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emmanation · 5 days ago

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　　❝ 　i am 　 that 　 i am 　. . .

the phrase "i am that i am" first appears in the old testament, in exodus, chapter three, verse fourteen, during an exchange that feels almost misplaced in its clarity, an unexpected rupture of meaning in a text otherwise governed by genealogy and desert laws.

moses stands barefoot on sacred ground, shielding his eyes from a bush burning without being consumed, caught in a divine encounter as bewildering as it is direct. he asks god, a deity whose presence has, until now, been mostly implied through bloodlines and prophecies, to name himself.

the question itself feels both audacious yet profoundly human, this moment where this curtain between the mortal and divine grows impossibly thin.

and then the response comes, five words in english, stark and bare: "i am that i am."

in its original hebrew, the phrase reads "ehyeh asher ehyeh," a sequence of syllables simultaneously (and perhaps paradoxically) cryptic and lucid. translators wrestle endlessly over the tense, some render it as "i am who i am," others "i will be what i will be," as if attempting to pin god to a moment in time. certainly not an easy feat.

but the original language bites back from such domestication, resisting confinement to past, present, or future. "ehyeh" is a verb form, expansive enough to span eternity, it is existence stripped of modifiers, it is being without precondition, as god offers no description here, no qualifications or comparative metaphors, merely an assertion of existence as the foundational truth from which everything else has bloomed.

there is rather perhaps thorough in this simplicity, an authority that rejects performance or persuasion.

the words, as one reads and then observes, carry no narrative embellishment or contextual cushioning, no lightning, no thunder, no tremors in the earth. instead, the power is starkly linguistic, a declaration whose force derives precisely from its brevity and certainty. the god who reveals himself here is not a deity defined by miracles alone but by presence itself, existence distilled to its most elemental form.

when god instructs moses to tell the israelites "i am hath sent me unto you," he is presenting himself not as this distant architect nor as a fickle celestial power broker but instead as reality itself, that being unavoidable, unalterable, and utterly unadorned.

this line, delivered from the mouth of an impossible burning bush to a shepherd with a stutter and a rather complicated history, establishes a god indifferent to theatrics, and so he is unconcerned with justification, and immune to the need for belief or disbelief.

this god simply is. in words, the foundations of reality are stated plainly, without compromise or confusion. these words do not come out as poetry, rhetoric, not even theology in the conventional sense, they are a statement of being so absolute it renders all questioning irrelevant. the phrase demands recognition of existence as an active, potent declaration, god as pure actuality, stripped bare of human projections and left standing as stark truth.

what is introduced here, in this ancient desert encounter, is a god who operates by declaration alone: existence declared, and thus existence manifest.

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so, we approach the 3d. let's put it plainly, it's just what's in front of you right now, the everyday circus playing out before your eyes. it's your bank balance, your latest text messages, the weather report, the fact your coffee went cold before you remembered it. nothing more, nothing less. think of it as the tv screen showing a show you've tuned into, and if you don't like what's playing, it doesn't mean you're stuck watching reruns forever.

imagine a remote control in your hand, one that flips between thousands of channels, each one broadcasting a slightly, slightly, slightly different reality. on one channel, you're running late again, on another, you caught the train with minutes to spare. another shows you checking your inbox for a text, anxious, but a different channel shows the message arriving right on cue, your phone lighting up comfortably in your palm. each reality is running simultaneously, each available at any given moment, waiting only on your assumption.

so why are you glued to this particular episode, this particular plotline you're not even enjoying? because you've assumed this is your only channel, or maybe you keep accidentally sitting on the remote.

assumption is your channel changer, your thoughts, your declarations, your casual certainty, all of that is your hand pressing the button, switching realities, choosing where you'll tune in next.

but. the tricky bit i'm tuning you into, the 3d isn't your fault, but it is your responsibility. it's not your fault if today's broadcast is disappointing, confusing, or frankly irritating. after all, you might've inherited this channel from habits, parents, society, your own scattered past assumptions, but it's entirely your responsibility if you keep sitting through a bad show, complaining about the actors, the script, the adverts, without ever using the remote. that's just lazy channel surfing, and you know better.

shifting your reality isn't some grand metaphysical leap or a cosmic gymnastic routine. it's simply a matter of realising you've got the remote, then calmly clicking the button. the current scene doesn't need your critique or your emotional investment, just your decision to tune into something better.

stop yelling at the screen, it's just doing its job. your job is simpler: pick the new channel and trust it's there, broadcasting exactly what you've chosen.

the universe is waiting for you to make up your mind. pick your channel, trust your assumption, and let the screen change. your only job now is to watch your new show unfold, popcorn optional but highly recommended.

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assumption isn't belief, and that's our first order of business, clearing the air on that.

belief is slippery, and besides that, it's always open to debate.

you can cling to a belief until your knuckles go white, or you can hold it so loosely it slips right out of your hands. it's wobbly, it's fragile, it's something people can talk you out of or argue down to the ground. assumption, though, assumption is solid ground. it's not something you juggle or something you perform, just where you plant your feet and stay put.

think of assumption as a done deal, a contract signed and sealed, including no take-backs. you don't have to whip yourself into a frenzy or recite affirmations as if they're your lifeline. you don't need to prove it to anyone, least of all yourself. you don't even have to want it desperately. all you have to do is take it as a given, it's already yours, done and dusted, sitting pretty right there in your hands.

when you assume, you're skipping right past the courtroom drama. forget gathering evidence or trying to win over the jury. your decision comes first, and the proof follows along sheepishly after, embarrassed for having doubted you. no to deserving or timing it right or hustling hard enough, it's as straightforward as deciding you're the version of yourself who already has it, then acting accordingly without looking back to check if reality's keeping up.

this isn't limited to shifting or manifesting big-ticket items, this is how everyday life works too. you assume the email's been sent, you assume your friend's flight touched down without a hitch, so you're not waiting for confirmation or some cosmic thumbs-up. it happens simply because you said it would. symptoms, signs, meditations, they're window dressing. the core reason it happens is your assumption.

now, what happens when the outside doesn't instantly match your inside, simple, you ignore the peanut gallery.

if your desired reality seems late to the party, if the 3d around you still looks annoyingly familiar, or if someone's mouth is running with exactly the things you don't want to hear, you don't waste time arguing, just double down on your assumption.

you pick it up once, and then you don't mess with it. you speak it clearly one time, and you don't edit. repetition isn't necessary unless you've drifted away and need a gentle nudge back home. but let's get one thing straight: the goal here is straightforward, return calmly, without any fanfare, to the one thing you've always known.

i'm already there. i already have it. it's mine, plain and simple.

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persistence is one of those words people throw around without reading the fine print.

it suggests sweat, effort, a whole saga of knocking until your knuckles bleed. frankly, it sounds like your dreams are locked behind a stubborn door, and you're supposed to hammer away until the hinges scream mercy.

people take persistence as repeating themselves until the universe gives in out of sheer exhaustion, treating assumptions like spells that only work if chanted often enough to drown out doubt, drown out the 3d, drown out the old stories you've told yourself for so long they've fossilised into fact.

alas. persistence isn't about breaking down doors, or stubbornness in a fight with reality. instead, think of it more like planting your feet firmly in place, refusing to budge after you've already said your piece. it's akin to a refusal to take back your word, not some frantic act of repetition to convince yourself it's true.

if your assumption is clean, if it's locked and loaded, you don't actually need persistence to make it real. what you need persistence for is simpler and sneakier, just to keep you from changing your mind. it's like a the steady hand that stops you from rewriting your own narrative every time the wind blows funny or your phone stays silent a beat too long.

see, the moment you start checking the mailbox obsessively, panicking when you see nothing new, or revising your story because reality hasn't caught up yet, you're hitting the undo button on what you've already created. you're second-guessing the director, who, by the way, is you.

you're tearing open a letter you already sealed and sent.

what i hope you internalise from this is that persistence is less about repeating yourself and more about holding your nerve. something like "i've already ordered, thanks," and politely declining when life tries to slip you a menu again. so, don't revisit your assumption, you don't rephrase it or rewrite it, you don't go fishing for confirmation every hour on the hour. you simply let it sit, calmly and firmly, because your word was final the moment it left your mouth.

and yes, all you need is assumption, solid, unwavering, untouched. persistence only kicks in if you've forgotten your own instructions. when you catch yourself slipping, you don't break it all down, you just gently remind yourself: oh right, i already called it, and go back to living like you meant it the first time around.

sadly for all of us, reality doesn't keep polite office hours, waiting its turn in the neat little queue in your mind. it shifts the second you shift. but your eyes, your senses, your current 3d might lag behind, still showing yesterday's rerun while the new show's loading. persistence, in this scenario, just means not flipping channels again because you got impatient.

so, no, persistence isn't the magic ingredient in your manifesting recipe. it's just insurance against second thoughts. your only job is to stick to your original script, and let the world catch up to your storyline. it always does, as long as you stop fiddling with the remote.

