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Chapter Text

And may the blasphemer cast the final vote. Anaxa throws down his token, the final tinder that sets Amphoreus ablaze on the Flame-Chase. The floor erupts in riots, cheers of victory, screams of horror. The blasphemer faces applause. He drowns out the hatred; what does a fleeting flicker of disapproval hold to the flood of shame, of anger he has faced over decades? Perhaps now he could die. He might even be happy to; he had long come to terms with death. If he had neither desires or regrets, why must death be a negative? His ultimate thesis had been proven. Yet one flicker of gold, one close look into the seemingly empty air, one gentle hum of a golden thread and maybe he has one final regret.

—

Marmoreal Market, Some Years Ago. Era Chrysea.

“And thusly, Eurystheus, with great faith and courage overcame Nikador’s vile attempts to drive him off the path charted by Mnestia’s golden hand and paved with Cerces’ burning reason, bringing back the Chalice of Treasures and glory to his humble home.”, the little child droned, recounting what little she remembered from her caretakers’ numerous stories to the bundle of childish joy surrounding her. Her golden hair flutters in the wind as she steps down from the stump the lot of them had used as a podium. The setting sun cast burnt shadows through windows. The children gathered in the small park already begin to disperse, the richer ones back to their villas and palaces, the rest to dark crevices of the market. Of course, being of the former category, Aglaea assumes each returns to a palace as extravagant and golden as her own. Her threads are yet sensitive or long enough to know the truth.

Her thoughts are interrupted by a voice from under a nearby tree, half hidden by the shadow, half illuminated by flickering threads of sun.

“If Cerces is the Titan of Reason, why would she favor Eurystheus’ blind trust?” he said, “Wouldn’t she show him why she is correct?”

“Does it really matter? Cerces is a Titan. Titans can’t be wrong,” Aglaea responds, cheerfully. She’d seen him here before sometimes, always nestled underneath that tree, observing, yet never seen him talk. Sometimes, without her rudimentary threads, she never noticed him.

“Why can’t they be?” the boy asks, again confused.

“They’re titans! Even our grandparents say they’re correct! And their grandparents too! It’s fine to be wrong,” Aglaea responds, exasperated. How a boy so young could express such blasphemy she did not know. Her parents warned her; of course they did, blasphemers were dangerous influences on children. 

“But that doesn’t mean they have to be right!” he goes on, standing up and stepping out of the shade. Not much taller than Aglaea, dressed in oversized clothes branded with the Grove of Epiphany’s insignia, “Cerces created the Grove, and she told us to ask questions! Elder Antikles told me Cerces wants us to have curiosity about the titans’ gifts, not to just accept them! If we just did that we’d never have made the pulleys that built your home, nor the bricks that make your walls!”

“Question the gifts all you want, but they are still there! Are you not standing on land moulded by Kephale?” Aglaea went on, irritated now.

“Does someone who gives gifts have to be good? I-”

Before the blasphemer could push further, an older girl calls from across the street. From her distinctive light green hair, Aglaea assumed she was related to Anaxa.

“Anaxa! We’re going!” she called. Aglaea recognized her expression; she’d seen it many times on her own parents, that tired but happy look that people use to hide their pain from loved ones. It made sense; such a troubled child as that boy, Anaxa, the girl had called him, must have come from a troubled past. No child could consider such blasphemy with proper guidance. She pitied him, such an inquisitive child with such an undeserving upbringing. In spite of herself, the question stuck. She could not give an answer as to why the titans were perfect, for they simply were. Maybe the boy had… no. She would stay steadfast; remember her parents’ words to avoid blasphemers.

***

“Chara, why did that girl think the titans were perfect?” Anaxa wondered aloud to his sister, perhaps too loud for such a faithful city.

“Well they are! Now, you’d think something perfect would always be correct, right?”  began his sister, ignoring the strange looks shot from across the market, “Have you ever seen a fire that doesn’t burn? Or water that never boils? Well if the titans created everything, and everything is always correct, are they not also perfect?”

“But you can make something perfect even if you’re not a good person!” Anaxa replied.

“Now Anaxa, we’ll continue this later. That girl is the heir of Mnestia’s House of Golden Laurels, you can’t speak of her like this.” Chara shushed. More vendors and clients started staring, and if arguing with him didn’t work she’d just use brute force.

For now, Anaxa listened to her. They continued through those winding alleyways even Aquila hadn’t gazed upon. The sight of scholars here was common; the Grove had little goods nearby, meaning trips to Okhema were not uncommon. Of course, Anaxa had gone before. The gentle swing of the transport dronas and open field where he sat and read were familiar sights. So too were the vibrant smells and chaotic ruckus emanating from the distant market square. 

It was surprisingly easy for him to keep up with his sister. Most Scholars came to the richer sections of Marmoreal Market. Any good vendor had long learned that; having studied from books all their life, scholars were gullible targets. Maybe they were why average student debt in the Grove was always rising. His sister was the only one wearing the olive branch and those green robes.

They’d have to stay longer this time; a festival to Mnestia was planned in the upcoming days, and all dronae were temporarily unavailable for travel between the Grove and Okhema. Usually, inns were easy to find, but by now most had closed for the festival. The vast majority of the open ones were covered in Anaxa held on tighter to his sister’s hands, the two now so far into the crevices of the market sunlight was meters above them. Even the noises had become a distant angry murmur.

