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“Let him die!! Let him die!!”
The cries of the people are not new to Anaxagoras. He’s heard them quite well over the course of his life.
“Let him die!! Let him die!!”
The ever-eternal sunlight is blinding just as the cries for his death are deafening.
Looking around, Anaxagoras sees that a large portion of the crowd shares the same expression to his confession of blasphemy— Mindless rage, as expected of a nation who cradles the legends and stories spoonfed to them so preciously without thought or consideration, entirely unaware of how their faith blinds and limits them.
But there are a few exceptions, for two of his fellow Chrysos Heirs are present.
Phainon looks horrified and he keeps looking around in disbelief, as though he’s surprised that this would be the reception Anaxagoras would receive. And Aglaea–
Aglaea. Oh, Agalea.
Despite her prevalent loss of her emotions and all else that makes her human, Agalea still wears an expression of distinct heartbreak as she looks at him.
“Let him die!!”
But despite being surrounded by those who wished nothing but the worst of and for him, with the dawn of his demise just cresting over the horizon, an agonizing, pulsating chill in his chest that threatens to bring him to his knees—
Anaxagoras smiles, a toothy, thin expression of joy that he’s sure makes him look like he’s gone absolutely mad.
~~~
The beginning of his story has been heard a thousand times before.
This, Anaxagoras knew all too well.
He is not the first to have all that he’s ever known and loved be swallowed up by the black tide. At this point in Amphoreus’ story, the notion is nearly obligatory for every citizen of any city, town, or village on Amphoreus, as awful as a reality as that is.
But, there is one notable difference.
Anaxagoras will never forget what it felt like to have blood and water alike soak into the fabric of his pants when he fell to his knees– The plaintive, ragged sobs that tore his throat with reckless abandon as he cried, screamed, and pleaded to every Titan that came across his mind.
He’d been cold then, just as he is cold now with a Titan’s Coreflame keeping him alive.
Truly, what a cruel twist of irony.
The memory of the cold chill that settled over him after what was surely hours of tearing his throat apart with pleas to a pantheon of unhearing, uncaring gods was one that is irreversibly seared into Anaxagoras’ mind. It had soothed his pain in the worst possible manner, as nothing more than a balm of resignation and resentment against thrashing, violently desperate hope.
Since that moment, Anaxagoras found it infinitely difficult to understand why it is that people are so willing to place all their faith in a being that has proven to not only be entirely absent but also be antagonistic.
Phagousa, Nikador–
How many Titans need to go mad before the blinding haze of worthless, baseless faith clear from these people’s eyes, Anaxagoras wonders?
“Your soul is trembling.” Cerces had said upon commenting about what they found in his mind about the dromas, standing in the entryway of Dawncloud.
Cerces is quiet now, as Anaxagoras returns to the quarters given to him in the Marmoreal Palace.
Truly, there is nothing quite like having a Titan in one’s head to prove to Anaxagoras that the Titans are not beings meant for reverence. Cerces has proven to be snarky, lacking that air of dignified regality that would, at the very least, somewhat justify the amount of respect that Anaxagoras is expected to pay them.
Or perhaps they are just fully aware of who’s head it is that they’re stuck in.
Either way, they don’t comment on it when Anaxagoras reaches beneath the bed provided to him and retrieves a small droma plush.
Someone had thrown it at him with every ounce of ill-will possible a few days after Anaxagoras arrived in Okhema, likely in reference to his droma-related nickname. Anaxagoras had simply picked it up, brushed it off, and carried it along with him as he continued along his way.
All while pretending that this random stroke of luck didn’t fill him with a deep, unabiding sense of relief and comfort.
Falling into the bed, Anaxagoras curls up onto his side as he stares at the droma plush.
Some part of his mind, the part that’s been rotting away in the depths of his bitterness and cynicism, the part that fuels his deep, unabiding criticism of the Titans scoffs at his inability to let go of this childish attachment but–
His dear sister had been a tamer. She was warm, caring, and there were no dromas who didn’t cherish her just like Anaxagoras does.
After she died–
Nothing else mattered. Not truly. Not in any way that matters.
Pulling the droma plush close, Anaxagoras curls into it as pain pulses throughout his body as it often does, even before he died in the Grove.
Humanity is such a strange concept.
It is fragile beyond repair. It is durable beyond breaking.
It is what drives Anaxagoras to accomplish all that he can. It is how he’s able to take hold of the very rules of this world, turning it around in the palm of his hands so that he might understand this cruel reality that he and the rest of Amphoreus lives in to its fullest.
It's what limits Anaxagoras from his aspirations in the form of a failing body and a mind that’s still fallible to the traumas of life and an ability to create attachments, no matter how dulled or unpracticed that ability might be.
Most days, Anaxagoras fights against the latter quality. But today, on this night–
He closes his eye and gives in to the more fragile nature of his humanity, if only so that he can pretend that he’s small again, able to be held and protected by his older sister.
~~~
“Professor Anaxa!”
Recognizing the voice, Anaxagoras stops in his tracks and turns. A short distance away, a familiar face rushes down the Marmoreal Palace corridor towards him.
