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It was arrogant but fragile Aglaea that ran away from the light of Okhema that she found herself in the deepest depths of the more abandoned areas of the heart of the city. Despite Okhema being encased in a glass sky of blue and light, the poor hid within the shallowest of shadows to spare their dignity from being seen and shunned. It didn’t hide their humble clothing which were more like ragged, dull tatters sewed and fused together in a crude manner, and it certainly didn’t disguise the grime on their body that indicated a shower was far from a simple routine and more like a luxury to them.
Aglaea saw the way they looked at her. Some eyes were mixed with fear, others with an anger that she was only beginning to know the surface of, and hope. That fragile light lifted their spirits, far more gentle and soothing than the intense blaze of the light from Kephale overhead. It was that very hope that resolved Aglaea’s startled but determined heart, still pulsing with humanity even with her divinity, to venture deeper within.
At the time, Okhema was still a vast, overreaching city that touched even the ocean with its ports. But the pinnacle of greatness still harbors some faults for corruption, failure, and disappointment to flow into and eventually spill over with time and no effort to seal them away, to mend those cracks that tarnish not only the city but the people that fall within that abyss. So as Aglaea grew to know the dark side of the moon, she began to steadily rebuild it. Old, crumbling buildings no longer in use were renovated, an institution to house the homeless was organized, access to clean water, the oversight of city regulations, and the scheduled rebuilding of public spaces was also negotiated with the Council of Elders, all successful through Aglaea’s smooth tongue.
And yet victories themselves harbor losses on their own. The reconstruction of some of the poorer sections of Okhema were delayed, on hold, or completely put to a stop solely due to a variety of reasons: a lack of manpower, the failed upholdment of regulations, funds that were acquired through ill means and so on.
“Excuses.” Aglaea had spat without a second thought, “Okhemans are in need of our assistance, the leaders of this city that has prospered through trade, connections, and pride, and yet you attempt to prevent these simple tasks from being executed due to a problem we could easily solve? When has Okhema ever worried about thinning finance? When has there been a lack of manpower in this city of hundreds of thousands? You cannot possibly call yourself a Council of the Elders aligned with the interests of the people by choosing who you get to call true Okhemans between supposed ‘street rats of unfortunate fate.’ It is utterly unacceptable.”
For all of her confidence, Aglaea was met with equal scorn. Counter after counter was her claims, made in her anger and frustration, met with. And each time it felt like a fatal blow to her golden but glass heart.
And so, she ran. Not yet was she the responsible leader that Amphoreous would come to know over the last few hundred years of her life before her departure, so she often found herself running back to those colorless, quiet streets occupied by beggars, thieves, and the starving alike. More and more would their suffering presences bring down her heart already so heavy with helplessness. Only a few hundred years and she already feels like her shoulders cannot bear the weight that destiny has beckoned her to uphold.
Useless, useless Aglaea. She insults within the walls of her very own head. Always the troublemaker you are.
Her angry steps turned tired and fatigued, her clenched fists that had formed from the room with the Council of Elders and stayed to this lone part of the city finally unfurled and hanged uselessly at her side. The golden threads around her tremble and sing a sad melody, speaking of melancholy, regrets, and disdain. Her hands, so used to weaving beautiful garments of clothing, trembled with that empty tune.
And then, her sharp ears, long used to being the pupils of her eyes, caught the scent of music. A viola…no, a violin. Its tune seemed low and mournful, but Aglaea caught the undertones of arrogance and confidence she so often familiarized herself with. She followed the music drifting along the wind, weaving between the branches of trees and along the stones beneath her until she finally stopped at a large building in both length and height. The building looked fairly taken care of from a distance, but if one made the effort to reach the building itself, it would be obvious that the sight from afar was all a lie. Bleached white limestone from atop reduced to crumbling stone that shed paint in its wake.
