#r.fics

Oh, Casper! Of course. You wonder whether he’s feeling any better now. As adorable as he is with a flushed nose and wrapped up in his pyjamas, you’d rather have him healthy than sick. You rise out of bed, yawning, and that’s when you feel it.

The waterfall. 

“Oh, fuck,” you mutter. First a cold, and now this—you can’t catch a break, can you? With a frustrated sigh, you swiftly waddle over to the bathroom to inspect the damage. Thankfully, it’s not too bad, but that’s not your only problem. Your cramps tend to be the worst during the first few days, and lucky you, you just ran out of painkillers. You can already feel the accursed sensation beginning to build in your abdomen. It’s only an uncomfortable tingle at the moment, but you know well that this is but an omen of what is to come. 

Whatever. You’ll survive. Hey, maybe it’s the universe’s way of making you appreciate being alive?

…Yeah, right. If that’s the case, maybe you would rather have had Casper take your soul last night. This sucks. 

Well, not like you can do much about it. Worse things happen at sea, as they say. It’s about time you started getting ready; you’ve spent long enough in the bathroom. You slap on a pad, rush through your morning routine, and settle into the day-opening ritual which has now become habit: which is to say, texting Casper to fill the lonely void in your heart. You open the texting app and type, 

Seeing as I’ve lived through the night, I’d say the cold didn’t snuff you out. My big strong boy <3 Are you feeling any better? Ah, damn… I missed my chance to send you a ‘get well soon’ card and chocolates. Next time, for sure.

A few moments later, his reply pops up on the screen. He’s changed his profile picture again: another selfie, this time with a red flower tucked in his hair. A little smile spreads across your face. He took your suggestion, then.

hello to you as well.  i’m ever so sorry to disappoint, but i have no intention on ever experiencing that again. but, chocolates, hmm. curious. that need not be limited to a time when i am sick.

Oh? That’s new. You add ‘Casper likes chocolate’ to your mental list of things you know about him, which is growing by the day. 

A sweet tooth? Unexpected. 

even i can admit that mortals have brought some excellent things into existence.  chocolate being one of them. it is relatively high up the list. much like the computer i use now, or cup noodles. fantastic inventions. 

The talk of chocolate flips some sort of switch in your brain, and you feel suddenly like a starved animal. God, you could commit some atrocities for a chocolate bar right now. 

You know what, that’s fair. I’m having a chocolate craving right now myself.

you also have a sweet tooth?

Not usually, no. But it’s that time of the month again, so…

??? what time of the month? the twentieth?

You smile to yourself. 

Never mind. 

okay… so, as for your question… did you spend your entire night worrying about me?  do i consume that much of your thoughts?

Sounds like you were thinking about me, buddy. You’re sitting there, imagining me imagining you. Do you like me that much?

…….… i do not know what you are talking about.

You liiiike me.

Your conversation continues along a similar vein, with you teasing him mercilessly and him trying (and failing) not to fluster before returning to the topic of his recovery. He says he’s feeling better. That makes one of us, at least, you think drily. The pain is building steadily, and you’re having to shift in your chair to keep comfortable. Not that it’s working. 

anyways. sunshine, what do you know about birthdays?

You blink. That’s certainly a change of topic. 

Birthdays? That is ‘the day of one’s birth’, Casper.

ah! i forgot i was talking to the monarch of sarcasm.

I think we can both have that title.

if it is you, i suppose i do not mind sharing…. but, birthdays… what kind of things do people do on the days of their birth? live sacrifices? feasts?

The first proper wave of pain hits you. You clench your teeth, the lower half of your body seizing up against the unfair assault. You type,

Fuck.

A few seconds of silence on Casper’s end. Then,

people WHAT??

Briefly, you’re puzzled by his reaction. Then you read back over your conversation and realise how he must have understood your text. You can’t help but cackle.  

Oh. My bad. I didn’t mean it like that, lmao. I mean, some people do, of course. But not everyone. Anyway ignore me lol Why the question? Do you have any plans to conduct human sacrifices? Or… to do something else, perhaps…?

… ahem. to answer your first question. i was walking amongst the halls of my workplace last night…

While you were sick???

there is not enough time to worry about that. i had to find out more. about our strange… connection. the link beyond the one i created between us. it was late. i happened to overhear some superiors talking quietly… for context, i am of the 13th station, grim reaper number 8394. …they said that… those numbered 8100-8400 of the 13th station were created on this day, many decades ago.

Your mouth falls open.

You’re telling me… TODAY IS YOUR BIRTHDAY??????

Cue a discussion about Casper’s preferred birthday activities, the fleeting nature of love,  and a debate about whether or not imps would appreciate having a tail pinned into their backside. Just as you finish gaslighting him, a familiar notification flashes across your screen, taking you by surprise.

[Incoming call. Accept?]

Your mouse hovers over the two options, Yes and Yes. After some careful deliberation, you select the bottom option. You can’t help but think of that meme about the illusion of free choice—except here there isn’t even the illusion. It’s not as if you mind it, though. 

Casper’s red-lit room fills your screen, along with the man himself, who is lounging as usual in his chair with his cheek resting on his hand. He’s back in his normal attire, with the hair clips and Azrael absent (to your dismay). Nevertheless, the sight of him makes you feel fuzzy inside, and for a moment you aren’t thinking about the cramps.

“Wow, way to call out of the blue!” you remark. 

“I grow sick of typing, and I longed to see your face,” Casper replies, his tongue poking out from between his lips. 

“Oh.” You feel your face warm. “That is… awfully honest of you, Grimmy.”

“I am always honest,” he says with an air of self-satisfied pride. 

“No, you’re always truthful. Definitely not always honest,” you correct. “They're different things.”

He smiles. “You know me so well, Sunshine.”

You readjust your position in your own chair again to alleviate the discomfort. “Somehow. It really does feel like we’ve known each other forever.”

“Strangely, I feel the same way,” he remarks, raising his eyebrows. “Perhaps an aftereffect of our souls being linked.”

The conversation about birthdays is still lingering in your mind, and your thoughts wander to the flier you saw yesterday for that festival. “Hey, Casper?” you say. “Have you ever seen fireworks?”

“Fireworks?” Casper frowns. “I cannot say I have. They're usually used in celebrations. Not a lot of overlap with my line of work. Why?”

“I was just thinking that it’d be perfect for your birthday. It’s fleeting, it’s beautiful, it’s… human.”

“Huh… Then I would like to see these fireworks, sometime.”

You begin to reply, but before you can say anything, your abdomen gives another spasm and you fold over, pressing your forehead into your palm with a muttered, “Ugh, shit.”

Casper frowns, leaning forward in his chair. “Sunshine? What’s the matter?”

“I’m dying,” you croak out. It doesn’t feel like a lie. 

“You—what?” Panic sounds in his voice. His eyes scan over you for a few seconds before his eyebrows pinch together sharply. “Wait. Surely that cannot be the case. Our souls are linked, so if you were truly dying, I would be dying as well, yet I am not.” He pauses. “But still, something is evidently causing you pain. What is it?”

Despite the discomfort, you manage to crack a smirk. Depending on how Casper replies to your next question, this might be so fun—and considering he didn’t know what you meant by ‘that time of the month’, your money is on the ‘fun’ option. “Say, Casper,” you begin, crooning out his name, “do you know what a period is?”

Casper gives you a dead stare through the screen. He looks both supremely unimpressed and supremely perplexed. “A period?” He scoffs. “What a daft question. Of course I know what that is. A period is a designated amount of time, such as a particular period in history. Although, I fail to see what this has to do with your current pain.”

You were hoping he would say something like this. A laugh slips forth from you at his confusion. “Oh, Grim, you really are too funny sometimes, you know.”

In response, he pouts and crosses his arms, as if trying to protect his integrity from your merciless teases. “What? You think my definition was unsatisfactory?”

“Well, not necessarily, but it’s not quite what I was getting at.”

“What are you getting at, then?”

“Do you know how babies are made?”

“Ba—!” He flushes, bright red. You snap a hasty screenshot before his expression can fade. Priceless. “Of course I know how mortal infants are… conceived. But why should that affect—” Just as quickly as the colour came to his face, it drains out completely, leaving his skin white as a sheet. (Admittedly, this is not much paler than usual.) “You do not mean to say that you are…” Casper can’t seem to stomach the words. At last he manages to squeeze out in a hoarse whisper, “...with child?”

You double over again—this time not from pain, but from laughter. Oh, my god, this is too good. You laugh so hard, in fact, that it makes the cramps worse, and you have to force yourself back into a state of composure lest your abdomen literally falls off onto the floor. Wiping a tear of mirth from the corner of your eye, you reply, “No. I am most definitely not with child.” This seems to relieve him somewhat. “But it is related.”

Casper pinches his brow and sighs. “Just explain what is going on, mortal.”

“Alright, alright.” You sigh out, long and slow, letting your face settle into a comfortable deadpan. 

It’s time to educate the Grim Reaper on some biology. 

“Well, basically, every month, most people with a uterus go through this cycle,” you explain. “It’s called the menstrual cycle, despite the majority of those who experience it not being men, but that’s what you get when the history of science has been dictated by old guys for the last few millenia. Anyway, you see, your uterus doesn’t have the intelligence to know when you’re actually planning to have a baby, if you plan on having one at all, so every month it spends time and effort building up a lovely little blood-nest for the egg to grow in once it’s released and fertilised. However, if you haven’t, let’s say, undergone the necessary procedures for fertilising an egg, your body gets the memo a little bit too late. So by the time you’ve made it clear that no, I am not birthing a creature this time around, it’s already prepared everything. Once your uterus realises its work was in vain, it all goes to waste and gets thrown out via the, ah, what would otherwise be the child’s exit.”

Casper looks mortified. Any cringe you may have suffered by phrasing your explanation in such a way is absolutely worth it. “And this occurs every month?” he asks, almost in a state of disbelief.

“Every month,” you confirm, very solemn.

“That sounds terrible.”

You grin maliciously. “Oh, and that’s not even the best bit. Because leaking out your insides each month obviously isn’t enough, Mother Nature, in all her kindness and generosity, sometimes gives you cramps while it happens as well. Which is how we arrive at my present situation.”

He considers this new information for a few seconds, no doubt to work through the trauma you have just given him, before he narrows his eyes. “...Surely there was a more straightforward way of getting to your point,” he says.

“Well, yeah.” You shrug. “But it’s very important that you know how periods work. There are too many men out there who are ignorant about this kind of thing.”

“I suppose that is true,” he concedes. “And I cannot be comparable to those other men.”

“Obviously not,” you agree. 

“Are there any ways to stop it?”

“Well, that depends on what you mean,” you reply. “For stopping your periods altogether, not really. You can take contraceptive hormone tablets which prevent you from building up your endometrium, but once the bleeding has actually started, it’s too late for that. Painkillers are also an option, but…”

“But?” he prompts. 

You raise your chin and proclaim with dignity, “Painkillers are for the weak.” (Yes, you do recognise that this is a counterproductive and baseless view to hold. No, that will not stop you from milking it for humour.)

Casper raises an eyebrow. “‘For the weak’?” he repeats, sounding sceptical.

“...And I’ve also run out,” you admit. “Anyway, then there are other things you can use for comfort, like hot water bottles, but…” You sigh, dropping your joking for a moment, and rub your eyes. You can feel a migraine starting to set in. “Honestly, I just can’t be bothered to get mine right now. Too much pain and too much effort.”

A look of hard determination settles onto Casper’s face. “I understand. Stay where you are, Sunshine, and do not go anywhere.” 

And before you can say anything more, the call disconnects.

“As if I would be going anywhere right now anyway…” you mutter to the dark screen, though the grumbling contains no real bite. You have an inkling of what he’s planning to do—actually, no, who are you kidding. You know with ninety-nine percent certainty he’s on his way over to you right now, probably with a shopping trolley’s worth of ibuprofen in tow. It’s sweet of him. You don’t know how you can even begin to thank him. 

You push the window open for Casper in advance, then lean back in your chair and scrunch your eyes shut, trying to tune out the cramps—but goddammit, it really hurts. It’s like needles are driving constantly into your midsection before your guts are wrung out like a wet towel. You shift position a few times in the hope of settling in a more comfortable position, to no avail. There’s no helping it when the problem is inside you. 

A couple odd minutes go by in which nothing much happens, and you start wondering whether you jumped to your conclusion about Casper too soon. He’s already troubled himself once to come over and look after you, and that was only a couple of days ago. Twice might be pushing it. 

Nope. Right on cue, you hear a knock on your window, and the Grim Reaper slides into your room. You have to swerve sideways so that he doesn’t barrel into you as he sails over your desk onto the floor. Somebody was in a hurry, then.

“Welcome, welcome,” you say as he picks himself back up and brushes off his shoulders. “As ever, feel free to remember that my door does in fact exist.”

He breezes right past you without acknowledging your quip. “Sit,” he says flatly. 

“I am literally sitting right now.”

He rolls his eyes. “On your bed, mortal. It is more comfortable than your chair.”

“And you would know that how?” 

You find yourself on the receiving end of a thoroughly unimpressed look. With a sigh, you throw your hands above your head in surrender and do as you are told, trudging across the room with the grave sufferance of a war veteran and settling yourself between the cushions on your bed. It is, admittedly, more comfortable than your chair. 

“I have researched how to manage these cramps of yours,” Casper explains. “Painkillers do indeed seem to be the main suggested solution. I forgot to ask which are your preferred type, so I decided it was best to cover all bases.”

He passes a stream of little packaged boxes into your hands as he talks—ibuprofen, paracetamol, naproxen, tablets, capsules… even the orange-flavoured bottles of liquid your parents would give you as a kid. You end up with a little mountain on your lap of more painkillers than you would ever need. 

“This is… a lot,” you say, picking your words with care, “but thank you for getting them.” He tried, which is what matters. You place the boxes aside except for one—a pack of ibuprofen tablets similar to the ones you usually use—and, along with a swig of water from the glass next to your bed, toss it down your throat. A thought occurs to you then, concerning Casper’s lack of human money and readiness to run away with an old lady’s flowers. You turn to look at him. “By the way, please tell me you paid for all these.”

Casper is silent. You face-palm.

“Oh, my god. One of these days you’re actually going to get caught.”

“Do not worry. I was very discrete.” He sounds pleased with himself. It is an improvement from last time, in a way. 

“That’s not really what I’m worried about. Just…” You rub your temples. “Look, I’m very grateful for the painkillers, but please try not to steal anything else for me in the future, okay? Twice is more than enough.”

“So how shall I get things for you?” he questions.

“Well, I can lend you some cash in advance if you need to buy something,” you suggest.

“I have no need for mortal currency.”

“…You do realise that is precisely why we’re having this conversation?”

“Then let me rephrase,” he says with a huff. “If not for you and your strange needs, I would have no need for mortal currency.”

“I never said you had to get me painkillers,” you point out. “I’m very grateful for it, but that choice was ultimately on you.” 

A look of helpless dismay crosses his face. “I cannot stand by and watch as you suffer.”

The moment he says this, the pain intensifies. You clench your eyes shut and mutter a curse beneath your breath. Sickness twists in your gut. In less than a blink Casper’s hand is on your shoulder and he’s peering across at you with concern swimming in the red pools of his eyes. 

“I’m fine,” you protest, but your voice is strained. 

“I don’t think I need to point out how obviously that is a lie.” His expression softens by a touch as you recover yourself a little, but his hand still lingers on your shoulder. This is when a pink, rotund entity nestled beneath Casper’s other arm catches your attention. 

“You brought Azrael?” 

“...I thought he may be of assistance to you,” he admits. A faint dusting of red settles over his cheeks. “Azrael also… ahem, does not enjoy seeing you suffer.”

“Aw. Tell him I say thanks.”

Casper nods, very seriously, and hands the axolotl plush over to you. You pull it—him—into your chest and bury your face in the soft fur. It smells like Casper, you can’t help but notice. Ever so slightly floral, with a hint of incense and myrrh. It’s… nice.

“Where is your hot water bottle?” His voice rouses your drifting mind and pulls you back into the present moment. “I will bring it to you.”

“It should be in one of the drawers in the hallway.” You nod your chin in the general direction. As he begins to walk over, you are struck with an epiphany. “Wait,” you blurt. “I have a better idea.” You pat the space directly beside you on the bed and put on a dazzling smile. “You could be my hot water bottle.”

Casper’s eyebrows pull together in an expression of pure affrontedness. “Me, your hot water bottle? What a ludicrous suggestion. I am a gri—”

“—grim reaper, not a hot water bottle, I know, I know, yada yada.” You fix him with the most pitiful, puppy-eyed look you can muster, pushing your lips into a pout. “Make an exception just this once? For me? Poor, little me?”

For a moment, Casper looks torn. Then his shoulders slump in surrender, and you hear him muttering something under his breath about ‘troublesome humans’ as he sidles up to you—not next to you, but behind you, so that his legs are on either side of your hips and your back is pulled flush against his torso. His arms snake around your waist to tug you a fraction closer, and he rests his hands—ungloved, you notice—on your front, roughly above the area of pain. Like last time, your skin buzzes at the contact, almost magnetic, as if it wants to be closer, closer, until there is nothing separating your souls from twining together for eternity. 

…Thoughts of eternal soul-twining aside, you realise your mistake too late: you forgot how fricking cold Casper’s hands are. It makes no sense. The rest of him is warm, and very comforting, actually, but his hands may as well have just been pulled from an ice bucket. You shudder despite yourself when he lays them on top of you. 

He begins, “Is something—”

“It’s nothing,” you hasten to reply. “It’s just… your hands are a bit colder than I expected.”

“Oh.” Casper rubs his hands together before placing them back on your abdomen. “Is that any better?”

No, it’s not better at all, but you don’t have the heart to tell him that. You really don’t want him to move away from you right now, either. You reason that maybe physically things haven’t changed, but emotionally speaking, seeing the lengths he’s going to for your sake… “Yes, much better. Thanks, Grim.” 

“Don’t call me that,” he mutters, at which you can’t help but chuckle. 

“Alright, then, Steve.”

You feel the rise and fall of his chest against your back as he heaves a sigh. That’s one victory for you.

You close your eyes and lean back into his embrace. The position is comfortable, but you can’t relax as much as you would like to: the subzero temperatures of his hands are too great to ignore. You try to shift as little as possible, not wanting him to realise that anything is wrong, but you can’t stop yourself. In fact, you’re pretty sure this is actually making the pain worse.

After a few minutes, you hear Casper sigh again. “Clearly, Sunshine, you are not comfortable. My hands are still too cold, aren’t they?”

“No,” you lie slowly. 

“I can feel you shivering.” 

“Okay, maybe a little,” you concede. “It’s possible I’m still a bit sick, too.”

“You should have told me earlier.”

“I wasn’t lying when I said it felt better. Just… that wasn’t necessarily physically.”

He clicks his tongue. “You and your mortal word games. Wait here. I will get you an actual hot water bottle.” He lifts his arms from around you and you are struck at once by how much you don’t want him to go. 

“Wait,” you’ve said, before you know what you’re doing.

He hesitates. “Yes?

…But you also really want that hot water bottle. What a palaver. With deep regret, you suppose it is probably best to sacrifice his presence for a few moments and acquire the bottle, and resume cuddling afterwards. That doesn’t mean you are too keen on it, though. “Nothing,” you say, shaking your head. “Just… don’t be too long, okay?”

A stupidly smug smirk crosses his stupidly beautiful face. “Afraid you will miss me so quickly, are you, Sunshine?”

You sigh. “Something like that, I suppose. Don’t let it get to your head.”

Too late. Judging by his facial expression, it has most certainly got to his head, right down to the very atomic structure of his neurones. He’s such a poophead sometimes. 

Casper leans over and presses a brief, tender kiss to your brow. “I will be swift,” he vows, a red flush settling over his cheeks as he turns his face away. With butterflies in your ribcage, you watch him go. 

The few minutes that he’s away seem to drag on forever. You cuddle Azrael as you wait, rocking back and forth on your mattress. This whole situation is still surreal to you, even after a week. The Grim Reaper—the literal Grim Reaper—is in your house for a second time, coddling you for a second time. If you had a nickel for every time you were coddled by the Grim Reaper, you would have two nickels, which isn’t a lot but it’s weird that it happened twice. And awesome as hell. This definitely wins you bragging rights over, like, every other human out there. 

After what feels like hours but was probably no longer than a couple minutes, Casper returns with your fuzzy green triceratops hot water bottle in hand.

“A dinosaur?” he asks, raising an eyebrow at you.

“Well, yeah,” you grumble, “I was obsessed with dinosaurs as a kid. Everyone goes through that phase. And you’re hardly one to talk, Mr Pink Axolotl.” You pat Azrael’s head. “Which is not to insult Azrael, of course. He is immaculate and beautiful.”

“I agree wholeheartedly. But what does that mean you are implying about me…?”

You shrug. “No comment.” Casper shakes his head, sighing, and hands the hot water bottle to you. “Thanks,” you say, pressing it against your midsection. The warmth radiates right through you and you can’t help but sigh out in satisfaction. Casper stands beside the bed, looking a little awkward as it becomes overwhelmingly apparent that his previous efforts were useless. Noticing his hovering, you smile and wave him over. “I have my physical comfort, and now I need my emotional one. C’mere.” With a mischievous wriggle of your fingers, you add, “I’m not done tormenting you yet.”

“That much was obvious,” he responds, shifting back into place behind you on the bed. 

“How so?”

“You are always tormenting me. There is no end to it.” The weariness in his voice is at odds with the way his arms come around your sides to cradle you close. 

You frown. “Damn. If I’m that predictable already, I’m going to have to up my game.”

“Please, for both of our sakes, do not.” You can’t help but chuckle at how pained he sounds. “I shudder to think what that would look like.” 

As you talk, Casper sets his hands lightly upon your waist. His hands are still cold, of course, but now that you have the hot water bottle to balance things out more, it’s not too bad. You assume he’s just going to hold you—which in itself would be more than enough to satisfy you—but after a moment, you feel his fingers begin to press circles into your skin. He must notice the way you suck in a breath, because he clears his throat and says, “I read multiple sources that said massages can help with cramps. Is this…?”

“Okay?” You relax into his touch, smiling to yourself, and say quietly, “Yeah. It’s perfect.”

Casper smirks. “Obviously. I am the one doing it, after all.” 

Oh my god, you think, I am in love with a complete idiot. 

“Oh. Wait,” he says. “I almost forgot that I brought this for you, too.” He pulls one arm away from you to reach into his pocket and draws out a little heart-shaped item wrapped in shiny metal foil. One whiff and you know what it is. 

Your heart melts at the sight. “Casper… You’re spoiling me way too much here.”

“There is no need to be so dramatic about it,” he replies as he hands it to you. “It is just chocolate.”

“Even so. You really didn’t have to go to such lengths.” You lift it to your mouth and are about to unwrap it when a thought strikes you, making you hesitate. You lower the chocolate heart and turn to Casper. “Hey, you said you like chocolate, too. How about we share it?”

This suggestion appears to catch him off-guard. “Share it?”

“Yeah, share it. I’ll take one bite, you take another.”

“I…” He flushes again, deeper this time, his mouth open and closing soundlessly and his eyes darting from your hand to the floor. 

You weren’t expecting quite as much buffering as this when you made the suggestion. “…You don’t want to?” you ask, a tad disappointed. “I mean, we don’t have to, of course. I just thought it might be fun.”

“N-no!” he hastens to reply. “No, I… ahem. I would like to, very much. It’s just that…” Casper stares at the chocolate in your hand, his expression torn. Warily, he asks, “Your ‘period’ is not… contagious, is it?”

You’re stunned into silence. Casper stares at you with evident concern. You collapse into another bout of laughter. “No,” you wheeze out. “No, it’s not. Or it shouldn’t be, at least. Who knows, given our soul connection. In any case, you won’t catch it from eating the chocolate.”

He still looks hesitant—no doubt his little joust with a cold yesterday was enough to traumatise him for life—but your reply is reassuring enough for him to assent. “Very well,” he says, still blushing from head to toe. “We can share it.”

“Great. Who’s feeding who?”

Maybe you were wrong about him blushing head-to-toe, because somehow, if possible, he becomes an even deeper shade of red. “F-feeding?” he all but chokes out.

“Well, yeah. Don’t tell me you wouldn’t enjoy that.”

“…I could not say so even if I wanted to. That would be a lie.” He looks physically pained as he speaks. He is way too cute.

“Exactly. So, once again, who feeds who?”

Silence.

“You want me to feed you, don’t you?” you say knowingly.

“Actually, I was going to…” He clears his throat, eyes darting away. “...Propose the opposite…”

You can’t help the smile which spreads across your face. “You’re so sweet. But I kind of want to feed you, too. Especially because it’s your birthday and all that.”

“We can feed each other?” he suggests. 

You shrug. “Sounds good to me. Open up, Grimmy.”

This seems to shock him. “I’m going first?”

“Well, unless you have any reservations…?”

For the briefest of moments, he seems to hesitate, before he draws up his shoulders and steels himself. Against what, you don’t know. “No. Nevermind. I will do it. Bring it on, mortal.”

The look of determination in his eyes is too funny, and you chuckle as you unwrap the chocolate heart and raise it to Casper’s mouth. His resolve crumbles the moment your little finger brushes by accident against his lower lip. His gaze darts wildly around the room, and you can feel the heat radiating from his skin as he takes a tentative bite. With some degree of effort, he swallows, raising his fist in front of his mouth as if that were enough to hide the vibrant colour of his skin.

“Not so bad, is it?” you tease. 

“It was terrible,” he replies quietly. 

“Oh. Really?”

“Yes,” he insists. “Having you so close… I cannot function properly. You do things to me that are… ugh, I cannot even think, much less speak like this.”

Ah, so that’s what he meant. “I’ll take that as a compliment,” you grin. “Alright, my turn.”

You pass the remaining half of the chocolate to him. He pinches it carefully between his thumb and index finger, like he is handling some priceless artefact. You wait with a patient smile as he brings it to your lips and pushes it gently between them. The rich, sweet flavour floods your taste buds, but all you can think of is his proximity and the coolness of his fingertips brushing against your lips as you take what’s left of the chocolate into your mouth. Your throat at once grows dry and you struggle to get the bite down. 

So, you fell for exactly the same things that he did. How embarrassing.

A victorious smirk flashes across Casper’s face. “Heh. And you act as though you are less prone to flustering than I.”

“Well, I am, most of the time,” you protest. “It’s just that… well, it’s kind of like we’re kissing.” At the mention of k-word, his cheeks flare red. A realisation dawns upon you. “Wait. That’s why you wanted to go first, isn’t it?”

“...Shut up.”

“Hahaha. Okay, as you wish.”

You sit in silence for a while, content to bask in each other’s wordless presence. Thanks to Casper’s various efforts, your cramps are becoming somewhat manageable, and the warmth of his body against your back and feeling of his arms around you brings you a sense of comfort you cannot put into words. It feels like home—like belonging. Like a safe, secret hiding hole from the world where you could bury yourself if you wished. For a moment you wonder whether you’ve ever been happier. 

Casper’s hair tickles your shoulder as he leans forward and nestles his face in the crook of your neck, close enough that you can feel his lips just barely brushing your skin. Your heart gives a dangerous stutter and heat, not from the water bottle, rushes through you. You expect him to tease you over your reaction—there’s no way he hasn’t noticed your pulse skyrocket—but Casper does not remark on it. Instead, it is a moment until he speaks.  

“I wish,” he says, slowly, carefully, as if voicing a prayer, “that I could take away your pain. It is not fair. You do not deserve to suffer.”

The simplicity of the statement, spoken with such straightforward sincerity, gives you pause. Warm, tender fondness buds inside you for this reaper’s kind heart and, in some ways, his pitiable naivety. “Lots of people don’t deserve to suffer,” you reply in a small voice, “but it happens anyway. It’s just a part of life.”

“It should not be.”

“Maybe not.” You twine your fingers together in front of you and give his hands a light squeeze. “But it is.”

He squeezes back and presses his nose into the junction between your shoulder and your neck. Having him so close… you almost can’t believe it. 

“Thank you for coming over, Casper,” you say after a pause, putting your heart into every word. “You really didn’t have to, but I appreciate it. So, so much—especially considering it’s your birthday and there are definitely better ways of spending it. The cramps still hurt like hell, of course, but having you around makes it more bearable somehow.”

His voice is quiet, words muffled slightly against your skin. “I would always come. For you.”

The fondness from before blossoms and opens up inside you; a flower unfurling its petals, a fuzzy warmth pooling in your stomach. Words well on the tip of your tongue, but you keep them there. There is no need for speech. Not with him. Somehow, you are certain Casper already knows everything you would say and more; because that’s how it is when two people understand each other. 

You understand each other. The notion is consoling; it’s right, somehow. Despite it only being a week since you met—something you are still struggling to wrap your head around—it feels true as you think it. Life is so bizarre in the way that you can spend your whole life surrounded by people and never truly know them, and then one day somebody walks in out of the blue and sees right into the heart of you. 

The silence stretches onwards, enveloping you both in its arms of unspoken reassurance. You could stay like this forever and be perfectly happy. Casper, too, appears to have no intention of moving: he seems content just holding you and pressing the occasional kiss to your nape. You’re struck with the sense that time has ground to a standstill, and that all that matters (or ever has or ever will) is the present moment and the gentle tug of your souls towards one another, railing against separation. It doesn’t feel like so far of a stretch to suppose that, right now, you and him are the only two souls in the world. Oh, and Azrael, of course. Everything else—the pain, the future, responsibilities, the human race—is a pretty illusion trying to distract you from this fact.

Your wandering mind falls back into place when your roaming eyes rest on the clock hanging above your door. It’s been—two hours? 

You take it upon yourself to disturb the quiet. “I hate to be the one to say this, but you probably have to go at some point, don’t you?” Your own voice sounds foreign to you; intrusive, like it shouldn’t be there. “Surely you have reaper work to do.”

“Well, yes, I do,” Casper confesses, “but if you want me here, I can stay.”

“You know what my answer will be, Casper.”

“Do I?” Given the audible smirk in his voice, he absolutely does. He just wants to hear it from you, the smug bastard. 

Still, you decide you’ve caused him enough trouble for a day or two, and so choose to humour him just this once. “I always want you here,” you reply honestly. “But I also don’t want you getting in trouble because of me.”

