Wonder is the beginning of wisdom. @cynicalmusings - Tumblr Blog

…𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜: Major character death, spoilers for 3.5 Amphoreus quest, spoilers for Anaxa's backstory. …𝙻𝚎𝚗𝚐𝚝𝚑: 24,708 words. …𝙰𝚍𝚍𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚒𝚗𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗: Gender-neutral reader, Socrates!reader, takes place in Eternal Recurrence 33,550,337. This fic is a continuation of 'On Will'. I'll link a post to the thought processes, references, etc. behind the fic when it's finished. AO3.

Comments and reblogs are appreciated.

‘𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐓𝐇’

CHARACTERS OF THE DIALOGUE.

UNNAMED PHILOSOPHER, narrator ANAXAGORAS, main interlocutor ARISTOCLES, Nodist student at the Grove of Epiphany FIRST GUARD, soldier of Okhema SECOND GUARD, soldier of Okhema LYCURGUS, Theoros of the Council of Elders(?) LYSIS, citizen of Okhema CRITO, citizen of Okhema CIFERA, demigod of Trickery OTHERS, who are mute auditors.

… … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … …

𝐁𝐎𝐎𝐊 𝐈𝐈, 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐈, 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐃𝐔𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍

You wake with a start to find Anaxagoras peering down at you, an impassive expression on his face as he holds up your olive sprig in one hand. Upon seeing him your shock subsides.

“Goodness, Anaxagoras, it’s you,” you sigh out. He hands you back the branch and you swiftly return it home behind your ear. “I thought it might be more students coming to steal it from me for laughs. Was that truly necessary?”

His voice is as impassive as his stare, though no less arresting for it. “I tried to get your attention through other means, but they did not succeed.”

“Ah. In that case, I apologise for failing to notice you.” You tilt your head at him. “What have you come for?”

“Do I need a cause to seek you out?” he retorts.

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

The passing flash of a smirk. “Then you would be correct. The caravan is departing for Okhema soon. I strongly advise you to travel with us.”

“Oh, is that so? I had forgotten it was today.”

“Precisely why I came to remind you.” He conducts a brief scan of your person. “You do not have any belongings to take with you?”

You try to think of anything which could constitute your ‘belongings’. Given the sparsity of potential candidates, it does not take very long. You conclude, “None beyond my own mind and body, I should think.”

Anaxagoras nods in the direction of the Luminary Throne. “Then come. Everyone is gathering in the clearing. They will not wait for you if you are late.”

He turns away and begins walking towards the aforementioned location. You ease yourself off the rock and stretch your arms over your head to a chorus of cricks and cracks from your shoulders, back and wrists. Before you follow Anaxagoras, you place an amicable hand on the surface of the stone. You will be sorry to leave this rock behind. It has served you faithfully through many an afternoon nap. Nevertheless you have long since learned to accept the transience of phenomenal things; and so you bid it a silent farewell and do not look back.

You close the distance between yourself and Anaxagoras in a few swift strides. Despite his warning to you, he is not making an effort to walk particularly quickly.

“You know,” you say as you fall into step beside him, “I was having a curious dream before you woke me.”

“Is that so?” he responds. “What of?”

You walk enough together that your shoulders brush. “An elm tree and a pomegranate.”

Shooting you a sidelong glance, he says, “Is this another one of your ‘clear insights’?”

“Yes, it is.” You smile at him, glad that he understands. “You are catching on.”

He scoffs, but all the same invites you to elaborate on the details at a later occasion. In the meantime you discuss various other inconsequential matters until you reach the assembly point.

𝐁𝐎𝐎𝐊 𝐈𝐈, 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐈𝐈, 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒

A small crowd has gathered in the clearing before the Luminary Throne, consisting of a handful of scholars and the sages Apuleius and Socrippe, of the Nodist and Erythrokeramism schools respectively. The other residents of the Grove of Epiphany—those still alive, that is—have already left for Okhema in two waves, of which the current company is the third and final. You spy Aristocles standing a little way away. Relief passes over his countenance when you meet his eye.

Once you and Anaxagoras arrive, Apuleius conducts a swift headcount. He then provides a curt summary of what is to be expected on the journey and without further delay the group sets off on foot.

You approach Aristocles shortly after departing. It is only right that you check in on him. A student of the Nodist school whom you befriended a few years ago, he recently lost his professor to the black tide creatures unleashed during Lycurgus’ attacks on Okhema. Since then he has taken to you as something of a mentor. Though you have told him repeatedly that you cannot replace his professor, he insists upon heeding your counsel, and you are not one to refuse an opportunity for discussion.

“How are you, then, Aristocles?” you query as you sidle up by the young man.

“I am well,” he replies. His demeanour, somewhat dejected, casts doubt on the veracity of his statement. “I began worrying you wouldn’t make it in time to leave with us.”

You chuckle and pat his broad shoulder by way of reassurance. “My dear Aristocles, I would never dream of being left behind. You may rest assured that we will make it to Okhema together.”

“Where will you be staying?”

“I’m not quite sure yet,” you admit. “We will see what the situation is like when we arrive. If possible, I will visit you, or you may visit me.”

This brightens him up, slightly. “I’m looking forward to it.”

“Now, now, my friend. Don’t get too excited,” you advise teasingly. “You know my involvement tends to result in more discord than anything else.”

In full seriousness, he replies, “That’s a problem for people who fail to see the value of your input.”

“What flattery! I don’t even know these insights you are referring to.”

Your conversation continues along similar trivial lines. Usually you would speak about more significant subjects, but it is clear from his subdued manner that he is not at his best, and you do not wish to overwhelm him. After a few more minutes, you leave Aristocles to wander through the rest of the entourage.

It is a relatively sparse company. Not many members of the Grove of Epiphany have survived this far. To be precise, not many people in Amphoreus have survived this far. Innumerable curious minds have been crushed by perennial war, their questions and insights severed before having the chance to bloom. It may not be death in the strictest sense (the soul, of course, continues to disseminate), but if one considers the situation from its outward appearance, the term is fitting.

Such pervasive loss means you must treasure the conversations you do have all the more. You try to strike up some conversation with those present. Whenever you approach someone, they turn away or become engaged, seemingly out of nowhere, in deep conversation with another—though if you try to enter the conversation, your existence is all but dismissed.

The treatment does not injure you personally. Most people tend to ignore you if given the chance, and to be fair to them, you may give them good reason to wish so. Nonetheless you cannot align yourself with these sentiments. Any scholar should surely jump at an opportunity to discuss their own ideas. Furthermore, this journey threatens to be terribly tedious, and what better way to spend a dull, tiring trek than engrossed in philosophical dialogue?

Alas, nobody else seems to share your perspective. Unable to find a willing conversational partner, you turn your mind inwards, content enough to wander among your own thoughts if no one is willing to offer you theirs.

Truth be told, you are somewhat apprehensive about returning to Okhema. It is not that you hold any enmity toward the city-state. Quite the contrary, it is the city-state which holds a certain contempt for you. After you were banished you found your way to the Grove of Epiphany, where your queries are at least tolerated by the company there—or rather, were tolerated. That will not be the case for much longer.

You look back upon that time with a degree of wistfulness. Those very queries are how you came across many valuable acquaintances, such as Aristocles and Anaxagoras, who first took an interest in your view of the gods when he was still studying under the Venerationists.

You owe much to the freedom of thought permitted by the Grove. Although you did not always escape censure, the ideas you discussed with the scholars there would have been grounds sufficient for immediate execution in Okhema.

You presume that you will be allowed to enter Okhema, given the turbulence present across Amphoreus. The authorities of the holy city are not so unreasonable. What happens once you’ve entered, however, remains a matter for dispute. Had you a choice, you would go elsewhere.

Of course, ‘elsewhere’ is not an option, and so here you are, trekking back to the world’s last stronghold, from which you are technically exiled. Certainly whatever follows from this series of events will not be dull.

“Falling behind the group is hardly a wise idea.”

A familiar cadence, laden with dry irony. You don't have to look over your shoulder to know Anaxagoras is walking beside you, though you could not say when he joined you.

“You were reminded that it’s safer to stay in the bulk of the group,” he continues, and fixes you with a sharply arched eyebrow. “Or are you trying to get yourself picked off by wild beasts?”

Looking around, you realise that you have indeed fallen behind the rest of the travellers, who walk some twenty paces ahead of you. The difference in your paces suggests that a few minutes is all it would take to lose sight of them among the dense vegetation.

You do recall Apuleius warning everybody about the dangers of separation before setting out. These words of caution sunk below the surface of your thought shortly after they were issued, only now breaking into your conscious awareness.

“That is not my intention at all,” you confess. “I suppose I must have slowed my pace inadvertently.”

He clicks his tongue. “It is like herding cats with you.”

You smile. “Surely only one cat, no?”

“One cat is more than enough,” he mutters, but you don’t believe his frustration is genuine. Anaxagoras tends to tease you in this way. His words, though often barbed, bear no harmful intent. You have sufficient experience with true slander to recognise the difference.

Now that he is here, you are relieved to have somebody to converse with—no less Anaxagoras, who is always full of valuable insights. You clasp your hands behind your back and turn to him. “Tell me, good Anaxagoras, what do you think about this whole situation? The Flame-Chase Journey, the cyclicality of our existence, the very nature of our world… I myself have been pondering it as of late.”

“There is much I could say on all of these matters,” he replies. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

“Very well. Then let us begin with our existence, which it turns out is composed of nothing more than strands of information produced by an experiment. I know some are deeply perturbed by this revelation.”

“There is no use being perturbed over facts,” Anaxagoras declares. “Reality won’t bend itself to conform to your emotional state. While distress is understandable, it is ultimately fruitless. Nor do I see where matter is concerned with regard to personhood. All things are fundamentally composed of the same substrate: memory. Souls, which constitute personhood, are capsules of memory. It makes no essential difference what apparent form these souls take. Thus, my personhood is not affected in any relevant sense.”

His response, as ever, is grounded in rationality. “I am broadly in agreement with you,” you say to him. “Nevertheless, I shall play the sceptic here, lest we overlook some crucial factor in our concord with one another. For one, you have not explained what ‘personhood’ even is. You mentioned that souls comprise personhood, but not the meaning of the concept in itself. Where, for instance, do they diverge? It is my understanding that Nousporism takes all things to be composed of souls. If personhood is only a matter of the soul, this would commit you to saying that all things also have personhood, which surely is not the case, such as for inanimate objects.”

“Perhaps this will satisfy you: ‘persons’ are those with a particular kind of soul, that which can gather and store memories. The souls of non-person objects are composed of memory but lack a capacity to consciously accumulate experiences.”

“How is it that some souls develop this capacity, while others do not, if all souls share a fundamental basis of memory?”

“This ‘fundamental basis of memory’ is inseparable from the existence of persons,” he explains. “Memory is held in the minds of individual persons, and it likewise forms the basis of individual persons. The concepts are mutually dependent and inseparable. Non-conscious souls are impositions of memory by conscious agents. Persons and memory are contingent upon one another, while objects are contingent upon persons.”

You frown. There is yet a missing piece in this framework. “If you accepted an infinite regression of the universe, this would be all well and good, for the notion you propose is circular. However, good Anaxagoras, I have heard you claim that all memory, or to otherwise say all that is, originates from a single source. This supposes the existence of either a first individual or memory, yet if the two are inextricable as you say, it seems impossible to me that such a first being could exist. How do you propose to resolve this?”

“That, I don’t know.” He gives an easy shrug. “I suspect that the answer lies in the conclusion to Amphoreus’ story.”

“You are simply accepting the inconsistency of your theory?”

“It appears to be an inconsistency because I don’t yet have the answer. I would call it incompletion. That isn’t an incentive to abandon the entire framework. If the theory is mistaken, I will make adjustments accordingly. As things stand, Nousporism has proven true about the nature of souls and the cycles; it’s reasonable to suppose that whatever remains unexplained by the theory is so because the answer has not yet been discovered, not that it doesn’t exist at all.”

“I’m afraid I cannot be satisfied with such an answer. The contradiction here lies in the logic, not merely empirical proof of a keystone in your theory.”

“Then I would posit some retrocausal mechanism, by which our current existence provides the very basis for the origin of all that will be. Where temporal cycles are in question, the direction of time, and therefore the direction of causation, need not be linear. It may itself be circular.”

“I see.” You turn his answer over in your mind like a spit rotating over a fire, until the heat has penetrated into its innermost centre. “I still feel that your reasoning hinges on this awaited proof, rather than the other way around. Your proposed answer may be correct, but as you have presented it in retrospect, I can only view your response as purely speculative until it is verified.”

“You may view it in any way you see fit,” he replies. Faint amusement colours his words.

Having reached an impasse, you now direct your thoughts towards a second consideration. “I am also not entirely convinced that the implications of our existence as informational strands are so trivial as you make them out to be. Namely, if our personhood, souls or otherwise, is inextricably connected to the repeating cycles of this world, this seems to have troubling implications for our freedom, does it not?”

His eye shifts over to you, narrowed slightly with the keenness of captured interest. “Elaborate.”

“Gladly. Though, before I attempt such an explanation, we must make sure we agree about what ‘freedom’ is, or else the inquiry is doomed to fail. Have you any ideas?”

He pauses for a moment before replying: “Freedom is achieved in thinking for oneself.”

You pull a frown. His definition does not strike you as outright wrong, but you sense there is a piece missing from the final picture. Observing your reaction, Anaxagoras prompts, “Well? Where are you dissatisfied?”

“It merely seems to me that this cannot be what ‘freedom’ is. One can think for themselves but reach a false conclusion, and thinking in ignorance surely constricts one’s ability to think clearly at all. Perhaps a more comprehensive definition would be something like… thinking for oneself in full recognition of the truth.” Envisioning the implications of your own suggestion, you smile. “In which case, I suppose none of us are truly free.”

You are prepared to resume your previous direction of inquiry and investigate the connection between your manner of existence and the proposed account of freedom, but Anaxagoras has other ideas. Before you have a chance to elaborate, he cuts into your train of thought with a striking question.

“Tell me, philosopher: what is truth?”

You stare at him. His expression is entirely serious. Realising he does not ask in jest, you hang your head, chuckling heartily. “Of all people, good Anaxagoras, you know I am the least qualified to answer that question. How could I, who knows nothing at all, possibly tell you what truth is when I have yet to encounter it myself? I am sure that your own answer, whatever it is, is far superior to mine.”

“You must have some idea,” he insists, dismissing your protestation with forthright certainty. “Take, for instance, the means of inquiry you adopt. This indicates that you think truth can be reasoned to.”