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instant manifestation sounds grandiose, but let's demystify it from the get-go: less about magic and more about logic. think of it as the universe's natural responsiveness to clarity, there's no waiting room, no divine bureaucracy processing your request, and so the moment your assumption clicks into place, reality takes the cue, not due to its obligated to reward you, but because it's built to reflect you.

now, here's why manifestation, or shifting, for that matter, is always instant: the concept of delay only exists within human perception, our sense of linearity and ticking clocks. reality itself doesn't operate on timers or schedules. it's always on standby, perpetually tuned in, reacting moment-to-moment to your deepest-held assumptions.

what might seem like a gap or a delay is often just your senses catching up, adjusting to the new script you've written.

think of assumption as placing an online order. once you hit 'purchase,' the transaction's done, finalised in an instant. but the package, that arrives according to logistics beyond your immediate view. you don't worry if it's coming, and you certainly don't click 'buy' twenty more times to prove you meant it. you click once, you trust the process, and you get on with your day.

instant manifestation is exactly that simple: one clear assumption placed, reality acknowledged, no redundant clicks needed.

of course, that doesn't mean your eyes won't sometimes deceive you, showing old scenes or reruns from a reality you've already exited.

that's nothing more than habitual perception lagging behind new instruction. your senses and your familiar surroundings sometimes cling stubbornly to yesterday's assumptions, sticking around like overstayed guests who haven't yet noticed that the party's over. your only job here isn't to push, force, or negotiate, it's just to stay firm in your new assumption, politely ignoring the outdated evidence until it fades away completely.

and if you wonder about instant shifting, consider that you never move realities, you merely shift your awareness, your attention, your tuning dial. every reality exists simultaneously, neatly layered, all options available at once.

shifting is instantaneous because you're not packing bags, journeying, trekking across metaphysical boundaries, but literally just turning your head, shifting your gaze. when you assume your desired reality, you're already standing in it, the delay is your recognition, not the shift itself.

so, manifestation doesn't need to be earned through patience or suffering, nor coaxed out with rituals and repetitions.

it's already here, therefore already ready.

the minute your assumption clicks into place, the switch flips. instant doesn't mean miraculous, more so seamless, logical, inevitable.

reality is perpetually prepared, perpetually attentive. it waits for no signals but yours, clear, unequivocal. when your assumption lands cleanly, your reality responds instantly, everything else is just your perception learning to trust itself.

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the question of whether you are god of your reality is one that doesn't need argument so much as it needs observation, you do not need scripture to tell you that you are the origin point, you do not need philosophy to grant you agency.

you only, simply, need to look at the shape of your life, and see the imprint of your decisions, the world bends not because you ask it to, but because it has no other other option available, especially not when you've already named the ending.

when god says "i am that i am," he isn't offering reassurance, nor trying to be understood. the statement does not invite discussion. it closes the loop before it can open. it is structure, a grammar of being, a linguistic boundary around reality itself. and when you say "i am," you are not echoing him but using the same mechanism, you are, quite literally, entering the same framework.

language is a source, meaning that thought does not follow reality, but reality follows thought. and assumption, is what steers it. you only need to declare, and keep declaring, and then not undo the declaration.

all proof that you are god of your reality is already embedded in how your life responds to your expectations. when you expect loss, it comes. when you expect silence, people pull away. when you brace for failure, your body tenses before the moment arrives. these are not coincidences, but causal loops, and you are the axis around which they spin.

you have already seen this. the things you assumed you would always have, you still do. the identity you never questioned has never left. even when you tried to shift it, to rebrand or reframe or rewrite, the old assumption stayed beneath it all, like a watermark. it leaked through the affirmations, it spoke through the back of your mind.

and that is the nature of assumption: not louder than you, but deeper. and everything builds on top of it.

when you understand this, the label of god is not a metaphor nor a spiritual accolade, just logistics. you are the only one whose perception matters in your reality because you are the only one doing the perceiving. the world is certainly not a fixed landscape, it is a rendered environment. what you expect becomes visible, what you assume becomes tangible, what you declare becomes routine. a structure of consciousness too consistent to ignore.

that means that you do not create your reality by force, simply manifest by convincing something outside of you to give in.

there is no outer authority to consult, no gatekeeper. the moment you look outward for proof, you've abdicated the role. the world has no say until you give it one, and the more you treat your declarations as optional, the more they remain optional.

do not think that this is about control in the way most people understand it, it's not about tightening your grip. what i'm speaking about is precision, the literal sharpness of your word, your knowing.

saying "i have it" without flinching. saying "it is done" without checking. being so still in your decision that the 3d stops resisting, because it doesn't know how to push against something that isn't moving.

if it has not appeared, it's not because it isn't real, more so because you're still watching the wrong frame. you're still tuned into a version of the scene you've already replaced, and when you shift the assumption, the frame catches up. not always instantly, not always neatly, but inevitably. it must, the system is built that way.

none of this is conditional on your worth. none of it is contingent on your effort. none of it asks you to heal, or to deserve.

god never explains himself to moses, he does not justify the statement, he does not quiver for its magnitude. he does not say "i am that i am because i earned it," he simply states. and when you step into the same structure, when you say "i am," you are not reaching for power, but revealing the power that was always already yours.

you're not perfect. yet, still. you are god, your word creates form, your assumption precedes fact. your declaration reorders the narrative. and whether you choose to accept that or not, whether you wield it or drop it, the mechanism stays the same. you are the centre, you are the speaker.

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hivemuthur · 2 months ago

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In Thy Name - Ch.10. - Cut Down The Puppet Strings

viktorxfemale!reader NSFW + mild gore, gothic AU

Reader is a highly renown linguist hired by Viktor, a paranormal investigator, for a case he cannot crack himself.

<- previous chapter MASTERLIST + SOURCES

word count: 8,1K

author's note: Playlist here! Art by @cringemaster3 ♡ For everyone interested, the songs I used for chapter titles are as follows: Dark Entries by Bauhaus, Mask by Bauhaus (Ch.2. and 3.), Blasphemous Rumours by Depeche Mode, The Passion of Lovers by Bauhaus, Persephone by Cocteau Twins, Spellbound by Siouxsie and the Banshees, Stigmata Martyr, All We Ever Wanted Was Everything and Spirit by Bauhaus. In the end notes I'm explaining the Algernon paradox.

Cross-posted on AO3

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Within the fourth day the bell tolls iron-throated and low, rolling across the valley for Radomír, the nameless. Dawn is scarcely a suggestion; breath smokes out of every mourner’s mouth. They gather in the hilltop chapel—stone ribs blackened by centuries of incense—while below, the footprint of the manor still steams, earth warm enough to melt the shy November snow that drifts in uncertain flakes.

You and Viktor stand among the stripped-of-surname household, shoulders brushing the Samkovas, hands brushing the young heir’s trembling sleeve. Grief here is quiet, almost reverent; names were eaten by fire, but affection survived the feast. Candles gutter along the narrow altar and the priest intones only given names, as though Heaven itself has no ledger for what was burned.

Viktor’s gloved fingers find yours—small linkage beneath the funeral pall—and squeeze once, solemn. Friend, the gesture says. Witness. Co-bearer of passage. You return the pressure, feeling the faint tremor in his hand—the weight of a vow forming even before the last bell stroke fades into the aching sky.

Outside, winter light glints off the chapel’s stained-glass shards, littering the steps with bruised colours. Beyond the churchyard gate a modest crowd waits—fewer than the fire brigade counted when the house was burning, yet enough to thicken the road: farmers in smoke-scented wool, shopkeepers in their Sunday coats, widows wrapped in sable shawls, a trio of schoolchildren clutching frost-stiff posies. No one speaks above a hush, but in every lifted face lives a story Radomír once mended—a broken fence, an unpaid doctor’s fee, an apple pressed into a palm the winter after his wife died. These gathered memories outweigh any title that went to cinders.

If the boy’s deep, effortless breaths were not proof enough of what Viktor has done, this living ledger is. As you and he descend the chapel steps, the mourners part, touching brims, bowing heads. Some look puzzled, mouths shaping a surname they can no longer summon. Others simply nod, certain of grief even without the anchor of letters.

“They remember him,” Viktor murmurs, almost to himself, voice thin as a church draft but clear to you as heartbeat. You tighten your grip on his hand, feel the pulse speed beneath kid-glove.

“I cannot call the name,” you confess, the realization sudden and eerie. Your free hand finds the one that balances his cane; you fold both inside your own.

“Nor can I,” Viktor answers. “ But I recall the man. I see the boy draw breath, and I think—perhaps…” Words tangle in the raw cusp of hope.

Footsteps skirt around you, coats brushing yours, but you do not step aside. Leaning close, you hide bright anticipation in an embrace that passes for sorrow. Lips near his ear, you whisper, “For this I will owe you my life.”

He steadies you, palm warm against your cheek despite the frost. His gaze softens. “On the contrary,” he breathes, “it is I who am in your debt. But let us earn living first—then we may bargain over gratitude.” Behind him the bell tolls once more, not dirge but distant clock, and the two of you stand a moment longer in its echo, feeling the shape of the future settle—unnamed, but suddenly, achingly possible.

Snow begins in hushed flurries as the last mourners drift away. Good-byes are simple: Mrs. Samkova presses your hands, repeating soft blessings; her husband clasps Viktor’s shoulder with the word brother caught in his throat. The boy—newly free of hitching lungs—hovers behind them, boots scuffing half-moons in thin white powder. Just as you reach the carriage step he bursts forward, arm outstretched.

A toy horse, hardly longer than a matchbox, carved from orchard wood and burnished by long pocket-rides. He offers it to Viktor without speech, huge brown eyes fierce with purpose. Viktor kneels—snow dampening his trouser knee—and accepts the gift with both palms as though receiving a relic. “Ride far,” the boy whispers, the words a vow and a benediction. Viktor touches the child’s cheek, nods once, and slips the horse into the safe hollow of his waistcoat.

Inside the carriage you fold into each other as naturally as breath and rib. Cold seeps from the glass, but warmth pools where your legs tangle and Viktor’s arm bands your waist. The toy horse rests between his palm and your thigh, its smooth flank warming by degrees.

Fear travels with you—an uninvited passenger—but it rides quieter now, tempered by a sharp, bright appetite for the hours still possible. Outside, the countryside has softened: snow stitches field to hedge, grave-mound to road, erasing quarrel lines with white thread. Trees stand in gentle truce, their black bones laced by the same steady drift. Even the river wears a hush—skin of ice knitting its restless pulse. The world feels briefly unified, forgiven.

You breathe that sameness, that bright muffled calm, into one another’s mouths. Viktor’s lips brush your temple once, twice—small tithes against the chill—while the carriage wheels turn steady beneath, bearing you toward the last bargain yet to be struck and whatever thin dawn follows its price.

Home greets you with a modest crust of snow, the sort that means to stay—no soft drifts, only a colourless film clinging to hedges and crunching under wheels. The manor itself seems to have exhaled while you were gone: shutters half-latched, lamps burning low but steady, a dogged pulse awaiting its master.