“Hyacine.” Anaxagoras says disapprovingly as she comes to a stop before him. “What did I say about setting an example for how my students should refer to me?”
“Yes, yes, as your teaching assistant, I should refer to you as you wish so that your students do the same.” Hyacine responds automatically and quickly. “But– Professor Anaxa, that’s hardly what’s important right now!”
“Oh?” Anaxagoras tilts his head to one side. “Pray tell.”
“Pray t–” Hyacine splutters briefly in absolute disbelief. “Professor Anaxa!”
“I do believe I taught you to be more eloquent than this.”
“I heard about what you did at The Grove.” A crease appears between Hyacine’s brows and a frown pulls at her lips. “How are you still standing?”
The corner of Anaxagoras’ lips twitch in amusement.
How is he still standing? Well, if that wasn’t a question for the century a thousand times over, given all that Anaxagoras has done to himself.
“Well, no matter!” Hyacine places her hands on her hips. “For now, I must insist that you come with me.”
“There’s no need.” Anaxagoras says, holding up a hand in polite denial. “Cerces has already done a rather lovely job in… fixing me.”
“Must you say so with such disgust?” Cerces asks, their voice echoing through Anaxagoras’ mind with equal parts exasperation and amusement. “I could’ve just left you there to pass on.”
And yet they didn’t, Anaxagoras thinks.
“Still.” Hyacine presses. “I’d feel a lot better if I could just…”
Anaxagoras watches as Hyacine deflates, gesturing vaguely as she loses the words to subsequently explain what’s on her mind.
A common occurrence, Anaxagoras has observed.
Though civilizations have managed to come up with a method to communicate far more than gestures or noises in both quantity and complexity, it has been proven time and time again that the human experience is one that cannot be captured to its entirety.
But if Anaxagoras were to simply focus on Hyacine in this current moment… He can come to a rather simple observation.
She is most certainly grieving, even if she’s trying to maintain her usual disposition. Hyacine has always been far too kind for her own good, with a tendency to think of others before herself in her line of work as both a physical and mental doctor.
Anaxagoras sighs and reaches out to place a hand on the top of Hyacine’s head.
Hyacine startles. Anaxagoras can’t blame her– He can likely count on one hand the number of times he’s willingly offered physical contact.
“Place your trust in me.” He says, giving Hyacine’s head a pat before he retracts his hand.
Hyacine follows his hand’s trajectory with wide eyes of surprise.
Anaxagoras lifts an eyebrow. “Would I ever lie?”
Hyacine frowns. “I…”
“And do think of yourself for once.” Anaxagoras turns away. “I’m sure there are many that you’ve lost as well.”
~~~
The disaster at the Grove had hit far too close to home for Anaxagoras’ liking.
Time, bitterness, and cynicism has dulled his reactions and tendency towards visceral, all-consuming emotions. He feels more than a certain woman with a fondness for golden threads but Anaxagoras can acknowledge that he cares far less than the average person.
The insults thrown at him meant about as much as the sound of a buzzing fly. The faces of the students Anaxagoras taught blurred together over the years. He holds little to no fondness for most if not all.
But the Grove–
Anaxagoras ran, a hand clutching at his chest as people with lives, with souls that held inherent worth even as they let said worth waste away under the worthless weight of their faith blinked out, one by one like a series of dying stars.
His heart pounded beneath his hand. Cerces’ Coreflame was cold enough to burn.
A black tide creature leapt out from who-knew-where and there was a brief, deadly second where Anaxagoras froze.
But then, sense kicked back in and he pulled out his gun and shot.
The creature fell dead.
But in the distance, closer than he’d like, more of the black tide’s creations screeched, close at his heels. Anaxagoras had spared a single glance behind him and when he saw nothing, he turned and kept running.
He barely breathed. The wounds he had already accumulated bled sluggishly and slowed him down. Adrenaline made his limbs shake at the same time as it strengthened them.
All while memories of death played out in his head.
His sister– Their friends, the people they saw every day, even the grand, broad build of the dromas his sister cared for–
All of them, laying dead in a sea of black.
Anaxagoras slapped a hand over his mouth despite how the motion caused him to choke on his own breath.
No.
His grip on the Coreflame in his grasp tightened.
Not again.
Anaxagoras steeled his resolve when he crested over and ended up right where he wanted to be, even as he felt his life slipping through his fingers like sand.
He refused to let something like this determine how things end again.
A ragged, mad chuckle tore through Anaxagoras’ throat as he dragged his dying body forwards, already too far gone to feel pain.
“Die with me,” He rasped. “Titan.”
And that was the last thing Anaxagoras really remembered before he plunged his hand into his chest, wrapping his fingers around the mass of semi-solid yet intangible material of his soul and tore it to pieces.
~~~
Needless to say, Anaxagoras did not, in fact, die. Neither did the Titan.
But Cerces was kind enough to let him know that that’s about to change.
Fifteen days and fifteen nights.
Anaxagoras is not unfamiliar with the concept of mortality.
