WARNING: Implied child abuse, attempted suicide.

This chapter marks the start of the Poseidon Arc, and so we'll see even more characters being introduced or re-introduced. Some other major changes to canon will pop up, so hopefully it's not confusing to those who expect Saints of Athena to be very similar to canon. I may make a guide for characters on my Tumblr in order to keep readers informed, as I understand most people accompany multiple fanfics at once.

Here there is a scene that implies child abuse. The actual act is hidden with a fade-out, but the build-up to it might be triggering to people who have undergone similar experiences; I don't know if people will see it as the current stereotypical "realistic" depiction of it, though that doesn't matter to me, since most of the dialogue in that section is taken from a personal experience. This is also followed with an attempted suicide. You can skip those by completely jumping over "The Siren, The Mermaid, The Sea" section.

The scene in question is the catalyst for something. I'm sure most readers will be able to connect the dots.

Julian's Interlude

Torches and pyres brightened the expanse of one of Sanctuary's vastest amphitheaters, such that the stars above could be largely ignored as background noise, no matter how colorful were the nebulae they revealed. Crowds of people filled the seating and cheered down at a group of men — presumably athletes, for they were scantily-clad, muscles exposed — organized near a side where a podium had been set.

Three of said men climbed to the highest positions of the podium, one for every platform, and thus a group of acolytes approached holding semi-circular wreaths. Every victor was crowned with one, though the Greek at the top received the most ornate of them all, leaves interspersed by white-gold foliate. Once he raised a hand to the crowd ahead, their roar assaulted the skies.

Last but not least, they turned to a side, eyes rising to a central seat atop the stands, a simple throne of painted marble. In a pure himation laced in metals both precious and ordinary, Athena proudly watched them, long hair adorned by a tiara whence swung thin chains of silver. Her sight was obvious, surrounded by armored Gold Saints and holding a beauteous spear forged in great detail. The athletes lowered their heads and knelt in reverence.

Accepting such formalities, the goddess stood and left the spear aside so that she could applaud them with a bright smile. This prompted the rest of the crowd to finally stand too, and they replaced much of their song with clapping, as did the many Saints present.

That being the last day of games, the Cult set up a dinner to Sanctuary's elite, composed mostly of priestly or military figures. The few of those that fulfilled administrative or economic positions who had been invited were thought of as exceptional, in the sense that they were otherwise seen as of a lower class, servants of both the common folk and their immediate superiors.

Said commemoration was set to take place in a public building, a buffet turned into a true dining hall, and the way the largest table had been reserved was a great exhibit of how those people perceived ranks. Lady Athena would sit at the very end, on the most comfortable chair, and the Gold Saints were meant to occupy adjacent seats. Beyond those, only the High Priestess and the other priestesses were allowed, whereas the Silver Saints, Bronze Saints, army officers, acolytes, novices, soldiers, and even the aspirant Cancer Saint would not sit there.

Despite plates, cups, and tissues being set, no food had been yet served, so the folk stood and conversed. Nearest to Athena were Aleka and the young acolyte who first led Marin to the Cult's headquarters, seemingly serving as an assistant to either.

"How wonderful, with what happened no more than a month ago, that such an event could come to fruition! The people surely longed for the joy," the goddess said.

"My Lady, in the end it is for you that these great men and women competed," Aleka told her.

"Of course, they understand it as such, and I am deeply grateful. Regardless, it is with Sanctuary's people that I am most preoccupied. I praise you on their behalf. You did wonderfully in organizing this."

She bowed in response, saying: "Thank you, Lady Athena. Apart from me, many have put effort to make this the best Panathenaia we could gather."

"And they all did great work as well."

While the two continued their conversation, Gold Saints stood guard nearby. Unlike what he found comfortable, Aries Mu had to wear the helmet of his Cloth, though this was not his greatest sore at the time. Pushing up the headwear a moment, he slid fingers around the forehead and massaged it with a groan, for a migraine he became acquainted with in the past days had returned.

Because he had noticed the distraught of his friend, Aldebaran touched his shoulder and leaned to meet his eyes. "Hey, buddy, getting that ghost again?" he asked.

"Y-yeah… I don't know what else to do about it," Mu spoke as a long groan.

"I bet it's stress. You've gone through much more than any of us, so you should get a week off when this is all over, something like that."

"A week off?"

"Yeah! It's not like we can't survive a while without you. Go get some rest."

Aries lifted his stare, despite how the uneven lights exacerbated the headache, and observed those broken horns on his friend's helmet. "Just repairing your horns should take me half a day," he said, "and repairing other broken Cloths could take me more than a year. I don't want to stall."

"You know, just put the kid to do it for a while! He knows his way around a hammer, right?" Aldebaran smiled openly, so Mu flushed and mumbled an awkward giggle, until another aura pierced his skull. "Oh-oh, easy…" Taurus tranquilized him by holding his shoulder more firmly.

