…𝙽𝚊𝚖𝚎: R
…𝙿𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚜: They/ them.
…𝙰𝚍𝚍𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝙸𝚗𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗: Your resident writer who likes philosophy, music, cooking, languages and fictional characters (perhaps that last one a bit too much). Adult. I avoid writing gendered readers unless it’s directly relevant to the themes of the story. Hopefully something on this blog will be a source of interest and/or inspiration to you?
Credits go to @/kaizokucujoh for the profile picture.
…𝙲𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚌𝚝 𝙸𝚗𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗: @cynicalmusings, should you have any questions or want to interact. My AO3 can be found here and my ko-fi here if you'd like to support me!
…𝚁𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜:
On Will (Anaxa x Socrates!Reader; 19k words; AO3; continuation)
Don’t You Know You’re Life Itself (Idol!Anaxa x Stylist!Reader; 11k words; AO3; rated M)
The General’s Flying Ship (Howl’s Moving Castle book AU; Howl!Jing Yuan x Sophie!Reader; 140k words; AO3)
To Dance Amidst A Sea of Flowers (Xiao x OC!Reader; 56k words; currently being rewritten; AO3)
That One Time Debussy Got You A Date (Modern musician AU; Flautist!Xiao x Harpist!Reader; 14k words; AO3)
On The Operating Table (Boothill x Empath!Reader; 2k words; AO3)
A Thousand Boughs of Sakura (Heizou x Writer!Reader; 2k words)
…𝙾𝚗𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙸𝚗𝚟𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚐𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜:
Behind Blue Eyes (Steb [Arcane] x Reader; estimated ~65-70k words; currently being written)
[Title Pending] (Heizou x Reader; book club AU; estimated ~20k words??; being written on-and-off)
[Title Pending - This Quintessence of Dust(?)] (Lotor [Voltron: Legendary Defender] x Reader; canon divergence; estimated ~80k words???; currently being written)
[Title Pending] (Scaramouche x Reader; Frankenstein’s creature AU; estimated ~25k words; being written on-and-off)
Happy Little Bluebirds (Just Like Me) (Boothill x Empath!Reader; estimated ~40k words??; being written on-and-off)
Green Shoots (isekai-ish AU (it’s complicated); Albedo x Reader; estimated ~20k words; not active priory)
The Y-Files (X-Files AU; Heizou x Reader; estimated ~25k words?; not active priority)
Metamorphoses (Rewrite of TDAASOF; estimated ~70k words; not active priority)
Vision & Vigilance (Pride & Prejudice AU; Diluc x Reader; estimated ~50k+ words?; not active priority)
…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'. Further details about symbolism, references, etc. in the fic can be found here. 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.”
A continuation of this post. Vampire!Heizou AU.
Related fic.
So, you wanted to learn from him? That should be easy enough to arrange.
Heizou slipped into his quarters (a small room, really, cluttered with old notes) and rifled through some cabinets, withdrawing a series of Kamera photographs, papers, physical evidence and the such. Returning to where he’d left you, he tossed the various bits and pieces onto a worn desk. “These are from a case I’m working on,” he said. “Try to solve it. If you succeed, I’ll let you become my assistant.”
Your eyes flashed with conviction. “I’ll do my best.”
Heizou smiled and turned away from you, who was already searching through the pieces of evidence. In truth, there was no ‘case’ at all. This was a completely random collection of items with no bearing to each other whatsoever. Still, he was interested to see what you’d make of it. In any case it would provide a much-needed source of amusement.
Heizou left you to the false puzzle in favour of sorting through a few actual files. The Tenryou Commission had enlisted his help on a recent string of murders with connections to the occult. He had his eyes on the suspects already. It was only a matter of tracking down the culprit to confirm his suspicions, but that would require some discretion for a group as slippery as this one. Still, nothing he couldn’t handle.
After settling on his course of action, Heizou retired to his bedroom and dropped onto his futon. Apparently it was customary for those of his kind in the north to sleep in coffins. He’d never been able to get behind this idea. Who in their right mind would choose a hard, cold box over soft sheets? It’s not as though the undead lost their ability to appreciate the greater things in life on principle.
As a vampire, sleep wasn’t a requirement, but a well-rested mind was a sharper one. He’d also yet to give up the hope that one of these days he might dream.
He woke shortly before midnight. Feeling bright and refreshed, he slunk into the main room of the house and stopped short when he saw you sitting in the same place he had left you.
Truth be told, Heizou had almost forgotten you were here. Company was a scant thing these days. The paper lanterns were still burning low, throwing long shadows over your face. Your head hung low and your eyelids drooped, but your attention was so focused on the ‘evidence’ that you didn’t even notice him approach. Judging by the look of you, you must have been awake this entire time. He’d expected that a human like you would give up an hour or so in.
Heizou leaned over your shoulder to glance at your progress. You shifted sideways to grant him better access, and he put on his best scrutinising face in return.
Of course, most of your reasoning was a mess, courtesy of the lack of actual connection between the items. In some places you’d actually managed to draw up some sort of pattern, albeit it a hallucinated one.
You rubbed your dark-ringed eyes and lowered your head. “I tried my best to solve the case, but I couldn’t figure it out. I’m sorry.”
Heizou levelled you with a stern gaze. You shrank beneath it, your shoulders hunched and hands balled tight in your lap. Your teeth toyed with your bottom lip as if you wanted to speak but were holding yourself back. Evidently, you were torn between the irrefutable results of the test and your desire to stay, but you didn’t dare voice the latter.
Heizou may not have tested your investigative capacities through this little experiment, but it had revealed something else important. Persistence was an integral trait in this line of work. You may have potential yet.
In a blink, his severity vanished and in place of an easy laugh. “Oh, don’t worry about it. I wasn’t being serious, anyway.”
Your head snapped up. “You mean I can still work with you?”
“That depends on you,” he admitted. “If you’re willing to put in the effort, then I don’t see why not.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t go thanking me yet. You can do that when you’ve survived your first investigation.” He waved a hand in the direction of one of the darkened corridors branching off to the side.“Follow me.”
You followed close on his heels as he led you through the dimly lit corridors of the house. The old floorboards squealed softly beneath your footsteps while Heizou stole in perfect silence over the dust-covered wood. That’s something you’d need to fix before setting foot on any crime scene.
He stopped in the centre of another room, slightly larger than the previous one. The sliding doors hissed shut behind you as you stepped inside. At the same time the paper lanterns nestled in the corners of the room came alive, casting their dark light over the aged tatami like ink seeping across a page. They provided just enough visibility for human eyes to catch a glimpse of the steel glinting off the walls.
Your wide eyes reflected the scant light like twin candles as you stared into the shadows around you. “Weapons?” you asked.
Heizou nodded. “Weapons. Now, don’t get me wrong. As a detective, my primary weapon is my brain—as will be yours. Direct engagement with the supernatural tends to get messy, so I avoid it where I can. Besides, if you’ve come to the point where you’re trading blows, you’ve already failed.”
Your expression revealed your confusion. He explained, “If you’re confronting a criminal, be it human or supernatural, it means you failed to prevent the initial crime from occurring. The only cases I call successful are the ones which are invisible, because they never happen in the first place.”
You blinked. A strange quality had come over your face. “That’s…”
“What?”
“Nothing. That just sounds like a strangely admirable philosophy.”
“Strangely?” He crossed his arms. “Just because I’m dead doesn’t mean my principles died with me.”
You straightened immediately, as if he had just caught you red-handed in the middle of a crime scene. “Sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“You have a lot to learn. But,” he added, smiling, “you’re right that you’d be better off not admiring me.”
Heizou cleared his throat. In all your unassuming wiles, you had led him off-topic. What audacity from a human.
“All that being said, it’s important to know how to fight these things in case you do end up in a sticky situation.”
He circled around the edges of the room as he spoke. You stood in the centre of the tatami, practically hanging on his every word.
“How much do you know about the supernatural? Had any direct encounters?”
“I have a bit of experience,” you replied. “I know that in Inazuma, there’s a mixture of native creatures, like yōkai, as well as introduced ones, like vampires and some others.”
“Do you know how to defend yourself against them?”
“I’ve heard that vampires must be killed with wooden stakes.”
“We have other weaknesses, too.”
“What are those?”
He winked at you and delighted in the wonderful scent of blood rushing to your face. “I’m not quite sure I can trust you with that information yet, I’m afraid.”
“I wouldn’t—”
“Wouldn’t you?” Heizou challenged. “What if I’m planning to sneak up on you while you sleep and drink of you? I’d hardly want to give you an advantage.”
“I don’t believe you’re planning that.”
“There’s your first thing to unlearn. Don’t trust me, or anyone else for that matter. I may have taken you under my wing, but that doesn’t mean you can let your guard down. I have a good track record, but the dead love to lie. Fall for their tricks, and—poof!” He snapped his fingers, flashing a fang at you from his grin. “No more human. Maybe something that used to be human, if you’re lucky. Or unlucky, depending on your perspective.”
He resumed his pacing. You looked increasingly uncomfortable, but stood firm.
“What else do you know?”
“About vampires?”
“Anything.”
“Vampires can’t go out in sunlight, and—well, obviously they drink blood.” You frowned. “Why do you do that?”
“Why do vampires drink blood?”
“Yes. You’re already dead, so it’s not like you need sustenance to survive.”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “It’s an urge akin to hunger. As for why it exists, nobody seems to have figured that out yet.”
He came to a stop a few paces ahead of you and spread out his arms.
“Try to attack me.”
“What, now?”
“I have to see what I’m working with.” When you still hesitated, he smiled. “Don’t worry. I won’t bite.”
Your eyes narrowed, shifting between him and the half-obscured walls. “You told me not to trust you.”
His smile curled wider. “I did,” he said. “So, give it your all. After all, it might be the last thing you do.”
You were nervous, now. He could hear it in the heightened quickness of your breath and, if he focused, the increased pace of your heartbeat.
Even so, you didn’t back away. You shot an arm out towards the wall, fingertips brushing the hilt of a rusty naginata. You didn’t have time to grip it before quick as a flash he lunged at you, pinning you against the wall by the shoulders. His bared fangs hovered above your carotid artery. At this proximity he could practically taste you already, sense the blood circulating beneath that thin layer of skin. Your heart rate spiked with delayed shock. Though he didn’t need to breathe, he chose to anyway, exhaling a sigh over your neck. Your pulse, already accelerated, beat visibly in the dip of your throat.
Heizou drew away, clicking his tongue. “We’ll have to work on your reaction time. Currently, you’re as good as a walking hunk of meat. A nice little snack for all those looking for a bite.” His tongue passed over his pointed canine teeth, slipping out from behind his lips. You tried and failed to prevent your eyes from following the movement.
With an inward laugh, Heizou turned away from you. You were a funny thing, as most humans were. It was obvious you were attracted to him and yet you attempted—very unsuccessfully—to act as though you weren’t. What was the point in it? He couldn’t help but wonder. He had no qualms with satisfying your impulses, if that was what you wanted. You were cute, and more than that, you were company.
He spun back to face you. You flinched at the sudden movement. He asked, “What is your biggest advantage, as a human in the realm of the supernatural?”
You fell silent in consideration. “My soul?”
“Nothing,” he proclaimed cheerfully. “You have no advantages whatsoever. You can die, you can be turned, your body is fragile. Almost everything out there is faster or stronger than you, if not both, and many of them are smarter.”
“So what do I do?”
He crossed a few steps towards you and jabbed a finger at your chest. Your heart thrummed lightly beneath his finger pad. “You make your own advantage. I don’t know what that’ll be. If you live long enough, you’ll figure something out.”
You squared your shoulders. “I’ll find it,” you vowed. Your voice did not waver. Heizou smothered an inkling of pity. The more hope you had going into this line of work, the emptier of a husk you’d be coming out of it. Part of him, perhaps the part of him which still possessed the human capacity for empathy, was tempted to push you out of the house and slam the door shut behind you. There were better, safer lines of work out there, ones where he wouldn’t have to watch the inevitable withering of light from the eyes of people like you.
But he was not human, and you were company. So he did not push you out.
“If you insist.” He set his gaze on the wall, his back facing you, and sighed. “Alright. I’m tired of this. I don’t use these weapons, anyway. Physical training is boring and it’s not like I’m going to take you around crime scenes before you know the basics of investigation.”
“Really?”
You sounded disappointed. This time he did laugh aloud. “Believe it or not, I’m not actually trying to get you killed. I’ve got a few lower-stakes cases which I haven’t bothered to deal with yet. You can start with those. Any information about supernatural creatures, practices, whatever, you can find in the library.”
Your eyes widened, not with the instinct of fear but curiosity. “You have a library?”
Heizou scoffed. “Of course I do. How do you think I occupy my time here, all on my lonesome?”
“I thought you did detective work.”
“I’d love it if that were always the case. Unfortunately, the Tenryou Commission only throws cases my way when absolutely necessary, and I tend to solve my own investigations too quickly to build up a backlog. So yes, I read. Otherwise, I would die of boredom—for a second time.”
“You died of boredom?”
He tapped his forehead, glancing away. “Something like that.”
Your eyes lingered on him for a few seconds. Whatever your thoughts were, you didn’t voice them—though it didn’t take a genius to work out that you were intrigued by his little disclosure.
“The lower-ranking cases you mentioned,” you said. “Will they be real this time?”
He shrugged. “Maybe.”
As much as he tried to deter you, to slow you, you were determined to persist in a dedication which could only end in misery. You bowed, curt but deep. “Thank you for instructing me, Shikanoin.”
He grimaced. “Call me Heizou. And like I said, you can thank me after you survive your first investigation.”
“I will.”
“Eager, aren’t you?” he muttered. The twin sparks in your eyes were too bright, too distracting. He averted his gaze to the wall in front of him. “Alright. Just don’t disappoint me. I’d rather not go back to being the only thing that moves in this place.”
Like last time, this post is here to share some of the thought processes and references which went into this fic!
General:
I knew from the start that, as a continuation of On Will, I wanted this fic to cover the other 'half' of the story, i.e. the reader's POV.
I wasn't sure what to have as the philosophical focus/ title of the fic at the start,
It was pretty fun working out their narrative voice because when I began writing, I didn't even know how their emotional, cognitive, etc. life looks from the inside, given how unruffled they are to everyone from the outside.
Initially I tried to get this fic also fit into nine parts to mirror the first one, but I had to split it into ten because otherwise section IV would have been way too long (including both the Lygus scene and the eye scene). I've justified it to myself by saying that the addition of another part reflects how the characters are making more progress in their relationship... but to be completely honest I'm not totally happy with the sense of completion given by the number ten as opposed to nine, given that they still left some things unresolved. That's just me being nitpicky though lmao.
Speaking of progression, I knew for this fic that I wanted to take the development of their relationship a bit further than before (one full cycle = one minuscule bit of progress) -- and this time, address the reader's qualms and what prevents them from giving way to their feelings for Anaxa. My thought process was kind of like... how do I get them to acknowledge their feelings, while not straying from their principles?
The solution: develop their principles! Using Lygus as a sort-of foil for them (more on that later) also provided a really good opportunity to explore their intellectual-emotional journey, because they have similar-ish ideas about the value of knowledge and discovery etc. but take these in wildly different directions. It wasn't a case of breaking them down (looking at you Anaxa) as much as... showing them a new direction, where they realise how important relationships with others are for their own intellectual goals. You could argue there's still a bit of self-interest in there and I wouldn't necessarily disagree, but I do think they don't consider it that way because from their POV, they're just following the logic.
Outside of the relationship between the reader and Anaxa, I also wanted to shed some light & expand on the reader's relationships with other people (so you get the sense of them lending their attention to whoever interests them, as mentioned in the first fic) -- hence the inclusion of scenes with Lygus and Aristocles. Ideally I wanted to give Aristocles a bit more of a spotlight but I couldn't figure out a way to do that without dragging out earlier sections... but yeah. I wanted to show that the reader spends time engaging with people other than Anaxa lmao.
Figuring out the specifics of Nousporism was... fiddly to say the least. In-game and in readables you never really get a clear, fully extended account of Nousporism, so I took a few creative liberties and ended up merging some of the philosophy of Anaxagoras (the philosopher) with a bit of panpsychism... and hopefully it's relatively coherent. Thank you to this one Reddit post which did a pretty comprehensive outline of Anaxa's philosophical inspirations.
