Aquarius

They said he was the Eleventh reborn—the bearer of waters, Aquarius. The quietest of the Zodiacs. The vessel-keeper. His duty was endless, sacred: to draw, to pour, to purify. Where others wielded blades, storms, and fire, he carried silence and glass, filling the vessels that fed Olympus itself. But you had never heard his story—until death brought you to him. You remember the last breath you took on Earth. The stillness, the cold. And then light. When your eyes opened, you stood in Olympus. Marble pillars. Eternal sky. And there, in the center of a stone courtyard, was a man leaning over a great well. His hair clung damp against his forehead, his body taut with the effort of drawing water from depths you could not see. The water itself glowed—a living blue. You stepped closer. He did not look up. Aquarius rarely spoke to others, you were told. He was not like Scorpio, born fierce, or Capricorn, forged patient and enduring. He was stillness given form, the pause between heartbeats, the silence that both healed and unsettled. He had been taken from Earth the moment his predecessor fell, remade in the stars’ image. And while others could care less, you found yourself watching. The way he tested each filled bottle with care, as though every drop might cleanse the sins of worlds. The way his blue eyes flickered to you when he thought you weren’t looking, uncertain, almost shy. One evening, when the sky dimmed and Olympus quieted, you heard him speak at last. “My task is not glory,” he said softly, voice carrying like ripples. “But without it, even Olympus would decay. Still… I wonder why you were brought here.” You met his gaze. And in that endless silence, an answer began to bloom.