Japan, Headquarters of Ermengardis - March 7, 2004, 3:00 PM (March 7, 6:00 AM, +9:00)

Camus was leaning against the wall of the window. His favorite place, thought Milo: since their arrival, Milo had often seen Camus at this place, his face turned towards the window. Was he really looking outside? Or was he simply lost in his thoughts? Whatever was the answer, he had never seen him with a so sad expression, or to be more precise, not for a very long time. Milo would have liked to be able to rise from the couch, and come to his best friend to ask him what was happening to him. But he staid at his place, only able to sigh.

"Why cannot things be like before?"

June 1972

Milo dried his tears and kept running on the deserted beach. He has been wandering since the morning, howling at the top of his voice: "Dad, Mom! Elek!". Some remaining of the boat where he was on board a few hours before with his parents and his little brother were floating in this split of the Aegean Sea. But nobody echoed his calls. He kept running during hours and hours, shouting the same names, then felt asleep, exhausted, against the pedestal of a Statue. It was a strange man, wearing an ancient tunic, and raising strange green hairs and pink eyes who awoke him. Milo tried first to flee. But as the man caught him by the arms and prevented it from running too far, he turned around and tried to punch him in the stomach. The man blocked his attack easily, and for only explanation, told him:

“Come with me, I will show you a place where you can develop your skills”.

Surprised and exhausted, Milo looked at him with big eyes. And finally followed him, ignoring he was going to discover the Sanctuary of Athena, guided by Sion, the Great Pope of this sacred field.

March 1973

A red-haired and sad-looking kid was sitting at his favorite seat of the refectory of the young apprentices. Milo, surrounded by his friends, stood in front of him, and ordered him to go away. The kid threw him a scornful glance, and continued to eat as if nothing was happening. Milo had so many times heard from his Master that he had to privilege negotiation to conflict, discussion to the strength of his fists. But the mind of a child has sometimes evil to understand these concepts of adults. And one could say that at the Sanctuary of Athena, the Law of the strongest prevailed... Full with anger, Milo ordered a beating up of the impudent boy. This one defended himself fiercely, at the very surprise of Milo, but was left in blood in the dust of the refectory. The same evening, Milo, still impressed by the boy - or let’s say, fascinated by his resistance and his strength - slipped into the dormitory where the new comer "was living". He had no difficulty to find him, guided by the sobs. The kid was leaning on the stomach, the face hidden in his arms. His bruised back was naked, shaken from time to time at the rhythm of the discrete complaints which escaped from his throat. He was certainly suffering a lot.

"Hey! You hear me?" asked Milo.

The kid stopped crying immediately, and rose slowly. He dried his tears before he turned around, offering to Milo's sight a sad expression, but deprived of any fear or animosity. Like his back, his face was covered with brown or purples bruises. Only his sapphire blue pupils brought a glimmer of hope to his look.

"Put this on your wounds… It will cure them quickly!" answered Milo, holding a large sheet of a medicinal plant to him.

The red-haired boy slipped on his bed, hiding again his face in his arms.

"Leave me alone! I don't need your help... I can manage by myself!"

But Milo didn't want to give up so quickly: He set the medicinal leaves on the back of the kid, who shivered, feeling the fresh touch on his burning wounds.

"I've said: leave me alone! What do you care if I suffer!" protested the boy.

“I’m sorry for what happened at noon... I've lost control... Everything is my fault..." apologized Milo.

Silence.

"What's your name?" added Milo.

Silence, again.

"You don't want to tell me your name?" slipped Milo, at lost with what to do and to say.

"Anton... Anton de Grandfort..." whispered the boy, still hiding his face.

"Anton of what!?... That's not Greek! And that's too long and too difficult to pronounce for the Sanctuary... You need a shorter name... Let me think..."

Milo suddenly made out a book hidden under the pillow of Anton, and stretched the hand to grab it. An iron hand felt down on him. 

"Don't touch it! It was my mother’s favorite book!" howled Anton.

Milo released his hand dryly.

"Hey! Calm down... I just wanted to have a look, not to rob it! Who is the author?" asked Milo, a little upset.

"Albert Camus... "

Milo snapped his fingers.

"I have a great idea! From now on, I will call you "Camus"! Isn't it a nice name?"

Silence.

"You don't like it?" slipped Milo.

Silence, heavier and heavier.

"Hey... Say something! That you like it, or you don't like it, but say something! Do you plan to stay there any longer, showing me only your back? 

