Negation

Why?

I wish I understood what he was thinking. I wish I understood him, or his feelings, I wish I knew his motivations and his fears so I could understand why he did things the way he did. Perhaps it was only a moment of weakness, perhaps it was only a slip of his true self... perhaps it was a sliver of some older and less frozen creature than the one I knew him to be.

It was dark that night, and I would be leaving soon. The day my training finally ended had been few weeks before then and I knew there was nothing more he would teach me. Yet he refused to tell me where the cloth was or how I could win it. After six years of coldness, insincere smiles and harsh words; after six years of relentless torture, lesson after lesson and uncaring ideals, I was going to be free. I was going to leave; I was going to be able to choose.

Or so I thought.

Perhaps he did what he did because he knew what was waiting for me, how free will is nothing to us who live to obey our honour and die for our ideals. Yes... perhaps that was why he offered me a way out. Why he gave me one solitary chance to leave behind all that I had been fighting for, so I could find myself, so I could find my place.

I didn't.

Because this was not my place, because I had been responsible for the death of the one who should have been here now. I had killed his best pupil; all that was left was me... so I didn't have to do it, because I wasn't good enough anyway.

And still....

Still....

It was a dark night, darker then many others because winter still hung over us like a mantle of death.

Winter.

Our element, our mother and our deliverer... our core and our weapon. But there was no snow outside, nothing to mar the perfectly smooth darkness that flowed beyond the window.

How long had I been standing there?

That was unimportant now. My training had been over for a few days already, and for no apparent reason my teacher had changed, after six years of indifference he had suddenly broken down, his eyes had softened and he had stopped ordering me around. He had stopped treating me coldly; instead he just sat near me and tried to talk, tried to find out all the things he never even bothered to ask. After six years... he behaved like he cared about me.

Why?

He never gave the slightest impression of liking me, I was certain he despised me for my weakness and for having killed his cherished pupil. Against all odds I had succeeded in finishing my training, and this did indeed make him happy, so why was so intent on my not becoming a saint all the same? Was he happy because I had made it, yet fearful of my future?

The night had been dark and I felt - for the first time in years- truly cold. I knew nothing of the world outside my training, I understood nothing of what awaited me. All I knew was that I had to win my cloth and go back to Japan. It was a stupid mission, but it was the only anchor to the outside world I had. Nothing else connected me to the world where normal people lived. After having reconciled to the fact that I would never be normal, after leaving aside my craving need for the solid reality I once lived in, after six years that turned me into what I was now... my teacher was offering me a way out.

He had offered me normality.

I felt him enter the room, soundless and gentle... he had always been gentle like that. The way swords are smooth yet cut so finely, so composed and noble and yet so cold... I felt him enter, but I didn't turn around to greet him. It was past midnight, if he was there it was because he was looking for me. I waited in silence for him to speak, but nothing came. He moved closer after a while and sighed. I shivered when his warm breath touched my neck, trying to remember if I had done anything to bring him here tonight.

Trying to understand why he did not hate me now.

"Teacher?"

I asked finally, without turning to face him. He sighed again and shuffled on his feet.

"You should be in bed."

"Why? I don't have to get up early tomorrow," I whispered lowly.

"Still..." he fell silent.

"Teacher..." why was he here? What did he want from me? "Where is the cloth?"

He sucked in his breath sharply and I felt the odd vibration that shook his aura. "Do you really want to become a saint then?"

"I never had an option," I cut back, tired of this incomprehensible game of caring and not caring.

"But... you do," he whispered and shivered. Outside, the darkness seemed to stretch on forever.

"Don't lie to me, Camus." It was the first time I called him by his name; it was the first time I treated him as if I had finished my training. I hoped it would rattle him, make him angry and cold as he used to be, hoping it would turn him back into something I knew how to manage.

Before I knew what was going on he had covered the distance between us in two long strides, I hardened myself for the punch that would surely come... that never came. Arms encircled my waist and pulled me back against him, a soft and incomprehensibly warm whisper touched my ear.

