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If anyone asked Hyacine whether or not she enjoyed being the assistant to Anaxa, despite what others might think, she would say yes.
Anaxa was a complex man, a performer, a genius, a scholar, a teacher at his very core. Arrogant, many would say. Insane, some would whisper.
Hyacine would prefer ‘eclectic’ or ‘passionate’.
Because Anaxa was passionate about many things. Even through his stoic and stern countenance, Hyacine could see the pure passion he had for his research, could see the spark that always lit up in his gaze when something of interest crossed him, even when he hid it behind a guise of mild curiosity.
Anaxa was also a kind man. Not in the obvious way, all soft smiles or sweet favours, but in a guarded manner, hidden behind false pretenses, subtle words, and actions that would never be known to the greater world.
Yes, Hyacine enjoyed being his assistant instructor and working alongside him…
…and yet.
“Professor Anaxa, you've sent at least twenty students to the healers due to mental turmoil just this season. Might I ask just what has caused this?”
It wasn't unusual for students to end up in Hyacine's care at the end of the term due to distress. That was just how things were when it came to having a professor like Anaxa. What Hyacine didn't understand was why the number was so large in comparison to previous years.
“Tsk. This batch of students were particularly dull, is all," Anaxa muttered, arms crossed as he stared off to the side.
Hyacine pursed her lips at that rather blatant lie. “Really? There is no other reason?” she prodded.
She couldn't help but think it was due to the worsening state of the world, the Black Tide creeping in closer. Unphased and confident as Anaxa liked to appear, she knew he was trying to find a solution in his own way.
“Must I repeat myself?” Anaxa gave her a baleful look—a warning. Normally, that look would've been enough to send any of his students running for the hills.
Good thing Hyacine has never been one to heed his warnings.
“Must I repeat myself?” Hyacine retorted in turn, her hands on her hips and determination etched in her stance. Anaxa went quiet, seemingly contemplating whether or not he wanted to reply before ultimately deciding on silently turning his head in a way reminiscent of a sulking child.
Hyacine stared.
Anaxa continued standing silently, tense.
…
Hyacine continued staring.
Anaxa continued standing.
…
More staring.
More standing.
Push and pull.
The warm sun of the Grove that nurtured and the ever-present moon that taught the cold realities of the world.
…
Hyacine sighed.
“We're going to Okhema so you can relax in the baths. I'll even bring some fizzy horseradish vinegar if you want to mark in the evening,” Hyacine declared at last in that stubborn way she always did with him.
An eye twitch. “We are not stepping into the domain of that gold witch,” Anaxa scoffed, eye darkening. He would rather deal with his blundering students for an eternity than have another verbal sparring match with that woman.
“It's just the baths,” Hyacine urged as she shook her head. “A warm soak would do you some good.” Really, he could use a hot bath to relax his muscles. She knew he complained about his muscles being too tight, hunched over his desk while marking.
Quieter, she added on. “You told me you'd try reconciling with her.”
Her, being Lady Aglaea.
Anaxa was never one to prostrate himself before the gods or leave his fate in their hands. He didn't believe in the prophecy, didn't believe in what Aglaea was willing to sacrifice for the sake of the Flamechase.
(“Everyone is a means to take back the Coreflames in her eyes. That's right, “everyone” — including herself.”)
Despite that, he was willing to tolerate his interactions with Agalea. Hyacine made too many attempts and put too much effort trying to get them to reconcile for him to ignore the woman entirely. He was blunt and prideful, but not a heartless beast.
“I told you I'd consider reconciling with that witch for your sake,” Anaxa sighed, his voice softening infinitesimally.
“But—”
Anaxa raised his hand, expression both firm and gentle. “I will consider. That, I promise you, but today is not that day, understood, Hyacinthia?”
“...I understand, but please?” Hyacine pleaded softly, stepping forward with her hands clasped together at her heart. “I promise, you can leave if you see Lady Aglaea, but come to the baths to relax for just a moment. It will do you some good.”
