redsoil | IC INBOX ( KENOS ).

[ wherever Set is early one morning in early Takiltu, he will find himself the recipient of a gentle probe - the invitation to Commune with Yima. she does not hide her presence, making it known it is her; the feeling that accompanies this act is one of vague but discernible hope.

will Set speak with her? ]

[ Somewhere in his muddled haze and the jagged edge of Discord, he can pick up on something foreign. Someone foreign, who he initially wants to punt out as a display of resistance. He's not ready, he has to be ready. ]

-- you're her, aren't you? The one they call Yima.

[ Communion links them together, a feeling that is alien and familiar all at once - and Set can feel Yima reaching out through that bond; her presence is maternal and innately soothing - as if he were a child returning home to his mother's bosom, safe and warm and whole. all his worries, all his troubles, the frenetic rush of Discord seem just a little bit easier to bear. ]

Set...

[ it is all she can manage to say; there is something painful in his name.

but after a moment to compose herself, she regathers; ]

Yes... I am Yima. Were fortune kinder, this would not be how we would first speak - but I am glad to nonetheless.

[ There is a sense of him seeking physical comfort, in the place where he has come to rest himself; the lethargic twist of his limbs and the sharp press of his mind in Communion with hers all the more poignant when he takes in the weight of her voice within him. The way she says his name -- it doesn't go unnoticed. ]

You know, I had thought to elude you both for at least a little while longer. I wanted to speak to the others and glean the breadth of their choice before making mine.

[ If it must be one of them who reaches him, he's honestly relieved that it is Yima. Were it Cyrus, he might have been a little more wicked, a little more wrathful. She feels good, calming. Like he imagines Nut must have felt, once. His own mother and he had never been terribly close. ]

How are you, Yima? [ He says her own name, enunciating it in the curling, ancient tone of his own divine tongue. ] It must be hard, doing all this.

[ it is abnormal, perhaps, Yima's power and strength of presence in Communion. one should not be able to touch another in this way, but for a moment... surely Set will feel as though matronly hands stroke over his brow with fondness. ]

Is it me your heart worries over? It is your condition that invites concern, Set. I have heard you are troubled...

[ It isn't the first time as of late that he has thought of Nut, of the mother he tore his way from rather than waited for her readiness -- it is not the first time he's yearned for her dark hands to hold him while he ached and took ill.

He allows himself but a moment to rest, quiet, in Yima's space. To feel her presence. Then, he draws himself in -- he is a lance and and arrow and the sand upon which feet burn into ashes. ]

Should I rejoice in an impossible choice? Surely if anyone knows anything of me, it is that given two choices, I will burn them both and take my own route.

[ That is what ails him must. ]

I like you, Yima. My nature urges me to choose you, but my mind has expanded -- it seeks amends, and for that, I must align with Cyrus's goals. That is my trouble.

Edited 2022-11-07 01:54 (UTC)

Tell me. What is it you atone for?

[ to make amends, to pay recompense for his transgressions - she would hear them if he would give them voice.

or... he might show her. their bond is unnaturally strong - Yima's power is not that of a normal Bearer, and should he wish to, he can convey his thoughts, his feelings, even his memories freely. it will be as easy as breathing.

an option among many. ]

And why is that atonement only a path you might walk alongside the Meridian?

Fratricide and usurpation of the throne of Egypt. Decadence and decay. Mass slaughter and the torment of thousands of human souls. Take your pick, o' leader.

[ He'd rather voice them, one after another, than allow anyone to glean them from his mind. There is the hint of a firm wall, shot through with dark vines and flowering red blooms; a beautiful desert flower, deadly and causing such agony. Behind that fragile defense, is the outpouring of a sentiment: I will die before I let you look.

Perhaps outside of their Communion, he is already holding an improvised weapon to his throat. Ready to spill his life and take secrets and truths to the grave. ]

I must return them all to Duat. To do that, I must have my world whole. They are waiting for me there, my son and my wife. My family.

[ it is a boundary Yima does not press. her presence lingers all the same, like fingers gently ghosting a touch against those beautiful red blooms, deadly and precious. ]

It is a reunion you hope to earn.

[ a soft, momentary pause-- ]

If they were to join you here, would your choice remain the same?

[ There is madness in those flowers. They were not made by Set's soul, though they resonate with the shape and make of him; they are accursed things, made of someone's insane idea of love. It's horrendous, and it makes him so small and fragile -- not like a god ought to be.

He does not hide how her words affect him. How, in fact, he wants that more than he wants to perform penance for his crimes. ]

I want that, so much. I want my family back, you know it to be true -- you can feel it. It is why I want to go to your side, to Zenith's ways. Such things are natural for an evil god, a selfish father.

[ He says it, though there is still such a struggle within him. ]

Did you have children, Yima? Your own.

You are not evil, Set. You, like a reflection of the land from which you came, are imperfect. Not even the gods could lay claim to perfection, try as they might.

[ those tangled blooms are so, so gently explored as she speaks. experimental; exploratory. seeking. ]

...I did. [ the rise of grief, of mourning, and threaded throughout both - love, accompanies her answer. ]

They have been beyond my reach for as long as I have been of Kenos. Your longing... I understand.

[ -- there is a sudden, ripe burst of hostility from him. The rearing of an unbroken steed, the lashing backhand of someone who knows only to lash out when touched in a way that is unwelcome. It is not to her fingering the desert flower that he kicks at this ancient being, but to her insinuation that the gods, that his world was imperfect. ]

How dare you.

[ He strangles his own mourning, his own quest for connection with her sense of motherhood, in the cradle. Presses it down, rejecting what he'd wanted. How dare she. ]

What is your idea of perfection, then? What image do you hold in your mind above all else?

I do not ask for, nor want, perfection. You, your land, your people... your gods - they are all as they are meant to be. There is beauty in their imperfections, in each crease and soft line of them.

[ of you, goes unspoken yet heard all the same.

the fingers gently withdraw from desert flowers, but her presence remains, omniscient. ]

My children are flawed. I, too, am flawed. I would have it no other way. I love them no less for every mistake they make, Set.

The only thing so perfect is such a love. You know it well.

Well, I am asking for everything. For all of Egypt, for the people and my family. It is the whole of my world, and Zenith resolves itself that such a thing is gone forever.

[ Honestly, were he able to have all of that... the rest of the world, the Caanites, the Hellenics, the Vedics, the Babylonians? They could burn. They could flounder forth one day from the roots of Yima's great tree, perhaps, and make the attempt to save their immediate world, or the full of it. ]

I'm not asking for love, Yima. You cannot lie to me, even sweetly - I am not here to be loved. I just want the truth.

[ Of all the things he is frail and tenuous over, nothing is more resolute than the soul-deep knowledge ( curse ) that he is unlovable. There is only one person who loves him, and he is a madman. ]

Who must I condemn, to have what is mine?

Whether you wish for it or not, it is yours. Here, laid at your feet. It follows in your shadow cast by sun and moon alike.

[ every step he takes in Kenos, it will be with him.

but there is a quiet, soft, subtle ache at his words, his refusal to accept that love. it is natural, considering his position - and yet... ]

...Your heart yearns for what is beyond your reach. The world you long for is gone; I cannot offer you salvation, the restoration of Egypt.

I hope you will come to understand the Meridian cannot, either. Must you swallow honeyed lies and false hopes...?

That's not -- I'm not a fool, Yima.

[ He doesn't look to Meridian because he thinks they're honest.

Honestly, he doesn't look to Zenith either - one side offers hope, the other offers acceptance. Neither option is very enticing to him, and it strangles him to think that he must decide between his nature and who he wants to be. He thinks of Anubis, and his promise. He thinks of Nephthys, awaiting him.

In his palms, he holds the ancient effigy of his nephew; blue faience and aged clay, fragile and naught but a memory. And he thinks, he wonders what he can do. What a powerless god like he can do, to restore his world. Hope or acceptance? ]

What happened, to bring you these convictions of yours? I have to ask. Why are you so certain of your way?

Not a fool, but a man whose heart may be misguided by fools.

[ there is no judgment behind these words. she does not fault him for where he stands, even if it aligned against her - against her beliefs. but all the same... ]

Your soul, like mine, like every other Bearer that walks Kenos, has passed through the Tree. It is through the Tree I find you, find what is left of the pieces of you, and make you whole again.

There is no making whole what has been broken. I have seen it; I have felt it.

[ her world, his world.

all of them. ]

[ She really hits the nail on the head. In some way, she knows this so-called 'evil god' is astray, unmoored. He is in agony, turmoil that echoes and resonates within him and yearns to fold itself into her embrace. She is the mother he never really had, the one he wants to hide his face in the lap of and become small, to redo everything in his life with her guidance. Nut had never. Ra had said the gods were not meant for familial love, the way humans were. ]

The two sides of this battle are really not that different.

[ He sighs it, beyond dejected. Somewhere numb and quiet. ]

You're far too elusive with your words. You play into emotions over anything of substance. You give nothing away, hinting only at nebulous transactions and knowledge we aren't to know. What choice is there, really?

[ He'd pick her. In a heartbeat. His despair yearns for her comfort. ]

If I come, on my own, to see my choice as a mistake... will you still accept me?

Please listen, silly boy.

[ it's strange - surreal, perhaps; he might think himself seeing things, the impression of the dark-skinned woman whose smile is painted across his mind's eye with the fondness of a mother looking upon a beloved son.

that woman reaches as if to cradle him to her, and for but a moment - he might sincerely feel that she is there. it is warm; she smells of stars, and of home. ]

There is no mistake you could make that would see you beyond me.

[ There is a shattered thing inside of him, a chasm of agonizing doubt and pain. Something has torn itself to pieces within him, left him mad and bereft and barely clinging to the scraps of sanity and motivation. Injuries are both ancient and new, and her touch in their Communion is both a balm and something he has likely never felt before.

It does, however, feel like the way he would reach out to his own child. The way he yearns to hold Anubis in his arms and kiss his small hands, his fat fingers and palms until his child giggles and coos and looks at him with his beautiful, dark eyes that knew no lies or pain. He wants to return to his wife and son, he wants to go back. He cannot.

If he chooses Yima, he knows he will embrace his despair and fall into her arms for comfort. It will be like -- it will be like running away. ]

Let me try, [ he asks of this strange woman, who will not loathe him for his decision. ] I don't think you're wrong, Yima. I truly do not.

[ He was not made for good things, he knows now. He is a god of war. Fighting is in his nature, as much as disorder is. ]

You have my faith. But, I must go to my punishment, and keep my promise. If I fail in that -- you will have me.

Long as it will take... and whatever becomes of you, I will wait.

I will wait for you.

[ the ghost of a sensation presses into his hair - the softness of a chaste and reassuring kiss, one that will leave him slowly finding a new rose blooming among those of stark red--

black as void, it shimmers with countless bright flecks across its petals - gleaming stars inside each petal as if it contained a universe inside it.

...and then, she is gone, leaving nothing but the lingering scent of home in her wake.

LOREMASTER NOTE: whenever Set reaches inside of himself for comfort, he will find himself temporarily pacified for short bursts of time each time he touches Yima's flower. a petal drops each time the flower is touched, and will die once all are expired. you may choose however many (within reason) you'd like and use them as you see fit! ]

[The demon's presence in her mind, though subtle and unobtrusive, had been like a poison to the hatred she felt for the person who had plucked her left eye from its socket. It had occupied her mind so much that she almost doesn't notice the other, but-]

You...

[If she sounds a little tired... She might have been doing the mental equivalent of a bucking bronco trying to get Sebastian out of her head.]

What are you doing here... ?

[ His mind is an endless thing. The desert at night, cool and blue and sprawling boundlessly against the horizon. He finds her presence there, as though she belongs and has always been -- it reminds him of how Yima had simply become one part of his whole. Communion, the others called it. Like her, he comes to note her presence slowly - having been distracted by the scent of home, the unfurling petals of Yima's dark blossom within him. ]

We shed blood together.

[ It's all he can think of, to explain how they could be entangled like this. ]

It is you, as I recall. The warrior who bested a demon, who I formed covenant with.

[They did. They had shed blood together. She remembers it clear and true even if the dryad had then just… erased all of it, like it had never happened, restoring her ear, yes, but robbing her of the kill that she gladly would have remained maimed for-]

I did not ask for this covenant.

[So why… Her shard is so cold now, like ice embedded in her chest. Her hearing comes and goes.]

Not like this.

[How pathetic, how predictable… that she still swells with tattered pride to be addressed that way. The warrior who bested a demon. Just enough pride to disguise the shame and anger beneath.]

Edited 2022-11-07 19:42 (UTC)

You agreed to it.

[ Like it or not, his tone implies. Somewhere in the desert, he is; or, perhaps he is the desert itself. The vast flow of moonlit sand and towering dunes. The landscape she finds gives way at the edges, seeking her territory with obstinate curiousity. He doesn't ask for her permission, instead finding his way towards her as brashly as any true deity might. ]

What? A warrior who seeks to turn her eyes from the god of such?

[ His voice finds her good ear, suddenly.

It is such a coy thing, promising her things. Freedom of violence, the echoing cry of a satisfying hunt. ]

I agreed to give you my ear, not my hearts.

[“Head”, “mind”, wherever it was… She had never intended to share it with him. With any man. Not after the one she’d almost hoped for had-]

And I seek only to regain what is mine. That demon is not welcome here, you are not-

[If the territory of his mind is a night desert, then hers is akin to a high mountain in a blizzard, the winds screaming over the peaks and the white cold threatening to cover all it fell upon. Only in the depths of caves could warmth be stoked and hidden.

And his voice is in her ear, so tempting, so-]

That is what you claim for your domain- ?

Apparently, our agreement came with a caveat we were unaware of, and now we both dwell within one another. For however long it lasts.

[ Hours? Days? Lifetimes? He doesn't know, he's been lazy about reading up on the mechanics of the world; it doesn't feel like forever, but it certainly is strange to have someone so intimately entangled within his mind. The sense that he is very wary of her, liable to snap his own teeth at her, hovers at the edges of an unending sprawl; he is a god who once protected the borders of his nation from invaders, and though he marks her as a warrior, she is still foreign to him. ]

That is what I am. The god of war, the god of the desert; my world may be gone, but nothing will change my existence.

[ If anything, his subconscious claims a handful of others as his. Warlike creatures, who smell of his domain and cradle the embers of it. Even if they want nothing to do with him, in another life -- he would hear their calls. ]

[A caveat they were unaware of. The indignity of it sticks in Hayame's craw, she swallows the pointless protest that such things weren't supposed to happen with deals the likes they had made-

Because when had this place ever followed the rules.

The bleeding together of their senses, this time, not just the plain crimson of blood, makes it clear that they both have teeth. They both are willing and ready to bare them. At the edge of the desert, cold gusts of snow disturb the sand.]

A god.

[She repeats it because she doesn't want to believe it, even though this place had so many impossible things in it.]

How does a god get taken from his world?

[They're supposed to be gods. That was the entire point. But she cannot help but feel bitterness obvious and resentful in her hearts. Of course. Of course the only god who would bother with something like her was a god of war.]

[ Her mind is so bitterly cold. The hint of frosted peaks and dark caverns are not entirely foreign to him, traveled as he is, but he cannot say he has experienced locations filled with so much frost and ice; he is of the Levant, after all. Still, he treads around the outskirts of where she is locked into this sudden, abrupt Communion with him and seems to slide his fingers through the snows with something pure and curious. It'd be childlike, if he were not a god of violence and blood. ]

Beats me. How my world could be unmade without Ra's say-so is what I am more intrigued by.

[ He has a handful of her existence in his palm; her cold memory. Patting at it, shaping it into something not unlike how clay could be. ]

I was demoted, anyways. I'm more of a demigod, with my power separated from me as it is. What about you? You seem to have a grudge against that demon - was it what unmade your world, then?

[She has never seen the desert. She has never even seen a beach. All this sand... As he seems to curiously run his fingers through the snow... She seems to use the tip of a hoof to nudge the flowing sand before stepping on it. ... Warm. Perhaps hot.]

It wasn't unmade.

[That response is quick as a lash, and just as stinging. She refuses to believe that's true. There's not a single bit of proof other than the Regent, now that Yima woman, claiming so. And what could unmake a world? Not even in the tale of the gods did they unmake, not on that scale. It was their homes as much as their worshipers.

... A demi-god, fine. She can accept they could trap a demi-god. As for the demon...]

As if a demon could do the same. [A whole world? Hah-] No. That thing took my eye.

[Her grudge against him, what had gotten him killed... was far more petty than the fate of an entire world. But to an archer... perhaps it was world enough. And she's still not satisfied... not after the dryad had undone his death.]

Oh? Then, what is it that you believe happened to these worlds?

[ The question might be mocking, from anyone else. From Set, there is honest curiosity. He desires to know hearts and minds, even in his diminished state there is a raw, plucked nerve that makes him who and what he is - god of foreign lands, vagrant god, god of foreign lives, wanderer. Somewhere in their communion, he begins to emerge and take shape, rather than exist as scenery and land. The desert, in this place, remains draped along his shoulders and arms as one might wear a traveling cloak, a gauzy wrap wound around his body, gleaming in the dim light.

He finds his way to her, dragging his domain with him. She looks much the same, albeit less bloody in the mouth. Fierce, war-like and angry. Whatever she is, at her heart, those elements call to him, even demoted as he is. ]

That's no good, [ he is so careless with his body, when he reaches towards her face; the gesture is slow and methodical, captured in their minds, as he traces the shape of her injury without really touching her. ] Though, I've known maimed warriors. Their drive to remain lethal and successful in battle carries them, no matter the injury. I expect you're the same?

[ A low laugh. ]

What a rotten demon, to pick something so vital to you.

[If she had heard even a hint of sarcasm or mockery in his tone, her response would have been swift and burning… But she does not. And so she answers just as honestly.]

They must still be there. We have simply been ripped away… or fallen through the cracks.

[That much she can believe, over entire worlds full of life simply unmade for no discernible rhyme or reason than some woman who masqueraded as her mother claiming that “all things die”.

The world of shared hearts and minds is… strange. Hayame had hardly noticed, somehow, that he had not been a man before… and yet now when he coalesces before her he undoubtably is. Had she been a woman, or just the cold, lonely peaks of snowy mountains she would never see again? He comes closer to her clad in heat and sand and sun and she stands at the barrier between them, wrapped in cold and ice and stone like armor that hides any sort of warmth and longing beneath it.

In actual life… she would never let him close enough to her to do what he does. She would break his wrist for even trying, but one moment he is apart and then he was there, she can almost feel the trace of his fingertips over the curve of her face, and beneath the blizzard she clads herself in… She shivers.

Hayame conceptualizes herself without the eye, because she cannot lie to herself that it is there. But it had not been exposed, because she cannot bear its loss. When Set speaks of it, though… there is a moment when it is, when his fingers almost caress the line of her socket beside an empty hole, raw and exposed with the shriveled remains of her optic nerve bloody and inflamed deep in her skull, her eyelids and lashes framing only a gaping, painful emptiness. An eyeball plucked out so cleanly and cruelly it hadn’t left a single trace of scrape or cut behind on her face.

The eye that remains to her burns, hateful and pathetic and strong in contrast to the cold.

She does not respond to the question of whether she will become more vicious to overcome the shortcomings of her new lack, because it should be obvious. She will. But as for the rest-]

All demons are rotten.

[She doesn’t view the one she’d had the misfortune to encounter as more or less vicious than another.

That was just what they were.]

[ Like her, he cannot conceptualize a world that could be eliminated from existence. It would shatter him and unmake his entire existence, to truly come to an invalid conclusion; Ra was almighty, and there were other gods in other pantheons that were wise enough and hungry enough to set aside their grievances to band together in defense of a reality that gave them form and reason. He must believe that Ra, who stood above the end of the world and cast it down night after night, could continue to do the same with this foreign threat.

And he, god of war, former protector-god of Egypt, would do his own duty -- and battle the end of all things. He would resist, for the land that did not love him.

Hayame seems an unloved creature, as well. Severe women were not loveable women, though he had never cared for the quality of one's personality over the strength of their heart. She is a cold thing, where he scalds with dry heat. He ghosts his touch around the image of her face, held between them in the mind's eye. A demon did this to her. A demon marred a woman of battle prowess, and he hisses between his teeth at the thought of what has been done to her. ]

I believe the same as you. The Ennead cannot be destroyed, we will forever reincarnate into ourselves -- worlds are always under threat, but the stalwart will stand against it. Are you that warrior, for your own world? How far would you go, to bring it back?

[She should stop him. He oversteps, to keep his hand so near her face, tracing her skin with so little distance between her temple and his fingertips that a part of her almost wished he would just close the distance and touch her skin properly. But how foolish would it be, to try and make him withdraw from her when the dryad had linked their hearts? Even if she banished this manifestation of his form, the mental vision of his body and face as she remembered...

He would still be there, inside of her, in so intimate a realm.

He would still be reminding her of what mockery she found in that clean, gaping wound. If it had been a burn, a slash... the eye could be excused. Just a wound. Collateral damage. But the prettiness of the removal not only marks it as the work of someone (no, a demon) that had managed to gain complete mastery over her for a precious moment in the heat of battle... but it marked her for the humiliation it was meant to be. The target had been her eye from the beginning, so that she might live on obviously crippled instead of granted the dignity of death.

So that she might seek revenge, have it, appearing before this demi-god bloodied and beautiful in her savagery... only to have the dryad be the next one to humiliate her, and take it away, leaving only this curse behind. But he asks her if she is the stalwart, the one who will struggle against a threat to her world and suddenly-

Hayame seizes his wrist, so that she might hold him there in the intensity of what remained of her gaze. (In the process, his fingertips do brush her skin.)]

There can be no end to the places I would go to return to my world.

[He speaks to a woman who had helped to enslave her own kind, all for the sake of trying to improve her own standing. To a woman who had struggled and fought and clawed to be recognized in a world stacked against her from birth. To a woman who knew saving her world would mean that at the end of the very day she returned... she would die. But all things (not worlds) do die. ... And that is where she wants to meet hers, the rest be damned.]

Now tell me your name. And if you are truly the god of war... Give me your blessing.

[ They are bound by their decision, to shed one another's blood and flesh before the tree; they had chosen ears, easy enough to hide by the fall of their hair and appropriate for them. They would not be swayed by whispers, not by what they heard or felt. Her convictions are powerful, her mind wild and cold. An ice-bitten woman, harsh and feral as he feels in turn. Their minds and their bodies have been marked, and he rises into her space -- not upon his toes, but as if he has grown to be able to level himself with her lopsided gaze. ]

Good.

[ What he gleans from her mind is monstrosity. A damnable soul that continues her path forward no matter the cost to herself; in a sense, he finds a kindred spirit in this woman. That she bears the body of a mare as well is, remarkably, of no importance to him. The gods of Egypt are born in human shape, in half-human shape, as animals, as the elements. He, too, wears the form of a beast from time to time and she is no more or less for it.

When she seizes him, he is a river of red. The cascade of fresh blood and the clash of weapons, fingers digging into the sands of the desert and voices ragged from crying in pain, anguish, conquest. He is the hands that curl across the backs of her own, the arms that follow the pull of her draw, the eyes that track her kills -- be they her own, or those she chooses anew. Tugging at a long strand of hair with his other hand, the one she has not captured and joined herself too, he rips it free from his head -- a lock of carmine that bleeds at the end, into sands.

That, he tucks into the raven-black silk of her high ponytail. A shock of red against the dark. ]

I am Set, the mightiest of the Ennead. Carry my favor, starless warrior, if you are resolved to this path. You may find me no better than your hated demon, yet I will stand at your side and go to those wretched ends with you for as long as I am able.

[Somehow, in this space of hearts and minds, where it is spirits and not true bodies that meet… it does not seem strange to Hayame that this man (this god) has a shape that is fluid, that one moment he is yay tall and the next he is able to look her in the eyes.

Eye.

When she wakes, she will wonder if there is a strand of her hair that retains that crimson stain even in the true world. Through their touch she feels… everything of him- or rather, vague impressions of everything, both disorienting and grounding… and… she lets go of his wrist, though not before she squeezes it in her grip as if to remind him that she had taken it in the first place. From there… she bows her head just slightly to accept his boon. It is difficult, in this place where their essences are bare… to deny his divinity, no matter how she might have doubted elsewhere.

The blizzard still rages in her “lands”. But as if they have passed into the eye of the storm, the bitter wind and whip of ice is eerily still around only them and the line where cold snow bleeds into hot sand.]

I am Hayame.

[Someone who has never prayed. The gods of men never answered jinba, and she had been raised ignorant of her own kind’s natural worship. But now… she finds enough experience to cobble together her own version of worship.]

If you desire battle, then the violence I do in this world may be yours. If there is an offering you desire more… I would have you name it.

[She could be the woman he had met in the dryad roots, half feral with the surge to fight and a demon’s blood in her mouth, but she could also be this. And if she finds irony in the fact that she who feels so lonely in these foreign worlds might finally find someone willing to stand by her side only for that person to be War…

Perhaps that is what she deserves.]

[ One day, perhaps he will regain his majesty and divinity. This realm is untended by ma'at, and the order that the Ennead had imposed upon him might not impact him as heavily. Though the mantle of his godhood was bound away, held in the palm of Isis's hand and under her watchful eye, no god could unmake him -- as badly as they might have wanted to, they could not risk destroying the one-great protector of Egypt. Use him, certainly, but not eliminate him.

This world, this realm, could return him to that glory. He'd felt the connection to his divinity while staying faithful to his duty, the reparations he was required to make. She was not the only soul who had been cruel; she, to her people, and he to the mortals who had looked to the gods for aid, not slaughter.

In the eye of the storm, he feels her wash over him as they make their agreement. Perhaps for the two of them it would be a dangerous thing, to stand shoulder-to-shoulder ( shoulder-to-withers? ) against the unknown requirements that would be imposed upon them, but she -- she vows her violence is for him. It is as honest a devotion as he thinks he'll get. ]

I will accept, Hayame. Dedicate your violence and sins to me, and I will repay you in kind.

[ Though he may only have the might of a demigod, his mind is still that of an inhuman thing -- he does not truly desire blood and flesh, nor mountains of bodies. He was a protector, once. Not a slaughterer, but a slaughterer he now is. And he will absolve her of anything she does from henceforth, if only she names him in that act. ]

Let it be so.

[Later, Hayame will realize that she never asked exactly how this god liked his prayers. She will have to come up with something by herself, and settle for running a comb through the long, dark locks that now contain a single strand of crimson. But until then…

The deal seems complete.

She steps back… and turns as if to go, to head deeper into the blizzard that was her hearts. Where she could ice her resolve and cool the temper that had been inflamed so easily by the demon that now encroached in the other side of the “mountain”, bound temporarily with both men who she had tangled with in the dryad’s roots. Both scenes had been violent… but only one had been driven by hatred, by a desperate need for revenge. And if this god would aid her, if she might use that power or blessing to best the other now that his powers had returned in full…]

… I would ask you not to wander far.

[She is a private person. Just the presence of the two in her mind or hearts or shard or wherever they were… it put her on edge, ever wary for prying or attempts to break down walls. But if she is to have truce with him…

Hayame turns back to regard the god of deserts and wars and protection and all sorts of things she feels in the forced connection between, a sudden gust blowing her long mane and tale across her body and then away, like black pennants above the snow.]

The territory is treacherous and cold.

[And those little hidden caves where she stashed her precious remaining warmth and tenderness…

She wasn’t ready to guide anyone there. … She shouldn’t. Not again.]

[ Past the events of the Scorching Isles, NAME will receive... A very nice, handwritten letter! Which, if you prefer the actual easy to read text (fair), is here. ]

[ Also included is Sebastian's address, which is located near the Tomes in Highstorm. Should your character wish to attend (and bring a +1), that log is a mingle style one here! No pressure to tag it if you're busy, but just let me know whether your character attends or not if you can't swing it OOC! ]

christy this is really cute

[ It starts with the feeling of a hand upon Set's face. The desire to taste the madness that the god has is overwhelming. Because he is drunk on victory. He wants to feel the wallowing shame and misery that the war god must be struggling under. So, he reaches out with a soft, comforting touch. ]

I hope that you made it back with no injuries. I would be sad if you were hurt.

[ He can't move. Sleep has taken him brutally, left him half-roused and vulnerable in his sprawled state -- somewhere in the bowels of the Last Dance, he is full of drink and smoke and exhaustion. When Archangel finds him through their Communion, he cannot ward him off; they are of the same aspect, after all.

He is touched, and when his consciousness rises, he feels paralyzed. A sense of dread, of sickly-sweet heat, a wanting for the familiarity of being woken by a soft touch upon his face. For a moment, he mistakes Archangel's voice, and though he cannot move himself, his brain stutters between (relief) and (horror).

Breathily, he says, as if caught in a dream: ] Are you done with your duties already, snt.nb?

[ He suffers from some confusion due to what Set calls him. He can't quite hide it, but he does soak in the emotions that he senses from him. His touch remains adoring and affectionate; he offers the feeling of a pleased smile. ]

I've completed what I had to, Set. [ Archangel gave up so much sand to save people, but his memories were returned to him. He came to find he is still benevolent and forgiving even without memories to tie him down. If he could think on it logically, he would be forced to acknowledge his madness has rotted his soul completely and utterly. ]

I'm only sorry that I took victory away from you.

[ Sleep paralysis. The Meridian's suffer it now, in their loss; a pang of loneliness that can only be soothed by the presence of their own, and the Discord associated with his repeated trips to the Beyond -- they culminate in this disabused state, where he cannot move his limbs, where his mind is muddled by sleep and substance. He rubs his cheek into the press of Archangel's fingers, like a tired cat that's seeking a particular warmth.

( Sickening. Wake up. Remember yourself. ) ]

Mm, it will be mine whether I am there or not.

[ Clearly, he thinks that Archangel is someone else. ( Someone he loves, hates. ) ]

You called, I came. Why don't you rest... even you must.

[ He laughs. It is a soft, pleasant sound for once. ]

Of course, it will be.

[ Archangel replies in a good-natured way. Why wouldn't he? He is getting everything that he wants from this encounter. If only Dextera could be so obedient. He sends the feeling of a warm smile. ]

Even if I must, I can't. I am still seeking it, you know... your salvation, your happiness.

[ Hazily, he feels something is wrong about this whole situation. No one should be so good to him, nor seek his happiness. It reminds him of his brother, of the machinations he works within — efforts to drive Set insane, to death, into his arms. Maybe the shock of adrenaline at the recollection is what drives him to fight the paralysis, to shove his way through his own body's weakness and sit up.

Sudden, fast, a gasp for air in the midst of the Communion. ] — you!

[ Like a cat that's been pet the wrong way, he tugs himself away from that stroking hand. His own hands rub at the spots he's been touched, like he's trying to shove off the sensation. He cannot dive away from Archangel, though — something exhausted still has him, seeking his fellow Savant's contact guiltily. ]

Why are you here! What are you even saying this time!

Edited 2023-02-10 19:48 (UTC)

Yes.

[ Perhaps, it is insult to injury, but he casually replies. Like Set is the one that is acting up and being unreasonable. ]

Why am I here? I believe I said as much... I was worried about how you were doing. I came to find out that those that failed suffered some unfortunate side effects. [ Archangel, at least, gives the feeling of pulling away. He no longer sends the sensation of softly petting Set's hair and caressing his face. Pity. ]

Even if you don't believe it, I do care about you.

[ He curls, away from Archangel but unable to go far. They are Savant, and thus open to one another at all times; no matter how far he attempts to pull, he is equally pressed up against the man — bound by their same nature, horrible and intensive. Some lingering part of his paralyzed consciousness rolls against the hand that had once been touching him, before he seizes at it and tries to strangle it into submission. ]

You find me resting and think to touch me? How daring of you! You impertinent man.

[ Bitterly, he does bare his teeth. ]

— do not patronize me. Tell me what you really want.

Would you rather I woke up you rudely? [ His laugh is soft and gentle. ] Actually, I think you would. I have a feeling that you believe you deserve only cruel treatment.

[ But he sends a smile. ] Yet I have no desire to treat you in such a way. I wish to look after you even if we are on opposite sides.

[ Archangel is good at digging up the truth of him. That he would, in fact, rather be woken harshly — even if only by this man. The sentiment trickles through their bond, intuitive and intrinsic between their aspects. He tries to push, to find the truth of the Archangel's mind as well.

Does he really care? He speaks so sweetly, he cannot mean it. Perhaps it's what pushes Set forth now, for if retreat does not do him any good, he will fight. Fight back, until he explodes. ]

No, you do not.

[ It's his turn to lay a hand on the other, to flatten his palm to the space where Archangel's heart would lay. ]

If you did, you would — listen, to me. Not insist. Are you able to do that, Archangel?

[ The push is met with yielding because the truth is that he does care. Just beneath that caring is a sense of satisfaction and pleasure that a god can be so weak; it reaffirms a few things for him. It helps him to feel more sure of himself, and that is why he can't leave Set alone.

Well, one of the various reasons why, but he is willing to let him dig the truth out that he cares -- that he is being honest just that there is something beneath that sincere caring emotion. ]

I am listening to you. What is it that you want to say to me?

[ Imagine getting your sense of self and power from a very fucked up god, couldn't be Archangel!

Fine, fine. Their connection means that as he pushes himself forward, into the clutch of their Communion and the aspect they share, that he can feel that the Archangel cares. It's alarming, in its reality. It is something he cannot trust, though. The care that the other man brings to the table is the same 'care' that his own kin espouses, the kind with compulsive madness below it.

Set draws closer. ] I cannot let you 'save' me. Cornering me with promises of your salvation is not what I want.

[ He says it, as he leans over the other; as his hands flit to Archangel's face and cradle his jaw. ]

There is nothing a dangerous, sweet-tongued man like you can do to absolve me of what I have done. You would have to care for me, support me, even love me, and let me go. Are you capable of that?

[ He smiles warmly, seemingly pleased at having his face touched. His wings fol around the two of them, as he offers softly spoken words -- for even if this is Communion, what he says is meant only for Set. ]

I can do all of those things if it is for you. [ Indeed, there is a sickness inside of Archangel that he cannot see. His insanity does not cause him pain and so he does not recognize he is even ill. ] In fact, it is something I am hoping you will allow me to do for you.

It is why you feel "cornered" right now because I fear that you will chase off anyone else who wishes to save you.

I am not saying you lack the ability. I am saying I will not allow it.

[ Archangel will know, through their connection: Set speaks firmly, but his heart is lacking. It is not weak, but weakened, dealt a crippling blow by the loving tongue of another who cursed him to doubt, to second-guess his own divinity. There is a deep wealth of vulnerability for Archangel to run his hands through, and Set's resistance — while present — is so very brittle.

It is the fact that he wants to be ruined, more than he wants to be saved, that allows him any resistance at all. ]

There is one thing you can do for me, better than anyone else. One thing you can absolve me of, if you so badly crave this — my Discord. And I can do the same for you, Archangel. In this... we are one another's salvation.

How unfortunate. I would hold you closer and better than anyone else could.

[ He speaks in absolutes because it is what he believes. Archangel had wanted to become the Absolute God of his world. His madness - his all-encompassing insanity - tells him that he is capable of accepting and loving all people. If he was not, he would not be able to make a paradise for them. And he wants that paradise for them because if gods exist, they should bleed and suffer for the happiness of others. They should suffocate and force joy down the throats of the unwilling until their lives have nothing but bliss.

Is that not what it means to love their people and bring a world of light? ]

Your Discord? Have you been quite bad, Set?

[ His tone becomes quite teasing even as he gifts his a smile. ]

[ Conviction has always been intoxicating to Set. Ambition sits just below it, the driving force behind an unshakeable belief — the Archangel may be a madman, but he speaks in the same absolutes that Silco does, that Hayame does. That any number of those Set gravitates towards do. Is it any wonder, that despite the revulsion he feels, he feels the shiver roll down his spine — his nature drawing him closer, closer still.

He does not desire the Archangel's salvation ( some part of him does, aching and yearning ), but he does desire his services. They are Savant, and polar opposites in faction, which means they are primed to handle one another's Discord. Set's own is a rising flame, steadied by the crush of a petal belonging to Yima's flower within him. Archangel may be able to sense it, the soft thrum of Zenith potential below Set's skin — just before he traces his fingertips over the bridge of the man's nose.

Across the bow of his mouth. ] Do you prefer the conquest or the spoils, Archangel? The field of battle, or the temple built upon the ashes? You want to hold me, but I feel you enjoy the chase more than you would enjoy genuinely having me.

[ He drops his hand, and though they are in Communion, seizes the blonde by the throat. ]

— what a stupid question, I thought you were a clever man.

[ There's no heat in the words, something mournful and bleak dwells within him. Something practical, pragmatic, and perhaps slightly tired of the fact that Archangel is the only Zenith Savant that he knows ( Cid is another, though he has yet to meet Cid; perhaps one day, though ). And he is perfect for this use, to soothe Discord and invite in harmony once more. ]

If you want to sneak into my mind while I sleep, at least make yourself useful and soothe my Discord, you bastard.

[ He sends a smile -- he wonders if it is as enigmatic as he intends. Set is not wrong. There is only one spoil that he wishes to hold close to him. Everyone else is just everyone else. He will love and absolve them; he will lead them to paradise; he will break and ruin every one of them for the sake of their happiness. But they are not the one he wants.

Archangel did not intend to answer that question but lets out a small sound of surprise at his throat being seized in their connection. ]

Am I not allowed to tease you?

[ Archangel reaches out; one hand rests against the wrist that holds his throat whilst the other dips down. It reaches to sneak beneath the folds of the cloth that Set uses to cover himself. ]

Well, since you are so upset with me, I can do just that to ease your Discord then.

[ They are in Communion. Communion, and not reality. Things are unreal, ethereal in the depths of the mind; there is something easier, like this. Though the Archangel reaches to touch him so intimately, it is not the same as if it were to happen to his physical form. The crawling revulsion he knows he would feel ( that he does feel — ) when his skin is touched, is simply not there. In Communion, he is freer to be akin to his true self. Fluid and unbound by physics, by rules. The imagination dominates, and so can he. ]

You horndog. I knew you were the type.

[ Berating Archangel will not win him the war, likely not even a battle. Still, there is a sense of satisfaction in this moment, as if he's able to conclude something so intrinsic about the man, apart from his persistence and mad commitment to salvation.

He drops his own hand down, to seize Archangel's wrist. They mirror one another, hands at vulnerable places, hands pinning them in place. He has half a mind to kick him out ( he'd be hard-pressed to do so, since they share an Aspect ), and could never bring himself to ask this guy to be gentle with him. To touch him again the way Archangel did while he was half-asleep and dreaming of someone he'd once adored. Which means, if this is what the Archangel wants, it is what Set will embrace — as if there is nothing else he could ask for. ]

And not even a bit of foreplay! You're like a virgin fumbling for it on his first night! I am going to take my hands away, and so are you. You will put them into mine, and be shown the proper way to do the things we both want — for the alleviation of our Discord, alone.

Is it wrong for me to find you so attractive?

[Unfortunately, he can't feel anything, but there are limits to Communion, it seems. He is starting to find out what those are and lament them. ]

Very well, if that is how you wish to do things, I shall oblige. After all, I am the one that is helping you so I should do things your way. [ Indeed, he decides to say things like that rather than anything else he wished to say. He wondered when he would speak honestly with someone -- the closest he got was Yima. But whatever. ]

Still... I like you better when you're insane and rambling about violence. That part of you is so charming. [ So he says as he holds his hands out as Set said he wanted. ]

You are always going on and on with that audacious tongue of yours.

[ He draws the Archangel's hands into his own, flattening their palms together. To show him, the terribly practical way he will accept touch from a man who disturbs him so greatly, yet could be beneficial. He doesn't know if Communion will allow them to purify Discord from one another, but as he's to come to discern - purification is a rite of vulnerability, and to permit Archangel to remain in his hazy-edged mind is,

well.

Vulnerable. ] You found me in a bad way when we first met. I have had time to ease into things, to find focus. I am still not a savior of anyone, not as you claim to be. What gives you authority to say such a thing, anyways?

