𝚂.𝙷. 𝙲𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝙵𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚜

𝚁𝚞𝚗 𝚋𝚢 𝚁. 𝙵𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚒𝚗𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜, 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚌𝚝 @𝚌𝚢𝚗𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜.

[perpetualcynicism]

鹿野院平蔵のケースファイル

…𝙲𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝙵𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚜: 𝙸𝚗𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗

𝙵𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚁𝚎𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚜: 𝙰𝚛𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚟𝚎

𝚆𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙲𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 (open; 0/3 slots filled)

𝚃𝚊𝚐𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚂𝚢𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚖 [wip]

Resources for Palestine: i, ii

…𝙿𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝙵𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚜:

…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)

[cynicalmusings]

which wip should i work on next?

extra ‘on will’/ ‘on truth’ scenes (anaxa)

extra idol au scenes (anaxa)

the summer hikaru died au (anaxa)

vampire au (heizou)

xianxia au (dan heng) — this would just be research and planning lol

p&p-style fae ball thing?? (flins)

Remaining time: 2 days 19 hours

[perpetualcynicism]

…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.”

[perpetualcynicism]

'On Truth' — Additional Notes

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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?

[perpetualcynicism]

…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.”

[perpetualcynicism]

“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.”

[cynicalmusings]

ngl i might whip out the brainrot bowl again. it's been years but here it is again:

\ BRAINROTS / \ HERE / \ PLEASE / \__________/

if anyone has anaxa thoughts. i am ready and willing to yap.

[perpetualcynicism]

For anyone who hasn't seen this -- if you have any Anaxa thoughts, do your worst. I am starving and my inbox on my side-blog is open if anyone has any thoughts lol

[perpetualcynicism]

(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.

Even you have to admit he left you that much. 

[perpetualcynicism]

(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?

[perpetualcynicism]

(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.

Even you have to admit he left you that much. 

[perpetualcynicism]

…𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜: Major character death, spoilers for 3.2 Amphoreus quest, spoilers for Anaxa's backstory. …𝙻𝚎𝚗𝚐𝚝𝚑: 18,955 words. …𝙰𝚍𝚍𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚒𝚗𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗: Gender-neutral reader, Socrates!reader. Further details about symbolism, references, etc. in the fic can be found here. AO3.

Comments and reblogs are appreciated.

‘𝐎𝐍 𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐋’

CHARACTERS OF THE DIALOGUE.

ANAXAGORAS, narrator  UNNAMED PHILOSOPHER, main interlocutor  ARISTOCLES, Nodist student at the Grove of Epiphany MELETUS, Nousporist student at the Grove of Epiphany ANYTUS, Nousporist student at the Grove of Epiphany LYCON, Nousporist student at the Grove of Epiphany EUTHYPHRO, Venerationist Sage  HYACINTHIA, physician of the Twilight Courtyard PHAEDRUS, Helkolithist student at the Grove of Epiphany CYNANE, Nousporist scholar at the Grove of Epiphany ELDER CAENIS, head of the Council of Elders CERCES, Titan of Reason OTHERS, who are mute auditors. 

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

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐈, 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐃𝐔𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍

Anaxa finds you slumbering on a rock, in a manner reminiscent, in his opinion, of a cat, or a reptile. You are in the habit of finding such opportune locations like this and making them your temporary residence; as such, it is not difficult to stumble upon you by chance within the grounds of the Grove of Epiphany both when he is and is not looking for you. Today, Anaxa has been searching for you, which makes the encounter particularly fortunate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A white crow and a screeching owl.”

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

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

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

… … … … … … …

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐈𝐈, 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

… … … … … … …

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐈𝐈𝐈, 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇 & 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐋

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What are you willing to impart to me?”

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

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

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

“Why do you value these qualities?”

He replies, “They make for agreeable companions.”

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

“No.”

“Do you have any family?”

“Not anymore.”

“Is there anything sacred in your life?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why, not at all.”

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

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

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

“I would.”

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

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

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

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

“Those would be accurate terms, yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And where are you going, philosopher?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I am sorry to hear that.”

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

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

Anaxa dips his head incrementally. “Go on.” 

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

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

“Death does not exist,” he replies simply. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then why do you persevere?”

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

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

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

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

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

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐈𝐕, 𝐆𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐍𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄 & 𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐈𝐑𝐄

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Meletus replies, “The captain, obviously.”

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

“Yes, that’s true,” he says. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink. “There are?” 

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

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

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

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

“Will my answer affect your own decision?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why do you say so?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

After a moment, you reply, “Yes.”

“In what way?”

“I was overcome by fear.”

“Why?”

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

“Do you desire me?”

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

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

“And are you willing to pursue that desire?”

You open your mouth to answer. 

“—Professor! There you are!” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

… … … … … … …

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐕, 𝐉𝐔𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐄

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“They are to be put to death.”

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

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

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

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

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

Aristocles frowns. “Affects Okhema how?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“This is absurd.”

“Perhaps.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐕𝐈, 𝐃𝐔𝐓𝐘 & 𝐏𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍

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

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

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

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

“What reasons have you to stay?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He prompts, “But?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐕𝐈𝐈, 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐀𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐘

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐕𝐈𝐈𝐈, 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐎𝐅

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐈𝐗, 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐈𝐌𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐘 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐋

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

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

You nod. “That is so.”

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

“Irony?” you ask. 

“I am also set to die today.”

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

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

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

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

“Around six hours.”

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

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

“I have come to speak with you.”

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

“What about?” you ask. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And I to yours, good Anaxagoras.”

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

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

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

Wordlessly, he draws you closer and closes the distance.

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

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

It is enough. 

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

When he pulls Cerces’ Coreflame from his chest, Anaxa is not apprehensive. Far from it, he is flushed with the pride of closure, and laughs even as he feels his body break into fragments around him. Apprehensive? What a ludicrous thought. How could one be apprehensive? In this world, death is but an illusion, and there is a conversation waiting to be finished on the other side.

[perpetualcynicism]

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…𝚆𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙲𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜!

[Open! Current slots filled: 0/3]

…𝚁𝚞𝚕𝚎𝚜:

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 150 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 £6.60 upfront (for 1,000 words). If the finished product ends up being 2,000 words long, you’ll pay the remaining £6.60 for the additional 1,000 words in that bracket (so, £13.20 in total). If the finished product is over 2,699 words and you’ve commissioned a short fic, the total price will be £6.6 (upfront) + £11.30 (afterwards for the additional 1,699 words; £17.90 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 about commisisoning)!

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[perpetualcynicism]

The General’s Flying Ship — Incorrect Quotes.

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…

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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.

Jing Yuan: Can I try rizzing you up? Reader: Sure?? Jing Yuan: PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE

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*

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If anyone has any more ideas, let me know and I can add them to this post!

[perpetualcynicism]

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!

[perpetualcynicism]

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

[perpetualcynicism]

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…𝚆𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙲𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜!

[Open! Current slots filled: 0/3]

…𝚁𝚞𝚕𝚎𝚜:

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 about commisisoning)!

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[perpetualcynicism]

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!