Name: Anonymous 2025-01-21 17:39
In a dimly lit lecture hall steeped in the musk of aged parchment and intellectual pretension, a self-satisfied Neoplatonist professor—cloaked in a flowing cotton-hemp robe that whispered of artisanal virtue—adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses. His beard, sculpted with the precision of a Renaissance fresco, twitched as he lectured. “True reality,” he intoned, “is not shackled to your *senses*. The material world is a prison of shadows. Only the transcendent Forms—Justice, Truth, Beauty—hold purity, untainted by… *contingency*.”
From the back row, a low growl cut through the haze of abstraction. All eyes turned to Leonidas: a colossus of scarred muscle, his knuckles etched with the calligraphy of battle, a living relic of Thermopylae’s bloodline.
“*Yes?*” The professor sighed, as if addressing a misbehaving hound.
Leonidas leaned forward, the wooden bench groaning beneath him. “This ‘Form of Justice’—it’s *real*, then? More real than flesh and steel?”
“Infinitely so,” the professor smirked, fingertips grazing the air as if plucking an invisible lyre. “Earthly ‘justice’ is a puppet show. The Form is the puppeteer—eternal, unblemished by human frailty.”
The Spartan’s gaze hardened, a blade unsheathed. “So if I gut a Persian raiding party before they torch a village… that’s just a *shadow* of Justice? Not the real thing?”
The professor’s smile soured. “A crude imitation, yes. Violence, even ‘noble,’ is a symptom of our fallen state—a failure to transcend primal urges.”
Leonidas rose, his silhouette swallowing the flickering lamplight. The room chilled as he stalked forward, each footfall a drumbeat. “Tell me, philosopher,” he rumbled, palms flattening on the lectern, “do you *truly* believe in these Forms?”
“Th-they are axiomatic!” The professor recoiled, ink-stained fingers trembling. “The foundation of—”
“Then there’s a Form of *Strength*,” Leonidas interrupted, his voice a landslide. “Pure, unconquerable. Eternal.”
“Y-yes, but—”
The Spartan’s fist crashed down. The oak desk splintered, a thunderclap silencing the room. “Your Strength,” he hissed, splinters dusting his scars, “is a *joke*. A moth gnawing at Plato’s robes. But mine—” He flexed his hand, tendons coiling like siege ropes. “—is the Form made flesh. Ask your ivory-tower gods: which of us *touches* the divine?”
The professor gaped, his theories ash on his tongue.
Leonidas leaned closer, breath hot as a forge. “And the Form of *Virtue*—you preach it, yes? Courage. Resolve. Honor.”
A mute nod.
The Spartan’s grin was a spearpoint. “Your ‘virtue’ dies on parchment. Mine was baptized in the Eurotas’ currents. When the Persians come—when your shadows bleed—you’ll beg for men who *know* the Forms.”
He turned, the hall trembling in his wake. The professor’s chalk snapped in his grip, equations of the divine reduced to dust.
Somewhere, Plato shuddered.
**ἀληθῶς καὶ ἀεὶ**
From the back row, a low growl cut through the haze of abstraction. All eyes turned to Leonidas: a colossus of scarred muscle, his knuckles etched with the calligraphy of battle, a living relic of Thermopylae’s bloodline.
“*Yes?*” The professor sighed, as if addressing a misbehaving hound.
Leonidas leaned forward, the wooden bench groaning beneath him. “This ‘Form of Justice’—it’s *real*, then? More real than flesh and steel?”
“Infinitely so,” the professor smirked, fingertips grazing the air as if plucking an invisible lyre. “Earthly ‘justice’ is a puppet show. The Form is the puppeteer—eternal, unblemished by human frailty.”
The Spartan’s gaze hardened, a blade unsheathed. “So if I gut a Persian raiding party before they torch a village… that’s just a *shadow* of Justice? Not the real thing?”
The professor’s smile soured. “A crude imitation, yes. Violence, even ‘noble,’ is a symptom of our fallen state—a failure to transcend primal urges.”
Leonidas rose, his silhouette swallowing the flickering lamplight. The room chilled as he stalked forward, each footfall a drumbeat. “Tell me, philosopher,” he rumbled, palms flattening on the lectern, “do you *truly* believe in these Forms?”
“Th-they are axiomatic!” The professor recoiled, ink-stained fingers trembling. “The foundation of—”
“Then there’s a Form of *Strength*,” Leonidas interrupted, his voice a landslide. “Pure, unconquerable. Eternal.”
“Y-yes, but—”
The Spartan’s fist crashed down. The oak desk splintered, a thunderclap silencing the room. “Your Strength,” he hissed, splinters dusting his scars, “is a *joke*. A moth gnawing at Plato’s robes. But mine—” He flexed his hand, tendons coiling like siege ropes. “—is the Form made flesh. Ask your ivory-tower gods: which of us *touches* the divine?”
The professor gaped, his theories ash on his tongue.
Leonidas leaned closer, breath hot as a forge. “And the Form of *Virtue*—you preach it, yes? Courage. Resolve. Honor.”
A mute nod.
The Spartan’s grin was a spearpoint. “Your ‘virtue’ dies on parchment. Mine was baptized in the Eurotas’ currents. When the Persians come—when your shadows bleed—you’ll beg for men who *know* the Forms.”
He turned, the hall trembling in his wake. The professor’s chalk snapped in his grip, equations of the divine reduced to dust.
Somewhere, Plato shuddered.
**ἀληθῶς καὶ ἀεὶ**