WARNING: Blood, corpses, allusion to rape, suicidal ideation.
Funeral
Saori had ventured too far this once. A marble throne was placed in a chaste location, the blocks on the floor made of stone, expanding infinitely to every side. Her skin, white dress, and aught else were visible thanks to several brazen round pyres lined up diagonally from each other, in rows extended at the same rate as the floor. Some of these held vessels brightly lit, although others, not at all.
This impossible palace was visited by a crowd of ghosts, displaced randomly along it to populate it. They carried a most lugubrious chant, the likes sung in Sanctuary's funerals, yet the words could not be made out. Scanning around to identify, Saori saw them fade into her likeness, both strikingly similar and identical at once. Their incorporeal song was ornated by tranquil conversations she could not hear, since the voices merged into a single soothing hum. These people stood, whereas she was the single one sitting, hence their occasional stares aimed at judging her.
One in a white himation resolutely approached her from the front and raised a hand, demanding that she get up. "There is no time for rest," she said.
Yet silent, Saori obeyed and came to her feet. When her eyes met the one ahead, she might as well have gazed into a mirror. "Apologies," the young woman said. "I was perplexed by thoughts of a kinder existence."
"Fathers who bury their sons, women robbed of their flesh, cities ravaged by nature…" the other spoke with a revolted snark "… they all wish for a kinder existence, yet do they get a rest to daydream the pain away?"
Saori shut the eyes and responded: "Not much."
"And here you, charged with protecting them, dare to daydream. Allow ourselves no such comfort," the woman continued to judge her. As she did, Saori opened her eyes and came to note that the other women turned the heads, occasionally the whole bodies, in order to watch what unfolded. "If you are us, then concern ourselves with what is to be done."
"I do so," Saori claimed.
"Do you?"
"I do."
"Prove to us, Saori."
Her sight wandered left and right, for her answer came loud and clear: "That is not my name."
"Then what is it?"
"I am Athena," the goddess firmly confirmed. Some women nodded along.
"So we are," the one ahead spoke, and others repeated this in no order. "We are the patroness of the Earth and its fruit."
"I am the patroness of the Earth and its fruit," Athena repeated.
A few spoke aloud, up close and afar: "So we are."
"We lead those who watch over the Earth and its fruit," the challenger said.
Athena reinforced: "I lead those who watch over the Earth and its fruit."
"So we do!" "That we do!"
"We risk our every life for their well-being," the other insisted, her tone stronger than before. Her eyes no longer saw an apprentice in need of scolding, but almost an equal.
"Our every life!" "So we do!"
"I risk my life for their well-being," said Athena.
"For that is what we are," her counterpart replied.
"I am Athena," the goddess repeated to remind them, to prove to them.
"So we are," repeated the other, and the other women did as well. "So we are!" "That we are!"
As much as a sense of obligation impelled her, fueling her will, there was also a loss she did not bother to comprehend. Staring at the women around her, indeed she saw none other than herself in the many lifetimes she thus recognized, yet the tear that escaped an eye was not pride in oneself. It was mourning.
This glimmered in their every face, including the one ahead of her, a reflection of both devotion and sadness. The palace was slowly darkened from the outside towards her, and she repeated one last time: "I am Athena."
Suddenly she was by a coast, and although the night had come, the waves clearly crashed far below her footing. Lightning flashed, therewith came thunder, rumbling across the beaches left and right from where she was. A soft drizzle mixed with the tear, wetting her dress just as well. Beside her was a lighthouse, long abandoned, and behind it were the lights of several homes and manors. Truly Athena had ventured too far.
Admiring a thunderstorm in the offing, she did not forget love, but neither did she forget her identity. "So I am," she plainly concluded.
Artemis' Homecoming
While Athena pended to return to Sanctuary, where she was definitely expected, there was anticipation of news regarding her and Poseidon in Heaven. The Angels had long come to Zeus with news of what Pisces told Artemis, and, of course, this brought up controversy over the nature of Hebe's ruling, apart from the legality of Sanctuary's actions.
The great hall that early was packed, and hundreds of courtiers filled the marble seats surrounding Zeus' splendor. Amid them were all assortment of gods and demigods, whether those of the head house or cadet branches. Parallel talks weren't rare, but respectful in their volume, whereas a discussion on the recent happenings had been reawakened by the recent arrivals.
The four well-known Angels stood in no particular order near Zeus' dais, and nearer to them was Hebe, who exchanged words with a sibling sat in a large group. Unlike most days, her father's shadow was not alone sitting on the throne; a womanly form sat atop its arm, aiding him or calming him, whichever she deemed necessary.
Hebe's sibling responded, and his voice was smooth, of voluble consonants. He spoke with the song of a salesman, careful of his words, albeit effortless in their utterance. "Determinations are made while we are unaware, and, before they are noticed, bring such tragic consequences to light. No less, the source of most appears to be your dearest Athena, father," said the man.
This brother of Hebe was a handsome man, somewhat older in this vessel, with a masculine face rounding at the jaw. His nose was square and slightly tall, his hazel eyes were almond-like, and his short hair curled tightly to the shape of the head. He wasn't muscular, albeit athletic below the blue cloak which he wore, fastened with a clasp near the left side of the chest. Behind him, a hat dangled by a string around the neck, made of leather, its rim broad and malleable.
"Shan't we speak of Poseidon?" Hebe said in response.
"Oh, enough has been spoken throughout the ages, I take it. For his deeds, Olympus was forever transformed — so was Earth! Athena acts of her own accord, in the other hand, and is commended for it."
"She did not act independently."
"She acted without this court's knowledge," the man went on, waving to his colleagues, "which itself should inspire distress."
"Over being attacked?" she replied with a rising tone, then promptly looked to Zeus. "Father, you cannot for the life of me…"
Zeus' voice boomed, despite its relaxed tone: "In principle, it was humanity whom Poseidon threatened, am I mistaken?"
"He kidnapped Athena," she reminded him.
