Chapter Text
In the past, "Reason" granted the holy city a seed. Now, this seed has become a garden, passing down wisdom and nurturing life for this broken era.
Despite bearing Reason itself, Anaxagoras not for a moment delighted in the Holy City. The nonsensical chatter of busybodies bustling about, joined by their avarice masked by their beliefs— absolutely appalling. A majority of the population was witless at most, urging him to extract his coreflame and perish.
Though, by doing so, he would only satisfy the wretched Goldweaver. After all, controlling would be but an understatement; her 'governance' is the epitome of terraforming. She, who has no vision but one for the prophecy. Always willing to utilize people, no, pawns for a 'greater good' that is not even certain. Her cynical threads constantly tugging at all motion renders him infuriated. Oh, how he despised Okhema.
But not today.
He felt euphoric, as the grass bristled against his ankles. Grounding himself, as if the soil cultivated all of life. It was like Cerces' seeds were within his grasp. He then exhaled, as an attempt to contain his rapture. Instead, gratification heightened as he takes sight of the Garden of Life. Every swift and calculated stride reflected his conviction, undying. They represented him too, in more ways than one. Though even having died twice in his life, he could not have felt more alive than that of present day. The echoes of his footsteps declared order in the court, yet he stood furthest from harmony.
The chimeras began to snore, though it wasn't even the parting hour. Little red hair were basically conjoined with colorful fur, which Tribbie was gently trying to brush off. Her day was uneventful, yet, unbothered. Perhaps, simple moments such as these are what grant us excitement for 'tomorrow'. Tomorrow, she'll sit with her fellow Chrysos Heirs, sipping tea and eating Janus' Double-Sided Pancake, at the end of the west wind, where fresh flowers bloom.
It's not tomorrow yet.
Tribbie doesn't know if it will be the following day or a hundred more years. Maybe, the black tide will pose as the final threat for the Flame-Chase journey instead.. yet that will be tomorrow, a distant tomorrow.
But tomorrow can wait. Today? Tribbie is embraced by the warmth of the Garden, and she is content.
Viridescent hues are common in a garden.
Yet when on one's face, it only conveys disgust. But why was it that there was an abundancy of unpleasant expressions on several characters? After all, they were at the home of tranquil. Numerous whispers could be heard no matter where you stand at the scene. In truth, 'disgust' was to put it lightly. The rate of when heads turned, sighs delivered, and people racing towards the exit were more than sufficient evidence to the thesis statement that is, Okhemans carried blatant loathing, at least during this very moment.
A zephyr. No, a tempest.
Tribbie immediately stopped as soon as she caught a glimpse of that eye. It may only be a breeze that passed, but a tornado stands in front of her. A man she has not seen in countless seasons, here in Okhema. Even Titans would know his hatred for this city. Still, his mint green hair landed perfectly on his shoulder, thin as a brush. His wit was evident just by his elegant clothing and his assertive stature. Anaxagoras— No, she couldn't take it anymore. How could she pretend that he would be a stranger; outcasting a Flame-Chaser she's worked hand in hand with, no matter how many times Oronyx has turned their hands? Naxy, oh, she missed him.
Forgo the words, their golden blood lie within the same veins. Though hers has seemed to have gone cold— or maybe, his did too. He panted, scanning the ground before meeting her gaze.
Not even Aglaea's threads would have foreseen this event. Perhaps Anaxa would have liked that, unlike the lack of conversation they shared. Their language was water behind the dam, on the verge of pouring out, yet held back, so to speak. Tribbie is sure that he has already observed the same, and so, it would be safe to assume that he would be irritated.
"You haven't changed," he muttered before she could initiate. Something in his gaze shifted, yet he said it as his lips curved. The Sage always spoke with brevity, before he pivoted towards whence he came.
"You can't just say that by looking at us , not knowing what we had to go through just to smile , even if it didn't feel like it belonged to us, then leave because you don't care for what we have to say!" Tribbie blurted out, whilst she held onto his clothes.
Anaxagoras was unshaken, still walking. But Tribbie knew better, she couldn't afford to miss him again.
"We lost Trianne."
He finally met her eyes once more, with an expression unreadable. The corners of his lips pulled downwards, and his brow furrowed, contemplating. That's when Tribbie knew he was no different.
His mouth opened, "..Oh." He closed it again.
During his silence, Tribbie couldn't help but study the man before her. It was no secret that he was frail, but he was deteriorating in ways that were almost impossible to ignore. His eye was sunken, pupil lacking the kind of fire that rivaled that of his Coreflame. His sleeves looked baggier, longer. She could practically hear his heartbeat, if that is what she's hearing. Not to mention, his legs that tremble ever so slightly, that he treats as if it was calculated. She knew better than to believe his facade. After all, it has always been in his nature to be self-destructive. He makes transactions unaware of the cost, then claims to know what he's doing. Things like these hurt her, when people hurt themselves.
