Chapter Text
When Anaxagoras looked at the frail, pale young man with blond hair and bright blue eyes, his pupils like suns, he thought that this boy could achieve great things. It was evident in his straightened back, in his intense gaze, catching his every movement and word, in the fleeting smile, as if the smile had broken upon encountering the ice of his nature. But it wasn't as if Anaxagoras cared about any of this. He wasn't used to looking into people's souls, didn't like digging into their dirty laundry and jumble of thoughts, and especially couldn't help heal a wounded soul, as a true friend or family member could. Anaxagoras was cold and cruel, he couldn't help, nor did he wish to waste time on it.
At their first meeting, he looked at the young man for no more than a couple of seconds before indifferently shifting his gaze back to the next students, evaluating each one.
And who would have known then that Phaenon would become his biggest headache? Certainly not Anaxagoras, who was more accustomed to scaring off students with his cold demeanor and strict, dagger-like speeches. He expected anything: respect, contempt for his blasphemy, banal fear. He expected to see in the faces of students enthusiasm, a thirst for knowledge, and a constant wariness towards him. Instead, he got a restless student, clinging to him like clay to skin. He wanted to scrape it off his hands, but it only crumbled, leaving behind a light trace of dust. Unpleasant. However, it was bearable.
"Professor Anax-!" Anaxagoras would flinch every time, exhale sharply, hissing, and look displeased at the speaker… at the impudent one who dared to call him that.
"Anaxagoras," he mechanically corrects, noticing a youthful, cheerful smirk on the young man's lips, looking into bright, light-reflecting eyes. Oh, how sometimes he hated those eyes for the trust and kindness hidden in them, for the radiance and constant admiration for him as a teacher. He couldn't tolerate this ostentation, for it could be nothing else. And he, as a perceptive man, could distinguish lies from truth.
And the rascal had spoken more than once of his admiration, had shone more than once with inspired smiles and sparkling eyes, almost as he did now.
"I wish to be like you," Phaenon would say, and Anaxagoras would only smile bitterly, saying nothing. He never answered, because he knew that no one wanted to be like him. And he wouldn't wish any of his students to become like him – callous and unsociable.
Yes, Anaxagoras valued knowledge, he valued intelligence and agility, he believed that emotions were artificial and unimportant, nothing more than harmful to reason. But to see himself in someone… He didn't want that. He didn't want to remember those lonely days spent in libraries or in rooms, when a sticky whisper was heard behind his back, undoubtedly still wounding his tender soul back then. He doesn't want to remember how he lost an eye due to his own experiment, and after that, how the sidelong glances increased. He doesn't want to remember much, but he knows that you can't escape the past. It builds people, it built him the way he is now. And Anaxagoras is comfortable with this arrangement. In the end, nothing but the truth interests him. Only… Phaenon… Phaenon always reminded him of his past. Reminded him of himself once long ago. Only with the difference that Anaxagoras was never loved the way he was. But he didn't care about love, he had his sister. And after that… After that, love completely lost any meaning in his life.
He blinks, emerging from his thoughts and briefly examining the student. And immediately frowns, noticing a wound on his hand, deep enough to leave a scar. Also poorly bandaged. Annoying brat.
"What's with your hand?" his voice is almost inaudible, like the rustle of parchment, but Phaenon hears, catches every sound, as if it is vital to him. Strange young man. Never seen one like him. Even those students who burned with knowledge, who listened to his words and tried to ask questions… It was all wrong.
For some reason, against the background of Phaenon, they all faded, merged into one continuous gray mass. … Although, perhaps, it's all because Phaenon didn't strive for knowledge, not as eagerly as he should. He didn't strive for anything worthwhile, except for life and its enjoyment. More than once he could be seen strolling in the garden, training with some of his comrades, reading in the library, or just laughing cheerfully in the corridors. For Phaenon, all this was life, ordinary, as if not even burdened by the weight of prophecy, which Anaxagoras considered nonsense. And perhaps this was the point. It's a pity that Anaxagoras considered such a life to be nothing more than wasting potential. And he had it, and how.
Phaenon smiles, devils sparkle in his eyes, and Anaxagoras wants to wince. But instead, his face is deathly empty, only his eyes narrow.
