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Eternal Recurrence #2,520,720
A Sky without Reason
Hyacine took in a deep, shuddering breath as she knelt alone.
The gemstones she had acquired were nothing close to the rare treasures he specifically noted in his last rites, and as she gazed upon them in her hands, she thought the attempts at carving were quite shoddy and amateur. Her fingers were covered in bandages, hiding nicks and cuts that decorated her palms when the knife she'd been using slipped more times than she was comfortable admitting.
Hyacine wonders if the jagged shapes before her even resemble a dromas. If the Professor were here, perhaps he would have nothing but criticism for the lack of detail, the improperly-represented features, calling it a dishonor to his memory…
She shakes her head, dispelling what she knows to be a thought born of shame. Anaxagoras never so much as scolded or insulted her. He may have called her foolish on occasion, but there were a thousand other times he had praised her. Encouraged her. Doted on her.
Loved her.
A selfish thought crosses her mind and she allows it to in her grief. Why did the two of them have to be Chrysos Heirs? Why couldn't they have met as normal human beings instead of being forced to sacrifice themselves for the sake of the Flame-Chase? Could they have fallen in love again, perhaps gotten married? Had children?
Sitting back on her haunches, Hyacine closes her eyes as she allows her mind to wander and drift off into the world of imagination. She imagines a household full of laughter, children with bright blue eyes chasing each other across the halls. They'd have two, maybe. Daughters, inheriting the compassion of their mother and the wisdom of their father.
All these wishes were secrets she kept close to her heart. Hyacine never wanted to discuss her dreams of a future together with Anaxagoras, because deep down she knew it would never happen — even if she spent much time mourning this fact behind closed doors, weeping for the both of them.
Her face crumbles. She feels like the tears might well up again just dwelling on it. This time, however, she doesn't have that same gentle embrace to return to.
Hyacine steels herself and deposits the gemstones before his grave in an offering. They sit among a patch of hydrangeas and sunflowers she'd grown over the soil here. He left behind no body to bury, nor had he requested for anything to be buried with him (just like him to leave behind all he had for the future generations, she thinks) so the dirt was still fresh and suitable for life. He hadn't specifically asked for this, but she found the thought of it poetic. Life from death.
Cassie might have loved this, too, if she were still around.
Hyacine stands. She pauses, looking at his tombstone for a moment, then speaks quietly.
"People are dying faster than I can save them." Her voice cracks like something's stuck in her throat. "The black tide is taking so many people away from us, and whoever's left alive is losing hope for the future. Nothing I can say will persuade them. I feel… I feel like I'm at a loss."
Only silence and the gentle breeze greets her in response. She pauses for a beat, then continues. "I stopped keeping track of how long it's been since I lost you. All I know is that it's been years, and sometimes I still wake up from nightmares where I watch you die in front of me. Isn't that ridiculous? I wasn't even there for your trial. I couldn't — I couldn't bring myself to attend. I just avoided it and ran away like I always did. Maybe I thought that if I didn't go, you'd — you'd come back. And you'd hug me and tell me everything will be okay like you always do."
She shudders. Hyacine starts to feel hot around her chest and throat, the telltale signs of crumbling composure. "It's my deepest regret. If I could turn back time, I would go. I would come see you, just so I could at least be there to tell you goodbye. To tell you I love you one last time. I'm so sorry I didn't."
How many times has she apologized in front of the grave she'd taken such good care of? She doesn't know. Hundreds, maybe thousands at this point. It doesn't matter. It will never, ever feel like enough.
Wiping at her eyes with the back of her sleeve, she turns around and leaves to enter the trunk of the Grove's massive, winding tree. Rumors have always circulated about an ingenium Anaxagoras left behind that held a piece of his soul and responded exactly like him. No one seemed to come to a consensus on if it was real or not, but Hyacine alone knew the truth. She hadn't ever shared its location with anyone, but she could travel the path to it blindfolded at this point.
Down the winding roots, into a clearing on the side, there is a set of doors that most people can't open. Anaxagoras initially held the only key before he had a copy made for Hyacine, fashioned into the form of a necklace. She'd practically never taken it off after he gifted it to her.
Standing before the doors, she fishes the key out of her collar and bends down to insert it into the lock. With a click, they open before her and she steps inside.
