Chapter Text
Professor Anaxagoras
Thin, pale hands reach out to him.
“You look… pale…”
Someone else’s thin lips twist into an uneven, trembling smile — almost disconcertingly anxious.
“You need… rest…”
There’s nothing but concern and care in that blue abyss.
Anaxagoras sighs, opening his eyes. His mind is a tangle of thoughts and feelings, all blending together, laying down uneven strokes on the canvas, turning it into nothing but a confusing, muddy mess of colours. There’s no beauty or grace here, no clear lines or shapes — just a chaotic jumble of his consciousness.
A throbbing pain pulses in his temples, creeping into his skull and pounding loudly like a hammer. These dreams… These strange dreams keep him from sleeping, from thinking, from functioning normally. He can’t even focus on his research because his head is filled with fragments of dreams that refuse to come together into a coherent whole.
He takes a deep breath, finally lifting his head from the desk where he’d unluckily fallen asleep. His neck aches, throbs. His limbs feel as if filled with lead — unbearably heavy. Anaxagoras lets out a muffled groan, first kneading his hands, then his neck, and finally rising to his stiff legs.
“Finally awake, sleepyhead,” comes a gentle yet slightly mocking voice from the side. Then there’s the rustle of parchment, the clink of a cup, and the tinkling of bells adorning someone’s attire.
Anaxagoras grimaces even more at the ringing laughter. But he gazes intently, coldly — a look that usually made all his students shudder and try to hide, to avoid meeting his eyes. Indeed, even the wise men couldn’t bear it, constantly shifting in their seats, averting their eyes, and smiling nervously. Anaxagoras noticed all of this, absorbing every flinch. He enjoyed making such a oppressive impression on others.
But Psyche was different. One of those who seemed to fear nothing. Perhaps because she was blind, or perhaps because she considered herself his only friend.
Psyche’s smile widens, the skin on her pale, delicate face stretching, her golden eyelashes fluttering. Ah, she was beautiful — undeniably so. Anyone who saw her now would say the same: the way her long, straight chestnut locks shimmered with a golden hue in the sunlight; the way her slender, petite figure seemed to sink into the old, oversized armchair, making her appear tiny and delicate like a small figurine; the simple white dress that accentuated her waist and flowed down to her ankles, revealing just a bit of her bare feet. But Anaxagoras was indifferent to female beauty, as he was to the beauty of others. So he wasn’t swayed by her charms. He merely chuckled, shrugging his shoulders. He rubbed his numb hands, scanning the room with a keen gaze, noting every corner cluttered with parchment and scrolls. Only then did he turn his attention back to Psyche, who was simply tracing the tip of her finger across the paper, creating a soft rustling sound.
— How long have I been asleep?
Psyche smiles a gentle, understanding smile — the kind parents give their children. But Anaxagoras isn’t fooled by it; he sees something dangerous in that smile, though it certainly doesn’t frighten him. Few things frighten him now — the worst has already happened.
— No more than an hour. I didn’t want to wake you; you looked so peaceful when you suddenly fell asleep. And when else would I get to see the formidable Professor of Alchemy in such an endearing, vulnerable state? It would’ve been sacrilegious, — she pauses for a moment, her smile growing even more cunning, more penetrating — the sort she uses to probe others’ minds, to speak sweet words and uncover what she needs to know. Of course, she doesn’t do it on purpose; she’s too kind to exploit her advantages, which is why she acts so foolishly — trying to sympathize with everyone she knows and doesn’t. Sometimes her compassion reminds him of his sister. But that thought brings no pain, for unlike Psyche, his sister always threw herself headlong into things, trying to help and comfort anyone she thought was in distress.
Psyche is undoubtedly kind, but her scholarly nature remains. Perhaps that’s the only thing Anaxagoras likes about her — her inquisitive mind and cunning.
— Your student came by, — Psyche murmurs again, still not opening her eyes. She never opens them, only frowns more deeply.