“Here’s the last one. Wait for me, would you Anaxa?” Chara asked. 

They stood in front of an ancient inn, chipped granite pillars and filth strewn around the alleyway. This alleyway was so tucked far away Anaxa doubted whether anyone in Okhema even knew it existed, somewhere only Zagreus and his followers gathered. Chara tried the door. It didn’t budge. She tried again. Still nothing.

“I wanna go to the big one!”

“Now you already know we can’t afford that.” Chara replied condescendingly. 

“But none of these ones are open! I don’t want you to sleep on the sofa again!”

Understandably, neither did Chara. “If we really can’t find an open one in… say two hours, fine.” 

***

Also understandably, they didn’t find one. Two hours later, clothes covered in dirt and filth from various alleyways no mapmaker had ever thought to include, the two stumble back into the central plaza from the morning. By now, Kephale had closed his eyes. The humble clearing was now adorned with torches and other glimmering ornaments. The festival was yet to truly begin; most of the people frantically milling about and shouting across the garden were employees of the House of Golden Laurels. Among them, Aglaea ran around, observing, helping where she could. Being the House’s heir, she too was dressed in white-gold ceremonial garb. The moment the two entered the field, Aglaea’s threads hummed, and her eyes flicked over the newcomers. With some minor disdain and curiosity, she recognized the boy from earlier.

“Weren’t you the one who said the titans were imperfect? Anaxa, right?” Aglaea asked, abandoning the man she was assisting in stringing up lights (“Hey! Kid– Lady Aglaea! Gah!”), “Aren’t you at a festival for Mnestia right now?”

“Not like I want to be-”

“Apologies for his uncouth behaviour, Lady Aglaea!” Chara quickly interjects, slapping a hand over Anaxa’s mouth, “We were looking for an inn but they all seem to be closed! We’ll be going now!”

“No need for apologies ma’am! The Laurel should still be vacant. Please, allow me to extend Okhema’s favor to such a distinguished scholar as yourself,” Aglaea replied with the air of a proper heir.

“The Laurel? As in the inn owned by the Golden Laurel? You must have mistaken me for some other scholar I’m no more than a student-”

“Please, do not worry about these matters. Simply tell the receptionist you are a friend of Lady Aglaea’s. I would only request Anaxa accompany me. I’d like to show him firsthand what titans can offer.”

“Then I leave him in your care.” Chara replied, grateful some titan finally blessed her with decent luck. If anything, without Anaxa she might at last get a chance to study. She hurried away, navigating through those bright lights until Anaxa lost sight of that familiar olive shade.

“Hello again.” Aglaea started, dropping whatever poise instilled in her by her parents, “You never answered my question. Don’t you see the miracles made by Kephale all around you?”

“Yeah but that doesn’t mean anything! That just means Kephale made everything; why would that mean they’re perfect?” 

“Well why wouldn’t it?”

“Well…” for once Anaxa was stumped. Someday he’d know the burden of proof lay on the claimant, but that day was ages away. Maybe he’d even remember this moment.

“Allow me to show you, then,” she continued, smiling and pulling Anaxa’s much-too-long sleeve towards the market center.

It was, as any festival dedicated to the Titan of Romance should be, beautiful. Even with decorations only half-done, that much was evident. The stump where Aglaea spoke that morning hosted a blinding ivory likeness of Mnestia. The same tree Anaxa had sat under now brimmed with lights, the lower branches bending from the weight. Across the street, Marmoreal market already began to glow, vendors preparing wares for the night. Performers went over their acts. Past each, the two children ran, one dragging the other. Briefly, they stop to rest.

“If everything you’ve said isn't enough to convince me, what ‘beauty’ can you show me that does?” he asked, winded from running so far.

“Somewhere you can see it all,” she replies. Soon, the two reach a passage of Janus. A few quick flicks of her hand and it opens, rushing the two to a pavilion on the edge of a mountain. Below, all of Okhema lies there, shining.

“Here it is. Mother commissioned this a while ago, one of the few mountains that has a view of the whole city. It feels like Mnestia’s giving us a big hug,” Aglaea exhaled, leaning against the marble railing.

Anaxa stood right next to her. From here, Okhema was of course beautiful. He had no problem recognizing that. Those blinking golden lights bathed their faces even from this distance. Their eyes filled with a youthful whimsy they’d never see again.

“It really is beautiful, isn’t it?” Anaxa said, for once acknowledging beauty.

“I think I can see the tree you sat under earlier!” Aglaea pointed vaguely at the light below.

“Where?”

“Can’t you see it?”

“Whatever. I just want to look at the whole city. It even looks bright all the way from the Grove.”

“Sometimes when Mother makes me practice weaving for too long I come here and just sit,” Aglaea continued, “I can almost hear Mnestia whispering and watching over Okhema.”

 “But… why would that cheer you up?” Anaxa asked, “Isn’t it beautiful enough here?”

“Well if she’s watching she’ll guide me back to the right path.”

“What if she never does? What if it’s just you having time to think and feeling better?”

“Can’t you imagine her presence for once? It's pretty enough up here for her to want to see it too!”

“Of course it's pretty! But I could imagine so many other things! Why couldn’t it be Chara with us instead of Mnestia? Why… Why does that mean Mnestia is perfect?”

“We can feel her creations. At least I can.”

“Well I can’t. So the titans’ power is imaginary?"

“I- no! The titans are real!”

