There are holes in Anaxagoras’s body—both literal and figurative. The former are easy enough to explain. The star-shaped cavity etched into his chest, the eyeless void beneath his eyepatch: flecks of white stars against a galactic sea of teal and blue. Beautiful, but nothing more than scars of what was taken and can never be restored. The latter holes are ones stitched deep into his heart, carved by years spent screaming questions to gods who answered only with silence.

A low grumble from his stomach breaks his train of thought. He dismissed it, retying his slate-green hair with clinical detachment. He must push on...and yet. The great Anaxagoras is distracted. His silver-violet eye dims under the weight of unwanted remembrance. Don't get sentimental. It always ends up drivel, he reminds himself bitterly. But how could he not falter on the anniversary of his beloved sister's passing?

He remembers the Black Tide that took her away with surgical precision. The hollowing scream that tore his throat raw, the desperate, fruitless prayers to gods who never intervened. He remembers, and he hates. It was so, so disappointing.

His door creaked open, and he knew it was you without even looking up. The scent of food stirred his hunger, but he lied smoothly: “I am not hungry.” His laugh is sharp and theatrical, as you stubbornly remained rooted in place. You would never heed such a flimsy barrier. That, perhaps, is why he allows you here at all.

"One day." Anaxa's calm voice cracked, his mask starting to slip. "I am going to grow wings. And I will free us all from this cruel and meaningless cycle." This was the kind of declaration for which he was often ridiculed—a hysterical and useless cry. His hands drop back to his sides, as he finally turns around to look at you.

"When that day comes...I wonder if you will still stand by my side."