The man's attention was taken by strange movement coming from the streaks of robed women near the hall's entrance. Betwixt pillars, a small group of armored folk came. The fact that they made no effort to hide their presence kept him at ease, though he felt protective enough to make himself an obstacle ere they reached Athena.

A duo was promptly recognized by Aleka and Aldebaran: the redheaded Angels, Icarus and Atalanta, wearing their Glories as they had done back during the war. With them came another man, a taller, black warrior with braids that began tightly tied to the scalp on top, yet loosened as they fell low towards the shoulders.

His Glory was no different in shade from the others, white like silver apart from golden etchings, in his case exhibiting legendary feats, the ongoings of a great war, the slaying of a king, and a ship treading treacherous seas. Centered in his cuirass was the image of a sitting maiden, patient, in waiting, legs tightly crossed, and chin rested on delicate fingers.

"The Angels again," Aldebaran observed, so Mu's attention deviated towards them. Recognized by his past visitors, Icarus offered a respectful nod, while Atalanta gave a large grin that reminded them an awful lot of Kiki.

The Gold Saints gave way, trusting the Angels' intent, and so the three newcomers bowed to the floor before Athena. "Oh Lady Athena! What honor it is to encounter you after so long," the unknown Angel spoke in reverence, and behind them she saw that a robed figure approached, one whom they seemingly escorted.

However, she addressed the Angels initially, demonstrating that she recognized them: "Odysseus, Icarus…" The girl seemed to escape her a moment, although she was not given leeway to talk any longer.

The voice that came from behind them was much more familiar. "Is that really you?" he spoke, cutting past the three who now stood. It was the tone of a man, so he pulled back the hood and showed his liking, for he was Ares, the one who received no answers from Hebe when news of Athena had formerly reached Heaven.

He spread the arms as if rehearsing an embrace, thus the Gold Saints leaned to block the path. Had the goddess not swayed in his direction, he would not have been able to take her waist in his arms and lift her in the air with a spin.

"It is you!" Ares chanted and laughed.

"Haah, A-Ares?" Athena responded in surprise. The Gold Saints desperately tapped him to release her.

"Sir, please, let go of her!" Mu said.

Aiolia was more forceful: "Let go of Lady Athena immediately!"

The woman did yelp from pain, and only upon hearing that did the other god descend her, though he turned to the Saints in frustration instead. "Hey, hey, what's the matter here? I can't be happy for seeing my sister anymore?" he complained. "I thought she was dead, eh!"

"Dead, you say…?" Athena murmured and held the area where Thanatos' arrow had struck her. It seemed some residual pain yet endured the days.

"Yeah." He signaled to Icarus behind him, who looked off to a pillar in shame. "That fellow over there told dad that you were going to die for sure. You can imagine how mad he got."

"Oh, no, tell him that I am well alive!" she assured, then concluded more quietly, "or at least it hurts like I am."

Aphrodite and the acolyte approached to tend for her wound, if it had been aggravated: "Are you fine, my Lady?" She raised a palm as to calm them down, but the brother took note of this.

"Did I hurt you?" Ares questioned. "I didn't mean to — too excited and all. I thought I'd have to wait another two hundred years to see you."

"I am fine. The wound has not fully healed thus far, so it aches somewhat," the goddess explained.

"Right, tell me, what was that whole war thing about? Hebe almost gave me a heart attack, the way she keeps information hidden from me, that woman..."

Athena sighed and summarized the essentials to him: "It was one of the Gemini who pinned me as an impostor, and you have oft seen how much a muddle can grow."

"Aaah, but the Gemini, yeah? They've always been so selfless and devoted, I don't see why they would turn on you so suddenly," he commented.

"Neither do I, but alas, I recognized one of their souls before he died. It was surely Castor."

Ares raised the eyebrows, looked to the Angels, then back to her. "You know what that points to." Hearing that, Odysseus nodded in agreement.

"Hm?"

"No? It had to have been another god who turned him, of course!" her brother assumed. "Since Cancer died, I bet it was someone like uncle Poseidon."

"It should be another couple of years before the seal on his soul is broken," Athena remembered. "So I cannot be so certain that it was him."

"Who else could it be then?"

She breathed and looked aside pensively. "Our investigation currently focuses on Pollux's fate. If we are to uncover it, we might be a step away from exposing the culprit," she said.

Awakening glorious memories, Ares grinned and affirmed: "Then you'll raise your spear in battle once more." To that the sister remained quiet, so his expression shifted to curiosity. "Will you, sister?"

Slowly turning to him, she traded a kind smile, the sort to comfort one dear to her. Her answer was nonetheless curt: "If I must."

The evening continued, a celebration of Athena's life and the establishment of peace, although the truth behind Saga and Kanon remained uncertain. With absolution they comprehended that the key lied beyond the veils of ordinary space, past the borders of the Greek islands, and perhaps beyond that, deeper into the seven seas.

So the waters of time swirled back in years, tides underway to an Italian coast. One would've found there a compound amid large fields of grass, flowers, and trees; in the distance, built on tall hills that kissed the Mediterranean below, a lighthouse graced the view.