Barring from the state of Amphoreus and how death only becomes more pressing as the black tide rises higher despite the Demigod of Strife’s best efforts, (And here, Anaxagoras can’t help but wonder how the Prince of Kremnos is doing, can’t help but regret ever so slightly the fact that he wasn’t able to speak to him just as he was able to do with Castorice and Phainon.) mortality has always been the subject of interest in the art of alchemy.
Anaxagoras can’t even begin to count how many times he’s collapsed in his laboratory, his fingers digging into his chest as his breath came in ragged gasps while agony ripped through him as a result of some backfired experiment– The countless times where, after the pain has abided, he’d drag himself up and write down his thoughts and notes despite the fact that his hands had yet to stop shaking.
Sometimes, the few who have seen his notes before would comment on the drastic differences in handwriting within.
(“Do you have another assistant?” Hyacine asked, once.
Anaxagoras stopped, turning to stare at Hyacine, perplexed. “No. Why do you ask?”
“Your notes–” Hyacine lifts the notebook she’s currently holding up, as if holding it above her head would help her read it better. “It looks like two people are writing here.”
Anaxagoras stayed silent, hesitant to admit to the resident doctor at The Grove that both handwriting– The neat, rounded letters and the tremulous, spiky letters– are his.)
Hunger became a familiar sensation, nothing more than an inconsequential, hollow ache in his stomach. Thirst hardly registered in his mind anymore and he slept at desks or on the floor more frequently than the bed.
It was self-destructive, yes, but brilliance required sacrifice under the principle of equivalent exchange.
Anaxagoras based his entire life’s work around sacrificing his body, to the point where he found himself embedding a red gem into the back of his hand so that he might be able to safely (As safely as possible, that is), dig his eye out of his socket.
It’s not as though he would stop now, or ever for that matter of a fact.
But fifteen days and nights?
Anaxagoras scoffs, shaking his head.
He finds that he can’t quite find it within himself to care much for his mortality– He’s spent so much time with death, he may as well know it like a friend. The only kind of emotion he can muster up is irritation, seeing as Anaxagoras has never worked under any kind of consequential timeline before.
Well. He can’t say he’s much of a fan of having his work be rushed.
~~~
There was a moment, at some point during his remaining fifteen days and fifteen nights (Likely near the end, looking back), where for some forsaken reason, Anaxagoras collapsed in the Garden of Life.
The hike up to Kephale that required him to push his already tenuous strength, surrounded by the sharp critiques and piercing eyes of blind fools in need of a good lecture apparently wasn’t enough to knock him out, no.
The quiet comfort of a silent space was.
The moment Anaxagoras stepped off the lift up to the Garden and walked onto the patch of soft grass, into the shade provided by the tree within, his knees gave out.
“Child–!” Cerces exclaims in his head.
Pain rose like a cresting wave, surging through his veins, tearing through the strings of his muscles, and coalescing at the center of his chest until he nearly vomits, his breath coming in reedy, desperate gasps in response to his lungs constricting to make room for the heavy, hard pounding of his heart.
The agony peaks but then it keeps rising, impossibly, and oh, the limitations of his natural body has such a way of humbling his humanity, stripping the notion bare of its lofty aspirations and genius to its rawest, most primal core. Small, high-pitched sounds keep escaping with every strangled, poor attempt for breathing and he thinks he’s shaking, trembling like he’s a child again, kneeling as he pleads for a god, any god to hear his cries.
Ironically enough, Anaxagoras can distantly feel the power of a Titan scrambling to fix something that’s actively breaking, trying to smooth out the sharp, jagged edges and patch them up before they spread out enough to break him apart entirely.
Eventually, with enough time, (Time that Anaxagoras does not have), everything clears, ever so slightly.
Anaxagoras lets out what’s essentially nothing more than a wheeze as the world spins lazily around him under the momentum of the following exhaustion, the lingering strain that’s still all too prevalent in his body. It’s then that he realizes that he’s fallen onto his side, thankfully beneath the shade, with his arms locked at a forty-five degree angle before him and his knees curled slightly towards his chest.
Anaxagoras can only be glad that there’s no one in the Garden of Life to see this pitiful display, save for a small handful of chimeras who he can see are bounding towards him now.
The one in the lead slides to a stop before his face, yowling their concern.
“I’m alright.” Anaxagoras says hoarsely, reaching out to give the chimera a gentle caress despite the motion itself falling just short of torture.
The chimera roars softly, their tiny face wrinkling with apparent discontent and disbelief as they slip past his hand to curl against his chest, pressing against right where it hurts the most and they begin purring, a soothing, low rumble that should, theoretically hurt as it jostles him but it doesn’t.
Despite himself, Anaxagoras exhales shakily and closes his eye, allowing himself to relax into the grass as the other chimeras come to surround him, all pressing against his sides and limbs despite the fact that he’s very much laying on nothing more than a patch of lawn when there’s a lounging space just a few steps away.
He’s not quite resting, no. There is no time for rest but–
Anaxagoras has not known rest since his sister died, since he was a child and he had a sister who worked endlessly, who gave up so much just so that he might be able to soar, who died before Anaxagoras could show her any of his accomplishments as a means of paying her back.
