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Three months ago, the leylines had become restless.
It was faint, but there was a detectable energy that had started pouring into the leylines. The strange energy was white, purer than the untouched snows at peak of Dragonspine, and when observed for a long duration, traces of gold could be discerned from it.
There were no records of this phenomenon ever happening, even among the publications that took note of the irregularities and unpredictability of the Abyss. Although, given its appearance all pointing to light, it was a complete antithesis to Abyssal energy.
Fascinating. How utterly fascinating!
Unfortunately, this strange power - there was nothing else to call it - could not be extracted from the leylines. It was both slippery and deeply intertwined with the familiar ebb of the leylines, like it had always been there, had always belonged. The possibility to test it against the manifestations of the Abyss, like the Withering, had not yet entered the realm of feasibility.
What could be observed is the restlessness of Teyvat’s roots. It was not anxious or afraid, but more of that same giddiness and excitement of a dog seeing its owner again after a long day. Welcome back, it seems to say, it has been so long.
A decade ago, there was a theory posited by two collaborating scholars from Rtawahist and Spantamad that the roots of the world are mirrored by the stars of fate in the sky or perhaps vice versa. They had argued that there were heightened thrums of elemental energy in an area that had a constellation of a vision user overhead it. There was even a documentation in the paper where they had recorded a “gifting” of a vision, and the subsequent illumination of their constellation in the sky and the spike of leyline energy.
It was one of the main propellers to his drive to discover the truth of this world. Sadly, a few months after its publication, the research was removed from House of Daena and moved to the Restricted Repository for violating a cardinal sin. The scholars were then banished from the land of wisdom, never heard from again.
There was a backlash back then. How was a research approved, published, and made accessible to the public - or as public it could get with only Akademiya students and faculty who could read it - be branded as “forbidden” in the weeks that follow? Which cardinal sin was committed anyway?
Whispers and dissent did not take long to quiet down. Compliancy, afterall, is the doctrine of a responsible and disciplined scholar.
Although now with this unnatural out-of-nowhere appearance of a pure energy flowing naturally in tandem with the leylines, he looked up, trying to spot anything new, unnatural from the stars.
A vindicated smile etched itself on his face that night as he recited in his head a line from the forbidden research: as above, so below.
The long dormant constellation of Viatrix had lit up.
Sumeru City wakes up early.
Students are already filling the streets; some visiting Puspa Café for their caffeine dose, some dragging their feet from the Akademiya after a sleepless night of research, while some are unfortunate enough to have 8 AM classes. Deliveries from Port Ormos have already been stocked in the shelves in the market, each stall and booths bursting with colorful and pungent goods.
Anaxagoras weaves through the morning crowd like a dancer performing an old routine. He knows which roads to avoid because of its heavy foot traffic, which auntie or uncle is worth exchanging pleasantries with, and where the best deals are that the need to bargain becomes nonexistent.
As he is testing the new variant of ink from Fontaine in his favorite stationary shop, he overhears the owner - a timid but also a chronic busybody old man - gossiping with his supplier.
“She’s bound for Inazuma from what I’ve heard.”
“Ridiculous!” Exclaims the owner.
The supplier, a stern-looking lean man, nods his head. “Everyone thought the same thing. You can’t see anything in that land but storm, storm, storm… No one can even pierce through the rough seas, well, except for that one ship. Gah, what's its name again?”
“Crocks?”
“Ah, wait, wait… Crux! Yeah, the Crux.” The supplier claps his hands. “I’ve seen that ship in the distance before. Majestic one, that ship is.”
Anaxagoras approaches the counter with bottles of ink in his hold. The two men barely pay him any attention, even the store owner goes through the motions of packing his goods and taking his payment without stopping their gossip. An average person would feel miffed by such dismissive service, but Anaxagoras appreciates any opportunity to cut out unnecessary small talk from his day.
Their conversation about the golden haired traveler continues even as the scholar walks away from the shop.
Golden-haired traveler.
He muses about the subject of the men’s gossip. It is not the first time he has heard about that mysterious and powerful traveler that appeared out of nowhere. Everywhere they went, their heroism trails along like shadow. They are an epic slowly being written.
And how fascinating that stories about this certain traveler began permeating the discussion in newspapers and hearsays just a few weeks after Viatrix returned in the sky.
(He thinks of the man who once sported golden hair. His otherworldly constitution and unimaginable power that still make Anaxagoras baffled. Do they have anything to do with each other?)
He picks up his order from Hamawi that he had penned the old man about earlier that week. Hamawi asks him if he’s due for another expedition as it had not been long since he last dropped by for goods.