Anaxa was tempted to disagree. He had far better things to do in the comfort of his home, but it was Hyacine asking, and Hyacine had a habit of getting him to agree to things he never would've humoured.
(He felt like in another time, he would've stepped forward and died protecting her in a blaze of fire, golden blood dripping from his lips.)
“Fine,” Anaxa relented at last. “Just this once.”
Hyacine beamed.
—
“So this is why you refused my invitation to investigate the properties of flora found near Aidonia?”
Hyacine jolted. She had been peacefully enjoying a moment of reprieve in the Garden of Life, petting a cute little green chimera. Hyacine and the Trailblazer had just finished saving a chimera squad from disbanding, the little ones tuckered out after a good day of work and getting some much needed relaxation time.
(It was a good distraction from the fresh wound that was Trinnon's passing. A good distraction from the gaping maw of grief that was left in its wake.)
“Professor Anaxa!” Hyacine exclaimed in surprise, pausing her petting. The chimera made a noise of discontentment, obviously upset at the sudden loss of headpats. “These poor things were going to have their squad disbanded! Their original manager was so cruel and—”
“—And so you had to step in, hm?” Anaxa finished for her dryly. He shook his head, stepping forward to sit next to her.
“Don't look at me like that—you would do the same!” Hyacine accused, holding the little chimera close to her chest, who made a little awoo of agreement and… was it… glaring at Anaxa?...
“Not for the same reasons, I assure you.” Anaxa looked at the little chimera with a narrowed eye, unblinking. The chimera only glared back with a growl, meeting his silent challenge with an equally vicious look.
(Not this again…)
Neither of them blinked.
Not a single movement.
Anaxa glared.
The chimera glared back.
Anaxa glared.
The chimera glared harder.
Anaxa glared.
The little chimera whimpered in defeat as it finally blinked, curling into Hyacine, who gave it a consoling headpat.
“Anaxa… Do you truly feel the need to assert your dominance over a little chimera?” Hyacine asked tiredly.
“I have no idea what you're talking about,” he replied smoothly. Hyacine knew better. She could see the satisfied glint in his eye—like a smug cat who got the cream.
“This little thing—” Anaxa picked the chimera up by the scruff, ignoring the chimera's little whines as he put the fluffy creature down next to a few others, “—needs to get back to its friends.”
Hyacine analyzed his face, pensive. “Are you upset I skipped a research outing with you for the chimeras?”
“No,” Anaxa scoffed (lied). “I do not get upset.”
“Of course,” Hyacine nodded in agreement. “Our dear professor just gets irked, vexed, irritated, annoyed, bothered, angry, the opposite of happy—”
Anaxa grit his teeth, putting her words to a stop. “That's quite enough, little priestess.”
“Is it?” Hyacine chirped in response, a bright smile pulling at her lips.
Anaxa clicked his tongue, though it held no reproach. “I'm not sure how I got stuck with such a mouthy assistant.”
“Well… Last I checked, you were the one who picked me, so really, it’s your fault!” Hyacine smiled brightly.
Hyacine was a good student, and perhaps, in another world, could've been an exemplary scholar. But both she and Anaxa knew that was never her plan. Anaxa respected her for it, for her dream of being a footnote in the grand tale of Amphoreus, helping the common folk and healing everyone she could, and so Hyacine became his assistant.
An apprentice who spends wisdom is more precious than scholars who hide their wisdom away, he had said.
“Indeed.” Anaxa murmured, his gaze meeting hers. “Indeed I did.”
—
Contrary to popular belief, Anaxa got along very well with Hyacine and vice versa. It wasn’t just mutual respect as colleagues, but a deep understanding of the other.
She sassed him quite frequently—especially in private—but that was half of the fun. Anaxa knew Hyacine would reign him in when needed—you and your dramatics, she would chuckle fondly—just like he knew she would speak what he left unspoken.
(She had quite a fondness for not letting him hide behind pretense and omitted truths.