He is now an adult, much older than his sister ever got to become, and he is so tired.
Regret was an unfamiliar sentiment. Anaxagoras has never and would never regret any that he has done in the years since his sister was taken by the black tide.
But it’s only in a scholar’s nature to think, “What if?”, from time to time.
Anaxagoras is just… considering. There is nothing in this world, in this life that he’s led thus far that he regrets.
Cerces is suspiciously quiet in his head, even as Anaxagoras could feel their power still churning through his limbs, smoothing out the last prickly spikes of the prior agony so as to return it to a baseline that he’s more used to.
“Someone is here.” They murmur after some indeterminate amount of time in which Anaxagoras just lays in place, drifting.
In a daze, Anaxagoras cracks his eye open.
The first thing he sees is gold. There is someone kneeling beside him with golden threads dancing in between long, delicate flingers, almost as if they’re using it as a means to entertain themself. The chimeras are gone, save for the one that has pressed against his chest.
They’re a respectable distance away so that they’re not touching him, but they’re close enough that Anaxagoras can smell the distinctly sweet scent of honey along with something herbal.
…A rather familiar scent.
And it says something about his current state that Anaxagoras’ initial reaction is not one fueled by adrenaline. Rather, it’s one of mild yet distant confusion, his mind having been forcefully dulled and slowed by the limitations of his human body.
Humanity, by definition, is curiously contrastive in of itself.
It is the ability to reach far beyond all other living beings, to think on a higher level and yet– The simple desires and needs of people, emotional or physical, are ones that permeate all, genius or otherwise.
Which is likely why he can’t bring himself to be alarmed, despite the fact that this is the woman who would be more than happy to keep him and his aspirations under lock and key.
Now that Anaxagoras thought about it, when was the last time he ate? Drank? Properly slept?
Either way, it hardly mattered, the needs of a human body, when death was close enough to touch, close enough that his conscious mind kept dipping below, falling into the nether realm one breath at a time, not when Anaxagoras still had so much to do.
Fifteen days and fifteen nights…
It’s not nearly enough, far from it, and yet–
“Rest, blasphemer.” A familiar voice that has yet to lose its smooth, soothing quality despite its owner’s continuous loss of her humanity says. “I will watch over you.”
There’s a momentary delay in which Anaxagoras just stares up at the woman beside him blearily. But then, her words register and his mind clears ever so slightly.
Oh absolutely not.
Anaxagoras grits his teeth, tensing in his preparations to rise, his body’s limitations be damned but–
“You are far from foolish in the most literal sense.” Aglaea says with an added sharpness to her tone. “Stay down.”
Anaxagoras lets himself fall with a defeated exhalation of breath. The chimera against his chest gives one, mighty huff of discontent but otherwise remains where they are. The grass in the Garden of Life smells as fresh and lively as ever as it brushes against his cheek, a stark contrast to the corpse it cradles.
Absently, Anaxagoras’ gaze drifts down to where his hands rest beside him with his arms still at an angle– No longer locked in place, tense with agony, thankfully, but there’s a new addition.
Golden thread, wrapped loosely around his wrist. Anaxagoras scowls.
“…Unhand me.”
Aglaea has the audacity to look amused. “Forgive me for keeping a closer eye on your vitals so that I might know when I should overlook my respect for your wishes and call for Hyacine.”
Anaxagoras scoffs.
He almost insists upon being let go regardless, wary of alerting anyone of his upcoming mortality, especially now that there is a Trailblazer that shares his same timeline but–
Anaxagoras thinks of the twisted, sweet truths he spoke to that foolish, short-sighted elder, the trek up to Kephale. He thinks of the future, of what he will do, what he’s planning on saying at the citizen’s gathering.
…If anyone should know, it should be Aglaea.
As if on cue, the stony lines of Aglaea’s expression smooths out with a look of knowing. She gives him the grace of not calling him out, of refraining from chastising him for withholding this rather crucial piece of information.
Instead, she just reaches out, tucks a lock of Anaxagoras’ hair behind his ear when it falls in front of his face, bothersome. Anaxagoras has to wonder how Aglaea knew.
“Rest.” Aglaea murmurs. “The stage will still be there when you wake, Great Performer.”
To his surprise, Anaxagoras finds his eye falling shut against his will, as if his body was just waiting for someone, anyone to give it permission– Uncaring that the permission came from someone else other than him.
~~~
This time, when his consciousness fades, Anaxagoras doesn’t find himself drifting in the nether realm, as he often finds himself doing.
This time, when Anaxagoras opens his eye, he’s lying in a field of flowers.
The flowers are blue and faintly glowing above blades of lavender purple grass. An eternal darkness stretches overhead, a black that somehow glows a faint blue from the looming moon of the same color in the distance. The air is sweet with the scent of flowers, a faint, inoffensive smell.
There’s a soft melody.
When Anaxagoras blinks, a person suddenly appears. His head is on their lap and their fingers are carding through his hair.