Because I am a human that desires to be god.

[ He replies easily; his words are true. ]

I am willing to burn away everything that I am... to sacrifice even being able to touch someone like this... to be unable to experience happiness as a human would. [ His smile softens even as he continues his madness. There is a serene look that takes over his expression. It reaches his eyes because he can talk frankly about his dreams. ] Do you know why?

[ Part of him balks, immediately. Among the Ennead it was known: only those born to divinity would become divine. They did not have demigods born of human mothers, did not have mortal men who rose beyond their station to be rewarded with a throne of their own. The Archangel speaks madness. And he speaks madness, because Set knows there are other pantheons, other ways. He has been faced with the majesty and dignity of the Mahadeva, he has thrown himself against Gilgamesh's blades and disdain, he has hunted alongside Anat of the Levant.

The Archangel has pledged to burn for his dream. It is madness only a mortal being can possess, a hunger only they know, for they are free to imagine such heights, and free to attain them - in some way. ]

Why?

[ He has to know. It grips him, the edge of this thing that makes the Archangel who he is - that riles Set, even as he seeks purification at the hands of his fellow Savant. ]

Go on, tell me your reason. Why you presume to toy with me, to be - [ A sharp laugh escapes him. The verge of madness in him too. ] So impertinent! A human who thinks he will grant a god salvation!

If I cannot, will not, be able to grant it to you, I cannot grant it for all.

[ The teasing smile fades from his lips as his expression becomes much more serious than it did before. He believes that he could show some memories as they are holding each other's hands like this, but decides against it. Better to explain in words than his past, anyway. ]

Because humanity deserves better than what my god has given it. [ They deserve happiness and paradise. If gods exist, joy should not be something people struggle to obtain. ] The same could be said for you. You also deserve better than the lot that you were given.

And I intend to save them all... everyone... everything.

[ Slowly, waveringly, he brings the Archangel's hands to him. He draws them in to himself, setting one at the bottom of his ribcage and the other higher, close to his collarbone; like that, he rolls himself in — across their Communion, deeper into the undeniable allure of their shared aspect. He cannot hide himself from the Archangel, not in Communion.

It is obvious, that Set is intrigued by the conviction; that, like so many others he has accepted for their unshakeable, unwavering desires, he might be able to accept the Archangel, too. Save, that he cannot stomach the idea of being marked for 'salvation'. ]

Archangel.

[ After he places the man's hands to his body, he reaches for him. To card fingers through the blonde of his hair ( ah, he really does have a weakness for blondes i s2g ) and gather the angle of his jaw between his palms. Rolling, sensual and dark, until he can lean over him and blot out the metaphorical light. ]

You do not know enough about me, to account for how much of yourself you would destroy to fill my depths. I am not a god that can be saved by anyone, and your humans will suffer for your infatuation with the idea. Focus on them. If you truly want to feel like you have saved me, we can do this — together.

[ Purify one another's Discord, he means. ( Kick off Archangel's Slut Saga, maybe. ) ]

Would it disappoint you to know that you are not the first person who entertained thoughts like this? I seem to evoke madness in men.

[ The touch is certainly nice, at least. ]

I intend to save all people... there is much of myself I am willing to destroy. [ He does reach up to take hold of Set's hand, to send the feeling, the image, of kissing the inside of the god's wrist as a show of his devotion. ] I shall be satisfied with this... for now.

[ But hm. ]

No, it would not disappoint me. It just means that I must be the first to not give up on you.

You will have to be satisfied. We are incompatible otherwise.

[ Actually, they're both deeply compatible. After all, like the Archangel, he is intent upon becoming whatever he must to return to his world, to atone to the masses of humans he had tormented. Generations, centuries. His goal takes precedence over all else, friend or foe. His promise to his son. The nature of him, before it was changed by another.

Fine. Fine, the Archangel is insane and annoying, but he will accept him. He'll deal with him at another time, once he determines how best to do that. And he will not — he will do his best, not to think of Osiris, when they speak. Such mistakes will lead him astray, for the two were not the same. Similar, but not precise. ]

Do not sneak into my dreams, then. If you want my attention, send word for me. I am not a difficult man to find, Archangel.

So we are.

[ Archangel lets out a small sigh. It seems like even with Communion that discord between like individuals will not settle. Perhaps it is because they feed each other's insanity? His madness is comfortable and part of him now; it does not give him any pain and so it is only occasionally that he notices how sick he has become.

It's terrifying to have moments of sanity before it slips through his fingers. He only holds them for a brief time, anyway. It doesn't matter. It never matters. What matters is his cause and hope. He will save everyone. He will give everyone the happiness that they deserve -- that he believes they deserve. He'll break every last one of them to ensure they stop ruining their pursuit of joy.

A brief smile crosses his lips. ]

All right. I promise to not sneak into your dreams so we can do this much. [ And he leans forward to send the image - the feeling - of capturing Set's mouth with his own. ]

[ The burst of shock, of fury that rips through him as Archangel bends to him, as their mouths are brought together, comes as a sudden storm might. A crack of lightning to sear the skin and scar down to the bone, electric-white and violent, from the point of their 'contact' to the very base of Archangel's spine. Set crackles in his grasp, burning hot and blindingly angry — how dare he, before he must reign himself back.

The echo of another's mouth upon his, gathered warm and smooth as the hands upon his bare waist had been, as the hand that had nudged away his divine mask and left him to be gathered in the memory of thorny vines and dark, adoring eyes... Set jerks his head back, from the kiss and the Archangel. ] You really are the most audacious man!

[ A human man, he's said. Not a holy thing, but one that seeks to be. ]

Fine! We will do this much, now get out of my mind!

[ Ah.

It seems like he can still feel some pain - if it is brought about in this place. Pain is the body and mind's way of telling someone something is wrong. There is some relief in feeling that fury and associating it with pain. Like being slapped for doing something he should not.

But at the same time, it is fleeting. A fleeting feeling that doesn't shake him enough from his madness to do more than offer yet another irritating smile. His hand rests on his chest as he steps back and says: ]

As you wish.

[ And the connection falls away. ]

[ things have settled down; against all odds, a conclusion has been reached. there’s still time before they can act on it, with manon’s shard apparently requiring an endless stream of purification, but there are other things to do.

all his conversations with set seem to come to the same point, so it feels like the time now to explain what he can, and to learn from set exactly what he is, in turn. the god of war, yes, but dextera doesn’t know what that means to set—only what it would mean in his own world.

seeking him out like this, communing with only him… there’s some hesitation, but dextera knows it will serve them both to speak. ]

I said I would tell you about myself. I hope you’ll listen.

[ Diplomacy is dumb!!!!!!!! There's a reason he'd left it to his older siblings, the division of labors between them a thing that had eventually grown into a rift of understanding and blindness to one another's stresses. Following the debate over Manon's fate, he'd gladly taken his leave of the situation — focused on continuing his deal-making for the next Oracle match, now with the cost only being to himself. Surely that would satisfy the others.

And he waits for Dextera's presence, as well. Remembering that the young man had asked him to listen to something, and that he had said he would. Dextera would come when he was ready, and he would find no obstacle in the way of their Communion, but the broad, open frame of a sandstone doorway; Set's consciousness beyond it, pooled into the shape of humanity. ]

It sounded important to you that I did, so I will. At your leisure, Dextera.

[ set makes it feel so easy, and that’s frightening, in a way. when dextera feels comfortable around someone, he’s usually misguided—but perhaps because set is so boldly who he says he is, there’s no real deception beyond the little lies that are told by anyone in the day to day.

he can almost see himself, like the table of diplomacy still in his mind’s eye, laying his head on set’s lap. the communion might tip that way with a little pressure, but dextera remains only voice, cautious with his touch. ]

Do you know the Archangel?

[ he’ll start there. that will make things easier, he thinks. ]

[ BABY BOY????? BABY????? LAYING HIS HEAD DOWN???? my heart ]

That wretched fxcking man.

[ Yeah, he knows Archangel. In fact, he has quite an interesting few meeting with him — one more recent than the last, and far more worrisome than the first. His feelings are obviously mixed in regards to him - at once loathing of the lilting, forgiving smile he speaks with and craving it in brief, segmented flickers. In one area of his mind, he sees the blonde as he is. In another, he sees him as his own brother; smiling, dangerous. ]

We met the moment I crawled out of the dirt below the tree. He claims he wishes to save me, as though I am in need of salvation!

[ dextera hadn’t expected such a vehement response, but it doesn’t surprise him once he thinks about it. the archangel can inspire that kind of resentment in people, and especially from someone like set, their personalities are utterly incompatible. ]

…yes. He wants to save me, too.

[ he’s quiet, as if to balance set’s frustration. ]

But I need it. I did something terrible, and the only way for me to fix it is through the Archangel’s guidance. At least… until we came here.

He seems delusional.

[ Bitterly said. The impression of Set's irritation is that of someone who's already had to deal with someone else similar to Archangel in his life, and not desiring to have another one. Still. Dextera is speaking, and he unknits his bristling mind and attempts to smooth it out before the young man, to let him speak without worrying about the god's temper. ]

What is it that you did, then? Begin at the beginning for me.

[ delusional… perhaps he is. perhaps he’s the only one who isn’t. dextera can’t truly say without speaking to the archangel further, but there’s no question he’s more grounded than most of the survivors. ]

I destroyed the world.

[ his tone is even as he reports it, but with the words comes a crushing guilt. they spoke about this before, in a way, but dextera’s allusions to the state of his home offered no real insight. now, saying it plainly, it almost doesn’t feel real. ]

I… I don’t remember why. Or how. But I did.

[ The god of war is many things, but judgmental of a young man speaking frankly to him is not one of them. Certainly, he can be a judgy bastard, but not right now. This is an essential moment for Dextera, and he accords himself with composure. It's the image of a man seated at the same level as Dextera, with his hands held loose in his lap and eyes fixated upon him. Not flinching, nor disregarding him.

As ever, Set's intensity is a smoldering thing. Painful, maybe, to those sensitive to scrutiny. ]

To confirm. Are you aware that you did, or did the Archangel tell you that you did?

[ it’s not the first time this question has been asked of him, but he’s no more capable of giving an answer than before. an old friend, a realm before—he, too, had doubted dextera’s ability to destroy an entire world and put more faith in the archangel’s ability to lie, but dextera is nonetheless saddled with agony of guilt. ]

My earliest memory is of pain. I committed a grave sin… there’s nothing else this ache in my chest could be. The Archangel was there when it happened.

I believe you.

[ Until proven otherwise, he will believe that Dextera speaks correctly about his knowledge and pain. Set is no stranger to memories in disarray, nor the subtle, yawning ache of a thing that's gone missing. 'A grave sin', he calls it, and Set wills himself not to turn his eyes down upon the dark ring that surrounds his wrist — the subtle, sinister nature of the hatred and agony of thousands, packed away into a wearable curse. ]

— why do you feel you need the Archangel for your salvation?

He’s the only person who’s ever tried to help.

[ even that, though, has been called into question. dextera pauses, leaving the space of communion between them briefly heavy, but he’s not seeking set’s reply just yet. he wants to continue, but it takes an effort to sort through all his feelings. ]

I told you before. I’m… I have a power I didn’t ask for. I have responsibility I didn’t ask for. You were born the way you are, weren’t you? I wasn’t. I never wanted to be a god or anything like that.

[ Softly, painfully softly for someone styled as a god of war and violence, he slips his fingers through the ends of Dextera's dark hair. He curls his hands out, towards the impression of Dextera's pained posture, gliding them to the center of his shoulders and presses. Firm, to coax him towards a release of tensions. ]

I was born to divine parents, and I was born divine in nature. However, I was not born a god.

[ It is an admission, low and honest. But, more importantly is what Dextera says to him. ]

What happened to you, Dextera? How did you become a god, then? What responsibilities are you burdened with?

[ divinity begets divinity. it makes sense; it’s how things should be. mortals should not be able to become gods, no matter what the archangel thinks of himself, or of dextera’s capabilities. just because the god they have made mistakes doesn’t mean her creations would be better. ]

…

[ there’s a soothing release in set’s touch, and dextera sighs, allowing some pain to be pressed out if only in this temporary space. ]

I was given the power of the Absolute God. To set the world right. That’s what I’m supposed to do… I’m supposed to create a new, perfect world, and preserve that perfection with the Archangel’s guidance. But I don’t want it! I don’t want to create anything. I just want to go back to the way things were.

Then, do not create a new world. You would have chosen Zenith, if that was your true wish.

Even if you did harm to the world, you are part of it. You could choose to abandon it, to shed responsibility and sin and start anew. You have not, though. Instead, you make a similar choice to me. To take your power and return to a place that may hate you, to atone for what you did. And you have come to me for — what is it, Dextera? What is it you want from me?

[ Curious, rather than interrogative. ]

[ that is the difference between set and the archangel. set simply tells him that his choice is valid, even if it will ultimately hurt. the archangel’s words aren’t nearly as kind. ]

I want someone to know. Someone who won’t… think less of me, for what I did. And for what I’m failing to do.

Were I to judge you for the harm you did your world, I would be a grand hypocrite.

[ He'd trashed his own world, after all. The fabric of existence had judged him evil for it, and the Ennead cast him into obscurity and banishment for such wicked deeds. Permitted to atone, to set things right, before returning for the rest of eternity to labor upon Ra's barque. ]

You were very unsure of yourself, when we returned from the Isles. I saw you grow in conviction during the debate. You asked the right questions, you relied on your will — and, you made a choice. You chose not to fail anymore. So, did you choose this path as the mortal Dextera or as the Absolute Dextera?

[ it might be unfair to compare the two of them. dextera hadn’t known they knew of each other until he asked, but they comport themselves in similar ways. dextera can imagine set among the koriel—a sly, but necessary, addition to those who thought they knew best.

he still takes this praise as if it was the archangel delivering it, in an ideal world. he wants to hear it. ]

I thought… the “person” that I am would choose Zenith. There’s something precious I want. I thought I was only here with the Meridian because of my duty.

[ for him to speak like that obviously means he’s changed; he doesn’t need to specifically point it out to set. ]

…does it mean I’m losing my “self” to that responsibility? Do you have to be a god with everything that you are?

I only know how it is to be a god of the Ennead. When we ascend, we shed our old selves and become someone new — new power, new social ties, new rights and responsibilities as gods. We no longer have the ability to deviate from our fates, either.

It may not be the same for you, though. Perhaps you will be a more human god, than most.

[ He is strange, even for a god, at that. Estranged even within his own family for his unknowably independent nature. He doesn't fit the criteria that defines the rest of the Ennead, and thus has always been — apart from them. Either more or less. ]

When I spoke with Cyrus, he mentioned that Meridian is not "purity" or "goodness". I do not think siding with Meridian makes either of us good people. Just as those who side with Zenith are immediately 'bad'. You can be greedy for what is precious to you, on either side. It is simply 'hope' against 'acceptance'.

[ it gives dextera some insight into why set said the things he had, made the decisions he did when they were talking about manon’s fate. in retrospect, too, dextera can understand the zenite perspective a bit more—odd, when he’s speaking to one of his own, but set obviously is only as loyal as he needs to be. ]

Are you happy with your fate?

[ he asks the question, but he doesn’t seem satisfied with it. ]

Or… is it just the way things are? Without any pain or joy attached.

[ Perhaps he should have expected such a query, eventually. It isn't one he thinks of, to be fair. ]

More the latter. I do not think of it, at all. It simply is, for me.

I know that if I were to think of fate as something to be happy or unhappy with, I would be unmade. Such freedom is for humans, not gods.

[ they live very different lives, then, even in their godhood. dextera isn’t sure if he’s disappointed or relieved to hear that he’s not like set—what it means is that he can’t expect set to provide him answers, only experience. ]

Are you jealous?

[ Only experience! Even gods are unique in personality, although not in parameter. ]

Tch.

No. I believe to be jealous, I would have to want something about them or their lives, and I do not. I do not covet their powerlessness and existential anxiety, nor their dependency.

[ Though he says rough things, he doesn't seem to begrudge them for such 'weaknesses'. It is as though he states fact, rather than opinion. Weird brains, gods. ]

[ this has all been enlightening in a way dextera hadn’t expected, so he’s considerably more at ease as their discussion turns philosophical rather than factual.

at least, from dextera’s perspective. ]

I see.

[ finally, dextera seems to be satisfied, even without perfect clarity into his own future. ]

…thank you, Set. And I’m sorry for the Archangel.

[ There is a faint jolt that runs through their connection; the reaction of someone who didn't expect a balloon to pop, for the water to be exactly as cold as it was, for the peal of laughter that follows an attempt at opening a pull-door by pushing upon it. Shocked, and then filled with a heated embarassment.

It comes on the heels of being thanked, rather than Dextera's apology. ]

Do not let him lead you without question, Dextera.

You may come to conclude that his way is the true way, but do not do that without first examining your desires fairly. You and he are unique unto yourselves. My wife often said that to her humans. Maybe it will serve you, too.

[ the feeling of Communion with Rudbeckia is always skittish, but this time, the heartbeat that thrums across the connection is far more intense, vibrating through Ruby's ribcage and echoing in Set's ears. something weighs on her, and she wants very much to flee. she digs her heels in, instead. ]

Signore? I— Um, if you aren't busy at the moment... Cetina told me something important.

Edited 2023-03-02 01:55 (UTC)

[ she alights like an easily-startled bird, and even in his coiled depths — set forces himself to rouse to her, slowly and methodically. he cannot gather her to him, but he does rise. lifts himself, and his attention hones in upon her like a series of telescopic lenses coming into focus. sorry ruby............. ]

— I am not. Would you like to do this in person, or is Communion good enough?

[ oh she hates it. that's exactly the thing she didn't want. Ruby shies away from his attention, tucking herself into the dark corners of her own mind. ]

Communion is alright. [ as much as she dislikes the exposure of it, it also comes with physical distance. ] So, um, firstly...

Springstar is going to have military forces occupying Alenroux soon. They're worried about the Blight spreading, and about food resources being cut off.

[ the information is laced with concern and anxiety. ]

[ /!\ A little more alert, he declines to chase Ruby across the stretched-thin connection between them, instead electing to let himself use the mental distance to hide his own deep wounds. The tremble of his mind, somewhere heavy and dark with sentiment and fear. ]

I know of this. The Tribune mentioned something in brief to me, while the others poured their hearts out for a stranger. Has Cetina conveyed something particular to you, or do you come to me for my counsel?

[ VORYN WOULD BE BETTER FOR THAT, RUBY!!!! ]

She... made a request of me. And she feared that it would be dangerous for me to go alone, since I can't fight, so she thought it best that I go with other Shard-Bearers.

[ in the realm of the physical, Rudbeckia is trembling, and she cannot hide this from the Communion. ]

I know I'm useless. I know that better than anyone. I'm weak, and cowardly, and foolish. [ this is bedrock certainty in her mind, foundational in its truth. she isn't ashamed of it, although a bitter taste spreads on Set's tongue. there's nausea churning in her gut, and the next words she speaks are painful, like drawing shards of glass from her skin. ] But I... W-When I speak to monsters, they can understand me. They're drawn to me, and... sometimes I can get along with them.

[ she thinks of those that didn't: cowering from a dullahan, a gargoyle. but she also thinks of something soft and warm, a protective embrace. what she's scared of isn't the monsters—it's the act of telling this to Set, what his reaction might be, how others could try to use her if they knew. ]

I've never... told anyone. But Cetina wants me to...

[ her heartbeat has become deafening; she trails off, trying to catch her breath. ]

[ Rudbeckia de Borgia has told him since the beginning that she is a useless thing. Kept from education that would benefit her station, clearly scrambling to survive in a world deeply hostile to her, and lying through her happily bared teeth. No one could be as persistently pathological as her, Set knows. She's too quick to deny ability, too bright when she begs to be of service in exchange for shelter — and really, it is a character fault(?) of his own that he never pursues more than is offered, unless there is reason to.

Until now, there has never been reason to. Her bitter fear hits the back of his throat, unbidden as an unwanted memory, and he resists the urge to rub his fingers down his neck in reality. This is not something she wanted to tell anyone, it seems. ]

I could think of no one more useful in this endeavor than you, then. Ruby, in this moment, you may be one of the most vital individuals who could join us in Alenroux. My greatest concern went to the longevity of plan, after all. Alenroux is known for monsters, and we have not the might nor number of forces to subjugate them all. With you, we may be able to change that. Open communication with the beasts instead of wasting time and energy fighting them.

[ Set's mind is —

it is a nightmare to behold, the sudden explosion of light and thread that fills the atmosphere. The connections he begins to draw, spreading across a canvas he has bound to a mental surface and filled with ancient, penned notes, covered with hovering orbs of energy. Different colors, some stable and some shooting off anxious flares like the sun itself.

His war table. The mental map of all things relating to Kenos: people, psychology, positions, power. In one brief moment, it is there. For a moment, he is more than just the persnickety, hedonistic god he presents himself to be. And then he slides it aside, wafting it away like smoke. Drawing towards her in Communion, until he has crept so close that he can place his touch — light — upon the ends of her fingers. ]

But, do you want to do this? If you do not, I will protect that choice. If you do, I will protect you in the field. Either way, I know the value of secrets and I will not betray yours.

[ he'll come to her defence if she doesn't want to go through with this? even if other people learn that she could have, for once in her wretched life, been useful and she simply decided she didn't feel like it— he'll shield her from that? he won't be angry, or disappointed, or use it against her later as a collar and leash?

Liar. ]

I want to. This is the only thing I can do, so... I-I want to help.

[ it's not as though she feels any obligation to protect creatures that she's never met. the reason she was so fond of Popo was that it protected her gently, when nobody had ever done so before. that was a miracle; she doesn't expect anything will ever be that kind to her again.

this is about survival. if she does this, she can give Set a reason to keep her. ]

Cetina gave me a list of people she thinks I should take with me, but you're the only one I really know. [ in the Communion space, she shows him the list: Akua Sahelian, Vander, Byleth Eisner, Claude von Riegan, Dimitri Blaiddyd, Liem Talbott. ] It's probably troublesome to be wholly responsible for my safety, so if you think we should bring more people...

[ ruby you are the shittiest fucking girl, take the w ]

Then, I will help you accomplish this. Afterwards, you will not be allowed to say you are useless or unhelpful, however.

[ Because it will be a bold lie, instead of one of Ruby's secret ones; she'll become known for it, and that is what also makes him think. Set has always prepared for long-term situations, despite being good at focusing on the hedonistic immediacy of his desires and violences. Ruby will become known for this ability, which means. Eyes will be on her, from that moment forth; not just Meridian and Zenith eyes, but the eyes of the others in Kenos. Like Aetós. ]

They could all be useful to you. Akua Sahelian is a bombshell, in more ways than beauty; she spoke to me of her abilities in the isles, the ability to manipulate around her. She was nearly on the level of a god in her world, and is driven to support Meridian without fail. Claude is a clever tactician, and he and Dimitri both prioritize the sanctity of life and the protection of the vulnerable and weak. Liem Talbott has the personality of stale bread, but a retinue of useful abilities and a heart that skews towards goodness as well. If anyone, I would recommend you stick with Claude or Dimitri, as they seem more likely to have the manners and mindset to defend a young woman with a vital ability.

That is, if and when I am not around for you to follow. Otherwise, I am the naturally your best choice. We may be able to meet with them all, if you like. Or target the ones you feel would be most useful to you.

[ she listens to his assessment of the other Meri, but her mind lingers on the first declaration. she won't have to declare herself useless; people will realise it themselves, in time. but still... ]

... This ability isn't as useful as you'd think. It's not like there's a guarantee that a creature will listen to me, not any more than a human would.

[ there is a definite feeling that Ruby wishes to be unclear about this next part. the words stick to her, and she peels them off with trembling fingers; the instant they leave her grasp, she feels sick with fear, and desperately wants to take them back. she's being too bold, too honest, too demanding, too vulnerable— ]

I know that this isn't something I can expect to keep entirely secret. But, if I can... I don't want it to be well-known either. People will expect more than I'm capable of, and I don't want to disappoint them...

[ there is a wordless addition, too, that she allows to escape her stranglehold and cross the Communion: she won't protest being treated as a tool, but she does not want to be a weapon. if someone ever demands her to command these monsters like an army, she will take the inevitable beating a hundred times over instead. ]

Nor do I want you to be well-known to anyone.

[ He wonders it, even as his brain begins to churn out methods, thoughts, machinations. He is a wicked, tricky thing and has no issues planning out ways for Ruby to continue to fly under the radar, hidden behind his influence. That, due to her obedience and her weakness, ought to be his duty as both a man and a god. She is — entrusting him first, with this information. Not entirely willingly, but she has chosen him.

The cacophony of her resolution, her conviction to be willing to bear the pain she has struggled to avoid? That seals the deal, as far as he is concerned. Conviction has always been a thing he is fueled by, pushed into action by. ]

There must be a way to obfuscate your ability, regardless of whether it proves helpful or not.

Would you want to devise a lie with me?

[ a pause. ]

Um... Maybe? I-If you think it's a good idea?

[ she nearly said but I'm not a very good liar, except she's worried Set won't let that slide. ]

[ He's THINKING. ]

If you do not wish to be a target, perhaps we could say that the power is derived from one of the spells that Cetina mentors us in. I noticed a few that related to communication and summoning. If others believe it is simply a creative application of spellcraft, rather than an ability unique unto you... they may leave well enough alone, and not dig beyond that.

Preserving your truth, and ensuring you are no more special than anyone else who might learn the spell.

... That might disguise the origin of my ability—no one would think I'm a monster, at least.

[ it doesn't sound like much, but it's plain that this is no small comfort to her. she'd rather not be marked by the reputation of being a witch or a demon, not when her only blessing in Kenos is that she's able to start with a blank slate. ]

But it doesn't change my utility... Just because it's something that can be learnt by others doesn't make me any less of a useful tool. The kinds of people that would have expectations and try to pressure me into using my ability in certain ways wouldn't back off because of that excuse.

Why would anyone think you are a monster?

[ It disorients him a little, to hear that Rudbeckia is concerned with what is thought of her power. She has always been a mousy thing, quick to cringe and scamper and kowtow, and Set has not truly thought twice of it before now. Now, as she voices the word 'monster', he begins to wonder. She is - among Shard-bearers, many of whom have wild, fantastical powers to begin with. They are not viewed as monsters. Although, there is an atmosphere that follows them all: some Kenos-natives fear what they represent, some glorify them.

He can guess Ruby's concern has to do with that, maybe? ]

With the origin disguised, we simply then need to make your utility as restricted as possible. Not hidden away. Restricted, as though your power comes with a high cost to you and those who might seek to use you. Anyone who would want to use you would look elsewhere for similar abilities, if the price is exceedingly high and the 'rules' you adhere to use the ability are dense.

Because I can talk to monsters. Because they seem to like me, for some reason. If anyone had ever found out about this ability back home, they would have called me a witch and I might have been imprisoned.

[ or executed, a fear which looms much larger even as it goes unspoken. ]

... But, that's a good idea. If I say that it's unreliable, too, that isn't even a lie. It's not like I can make commands, or promise anything will listen to me. To most people, it won't be worth the trouble. It'll be something just for you and me.

[ as though she really trusts him not to exploit her. ]

[ So after a probably very nice chat with Voryn (?), Quetzalcoatl does reach out through Communion to her favorite fighting buddy and fellow god. After all, Voryn seemed less than thrilled to learn there was "another God" in Meridian, and gee!! Who could that be!!

So, with all of the tone of a big sister here to scold a rude little brother, Quetzalcoatl is bursting into Set's Communion space. ]

Ay, Set!! Have you been being mean to people before I got here? You're only supposed to be the rudo in the coliseum, not outside!

[ who knows what he's up to when she comes bursting into the midst of his mind!! probably #plotting, as usual. ]

What! Mean!? If being myself is mean and rudo to someone, they ought to take it up with me directly! I will show them what it looks like when I am truly mean!

[ HUFF >:[

anyways ] I am no different inside the Coliseum than I am outside of it.

[ Well, that response all but confirms it, and she huffs a little in response. Leave it to the god associated with the same sorts of things as Tezcatlipoca to be just as much of a problem as her brother! Though she’s already much more fond of Set than him, so. ]

That’s the problem, then! You’re supposed to be putting on a show inside the Coliseum and then be someone to look up to outside of it! You don’t have to be the heel all the time, ¡híjole!

[ accidentally nailing his whole character arc but in the stupidest expression, oops. Anyways!! ]

No, when I was talking to Señor Dagoth, it made me realize some of the rumors I’d heard might have been about you! Have you been a troublemaker?

Edited 2023-04-12 16:07 (UTC)

Oh, do not believe all that Voryn Dagoth has to say. He is secular.

[ Said in the same tone that one might say, like: REPUBLICAN.

Also, honest as Voryn is, he is also a HUGE BITCH. Set adores him, but will also turn him into a kicky toy and claw him to ribbons. <3 ]

Have the other Meridian finally warned you against me, Quetzalcoatl? Have they told you I am traitorous? A troublemaker! I may not take such a hardline stance against certain matters, but I have never invited trouble to their doors! Ungrateful.

[ No, not a ~~Republican~~ secular person! There's definitely a feeling that's transmitted that's a light surprise as she realizes that she misunderstood Voryn's distaste, if that's it. Just a feeling of oh. ]

[ ...But this still does not discount the rumors she heard!! And how Voryn half-mentioning it put the pieces together for her!! ]

I didn't realize they were talking about you!

[ She hadn’t heard it from the Shard-Bearers, but more the average citizens of Springstar and most frequently those that were at the Coliseum or around Heliopolis. In those cases, they tend to be a bit more reserved since Set is intense and scary to them. It was always a bit more vague than directly referencing a god (that would make it too obvious) and tended to be focused on the hair color since it’s such a distinguishing feature for Set. ]

I heard that someone really angry tried to break into Heliopolis a couple months ago and I went “wow, that’s really bold!” but that’s a lot of trouble! The Meri are our—

[ She starts to get to scolding, but his words catch up with her a little more, so she stops. ]

Wait, traitorous?

[ So, it is coming to this already. He has hardly gotten to know his fellow divinity, and soon, she will be directed against him — Meridian will aim them at one another, a system of checks and balances and he is not yet strong enough to take her own, to drive her to submit —

The burn of his Discord tastes like poison, acrid and cold in the back of his throat. The idea of Meridian relying on another god to control him plagues him now, sits in the back of his mind and bares tooth and claw like a cornered animal. She could do it, too. She is bright and vibrant and easier to love. ]

Heliopolis is my home! The city I come from, upon my world. This place wears the name of it, stole the name of it!

[ He still harbors such deep hate, possessive and agonized, over the fact that Springstar's most illustrious core is called by the same name as his home. The place called Jwnw, the Pillars. The City of the Sun, the seat of the throne of gods and men. To some, it might be a foolish thing to get stuck on, but it causes him grief. A reminder of a place he was banished from, the ghost of it. ]

Yes, a traitor-god, Quetzalcoatl. That is what I am. Destroyer of kingdoms, slayer of kin. Zenith conspirator, I am sure they even whisper of me now. What, are you going to do something about it?

[ he's just so paranoid ]

[ As soon as Quetzalcoatl hears the bitter hurt in Set’s conviction, there’s an apologetic regret that comes through as a feeling so immediate that it can’t be anything but honest and earnest. It tempers her own response by taking out some of the fire of her response, and it’s somewhat literal. Her presence in Communion is like the sun, bright and far-reaching—But its intensity softens as she listens. ]

Oh… Set.

[ The way he talks about Heliopolis, she understands how it must sting, or enough of it. If it had been called Tenochtitlan, she thinks it would hurt her too. It would be a reminder of what’s gone, of course, but having it replaced by something she can only imagine is nothing like his Heliopolis is cruel. Unintentional, because she’s more forgiving than Set, but painful.

By the time he finishes his explanation, her presence is gentler. Rather than a sun that’s scorching, it’s a warm, enveloping presence. It’s a blanket on the shoulders or sitting next to a fire on a cool night. ]

I’m not going to do anything about it, no. I might have come to scold you a little about being nicer to mortals, but that’s it!

[ She sighs, but it’s definitely at herself, not him. ]

I don’t know much more than the basics about you and your divinity, Set, and I don’t know how much you know about mine. We oversee two lands that are far apart, right? [ Her tone lightens for the rhetorical question, but it’s quickly back to a more serious one. ] But I can hear it in your voice how you miss Heliopolis, so I am sorry for being rude about that. I didn’t know.

[ She can at least give an apology easily, and the sincerity is without question. ]

So, you want to help Meridian and be able to bring back your home. Right?

Scold me? As if.

[ It is not that he thinks Quetzalcoatl as incapable of such a thing, but in his finite experience with fellow gods ( and all of them, denizens of the Levant and neighboring countries ), he can only believe that she, like his own family, will seek to subjugate. To control. To levy blame upon him, with his temper and his secretiveness; to misunderstand his loyalty, and the fact that though he has pledged to Meridian, his priority will forever be Egypt. No matter what, he would always do what it took, for the land that he existed as.

Consorting with Zenith was, arguably, one of the most innocuous of acts.

She claims she is here to scold him a little, something about being nice to the mortals — and he cannot believe it, not even as the weight of her warmth envelops his overheated, burnt Soul. Not even as he thinks of spreading himself thin across the whole of the desert, each grain of him basking in Ra's fathomless light. His family would have scolded him, once. Now, he knows them to only blame. A foreign goddess with no love for him could not scold like a sibling.

Quetzalcoatl's sincerity, her divinity, is unquestionable. That is what slows him. He doesn't know what to make about her apology, and it is there, in the faint shock, the estranged parts of him that have never been told 'I am sorry', because blame is easier to lay upon a war god than forgiveness. He can handle blame, it is his due. Her apology is — it is strange, and he feels it is misplaced. It isn't as if she would be wrong, if she came to stop him on Meridian's behalf. He'd just be hurt, that even a fellow divinity would not understand. ]

I do not know anything about you. Save for that you are divine, and that you have a connection to the sun itself. But, make no mistake — I seek to bring back my home. All things end, and will be reborn, but there is a wrongfulness about this destruction. Do you think one of these mortals will be able to do a proper job of it? They are born of sorrow.

[ She ignores his (tsundere) dismissal, since she’s already quickly given up on that. Not… that it’s completely off the table, of course, but maybe not now. The rumors she’d heard were still true enough that she thinks that he could be nicer and less scary, but it’s not something to push on.

The rest of what he says is more important anyways, since there’s recognition and the relief of familiarity that comes with his perspective. With her brightness and her clear love for humanity, the response probably isn’t what he’s expecting. ]

That’s precisely it! I see the same thing! If this were the end of things, then we’d know, right? It’s sad, but that’s just the cycle.

[ She’s partially explained it to others (much to their confusion), but Set at least gets the fuller explanation. In part, she just thinks he’s better suited to understand it because the scale at which things worked for gods was simply different and difficult for humans to understand. Literal things that happened and metaphor blended together in a way that they struggled with, because that was simply what it meant to be divine in the world. Her world, at least. ]

We’re distant divinities, you’re right. So, I’ll tell you. In the lands of my domain, we’ve created and destroyed our land four times already. I’ve been the sun, life-giving and creating, and I’ve also been the one to strike down the sun when it was my brother Tezcatlipoca and ended all things. I love humanity with all my heart because I was the one to give them life this time, but eventually, they’ll have to be wiped away for what comes next.

[ It’s the short (and, honestly, more flattering) version, but the actual process of the cycles of the Suns isn’t what matters for why she’s telling this story to Set. For one, she just wants to show she understands and agrees. For humans, it would be values that totally contradict, but especially for the gods of the Aztecs, it doesn’t. Creation and destruction are intimately intertwined, and it’s why her people also had to give blood in return to the gods that had created them. But of course, she doesn’t get into that part of things.

Second, there’s the part that matters to her most. In her easily loving heart, they’re already friends because they’ve shared the excitement of an excellent fight and the bond of the responsibilities of divinity. But if that’s too much to ask, then— ]

…But not yet. That’s the point, right? If there’s even a little hope that our homes can be saved, then that’s why we’re here. So long as you believe in saving your home, then we’ll be allies.

[ With her, there is no need to articulate the fine details of something as innate to a god as knowing the perspective they held. Though he had bound himself to Meridian for the sake of a vow, he continued to nurture the connection in the same way that he nurtured the plant nurseries within Greenwood Yards, the crops upon Alenroux — because it was against his nature, but not so far from it that he would be unmade. He can rationalize using the power of life, because in the absence of the Ennead, he is all that stands between the complete collapse of reality and its continuation.

Some might think that his and Quetzalcoatl's vision of ends and beginnings, divine right and might, were mere arrogance. That they were untrue things in Kenos, that they existed sans the two of them — when really, they were them. She is the sun, even if she stands alongside it. He is the desert, even if he walks upon it. So, when she says that she had destroyed her land, only to restore it? He understands.

They're not contradictions. There is no "evidence" that they are liars, nor divorced from being the archetypes that they are. There is no "gotcha" moment for any mortal to have, pointing at the fact that war existed in their own world without the presence of Set, the god of war. She's a relief. A balm. He is wary of her, but — ]

Of course we are allies. Provided you do not aim to subjugate me to your will, [ he means 'make me be nice to mortals', really ] or seek to obstruct the way in which I seek to accomplish the same task, we are allies.

[ He needs to get that out of the way. Divine allies one day can easily be divine rivals the next, and back to allies, without it being contradictory or strange at all. The other Meris have a bit of a time, keeping up with the flow of a god between their parameters... ]

— Ra, my grandmother. She is the sun, the light of creation that illuminates Kemet. She is the only being able to unmake Kemet, and return it to the primordial sea to be reborn. I cannot think that my world is gone, either, not without her permission — I can, however, believe that it could be... removed from time.

[ Set’s (a little surprising!) easy acceptance of their alliance sparks a warm joy, even with the caveats he applies. He would be completely within his right to think of her as a little simple, but that’s Quetzalcoatl for you. Even in her own pantheon, she wears her feelings more openly than most. ]

Mm, I won’t force you to do anything, I promise! But I can give advice, right? So, that’s what I meant by being nice! [ She’s simple, but at least insightful enough to pick up on the implication there, or at least guess at it. ] If you’re too grumpy, it’s scary!

[ She laughs warmly, since she’s teasing just a little bit. Characterizing Set as “grumpy” is probably a little of an understatement, but… She’ll at least move on from that subject, at least for now. She does have questions and a little concern over him claiming to work with Zenith, but that’s something they could talk about later, she thinks. She doesn’t want him to get defensive and withdraw completely, so the hope behind their faction’s promise is a better subject. ]

I think about the same. For my family it’s… Hm, it seems a little more complicated than other pantheons because of how our people believed in us. [ DON’T ASK, SET, IT’S FATE SHIT!!! ] But together, we’re all teotl, the expression of divinity and power, so we can all make and unmake the world. It could be unmade outside of us, sure! But then <>teotl itself would be gone, so my existence would go with it, you know? So, that’s why I’m sure. It’s out there, somewhere.

[ And, of course, she has to add: ]

…But tell me about your grandmother a little bit! If she’s a fellow god of the sun, obviously I’m curious! Is she like me at all?

You say that now.

[ It won't take much, in his experience, to lead Quetzalcoatl to the conclusion that the only thing that she can do is force him into compliance. It not woe that has lead him to the conclusion that he is entirely incomprehensible, even to other gods, but experience, fact. Despite being made in the image of an orderly world, he had been given the power of one who would forever defy it; a god designed to carry the thankless burden of providing meaning to everything. Not even Ra herself had such authority. And Set, within Kenos, was kept far from such dominion.