“What's there to be upset about? Didn’t you say it's fine to be wrong sometimes?”

“No! I’m not!

“The titans–”

“Let’s talk about something else,” Aglaea proposed, “ the market has great food, we can go try it!”

“But I still don’t understand the titans!”

“Later, ok? Not now. Please.  Let’s just head back, shall we? The festival’s starting,” Aglaea replied, shaken. Indeed it was; the commotion of the market wafted up the mountain, and even from here

happy sounds were audible. 

Somehow the Janus passage on the way back seemed colder.

Usually, the outskirts of Amphoreus are quiet; the only regulars are bureaucrats from Dawncloud. Now even here it is vibrant. Two more children joining the crowd is nothing unusual.

“Aglaea?”

“Anaxa, please… stop asking about the titans.”

“Are you okay?”

Silence.

“Why wouldn’t I be? Now, I need to show you some of the food stalls around the market! Hurry before they close!” Aglaea replied. Of course, changing her habits was expected. Children of the Laurel must be composed. So what if her beliefs were, for the first time, seriously challenged?

***

Amphorean food was, beyond a doubt, decadent. Perhaps Mnestia had combined her beauty with Phagousa’s banquets to bring such creations to life. It is only rational that two children with more money than most saw in their life would try everything. As the old adage goes, a kid in a candy shop. 

“I am never trusting your idea of ‘a little spicy’ again,” Anaxa pants. Having eaten their fill, the two retire to the plaza again. Around them, the commotion continues, parents and children alike running across the grass.

“Maybe the Grove just has really bad food… I heard they only feed you boiled lentils,” Aglaea asks, handing him another bottle from the box Anaxa insisted on buying after trying some roasted creation.

“Please don’t remind me of it.”

“Eugh. My greatest sympathies.”

They sit in silence for a bit, picking at the last crumbs. Anaxa leans back on his elbows, staring at the sky where festival lanterns are starting to glow.

“You get used to it eventually,” he said, “the Grove, I mean. The food isn’t that bad, sometimes there’s even salt and you have lots of quiet to think. I don’t think I could ever be here for longer than a week.”

“I don’t think I could stand the quiet.”

“You get used to that too. Everyone just reads. And argues. Lots of that.”

“Is that why you argue so much?”

“...Maybe.” He tosses the bottle from one hand to the other. “Maybe I don’t like being told what to think.”

“Mother and Father tell me what to think all the time.”

“And you believe them?”

“Obviously? They’re  my parents!”

“So?”

Aglaea opens her mouth to argue, then closes it. “I guess… It's easier. They know more than me. Probably they can even hear us now with their threads alone.”

“Threads?”

“The House of Golden Laurels can sense things using golden thread blessed by Mnestia. I’m still learning but Mother knows everything already. She says someday I’ll hear every whisper!”

“Huh. Chara knows a lot too. She’s wrong sometimes.”

“And you tell her that?”

“Sometimes. Mostly I argue. She taught me how to do it.”

“Maybe you just like to argue.”

“Maybe. It’s getting dark. I should go back with Chara.”

“You haven’t even seen the fireworks yet. The inn roof is a great place to see them actually! I’ll show you.”

“Isn't it dangerous?”

“Scared?”

“...”

It’s a short walk back to the inn. The staff recognize the golden heir, and unlock the roof without any further questions. The sky is dark now; stars twinkle in its embrace. Someday the blasphemer will prove they’re fake. Someday the Goldweaver will see it fall. Now, the wind is just perfect. They sit on the cold marble.

“Maybe you have a point. Mnestia always loved Cerces. She’d want me to think. But… I still see her perfection everywhere.” Aglaea began.

“And now we can have a proper debate.” Anaxa replied.

“Please don’t. The fireworks start soon. I can feel them lighting the first ones through the threads.”

“They might be bright enough to convince me of Mnestia.”

“And now you can properly enjoy everything.”

Sparkles fill the sky. Both cover their ears as explosions of color ring from the various launch sites across the city. Reds, pinks, yellows, blues. It looks as though the sky was ablaze. Threads of silver and violet made brilliant tapestries deserving of the House’ craftsmanship. And indeed, somewhere in there, for a brief moment, Anaxa saw Mnestia. Flying among the fireworks, adjusting every little imperfection.

Chapter Text

It is after a long morning that Chara finds her brother passed out on his back next to the Heir of one of the richest families in Okhema. 

“Wake up. We still need to buy some things from the market, then leave with the next dronas caravan.”

“Morning sis,” he replies groggily, “you should have seen the fireworks.”

“I did, from the room. Why is Lady Aglaea here too?”

“She showed me the fireworks!”

“...Good for you,” Chara mutters. It would certainly look weird if some random scholar brought back the kid after the House opened any official investigation. “Whatever. Kidnapping isn’t the worst charge.”

Thankfully, the staff are more than happy to not launch a city wide search for the heir. Chara is even compensated for it; the House covered her trip back to the Grove. Maybe she should kidnap the heir next time. Anaxa might be onto something.

“Can we visit Aglaea again next time?” Anaxa asks after saying his goodbyes, “she talks about Mnestia differently from those teachers at the Grove.”

“Since when did you care about Mnestia?,” Chara replies. “Now, I still need to pick up some groceries from Marmoreal Market, so you wait in the plaza okay?”