The Siren, The Mermaid, The Sea

Near glass sliding doors and paneled windows, two youngsters played and sang. A boy held a flute to his face, with long, light brown hair that flowed with each minute movement of the neck. His subtly tan skin was smooth, and despite his gender, he seemed nearly as feminine as the girl whom he accompanied, with a lithe body and thin fingers wrapping the instrument.

His hazel eyes went to meet the dark blonde hair of his musical partner, a singing girl, beauteous as he was, olive-eyed, skin fair, and svelte. She sat on a comfortable seat, the only one apart from the wooden bleachers positioned steps away from them, empty as the remainder of the room.

Although they were both Italian, the clumsy words that her operatic voice spelled were of a broken German: "Das gute das dein Gott beschert… das dein Gott beschert, und was dir heute… heute widerfähr! Das gute das dein Gott beschert! Das gute das dein Gott beschert!" [The goodness that your God bestows, and that today you undergo…] Her timbre swelled then thinned with prime ability, not a note amiss, yet the flute's notes flattened once she uttered the highest, most difficult section. Rather than being infuriated by the mistake, the singer laughed, and the boy stopped to chuckle more conservatively. She whispered the correct line back to him and asked: "Is it that difficult on the flute?"

"I don't have as much control over my flute as you do over your voice," the young boy explained.

"I guess that makes sense. Our voices are a part of us after all."

Thereon a group of children and teenagers entered the room, most holding instruments of their own. They carried along violins, violas, cellos, oboes, a guitar, and a double bass. Most of them wore social clothing: buttoned shirts, well-cut pants, dress shoes; only some of the girls preferred skirts, as did the blonde singer herself.

Adults entered in the fanciest, most layered of attires, and the flutist murmured to his friend as soon as the first instruments were unveiled: "Tuning time."

A cacophony of strings and woodwinds arose, with the sound of leather and paper being flipped as they placed books onto metal stands. A partiture was brought ahead of the girl's chair by other, older singers, yet it was the arrival of a mature woman in a suede dress that alarmed the flutist in particular.

She was a raven-haired one, donning an array of tasteful jewelry and rather exorbitant make-up. The way with which the boy addressed her hinted at a respected position in the conservatoire: "Good afternoon, madam."

"Here you are, Sorrento," she softly spoke, standing rather close to his side. "I've been meaning to speak to you."

"Something the matter?"

"I would like it if you followed me. It's a quite important thing that I need you for."

Sorrento's face turned into the slightest of frowns, a concern haply for the performance, haply something else. "But, madam, we're just about to rehearse the cantata."

"Your flute is only necessary in the fifth movement, if I remember correctly," she told him, thus the boy nodded.

"Yes, though I take part in the first as well."

"The oboes largely drown you out with the same lines; they can survive it sans flute. Come, Sorrento, you'll be back in minutes," insisted the madam.

He sighed and, after exchanging a stare with his blonde friend — now occupied with her fellow singers — he accompanied the madam down a corridor up ahead. At that point the girl got up to read the sheet with her seniors, though a young man seemed curious of Sorrento's destination. "Where is he going?" he asked.

"I don't know. I overheard her say it was important, and because she's almost like his patroness, Sorrento seems too afraid to refuse," the girl said.

"Well, hopefully he returns soon. Now, Thetis, have you practiced your German pronunciation some more? Last time it sounded like you were singing in Japanese."

The youth giggled nervously, replying: "I practiced a little bit…"

Whereas the others prepared the cantata, Sorrento and his madam had turned down a long corridor of many wooden doors, with a floor enviably polished. The sun shone through the many windows to fill it with heavenly light, and the view outside was of a splendid garden, birds and butterflies free to wander, summed with the sea's perfume carried by landward winds. Despite this, ominous clouds loomed from the offing, sign of a storm prone to fall.

At the very end, the patroness unlocked a door and revealed the bedroom beyond it, carpeted in brown, illuminated through mostly opaque, white curtains that covered the large windows. Invited with a wave, the boy ventured in to meet an elongated case on her immense double bed. A spark of excitement distracted him such that he didn't even notice the woman close the door behind them, and he encroached the box out of instinct.

"You can imagine what that is," she commented and walked around to the foot of the bed.

"Madam, it could not be…?"

She grinned brightly and nodded at it. "It's yours," she confirmed, though he had lips parted, awestruck. "Open it. It's my gift to you."

Eyes watering, the flutist pulled the case hither and opened it to reveal a bright blue internal padding, this holding three parts of a silver flute. Its form had been so carefully constructed and refined that it reflected the room's diffuse light with patterns its own.

"They say silver resounds more sweetly than any wood. For your age, you are a virtuoso, darling, and I could no longer admit you performing with that toy," the woman explained. She caught his fingers shyly reaching for the parts, then shut the case, lest he touch it too soon. Faced with his surprise, she melted into a coy smile. "You can try it soon. I'll get ready beforehand."

