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“Professor, you’re beautiful,” the man murmured upon waking. His former professor sighed. It wasn’t the first time she’d heard this.
The sterile walls of the hospice care room heard it, too. They saw the way he reached for her and how she only stared at his hand, knowing he wasn’t fully there, and that he didn’t know why he reached. They saw how both of them grew wearier each passing day. How the lethargy set in through the tedium. How each night, his memories would leave on the passing breeze, and he’d only recall up to his days as a student.
The room was simple. A bed with adjustable railings, a nightstand, a chair. To one side of the room, two doors (to the hallway and bathroom, respectively), and to the other, a large window. Across from the bed, a blank wall save for drawings from Lady Trianne.
For Phainon, each day was his first in this room, and he studied its contents when he was alone. A bed with adjustable railings, a nightstand, a chair, two doors, a large window, drawings. However, he rarely found himself alone, often accompanied by Professor Anaxa, who occupied the chair. He didn’t understand why his professor spent so much time with him. Maybe this was a study of some kind, one that he didn’t remember signing off on.
Anaxagoras, for her part, had tried viewing this as research to distance herself from the reality of the situation, but after a few days of playing perfect scholar, she found it wasn’t enough. Phainon was not getting better. Regardless, they had to go on.
“Phainon, do you remember what we talked about yesterday?” Anaxagoras asked, already knowing the answer.
“You gave a lecture on…” Phainon fished for the memory of all those years ago, then shook his head with remorse. “I need to focus better in class. Sorry, Professor.”
Every day, Anaxagoras would reveal something new to Phainon in the hopes that it would jog something in his head. Today’s assertion: “I haven’t been your professor for years.”
“But I went to your class yesterday! I go every day, and Castorice sits next to me. She probably has yesterday’s notes, so I can send her a message and she’ll share them with me. You remember me being there yesterday, right?”
Anaxagoras paled at the mention of Castorice. She had inherited the authority of Thanatos over a year earlier, and Phainon had taken it poorly. It was news best left undelivered.
“Hey, Professor, where’s my teleslate?”
“It was destroyed,” she said too quickly. “You fell a long way down and it shattered. You hit your head and it seems like you don’t remember much.”
“Oh… my head does feel fuzzy… empty, almost.”
Anaxagoras nodded. He had described this feeling to her every time she asked, using the same words each time. There was no sign of the illness abating. The Trailblazers from beyond the sky had identified it as a memetic virus, and they expressed surprise at encountering one on Amphoreus, and mentioned something about excessive memoria. If she had time, Anaxagoras would have asked more about the cause, but she had to focus on a cure. The Trailblazers had neutralised one of these viruses before, but with special tools they couldn’t access on Amphoreus. Even the native power of Oronyx couldn’t help. Anaxagoras didn’t want to suspect foul play, yet the Trailblazers speculated it could very well be the cause, particularly because only one person was affected. A targeted attack against a Chrysos Heir—could it be the cleaners? Would they know of technology from beyond the sky?
Whatever the cause, the illness stagnated on good days and worsened on bad ones. Phainon was dying. And although she refused to admit it aloud, Anaxagoras was, too.
Phainon’s eyes blinked open blearily as he processed the strange room around him. The bed with railings, the nightstand, the two doors, the large window, the cute drawings on the wall across from him. And, of course, the chair, where Professor Anaxa looked to have dozed off.
He didn’t think he’d ever seen his professor asleep before, but the scene rang familiar in his mind. He couldn’t help but notice how beautiful they looked, sleep smoothing away any signs of stress. He also couldn’t help but notice that his professor wore a blouse and a skirt very unlike anything they’d worn before. Phainon found it cute, but as soon as they started to wake, he smothered the thought down.
Anaxagoras hadn’t planned on falling asleep, but having thrown herself into her alchemy with reckless abandon as of late, the toll it took on her body, paired with the late nights, must have done her in. Phainon gave her a dopey smile as she stood up, straightening out her limbs after having sunk into an uncomfortable sleeping position. At this point, very few ways she could contort her body were comfortable, and though she had not experienced rigor mortis after dying at the Grove, the growing stiffness of her joints made it seem like a coming possibility. If she were pious, she would have thanked Cerces for delaying the inevitable.
