obsidian. She doesn't relent. Her courage too persistent, her heart too big.
The arrow flies; its aim swift and accurate, blatantly ignoring his trembling fingers. It approaches her, reaches her, in what should have been years but turn out to be only seconds. He punishes himself by harming her and the bile tastes like fire in his throat.
Athena breathes, feels, but doesn't understand, not really. "So this is the pain you've been carrying all along..."
Just a fragment, he knows, but does not let the truth go past his chapped lips. The bloody tears mark his skin, falling harder. A traitor, an assassin. Impure. ·Unworthy·. The guilt is excruciating, his hand moves on its own.
But the relief never comes.
Sweet, cruel torture to be offered in his arms the only thing he can't hold... His chest feels crushed, as if a giant, invisible hand is squeezing the life out of him. Her hands are tender, though, and it is with an stoicism that would have made El Cid proud, that Sisyphus doesn't return the gesture. He is impressed and disappointed at himself in equal parts, but not satisfied.
Never satisfied.
With soft, certain words, she provides him the wisdom he lacks, the common sense he had blinded himself to. Against his ugliest fears and his greatest expectations, she has forgiven him, even after witnessing the darkness of his heart.
"I want you to fight with us." She finishes.
He shields himself behind 'duty' for the thousandth time, a knee to the ground, his eyes steady by her feet. He knows he is being foolish. He knows he is in love.
In his experience, the two go hand in hand.
"Should my life perish... No, even after it does, I shall keep protecting you. I swear it."
Another lie. Gentle, reverent, expected.
The smile Sasha rewards him with is just another twist to the knife that rests pleasantly between his ribs.
But that, too, is as it should be.
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Reviews are welcome.