He does have a trip coming soon, but it is not a full-blown expedition that would require him to pack edible provisions. Instead, his food is being sucked by a black hole-like stomach of his new housemate.
Anaxagoras is not one to linger in public and socialize, but he does know of the interpersonal conventions. He wisely replied “something like that” rather than giving the aunts and uncles of Sumeru City Market and Grand Bazaar something fresh to gossip about.
With all his needed supplies gathered, he begins his trek home.
It was much more tiring than his way earlier to Sumeru City now that he has baggage and the sun is hotter. Sometimes, he wonders if the weather forecasting device of the Kshahrewar is faulty, since Anaxagoras could not help but feel like he is being melted by the sun, yet the forecast reported gentle weather with little humidity as the wind and heat are still being sucked towards the Inazuman storms.
He is panting once he gets home in his little cottage tucked in the middle of Gandha Hill and Chinvat Ravine, slumping in his couch with a deep sigh as he recovers from the exertion.
“You’re back!” A bubbly voice exclaims above him. Anaxagoras groans mournfully for the moment of peace he has lost. “With the milk?”
“Yes, I’m back with the milk.” The scholar replies as he tries (his heart is not into it) to push himself up to sit. His new housemate cheers and he hears him rustling through the bags he had put on the floor near the front door. “Put the meat in the cryo box, will you?”
“Sure!”
“And, Archons, don’t do any of that time stop thing like you did on the eggs last time! Let cryo do its job, alright?”
His housemate pouts at him. “But, the eggs lasted longer, didn’t it?”
“It did.” Anaxagoras rolled his eyes from the memory of that chaotic breakfast morning. “It lasted longer because the egg would revert back to normal every time I tried to crack it open.”
“Fine.” The taller man’s pout deepens. Dejectedly, he sorts through their newly-bought replies as the scholar instructed.
Anaxagoras sighs as he shakes his head.
To think this was the same being that shifted his understanding of this world by simply existing.
It was a warm evening.
Anaxagoras shrugged off the shawl from his shoulders before noting the sudden shift in Sumeru’s weather. The winds that passed through Sumeru City had come northeast from Mondstadt, passing through Chenyu Vale and east of Fontaine, down to the rainforest. It was not as cold as it was in those regions, but once the sun rested, the night engulfed them with chilly air.
Yet tonight, it was humid. The tip of his hair curled due to the condensation. His palms were sweating and it was annoying to keep them from damping the pages of his journal as he was writing.
He looked at the sky for clues.
No new constellation had lit up in the observable sky above Vissudha Field. Mellivora was dimmer by 17%, a significant drop in luminescence since the last observation four days ago.
Two more stars belonging to the Nyctereutes Minor had gained luminosity, leaving only two stars near its tail end with 0.04 cd/m2. No plausible cause could be determined as the pattern to its increase of luminescence and frequency was irregular. Pulses in the leylines had been detected at the same time.
A flash of light blinded Anaxagoras and his ears were deafened by loud ringing. He reflexively covered his ears and closed his ears.
Then, as fast as it had come, the overwhelming light and sound stopped.
The scholar looked up and heard the whistle of an object being pulled down by gravity. His working eye widened at the sight of a humanoid figure falling from several meters in the air. They were glowing, like a meteorite about to hit the ground, and their wings flapped uselessly around them.
And, they kept on falling.
Anaxagoras ran near the cliff where the figure was heading down. The descent of the unknown entity slowed like gravity had shifted for their own safety. He extended his arms and the winged figure slowly settled in his hold like a feather.
There’s a part of him that recognized this being, but he could not pinpoint who or what exactly they are.
He looked at the face of the human-like being in his arms. They had short, blond hair with a glowing halo behind it. They were taller and wider than the scholar— an easy deduction with how long their torso and legs were compared to his own. Golden patterns tattooed their body with a familiar-looking sigil on the middle of their chest.
They were also blisteringly warm, like Anaxagoras had picked up a pita pocket fresh from the pan by hand, yet he could not bring himself to let go. His arms curled tighter around the being instinctively.
But before Anaxagoras could continue studying their features, gravity remembered its own laws and he stumbled as the weight of the strange entity bore down in his arms. A weight a feeble scholar like him could not lift.
“Shit!”
The mysterious being did not wake until three days later and almost sent Anaxagoras to cardiac arrest for suddenly appearing behind him in the kitchen. The next few minutes were spent with the scholar interrogating the fidgety and blinding figure of man. With how clumsily the winged being was as he asks them basic inquiry regarding their identity, Anaxagoras wondered how they were able to sneak up to him so noiselessly.
