kingdom hearts -- dyscracia
title: dyscracia
wordcount: 628
rating: PG
summary: Dyscracia, meaning 'bad mixture'; in that far-off ancient Greek world, the imbalance of humours was thought to be the direct cause of all diseases, be it physical, emotional or mental.
One of the far-flung worlds has this theory of the four humours.
He is intrigued to read the reports of strange beliefs of otherworld inhabitants, stacked neatly upon his desk in a single, carefully-sorted file; when he thumbs through the sheaves of paper, covered with the crabbed but reasonably legible hand of a lifelong researcher, he cannot suppress a frisson of surprise - no matter how slight - at the hypotheses outlined in that innocuous dossier.
Four humours for four elements, for four seasons, for four temperaments. Four humours, originating from the four main components of blood.
He cannot help but wonder what Vexen finds so fascinating about such hearsay; it is even more incomprehensible when he takes into consideration the rigid nature of the man’s research, the highly-structured order of his thinking patterns. Despite himself, he finds himself engrossed in the precise, clinical deconstruction of this quaint theory, and begins to match humours with names, with faces, until the words blur into a wavering mass of black-ink-white-paper-brown-coffee-stains before his eyes.
Sanguine; represented by courage, valiance and hope. It is easy to attach a person to this single word; with scant regard for his colleague’s expansive notes, he pens in a single word with a flourish, taking a certain, distant pleasure from this carelessly intentional act of disrupting order.
It’s ironic how this particular humour draws its name from blood, and yet it is characterised by cheerfulness and optimism, by an ability to see the light, no matter how dark the path before you.
Sora.
The next one is markedly easier; yellow bile, for those of choleric disposition. In the midst of absently doodling crosshatched tendrils and jagged thorns in the margins of the page, he scratches down a single name with something approaching glee. Easily angered and bad-tempered. He wonders what Vexen’s reaction would be, to seeing his own name scrawled lazily over the heading for that humour. Associated with fire, but yet oddly fitting for the one bearing the appellation of the Chilly Academic, is it not?
Black bile, for despondent melancholia. He has to think long and hard before he prints the name in, with slow, deliberate strokes. For those who are sleepless and irritable. He has been able to sense the changes within the Castle like how animals are said to be able to detect changes in the air. Roxas, he decides at length, and fills in the blank space between paragraphs with wry hilarity, his pen bleeding droplets of ink which bloom into spreading black spatter-petal blossoms. Something will have to be done about him.
It is only once he comes to the final heading that he pauses almost as if in doubt, ignoring the ink which stains his fingertips with even more darkness. Phlegm, he thinks with a shadow of disparaging, disdainful amusement. They had to call it phlegm.
But yet, it is the only one which catches his eye for longer than the few seconds required to make the necessary judgment.
Associated most with the brain, ruled by nothing but cold, hard logic. Facts. Figures. Statistics. Data.
The mirthless smile twists across his lips before he can stop it. For those bound by unemotional rationality.
For all their vain attempts to replicate emotions, for all the memories they cling on to, fearing to release, there is one simple fact they have to remember.
We are the Nobodies, Xemnas murmurs to his still and silent office. We do not exist. Do not feel. Do not-do not-do not-
Before he snaps the folder shut, he sees only a glimpse of his own not-name, hurriedly scribbled alongside the heading in Vexen's tight, narrow script.
Then the pages flutter together once, like the fragile wings of a butterfly, leaving their secrets pressed within their leaves.
back to index.
wordcount: 628
rating: PG
summary: Dyscracia, meaning 'bad mixture'; in that far-off ancient Greek world, the imbalance of humours was thought to be the direct cause of all diseases, be it physical, emotional or mental.
One of the far-flung worlds has this theory of the four humours.
He is intrigued to read the reports of strange beliefs of otherworld inhabitants, stacked neatly upon his desk in a single, carefully-sorted file; when he thumbs through the sheaves of paper, covered with the crabbed but reasonably legible hand of a lifelong researcher, he cannot suppress a frisson of surprise - no matter how slight - at the hypotheses outlined in that innocuous dossier.
Four humours for four elements, for four seasons, for four temperaments. Four humours, originating from the four main components of blood.
He cannot help but wonder what Vexen finds so fascinating about such hearsay; it is even more incomprehensible when he takes into consideration the rigid nature of the man’s research, the highly-structured order of his thinking patterns. Despite himself, he finds himself engrossed in the precise, clinical deconstruction of this quaint theory, and begins to match humours with names, with faces, until the words blur into a wavering mass of black-ink-white-paper-brown-coffee-stains before his eyes.
Sanguine; represented by courage, valiance and hope. It is easy to attach a person to this single word; with scant regard for his colleague’s expansive notes, he pens in a single word with a flourish, taking a certain, distant pleasure from this carelessly intentional act of disrupting order.
It’s ironic how this particular humour draws its name from blood, and yet it is characterised by cheerfulness and optimism, by an ability to see the light, no matter how dark the path before you.
Sora.
The next one is markedly easier; yellow bile, for those of choleric disposition. In the midst of absently doodling crosshatched tendrils and jagged thorns in the margins of the page, he scratches down a single name with something approaching glee. Easily angered and bad-tempered. He wonders what Vexen’s reaction would be, to seeing his own name scrawled lazily over the heading for that humour. Associated with fire, but yet oddly fitting for the one bearing the appellation of the Chilly Academic, is it not?
Black bile, for despondent melancholia. He has to think long and hard before he prints the name in, with slow, deliberate strokes. For those who are sleepless and irritable. He has been able to sense the changes within the Castle like how animals are said to be able to detect changes in the air. Roxas, he decides at length, and fills in the blank space between paragraphs with wry hilarity, his pen bleeding droplets of ink which bloom into spreading black spatter-petal blossoms. Something will have to be done about him.
It is only once he comes to the final heading that he pauses almost as if in doubt, ignoring the ink which stains his fingertips with even more darkness. Phlegm, he thinks with a shadow of disparaging, disdainful amusement. They had to call it phlegm.
But yet, it is the only one which catches his eye for longer than the few seconds required to make the necessary judgment.
Associated most with the brain, ruled by nothing but cold, hard logic. Facts. Figures. Statistics. Data.
The mirthless smile twists across his lips before he can stop it. For those bound by unemotional rationality.
For all their vain attempts to replicate emotions, for all the memories they cling on to, fearing to release, there is one simple fact they have to remember.
We are the Nobodies, Xemnas murmurs to his still and silent office. We do not exist. Do not feel. Do not-do not-do not-
Before he snaps the folder shut, he sees only a glimpse of his own not-name, hurriedly scribbled alongside the heading in Vexen's tight, narrow script.
Then the pages flutter together once, like the fragile wings of a butterfly, leaving their secrets pressed within their leaves.
back to index.