References:
Same as in the first fic, I tried to incorporate a bunch of references to Greek philosophy (and a bit of mythology, too).
Of course, given that this whole dynamic is inspired by Plato's dialogues, there was a lot of Platonic sprinkling throughout. For example, the analogy of knowledge being kindled like a spark in part VI is taken from Plato's Seventh Letter, and the discussion about friendship in part VII is loosely inspired by Lysis. The line about the reader making a mess of their discussion & only worsening people's confusion with their 'cure' references Protagoras (340e) -- though I decided to have Crito say this because although he doesn't feature in either of the dialogues mentioned above, he was one of Socrates' friends, so I thought it was nice to have him there for the reader's goodbye. The references to the cave & the phenomenal vs noumenal world also continue in this fic from the first -- although while Anaxa in On Will viewed the reader as already enlightened (likening them to the Form of the Good), from the reader's perspective, they're still just as entrenched in confusion and ignorance as anyone else.
Other references include Diogenes (the line in part III about the reader sleeping in an amphora), the Delphic 'know thyself' maxim (when Anaxa's like "I know myself" in part IV), and the book attributed to Heraclitus (On Nature) which Aristocles reads in part VI. There are also some other references to Heraclitus, through the line "everything flows" in part VIII (the Greek is panta rhei/ πάντα ῥεῖ, and basically encapsulates Heraclitus' view of reality) and the line in part III about "the same water tracing different paths in endless succession" (a 'you can't step in the same river twice' kind of vibe).
Generally the prevalence of Heraclitus' ideas served, again, as a kind of reflection of how the reader sees their place in the world: from their POV, they reside in doubt and confusion, being sceptical about their own ability to grasp any concrete, actual knowledge.
The line in part X, "Doubtless that is why Anaxagoras is the one to move the world while you only question it," is a subtle reference to the quote attributed to Socrates which goes something like, "Let him who would move the world first move himself."
Regarding references to Greek mythology, the elm tree in the reader's dream (part I) carries associations with death and the underworld, as well as the myth of Orpheus & Eurydice (i.e. the separation of two lovers... heh).
The pomegranate is also another clear reference to Persephone and Hades; Persephone eating the six pomegranate seeds offered to her by Hades forced her to stay in the Underworld with him for six months of the year. In the fic, the reader takes three seeds from Anaxa and three by themselves, so it's kind of them making a pledge to stay with Anaxa, for his sake as well as their own (+ this takes place during the scene where they agree to get alchemised lol).
There's also a subtle reference to Anaxa's 'Trace Activation' voiceline in part V with the mention of the 'long and lonely road' (the line itself is, "Intellectual pursuit is doomed to be a long and lonely road").
Symbolism:
As mentioned, a big image which ended up sort of writing itself was that of water, linked to the Heraclitus flux idea of constant change.
Stone/ marble also ended up being a thread which links the two fics together. In the notes for On Will, I mentioned how the reader being likened to marble by Anaxa represents their distance/ lack of emotional connection; when they agree to be transmuted into literal stone/ marble in On Truth, it's used as proof of their emotional connection. Under this umbrella you also have Lygus, who serves as a foil to both Anaxa and the reader at various points. With both the reader in the last fic being marble-like and Lygus being made of marble (or some marble-looking substance), as well as both being described as not quite human, you have the idea of them being initially aligned in their views, as well as their 'colder' emotional outlooks (which the reader later rejects). Meanwhile, on Anaxa's end, when the reader asks Lygus (part VI) and Anaxa (part V) how they can be sure of their conclusions, Lygus responds with arrogance and entitlement ("I am the gardener") whereas Anaxa admits that he can't be strictly sure but provides his reasoning, which kind of captures their divergence of views and method. Anaxa mentions something similar in the 3.7 quest when on the Express: "The difference between a genius and a madman is that a genius shares lethal truths, while a madman tries to force them upon others." Also, there's a bit of a visual similarity between Lygus and Anaxa both having holes in their chests lmao -- except for Anaxa, that does not equate not having a heart.
Of course, there's also the Philosopher's Stone at the end, a portion of which Anaxa gives to the reader. Credits to @daosies for pointing out the connection between the name of the stone and Anaxa's nickname for the reader (philosopher/ philosopher mine)... because like. It's the Philosopher's Stone. He's literally theirs. (Something something the relationship between water and stone and emotional connections being durable/ steadfast among the constant flux of everything else in the world...?)
The colour red also ended up being a bit of a narrative thread -- it links the pomegranate seeds, the Philosopher's Stone, the colour of Anaxa's pupil, and you can probably stick blood in there as well by association (= life, connection, all that). To quote my other wonderful beta reader, @milkstore, "also consuming of the seed = anaxa giving the seed = leaving his soul for reader... poetic."
I also tried to incorporate a bit of 'philosopher king' imagery for the reader, specifically in the parts where they have their 'revelations', as it were. Also, they come to their revelations through intercourse with others (e.g. part VI with Aristocles, part VII, part IX), which demonstrates how important others are to their pursuit of knowledge.
Another pattern I tried to incorporate was that of breaking boundaries. This is the final Eternal Recurrence cycle, so I kind of wanted to reflect the idea of breaking out of what previously held them back. You have the reader crossing the city borders to speak with Lygus, crossing the boundary into Anaxa's eye + chest holes, crossing the array, etc. This time around, both characters are making progress and actively striving for each other... and they still get there too late in the end. Ah, well. Better luck next time?
…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'. Further details about symbolism, references, etc. in the fic can be found here. 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.”
“Implicating me in your schemes and forcing my hand in coming here. Don’t you think that’s a little presumptuous?”
Heizou turns around, a grin breaking across his face when his eyes land on you. “I knew my good partner wouldn’t be able to resist my little invitation.”
“I was under the impression that we were partners in fighting crime, not doing crime.”
He waves his hand in the air. “Details.”
He didn’t exactly specify where to meet him in his letter, but his silhouette was easy enough to spot against the horizontal stretch of the plain.
You lower yourself beside him in the grass, bumping shoulders as you sit down. A sea of blue and indigo flowers sways around you, sent rippling like waves at each sigh of wind. Heizou slides your fingers together. His hand is warm. You give it a light squeeze; he squeezes back.
“Hey, detective,” you say. “Or… fugitive, now?”
“Yeah?”
“Happy birthday.”
If it were possible, his smile brightens. “Thanks for coming.”
“You say that as if I had a choice,” you point out.
Heizou pouts. “Hey, now. You did have a choice. And you can’t be mean to me on my birthday.”
You squish his nose. He bats your hand away with a laugh. “I can always be mean to you, Heizou. Birthday privileges don’t give you immunity.”
This earns you a grimace. With a melodramatic sigh, he laments aloud, “Man alive, what have I gotten myself into…”
“Hehe.”
“But, honestly,” he says, “I can’t think of a better plan for the day. Spending the day with you, skimping out on paperwork…”
You snort. “Yeah, Kujou Sara is going to have your head for this.”
He appears to be unfettered by the harrowing fate that awaits him upon returning to the Tenryou Commission. “At least I’ll die happy.”
“Wow. The sacrifices you make.”
He throws you a wink. “Of course. Oh, and since you’re my accomplice now, that means we’re in it together.”
“I don’t want to share your execution, thanks,” you remark, crossing your arms. “I’d rather keep my head. We have to have at least one brain cell left between the two of us.”
Lightning-fast, Heizou reaches over and pinches your cheek. It isn’t painful, but it is quite sharp. Payback for the nose poke, you suppose.
“Alright,” you concede, rubbing the spot with your hand. “That was fair. I’ll be nicer from now on.”
He huffs indignantly, but his eyes are creased with a smile. “Thank you.”
A breeze passes by, combing through your hair and carrying with it the faint saline aroma of sea spray. The flowers around you swirl and whisper like a parade of dancers. Before you spreads the scenery which Heizou promised in his message, and you have to say, it certainly lives up to the expectations.
Dark, sheer cliffs jut from the still sea in the distance, tipped with the deep green fuzz of otogi leaves. A faint fog clings to the ocean’s surface, made almost luminescent by the sunlight. The sky above you is clear and stark blue. Further on, behind the rising silhouettes of the islands, you can make out the vast shapes of clouds rolling like giants across the horizon.
You turn to Heizou, who has also taken to admiring the view in the silence. “This is a really great spot, by the way,” you tell him. “You have a good eye for scenery.”
He shrugs. “Yeah, well, you get around a lot as a detective. I don’t know how many times I’ve been running around these plains after a lost pet.”
“Always ‘walking the walk’, huh?”
He snaps his fingers beside his face, lips curling in another smile. “Yup. That’s me alright. Although…” Yawning, he falls backwards and kicks a leg out in front of him. His hair fans around the grass, deep red against the pale canvas of flowers. His voice has dropped to a softer note when he says, “It’s nice to relax here, for once.” He glances up at your face. “With you.”
You lean over to brush a few errant strands out of his eyes. He blows lightly on your fingers. You flick his forehead in revenge.
“Oh!” Heizou springs back into an upright position. A flurry of disturbed petals follow in his wake, and you can’t help but laugh at the mussed-up state of his hair. “Remember that I brought food, by the way, in case you get hungry.” As he speaks, he gestures to a series of small lacquer boxes by his side, each emitting its own enticing aroma.
“As I can see.” You smile at him. “You really know how to speak my love language.”
He folds his arms across his chest. “I could hardly call myself a detective if I didn’t, now, could I?”
“True,” you admit. “But I still don’t understand how it always ends up as you preparing things for me on your birthday, instead of the other way around—which isn’t to say I haven’t prepared anything,” you hurriedly add.
“Oh?” His eyes sparkle with curiosity. “And what would that be?”
“Nothing you won’t be able to guess, I’m sure. You probably know already, but anyway, here you go.” You produce a wrapped package from your sleeve, thin and rectangular.
“What a mystery indeed,” Heizou remarks cryptically as he receives it.
“Mhm.”
With care, he undoes the packaging to reveal a collector’s edition of a volume from a detective novel series he’s been getting into recently: The Adventures of Herlock Sholmes. You picked it up when you were in Fontaine a couple of months ago, knowing it would be perfect for this occasion. Heizou gasps when he reads the title, to which you say, “You don’t have to pretend to be surprised, you know. I won’t be offended.”
“Alright, alright,” he chuckles. “Yes, I knew what it was.” He gives your hand another squeeze. “Doesn’t mean I appreciate it any less, though. Thank you.”
“Of course. Oh, and one more thing, actually.” You reach again into your sleeve pocket and withdraw a small box. “I also made some dango.”
Opening the lid, you reveal three skewers, each bearing three pearls of tri-coloured rice dumplings. You’re pretty happy with how they came out.
Heizou’s eyes light up as he looks into the box and then back at you. “You made these yourself?”
You scoff. “Of course. It doesn’t count if I just buy it for you.”
“Ah, I see.” He taps his forehead, nodding gravely. “Bought ones don’t contain the secret ingredient of love, right?”
You chuckle and roll your eyes. “Yeah. Something like that.”
“But there are three portions here,” he points out. “You wouldn’t have miscounted, so what’s the deal?”
“I thought it would be obvious. It’s your birthday, so you get extra. With all the hard work you’re doing, you’ve more than earned it.”
He places a hand on his heart. “Oh, my dear partner,” he purrs. To your misery, it works, and you feel your face heating up. “I’m touched. Really.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” you mumble wryly. “There’ll be more touching where that came from.” Heizou guffaws. Before he can say anything, you add, “By which I mean, there’s more dango back at home.”
He laughs. You wish that you could capture that sound and carry it with you forever. “I’ll take up your oh-so-kind offer in a minute,” he says. “I’m not hungry yet, but you’re welcome to eat whenever you want.”
“I’m not hungry yet, either. We can just admire the view for now, I guess.”
“You can do that. Like I said, I’ve been around this area enough already.” He holds up the Herlock Sholmes volume. “I’m going to read my lovely new book.”
You smile. “Enjoy yourself. And let me know what you think.”
“Or, y’know.” He shrugs, eyes darting to your face. “We could read a bit of it together.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Just a disinterested suggestion?”
“Exactly that.”
You shuffle closer so that you can peer over his shoulder. He smells nice, like sandalwood and (unsurprisingly) grass. “Alright.”
You read through the first chapter, Heizou waiting for you to confirm when you’re finished before turning to the next page. He makes little quips as he reads, already forming an image of the plot from little nuggets of information you wouldn’t even have recognised as clues. Try as you might to focus, the proximity makes it acutely difficult. Your eyes keep straying up from the pages to his face—like now, with his eyes narrowed slightly, the shadow of his eyelashes falling on his cheeks, the wind brushing through his hair like a caress.
“This is a bit random,” you mumble, “but you look really pretty right now.”
Heizou goes still. A flush blossoms over his pale cheeks, like sakura in bloom. His mouth opens, but it takes a few seconds for any words to come out.
“Aha. You’ve been ensnared by my charms.”
He smirks at you as he speaks, but he already revealed himself with that hesitation. The lingering dusting of red on his ear tips forbids any doubts about the truth: he’s flustered. The dashing, charming, untouchable Heizou, is flustered. By none other than yourself.
You could press this victory, get him back for his many years of teasing you. The idea doesn’t appeal to you, though—not now. Your heart is full, at peace, as if this moment right now, sitting with him on this plain, is all that’s ever been needed. What it all was for.
You sigh, pressing your cheek against his shoulder. With your free hand you brush through the tousled strands of his hair, untangling little blades of grass and petals which have snagged. “Sorry. I’m feeling really sappy right now for some reason.”
“Be as sappy as you want,” he says with a grin. “I’m listening.”
“I don’t know what to say,” you admit. “I just think you’re a really amazing person and I’m really lucky to have met you and had the chance to get to know you. When you think about how minuscule the chances of all that happening are… to have found each other and be like this now is kind of crazy. But I’m glad it happened. And you really deserve everything good in the world. And also I find it important that you know how loved you are, because sometimes I think you don’t, or that you underestimate it.”
While you’ve been speaking, Heizou has grown very still. You mumble into his clothes, “I’m really happy to be here with you, Heizou. I think I might just be in love with you.”
Slowly, he places the book aside. His shoulders sag. You frown. “Heizou?”
He’s kissing you. Hands cradling your face, pulling you in close, pouring all the passion he knows into the contact. You grip his waist and lose yourself in the familiar, tender rhythm of his mouth on yours. Your hand tangles in his hair as he tilts your chin for better access, pressing his unspoken adoration to your lips again and again. In your many years by Heizou’s side, you’ve come to know that even for someone as eloquent as him, sometimes words simply aren’t enough. Sometimes the only way to get what’s in your heart outwards is to reach in and put it in someone else’s hands.
He breaks away only to pepper kisses around your face. His lips drop on your nose, your cheeks, your eyelids; you laugh at the ticklish brush of his skin, light as a passing breeze.
When he pulls back to face you, you see unshed tears shining in his eyes. He places a hand on your cheek and holds your foreheads together. As barely a whisper in the space between you, he says, “You really know how to play with a detective’s heart, you know that?”
“I’m your accomplice,” you reply, leaning into the warmth of his palm against your face. “It’s my job.”
His eyes drop, and he laughs softly. “I guess I set myself up for that one, didn’t I?”
“Yes.” Smiling, you lean forward and kiss the tip of his nose. His thumb grazes back and forth over your cheek as he smiles back. “You did.”
(Inspired by The Summer Hikaru Died. Part One.)
(Part Two.)
“You’re not Anaxa, are you?”
A breeze passes over the whispering foliage of the Grove, distilling the question among the quivering leaves.
It’s not a question, really. You know you’re right.
Beside you, Anaxa hesitates. He turns his head toward you, right eye narrowing. The red circle of his pupil glows with an unnatural light. His stare is arresting, and beyond the silent calculating lies something… not quite shocked, but intrigued. Like an unexpected variable has suddenly appeared in front of him.
He tilts his head. “How did you know?”
How did you know?