Anton raised the head slightly, and looked at Milo.

"You never give up, don't you!" he sighed.

"No! Never!"

"Okay... Okay for Camus, then!" surrendered Anton.

"Good!" triumphed Milo. He held a leaf to his new friend. "Put that on your wounds, it will ease the pain".

The next morning, at the breakfast of 6 o'clock, Camus was proudly sitting at the seat that had brought him bruises and wounds. He had been entitled "first lieutenant" of Milo, a little earlier.

Milo smiled to this memory. Thereafter, the two kids had always been together: Milo found that Camus was like is little brother, Elek. Moreover, despite his peaceful look, Camus was certainly not the last to imagine mischievous tricks. That was completely fine with Milo. They were seen always together, until their departure for their place of training: the Island of Milos, for Milo, and Eastern Siberia, for Camus. Six years later, they returned both with a gold armor, and as soon as they had settled in their respective temples, they revived their "old habits". The five following years had been a swirl of recreation and madness. Milo had seen of Camus what everybody at the sanctuary thought unbelievable from the Aquarius saints: being doubled with laughter, getting drunk and even forgetting his own name. Impetuously courting a girl he had been attracted by. Milo had always felt an incredible pride to have been selected as a friend... No! As the best friend by the young Lord of Aquarius himself. And more than anybody else, Milo knew that Camus was like stagnant water, hiding swirls to which no one could resist. Including Camus himself...

But around his eighteen, the character of Camus had changed. He had completely closed himself to the world. Finished the crazy nights, vanished the laughers and the smiles. Camus had not rejected Milo as a friend, but he had completely refused to follow him again, locked in a world of sadness and contrition　that he didn't want to leave anymore. Until this evening he had come to Milo's temple, and had burst in tears, begging "to be forgiven"... For what? And by who? Milo had never known... Then came the time of the Battle of the Sanctuary, the death of Camus, and then, some day later, his resurrection as a so-called "Hades Specter". The War of Hades, their death to all of them, Gold Saints... No! Milo didn't want to remember that sad chapter.

He sighed and stared at Camus, still lost in his thoughts. Time seemed not to count anymore for him.

"Camus, by which swirl of your soul have you been taken? Can't we be friend again? Can't you come back to who you used to be?”

Milo heard a door opening, but didn't take care to who was coming in. He started when he felt a hand setting on his shoulder.

"What?" he asked, drawing himself from his thoughts, to find himself in front of the smiling face of Shaka.

"Are you Okay, Milo? You're a little pale."

"Yes, I am alright... Everything is alright..." whispered Milo, lowering the eyes to hide his confusion.

Shaka slipped a glance to Camus, still frozen like a statue, lost in a strange contemplation.

"Milo, you should speak to him... You don't want to settle your problem with him?" asked Shaka.

Milo raised a despaired glance to Shaka, and shook the head:

“I want to become his friend again... But I don't find the words... I can't find the words..." he said, on the edge of bursting in tears. He made a brief sign of good-bye to Shaka, and left the lounge, repressing a sob. The glance of Shaka followed him until he left, then set again on Camus, bathed by the sunlight of February.

‘Me, I'm going to find them, those words! So that Camus and Milo become again the friends, the brothers they should have never stopped to be’!

Shaka walked to the window, silently.

"Hello Camus, May I talk to you?"

But Camus didn't turn around, his glance still set on an invisible point.

"Hey, Camus, you hear me?"

This time, Camus turned around, almost in a start, as if he had been drown from a deep sleep. Shaka was surprised by his glance, almost empty of any expression.

"Shaka, what are you doing here?" he asked of an inaudible voice.

"I was just walking by... I had a conversation with Milo... You didn't see us?" briefly explained Shaka, in a hurry to come to the point.

"Milo was here?" asked Camus, a little annoyed.

Shaka looked at Camus, unable to hide is astonishment.

"Yes, he was here, and me also. You really didn't see us? What are you thinking about?"

"Oh! Nothing!" whispered Camus.

"You've been here for days and days, looking through the window... What do you see?" asked Shaka, wrinkling eyebrows.

"Nothing" answered Camus, turning his glance again toward the window.

Shaka felt irritation gaining him: a new feeling for him, provided his nature had always been moderate and considerate, to the excess. But he had changed...

"Don't tell me that Camus. You're speaking like somebody who has lost his mind... You don't want to end locked in a hospital for insanity, do you?"

