IV.
Rekindled hope!
The Pope's gift.

Aiolia stood frozen on the spot, his eyes wide open, but completely unseeing of the world around him. He didn't notice when a pair of guards brought down the pandora's box holding the cloth he had desired so much to the arena, or when Phaeton shuffled past him, leaning heavily on his teacher, while making his way forward to receive his reward. The crowd had gone mad in its cheering, but the only sounds echoing inside the little blond's head were those of the Pope's words, consecrating Phaeton as the winner.

He suddenly realised that his hands were stinging. He looked down to find the skin over his knuckles was broken but, more than that, they were clenched so tightly that the bleeding had staunched. Aiolia hadn't been aware that he was doing it - he was sure that all strength had left him as soon as the Pope had finished speaking.

He couldn't have heard it right, he told himself. Phaeton couldn't be the winner, not when Aiolia had demonstrated his superiority so thoroughly. Even if his adversary had managed to score that one lucky hit, Aiolia had beaten him solidly afterwards, proving that he was the better fighter and that his was the greater cosmo... hadn't he?

He looked back to the Pope, hoping to find some indication that what he thought he had heard had been a mistake and that somehow they were waiting for Aiolia to step forward. His fleeting hopes were dispelled, though, when he saw the pandora's box open to reveal a blue, red and yellow bronze cloth that moved as if by magic to cover Phaeton's injured body.

The crowd's roaring filled his ears then, and the ice that had been constricting his heart shattered. Aiolia decided that he'd had enough. He didn't wait another moment before leaving the stadium.

Everything was quiet outside - too quiet. All the training fields were deserted, since everyone was at the coliseum, so there was nothing to disturb the peaceful, arid landscape of white, rocky cliffs and barren plateaus.

Aiolia found that this situation did not please his state of mind at all.

He threw himself at the closest obstacle - a carved stone column, slightly tilted - and, bloody knuckles notwithstanding, all it took was a flash of golden light and a furious shout to break it into pieces. His fist lay suspended in midair for a few moments afterwards, before the little Leo decided that it still wasn't enough to satisfy all the burning emotions roiling inside him.

He went over to a massive boulder and was about to repeat the deed, when a cry from behind made him hesitate.

"Aiolia, stop!"

The commanding, but familiar voice was like a cold shower that helped clear his mind, but it still wasn't enough to completely pacify his anger.

The boulder was soon pulverised, the particles spreading out in a cloud of dust that would settle seamlessly over the rest of the sand.

"Marin," Aiolia answered, shoulders finally slumping in defeat. "I failed."

Marin didn't say anything to that, instead stepping closer so they were face to face. Aiolia's sea-green eyes were downcast, lost in their examination of the remains of the boulder. Small sparks of lightning were running over the surface his fist had just punched through.

"It was unfair, you were much better than him, but don't give up," the girl stated. "Next time..."

"Next time what, Marin?" he shouted looking up into the silver mask covering the face of his best friend. He immediately hated himself for shouting at her, but he just couldn't help it. "Do you really think it will be any different? And that's assuming I even get a chance to try again - I was lucky enough to have been given this one!"

He turned away, unable to look at Marin. She was standing very still, very silent, and even though he couldn't see her face, even though there were no external signs as to what might be going through her mind, he just knew that she was feeling sorry for him. He hated it.

"I should just face it. Phaeton was right - they were all right! No one's going to give a cloth to the traitor's brother! You should probably back away from me too while you can, if you ever want to become a saint."

"Don't be stupid," Marin answered with the same strict, determined tone as before. "I'd never..."

"Excuse me," a nasally voice interrupted.

Aiolia and Marin turned to find one of the Sanctuary guards there, shifting from foot to foot and generally looking like he'd rather be anywhere else other than there.

"The Pope wishes to see you in his chambers right away," he reported to Aiolia. Mission accomplished, he retreated back to the stadium, where the many sounds of celebration could still be heard. "Traitor..." he muttered to himself when he was some distance away.

Aiolia still heard it, though, and clenched his teeth to keep himself from doing anything worse. He managed to keep his temper in check this time and, sparing a wave at his friend, set out to go meet the ruler of the Sanctuary.

"Good luck," he heard Marin call out.

* * *

When he reached the temple that belonged to the Pope, Aiolia was surprised to find a pair of guards waiting outside. He slowed down, immediately on edge at the unusual sight - was he being set up, had the Sanctuary finally decided that they'd had enough of him, were the Pope's orders just a ruse to get him isolated? - but they ignored him as he crossed the majestic columned entrance.

He made it to the great hall where the Pope's throne was located and was met with another odd sight: the golden floor-to-ceiling doors were open ajar and the Pope was nowhere to be seen. Unsure as to what was going on, the little, weary blond almost jumped when a booming voice reverberated throughout the wide room.