Instead, he coveted war and disorder. The confusion of those with weak hearts and the conviction of those who clung to their desires; had he Anubis's shard ( — had he Horus's ), he would find no further meaning in playing dutiful Shard-bearer. True anarchy would reign from him. True anarchy might yet, if his deep paranoia consumes him... #yikes. ]

— yes, it is like that. Had the unmaking been full and true, I would not be here. I have yet to meet anyone before you, who truly comprehended the meaning of a divine presence. It is uninspiring, to know that only another god knows of it. Some of the other Shard-bearers were so naïve as to think that my sovereignty was delusion [ what a relief for kenos, that he's got people who acknowledge him, even slightly..... ] and not proof. I am proof that Meridian is correct. Yet, Zenith's conviction that the opposite is true is a matter I must investigate, still.

[ Two things can be true. After all, gods are impossibly contradictory! ]

Ra is the first and chief among us. She gave birth to herself, and in turn beget the lineage of the Ennead and the land of Kemet. I find her difficult to understand, she is the epitome of divinity and the furthest removed from the humans that my siblings and I ruled directly. I find her — funny. Annoyingly so. [ That's because Ra and Set think alike, about the world and their role within it. Even if he covets human-like attachment to family and lineage, in the way she rejects it. ] I can see similarities between the two of you, unfortunately. An inscrutable attitude of delight and joy, and —

[ He leans in, without preamble. Close to the waves of Quetzalcoatl's bright, golden hair in order to sniff her with his ever-sensitive nose; like this, he can smell the unique presence of her divinity, the elements of her like a peerless structure — each one a hint into her nature. ]

You are both very warm.

Edited (html no,,,,) 2023-04-30 19:09 (UTC)

[ It’s easy to imagine how his divinity being considered a delusion would bother Set. Even if she’s wrong about the full extent, she’s actually not far off with what she imagines. It’s something she knows (noticed?) about gods of other lands. Their divinity is fundamentally different from her own because the gods of Mesoamerica are both more and less than those distant gods. They have a different sense of pride when it comes to the mortals that believe in them. ]

Aw, don’t be so hard on them! Mortals are… Well! They don’t know better, right? The way we work is really hard for mortals to understand, I’ve noticed. That’s why we have priests to interpret things for them! Or, well, did, I guess. [ She laughs ] I loved my teopixqui, but it’s also probably better to not have any here!

[ Since even if it’s not a conflict for her, personally, how time has gone on since the height of her people’s empire as well as some of the knowledge from the Throne makes it clear: the human sacrifice part of rites wouldn’t go over well…

She listens attentively as Set describes Ra, and she smiles, warm and easy. Considering how easily she had taken to Set, of course she’s interested to hear about a god that shares her particular domains. It makes sense that they would have similarities in their personalities, for what could the sun be but joy and life? And, so, she simply laughs as Set takes a whiff of her.

There’s warmth in her presence, but in the smell are the other parts of her domain. She’s wind and lightning, clean and crisp as the air before a storm. Technically the sun was only a former domain… But the association stuck with Quetzalcoatl far more than it did to any of her other family members that had been the sun. ]

Sí, it sounds like we would definitely be friends, then! Or at least be interesting! My father, Tōnacātēcuhtli, he created himself like she did and the heavens, but then we four kids did all the hard work! So, it sounds like I’d have plenty in common!

[ But, Ra isn’t here. Set is, and so he’s the recipient of her affection. Since he’d smelled her hair, a very normal thing to do, she responds teasingly in kind by giving the crown of his head a playful ruffle. With all of the hair he has, it’s not quite as effective, but it’s the thought that counts. ]

And annoyingly funny is pretty good! If I get to be that, I’ll be muy contento!

[It’s very fitting to Mamoru, that there’s a deity that is the god of War and Sand equally. Even though sand is but a humble and unassuming tool, often overlooked by those who seek grandeur in arcane rituals or mystical enchantments, it is still something that ancients would use to sharpen their blades. Bladesmiths honed the edges, stripping away impurities and imperfections, and repetitive motion became symphony, resounding with the essence of their purpose. The sand is a conduit, a bridge connecting the weapon to the vast expanse of the battlefield.

In a way, the swordsman wishes to be no different from the sand. It tested the metal's mettle, wearing away impurities and revealing its true potential.

The invitation couldn’t have come at a better time.]

Set.

[It’s not a question. Mamoru knows he’s there.]

[ Though his domain is beyond that of simply sand ( it is the desert itself, and he personifies that realm; the embodiment of all that is the antithesis to life and order ), Set is as mutable in personality as he is in body, in shape and form, and the sand he carries with him — while only his body's weight in volume — was intensely deadly because of his ability to shape, reshape and utilize it in creative ways.

He has always wanted to face Mamoru again. Not as wrathful and stricken as he had been when they first grappled in the Coliseum, but of his own will and volition. It is why he forms in a soft whirl of that sand, positioned a leap away from Mamoru in the dark of the alley. The shape of his divine mask atop his head already. ]

Hijikata Mamoru. [ His voice is rough, rasping. But, oddly fond. ] I will fight you with all I currently have, so I hope you are prepared.

[ aka he's coming at mams with all the force of his godhood allotted to him atm ]

[Everything feels so strikingly cold, the scent of petrichor coating the back of his throat, compared to what the Coliseum had been.

A cool-headed, divine-touched Set seems terrifying, even more so than the bloodcurdling mania that he had exuded in the fighting ring, and Mamoru's breath hitches, his lips tugging up, a flurry of something hitting the inside of his ribcage.

It's a shame that they chose a place with such a narrow space. Even if Mamoru wished to christen his newest blade, a naginata, he knew he'd be at a high disadvantage if he used it.

Instead, the latch on his walking cane clicks. There's no mop to use this time, no makeshift weaponry, no hollering outside the arena.] I always am.

[Come at him, Set.]

( late afternoon is just beginning to bleed into early evening when makoto reaches out to set. he gets the sense, despite not using Communion much since his arrival in kenos, that he doesn't enjoy this form of communication. he additionally gets the inclination he's never appreciated the immediacy and intimacy it can offer between the thoughts and feelings of Shard-Bearers, to the very contents of their souls, but... he has his own ways of dealing with it.

the young demon's presence is an odd one, obfuscated in ways mirrored and deployed from methods and tactics he had picked up in hell. a defensive array of shifting reflections; a man behind a mask; a message in cipher; a note passed beneath a closed and locked door. this is the impression he gives, and it also gives the sense of having little to nothing to do with who he reaches out to. it all reflects back inward, to either define the demon known as M or at the very least describe the lengths he would go to to protect what it is he feels is at the core of himself.

and even still, he can feel the heat emanating from the psychic connection to set; endless sky and sand. )

Master Set.

( the words give the strange indication of those written rather than those said; the script is elaborate, looping, well-practiced. )

Might I inquire as to your available this fine evening?

[ Akin to letting something large and destructive loose amidst lace and glass, Set never fails to collide bodily with Communion forged between himself and others. A purposeful swipe of tail, the curling of claws against a nice carpet or well-tended floorboards, the collision of a body against a door — threatening to tear the thing down at its hinges, splinter it to pieces. ( He had turned his fists against at least eight people, masked and unidentifiable, in order to find someone who had hidden their own identity at a masquerade — hiding from him is, at best, a game he feels he is challenged to play. ) ]

M.

[ Despite his obvious presence, he picks the subtle presence up as if indulging himself in secrets and ciphers, rather than being entirely capable of such things. For few think those with bold, colorful personality are capable of their own unseen machinations, as if being obscene and vulnerable were not as much a mask to wear as one who always remained in the shadows.

He sounds pleased to hear from the young creature, waving the 'letter' upon which Makoto's sense appears. Reading from it, as if receiving correspondence with a penpal. ]

You may, in fact, inquire. I will even deign to tell you — I am enjoying a free schedule tonight.

[ Himself and all his machinations and moving parts. ]

( the demon doesn't seem particularly moved by the behemoth presence that rushes to meet his own, curling around it with a crushing and almost possessive sort of force and power. on the contrary, he seems amused with this rousing attempt to circumvent whatever obfuscations he might interpose between them. they are the type, even in metaphysical space, that he feels equipped to deal with. because he is no stranger to the crushing coils of a serpentine body entangling his own, of lashing tails or curling claws — datenshou had been kind enough not to serve him to those guests of his establishment that had more excessively violent desires (he had always been sure to utilize those with dulled senses of pain and strong regenerative abilities for that), but that didn't mean that the clientele that makoto had kept had been strictly-speaking humanoid. for many of them, they were far from it.

and never once had the mask that he had worn while working in that place slipped. this, he is proud of.

if this is a game that set would take to with excitement and verve, then he is happy to entertain him. it's an interesting turn in his character, and something that makoto takes personal note of. most didn't have time or an ounce of care to deal with this sort of thing, but that set seemed to take such obvious interest in it... well, he is a god, so he would never allow himself to underestimate or limit his expectations of him, but it only serves as a further reminder of this.

his messages continue in the same way: )

Full glad I am to hear of it.

This evening, several of Zenith's Shard-Bearers are planning to travel to the city which takes up residence in the depths beneath Springstar, so they might continue the merriment of the afternoon well into the lawless night.

I was wondering if you would like to accompany me.

A victory jaunt? Ah, did you select Zenith as the faction that best called to your needs, M? Congratulations, if so. I hope your victory is welcome, if not as rich as it will be as you pursue your goal with gusto.

[ The idea of observing a collective of Zenites strolling through Springstar without heed nor consideration for their status among the citizens is one that tickles him, without a doubt. He keeps a finger upon the pulse of the city's comings and goings, if only because he has been involved in their community and culture more and more since his arrival. Known in the Coliseum, selected host by the Hieropoios to work on behalf of the city — he's transient in nature, and passionate no matter the task assigned to him.

He even pursues a vision, given to him by Zenith's leader, with gusto. So, for Makoto to arrive with this — he's very much already in agreement, solely based on the prick of bright, savage delight that rushes through him the moment the young demon speaks of merriment, continuation, and the city of the depths. Kowloon. ]

That aside, I would be delighted to be considered your plus one to this event. A victory is a victory, and ought to be celebrated while it can be. Is there a dress code to adhere to? You find me in rare form, willing to concede to convention if need me.

[ There is the sense that,,,,,, he'd have nothing to wear, though. ]

( there is a distinct pause. the impression of an odd, disquieted movement behind the screen he puts up between himself and set in this Communion. )

I believe it would be more apt to say that my decision was aided by the efforts of my peers.

( an overly-polite way to admit that he had been corrupted, though he continues to append: )

That having been said, I believe they were correct in doing so, not only because of my personal affinity to Zenith but also because I benefited from aid in crossing a threshold I might have been too apprehensive to commit to on my own.

( it's hard to tell with makoto, as shielded as he constantly efforts to make himself, his words, and his intentions, but he is truthful in this moment. he is, however, presently under the sway of some small amount of brainwashing in that regard, so whether this self-assuredness would continue... time would only tell.

but he had still been afraid of Harmonization, concerned that it would only open him up to spiritual injury like that which he had faced in horos — that which had resulted in his shard being cracked clear down the middle, precariously sealed in a way he still worries might prove susceptible in the future. )

My heart is both overjoyed and honored to receive this acceptance, and not to mention relieved to find you so sporting in this turn of events with regards to the Oracle.

( not that he had expected otherwise, given their conversation, but it was so easy to say such things — to have them come to pass is quite another matter.

though as he continues in regards to how he might dress... there is a pause, and then makoto gives the rare impression of an emotional response: amusement, soft and wispy and ephemeral as incense or smoke. )

Master Set, do I lie and say that there is, all so that I have the rare and remarkable opportunity to dictate your wardrobe?

I had a feeling that would be your fate.

[ There is no snide tone he takes, nor a sneer that curls at his tone; it strikes a spark, regardless. A knowing sort of sigh, the cavernous reverberation of a question: did he really know, was that what he saw in Makoto? All the same, Set coils throughout their joined minds and seems not at all bothered by the fact that Makoto had joined himself to Zenith. It means another competitor, another individual to assess for rewards and risks; he can begin that right now, with this polite invitation! ]

Of course, of course. Zenith put their best foot forward, twice over!

[ He's such a good sport, really! Though, it doesn't mean he's going to be resting on his laurels. The waft of soft smoke, however — it tickles along the seams of his mind. ]

— you know, I believe in spectacle. [ A mask, one that he dons easily.

Set is an ambush predator, one that pretends to be as flashy as a brilliantly-colored creature with a raucous cry. ] How could you fail to entice me by offering such a thing? To show up to a Zenite-strong affair, dressed by one of their newcomers and upon his arm? Were I to pass up, I might as well return to the Tree from whence I was brought!

( makoto is always dubious to those who believe they have confidence on just what sort of person, what sort of creature, he is. after all, this is what he's learned over several lives (albeit short ones) how best to shift, change, modulate, and obfuscate — just how much indeed does set believe he knows about this young, sphinxlike demon? how surprised would he be to reveal what truly lay at his beating heart?

through their Communion, makoto gives the impression of a laugh; it rings as a bell without sound. )

Do you, now?

( he's being tongue-in-cheek, considering how much drama, gravity, and bombast he has seen set conduct himself with thus far, and theirs has been a relatively short acquaintanceship. still, there's a sort of smug, cat-who-ate-the-canary sensation which emanates from the demon. he is never so eager to reveal much of himself to anyone, even if it's someone he is entreating company from, so he will keep it to himself that he's excited by the whole prospect. let's just say having personal agency over the bodies and appearances of others is a vested interest of his... )

Leave it to me, then.

( considering how he usually dresses, makoto can't help but wonder if set would end up regretting this (his version of Hell certainly had its own very specific fashion sensibilities, and for better or worse they have impressed themselves upon him in turn), but, nonetheless... )

Allow me some time to gather what I would need. Once it has been assembled, how is it best that I meet you, and where?

[ He is going to be utterly flabbergasted by what Makoto puts him in for the party, but placing himself into the young fellow's hands in order to gain access to a Zenith-focused party ( even an afterparty ) in Kowloon? It's another opportunity to be seen fraternizing with the other side in a controlled environment that he cannot pass up. He wishes to remain straddling that line, visibly and without mercy, before the eyes of all. The louder he can be about his ability to work across faction line, the more they will view him — as whatever they wish to.

It allows him to work unimpeded in other ways. ]

I am in your hands for the night.

[ Like Makoto, Set has particular ways of viewing his body — of how he uses it, rewards people with it, entices or repels others with it. He has been denigrated down to his most basic uses in so many ways, and now relies upon it as a tool, a method, something he lacks rights to at times. If it furthers his goal, he might as well use it. The worst has already happened, anyways. ]

Come to the Last Dance. It is a small venue just outside of Kowloon, before the city-proper but far enough from Springstar to enjoy the neutrality. There is an alley-tavern there, called the Seven Black Oaths. I have a booth there, all to myself, that I inhabit more often than any other place save the Coliseum!

( set might live to regret that, but we will just have to see.

he is passive and receptive in letting set dictate their meeting place; though he has visited kowloon several times, the place is a winding and labyrinthine maze of subterranean tunnels, and he's not necessarily confident that he would be able to navigate to the place that set describes without error or incident. so after a pensive moment his reflective presence presses closer in Communion, metaphysically reaching out as if extending hands into set's own thoughts, searching for that which he might be able to give without words that would help him find it: a mental map, images of nearby landmarks, the knowledge of the path that he most often takes when finding his way to this place.

if he does offer this information, makoto wordlessly radiates gratitude; his psychic presence retreats with something like a lingering touch. )

Give me three hours, and I will meet you there.

( and he does just that. three hours exactly after parting Communion with set with this message (if not a little earlier), he approaches the booth which had been indicated, dressed in an elaborate way (with his head still attached, mind) that makes him rather conspicuous on these kowloon backstreets, though perhaps not so much so here in the Last Dance as he might have been elsewhere. he carries with him a bag over one arm and a garment box tucked under the other, though this doesn't stop him from marking this moment of their reunion with a smart and well-practiced bow. )

Set, good evening. ( he straightens up to regard his companion with a lidded gaze and a feline smile; the young demon himself typically augments his appearance with precious little make-up or none at all, though tonight he has accented the eeriness of his eyes with sharp liner. his hair is drawn up in an elevated imitation of its usual style, looser and fastened with an extravagant length of ribbon and a piece of jewelry that matches his ensemble. ) I'm almost ashamed to admit that I haven't had the pleasure of exploring this part of Kowloon before now! What a fascinating place. ( his smile widens a notch. ) I believe it becomes you well.

[ Who knows what kind of things he'll come to regret. For now, all he has to do is outpace them! <3

When the wordless request arrives, he directs Makoto to the most open path that is possible to take — the one with the least amount of turns, corners to disappear behind, and the long alleys which will leave him fully on display as he walks through the Last Dance's sprawling alleyway communities and patrons. Not because he seeks to humiliate the young demon, but because he also maintains the neutrality of a location that ultimately is a neutral setting, rife with citizens from both Springstar and Highstorm, and many a Shardbearer as well.

Handing him all the secret connections and dark corners to slide unseen in? Nobody will ever receive such information from another, they will earn it with their own patronage and presence, if they so desire it. The dark, smoky-laden den that Set prefers to spend his time in is draped in dark veils, starry metals sparkling in the dim firelight cast by bronze lantern — the Seven Black Oaths is a lounge that serves as waypoint for secrets, occultic allure and heady, mind-numbing hookah smoke.

And Set, lounging resplendent and barely-clothed as ever ( except, that by his culture's standards — he is! ), awaits his fellow and the surprises that are in store for him. ]

Oh, you come with more than I expected — ! M, what is all this?

[ He presses his hands together in a resounding clap, eyes brightening as he leans forward out of the comfortable sprawl he'd been in. ]

The whole of the alleys are the Last Dance, artist and erudite alike love to come here and comingle their passions to create all sorts of alluring features and showings. Nothing has much permanence, save for a handful of old haunts — like this one! I believe most individuals with restrained mien and secrets come to love it for what it offers them. A grand place to sit back, observe and become anonymous. I could speak for hours on it! Come sit, tell me all about what you have planned!

( the path, however straightforward and pedestrian, is accepted graciously — makoto is certainly not one to expect or demand one reveal well-earned secrets without at the very least offering something in exchange for them, and as he would trust that set would similarly not offend him with such a demand, he doesn't make one in turn. as it is, he enjoyed his stroll through the Last Dance's more common route, colorless eyes glinting in the low light like that of a nighttime animal catching in a beam of light. makoto, having always felt estranged from the concept of home, drifts through as he had felt on the streets of tokyo, in the dirty alleyways of the slums of Hell — he feels, by nature, faintly misplaced and transitory, a near-constant tourist even where he should feel that he belongs. it's not always a bad thing. it can offer the faint sense of wonder and appreciation that one can get when a stranger in a strange land, even if he has never truly put down roots in any one place to feel content. peace. belonging.

perhaps if J hadn't thrown him into datenshou's brothel, that might have been different. but Hell is no easy place to survive, and he had decided it a suitable enough crucible to forge his ward into something that could weather it. now, makoto understands his master's decision, even if he still loathes him for it.

if makoto will spend some of his free time in these shadowed, smokey corridors, better learning the landscape and those that frequent it, then that's all to be considered in future. for now, he joins set, setting what he had brought along with him down nearby. )

You'll see soon enough, ( he replies with a feline grin. )

Later, then. I'd love to hear you recount some of the more interesting curiosities you've seen here. ( as for what he's brought... patience, set, patience. ) Before I show you, I wanted to explain to you more about the Hell I come from. For context, you see, so that you might better understand my perspective. Now, my version of Hell is but one of many, ( he's already discussed similarities and differences with sebastian, and he's certain any other demon might claim theirs unique from the two they hailed from as well, ) but it has laws which I quickly had to learn to live by.

The first, and by far the most important, is that it's not physical strength or prowess that defines a powerful and highly-ranked demon. For one to be immaculate in their appearance and demeanor, to have others fear and respect their name, to be utterly unshakable in the face of those who might try to outwit or faze you... that is what defines the royalty of Hell. The perception of their power is their power.

( an image of J flickers through his mind, but he does what he can to dispel it, wanting to focus. )

Though these are little more than taxidermied laws here in Kenos, I thought tonight to offer you the chance to try your hand at learning and applying a different skill set. And you needn't worry about any mistakes, for I will be there with you, every step of the way.

( though this will be his first time in this position, having always been one on another's arm up until this point... how exciting. )

[ something about this communion link will feel wrong immediately. It will feel far less like a simple linkup of minds with someone entering Set's personal communion space and more like something invading. The sands and their endless golden plane of dunes as high as mountains and as low as valleys along with everything in between— the deceiving serenity of the sand of Set's true nature starts to feel stripped somehow. The already present storm in the distance bellows louder, its thunderous hooves chasing lightning streaks suggesting it to be far closer than it appears.

The bright pale sand under the unforgiving sun starts to bleed dark suddenly, it becoming wet like the revealed beach shores as the ocean tide temporarily recedes back out into the open waters. The softness of the sand starts to dissipate, becoming heavy, sticky, and saturated until some places are like mud puddles. The water seems to bubble from the bottom beneath the sand itself, acting like torrential rains are suddenly falling upon land that can't seem to absorb enough of the liquid fast enough to keep the water from flooding.

The water itself is like furious panic— it reeks of wild unbridled anger and raw anxiety, a formidable beast that has never known such conflicting emotions and can only hurdle itself deeper into the chaos it unfurls.

Something is moving beneath the sand that should not be now, too— but every time it seems to become clear where it is and what it might be, the water trembles with such energy that the volatile waters somehow seem to drown the creature and all traces of it until it can be seen once again close to the surface somewhere else.

Despite all this, the invading waters do not dare try to overwhelm the desert by any means. In the vast perspective it, the water burdens a small area of the desert by tampering it with unusual and perhaps unsettling phenomenon. If Set were to approach it, he would find he doesn't even sink into the waters and will instead remain on top of them despite their visually apparent depth. The waves don't even seem capable of touching Set in his own mindscape, unless he wants them to. Should he look down though while standing on the water, he will see his reflection and then further—down down and further down into the abyssal waters beneath the wavy sands. The dark shadow of the unidentified sea creature lurks there, but looking even deeper past it he will "see" someone at the seeming endless bottom.

Childe's mindscape form is there, a strange black liquid corruption leaking like blood from an open wound and drenching his form until he's ultimately weighed down in place.

It'll be hard to get his attention, and this ordeal will quickly look like it's all unintentional— not the link itself but certainly the way it manifests. From Childe's point of view, he can't see that he's anywhere close to stepping into Set's haven, and the sensation of frustration and being lost only ripples through the water disproportionately amplified back to the surface as a result. The emotions felt in the water (all of them including the rage and panic that had been there from the get go) clearly are Childe's, too. There is no direct target for his tumultuous emotions, which only seems to make them more erratic.

—But Childe's voice will echo, it sounding like he's walking along the decaying edge of losing his fucking mind in a rampage of cutoffs insanity and simply absolutely terrified. ]

( What the fuck do you want from me—! )

[ It echoes like it's all underwater or far away, as if it's entirely outside of their communion link.

( And it is. )

The voice that follows now is a child's voice, one much younger than Childe is now (or perhaps not all that much younger at all upon closer inspection, especially as a human being) that is much clearer: ]

help. It hurts, I need help! Set— can you hear me? I can't find my way back! [ ( and perhaps there's more than one meaning to that than simply a literal one that will be noticed upon retrospect of events that have not yet happened. )

A small hand will tug at Set's shendyt (or whatever is closest to such that he dons in this mindscape,) and should he look he'll see a timid little boy (there's no mistaking who it is) next to him closing his eyes tightly and all tense like he's afraid to get the other's attention. When he opens his eyes and looks up, though, he's teary-eyed, confused and unhappy. ]

I... I messed up! I need help, please come get me before something bad happens!

[ There's a sudden loud strike of lightning that illuminates the entire (dark like a sudden solar eclipse) sky despite the sun having been scorching bright only moments ago and the sound of something cracking and shattering. That shattering seems to be the representative of their communion connection falling apart.

The sun returns with its warmth and light as if it never disappeared, and so is Set's mindscape now exactly as it was before without a single trace of the momentary hurricane of absolute havoc that invaded it. Childe's presence and those suffocating emotions have dissipated, like a roiling terror of a storm that has lasted only mere seconds before continuing on its restless journey.

Even so, it would be very hard to convince oneself that what occurred wasn't a cry for help of some kind. Childe at least certainly seems to feel threatened, enough that he maybe isn't even capable of controlling a stable communion link right now.

( either way pls come help big brother ~~he can't deal with real dates that weren't his idea~~ ) ]

[ Whatever is wrong with Childe is, deeply unsetting. The lash of water is not a deep threat to Set, except at a precise moment of saturation — but, it reminds him of the flooding of the Nile. The saltwater spill that would swell and swell, drawing forth from the land until it burst over embankment and began to drown the fertile land of the valley of Egypt. He has known his sister and the associated gods of the river to dismiss the lives of humanity with the simple application of divinity, and Childe's waters that drag at the edges of his mind call to him more naturally than Childe might ever know.

He does indeed come to perch upon the surface of the water, colliding with it like a hunting hawk descending from the skies upon fleeing prey. His heels digging into the water's surface and hands descending as if to plunge into the depths and try to reach for the young man suffocating among the corruption — the imagery is evocative to Set, beyond measure. It is the same sort of scene he'd observed when he had carved his own brother up and thrown him into the Nile, into Duat. It is the same sort of dark, bleak corruption that pervades his own soul, as it does Childe's own.

It's so sudden, that Childe's plea arrives and vanishes, that he hardly has time to call back — ] I am coming —!

[ Whether it's just Childe being dramatic or not, it doesn't matter.

He's come to feel a little protective of the young man, who had confided his worries in him, who had come to Meridian at his behest ( force, tbh ), and who had not received his fair dues among them. Set wanted more for Childe, more time and more welcome and more room to grow unfettered by Zenith's tranquility, but always — always, such things were within Childe's power to choose.

He goes. To that place in Childe's consciousness where he's called to, his home in Highstorm — a sprint across Kenos that delivers him to the young man's door as sand, pouring through the cracks of the front door, under it and between the hinges, through the keyhole and generally just — ignoring the fact that he might be able to unlock it. He bursts through like a dune, and reforms in the foyer of Childe's home with a snarl: ] Childe! Where are you?

[ Absolutely radiating menace and something protective. ]

If someone has laid hand on you against your will, I will have their head for it!

[ When Kaeya had called Zhongli back to Childe's home saying that the Harbinger had finally returned, Zhongli had breathed a month-long sigh of relief that finally things could start returning to normal. Or the shaky semblance of normal that had been established between the two. One look at Childe's expression had quickly dashed that thought. Oh dear. Oh my. Had Kaeya brought him here unwillingly then?

Then what was he to do? Zhongli had expected Childe to return earlier than this— not for him but at the very least to return for the shards of his siblings. But it seems like that is the furthest thing from the Harbinger's mind as he acts more like a prisoner in his own house than its rightful owner. Perhaps if Zhongli cautiously broached the subject.

Ah—

And here comes trouble times two.

Zhongli feels Set arrive before the sand swirls into his physical form, gold eyes widened slightly against the black. Perhaps he should not be surprised at all by the other god's immediate arrival if his passionate speech back in Springstar was any indication. Perhaps if Zhongli was in a more rational state of mind he would be appreciative that Childe had finally found someone to confide in, someone's protection he would freely accept.

It was unfortunate and poorly timed that Childe and Zhongli's bitter fight during the Blight had resulted in Childe rejecting Zhongli's divinity only to turn around and find solace in another's. And a war god of the earth no less. The irony rubbed like sandpaper against an open wound. ]

Master Set.

[ Zhongli's nod of deference to the other god's arrival is purely functional— a strict set of procedure to be followed rather than any actual welcome. ]

Please do refrain from trekking in too much dirt into this house. Master Childe is right here if you wish to speak with him and is free to go if he wishes.

[ Childe's attention snaps from Zhongli to Set as soon as Zhongli changes his aattention to the newest arrival. Dark eyes stare him down, but there's no hint of relief or annoyance in response to someone answering his cry for help. In fact, the blank expression is almost disturbing considering the emotional torrent in his call that had brought the red-haired war god here to be begin with.

That doesn't stop Childe's lips from curling upwards, though. Who wouldn't be delighted to know someone finds them important enough that they would come specifically for them? It's not quite the same, but it still has him recall the time Zhongli came back for him in this place, too.

How lucky Childe is to have to such fascinating entities straying from the path of the many to focus on him and his well-being, even if just for a little while! ]

...Oh~? You not only heard me, but you even really came for me. I'm truly touched. I called for help... but not for me.

[ The last word is practically hissed out as he turns back to Zhongli, hydro blades forming midair for him to curl his hands around them. ]

Edited (I pressed post by accident) 2023-06-30 22:44 (UTC)

[ What he sees, is Zhongli in the room. While he has come to acknowledge that some aspect of the other divinity truly cares for Childe, and aims to keep him safe, there is still such a deep schism between the two that Set cannot help but meddle in their affairs. Either that chasm will deepen, or they will find a way to connect with one another; for their sake, he honestly hopes that it is the latter. To be alone among either faction is to invite corruption of one's self, which in turn could breed zealotry. ]

Did they get fed up with waiting around and kidnap yo— haa?

[ The words are accusatory, but abort into a dry, incredulous sound as Childe lunges right for Zhongli with his weapons drawn. It's wild, feral of him — the part of this young man that Set had wanted to nurture in the caverns below, and had used to literally beat the Meridian energy into him. His eyes widen, pupils thinning into dark slits as he half-steps forth, hands extended as if to stop Childe from assaulting the man he cares for,

before drawing back. You know what? Good for him. ]

Maybe you should start by calling him by his name, Zhongli. You keep such defenses between the two of you, it seems like you really do not care at all to connect with him outside of formality and professional boundaries.

[ Yes, he is going to lecture the other god, even if the two before him end up in a fight. Set even steps back a pace, and examines his claws briefly while the two potentially get into it. No need to stop anything! If someone dies, they die! ]

Childe, you were crying and yelling for help — I do not care if you are Meridian or Zenith by your choice, of course I would come for you. Now! Would either of you explain what is going on?

[ This was not how this was supposed to go and yet somehow Zhongli is not surprised at all by this turn of events. It's long overdue really for Childe to turn his blade on him.

But still stubborn stubborn Zhongli had hoped that Childe would return from Springstar willingly. Not be dragged back here kicking and screaming by Kaeya and dumped on his own doorstep. Definitely not to have a rival god watching like this was some spectator sport.

Grimacing, Zhongli bites back the violence and unnatural itching under skin as he has spent more time away from Highstorm than is healthy. But that had been a necessity just like this had. He's tired and frustrated. Tired of the useless searching. Tired of the waiting. And most definitely tired of his complete inability to provide what Childe wanted. Let alone what Childe actually needed.

Do better by Childe, hmmm? Isn't that what Set had said?

(Perhaps he had approaching this all wrong from the very start.)

A shrill scraping echoes through the foyer as the hydro dagger clashes against Zhongli's shield, motes of gold criss-crossing around the god in a wide berth. The Harbinger gets nowhere near scratching him, a hairline crack appearing in the gold the only evidence of his attack. Not that Zhongli has any intention of giving him another opportunity as he reaches out to grab Childe by the throat and bodily throw him down onto the floor. ]

Childe.

[ Look, see. He can listen. He can throw away the formalities— connecting as it were. (Maybe if it didn't sound so sharp anyway.)

Zhongli slides the weight of his palm down to the center of Childe's chest, using his weight to pin him down for the moment. ]

If it is a fight you desire, you may have one but not here where things of immeasurable value to you might be destroyed.

[ He glances back at Set, half to raise his other hand in a showing that he will not escalate his offense any further and half to see whether or not he will intervene. Either way, the other god is being half-addressed. ]

Or you may return back to Springstar alongside your friend. I will not stop you.

Yeah, I guess—

[ Childe stops short only because he's grabbed by the neck and thrown to the ground. Which, ah... hurt or not isn't the point but the air gets knocked from his lungs for a moment, leaving him unable to respond, although he does glare at Zhongli rather accusingly of something when he says his name like that. His teeth clench the longer Zhongli speaks, though, and he'll snap back angrily as soon as he can— ]

Save it, Alberich already pulled that card! There's nothing here that's important to me! Those shards are fake. [ he doesn't know that, of course, but that's what the Meridian is telling him, that those shards were just chaining him down to a side he doesn't belong on, anyway. So what if no one accepts him, it encourages? It will accept him even if the shard-bearers of its cause do not. he doesn't need any of them for the power to change things, anyway, isn't that right?

His discord isn't as bad as Zhongli's, but the nature of the meridian and the nature of the Abyss don't coexist very peacefully, both attempting to take control of feeding on his emotions the more volatile they become.

Oh, he can just go back? Childe could just spit right now, but why should he be surprised? ]

Ah, just gonna let me go back after everything? And here I thought maybe you actually missed me. [ What's the point of doing anything but remaining Meridian, then,of the person he wants to care about him the most doesn't care which side he's on. He growls and if Zhongli isn't going to get out of the way he's going to go try and violently shove him away so he can get up because fuck this. ]

Get the hell away from me! I can't stand you!

— you two, absolute idiots!

[ In some scholars' interpretations, Set's name is invoked upon charms relating to love and pleasure, but he is no god of pacification and affection. Childe and Zhongli clearly have something deep between them, a chasm that cannot be bridged alone; they're discordant and having such trouble communicating, and Set thrives in the chaos and discord they're inflicting one another. He ought to incite it, drive a wedge between them so deep that even if Childe returns to Zenith, they'll always be at odds within their own faction.

Zenith, after all, was such a boring Kumbaya bunch. They needed some internal strife.

He steps forward once Childe is thrown onto the ground, reaching under Zhongli's arm to find Childe's cheek. To touch it with his own fingers. It means, for Zhongli, that the redheaded god of war is draped across his back; one arm drifts around Zhongli's waist too. He cannot do anything for either of them and their Discord, too. Childe is one step too far from a Savant, and Zhongli's own Aspect is in opposition. He can, however, offer some cutting words. ]

Zhongli came to find you, earlier this month. I scolded him for being so stiff with you, actually. Do you not hear him calling your name so plaintively now? If you are angry with him, you must tell him what you want. Not why you are mad, but what you want from now on with him. Tell him what he is to you, Childe.

[ And against Zhongli's ear, he whispers: ] Be less a god, show him the passion you harbor for him, Lord Zhongli. You want to connect with him, you want him — no matter where he goes, he can go freely... but, did it not feel terrible that he was not with you?

[ Zhongli's weight pinning Childe goes slack when he tries to shove him away. Ah, so Childe's pain ran so deep that he was disengaging from a potential fight, even one he himself had initiated. This was so far outside Zhongli's realm of understanding. Far beyond what he had the knowledge to fix. Perhaps he would be more grateful for the other god's company if Set were not as volatile as Childe in his own specific way.

Set was unpredictable in all the ways that Zhongli found the most difficult to deal with. He had brought Childe over to Meridian, believed Childe was more suited to stay among their ranks, became Childe's confidant and was now here to aid and protect him. It makes little sense for Set to want to mend the rift between Zhongli and Childe if his preference was for the Harbinger to stay and flourish within Set's own faction. So then what could be the reason? Was their something Zhongli was missing?

(Probably. If he had missed all the signs that had boiled over as a result of the last Oracle competition.)

Zhongli shifts to move Set's hand from his waist. Itching fingers wants to do the same for the hand that is touching Childe, but that is not his choice, even as his pride and his arrogance demand that he do what he thinks he right. How troublesome. That these sort of tense emotional situations did not always have a clear correct path. ]

I shall take you words under advisement.

[ And since Zhongli has nothing more to lose, why not make an attempt to show his passion. It was a strange concept since less emotions were usually called for more difficult situations. But where had that gotten him in this? Practically no where.

It was fortuitous as well that Zhongli did not feel particularly embarrassed about his desire to be close to Childe. ]

During those last days of the Blight, you told me that this would always be my home. You requested that I be not a god that acted in the best interests of their people, but your friend. So I have kept this place in your absence, and I have waited for such a time as you wanted to talk or when you were ready to come home.

There is a restlessness in you, a search for something that I do not know how to help you with. Something that Lord Set has seen in you as well.

How could I call myself your friend if I did not allow you to pursue such a path? I have missed you terribly. I do not know if this place can be called if home if you are not here to share it. And of course my preference is that you would wish to stay here in Highstorm. But my regret would far outweigh my loneliness if I stood in the way of you finding what you were looking for.

[ Perhaps not a particularly passionate statement, but look. He's starting to get there bit by bit. ]

[It has been a month, hasn't it? The sun still feels unwelcoming in many ways, as if her place beneath it was never really hers.

This is normal. She has only ever had the places granted to her by benevolence. She has always been grateful for them. She has always accepted and worked and prayed.

There's an easiness that betrays the discomfort of their Communion. It is never pleasant, but it is always easy, the way porcelain knows how to fall in a way that ensures it breaks, or the way an insect bites beneath the joint where it will always itch.]

Pagan God Set. I seek enlightenment. I don't ask a lot of questions, so will you indulge me today?

[It is so very gentle, the way she says it.]

[ He knows what he did to her ( what he did not mean to do / what he entirely meant to do ), and so, her call to him is answered in the best way that he knows how — the continuation of the lingering energy between them from among the roots. The elevated mania that sung through him with the feral energy of Meridian, dragging her down into the fires and fray under his will. ]

My self-proclaimed adversary, Caren! How are you! Have you been ingratiating yourself among your peers, or is there trouble brewing on my horizons?

[ He coalesces within her call, a masked man leaning into her space from behind her vulnerable back. Mouth curling. ]

I will always indulge.

You come looking for trouble. [She had named herself his adversary, hadn't she? She has only been given leave to be used to identify demons, not purge them. And yet...she had pledged to rebuke him in the most complete of ways.

The why of it is still unclouding for her, but the sunburnt energy that blasts against her like heat from an opened door is so familiar. They will never extract themselves from this.]

Are you talking about the man who asks if dogs should wear pants? [Her tone is flat. In the mental space they share, Caren's head tilts, the side of her neck exposed to the wretched monster of his mask.] Or is it the ambassadors you somehow think I should involve myself with?

[At least one of these things is his doing, he knows she knows he knows.]

Indulge me. Why am I here?

[ The ambassadors, definitely, are his doing. Though they speak of peace, they are born of the conceptualization done by a god of war; it is why he handed the mantle to Claude, in the hopes of giving it room to self-actualize and be useful. War only has meaning if some peace is permitted, and he has longevity in mind. ]

You did not pay attention to Meridian's manner? We need a girl wrapped up in virtues and sins among us — to better us. You were stunted in Zenith, there is no suffering there.

[ Slowly, he slips past her body. The press of his arm along her shoulders as he rounds her, to face her. Mindful of where the long maw of his mask is aimed, to force her to either duck below it or lean to one aside to dodge it. Battering ram of a man. ]

At least, no suffering greater than that which lies in Meridian's heart. I was hoping you might use the opportunity for yourself even. To chase what you want.

[Caren barely rises to the challenge, ducking without resistance to accommodate his presence. Though they're only sharing a mental space, her thoughts press beneath his chin, like a hand extended to jerk the dog's head up by its muzzle and create room for her.]

What is it that I want? [She can remember, half-conscious, his promises of martyrdom, of something more - grandiosity that has never been within her purview or her desire.] You don't want to be absolved, but I accept your sin nonetheless. Should I want to punish you? Do you want your fellows to suffer and repent? What?

[So... what is it that she wants? In some other ways, the question is genuine.

She doesn't want anything, after all. What Zenith gave her had never been about what they could give her.]

Have you never wanted anything for yourself?

[ That strikes him as a little gross, honestly. It reminds him of Amos, all too willing to cast down his humanity into the hands of someone else and allow all his decisions to ride on the will of another. Humanity had been born with freedoms not given to the gods, and to see anyone squander it feels like a waste to him; it is not quite jealousy that he feels, because he will always accept power over freedom, but it is a sort of disdain.

A disappointment. ]

— oh, I am not here to define your life, Caren. I am here to rip you up by the roots and see where you decide to find purchase. If you do not know of those you wish to love, or wish will, your feelings are insincere. Now that you feel, and know, do you still feel the same? Will you still save us?