Shaka smiled, encouraging Camus to do the same. But he was really starting to worry: the former Lord of Aquarius seemed to be almost autistic. In that condition, should he make the speech he had thought about friendship and his links with Milo? ‘Yes, maybe, only a shock could make him react....’ he thought.

"Camus, we have to talk... about Milo"

"Yes, I am listening to you, Shaka..." answered Camus, his face showing no emotion.

Shaka felt at lost what to do and to think in front of such lack of feelings, but refrained his growing hanger.

"Camus... Milo misses you... He still considers you as his best friend!  No... Even more... As his brother!"

The face of Camus remained like a marble mask. Shaka felt anger boiling in his veins in front of so much indifference.

"Listen to me, Ice heart! I've already seen suffering because of you, after your death. That was during the few days following the tragic Battle of the Sanctuary..."

"Really?" asked Camus. But his voice was still cold and free of feelings.

"Yes! Really" answered Shaka, throwing a glance full of wrath. "It was two days after the Battle of the Sanctuary... I came to flower the tombs of the Gold Saint, fallen during the battles. Yours, Camus, but also the tombs of Saga, Death Mask, Shura and Aphrodite. Because, even if you had defected to the dark side, some of you by their free will, others by ignorance, you were still my pars... I flowered the tomb of Aphrodite with a rose, coming from his garden. Then, I walked towards your tomb, a bouquet of hyacinths in the hand, when I made out a silhouette sleeping against the gray and cold stone: Milo. I approached, and shook him to wake him up. His face was marked by the lack of sleep, and his eyes and cheeks kept the mark of burning tears. He raised his reddened eyes to me, and said:

"Oh, Shaka, I've lost him... I've lost my brother once again... Why? Why!?... I should have killed Hyoga before he reached his temple!"

Shaka felt reassured seeing an expression of surprise and sadness painted on the face of Camus. Of course, he would have preferred to bring a smile on the face of the former lord of Aquarius, but at least, it was an emotion.

"I am telling you the truth, Camus. He really misses you."

The face of Camus came back to his frozen expression, and turned again towards the pane.

"I know, I know..." he answered coldly.

"What! You know it, and you do nothing to try to build again this brotherly link that has been broken" howled Shaka.

Camus turned his glance toward Shaka. But this time, it was not coldness that the British saw on his eyes, but tears.

"It's not in a hospital I should be locked up...But in a prison, or in my tomb, which I should have never left. I would like so much to disappear, and forever this time!" he said, repressing the best he could his sobs.

The anger of Shaka felt down, blown like a candle. 

"We can talk, if you want, Camus" he said, setting a hand on the shoulder of Camus. But the French had come back to his deep contemplation, his daydreams or nightmares, and didn't answer.

Shaka sighed: "I need help... He's becoming crazy".

Greece - Temple of Elision - 7 Mars 2004, 11:00 AM (March 7, 09:00 AM +2:00)

Bàlint was leaning against one of the enormous pillars of the large throne room. The temple was quiet in this morning. Persephone had withdrawn in her apartments with Ishara, who had proposed to play a piece of music on her mandolin. The goddess had accepted, surprised a little by the cheerfulness of the beautiful vampire female. Ishara had completely changed her behavior within a few days. The disturbed-minded woman had changed into a young courtesan with surprising promptness. Would the curse of Adalbert over? Bàlint rather suspected Apollo of being the origin of this so quick change. At all costs, he had to discover what their relation was. And make "a good use" of it.

Bàlint sighed almost in spite of him, leaving his mind wandering through his memories. He carried a hand to his chest, and drew from the folds of his rich clothing a medallion. He couldn't prevent from smiling when he looked at it. This medallion, it was an idea of Gàbor...

Venice, 1347

"I am sure you're going to enjoy it !" shouted Gàbor from the other side of the gondola. Bàlint screw up his eyes, trying to make out the silhouette of his brother, hidden by the thick fog of Venice.

"I don't understand what we should have our portraits made by this artist! It's just good for humans, who want to immortalize their so short life on Earth. We don't need it, we are immortal!" grumbled Bàlint. In front of him, the juggler shivered with fear, and almost let escape his pole. Bàlint threw him a cruel glance.

"Do it again, and I kill you!" he declared, showing his teeth.

The juggler made his best not to let slip the pole, in spite of his fear. However, Bàlint killed him once they arrived in front of the palace of the painter. Hunger had been stronger than his will. His brother observed him drinking, quite, smiling slightly, then guided him in the vast palace, and its labyrinth of rooms and corridors. The place was curiously dark, and pervaded by a strange and heavy atmosphere.

