Archive of Our Own ^beta

PART I, INTRODUCTION

Anaxa finds you slumbering on a rock, in a manner reminiscent, in his opinion, of a cat, or a reptile. You are in the habit of finding such opportune locations like this and making them your temporary residence; as such, it is not difficult to stumble upon you by chance within the grounds of the Grove of Epiphany both when he is and is not looking for you. Today, Anaxa has been searching for you, which makes the encounter particularly fortunate.

He clears his throat and approaches you. “Philosopher,” he says. You do not react, and remain sound asleep, your chest rising and falling with deep, even breaths. Despite the fact that you are resting, there are ever-present shadows circling your eyes which lend your eyes, when open, an uncanny sharpness. Your hair falls around your head in a tousled disarray of curls to form something of a halo which frames your face. If one were to compare your unkempt mode of existence with Anaxa’s own immaculate presentation, they could not be held at fault for thinking you come from different worlds entirely. 

“Philosopher,” he repeats, louder. Still you do not stir. With a sigh, Anaxa reaches over and plucks the olive branch you wear behind your ear from your hair in one swift motion. This wakes you. How exactly you can feel it, he does not know; but the method never fails. You spin around and face him with a scandalised expression, though your shock falls away when you see him. 

“Goodness, Anaxagoras, it’s you,” you sigh out. You stretch your arms above your head, stifling a wide yawn. He offers the olive branch out to you, and you tuck it back into its usual place. “I thought it might be more students coming to steal it from me for laughs. Was that truly necessary?”

“I tried to get your attention through other means, but they did not succeed,” he explains flatly. 

“Ah. In that case, I apologise for failing to notice you. What have you come for?”

Anaxa crosses his arms. “Do I need a cause to seek you out?” 

“Not necessarily, no; but considering your disposition, I would be surprised if you did not have one,” you reason. 

He sniffs a laugh. “Then you would be correct. I have come to ask whether you are in possession of that paper about the transmutation of the soul which we discussed a week or so ago. I haven’t seen it since, so I assume I must have left it with you by mistake, and I require it again for my research.”

You cock your head sideways in a bird-like fashion as you consider his question. After a moment, your eyes brighten. Despite the perpetual haziness of sleep still lingering upon your eyelids, your gaze possesses a remarkable clarity which betrays the astuteness lying behind your unsuspecting mien. “Ah, yes, I believe I know the one you refer to. I remember you reading it out to me. Recent experiments conducted on Titan creations have revealed a general trend which supports the hypothesis that notable similarities are present within the soul structure across both Titankin and humankind… ”

Anaxa inclines his head. “That is the one.”

“Mm. I was wondering why you did not take it with you, considering you know I cannot peruse it myself. To answer you, I have kept it safely with me. Here.” You reach into the folds of your rumpled white robe and withdraw a paper scroll. Anaxa accepts it wordlessly from your hand. He unfurls it, double checks that it is indeed the right paper, and, satisfied, slips it into his cloak. Rising to your feet with another yawn, you say, “If I may ask, what time is it now?” 

“It’s noon.” The sky, of course, is in star-flecked darkness as ever, but the Grove maintains a system of timekeeping which separates the night into two periods, of waking and sleep respectively, for the practical purposes of scheduling if little else. 

“Ah, wonderful. Noon is my favourite time of day, for it is when the mind is at its most active.”

“And I take it that is why I found you sleeping on a rock?” 

“Precisely, good Anaxagoras,” you reply with a twinkle in your eye. “Dreams are some of the most vibrant machinations of the human mind. Whether in sleeping or waking, midday is always the period during which I receive my clearest insights.”

“You were dreaming?” he asks. “What of?”

“A white crow and a screeching owl.”

Anaxa fixes you with a dubious look. “You may indeed receive insights, but I would dispute your claim to their clarity.”

You shake your head, and he perceives for a strange moment that you are somehow disappointed in him. “Dearest Anaxagoras, I am afraid you misunderstand me; but that is my fault, for failing to express myself sufficiently. Clarity does not always mean immediate clarity.”

“If that is indeed so, beloved philosopher of mine,” he returns, rolling the fond moniker drily over his tongue in turn, “you can regale me with your insights once you make sense of them. In the meanwhile, I shall return to my office. You may join me there if you so wish.”

PART II, PRELIMINARIES

Anaxa first met you when he was a fresh student at the Grove. Well, he says ‘met’; in truth, it was difficult to avoid you. You appeared on the grounds one day, seemingly out of nowhere, and began posing questions to whoever would listen to you, asking to know the meaning behind justice, knowledge, beauty, the soul—anything and everything that was studied at the Grove—before politely refuting all of the answers offered to you. 

At first, nobody took you seriously. You were labelled a nuisance, a sophist, a ‘gadfly’ who tormented students for no good reason. Anaxa himself took you for an oddity, interesting but neglectable. As long as you did not bother him, he cared little for what people said about you. 

His interest was piqued after hearing you discuss the nature of divinity with one of his classmates in passing. You were inquiring into the authority of the Titans, refuting the idea that they were so different from humans because of their capacity for misjudgement. He stayed and listened for a few minutes without being seen before continuing to his class. The conversation lingered on his mind for the rest of the day. 

After you won a debate against a professor who had come to put you in your place, neither Anaxa nor the Grove could overlook you for any longer. You were told to leave, invited to enrol, accused of leading the younger students astray; yet nothing, neither threat nor request, moved you. When your motives were questioned, you merely replied that you were a “simple fool in search of a morsel of knowledge”. It was as if the rest of the world had no bearing on you: all that existed was you and your quest for understanding. 

By this point, you had evolved from a mere speck on his radar to a matter which merited investigation; one which he was determined to decipher. That same day, Anaxa sought you out directly. He found you sitting on the grass, having been banned from the central campus grounds, surrounded by a small flock of crows and tossing them grain from your hand. He marched up to you and demanded, “Tell me everything you know about the nature of the soul.”

The crows took to the air in a flurry of dark wings. You watched them scatter before turning your eyes to him. He remembers the way your eyes twinkled with intelligence under the moonlight, your irises shot through with coloured streaks which glinted like shards of bronze. He has yet to meet another person who can hold his gaze and direct it back at him in the same way you can. 

“I’m afraid I don’t know anything about the soul,” you replied with a casual shrug. “It is a complete mystery to me, for I have never studied it. But perhaps, as a knowledgeable student yourself, you know something of value that you could share with me?”

The discussion which ensued carried on for five hours. You touched upon matters of divinity, identity, knowledge, truth, morality, purpose, moving through one topic into another as seamlessly as two streams converge into one and separate once again. By the time you finished, it was well past midnight, yet Anaxa had never felt so invigorated: while his body ached for sleep, his mind was more awake than it had ever been. You challenged him, made him consider perspectives he shunned on the basis of absurdity, forced him to question the assumptions underlying his beliefs that he had always taken as indisputably true. In turn he demanded you to take positions, to argue for conclusions rather than against them, and interrogated you with the same ferocity that you directed towards others. 

It was like you were caught in a highly synchronised dance or duel, playing off each other’s movements and meeting each other’s blades in perfect timing. Never before had Anaxa encountered somebody capable of matching his intellectual pace. He was unnerved, yet at the same time found himself irresistibly drawn to you, as if something within him was pulling him towards you, outside of his control. He is certain you would have spoken for longer had you not been interrupted by a foul-tempered professor who scolded you for keeping her awake. 

From that point onwards, Anaxa visited you more often, searching for you when he had a moment to spare between classes and conducting private experiments. He came to categorise you on the same level as his research: something of a passion, something of an obsession, a pursuit he could not abandon without losing some part of himself. 

(Yet the fascination he felt towards you was not only intellectual. There was something else which had snuck in quietly without his notice, planting its roots in the cracks that lay between the logical aspects of his nature: a fire stoked in his flesh rather than his brain, which excited the irrational parts of him and caused him to burn with a fervour he had thought himself immune to. This force, as he came to understand, was desire, and it is around this notion that Anaxa later developed his theory of the three components of the soul: one part reason, two parts longing, and three parts passion.)

Over the years, you gradually earned a begrudging sense of respect from the Grove’s academics. Anaxa’s own professor Empedocles, then the Sage of the Venerationists, took a liking to you and defended you from the more injurious condemnations levelled at you. Thus, though the rumours swirling around your name were still less than flattering, you acquired an unofficial following of sorts, which consisted of a small but dedicated handful of students and professors who were willing to engage with your reasoning, one of the most dedicated being an aspiring Nodist by the name of Aristocles. 

Despite this development, the majority of younger students as well as some older academics would still approach you and insult you in bad faith, or make a strawman of your arguments in order to better you. Anaxa despised such intellectual dishonesty. Any rudeness you were met with, however, you handled with perfect civility. Criticism and accusation slid from you like water. Once again, it was like other people had no bearing on you. Occasionally, Anaxa feared that this included him. But in the manner of all paradoxes incited by desire, your detachment served only to motivate him further: the more unattainable you were, the more he was determined to close the distance. 

After he established his own school of thought, Anaxa raised the possibility to you of doing the same. “You are certainly capable of leading your own school,” he pointed out, “and you have enough of a following to be successful in doing so.”

You replied, “I do not believe that restricting one’s scope of inquiry is the way to gaining true knowledge. If we are ever to discover the truth, we must remain open to every possible approach.”

He had expected such a reply and gave it little thought afterwards. Though perhaps, had you accepted the offer and officially affiliated yourself with the Grove, it could have assuaged, if not prevented, what was to come. For although the external world had no hold on you, your presence had all too acute an impact on the people around you. 

It was a conversation like any other, unremarkable in essence, which you were having with a couple of bright-eyed students on the topic of the soul. You said to them, “If you are making the claim that the soul is material in nature, you must prove it.” The students, newly enrolled and eager to give you your proof, did not suppose that you meant proof reached through argumentation rather than empirical investigation. They ventured into the wilderness beyond the Grove upon which, by a stroke of misfortune, the black tide had recently encroached; and, unaware of the danger, they met their ends at the claws of those corrupted monsters. 

Once news of this incident reached the academy, there ensued something of a scandal. The casualties were hushed up as the sages debated how to handle the situation. Many called for your punishment, while others, including Anaxa and Empedocles, defended your innocence on the grounds that you had neither intended nor could have predicted such an outcome. You gave no direct indications for the students to respond as they did: unfortunate as the accident was, the responsibility fell upon their shoulders, not yours, for they had the autonomy to act otherwise. Furthermore, had it arbitrarily been any registered professor in your position, they would not receive such extreme reproach. 

Eventually, on the grounds that the academy did not wish to alarm the students with the news of the deaths as well as the proximity of the black tide, you were pardoned, and the operations of the Grove of Epiphany returned, at least on a superficial basis, to normal. Yet an atmosphere of disquietude lingered on campus following the event. Anaxa himself felt the effects of this unease: it was the first time he had truly perceived the possibility that you may be separated by powers beyond his control; that your presence by his side, and his by yours, was not granted by necessity, but rather by favourable circumstance. 

