ex silentio | ivan goncharov x reader

ᴀᴛᴀʀᴀxʏ

Ataraxy

ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴛᴀᴛᴇ ᴏꜰ ɴᴏ ᴅɪꜱᴛᴜʀʙᴀɴᴄᴇ - ᴀʙꜱᴏʟᴜᴛᴇ ꜱᴇʀᴇɴɪᴛʏ, ᴛʜᴇ ɪᴅᴇᴀʟ ᴏꜰ ᴘʜɪʟᴏꜱᴏᴘʜᴇʀꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏʟᴅ! ᴏɴᴇ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴏɴʟʏ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ꜱᴏᴜʟ ʀᴇᴀᴄʜᴇꜱ ᴀ ᴘᴇᴀᴄᴇ ꜱᴏ ɢʀᴇᴀᴛ. ʙᴜᴛ ᴀᴛ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴄᴏꜱᴛ, ᴛᴇʟʟ ᴍᴇ - ᴛᴇʟʟ ᴍᴇ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ɪ ꜰɪɴᴅ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴍʏꜱᴇʟꜰ.

. . . 

listen to "I found" by Amber Run for a better experience.

. . .

Tenuous was his touch, and as such, it barely even wrinkled your senses. There was a shock before it came, a convulsion in your mind and heart that awaited. But the worst came - and passed, yet you were still alive.

Where was the punishment he spoke of with such pride? You allowed light enter your gaze, fill it and at last, answer your wonder.

It was a gentle tug at the corners of his pale lips. A display of what could be called sentiment, but never deemed one, coming from him.

"I bless you," he murmured through that facade.

His eyes fell soft, the violet shimmered as his lashes fluttered almost shut - and he remained put, equally as calm as you were.

Dostoyevsky smiled at you.

You could not believe your eyes, your wet eyes - and so you blinked, time and time again, but the scene did not disappear. He kept that tranquil expression, even as you stared up to him in horror. 

"I bless you for the suffering that is yet to come," he then explained, speaking so mellowly it pained your ears.

Then he chuckled, sneering down at you. Oh, he was enjoying himself so much - he would dance on your misery if he could, here and there. He was doing his best to keep his demeanor steady, and he allowed only a bit of his amusement seep - just the right amount to irk you.

"I don't need your blessings. You are no God, no priest to give me those," you spoke up, voice shaky. He didn't intend to kill you just yet, you were certain, and you did your best to offer him a worthwhile argument. If that were what you had done before dying, then so be it - at least you told goodbye to your love.

"Oh, you are mistaken," he ducked and moved his hand down to your chin, lifting it just a little - you frowned, but he spoke, "I don't have to be God in the actual sense. I need only represent his finger, a single finger, and that'd be enough to entitle me as your Lord and Savior."

He continued, tone suddenly low, "however, you are mistaken. I am truly God."

"If you were God, why pity me? Why waste your time and energy on me, a nobody?" 

"How do I remain God, if I never act on your plane? Tell me. How was the Bible written?"

"Nobody knows," you bluntly responded.

"A man. A man wrote it," Dostoyevsky was ecstatic. "A man who heard of God."

"So you plan on creating another Bible, don't you?"

He stepped back and shook his head. "No, you're missing my point. Bible is the sum of God's relationship with man, or to be exact, the most relevant part of it. What do you know of God, but that which a man wrote there? What do you know of my intentions?"

Nothing.

"What do you know of my soul?" He asked again, looking into your eyes, piercing your own tormented soul.