Images flash in your mind. Images you tried to—can’t—forget. Of running, running, running to the ritual site in the darkness, lungs burning, head spinning, feet pounding until—
(The body, sprawled in the centre of the array. Hair strewn across the ground around its head. Like a ragdoll, you had thought. Blood trickling from the mouth. Lips frozen in an almost-smile. Eye glassed over, and skin so white it’s grey. You don’t dare touch it and yet—you have to—reaching out your hand, it’s—
(Cold. Unmistakeable, undeniable, irrevocable.)
How did you know?
Your eyes fall to your hands. “I just got this feeling. You look exactly like him, but… you’re different, somehow. If you aren’t him,” you say, turning to him, “then what are you?”
The thing which is Anaxa stares at you. For a few seconds nothing happens. Then half of his face… melts. Slides away like ink. From behind his eyepatch emerges a twisting mass of something, pulsing and contracting like a living thing, composed of swirling patterns and shapes which shimmer like oil in water: mesmerising coils of turquoise, indigo, crimson. The writhing mass stretches outwards, winding through the air towards you. You freeze, pulse spiking with the realisation that it’s going to–
The creature (is that what it is? A creature?) halts a few millimetres from your face. There it lingers, swirling, undulating, folding dimension and light into itself and back out again. Staring at it makes your head swim. This thing is not—of this world. (Your vision lapses.) Not meant to be comprehended by the likes of you.
“You were not supposed to find out,” he says calmly. His—its—voice distorts as he speaks, phasing out of sync and then back together like a viscous liquid congealing back together after being run through with a knife.
Your mouth is dry. Forcing down the lump in your throat, staring into the eye shining in the midst of the living void, you whisper, “What will you do?” Does it plan to kill you? Suck out your soul?
The thing regards you for a moment. Its swirling tendrils hover above your skin, tips wavering lightly as if caressing the air. Its silence is devoid of malevolence. Instead, you feel it unpicking you with its incomprehensible mode of perception, dissecting you, even—you shudder as one of the tendrils just barely ghosts over your cheek—tasting you, with the same curiosity and intent of a scientist peering through a microscope at a new discovery.
Strangely enough, with half of his face warped into a swarming, psychedelic splatter, it feels the most like Anaxa since this thing took up his body. Something in your chest gives a heavy throb. Because this isn’t him. He is dead. However much it might act, or look, or speak or stare like him, you know it isn’t, because you saw…
The mass draws back, receding slowly as if it’s being sucked back into his eyepatch. The last few wisps flail and vanish behind the dark cloth. It concludes, in Anaxa’s voice, “I will not harm you.”
Stars swim behind your eyes. Your heartbeat flutters in your chest, which is so tight it might burst. Short, sharp gasps of air are all you can pull down your constricted throat. “Why?” you stammer out, barely audible.
The question seems to puzzle him. Plainly, he replies, “I don’t want to.”
You exhale a breath. “Oh.”
The world tilts around you. Your head drops forward. You don’t fall. A hand on your shoulder keeps you upright as the grass beneath your feet turns into the waves of a green ocean. It feels like a human hand. You force yourself to glance over at him. He looks normal; as normal as Anaxa ever looked. His gaze is firm, not unkind. Not his. Its. Why do you have to keep reminding yourself of that distinction?
“You may pretend I am him, if you find it easier.”
Pretend it’s him? You almost want to laugh. It’s unthinkable. Anaxa is gone. You saw him. You can’t ever forget that fact. And yet…
Having this thing here, wearing his face, speaking in his voice—this thing, which is so utterly alien to everything you have ever known—having it here is almost like having him here, for all of its fundamental discrepancies. And having something almost like him here is infinitely better than not having him at all.
Before going ahead with the experiment, Anaxa had told you that there was nothing to worry about. He had it all worked out; you would see him once it was over. Part of you is furious with him for making you a promise he didn’t keep. How dare he leave like that? How dare he lie to you?
Staring at the thing that is (not?) Anaxa, it strikes you for the first time: maybe he didn’t lie to you. You are seeing him now, aren’t you? A close enough approximation, at the very least. (At the most. His insides are gods know what, and his mind has been hijacked by some bizarre entity you can’t begin to fathom.) If you simply… let him be what he now is… maybe he doesn’t have to be gone. And if he doesn’t have to be gone, you don’t have to be alone.
(Inspired by The Summer Hikaru Died. Part Two.
(Part One)
The thing which is Anaxa stares at you from across the room, his arms folded across his chest. He looks exactly like the Anaxa you knew: mannerisms, posture, expression, everything. It’s so easy to forget, most of the time—until he does something which is decidedly not what Anaxa could do.
“You said you wanted to know how I dealt with that creature,” he says, regarding you coolly.
You nod. “That’s right.”
That morning, you, Anaxa and Hyacine went to the outskirts of the Grove to collect some samples for one of Anaxa’s… his experiments. The thing inside Anaxa has assimilated seamlessly into his former routine at the Grove, lectures, research and all. He’s told you he has most of Anaxa’s memories, and if you had any doubts, his unbroken continuance of his role dispels any possibility of him lying. None of his students have batted an eye. You don’t even think Hyacine has noticed anything off, or if she has, she didn’t make any indication of her suspicion earlier on.
As you were crouching knee-deep in foliage, a prickle on the back of your neck told you that you were being watched.
You glanced over your shoulder. Anaxa was a few metres away, standing with his back turned to you, and Hyacine had gone on ahead. Both were preoccupied with their own tasks. Nothing out of the ordinary. You turned back to your venture, extracting a delicate tendril of nebulous matter from a willing druid.
The feeling didn’t go away.
It was probably some bird watching you from the trees, you reasoned. But something about this sensation… it wasn’t a curious stare from an unseen critter. There was something darker in it, like a predator watching its prey.
The druid in front of you vanished without warning. With a drop of dread, you realised it had fled.
You turned around and peered into the mottled shadows of the foliage which spread across on the steep valley walls. Your unease had sharpened into fear—a primal kind of fear, beating low at the base of your brain.
—There! A shadow, distinguishable from the rest only by a low amber glow emitted by its… head?
The silhouette was humanoid. It moved in a lurching manner but its feet didn’t seem to touch the floor. Something was wrong with it—something seriously, seriously wrong. Its torso was thin. Not thin, you realised. The thing was split in two, top half and bottom. And the face—it wasn’t a face. Tendrils like twisting fingers branched out from the neck, curling around the source of that strange glow.
You still couldn’t get a good look at it. What was it? Some species new to the Grove? No. What kind of ‘species’ was so close to human, yet so far away? If anything it was like a… mutation of some sort. A distortion of everything it meant to be human.
Whatever it was, it was getting closer. A rustle of leaves, twigs crunched beneath feet that didn’t touch the ground. The closer it grew, the more acute the pressure on your skull. It wasn’t fear anymore. It was a gnawing, a madness, a living aggressor, buzzing in your brain and threatening to consume you whole. Something reached out toward you—
—A deafening crack split the air. You whirled around. Anaxa had appeared beside you. At the same time as the noise, he staggered back a step, clutching his hand to his eyepatch.
The presence was gone.
You stared at him, astounded. “What did you do?”
“I consumed it.” His voice betrayed a hint of pride; there was a touch of arrogance in the flash of his smirk. “Nothing but me can latch onto you.”
“Consumed?” you asked in bewilderment. “How did you—wait, are you okay?” A golden line trickled out from under his eyepatch, trailing a thin path down his cheek. You reached towards it without thinking. “Your eye…”
He turned his head sharply away from you. You pulled your hand back.
“From now on, don’t look at anything but me.” His voice was firm. “So long as that is the case, I can keep you safe.”
Hyacine burst through the trees. “Is everyone okay?” she said, slightly out of breath. “I heard a sound just now, and I hurried back as fast as I could.” Concerned eyes landed on you and then on Anaxa, at which point her concern deepened. “Professor, what happened to your eye? Do you need me to look at it?”
“Don’t concern yourself with it.” He cleared his throat and straightened his back, proclaiming with regal poise, “I fell into a thorny bush.”
Anaxa removes his coat, and then his tunic, until his top half is bare.
Anaxa was never this brazen, you think, staring at the pale planes of his upper body. Not in this way, at least. He had a sense of restraint when it came to displaying his body, to exposing the more vulnerable parts of himself to prying eyes. It was a right one had to earn.
His skin is stretched tight across his ribs and stomach. White scars, some tiny and some larger, litter his body like fine etchings. There’s a dark irony in it. Despite being dead, he looks no more unhealthy for it. You’re tempted to say he even looks more alive. There’s a flush in his skin which wasn’t there before.
A six-pointed slit is cut into his chest, disturbing the smooth canvas of his torso. The tip rests just below his throat and the incision extends down to the middle of his pectorals. In the narrow space between his flaps of skin, you glimpse a shimmering shade of blue-turquoise, speckled with what looks like stars.
“Well? Don’t you want to touch me?” he says, cocking his head to one side. The curl of his lip is expectant, like he already knows that you can’t resist your own morbid curiosity. “To know what it feels like?”
You swallow thickly. You do want to know, because this is—like nothing you’ve ever seen before. Even if it’s wrong, even if it isn’t him (even if it proves it isn’t him), you can’t stop yourself.
You reach out your hand and place your fingertips on his skin. It’s warm, like a living person’s. Not like the cold stone you felt when you touched Anaxa’s body. You can feel the slight rise and fall of his chest of his breathing: up, down, in and out. A rhythm familiar to you, in yourself and others. You fight down the urge to clutch his skin and hold him to you.
You doubt he needs to breathe, or even have a beating heart. It’s a performance, you suspect, adopted by this thing to make itself less alien to you. Can such an act be called considerate? Does he really think it’s enough to let you forget what he is, or what he isn’t?
As much as you rationalise it, you can’t deny the insurmountable relief of feeling him alive and warm beneath you. This far, he is human.
Whatever is inside him will shatter that illusion.
“Are you afraid?” asks the thing that is Anaxa.
You shake your head. You’re not afraid. You just need to steady yourself before you go into… that.
He isn’t Anaxa. You know that, so there’s no illusion to shatter at all. No matter the thing which now resides in his body, it can’t hurt you like he did.
You slide your fingers across his skin and dip them into the incision.
A shiver runs through your entire body. It’s—
Everything. Nothing. Cold and wet and fuzzy and hot and electrifying and spinning and your head reels like a mirror shattered to pieces and your skin crawls because this is beyond anything you should ever know. Every cell in your body vibrates with the awareness: This is wrong.
Steeling yourself, you push your hand further in.
Once the initial shock subsides, you realise the sensation is… not as bad as you thought.
“You’re cold,” you think aloud. Or at least, it’s something akin to that. It doesn’t feel like a temperature as much as it’s like an… existence. Not an existence. It’s nothing you've ever felt before. But it resembles cold.
Almost softly, he replies, “And you’re warm.”
The experience is difficult to describe precisely, because no human tongue has evolved to have the words to describe a being which exists on another fundamental plane. His insides slide against you like a current, soft and wet like a tongue, parting around your fingers and giving way to you as you move through them. They pulsate lightly against your skin, almost ticklish; not unpleasant. The chasm seems endlessly deep; reach as you might, you find no bones, no organs. It’s like an ocean, vast and unfathomable. You wouldn’t be surprised if it was bottomless.
Anaxa, or the thing that is Anaxa, exhales a sigh. His eyelid flutters and he tips his head backwards. He places a hand (warm, human, alive) on your forearm and holds it in place. Not to restrict you; the contact is too light for that. To steady himself, maybe. To steady you.
You move your hand upwards, and the incision spreads in your wake, creeping up his neck, his chin, cleaving him in two with a clean line of starlight. His lips split into a grin (a sharp tooth flashes at you) as you cup his cheek from the inside.
“That feels good,” he breathes. You don’t think Anaxa would have said that. He would have borne the pleasure alone, in silence, like torture.
He goads, “Keep going.”
You do. You glide your hand downwards (the split in his face closes without leaving so much as a line behind) and he shudders when you brush the spot where his heart would be. His grip on your forearm tightens, urging you deeper still. His eye has glassed over, grown hazy with delight. You curl your fingers inside him and he lets out a soft groan, almost a giggle.
You still don’t know what to make of it. Whatever this thing is, though, you don’t think it’s evil. Just incomprehensible.
A tug on your arm. The vast chasm contracts suddenly, clamping down on your skin. Your very being crawls. All at once it’s wrong again, your brain is blaring, your body screaming as the thing latches onto you. It’s slime, a thousand needles, countless tentacles and tongues suctioning your flesh. His insides pulsate against you and the force—it’s like it’s trying to suck you in. You struggle against the pressure in vain. Your elbow is swallowed up, followed by your upper arm.
Inside him you can feel the thing crawling up your wrist, your arm, your shoulder, neck—oh Titans it’s in your head—
In a flash of strength wrought by panic, you tear your arm out from him and stagger backwards against the wall. At once, the terrible suction vanishes, but phantom sensations continue to tingle on your skin.
The thing which—which isn’t Anaxa stands in the same place, staring at you.
“What—” You choke over the thickness in your throat. “What was that?”
He frowns. You’re not sure whether an entity like him can feel disappointment, but that’s the sense you get. “You touched me, and so I touched you back,” he says.
Touched you… back? You glance down at yourself. On the back of your right hand is a pale red mark composed of intertwining lines. It definitely wasn’t there before. Though it doesn’t hurt, your skin itches with the memory of his touch.
The huge, endless void has all but vanished, shrinking back into the narrow incision with blue cracks on his chest. Anaxa—it is so definitely not Anaxa—runs a thin, bony finger along the sharp outlines of the opening, his expression contemplative, before he looks at you again.
“It is equivalent exchange, yes? I remember I…” He blinks. “No, Anaxagoras, was rather fond of this principle.”
“Why would you follow it, then?”
“Curiosity,” he replies. “A wish to reciprocate your warmth. You felt…” and here he sighs again, deep with satisfaction, “wonderful.” He pauses, considers for a moment. “You did not find it enjoyable.”
You stare at the floor. “Well, I—I thought you might…”
“Might what?” he asks, arching a pale eyebrow. The gesture makes your heart ache. “I have already said I will not harm you.”
You thumb the newfound mark on the back of your hand. Quietly, you mumble, “Maybe we have different definitions of ‘harm’.”
After a moment, he admits, “It’s possible. I don’t yet understand the limitations of humans.” He turns his eye on you. “Can I learn from you? About being… human.”
“What do you have to learn?” you ask. It’s a question of genuine curiosity, not one of spite. “You’re already convincing.” Convincing enough that nobody else has realised the truth: that Anaxa is dead, and that this thing in his body is not him.
“I would like to understand the intricacies. To understand you, and myself.”
You blink. “You don’t know what you are?”
“No.” He frowns. “Do you?”
“Don’t you pull that one on me.” The easy laugh is rolling off your tongue before you’re aware of it.
“Why not?”
“It’s a big question. You can’t just spring it on me and expect me to answer you straight away.” You hesitate, catching yourself before you get carried away. A sigh breaks its way out of you. “Alright,” you say. “I’ll do my best to help you be human. To… understand the intricacies.”
He inclines his head. “Thank you.”
A knock on the door behind you. “Professor Anaxa?”
It’s Hyacine. You and Anaxa exchange a glance. You’d forgotten that you were in his office. Thank the stars the door is locked. If someone had walked in a few minutes ago… You shudder at the thought.
“Put your clothes back on,” you urge, now all too aware of the fact that he’s half-naked. Without any apparent sense of urgency, even as Hyacine knocks again, Anaxa lifts his tunic back over his head and dons his coat. Your eyes linger on the blue incision as it disappears behind the fabric. Catching your eye, he smiles, sharp but not unpleasant, and you swiftly look away.
He opens the door. Hyacine stands behind it, her hand raised for another knock. She lowers it and glances between yourself and Anaxa, who’s leaning against his desk and flipping through some papers like nothing in the world is the matter.
Finding yourself flustered, you exchange a quick greeting with her and head down the hallway. Your brisk footsteps echo off the cold stone floor.
He doesn’t know what he is?