“Professor,” Phainon called, watching her stretch. “I like your outfit! Is this a new thing you’re trying, or…”
Anaxagoras had prepared for this day by donning an outfit Aglaea had specifically tailored for her. She never felt comfortable in dresses, but skirts were the perfect fit. The one she wore was long and green, without too much excess fabric. Phainon always complimented her when she wore it and even gave suggestions back when she was fitted for it.
Today’s assertion: “I’m a woman.”
Anaxagoras watched as Phainon slotted the information into his reduced schema of the world, processing like a teleslate module.
He smiled. “That’s great. Does it make you happy?”
With how easily he accepted this assertion, she wondered what would happen if she told him blatant lies. Would he stop to question them, or would he trust that his teacher wouldn’t lie to him?
When she told him this fact about herself the first time, the conversation had played out much differently. She suspected that the fact that Phainon viewed her as his professor and not as his lover played into it. Originally, they’d been in their home in Okhema, the Dawn Device’s brilliant light filtering through wispy curtains just before entry hour. Phainon , she’d said, I’ve realised I’m a woman.
His back had been to her, but he turned from where he was preparing their breakfast to face where she sat at the kitchen table. Oh, what makes you say that? He examined her face as though he could glean the answer. She did so admire his curiosity.
If I were to say, “I married a woman named Phainon, and I spend much of my life with her,” how would you feel?
He tilted his head and narrowed his eyes slightly. I would be confused. It wouldn’t feel right.
She nodded. Exactly. “He” hasn’t felt right to me for a long time now.
Does this mean that you’re my beautiful wife now, Teacher? he asked, using that silly pet name of his.
“Yes,” she answered, “it makes me happy.”
“You’re so beautiful, Professor,” Phainon whispered upon opening his eyes. He wasn’t quite awake yet. Anaxagoras rolled her eyes after having heard this from him innumerable times now; though, this was an appropriate greeting for today’s topic. She watched as he absorbed the room’s contents from his railed bed to the nightstand to her chair to the doors to the big window to Lady Trianne’s drawings. Eventually, his eyes wandered back to her.
“Um, I hate to be the one to break the silence,” he began quietly, “but why are you smiling at me like that? It’s a bit scary…”
Anaxagoras’ face immediately dropped into a frown. “Scary? Am I not allowed to gaze at my adoring husband?”
Phainon tried not to laugh. “Good try, but you can tell whoever put you up to this that it didn’t work.”
Anaxagoras leaned back in the chair, anticipating the response to come. Today’s assertion: “We’re married.”
At the complete seriousness in her tone, a flush burned across Phainon’s face. As a student, he had feelings for his professor that he thought he’d hidden well, but everyone at the Grove knew. Anaxagoras refused to entertain him until after his graduation, and by then, she admitted to herself that she did find him charming.
“You’re my husband? Please don’t tease me like this, Professor Anaxa.”
Some things never changed. “First, it’s Anaxagoras.” She held up her left hand and pointed to the ring adorning her finger. “Second, I’m your wife.”
He went owly-eyed, scanning her for any trace of insincerity but finding none. What he did find, however, was a matching band on his bedside table. He picked it up, scrutinized it, and found an inscription on the inside of the band that read To the one who taught me much . And although he expected it, the fact the ring fit perfectly onto his finger rattled him.
“We’re married,” he said wistfully. “I must be dreaming.” His voice dropped into a serious register. “So, hold on, if I asked you for a kiss, would you…”
She let out a huff of a laugh. “I would have to oblige.”
And she did, gently, as though anything past a featherlight brush would kill him. Phainon grabbed her collar when she went to pull away, then quickly dropped it, apologising. She stumbled at the jerk, with her face planting into his chest and her hands grabbing at the side railing of the bed. Her countenance landed somewhere between amusement and a pout.
“Watch yourself,” she warned. “I’m still just a fragile scholar.”