You rub your chin. “Perhaps you are right, to an extent. But inquiry is my means not for discovering truth, merely revealing ignorance. Logical inconsistency is a reliable indicator of what is not the case, but logical consistency is not always a reliable guide towards what is indeed the case. Something may be consistent while simply being false accidentally, whereas something inconsistent cannot possibly be true.”

Like a fisherman who has struck upon a precious catch, Anaxagoras will not let you go. “I struggle to believe that a rigorous seeker of knowledge like yourself has nothing to say on the matter.”

At this you sigh, finally yielding to his persistence. “You are truly asking of me things I cannot give you, Anaxagoras. But I will make an attempt for your sake. However, you must promise not to laugh at me if the answer I give is terribly unsatisfactory, for I have already said this is an area I am not entitled to speak about.”

“You have my word,” he says. “Go on.”

“Truth is what makes knowledge of things possible. You may think of it like sunlight: intangible, but through it all things become perceptible.” Sharing this is like placing one’s beating heart in another’s hands. You raise your eyes to his face. “What do you make of this?”

He responds with neither contempt nor judgement, but that detached analytic interest which accompanies contemplation and is a necessary foundation for any good-faith discourse. Precisely this lack of distinction is what grants you some relief.

“I wonder whether, by your conception, truth is a concept which exists in itself.”

“Just as the sun exists as the source of light, truth itself exists; and knowledge of things is gained when we understand them in light of what is true. Apprehension of the truth itself, beyond its mere instances, proves a far more formidable task. In theory one can stare at the sun without being blinded, but the fact that none have succeeded goes to show how difficult it is to achieve.”

Anaxagoras considers your response. “For all your scepticism,” he observes, “you are certain about your assertion that truth is unattainable, at least in practice.”

“You are right to point that out. It is one of the only claims I can make with conviction. Of course,” you add with a wry wink, “that does not mean I am right.” You tilt your head towards him. “And how would you characterise truth, good Anaxagoras? I have given you my answer, and I think it only fair if you offer me yours in response.”

Anaxagoras’ smile is sharp-edged and almost provocative. He raises his chin like he is about to address an assembly. With the unshakeable confidence of one convinced of his own conclusion, he declares, “Truth is a solvent that dissolves all things in the world, and thus cannot objectively exist.”

You are speechless. He stares back, challenging you with his brandished eye, urging you to respond, to refute him. You cannot, simply because you do not understand the precise claim he is making.

“Why, Anaxagoras, you must elaborate. Whatever do you mean by such a proposition?”

To your great dismay, Anaxagoras seems intent on teasing you. Just as he reveals to you the shining bait of his outlook, he pulls it right back out of reach. Setting his gaze ahead, he says, “That is a conversation for another day. Look—we have arrived at the dromas terminal. Please, philosopher, take your pick.”

Half a day’s dromas ride later, Kephale rears their bowed head over the horizon. Along the way you try to press Anaxagoras for elaboration on his startling claim, but your efforts are in vain, for he is determined to keep his silence.

The dromas you and Anaxagoras ride on happens to be remarkably stubborn and insists on a route of its own choosing. This route contains a conspicuously large tract of redsoil along the way. Anaxagoras makes no attempt to redirect the creature, deferring entirely to its preference, and your coaxing is in vain. The result is that you arrive some hours after the rest of the group, at which point you realise absently that you have failed to keep your word to Aristocles.

Before you, basking in the golden shadow of the Titan, lies the city of Okhema. Its marble temples glint in the incessant sunlight. Even from this distance, you can discern the scars of conflict which mar its noble resplendence, in the form of crumbling architecture and wreaths of smoke winding up from ruins.

Still, life goes on, and it is time you stepped into this turbulent fray.

You disembark from the saddle. The dromas, sensing freedom, plods off to its stable. You and Anaxagoras approach the towering arch which designates the city entrance. Two armoured guards stand at the base of the marble stairs, their speartips gleaming in the slanted light. You proceed with your head slightly lowered. Just as you are thinking you may pass without a fuss, the guard on your left moves his spear to block your path.

“Wait.” Behind his helmet, his eyes narrow on your face. “Aren’t you…”

You clear your throat. “But a simple fool in search of a morsel of knowledge, ye—”

“You were exiled, weren’t you?”

It seems you haven’t been as easily forgotten by your former fellow citizens as you had hoped. You sigh and forced to admit, “That, too.”

Anaxagoras steps forward. “They are travelling with me.”

The sheer authority which emanates from the statement gives both guards pause. His voice brooks no disagreement.

The fellow on the right, of a milder sort than his companion, clears his throat and tentatively asks, “Sorry, you are…?”

“Anaxagoras, the Sage of the Nousporists.” Then, with a certain pointedness: “I am expected here.”

“Oh, of course. That’s our mistake. It’s just that the rest of the Grove scholars arrived earlier.”

The guard on the left casts you another thorn-filled glance. “Even if you are travelling together, the sentence was clear. If this individual re-enters Okhema, they are to be executed.”

Anaxagoras scoffs, his pale gaze frosting over the way it always does when he is displeased. “You cannot seriously deny this individual refuge in Amphoreus’ last stronghold because of such an imprudent ruling.” A sharp, hard edge glints in the timbre of his voice.

You place a hand on his arm and say, “Anaxagoras.”

Anaxagoras hesitates. Upon seeing your expression, he inclines his head and shifts back, although he continues to stare coldly at the guards. You step forth.

“Dear gentlemen, please do not take offence at my presence here. You are doing your jobs, so it is only right for you to be cautious. However, I believe our dispute may be over nothing. I recall the sentence myself; but if you’d be kind enough to remind me, was it specified when I was to be executed?”

The guards exchange a glance. “When?” questions the one on the left.

“Well, as in, immediately after setting foot in the city, or two days after that, or so and so,” you propose. “Or was it merely that I was to be executed?”

Slowly, the other guard says, “I don’t think a specific date was mentioned.”

“In which case, hypothetically speaking, you could execute me in, say, fifty years’ time, and you would still fulfil your legal duty. Is that not so?”

“I… guess,” says the first, looking a little hopeless.

“Wonderful.” You clasp your hands together. “Then I am glad we have resolved our disagreement. Anaxagoras, let us go forth.”

Content with your handling of the situation, you make to stride into the city beyond. As you pass, a hateful mutter catches your ear from the guard on your left—one which, to your surprise, is not intended for you.

“The only reason we’re letting a blasphemer like you in is because you’re needed for the Flame-Chase.”

The remark strikes you like a dissonant chord. Frowning, you turn back to address the one who spoke it. “What is the meaning of blasphemy?” you ask.

He is bewildered. “Sorry?”

“Would you say that blasphemy is a form of disrespecting the gods?”

“I… would, yes.”

“And that one cannot blaspheme against other people? It is purely a religious term?”

“Yes.”

“Then, given that we know our gods are no different in essence to people—indeed, were themselves Chrysos Heirs—surely Anaxagoras here cannot have blasphemed at all. Is that not so?”

The guard’s mouth hangs open, evidencing his lack of response. This is a positive sign that he has seen reason.

Anaxagoras clears his throat. “Philosopher,” he mutters under his breath. Before anyone else can speak, he has taken you by the shoulder and led you through the gate. Once you are far enough inside, he releases you. “While I appreciate your defence,” he says drily, “I’d advise against drawing even more hostility while you’re here.”

“You are absolutely right,” you reply. “It was my lapse in judgement. I simply could not let such falsehoods about you spread.”

He fixes you with a curious look. “What did you do, exactly, to earn yourself an execution sentence?”

“What did I do?” You take a moment to recall that chain of events which feels like a lifetime ago. “Oh. I believe I was deemed severely impious and a corrupter of Okhema’s youth. The council at the time also did not appreciate me questioning their operations.”

Anaxagoras clicks his tongue. “Nonsense.”

“Yes,” you sigh, heavy with nostalgia, “that is what they said, too.”

He clicks his tongue again, this time no doubt directed at you. Though, as much as he makes a show of his exasperation, you cannot bring yourself to believe it is genuine.

𝐁𝐎𝐎𝐊 𝐈𝐈, 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐈𝐈𝐈, 𝐅𝐀𝐈𝐓𝐇 & 𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐘

“Say, good Anaxagoras, would you care to accompany me for a bath?”

Anaxagoras, who is tinkering with alchemical equipment on his desk, pauses upon hearing your question.

It has been three days since your arrival in Okhema. As you are not part of the official Grove entourage, no dwelling was prepared for you. You had not necessarily expected to be alive by this point, so you were more than content to make do with a large amphora on the street—though when you mentioned this to Anaxagoras, he rejected the idea on principle and insisted that you lodge with him instead. He brushed off your concerns about imposing on him, and thus was the matter settled.

Beyond seeking shelter, the primary reason Anaxagoras has come to the holy city is to conduct a Soul-Rending Ceremony for the demigod of Strife. He has explained to you the principles behind the process: Mydeimos’ soul will be split into five parts so that they can each be cast into battle against Lycurgus and prevent his acquisition of the Coreflames. These refined segments will outlast what would otherwise be the body of a single man.

While you have reverted to your usual habits of seeking interlocutors in the city, preparations for the ritual have formed the principal consumption of Anaxagoras’ time. In that period you cannot fail to notice that he has hardly slept or even moved from his desk. Hyacinthia, who has been stopping by to help him acquire the necessary materials, has also noted this with some concern. As such habits are detrimental to both his mental and physical state, one is inevitably moved by a sense of obligation to ensure his wellbeing.

“A bath?” His tone of voice suggests scepticism. “What for?”

“Why, enjoyment, I should think. I am still sore from the long journey here, and I suspect you are, too. It may do us both some good.”

He resumes his preoccupation with his equipment. Arranged across his worksurface is an eclectic array of glass tubes, beakers, bronze tripods, alembics, and other utensils you cannot name. “I have no interest in public bathing.”

“I passed by the Marmoreal Palace earlier. Though the main bath is occupied, the smaller ones are vacant.”

Anaxagoras utters an indifferent sound of acknowledgement. When he still makes no effort to remove himself, you shrug. “Of course, you do not need to come if you don’t wish to. I was merely hoping for a conversational partner.”

Whether he accompanies you or not, you are most certainly going to have a bath. It has always been your conviction that atmospheres which allow for a relaxed mind and body are optimal for cultivating deeper thought. The irritating cramp in your thighs also has a certain bearing on your decision.

As you turn to leave, a stool scrapes against the floor behind you. Anaxagoras breezes past without so much as a glance in your direction. “A brief visit will suffice,” he announces with the assertion of one who is presenting their own idea. You smile to yourself as you follow him out.

The way to the Marmoreal Palace comes naturally to you. While living in Okhema you frequented the public baths, some may say a little too much. An ideal day consisted of a late morning, midday to noon spent soaking followed by a nap, before passing the evening in conversation which stretched deep into the night. As such, you need not make a conscious effort to locate the baths. Your feet lead you there of their own accord.

A faded inscription beside the grand stairway at the entrance purportedly reminds visitors of bathing etiquette: only wearing the provided bathrobes when using the baths, bowing to Phagousa’s statue, and so forth. Neither of you bow to the statue as you enter. Nobody is there to reprimand you for it.

The Marmoreal Palace was destroyed in the Third Siege of Okhema, but the survivors have rebuilt it in a shade of its former grandeur. According to historical records it used to be larger; nevertheless its bathing culture is maintained with a resolve that refuses to be trampled by years of tragedy and strife.

A few drifters linger in the main bath. Hushed voices echo around the walls, individual words rendered indistinguishable from the soft murmur of water which permeates the expansive space. You pick up an amphora of wine and a pair of shallow drinking cups from the brew area before turning your feet in the direction of the Dawn Pool. Your preference typically tends towards colder baths, but today your tired muscles yearn for a hot soak to ease away the aches.

You have only walked a few steps when Anaxagoras halts beside you. “I have a better idea.”

Following the direction of his nod, your eyes alight upon the upper floor which houses the gold-tinted waters of the Hero’s Bath.

To make the obvious objection, you point out, “I am not a Chrysos Heir.”

“What of it?” Anaxagoras shrugs. “You can be my guest. A separation of baths by blood is pointless, anyway.”

You do not disagree about that. Craning your head for a better look, you cannot see any guards who may obstruct your entry. “In that case, given there are no real objections... I don’t see why not.”

Together you proceed to the rising platform situated at the back of the central bathing area. You stand shoulder-to-shoulder as it ascends to the upper floor, the rest of the world falling away beneath you.

You have always been curious about this famed bath, for few other reasons than being denied access on principle. Especially after your exile, you never once supposed that you may have the opportunity to enjoy it yourself. Your anticipation is therefore great as the platform arrives at the upper level.

You step off onto a pathway of dark marble, cold and smooth beneath your bare feet. Around you, glittering softly, spread the gold-rimmed waters of the Hero’s Bath, each ripple a delicate crease in a fine silk robe. Round tables rise like small islands from the waves. At the back of the bath, a waterfall of liquid gold plunges from a great height and feeds into the surrounding water.

The sight is pleasing, but in essence, it is a bath like all the others. You set the amphora and kylices on the floor and begin disrobing.

Officially, the Marmoreal Palace requires that all guests soak in bathrobes. In practice, given the scarcity of staff to reinforce the rules, nude bathing is preferred by the majority of visitors. Bathrobes, after all, defeat the entire purpose of soothing the body as well as the mind. How is someone to enjoy themselves if they are clasped within clinging garments? Neither is the body anything to be ashamed of. Many see it as the pinnacle of beauty. In your view, there is no use worrying about impositions of propriety over a physical form which is by nature transitory.

Once undressed, you set your robe down beside one of the pools and test the water with your toes. It is warm, but not overbearingly so. You lower yourself inside the bath and immediately let out a deep sigh of satisfaction.

The temperature is perfect—as close to perfection as phenomenal things can be. It strikes the delicate balance of hot enough to scald without crossing the threshold into soreness. The cramps packed up in your limbs unwind the moment you hit the water. You stretch your legs out in front of you, all but sinking into the sensation.

In times of hardship, such moments of relaxation as this are indispensable.

While you pour some wine into your cup, Anaxagoras enters the water opposite you. He, too, has dispensed with the useless pretence of bathrobes. His skin is stark pale against the warm gold water. Reflected ripples shift in mesmerising patterns across the planes of his body. One’s focus is drawn to the star-shaped chasm on his chest and the other in place of his left eye socket. It looks like he has been dashed against the edge of the universe and fractured to reveal latent starlight within.

“So,” he begins. You lift your gaze from his body and meet his eye. He stares at you from across the water. The sharp line of his jaw is gilded by the shimmering waves of light. “You said you wanted to converse.”

“Yes.” You swirl the wine around in your cup, tipping your head sideways onto your shoulder. “Yet strangely enough, nothing springs to mind.”