"The hand," not a request, a demand. And Phaenon obeys, albeit not immediately. First, he shuffles uncomfortably from foot to foot, sighs somehow very mournfully, as if his hand is about to be cut off, but then extends it, allowing him to see the disgustingly applied bandages. Who does that?
"I… It was just an unlucky sparring match."
Anaxagoras squints, with one movement pulls him closer, making him sit on a chair next to the table, and himself reaches for the first aid kit in the drawer, pulling out a small vial of golden liquid.
"I'm not interested in the reasons," he coldly interrupts, examining the wound. Deep, almost all the way through. With a careful movement, he opens the vial, pours a little on his hand, and slowly rubs it in. "This should work. But don't strain your hand afterward, I won't treat it again."
His pale fingers run over the other's hand, and he watches as it already begins to heal, covered with a small golden crust. Still, the recipe is effective, as expected. Phaenon flinches. Anaxagoras doesn't understand the meaning of this gesture, nor does he attach any importance to it.
"Professor… Thank you," and happiness is heard in his voice, so much so that it becomes sickening.
Anaxagoras grimaces at the student's cheerful laughter.
"And now, for anyone's sake, get out of here," yes, he rubs his temples. It seems the migraine is returning, what a horror!
Phaenon obeys, jumps nimbly from the chair and almost rushes to the door. He only stops for a moment before the very exit.
"Actually, you are very kind, Professor Anaxagoras," and then runs away, leaving him alone with himself and the silence of the classroom.
"Kind" slips on the tongue, a faceless, strange word. Only his sister called him kind as a child. But now?
Anaxagoras didn't consider himself kind, but not evil either. Most likely, ubiquitous neutrality, choosing a side at the very last moment… Of course, if that side is beneficial to him. But even so, talking about loyalty would be superfluous.
He raises his gaze, thoughtfully looking at the chair where the student was sitting so recently, and thinks that this year will also be too long and difficult. But isn't he used to it?
***
Phaenon is a complex individual. Anaxagoras realized this immediately, as soon as the first class was disrupted due to one inappropriately curious student. And while the questions themselves weren't bad, quite curious even, their manner of delivery was… disgusting, immediately revealing a mind that hadn't yet matured. But the fact that Phaenon was a bright young man was undoubtedly a fact that smoothed over the rough edges and the many disrupted classes caused by their arguments. These arguments, in a way, gave Anaxagoras himself pleasure; he always enjoyed bending other people's beliefs under the weight of his prickly words. He loved to change the course of the conversation, to prove his point of view, even though most of his students considered him a heretic and blasphemer, but the other part undoubtedly respected and listened.
Phaenon is a sociable person, kind to the point of madness. He is like a shining sun, sprinkling people with his rays. But this sun made Anaxagoras feel sick; he could only purse his lips and shake his head, for he believed in neither gods nor prophecy. His lot was the shadows, ancient libraries, and knowledge hidden in the world. And therefore, he wanted to stay away from Phaenon, to not see those overly kind eyes that so reminded him of his dear sister.
At times, the memory of his sister brought more pain, especially watching how easily Phaenon found common ground with people, how he tried to help and comfort them with a kind word. His sister was the same, selflessly devoted to her work and to people, who often didn't appreciate her efforts.
"You are too kind," Anaxagoras says one day, briefly glancing at the other's thin face, and manages to notice how the boy immediately shines with that damned sun. And it's perhaps understandable why the prophecy chose him, why he is considered a savior in advance. Understandable because someone like Phaenon – so deeply understanding and kind, even despite all the hardship of his past – is rare to meet, if ever, because people are inherently greedy and selfish.
"Professor…"
But Anaxagoras only waves his hand, indifferently staring at the parchment in his hands.
"Excessive kindness is a curse, it can't lead to anything good," his dear sister was also kind, she also believed in people and their openness. She was also his sunlight, guiding and protecting. But did it help her? She was considered nothing more than a cursed sorceress, and then drowned, trying to prove their point. They proved it, the body didn't float to the surface, but who will bring her life back? Anaxagoras couldn't, only summon her weak spirit. He swallows, realizing that he's spacing out again, and quietly, barely audibly, muttered: "Don't get distracted from your work."
He tries not to notice the thoughtful, lingering look directed at him.
