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"May I resonate with your Coreflame, Aglaea?" Anaxa asks, stretching out a hand, palm up and harmless, to convey his intention. He is attuned to the invisible threads brushing against the appendage, feeling them graze his skin curiously.
He could not feel that before, but ever since absorbing Cerces' coreflame...
Only a whisper graces his inner thoughts, 'I am always aware of my dear Mnestia's power.' to let him know of the reason he already deduced.
A minute of silence passes before he gets an answer.
"...Please, do." Aglaea replies, the monotone voice gaining a lilt of... something. It is no longer possible for that woman to express much, that he is sure of, but the subtle humanity peeking through makes him wonder just how much this means to her.
He knows exactly what it means to him.
Anaxa, with the given permission, steps forward, leaving the golden strings to their own devices, to 'see' for the Goldweaver. They don't restrain him even when he gets closer, right hand wrapping around Aglaea's waist.
His other hand, steady and sure, brushes his fingers against the hand she has pressed to her chest, coaxing it into his own.
Aglaea relents with a huff, though he doesn't care to find out what she's so amused by. Their hands intertwine, fingers and rings pressing up against each other in a way that could be described as familiar, if only because of the relation their respective Titans share.
Anaxa ignores the chattering of the Reason Titan in his head, telling him he's wrong about that detail, leaving her to fade away into the background.
Their position stays like that as they begin, close, their bodies in a position almost as if they were ballroom dancing, with Aglaea's left hand on Anaxa's shoulder. The only difference from a usual stance are their intertwined hands, Anaxa's left and Aglaea's right, between them at shoulder height, and their foreheads touching.
It's intimate, reminiscent of times long gone and, perhaps, never real.
The scholar focuses on resonating, being (unwillingly) guided by Cerces. Finding the energy souce is no issue, but the brightness, its overpowering strength, burning away at Aglaea's soul by the looks of it, the thin threads of it like torn up ribbon, make him inhale sharply.
Sharp corners, like cut fabric or paper, brushing against his consiousness and brittle soul causing papercuts, make him go weak in the knees. Aglaea's hands remain firm, keeping him in place and standing.
It nearly burns him from the inside, as if to scare away an intruder, before his own Coreflame reacts in turn to it's destined lover and the connection clicks like a puzzle finally solved, the two mythical Titans finding each other once more.
The ensuing warmth is near uncomfortable, evidently for the both of them, like the intimacy and understanding is unnatural and too much. Anaxa feels the way Aglaea presses her hand against his shoulder, not in a way telling him to back off, but simply as a response to being viewed so intimately after years of nothing.
The same is true for Anaxa, who despite being the one resonating, is also sharing parts of himself he never wanted to. The feelings swirling between them aren't just theirs, there isn't remotely enough contempt and annoyance, perhaps arrogance and pride, to only be theirs.
Memories they never experienced, like living through multiple lives, timelines. They run through their heads and settle as if they were in the correct place despite being wrong.
Battles where they watched each other crumble, meadows where they danced. The Grove in it's prime, a paradise lost to time, lives discarded from reality as if they were never real in the first place.
Loss like no other, over and over again.
It continues, Anaxa's mind babrely being able to process anything. His body settles slowly and he knows it's the same for the Goldweaver, who gradually relaxes her painful grip on his shoulder.
Once his fingers stop tingling and his mind slowly clears, he stays in the same position for a while longer.
Despite the undoubtedly short encounter, it felt like a lifetime. Multiple lifetimes, more than likely. He can still feel the warmth in his bones, but it gets near washed out by the insanity he'd learned.
"That's..." He speaks, backing away and looking closer at her face. "...impossible."
His expression flits from surprise to horror to simple bafflement. "I had called you a corpse, the same as me, however this... is simply insanity-!"
He could not believe was he had seen, despite having had his eye closed. The dullness of Aglaea's gaze, her voice, her demeanor, everything he'd noticed and pointed out over the past decades of their lives with sharp insults, it all culminates at the forefront of his mind.
His observations were correct, he knew then and he knows now, but for the deterioration to be this severe...