And so Anaxa ended up reading under the oak tree for the second time in those two days. This time he notices the flimsy golden thread hanging from some of the branches. Looking closer, he saw more criss-cross in the air, all converging on various buildings he guessed the House owned. He reached a hand up to touch one; it broke at once. He didn’t even feel it.

“Psst! Anaxa!” The voice comes from somewhere underneath him.

“Aglaea?”

Anaxa sees nothing but a golden beetle resting on an especially thick root of the tree. It sat there, unblemished, the surface gently rippling as though made of threads blowing in the wind, catching all the answers someone might ever need.

“You’re a beetle?”

“I can speak through golden beetles like this. My parents don’t like me talking to blasphemers but you showed me a different side of Mnestia so… thanks.

“You’re welcome? Can you hear through the beetle?”

“I have a surprise for you later; I’ll be waiting for you with the dronae!”

“I don’t think you can hear me.” He thinks he can hear the threads laughing. 

***

“Anaxa! I finally got out of there, by Cerces it's crowded,” cried Chara, trying her best to manage the various bags they had, “The dronas is leaving soon!”

Anaxa jolted awake, grabbing the books loosely strewn around him, then out of some instinct the beetle that remained on the root. 

“Coming!” 

Before he could say another word a bag a third his size dropped into his hands. The short walk to the dronas stable didn’t feel short for either of the siblings. Even the incessant noise of the market was drowned out by fatigue. Upon arriving, Anaxa dropped his bag for the caravan staff to load. As always, the smell of animal feed and the reek of unwashed dronae fill the air. He’d gotten used to it with how many trips he’d made to the city. Looking very out of place amidst the filth, Aglaea motions him over.

“Why else do you need to bother me?”

“Your clothes fit horribly.”

“I can make do.”

“Your sleeves are rolled up to your shoulders and it still covers most of your arm.”

“Like I said, I can make do.”

As if Zagreus was listening, his sleeves fall down and almost trail the ground. 

“We get enough commissions from the Grove. I asked Mother to teach me how to make the uniform and I made something actually your size for once.”

“I don’t need it!”

“Too bad. I gave them to Chara.”

Somewhere in the distance the final call is made. The last of the dronae are strapped into the long harness, the last of the mountains of luggage piled onto gentle giants.

“Remember to write to me!”

“Maybe.”

Anaxa wore those robes daily. Or at the very least Chara forces him to. Being made with the finest fabrics of the House,  they are beyond comfortable. Not that he notices much.

***

As he has every day before, he sits in the Grove’s vast library. As he has every day before, he scours every inch of those shelves carved from the ancient tree. He’d never had formal schooling; no self-respecting tutor or teacher would accept a blasphemer for a student. Whatever topics he finds interesting he learns. Days on end reading textbook after textbook were commonplace. Each shelf stretched on to eternity, each a tiny whisper from Cerces. In the center of the parchment maze lies seating for the thousands of staff and students of the Grove. That smell of parchment and ink, ever omniscient around the Grove, seemed to be birthed from here. Here was the Grove’s living, breathing heart.

“What’cha reading?” Chara asks, emerging from one of the many stairways into the library lobby.

“‘Cerces’ Reverence’. I found a textbook on how the titans can stand up to rigorous logic.” He never looks up from the book.

“Did that goldweaver girl convince you?” she continued, setting up her telestrate opposite of her brother.

“No. I just wonder how she can convince herself.”

“Are you trying to convert a priest to blasphemy?”

“I’m trying to prove a point. I’ll write her a letter later.”

“Ooh you’ve reached that age haven’t you?”

“What age?”

“And you’re even wearing the uniform she made…”

“You made me wear them. Isn’t break for students over?”

Chara looks at the clock looming over the lobby. 

“That it is. Good luck,” she replies, frantically packing the items she had just laid out a moment ago.

Anaxa doesn’t reply. Already he’d worked through this one, and by the time Chara leaves he’d already returned to the endless maze to search for another work he hoped would convert him.

***

Anaxa found little in the books. Of course, while the grove’s endless hoarding of books means both sides of any argument can be found here, with the exception of the Titans. It seemed every opinion was that the titans were perfect, but not one provided a valid proof. Chara checked in every few classes; occasionally she helped him. Most of the time she “helpfully” provided counterarguments. By now books were strewn all across his desk, and in his notebook was recorded each and every argument for the titans, and a corresponding valid counterexample. Perhaps now he’d be ready to send his letter to the priest. Carefully, he copies those jumbled scratches of ink into a refined text fitting of a Grand Sage. Each unrefined ore of logic arranges itself into impenetrable reinforced sheets. Few trained scholars could produce works of such quality, yet none would recognize his talent; the boy was branded as a blasphemer already. “Wasted potential”, as they say. Recognizing his worth equates to rejecting the titans.

All in all, it’s a short letter. He introduces himself. Attaches the proof. Sign his name. Sends it. Then he picks up another textbook, this time in mathematics, and returns to his usual hobbies.

***

“Come now Aglaea, the lapels need to be cut from the same cloth. Even your training pieces need to be up to the same standard as any product of the House,” the next faceless instructor droned on.

Aglaea had already attached half the lapel. The gorge, as it should be, ran along the lapel, holding up a clean, sharp peak. Just as she was instructed. The needle in her hand, formerly clenched in focus, bent as focus gave way to hardly suppressed rage. She felt a drop of blood and a strange relief.

