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A sweet aroma drifted through the woods, mixing with the cool morning dew to create something akin to divine ambrosia. It suffused through the flora, leaves and petals bowing as it slithered past and up the mountains like a wisp of smoke. With it drew the attention of passing fauna, who lifted their heads in recognition. Little birds would perch atop the canopy to bathe in the soothing scent, sharp and clean. And with a chirp, they would flap their wings and sing a song befitting the divine.
There was a human in this world who did not wait for the gazes of the Gods and Goddesses. Who carved their name into history, who touched the very souls of those walking the very grounds of this earth. And the earth--it shivered, a low grumbling rumble to call forth the divinity who would descend the mountains and witness a birth.
A new God would soon join them in the annals of mythology, but who would, ultimately, refuse his place in the skies amidst the constellations.
-----------------x-----------------
-----------------x-----------------
To the morning tweets of songbirds, and while the sun still hung low enough to cast rays of warm orange-hued light into the room, Anaxa flipped to the next page of the research paper he was reading.
He hummed and nodded along, highlighting certain important snippets of the new discovery described in these wrinkled sheets of paper. Occasionally, he scribbled notes in the margins for his students to pay closer attention to and to dig deeper into the archives of medical case studies for anything similar. Even as he grew weaker by the day, his emaciated hands still had enough strength to hold a simple ink pen.
His hands--soft and delicate curves gave way to the sharp joints and knobs beneath the ghostly-pale skin. They trembled slightly, unnatural in the way they were slow to curl fragile fingers around pen and paper. He no longer wrote his words with flourish and dramatically dotted i’s and crossed t’s, but with shaky letters that were barely able to carry their intended meaning. If such was the state of his hands, what of the rest of his body?
Soon, he wouldn’t be able to stand.
He took in a shaky breath and closed his eyes. He leaned back against the soft pillows on his hospice bed, letting himself sink into its plush comforts. For a moment, he let himself feel the weight of his fuzzy blanket, the gentle breeze brush against his cheeks--
The jingle of a bell drew his attention.
“Oh,” he breathed.
Precariously perched at his window was the most beautiful creature he had ever laid his eyes upon: A cat, with a golden coat that shone like the brilliant rays of a mid-afternoon sun, with piercing eyes as ferocious as a lion. The cat pawed at the half-open window, prying it further open and proudly sauntered into Anaxa’s room. How odd. The cat did not wear a bell.
“Hello there, little one.” Anaxa put down his pen and pushed the research materials aside.
The cat prowled about at the foot of his bed, taking in the surroundings. The empty and plain, neutral-toned room must have displeased the creature, because with a sigh-like breath, it abruptly turned around. The cat was careful in the way it stepped around Anaxa’s form before hopping into his lap and declaring it its resting place.
Anaxa couldn’t help but brush his fingers through the cat’s beautiful coat. It was so soft and warm, the little creature’s steady and strong heartbeat was a melody to Anaxa’s weakening pulse. With a flick of its ears and a tap of his tail, the cat began to purr.
“Here to accompany a dying man?” Anaxa lightly scratched behind the cat’s ears. The cat craned its head, golden eyes staring into Anaxa’s dual-toned ones--as though in understanding.
It was often said animals were quite perceptive: They were able to pick up the scents of the dead and dying, and some loyal companions even opted to stay with the lonely to their very last breath. Did this cat choose Anaxa? The cat’s ears flicked.
…
Did this mean Anaxa’s last days were fast approaching?
I see.
The cat stood and carefully moved closer, pressing itself into Anaxa’s stomach and unceremoniously plopping down again.
“Are you comforting me?” Anaxa couldn’t help the smile on his face as he carted his bony fingers through the golden fur.
A companion at the journey’s end was a nice thought, but he didn’t think he needed the comforting. Truly. After all, he had come to terms with his death a long time ago: In grieving his sister, he grieved his own future cut short at the unfortunate hand Fate had dealt him and his family.
Because the cause of his mother’s and his sister’s death, and soon his own, was an incurable genetic, degenerative disease.
Since he was a mere young child, he had denied his sister’s impending demise, expecting the illness to be anything but genetic, passed down from parent to child. But when the tips of her fingers began to tingle, Anaxa could no longer deny the existence of the ending she was barreling towards. Her story had already been written in ink.