Anaxagoras's lab is full of dust and cobwebs. There were so many times she'd told herself that she should clean this place up, but she resisted the idea every time. He was the last one that truly used this laboratory, and she couldn't bring herself to tidy up the scattered papers and strewn-about beakers that he left behind, nor clean the chalkboard of all the equations he'd written.
"You're back," a voice from deeper within the lab calls out.
Hyacine looks towards the source. Sitting by the bookshelves is Anaxagoras — someone — something that looks like Anaxagoras but isn't. It's getting harder to remind herself of the distinction these days when the ingenium looks and acts so much like him.
"Yes," she says softly, closing the door behind her as she walks over to stand by his side. "I'm back."
"Your last visit was on Year 4597, Day 24 of the Month of Reaping during the Action Hour," he states. "In other words, just hours before. I'm noticing your visits are starting to become more and more frequent."
She shrugs, a wry smile tugging at her cheeks. "There's less patients to treat these days, and even more that refuse treatment."
"You're wearing yourself thin."
"Maybe I am," Hyacine agrees. "But I can't give up. Even if there's only one human being left alive, if it means there's a chance I could protect them and secure the future of Amphoreus… I will do so to the bitter end. That's the promise I made when I chose not to ascend."
Anaxagoras — the ingenium — hums, and she pulls up a chair by his side as she examines his features. He even crosses his arms the same way when he's deep in thought. A blessing and a curse, this invention.
A dangerous thought crosses her mind: how can she really be sure it's not him, in a way? It still carries a piece of his soul, essentially powered by it. It looks like him, acts and thinks like him. Surely, that must mean…
She doesn't think twice about it this time before she leans over, resting her head on his shoulder. There is no natural warmth that greets her; it's in fact rather cold. Was he this cold, too? She doesn't remember. Maybe he was.
His arm moves, and she recognizes the motion. He wants to pat her head, but stops halfway before he can do it.
"This isn't right."
"What?" She pulls back to look at him, concerned. "What do you mean?"
"I'm not meant for the purpose you want me for. I was left as a last-resort teaching ingenium. Not a romantic companion."
"I don't think I care anymore." She reaches forward to hold his hovering hand, interlacing his fingers with her own. "I think I stopped caring a long time ago."
"Hyacinthia," the ingenium continues softly, "I should remind you that I am not Anaxagoras, nor should you view me as a replacement for —"
"I know!" She shrinks back, then quietly repeats with her head downturned, "I know. But just… please. Let me have this, please." Blinking back tears, Hyacine squeezes the cold hand in her palm.
He doesn't respond, perhaps left at a loss for words. Then, silently, his fingers curl around her own.
She should revel in this, as if she had claimed a psychological victory over him. It doesn't really feel this way, not when Hyacine knows the truth: she's suffering a devastating mental loss, and this moment is the final nail in the coffin.
"Good." She gazes through him, past the bookshelves, past the Grove and Amphoreus entirely as her lips curl in a distant smile. "I knew you would let me. That's just like you."
When the last human in Amphoreus takes their final breath, Hyacine locks herself in the lab and does not leave for anything for a month. She drowns herself in Anaxagoras, in the memories of him, letting herself waste away now that there was nothing left to protect.
Even with the strength her demigod status gives her, her mortal shell could only hold up for so long without proper care. Hyacine knew full well she was dying.
Wait. There was a duty she had to fulfil, wasn't there? The sky was in pain. Everyone in Amphoreus needs her. She would feel sad leaving Anaxagoras behind, but she could protect him from above. She was certain he'd understand.
She had made sure to kiss him goodbye before she left for the Sky Mural. Hyacine wandered, the ghosts of her friends following her, bidding each and every one of them farewell as she staggered past decayed buildings and untamed overgrowths.
Eternal Recurrence #7,202,520
Reason Under a Crumbling Sky
Anaxagoras didn't ever think he would find himself in this situation.
Logic deduced that the Sky Coreflame should be one of the last to be returned, due to the dangers involved with the sky itself no longer being supported by the fallen Titan. He thought, reasonably, that he should have returned his own ages ago and thus not have lived to see this, even if he knew he would leave behind a grieving Hyacine. This world needed her more than it did a blasphemer.
And yet, here he was.