“Does it make that much of a difference?” she asks, already slowly tearing out her stitches regardless of the answer. 

“It does not matter what it looks like. Everything must be of the utmost level of perfection you can manage, which from what I can see isn’t very much. You may have a break now, we’ll continue after 15 minutes.”

The heir sighs.

“Thank you, teacher.”

Aglaea never sees Mother or Father except during mealtimes. If she does it is because she has done something wrong. Her classes are taught by instructors with titles longer than that of the Grove’s sages. Some are sages. None of that matters to her. Her creations are beautiful; each and every one she makes sounds of Mnestia’s whispers. She can look at any of her past canvases and tell exactly how she made it, but more importantly exactly what makes them wondrous. Yet they never satisfy those faceless instructors who scold her for “her own good”. Of the works she viewed as best, vibrantly striped blazers, dresses that flow like spilled wine, none were praised; many even are torn up in front of her eyes. “Make something normal,” they say. 

“Letter for Lady Aglaea?” called one of the House’s many maids from the post room, dragging her from the depths of her thoughts. She sets down her needle.

“Here!” 

Aglaea grabs the letter and returns to her room. It is as spacious and glamorous as the rest of the villa, as a believer in the titans deserves. Each wall was cut from a boulder of brightest marble, gilded by the heir herself with golden thread. Windows open to a view of all of Okhema. Along one of its walls is a table of finest Laedonian wood, designed to be as comfortable as the finest carpenters of Okhema could muster. Aglaea sets down the letter, opens it.

Dear Ms. Aglaea,

She checks the sender again. Yes, it was signed “Anaxagoras” and not some other nuisance of a teacher.

I do hope this letter finds you well and joyous. Following our recent interactions and debates regarding the perfection of the titans, a topic more commonly known as Venerationism, I am writing to support my claims with various logical proofs, as provided in this letter. You may also find a bibliography following the Okheman citation style. All texts used are from the Grove of Epiphany Open Library.

Aglaea looks at the rest of the attached pages. One falls out.

…I write to you now having formalized our discussion in proper notation. Let T(x) denote that x … and the eastern swampland s. We have T(k) and C(k,s) by hymn and tradition, but ¬R(s), as in the swamp poisons crops and breeds sickness (hardly the mark of rational design). If ∀x∀y ((T(x) ∧ C(x,y)) → R(y)), then the existence of s gives us (T(k) ∧ C(k,s) ∧ ¬R(s)), which yields a contradiction … least possible. I invite you to provide a counterexample or further justification, if one exists, such that the implication ∀x (T(x) → P(x)) might still hold without logical contradiction.

She’d never been good at formal logic. Logic, too, was a gift of Mnestia, and its beauty could never be rationalized. Regardless, as an heir she had tutors for every skill she might ever use, such that citizens of Okhema viewed the House as almost omnipotent. Her eyes flicked across those dense pages. They must be true, because, if they were not true, no one would have the imagination to invent them. And of course because that boy Anaxa wrote them. He seemed brilliant. Yet Aglaea cared little for their content; indeed she could sit down, refute each theorem herself to the best of her ability. Her math professors would be proud. Instead, each and every stroke of the pen on that paper disproved the author’s own words; for if such passion could exist for logic, is it not, too, evidence of beauty? The same way she could tell an artist’s state of mind through their painting, Aglaea saw that brilliant flame of reason, blazing through the endless void of uncertainty. Her reply is short.

Dearest Anaxa,

For the same reasons Mnestia is not the sponsor of the Grove, I do not pretend to understand your symbols. But no matter how sound your arguments are, do you not see the beauty in logic itself, the same beauty I see in the world? They say Mnestia once fell for Cerces. If even the Titan of Beauty themself sees logic as a manifestation of themself, who are we to oppose them? Even today, the gifts of Mnestia to Cerces are on full display at the Grove, and will stay there for millennia to come. Of course, I cannot comment on Kephale’s miracles of genesis or Zagreus’ trickery, but the incredible beauty I see everywhere is simply impossible without Mnestia! 

Best regards,

Aglaea

House of Golden Laurels.

The pen leeched golden ink, flying across parchment as sparks fly from flame. Penmanship too is a quality a child of the House must know. 

“Aglaea! Dinner!”

Aglaea wasn’t sure if it was Mother or a servant who called for her, but she came down regardless. Walking down the cascading chiseled stairs, she handed a letter to the closest servant, another faceless young man among the hundreds serving the head household of the Golden Laurel. He ran off with a curt nod. As he was trained to, Aglaea thinks to herself, wondering if he had ambitions, if he yearned for freedom. 

The family dining hall was, surprisingly, humble. Aglaea had designed it herself; tired of the gilded marble that blinded her eyes when light reflected off it, she’d designed the room with wood. Here the family had no need to impress guests or intimidate adversaries. That gentle brown seemed so much more comforting to her than sheer sheets of white. She’d experienced the massive dining hall underneath them before, her parents confining her to those long ivory benches with diplomats, entrepreneurs, and seemingly the entire population of Okhema, but even that, she felt, was inferior to her design. There was a smug pride in that.

“Tell me about your studies today,” Mother asked blandly, already seated at the table. As it had been every day before, Father sits at the head of the table. Aglaea seats herself where she had sat for years before, where she is fated to sit for years to come.

“They went well, Mother. I finished another suit with Ms…” Aglaea trails off.