The madam turned and opened that wide wardrobe behind her, so Sorrento automatically turned to sit on the edge of the bed, as if this were something he experienced beforehand. What she insinuated still lingered in his mind, so he asked: "Are we doing something special?"

"We'll be on a…" she paused while searching through her rows of expensive clothes "… date of sorts. It shouldn't take too long, but you'll get to play that flute until you're used to it. Let me just take care of a few things."

"Of course…" The wording, once more, he found strange, though his excitement fell solely on that silver beauty. He allowed the wooden flute to rest beside him on the sheets, and spied from the side to admire the gift's case some more.

A fumbling of clothes echoed in the room, followed by the patroness' voice: "A girl would do anything to be this close to you, did you know?" No response came to that; they were advances he did not comprehend, and the flute had his full attention. "Not only is your playing beautiful, but you're such a charming boy too. I'd sure love to have a boyfriend like you." There was revolting melody in that final phrase, a dreamy twang that made Sorrento uncomfortable and pushed him to look back to the wall in front.

Nonetheless, the woman's outline invaded the edge of his sight, and once he turned to see, she was in a state of undress if compared to before, covered only in black lingerie, legs bare, and a pair of garters hanging from a hand. He widened the eyelids in surprise, unable to shake off the sensation that he was not meant to see such thing, though the madam chuckled. Such reactions entertained her, it seemed.

"Lose the shocked frown," she assured him. "We're already intimate enough for this." The next time she turned to wear the garters and look through her many shoes, the flutist got up and silently strayed towards the door, even leaving the instruments behind. "To be alone in my quarters with such a handsome boy…" she continued "… I bet you don't know how lucky I feel."

Upon arriving, Sorrento turned the handle ever so slowly and pulled on the door, yet it did not budge. Noticing the absence of a key on the lock, a sense of dread washed over him. The boy became nauseous in an instant, vision darkening, and air appearing too thin to sustain his lungs. Slipping away was no option; he had to face her.

In that daze, the woman's voice was like a muffle. "Sorrento?" she called. It was no longer the calming tone of a severe teacher, but the growl of a predator who cornered its prey. The thumps of high heels onto the carpet announced that she approached the short entrance hall, and when she found him, the youth had his back to the door, eyes half hidden under the long hair. "Don't worry, I've already locked it." Her heels came into view, and in that state, he could only observe a blurred grin above. Orchestral sounds blessed the corridor outside, to remind them that they would not be heard by anyone, and that his fate was sealed. "We wouldn't want anyone interrupting our moment together, would we?"

The cantata was rehearsed a few instances, movement by movement, and no flute was ever heard where one expected it. Thetis soloed the alto parts with expertise — operatic, albeit not linguistic — always overseen by older colleagues.

"Verschmäne nicht, du gütiger Rivin, dass wir… uns auch bemühn… und lassen itzt… dich zu verehren!" Her voice raised and raised in pitch, to a climax in the latter phrase that impressed the listeners, then it descended back to calmer waves. "Auch unsere lieder hören!" [Scoff not, kind Rivinus, that we… too make an effort… and leave to us… to honor you! That our songs be also heard!]

With three delicate last chords, the instruments also came to a halt, and although no applause was heard, singers and teachers sang exaltation for her performance. "Bravo, Thetis! What excellent control!"

One of her seniors pressured her: "You sing wonderfully, though your pronunciation may still improve."

The girl felt embarrassed hearing that, seeing that she was no big fan of studying German and had skimmed through its respective studies. "Ah, I'll admit now," she said, "I practiced little but melodies this weekend. They're plenty hard as is."

"And you've hit every note perfectly as a result, without a doubt."

"Truly, Thetis, your voice is that of an angel! When we perform the cantata at the beach, fishermen might mistake it for a mermaid's," a cellist joked, and their colleagues laughed in unison.

Therewith she nodded with a haughtier grin. "I guess I can't help if they do," she agreed.

"Eh, where's that kid Sorrento though?" bemoaned a singer.

"Good question. We'll have to do the fifth movement without him again."

"Yeah, and he's nowhere to be found. Could you look for him just in case? We have half an hour left to rehearse, so…"

"I'll try," Thetis told him, then left towards where she formerly saw them go. Apart from two teenagers who carried instrument cases towards the exit, the corridors were devoid of people. She noted that they headed to a smaller group outside that practiced a piece for a much smaller ensemble; the fact that they had been tasked with performing this meant they could not be recruited for the cantata.

"Afternoon, Thetis!" one of them said.

"Hey. Oh, uhm…" the girl stopped on her tracks, wondering whether they had any clues "… have you seen Sorrento somewhere?"

"The flute boy? He was walking over there when we went to grab our stuff," the colleague claimed, pointing in the same direction where they now went.

Therewith Thetis pressed her pace outside, noticing that the sunny day had quickly turned a slate gray, and when the chamber musicians first heard thunder clapping above, they wondered if it was safe to continue practicing outside.