“Well, then, let’s sort your accommodation. I have some time today, so I can accompany you to the city to find you a new place to stay—”
“No.”
Anaxagoras’s eye twitched in annoyance from being interrupted. “No?”
“There’s no need for that. I will be staying here.”
He scoffed. “Pardon? You have no right to decide that for yourself.”
A small, knowing smile carved its way to the being cheeks. “Don’t you want to know about the true nature of this world?” Like a foolish fish entranced by a bait, Anaxagoras stilled and stared at the winged being. Their smile widened. “I can help you get to the truth.”
“And, why should I trust you to take me to the absolute truth?”
“Irmininsul is a repository of the world’s memories and the leylines are its roots. Yet, its roots are what mirrors the fate dictated by the stars. Tell me, Anaxagoras of Rtawahist, why would the future mirror the past?” They leaned closer, almost conspiratorially. “Or better yet, why did the past mirror the future?”
Anaxagoras’s irritation dissipated. He began to think back to everything he had found on the matters of fate. The research, the arguments, the hypothesis, the intrigue that no longer follows the rigid Akademiya processes, and the records he managed to take a peek at from the Restricted Repository. He felt lightheaded from the ideas that he formulated, but quickly disregarded until one line of thought remained.
“Perhaps, it is because fate is a recurring cycle.” He answers, breathless. He looks at their satisfied face. “Isn’t it?”
“You are the same as ever, Anaxa.”
Again with the overfamiliarity. The scholar scowled, but kept his questions silent.
There is nothing fun about having the truth served to you so suddenly.
“Fine.” Anaxagoras relents to the being’s earlier request (or a demand, more like). “But, do not ‘lead’ me. I can and I will find out the true nature of this world by myself. If I did not ask you, you would not speak of anything that you know about it.”
“Whatever you want, Anaxa.” They lit up brighter. “Want to shake on it?” They asked, but as they moved forward, their stiff feathered wings knocked down utensils and spices on the kitchen counter.
“Can you do something about your wings?” Anaxagoras hissed, frantically catching the rolling containers of dried mint and cumin before they made a mess on the floor.
The mysterious being laughed, sheepish. They took a deep breath and like sand under the ripple of the sea, their eccentric features got washed away until only a man with fair skin and hair like the snow from the peaks of Dragonspine stood in front of him.
Their His eyes opened and Anaxagoras’s breath got caught by those brilliant blue eyes.
“By the way, you can call me Pha-” He paused for a brief second before continuing. “Phainon.” The scholar has no background on Haravatat - no more than the required introductory courses he had to take in his first year in the Akademiya - but, it was glaringly obvious how ‘Phainon’ changed the vowel sound of his name from eɪ.
Yet, another question Anaxagoras filed in his already cluttered mind.
“Nice to meet you, Phainon. Now, would you like some clothing?”
It takes another two weeks before Anaxagoras returns to Sumeru City. This time, his new housemate accompanies him on this outing.
Aside from the fact that they once again running out of food, Anaxagoras has received a missive earlier that week regarding his monthly stipend. He intends to gather his mora and borrow some books and articles he wants to revisit now that Phainon has highlighted a particular path on his lifelong inquiry.
It is supposed to be a seamless process. Afterall, Anaxagoras has been going through the same motions even before he had graduated.
“And, how long is this wait for approval?” He asks, his fingers tapping on the counter of the House of Daena receptionist.
The staff curls under his judging stare. “I think five minutes? We can accelerate the process for you since you’re Master Anaxa of Rtawahist.”
The corner of his visible eye twitches. “Just Anaxagoras would do.” He sighs as he backs away. He cannot fault the footmen for obeying the orders of that greying arrogant man currently warming the chair in the Grand Sage’s office. “Do what you must.”
Apparently, the Akademiya has recently decreed that all borrowing requests for Akademiya resources are subject for review. Students, faculty, and alumni alike have to submit a form detailing the nature of their research and what kind of information they are intended to uncover from their requested materials. It is tedious and unnecessary; pushing the already dwindling number of researchers using physical resources to near extinction as the great majority are already dependent on the information the Akasha can generate for them.
It is blasphemy to question the authenticity of the Akasha as it was born from the “benevolence” of Greater Lord Rukkhadevata. However, the knowledge inputted was curated by the Sages and the accessibility to information varies from one person to another. Anaxagoras had once almost got expelled and banished from Sumeru when he tried to question its reliability for a symposium. If it wasn’t for his late mentor and former Sage of Rtawahist, Empedocles, who had skimmed through his notes and discouraged him from pushing through with his original outrageous arguments, Anaxagoras would not be standing where he is right now.