It’s something you hadn’t considered before. You were under the impression that the thing that was Anaxa was sure of itself. That it had an agenda of some kind—not necessarily a malicious one, but an intention, a clear reason for taking up Anaxa’s body and assimilating undetected into what would have been his life.
Suddenly, this thing isn’t just an impersonator. It’s confused and vulnerable, like anyone else. It’s… alone.
You glance at the mark on your wrist. It doesn’t show any signs of fading. If anything, you think the red colour is getting deeper. Thinking back to the strange sensation of touching his insides, you suppress a shiver, not necessarily one of discomfort.
Help him how to be human? You want to laugh at your own presumptuousness. You don’t know what made you say such a thing.
How could you possibly teach him how to be human, when you don’t even know how to do that yourself?
(Inspired by The Summer Hikaru Died. Part One.)
(Part Two.)
“You’re not Anaxa, are you?”
A breeze passes over the whispering foliage of the Grove, distilling the question among the quivering leaves.
It’s not a question, really. You know you’re right.
Beside you, Anaxa hesitates. He turns his head toward you, right eye narrowing. The red circle of his pupil glows with an unnatural light. His stare is arresting, and beyond the silent calculating lies something… not quite shocked, but intrigued. Like an unexpected variable has suddenly appeared in front of him.
He tilts his head. “How did you know?”
How did you know?
Images flash in your mind. Images you tried to—can’t—forget. Of running, running, running to the ritual site in the darkness, lungs burning, head spinning, feet pounding until—
(The body, sprawled in the centre of the array. Hair strewn across the ground around its head. Like a ragdoll, you had thought. Blood trickling from the mouth. Lips frozen in an almost-smile. Eye glassed over, and skin so white it’s grey. You don’t dare touch it and yet—you have to—reaching out your hand, it’s—
(Cold. Unmistakeable, undeniable, irrevocable.)
How did you know?
Your eyes fall to your hands. “I just got this feeling. You look exactly like him, but… you’re different, somehow. If you aren’t him,” you say, turning to him, “then what are you?”
The thing which is Anaxa stares at you. For a few seconds nothing happens. Then half of his face… melts. Slides away like ink. From behind his eyepatch emerges a twisting mass of something, pulsing and contracting like a living thing, composed of swirling patterns and shapes which shimmer like oil in water: mesmerising coils of turquoise, indigo, crimson. The writhing mass stretches outwards, winding through the air towards you. You freeze, pulse spiking with the realisation that it’s going to–
The creature (is that what it is? A creature?) halts a few millimetres from your face. There it lingers, swirling, undulating, folding dimension and light into itself and back out again. Staring at it makes your head swim. This thing is not—of this world. (Your vision lapses.) Not meant to be comprehended by the likes of you.
“You were not supposed to find out,” he says calmly. His—its—voice distorts as he speaks, phasing out of sync and then back together like a viscous liquid congealing back together after being run through with a knife.
Your mouth is dry. Forcing down the lump in your throat, staring into the eye shining in the midst of the living void, you whisper, “What will you do?” Does it plan to kill you? Suck out your soul?
The thing regards you for a moment. Its swirling tendrils hover above your skin, tips wavering lightly as if caressing the air. Its silence is devoid of malevolence. Instead, you feel it unpicking you with its incomprehensible mode of perception, dissecting you, even—you shudder as one of the tendrils just barely ghosts over your cheek—tasting you, with the same curiosity and intent of a scientist peering through a microscope at a new discovery.
Strangely enough, with half of his face warped into a swarming, psychedelic splatter, it feels the most like Anaxa since this thing took up his body. Something in your chest gives a heavy throb. Because this isn’t him. He is dead. However much it might act, or look, or speak or stare like him, you know it isn’t, because you saw…
The mass draws back, receding slowly as if it’s being sucked back into his eyepatch. The last few wisps flail and vanish behind the dark cloth. It concludes, in Anaxa’s voice, “I will not harm you.”
Stars swim behind your eyes. Your heartbeat flutters in your chest, which is so tight it might burst. Short, sharp gasps of air are all you can pull down your constricted throat. “Why?” you stammer out, barely audible.
The question seems to puzzle him. Plainly, he replies, “I don’t want to.”
You exhale a breath. “Oh.”
The world tilts around you. Your head drops forward. You don’t fall. A hand on your shoulder keeps you upright as the grass beneath your feet turns into the waves of a green ocean. It feels like a human hand. You force yourself to glance over at him. He looks normal; as normal as Anaxa ever looked. His gaze is firm, not unkind. Not his. Its. Why do you have to keep reminding yourself of that distinction?
“You may pretend I am him, if you find it easier.”
Pretend it’s him? You almost want to laugh. It’s unthinkable. Anaxa is gone. You saw him. You can’t ever forget that fact. And yet…
Having this thing here, wearing his face, speaking in his voice—this thing, which is so utterly alien to everything you have ever known—having it here is almost like having him here, for all of its fundamental discrepancies. And having something almost like him here is infinitely better than not having him at all.
Before going ahead with the experiment, Anaxa had told you that there was nothing to worry about. He had it all worked out; you would see him once it was over. Part of you is furious with him for making you a promise he didn’t keep. How dare he leave like that? How dare he lie to you?
Staring at the thing that is (not?) Anaxa, it strikes you for the first time: maybe he didn’t lie to you. You are seeing him now, aren’t you? A close enough approximation, at the very least. (At the most. His insides are gods know what, and his mind has been hijacked by some bizarre entity you can’t begin to fathom.) If you simply… let him be what he now is… maybe he doesn’t have to be gone. And if he doesn’t have to be gone, you don’t have to be alone.
Just a silly collection of incorrect quotes inspired by the fic, organised by chapter! A warning for shenaniganery and quite a lot of quotes ahead…
… … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … …
Chapter One: In which you talk to kites
Reader: So when are we gonna tell her?
Qingque: Just give her a minute.
Sushang: *pulling on a door that clearly says push*
Qingque: *screams*
Sushang: *screams louder to assert dominance*
Qingni: Should we do something?!
Reader, observing: No, I want to see who wins this.
Reader: I currently have 7 empty notebooks and I have no clue what to put in them. Suggestions?
Qingque: Put spaghetti in it.
Reader: I'm currently taking suggestions from literally anyone but you.
Sushang: Put spaghetti in it.
Reader: I'm currently taking suggestions from anyone but you two.
Qingni: Put spaghetti in it.
Reader: I'm no longer taking suggestions.
Qingque: *Gently taps table*
Sushang: *Taps back*
Yukong: What are they doing?
Reader: Morse code.
Qingque: *Aggressively taps table*
Sushang: *Slams hands down* YOU TAKE THAT BACK-
Chapter Two: In which you are forced to go and seek your fortune
Yukong: Name something you believed in as a child that you no longer do as a teenager.
Reader: Myself
Phantylia: My assistance will be an act of beneviolence.
Reader: ...Don’t you mean benevolence?
Phantylia: No.
Phantylia (to Reader): You seem familiar. Have I threatened you before?
Chapter Three: In which you take a daring leap of faith into unexpected encounters
Yanqing: Fu Xuan
Fu Xuan: What? It's the middle of the night!
Yanqing: I can't sleep
Fu Xuan: I can. Good night
Fu Xuan: There’s just something about the sound of my own voice which fascinates me.
Chapter Four: In which you discover a number of odd things
Yanqing: I am 32 cheetos tall.
Reader: Why… are you measuring your height in cheetos?
Yanqing: Because we're out of doritos.
Fu Xuan: Here is my wall of inspirational people.
Reader: Is that a picture of you?
Fu Xuan: Yes, I am big enough to admit that I am often inspired by myself.
Chapter Five: In which you break two of the three rules
Yanqing: I think I'm having a mid-life crisis.
Reader, sweeping the floor: You're like 15 years old
Yanqing: I MIGHT DIE AT 30!
Reader: What's your morning routine like?
Jing Yuan: Existential despair, then I always remember to use some lip balm.
Reader: Why can't any of you ever clean up after yourselves?
Jing Yuan: I have a person who does that for me.
Reader: Yeah, ME.
Jing Yuan: I'm glad you agree.
Fu Xuan: Have you been yelled at by Reader yet?
Jing Yuan, smiling: I’m not scared of them.
Fu Xuan: So that’s a no.
Chapter Six: In which Jing Yuan expresses his feelings with very very frightening thunderbolts and lightning
Reader, while Mimi is being sick in the background: Hold on, I can explain!
Jing Yuan: Really? Can you now?
Reader: I can if you give me a minute to think of a convincing lie.
Jing Yuan: I can’t believe there’s a cat somewhere in my house. Amazing feeling. Love cats. And she's here, in my house! Somewhere! And I may encounter her! What a treat.
Chapter Seven: In which you break the third rule
Jing Yuan: I’m not lazy, I just find it hard to put effort into things I’m not passionate about.
Reader: What are you passionate about?
Jing Yuan: Sleeping.
Reader, pointing at their sign: Don’t worry, I have a permit.
Shopkeepers: ...This just says “I can do what I want”.
Yanqing: Oh, look at all the pretties!
Reader: Can you please stop talking about deadly swords the same way you talk about shoes?
Reader: I’ve only had Yanqing for a day and a half, but if anything happened to him I would kill everyone in this room and then myself.
Chapter Eight: In which you leave the flying ship on a flying sword
Yanqing: Don’t panic, I have a few swords up my sleeve for situations like this
Reader: Don’t you mean tricks?
Fu Xuan: No, he doesn’t
Yanqing, taking a sword out of sleeve: No, I don’t
Yanqing: Hold on, I’m having one of those things - a headache with pictures
Reader: Huh?
Fu Xuan: he’s having an idea
Jing Yuan: I know you snuck out last night, Yanqing.
Reader: Play dumb!
Yanqing: Who's Yanqing?
Reader: NOT THAT DUMB!!!
Reader: So what do you do for a living?
Jing Yuan: I stop political coups and clear up threats to Luofu’s safety.
Reader: The fuck no you don't.
Jing Yuan: Have you ever heard of any?
Reader: No?
Jing Yuan: Then you are welcome.
Chapter Nine: In which the shiny talisman remains a mystery
Yanqing: If I accidentally sat on a voodoo doll of myself, would I be trapped forever in that position, doomed to starve to death?
Fu Xuan: How am I supposed to know?
Reader: You say, as if we don’t use you as a source of knowledge of the occult.
Fu Xuan: *sighs*
Fu Xuan: You wouldn't be trapped.
Yanqing: *slices Cirrus a gazillion times*
Cirrus: You son of a bitch!
Reader, watching from the sidelines: Watch your language. That's beeatch to you.
Reader: It’s dark in here
Yanqing: Don’t worry I got this
Yanqing: *stomps his feet*
Yanqing: *Skechers light up*
Reader: *dangling from a rope over a pit of fire* Remember when I said I’d tell you when we’re in too deep?
Yanqing: Yes?
Reader: We’re in too deep.
Chapter Ten: In which your following has grown
Jing Yuan: What am I supposed to do all day while you’re in Fyxestroll Garden?
Reader: I dunno. What do you normally do when I’m gone?
Jing Yuan: 🥺 Wait for you to get back.
Fu Xuan: Presents are the best way to show someone how much you care.
Fu Xuan: It is like this tangible thing that you can point to and say, “Hey, I love you this many strales’ worth.”
Reader: I’m not doing too well.
Reader: I have this headache that comes and goes.
Jing Yuan: *appears*
Reader: Oh look there it is again
Jing Yuan to Yanqing: Turn that frown upside-down!
*a little while later*
Jing Yuan: What are you doing?
Yanqing, trying to do a handstand: You told me to “turn that frown upside-down” but it’s not working.
Chapter Eleven: In which more shiny talismans are found in a strange land (China)
Jing Yuan, on the phone: Hi, it’s Jingyuan
Qingzu: What did he do this time?
Jing Yuan: No, jiejie, it’s me, Jingyuan
Qingzu: Oh… what did you do this time?
Chapter Twelve: In which you practice your disguise
Jing Yuan: Let's play two truths one lie. I'll start.
Jing Yuan: My best friend was killed, my master went insane, and my eyes are yellow!
Reader, nervously: I don't like this game.
Chapter Thirteen: In which an infiltration goes south
Reader: So, what, now I’m just supposed to do anything that Jing Yuan does? I mean, what if he jumped off a cliff?
Fu Xuan: If Jing Yuan were to jump off a cliff, he would’ve done his due diligence regarding the height of the cliff, the depth of the water, and the angle of entry, so yes. If you see Jing Yuan jump off a cliff, by all means, jump off a cliff.
Reader: You jump off a cliff!
Fu Xuan: Gladly. Provided Jing Yuan did first.
Jing Yuan: I think we're missing something.
Yanqing: Teamwork?
Fu Xuan: Cohesion?
Reader: A general sense of what we’re doing?
Reader, talking to Dan Shu about Jing Yuan: I mean, yeah, he's clearly mentally ill. But you gotta admit it's a little charming watching him walk around pretending like he's not.
Jing Yuan, talking about Reader to Jingliu: I mean, yeah, they're clearly mentally ill. But you gotta admit it's a little charming watching them walk around pretending like they're not.
Yanqing, through text: *sending a voice recording*
Reader, texting: I can't listen to it now, is it urgent?
Yanqing, texting back: No, play it when you can
*later*
Reader: *playing the recording*
Yanqing, in the voice recording: THERE'S A FIRE--
Reader: You know what? Let’s give it a go. What’s the worst that could happen?
Phantylia: Humiliation, embarrassment, fire, explosions, collisions, tears, nudity and death.
Chapter Fourteen: In which you do a lot of thinking
Reader: Jing Yuan, does it ever seem to you that everything just feels... wrong? Like you're living in a nightmare?
Jing Yuan: I’m okay. I just have trouble breathing sometimes and I wake up screaming
Reader:
Jing Yuan: I’m fine, Reader. I know tons of people who cry out of nowhere.
Jing Yuan: On the scale of 1-10, how annoyed with me you are right now?
Reader: 8
Jing Yuan: I can do better than that.
Chapter Fifteen: In which Yanqing’s cold worsens
Yanqing: My head hurts.
Fu Xuan: That’s your brain trying to comprehend its own stupidity.
Reader: Fu Xuan, you need to react when people cry!
Fu Xuan: I did. I rolled my eyes.
Yanqing: I wanna be like you when I grow up.
Reader, panicking and confused: Umm... thanks? But please reconsider.
Chapter Sixteen: In which a flying ship moves under the sea
Jing Yuan: I will now exorcise this room to get rid of all the demons and evil spirits.
Yanqing: *clutching Reader tightly* No please, they’re family!
Reader: I hate both of you.
Reader: I’m going to take you out.
Jing Yuan: Great, it’s a date!
Reader: I meant that as a threat.
Jing Yuan: See you at five!
Fu Xuan: I dare you to kiss the next person who walks into this room.
Reader: Screw that, I’m not kissing any of you.
Jing Yuan: *walks into the room*
Reader: Fine, I’ll do it. Rules are rules you know.
Chapter Seventeen: In which there are more unexpected encounters
Reader: Tingyun was annoying, she almost triggered my fight or fight response.
Fu Xuan: You mean fight or flight?
Reader: No, I mean fight or fight. I'm not a bird, Fu Xuan
Reader: So, what’s Jing Yuan’s type?
Fu Xuan: Fox ears, kind, oblivious, good at cooking, under a curse.
Reader: Sounds kind of like me. Too bad we’re just friends.
Fu Xuan: Did I mention oblivious?
Reader: Yeah, why?
Fu Xuan: Nothing, just making sure.
Chapter Eighteen: In which you express your feelings with hot tea (among other things)
Jing Yuan: Once I figure out how to undoom them from the narrative the wedding is BACK ON
Bailu to Reader: GIRL (gn) you are KILLING IT!
Bailu:
Bailu: GIRL I don't think it's MOVING ANYMORE
Bailu: GIRL you can STOP THROWING TEA
Bailu, banging on the door: Reader! Open up!
Reader: Well, it all started when I was a kid...
Fu Xuan: No, she meant--
Bailu: Let them finish.
Reader: I prevented a murder today
Bailu: Oh, that’s nice! How?
Reader: Self control
Bailu: Idk man… does he make your heart beat faster?