Algernon stands beneath the portico, two footmen at his flanks. “I take it the mission was successful, Master Velesny?”

Viktor lifts a brow, frost still jewelling his lashes. “Yes. Disappointed?”

The butler flinches as though tapped with a switch, then smooths his features to the usual porcelain calm. “Not in the least, sir. You must be chilled—come, come.” He shepherds you both through the doors, already delegating with crisp gestures. “Tea in the drawing room anon—”

“In my chambers, if you please,” Viktor interrupts. “All luggage there as well.”

“As you wish, sir.” Algernon bows, the motion precise yet brittle, and disappears down the corridor, orders snapping after him like dry twigs.

Viktor turns, arms open but hesitant, a man poised on the threshold of a stronger vow. “I do not wish to part from you,” he says. “If you will have me.”

Wordless, you step into the circle of his embrace, feel the thaw where your coats touch. Together you climb the familiar stairs—past the secret room, your guest bedroom and the quiet library—until the upper hallway hushes around your footfalls.

Luggage lands in soft thuds; the door closes; the house recedes. Viktor kicks free of his boots and sinks onto the edge of the bed, long legs stretched before him, braces creaking. The tea tray arrives, steam curling into lamp-lit calm, then you are alone again with the muted tick of distant clocks.

You kneel at his feet, fingers deft at buckles, leather surrendered into your lap piece by piece. He exhales—one long ribbon of relief—as the brace slips away, his shoulders folding loose for the first time without urgency or ache. You set the metal aside, warm your palms against his calves, and look up.

He studies you, half-smile tugging at the edge of fatigue. “You are equal parts wicked and kind,” he murmurs—praise spoken like confession. The words balance between you, steeping in the quiet the way strong tea stains porcelain, until the whole room tastes faintly of possibility rather than peril.

“You are the same,” you murmur, and slip your fingers beneath the edge of his sock. The wool peels away; winter-pale skin shows the faint map of veins and a single old surgery scar. You roll the fabric down and cup his calf with both hands, working slow circles into the knotted muscle. A tremor skims through him—surprise and surrender. His breath catches, not in pain but in some startled bliss he hasn’t tasted since some thoughtful hands last tended a fevered limb. He lowers his eyes, lets them shutter, as if watching might break the spell.

Your thumbs sweep the length of his shin. “Any notions,” you ask, tone almost idle, “of how to undo your bargain?”

He opens his lashes, studies the ceiling as though answers might be chalked there. “What, precisely, did the name purchase?” he muses. “Scholarship seats, lectureships, every citation that turns ink to clout. I can’t drag all those journals to the fire.” He reaches into his waistcoat, producing a slim bundle of embossed cards: Viktor Velesny, FRS, Lecturer in Aetheric Dynamics. Their gilt edges catch the lamplight like tiny guillotines. “It reduces to this—titles and vowels on good linen stock.”

Your palm slides to the back of his calf, squeezing. “You were tricked,” you say, voice low. “Taken against your will.”

A sigh breaks from him, long and bone-deep. He slips off the mattress, joints cracking soft, and folds to the floor before you. The discarded brace glints nearby like an iron question. He draws your knees between his, rests his forehead against your sternum. “I know,” he says, words feathering the cotton of your dress. “Not a moment passes I don’t search for some sleight to turn scripture against that god.”

You comb fingers through his hair, feel the heat of his plotting skull. “We’ll find the hinge,” you whisper. “Every trap has one.”

He tilts his face up, eyes dark with hope that can’t yet name itself. “Then tomorrow,” he says, voice steadier, “we begin forging keys.” Outside, wind fidgets around the eaves, but in this hush his vow feels heavier than iron, warmer than the tea cooling on the bedside table.

Days begin to braid into one another, silver and soot, tenderness and graphite. Morning often finds you in the library where frost feathers the windows and Viktor’s breath plumes over strewn folios; he dictates, you annotate, both of you hunting the hinge on which a god’s claim might turn. Noon drifts into the greenhouse, where weak sun warms copper gears while Viktor sketches sigils in dirt between wilted basil stalks—testing fragments of languages older than mortar. He breaks off only to tug you close, soil still on his fingers, pressing a kiss to the pulse beneath your ear as though to remind himself which world he is fighting for.

Evenings pool in the bedroom, heliostat planets tracing their muted constellations overhead. At the workbench Viktor opens a leather-bound album—sepia portraits of scholars’ banquets, university fêtes, expedition groups—each captioned in his careful hand: V. Velesny, Lecturer, Prof. Velesny and Colleagues. With a sable brush he dips into dense India ink and drifts a dark stroke across the surname, letting it bleed until the letters vanish beneath a soft, tidal black. Page after page he performs the quiet erasure, leaving only initials and faces. You stand close, turning sheets for him; between each sweep of ink your fingers knead the tension where leather brace meets his shoulder blade, and the room fills with two companion sounds: planets ticking their slow orbits above, and the patient sigh of parchment surrendering names to night.

Sometimes, without warning, desire flares: you end up half-undressed on the desk, schematics crinkling beneath your hips while nightingales outside the cracked window sing their cold-season dirges. Other nights are quieter: Viktor lies listening to your heartbeat, toy horse clutched between your palms like a charm, the two of you talking in murmurs about what a nameless future might taste like—bread still warm, bodies unburdened.

Between each sunrise he files another portion of himself away: lecturers’ medals tucked into a velvet pouch, an old dissertation reduced to ash in the grate, brass nameplate unscrewed from the study door. With every relinquishment his spine straightens a fraction, as though the god’s hand loosens its grip by degrees—yet the cost shows too, in new shadows beneath his eyes. You match him step for step, fearing and craving the moment the ledger is balanced, when the world must decide whether it will remember brilliance shorn of syllables or let the man himself slip, bright and unclaimed, into legend.

On the last night the lamp is low, trinkets caught in their mute procession, as Viktor lets a bead of scarlet wax fall to the spine of a calling-card. A stray tremor tips the spoon; a droplet leaps, lands on the slope of your hand. Heat bites—sharp as drawn breath—then cools to a humming sting while the wax sets, shrinking into a lacquered shell. You flex, feeling it crack, and lift the small crust away with the edge of a fingernail.

Viktor’s quill stills mid-air. For a beat he watches the red fleck in your palm as though it might reveal an oracle. Something moves behind his eyes—relief, almost, that the night has offered sensation other than the clawing dread you have both worn over the last few days. Wordless understanding slides between you: a silent dare, a promise of a feeling stronger than fear. His pulse answers before speech can; you can tell from the sudden hush, like rooms aligning perfectly after long disrepair.

You edge closer, rolling your sleeve to bare your forearm across the desk. His hand settles on it, thumb tracing veins with affection that feels pre-remembered. He tips the taper. Molten orange glides, sears, then cools. You steady your breathing; he steadies his on yours. When he peels the hardened drip away, need sparks in both gazes—twin flames recognising tinder.

The candle meets wood with a muted clink. He hooks a hand behind your knee, draws you to the chair’s edge so your breath mingles with his. Fingers slide to your bodice fastenings. “Is this truly what you want?” he murmurs, though the answer is already thudding in his throat.

You nod, pulse bright. “It is our last night before—” you cut yourself off. Then: “Let us spend it wisely.”

His mouth brushes yours—promise, or a pact. “Then let me spend you,” he whispers, clothes loosening under deft hands. “Let it brand us both, and melt the fears away.”

With that, he parts the last hook of your contraption and spreads the fabric wide as though opening a rare tome. His palms skim the slope of clavicle, pause a heartbeat to feel your pulse beneath thin skin, then glide upward—encircling your neck with a velvet firmness that draws you in. The kiss begins soft, delicate, corners first; heat pools where your bare breasts brush the linen of his shirt, silk nip against starched front. His thumbs press gently at the hollow where your throat rises and falls—measuring want like a physician might count breaths—before his teeth catch your lower lip in a tender bite that steals your next exhale.

You feel the moment the tension in him shifts from caution to hunger. He pulls back just far enough to strip his shirt, buttons scattering like pale seeds. Your fingers know the brace now: you unfasten each buckle with practiced grace, leather loosening until the iron scaffold slides away. He shivers—not from chill but from the shock of unarmoured skin meeting air and your gaze.

“Look at you,” you murmur, palms spanning the firm plane of his chest. “All iron gone, and still the strongest man I know.”

His answering smile is half gratitude, half wicked delight. “And you,” he breathes, tracing circles around the knot of your spine, “are art and appetite in equal measure.”

You lose your bottoms and swing a knee across his thighs, sinking into his lap. The sudden cradle of your weight pulls a low sound from him, rich as dusk bells. Your fingers work deftly at the clasps of his trousers; fabric yields, and the warmth pressed against your inner thigh grows urgent.

“Ease me,” he whispers, voice frayed with lust.

“Guide me,” you counter, slickening the request with a roll of your hips.

He cups your breasts, thumbs brushing peaks into sharper want. “You take light,” he murmurs, kissing the tender swell, “and make it unbearable.” His praise sparks heat under your skin; you free him from the last restraint, smoothing your hand along firmness until his throat imprisons breath.

Your name leaves his mouth like a vow. “Hardships tomorrow,” he says, eyes bright with the promise of oblivion found in each other’s bodies. “For this hour, let us be only yes.”

“Yes,” you answer, lowering yourself with slowly, welcoming him inch by aching inch. The world narrows to murmured endearments and low, unruly pleas.

His palm glides from the plane of your belly up through the valley of your breasts, circling once over each quickened peak before winding round your throat, guiding you to arch like a bow. “Ready?” he asks, voice frayed velvet.

“Brand me,” you breathe.

He reaches for the taper—its stub of flame trembling in the draft—tilts it until a bead of fire-soft wax swells and slips. It lands just below your sternum, searing, then cooling to a tight sting that pulls a keen from your throat. You arch higher, hands fumbling for his shoulders, nails grazing the muscle there.