Looking up, the individual’s visage is blurry and intangible but the longer Anaxagoras stares at them, the more he recognizes them– As if his very soul recognizes the soul currently cradling him gently.
“...Sister.” He whispers.
The faintest illusion of a smile appears on what would’ve been her face.
Her hand reaches down and touches his cheek, gently brushing a thumb against the smooth plane of the eyepatch that hides the cost of seeing her one last time.
Anaxagoras’ remaining eye flutters shut as his breath escapes him tremulously.
He’s heard some say before that people are like onions– Multilayered in that each year a person lives is built upon the one that came before. It is thought that, no matter how old one gets, how mature one becomes, at one’s very core is a child.
How far has he grown, then, from his initial state of pure innocence?
Has the layers of the years since Anaxagoras was five, the bitterness in which he lived since then, suffocated this core of his?
Could he even claim to have a core of any kind?
And yet–
When his sister brushes his hair out from his face, Anaxagoras can’t help but feel like he hasn’t changed, hasn’t grown at all since the last time he truly, truly saw her.
Not a fleeting glance at the cost of an eye– No.
Since he was no older than five years old.
The feeling of his sister’s soul shifts, smoothing out and Anaxagoras looks up. Though he sees nothing, hears nothing, he feels that his sister is asking after his wellbeing.
He almost laughs.
Has he been well? Anaxagoras can’t even remember the last time he’s been even remotely well.
The feeling of his sister’s soul chills, turning sad.
It’s then that Anaxagoras comes to a chilling realization that nearly knocks him off-kilter far enough to regret all that has led up to this point.
The cyclical nature of Amphoreus. His role in this foolish, awful prophecy.
Staring up at his sister’s face, Anaxagoras realizes that he’ll never be able to reunite with her in the nether realm. He won’t even remember her, when this cycle begins again because he’ll lose all sense of his humanity as a means to rewrite the truth of this world.
But when she smiles, Anaxagoras sees understanding even as grief lingers heavy in her form, in her very soul.
Oh.
Anaxagoras’ breath catches.
She was always far too lenient with him. She was always–
All at once, Anaxagoras finds himself gripped with that same, visceral desperation that possessed him to turn his aspirations against himself, that allowed him to rip out his own eye without hesitation for the briefest, most fleeting glance.
He pushes himself up, surging onto his knees, and even before Anaxagoras can twist and turn towards her, his sister has already opened her arms.
It’s hard to say who pulled who to who but her form is surprisingly solid as Anaxagoras holds her and she holds him in turn. She’s so much smaller in his arms, now that Anaxagoras has grown into a man and she is still as young as she was when the black tide took her and everyone else the both of them have ever loved or cared for.
A sound that is a little too close to a sob for comfort slips past his lips. He can’t ever remember a time in which he embraced his sister like this, with his arms fully wrapped around her shoulders and her arms around his middle. Anaxagoras was always meant to be shorter, smaller, with arms that could only ever really reach either her leg or her neck.
But her hand is on the nape of his neck like it always is, back then. Her other hand draws nonsensical shapes into his back like it always does, back then.
Her form begins to turn into mist in his arms. A flash of panic, raw and visceral, rips through Anaxagoras, harsher and more agonizing than any amount, any kind of physical pain he could ever inflict upon himself or experience.
“I won’t know you.” Anaxagoras blurts out and oh, he sounds younger than he ever had the chance to be. “I won’t be able to ever be with you, sister, I won’t–”
A soft hush ripples through the field of flowers, soothing like a lullaby. He squeezes his eye shut.
The faintest impression of his sister’s smile imprints itself in his mind even as the form in his arms dissolves entirely, leaving him alone in this cold, icy space.
But right before Anaxagoras wakes, he hears a voice.
“Go forth, Anaxagoras.” A ghost, a faint memory or illusion of his sister’s voice whispers. “Go forth and do what you must, knowing that I’m watching with nothing but the utmost pride in you.”
~~~
When Anaxagoras comes to, he’s in the quarters given to him again, laying on his back on a plush lounge chair.
He’s not sure how much time has passed or how many of the fifteen days and nights he has left. Anaxagoras is almost afraid to find out– He had such a succinct schedule for his final days, now he’ll have to fix it.
Anaxagoras sighs.
Sitting up hurt, as does anything else, but thankfully, the pain has dulled since then. However, when Anaxagoras reaches up and touches his cheek, his fingertips come away wet.
How curious.
But Anaxagoras has no time to process his dream, to entertain the idea that perhaps, that was his sister and not just the illusionary dream of a dying man. He grits his teeth and ignores the flicker of concern and dissent from Cerces at the back of his mind as he plants his feet on the ground, braces himself with his palms to the cushions and–
Agony. Pain.
At this point, Anaxagoras is quite familiar with the drill. He falls immediately after he manages to stand.
“Professor!”
He’s caught against what almost feels like a solid wall, if a wall could be built or otherwise padded to have that unique tactile quality of another person’s body. Arms wrap around him, hooking under his own to support his weight and Anaxagoras automatically recoils, repulsed by the contact before he recognizes who it is that’s currently holding him.