It was a disheartening sight, because the closer Agalea came to the doors that had been left open slightly ajar just enough for the melody to escape, she could see the layers of unkempt dust over what used to be the intricate love of carved art. Whichever architect dedicated their soul to this work, it was obvious that they had adored it. The care represented through the meticulous structure to the fine details were all thoroughly imagined, a masterpiece that was made for the world is now eroding in the heart of a poverty stricken sector of Okhema.
Aglaea slips through the doors, no longer unable to bear witnessing such a tragic romance and follows the music instead. But winding halls left discarded continued to trap Aglaea in the same somber sight until she could only grow numb to its tales, and finally, when looking over the corner of a wall to where the music is the loudest, she is met with the golden string of her command sitting stock still with a patience and control even she is surprised the person before her beholds. Judging by their breathing, the sound reflecting their image, and the golden string making out the silhouette of this character, the person before her is a man.
Even without having exchanged words, Aglaea could easily deduce that this man harbored unparalleled beauty. Using the reflections the violin made after being translated by her ears, she could sketch out a long and graceful back that stood as firm as a tree, his arm holding the bow moving with the precise expertise only a professional practicing the art of music for decades of years could only have, his eyes were closed, his ears captured by the music he was producing, the fingers holding the neck of the violin were strong and quick.
But suddenly, the music no longer sounds like a collection of delicately weaved notes to make a coherent song. There were a few subtle mishaps along the way, the way he held his bow indicated he preferred it to lean on one side more than the other, and the way he held himself wasn’t as fluent as a man lost in his music, more like…an instructor giving a lecture to his class about the most important topics they will ever learn throughout their history of that course.
“A scholar?” Aglaea murmurs.
The music stops abruptly—right in the middle of a note that was meant to hold—the man turns around. There is no more noise to reflect his image, so Aglaea can only assume him turning around with the shuffle of his clothes and a face empty of an identity.
“And who may your uninvited self may be?” A sharp tongue, Aglaea easily catches with hints beyond those deliberate words. Now it’s no wonder for the arrogance in his song.
She decides to properly leave from the corner, stepping forward enough so that she stood a far distance from the man and just at where the doors opened.
“An onlooker.” She replied with a smile. “Your melody caught my ears, but you’re not a musician, are you?”
The man chuckles, she catches the sounds and forms the shapes of his lips. His cupid bow, the corner of his mouth, even the soft dimple that burrowed shallowly in his cheek. He was young, probably only in his twenties.
“Your clothing is of brocade, something only the people of this part of the city can only hope to obtain in their wildest dreams. You’re not a noble, not a part of the Council of Elders, nor just a regular citizen…” He leaves his words off like that, the sound of his voice forming the final pieces she needed to shape his face: his cheekbones became obvious, sharp, defined and yet dashingly beautiful. His skin fell over those angles like a waterfall, revealing the shape of his face. His eyes were slightly angular and narrow, but they held themselves in high regard. The eyebrows that framed his eyes were thin, but thick enough at the edges that met with the slope of his nose to allow his expressions to be properly emphasized. He was breathtaking.
“A scholar.” She repeated, loud enough for it to echo to the high ceiling overhead, to the intricate chandelier that was far from functional.
“Aglaea, the Chrysos Heir who took upon the divinity of Mnestia.” He returned at the same time, each word equally as leveled but no less confident. “I’m aware of the control you have over this city, but I thought I would be lost within the chaos of this large expanse that you wouldn’t be able to capture me. Perhaps I was too foolish because now I’m faced with the one and only.”
He wasn’t wrong. Aglaea only recently installed the golden threads that connected everyone’s thoughts to her own through a one-way passage only she could see and hear. Everyone’s emotions were hers to open like a thousand pendants, but she could only focus on a few thoughts at one time, even less with emotions. But with this man standing in the heart of this lone ballroom, crumbling walls folded well enough to allow echoes to travel, and large enough to make even the most tangled of threads decipherable, his single golden thread stood out like a bug trapped in a web.
She hears a click. The man was in the process of storing his violin away. Her heart, simple and still pulsing with humanity, jumped. She still yearned to hear that melody continue. Even the Demigod of Romance, not yet torn away from her people by the gulf called divinity, had desires that were no less selfish than anyone else’s.
