listen to my eyes; listen to my lips

[imugi]

title: dark star.

series: Saint Seiya
characters: Camus & Saga

rating: pg

summary: A significant meeting.
author notes: Somewhat related to boreas. There will be a part two.

It was a quiet little village near the mountains in France— the sort where the sky always seemed to be a foggy white, where all the townspeople knew each others' faces. They talked a lot, and sometimes Camus listened. He didn’t always understand, but he knew that they talked about the vineyards, and they talked about his father— someone that Camus only knew as a tanned and brusque man that never came home. They talked about his mother, the woman who was too young, too sickly to care for house and child alone. The woman who was too lovely and fair to have to endure such unfortunate circumstances.

Today, they talked about a boy that had recently appeared in the village, a tired and beautiful young foreigner. Camus twined together strands of grass and listened, and watched, and eventually saw that boy. But he hadn’t spoken to him— no one in the village had— and the boy had said nothing in return, only stared at him for a very long time. Then he’d smiled and walked away, as if he’d taken something very important away with him from the encounter, and Camus, strangely enough, could almost imagine that he felt the loss.

“What did you see, Camus?”

Overshadowed by the light streaming through the room’s single window, his mother looked like a porcelain doll. Her skin was like alabaster and her eyes were like glass, and Camus felt that at any moment she might shatter and crumble away into dust.

He crawled over the bed and into her lap obediently, enveloped by layers of cloth and the scent of floral shampoo. “I saw a boy with long hair.”

“A friend?” his mother asked wearily, willing strength into her voice.

“No.”

“Did you talk to him?”

“No.”

She smiled. “Then, perhaps next time you see him, you should.”

Her voice wavered. There was something glinting in the moonlight, something that traced a path down her cheek. Camus was enveloped suddenly by a feeling of loss, something both similar to and different than what he’d felt when that boy had walked away. She’d always promised him that she would tell him all the stories she knew, just as long as he did not linger upon hers once she was gone, and did not stop finding new ones.

He didn’t really understand that, either, but the sound of her heartbeat eventually lulled him to sleep. He dreamt of stars, of a great bird whose wings seemed to cut across the heavens, and the sound of a clock ticking until it eventually stopped. A clock— like the sound of a heart beating— that left behind an unimaginable sort of silence. He saw the pieces fall, but never heard them shatter.

.

He was staring at the splinters in the floorboards when someone rapped on the door, a strong knock from a large fist. He decided not to answer it— his limbs felt heavy and unresponsive— but the stranger let himself in. Camus heard the lock break and the handle fall to the ground with a metallic clatter, but didn’t bother turning around until the footsteps stopped in the doorway behind him.

The boy from earlier was standing there, fingers tucked beneath the straps on his shoulders. He shifted around a bit, and eventually dropped the heavy-looking box he was carrying on his back to the floor. Maybe Camus was only imagining it, but something inside that box seemed to ring like a bell—calling out to him in a way that he couldn’t explain, but perhaps his mind had only numbed to a point of delirium.

When the boy spoke, it was in a language that Camus didn’t understand. He seemed to expect that, however, and eventually settled on placing both hands on his chest in an obvious gesture. “Saga.”

He motioned again to himself, and then to the bed, and Camus wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say— Suddenly his throat felt dry and his mind blank, so he shook his head and again said nothing. Saga didn’t seem to care for trying to interpret it, and Camus kept his eyes trained on the floor as Saga moved by him with steps that were suddenly very quiet. There was the soft rustling of sheets, and when Saga emerged from it with a wrapped bundle in his arms, Camus finally glanced up again. However, he was disregarded as Saga dutifully began carrying his mother’s body out the door.

“Wait!” He shot up, and all at once realized that he was shaking. “What...”

Saga stopped, but like earlier that day he did not say a word, just settled him with a meaningful stare and tilted his head toward the front, where the door was still swinging on its hinges. Camus wasn’t even certain of his own feelings anymore, but felt suddenly resigned and followed. He kept silent, just as Saga did, even when they had walked far enough for the houses to begin to disappear from view. He sat on the cold ground and hugged his knees, watched a stranger dig a grave for a woman he never knew, watched him dirty his hands and wipe the sweat from his brow. His shape in the glow of sunrise was one of strength and power.

“Good night,” Camus said, and placed his forehead to the dirt once it was packed. He sat up again and wiped the tears from his face, watched as Saga ducked his head respectfully and then began to walk away.

Without marking the grave, Camus followed.

.

The following hours were spent trying to interpret the words that Saga seemed to speak more to himself than to Camus. He’d placed both his hands on his chest, mimicking the older boy’s earlier motions, and told Saga his name— Saga had smiled wryly upon hearing it, as if he’d just thought of a poor joke, but hadn’t shared his reasons. He kept speaking of a place called Sanctuary and the goddess Athena, but Camus could not seem to connect the two no matter how many books he turned over in his mind. He did, however, manage to quickly deduce that Saga was from Greece, and put to rest the mystery of what language it was that he was speaking.