Anaxagoras sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He doesn’t know what’s worse — enduring the presence of this insufferable woman who constantly tries to pity or tease him, or dealing with the student who’s followed him around since enrollment. It’s not hard to guess who she means. Who in their right mind would approach him, violating his personal boundaries and moments of silence? Who would interrupt him during class, stare long and intently afterward, and shadow him wherever he goes?
To the Saviour, Phaenon seems strange — undeniably strange. At their first meeting, he entered the office as if he’d been there many times before. He looked at no one but Anaxagoras with such an intense gaze that it sent shivers down his spine. But that expression vanished the moment he smiled timidly. The mask of fatigue and severity fell away, revealing the face of a mere youth who’d just stepped through the academy’s threshold.
*Anxiety*, he thought at first.
Of course, anxiety. What else?
But now he has strange dreams, the essence of which he can’t recall in the morning. He remembers there was something important in them, something he absolutely needed to see. But… Morning burns away all remnants, forcing them to fade and dissipate like mist.
— What did he want? — Anaxagoras croaks, his voice rough from too long a silence.
Psyche shrugs lightly, the various bell‑adorned ornaments jingling once more. That element of her attire is irritating — she becomes like a great bell, announcing her approach from a distance with her constant clamour. What’s worse is the incessant noise when they work together. Anaxagoras would be glad to put an end to it, to send her away, but he recognizes her intellect — and that, unfortunately, matters more.
— I don’t know. He left as soon as he saw me, — she rises from her chair, the bells on her clothing ringing again, making Anaxagoras wince. — I should be going. See you soon, Anaxagoras.
He watches her leave, sighing, then surveys the battlefield that his once‑tidy office has become.
After a long while, Anaxagoras emerges outside. He immediately frowns at the bright summer sun stabbing at his eyes. He manages to startle a couple of students too engrossed in their conversation. It’s probably amusing to see their shocked faces — as if they’ve seen a ghost. And perhaps they have; his skin is pale, nearly gray. In his dark clothes, he could pass for a spectre. No matter the weather, he always appears too thin, too frightening. The sun illuminates his physical flaws, highlighting his angularity and sharp features; later, shadows envelop him completely, making him truly resemble a corpse with gray, cadaverous skin and hollow eyes from countless sleepless nights.
He surveys the small, sunlit corridor, feeling a cool breeze on his skin, then shakes his head, frowning at the still‑pulsing headache that refuses to subside — neither medicine nor sleep helps. Lately, he’s lost all sleep! At first, he blamed his workload, then the weather and its seemingly capricious atmosphere these days. Later…
Later, he even thought his migraines had flared up anew due to a recent quarrel with the wise men. Now they’re all sulking at him as a group. And those eyes blazing with anger? Ah, it was so frightening — utterly ridiculous.
They likely intended to isolate him from society, oppressing him with their silence. But to Anaxagoras, this is nothing more than a gift from fate.
He chuckles as, echoing his thoughts, two wise men emerge from around the corner. They don’t even glance his way, purse their lips, and continue their conversation.
No great loss. After all, this performance won’t last long — as always. They’re intelligent people; they must recognize the absurdity of their actions.
Right now, he cares nothing for his isolation in the Grove of the Muses, where every opinion seemed to be welcomed and breadth of thought revered. He has no concern for the student who likely came to ask countless questions or simply sit nearby. He has far more important matters — like the strange sensation that spreads through his body every time he sees this very Saviour.
Well… Another year will likely be too long, and seems even more difficult than all previous years…
Of course, he’s never had to teach the very protagonist and epicentre of the prophecy before.
This thought amuses him too much to grant it any significance beyond the constant reminders from the other wise men to be gentler with the Saviour.
And of course, Anaxagoras never listens to anyone but himself.
***
The dreams tangle together, weaving into an indecipherable mess. Waking up in the mornings remains just as difficult, just as hard to face the world, feeling that strange, vague pain in his temples that accompanies him day and night. He can’t fathom the cause of these sensations, can’t understand why everything feels so familiar, yet the Saviour’s calm face seems alien — as if it should look different. But what should Phaenon’s expression be?
It begins to irritate him, stoking the flame of his thirst for knowledge. For dreams are more than mere projections of the mind. He realised this long ago, when he still tore out his own eye. Dreams intertwine with reality, existing in its parallel. But how can one get to the essence of these dreams?