“Look at me,” Viktor commands, candle held aloft like a single votive between you. Your gaze locks on his: pupils blown, irises twin furnaces.

“Again,” you whisper.

This time he watches every shift of your expression as molten orange beads, slides, and kisses the slope of your rib. Your breath chokes; his own follows. Wax shells bloom along your skin—tiny seals of night—each one a vow he speaks in low praise: “So brave, my compass… my true North.” Your hands settle at his nape, pulling him forward until the heat of breath replaces the heat of wax. He kisses the cooling marks, tongue soothing the sting, and when your hips roll in silent plea he answers with a slow upward thrust, melding body to body while the candle’s glow dances, the only star in a room intent on forgetting every hardship but hunger.

Viktor bows his head, lips roaming the new reliquaries cooling on your chest. Each pass of his tongue feels like sacrament reversed—holy water traded for salt-slick hunger. Deep inside, his rhythm lengthens, driven, splitting you open to the root. He catches your gaze, sweat haloing his brow in the low glow, and offers the taper between trembling fingers. “Anoint yourself,” he rasps, hands sliding to cup the curves he worships. “Let me witness your devotion.”

You take the candle, the flame wavering like a single rebellious cherub. “Every word you speak,” you murmur, tipping the wax so it swells at the lip, “writes salvation on my skin.” The first drop falls, and heat sings through nerve and marrow. His hands urge you higher, guiding you so the drenched heart of you grinds against the taut plane of his abdomen—each stroke a bell-note of pleasure, flesh chiming against flesh.

Wax beads again, trailing down your ribs, sluicing over soft curls below until it nets there, bright and sacrilegious. Viktor watches, chest heaving, zeal and hunger braided in his stare. “Beloved of mine,” he breathes, two fingers parting you to keep you poised, to feel every clench that answers his thrust. “Brand yourself with every yes.”

You drizzle another line, hiss his name like a litany. It cools to a fragile shell over pounding muscle; he rises into you, sealing heat with heat. In swift ruin of restraint he crushes you to him, molten edges catching, bonding skin to skin. The candle slips, extinguishes against the floorboards with a hiss like a psalm’s final amen.

“Sealed as one,” Viktor gasps against your ear. “I am yours, and you, irrevocably, mine. Spend for me, darling—let the night witness our creed.”

“Take me,” you answer, voice caught between prayer and dare, mouth pressed to his temple, fingers clutching at his dark hair. He drives upward, groan rending the hush, teeth claiming shoulder then throat in near-feral blessing. Pleasure shears through you, wax shell fracturing as your body locks round him, pulse beating fire against broken seal. His own release follows, anthem and surrender, spilling into the shared incandescence while snow-pale light fingers the curtained glass—two sinners bound, sanctified by flame, fear held at the door until the chiming clocks remember to summon it back.

Wax cools and cracks where your bodies meet, tiny shells of red and amber falling like spent petals onto the carpet. You sit sideways across Viktor’s thighs, both of you still perched on the poor chair that now lists under your joined weight. His breath creeps along the curve of your neck—warm, unhurried—and each exhale loosens another flake of hardened seal that lands soft against his bare shoulder. He tightens his arms as though the night might yet slip away, mouth grazing the pulse beneath your ear.

“It is foolish of me to ask,” he murmurs, voice worn thin by pleasure and dread, “but you mustn’t follow me to the cave. I can’t promise I’ll walk back out.”

Your spine stills; you lean away just enough to cradle his face, palms cupping cheeks still flushed. The candle’s after-scent lingers between you—honeyed smoke, something half like church, half like damnation. “Death will not part us,” you say, steady as catechism. “I won’t grant it that courtesy.”

A breathy chuckle shivers from his chest, equal parts awe and resignation. “I had to try,” he confesses. “If positions were reversed, I’d bolt the door to keep you safe.” He kisses the pad of your thumb. “But stubbornness is devotion by another name.”

You fold against each other, let the cooling wax lie where it falls, and barter a few more hours of sleep from the reluctant dawn. When afternoon finally bleeds grey across the windowpanes, you rise together—limbs aching, hearts steadier than before. Packing is oddly brief: Viktor shrugs into a travel coat, slides the leg brace into place, pockets a tinderbox and a coil of hemp line. On the writing desk lies a single calling-card—one he spared from ink or flame—bearing the gilt of a name soon to be bartered. He tucks it into his breast pocket, over the beat of his heart, not as keepsake but as coin.

You step from the threshold without ceremony—no luggage save the weight in your chests—when Algernon appears at the top of the steps, hair uncombed, cravat skewed as though dressed by ghosts. Fatigue dusts his shoulders; candle-soot smears one cheek. He descends, halts, and for a moment simply stares at Viktor, lips parted around a plea that takes its time finding sound.

“My lord… I beg you, do not go.” His hand lifts, wavers inches from Viktor’s sleeve, then falls—as if the air itself forbids the touch.

Viktor forces a smile that wobbles at the edges. “Why? Would you prefer me dead after all?” The jest is thin; your fingers brush his coat, feeling the sudden tautness beneath.

“It is death where you go—either way,” Algernon murmurs, smoothing hair that will not lie flat. His gaze fixes somewhere beyond the yew hedge, as though an answer hangs in the fog, just out of reach.

“What say you?” Viktor closes the distance, palm steady on Algernon’s shoulder. “If I perish, sooner or later matters little. I must attempt this. You, of all men, know trying is the marrow of living.”

For a span that might be a heartbeat or an eon, Algernon simply looks at Viktor—eyes clouded, as if some hidden ledger is being read aloud inside his skull. Muscle by muscle, his face rearranges: first the polite neutrality he has worn for decades; then bafflement, as though he’s stepped into a room whose walls are suddenly wrong; then stark terror, pupils shrinking to pinpoints. The corners of his mouth flutter, trying on several shapes—apology, protest, prayer—before settling into a tremor that leaves his lips parted, wordless. You watch the change ripple downward, loosening the set of his shoulders, stealing the impeccable butler’s poise until the man beneath the livery emerges—frightened, unarmoured, newly aware of the knife-edge on which his existence balances. Only when that transformation completes, slow as frost creeping across glass, does he seize Viktor’s wrist, desperate not to be left behind by the truth he has just understood.

“It is not you who will perish,” he whispers, voice fraying. “It is I. I was a man once—I can half-recall—a foolish boy seeking favour of gods, much as you did. Now I am bound to the name on your tongue, kept here where He wishes you tethered. If you slip the leash, I slip into nothing.”

The realisation dawns across Viktor’s features like sunrise over ruins. “Algernon…” he breathes, horror and pity intermingled.

“Forgive me,” the butler goes on, a man confessing sins discovered only this moment. “I meant no harm; I am merely an instrument, unaware. An illusion of will.” He bows his head, fingertips blanching where they still hold Viktor.

“All those times,” Viktor murmurs, remembering sudden tea trays, doorways blocked by polite inquiry. “The interruptions—”

“It was He, puppeting me.” Algernon’s voice cracks; you see tears standing, silver as thaw. “I should not exist now—not as myself.”

Silence settles, heavier than any bell. Somewhere a rook cries, harsh and solitary.

At last Algernon lifts his gaze, and for the first time the mask of perfect service is gone; what remains is raw, undeniably human. “Go,” he says, the word shivering in the cold. “Cut the strings. Free my soul with the name. I beg you.”

Viktor’s hand rises, rests against Algernon’s bowed head—a benediction, or a farewell. No more words follow; the three of you understand the bargain, spoken and unspoken, that waits in the dark mouth of the cave. You turn toward the path, and behind you the manor door closes with a sound like a curtain drawn, leaving Algernon in the porch light, already half-shadow, half-memory.

Before you the lane narrows quickly, stone walls giving way to hedgerow ghosts and then to the starker wilderness beyond. Underfoot, rime squeaks; each breath leaves a plume that fades before it can reach memory. Viktor’s cane clicks a measured cadence—never stumbling, as if the ground itself has agreed to bear him this one last time. Your hand anchors at the crook of his arm; whenever the path glass-slicks to ice, he steadies you with a subtle shift of weight, and onward you go.

The world pares itself to elements: birch trunks etched black on pearl, the iron scent of distant water, the hush of snow filling every pocket of silence you might have filled with fear. Somewhere an owl sounds—three hollow notes, answered by nothing. Frost crystals rim the cuffs of Viktor’s greatcoat; in the faint moonlight they glitter like a borrowed crown.

Darkness folds deeper. You pause to strike a flame, cupping it from the wind, then lift the lantern between you. Its amber circle slides over bark and root, over drifted stone fences, painting each breath a momentary gold. You huddle close—two sparks moving through a field of unlit stars—sharing what warmth remains in tired bodies. Words seem too loud for this world; instead you speak through small gestures: your thumb tracing the seam of his glove, his hand settling at the small of your back whenever the trail drops.

At last, the hush gathers a new sound: the faint glassy rush of water. A half-frozen stream slips between shoulders of granite, its surface veined with black ice, its voice low but urgent. Lantern-light glances off the water and shows the stream’s narrow tongue leading into a cleft in the hillside—the cave mouth, waiting like an unspoken sentence. Snow has not drifted there; the ground is bare and dark, as if even winter hesitates to follow further.

You and Viktor stand a moment at the threshold. The lantern quivers in your grip, casting restless rings upon wet stone. Behind you, the snow-soft night continues, vast and indifferent. Ahead, the cave exhales a breath older than language, smelling of iron, fern ghosts, and the memory of a child’s wish. Without speaking, you tighten your hold on the lantern pole. Viktor meets your gaze, nods once—the simplest vow. “Godspeed,” you say. Then together you step across the icy stream and into the dark that bears his unspoken name.

The passage narrows after the first bend, forcing you to walk single-file beneath a ceiling that sweats winter condensation. Lantern-light skates over limestone ribs; each droplet poised to fall gleams like an icy bead of anointment. Behind you the entrance dwindles to a pale lozenge; the hush here is heavier than snow.