True to his word, the House of Daena staff returns in five minutes and hands over his requested books and delicate records. He says his thanks and meets his housemate waiting for him outside the doors of the Akademiya as non-Akademiya affiliated individuals are not allowed to walk inside, much less to browse through the collection in the House of Daena.
As soon as they were out of the earshot of the Akademiya personnel and drawing closer to the noise of the marketplace, Anaxagoras tells Phainon about the new policy the Sages are implementing, how tighter their control and surveillance over knowledge is becoming.
“You don’t agree with it,” Phainon states, but thinks his words over after it left his lips, “or, to be precise, you disdain it.”
“Would you like a stamp of a star on your hand because of that deduction?” Anaxagoras raises his brow.
Phainon’s face stretches with a cheeky grin. “Perhaps.”
The scholar scoffs before shaking his head. They continue down the path from the Akademiya, drawing closer to the bustle of the markets below. “Isn’t it ironic that the Land of Wisdom only grants wisdom to the select few, while the majority of its people are only granted access to curated knowledge decided by the same handful of people?” He starts, gazing down upon the people, most wearing ordinary Sumerian garb instead of the pristine green and white uniform, walking to their own destinations.
“Perhaps, that is for the best.” The taller man posits. “There is a potential in everyone, but not everyone can reach the same potential.”
A wry grin etches on Anaxagoras’s face. “While that is a matter of fact, isn’t it an awfully presumptuous assumption to impose?”
Phainon slows to a stop when they have reached the last landing. He peers down the busy market, watching the busibody of the common folk. Anaxagoras watches the pensive face of his companion before turning to observe the same sight too.
“If you were to share your research about fate to that fruit vendor over there, what do you think he would do?”
“I would presume he would have mild interest in it, but I am not going to dump information on that man like I do when I present in a symposium. The memories stored in the leylines may have something to do with the fate dictated by the stars. That’s what I would say and he would understand. Perhaps, he would even share it as a trivia when he drinks with friends.”
“And, wouldn’t that be an act of curating knowledge?”
He shakes his head. “No, I am adjusting my language to better suit my given audience.” He glances at the white-haired man briefly before looking back down to the market and continuing his argument. “You misunderstand me, Phainon.”
“Do tell me why.” Phainon tilts his head.
“One’s potential cannot be reached if one does not have the means to do so. If the Akademiya does not open its knowledge to the public, then how can the people realize their true potential, their true wisdom? As it is now, many remain ignorant and their aptitude is boxed to particular molds by the Akademiya.”
“But, those molds gave purpose to the people. A role they have to play to keep the world in order.”
“Thus, we circle back to the point I had earlier; what right does the Akademiya have to impose that? If that man was able to access Akademiya’s education, would he still end up as a fruit vendor? There is a chance, but what is important is it is the man himself who decided that for himself.”
“For every man to decide for himself.” Phainon turns to face the scholar directly. “Were you born in the embrace of Barbatos’s winds?”
A bird loudly chirps in their vicinity. Blue eyes flicker to glimpse at it. Strangely, he seems amused.
Anaxagoras feels a dense elemental concentration coming from the same direction of the sound. He follows Phainon’s line of sight, but what greets his eye is just an ordinary white finch in a cage. He wrinkles his nose in confusion before looking back at Phainon.
“Are Mondstadters the only ones that can stand for freedom?”
Phainon huffs a laugh. “No.” His simple answer.
Their conversation reaches a gentle lull and both men pause. The scholar’s eye veers towards the skies, while the man who fell from it keeps his gaze to the people below.
“The people can have their freedom, but they still need to follow the laws.” Phainon’s tone turns somber. “Without those laws to keep freedom in check, people are bound to the consequence of deviation.”
“And, what’s wrong with deviating? To travel the path less traveled?”
“Do you thrive on being a contrarian, Anaxa?”
“Anaxagoras.” He corrects with a smirk as they face each other. “Well, do you see me as someone compliant?”
“No.” Phainon’s eyes glint back to gold, scorching gold. “No, you are not.” Like a trick of the light, the color of a cloudless sky returns.
Phainon straightens his back. “Deviation creates chaos, disorder. Thus, adherence to the laws prevents this world from that fate. It has to remain uncompromised.”
“Even if the laws designed to maintain that order denies to account for context? The individual spirit and lived realities?”
“The ‘context’ that you speak of, Anaxa, are merely excuses for transgression.” The white-haired man replies. Anaxagoras ignores the butchering of his name as he is distracted by the chilling absoluteness in Phainon’s words. “To bend, to compromise to those contexts weaken the foundation, and a weakened foundation leads to collapse. History has shown this again and again. Civilizations fall when they deviate from the laws, the very foundation of this world.”