Anaxagoras is intrigued. He watches Phaenon closely, noting how the latter taps his pencil on the table, how his eyes fill with warmth when he sees him. He observes and listens, trying to understand why he himself feels this strange connection when he is nearby.
The dreams do not cease, but they become fewer. Anaxagoras locks himself in his laboratory, searching for the right books — and now everything is changing. After classes, he gathers his things, walks briskly to his laboratory, and spends long hours there, poring over scrolls by philosophers and scholars.
“Come now, dear. You need to rest. The terrible shadows under your eyes even frighten me,” Psyche says gently, placing a cup of tea on the edge of the table. She no longer even offers food — she understands that he will not eat, that the food will spoil, and upon his return, she will find nothing but a full plate. Now it is green tea that comes into play — pleasantly fragrant, soothing, filling his stuffy room with faint warmth and comfort.
Anaxagoras always shrugs, rubbing his forehead tiredly, and looks at her with a mocking expression, not without a hint of fatigue — at her worried face.
“You are blind. You cannot see my bruise under my eye.”
She smiles her familiar cheerful smile, not at all upset by his rudeness.
“Ah, that was quite unethical... But so be it. You know I do not need eyes to understand that something is amiss with you. Everyone is worried about your seclusion. Even the wise men,” a quiet chuckle escapes her lips at the last words, and her thin eyebrows furrow.
Anaxagoras knows his behaviour is suspicious; he knows he is driving himself into a corner.
But most of all, he knows that all of this is not without reason — that it is not without cause that he feels uneasy under heavy, lingering gazes, from light touches, from a quiet, gentle voice, from dreams that cloud his mind. Every night, it is the same: a familiar voice, familiar visions, but nothing more than a heaviness in his heart.
Anaxagoras exhales, adjusting his clothes and blowing away the strands of hair that have fallen across his face. He looks at the darkening sky around him, feeling his fingertips begin to freeze.
Yet he stands here, in an old, ruined garden, among bright yellow asters shining like stars in the night. For a moment, nostalgia overcomes him. Ah, he and his sister often visited this garden! Back then, the garden had not yet been destroyed: its columns were neat and white, covered by the vaults of a glass ceiling, through which rays of light penetrated and scattered around. It bloomed, it was full of scent from various flowers that grew in bright patches all around. His sister loved to come here, take him by the arm, and look at the flowers. She often told him about her day right here, sharing funny stories about the teachers, and listened to everything he had to say.
Now, however, this place is forgotten and destroyed. There is no ceiling now, no snow‑white columns — only ruins covered in ivy, and the occasional flowers growing here and there.
Anaxagoras sighs, walking deeper into the garden. Leaves and flowers catch on his clothes, rustling softly. Perhaps he has been overly cautious. Perhaps all of this is nothing more than foolishness he will regret later. But if it helps him reach the truth... Then he is ready for anything.
At that moment, something warm and heavy settles on his shoulders. Anaxagoras startles, tilts his head, looking at the blue fabric. The headache returns instantly, slipping like a shadow somewhere in his skull, then disappearing.
He turns around, looking at the furrowed, pale face of the Saviour, which stands out especially in the light of the bright, full moon.
There is no smile on his face, his eyes do not shine — they are cold and gloomy, like a bottomless abyss.
“Professor Anaxa,” his voice is hoarse, deep.
For a moment, Phaenon’s face contorts with previously unknown pain. He leans forward, then freezes instantly, only pressing his lips together for a brief moment.
“Why do you avoid me?”
Anaxagoras watches attentively, taking in how the Saviour straightens his shoulders, how calmly he composes himself, noticing the twitching lips. He looks away and frowns himself. Has he really been avoiding him?
“You leave too early after classes, and when you return, you look as if you are about to die. You do not even look at me anymore.”
Anaxagoras looks at him in surprise, not fully understanding the reason for such a... complaint.
“My attention is occupied by a rather curious topic.”
Phaenon presses his lips together again, examining his face.
“May I help you with that?”
Anaxagoras shrugs.