Further in, the path tilts downward. Frost gives way to damp earth tinged with the mineral scent of deep water. A faint silver glow leaks ahead, outshining the lantern’s amber. When the tunnel finally widens you step into a chamber half the size of a cathedral’s apse. Moonlight slants through a jagged aperture in the roof, bathing a single unfurling of green at the center: a fern, winter-defiant yet bloomless, its fronds trembling in the underground draft.

Viktor lowers the lantern to a flat stone, flame settling into a steady heart. He turns, takes both your hands, and presses his forehead to yours; in that small circle of light your breaths mingle like vows.

“If night swallows me,” he whispers, voice roughened by awe and dread, “know I have lived my happiest weeks in your company. Nothing He takes can undo that mercy.”

You kiss the confession from his lips, salt and iron mingling. “Speak no finalities,” you breathe against his mouth. “I will meet you on the farther shore.”

He nods once—acceptance, promise, surrender—then releases you and limps to the fern. From his coat he draws the slim knife you last saw in Shalladholm. The blade finds the scar across his palm and reopens it with a soft, resigned sound. Blood beads, bright as melted garnet, and drips onto the fern’s central frond where it darkens, unabsorbed.

Viktor steadies his breathing, shoulders squaring in the argent glow. “Veles,” he calls, voice low but unwavering, the cavern carrying each syllable into shadowed vaults. “Come forth. I would reckon my debt.” The air chills, lantern flame recoils—then stillness gathers, listening, before the answer arrives.

From the farthest corner where lantern-light refuses to wander, a figure unpeels itself from shadow: a tall man, hair and beard slick as fresh pitch, shoulders wrapped in nothing but the cavern’s chill. Moonlight strikes his eyes—two coins cut from night. A smile, almost gentle, curves across his mouth.

“So,” he says, voice soft as falling ash, “you too would renounce me, Velesny? Such a promising child you were.”

“A child owns no power to bargain,” Viktor answers, steady though his pulse leaps. “It was only a wish, spoken out of sorrow.”

The god glides forward. Frost blossoms beneath each bare step, whitening the stone like plague. A whisper accompanies the grin: “No witnesses this time.” Fingers snap. Your knees buckle; the lantern jerks as you crumple to the cavern floor, breath whisked away. Viktor lunges, fear carving his features, but an unseen pressure roots him where he stands.

“She will wake,” the god murmurs, almost soothing. “I do not take what wasn’t offered, nor what is not yet due. Dreamless slumber—nothing more.” His gaze sharpens. “Tell me, child-grown: why spit out my bread?”

“I will be free of your name,” Viktor declares. “I’ll forfeit every comfort it purchased.”

Black laughter ripples off the cave walls. “Did you haul ledgers and houses to burn for me again?”

“No.” Viktor uncurls his hand; the single calling-card gleams ivory in the moonwash. “I bring only this.” Then, almost shy: “Why did you claim me?”

Silence gathers, heavy as subterranean water. With an almost parental sigh, the god speaks: “I choose prodigies. Radomír—honest, small—could wait. But prodigies feed a hungry god. Clever souls, once broken, sing my tale into every corner. Humans forget old altars; empires rename us stories. I bind you in tragedy, so my name outlives the rot.”

“Release me,” Viktor says. “Name your price.”

“You know it.” The god’s smile widens, teeth black as coal seams. “Your legacy to dust. Are you ready to be… middling, Viktor the Nameless?”

“I want to live,” Viktor answers, voice trembling at the edges of his truth.

“So be it. But a god taxes the debtor.” He plucks the calling-card, slips it between jagged teeth, chews—paper, ink, and gilt vanishing down a throat dark as burial earth. “Twice you have robbed me; I will take my due.” Circling the fern’s bare fronds, he faces Viktor squarely. “It will hurt,” he purrs, delighted by the promise, and the cavern’s air grows sharp as blades.

Veles’s smile thins to a razor. “A final tithe, child.”

His hand rises—no incantation, no flourish—only fingers spreading, pale as moon bone. They drive straight through cloth and skin, neither ripping nor cutting so much as invading, as if the flesh remembers an old, unwelcome door.

Cold floods Viktor’s chest, glacial shock that numbs quicker than terror. Then pain answers—every cough he has ever swallowed erupting at once, multiplied, condensed to white agony. It feels as though his ribs are packed with broken icicles; each shard twists, trying to pry itself free. Breath claws for exit but finds no purchase. He would scream if air existed.

The god’s arm burrows wrist-deep. Frost creeps outward from the puncture, feathering blue over Viktor’s sternum, making the lantern light glitter on crystalline veins. With a soft, fleshy crack Veles withdraws his hand. Two shriveled lobes cling to his fingers—organs the colour of bruised nightshade, collapsed and glistening. Steam rises where their warmth meets the cave’s chill.

Viktor staggers yet does not fall. The hole in his breast seals with a hiss, skin puckering, bloodless but raw. A breath shudders through the cavity—first thin, then fuller— until his lungs, impossibly new, inflate beneath scarred flesh. Each inhale burns like winter iron, but it is breath, strong and certain. He clamps a hand over the mending wound, feeling life drum loud against a palm that moments ago should have cupped nothing.

Veles lifts the desiccated lungs to his lips, teeth tearing as though into overripe fruit. Black blood dribbles along his chin before he licks it clean with a shiver of distaste. “Disgusting,” he sneers, letting the husks fall to the stone where frost devours them.

Eyes ember-bright fix Viktor. “Nameless you shall wander. As nothing you will live the span granted. Turn to me again—let your dove turn—and I will finish the feast.” He wipes his fingers on the air, and the darkness itself swallows the stain.

The god melts back toward shadow, until only the fern’s fronds tremble in the stirred gloom. Viktor stands alone but breathing, chest aching with newborn fire, the cave echoing with the price that bought his life and unmade his name.

Knees strike the stone, brace ringing a hollow psalm. Another breath roars through him—too large for old ribs—sending him forward on shaking hands until your still figure meets his reach. His fingertips skim your cheek, heat against chill; relief surges so fierce it blinds him. He presses his mouth to yours, pouring air into a kiss.

“Wake, my heart,” he whispers against slack lips. “Breathe with me.”

Your lashes tremble; a small sound—half gasp, half question—rises into the kiss. Awareness streams back like thaw, and you bolt upright, clutching what remains of his torn shirt. Your fingers map the fresh, puckered scar across his chest, ugly and luminous beneath lantern glow.

“It is done,” you breathe, terror threading wonder.

“Aye,” Viktor answers, eyes startlingly clear. “I am nothing—yet alive. Will you still have a man who bears oblivion?”

“You are everything,” you vow, palms framing his jaw. “The bravest soul to walk this earth— and I slept through your crucifixion.”

He huffs a ragged laugh, joy and exhaustement. “Then wake beside me now. Let us go home before the cave remembers it can keep us.” He rises, helping you to your feet, two heartbeats learning a new rhythm in the hush where a god’s shadow lingered only moments before.

Dawn meets you halfway home—indigo thinning to pearl while your footprints stitch the snow in crooked twin lines. You lean into one another as though still unsure lungs will keep the bargain, laughing breathless at nothing, at everything: at how light the air feels when no syllable drags behind it. At the threshold, the manor seems quietly startled to see you return. Every ledger, every monogrammed napkin bears a clean edge where a surname once slept; even the copperplate plaques on laboratory cabinets are blank as unearthed bone. You call for Algernon out of habit, and only the wind in the halls answers—his absence a hollow note that makes the whole house ring.

For a time you drown that emptiness in exhilaration: stolen brandy in the library, fingers tangled in hair above the stairwell, laughter echoing off frescoed ceilings. But elation, like a fresh burn, cools. Within days Viktor’s smile begins to fold at the corners; he walks the winter-garden paths with no clipboard, touching dead fern fronds as if they might whisper purpose back to him. In the library he stands before shelves of his own writings—now credited to V. or Anonymous—and the pride that once lit his eyes gutters into a strange, polite vacancy. When you press a cup of chocolate into his hands, he covers your fingers with his, offers a murmured thanks so thin it stings worse than silence.

The house learns your shared quiet. Meals arrive untouched; firewood burns low. You drift behind him like a guardian shadow, unsure whether to shake him awake or let him grieve the ghost of himself. At last the question—Do you still want me, when I can give only myself?—gathers too much weight. One grey afternoon you find him in the study, staring at a blank sheet as though waiting for a name to appear. You open your mouth—

“Sir!” Ethel bursts in, skirts swishing, arms laden with a teetering stack of letters. “These just arrived. The new mail driver was muddled. I’ve—well—collected a week’s worth.”

Viktor rises to relieve her, blinking as though from deep water. “Thank you, Ethel. Though usually the butler—” He stops, the sentence dangling.

The maid’s brows knit. “But there is no butler, sir. Not that I’ve known.”

The letters—addresses scrawled to The Author of Aetheric Currents, Dr. V., Distinguished Natural Philosopher, and one jaunty To the nameless genius who corrected my folly—spill across the desk, fluttering like startled birds, and something in Viktor’s eyes flickers: a small, unexpected spark that looks almost like returning light.

“A fool I am once more,” Viktor mutters, spreading the letters like tarot. Envelopes addressed in every flourished hand cover the mahogany. You step to his side and trace the riot of postmarks.

“You are no fool—only in mourning,” you say, voice soft but certain. “Though mourning proves futile, it seems. Here is proof you would have stood here—name or none.”

He studies a wax seal, thumb worrying its edge. “Do you remember the name?” he asks quietly.

You shake your head. “Only the weight it carried.”

“Me neither,” he murmurs, surprise and liberation mingling.

His fingers find yours; a fragile hush folds around the two of you. “Your commission is finished,” he says, as though tasting the words. “Forgive my silence—I had to weigh what was lost. It was not only a title I buried.”

With the same small flourish that once guided constellations, Viktor hooks his cane behind your waist and draws you close. “The love I bear for you is—devastating.” The confession slips out quick, almost boyishly shy. “I cannot stand parting.”