"In principle, he threatened the humans," he insisted.
"In exchange for power over Sanctuary!"
Her sibling raised the voice again to say: "Who knows? It could have made things right."
"Oh, please!" she exclaimed at the silliness.
A handful of courtiers called this out too, but it was another goddess who got up and dared address him directly. Her wavy chestnut hair had been swept sideways and back from the middle, then tied in a low bun. On her head was a tall diadem, shortening to the sides, which held up a heavy veil, this embroidered in the same yellow and red of her white mantle. She was rather mature in this vessel, skin fair, nose bridge square and somewhat pointy, and her lips were quite shapely too. Those dark gray eyes of hers were difficult to be told apart from castaneous under filtered twilight, though they were elegant regardless. Under the robes, it was clear her body was moderately curvaceous, with fat concentrated under the arms and hips.
"If I may…" she said, to which the man nodded to excuse her. As she talked, her voice was motherly and measured, as was Hera's. "Hermes, I stay in line with your preoccupations over Athena's independence, though of course the proposition that Sanctuary be led by one other than her is absurd. There is no point in belittling her authority."
Hermes gestured both hands to clear off the misunderstanding. "I did not mean in that sense, aunt," he told. "See, what would arise from an attempted takeover of Sanctuary by Atlantis?"
"Total annihilation," the woman spoke, as it logically followed.
"Of their kind," said Hermes with a pause. For effect, he turned to the courtiers on the opposite side and finished: "By our kind."
People chuckled, and he nodded to the folk while flaunting a subtle grin, though his aunt did not relent, replying: "Law presumes Athena ruling over Sanctuary and Earth, and Poseidon over Atlantis, there lies the absurdity."
"Indeed," Hebe emphasized.
"And there lies why they would be annihilated by our hand!" Hermes said. "Athena had only beseech this court, and we would provide."
Hebe contradicted him once more: "And leave humanity to suffer Poseidon's curse in the meantime?"
"The Earthlings are not our highermost concern, unless I was absent for another very important meeting," he focused on those last words the most, such was his cynicism of Hebe's deeds and claims.
"By law, it is her highermost concern."
"A conflict of interest does not preclude Heaven's rule. Father's word overwrites all concern."
Even their aunt, who spoke in partial opposition before, now tilted the head in agreement. Hebe gave up on this front, since it was very much true. "I did what I deemed best," she said. "I apologize to this court if I erred in my assessment; and to you, father, my utmost apologies." She lowered the head towards the dais.
"It matters little. Good news is what the Angels brought in the end," Zeus argued to caress her anxiety.
"Aye, Poseidon was defeated," the young goddess confirmed.
There echoed the voice of Hermes, to raise another complaint. "Does that not bother you as well, father?" he asked. "Ponder awhile, what your dearest has done to uncle's soul…"
"That is a problem to you?" Hebe spoke over him.
"It should be to any here, since it could be you or me next. Athena and the Saints grow bold. Unsurprisingly, Hebe is biased towards her; she always held her boldness in high esteem."
Zeus finally chastised him with a stern: "Hermes."
"You have no idea what you speak of, Hermes," Hebe deflected regardless.
"I do not," the god said, "for I know not what took place in this meeting between you and Sanctuary."
"The Atlanteans were also invited, yet Poseidon did not attend."
"And he is dead now, and his soul is — do not clue me in, it must be under care of Athena's cult. You could twist lies for all we care, and not even a soul would contradict you."
Yet another voice joined the debate, its familiar owner raising from a seat in the frontal corners. "She speaks the truth. I was there," the man said, and he was Ares.
To him Hermes raised an eyebrow, stunned in visible shock. It took him seconds to process the news, as did some others at the court. There was something dangerous to Ares' involvement in any matter, they thought, especially one pertaining to discord.
"You?" Hermes doubted.
"Me."
"Now actually color me surprised. What would you be there for?"
Ares stared down to his sister, somewhat distant from him, and the smile he offered her was sarcastic. She oft took him to be a chore, though, in such a situation, she saw him as a rescuer of sorts.
"I partook in it to ensure Hebe didn't make a grave mistake," he responded.
Thus Hermes asked: "Enlighten us on what these talks consisted of."
As he explained, Ares alternated between eyeing Hermes, Hebe, and others present. "The Atlanteans didn't deny that Poseidon planned on extinguishing the humans, neither did they deny that Athena was taken," he said. "They also confirmed his desire to conquer Sanctuary. Hebe demanded that Sanctuary release their own hostages, and that Atlantis release both Athena and the Earth from their curse. A fair agreement, eh?"
"It sure sounds like it. When did the idea of Sanctuary invading on their own come in?"
"When the one they serve got kidnapped. I'm sure you heard that right."
"They should have been ordered to wait, is what I say," Hermes spoke that while lowering his voice and turning his face reverse from Ares.
"Because you are weak," the other god spoke without qualms, thus many in the court raised their tones, and Hermes looked to him with wide eyes.
"Now, now!"
Seeing animosities grow, only the voice of Zeus forced the people to settle down. "Ease the insults," the head of Heaven demanded. "Not every debate must turn to fighting, Ares."
"That man insults us under his breath! He offends us in the tone of his speech, in the language of his body, and in how he addresses us to others! He does so out of weakness," Ares said, then turned back to Hermes in conclusion. "His suspicions over Athena are no different. He fears her for her strength."
"Oh, I fear how this jeopardizes us in the lack of consequence!" the other rebutted. "Father, be just, is it too much to say that the welfare of humans cannot take precedence over ours? This attitude, it is extrajudicial, a mockery of Heavenly law. That is what belittles authority, aunt Demeter!" He said the last part while looking to the woman who previously disagreed with him. "Godhood serves us gods before serving our subjects. After all, without us, they are lost." At last Ares and Hebe fell quiet, which he accepted as a victory. "I am sure no one disagrees."