He tried to bargain with higher beings for just one more decade with his sister, one more year, one more month--but such attempts were futile in the hands of an unwavering guarantee. He cursed the heavens and hell, for his sister’s untimely end: She was a mere youth with the potential for greater things if only Fate had been kinder, fairer.
He saw how his sister wilted as the disease ate away at her insides. She became unable to eat, and it soon developed into the inability to swallow any fluids. Any attempts at ingesting any substance rendered her immobile with pain, not helped by the constant vomiting of blood while the disease destroyed the linings of her digestive system. He clutched at her thinning hand, not remembering a single day he didn’t sob to her to please live. To not leave him alone.
He did not remember the days prior to and the days after her death.
But he remembered a calm which settled over him, as though suppressing the undeniable, boiling and toiling hurt within his heart. He accepted her death. Forced to. And this was the ending waiting for him too: At the age of 30, he would be buried under a willow tree which swayed in the wind. Just like his family.
But he still had time.
He could do a lot of things. Everything his sister wanted to accomplish, he could in her stead, while he still walked this world with his ephemeral existence.
“Wouldn’t it be amazing if you used your smarts to cure this disease?” Anaxa’s sister had wistfully whispered. “I’m sure you can figure it out. Let me be its final victim.”
But alas, dear sister--there is no cure.
He didn’t waste precious time over something that was inevitable. Instead, he poured his heart and soul into curing those who could yet still be cured, save those who could yet still be saved.
He took pride in his research. With a twirl of his pen and a haughty laugh, he would find diseases previously thought impossible to eradicate. He would proudly proclaim that he, Anaxagoras, was going to bring it to its knees. He was the shameless executor who would bring down the sharpened guillotine on deadly diseases researchers long since deemed impossible to tackle.
With a single stroke of the pen, he signed away the existence of illnesses which plagued pockets of the expansive world.
He took pride in his research lab, a little corner within Grove Medical Center. Even as his name was propelled through the scientific community, even as his authority stretched across the myriad of fields of medicine--his little lab would remain steadfast in its unilateral goal. The shining accolades he received and awards dedicated to his name sat in a dusty box underneath a cluttered bench, the tomes and texts of the ole finding more importance in Anaxa’s life.
He never attended a single award event or conference in person: He had neither the time nor care to spread the word of his research. Rather, he let the results speak for themselves, uncaring for the admiration and jealousy surrounding his existence. The many fridges filled with various samples obtained from patients who traveled to his lab to specifically provide data for his research was testament to the impact of his work.
As the end of his life approached, he took in students who found it in them to put up with Anaxa’s rigorous guidance. He cared not whether these youths came to him to seek fame or knowledge: Only the dedicated would remain in the end.
Even now, on his deathbed, his students worked in rotating shifts to rush their research along. They were at the cusp of another discovery, one which would bring salvation to waiting victims who used to pray for a miracle from the divinity high above.
Anaxa had to hold on until then. While his students toiled tirelessly to bring him results, he clung onto life even if he was to be reduced to mere bones and skin, sustained by nothing but a small needle and an IV fluid bag. He squeezed out a couple extra months of life like this.
In his lap, the cat had dozed off. It was soothing, this little presence. Anaxa stroked the soft fur, finding not a single strand of tangled hair. Whoever was the owner of this creature, must have direly loved the cat. Would he be able to thank them?
The cat shifted, the wrinkles of the blanket caught in its claws. The fabric curled slightly, and the pen Anaxa had put aside rolled to the floor and landed with a soft clack.
Gently, Anaxa slid the blanket--and the cat--from his lap. Carefully, as to not wake the sleeping beast--until he sat at the edge of the bed with feet dangling a short distance from the cold tiles below. He took a breath--a second, and a third--, and gently placed his weight on his shaky legs. He gripped the sides of the safety bars and the mattress, controlling the sway of his unstable body as much as possible.
He could still stand--he could still--
His knees buckled, the man crumpling to a heap on the cold, hard floor. A quiet, unwilling whimper escaped through his parched lips, at the recognition at just how weak he had become. His useless legs, with almost translucent skin stretched thin over fragile bones, shook from the hard impact. The hard tiles dug into sensitive joints which jutted grotesquely from what was once a delicate body--now, a mere skeletal corpse. A crawling dead man, Anaxa was.
