Summary: His mantra, whispered in the dark alone.
The center. Uttered under his breath, when he needed to bring order to the precarious piles and swelling stacks of paper on his desk. Said over and over, a dozen times a day until the person behind the name was lost, and all that remained was the power he drew from the sound.
Muttered to tame a flaring temper or a disorganized train of thought back into place. One word that could cool him, or warm him, as needed.
His strength. And his weakness.
Like a prayer, expelled on his breath, taking with it all the frustrations of a frustrating life.
An oath. To live up to, to measure himself by.
A chant, tumbling over and over in his mind. His mantra, a talisman against the disorder and chaos.
Whispered in the dark, alone.
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