Lost to Me
Saint Seiya is copyrighted property of Kurumada Masami, et al.
She had never looked so devastatingly beautiful, lying on the cracked stone bench in the Kyouko's palace.
Saga hated clichés, and hated it even more when they proved to be true. He pulled the shroud carefully over her, across her stomach, past the ugly gaping wound on her neck. Then his hand faltered.
"Hurry up," a voice murmured behind him, a voice too low and choked with emotion to render it recognizable. It was probably Camus - Milo would sound like nothing held more appeal to him at the moment than beating the shit out of the three intruders.
Suddenly Saga envied Shaka with his whole being - Shaka, who had been alive like no human ever should, when he, Shura and Camus were running on borrowed hours; Shaka, who would be waiting for Athena on the other side, to carry out what Saga would never see finished.
He held the side of her neck gently, as though it had not been broken already. Her blood on his fingertips was still maddeningly warm. Then he let the shroud fall over her face. The shape of it under the flimsy fabric hurt him like no other thing had in the whole sorry business.
He stepped away from the bench. It was incredibly hard, but by now he had been more or less resigned to doing hard things.