I suppose being alive is enough. But if anything, there is a dream I'd like to have again.

[I hate when people who work hard get nothing to show for it. No, the words aren't quite right... and she can't even remember where she should have heard them in the first place, or if they were just a feeling, just a judgment that once passed her by.]

From what I've observed, it wouldn't make a difference where I am. Everyone in this world is equally pathetic.

[She lets her mental voice crawl up his chest, his neck - until it pinches his ear.]

You couldn't ask me to stay with words. Just what do you want me to see that your mouth couldn't tell me?

[Does that mean she is agreeing to stay a little longer, to see exactly what it was he appealed to her? Or is she simply going where she was pulled?]

They are, aren't they!

[ In some moments, Set is about as pathetic as the next. In others, he lords in his superiority over them. Neither moment stands in opposition to the next, and he is not hypocritical at all. There is a distinct confidence that he has in his path is the correct one, and everyone else is just insane; however, in his mind, were he to change his path, it would become the correct one as well — either Faction and their desperate Shardbearers would benefit from having his power aimed for their goal.

He snaps his mental teeth at her, clicking them shut close by her throat as he winds around her slender waist. A bruising embrace that serves to tug her back and into his arms, his curiosity piqued by her. ]

I want you to see how the energies of this world have been bent to twist our minds, the deeper we rely on them. They are strings attaching us to something that aims to puppeteer and mire us in dead end choices. I want your eyes to open. Perhaps, your love will prove greater and more true than that which is already on offer.

[ A brief smile. ]

That, and we have a Church that needs your attention. For better or worse.

[ john chooses the same place he'd encountered set last time for this. it had been suitable before, so it will be sufficient now as well. location isn't really a factor that matters as long as it's quiet and without distractions.

he's thorough, so he arrived early, knowing what preparation he needed to do would be time-consuming. john has no need for rituals, but wards are a different matter. he's been working on these for a bit to adjust his theorems to account for kenos' energy, and he's hoping they will hold out long enough to be useful. they are made out of blood and bone, and he is putting the final touches on the last one. the significance of the patterns they're shaped into isn't clear at a glance, but john seems satisfied with them.

a lot more of this is guesswork than he'd like, but kenos presents a unique problem. he's been in space and on different planets, but never in a place made up of islands floating in an astral sea — if that's even the whole truth — so, this is all new territory. it might actually be interesting to look into all this, engaging him in a way that hasn't for a very long time, but that all really depends on whether or not anyone will listen when he's through. ]

[ As if called by an unheard summons, Set arrives not that long after John does. It gives him time to gather himself, a thin layer of sand that drapes over the earth and roots in subtle rivers, difficult to spot but not impossible. One only had to have a degree of imagination, to consider what things Set might be doing at any given time; he does not speak often of his abilities, nor their adaptable nature, and definitely not any limitations he might have. This part allows him to watch, while John sets up his site.

Blood and bone, sigils that he does not recognize but is deeply enraptured by. It takes him little time to decide to take form, pooling sand into the shape of limbs — his elbows upon a root and hands propping up his chin, belly-down against the length of it, like a teenager girl that has been chatting away the hours of the night with her bestie. Though his hips and legs are forming more slowly, the dark line of his mask tilts to reveal the edge of his smile. ]

You look like you are having fun, John Gaius!

[ There he is, draped over the curve of one of those great roots, idly swinging his legs behind him as he observes the lay of the land. An ambush predator, laid in wait. ]

Should I remain here, or would it be permissible for me to come down now?

[ john gets the feeling he's being watched even without noticing the sand. imagination is not his best area, but he wouldn't expect someone like set to make an entrance like a normal person. why waste the opportunity to observe? john wouldn't. ]

I was a hell of a scientist once. [ no point in being modest. ] It jumps out occasionally, I suppose.

[ the bleeding wound he'd been drawing the blood from seals itself up easily, and the excess blood on his hands turns to dust and falls away like it was never there. ]

It's fine to come down; I'm finished with these anyway. It's probably overkill, but we're only getting one shot at this, and I feel better knowing I've done everything to tip the odds in our favour of finding everything we want to see.

I would hope so! Akua speaks fondly enough of her co-workers in the Garden, and their wealth of experience and skill. In part, that is why I am entrusting this process to you.

[ Because John Gaius is a good scientist, and because he seems hungry for this. Because he knows what it is like to see a world die, the price someone like him must pay for it ( which is not, to be said, the same price a god would pay — if even they paid anything at all ), and might have enough going for him that he won't abandon this one to its supposed fate.

Zenith's leader would call it "already dead", after all. Yet, had they not proven themselves able to thwart such ends?

Set pours himself over the edge of the root, once he's told that he can come down. A river of sand that flows powerfully towards John's ankles and stacks upon itself until the god's form once more steps forth from it. Gathering the man's shoulders between his palms, he gives him an excited little shake and gazes upon his foreign symbols and sigils. The devotion! ]

I am, in a way, entrusting myself to you, too. After I perish, I will need you to take care of my Shard — [ He knows he is one of the dangerous Shardbearers, a polarizing figure that some would leap at the opportunity to shatter or imprison. But, he also is one who aligns well with John's desires. ]

And once I return, I will tell you of anything I see, while I am gone. We can assess the information and determine a next step, together.

Does she? Well, if nothing else, I do have experience.

[ it's too late for modesty, but he hasn't really spoken to akua since the Oracle. they worked together on the cure, of course, but that was strictly professional. it's been awkward, which is to say akua is probably just fine; john is making it uncomfortable for himself because he doesn't know how to navigate personal relationships in a reasonable way.

for now, he watches set move closer. he's sand one moment and shaking him in the next, and john considers this is a strangely funny mood considering what's in store. it's not like it's sad or permanent, of course, but still. weird. ]

As soon as I'm finished, I'll return your Shard to the Tree. The thanergy is all I need, nothing more.

[ it's not like he has any particular scruples about what you shouldn't do to someone's soul, but he has no desire to tamper with set's. john won't repay acceptance with treachery. ]

Have you decided how you want it done? I'm open to suggestions.

[ Modesty? Who needs it. Set knows how they got here; John had observed him dying the death of some random Kenosian citizen, and in the height of his vulnerability — they had attended to one another, and put their minds together to accomplish something. Meridian and Zenith, working together on a matter other than their given, overarching goal — because, if neither of them were possible ( or both, or some other third thing ), every idiot who threw their whole heart and soul into service was going to have to deal with people like Set and John gloating.

And fucks sake, he wants to gloat SOOOOOO BAAAAAD.

He steps past John, into the shadow of one of the other great roots, tilting his head back so far that he nearly arches his spine in two — the Tree was impossibly large, a thing that would support the world. And knowing what he knows, researching what he has and connecting tenuous thoughts? He wonders what the tue identity of the Tree is, too. If it loves them, honestly, or seeks to manipulate them as well. Considering it is a Tree, and thus difficult to empathize with due to its lack of tangible, humanoid shape... he is going with the former. ]

You are a wonder, John Gaius. [ Spoken with a camaraderie that may be only for moments like this ( for he WOULD slaughter the necromancer wholesale in the next fight for the Oracle ), but camaraderie nonetheless. ] Without your expertise, we would be floundering into true shadows — perhaps this way, we will avoid the fate of our predecessors and truly change something. To do what you could not before, alone.

[ Below the dark line of his mask, his mouth curls. A soft thing? A sly thing? John might be on his way to actually saving a planet. ]

— I will do it myself. I will create an abundance around me before terminating myself, so that the conversion you seek will be exponential. What do you think? I still ask your wisdom.

[ he supposes he's glad he's being given a warning this time. it's not the first time someone has praised him, confident that he would succeed, fully intending to take their own life. it's not something he consciously thinks about, but there it is.

he hadn't succeeded back then. he hadn't saved anyone. not the people. not her. he can't help but see his annabel in the Tree, that vast presence he wanted to call alien, but only because he was still too human to comprehend it at the time fully. she was not alien at all, but parts of the same whole; like a fractal — the shape of a human soul is the same as the shape of the ten billion is the same as the soul of the planet that sustained them. it's the scale that reaches out and touches upon the primal fears in his head, the ones that are instinctive and hard-wired into the meat. john wonders if this will change him like it had the last time.

he's much more confident now, though, and for good reason. john had done this when he was still just a man. ]

I—.. yes. That will do fine.

[ it takes him a second or two to realign himself with the present. ]

Potentially advantageous, in fact. I have adjusted my theorems and made use of the wards, but a lot of this is hypothetical, given the uncertain nature of the Tree. If you handle that, I will have more freedom to focus on the work.

Then, together.

[ They're in it together, he means. Affirmed to their decision, the opportunity that has presented itself — given form in a moment's connection between them, heavy with disappointment, death and discord. Before he begins, his hand drifts down to find the ends of John's fingers and tug them up; as always, it is a bold gesture, one heedless of boundaries or propriety as he examines John's wrist for any sign of the dark lines that had spread from his fingertips before.

Set's own spine, long and pale and bare, still has the dark lines upon him. They have begun to spread, in the wake of his decision to perform the rite with John. He wishes to be done with it, before they sap his strength completely. His own Discord is at a low, carefully tended to in preparation for the moment, and a quick, warm burst of his innate energy licks at the other man's fingertips to test him for extensive Discord as well. ]

I will have a talk with our audience, first. You will know when I am ready to begin, okay?

[ It will be very, very obvious. ]

You may have a better chance of understanding the Tree better than any of us can, so I hope it shows you something useful.

[ he has prepared for this, which has meant some degree of self-care. he takes his work seriously. he has kept his own Discord low, and the lines that branch from his fingertips upward are about as managed as they're going to get for someone whose thoughts turn dark as often as john's do. it's a variable he's accounted for because his physical body hardly matters in this process. a minor weakness is negligible. he anticipates both will worsen before this is over, so it's best to start from a good baseline.

he isn't averse to the touch, growing to expect it to a degree. it's just how set is, which is more tolerable in every way than it would have been if set were human. ]

Say when.

[ he finds himself in an unusual place; john speaks very flippantly of death, but he does feel them. he enjoyed destroying his enemies because he wanted vengeance badly, but it's different when it's like this. there is no pleasure in this, even if he is eager for answers. their prior encounter was enough to establish camaraderie, and now they are taking the next step. whatever they uncover will be theirs, and they will be in this together. even knowing set will return, he can't help but feel bad that he has to die. a sudden death is violent even when it's painless. it's a shock to be torn loose from one's body suddenly. would it be different for a god?

he retreats within himself, the human part of him buried beneath all that isn't. now is no time to feel when he needs to see. it's a subtle shift, but set has felt that part of his soul before. now, he's ready. ]

[ With Set's inferiority complex contesting the innate knowledge of his superiority, he won't be arguing against John's words. Perhaps any Shardbearer might have the right ( or ability ) to understand whatever the Tree might like to convey, it is only that Set has the benefit of an inhuman mind and a spell that allows him to speak directly with plants to assist him in getting a leg up. He rolls his neck from side to side, warming himself up as he advances on the Tree of Life — ] Do not worry, John Gaius. You once said that it was the side with the god of war that would achieve victory. In this moment, I am on your side.

[ Meridian's power blooms in the wake of his steps, where he walks. Thick moss begins to spread below his heels, vibrant green as it grows rampant and wild alongside the ecosystem that finds itself in equilibrium below the great sprawl of the Tree of Life's roots. Shade-tolerant flowers — phlox and spring starflowers and grape hyacinth — begin to rapidly blossom. Set's voice booms as he spreads his arms before the Tree, and looks up to it once more. He had sought to aid it once, to alleviate Blight from it and hopes that is enough to have forged a connection as well. ]

As once I told the Tree of Heliopolis, your child! My mother is Nut, who wears the gown of the dark heavens and carries the waters of the cosmos as her crown. My father is Geb, from whom laughter shook the earth and from whom the boundary between primordial and earthly beings was established. I am not here for peace, but to be your warlord. I am here to bring you disorder and discord, so that seekers of peace and harmony are given meaning.

Tree of Life, I am Set. God of the desert, god of war. I speak with you now in the tongue of men, the tongue of gods, the tongue of your kin to ask you to reveal to John Gaius, through me, that which he seeks knowledge of. To you, I gift my soul, returning it to the soil from which I was reborn to you — allow me to be your vessel, and I will pledge my might to you so that you are given voice.

[ As he speaks, more grows around him. Higher and higher, denser and denser; a carpet, a blanket, an arbor of green life that he burns Meridian's energy within him to create. The rampant, uncontrollable growth — the power of creation and life, oft-kept in balance by gentle decay, cool destruction.

From the ends of his heels, sand begins to rise. Rivulets that defy gravity becoming rivers of soft, pale earth that curve back towards his body. That firm into weapons, sand packed so tightly into the shapes of sickles, swords, daggers, maces, khopesh and other ancient, familiar and trustworthy implements of slaughter and death. Their sharp edges angle towards Set's own body, hovering and controlled as he brings his hands together before him. Aligned in facsimile of prayer. ]

Pray, take my soul into yours. Grace John Gaius, whom wishes to heed your guidance and seek the balance you request.

[ Though his face cannot easily be seen below the mask, it still cants back briefly. To look over his shoulder in the direction of where John awaits — and the curled smile upon his mouth is knowing, coy and full of the insane confidence in the two of them that a proper god ought to show in their ( temporarily ) final moments. And he wrenches his fists outward, as if drawing a garrotte tight around someone's throat — driving every weapon through his own form. Suddenly, violently, and all over the place. ]

[ a burst of white bathes everything in a sudden luminous flash for an instant before it's gone, and time stands still within the confines of this space. set's final act hangs suspended like a terrible art installation.

john raises a hand and summons set's shard to settle gently in his upturned palm. as always, he can't help but admire other people's shards; each one is unique and beautiful, after all, especially compared to john's. he takes care to wrap it up and tuck it away safely for the moment, and everything else — the body and the weapons — turns to reddish dust that disperses into nothing. neat and tidy.

he's about to begin his work when something unexpected stirs within his Shard. it feels so strange that he claws open his shirt buttons enough to see the gnarled crystal where it protrudes from his sternum. pale, glowing lines spread like branching roots from his Shard, standing out against his skin. it isn't painful, but it is strange and intense as the roots are bright with power. the energy feels distinctly foreign, clashing with john's.

the glowing lines converge at the base of his skull before they grow up and out of his skin like branches, forming a luminous crown of bone and wood and leaves. he stands quite literally rooted to the spot, eyes unfocused and unseeing as he acts as a conduit for the Tree's will.

set is not spared this process either. those radiating lines eventually grow over and into his Shard, drawing them together and connecting them. john does not see because he has gone elsewhere, ascending along with set to some plane of higher consciousness where only gods may tread. their familiar physical forms have been replaced by trees, although how they perceive each other in this form likely varies.

what cannot be ignored is the feeling of deep sorrow and loss that permeates everything. it's impossible not to get caught in the tide as the Tree mourns, feeling set's sacrifice as acutely as john made himself feel the ten billion. it's a lot to deal with all at once, and john is pushing himself to his limits to maintain it. it can't be helped that his feelings and memories bleed through the connection as he fights to regain his sense of self within this Communion, bound together in this timeless liminal space. ]

[ Blood arcs through the air, suspended in sluggish motion before it begins to turn to sand, to dust; Set's aim is precise, avoiding the unpolished, rough-red of his shard, which comes soon to rest in the palm of John's hand. It resembles a raw wound, something carved open and bloodless.

He feels nothing, until he does. And when he does, it is inescapable, even in his state; the sudden throb of soul-deep sensation, the arc of feeling — the sudden connection, to John. They are drawn together, tethered soul-to-soul. When he feels it burning inside of him, Meridian's bright power calling to John's darkness, he comes to and joins the other man in the strange, dark place. A place only gods may tread, where they have pierced through a veil ( a pall, a shroud ) upon them together.

He is amorphous, as usual, in places that are built upon the metaphysical. A sprawling thing of pale skin and boundless red hair, pouring out across the darkness like a carpet of blood. Upon arrival, his hand finds itself tangled in John's own, holding fast to him — to the presentation of him, to the existence of him as the Tree mourns for his death. It is peculiar to him, to be mourned. To feel the resonating cry of its sorrow, and to feel the weight of John's own grief as though both were his own. A dark tangle of thorny vines shape the shackles around his throat, the weight holding him upon his knees in the darkness — whatever brilliance he'd had, freedom he'd known, strangled by something parasitic and possessive.

Less a tree and more a sprawling, decadent sea of flowers, resilient as sycamore and corrupted, miserably-so, that dip and weave through the life-and-death foliage of John's own existence; for naturally, a man who commands such energy will resemble the lotus flowers, the fig treets and sprawling, beautiful green existence of the fertile banks of the Nile. The Black Desert, Kemet, which was ruled by Osiris. Though he can feel it grow and die in stages, it is still the same natural cycle. And without words, he draws on John to bring him back — closer, closer.

Soundlessly, he calls to him. ( Something else is here, in the dark. Gather yourself, John Gaius / do not drift far, not again. ) Even as their memories drift against one another, liquid and easy. His own deathless, dying existence calling out to the Necromancer Prime, inviting and open to him. To whatever feelings and memories he is lost in, hungry for it. ]

[ it's an old memory, his mind reaching for stability in the familiar. the last time someone had died for him and placed their soul in his hands and told him to find the answers. his eyes were still a brilliant shade of gold back then — because john was still just a man who hadn't yet committed the indelible sin that would make him God — and he held her human soul in his hands like he'd held set's Shard. his awareness had expanded then, seeing beyond the flickering candle of a human soul to the raging fire that utterly dwarfed it. he felt the anger and pain of a world in distress. the world was screaming, and he just wanted it to stop.

ten billion candles that drew their flames from the inferno, all snuffed out instantly. john coveted that fire and took it for himself, consumed it, nearly burning himself to death in the process, reliving the moment he killed the world and everyone in it. it had been for mercy in the end. he had to avenge her. they had forced his hand.

the memories recede, but not before leaving set with an impression of a woman with long, blonde hair and eyes the same shade of gold as john's had once been. one can see how he might've mistaken quetzalcoatl for her once. she feels like set — like wild places and hot sand and the black earth on the banks of the nile, but also of the salt seas and the dark, deep places of the earth. she is not human, but not a god either ~~but a secret, third thing.~~ john loves her; it's a desperate sort of love that overwhelms and blinds you, but still, he couldn't save her. he couldn't save anyone. ]

Stop.

[ everything freezes again like hitting pause on a video, and then it's all gone as if john had drawn back a curtain and hidden it from sight. he's ashamed and embarrassed to have such private things out in the open, but he can't put walls between them even though he'd like to. they're much too closely connected like this. ]

It's fine. I've got it.

[ Set's Shard is a weight, an anchor. Something unbelievably dense, for the sheer enormity of his existence ought to be spread across reality itself and not confined within the realm of mortality and limitation. Not a candle, nor an inferno, but an endless, dark pool into which one might dive and never find the bottom. Nor surface ever again, consumed as they would be by the sheer fathomless quality of his existence. And that existence settles warm against where John has stored it, pressed to him and linked by their rite as the man's memory pours forth like injury from a wound.

The golden-haired woman draws Set in, too. He briefly sees her as John does, in that hazy-shape that makes her appear herself, appear like Quetzalcoatl, and even, in one swirling moment — like Nephthys. Golden-haired and tawny-eyed Nephthys, with her broad smile and the way she would flash her teeth when she laughed, ever-balanced and playful. A harmonious note in the grand song of existence, counterbalancing the discordant shrill of Set's own. He can feel the love John had for the woman, the clawing hunger of it, the way it constricts within his chest because he feels the same sort of desperate love for his wife, for his child —

And it stops, abrupt. Allows Set to examine the memory of John's for what it is. ]

You are not alone this time, [ he musters, as he takes his feet in this strange, godly dark.

Before them, he can see what he had not seen before — the crumpled, desiccated husk of another tree. Something irrevocably dead, with dark, withered roots that have found their way to touch and connect with the sprawl of his and John's own. "Have found their way"? No, maybe they always had been there. Maybe the two of them had always been part of this dead thing, would that not make sense? A purveyor of death and a necromancer supreme.

He tightens his grasp on John, as their awareness of the dead brings it forth — and they connect. ]

[ at once, john knows what he needs to do. he no longer has time to worry about feelings when there's real work to be done. the entangled roots give him the guidance he needs to do what he's never been able to do before.

the Resurrection had been possible because the souls had never gone into the River; once that happens, there's no going back. john has never been able to separate a single soul from the stream of countless hungry ghosts, but with the Tree's help, it's like having a map to a buried treasure.

john knows there is no River here, but it's the familiar image his mind reaches for as he calls on a long-dead soul. they stand upon a damp, sandy bank alongside a deceptively still body of grey water. the clouds churning overhead are a green-tinged, oily grey mass. john recognises those same clouds from his memories, which despite his efforts, still manage to have an influence, however subtle.

john and set stand opposite a figure whose appearance can't seem to settle. it draws from both of them, shifting back and forth and achieving increasingly odd amalgamations as it grows more distressed. who are they? where is this place? what's happening?

its dead roots tighten around theirs, and the other Bearer starts taking more than just their images as if absorbing their essence and vitality will ease its existential pain.

it hurts, but john won't let go or let himself falter this time. roots have grown into and out of his Shard, and he's let the Tree work through him, steadying him alongside set even through the unpleasantness of having everything he is picked at by someone else. ]

[ Set provides the sacrifice, the latent energy of the soul pressed into John's hands and permitted use — the density of his divinity is a crushing weight, an endless echo around them that increases in stubborn resistance as the figure that the necromancer summons forth begins to claw at their persons. Seeking to become them. No, to find their own identity. No, they are it's identity. Set has never known himself to have an "end", but in John he finds a place where they are tangled tightly into one another.

Where he can slip across the space where there ought to be a division between them, only to find that he no longer starts and stops with "himself". He is John, and the figure before them yearns to take that too. It feels like hands upon him, so he delves into the recesses of John's wisdom and spreads himself there, a sheet of soft sands and blown debris that rasps hard as diamond dust against the questing, yearning, panicked force of the other Shardbearer. Wordlessly, he roots himself among John's personage, and is fearless and furious as a storm; he neither hates nor loves the Bearer that tries to become them, to be known, he simply resists it.

Within him, there is a familiar refrain of being lost to the memories and minds of others and Set is able to stand steadier in the face of this onslaught because of his experiences with the souls of the dead, who sought to subsume and enforce their agony and misery upon him, hundreds and thousands of times. He feeds that ruthlessly back into the distant Shardbearer, in place of his vitality — feeling it stolen from him in increments like a wound in his throat, teeth and mouth drawing upon him in need.

Subdue it, he urges John without word or sound, as if he is the same unified thought within the once-man, now-god. Bend it to command, control it. Conquer it so it stops wailing / stops grabbing and pawing / bring it to heel. ]

[ fortunately for the both of them, john's personage is something that can be relied upon. he dislikes change and always has; john prefers the idea of something fixed and immutable, even though he knows it's impossible when even mountains are shaped by wind and water. life is change, but his unwillingness to be swept away by it means he's held firm to his own identity even in the face of incredible pressure before.

he is also aware of set, but their merging feels surprisingly natural. he has always known where he ends, and everything else begins, so the feeling of being at once finite and limitless is not as disorienting as one would think. it's hard to know if the thoughts of control and submission originate from him or set, but he acts on them anyway. the gnarled roots that resemble skeletal fingers crawl along the ground to wrap more aggressively around the Bearer's tree, and for a moment, it stops incessantly trying to steal from them as john pushes back.

the Bearer continues to struggle, its panicked distress warping the environment around them even more noticeably. john wasn't trying to draw anything out of the Bearer directly, but something passed between them anyway. flickers of foreign memories play in their minds, as vivid as if they had experienced them. john knows this person was a Zenith Iconoclast. he knows they were a king like he was an emperor. a Zenite who still longed for their home, kneeling before yima, whipped into the same zealotry as the Shard-bearers in the present who believe in the cause. the heat of springstar's sun. blood. pain. confusion. a bright light that blinds them before they are swallowed whole.

then the Bearer slips whatever control john might've had, its fragmented sense of self making it challenging to know what he should even be controlling. they cease to stand beside the River because they are plunged into the grey depths instead. you could never really drown in the River because it was all just a metaphor for something greater, but that might as well be what's happening now as they sink deeper as if drawn by a powerful current.

john had been here before — moments before yima dragged him to kenos — and drowning had been the least of his concerns. the sensation of water pressure is a full body ache, and it only grows more pronounced as they sink towards the dark riverbed. a great gash splits the river bottom before an immense mouth opens, baring rows of human teeth and searching, reaching tongues that writhe like worms and try to drag them down — a stoma. a portal to something like hell that only ever opens for the resurrection beasts. or for john. this is not a place he lets himself be dragged to with ease, fighting it all the way down, turning the murky water red with blood as he slices through the tongues as violently as he tries to break the hold of the Bearer's roots. john certainly doesn't want to be the weak link that ends them both... ]

[The desert had vanished from the corner of Hayame's mind, even though it felt now that it had almost always been there, ever since a dryad's bond had forced them to share Communion and a demand for the god's blessing had permanently left a part of them in each other. It wasn't like the times they had turned from each other or felt consumed with anger or upset. It was not distant, not impenetrable... It was gone, and she could find no trace of sand or whiff of heat in the air no matter where she searched.

She had looked for him. She had asked after him- at least, she had asked some. Far too many of the people she suspected might know his whereabouts she personally despised or considered an enemy, and the last thing she would do is reveal to such people that Meridian had misplaced their god of war, let alone the fact that she as an individual might care about Set as a "friend". And so... She had no real answer for where he might have gone, or what might have happened to him. Even when he went into the Beyond, she had been able to vaguely sense him, and so-

There is only the conclusion that he must be dead, the rage of loss, and the fear of what could have killed him. Had he been shattered? Would he return? She does not know a single thing, and the paranoia grows.

But a few days later, when the sand begins to return, when she can feel a touch of warmth returning to that place... She is there immediately, the coalescing desert lapping at her hooves. Behind her is a storm, barely contained to the dark and ominous peak of the cold mountain, just waiting to be unleashed on whoever had done this, whether beast or Zenite-

Yet she does not speak. She waits, there at the edge, for him to show himself.]

[ — he returns in a handful of days, his mind full of weariness that his body feels doubled. A retreat is necessary, the gathering of his weakened form performed by a pair who had dutifully awaited him at the Tree, and the way in which he sought to casually reinsert himself into all things more a tactic to ensure he was not targeted in his weakness than a... well, a spurning of anyone. He has things to do, even in the week he needs to take for himself.

And one of the first things, is to meet the woman who awaits him at the edge of their joined minds. Set travels to her with his head held high, and his gait betraying the soul-exhaustion of one who had recently been dead. Pride immeasurable, though the distant crests of sand dunes seem to have been brushed aside to reveal aged, crumbling walls and ruins — a hint of his own mental state.

He steps beyond the sand when he comes to her, reaching out to find her hand and take it into his own. ] I am here. Back in Akua's home, in reality.

[Another pair had visited the tree as the god of war slumbered in the soil, his body reforming around his shard. Accompanied by Byleth, Hayame had looked for him there after she had searched for him at his shrine in the Beyond with Liem, after she had asked Akua if she knew where he was, afters she had scoured Alenroux and Springstar... and there, they had found a cocoon. But she had not waited there for whoever was inside to awake. Telling herself there was no way to know who was in it, that it didn't mean it was Set, unwilling to betray the helpless feeling she had experienced standing there and filled with rage over whatever had happened to result in this entire situation.... She had left.

She waited here, instead.

And she is eerily still when he comes to her, watching him walk across the sand and her stormy gray eye sweeping over the hints of stone and ruin exposed by shifted dunes. His head is high, but his legs are weary... and his feet cross the border between desert and icy mountain. His hand takes hers... and she turns her wrist to grip his own, tight as if trying to make sure he was solid and real. As solid and real as anyone could be in Communion.]

Who did this to you, Set?

[Her words are like ice, and the storm behind her on the mountain grows darker, roiling and threatening to unleash upon the target he names. Who? One of Zenith's shard-bearers? Aetos? A monster in the Beyond or the depths of Alenroux?

Whatever it is... She seems poised and ready to exact revenge on it. She is a warrior who has bound herself to this god, is she not? (They were friends, were they not?) ... His death is not a slight that she is willing to overlook.

[ Who did this? Even death-sick as he is, his attitude simmers with indignation. Not at her, but at the mere thought that anyone could bring him down. ]

I cannot die by anyone's hand [ what a boast ffs, ] nor will I be killed without consent. I offered myself to a rite, at the Tree of Life. By my own hand, and mine alone, did I take a nice nap.

[ In some ways, death was an impossibility to him. In other parts of his mind, made vulnerable by Kenos's innate dominion over its Shardbearers — wherein it gave deathless beings the knowledge of their own ends, he knows it could happen. Those two halves of his intellect war with one another, and most of the time, his arrogance dominates the conversation. Especially now, since he has robbed the value of his "first demise" from anyone who might hunger for it. He's tasted death, and dealt with any lingering, instilled concern about it.

But, Hayame — he realizes, only now, that she had been left behind.

Set plays the long game, with drawn out plans and deals, but he tends to forget the immediate people who will be affected by it. For so long, mortals have been fleeting existences, born and dead within a blink of an eye, that he... well. He squeezes her hand, and while it is not an apology he says: ] I am unused to — thinking of how my actions will impact others.

[ And caring, is implicit in those words. ]

[As far as Hayame is concerned, that boast is hollow. Has she not seen this man-god weak and distracted, haunted by a shade that wanted to drag him into the dark? Is he not limited by the confines of this world? If he wasn't, a god could not be trapped here like this, like the mortals among them were. She will never deny that he was powerful, that most of them should be afraid of anything or anyone capable of taking him down in combat... but there was more than one way to kill someone, and he-

The storm behind her suddenly bursts, and a bitter, icy hail and sleet begins to pelt the hard stone of the mountain peak. Soon (perhaps very soon) the edge of the fall will reach them. The wind is already howling as she stares at Set in shock and something like disgust as his words actually register.]

You killed yourself?

[Surrendering to despair and struggling to even wrap her mind around being stolen to a different world, Hayame had attempted to end her own life in Kenos, only stopped from crushing her shard beneath a hoof by the crippling nausea and mental rejection the act summoned in an aion's body. She had been fighting this whole entire time to kill herself, to go back to her world and die in Matsukaze's arms in order to cleanse her dishonor, make up for her mistakes... But she had been set to die to end her misery, for honor...

And Set had demanded she not do it. Set had been the one who demanded that she value her life. He had demanded she find another way than throwing away her life.

He squeezes her hand, but she barely notices, gone completely, eerily still but for the way the rising wind whips at her mane and tail. His next words barely register. They are not an apology, they are barely an excuse, and her mind is far more focused on-]

For what?

[ See, Hayame. You want to permadie. Set made sure he'd just come back like a bad memory. ]

If I was unwilling to put my soul on the line for us, what kind of man would I be? I admit, I did bargain to make my return a given — I am not stupid.

[ Not an inch of him suggests that he turned upon his life in despair, that he sought to escape anything ( save for his responsibilities for a few days ). His eyes are tired, the dark mesdemet he lines them with unable to cover the bite dissipation has taken out of him — but, the irises themselves shine, bright and savage with excitement. With new confidence, with direction and perhaps even the madness that exists within someone so wildly driven to mysteries and puzzles and hidden things. He is a Savant, after all. The knowledge and wisdom he obtains is for all Shardbearers, whether it hurts them or helps them.

He grasps her a little tighter, rising on his toes as a wind picks up behind him too — a hot one, ripping across the landscape to buffet his hair and disturb the landscape. Things are being uncovered, revealed. Strings connected to points of interest. ]

I was able to contact a Shardbearer from the past, Hayame. Someone dead to this world, by connecting my soul to the Tree of Life — an Iconoclast, like you. Like the Oracle, below the Tree.

Edited 2023-07-08 21:28 (UTC)

[She wants to accuse him of madness, and yet she cannot. He spoke to the dead? A past shard-bearer? She wants to ask him if he is an idiot who trusts the dreams he has when he is dead, but in this twisted, fucked up “world” they’ve found themselves in… She knows she can’t. Maybe he did, maybe he spoke to someone-

But she doesn’t care. (Not right now, anyway.). Maybe the philosophers amongst them will drool and rub their hands over this, crowing about “the truth of this world” or the “balance” or whatever new thing it is excites them, but she-

She had cared about one thing.]

Another “bargain”? With who?

[Anger flashes on her face in time to how the storm behind her rumbles with a roll of thunder threatening the clap of lightning. The demon, the black-eyed gaki, one of the traitors? Who was it he had trusted to make it a “given” (hah) that he would be safely planted in that accursed Tree and revived, all while she had searched for him in vain, high and low, worry in her hearts like a fool? She still hasn’t let go of him, but the hot and icy air begins to collide, mix-

And though she is not crying, her expression strung out on shock and surging rage, the sound on the wind is a faint echo of a mournful wail of someone abandoned and left behind.]

[ Though feverish with new discovery, new potential that will allow him to bring greater wisdom ( perhaps even ruin — ) to the world, he is tired enough that he cannot keep pace with the way her anger churns. The way her soul feels like an agony, and he cannot understand why. Why? He has returned, he made sure he would. It was a temporary thing. Is he only allowed to be a tool in one form, with a single direction? Should he be a thing put in a box, released only by those who want him to do their bidding?

( Again? ) ]

You are upset.

[ Before he even gives her a name, he voices his confusion. ]

[She is upset.

He looks at her like he truly cannot understand why that is, and maybe he couldn’t. She has always tried to be aware that no matter how human he looked on a normal day, no matter how much weakness and fallible things that looked human she had seen in him, that he was a god…]

You were gone. Just gone from here!

[But it’s not an excuse anymore. How many times has she demanded (begged) him to just tell her before he did things that she would misinterpret as betrayals or insults? To just warn her, just the slightest of considerations? His desert had vanished, his presence and power temporarily gone in death, and she-]

I did not know if you had been killed or simply vanished from this world entirely!

[She has seen it happen, people disappearing as randomly as they’d arrived, and she did not even know if that meant they found a way back to their world or if they fell into a crack and landed in some limbo of nothing.]

Or maybe you decided you were done with me.

[She had wanted to believe that wasn’t true, but how could she not at least consider it a possibility when it felt as if he was gone from where she had grown used to always having him, lurking in some corner of her mind whenever she needed to call on him? He had said only she had the power to sever their bond…

But something had. And she’d had no way to tell if it was death, disappearance, or abandonment, and that-]

I knew nothing, Set!

[And he’d just gone and killer himself? For what? For whom? The edge of the storm finally reaches them, and wailing sleet pelt their bodies with an angry chill as Hayame stands motionless, her black mane and tail whipping in the wind around them.]

Edited 2023-07-11 03:37 (UTC)

[ I told no one, he wants to tell her, because she is not the only soul who is upset with him. She is not alone, unique in that endeavor — and some part of him knows better than to voice such a sentiment. Because they are friends now, and he is still learning how to be a proper one.

The things that she says, to him, are impossible things. They speak to her insecurity and not the infallible truth of his intention and action. Had he wanted to be done with her, he would have been done. To be killed was — not impossible, but a feat that he would not have allowed to occur without being very loud, very violent and exceptionally informative about the process, the location, and the perpetrator. Even an ambush would have been hard to pull off, on him — an ambush predator, at his core.

He flounders, confused, because he cannot fathom how she came to these conclusions. Except, that part of him knows — her life, the way she was raised, the things she has had to do to find worth, the few things she demands. The fact that the harder she demands them with strength and vigor, the more likely he is to defy her; honestly, if she begged and bargained, he'd be able to acquiesce more readily. Instead, he must jump through his own mental hoops and dodge his own divinity's imposed requirements to sate her needs.

He does not mind the challenge, but sometimes — it leaves him perplexed. He cannot apologize, nor regret. All that he can do is make amends, and that is a miserable sort of friendship, lived in hindsight and the perpetual state of his atonement to her. Set does not think he has failed her, but the truth is that — hasn't he? ( Does he not always? ) ]

Okay. [ The word is small, but carries a futile sort of concession within it. ] I, scared you. I made you think I had left you behind. And you, wish I had told you what I was going to do.

Had I — done that, had I told you 'Hayame, I am going to dissipate myself to connect my soul to the Tree of Life and speak with a long-dead Shardbearer', what would you have said to me?

[For a moment, Hayame thinks she has misheard him. That the howl of the wind and the icy sleet it carries with it has drowned out what he actually meant to say and that she is only hearing what she wants.

Because she… she does not think of Set in terms of failure. That is how she views herself, her own shortcomings and flaws and unfortunate scars inflicted one by one from the moment she was ripped from her armless dam’s body, but others… it is “betrayal” that frames her rage. To fail… she would have had to ask them to succeed in it. But to betray… Her trust, her affection, her devotion, her offerings… all of it could be betrayed so easily.

She wants to deny that he had scared her, but the reality is that she could not without making herself a liar. She had been scared, when she could find no trace of sand in the corners of her mind and she had been forced to consider what out there in this strange world could have so quietly and secretly eliminated a god of war. She had been scared when she had reached for him, and in place of where he always was since that one fateful day… there was nothing. Just her and her own thoughts and the suffocating weight of everything that came with it.

All she wanted… All she had claimed she had wanted this entire time was-]

I would have told you that I thought you were a fool. That I did not think you should die for just the chance of a talk.

[And she would have been “wrong”, apparently. He had succeeded, and maybe something “good” would come of that… But it didn’t change that that is what she would have said before knowing that. She didn’t want him to die for a risk with no guarantee of pay-off, she didn’t want him to die at all, but-]

But I would have taken a place by your side despite.

[Her hand tightens where she’s still accidentally (instinctively, desperately) holding his hand. Despite her intent, there is a crack in the raw anger she covers her other emotions with, a glisten in the eye.]

I would have made sure nothing happened to your shard. That you came back. I would have waited- !

[Without being afraid, without feeling abandoned, without mourning the potential loss of the first person in this place she had believed when they called her “friend”. She would have. So why- Why doesn’t he let her?]

[ There is a deep, agonizing pain that he feels when she says she would call him a 'fool'. For in the eyes of someone who had demanded his blessing, he wishes to be someone she cannot slander in return — his actions have become injuries that she carries upon her heart and against her honor, and in return, she leverages injuries of her own against his being, too. Perhaps they are destined to always hurt one another, as he has found that no relationship that includes him is without pain. There is something more than pain to them, but pain persists nonetheless; because, in the end, he is evil.

And even evil listens to her, as she tells him that though she would not have approved of his work, she would have supported him. As he would support her, and has supported her efforts. Standing aside when she lunged for Sebastian Michaelis, not speaking ill of her when she slew her own allies to prevent a complete loss ( because truthfully, the corruption of soul that had happened was disturbing to him, too — and he was busy forming lasting impressions, deep scars ) and asking her to adapt.

To become stronger, by adapting. Not changing herself until she was someone new, but adapting her ways so that no one could ever disturb her footing. ]

— I would have told you that I had ensured my return, because I would have had something of value that the man I partnered with could not resist obtaining. That I was not making my decision without having considered every angle.

[ His mouth thins, as he reaches up to touch her collarbone. To cradle the side of her neck and draw her down to him, to hopefully be able to press his forehead to hers. Shamelessly seeking to hold her to him, as he closes his eyes. ]

I would have told you where to find me, even if I still could not take you directly to the place — and I would have accepted you to be nearby, I think.

[ A sigh escapes him. He must tell her the truth, and perhaps she will understand why she, of all people, could not have been there. Because once he died, how could he guarantee the man's safety? His continued efforts would not be stopped, without someone to assure Hayame that their work was more important than Set's permanent destruction. That he could not ask his warrior to stay her hand, nor would he ever, because her violence sustained him and the chaos she wrought through her focused slaughter was —

it empowered him. ]

I was working with John Gaius. You do not very much like him, as I recall.