“Amalia. You must remember the names of your teachers, Aglaea.”

They continue eating in silence. The food isn’t much; Aglaea of course knows each ingredient here is of the highest caliber available in Okhema, yet nothing tasted extraordinary. It was made “perfectly”, in the same way an unblemished statue was. “Perfect” amounts of each ingredient, of heat, of spices. 

“Aglaea, there is something I mean to ask you about.” Her father speaks up.

“Must you do so now Evander? Can it not wait until after mealtime?”

“I do not care for your protests, Eunike. Aglaea has been contacted by a blasphemer. No doubt another one of those Grove scholars trying to scavenge controversy for money.”

Mother looks over Aglaea. The golden heir, fated to lead the House on to greatness…

“Is this true, Aglaea?”

Aglaea sits in silence. Perhaps it was.

“You mean Anaxagoras? There is naught to worry, Mother, he is but a friend of mine. He has no need for money!”

Her father’s calmness quickly retreated.

“You dare call such scum a friend? We pay for your education, for everything you can ever want, and you repay us like this? A blasphemer! He is no more than that!”

“Can I not be friends with him?”

“Now dear, calm down,” her mother interrupts, “I’m sure you understand Aglaea, but that boy is a blasphemer. I have not the slightest idea what kind of education he gets, but you stay away from him.”

“But… he’s really smart. He reads books all the time!”

“If he was actually smart he wouldn’t commit blasphemy. Aglaea, if someone doesn’t believe in the titans, they’re wrong, okay?”

“Why?”

“Because–”

“Because that kind of filth is incapable of even comprehending Beauty!” her father raged, “Already he has infected your mind! Already you are questioning Mnestia!”

“If he’s wrong isn’t it better to help him? Why must your definitions of beauty be the correct one? Do bards not find beauty even in the endless and futile struggles of–”

“I’ve had enough! I will not have any of this blasphemous horror in my home! You will not talk to him and that is final!”

Father storms out of the room, undoubtedly to block all communication from the address that sent the letter and to withdraw the golden ink Aglaea already sent. The food has grown cold by now, as has the air between father and daughter.

“Look what you’ve done. Corrupted child.”

Mother does the same. The air has thoroughly frozen now.

***

Anaxa never got a reply. Not that it would change much; he always was outed as a blasphemer, and perhaps always will. Perhaps it might not. For a few days students report a young boy checking the Grove’s post office again and again. Every time he travels to Okhema, he notices each thread. For every thread a vendor snaps with a careless wave of his hand, Anaxa carefully avoids one. In time, the threads come to avoid him too.

Chapter Text

It’s a foul autumn afternoon when Anaxa nearly reduces the grove to cinders. The flimsy beaker shatters with force enough to burn a halo that could have been Nikador’s fingerprint into the granite slabs that tiled the lab. Thick, hissing coils of smoke rose from what once was a setup to measure energy released. The man who set up the experiment is pelted by glass, clawing away swaths of fabric and various buttons holding up layers upon layers of those ornate robes. The simple ones he’d seen students wear in the library were just that; simplified.

“This,” scolded his professor, flicking black dust from his pristine robe, “is why we never let first years plan labs. Your fantastical notions of  ‘equivalent exchange’ are no more than fanciful imagination! By Cerces the next Sage better have better policy…”

“But sir… it worked, didn’t it? In order to create that reaction we consumed mass!”

“You used barely even a milligram of matter! That explosion is no result of your theories! In all my years of teaching…”

“Orfeas, sir, if you look at the formulae, via equivalent exchange just a tiny mass can indeed release a massive amount of energy! Even with a tiny mass the constant is so massive–”

“Can it! Clean up this lab and return to Commons at once. I will excuse your tardiness in your next lecture for no more than 5 minutes. Also, your coat is on fire. As irritating as you are, the death of a student would probably land me on a list.”

Turning around, Anaxa quickly pours the nearest beaker on his angrily smoldering robes. Probably its water.

“You absolute fool! That’s ethanol–”

Thank Kephale the Grove’s labs are insured.

It takes time to clean off those burns. It seems to take longer to clean off the board. For a moment there was a chance to demonstrate his theories in practice. Truly, the grove was worthless. No school would accept his theories. Is the purpose of Cerces not to question everything, to learn all there is to learn? What felt like an eternity of reverence and anticipation for little more than blind faith with an infinitesimal of logic. All the Grove had given him was a roof to live under, and even that at times groaned and cracked from lack of maintenance. Maybe it’d collapse on him someday and he could get enough reimbursement to fund his own projects. 

Formally enrolling hadn’t done much for him. Anaxa had expected much from the Grove. Tales of intellectual masterpieces on chalkboard and artisans of knowledge on every branch of the towering tree. Yet he’d learned nothing; if anything those simplistic reductions of knowledge he was taught were worth less than just reading that maze of parchment where he spent his younger days. He’d developed his own theories by now, painstakingly forced himself to learn to prove each and every line. “Equivalent exchange” as he’d called it. Outside, Aquila seems angry, the sky itself greying to the shade of smoke from the titans’ hearth.

Anaxa walked back to the Commons. This high in the tree, the vibrant pastures surrounding the grove run free. Clouds seem an arm away. Being late isn’t that bad. Not like the lecture mattered much. Logic and Research was quite possibly the first book he picked up once Chara had gotten him library access all those years ago. Its contents had tunneled themselves into his mind. Another lecture on it would mean little. Anaxa does what little he can about his robes. He’d kept the same mandatory ornaments, the glass olive brooch required in daily wear, from his uniform all those years ago. A safety pin should do for now. 