"Where are we?" asked Bàlint, intrigued.

Gàbor threw him an amused glance.

"At a friend's palace... You're going to see him very soon. We're almost arrived! "

Gàbor pushed a richly carved giant door, which opened on a vast room, that Bàlint guessed sumptuously decorated in spite of the darkness that wrapped it.

"Welcome, Ô beautiful Gàbor!" murmured a cavernous voice.

Gàbor stopped in the middle of the room, in front of what appeared to be a throne, and made a short bow.

"Ô Great Sylvenius, allow me to introduce you my brother, the Great Bàlint of Szeged!" he said, pointing gracefully at Bàlint. This one, unable to make out the mysterious interlocutor in the darkness of the Room, walked to his brother.

"Is it a joke? Where is your painter?"

"Here! Just in front of us! Sylvenius is the painter I was talking about!" answered Gàbor merrily. His sapphire blue eyes sparkled with joy. Bàlint couldn't help admiring his brother, who definitely always surprised him. His coldness and his beauty brought lots of jealousy from the other vampires of Marius, who called him "the statue". He was constantly "on his guard", and was often distant, except with Bàlint and Lùitgard, to whom he reserved his cheerfulness and his good mood.

Bàlint set a hand on the shoulder of Gàbor.

"Listen! We do not need neither this painter... Nor this portrait! Come Gàbor, let's leave this place and join Lùitgard!"

"Great Bàlint, I am sure that you will change your opinion once you would have seen my work!" objected the cavernous voice.

The silhouette got up from his throne and walked in the direction of the two vampires. Bàlint, who had kept his hand on the shoulder of his brother, drew him behind him. He drew his cleaver from his shoulder-strap and hold it up in front of the so-called painter. Gàbor caught his wrist and slipped between him and the strange host, whose angular face was slowly rising from the darkness of his throne.

"Please, Bàlint, stop! I told you　he's a friend! A vampire, like us!"

"A vampire? Is it your work?" asked Bàlint, lowering his cleaver.

"No, he was already a vampire when I met it... Certainly a relative of Marius!"

 Bàlint sheathed his cleaver, although the words of Gàbor hadn't completely convinced him.

"Gàbor, I repeat it once again; we do not need this portrait!" insisted Bàlint.

Gàbor was going to answer him when the cavernous voice rose.

"Are you sure, Bàlint the Magyar?"

“Oh, yes, I am, sinister person!"

"Why this refusal?"

"We are vampires... We live eternally! We do not need portrait to immortalize our image, or anything else from you!"

 Bàlint had thrown his words like a challenge to the black silhouette which was standing in front of him. The man walked a step forward, showing completely his face, slightly wrinkled by years.

"Believe me, Bàlint, one day you will be happy to see the face of your brother on the portrait".

... To see the face of Gàbor... Bàlint opened the medallion, this jewel that had become the most precious thing in the world. The face of Gàbor appeared to him: how young he was when he had been turned!

Plains of Hungary, 646.

The siege of the castle of the clan of Bàlint and Gàbor had turned to the advantage of the sanguinary creatures. During three days, from the fall of the night, the blood drinkers were attacking, tireless and merciless. The second night, Bàlint and Gàbor heard a howl, which they identified to the last cry of their father. They understood that he was not among the livings anymore, and poured their tears together. The third night, the monsters broke the large central gate, and broke into the castle, killing without mercy men, women and children who were on their way. The two brothers fought bravely, but had to move back to the main tower. Their men remained outside, to protect them from the attack of the creatures which approached unrelentingly. Few hours later, they heard their howls while their enemies put them to death, and then broke the barricades of the tower.

The two brothers went straight on the roof of the tower, and found quickly themselves back to back, unsheathing out their swords. Two silhouettes cut out in the thick fog: one in front of Bàlint, the other one in front of Gàbor.

"They're perfect!" said one of them.

"Splendid! Two perfect sons of the Magyar Nobility" the other agreed.

Bàlint felt his young brother shivering with fear. He seized his wrist, and tightened it as strong as he could.

"Courage! Gàbor"

"Courage?! Bàlint, our clan is decimated! We are the last! We're going to die!" sobs rose in the voice of Gàbor.

"We will avenge them, all of them!" Bàlint answered, pressing even more strongly the wrist of his brother, as if he wanted to transmit him his own strength.

“Which one do you want, Amalric?" one of the voices asked again.

“The youngest is fine to me... I will teach him how to fight beyond fear, beyond any feeling...!"