[The pain persists. How could this sort of twisted, inexperienced thing be “friendship”, she had railed at Akua after the Oracle had been lost. How could she be expected to tolerate those who claimed to care for her also caring for those who had wronged her irreparably? How could she swallow the indignity of being betrayed a hundred tiny little ways? How was it she had to adapt, why didn’t it just fit? And that woman, another who had offered her that strange concept and called herself her friend, said that such relationships were supposed to challenge you.

But in every single one of them was hurt. In Set’s dealings with her enemies, in Akua’s detached morals, in Liem’s secrets, in Claude’s lies… there was always something hurting. She had never truly imagined she would ever have a friend… but when she had been younger and naive and thought just maybe… She had not thought it would ever hurt this much. It’s almost as if…

As if it were because she, in the end, was-]

I despise him.

[John Gaius. The King Undying who had died all too easily without his tricks and his magics. She had combed his crushed skull into Set’s hair herself in offering. That man, who seemed to have not a single loyal bone in his body to anything but science and experimentation, who consorted with Aetos and the mockingly named Burning Garden, who gambled with all their lives in the pursuit of “truth” without care for what side he stood on…

Her hatred is clear as it always is now that she lives in a world where she doesn’t have to swallow her opinions and her feelings in order to be a “good horse”, to survive- and the hail and ice howls still around them in tempest, even as she achingly presses her forehead to Set’s and her lips twist, her voice cracks-]

How can you ask me to entrust you to men like that?

[She could…. she was a warrior sworn to him, she would serve, she wouldn’t need to be bribed or cornered or weigh the pros and cons-

And even though she had thought differently, that he thought better of her after demanding she live and thrive and find pleasure and peace some day-]

… Do you think I can’t do it? That I can’t not kill?

[Like the others who accused her and dismissed her as something cruel and unwanted, something that couldn’t be brought to an ambassadors meeting, that couldn’t be trusted with anything but violence… Just because she was good at it, raised for it, understood it-

She had already killed John Gaius for his treachery. She didn’t need to kill him again. (Until now).]

[ Holding her face in his hands, he tugs his head back and tries to find her dark eye, to hold it firmly and reiterate to her the truth. ]

Because I am also a man like that, remember?

[ It frustrates him, in a way, to have the things he is capable of overlooked, or forgiven, or told he can change and grow. Certainly he cannot! Atonement, to him, is a task bestowed upon him that he must experience to keep his given word. He feels for the women he had tormented and slaughtered, because he knows what kind of world he had created and what they underwent because of him — but, he doesn't regret what he did. He doesn't feel sorry for anyone, nor pity their circumstances or endings.

He is complex, and can work with Hayame toward the end they want, befriend her and teach her and challenge the same opponents as her — but, he cannot allow her to think that he is different than creatures like John Gaius, or Silco, or Voryn Dagoth, or Sebastian Michaelis. ]

I am just the one who believes in you.

[ Slowly, he does shake her head in response to her question. No, he doesn't think that of her. No, he doesn't think all she can do is kill. She is not cruel, just hard, in his eyes. Her hardness a defensive measure, something she has known and not one inch of him wants her to lose her hardness or honor, just adapt it. ]

Of course you could. You have the power to stay your hand. Were I to ask you, I bet you would have done it — but, not one part of me is able to ask you to do that. [ No matter what he says that sounds like him believing in peace, or another course, he speaks only to be able to lay a better, inescapable trap. Offering a way to broker peace and diplomacy was not a betrayal of his nature, because those who thought the worst of him were right to. Naturally, he'd want to use it to make the war grander. ]

It is decision I would have left to you, alone. With my encouragement, but never my command.

[He speaks it as if it is the truth, that he is the exact same as those men she despises... But just because he makes her look him in the eyes when he says it does not mean that she can believe it. It was not as if she thought he was good. That she was under some foolish delusion that he was honorable or righteous or heroic or any word at all that might describe the opposite of men like John Gaius, Silco, Voryn Dagoth, or Sebastian Michaelis. He has proven time and again to her that he is not, even as he confused her by showing her parts of himself that could be warm, inspiring, or tender. But... He says it himself, and he cannot understand?

He believes in her. Which means he has to be different, even just a little, because those men... They would never do that. A scheming ghoul, a moral-less man of science, a proud racist, a soul-eating demon... She is sure. She didn't want their faith, didn't need it, but she is sure despite that even if she did... They would not believe as Set did. And somewhere along the way, that belief had become a pillar that she relied on, something she believed in. So how...

He says he couldn't ask her to do certain things. That he would have left such a decision to her... But what did it matter, now, when he hadn't... and saying he wouldn't have was no promise or guarantee at all that he would in the future? This isn't the first time she has tried demanding he appraise her of his plans beforehand so that she will not be caught off guard or feel betrayed. Angry demands from a fellow Meridian, an ally, had not worked. Being "friends" with him had not worked. All that had succeeded in doing is making the pain visible in her stormy gray eye personal, made the shame of not knowing his fate and debasing herself asking others if they knew anything even greater.]

If you truly believe in me-

[So what did a god understand? What would a god listen to? What would have been just another angry demand that he trust her (that he consider her feelings) dies in her throat as the feeling of futility creeps in. Slowly, the howl of the ice and snow around them begins to quiet, and the storm begins to die... but not because her anger is mollified or because she is calm. Instead... something cracks and splinters on the mountain peak as Hayame pulls her face from Set's hands... and her legs fold until she is on her belly before him, her gaze respectfully cast down. The shame of it burns, because she had thought she would not have to resort to such things anymore, both because she had thought their bond had gone beyond such things and because she was not a slave in a stable anymore, but... what did she know? Maybe no more than a war god who simply could not be like a mortal. Maybe this-]

Great war god Set...

[When her spine curls and her more human-looking half bows low between her forelegs, her brow nearly touching her knuckles where her hands demurely fold upon the ground... her ebony mane shifts and exposes the crimson streak he had once marked her with.]

Your loyal warrior entreats you. A single word...

[Her lips twist, her fingers curl and fist uselessly in the mix of snow and sand. Surely... surely this he could understand, surely this he was accustomed to. (Was this friendship? Was this adapting?)]

Please grant me just a single word of warning before you execute your plans, so that I might not disgrace myself in your absence or unwittingly betray your intent.

["So that I might not hurt like this anymore." "So I might not be forced to turn from you, unable to forgive any longer." Even with those things left unsaid, heavy on her tongue and humming in the air instead... She wasn't sure if the crack in the mountain had been stone or her sacrificed pride.]

[ Something breaks, in Hayame. Broken by him, by what he has known innately is his right to do — he does not have to explain himself to anyone, not friend or ally or enemy, because he has never had to. It was a given, among his siblings, that what he did was always going to be wild, feral, and entirely in support of Egypt. For Egypt, before even the throne of gods and men, before the king who ruled both; he has placed the focus of his goal alongside Meridian, because his son asked him to return home, though he could readily obtain his son and get all he wanted out of Zenith.

All he has ever wanted from his allies was for them to ask him for what he has gathered, what he has scraped for and bargained for and observed and learned; the wealth of information at his fingertips, rivaling even Sebastian Michaelis ( though perhaps lessened, due to his depth of emotion compared to the sheer rationality of the demon ). And Hayame has asked for word of his exploits and decisions, which — is a little different than just asking for his counsel, to his mind. All she wants, is to not be left behind, and she crawls on her belly before him to plead for what he has not given her — the sight of her doing so striking a dual-chord of pleasure to have dragged her so low, and something slightly off-set from unhappiness, to have forced his favorite warrior to this.

He sinks to the ground, as she bows her head, her spine. Folded before him to beg of him for something a friend ought to give her without such need. And he sets his hands upon hers. ]

— I will. Not because you are begging, but because apparently even I have much to learn about having friends with minds and hearts of their own.

[ It is different, to lead legion-score of warriors. Faceless, obedient.

He tugs on her hands, trying to urge her to look up. She may feel the veil drift across her shoulders, then. Layers of soft, gauzy linen in golds and tawny-reds like the endless rolling hills of a desert, the parting of a secret place around her — as Set draws her into his mind, deeper and deeper, until below her belly and arms is no longer snow, no longer sand, but the cool, slightly-rough texture of sandstone. The faint breeze playing through her hair carrying with it the scent of ink and papyrus, smoke and metal and blood.

Before her, should she finally lift her gaze, sprawls a low table. Heavy, laden with notation and weaponry, charts and maps layered upon it so thickly that to even begin to look upon the titanic assortment might be to go mad with the sheer enormity of it. Above the table is a sea of stars, a cacophony of colors and sizes and intensity of glow, each tethered to scraps of information — through her connection with Set, she will be able to see some of the names attached to the stars: Hayame, Liem, Amos, Sebastian, Silco, Cyrus, Yima, Osiris, Isis, Horus, Coalbrand, the Hieropoios — on and on, with each of the endless stars representing someone. ]

This is my war table, Hayame. [ He tells her. ] It is where I keep everything. What I know about each and every one of you, how to embolden or ruin you, every errant conversation in Communion I have ever listened into, every rumor spoken, every miniscule thing I have gleaned from my interactions, facts and figures and plans and tactics and —

[ He holds steady for a moment, before reaching out to call one of the stars to him. Her name, the sense of her existence stains it richly, the shape of it unique and the associated tethers upon it numerous and dense — river after river of conversation, observation, as he fits this moment to her as well. ]

I will tell you whatever you want to know. I only needed your interest, in the form of a direct question — that is all you have ever had to do, my soon-to-be-blessed warrior. I cannot offer information, without knowing what you seek. For now... your advance notice of my plans is this: I have joined myself to the Church, for power and access to their bevvy of secrets. And I seek to control the Beyond, to begin to lay the noose prepared by Zenith around Highstorm until they strangle themselves with it.

Edited 2023-08-01 19:17 (UTC)

[She cannot look up at him when she bows so low, her pride wounded and warring with the undefinable fear that his sudden and unexplained absence had left her with, forcing her to confront how weak she might truly be in some ways in these foreign lands, surrounded by so many things she has never known and so many people with whom she feels she cannot connect to or accept. Where he had always been, sometimes strong and sometimes faint, an endless desert beneath an overbearingly hot sun or just the hint of sand and dry wind... There had been nothing. Just nothing. No god, no "friend", no patron, no Meridian ally, no frustratingly chaotic force, just... nothing. He was supposed to go back to his rightful world some day, like she was, they were both supposed to survive now-

Hayame has given him offerings before, her violence combed into his hair and made a part of him, proof that even in this land far from his Egypt that he was a god with proper worshipers, faith, and prayers... But she had never thrown her dignity at his feet like this before, bared her needs like this, (except that night, those needs-). She does not want to look and potentially see something she cannot stomach on his face.

But suddenly there are hands, hands on her hands, and once he says he will, will... Her halved gaze raises, fingers unconsciously seizing on his. (Dead, he'd been dead-)

The veils part. Veils she had not even known existed. The scents in the air change. The surroundings change. Everything changes as she is drawn in deeper, somewhere secret, somewhere precious, and somehow, despite the fact that a war room should seem like a contained, finite space... what she sees when everything solidifies is so vast and so powerful that Hayame cannot take it all in. She is so achingly and undeniably mortal in that moment, confronted with a breadth of knowledge and perfectly remembered voices, incidents, whispers, schemes, and strategies that if she'd ever doubted he was a god those doubts would have been crushed underfoot beneath the weight of everything Set has collected.

He calls her star to him, and it lights up in his hand, a ball of fire striving so desperately to burn bright or burn out. For a moment, she cannot tell if she is laying on the ground staring up at him or shining between is fingers. Connected as they are by communion, her own knowledge bleeds slightly into the lines and tethers, other stars in his constructed sky winking, darkening, and twinkling in turns. Leaks of everyone she had disgraced herself to searching for him when she feared him dead, Akua... Byleth... Liem... all humming in the night. People she had suspected could have a hand in it, Sebastian, Silco, people she now blamed for it, John Gaius, flickering. Claude growing brighter and warmer, where she'd taken her comfort after finding the cocoon at the Tree. Humbled at first by the divinity she'd been sunk into, she cannot form words. She doesn't even realize that in her attempt to take it all in, to somehow be equal to it, her eyepatch has faded away and her mind's version of herself has two eyes again with which to strive to see and understand. The Church... the Beyond... She has no contacts there, she does not know if she can serve his causes there, but before she can ask him more something he says...]

Soon to be... ?

[He had promised her his favor, that day so many moons ago now, when he had first dyed part of her inky black hair red and sworn to stand at her side and go to the wretched ends with her for as long as he was able. She had just assumed that... that she was already blessed, perhaps in some way she simply did not understand or could not sense, so what...

What did that mean? If he wants her interest, her direct questions... He will receive them.]

Edited 2023-08-02 15:25 (UTC)

[ With her star held in the cage of his fingers, he reaches his other hand to her face and strokes the space under her eye — the whole of it, in this place, tracing the fine spread of her under eyelashes to the corner of it. He has never met her, with both of her eyes, but she is just as lovely without one, and he has never considered her lacking in anything for being half-sighted. After all, she has been lethal and powerful no matter the encumbering injury, and were she ever to have her eye back... would she not be even more incredible?

( In the pit of his stomach, he does his best to ignore the way he feels something hot-cold shiver down his spine and spread through his ribs. She had thrown herself at his feet, begged him for something he could have granted her simply because she was loyal and steadfast, but instead had withheld from her. Either because he had simply forgotten, or had determined that keeping her in the dark was — essential? necessary? for what end? To see her debase herself at his feet like this?

No, that cannot be it. Their relationship is that of a god and a warrior, not a god and a creature. ) ]

Kenos diminishes the power of a god, and makes even endless beings into ones with end.

[ He'd, personally, "died" after all. Dissipated, though at least it was with direction and purpose. ]

Because of your devotion, I have become more like myself once more. I have fulfilled an unspoken criteria with this world, and I am able to bestow upon you proof of our agreement — as a proper god should. My blessing, Hayame. You may name the shape it will take between us, and partake of my power for as long as we hold our vow between us.

[ Where better to finally grace her, than amidst the grandest war record ever kept? ]

You made this possible.

[The wound that demon had inflicted on her had been fresh and raw still when they had first met, the inside of her eye socket inflamed and tears still running bloody behind the makeshift bandaging she'd wrapped around her head. He had seen it, hints of the dark recesses where an eyeball was supposed to be, when she'd arrived in the dryad's roots chaotic and disheveled... but since then she has kept it hidden away, the sign of her shameful loss to a being that had been skilled and precise enough to reach in and rip her eye out the nerve root without leaving a single other scar on her beautiful face. A being that had left her alive to live on disgraced rather than be granted the release of an honorable death.

She thought she would have forgotten what it was like to have two again. But her body craves to see and take in so much, there's so much all around her, his presence larger in this secret part of him than she ever could have imagined or really been able to anticipate... and her spirit remembers. Yet even with the lost left one manifest, stormy gray above the gentle caress of his curious, lingering touch and staring up at him with the light of her star reflected in it...

He is still too endless for a mortal to truly, truly see, not all at once. Even knowing he has been lessened by his divinity being tethered to a world that was not Kenos, become able to hurt and to die in ways he was likely unfamiliar... Hayame does not say anything at first. She cannot. All her life... all her life she has never been able to exact change or better anything for anyone else. Even with as desperately and fiercely as she had striven to improve her own position, everything had come to naught in the end... and in Horos, in Kenos, on the few occasions she had tried to reach out and help others...

But Set says that she has done this. That her offerings, her devotions, had restored to him something of himself and how he was supposed to be... and he does not say "thank you", not in words like that, but he offers her something. His blessing...]

Set... I have fought every battle since our vow as if I already had your blessing.

[Whether he was capable of actually granting it then or not, his godhood limited and made weaker... she had simply assumed he would be, and waded into conflict and war as if cloaked in his favor already. Now he wants her to name her reward... ?]

If you would give me something now...

[She almost demurs, respectfully lays the offer back at his feet to allow him to select the shape his favor might take for himself, but... It is her choice. Even though she cannot think of an exact conclusion immediately, caught off guard yet and unable to imagine the full breadth of things a god like Set could bestow upon a worshiper... She made it, she made this possible so-]

Then I want... this.

[Her hands raise, vaguely gesturing to... him, to the room, to the overwhelming pressure and intimidating sense of divinity that threatened to swallow any mortal that came before it. That gaze, that aura... that proof that that they were bound to each other.]

You did this, Hayame.

[ He says it again, for her to hear. It is an injury he must bear, because in the end, recognizing that a god is little more than a memory without those who believe in them is a difficult thing to have to consider. Set has always thought lesser of mortals, thought himself independent — that he had been known for his ability to traverse the world, land-to-land, without being bound to restrictive duties was... well, it had helped. But, without that land and those knowledgeable people, it was Hayame who had allowed him to step back onto a divine path.

However adapted it was. ] You, who have carried my name into battle, will carry the proof of your loyalty and devotion. No one will be able to doubt that I favor you, that I pride myself with your strength and vision.

[ In another life, he would sprawl upon Kenos as the endless, red desert. The arid plains that did not support life, but stifled it; yet, upon those sands, life still found itself spreading, stalwart and defensible, stubborn and true. The desert was a beautiful place, harsh and pitiless, but splendorous to those who adapted to its nature — and he values Hayame for her power, and yearns for her to adapt, as well. To thrive, clever and cunning and honorable, not brittle and faltering.

He sweeps his hands down upon her, her star hovering off into the dark distance of his endless war table, papers fluttering in the wake of her stormy passage. Set gathers her hands into his, pushing his mouth to the place where her fingers tuck together as he aligns the heels of her hands. He kisses her there, and perhaps to a mortal, it would be the most magnanimous sign of his gratitude. She did this. She did. ]

It is yours, Hayame. Call upon me when you have need, and my presence will envelop you — I will strike fear into the heart of the one you wish to cower before you, and they will know that you are a warrior who's prowess is of grave peril to them. Doubtlessly.

[ There is a sense that it is an impermanent thing, that it is not as powerful as a blessing would be in his own world, but it is the crisp, burning bite of power that settles upon her. The whispering hint of Set's divinity, stretched out to bolster her strength. ]

[The purpose in that statement is almost enough for her. She did this. She, who had helped ruin so many lives in order to protect her own, who struggled still with helping others and finding paths that did not end in the failure to understand or to bond…

She did this.

She’ll remember exactly what his face looked like when he said it, the way his lips moved, the way his eyes gazed upon her, the warmth of the peculiar kiss he presses to her fingers… not that the rest is forgettable- it is not. She won’t forget the sensation of his power seeping into her veins and covering her like a battle shroud, nestling into something she could call upon in times of need…

But she won’t forget the rest either.

Somehow, she has found her feet again. Thinking the way he took her hands must be the way of his people, of Egypt, she gently, firmly turned the motion back on to him, pressing her own kiss in turn… and then bringing his fingers to her forehead, where she might bow her head slightly over his knuckles.

A far different stance than the desperate humbling of her previous bow.]

I will not disgrace your favor.

[Even if she failed again… She had to live, like he had asked her, demanded. She had to survive to fight again, despite the fact that her upbringing and instincts lead her to want to offer him her life, to pledge to die for honor and his service…. If she cannot say that she will end her life in his service, then what—]

I will never truly fall as long as this blessing remains.

[Truly. Whether that meant her shard, her body, or something else… She releases his hands so that she might straighten up and stand tall again, looking around until her temporary eyes alight upon the endless papers, the threads that connect… The Church, he’d said, the Beyond…]

Tell me what you would have me know, Set.

[About those things, or anything else he might wish her (allow her) to learn.]

Ah, I can contact you again. Good. Set, I have a question: do you want to see a pegasus?

Hmm?

[ He's drowsy, but attempts to pass it off like indulgent laziness. Glad to know that Byleth is capable of getting right back down to business! Hi Byleth! ]

Is a pegasus an interesting animal, vegetable or mineral?

[Hello, Set! Byleth is, of course, aware of the source of his grogginess, but he saw no point in confronting him about it or questioning him. Hayame no doubt would've done enough for four people alone!

No. Byleth was here to offer comfort in his own very awkward way:]

An interesting animal. It's from my world and was a steed used extensively by female warriors. They're fierce, beautiful and can fly.

[ yeah he probably got read the riot act and it sucked ]

Is it like a horse? [ he knows many types of steed, but horses are the most common. ] I will come see it, regardless. It might take me some time to get there, though.

[Byleth didn't answer the horse question because he wanted it to be a surprise, but now he was wondering if the world Set came from had an equivalent just under a different name. Well, he'll find out soon enough, he supposed.]

Take your time if you still require rest. There's at least four weeks where you can come to see them at Starlight Park. [An entire month!] I made an offering of my memories there, and it has simulated a portion of my world for all to enjoy. So, not only are there pegasi, there're other things too.

[...]

I, ah, would like to show you it, if you'd be interested. If not, that's fine.

[He's suddenly kind of shy...]

Have you found any memories you did not want exposed to the eyes of all reflected?

[ To say he is curious about Starlight Park would be an understatement; he had brought it up to Atsumu, in the hopes of drawing him in to offering his memory to it — perhaps to build part of the site of the future Kenos-Olympics. But, the boy was gunshy about things he didn't want to see being seen, and too preoccupied by the idea that his world was gone. He'd rather avoid the pain, pathetically enough. ]

— ah, you know. I could come sample your world and determine the answer myself. I will be there shortly, in fact.

[ His way of saying he's interested. ]

[Byleth perked up, metaphorical tail wagging at Set's interest.]

Excellent. I'm already here, so I can meet you once you arrive and show you around.

[There was nothing to hide in the memories he had given to Starlight Park, after all. The area of Fódlan he had chose was peaceful, and before the war had consumed the continent. Leicester had enjoyed a calm peace, a pastoral land whose only conflict came from the occasional bandit gang that tried to cause trouble - they tended not to last long.]

[ The request for communion is less a request, more a demand — a thunderous pounding on the doors of Set's mind, persistent and unrelenting until Amos' presence is allowed in. And where communion with him is typically a simple affair, any pesky emotions largely muted, here there is a white hot anger that's let in with him, roiling temperature matching what must be a desert.

He knows something about that feeling, now, after his last encounter with Hayame, with some kind of magic used against him that had come from Set. That reminder pisses him off all the more, and when he speaks it's in a snarl, pointed edges along every syllable seeking to impale.

It is, in all likelihood, the most in the way of feelings that Set has ever experienced from him. ]

Where the fuck is my gun.

[ It is a demand, a threat, a promise, all rolled up into one: give it back to him, now. ]

[ — to say that Set could readily close their Communion off and never have to deal with Amos on this invasive, boundary-crossing level again would be to say that the world had gone to the dogs. Though he was the one to suggest they avoid one another with their minds, he is also the one who relishes in raking his claws across the other man's space. He tears up the edges, slices through essential wires and oxygen-bearing piping; he brings a torrent of heat into what must be the cool, empty void of space.

( It is beautiful, the black expanse full of distant starlight. His mother. )

Set throws the doors open wide, as if to say come the fuck at me, and meets Amos head-on. His voice a nasty sneer, a smear of contempt and manic delight. He's never liked Amos, but right now? He likes him a little, for that anger, that wrath. ]

Grunting and snarling like a base creature suits you. Demands, however, will get you nothing from me.

Shut the fuck up.

[ The words are the equivalent of teeth snapping against one another with enough force to rattle his jaw. The sun — any sun — is just another star, only made notable by one’s proximity to it. So, fine. Amos can mimic this particular star that fuels Set’s mental domain, solar flares rushing off of him in lieu of his ability to pace forward, grab Set by the throat. He will take that oppressive heat and use it to fuel him rather than beat him down; he will seek to encroach on Set’s space as much as he can until the other is cornered, cowered into submission.

Fuck he wishes he could actually just punch the guy in the face. ]

I’m not fucking playing games. [ Like you, you goddamn freak. ] Tell me where it is.

[ In one ear, out the other — because if Amos is strong and violent and forceful enough he will get what he wants from Set, regardless of what the other says. Because in the end, that’s what people like him do; they will trample over others and think nothing of it because it is about them. He can only outrun that part of himself for so long, and with Set, he doesn’t bother to care to try. ]

I'm not playing either — I have no reason to give you anything.

[ Unstoppable force, immovable object.

Set bares his teeth in return, the impression of animal fangs and suffocating heat within his mind. He remains amorphous in presence, ever-shifting sands made of worn stone; nothing stands the test of time, all will decay and become dust. He flits in and out of their mental space, a hummingbird, the scent of a storm.

He won't let Amos drive him into a corner. Amos Burton isn't frightening, he's nothing — ]

I pitched it off the edge of the world. It doesn't exist anymore. Isn't that easier for you? You don't have to think about it anymore.

[ In reality, his hands are curled upon it thoughtfully. Like hell he can use it as an effective bargaining tool, Amos won't go for it. They'll be at an impasse until someone slips. ]

[ He keeps his teeth bared against everything Set has to offer him. It’s annoying, the way he refuses to stay still, grains shifting and buffeting at his whims, the potential to be overwhelming, overpowering in number. Amos himself is someone who stays stationary, a bulky figure who refuses to be buffeted, to be further worn down than he already is. His personhood eroded over his early years, only slowly and unknowingly being built back up as he grew, but he is not letting the same thing happen to his body — or, in this case, all he has to express himself.

Set will not cower; Amos will not relent until he does. ]

The fuck you did. You couldn’t take your eyes off of mine the first time you saw one. What, you get hard when you found mine? You get off on having one? You feel a rush when you use it to club a kid in the face?

[ There’s another rush of anger there, spitting fire along with his words as he remembers what Set had done to Gen when Amos had still been recuperating from being dragged by a centipede, hadn’t had the chance to rush in and stop him. Gen’s blood running freely down his face because of his gun— ]

You dumb fuck, you don’t even know how to use it. It’d be better for you if you actually did throw it into oblivion. But you’re never going to do that, are you? Someone like you never could.

Oh.

[ The sound he makes is a knowing one, a curious.

For the moment, he will not bring up Gen ( but the things he feels, immediately, in response are a hurried and horrible storm of emotions and the delicate flicker of deeper sentiments: affection / anger / promise / possession. Whatever Amos says of him, he can believe it. Goodness knows, he won't believe in a reality that is not fed to him by someone else, or that suits his world. He is incurious and vapid, and Set seethes with pity and distaste for him. ]

Someone like me? You seem to have crafted quite the effigy in your head, does it bring you satisfaction? Does it sate your opinions? Do you feel confident, Amos? Because I assure you, if it brings you comfort, it will be all the more fun if you are content.

[ Now, he shifts. A flicker of movement in Amos's peripheral, the sound of laughter ghosting along his throat — the brief pass of claws and teeth along his spine. ]

He made his choice to participate in this war. If you didn't want him hurt, you should have done better to protect him and keep him out of it. At least I respect his decisions.

[ He can't even begin to keep up with that volley of emotions Set feels regarding Gen, a confusing, inexplicable mess that he lets pass over him. Amos remains large and imposing as an animal staking its ground, the impression of a curled lip as Set taunts him, as though he doesn't know exactly who he is despite the mocking language. There is a low growl as Set dances along his spine, but he does not flinch. It's not real; the fucker can't hurt him here.

Except for when Set outright states that Amos is a failure as a protector. His teeth snap shut, whether there's anything to be caught in them or not, animalistic as his fury is spurred on with no obvious sign of relief. ]

You go near him again and I will rip your throat out. [ His voice is low, clearly enunciated. Not a threat, but a promise. ] I will take your shard and crush it in my bare hand. He is the last person you will play games with, do you hear me.

[ Because Amos remembers the state Gen was in when Set left them — bloodied and pained, yes, but with something fucked up and sad going on in his head that Amos could feel by virtue of their shared aspect, but could not understand. Could not comprehend what Set had done to him to make him feel that — and his rage only runs hot in the here and now because of a beating, bleeding heart of love for the kid, a need to ensure he never feels that way again. Whatever Set did to him, it ends now. ]

I know exactly what you are. You treat people as your playthings, fuck with them, cast them aside when you get bored and move on to the next one. I'm telling you it's over. You can't do it to me, and you won't do it to him.

Now where the fuck is my gun.

[ Set narrows his attention in upon Amos, cool and calculating. ]

If you try to keep us from one another, you will lose him. Some part of him will always think of me, because I will never demand the same from you. I will never weigh his importance to me against my distaste for you.

[ And in that, Set stands above Amos. In that, he thinks himself better than this man — someone he does not know is so desperate to be good, only that he is a hollow mimicry of humanity and ought to give up already. Ought to either die for good or become something else and stop pretending. The threat only stirs something darker, deeper within him. Predatory and territorial, even though he does linger upon the idea of being crushed. Mortality is not a pretty look, for an immortal creature. ]

You know only what you want to know, Amos Burton. You only consider that which brings you comfort, and allows you to avoid that which brings you pain.

[ Like that, Set brings to bare the words Amos had whispered: She died.

He does not want to understand the man hammering at his mind, the threat that he is, the yearning that Set has to snap his mind between his fingers and slaughter him like every other man he has driven to madness and torment in his eternal existence. Knowing that he cannot, without ample preparation and careful planning. Knowing that Amos is not a trifling opponent. ]

I am telling you, that you are wrong. I will never abandon Minegishi Gen. I treasure him, with the same heart I despise you. And you will never believe me, because you have to be right. So. What happens to you, if you are not right, Amos?

[ This isn't about the gun, now. But, Set does send an image of it.

( Settled in his hands, the blood cleaned from it and the casing cleaned. A cloth dipped in water and later, in oil, to polish it and attend to it fastidiously. A delicate pick crafted from sand, to get into the tight grooves and seams and clean them, too. He cannot comprehend the inner workings, but that isn't difficult to remedy. He just has to find someone who can take it apart and teach him. ) ]

[ There's the sensation of nostrils flaring, his breathing audible in between Set's words. She died, and it doesn't matter, because she's dead. It matters because Amos let slip something about Lydia — someone personal, and private; someone not to be known about by others, the one person he could consistently rely on during his shitty formative years — and even hearing Set reference her is.

He breathes; in the physical world, his fists clench, his eyes trained on swirling desert—

His eyes trained on his gun in that motherfucker's hands.

Amos is silent for a long moment, studying that image Set sends him — analyzing it bit by bit, piece by piece. It's no longer bloodied, and that's good. Its outer workings look like they're in good condition, and that's... good. There are no bullets with it, and that's better, considering who is currently in possession of it.

His mood does noticeably shift, anger downing in temperature, like heat dispersing from an object once it has entered the vacuum of space. He's still pissed, but at least Set did answer his question. So.

His voice is quieter when he speaks, skepticism dripping from his words. ]

That's what you do when you treasure someone? You ambush them and beat them bloody? You fuck with his head and leave someone else to pick up the pieces? You worm into his brain so bad that he can't comprehend what just happened? That's what treasuring someone means to you?

Why would I believe you when that's what you do to people you say you care about?

[ This is why Set is a sociopath; this is why this is one of the rare times when Amos knows he is right. Because you don't do that to your people, let alone anyone still so young. You just don't. ]

No. [ A simple, direct denial of Amos's beliefs. ] That is what you see me do, and all that you care to see.

[ Because, as Set thinks, he and Amos do not want to see anything more about one another. He certainly doesn't. There is a satisfaction he feels, in hating Amos Burton. Not because he has wronged Set in any capacity, but because he is just — he is an Exalt, and by all rights, they ought to be deeply compatible. But they are not, and instead of working on that, they prefer to shove one another further into something dark and heady and hateful. He likes hating Amos, to be quite honest. There's nothing quite like having someone to bear the brunt of the things he won't allow himself to feel toward anyone else.

Something simple and satisfyingly direct, in refusing to look at him in the way he looks at everyone else. Like Amos is his favorite sacrifice. ] — I protect Rudebeckia de Borgia from a war she wants no part of, and from a man who terrifies her. You. You would never choose her over Zenith. I have chosen to hold Gen higher than Meridian, I hold Rudbeckia and Lucien higher than both factions, which makes me better than you.

[ He snarls the words, claws and teeth and the sounds of dogfights. Guns firing, men and women dying and bleeding and praying to some higher power — god, faith, belief. War. ]

So what if I beat him? If he stands against me, he knows I will not hold back — I respect his decisions, and meet them with the whole of my heart and my own conviction! We promised that to one another, when I delivered him to Zenith!

[ It is a baffled, angry silence that meets Set in return — nothing to combat the sounds of war and whatever it is Set takes from that, letting them fill up the field where desert and space meet. He is not bothered by them, unlike the brief barb at the idea of Amos sacrificing Lucien for the sake of Zenith, the shock of the very idea dispersing with a crisp impression of the fuck—

Because Set is a psycho, and everything he says keeps adding to the impression.

Amos regards his proclamation, and turns up his nose at it. ]

Don't get me wrong, I know I ain't shit most of the time, [ the words coming out in a drawl before getting more pointed, ] but at least I'm not the one declaring myself better than anyone else. Nobody who actually cares about anyone else does that.

[ Yes, Set can have his proclamations, and based on his last conversation with Ruby he understands that they might even be true in some circumstances, for some people. But when Amos reflects on the people he has followed throughout his life — Yima, yes, and Lydia, and the people in between — he knows that none of them would have pulled that shit. The fucking arrogance of it all...

... This is why he hates him. Amos continues to stand his ground, offering nothing to counter Set's asserted domain. In the end, all there will be is a void; in the end, that's all he'll have (blinded to the humanity he still possesses buried deep within him, too blanketed with sheer nothingness to be uncovered so soon). ]

You didn't deliver him to shit. You don't respect anyone other than yourself, because it's all about you. You act like you're above me, but I got no problems reaching you from where I'm standing.

[ Get the fuck back down in the mud with me already, you asshole. You're already here. ]

[ As if to spite Amos, Set's mind seems to step up onto him. To use him as a platform to ascend and stand over the muck he so badly wants them both to wallow in; maybe Set is filthy, reprehensible, sociopathic and maybe, he truly does belong in those mired depths — but, he'll happily use Amos as a stepping stone just to ensure the man sees him as something elevated. Something that won't just be filth because he wants it.

It's like hostile edging. ] That's because you know yourself as nothing better, whereas I do. I am better than you, and I am infinitely more than you have concluded that I am — why else would anyone share genuine connections with me, if not?

[ He sneers, lip curling as he manifests once more. A flitting creature, a storm. Fickle and cocksure in a way that probably reads as madness to an atheist, but is only because he was born-made to be this way. Everything he is resides in his purity of confidence, or — at least, the facsimile of it. ( If he acts hard, brutal and laughs like he doesn't care, he won't be caught. Won't be revealed. ) ]

You keep telling yourself whatever you need to. Whatever makes you feel big enough and strong enough, Amos Burton. I truly do not care for whatever reality you had to build, to escape the last one.

I will not fight you over anyone. You just have to accept that I will also be part of their lives, the way that I accept you.

[ Nobody who has stepped on him in the past — used him in order to get ahead in some fashion — is better than him. It's always been the contrary; a display of some of the worst humanity has to offer, occasionally disgusting, always unfounded. Amos doesn't react to Set treating him as a stepping stool in this mindscape but to raise his hackles and stay otherwise grounded — reacting to a threat that hasn't done anything to him yet, but holds the potential to make it worse. A defensive, defiant position.

Because Set is, indeed, insane; because divinity isn't real, some sick joke that Amos can't make heads nor tales of, and so assigns it to the mark of a madman. (He is blind to what it could be a cover for, both unwilling and unable to pry deeper.) ]

And this is what acceptance looks like to you, huh. [ Lording, arrogant— ] How long until you drive them away? How long until you ensure those genuine connections don't want you to be a part of their lives? Because I am in the real world — [ down here, accepting of his position, his standing in life — ] and that's what happens to people like you. Either you drive them away, or you get them killed. There's no in between. There never is.

If that's what you need in order to be better, then good luck with that.

I am the real world. I live it, breathe it and know it.

[ Their incompatible views of the world will never allow them to cooperate, nor look upon one another with anything but naked hostility and loathing.

And if Amos thinks he belongs down in the dirt ( where Set ought to be, too, where he does exist but fights for betterment and strength all the same — ), then he cannot be unhappy when someone uses him as something to stand upon to get out of that darkness. Set will not let him protest how he is used and viewed, if he never wants to get out of that mire. ]

I chose the third option, by the way — to be myself, and to be desired because of it and to allow those I share relations with to decide with me what we are to one another. That is what drives you mad, in the end. That in spite of all your faith that you are right... you are the only one who feels that way.

[ Thing is, Amos wants to be better, himself. Feels he isn't capable — deserving? — of it, but wants it. Part of that is helping others to be better, too. It's something he's dabbled in from time to time, and every time he's helped someone — pulled them out of a spate of darkness, helped put them on a path they appreciated — it's felt good, for both parties. In theory, he should have no problem with helping Set feel better about himself.

But Set is not someone who deserves that, and so, here they are — sweet words of self-assuredness raked along his being, reminding him of his capacity to be prey after all, furthering his desire to be predator. Caught in a standstill, in the midst of a paradox of sorts — desert has an end and space does not, his realm will win every time; Set is older than him and has significantly more to draw on.

So, he at least has a chance, he figures.

It just pisses him off that Set also has one. ]

I am right. [ It is also like talking to a brick wall. ] And I can wait until everyone else sees it, too. I got time.

Don't get blood on my fucking gun again.

[ And with that, he cuts the connection. Takes a breath once he's out of that heat — as though that was the only part of the exchange that had bothered him, and not the possibility that Set could be right, too. ]

[ The Communion starts abruptly, as it always does. Like a windowframe being yanked at from the outside, demanding entry now. And the moment that Set decides to accept, whether that's immediately or after a delay --

he'll receive an image. A real-time broadcast of where Gen's standing out on the edge of a barren cliff somewhere, looking over a steep, steep drop, so high up that the ground below vanishes into shadows and fog. Set must feel it, the sensation of a chill breeze against skin, the whistle of wind past vertical walls of rock, and the stifling smell of cold dirt. Gen spends a moment gazing out over the barren scenery surrounding him before his gaze dips down, and along with it, Set's, to fix on what lies by his feet.

A pair of jars. ]

I told you to fucking stay out of my way, didn't I.

[ Gen's voice comes as a flat drawl, and he nudges at one of the jars with the tip of his boot. It shifts where it sits on the ground, pushed ever so slightly closer to the edge, where it would topple into oblivion. ]

[ In the scant handful of days following Meridian's victory, Set has not rested. With the access granted to him by his services to the Yard, he quietly scoured the greenhouse where the battle had taken place, whispering to the plants to direct him to all the places where Gen had frequented. Seeking his items, seeking any others that might have been left behind and unclaimed. The grasses had led him on a journey, and the end of that journey had presented him with the conclusion he'd dreaded: Gen had taken them with him. The other two jars.

With two in his possession, it leaves him nervous and tetchy. Withdrawn and preparing himself for the next time Gen will emerge and demand his attention. The threat that he presents is stark, despite that Set has taken the time to remind himself of Yima's abilities — that if the Zenite chooses to destroy the two jars in his possession, he will stop at nothing to render his choice null and void. And Gen will have destroyed whatever lies between them for nothing at all.

Even that doesn't matter. Desperation still claws at him — fear makes him bluff, hopefully it works, and he doesn't have to beg. ]

No, Gen. What you did, was ask me to abandon you and everything I promised you.

Edited 2023-09-12 05:48 (UTC)

Shut it.

[ Of course Gen snaps that irate response almost before Set's even finished speaking, his own voice bristling with agitation. Though -- it's not hard to tell that some of the venom's leeched from his demeanor. Maybe it's exhaustion, maybe it's the demoralization of Zenith's loss, or maybe it's something more (they both know it's something more), but he just can't seem to muster the same level of vitriol that he had during the fight for the last Oracle.

He doesn't bother broadcasting that image of Set's object sat near the edge of the cliff any more, the image fading out to instead leave the churning, uneasy darkness of his mindscape. Irritation and upset render the very air hot and itchy to breathe, and there's the sizzle of agitation crackling through the air even when Gen simply glowers at Set for a moment longer, looking for the right words. ]

... I was planning on keeping my end of the deal. [ To his meager credit, the two jars do seem perfectly untouched despite all the chaos that had ravaged the garden. Gen had squirreled them away safe and sound during all of it. ] If you just did as I told you, and didn't intervene when we had the prism, these'd already be back with you. What the hell were you thinking?