It turned out that Saga could also recognize simple phrases like please and thank you and I’m hungry. The last had been entirely a mistake, something he’d thought Saga wouldn’t understand, but soon after he’d found a warm meal pressed into his hands while Saga cleaned himself up. Camus took slow bites while Saga ran his hands under the water, picking the dirt from under his fingernails and washing his face. Did you come here looking for me? is what he wanted to ask, but it seemed pointless if Saga may not even understand.

“How old are you?” he asked instead, and Saga pulled the towel from his face to look down at him. It was a blank stare at first, until Camus pointed to himself and held up five fingers.

“Ah,” he smiled in understanding and knelt down to Camus’ height, holding up ten fingers and then three. “Dekatría.”

Thirteen. Camus told himself that he would remember it, even if Saga seemed much older than a thirteen year-old boy. “Where are we going?”

“Greece,” Saga said, without hesitating this time, “Sanctuary.”

“Why?” And he didn’t specify, because why had Saga come here? Why had his mother died? Why had Saga helped him? There were many questions, and no answers.

“Because,” Saga said, surprising him, though his accent was terrible. “Destiny is written... in stars.”

It seemed almost as if it were a phrase that Saga had prepared for himself before coming to France. It could have been funny, if the implications behind it weren’t so harrowing. Camus shook his head, indicating that the explanation wasn’t nearly enough, but Saga only sighed and stood again. Some darker emotion passed over his face then, something that inadvertently filled Camus with unease, but it was gone before he could confirm that it had appeared at all.

Saga was still a mysterious person in many ways— There was no proof that he wasn’t someone dangerous, but Camus had nothing else to return to. (An unmarked grave, a father in the fields whose name he couldn’t remember.) Despite the many unanswered questions, the strong image of a man dark against the dawn horizon seemed burned into the back of his eyelids.

Saga had easily taken charge and seemed to know exactly where he was going and what to do— An overwhelming universe of power nestled inside his heart, bright and warm. In spite of himself, Camus felt safe.

.

He’d never quite felt anything as hot as the Greek sun. Saga seemed unfazed, even still wearing the long-sleeved garments he had worn in France, and even still carrying that heavy box on his back. Camus had never been given the chance to ask about it, but he could see flashes of gold beneath the scraps of cloth that Saga had wrapped it in. He thought he could make out the impression of a child’s face, but it was hard to tell for certain.

“Camus,” Saga would urge him on quietly every time he seemed to slow on the steps, “Come.”

He didn’t know what that meant, but he wasn’t about to be seen as weak or feeble. The people here wouldn’t talk about him just as the townspeople had talked about his mother, someone delicate and unfit for hardship. Maybe for her it had turned out to be true, but his mother had given her life for him so that he could surpass her strength.

He stumbled around the time they reached Libra, Saga reciting the names of each of the temples aloud as they passed through them. Saga regarded him thoughtfully for a moment before reaching down to lift him off his feet. Though Camus initially wanted to protest, he allowed himself to be carried through an empty Scorpio, only to stop at the entrance of Sagittarius. Another boy was standing there— roughly the same age as Saga— wearing a strange armor that fanned out into golden wings. He looked at the both of them appraisingly before he offered Saga what seemed like a warm greeting.

“Aiolos,” Saga returned, and then the two of them began a short conversation, something that Camus assumed revolved around him— Aiolos stopped to smile at him a few times, and Camus heard his name exchanged between the two.

It took him a moment to notice the second person hovering around Aiolos’ leg, staring up at Camus with wide, green eyes. This one was around Camus’ age, though he seemed distinctly more athletic, as if he’d already been fighting all his life. He wasn’t wearing any armor, and nor was Saga for that matter, and it was beginning to feel strange when every citizen of Sanctuary seemed to dress somewhat similarly.

“Aiolia,” Aiolos affirmed when he caught Camus staring, and Aiolia perked at the sound of his name.

Thankfully, before Camus was forced to attempt conversation, Saga seemed to quietly excuse himself and continued up the endless flights of stairs. Capricorn and then Aquarius, a temple that seemed naturally much cooler than the others. It was a welcome change after the oppressive heat, but he held back his relief when he noticed that Saga seemed to be gauging his reaction. He didn’t attempt to explain, as usual, leaving Camus again feeling somewhat uneasy. It lingered even by the time they had reached the Pope’s chamber and Saga had set him back on the ground.

“Welcome,” The Pope surprisingly spoke in a language that Camus could understand. Just the sound of his voice was old and wise, even if Camus couldn’t see much beneath the shadow of his helmet.

“Who are you?” Camus asked, feeling self-conscious when Saga knelt down respectfully from his side. He mimicked the motion uncertainly.

“I am Shion, head of the Sanctuary,” the man explained, the shadows curving with his smile. Unexpectedly, he stood from his throne and knelt down as well, regarding Camus carefully. “I have much to explain to you.”

Saints, duty, a future that had been written only for him in the stars—Camus wasn’t sure he understood, but he listened.