Phainon looked like he was going to melt away. “Sorry, Profes—um. That doesn’t feel right to say.”
“I’ll save you the trouble of puzzling it out. You call me ‘Teacher.’”
His teleslate-like processing returned from the day before. “Like what it says on the ring?” And before Anaxagoras could give the affirmative, Phainon came to another realisation. “Hey, wait, what do you mean by ‘wife?’”
She explained like she had before. Maybe there was a chance he’d remember yesterday’s conversation if not the original. To no one’s surprise, no dice.
“I’m so lucky to have you,” he said.
That, she supposed, was true. She kissed him again for good measure and tried to ignore the nagging in her head that told her it would be the last time.
When Phainon’s eyes opened for the day, a troubled look painted his face. He shook it off as soon as he saw his professor sitting next to his bed. “Hi,” he greeted simply with a smile that read more as a grimace. “I won’t lie to you, I feel bad.” He took in his surroundings, starting with his bed, then the chair where Anaxagoras sat, then the nightstand, the doors, the large window, and, finally, the sweet drawings pinned on the wall. “What happened to me?”
Anaxagoras stared intently. This was a new way to start their conversation, which couldn’t be a good thing. “There’s no sugarcoating it,” she said, “you got sick with a mystery disease the minute I was apart from you, and you’re not getting better. Not to mention that you can’t remember anything, which is rather untimely.”
“It’s no trial that I can’t overcome. I’ve been sick plenty of times.” Phainon flashed a more legitimate smile in a futile attempt to lighten the mood.
Unfortunately, he had to contend with today’s assertion: “You’re dying.”
The man laughed. “We’re all dying, Professor.”
Anaxagoras did not find it funny. Normally, she loved pedantic semantics, but this was hardly the time. Not when the man she loved was slipping away and slipping away and slipping away.
He’s right, you know , came Cerces’ voice. It would be foolish to deny this inevitability .
There’s a difference between denial and non-disclosure , she retorted.
Phainon started speaking at the same time as the Titan, whose voice was louder. True as that may be, are you not denying him this truth? Do you fear knowing the extent of how much he cares for you?
Anaxagoras felt like she was going to lose it. “I already know!” she shouted, cutting off both Phainon and Cerces. “I get it! Just shut up and let me think for one wretched second!”
The ensuing silence stretched like a cat, impossibly long. The ever-murmuring Titan didn’t utter so much as a hum. Phainon picked at the fraying edge of one of his blankets, but then stopped. He glanced at the woman in the chair, who was sitting with her head in her hands.
“Professor Anaxa, are you okay?”
“Don’t call me that,” she snapped, barely bothering to look at him.
Phainon had the decency to look ashamed. “Sorry, Professor Anaxagoras.”
“No, that’s not—” she started, then paused. “You need to stop calling me Professor when we’re married. It’s childish to cling to that vision of the past.”
Phainon’s shocked expression would have been funny under any other circumstance. Anaxagoras spared him needing to ask questions and decided to explain everything all over again, hoping that somewhere in her explanation, she’d find the answers she was looking for.
She didn’t.
After Phainon awoke, he lay in silence. The room around him looked suffocatingly small, and he feared speaking or moving would only further fill the space. The nightstand, chair, doors, window, and drawings all closed in around the bed, railings serving as the last bastions against the oppressive, cold air.
He squeezed his eyes shut, and in that moment, he heard a door opening. Professor Anaxa came in, holding a glass of water. The atmosphere appeared to lighten considerably. “Here,” they said, “you should drink.”
As he did so, she sat down in the chair. He hadn’t realised how thirsty he was until the glass was empty in his hand. Anaxagoras took it from his shaking hand and placed it on the nightstand.
“Are you alright, Professor? You look pale.”
Anaxagoras had noticed that about herself in recent days. Her skin had grown wan and thin, and Phainon had had the decency not to mention it. Now, her open secret found life. It wasn’t like she had anything to hide anymore.
Today’s assertion: “I’m dying, too.”
His face fell as he processed the words. “I hope you don’t mean that. It’s a joke, right? Hyacine is going to come in soon and tell me it’s a joke you were both in on.”