"He'd better not leave us without a flutist," the girl murmured to herself. She passed the teens and hurried over the stone paths, amid trees, tamed grass, and beds of flowers. The birds and butterflies sought refuge in the conservatoire's narrow backyards, and a drizzle fell to push the students inside.

She witnessed no sign of people at that point; not only that, her hair and clothes were slowly ruined by rainfall, though the bizarre way with which her friend vanished bothered her too much for her not to press on. A Mediterranean breeze beckoned her, so she followed down a path that led to the lighthouse in the distance, when the skies fell more boisterously.

"Wow, this has to be my lucky day," she complained. The ledges of hills in the distance promptly steeped to the water below, where waves crashed onto raised rocks. Near the lighthouse founded upon a flatter mound, Thetis could see the shape of another youngster. "Is that him?"

A sudden rumble of thunder shook her, then she jogged out of the path and over the grass, careful not to slide on her flats. It was obvious when close enough that the boy was Sorrento, though his stance was atypical, stiff, shoulders tightened, arms trembling, head down… he neared the edge dangerously, and from the lowest hill Thetis learned that the sea was already agitated by the upcoming torrent.

"Is he…? Wait!" she yelled, though he did not answer. Before she could cut the distance, the boy jumped into the sea, body tumbling like a mannequin. From that angle she could not tell whether he struck the rocks, so Thetis screeched out of agony.

Running faster, she almost slipped, since there was little grass to cover the wet dirt near the lighthouse. One could see no signs of the boy's body, not in the rocks, nor in the water that deepened at high rates off the coast.

She vainly screamed: "Sorrento!" The noise of agitated waves and intense winds meant that even her powerful, limpid voice was defeated. No matter if Sorrento were in hearing range, he would not take note of this. "I have…. I have to save him!"

Imbued with uncommon courage, the young singer kicked off the flats and prepared both of her feet in parallel, standing at the cliff for a few seconds. Once the risk was taken in spirit, she furled the brows and dove expertly, proving herself to also be a trained swimmer.

She cut through the violent surface to reach reasonably low depths, where the tide was yet strong, but Sorrento's sinking body was barely visible in the darkness. Her slim shape was thrown about by the many forces applied against it, though with extreme effort and the aid of adrenaline, Thetis took her friend's arm. The ever-changing push and pull spun them uncontrollably, and the biggest challenge was presented: swimming to safety without being crushed against the rocks.

This was proven impossible with the weight of two people, so the submerged vortices brought them farther and deeper into the open sea. The Mediterranean, formerly a romantic visage, became a maw hungering to swallow the duo whole. Oxygen escaped their lungs and their bodies responded in kind, desperately clawing at the water after the precious surface.

Hopeless, they twirled into darkness. The tides once more crumbled their image, advancing past time, well into the future. Over a year before Sanctuary's civil war, the sea which perfumed the air was no longer the Mediterranean, but the Cantabrian off a Basque coast. This location, too, was graced by a lighthouse in the distance, although it was not a single compound erected near it. There one would've found a community of manors and mansions, and in particular the homes of an influential, traditional family, one with good reason to commemorate the evening.

A Youthful Heart Sung To Shipwreck

Hundreds of bulbs lit the deck at the back of that specific manor, shining on the ground as the stars did in the sky. Past the glassy double door — opened for the nightly air to enter the large party hall — was a crowd of formally dressed men, women, and children, congregating to celebrate the eighteen years of life of the house head's son.

Whereas the chatter inside was constant, the deck was quiet and nearly empty, if not for the flutist who had set position with a case beside a wooden railing. Judging by the long hair and features, that delicate teenager was Sorrento himself, though the silver flute he assembled was not of the same build as he had been gifted. He wore an orange vest with a bow tie, taking off gloves and pulling back on the sleeves of the white shirt he had underneath.

The sight from there displayed the beach and sea, as dark as it was, a soothing ambiance. With the flute fully in hands, he blew into the embouchure to test and seek any adjustments. Before he fell into the usual melodies, a whisper from the bushes behind the railing caught his attention.

He turned and met the sight of his best friend, the beauteous singer Thetis. Whereas his form remained rather slim, the young woman had grown more voluptuous with age, despite them both being athletic at first sight. Because she wore a red, silky party dress, it seemed she was ready to act as a guest in the party, which raised questions as to why she resorted to hiding in the occasion.

"Are you really going through with it?" she inquired him, voice no less potent than years prior.

"It is what Mister Solo wishes for," he responded.

"Ah, I was just wondering if it won't cause any problems to have him, you know…" she gestured in disarray "… marry!"

"We should allow him at least his fondest dream."

"Or he could ask my hand instead of hers, right?" She raised one of her fair hands towards him. "I mean, maybe it'll be easier when it's said and done, and I definitely wouldn't complain."

The man chuckled and noticed that shadows approached the exit to the deck. Naturally, he flipped the pages of his sheet book and whispered: "Go now, they're coming."

Without as much as the sound of crackling branches, the woman was gone from her previous location, and thus Mister Solo came to the deck, glancing momentarily at the flutist. Despite being eighteen, the heir looked the part, tall, handsome, and masculine, chin square, with eyes a deep dark blue.