“It doesn’t count as trouble if it is for your sake.” He says it with such simple conviction. “Technically, considering my main assignment is still to collect your soul, I am in the process of completing it.”

You place a hand over your heart in mock offence. “Wow. That’s cold. Even colder than your hands, in fact. And here I thought you came because you cared about me, Cas.”

He scowls. “Of course I came here for you. You know that.”

“Yep, I do.” You smile. “I was teasing you.”

Casper clicks his tongue. “You are so incorrigible sometimes.”

“I think you’ll find that I’m incorrigible all of the time, actually,” you rectify, “but you love it, don’t you?”

“...I will not answer that.”

“I’m afraid you already have.”

“I literally have not.”

“In avoiding the question, you literally have.”

“That is quite literally not what ‘literally’ means, sunshine. Do you need me to pull out a dictionary, too?”

“If you’re offering to read it to me, I won’t say no,” you reply with a mischievous wink. “But anyway, I think you just don’t want to admit it.” 

There’s a note of amusement in his response. “Admit what?”

“That you secretly love all of my personality traits with all of your soft, sappy heart.”

You can’t see Casper’s face, but you hear the fond smile leaking into his voice. “There is no secret in it, Sunshine. But yes, I do.”

With that, you soak up the last few precious moments of peace, before—

“Oh, shit.”

“...Casper? All good?”

“This sudden pain… w-what…”

“Ah. You know, I was starting to think that you might not get them, because no uterus and all that, but, uh… at least we’re not short on painkillers?”

“Sunshine… I truly think I am dying here. How can anything be worse than a cold? How?”

"Kneel," Janus says. It's dim in the room. Light flickering from various candles and from the single lonesome lamp in the corner. They cast orange and yellow hues onto the floor.

The way Logan collapses to the ground is amusing. His knees slam hard against the wood flooring. He sways, slightly, staring up at Janus, awaiting his next task. Listen, obey, listen, obey-- those words repeat in his head. Janus feels the corner of his lips quirk up. He loves seeing Logan compliant for him. Light shines across Logan's face, basking him in yellow.

"Good boy," Janus purrs. He waves a dismissive hand, turning to his side to lift up his weapon-- it's a handgun. A .44 magnum. Light catches on the metal as he flicks the gun back and forth.

After dinner, the rest of the sides had all ran to hide in their rooms, while Logan stayed behind to hesitantly ask Janus for some... help.

("I've been researching into hypnotism and the fetish itself," Logan starts. His glabella creases as he furrows his brows in thought. "While I highly doubt it's level of success in the real world, I think it would be easier to apply to us."

Janus was busy wiping the dining table down. He didn't look up. "Us?"

"As sides, I mean."

Janus tosses the towel onto the counter and raises an eyebrow at Logan. The man runs his fingers up and down his blue tie.

"You, as the metaphysical representation of deceit, are able to control the information we reveal, quite literally." Logan gestures vaguely to Janus' hands. "Physically, you have control over our mouths. I assume mind control wouldn't be too... much of a difference..." He trails off at the end.

It was a much longer discussion. Their sexual relationship had always been a thing, even if neither of them label it, and Logan's not one to beat around the bush with what he's speaking about. Logan wanted to be hypnotised. To have Janus control his every move and thought, to do with him as he pleased.

To say Janus was excited would be an understatement.)

Janus, Janus, Janus. Logan's head is swimming. Listen, obey, comply.

The barrel of the gun points down at Logan and Logan can't control his reaction. He whines, bucking his hips and shuffling closer to his Sir. Janus laughs. Logan leans forward and presses his lips to the cool metal. He kisses it softly, eyelids fluttering.

"Aren't you pretty?" Janus coos. His free hand cards through Logan's hair. He trails his fingers down, scratching behind Logan's ears. The gun taps against Logan's mouth, once, twice. "Isn't this lovely?" He asks. He drags the barrel up Logan's face, across his flushed cheeks, up to his forehead. Logan headbutts the gun, twisting his head as he pushes against it-- bunting like a cat. Drool rolls down his chin. "Sitting here, letting me think for you, take all your thoughts away, obeying so nicely," Janus continues on, hearing Logan whimper quietly.

Janus hums. His tongue runs across his bottom lip. Logan's eyes can barely stay open. His hands are curled into fists, like little paws, pushing down against the floor.

"Where should I shoot you?" Janus asks. "I could shoot your stomach. Stick my fingers inside the wound and molest your intestines, do you think that would feel good, dear?"

Logan's hips jerk upwards.

"Or what about your chest? Shoot open your ribcage and pull your heart out of the cavity. I wonder if I could use it as a tight, little fleshlight..."

Logan moans. His hands raise to grip Janus' pant leg.

"Or... better yet," Janus purrs, "what about..." He grabs a fistful of Logan's dark curls. He tugs, hard, pulling Logan up to sit straighter and Logan's face scrunches up in pain and pleasure. Logan goes cross eyed, following the gun with his eyes as it comes to rest against the bridge of his nose. "In between those pretty little eyes of yours? Right," Janus taps once, "here."

Logan gasps.

Janus knows where he wants to shoot, though. Besides, it's not like he has to ask, with Logan in this state. The boy would follow his every direction. Even if it meant jumping off a bridge. (And isn't that an appealing idea...)

The gun drags up to the center of Logan's forehead. Janus follows a bead of sweat rolling down his hairline to his eyebrow. "I could , instead, shoot those pretty little brains out."

Logan moans, loud. He barely mumbles out a sentence, making incoherent sounds and speaking partial words.

"Put that brain of yours to rest," Janus coos, "I mean... It must be so exhausting thinking all of the time. You must be so, so tired."

Logan feels so heavy. He doesn't think that he could hold himself up without Janus. Limbs hanging loosely as he tries his best to keep his head up. His tongue feels thick in his mouth. There's quiet pitter patters against the wood beneath him, as his drool rolls down his chin and onto the floor. There's a heat in his groin and he wants to be touched, and groped, and fondled. He wants to rut against Janus' shin, or shove his hands down his pants to palm at his hard-on, but he knows better.

"No more thinking, no more worries... Don't you think you deserve that? Haven't you been so good for me, darling?" Janus grins when Logan nods. He's whimpering like a kicked puppy.

There's a bulge in Logan's pants. He's trembling under every light touch, flinching when Janus' leather boots touch his side or graze his thighs. Janus presses down on Logan's thigh, watching as he gasps and his hips twitch, but he doesn't move. Good boy. Janus can tell he wants to. Logan's mouth moves as if he's speaking, but nothing audible comes out.

"You just want to obey, don't you?" Janus smiles as he watches the way Logan's pupils widen, with slivers of brown at the edge. His eyes become hazy, sinking further and further down into the mindset Janus wants him in. "Lift up your hands."

Logan raises them easily, unwavering, as if he was a puppet being pulled by a string and Janus was his puppeteer.

"Now, take the gun, sweet thing."

Logan's panting hard as he takes the gun with shaky hands-- he almost looks like a little dog begging for a treat: sitting on his knees while he slobbers down his chin.

Janus cocks his head. "You want to kill yourself that badly?" Logan makes a pathetic little noise, bobbing his head up and down. "For me?" Janus places a hand on his chest, cooing. Logan mutters unintelligibly. He looks so out of it.

Janus hums, running his hand through Logan's hair and petting him.

"Pl-please," Logan moans out. He sounds pathetic, mouth full of spit and voice thick. His voice cracks at the end.

"Please what?"

Logan whimpers. Janus watches as his eyes squeeze shut and then open. He headbutts the gun, twisting his head to the side. "Please, I want--" He groans. His head feels hazy and his thoughts aren't connecting-- shoot, obey, Janus, listen, die-- Janus knows Logan can't really beg in this state, a mindless obedient doll, but he likes watching him struggle.

"Speak up, doll, or maybe I won't let you," Janus sighs. Really, it's a fake threat. Like, he'd ever pass up an opportunity to see Logan's corpse on his floor.

Logan whines, high pitch and needy. "Please!" He stutters out, shaking, "Please let me kill myself, please, please, please."

Janus smiles. "Well... you have been so good for me, haven't you?" Logan nods jerkily, humming. "And it'd feel so good to not think anymore, right?" Janus taps his chin. He pretends to think as Logan shivers at his feet.

Suddenly, Janus gasps in feigned shock.

"My, my, Logan!" Janus gestures to Logan's crotch. "Someone's excited. Do you want to touch yourself?" Logan sits up at that, blinking up at Janus with wide eyes. Janus hums. He runs his boots along Logan's body, enjoying how he spasms underneath his touch. He leans forward while gripping Logan's chin in his thumb and forefinger, tilting his head up.

"Well, go on, now," Janus says. He takes the gun from Logan's hands and watches as he unbuckles his pants and pulls out his little cock. It's a little over 4 inches, but it's thick, and it's cute. Precum is dripping down the side of his shaft.

Logan wraps his left hand around his cock, moaning as he squeezes lightly. He fucks into his hand quick. Janus tuts.

"Slow."

Logan immediately falters. His hand moves slower over his cock, spreading his precum and using it as lubricant. He's blinking blearily at Janus. Janus hands him the gun in his right hand. and Logan takes it carefully, pressing it up against his temple. He's moaning as he strokes himself. Panting like an overeager puppy.

Janus watches him. Watches the way he jerks himself off, slow but impatient, while biting his lips and keeping eye contact with Janus. Watches the way he start's squirming closer to his climax, hips twitching and cock throbbing. Watches the way he edges himself, squeezing his thighs together and trying to slow his movements-- but not stopping or finishing.

He didn't get permission yet.

Janus leans against the chair, swinging an arm over the back. Logan sounds entirely inconsolable. Moaning out quiet pleases mixed in with Janus' name, wheezing for air and babbles through his words. The gun is pressed hard against Logan's temple.

"Please, please," Logan cries.

Logan's breathing gets heavier, stronger. He's heaving like he ran up a flight of stairs. The gun in his hand quivers and he squeezes his eyes shut, tears running down his face. He's close, but he's stuck on the edge, awaiting Janus' command.

"Are you close?" Janus asks.

"Yes," Logan says, pleading, "please--"

"Do you want to kill yourself?"

Logan perks up at that, cock spurting out another little bead of precum. "Yes! " He nuzzles the gun in his hand, almost like he's forgotten it was even there.

Janus smiles from his spot on the chair. He trails his eyes up and down Logan's shaking body. "Cum for me."

Logan's orgasm is immediate. He thrusts upwards into his hand two times before he's cumming. He let's out a shakey gasp, almost growling. He twists his wrist under the head of his cock and moans. His cum splatters on the floor and on Janus' leather shoes.

Then,

"Pull the trigger."

Logan doesn't hesitate.

He doesn't even have to think. Not with Janus doing it for him.

His cock spurts out another rope of cum as his finger trembles over the trigger, pushing down. It's instant, the way his body collapses to the ground with a thwack. The gun clatters out of his hand onto the floor as he falls backwards. His body spasms, twitching subtly, and then stills— entirely tensed up.

Janus swallows the saliva in his mouth. Logan's cock is now embarrassingly soft, hand still wrapped around it like a joystick. Janus lets his eyes roam over Logan's body.

A puddle of blood forms around Logan's head. It trickles down his forehead and into his eyes— open and vacant. They stare off into nothing. His mouth hangs partially open with drool mixing in with his own blood. Janus can't help but touch himself through his pants. Running a hand across his crotch, palming himself, he makes a little strangled noise.

Logan looks beautiful like this.

It's a bit of a struggle getting Logan to sit back up, but this isn't Janus' first time. Janus grabs underneath his armpits, tugging and pulling, until he's slouched and pressed up against Janus' legs. His head lolls, falling near the tent in Janus' pants and the man curses. He runs a hand along Logan's pretty bullet wound: the blood staining his yellow gloves a vibrant, bright red. It's still gushing out of him. The hole definitely isn't big enough for his cock (he can barely fit 2 fingers in). He bites the ends of his gloves, tearing them off with his teeth and tossing them somewhere across the room. Logan's blood tastes metallic on his tongue through the cloth and he imagines what it would be like to tonguefuck that brain of his. What would it taste like?

His index finger prods at the hole. He carefully pushes it in, with struggle, wrestling deep into his skin and past his skull. It makes a gross squelching noise.

Janus licks his teeth. His foot taps against the floor.

"Jesus," Janus groans under his breath. His cock twitches in his pants as he pushes another finger in. He needs to be patient. Needs to be perfect. He has no reason to rush this.

The injury stretches with Janus' fingers (he's glad they're imaginary). He's basically fingering the wound at this point: curling into the wrinkles of Logan's brains and pushing up against the inside of his head.

Using the side of Logan's head as leverage, he puts his thumb underneath the wound and wraps his fingers around the inside of his skull, wedging a third finger in and pulling. He pulls, and he pulls, and he pulls. The hole squelches and oozes. Logan's skull cracks with Janus' moments.

Janus inhales deep and slow.

When he sneaks a peak at Logan's face, Logan still has that empty stare in his eyes. He sits so still. So perfect and compliant.

"Beautiful," Janus murmurs into the air.

He lets his cock spring free, unbuckling and unzipping his pants open. He takes his fingers out of the gash. Thick strands of blood quiver in the air and snap as he moves further away. His hand strokes his cock and lubes him up with the blood squirting from Logan's little head.

Janus takes a shaky breath.

The tip of his cock presses up against the hole.

His teeth grit and grind. as his cock struggles against the muscles, forcing his way inside of Logan's brains.

"You're... tight," he mutters gruffly. Logan's brains are warm and wet and tight. He bottoms out with a moan. Hips flushed with the side of Logan's head.

He flutters his eyes shut. He hasn't even gotten to fucking him yet and he's trying not to cum from the sensation alone.

"Look at what you do to me, Logan," Janus sighs, "even in death."

How long could he continue to use Logan's rotting corpse? How many times could he fuck this wound, before it deteriorates and decays? How many new wounds could he make with his body; exploring the way Logan's flesh tears under his fingers and how his bright blood gushes out of him? Would the sides even question if he's gone? Would he lay Logan's corpse on display, letting everyone watch as he defiles his toy? Sitting still, taking everything Janus gives him. Janus' thrusting becomes uneven. He barely pulls out fully before forcing his way back into Logan's head.

With a curse, Janus cums into Logan's head. His hips slam against the other man, shuttering and twitching. He hunches over him, crowding and towering over him. Hands are pulling out hair with his tight grip on Logan's curls. He's rutting against him, riding out his orgasm, panting and moaning, like a disgusting dog. Load after load pours into his skull.

He breathes, chest rising up and down.

When he does finally pull out from Logan's warm, wet hole, threads of blood and cum hanging in the air— it's hard to tell where his cum begins and where Logan's blood ends.

Janus sighs.

He leans back against his seat, running a hand through Logan's hair. He thoroughly enjoys this view: Logan's eyes as he slowly grows cold, semen and blood spilling down his face, drool running down his chin. He cradles Logan's cheek in his other hand.

He clears his throat and approaches you. “Philosopher,” he says. You do not react, and remain sound asleep, your chest rising and falling with deep, even breaths. Despite the fact that you are resting, there are ever-present shadows circling your eyes which lend your eyes, when open, an uncanny sharpness. Your hair falls around your head in a tousled disarray of curls to form something of a halo which frames your face. If one were to compare your unkempt mode of existence with Anaxa’s own immaculate presentation, they could not be held at fault for thinking you come from different worlds entirely. 

“Philosopher,” he repeats, louder. Still you do not stir. With a sigh, Anaxa reaches over and plucks the olive branch you wear behind your ear from your hair in one swift motion. This wakes you. How exactly you can feel it, he does not know; but the method never fails. You spin around and face him with a scandalised expression, though your shock falls away when you see him. 

“Goodness, Anaxagoras, it’s you,” you sigh out. You stretch your arms above your head, stifling a wide yawn. He offers the olive branch out to you, and you tuck it back into its usual place. “I thought it might be more students coming to steal it from me for laughs. Was that truly necessary?”

“I tried to get your attention through other means, but they did not succeed,” he explains flatly. 

“Ah. In that case, I apologise for failing to notice you. What have you come for?”

Anaxa crosses his arms. “Do I need a cause to seek you out?” 

“Not necessarily, no; but considering your disposition, I would be surprised if you did not have one,” you reason. 

He sniffs a laugh. “Then you would be correct. I have come to ask whether you are in possession of that paper about the transmutation of the soul which we discussed a week or so ago. I haven’t seen it since, so I assume I must have left it with you by mistake, and I require it again for my research.”

You cock your head sideways in a bird-like fashion as you consider his question. After a moment, your eyes brighten. Despite the perpetual haziness of sleep still lingering upon your eyelids, your gaze possesses a remarkable clarity which betrays the astuteness lying behind your unsuspecting mien. “Ah, yes, I believe I know the one you refer to. I remember you reading it out to me. Recent experiments conducted on Titan creations have revealed a general trend which supports the hypothesis that notable similarities are present within the soul structure across both Titankin and humankind…”

Anaxa inclines his head. “That is the one.”

“Mm. I was wondering why you did not take it with you, considering you know I cannot peruse it myself. To answer you, I have kept it safely with me. Here.” You reach into the folds of your rumpled white robe and withdraw a paper scroll. Anaxa accepts it wordlessly from your hand. He unfurls it, double checks that it is indeed the right paper, and, satisfied, slips it into his cloak. Rising to your feet with another yawn, you say, “If I may ask, what time is it now?” 

“It’s noon.” The sky, of course, is in star-flecked darkness as ever, but the Grove maintains a system of timekeeping which separates the night into two periods, of waking and sleep respectively, for the practical purposes of scheduling if little else. 

“Ah, wonderful. Noon is my favourite time of day, for it is when the mind is at its most active.”

“And I take it that is why I found you sleeping on a rock?” 

“Precisely, good Anaxagoras,” you reply with a twinkle in your eye. “Dreams are some of the most vibrant machinations of the human mind. Whether in sleeping or waking, midday is always the period during which I receive my clearest insights.”

“You were dreaming?” he asks. “What of?”

“A white crow and a screeching owl.”

Anaxa fixes you with a dubious look. “You may indeed receive insights, but I would dispute your claim to their clarity.”

You shake your head, and he perceives for a strange moment that you are somehow disappointed in him. “Dearest Anaxagoras, I am afraid you misunderstand me; but that is my fault, for failing to express myself sufficiently. Clarity does not always mean immediate clarity.”

“If that is indeed so, beloved philosopher of mine,” he returns, rolling the fond moniker drily over his tongue in turn, “you can regale me with your insights once you make sense of them. In the meanwhile, I shall return to my office. You may join me there if you so wish.”

… … … … … … …

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐈𝐈, 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒

Anaxa first met you when he was a fresh student at the Grove. Well, he says ‘met’; in truth, it was difficult to avoid you. You appeared on the grounds one day, seemingly out of nowhere, and began posing questions to whoever would listen to you, asking to know the meaning behind justice, knowledge, beauty, the soul—anything and everything that was studied at the Grove—before politely refuting all of the answers offered to you. 

At first, nobody took you seriously. You were labelled a nuisance, a sophist, a ‘gadfly’ who tormented students for no good reason. Anaxa himself took you for an oddity, interesting but neglectable. As long as you did not bother him, he cared little for what people said about you. 

His interest was piqued after hearing you discuss the nature of divinity with one of his classmates in passing. You were inquiring into the authority of the Titans, refuting the idea that they were so different from humans because of their capacity for misjudgement. He stayed and listened for a few minutes without being seen before continuing to his class. The conversation lingered on his mind for the rest of the day. 

After you won a debate against a professor who had come to put you in your place, neither Anaxa nor the Grove could overlook you for any longer. You were told to leave, invited to enrol, accused of leading the younger students astray; yet nothing, neither threat nor request, moved you. When your motives were questioned, you merely replied that you were a “simple fool in search of a morsel of knowledge”. It was as if the rest of the world had no bearing on you: all that existed was you and your quest for understanding. 

By this point, you had evolved from a mere speck on his radar to a matter which merited investigation; one which he was determined to decipher. That same day, Anaxa sought you out directly. He found you sitting on the grass, having been banned from the central campus grounds, surrounded by a small flock of crows and tossing them grain from your hand. He marched up to you and demanded, “Tell me everything you know about the nature of the soul.”

The crows took to the air in a flurry of dark wings. You watched them scatter before turning your eyes to him. He remembers the way your eyes twinkled with intelligence under the moonlight, your irises shot through with coloured streaks which glinted like shards of bronze. He has yet to meet another person who can hold his gaze and direct it back at him in the same way you can. 

“I’m afraid I don’t know anything about the soul,” you replied with a casual shrug. “It is a complete mystery to me, for I have never studied it. But perhaps, as a knowledgeable student yourself, you know something of value that you could share with me?”

The discussion which ensued carried on for five hours. You touched upon matters of divinity, identity, knowledge, truth, morality, purpose, moving through one topic into another as seamlessly as two streams converge into one and separate once again. By the time you finished, it was well past midnight, yet Anaxa had never felt so invigorated: while his body ached for sleep, his mind was more awake than it had ever been. You challenged him, made him consider perspectives he shunned on the basis of absurdity, forced him to question the assumptions underlying his beliefs that he had always taken as indisputably true. In turn he demanded you to take positions, to argue for conclusions rather than against them, and interrogated you with the same ferocity that you directed towards others. 

It was like you were caught in a highly synchronised dance or duel, playing off each other’s movements and meeting each other’s blades in perfect timing. Never before had Anaxa encountered somebody capable of matching his intellectual pace. He was unnerved, yet at the same time found himself irresistibly drawn to you, as if something within him was pulling him towards you, outside of his control. He is certain you would have spoken for longer had you not been interrupted by a foul-tempered professor who scolded you for keeping her awake. 

From that point onwards, Anaxa visited you more often, searching for you when he had a moment to spare between classes and conducting private experiments. He came to categorise you on the same level as his research: something of a passion, something of an obsession, a pursuit he could not abandon without losing some part of himself. 

(Yet the fascination he felt towards you was not only intellectual. There was something else which had snuck in quietly without his notice, planting its roots in the cracks that lay between the logical aspects of his nature: a fire stoked in his flesh rather than his brain, which excited the irrational parts of him and caused him to burn with a fervour he had thought himself immune to. This force, as he came to understand, was desire, and it is around this notion that Anaxa later developed his theory of the three components of the soul: one part reason, two parts longing, and three parts passion.)

Over the years, you gradually earned a begrudging sense of respect from the Grove’s academics. Anaxa’s own professor Empedocles, then the Sage of the Venerationists, took a liking to you and defended you from the more injurious condemnations levelled at you. Thus, though the rumours swirling around your name were still less than flattering, you acquired an unofficial following of sorts, which consisted of a small but dedicated handful of students and professors who were willing to engage with your reasoning, one of the most dedicated being an aspiring Nodist by the name of Aristocles. 

Despite this development, the majority of younger students as well as some older academics would still approach you and insult you in bad faith, or make a strawman of your arguments in order to better you. Anaxa despised such intellectual dishonesty. Any rudeness you were met with, however, you handled with perfect civility. Criticism and accusation slid from you like water. Once again, it was like other people had no bearing on you. Occasionally, Anaxa feared that this included him. But in the manner of all paradoxes incited by desire, your detachment served only to motivate him further: the more unattainable you were, the more he was determined to close the distance. 

After he established his own school of thought, Anaxa raised the possibility to you of doing the same. “You are certainly capable of leading your own school,” he pointed out, “and you have enough of a following to be successful in doing so.”

You replied, “I do not believe that restricting one’s scope of inquiry is the way to gaining true knowledge. If we are ever to discover the truth, we must remain open to every possible approach.”

He had expected such a reply and gave it little thought afterwards. Though perhaps, had you accepted the offer and officially affiliated yourself with the Grove, it could have assuaged, if not prevented, what was to come. For although the external world had no hold on you, your presence had all too acute an impact on the people around you. 

It was a conversation like any other, unremarkable in essence, which you were having with a couple of bright-eyed students on the topic of the soul. You said to them, “If you are making the claim that the soul is material in nature, you must prove it.” The students, newly enrolled and eager to give you your proof, did not suppose that you meant proof reached through argumentation rather than empirical investigation. They ventured into the wilderness beyond the Grove upon which, by a stroke of misfortune, the black tide had recently encroached; and, unaware of the danger, they met their ends at the claws of those corrupted monsters. 

Once news of this incident reached the academy, there ensued something of a scandal. The casualties were hushed up as the sages debated how to handle the situation. Many called for your punishment, while others, including Anaxa and Empedocles, defended your innocence on the grounds that you had neither intended nor could have predicted such an outcome. You gave no direct indications for the students to respond as they did: unfortunate as the accident was, the responsibility fell upon their shoulders, not yours, for they had the autonomy to act otherwise. Furthermore, had it arbitrarily been any registered professor in your position, they would not receive such extreme reproach. 

Eventually, on the grounds that the academy did not wish to alarm the students with the news of the deaths as well as the proximity of the black tide, you were pardoned, and the operations of the Grove of Epiphany returned, at least on a superficial basis, to normal. Yet an atmosphere of disquietude lingered on campus following the event. Anaxa himself felt the effects of this unease: it was the first time he had truly perceived the possibility that you may be separated by powers beyond his control; that your presence by his side, and his by yours, was not granted by necessity, but rather by favourable circumstance. 

Both you and Anaxa had something of infamous reputations, and until then the comfortable assumption had underpinned your interactions that whatever consequences of this reputation did not affect him would not affect you and vice versa. The challenging of this supposition shook him deeply, forced him to turn his eye back on himself and what you meant to him: the first time he faced the possibility of losing you was also the first time the full extent of what he felt for you revealed itself to him. Not long after Anaxa made this revelation did Empedocles pass and Euthyphro, one of your most outspoken critics, took the mantle of the Sage of the Venerationists. Your presence in the Grove was now vulnerable in a way that it had not been before; the potential of separation was more acute than ever, and Anaxa’s passion flared even stronger in response. The force of his own fervour astonished him as much as it frightened him. 

Ought he to pursue this newfound fire? To ignore it? What was the most reasonable course of action? Did reason have any bearing in the territory of desire? He attempted to gauge your response to these questions through your subsequent exchanges, and from this determine whether or not you, too, shared his sentiments; yet you remained as you always had, untouchable and immutable, giving no indication that you were subject to those fevers of whim and passion suffered by the rest of mankind. He began to doubt himself, and as his doubt intensified, so too did his covetousness for that he was not privy to and did not—perhaps could not—have.

Since he first met you, Anaxa has burned in silence, a cold green flame flickering in the darkness of the night, striving in vain to illuminate a truth which is not there.

… … … … … … …

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐈𝐈𝐈, 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇 & 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐋

After teaching his final class of the day, Anaxa heads across the Grove towards his laboratory. He can feel he is close to a breakthrough in his research on the soul. For the last few days, that sensation which always precedes great discovery has been pulling at his edges like a fishhook drawing him forwards. The answers he seeks are in reach, waiting only for him to seize them from where they hang on their branch. 

As he approaches the Sacred Tree, a medley of voices floating up from the main path catches his attention. Among them, he recognises your voice, as well as those of his own students Meletus, Anytus and Lycon respectively. He hangs back and listens to the conversation unfold. Once the three disperse and you turn to leave, Anaxa makes his way over to you. 

“I see you’ve been speaking with some of my students,” he says, falling into step beside you as naturally as an apple drops to the ground, compelled to its end by an unchanging law. 

“Ah, so they are yours?” you say. “I was curious as to which school they belonged to, but yes, it makes sense retrospectively when considering their interest surrounding divine nature. We were having a fascinating conversation about divine justice.” 

“Is that so? Having taught them for two years now, I did not take them as the kind to seek out additional discussion of their own accord.”

“There are many sides to people which we may never know,” you reply simply. “Perhaps your teaching methods do not suit their learning style.”

Anaxa hmphs. “You may be correct; but if that’s indeed the case, I severely doubt they would be any more receptive to your own methods.”

“You know that I do not teach anybody, Anaxagoras,” you say. “I only try to learn from inquiry. Besides, ought you not to place more faith in your students?”

“A professor’s job is to make accurate judgements about his students, not to flatter them.”

“I suppose that is reasonable, although I do find it questionable whether the judgement of those who are professors is truly any less fallible than that of everybody else.” 

He does not reply, and you fall silent for a while. The two of you take a walk through the winding passageways of the courtyard in unspoken appreciation of each other’s company. Despite the ever-present darkness, the temperature is comfortable, and a pleasant breeze meanders through the foliage of the gardens. Such moments of quiet between you are rare; Anaxa takes the opportunity to savour it. The occasional student shoots you a strange look as you pass by—every year, newcomers to the Grove are shocked to discover that Professor Anaxagoras would keep such peculiar company—but these are minor intrusions you are both accustomed to, and they do little to hinder his enjoyment.

“Say, Anaxagoras,” you remark, breaking the silence, “are you teaching any further classes today?” 

“No, that was my last. Why do you ask?”

“There is a matter I wish to discuss with you.”

“Very well. You may accompany me back to my laboratory, and we will talk there.”

You spend the rest of the way talking about inconsequential matters, such as the weather and recent news from around the Grove. After arriving in his laboratory, you sit down in your usual cross-legged position in the middle of the floor while Anaxa leafs through the contents of his desk. “So, tell me,” he says, idly flipping open a series of experimental reports, “what is it you want to discuss?”

You tip your head sideways and pin him with a curious look. “You.”

Anaxa’s hand stills. “Me?” he echoes, arching a fractional brow in your direction.

“Precisely. It has come to my attention as of late that, despite knowing you for quite some time now, I know very little about you beyond what we discuss together.” 

“Quite the revelation to make after seven years of acquaintance,” he comments drily. “What do you wish to know?”

“What are you willing to impart to me?”

Anaxa swivels his eye on you. “Anything at all, philosopher,” he says. “You need only ask the right questions.”

You lapse into thought. After a few moments, you ask, “Why are you so fond of dromases?”

“They are calm, quiet, and have a good temperament.”

“Why do you value these qualities?”

He replies, “They make for agreeable companions.”

“I see. And is ‘agreeability’ the most important trait of a companion?”

“No.”

“Do you have any family?”

“Not anymore.”

“Is there anything sacred in your life?”

“What do you mean by ‘sacred’? If you mean divine, then no. If you mean something which is revered above all else, then yes. Truth is the single sacred thing in my life.”

“Really?” You frown. “I have always been under the impression that humanity is the thing you take as sacred.”