“Let me tell you a secret about Professor Anaxa!~”
Anaxa would never stop her.)
She would defend his character even at the cost of her own reputation. There were times, brief, brief moments where he wished his name was more clean, where he wasn’t known as a blasphemer, just so she wouldn’t have to deal with the furious council members and scholars coming up to his doorstep constantly.
But he could never bring himself to regret his actions.
How could he, after all, when he had full belief of his convictions? Call him arrogant or prideful, but everything he did was for unveiling the greater picture, for erasing the ignorance of the people trapped in the gilded cage that was Amphoreus.
(Hyacine would call it study in pursuit of a brighter future. She was always far more kind with her words than he was, even towards someone like him.)
All he could do was appreciate the light he had been blessed to witness, bask in her warmth like a sunflower to the sunny skies, and encourage her to unfurl and bloom into the most beautiful flower of the Grove.
After all, the branches of Cerces would always reach towards the Sky.
And the Sky would remain forever watching, giving, even as the leaves began to wilt.
—
“Do you think I’m a cruel man, Hyacinthia?”
For once, Anaxa wasn’t holding her gaze. He would never admit it, but part of him was afraid to see what expression she would wear. His latest experiment had left gaping wounds on his body, shimmering gold escaping deep cuts and dripping down to pools of ichor beneath his feet. Hyacine, of course, was left to patch him up, her healing glow warming his body as she mended him to the best of her ability.
(Some cracks could never be filled again.)
Hyacine didn’t immediately answer. She knew he wanted a thought out answer, not just an instinctive no or yes, even if her heart so wished to assure him he was not.
“Cruel? No,” Hyacine began slowly, words soft, fragile in their care. “A bit mean at times?… Yes.”
For some reason, Anaxa couldn’t help but be a bit comforted by her answer. He laughed. Dry. Short. “You aren’t going to comfort me with your kind words?”
“No.” Hyacine shook her head, brushing some of his hair out of his face. “I don’t think that’s what you want to hear from me.”
“Then what, pray tell, do you think I want to hear?” It wasn’t sharp or harsh, instead a simple question. He wanted to know, both out of curiosity, and because he wasn’t quite sure what he wanted to hear himself.
“Cruelty would be to cause harm needlessly—without thought or care.” Hyacine lowered herself onto her knees, forcing him to meet her eyes from where he was seated.
A beautiful blue. Infinitely kind and warm enough to drown in.
“Professor—no, Anaxagoras,” she breathed, and he already knew what she would say next would both break him and be a balm to his soul. “You are one of the kindest men I know. You do things out of care for others—perhaps harshly—but because you want to see people succeed. You aid families so they can continue their studies, protect them when the world won’t, even if all those actions will remain buried. You scour for answers so the next generation can tread forward, even at the cost of your own life.”
“But—“ Hyacine’s voice wavered, and now she was the one who couldn’t meet his gaze. “You are so very mean sometimes.”
“I don’t want to see you die,” she confessed, her voice barely a whisper in the wind. “Don’t make me watch you die. Don’t leave me behind.”
It was both a comfort and a dagger to his heart. To be mourned meant you were loved. To be mourned meant you left a bleeding wound behind in the hearts of those still alive.
“I know you want us to smile, even in the sorrow of your death, but sometimes I can’t help but feel like it’s so very mean of you to ask that of us,” to ask that of me, went unsaid. Her forehead was pressed to his knee, bowed, pleading as she hid the way tears began to pool in the corners of her eyes.
“I know.” Anaxa admitted quietly, vulnerable in a way he never let himself become. Maybe it was mean, as Hyacine so aptly put it, but both of them knew it was borne of care. A complex, tragic affection for her, his students, the world, but affection nonetheless. He gently set his hand down on her head, nimble fingers gently tugging at her hair. “Yet you’ll still heed this mean professor’s wishes?”
“Of course,” Hyacine managed to chuckle wetly.
“What else are assistants for?”