[ There is a note of surprise, when Gen says that he was planning on keeping his end of the deal. As if Set had not even remotely considered that he would. No one keeps their vows to him, he knows — he is a traitorous god, and thus deserving of others' lies and betrayals. They might as well be devotion to him. His mind simmers, disquieted and raw, against Gen's irritation. Even still, there is something that relishes his snappy tone, his brutal way of carving into a conversation. It is familiar, where his desperation and madness were not.

He sees a little more, of the whole being known as Minegishi Gen, now.

Little by little, he tears his attention away from the memory of the image of his jars by the cliff. His heart throbs — did Gen do it? did he throw them off? did he move them away? He cannot see them anymore, he doesn't know. It leads him to stiffen in the physical realm, to bite his bottom lip between sharp teeth until it beads with blood ( and the ghostly impression of that bite might glance across Gen's own mouth — ). ]

I was thinking — [ That it would be difficult to convey the way his mind worked to a mortal, for it was nothing alike. The margins in which he'd captured Gen were unique, he would not think ( nor treat ) anyone the same way that he did this young man. ] I was thinking that I did not want to lose to you, and be seen as unworthy of our promise. And I was also thinking... that I did not want you to destroy my own Reiji. I was thinking that I wanted all of it, and it was wrong that I could not have it.

[ Greedy. ]

Edited 2023-09-12 16:13 (UTC)

[ Set's right. It's difficult for a mortal like Gen to understand exactly what Set means, when he tries to explain himself. ]

Idiot. [ The response comes whip-quick and fritzing at the edges with irritation, frustration, confusion. ] Stupid shit-for-brains moron. You're a fucking idiot, that's what you are! What the hell would I get out of destroying your things?! All I needed was a way to make sure you'd listen to me during that whole mess, you dumbass!

[ His words are slathered thick with anger, bristling with barbed tension and resentment. But across this vulnerable space of Communion, Set must be able to tell that they're honest, completely devoid of that signature, glossy sheen of falsehood.

Because Gen truly had been desperate to procure Reiji's shard in that moment. Everything, everything else had been nothing more than a means to an end, a mere afterthought. But -- an afterthought is still a thought. He'd held no ill will towards Set in that moment, and perhaps in some corner of his mind, had even felt a shred of guilt in utilizing those jars that way. He truly had had no reason to destroy those objects that Set cherishes so much, just so long as they properly served their purposes of ensuring Set's compliance. (In guaranteeing Reiji's safe return. The only thing that mattered.)

Clearly, it's Set's fault that those jars are now in jeopardy. (-- Gen convinces himself.) It's not like he's threatening these objects now because he wants to. It's just that he has to. He has no choice. (He tells himself.) Gen heaves an agitated, rumbling breath before speaking again, his words low and guttural. ]

Give me one good reason why I shouldn't kick these things over the edge right fucking now. I warned you what'd happen if you didn't listen to me.

Would you not feel good? Right? Destroying something that belongs to Meridian scum, destroying something that belongs to me — would it not bring you happiness? Power? Satisfaction? Would it not make you laugh with Amos Burton, joyfully rejoicing?

[ Because to Set, Gen would get something out of such an act. He'd choose it, after all.

Gen's mind sparks with something disorderly and rude, and Set leans into it like a cat seeking a good scratch. The truth in his emotions resonates, in a sickly sweet way that the war god gathers into his arms and strokes with his thumbs like silk, slick with oil and rot. If nothing else, he treasures Gen's harsh honesty; it is much like Set's own, which is ruthless and oft-cruel. He does not lie, even if he avoids. He does not form deep grudges easily, because he is so old and eternal that to harbor a grudge against someone who will be dead for longer than he has known them feels like a waste of energy.

But, Gen does sit on the edge of a fatal grudge, because of what he has in his possession. ]

You could have come to me. We could have talked, and I would have listened to you and held you like before. I understand how much he means to you.

[ Why didn't you let me be there when you needed me? He had said, and Set gestures to the memory of a set of four jars, the animal-heads upon them, the delicate carving of hieroglyph upon their pale, clay bodies. The sensation of their mild roughness against his hands, the searing agony in his heart as he'd gathered them into his arms and bled and cried and sobbed as someone dark and heavy carved his fingers through Set's hair. Like the sensation of someone leaning predatory and warm across Gen's own back, there is someone upon Set's own.

One good reason. He feels sick as he says it, but this, too, is a cautious manipulation ( bluffing and avoiding the truth won't be enough to stay Gen, but in the end, this will be Gen's choice; nobody will force his hand ). ] Those jars hold my son's soul, the same as Reiji's Shard holds his.

Shut up!

[ Gen's anger flares once more, his words bristling like a dog's raised hackles. It's unsteady, though. His rage isn't the red-hot flare of heated steel, but the sputtering of an bonfire built over water, the flame roaring hot one moment then flickering the next. Tainted with uncertainty, doubt, denial, even as he continues to snarl, ]

You talk a big game like you know everything about me -- what the hell do you think you know! You understand me?! You fucking wish! You don't know anything about me and Reiji!

[ So he says, but Set is right. Gen knows Set is right. And across the vulnerable space of Communion, Set must also feel the way Gen knows he's right.

Yes, some part of him would have cackled with glee at the prospect of shattering those jars and watching Set's face warp with despair. He's cruel, after all, and relishes in the pain of those he likes and loves. An ugly brute, a sadist. A part of him would have gleefully smashed a jar over Set's own head, just to rub salt in the wound, in hopes of watching Set break.

He hates it. He hates that Set is right, and he hates that part of himself. He hates that he's fought so desperately to keep it chained up and hidden, but Set would speak of it so openly. He hates that Set knows that about him, but still claims he would have been there for him -- it's a lie, it has to be, because that's wrong. There's the phantom sensation of bile rising to the back of the throat, an acrid sting accompanied by a sick churning of the stomach. Gen laboriously swallows it back as he always does, eyes watering and pulse ringing in his ears; he hates this, too, the familiar way his body seems to revolt against his own thoughts when he's stressed like this.

That's why he says what he says next, he tells himself. It's Set's fault. Set goaded him into it. Set's the reason he snaps -- ]

So what if those things are your son? [ Unseen, he smiles wolfish and cruel. (It's forced. His words come strained.) That's what Set wants and expects from him, right? Fine, then. ] You should've thought about that before you disobeyed me. You really are insane, picking a fight with me when your own son was on the line.

Edited 2023-09-12 21:31 (UTC)

Let me know you, then.

[ Gen is faltering.

Confused and resistant, and Set feels positively ( giddy ) sick that he is using his son as a blade against this young man. That he is grinding salt into Gen's unseen vulnerabilities where he is flayed and open and festering at the same time that his own scars are lashed open and Gen can probably see down, down into the soft, fragile interior of his soul. Into the image of Set, wide-eyed and beaten down, curling his hands desperately toward his ruined son, even as the cool, dark eyes of another man looks down upon him and says: You know what you have to do, and brings him to heel. ]

I didn't want to give up on you. I thought you would like to know that I think you can choose differently.

[ A murmur, even as his entire mind clenches with the sickly heat of someone who will beg — he will beg, he will plead, he will give Gen anything to stop him from going through with this and it will ruin them. It will unravel them, so he is as desperate to stop it as he is to save his child. ]

I adore you for your rot, but I would adore you for mercy, too. I will follow your choices, no matter what. Because these are your choices, from the moment you decided to involve me not as yours, but as an animal to be unleashed. I need you to understand that the difference between giving him back to me and destroying him will be the difference between my yearning for your happiness, and my yearning for your despair.

[ He will stop at nothing to rob Gen of all his dreams, his death, his Reiji, if he chooses to destroy Set's heart. He won't say it, he'll just devote himself to it.

So, he leans into Gen's mind, straining to lay hand upon him as if they were together in person. As if he could drape over his spine and wrap his arms around his belly, a warm weight upon him, breath soft on his neck. Softly, with something heavy and bereft hidden in his throat, he begs gently: ] Please give my son back to me, the way I gave Reiji back to you. Let me spare you this pain, I will hold it for you instead.

[ The restless, stormy landscape of Gen's psyche quiets at that.

Though Set will find out soon enough that the moment of silence is not because Gen has decided to surrender to Set's pleas. No, there's something distinctly disquieting about his long pause; tension crackles in the space between them, unseen but very much felt in the way it dances along the nerves like errant sparks of electricity, prickling shallow but sharp. Then Gen speaks again, quietly, that same shark-like ( cold, lifeless, cruel in an almost caricaturistic way) smile still playing on the low drone of his words. ]

An' when did I ask for you to yearn for my happiness?

[ Set should know better, really. He threatens to yearn for Gen's despair, but doesn't he know that's a dangerous carrot to dangle before the eyes of someone longing for an end?

Gen knows, of course, that it's a dangerous game he's playing. He knows there are worse fates than death. Months in this fantastical world have taught him that there are plenty here who could utterly crush him and reduce him to begging for mercy, and he has no doubt that Set would be amongst them. But with some corner of his heart desperately longing for oblivion, it's so difficult thinking this through in rational terms. A part of him just wants to drag Set down with him as he chases that dark, dark abyss.

He feels that phantom weight pressing against his back and winding around his side, warm and a little sticky with sweat, and Gen leans into it -- just so he can imagine himself grazing his teeth along the shell of Set's ear. Threatening, as he murmurs, ]

Hey, Set. You said 'too.' You'd adore me for my mercy 'too.' So it's not really what you wanted, is it -- you wanted me to hurt you. You expected me to break my promise. [ Can Set hear it? The quiet grind of ceramic against dirt. The jar nudges ever so slightly closer to that cliff's perilous edge. ] How the hell am I supposed to believe you really would have helped me, if that's the sort of shit you're saying, hm? What would you get from 'being there' for someone like that?

[ No.

( Do not make him beg, not again. He will lower himself to it, he will do anything he has to. ) ]

When you accepted my challenge, Minegishi Gen. That if I won, I would take you somewhere you could be new and precious. That's when you asked me.

[ In truth, he did expect Gen to break his promise. Not because he's Gen, but because nobody ever really keeps their promise to a traitor-god, a god of betrayers and schemers and evil. This must be what he reaps, he thinks, blinded with the sudden wash of something empty and cold. His mind blinkers out, as if suddenly, he has stopped existing all together. Like he is gone, and all that is left is a memory of him. ( Like he has slipped away, like he will, if Gen breaks this between them. )

( He thinks — if Gen does this, he will deny him everything. He will make sure Gen lives eternally, alone, unseen and locked away in a space so small he cannot draw breath into his lungs, until he cannot remember who he did this for at all. ) ]

I wanted you to choose me, [ he whispers, finally. A rasp in his voice. The same thing he has said, because no matter what Gen thinks, it is the truth. Whether he thought he would lie or betray him or not, there was still the terrible, yearning desire that Gen would see Set's promise for irrefutable truth. That he wouldn't have to test the limits of it, until someone breaks. ] I thought you could break your word, because... you want to win, too. You want to die, more than anything else.

[ He still cannot exist in the join of their minds, emptied out and hidden as he is. Inches from throwing himself into Gen's arms and pleading. He has no dignity, Osiris ensured he would never have pride or dignity or power when it comes to Anubis ever again. Maybe that is why he is drawn to Gen — because in some ways, he fills a space where someone once was. ( He cannot, he cannot think that way, because Gen is Gen. He is horrible and cruel, but he is also the boy who Set held in his arms in the roots and promised to fight against and for. )

Instead, he snaps: ]

'Being there' for someone like you, is just what I want to do. You annoying brat! I want it, and I will not be told I cannot have it because you have it in your head that you can get what you want by acting like this! Amos Burton can tell me to stay away from you all he wants, people can look at me as if I am a traitor to Meridian's stupid, disgusting cause — ! I do not care, I want what I want!

[ Something inside him shudders violently at that, the reminder of a promise he'd thrust into some dark corner of his mind.

( -- 'I will carry you with me, and treat you preciously as someone new in our next life.' Those words from Set haunt him, whispering to him from somewhere deep in his heart no matter how hard he tries to smother them. Happiness isn't meant for him. He knows it as fact. Minegishi Gen was never meant to for happiness, and will wither and rot in the end. But foolishly, desperately, selfishly, he can't help yearning for it, and Set's promise of happiness in another place, in another life, as another person, is perhaps the only way he can permit himself that desire.

Just as much as he hates himself for hungry for Set's pain, he hates himself for being unable to give up on that distant hope. He hates Set for having offered him that lifeline, and hates Set for being so magnetic as to making it seem viable. He hates Set for being his distant sun. ) ]

... should you be raisin' your voice against me like that?

[ His words remains as demeaning as ever, a barbed reminder to Set of what exactly is at stake here. But there's an exhaustion there, now, and a weight to his words. Anger is always harder to maintain once its lost its momentum, after all; spite might carry him through the rest of this act, but it lacks the drive of rage in this moment, requiring him to willfully claw his way forward.

He can't back off, can he? It'd defeat the entire purpose of issuing a threat in the first place. If he backs off now and shows Set any mercy, then how can he retain any control in the future? ( 'Why didn't you let me be there for you when you needed someone on your side?' Those words, too, keep ringing in his ears. His head hurts. He wants to stop thinking. ) He didn't do anything wrong; all he'd done was what had to be done to keep Reiji safe. There had been no other choice.

The landscape of Gen's mind quiets further, though Set will probably find no comfort in this. ]

I've heard enough from you. [ Gen's response comes flat and ironed flat, like he's willfully tried to purge the emotions from his words. ] I'm done with this talk.

[ What of the jars? He doesn't know. -- he'll deal with them. He'll shatter them like he's supposed to. Later. A bit later. Just after he's rested. But he will, he will. He has to. ]

Would you be able to find any faith in me, if I did not?

[ Raise his voice to Gen, he means.

Set's voice falls to a rasp, that dry and harsh little whisper that always comes from deep below his sternum. He is not a small man, not a slight creature, but one of strong, lean muscle and a beauty that transcends a given binary; in the clutch of their minds, his brow knits, red and tight and wrinkled in the middle as his mouth pulls down. Down further, and smooths out from a frown into a wobbling line. A shaking thing, his sharp teeth pressing into the back edge of his bottom lip. Biting until he tastes blood.

In that moment, he does fear Gen. As much as he wants to sink his teeth into him and drag him out of his hole like a wayward pup, fling him to the dirt and slap him until he cries. Bite him, until he's so scarred he cannot see himself save for what Set's done to him. He wants him to never be able to put their promise away again, no matter what they do to one another — because, even though Gen threatened his son, even though Set was and remains inches from giving in and fleeing to Zenith and betraying them entirely,

he has to dig his heels in. He has to think he can have it all.

Even though Gen irons himself flat. Lusterless and black, bleak and silent. Set's heart hammers against his rib cage, his throat constricts and his hands reach toward the young man as he draws back, as he calls them 'done'. ]

Gen —

[ He calls his name, once. Tries to speak on experience, because there is a similarity between them. Before Gen goes, before he silences their connection entirely, before he gives into that great dark thing inside of himself and breaks something because he has to ( set understands, but he does not give gen anything from his mind, not right now ). He just has to say it, before the connection closes: ]

I think, Reiji and Anubis have had enough of people using them to hurt us. Of being hurt by others. Consider it.

[ Good point, though Gen would rather die than admit it. A small part of him can't help but being charmed and a little impressed by that fire that Set holds -- the boldness he displays in mouthing off even when the safety of what he holds dear hangs in the balance. The sort of fire that he quietly wishes he had himself -- because maybe things could have been different, maybe he could have helped Reiji better if he had -- even as he does everything he can to squelch it in this moment.

That concession is the only reason he permits the connection stay open long enough for Set to speak his piece.

( '-- have had enough of people using them to hurt us.' An image flashes just briefly, dragged so violently to the forefront of Gen's mind that Set must be able to see it, if only for a split second. A beautiful woman, all pale hair and soft eyes and a doting smile, along with the phantom sensation of fingers brushing down his throat. But along with her, she brings a blood-curdling, stomach-churning wave of hatred and dread and hurt. ) ]

I told you before, didn't I. [ That image is dragged back into the darkness, like choking back a wave of nausea. Gen grits his words, quietly, past metaphorical clenched teeth; Set must be able to picture how pallid his face is, from the strain in his voice. ] Don't go talking like you know anything about him.

[ And if the note of finality in his words weren't indication enough, maybe what follows will be enough to shut Set up.

Gen's vision, channeled right through to Set. The same cliff, the same dry wind stinging at the skin, the same scent of dirt and cold air that sting against the nose. The same darkness that waits below as one of the jars hurtles off the edge of the cliff, spinning top over bottom as it goes plummeting out of sight.

-- is Set lucid enough to pick up on them? The tiny, tiny hints that suggest that something isn't right. There'd been no sound of pottery gritting against dirt, no thump of a bootsole kicking that precious object over the edge, no whistle of the wind against those curved edges as the jar sailed into oblivion. It's only an image, after all -- a Silent Image that Gen has cast hurtling over the edge of the cliff into the darkness, meant to teach Set a lesson and punish him for presuming to know anything about Reiji.

But whether Set can fight back his distress enough to notice those little hints or not doesn't matter. Gen barely lets the image sink in before slamming the connection between them shut. ]

Edited 2023-09-20 00:01 (UTC)

[Sleep has alluded Hayame since they returned to their proper sizes. Victory has not felt nearly as satisfying as it should. Because in the process of securing that victory, of throwing herself into the violent task of claiming, keeping, and stealing Oracle objects, desperate to do the work of five Meridians in order to make sure they did not fail to passivity and disinterest from the weak in their number as they had during the Iconoclast Oracle’s reign…

Hayame had suffered. Suffered in ways she could not confide in others without shame, or could not accurately explain to others without bodies like hers. One of only two she would trust to understand was Set… but.

She cannot be so weak as to seek comfort from him so openly, so pathetically. She is his warrior. If she does not remain strong… she will not be anymore. So when she reaches out to him, in that familiar space where sand swirls against snow-]

Set.

I have a favor to ask of you. The price, you may name.

[In her “hands”, a persimmon and a pomegranate. On her face (in her soul), exhaustion and hauntings.]

You can coax these things to grow… yes?

[An invitation is extended in the mind. To the house Liem Talbott had built in Alenroux. The one she now resides in. A “home”.]

[ There is still something flinchy and pained inside of his chest, a restless energy that leaves him feeling hollow, undone. He does not rest, nor take time to do much else than pace. Pacing the length his lush, green veranda in Akua's home. Pacing the length of his shrine in the Beyond, or the temple deeper into the forest. Running the height of Quetzalcoatl's own place of worship, burning his nigh-limitless energy in increasingly manic ways — his plants spilling over the edges of his 'room', the Greenwood Yards growing increasingly lush.

It feels poisonous, to grow things. He should be killing them, after all, desiccating verdant things and transforming them into arid sands. Osiris is the god of life and the black, life-giving souls, not him. He is the master of red lands, dead lands. ( It has never felt right to him, to have those abilities, since they day he'd found the lost shrine and taken on that spell — the most simple little spell, allowing him to induce flowers to open and know the weather. But, it is the piece of divinity he has. Stolen, he thinks he can be a better god of greenery than his own brother. ) ]

I can.

[ He doesn't lie to her, even as the thought twists through him.

It always does, even if he still performs such work. Uses spells that are anathema to his domains. ]

Do you know how to tend to fruit-bearing plants, Hayame? It is hard work, but worthwhile. I find it soothing.

[ In their joined minds, he accepts the invitation as if she'd written it to him and posted it to him. It gives him somewhere to redirect his energies, and perhaps — perhaps, because he is so lost and pained, it makes him kinder. In a strange way, as if his cutting mind being subsumed by his own stormy emotions brings out something different inside of him. Some old need to protect, and support. He was a guardian deity, once. A husband and father.

He signals to her that he is on his way to Alenroux, to her home. Her lovely home, given to her by someone who wanted her to have a place to belong. ]

[Then they both do not rest, and they both do not stand still, and they both... now have issues with something green. Even if those issues might be anathema to each other. Even if... Hayame's might just be an excuse.

(Had Set retrieved his son? She had wanted to ask, and yet... the fact that he had not said a word about it... Did he know she had "punished" Gen in her own way, unable to honor the claim she had ceded him in the face of the brat's fresh crimes against Meridian and her personally? She was going to shatter his shard, but by the time she found where the body had fallen...)]

... I do not.

I thought good soil and exposure to rain would be enough for such a thing. If there are things you need to teach me about this... I must ask you fold it into the price you ask of me.

[Are friends supposed to be able to ask favors of each other without the need for prices? She doesn't know anymore. But it feels like an imposition, that she be asking him for this, so surely she is the one incurring debt. The one staring at the pomegranate and persimmon in her hands and wondering if putting down roots in this place will answer the question he had so recently asked her about the fact that she could not deny her presence in this world.

He is on his way... and though she debates greeting him by standing in front of the home Liem Talbott had seen constructed, her hands folded in front of her equine chest... Surely it was more fitting that he see the inside of her... "home"? Or no, perhaps that was too presumptuous of her? He would have visited before now, surely, if he had interest or intent. Or... was he waiting for an invitation? ... Actually, no, the idea of the chaotic god of war waiting for invitations is very silly of her.

She goes to wait for him outside.]

[ Visiting Alenroux is one of his periodic things, these days. Once conquered, his interest in the island had waned to a matter of maintaining it ( testing his Meridian-acquired spells; exploring; spitting in Zenith's eye about their tepid hold upon it, the usual ) and ensuring it did not completely fall out of Springstar's hands. The most interest he held in its continuity was twofold: Hayame had a home there, and relinquishing it would make their Tribune look weak. He was invested in both individuals, and thus continued to visit it.

Keeping abreast of Kenos's movements was, after all, something he was passionate about.

Landing by Alenroux's Cornerstone was one matter. Locating Hayame's home was the second. Using her landmarks and guidance, he travels the distance necessary to locate the place she had finally, finally come to rest in. A place worthy of her weapons, of her work, of her. Were he to continue finding her in the stables, the insult to his own status would only grow. What manner of god would permit his greatest of warriors to reside in a place unsuitable for her, after all? It was wrong, to him. To think that she was bidden to live in a place designed for horses. Not a jinba, not a woman like her. ]

Hayame!

[ He calls to her, once he sees her. A figure who takes to Alenroux in the shape of her people, sands folded over and over into a facsimile of flesh and limb. The streaming red of his tail and the manic, prissy trot of his hooves approach — his arms thrown wide and inviting. ( His mood always seems so bright, when his shape mirrors hers. The deep appreciation he has for her innate power, her speed and the freedom to run is beyond measure. ) ]

You are not wrong, by the way. Good soil and water are vital for crops. Knowing how to attend their boughs and roots are equally important, I have found. While I am not a god of arable land, I have studied up on what knowledge I did have. [ What he knew of, due to Osiris and Isis. ] And, one of my Meridian-granted spells enhances the health of plant life. I have used it all throughout Alenroux, and now, it is for you.

[ Which means! ]

So, put thoughts of price from your head! Just tend to my Discord afterwards.

[Set is not the only one who had intimated to her to that he found her lodgings in the stables unsuitable... but he is one of only a few who she even let be privy to where she had lived in the first place, and one of even fewer who then spoke up to her about it. Changing her mind has never been an easy thing, and it was not on this issue either. Jinba lived in stables. It was all she'd ever known. (And she didn't deserve more.)

But here she is now, in front of the home that Liem Talbott had supervised the building of, with its large door and high ceilings and open flooring and all sort of features that made living in it easier for a jinba. It would be more obvious if he came inside. All of those features would apparently be of even more use than usual, seeing as-]

Set... I did not expect you like this...

[Hayame had not expected him to come to her wearing her kind's shape again. The last time she had seen him this way... those forelegs had found tight purchase on her withers, that red coat had been velvet beneath her hands, his breath had been heated against the back of her neck, and he (and she) had... Her unbidden recollections bring a dusting of blush to her cheeks despite her intent to remain stoic, a surprised little swallow working down her throat. She should focus- the time before hadn't been... like that, they had run and run and run away-

And she is not... not happy, not pleased, to see him that way.]

- Of course I shall. I have offerings, as well...

[Is that really price enough for this? Perhaps she should simply pick something else and send it to Akua's home before he might protest, and then never bring it up again so that it did not create feelings of debt? She manages to address that, first, restarting her thoughts where she stands in front of her home (it still feels weird to say or think "her home"), a young persimmon tree in a burlap sack transplanted and laid on the ground near the door, a large, ripe pomegranate fruit held gently in her hands. Knowing how to attend their boughs and roots...

But this brings her to the awkward fact that... Hayame doesn't know how to behave with a house. Now that he is here, and wearing her form, and they are outside, but could so easily be inside thanks to the home's construction... her one eye darts between her door and Set. There is a heavy dark circle under it not hidden by the patch, something caused by recent days of nightmares and restless sleep. Should she... ? No, surely it is more sensible to do outside work first, and then she can tend to his Discord in private where it belongs... ? The refreshment of tea will be more needed once he has exerted magic, surely? Yes, surely-]

... This one has no roots yet, no boughs.

[She proffers the unbroken pomegranate in her hands, red and round. She had scoured the market for the perfect one... to crack open with a slow press, pull, and twist of her hands, revealing the hundreds of glistening jewels of its seeds within. "They look like gems, right?" She can still hear that man's voice saying-]

Is there anything that can be done with it... ?

[The persimmon sapling she could at least get back into the ground by herself if need be, and entrust its fate to the weather above. But this one...

She has never grown anything from seed. Never grown anything at all.]

Edited (fixing 4am thangs don't mind me) 2023-10-11 04:02 (UTC)

Do you not like it?

[ As he approaches, he rotates slowly. Showing off all angles of his jinba shape without hesitation, red and sleek as he had been that day he'd run until his blind terror was left in the dust. Until he'd heard her laughter and dozed with her on the banks, among the reeds, under the sun; coming to her in this form, in Alenroux, feels right. A little like paying homage to her uniqueness, and her struggles as a woman who was not, in the least, bipedal.

He's never found anything strange about her. A jinba was, to him, as easy to look upon and find nothing foreign about as it was to have been simultaneously born of the night sky, his starry-breasted mother. His predecessors had oft been created in the image of animals, and shifted their form between flesh, world and beast without issue. To find accommodations for her lacking was a mark of mortal nearsightedness and limits, not divine issue.

Maybe it is why he does this, among the fields and growing domiciles of Alenroux. To be like her, and show solidarity - though, maybe like the centaurs of Kenos, he does not fully match her experiences. Her knowledge. Her existence as a jinba. ] That is a jnhm. A pomegranate. We had them in Egypt, so I am familiar with their seeds.

[ Beautiful things, glistening like jewels. He reaches out to the fruit, grasping it in his fingers and examining it for breakage. It'll need to be broken, to access the seeds, which are also the most tender and flavored part of the thing. ]

To grow something from seed requires a little more work, I have been taught. The seeds within must be freed and kept inside your home, until they begin to grow their roots. They respond to warm temperatures and sunlight. Once they begin to reach that stage, they can be planted. We can work step-by-step.

[ What he did not learn from observing his brother, or asking questions of him, he was shoring up on from the workers in the Greenwood Yards. ]

Something like this could easily become the first stages of a garden, you know.

[Does she not like it... Hayame is not able to stop herself from flustering just slightly, even though she is... a little too tired to react as strongly or as flushed as she might have if this was just a visit without another intended purpose.]

You should know fair well that I like it, Set...

[Honestly, she does not think he should have to ask, so surely he must just be out to enjoy her reaction. What that shape had been incidentally first born from... she despised, she loathed it with every fiber of her being that cared for this man. God. But the rest of it... the night he had helped liberate her from some of the chains her life had shackled her with, the first and only taste she has ever had of what it was to be with someone intimately in forms designed by nature to fit together, the splash of water, a rare moment of laughter, the quiet moment on the shores of the lake where they lay in the reeds with damp coats and fingers brushed through crimson and ebon manes, each trying to share the hope they had for the other that just...

... Would they ever come true? Or would they just keep pressing those hopes on each other with intentions that were good... and failing to truly honor what was being asked of them in turn? ... She didn't know. But the shape he has come in makes her... soften, slightly, as she willingly surrenders the pomegranate (jnhm?) to his hands, and hears his verdict. Ah. So it would not work so easily...]

I was introduced to the fruit here, I do not know of them in my world... But I have come to enjoy them greatly.

[Or maybe she enjoyed... how she had come to know the fruit, more. But there was surely no denying they were delicious. They were beautiful.]

... I can learn to do the work.

[As unfortunate as it was to not simply have it happen, with that strange and useful sort of magic, and be done with it... Maybe it was better this way. (Maybe it would be a good excuse, to invite Set's company in a way that felt more purposeful and less needing. Like how she had arranged for Liem Talbott to read from his sacred book to her, so that she might have reason to visit him after returning it to him, fearing that once that was done he would have no more cause to spent time in her company.)

Pivoting, she leaves the pomegranate with Set and goes to pick up the persimmon sapling. It was still a sapling, but it was already large enough to bear some fruit, and she has a hole for it in the yard where it might shade the home as it grows, she just wanted to be sure it would take to the soil and do well. The idea of a proper garden, though... She looks around at the still mostly clear space around the home as she unwraps the burlap to free the sapling's roots, considering. "My garden" felt just as strange as saying "my house" still did, but...]

A garden with trees might keep the night monsters from sniffing about as much, I suppose...

[ Very much out of the blue, Set will receive a Communion from his favorite demon! Is he up to mischief? You bet! ]

Nb Set, do forgive me for inquiring very much out of the blue... But you came up in a conversation involving your dear friend Mr. Burton. [ His tone is teasing, since he knows they're anything but. ] With as brightly as your rivalries burn, I could not help but wonder! Are there any other Shard-Bearers who also hold such an esteemed place in your heart?

[ But, this being two demons (or close enough), he knows the rules, so: ]

If you would like to indulge in a bit of gossip, I shall share with you those who hold my ire, naturally.

Edited 2023-09-19 15:30 (UTC)

Oh? And what are you up to?

[ ( Fond. Also rhetorical. ) Any time Sebastian comes around asking direct questions, he assumes that he's up to something. It's about time that any of that "something" has come around to include information from Set in any capacity, and he's feeling a lot less, uh, spurned. It's not that he wants Sebastian's demon-attentions on him, it's that he fucking expects them. How is he supposed to rise to the challenge and prove himself, if Sebastian's just...

fucking around with other people. Gosh! ]

I do not mind not knowing which Shard-bearers hold your ire [ he uses "shard-bearer" to ensure sebastian knows he'd expect present-tense information and not past-tense information ] but, I want to know something else about your relationship with them. Would that be fair to you?

[ Oh, Set. If you were feeling neglected, you only needed to let Sebastian know! I’m sure he wouldn’t make fun of you for it endlessly!

Set’s response makes Sebastian laugh with warm, easy delight. He wasn’t trying to be subtle about digging for information (he imagines that trying to be sly would only make Set suspicious, and thus he wouldn’t get his information at all), but he’s pleased that Set sees it for what it is. When someone wants something from you, it’s an opportunity to squeeze them for more. Considering the very petty, playful reason for this call, Sebastian hardly minds. ]

Oh, that would be fair, yes. However, what sort of “something else” do you have in mind? For I confess, some of them are not very interesting, so I may not have much to give.

[ …Well. Only one of them, really. But still, the specificity will allow him to dance around things he may not want to share. ]

Edited 2023-09-19 18:08 (UTC)

None of them are interesting, except for Silco. And you.

[ 99% of Zenites are boring, to him. Most of them were given everything they wanted on a silver platter, after all. In his eyes, they have nothing to strive for, and it's only made him more... not resentful ( because he could find his way to their ranks, if he was inclined to ), but — disappointed. There's no infighting, there's no spice. They all just get along, nary an argument or moral quandry between them. To his knowledge. ]

Oh, it's nothing dire. I want to know how you determine the soul's potential, it has everything to do with the relationships you form, does it not? You are a devoted gourmet, after all.

[ Neatly said, even as the mental impression of his mouth begins to open. A slow-building smile with teeth. ]

I will give you names, if you agree. Make it special to me, and I will even be special in return.

[ Even without the psychic connection of Communion make the image clear, Sebastian would be able to hear the exact smile in Set’s tone alone. Fitting, then, that his is just as easy to hear. Where Set’s is sharp and challenging, Sebastian’s is soft and charming. ]

Flatterer.

[ It’s not a complaint, though. Far from it, especially since he can’t help be amused at the way Set chooses to phrase it. Ah, their games are truly fun. ]

Very well. Though in the interest of giving you something truly special, I do feel I should note… If it is a soul’s potential that you wish to understand, then you would not learn too terribly much from those that have my ire. So far as souls go, they are usually dull. Instead, shall I tell you of those who I would form a Covenant with, assuming they were to ask to hold my leash?

I did say I do not not care to know who has your ire, after all. Knowing who you would barter yourself to and how you come to that conclusion is far more interesting. I have wanted to know since uncovering it with Silco, although the gentleman in Kowloon really made me curious.

[ And he's so curious and hungry, young and fresh and new to the whole situation. Practically starving for Sebastian's instruction, to learn why and how, as if it will help Set make sense of his own inclinations, the people he fixates on. The ones he does not find interesting at all. The strange rank-and-file within his mind that did not ever exist before, when he was a god and looked upon everyone with equal disdain.

He pretends to fan himself a little, as if heated by the exchange. ] How do you see it? People can be different from one another even if they are all cockroaches, so how do you discriminate?

[ Is it innate to Sebastian? Does he have some unique biological trick? Is it just a careful study, the result of his meticulous nature and knowledge of what type of individual might make the best meal for him? ]

You want Shardbearers who pique my ire, though? Goodness, I can think of one immediately!

Fair enough. Then we indeed have a deal.

[ A polite one, though! There’s no particularly strict or stringent feeling behind Sebastian saying it as there had been with previous times that they’ve played at bargains. It at least makes it clear that whatever Sebastian is up to, it’s more fanciful in nature. Though whether that’s better or worse remains to be seen…

(answer: neither, it’s stupid) ]

In part, it is just a matter of taste. If you were to ask a different demon, they would be likely to tell you something else that helps them pick out a soul worth harvesting or cultivating further. There is the stereotype about demons particularly loving souls of virgins, and it is because many have a taste for an unblemished, “fresh” soul. They are not bad, I admit. But I prefer complexity. I wish for those who are thoroughly blemished, who know all the evils of the world… And yet, they strive for something more than the darkness in which they are mired. Will they overcome and grasp at that flicker of light, or will they pulled into the undertow? It is always an exquisite struggle either way.

[ It’s a bit of a preamble, but he thinks it’s useful context. There is a certain part of it that he has trouble explaining concretely, since it’s based on a sense that Set simply doesn’t have. He had gotten a taste of it when stepping into Sebastian’s mind as he goaded Ciel into abject cruelty, but it was still a momentary experience. But before he gets into more of those specifics, he does want to give his answers back to Rin. ]

So, with all that said. Please, do tell.

Edited 2023-09-19 19:39 (UTC)

[ He listens, because it is only fair that Sebastian — who was the one to come calling — gives him something he wants first. It may be information carefully cultivated, but it is information Set appreciates nonetheless. A sense of the demon's priorities, or at least his tastes, what draws him to a certain type of person — the shape of their soul, the scent they leave behind. He likes maturity, it seems. Not purity, but someone who has already been bruised and battered; that makes sense, rather than having to work up to the culmination of his preparations from a perfectly blank slate.

Set gives him the full of his attention. To most, it might be oppressive. The way that the war god leans into Sebastian's words, sifting through them with his fingers and eyes and ears and mind, stowing them into parts of his memories and broad, expansive intellect like the eternal night sky, speckled with stars that wax and wane. It's a good start, and he happily grants Sebastian the information he desires, as well. Why not? He's excited to see what will come of it. A hit squad, maybe? ]

Amos Burton holds a unique place, but if you want to know who else I could hold up alongside him — the Archangel and Vander are two individuals I find deeply disagreeable.

[ Set’s attention is heavy, but as always, Sebastian bears it easily. He takes it as a deep sign of respect, after all, for a demon’s full attention wasn’t so different. It was something rarely given, for it rarely needed to be so intense. So, the nature of Set’s answer is fitting.

Sebastian laughs, and there’s the clear twang of frustration and pleased amusement both, because it’s the perfect answer and a useless one. It’s his fault for being imprecise, perhaps for not giving Set his full consideration because this was a bargain with low stakes. But it’s not uninteresting, which would be the worst crime of all. ]

Well, Mr. Burton I had assumed, but the other two are a surprise. I found them wholly inoffensive. Dull, even. Was my impression incorrect and they were more interesting folk than I thought?

[ Though it’s partially a lie. He knows Vander holds interest, but he also is forbidden from giving too much of that away even with the terms of his contract with Silco having changed. He may have a guess that Set’s interest in Vander relates to Silco, but he wouldn’t be backed into a corner by pointing that out. ]

First, I give you Lord Voryn Dagoth.

[ two can play at this game BITCH!! ]

He very well could have been my master, had he only shown up just a bit earlier and beat Mr. Silco to offering himself. He was confident, self-righteous, and so very willing to take a demon’s hand, even though he was not as ignorant as some to what that could mean. For him, demons were no abstract concept, and his soul was the fair price for what he wished even so. He was a man with ambition who wished for revenge, but also for a future that would outlive him.

[ This is the practical part of the answer, and also things that Set likely already knows. But as Sebastian continues, his voice shifts from the calm, pleasant cadence of a lecture to the dark, indulgent purr of the more personal. ]

But these practical sorts do not truly know as much as they think they do. I saw weakness in Lord Dagoth—An ambition so fervent that it would blind him to all the ills it caused. For who could praise revenge taken in the name of someone already dead? Whatever noble intention he had, I saw chance to rot it. To be the dark mirror of his dearly loved king and to gently lead him to his heart’s desire… Where he would realize that it did not free him from the crushing weight of loneliness and loss. I would have wanted his love and his loathing, and I would drink of both until there was nothing left of him— When ending his existence would be a kindness.

[ And just as easily, he switches back to the smooth calm. He’s given an answer that he’s sure that Set will find rich and intoxicating, and he hopes that’s incentive enough to get him back to what Sebastian is actually looking for. ]

But, speaking of the departed is only a curiosity, is it not?

You work for Silco. [ Don't play with him on THAT one, Sebastian. ] You know how infectious his fixations are.

[ J'accuse, but all in good faith. He's not going to pretend with the demon like he's not beholden to the knowledge of who Silco hates. Or that Set could be swayed into agreeing with the man he was most charmed by ( his nasty little ratman soulmate <3 ), and would miss a little, when he was gone. Gobbled up by the demon he speaks to, and will not lift a finger to thwart. ]

The Archangel was an annoying, presumptuous creature who thought himself capable of wielding me to bolster whatever delusional right he had over gods and mortals. He was of my Aspect, so I could not simply ignore him. He was an affliction. Liked to touch my mind as if he had the right to. As you might say — his manners were atrocious.

[ Innocently, or. As innocently as it was for Archangel, but he was unwanted enough that Set's dreams after the Scorching Isles had shivered and deluded him into thinking the Archangel was Osiris, briefly. Gross. Not his favorite person. Couldn't even purge himself of Discord with the guy! ]

Ah, Voryn. He would have been an incredible match with you, I dare say. We were always at one another's throat, seething and challenging, but I would have adored seeing what might become of him. A cross-faction Covenant, though — is that even possible? If he was of a compatible Aspect, I could have seen it. But, you and I are not, and he was of my little collection.

[ But. Yes, it was nice. Informative but not present-tense enough.

He gets what he gives, in the end. ] Dark Schneider is a boor. Did you know he spent what could have been a fine conversation during our time under the roots stroking himself off? I am glad he is with Zenith. If your Shardbearers were not already the most easily-satisfied lot, he alone brings down the dignity you, Sebastian, brought to the faction.