“It is not necessary. It is a personal project. But when the time comes, you will certainly learn about it. Now, I advise you to return to your room and not break the rules any further.”
He leaves for his laboratory, only realising afterwards that the stranger’s blue cloak still lies on his shoulders. He runs his fingers over it, feeling the same strange sensation that has been bothering him all along.
And yet, it has something to do with the Saviour. Without a doubt.
Perhaps he really should reconsider his approach to his studies. After all, what he ought to study is not the treatises of philosophers and scholars, not schemes and alchemical structures, but the person... the person who is right beside him.
Anaxagoras smiles at the thought. Ah, it was very rash, but not so meaningless, considering the knowledge he has managed to gain from the forbidden tomes.
***
Anaxagoras does not react to Psyche’s teasing about him coming back to life. He does not even roll his eyes.
Instead, he watches Phaenon more closely. He sees how the student’s face lights up with some sort of relief, how he smiles timidly, how his shoulders, tense until now, relax again.
Something inside him suggests, wriggling like a worm, that the answer lies nearby — perhaps in those blue, transparent pools.
Anaxagoras sighs, trying to behave as before. He once again looks at the table covered with papers and at the board.
Stealthily, he glances at Phaenon... constantly catching his gaze.
This, too, is rather suspicious: how calmly he sits and listens, how easily he answers the question asked, even though he did not really write anything down; how understandingly he smiles at each sigh of disappointment when someone across from him cannot answer.
As if...
Anaxagoras frowns. It is too early to draw conclusions.
After classes, he gathers his belongings slowly, occasionally glancing at the equally unhurried Phaenon.
And the latter meets his expectations — he comes closer. Still smiling calmly.
“Professor Anaxa, I would like to ask you something.”
Anaxagoras nods, deliberately sighing tiredly.
“What is it?”
“Do you understand that topic about the first ancient God, whose blood flows on the banks of Privta and is the beginning of our land?”
Anaxagoras nods. Of course, he remembers all the myths and legends.
“Is it true that there is a flower there capable of healing the soul?”
“I do not think so, but I will not deny the possibility of such a... divine gift existing,” Anaxagoras glances thoughtfully at the notes in his hands. “That is what a legend is for — to sow confusion in the mind, yet to kindle faith in the heart. And what I can say is that different chronicles tell the story differently. The one you read is only the first version. There are variations where flowers grew from tears, and they were full of grief and misfortune. Therefore, whoever touches the flower is doomed. Some tales say that instead of flowers, there lie bones whose powder can resurrect the dead. But all of this cannot be verified now — the banks of Privta are closed to human eyes.”
Phaenon nods thoughtfully. A spark flashes in his eye for a moment.
“I am glad to see you again.”
Anaxagoras sighs, looking closely at the other’s melancholic face, noticing a slight tremor in his hands that tries to hide.
*“What are you hiding, Saviour?”* he thinks.
“Since that is all for questions, go on.”
Phaenon presses his lips, slowly averting his eyes to the side, as if nervous, then exhales sharply.
— I want to become your assistant.
Anaxagoras freezes.
— An assistant?
— That’s right. I want to see more of the world of alchemy that you see.
For a moment the office is filled with silence; only the birds singing outside can be heard, their gentle whistling seeming to bounce off the walls.
Anaxagoras smiles — though it’s hardly a smile, just a slight twitch of the lips. But Phaenon seems to notice; his eyes gleam, narrowing as if absorbing this gesture.
— All right. Now go.
Only after Phaenon leaves does he notice a small, snow‑white flower — an anemone — among his scrolls. He thoughtfully turns it in his hand, feeling the softness of the petals and the sweet fragrance.
Now their meetings aren’t limited to chance encounters in the library, the garden, or after classes. Now they stay late in his laboratory, studying various materials and conducting all sorts of experiments.
And Anaxagoras doesn’t regret agreeing to this adventure. Phaenon is truly a bright young man, and if not for the stigma of the Saviour, he could well become a scholar. And that, perhaps, is the most appalling thing about the whole situation, for the world would lose such a mind, ruining it and creating something utterly impractical — like a dull, useless knife that can barely cut anything.