He wheezed on the floor, exhaustion washing over him in waves. His shoulders hunched and he started coughing, chest rising and falling in heaves. With each cough, the intensity grew, until a wet, gurgling cough brought him to the floor. The taste of bitter metal filled his mouth while his throat spasmed from the pain, fresh blood dribbling from his mouth to pool beside his sickly pale face.
His body shook--from the coldness of the floor seeping through to his very bones, from the pain wracking over him--until his vision darkened. Pretty dual-toned eyes of crystal blue and baby pink rolled to the back of his head, and he was plunged into utter darkness.
…
He heard a jingle again, a resonant sound which seemed to call for him.
A quiet little noise, echoing in the pitch black darkness besieging him.
His dreams were often nightmares of shadowy hands reaching for him, chasing him as he sprinted through the shadows of nothingness. He would be caught--the hands would cling onto his limbs and torso, dragging him back as he fought for every step forward. He would sink into the sludge from whence they came regardless of the way he thrashed and fought. Even as he screamed or shouted, no one would reach back to take his desperate hands. Even as he was dragged under and into the depths of purgatory, no one would dive into the pit of misery after him.
But this dream was different.
No matter where he walked and how much he waited, nothing came after him. It was silent and still, apart from the occasional jingle of a small bell.
Occasionally, he would be dragged from his dream, where he could briefly feel the torturous pangs of hunger and thirst.
But even through the pain of mere simple existence, he felt a hand touch his feverish forehead. This hand was warm and smelled briefly like the sun, the weight grounding and brought him peace.
He felt his bangs gently brushed aside, the ghostly touch of calloused fingertips gliding over the dry skin of his forehead.
He felt a cold towel, still damp, placed on his scorching forehead. He shivered, the cool sensation brought comfort against the uncomfortable heat rising to his face.
He felt himself be tucked under a soft blanket, once more hiding the true state of his dying body.
He felt the dip of his mattress, the presence of someone looking after him while he wheezed for another tiresome breath.
Occasionally, he felt a damp towel dabbing at the sweat staining his resting visage. The touch was always gentle, as though afraid a harsher wipe would break his brittle skin. As though he was made of the most fragile, precious porcelain.
He spent an unknowable amount of time in a confused haze. In and out of consciousness, his mind drifting between a sea of stars and painful reality. After some time, he could no longer feel the presence next to him.
When the delirium of the moment passed and his bleary eyes opened, it was to a parched throat and lashes sticky with dried sweat. He heard a tumble to his right and indistinctive shuffling of fabric. He turned his head towards the noise--
He waited--with steady breaths--, while his sight focused on a head of cotton candy pink tipped with baby blue. It was Hyacine, hovering over him with red-rimmed eyes and the tip of her nose slightly chaffed. She looked particularly shaken, standing there in a way that made her look so small.
Had she been crying?
Behind her, stood Phainon, wearing a grave expression ill-befitting of his usual sunny nature.
“My apologies,” his voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. For a moment, his vision blurred. “Did you wait long?”
Hyacine sniffled, her lips pressing into a thin line as though she was suppressing something. The corners of her lips trembled. Behind her, Phainon looked away.
Hyacine worked at the lab in the mornings, first checking in with Anaxa at six in the morning and then working until noon. Afterwards, Castorice would take over until six in the evening. Phainon’s dedicated time in the lab was from six to midnight. But why was Phainon here this early?
Oh.
Anaxa knew.
The last thing Anaxa remembered was falling to the floor and fainting. Which meant Hyacine was probably the one who found him. She was probably the one who helped to move him back to bed and avoid a humiliating death sprawled on the floor of the hospice unit of Grove Medical Center. His beloved student likely called Phainon here to help deliver research materials while she stood steadfast by his bedside.
What a kind, sweet girl. How unfortunate for her to have stumbled upon the weak Doctor Anaxagoras, reduced to a prisoner of his own flesh.
“Thank you.” He tried his best to enunciate his words, speech slow and difficult. He tried to smile, but his muscles were not responding to his call. “My apologies for the inconvenience. Was I heavy? I have lost a lot of weight, so hopefully it was not too grand of a feat to move me back to bed.”
Hyacine’s face contorted into hurt, her eyes glistening and quickly filling with tears. She trembled where she stood, blinking rapidly while her breath hitched. A small sob slipped from her lips, and tears started to freely flow down her rosy cheeks.