Reader: I have anxiety, everything makes my heart beat faster
Chapter Nineteen: In which many long stories come together
Bailu: Where’s Reader?
Jing Yuan, sighing: They went to go fight everyone who has hurt me.
Bailu: Oh no, who first?
Jing Yuan: Themself. They’ve been yelling at the mirror for the past hour
Reader: You’re smiling. What happened?
Fu Xuan: What? Can’t I smile just because I feel like it?
Yanqing: Shifu tripped and fell down the stairs today.
Jing Yuan: I wanna sleep for 40 hours
Reader: You know that's called a coma, right?
Jing Yuan:
Jing Yuan: That sounds so refreshing, I could totally go for a light coma right now
Reader: *makes Jing Yuan a cup of tea but accidentally curses it*
Jing Yuan: *sips tea*
Reader:
Jing Yuan: *finishes tea*
Reader: Didn't it taste bad?
Jing Yuan: Yeah, but I didn't want to hurt your feelings so I drank it all.
Reader, tearing up: Oh, okay.
Reader: What was that noise?
Jing Yuan: My shirt fell
Reader: It sounded louder than that
Jing Yuan: I was in it
Reader: Nothing anyone can say would make me cry
Yukong: Nothing bad that’s happened to you, or anyone close to you, is your fault
Reader:
Reader: Excuse me for one se
Yanqing: Are you okay?
Reader, crying: Yeah, it was just the onions.
Yanqing: *picks up an onion* What the frick did you say to them??? (Jing Yuan doesn't allow him to swear)
Jing Yuan: *gets down on one knee*
Fu Xuan, looking at Reader: Oh my Aeons, it’s finally happening.
Jing Yuan: *falls over*
Fu Xuan: The poison is kicking in.
Phantylia: I have your child
Reader: Which one?
Phantylia: The annoying one who won’t shut up
Reader: Which one?
Chapter Twenty: In which a contract is concluded
(After Reader returns to the Seat of Divine Foresight with Jing Yuan)
Yanqing: Wow, you're so brave! You didn't even hesitate to throw yourself in danger!
Reader: That's because I have no regard for my own personal safety. You can ask Jing Yuan
Jing Yuan: I have never been more stressed in my entire life
Mimi: *nods in agreement*
Phantylia: Would you stab your best friend in the leg for 10 million strales?
Fu Xuan: You stab me, and then when my leg gets better, we buy a big-ass ship.
Jing Yuan: You can stab me too, then we'll have 20 million.
Fu Xuan: Good thinking.
Chapter Twenty-One: In which a curse is lifted
Reader: Do you want to explain the text you sent me last night?
Jing Yuan: It was autocorrect
Reader: Autocorrect wrote "you're so hot please step on me"?
Jing Yuan: Yes
Fu Xuan, redecorating the ship: And if you have any suggestions feel free to put them in the suggestion box.
Yanqing: But – that’s just a trash can.
Fu Xuan: It sure is!
Fu Xuan: The real treasure was the memories we made along the way.
Reader: Jing Yuan almost died.
Fu Xuan: That... was my favourite memory.
Jing Yuan: Phantylia, my old arch-enemy.
Phantylia: ...I thought I am your arch enemy?
Jing Yuan: I have a life outside of you, Phantylia.
Fu Xuan, at Jing Yuan's funeral: I need a moment with them.
Everyone else at the funeral: Of course. *leaves*
Fu Xuan, leaning over Jing Yuan's coffin: Okay, listen here you little shit. I know you’re not dead.
Jing Yuan, sitting up in the coffin: Yeah, no shit
Jing Yuan: I want to wake up with you every day for the rest of our lives
Reader: I wake up at 4:30AM everyday
Jing Yuan:
Jing Yuan: I want to see you at some point every day for the rest of our lives
Bailu: I'm sorry but we can only allow family in to see him at this point
Reader: Bold of you to assume I won't legally adopt him right now
Yanqing, half asleep inside the hospital room: You tell 'em
Reader: You deserve a reward for putting up with me.
Jing Yuan: *smiles* You are my reward.
Reader:
Reader: *starts sobbing*
Fu Xuan: You deserve a reward for putting up with me.
Yanqing: Yeah, you’re a real beeatch sometimes.
Yanqing: *accidentally kills someone* Oh geez.
Yanqing: *Kills a cockroach* Holy moly!
Yanqing: *escapes a near death experience* Okie Dokie that was intense.
Fu Xuan: Just say “fuck” for the love of the Arbiter!
Yanqing:
Yanqing: Fudge.
Miscellaneous:
Reader: I’m gonna need a human skull and I can't have you ask any questions why.
Fu Xuan: Only if you also don't ask why
Fu Xuan: *Pulls out 7 pristine human skulls* Take your pick.
Reader:
Fu Xuan:
Reader: This one is fine
Reader: Why is Jing Yuan coming out of a prison cell?
Yanqing: Jing Yuan why were you arrested?
Jing Yuan: I was arrested for being too cool.
Fu Xuan: *smirking* The charges were dropped due to a lack of evidence.
Yanqing: What is it called when you kill a friend?
Fu Xuan: Homicide.
Reader: Murder.
Jing Yuan: Homiecide.
Fu Xuan: I hate when kids scream in public...
Fu Xuan: You don't have real problems.
Fu Xuan: It should be me screaming.
Fu Xuan: ME!
Reader, texting Jing Yuan: Text me when you’re home safely.
Jing Yuan: I’m home dangerously.
Reader: Stop it.
Jing Yuan: I’m home lethally.
Reader: I can’t believe we're locked in this room together
Jing Yuan, throwing the key out of the window: Truly unfortunate
Yanqing: *walking around disappointed after visiting an aquarium*
Jing Yuan: Yanqing, what did you think a tiger shark was?
*at a zoo in China*
Yanqing: What are they in for?
Jing Yuan: This isn't prison.
Yanqing: So they can leave?
Jing Yuan: No, but--
Yanqing, pointing at a meerkat: I bet that one murdered someone.
Fu Xuan: I’m not mean, name one mean thing I’ve ever done
Yanqing: When I first came to the ship, you convinced me eggs weren't real
Fu Xuan: They're not
Yanqing: Haha, very funny
Fu Xuan: I’m serious! Didn’t you hear?
Yanqing: No... what happened?
Fu Xuan: *looks into camera*
… … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … …
If anyone has any more ideas, let me know and I can add them to this post!
would u ever make like a follow up series/extra short fic about jing yuan and reader after the events of the general's flying ship? just like a fluff or scenario of smt domestic? i finished my third reread of generals flying ship and im craving content but ive been too afraid to ask lol ...
if you cant do it or just would rather do a short headcanons thing thats ok too! im jsut too obsessed lol thanks anyways for ur time! generals flying ship is a masterpiece i hope you know!!! much love
Hmm… I wouldn’t say ‘no’ for sure, because it’s always possible that I will write some extra things for it, but currently I don’t plan to. I do have a few silly ideas which could serve as the basis for some oneshots — though right now, they’re kind of just sitting there, waiting for a stroke of inspiration…
I don’t really write headcanons but I do have a bunch of incorrect quotes for them, if that’s something which would interest you? They’re definitely peak silliness
Also aaaah it’s so flattering to hear you’ve read it THREE times… that’s crazy. Thank you so much for the support!
If you do want more content, feel free to send in asks on my sideblog (@/cynicalmusings). I probably won’t write anything but I will be very happy to yap about ideas and answer questions!
not a req but i love love lovee your works!! ive been following you since 2023ish i believe? and although i cant keep up with most of your updates because im always busy with life, your works always manage to make breathing easier when i actually do have the time to read
Thank you so much! That’s quite a long time to be following me… thanks for sticking around lol
I’m so happy my writing has brought some joy to you eeeee
I’ll only take commissions for the following characters:
Genshin Impact:
• Heizou
• Xiao
• Chiori
• Albedo
• Scaramouche/ Wanderer
• Flins
Honkai: Star Rail:
• Jing Yuan
• Boothill
• Dan Heng (incl. Dan Feng)
• Anaxa
• Fugue
Reverse: 1999:
• Medicine Pocket
• Getian
• 6
A Date With Death:
• Casper
Arcane:
• Steb
Voltron: Legendary Defender:
• Lotor
I’m open to writing both character x reader and character x OC, provided that you give me sufficient information about your OC to work with. I don’t take commissions for character x character. Please be as specific as possible about what you want to be included in the commission.
I’ll let you know the outline beforehand, and start writing once I have your get-go. Feel free to ask for updates during the writing process, or raise any questions.
I can’t guarantee how long writing a commission will take, because it will partially depend on my own motivation levels at the time, but shorter commissions will generally take less time. If you have a deadline in mind, let me know and I’ll try my best to have it finished by then — but do be reasonable with it, e.g. don’t ask me to write 5,000 words in three days. If you have questions about this, let me know!
I may decline a commission if the idea doesn’t appeal to me; I don’t want to charge somebody for a piece of writing which I don’t feel I can put my full effort into.
If you post the commission elsewhere, please credit me. These are also for personal use only (i.e. not commercial, for obvious reasons).
…𝙿𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚐:
Pricing is £1 per 200 words.
You can send me a rough word count (e.g. ‘around 700 words’) and I’ll stick as close as possible to the given word count. If I go over that number, I’ll charge only until that word count is reached and no further.
Alternatively, you can pick one of the following brackets, and I will charge for however much I write within the chosen bracket:
• Drabbles — 150 to 999 words
• Short fics — 1,000 to 2,699 words
• Medium-length fics — 2,700 to 4,999 words
• Longer fics — 5,000+ words (for this bracket, I’ll charge up to however much I end up writing.)
Again, if I write above the upper boundary of the chosen bracket, I won’t charge for the extra words.
…𝙿𝚊𝚢𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝:
Payments will be accepted through ko-fi.
If you have specified a word count, you'll pay the full amount upfront.
If you’ve commissioned for the word count brackets, you’ll pay in two rounds. First, before I start writing the commission, you’ll pay for the lower word count boundary of that bracket. Then, if the finished work exceeds the lower boundary, you’ll pay the remaining amount after the commission is completed based on how many words over the lower boundary I’ve written.
e.g. Say you request the short fic bracket (1,000-2,699 words). You’ll pay £5 upfront (for 1,000 words). If the finished product ends up being 2,000 words long, you’ll pay the remaining £5 for the additional 1,000 words in that bracket (so, £10 in total). If the finished product is over 2,699 words and you’ve commissioned a short fic, the total price will be £5 (upfront) + £8.50 (afterwards, for the additional 1,699 words; £13.50 in total), charging up to the top boundary of 2,699 words but no further.
Regarding refunds, if I don’t start or finish your commission, I’ll give either a full or partial refund, depending on how far I got into the commission in the latter case.
So… DM me on @perpetualcynicism if you’d like to place a commission (or have any questions)!
I don't know if you remember me, but I was the anon who didn't know anything about anaxa but fell in love with him after your Socrates reader fic! I fell in love with him again with your newest fic!!! I also recently read your Xiao x readers and my goodness the way you understand and write these characters are just amazing I can't get over it
Thank you! I love it when I manage to ensnare people into also being obsessed over my favourite characters hehe
Characterisation is a big priority for me when fic-writing so I’m really glad you find it engaging!
…𝙲𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜: In which you continue following Anaxa’s journey to stardom as his stylist.
…𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜: Major character death, medical complications, mention of attempted assault (neither Anaxa nor reader perpetrating), mild sexual content (rated M).
…𝙻𝚎𝚗𝚐𝚝𝚑: 11,385 words.
…𝙰𝚍𝚍𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚒𝚗𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗: Gender-neutral reader, idol!Anaxa x stylist!reader AU, continuation of 'Changes'.
AO3
Comments and reblogs are appreciated.
… … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … …
𝙳𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝙺𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚈𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝙻𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝙸𝚝𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏
After Anaxa’s tour ended, you found yourself back in your hometown, the same old, sleepy neighbourhood you hadn’t been all that sorry to leave behind. It wasn’t that you disliked where you’d grown up. You had many fond memories from your upbringing, and you loved your family and the friends you made here. But to have been on such a rollercoaster as the tour, brushed up against that staggering array of possibilities, only to be dropped back into your old life… You found yourself on edge, bouncing on your heels, already anticipating the next opportunity to get out there again. As much as you appreciated your home life, it paled in comparison to the sweeping tiled rooftops of Xianzhou and the opulent theatres of Penacony.
The one good thing about being back was reconnecting with the people you’d left behind. You paid Aglaea a visit shortly after you got back. It had been around nine months since you resigned and took up your job as Anaxa’s stylist (you found it hard to believe it had already been so long), and in the meantime her shop had moved to a bigger space to accommodate its growing success. She was happy to see you and introduced you to her three nieces, who helped take care of the shop in your stead.
You also met with some other old friends, some of whom you’d been in contact with since your school days. You went out for lunch, then watched a film which had come out recently—a period piece about a popular classic, set in Ancient Amphoreus. It was alright, nothing special, but served the purpose of socialising just fine. Once it was over, you bade each other goodbye and headed home. It was approaching dusk. The sky was a dusty blue-grey with a hint of orange blush on the horizon. The temperature had dropped. You walked at a brisk pace to stave off the cold.
You turned into your street and walked past rows of similar houses before finally arriving at your door. The paint needs to be redone, you thought idly as you fished around for your keys. Originally a deep shade of green, it was faded now, cracked and peeling in some places. Finally, your hand closed around the keys. You took them out, fiddled with the lock, and pushed open the door.
“I’m home,” you announced as you stepped into the narrow hallway. Warmth washed over you, chasing away the stiffness in your arms and legs. The hiss of frying oil drifted in from the kitchen, accompanied by the garbled drone of TV. Your parents loved following these obscure TV series which nobody else cared about. You still didn’t understand what they found so interesting about them. After taking off your coat and scarf, you turned into the living room to be met with a singularly surreal sight.
Anaxa was spread out like a cat on your sofa, lounging with one long leg crossed over the other, absorbed in a book. He was reading Camus’s The Stranger, one of your dad’s favourites.
The presence of Anaxa in your domestic space was like two completely separate spheres of existence colliding. You had never registered it as a possibility. An alien may have as well dropped into your living room.
“Anaxa?” you said, baffled. “What are you doing here?”
He glanced at you over the top of the book. Instead of answering your question, he uncrossed his legs and said, “You’ve returned. Good. How was the film?”
“Um. Not bad, but…” While you struggled to recover from your shock, your mother came through the doorway carrying a cup of coffee and a plate of small almond sweets, which she set down on the coffee table in front of the sofa. Anaxa raised the coffee to his lips and took a short sip. He didn’t touch the almonds.
“Are you sure you don’t want anything else?” your mum asked, sounding a bit giddy. She’d been following Anaxa’s releases since you started working with him, so you could say she was a fan of his. She must be finding this whole ordeal as bizarre as you were.
He nodded. “Yes. Thank you very much.”
“Alright.” She smiled. “I’ll leave you to it, then.” As she walked back across the room, you shot her a questioning look, glancing meaningly in Anaxa’s direction and then back. Her eyes widened. “Oh, yes. Anaxagoras came by to see you, but you were out, so I invited him to stay with us until you came back.”
“See me?” You turned your head to Anaxa, the explanation leaving you more confused. “What for?” Usually, when Anaxa needed something from you, he would call you or let you know through Hyacine. Showing up at your house was unprecedented. You didn’t even know how he got your address. Was it something serious?
He took another long sip of coffee before placing the cup down on the table. He gestured towards the almonds in a silent question. You shook your head. Then he stated, “I would like to talk to you about something.”
“To do with your next gigs?” you filled in.
“No. This is not related to my career as such.”
Thank you for being so detailed, you thought. For someone as to-the-point as Anaxa, he could be frustratingly opaque when it suited him. Still, your curiosity couldn’t help but get piqued. If it wasn’t related to his musical career, what did he want from you?
Your dad called from the kitchen, “Will you be staying for dinner?”
“No, thank you,” Anaxa replied. “We are going out.”
You blinked. “We are?”
He nodded. “I’ve made a reservation for six-thirty. To make it on time, we should be leaving shortly.”