A pointed eyebrow. “How unlike you.”

You offer him the amphora, which he accepts to fill his cup. As he does so, you sip from your own. The rich flavour washes over your tongue, leaving a warm buzz in the back of your throat tinted with faint floral notes. “Perhaps you can choose the topic of conversation. Or, because there is no use forcing it, we can simply wait and see if anything comes naturally to either of us.”

Anaxagoras assents with a nod. Since he says nothing more, you assume he has taken up the latter suggestion. You, too, allow your thoughts to drift, your mind to empty. A mind must be rested in order to operate properly. You have been so consumed by existential concerns pertaining to Amphoreus’ current state that the act of thinking has become constraining instead of enlightening. Perhaps that is the reason why you could not come up with a conversational topic.

In your joint silence, the only sound that can be heard is the musical trickle of water, like the murmurings of some god. If, you rectify slyly, such gods exist at all. Anthropomorphised deities have never appealed to you. They are too similar to people, with all their misunderstandings and petty disputes, for you to accept them as greater beings. Even the Titans are identical to humans in essence, and why would anyone worship another human?

If there is anything you would call ‘divine’, it would be the rules of logic: those perfect, transcendent, self-contained laws which necessitate all over which they have bearing, fitting together like the pieces of a perfect mosaic. Still, you would never worship logic as other men worship their gods. Some scholars of the Grove elevate questions to the level of sacrosanctity, and you do not agree with this perspective, either. Questions themselves can be interrogated; logic alone is not sufficient to encapsulate truth, which is vaster and stretches far wider than a single mind can appreciate.

Rationality is no blessing, but a path; a means leading to deeper understanding which is not gained through prostrating at the altar of reason, but through active inquiry, active doubt. Your ‘faith’, if anything, is a commitment to doubt with reason at its foundation. You smile to yourself at the paradoxical notion.

Roaming aimlessly around the scenery of the bath, your eyes now settle on Anaxagoras. You are mildly surprised to find his attention already on you. He is taking you in, you can tell; but there is no intrusiveness in it. His inspection is an inquisitive one, driven by the scholar’s calculated intent to acknowledge the details of your form and commit them to memory.

You hardly know what interests him so about this aspect of you. You are well aware that you do not meet conventional standards of attractiveness. Though, that is the beauty of companionship, is it not? The insights one can gain from others’ perspectives.

What of him, then? The new line of inquiry unfurls itself before you. Obliging, you step forth.

Over the years, the conversations you have shared are too many to count. Rarely if ever have you reached a definitive conclusion. Your dialogues tend to stretch on indefinitely, one bleeding into the next as a complex network of tributaries feeds into itself again and again, the same water tracing different paths in endless succession.

On some topics, your perspectives are united. You both value disagreement for its capacity to reveal oversights in a position, and neither of you are convinced by notions of divinity in the typical sense. On many others, your views differ. You believe reason is capable of directing one’s will; he denies the capacity of rational thought to supersede desire. You wonder about goodness and virtue, while he seeks to explain the workings of matter and essence. He claims to tread the same path of truth-seeking as you, but you suspect this is not so. You have always thought his ‘god’ is more humanity than truth. He roots himself in the shifting sands of phenomenal things, of fallible people and their fleeting instances. He has a keen eye for the transcendent, yet looks to it only insofar as he can use it to aspire on his tower of dust.

You would not assert that he is misguided. He has his convictions and is exacting in pursuing them. But you would not call what he seeks ‘truth’. At the very least, your understandings of truth diverge to such an extent that they are no longer recognisable as the same concept.

Now, does this mean either of you are wrong? Not necessarily. As the situation stands, however, you cannot share his perspective. Your paths, though aligned, fundamentally differ in their direction. This divergence may be the very reason he is such a valuable partner.

You place aside your cup and open your mouth, ready to share your thoughts with him. It is only then that you register your proximity.

You are standing directly in front of him, having subconsciously departed from your previous lounging position. At this closeness one can discern the beads of condensation gathered on his eyelashes, the flush of his skin heated by the tongues of steam curling off the water’s surface. A rivulet of sweat slips down the pale line of his throat to his collarbone. What captures one’s attention most is the star-flecked fracture on the left side of his face. Your eyes are riveted to it.

The look Anaxagoras levels back at you over the rim of his cup is inquisitive, guarded, and expectant all at once. Like he is waiting to see what you will do next.

Wonder and curiosity impel you closer still. A hair’s breadth of space is now the only sanctum between you. You discern the soft catch of his breath, the subtle dilation of his pupil. Without thinking, moved by a force beyond yourself, you reach your hand forth and—

Your fingers hover above the blue chasm, hanging like a statue’s in the air. Anaxagoras’ eye widens by a singular fraction. It takes you a moment to register your own hesitation and the reasons for it.

You want to know, yes. But this is not the kind of knowledge you seek. This compulsion—you know its nature well. It does not root itself in invariable truth, no. Its base element is desire. Desire, which operates through narrowing one’s focus upon its object, and by association precludes consideration of the universal and transcendent. Many things in this world bear the guise of truth. Few, if any, possess it. Should you cross this threshold, you risk stepping away from clarity and into the dark and miry ways of your own passions; into quicksand.

You would do well not to mistake the shadows on the wall for that which you truly seek.

The effort it takes to remove yourself from him is unspeakable. You do it anyway. You pull your hand to your side and hold it there lest it reach back out of its own accord. The golden waters swirl in the wake of your motion.

Curbing your desires is a practice you are used to. Once you recognise them for what they are, it is simple to move on. Curbing your curiosity, not so much. Desires are extensions of your will, but curiosity lies at the core of it. Stifling the instinct feels like stifling part of your own self. Painful, though in this case, necessary.

You raise your eyes to Anaxagoras’ face and shiver.

The look in his eye is hard, with edges like fractured glass left out in the frost. It cuts into you, through you, boring a hole in your very being. A cold green flame quivers in his iris.

Despite the force of his stare, you are struck with the peculiar impression that above all else, it is one of unfathomable sadness.

Neither of you speak. You invited Anaxagoras to join you in the interest of speaking together, but the conversation has died. Never has the air around him felt so stale. Potential words wither on your tongue before they have a chance to form. Somehow, the only appropriate thing you can think to say is, I’m sorry.

You do not say it. Anaxagoras excuses himself to finalise his preparations for the ceremony. You linger on in the bath. The temperature grows unpleasantly hot; the wine, so rich before, is bitter on your tongue, and you do not finish it. Unease clings to you long after you dry yourself off. You feel as if you have set a foot wrong. Where, you could not say.

𝐁𝐎𝐎𝐊 𝐈𝐈, 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐈𝐕, 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐓𝐘 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐓𝐇

This same disquietude follows like a shadow on your heels as you make your way back to your shared lodgings. By now it is perhaps midday. Anaxagoras is absent when you return; he must be performing the Soul-Rending Ceremony. You sink into the lounging chair by the wall but find yourself restless. You have no clarity of mind; you cannot focus. In an attempt to dispel this shroud, you decide to take a walk. Perhaps you will encounter somebody with whom you can share your troubles, and from them gain insight into their nature and their cause. Thinking thus you step back out into the streets.

The city of Okhema is quieter than you recall. Not that it was particularly lively when you left, of course. By that point, its population had already diminished in the aftermath of repeated devastating sieges, the last of which claimed the majority of Okhema’s populace some seventy years ago.

Even in the decade since your banishment, new losses present a noticeable discrepancy. Barely another soul crosses your aimless path. Grand columns and towering marble monuments which outlived their inhabitants flaunt their majesty as you pass, made all the more tragic for their disuse.

Somewhere among these streets is the house where you were born and raised. In vain you try to recall its location, its appearance, and retrieve only vague impressions with blurred outlines, like images from a half-forgotten dream.

You remember little of your youth. It is strange, given that you can remember most other things with great accuracy. Your formative years were not so long ago, yet you hardly recall your parents’ faces, and you no longer remember their names. You know that you received no formal education and that you had few friends. This is the extent of your recollections.

Your childhood was not an unhappy one, you think. Had it been so, you would have had more to remember it by. Whether that would have been desirable is another question.

Your walk leads you to the outskirts of the city, where the light cast by the Dawn Device begins to taper and wear thin. Shards of shadow cut into the shards of light like the interlinked tessera of a mosaic. By now your initial hopes of finding a companion have worn thin. You know where Aristocles is staying; perhaps you should call upon him. He will no doubt have some worthwhile considerations on his mind.

As you turn into a street which leads back inside the city, a pale glint catches the corner of your eye, giving you pause. You squint against the fractured light in order to better discern the details.

A tall, white silhouette stands in the distance. At first you think it a statue, somewhat oddly placed beyond the city borders. But—no, that cannot be. Focusing harder, you realise that the proportions are not quite human: the legs are slightly too long, the arms slightly too thin, and there seems to be some kind of hole in the centre of the chest, through which the scenery behind is visi—

You step back around the corner as quietly as possible. Your pulse hammers at the base of your throat.

It is Lycurgus.

He stands with his back to you, completely motionless. You do not think he has registered your presence. There is a chance yet to go back the way you came without another word and let this encounter pass, untouched, into the countless other forgotten recesses of time.

Something compels you to stay.

You know that this man—Theoros, administrator, entity, whatever he is—is dangerous. He is the precise reason you have been made to flee from the Grove, why countless lives have been obliterated, why Anaxagoras and the other Chrysos Heirs are drawing up plans to save the entire universe (the scale of it is almost inconceivable) from annihilation. All of this wrought by one man formed of smooth, white marble with a black visor over his eyes.

You have always been in possession of the trait that, as long as they intrigue you, you will lend anybody your attention. It has brought you as much trouble as it has gratification, but you cannot stop yourself. The compulsion moves you almost against your conscious will, lying beyond the boundary of desire or reason. It is a necessity to understand. Perhaps it will be the death of you; perhaps it has already been so countless times before.

Lycurgus most certainly intrigues you.

You step out of your hiding place and approach him, equal parts curious and cautious. His head turns slowly as he observes your progress from the city outskirts to the wild vegetation sprawling beyond the borders. You halt ten paces away from him and sit down on the floor.

Beginning a conversation has never posed a challenge for you, yet now you find yourself struggling to find the appropriate words. You settle on the most reliable option.

Amicably, you say, “Hello.”

Being an Antikytheran, he has no observable reaction. The pause before he speaks, however, is perhaps indicative of surprise.

“Hello,” Lycurgus replies. His voice resembles a man’s, underlied by a soft mechanical grating just discernible enough to remind you that he is not human every time he speaks. “It does not concern you that I could terminate you immediately?”

“Oh, certainly, it does. But I cannot help myself.”

“Help yourself to what?”

His tone of voice is utterly indecipherable. He could be intrigued; he could be bored beyond belief: another reminder that despite appearances, this being is far removed from human.

Undeterred, you continue. “Your reasoning, I should hope. The world is set against you and your actions, but I do not know why you take them. I’d like to understand this.”

The Theoros gives the impression of considering your proposal. “Fortunately for you, I am in a pleasant mood today. I have time for a discussion,” he concludes.

“Thank you. Now, if you would, why are you committed to such an extreme course of action?”

Lycurgus responds to your question with one of his own. “Do you care about truth?”

The query takes you somewhat by surprise, but you answer honestly. “Very much. Knowledge of the truth is the most noble end to which one can aspire.”

“In that case, we are united on a fundamental conviction. Truth is indeed the only worthwhile pursuit in this impaired universe.” Despite the visor obscuring his eyes, you receive the impression that he has turned his gaze on you. He says, “You must have realised this world is full of falsehoods.”

“Indeed.” You pause. “What of other worlds?”

“It is no better beyond the stars. The entire universe is plagued by a blanket of ignorance, and those who strive for true intellectual freedom are persecuted without mercy. Do you know how this could arise?”

“Know, certainly not. But I suppose I have often found that ignorance is self-imposed. It is not that people lack the capacity for true understanding, but many find it more comfortable to sequester themselves in their own beliefs instead of interrogating them.”

“Precisely. The restriction of minds and the segregation of thought is the primary obstacle to understanding.”

“Yet I still fail to see how this relates to your behaviour. Surely the elimination of minds is contrary to the goal of pursuing understanding.”

The Theoros does not reply immediately. He scans the ground around you, and his attention alights on a branch tipped with budding leaves which lies near his foot. He bends down to pick it up.

“Picture a tree,” he says, holding the branch flat out before him on his palms. “Each of its branches is a world, and each leaf a person. If one branch develops an infection, it can be excised before the corruption spreads to other branches. What would happen if the roots themselves were the source of the infection?”

“Why, the entire tree would be unsalvageable.”

He nods his assent. “The only way forward is to purge the tree and start anew.” As he speaks, he snaps the branch in half with a motion so clean and swift you can barely trace the movement. You regard the two halves, reconsidering the conclusion you came to so quickly.

“In some cases, can the roots not repair themselves? Perhaps a purge is too rash where the case has yet to be settled.”

“In some instances, yes. Not in this one.”

“How can you judge that?”

“I am the gardener,” he replies simply. “It is I who sowed this vile tree. As a result of my actions, true innovation and freedom of understanding have been eliminated. Finite and predetermined conclusions have replaced the possibility for infinite ones. None know the dire state of things better than I.” A bite of arrogance unsheathes itself beneath the measured whir of his voice. “And who better to reset a flawed programme than its own creator?”

The claim sounds impressive, but something does not follow here. You point out, “Mastery, which you seem to be alluding to, is not necessarily entailed by creation. Mastery is continuous while the act of creation terminates once a project is complete. A creator’s control surely does not extend infinitely by virtue of their initial role, nor does their entitlement. Most particularly so where this creation is not a static entity, but an evolving one, capable of self-perpetuated growth; for in this case, the connection it has to its origin diminishes over time.”

“You are correct,” Lycurgus says. “However, this is neither control nor entitlement.”

“What is it, then?”

“Obligation. The obligation,” he continues, sweeping his unseen gaze over your ravaged surroundings, “to save what is unsalvageable through the only possible means.”

You frown. “But if understanding is truly as impaired as you say, how can you be assured that your conclusion is not also misguided? Perhaps you do this not out of true obligation, but a desire hidden even to yourself.”

Lycurgus steps suddenly towards you. His towering frame engulfs you in shadow. His head-piece, a twin-horned marble crown, gleams like the edge of a knife. You are reminded that he is capable of terminating your existence without batting an eyelid.

“You said earlier that you value truth above all else.” The statement is crystalline: perfectly cold and dispassionate. You will yourself to keep your composure. “That is so.”

“Truth exists independently of anybody present to behold it, does it not?”

“Yes.”