Anaxa folds his arms over his chest and regards you closely. “Why do you say that?”

“All I have ever seen you pursue in your research is that which benefits humankind. It seems to me that you use truth as a means of revering humanity, rather than the ultimate end in itself.”

“An interesting observation,” he muses, kicking backwards in his chair. “Is there anything more you want to know?”

You fold your hands together in your lap. “I don’t believe so. For the time being, at least, my questions have been satisfied.”

“Then, as dictated by the laws of equivalent exchange, I hope you would not be opposed to my asking you some questions in return.”

“Why, not at all.”

Anaxa considers the many things he could ask you. He could ask about your own family; your life before the Grove; whether you have a favourite animal, or why you never settled into a home of your own. Yet, out of all the potential questions lingering on his mind, there is only one which truly interests him above all the others. He says, “You expressed the belief that my end is not truth, but humanity. Then tell me, philosopher; do you believe that truth can be an end in itself?”

“I suppose I do, yes. One can seek truth without needing a supplementary goal.”

“Would you propose that reason is the means by which the truth is uncovered?”

“I would.”

“What makes you think reason is capable of transcending the will?”

You frown. “I am afraid I’m not quite sure what you are asking. Could you elaborate a little on precisely what you mean?”

“It is evident through observing the behaviour of humans that reason and the will are often in contention. When somebody acts unreasonably, we say this because they have followed their will rather than their reason.”

“I am beginning to understand your point, but, good Anaxagoras, please be clear for my silly sake—what exactly do you refer to when you say ‘will’ here? Desire? Passion?”

“Those would be accurate terms, yes.”

“But is there not a distinction between the two? As in, it would seem to me that somebody cannot be passionate about something without first desiring it, in the way that one who is passionate about cooking first desires good food.”

“Very well. Let us say that that desire is the root of passion, and the act of pursuing desire is what we call ‘passion’. If somebody, such as yourself, pursues truth, this would be because they desire knowledge of the truth. The conclusion is that truth cannot be an end in itself, because what lies at the base of the search for truth is the fulfilment of desire. So, reason cannot transcend the will, and is rather the slave of the passions. Desire is the force which governs us.”

You tip your head sideways and consider his argument. Something appears to be troubling you. Soon, you say, “I believe we have made a mistaken assumption in our reasoning thus far. Somebody can desire something yet choose against it out of their better judgement. Take once more the example of the person who is passionate about cooking. They may desire good food, and this desire may be what incites them to cook, but it will not always be the case that the choices brought about by their reason follow on from their desire. One day, when passing by their favourite food stall after having eaten a large meal shortly before, they may choose not to eat that good food out of the logical understanding that it would have harmful repercussions for their health, even if they do still desire the food. This would suggest that the will, as you put it, and reason can work independently of one another, and indeed that reason is capable of superseding the will.”

“Does not their concern about the repercussions arise from a different desire—the desire for good health?”

“That is true; I see now what you mean. You are suggesting that there will always be a desire which precedes the use of our reason. Perhaps you are right; but, unless I have misunderstood your argument, this seems to cause a problem of the regression of desires. If acting in accordance with the desire for good food is informed by the desire for good health, then what informs this latter desire? The desire for continued living, perhaps—and that is informed by the desire to avoid death? But why do we desire the avoidance of death? It seems that, if desire truly lies at the base of all human activity, we cannot explain what motivates us to act, or to use reason, for there will always be a preceding desire which influences the next. Indeed, if this were the case, we would not be able to act at all. So it still seems to be the case that reason, whose laws exist beyond our will, must at some point inform our desires, rather than the other way around.”

“Or, philosopher, there lies a fundamental, motivating desire at the essence of our being.”

“And there seems to be no way, at least not currently, of determining which it is for certain.”

“Hm.” He drums his fingers against the polished wood of his desk. “Assuming your view is correct, you would always strive to follow reason rather than passion?”

“That is so.” You pause. “Is that all you wish to ask?”

Anaxa considers this for a moment, before replying, “Yes.”

You nod and rise to your feet. “Very well. If that is so, I will be going now.”

“And where are you going, philosopher?” 

“I do not know yet,” you admit. “That is something I will discover once I have encountered somebody, and begin a new discussion. No doubt Aristocles will have something of interest to say if I happen across him.” 

You move towards the exit of the laboratory. Anaxa watches you from his chair, his eye following you with the close attention that a scientist lends its specimen. Or, rather, it is a case that his eyes naturally linger upon you, are drawn towards you rather than away. As you reach the threshold, you pause. He continues to observe you as you turn around to face him. 

“Upon further reflection, I’m afraid there is something I forgot to ask you,” you say. 

Anaxa spreads his hands out before him. “My answers are at your disposal.”

“What happened to your eye? I have always wondered how you lost it, for you do not seem the kind of person to place yourself in harm’s way.”

He feels a smile twist on his lips. He leans backwards in his chair and beckons towards you. “Come. I will show you.” You walk over, stopping beside the desk and staring at him as you await the answer to your question. Anaxa arches a brow. “Closer, philosopher,” he chides. “I won’t bite.”

You oblige with his instruction and without hesitation climb onto the chair, sitting yourself on his lap so that you are straddling his waist with your thighs. Your weight feels perfectly natural on his legs, even comfortable. As if you cannot help yourself, your hands immediately rise to hold his face. You lean closer, peering down at him with a ruminative quality to your expression, like he is a difficult metaphysical concept you are trying to grasp. 

“The loss of my eye was a foolish misjudgement on my behalf,” Anaxa explains casually. The feeling of your hands on his skin is making his stomach twist, but he keeps his voice and his gaze perfectly unaffected. “An attempt to bring my sister back from the River of Souls. Naively, I thought that one eye would be an equivalent price to exchange for her life.”

“I am sorry to hear that.”

“Why do you apologise? It is useless to linger on what is already done.”

You make a thoughtful humming sound, walking your fingers across his brow and down his nose. His eyelashes brush against your palm. Your hand continues wandering its way around his face until it comes to rest above the dark, embroidered cloth which covers his eye. You lean closer still, staring with that transfixed, apprehensive curiosity that precedes a groundbreaking revelation. The thought that your attention is entirely focused on him is thrilling. “May I…?”

Anaxa dips his head incrementally. “Go on.” 

You raise the flap of his eyepatch and gasp softly. For some strange reason, your surprise incites a flicker of satisfaction with him, and he cannot help but smirk. “How fascinating,” you murmur. You slide your fingers up his cheek and rest them below the star-filled chasm where his left eye used to be. Anaxa stares up at you with cool indifference from his other eye. Your proximity is such that your noses would touch if only he tilted his chin higher. “Is it painful?”

The sensation is difficult to describe. The best way he can put it is cold, understood as a complete absence of warmth rather than a degree of temperature in itself. Your fingers card through his hair while he considers the question. “Not painful, no. Rather, it feels like death.” “An interesting turn of phrase that you use there, Anaxagoras,” you observe, winding a pale green tress around your finger. “Does this mean you no longer hold that death is merely negation?”

“Death does not exist,” he replies simply. 

You quirk a brow towards him. “On what grounds do you make such a claim?”

“I will demonstrate it to you. Tell me, philosopher, what does it mean to say that death is negation?”

“It is to say that death is no more than the point at which the individual ceases to exist.”

“By that logic, what would it take for death to not exist?”

“Why, for the individual never to cease existing, of course,” you say.

Anaxa shrugs, closing his eye as you continue to investigate his face. “And so my claim is simple.”

“I see. You believe that death does not exist, because you believe that the individual never ceases to exist.”

The hints of a smile creep onto his lips. “Precisely, philosopher. Now that you know, what do you think of my conjecture?”

“I am curious as to why you deny the cessation of the individual,” you reply, peering once again into the chasm of his left eye. Your fingers trace along the edge of the depression, dipping just barely into the blue void beyond. A cold shudder skitters down his nerves.

Anaxa says, “The ‘individual’ is nothing more than the soul, and the soul survives as long as the influence of a person continues on through others. Because the influence of every action a person takes stretches indefinitely into the future and touches an infinite number of lives, the individual continues to exist, and thus death, taken as negation as I would otherwise have it, does not exist. The only requirement for denying the existence of death is that people still exist in the future to receive the ripples of those actions. If there were to be a point at which no individuals exist to carry forth these influences, then yes, death would exist.”

“Your reasoning seems sensible, but how do you suppose you are correct?” you question, pulling your hand back from his eye. “It could be that you are simply mistaken in your definition of an individual, in which case death may very well exist.”

“I am working on proof,” he says. “When I find it, worry not; you will be the first to know.”

“You are very confident that you will succeed, Anaxagoras.”

He opens his right eye and pins it on you. “I am confident because there is no chance of me being mistaken. My proof is guaranteed. It is simply a matter of time.”

“I fear I may have judged too quickly.” You tap on his chin twice with your index finger. “Is it confidence with which you speak, or arrogance?”

Anaxa tilts his head so that it presses further against your hand. Your palm is warm, slightly calloused. “One cannot be arrogant when there is no room for doubt.” 

“And why do you not doubt?” you ask. “Is doubt not the greatest asset of the philosopher?”

“Doubt is the tool one uses to lead them to a conclusion. Once the conclusion is reached, doubt loses its purpose.”

“An interesting notion, though I am not quite convinced by it.”

Anaxa raises his brow. “Why do you doubt, philosopher?” he asks.

“I have too little faith in my understanding of matters to ever suppose I have reached a conclusion without overlooking something crucial,” you answer honestly. “Better to doubt what is true than accept what is false. In my experience, the search for knowledge is destined to be a pursuit without end.”

“Then why do you persevere?”

“It seems to me that value lies in the journey as much as it lies in the destination. If it were only ends which hold value, all of human existence would be utterly worthless.”

“Why do you presume that human existence holds value?” he presses. 

You sigh and lean away from him, your hands falling to your sides. Though you are still seated on his thighs, it feels as though the distance between you has multiplied indefinitely in length. Anaxa does not pull you back. He only continues to observe you through his one burning eye. 

“I am afraid it is because I am a hopeless optimist who does not know how to stop dreaming,” you admit in a rueful voice. Your gaze strays upwards as if you are perceiving a realm he cannot see. “In the absence of proof either way, I choose to place myself on the side of value. You may label me a fool for it, and I will not refute you; but I believe that the most human thing one can do is to try.” 

... ... ... ... ... ... ...

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐈𝐕, 𝐆𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐍𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄 & 𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐈𝐑𝐄

With every night that passes since that exchange in his laboratory, Anaxa feels himself being consumed by a force he cannot control. Even in your absence, he cannot tear the sensation of your hands roaming his face from his mind, and the memory smoulders within him, turning slowly in his gut like a spit over a fire. It is evidence of your physicality; your existence on a plane where he can touch and be touched by you. Of course you have made physical contact before, and on many occasions, but this was different. This time, you felt the inside of him, and brushed against the abyssal frigidity which lies at his core with such tantalising closeness that he is certain, had you proceeded further, he would have been unmade by you, and he would not have resisted. 

The more he observes his own reactions and thinks upon them, the more he thinks you are correct: Anaxa’s end is not truth but humanity, and his means not so much reason as passion. In recognising this, he finds that he can pursue his research to even greater depths. He discovers in his 55th experiment that the souls of Titan creations bear a remarkable resemblance to those of humans. Though the dissection is a time-consuming one, and although the procedure leaves him with severe injuries, he could not be more satisfied with the results. 

This research occupies most of his time. The fishhook which tugged at him before has become an anchor line pulling him up towards the truth. He cannot detach himself from it: his will is at the mercy of his passion, which is itself drawn to humanity. When he succeeds, men will stand at the same height as the gods—no; they will surpass the gods, and never again be subject to their indifferent whims, their false prophecies. (In the low flicker of his oil lamp, the shadows he casts along the floor of his laboratory appear longer than usual.)

News comes to him through Hyacine that the black tide has been observed closing in on the Grove. The sages are scheduling a meeting to discuss their course of action. “Tell them to begin evacuating the Grove,” he says to Hyacine, without shifting his attention from his microscope. He has not set foot outside of his laboratory for four days. “There’s hardly a need for a meeting.”

“Are you saying that because you believe it, or because you don’t want to be distracted, professor?” she replies. In response to her insight, Anaxa is silent. Hyacine sighs. She knows arguing with him in this state is a lost cause. “If the other sages agree, are you going to leave with everyone else?”

He considers the question for a moment. It is somewhat tempting to say yes; to escape is to survive, and to survive is to continue his quest for truth, for humanity. Yet something even more tempting urges him to stay. In remaining at the Grove in the case of an assault, he has the perfect chance to test his hypothesis; even to prove it. “If the black tide is to attack the Grove of Epiphany,” he decides, “I will seize the opportunity.” He does not elaborate any further: already the formulations of his final experiment are piecing together in his mind.

Beyond what he hears during Hyacine’s routine visits to check on his health, Anaxa is ignorant to what is occurring elsewhere in the Grove. This extends to you. He is too infatuated with his findings to pay other matters any heed—though this does not mean he has forgotten you. Once the wave of focus breaks its crest and his concentration wanes, he determines to find you and share his discoveries with you, as well as warn you of the approaching danger. Though his intellectual craving is, for the time being, satisfied, his other craving has grown only more pronounced in the time you have been apart.

Anaxa searches the Grove for you in between lectures. More often than not, you elude him. Perhaps it is the lack of sleep rendering him less shrewd than usual, but you seem more difficult to locate than before. Whenever he does find you, you are locked in conversation with somebody else, his three students and Aristocles being among your most frequent interlocutors. On one occasion he overhears you discussing politics with the former group. It is a topic he has never spoken about with you himself, for when you are together your conversations tend to concern the philosophical rather than the societal. His curiosity compels him to stay a while and listen. 

“If you are embarking on a long journey at sea,” you are saying, “would you rather have the experienced captain steering your ship and plotting your course, or an inexperienced crew member?”

Meletus replies, “The captain, obviously.”

You nod. “I agree. Now, is it not true that generally speaking, due to the social and economic inequality found in all societies, the majority of the population of a city-state lacks the knowledge to make informed judgements about the affairs of that city-state?”

“Yes, that’s true,” he says. 

“And is it not the case that, in the same way you would not want an inexperienced crew steering your ship out of fear of crashing, you would also not want an uninformed population to dictate the affairs of your city-state, out of fear that they will lead it to its downfall.”

“I suppose that sounds right,” concedes Meletus. “But surely the issue there isn’t with democracy itself, and rather with how knowledge is distributed across society. If everyone were informed, it wouldn’t be a problem.”

“I would like nothing more than to agree with you, Meletus,” you say, “but how do we suppose that we can arrive at such a fair distribution of knowledge through democracy in the first place? Most people are naturally inclined to pursue their own interests over the general good, which is in this case the distribution of knowledge; and if this is so, the majority will always vote for that option which satisfies their own desires, rather than what would benefit others.”

Anytus interjects, “But do you really think that the other forms of government, such as the monarchy of Castrum Kremnos, are superior to democracy?”

“Ah, dear Anytus, take care that you do not jump to conclusions. Simply because I have my qualms with democracy does not mean I do not also have misgivings about other forms of governance. Indeed, in my view, the monarchic system of Castrum Kremnos contains flaws comparable to those found in Okhema’s democratic Citizens’ Assembly.”

“But you can’t just reject every form of government until there are no options left,” points out Meletus. 

Lycon expresses his agreement and says, “I’m not sure what to think now, either. What would you suggest as an alternative?” 

Your eyes brighten with the prospect of this discussion. “Now that, my friends, is an interesting question, and one which I am more than happy to examine. However, I predict it will take some time to answer; so I will only continue if you are all willing to lend your time and patience to the ramblings of an old fool such as myself.”

The three exchange a glance. “We have time,” answers Lycon.

“I’m glad to hear it. In that case, we must begin by settling on a definition of justice, for would you not agree that is the principle around which a good society is founded?”

“It seems that way, yes,” says Anytus.

“Then tell me: what does it mean for something to be just?”

As Anaxa listens to your conversation, a strange sensation, reminiscent of indignation but with a sharper edge, begins to whittle away at him. He knows he ought to be pleased that his students are developing their understanding by speaking with you, but he cannot bring himself to feel any true satisfaction. You are so at ease, as ever; there is no indication in your behaviour that his absence has bothered you at all. The gnawing sensation hones into needles of doubt. Could it be that, in these few weeks, your interests have diverged? Are you no longer concerned with his presence?

Anaxa reprimands himself for entertaining such childish and petty thoughts the moment they arise. It is hardly the first time he has retreated for a prolonged period of time into his research, and it has never impacted your relationship before. The only reason he is considering such notions now is due to this infuriating, captivating transformation you have incited within him: this dissatisfaction with what he has giving way to hunger for more. ‘More’, Anaxa knows, is the path to ruin. It is the force which brings men to their knees and eras to their ends, as well as the one no person can escape from. His sister wanted to grant him ‘more’. He has always given ‘more’ to his students, to his research, and spilt golden rivers of his own blood in doing so. He cannot help but wonder what he will lose if he pursues the ‘more’ of you.

(In the manner of any truth-seeker, the uncertainty of this outcome spurs him only further towards chasing it.)

At long last, Anaxa manages to catch you on your own on his way out of the Library of Philia. You look pleasantly surprised to see him. “Good Anaxagoras,” you say by way of greeting. The sound of his name on your tongue sends a rush through him.

“Philosopher mine,” he replies. “We have not spoken to each other for some while now.”

“Yes, that is so, isn’t it? It feels as though Meletus, Anytus, Lycon and Aristocles have been occupying all of my time recently.” You tip your head, your wide, sharp eyes falling on him. “And what of yourself? I take it you have been busier than usual, for I have not seen you around very much in recent days.”

“One could say that. My experiments have been progressing with much success.”

You nod. “You do appear rather more gaunt than when I last saw you. I suppose, then, that you have not heeded my advice about exercising care when it comes to pursuing your research.”

“Just as much as you have heeded mine about exercising caution around those who are hostile towards you,” he replies. To his knowledge, Euthyphro has been rallying public opinion against you in another attempt to have you removed from the Grove.

“True; but while I try to take my own advice, I have never once seen you place aside your principles in favour of protecting yourself from criticism.” 

“Hypocrisy in practice does not necessarily nullify advice of its value. The fault in this instance lies with the person rather than the principle.” Though you express your agreement with a nod, Anaxa feels a twinge of impatience. “Enough of this superficial exchange, philosopher. There are more significant matters to attend to.”

You blink. “There are?” 

“There is reason to believe the Grove is under threat from the black tide. I advise that you join the evacuation efforts to Okhema, when they begin.”

A frown flits over your features at the mention of Okhema. “You are suggesting that I leave the Grove?” you ask. “Why, good Anaxagoras, do not tell me that Euthyphro has swayed you to his side, too.”

Anaxa does not respond to your jest and says plainly, “You lack the martial prowess to be of use in the case of a direct assault, and your presence would only hinder those who can fight by forcing them to worry about an additional individual.”

The candidness of his reasoning does not offend you. You merely shrug and reply, “These are indeed sensible grounds for your suggestion. Though, may I ask whether you also plan to leave?”

“Will my answer affect your own decision?”

“No; I simply wish to know what to expect if such a thing is to happen.”

“I plan to stay and complete my research,” Anaxa says, to which you sigh. 

“Then I am afraid you are speaking hypocritically once more. You used my lack of martial prowess and thus causing a hindrance as a justification in favour of me leaving, yet you yourself plan to stay despite having no more expertise in that field than I.”

He retorts with a smirk, “I may appear feeble, but I have my own methods of defending myself. You ought to know better than anybody not to judge by appearances, dear philosopher.”

“And if those methods should fail?” you question. “Your research is something you would risk death for?”

“My research and my students,” he says. “Or as you would put it, ‘humanity’. I will happily seek death if it promises me answers, for there is no true ‘death’ to fear.” He fixes his probing gaze on you. “Are not your own principles something you would die for?”

“I would rather you leave with everybody else,” you admit, “but I cannot refute that. Let us then hope that all of this speculation never comes to pass.”

Though Anaxa voices agreement, his conviction is half-hearted. He realises, with mild surprise, that he wants it to transpire. If the Grove is attacked, he is almost guaranteed to die, and you and the other scholars to survive. If not, and life continues as it currently does, not only does he lose the valuable opportunity to validate his theory, but Anaxa risks the possibility of living long enough for you to perish before he does. In the former case, the consequences balance each other out, and a comfortable equilibrium is reached. In the latter case, all of the outcomes are undesirable. 

He casts an eye across your surroundings. There are a few groups of students loitering nearby, not to mention some of those who are among your more consistent interlocutors. It is only bound to get busier as the day draws on, and the possibility that your dialogue will be interrupted is too great for his liking. Be it for only one conversation, Anaxa wants you to himself. This is something he has come to realise in startling clarity over the last few weeks of your absence.

“Is something the matter, Anaxagoras?” you ask, noticing his wariness. 

“Accompany me around the Grove, if you will, to grant us more privacy as we speak.”

“Why, it would be my pleasure.” You begin to walk. “What is it you want to talk about?”

He answers your question with one of his own. “What do you suppose is the fundamental distinction between humans and gods?”

You think briefly before replying, “One would have to posit the difference in our natures as the answer.”

“Why do you say so?”

“The distinction can hardly be something physical, for Titans can take on forms much similar to humans, and there seems no essential connection between their ability to change shape and their divinity. Kephale, for example, no longer can change their form, yet we would not say they are no longer divine. Even immortality cannot be the distinction, for the Titans are not truly immortal, as the black tide has proven. The most obvious answer would be that Titans are divine whereas humans are not, but I do not believe this response solves our problem.”

As you continue to speak, Anaxa finds himself hanging on the end of every word you say. Of course he listened to you attentively in the past, as is required of any philosophical conversation; but now he drinks in every word as would a starved man, and they spill down his throat like molten gold, like poison, scalding his innards as he continues against all better judgement to gulp them down. This desire, he is certain, is a disease; a maddening, feverish burning beneath his skin. It will drive him out of his mind. He ought to stop, he thinks, and chastises himself for showing such weak mental discipline. He cannot stop. Is this not precisely what he has been preaching this whole time, about the dominance of desire over reason? Ought he not to rejoice in the proof he has found?

“Anaxagoras?” Your voice rouses him from his spiralling thoughts. “Are you listening?”

“I am,” he says. “You were explaining the problem of distinguishing human flaws from divine flaws which underlies the current definition of ‘divinity’, understood as the ‘complete absence of human flaws and a state of completeness unique to the gods’. For instance, bloodlust in humans is considered a flaw, yet in Nikador it is spared such criticism and the trait is accepted as a facet of their divinity.”

“Indeed. If we are to place the distinction between humans at Titans as divinity, or the ‘complete absence of human flaws’, we must first determine what is a human flaw. But if a human flaw is not a flaw in a Titan because we accept that the Titan is divine, this is circular reasoning, as both sides rely on each other’s truth to be themselves true.”

“Careful, now, philosopher,” Anaxa warns. “It would almost sound as though you’re blaspheming.”

“It would not be the first time I have been accused of that,” you admit. You turn a corner as you speak and come face-to-face with a student who is vaguely familiar to him. You draw to a halt, while Anaxa lingers by your side, watching the following interaction unfold. “Ah, Phaedrus,” you say amicably, “how do you do?”

Phaedrus—Anaxa believes he recognises the name. He is studying under the Helkolithists, and Anaxa has seen you talking with him every now and again. “I’m doing well, thank you,” replies the young man. “Could I run by you my speech on rhetoric before I submit the final draft?”

“Little would please me more,” you say. “However, as you can see, I am currently speaking with good Anaxagoras here, and I would hardly wish to be rude and abandon him so suddenly. How about this solution: I shall seek you out once our conversation has finished.”

He nods. “Of course, yes, that’s no problem. Thank you. I’ll see you later.” 

You smile and bid Phaedrus farewell. Anaxa finds himself wondering at the way you so casually withdraw your focus from him and bestow it upon somebody else. It feels like theft—like he has been deprived of one of the bare necessities for living, such as water or food—yet you do not seem to recognise the power you hold over him, nor anybody else in that regard. You are too humble for your own good, Anaxa thinks: in supposing yourself to be a candle, you do not understand that you are the Sun shedding light on the truths of this world. Is this a failing of yours? He cannot help but wonder. Are you blameworthy for your own ignorance? You have always existed in your own exclusive realm, but it is no longer a separation Anaxa can accept. Now he yearns for closeness, and fears the cold and dark of the night more than ever. 

“As long as they intrigue you, you will lend anybody your attention, won’t you?” Anaxa asks. His voice drips with a languid sardonicism which masks the more corrosive emotion lying behind it. 

You tilt your head to the side, your focus shifting back onto him. “Well, yes. Engaging with others is how one learns.”

He grasps the back of your head suddenly and pulls it towards him, holding you in place so that you face him and him only. Your expression betrays your shock.

“And if I were to tell you that I wanted you to look at me? To watch me, above all else?” He leans closer to you, until a few hairs breadths are all that stand between you and him. His eye bears down on you, burning with the intensity of a cold green flame. “Could you do that?” 

“That would depend on what you have to say,” you reply, meeting his gaze steadily. 

“Would you not be tempted to do so by your less rational inclinations? Your own desire, for instance?” 

“There is the temptation, yes,” you admit, “but one does not discover truth through desire.” 

“Does one not? Can desire not strip us down to our barest components, enlighten us to the most fundamental parts of ourselves? Is that not also a form of truth?”

“You do have a point,” you reply, “but even so, the truth one learns through desire is limited and dependent on the individual. Perhaps desire can be revealing of a single person’s character, but not of the nature of such things as justice, goodness, or knowledge.” As you speak, your eyes begin to wander the space behind Anaxa. The loss of your attention is unbearable. He thrusts your head right back towards him, so close that your noses press together, clutching your hair so tightly that it bunches beneath his fingers. Your eyes widen. 

“What if I told you that the Titans and humans are in essence identical?” he says in a low, cutting voice. 

You blink. “What?”

“If I said that I had reason to believe the Titans of today were none other than the Chrysos Heirs of yesterday, and that there lies no fundamental difference between us? If I said the nature of souls is memory, encapsulated within seeds of wisdom? Would that be sufficiently intriguing for you?” 

You stare at him in bewilderment. A smile curls at Anaxa’s lips. 

“Have I rendered the ever-querying philosopher speechless?” 

“These are grand claims to be making,” you say eventually, choosing your words carefully. “If you are truly convinced by them, I cannot overlook their implications, nor withhold from trying to understand them myself. How did you arrive at such conclusions?”

“If I tell you, in the manner of equivalent exchange, will you look upon me, and only me?”

“You know I cannot promise such a thing, Anaxagoras. I’m afraid that it is not an equivalent exchange which you entertain with this request, but rather jealousy. Do not let your judgment be clouded.”

“Whose authority do you cite to instruct me thus? Your own? You have never once had your judgement clouded by jealousy, nor desire, nor any other vice?”

You press your lips together. “I am the furthest from infallible, but I make efforts whenever possible to avoid any irrational inclinations which may affect the pursuit of truth.”

“I did not ask you a question for you to evade it, philosopher. Answer me plainly and truthfully. Have you?”

After a moment, you reply, “Yes.”

“In what way?”

“I was overcome by fear.”

“Why?”

“For your safety, when you were conducting experiments.”

“Do you desire me?”

This question throws you off-guard. You have practically given him your answer already through your previous exchange, but being asked so directly causes you to falter, your mouth opening and closing around empty sounds. Anaxa watches every shift in your expression with the keen zealousness of a starved hawk. He can feel himself smouldering. He wants to hear it from you. He wants your admission, your surrender to what it means to be human, from your own mouth, in your own words. No, more than that—he needs it.  

At long last, you say slowly, “I do desire you, yes.”

“And are you willing to pursue that desire?”

You open your mouth to answer. 

“—Professor! There you are!” 

It is like being dropped into ice. Footsteps hurry closer. With deep reluctance, Anaxa releases his grip on your head and turns to face the approaching scholar, Cynane, with an impassive expression. Too out of breath to notice what she has interrupted, she continues in gasping out, “I was looking for you everywhere. You said we would meet to discuss my research paper at three, and it’s half past.”

Anaxa blinks slowly. It feels like he has suddenly been torn from a dream and given no time to reorientate himself. His mind struggles to construct a coherent picture of anything beyond the contents of your interrupted conversation and the hunger of his will. Low tongues of fire still lick at his mind, obscuring his thoughts with a curtain of smoke. “Which paper?” 

Cynane pulls a puzzled frown. “The essay I submitted to you about the structure of the soul.” 

His head clears enough for a memory of speaking about this to emerge. “So I did.” The cogs in Anaxa’s head are beginning to turn again, grinding gradually back into their usual rhythm. He shrugs off his lethargy and returns to form, straightening his back as he speaks, the usual glaze of authority returning to his voice. “Very well. We may discuss it now.” 

“Thank you,” smiles Cynane. Anaxa does not react. He casts a final glance back at you as he leaves with her. You are standing by the path, looking into the distance, apparently in deep thought. You do not return his gaze.

Over the following days, you continue to interact as though nothing at all happened, yet Anaxa feels that something fundamental in the nature of your dynamic has shifted. In which direction, and whether for better or worse, he cannot tell. All he knows is that he has brought desire into the equation. The liminal, rational sanctuary of your previous relationship has been breached: it must now either adapt to this new variable, or else it must crumble.

… … … … … … …

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐕, 𝐉𝐔𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐄

In his 144th experiment, Anaxa attempts the metaphase of soul fusion between Titankin and humans. It is a precarious procedure which requires his undivided attention, so he announces that he will not be available in the meanwhile and cancels his upcoming classes. Even Hyacine is not to disturb him. 

Fatigue eats away at him as he loses himself in the experimental process. The last meal he had was a day ago, and he has not slept for two nights in a row. His veins protrude from beneath his semi-translucent skin. Anaxa does not require Hyacine’s medical expertise to know that his health is deteriorating. Even so, his physical condition does not trouble him. He long ago recognised that his life belongs to his students, his body to his research, and his soul to you. Once he has given all he can, there will be nothing of him left. Good, he thinks; this is the optimal outcome. It allows him to spare any concerns he would otherwise have about self-preservation impeding on his research.