“Your melody sounded like a child’s lullaby and a dirge, at the same time, it held the present notes of your own life as a scholar, am I correct?”
The man stops, his hands still so quietly that even Aglaea has a hard time figuring out their presence. Then he smiles.
“Is the Demigod of Romance attempting to keep me here? You’ll find nothing of use, I’m only a feeble scholar.” Another click, he sealed the instrument away and stood up properly, his spine stock straight. “Farewell. This city was a lax trip for a tired, uninteresting scholar such as myself.”
He walks past her, the golden thread binding them together stretching further away as he walks past her.
“What’s the song’s name?” She asks, turning around and determined to know. Fragile Aglaea had not enough courage to ask his name.
A gentle draft blows, revealing his smirk.
“It’s an original.” He answers, leaving her alone in that already lonesome ballroom. What banquets did this eroding beauty once witness? How lonely was it when it discovered that a dance of simple performance would be its last after it has lost its glory?
Why didn’t she ask for his name when she knew she would never cross paths with him again?
Aglaea ventures into the city of Okhema like any other day. Although the baths are her sanctuary, it cannot be the only place she aquaints herself with. It would swiftly become a prison rather than an escape, so she returns to that hidden corner of this sun kissed city. The Black Tide had long stolen Okhema from its thousand ports, the city sectors, the outskirts, and even more people that could outdo Talanton’s scales. Now, her golden threads and this overstretching light were the last line of defense after five hundred years have passed.
Tensions are high between the citizens and her Chrysos Heirs as she weaves through the city’s labyrinth, earning her glares and wary glances by people of all ages and origins. A grand performance was to be expected by that Anaxagoras who had left for Dawncloud, and a vote to determine the fate of Okhema was to be held soon. It was a trouble that seemed like a fight between the Chrysos Heirs and the people of Okhema—whose patience and hope have thinned considerably—but in truth, it was a battle to see who could sway the scales of the people’s hearts with both choices being the Chrysos Heirs and the Council of Elders.
And even though Aglaea had already discussed the plans with the Trailblazer, Phainon, and her teacher, she still felt a worry that even the warmth of the baths couldn’t wash away. So she traced back to her memories and allowed the familiarity of this place to swallow her away, even if only for a moment.
Since Okhema had been chipped away like a mural that has long lost its luster, every bit of the city has been renovated and made anew. The institutions she fought so hard to establish were now required by city law, and whenever there were people or animals in need, no one walked past them without a second glance. It was a warmth and future that Aglaea no longer had to fret over. Because now that the Chrysos Heirs have gained victories over the past few hundreds of years, the Okhema of then will no longer be the Okhema of now.
Even so, this ballroom was still left of the past. It had long been fixed and repainted, the carvings now a different pattern, the walls no longer crumbling, but it was still not used often. There was a proposal to rid this ballroom completely and replace it with housing, but Aglaea took one look at the papers and simply denied them permission. She gained backlash for it at the time, but the rumors would die down and then this haven made of memories would still remain untouched. It was selfish, nothing of the selfless love she had so constantly given, but among the millions of desires she has ever harbored, this was one selfish thing she allowed herself to have.
She opened one of the large doors, leaving it ajar to let wind in, and ventured deeper within. No longer did the walls reek of melancholy or coat the soles of her shoes with dust. The building was reconstructed just enough to stand for another few hundred years before repair, keeping its former glory in the shape. The designers were allowed leeway to redesign some aspects, like the carvings on the walls and additions that made this ballroom seem more dignified, but when Aglaea reached that corner, walked down that hall, and pushed the large doors open to reveal the ballroom itself, she saw the glistening chandelier hanging from its looming ceiling, and the levels of balconies that encircled the walls. A mosaic of glass made of colorful hues on the sides of the ceiling formed the stories of the Chrysos Heirs and allowed the light to filter in fragments of colors.
