No, no, no, NO! the man wakes with a loud, wet gasp ; disoriented before he remembers where he had been last ( before the haunting dream, the memories, the never ceasing stream of blood from hands - ) ; the grove of epiphany. The Professor was nearby. Seemingly unbothered while Phainon tried to stand on weak legs ---- a wounded sound ripped from the dawns throat. They died, over & over & over again, the swirls of memories ever haunting he felt tears spring forth from golden glowing irises. His wings curling around him as the coreflames burn & burn & keep on burning, reminding him endlessly of all the death their hands had brought. Their many destinies theyve rejected, fate unwanted.
" --- It hurts, please.. stop." A whisper as the smell of decay, of burning flesh & the screams of many echo within his mind : the Fragments overlapping into an orchestra of grueling bloodshed & hatred. Their voices overlapping inside of him as he begins to shake & slid down onto the ground ---- hands over his ears. They feel wet from golden ichor pooling around them. " --- I'm sorry I'm so sorry."
the professor is unbothered by many things, or at least that is what people say of him, at least. that he is too clinical and detached. brutally honest. matter-of-fact. and perhaps that is true, but there are things he cannot detach himself from. his students being one of them. his current ones. those long since gone. and those who belonged to another lifetime entirely.
when phainon came to him with a story most would have dismissed as madness, he believed him immediately. no hesitation nor skepticism. when asked why he would believe such an absurd thing, he had answered simply: knowing that you were once a student of mine is enough for me.
as though that alone explained everything.
but perhaps it did. because to him, teaching was never merely the passing of knowledge. it was responsibility. to guide them away from ruin where possible. to stand beside them when it was not.
a hand closes around phainon's underarm the moment his legs threaten to give way beneath him. the movement is immediate despite the strain it places 'pon him. he steadies him with visible effort. ❛❛ do not cry, this is not yet the end. ❜❜
it is not an order, nor is it an immediate comfort, but rather something in between. an attempt to hold the man together from collapsing even further. ❛❛ i know you are hurting. the state of you says as much. ❜❜ and he does know. he sees it in the way phainon breathes. no one should carry such a fate. certainly not him. anaxagoras despises martyrdom in all its forms. finds it irrational and grotesquely romanticised by people too frightened to question it. and yet, phainon walks towards ruin with both hands open as though sacrifice is the only language he was ever taught to speak. why must he insist 'pon carrying the heavens themselves 'pon his shoulders?
❛❛ i cannot take away your pain, but what i can do is help you carry it. ❜❜ because if it comes down to it, he will. even if it costs him the coreflame of reason. if there is a way to lessen the burden 'pon his student's shoulders he will take it without hesitation ( as always ).
❛❛ it is my honour to walk this final stretch with you too. so dry your tears. ❜❜ his grip tightens briefly. this is not yet the end.
❛❛ this belongs to you now. ❜❜ anaxagoras says while dismantling the grove's defence mechanism. ❛❛ take good care of it, and yourself. ❜❜ the second part was spoken more quietly because he already knew exactly what this power had done to the man who once stood brightest among all his students. and how they burn into something almost unbearable to witness.
and then comes the question of whether he will walk the final distance beside him too, and it is then, for the first time anaxagoras hesitates before shaking his head. ❛❛ that will not be possible. ❜❜ anaxagoras sees it immediately, the confusion visible in their eyes. ❛❛ have you forgotten ? ❜❜
and then within just a flash the grove that moments ago breathed with life collapses into death so suddenly. flowers blacken, petals drift soundlessly to the earth in slow spirals of decay. the air itself changes with the thick metallic scent of golden ichor. the deliverer who only moments ago let himself believe, just briefly, that his teacher would continue guiding him through the dark as he always had, now feels the wet heat flooding over his hand.
golden blood, still warm, still fresh. mayhaps it was the shock that made him let go or their mind violently rejecting truth before it could settle into place. the movement causes anaxagoras' hand to slip from his grasp. limp and lifeless. falling heavily beside him as his body lies crumpled within the widening pool of gold. silent and motionless. the same man who minutes ago spoke with such calm certainty now staring upward at the sky with unseeing eyes. have you forgotten, phainon ?
that you were the one that killed me.
✉ — @solaurous left an unprompted letter.