“Is it a natural consequence of deviating from the ordained law, or did someone wills their fall as punishment?”
A beat of silence.
Not between the two of them, but with the world around them.
The chatter of the marketplace, the soft drumming of footsteps, and the fluttering of the Divine Tree’s leaves all become muted.
Anaxagoras’s heart shoots up his throat. His nerves are screaming at him. Danger. Run.
“This world is a garden that needs constant weeding.” Phainon muses. “If someone coaxes those weeds to grow, then they must be removed from the garden.”
The judge, jury, and executioner.
Like a balloon that has been popped, the sounds of life return around them. He gasps, not even realizing that he had been holding his breath.
“Well, enough of this.” Phainon has the audacity to chuckle. “I remember you telling me about that charcoal cake. I would love to try it now that we’re here.”
It takes a moment for the scholar to recover. “R-Right.” He swallows his questions and arguments, even if it grates his throat on its way down. “To Lambad’s then.”
The Ardravi Valley is peaceful tonight.
The cacophony of natural sounds from the flora and fauna are a melodic symphony in Anaxagoras's ears as he observes each constellation in the sky. He had already measured the leyline readings in the area earlier that day, so all he has to do is to compare that data to what he can gather from the activity of the stellar bodies twinkling above the world.
He feels before he hears Phainon scoot closer to him, the warmth from his body is comforting and alluring since Sumerian nights tend to bring considerable chill. The scholar ignores his housemate’s behavior, who apparently prefers to spend time hovering over a researcher for hours and hours, and continues to act none the wiser, even when the tickle of Phainon’s breath makes his skin shiver as his housemate peers over his shoulder.
Anaxagoras clicks his tongue, a faint heat on his cheeks, before folding his notebook shut.
“You're done already?” Phainon asks as he watches him gather his things back to his bag.
He waves him off unceremoniously. “Despite the strong Dendro energy in this area, there's nothing more to further prove my hypothesis than what I have already gathered from my house.” Anaxagoras pauses and begins to ponder, arms crossed and one hand supporting his chin. “Perhaps, this calls for the expansion of my scope of reference. Should we start in the desert or the Chasm?”
He continues to mutter as he decides the next steps to avoid stagnation of his research. Afterall, being proven wrong is more of an exciting possibility than being stuck in a certain line of thinking.
They navigate downwards the gigantic tree, or maybe it is more accurate to say that Phainon was the one that is herding the two of them back to the ground as Anaxagoras is busy thinking than concerning himself about not nosediving down to earth from several meters of height. Vaguely, he can recognize Phainon's efforts in the periphery of his mind. The gentle hold on his elbow or the small of his back, the other man stepping ahead of him to be on the next level down first so he can provide a supporting hand, and on some parts of the journey, Phainon would briefly carry him to make the leap.
It does not take long until they make it back to the ground. “If you would like to focus on fate, I would say Fontaine is the better place to include in your study.” Phainon responds to his earlier inquiry.
He looks back at the man who is languidly following him behind. “Fontaine? Why so?” He recalls what he knows about Fontainian history. There is Remuria, but just like Enkanomiya, access to those ancient civilizations are no longer possible. Only a handful of Remurian documents are in the hands of the Akademiya, the other handful are in the highly-secured and stingy archives of Palais Mermoria. The only way Fontaine would allow anyone else aside from their archon and chief justice to handle such records would be if someone as esteemed as Grand Sage Azar would beg for seven days straight.
“There is no other nation that tried to renew their fate like Fontaine did.” Phainon replies. Something strange can be heard from his voice. Petty, annoyed, scolding, and smug all at once.
Anaxagoras’s nose wrinkles. He never likes it when Phainon gets like this.
“Right… I would like to visit the Scarlet King’s mausoleum first. I remember there are some star charts I would like to cross-check.”
“The skies of Teyvat have remained unchanged for thousands of years.”
Anaxagoras sighs. “I know, but I distinctly remember some writings about Viatrix before the fall of Dahri. It was barely talked about in the succeeding eras afterwards. Now that Viatrix is active again, I am wondering if— hey!” He protests when the taller man suddenly grabs his forearm, making him stumble back.
Phainon ignores him, surveying their surroundings. The pupils in his eyes shifted to the sharp and cat-like ones that he had before he changed his form to this young unassuming man. Immediately, Anaxagoras is on high-alert.
