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When the time came for her declare Anaxagoras’ death sentence, she hesitated.
It was a mere formality. His body would crumble soon enough, even if Okhema didn’t crucify him, even if he hadn’t declared himself deserving of it.
Part of her had figured this was his plan, at least to some degree. Secretly, his quiet demeanor over the past few days had unnerved her, and she’d been waiting for him to finally begin his performance. And he’d performed like only he could.
And now he was going to die – by fate, by his own madness, and by her word.
It took only one moment of silence from her to make Anaxagoras lose his patience.
“Enough with the hesitation, Aglaea,” he said, smiling viciously. It was a different kind of viciousness than the one he’d just displayed, separate from his mad genius and from his pride, and distinct from the arrogant distaste he showed Caenis. This was a viciousness he seemed to reserve for no one else but Aglaea, the same one she’d chosen never to examine too closely, lest she go mad too. “This is not like you.”
Loathe as she was to admit it, he was right. She took a breath.
Gaze boring into his, she swore to the gods that Anaxagoras would die.
(When he finally did die a few hours later, a walking corpse turning to golden dust as Cerces’ Coreflame – his Coreflame – left his chest, he didn’t look at her.
Aglaea was empty. The extent of her emptiness was such that it had horrified even a lunatic like him.
She wasn’t capable of heartbreak; not anymore. But her breath could still shake.
And so it did.
Twice in one day. The nerve of him.)