"I'm sorry," he musters up the courage to say. ".. I'm sure she would have been proud to see you and Trinnon, making your best efforts for the Prophecy."
It took Tribbie a moment to process what he said. Blinking twice to bring herself back to reality, after, well, basically overanalyzing him. Yet by his words, this wasn't like him, no. He was the guy who was always saying weird things, but not in that sense. Why is his confidence faltering? The Prophecy is but a fallacy to him, so why is it that he speaks in a whisper, encouraging her to keep believing?
"It's okay.. thank you. Just stay, please, Naxy. We don't want to lose anyone right now," she paused, eying his shoes. "or at all."
Just then, something in his gaze flickered, jaw shifted, as if he were to say something, but he never did. His breathing was shallow, quiet. She then took a seat by the cliff. He stared at her for a moment, then followed her footsteps. He, on the other hand, remained standing.
"You've changed," she mumbled, staring into the sky. She carried a sad smile, but kicked her feet in the air subtly, mimicking a happy child. However, Anaxagoras was a scholar. He knew better than most, definitely more than that woman harboring no emotion. "You're disappointed?" He asked, tentatively.
Tribbie paused. Her legs animatedly froze mid-air, as if she were a statue. Maybe it would be fitting, the way she bears Janus' essence. Though even their Gift would not predict his tone, How he spoke lightly. Mind you, this was the Grand Performer in question.
"No," She answered almost immediately. "Might I say, I'm concerned."
His eye widened for a nanosecond. Easy to miss in a blink, but Tribbie caught it. "Surely, you jest?" Anaxagoras asked rhetorically.
"Naxy, We know we can't force you. But if there's something you want to say, the door is always open. If you can't share it as Anaxa to Tribbie, then from one Demigod to another." The words flowed out her voice, unfiltered.
"There is no reason for you to worry," he rejected, "All is within my control. My soul remains constant, how is it that you sense something different?"
Tribbie didn't appreciate that answer. If she were to guess, it would have been almost a default thing for him to say. Even so, she feels that she may only watch. Perhaps, things are as he says. She faced him once more, "Maybe it is unwise for me to make an argument with Reason personified. As Passage, I just don't want your route to be cut short."
Anaxagoras' brow furrowed in confusion. He ultimately dropped the subject, finding time to respect this instance with Tribbios instead. Standing by her, at the Garden. He took into account that the crowd, that spoke in whispers and venom about him, had dispersed. All that was left there was Aquila's sky, as even Oronyx's hands were almost forgotten.
In light of this, Tribbie realized that it had almost been an hour since Anaxagoras has step foot in the Garden. Holding no desire to squander his opportunities, she stood up, recounting the occurrence. Then, she gently spoke, "Are you tired, Naxy? We strongly recommend you go to the Overflowing Baths. We know it's against your usual thing, but it would help you feel more.. rejuvenated."
He chuckled at that, lightly. He didn't reply at first, stalling to see if she'd continue. Eventually, he responded, "You humor me, Tribbios." Yet, as soon as the words left his lips, he caught on to how her expression saddened. "I'll take that into consideration." He lied, knowing he wouldn't ever decide to visit, yet he refused to burden her.
"Thank you for today; I shall take my leave." Anaxagoras gestured, aware that his experiment must progress further.
She nodded at that, almost knowingly. "May Cerces safeguard your thoughts."
Being part of the first Flame-Chasers, Tribbios has watched Anaxagoras plant his own seed and sprout. He was filled with ambition, no, passion that cannot be rivaled. They admired him, even if the man was declared a heretic; he wove his own story, shaping his Prophecy. During his prime, he made revelations left and right. Had the world been modern, he would have won numerous nobel prizes by now. Alas, he is now withering, failing to water nor meet sunlight. He is a mystery to most, and she fears that he may be one to himself, without knowing. She can sense the void in his chest, not just literally, but figuratively as well.
That's what changed— his boldness, the nerve, they trip. He's second-guessing himself. There's something he's hiding, she's sure. There's restraint, weakness. He is fearful, yet straightens up because she is aware that he thinks he doesn't have a choice. What caused this change? She doesn't know. Is it accumulation or occurrence? Tribbie doesn't want him to be a trainwreck. She is aware something is wrong, yet she can't tell clearly what it is. If anything, she wishes she could tend to him, like a little chimera. She knows he's stubborn enough like them, but at the rate he's driving himself to madness, he might need to be taken care of like them too. She'll never say it though.