Both you and Anaxa had something of infamous reputations, and until then the comfortable assumption had underpinned your interactions that whatever consequences of this reputation did not affect him would not affect you and vice versa. The challenging of this supposition shook him deeply, forced him to turn his eye back on himself and what you meant to him: the first time he faced the possibility of losing you was also the first time the full extent of what he felt for you revealed itself to him. Not long after Anaxa made this revelation did Empedocles pass and Euthyphro, one of your most outspoken critics, took the mantle of the Sage of the Venerationists. Your presence in the Grove was now vulnerable in a way that it had not been before; the potential of separation was more acute than ever, and Anaxa’s passion flared even stronger in response. The force of his own fervour astonished him as much as it frightened him. 

Ought he to pursue this newfound fire? To ignore it? What was the most reasonable course of action? Did reason have any bearing in the territory of desire? He attempted to gauge your response to these questions through your subsequent exchanges, and from this determine whether or not you, too, shared his sentiments; yet you remained as you always had, untouchable and immutable, giving no indication that you were subject to those fevers of whim and passion suffered by the rest of mankind. He began to doubt himself, and as his doubt intensified, so too did his covetousness for that he was not privy to and did not—perhaps could not—have.

Since he first met you, Anaxa has burned in silence, a cold green flame flickering in the darkness of the night, striving in vain to illuminate a truth which is not there.

PART III, DEATH & THE WILL 

After teaching his final class of the day, Anaxa heads across the Grove towards his laboratory. He can feel he is close to a breakthrough in his research on the soul. For the last few days, that sensation which always precedes great discovery has been pulling at his edges like a fishhook drawing him forwards. The answers he seeks are in reach, waiting only for him to seize them from where they hang on their branch. 

As he approaches the Sacred Tree, a medley of voices floating up from the main path catches his attention. Among them, he recognises your voice, as well as those of his own students Meletus, Anytus and Lycon respectively. He hangs back and listens to the conversation unfold. Once the three disperse and you turn to leave, Anaxa makes his way over to you. 

“I see you’ve been speaking with some of my students,” he says, falling into step beside you as naturally as an apple drops to the ground, compelled to its end by an unchanging law. 

“Ah, so they are yours?” you say. “I was curious as to which school they belonged to, but yes, it makes sense retrospectively when considering their interest surrounding divine nature. We were having a fascinating conversation about divine justice.” 

“Is that so? Having taught them for two years now, I did not take them as the kind to seek out additional discussion of their own accord.”

“There are many sides to people which we may never know,” you reply simply. “Perhaps your teaching methods do not suit their learning style.”

Anaxa hmphs. “You may be correct; but if that’s indeed the case, I severely doubt they would be any more receptive to your own methods.”

“You know that I do not teach anybody, Anaxagoras,” you say. “I only try to learn from inquiry. Besides, ought you not to place more faith in your students?”

“A professor’s job is to make accurate judgements about his students, not to flatter them.”

“I suppose that is reasonable, although I do find it questionable whether the judgement of those who are professors is truly any less fallible than that of everybody else.” 

He does not reply, and you fall silent for a while. The two of you take a walk through the winding passageways of the courtyard in unspoken appreciation of each other’s company. Despite the ever-present darkness, the temperature is comfortable, and a pleasant breeze meanders through the foliage of the gardens. Such moments of quiet between you are rare; Anaxa takes the opportunity to savour it. The occasional student shoots you a strange look as you pass by—every year, newcomers to the Grove are shocked to discover that Professor Anaxagoras would keep such peculiar company—but these are minor intrusions you are both accustomed to, and they do little to hinder his enjoyment.

“Say, Anaxagoras,” you remark, breaking the silence, “are you teaching any further classes today?” 

“No, that was my last. Why do you ask?”

“There is a matter I wish to discuss with you.”

“Very well. You may accompany me back to my laboratory, and we will talk there.”

You spend the rest of the way talking about inconsequential matters, such as the weather and recent news from around the Grove. After arriving in his laboratory, you sit down in your usual cross-legged position in the middle of the floor while Anaxa leafs through the contents of his desk. “So, tell me,” he says, idly flipping open a series of experimental reports, “what is it you want to discuss?”

You tip your head sideways and pin him with a curious look. “You.”

Anaxa’s hand stills. “Me?” he echoes, arching a fractional brow in your direction.

“Precisely. It has come to my attention as of late that, despite knowing you for quite some time now, I know very little about you beyond what we discuss together.” 

“Quite the revelation to make after seven years of acquaintance,” he comments drily. “What do you wish to know?”

“What are you willing to impart to me?”

Anaxa swivels his eye on you. “Anything at all, philosopher,” he says. “You need only ask the right questions.”

You lapse into thought. After a few moments, you ask, “Why are you so fond of dromases?”

“They are calm, quiet, and have a good temperament.”

“Why do you value these qualities?”

He replies, “They make for agreeable companions.”

“I see. And is ‘agreeability’ the most important trait of a companion?”

“No.”

“Do you have any family?”

“Not anymore.”

“Is there anything sacred in your life?”

“What do you mean by ‘sacred’? If you mean divine, then no. If you mean something which is revered above all else, then yes. Truth is the single sacred thing in my life.”

“Really?” You frown. “I have always been under the impression that humanity is the thing you take as sacred.”

Anaxa folds his arms over his chest and regards you closely. “Why do you say that?”

“All I have ever seen you pursue in your research is that which benefits humankind. It seems to me that you use truth as a means of revering humanity, rather than the ultimate end in itself.”

“An interesting observation,” he muses, kicking backwards in his chair. “Is there anything more you want to know?”

You fold your hands together in your lap. “I don’t believe so. For the time being, at least, my questions have been satisfied.”

“Then, as dictated by the laws of equivalent exchange, I hope you would not be opposed to my asking you some questions in return.”

“Why, not at all.”

Anaxa considers the many things he could ask you. He could ask about your own family; your life before the Grove; whether you have a favourite animal, or why you never settled into a home of your own. Yet, out of all the potential questions lingering on his mind, there is only one which truly interests him above all the others. He says, “You expressed the belief that my end is not truth, but humanity. Then tell me, philosopher; do you believe that truth can be an end in itself?”

“I suppose I do, yes. One can seek truth without needing a supplementary goal.”

“Would you propose that reason is the means by which the truth is uncovered?”

“I would.”

“What makes you think reason is capable of transcending the will?”

You frown. “I am afraid I’m not quite sure what you are asking. Could you elaborate a little on precisely what you mean?”

“It is evident through observing the behaviour of humans that reason and the will are often in contention. When somebody acts unreasonably, we say this because they have followed their will rather than their reason.”

“I am beginning to understand your point, but, good Anaxagoras, please be clear for my silly sake—what exactly do you refer to when you say ‘will’ here? Desire? Passion?”

“Those would be accurate terms, yes.”

“But is there not a distinction between the two? As in, it would seem to me that somebody cannot be passionate about something without first desiring it, in the way that one who is passionate about cooking first desires good food.”

“Very well. Let us say that that desire is the root of passion, and the act of pursuing desire is what we call ‘passion’. If somebody, such as yourself, pursues truth, this would be because they desire knowledge of the truth. The conclusion is that truth cannot be an end in itself, because what lies at the base of the search for truth is the fulfilment of desire. So, reason cannot transcend the will, and is rather the slave of the passions. Desire is the force which governs us.”

You tip your head sideways and consider his argument. Something appears to be troubling you. Soon, you say, “I believe we have made a mistaken assumption in our reasoning thus far. Somebody can desire something yet choose against it out of their better judgement. Take once more the example of the person who is passionate about cooking. They may desire good food, and this desire may be what incites them to cook, but it will not always be the case that the choices brought about by their reason follow on from their desire. One day, when passing by their favourite food stall after having eaten a large meal shortly before, they may choose not to eat that good food out of the logical understanding that it would have harmful repercussions for their health, even if they do still desire the food. This would suggest that the will, as you put it, and reason can work independently of one another, and indeed that reason is capable of superseding the will.”

“Does not their concern about the repercussions arise from a different desire—the desire for good health?”

“That is true; I see now what you mean. You are suggesting that there will always be a desire which precedes the use of our reason. Perhaps you are right; but, unless I have misunderstood your argument, this seems to cause a problem of the regression of desires. If acting in accordance with the desire for good food is informed by the desire for good health, then what informs this latter desire? The desire for continued living, perhaps—and that is informed by the desire to avoid death? But why do we desire the avoidance of death? It seems that, if desire truly lies at the base of all human activity, we cannot explain what motivates us to act, or to use reason, for there will always be a preceding desire which influences the next. Indeed, if this were the case, we would not be able to act at all. So it still seems to be the case that reason, whose laws exist beyond our will, must at some point inform our desires, rather than the other way around.”

“Or, philosopher, there lies a fundamental, motivating desire at the essence of our being.”

“And there seems to be no way, at least not currently, of determining which it is for certain.”

“Hm.” He drums his fingers against the polished wood of his desk. “Assuming your view is correct, you would always strive to follow reason rather than passion?”

“That is so.” You pause. “Is that all you wish to ask?”

Anaxa considers this for a moment, before replying, “Yes.”

You nod and rise to your feet. “Very well. If that is so, I will be going now.”

“And where are you going, philosopher?” 

“I do not know yet,” you admit. “That is something I will discover once I have encountered somebody, and begin a new discussion. No doubt Aristocles will have something of interest to say if I happen across him.” 

You move towards the exit of the laboratory. Anaxa watches you from his chair, his eye following you with the close attention that a scientist lends its specimen. Or, rather, it is a case that his eyes naturally linger upon you, are drawn towards you rather than away. As you reach the threshold, you pause. He continues to observe you as you turn around to face him. 

“Upon further reflection, I’m afraid there is something I forgot to ask you,” you say. 

Anaxa spreads his hands out before him. “My answers are at your disposal.”

“What happened to your eye? I have always wondered how you lost it, for you do not seem the kind of person to place yourself in harm’s way.”

He feels a smile twist on his lips. He leans backwards in his chair and beckons towards you. “Come. I will show you.” You walk over, stopping beside the desk and staring at him as you await the answer to your question. Anaxa arches a brow. “Closer, philosopher,” he chides. “I won’t bite.”

You oblige with his instruction and without hesitation climb onto the chair, sitting yourself on his lap so that you are straddling his waist with your thighs. Your weight feels perfectly natural on his legs, even comfortable. As if you cannot help yourself, your hands immediately rise to hold his face. You lean closer, peering down at him with a ruminative quality to your expression, like he is a difficult metaphysical concept you are trying to grasp. 