“Therefore, when truth is paramount, other minds are not a relevant factor. My means are negligible in light of my end.”

His visor is darker than a starless sky. You shift back despite yourself, rising to your feet.

“Don’t you agree?”

You do not answer him. Instead you hurry away from the Theoros, deeply perturbed for reasons you can’t articulate. He watches you leave from that same spot. Even after his figure is obscured by Okhema’s skyline, you can feel his sightless stare boring into you.

So consumed are you by this inner turmoil that you do not notice when you barrel into someone. A quick hand catches your wrist, bringing you to an abrupt halt.

“Where are you hurrying to?”

It is Anaxagoras. He is peering at you curiously. Setting your wrist down by your side, though not letting go, he explains, “I have been searching for you. I began to suspect you got lost.” You stare back at him, wordless. Taking in your state of disarray, his eye narrows. “Has something happened?”

You do not know how to answer him. Something has certainly happened, but its precise meaning you cannot grasp, not yet. The most accurate answer you can give is, “Perhaps.” You glance back in the direction from which you came. “I will need more time before I can share it with you.” Anaxagoras’ expression belies his intrigue, but he presses no further. You place the topic aside for the present and straighten up. “You mentioned you were searching for me. Why?”

Anaxagoras begins walking down the street. You match his pace. “The Soul-Rending Ceremony for the demigod of Strife has been completed.”

“It was successful, then?”

Despite dark rings under his eye, his gaze is undeniably bright. “Of course it was. Did you doubt me?”

You note how his demeanour towards you remains unchanged despite what happened in the baths. This troubles you more than anything, for you are still plagued by the notion that you have somehow committed a wrongdoing.

You admit, “I still fail to understand how you can always be so assured of your success.”

“I know myself,” he responds simply.

This gives you pause. It’s such a basic claim: I know myself. Yet, if true, the statement provides solid grounds for his conviction. Knowledge of oneself is integral before you can analyse matters beyond yourself. If you do not know your own foundations, your own limitations, the investigation is doomed from the start.

“…Philosopher.”

You blink. “Pardon?”

“I asked if you plan to return to our lodgings. It’s getting late.”

“Really? How long has it been?”

“Since we last spoke, eight and a half hours.”

You look around you. The shadows cast by the Dawn Device cut long and deep into the pavement, never moving. “So long already? How time flies. The constant daylight fools my senses into thinking it is earlier than it truly is.”

You assent to accompanying him back. Along the way you flirt with the beginnings of a deeper conversation, but you cannot bring yourself to fully engage. Your mind is still caught in your exchange with Lycurgus. Anaxagoras must notice your detachment, for he stops posing questions to you and shifts the topic to an account of the ceremony. You listen as best you can in your addled state of mind.

𝐁𝐎𝐎𝐊 𝐈𝐈, 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐕, 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐕𝐀𝐋𝐔𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐄𝐗𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄

Upon arriving at the lodgings, Anaxagoras strides straight to his desk, which is still strewn with papers that evidence his preparations for the Soul-Rending Ceremony. You recline on the cushioned lounging chair across the room. As he begins to organise the papers, you find your attention lingering on him.

I know myself, he told you. You cannot help but wonder, What does he know? Perhaps deepening your understanding of another individual will cast insight into the nature of the relation between truth and people.

Leaning your head on your outstretched arm, you say, “You know, good Anaxagoras, it has come to my attention that despite knowing you for quite some time now, I know very little about you beyond what we discuss together.”

Anaxagoras pauses in the act of piling some scrolls together. He does not look at you, nor does he sound very impressed when he replies, “Quite the revelation to make after seven years of acquaintance.” He resumes his task. “What do you wish to know?”

You don’t have a full awareness of what there is to know, so you say, “What are you willing to impart to me?”

Anaxagoras swivels around to face you. “Anything at all, philosopher.” A spark glints in the red ring of his pupil. “You need only ask the right questions.”

In this particular instance, you cannot conceive of what would constitute either a ‘right’ or a ‘wrong’ question. As such you let your curiosity lead your inquiry, and you ask about a variety of topics: dromases, his ideal companionship, sanctity. You discuss desire and reason and how they dictate the will. Debates with Anaxagoras never fail to be thought-inspiring, yet just as you consider your curiosity sated, it strikes you that you have made an oversight.

“What happened to your eye?” you ask. “I have always wondered how you lost it, for you do not seem the kind of person to throw yourself in harm’s way for no good reason.” And from what you have seen, he cannot have lost it under typical circumstances. One does not acquire a galaxy in their eye socket from a brawl—even a particularly nasty one.

Anaxagoras smiles and beckons you closer. You accept the invitation and sit down on his lap, as there are no other chairs beside him. As you fiddle with the eyepatch, he explains to you how it occurred: a failed attempt to resurrect his sister, who lost her life to one of Lycurgus’ attacks. How tragic it is, you think, that so many people of this world are united in loss. To bear such a physical reminder such as he does cannot make bearing that loss any easier.

You touch the rim of the dark cloth with your fingertips. The knowledge of what lies beyond is irresistible. “May I…?”

Anaxagoras assents with a nod. “Go on.”

You lift the eyepatch and are again met with the sight of the star-flecked chasm which is concealed behind the embroidered covering. It is a view one could lose themselves in; a conundrum which both perplexes and captivates the mind. Such a manifestation surely defies all laws of nature, and yet there it is, composing a part of this man who sits before you, wholly unaware of its own improbability.

Is it larger on the inside? From the way the tiny stars shift with your perspective, this seems to be the case.

“Is it painful?” you inquire, resting your fingertips on the jagged borders of the cosmic fracture. You cannot imagine what it must feel like.

Anaxagoras takes a moment to respond. You busy yourself with the long strands of his hair. “Not painful, no. Rather, it feels like death.”

“An interesting turn of phrase that you use there, Anaxagoras.” The words roll naturally off your tongue, as if you’ve spoken them so many times that they are inscribed into your soul. “Does this mean you no longer hold that—”

A chill descends over you. The sensation breaks through the tranquility of the moment like a drop of water disturbing the surface of a perfectly smooth lake. You still, feeling the ripples shiver through your body, raising the hairs on the back of your neck. Staring into his eyes, you ask, “How many times have we had this same interaction?”

You feel Anaxagoras also grow still beneath you. A series of seconds pass, dropping like stones into eternity.

“I don’t know,” comes his quiet admission.

Your eyes fall away from him. Beneath your feet you see a path stretching before you, laden with footprints you have walked countless times until they have sunk as deep grooves into the earth. You stand there now, one miniscule instance on an infinitely long and lonely road. The only light lies far in the distance, obscured behind leagues and leagues of worn stone.

Anaxagoras speaks your name quietly. The sound of his voice tolls you back to your immediate situation. His eye lingers on your face, intent as ever, yet coloured by another quality to the usual stares he levels at you.

You cannot hold his gaze.

You know that Anaxagoras cares for you. You have never allowed yourself to reciprocate his affections. Much as you care for him in turn, even desire him, he is not where your priority lies. He is mortal, fallible, finite. What you seek is immutable and flawless; that which surpasses all imperfections, all the shifting temporal dunes in this world of constant flux. Truth is your guiding light, and truth is not found in the indistinct blur of the phenomenal world, so you have taken great care to extricate yourself from its brambles.

And yet, whispers a voice of doubt in your ears; and yet. Who are you to suppose that you know what truth consists of? You have never grasped it yourself, so you are not able to declare its nature with certainty; you are no less ignorant than any other person struggling in this selfsame existence. You said as much yourself during your journey to Okhema.

Lycurgus’ words, which shook you so deeply, resound in your ears once more. Truth exists independently of anybody present to behold it. Therefore, when truth is paramount, other minds are not a relevant factor.

You agree that truth is not contingent upon observers. The capacity for recognising truth certainly requires the presence of a conscious mind, but that is not the claim he is making. He is speaking about truth entirely in itself. Given this is so, Lycurgus’ conclusion must be correct. Yet still you cannot accept the idea that other minds, like Anaxagoras and Aristocles, are irrelevant in such a way that renders their destruction in the pursuit of truth acceptable.

Why do you resist this conclusion? Is your objection grounded in solid reasons you have yet to identify, or is it mere emotional retaliation against a fact you do not want to accept? Does the problem lie deeper still?

Uncovering the answer to this question requires an inquiry into the nature and role of those who populate this realm. Your line of sight is drawn inadvertently back to the cavern in Anaxagoras’ eye, deep blue against his pale skin. There your attention is held.

You asserted earlier that this was not the kind of knowledge you seek. Could you have been mistaken? You have always held that restricting one’s scope of inquiry runs contrary to the aim of gaining knowledge. As long as you do not lose yourself, there may yet be value in stepping away from the strict boundaries you have demarcated between passion and rationality.

You will never know if you do not try. Leaning in closer, you direct your hand forward and push deeper.

Anaxagoras gasps almost inaudibly as your fingertips cross the border from empty air to the void inside him. The contact is shallow; you struggle to perceive any sensatory difference. You idle there for a moment, dipping only just beyond the precipice, waiting for him to tell you to stop. When he does not, you push further still.

Anaxagoras gulps as the first two segments of your fingers are swallowed up by the darkness. His jaw is rigid, the contours of his face brittle as cut glass.

The cavern feels exactly like that—a cavern. A vacancy, mere empty space. It is a little colder than the temperature of the room, but otherwise indistinct from the surrounding air.

Judging by Anaxagoras’ tensed frame, he does not feel the same.

“What is it like now?” you query.

“The sensation is—” He stifles a grunt. His body stiffens, fingers curling inwards before slackening again by his side. “...difficult to describe.”

The tip of your nose brushes his skin as you tilt your head to get a different angle of observation. “Does it hurt?” you prompt. Perhaps a physical presence in the space is painful while the empty space itself is not.

Speaking seems to take a huge effort. “No. More like—” You flex your fingers inside the chasm. His right eyelid flutters rapidly, brows pinching together, though he does not shift his eye away from you for a moment. In a hoarse voice, he continues, “It’s like my centre of gravity is being reoriented with every—movement.”

“Dizzying, then?”

His single nod comes stiffly, a jerk of the head more than anything else. Undeterred you proceed further, letting the starlit void engulf your knuckles, then your wrist. You wonder how far it goes. Far enough to fit your entire arm? Or more yet, your entire body?

His hand spasms suddenly in midair and clamps around your ankles with a freezing, white-knuckled grip. His pale lips quiver around inaudible words like a believer uttering a string of supplications. Even at this proximity, with his breath tickling your ear, you cannot discern what he is saying.

Your eyes drop to the six-pointed cavity cut beneath his clavicle. Rippling shades of blue and green beckon to you from beyond his skin. Is this cavern of the same nature as the other? Or is it distinct? It presents to you another mystery; another line of inquiry to be pursued. Shifting on his legs to find a balanced position and maintaining your current depth in his left socket, you plunge your other hand inside his chest.

His entire body shudders beneath you.

This cavern feels different: warmer (you are submerged up to the elbow, trying to determine where or if the space ends), more viscous, and—

“Philosopher.”

Anaxagoras’ voice is taut. His breathing comes shallow and quick, and a sheen of sweat glistens at his throat.

You must have crossed too far. You withdraw your hands and place them behind your back. Your skin tingles with the remainder of that curious sensation which lies at his core, and the knowledge that you have touched it.

He stares at you for a prolonged moment. You almost shiver at the sheer intensity concentrated in his single eye.

At last, speaking slowly, he says, “I did not say you should stop.”

“Oh.” You slacken with a release of tension you didn’t realise had seized you. “In that case, I apologise for misinterpreting you.”

Anaxagoras does not reply. He simply continues staring, indefinable things flickering behind the twin shades of his iris. The analytic acuity is penetrating, yet underlied by something softer, even—tender. Like he is trying to solve you, but gently.

Under his unwavering examination, the conflict churning within you at last bubbles up to the surface. You open your mouth. “Anaxagoras…”

He blinks. The movement is unhurried, deliberate. “Yes?”

“I do not… I don’t know what…” Any words you can articulate fail to give accurate expression to your emotions. Anaxagoras regards you as you struggle. “I am lost,” you push out eventually.

“Why are you lost?”

“I am starting to wonder whether the path I have walked all my life is misguided. Or, if not misguided, somehow… incomplete.”

“In what respect?”

“In the respect that the truth, or what I took as the truth, is not what I thought it to be. Or perhaps there is some flaw in my method. Or both, or…” You trail off, shaking your head. Trying to convey the state of your soul in language feels like using the words of a newborn to express a complex equation. You can only repeat, “I don’t know.”

“You have always been comfortable in uncertainty,” he notes. “What differentiates it now?”

You sigh, and with it your whole being wilts. “I spoke with Lycurgus.” Anaxagoras’s expression betrays his surprise. He makes no move to interrupt you. “His reasoning seemed to me quite sound, yet I cannot align myself with his conclusion. It follows that there must be some point of disagreement I have in his premises—but this feature evades me, and makes me uncertain of where I’ve gone astray.”

“I think you tend to forget,” Anaxagoras says quietly, after a moment, “how capable you are of answering the very questions you pose. Doubt is a powerful weapon against falsehood. Take care that you don’t turn it against yourself.”

His words drop into the space between you and linger there. You fold them into your memory, not quite sure what to make of them yet, but intending to preserve his counsel.

You look him in the eye. “Thank you for speaking with me, Anaxagoras.”

Anaxagoras appears mildly amused. “You need not thank me, philosopher.”

“I wish to,” you maintain. “I believe I ought to make it clearer how much I appreciate your company. You are very kind to me.”

“I would think it basic decency.”

“Not everybody would. I myself think it is more than that.”

Yes—you do think it is more than that. Anaxagoras’ treatment of you goes beyond decency, even beyond kindness. Everywhere you have gone in your life, you have met with a combination of dismissal and outrage. The treatment itself means nothing to you, but it reflects a disheartening repudiation of your attempts to understand those who react in this way. Others, like Aristocles, follow you faithfully, but often in the manner of deference rather than engagement.

Anaxagoras is not the same. On every occasion where you have a thought to voice, a question to pose, he is there, willing to listen as well as challenge you, like he is standing before you with his arms outstretched. A gleam in his eye seems to say, Whatever you wish to discuss, I will be here.

That care of his—it pulls on your heart, it is so strong. Lingering on it is almost painful. You force yourself to linger there for that very reason. Those who seek understanding must confront the facts, even if those facts threaten to cleave one’s heart in two.

Anaxagoras makes no response to your remark. His gaze drops, and a contemplative silence pools into the space between you.

“That Lygus.” Anaxagoras pronounces the name like it is unsavoury. “He did not attempt to harm you, did he?”