"We do not," Zeus assured him, "and I shall speak to Athena when the opportunity is presented." During the brief pause, Hebe turned to the light of the dais, for in her rhetorical loss, she believed to be fully in the wrong. This was until her father spoke again, prompting her to lower the head. "Though, Hebe, no longer apologize to me. The danger of your ruling was second to its fairness. I am not disappointed in you."
A small upstir arose by one of the palace's entrances, though they continued to deliberate. A handful turned the necks, and Icarus walked from where he guarded the stairs of the podium. He raised a finger to catch Atalanta's attention, thus she hurried after him.
"She is a bright woman indeed, but that vice for some ideal balance could mean our end," Hermes spoke as this occurred. "It is about time Apollo assumes such diplomatic duties, but I digress."
Ares' acidic tone confronted his sibling once more, saying: "Would you speak that same ill of humanity in his presence?"
"It is not ill which I speak…"
Caught by the commotion, people could see the shadow of Zeus' hand lifted beyond the cleft. "It appears you may get the chance now, son. There he is at the door," he remarked.
The visitors whom Atalanta and Icarus accompanied were Artemis and Apollo respectively. As one would expect, their vessels were twins as were those of the Gemini, and therefore the brother shared the long, wavy, golden locks of the sister, also emitting a faint light. Equally, his eyes were hazel, his height was one and the same, though they were not in every way identical — Apollo was a masculine reflection of his womanly allegory, and where she was a luscious beauty, he was an enviably handsome fellow.
Like she had been seen in Atlantis, Artemis wore her grandiose armor, though her twin had no such thing. Nay, he was in a white mantle and tunic, some of his toned body revealed from beneath, sandals peeking through. He dressed civilian where she dressed military, a stark contrast.
In addition to this, Artemis was trailed by the heavily-armored women, elite among her Satellites, whereas Apollo's coming only invited the presence of some beautiful youths who came to greet him. These he respectfully hushed away, since he was to stand in front of his father, instigating great reverence.
As the duo passed by, courtiers bowed their heads, to whom they bowed back in mutual respect. The Angels each gave one a rundown of the debates, from the clashes of Hebe and Hermes, to the insult spouted by Ares.
"Apollo, Artemis, what succor there is in your arrival! This court is ever disorderly without you," Zeus said, the joy in his voice irrevocable.
"You tire, father," Apollo spoke up with a featherly, borderline seductive timbre. "In the heyday of your patience, it would not be this way."
Unlikely of him, Zeus laughed and said: "It is undeniable, undeniable! Artemis, have you heard at least rumors of your sister?"
"The headache this once was not hers to blame. She meant well," she responded, the first keyword not lost to the audience. Zeus released a light sigh after learning this, whereas Hermes looked away momentarily. "She was busy leading recovery of the dead and wounded, thus we seldom spoke. She carried an urn of uncle's soul, told she would have it duly sealed in Sanctuary."
"As expected," Hermes commented with a shrug.
Zeus followed that by arguing: "It is no different from what she did upon his last ruckus, or how we ordain Hades be managed."
"So we assume. Nonetheless, it would have been safer that we took charge of this, that we had possession of such souls, not Sanctuary. Sanctuary may wield no power over Heaven," Hermes said.
"She never denied submission to us," Artemis chimed in. "Were you to request Poseidon's soul, perhaps she would hand it over."
"Oh, sure, I am sure she would," Hermes spoke with obvious doubt.
Slowly she countered this sarcasm with seriousness, saying: "I am sure she shall."
Apollo stepped forth after hearing more whispers from the Angel Icarus. "But the situation on Earth, father, it is calamitous," he said.
"Is that so?" his father asked.
"The rains took a great toll on humanity. I am informed social order falters in the poorest countries. Folk east and west vowed to work together despite their antagonism, yet it shan't be enough," the god told him.
"Atlantis experienced its fair share of terrors too," Artemis said, and Ares shut the eyes upon this, haply to enjoy the reveal more graciously. "The Saints have downed each and every Oceanic Pillar, including uncle's Mainstay, an act unprecedented. The temples were trashed, and the fields of battle, like mountains of corpses…"
Thus Ares grinned, for he could no longer hide joy and pride. The Atlanteans had been pushed into a losing position, one he warned Thetis of, though the Saints delivered it without Heaven's aid. Their prowess tasted purely sweet to a man of his temperament.
To most of his peers, there was none of this; such honed mode of violence of Athena and her warriors was surprising, yet its results were, to them, lamentable. Hebe spoke up to Zeus to express that: "Such is what I feared, father! This is why uncle Poseidon must be put under control!"
"And Athena not?" Hermes once more reminded her. "Last I heard, the Saints were those to slaughter the Marina."
"And we were sent to do the very same, Hermes," Artemis said next.
"With the authority that we are graced with — that father is graced with," he corrected her and himself. "By that, it is not the very same."
Zeus brushed these agitations off, comprehending they would no longer lead to better reasoning on his part. Instead, he pushed them for conclusions. "The two of you," he called, and to the court it was innately clear he referred to Apollo and Artemis, "I wish to hear your opinion on moving forward."
The twins exchanged looks, and Artemis was excused by Apollo with a nod, signaling that she speak first. "Take uncle's soul as you will, and punish him in his next incarnation," the goddess elected.
"Not a word of Athena!" Hermes complained.
"No point in punishing the righteous," she sternly replicated, and now several courtiers who sided with him heckled too.
"Be silent!" Zeus censored the clamor. "I will hear Apollo next."
"A punishment is due for both," Apollo said more calmly, "only a heavier one for uncle Poseidon. Regarding Earth, I shall redirect my cult to alleviate the humans."
"A kind deed, son. There are some whose voices I have not heard much, that I wish to hear. First, Demeter, you did side with Hermes on this question."
Hermes' aunt got up from her seat yet again, since she had sat before. "I agree with Apollo", she said, likely to distance herself from the other nephew's excesses. "A punishment for both is right, in the interest of order alone."
"Hephaestus, awfully quiet today," Zeus called for another of his children.