The experiment, to his great relief, is a success. The merged product is unstable, dangerously volatile, but it proves beyond doubt that the synthesis of the divine and the human is possible. Anaxa sends silent thanks to Empedocles for contributing his soul to the endeavour. With this cornerstone, he is now but one step from uncovering the truth capable of elevating humanity to the level of the so-called gods.

He is detailing the results of the experiment in his report book when there comes a sharp knocking at his door. Anaxa ignores the sound and continues to write. The knock returns, accompanied by a voice calling, “Professor! Professor Anaxagoras!” It is Aristocles. 

“I have made it clear that I am not to be disturbed at the moment,” Anaxa replies with a bite of impatience in his voice. 

“But it’s important,” insists Aristocles. “It’s—it’s them.” Anaxa’s eyes flick up momentarily from the paper. “Something’s happened. I don’t know exactly what, but… there’s some kind of trial. Euthyphro is involved.”

Anaxa rises so quickly that his chair clatters to the floor. “Take me there,” he commands.

Aristocles, panicked, leads him through the Grove’s vacant gardens to the Luminary Throne. A crowd has gathered in the clearing, and it takes some effort to push through to the front. 

You are kneeling on the ground in the centre of the wooden platform, your head hung, staring at the floor. The olive sprig is missing from your hair. Among your onlookers, Anaxa recognises the trio of Meletus, Anytus and Lycon, the other sages, Euthyphro, and those of his pupils who have yet to evacuate the Grove. Judging by the size of the crowd alone, almost everybody who remains must be gathered here.

“What is the meaning of this?” Anaxa demands of the assembly, stepping forwards into the clearing. Your eyes flit upwards at the sound of his voice, then away. Euthyphro, who is standing at the foot of the empty throne, sneers at his arrival.

“Professor Anaxagoras,” he greets, his voice laden with mock courtesy. “I heard you were so involved with your research that you were not to be disturbed with any other matters.”

“Exceptions can be made,” Anaxa dismisses. “Now, answer my question.”

“It’s simple: the ‘philosopher’ here is being put on trial for their crimes.”

“‘Crimes’?” echoes Anaxa. “On what grounds do you charge them thus?”

“On the grounds of showing impiety towards Cerces and corrupting the youth of the Grove of Epiphany. Meletus, Anytus and Lycon came forth with these charges, validating the concerns many scholars have reported over the last few years.”

Anaxa’s gaze darts towards his students. They stiffen and look away. A stab of confusion and something darker runs through him. Is he missing something here? Were they not the ones conversing eagerly with you? He shifts his attention to you. For one always so eager to discuss, you are strangely silent. Neither, though Anaxa knows you are more than capable of defending yourself, do you make any attempt to refute the words being thrown your way. 

He turns his focus back to Euthyphro and scoffs, “You would charge them, who merely asks harmless questions, with impiety and corruption, yet leave my position untouched? Not only is this a gross misconstrual of their behaviour, but also blatant hypocrisy.”

Euthyphro’s lips twitch in a frown. “Professor Anaxagoras, controversial as your standing may be, you are an established and valuable member of the Grove who aims to educate and develop understanding. This is entirely unlike the useless, misleading, and dangerous inquiry of the accused. For instance, it is not you whose guidance has led directly to the demise of others.”

“That was a development nobody could have predicted,” Anaxa counters. “Any professor could have been responsible for the same.”

“Any professor would have taken measures to ensure they would not be misunderstood. We do not prosecute on the grounds of possibility, Anaxagoras. People must be held accountable for their actions.”

“Why do you raise this incident now, after years have passed?” he challenges. “It seems a poorly made excuse to frame them as guilty by raising unrelated affairs and redirecting attention from the crux of the issue, which is the lack of legitimate grounds for holding this trial.”

Euthyphro smiles as though he was waiting for this response. “The sages have agreed that the situation was mishandled in the past, particularly by Empedocles. In light of the accusations of your own students, we agreed the matter deserves reconsideration, and found them guilty.”

“As one of the Seven Sages, why was I not involved in this process?” he demands.

“You explicitly stated that your research was not to be interrupted, even by matters concerning the sages,” points out Euthyphro. “We only respected your wishes.”

Anaxa cannot refute this: he did indeed make such a request. “Even so, your evident bias against them undermines the integrity of this trial. You cannot proclaim yourself impartial and fit to preside over the presentation of their case.”

“Can you truly say that you are not subject to bias in defending them?” he returns. “Everybody knows how much you favour them, Anaxagoras. Your judgement is the most susceptible to error out of all of us. In fact, are you not one of those who helped them cover up the deaths in that incident?”

“If that is where your qualms lie,” Anaxa says calmly, “it is myself whom you should be holding accountable, not them. They had no involvement in concealing it.”

“Then your part in this will also be considered. However, the identity of the principal offender remains unchanged. They are a danger to the very constitution of the Grove. You may disagree on the charge of corrupting the youth’s mentality, but the fact that their meddling caused such a tragedy is indisputable proof that they are a danger to education. With the black tide only encroaching further, the threat they pose cannot be risked.”

“And how will you sentence them?” asks Anaxa.

“They are to be put to death.”

He narrows his eye on Euthyphro. “Nobody at the Grove has that kind of authority.”

“Nobody at the Grove, no. However, in extreme cases, the Council of Elders may become involved. They have the authority to make such a sentence.”

As he speaks, Elder Caenis steps out from the gathered crowd into the unbreached circle surrounding you. Murmurs break out around her. “The matter will be put to a vote,” she announces. Anaxa wonders incredulously whether this is truly happening or whether he has gone insane due to a lack of sleep.

“Why does the Council of Elders have a say about the politics of the Grove?” demands Aristocles in a query he would also like to know the answer to. 

“Considering that the danger posed by this individual affects Okhema as well as the Grove of Epiphany, it is only right that the Council has a say in this trial,” says Euthyphro. 

Aristocles frowns. “Affects Okhema how?”

Elder Caenis clears her throat. A tense hush falls over the gathered crowd. “The charges against the accused, and the justifications for the charges, will now be stated in full, after which the vote will commence. First, on the charge of impiety, the accused has frequently expressed notions challenging the legitimacy of Cerces and the other Titans and has acted disrespectfully towards the gods during religious ceremonies, such as interrupting rituals with questions and walking barefoot into sacred spaces. Unlike Professor Anaxagoras,” she continues, “they do not proclaim to commit this blasphemy in order to better humanity, but for the sake of questioning itself. In doing so, the accusers believe they have overstepped the authority of Reason, as condemned in the Decree of the Seven Sages.” Caenis pauses. “The accused may now respond to the allegations.”

“I have little to say but that I believe this charge is misplaced,” you reply. It is the first time you have spoken since he arrived, and your gaze remains fixed on the ground in front of you. “The only thing I know is that I know nothing; so it cannot be the case that I have asserted any claims which undermine the authority of the Titans, for that would mean I know something, which I do not. If nothing else, surely using one’s rationality to question the things around us is a demonstration of Reason rather than an abuse of it. Similarly, I would think that etiquette, such as is observed in religious rituals, is not essential to the workings of Reason itself, for it is based in action and tradition rather than in thought. So, I do not see how my behaviour breaches any substantial considerations regarding the demonstration of piety.”

People begin to whisper among themselves. Euthyphro calls for silence, and Caenis continues. “Secondly, on the charge of corrupting the youth: certain people known to be involved closely with this ‘philosopher’ have sown discord within both the Grove of Epiphany and Okhema. In the Grove, they have proven a frequent disturbance to those trying to study and develop their knowledge and disrespected a number of established scholars. This is not to mention the direct harm which they have caused, such as in the previously discussed instance where two students were influenced to seek their deaths beyond the Grove. In Okhema, they have also been a cause of unrest. For instance, you have all heard of the failed political coup eight years ago, when the two soldiers Alcibiades and Critias tried to dismantle the Council of Elders and killed three highly respected council members in the process. When questioned, the soldiers claimed to have been inspired by their teachings. These are grave crimes which cannot be dismissed.” She raises her eyes from the wax tablet. “Once again, the accused may now speak to defend themselves.”

You stare at the ground in silence. Seconds tick by—precious seconds you could be using to argue your case. Anaxa observes you closely, puzzled by your hesitation, waiting for you to speak. At long last, you mumble, “I have nothing to say on this matter. I accept full responsibility for the harm, direct and indirect, which has resulted from my actions.”

Your response incites a wave of murmurs to rise from the audience. Anaxa narrows his eye. Just what game are you playing here? Do you not understand that your life is on the line? He wants to argue with you, to convince you to place your principles aside for once in your life. But you without your principles would be like Anaxa without his passion: no longer the same person. You seem determined to bear the outcome of this trial as yourself. As much as he wishes to change your mind, this is a decision he must respect. His understanding does not diminish his frustration.

Elder Caenis looks pleased by your concession. “Good,” she says. “In that case, according to the laws of the Grove, there is time for discussion amongst the jury before the sages cast the final vote.”

The assembled members of the Grove begin to converse before she has finished speaking. Anaxa hears a variety of arguments being tossed back and forth. From what he can tell, general opinion is weighted against you, but there are a number of people making points in your defence. After each school presents its overall conclusions, the sages discuss the results among themselves. When the time comes to vote, three of the sages, including Anaxa, vote to absolve you. Four vote in favour of the sentence.

Elder Caenis surveys the results and announces, “It is decided. By the vote of the majority, the ‘philosopher’ of the Grove of Epiphany shall be put to death for their crimes, by the standard sentence of drinking hemlock.”

Anaxa flinches as the words are spoken. Your own reaction to the sentence is indiscernible. You are told to rise to your feet, and you do so without resistance. He rushes forwards and seizes your shoulder as you stand. “What is this?” he demands. “What exactly happened here?”

You do not look at him when you reply, “I was foolish, and misled into believing a deception. This is but the price for my misjudgement.” 

“What misjudgement?” he hisses through his teeth. “Do not speak to me in riddles simply because it suits you in the moment, philosopher.”

You sigh forlornly, and your whole body seems to wilt with it. “What I mistook for true curiosity in those three pupils of yours was in reality a ploy to exact revenge upon me. I failed to recognise that, rather than a desire for knowledge, I had instead incited a deep hatred for me within them, which they acted upon today. Considering the elaborate nature of the proceedings, I would guess that this has been their intention for quite some time.” There is true dejection in your voice of a kind he has never heard before.

A storm of questions barrages through his mind. Revenge? What plan? What is going on here? “How has the Council of Elders come to be involved?” he asks.

“From my understanding, one of the two who perished to the black tide was the child of one of the council members. This is likely the crux which brought their interest to my case.”

“This is absurd.”

“Perhaps.”

“I will not permit them to treat you in this way.”

“That’s enough talking,” interjects Euthyphro. “Once deemed guilty, the accused no longer has the right to voice their opinions. If there is something you must say, you can do it outside their cell in Okhema.”

The utter ludicrousness of the situation stuns Anaxa into silence. He watches numbly as you are led away across the grass and out of sight. It is over so simply, so quickly, that he almost cannot believe what has just happened.

A few moments pass. People begin to mumble amongst themselves. Standing a few paces away from him, Lycon turns towards Anaxa, his expression a twisted fusion of guilt and satisfaction. He begins, “Professor—”

“Be silent!” Anaxa snaps. It is a tone he has never used before; it carries an edge so sharp it threatens to splinter. The crowd obeys. In the ensuing silence, he can hear hot blood rushing through his ears. His shoulders rise and fall with shuddering breaths as he fights to maintain his composure, driving his nails into the paper-thin skin of his palms. This is—this is unacceptable. You are not to be taken from him like this. It is fundamentally wrong. How dare they—how dare anybody—suppose that they can come between you? 

Anger rises within him like a slow boil, starting from the frigid, dark place in his gut and gathering heat as it rises until it threatens to break out of his skin and burn him up from the inside out. People have begun to speak again in hushed voices. Their words spin together in a spiral of formless, indiscernible noise. Somebody says his name. He feels his eye twitch as the thundering ricochet of his heartbeat pounds quicker, quicker, quicker. He cannot remain here for any longer. Anaxa spins on his heel and hastens to his laboratory, ignoring the clamour that erupts behind him. 

As he walks, his mind is in a state of cacophonous disarray. Usually he delights in the sensation of thoughts clashing against each other, but now they are clamorous and incoherent, flailing wildly like a bird trapped in a net. There is no logical order or syllogism in the way they roar above his better senses. Why did he not notice the deceit of his students earlier? How did matters escalate so dramatically in his absence? Why has this happened to you? How dare they? He must find a way to undo this. How dare they?

When his sister was killed, Anaxa felt a kaleidoscope of emotions—grief, confusion, anger towards the callous indifference of the gods—but not this, never this. He has always been burning, true; but that flame has always been low, cold, persistent, calculated. This fury which blazes so hot within him now, kindled by a hatred which sets his soul aflame, is an utterly foreign sensation. He seizes it and holds it close. Perhaps it is the key to refuting a ruling made on such blatantly irrational grounds. 

But first, he requires evidence. His position will not be considered unless he has proof of your innocence. He throws open the door and seizes upon his desk, tossing files and papers aside as he searches for any materials which could help his case. There is a file somewhere in here, he knows, one which documents the tragic incident of those years ago and how it was dealt with. Anaxa is not certain why he kept the file, but he is glad that he did. If he can compile a defence before your sentence and argue convincingly for your freedom before the Citizens’ Assembly in Okhema, your sentencing will be overturned. 

No—there is no ‘if’. He is eloquent enough a speaker to convince an assembly, even if public opinion is weighted against him. The only reason today’s ruling was passed is because he was taken by surprise. With sufficient preparation, he will succeed. There is no doubt of that. The Council of Elders are all fools, as the events of today have proven. Fools, because they suppose they can meddle with his affairs without facing consequences. Anaxa will show them they are gravely mistaken. He will ridicule Elder Caenis—no, the whole council, for what they have done, tear apart their entitlement by the seams and reduce them to shreds. He will turn this farcical world complete with its farcical justice upside down with his own two hands and laugh as it burns viridian. 

Aristocles approaches him later that day and implores, “Let me help. I care about them, too.”

Coldly, Anaxa replies, “You do not know enough about them to be of use. If you want to help, focus on ensuring the evacuation efforts continue. I will resolve this matter myself.” He cannot afford to be distracted by another person. Not now. Aristocles is hesitant to leave, but eventually yields. 

The further he digs, the more Anaxa realises that this scheme has its roots far deeper than either of you would have known. That the Council of Elders have had their eyes on the Grove for some time now comes as no surprise considering the influence its scholars have on the other city-states. What is shocking is the extent to which the Council went in order to corner you in particular.

Like you said, the deaths of the students appears to have been the catalyst, but there are more threads involved than that event alone. On questioning his three students, Anaxa uncovers a series of letters revealing that one of Elder Caenis’ subordinates made contact with Meletus, using the bribes of both money and vengeance for a friend to manipulate the young scholar’s emotions to the council’s purposes. Meletus admits to sharing the plan with his close friends, Anytus and Lycon. Gaining the cooperation of Euthyphro, who already had an unfavourable opinion of you, was similarly straightforward. Anaxa is not surprised by Euthyphro’s involvement, though his disgust in the three of his students is immeasurable. But he will deal with them later. He must not get distracted. There are more pressing matters at hand.

The discovery of the letters ought to be evidence enough to prove the injustice of the trial. Anaxa is still not satisfied. There must be a deeper reason the Council would go to such lengths to ensnare a random, unemployed thinker from another city-state, considering that the charges made against you could as easily have applied to him. He cannot accept that the difference between your situations—the reason you are convicted while he remains untouched—is truly as arbitrary as the fact that Anaxa was protected by academic reputation and legislation, whereas you were not. 

Anaxa never inquired into your history because it was not relevant to your discussions. Now he finds himself regretting that he did not ask you sooner about your life before the Grove. Why did he sacrifice his opportunity to know, that day in his laboratory? Why did he prioritise such abstract ideals as ends and reason over the fundamental, effortless basis of connection? That knowledge would be invaluable in informing the present situation. He suspects that the missing pieces surrounding the Council’s motivations lie somewhere in your past. Since Anaxa cannot ask you for the answer, he must seek it himself. 

He scours the shelves of the Library of Philia, reasoning that you have spent enough time in the Grove that there must be some reference to your personal history in the library’s records despite your lack of official connection to the institution. He conducts a search for any information potentially related to you, drawing together documents about recent history from the other major city-states to improve his chances. The method is disordered and frantic, a far cry from the highly organised procedures which typically mark his research. Fraction by fraction, the agonising investigation yields results, and Anaxa puts together your story. 

You are originally a citizen of Okhema, but you were cast out after publicly criticising the democratic governance of the city-state in speeches preceding multiple different Citizens’ Assemblies. The contents of your criticisms included pointing out the corruption of the Council of Elders and making the accusation that they were not fit to rule, to the extent that you argued any form of democracy would ultimately lead to injustice and misjudgement. Records are silent regarding what happened to you following this exile; the next reference to you Anaxa can find is from a few years later, when you arrived at the Grove. 

After you left Okhema, the seeds of doubt you had sowed into the populus continued to sprout, giving rise to a number of turbulent events in the city-state’s political sphere. Citizens questioned the authority of the elders more than was ideal; those who were more radical even turned to the example of Castrum Kremnos as an alternative. Such was the thinking behind the disastrous coup of Alcibiades and Critias, two young soldiers you had mentored when in Okhema, who twisted your critiques to legitimise their short-minded pursuit of power. Anaxa knew of the coup itself, but he was not aware of your connection to it, trivial as it may be, until Elder Caenis raised it in your trial. 

With the assembly to determine the future of the Flame-Chase Journey looming ever closer, no wonder the Council wants you so desperately gone, when you can undermine their authority even from afar. Hearing of the evacuation plans through his students’ letters, Elder Caenis took advantage of the diminished student body and struck when those who would argue in your defence were fewer than usual. The condemnations made against you by Euthyphro, although not initially part of the scheme, made you an even easier target. In the end, you are but a scapegoat, singled out by misfortune and public opinion to be the one who bears this consequence. 

As Anaxa compiles his argument, he laughs at himself for believing that any sort of sanctuary, untouched by desire, ever existed to ground your attachment. Your relationship was never rational. Nobody forms a relationship on the basis of impartiality. There is always a motivating factor which draws people together, and this factor is desire, be it for knowledge, for a like mind, for intimacy, for security, for company. Every human interaction can be accounted for in these terms. It follows that, from the beginning, passion has been working within him, within you, colouring your thoughts with a tint of obsession. These things he feels now are but the fruits of that passion which has long lingered at the roots of your relationship.

Within three days, he has compiled his case and travels to Okhema by dromas. He has slept five hours in total since the day of your trial, and even less when considering the days prior. He does not care. His body has been pushed far beyond its limits and aches as it frays around him, but the blaze still raging in his mind is more than enough to carry him through the journey. When he arrives in the city, he heads straight for the Marmoreal Palace. He will need the support of the Chrysos Heirs, and Aglaea in particular, if he is to be granted permission to speak against the sentencing. Under normal circumstances, he would do anything to avoid an encounter with that woman. However, these are not normal circumstances. Considering the deep-seated corruption underlying your trial, the Council of Elders will no doubt deny his right to challenge the verdict. 

After an arduous discussion, Aglaea concedes, granting him permission to call for a retrial. Anaxa shortly finds himself standing before Kephale’s looming visage and making his opening statement. The citizens of Okhema know less of your role within the Grove than the sages, but they do know of your connection to Alcibiades and Critias, which is sufficient to set initial biases against you. This is of no consequence. Anaxa has come prepared: and as he previously asserted, he is more than capable of convincing an assembly. 

The retrial lasts for two and a half hours. Anaxa extracts the details regarding the deaths of the two students and the bias present in your sentencing, as well as your relation to Alcibiades and Critias, arguing that one cannot be held accountable for those who wilfully twist their words to their own ends. You are no more a ‘corrupter of youth’ than he is: if he is allowed to roam free carrying similar accusations, there is no reason for your treatment to differ. The fact that you lack a legal affiliation with the Grove is irrelevant. 

‘Impiety’ is even more sensitive a subject in the holy city than it is in the Grove of Epiphany, but Anaxa addresses it nonetheless and maintains that you have not defiled the Titans in any substantial way. He himself is more guilty of this charge, and even then, there are arguments to be made in his defence. 

He keeps private some of the more damaging details for the council’s reputation—these, he is saving for an even grander opportunity—though he reveals enough to make clear the unfair conditions of your trial and cast doubt on the handling of your case. The Council of Elders resists his arguments, but it is the citizens who have the final say. The last question posed to him by the assembly is, “How can you guarantee that something similar won’t happen in the future?”

Logically speaking, Anaxa cannot guarantee this for certain. He answers in the best and only way he can: “I will personally ensure that no repeats of these events occur.”

There is a hush as the Citizens’ Assembly make their decisions and cast their clay shards into the voting dolia. The result is narrow. You are spared by eleven votes. 

Exhausted, tucking the pardon into his coat pocket, Anaxa makes his way to your holding cell. 

... ... ... ... ... ... ...

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐕𝐈, 𝐃𝐔𝐓𝐘 & 𝐏𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍

You don’t seem to notice him coming in at all. Typical. Anaxa clicks his tongue and knocks twice on the bars. You raise your head at the sound. Surprise flashes in your eyes when you recognise your visitor. Despite it all, you do not appear too much worse for wear, and for the first time in a week Anaxa feels a breath of relief pass through him. 

“Anaxagoras?” you ask. “Goodness, you do not look well. What are you doing here?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” he retorts, crossing his arms. “I would have thought somebody as bright as yourself could work it out. I’ve come to take you out of this place, of course.”

Your brow contracts in confusion. “What for? My sentence has been decreed in no unclear terms, and I have no intention of leaving.”

“What reasons have you to stay?”

“Why, the fulfilment of justice, of course.”

“You would call this ‘just’?” he challenges, gesturing towards the bars of your cell. You look around as though noticing them for the first time. Then you chuckle.

“The charges against me on grounds of impiety and corrupting the youth? No; for if that were a just ruling, it would have to be applied consistently, and you would have long been imprisoned before I. But the loss of those students’ lives—that, I take full accountability for. Furthermore, if I accept your offer of bribery, in going against the law, are not the charges against me all the more founded?”

Anaxa laughs. “You think I come to win you back through bribery?”

“Have you not?” You frown. “It is the most efficient solution to this problem, and I do not believe you would expend such a great deal of effort on me to clear my name by other means. Neither do I not believe bribery would leave too great a mark on your conscience.”

Anaxa must admit, your first and third reasons ring true. You are correct that he tends to favour solutions which are swift and effective, and you are also correct that he would not lose sleep over one act of bribery committed against a corrupt ruling. But your second justification…

I do not believe you would spend such a great deal of effort on me to clear my name by other means. 

Those words, spoken so plainly and matter-of-fact, cut him deeper than he would have expected. Is this truly how you conceive of him? After all your years together, this is the conclusion you have drawn—that he values you so little that he would not bother to ‘expend the effort’ on you when you need it? A feeling he cannot place, directed towards himself, twists sharply inside of him. Is it disappointment that he feels over this miscalculation of his? Shame? Disgust? 

Anaxa keeps these thoughts to himself and retains a perfect composure as he replies, “Good philosopher, I fear you’ve jumped to a conclusion by underestimating my moral scruples. I am not, in fact, here to free you through bribery. Rather, having argued your case valiantly before the Council of Elders, I come with an official pardon for your sentence.” He arches a pointed brow towards you. “I expect you to thank me.”

Anaxa watches your expression shift from calm acceptance to surprise to consideration. “Thank you very much,” you say honestly. “I did not expect you to go to such lengths. But…”

He prompts, “But?”

“I suspect there is a catch you have failed to mention to me. No matter the strength of your defence, I doubt the council would pardon me with no strings attached.”

Anaxa must concede to this. With a begrudging sigh, he relates, “You are to remain in Okhema, never to set foot in the Grove of Epiphany again, and refrain from making public appearances unless specifically given permission to do so.” 

A wry smile curls at your lips. “Then you must know, Anaxagoras, that for me this is a fate far worse than death.” He knows. There is a reason he left out the catch. You continue, “You know that I believe the unexamined life is not worth living. Thus, if I am denied the ability to seek the truth in this world, I shall simply do so in the next.” 

“I won your pardon on honest grounds,” Anaxa says calmly, “but that does not mean I intend to honour its terms.”

This development appears to intrigue you. You pin him with a probing stare. “You would risk directly going against a ruling from the council on my behalf?” 

He crosses his arms. “I still believe you have been dealt an injustice, although those blinded by their own ignorance and authority refuse to see it. The terms of this agreement are far too severe in proportion to your alleged ‘crimes’.” 

You tip your head sideways, and your expression takes on a contemplative shade. “And supposing I accept your offer, where am I to go, when I am unwelcome in the only remaining safe havens of our world? Remaining in this cell seems to me a far better alternative. It is comfortable enough, and at least here I can speak with the guards who come to deliver me food and water, and not have to concern myself with safety.”

“I have no answer to that question yet,” he admits, “but I will find a solution. I swear it.”

You lean back against the wall. Something in your expression tells him you are not convinced. After a moment of reflection, you speak. “I am grateful for your help, Anaxagoras, but I do not know why you are so determined to get me out of my current situation. I have no qualms about facing my own mortality, if that is what concerns you. In practicing philosophy, I have long been preparing myself for death, so I do not fear it. If not sooner, then it is inevitable I will die later; and, since I am to die anyway, I would rather do so in the relatively dignified way that has been set out for me, rather than meeting my end in the jaws of some beast in the wilderness or perishing to the black tide.”

Anaxa foresaw this response as a possibility, but that does not make hearing it from you any less disheartening. “And I suppose no argument I make will move you?” 

“That of course depends on the argument; but I do not currently foresee anything you could say which would change my mind.”

Your reasons for staying are sound, and Anaxa has no doubt you are exactly as accepting of your own demise as you present yourself to be. And therein lies the problem: you may have no qualms about yourself dying, but he does. He is not giving up until it is with you by his side. 

Anaxa sighs. He was hoping it would not come to this, but you leave him little choice. “If that is so, my dear philosopher, I am afraid we must depart from reasonable discourse if I am to convince you of my position.”

A frown forms on your face. “What do you mean?” 

“I mean,” he says, “that I do not want you to die, if on no other grounds than my selfish desire for your company. The other reasons I have offered you hold true, but they are only supplementary to this fundamental principle. Mark me that I will find a way to clear your name and grant you the freedom you are owed, but until then, I only ask that you accept my offer and these temporary restrictions for my sake, if not your own.”

Your voice contains a note of sadness. “Anaxagoras…” 

“I implore you,” he continues, lowering himself before you, his voice dropping into a desperate whisper. “Do not make this where I must bid you farewell. I will not lose you. I refuse to.”

Silence. He raises his head to look at you. You are in a place of deep consideration, your head tilted to one side. “You say you will not lose me,” you repeat thoughtfully, “yet what am I to do with the implications of that statement? That you wish for me to stay by your side, so that I may live to lose you instead? That it is I, not you, who must bear the burden of loss?” Anaxa’s jaw tightens. “Your appeal is certainly moving,” you continue. “Indeed, I found myself swayed almost into changing my mind. But if these are the grounds upon which you implore me to join you—that it is not myself whom you care for, but rather the mere avoidance of losing me—I cannot accept them.”

“Will you ever?” His voice is pleading, pathetic; he does not care. He is too depleted to concern himself with dignity.

“When you are ready to let me go, I will accept them.”

The gears are already turning in Anaxa’s head. Now that you have given him a clear objective, it is now only a matter of completing it. “How long do you have?” he inquires. Various schemes begin to string together in his mind, a network of possibilities he can use to achieve his goal.

“My sentence is set for a little over two weeks from now.”

“If I prove it to you, you will come with me?” he confirms. 

“Yes,” you reply. “Although, if I may give my honest opinion, you are already setting about this matter in the wrong way. You need prove nothing to me, Anaxagoras. Only that you care enough to lose me to yourself.”

Anaxa is not listening, not truly. He is too preoccupied with planning how he will resolve this problem you have given him. He rises to his feet and brushes off the shoulders of his cloak. Before leaving, he says to you, “If you will not yet accept the pardon, at least accept this.” 

You look surprised to see him draw out an olive branch from his clothing. It is somewhat crooked as a result of the journey to Okhema; nevertheless, you receive it with gratitude.

Anaxa returns from Okhema empty-handed. The next day, the Grove is attacked by the black tide, and his soul, as planned, becomes the house of a god. A countdown begins. He has fifteen days to complete two objectives. First, to prove the truth behind Amphoreus; the truth behind the soul. Second, to show you that he can lose you, so that he will never have to. 

Fifteen days to solve one problem is more than enough. Fifteen days to solve two proves more of a challenge: but he will succeed, or else he will die trying. Anaxa no longer has a choice in the matter, after all. 

... ... ... ... ... ... ...

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐕𝐈𝐈, 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐀𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐘

The night after the attack on the Grove, Anaxa dreams of you. He dreams that you are standing in a cave, and he is moving towards you, not of his own accord, but compelled by a force beyond his will. It is dark here, with tongues of red emitted by a smouldering fire glancing off the walls serving as the only light source. As he draws closer, Anaxa sees that a faint glow is radiating from your skin. It is as if you are the Form of all that is good illuminating this veiled world of falsehood and ignorance. You cast no shadow on the cave wall. 

He reaches out and places his fingers upon your cheek. Your skin is cold. Not in the same way that his, a dead man’s skin, is cold, in that it is a mere negation of warmth, but rather cold in its very being, like stone or marble. Indeed, you seem to him a statue, carved from truth and justice and moulded into human form; you take on the guise of humanity, yet are fundamentally different in your essence. 

This is an observation he has lingered on considerably. In person, you are polite and amiable, always willing to engage in discussion with a good-humoured smile and a twinkle in your eye. Yet Anaxa has always inexplicably felt that you are unapproachable: that you lie just beyond his reach no matter how much you converse with him, no matter how close he is to you. Your eyes never linger on him, because to you, he is but another footprint upon the endless path to truth. He knows you cannot and will not stop by the roadside to lose yourself in the brambles of desire with him. For this reason, Anaxa often feels you are less human than he is, content to be the solitary traveller shunning human connection where he still craves the attention of the masses and loves at the cost of his own self. 