You blink. “No, not at all. If he had, I am certain as anything that I would not be here speaking with you.”

A flicker of darkness—irritation, perhaps—passes over his countenance and is gone the next instant. “I don’t believe I need to tell you how dangerous that was.”

“Indeed. I was aware of the risk. But,” you sigh, “I could not resist taking the opportunity to speak with him.”

“You lend people too much credence.” An accusatory bite slips out from beneath his ever-measured cadence.

“Hm. I would not call it ‘credence’,” you reply, “for that implies a predisposition towards accepting a given position. Perhaps ‘openness’ is a better term. We can comfortably discount opinions we find to be false, but it is not appropriate to deny any single person the chance of first explaining themselves.”

“I disagree,” Anaxagoras states flatly. “In some cases, you can preclude a perspective from the outset.”

Bewildered, you ask, “How can you determine that for certain?”

He laughs, sharp and bright. “Of course you can’t. But if a person spends their life pursuing only iron-clad certainty, they will die without having truly lived.”

“Why do you say that?”

“You know better than anyone that perfection is unattainable in this realm,” he points out. “Living is characterised by our occupation of that same plane. To overlook one’s present reality, no matter how flawed, therefore entails distancing oneself from life.”

You look from his right eye to the void that occupies the place of his left. Distant stars wink at you from the dark socket. “I understand you, good Anaxagoras; I even agree with you. But, do tell me—what is so good about life, that makes distancing oneself from it objectionable? People often speak of life as some great thing without explaining why, and I confess I am completely ignorant of this seemingly self-evident fact.”

The corner of his mouth rises. “Do you really want to know?”

“If you have an answer for me,” you reply in earnest, “then of course I do.”

“What is good about life is what makes it possible: connection. We both know the true nature of the soul. It is through others that we can live at all. Living is connection. Without the latter, the former is impossible.”

You frown at his response. Surely he knows that he has not addressed the problem. “I am afraid that you have simply shifted my original question backwards. What is so good about connection, that through association with it life itself becomes good?”

Anaxagoras smirks like he has been anticipating this question. “Connection,” he answers, “is something felt, not reasoned towards. Thus, I can’t give you the answer you seek through dialectic. If you want to know, you must experience it for yourself. Only then will you see how it is self-evident.”

𝐁𝐎𝐎𝐊 𝐈𝐈, 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐕𝐈, 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐏

On the tenth and final day of mourning for the Kremnoan king and demigod of Strife, the people of Okhema—locals, Kremnoans, and Grove scholars alike—gather to hold a banquet in his honour.

Ordinarily you would be the first to take part in such events, which always hold the promise of riveting discussion. You are therefore surprised to find that, when the day arrives, you have little intention of going. After reflecting upon your own reaction you believe you have identified the reason. The doubts you expressed to Anaxagoras are still pressing on your mind, and you worry that this may make it difficult to distribute your attention between multiple people as these gatherings require. You would rather forego the event if the alternative is being unable to grant everyone the focus they are due.

Anaxagoras goes in your stead, assuring you that he will recount any notable discussions to you upon his return. You agree to this proposal and encourage him to enjoy himself. The Soul-Rending ceremony depleted much of his energy, though he would not admit this outright, and this opportunity should do him good.

You remain in the lodgings while he is out. During your years at the Grove, you spent your waking hours roaming the grounds and your sleeping hours among the vegetation, or on occasion in Anaxagoras’ office when he objected to the alternative. It is quite a novelty, therefore, to have a fixed place of residence. You intend to make use of this new opportunity.

You nap for a few hours in a patch of sunlight on the floor and dream of Aristocles and others you have spoken with in the past. Inspired by the vision, you invite Aristocles over after waking, and discuss with him matters of beauty and virtue. He is sharp-minded but possesses that prevailing tendency of youth to defer to your suggestions when he is unsure of himself. Nevertheless you sense bright prospects for his future as a lover of wisdom, for his soul, like yours, is one which yearns for understanding above all else.

When your dialogue has finished, he withdraws a scroll from his robe and begins to peruse it. Intrigued, you walk to his side and lean over his shoulder. “What’s this you are reading?”

“On Nature,” he replies. “I brought it with me from the Library of Philia.”

“Is it of interest?”

He raises a hand to his brow and sighs, pushing back a mess of curls which have fallen over his face. “Yes, but the style is difficult to follow.” Clearing his throat, he demonstrates this to you by narrating one of the passages: “Of the logos being forever do men prove to be uncomprehending, both before they hear and once they have heard it.”

You chuckle. “I see what you mean about obscurity. It seems to me that, in direct conversation, it is often easier to grasp the other’s meaning.”

Aristocles nods. “Sometimes, I wish I could ask the author what he meant,” he admits; one problem you can claim never to have encountered.

Your attention strays to the bookshelves lining the walls of the room. These are tall and plentiful, installed for Anaxagoras’ benefit, and their slots brim with a variety of scrolls, inscribed discs and wax tablets. Some are bound in cloth or leather, others mere scraps of paper. You take one scroll out at random to skim over its content, which ranges from long texts to intricate diagrams.

The diagrams you can make some sense of, for they rely on principles of geometry and symbolism you are familiar with. The written text is an enigma. You can appreciate the elegance of the handwriting, but beyond that, the letters have no significance to you.

“You’re not interested in learning to read?” Aristocles asks, observing your fruitless venture of passing curiosity.

“It is not only for lack of interest that I don’t,” you reply wryly.

Indeed, you never learned to read. You have a recollection of trying but finding the letters impossible to decipher, as if you were staring at shifting lines in sand. It is not a problem of visualisation, for you conceive shapes and other images in your mind without difficulty. No, there is something about the written word, about speech transcribed into symbol, which your mind is not equipped to grasp.

You have been derided for this incapacity, though you fail to understand why. There is no necessary connection between the ability to read or write and the ability to think. Surely thinking precedes writing, if one is to record anything of value.

You have never felt the necessity to read, either. Your memory is sound enough that you can do without writing things down. On occasion, however, you do wonder what it is like. Anaxagoras is often kind enough to read a passage aloud if you ask him to, though these are still but a fraction of the countless texts which lie beyond your grasp.

“Perhaps it is for the best,” you admit. “Could I read, I fear I would remain in one corner for the rest of my life reading all I could, and waste away without realising.”

Aristocles frowns, scrutiny forming a deep crease in his brow. “Really? I can’t imagine you ever doing that, whether you could read or not.”

On further contemplation you realise that he may be right. “You make a good point, dear Aristocles—you seem to know me better than I know myself. A lifetime of reading without any discussion would be terribly dull.” Certainly people are more interesting than books, although both can be a source of knowledge. A book is inert whereas a person can question, can react to an argument, reconsider their position. You cannot reason with a scroll.

As if he has been following your exact train of thought, he says, “As much as I enjoy reading, even I must admit that you can’t exactly share a journey of discovery with books.”

Your hand stops on the lines you are tracing. Share a journey of discovery? The thought is one you have always considered significant but never examined in depth—an oversight on your part which is frankly embarrassing.

Where, then, lies the value of collaboration?

Certainly, there is value in discussion as a means of revealing one’s own ignorance: a necessary step before embarking anew on the quest for knowledge. Likewise, latter insight is developed through time and effort as well as engagement with others. Knowledge cannot be gained in a vacuum, for human minds are not self-sustaining nor self-sufficient. It is the striking together of these various elements which produces knowledge, like flint kindling the leaping spark of curiosity into blazing understanding that resides and perpetuates itself in the soul. If our potential for understanding is a dormant seed, it is other people who have the capacity to make it flourish.

“But what does truth care for our apprehension of it?” you wonder aloud. Aristocles glances up from his scroll.

“What was that?”

“Oh, nothing of importance. Only some of my own nonsensical ramblings.” You put back the random paper you withdrew and cross to the lounging chair opposite the young man, which you sink into with a deep sigh, spreading your limbs out either side of you. “Have you managed to puzzle your way through your text yet?”

He is about to answer when a shard of light falls across the floor. The door has been opened; your companion must have returned. As you glance up, Anaxagoras strides into the room, holding in his left hand a glazed clay bowl. Aristocles, apparently possessing some tacit understanding which is lost on you, rises and excuses himself, exchanging a curt nod with Anaxagoras on his way out. You are left a little befuddled that he did not stay to answer your question.

Nevertheless, you now have a new interlocutor. You quell the disappointment with minimal effort. Turning to Anaxagoras, you say, “How was the banquet?”

Anaxagoras watches Aristocles depart, only speaking after the latter has left. “Enjoyable,” he replies, casually dismissive. “The only thing I can compliment the holy city for is its wine.”

“Have you brought any?”

“Believe it or not, not a single drop remained. Evidently everybody was long overdue an excuse to waste themselves.” He drops down beside you on the lounging chair. The chair is not particularly large to begin with, and given your reclining posture, it is inevitable that your legs touch. “I brought these.”

He holds out the bowl. Something red glistens inside, like a bed of fine rubies: pomegranate seeds. One of your favourite fruits, difficult to come by in the Grove of Epiphany.

Anaxagoras withdraws a seed and offers it to you between his fingers. You lean in to take it in your mouth. The flesh leaves a burst of cold juice on your tongue tinged with just a hint of sweetness. You make a noise of contentment, which prompts Anaxagoras to offer you another.

This one you take in your fingers and do not eat immediately, but roll between your thumb and forefinger. “So, did you overhear any interesting exchanges?” The seed leaves a faint red trail on the pads of your fingers.

Anaxagoras shakes his head. “None worth relating. Most of the time anything noteworthy occurs, I believe it’s because you are there to start it.”

You smile fondly at his comment. “Good Anaxagoras, please do not flatter me in such a way. I am hardly as inspiring as you make me out to be.” He makes a noise suggesting disagreement but does not voice a refutation. You hold the pomegranate seed up to the light which is beaming in through the window. Its crimson flesh catches the falling sunrays, and there they hang in suspension, giving the impression that the seed is illuminated from within. “How long will you stay here, in Okhema?”

Anaxagoras’ shrug is deceptively nonchalant, like he is not speaking about life and death but a trifling topic like the weather. “As long as I am needed. Should Mydeimos be defeated, the line of defence will fall to myself and the other remaining Chrysos Heirs.”

“In the case that Mydeimos is defeated…” You lower your hand. The captured light flees the pomegranate and the illusion of illumination is broken, leaving behind only a dull red seed. “I suppose that will long surpass my own lifespan.”

His head dips. “Yes.”

You linger on this thought as you swallow the second seed. As a Chrysos Heir, Anaxagoras is immune to the crippling ravages of time. You, a human, are not. Since you are currently of similar ages, this obvious fact has never come to the forefront of your mind.

“It’s interesting,” you muse aloud. “Not once had I considered how brief my lifespan is compared to yours. Have you?”

Anaxagoras’ voice is curiously bitter. “I try not to linger on it.”

“Indeed. Thinking upon it now, it saddens me.”

He reaches into the bowl to withdraw a third seed. “I thought you had no reservations about your death.”

“About that you are correct, good Anaxagoras. Death does not frighten me; in fact, I rather see it as an old friend. It’s simply the timing which I mourn.” You sigh and rest your chin on your palm. “I would not mind having a little longer. I would like to see how this whole ordeal of Amphoreus ends.”

His hand stills in mid-air. Tentatively, you pluck the pomegranate seed from his fingers and stick it in your mouth. “Is something the matter?”

Anaxagoras’ gaze is trained on a distant point on the wall. His voice sounds as if coming from very far away. “It’s possible.”

“Pardon?”

He swivels his eye on you. The pinning force of his stare arrests you at once like you have been struck through with a lance. A singularly mad spark dances in his pupil, the one which always arises when inspiration takes hold of him.

“It’s possible that you can witness the end of this.”

Perplexed and intrigued, you question, “By elongating my lifespan?”

“Not quite.” Anaxagoras sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, lapsing into brief silence as one does when determining how to articulate the complex into the intelligible.

“Through alchemy, it’s possible to transmute one’s physical body into a different substance, such as stone or marble. As long as your soul remains intact, this process can be reversed, preserving the state of the body in the time between. It isn’t painful—merely like sleeping. The soul will require a different receptacle, but that is no problem.” His attention returns to you in full, and he stares past your eyes, straight through to your very soul. “Do you want this, philosopher? Truly?” His singular gaze burns with cold, terrible intensity. “Because it can be done.”

Do you want this, truly? The question requires consideration. Meddling with the processes of life and death is not to be taken lightly.

Yet—this does not constitute any trespass against fundamental laws, does it? It is not as though your lifespan is a product of necessity; you were born human purely by chance. If anything truly contradicts the order of reality, it is simply impossible. As alchemy is part of reality, it cannot be a fundamental transgression against the ordinance of the universe in any meaningful sense of the term. It is rather utilising the understanding at one’s disposal. If anything, far from meriting censure, acting out of deep understanding is a praiseworthy deed.

Looking directly at Anaxagoras, you reply, “I would not have said so if I didn’t mean it.”

His shoulders sag. He closes his eye, leaning his head back. The fire in him seems to have doused somewhat.

You, too, feel that something has changed: a mutual understanding, settling like dust between you, that through agreeing to this you have crossed some kind of threshold which lay hitherto untouched. The shift does not disturb you as much as you feared it would.

“They were discussing the date for your execution.”

The factual statement passes without fanfare, without announcement, from his lips. He adds, as an afterthought more than a clarification, “At the banquet.”

You scratch your neck. “Oh.”

“That’s all you have to say?”

“Well, yes. It’s hardly unexpected.” You lean back and observe Anaxagoras from this wider perspective. He is so effortlessly poised that one would not suspect the deep loneliness, the fear which runs in his golden veins. But like any other person, this man is not so inscrutable when you know where to look.

You propose your hypothesis. “You did not tell me this earlier because you were afraid it would influence my acceptance of your proposal.”

“I didn’t know what the proposal would be when you asked,” he admits, “but yes. I withheld the information partially for that purpose.”

“And also, I suppose, because you knew the news wouldn't be considered ‘interesting’ by my standards.”

He inclines his head. Peering closer, you can see how weariness lines his face, shadows pressing themselves into the contours of his cheekbones, his jaw, black against haggard white. It is the face of a man who has known loss before, and would be loath to know it again.

His stare remains calculating and unwavering as ever as he prompts, “So? Will you forego your curiosity for the sake of entertaining this farce of justice?”

You smile. “Of course not. It’s clear to anyone that it is prejudice rather than true justice which motivates them.” You scoop a triplet of seeds from the bowl and toss them into your mouth. “However, I do have one concern.”

Anaxagoras glances at you from beneath a heavy eyelid. “What is it?”

“I think you will be terribly lonely.”

A subtle raising of the brow; a glimpse of surprise. “Why do you say that?”