— Professor Anaxa, may I braid your hair? I can see it’s getting in your way, — Phaenon says one day after Anaxagoras adjusts a stray strand for the hundredth time.
Anaxagoras freezes, holding a flask, slowly raises his head, eyebrows raised in surprise. This seems to be one of his most genuine expressions in many years of teaching. Usually he tried not to show his emotions, believing them to be nothing more than a hindrance to the mind, and he didn’t need any obstacles on his path to truth.
But Phaenon knew how to elicit a slight twitch of the lips or a barely noticeable sigh of defeat. It seemed to be his talent: to calm the most restless and unsettle the most composed.
And it was irritating. Even more irritating were Psyche’s teasing remarks about it.
— I like him already. Who else could snap you out of this emotional stagnation? Are you even aware that suppressing emotions and feelings is harmful? — she giggles cheerfully, tries to poke his cheek but misses due to her blindness, ending up poking near his eye.
Anaxagoras didn’t say anything then, but rolled his eyes.
He blinked, emerging from his memories and immediately seeing a pleading gaze, like a puppy’s. Only the tail and ears pressed to the head were missing. Anaxagoras frowned again; the prospect of allowing such familiarity didn’t appeal to him. To be honest, he only allowed Hyacinth and Psyche to touch his hair. And how could he not, when the first resembled his sister so much, and the second was so stubborn in her decisions that sometimes she didn’t even ask him.
But here was Phaenon. Faenon, whose secret he fervently wished to uncover, like a wanderer in the desert longing for water. He felt it would be something grand, something truly shocking… And he loved such mysteries that captivated the mind. He wanted to see them, for his intuition had never failed him.
So he nods, carefully maintaining an indifferent expression, trying not to notice the smile that appears again, like a ray of sunshine.
A chill runs down his arms when someone else’s hands touch his hair, slowly and deliberately beginning to comb through the strands — so slowly it feels… almost familial. Epistimia also loved his hair, also combed through the strands like this, gently tucking them behind his ears and saying his hair was very soft, that she envied its silkiness. In his youth, Anaxagoras would blush and deny it, but still sit obediently on the chair, letting his sister play with his hair.
Now, though, he feels nothing except strange, unpleasant goosebumps crawling over his scalp.
But to give credit where it’s due, Phaenon soon gets to work, skillfully — as Anaxagoras perceives it — weaving the strands.
— Done! — and he stands behind him, motionless.
Anaxagoras feels the warmth of another body close behind him. He could swear that at one moment he felt another’s breath near his hair, a light touch, before it all disappeared, before Faenon walked around the table to stand before him.
Anaxagoras presses his lips together, runs a hand over the firm, rather neat braid.
— Quite good.
And the young man glows again like the damned sun. Anaxagoras wants to shut his eyes, to avoid the searing rays. But he watches, unsure what he feels. And he feels many things and nothing at the same time: a slight tingling on his skin, a pain swarming like maggots in his head, and a faint, almost imperceptible sensation, like the wind.
— Get back to work, — Anaxagoras’s throat momentarily goes dry.
Only late in the evening, when he’s alone, does he notice a small, withered anemone. He doesn’t throw it away, carefully brushes it off the windowsill, and examines it.
A curious choice of flowers, though.
The office smelled of must, dust, and old scrolls. Golden sunlight streamed through the small window, covering the desk’s surface and his face like a veil. Anaxagoras squints, shakes his head as if trying to shake off the bothersome ray. But it doesn’t go away; it seems to become even more insolent… As insolent as one of his students. And although Anaxagoras won’t admit it to anyone, he allowed insolence himself, didn’t rein it in when the other’s behaviour crossed the boundaries of student and teacher, turning their communication into something more informal, almost friendly, one might say. But it’s not as if Anaxagoras ever knew what it was like to have friends. He never needed them, and doesn’t now. And he didn’t intend to make friends with his students either.
There’s a knock at the door; he reluctantly tears his gaze from his calculations. He sighs heavily.
— Come in.
Phaenon shifts next to him, straightens up, but doesn’t utter a word. Just watches.