"Very well, I thus take the elder one. I will show him the paths to Glory and Power". 

The two brothers heard footsteps on the flagstones as the two creatures were walking to them. In front of Bàlint, a tall man with long blond hairs emerged from the fog. He was rather young, and his face, almost reassuring. Only his steel grey eyes shone of a cruel gleam. Bàlint threw a glance over his shoulder, and saw that a man was also standing in front of Gàbor. His young brother adjusted his position, ready to strike back again any attack. So did Bàlint.

“Hold on!" exclaimed a third man.

 "You are on our territory, these two men are ours!" declared another voice.

Bàlint blinked eyes, trying to make out the creatures which had just spoken. The vampire in front of him turned around in direction of the voices.

 "Adorjàn! Lôrinc! There is no question of territory here! We saw them first" he howled raucously.

"If I were you, I wouldn't speak like that, Lùitgard the Germanic! These two men are Magyars like us, and for this reason, they are ours!" retorted one of the voices.

"They are yours? Me, Amalric, cousin of Lùitgard, I will show you that your rules don't stand here!!!" laughed the vampire in front of Gàbor.

Bàlint felt suddenly that Gàbor was grabbed by an incredible force. He turned around and tried to retain his young brother. But Amalric had seized him by his right arm and attracted to him abruptly. Gàbor tried to strike him with his sword, but his adversary dodged it easily. He grabbed the wrist of the young Magyar and obliged him to release his weapon. Bàlint sprang in direction of his brother to help him, but he felt two powerful arms tackling him. He tried to strike his attacker once again, but he couldn't move at all.

"Too late, they are already ours!" warned Lùitgard.

Amalric plated Gàbor against him: his face changed into a horrible angular mask.. Gàbor howled of terror, then of pain when the vampire plunged his face through his coppered hair, and tore the flesh of his neck.

"No! Leave him, take my life, but leave Gàbor!" begged Bàlint while struggling to free himself from the two iron arms.

"But we will also take your life, Bàlint, don't be so hasty! Your brother first!" whispered Lùitgard.

The head of Gàbor leaned behind, while he was slowly loosing consciousness. His face had become as white as the face of a dead. Amalric released from the neck of the young man, his lips and cheeks covered with blood, and looked at the face of his victim with satisfaction. He leaned the body still shaken of spasms on the ground, and knelt near him. Of a sharp gesture, he sliced his own wrist with his teeth and carried it to the lips of Gàbor. The young Magyar seemed to return gradually to life as the precious liquid ran in his throat. He carried his hand on the wrist, pressing it more and more against his mouth in order to better drink to this vermilion fountain.

"Enough, Gàbor, you had enough of it!" Amalric shouted, withdrawing his wrist from the famished mouth of his new disciple. The body of Gàbor was shaken by violent spasms, and his head felt down behind, running up against the ground violently. The young man got twisted with pains during a long minute, howling like a wounded animal. Then his body stopped to move.

"Gàbor!" called Bàlint, at the top of fear.

The body of his young brother quivered. Gàbor raised the head gently, then the bust. Amalric helped the young Magyar to stand up and pushed him towards Bàlint. Gàbor came to his brother, a great smile shining on his lips. Bàlint opened widely his eyes, surprised by this vision: He was almost glowing, his bluish white skin shining under his russet-red hairs. And his sapphire blue eyes were shining of an incredible light.

"It's your turn, Bàlint the Magyar! You're going to join your brother... You're going to join us!" whispered Lùitgard.

Bàlint felt hardly the teethes of his future Master tearing the flesh of his neck. He kept his eyes riveted on the face of his brother, who seemed to be the perfect representation of an angel.

A rattling of armors brought back Bàlint to reality. Some soldiers of Persephone's personal guard were patrolling around the throne room. The captain bowed briefly to Bàlint, very quickly imitated by his soldiers. Bàlint didn't reply to their bow, and hardly looked at them moving away: his glance came back to the medallion, while he remembered the last moments of the life of his beloved brother. Bàlint would always remember his face, devoured by burns, while his whole body was consumed and felt down in dust.

Bàlint closed the medallion and hid it in the folds of his tunic. No! He couldn't let melancholy invading him while he was so close to his goal: taking his revenge over Ermengardis, for the attack of Telemny. Taking revenge over the Sanctuary, for the help it had brought to Ermengardis. And above all, taking his revenge over Marius and the vampires who had sent them to destruction, Gàbor and himself.

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