Before he can take a look around himself, an almost comical cackle resounds in the woods.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen.” A rugged-looking stout man. The insignia glinting from his vest gives away his allegiance with the treasure hoarders. Rustling noise continues around them and, in Anaxagoras’s estimation, a dozen or so men and women emerge, circling him and Phainon. “We just would like to talk.”
Anaxagoras almost huffs a laugh. “There’s nothing to talk about. I’ll save everyone’s time; we don’t have anything of value, unless your little camp would like to be a thousand mora richer.” He is not lying on that matter. They left his abode with only enough mora for hitchhiking with a merchant with a sumpter beast in case they needed to do so. Food and water are bountiful in the rainforest and so, with only a small jug of water and two servings of pita pocket, he and Phainon have more than enough to get by. He can ask to forward the bill to the Akademiya if they ever had to stay in some dingy inn. Not to mention, he did not bring any of his equipment that could be of value to these ruffians back at home.
His response visibly annoys the treasure hoarder, but he does not seem too bothered to let go of his cordial facade. “We might not be intellectuals like you, Akademiya researcher,” his tongue contorts those harmless words like an insult, “but we all know the Akademiya has distributed stipends this week.”
“You caught me in the middle of the forest researching. Do you really think I have the time to collect my stipend?” He actually already did. However, he never has never withdrawn its entirety, just enough to meet his monthly expenses. With the number of articles and books he has published and his occasional lectures, the Akademiya has been very generous with his stipend and royalties, but for years, they have been accumulating in his account as he is not one to indulge in riches.
“Fair enough.” The treasure hoarder replies, still carrying that air of smugness. “But perhaps we can take a look in your bag? If we find anything interesting, we shall take it as payment for not touching a hair on your pretty head. If we don’t, then we would still let you go. No one will get hurt. Sounds like a fair enough deal, right?” He hears some of the hoarders snicker around them.
Anaxagoras knows he has nothing of great value in his person right now. Objectively, anyway. He thinks of the handheld telescope his sister had gotten for him before he attended the Akademiya all those years ago and his grip on his bag tightens. Unfortunately, the man catches this movement and smiles like a cat who got the cream.
“Just a quick look, gentlemen.”
“No.” He firmly shuts it down.
The smile on the man’s face falls. The hoarders around them step closer, surrounding them. “One more time, researcher, you’ll only need to cooperate and you and your friend won’t get hurt.
His lips tense into a firm, straight line. Stubbornly not giving in to the bandits’ demands.
The hoarders brandish their weapons, ready to strike. Their patience has run thin.
He gets pulled into a tight hold, suddenly and without warning, and Anaxagoras almost thrashes against it, but Phainon meets his gaze with a bright reassuring expression, like they are not seconds away from being physically assaulted. “Close your eyes, Anaxa.” Despite his friendly face, his voice left no room for argument.
He obeys Phainon’s words and squeezes his eyes shut, even his faulty one under his eyepatch. One of Phainon’s arms tugs him closer, while the taller man raises the other.
What follows could only be described in one word: power.
There is this paradoxical feeling of weightlessness, almost as if he is going to float off the ground, and immense density that is practically squeezing him from all fronts with inhuman pressure. His ears pop from the silence that abruptly envelops them. The hoarders, the natural sounds of the forest, his own breathing; everything is gone. Anaxagoras nearly thinks he has become numb, but his brain distantly registers the centralizing gusts of wind and the encompassing, forceful heat. The latter of which he could see through his shut eyelids.
The next thing he knows is that Phainon is holding the sides of his face with both hands, cooing at him. There is a strange sound that stops when his bearing finally catches up to the present and Anaxagoras realizes the sound was him screaming. His breath is heavy as he opens his eye and looks around. All the hoarders are nowhere to be seen, yet the foliages around them remain unbothered. He can hear the cicadas and birds again.
“You’re safe. We can resume our way home.” Phainon says, but the scholar barely acknowledges his words as he still tries to process what has happened in the last half minute.
“What did you do?” He asks, voice scratchy and lacking its usual spirit.
Phainon tries to use his touch to placate the scholar, but Anaxagoras could not help but flinch away, his instincts shouting at him that the greatest danger is the white haired man before him and not the unlawful band of hoarders that had ambushed them. Phainon stops from reaching out. “They were a threat so I removed them.”
Anaxagoras swallows. “And, would you remove a weed like me from your garden too?”
Their conversation as they left the Akademiya earlier that day hangs over them.
Phainon would probably never fully come clean about his identity, but Anaxagoras has a good idea on who he truly is. He has an idea of what caused all those civilizations, even gods, to fall out of Their favor, and he knows his current research on fates threads gravely close to those causality.