[ HMPH. ]

Many of the individuals who bring me ire are no longer here. I do not hold waste my time holding strong emotions for creatures I will long outlast, and what grievances I have, I seek and acquire restitution for. It is logical to. [ Although he does upscale his demands, because true balance from a god of chaos is Impossible. For once, he will not name Hayame — for she does drive him to extremes in many ways he feels are undeserved and senseless. ]

Silco, I suppose.

[ Not because he doesn't like Silco, but because the man is, as he said, infectious in his loathing. It's fun! ]

[ That j’accuse is met with the playful, Communion-equivalent of a shrug. He does know, and he also knows that those fixations are also something that Silco paradoxically prefers to keep private. His hands are proverbially tied. Set understands, surely, so there’s no more that need be said about it. Nor Archangel or Voryn, really, or at least not now. They were subjects of the past, and that’s not what Sebastian needs. However, he’d surely bring them up again sometime when Set was over for dinner. As if he can resist gossip!

…Which is why as Set does turn towards present day irritants, the mood on Sebastian’s end absolutely drops like a stone. It’s a sign of deep agreement. ]

Ah. I did not, but I am hardly surprised. He is a boor, and like you and Mr. Archangel, I am cursed to share an Aspect with him. I have considered three separate plans to murder him for that alone. [ It’s said completely flatly and from some people, this might be a joke, but. Not Sebastian. He’s completely serious. As such, he gives a very tired sigh as if put-upon by Dark’s mere existence. ] But I cannot… Even though I would be doing a service to every resident of Kenos, it is not actually worth the risk or trouble to assassinate someone who is very technically one of my own. Pity. Please kill him.

[ HMPH INDEED ]

Otherwise, we hold a similar position, as usual. Save for Mr. Schneider whose offenses are more… nebulous, those who provoke my ire do not provoke it for very long. When restitution is paid, the matter is settled, so far as I am concerned. Whether that is mutual or not matters little to me.

[ hm, wonder who that could refer to! Anyways! ]

So, thank you very much for your answers. I had admittedly hoped for those who truly vexed you, but I understand what you mean perfectly… So, for my end of the bargain.

[ He hums a thoughtful note, but decides he’ll leave the decision to Set ~~because this tag is TOO LONG ALREADY~~ ]

I would name Ms. Sahelian and Hayame most prominently. I would argue that Lord Dagoth demonstrates one of my “types” well, and there is no one that matches him yet. Save for Mr. Silco, of course. Who would you like to hear of first?

Only three? [ The god barks a delighted laugh at that.

Set thinks quite highly of Sebastian's hidden qualities, knowing that the demon is passionate about perfection and precision. He supposes there could be more than three, but the three mentioned would be the most developed and effective. That Sebastian's hands are tied because of Dark's allegiance with Zenith is even more wonderful; it's a friction that Set looks for, among their Shard-bearers.

Zenith doesn't test one another enough, he thinks. They are blind to so many things about their own, wishing to overlook what could ruin them. ]

None of them, just yet. I would like to ask more about you — you said you have a particular type that draws you. You even defined it. As I can smell out divinity and — well, you — is it a sense like that? You are a predator. I wanted to know how you were made for hunting down this form of prey. It is — of unique interest to me, after all, as your mentee.

Three that are most effective.

[ Sebastian corrects and confirms Set’s assumption. There’s another sigh, though this one is more… longing. It could be to kill Dark (maybe partially it is), but it’s mostly the mildest of disappointments that he cannot share. Alas, Set is very technically an enemy. Even if Sebastian can’t use his plans against Dark, that’s not the case for Meridian. He can’t give Set any idea of that kind of clever scheming, at least not yet. It’s a shame, though. He’d certainly be the most fun to discuss the finer points of each.

He's a little surprised that Set doesn’t ask for more elaboration as promised, but not displeased. This is technically a better question to ask rather than getting into the specifics of each person. So, he laughs with a little note of approval. This isn’t an ability of his he exactly hides as is the case with others… But no one has asked. ]

It is a sense, yes. Just as we have a sense of taste and touch, most demons have an additional one to sense a soul. It is difficult to describe accurately, but to call it an amalgamation of sight and smell is close enough. I must use my real eyes—

[ The bright, blood red ones, naturally. He doesn’t elaborate because he figures that it’s easy enough for Set to know what he means. ]

But I can see souls very plainly. They are all as unique as a face is.

[ There’s a moment’s consideration, a thoughtful hum, but he decides to give a little more. It’s less out of a sense of duty in the “payment” aspect of this and more that he thinks it might be fun to give Set this information. It’s incredibly minor, in the grand scheme of things. But it’s not insignificant, especially when they’re on opposing sides. ]

Once I set my eyes on someone’s soul, they cannot escape me. If that quality is needed. Of course.

[ It’s not an analogy he’d use because of his distaste for it (thanks Ciel), but he’s a viciously effective hunting dog. Even somewhere as dense as Kowloon, he can track down anyone he’s seen before, and easily. Hiding from Sebastian is something very, very hard to do. And that little terror is why he shares it. If it might give a Meri anxiety one day, then it’s well worth it. ]

[Weeks after the Exalt Oracle had been claimed, in the middle of a perfect, lovely day, one in which it might seem nothing could go wrong at all... Someone is screaming.

With no warning, no build, the equivalent of a sudden desperate, panicked pounding at the door, an attempt at Communion comes slamming into Set's psyche. There are no words, no plea for help in anything but a jumbled, inarticulate, weak longing for it, but stronger is the vicious shame, the fear, the rage, rage brighter than a blazing sun ready to flare.

There's a scalpel glinting in the light, a pain deep in the skull spreading, spreading, something that should never be touched flayed raw and pulled out, on fire at every ending. An eye, sickly green, dangles between gloved fingers, but then it is a stormy grey eye, dangling by the slick and severed optic nerve between bloody fingers in the rubble of a city under siege. Running, she's running alongside him, a jinba and a war god to whom shape meant nothing, wind streaming through ebon and crimson manes, water splashing, laughter, fingers gently brushing through wet hair. There are sharp teeth smiling sadistically, the shadowy silhouette blurred by something hot and wet and a backing of bright lighting. Ropes, straps, no matter how much she struggles she can't move, she can't fight, no, no, no, she doesn't want it, she doesn't want it and it doesn't matter, it hurts, it hurts෴

And then there's nothing.]

Edited 2023-09-21 17:59 (UTC)

[ — what misery he feels, in the wake of the Oracle, dashes like ceramic on stone, dropped from numb hands. His mind slips, dragged across sands to the barren, frozen portions of her mind where she screams like a banshee and unwillingly bares her pain, her shame, for him to see. Someone has her, and they are causing her pain. More pain, than she has already undergone. He thinks ( ~~i warned you / i told you you were too brittle, too quick, too unprepared / i told you not to pursue it until you were prepared~~ ) — no. No, he does not think of the things he has told himself in the dark of night, he simply acts.

Across the boundary of their minds, he leaps. Bare feet in the snows of her mountain range of a mind, fingers slipping across dark stone as he bounds higher. Higher into the peaks and crevasses of how she presents herself, a lightless and barren place, frost killing the ground where things could grow. Even in the wake of him, pulling the warmth of Ra's sun and the arid heat of the desert, he knows he will not find purchase beyond what she can allow. Still, he mounts the peaks. He searches for the dark caverns she had mentioned before, the places she had warned him not to go wandering in search of, without her ( guidance ) approval.

He knows the smile that bears down upon her ( ah, sebastian ), and that Hayame's life is not endangered. Her sanity, however, is. And he rushes into the dark of the cavern with naught but the ends of his hair and tips of his limbs alight with inner light, ten and a thousand points of white-hot brilliance that illuminate his path as he searches for her. For the dark place inside of her, combing through the cavern, combing through to the hidden place where —

a trickster god was a trickster, not because they were solely capricious and untamed, but because they brought something that was forbidden. He brings forbidden light to Hayame, the warmth of the sun across her underbelly, the crisp clarity of the blue-tinged sands at night — life, that still exists in barren places. He drapes it into her cold mind, into the pain. He brings the memory of laughter to the broken memory that pours into her own. The sensation of running on four limbs, hair and tail streaming like a flag. The rush of please, yes and how very, very in love he had been with her form. With wearing it.

He slips alongside her mind, where he can. Fits his fingers into the grooves she has laid out for him, wavering and untrusting as she is — and he sinks his hands into the cold rock of her darkest parts. I'm here, I see your pain. I wear it with you. ( Screaming, broken women bare their teeth and rend their clothes as they're slaughtered, abused. Decrying him as he opens himself to their pain, to what he's caused them. ) Darkness builds across his skin, crackling fever that snaps bone and seizes his throat as he tries, oh he tries, to tug part of Hayame's soul back to him. Some pained part he can tear free of her struggle and shelter, using his curse as a lifeline to bring SOME part of her back to him. Something he can wrap in his arms, something he can protect. ]

[To Hayame, the pain and the screams might last for three hours, for three days, for three weeks... she loses all sense of time, only able to focus on a single second at a time, surviving that one second without giving the demon what he... No, once the bit had been shoved into her mouth she lost the ability to hold back her cries with a closed, grit jaw, and once his shadows began to tug her damaged optic nerve out of the scar tissue she lost the ability to hold back the natural pain response of a mortal body, tears hot and shameful springing to her eye.

To her eyes. "Sebastian Michaelis", "Gabrial Lactance", whatever his true fucking name was... He got exactly what he wanted.

But it isn't actually three hours, or three days, or three weeks. Set begins to search... but when Hayame loses her desperate battle over her next foe, the poison (drug) the demon stabs into her body with a last little smirk and a mockingly sweet sweet dreams, the entire mountain goes dark. The sky is starless, moonless. The snow storm dies without even a whimper of a howl. Everything is silent. Everything is still. There is no resistance to Set's search, because there is no one there. No one except for the humiliated, violated fragment of her soul that he managed to claw free with a curse bestowed by a goddess of peace to help a husband understand the damage he has wrought.

As Hayame('s body) is dragged mindfully through Kowloon, through Springstar in the dead of night in a careful way that will leave no evidence at all that she had viciously fought against her restraints and what had been done to her... that fragment quivers in Set's arms. Without conscience, without true existence apart from the whole it can do little else, born from pain and and pain alone, but it is there with him in the dark of the caves, filled with the sting of the needle, the burn of the scalpel, the indignity of her capture, the panic of helplessness beneath the bindings, and the sadistic reminder at the end that she will never be allowed to die. She will only lose everything.

... The caves stay dark for a long time.

But then the fragment that had been a part of her pain begins to struggle to be free, to heed the call to rejoin the whole that it had come from. Even if it may be comforted, being not-alone among the cries of other woman suffering, women who were allowed to cry... It yearns to drag itself sickly and weak through the tunnels, deeper, deeper, and deeper still...

And if Set takes it where it wishes to go... then he has his "guide", one that will take him through the confusing paths and rocky terrain into the deepest recesses of the mountain where Hayame curls in a silent, shame-filled heap, her face hidden in the clutch of her hands and the rest of the world shut away. ... But the god of war hasn't been "the rest of the world" since the dryad had bound them.

Perhaps, in her despair, she has forgotten.

Or perhaps, in the wake of a demon's manipulative, exposing whispers, she has come to doubt every bond that she has ever made, filled with bitterness and new distrust for those who could not or would not rescue her from ambush and pain. ... Perhaps it hadn't taken much encouragement at all for her to start to think that Set would hear who her "opponent" had been...

And then Set wouldn't come.]

[ The piece of Hayame that he holds against the dark sands, full of sand and blood and terror and wrath, is the piece that leads him to her. Fully into her mind, into that strange corner where they share a boundary and seek one another out for contested conversations and pledges that sometimes act like bandages placed over ever-bleeding injuries they cause one another. Her agony will lead him straight to her, to the waking mind where she hunches upon herself in indignity, in paranoia; the spent sprawl of her limbs remind her, so much, of a dark evening where he had been left in ruins.

It's almost too much for him to bear, almost causes him to spin around and leave her. He has never pretended to be anything but selfish, driven by his own unknowable design. A set of parameters given to him by reality, between which he bounces and acts. Instead, he carries her fragment to her self, and dips his hand low — that piece of her she'd allowed to hide with him tipped like a palmful of water against the space where her shard would be. His hand warm and firm and unyielding as he rests it against her upper heart and folds to his knees alongside her. ]

He is not a liar. [ She must know that. ] Precise are his words, and they are always born out of some type of truth. The thing about the truth he speaks is that it is not absolute. You will always have the freedom to change, and force him to follow.

[ Hayame is not powerless, in the face of a demon. But it is not physical strength that will save her, it is resolve within her heart. What he knows about Sebastian Michaelis is, perhaps, more than most; he keeps secrets about the creature, because theirs is an immortal's game. A grudge between them would be biblical, catastrophic. But, as a friend to Hayame and a god to her warrior and a Meridian companion, he hopes he can help her come back from this. He bites his lip, because he is not good at these things. He knows he can speak logically to her, explain to her how such a thing came to be and what it means, but.

That might not be what she needs. ]

I found you.

[ He says that instead, reaching out to fold her shoulders in his arms and hold her. ]

I have you.

[She doesn’t seem to recognize that he is there until she is “whole” again, a chimera puppet who thought she was walking under her own power until the strings were suddenly cut and she was left sprawled useless on the floor. But that screaming, useless, humiliated part of her she’d almost wish he would just crush under his heel is returned to her by a hand pressed up against her shard, warmth and light pressure against her diaphragm and the curve of her breasts, and she-

She curls tighter in on herself, half-trapping Set’s hand against her instead of lashing out or throwing his touch away, shoulders and back legs quaking as the part of her soul wailing over pain and injustice returns. It suddenly smells like the harsh chemicals and Kowloon filth of her makeshift surgery suite, strong enough for someone with a sensitive nose like hers or his to want to retch. Just as suddenly it’s gone, and it smells like salt instead as Hayame’s blood-smeared lips twist beneath the blind of her hands over her eyes, pursing and parting around the lingering feel of a bit and the stinging splits it has left in the corners of her mouth where the skin was stretched wide.

He’s not a liar? Set had come to her, and he comes with that? With things that now, when it’s all so fresh, only sound like blame or confirmation in her ears. So the demon was telling the truth, when he smiled and asked who would bother to come rescue her? So he was telling the truth when he mocked her with how no matter how foul he was inside he would always be more beloved and more believed amongst their shard-bearing fellows?

Again, it falls to her to change, to somehow twist herself into knots or snap her own steel will over her knee in order to win or keep what little she had that mattered to her? Change, change, it feels like every other time they speak now he mentions how she needs to change and in this instance, consumed with bitterness and pain and the added betrayal of all but being told the demon was right…

Hayame curses the world. The one that gave her scraps and then once she’d finally found the courage to value them… told her to change to keep them or fall back to watch them smile and embrace the enemy who trampled on her pride and left her like this in the dark.

No one was supposed to see her like this. In the real world, the physical one, there wasn’t a single mark on her body where she lay exhausted on the floor of her home, only able to collapse once the door had been shut and locked. The demon had seen to it, making his lackey use magic to heal every wound to make it even more difficult for her to try and claim to anyone that she hadn’t wanted what happened to her, that she had fought it with all her strength. But here, where the body was shaped by the mind…

Here, her arms are covered in bruises from the straps that had held her down tightly to the table no matter how much she bucked and thrashed, the complex back muscles where upper and lower body met torn from their moorings by how she’d twisted a large frame already strained into place. Here, her fetlocks have all been rubbed in bloody, raw hide rings from the rope hobbles she’d jerked and kicked and struggled to pull from their anchors, because if she could just get free enough to lash out-

The worst is on the left side of her face. But she’s still hiding it, clutching her hands over it as if she could deny it existed, but she can’t and-

Set gathers her into his arms. He says I have you, like he had that night at the masquerade when he had held her and granted her the blessed, cursed knowledge of what pleasure might do for a woman who had never let herself feel good or wanted or loved, like she… that’s where it had come from. In the dark of a hotel room in Xanadu, when she had finally found the trust and vulnerability required to take a proper lover, to touch him, to feel him feel good because of what she’d done… she had whispered into his hair something that felt like deja vu, not quite remembering in the haze of heat the exact words but they’d been-

I have you.

And the shame of it, of all of it, of it being made public, of being so helpless, of knowing the demon might be right, of not being able to kill herself, of now bearing the shame of the demon’s touch for potentially anyone to see, it all- It just bursts, and Hayame is weeping in Set’s arms, her words barely intelligible between the sobs.]

What are you doing here-

[She wants to push him off of her, she doesn’t want him to touch her with hands that might have touched that demon, doesn’t want him to speak with her using a mouth that had laughed and invited him-]

Go, just go, and let that demon regale you with the tale of his latest amusement!

[The image of them smiling, laughing, of Sebastian’s lips curling into coy, playful description and Set idly sighing and shrugging and going on about how he’d warned her, how this is what happened to those who didn’t adapt, as if she was just some toy of the demon’s he barely knew, not someone he called a friend… it’s so possible and real in her head, and she hates it, she hates it more than anything because-]

Go laugh at what he has done to me!

[Because she’s lashing out in wet, garbled words, but her hand… one still covers the left side of her face, but the other has clutched on to Set so desperately hard he might not be able to pull away if he tried, breaking in his arms and unable to push away anyone who might hold her in that moment.

Even if at first… it just hurt even more.]

[ As she weeps, he holds her.

Folding his arms around her strong shoulders, ensuring that within the press of their minds he is larger than her. That he can fit his thighs around the full length of her spine — the fullness of her body, as he forms around her back and draws her back against him. As he grows larger and more engulfing, holding her like a small animal against his legs and belly as he strokes her dark hair and presses his mouth to the crown of her hair. A god is titanic, boundless in their wholeness, and this is as close as he gets to the pure fluidity of his form — the place within their minds, where reality cannot touch them. ]

I do not talk with him about you. I do not let him talk about you, either.

[ He does not willingly ask about Hayame, not with Sebastian. From her, he would. To her, he has brought information that is useful tactically. For her and Meridian, he continues to align himself with the demon and tease out information they can have, if they know how to ask. ]

And I have never, and will never laugh at you.

[ That much is true. In his heart, he wishes they had been quicker to bolster Hayame's inner strength. To preserve her fragile mind and keep her from shattering, but they could not; she is stubborn and affixed to her beliefs, and difficult to work with and speak with. But, he still sits with her. Holds her to his chest and murmurs into his hair, fingers following the painful bruises where she was bound and fought against her captor. The marks of her shame and terror, her attempts to fight — ]

You did not deserve this. And I will not let him push you into isolation, or away from me. I understand, how this feels. What you are trying to do, what things you are thinking and how badly you cannot trust — it happened to me, too.

[Hayame would love to believe what he says, then, to pathetically latch on to any claim that Set makes about how he treats her and her enemy (now torturer, abuser) differently. Not because she is petty, or possessive, or spiteful, though she can be those things, but because… She doesn’t think she is “strong” enough to hear otherwise. Not now. Not if “strong” was measured somehow in the flexibility others asked of her that to Hayame sometimes just seemed like excuses to allow her pride to be trampled on. The planted, carefully nurtured idea in her mind that none of her so-called friends or allies would rally to her side against the demon, that any efforts she made to expose him would be useless, that a soul-eating beast incapable of empathy would always be more welcome than a woman who had dedicated her second chance at life to protecting her world and righting her wrongs, just because she wasn’t a devilishly handsome man who spoke politely and wore a mask of helpful servitude… ?

It’s sometimes too much to bear, like just another reflection of another world that seemed designed for her to fail or suffer.

But as he envelops her, somehow the Set she has always known while simultaneously also being somehow greater, larger, she somehow feels like she might almost be safe, even though everything is hurting, her pride and body both, shown just how easily she could be incapacitated with the single prick of a needle, made into a plaything, an object for someone else’s sick fun or idle amusement cloaked in the guise of “making things right”. As if that demon cared what was right between them? She curls tighter in his hold even though a part of her still wants to rail at him, demand to know what self-respecting person would be mollified with the consolation he offers of simply not discussing her or laughing at her, oh, that made it all fine and normal and acceptable—

… Except Hayame had not been bred and raised to have self respect. Just enough to feel she was superior to the Armless, yes… but not much more was tolerated. Her whimpers echo in the hollow cave deep in the mountain and echo back her, shame, shame, as she curls tighter in Set’s embrace no matter the pain, the whisper of his touch over bruise and bite and burn and puncture marks that don’t exist in the real world anymore.]

Then why—

[He says that she did not deserve what had been done to her, and she… needed, to hear that. Wanted to hear that. But he says he understands, too, understands, and though Hayame doesn’t doubt his experiences themselves, having seen enough flickers of shared vision and cursed memories to put together a vague sense of certain darker things in their time together…]

Why do you not rage for me, Set?

[Her voice is accusatory and vulnerable and passionate and despairing all at once, unsure herself of which feeling was more dominant when she twists in his hold to finally look at him-

Revealing a sickly green eye in her left socket where he’d once only seen a dark, scarred emptiness surrounded by perfectly preserved lids and thick black lashes. A sickly green Hag’s Eye, implanted into her head against her will, with needles and paralytics and no anesthesia for the cutting, the peeling, the seizing and pulling of a shriveled severed nerve, the invasion of shadowy tendrils, the burn of forced reconnection-]

Why do you not rage beside me?

[He was the god of war, who’s strength and violence and aptitude on the battlefield had convinced a jinba who had long abandoned the gods who abandoned her kind to instead reclaim hope and pledge herself to his worship.

Together… they could be so glorious. Couldn’t they?]

Do you really think, that just because I do not bare naked fang and blade immediately, that I am not filled with rage in your favor?

[ A god cannot simply become wrath, become grudge and fury. Set's true rage is biblical, and he has none of the power at his fingertips; he can only build foundations upon which future strikes can be carried out. One such foundation has been laid, and now the weapon begins to take form. The white-hot fixation of a god of war, being prepared against Highstorm and Zenith.

He strokes her hair, and his voice is quiet. Patient, in a way that seems to be evoked by her extreme vulnerability and pain. As long as she does not rise in animosity and demand against him, he does not have to dig his heels in — for he has his pride and methods, even if they do not align with the shape and mode of her own. Gently, he presses her down, to lay her temple against the warmth of his lap and cradle her in his arms. To nose into her dark hair and stroke a broad palm over the length of her body. ]

When I strike, I will make but a single demand for submission. Should our rivals fail to accept my gift to them, the subsequent blow will shatter more than just the demon who hurt you. I terrorize Highstorm and Zenith and leave a deep scar. The act will scream your name. It will burn with your pain and power.

[ For a tempestuous man, he also knows patience. ]

You will be with me, and see the way I break those who thought they could break you.

[Did she think that? It is so tempting, because of course that sort of rage was far easier to understand, and far easier to accept. It was more and more the sort that she had fallen into after her unwanted arrival in Horos, unable to contain herself in a world so unlike the one she had known, where she lacked all of the societal conventions and shackles that had never allowed her to openly show her emotions. But... once, she had. Once, her rage had been ice and not flame, tightly controlled and hidden beneath a carefully crafted mask of servility because that had been what she'd had to do if she had any hope of surviving the fate she had been dealt with any hope of something that could pass as dignity.

There was a certain freedom in being allowed to rage that she relished in, simply because she had never been allowed to have it. But there were times, since those chains had been released... that she felt as if it were consuming her, rotting away her hearts and leaving only the burning anger behind. Yet, how is she supposed to rechain herself, when she had not been the one to understand the method to unlock them in the first place? It was the happenstance that had done it, her chaotic fate, not anything she had achieved herself, so-

Set presses, and Hayame flinches and half thrashes on instinct, because not hours before she had been held down, strapped down, straddled, and cut into, unable to free herself no matter how much she struggled. She cannot help but instinctively recall it, feel the fear again, the fury, the nausea, the shame. But even though those hands of his feel tainted by the very thing that had inflicted that pain on her... the touch is gentle and firm, not mocking as even the demon's "soft" touches had been. Those hands had fought with her... but they had also held her as she'd held him in the despair of curse and hauntings, they had taken her hand in whatever their friendship was, they had taught a woman who feared intimacy what pleasure was, and-

Hayame's arms wrap around Set and tighten, accidentally almost crushing if he were not a god, back legs kicking slightly along the stone floor to remind herself she was free to move, she wasn't helpless, she wasn't... and it would be a lie to pretend that it was not partly to keep him there, as if, should she let go for even an instant, he would return to her enemy's side or abandon her like those hellish whispers had made so easy to believe. Over his shoulder... her now "healed" (maimed) and mismatched eyes blaze with hatred, half blinded by tears. Set promises that he will take her cause into his attack, that she will see it, but... Her fingers tighten until her knuckles blanche, her jaw tightens until her back teeth threaten to crack, and her voice is dark and furious when it reverberates in the dark cave her humiliated soul had hidden in.]

I cannot let that be enough-

[Not if she wanted to rip back the pride the demon had stolen. She had practically begged Set to prove his "friendship" by feeling anger on her behalf, but she had not, could not, plead with someone to take revenge on her behalf. Even if it would be better for Meridian, even if she would be happy to see him gone... She did not relish the thing calling itself "Sebastian Michaelis" dying because of something else, at the hands of someone else. Even though Set will feel sick gratitude twisting in her guts over his offer, mollified in one way to imagine a strike at Zenith that would catch the demon up in the sweep of it...]

I want him to know it was me, Set.

[She doesn't want to just watch, with the sickly green eye that had been forced into her skull by taunting shadows. She wants to leave her mark, to do the work, to act, to strike.

... To have something to do, so that she does not collapse in on herself like a dying star, dimming the furiously bright glow of the asset named Hayame hanging in Set's war room.]

All right.

[ Her drive is delicious, splendid in its fire. That Hayame will not be satisfied with wanton destruction and desires something direct, something tangible that will be as much a confrontation between the two as her explicit vengeance. Set will still involve her in his plans, for Meridian, but on a personal level, he can offer her nearly whatever she desires to ensure her mark is laid upon the existence of the demon who had so thoroughly debased her.

He cannot swear off of Sebastian, not without collapsing his own extension into Zenith. Not without costing Meridian more than a single individual is intrinsically worth in the grand scheme of war, but he can offer her information and assist her in other ways. ]

You may have it, still. And the ruination you will directly bring upon him.

[ He strokes through her hair, down the line of her spine to the hook of her equine half, smoothing a massive palm over her dun pelt and leaving warmth where he trails. She cannot be defeated, if Sebastian's words are forced to become lies. While the truth of them is that Hayame is exceptionally good at isolating herself, it need not be the truth forever; by holding onto her, by accepting her as she is — aggressive and difficult, honor-bound and trying, she can never be taken far. ]

I will share what I have learned about him, his abilities, his connections, his words — I cannot strike with you so directly, but my weapon will be a blow against all Zenites and those who adhere to their beliefs. Shard-bearers and citizens alike, as I carve through the heart of their Lady's throne and aim for her heart. And Sebastian, as always, is yours. Yours to do with as you desire. Should you claim his life, it will be a testament to your power. And I support your goal.

[She should be ashamed to let the god of war she had sworn her service to see her like this. Had she not promised him that she would bring glory to his name, that she would never know defeat while she bore his blessing into battle? ... But it had not been a battle, had it? It had been walking home, then poison, then writhing in pain unable to rip her rope hobbles from the iron fasteners upon the wall or break the leather strap bindings along her arms and head. That is part of the fire in her rage, that the demon would not even fight her head on, not intending to defeat her in battle as a warrior but simply to humiliate her. Of course, she is still ashamed despite. Ashamed that she had been caught off guard, that tears even existed on her face, that she now had to bear the humiliating mark of that demon in a new and creative way.

But the war within her, always within her when dealing with Set, who had first been the deity she swore to but now was some confusing mix of bonds... is that she is not supposed to be ashamed of being seen like this by a friend. She tries to tell herself that she needn't, on top of all the rest. He had come when she was injured in the Hall of Mirrors, she had come when he was raging and haunted by that shade in the fields of Alenroux. She had come when he was bloody and exhausted in the roots of the tree during the Iconoclast Oracle, now he comes to her here in this dark, deep cavern, in the secret place deep inside her communion-mind few have ever attempted to find.

They were... even. They always balanced back out. (Hah... She remembers now, as her fingers cling to Set beneath the fall of his crimson hair. Beneath those roots, when she had brushed Sebastian Michaelis's eye as offering into his mane... She had thought to herself now we are even. Apparently the demon had not agreed.)

Set's touch is warm, where she had been cold in the aftermath, gentle without the mockery that had been in the demon's hands. Here, the wounds inflicted on her body in her desperate struggles to fight back are still present on her soul's vision of her body. Ankles bloody and hairless from rope burn twitch and quiver as his palm travels over bruises, over the thick, spasming knots where her thrashing in the twisted position on the surgery table had ripped the muscles where human-like back moved into equine withers. But under his touch, with the promise of ruination, of knowledge, of support... even if it was not the type she truly longed for, or felt she deserved...

In the physical world, she is curled weak in Claude's lap and her unmade bed, pretending to try and sleep but only just coming down from the hysteria of having to explain to a hidden lover why she had missed their rendezvous and appeared back with two eyes. In communion, she is curled weak in Set's arms, on cold stone, hurt but latching in anguish at anything she can grab. Between their efforts... The injuries are easing from her soul, the pain now only mental, remembered, chased away by warmth. Her tears are hot on Claude's thigh, on Set's shoulder. She can't stop yet, but-

He wanted her to ask him directly for what she needed from him? He wanted people to ask him for the knowledge he stored in his vast, secret war room festooned with stars?]

Give it to me, Set. All of it...

[The burn of tears has made the sickly green of her implanted eye glow with an almost unnatural brightness, the rage crackling in the stormy grey of her natural iris almost eerily absent from the Hag's Eye that did not belong to her body, no matter how it had been forcibly connected to the optic nerve. But she cannot stomach it any longer, she cannot... she does not want to...

Hayame's grip on Set tightens, as if by strength alone she could somehow make him choose her fully, even though she knows she cannot. The eye she despises and is far too tempted to just rip out of her skull herself is hidden when she buries her face in his chest. And the shame... the immediate shame, she has to let drain out of her in his (their) arms, until she is emptied. Only then... then, she can fill it with attacks on Highstorm and her personal revenge.]

Set?

[ ever since their understanding was reached, the sharper edges of Rudbeckia's mind soften at the touch of Set's presence; a frozen flower bud that thaws under the sun, does not bloom in full but unfurls, slowly, cautiously. some anxiety always remains, mere background noise of her existence rather than a fear ignited by him. she circles him at his feet, waiting to receive his attentions.

there is something else, though. the two of them become entangled so easily that she cannot stop the sensations from bleeding through: her head swimming with nausea, stomach turning itself over. pain that splinters her skull, every inch of her body screaming with agony as though she had been crawling through a river of broken glass. she is reduced to a shivering, trembling animal. and yet her Communion carries no distress, no outstretched hand in plea for his help. the voice that reaches him is soft and sleepy, and as she rouses, all the sickness and pain is reeled in, shut safely away so that he can no longer feel it. ]

Um, Gen left something with me to give to you... [ an image follows, a familiar set of ornate canopic jars, resting on the soft bed of a wicker basket. Ruby is curled protectively around the scene, but she does not lay a finger on the jars. ] I'm looking after them at the shrine.

[ Her illness does not escape him. Is it Discord? The lethargy and pain in her person strikes him as strange, but not abnormal — don't humans grow ill easily, after all? They die to all sorts of sickness and afflictions of the body, weakening and tiring, and even if they recover, their forms are oft-incapacitated and forever affected. Is that what is going to happen to Ruby? He has her back, and she will waste away and die? ( Humans die, he knows, and as he is confident that he will outlive the majority of Kenos and its Shard-bearers, he is perplexed by his concern for this young woman. )

Unlike his sister, he is not a god of magic or healing. No spells come to him that he could use to soothe her, to draw down her fever or unknot the aches in her bones. All he can do is slip into the clutch of her trembling mind and push his innate, sun-warmed desert sands around her. Like limbs, or a nest of soft sands, enveloping her pain even as she shuts it away.

And then — he sees, in her mind's eye, the jars. Two of them, where he had known ( had thought ) he had seen one tumble away, into the darkness. For days he had begun to plot his vengeance, carving away the promise he had to Gen with the austerity of the wronged. He had outlined how to bring the most pain to him, not to even the odds, but to erase Minegishi Gen's dream from reality. To deny him the thing he wanted most, and find a way to make his suffering eternal. And now — those plans falter, and shake. ]

Are there really two there?

[ His mind stays, preternaturally still around her. Poised on the edge of danger, tense as a starving animal about to be let off the leash. His physical body is in motion, making his way to the nearest cornerstone so that he might slip out to the shrine and find her. Find what was his, and take them into his care once more. ]

[ from the way they were given to her, Ruby had assumed that the unassuming jars were something deeply important to Set, and that Gen had clearly known as much – which makes the tension vibrating along the thread of their Communion all the more concerning. Gen, you idiot, what did you do...

it might be a good thing that he left them with her, of everyone he could have chosen. there probably isn't anybody else with as much experience in defusing situations like this. she's alert now, as much as she can be with her illness weighing down on her mind, but the sound of her voice remains drowsy, almost childish: ]

Mhm. Gen told me that I had to be really, really careful with them.

[ that bastard owes her for this one. ]

[ Within Ruby's mind, Set's arms and hands wind through their fragile connection. He slips them through the curve of her elbows and drapes around her, warm and shaken and cautious as he attempts to card through her mind and find falsity from either of them. ( Paranoia is deep in his heart, a mistrust born of what Gen had done — had shown himself doing. He cannot believe either of them, until he feels the proof firmly in his hands. ) Even though his confidence in his and Ruby's arrangement is firm and true, there is a deep injury within him,

an old and violent betrayal,

that twists what he's cautiously built with everyone, sours it. Damages it in his mind, taints it. He wants to trust Ruby. With what Gen had done, though — ? ]

Did he, really? He seemed to conclude that tossing them from the island, into the abyss, was his decision before.

They are canopic jars. They hold parts of one's soul, in preparation for the afterlife and rebirth. There are four of them, in total. Two, I have and these two, if real... make four. Four of six pieces, of someone very important to me.

[ although Rudbeckia is usually cautious in her mindscape, on this matter, she seems to become malleable – not in the way of something soft and warm, but prey going limp in its captor's jaws. Set is gentle and careful with her as he searches for falsehood, and Ruby does not seem to be stung by his suspicion, nor surprised in the least. what colours her mind is simply... resignation. she expects to be scrutinised, to be taken apart and found dishonest regardless, no matter how fervently she tells the truth. but there is also a thin thread of steel woven through her submission, something she seems willing to hold even if it should cut her hands:

it's fine if someone thinks her a liar. she already knows that no one will ever listen to her. she just doesn't want to fuck this up for Gen, and so she has to push through, to speak around the way her throat closes up. ]

I don't know what happened between the two of you, but—

[ certain that her words won't suffice, she allows her memories to surface beneath Set's seeking fingers as they trail across her mind. Rudbeckia and Gen meeting under the sun at a café, Gen's hands resting on a bag like he's guarding it, his wary regard: I need'em to be moved carefully, though. blood dripping onto the table, and Gen's first instinct is to move them out of the way. Ruby slumping to the ground, Gen there to catch her, and yet that bag is still safe, unharmed.

Ruby's side of things in those memories – the blood, the collapse, the sensation of pain that cannot be excised from it – is out of focus, hazy. she dismisses it from the picture entirely. the point is Gen's rough hands, so protective of those jars. that soul. ]

It might not change anything about what he did to you... and of course I'm not trying to tell you how to feel. I just want you to know that he did everything to get these here safely.

[ Where she offers herself and her memory, he scrapes over her. Carding through the image she holds of Gen, bringing the jars to her ( one, two ) and demanding care be taken with them. He remembers Gen's death-knell, when he'd shown Set the image of the tumbling jar, pushed from the island; the swimming sentiment below it finally, finally coming to bear. That Gen did not want to be forced into the corner where he'd have to retaliate in such a way. That he did not want to do it. That he chose not to, even if he'd lashed out to ensure Set hurt and, perhaps, would be less likely to go against him.

He kept them safe, even though Set had broken his skull open and defied him.

He curls softly around Ruby's mind, slipping his hands down to find her fingers and hold them. To pull himself away from where she lays herself open and accepts that he cannot believe her at her word ( and he will not apologize, because the matter of the jars drives him to madness; to behaviors that are more human than they are god, and he will hurt so many people to have them in his hands ) — and kisses the back of her head, nosing against her hair. ]

Thank you.

[ For holding them safely. For showing him Gen. For being something to him, as he seems to be something to her. ]

The jars are, [ Rudbeckia is loyal. ] My son. Anubis.

They hold parts of his soul, after he was torn apart. You should know this, because he is the only thing that ties me to Meridian. Without him, I would take to Zenith. We would remain the same, though. You and I. Whether you came with me, or remained as you are.

Gen used him as collateral, to ensure something important to him was returned to him. He used me. I would have — I would have helped him, anyways. You have helped us both, Rudbeckia, from losing one another by showing me this.

[ Very suddenly, there’s a sense of Communion touching your character’s mind. However, it’s as if they connect with the mind of a shared Aspect, as they’re not able to block out the brief, but sharp memory that comes to them. ]

A Shard-Bearer sits people-watching at a café in Highstorm, and they think that no matter how long they’re in Kenos, the wonder will never pass. Why a white-collar office worker was picked for this task, they’ll never know, but living out the story of a manga isn’t so bad.

[ ooc note — Just to avoid OOC confusion/misinterpretation, the details included in this memory are random and are not necessarily interconnected or plot meaningful beyond a surface level. However, your character is free to interpret this random memory however they’d like! This event will also be touched on somewhat during today’s NPC Communion Post. ]

[ A few days before the Oracle kicks off, Set will find a present waiting for him at home one day! Just from the way it's absolutely perfectly wrapped, there's almost no need to include a card. But tucked under the velvet ribbon decorating the box is a simple, brief card in a familiar, elegant hand. ]

I may as well double the wager.
- S

[ And inside the box is yet another stuffed rabbit... But this one bears a much more familiar resemblance. ]

[drops this here so i don't forget

There is an entire monstrosity of nightmare horse to ride, yet D is walking alongside of it with the reins in his right hand. As expected, he's still dressed to the nines in the dark, leather outfit, hat and all. The only new addition (besides the horse), is the long sword worn on his back.

In Springstar, he sticks out like a sore thumb among the perpetual sun and the godly shine of Set's balcony greenhouse above. Beneath the hat, he doesn't pay it too much mind until he happens to catch a glimpse of crimson red and porcelain which actually get him to pause and glance upward.

The long cape shifts over his shoulder, and there isn't anything sitting in the shadows of the left side except a leather stump just shy of the joint of the elbow.]

Edited (wait i should put which one) 2023-11-26 05:29 (UTC)

[ He thinks, in the moment that he spots the wide-brimmed hat and the tumble of dark curls below, something in both of his minds. In the schism between reality and delusion, Set knows he will call out to the figure below — but the name he will call is unknown to him until the moment it leaves his mouth.

Initially, he wills himself to call out "D". To protect the name and identity of his son from any further ears, for he had already tucked the knowledge safe ( and not so safe ) into the ears of others who were meant to keep him on the path he needed to be on, whether he wanted it or not. He called out the wrong name when they had met — and he does so again.

It's the arm that does him in. ]

Anubis!

[ Briefly, Set looks nothing like himself — warring and blood-red, spiteful and conniving. His expression falls open, haunted and pained, eyes locked upon the missing limb as his right hand locks upon his own left wrist, holding to the dark "bracelet" as if to tell himself it's still there. ]

Nn — no, D! What happened to your arm?!

Edited 2023-12-11 18:04 (UTC)

[This is the first or last time Set will mistake him for Anubis. At the very least, D can understand with some lenience why this is the case. The call, though wrong, gets him to stay where he's at rather than speed away.