"You don't have to do it."

After my mother died no one had ever hugged me, no one had ever touched me if not to hurt or heal a wound, no one had cared about me in the very least. It was the strangest sensation, a closeness I couldn't even begin to understand and a warmth that made my knees turn to water. It was the strangest and most terrible kindness anyone had ever given me, and I didn't want him to let go. His chest felt warm against my back and I could feel his erratic heartbeat. The darkness folded around us like the embrace that held me so tightly, so lovingly. I swallowed convulsively, fighting back the sting of tears in my eyes. I leaned my head back against his shoulder and his arms tightened even more around me. I felt him tremble lowly and I realised he was crying.

"You could leave now, forget about this... you...." he never finished that sentence. I still don't know why. He choked on his own words and pressed his face into my shoulder helplessly... afraid of something I didn't understand. Why had a trained for six years if not for this? Why was he trying to dissuade me now? Did he think I wasn't good enough? His lips trembled against my neck and I felt him squeeze harder until it grew difficult for me to breathe. His silence was terrifying, the sheer reality of his warmth shattered me.

Camus was cold, Camus hated me, Camus wanted me dead.

But here he was, crying. Here he was, giving me the option of turning my back on my so called duty in favour of a life I no longer comprehended. What was normality? What did it mean to live not knowing the evil that lurked outside your door? How could I live without touching and sensing someone else's aura... I would be blind without those new senses!

He made a small strangled sound and sighed throatily, frozen in place yet boiling up with some emotion that was searing his aura, and that I couldn't comprehend.

"Forget about Athena."

It was as if he had slapped me. He couldn't have said that... not Camus.

I lifted my arms and pulled out of his embrace slowly, he let me go in silence. I turned to face him and saw the painfully defeated glow in his eyes. He didn't want me to do this, yet it was what I had been brought up to become. He was backing out on the results of his own actions. I didn't understand his pain, or the tears that glistened in his eyes.

But I knew... that he knew something I didn't.

I knew he was hiding the truth from me, just like he did with the cloth that was rightfully mine now. I knew that no matter how much I wanted to be free I could no longer survive like that; I wasn't normal anymore. The only way I could live now was as the warrior he had taught me to be, the only link to reality that I had would only welcome me as a warrior, if I was indeed a warrior.

"Why?" I whispered and saw him look away, eyes clouding with something akin to fear.

"Because you don't have to, it's not your duty." The pain that laced his voice was as alien to me as the vague trembling in his lower lip. It was impossible.

"It was Isaac's, you mean?" he shook his head and gave me a strange unfathomable look.

"Is that what you have belived... all along?" he murmured achingly. "That's not it. He... has nothing to do this."

"Then why are you telling me to leave!?" I cried, hands fisted. "Because I'm not good enough?"

"No..."

"Because I'm a disgrace to you!? Because I'll never survive?"

"NO!" he snapped back, pulling me by my wrists back into his arms. He was trembling violently but he still raised a faltering hand to brush it through my hair. "I don't want you to die!" he whispered savagely.

I stopped, feeling oddly drained as he pressed his forehead against mine.

"I don't want you to die at the hands of someone else... I would never...."

Forgive himself?

"Why did you train me then?" I asked softly, feeling the answering jerk in his body.

"At first I didn't care... later on I thought it would eventually wear off... I was sure it would stop..." he was rambling.

"Wear off? What would wear off?" He tenses and pressed his face against my cheek.

"I was sure I'd eventually stop loving you, and then I would feel nothing for you... like I did for Isaac. It's not right, I shouldn't care about you. But I do, and I don't want to see you die in pain in some forgotten battelfield for God knows what reasons... you deserve a life! Life!"

"You... love.. me?" He didn't reply, but I could feel his tear-damp cheek against mine.

"Is it so insane?" he laughed sadly. "I'm not asking you to feel the same..."

I closed my eyes and willed the pain and confusion away, tried to banish the pleasuring sensation of his arms around me, trying to understand what was going on. He was trying to save me... he didn't want me to die.