“I-I found--” Hyacine hiccuped. “I found the professor unresponsive in b-bed! With such a high fever and, and--”
Hyacine started crying in earnest, hands rubbing at her swollen eyes. It pained Anaxa to see her cry like this. He slipped an arm from the blanket, and with all the remaining strength he had, he lifted his arm from the bed. He held out a quivering hand, reaching for Hyacine’s head. He learned from his years teaching, some students found comfort when their teachers patted their heads while in distress. And Hyacine was in severe distress.
But Hyacine took one look at Anaxa’s emaciated hand reaching out towards her, and which failed to reach her--and she started bawling.
With open-mouthed wails, tears freely poured from the corners of her eyes. Her wracking sobs were only interrupted by hiccuping breaths. She tried really hard--Anaxa could tell--, to hold back her crying. But with every attempt she failed, and from the frustration her body heaved harder as more tears fell from her face to pitter patter onto the tiles below.
Phainon swept into Anaxa’s view. Large hands clasped around his own, quickly tucking the feeble limb back into the comforts of the warm blanket. He quickly turned to Hyacine, placing a hand on a trembling shoulder and started coaxing her to the door.
Phainon turned back to Anaxa. “Professor, please rest.” His voice was devoid of emotion, but nevertheless it carried a light tremor. This was Phainon’s iron-clad effort to prevent himself from breaking down into tears, Anaxa could tell. “I will help Hyacine calm down. Cassie is at the lab following a lead you proposed last night. We will deliver our report first thing tomorrow morning--so please, rest.”
Phainon did not wait for Anaxa’s response before leaving the room with Hyacine in tow and closing the door behind him.
It left Anaxa wholeheartedly confused.
He recalled, explicitly, passing out on the floor of this hospice room. So how was he now, in a clean set of sleepwear, tucked cozily in bed? Was it… a medical staff member? But he remembered a weight by his bedside, looking after him with care he never knew he needed.
Anaxa closed his eyes, eyelids heavy like lead. Phainon--one of these days, I will not have a ‘tomorrow’. Time is of the essence. But today, I will indulge your whims.
The weight of a little creature returned. On his chest, the cat with fur of the golden sun curled and began to purr.
-----------------x-----------------
Darkness surrounded Anaxa once more.
But he was not afraid. He could feel a presence nearby, watching him. Watching over him. Misery shivered at the precipice of his consciousness, but it did not approach--instead, it hissed and drew back, the wispy dark limbs retreating further away.
He became curious.
He took one step towards the pitch blackness--the shadows quivered. He took a second step, and it scurried away from him. But before Anaxa could take another step, the light jingling of a bell echoed through the wide expanse of darkness--and the shadows hurriedly disappeared.
“Annoying, the lot of them,” a deep voice grumbled behind him. No--the voice came from beneath him.
Anaxa looked down and, next to him, was the golden-furred cat listlessly licking his paws. The cat craned his neck to meet Anaxa’s befuddled gaze, golden slitted pupils staring into the depths of his soul.
“The lot of them?” Anaxa thought those shadows were the figments of his imagination and his inner turmoil given form.
“Do not concern yourself with those creatures,” the cat yawned. “While you’re in my presence, they will not dare to touch you.”
Anaxa laughed--how curious. He only recently gained a furry companion to help him face the end, and already he was hallucinating said creature to be his savior. As though a cat could gain human sentience and comfort him as he lay dying alone. How sad had his existence become?
“You are?” Still, Anaxa would appease his own needs for camaraderie and pretend this talking cat was real.
The cat’s tail flicked once--twice. He tilted his head, little fluffy ears flopping to one side. “I will introduce myself when the time is right.”
“Would that be the moment of my death?”
“Perceptive.” The cat briefly stood on his hind legs, and with a hop, jumped into Anaxa’s arms. And Anaxa--in the land of the dreams, he could hold the weight of another being effortlessly. In reality, he could barely hold a pen. “You are correct.”
“Will you be my guide into the afterlife?” Anaxa cradled the little cat to his chest, and to the gentle purr, he brushed the soft, soft fur.