His hair was longer than Sorrento's, as far as half his back, dark brown and wavy; and his toned body was outlined by a pure white suit over a blue shirt and equally white tie. Held by one of his rough hands were the delicate fingers of a stunning woman in a dress of similar shades, though her appearance was that of Athena herself. No, in fact, this was what her vessel came to be known in Japan, and people there believed her to be none other than Saori Kido, heiress of Mitsumasa Kido's fortune.

They approached the railing and admired how the sky reflected on the sea ahead. "To live by the beach, what surreal delight it must be," Saori commented.

The man reiterated that, revealing his smooth baritone: "As one who has lived here most of his life, I must confess the only greater pleasure is to share such a place with you, Saori."

She spat a brief giggle, momentarily staring down in nervousness. "You are too kind," she said.

In that moment Sorrento blew into the embouchure again, and what came out was a genuine masterpiece. A breeze struck the couple and caressed as much as did the flute's sound waves, and Saori felt the hair on her neck rise, initially thinking it to be due to the music alone.

"It is not kindness that makes me this way, but…" Solo was the one who paused and stared downwards now, thinking of how he could put it.

The girl felt as if her careless wording had made him believe that his feelings were doubted. "Julian?"

He stared her straight, serious, while the song swelled in the background. Somehow they both saw themselves ensnared by Sorrento's works. Julian's certainty was invigorated, whereas Saori felt lost in the hypnotic features of his face.

"You are an invested and busy woman ever since your grandfather passed away, and yet you traveled half a globe to celebrate my birthday with me," he commented.

"I could not let it pass, Julian. We have known each other for so long, and…"

"And I could not let this opportunity slip from me. First I planned a surprise, then I understood that it could be a hindrance to your life and work. I did not wish to make things more difficult for you."

"Never, never…" she assured him, but he continued.

"Saori, my love..." the man paused another second, and she felt as if her breath had been stolen "… on our next encounter, whensoever that may be, I plan on asking your hand in marriage. I plan on living the remainder of my life by your side."

Her lips parted and trembled, and her hands were grasped in the protection of his own, fully encased. He took them up to his chest, where his raging heartbeat could be heard, as intense as was her own. Tears flooded her eyes, and whenever she tried to breathe in to speak, she felt as if about to sob, if not explode with happiness.

Composure returned her and words finally came, albeit weak and unsure. "Marriage, it is…" Her eyebrows twitched for an instant. Miss Kido could sense some familiar bondage, a rope that tied to her consciousness and whispered her to rethink her every word ere it got uttered. She felt that it was not the music that affected her, but something carried by it, an exotic warmth that pressured her brain; falling back to reason, she snapped out of the trance Sorrento had induced and concluded: "… such a grand decision to make."

Julian nodded slowly. "Absolutely, my dear."

"And for a man such as you to wish to spend a life with me…"

"I do."

"It is a tempting request, Julian, but somehow, I cannot get myself to say yes."

With the way his nervous face turned to a frown, the man seemed perturbed by the refusal. "B-but... Saori, why? I have known since our youth that we are meant to stay together!"

"You might not be wrong," she admitted.

"Then let us try."

"Half of me wants to, but the other half tells me to wait. I find that enough to refuse at the moment. I shall not offer my hand to you while I am not fully certain of it."

"I comprehend, but we have waited for years already."

"So it would not suffer us to wait one more year or two. We are so young still…" she sighed after mentioning that.

"Saori, even in its naivety, a youthful heart may make the right decision."

She shook her head left and right. "I will wait, and if you wait for me as well, we will discover whether these feelings are meant to last, if we are meant to share our lives."

Accepting the postponing, no matter how excruciating to his soul, Julian ceased. "Sure," he replied. "I will wait for you, even if it takes a lifetime."

At that she smiled and bowed, saying: "Allow me to return to your family."

As she walked away, the man looked back to the sea in longing, leaning to rest elbows over the railing. The crashing waves by the shore were illuminated by the manor's lights too, reflecting it as glowing streaks that crumbled with the crests. The flute fell silent and Sorrento approached to lean beside him.

"Did it go well?" the musician asked.

"Nah, not too well."

His face turned slightly off, twisted into estrangement. He was sure that the composition should've worked, and yet, the results were not as intended. "Strange," he disguised the surprise with more casual speech, "as that was the best piece I know, Mister Solo. I truly expected it to set the mood."

"Every piece is the best coming from your breath, Sorrento."

"But she refused."

"Indeed, though only for the time being. Like a sailor lost at sea, my heart won't give up until it finds land, and it yearns for that land to be her, Saori Kido…"

While Julian's last response came, Sorrento fully turned towards the door, thus resting his back against the wood. Saori was trapped amid chatter with the Solos, speaking of business and politics; somehow what he saw in that woman had changed. With burning curiosity, he studied her every mannerism, until her green eyes inevitably aimed towards him and she smiled. The Solos favorite performers were, in fact, acquaintances of hers too, and Sorrento feigned a smile in kind. There was something off about the Kido heiress.

