This is heavily based on the song 'Beyond The Sea', sung by the Celtic Woman. Please listen before/during reading ~

He is now the ghost in the night. He is the sound of wood-and-straw sandals clacking against stained concrete; he is the soul bearer of the one hopeful light left. He is the voice that may-or-may-not be calling, he is the witness of the sea, day and night. He tries to see beyond the inky blackness, hoping to find those pale sea-colored eyes there.

He wraps a multicolored blanket around his shoulders at night, uses it as a pillow in the day. Even in pitch black, he is able find his way around the harbor; the place where he cooks his meals and tends to the stray cats and stray people, too, is not home. This is home.

This is where he waits. And this is where he has been waiting.

Will you wait for me, Kiku?

Of course, H - Heracles ... as long as it takes. As long as you promise to return.

The other smiles gently, a look of exhaustion crashing into his ocean eyes like high tide. He knows well when a long wait's ahead of him.

Like Penelope?

Twenty years and more, for you, Odysseus.

Maybe it won't quite be twenty years, but it has been long enough. Even for nations, things get tiring; it doesn't feel so much like a fight for your own existence when it's your every day. He hears Turkey chuckling in his ears as he eats his meager dinner, sees him lurking in the empty backdoors of abandoned city homes.

Everything is crumbling. Borders fall away as empires rise and people die and things burn and babies cry. Chaos is the new order. He stops hearing from his Balkan 'brothers' and can't even find the time to worry; he's too busy mixing a cocktail for the tanks crushing his mother's empty bones to dust.

Food is incredibly scarce. Soon he goes without it at all, opting instead to feed the young nursing mothers and old men with aching bones. It feels good to keep his people alive, but even so he knows they will not die, will never die, so long as their borders are threatened by the old enemy. They would rather take kitchen spoons to the Turks' eyes and eat those for dinner, than simply go hungry.

(Even so, bodies line the streets.)

He wanders, too. Perhaps this is too much for him, in his old age, the constant warfare. Even timelessness has its limit; if he dies, he dies. There's nothing to worry about, all he's got is his pride, and even that's just about gone.

He goes and sees costal African cities, even runs across Spain and Romano in the burn-out carcass of the Coliseum. They greet and keep him with their gentle scarred eyes and try not to be offended as he shies away from the sight of them. Who knew it'd be true when it was said that it'd only take an apocalypse to change them?

There was absolutely perfect beauty, though, in the way Spain helped Romano with things he could not do with his useless burnt stub of a hand, and how Romano guided Spain, whose left leg had fallen victim to the warfare. A pas de deux of pain, of love, of some inner fire burning far beyond the reaches of hand or water or ash, hotter than anything.

It's windy today, Kiku thinks, watching with quiet horror as his lantern flickers out. It's now completely dark, and he is vulnerable. Even the meager yellow light is enough to keep him going; when he cannot see it, he panics. Without a second thought he flees, knowing what lurks in the darkness. It threatens to eat him, swallow him whole, the thing with two red eyes and hands reaching around his heart, squeezing it -

YOU ARE ALONE, the creature says, HE WILL NEVER COME TO YOU. GIVE UP HOPE.

(Hello again, he is almost tempted to say. I missed you. How did he ever manage to chase you away, little monster? You've always been so close to me.)

At home, under the warmth of the fluorescent lights and enclosed in the safety of thick stone walls, he leans against the plastic kitchen counter and tries to breathe through the immediate, urgent need to sob. I am not alone. I am never alone. Never again.

He used to sink into low funks. His eyes would darken and lower, he would wilt like a moonlight flower in the morning and curl up under his old blanket where he (still) felt that nobody could touch him. The little monster would tap at his weak spots, begging entry.

And just when Kiku was about to allow it, Heracles was there. His hands were warm and his eyes were soft and he said things like, it'll be okay, or, as long as you're breathing, Kiku, or, hope is always the last to go. Remember that.

In his darkest hour, Heracles held his hand and whispered to him folk tales and tunes, never leaving him, the tiny burned creature who could only lay still and silent in the hospital bed.

He loved stubbornly, fiercely. The fire warmed him even as everything else went cold; he was the light that scared the monster back into its hidey hole. Heracles saved him, time and time again, and Kiku will never be able to repay his debt.