“The loss of my eye was a foolish misjudgement on my behalf,” Anaxa explains casually. The feeling of your hands on his skin is making his stomach twist, but he keeps his voice and his gaze perfectly unaffected. “An attempt to bring my sister back from the River of Souls. Naively, I thought that one eye would be an equivalent price to exchange for her life.”

“I am sorry to hear that.”

“Why do you apologise? It is useless to linger on what is already done.”

You make a thoughtful humming sound, walking your fingers across his brow and down his nose. His eyelashes brush against your palm. Your hand continues wandering its way around his face until it comes to rest above the dark, embroidered cloth which covers his eye. You lean closer still, staring with that transfixed, apprehensive curiosity that precedes a groundbreaking revelation. The thought that your attention is entirely focused on him is thrilling. “May I…?”

Anaxa dips his head incrementally. “Go on.” 

You raise the flap of his eyepatch and gasp softly. For some strange reason, your surprise incites a flicker of satisfaction with him, and he cannot help but smirk. “How fascinating,” you murmur. You slide your fingers up his cheek and rest them below the star-filled chasm where his left eye used to be. Anaxa stares up at you with cool indifference from his other eye. Your proximity is such that your noses would touch if only he tilted his chin higher. “Is it painful?”

The sensation is difficult to describe. The best way he can put it is cold, understood as a complete absence of warmth rather than a degree of temperature in itself. Your fingers card through his hair while he considers the question. “Not painful, no. Rather, it feels like death.”

“An interesting turn of phrase that you use there, Anaxagoras,” you observe, winding a pale green tress around your finger. “Does this mean you no longer hold that death is merely negation?”

“Death does not exist,” he replies simply. 

You quirk a brow towards him. “On what grounds do you make such a claim?”

“I will demonstrate it to you. Tell me, philosopher, what does it mean to say that death is negation?”

“It is to say that death is no more than the point at which the individual ceases to exist.”

“By that logic, what would it take for death to not exist?”

“Why, for the individual never to cease existing, of course,” you say.

Anaxa shrugs, closing his eye as you continue to investigate his face. “And so my claim is simple.”

“I see. You believe that death does not exist, because you believe that the individual never ceases to exist.”

The hints of a smile creep onto his lips. “Precisely, philosopher. Now that you know, what do you think of my conjecture?”

“I am curious as to why you deny the cessation of the individual,” you reply, peering once again into the chasm of his left eye. Your fingers trace along the edge of the depression, dipping just barely into the blue void beyond. A cold shudder skitters down his nerves.

Anaxa says, “The ‘individual’ is nothing more than the soul, and the soul survives as long as the influence of a person continues on through others. Because the influence of every action a person takes stretches indefinitely into the future and touches an infinite number of lives, the individual continues to exist, and thus death, taken as negation as I would otherwise have it, does not exist. The only requirement for denying the existence of death is that people still exist in the future to receive the ripples of those actions. If there were to be a point at which no individuals exist to carry forth these influences, then yes, death would exist.”

“Your reasoning seems sensible, but how do you suppose you are correct?” you question, pulling your hand back from his eye. “It could be that you are simply mistaken in your definition of an individual, in which case death may very well exist.”

“I am working on proof,” he says. “When I find it, worry not; you will be the first to know.”

“You are very confident that you will succeed, Anaxagoras.”

He opens his right eye and pins it on you. “I am confident because there is no chance of me being mistaken. My proof is guaranteed. It is simply a matter of time.”

“I fear I may have judged too quickly.” You tap on his chin twice with your index finger. “Is it confidence with which you speak, or arrogance?”

Anaxa tilts his head so that it presses further against your hand. Your palm is warm, slightly calloused. “One cannot be arrogant when there is no room for doubt.” 

“And why do you not doubt?” you ask. “Is doubt not the greatest asset of the philosopher?”

“Doubt is the tool one uses to lead them to a conclusion. Once the conclusion is reached, doubt loses its purpose.”

“An interesting notion, though I am not quite convinced by it.”

Anaxa raises his brow. “Why do you doubt, philosopher?” he asks.

“I have too little faith in my understanding of matters to ever suppose I have reached a conclusion without overlooking something crucial,” you answer honestly. “Better to doubt what is true than accept what is false. In my experience, the search for knowledge is destined to be a pursuit without end.”

“Then why do you persevere?”

“It seems to me that value lies in the journey as much as it lies in the destination. If it were only ends which hold value, all of human existence would be utterly worthless.”

“Why do you presume that human existence holds value?” he presses. 

You sigh and lean away from him, your hands falling to your sides. Though you are still seated on his thighs, it feels as though the distance between you has multiplied indefinitely in length. Anaxa does not pull you back. He only continues to observe you through his one burning eye. 

“I am afraid it is because I am a hopeless optimist who does not know how to stop dreaming,” you admit in a rueful voice. Your gaze strays upwards as if you are perceiving a realm he cannot see. “In the absence of proof either way, I choose to place myself on the side of value. You may label me a fool for it, and I will not refute you; but I believe that the most human thing one can do is to try.” 

PART IV, GOVERNANCE & DESIRE 

With every night that passes since that exchange in his laboratory, Anaxa feels himself being consumed by a force he cannot control. Even in your absence, he cannot tear the sensation of your hands roaming his face from his mind, and the memory smoulders within him, turning slowly in his gut like a spit over a fire. It is evidence of your physicality; your existence on a plane where he can touch and be touched by you. Of course you have made physical contact before, and on many occasions, but this was different. This time, you felt the inside of him, and brushed against the abyssal frigidity which lies at his core with such tantalising closeness that he is certain, had you proceeded further, he would have been unmade by you, and he would not have resisted. 

The more he observes his own reactions and thinks upon them, the more he thinks you are correct: Anaxa’s end is not truth but humanity, and his means not so much reason as passion. In recognising this, he finds that he can pursue his research to even greater depths. He discovers in his 55th experiment that the souls of Titan creations bear a remarkable resemblance to those of humans. Though the dissection is a time-consuming one, and although the procedure leaves him with severe injuries, he could not be more satisfied with the results. 

This research occupies most of his time. The fishhook which tugged at him before has become an anchor line pulling him up towards the truth. He cannot detach himself from it: his will is at the mercy of his passion, which is itself drawn to humanity. When he succeeds, men will stand at the same height as the gods—no; they will surpass the gods, and never again be subject to their indifferent whims, their false prophecies. (In the low flicker of his oil lamp, the shadows he casts along the floor of his laboratory appear longer than usual.)

News comes to him through Hyacine that the black tide has been observed closing in on the Grove. The sages are scheduling a meeting to discuss their course of action. “Tell them to begin evacuating the Grove,” he says to Hyacine, without shifting his attention from his microscope. He has not set foot outside of his laboratory for four days. “There’s hardly a need for a meeting.”

“Are you saying that because you believe it, or because you don’t want to be distracted, professor?” she replies. In response to her insight, Anaxa is silent. Hyacine sighs. She knows arguing with him in this state is a lost cause. “If the other sages agree, are you going to leave with everyone else?”

He considers the question for a moment. It is somewhat tempting to say yes; to escape is to survive, and to survive is to continue his quest for truth, for humanity. Yet something even more tempting urges him to stay. In remaining at the Grove in the case of an assault, he has the perfect chance to test his hypothesis; even to prove it. “If the black tide is to attack the Grove of Epiphany,” he decides, “I will seize the opportunity.” He does not elaborate any further: already the formulations of his final experiment are piecing together in his mind.

Beyond what he hears during Hyacine’s routine visits to check on his health, Anaxa is ignorant to what is occurring elsewhere in the Grove. This extends to you. He is too infatuated with his findings to pay other matters any heed—though this does not mean he has forgotten you. Once the wave of focus breaks its crest and his concentration wanes, he determines to find you and share his discoveries with you, as well as warn you of the approaching danger. Though his intellectual craving is, for the time being, satisfied, his other craving has grown only more pronounced in the time you have been apart.

Anaxa searches the Grove for you in between lectures. More often than not, you elude him. Perhaps it is the lack of sleep rendering him less shrewd than usual, but you seem more difficult to locate than before. Whenever he does find you, you are locked in conversation with somebody else, his three students and Aristocles being among your most frequent interlocutors. On one occasion he overhears you discussing politics with the former group. It is a topic he has never spoken about with you himself, for when you are together your conversations tend to concern the philosophical rather than the societal. His curiosity compels him to stay a while and listen. 

“If you are embarking on a long journey at sea,” you are saying, “would you rather have the experienced captain steering your ship and plotting your course, or an inexperienced crew member?”

Meletus replies, “The captain, obviously.”

You nod. “I agree. Now, is it not true that generally speaking, due to the social and economic inequality found in all societies, the majority of the population of a city-state lacks the knowledge to make informed judgements about the affairs of that city-state?”

“Yes, that’s true,” he says. 

“And is it not the case that, in the same way you would not want an inexperienced crew steering your ship out of fear of crashing, you would also not want an uninformed population to dictate the affairs of your city-state, out of fear that they will lead it to its downfall.”

“I suppose that sounds right,” concedes Meletus. “But surely the issue there isn’t with democracy itself, and rather with how knowledge is distributed across society. If everyone were informed, it wouldn’t be a problem.”

“I would like nothing more than to agree with you, Meletus,” you say, “but how do we suppose that we can arrive at such a fair distribution of knowledge through democracy in the first place? Most people are naturally inclined to pursue their own interests over the general good, which is in this case the distribution of knowledge; and if this is so, the majority will always vote for that option which satisfies their own desires, rather than what would benefit others.”

Anytus interjects, “But do you really think that the other forms of government, such as the monarchy of Castrum Kremnos, are superior to democracy?"

“Ah, dear Anytus, take care that you do not jump to conclusions. Simply because I have my qualms with democracy does not mean I do not also have misgivings about other forms of governance. Indeed, in my view, the monarchic system of Castrum Kremnos contains flaws comparable to those found in Okhema’s democratic Citizens’ Assembly.”

“But you can’t just reject every form of government until there are no options left,” points out Meletus. 

Lycon expresses his agreement and says, “I’m not sure what to think now, either. What would you suggest as an alternative?” 

Your eyes brighten with the prospect of this discussion. “Now that, my friends, is an interesting question, and one which I am more than happy to examine. However, I predict it will take some time to answer; so I will only continue if you are all willing to lend your time and patience to the ramblings of an old fool such as myself.”

The three exchange a glance. “We have time,” answers Lycon.

“I’m glad to hear it. In that case, we must begin by settling on a definition of justice, for would you not agree that is the principle around which a good society is founded?”

“It seems that way, yes,” says Anytus.

“Then tell me: what does it mean for something to be just?”