As Demeter sat, a man got up with some trouble not too far from her. His fair skin, hazel-hued eyes, and dark blond hair were reminiscent of Hebe; the curls were of medium-length, twisted in and out in a fine hairdo, despite the early onset baldness above the forehead. The man wore a mantle scantily, revealing much of the rude muscles of the arms and broad shoulders, apart from his rough neck. His beard was as curled as the hair, long enough to cover the round shape of the jaw, and to cover some of the upper lip.
When he got up, it took him seconds to adjust a weakness in the legs, for he was somewhat lame — whether this was a quirk of the vessel or otherwise, it was uncertain.
"Naught is known of what exactly took place," he spoke even before he finished fixing the stance, tone of voice rough, but the speech's pacing rather peculiar in its precise composure. "There are solely offenses, bodies, blood, and ruins, so I say we investigate, and decide consequences once it is reasonable to hand such out."
They could tell Zeus nodded from his throne, despite the shine that hid him. "I see," he muttered enlightened. A mature woman's voice echoed from the dais, the one long sitting beside him, and he traded unsure terms in reply. She insisted anyhow, so the god called: "Dionysus."
Said name summoned laughter from the attendants. There was a green-eyed youth who sat closer to Hermes than to Demeter, though far enough into his own island of people, who were odd in their own right. One would've thought him to be a woman initially, due to his soft body, androgynous features, or the long curly brown hair beneath a crown of ivy and a mixed bouquet. Sure, his himation was white, but the bold red shapes it was adorned with in the sides screamed for attention; his partners, men and women of all sizes and persuasions, were dressed no differently. It was in account of a leopard mantle hanging from the waist that he differed, foreign even in face of family.
His boyish voice carried an exuberant drawl, and he surreptitiously handed a metal cup to a friend behind him as he spoke: "Ah, father, were it up to me, Poseidon would be too drunk to think of conquest, or whatever inclinations bore his antics. He would be too drunk to even be dead!"
"So you have no opinion on the matter," Zeus presumed amid people's laughter.
"I do!" his son elucidated. "Bring Athena, treat her a banquet, and then the finest wine. From there, discuss matters of tension. We should reach out to her, undo those worries our dear Hermes expressed. No need for whips or new laws, hm?"
Zeus hummed, expecting no different. "If you say so," he whispered. He fell thoughtful and came to a decision that would satisfy him, saying: "In the coming months I shall order the Angels examine these piteous events. I mustn't settle on a decision while lacking insight aplenty." All of those who once raised concerns suddenly seemed sated too, including that expedient Hermes, so the god directed his words back to the twins. "Apollo, Artemis, I would guess there is no spare time for dinner."
"I shall instruct that my cult aid the Earth," Apollo reminded him.
"And I shall stand down with the Satellites. The rest of them await me at the door this very moment," said Artemis.
"Alas, I shall gainsay you no more," their father said, then he turned to one of the Angels, the brunette who frequently accompanied Odysseus, and who scouted Asia during the torrential rains. "Electra, take word to Hestia in the hearth. Those who stay, forget this topic, as we are to discuss matters of the cities next."
So the women who accompanied Artemis went with her, followed closely by Atalanta; Apollo was continuously followed by Icarus, and then finally, a small group of women. The Angel Electra came last, and the court returned to its usual talks, which the most respected gods rarely engaged in.
Strength For Forgiveness
The state of things on Earth, as Apollo had been informed, was in fact calamitous. As the days passed, people would be rescued, bodies would be found, and infrastructure would be rebuilt; until normality returned, however, much agony had to be endured.
In the Aegean Archipelago, occasional floods due to excess storms were not unheard of, but this had been a phenomenon unlike any of its inhabitants experienced in life. It was the sort of thing of legend, sure to grow worse had it not been for Athena's intervention. As a result, the few cities formed therein had a long path to repair, and too many deaths to satisfyingly mourn.
It was in one of those Greek islands that ongoing reconstruction was in full gear. In the mess left behind by the deluge, bodies were yet being uncovered, apart from the carcasses of vessels that did not find land in time.
Onto one of its several gravel beaches, soon the semi-naked body of a man washed ashore, not extremely far from a sparse village. The wounds and scratches distributed along the skin were characteristic, some a tad too serious; his wet long hair, and his stricken face weren't enough to veil his identity. This man was Kanon, who somehow escaped Atlantis into Earth, no longer protected by the Triton Scale.
No matter the injuries and the place whence he surfaced, his expression was peaceful in that slumber. Mentally he could sense himself floating in all that liquid. Even after his back slid atop rough rocks, this feeling did not escape him. Instead, he felt as if carried by a watery hammock, swinging left, right, left, right…
Fumbling alerted his unconscious. There were legs dragging the sea forth, coming ever closer to that resting spot. The man finally looked to the side, where was the presence of Hypnos, carrying white fabric like a tail on the surface. Knowing this to be a visit of interest, Kanon flipped off that horizontal position and found steady ground beneath.
It was strange; this place was not wholly physical, but dream-like, as expected of that visitor. The floor was smooth, perfectly straight, and the water was shallow below the waist. He got up and saw Hypnos step in a half-circle about him.
"Alive, against all odds," the youth spoke after analyzing the wounds across him.
"I have…" Kanon breathed in deeper and spoke with intensity "… I have questions, Hypnos!"
"Questions?"
"Yes, there are things I demand to know."
The being rotated both of his dove-like wings behind the back, and the robes shifted in kind. He nodded the head negatively, saying: "You are in no position to demand, Pollux, but to beg."
"I did as you told me, I deserve answers!" Kanon said in frustration.
"Those who persistently fail Lady Pandora are of no interest to her," said Hypnos, his mien awfully austere as he spoke of that name.
"I could not have won…" the man paused and breathed upon saying that, recalling the many layers of their plans "… neither could have Saga. You lied."
"Take blame for your incompetence. Castor already has," Hypnos replied.