The Goldweaver seems very slightly surprised at his reaction, or she might just be trying to get a better 'look' at him. Her expressions become oddly real, for just moments. Anaxa's own face contorts to a displeased expression, his body unwillingly, unconsiously, holding Aglaea tighter. His hand squeezes tighter, while the arm around her makes itself known by pulling her close.
It feels natural, despite the fact that he'd done it at most once in this life, long, long ago.
"For your soul to have thinned to such an extent.." He gulps, the alarmbells in the back of his mind trying to tell him something was wrong.
That his Coreflame is burning much too brightly and at the forefront of his mind, clouding his vision and mind with memories not his own. His sensed attuned to the one in front of him in ways Cerces had been to Mnestia in myth.
Looking right into his eyes, Aglaea speaks in a voice much less flat, at least to Anaxa's ears. "Just as you have your own reasons for lugging your corpse, I have my own."
She squeezes back as she speaks, if only for a split second.
"Phainon must grow into his role as the prophesized leader. Until then..." Her eyes flutter, centuries weighing upon her. "I must lead the Flame-Chase Journey."
Anaxa shakes his head. The feeling of wrongness is still there, but fades as his emotions settle, the whirlwind calming. "I long since knew that your soul was thinning, however, to such an extent...?"
"..." Aglaea stays quiet, seemingly getting over the same sense of wrongness that had welled up.
The silence of the Vortex lingers, only drops of Phagousa's water breaking into the quiet. They stand, in front of the altar, ready to lead the Dance of Death and meet Castorice, who is ready to meet them where the West wind ends, both walking the line of Life and Death for a good while now.
Their breaths mingle from how close they've stayed, but something pulls them to stay, to leave this world in the others arms, rather than alone and without their-
"We were nearly overwhelmed by the Coreflames." She cuts in, breaking the overwhelming... thoughts. There's nothing serious about it, nothing to be done with the information, yet she says it into existnce anyway, if only to stop the ridiculousness of their divine counterparts.
Pushing memories of lives unlived, ones they'll soon become a part of in Era Nova, adding another span of time to the unending loops, hopefully breaking it and never experiencing separation again. Reason and Romance, the threads of love and knowledge between them intertwining, even if just through their Heirs, even if for moments before they dissapear.
Anaxa, who scoffs, replies. "I know that. A certain someone hasn't shut up about it yet." His voice shakes just a smidge, before letting go of Aglaea's hands like they burned.
They might as well have.
He turns to the side to argue with Cerces, looking ridiculous to anyone else, arguing with seemingly air. The words flow through the pure air of the Vortex with clarity.
Their arguing is very audible to Aglaea, who catches bits and pieces. It seems to be about the past, memories of the times the two of them were... amicable. She doesn't quite remember those times, having wandered a lot, but she does remember a mouthy scholar, one that would argue with her while indulging her soon to fade humanity and opposing views.
Perhaps because of her indecisivness, her human nature to hesitate, she had needed someone to argue her points with, to have a mind sharp enough ti see flaws and be rational, while wise enough to know not to try and interrupt her ambitions at the time.
After all,
"Only having one's own viewpoint is not enough to know the world."
...the words slip from her tongue quietly just as the momory fades. Anaxa halts in his pointless, petty argument against Cerces, before waving the ghostly image away. It diesn't work, with him needing to curse at the Titan, before sighing and bringing Aglaea's attention to him.
His gaze is unsure. His memory has also faded, as he hasn't revisited those moments since she left the Grove in pursuit of the Flame-Chase.
"Since we have put the bad-blood behind us, how about one final dance?" Anaxa, unused to asking such things, averts his eyes to elsewhere. It isn't unusual for him, though it doesn't happen when he speaks of his research or teaches students, which is most of the time.
Aglaea feels her Coreflame pulsing, a warmth unfamiliar to her nearly lifeless body. It sears as the feeling grazes her lungs, brings heat to her shoulders. She can't remember completely, but she is sure the haughty preformer is referring to something they'd done when they were younger.
Falling into Mnestia's urging is something she doesn't want to do however. Her soul has nearly dissipated. She cannot feel as others do.
She isn't sure whether this is a false warmth, the last of her humanity showing itself because of a Titans whimsy. "Are you asking because of Cerces'?" She questions.