As Anaxa listens to your conversation, a strange sensation, reminiscent of indignation but with a sharper edge, begins to whittle away at him. He knows he ought to be pleased that his students are developing their understanding by speaking with you, but he cannot bring himself to feel any true satisfaction. You are so at ease, as ever; there is no indication in your behaviour that his absence has bothered you at all. The gnawing sensation hones into needles of doubt. Could it be that, in these few weeks, your interests have diverged? Are you no longer concerned with his presence?

Anaxa reprimands himself for entertaining such childish and petty thoughts the moment they arise. It is hardly the first time he has retreated for a prolonged period of time into his research, and it has never impacted your relationship before. The only reason he is considering such notions now is due to this infuriating, captivating transformation you have incited within him: this dissatisfaction with what he has giving way to hunger for more. ‘More’, Anaxa knows, is the path to ruin. It is the force which brings men to their knees and eras to their ends, as well as the one no person can escape from. His sister wanted to grant him ‘more’. He has always given ‘more’ to his students, to his research, and spilt golden rivers of his own blood in doing so. He cannot help but wonder what he will lose if he pursues the ‘more’ of you.

(In the manner of any truth-seeker, the uncertainty of this outcome spurs him only further towards chasing it.)

At long last, Anaxa manages to catch you on your own on his way out of the Library of Philia. You look pleasantly surprised to see him. “Good Anaxagoras,” you say by way of greeting. The sound of his name on your tongue sends a rush through him.

“Philosopher mine,” he replies. “We have not spoken to each other for some while now.”

“Yes, that is so, isn’t it? It feels as though Meletus, Anytus, Lycon and Aristocles have been occupying all of my time recently.” You tip your head, your wide, sharp eyes falling on him. “And what of yourself? I take it you have been busier than usual, for I have not seen you around very much in recent days.”

“One could say that. My experiments have been progressing with much success.”

You nod. “You do appear rather more gaunt than when I last saw you. I suppose, then, that you have not heeded my advice about exercising care when it comes to pursuing your research.”

“Just as much as you have heeded mine about exercising caution around those who are hostile towards you,” he replies. To his knowledge, Euthyphro has been rallying public opinion against you in another attempt to have you removed from the Grove.

“True; but while I try to take my own advice, I have never once seen you place aside your principles in favour of protecting yourself from criticism.”

“Hypocrisy in practice does not necessarily nullify advice of its value. The fault in this instance lies with the person rather than the principle.” Though you express your agreement with a nod, Anaxa feels a twinge of impatience. “Enough of this superficial exchange, philosopher. There are more significant matters to attend to.”

You blink. “There are?” 

“There is reason to believe the Grove is under threat from the black tide. I advise that you join the evacuation efforts to Okhema, when they begin.”

A frown flits over your features at the mention of Okhema. “You are suggesting that I leave the Grove?” you ask. “Why, good Anaxagoras, do not tell me that Euthyphro has swayed you to his side, too.”

Anaxa does not respond to your jest and says plainly, “You lack the martial prowess to be of use in the case of a direct assault, and your presence would only hinder those who can fight by forcing them to worry about an additional individual.”

The candidness of his reasoning does not offend you. You merely shrug and reply, “These are indeed sensible grounds for your suggestion. Though, may I ask whether you also plan to leave?”

“Will my answer affect your own decision?”

“No; I simply wish to know what to expect if such a thing is to happen.”

“I plan to stay and complete my research,” Anaxa says, to which you sigh. 

“Then I am afraid you are speaking hypocritically once more. You used my lack of martial prowess and thus causing a hindrance as a justification in favour of me leaving, yet you yourself plan to stay despite having no more expertise in that field than I.”

He retorts with a smirk, “I may appear feeble, but I have my own methods of defending myself. You ought to know better than anybody not to judge by appearances, dear philosopher.”

“And if those methods should fail?” you question. “Your research is something you would risk death for?”

“My research and my students,” he says. “Or as you would put it, ‘humanity’. I will happily seek death if it promises me answers, for there is no true ‘death’ to fear.” He fixes his probing gaze on you. “Are not your own principles something you would die for?”

“I would rather you leave with everybody else,” you admit, “but I cannot refute that. Let us then hope that all of this speculation never comes to pass.”

Though Anaxa voices agreement, his conviction is half-hearted. He realises, with mild surprise, that he wants it to transpire. If the Grove is attacked, he is almost guaranteed to die, and you and the other scholars to survive. If not, and life continues as it currently does, not only does he lose the valuable opportunity to validate his theory, but Anaxa risks the possibility of living long enough for you to perish before he does. In the former case, the consequences balance each other out, and a comfortable equilibrium is reached. In the latter case, all of the outcomes are undesirable. 

He casts an eye across your surroundings. There are a few groups of students loitering nearby, not to mention some of those who are among your more consistent interlocutors. It is only bound to get busier as the day draws on, and the possibility that your dialogue will be interrupted is too great for his liking. Be it for only one conversation, Anaxa wants you to himself. This is something he has come to realise in startling clarity over the last few weeks of your absence.

“Is something the matter, Anaxagoras?” you ask, noticing his wariness. 

“Accompany me around the Grove, if you will, to grant us more privacy as we speak.”

“Why, it would be my pleasure.” You begin to walk. “What is it you want to talk about?”

He answers your question with one of his own. “What do you suppose is the fundamental distinction between humans and gods?”

You think briefly before replying, “One would have to posit the difference in our natures as the answer.”

“Why do you say so?”

“The distinction can hardly be something physical, for Titans can take on forms much similar to humans, and there seems no essential connection between their ability to change shape and their divinity. Kephale, for example, no longer can change their form, yet we would not say they are no longer divine. Even immortality cannot be the distinction, for the Titans are not truly immortal, as the black tide has proven. The most obvious answer would be that Titans are divine whereas humans are not, but I do not believe this response solves our problem.”

As you continue to speak, Anaxa finds himself hanging on the end of every word you say. Of course he listened to you attentively in the past, as is required of any philosophical conversation; but now he drinks in every word as would a starved man, and they spill down his throat like molten gold, like poison, scalding his innards as he continues against all better judgement to gulp them down. This desire, he is certain, is a disease; a maddening, feverish burning beneath his skin. It will drive him out of his mind. He ought to stop, he thinks, and chastises himself for showing such weak mental discipline. He cannot stop. Is this not precisely what he has been preaching this whole time, about the dominance of desire over reason? Ought he not to rejoice in the proof he has found?

“Anaxagoras?” Your voice rouses him from his spiralling thoughts. “Are you listening?”

“I am,” he says. “You were explaining the problem of distinguishing human flaws from divine flaws which underlies the current definition of ‘divinity’, understood as the ‘complete absence of human flaws and a state of completeness unique to the gods’. For instance, bloodlust in humans is considered a flaw, yet in Nikador it is spared such criticism and the trait is accepted as a facet of their divinity.”

“Indeed. If we are to place the distinction between humans at Titans as divinity, or the ‘complete absence of human flaws’, we must first determine what is a human flaw. But if a human flaw is not a flaw in a Titan because we accept that the Titan is divine, this is circular reasoning, as both sides rely on each other’s truth to be themselves true.”

“Careful, now, philosopher,” Anaxa warns. “It would almost sound as though you’re blaspheming.”

“It would not be the first time I have been accused of that,” you admit. You turn a corner as you speak and come face-to-face with a student who is vaguely familiar to him. You draw to a halt, while Anaxa lingers by your side, watching the following interaction unfold. “Ah, Phaedrus,” you say amicably, “how do you do?”

Phaedrus—Anaxa believes he recognises the name. He is studying under the Helkolithists, and Anaxa has seen you talking with him every now and again. “I’m doing well, thank you,” replies the young man. “Could I run by you my speech on rhetoric before I submit the final draft?”

“Little would please me more,” you say. “However, as you can see, I am currently speaking with good Anaxagoras here, and I would hardly wish to be rude and abandon him so suddenly. How about this solution: I shall seek you out once our conversation has finished.”

He nods. “Of course, yes, that’s no problem. Thank you. I’ll see you later.” 

You smile and bid Phaedrus farewell. Anaxa finds himself wondering at the way you so casually withdraw your focus from him and bestow it upon somebody else. It feels like theft—like he has been deprived of one of the bare necessities for living, such as water or food—yet you do not seem to recognise the power you hold over him, nor anybody else in that regard. You are too humble for your own good, Anaxa thinks: in supposing yourself to be a candle, you do not understand that you are the Sun shedding light on the truths of this world. Is this a failing of yours? He cannot help but wonder. Are you blameworthy for your own ignorance? You have always existed in your own exclusive realm, but it is no longer a separation Anaxa can accept. Now he yearns for closeness, and fears the cold and dark of the night more than ever. 

“As long as they intrigue you, you will lend anybody your attention, won’t you?” Anaxa asks. His voice drips with a languid sardonicism which masks the more corrosive emotion lying behind it. 

You tilt your head to the side, your focus shifting back onto him. “Well, yes. Engaging with others is how one learns.”

He grasps the back of your head suddenly and pulls it towards him, holding you in place so that you face him and him only. Your expression betrays your shock.

“And if I were to tell you that I wanted you to look at me? To watch me, above all else?” He leans closer to you, until a few hairs breadths are all that stand between you and him. His eye bears down on you, burning with the intensity of a cold green flame. “Could you do that?” 

“That would depend on what you have to say,” you reply, meeting his gaze steadily. 

“Would you not be tempted to do so by your less rational inclinations? Your own desire, for instance?” 

“There is the temptation, yes,” you admit, “but one does not discover truth through desire.” 

“Does one not? Can desire not strip us down to our barest components, enlighten us to the most fundamental parts of ourselves? Is that not also a form of truth?”

“You do have a point,” you reply, “but even so, the truth one learns through desire is limited and dependent on the individual. Perhaps desire can be revealing of a single person’s character, but not of the nature of such things as justice, goodness, or knowledge.” As you speak, your eyes begin to wander the space behind Anaxa. The loss of your attention is unbearable. He thrusts your head right back towards him, so close that your noses press together, clutching your hair so tightly that it bunches beneath his fingers. Your eyes widen.

“What if I told you that the Titans and humans are in essence identical?” he says in a low, cutting voice. 

You blink. “What?”

“If I said that I had reason to believe the Titans of today were none other than the Chrysos Heirs of yesterday, and that there lies no fundamental difference between us? If I said the nature of souls is memory, encapsulated within seeds of wisdom? Would that be sufficiently intriguing for you?” 

You stare at him in bewilderment. A smile curls at Anaxa’s lips. 

“Have I rendered the ever-querying philosopher speechless?” 

“These are grand claims to be making,” you say eventually, choosing your words carefully. “If you are truly convinced by them, I cannot overlook their implications, nor withhold from trying to understand them myself. How did you arrive at such conclusions?”

“If I tell you, in the manner of equivalent exchange, will you look upon me, and only me?”

“You know I cannot promise such a thing, Anaxagoras. I’m afraid that it is not an equivalent exchange which you entertain with this request, but rather jealousy. Do not let your judgment be clouded.”