“Pardon my bluntness, but there are not many people who are willing to be in your company. Those who do will likely soon be lost. That is enough to make even the most assured man afraid. And you—I think it frightens you more than most.” You rest your cheek on your palm, considering him. He is pale and tragic under the sunlight. “People are of such importance to you that without them, you will have little to do with yourself.”

Anaxagoras is silent. He looks down at his crimson-stained fingertips. For a time he appears to be in deep scrutiny. Then he sighs through his nose, and a smile appears on the ends of his lips, of a softer and more private nature than you have seen before. “Perhaps you know me too well.”

He crosses his arms and swings one leg over the other. The momentary softness sharpens into his hallmark smirk, but the memory of his concession—that is what it was, a concession—persists in your mind’s eye.

“To address your concern—you are absolutely right. But consider the situation as follows: the knowledge that you will return will provide me with more comfort than the alternative of your death.”

The reasoning holds, but his phrasing of the statement strikes you as odd. “I thought you took death to be non-existent.”

“Strictly speaking, yes; but as far as lived experience is concerned, death is a reality.” His voice drops fractionally. “One which feels, as it occurs, all too final.”

Your eyes fall to your hands. “Because,” you finish, carrying out the unspoken implications, “superficial though it may be, ‘death’ precludes the generation of new memories. Of deepening connections, which are the very basis of life.”

He nods. “At least this way, we may persist to form new memories yet.”

𝐁𝐎𝐎𝐊 𝐈𝐈, 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐕𝐈𝐈, 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐔𝐓𝐘 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐎𝐏𝐇𝐄𝐑

The next day you once again invite over Aristocles and some others, including Crito, one of your acquaintances from your earlier years in Okhema, as well as his companion Lysis whom you have come to know since you arrived.

You would like to bid them farewell before proceeding with Anaxagoras’ ritual, because you do not know whether you will see them again. Part of you disputes your decision on their behalf: will you not be sacrificing the memories you could form alongside them? Is it right to ‘choose’ a particular connection over another? Or is it like Anaxagoras said—that felt connection is not susceptible to reason, but self-evident?

These queries inform your subsequent conversation. Together you try to determine the nature of friendship. You consider many possibilities: of like being called to like, of like being called to opposite, of mutual reliance. Anaxagoras is present throughout but does not take part in the discussion. He stands by a wall at the back of the room, listening to the conversation unfold.

In a response to one of Crito’s suggestions that friendship arises from a certain kind of desire for another person, you pose the question, “Can one love what one does not desire?”

“I should think not,” says Crito after a moment. “If there isn’t at least some capacity in which somebody desires something else, they cannot not love it.”

“Yet would you say that true friends love one another?”

“Surely, or they wouldn’t be friends at all.”

“So, on this view, friends desire each other in some capacity, or else they would not be friends but mere strangers. Would it be accurate to say that we desire things because we want something from them, rather than wanting the things themselves? In the way that we might desire medicine not for the medicine itself, but its ability to cure us of disease; or desire a person for the enjoyment we derive from their company, rather than the person themselves?”

“That would seem to be the case.”

“It would follow, then, that all friendship is based on utility.”

Crito says, “So we could say, friendship is when two people desire each other’s company because they find that person’s company rewarding?”

You are about to respond when Lysis, who has not spoken much, shyly puts forth the question, “Can you truly love someone while also being able to part with them?”

The query gives you pause. In the corner of your vision you are aware of Anaxagoras turning his head in Lysis’ direction.

“I see what you mean, dear Lysis,” you say. “There is a tension between loving another, which involves wanting to preserve the joy we find in their company, and parting with them, which is characterised by the willful loss of that presence. To do both simultaneously indeed seems contradictory, or even impossible.”

“You’re concluding that it is impossible, then?” frowns Crito, rubbing his chin.

“I have said it seems impossible,” you smile, “not that it is. There may be something to be said about the contention itself.”

“What do you mean?”

“The fact that we observe a tension at all between love and parting indicates that they do, in fact, happen in tandem. If one is too quick to part with another, we will question whether they truly loved them, for it is natural not to wish to lose a good friend. If they are overzealous in keeping the one whom they love, no parting will occur, and we doubt whether it is love or rather obsession at heart. However, there have been many instances where the grief-stricken lover is able to bid farewell to their loved one.

“So, Lysis, to venture a response to your question: as separations are unavoidable in any relationship, for nothing in this realm is eternal, perhaps the answer can be found not in whether the separation itself occurs but rather the manner in which it occurs.” Drifting across the room, your eyes meet briefly those of Anaxagoras. “The lover need not be actively willing to part with the loved; but the one who loves wisely will not rail against the inevitable, for they recognise that it is not the obligation of love to supersede necessity; only accompany the loved to necessity’s edge.”

Aristocles pulls a wax tablet from his clothes and begins scratching into it with furious intent. You turn back towards Crito, whose suggestion you did not have the chance to dispute before Lysis raised his question. “But I must confess,” you say, “that I am still not satisfied with our definition of friendship. If, as dear Crito here said, ‘friendship is when two people desire each other’s company because they find that person’s company rewarding’, how does such a relationship differ from transaction? Indeed, if what we care for is our own satisfaction rather than the other person, can this be called friendship at all? If no love exists independently of our gratification, is it not mere self-interest?”

The man seems to have grown frustrated by your back-and-forth, for he says, “So what do you think friendship is? We’ve all proposed our answers and you are dissatisfied with all of them. For all your refutations, you must have a position on the matter yourself.”

You smile at him. “I have not the faintest clue.”

Crito looks crestfallen. “You mean to say that you’ve made a mess of our discussion and won’t even offer a solution?”

“That’s exactly right.” In response to his exasperated glare, you attempt to defend yourself: “I’d hardly like to mislead you all by proposing a false answer.”

Lysis laments, “I’m confused.”

“As am I,” you confess. “Rest assured that I am no less confused than any of you; perhaps even more so. If you were hoping I could find a ‘cure’ for your confusion, I’m afraid I can do no such thing. Indeed I am a laughable doctor; my treatment is not only incapable of curing your ailment, but worsens it for all of us.”

“If so, you’re simply spreading ignorance,” accuses Crito. “And is ignorance not the ultimate evil for you?”

You lean back on the lounging chair, your hand rising to your chin as you contemplate his accusation as a ruler reclining on their throne might consider an alleged threat to their realm. “To that charge, I have two questions for you. First of all, am I truly spreading ignorance, or am I revealing pre-existing misconceptions? Becoming confused is not the same as becoming ignorant; rather, it is like removing a distorting lens which has deceived you into thinking your eyesight was perfect. Would you not agree?”

“I think that’s right,” says Aristocles. “It’s realising what you didn’t know rather than losing knowledge you already had.”

You smile at him. “A wonderful articulation of what I mean to say. As for your second claim, Crito, about ignorance being the ultimate evil—whatever makes you say that?”

He crosses his arms. “Clearly you believe that knowledge is good. As the opposite of knowledge, surely that means you think ignorance is evil.”

“Ah, now I see how you could take this view. You may be surprised to hear that it is not what I believe.”

All eyes turn on you, keen with revitalised interest. Crito asks, “Why is that?”

“First of all, by what virtue is knowledge good?”

“I thought you took knowledge as good in itself.”

“Not quite, dear Crito; not quite. Let us pose the question this way instead. Where does knowledge originate from?”

“The mind,” he answers.

“Knowledge is certainly possessed by, and reliant on, the mind; but if it originated from the mind, it could not be ‘good’, for it would be a product of our defective experience, which is often misleading. If knowledge is to be good, it must derive that goodness from elsewhere—something which is not susceptible to error.”

Aristocles follows your meaning. “Truth,” he says.

“Precisely. Knowledge is good, and indeed is knowledge at all, insofar as it aligns with truth. Now, to suggest that ‘ignorance’ is the opposite of ‘truth’ cannot be correct. Ignorance, like knowledge, is specific to an individual, whereas truth is not. We can therefore identify the contrary of ignorance as knowledge, not truth; and the contrary of truth, and by association goodness, as falsehood.”

Crito will not abandon his critique. He points out, “Does ignorance not encourage falsehood?”

“Certainly, the two are often connected. Perhaps a clearer articulation follows thus: if one is not ignorant, they will not succumb to falsehood.”

“Exactly. So, since the two are connected, ignorance is still a form of evil.”

“Once again, I am afraid you’ve jumped to a conclusion before analysing every step. I hope you will forgive the circularity of what I am about to say, but if ignorance itself is evil because it perpetuates falsehood, then ignorance must perpetuate falsehood to be evil, yes?” Upon obtaining the affirmation of your interlocutors, you continue. “But does this mean that all ignorance perpetuates falsehood, and is therefore evil? Namely, if one has genuine awareness of their own ignorance—they know precisely what they do not know, and why—will they leap into believing a falsehood? Or will they endeavour, with care and precision, to uncover what they do not know, thereby avoiding accepting what is false?”

After a moment of consideration, Crito replies, “It would have to be the latter.”

“And likewise, if one does not know what they do not know and why, they are far more susceptible to falling into falsehood and spreading it among others?”

“Yes.”

“Then that,” you say, kicking back your legs, “is my view of evil. You are not entirely wrong that I believe ignorance is closely related to evil; but you exaggerated the extent to which ignorance is culpable. It is possible for one to be ignorant without spreading falsehoods. Some forms of ignorance can even be beneficial and reveal to us our own misunderstanding, and acknowledging such mistakes is not shameful but worthy of the highest praise. Ignorance of ignorance is where the true danger lies, and it is this which the philosopher has a duty to address.”

Aristocles is stunned. “You don’t think our duty is to apprehend the truth?”

“Dear Aristocles, having a duty to apprehend truth is like saying a fish has a duty to fly. To be alive is to be ignorant, so surely it is unreasonable to ask this of any one person, much less all people. We have a duty not to knowledge, but to becoming aware of where we lack knowledge. Such is where enlightenment can be found; for while ignorance itself cannot be eradicated, ignorance of ignorance can.” In a sudden flash of insight, you draw out the implications of this conclusion: “It is denying anybody the opportunity to understand their own ignorance which is the greatest wrongdoing.”

These words seem to signal the end of your conversation. The waves of discussion dissipate and grow still. In the ensuing silence, your gaze strays over to Anaxagoras, who has been observing this exchange from his position by the wall. Your eyes meet; he gives a small nod.

You clear your throat and rise to your feet. Addressing those who have accompanied you, you say, “Thank you, my good friends, for spending time with me. It is here that I must make a confession to you all: that we will be parting here for the foreseeable future.”

Aristocles frowns. “Are you leaving Okhema?”

“In a certain sense, I suppose I am.”

“Where are you going?” says Crito, pointing out, “Nowhere else in Amphoreus is safe.”

“There is no need to concern yourselves with my safety. I will be perfectly well, only unable to meet any of you. I hope that you will continue pursuing understanding in all that you do.” Looking around at the faces before you, you are overcome with steady resolution. “That is all.”

Your guests shortly depart, and you bid farewell to them individually. Aristocles is the last to go. He is also the one it pains you most to part with. The pangs of your conscience inject you with guilt as you stand before the young man. Are you not responsible for him? And in leaving him in this manner, are you not shirking that responsibility?

“Aristocles, my dear friend.” You place a heavy hand on his shoulder. His gaze is downcast, though he raises it to your face as you speak. “I’m afraid I have turned out to be just as terrible a mentor as I suspected. I feel that I am abandoning you.”

“I can look after myself,” he says, straightening his back. He is a rather tall fellow and the action, along with the firmness of his voice, lends him a certain dignity.

“That does not alter the principle,” you reply. He shakes his head.

“It was not my place to demand that you take me on as a student in the first place.”

“Yet I accepted the responsibility regardless.”

“Then why are you leaving?” he challenges.

The question strikes you with more force than you expected. You yourself have admitted the reasons why you shouldn’t leave. Given this, as well as the chafing of your principles against your decision, his simple interjection takes on a remarkable weight. Why are you leaving? Why do you persist against these judgements?

Aristocles sighs. “I don’t know exactly what you’re planning,” he says, and as he speaks his eyes shift between yourself and Anaxagoras, “but you’re allowed to do something for yourself.”

“Is that not all I have ever been doing?”

Your single-minded pursuit of truth which you took for so long to be your duty; that is a path which certainly left no room for other persons. In contradiction you took that same road while knowing it was unattainable. Perhaps, all that time, you followed it not out of true obligation, but a desire hidden even to yourself.

“I don’t think so,” Aristocles says in response to your question.

Your head tips sideways. “No?”

“No. I believe you’re wrong about that.”

A smile rises to your face. “Very good, Aristocles. I envision a bright future for you.”

Aristocles doesn’t reply. Instead, he wraps his arms around you. He is strong, built like a wrestler more than a thinker, and when he squeezes you you think you hear something crack. After a brief hesitation you return the embrace.

Releasing his iron grip, he vows, “I won’t let you be forgotten.”

“What’s there to forget?” you chuckle.

Aristocles smiles. In that smile resides understanding, quiet but warm, and possessed with a certainty you have never been able to grasp. He tells you, “You know, you’re not as infallible as I once thought.”

Smiling back at him, you watch him go. Closure settles upon you like a blanket, neither happy nor sad.

Anaxagoras, who has remained silent all this time, finally speaks. “Are you ready?”

The question is asked quietly, but its weight reverberates throughout the room. He watches you closely, like he is scrutinising your reaction for any indication that suggests anything less than full certainty on your part.

You have never felt the need to put up false fronts before, and neither do you feel it now. No hidden doubt lurks in you which could undermine your words. With quiet conviction to match his quiet proposal, you say, “I believe so.”

In the stone chamber, you lie on your back while Anaxagoras shuffles around you, painting alchemical symbols onto your skin with an ink made from salt, quicksilver, lead and your own blood. He works from the lower half of your body to the top. Each stroke is bestowed slowly and with infinite precision. The marble counter is cold against your skin, somewhat uncomfortable, but you remain motionless. You have been advised not to move lest you disturb the preparations, the consequences of which you have been made to understand would be disastrous.

You cannot help but voice the doubts lingering on your mind. “Will you keep an eye on Aristocles in my absence? I worry for him. He is a more fragile soul than he seems.”

Anaxagoras assents that he will.

“And you will take care of yourself, too?”

You suppress a shiver as his brush glides across your upper abdomen. “If you wish me to,” he replies, without pausing his movements, “I will try.”

“I do wish it.”

“Then I will try.”

Silence descends upon you. You focus on the sensation of the ink sliding over your chest, your collarbone, shoulders, arms, accompanied now and then by a fleeting brush of Anaxagoras’ hand. It would be untrue to say you are not at all apprehensive; but within your apprehension also lies curiosity and a twinge of anticipation. You take solace in the fact that you will see him again. The admission need not be a shameful one.

