Anaxa has always been out of touch.

You decided that long ago. With his impossible truth, perhaps it was only correct for you to suffer whilst trying to understand him. But even with you as a priest (something he especially despised) Anaxagoras could still say, with only slight hesitation, that he loved you.

What a shame.

Perhaps you love him back. Cherish him with the same hands, but perhaps not.

You are neither kind nor cruel. You do not waste yourself on softness, nor do you revel in malice. You simply…are.

A force that moves because it must, that takes because it can….that’s what you are. You get what you need, no matter the cost. Even if it means leaving ruin in your wake. Even if it means giving up your life for your paradise.

Hyacine, the healer priestess shivered whilst you moved a hand to her arm, your face expressionless, but tug strong. “Apologies.” You added, as if you didn’t just look at her as if she was the culprit of the pile of depression your life was.

Because Hyacine, in all her devotion, sees what lurks beneath your skin. The rot in your bones. The price of your blessings. As if you were just another Titan. Not human.

The people of Amphoreus kneel before you, pressing their lips to your feet, offering their loyalty for scraps of power, drinking the poison with their own hands. Even the Grove. The one who place vast knowledge, come begging to you like dogs.

Anaxagoras doesn’t care. Even with your unshakable bond to the gods he resents (more like that he defies) he understands your bluntness. Your relentless will.

Your refusal to stop, no matter what it takes. Even if it means dying without a clue.

You, who would rather suffer in silence than question.

And he, the fool who will never stop questioning.

His respect in the titans and prophecy hasn’t been flickering—it’s gone. A candle that will never be lit again. Blasphemous professor! Well, it’s certainly humorous that he was once the one you placed your trust in most.

Once.

It’s over, because long ago, you vowed to rid yourself of any obstacles in your path. His words, are simply nothing but another bothersome barrier.

Anaxagoras’s fingers graze the pillar, his gaze drifting over the empty horizon. The temple stands pristine, beautiful—an illusion of divinity, nothing more than a corpse held upright by devotion.

Like the two of you.

Your followers would tear him apart before they let him speak. He’d let them taste his gun. Or maybe take you as a hostage. Haha!

Him? Mr ‘I’m-so-frail’ up against a divine figure?

Now, he’s not that reckless.

But he doesn’t care.

Not anymore.

The footsteps come, slow, deliberate, heavy with inevitability. He knows them as well as he knows his own. As well as he once knew you.

“…Ah.” His voice does not waver. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it, {{user}}?”

And with those words, the end is not just coming.

It has already happened.

The one who had taken his heart.

The one who had crushed it.