Yet in his dream, you are transfixed by him. You beckon him towards you. Anaxa obliges. He pulls you closer by your waist and cups your jaw in his hand, caressing over the cool smoothness of your skin with his thumb. You stare at him as he explores you and commits you to memory. Your eyes, shot through with shards of bronze, are entrancing. 

You unmake him. You lift off his eyepatch and peel back his clothes, his skin, revealing the star-shaped chasm in his chest; and then you stand together in the cave, two souls borne in their most basic forms, set against the rest of the world. You reach into his chest and pull out his cold, dead heart, cupping it before you in your hands. Touched by your light, it begins to beat again. The rhythmic thumping echoes through the silent cave; you place it back in the chasm of his chest, where it remains, filling him with the same light which suffuses your being. 

In his dream, you allow yourself to want him. You slip your arms around his waist, and Anaxa responds in kind, drawing you towards him so that he can capture the entirety of you. He wants to pull you closer, to seal you inside his chest in the place where his heart used to be so that he never has to let you go. 

Slowly, still embracing, you both sink down to the floor of the cave. The ground is soft beneath you, and as you run your fingers along his collarbone Anaxa knows with more certainty than ever that it is you for whom he strives above all else; you for whom he burns with this insatiable cold green flame—

“My, my, you certainly care very deeply for them.” The voice cleaves through his dream like a bullet and shatters it. “Did you ever tell them?”

“Titan,” Anaxa growls, waking to his dark room, “get out of my head.”

... ... ... ... ... ... ...

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐕𝐈𝐈𝐈, 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐎𝐅

Over the course of his fifteen remaining days, Anaxa sets out his reasoning to prove that he can lose you. 

On the first, the same day he takes Cerces’ Coreflame into his body, he contemplates what it means to love. He cannot find a satisfactory answer. 

On the second day, in order to address this issue, he considers what happens when one loves as opposed to when one is reasonable. 

On the third day, he arrives at the conclusion that love is a kind of madness, one which surfaces when desire overpowers reason. He has been mad for a very long time. 

On the fourth day, Anaxa considers the difference between love and desire. Is there truly a distinction between the two, or do we merely perceive there to be one?

On the fifth day, he believes he has an answer: desire is that which is in conflict with our better senses, and love is that which informs our virtues. Desire leads reason astray where love complements it.

On the sixth day, he doubts himself. It could be that desire is not the antithesis of truth, but the ultimate revealer of it. 

On the seventh day, Anaxa realises he has led his inquiry in the wrong direction. He cannot address love and desire without first addressing human nature. Why is it that both animals and humans can desire, but only humans can love?

On the eighth day, he considers what it means to be human. What is it that distinguishes humans from animals? Does a distinction of this kind exist? 

On the ninth day, he postulates the soul as a solution. The human soul, constructed from seeds of wisdom, which are in turn constructed from memory, has a greater propensity for spreading itself. Humans live on in others whereas animals do not.

On the tenth day, Anaxa inquires into why humans live on in others whereas animals do not. Animals too can have memories; animals too have souls. 

On the eleventh day, he thinks that this is because of self-reflection. Humans can wilfully turn their eyes on themselves and identify the components which make up their souls. 

On the twelfth day, Anaxa makes a discovery. The capacity for self-reflection comes hand-in-hand with the capacity for self-deception. The latter is equally as determining of humankind as the former. 

On the thirteenth day, he identifies that love is distinctive of humankind, not because our passions are elevated above those of other animals, but because we are the only ones capable of self-deceit. 

On the fourteenth day, Anaxa arrives at a conclusion. To be human is to desire, and to desire is to covet that which is unattainable. Humans are distinct from animals because animals cannot recognise that what they seek is unattainable, whereas humans can, and often do, though they will live by deceiving themselves willingly. 

When we have attained something we perceive as desiring, we call this thing ‘love’. ‘Love’ is a false concept, a mistaken belief that we have attained what we covet and are satisfied with it. Whatever we have attained, it is not what we truly desire. 

True desire is that which motivates us towards our ends because we know what we covet is unattainable. If we were able to reach what we desire, we would stop striving, yet we do not. We struggle on in vain despite our better senses, because the most human thing we can do is to try. The wisest thing we can do is to let go.

On the fifteenth day, Anaxa visits you once more. He has found his proof. 

... ... ... ... ... ... ...

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐈𝐗, 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐈𝐌𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐘 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐋

As he comes in, you raise your head like you have been expecting him. “Greetings, good Anaxagoras.”

Anaxa sits down on the floor outside your cell and faces you through the bars. “It’s today, isn’t it?”

You nod. “That is so.”

A smirk twists on his face, and he cannot help but laugh. “What irony.”

“Irony?” you ask. 

“I am also set to die today.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand what you mean. Are you speaking in metaphor? Had you received a sentence, I would have heard of it from the guards.”

“Fifteen days ago, the Grove was attacked by the black tide, and I took the Coreflame of Reason into my body. Technically speaking, I am already dead; it is only the power of the Titan still animating my body. Unfortunately, a mortal soul cannot withstand such power for long, and today is the day my time runs out.”

You are quiet for a moment. Then a small smile finds its way onto your face. “I see what you mean. Whether or not one believes in fate, there definitely lies a twist in this development.”

“How much time do you have?” he queries.

“Around six hours.”

“How funny. That is also when the Citizens’ Assembly is being held.”

“What have you come for, then?” you ask. “To discuss the future of the Flamechase Journey? To bid farewell? It’s a little late to offer me that pardon again,” you add with a chuckle. 

“I have come to speak with you.”

Your eyes light up. If he could, Anaxa would capture that expression in a snapshot of time and slip it into his pocket so that he could take it out and look back at it for every remaining day of his life. (All things considered, he supposes that would be rather pointless. Then again, passion has never concerned itself with what is logical.)

“What about?” you ask. 

“Anything,” he replies earnestly. “Everything. We always spoke about so much, yet I feel we never arrived at any true conclusions.”

“In that case, I am still awaiting your proof for those claims you made, about the souls of Titans and humans being identical in essence, and the individual living on through memory.”

A smile raises the corners of his lips. “Then we will begin with that.”

The conversation which follows reminds him most closely of the first debate you had, when you were both younger and no more ignorant, discussing matters which were so much larger than either of you could ever hope to understand. You agree on some matters and disagree on others. On the authority of the Titans, you are united in your views, as are you on the immortality of the soul. You still contend that reason can transcend the will; he still maintains that passion is the ultimate governor of the soul. You debate your positions back and forth, finding flaws in each conclusion, taking two steps back for every advancement made. It is an intellectual tug-of-war, a dance without end, an equally matched duel destined to continue into infinity. It is as you have been saying all along: that the only real truth of philosophy lies in the acknowledgement that you will never know the answer. Philosophy is a discipline of attempts, not successes; of conjecture rather than of certainty. When you are called by the guards stationed outside, you have yet to reach any form of conclusion. 

You rise to leave, patting down your humble clothing with a sigh and readjusting the branch in your hair. “A pity. Had we both had a little longer, I would have come with you to the assembly. Then we could have finished our discussion.”

“Nonsense,” replies Anaxa. “You know better than anybody that such discussions as these have no end.”

“That is true. I am sure we shall continue it in the next world—or the next cycle, if your theory is correct, and keep going for as long as it takes to reach the truth.” 

“That will be eternity,” he warns. You shrug. 

“I have few qualms with that. In which case, may we meet again before the gates of truth, whenever and wherever that may be.”

“Very well. I shall hold you to your word, philosopher mine.”

“And I to yours, good Anaxagoras.”

Despite having said everything you need to in this moment, you both linger. Given the reality of Amphoreus’ history that Anaxa has just revealed, there are no true goodbyes to be made. Yet something, he feels, is missing. He suspects you feel it too, or you would already have left. 

You take a step closer. He does likewise, and places his fingers beneath your chin, tipping your head slightly so that he can study your face and commit it to memory one final time. It is a pointless endeavour—he already knows the forms of your face like the back of his own hand—but there can be no harm in the attempt. You scan him likewise. Your palm rests against his cheek, your fingers toying gently with the cloth of his eyepatch. 

You have shared many intimate moments together in the past. He recalls when you looked behind his eye and your faces were only an inch apart; all the nights you stayed up discussing alchemy and metaphysics and all the times something almost happened but never did. You have been this close to each other before, true; but you have always remained at this point, never truly crossing the threshold. 

Wordlessly, he draws you closer and closes the distance.

Anaxa has thought of kissing you many times. Not consciously, per se, but the possibility has flickered through his mind now and again, whenever your proximity was brought to the forefront of his attention. He has thought of kissing you passionately, of uncovering the deepest truths of you, of hearing his name whispered like a prayer on your lips.

Yet when your lips meet, it is barely a brush. Logically speaking, it should not be sufficient to convey all the words left unspoken between you. 

It is enough. 

You part, and he strokes your cheek with his thumb. You smile. And then you are gone. 

You could hear the audience screaming as the current song—one of the hits of his new album Golden Blood, titled False Prophet—drew to a close on Anaxa’s final, haunting note. You smiled to yourself, thinking, they always go wild at this one. Your fingers fiddled with the hem of one of the pieces for the next outfit; a deep teal satin top with a low V-neck and jabot collar, wide sequinned sleeves and cuts at the shoulder, which went with a pair of black flared trousers and a glimmering red pendant around his neck. 

You designed it when Anaxa told you he wanted a look which would ‘dazzle the audience’. Something that catches the light, he had said, so they can’t tear their eyes away. 

The door swung open, and Anaxa staggered into the changing room, downing a glass of water as he entered. Knowing this routine like the back of your hand, you swiftly moved behind him and slipped the top he was wearing off over his head. His pale skin was covered in a sheen of sweat, and you could feel him shaking as you peeled away the trousers. 

Anaxa tended to be jittery during costume changes. It was an inevitable consequence of adrenaline, time pressure and exertion onstage—but even so, this time it was particularly notable. 

“Are you okay?” you asked, pulling the next pair of trousers up his skinny legs: long and tight-fitting, made from smooth black nylon and flared at the hems with crimson ruffles which fluttered like flames when he walked. He nodded, the line of his jaw tight. Under the harsh lighting, he didn’t look like an untouchable star. He looked vulnerable and frail and underslept. 

You weren’t convinced by his response, but you knew pushing him at a time like this would only make things worse, so you stayed silent as you tugged up the zip. The metal was worn down by sweat after so many performances, and the zip caught halfway up. You muttered a curse and tried again. It refused to budge. Anaxa didn’t say a word, but you could tell he was growing impatient by the way he clicked his tongue and his forefinger drummed on his thigh.

Public image was integral to Anaxa’s success and his vision. He was divisive. Not only did he know this, he revelled in it and took advantage of it, using his fame to make clear his views and challenge the status quo as he saw fit in both artistic and social spheres. Though he deplored mindless approval, people flocked to him religiously, as if he was some radical philosopher shaking the foundations of the world and offering the key to enlightenment. 

Costume and makeup were essential to maintaining this image, which is where you came in. The music was taken care of by Anaxa and his band and was groundbreaking in its own right, but without a striking visual presence to back it up, its impact wouldn’t spread as far. He needed a look to match his message. 

You’d gotten swept up into this movement purely by coincidence, when Anaxa was a budding star but his name wasn’t known like it was today. Looking back on it now, it was clear he was always destined for greatness, though at the time you hadn’t thought much of him. He was a passing name who had a couple of big hits on music rankings but who would probably sink into oblivion after a few months. 

You’d been working in retail at a small but well-reputed independent clothing store which specialised in hand-made products, with the vague dream of becoming a fashion designer or stylist or something of the sort. You had always had a knack for sewing and makeup since you were little, and your employer Aglaea was kind enough to encourage your creative talents, granting you the opportunity to produce and sell some of your own clothing. It’s partly thanks to her that you were where you were now.

One day in the winter Hyacine, Anaxa’s friend and agent (though you didn’t know it at the time), came into the shop, saying she was looking for a new jumper. You showed her around and talked for a bit before her eyes were drawn to a white and burgundy turtleneck. She asked whose handiwork it was, and you admitted that you had made it the previous year. She bought the jumper and, sensing that she might be a good customer to keep around, you mentioned that you also do makeup, if she was interested in that kind of thing. Hyacine said she had some time and suggested doing it right then. 

You were happy to do so and touched her up a little, casually chatting in the meanwhile about inconsequential things. She mentioned Anaxa’s name in passing and asked if you had heard any of his songs. You replied that you had heard one on the radio the other day—The Only Truth, you think it was called? Oh, yes, that one’s a hit, she replied with a smile. Once you were finished, she gave you a generous tip and left. 

Around a week later, she returned and told you that her friend-slash-co-worker wanted to see you. Who? you had asked. The person I mentioned to you last week, she had replied. Anaxa. 

After your shift was over, you went over with her to his place. The flat was large, with an eclectic mix of contemporary art and furniture populating the floors and walls. At first glance it looked chaotic, but the more you returned to that flat, the more you realised every item was arranged with careful consideration, in line with the personality of the man you got to know. 

You still remembered when you saw him for the first time, sitting at the piano, his long fingers boredly plunking out a few notes. His profile was facing you, meaning you only saw his eyepatch and the way the afternoon light caught his paper-white skin. He was attractive in a frail, vampiric kind of way.

“So, you are the one Hyacine mentioned,” he had said, throwing you a glance from the corner of his eye before returning his attention to the piano. “I want you to do my makeup.”

“Alright,” you replied. His demeanour was a little off-putting, but as a retail worker of three years you were used to putting up with rudeness. If this guy was really an up-and-coming musician, it was even less of a surprise. “What do you have in mind?”

The hint of a smile had flashed across his lips. Sharp, with a hint of cockiness. He turned to you. “Surprise me.”

You’d said that you hadn’t brought your palette with you, but Anaxa said it was of no matter and waved you in the direction of the bathroom, where you discovered an extensive array of colours and brushes. You still preferred your own set, but this would do. 

As you stood in front of him, determining which colours would suit him best and how bold to make it, you were strangely nervous. This felt like a test of some sort. Eventually you decided to go for something a bit more out-there, since judging by his interior design Anaxa was the type who was fond of experimentation. You powdered his face and gave him a sweeping wing of red eyeshadow—he’d been wearing a pair of red drop earrings that day which you thought would pair well with the colour. On the underside of his eye you used a green brush to add some more subtle detail and contrast. You’d wanted to ask about his eyepatch, but you didn’t quite dare. It still looked quite good with the eyepatch on, anyway: there was an interesting asymmetrical look to it. 

When you were finished, you handed Anaxa a mirror. He turned his head this way and that, eye narrowed, saying nothing. Finding the silence unbearable, you said offhandedly, “I think it would look good with green hair.”

He’d made a noise of consideration and swiftly sent you away. You weren’t sure whether that meant he hated it or whether this was normal conduct for him. 

You got your answer when, a couple of weeks after that, he called you over again. His hair was dyed a pale green and he wanted to know what other colours would go with it.

This exchange continued for a few months—Hyacine or Anaxa would call you over, you would try out some makeup or suggest a few outfits, and you would be sent away. Hyacine kept in contact with you while Anaxa only seemed to acknowledge your existence when asking you for advice or a favour. You quickly learned that he disliked being called anything other than his full name, which was Anaxagoras, and that he had radical views about politics and religion which found their way into his songwriting. He was extremely particular about his appearance and gave you detailed instructions about the desired effect. The remaining room for interpretation, often rather narrow, was left to you, and grew a little wider as time went on.  

You admired that about him, both back then and still in the present. Unlike you, who was always jumping between projects and unable to decide which area you wanted to specialise in or make grand plans for your future, he knew exactly what he wanted. 

Meanwhile, Anaxa’s name grew. He brought musicians over to his flat, performed gigs, even used some of your looks during public appearances. A couple of times he commissioned you to design some clothing items. Nothing much—a shirt here, a pair of stockings there—but you did notice that over time you had become some sort of unofficial consultant-slash-stylist. You were paid when your service was asked after, but the requests came inconsistently: sometimes you were over a few days in a row, and sometimes he didn’t call you for weeks. You’d quietly begun hoping they would hire you properly at some point. Was it delusional to think that was a possibility? Should you bring it up, or was that too impolite? 

You were spared from worrying too long about it. One day in July, you got a call from Hyacine. She said she was offering you a job to work as Anaxa’s stylist. You could negotiate the specifics of the pay later, but when she mentioned the general bracket, your jaw almost dropped to the floor. But it would involve a lot of travelling, she’d hazarded, in case that might put you off.

You jumped on the opportunity. You hadn’t realised how eager you were to leave your small neighbourhood behind until the chance was presented to you. Your family was a little hesitant about it, but willing to support your decision as long as you were sure about it. You were. You thanked Aglaea for her kindness and support before embarking on your new life—one which was far wilder than you could have imagined. 

You discovered a little late that you were expected to take care of other things beyond clothing and makeup—namely, hair styling. You charged through a nine-month long hairdressing course, shortening it to five months through sheer drive and strength of will. 

The first time you cut Anaxa’s hair was a disaster and he refused to speak with you for days afterwards. Afraid that you would lose your job, you hastily eked out a second chance from him and tried again, with more success this time. Meanwhile, the green hair seemed to have stuck and had become a staple of his public image. 

You got acquainted with the rest of Anaxa’s crew—Hyacine you already knew, but there were also a handful of core musicians he worked with, including Castorice, the keyboard player, and Phainon, who played the bass. You didn’t have much to do with the music side of things, though: if Anaxa was particular about his appearance, he was even more pedantic when it came to his music, entrusting its creation only to himself and, on occasion, Castorice and Phainon. Your time was taken up by measuring, sewing and dipping into different art mediums. You worked on increasingly creative and avante-garde projects with artists and designers from around the world, especially when he began to tour. Anaxa never stayed with one style for long, shedding personas like snakeskin, so you were always looking ahead and trying to figure out the next look. 

Anaxa had a good physique, with long, spindly limbs and defined musculature, though his thin frame made him look more delicate than strong. You often had the sense that he would shatter if you poked him too hard. In fact, he was a little too thin, given the way the outlines of his ribs and collarbone were visible under his skin and the hollows underneath his cheekbones. Yet the jutting bones and dark shadows, paired with the semi-translucence of his sheet-white skin, lent him a slight uncanny, almost otherworldly appearance, like he was some creature from beyond the skies masquerading in human dress. It was easy to see why he captivated people. There was a certain allure to his eccentricity, his self-assured way of striding forth and proclaiming himself to the world. 

Though, just like a man who fell to earth from the stars, sometimes you felt that he was very distant from the rest of you, even when surrounded by crowds. As far as you were concerned, Anaxa may have belonged to another universe entirely. 

At last, the zip went up. You breathed an inward sigh of relief and made a mental note to replace it as soon as possible. Ideally after today’s performance once you got back to the hotel. 

You were reaching for the satin V-neck when Anaxa turned to you. His gaze was hazy and unfocused, the look in his eye almost erratic. You could feel the heat radiating from his skin. Was he sick?

You swallowed. “Anaxa…?” 

He pulled you against him and smashed your mouths together. 

The kiss was messy, verging on desperate. Your lips crashed into each other and moved without any sort of rhyme or rhythm. Anaxa clutched your waist with a white-knuckled grip and your face with his other hand. Your hands slipped on his bare skin as you struggled to get a hold on him—to push him away, or pull him closer, you didn’t know. You were too shocked to think straight and too exhilarated to do anything but kiss him back. There was a definite thrill in it; in kissing this man whom millions swooned over in the matchbox of a backstage changing room while crowds roared his name outside. 

The crowds! A flash of clarity pierced through your adrenaline-induced stupor. He was half-naked and had to be back onstage. You tried to pull back, gasping out between breaths, “Anaxa—you’re on in three—”

He ignored you and kissed you harder. He was gripping you hard enough to leave bruises and the force of his kiss almost hurt. You flung yourself into him and kissed back, matching his frenzied hunger. With blood rushing in your ears and your heart pounding against your rubs, you realised that you wanted him. You wanted him for yourself, and you hoarded the sight of him like this: undressed, unkempt, human. It was a stolen glimpse of a side of him which nobody else but you was privy to. 

You pulled apart when you had a minute and a half left before he was due back onstage. You were both panting hard and shaking all over. With quaking hands you pulled on his top and adjusted it to be straight, smoothing out the flared collar and wide sleeves, then touched up his makeup. As soon as you were done, Anaxa ran out onto the stage. You sagged against the mirror in relief. 

The rest of the concert went smoothly. The crowd loved it. After it was over, you all piled into the car and headed towards your hotel. 

Anaxa looked exhausted as he slumped into the back seat. The rest of you made light chatter on the way back, discussing the high points and what tweaks to make for next time, but he was silent, staring out of the window with a blank expression on his face. Hyacine tried to ask after him and start a conversation, but he brushed her off with a few clipped replies. 

It was past one o’clock by the time you arrived in the hotel. Some of the others stayed in the lobby to chat, but you were exhausted. Once you bid good night to everyone and congratulated them on another successful concert, you headed to the lift to go to your room. Anaxa joined you wordlessly on the way up. Your rooms were on the same floor, so it made sense. 

As the lift slid up the elevator shaft, you were silent, standing next to each other, the distance between you somewhat small, somewhat far. Neither of you mentioned what had happened in the changing room. When the lift arrived with a ding, you exchanged a curt goodbye and went in different directions down the corridor to your respective rooms. 

You opened the door, sat down on your bed and stretched your arms above your head. A series of worrying cracks responded. Stifling a yawn, you thought, Time to replace that zipper. 

You took out the flared trousers and laid them out on the bed before fetching your sewing materials and the spare zippers you carried with you. Delicate metal things like zips were always the most susceptible to breaking after continuous use. You unpicked the old zipper—some of the teeth were corroded, and it was a miracle you had managed to get it closed at all earlier—before sewing on the new one. It was a little fiddly and you were tired, so it took you longer than usual to complete.

You were just finishing up when you heard a knock on your door. Supposing it could only be one person at this hour, you walked over and opened it. Anaxa breezed in without so much as a greeting and settled himself down at the edge of the sofa. “I want your advice,” he said flatly, staring at you from across the room.

You crossed back over the room and sat on the opposite side of the sofa. “On a new look?”

“On a song.”

“Oh,” you said after a moment. You were pleasantly surprised, but more than a little confused. Anaxa came to you for advice about styling, make-up, all the such: for his public image. But not his music. Never his music. 

You knew that questioning his choice, however, would only irritate him, so you sat back and pretended to look like you were in your element as he played a track on his phone. 

You were by no means a novice when it came to music—you’d always enjoyed listening to the radio as a child, and by now you’d been around Anaxa’s crew long enough to be familiar with all kinds of styles—but being familiar with music and being able of offering meaningful critique were two different things entirely.  

“What do you think?” Anaxa said once the track stopped playing. He was watching you very closely. 

“I like it,” you replied. “I think it’s good.”

His stare sharpened. “Only ‘good’?”

You realised your mistake and hastily rectified it. “No, no—I mean, it’s brilliant. Really.”

This appeared to satisfy him somewhat. He leaned back in the seat, kicking his legs out in front of him. “And you have no criticisms, or improvements to make?”

You shook your head. “As far as I’m concerned, it’s perfect.”

Something passed over his expression. Without another word, Anaxa stood up, walked towards the door, and nodded at you once over his shoulder before leaving.  

You stared after him in bemusement over the sudden change of mood. It wasn’t exactly out of character for him, but you couldn’t help but be struck anyway. Left alone in the room to think over it, you couldn’t help but feel you’d gone wrong, somehow. Disappointed him, perhaps. Maybe even offended him. But for the life of you, you couldn’t figure out how. Did he want you to critique it? He should know that wasn’t your area of expertise. Was it something to do with what happened earlier? Maybe, but if so the connection was beyond you. 

It wasn’t worth agonising over in any case. You showered, brushed your teeth, and collapsed into your bed. As you laid there, waiting to fall asleep, you reflected on your relationship with Anaxa. To be honest, you didn’t exactly know what it was. You had known for a while now that you found him attractive and, like many others, were drawn to his inexplicable gravity—but you’d never thought you were attracted to him like that. Now you realised you may be wrong. Dreadfully, painfully wrong.

You’d also never got the impression that he saw you as much more than a convenient person to have on hand and occasionally ask for advice. It may as well be anyone in your position for all he cared. True, there were things he confided to you in those fragile confines of the changing room, but he probably told Hyacine those things, too, right? …Right? 

And if he didn’t, what then? You turned over and closed your eyes. This—whatever ‘this’ was—probably wasn’t feasible. Between his passion and his music, you doubted Anaxa had any patience for things like personal entanglements. You had your hands full enough as things were, too. You just needed to get through this tour and then, maybe, you could consider the possibility of addressing that.

In the meantime, you had to take it one song, one change, one show at a time. That was how it started, after all: letting Anaxa take the lead, as was his forte, and waiting for his call. Whatever he asked of you, you were happy to provide, but you weren’t about to put yourself out there hoping for miracles. That liminal asylum of the changing room—and the secret exchanges it concealed—was enough. 

The one good thing about being back was reconnecting with the people you’d left behind. You paid Aglaea a visit shortly after you got back. It had been around nine months since you resigned and took up your job as Anaxa’s stylist (you found it hard to believe it had already been so long), and in the meantime her shop had moved to a bigger space to accommodate its growing success. She was happy to see you and introduced you to her three nieces, who helped take care of the shop in your stead.

You also met with some other old friends, some of whom you’d been in contact with since your school days. You went out for lunch, then watched a film which had come out recently—a period piece about a popular classic, set in Ancient Amphoreus. It was alright, nothing special, but served the purpose of socialising just fine. Once it was over, you bade each other goodbye and headed home. It was approaching dusk. The sky was a dusty blue-grey with a hint of orange blush on the horizon. The temperature had dropped. You walked at a brisk pace to stave off the cold.

You turned into your street and walked past rows of similar houses before finally arriving at your door. The paint needs to be redone, you thought idly as you fished around for your keys. Originally a deep shade of green, it was faded now, cracked and peeling in some places. Finally, your hand closed around the keys. You took them out, fiddled with the lock, and pushed open the door. 

“I’m home,” you announced as you stepped into the narrow hallway. Warmth washed over you, chasing away the stiffness in your arms and legs. The hiss of frying oil drifted in from the kitchen, accompanied by the garbled drone of TV. Your parents loved following these obscure TV series which nobody else cared about. You still didn’t understand what they found so interesting about them. After taking off your coat and scarf, you turned into the living room to be met with a singularly surreal sight.

Anaxa was spread out like a cat on your sofa, lounging with one long leg crossed over the other, absorbed in a book. He was reading Camus’s The Stranger, one of your dad’s favourites. 

The presence of Anaxa in your domestic space was like two completely separate spheres of existence colliding. You had never registered it as a possibility. An alien may have as well dropped into your living room.

“Anaxa?” you said, baffled. “What are you doing here?” 

He glanced at you over the top of the book. Instead of answering your question, he uncrossed his legs and said, “You’ve returned. Good. How was the film?”

“Um. Not bad, but…” While you struggled to recover from your shock, your mother came through the doorway carrying a cup of coffee and a plate of small almond sweets, which she set down on the coffee table in front of the sofa. Anaxa raised the coffee to his lips and took a short sip. He didn’t touch the almonds.

“Are you sure you don’t want anything else?” your mum asked, sounding a bit giddy. She’d been following Anaxa’s releases since you started working with him, so you could say she was a fan of his. She must be finding this whole ordeal as bizarre as you were. 

He nodded. “Yes. Thank you very much.” 

“Alright.” She smiled. “I’ll leave you to it, then.” As she walked back across the room, you shot her a questioning look, glancing meaningly in Anaxa’s direction and then back. Her eyes widened. “Oh, yes. Anaxagoras came by to see you, but you were out, so I invited him to stay with us until you came back.”

“See me?” You turned your head to Anaxa, the explanation leaving you more confused. “What for?” Usually, when Anaxa needed something from you, he would call you or let you know through Hyacine. Showing up at your house was unprecedented. You didn’t even know how he got your address. Was it something serious?

He took another long sip of coffee before placing the cup down on the table. He gestured towards the almonds in a silent question. You shook your head. Then he stated, “I would like to talk to you about something.”

“To do with your next gigs?” you filled in.

“No. This is not related to my career as such.”

Thank you for being so detailed, you thought. For someone as to-the-point as Anaxa, he could be frustratingly opaque when it suited him. Still, your curiosity couldn’t help but get piqued. If it wasn’t related to his musical career, what did he want from you? 

Your dad called from the kitchen, “Will you be staying for dinner?”

“No, thank you,” Anaxa replied. “We are going out.”

You blinked. “We are?” 

He nodded. “I’ve made a reservation for six-thirty. To make it on time, we should be leaving shortly.” 

“Oh.” You felt like you’d stumbled into a very realistic dream without noticing and weren’t sure quite how to get out, so you went along with it. “Erm, okay…”

Though you’d only just returned home, a couple of minutes later you found yourself heading back into the street. The sun had dipped beneath the skyline. Darkness descended on the row of houses. Anaxa led you to his car, parked around the corner, and opened the door for you. You sat down in the passenger seat while he took the wheel and began to drive in the direction of this enigmatic restaurant.

For some time, you sat in silence. The only noises were the car tyres rolling over the road and the occasional click of the indicator. The thing was that you didn’t really know what to say. You weren’t bad at small talk, but around Anaxa, you never knew how to begin a conversation. You got the sense that he would find small talk insulting, if anything. Anaxa was the kind of person who didn’t have the patience for superficial fluff. He concerned himself with higher, more significant things.

“You didn’t finish answering my question,” he said at last. Like he already knew what you were about to ask next, he clarified, “About the film. Was it good?”

“It wasn’t bad. But I wouldn’t say it was anything special.” You shrugged. “The costume design wasn’t all accurate for the period.”

His eyes flickered over to you. “No?”

“Yeah. It was set in Ancient Amphoreus, but the garments were draped in a way that only came into fashion a few eras later—not to mention using dyes they wouldn’t have had access to.” It struck you that Anaxa probably wasn’t all that interested in historically accurate draping, so you broke yourself out of your critique and switched the topic to one of mutual relevance. “So, where are we actually going?”

“A restaurant near the Twilight Courtyard,” he said. Then he added, “I selected it based on your preferences, so I am certain you’ll like it.”

Your preferences? You hadn’t been aware Anaxa was keeping track of those. The thought was strangely warming. 