The brush stills in the centre of your forehead and lifts away. You watch as Anaxagoras lays it aside. His profile is drawn sharp and solemn against the pallid light, not with callousness but with certitude. He has made a commitment to you, in offering to do this; and in accepting it, so have you.

Catching his eye, you smile. “Until we meet again, then, good Anaxagoras?”

He glances down at you for the first time since starting the ritual. Your chest tightens and relaxes all at once. His expression is neither happy nor sad; simply focused. Nodding once, he says, “Until we meet again.”

He bends closer and lays a hand over your eyes. With the other he tucks the olive sprig behind your ear. His voice sounds in a low murmur beside your ear, like the thrum of a heartbeat. “Sleep well, philosopher.”

𝐁𝐎𝐎𝐊 𝐈𝐈, 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐕𝐈𝐈𝐈: 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐀𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐘 𝐈𝐈

You dream that you are standing in a cave. It is dark here, with tongues of red emitted by a smouldering fire glancing off the walls serving as the only light source. Innumerable shadows pool within the maze of stone which twists beneath you, before you, above you. This is a place of comfort, you know; of obscurity and misapprehension. You have walked in the same tunnels all your life.

In your dream, Anaxagoras is standing beside you. The doubtful firelight shifts across his pale skin, illuminating his body in fluctuating red and gold. His eye socket and chest bear jagged chasms whose pin-pricked depths stand in stark contrast to the warm tones enveloping the cave. You realise that they are windows, providing fleeting glimpses of an existence beyond these low stone walls.

He stands as if waiting for you. When you take a step towards him, he moves also, so that you move together as you proceed.

You wander through the cave for some while. Time is liquid, expanding and contracting around you as you step through it. In this endless web of catacombs, there is no urgency, no structure. Everything flows. Tenebrous matter folds around you, perplexes you, ensnares you with low-toned promises of belief. This place is not designed for individual triumph, but collective loss. You cannot make it out alone. Carving out a path will require focus, thought, and engagement with others.

Anaxagoras is close to you. You can feel his presence even without looking at him, without touching him. You know him, and in knowing him, you also know he is by your side. Somehow, amidst all this blur, you are sure of that.

You are having a discussion of some kind, though you say nothing. Your words are reverberations in the silence, inaudible, stones dropped into a pool of deep water. It surpasses what can be expressed through language—that flawed, ambiguous outgrowth, the moss lining these walls. You speak in the tongue of reality, understanding everything that is said.

Gradually, your surroundings begin to change. The darkness recedes, step by step. The low ceilings expand and rise far above your heads. As the cave changes, you do, too. First your skin is peeled back. As you draw closer to the light, your inessential muscles follow, and then your inessential bones (it does not hurt), until you are both nothing but light; two souls borne in their most basic forms, set apart from the rest of the world. The distance between you diminishes until it vanishes altogether, revealing itself as the mere illusion it is. Light is all one and it follows that you are, too.

As you take a step into the world beyond, a sound reaches your ears—distant at first, then louder, rolling over you in waves. Everything falls away, leaving only the lingering imprint of light behind your eyelids.

𝐁𝐎𝐎𝐊 𝐈𝐈, 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐈𝐗, 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐎𝐅

Sunlight pierces behind your eyelids. Gingerly, you crack them open. The white rays attack your vision with startling force and the blindness takes a moment to subside. Your head is heavy, your limbs leaden and slow to respond. With some effort, you sit up.

Anaxagoras stands over you. Pale light slants across his face. “Good morning, philosopher.”

You rub your bleary eyes and croak, “How long has it been?”

His lip twitches downwards—or perhaps it is a trick of the light on your adjusting sense of sight, for his voice is perfectly unaffected when he says, “Over two centuries. To be precise, two hundred and fifty years, nine months and six days.”

Your processing abilities are buried under a layer of dust after such prolonged disuse. The words come first to you as formless clusters of sound and float around in your mind before assuming clarity and finally taking root. How strange. It feels like you only closed your eyes for a few moments, and yet…

You stretch your arms above your head. A chorus of cricks and cracks resounds from across your entire body. “I suppose Aristocles and all the others must be…”

“Yes,” he replies, voice low. “He went peacefully, if that puts you at ease.” A fractional smile tugs at his mouth. “He spent his latter life furiously recording everything you told him, and became well-reputed for it.”

This news astounds you completely. “Whatever would he do that for?”

Anaxagoras peers at you from beneath a half-lidded gaze. What he sees, you do not know. “You are not such a rambling fool to others as you are to yourself.”

“Even so, if they take me that seriously, I find myself rather worried.”

Your remark, made partially in jest, garners no laughter. Straight-faced, Anaxagoras leans back against his desk. You don’t think his attention has left you once since you woke. “You will have questions.” It is a statement of fact, not a supposition.

“Many.” You pause. “Will you have answers for me?”

“Depending on what you ask. Do your worst.” An impression of relief passes over him, softening the too-sharp planes of his face. “It has been too long since we last spoke.”

Time dissolves into a blur as you are caught up on the events which have transpired since you slept. Anaxagoras answers your questions in detail and with patience. To put it lightly, the present situation is bleak. Beyond Anaxagoras himself, the only remaining Chrysos Heirs are Hyacinthia, Cifera and Helektra. Hyacinthia recently ascended as a demigod and roams Amphoreus in search of those in need. The last of Mydeimos’ soul fragments has fallen, prompting Anaxagoras and Cifera to take charge of restraining Lycurgus and passing the Coreflames into the future.

Anaxagoras has spent the last half-century developing an alchemical array which will trap Lycurgus using the power of a Philosopher’s Stone—formed, he says, from his own soul.

You start when you hear this. “You will transmute yourself into a Philosopher’s Stone?”

The shocked force of your question draws his attention. “Do you intend to refute me?” he returns.

You ponder what he has told you about the delicate and complex streams of information which comprise the world you call Amphoreus. “How could I? If what you say is true, it is the only option.” You hesitate. “When will you do it?”

Crossing his arms, he answers, “Within the next few days. There is no telling when Lygus may strike, so we must act quickly.”

A cold weight drops into your stomach. Deflating somewhat, you say, “Oh.”

Anaxagoras tilts his head. “Is there a problem?” he asks, with more intrigue than concern.

“Not in any serious sense. It’s only that…” You sigh. “Was it not possible for you to wake me earlier?”

He arches an eyebrow. “It was possible, yes.” His attention is now honed on you with the same intent fixation one might lend a riddle about to reveal its answer. “However, waking you up as late as possible gives you the most time to observe Amphoreus’ story.”

You recall that this is indeed how you expressed your wish to him. “That’s right. I suppose I merely hoped we would have more time together.” As you say this, you glance at Anaxagoras—and falter.

He looks utterly stunned. His mouth hangs open, lips slightly parted, his eye frozen wide in shock. Never have you seen him so… exposed before. So bare.

With evident effort, he schools his expression and says, in a strained voice, “I thought you wanted to see how this ends, regardless of me.”

“Then that is my fault, for which I apologise. I did not express myself clearly enough.” And just like that, it is too late.

Anaxagoras is silent. He raises a white, quaking hand to his temple. Then, closing his eye, he falls back in his chair, expelling a sigh so deep it seems to shatter his being as it passes through him and drain him of his very soul. You fear the last of his strength has left him and draw closer. When you look at his face, you are surprised to see him smiling.

Over the coming days, you and Anaxagoras are inseparable. It is not that you insist on staying together, but that neither of you make any effort to leave the other’s side. It feels far more natural to remain in each other’s company. Moving apart would be like pushing against a strong current: possible, but pointless.

During this period you cannot help noticing some changes in him. Physically, he has not aged; but crafty time, refusing to be evaded, has left her marks in other places. His skin is thin, even translucent in places, revealing the intricate networks of blue and gold veins which snake across the backs of his wrists. His bone structure is so prominent that he seems more skeleton than man. Altogether you conclude that he did try to take care of himself; had he not, his state would be even worse.

Beyond his appearance, something else about him has shifted—you are certain of it. Something more profound. It is the way his eyes never stray from you for too long, as if he is afraid that, should he look away, you will cease to exist entirely.

Such a change in behaviour is inevitable after so long without companionship. He tells you he is well when you ask, but you know this is not the full truth, for he does not mention how he was doing before you woke.

You don’t suspect he is trying to deceive you. Rather, you both know saying it aloud is meaningless. You already established all of this when you spoke two hundred and fifty years ago. You are nevertheless sorry for the loneliness he has had to endure. Even with an assurance of reunification, such a wait cannot have been anything less than torturous.

You tacitly agree that there is no use lingering on that period. Given the precious little time you have left, it is best spent on valuing the moments you share now.

Anaxagoras has been working away at his alchemical formulae for some hours now—five and a half, to be precise. The drapes are drawn to create the illusion of night, and he writes by the light of a candle. His right hand scribbles away incessantly while his free hand rests upon your head, idly tangling in your hair on his lap.

“Would you say that self-consciousness is necessary for forming memories?” you ask. “I’m speaking in the strict sense, of being conscious of oneself.”

“Memory forms the basis of all matter,’’ Anaxagoras responds, “so memory is the prerequisite for self-consciousness. Self-consciousness is simply an extension of memory, specifically a variety which can distinguish between other memories.”

“But the capacity for storing memories, in the way that we hold memories of our experiences which constitute our souls, requires this extended form of memory you call ‘self-consciousness’, yes?”

“Yes.”

“And without this particular kind of conscious soul, one cannot be alive?”

“Without a self-conscious soul, there is no individual. So, to answer your question, yes.”

“And when you transmute yourself into this Philosopher’s Stone,” you say, “will you be self-conscious?”

“While the stone is intact, I will not be self-conscious.”

You look up at him. “Will you die, Anaxagoras?”

Anaxagoras pauses. “Strictly speaking, no. My self-consciousness will be latent but not accessible.”

“For all intents and purposes, then.”

He resumes writing. “For all intents and purposes, yes. For a time, I will die.”

It is the answer you expected to hear; yet your foreknowledge of the conclusion does little to assuage the heaviness which suddenly bears down on you.

When truth is paramount, other minds are not a relevant factor.

You have previously taken for granted the premise that truth is indeed paramount. Now you consider that this may not be so obvious as you assumed.

What does it mean, for truth to be paramount? It means that truth is of the highest importance out of all things; so much so that other things become irrelevant where it is concerned. In this case, Lycurgus’ assertion supposes that there is never a case where truth is not paramount; thus it can be understood as saying that truth is always of utmost importance, and other factors are always inconsequential by comparison. One does not even need to define ‘truth’ for this to be the case.

The term ‘paramount’ is implicitly a comparative one. For anything at all to be ‘paramount’ requires the existence of other things, which are of lesser importance. Nothing can be paramount if it is the only thing in existence, for then there is no hierarchy upon which it can occupy the foremost position. In this case, the object in question would simply be.

The question then becomes, how does this process of ordering occur, which permits for paramountcy? Why, there are two options: either the process is self-perpetuating, or it is imposed from the outside. For the first case to be correct, there must be contained in the nature of truth itself something which, independent of any external influence, asserts itself without exception as a priority above all other things.

To proceed with this inquiry, it now becomes necessary to determine what exactly ‘truth’ is: its qualities, its properties which would permit this self-assertion of value. But this question itself is surely contradictory. If there are properties which truth possesses, then in speculating about these properties, one can be right or wrong about truth. To be right or wrong about a matter, one must judge it in terms of truth. Yet, if these properties compose the very notion of truth, how can truth be used as a criterion of judgement for itself? It cannot, for then one must determine by which standard of truth it is that the truth is true—a task which demonstrates its own incongruity through its very articulation.

Therefore, whatever ‘truth’ is, it must be simple, containing no multiplicity. This means it cannot possess any one feature or another which makes it capable of self-assertion over other things, as would be necessary for a self-generated paramountcy.

Having eliminated the first option, the second now presents itself: the order of importance being externally imposed. This is simpler to unpack. Simply put, Lycurgus claimed that the paramount status of truth renders all other matters, including other minds, irrelevant. This claim is contradictory. The ordering which results in the identification of anything as ‘paramount’ is dependent on a subject taking into account various considerations and placing them in a hierarchy through their own judgement. Without the presence of other minds, the claim ‘truth is paramount’ makes no sense. So, it cannot be the case that, where truth is paramount, other minds are not relevant. It is quite the opposite: the presence of others is what makes possible the paramount status of truth. Whether or not Lycurgus’ wider concerns are valid, to assert that the complete elimination of other minds is negligible to this end, is contradictory.

In your silence, Anaxagoras’ fingers have come to fiddle with the olive crown tucked behind your ear. He does not seem to be aware of his thumb grazing your cheekbone, drawing back and forth across your skin.

A thought related to the topic at hand surfaces from the dredges of your memory. Looking up at him, your eyes land on the white line of his throat, cast in pale gold by the candlelight. “Good Anaxagoras, when you once told me that ‘truth is a solvent which dissolves all things into itself’, what exactly did you mean?”

A rustle of paper suggests he is shifting papers around on the desk. Shortly the rasp of his reed pen resumes. “Anything that is true exists; anything that is not true, does not exist. Existence implies truth a priori.”

“I must ask you to give an example of some sort to illustrate this point. I’m not sure I have understood your claim.”

“Very well. If I say correctly that ‘I am writing a formula’, by virtue of what is it that we consider this statement true?”

“Surely it is that you are indeed currently writing a formula.”

“And it is me existing in a given state which allows me to be writing a formula, and thus the proposition to be true. If I say ‘I am currently standing on my head’, yet I do not exist in the state of standing on my head, we would consider the statement false.”

“I see. The state you refer to in the latter case is, as far as the statement is concerned, not one which exists.” He inclines his head. “What of possible existence, and by association possible truth? In the way that it is possible for me to be on the other side of the room. Although the state of my being so does not exist, the truth claim is still intelligible.”

“The truth claim rests on the existence of the possibility itself.” His finger absently coils around your hair. “Compare this to a logical contradiction, such as a four-sided triangle, whose existence is not even possible. In the latter case, we would understand the proposition as untrue even in all possible states.”

“So, according to you, truth ‘dissolves all things into itself’ because it merely encapsulates what is the case, rather than being a standard of judgement applied to other things; and if something is false, it is because it does not exist as a ‘thing’ of its own to stand apart from truth.”

Anaxagoras nods. “That is correct. To attribute a separate notion of ‘truth’ to a proposition is purely superficial.”

“Yet surely, the state of things which exist can be objectively determined, at least in theory, and thus your claim about truth not existing objectively is false?”