"Come in, Aiolia. This way."

It was the Pope and it was coming from somewhere in front of him. After looking behind him to be certain that he was alone, he made his way over the rich, red carpet that led into the audience room and towards the source of the sound. Sure enough, there stood the Pope, to the side of the throne and hidden among the columns, with his dark robes and red winged helmet.

"You fought well today," he said.

"Apparently not well enough," Aiolia couldn't help retorting. He immediately bit his tongue and reprimanded himself for talking back to the representative of the goddess, but fortunately the man did not seem to mind.

"Are you angry because of my decision?" Aiolia didn't have to respond - the fire he could simply not hold back from his gaze was enough of an answer for the Pope. "I wasn't wrong, you know. Phaeton did deserve to become a bronze saint more than you."

The remark stung and suddenly all Aiolia wanted was to get this over with as quickly as possible. He hated the way the Pope was making him feel, but he hated the way he could not keep his own emotions in check more. On the inside, he was raging at the Pope, his honourable leader, whom he should be treating with the utmost respect rather than fury and spite - and he should definitely not be accusing the most righteous man on Earth of committing an injustice.

The Pope made a little sound at the back of his throat - Aiolia thought it might have been amusement, or perhaps mocking - but spoke no further. Instead, he stepped aside, revealing an object that had been hidden behind his voluminous robes: a golden pandora's box with the engraving of a lion's head on the side.

Aiolia forgot how to breathe after he saw it. He knew exactly what it was, but he was almost fearful of hoping that it meant what he thought it might.

"It's yours," came the simple statement.

The rumpled-looking blond could not believe his ears. This... was too good to be true. After everything he had gone through in the past years, there was no way he would be so lucky... The Pope was still there, though, silently giving him room to process the information and no doubt studying his reaction. He wasn't laughing, and when Aiolia took a shaky step closer and reached to touch the box, he wasn't stopped. Could it be that... this was for real?

His legs gave out and he knelt in front of the golden box containing the Leo cloth - his cloth - and the Pope. It was overwhelming. His hand rose once again to rest reverently on top of the engraving of his guardian constellation.

The metal was cool at first, unnaturally smooth, but Aiolia could have sworn that he felt something warm and powerful flicker to life inside, answering his touch. He smiled, remembering what his brother had once told him about the cloths: "they are alive." The energy he felt now was nothing like the feeble burst that he'd witnessed when Phaeton had donned his cloth, and Aiolia could only wonder what it would be like when he actually opened the box.

He was all but exhausted and there was no one in the room but him and the Pope. The entire Sanctuary currently believed him to have been humiliated in his fight against Phaeton and it was likely that they were all still in the coliseum, rambunctiously celebrating his defeat - but Aiolia had never felt better.

"There are still other trials you will have to take to prove yourself worthy of wearing that cloth," the Pope said, bringing Aiolia back to the real world. "Phaeton was hardly a proper adversary to truly measure your strength. However, I see no reason to keep it from you."

"Thank you, sir. You won't regret this! I..." Aiolia fumbled, then he noticed he was still kneeling and another old memory of something his brother had taught him in preparation of the day when he would be made a saint surfaced. "For Athena, for Justice and for Peace, I swear..."

"There's no need for that now, Aiolia," the Pope cut in. "There will be plenty of time for you to take your vow later."

The young Leo looked up at him curiously - as far as he knew, it was customary for new saints to pledge themselves to the goddess as soon as they received their cloths - but he found no more explanations to it under the dark shadow of the Pope's helmet.

"Go on," the ruler of the Sanctuary told him. "Open it."

Aiolia was confused and thrilled again, all at once. "You should only put on your cloth when your life is in danger or when you're serving Athena. There's no room for empty vanity in a saint, little brother." Aiolos had been a traitor, though. What did he know about being a saint, Aiolia thought viciously. Giving in to his curiosity, he pulled the chain dangling from the lion's mouth that would open the cloth's box.

He only got a glimpse of an imposing figure of a roaring beast, half covered by white fabric, before the cloth started shining like a miniature sun. It was too bright, and while his eyes were closed to recover from the burning, Aiolia completely missed the spectacle of the cloth disassembling and piecing itself back together around him. All he knew was that there was suddenly a tingling sensation, gently prodding at his cosmo and enticing it to burn to heights it had never reached before. None of his wounds bothered him anymore. He felt exhilarated, rejuvenated...

"You've been accepted, it seems," Saga commented. Aiolia was too dumbfounded by what it felt like to wear a cloth to come up with an answer. "But your journey is only just beginning.

"Rise, gold saint of Athena!"

The End.