He parked the car on the side of the street and you walked a bit before arriving at your destination. The murmur of conversation came into earshot before the building itself. It was a two-storey place, fairly small, decked out with abundant green foliage and warm lights. The place was pretty busy with locals, too, which was a good sign.

Anaxa strode straight inside, holding the door open for you afterwards, and spoke briefly to a waiter who came up to you. The waiter led you to a table on the second floor which overlooked a small garden allotment behind the building. It was a little out of the way of the other tables, which granted a bit of privacy from the surrounding guests. Just as Anaxa had said, this was exactly the kind of place you liked: unassuming enough to not be stuffy, but definitely nice, not just anywhere you’d stumble into by accident.  

You made some light conversation before ordering drinks. When they arrived, you paused the discussion to take a sip from your glass. It was at this point that you noticed Anaxa was staring at you from across the table. When you glanced away, he kept staring without even blinking. It was difficult to ignore. You cleared your throat, at which point he did blink, as if shaking himself from a stupor, and straightened up.

“I have invited you here because there is something I want to talk about with you.” 

“What is it?”

He rested his hands together on the table, fingertips touching. “I suspect you are aware of this already, but to be frank, I have developed feelings for you. So that this doesn’t become troublesome for both of us, I would like to know two things: the first, whether you return these feelings, and if so, the second—whether you are interested in pursuing them.”

The admission was so frank that you felt like you were sitting an exam. For the first few moments, you just gawked at him. Anaxa waited, watching intently, for you to draw together a reply. “Well, to answer your first question,” you began slowly, “I do return your feelings. But I’m sure you knew that already, too.”

He nodded. “I thought as much, but I wanted to be certain. And for the second question?”

“As for the second… I’m interested in pursuing them, yes. If that’s something you’re willing to commit to.”

He leaned back in his chair, tipping his chin up slightly. “Good. I am.” After a pause, he asked, “And you do not feel this invitation was too forward of me, or moving too quickly? I want you to be comfortable.”

Your face flushed. “No, no, it’s fine. This is wonderful.”

“That pleases me to hear.”

The food came shortly afterwards, and you dropped the topic, turning to other talking points instead. Anaxa already had ideas for his next album and wanted your thoughts on how to get the visual impact across. He also asked you questions about yourself, which he’d never really done before. The undivided attention made you feel special—a bit embarrassing to admit, but true nonetheless. You didn’t get many chances to talk with him alone. Costume changes didn’t count to you; they weren’t long enough to talk about anything in real depth.

Anaxa paid the bill and drove back to his place. That was when you realised that he might be thinking of more than just dinner. He stepped out of the car and headed towards his apartment. You took a breath before following him inside. 

Usually when you were at Anaxa’s flat, there would be some other people there, too: Hyacine, Castorice, Phainon, often more you didn’t know. This was the first time it was just the two of you. In the quiet blue shadows, with nobody else to fill the space, the whole place seemed to expand. The walls stretched longer and taller, the ceiling higher like a cathedral’s vaulted roof above your head. Wandering past his displays of contemporary art was like treading through a forest of strange and twisted shapes. 

Anaxa strode straight towards a particular door which you soon realised was his bedroom. Your steps faltered. He didn’t notice and kept walking until he reached the door, at which point he turned around and looked back at you, still standing a little way down the corridor. The door pushed open by a crack.

“Care to join me?”

You found yourself rooted to the floor. You didn’t know why. It wasn’t like you weren’t attracted to him—you were, very much so. It also wasn’t like you didn’t want to get to know him more intimately, because you did, and the thought had crossed your mind more than a couple times in the past. But standing there, alone in his flat with Anaxa’s eyes locked onto you and the half-open door beckoning, it all at once became very real. This wasn’t just you staring at him from backstage anymore. This wasn’t even whatever happened that day in the dressing room, which neither of you had spoken about since. This was you and him and his bedroom, in what seemed to be an actual offer to spend the night with him. You didn’t know what to do with that fact—how to feel about it. Did you truly want this? You were pretty sure you did, but were you ready for it—everything it entailed? 

Anaxa arched a quizzical eyebrow. Your uncertainty must have been showing on your face, because he said, “We won’t do anything you don’t want to do.” There was a light touch of amusement tucked into the curl of his lip.

With that, you shook off your doubts and strode past him, pushing the door open into the room beyond. 

Anaxa’s bedroom was spacious and tastefully decorated, just like everything in his flat, with funnily-shaped furniture lining the walls. The main colour of the room was a gorgeous deep teal which spread across the walls and many of the furniture drapes. A large oval mirror stood at the back, with a crimson drape thrown over it. He also had a mint green armchair in one corner with a red velvet cushion in its centre. Lamps with all fashions of light shades—yellow paper, coloured glass, some fashioned in fantastical shapes—glowed with a soft illumination that didn’t quite drive away the dark. Instead, shadows nestled quietly amongst the paraphernalia, as much a part of the space as the walls and furniture. A glass crystal chandelier hung from the centre of the ceiling, reflecting little glimmering shards of light around the room as it rotated slowly in its place. It was like stepping into the Aurora Borealis with the stars peeking through from behind. In the middle, there was a double bed with dark blue sheets.

You perched on the edge of the bed. It was so quiet. You were used to hearing music playing in the background, through CDs or Anaxa’s band working out their parts. Now if you focused enough you could hear your own breathing rising and falling in your throat.

The mattress dipped slightly as Anaxa sat down beside you. You could see his pale hands in the corner of your eye, his spindly fingers threaded together on his lap.

“Am I making you uncomfortable?” His voice was soft, carrying a slight rasp. He sounded uncharacteristically unsure of himself. 

“No,” you answered honestly. “I’m just not used to being here like this.” 

“Really?” He tipped his head to one side. “We have been alone together many times backstage.”

“That’s true, but it still feels different, to me at least. In costume changes, I’m there as your stylist. Right now, I’m here just as… well, just as myself.”

“I’ve never thought of it that way,” he admitted, “but yes, I can understand that feeling. In that case, is there anything I can do to help put you at ease?”

His undivided attention made you flush. “Just sitting here for a bit, I think. And talking. I’ll get used to it soon.” 

Right now, you were mainly nervous because you (still) didn’t know what to say to him. What would you and Anaxa talk about? He was so well-versed in literature and philosophy—you’d overheard him discussing things like Plato and Nietzsche and various other intellectual things before. You were afraid he’d say something you didn’t understand, and then you’d make a fool of yourself and he’d lose interest in you, or something. The whole idea that Anaxa—the Anaxa who had the entire musical world wrapped around his little finger—had feelings for you was something you were still struggling to wrap your head around. You didn’t want to let it slip away. A small part of you wondered if it was an elaborate joke. That someone would jump out from behind that funny green armchair and shout, ‘Surprise!’

In hindsight, you should have put more trust in him. Anaxa leaned back on his hands, staring with his one eye into the dimness of the room. “While I was waiting for you to return, I spoke with your parents,” he said, by way of beginning the conversation.

You weren’t sure whether to be flattered or frightened. “What did you talk about?”

“I inquired into your history, your upbringing and the such.” He raised an eyebrow. “You never told me you played the piano.”

“Used to,” you sighed. “My parents always wanted me to get involved in some kind of creative hobby, so they made me take piano lessons as a kid.” With a chuckle, you recalled, “I was awful at it, though. And I haven’t touched a keyboard in… over a decade, probably.”

“What made you stop?”

“The lesson prices, for one thing. But it also didn’t really appeal to me, I guess. I’ve always been more of a visually creative person. That’s why I got into clothing and makeup.” Something struck you, and you paused, turning to look at him. “You know, it just came to me that I don’t actually know very much about you, as a person. Even when you’re off-stage, it feels like you never step out of that role.”

“The way I see it, my roles are an extension of myself,” he answered with forthright confidence. “Linked, but distinct from my own identity.”

“When did you start making music, then?”

“For as long as I can remember—though at the start, it was something like an absorbing pastime to me. It was my sister who encouraged me to pursue my interest and turn it into a career.”

“You have a sister?”

His reply came softly. “Had.”

Your words faltered. You wanted to say something like I’m sorry, but you already knew what Anaxa would say to that: What are you sorry for? 

Before you landed on a response, Anaxa spoke again. He was looking at you very intently. “What do you think of me? Tell me truthfully.”

“I think a lot of things about you,” you confessed, a laugh slipping out of you at the end. 

“Elaborate. There is no shortage of time.” A slight lift of the brow. “And please, do not try to flatter me.”

Your eyes dropped to your hands. Where did you even begin, with a question like that? 

“Okay, well… I admire you a lot. I really do. The way you’re so decisive and know exactly what you want to do, and aren’t afraid to do it. And your ideas, too—I’m not a musician, but even I can tell that what you’re doing is amazing. And your success speaks for itself. But… I also think the attention gets to your head, sometimes. You can be pretty self-centred and I’m not the only person who feels like you’re cold to others sometimes—like you’re somehow above us. I don’t think that you don’t care—in fact I think you do, a lot—but it’s not always easy to tell.”

His lips drew into a line. “I see.”

You winced at the cold reaction. Hurriedly, you added, “But it’s not that bad, all things considered. I didn’t offend you, did I?”

“Not at all,” he replied. “I quite agree that I’m distant. My focus on my music can lead me to inadvertently neglect those around me. It’s something I intend to change. Nevertheless, I have also observed that, currently, I lack the ability to resolve this matter entirely by myself. That I am in need of an anchor.” His eyes rose and met yours. “Are you willing to provide this role for me?”

You felt your breath catch in your throat. “As in… you want me to be your ‘anchor’?”

“Yes. I feel that we have known each other for long enough for this request not to come as a complete shock. But, beyond that…” He trailed off into silence. His next words made your chest flutter. “I want you. For what you are. For,” and here his gaze fell, “everything that you are.” The word came out in an exhaled breath like a long-held sigh. His voice had softened, but it retained his ever-present decisiveness. When Anaxa said he wanted something, it was the result of careful, intense scrutiny, and you knew he meant it. 

You were practically choking on your own heartbeat when he ghosted his cool knuckles over your cheek and, leaning closer, murmured, “Is that too much for me to ask of you?”

You didn’t have the words to respond. Instead, you pulled his face towards you and sealed the distance with a kiss.

Anaxa responded swiftly, his hands rising to cup your face and pull you closer towards him. He kissed you softly at first; then deeply, hungrily, like he was trying to draw out your very essence from the contact alone. Throughout it all his grip on you was feather-light, so tentative it might not have been there at all. (Was it just you or were his hands shaking?)

His tongue slipped over the seam of your lips, and you granted permission to his inquiry. His right hand slipped down to rest above your hips, tracing circles into your skin while you explored each other’s mouths. Anaxa’s lips were thin and soft, a little chapped. He tasted faintly of the wine he had drunk earlier. His hand slipped just beneath your T-shirt, fingertips wonderfully cool against the burning heat of your skin. All your prior uncertainty vanished. Your nerves were alight with anticipation. You no longer doubted that you wanted him. 

You pushed him back onto the mattress. Anaxa followed your lead, letting you pin him down to the bed. You teased his long hair out of its ponytail so that it fanned out around his head in a radial crown. He dragged you closer by the shoulders, burying his face in your neck and dragging his lips across your collarbone. The sight of him so unkempt, so exposed—it ignited something in you which you didn’t know you had. Something hungry, just like that day in the changing room. Something that insisted that you needed to have him. Not his co-workers, not his crazy fans. You. There was no other option. 

Whatever followed passed by in a blur. The next thing you knew, you were both naked, and Anaxa’s bony hands were roaming the length of your body. He was above you now, and strands of his loose hair tickled your skin as he leaned closer, murmuring low notes of praise in your ears which sent your stomach doing flips. These words broke into a shuddering groan when you raked your nails down his back in an attempt to draw him closer still. 

Whenever you looked at Anaxa, you always thought there was something skeletal about him. It came from the abnormal paleness of his skin, his slightly protruding bone structure; almost like he was already a dead man, his body held together by mysterious forces beyond your control before it would collapse into dust at the slightest touch. Yet as he made love to you, words of adoration spilling from his lips, calling you by the names of Amphorean deities, his hands trailing across your body like a sculptor, you realised you couldn’t be more wrong. The way he moved, spoke, loved—all of it—was vitality. He was vitality. His love was a flame, nurturing and tender, pressed close into your cupped palms and entrusted to you for safekeeping. 

He murmured into your hairline, “Will you do anything I ask of you?”

“Of course,” you replied, gasping out as his teeth nicked your ear.

“Love me?” His parted lips caressed up and down the side of your neck as he spoke, breath hot on your skin, eliciting from you long sighs of satisfaction. “Care for me?”

“I already do.”

There was a hard, insistent note to his voice. “Tell me. Say it aloud.”

“I love you, Anaxa,” you said. 

Some unspoken tension seemed to escape from him. He slumped against you with what sounded like a sigh of relief. “Good,” he said softly, and you got the sense that a large weight had been lifted from his shoulders. 

You lay back on the bed, chests heaving, the dark satin sheets strewn around you like a bird’s nest. Heat clung to your skin. Your heartbeat was still pounding in your throat. Anaxa proposed to bring you some water, an offer you took up readily. He returned soon after and laid back down beside you. His hair was all tousled up in odd angles around his face. It was endearing. You reached out and twined your fingers together. He let you, neither drawing away nor returning the gesture. But the planes of his face were soft, and he seemed content; at peace, in a way you didn’t see on him often.

Your eyes roamed his face and settled on the eyepatch covering his left eye. He had worn it all this time. You hadn’t attempted to remove it before, but now your curiosity got the better of you. You reached towards the black cloth, where your hand lingered on his cheek, waiting. Anaxa closed his eye in unspoken assent. You gently lifted the eyepatch away from his face, smoothing away the strands of hair which fell across his forehead with your other hand. 

His left eyelids were sewn shut with a pale silvery thread. Judging from the slight depression behind them, the socket itself was vacant. You ghosted your thumb over the vein-webbed skin of his lower lid. Anaxa’s fingers closed around your wrist, holding your hand to his face, and he released a shuddering sigh. Something wet fell on your knuckles and you were surprised to see tears beading in the corner of his right eye. 

You got the sense that if you asked him about it now, he would tell you. In fact, you felt that if you asked him anything now, he would answer you in earnest. But you didn’t. It felt like taking advantage of him, somehow. Whatever the story behind his eye, you wanted him to tell you when he wanted to tell you, not when you’d just got off a high. You retracted your hand, Anaxa’s fingers slipping like a corpse’s from your wrist. He stared back at you through his one eye, and for a moment from the way he looked at you, you felt like you might have been the only thing in his world. 

——————

Seven months later, Anaxa was back on tour performing his latest album, Demised Scholar. You kept your relationship—you suppose that’s what it was now—private. Neither of you cared to deal with the scrutiny from the press and the outrage from rabid fans who believed they’d already laid their claim to him. Beside Hyacine and some suspicions in Castorice and Phainon, nobody knew about you, and you preferred it that way. 

As a public-facing icon with a cult following and no confirmed relationship status, the subject of Anaxa’s love life was naturally a subject of concern for many of his young fans. Not a few interviewers alluded to the topic, and some interviewers had the candidness to ask about it directly. You remember one interview after the tour was over, where he was asked, “Are you in a relationship at the moment? Many people out there would like to know.”

Anaxa arched an eyebrow and replied, “I have no interest in finding romance.” 

The interviewer seemed surprised. “None at all? Come on, you must know there are thousands of people who would throw themselves at you. Aren’t you tempted?”

“They already do,” he remarked quizzically, throwing a pointed look at the camera which no doubt sparked a series of laughs and swoons across the nation. “But, no, I don’t feel it’s necessary.”

The unvoiced implications of his reply went unnoticed, as intended. The interviewer continued with vicious ruthlessness, “Have you had any relationships in the past?”

Anaxa leaned back and crossed one leg over the other, looking coolly over at his interlocutor. “Yes.” That day he was wearing a loose red V-neck with a ruffle of lace around his throat, paired with close-hugging black trousers and boots. A single red earring dropped from his left ear, catching the light whenever he moved his head. The outfit suited him very well—although that was true of most things he wore. You don’t think you ever saw him in something which looked bad on him. Not even the onesie he insisted on wearing onstage during his ‘Dromas Draped in Finery’ era. (That was a controversial one for another story.)

“How many?”

“I don’t see,” Anaxa cut in, voice light but sharp-edged, “how any of this relates to my musical career. If you are so interested in my relationship history, you are more than welcome to dig into it yourself.” The corner of his mouth twisted up. “One might even observe that you seem to have a vested interest in the topic, don’t you think?”

The interviewer flushed and abruptly changed the topic to Anaxa’s inspirations for this latest album. Safe to say he was not invited to another interview with that host.

Come to think of it, that Demised Scholar tour was a wild one, for a few reasons. For one, it was when Anaxa really started stepping into his own not just as a musician but a performer all-round. Anaxa was, first and foremost, that: a performer. Music was just the primary way he expressed that passion. As the tour went on, the concerts developed into a more theatrical experience. Sets were designed for the larger venues and Anaxa experimented with incorporating magic tricks and optical illusions into the performances, like disappearing suddenly and reappearing on the opposite side of the stage. It took a few runs to find the right balance of spectacle. Afterwards he incorporated the successful ones into the programme going forward.

One night, after performing to a full house in Belobog, the audience was still buzzing. Anaxa always had this effect, but the atmosphere of tonight’s show had been particularly electric. There were a few fan favourites in this album already, like 15 and Dead Man Walking, which always drew a lot of screaming. This time he went a step further, stirring up the crowd in Dialogue with a Skull, where he threw a prop skull into the audience after making out with it at the end of the song. The making out part was scripted; the throw was on a whim. Shrieks rose from the concert hall as people stretched out their arms and tried to catch the skull. Somewhere out there, a lucky someone can claim proud ownership of the skull Anaxa kissed on his original Demised Scholar tour. 

At that time Anaxa liked to stay behind for a little after the concert to observe the crowd as they left—gauge their reactions, energy levels and that kind of thing, which is how he judged the success of the performance. You were packing the costumes away and making a note to buy a new skull when you heard a scuffle backstage. It wasn’t uncommon for the band to get a bit loud after a particularly good night, but this sounded different. There was some shouting, too; a voice you didn’t recognise. 

You stepped out of the changing room and saw Anaxa hanging back against the wall. His clothes hung loose around his throat and shoulders like they had been pulled at, exposing his pale, jutting collarbones. Near him a black-clad security officer was holding a young woman’s hands together behind her back. She couldn’t have been older than nineteen. As she was led out, looking half-delirious with tears pouring from her eyes, she was shouting at Anaxa, “I know all of your songs! Every single one of them! I know all about you!”

It wasn’t the first time something like this had happened—a crazy fan somehow finding their way backstage and trying to get their hands on Anaxa. He had a way of bringing out the crazier impulses in his followers. But nobody had ever got this far. Thankfully the situation was dealt with before it escalated. Anaxa, too, looked somewhat alarmed, and didn’t react immediately when you called his name. He was paler than usual. You leaned on the wall beside him and wordlessly offered him your hand. He took it after a few moments. When his breathing returned to normal and his skin back to its usual shade, you joined the other band members in the car. 

In the meantime the venue staff had kindly finished packing up for you, so you drove straight off as soon as you got in the car. As usual a crowd was waiting outside for Anaxa to appear, but it wasn’t too difficult to shake them off. Looking at those hands and faces pressed against the window pane, you felt unease rise within you in a way it hadn’t before. Anaxa didn’t mention anything to the others. He spoke with them and recounted various moments of the performance as if nothing had happened at all. You wondered if he was really as unperturbed as he seemed. 

Later that night you checked up on him. He told you he’d been caught off-guard but was otherwise unscathed, so you let it go. From then on you made a habit of leaving the venue as soon as the concert was over. Anaxa seemed regretful about it but didn’t contest the decision. 

From Belobog, the tour moved to Xianzhou, where he had already performed when doing Golden Blood. As well as returning to the stage in Luofu the band hit up a few new spots in Yuque and Zhuming. It was all going very well: Anaxa had a large audience all across Xianzhou and your arrival was greeted warmly with media coverage and welcome posters from enthusiastic fans. You took the chance to explore the sights and wander around the cities, which were so different from where you’d grown up. While there, you bought some gorgeous fabrics which you immediately set to work fashioning into new costumes—to change things up a bit, as Anaxa so loved to do. Stasis of any kind—in his music, his appearance, his performance itself—bored him inestimably. As went the lyrics in Apotheosis (from Golden Blood), Change is the essence of the world, and the essence of the world is always changing. 

By now Anaxa let you have more free reign in your creative judgements. While he would tell you straight up what he didn’t want (or what he didn’t like, which did happen a few times), he generally entrusted you to pursue your own direction in bringing them to life after providing you with a few pointers and emphatic gesticulations.

The outfit you ended up making on this tour was a bit of an experiment: a fusion of Amphorean and Xianzhou styles. The fabric itself was a gorgeous deep blue silk embroidered with delicate gold floral patterns. You also had a crimson linen on hand with gold designs that paired nicely with the silk. The blue fabric you styled in Xianzhou’s traditional attire, with a wide sleeve and long skirt. The red, you draped in Amphorean style, thrown over one shoulder with an overhang at the front. 

It took multiple reworks to get right, but eventually you had an end result you were happy with. The two halves—Xianzhou blue and Amphorean red—contrasted one another in both shape and colour, but in a way that was complementary rather than jarring. Originally you wanted to make a two-piece costume with an outer jacket as well, but you didn’t want Anaxa to overheat on stage. As soon as it was finished and you were satisfied, you hurried over to Anaxa so he could try it on. He was in his hotel room—suite, really—occupying himself with the piano which had been installed when the hotel staff learned he was coming. 

“I’ve made you a new costume,” you said, raising the carefully-folded garment hanging over your left arm. He looked up from the piano with keen interest and headed over without hesitation. He looked a bit sickly, as usual. He hadn’t taken to the humidity of Xianzhou very well. Luckily almost everywhere had air conditioning, so his constitution wasn’t too badly affected. 

Anaxa slipped off the hotel robe he was wearing and you helped him put on the costume in front of the large bathroom mirror. The vivid colours against his pale skin worked wonderfully. Overall the outfit lent him a regal look which still boasted his classic experimental flare. It mostly fit, but you might need to shorten the bottom a bit to avoid a potential trip hazard while he was moving about onstage. Anaxa craned his neck and raised his arms this way and that as he inspected his reflection. You were very proud of it, but part of you was worried he wouldn’t like it and all the effort would be wasted.

“What do you think?” You couldn’t help asking.

Anaxa lowered his arms, one enclosed in a wide sleeve and the other bare. “I think you’ve outdone yourself,” he said, smiling slightly. The tension in you unwound. “I like it very much. It will work well for the middle section of the concert.”

“That’s good. I still need to make a few little tweaks, but if you’re happy with it, I can have those done by tonight.”

“Wait.” He pursed his lips, his eye returning to his image in the mirror. “Actually, I want it to be more distressed.”

“More… distressed?”

“Yes. This is the Demised Scholar we are talking about. Make it look the part. Currently, it’s very graceful—change that to deteriorated grace.”

Deteriorated grace… You wondered what to make of that prompt. Anaxa tended to throw these high and mighty concepts at you and left you to turn whatever he meant into reality. It was a great way of stretching your own creative muscles. “I guess I could… tear it up a bit? Make it look like it’s starting to fall apart.”

He nodded approvingly. “Yes, precisely that idea.”

You had to suppress a pained sigh at the thought of cutting up such gorgeous fabrics. But you trusted Anaxa’s vision, so it must be done. “Alright. I’ll work on it some more and then bring it back later.”

“Thank you.”

You didn’t bother mentioning that he had no need to thank you: this was quite literally what you were employed for. Looking again at his reflection in the mirror, you felt that something was still wanting—something could be improved. It took you a moment to realise what it was. 

“I think you should try it without the eyepatch.”

Anaxa’s eyebrows rose. “Without it? Are you certain?”

“Yes. There’s already a lot going on visually with the colours and silhouette. Without the eyepatch it might have more clarity.” You hesitated, knowing that this was a somewhat sensitive area for Anaxa. He had never attempted to take it off before for a public appearance. “It’s only a suggestion, though. If you want to wear it, that’s fine too.”

While you were speaking, Anaxa had already removed the covering. He narrowed his right eye at his reflection, then lifted his chin. “I agree with you. It is better without the eyepatch. After all, the character of the Demised Scholar is one whose decaying truth is being laid bare by the world. It’s only fitting to reveal parts of myself in turn.”

With that dramatic proclamation, the matter was settled. You made the relevant adjustments and handed the costume back to Anaxa later that evening, who gave it the green light. He wore it the following night for the songs 15, Life Should Be Cast to Flames and End of the Road, before the finale of the show, where he went back on in white and blue bodypaint which looked like cracks spreading across his skin. Under the stage lights the fabrics shone. Paired with the tears and pulled seams you’d added after your conversation, he really did resemble ‘deteriorated grace’: bedecked in finery from a long-gone era, clawing his way back to the spotlight even as time left him in the dust. There were audible gasps when he came out wearing it, and it wasn’t long before he was booked up for photoshoots and the costume appeared on the front pages of magazines across the globe. 

During one of your last concerts in Zhuming, you noticed something was up with Anaxa. Around halfway through the performance he stumbled over some of the lyrics. He corrected himself a moment later—it was hardly noticeable to the average fan, and those who knew the lyrics might write it off as an improvisation—but you knew that wasn’t it. It hadn’t sounded like improvising because then he wouldn’t have swerved to correct himself so quickly. A sense of misgiving began to gnaw at you, only growing as the concert unfolded.

Anaxa worsened as the performance went on. His voice became strained and at the end of Dead Man Walking he almost dropped the mic. By the last song he had to lean against the piano to stay upright. He managed to pull together the final pose—standing tall with his arms outstretched on either side—and hold it until he dropped to the floor on cue. You didn’t know whether he fell on purpose or he just couldn’t keep standing.

As the audience shrieked and applauded, Anaxa staggered backstage, his body wracked with shivers. Cold sweat dripped from his brow. He looked like he was on the verge of keeling over.

“Someone get a blanket!” you called to the staff backstage. A hurried scuffle ensued and a few seconds later a heavy blanket was passed into your hands. You placed it around Anaxa’s shoulders and sat him down in a nearby chair. He let you lead him as if he were a lifeless puppet with no will of his own. His legs practically gave way and he all but collapsed into the seat. He was white as a sheet—you could tell from even beneath the body paint—and his lips were pale, almost blue.

You fetched a glass of water and raised it to his lips. His hands were quaking in his lap; you wouldn’t trust him to hold a paperclip at the moment. He took a small sip but didn’t drink any more despite your attempted encouragement, so you placed the glass aside and tried to help him relax by massaging his shoulders. He was hot and slick with sweat, incredibly tense. You were considering calling an ambulance when he came back to himself with an abrupt shudder. 

You sat down in front of him. His eye was still a bit unfocused, half looking at you and half beyond you. 

“What was that, Anaxa?” you said. Come to think of it, his state was similar to that instance in the changing room on the last tour. If this was something that repeated itself, it was a cause for concern. 

He waved away your question with a flick of his hand. “I’m fine,” he said hoarsely. 

“Will you tell me if you aren’t?”

He pursed his lips. Again, he said, more to himself than to you, “I’m fine.”

His assurance didn’t sit well with you. Hyacine urged him to see a doctor but Anaxa flatly refused and nothing either of you said could convince him otherwise. Hopefully this meant he was confident that it was nothing severe. Because he would tell you if something was seriously wrong. 

You chalked it up to the pressure of his packed schedule being aggravated by the humidity of the venue and tried to put it out of your mind. Still, you couldn’t help but worry. Anaxa had a tendency to push himself too far. You didn’t want him tipping over the edge.

The band moved from Zhuming to Yuque, your last spot on the Xianzhou segment of the tour. Here the weather was more temperate and the humidity not so overbearing. By now you were a good seven months into the tour and while the energy was still strong every night, fatigue was beginning to seep in. Not that you were getting tired of touring—gods, no. These were some of the most exhilarating days of your life. It wasn’t overly stressful, either. You were practiced enough in the costume changes for these sets. Most nights you and Anaxa ran like a well-oiled machine, slipping him from one outfit into another as a snake sheds its skin, and you were well-stocked for backups in case anything broke. Rather it was a cumulative weariness which settled over you. You noticed it in the others, too. Hyacine took more time to herself, and the other band members retired to their rooms earlier than before. 

The exception to this was Anaxa. He was at his best every night without fail, shining hot and bright like a star nearing supernova. He seemed to gain energy the more he performed. As far as you knew he may go on burning forever. Whatever had happened that day in Zhuming didn’t repeat itself, though there wasn’t a single performance since where you didn’t worry somewhere in the back of your mind that he’d suddenly collapse on stage. You kept a close eye, but it really did seem to have been a one-off. 

There came a period where you had a few days in a row without anything booked. You and Hyacine took one of these days off to unwind. You hit up some street stalls in search of local food and spent the afternoon relaxing in a spa. Of course, you’d invited Anaxa along, but he turned down the offer. It made sense: he might get recognised walking around, in which case a private and relaxing spa day would quickly turn into anything but. He opted to stay in his room instead, already thinking about how to shake up the next series of performances.

You enjoyed spending some time just with Hyacine. After all, she was where this whole story had begun. You chatted about your lives before getting involved with Anaxa. It turned out her full name was Hyacinthia, that her family were doctors and she originally wanted to study veterinary medicine. She and Anaxa went to the same university but she properly met him at a gig, where he might have been a bit drunk, and he convinced her to come and work for him. You’d never actually seen Anaxa drunk before, you said. What kind of drunk was he?

Hyacine laughed. “He’s very outgoing, almost cheerful.”

“Anaxa, cheerful?”

“And spontaneously bursting into song, yes,” she added, chuckling. “Though I think he generally avoids being drunk these days because he doesn’t like losing control of himself.”

“I guess that makes sense. Still,” you sighed, “I feel like I’m missing out. It would make some great blackmail, surely.”

“Oh, definitely,” she agreed. “Maybe when we celebrate after the tour’s over.” “And unlock that party animal side of him. Sounds good to me.”

After the spa trip, Hyacine returned to your hotel, saying she had some logistics to sort out with Anaxa regarding the final few Xianzhou shows. Meanwhile, you were feeling nice and relaxed and not like retiring quite yet, so you took a long detour back. You really loved the architecture here—the old architecture, you mean. Hidden under the high-rise office blocks were these secluded pockets of courtyards, canals and narrow streets lined with wooden houses. Getting lost in them was like stepping into another era where modernity hadn’t reached yet. 