“No.” The cat nestled himself in Anaxa’s arms. Anaxa didn’t think it was particularly comfortable in the hold of someone as skeletal as he was--meager skin stretched over a small frame of bones. “The wind will guide souls to its next destination, and I am neither its companion nor its master."
“Then, your purpose?”
The cat hummed. “A judge.”
Anaxa raised an eyebrow. The cat only yawned, not elaborating on his answer. Anaxa didn’t think he would get anything more than that.
“I see.” How peculiar, a dying brain’s imagination.
The cat squirmed in Anaxa’s hold, and leapt back to the ground. Like a lion stalking its prey in the swaying golden grass, the cat circled Anaxa.
“I am curious,” the cat spoke.
“About?”
“Your motives.” The cat’s steps paused for a moment. “Tell me, mortal--why do you choose to struggle so, to tackle the plagues of the human world?”
“Why not?”
“That is not an answer.” The cat walked the few steps to face Anaxa head on. Despite his small stature, Anaxa felt himself tense--as though the sharp fangs of this feline could maul and tear his throat where he stood. “You could have chosen to live life adventuring. You could have chased after relationships, then surround yourself with friends and family at your deathbed. Yet, you chose to lock yourself away in your little lab.”
Anaxa shrugged. “I have different priorities in life.”
The cat sat on his hind legs. “For every disease you cured, three more took their place.”
To that, Anaxa laughed--a cackle which echoed through the emptiness surrounding him. “You see, little cat.” Anaxa threw his arms wide open. “I am the genius who revolutionized pathology and epidemiology. I took a sledgehammer to the existing foundation, and rebuilt it all by myself. New techniques, new processes, new tools and new medicines--new diseases may arise, but I am paving the way for the next generation of geniuses to proudly step over my corpse and continue my work.”
The cat’s tail flicked. “How interesting, to refer to yourself as a genius.”
“Am I not?”
“Hmm,” the cat hummed. “Confident and arrogant.”
Anaxa let his tired arms fall back to his sides. “Human life is precious.”
“Indeed, it is.”
“To those abandoned in the maws of plagues unknown, I will be the one who will reach out to them.” Anaxa placed a hand over his heart. “From the smallest cries of a newborn to the exhausted breaths of the old, every life is worth saving.”
“Why?”
Why? Why, indeed? Perhaps it was the thought of his parents whom he never got to meet, and his sister who died wishing for more than the bed in which she was confined. To become trapped in dying flesh while your mind was screaming and shouting for more time… it was a cruel, cruel fate. It was a humiliating death, where human agency was rudely ripped away without a chance to regain what once was lost.
…
“... I do not need a reason to justify the choices I made.”
“You did not try to save yourself.”
Anaxa heard it, the implied question: Did you deem your own life not worth saving? He simply waved off the question, “It is a genetic disorder. Looking for a cure is an exercise in futility.”
“You never tried.”
“I don’t need to try, when I know the final outcome.”
The cat tilted his head--his eyes, unreadable. He seemed to hesitate, this little cat.
“Why did you not pray to the gods for salvation?”
What kind of preposterous question was that? Anaxa scoffed. Was he going batshit insane? “To rely on the divine is to deny human ingenuity. We need not the singular miracles from gods, when we have the ability to save the present and the future ourselves.”
To the hundreds abandoned by the gods who did not deign a gaze on the day-to-day suffering of many, Anaxa scoffed at their very existence. The cat seemed to breathe a sigh, his shoulders hunching slightly.
“Anaxagoras.” There was a reverberation to the cat’s voice. It seemed to echo in this space, in Anaxa’s head, and resonating with the depths of his soul. When Anaxa blinked, the cat was gone. “Do you have any regrets?”
A sharp pain--it emanated from his stomach, and Anaxa recognized this as the everlasting pang of hunger. His clear mind began to fog--his reflexes slowed and his senses dulled. The waking world was calling to him.
“I regret not finishing what I have started.” It seemed, he would have to leave the rest to his students.
To the gentle chimes of a sun-touched bell, Anaxa heard one last question: “What is your wish?”
…
To grow old with my family.
-----------------x-----------------
Anaxa was warm.
He could still feel the gentle breeze caressing his cheeks, could still smell the morning dew when the sun still shone low in the skies--could still hear the shuffling of footsteps outside his door.
But he could no longer move.