Because the past is forgotten. Because all that remains of his dear, beloved sister is a gouged-out eye and a small scarlet earring, now hanging on his ear.
Phaenon is an impulsive person, sometimes unrestrained, too easily swayed by emotions, like a torch that only needs a spark.
And you wouldn't be able to tell from him that he's that kind of person. You wouldn't be able to tell that he can be cruel and cold. But in truth, he can't be like that. He's more like a match that lights up and then goes out again when doused with ice water.
Only for some reason, he's the one who has to deal with these outbursts. Perhaps because Phaenon is his student? Or because his other students believe that only his cold disposition can extinguish this rising fire?
Anaxagoras sighs, as he always does when he looks at the frenzied students, smeared in grass and dirt. And why did he get such happiness? He wanted to be a scientist, to prove truths, but instead he has to deal with human flaws in character and disagreements.
"Stop immediately!" his voice is icy, hoarse from long silence this day, but audible to all. Undoubtedly.
The students freeze, looking with fear and anxiety at his thin, somber figure approaching. The bullies also freeze, immediately move away from each other and look at him expectantly.
Oh, wow, and both of their faces are covered in blood, with blooming bruises and abrasions. Anaxagoras looks at this with contempt and displeasure, not even blinking.
"As soon as you are patched up in the infirmary, come to my office," and leaves, without saying any more words.
A heavy, oppressive silence follows him, covering with frost the wonderful garden with yellow asters and the stone slabs underfoot. It would seem that everyone feels this cold, because they immediately shudder, but don't dare to move, watching the receding figure.
As he said, the culprits enter the office. Awkwardly shuffling from foot to foot, hiding their hands behind their backs, and looking at the floor with shame. Anaxagoras doesn't pay attention to this either, gestures to the first desks, and puts a scroll with text on each.
"Copy word for word, and then learn it just as well."
And without waiting for the students to sit down, he plunges back into reading the necessary books and scrolls, diligently draws formulas, and thinks, endlessly thinks about what he has read. Only once does he raise his eyes, meeting cold blue eyes. And immediately flinches slightly. Can these usually trusting, kind eyes really harbor such darkness and cold? Such frozen rage that even he feels uncomfortable? But this vision immediately disappears as soon as Phaenon smiles weakly and again plunges into the text.
And the classroom is once again shrouded in silence, broken only by the light rustle of quills and parchments.
Only at the very end, when the punishment has been served, and only Phaenon remains in the class, slowly gathering his things, does he say:
"It was unwise. Your emotions affect you too much. You are prophesied a great future, but emotions can ruin everything."
Phaenon freezes, shrinks slightly under his scrutinizing gaze, and then smirks a wry, sad smile.
"Professor Anaxagoras, you don't believe in prophecies, do you?"
"I don't, just as I don't believe in any God. But you and many others believe in prophecy."
The young man raises his eyes, looks for long seconds, before opening his lips again:
"He was insulting you, I couldn't do otherwise."
And this statement, perhaps, was the most unexpected for him in all his teaching practice. No, it certainly happened that some students defended his right to a voice in front of others, that many of them tried to defend his position. But it didn't come to blows.
Anaxagoras sighs, wearily rubs the bridge of his nose under the still-scrutinizing gaze, and cannot understand where this strange person gets so much compassion and thirst for justice? He has fought more than once, defending the younger and weaker. He has helped others more than once, but to feel this protection towards himself was strange, absurd, and inappropriate.
"I don't need anyone's protection. Now go, think about your behavior."
Phaenon freezes for a moment again, bows respectfully, and leaves. And only then does Anaxagoras sigh heavily again. What a complex person he is!
***
Anaxagoras has the discerning, scanning eye of a scholar. And a mind so agile it's impossible not to notice an uncharacteristic gloom. It's too obvious. Especially the gray eyes, so pensive, as if the sky were shrouded in dark, ominous clouds.
Today, Phaenon is unacceptably quiet, sitting hunched over his desk, clenching his hands together so tightly they've turned white. And his unfocused gaze wanders around the classroom, as if he's looking through things. And Anaxagoras shouldn't care. Everything human should be alien to him, but for some reason he does. Maybe it's because he does have a heart, a human one, albeit cold? Maybe it's because he's used to someone constantly asking questions, talking, being somewhere nearby, shining like the sun?