—
Hyacine wondered if there was a world where she died before Anaxa.
It was a strange thought to have, crossing over River Styx.
(Perhaps she had gone delirious from the pain—molten lava burning her flesh alive, consuming her blood and bones until she was nothing but ashes that would become Amphoreus’ sky.)
But it was still a thought.
A thought brought on by flashes of another time that could’ve been.
Or so she hypothesized. Hyacine wasn’t quite sure.
It was a world where Okhema was reduced to flaming piles of rubble, screams echoing through the air as men, women, and children alike ran for their lives in sheer terror. The Flame Reaver’s presence was thick in the air—suffocating and far stronger than any of them could handle, demigods be damned.
(What were demigods but a mere annoyance in the eyes of someone who tore the world apart in the name of salvation?)
Hyacine was running herself ragged, trying to mend and heal the best she could, even if they were doomed to die. She would not run, would not hide. Hyacine might not be a warrior, but she would fight till the bitter end. Even hunched over a dying man, she would not give up. It didn’t matter if it was fruitless in the end.
Anaxa was standing between her and the Flame Reaver, gun drawn.
But what could he, a scholar, do?
One by one, the Flame Reaver culled the Chrysos Heirs.
Mydei with a sword through his back.
Castorice, stabbed through her chest to protect Aglaea, who fell a few moments later.
Anaxa, toppled over in front of her, liquid gold flowing from his lips.
Hyacine joined him soon after, the bittersweet taste of death on her tongue. For that brief moment before her eyes fluttered shut, she mourned. Mourned for everything they were, for everything they could be, if the world was kind enough to them.
To Tribios, who shattered herself into thousands of fragments, going against the world for the possibility of a brighter future.
To Mydei, a king cursed to suffer for the world, bearing immortality as a curse.
To Aglaea, a seamstress who couldn’t stop her own humanity from unraveling before her eyes, thread by thread.
To Castorice, a girl whose hands knew Death intimately, who could never truly live, taking the mantle of Death itself.
To Cipher, a sly thief whose lie bought the world precious time—running, running, always running.
To Hysilens, the knight whose freedom was forever forsaken, a siren doomed to drown in the darkness of her duty.
To Cerydra, the ruler who held her cards so close to her chest, the world would never know whether it was tyranny or benevolence that drove her.
To Phainon, the imperfectly perfect Deliverer who bears the weight of the world. Phainon, who bore their wishes painted in liquid gold.
(Heavy is the head that wears the crown.)
To Anaxa, the blasphemous scholar.
Her mentor. Her colleague. Her companion during research outings and quiet afternoons in the Grove.
What could they have been, had the world looked upon them kindly?
Could they have bantered freely? Could the gold blood flowing through their veins have been just that, instead of a mark—a curse that foretold their tragedy?
Maybe in a perfect world, they would do silly things together, like open up a restaurant in a lush forest of fairies. They would laugh and work, carefree while Phainon and Mydei argued over who was the better cook.
Perhaps Anaxa would grow invested in the plants, experimenting on their growth until they became greatly exaggerated versions of their original selves, comically caring for them like a plant dad.
Hyacine would've been right by his side, reigning him in when needed, and probably sassing him with the brightest smile she could give. She could even get revenge for all the punishments she got from him while she had studied in the Grove.
…
Hyacine would've liked to see that.
But she never would.
That simply wasn't the world they lived in.
It could be, one day, but for now…
“I was wondering when you'd show up, Hyacinthia.”
Hyacine looked up from the sea of violet flowers beneath her incorporeal form to see a familiar face.
A shade of his former self, a glowing green visage of what he looked like before everything—before their tales were written in tragedy.
(Or maybe they always were always meant to be written as a tragedy.)
Hyacine smiled, crossing over River Styx with a warm laugh, feeling lighter than ever.
“Professor Anaxa!”
… They would dutifully play their parts in this twisted tale again and again until the sun shone once more, loving and dying for the world who, one day, would love them back.