Soon a man enters the office. The man has curly golden hair, wearing clothes quite unlike those of the wise men. It resembles a long white shirt covering his throat and arms. Indeed, the man is clothed from head to toe, revealing only a small patch of skin at his neck. But what’s more notable is the golden, perfectly sculpted mask on his face, hiding it.
Anaxagoras sighs; he feels the headache returning, clearly foreshadowing something unpleasant.
— Амур, — he says coldly.
Амур nods lightly, but remains a statue in the doorway. He’s one of the silent people. Perhaps even mute. Anaxagoras has never once heard his voice. Not to mention his face, which he hides behind the mask.
To be honest, he doesn’t even remember where this teacher came from. He appeared out of nowhere, no one knows where he lived or what he studied. Nor how he taught his students. Although no, Anaxagoras did know — he once managed to attend his lecture. But even there Амур didn’t speak a word, merely drew formulas and signs on the board while Psyche spoke. That’s how they worked. Well, this pair was quite curious and ironically well‑matched. Where Psyche couldn’t see, Амур did. Where Амур couldn’t speak, Psyche did. They functioned like a well‑coordinated mechanism… Like people who’ve known each other for far too long.
However, Anaxagoras never really wondered about the nature of their relationship… Not as much as they wondered about him.
— Dear, it’s customary to greet guests, — Psyche’s voice rings out.
Anaxagoras smirks, watching her flit out from behind her partner, how easily he steadies her when she stumbles, how her lips stretch into a gentle, playful smile that makes him shudder. It feels like sugar has accumulated on his tongue!
— But never mind. I’ve long grown accustomed to your rudeness.
— Why are you here? — Anaxagoras wearily rubshis nose bridge, a faint crease forming between his brows.
— We’re here to stir you and your student up. You’ve been cooped up in this office for days now. Don’t spoil this dear boy — he doesn’t deserve such a fate, to be as cold and reclusive as you. So no excuses will be accepted.
— That’s unethical… — he begins.
Psyche smiles, giving him a cheerful wink.
— What exactly? To have dinner in the garden? Come now, dear, you’re all skin and bones. You ought to eat better. And you yourself said fresh air benefits the mind. Don’t be so unapproachable. — She wraps her hand around his arm, leaning into it. At that very moment, the little bells on her dress jingle even more loudly, intensifying his headache.
— You’re unusually talkative and energetic today…
Psyche doesn’t reply, merely pulls him forward, almost dragging him out of the office.
— Boys, follow me.
Light footsteps can be heard behind them, and Anaxagoras sighs heavily. That insufferable woman. Has she always been like this?
He recalls that timid girl from parallel classes, always looking down, barely lifting her head. Occasionally, he’d see her in the library. She’d sit not far from him, never disturbing his reading. They never even spoke. Anaxagoras didn’t need it, and neither did she, it seemed. But now she’s transformed into this whirlwind! He prefers to think her blindness brought about this change — a way to cope with her limitations, trying to compensate for lost sight with words. And Anaxagoras could accept that… Though she still irritated him just as much.
They walk in silence through the empty corridors before stepping into the garden — that same abandoned garden. Anaxagoras feels a pang of disappointment; had this once‑private place lost its seclusion? He’s only glad that during all the times he’s come here, he’s encountered no one… Except for Faenon once. And that pleased him.
Psyche leads him deeper into the garden, closer to the tall Crooked Tree, its branches arching over the ground like a canopy. He briefly notices birds hopping along the branches, a couple taking flight, causing the leaves to rustle ever so slightly. Then he lowers his gaze to a colourful yellow blanket spread out, looking harmonious against the backdrop of yellow asters. A rather large basket, clearly filled with food, sits upon it.
— Dear ones, please sit down, — Psyche says, promptly pulling Anaxagoras onto the blanket. He awkwardly folds his legs beneath him, watching Psyche settle beside him, carefully arranging her dress so none of the little bells attached to its hem break. Амур and Faenon sit on the other side. Anaxagoras notices the tense smile on the Saviour’s lips.
*«What are you thinking?»* he wants to ask.