“Whose authority do you cite to instruct me thus? Your own? You have never once had your judgement clouded by jealousy, nor desire, nor any other vice?”

You press your lips together. “I am the furthest from infallible, but I make efforts whenever possible to avoid any irrational inclinations which may affect the pursuit of truth.”

“I did not ask you a question for you to evade it, philosopher. Answer me plainly and truthfully. Have you?”

After a moment, you reply, “Yes.”

“In what way?”

“I was overcome by fear.”

“Why?”

“For your safety, when you were conducting experiments.”

“Do you desire me?”

This question throws you off-guard. You have practically given him your answer already through your previous exchange, but being asked so directly causes you to falter, your mouth opening and closing around empty sounds. Anaxa watches every shift in your expression with the keen zealousness of a starved hawk. He can feel himself smouldering. He wants to hear it from you. He wants your admission, your surrender to what it means to be human, from your own mouth, in your own words. No, more than that—he needs it.  

At long last, you say slowly, “I do desire you, yes.”

“And are you willing to pursue that desire?”

You open your mouth to answer. 

“—Professor! There you are!” 

It is like being dropped into ice. Footsteps hurry closer. With deep reluctance, Anaxa releases his grip on your head and turns to face the approaching scholar, Cynane, with an impassive expression. Too out of breath to notice what she has interrupted, she continues in gasping out, “I was looking for you everywhere. You said we would meet to discuss my research paper at three, and it’s half past.”

Anaxa blinks slowly. It feels like he has suddenly been torn from a dream and given no time to reorientate himself. His mind struggles to construct a coherent picture of anything beyond the contents of your interrupted conversation and the hunger of his will. Low tongues of fire still lick at his mind, obscuring his thoughts with a curtain of smoke. “Which paper?” 

Cynane pulls a puzzled frown. “The essay I submitted to you about the structure of the soul.” 

His head clears enough for a memory of speaking about this to emerge. “So I did.” The cogs in Anaxa’s head are beginning to turn again, grinding gradually back into their usual rhythm. He shrugs off his lethargy and returns to form, straightening his back as he speaks, the usual glaze of authority returning to his voice. “Very well. We may discuss it now.” 

“Thank you,” smiles Cynane. Anaxa does not react. He casts a final glance back at you as he leaves with her. You are standing by the path, looking into the distance, apparently in deep thought. You do not return his gaze.

Over the following days, you continue to interact as though nothing at all happened, yet Anaxa feels that something fundamental in the nature of your dynamic has shifted. In which direction, and whether for better or worse, he cannot tell. All he knows is that he has brought desire into the equation. The liminal, rational sanctuary of your previous relationship has been breached: it must now either adapt to this new variable, or else it must crumble. 

PART V, JUSTICE

In his 144th experiment, Anaxa attempts the metaphase of soul fusion between Titankin and humans. It is a precarious procedure which requires his undivided attention, so he announces that he will not be available in the meanwhile and cancels his upcoming classes. Even Hyacine is not to disturb him. 

Fatigue eats away at him as he loses himself in the experimental process. The last meal he had was a day ago, and he has not slept for two nights in a row. His veins protrude from beneath his semi-translucent skin. Anaxa does not require Hyacine’s medical expertise to know that his health is deteriorating. Even so, his physical condition does not trouble him. He long ago recognised that his life belongs to his students, his body to his research, and his soul to you. Once he has given all he can, there will be nothing of him left. Good, he thinks; this is the optimal outcome. It allows him to spare any concerns he would otherwise have about self-preservation impeding on his research.

The experiment, to his great relief, is a success. The merged product is unstable, dangerously volatile, but it proves beyond doubt that the synthesis of the divine and the human is possible. Anaxa sends silent thanks to Empedocles for contributing his soul to the endeavour. With this cornerstone, he is now but one step from uncovering the truth capable of elevating humanity to the level of the so-called gods.

He is detailing the results of the experiment in his report book when there comes a sharp knocking at his door. Anaxa ignores the sound and continues to write. The knock returns, accompanied by a voice calling, “Professor! Professor Anaxagoras!” It is Aristocles. 

“I have made it clear that I am not to be disturbed at the moment,” Anaxa replies with a bite of impatience in his voice. 

“But it’s important,” insists Aristocles. “It’s—it’s them.” Anaxa’s eyes flick up momentarily from the paper. “Something’s happened. I don’t know exactly what, but… there’s some kind of trial. Euthyphro is involved.”

Anaxa rises so quickly that his chair clatters to the floor. “Take me there,” he commands.

Aristocles, panicked, leads him through the Grove’s vacant gardens to the Luminary Throne. A crowd has gathered in the clearing, and it takes some effort to push through to the front. 

You are kneeling on the ground in the centre of the wooden platform, your head hung, staring at the floor. The olive sprig is missing from your hair. Among your onlookers, Anaxa recognises the trio of Meletus, Anytus and Lycon, the other sages, Euthyphro, and those of his pupils who have yet to evacuate the Grove. Judging by the size of the crowd alone, almost everybody who remains must be gathered here.

“What is the meaning of this?” Anaxa demands of the assembly, stepping forwards into the clearing. Your eyes flit upwards at the sound of his voice, then away. Euthyphro, who is standing at the foot of the empty throne, sneers at his arrival.

“Professor Anaxagoras,” he greets, his voice laden with mock courtesy. “I heard you were so involved with your research that you were not to be disturbed with any other matters.”

“Exceptions can be made,” Anaxa dismisses. “Now, answer my question.”

“It’s simple: the ‘philosopher’ here is being put on trial for their crimes.”

“‘Crimes’?” echoes Anaxa. “On what grounds do you charge them thus?”

“On the grounds of showing impiety towards Cerces and corrupting the youth of the Grove of Epiphany. Meletus, Anytus and Lycon came forth with these charges, validating the concerns many scholars have reported over the last few years.”

Anaxa’s gaze darts towards his students. They stiffen and look away. A stab of confusion and something darker runs through him. Is he missing something here? Were they not the ones conversing eagerly with you? He shifts his attention to you. For one always so eager to discuss, you are strangely silent. Neither, though Anaxa knows you are more than capable of defending yourself, do you make any attempt to refute the words being thrown your way. 

He turns his focus back to Euthyphro and scoffs, “You would charge them, who merely asks harmless questions, with impiety and corruption, yet leave my position untouched? Not only is this a gross misconstrual of their behaviour, but also blatant hypocrisy.”

Euthyphro’s lips twitch in a frown. “Professor Anaxagoras, controversial as your standing may be, you are an established and valuable member of the Grove who aims to educate and develop understanding. This is entirely unlike the useless, misleading, and dangerous inquiry of the accused. For instance, it is not you whose guidance has led directly to the demise of others.”

“That was a development nobody could have predicted,” Anaxa counters. “Any professor could have been responsible for the same.”

“Any professor would have taken measures to ensure they would not be misunderstood. We do not prosecute on the grounds of possibility, Anaxagoras. People must be held accountable for their actions.”

“Why do you raise this incident now, after years have passed?” he challenges. “It seems a poorly made excuse to frame them as guilty by raising unrelated affairs and redirecting attention from the crux of the issue, which is the lack of legitimate grounds for holding this trial.”

Euthyphro smiles as though he was waiting for this response. “The sages have agreed that the situation was mishandled in the past, particularly by Empedocles. In light of the accusations of your own students, we agreed the matter deserves reconsideration, and found them guilty.”

“As one of the Seven Sages, why was I not involved in this process?” he demands.

“You explicitly stated that your research was not to be interrupted, even by matters concerning the sages,” points out Euthyphro. “We only respected your wishes.”

Anaxa cannot refute this: he did indeed make such a request. “Even so, your evident bias against them undermines the integrity of this trial. You cannot proclaim yourself impartial and fit to preside over the presentation of their case.”

“Can you truly say that you are not subject to bias in defending them?” he returns. “Everybody knows how much you favour them, Anaxagoras. Your judgement is the most susceptible to error out of all of us. In fact, are you not one of those who helped them cover up the deaths in that incident?”

“If that is where your qualms lie,” Anaxa says calmly, “it is myself whom you should be holding accountable, not them. They had no involvement in concealing it.”

“Then your part in this will also be considered. However, the identity of the principal offender remains unchanged. They are a danger to the very constitution of the Grove. You may disagree on the charge of corrupting the youth’s mentality, but the fact that their meddling caused such a tragedy is indisputable proof that they are a danger to education. With the black tide only encroaching further, the threat they pose cannot be risked.”

“And how will you sentence them?” asks Anaxa.

“They are to be put to death.”

He narrows his eye on Euthyphro. “Nobody at the Grove has that kind of authority.”

“Nobody at the Grove, no. However, in extreme cases, the Council of Elders may become involved. They have the authority to make such a sentence.”

As he speaks, Elder Caenis steps out from the gathered crowd into the unbreached circle surrounding you. Murmurs break out around her. “The matter will be put to a vote,” she announces. Anaxa wonders incredulously whether this is truly happening or whether he has gone insane due to a lack of sleep.

“Why does the Council of Elders have a say about the politics of the Grove?” demands Aristocles in a query he would also like to know the answer to. 

“Considering that the danger posed by this individual affects Okhema as well as the Grove of Epiphany, it is only right that the Council has a say in this trial,” says Euthyphro. 

Aristocles frowns. “Affects Okhema how?”

Elder Caenis clears her throat. A tense hush falls over the gathered crowd. “The charges against the accused, and the justifications for the charges, will now be stated in full, after which the vote will commence. First, on the charge of impiety, the accused has frequently expressed notions challenging the legitimacy of Cerces and the other Titans and has acted disrespectfully towards the gods during religious ceremonies, such as interrupting rituals with questions and walking barefoot into sacred spaces. Unlike Professor Anaxagoras,” she continues, “they do not proclaim to commit this blasphemy in order to better humanity, but for the sake of questioning itself. In doing so, the accusers believe they have overstepped the authority of Reason, as condemned in the Decree of the Seven Sages.” Caenis pauses. “The accused may now respond to the allegations.”

“I have little to say but that I believe this charge is misplaced,” you reply. It is the first time you have spoken since he arrived, and your gaze remains fixed on the ground in front of you. “The only thing I know is that I know nothing; so it cannot be the case that I have asserted any claims which undermine the authority of the Titans, for that would mean I know something, which I do not. If nothing else, surely using one’s rationality to question the things around us is a demonstration of Reason rather than an abuse of it. Similarly, I would think that etiquette, such as is observed in religious rituals, is not essential to the workings of Reason itself, for it is based in action and tradition rather than in thought. So, I do not see how my behaviour breaches any substantial considerations regarding the demonstration of piety.”