He gathers breath, eyes bright. “So much gone: the name, Radomír, Algernon—yet so much gained.” He nods toward the sea of letters. “Stay. Work beside me, sleep beside me, lace our fingers through all future hardships. I have only myself to give—and, it seems, a life of endless curiosities.”

You press both palms to the cadence beating beneath his shirt. He looks better—healthier. The hollows of his cheeks have softened, his eyes seem wider, almost younger. Beneath all the time and toil, the boy he once was lingers, gentler and less severe.

“Where you go, I follow,” you answer, voice steady enough to anchor the room. Outside, wind stirs the snowmelt into soft applause, and inside, among ink-blotted proofs of a legacy without a surname, Viktor bends to press his forehead to yours—pledging, in quiet breath, that nothing named or nameless will stand between you.

That night devotion takes the shape of pilgrimage: your tongue charts the new scar that bisects his chest—cool ridge crossing the terrain where a god reached in—and follows lower, soothing the faint chafe left by iron braces long discarded. When your mouth closes around hard flesh, Viktor’s breath escapes whole and thunderous; he speaks your name like a poem, each syllable borne on lungs that no longer seize.

You feed on him with slow, faithful hunger—hollowing your cheeks, letting your tongue trace the pulsing vein along the underside before taking him deeper, deeper still, until your lips brush the warm plane of his navel. Each glide draws a rough blessing from his throat; his hands thread your hair, knuckles blanching at every descent. The candles throw wavering gold across his stomach, catching on the slick sheen you leave behind, and when you pause to breathe, you drag the flat of your tongue from root to tip—savouring his salt—before sealing your mouth around him again, rhythmic as song, determined to worship until his knees threaten collapse.

He answers with thrusts sure and deep, filling you until the lantern rattles on its hook and frost quivers from the window lead. His fresh, wide breaths pace every surge, reverberating against the rafters as if the house itself must learn this untamed music.

And so it continues—night after ascending night—each joining a fresh mystery solved by skin and sighs. Before sainted dawn can lay its hush upon the world, you find one another again: in study shadows among scattered correspondence, against greenhouse glass fogged by winter stars, beneath quilts that smell of wax and smoke. Viktor breathes through every union—astonished, grateful, unrestrained—while you drink the sound, knowing the miracle was never the name he shed, but the life both of you now dare to claim, unbound and fiercely sung.

Winter passes like a deep breath held between two hearts. Inside the manor you and Viktor hibernate, wrapped in quilts and in each other, emerging only to chase the occasional village riddle—a vanishing brooch, a false haunting, a ledger cooked by candle-light. Those diversions are brief sparks; the real fire is the quiet: reading aloud with legs tangled on the bed, drowsing to the tick of the heliostat, tasting tea from the same spoon. By the time the river ice groans itself apart and crocuses spear the sodden lawn, the house smells of wax, dried lavender, and bone-deep contentment.

It is on such a thaw-bright afternoon that a sharp rap splits the calm.

Viktor unfolds from the chaise—gait uneven after sitting with his legs draped across your lap—and makes for the door while you drift in his wake, curious.

The visitor revealed is broad of shoulder, still carrying winter’s wind in the set of his coat. A shadow of growth clings to an otherwise clean jaw. He doffs his hat with formal economy, and that is where restraint ends.

“Finally,” he blurts, voice half-hoarse with travel. “I’ve searched for months. May I come in?”

Viktor’s mouth tilts. “Perhaps a name first, sir?”

“Oh. Quite right. Jayce Talis.” They exchange a firm shake; Viktor steps aside. Talis nods to you. “My lady.”

“A pressing matter?” Viktor asks, shepherding him toward the drawing room. “Haunting? Poltergeist? Or merely domestic unrest?”

“Neither haunting nor unrest—an opportunity.” Jayce shrugs out of his coat, words spilling faster than buttons. “I hunted down every scrap of your work I could find—no small feat, given your… limited signature. I was mocked, dismissed by the Academy, but I believe what I hold will interest you.”

“You sound remarkably like a traveling salesman, Mr. Talis,” Viktor remarks, motioning him to the settee. Seeing Jayce’s glance flick toward you, he adds, “Speak freely—we are betrothed and partners in all things.”

“Congratulations,” Jayce says, a bit too earnest, and you cannot help the laugh that slips free. He sits, coat clenched in his fist. Leaning forward, voice lowered: “I think I have found a way to harness magic itself. And you, sir, are the only mind I trust with it.”

Silence settles, thick as dust mote light. Viktor’s expression hovers between amusement and intrigue; yours holds polite interest.

Jayce stands again, pacing—laying out mining anecdotes, luminous anomalies, crude measurements. As he speaks, you watch Viktor shift: skepticism melting into the keen focus you know too well.

When at last words fail, Viktor taps his cane once. “Evidence, Mr. Talis?”

From an inner pocket Jayce produces a small blue crystal. On his upturned palm it glows faintly, as though remembering lightning. Viktor lifts it to the window; sun needles through, scattering azure shards across carpet and wall. A slow smile curls his mouth.

“And here I had you pegged for another pleasant madman,” he says, eyes lit with new hunger. “Perhaps, instead, you’ve brought me the next impossible question.”

Jayce paces as though tethered, coat flapping. “I mined it in the city’s northern quarry—pure happenstance. It hums, sir—hums at certain frequencies, as though tuned to energies unseen. It arcs between metal contacts without any external source, enough to brand copper. With refinement—”

“Enough to change the world,” Viktor finishes, voice low, equal parts warning and wonder. He lifts the crystal to his ear, and for a moment the house goes still. You catch the subtle widening of his eyes, the tiny indrawn breath: he hears it. The thing sings, however faintly, like a choir behind a door.

Jayce clasps his hands, knuckles whitening. “They call me deluded. The Academy laughed me out. But you—your treatises on aetheric lattices, your field notes on ambient motes around so-called haunted sites—those papers told me someone else had gazed beyond the veil and found rules instead of myths. Help me quantify it. Help me prove them wrong.”

Viktor turns, blue fire dancing up his sleeve. “I have sworn off gods,” he says, mouth quirking, “but the pursuit of wonders remains a vice I cannot break.” He glances at you; the glance holds an unspoken may I? You nod once, equal parts guardian and accomplice.

“Very well, Mr. Talis,” Viktor says, closing long fingers around the stone. “Stay as my guest. We shall test your singing crystal, chart its hum, and see what symmetry lies hidden.” His cane taps brisk assent against the floorboards. “But I warn you-—any miracle exacts its price.”

Jayce’s answering smile is broad, almost boyish. “I have already paid in ridicule. I’m prepared to pay the rest.”

“Then we begin at dawn,” Viktor decides. He passes the stone into your keeping—its cooled glow tingling your palm—while Jayce exhales relief so palpable it fogs the window.

Outside, early crocuses spear through tarnished snow; a rook scrapes new twigs for an old nest. Inside, three chairs draw close about a work-table soon to be cluttered with lenses, coils, and ink-stained notebooks. Somewhere in the rafters the house seems to shiver awake, sensing fresh riddles to devour, and the naming of things—be they crystals, curses, or the quiet vow between your joined hands—begins all over again.

Viktor pulls the bell-cord to summon supper, the chime fading down the corridor. Jayce rises again, clutching a fist at his chest as though it might steady his thoughts. A flush creeps over his cheekbones; he rubs the back of his neck, then spreads his palms in awkward surrender.

“Pardon my candour, sir, but—after all my chasing—I realise I don’t even know your name.”

Your beloved’s smile is soft, knife-bright at the edges. Amber eyes hold Jayce’s a moment longer than courtesy requires.

“It’s Viktor,” he replies, as if the single word were currency enough.

—

So, Algernon: he also made his own little pact :') What, we do not know, but it bound him to the god and the god used his essence as a construct - to keep Viktor from solving the mystery, because Viktor was a valuable asset. Some of Algernon's humanity remained, which is why he was doing everything unknowingly. He was planted into this reality like a parasite, making everyone believe that he's just a butler, there since the beginning. Upon the curse being broken, he ceases to exist. He becomes erased form everyone's consciousness, except Viktor and Reader - he lingers there, just to show how much of a relationship with Viktor he actually had. They don't mourn him extensively, because just the sheer fact that they remember of him is enough to accentuate it. That's it! Thank you for reading and see you in my next story!

#my writing #viktor arcane #viktor fanfic #viktor x reader #viktor x reader smut #viktor smut #viktor x f!reader #viktor x oc #arcane #arcane fanfic #ao3 #ao3 fanfic #viktor nation #in thy name

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literaryvein-reblogs · 7 months ago

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More Literary Vocabulary

Animism: the rhetorical figure whereby something inanimate or lifeless is given attributes of life or spirit, e.g. Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights: ‘I believe at Wuthering Heights the kitchen is forced to retreat altogether into another quarter… the chairs, high- backed, primitive structures, painted green, one or two heavy black ones lurking in the shade…’; or the opening of Shelley’s ‘Ode to the West Wind’: ‘O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn’s being…’

Aporia: a rhetorical figure for doubt. Especially associated with deconstructive thinking, an aporia may arise when the reader encounters two or more contradictory codes, ‘messages’ or ‘meanings’ in a text. It involves an impasse or site of undecidability.

Bathos: artistic falling- away; a sense of disappointment or anticlimax, expressed by the writer or felt by the reader.

Catachresis: (Gk. ‘misuse’) rhetorical term for misuse or misapplication of language.

Catharsis: (Gk. ‘purgation’, ‘purification’) according to Aristotle, something that can happen to a spectator or reader at the end of a tragedy, due to a release of emotional tension arising from the experience of a paradoxical mixture of pity and terror.

Deixis: a term from linguistics, referring to the use of words concerning the place and time of utterance, e.g. ‘this’, ‘here’.

Denouement: (Fr. ‘unknotting’) either the events following the climax of a plot, or the resolution of this plot’s complications at the end of a short story, novel or play.