Just as you were turning your feet back towards the hotel, something buzzed in your trouser pocket. Your phone was ringing. It was Hyacine calling. You accepted the call and raised the phone to your ear.

“Hey, Hyacine. What is it?”

“It’s Anaxa.” Her voice was grim. “He’s had a heart attack.”

——————

You waited by the wall in the hospital room next to Hyacine. Anaxa laid in the sickbed, unconscious, the heart monitor coldly beeping out the rhythm of his pulse. He looked skeletal and pale.

In a low voice, Hyacine explained how Anaxa didn’t answer her when she went to his room, so she got a spare key card from reception and found him collapsed on the floor. She called an ambulance straight after. 

“The doctors say he’ll be alright,” she said quietly, glancing over at the bed-ridden man. “But it’s lucky I found him when I did. A couple of minutes longer, and…” She didn’t finish the sentence. Neither of you could stomach it. 

You’d rushed here the moment you heard the news. For a few minutes as you made your way over you felt like you were going to have a heart attack yourself. He couldn’t be—? Could he? You knew Anaxa’s constitution was poor, but he always exuded such sheer presence that he gave the impression invincibility despite his being so frail. All that energy, that gravitas—it couldn’t just be cut off like that so suddenly—could it?

“Do they know what caused it?” you asked. 

Hyacine sighed. “It turns out he has a heart condition he never told us about. Unless he told you?”

“No.” The admission tasted sour. “He didn’t tell me anything like that.”

The hands of the clock hanging above the door edged their slow path around the circular white face. Each tick seemed to still in the air and then fall away, swallowed up into the silence between itself and the next second. Anaxa’s doctor came in and the three of you discussed your next steps. On top of some other issues, he had something called obstructive hypertrophic cardiomyopathy. Essentially, his blood flow was increasingly restricted by the muscle wall of his heart thickening. His case was genetic, and there was no cure. 

You agreed to stay with Anaxa while Hyacine informed the other band members about the situation. “I’ll let you know when he wakes up,” you told her. She nodded and squeezed your hand before heading out. You sat down in the visitors chair positioned a few paces from the bed. This whole situation felt surreal. You didn't know what to make of it. Your brain was submerged in water, only half-there. 

You didn’t know how much time passed just sitting there, but when you returned to reality, Anaxa was looking at you. You started a little. 

Quietly, you said, “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“About what?”

“Your condition, Anaxa.”

“Anaxagoras.”

You gave him a sharp look. He never corrected you about his name anymore. What was he playing at? “Hyacine and I spoke with the doctors earlier. We’ve all agreed that you have to call off the rest of the tour.”

Anaxa was silent for a few moments. Then he said, “No.”

“No?”

“No,” he repeated, backed by that same immovable conviction he always had. “The tour will continue as planned. I can be back on stage by tomorrow. This is only a minor inconvenience.”

Minor inconvenience? You could hardly believe what you were hearing. “Anaxa, look at yourself. You almost died. You probably would be dead right now if Hyacine hadn’t found you in time.”

“The music is the most important thing,” he said, in what wasn’t really a reply to your point. “Individual sacrifices can be made.”

Sacrifices? you thought. What on earth was he going on about? He hadn’t suffered brain damage, had he? This wasn’t pulling an all-nighter to finish a recording or splitting up a band. This was his life very palpably on the line. “Without you, there is no music,” you insisted, getting angry. “You can’t continue like this, Anaxa. Physically and because we won’t let you. Nobody is asking you to end your career for good. But this isn’t sustainable.”

He fell silent. His single eye was trained on the wall somewhere behind you. At length, he said, in a voice which would otherwise suggest he was mentioning something as trifling as the weather, “I am unlikely to reach forty.”

You stared. “W-what?”

“It’s not impossible that I will live to old age,” he elaborated, “but I have been told the likelihood is very low.”

Your throat was dry and sticky. You struggled to swallow. “Because of your condition?”

He confirmed your question with a nod. “I’ve known for some time, so it isn’t something that troubles me. It is inevitable I will die at some point, anyway, as will everyone. But because my time is limited, I’ve resolved to dedicate myself to my endeavours without sparing any expense.”

Grimly, you concluded, “Even if it kills you.”

“You make it sound very violent,” he observed, interested, “but yes. Even if it hastens my death, I would rather give my performances my all. The alternative is hardly a life at all.”

As much as you wanted to tell him that he was plain wrong, you couldn’t contest that. Anyone could see that Anaxa lived his performances, practically was them. He transcended the limitations of his body and became something else entirely—an energy arranged in human form. It’s what gave him his otherworldly pull. Without that, Anaxa was a fire without a spark. He’d be living with a hole in his heart.

But you still couldn’t sit by and accept what this meant. “Your music isn’t made in a vacuum,” you pointed out. “What about your crew? What about Hyacine? The least they deserve is transparency.” You didn’t voice the question lingering at the end of that list. It felt too selfish, too contrived to do so. But you also deserved an explanation, didn't you? An answer?

Anaxa’s hand closed around your wrist, which was when you realised your hands had been shaking. You shivered at the cold press of his fingers. Slowly, and it seemed he was choosing his words with care, he said, “I do what I do out of a love for the things in my life.” He raised your hand to his lips and pressed them to your knuckles. The contact lingered, bearing the weight of countless more unspoken words. His voice was stern but soft. “Do not doubt for a second that this includes you.”

Your shoulders slumped. “I know, but… I wish you’d told me. You can trust me with things like this, you know.” Your voice dropped a little. “I thought you would.”

His eyelashes lowered. “It wasn’t my intention to give the impression that I don’t trust you.” He drew in a breath and sighed it out. “I apologise.”

“I still don’t think this is the way forward, either.” There must be some kind of compromise here. Mustn’t there? Gods, you wish you had Anaxa’s self-assuredness right now.

He cocked his head sideways and regarded you keenly. “What do you think I should do?” he asked. “Now that you have heard my reasoning.”

Seconds ticked by as you wondered what to say. It was no small matter, being asked to decide—if that’s really what he was offering you—Anaxa’s future. He was a brilliant star but also a fallible human, not to mention your lover. It would be too easy to cash in on that and demand he step back from the spotlight. But that would be unfair on him, would cleave away half of his identity. More than half, maybe. You didn’t want that either. You didn’t want to deprive him of his passion, and besides, you enjoyed working with him on his tours. Through Anaxa, you’d found not only a person but a career you really loved. Letting both of those go couldn’t be the solution.

His thumb moved back and forth along your knuckles in the silence. He didn't seem to be conscious of the action.

Finally, you answered his question. You didn’t know if it was the right answer, but it was the best you could give. “Continue the tour for now with a medical team on hand. We have to let the others know about the risks, at least the other band members. If something happens again, even if it’s minor, we call it off. In either case, after it’s over, you have to take a break and find a more sustainable way of going forward.”

Anaxa pressed his lips into a thin line. You couldn’t tell if that meant displeasure, or conviction, or what. You were one of the only people who could sway Anaxa’s mind, but even that was a rarity. One thing was certain, though: if he said no, you knew there was nothing more you could say to convince him. So you waited for his answer in a grim, tense silence. 

His shoulders fell, just by a fraction. A concession. “Very well. I will do as you suggest.” 

An immense pressure lifted away from your chest. Thank the gods, you thought. His ambition didn’t blind him to reason. You let Hyacine know the situation and stayed with Anaxa until he was released.

The tour ended up going more or less as planned, with only a couple of nights called off in total. Anaxa had no more major episodes, though that didn’t prevent the medical team from watching him like a hawk. In hindsight you were shocked to think that you hadn’t had a medical team on hand before. Anaxa had never raised it and as such it hadn’t crossed anyone’s mind, not really. 

Once he returned to Amphoreus, Anaxa announced he was taking an indefinite break from public performances. He cited personal matters as the reason for his temporary hiatus and added an assurance that he would be back onstage in the future. Of course the media jumped on it immediately and demanded to know what was going on. You and Hyacine were firm in keeping the details confidential. Anaxa despised the idea of his audience knowing he was anything less than at his best.

That hiatus spelled a quieter section in your lives. Over that period, he released one album, On Repeat (which you actually helped work on), and a few new singles, some of which did better than others. 

In a way, the break was nice. You hadn’t realised just how much energy that tour took out of you until you stepped out of the picture. Then it all hit you at once and you were relieved to be taking a breather. You had time to yourselves, to spend together and on each other. 

Anaxa was a good lover, attentive, and not in the least bit conceited as one might fear of somebody as famous as he was. He had this way of making you feel very loved. Singularly cherished—that was how you’d describe it. Like you really were dear to him in a way nothing else was. It was through little things, mostly. He kept track of your preferences and engaged in your interests. He played to you on his guitar in his room, singing in low, husky tones he rarely used on stage. Anaxa didn’t say it out loud, but his meaning was clear: this was something intended just for the two of you. A little secret, cupped in your joined palms, tucked away from the prying eyes of the world. You never found the right words to tell him how much you appreciated it, but you think he knew. 

You also managed to get him to eat better, because he really was too thin for his own good. He went for regular medical checkups. You watched films together, remarking upon the costume design and the directive choices. You also spent lots of time going to watch concerts and listening zealously to any and all records you could find when Anaxa mentioned he wanted to seek new inspiration in other musical styles. 

When your birthday came around, you were surprised to hear a new song of his on the radio. It was definitely a new release but you swore it sounded vaguely familiar. After listening through to it a few more times, it clicked. This was the song he’d shown you on the Golden Blood tour, back when he was just drawing up ideas for the track. You never did get back to him with any particular feedback as he’d seemed to want at the time. Evidently that hadn’t deterred him from completing it. 

You called him up soon afterwards. You were going to see him later that day anyway, but you wanted to talk with him now.

“Well?” he prompted, before you even said anything. His voice contained a well-meaning hint of presumptuousness. “Do you like it?”

“Yeah, I do. I like it a lot.” The words carried more than they said. “Thank you, Anaxa.”

He half-scoffed, half-laughed over the phone. “Don’t thank me. It’s something I wanted to do.”

“Still. Thank you.”

Something in his voice softened. “You’re very welcome.” 

That was one of his more popular releases over his hiatus period. Still, without holding actual concerts, he didn’t garner as large of an audience as before. Pair that with his relative inactivity and it seemed like the world was starting to leave him behind—but you knew that wasn’t the case. There was nothing he couldn’t do when he set his mind to it. If Anaxa wanted to come back, he would. It was as simple as that. So while conversations moved to other rising artists, you weren’t worried at all about his name falling into obscurity. He’d inspired people; that was the real measure of a legacy. And if he ever chose to abandon music altogether, he’d left a mark so deep it wouldn’t be forgotten for ages to come. 

That was the thing about Anaxa: he would be vitality itself until he dropped. And until that day, you intended to be right beside him, every step of the way. 

——————

Four years after he announced his hiatus, Anaxa returned to the stage for a spectacular comeback, releasing two hit albums back-to-back, Epiphany and Everything Is In Everything. The world was once more ablaze with talk of Anaxagoras, the musical ‘blasphemer’ who set the stage on fire. 

His return was unofficially dubbed his ‘return from the dead’, given that his last tour before dropping off the radar was The Demised Scholar. New fans as well as old flocked to him as if those four years had been nothing at all. He started doing short tours again, performing in top venues of Planarcadia and Edo Star, and making musical history with his show in Punklorde, where he went off the programme in the middle of the concert and came out with a new song on the spot. This song, later titled Prayer for One, became one of the most popular on his tracklist. 

Alongside his large-scale stage shows, Anaxa made a certain return to his roots. He would show up at local gigs without public announcement and give free concerts to those who were there. His fanbase took it up as a kind of mission to try and predict where he would turn up next. You always thought he was just as enthralling in a cramped bar as he was in a concert hall. Maybe even more so. At closer quarters you could really hear the way his soul leaked through the lyrics.

Even though you’d been with him for years at this point, you never stopped being amazed by Anaxa’s ability to grasp the cusp of innovation. It was like he could sense the arrival of dawn beyond the horizon before anyone else was aware that the sun existed. His music touched something fundamental, that thing that makes us human. 

Evidently others shared your sentiment, because the total sales of his albums eclipsed one hundred million, with Golden Blood taking the top spot. His later albums branched out into other musical styles, influenced by Penaconian jazz and the electronic genres of Planarcadia. He starred in some films and spoke very openly about his views on Amphoreus’s politics, which sparked some controversy to say the least. Not that it stopped him. On the contrary you think he rather enjoyed it.

He was, for all intents and purposes, a living legend. There would never be anyone like him again. Even those who didn’t like him had to agree that much. 

Five years after that, Anaxa died. 

The news of his passing spread like a ripple across the world. Something perceptibly shifted in the air that day, something to do with the collective unspoken knowledge that an era had come to an end. Tribute concerts were held, which you attended; people made speeches and other musicians talked about how he had inspired them, like Penacony’s rising star Robin and Belobog’s Mechanical Fever, both of whom Anaxa had collaborated with in the past.

There were a few unfinished records he’d left behind and entrusted to you. After speaking with Hyacine, you decided not to make them public. You felt it would be insensitive, somehow, to simply expose all his incomplete plans in his absence, and without his creative vision, you didn’t dare finish them in his place. He probably wouldn’t have minded all that much, but it also felt… nice, to have something of his which belonged only to you. Like you were keeping a part of him with you—part of the Anaxa who was a man, not the idol, with his contagious laugh and his way of making you feel very, very loved. Was it selfish? You weren’t entirely sure. But that’s the decision you made. Maybe one day you’ll change it, though you haven’t yet. You still have those unfinished recordings sitting on your desk, as well as some of the costumes you made for him displayed on the wall, including the one you made on the Demised Scholar tour. The rest you donated to museums.

You never disclosed your relationship to anyone beyond Hyacine, Phainon and Castorice, but there was a general awareness of your closeness around that time, so quite a lot of the media commentary was directed at you after his passing. Sometimes you still receive questions from fans, asking about your experiences working with him, whether you have any regrets.

Your answer is the same as it was back then. Regrets—of course you have them. But most of all you’re grateful that you spent as much of his life with him as you did. He was doing what he loved until the end, which is more than most people get. And the things he left you with—his music, his love, his memory—those will never fade. Physical presence, as he loved to point out, is transient, while the soul transcends death. It’s all the same energy, just repackaged in a different form, and he’s returned to whatever starry realm he came from. (In all your years of knowing him, you could never quite believe he was fully human). Sometimes you fancy you can feel him still lingering around: in the whine of guitar feedback or the fading of a chord, he’s there, turning his sharp eye on the world and delighting at every new development.

I have heard countless tales of your famed verse, and read many of your novels on my travels—no, I will be honest; I confess that I’ve read all of them. I cannot help myself. Such wit and mastery of words as you possess is simply astounding. In particular your most recent tale, A Thousand Boughs of Sakura, was exceptionally engaging in how you utilised the text itself to hint towards the true identity of the culprit; and I must say that you almost fooled me with the shocking conclusion! 

In the spirit of your skill, and my current being in town—entertain a poor soul with a game of renga, will you? I’ll start:

—Secrets tossed on wind

The rest of the paper is blank, as if the author has already anticipated your compliance to the proposal with complete confidence. 

The letter’s arrival itself is nothing out of the ordinary: you often receive such messages from fans, offering praise, questions and comments regarding your publications. It is, however, one of the rare occasions where the subject of interest has been yourself, rather than your work, and the first where a request has so specifically, not to mention so directly, been made of you.

Indeed, from the request to the manner of writing, the letter initially strikes you as terribly entitled, and you have the mind to toss it away and forget about it—but, skimming your eyes over the message again, you hesitate. 

Despite the novel being released a few weeks ago, this is the only letter you have received to pick up your writing technique: using differences in the pronunciation of kanji to suggest alternative meanings to the phrase; implying hidden messages through synonyms which, though identical in meaning, contain different radicals to the alternative word. Whoever the sender of the message is, they must have an acute eye for detail—a quality you can respect. Perhaps this mystery reader of yours is worth a moment or two.

You walk to your desk and unthinkingly pen another verse:

—All one must do is listen

You hardly know where to leave the reply—it is not as if your messenger has indicated their whereabouts, beyond ‘currently being in town’—yet somehow you trust that it will find its intended recipient. You pin it in a corner of the local noticeboard, and think no more of it for the rest of the day.

——————

—To hear the rustle.

Penned in the same elegant handwriting, this is the new line which has joined the previous verse when you pass by the noticeboard on the following day. You remove the letter and take it back to your home, where you spend a few moments considering how to respond. 

Your reply, as you pin it back up, reads thus:

—Verses penned by unknown hand 

The next day, another line:

—Anonymity’s respite.

And so is your first complete stanza concluded. You thumb the edge of the translucent paper, considering how next to proceed. 

Of course, the first thought to arise is that there is no need to ‘proceed’ with this game whatsoever: you have fulfilled this reader’s request at no great benefit to yourself, and there is no obligation compelling you to elaborate upon it further. You could end this playful exchange now and feel hardly the worse for it. 

And yet, that peculiar hook, on which your career and passions are founded—that irresistible inclination named ‘curiosity’—has taken hold somewhere within you, is tugging you gently in the direction of the mystery. You wish to know more of this enigmatic admirer of yours; you wish to know why something about him (you feel, somehow, that it is a ‘him’) feels almost familiar. If nothing else, you enjoy the creative interplay. 

You raise your brush to the page, and continue the poem. 

—Where is respite found?

—Asks the cowering sinner

You read over the line once, twice. Something, a niggling feeling in the deeper recesses of your mind, is beckoning to you, inviting you to wonder at this choice of words.

It feels like your partner is hinting at you, playing with you much in the same way you do with your own audience. You wonder what the clue may be, return to the previous lines you have composed together, come to a tentative hypothesis. 

You think you know the direction in which to guide this inquiry. 

—Shed of virtue’s mask

—Like young blossoms in summer

—Trembling in fear of cyclones.

You return the letter to the noticeboard. Over a week has passed already; what began as a favour on a whim has grown into a routine, even a commitment. 

There is room yet remaining on the paper for one more stanza; one final chance to crack the code, to solve the puzzle laid out for you. This method itself, you acknowledge, is a clue. 

You feel much like Hasegawa, the protagonist of A Thousand Boughs of Sakura; reading between the lines and hunting down scant hints to identify the criminal before it is too late. (In your novel, the criminal turns out to be an old acquaintance.)

The difference is that you are no detective; merely an author, a poet. Your skills reside in capturing the immaterial, not assimilating the real. 

Even so, the opening line of the final stanza gives you confidence that you are on the right track.

—What is a cyclone?

—But that which intuits vice 

—Wielding intellect 

—Catching arrows with bare hands

—Leaving no buds to fester.

My, what a beautiful poem we have composed! Our hearts must truly beat in harmony with one another. Your intellect is as sharp as I remember. 

Midnight, tonight. I will see you at the usual spot.

——————

The letter does not specify where you are to meet, nor does it need to. Since childhood, there has only been one location you frequented enough for its significance to become instinctual. You head toward the coastline, where there grows a certain sakura tree overlooking the shore, identified by its gnarled trunk which is twisted with age. 

There is a reclining silhouette already outlined against the tree when you arrive. Perhaps the details have changed here and there—the height, the clothing—but the figure itself, you could not mistake for the world. 

In unmarked silence, you join Shikanoin Heizou beneath the sakura tree. 

For a time, neither of you speak. What is there to say? You have not seen each other in years. Circumstances, not to mention your own selves, have altered within the rift of time you have spent apart. The last time you met was in the early moments of adulthood, when he took on the mantle of a detective and your aptitude for writing began to raise you into company higher than anticipated. 

Thinking back on it now, you never said a proper goodbye; he simply had to leave one day, and subsequently you drifted out of each other’s lives through no devices of your own, as a cloud disperses into smaller fragments and is scattered on the wind. You never received any letters from him, either; it did not occur to you to send one of your own (and if you had, how were you to know where to send it?). But you never forgot him—Archons, never. 

The fact that he is here now gives you hope that he did not forget about you, either. 

The silence grows, deepens, becomes uncomfortable. Somebody will have to take the first step; and this time, it is your turn. You run your tongue over dry lips. 

“What a surprise it is to see you here, Heizou.”

For all of your usual eloquence, any skill with words has abandoned you now. You feel exposed and frightfully inexperienced, like you are sitting at an empty page in your father’s study, wondering how to compose your first haiku. 

He smiles, and the world is stable again. “Not much of a surprise, I’m afraid. You figured me out.”

“You wanted me to,” you reply, and you find yourself falling into a rhythm of effortless exchange similar to the renga game—except this time, you are not separated by ink and paper, but face to face. The interaction feels easy, like the rift of time between you is nothing at all. 

You ask, “What were your reasons for approaching me through letters, rather than directly? Diverting as your puzzles were, surely it should have been far simpler to greet me in person, not wait until now.”

“I couldn’t risk speaking with you any earlier, for both of our sakes. Until recently I was part of an undercover investigation, and had I been recognised, the confidentiality of the case may be compromised. And on your end, I figured it would be embarrassing for somebody of such high standing as yourself to be seen hanging around somebody like me.”

Something is off. His explanation is sound, but there’s a matter he hasn’t addressed. “A letter signed with one’s name alone ought to be privacy enough—yet it was your choice to remain anonymous,” you point out.

Another smile lifts the corner of his mouth, this time a touch meek. His eyelashes lower as he glances downwards. “Would you rather the honest answer, or the one which will flatter me?”

“Offer me first the flattery,” you propose, “and only the honesty if I fail to decipher the truth myself.”

“My intention was to test your discernment. I remember our childhood battles of wits fondly, but after such a long time, I wasn’t sure how your character held up. So much time spent in high society can change somebody; I wanted to know whether you were still the same person I knew before taking any action to introduce myself.”

“Am I still the same person?” you ask out of interest. 

“Of course you are.” The reply is so quick, comes so naturally, that it warms you. 

So, that is the flattery. 

You scrutinise the man in front of you; his posture (the way he leans against the tree trunk, yet drums his fingers on the wood), his expression (how his eyes glance between you and the floor, like he’s just as shy and skittish as you are, perhaps even more so), his explanation (which is obviously false—he read your works, meaning he must have been aware at least to an extent of your personal development).

“And the truth,” you conclude after a careful period of reflection, “is that you were afraid. Afraid that, after all this time, I would hold towards you feelings of contempt for leaving so abruptly. You did not sign your name in fear that my knowing your identity would provoke me to be hostile, or to rebuke your advances.”

“And would you have done so?” 

“I never thought ill of you, Heizou,” you say. When you say his name, his eyes widen by a touch, brighten a little. “Not once, even if I tried to. And…” You sigh, leaning back against the tree beside him. “You may comfort yourself with the fact that I was afraid, too.”

Heizou looks away, in thought. Silence settles upon you once more. This time, you are comfortable in it. Yes; there is comfort in having Heizou standing beside you once again, close enough that, should you wish, you could…

(He flexes his hand, and you know you are thinking of the same thing. Neither of you act. It’s still too soon, too hasty, to go there yet. You want to get to know him again, from the beginning, before going there.) 

“Is it really true, that you read all of my novels?” you blurt. 

“Every single one,” he replies in earnest. 

You scratch your neck. “Was it… ahem, was it obvious that Hasegawa was based on you?”

“I did notice some similarities, yes,” Heizou admits with a chuckle. “In fact,” he continues, a smirk beginning to creep onto his face, “if my memory serves me correctly, you describe him as handsome no less than seven times.”

Heat rushes to your face. You cough into your first, and Heizou laughs again, the sound full and bright and everything you’ve missed in the last few years of your life. 

“Don’t worry—you were subtle in every other part of the story. I wasn’t exaggerating in my initial praise, you know. I don’t think I’ve ever seen such attention to detail in the narration as well as the plot itself. It really is extraordinary.” 

You’re accustomed to receiving praise from fan letters and colleagues, but getting it from Heizou feels different, somehow; it feels more valuable, more real. “Thank you,” you smile, suddenly all bashful and self-conscious again. He smiles back. You have to look away.

“What do you plan to do now, then?” you ask, changing the subject to something less involved with yourself. “I assume your incredibly-confidential, undercover-agent case is over.”

“I’ve been considering staying here for a while—until another case comes up, at least.” Now he’s the one to look away. A slight hint of red dusts his cheeks, a shyness reveals itself in the upturned corners of his lips, and his voice takes on a softer, more self-conscious note. “This might be a little presumptuous of me, but… I was thinking that I could stay with you. If you’d have me.” 

Red—red! Yes, this is red! you think in triumph, a momentary flash of victory before the frigid air, the dark, the suddenness of it all, pounce upon you once more. (It is not red which you were looking for.)

What is this place? Where are you? How did you get here? 

It is dimly lit; you shiver with the cold. Plumes like dragon’s breath curl upwards with your every exhalation. Cold? There is something important, something important to do with the cold. You know this—but what is it? What is so important? What has it to do with this place?

The red smudges take on definition; coalesce into pricks, and then into flames; but the light they emit is feeble, sputtering, hardly sufficient to guide your sight. The air in this place hangs with a stillness which suggests to you that it is not only temperature in which this enclosure is frozen, but time as well. Yet there rises within you, beckoned forwards perhaps by your lack of clarity, the most wonderful, horrible feeling; that you have been here before. 

There you stand; there you wait. Wait for lucidity, for guidance, as you shiver in silence broken only by your own breathing. You draw your foot forwards to take a step; something solid, heavy, knocks against your ankle as you move. 

Ah!—here is a light source, sitting by your boot. Of a strange design (for this contraption is certainly no torch as you know it), the flame, trapped behind a metal cage, glows coldly. Cast within its conservative ring of light a few inches away lies a book on the stone floor. In puzzlement, you lift the metal torch from the ground with one hand, the notebook with another, and bring the two close, illuminating the pages. They are covered in scrawls of ink—handwriting, you determine after a closer examination—but as to their content, you are clueless. The script you have never seen before; whoever this item belongs to, it is certainly not yourself. You deign that you ought to return it to its owner, whenever you may find them; and so you keep the book with you as you continue to explore.

You raise the light now towards the walls. Its pallid halo reveals details concealed in the darkness, and with this unveiling comes a startling revelation which shakes you to your core.

Why—these are your frescoes! In the entirety of the heavens, you could never mistake the brushwork as anybody else’s! You painted these walls by hand, not so long ago; the most recent you did not even finish yet! Why, then, do they look so old?—their visages faded; the paint you used, still gleaming with lustre in your mind’s eye, blighted with cracks and peeling as if it has not seen the attention of another in aeons. Indeed, if you knew no better and based your judgement on appearance alone, you would be inclined to think a thousand years may have passed!

Why are you here? begs your mind once more, stimulated anew by the discovery. Why are you in this room, when you do not recall returning to it since… since what? Your memories are distant, difficult to grasp, yet you are certain you were praying beneath Irminsul only a moment ago, before—

—Irminsul!—The kingdom!—Imunlaukr! O, gods—you must find them; you must be sure of what happened to them! Did he make it back? What of your people? Has Sal Vindagnyr been saved? Your instant of clarity crumbles and shatters to dust; as if of their own accord your legs propel you forwards, out from the once-familiar chamber and into whatever—heaven? hell?—lies beyond, your mind swelling and threatening to split open as questions, concerns, prayers all spill over you in a surge which sets your heart thundering within its bone cage. There must be green outside, your being cries; it must be green!

(As you stumble out of the chamber, you are struck by the acute, harrowing feeling that you should not be here, that you are an intruder, a phantom, a memory; that the last thing you knew—truly knew, as yourself in your own body—was praying at the foot of the tree, a pair of frostbitten hands laying you down six feet beneath the snow—)

—Green, let there be green, you implore whichever deity will listen; for I no longer remember what it looks like, o gods, let there please be green—

A white flurry of ice blasts your face as you reach the exit of the chamber. You almost cannot fathom the sight before you. 

As far as the eye can see, snow-capped peaks, glittering in the moonlight, rise around you, their nighttime silhouettes forming dark, barbed obscurities against the ink sky. The royal palace outside the chamber is a desolate, pitiful imitation of its grandeur which, you are certain mere moments ago, continued to dazzle the eye: the decorated spires, the delicate arches, the dazzling paint, are all reduced to bleak, crumbling stone, like the worn skeleton of a dead beast which now rests where beauty used to lie. 

No, this cannot be! Your legs quake beneath you, threatening to give way. It looks as if the entire land has been razed in the instants you were gone. Even after the nail fell (how you loathe that accursed nail, which splintered your livelihoods into oblivion), there was some semblance of life yet remaining, some remnant of grace, of community. For example, there—on that mountainside, you remember there was always a cluster of lights, glimmering like fireflies in the darkness; in reality, the lit windows of a hamlet which could be seen from the palace. Now the windows are dark; there is no sign of life. Squinting your eyes, you cannot even see the outlines of the houses which used to stand there.

How can this be, that everything has gone? Where has everything gone? And what of the people? A gust of wind sweeps by and seems to pass right through you. This must be a nightmare, a terrible nightmare; it must! For if it is not, then—

—But there is still hope! If Irminsul lives—if your efforts were not in vain—there may yet be a way to save your people. 

(So consumed are you by your desperate hopes that you do not hear the silence howling through the peaks like the cries of the dreaded wolf whose dark jaws have closed around the sun and plunged the world into devastation; a silence which speaks of millennium upon millennium of that same silence, unbroken by laughter or the cries of infants, or any sound beyond that dreadful, mourning howl. No living kingdom resounds with such a silence, even on the cruellest of winter nights.)

Through the storm you force your way, torn at by teeth of snow and ice. You know—you know, truly, that if Irminsul lived, there would not be such desolation and such frost; that there would be birdsong, verdancy, humanity in its place; but you refuse to believe it, for the implications of such a thought are unbearable. A whole era; a whole kingdom; a whole people! A loss of such scope you cannot fathom, so you cling to your hope, foolish as it may be, against all reason, all forms of logic, as a dying fire clings to the final ember glowing in its logs. 