His voice echoes through the room, calm, laced with silt. And no one interrupts, and no one asks about anything. And he used to dream about this, hated being interrupted, as much as he hated the shortening of his own name. He hated the whispers coming from the back rows, the sidelong glances that implied simple inattentiveness. But he hated immeasurable, raging stupidity even more.
But now everything was too quiet, the room was pierced only by the coldness of his words, but nothing more.
Today the sun seems to have faded and doesn't want to warm everyone with its presence.
Anaxagoras sighs, looking at the equally concerned students glancing at Phaenon. And he thinks that it's not his business to deal with other people's feelings. After all, teenagers are as complicated as one can imagine, with their seething insides and thirst for adventure.
He lets go of the situation, simply burying himself again in his experiments and the study of the unknown. And then he forgets about the incident altogether. As if it's the first time he's seen sullen faces on students. Usually they need time to sort themselves out. Only occasionally is a kind word or a slap needed. But Anaxagoras is still not a master of kind words; handing out slaps has always been easier and more effective.
But he only remembers this now, standing in a small, round garden, a few steps away from their eternal tree, its branches spread out like a dome. Nearby, bushes rustle, the wind whistles, playfully swaying bright yellow asters, reminiscent of stars in the night twilight. And it is beautiful: the sky is gradually painted a delicate pink, then turns red, exposing the still very ghostly crescent moon and a lone star nearby, just as dim, but visible to the eye.
But it's not this that attracts Anaxagoras's attention; he has seen this garden hundreds of times, and he himself likes to visit here from time to time, because it's quiet and lonely here. Just the way he needs it.
But now he's not alone; not far from the tree stands a figure, dressed in white academic robes, leaning his shoulder against the trunk of the tree and bowing his head low. Without seeing the face, you can easily recognize who it is; all you need is the white, silvery hair, which no one else can see. Only in old men in their venerable old age.
A branch under his feet crunches, betraying his presence, but Anaxagoras is calm. It's not in his nature to hide; he hasn't been a teenager for a long time. And even as a teenager, did he ever hide?…. Ah, perhaps back then, when a flock of immature youths cornered him, mocking his stupidity. But that was all long ago, and therefore no longer true.
Anaxagoras is calm, coldly examining the pale face and extinguished eyes, now seeming completely dark blue, like a sea abyss.
"Professor Anaxagoras," the voice sounds broken, quiet. Perhaps because of the rustling of the leaves or the wind, carrying every sound away.
Anaxagoras sighs again, takes a step forward, realizing that it seems he will have to deal with this problem. Well, a bad choice. He knew how to trample in the mud and cool the ardor with just a caustic word, knew how to infuriate with the same. But support? His sister could support; she only needed a gentle touch, a smile, and a look from warm green eyes.
"I'm afraid of my fate," Phaenon says, clenching his hands into fists.
And Anaxagoras no longer needs words. He vividly imagines and remembers how many eyes were directed at the future savior, how many words were said, and most importantly, how much hope was invested.
"They all have so much hope in me, but…. What if… I can't?" and his voice breaks, cracks into pieces.
Anaxagoras takes a step forward, not close enough to touch, but enough to make his presence felt. But he doesn't speak yet, looking in the dark eyes for pain, those very fragments.
"It's stupid," he begins, seeing how the other's face is distorted in even greater sadness, how he bites his lip, how his eyes darken even more, losing all the remnants of light, "it's stupid to rely on just one person." He is silent for a while; Phaenon opens his eyes in confusion, clearly not expecting this, "I don't know how to support, but I can say that I'm sure you'll reach great heights if you stop doubting yourself. Self-pity is even more disgusting, almost on par with stupidity. Everything depends only on you and your aspirations."
"But what… If I don't want to be the savior?" a timid question that flew from his lips, a light touch of the wind on his skin and hair, ruffling them.
Anaxagoras smirks crookedly, gripping the scrolls in his hands more comfortably, and simply, completely calmly says:
"Then don't be."
He adds nothing more, neither about the fact that Phaenon's life is only in his hands, nor about the fact that people build their own destiny, not the gods. None of this, because nothing more is needed.
But perhaps that gratitude that shone in the blue eyes, gradually dispelling the former gloom in an instant, as if a torch had finally been lit in the impenetrable, thick darkness, could not but touch his heart.