Silence fills the Vortex. There's no rush, no fanfare. Just quiet contemplation.
"Perhaps." He answers. "You can believe what you want. So?"
In lieu of an answer, Aglaea doesn't resist when Anaxa takes her outstretched hand once more, then starts the steps to a forgotten melody. Anaxa immediately follows, somewhat stiff.
They haven't danced in years, the professor knows. He remembers the dance, despite the long time they haven't even seen one another, much less gotten close enough to do this little routine once more.
Back then, a bright voice, a cape, a mischievious smile, an expression full of wonder when presented with gems and fabrics, a laugh like bells filling his study, were all weekly happenings.
She, who wove for him a garment that now sits in a closet, tucked away and forgotten. She, who countered his ideas and gave him opposing views that lead to new discoveries. She, who scolded him for not taking care of himself and she, his once upon a time dearest, who was selfless enough to leave behind everything for her goals, just as he had been selfish enough to focus on his.
Their steps fill the Vortex of Genesis, even the annoying blabbering of the Titan of Oceans becoming quiet in the face of their last dance.
He, Anaxagoras of the Nousporists, takes a step back and she, Aglaea the Goldweaver, takes one forward.
He, Anaxagoras the Blasphemer, outstreches his hands to allow her, Aglaea the Golden, to rotate once before being pulled back.
He, Anaxagoras the Foolish, turns with her, Aglaea the Brilliant, on their make-shift dance floor.
And he, Anaxa, dips her, Aglaea, carefully, as he did all those years ago.
She doesn't wear a cloak anymore, but he makes sure, as he had all those years ago, that her dress never grazes the ground as to not dirty the fabric. He himself has long hair now, the strands pooling by her collarbone as he leans over her. All of it is different.
Anaxa, the one here and now, with his body a corpse and conciousness waning and dissapearing so far he nearly stumbles, the one with a hole in his chest that Aglaea's fingers graze in curiosity, already aware that he'd ripped his own heart from his body to prove his theories and help his student, watches Aglaea closely.
He distinctly remembers her mentioning dancing brought her joy unlike any other activity, back in the days she could express such sentiments. Now, her face remains as still as stone, seemingly peaceful with her closed eyes.
He is aware, through Mnestia's strings searching for Cerces and conveying everything to him at the same time, that she'd danced with her puppets for nearly the same amount of time as done any paperwork.
He learned this dance unwillingly. He had gotten dragged out of his lab by the hand, cursing and annoyed, by hands as delicate as the silk they work with.
Having gotten dragged to center of a branch, the remains of Mnestia a perfect butterfly in the middle, Aglaea taught him how to dance.
Each time he embarassed himself she laughed at him, telling him he should move more rather than stay hunched over the desk all day, researching his blasphemous ideals.
Inhaling as he brings Aglaea back up from the dip, his hands remain just as steady as hers, continuing the dance.
Even as the others arrive, hesitant and not ready to see their professor reach his end, the destined lovers, at least when they become Titans, continue their routine.
It's a just s bit longer, to stay in the moment, to remember what had been and what never will be.
Phainon, Caelus, Tribbie and Trinnon all stay back, watching the two glide and dance the final steps in awe, unaware that the two could ever be so amicable.
As it comes to an end, the Heirs of Reason and Romance watch each other, feet slowly coming to a stop. Their outstretched hands slowly lower.
Anaxa, coming from the haze of comfort and death slowly creeping up on him, takes Aglaea's hand, close to his lips.
The first time he'd done this was after the end of their supposed to be final dance all those years ago.
And it seems now, with their actual, ending preformance, he does it once more.
Aglaea's hand stays still as his lips touch her knuckles, softly, and unlike them at all. His eye is closed, a final goodbye to this world and whatever they had ever shared, a closure just before their deaths.
"Goodbye." He says, looking up.
"...Farewell, Great Preformer."
She replies, staring right back.
"May the Lovers safeguard your thoughts and journey."
An honest farewell, for an honest final dance. May they reunite in the next world, as lovers, as Cerces and Mnestia, as existences forever intertwined and connected.
May they never face separation again.