Differend: a term invented by Jean- François Lyotard to refer to a situation of conflict in which resolution cannot be secured through negotiation, litigation or consensus, because the parties involved are deploying languages, discourses or logics that are fundamentally incompatible or incommensurable.

Epistemophilia: (Gk. ‘a love of knowledge’) the desire for knowledge that literary texts produce in readers – the desire for the ‘truth’ or ‘meaning’ of the text.

Equivocal: like ‘ambiguous’, this suggests that a word, phrase, etc., has more than one meaning but, while ‘ambiguous’ suggests that it may be possible to decide on one primary meaning, ‘equivocal’ suggests that the meaning cannot be resolved.

Source ⚜ More: Writing Notes & References ⚜ Word Lists

#literature #writeblr #dark academia #word list #spilled ink #writers on tumblr #creative writing #writing reference #writing prompt #poets on tumblr #writing inspiration #light academia #writing ideas #fiction #language #linguistics #langblr #writing resources #words

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aethon-recs · 10 months ago

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This Week in Tomarrymort (12 – 19 September 2024)

Hi everyone, so sorry this is a couple of days late this week! Will be back on the normally scheduled time next week!

As with last week, please feel free to add a little overview/summary about your update to the notes! I so enjoyed reading all the notes last week 🤍

(And in case you missed, a recap of the extra notes from last week!)

Ills of Murder by @shadow-of-the-eclipse (E, 37k, WIP) [source] "Harry comes in swinging from a bleak version of sixth and seventh years, fully intending to kill Tom. Unfortunately it seems the only people Tom and Harry are incapable of killing is the other. Harry's on attempt 4 and counting and this time he gives up on spells and decides to punch Tom Riddle's nose off. Tom's still utterly enamoured with him." friend of the devil (a friend of mine) by @shyinsunlight (E, 11k, WIP) [source] "When after four long years Harry and Tom meet again, the world turns upside down. Or maybe it was upside down all along, and it’s now flipping back over." These Fragments We've Shored by @rowena-rain (M, 23k, WIP) [source] "Things have gone from bad to worse, and Harry is finally about ready to take matters into his own hands…even if it means defying the normal laws of Magic and actually doing something for himself for once. (Guess which one will be harder for him 😂) In this update, Harry and Voldemort unexpectedly come face to face for the first time since the Dark Lord's death…which leads to a disturbing realization for Harry." Anytime, Anywhere, Always by @moontearpensfic (E, 13k, WIP) [source] "A Harry-corrupts-Tom AU: Tom expects to feel victorious at his greatest enemy's confession. Instead, he develops a crush on him." the crushing weight of cancelling your fav by @cindle-writes (M, 4k, complete) [source] "Tom Riddle has made millions and built a cult following around his politics-themed online stream, much to his boyfriend Harry’s bemusement. However, bemusement quickly turns into concern when Harry meets one of Tom’s biggest, most fervent fanboys, Regulus Black."

Now onto the updates from this week!

Tomarrymort One Shots and Completed Fic

Chapter 22 (Completed) of A Shot in the Dark by Ragdolly

One Shot | The Dinner by moontear for @moontearpensfic

One Shot | There's Something About (The Way You Are) by Ragdolly

Tomarrymort Ongoing Fics

Chapter 12 of the stars, my destination by @milkandmoon-ao3

Chapter 1 of bad moon rising by sansaerys

Chapter 11 of Sits the wind in that quarter by @mosiva

Chapter 2 of a pound of flesh by @ictyn

Chapter 8 of Saint Harry by @alenablack @chaos-bear

Chapter 34 of Part One - The Solitude of Suffering by @iseliljathedreamer

Chapter 18 of Date Ideas for the Linguistically Inclined by Antique_Mango

Chapter 14 of Double-Aspect Paradox by TimaeusKosmou

Chapter 6 of God is a Wizard by @onehitpleb

Chapters 121 through 123 of Liquida Tenebris (Remastered) by @dymis

Chapter 17 of Learning to love by @l-archiduchesse

Chapter 1 of The Cosmos In Your Eyes by @v33r00

Chapter 7 of Do It Over by @marrythemonstersao3

Chapter 6 of These Fragments We've Shored by @rowena-rain

Chapter 21 of Time Stumbler by Wintumn

Chapter 4 of Hole in the Wall by tomrddle

Chapters 1 through 3 of Fetters of the Damned by @sc0rpiflow3r

Chapter 16 of Outrunning the Villain in You by @zenyteehee

Chapter 5 of midnight train by @girl-with-goats

Chapter 43 of Of Monsters, Of Men by @ca-xan-dra

Chapter 2 of the body is a blade by @lovely-lotus

Chapter 2 of Dream a little dream (of me) by @cenedrariva

Chapter 12 of Just Business by @holaolla1

#tomarry #tomarrymort #harrymort #tomarrymort recs #aethon recs #tomarry recs #ao3 recs #fanfic recs #hp fic recs #harrymort recs #tomarry weekly #this week in tomarrymort

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jjsanguine · 22 days ago

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Increasingly curious about the linguistic situation of Emmaly. We don't know how big the country is so I don't know if it's weird that everyone speaks the same dialect, but more important: why do they sing in English sometimes.

Emmaly was colonised for a while for there to be so much European influence on all their aesthetics and have spaghetti be their national dish, which you'd think would have left a fuckton of less recent loanwords in Emmalian but nope. They just speak central Thai but to the left. I mean, not even everyone in Thailand does that so that is weird.

They speak Emmalian in all social situations but sing in English at the royal ball which indicates English is an aristocrat thing. Cool whatever, that's true to life in much of the world right now. But they also sang in English at the protest which indicates that the impoverished protestors understand all those lyrics.

So like is Emmaly English-Emmalian bilingual from top to bottom? Why? What incentive do lower class people have to learn English? They didn't even go to phonics classes to speak emmalian with the same accent as the aristocracy, but they learn a whole other extremely foreign language? What??

Unless it's the other way round. Here's my theory:

English (or an English creole let's be real) became the lingua franca in this formerly heavily heavily colonised by Europeans country that's like 200 years old max, but has governmental shakeups all the time (so there's internal displacement which breaks native language transmission.)

The aristocracy started speaking a dialect of Central Thai. People living in what would become Emmaly probably already spoke a Tai language, but after years of wars and loanwords it was the Tai branch equivalent of Guernsey French, which the Royalty felt mega insecure about. So instead of bothering with self love or language revitalisation they pinched the speech of the never conquered country next door, and changed some verb endings or something.

Even though the kingdoms are constantly vying for power internally, they have to present Emmaly as a united front to the outside world before one of their neighbours decides annexation is easier than diplomacy for getting a cut of those Emmalian exports.

One of the easiest ways to be like we are a real country actually is linguistic unity. So the crown imposes a language in the lower classes, again. This unity campaign would've only started like 1½ generations ago because Emmaly truly can't have been around that long, but the hold the crown has on the people is extreme so I think it's feasible.

So in the present day they sprinkle in English at royal Balls like "we know this foreign (!!1!) language because we're cultured and not because our national identity basically had to be created wholesale after kingdoms whose rulers hate each other formed a Voltron for sovereignty 🫶"

And the povvos sing in English because life hasn't really changed for them under rulers that are ethically related and not foreign colonisers. So paradoxically English is closer to being *their* language (since those that brought it are long gone and Johnny average doesn't have a cultural connection to them) and Emmalian is the language of an oppressor even if it is the language they actually use every day.

#or maybe I'm thinking about it too hard idk #Khanin may not give a fuck about emmalian history lessons but i do damn it. how the hell does this country work lmao #the next prince #i will always come up with a way to write a show that involves way more of the actors listening to tapes by dialect coaches #is this fanfiction

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nattikay · 8 months ago

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So apparently it's now been officially confirmed that the "Mangkwan" clan briefly mentioned at the end of The Next Shadow comics IS indeed the "ash clan" that will be featured in Fire and Ash (a lot of people speculated this before but it wasn't confirmed until now).

...which is all fine and dandy, except that kw is still not a valid consonant cluster, Karyu Pawl plz explain, the language nerds are crying 😭 Was this perhaps a typo of Mangkuan or Mangkawn? Or a new dialect that allows for more clusters? Or something else?

Right now my theory is that it's gonna be Mangkuan and the Mangkuan vs Mangkwan spelling difference will essentially be the same as Omatikaya vs Omaticaya (the first one being the technically "correct" one per Na'vi phonetics but the second still showing up in some canon material).

Part of the problem here, I think, comes down to what I'm gonna call the Cameron Paradox. James Cameron didn't create the Na'vi language; he created a small list of words, as well as all the character names (from the movies at least, idk about the comics and games), then hired linguist Paul Frommer (Karyu Pawl) to do the rest. Cameron's grammatical/phonetic/etc understanding of the language Frommer built, from what I can tell, seems to be pretty limited; those details are Frommer's realm. So it's very possible that Cameron chose the name Mangkwan because it sounded cool and simply had no idea that it's technically invalid within the sound system Frommer set up.

However...while Cameron himself isn't the one who created the Na'vi language, he does technically own it. It's a commissioned work and therefore Cameron, as the commissioner, has the power to override Frommer if he wishes. If Cameron has his heart set on "Mangkwan", Frommer doesn't really have a choice but to work around that. He might end up doing that by hand-waving it as a special spelling variation of "Mangkuan" (again like the explanation of c vs k in Omatikaya), or he might end up doing it by incorporating some sort of special new dialect rules for the Ash People. Or maybe some other solution that I haven't thought of. We just don't know yet.

...and Karyu Pawl might not actually be legally allowed to address it until after the movie's release date, so we might be waiting for a quite a while to find out ;w;

#avatar #avatar 3 #fire and ash #lì'fya leNa'vi #mangkwan #ash people #for my own nerdy peace of mind I'm probably gonna spell it Mangkuan until/unless KP says otherwise 😅#for the same reason that I refuse to spell the character name “Eetu” like that (it should be Itu and I will spell it Itu gosh darnit!)#of course if the “mangkwan” spelling turns out to be a dialect difference I'm gonna spell it Mangkuan anyways #(while writing in Na'vi at least)#because I write in the Forest dialect so “kw” still will not be valid in Forest even if it turns out to be valid in Ash 😅

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seeingteacupsindragons · 2 months ago

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K, so.