A droplet lands on Phainon’s cheek, breaking both of them out of their stupor.
Rain clouds darken the sky as the precipitation slowly escalates.
“Come on.” Phainon gestures towards a worn-down and abandoned cottage etched inside a great tree a short distance from them. The two men jog towards the structure.
The wooden awning provides them shelter for a short while before the rain and wind intensifies into a storm. Anaxagoras moves back until his back is pressing on the tree to avoid the rain to no avail.
Then, a big shadow engulfs him, stopping him from getting drenched further.
Anaxagoras looks up and sees a familiar wing shielding him from the rain.
He turns to Phainon, whose form is glimmering out of the young man with white hair, blue eyes, and simple Sumerian garb and shifting back to his appearance when they had first met. He is still as blinding to witness with his golden hair, eyes, and halo as when he was falling into Anaxagoras’s arms that night. That indescribable and unnatural energy has enveloped him once again, yet unlike earlier, it does not make him feel like a helpless prey.
“Anaxa, I…” Phainon faces him, a troubled expression etches on his eyebrows and the corner of his lips. “I would never do such a thing. Please never entertain those thoughts ever again.”
When he does not grace him with a reply, the face of the Heavenly Principles further falls.
“Everything has always been for you.” He confesses with a whisper, brushing the knuckles of his dark and starry hand on the scholar’s jawline. It felt like touching a solid cloud. “This paradise has always been for you.”
His breath hitches. For the first time in his life, Anaxagoras do not understand the information being presented to him. There is much being hidden from him, he discerns, and it is frustrating to a certain degree. He does not like being led around blindly and purposefully leaving things in the dark from him.
He should be upset, but looking at the crestfallen face of the immortal being before him, he could not help the fight leaving his body.
“Okay.” Anaxagoras says. “Okay.”
It is an anti-climatic, almost flippant, answer, but it seems enough for Phainon as his smile returns and the halo behind his head glows even brighter.
“Okay.” He echoes.
His other wing curls in front of them, further covering their bodies from the storm. He reaches to drape his arm over Anaxagoras’s shoulder. The smaller man no longer flinches at his touch and he leans his head on Phainon’s chest as they wait for the rain to subside.
Anaxagoras is a proud man, not a prideful one.
He knows how big of a gap there is between him and his peers. He knows how other researchers struggled to keep up with the pace his mind thinks. He knows that most of his debate opponents have already accepted defeat before they even started to lay down their points.
He knows he is a brilliant man.
But, he is not prideful enough to not recognize his shortcomings. Anaxagoras knows he is a control-freak when it comes to experiments. He knows his blunt words could often be tactless and abrasive. He also knows how stingy he is with tenderness and trust, especially after losing all of his immediate family at a young age.
That is why Anaxagoras does not understand why he had let Phainon in his life so easily.
It felt natural, jarringly so. Phainon slipped into his routine seamlessly, like he had always been with him. He understands Anaxagoras, what delights and ticks him, and the scholar just accepted that fact without thinking twice about it.
It should have alarmed him. Instead, he began looking forward to being woken up too early in the morning by the sound and smell of cooking. He felt giddy for having someone to bounce ideas with at any given time. He has gotten used to his housemate’s warm presence beside him every time he observes the stars at night.
In just a few weeks, Phainon has permeated his life and mind that Anaxagoras can no longer imagine living through his everyday life without him.
However, in moments such as the one with the treasure hoarders yesterday, he is reminded of how incomprehensibly powerful Phainon is. He does not shy away from showing Anaxagoras how he can manipulate time and space.
(It makes the scholar wonder if he can tinker with memories and consciousness as well.)
Ever since he caught Phainon in his arms, he brushed off more and more questions that he could not find an answer to.
Today, he had enough.
“I want to know,” Anaxagoras begins, “why me?”
The trek home has taken them twice as long because they had to make detours to avoid flooded roads and landslide-prone areas. Despite Phainon’s insistence to rest for the night, Anaxagoras pushed to keep walking back to his humble cottage- his mind too cluttered with thoughts about the divine being masquerading as his housemate.
They reached home an hour before dawn and they quickly bathed the sweat and dirt off their body. Exhaustion weighs down to his bones, Anaxagoras slumps on the couch as Phainon sits behind him, toweling the smaller man’s hair dry.
“It’s a long story.” Phainon answers.
“Stick to the important parts, then.”
His housemate chuckles. He could feel the fan of his breath on his nape. “You are the same as ever, Anaxa.”
A few minutes pass and Anaxagoras almost believes that Phainon would leave the conversation at that, but in a quiet voice, Phainon continues.