.

He’d been given little over a few months to prepare for the arrival of the man that would soon be his Master, and Saga had invited him to stay in Gemini Temple until the day when he could earn his own. He’d spent the time tirelessly struggling to learn the language, picking up words and then eventually phrases. Venturing out for too long and attempting to communicate was draining, so he spent most time hidden away in the temple, nose buried in a book as he tried to identify the curves and loops of foreign characters.

There was another boy who occasionally passed in and out of Gemini like a shadow, someone that Camus had originally mistaken for Saga but who was not Saga. At the time, he hadn’t known enough words to ask for the boy’s name, and the boy likewise hadn’t seemed interested at all in speaking with Camus. He’d instead advised Camus to forget that he’d seen anything, and so he’d never mentioned the encounters to Saga, though he wanted to. Saga also seemed on edge at times, glancing around as if dreading (or hoping, maybe) that someone would appear— Sometimes talking aloud to himself, a habit that may have been normal if it didn’t seem that he was genuinely addressing another person.

Occasionally there was someone that was not Saga or the boy that was not Saga, one of the other Saints or trainees passing through. One day another young boy appeared, the same age as Aiolia or himself, and looked Camus squarely in the eyes.

“You are not Gemini.”

Camus’ vocabulary was still limited, but he was getting better at understanding. “No. I am Camus.”

“Not a Saint, then,” he deduced, and Camus didn’t know enough to tell if it was condescending or not. However, the look in the boy’s eyes didn’t say as much, just that it was a statement and nothing more.

“Are you?”

The boy shook his head. “No. I am Milo.”

“Milo,” and he must have pronounced it wrong, because Milo gave him a funny look that he couldn’t quite read. It made him feel embarrassed, and so he ducked his head to conceal the reddening of his face.

“You are not from Greece,” Milo deduced again, observant and intelligent for a small boy, but all of the children here seemed to be just the same.

“France.”

Saga returned to the temple before Milo could ask what France was like, seemed surprised to see a second visitor. Camus understood that the others had already developed expectations of him, a quiet boy that kept to himself and his books, who spoke in short, heavily-accented sentences. A little over five months and still he had not been capable of expressing himself properly, already missed the temperate climate of France and the vineyards.

Saga always spoke slowly and simply. “There is someone here to meet you.”

.

“Saga...”

Camus could climb up and down the stairways himself now, without requiring assistance or taking breaks in between. The stairs were still large and his legs were still small, but he’d practiced his grace until he could leap over them effortlessly without tripping. It was still difficult to keep up with Saga’s much longer strides, but the older boy seemed to take even that into account when deciding his pace.

Saga was wearing his Gemini cloth this time. It caught the reflection of the sun naturally, making it almost blinding to look at. “What is it?”

“What future... hmn...” he stopped himself, looking for the right word, “What destiny did the Pope read for you?”

Saga never turned around, so Camus couldn’t see his face, but he somehow sensed that he’d asked the wrong question. His fist clenched and unclenched, and his head tilted, a tension visible even beneath the daunting shell of his cloth. As they passed beneath another of the temples, the light cast a shadow over Saga’s hair that made the tips appear an inky black, something that vanished once they stepped out into the sun again.

“A chaotic star,” Saga said finally, “The one born beneath that star would be unfit to become a Saint— would bring a great misfortune to the Sanctuary— and thus must be cast into the shadows.”

Camus didn’t always understand, but he was getting better at listening. Looking up at the sky, he could almost imagine it filled with the presence of a great, black star. Saga was a Saint, so he must not have been talking about himself—Camus wasn’t even certain that he had caught the meaning behind everything that Saga had said. He still spoke slowly, but his sentences seemed more complicated, this time.

Saga stopped at once, so suddenly that Camus almost bumped into his leg. He peered up, saw Saga turn to look down at him, the outline of his body eclipsing the white sun.

“Would you say that I was born from discord?”

They were heavy words that dripped with another emotion that Camus couldn’t name. And he knew it, then—that there was something terribly different, terribly wrong, about them all. About this place and its people, about this heavy atmosphere, about himself, about Saga and the boy that was not Saga.

“No... I don’t know,” he struggled under the pressure of a question he didn’t fully understand, “But... maybe soon, I can answer it.”

Saga smiled kindly and turned away with a flutter of his cape. Neither of them apologized for asking difficult questions or for not being able to answer them. Maybe Camus would never really be able to answer that question, and maybe they all had been born under a black star. It contradicted the words that Shion had told him, about men born from black stars that donned dark armor unlike the armor of a Saint.

They didn’t match any of the stories Camus had read about ghouls and Spectres, and nor did Saga match any of those same descriptions. But he did have a cosmo that was wide and vast, darkened at the edges like the pure blackness of space. Maybe that was what he had meant by discord.

“Camus,” Saga spoke his name, and Camus looked up at him and the stranger standing beside him, a man with an unreadable expression and dark eyes. “It is time for you to leave here.”

He knew somehow that, when he returned, neither of them would be the same.