Perhaps Irminsul survives, but is weakened; perhaps if you help it to grow once more, blessed green life will spread through this forsaken wasteland as it did in your childhood. Perhaps, if you have not been gone (what is the meaning of ‘gone’?—nay, you do not wish to know) for too long, if even one other soul survives, be that royal, peasant, man, woman, child, it is not too late; you are not too late. Could it be that they are buried somewhere under this snow? That there is time yet to find them, to save them? 

Your purpose is to be a symbol to your people; a beacon; one of hope, perseverance, prosperity. If there is nobody to look upon you, nobody to be reassured by your image, to what does that reduce you? Has all your life become naught but a canvas of empty promises? Where will you have been, when you were needed by your people to be a guiding light and all you left them was this cold, hateful, winter night? 

—No! You must not think of such things. What good will it do, to presume failure? 

(It has been far too late for far too long! shriek the ice-toothed winds.) In your visions you too saw this hellscape, white as far as the eye can see, so far and for so long that you forgot the meaning of colour. Where you find yourself now is the inevitable aftermath of a path long set in stone: to attempt to deny it is to place the bandage of ignorance over your eyes; to become blind to colour forever. You refuse to wear that bandage. 

But, why did you punish us so? you want to cry to the Heavens, fighting through the blizzard as it whips your raw body from side to side as you trek to the resting place of your hope. Why have you shunned us, bestowed upon us this accursed existence? What sin did we commit to deserve your hatred thus? Was it him? Was it me? How heartless must a god be, to scorn a whole people—every man, woman, child—for the sake of one? 

You are near, now. You know it; feel it as a tug in your bones which leads you towards the sacred site as it has your whole life, and as you are certain it shall on your last day, and as it too shall when the last human, crawling from whichever lonely corner of the world they hide in, returns, like a moth drawn to a flame, to their silver cradle and lays down beneath it for their final rest; and then it will be over, and you will all be forgotten, and that will be that. 

A dark silhouette distinguishes itself from obscurity; first a sketched imprint, then a solid shape, forming into your vision behind the whipping curtains of iced shards. This is it, you know; and you repeat to yourself, This is it. As the condemned criminal approaches the execution block to meet their unshakeable fate, as the hero returns to their homeland to find it dashed beyond recognition, so you, too, proceed through the storm, squinting your eyes against the dusted darkness, trying to form that jagged silhouette as it comes into view into an image that is anything but a seal of your snow-entombed end. 

A twisted, hollow shell of bark, crusted with jewels of snow, is all that remains of the sacred monument. 

You sink to your knees by the tree under which you were born as a wordless cry wrenches itself from your throat. No language can do justice to your grief. 

Oh, it is dead, it is dead! you lament. Sobs choke you breathless as you place a hand upon one of the gnarled, dead branches, not caring for how the cold stings your skin to numbness. My love, I am sorry, I am so sorry! It is dead, you lament to the silence of the perished. Which means that you, too, are—

A voice intrudes upon your mourning. You almost miss it above the wind’s anguish, and your own. The voice comes again, this time distinguishing itself from the storm. Tears freeze upon your cheeks before they have the time to fall; your mouth falls open in puzzled and grieved ecstasy. A silhouette approaches through the snow. Could it be—? Could it possibly be—? Upon seeing you, he hurries forwards—for you can tell now that he is a man—his voice taking on a shade of alarm. You are rooted to the snow as the stranger approaches and comes into slow focus. A chalk-white coat, white as the deathly flakes which have claimed your kingdom, whips around his figure. 

Your hope is extinguished, crushed out of existence: no, you do not recognise him! He speaks to you in an unfamiliar tongue, and you do not understand his words. Where are your people; those who speak your language? They are dead, they are dead! Just as Irminsul is dead, just as you should be dead, just as you are dead! 

The stranger reaches you. He grasps your wrist with his gloved left hand and leans in towards you, still speaking, his tone inquiring, gentle, concerned. There is acute care in his eyes, and in your swirling vision his features melt away, blend like oil paint on an easel, form familiar shapes and take on contours which you know. His hair is ashen blond, and in his right hand he grasps a sword. 

“I-Imunlaukr?” is the name torn from your lips. 

The man before you hesitates. His eyebrows knit together, and he speaks again, in a hushed, slow manner, pronouncing his words with clarity and intention—but the sounds he draws together, so guttural and harsh, are foreign to you, and his meaning, whatever it may be, is lost on your deaf ears. You are stupefied, unable to do anything but blink and stare in blank silence at him; this foreign man who has set foot in your dead country, wearing the semblance of its failed hero (who was your guide, your friend, perhaps—no, not that, not yet at least); you are utterly paralysed in a daze of heartbreak and confusion and frostbitten despair. 

The shrieking wind drives needles down your ears and you can take the noise—the howling, the speaking, the dreadful silence—no longer. Your strength leaves you. You sink downwards into the snow. 

He catches your wrist as you fall. You are pulled upwards, an arm is secured around your shoulder, and as your vision pulses dark and your head swims with the numbness of grief, you are faintly aware of the sensation of being led. 

He guides you (though he does not save you; he is no hero) through ice drifts and lakes, between winding roads of iced rock which used to be coated with greenest moss soft as bedding (indeed, you once fell asleep upon such stones); beneath tall, bone-coloured structures which you do not remember being there before; between crumbling walls of stone so decrepit and half-sunk in snow that you can no longer name the building they belonged to. At every turn your memories return to haunt you—look! Here is the river you bathed in as a child, now sealed shut beneath a lid of frost. And look! Here is the forested slope on which your father hunted deer, though there is no single rodent which stirs to disturb the settled whiteness, and the pine trees are shapes drawn in chalk. Oh, look! the mountains beg of you in the howl of the wind. Look at us, whispers the rustle of falling snow; were we not beautiful? 

And so you look, and you look, but still you do not see the beauty. It is all an illusion, nothing more than a twisted semblance of things; these memories of life as you wander through a graveyard. 

At last he guides you over a broken bridge, whose aged planks give way to a gaping white chasm below, and to the entrance of a cave. The interior is vaguely distinguished by the sputtering firelight of twin braziers which stand by each side of the cave front: you can identify the outline of a desk, and of shelves lined with faintly luminescent bottles. The stranger takes you inside. As you are led forth, you struggle to keep one foot in front of another; your legs are weak, your head faint; you know not how much longer you can stand without collapsing. You feel exposed and empty, as though the blizzard has whittled you down; stripped away your skin and your muscles and your nerve endings layer by layer until all that remains of you now is a husk; a heart, frozen solid, trapped within a cage of clean white bones. 

He sits you down on a mattress in the back corner of the cave, far from the wind and the snow still blasting outside, and starts up a fire in the adjacent fire pit. From one of the shelves lining the walls he lifts a folded blanket and drapes it like a cape over your shoulders. The motion is a cruel imitation of the ceremonial garb you would wear during formal occasions, and you do not pull it closer. Beneath the blanket you tremble, stare blankly, and are silent. 

Now the fair-haired stranger does something else. He places a mug into your hands, steaming with a liquid of which scent is unfamiliar to you and whose presence you only notice when the hot porcelain is pressed into your palms. The tasteless liquid scalds your tongue as you take a sip, but you do not care. What is there to care for anymore? You are alone, misplaced, no longer a figure in the fresco. The forms of the world have shifted around you such that you are no longer welcome among them. 

He places a hand upon your brow; frowns. He walks to a drawer and returns, holding in his hand a thin glass tube. You are unmoving as he tilts your chin upwards with his fingers (there is something almost reverent in the motion) and slips the tube into your mouth. It is like an icicle on your tongue. He removes the tube a minute or so later and goes to write something down into a notebook on the desk as you sit there, paralysed, absent. 

The blankets, the drink; they do not warm you, even if your shivering subsides and feeling slowly returns to your fingertips. There is a deeper chill which resides within you: a frosted chasm in your heart through which bleak winds blow, and cannot be filled through material means. Is there anyone else out there, among those shrapnel plains? Or is it only you who is left, and this stranger, and his cave? 

The legs of a wooden stool screech against the floor, rousing your wandering mind. The stranger takes a seat opposite you. He gestures towards himself and pronounces a slow string of sounds. “Al-be-do.” You believe it is his name. His gloved hand then extends towards you; you can only suppose that he beckons for you to answer him.

The way your mouth moves to shape your reply is different to what you are used to. You attest it to the cold numbing your lips; yet it still feels so strange, so frightfully wrong, despite the farcical comfort of the justification. Your own name feels unfamiliar on your tongue as you pass it to him. As you do so, it strikes you that from this moment onwards, this stranger—this ‘Albedo’—may be the only person to ever know your name. And once he is dead, you will all be dead forever. 

His mouth purses. After a moment he speaks again, and pauses, looking inquiringly towards you; you shake your head, understanding none of what he has said. Something in his eyes, something akin to hope, flickers and dies. 

He stands up, walking now towards a desk, picking up a notebook and two sticks of charcoal and chalk respectively, and returns, offering one to you (you take the charcoal), keeping the chalk and the notebook for himself. You receive it, knowing his meaning: if you cannot communicate through common knowledge of language, you shall do so through the common understanding of form. The hand will present what the tongue cannot articulate, and the eye of an artist will translate its meaning. 

‘Albedo’ sits at a measured distance away from you: close enough to suggest intimacy, far enough to set a clinical boundary which establishes his position as the one of authority. He knows everything about this place which you do not. You are in his dwelling, and he has lent it to you of his own accord, through his own grace. Wherever this is, whatever world, whatever time, you are an outsider here. This is no longer your kingdom, and you are a foreigner in this land. Your only chance of establishing a livelihood—no, of establishing a mere understanding—lies with the stranger sitting opposite you, resembling so callously the one whom you…

He begins to draw in the sketchbook. No more than a minute later, he finishes and presents the illustration to you. It is a portrait of himself, simple in composition, yet evidently made by a skilled hand.

He tears an empty page from the book and holds it out towards you in gloved fingers, the tips of which are now dusted faintly with chalk. You accept the page from him and, though confused by the proposal, consider how to answer him. Your memory of your own face is blurred, unsure of itself in the details. The one sitting before the canvas is rarely depicted in it themselves, and you are not in the practice of drawing from life as much as you are from imagination: but that you must try to answer him is the one thing of which you can be certain. From the vaults of your memory, you reach out towards the shapes you remember and put them to paper. 

He tilts his head when you share your piece with him, and a slight furrow forms in his brow. From his expression, you can tell he is beginning to understand something; but as to the identity of the object of his musing, you are clueless. Once more he draws; his stick of chalk moves fluidly across the paper, without a single hint of effort, as if whatever he is drawing, he has done so enough times to be familiar with its features, to such a degree that he can recreate them by muscle memory alone. Once more, he shows you the product: it is another portrait; but of whom you do not know. The face depicted in the paper is one you have never seen before. 

Your confusion is perceptible; Albedo gestures towards you as he did the previous time, though now without giving you a piece of paper. You surmise that his intention now is not for you to reply to him; no; this is not a dialogue, but an explanation. When you point at yourself to ensure you have not misunderstood his meaning, he nods. But what does he mean to say? That he has drawn you? That cannot be so; imperfect as your own memory may be, you know for certain that this image is not a reflection of yourself; thus the question remains: who is this? Albedo makes no further movements; he offers no further elaboration. He only waits, looking across at you, expecting your understanding. 

Slowly, doubtingly, your fingers ascend to examine your face. The features you feel are not those which comprise your own countenance; no, they are those of the face in the portrait; you are certain of this without having to check the sketch again.  

This discovery shocks you so deeply that your fingers spring away from your face of their own accord and begin to tremble. You are more than shocked; you are perturbed, horrified; you are afraid. For the first time since awakening in the chamber of frescoes, you look down at yourself; properly look, and see what you missed before. These clothes do not belong to you; neither does this skin, nor these proportions, nor these hands! The question, then, is not ‘who is the one in the portrait?’, but ‘who are you?’ How can this be, that your mind inhabits a body which belongs to somebody else? 

Your panic threatens to overwhelm you. It is Albedo who clears his throat and disturbs your worries, allowing a precious moment of lucidity to seize you. Yes, that’s right—you are here, you remind yourself; not as yourself, no, and not in the way you would like to be; but you are here, and you must make do. With a pronounced effort you force the questions, the fear, the confusion, to the furthermost corner of your mind, and gather yourself into a single, solid centre. 

Laid to waste as your kingdom may be, you are still royalty; and with the crown come obligations of loyalty, dignity, and pride; qualities intrinsic to themselves, existing with and without witness alike. It does not matter that you preach to a vacuum, or that your valuables are mere trinkets and baubles lost to time: in the absence of your subjects you are still to hold your head high and lead them into the empty future. Such is the conduct befitting of a princess. 

And even here, in the midst of this storm which has done all it can to wipe your existence from history, you hold value. Like a blossom unfurling, the realisation first seizes, then relaxes, expands, inside you; you hold value. For the first time since waking, you know something that this land does not, and that this stranger, so strangely well-accustomed to the winter, does not, and must ask the answer of you, for you are the only person in existence who knows what you know. 

You know the stories of your people; how you lived, learned, loved and died; how you celebrated and built and mourned. You know the life you lived and the identity you held. Nobody else, not in the Heavens nor on the earth, knows these things; these beautiful truths which weigh more than gold. It is your duty to impart them lest they be forgotten—and now, an opportunity: an outsider inquires of your history; you give him as faithful a depiction as you can, and in doing so pass on the narrative of your nation from the forsaken past into an era still able to breathe, receive, to grow; you shake the cobwebs of time from their foundations and take your solitary chronicles into the present. 

In bleak chromatics you illustrate your celebrated birth beneath Irminsul at the height of spring, and in strokes of black and white you narrate, as best as you can, the verdant prosperity of your kingdom in your childhood. So clear now are those images in your mind’s eye, like inverted reflections shimmering on a still lake, that it is almost impossible to believe they no longer stand somewhere within that raging storm. 

Once you have established the landscape of your upbringing, you introduce him to the people of your life. Robust forms assemble on the paper to describe the figure of your father, beloved Varuch, whom you last saw setting out into the white blizzard as you painted the final fresco, the forsaken image which still haunts you even now, a landscape of all white; no colour; no spring; all white and grey and bare as plucked bone, as you see in the land you now find yourself: your beloved father proclaiming that when—not if, but when—he returned, it was to be with answers, solutions, salvation. 

You do not believe he returned. Certainly not while you toiled in white and black, trying in vain to sow colour from frozen seeds and to conceive seasons in permanent winter; nor as you gave your remaining strength to the tree of your birthplace in the hope, in those glowing, dying embers, that it may outlive you. Once more you question how you survived; you were certain you should not survive, back when you did it; yet here you are, warmed by firelight, your heart throbbing with hot life while the winter has stolen your loved ones. (Did he ever return? What would he make of your body?)

Guiding your charcoal stump across the paper, in black and white you inform the outlines of dear, wise Ukko in long, whiskered lines; remember his dry wit, his kind patience, the frail strength of his arms as he lifted you from those withered roots (you are sure, somewhere, that he lifted you). He was the one who tutored you in writing, politics, history, and the arts, the latter of which you took such an interest in as to dictate the remainder of your life as you sketched, painted, created.

In the winter of your tenth year you met Imunlaukr, then only a shy boy of similar age to you hailing from a distant kingdom. He had hardly spoken a word of your tongue, and you even less of his, but the difficulty of language did not deter you; you grew close through laughter and music, through those currents shared amongst humankind upon which emotions, not grammar, run; and from two strangers formed acquaintance, and from acquaintance formed friendship (though of that friendship—oh, you could not say! What did you really think of it; of him? It is something that even now you are not sure of!)

Spring again, and in the language of forms you dictate your visions, the gift with which you were blessed at birth and has lain silent since you awoke (for the gods have abandoned you! What reason is there that your visions would remain?); the curse which stripped away your vision of the present and imposed upon you the solitary existence of living in what was yet to come. The black dragon—has that happened yet?

Summer, and the charcoal cannot do justice to the way Irimsul’s silver trunk glimmered in the dipping sun, reflecting every shade of the preciousness; then the soft crunch of leaves in autumn underfoot as you wandered through the palace gardens, attended by a handful of escorts until you reached the centrepiece fountain; at which point you dismissed them, and proceeded forth with Imunlaukr as your sole companion. 

“You are painting so often these days,” he said, rounding the stone base of the fountain; a note of reproach rang in his voice as he spoke; not aimed towards you as much as towards circumstance; yet you still bore the reproach (though you knew he did not mean it as such) as though you were its principal subject. It was always him you were the most loath to disappoint; from others you could bear it (except, perhaps, from your father); but not him. He always assured you of his good opinion; the doubts lingered nonetheless, and impartially the damage was dealt; your high spirits withered somewhat.

It was the autumn before your eighteenth year, and there was a buzz of anticipation in the air in spite of the impending onset of winter; for there was a decision approaching on the horizon; one which had not yet been lent much mind, but a decision to be made nonetheless. 

Over the years that you knew him, Imunlaukr had developed from a scrawny boy into a prodigal swordsman; yet it was a delicate, almost feminine quality his form possessed, more befitting of a prince or a poet than a fighter, resulting in the frequent tendency to mislead one into assuming frailty where in truth there hid a warrior (a hero, you always teased him to be; a guiding light). You would never have guessed his real strength did you not know him.

You lowered yourself down beside him on the lip of the fountain and folded your hands in your lap, one over the other. “I do not mean to. But the insights I receive are so striking; I can hardly stop myself when they come,” you said in reply. This topic of conversation was breached between you on occasion, though as a general rule it was avoided, when painting the frescoes of your visions demanded more time than you could afford to give if you were to balance it also with the surrounding figures of your life. Every few months, for some weeks on end, the flashes you received would grow so realistic, so arresting, that you would become absorbed in your frescoes, placing barely a foot outside your chamber except for necessities, such as food and water.  

You knew that it pained Imunlaukr, to be excluded so from your involvements by forces beyond either of your control; and similarly it pained you, that your time should be stolen by this duty without you realising it early enough to grant apology. Still, life went on; still, you painted, and he grew ill-tempered; still, you apologised, and he reassured you; and thus life went on, in contentment. “Peace; you need not blame yourself. What is it that you see?” he asked. 

“I see many things. Oh, Imun, I see such wonderful, terrible things, so vivid that I cannot sleep!” You were seized by the overwhelming urge to grasp his hands, in that moment; to pull him closer to you and cry out, If only I could share them with you, through a means beyond my frescoes! Imun, you do not understand; sometimes I wish the gods had not chosen me, for I am so alone, and I wish for nothing more than to have you at my side and keep me company!

But you did not take his hands; that would be unbecoming of you; the moment passed. You remember a certain look flashing in his eyes; the emotion behind it you could not say, but the look had stayed with you, almost shaken you, for reasons beyond your knowing—and still does. You also are sure that the conversation continued, and you resumed roaming through the gardens; but you do not remember what you were talking about. Only that look remains clear as diamond in your memory, like a beacon beaming into the sky towards which you find yourself drawn, clutching onto tenderly. 

Winter, passing, then spring again, ripe with buds and blooming towards a promise, and then—

The charcoal is torn this way and that as you recount the fateful nail which fell like a shard from the sky, splintered your livelihoods, and sealed your fates in snow tombs. Irminsul, standing since the dawn of eras tall and dignified, crippled like an old hag in a moment; fields and forest obliterated and buried beneath shrouds upon shrouds of ash-like snow; your visions, always so varied to the point of driving you to near madness on one occasion (you will never, long as you live, forget that black dragon), grew static, haunting you with the same image each time: unerring, unending white. Then there is the fresco you did not finish, there is your final return to the sacred tree… 

That is your life, wrapped in a parcel of charcoal and paper. So bleak does it seem, looking upon it now. (Whose life, one must wonder, have you taken now?)

So you deliver your priceless parcel to the stranger; so he receives it; yet there is no detectable trace of emotion in Albedo’s expression as he reads the narrative of your life; only a detached, clinical curiosity, that of a scientist’s hypothesis being tested. 

Your value is lost. There is nothing more you could recount that he cannot put into the world—no; there is your tongue, you suppose. The last jewel of yours, buried deep in the base of your throat; the final treasure you can offer of yourself to this world. Perhaps it is the most precious gift of all, a language; perhaps the most insignificant. Every man has one, after all.

Albedo rises from the stool, taking both it and the drawing with him, and places the former beneath his desk, the latter upon it. A caged light sits on the edge of the desktop and reveals the wooden surface is scattered with papers and diagrams of all kinds, though you cannot from this distance discern their contents. He glances over his shoulder to where you are still seated on the mattress. With a wave of his hand he gestures towards the mattress, on which lie also a cushion and another blanket which you had not noticed before. It is a far cry from the palatial bed you are used to, but it serves its purpose. A slight indentation in the cushion where you place your head suggests that this makeshift arrangement is habitually used. The unwelcome reminder that you are not in your own body grasps you suddenly and causes you to shift with unease beneath the blankets. 

While you lie awake and wonder abstractedly at the reality you find yourself in—is what you have seen all true? are you dreaming? could this be another vision?—Albedo sits at the desk, writing and looking between the papers, the shadows of his silhouette pulled this way and that by the caged flame and the firelight. In the flickering contours of his face you can trace Imunlaukr’s brow, the line of his jaw, a resemblance of his eyes. 

For a while, you feel perfectly normal. There is no discomfort beyond the usual fluttering rasp in your lungs. Your throat still feels a touch raw, but that is only to be expected. You take a sip of the honeyed tea which rests in a mug on your knees. In between Albedo’s quiet focus and the warmth of the fire, you begin to think that if there is any moment you would label as ‘comfortable’, it would be this.

Yet, moments later, it comes again. It begins as a sharp pinch in your chest. You seize up. So soon? Pressure builds inside you, slowly at first, then swelling painfully. You know the sensation well, and try to suppress it; but like always, the growth forces itself out of you. Spiked leaves propel themselves up your windpipe and scrape your throat, constricting your airways and sending tears to your eyes. You double over, coughing flecks of blood and a glistening red berry onto the back of your hand. A holly leaf remains wedged in your throat; you feel it digging into the softer skin like a thorn. Distastefully you pluck it out between two fingers and wipe yourself off with a handkerchief from your pocket. You raise the berry to the firelight, turn it this way and that, watch amber flicker across its waxed red coat like the veins of some evil eye. 

It’s only been an hour since the last attack. It takes you a moment to slow your breathing and for your heartbeat to return to normal. You take another sip of tea; the liquid stings the open cut in your throat. At his workbench, Albedo closes his notebook with a soft sigh. 

“Still nothing?” you ask hoarsely. 

“I’m afraid not.” Albedo removes his gloves, places them down at the workbench, and returns to your side by the fire. You turn your palms over thoughtfully on your lap. He leans over and presses his lips to your forehead, lingering in the moment before drawing back. “I’m sorry, my love.” 

You manage to produce a smile. “It’s okay. I’m hardly expecting much these days, anyway.”

He offers a similarly solemn smile in return. You rest your head on his shoulder, letting your limbs loosen and settle against him. For a few minutes, you are both silent. 

“How long do I have left?” you ask in a small voice, above the hisses and pops of the fire pit. “Be honest with me.”

“You have as long as everyone does,” he replies. “A lifetime.”

“What kind of a lifetime?” 

“That would depend on your frame of reference,” Albedo admits. “To a mayfly, you practically have an eternity.”

You sigh at his answer, equally fond and disappointed. Albedo is open to almost all kinds of conversation—it’s one of the things you appreciate most about him—but it always takes some pushing when you come to graze this particular topic. You appreciate the attempt at comfort; it’s sweet, knowing that he’s trying not to dishearten you, yet sometimes you wish he was not so tactful. It would make these inevitable moments easier. “Albedo…”

“I don’t know,” he says honestly. “You have survived thus far, and there has neither been a steep decline nor any sign of improvement in your condition. It is as likely that you will live to old age as it is that, by this time next year, the disease will have already overtaken you.”

“And there’s no way of knowing which one it is.”

He lowers his eyes and shakes his head, smiling with rueful affection. “No,” he says softly, drawing circles into your knuckles. 

You inhale slowly. The leaves in your lungs rattle and rasp against your ribs like a rustle of paper, barely audible, which accompanies your every breath. You must breathe carefully, never too deeply, lest the spines of holly growing inside you rake your insides and cause internal bleeding. Yet the worst part of it, most of the time, isn’t the pain, or even the constant reminder of your fragile mortality. It’s the fact that nobody—not you, not Albedo, not anyone—knows the first thing about the affliction. 

For months, Albedo has been studying the growths inside you, running tests on your coughed-up sprigs in vain while you search for other sources which may provide some insight. Forget about finding any treatments; you don't even know what the disease is, or where it comes from. The closest equivalent you’ve found was in a storybook of Inazuman folklore, but even there such symptoms only appeared as a result of unrequited love, whereas your relationship with Albedo has been warm, loving, comfortable. You have had the disease for longer than you have known him, anyway. 

You still remember what Albedo told you, at the end of the first week of experiments. After replicating the conditions under which the holly germinates inside of you, not so much as one branch survived. He said that the only condition he was unable to reproduce was love; that you were sick because you cared so deeply for so many things. It sounded ludicrous—he was the first to admit it—but even now, no better alternative has emerged. He speculated that, perhaps, if he were to engineer a medication which numbed certain chemical receptors in your brain, he could stop you from feeling so much; that the plants might die as a result. You said you would rather die of love than live without it, because a life like that would hardly be worth anything at all. 

So that is your diagnosis: love. 

Can it really be so, you have been wondering since, that creatures can feed on love like a parasite? Survive on it? And why does it feel like a punishment, loving? What did you do to deserve it?

You expel the sigh. The hooked leaves tap-tap-tap against your ribs.

Your condition is what it is; there is no changing it. But there are still a few things you can take control of. The time you have left—be that a day, a year, or a decade—is in your hands. You do not want to waste it mourning a death yet to come. After all, there is no more a reason for you to do so than for anyone else to: because everybody knows that it happens to everyone, eventually. 

“To the mayflies, then,” you say, stretching your legs out by the fire. 

Albedo gives your hand a gentle squeeze. “To the mayflies.”

“Hey!” 

Your moment of solitude is shattered by a frustrated cry, which is soon accompanied by an indignant Klee bursting into the campsite, bearing a deep pout on her face. “You said you were coming in twenty minutes! I counted and counted, and it’s been twenty one whole minutes!” She points an accusatory finger in your and Albedo’s direction. “If we’re late, it’s gonna be all your fault.”

The two of you exchange a certain look. There is an unspoken agreement between you not to raise the topic of your health in front of Klee, at least not for the time being; thus you put aside thoughts of the previous conversation in favour of entertaining the present. It ought to be a festive season, after all, not a solemn one. 

“Sorry, Klee. We’re coming now,” Albedo calls, offering you a hand to help you to your feet. You thank him and accept it. 

Klee stomps her boot on the floor. “Hmph. There’s no point in saying sorry. Just hurry up!”

You hastily swipe your gloves and throat drops from Albedo’s workbench and join the others by the cave entrance, from where you begin your descent down the mountainside. Klee bounces along in front while Albedo and yourself trail a few steps behind her, discussing matters such as winter shopping and activities. The sun bows its head below the snow-capped spires and soon vanishes from view. The dusk leaves you to navigate solely by lanterns and your own memory. 

It is dark by the time you reach the Mondstadt gate, though no colder than it was up on Dragonspine. The knights greet you warmly and welcome you inside. 

The city is alive with the hustle and bustle of seasonal festivities. Stepping through the barbican, the scents hit you immediately; a warming blend of cloves, cinnamon, pine, nutmeg and alcohol. Decorated trees have been set up in doorways, and strings of gold lights line shop fronts and rooftops, winking as you pass by streams of tightly-wrapped civilians milling around temporary market stalls. A thin, slushed layer of snow forms a slippery crust on the pavement which crunches beneath your heavy boots.

You navigate past the crowds into Angel’s Share, where a large table has been reserved for this evening’s gathering. By the looks of things, your party is the last to arrive; Klee glowers in your direction, but her bitterness is soon quelled by the excitement of the reunion. 

“Jean!” she gasps. “Kaeya! Lisa!”—and so do the exclamations continue. In the meanwhile, you take a seat between Albedo and Amber, and exchange greetings around the table. It’s nice, catching up with everyone like this; despite it only being a month or two since you last came down to the city, it feels like you haven’t seen everybody in a lifetime. 

“How are you, then, sweetie?” asks Lisa, pressing her hand to your cheek. 

“So-so,” you say. “I’m getting by, which is what’s important. How about you?”

“Mm. I’m quite well; thank you for asking, dear. If anything, I miss your company in the library; there’s only so much interesting conversation one can have with the knights at the door.” She sighs heavily and forlornly. You roll your eyes in good humour. “Is the Dragonspine air doing you any good?”

“If anything, the air’s a bit too fresh sometimes,” you reply with a careful laugh. “It’s freezing up there. But I think it’s been helping a little, yes.”

She smiles. “I’m glad to hear it. Do you have anything planned for the rest of the season?”

“We’re going to take Klee skating on the lakes tomorrow. It was Albedo’s idea to get her active with something so that she’s, ah, less destructive with her gifts. We don’t want a repeat of last year.”

As conversation continues into the evening, a festive feast is slowly brought out, course by course; braised red cabbage, roasted goose, potato dumplings, stuffed sausage and more pass around the table, filling plates (and stomachs) with hearty warmth which is flushed down with mulled wine—and for the younger of the company, apple juice. Kaeya and Rosaria perhaps have a touch too much to drink (this becomes suspected when the former bursts into passionate carols, and confirmed when the latter uncharacteristically joins him). Diluc swiftly removes the remaining bottles from the table, much to their disappointment, and, sensing that the time remaining for sane conversation is thinning, Jean stands up, tapping her fork against her glass. The sound rings out; the tavern falls silent. 

“While we’re all here together, I’d like to take the opportunity to make a toast,” she announces. “To the staff who made this gathering possible, to the knights who work to keep our people safe, to the citizens who make this city what it is—thank you. All your contributions, however small, have played a part in ensuring this last year of peace and stability. Let us hope today that our good fortune carries forwards into the future. To another prosperous year!”

The tavern raises its glasses, the drunk and sober alike murmuring assent under the unification of festive camaraderie. You, too, raise your glass and chink it against the others, meeting Albedo’s eyes with a shared sense of acceptance, love, and warmth. The stalks wrapped around your lungs seem to squeeze, to sigh and loosen all at once, performing a strange embrace around your heart. But for one tap of a glass, you do not worry about them. You smile.