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It was getting hard to breathe.
Anaxagoras dragged his injured body up the path to the luminary throne, his left hand tightly gripping his upper right arm to his side. His wounds were screaming at him to stop, that he couldn't go on for a moment more- but he had to, he took a deep breath and steeled himself, he would. As the Chrysos heir stationed at the Grove of Epiphany, he would fulfill his duty to his colleagues and his students.
He had to, there was no one else left.
The sounds of fighting and shouting were dying down behind him, and he tried not to consider whether that was due to the scholars fighting breaking through the monsters brought by the black tide or if it was because everyone left was dead. He couldn't help the small grin that formed on his face as the luminary throne came into view.
It was getting darker and darker now.
Just a few more steps and-
The black robed figure acted before he took notice of him. Piercing pain spread from his abdomen as he finally collapsed beneath his own weight, just another body to join the ones that already littered the courtyard in front of the throne.
"Titan ... die with me ... "
The black robed swordsman cradled the dead scholar in his right arm. The air was silent except for the sound of his own hoarse breathing through the mask. He stared down at the body as if he wasn't sure what he was holding, then he stared at the blade that still pierced the scholar's body. With a grunt, he tore the blade free, sending a shower of golden blood following after the dark metal. The swordsman kept staring at the corpse in his body before sheathing his blade and cradling the body of the scholar as if he was a tiny babe (or a blushing bride).
Warmth still clung to the dead man's body as he carried the body to the throne of the titan. "Why, do this?" He mused out loud to the leaves and branches above them. "Was, dying, worth it?"
He gently placed the scholar's body on the throne, and rearranged his robes so that the wound, now only sluggishly leaking golden blood, was covered. "Why sacrifice, professor, for people, who don't care, for you?"
Like this, with the only the light of the divine body of Cerces illuminating them from above, he could almost believe that the scholar was simply, resting. The swordsman reached out with one clawed hand, as if to try to rouse the scholar from his slumber, only to stop and draw the ceremonial blade. The glinting silver metal rested against the star shaped pattern upon the man's chest, and did not react. The swordsman stood there for a second, almost as if willing something to come forth, before putting the blade aside. "All this, for nothing?" Not even a trace of divinity, or a hint of the coreflame resided within the scholar's body. The swordsman gently tucked a few stray strands of hair behind the man's ear. "A waste."
Only the sound of his breathing could be heard in the grove.
What was the point of dying for people who wouldn't make it? Truly, his sacrifice had been a waste. (And, oh, what a waste.)