Finally, his chance comes. Heracles is still in Rome when he hears word of a ship heading out for Japan, a region declared safe - or, rather, safer than most. He ends up paying everything he has and everything Spain and Romano give him just to climb aboard. The sailors smile as they see three feral cats following suit.

The journey, as far as they go, is terrible. He can walk around, but not much; storms batter the poor ship, so they have to make emergency landings. Even then, they run out of food somewere in the middle of the ocean, scraping by until they reach an unnamed island port and gather all they can find there. Heracles quietly starts to go without eating. Nobody notices.

His imagination is the only thing takes him away. As he sits with his salt-encrusted blanket tight around his shoulders, he thinks of Kiku and cannot help but smile.

Their relationship before looked fragile, built upon silence and cats, but really, it was stone; kisses and trust and warmth and patience. Eternal, ever-patience. Few people understood, but it didn't matter. They were drunk with each other. Heracles still smiles when he thinks of Kiku on that first night, the many nights after. He can still remember what his hands feel like - cool, almost corpse-like. How they used to fall asleep kissing, their bare skin warmed and humming with love.

He must be safe now, Heracles thinks, even happy. Content. He stands on solid land, he has food and doesn't have to fight too much. His existence is accepted, everyone has given up. His home is like before, all wood and paper, steam curling up from his private hot spring. Even Pochi-kun is there, all the conveniences that were slowly shed as the world dove into chaos.

He is waiting, he is eternal. He promised to kiss me upon my return.

It is almost dawn, by the looks of the sky, and he has not even spotted a sign of a ship on the horizon. With a small sigh Kiku folds his blanket neatly, and heads along the narrow trail to his new home.

This new home - rather, house - is small but very clean and very neat. A long time out of his war, he has had time to heal and regroup; he even has plenty of food for himself, tucked into securely locked cupboards. His katana, war-worn and older than anything else Kiku still owns, rests very close to the mat he calls his bed. It has seen more than anything should.

He hesitates before settling in for a sleep, wondering, as always, if he should maybe offer a prayer or appeasement to the divine. He has what he needs, he could improvise, wish and will a safe journey upon Heracles.

But, Then again, he figures. Heracles does not need the help of the gods. He will return. And I will wait.

In his dreams, he flies. Anything to be out of this ship, anything to get to Kiku faster. His arms are the ultimate allure; as time wears on he thinks of nothing else. Their promise, made when they had to part, Kiku home and Heracles to stay. One to safety and one in peril.

Bring me through.

He has done all he can. He has survived, he has fought and he has seen everything he needs to see. He is emptied, waiting to be full. He watches as the horizon brings the sight of land closer and closer. He clings to hope, stubborn, and wonders if it'd be possible to wash himself before unboarding.

The next day, Kiku watches the horizon with narrowed eyes. He almost let himself eat himself alive, almost didn't come. He almost gave up, but here, look now, his eyes are at least allowing him a little selfish hope.

Frozen to his spot on the bench, he stares out at the water. He could swear that it turned from icy blue to a wonderful, warm Mediterranean shade, the color embracing him. A ship. Finally.

He is tired and he can barely walk but still it is all he can do not to push everyone else unloading from the boat to run off and check.

He sees him, wobbly and tiny, the bag slung over his back bigger than he is. He calls his name, the very sound of it warming him.

When their eyes meet across the sea of people, it is a homecoming.

Somewhere, two souls, one pale and one bright, float aimlessly. They are lost, you can see it upon their little soul faces. (That's the best thing about souls, they don't know what lies are).

They have both lost their other half, they have been cut cruelly and still weep when the wounds are touched, bumped against. They watch as others join, as their faces glow with love, with the ecstasy of combination. Cheer and Sour, Soft and Shy.

Being split once is life. Being split twice is a nightmare.

But they wait. They are patient souls, old souls.

Someday, they know they will meet again. They can feel it in their soul bones. They will meet and marry. Soulmates. It will be more beautiful than anything, that wedding; it will be the embrace of two lost lovers, a welcoming home, a grown man weeping, too full - the sound of a dove's wings cutting the air.

It has been a long time coming. And they are waiting, both of them. Pale is always waiting and Bright is always fighting. Someday, they know they will join together and, as one, become light.