“Oh.” You felt like you’d stumbled into a very realistic dream without noticing and weren’t sure quite how to get out, so you went along with it. “Erm, okay…”
Though you’d only just returned home, a couple of minutes later you found yourself heading back into the street. The sun had dipped beneath the skyline. Darkness descended on the row of houses. Anaxa led you to his car, parked around the corner, and opened the door for you. You sat down in the passenger seat while he took the wheel and began to drive in the direction of this enigmatic restaurant.
For some time, you sat in silence. The only noises were the car tyres rolling over the road and the occasional click of the indicator. The thing was that you didn’t really know what to say. You weren’t bad at small talk, but around Anaxa, you never knew how to begin a conversation. You got the sense that he would find small talk insulting, if anything. Anaxa was the kind of person who didn’t have the patience for superficial fluff. He concerned himself with higher, more significant things.
“You didn’t finish answering my question,” he said at last. Like he already knew what you were about to ask next, he clarified, “About the film. Was it good?”
“It wasn’t bad. But I wouldn’t say it was anything special.” You shrugged. “The costume design wasn’t all accurate for the period.”
His eyes flickered over to you. “No?”
“Yeah. It was set in Ancient Amphoreus, but the garments were draped in a way that only came into fashion a few eras later—not to mention using dyes they wouldn’t have had access to.” It struck you that Anaxa probably wasn’t all that interested in historically accurate draping, so you broke yourself out of your critique and switched the topic to one of mutual relevance. “So, where are we actually going?”
“A restaurant near the Twilight Courtyard,” he said. Then he added, “I selected it based on your preferences, so I am certain you’ll like it.”
Your preferences? You hadn’t been aware Anaxa was keeping track of those. The thought was strangely warming.
He parked the car on the side of the street and you walked a bit before arriving at your destination. The murmur of conversation came into earshot before the building itself. It was a two-storey place, fairly small, decked out with abundant green foliage and warm lights. The place was pretty busy with locals, too, which was a good sign.
Anaxa strode straight inside, holding the door open for you afterwards, and spoke briefly to a waiter who came up to you. The waiter led you to a table on the second floor which overlooked a small garden allotment behind the building. It was a little out of the way of the other tables, which granted a bit of privacy from the surrounding guests. Just as Anaxa had said, this was exactly the kind of place you liked: unassuming enough to not be stuffy, but definitely nice, not just anywhere you’d stumble into by accident.
You made some light conversation before ordering drinks. When they arrived, you paused the discussion to take a sip from your glass. It was at this point that you noticed Anaxa was staring at you from across the table. When you glanced away, he kept staring without even blinking. It was difficult to ignore. You cleared your throat, at which point he did blink, as if shaking himself from a stupor, and straightened up.
“I have invited you here because there is something I want to talk about with you.”
“What is it?”
He rested his hands together on the table, fingertips touching. “I suspect you are aware of this already, but to be frank, I have developed feelings for you. So that this doesn’t become troublesome for both of us, I would like to know two things: the first, whether you return these feelings, and if so, the second—whether you are interested in pursuing them.”
The admission was so frank that you felt like you were sitting an exam. For the first few moments, you just gawked at him. Anaxa waited, watching intently, for you to draw together a reply. “Well, to answer your first question,” you began slowly, “I do return your feelings. But I’m sure you knew that already, too.”
He nodded. “I thought as much, but I wanted to be certain. And for the second question?”
“As for the second… I’m interested in pursuing them, yes. If that’s something you’re willing to commit to.”
He leaned back in his chair, tipping his chin up slightly. “Good. I am.” After a pause, he asked, “And you do not feel this invitation was too forward of me, or moving too quickly? I want you to be comfortable.”
Your face flushed. “No, no, it’s fine. This is wonderful.”
“That pleases me to hear.”
The food came shortly afterwards, and you dropped the topic, turning to other talking points instead. Anaxa already had ideas for his next album and wanted your thoughts on how to get the visual impact across. He also asked you questions about yourself, which he’d never really done before. The undivided attention made you feel special—a bit embarrassing to admit, but true nonetheless. You didn’t get many chances to talk with him alone. Costume changes didn’t count to you; they weren’t long enough to talk about anything in real depth.
Anaxa paid the bill and drove back to his place. That was when you realised that he might be thinking of more than just dinner. He stepped out of the car and headed towards his apartment. You took a breath before following him inside.
Usually when you were at Anaxa’s flat, there would be some other people there, too: Hyacine, Castorice, Phainon, often more you didn’t know. This was the first time it was just the two of you. In the quiet blue shadows, with nobody else to fill the space, the whole place seemed to expand. The walls stretched longer and taller, the ceiling higher like a cathedral’s vaulted roof above your head. Wandering past his displays of contemporary art was like treading through a forest of strange and twisted shapes.
Anaxa strode straight towards a particular door which you soon realised was his bedroom. Your steps faltered. He didn’t notice and kept walking until he reached the door, at which point he turned around and looked back at you, still standing a little way down the corridor. The door pushed open by a crack.
“Care to join me?”
You found yourself rooted to the floor. You didn’t know why. It wasn’t like you weren’t attracted to him—you were, very much so. It also wasn’t like you didn’t want to get to know him more intimately, because you did, and the thought had crossed your mind more than a couple times in the past. But standing there, alone in his flat with Anaxa’s eyes locked onto you and the half-open door beckoning, it all at once became very real. This wasn’t just you staring at him from backstage anymore. This wasn’t even whatever happened that day in the dressing room, which neither of you had spoken about since. This was you and him and his bedroom, in what seemed to be an actual offer to spend the night with him. You didn’t know what to do with that fact—how to feel about it. Did you truly want this? You were pretty sure you did, but were you ready for it—everything it entailed?
Anaxa arched a quizzical eyebrow. Your uncertainty must have been showing on your face, because he said, “We won’t do anything you don’t want to do.” There was a light touch of amusement tucked into the curl of his lip.
With that, you shook off your doubts and strode past him, pushing the door open into the room beyond.
Anaxa’s bedroom was spacious and tastefully decorated, just like everything in his flat, with funnily-shaped furniture lining the walls. The main colour of the room was a gorgeous deep teal which spread across the walls and many of the furniture drapes. A large oval mirror stood at the back, with a crimson drape thrown over it. He also had a mint green armchair in one corner with a red velvet cushion in its centre. Lamps with all fashions of light shades—yellow paper, coloured glass, some fashioned in fantastical shapes—glowed with a soft illumination that didn’t quite drive away the dark. Instead, shadows nestled quietly amongst the paraphernalia, as much a part of the space as the walls and furniture. A glass crystal chandelier hung from the centre of the ceiling, reflecting little glimmering shards of light around the room as it rotated slowly in its place. It was like stepping into the Aurora Borealis with the stars peeking through from behind. In the middle, there was a double bed with dark blue sheets.
You perched on the edge of the bed. It was so quiet. You were used to hearing music playing in the background, through CDs or Anaxa’s band working out their parts. Now if you focused enough you could hear your own breathing rising and falling in your throat.
The mattress dipped slightly as Anaxa sat down beside you. You could see his pale hands in the corner of your eye, his spindly fingers threaded together on his lap.
“Am I making you uncomfortable?” His voice was soft, carrying a slight rasp. He sounded uncharacteristically unsure of himself.
“No,” you answered honestly. “I’m just not used to being here like this.”
“Really?” He tipped his head to one side. “We have been alone together many times backstage.”
“That’s true, but it still feels different, to me at least. In costume changes, I’m there as your stylist. Right now, I’m here just as… well, just as myself.”
“I’ve never thought of it that way,” he admitted, “but yes, I can understand that feeling. In that case, is there anything I can do to help put you at ease?”
His undivided attention made you flush. “Just sitting here for a bit, I think. And talking. I’ll get used to it soon.”
Right now, you were mainly nervous because you (still) didn’t know what to say to him. What would you and Anaxa talk about? He was so well-versed in literature and philosophy—you’d overheard him discussing things like Plato and Nietzsche and various other intellectual things before. You were afraid he’d say something you didn’t understand, and then you’d make a fool of yourself and he’d lose interest in you, or something. The whole idea that Anaxa—the Anaxa who had the entire musical world wrapped around his little finger—had feelings for you was something you were still struggling to wrap your head around. You didn’t want to let it slip away. A small part of you wondered if it was an elaborate joke. That someone would jump out from behind that funny green armchair and shout, ‘Surprise!’
In hindsight, you should have put more trust in him. Anaxa leaned back on his hands, staring with his one eye into the dimness of the room. “While I was waiting for you to return, I spoke with your parents,” he said, by way of beginning the conversation.
You weren’t sure whether to be flattered or frightened. “What did you talk about?”
“I inquired into your history, your upbringing and the such.” He raised an eyebrow. “You never told me you played the piano.”
“Used to,” you sighed. “My parents always wanted me to get involved in some kind of creative hobby, so they made me take piano lessons as a kid.” With a chuckle, you recalled, “I was awful at it, though. And I haven’t touched a keyboard in… over a decade, probably.”
“What made you stop?”
“The lesson prices, for one thing. But it also didn’t really appeal to me, I guess. I’ve always been more of a visually creative person. That’s why I got into clothing and makeup.” Something struck you, and you paused, turning to look at him. “You know, it just came to me that I don’t actually know very much about you, as a person. Even when you’re off-stage, it feels like you never step out of that role.”
“The way I see it, my roles are an extension of myself,” he answered with forthright confidence. “Linked, but distinct from my own identity.”
“When did you start making music, then?”
“For as long as I can remember—though at the start, it was something like an absorbing pastime to me. It was my sister who encouraged me to pursue my interest and turn it into a career.”
“You have a sister?”
His reply came softly. “Had.”
Your words faltered. You wanted to say something like I’m sorry, but you already knew what Anaxa would say to that: What are you sorry for?
Before you landed on a response, Anaxa spoke again. He was looking at you very intently. “What do you think of me? Tell me truthfully.”
“I think a lot of things about you,” you confessed, a laugh slipping out of you at the end.
“Elaborate. There is no shortage of time.” A slight lift of the brow. “And please, do not try to flatter me.”
Your eyes dropped to your hands. Where did you even begin, with a question like that?
“Okay, well… I admire you a lot. I really do. The way you’re so decisive and know exactly what you want to do, and aren’t afraid to do it. And your ideas, too—I’m not a musician, but even I can tell that what you’re doing is amazing. And your success speaks for itself. But… I also think the attention gets to your head, sometimes. You can be pretty self-centred and I’m not the only person who feels like you’re cold to others sometimes—like you’re somehow above us. I don’t think that you don’t care—in fact I think you do, a lot—but it’s not always easy to tell.”
His lips drew into a line. “I see.”
You winced at the cold reaction. Hurriedly, you added, “But it’s not that bad, all things considered. I didn’t offend you, did I?”
“Not at all,” he replied. “I quite agree that I’m distant. My focus on my music can lead me to inadvertently neglect those around me. It’s something I intend to change. Nevertheless, I have also observed that, currently, I lack the ability to resolve this matter entirely by myself. That I am in need of an anchor.” His eyes rose and met yours. “Are you willing to provide this role for me?”
You felt your breath catch in your throat. “As in… you want me to be your ‘anchor’?”
“Yes. I feel that we have known each other for long enough for this request not to come as a complete shock. But, beyond that…” He trailed off into silence. His next words made your chest flutter. “I want you. For what you are. For,” and here his gaze fell, “everything that you are.” The word came out in an exhaled breath like a long-held sigh. His voice had softened, but it retained his ever-present decisiveness. When Anaxa said he wanted something, it was the result of careful, intense scrutiny, and you knew he meant it.
You were practically choking on your own heartbeat when he ghosted his cool knuckles over your cheek and, leaning closer, murmured, “Is that too much for me to ask of you?”
You didn’t have the words to respond. Instead, you pulled his face towards you and sealed the distance with a kiss.
Anaxa responded swiftly, his hands rising to cup your face and pull you closer towards him. He kissed you softly at first; then deeply, hungrily, like he was trying to draw out your very essence from the contact alone. Throughout it all his grip on you was feather-light, so tentative it might not have been there at all. (Was it just you or were his hands shaking?)
His tongue slipped over the seam of your lips, and you granted permission to his inquiry. His right hand slipped down to rest above your hips, tracing circles into your skin while you explored each other’s mouths. Anaxa’s lips were thin and soft, a little chapped. He tasted faintly of the wine he had drunk earlier. His hand slipped just beneath your T-shirt, fingertips wonderfully cool against the burning heat of your skin. All your prior uncertainty vanished. Your nerves were alight with anticipation. You no longer doubted that you wanted him.
You pushed him back onto the mattress. Anaxa followed your lead, letting you pin him down to the bed. You teased his long hair out of its ponytail so that it fanned out around his head in a radial crown. He dragged you closer by the shoulders, burying his face in your neck and dragging his lips across your collarbone. The sight of him so unkempt, so exposed—it ignited something in you which you didn’t know you had. Something hungry, just like that day in the changing room. Something that insisted that you needed to have him. Not his co-workers, not his crazy fans. You. There was no other option.
Whatever followed passed by in a blur. The next thing you knew, you were both naked, and Anaxa’s bony hands were roaming the length of your body. He was above you now, and strands of his loose hair tickled your skin as he leaned closer, murmuring low notes of praise in your ears which sent your stomach doing flips. These words broke into a shuddering groan when you raked your nails down his back in an attempt to draw him closer still.
Whenever you looked at Anaxa, you always thought there was something skeletal about him. It came from the abnormal paleness of his skin, his slightly protruding bone structure; almost like he was already a dead man, his body held together by mysterious forces beyond your control before it would collapse into dust at the slightest touch. Yet as he made love to you, words of adoration spilling from his lips, calling you by the names of Amphorean deities, his hands trailing across your body like a sculptor, you realised you couldn’t be more wrong. The way he moved, spoke, loved—all of it—was vitality. He was vitality. His love was a flame, nurturing and tender, pressed close into your cupped palms and entrusted to you for safekeeping.
He murmured into your hairline, “Will you do anything I ask of you?”
“Of course,” you replied, gasping out as his teeth nicked your ear.
“Love me?” His parted lips caressed up and down the side of your neck as he spoke, breath hot on your skin, eliciting from you long sighs of satisfaction. “Care for me?”
“I already do.”
There was a hard, insistent note to his voice. “Tell me. Say it aloud.”
“I love you, Anaxa,” you said.
Some unspoken tension seemed to escape from him. He slumped against you with what sounded like a sigh of relief. “Good,” he said softly, and you got the sense that a large weight had been lifted from his shoulders.
You lay back on the bed, chests heaving, the dark satin sheets strewn around you like a bird’s nest. Heat clung to your skin. Your heartbeat was still pounding in your throat. Anaxa proposed to bring you some water, an offer you took up readily. He returned soon after and laid back down beside you. His hair was all tousled up in odd angles around his face. It was endearing. You reached out and twined your fingers together. He let you, neither drawing away nor returning the gesture. But the planes of his face were soft, and he seemed content; at peace, in a way you didn’t see on him often.
Your eyes roamed his face and settled on the eyepatch covering his left eye. He had worn it all this time. You hadn’t attempted to remove it before, but now your curiosity got the better of you. You reached towards the black cloth, where your hand lingered on his cheek, waiting. Anaxa closed his eye in unspoken assent. You gently lifted the eyepatch away from his face, smoothing away the strands of hair which fell across his forehead with your other hand.
His left eyelids were sewn shut with a pale silvery thread. Judging from the slight depression behind them, the socket itself was vacant. You ghosted your thumb over the vein-webbed skin of his lower lid. Anaxa’s fingers closed around your wrist, holding your hand to his face, and he released a shuddering sigh. Something wet fell on your knuckles and you were surprised to see tears beading in the corner of his right eye.
You got the sense that if you asked him about it now, he would tell you. In fact, you felt that if you asked him anything now, he would answer you in earnest. But you didn’t. It felt like taking advantage of him, somehow. Whatever the story behind his eye, you wanted him to tell you when he wanted to tell you, not when you’d just got off a high. You retracted your hand, Anaxa’s fingers slipping like a corpse’s from your wrist. He stared back at you through his one eye, and for a moment from the way he looked at you, you felt like you might have been the only thing in his world.