People begin to whisper among themselves. Euthyphro calls for silence, and Caenis continues. “Secondly, on the charge of corrupting the youth: certain people known to be involved closely with this ‘philosopher’ have sown discord within both the Grove of Epiphany and Okhema. In the Grove, they have proven a frequent disturbance to those trying to study and develop their knowledge and disrespected a number of established scholars. This is not to mention the direct harm which they have caused, such as in the previously discussed instance where two students were influenced to seek their deaths beyond the Grove. In Okhema, they have also been a cause of unrest. For instance, you have all heard of the failed political coup eight years ago, when the two soldiers Alcibiades and Critias tried to dismantle the Council of Elders and killed three highly respected council members in the process. When questioned, the soldiers claimed to have been inspired by their teachings. These are grave crimes which cannot be dismissed.” She raises her eyes from the wax tablet. “Once again, the accused may now speak to defend themselves.”

You stare at the ground in silence. Seconds tick by—precious seconds you could be using to argue your case. Anaxa observes you closely, puzzled by your hesitation, waiting for you to speak. At long last, you mumble, “I have nothing to say on this matter. I accept full responsibility for the harm, direct and indirect, which has resulted from my actions.”

Your response incites a wave of murmurs to rise from the audience. Anaxa narrows his eye. Just what game are you playing here? Do you not understand that your life is on the line? He wants to argue with you, to convince you to place your principles aside for once in your life. But you without your principles would be like Anaxa without his passion: no longer the same person. You seem determined to bear the outcome of this trial as yourself. As much as he wishes to change your mind, this is a decision he must respect. His understanding does not diminish his frustration.

Elder Caenis looks pleased by your concession. “Good,” she says. “In that case, according to the laws of the Grove, there is time for discussion amongst the jury before the sages cast the final vote.”

The assembled members of the Grove begin to converse before she has finished speaking. Anaxa hears a variety of arguments being tossed back and forth. From what he can tell, general opinion is weighted against you, but there are a number of people making points in your defence. After each school presents its overall conclusions, the sages discuss the results among themselves. When the time comes to vote, three of the sages, including Anaxa, vote to absolve you. Four vote in favour of the sentence.

Elder Caenis surveys the results and announces, “It is decided. By the vote of the majority, the ‘philosopher’ of the Grove of Epiphany shall be put to death for their crimes, by the standard sentence of drinking hemlock.”

Anaxa flinches as the words are spoken. Your own reaction to the sentence is indiscernible. You are told to rise to your feet, and you do so without resistance. He rushes forwards and seizes your shoulder as you stand. “What is this?” he demands. “What exactly happened here?”

You do not look at him when you reply, “I was foolish, and misled into believing a deception. This is but the price for my misjudgement.” 

“What misjudgement?” he hisses through his teeth. “Do not speak to me in riddles simply because it suits you in the moment, philosopher.”

You sigh forlornly, and your whole body seems to wilt with it. “What I mistook for true curiosity in those three pupils of yours was in reality a ploy to exact revenge upon me. I failed to recognise that, rather than a desire for knowledge, I had instead incited a deep hatred for me within them, which they acted upon today. Considering the elaborate nature of the proceedings, I would guess that this has been their intention for quite some time.” There is true dejection in your voice of a kind he has never heard before.

A storm of questions barrages through his mind. Revenge? What plan? What is going on here? “How has the Council of Elders come to be involved?” he asks.

“From my understanding, one of the two who perished to the black tide was the child of one of the council members. This is likely the crux which brought their interest to my case.”

“This is absurd.”

“Perhaps.”

“I will not permit them to treat you in this way.”

“That’s enough talking,” interjects Euthyphro. “Once deemed guilty, the accused no longer has the right to voice their opinions. If there is something you must say, you can do it outside their cell in Okhema.”

The utter ludicrousness of the situation stuns Anaxa into silence. He watches numbly as you are led away across the grass and out of sight. It is over so simply, so quickly, that he almost cannot believe what has just happened.

A few moments pass. People begin to mumble amongst themselves. Standing a few paces away from him, Lycon turns towards Anaxa, his expression a twisted fusion of guilt and satisfaction. He begins, “Professor—”

“Be silent!” Anaxa snaps. It is a tone he has never used before; it carries an edge so sharp it threatens to splinter. The crowd obeys. In the ensuing silence, he can hear hot blood rushing through his ears. His shoulders rise and fall with shuddering breaths as he fights to maintain his composure, driving his nails into the paper-thin skin of his palms. This is—this is unacceptable. You are not to be taken from him like this. It is fundamentally wrong. How dare they—how dare anybody—suppose that they can come between you? 

Anger rises within him like a slow boil, starting from the frigid, dark place in his gut and gathering heat as it rises until it threatens to break out of his skin and burn him up from the inside out. People have begun to speak again in hushed voices. Their words spin together in a spiral of formless, indiscernible noise. Somebody says his name. He feels his eye twitch as the thundering ricochet of his heartbeat pounds quicker, quicker, quicker. He cannot remain here for any longer. Anaxa spins on his heel and hastens to his laboratory, ignoring the clamour that erupts behind him. 

As he walks, his mind is in a state of cacophonous disarray. Usually he delights in the sensation of thoughts clashing against each other, but now they are clamorous and incoherent, flailing wildly like a bird trapped in a net. There is no logical order or syllogism in the way they roar above his better senses. Why did he not notice the deceit of his students earlier? How did matters escalate so dramatically in his absence? Why has this happened to you? How dare they? He must find a way to undo this. How dare they?

When his sister was killed, Anaxa felt a kaleidoscope of emotions—grief, confusion, anger towards the callous indifference of the gods—but not this, never this. He has always been burning, true; but that flame has always been low, cold, persistent, calculated. This fury which blazes so hot within him now, kindled by a hatred which sets his soul aflame, is an utterly foreign sensation. He seizes it and holds it close. Perhaps it is the key to refuting a ruling made on such blatantly irrational grounds. 

But first, he requires evidence. His position will not be considered unless he has proof of your innocence. He throws open the door and seizes upon his desk, tossing files and papers aside as he searches for any materials which could help his case. There is a file somewhere in here, he knows, one which documents the tragic incident of those years ago and how it was dealt with. Anaxa is not certain why he kept the file, but he is glad that he did. If he can compile a defence before your sentence and argue convincingly for your freedom before the Citizens’ Assembly in Okhema, your sentencing will be overturned. 

No—there is no ‘if’. He is eloquent enough a speaker to convince an assembly, even if public opinion is weighted against him. The only reason today’s ruling was passed is because he was taken by surprise. With sufficient preparation, he will succeed. There is no doubt of that. The Council of Elders are all fools, as the events of today have proven. Fools, because they suppose they can meddle with his affairs without facing consequences. Anaxa will show them they are gravely mistaken. He will ridicule Elder Caenis—no, the whole council, for what they have done, tear apart their entitlement by the seams and reduce them to shreds. He will turn this farcical world complete with its farcical justice upside down with his own two hands and laugh as it burns viridian. 

Aristocles approaches him later that day and implores, “Let me help. I care about them, too.”

Coldly, Anaxa replies, “You do not know enough about them to be of use. If you want to help, focus on ensuring the evacuation efforts continue. I will resolve this matter myself.” He cannot afford to be distracted by another person. Not now. Aristocles is hesitant to leave, but eventually yields. 

The further he digs, the more Anaxa realises that this scheme has its roots far deeper than either of you would have known. That the Council of Elders have had their eyes on the Grove for some time now comes as no surprise considering the influence its scholars have on the other city-states. What is shocking is the extent to which the Council went in order to corner you in particular.

Like you said, the deaths of the students appears to have been the catalyst, but there are more threads involved than that event alone. On questioning his three students, Anaxa uncovers a series of letters revealing that one of Elder Caenis’ subordinates made contact with Meletus, using the bribes of both money and vengeance for a friend to manipulate the young scholar’s emotions to the council’s purposes. Meletus admits to sharing the plan with his close friends, Anytus and Lycon. Gaining the cooperation of Euthyphro, who already had an unfavourable opinion of you, was similarly straightforward. Anaxa is not surprised by Euthyphro’s involvement, though his disgust in the three of his students is immeasurable. But he will deal with them later. He must not get distracted. There are more pressing matters at hand.

The discovery of the letters ought to be evidence enough to prove the injustice of the trial. Anaxa is still not satisfied. There must be a deeper reason the Council would go to such lengths to ensnare a random, unemployed thinker from another city-state, considering that the charges made against you could as easily have applied to him. He cannot accept that the difference between your situations—the reason you are convicted while he remains untouched—is truly as arbitrary as the fact that Anaxa was protected by academic reputation and legislation, whereas you were not. 

Anaxa never inquired into your history because it was not relevant to your discussions. Now he finds himself regretting that he did not ask you sooner about your life before the Grove. Why did he sacrifice his opportunity to know, that day in his laboratory? Why did he prioritise such abstract ideals as ends and reason over the fundamental, effortless basis of connection? That knowledge would be invaluable in informing the present situation. He suspects that the missing pieces surrounding the Council’s motivations lie somewhere in your past. Since Anaxa cannot ask you for the answer, he must seek it himself. 

He scours the shelves of the Library of Philia, reasoning that you have spent enough time in the Grove that there must be some reference to your personal history in the library’s records despite your lack of official connection to the institution. He conducts a search for any information potentially related to you, drawing together documents about recent history from the other major city-states to improve his chances. The method is disordered and frantic, a far cry from the highly organised procedures which typically mark his research. Fraction by fraction, the agonising investigation yields results, and Anaxa puts together your story. 

You are originally a citizen of Okhema, but you were cast out after publicly criticising the democratic governance of the city-state in speeches preceding multiple different Citizens’ Assemblies. The contents of your criticisms included pointing out the corruption of the Council of Elders and making the accusation that they were not fit to rule, to the extent that you argued any form of democracy would ultimately lead to injustice and misjudgement. Records are silent regarding what happened to you following this exile; the next reference to you Anaxa can find is from a few years later, when you arrived at the Grove. 

After you left Okhema, the seeds of doubt you had sowed into the populus continued to sprout, giving rise to a number of turbulent events in the city-state’s political sphere. Citizens questioned the authority of the elders more than was ideal; those who were more radical even turned to the example of Castrum Kremnos as an alternative. Such was the thinking behind the disastrous coup of Alcibiades and Critias, two young soldiers you had mentored when in Okhema, who twisted your critiques to legitimise their short-minded pursuit of power. Anaxa knew of the coup itself, but he was not aware of your connection to it, trivial as it may be, until Elder Caenis raised it in your trial. 

With the assembly to determine the future of the Flame-Chase Journey looming ever closer, no wonder the Council wants you so desperately gone, when you can undermine their authority even from afar. Hearing of the evacuation plans through his students’ letters, Elder Caenis took advantage of the diminished student body and struck when those who would argue in your defence were fewer than usual. The condemnations made against you by Euthyphro, although not initially part of the scheme, made you an even easier target. In the end, you are but a scapegoat, singled out by misfortune and public opinion to be the one who bears this consequence. 