He stared, motionless, at the white ceilings--counting down the seconds. His consciousness was fading, slowed where he could barely focus on his weakened, rattling breaths. The corners of his sight darkened dangerously, an encroaching silhouette of Death ever so present. It waited in the corners of this sterile hospice room as the clock ticked down.
But he did not feel pain.
Not the developing bed sores at his bony joints, not the biting hunger, not the thirst rendering his throat a parched desert, not his organs being eaten away at his body’s desperate attempts to squeeze out an extra few days--the last hurrah. How peaceful and serene, these past couple of days had been. He wondered why.
Anaxa was not afraid.
He had accomplished his goals--or enough such that he could close his eyes without regret. Maybe he wanted to see another sunrise with skies painted orange and purple. Maybe he wanted to give an extra set of instructions for his students to follow in the wake of their newest discovery. It was so unfortunate, to leave them alone in these trying times. He forbade his students from visiting him, simply bidding them goodbye while he could still brush his bangs behind his ears and smile.
The cat was still with him.
Anaxa could still feel the grounding weight leaned against his waist. Steadfast was this little bodyguard, who never once left him. He had asked the nurses to coax the golden-furred cat from his room, but the cat immediately hid underneath drawers. The cat would only emerge from his hiding spot with little dust balls sticking to his golden fur when the nurses gave up and left the room. Even if the nurses were successful in throwing out the little visitor, the cat would find his way back to curl at Anaxa’s sides.
If only the cat could talk.
Anaxa could then ask why the cat was such a stubborn creature, to refuse to leave a dying man in peace. He wanted to ask the cat his name--to thank him. Anaxa was not alone to the very end.
The evanescent memories of a certain conversation came to mind. A little golden cat had made a promise. Through his trembling lashes, Anaxa looked down.
Ah--
The cat seemed to glow, speckles of gold-colored dust dancing across his fur. There was a mirage--a warm, incandescent light shimmered in this lonely room. A golden lion laid at his bedside, with a majestic expanse of pure-white wings stretched over his frail form. The feathers wrapped around him, as though it was an unmovable shield. An embrace which did not touch his physical form, but which enveloped his very existence.
I see.
Anaxa understood, now.
How interesting, for a life filled with nothing but conflict, to have been recognized by the very God of Strife himself.
He had held a pen, stroke after stroke, putting words to paper while songbirds chirped at his windowsill, until the light which suffused through the skies bid farewell to another day. Only then, he would look up at the gleaming moon to sigh. He had refused to rest, even as the flowers bloomed and the next season rolled in and rolled by.
How fitting. Did this mean, after fighting for so long, Anaxagoras could finally let himself go? Anaxa’s eyelids drew close to the sight of a winged lion who chased away the darkness from his vision--and to this, he left with the smallest of smiles.
---------- 𐃯 • ⸙ ----------
There was a tale as old as time, of Gods and Goddesses who still roamed this world. Ascended humans chosen from a glance of a higher being freely roamed this world, bestowing upon their mortal brethrens divine insight. And from this knowledge, civilization flourished--propelled into new eras. Further and further, until this tale became engraved into mythos that spread far and wide.
Slowly, when humans no longer needed the guidance of the divine, the Gods and Goddesses ascended their mountains to take their place amongst the stars. Their stories would become lost to time, unproven and forgotten except to the whispers of mortals who received guidance from their long-departed brethrens.
Mydeimos, the crown prince of the forgotten kingdom of Kremnos, was one such ascended human. His spears pierced the earth, a war waged against the jaws of mindless beasts. A mighty warrior, who once stood tall on the battlefield--a bastion who fought for a dream of everlasting peace: He, who felled and rose, who quelled the raging frenzy of mad monsters with a single strike of lance crafted from his blood, henceforth became the God of Strife.
And thus taught humanity the fury of steel.
---------- 𐃯 • ⸙ ----------
Anaxa awoke with a gasp.
His chest heaved with the mighty need to breathe--he took in gulps of air as though he was a newborn who barely opened his eyes. He felt like one--a feeble child in the land of the lost. When he looked around while he choked for simple air, a scene of misty pure white glanced back. Fog clouded the scene, swirling ominously to kiss at his feet. He took one step into the mist, the echoes of his footstep a cacophony to his ears.
“Hello?” His shaky voice reverbed throughout the confusing space.