Kanon twisted into a haunted grimace upon hearing that. The death of his twin was a given, but he did not know what implicated taking blame between lives, let alone in face of creatures so mysterious as the one in front of him.
"What do you mean?" he asked.
Hypnos giggled and dragged himself forth, extending a soft palm near the man's temple. "Come, that you may see," he invited.
Kanon carefully lowered the head, succumbing to fate. He could have felt something akin to the burning of Cosmos, though it flashed so bizarrely, like energy transmitted straight to the mind of another. Bright light swallowed the place, then faded that instantly, a shock paralyzing its victim.
In a brief interval he saw not only Hypnos before him; he saw also his twin, Thanatos, mirrored from where he stood, opposite arm outstretched identically. In the one hand the former smiled gently, and the latter dementedly. Both could be heard uttering in tandem, despite their mouths never moving: "Castor was purified under watch of the Judges."
An indescribable anguish tortured Kanon. No, he realized, this was one exactly like him in many a way, though he did not identify with him — this colossal anguish was of his brother, Saga. The cold oblivion of death was heretofore a mystery to him, then it was this nonchalantly felt, oh being a forlorn soul enslaved by Styx's flow…
No, again he realized, he had crossed Acheron, yet here was not Styx. Like fluid under the machinations of a most calculative engineer, he was siphoned into the organs of a Judge's engine, this arcane cluster of features built to process spirits as would a factory. Kanon was further estranged by the nature of Saga's experience, since it possessed calls for help and duty unbeknownst to his kind.
Rods went on finely pressing him, and there was no resisting in such a state, for a soul without a body is a helpless, sessile being. The turbulence slowly faded in the background, thereon it instantly disappeared, and, by association, a branching path was presented. Since perishing at the hands of Athena and Pegasus, Saga hadn't made his will manifest; to so abruptly be presented with the ability once more, he almost felt unable to enact it.
Both choices were evaluated at heart: either idle purification in the Underworld, as most souls underwent; or an offering of strength in exchange for forgiveness. A grim disdain spread along his wretched spirit. After making a choice, Saga nonetheless felt shackled. There was no avoiding the prisons of the Underworld, it seemed. The opportunity to escape was long behind him.
As the imparting left Kanon's consciousness, Thanatos vanished from sight as would an apparition, and only the oneiric view of Hypnos stayed. That despair which tightened the man's throat to the point of suffocation was a sign of what he experienced; in a handful of seconds, he drank the pain of his twin in death and after death; moreover, he entertained possibilities the other once entertained, a chaotic questioning barging through any reason in a short window.
As such he nigh fell back, encountering balance by embracing his own body. Hypnos merely went strolling a few steps away, then asked: "If he, in death, proffers his services, can you not in life?"
"But we serve no one," Kanon grunted with ragged breath.
"Oh?" Hypnos stopped and stared back with a baffled, albeit amused, pout.
"We are loyal to ourselves!" the man claimed, raised back to a proud stance.
The visitor did not laugh; there was mockery in the smile he split, just not with the usual vulgarity of a jeer. "What foolishness came over you, sweet Pollux!" he spoke out. "You Gemini have done no less than serve in the totality of your sorry being."
Kanon's hand grasped the side of his forehead, and he spun in place very slowly. That was true, he believed — that had to be true, for they were told this since birth. Sanctuary had little reason to lie that he was Pollux, or that Saga was Castor. They had served Athena for millenia, but he found no evidence of this in memory. Past lives were inaccessible to him, so, as far as he was concerned, there existed no means to recollect them.
This man he was now could not see himself serving. Even the doings of Pandora and her thralls were but tools, and he never truly provided for them. Poseidon and the Marina were to be stepping stones to his own greatness. To think that he was one to bow to Athena, life after life — this fact infuriated him.
He wished to no longer be a Gemini, to no longer be Pollux, to separate himself from the one he was. A headache came over him, the suffering of his brother having left marks in the mind; he pulled on the wet hair and growled, not able to make out a word in any language that mattered.
Hypnos admired that fiery, sickly aspect his. "Such rage in these eyes..." he complimented "… it charms me, though it should age you further." From there, the youth spread both wings, rising droplets of water with the tips. "Many Saints hunger for your blood; to walk the Earth is a fool's game. Once you decide to pair with your long-lost twin, venture into Acheron, prostrate yourself before Lady Pandora, and offer your strength for forgiveness. Perhaps your answers shall be given then, oh Pollux."
No further conversation was to be had; Hypnos turned and flapped those large wings forcefully, splashing water in a great arc. Kanon instinctively protected the eyes, yet that dream proceeded to melt around him. His feet faltered, therewith he fell back to a lying position, losing ground without delay. The fall was not harsh, as he expected it to be on the smooth, hard surface below; it was rather soft, an uneventful rest on a thin mattress.
He had been asleep, of course. Resurfacing in reality, he was no longer by the shore, but displaced on the dusty floor of a tight bedroom. A small window was visible to one side, though there was little light to shine past its frosted glass. The gaps in the walls — built with shoddy woodwork, occasionally fixed with random plates of plastic and metal — let a scent of rain and mud in.
Once he sat up on the mattress, he observed that he still wore torn linen pants, damp like his long hair. He groaned from the ache that afflicted his head once again, which alerted the one person in the house. By the room's door, the shadow of a man older than him was made visible. Kanon squinted, unable to analyze that face in such darkness.
"How're you feeling?" the homeowner asked in a fleeting tone, sign of age and incoming frailty.
Kanon took a while to nod, massaging his own neck. "I am quite alive," he said.
"You're a fisherman too, aren't you?"
"You can think of it that way."
"And do you remember your name?"
He paused another moment, thinking as he stared blankly at the shabby wall next to him. "Pollux," he curtly responded with a name he resented.
The old man shook the head. "A fine name, it is."