“My original purpose was to find a world where humanity can thrive. I have travelled the stars with my masters looking for the perfect place, away from the rot that permeates the rest of the universe.” He dumps the towel on the coffee table and grabs the hairbrush he had placed there earlier then he starts to comb the scholar’s long, but thinning, hair. “We had travelled for eons. I usually set foot on some worlds alone, but sometimes my masters would go along as well.”
He inhales deeply. “Then, we found Teyvat in an uncharted corner of the cosmos. With all things considered, it could be better. We have been to more impressive worlds, but my masters liked Teyvat, so I began my duty.” He brushes the mint-colored strands over Anaxagoras’s shoulder so it is all on his back. Phainon gathers the ends of his hair in one hand and brings it on his lips, kissing it. “It was then that I met you.”
The world around them shifts, creeping like a fog until they are no longer in the cozy interior of his cottage, but in the middle of an open field. Anaxagoras cannot recognize where they are, but there are contraptions occupying the sky that are similar to the machinery found in Natlan, infrastructure detailed in the architectural digests on ancient civilizations of Teyvat, and his very own figure wearing clothes he had never owned.
“You were persistent, bold, and way too intelligent for your own good. You saw potential in this world; how it could be the ideal.” He sees another Phainon, blond and golden-eyed, approach the stranger that is wearing the same face as him. Like snapshots being projected by a Fontainian film device, he is shown how this version of him gets closer to Phainon. He watches with eerie realization that Phainon had encroached into this Anaxagoras’s life just like how he did with this lifetime.
He also sees how they fell for each other, blushing slightly as Phainon shows him some memories that are a bit too intimate.
Then, the world around them shifts again. Scenes of carnage and dominion. Utter destruction. “What did you do?” He asks, breathless and in horror as the world terraforms and the lives of the weak became insignificant casualties. He sees ancient deities, the original protectors of Teyvat, fall one by one, either by death or by imprisonment, just because they do not fit Their view of paradise.
“I listened. You shared with me your vision, so I rewrote the laws of this world for you.” They reply with chilling ease.
Anaxagoras leans back, scoffing. “All that you’ve done is make a prison, Phanes.” He hisses.
Their face crumple. “No, no. Phainon. Only call me Phainon. Please.”
“I will call you however I want.” He snarls. “What are you here for then? To tend to your little garden? Uproot the weeds?”
They shake their head. “No, everything is done. Anaxa… Anaxa, please believe me.” His face must have been full of distrust because Their face is so crestfallen; it is almost pitiful.
The projection around them disappears and they return to Anaxagoras’s living room.
“All I want is to live another lifetime with you. I know you don’t remember your previous lives, but your soul remembers how I love you. You felt it, didn’t you?” Phanes steps closer. “I adore you, Anaxa. Let me love you one last time.”
Anaxagoras would be lying if he says he did not get a little bit flustered from Their words, but the last thing They have said intrigues him. He tilts his head. “What do you mean ‘the last time’?”
“The end must come for everyone, may they be human or a god. That is the law of this world.” Their voice quiets down to a whisper. “And, my end has come. My masters have returned to take the throne.”
The restlessness of the leylines.
The natural elemental energy of Teyvat embracing that strange light energy.
Viatrix.
The scholar blinks. Oh.
Seeing his hostility lessen, They become more determined and he slides his hand under Anaxagoras’s own and strokes the knuckles with his thumb. “For so long, I have watched you be taken by the tides of fate while I remained anchored by the shore.”
“And now?”
“Now, the tide is high enough to take me too.”
He looks down on their joint hands. “You have done more harm than good. You said you were looking for a world where humanity can thrive, yet in creating this paradise, you have treated humans and their gods like mere ants.” He meets Phanes’s eyes with a scowl. “I do not know what I had said in my first lifetime, but I know you have twisted my words to fit your cold indifference.”
The Heavenly Principles falls to Their knees. “But I…!”
“I’m not done talking.” Their mouth clicks shut. “You are not wrong that there is some part of me that could not help but be… fond of you.”
Anaxagoras sighs. “I don’t understand if it is only because of my lingering affections from my past lifetimes or it’s because I’ve grown to like your presence in my life.” He grips Their hand tighter and Their eyes look up at him reverently, sparkling with hope. “That is why I am going to teach you again about humanity; what it means for us humans to live and thrive. One thing I dislike the most is when people misunderstand my words and you’ve taken it to extreme lengths. So, pay close attention because I am not going to repeat it to you thrice.”
He bends down to lean his face closer to the kneeling figure before him. “Do you understand, Phainon?”
The dawn breaks.
“Yes, professor!”