Hyacine did not come into the room. Anaxagoras remained silent, keeping her expression as neutral as possible.
“Wait,” Phainon continued, alert and trying to sit up. “What do you mean, ‘too?’”
The pillows that had been propping him up tumbled behind him, one of them falling to the floor. Phainon watched Anaxagoras watch the pillow, her face giving little away. She hadn’t wanted to make this assertion until she had nothing left to tell Phainon.
“I don’t have much longer,” she said. “Cerces confirmed it for me. The Flame-Chase Journey is nearing its end, and so are we. You…”
She’d tried explaining his illness to him over and over again, but he never remembered, and it only became more difficult as his condition worsened. She hated that words failed her. If she could only pretend that the weakening of her body was the cause…
“Cerces confirmed it?” Phainon asked. “So you’ve inherited the Coreflame?”
He’s a rather intelligent young man. It would be a shame if you lied to him again , Cerces chimed in.
Anaxagoras brushed them off. She picked up the pillow at last and handed it to Phainon. “In a way, yes. They’re keeping me alive—well, they’ve reanimated my body—but they can only do it for so long. It’s like having an unwanted houseguest that you want to evict for noise, but you can’t because if they leave, you’ll keel over.” She shrugged. “So much for the ‘boundless’ power of the Titans.”
Phainon seemed to completely disregard the news about himself, clutching the pillow like a lifeline. “Is there anything I can do for you? Or to… make it easier?”
She grimaced at him. “You’re hardly in a position to do anything. Focus on getting better yourself. I can rest easy that way.”
He nodded solemnly. “I appreciate everything you’ve done, Professor. I hope you’ll let me call you a friend.”
To avoid looking into his eyes where hopeless resolve and intent no doubt dwelt, she pressed a kiss to his forehead. His skin had only become colder. She whispered into it with breath barely warmer. “Call me what you wish, Phainon of Aedes Elysiae. I will see you again soon.”
Phainon awoke to a quiet room he’d never seen before. A bed with adjustable railings, a nightstand, a chair, two doors, a large window, drawings. He wondered why he wasn’t in his own bed, then why the room was so cold despite the many blankets covering him, then why he was alone. Though—that was strange—he always slept alone in his own room.
He didn’t have time to dwell on it, however. His parched throat demanded water, so he determinedly attempted to sit up, only to find that his core and arm strength failed him, depositing him back onto his pillows. He could hardly even push the blankets off to leverage himself up. What had he gotten himself into to leave him so weak? Not to mention how his head buzzed like static pinpricks, not enough to hurt, but enough to disorient. Weak of mind and body… it was unheard of for the foretold deliverer.
He noticed a little bell on his bedside table alongside an empty glass and a silver ring. Reaching out to grab the bell, his arm swung wide and hit the glass, sending it crashing to the floor. He hoped it wasn’t expensive.
After a silent moment filled with Phainon trying and failing to grasp the bell, one of the doors swung open, and Aglaea and Mydei ushered themselves inside.
“You can get our attention more easily by ringing the bell, you know,” Mydei said.
Aglaea shook her head. “Now is not the time, Mydeimos.”
Phainon looked between the two of them, wanting to ask a question, but the din in his head flared up. He closed his eyes and rasped out “water.”
Heavy footsteps, then the sound of the door opening and closing. Gentle, calloused hands tucked his pillows and blankets into more comfortable positions.
“May I open the window?” Aglaea asked. “Fresh air might do you good.”
Phainon nodded, opening his eyes to watch her pull the curtains back and open the window. It let in a light breeze.
“Anaxagoras made a great sacrifice for the Flame-Chase Journey this morning,” she said abruptly. “None of us knew how little time she had left, but she made it matter.”
More unaskable questions bubbled to the surface of Phainon’s mind. Aglaea took notice of his expression. “Ah, you’ve forgotten much. Allow me to explain. In the Month of Joy last year, you and Anaxagoras wed and made a home for yourselves in Okhema. You two were very happy together, yet she continued her alchemical experiments using her own body as her reagents, which weakened her constitution. The black tide overtook the Grove a few weeks ago while she was lecturing, and she was reported dead, though she came to Okhema shortly after, bearing Cerces’ Coreflame.”