It is quite a quiet walk back, most students already in lectures by now. Those who weren’t had better things to do than to aimlessly wander halls. Occasionally a tardy scholar rushed past in a whir of loose paper. Through the various openings in the branches, Anaxa stops and gazes at water pelting down. Grey stones. He thanks the researcher whose breakthrough protected the foliaged halls. Or maybe it was a titan. Did it matter?

In the wind and rain outside the Grove’s hardy shell, Anaxa was mesmerized. Leaves blowing past on prideful gales. Rain shattering like glass on the barrier. A glint of gold. He looks closer. A golden net embracing the dome. Occasionally blades of rain slice them.

“Drat. Should’ve put them on the inside.” swears a voice from behind him. 

“Shouldn’t you be in lecture?” Anaxa replies, staring at the rain. The drops fall faster; perhaps Aquila is angry.

“Shouldn’t you?”

“Rude, much?”

“Hi there, my name is Aglaea, what's yours? Better?”

For a moment, Anaxa paused, grimaced. What was it; four months of checking the post office almost daily? Composing himself, he turned around. 

“Anaxa. No need for sarcasm, please, respect the Grove.”

For a moment, Aglaea giggled.

“Anaxa? The problem child who ran around Marmoreal Market preaching blasphemy? By Mnestia you're in no place to preach manners!”

“...You seem familiar.”

“Oh you irritated me for a few days… some years ago?”

“Hmm. The opposite would make more sense. I’m 90% sure we’re both late for lecture.”

“I know.”

“We really should go.”

“We really should.”

“Why are we here?”

“Rain’s pretty.”

“Fair point.”

***

The sound of fists banging on the locked door of Arbor Hall is more than enough to rouse its pupils in various stages of falling into sweet dreams. Somewhere along the way Aglaea had quickly mended the button, attaching a new horn button probably worth more than the entire robe it was on. Quite a spectacle it is to see a young woman recognizable from any distance as an heir of the House next to what looks like a boy wearing his father’s robes. Already, the massive chalkboards already teem with chalk; so much white dust the hinges threaten to give way. It would, by all means, be easier to read if three boards were not covered, in sprawling, perfect print, “Dr. Orfeas, Sage of Venerationists”. 

“Now where have you been? I give you 5 minutes to clean your sorry excuse for a robe to an acceptable state and you end up 15 minutes late? Do you not know you are here to study Cerces’ most magnificent gifts? The gall! The moment I make attendance optional–”

“Sir? I believe my tardiness is also excused? I arrived to the tree late this morning?” interrupted Aglaea. 

Quickly his face calms in recognition of the heir.

“I don’t believe I’ve been informed. Regardless, sit wherever you wish. And please, put in a good word for my department with your father.” 

“He’s with me too.” Aglaea gestures to Anaxa.

“Ahhhh. In that case, my sincerest apologies Anaxa. I expect you to catch up on the textbook later.”

By all means Anaxa could recite each page of the textbook.

***

“Quite the lecture, wasn’t it?” Aglaea yawned, the lazy noise absorbing into the stacked shelves. Kephale knows how many hushed conversations and murmurs by scholars and wanderers alike it joined. The library was one of the few buildings carved from the inside of the tree rather than built on it. Various cracks in the wood were filled with spiraling caves of knowledge. Above, a tinted glass dome refracted light into golden puddles around the tree. Below, the humble lobby enshrined in shimmering light. 

“Who was sleeping again?” Anaxa replied, skimming titles and spines from every shelf.

“Hmph. I don’t exactly remember you taking notes. Which unholy creature designed the numbering system? How does anyone find references in this strange labyrinth?”

“...That would be my sister.”

“I mean her no harm. But. My point still stands. If I needed to hide something from Zagreus themself I’d shove it into some obscure corner of the library.”

“You’d be surprised how many of those there are. I’ve found full openings half the size of the main lobby with tables and everything. I also found bribe money left for a professor. I doubt he ever ended up finding it. Pretty sure it’s still there.”

“Huh. We should go there.”

“Aren’t you rolling in gold? What need do you have for money? Your robes are quite literally enchanted gold.”

“No silly! The atrium thing. It sounds quieter.”

“Find the reference first. It really should be in this branch somewhere.”

They keep searching in silence. Somewhere in the main atrium the first students stumble in after classes. Aglaea breaks the silence.

“You’ve spent most of your life journeying through these shelves, right? You look at peace for once.” Aglaea remarks, matching Anaxa’s steps through the parchment maze.

“It's nicer here. Lot quieter too.”

“Am I interrupting you?”

“Most definitely. Not that that bothers you.” 

“Fair enough. Here. I found the tattered thing.” Aglaea said, brandishing a “hardcover” copy with a cover that became tired of rigidity. A spiderweb of blues and greens crossed the cover.

“Is that mold?” Anaxa asks, hesitantly flicking off a thread of the web.

“Probably. It looks like a vibrant forest, don’t you think? I always find rot–”

“Meaningless chatter. Mold just makes our job harder, doesn’t it?” Anaxa interrupts her,“There’s a study area up a few branches. It’s a lot quieter there.” 

“Cheer up, would you? Don’t you get tired of brooding all the time?” 