Psyche laughs, exchanging glances with Амур. It seems they’re having a silent conversation, understanding each other through subtle gestures and sounds.
— Come on, boys, dig into the food. I prepared it with love.
— You prepared it? — Anaxagoras drawls mockingly, earning an playful jab in the side.
Everyone’s long known that anything Psyche cooks herself is worse than poison. It always looks repulsive — blackened, unappetizing food that smells just as bad.
She always tried to feed the students or professors, but no one could eat her cooking — not even out of respect. Perhaps only Амур could. … At times it seemed he had no taste buds at all: he ate slowly, crunching on the burnt crusts, showing no signs of disgust or nausea.
At such moments, Anaxagoras would watch a patch of his face with interest, and what he saw couldn’t help but intrigue him. The skin was an odd grey colour, covered in tiny scars, with what appeared to be small growths.
Now that Амур had taken over the cooking from Psyche, all the scholars and students breathed a sigh of relief and even began eagerly accepting treats from her hands.
Psyche snorts, though the smile never leaves her face.
— Of course. I dictated the recipe, and Амур was my hands.
Амур, on the other side, nods in agreement, taking an apple pie out of the basket. He carefully places it onto small, gilded saucers, handing one to each person — except, perhaps, himself. Under Psyche’s intense gaze (though in truth it wasn’t really a gaze, just a slight frown of her brows), he merely shakes his head. She exhales pitifully and leans her head on Anaxagoras’s shoulder… though she quickly jumps up.
— You’re too thin! Your shoulder used to be softer.
Anaxagoras doesn’t have time to object; he does, however, catch Faenon’s intense… somewhat grim look before his face is enveloped by slender, icy hands.
— No, just look at him. His cheekbones are sticking out. Oh, what a horror. And it’s all because of your truth! What good is truth if you’re dead?
Anaxagoras tries to gently pull her hands away. His face twists into that same indifferent, unsettling expression. Psyche sighs, turns away from him, and forcefully shoves a plate with pie into his hands.
— You’re impossible.
Anaxagoras shrugs. Perhaps that was true. But to be honest, other people’s opinions had never been his priority.
— Yes, I remember seeing Anaxagoras. Such a frail little boy. He was always bullied at the Academy, — Psyche chatters on, and Anaxagoras regrets agreeing to this outing. — And he never even whimpered. Clearly, even as a child, he was a real iceberg. He’d look at all those rascals so coldly that even I felt uneasy. And now, perhaps it’s good that I can’t see that gloomy face. It always made me nervous.
— And you never tried to help him? — Faenon suddenly says, his voice tinged with anger. His eye glints like steel. Anaxagoras notes this, reconsidering his stance on Psyche and her talkativeness. Let her speak — it works to his advantage.
And it also works to Psyche’s advantage, as a cunning, seductive smile never leaves her lips. Anaxagoras knows that no matter how childlike this woman acts, the worst thing one could do is to trust her.
— Oh, what could I have done? But I always called the professors. They’d scold the fools, and sometimes expelled them. But it was amusing how the people who said the Academy was a home of knowledge and broad-mindedness would condemn such dissent. — Psyche leans on his shoulder again, and Anaxagoras doesn’t stop her, letting her play, not without a hint of amusement watching Faenon’s face grow even more sombre.
But time was drawing to a close. The sky turned a vivid, unsettling red. And Anaxagoras watches with curiosity as Faenon remains tense and silent, helping them pack up, thanking Psyche and Амур for the wonderful pie. But there’s no joy in his words, and nothing but thoughtfulness in his eyes.
Finally, before they part ways to their respective dormitories, Psyche gently grabs his elbow.
— Don’t thank me, — after a pause, she adds in a quiet, almost inaudible voice, — but be careful. There’s something… strange about his soul.
She falls silent the moment Faenon looks their way again. In the shadow of the trees, his face seems too pale, like a ghost. And against the backdrop of the scarlet, almost crimson sky, his entire figure looks eerie.
But Anaxagoras was not one to fear challenges.
If death means reaching the truth, he’s ready for anything. Even if he had to die many times over.