So he thought... I would die?

He didn't really believe I was good enough as a saint then, did he? After all, I would die. After all my training, I wasn't good enough. He was sure I would die. He didn't even want to care about me.

"So that's it? You want me to give up? God... Camus... why do you love me if you think so little of me?" He pulled back to stare straight into my eyes, his own glimmered with tears as he fought to smile weakly.

"Because you are... you."

"And this "me" that you love... would you still love it if I gave up on my ideals, on my dreams and on my efforts just to run away into an easy life? Is that the Hyoga that you love?" I demanded angrily.

His lips moved silently and a terrible frown covered his forehead. "No."

"Then why? Who tells you I will die!?"

Something flashed through his eyes then, a flame of unspoken knowledge he kept to himself. "No one! This is not about fighting or not fighting!"

"What is it then... love!?"
"Yes! I love you! As much as I can love anyone and as much as I can understand love. How should I know?"

He pushed me back and stared down at me, pale with fury.

"I won't die Camus. I won't."

"Don't you want to live a normal life? Don't you want to forget about this crazy crusade?" he cried, spreading his arms meaningfully.

"Would you have done it?"

His jaw snapped shut and he rocked back on his heels as if I had slapped him. Wide blue eyes stared deep into mine. "I love you dammit." He whispered.

"Would you have done it... Camus?" I growled to keep myself from crying.

He let his arms fall and sighed, looking forlorn. "No...."

"You see...?" but he lifted a hand to stop me.

"... because I wouldn't have met you if I had."

I felt myself pale, a strange ache settling in my chest over my heart. He looked down, letting out a defeated sigh. I gazed back at him, taking in the beaten drop of his shoulders and the pallor of his skin, his face hidden behind the fall of his dark indigo hair.

"I... can't." I mumbled at last. He looked up, eyes glazing over even more.

"You have to leave... you have to! Hyoga you'll die!"

"I won't!" I snapped back, feeling warm tears on my cheeks. "What kind of man am I if I back down at the first given chance? What kind of creature am I if give up after six years worth of effort? After Isaac died so I could live... just like my mother? I can't give up! The "me" that you claim to love, is surely not one that would so easily give up the fight... is it?" I smiled softly and swallowed back a sob. "Is it?"

"I... wouldn't be able to bear... to see you die in pain...." he drew closer to me, his hands trembling, I knew he wanted to touch me.

"... such a selfish wish." I murmured, taking one of his hands in mine. "I won't die."

"You can't promise me that." A low sound escaped him, was it a sob?

"No.. but let's make a different promise. If I don't make it, you can kill me yourself, fast and painless, and you'll know it's all right because this is the way I wanted it." He shook his head and pulled his hand out of mine.

"You know I can't do that... I can't kill you." But there was a strange uncertainty in his voice, as if he were readying himself to do it already despite his denial.

"Camus...." he met my eyes hopefully, arms hanging limply at his sides. "Where is the cloth?"

"No!"

"Camus!" he gritted his teeth and took a deep breath to calm himself, looking another way to avoid my eyes.

"If you don't make it, I will personally come to stop you. And I will make sure that you are left out of the battles." I shook my head, confusedly. He was shaking as he said this, and blood flowed from one of his hands where he had clenched his fist so hard his nails had bitten into the skin.

"Do you really love me that much?" I lifted a hand to touch his cheek. Never had I imagined that Camus could cry, that beneath all that ice there was still something remotely human.

"Goddess... yes."

It hurt, and I didn't understand why. I wanted him to hold me again and keep me there, safely in his arms, but I also wanted to prove to him that I was as good as I claimed. I wanted him to be more than in love with me, I wanted him to be proud of me. How could I deserve the love of a Gold saint if I was not worth the fight myself? I wanted to be as good as he was, so I could love him back knowing I was not weak or useless... I wanted to be able to look him in the eyes and not feel like he had pardoned my life out of pity.