As Anaxa compiles his argument, he laughs at himself for believing that any sort of sanctuary, untouched by desire, ever existed to ground your attachment. Your relationship was never rational. Nobody forms a relationship on the basis of impartiality. There is always a motivating factor which draws people together, and this factor is desire, be it for knowledge, for a like mind, for intimacy, for security, for company. Every human interaction can be accounted for in these terms. It follows that, from the beginning, passion has been working within him, within you, colouring your thoughts with a tint of obsession. These things he feels now are but the fruits of that passion which has long lingered at the roots of your relationship.

Within three days, he has compiled his case and travels to Okhema by dromas. He has slept five hours in total since the day of your trial, and even less when considering the days prior. He does not care. His body has been pushed far beyond its limits and aches as it frays around him, but the blaze still raging in his mind is more than enough to carry him through the journey. When he arrives in the city, he heads straight for the Marmoreal Palace. He will need the support of the Chrysos Heirs, and Aglaea in particular, if he is to be granted permission to speak against the sentencing. Under normal circumstances, he would do anything to avoid an encounter with that woman. However, these are not normal circumstances. Considering the deep-seated corruption underlying your trial, the Council of Elders will no doubt deny his right to challenge the verdict.

After an arduous discussion, Aglaea concedes, granting him permission to call for a retrial. Anaxa shortly finds himself standing before Kephale’s looming visage and making his opening statement. The citizens of Okhema know less of your role within the Grove than the sages, but they do know of your connection to Alcibiades and Critias, which is sufficient to set initial biases against you. This is of no consequence. Anaxa has come prepared: and as he previously asserted, he is more than capable of convincing an assembly. 

The retrial lasts for two and a half hours. Anaxa extracts the details regarding the deaths of the two students and the bias present in your sentencing, as well as your relation to Alcibiades and Critias, arguing that one cannot be held accountable for those who wilfully twist their words to their own ends. You are no more a ‘corrupter of youth’ than he is: if he is allowed to roam free carrying similar accusations, there is no reason for your treatment to differ. The fact that you lack a legal affiliation with the Grove is irrelevant. 

‘Impiety’ is even more sensitive a subject in the holy city than it is in the Grove of Epiphany, but Anaxa addresses it nonetheless and maintains that you have not defiled the Titans in any substantial way. He himself is more guilty of this charge, and even then, there are arguments to be made in his defence. 

He keeps private some of the more damaging details for the council’s reputation—these, he is saving for an even grander opportunity—though he reveals enough to make clear the unfair conditions of your trial and cast doubt on the handling of your case. The Council of Elders resists his arguments, but it is the citizens who have the final say. The last question posed to him by the assembly is, “How can you guarantee that something similar won’t happen in the future?”

Logically speaking, Anaxa cannot guarantee this for certain. He answers in the best and only way he can: “I will personally ensure that no repeats of these events occur.”

There is a hush as the Citizens’ Assembly make their decisions and cast their clay shards into the voting dolia. The result is narrow. You are spared by eleven votes. 

Exhausted, tucking the pardon into his coat pocket, Anaxa makes his way to your holding cell. 

PART VI, DUTY & PASSION

You don’t seem to notice him coming in at all. Typical. Anaxa clicks his tongue and knocks twice on the bars. You raise your head at the sound. Surprise flashes in your eyes when you recognise your visitor. Despite it all, you do not appear too much worse for wear, and for the first time in a week Anaxa feels a breath of relief pass through him. 

“Anaxagoras?” you ask. “Goodness, you do not look well. What are you doing here?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” he retorts, crossing his arms. “I would have thought somebody as bright as yourself could work it out. I’ve come to take you out of this place, of course.”

Your brow contracts in confusion. “What for? My sentence has been decreed in no unclear terms, and I have no intention of leaving.”

“What reasons have you to stay?”

“Why, the fulfilment of justice, of course.”

“You would call this ‘just’?” he challenges, gesturing towards the bars of your cell. You look around as though noticing them for the first time. Then you chuckle.

“The charges against me on grounds of impiety and corrupting the youth? No; for if that were a just ruling, it would have to be applied consistently, and you would have long been imprisoned before I. But the loss of those students’ lives—that, I take full accountability for. Furthermore, if I accept your offer of bribery, in going against the law, are not the charges against me all the more founded?”

Anaxa laughs. “You think I come to win you back through bribery?”

“Have you not?” You frown. “It is the most efficient solution to this problem, and I do not believe you would expend such a great deal of effort on me to clear my name by other means. Neither do I not believe bribery would leave too great a mark on your conscience.”

Anaxa must admit, your first and third reasons ring true. You are correct that he tends to favour solutions which are swift and effective, and you are also correct that he would not lose sleep over one act of bribery committed against a corrupt ruling. But your second justification…

I do not believe you would spend such a great deal of effort on me to clear my name by other means. 

Those words, spoken so plainly and matter-of-fact, cut him deeper than he would have expected. Is this truly how you conceive of him? After all your years together, this is the conclusion you have drawn—that he values you so little that he would not bother to ‘expend the effort’ on you when you need it? A feeling he cannot place, directed towards himself, twists sharply inside of him. Is it disappointment that he feels over this miscalculation of his? Shame? Disgust? 

Anaxa keeps these thoughts to himself and retains a perfect composure as he replies, “Good philosopher, I fear you’ve jumped to a conclusion by underestimating my moral scruples. I am not, in fact, here to free you through bribery. Rather, having argued your case valiantly before the Council of Elders, I come with an official pardon for your sentence.” He arches a pointed brow towards you. “I expect you to thank me.”

Anaxa watches your expression shift from calm acceptance to surprise to consideration. “Thank you very much,” you say honestly. “I did not expect you to go to such lengths. But…”

He prompts, “But?”

“I suspect there is a catch you have failed to mention to me. No matter the strength of your defence, I doubt the council would pardon me with no strings attached.”

Anaxa must concede to this. With a begrudging sigh, he relates, “You are to remain in Okhema, never to set foot in the Grove of Epiphany again, and refrain from making public appearances unless specifically given permission to do so.” 

A wry smile curls at your lips. “Then you must know, Anaxagoras, that for me this is a fate far worse than death.” He knows. There is a reason he left out the catch. You continue, “You know that I believe the unexamined life is not worth living. Thus, if I am denied the ability to seek the truth in this world, I shall simply do so in the next.” 

“I won your pardon on honest grounds,” Anaxa says calmly, “but that does not mean I intend to honour its terms.”

This development appears to intrigue you. You pin him with a probing stare. “You would risk directly going against a ruling from the council on my behalf?” 

He crosses his arms. “I still believe you have been dealt an injustice, although those blinded by their own ignorance and authority refuse to see it. The terms of this agreement are far too severe in proportion to your alleged ‘crimes’.” 

You tip your head sideways, and your expression takes on a contemplative shade. “And supposing I accept your offer, where am I to go, when I am unwelcome in the only remaining safe havens of our world? Remaining in this cell seems to me a far better alternative. It is comfortable enough, and at least here I can speak with the guards who come to deliver me food and water, and not have to concern myself with safety.”

“I have no answer to that question yet,” he admits, “but I will find a solution. I swear it.”

You lean back against the wall. Something in your expression tells him you are not convinced. After a moment of reflection, you speak. “I am grateful for your help, Anaxagoras, but I do not know why you are so determined to get me out of my current situation. I have no qualms about facing my own mortality, if that is what concerns you. In practicing philosophy, I have long been preparing myself for death, so I do not fear it. If not sooner, then it is inevitable I will die later; and, since I am to die anyway, I would rather do so in the relatively dignified way that has been set out for me, rather than meeting my end in the jaws of some beast in the wilderness or perishing to the black tide.”

Anaxa foresaw this response as a possibility, but that does not make hearing it from you any less disheartening. “And I suppose no argument I make will move you?” 

“That of course depends on the argument; but I do not currently foresee anything you could say which would change my mind.”

Your reasons for staying are sound, and Anaxa has no doubt you are exactly as accepting of your own demise as you present yourself to be. And therein lies the problem: you may have no qualms about yourself dying, but he does. He is not giving up until it is with you by his side. 

Anaxa sighs. He was hoping it would not come to this, but you leave him little choice. “If that is so, my dear philosopher, I am afraid we must depart from reasonable discourse if I am to convince you of my position.”

A frown forms on your face. “What do you mean?” 

“I mean,” he says, “that I do not want you to die, if on no other grounds than my selfish desire for your company. The other reasons I have offered you hold true, but they are only supplementary to this fundamental principle. Mark me that I will find a way to clear your name and grant you the freedom you are owed, but until then, I only ask that you accept my offer and these temporary restrictions for my sake, if not your own.”

Your voice contains a note of sadness. “Anaxagoras…” 

“I implore you,” he continues, lowering himself before you, his voice dropping into a desperate whisper. “Do not make this where I must bid you farewell. I will not lose you. I refuse to.”

Silence. He raises his head to look at you. You are in a place of deep consideration, your head tilted to one side. “You say you will not lose me,” you repeat thoughtfully, “yet what am I to do with the implications of that statement? That you wish for me to stay by your side, so that I may live to lose you instead? That it is I, not you, who must bear the burden of loss?” Anaxa’s jaw tightens. “Your appeal is certainly moving,” you continue. “Indeed, I found myself swayed almost into changing my mind. But if these are the grounds upon which you implore me to join you—that it is not myself whom you care for, but rather the mere avoidance of losing me—I cannot accept them.”

“Will you ever?” His voice is pleading, pathetic; he does not care. He is too depleted to concern himself with dignity.

“When you are ready to let me go, I will accept them.”

The gears are already turning in Anaxa’s head. Now that you have given him a clear objective, it is now only a matter of completing it. “How long do you have?” he inquires. Various schemes begin to string together in his mind, a network of possibilities he can use to achieve his goal.

“My sentence is set for a little over two weeks from now.”

“If I prove it to you, you will come with me?” he confirms. 

“Yes,” you reply. “Although, if I may give my honest opinion, you are already setting about this matter in the wrong way. You need prove nothing to me, Anaxagoras. Only that you care enough to lose me to yourself.”

Anaxa is not listening, not truly. He is too preoccupied with planning how he will resolve this problem you have given him. He rises to his feet and brushes off the shoulders of his cloak. Before leaving, he says to you, “If you will not yet accept the pardon, at least accept this.” 

You look surprised to see him draw out an olive branch from his clothing. It is somewhat crooked as a result of the journey to Okhema; nevertheless, you receive it with gratitude.

Anaxa returns from Okhema empty-handed. The next day, the Grove is attacked by the black tide, and his soul, as planned, becomes the house of a god. A countdown begins. He has fifteen days to complete two objectives. First, to prove the truth behind Amphoreus; the truth behind the soul. Second, to show you that he can lose you, so that he will never have to. 