Eventually Kanon was led outside by the man, under an overcast morning sky. The place he lived in was this minuscule village, each family taking bets with small farms and food gardens. The houses were well distanced from each other, the space between filled with a dark green grass, and connected by gravel roads. Some buildings were raised with whatever material they had in hand; others were built with clay bricks, the cement exposed without any paint to cover it; a handful were better constructed and whitewashed. A similarly whitewashed chapel was visible far above, further from the shore than the rest, past lines of stony hills.
The dirt was dark and humid, and the farm patches had flooded since the rains. Families were salvaging and assessing the damage of the crops for a while, so the old man who helped Kanon came to rejoin them.
Having been given a loose shirt, Kanon put on blue rubber boots at the front of the house and followed the other, who asked: "They fit you well?"
"Well enough," he answered.
As they walked near cobblestone walls, they watched these poor folk lose hope in face of ruined hard work. "You'll have to excuse us. As you can tell, we're not affluent, and many of us have lost family yesterday," the farmer told.
"Do not worry about me. Help is not something I need," Kanon plainly said, but the man scoffed.
"You seemed like you did when we found you down there, and those wounds…"
To protect his pride, Kanon ignored that and watched more of the destruction wrought in the region. "Have you lost any family?" he questioned out of curiosity.
"Perhaps."
"I am unsure of what that means."
"It's impossible to tell," the older fellow told. "Our boys work the same as you, and their boat hasn't made it here. None of the lighthouses between here and the next island gave reports."
Evaluating a reply, Kanon could think of little. His natural instinct was to illuminate the boys' probable deaths: "The sea is treacherous, old man. I know not of their chances."
The man sighed anxiously. "Oh, I hope by God they've made it," he pleaded.
The two approached a decently-sized field of flooded crops, being tended to by some eight people, including children. In blue buckets, they either discarded or recovered anything that could be of use. Entering the field himself, the homeowner walked carefully betwixt the rich dirt, and turned to Kanon momentarily.
"Think you can lend a hand?" he asked.
Without response, Kanon walked past the cobblestone and joined them, trimming leaves that hadn't been ruined, and removing vegetables that had, which were then thrown in their respective buckets. Like this they spent over half an hour undoing most of the damage, despite the fact that more fields inspired fixing next.
They were close to finishing there when another mature man walked down the chapel's mountain, always careful not to slide too quickly down the slippery slopes. He approached the field's limits and called for the farmer: "Afternoon, partner! I'll be driving a couple dead down to the city. You coming?"
"Already?" the other questioned.
"It's been too long by now."
The old man looked at Kanon as if to ask him another favor; without question, they went together back up the mountain to help, leaving crop work to the rest.
Up there proper roads had been built, going far enough to where Kanon presumed civilization could be found. Corpses covered in black trash bags had been lined up on the asphalt, thus the three lifted them to a truck bed. This handful was thus properly tied, and a small group of faithful watched near the church, visibly desolate. Those were the dead's kin.
After the trio loaded the truck with bodies, they entered it, Kanon sitting closest to the passenger window, then rode south of the village. Midway they met more churches than one would typically find, seeing that the island was very pious. They saw the extent of the damage in other places, including larger villages and cities that endured landslides and floods of their own. Helping them, of course, was beyond their abilities.
Kanon studied the surroundings on the way, curious about what he could do next. The hill whereon the road was laid dipped into a fast slope, then carefully back up in many layers to what must've been several caves, an entrance in particular being big enough that he could identify it from afar.
Thereon they found another tiny town, at its center an enclosed cemetery, and they could thus see the colorful lines of a coastal city. Before they arrived, the villagers' idle, depressed talks ultimately extended to the stranger as a topic.
"Is your friend there new?" the driver asked the farmer.
"Him?" the man signaled to Kanon. "He says he's called Pollux."
"Pollux, eh?" Kanon nodded and looked out the window again. The driver focused on the road, but still wished to pry further. "Where are you from?"
"I hail from the Peloponnese," said Kanon.
The farmer raised the eyebrows and commented: "Quite far from home! We found this one knocked out while scouring the coast, says he's a fisherman too, isn't it, Pollux?"
"As I said, old man, the sea is treacherous, and I had never seen it as angry as that night."
"If our dead got anything to say, those rains were abnormal for sure," the driver told.
"We're still counting bodies around these parts," the farmer continued. "Looked like a deluge, it did. For a moment I thought it was one."
"A priest told they expect a reception of eight dead for tomorrow alone."
"Adding the poor fellows back there, number might go up," the man said, lightly knocking the truck's sliding window. This morbid nature of their chat became too explicit, and so they were silenced till reaching the destination.
The city they entered was no major metropolitan area, yet it was no less the most populous to be found in the island. It was the sort of tourist hot spot, with architecture typical of such Greek regions, full of vivid walls, winding streets, tight corridors, and sightly churches.
Streets in lower altitudes were yet covered in some water, which the local government worked on draining. Thankfully, the building they came to visit had been erected on taller ground, near the outskirts, and that's where the truck was parked. With the aid of a funeral services worker, they unloaded the bodies faster and brought them around the back, lest unassuming folk see what they weren't meant to.
The others were still carrying the last dead when the farmer stopped Kanon. "Thank you for all of this," he said, receiving a slow nod in response. "What should we do about your situation, my friend?"
"Never mind me, you have enough problems of your own," Kanon said, and this no one could deny. "The city is no stranger to me, so I will get by, try and meet my colleagues at the docks."
"The docks, I see. That's fine then." The driver returned and locked the truck bed. "It was nice making your acquaintance, despite the circumstance."
"I will bring back the boots and shirt once I am done," said Kanon, readying to leave.
The man shook the head no, saying: "Don't fret over that too much. May God protect you, friend."
With this Kanon left the premises, going back north whence they came, which required him to go between a tight corridor of elegant little steads. The ground was slippery yet, though not as flooded as the bottom streets, so traversing it was no issue. Folk would've crowded those public areas in another time, but that day was devoid of tourists, meaning just a handful of people passed by.