The days passed, then the weeks and months, and after Saori had traveled back to Japan, she never expressed any sign of a comeback. In anxious longing, Julian thought many a time to write her letters or communicate in any way, but reason told him not to. His intentions and desires had been made clear to her, and so it was her turn to either deny or accept their future as a couple.

A pair of rings was purchased, in anticipation for her eventual presence, golden and encrusted with sapphire. He would offer one of these upon her arrival, which at that point he doubted would come to be. Indeed, the young Solo became hopeless, haunted by nightmares where they turned from suitors to strangers, and where the worth of his feelings degraded to nothing.

Near that Cantabrian coast, a light drizzle came as per usual; Julian was attracted, like moth to a light, to the sound of song reverberating from the lighthouse afar. The sea was treacherous, and it was clear that the rain fell much heavier in the horizon.

As obvious as it was, there was no doubt with each melisma that the playing was Sorrento's, and it was this which a broken heart desired: repair in a virtuoso's cry. Having climbed the hills, he found the man performing under the protection of the lighthouse's overhang, dressed not much differently from him — a loose buttoned shirt and dress pants.

He took in the sight of the lightning in the offing, not minding the thin droplets that wet his long hair. "You always seem drawn to this place," he told the musician.

"Hm?" Sorrento interrupted his song to listen more attentively.

"Beneath the lighthouse, by the coast, you often come and play to the waves. I'd wager the fish have heard you more than people."

The other chuckled, demonstrating no scruples in exposing himself to his friend: "Lighthouses remind me of a time and place I never wish to return to, Mister Solo."

"That's strange. Would you not avoid its very sight then?"

"We artists are conduits for existence, both in contemplation and practice. In a melody I can express a thing as mundane as the falling leaves, or as profound as the vengefulness of the downtrodden. So I do not escape my own sorrow; rather I seek it where it may inspire me, like I do to happiness, or calm, or any feeling."

Julian hummed, finding insight in that, especially at the meditative sight of a disturbed sea. "I believe that is maturity," he said, "to find footing on unavoidable pain."

"What of you?" Sorrento mirrored the question. "Have you come to admire the sea, Mister Solo?"

"Sure, and your flute too."

"Then I'd better get back to it." With that he resumed the composition, and Julian backed into the same protection his friend found, whereon he sat and rested with arms upon the knees, forehead on top, such that he nearly dozed off from ill-slept nights and the flute's endearing textures.

Sorrento's notes reflected distantly down the clearing, to never be heard by them again, although the intensity made it possible for someone else to hear them as a signal. The mist was dense enough that only the faraway lightning could be witnessed from that point, so when they heard song be responded with song, they initially wondered whether they hallucinated.

Regardless, the flutist did not stop. It was only Julian who lifted the eyes and scanned the vista, ensuring his senses were not deceived. It was the gorgeous voice of a woman, operatically answering to every tone without issue, to the point of emulating the flairs of the instrument with her very throat.

"Do you hear that?" the man asked, and finally Sorrento stopped.

His reply came after a pause, though it was monotonous and prosaic: "A woman is singing well within the mist, far from shore."

"Yes, yes," Julian confirmed, "and it sounds stunning!" He heard more closely and stood back into the drizzle, unable to make out the words she spouted. "She must be lost and singing to call for help; we ought to find her!"

Having encased the flute, the two ran around and down to the docks, where they boarded one of Julian's prized powerboats. They untied the ropes and drove into the distance with whatever fuel it had remaining. Once no more land surrounded to absorb or reflect the voice, they saw themselves encircled by the attacks of her syllables, and slowly words could be made out. Only Sorrento, however, was capable of recognizing its source.

"Amor, Amor è un idol vano... Amor, Amor è un vagabondo nume…" she sang at her low range first, and despite his vague knowledge of Italian, Julian could tell what this meant. [Love, Love is a vain idol... Love, Love is a vagabond deity…] "Amor, Amor! All'inconstanze sue no mancan piume! Del suo dolce sereno… è misura il baleno!" [Love, Love! His inconsistency lacks no feathers! His serene sweetness... is the duration of lightning!] "Un giorno solo… cangia il piacer, il piacer in, il piacer in, il piacer in duolo!" [A single day… changes joy to grief.]

Notwithstanding how hard Julian concentrated, he could not locate the singing's origin, especially while overwhelmed by the engine's snore. "Where… is she anyway?" he exclaimed. Holding onto the boat's side, Sorrento looked impatient; instead of answering, he stared into the sea and nodded in disapproval, hair flying with the wind.