Fifteen days to solve one problem is more than enough. Fifteen days to solve two proves more of a challenge: but he will succeed, or else he will die trying. Anaxa no longer has a choice in the matter, after all. 

PART VII, THE ANALOGY

The night after the attack on the Grove, Anaxa dreams of you. He dreams that you are standing in a cave, and he is moving towards you, not of his own accord, but compelled by a force beyond his will. It is dark here, with tongues of red emitted by a smouldering fire glancing off the walls serving as the only light source. As he draws closer, Anaxa sees that a faint glow is radiating from your skin. It is as if you are the Form of all that is good illuminating this veiled world of falsehood and ignorance. You cast no shadow on the cave wall. 

He reaches out and places his fingers upon your cheek. Your skin is cold. Not in the same way that his, a dead man’s skin, is cold, in that it is a mere negation of warmth, but rather cold in its very being, like stone or marble. Indeed, you seem to him a statue, carved from truth and justice and moulded into human form; you take on the guise of humanity, yet are fundamentally different in your essence. 

This is an observation he has lingered on considerably. In person, you are polite and amiable, always willing to engage in discussion with a good-humoured smile and a twinkle in your eye. Yet Anaxa has always inexplicably felt that you are unapproachable: that you lie just beyond his reach no matter how much you converse with him, no matter how close he is to you. Your eyes never linger on him, because to you, he is but another footprint upon the endless path to truth. He knows you cannot and will not stop by the roadside to lose yourself in the brambles of desire with him. For this reason, Anaxa often feels you are less human than he is, content to be the solitary traveller shunning human connection where he still craves the attention of the masses and loves at the cost of his own self. 

Yet in his dream, you are transfixed by him. You beckon him towards you. Anaxa obliges. He pulls you closer by your waist and cups your jaw in his hand, caressing over the cool smoothness of your skin with his thumb. You stare at him as he explores you and commits you to memory. Your eyes, shot through with shards of bronze, are entrancing. 

You undo him. You lift off his eyepatch and peel back his clothes, his skin, revealing the star-shaped chasm in his chest; and then you stand together in the cave, two souls borne in their most basic forms, set against the rest of the world. You reach into his chest and pull out his cold, dead heart, cupping it before you in your hands. Touched by your light, it begins to beat again. The rhythmic thumping echoes through the silent cave; you place it back in the chasm of his chest, where it remains, filling him with the same light which suffuses your being. 

In his dream, you allow yourself to want him. You slip your arms around his waist, and Anaxa responds in kind, drawing you towards him so that he can capture the entirety of you. He wants to pull you closer, to seal you inside his chest in the place where his heart used to be so that he never has to let you go. 

Slowly, still embracing, you both sink down to the floor of the cave. The ground is soft beneath you, and as you run your fingers along his collarbone Anaxa knows with more certainty than ever that it is you for whom he strives above all else; you for whom he burns with this insatiable cold green flame—

“My, my, you certainly care very deeply for them.” The voice cleaves through his dream like a bullet and shatters it. “Did you ever tell them?”

“Titan,” Anaxa growls, waking to his dark room, “get out of my head.”

PART VIII, PROOF

Over the course of his fifteen remaining days, Anaxa sets out his reasoning to prove that he can lose you. 

On the first, the same day he takes Cerces’ Coreflame into his body, he contemplates what it means to love. He cannot find a satisfactory answer. 

On the second day, in order to address this issue, he considers what happens when one loves as opposed to when one is reasonable. 

On the third day, he arrives at the conclusion that love is a kind of madness, one which surfaces when desire overpowers reason. He has been mad for a very long time. 

On the fourth day, Anaxa considers the difference between love and desire. Is there truly a distinction between the two, or do we merely perceive there to be one?

On the fifth day, he believes he has an answer: desire is that which is in conflict with our better senses, and love is that which informs our virtues. Desire leads reason astray where love complements it.

On the sixth day, he doubts himself. It could be that desire is not the antithesis of truth, but the ultimate revealer of it. 

On the seventh day, Anaxa realises he has led his inquiry in the wrong direction. He cannot address love and desire without first addressing human nature. Why is it that both animals and humans can desire, but only humans can love?

On the eighth day, he considers what it means to be human. What is it that distinguishes humans from animals? Does a distinction of this kind exist? 

On the ninth day, he postulates the soul as a solution. The human soul, constructed from seeds of wisdom, which are in turn constructed from memory, has a greater propensity for spreading itself. Humans live on in others whereas animals do not.

On the tenth day, Anaxa inquires into why humans live on in others whereas animals do not. Animals too can have memories; animals too have souls. 

On the eleventh day, he thinks that this is because of self-reflection. Humans can wilfully turn their eyes on themselves and identify the components which make up their souls. 

On the twelfth day, Anaxa makes a discovery. The capacity for self-reflection comes hand-in-hand with the capacity for self-deception. The latter is equally as determining of humankind as the former. 

On the thirteenth day, he identifies that love is distinctive of humankind, not because our passions are elevated above those of other animals, but because we are the only ones capable of self-deceit. 

On the fourteenth day, Anaxa arrives at a conclusion. To be human is to desire, and to desire is to covet that which is unattainable. Humans are distinct from animals because animals cannot recognise that what they seek is unattainable, whereas humans can, and often do, though they will live by deceiving themselves willingly. 

When we have attained something we perceive as desiring, we call this thing ‘love’. ‘Love’ is a false concept, a mistaken belief that we have attained what we covet and are satisfied with it. Whatever we have attained, it is not what we truly desire. 

True desire is that which motivates us towards our ends because we know what we covet is unattainable. If we were able to reach what we desire, we would stop striving, yet we do not. We struggle on in vain despite our better senses, because the most human thing we can do is to try. The wisest thing we can do is to let go.

On the fifteenth day, Anaxa visits you once more. He has found his proof. 

PART IX, THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL

As he comes in, you raise your head like you have been expecting him. “Greetings, good Anaxagoras.”

Anaxa sits down on the floor outside your cell and faces you through the bars. “It’s today, isn’t it?”

You nod. “That is so.”

A smirk twists on his face, and he cannot help but laugh. “What irony.”

“Irony?” you ask. 

“I am also set to die today.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand what you mean. Are you speaking in metaphor? Had you received a sentence, I would have heard of it from the guards.”

“Fifteen days ago, the Grove was attacked by the black tide, and I took the Coreflame of Reason into my body. Technically speaking, I am already dead; it is only the power of the Titan still animating my body. Unfortunately, a mortal soul cannot withstand such power for long, and today is the day my time runs out.”

You are quiet for a moment. Then a small smile finds its way onto your face. “I see what you mean. Whether or not one believes in fate, there definitely lies a twist in this development.”

“How much time do you have?” he queries.

“Around six hours.”

“How funny. That is also when the Citizens’ Assembly is being held.”

“What have you come for, then?” you ask. “To discuss the future of the Flamechase Journey? To bid farewell? It’s a little late to offer me that pardon again,” you add with a chuckle. 

“I have come to speak with you.”

Your eyes light up. If he could, Anaxa would capture that expression in a snapshot of time and slip it into his pocket so that he could take it out and look back at it for every remaining day of his life. (All things considered, he supposes that would be rather pointless. Then again, passion has never concerned itself with what is logical.)

“What about?” you ask. 

“Anything,” he replies earnestly. “Everything. We always spoke about so much, yet I feel we never arrived at any true conclusions.”

“In that case, I am still awaiting your proof for those claims you made, about the souls of Titans and humans being identical in essence, and the individual living on through memory.”

A smile raises the corners of his lips. “Then we will begin with that.”

The conversation which follows reminds him most closely of the first debate you had, when you were both younger and no more ignorant, discussing matters which were so much larger than either of you could ever hope to understand. You agree on some matters and disagree on others. On the authority of the Titans, you are united in your views, as are you on the immortality of the soul. You still contend that reason can transcend the will; he still maintains that passion is the ultimate governor of the soul. You debate your positions back and forth, finding flaws in each conclusion, taking two steps back for every advancement made. It is an intellectual tug-of-war, a dance without end, an equally matched duel destined to continue into infinity. It is as you have been saying all along: that the only real truth of philosophy lies in the acknowledgement that you will never know the answer. Philosophy is a discipline of attempts, not successes; of conjecture rather than of certainty. When you are called by the guards stationed outside, you have yet to reach any form of conclusion. 

You rise to leave, patting down your humble clothing with a sigh and readjusting the branch in your hair. “A pity. Had we both had a little longer, I would have come with you to the assembly. Then we could have finished our discussion.”

“Nonsense,” replies Anaxa. “You know better than anybody that such discussions as these have no end.”

“That is true. I am sure we shall continue it in the next world—or the next cycle, if your theory is correct, and keep going for as long as it takes to reach the truth.” 

“That will be eternity,” he warns. You shrug. 

“I have few qualms with that. In which case, may we meet again before the gates of truth, whenever and wherever that may be.”

“Very well. I shall hold you to your word, philosopher mine.”

“And I to yours, good Anaxagoras.”

Despite having said everything you need to in this moment, you both linger. Given the reality of Amphoreus’ history that Anaxa has just revealed, there are no true goodbyes to be made. Yet something, he feels, is missing. He suspects you feel it too, or you would already have left. 

You take a step closer. He does likewise, and places his fingers beneath your chin, tipping your head slightly so that he can study your face and commit it to memory one final time. It is a pointless endeavour—he already knows the forms of your face like the back of his own hand—but there can be no harm in the attempt. You scan him likewise. Your palm rests against his cheek, your fingers toying gently with the cloth of his eyepatch. 

You have shared many intimate moments together in the past. He recalls when you looked behind his eye and your faces were only an inch apart; all the nights you stayed up discussing alchemy and metaphysics and all the times something almost happened but never did. You have been this close to each other before, true; but you have always remained at this point, never truly crossing the threshold. 

Wordlessly, he draws you closer and closes the distance.

Anaxa has thought of kissing you many times. Not consciously, per se, but the possibility has flickered through his mind now and again, whenever your proximity was brought to the forefront of his attention. He has thought of kissing you passionately, of uncovering the deepest truths of you, of hearing his name whispered like a prayer on your lips.

Yet when your lips meet, it is barely a brush. Logically speaking, it should not be sufficient to convey all the words left unspoken between you. 

It is enough. 

You part, and he strokes your cheek with his thumb. You smile. And then you are gone. 

When he pulls Cerces’ Coreflame from his chest, Anaxa is not apprehensive. Far from it, he is flushed with the pride of closure, and laughs even as he feels his body break into fragments around him. Apprehensive? What a ludicrous thought. How could one be apprehensive? In this world, death is but an illusion, and there is a conversation waiting to be finished on the other side.