The same door as before opened, and Mydei stepped in with a new glass. Phainon struggled into a sitting position as Mydei tread around the broken glass to hand him the new one. He drank deeply, letting the liquid soothe his throat. Mydei glanced at the empty chair as though he meant to sit, but retreated to the other side of the room.
Aglaea continued. “You contracted your illness during the time Anaxagoras was at the Grove. She could only uncover small amounts of information about it, but she tried to help you as best she could.”
Despite the explanation, Phainon was more confused than ever. “So…” he started, then coughed, then cleared his throat. “So, Professor Anaxa married me? And is a woman now? Not that there’s anything wrong with any of that, of course, heh,” he sheepishly tacked on at the end.
Aglaea smiled sadly at his earnestness. “Yes,” she replied, “you helped her with her transition, not that she couldn’t do it herself. She was not outwardly affectionate, but we all knew how much you loved each other. You were almost inseparable in the years of your relationship, which she discovered was the key to completing the Flame-Chase Journey. She transmuted this for you.” She motioned to Mydei, who held up a glowing golden stone. “She said you would know what to do with it.”
Mydei came to the side of the bed again, offering the stone. “We’ll need to complete the Flame-Chase today,” he asserted. “The black tide is almost on top of the city, and we’ve gotten reports of citizens seeing a certain shadowy figure out there.”
As he took the stone, Phainon shook his head, though not in disagreement. “Mydei, if the situation is so urgent, why are you here? I thought you’d want to fight the black tide. You already have your Coreflame, right?”
“There’s nothing to be done now except make sure you bring Era Nova.”
“Are you sure the black tide’s already here?” Phainon looked to Aglaea. “Why can’t I see it outside? I can’t even hear the sounds of battle.”
Her face gave nothing away. She turned as though to gaze out the window. “It’s just a beautiful lie.”
Phainon remained quiet. One day, he was a student at the Grove, and the next day, he had to save the world. All these people supported him along the way, and he didn’t even know. He wondered how many of his friends were still out there, fighting even now. He tried to ignore the alternative.
The stone pulsed in his hands. The golden colour shifted under the surface, melting into itself in entrancing swirls. Phainon lay back, clutching it to his chest and allowing the pulses to align with his heartbeat. He closed his eyes.
At first, nothing. Then a blur of motion. The blue-green of the sea. Craggy peaks. A young girl taller than you. This must be Miletus, your hometown, and this must be your older sister. She smiles, twists, jumps into the ocean. She kisses your cheek. A man, presumably your father, ruffles your hair. A woman—your mother—offers kind approval. A traveller speaks of the Grove of Epiphany, and you think you’d like to visit.
The man and woman disappear. You need to go to that grove with your sister. You save money. You leave the peaks and ocean behind. The black tide envelops Miletus. You watch as it devours your city-state and your heart along with it. There is no prayer like that torn from your throat.
The Grove of Epiphany shifts into view. The experiments begin. Golden blood. Conjurations. Titankin bodies. Your own body. Arcane alterations. Your room explodes more than once. You watch the stars with intense longing. You kiss a girl in the Library of Philia to know what it’s like, but you discover you’d rather be her than be with her. You don’t dwell on it long.
The professors whirl through your life, but one stands out. He offers words of caution, yet you only heed them sometimes. Despite his advice, you pluck out your eye for a chance to see your sister again. She appears from the other side of Styxia, but only stares. There is no escape from the Hand of Shadow.
Your official studies conclude, but you continue your research and become a lecturer to the chagrin of your new colleagues. You laugh at them when you become a Sage. You will become a god, you tell them, for you are made of gods and gods of you. It’s all just soul.
You meet yourself, a student named Phainon. You think more highly of your—no, of his—classmate, Castorice, but his plucky spirit amuses you. Your teaching assistant notices. They all call you Professor Anaxa, and what annoys you more than anything is that they don’t bother trying to learn your full name. That name that you still hear your sister’s voice calling when it was time for dinner. You say it to yourself, trying to imagine her lips forming each syllable. Anaxagoras. Instead, you hear Phainon’s voice calling for Professor Anaxa. It was time for office hours.