That was it, wasn't it? I wanted to be worth his love, and I wanted to earn it rightfully, to show him that I could live to be beside him. That I could learn to love him only if I could earn my own life. That I hadn't escaped the greater trials of my life because a fearful lover had bargained for me.

"Let me earn it." I murmured.

"What...?" he asked, a hushed ache in his voice.

"Let me earn it... this love you say you feel for me. And if I can't make it, then kill me yourself."

"I can't..."

"But I want you to, at least I will have died by the hand of someone who knew who I was."

"Hyoga..."

"Promise me!"

He breathed in sharply and hugged himself.

"Promise me!"

"I promise!" he cried out angrily, and turned his back on me. Still, he didn't move. "I promise...."

"Thank you."

I walked up to him, put my hand on his shoulder and waited for him to turn around. "Trust me... I will make it through."

He nodded finally, and sighed softly. "I'll believe you...even though I shouldn't."

"Camus..."

"...because I love you. And only because of that." But the pain did not leave his eyes and I felt a terrible foreboding, thinking that me might indeed know something that I did not. Something that might kill me no matter what I did.

I closed the distance between us and buried my face in his neck.

"I'll live, I promise you that. I will live." He trembled and put his arms around me. "I will live for you." And for this feeling I hardly understood. For this sweetness I felt as he touched my hair and my back, as he pulled me back a little and covered my lips with his. Surely nothing this wonderful, this intense... could me wrong? He pulled me against his chest as I parted my lips a little and let him kiss me deeper, his fingers running up my spine. Surely....

Surely...

...he ran his fingers over my body gently, a gentle caress that made me feel oddly warmer.

Surely...

...his lips moved down to my neck, leaving vague marks as he seemed to concentrate on tasting my skin.

Surely....

... I could earn this.

I could live to earn this.

I pulled on his hair and kissed him back fiercely, hearing him moan softly and respond, heated and desperate in his touches and his actions as he sought to hold all of me at once and failed.

"I will earn it," I told him smiling. "....and then you can finish this."

He blinked dazedly, looking both hungry and in pain.

"It'll give you a good reason to hope I win," I finished with a soft smile. He blinked again and suddenly broke out laughing, tears streaming down his face as he laughed and laughed.

"Damn you... damn you!" he cried, still laughing, as he left me alone. Later on at night I heard him sobbing brokenly, and I felt a dark edge of fear take over me, that he would still need to cry like that.

Camus left sometime during the night, leaving nothing behind to guide me or explain what had happened and why, he simply left me alone. Weeks later, while trying to puzzle through the maze of hate and affection that he had seeded in me, a letter from Greece arrived. Written in his florid handwriting he told me where the cloth was.

Nothing else.

It was a moment of weakness, a small slip of his soul that he should have given me that small piece of love just once, when I was so close to leaving. When I had left, I didn't really have time to look back on it. I never did. Not until he stood in front of me, eyes just as cold as I remembered them, as he told me he would kill me.

He was right, I didn't have to do it, not really. But I wanted to, I had wanted to know what lay beyond, how far I could go, how worthy I was of calling myself a warrior even if my nature declared I was anything but that. I had wanted to earn his love, even if I earned his hate first along the way.

And he had decided to fulfil his promise, because he loved me too much to let me die at someone else's hands.

Perhaps that was why he held me so tightly that day, because he knew I was making a mistake. Even before I had worn my cloth for the first time, Camus already knew he would have to kill me.

Perhaps that was why he sounded so happy when I killed him, perhaps that was why he had died asking for my forgiveness. Perhaps he had never wanted to love me, but he had... and he died because of it. Perhaps he had never wanted to become a warrior either, perhaps he had never had a choice like the one he gave me.

Perhaps he had been talking to himself, after all.

But he fulfilled his promise to me, and when I found myself alive after the battle only to realise he was dead I finally realised what he had been so afraid of. I cried like I had never cried... like I would never cry again. Because I loved him so much, so throughly and crazily... and he had died.

I had killed him.

At the last moment our roles were reversed and it was him who weakened.

But I had.