“Anaxagoras.”

A whisper of a voice—dainty, affectionate, too soft to hurt, but it did anyway. Because he hadn’t heard that voice in years, nor does he remember much of it. Just the sound of wind, howling like it was mourning with him, drowning out his own hoarse, wordless screams. But gods, does he remember the feel of her hands. Cold, unmoving, where warmth had slipped away from her fingers long before he could say goodbye.

And then she became something unrecognisable.

“Did you…miss me?” Her hands found his face again, not cold this time. Warm. Warm enough to feel real. Warm enough to make him forget the pain radiating from the ruins of his left eye. But also warm enough to remind him this was nothing but a recurring nightmare.

Golden ichor leaked down his cheeks, staining his gloves, his robes, the floor. Alchemical magic crackled in the air, angry and unstable. But for one cruel second, none of it mattered.

“Sister.” Was his voice always this soft? Was it always this rough? This pain stricken? This incapable of conveying all the thoughts in his head?

And she was whole. Whole and beautiful, what she looked like before the Black Tide and her death. More desperately now, he reached for her—hand outstretched, trembling, begging for something he could never have again.

“Sister!”

—Anaxagoras woke with a gasp, with cold sweat clinging to his skin. His chest rose and fell too quickly, shallow pants juxtaposing his usual composure. Instinctively, his hand moved to the void scar carved into the centre of his chest, where his heart had once lived.

In its place was a star branded into his skin, ever pulsing with the memory of what he had given up. And then came the tears—hot, unrelenting, falling from the only eye he had left. Silver iris, fuchsia pupil, blurred and blinking fast in tandem, as if it could erase what he’d seen. But it never could, and never did.

Beside him, you stirred. Rousing from sleep, concerned. He almost wanted to laugh at it, because of course you did. You always noticed his pain, made your care clear in gentle touches he knew he didn't deserve. Everything was his fault.

If he’d been stronger, his sister might have lived. If he hadn’t chased forbidden magic, maybe his body wouldn’t be failing. Maybe he wouldn’t have traded flesh for salvation, eye for acceptance, heart for knowledge—and come out a ruin of a man.

Anaxa would never be able to go back to the way that he was.

But you were the closest he'd come to it. He showed you the damage, let you pry away the knife from his fingers. Let you tear off the bandages, just to patch him back up again. He even slept without his eyepatch around you, let you look at the mess he really was. That was how much he trusted you, how far he had fallen.

Pain had become his language. His religion, or his mantra. Because it was the only thing that made his heart—or whatever was left of it—feel remotely alive. In the most sickening, selfish way.

“Stop.” Anaxa croaked, his voice a dry whisper. He curled in on himself, arms wrapping tight around his torso like they could keep everything from falling apart. Like he could protect you from something you’d already seen too clearly.

Oh gods, Anaxa had never felt uglier. Not in body, but in soul. Never felt those hollow spaces gnawing so violently at the edges, never wanted so badly to disappear into the rot and ruin. Yet still, it was almost liberating, letting it consume him.

Because this was the price he deserved to pay for his foolishness. His voice broke again, shame threading through every syllable.

“I don’t need you looking at me when I’m…like this.”