He went to a sidewalk under a hill, whereon a tall church stood behind olden walls, all the way to the satellite town with its diminutive graveyard. From there he was able to exit straight into the mountains, admiring their dark contrast with the gray clouds above.
This perdured until he reached a place so remote he felt safe to leap with the aid of Cosmos, such that people were unlikely to think of him as anything but a bird of prey. In account of this, it took seconds for Kanon to be by the cave he had found during the drive, and indeed its largest mouth went so deep as to be drenched in shadow.
The man entered steadfast, then stood silently to become accustomed to the scant light. Meditative quietude is what he sought, and there he had found it no doubt, so he delved deeper and removed the boots, setting them to a corner. For good measure, he also slipped off the shirt, for he could not know what would happen therein.
He breathed that moist air and sat with his back to a batch of stone, legs entwined. With eyes closed, he thought back to the experience imparted unto him by Hypnos and Thanatos, how attuned he felt to what was Saga's spirit. Nonetheless, the more he thought of their souls, the more he questioned Sanctuary's claim that they were the Gemini.
How shallow would be the soul of one who lived a thousand lives as the same man? He had seen what a godly soul could do to the heart of a good youth, based on how Julian became corrupted by Poseidon's foolish ambition. Maybe, he assumed, he needed a godly soul to return to his past. Maybe then he would have the power he desired.
Kanon opened the eyes, looking out the cave to the mountains ahead. His thoughts went to a possibly forbidden theory, yet to him, nothing mattered anymore.
"One can affect the mind with Cosmos," he said, thinking to his own techniques, or those of Shaka, Caça, and his twin, "so why not the soul?" This conjecture felt dangerous even to a lowlife warrior like him.
Cosmos burned in the same usual way, bright and unbridled, for he was ignorant of the secrets a Cancer Saint was taught to take a hold of souls. His right hand glimmered, and he lifted it straight on, fingers tight together, until the tip of the medial reached the height of the forehead.
In sequence he twisted the palm towards the face, and so the edge of the hand appeared to rip some fleeting fabric of reality, as to attract matter to it. Kanon felt hair, skin, skull, and brains flow into the rift, then out ever faster. Over and over this occurred, and the frequency became such that the entire cave looked distorted, since light could not escape this feat. Had he been any less surgical, he would've obliterated himself.
He cycled faster to an extent that he was both in and out of that dimension at once, or so it appeared. Consciousness was more than within reach; he could feel a thing attached to it, an ethereal, higher self. A split burst blood from the top of his head, then out came Cosmos, and further came a strange substance of a teal glow.
Kanon was wary of what he squeezed out, some form of sea, one that insulated this transcendental I. Veil lifted, he uncovered the contents beyond, seeds of the soul formerly locked, formerly kept from perception. He had either found himself, or the one he wished to be divided from.
What had once been taught him as supposed truth, thus became proven. Castor was of his blood, and a girl was too, one consort to a great ruler of Lacedaemonia. The nobleness coursing in his soul was of the same nature as Athena's, and in essence they were distant siblings, though he had submitted to her authority out of choice, if not out of duty to humanity.
It was inescapable then, this barrier of egoism formerly stupefied him, and hid a trait unrescindable: the Gemini were immortal in a manner the average man never would be. As were gods, Angels, and Judges, they were bound to unearth the pieces of past lives, to become one with their deepest selves, and to carry on the workings they once initiated. He had a grasp on this property, even knowing it by name.
Something — or someone — had scarred their souls. A method to heal it, rudimentary as it was, had just been applied. Kanon could undeniably recognize himself as Pollux, and Saga as Castor. Passion, love, hatred, life, death, and war washed over him, so his mind fought to embrace the surge.
His eyes blurred to the sight of an ancient Temple of Athena, well in Sanctuary, as per the star shine among marble arcs. A long white robe covered half of the Gemini Cloth, which he proudly wore, and beside him Castor wore only a similar mantle. Compared to the future Kanon and late Saga, they were rather young men still.
Pollux half bowed, helmet in hand. Ahead of them was Athena upon her throne, a helper, and a handful of concerned priestesses. Despite wearing a long himation of the most royal fabric, the goddess rested her spear beside her on the seat.
"As you ordered, we delivered death unto Ajax of Locris and his men. They have not made landfall," Gemini informed her.
"And what of my brother's priestess?" Athena asked.
It was Castor who answered next: "Little did we learn, though I was told she recuperates somewhere near Troy."
"You must ensure Apollo hears of this, Castor, by all means," she demanded.
"Of course, my Lady."
The woman breathed out and then in, brows subtly lowered. There was rage in her tone. "I also mandate death to them who did not slay that insect of a man. Death to them and their every soldier!" she exclaimed, and one of the cultists fearfully walked beside the throne, though Athena went on. "No safe landing either; sink them into Poseidon's continent, where their kind is best left to drown. None who showed Ajax mercy shall tread the Earth till they are purified anew!"
"But, Lady Athena…" the encroaching priestess bemoaned.
The goddess did not raise a palm, she did not even turn the head. "I am not inclined to repeat myself tonight," was all that she said. The girl lowered the sight and stepped back, foiled.
"We understand," Pollux spoke, and the twins looked unfazed by such harshness. "At this very instant, troops ready for an assault on them, since such deliverance comes naturally."
"Then go. You are dismissed."
"Aye, my Lady." With this the two warriors started their leave.
Athena got up even before they had reached the door, so the twins overheard the Cult being berated. "I assume the interruption was not out of impudence, so do you doubt whether one who violates a holy woman deserves the cruelest culling?" she questioned, first aimed to the cultist brave enough to even mutter in that situation, yet she addressed the others next. "Do you doubt whether those who hold mercy over said violator deserve no less? You, who render Sanctuary sacrosanct in my name, somehow cannot see…"
Pollux was the one to shut the door, then he went down the stairwell of the Ecliptic alongside his brother. They looked at how the temples cut the panorama of the city below, and how active the center was at night, since this conflict they moderated took place only on Earth.