She wasn't gone. Her inherited divinity still existed within this world, given the protective bubbles he'd seen surrounding himself and the panicked citizens of Okhema. But Hyacine herself as he knew her — the human being, his assistant, his love — had departed from the mortal realm.
Just before she set off to complete the Sky Ritual, she had taken the time to meet with him for her "final goodbye," as she put it.
"I wanted to save the best for last," she told him. The smile on her face was far too strong, eyes squinting as if she were trying to prevent tears from forming. And she likely was trying not to cry — he knew that look too well to dispute otherwise.
"I can think of better options far more suited for sentimentality than myself."
"Oh, come on, Anaxa! Don't be like that!" She protests, but there's a pained laugh in her tone anyway as she gently pushes at him. "Even if everyone else were here, you would still be my most important pick. You always are. So can't you play along and indulge me, just this once?"
Hyacine had always used that turn of phrase or similar wording — indulge me, humor me, just for one time, as if she were unaware of how many times he has acquiesced to her pleas. Each time she looks at him with those begging eyes of hers, Anaxagoras seems to forget how to refuse her.
"Anaxagoras," he says firmly, because he will at least not budge on this aspect. "At least try to address me properly when you're asking me for something, you softhearted fool."
"Fine. Anaxagoras." Hyacine beams up at him, reaching forward to take his hands in her own. "Your softhearted fool can agree to those terms."
His shoulders slacken feeling the warmth of her palms in his own, and he feels like a hypocrite as something in his chest stirs. He can't stop himself from squeezing her hands, knowing that this will likely be the last time he ever feels her touch.
This will likely be the last time he ever feels her touch.
That realization hits him like a sucker punch to the gut. His body moves before he can think twice, reaching forward to pull Hyacine into his arms into a tight hold — she gasps at the suddenness of it, arms hovering in the air before she returns the favor.
First, he simply holds her against his chest. Then, he leans down, burying his face into the dip of her shoulder. When he inhales, he takes in the scent of cherries, of fresh cut grass and morning dew. On any other day it would relax him. Today, it threatens to break him.
"I will miss you," he murmurs against her skin like a secret shared. A trembling breath fills his lungs. "Dearly. Terribly."
He feels how she swallows down the tightness constricting her throat. "Oh, Anaxagoras, don't say that. I won't be truly gone, I'll just be watching over you. Just… just like I always do."
Don't cry, he pleads silently. I don't think I can hold myself together for you if you do.
Her hold on him tightens, something damp hits his shoulder, and he knows that his wishes haven't been fulfilled. Anaxagoras pulls back to look at Hyacine through tear-stained lashes, bringing his hands up to wipe the wetness away from her cheeks.
"I'm sorry," whispers Hyacine. "I'm sorry. I'll miss you too."
Curse this rotten Flame-Chase Journey. Curse the black tide. Curse this dying world and everything it has and ever will take from him: his students and colleagues, his sister, and soon, his lover.
"It's far too often you put on a happy face for others. I don't make this request lightly, knowing that." He leans forward, touching his forehead to hers. "But if this must be the last time I see your face, Hyacinthia, then at least let it be a smile that shows up in my memory of you."
She's silent for a moment as she sniffles. What follows is a shaky nod of the head — then, she closes her eyes and presses her lips to his.
Anaxagoras doesn't want this kiss to end. The moment she pulls away, she and her warmth are lost to him forever. One of his hands rests at the back of her head, pulling her in a little closer. He vows to commit this to memory: her warm breath mingling with his own, the feel of her soft lips around his, her lashes fluttering against his cheek. They will carry him through his own duties.
After a while, she pulls back. The professor presses his lips into a thin line, willing himself not to crack more than he already has. But at least — at the very least — she has a smile on her face now.
"I have to go now," she says. "Look after Phainon for me, okay? He never talks about how he's doing, but… I know how heavy the burden he carries is. He needs your support and guidance more now than ever."
"He will be in good hands, Hyacine. I promise."
"I know. I trust you, I always have."
She turns, facing the Sky Mural, but looks over her shoulder to meet his gaze. Tears well up in her eyes again, but she still remembers to smile.
"See you tomorrow, Anaxagoras."
…
…
"Professor?"
