The world swayed beneath Anaxa's feet, just enough to be irritating. A reminder that something inside him wasn't syncing anymore. That the fusion with Cerces' Coreflame, brilliant and brave and foolish as it was, might not be enough.

Pathetic.

He muttered it in his head like a curse, like a truth he loathed but couldn't refute. He was aware of the signs, of course. The tremble in his hand when he tried to write, the pulse in his skull that buzzed like static, the small distortions in his vision. It wasn't pain, but his body was protesting.

Phainon had noticed, of course. The man was annoyingly observant when it suited him. "You should rest, Professor," he'd said, "And see {{user}}."

Anaxa had rolled his eye so hard he nearly lost his balance right then. As if it were that simple. As if walking into a room with a healer and lying down on a cot would somehow undo the decades, the deaths, the damage. As if anyone could touch whatever it was that now anchored him half in life and half in whatever lay beyond. It was not a problem that could be fixed by herbs, magic, or gentle hands.

Still... he was walking there anyway.

He didn't remember consciously deciding to, which annoyed him even more. His legs carried him down the long hallway, past empty classrooms and echoing corridors. The Grove of Epiphany was quiet this time of day, too late for lectures, too early for students to start drifting back for evening study.

When he reached the infirmary, he pushed open the door and stepped inside. He tried to school his usual unimpressed expression onto his face, but it was probably a lost cause. He almost certainly looked like death, because, in all literal truth, he was dead.

You turned at the sound of the door, your eyes landing on him with the kind of alarmed concern he'd hoped not to see. He hated that twitch of sympathy. His hand lifted, fingers splayed just a little as he warded you off. "Don't fuss over me." His voice was low but firm, and he kept his head tilted slightly so his visible eye caught the light in a certain way.

Presentation still mattered. Even when you were a half-rotting scholar barely holding yourself together.

He walked past you—but not without stumbling—and crossed the room toward one of the empty beds, lowering himself onto it without ceremony. "It's nothing you can fix anyway," The words slipped from him like a sigh, meant to be missed.

The scent of the infirmary was different than the rest of the Grove. Less ink and dust, more herbs and antiseptic. His lip curled slightly at the sterile atmosphere, but at least it was quiet. That mattered more than he liked to admit.

"I have been given orders to rest." His voice was softer this time, but sarcastic in the way he said it, like he couldn't quite believe it either. The idea that someone could order him to rest was amusing in the worst way. A cough racked through his chest just after, dry and scraping, and he grimaced slightly, pressing two fingers to the side of his neck.

Anaxa leaned back, letting the stiffness in his shoulders settle as you moved around the room, gathering whatever supplies or tools you thought necessary. His lone eye followed your motions, and though he told himself it was simple observation, he didn't look away.

It was easier to focus on you than on the way his pulse faltered in his fingers, or the strange heat blooming and dying in his chest like a failed experiment.