Then, the disgust dims down to mild discontent, though even Anaxagoras has to admit that the solid contact of another is stabilizing against the insistent spinning of the world and the still-present pain.
“Slowly, slowly now.” A voice that Anaxagoras now recognizes to belong to Phainon murmurs as he shuffles him back towards the chair. “Careful.”
“Do not treat me so delicately.” Anaxagoras grits out even as his current state negates his words. “I’m not about to crumble into dust in your hands.”
He can tell that Phainon is looking down at him doubtfully. The top of his head prickles with the awareness.
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Phainon says airily and Anaxagoras could only scoff, mildly amused at how, even after all the years it's been since they’ve been in close contact, Phainon has yet to change all that much from that student Anaxagoras remembers teaching all that time ago.
Anaxagoras narrows his eye at Phainon as Phainon carefully lays him back down on the lounge chair, refusing to let him go until his back is securely resting against the cushion. “Did Aglaea send you to watch over me?”
Phainon visibly freezes. He averts his eyes. “...Noo?”
“Phainon.”
“Alright, alright.” Phainon sighs, holding his hands up in surrender. “Lady Aglaea called for me but honestly, if I had found you first, I’d still be here anyways.”
“Found me.” Anaxagoras repeats. “Whatever do you mean by that?”
“Well–” Phainon winces. “Let’s just say… Lady Aglaea couldn’t carry you here.”
Anaxagoras stares at Phainon, unamused.
Honestly, he should’ve known the moment he opened his eyes to find that he wasn’t in the Garden of Life anymore.
Furthermore, Anaxagoras can see, in how Phainon seems to be searching his figure and the general way in which he’s holding himself, that Phainon is still very much perturbed by however it is that he found Anaxagoras in the Garden of Life.
He opens his mouth, morbidly curious as to what Phainon saw but Phainon cuts him off before he could say a word.
“Anyways, I just returned from the kitchens–” Phainon flusters, turning abruptly to retrieve something from the table beside the room’s doorway. “–I got water, some bread, and a bowl of soup but I wasn’t too sure what you liked so I asked Lady Hyacine.”
Anaxagoras lets out nothing more than an acknowledging hum, finding it difficult to find the words to speak when exhaustion still drags at his eyes, forcibly dulling his mind.
“But, well–” Phainon stops himself with an awkward chuckle as he hurries over to where Anaxagoras still sits with a tray containing the very items he listed off. “–If anything isn’t to your liking, Professor, just let me know and I’ll get something else for you!”
Anaxagoras looks up at Phainon,
“Aglaea said that you haven’t eaten in two days.” Phainon continues, placing the tray down beside Anaxagoras. “You should’ve seen Lady Hyacine’s face when she heard–”
“I’m surprised she’s not here.” Anaxagoras cuts in, reaching for the glass of water and scoffing when he notices his hands shaking.
A flicker of heartbreak crosses Phainon’s expression, his eyes locked onto Anaxagoras’ hand even as his voice remains light and casual when he speaks. “Ah– Hyacine came by while you were out. But then she had to go with Dan Heng to check out the Grove.”
Anaxagoras snorts, taking a sip out of the glass. He pretends not to be soothed by the simple pleasure of a quenched thirst.
“I assume she has quite a lot of words for me.” He comments dryly. Then, seeing an opportunity, Anaxagoras continues. “So, pray tell, what was my appearance like when you came to the Garden of Life?”
Phainon freezes in place.
Anaxagoras almost regrets asking.
Phainon chuckles, wringing his hands. “Well, Professor, truth be told, I though you were already dead and that Aglaea was simply tending to a corpse with respect.”
Anxagoras’ brows shoot up.
“You were so tense and pale, laying there in the grass beside Aglaea…” Phainon’s eyes glaze over and Anaxagoras can almost see the tragedy playing before his eyes as clearly as if he were in Phainon’s mind.
But then, Phainon jolts, visibly and viscerally shaking himself out of his thoughts.
“Ah, I know that’s stupid though.” Phainon says, self-deprecatingly. “I was just projecting, after all.”
Anaxagoras frowns.
“I mean, really, I jumped to conclusions and you’d think that with how frequently you beat that into my head, Professor, that I wouldn’t do that anymore so–”
“Phainon.” Anaxagoras calls out, sharp and firm.
Phainon freezes in place.
Anaxagoras raises an eyebrow and points at the spot on the floor right in front of him.
Sheepishly, Phainon turns and shuffles over. For a brief, flickering moment, Anaxagoras doesn’t see the prophesied hero or the oh-so-great Deliverer but rather, a timid student hiding behind the veneer of perfection as promised by the prophecy.
Anaxagoras reaches out, gesturing with a hand. “Lean down.”
Phainon’s brows furrow briefly and he frowns but he obliges anyways, bending down enough that he and Anaxagoras are more or less eye-to-eye.
Anaxagoras stares up at Phainon for a moment.
Then, he reaches up, sliding his hand past Phainon’s neck to gently grasp his nape. Closing his eye, Anaxagoras pulls Phainon down to briefly press his forehead against his.