“I do not brood.”

“Bah. Never speaks, looks like you came from under some rock Mnestia’s gaze didn’t reach… I’d say you meet most of the requirements.”

It’s a humble place they find themself in. As with the main atrium, light filters and swims through the tinted glass dome. The whole room smells of wood. Away from them the library below slowly fills with students. By the afternoon, most of the students join the amalgamation of brains, most studying, some chatting. A gentle hum of hushed conversations flickers through the air, some shreds wandering into their little alcove. Smells of parchment and ink perfume every surface with the Grove’s signature. Outside rain keeps battering the foliage, the pitter-patter strolling around the wooded walls of the library.

“I meet the uniform requirements at least.” Anaxa mutters, setting his various books and pens on the table. Opposite him, Aglaea does the same. The difference between sharp, shattered pencils and pristine carved ones is stark.

“Only because I happened to have a button and a sewing kit on hand.”

“Please. I had no need.”

“The safety pin was two seconds from slipping. Do you always choose suffering over swallowing your pride?”

He does, of course.

“I don’t need help. Plus you’d call it blasphemy. Clearly you’re opposed to that.”

“What, sewing?”

“Helping me.”

“Oh please. you think too highly of yourself if you imagine every favor I do has to be some kind of moral perfection.”

Anaxa leans back, staring into the spiraling shelves of parchment, the rain refracting the burning afternoon sun across the table.

“Why bother helping me then?”

She didn’t answer immediately; scribbling lines in the margins of her notes, slowly curling them into flowers and dresses. 

“Well… it's fun watching you. Everyone here just parrots professors. For once someone cares about the threads of beauty Mnestia weaved into the Grove.”

“It’s not. Beauty. It’s truth. Truth is inherently valuable.”

“Why?” Aglaea asks, smirking.

Anaxa thinks for a moment.

“God I hate you.” he mutters, returning to his work. The scratching of pen against paper continues. Sprawling ink scratches scramble the page.

“Whatever you say.” Aglaea teased.

“You said that before you stop replying to my letters.” Anaxa blurts out before he can stop himself. Briefly the scratching of the fountain pen stops, then quickly picks up like a child stumbling over a crack in the road.

An ink blot forms on those immaculate pages. “You… kept waiting?”

“Weeks.” Anaxa replies, “No, months. Checked the post office whenever I could.”

“Oh.”

It’s late when they leave the library. Silence still hung in the air. Each second it became more stifling. Pens scribbled in futility, as though those scratches of night could cut through the silence. The pouring rain, the twinkling stars, the two students, all swallowed by that advancing tide.

***

Never had Anaxa lay in bed and failed to sleep. The ceiling was cracked, as it was when he stared up at it every other night. Normally he stared at it for no more than a few minutes before succumbing to Thanatos’ dreams. Outside his window, droplets chased each other like children through fields. Not that he’d ever done the same. It’s a grimy room; whatever Chara could scrape by from the meager librarian pay and what little subsidies Anaxa had been given as a student. Two tilting wooden desks sat alone in the corner; neither ever used. Both siblings much preferred the library anyways. Books and loose paper lay scattered around the room, tales told in scribbles only their writers could interpret.

“Still awake?” Chara asked from the bunk below.

“No.”

“You’re talking.”

“So are you.”

“Shut up.”

“Still brooding, are you?” 

“I don’t brood.”

“Tell that to that golden haired friend of yours.”

“How on earth do you know about that?” Anaxa asks, surprised. The bed creaks under him.

“Your sister has her ways. I do tell you to make friends. You do realize how concerning it is to me all you did as a boy was read? No idea how you turned out well.” 

Outside Anaxa sees a golden thread zip by the window. Perhaps their maker is busy weaving threads even now. A few seconds later, he traces his finger over the cold glass, remembering it was there. Engraving it.

“I can entertain myself.”

“Doesn’t stop me from being concerned. Really Axy. Even if your brain is somehow wired differently as to not want to talk to people, you’ll still need to cooperate for research. How do you think I got you your scholarship?”

“Stop calling me that. If you really believe in those titans shouldn’t that mean Cerces recognizes pure talent?”

“God you really are a blasphemer. Suit yourself though; I’d personally drag Kephale down from his throne and wrestle him if it meant you’d go get a social life. Plus you’re clearly capable of caring for family. Are you not doing the same with this girl?”

“You’re different. She’s different too. She helps me think.”

“I saw you running around with her all those years ago. You do realize that’s the first time you ever looked like a normal child? The first time you actually looked happy outside your books? Learn to appreciate these things. You’ll lose your humanity otherwise.

“I’m not a normal child am I? My humanity is a hindrance to the pursuit of truth. Joy is a distraction.”

“I ask you again, why does truth matter? To me titans matter, but if you truly don’t believe in anything doesn’t that imply truth has no reason to be your highest priority?”

Anaxa hesitates for a moment. It was quite often Chara posed that question to him, every time trying to pry him from his stories of numbers and back to the world of mortals. Of humans. He liked to ignore it. But it felt like mere seconds ago those brilliant shimmering tapestries of fireworks filled the sky, mere seconds ago the distant lights of Okhema flickered. 

“I hate when you make sense.”

“Whatever you say. Night, Axy.”

Silence fills the room once more. Shimmering silk keeps fluttering across rainy skies. Eventually Anaxa sleeps. He dreams of gold.