——————
Seven months later, Anaxa was back on tour performing his latest album, Demised Scholar. You kept your relationship—you suppose that’s what it was now—private. Neither of you cared to deal with the scrutiny from the press and the outrage from rabid fans who believed they’d already laid their claim to him. Beside Hyacine and some suspicions in Castorice and Phainon, nobody knew about you, and you preferred it that way.
As a public-facing icon with a cult following and no confirmed relationship status, the subject of Anaxa’s love life was naturally a subject of concern for many of his young fans. Not a few interviewers alluded to the topic, and some interviewers had the candidness to ask about it directly. You remember one interview after the tour was over, where he was asked, “Are you in a relationship at the moment? Many people out there would like to know.”
Anaxa arched an eyebrow and replied, “I have no interest in finding romance.”
The interviewer seemed surprised. “None at all? Come on, you must know there are thousands of people who would throw themselves at you. Aren’t you tempted?”
“They already do,” he remarked quizzically, throwing a pointed look at the camera which no doubt sparked a series of laughs and swoons across the nation. “But, no, I don’t feel it’s necessary.”
The unvoiced implications of his reply went unnoticed, as intended. The interviewer continued with vicious ruthlessness, “Have you had any relationships in the past?”
Anaxa leaned back and crossed one leg over the other, looking coolly over at his interlocutor. “Yes.” That day he was wearing a loose red V-neck with a ruffle of lace around his throat, paired with close-hugging black trousers and boots. A single red earring dropped from his left ear, catching the light whenever he moved his head. The outfit suited him very well—although that was true of most things he wore. You don’t think you ever saw him in something which looked bad on him. Not even the onesie he insisted on wearing onstage during his ‘Dromas Draped in Finery’ era. (That was a controversial one for another story.)
“How many?”
“I don’t see,” Anaxa cut in, voice light but sharp-edged, “how any of this relates to my musical career. If you are so interested in my relationship history, you are more than welcome to dig into it yourself.” The corner of his mouth twisted up. “One might even observe that you have a vested interest in the topic, don’t you think?”
The interviewer flushed and abruptly changed the topic to Anaxa’s inspirations for this latest album. Safe to say he was not invited to another interview with that host.
Come to think of it, that Demised Scholar tour was a wild one, for a few reasons. For one, it was when Anaxa really started stepping into his own not just as a musician but a performer all-round. Anaxa was, first and foremost, that: a performer. Music was just the primary way he expressed that passion. As the tour went on, the concerts developed into a more theatrical experience. Sets were designed for the larger venues and Anaxa experimented with incorporating magic tricks and optical illusions into the performances, like disappearing suddenly and reappearing on the opposite side of the stage. It took a few runs to find the right balance of spectacle. He incorporated the successful ones into the programme going forward.
One night, after performing to a full house in Belobog, the audience was still buzzing. Anaxa always had this effect, but the atmosphere of tonight’s show had been particularly electric. There were a few fan favourites in this album already, like 15 and Dead Man Walking, which always drew a lot of screaming. This time he went a step further, stirring up the crowd in Dialogue with a Skull, where he threw a prop skull into the audience after making out with it at the end of the song. The making out part was scripted; the throw was on a whim. Shrieks rose from the concert hall as people stretched out their arms and tried to catch the skull. Somewhere out there, a lucky someone can claim proud ownership of the skull Anaxa kissed on his original Demised Scholar tour.
At that time Anaxa liked to stay behind for a little after the concert to observe the crowd as they left—gauge their reactions, energy levels and that kind of thing, which is how he judged the success of the performance. You were packing the costumes away and making a note to buy a new skull when you heard a scuffle backstage. It wasn’t uncommon for the band to get a bit loud after a particularly good night, but this sounded different. There was some shouting, too; a voice you didn’t recognise.
You stepped out of the changing room and saw Anaxa hanging back against the wall. His clothes hung loose around his throat and shoulders like they had been pulled at, exposing his pale, jutting collarbones. Near him a black-clad security officer was holding a young woman’s hands together behind her back. She couldn’t have been older than nineteen. As she was led out, looking half-delirious with tears pouring from her eyes, she was shouting at Anaxa, “I know all of your songs! Every single one of them! I know all about you!”
It wasn’t the first time something like this had happened—a crazy fan somehow finding their way backstage and trying to get their hands on Anaxa. He had a way of bringing out the rabid impulses in his followers. But nobody had ever got this far. Thankfully the situation was dealt with before it escalated. Anaxa, too, looked somewhat alarmed, and didn’t react immediately when you called his name. He was paler than usual. You leaned on the wall beside him and wordlessly offered him your hand. He took it after a few moments. When his breathing returned to normal and his skin back to its usual shade, you joined the other band members in the car.
In the meantime the venue staff had kindly finished packing up for you, so you drove straight off as soon as you got in the car. As usual a crowd was waiting outside for Anaxa to appear, but it wasn’t too difficult to shake them off. Looking at those hands and faces pressed against the window pane, you felt unease rise within you in a way it hadn’t before. Anaxa didn’t mention anything to the others. He spoke with them and recounted various moments of the performance as if nothing had happened at all. You wondered if he was really as unperturbed as he seemed.
Later that night you checked up on him. He told you he’d been caught off-guard but was otherwise unscathed, so you let it go. From then on you made a habit of leaving the venue as soon as the concert was over. Anaxa seemed regretful about it but didn’t contest the decision.
From Belobog, the tour moved to Xianzhou, where he had already performed when doing Golden Blood. As well as returning to the stage in Luofu the band hit up a few new spots in Yuque and Zhuming. It was all going very well: Anaxa had a large audience all across Xianzhou and your arrival was greeted warmly with media coverage and welcome posters from enthusiastic fans. You took the chance to explore the sights and wander around the cities, which were so different from where you’d grown up. While there, you bought some gorgeous fabrics which you immediately set to work fashioning into new costumes—to change things up a bit, as Anaxa so loved to do. Stasis of any kind—in his music, his appearance, his performance itself—bored him inestimably. As went the lyrics in Apotheosis (from Golden Blood), Change is the essence of the world, and the essence of the world is always changing.
By now Anaxa let you have more free reign in your creative judgements. While he would tell you straight up what he didn’t want (or what he didn’t like, which did happen a few times), he generally entrusted you to pursue your own direction in bringing them to life after providing you with a few pointers and emphatic gesticulations.
The outfit you ended up making on this tour was a bit of an experiment: a fusion of Amphorean and Xianzhou styles. The fabric itself was a gorgeous deep blue silk embroidered with delicate gold floral patterns. You also had a crimson linen on hand with gold designs that paired nicely with the silk. The blue fabric you styled in Xianzhou’s traditional attire, with a wide sleeve and long skirt. The red, you draped in Amphorean style, thrown over one shoulder with an overhang at the front.
It took multiple reworks to get right, but eventually you had an end result you were happy with. The two halves—Xianzhou blue and Amphorean red—contrasted one another in both shape and colour, but in a way that was complementary rather than jarring. Originally you wanted to make a two-piece costume with an outer jacket as well, but you didn’t want Anaxa to overheat on stage. As soon as it was finished and you were satisfied, you hurried over to Anaxa so he could try it on. He was in his hotel room—suite, really—occupying himself with the piano which had been installed when the hotel staff learned he was coming.
“I’ve made you a new costume,” you said, raising the carefully-folded garment hanging over your left arm. He looked up from the piano with keen interest and headed over without hesitation. He looked a bit sickly, as usual. He hadn’t taken to the humidity of Xianzhou very well. Luckily almost everywhere had air conditioning, so his constitution wasn’t too badly affected.
Anaxa slipped off the hotel robe he was wearing and you helped him put on the costume in front of the large bathroom mirror. The vivid colours against his pale skin worked wonderfully. Overall the outfit lent him a regal look which still boasted his classic experimental flare. It mostly fit, but you might need to shorten the bottom a bit to avoid a potential trip hazard while he was moving about onstage. Anaxa craned his neck and raised his arms this way and that as he inspected his reflection. You were very proud of it, but part of you was worried he wouldn’t like it and all the effort would be wasted.
“What do you think?” You couldn’t help asking.
Anaxa lowered his arms, one enclosed in a wide sleeve and the other bare. “I think you’ve outdone yourself,” he said, smiling slightly. The tension in you unwound. “I like it very much. It will work well for the middle section of the concert.”
“That’s good. I still need to make a few little tweaks, but if you’re happy with it, I can have those done by tonight.”
“Wait.” He pursed his lips, his eye returning to his image in the mirror. “Actually, I want it to be more distressed.”
“More… distressed?”
“Yes. This is the Demised Scholar we are talking about. Make it look the part. Currently, it’s very graceful—change that to deteriorated grace.”
Deteriorated grace… You wondered what to make of that prompt. Anaxa tended to throw these high and mighty concepts at you and left you to turn whatever he meant into reality. It was a great way of stretching your own creative muscles. “I guess I could… tear it up a bit? Make it look like it’s starting to fall apart.”
He nodded approvingly. “Yes, precisely that idea.”
You had to suppress a pained sigh at the thought of cutting up such gorgeous fabrics. But you trusted Anaxa’s vision, so it must be done. “Alright. I’ll work on it some more and then bring it back later.”
“Thank you.”
You didn’t bother mentioning that he had no need to thank you: this was quite literally what you were employed for. Looking again at his reflection in the mirror, you felt that something was still wanting—something could be improved. It took you a moment to realise what it was.
“I think you should try it without the eyepatch.”
Anaxa’s eyebrows rose. “Without it? Are you certain?”
“Yes. There’s already a lot going on visually with the colours and silhouette. Without the eyepatch it might have more clarity.” You hesitated, knowing that this was a somewhat sensitive area for Anaxa. He had never attempted to take it off before for a public appearance. “It’s only a suggestion, though. If you want to wear it, that’s fine too.”
While you were speaking, Anaxa had already removed the covering. He narrowed his right eye at his reflection, then lifted his chin. “I agree with you. It is better without the eyepatch. After all, the character of the Demised Scholar is one whose decaying truth is being laid bare by the world. It’s only fitting to reveal parts of myself in turn.”
With that dramatic proclamation, the matter was settled. You made the relevant adjustments and handed the costume back to Anaxa later that evening, who gave it the green light. He wore it the following night for the songs 15, Life Should Be Cast to Flames and End of the Road, before the finale of the show, where he went back on in white and blue bodypaint which looked like cracks spreading across his skin. Under the stage lights the fabrics shone. Paired with the tears and pulled seams you’d added after your conversation, he really did resemble ‘deteriorated grace’: bedecked in finery from a long-gone era, clawing his way back to the spotlight even as time left him in the dust. There were audible gasps when he came out wearing it, and it wasn’t long before he was booked up for photoshoots and the costume appeared on the front pages of magazines across the globe.
During one of your last concerts in Zhuming, you noticed something was up with Anaxa. Around halfway through the performance he stumbled over some of the lyrics. He corrected himself a moment later—it was hardly noticeable to the average fan, and those who knew the lyrics might write it off as an improvisation—but you knew that wasn’t it. It hadn’t sounded like improvising because then he wouldn’t have swerved to correct himself so quickly. A sense of misgiving began to gnaw at you, only growing as the concert unfolded.
Anaxa worsened as the performance went on. His voice became strained and at the end of Dead Man Walking he almost dropped the mic. By the last song he had to lean against the piano to stay upright. He managed to pull together the final pose—standing tall with his arms outstretched on either side—and hold it until he dropped to the floor on cue. You didn’t know whether he fell on purpose or he just couldn’t keep standing.
As the audience shrieked and applauded, Anaxa staggered backstage, his body wracked with shivers. Cold sweat dripped from his brow. He looked like he was on the verge of keeling over.
“Someone get a blanket!” you called to the staff backstage. A hurried scuffle ensued and a few seconds later a heavy blanket was passed into your hands. You placed it around Anaxa’s shoulders and sat him down in a nearby chair. He let you lead him as if he were a lifeless puppet with no will of his own. His legs practically gave way and he all but collapsed into the seat. He was white as a sheet—you could tell from even beneath the body paint—and his lips were pale, almost blue.
You fetched a glass of water and raised it to his lips. His hands were quaking in his lap; you wouldn’t trust him to hold a paperclip at the moment. He took a small sip but didn’t drink any more despite your attempted encouragement, so you placed the glass aside and tried to help him relax by massaging his shoulders. He was hot and slick with sweat, incredibly tense. You were considering calling an ambulance when he came back to himself with an abrupt shudder.
You sat down in front of him. His eye was still a bit unfocused, half looking at you and half beyond you.
“What was that, Anaxa?” you said. Come to think of it, his state was similar to that instance in the changing room on the last tour. If this was something that repeated itself, it was a cause for concern.
He waved away your question with a flick of his hand. “I’m fine,” he said hoarsely.
“Will you tell me if you aren’t?”
He pursed his lips. Again, he said, more to himself than to you, “I’m fine.”
His assurance didn’t sit well with you. Hyacine urged him to see a doctor but Anaxa flatly refused and nothing either of you said could convince him otherwise. Hopefully this meant he was confident that it was nothing severe. Because he would tell you if something was seriously wrong.
You chalked it up to the pressure of his packed schedule being aggravated by the humidity of the venue and tried to put it out of your mind. Still, you couldn’t help but worry. Anaxa had a tendency to push himself too far. You didn’t want him tipping over the edge.
The band moved from Zhuming to Yuque, your last spot on the Xianzhou segment of the tour. Here the weather was more temperate and the humidity not so overbearing. By now you were a good seven months into the tour and while the energy was still strong every night, fatigue was beginning to seep in. Not that you were getting tired of touring—gods, no. These were some of the most exhilarating days of your life. It wasn’t overly stressful, either. You were practiced enough in the costume changes for these sets. Most nights you and Anaxa ran like a well-oiled machine, slipping him from one outfit into another as a snake sheds its skin, and you were well-stocked for backups in case anything broke. Rather it was a cumulative weariness which settled over you. You noticed it in the others, too. Hyacine took more time to herself, and the other band members retired to their rooms earlier than before.
The exception to this was Anaxa. He was at his best every night without fail, shining hot and bright like a star nearing supernova. He seemed to gain energy the more he performed. As far as you knew he may go on burning forever. Whatever had happened that day in Zhuming didn’t repeat itself, though there wasn’t a single performance since where you didn’t worry somewhere in the back of your mind that he’d suddenly collapse on stage. You kept a close eye, but it really did seem to have been a one-off.
There came a period where you had a few days in a row without anything booked. You and Hyacine took one of these days off to unwind. You hit up some street stalls in search of local food and spent the afternoon relaxing in a spa. Of course, you’d invited Anaxa along, but he turned down the offer. It made sense: he might get recognised walking around, in which case a private and relaxing spa day would quickly turn into anything but. He opted to stay in his room instead, already thinking about how to shake up the next series of performances.
You enjoyed spending some time just with Hyacine. After all, she was where this whole story had begun. You chatted about your lives before getting involved with Anaxa. It turned out her full name was Hyacinthia, that her family were doctors and she originally wanted to study veterinary medicine. She and Anaxa went to the same university but she properly met him at a gig, where he might have been a bit drunk, and he convinced her to come and work for him. You’d never actually seen Anaxa drunk before, you said. What kind of drunk was he?
Hyacine laughed. “He’s very outgoing, almost cheerful.”
“Anaxa, cheerful?”
“And spontaneously bursting into song, yes,” she added, chuckling. “Though I think he generally avoids being drunk these days because he doesn’t like losing control of himself.”
“I guess that makes sense. Still,” you sighed, “I feel like I’m missing out. It would make some great blackmail, surely.”
“Oh, definitely,” she agreed. “Maybe when we celebrate after the tour’s over.”
“And unlock that party animal side of him. Sounds good to me.”
After the spa trip, Hyacine returned to your hotel, saying she had some logistics to sort out with Anaxa regarding the final few Xianzhou shows. Meanwhile, you were feeling nice and relaxed and not like retiring quite yet, so you took a long detour back. You really loved the architecture here—the old architecture, you mean. Hidden under the high-rise office blocks were these secluded pockets of courtyards, canals and narrow streets lined with wooden houses. Getting lost in them was like stepping into another era where modernity hadn’t reached yet.