Phainon learns quickly, pursuing debates with you about anything and everything. He tears through every book he can get his hands on and then debates with you over these, too. He is a particularly bright student, and for all he gets on your nerves, you cannot help but enjoy his company.
The experiments continue. Phainon graduates. Piece by piece, you tear yourself apart. Phainon blushes and asks if you'd like to “get together.” You accept. He offers for you to use his blood and body in lieu of yours, but you chastise him for his recklessness. You see much of him past this point.
Phainon at the market. Phainon holding your hands. Phainon describing the beauty of his hometown. Calling you “Teacher” when you disallow all the sappy words he wants to call you. Smiling at you like the end of the world will never come. Holding you like the end of the world will come tomorrow. Naked in bed. Sleeping. Debating. On one knee. Making dinner. Getting fitted for a ring that reads To the one who taught me much . Reading. Grieving. Lost in thought. Kissing you. Kissing you at your wedding. Dancing poorly. Accepting you. Staring into the Dawn Device. Trying on skirts with you. Holding you, again and again. Grieving, again and again. Worrying, though he tries not to let it show.
You leave, and you die. Cerces breathes life back into your failing body. You laugh and laugh. There is no God other than you!
When you return, Phainon is sick. He doesn’t remember any of it, any of that life you lived together. You explain his condition to him. He doesn’t remember. You ask for an explanation and get a response, but not an answer. He weakens. You conduct your penultimate experiment by revealing truths he should know. He doesn’t remember.
You go home and sit in your kitchen, staring at the counter where Phainon would prepare meals. The Dawn Device’s light streamed in as always, quietly illuminating the countertop as though Kephale could fill the space your husband used to occupy. You decide not to mourn the living.
“Phainon,” you say. This startles you, for it is the first voice you hear clearly. You remember that this was not your life, and this is your name. You listen carefully to your words.
“Phainon,” you repeat while staring at that patch of sunlight. “As you won’t recall, today I told you I am dying. This will happen tomorrow morning, and I will extract my memories to give you. As far as I am aware, this will kill me. ‘Memory is being.’ This will allow me to surrender the Coreflame of Reason at the same time. Don’t worry about it; I’m already dead. I know you won’t cry, but don’t be sad either. Just do your duty, Worldbearer. I’ll see you in Era Nova, where we’ll rule as Titans together. Hah, how ridiculous this world is!”
You pause, hesitating on your next words. You don’t speak them aloud, but you hear them in your thoughts: “How ridiculous it is to love.”
What an awful affair , comes the voice of God in your head.
You scoff but say nothing. An awful affair, indeed.
When the next entry hour comes, you close your eyes to spare Phainon from having to watch your demise. You plunge your hand into your chest. It’s cold, as the bodies of the dead tend to be. There is distant laughter. Then a blur of motion. At last, nothing.
Phainon opened his eyes, greeted by the sight of a familiar room. Bed, nightstand, chair, doors, window, drawings. Perhaps thirty seconds had passed or thirty years. Phainon’s chest felt empty, but that also meant it felt light. The stone pulsed a final time in his grasp. “Teacher,” he whispered.
Mydei averted his eyes and crossed his arms. Aglaea’s face flickered with recognition, though she feigned disinterest.
Phainon felt the memories restoring his strength. “Memory is being,” his wife had said. She was right, as always. He would not cry—this, too, she asserted correctly—but he would allow himself a moment’s indulgence in sorrow.
He pushed himself into a sitting position facing the window. With it open, the scent of blooming spring flowers and trees wafted in, each a gift of Cerces’ wisdom. There was a creek nearby, if the sound of babbling water was any indication, ushering in the revelry of Phagousa. Aquila’s sky was a brilliant blue, illuminated by Kephale’s Dawn Device. Okhema had never been so beautiful before. Phainon thought he heard a whisper on the wind.
Today’s assertion: “You will go on without me.”