…
That was his voice? A hand rose to clutch at his throat. How long had it been since he last heard his own words so sharp and clear? What was once a dry rasp barely above a whisper, was now loud and carried a certain deep harmony. He cleared his throat--and there was no pain.
Anaxa glanced down at himself--at his hands. What a mesmerising sight.
He held his hands in front of him, watching the wisps of smoke glide through elegant, gentle curves. No longer were they bony, but instead they had a pleasant, lithe and nimble shape. He had pretty hands, with a ring finger slightly bent and callused from the way he held his pen.
He touched his body--limbs barely held together were now wrapped in lean muscles and a healthy layer of fat. He touched his face--plump and round, no longer the haunting gauntness which always stared back when he looked at his reflection in the mirror. Did he have a rosy hue which spoke of health and life? When his fingers slipped through his strands of hair--soft and long, with a seafoam-colored sheen. Did the light in his eyes return?
How ironic, for a dead man to look and feel so alive.
…
If he was here, then maybe…
“Vita?”
A name which he hadn’t uttered in decades, slipped so carefully past his lips. The tasted the syllables, let the sound roll off his tongue.
“Vita!” Louder, he yelled. But his words simply echoed into nothingness, the fog barely undulating in the wake of his call.
Anaxa had expected to fade into nothingness. The small, naive part of him who believed in an afterlife expected to join his family. But this--this was purgatory. A personal hell, where in living he was a victim of a self-inflicted loneliness, and in death he remained forevermore alone.
He ran forward, through the mist which seemed to grow thicker--a blanket of suffocation rolling over his body and clouding his mind.
“Vita!” Anaxa strained his voice, cracking under the pressure of desperation.
What was the point, if all roads lead to death, alone in limbo? Why did he try so hard? Maybe this was his punishment--for believing he could rewrite fate and play “god”. For he who touted a righteous reason for his pursuit of knowledge, he was but a frail, scared child left alone in the world--who saw the names of his parents and sister erased from the living, forgotten in the coursing river of time.
It was his hope that, somewhere in the world, someone recognized his unfortunate name and who could soothe him and tell him some simple words, “I’m looking for a cure, so don’t give up on life just yet.”
Alas, no one would reach out to the greatest performer, so he would perform until the very end.
The white fog grew dark, thundering in its approach to wrap around Anaxa. He had long given up on life, on that day he watched his sister wither away. His absolute end, too, was written in ink.
“Found you.”
A hand reached through the fog and yanked him backwards and into an embrace. Anaxa collided with a broad chest, firm arms wrapped around him in a beseeching hold.
“You’ve done well,” a familiar voice said.
Anaxa felt heat rise to his face and the prickles of tears at the corners of his eyes which threatened to fall. It took little for the floodgates to open: A warm hand gently held to his head, pressing him impossibly further into the embrace.
The tears which flowed freely, down his cheeks and soaking the skin below. Like a lost child, he wailed--a freeing moment to mourn everything which had been taken away from him: His parents’ embrace, which he never received--his mother taken away the moment he was born and his father who fell to lovesickness and who followed his beloved shortly after. His sister, who tried her best to raise Anaxa despite being a teenager herself, and who bid him goodbye with a sickly smile. Himself, who refused a normal life with the knowledge of a time limit which hanged like a looking guillotine aimed at this frail neck.
The arms wrapped around him let go--and Anaxa almost chased after the touch of another. Two hands cupped his tear-stained face, gentle as though he was the most precious of porcelain.
“You, who walked towards your demise with your head held high, will henceforth never know a day without happiness.” Eyes of molten gold stared into Anaxa’s.
To the backdrop of a lovely dusk giving way to a sea of stars, reflected beneath their feet, Anaxa laughed--the first of many. “How can the God of Strife say something so absolute as though it is the truth?”
Anaxa watched with glistening eyes as Mydei leaned forward to press a chaste kiss to his lips. Of reverence it was, where the soft touch only lingered for a brief moment. But it was enough for Anaxa to feel a soothing calmness that he could not yet name.
“A God’s promise is an absolute,” Mydei pulled back and smiled, pressing his forehead against Anaxa’s. “Your soul is the color of shining silver, the brightest amongst us all. Thank you--for saving those who could yet be saved.”
Anaxagoras, the God of Reason, thus taught humanity the sacrality of the devotion to knowledge.