I keep seeing a lot of assumptions that Xeno is some combination of:

Cold and emotionless

Attempting to be cold and emotionless

Unaware of his own emotions

And none of this has never quite made sense to me. He is also cast as selfish and greedy, at least at first, and you cannot...be those traits without emotions and knowing you want things, and what those things are. He is given five stars in "ambition" on his character profile (although the word use also has some sinister undertones, but that's not the point). You cannot be ambitious without desire! Desire is an emotion!

It would also be a wild contrast to not only the other scientists in the series, but how science, generally, is treated in the series. Sure, okay, he's supposed to be Senku's foil; that's blatant and obvious, but the point of the series is that also science is awesome and fun and emotionally charged. Like. This series almost brought me to tears when they made a light bulb for thirty seconds because it basked in the idea of “conquering the 24 hour day.” We’re treated to a kid waxing poetic about using organic chemistry to create things that shouldn’t exist. We’re treated to the concept of even food being science. Everything is science.

So why on Earth would Xeno be immune of the emotional power of science because he's A Professional Scientist? If anything, it would make him more vulnerable, no? Science is captivating, and he is captivated.

I'll get to more talk about Xeno and how he handles emotions in a sec, but first it's time for the Fun With Linguistics Portion of this post! Because I think some of it comes down to this bit in Viz's translation, because...well.

He is saying here that being both emotional and rational is a contradiction. He's saying you can't be both and he doesn't understand how you even could be. And he's rational, because that's how you Science, and he is Sciencing!

The problem is, that's. Not. What he says in Japanese. Which is how I'm keeping Bookwalker in business to figure out what they actually said.

I get why Viz got there. But...well. Viz. I went and got this volume in Japanese so I could see what he was saying and if it really was...that, and I had to accept the series was being kind of weird again.

But no.

RIP to me because Dr. STONE manga really does not like letting me zoom in far enough, but here we are: 情緒と合理性という矛盾した概念を笑いながら両取りするような男だった

情緒: Emotion

と: and (used for nouns, not phrases, but that does not matter here because we're talking nouns)

合理性: Rationality

Okay, so we have "Emotion/sentiment and rationality". Fair play, Viz.

But here's where it starts going off the rails.

という: Yes, earlier I said と meant "and" but when it's in combo with いう it does something different: basically, it shoves the stuff before it all into a...chunk. It's now all one entity, and it's about to be described or named. So now we're speaking of both "emotion and rationality" as a Singular Thing moving together grammatically

矛盾した: Contradiction/inconsistency. So. "emotion and rationality" is inconsistent and a contradiction

概念: Concept

So: The inconsistent/contradictory concept(s) of emotion and rationality.

The concept is the contradiction.

Not. Byakuya. Byakuya. Is not a "paradox." Byakuya's not even in this sentence yet.

を: Particle that marks the stuff that comes before it as the object of the sentence. Or at least. Is being acted on by a verb. Usually this come right before a verb, but the sentence structure of this sentence is whack, so. Anyway, basically, "The contradictory concept of emotion and rationality" is being Verbed On here

笑い: Laughter, smiling, generally good humor. Can also be in a dismissive, ridiculing way

ながら: While, during, throughout

"While smiling" Okay, that's not a verb yet. What is this verb that’s being done while smiling?

両取り: Kind of forked attack in which two pieces are both being attacked at the same time. It's a shogi or chess term, which we already know Xeno is not immune to. Kind of a pincer move but with two pieces instead of one.

する: To do. This gets tagged onto nouns a lot to Verb them. It's Verbing the attack.

Hey, we've got a verb to apply to that concept now! So, "The contradictory concept of emotion and rationality, while smiling attack/handle/tackle/manage.

ような: Type, kind, -ish, like

男: Man. Just. Man. We're done here

だった: Past tense of the plain copula "da." Kind of a more casual form of でした. It means..."is" I guess. Kind of doesn't, but it's complicated, and it can be translated as "is" okay?

So "Was the type of man who attacks the contradictory concepts of emotion and rationality with a smile."

Or rather: not the kind of person Xeno is, who clearly finds this whole deal stressful.

So I see how Viz...did this. They massaged the language to be a little more. Human-sounding, and to fill out all the speech bubbles. But. They kind of. Made some stuff up that sounded right and ended up doing something weird to Xeno's entire personality.

"That man was somehow able…to balance the contradiction of…rationality and sentiment with a smile" would have been almost as long, sound probably as human, and probably have been better.

It's not that Byakuya is unique in balancing his feelings with his science. He's unique in that he's unbothered by it and does not struggle to reconcile them. Xeno and Byakuya's disconnect was not in that Byakuya (and Senku, in his footsteps) was both emotional and a brilliant scientist, but in that he found this all so easy. And Byakuya probably didn't understand why Xeno...didn't. They didn't dislike each other. Xeno didn't find his emotions annoying. He was confused.

Xeno is not and never was even early in his arc in denial of the fact that he could and does have feelings. He just didn't know how to handle them while also acting rationally, as befits a man of science. Science, after all, requires rational thought.

Now let’s dig in a little with our three main "science-users" and their handling of emotions. Because they don’t all do it like Byakuya, but they’re certainly not all doing what Xeno is.

Senku's catchphrase is literally a call to emotion. He thinks of science as exhilarating, and he is actively seeking out the emotional stimulation. Early in the series, he even comments that the "least logical part of him" is telling him to do something, in defiance of what logic would suggest—and he goes for it instead of the logic. And it's the right move, in the end. He loves his friends. He loves his dad. He loves life and he loves people and he's constantly having emotional reactions. And yes, he hides the more tender ones, but he has them and never denies them in a serious attempt to convince people he doesn't have feelings. At one point, he even disavows that concept, saying he does get angry, it's just not useful so he doesn't generally lean into it (my therapist would love him). He hides his tenderer bits because they're soft and he knows how it would feel to have them pressed on, so he gently redirects people. And he gives himself time to feel things before the bluster. He knows how he feels about things, likes feeling things, and is aware enough of his emotional reactions to handle them well. Handle other people’s? Nah, that’s what he’s got Gen for. But his own? He’s got this.

Chrome also has lots of feelings. About science, but also about Senku, about Ruri, his friends, etc. He's always, always determined to save everyone and keep everyone alive and happy and together in ways even Senku, the guy who chose even pre-petrification that he'd find a way to save everyone and keep everyone safe in defiance of logic, is not. He gets openly anxious. Is he always aware of his emotions? The situation with Ruri would indicate no, but he has them and he doesn't ever try to hide them. Chrome is definitely on the more emotional end of our scientist spectrum with things like the conversation with Xeno of "Do I get it? No. Is it logical to me? Also no. But I'm respecting people's feelings about it, so whatever. I don't need to logic it out. The why and how does not actually matter.”

Xeno pulls the science in the series more toward "sacrifice feelings for logic" the way Chrome is "sacrifice logic for feelings" but as Chrome is not immune to logic, Xeno is not immune to feelings. They both have both. Xeno wouldn't be able to turn his face away and hide his feelings if he was not deeply aware of them. He hides his more tender feelings, just as Senku does, because he doesn't want other people pressing on them (he seems okay with Stan nudging up against them, but his thing with Stan is…Weird), but we do see him openly enthusiastic about science, vehement and heated about people who ruined his plans pre-petrification, smug as hell when he thinks he’s won, goofy and teasing with people he’s close to (Stan and Senku, mostly), proud af of himself and people he cares about, morose about people dying (he really genuinely does not seem to like killing people/having people killed, y’all). He emotes! He’s willing to emote! He was acting like a loon in the North America arc because he was having lots of feelings.

He was openly heartbroken to know he had opposing principles to Senku from the outset. He spent time considering that and decided to sideline that pain in order to do what he felt was "logical" and remove Senku. I have never seen a man so happy his plan failed. His plan was going to hurt, and he knew it was going to hurt, or we wouldn't have had like an entire page of him thinking about it with his head in his hand.

But he was doing what he thought was best for science. He would lose a brilliant scientist, but one that was hampered, and he would be free to pursue it properly and keep it flourishing. He can be smug and goofy and teasing and proud because he doesn’t have to stop being those things for the sake of science. He is most often morose when he has to do something that will make him unhappy because…science. Sacrificing is not being unaware of or dismissive of and in the case of feelings, not even trying to be rid of. It's prioritizing them lower than other things: in his case, the pursuit of science. He lets himself get hurt over and over, but only for science.

He loves science.

And he doesn’t know how to love science and also protect his feelings.

Senku wins because he can square his science and his feelings (with some help from Chrome, at times), thanks to Byakuya. He makes them work as one, just like his dad did (although with a very different personality).

Xeno gets pulled into that same mindset eventually—building a two-way rocket is in no way the logical path, younger Xeno would think, and he would have to just be Sad. To live out his life without his people. Oh well, time to sacrifice all my feelings for the Cause.

But there's a way to finish the moon mission that needs to be done, and get his people back. As long as this time he's learning from his little mentee instead of his mentee learning from him.

Sir, the IRB called again and told you to stop heedlessly hurting people in pursuit of science yes that includes yourself, you dumbass.

So, no, Xeno is not:

Cold and emotionless

Attempting to be cold and emotionless

Unaware of his own emotions

He is:

A self-aware emotional man who hurt himself trying to commit himself to what he loved (science) the only way he knew how and couldn't claw his way out of the hole without a bunch of kids who hadn't hurt themselves yet.

#dcst #Dr. STONE #Xeno Houston Wingfield #Xeno Wingfield #Dr. Xeno #long post #like really long #this one cracked 2k words #because of the linguistics section prolly which is what started this Screen anyway

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