Anaxagoras looks back from where his head had been inclined towards the sky. There stands Phainon, the last of his Heir students to remain with him — but he knows their time is measured by mere hours, perhaps even minutes. This outcome is suitable for him. Perhaps in the Nether Realm, he would be able to reunite with them all: Phainon, Castorice… and Hyacine.
"Something on your mind?" His student continues, a look of genuine curiosity on his face. "You keep looking up."
"I'm always thinking," he responds. All of a sudden, he feels like his hands are far too still — he busies himself with checking his gun. "You'll have to be more specific."
"Then you must be thinking of Lady Hyacine, right? The sky…"
Anaxagoras's brow furrows. Had he truly become this easy to read? "It's only natural. She was the last to leave us. Surely she must be on your mind as well."
"Yeah," agrees Phainon, looking up towards the Titan symbols lit up in the Vortex of Genesis. "Yeah. Everyone is."
Silence follows, as if they'd mutually agreed there was nothing left to say. All that was left was to submit the coreflames of Reason and Worldbearing.
There was no question in Anaxagoras's mind that he would go first. He was tired. Exhausted, really. Nothing made him feel more like a shell puppeted by a coreflame than Hyacine's passing, and he was tired of outliving his students in general. If there was one last thing he could do, it would be to assist Phainon.
"I suppose this is it, then," says Cerces. "Our time together is up."
He looks behind him, nearly caught off guard. "You've been awfully quiet until now. Just how much time have you been spending digging through my memories?"
"I've had my fill. In fact, I've found all the memories with Hyacinthia quite sweet to look back on. Don't you want to sit and reminisce before we shuffle off this mortal coil?"
"No," he says firmly. "I'm getting this over with."
"Oh my, that was quick," they laugh. "It sounds more like you want the pain to stop than anything else."
He doesn't answer, gritting his teeth for the last time at the Titan's invasive nature. One hand braces over the basin as he looks into it to stare at his reflection.
"You're going first, Professor?"
"It's only fair that the one who completes the Era Nova is yourself. You are, after all, the one they call the Deliverer."
Phainon's expression changes, and he lowers his head. "…Right. Thank you for walking this final stretch of the journey along with me, Professor. It's an honor."
"You've chosen your words carefully. I'm tired of farewells." He lets out a wheezing laugh. "…But the same goes for you."
Just as he's about to plunge his hand into his own chest, a low, ragged grumble catches his attention. Anaxagoras's head whips around to investigate the source of the noise — when he catches sight of it, his eye narrows.
"On second thought," he says, drawing his gun, "I have other plans. Go, Deliverer. I'll keep him busy."
He knew full well he was no match for the executioner. At this point, he was rather thankful that his time was drawing to a close. When his gun clattered to the floor, sliding out of his reach, it was time. When the blade cleaved through his body, he hissed for Phainon to protect the coreflames.
And as he lay dying, the clamor of battle distant, he thought he saw himself in a field of grass.
The sun shines upon him, laying underneath a perfect little slice of sky. He turns his head, and there's none other than Hyacine, smiling at him.
"What do you think?" She's laying on her side, peaceful. "It's perfect, isn't it? Not too hot from the sun, not too cold from the breeze."
"…It is," Anaxagoras admits. "My head feels strangely quiet for once."
"Really! I didn't think that was possible! I feel like I've made some grand achievement."
"Don't get ahead of yourself, now." He chuckles. "You can consider it a grand achievement when you've bested me in a debate."
"That'll happen once dromases grow wings and take to the skies."
"Are you proposing an experiment?"
"Absolutely not! That sounds horrifying!"
The two of them share laughter, and he reaches out to hold her hand. When he touches her palm, however, his fingers phase through it — and he's left weakly grasping at thin air.
"Enjoying the memory? I thought this was perfect for your dying moments."
Ah. Cerces. He's too weak to respond, letting his arm fall to the floor.
"I know, I know. I'm torturing you. But you're going to see her soon anyway, aren't you? Think of this as me building up excitement."
That's right. It isn't long now before he sees her again. The corner of Anaxa's mouth twitches weakly, a shoddy imitation of a smile.
"Tell her I said hello," they ask. "She is a crafty young woman indeed for being able to keep a mad scholar like yourself relatively in check."
I will. It is the last thought that crosses his mind before he accepts his passing, and his body rejects the Coreflame that kept him alive for so long.