In response, Phainon jumps, flinching as though Anaxagoras struck him instead. The sheer foolishness of that very notion causes Anaxagoras to roll his eye as he lets his hand slip off of the back of Phainon’s neck so that the foolishly sentimental man could pull back to stare at him, eyes wide and glimmering with emotion.
“Calm yourself.” Anaxagoras says. “Center your stability with yourself, not with the reactions of others.”
Phainon stares at him, his expression uncharacteristically blank. Something glitters in the bright blue of his eyes as he peers at Anaxagoras, scrutinizing him to a degree that Anaxagoras feels as though can compare to that of Aglaea’s threads.
“...Professor.”
Phainon’s voice is eerily even.
But then, like melting ice, the qualities often associated with Phainon- Warmth, feeling, expression, qualities that Anaxagoras can’t help but envy to a certain degree- return to his countenance, smoothing out the prior edges of his expression.
“Is there…” Phainon’s brow furrows. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”
Anaxagoras falters.
For a brief, fleeting moment, Anaxagoras considers letting Phainon know about his fast-approaching death, how he’s been aware since he first returned to Okhema.
He’s never known anyone who would mourn him. Would it be so wrong to indulge–
Anaxagoras scowls at himself, at the persistent nature of humanity’s fragility, of his fragility and turns away.
No. He could not imagine being so cruel.
“No more than anyone else, Phainon.” Anaxagoras promises after some time, for he was never one to tell any lies.
~~~
This time, the night before he is to perish, Anaxagoras finds himself on the edge of the nether realm again.
There are two spots of gold in the distance.
One, a looming figure of muscle and strength. The other, a small petite girl who’s seen more than Anaxagoras could even dream of ever seeing.
They turn to look at him.
Mydeimos dips his head. Trianne grins as she waves at Anaxagoras excitedly.
Eventually, Mydeimos finds his way out, guided by his immortality and his equally undying will, leaving behind only Trianne.
She stands a distance away, waving.
When Anaxagoras turns, drawn by instinct, he sees the back of a familiar, flowy silhouette standing behind a wheelchair among a sea of flowers. The silhouette is leaned over the back with her arms wrapped around the thin shoulders of the one in the wheelchair.
As if sensing his gaze, she stands up and turns.
Castorice peers at Anaxagoras from across the endless sea of flowers, her expression more serene and devoid of stress and insecurity as Anaxagoras has ever seen it.
She smiles.
Anaxagoras stares at Castorice in particular, disbelieving.
Impossible. She should not be here.
But perhaps Anaxagoras is dreaming of a future that is to come, by some stroke of a miracle.
Anaxagoras scoffs and it sounds more like a laugh as he turns, only to be faced with the grand, regal figure of Cerce’s image as they stand over him with their hands folded neatly in front of them as they always did.
“What a time for a miracle.” He mutters. “Isn’t it a bit too late for that?”
The Cerces in his dream don't respond. Instead, they fade away, dissolving into a scattering of golden dust, leaving him alone in the field of flowers once more.
~~~
“Let him die!!”
The cries of the people still ring in his head even as Anaxagoras drags his dying body towards the Vortex of Genesis.
“Let him die! Let him die!”
He walks with a level of stability that even he is surprised by, given how potent the feeling of a ticking clock is within him– A looming, ominous ticking that very well may have replaced the beat of his heart.
At this point, Anaxagoras is long past the point of pain. Instead, a chilling numbness has overtaken his body, as though death has already claimed his physical form and is simply waiting for his heart and mind to give in next. The edges of his vision are blurred and he swears he still hears the cries of the people in his head.
“Let him die!!”
For as long as Anaxagoras can remember, he lived a life of isolation after his sister’s death. After all, brilliance comes at a high cost under the principle of equivalent exchange.
No matter, Anaxagoras always thought while ignoring the cold ache that had become as familiar as the closest of friendships in his chest. Isolation and hatred are low costs to pay for the ability to decide, once and for all, that he will be the one to decide how things will go instead of the cruel, foolish whims of the world.
“Let him die!”
He isn’t afraid of death. He’s danced with death ever since he was five.
He isn’t afraid to die alone. He isn’t dying, really– His role in this cruel, awful prophecy forbids a gracious end in which he is to reunite with his sister.”
He cares not for being alone for all his life and Anaxagoras ignores the bitter tang of lies even as the taste sits heavy on his tongue.
“Let him die! Let him–”
A tinge of gold. A splash of white. A head of gray.
“Anaxa, I swear to you.” A hand placed over a chest, the way one would swear fealty to another. “I’ll lead everyone to our reunion in the new world.”
The natural darkness of the Vortex of Genesis suddenly doesn’t seem so dark anymore. Anaxagoras lifts his gaze.
“Farewell, Great Performer.” Arms crossed, the slightest tinge of sadness in the expression of one who should not feel anymore. “May Cerces safeguard your thoughts.”
Anaxagoras exhales, soft and disbelieving.
“May Cerces safeguard your thoughts.” A gray-haired stranger who has known him for no substantial amount of time stands with a solemn grief to their form.