***
After that conversation, it was as if something had changed. Invisible and elusive. But Anaxagoras felt these changes in the space around him, as if it were vibrating, he felt it in grateful glances, in timid, more sincere smiles and still trusting eyes. It was... strange. It would seem that before this strange student had behaved rather insolently towards him, tried to draw attention to himself, to prove something, to become the best or simply to ruin the lesson. But now... Now it is nothing more than gratitude.
Anaxagoras locks the feelings of warmth accumulating in his chest under a steel lock. Distraction from the set goals and aspirations is a fall into a pit. And for the mind and great genius, this is quite an omission. He cannot risk something like this. Therefore, he behaves as usual, almost not feeling the previous disheveled feelings.
Graduation approaches completely unnoticed. The Academy is on its ears, proud and majestic. And Anaxagoras would be lying if he said that he does not feel the same pride and ghostly trepidation. He looks at his students, standing very close and catching their smiles. A couple of them, too emotional, even tried to hug him... And Anaxagoras allowed it. Afterwards, of course, he shook himself off, as if from dust, but nevertheless allowed this small gesture. Fortunately, most were more calm and reasonable, getting by with only words of gratitude and simple nods in greeting.
But... oh, how tired he was of these hugs, of this noise, of people scurrying around! Now he would be in his laboratory, drowning in schemes and calculations!
"Professor Anaxa," a soft chuckle is heard from behind.
"Anaxagoras," he immediately corrects, irritably shrugging his shoulders. Well, really, how many times can you repeat the same thing! And only then does he turn around, slightly raising his head up to look into his clear blue eyes. Yes, Phaenon has grown in just a year. He has become taller than him, stronger, but even so, that youthful agility remains in him. And Anaxagoras hopes that it will never disappear. It would be a pity to lose such a smart man. The world clearly will not survive this.
Phaenon looks at him, and his expression becomes soft, respectful.
"Flatterer," Anaxagoras thinks.
"I am grateful to you for everything."
And he seems to reach forward before stopping himself. Anaxagoras, of course, notices this, but says nothing. But he looks more closely. He needs to say something inspiring, something... necessary... But what do ordinary, worldly people need? With Anaxagoras it is simple, he needs nothing but knowledge. But what to do with the others, he didn't know. He could only guess.
- If it weren't for the prophecy, you would have made a good scholar.
Phaenon's eyes sparkle with joy. He can't help but smile widely, and he would probably laugh if there weren't so many people around. But he stands there, trembling and looking with those same blue eyes, and smiles.
- I'll take that as a compliment.
Anaxagoras snorts. He looks away, looking at the celebration. Phaenon is silent next to him, but he doesn't go to his friends or the other teachers. He's silent, and it seems appropriate.
- I taught you everything I could. I hope you'll remember my instructions, - he says without turning around.
A chuckle is heard nearby. An impudent boy, and no respect for his elders!
- I remember. Try not to give in to emotions.
Well, at least he remembered that. It's not all that bad.
Many people saw Phaenon off, a crowd gathered. And Anaxagoras, watching all this from the window, frowned from a growing headache. What nonsense! He himself was not going to say goodbye, he said everything he could at graduation. He gave everything he could during these couple of years of training.
He watches for a moment as Phaenon smiles the same infectious smile that makes his own lips tingle. And then he looks up... right at him. And the smile gets even wider.
Anaxagoras rolls his eyes and turns away.
In the end, their paths must diverge right now.
There is no point in sentimentality.
***
Ochema is disgustingly noisy, there are too many people, which makes the air seem completely stuffy. Anaxagoras grimaces, tries to move away and already misses his beloved Grove, where it was quiet and calm... Relatively. At least there was a sense of knowledge and order, if the chaos of thoughts could be called order at all.
But here he is in Ochema, and he stands under its majestic vaults. This sortie will obviously be associated with more stress than checking students' work. And let's face it, he loved checking work, loved to look for mistakes or useful thoughts, loved to peer into the text, because it was easier than communicating with the students themselves.
"Professor Anaxa," Anaxagoras sighs from the familiar voice, but does not show it, he simply throws out angrily:
"Who is this?"
He turns around and looks.