When Aglaea closed her eyes, she could still hear that mournful, cocky melody. Back then, when the city fell asleep, she pored over the libraries for an unnamed scholar adept in the arts of music, confident that he had excelled in something worthy of being immortalized. She listened to all varieties of hymns and songs from differing city-states until she collapsed from exhaustion on her table, the unpaused music haunting her dreams until morning. Now, she only savored that melody in memories, an unreadable expression on her face as she created the images of this ballroom with the clicking of her heels. She dances on her own, her arms holding emptiness, the music an imagined tune only she remembered.
A golden thread, sharp and amused, connects with her. She ends her dance with a bow, opens her eyes and sees nothing, before turning around to face…
“Blasphemer.” She practically spat that name out. “Shouldn’t you be in Dawncloud?”
“Hah…” Anaxagoras sighs, walking closer. “I should be asking you a question of similar nature.”
“After all, you’ve always been interested in my whereabouts. So strange how you attempt to avoid my golden threads and yet you’ve seeked me out yourself.” Aglaea says with a smile both amused and mocking.
“This much is obvious. I know myself better than you do, Aglaea, golden threads or not.” But he doesn’t stop in his tracks. Only when he is in front of her, close enough to hold her hands, does he stop.
“A dance?” Aglaea narrows her eyebrows, “Aren’t you worried that I’ll simply read your mind? It’s no secret you’re planning something big.”
Anaxagoras chuckles, holding out his hands.
“You only wish you could dig through my brain.” He whispers his response as if he was talking not only to her, but she ignores that fact and lightly takes his hands. In a more audible voice he says, “You must have a lot of dance partners. As expected of the Demigod of Romance.”
Her grip on his hand tightens until her nails dig into his skin. Despite how much control he has over his emotions, the golden thread sees through it and she catches a hint of his smile. It only makes her irritation inflate more.
“Are you calling me a whore?”
“No.” Anaxagoras pulls them closer, barely a breath away. What is wrong with him today? He’s acting like a parched animal. “Want me to be frank?” He pulls them down, and it's shocking that his core is as steady as hers, allowing them to lean low before he pulls them back up. “It’s only unsurprising that your beauty as the Demigod of Romance would give you the opportunities to hone your dance. It was beautiful.” Not a drop of sarcasm left his voice, it made her suspicious.
“You were there the whole time?” How much of her senses have dulled that she could not detect him?
His humming is the only response. At first, Aglaea thought it to be a sound of affirmation, but then, he’s humming a tune. Anaxagoras’s rich, deep voice makes the melody sound all the more alluring. There are some notes he adjusts to allow his voice to flow more smoothly and with some parts of the song, he adds more than just his throat as the vocals. He sings with only a tune until Aglaea can no longer keep up with his steps.
Because she remembers. She knows this song probably just as well as the original.
“It’s an original.” That man who had unknowingly captured her heart said with a smile, equally as cocky but less warm than the one Anaxagoras is giving her.
A smile of warmth and tenderness from Anaxagoras? What a joke.
She stops all together, his humming halts with her, but their hands are the last to part when she yanks them away. She feels his thread tremble with an emotion she has never imagined Anaxagoras was capable of feeling.
“I know what you’re doing.” She scowls, unable to reign in that fear, the anger, the longing that she thought she had severed so long ago. “You think that because you have a name to accompany your face that you can just go through with this selfishness? I’ve already stolen too much from the people of Okhema by keeping this cursed ballroom alive, and now I have to suffer you? The golden thread never lies to me. It’s of my own creation, after all. So tell me, Blasphemer, Great Performer, Dromas Draped in Finery, Anaxagoras, how dare you show up before me with your heart so willingly open for me to read?”
“The greatest extent of your selfishness wasn’t this building, Aglaea.” Anaxagoras pointed out with a knowing tone. “I’m sure you're dreadfully aware of the greatest sin you’ve ever held within your heart. Demigods are only humans with divinity, after all.”
You’re in love, Aglaea. His mind said through the golden thread, In love with—
She severs the single strand of silk between herself and him, cutting off the last of his thoughts. It attempts to rebuild itself, begging her for mercy, but she ignores its cries until it fades away into nothing. Now she could not hear his voice, feel his emotions, or clearly see him. What Anaxagoras has yearned for, to be unseen through by her strings, is now true.