He can almost see to the other side, where Castorice stands in a field of flowers, glowing with new-found security within herself alongside her divinity.
“Professor…” She had said, soft and patient. “I completed the proof you wanted.”
It’s as though Anaxagoras is suddenly capable of seeing clearer in the form of an epiphany at the end of his life as a mere mortal being.
His students– Castorice, Phainon. His teaching assistant, Hyacine.
Even Aglaea, in her pompous apathy, a persistent example in how advances in knowledge cannot happen without conflict and disagreement– Anaxagoras’ only regret is how those advancements are lost in response to mutual misunderstanding.
“Brilliance is a lonely pursuit.” Cerces had said once. “As the minds of humans are oh-so-easily influenced by the perceptions of others.”
They looked at Anaxagoras, their expression one that he can’t quite read.
“I suppose that is why you are so different from any other that have crossed beneath my branches, back there in the Grove of Epiphany.” They said in a lilting manner, as if they’re amused. “You’ve lived a lonely life.”
Anaxagoras had inhaled sharply, hating how cutthroat the observation landed, despising the way it flared the natural fragility of his accursed human heart.
“So tell me, child of humanity.”
Anaxagoras stands in the darkness of the Vortex of Genesis now, looking at a small collection of those who would, impossibly, mourn him and miss him. The Coreflame pulses beneath his hand in replacement of his heart and soul. He’s colder than he’s ever been, more devoid than he ever was, and yet–
Cerces had inclined their head.
“Was it all worth it?”
It’s truly a shame, Anaxagoras thinks, that this is the life we are meant to live, that every person here has been driven to different lengths of the same kind of agony.
But no more.
Anaxagoras smiles.
Not if he has anything to do about it.
“Farewell, everyone.” He lifts his chin, squares his shoulders, determined to carry himself with pride and confidence, all the way to the end.
He sees Phainon tense. He sees the corners of Aglaea’s lips draw tight.
He wonders what Hyacine would do, if she were here.
He wonders if Castorice knew that he would not be meeting her in that field of flowers.
Do not mourn me, he thinks to say but he thinks twice of it. Instead, Anaxagoras meets the eyes of each of those who have come to witness his death, solemn and steady.
And Anaxagoras smiles.
“May we meet again in the next life.” He says, quiet and even, a genuine, last wish of a dying man.
He turns away, places a hand over his chest, right where his heart would be.
A feeling akin to crackling, buzzing electricity rises beneath his skin, surging forth from an unseen source. It reminds Anaxagoras of the Grove of Ephiphany’s final days, the feeling that drove him to run even as his legs were already devoid of strength.
Adrenaline, then. A natural response to a perceived threat.
Because at the end of the day–
He is human. He is living. And so, he is bodily afraid to die.
As for emotionally or mentally–
Anaxagoras curls into himself, bracing his weight against the ground when it feels as though the world is spinning, rotating with a force so violent, he genuinely fears losing his balance. The feeling continues to build, coiling tight beneath the palm of his hand, guided by his alchemy.
A flicker. A spark. Then–
A burst of flame-like green-blue from the back of his hand.
“Ghk–!” Anaxagoras staggers, his balance tilting forwards against his will under the weight of chilling agony. He stumbles, one step, two step, three–
The palm of his other hand lands on the ground. He lifts his head and grins.
For a brief moment, everything is quiet.
He sees his life before his eyes.
A childhood in isolation with a single person for comfort, for love, for companionship. Losing that person to the black tide and losing his faith in the process. An eternity of isolation in favor of brilliance, of innovation, of challenging that fragile side of what it means to be alive, to be a person.
Scoffing at the prophecy, even as it brings him into the company of those who will now mourn him when he is gone.
He sees the visage of Cerces, looming over him as he’s down on one knee, finally kneeling before a Titan as he likely should, looking every bit the regal deity that they are.
Anaxagoras laughs.
“Rejoice, Cerces…” He whispers, through the howling in his ears, the deafening pounding of a heartbeat in his head.
Lifted by a power he is to claim at the mere cost of his humanity, his self, and his life, Anaxagoras rises, his hand sinking into the empty hollow of his chest.
“I will sow the seeds of ‘Suspicion’ in the new world–”
A pain so severe seizes him, then, sharp enough to nearly break his focus if it wasn’t for the fact that his senses have long since been dulled to the concept. So even as it tears through his body, ripping through his very atoms and shredding the fragile sinews and strings of muscle that still exist within him, Anaxagoras forces his hand deeper within his chest, reaching until–
–It’s hilariously easy to wrap his hand entirely around the Coreflame of Reason.
The moment right before he moves, Anaxagoras sees Cerces smile in his mind’s eye.
“With your soul–!”
The immediate moment after the Coreflame is removed, it’s quiet. Blissfully so.
Anaxagoras has forgotten what it is like to be without pain as he holds the Coreflame up and laughs, low and somewhat maniacal. The accursed Coreflame of Reason is the last thing he sees as he fades.
With that, the work of Anaxagoras of the Grove of Epiphany is finished.
That is all.