Phaenon is now tall, despite being a head taller than him. But the face is still the same, with the same clear blue eyes, for a moment it seems that the sunlight is reflected in them, sparkling and shimmering like a jewel. Phaenon still has the same mischievous smile, the same tousled white hair and even the same mole under his left eye, partly resembling a tear.
“You don’t remember me?” For a moment there is confusion in the stranger’s voice, and Anaxagoras chuckles to himself. “It’s me, the student who usually disturbs you during classes.”
Anaxagoras still chuckles, his thin lips twisting into that very grin.
“Ah, it’s you.”
The Savior smiles timidly, for some reason jerks forward, but stops almost immediately, clenching his hands into fists.
“I always thought that Ochema wasn’t your favorite place. I think you even said that it was too noisy here.”
“That’s right.” But I am here on behalf of the academy.
And silence.
The silence stretches on for long minutes, but none of them take a step forward, only looking in different directions: Anaxagoras at Phaenon, assessing. Phaenon to the side.
“And yet you decided to become a savior,” Anaxagoras breaks the silence.
Phaenon smiles bitterly. His eyes dim for a moment.
“I had no choice.”
“There is always a choice.”
“I don’t want people dear to me to die.”
They speak almost simultaneously, and then fall silent. Songs and music can be heard from somewhere nearby, filling the silence. A warm wind blows, and the greenery rustles around. Only the sky remains as indifferent, always the same. And Anaxagoras remembers why he still doesn’t like Ochema—for her sky, in which there are never any stars or moon. For the sky that never turns dark. For its falseness and alienness.
He looks at his former student again and shakes his head. Well, he chose to be a hero - so be it. It's not his concern. But it's time to end this pointless conversation. Anaxagoras sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose with his hands.
- I was glad to see you, but I have to go.
He leaves just like always, without waiting for a single word. He turns on his heels just as abruptly, feels his cloak rise slightly behind him. And just like always, he disappears into the shadows.
He doesn't notice how someone else's hand jerks forward and hangs in the air, doesn't see how Phaenon's lips purse, as if wanting to say something else. Doesn't see how his eyes become completely thoughtful. But Anaxagoras doesn't care, he leaves without waiting for a further meeting.
***
The Grove is drowning in chaos and destruction. Monsters are scurrying everywhere, people are fleeing in panic, and many have fallen under the onslaught of monsters. Anaxagoras felt sick when he thought about the Grove. About his dear Grove, the haven of geniuses and his home. Now all this was collapsing gradually, slowly, like mold, consuming everything. Now the once beautiful buildings are painted scarlet, and in the air, not long ago filled with the scent of flowers, bitterness wanders, acrid, metallic.
The Grove at some point turned not just into chaos, but into a real slaughter. At some point, everything collapsed, and Anaxagoras is in damn pain from this. But the pain is paralyzing not only his heart, but also his body.
He was dying.
And the blood filled his lungs, hot, like lava. He tried to breathe, to rise, because not everything was done yet, not everyone was saved yet. But he can't move, his fragile body, almost like a doll, aches and hurts. He can only turn his head to the side.
And there is Hyacinth. Just as pale, with a gaping hole in her chest. She stayed by his side until the very end, helping him as much as she could. Until the very end, even when a horde of monsters attacked them. And she paid for it. Anaxagoras smiles bitterly. He immediately wheezes from pain, blood gurgles in his throat, and his vision gradually becomes cloudy.
Oh, he really is dying. Just like that. Just like that, he leaves all his research, doomed to remain unfinished, and what's worse, lost.
Pain pierces his heart, his temples squeeze. A white spot with a blue tint flashes before his eyes.
Is this what death looks like?
He didn't know, he knew that he had no more strength. Too tired, too exhausted by the struggle and fear for his haven, for the people living here. For science and knowledge as such. On this day, he felt too many of those human feelings and emotions that he had previously suppressed. This day showed that he was still human.
He imagined touches, first hair, then a cheek, he imagined noise, and then nothing. All sounds finally fade away, just as the annoying blinding white spot fades before his eyes. Anaxagoras breathes his last, no longer seeing how his former student excitedly bends lower, embraces his body with his arms, pressing it to his chest. He does not see how the gold of tears falls on his cheeks. And does not hear the words calling him.
None of this mattered.
Anaxagoras dies without achieving greatness.