His face is, once more, a voice without an identity.
“It doesn’t matter.” Aglaea said harshly, “You may not believe in the Flame-Chase Journey, but you know very well that as a demigod, I cannot be selfish. Especially for something as fragile and vulnerable as love.”
Anaxagoras doesn’t move as she strides past him, her footsteps turned angry and upset without anything to properly contain them. She hears the shuffle of clothing, and then his voice rings out, echoing in this large ballroom until she can imagine the face she’s hopelessly infatuated with.
“It’s a combination.” He said clearly.
Aglaea stops just at the doorway. She doesn’t turn completely, still needing to look over her shoulder, but then a single word quietly escapes her lips before she can think better of it: “What?”
“A medley between a childhood song passed down by generations, an elegy put into music for the dead of my home city-state, and an old tune played in the Grove of Epiphany. I can no longer play it, but it’s a combination of those.”
“The scholar I met long ago was born in a time where you haven’t even been born yet. How do you know all this?”
Anaxagoras sighs lightly, the silence was probably him pondering how to adjust his answer so that it didn’t reveal his performance. What a shame that Aglaea can no longer read even snippets of his head to figure it out before he replied,
“Being near death gave me many answers.”
Was he some reincarnation of that man? “Regardless,” Aglaea began, turning away and continuing her path down the hall, “I cannot indulge in this. That melody was a curse, this dance was a mistake, this… my affection is a blight on the Flame-Chase Journey.”
“So other Chrysos Heirs can have love but you can’t?”
Aglaea pauses once more, remembering the gazes of adoration in Phainon’s eyes when he caught Mydei doing anything: playing with the Okheman and Kremnoan children, sparring with weapons Phainon wasn’t even aware that Mydei knew how to fight with, and simply being affectionate to Phainon when they captured moments of intimacy at the baths. Love between Chyrsos Heirs was not an uncommon occurrence, but it’s because of their love that Aglaea doesn’t dare to have it herself. Sure, she doted on Cifera when she came around, but that didn’t mean she sought out something more vulnerable than mere friendship or familial bonds. She didn’t dare dip her toes in the pool of romantic love, the very thing that Mnesita and Cerces could not have for themselves.
“Of course not.” She walked without looking back. “We’re done talking about this.”
“Aglaea.” She didn’t heed to her name, turning the corner and leaving Anaxagoras alone like how he had once left her. This wasn’t revenge, this was just the blunt truth. She cannot have what everyone else has. Were they to be as selfish as they want, it would be at the expense of her people and the Flame-Chase Journey.
But Anaxagoras, that infuriating and alluring man, was also a persistent scholar. Of course he wouldn’t just leave her to run away. It’s so unfair how the only sound from him were footsteps, the click of his heels becoming fingerprints holding her wrist, and then lips onto hers. So he could run away from her all those years ago but she cannot at this very instant? What a selfish, selfish man.
And how much of this selfishness was irresistible that she immediately wrapped her arms around his neck and returned that kiss so intoxicating and guilty? What a bitter taste they shared in this sunlit hall of the ballroom made of memories and a past. What a warm and inviting feeling blooming in her heart as his hands held her with a gentleness she didn’t know he had. Her heart shatters and becomes undone at his touch, and when they finally let go Aglaea knows what she has denied herself of. She finally understands what shred of humanity she has abandoned without condition, the tether of humanity that allowed people to find light in the midst of darkness. The grief tears her away from Anaxagoras’s warm arms, away from his firm and gentle touch.
“Enough.” Her voice trembles just slightly, but she quickly composes herself and turns away. “Do not touch me, Blasphemer. You know just as well as me that this is a mistake, it’ll only set out to torture us.”
When she reaches the doors, she catches his words with her sharp ears and listens intently against her will:
“You’re the only person who thinks we’re a mistake.”
Even without a golden thread, she could hear the acceptance in his voice…along with a hint of somberness.