“Can we objectively determine what is?” he challenges.

You shift your head slightly on his legs to grant yourself a better view of his face. “In what way do you mean?”

“What is true, is what is. What is, is memory. Is memory objective?”

“In the sense that it can be independent of a subject, one would have to say no.”

“There you have it. Truth ‘exists’ in a certain sense, but not objectively.” Anaxagoras pauses and looks down at you. “You seem unconvinced.”

“I am simply thinking. I have never conceived of truth in such a way before. Although, according to your conception, there is nothing particular we are talking about in having this discussion.”

“If you want to berate me for wasting your time, you are welcome to do so.” You cannot tell whether his voice is laden with sarcasm or he is genuine.

Tipping your chin up to better regard his face, you tell him, “Never once has a conversation with you been a waste of my time, Anaxagoras.”

He utters a hm of acknowledgement and says nothing.

With these new considerations in mind, you can find yet another way of disproving Lycurgus’ statement. In hindsight you can hardly imagine that you once viewed it as so robust as to cause you torment.

Granting for the sake of argument that truth is ‘a solvent which dissolves all things into itself’ rather than a concept of its own, there is no definitive ‘thing’ referred to by the term which can be paramount. Or, phrased another way: truth is simply what exists, including existent but unrealised possibilities. What exists is all things, and as established, the comparative term ‘paramount’ requires the existence of other things, to which whatever is paramount can be superior in importance. So, if truth is all things, truth cannot be paramount. By definition it simply is.

A yawn steals upon you when you reach the conclusion. Anaxagoras’ fingertips graze your eyelids. The brush of his skin is fleeting and light as a kiss of sunlight.

“You are tired,” he says. “You should sleep.”

You shift on his legs, in search of a more comfortable position. “I am afraid that, if I fall asleep, I will miss valuable opportunities to converse with you.”

“I will still be here in the morning.”

“Indeed.” You sigh. “But what of the morning after, or the one after that? Our chances to converse are limited. I do not intend to miss a single one.”

His hand stills on your head. Puzzled, you glance up.

His gaze is downcast. The candle flame at his desk throws long shadows over his face, which is solemn in its pensive weight. When Anaxagoras speaks, his voice is so low a murmur that even at this proximity, the words barely reach you.

“You know I would do almost anything you ask of me.”

You look down. “I know,” you say quietly. “Yet there are some things which one must do, no matter how much they wish otherwise.”

A smile, barely visible, twitches upon his lips. “Precisely. Fear not, I am working on a solution where we do not have to truly part. But you are right. Even if you asked me to stay…” His eye closes, and he sighs. “No. Even though I myself wish to stay, it is not within my power to do so.”

Frowning, you ask, “What exactly do you mean when you say ‘a solution where we do not have to truly part’?”

To your chagrin, he smirks and merely replies, “Wait and see.” When you press him for details, he maintains his silence.

One final question rises to the forefront of your mind; a question which you had not considered until your conversation with Aristocles and Lysis, which took place so many years ago. “Anaxagoras?”

“Philosopher.”

“If our places were reversed, and you were the one to part with me, would you be able to do it?”

A pause.

“I have never been one to love wisely.”

Your eyes fall. “I see.”

You remain awake for as long as possible, now in silence, listening to the soft scratching of Anaxagoras’ pen. At some point sleep takes hold of you, and you wake to sunlight streaming through the cracks in the drawn drapes.

Anaxagoras occupies the same position as last night, though you have moved (or rather, been moved) to the reclining chair. A pang of disappointment strikes you at the fact that he did not take time to join you resting.

As you rise, he glances over his shoulder. You don’t suppose you imagine the brightening of expression when he looks upon you, subtle though the change may be. He wears the look of a man who is assured of his own success.

You walk across to him and sit down on his legs. He shows you the complex diagrams and formulae scattered across his desk, explaining the meaning of each with evident satisfaction. Certainly his accomplishments are impressive, but you cannot find it in yourself to reciprocate his enthusiasm. Every proof drives deeper the conclusion you are still not ready to accept.

The day of the transmutation has arrived.

𝐁𝐎𝐎𝐊 𝐈𝐈, 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐗, 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐑𝐔𝐈𝐓𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆

“You do not have to be present for this,” Anaxagoras reminds you, doubtless noticing your morose state.

“I would like to be,” you reply.

His stare lingers on you for an unbroken moment before he returns his attention to his array. A complex arrangement of concentric shapes and alchemical symbology forms a wide circle around him. You stand a good metre away from the edge of the formation, as he has advised.

While he makes the final touches, a confession pushes itself out of you, like it wills itself to be heard. You tell him, “I have been turning this transmutation over in my head since you told me of it.” His movement is meticulous as he inscribes another symbol into the floor. “Your explanations make perfect sense and I can think of no other alternative, and yet… something within me does not want to accept this conclusion.”

Anaxagoras’ focus remains concentrated on the array. He stands, tilts his head by a few degrees, and redraws one of the shapes. Off-handedly, as if making a trivial remark, he says, “The only consolation I can offer you is this: the entirety of my soul is not needed for the plan to succeed. I have calculated that 0.15 percent of it can be spared without causing any ramifications. That 0.15 percent, I intend to give to you.”

A solution where we do not have to truly part. As ever, Anaxagoras has followed through on his word—yet you never imagined it would be something like this. “You would impart to me something so precious as your soul?”

He smirks at you. “Evidently, you’ve failed to realise that I already have.”

“Figuratively, perhaps. But not physically.”

“The only difference is the arbitrary one of matter,” he declares with a certain grandeur. “Though, you are right to point out a discrepancy. A pitiful 0.15 percent of tangible matter pales in comparison to its intangible counterpart.”

You droop. His nonchalance, set against your own gloom, only deepens your dejection. “Why do you speak so plainly of this to me?”

Anaxagoras sets down his brush and sighs. Some dramatic pretence falls away. It leaves behind a man, tired, too thin, already grieving. “If I do not do so now,” he says quietly, “it may be some time before we can speak again.”

Some time, indeed. The time it takes for one to die and be born anew—if he succeeds, that is. And if, in succeeding, Amphoreus is granted another cycle, a possibility which is not guaranteed by any means. If not, that span of time will extend to a black, empty eternity, spanning far beyond what the mind can conceive.

Before you know it, you have stepped forward, crossing the boundary of the array, and placed your hands upon his chest. Anaxagoras freezes. You take the hem of his collar between your fingers, holding onto the thin layer of fabric as if its flimsy contact can tether you together in the face of the inevitable. The notion is obviously false; and yet, in this moment, it feels like the most important thing in the world.

“This sense of regret is familiar, as if I have experienced it millions of times before. Tell me, Anaxagoras—is there truly no world in which we can continue seeking truth together? Of course I understand the necessity of your course of action, but”—your fingers tighten around his collar, your voice small—“I would rather you stayed.”

Anaxagoras is still. You do not look at his expression. Perhaps he will take this opportunity to point out the superiority of his theory of desire dictating the soul. Your current conduct is certainly evidence in favour of it. You aren’t sure him doing so would make you very happy.

He does not speak. After some moments, he places a hand on your shoulder. The other he uses to tilt your chin with terrible gentleness so that your eyes meet. Something akin to sadness swims in that single pupil of his.

“And threaten the existence of our entire universe?” he says, smiling softly. “How very selfish of you, philosopher. I didn’t think you had it in you.”

Your eyes fall away from his face. You do not like this feeling of exposure—of your own honesty, usually a source of stability, stripping you so bare. “I have told you before, I am not infallible.”

This he contemplates for a moment. “No,” he agrees in a murmur. “You are not.”

Saying so, he dips forwards—or you do, or you both do—and presses your lips together.

The kiss is a cradle more than anything. You come together, then part again. Come together, part. Together, apart. A hand on your waist to pull you flush against him while he continues to kiss you with painful tenderness, his mouth moving slowly against yours like the gentlest of rains, drawing out each second as it passes; both of you imploring time to still, just for a moment, just this once, for you.

You want to take more of him—you can feel that he does, too—but you are both firm in your restraint. If you let your resolve crumble now there will be no going back; you will lose yourselves to it. Your hands tangle in his hair in a final, futile attempt to anchor him to you. With a sigh, Anaxagoras draws back.

“Let’s save the rest for another time, hm?” His voice is tinged with the faint trace of a smile. His cold palm rests on your cheek, and you must fight against the urge to lean into the contact.

“Do not tease me now, good Anaxagoras,” you reply quietly. “I don’t think I can withstand it.”

The smirk rises onto his face in full, but his voice remains soft. “I’m not teasing you. This plan will succeed, and in the future we carve out for this world, you and I will meet again.”

He is trying to comfort you, you know, and the effort is appreciated. But you cannot overlook the details he is covering up. “Even in the case of your success, I see no necessary guarantee that we should be reborn,” you point out. “It is entirely possible Amphoreus will cease to exist, even if the rest of the universe does not.”

“You do not have to believe me. I know doubt is your preferred mode of operation. As ever, philosopher, you need simply wait for my proof.”

You linger on this suggestion for a while. Conviction takes hold of you, gentle but firm, spurred on by his words.

“If you have full confidence in your theory, it is doubtlessly well-placed,” you say. “I’m not sure whether I can believe you, but I wish to, so I shall try my utmost.” You meet his one-eyed stare, staunch and unflinching. “For that reason, I will expect to see you again, as you have said.”

His eye widens; then his surprise settles into acceptance. “I will not fail you,” he vows. You trust him entirely—yet the ache in your chest persists, like there is a blade lodged between your throbbing ribs. You would rather not have to trust him at all.

Anaxagoras leans your foreheads together. His gaze is downcast. Quieter than a passing breeze, barely a ripple in the fabric of the world, the words drop from his lips.

“Philosopher mine.”

You try to say his name in turn, but the sounds stick in the back of your throat and will not come. So you remain there, breathing him in, holding his shoulders, his hands on your waist, trying to stretch the moment into eternity. Despite time running out, he makes no attempt to move.

In this world, nothing is eternal. That is an indisputable fact. You brace yourself before stepping out from his arms. His hands hang in the air where you left them. You level your chin at him, not out of defiance, but encouragement. “Go. See your hypothesis through. If we do not part, there will certainly be no chance of reuniting.”

Anaxagoras’ arms fall to his side. For a second he is silent. Suddenly he tips back his head and laughs, the sound ringing vibrant and rich in your ears, flaunting an edge which teeters on manic. You fold it with care into your memory. “Your reasoning is as astute as ever,” he says.

You step back over the array, careful not to disturb the inscriptions, until you reach a safe distance from the boundary. Anaxagoras stands alone in the centre of the formation. He raises his hand to the cavern in his chest—but he does not proceed. Not yet. He looks over at you again.

“You will be waiting, when I return?” He says it like a provocation; a test of your conviction, daring you to give in. Perhaps there is something more vulnerable in it, too, if you listen closely.

Your answer is simple. “Of course I will.”

Anaxagoras stares at you for a long, hard second. You can practically see the calculations running through his head, as if in looking at you he is trying to comprehend the very essence of the universe itself. You do the only thing you can: you meet his blazing eye and level it right back at him.

The physical world grinds to a halt around you.

Anaxagoras grins.

Not smirks, not curls his lip in a fleeting, private smile, but grins, the brightest you’ve ever seen. Understanding strikes you—he is not even remotely apprehensive. He is ecstatic.

Before you have the chance to return his smile, he plunges his hand into the cavern in his chest. Blue light erupts from the contact and engulfs his body. The inscriptions of the array ignite simultaneously, flaring scarlet and burning steadily brighter. The twofold light sears your vision until tears stream from your eyes, but still you keep looking, determined not to glance away for even a moment.

A final flash and it is over. You blink furiously to clear away the afterimages branded behind your eyelids. In the centre of the array, which is now a dull, unremarkable shade of red, a delicate crimson stone drops to the floor with a resonant clink. You cross over to take it into your hands. It is nicely weighted, its smooth, glinting surface still warm from the residual heat released during the transmutation. The Philosopher’s Stone; the pinnacle of alchemy. How strange, that this inert item is in essence the same as Anaxagoras. It’s almost unbelievable, and yet—this is precisely how reality operates. Unbelievable, and all the more captivating for it.

You cannot imagine possessing the certainty necessary for such an extreme undertaking. Doubtless that is why Anaxagoras is the one to move the world while you only question it.

You look down again at the stone. It is a little smaller than your palm, comfortable to hold. This is the part of his soul which is needed for his and Cifera’s plan. He mentioned some 0.15 percent would be left to you. You search for this fragment within the array. At last a glint of red catches your eye. On the floor, so fine it is nearly invisible, lies a second sliver of stone. You pick it up between your thumb and forefinger and raise it to the light. Golden rays stream through the paper-thin surface, stained crimson as they pass through.

He has left you a piece of his soul—as much as he possibly could. What on earth are you to do with it?

It is a question which strikes you as unanswerable. Or rather, it is one you will have to live with, day by day, until your steps fall into place along the right path.

The next day, Cifera arrives. As agreed, you give her the larger segment of the stone.

“This is it, then?” Her eyes follow the glinting trajectory of the stone as she tosses it into the air and catches it again in her palm. “The Philosopher’s Stone?”

You affirm that this is so.

She throws it up again, and this time snatches it out of sight as it falls. Her keen attention shifts to you. “What’re your plans?”

“I’m not yet sure.” You pass your eyes over the empty and crumbling majesty of Okhema which spreads out before you like a tattered carpet. “Perhaps I will stay here, as there is hardly anywhere else to go.”

Cifera follows the line of your gaze. You both understand the reality of the future which awaits you.

You would have liked to speak with Lycurgus one last time, to present your conclusions and your reasons for refuting him. If all goes well, you will never have the chance to.

She sighs, planting a hand on her hip. “I’d offer to spin you a lie, but you’d know it’s not real, anyway.”

“No. I would not like that, either.”

Cifera still does not go. “Is there anything else you want me to do? I have a few seconds to kill.” Her voice is perfectly carefree, but you detect a touch of sympathy tucked away somewhere in her expression.

You shake your head. “I don’t believe so. I only wish that you may succeed.”

Cifera flashes you a sharp smile. It brings to mind another face, whose elusive smiles were just as pointed. “Don’t worry,” she says. “We won’t fail.”

You pass your thumb over the tiny red sliver which remains in your possession. It is warm, having absorbed your body heat while you hold onto it. Fragile though it may be, it embodies an unshakeable commitment; a promise of proof, whose fulfilment you can find it within yourself to wait for. In this world, knowledge is but an illusion; but Anaxagoras has given you his word. That is why, among all of the uncertainties and impermanencies of existence, you can utter the words: “I know.”

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