"You were right to keep a squad on them," Castor told him. "She might turn every man from Kefalonia to Ionia into a corpse by the end of this."
"I do not doubt her wisdom," Pollux spoke more matter-of-factly.
His twin took a moment to collect his thought, then said: "War constantly preys on the Earthlings; of godly or mundane cause, it kills them all the same. However, this bloody matter is resolved, and we are told to murder men going home to their families. More widows are to weep, despite the conflict being over. I am bothered by it, brother."
"Those men who rape, and those who excuse a rapist over superstition, they would spread terror in peace as in war," Pollux argued.
"Hence why I do not question our Lady's judgment," Castor said in agreement. "I am nonetheless guilty of the suffering of those who love them dearly."
Pollux pondered and shook the head, muttering: "Ah, brother, how may I put it?" They went down some more steps towards Pisces before he came up with an analogy. "Such men are a resource, much like firewood is burned to smoke meat. Once the firewood is depleted, we rid of it."
His twin looked with an unsure frown. "So we discard them like logs of firewood?" he asked. "Excuse me if I sound rude, I have met no wood with a family to cry its demise."
"Their families we tend and care for. If they wish to cry for the dead, we let them, and in this they are sensible. Hand them the corpses of warriors; this Ajax of Locris, give him proper burial, though I would have a feast in secrecy," Pollux said, so both chuckled at his last words. "But firewood is firewood. These petty men fight for us with promise of riches, women, glory beyond this life… once victorious, we lead them back home as heroes. If they step out of line, we cut those heroic necks of theirs."
"You treat them as objects of combat, like the sword and spear," Castor remarked.
"That they are," his brother concurred, "a most saddening fact. Innocents are the pillars of civilization. Without them, no culture persists. Savages, by contrast, are the walls, and walls belong in the outskirts."
Castor was taken aback by what sounded like prejudice, despite being unable to disagree. If there was a thing the two understood well, it was savagery. "Thus we slay soldiers we once nurtured, and carry their remains to bring closure to the mourning of civilians — pillars of civilization, as you put them," he said.
And this Pollux confirmed, saying: "This way they are better off, dear Castor."
"War is much fouler than I took it for."
"Pray we see less of it hereon," Pollux ultimately spoke.
"Less of it." Those words echoed at the edge of that memory. "Less of it." If there were such a thing as fate, Kanon thought it a sarcastic devil by virtue of what befell in coming centuries. The conquests of Macedonia, the conquests of Rome, its long fall, the unspeakable pains of the two Great Wars, and everything between here and there, of godly or mundane justification… less never came to be.
Memories of this sort inundated his train of thought, and, much as Saori did upon realizing her identity so late and suddenly in life, he dropped to the cave's ground, trembling. Kanon's eyes were lazed, lips parted, drool dripping from the corner of the mouth. The wound along the forehead and skull dripped blood down the face, and from it that glow proceeded to ooze.
The plasma-like curtains were unaffected by any air, and passed stone, dirt, and grass towards the heavens. Island folk would've been able to see a faint line of light extended beyond the clouds, had they looked closely. Minutes later the release came to a halt, and so it vanished out of the atmosphere.
More time passed, so finally Kanon sat up, another heavy headache forcing him to pause. He floated in and out of consciousness, overwhelmed by a debate he had within himself, one where he argued the terrors he committed in that life. No matter what had happened to his soul or Saga's, he felt to blame regardless.
With both thumbs, he pressed the eyes to ease that ache, so that he could focus, so that he could offer those coming seconds of life for the innocents slain by his evil. Shame invited him to the supreme deed: blow his own heart asunder with Cosmos, and join his sibling in the Underworld.
Kanon released both eyes and stared outside again; the night had come. Blood ran over an eye, and he recalled Saga's affliction at the hand of the Judges. Castor and Pollux were two, but they had chosen, out of the grandest fraternal love, to wander existence as a pair, never to be made separate. If one's soul traveled here, and the other's elsewhere, this bond would be profaned.
He could not allow this. To make things right, he had to make sure that his twin reclaimed the autonomy he now had. Saga had to be freed from the Judges. Kanon stood, tears filling the eyes, and stumbled out of the cave.
It took a lot for him to feel safe onto his legs, but when it was right, the man cleared the blood off the forehead and skipped towards the village from prior. He recognized it by the whitewashed church atop, visible even in the darkest night, apart from the yellowish lights out the windows.
Kanon found that same home, a brave sight of an aging fellow who swam against the tide of misery. There he took off the rubber boots and shirt he was lent, to abandon them by the front door. Staring at one of the windows, he could barely see shadows therein, wondering how much suffering was ahead of them.
He started to go away, and then the door suddenly swung ajar behind him. "There you are," the old man's voice resounded. Kanon halted, but only turned halfway. Dark as it was in such a remote area, his sight could barely be made out, let alone the fact that he was barefoot. "Pollux, isn't it? You're back already."
There was a relief that, with the end of his bewilderment, he no longer felt repulsed by that ancient name. "I came to deliver your things," he said.
"There was no need," the villager told. "Any news of your ship?"
"It is certainly gone, though my comrades, I know not," he said.
"Unfortunate to hear that."
He almost left, but was reminded of something. "Old man, when you told me of your sons, I was out of myself and did not respond adequately. I pray that they are well," said Kanon.
"Ah, don't worry," the farmer said, "I know you didn't mean badly by your words."
"While helping you, I acted thoughtlessly, but now I see the meaning behind this all."
"What is that?"
"You helped me because it is right. I helped you for a reason one and the same," Kanon explained with a slow nod.
In another moment, the villager would've opened a smile, though this sort of joy had been stolen from him in those times. Nonetheless, he offered kindness by saying: "The decision to be kind is what God cherishes most in Man, friend."
Kanon took that as a compliment. "Let me return to my home now," he said, so the two made their goodbyes, and the farmer returned to what could be found of his family. Far enough now, the last living Gemini leapt to a place specific, the only he could yet call home, though a gentle welcome he did not expect.