The voice endured: "Sono… sono i casi amorosi di Tesei e di Giasoni… ohimè son pieni! Inconstanza, inconstanza e rigore! Pene, e morte, e dolore!" [Alas, love affairs as of Theseus and Jason are aplenty! Inconstance, inconstance and hardships! Penances, and death, and pain!] Those words pierced Mister Solo's heart at the deepest of roots, how sorrowful her tune was, how it reawakened and translated his affliction in the past months. His breath was taken by the flexibility she demonstrated in her voice next: "Dell'amoroso ciel, dell'amoroso ciel, dell'amoroso ciel, splendori fissi... san cangiar in Giason anche gli Ulissi!" [Of a loving heaven, steady splendors… could turn into Jason even the Ulysses!]

At a loss, he stopped the boat in the open sea, only humid fog and a worsening storm visible. The waves below shook them under their feet, and although this gave Sorrento unhappy memories, he seemed to take it without issue. Julian stepped away to scan the surroundings once more.

"It is magnificent, her voice covers all directions. Not just north, south, east, and west, but the skies too… and at times I wonder if she does not sing from the depths itself," he said.

The musician approached to offer him aid, an index pointed in a specific direction. "Over there," he claimed. "The sound comes from that direction, Mister Solo."

Julian raised the brow in surprise. "Are you sure?"

"You can trust my ears with this."

And, without further debate, he followed the advice. If he could trust said man to grace his ears with such cherubic delights, then surely he was trained enough to tell from where hailed a cry. The woman went on, and it was clear by the change in her lilt that she no longer sang in sorrow, but in glee; not only that, her range was so vast that she shifted from that mezzo-soprano to a higher voice without effort.

"Perchè aquilone infido turbi una volta il mar, distaccarsi dal lido, animoso, animoso nocchier non dee lasciar? Sempre no guarda in ciel torva una stella; ha calma… ogni procella..." [Because treacherous winds at times disturb the sea, is the courageous boatswain to leave the seashore? One does not always see in the sky a grim star; every storm... comes to calm…]

A small group of islets appeared in the horizon, hidden behind hazy veils. The sea pushed against them, yet the boat hammered through no matter the turbulence. "You were right!" Julian shouted. "She must be over there!"

She initiated a wondrous chorus at the faintest sight of the boat: "Ama dunque, che d'Amore… dolce amica è la beltà! Ama dunque, che d'Amore… dolce amica è la beltà! Dal piacer il tuo dolore… saettato caderà! Dal piacer il tuo dolore… saettato caderà!" [Therefore love, for Love's sweet partner is beauty! In delight your pain, thunderstruck, shall fall!]

Over the tallest of the rocky islets, continuously struck by harsh waves, they saw the sight of a true mermaid: Thetis was veiled in white, like a classical maiden in distress seeking the rescue of a brave sailor. Her long blonde hair had fallen prey to the heavy winds and rain, though she did not stop singing for a second, somehow louder than humanly possible.

"There she is!" Julian called. "How did she even get there?"

The boat came to a gradual halt beside the rocks, and no matter how close they were now, Thetis did not cease the song. Struck by her beauty and by the surreal nature of their situation, Julian stepped off the boat, having to put effort to make it up the slippery stone.

The woman stood from her lying position, bare soles gripping the footing as to not fall, and distanced herself from the borders. She sang solidly like before, although her eyes batted at her rescuer with sadness, the rain on her eyes a replacement for tears: "Non dee di nuovo amar… qui misera penò…" [One is not to love again...who was pained so miserably…]

She approached while weeping out those notes, and Julian dared not speak, for it would be like defiling a sacred sculpture. With arms reaching forth, she took his shoulders and neck for a loose embrace, then snuggled the head into his chest. That shifting took him by surprise, and he did his best to avoid losing balance, because the depression below was at a steep angle. Out of surprise, he muttered: "Ma'am, you…"

"Torna stolta a penar, a penar, a penar… a penar… chi prima errò," she finally concluded. [Returns to suffer the fool… who first erred.] He stared down at her, eyes widened, and so he met her seductive gaze. There was the subtlest of grins to her plump lips. "You have come," said the woman.

"D… do you know me?" Thetis reached up for a kiss once he said that, but he escaped her by turning the face aside, since his heart yet belonged to Saori. "I'm sorry, I…"

"You've come," she repeated more joyfully and took him in a tighter embrace, this once resting the face on his shoulder. A pale aura began to emanate from her skin, which lifted their wet strands of hair and enveloped them in comforting heat. In that moment, the boat's engine accelerated, and Julian understood something was terribly amiss.

Thetis screamed and launched him into the water with an absurdly powerful push. In his state and compared to her amazing strength, there was nothing he could do in order to go on standing. He thrashed in the water to reach for the boat, though it now drove off deeper into open sea. "Sorrento?" he yelled in vain. "You fool, what's the meaning of this?"

The sight of Thetis' body in those pale coverings loomed from above, and her tilted face spat an impish chuckle. Before he could escape, she dove and dragged him into the depths, swerving up and down the waters like a fish. The same way she had once been claimed by the Mediterranean, she seemed intent on feeding Julian to the Cantabrian. Haply love had become a slim promise to him anyhow; neither the Solos nor the Kidos ever heard of his whereabouts for the time to come. As far as they were concerned, Julian Solo was no more.