Just as you were turning your feet back towards the hotel, something buzzed in your trouser pocket. Your phone was ringing. It was Hyacine calling. You accepted the call and raised the phone to your ear.
“Hey, Hyacine. What is it?”
“It’s Anaxa.” Her voice was grim. “He’s had a heart attack.”
——————
You waited by the wall in the hospital room next to Hyacine. Anaxa lay in the sickbed, unconscious, the heart monitor coldly beeping out the rhythm of his pulse. He looked skeletal and pale.
In a low voice, Hyacine explained how Anaxa didn’t answer her when she went to his room, so she got a spare key card from reception and found him collapsed on the floor. She called an ambulance straight after.
“The doctors say he’ll be alright,” she said quietly, glancing over at the bed-ridden man. “But it’s lucky I found him when I did. A couple of minutes longer, and…” She didn’t finish the sentence. Neither of you could stomach it.
You’d rushed here the moment you heard the news. For a few minutes as you made your way over you felt like you were going to have a heart attack yourself. He couldn’t be—? Could he? You knew Anaxa’s constitution was poor, but he always exuded such sheer presence that he gave the impression invincibility despite his being so frail. All that energy, that gravitas—it couldn’t just be cut off like that so suddenly—could it?
“Do they know what caused it?” you asked.
Hyacine sighed. “It turns out he has a heart condition he never told us about. Unless he told you?”
“No.” The admission tasted sour. “He didn’t tell me anything like that.”
The hands of the clock hanging above the door edged their slow path around the circular white face. Each tick seemed to still in the air and then fall away, swallowed up into the silence between itself and the next second. Anaxa’s doctor came in and the three of you discussed your next steps. On top of some other issues, he had something called obstructive hypertrophic cardiomyopathy. Essentially, his blood flow was increasingly restricted by the muscle wall of his heart thickening. His case was genetic, and there was no cure.
You agreed to stay with Anaxa while Hyacine informed the other band members about the situation. “I’ll let you know when he wakes up,” you told her. She nodded and squeezed your hand before heading out. You sat down in the visitors chair positioned a few paces from the bed. This whole situation felt surreal. You didn't know what to make of it. Your brain was submerged in water, only half-there.
You didn’t know how much time passed just sitting there, but when you returned to reality, Anaxa was looking at you. You started a little.
Quietly, you said, “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“About what?”
“Your condition, Anaxa.”
“Anaxagoras.”
You gave him a sharp look. He never corrected you about his name anymore. What was he playing at? “Hyacine and I spoke with the doctors earlier. We’ve all agreed that you have to call off the rest of the tour.”
Anaxa was silent for a few moments. Then he said, “No.”
“No?”
“No,” he repeated, backed by that same immovable conviction he always had. “The tour will continue as planned. I can be back on stage by tomorrow. This is only a minor inconvenience.”
Minor inconvenience? You could hardly believe what you were hearing. “Anaxa, look at yourself. You almost died. You probably would be dead right now if Hyacine hadn’t found you in time.”
“The music is the most important thing,” he said, in what wasn’t really a reply to your point. “Individual sacrifices can be made.”
Sacrifices? you thought. What on earth was he going on about? He hadn’t suffered brain damage, had he? This wasn’t pulling an all-nighter to finish a recording or splitting up a band. This was his life very palpably on the line. “Without you, there is no music,” you insisted, getting angry. “You can’t continue like this, Anaxa. Physically and because we won’t let you. Nobody is asking you to end your career for good. But this isn’t sustainable.”
He fell silent. His single eye was trained on the wall somewhere behind you. At length, he said, in a voice which would otherwise suggest he was mentioning something as trifling as the weather, “I am unlikely to reach forty.”
You stared. “W-what?”
“It’s not impossible that I will live to old age,” he elaborated, “but I have been told the likelihood is very low.”
Your throat was dry and sticky. You struggled to swallow. “Because of your condition?”
He confirmed your question with a nod. “I’ve known for some time, so it isn’t something that troubles me. It is inevitable I will die at some point, anyway, as will everyone. But because my time is limited, I’ve resolved to dedicate myself to my endeavours without sparing any expense.”
Grimly, you concluded, “Even if it kills you.”
“You make it sound very violent,” he observed, interested, “but yes. Even if it hastens my death, I would rather give my performances my all. The alternative is hardly a life at all.”
As much as you wanted to tell him that he was plain wrong, you couldn’t contest that. Anyone could see that Anaxa lived his performances, practically was them. He transcended the limitations of his body and became something else entirely—an energy arranged in human form. It’s what gave him his otherworldly pull. Without that, Anaxa was a fire without a spark. He’d be living with a hole in his heart.
But you still couldn’t sit by and accept what this meant. “Your music isn’t made in a vacuum,” you pointed out. “What about your crew? What about Hyacine? The least they deserve is transparency.” You didn’t voice the question lingering at the end of that list. It felt too selfish, too contrived to do so. But you also deserved an explanation, didn't you? An answer?
Anaxa’s hand closed around your wrist, which was when you realised your hands had been shaking. You shivered at the cold press of his fingers. Slowly, and it seemed he was choosing his words with care, he said, “I do what I do out of a love for the things in my life.” He raised your hand to his lips and pressed them to your knuckles. The contact lingered, bearing the weight of countless more unspoken words. His voice was stern but soft. “Do not doubt for a second that this includes you.”
Your shoulders slumped. “I know, but… I wish you’d told me. You can trust me with things like this, you know.” Your voice dropped a little. “I thought you would.”
His eyelashes lowered. “It wasn’t my intention to give the impression that I don’t trust you.” He drew in a breath and sighed it out. “I apologise.”
“I still don’t think this is the way forward, either.” There must be some kind of compromise here. Mustn’t there? Gods, you wish you had Anaxa’s self-assuredness right now.
He cocked his head sideways and regarded you keenly. “What do you think I should do?” he asked. “Now that you have heard my reasoning.”
Seconds ticked by as you wondered what to say. It was no small matter, being asked to decide—if that’s really what he was offering you—Anaxa’s future. He was a brilliant star but also a fallible human, not to mention your lover. It would be too easy to cash in on that and demand he step back from the spotlight. But that would be unfair on him, would cleave away half of his identity. More than half, maybe. You didn’t want that either. You didn’t want to deprive him of his passion, and besides, you enjoyed working with him on his tours. Through Anaxa, you’d found not only a person but a career you really loved. Letting both of those go couldn’t be the solution.
His thumb moved back and forth along your knuckles in the silence. He didn't seem to be conscious of the action.
Finally, you answered his question. You didn’t know if it was the right answer, but it was the best you could give. “Continue the tour for now with a medical team on hand. We have to let the others know about the risks, at least the other band members. If something happens again, even if it’s minor, we call it off. In either case, after it’s over, you have to take a break and find a more sustainable way of going forward.”
Anaxa pressed his lips into a thin line. You couldn’t tell if that meant displeasure, or conviction, or what. You were one of the only people who could sway Anaxa’s mind, but even that was a rarity. One thing was certain, though: if he said no, you knew there was nothing more you could say to convince him. So you waited for his answer in a grim, tense silence.
His shoulders fell, just by a fraction. A concession. “Very well. I will do as you suggest.”
An immense pressure lifted away from your chest. Thank the gods, you thought. His ambition didn’t blind him to reason. You let Hyacine know the situation and stayed with Anaxa until he was released.
The tour ended up going more or less as planned, with only a couple of nights called off in total. Anaxa had no more major episodes, though that didn’t prevent the medical team from watching him like a hawk. In hindsight you were shocked to think that you hadn’t had a medical team on hand before. Anaxa had never raised it and as such it hadn’t crossed anyone’s mind, not really.
Once he returned to Amphoreus, Anaxa announced he was taking an indefinite break from public performances. He cited personal matters as the reason for his temporary hiatus and added an assurance that he would be back onstage in the future. Of course the media jumped on it immediately and demanded to know what was going on. You and Hyacine were firm in keeping the details confidential. Anaxa despised the idea of his audience knowing he was anything less than at his best.
That hiatus spelled a quieter section in your lives. Over that period, he released one album, On Repeat (which you actually helped work on), and a few new singles, some of which did better than others.
In a way, the break was nice. You hadn’t realised just how much energy that tour took out of you until you stepped out of the picture. Then it all hit you at once and you were relieved to be taking a breather. You had time to yourselves, to spend together and on each other.
Anaxa was a good lover, attentive, and not in the least bit conceited as one might fear of somebody as famous as he was. He had this way of making you feel very loved. Singularly cherished—that was how you’d describe it. Like you really were dear to him in a way nothing else was. It was through little things, mostly. He kept track of your preferences and engaged in your interests. He played to you on his guitar in his room, singing in low, husky tones he rarely used on stage. Anaxa didn’t say it out loud, but his meaning was clear: this was something intended just for the two of you. A little secret, cupped in your joined palms, tucked away from the prying eyes of the world. You never found the right words to tell him how much you appreciated it, but you think he knew.
You also managed to get him to eat better, because he really was too thin for his own good. He went for regular medical checkups. You watched films together, remarking upon the costume design and the directive choices. You also spent lots of time going to watch concerts and listening zealously to any and all records you could find when Anaxa mentioned he wanted to seek new inspiration in other musical styles.
When your birthday came around, you were surprised to hear a new song of his on the radio. It was definitely a new release but you swore it sounded vaguely familiar. After listening through to it a few more times, it clicked. This was the song he’d shown you on the Golden Blood tour, back when he was just drawing up ideas for the track. You never did get back to him with any particular feedback as he’d seemed to want at the time. Evidently that hadn’t deterred him from completing it.
You called him up soon afterwards. You were going to see him later that day anyway, but you wanted to talk with him now.
“Well?” he prompted, before you even said anything. His voice contained a well-meaning hint of presumptuousness. “Do you like it?”
“Yeah, I do. I like it a lot.” The words carried more than they said. “Thank you, Anaxa.”
He half-scoffed, half-laughed over the phone. “Don’t thank me. It’s something I wanted to do.”
“Still. Thank you.”
Something in his voice softened. “You’re very welcome.”
That was one of his more popular releases over his hiatus period. Still, without holding actual concerts, he didn’t garner as large of an audience as before. Pair that with his relative inactivity and it seemed like the world was starting to leave him behind—but you knew that wasn’t the case. There was nothing he couldn’t do when he set his mind to it. If Anaxa wanted to come back, he would. It was as simple as that. So while conversations moved to other rising artists, you weren’t worried at all about his name falling into obscurity. He’d inspired people; that was the real measure of a legacy. And if he ever chose to abandon music altogether, he’d left a mark so deep it wouldn’t be forgotten for ages to come.
That was the thing about Anaxa: he would be vitality itself until he dropped. And until that day, you intended to be right beside him, every step of the way.
——————
Four years after he announced his hiatus, Anaxa returned to the stage for a spectacular comeback, releasing two hit albums back-to-back, Epiphany and Everything Is In Everything. The world was once more ablaze with talk of Anaxagoras, the musical ‘blasphemer’ who set the stage on fire.
His return was unofficially dubbed his ‘return from the dead’, given that his last tour before dropping off the radar was The Demised Scholar. New fans as well as old flocked to him as if those four years had been nothing at all. He started doing short tours again, performing in top venues of Planarcadia and Edo Star, and making musical history with his show in Punklorde, where he went off the programme in the middle of the concert and came out with a new song on the spot. This song, later titled Prayer for One, became one of the most popular on his tracklist.
Alongside his large-scale stage shows, Anaxa made a certain return to his roots. He would show up at local gigs without public announcement and give free concerts to those who were there. His fanbase took it up as a kind of mission to try and predict where he would turn up next. You always thought he was just as enthralling in a cramped bar as he was in a concert hall. Maybe even more so. At closer quarters you could really hear the way his soul leaked through the lyrics.
Even though you’d been with him for years at this point, you never stopped being amazed by Anaxa’s ability to grasp the cusp of innovation. It was like he could sense the arrival of dawn beyond the horizon before anyone else was aware that the sun existed. His music touched something fundamental, that thing that makes us human.
Evidently others shared your sentiment, because the total sales of his albums eclipsed one hundred million, with Golden Blood taking the top spot. His later albums branched out into other musical styles, influenced by Penaconian jazz and the electronic genres of Planarcadia. He starred in some films and spoke very openly about his views on Amphoreus’s politics, which sparked some controversy to say the least. Not that it stopped him. On the contrary you think he rather enjoyed it.
He was, for all intents and purposes, a living legend. There would never be anyone like him again. Even those who didn’t like him had to agree that much.
Five years after that, Anaxa died.
The news of his passing spread like a ripple across the world. Something perceptibly shifted in the air that day, something to do with the collective unspoken knowledge that an era had come to an end. Tribute concerts were held, which you attended; people made speeches and other musicians talked about how he had inspired them, like Penacony’s rising star Robin and Belobog’s Mechanical Fever, both of whom Anaxa had collaborated with in the past.
There were a few unfinished records he’d left behind and entrusted to you. After speaking with Hyacine, you decided not to make them public. You felt it would be insensitive, somehow, to simply expose all his incomplete plans in his absence, and without his creative vision, you didn’t dare finish them in his place. He probably wouldn’t have minded all that much, but it also felt… nice, to have something of his which belonged only to you. Like you were keeping a part of him with you—part of the Anaxa who was a man, not the idol, with his contagious laugh and his way of making you feel very, very loved. Was it selfish? You weren’t entirely sure. But that’s the decision you made. Maybe one day you’ll change it, though you haven’t yet. You still have those unfinished recordings sitting on your desk, as well as some of the costumes you made for him displayed on the wall, including the one you made on the Demised Scholar tour. The rest you donated to museums.
You never disclosed your relationship to anyone beyond Hyacine, Phainon and Castorice, but there was a general awareness of your closeness around that time, so quite a lot of the media commentary was directed at you after his passing. Sometimes you still receive questions from fans, asking about your experiences working with him, whether you have any regrets.
Your answer is the same as it was back then. Regrets—of course you have them. But most of all you’re grateful that you spent as much of his life with him as you did. He was doing what he loved until the end, which is more than most people get. And the things he left you with—his music, his love, his memory—those will never fade. Physical presence, as he loved to point out, is transient, while the soul transcends death. It’s all the same energy, just repackaged in a different form, and he’s returned to whatever starry realm he came from. (In all your years of knowing him, you could never quite believe he was fully human). Sometimes you fancy you can feel him still lingering around: in the whine of guitar feedback or the fading of a chord, he’s there, turning his sharp eye on the world and delighting at every new development.
And besides, Anaxa isn’t one to go so easily. You know he’s still waiting there somewhere, maybe knocking back a drink in the changing room, ready to head on stage.
Idk if you're taking requests but if you are would you write a heizou x reader where he's trying to solve a crime but the reader is the culprit??
Also do you have a masterlist anywhere 😭
I’m not really taking requests at the moment… apologies! I have written something slightly similar in the past (reader is a Fatui agent whose identity gets discovered) which I’ll try to find & link to this post a bit later.
Here is my masterlist (also linked under ‘Filed Reports: Archive’ on my pinned post). Hope you enjoy!
[Edit] Ok, so regarding that Fatui agent!reader… I can’t find the post anywhere. I might have deleted it a while back or it’s just lost somewhere in the depths of my blog. Sorry about that!
Hi, I drew fanart for your Kitsune Heizou a while ago and I’m back with stuff for Vampire Heizou!
I tried to look for a Japanese equivalent to a vampire but couldn’t find any, so I figured I’d keep his design similar enough to in-game…Anyways I’m not experienced with comic stuff so this helped me practice, I hope you like it!
OU MY GOD?? THIS IS SO COOL??? The comic panel at the end is insane. The lighting, the close-up, and the way you referenced his in-game pose… omgzjdorvskskf. It’s so so so so cool. Thank you so much for drawing it! (I also remember that kitsune!Heizou fanart which was banger as well)
I’ve actually been thinking of my own design for him, too, which I might post at some point — it’s really funny because I also had the collar layered the opposite way to show he’s dead!
Also a mini side-note but I really love how you draw his hair