His eyes, dark beneath the hat, glitter with consideration for a moment. After the Oracle, he's heard many things whispered between the people who somehow been able to see what all transpired with them. Maybe he should speed away and not look back. And then he wonders why the idea of Set bothers him so when, logically, he knew the sketchiness of a two-sided world.]

I'm coming up.

[A warning.

He could very well enter the door like a completely normal, sane person, and that is what he defaults to usually, but this time, he bends at the knees and leaps from the ground all the way to the balcony where Anubis stands. The cape and the hair flare as he alights on the edge, and then he's concealed by both once more after stepping down.

Tada.]

[ It's definitely not the first and it definitely isn't the last because Set is unhinged and D is Anubis's twin. Triplet. D already has a twin, after all. Anyways. He's not even a twin right now, Set's eyes are just swimming with the image of his young child stumbling towards him, one arm missing and blackened at the stump's end. Shambling and crying, begging for mercy for his monstrous father, begging him to right what he did to the world and come home.

Missing an arm, which was made into a curse, and worn now as a "bracelet" around Set's wrist. He rubs it harder, as D leaps onto the balcony and he is forced to step back a little. Retreating from the cool, beautiful face before him and the memory of his child, grown and handsome as his mother, disavowing him and claiming he did not know who he was beyond an evil that had to be stopped.

Sometimes, Set wonders if Anubis is this man. If he's just forgotten, again. ] Let me see.

[ Among the lush foliage of his balcony space, he lunges for D's person. Tugs his cape aside so that he can reach for the space where his left arm ought to be, and take it between his hands with a sudden ferocity. ]

I should never have done this. I pride myself on my intelligence, but I was so stupid that night — I walked right into Osiris's trap.

[ Whispered, lost in the memory of it. ]

[Well, the psychotic break seems to be getting steadily worse.

Rather than pull away stiffly, D just allows Set to push the cape out of the way and take the half of an arm. The extra leather is as missing as the arm. The pieces of the end have been folded over and sewn together to keep it closed, but the wound beneath has healed over in annoying perfection. Smooth, unmarred skin as if it had never been cut away at all.

D could probably ignore the rambling, too, as not to pry... but it feels as if it might benefit Set to talk about to someone else.

So quietly, he asks,] Trap?

[To see if Set will keep talking, if he'll explain. He's not Anubis, though he's curious as to what Set could have done to Anubis... considering Set had been so possessively and lovingly unhinged about his son previously. Still?]

I wish you could remember.

[ The unhappiness in his tone twists it into something rich with sorrow, apologetic and desperate in a way that should be reserved for reality — for the son who awaits him in Egypt, not the beautiful dhampir who doesn't deserve to bear the weight of Set's innate madness. D doesn't refute or correct Set, which means the delusion continues to drift along like a reed in a gentle current. It is not urgent, but it does paint him in such a tenderly miserable light.

He holds the stump of D's arm in his hands, smoothing his thumb over the termination point as though it is a worry stone. Again and again, trying to coax some sort of tenderness into the injury, as if it must be hurting D. Does it hurt him? He remembers his son's pain, Anubis's crying face and pleas for grace. A step closer means he can cradle the arm in his own and smooth a hand over D's bicep, a paternal gesture — one that the hunter might not have any reference for. ]

All I wanted was to keep you safe from him. He used your body to leave Duat, to bait me into attacking him... cursing him. And he just, he left the curse in you. He uses you, Anubis. Please believe me.

[Oh no, the Egyptian god drama is more messy than he figured despite understanding how messy gods (and god-like beings) can be. But now he's stuck with having to respond, and he supposes it's what he gets for entertaining Set's delusions.

It's clear Anubis would maybe not believe Set for a plethora of reasons, and D isn't sure if he should alter the perception by reassuring Set, or hurt Set by continuing with what would be appropriate.

He watches Set worry the end of his arm with pale fingers, unbothered. The sensation is there, surprisingly, and it doesn't hurt. The only difficulty is periodically having ghost arm sensations; trying to reach for something, feeling as if the weight of the rm is still there. No one, no man has ever stroked his arm with such fatherly affection; however, he has seen paternal love reflected to him through the better humans of the Frontier. He's seen it, what he's never had, enough to understand it's love. That's love.]

Why would he do such a thing?

[Next best tactic: see if Set will tell him more about what's happening so he doesn't have to answer yet. It's fine.]

[ It's the worst question to ask of Set, because he cannot answer it. The answer rises like sickness in his throat, pricks at his heart and soul with unwanted memories — hands and mouths, a brother who wanted him at any cost. How can he tell anyone about that? Quetzalcoatl knew, some others might be able to guess ( to see his painful lack of strength, his status as less than a real man ) — but, for Anubis to know?

Set would rather die. Or, he'd rather destroy the world than be honest with anyone, let alone his precious son, about it. He has to protect his child, even from himself and his disgusting weakness. His shame. ( The warped shape of "love" and "desire" that he inspired in someone who was good, and mighty. The truth that Set corrupts all he touches. )

He curls a little over the stump of D-Anubis's arm and strokes it, a worrystone, cradling warmth in his palms as he tries to comfort the other. D might not need it, but some wild part of Set's hindbrain is lost in the familiar motions of a father who was once very, very gentle with his child. ]

O-obviously for revenge, [ he says, words that once were thought by him, before Osiris's mad obsession with Set was so boldly declared. I live for you, said the God of Life. ] You at least remember that I killed him. He made sure you forgot everything else though — that has to be it. And then, Yima — she brought you here for me, to save you. Because she...

[ He shivers, soft and wild-eyed. ]

Well, she wants me. And Kenos wants us together again... because we're family. I have your — oh! I have pieces of your soul! [ Like a lightbulb's gone off, he sinks claws into D. Drags him close and twists on his heel, trying to drag him off into the house — ] If I put them back, you'll be whole. I can help you remember!

[Okay, he definitely should not have entertained any of this behavior. Worse, Set gives credit to Yima for a fake Anubis? Yeah, okay. (says a delusional little T2 meri)

D goes along with the pull, but is a bit stiff with hesitation, uncertainty. His mind reaches back into the old depths for knowledge of a history lost to time where he's from. Pieces of his soul? Anubis's soul. Egyptian gods, Egyptian deaths... Jars. It's parts in jars, and he suddenly has a better understanding.

Carefully, he pulls up short, reaching out with the hand he has left to catch Set by the arm and keep the man from charging forward, determined.]

I don't think it's going to work that way. [The less he goes with even more things put inside him, tested on him, the better.] I think you know it isn't going to work that way, too.

She isn't going to give you what you want.

[Now he's just a disobedient child, noooo.]

[ He wants to claw D open, in that moment. The schism between his wishes and reality parts like a veil drawn back from his eyes, revealing to him the true nature of the individual before him — it's D, it's not Anubis. And then his mind slips again. What if D is Anubis? Anubis doesn't remember him, Anubis was stripped of their shared memories and twisted around Osiris's fingers so thoroughly that this, too, could be part of it. He's missing something, those critical memories, and Kenos ( the Oracle ) has provided Set with the means to return it to him.

Yima understood. She, too, had lost children. Wanted nothing more than to have them back, and her deep pain would always resonate with Set, who truly could destroy his world in order to free his child from Osiris's grasp. It is that child and their shared promise that keeps him on the path of Meridian, and right now... D is refuting it. He doesn't remember their promise, he can't wait for Set to finish his atonement because he won't be there. ]

She's given me more than you know. [ Even though he loathes her for her inconsiderate love, he cannot deny that Yima gave him strange freedoms and wisdom in spite of his adherence to Meridian. She's waiting for him, and he's promised himself to her if he fails. He can't fail right now. He tries to wrench D forward, hand closing around his wrist and the weight of his bicep, stepping back through the doorway and into the house. He'll drag him if need be.

]

I can fix this. I need to fix this. I don't need her to give me anything, Kenos supplied it all! You came here, I have your soul — [ well, parts of it; not a shard, just the ba, ka, ib, and shut ] — and I know how to manipulate a soul!

[Set at least isn't entirely invalid for thinking D is Anubis when D also had to wonder if Anubis was simply another him in a different timeline, created by the Sacred Ancestor.

The strength in Set is commendable. D staggers forward, slipping through the threshold of the door before he can get the power to halt briefly again. A righteous sort of flame licks up in him, twisting his expression.]

You can't be sure she hasn't given you lies. I thought you were lamenting being swayed into a trap.

[It's a bit mean, but still. Maybe the factions are another trap.]

Let go. I won't have pieces of another inside of me. If you want him back, you must fight for the worlds returned. What makes you believe putting what you have inside of me will help?

[ please don't mention that d, set WILL become utterly uncontrollable and i will have to drop him from the game (jk) (or am i) ]

Because the moment I catch her in a lie, I will never join Zenith. I do not want to be lied to, even if the truth is agony. And she wants me! For some reason, I know she wants me in particular — I am powerful, I have authority, I am — !

[ Desired.

( Maybe it comes back, in the end, to being desired. Wanted, and fought over and coveted in a way that doesn't come with grabbing hands and cruel mouths. Meridian rejoices his presence in their Faction, Zenith is deeply wary of him but wants him for themselves. They have to. )

His own son doesn't want him, though. Anubis hates him; doesn't remember him or their lives together or their promise, and when he looks at D he continues to see the empty, cold eyes of his child become a god in full and intrinsically know that is is Osiris who fathered him. Not who raised him and taught him and hurt him and vowed to atone for him, but who fathered him. ]

Do not lecture me on fighting for anything, I am this war!

[ His voice pitches, a caterwaul of anger and acute despair. ]

If I return the parts of you that you lost, you will — be whole again. Are you not curious about what "a Shard" really means? A shard is a piece of something. And in my possession is the rest of you. Anubis, it is your soul.

Edited 2024-01-08 00:42 (UTC)

[the fact im still baffled bc i swore i replied to this

The taut cord of Aspect in D thrums with disruption as the Discord mounts from Set's insistence. He pulls back again, but not harshly. Firm. Wary.

Somehow, it sounds exactly like a parent is admonishing him for talking back!! He's being scolded for getting mouthy...]

Do you really need to catch her to know they are always lies?

[D's wide, dusty lips turn downward pensively. Will Set feed the parts to him? Cut him open to stick them inside him? Try to force his body to assimilate them somehow?]

It isn't the same.

[Is it? Not in reality, though maybe to Set. The parts wouldn't be like having another Shard shoved into him, one he didn't know, right?]

Are you saying a Shard is a piece of a whole?

Everything in Kenos is a secret with a grain of truth in it, or can you not tell that?

[ Meridian. Zenith. What if instead of being overt lies to manipulate everyone, there is a truth to them? What if that is what it comes down to, and what matters is the truth one wants to embody the most? If neither Faction is lying, then the might of Meridian's Shard-Bearers and the Oracles they claim is what will save worlds. What will return him to his child, while maintaining their promise, instead of forcing him to disappoint his child by being weak and desperate for him.

In a way, having D before him sends him into a spiral. A tailspin of desperation, where he both knows and does not know who he speaks to; he wants to go home to Anubis, he does not have to go home because Anubis is here. Anubis wants to start over, to remake their family. Anubis and he can start over here, in this place and in the future. He will disappoint his son. He will make his son happy and safe. Anubis doesn't remember him. Anubis will, if he can fix it.

Set's expression betrays how he is: a cornered animal, trying to figure out which direction to go. He settles on the question asked of him. Questions are good, for he is a Savant. A god of unparalleled strength, and the secret to it was his intelligence. ]

Is that not what its title implies? A shard is a broken piece of something. The soul has multiple pieces — the ba, ka, ib, shut, khet, and ren, as I understand it. Kenos is a different place than our home, but. There are obvious connections. My sister's temple in the Beyond affirmed it for me.

[ for him,

he could be ENTIRELY DELUSIONAL about everything that's the fun part ]

Edited 2024-02-06 18:56 (UTC)

[On the shortest day of the year—or the longest, by Springstar’s calendar—Liem makes his rounds to play Santa himself, though without the red-and-white costume. For the past few months, his regular visits to Springstar’s community centre have been in service of crafting handmade solstice gifts for the people in his life. Unlike last winter, this time, he’s prepared.

Some of the items he brings are simply handed over without fuss: a couple fat, pleasantly spiced hand-made candles and a bottle of wine. (He didn’t make the wine, though.) The last item he delivers, with a bit more care, is a plump throw pillow with tassels and an embroidered pattern decorating it. If it smells a little like him, it’s because this he did make himself.]

[ The request from communion has none of Silco's usual mental notes, none of the slimy, subtle way he normally slides up against Set's mental barriers. Normally he is like a puddle of polluted water, leaking under the door in lieu of a mental knock. Now, though, he is more like a wave crashing at the door, banging against it like a torrent, fighting to be let in before he bursts in like a torrent, a storm in the form of a man. It's like he's pacing in shared communion, an agitated mumble of anger, fear, worry, despair, circling over and over like they were dogs chasing each other in a circle.

He's reaching out to Set because there is a shared thread between them. Something that they share, or rather, something that they both value, above all things. That there was something greater than the two of them. That they both would do anything for. This thing that they share is a line, and it's one Silco tugs in this moment, because of all people — Set would understand his distress and the anguish that roiled through him. A desperate fear.

Set would understand what he asks. He would not abuse the knowledge, because like Silco had told him once in this very office before — They would never use their children against one another. They were fighting desperately for them, and them alone.

No, Set wouldn't do anything of that nature. That is the reason he can tell himself he comes now to him, even though the agitation is deeper than even his daughter's future. It's about something else, and when he gives voice through communion, the request sounds partially distressed. ]

I need to see you. Immediately. It's important.

[ Silco's demand is not a command, though it's very nearly there. It's strained as if Silco is holding back the torrent within him, even as it rages against Set's mental walls. ]

[ Normally, Silco feels of anger, hatred, and resentment. A simple emotional drive for a man so thoroughly obsessed with getting what he wanted, for who he wanted it for. To feel him drive against his mental walls and doors so ferociously was — surprising, and real in a way few could comprehend. He pries them open from where Silco had thrown his mind against them, feeling the anguish as if it were his own; a wild, ugly, heartfelt thing that fills him like teeth-chattering cold. He'd felt it just earlier on, in fact. Wild and desperate, on behalf of his own child.

He knows his alliance for what it is. A vow to be a path for Silco, even after he'd shed, ignored, and destroyed all others. Someone who will watch over his daughter, though Silco won't watch over his own. Won't even change his mind for Set. ]

Let me conclude my work, I will be there.

[ His work in the Church, he means.

It's easy to get into Kowloon. Silco gave him access to his private Cornerstone, tucked away in his office. That is how he gets there, through that connection, entering the office where he expects his partner to be waiting. His hands extended, seeking something forbidden to all others. Reaching, the moment he spots Silco, to press a palm to his scarred cheek — firm, steady. ]

What is it, Silco? Kowloon is where you want it. War has begun to blossom. You are —

[ He knows what this is. Why he'd be so distressed. ]

What happened to her?

[ Silco is like a cornered beast, pacing in his office, throwing himself into his chair, then taking to pacing again. Alcohol tastes poor as it is since he had allowed himself a dark gift, and it tastes no better than ash now. He'd tried to drink, but his fingers trembled, and eventually, in a fit of fury he'd thrown the glass against a wall, where alcohol and glass had fallen to a drying, acrid puddle against the wall. The papers from his desk were tossed, and Silco had finally, before Set arrived, collapsed to his chair, his fingers holding his hair messy, and strewn all over it.

Set was one of the few who were allowed the knowledge that he had a cornerstone within his office. He's one of the few who can be welcome in Silco's space without invitation or knowledge that the man is there. That is a precious thing, to a man who trusted nobody, and looked out at the world like it was teeming with enemies instead of potential allies. Set had been one to find away through that heavily constructed suit of armor that Silco trapped himself in, and he found the man with one eye open, staring outward, his lips trembled, and it took Silco longer than normal to ward off Set's hand, but not with a push outward, or a thrashing attempt to dismiss Set's hand from his face. He gripped his wrist, and surged upward, it is not a rejection, but an intense draw, trying to urge Set with the gravity of the circumstance, of what was happening to him.

What he needed from him right now.

His hand is soft, but callused, the faint scars are barely perceptible, but Set, being a god of strife and war, will know them. How could a god of war not understand it? The marks on one's hand, the scars of a life not lived in luxury, the back of his hand revealing that scar that Sebastian had left on it, a sign of their contract — he wanted to scratch it off, burn it off, but he didn't even have a second hand to do so. ]

She's — [ He shook his head, his fingers did not leave Set's wrist. ]

I need to show you where she is.

[ He said it simply, tersely. She was not in danger, his voice said, but he was full of that overspilled cocktail of fear, anger, desperation, and in the end: despair. He knew now what everyone had hinted at but had never come out and told him. he knew now why so many people had looked to him with disdain, or why Voryn Dagoth, curse the man, had laughed at him like he had just heard the punchline to a joke. Why all of them had been laughing at him, mocking him, while he had strode confidently forward.

Made a fool, and it was the first time in his life he didn't have anyone to blame, but himself. ]

Come with me.

[ He aims to lead him to his cornerstone again, this time to teach him a secret even Sebastian didn't know. His mortal flaw had always been the way he kept secrets, and dodged the truth, but for once, he would use it to his advantage. ]

Edited 2023-12-24 03:39 (UTC)

[ Some would find him traitorous and warped, for the bond he shares with such a detestable man.

None could understand, what it feels like to be someone that Silco shares his deepest secret with. He would feel foolish to call it trust, but what else could it be between them? A solemn understanding, a line they drew together that was unique to them, where it would never be applied to anyone else. Should anyone else prioritize like them, they would be ignored. Used and abused. Perhaps it was the similarity of the dark rot within them; sticky and poisonous, born of grand dreams and a desire for something better that had been ruined by a loved one's betrayal.

Imagine.

To be needed by him, in Silco's most vulnerable moment. It feels like the greatest power, the most valuable gift. To know, even if Silco will not give anything up for him, he is still critical to him. Those spindly fingers around his wrists are known to him, and he does not shake them off nor seek to take them against his palms the way he might with another. Silco is full of emotions Set knew he was capable of, for what else could feed his anger and loathing? and he twists his wrist over in the man's grasp to fit his fingers lock-and-step around a scrawny wrist in turn.

Firm, but not restricting. ] Silco, breathe. Steady now.

[ Simply put. Back towards the Cornerstone they go, with Set willingly following a dangerous, opportunistic man into the unknown. His free hand finds the angle of his shoulder and holds him firm for a moment, drawing Silco's spine back into the strong line of Set's chest. The hand slips to the center of his chest, to his sternum. Presses like a weight, strong and secure. He does not ask him to calm, nor discard the chaos of his emotions.

Just to remember: ] You know I am with you.

[ It's a remarkable thing, that Silco is so distracted by the roiling, tempestuous sea of emotions, that he does not even fight Set. His eyes dance, and he only spared a half glance back at his office. The remnants of his altercation with Sebastian mostly hidden now that Silco has cleaned up any sign of their fight.

Their hands lock wrists, and he does not feel comfort, but for the first time in a long while, he does not feel alone. Since Jinx left several months ago, Silco's own isolation has gotten worse, exacerbated by attacks here in his very office, the way other Zenites looked to him with disdain. All things he was used to, but the last few months have been... pronounced. The crimelord digging into the things he cannot stand, driving toward destruction, self or universal. Set is the only one to reach through that shroud, and his hand on Silco's wrist does not still him, but when he pulled him to stop, his spine aligned with Set's chest — hand on him — Set can feel the pounding in his chest. It has not stopped in hours.

It has not ceased. It feels loud and painful in his chest — can Set feel it — he thinks it would burst from his chest, if it goes on much longer.

It should not feel reassuring — it never should — that there was someone he would trust with this. Is it his own desperation, his despair, that drives him to take Set to the most secret location he owns? He does not wish to, he wants to keep it hidden, but there is something more important than him, and someone that he needs to preserve.

He does not fight Set, he only stills, his hand still trembling. There was none of the anger Set would be used to, none of the pushing away, or ripping himself free.

It is. Resignation. His shoulders slump slightly, despair. ]

I know. That's why we must go.

[ When the anger bleeds from him, as it eventually will, he will be left a husk of that resignation, that despair, that loss, knowing that the one thing that he holds dear, he will never see again. Set will — he will watch her when he is gone — he will protect her like his own, because Silco knows that she is perfect, that like him, Set found her... extraordinary.

He will only reach for the cornerstone when they are ready, but he thrums with that same panicked energy, the despair and distress leaking in. Set was his partner in this, and he has soothed the worst of that roiling anger, leaving only a pit of despair in its wake. Like the tide's surge has ebbed away, leaving what remains of the seabed beneath, a gaping maw, an empty, lifeless shore. ]

[ To hear "I know", said in response to Set's decree is — no one will ever understand how it feels. To be accepted by a man as hostile and resistant as Silco. No one will understand how it, too, feels like a worship beyond measure for a god as corrupted and reviled as the evil god of war and strife that had become of Set, former guardian and protector. That he touches Silco's form without feeling the bite of a blade or tongue, that he can steady him back against his own body for a mere moment and feel out the storm of emotions within him. The conflict, the turmoil, the despair. ]

I know you are your pain, [ he'd once asked to take the bite of Quetzalcoatl's blade from the stump of Silco's hand, only to be refused. ] And I know I am here for what comes after you, for her, but — I still chose you, first.

[ He cannot save Silco. To do so would be to rob Sebastian of the man's soul, and he'd already come to find the edges of not one, but two of the demon's most sacred of lines: not meddling in his contract, and not speaking his name. Set cannot remember the name anymore, but he remembers how he came upon it. ( For he, too, knows not to give away every advantage. ) He cannot save Silco, but he can sow discord and disorder within him — press at the ache of his malcontent and stir him to action. Help him think, help him with divine wisdom, lead him to a different path.

Silco without his anger feels – wrong, but no less real. He is real, in this moment. It's why Set follows him without question, and holds fast to him as they're swept away into the Cornerstone and out into the last secret place that Silco holds within him. A secret offered to Set, which he will accept with grace and fury.

Slowly, the war god dips his head upon their arrival, and presses the point of his temple to the top of Silco's head. ]

Tell me what you need.

[ Silco needs Set right now, more than he needs the demon that he'd strangled in his office earlier, more than he needs Yima's cold guidance or gifts. He never truly wanted, or needed those, but a part of him still feels as if it wants to gravitate toward the matron's influence, to embrace that chill darkness further. He doesn't, for Silco has often been staunchly independent, striving to not rely on anyone. Set is... different for that.

That promise between them felt stronger than anything he had in this moment. A day ago, he would have said the contract with Sebastian another, his soul at the end of his life for... everything he could have wanted. How could he have known? How could he have known? So filled with rage, so angry, pulled this way and that, every plan, time his daughter had reappeared, only to vanish, leaving him broken and angrier. Caught between forces that he struggled to understand with his self-taught skills and humble origins. He had seized power, the thing Silco always did. The thing he had always strove to do, it was in his nature, how could he do anything less.

He doesn't even step away, at first. Not from Set. The only thing here that would protect what Silco could not.

Where they arrived was... plain.

A small room outside of a foyer. Dark walls, fine finishing, but none of it had... personality. It was all empty, and dark, and so cold. Highstorm's chill was biting, but for a small, modest home where there had been no heat on in probably over a week, it was like the home was just as cold as the outdoors. Silco's breath showed, when he breathed out, a cloud of condensation almost as thick as the cigar smoke, and his body did not so much tremble as shrink in on itself, slightly. Not pulling away from Set, but... dipping under his weight. ]

This is —

[ He said, broaching the subject delicately. Carefully. ]

— A safehouse. I need to show you where I keep her.

[ Like a dying man, giving away his most prized possessions. Putting his affairs in order. He says safehouse, but it's clearly in Highstorm, it's clearly Silco's. It may be plain, and spartan, but it is a home. It reeks of cigars and blood, and though there are no splatters of mess on any of the rugs placed over hard wooden floors, it permeates the space. A great deal of bloodletting has happened here, and none of it the small man dwarfed under Set's head. ]

Edited 2023-12-27 06:41 (UTC)

[ I need to show you where I keep her.

And suddenly, he truly, wholly knows what Silco is doing. It enrages him a little, to know that Silco is asking him to do this. That Silco is showing him where Jinx lays in rest, and is entrusting Set with the most important thing in his life — yet, Silco would not do the same for Anubis. Would not choose another path, to allow Set to keep himself safe. Silco is going to try to end Quetzalcoatl, and he won't even step up to keep her promise to Set — nothing Set needs most, is something that Silco can give. But, he is a man in a position of authority and promise.

That has to matter, because nobody has ever saved Set. Protected him. And he dreads the day Silco attempts his kill — because, if he is successful it means nobody will ever do that for him. He is, in the end, meant to suffer and be alone. That is, truly, the role for him. He will walk out of this war with Jinx and Anubis in his hands, at the least. It embitters him a little, makes him angry and resentful. He thinks... no, he doesn't think at all. It bleeds from him within seconds, because the anger is useless.

He knew what he was walking into, with Silco. It is not about protection, it is about power and information. ] I would ask if someone came for her, but if they had, I do not think you would have slaughtered them like this... and left her in place.

[ The scent of blood is strong on his tongue and in his nose. ]

What happened here, Silco? [ And he does nudge him, to indicate he is still intent on reaching Jinx. ]

No.

[ He admits, oblivious to Set's thoughts. Silco, as a whole, was a selfish man. He had always been selfish, in action, in thought, and in drive. Zaun had been decimated by his own actions, the people suffered just as much under his rule as under solely Piltover's, just in different ways. It would have been no different, had they achieved the power and prominence that they wanted. He was a creature who was never going to reach out, extend himself, or even realize that he could. Anubis, of course, he wanted to live, and should Set reach out to join Zenith, he would fight alongside him for both their kids. He was selfish, and thoughtless, and perhaps someday, he would think to ask Yima for his child as well, but it frankly hadn't occurred to him, so selfish he was, focused only on what mattered to him. Especially now.

Especially when he might not live to bring her to a new world. ]

This is — [ He gestured, with a hand that shook slightly. ] — Was just leftovers from yesterday.

[ He realizes only belatedly that, he perhaps had not shared with Set the truth of what he had done. ] Dinner.

[ He clarified, as he moved forward, stepping from the dark side-room, into the hallway, where a door is locked. He pulled a small key that he kept in a zipped pocket in his pants. Layer after layer of security. He started to unlock it. ]

This may never come up. [ He said, with the certainty that it would. ] But recently... [ So recently. His fingers tighten on the key, and the lock, as he starts to unlock it. ] I realized it may come sooner, rather than later.

Edited (oh my god i always do this) 2024-01-04 02:51 (UTC)

Oh.

[ Dinner.

Blood and fear, that is what he smells; having courted vampires and dhampir enough to be familiar with their dietary needs, Set can comprehend the meaning of Silco's few words. He didn't know what he had done, nor when or why or what he was thinking — but, he knew at least. Part of him thought, in that moment, to offer of himself. And then he thinks better of it, tactical and smart and a more than a little... disagreeably. What vampires have fed on him have been courted for reasons. What dhampir he allows is — well, it's Liem, and the war god's silent affection for that man is his own affair.

A vulnerability he knows anyone would exploit, because if they did not, it would be their doom. ]

Did you finally ask him? What it meant for him to devour your soul?

[ Set had mentioned it to him. He wishes he had driven that wedge between Silco and Sebastian sooner, but also had vowed not to meddle in Sebastian's affairs of the palate. Momentarily, in this blood soaked place, Set rests his hand on Silco's cold one. Before he unlocks the door fully, before he reveals everything to him. ]

I could have warned you, sooner. I told him I would not meddle in his affairs, but — I did not know you were not fully informed. Knowing you... your hunger and anger, I failed to ensure you had all the cards in the hand you chose to play.

There seems to be a great deal of that.

[ He said, his tone biting and acerbic. ] We have no such things where I am from. [ It is not anger at Set, for he knows, truly, that Sebastian had a great deal of power to wield. He'd felt it, the surge of strength and power in his body the time Sebastian had showed him, let him taste and scent that power, and how hungry it had made him for more. How much he desperately wanted — needed/hungered/thirsted — for more. More power, more capability, to lay waste to anyone who dared to threaten him, or Jinx. ]

We have nothing. [ He said, his fingers still on the door, as if in explanation. ] We are nothing. Zaun is a dumping ground for wasted, worn out bodies who die in their youth as they toil in factories and the fissures. We have no room for worth, or perhaps it was leaked out of us, like our humanity and worth, while we wasted our few years making profit for people who watch us starve.

[ It's difficult to explain, truly, what it is to be a Zaunite. To be so desperate, to fight so hard for mere survival day, after day, after day. How souls were so worthless to him, and how he hadn't understood. Had it mattered? ] I learned to read, learned how to keep books on my own. I taught myself only what I needed, because every moment wasted on that was a moment I was not working to find food, to survive.

Foolish of me, perhaps, to continue such bad habits. [ He says, bitterly. ] Then again, I am used to dealing with half a hand.

[ He opened the door, but did not enter. He held his hand to the space in the door, as if he was dismissing, or altering something. A spell. ]

Here.

[ Silco reached out with his single hand now, and moved to guide Set's hand to the space in the threshold. To allow the spell to know he was welcome. ]

[ To show kindness or compassion to Silco as he speaks of Zaun would be foolish. Stupid, even.

Instead, Set is quiet. Attentive, without removing his hand from the other man's person. That vicious, brutal person that no one could speak with, let alone touch, without being cut asunder. Yet, there he stood, so very close to a man who worshiped annihilation above all else, and he could understand him. Without question. Rather than speak, he listens to Silco speak of the wasteland of his home. The way Zaun was the ends of the earth, a cesspool where the gilded city above discarded people as waste and waste without thought. A place where people lived hard and died fast, and survivors — had to be like Silco.

Men like Vander were illusions, in Zaun. He'd never liked Vander much, however others had enjoyed his presence. Osiris had been an easy-to-love god, and yet, he hadn't hesitated to ruin Set for his own ends; Silco, too, had been ruined by someone he'd been close with. Scarred and drowned and left to bloom with rot. ]

Doing what you have to do to survive the brutality of others is not foolish. You are marvelous to me, Silco. I would never ask you to change who you are, only encourage you to walk different paths — accepted and prized as-is. A man like you never has to accept a dead end. Not while I am here.

[ Set understood, and allowed himself to be guided forth and across the threshold. A cold place, welcoming him as though... as though he was meant to be there, like he belonged. Purity of acceptance, by Silco himself. So, Set stepped forward, and allowed himself to attune ( to be attuned? ), hot and scalding against Zenite-rich power, he feels it twine and balk and croon as though it has missed him. As if it wants to be in sync with the Meridian within him, but also wielded against it.

Like chaos, and order. The Kemet and Deshret. War, and peace. ]

May I hold her?

[ Set understands, and appreciates where he comes from. Unlike Quetzalcoatl, who said things like: 'I wish this didn't have to happen to you' is antithetical to Silco, who prides himself on his strength, on the fire that forged the strongest, most capable creatures who survived. It was hard, it had always been hard. He had been running between buildings with a gang since he was old enough to run properly, jumping buildings like every other sump rat, looting buildings when he wasn't winnowing his fingers to the bone in the fissures.

Set understood that it had made him strong. Yes he wanted Zaun to change, but not so much that it was not Zaun. He wanted it to belong to the people, but he had never wanted it to be a soft, coddling bosom to nurture the youths in. No, he wanted it hard, wild, and free. This Set understood, just like Silco understood him.

His child was not lost. Not yet. Silco understood why he was Meridian in the same way that Set understood that he was Zenith. Set had a chance to bring Anubis back to him. There was still hope. Were Jinx not dying in his arms, would he be willing to entertain Meridian? Yes, there was a chance. His daughter, however, was lost to him, dying before him. Her life draining out after she was cut down by the Pilties, trying to just eradicate another Sump Rat.

Set says that he wants to encourage different paths, but he does not know if there is another path for him. Not now. ]

I don't know if there's another path open. I will take it, if I can. However...

[ However. He had learned otherwise. Learned that his soul would be forfeit, and he would not survive it, even though he had thought that he would. ]

Should you see a way...

[ He stepped into the room, behind Set, nudged him along once the spell was attuned to him. Silco had carefully crafted this to keep any and all out. This was his most private sanctum, and the place he spent the least. He could not bear to be here, to look at all that was left of his daughter, and not fall into deeper despair.

Set's question almost hit deaf ears, as he stared at her.

The room was small, but littered with treasures. The large gun that he'd gotten this past month was carefully set amongst the small bombs, chompers, paints, and scribbles that he'd carefully transported from his room. The half-formed scraps of metal that were the works of a genius mind that had been crafting from thin air. In the middle was her gem, blue, dull, only the faintest hint of life inside. It looked like a hex gem, one that had lost its spark.

Silco's fingers trembled when he reached down to pick it up off the ground.

It was very nearly a shrine, in here. There was little light, nothing to chance burning it down, and Silco held the only thing he had ever venerated, this precious, perfect child. He had promised her that he would never leave her, and he was going to break that promise. ]

I promised her that I would never leave her.

[ He said, in a voice that was perhaps smaller than even he realized. Hopeless.

He held her out to him, and gave Set his entire world. ]

Through me, you will always have a way.

[ It's a similar vow he made to Gen, actually.

To stand as a shadow among the light, for people who might want an "out" or another way. Who might crave destruction, and desire companionship; creatures of needs and wants that seemed antithetical to one another, discordant and unable to be reconciled. A bit like the war between the factions, which was born of dreams that could not co-exist. Set is a creature that represents acceptance of things that don't co-exist, chaotic hearts that want to live and die in the same breath. People who have killed every path they could walk except the one that leads to their demmise will find shelter in him.

That is his vow, as a wicked god. As someone who once protected people, then turned and slaughtered them. Hateful and desperate to save himself from further pain. He cannot and will not rob Sebastian of his due, but. If Silco puts his mind to surviving once more, he can find aid in Set. Careful aid, but aid nonetheless. And if they cannot succeed, well.

He will mourn this man. Without a doubt.

In the depths of that room, full of items and destructive toys and mechanical genius, he stands carefully among the remains of Jinx's life and presence. Her guns, her bombs, her Shard, which he watches Silco pick up from the ground. Ah, so that was what must have happened; she was there, alive and creating, and then she was gone. And Silco had never moved anything, from the moment she had vanished and become the shell of herself once again. His reach is slow, as he moves toward Silco and cradles the back of the man's remaining hand. To gentle the tumble of Jinx's shard into the palm of his own, whereupon he cradled the other side of her.

And admitted: ] I was going to tell her about your contract. You gave her everything, and I remember seeing her — I knew she'd give it back to you. She and I were the same Aspect, you know? I would have burned everything with her, for you.

[ She was going to be how I saved you, he meant. Because he figured she'd stop at nothing, the same way Silco would for her. With Silco's daughter, his only love and his entire world, held carefully in his hands, he says: ] I am still going to.

[ Silco's lips, for the barest, briefest moment, flickered into a smile. It's fond, an odd look on the crimelord's lips, but after a split-second, it's gone, swallowed by that same despair that swallowed everything in that moment, along with that old sadness, the wound that was left gaped open over Silco's heart, the one that rest with that shard, because silco loved his daughter more than anything.

He would never allow her to interfere, for as long as she lived, if he did enough to propel them for the future, he would have been happy, to cement their victory.

He still would, if it meant she would be guaranteed her life in Yima's new world. If she was allowed her wild freedom and grand inventions, her mind able to flourish and invent, and create chaos. He would have been happy with just that. He didn't have that luxury, though, and he knew it. If he was dead, would she even still be here?

Could he beseech Yima, to save her, when he gave everything for Zenith?

No, this was a thought he could not even entertain. Refused to entertain. If he gave that up, was it worth it? ]

She would have burned me, if she knew. [ He answered, to explain the half-smile that ghosted across his lips. ] She would have never forgiven me.

[ He would have been leaving her, and he hadn't even known. ]

I don't --

[ He reached out, this time his hand on Set's wrist, as he held his daughter in his hand, careful though he was, Silco still felt fear. How could he not? This was his most prized, and perfect posession. This was his whole world, his heart, because he'd given everything for Jinx. She was the very epitome of Zaun. Strong, smart, hewn by years and trauma and abandonment. She was Zaun, and Zaun was her, in his mind they were everything, and Jinx was the spirit of it. As long as he had her, he didn't even have to consider the remnants of the city, or that they were left in the ditch.

After all, he knew that few Zaunites would have ever wanted to bring back Piltover, if it meant their own revival. They were a worthy sacrifice. ]

I don't want to die. [ He hissed, his tone fervent, despairing. ]

I can't leave her -- but I don't know how to release myself from it, or get around it.

[ If there was a way, his tone said, he would take it. He would not just lie down and die, despite the dramatics. ]

[ With Jinx in his palm, he kept his hand low. His arm pressed below Silco's eyeline, so that the man would know she was always there. That he was not drawing her into his body the way he had once with Quetzalcoatl's Shard, before stealing her away to revive her at the Tree. It's respect for the other man that keeps him still, keeps Jinx sheltered in his palm. And respect for their relationship, the importance and depth of it, which has him steadying Silco's hand once more with his own. His world cradled between their clasped fingers. ]

Come now, Silco. You are a man of business. What, exactly, was the wording of your contract?

[ If the man was sloppy about what he was agreeing to, there was no hope for him.

And Set could not directly intervene. Such a move would place him firmly in opposition to Sebastian, whom he also respected for what he was. Simple as that. He was a predator, a hungry one, and refuting his right to Silco's soul would be a dire, foolish move. Naturally, Set has a mind that befits a trickster. One who twists the letter and the spirit of the law as readily as he twists heads from necks; his mind is fae-like, functioning in a far, far different way than a mortal's, yet oddly beholden to their sentimentality and sensitivity at times. ]

Honestly, considering Zenith's culture of revering souls, I am surprised the all-knowing Lady Yima is allowing this to happen to one of her most trusted Zenites. I thought you had worth to her. I worry for the future of your daughter, if you do not — even at your heights of Harmonization. She is not as loyal and proven as you, after all.

[ Silco's eyes were affixed. Not to Set, but to his everything in Set's palm. One could perhaps guess that when a family member, or treasured soul was gone, that one would venerate it, but Silco's focus is singular, and it always has been. There was a reality in which he attuned to Meridian -- or had the potential to -- but not when Jinx was dying. Not when this was their only chance at survival. Not when this was the only avenue.

And even then. He'd messed up. He was losing her, and the contract would cement it, just as surely as it had been before. Just as certainly. In his pursuit of revenge, in his pursuit of making it so, or perhaps even in his pursuit of keeping her close...

He'd lost her. He'd lost his daughter, he'd lost all the objects he'd sought out originally, and it was only through his own dogged inability to let things go, that Sebastian remained in his employ -- and perhaps his soul spoken for. He could see that now. He could understand that perhaps even that had been an attempt to keep his... dinner (?) warm and ready for him.

Set presents an avenue, that he might look toward the wording. Perhaps there was a way. Silco wondered, but did not dare hope for emancipation from this danger. No, he knew. He knew what the value of his soul was worth, after all. To anyone other than Sebastian? Maybe Set? Nothing. ]

Nobody has ever chosen me, Set. Yima is just another in a long, long line of them. It was never about her world, but in destroying everything. [ A twitch of his lips, tightening. ] There's little in what is left that has value, after all. [ There is no Jinx. ]

It was always about making sure she was alive. In that new world? That's all it ever was.

[ His hands twitch, as if to reach out, to take her. His hand under Set's, not moving away, even though Set could see the impulse, to pull her back into his hands, to protect her. The fact that he doesn't keep her on his person is only a testament to the dangers in Kenos itself, and how he desperately tries to protect her, even now. ]

Yima is not who I am loyal to. I never have been. [ He placed his hand over Jinx's shard, in Set's hand. ] This is everything that matters to me. I will do anything to make sure she's alive, Set. I will find a way out of my contract if I can, but --

[ But he's human. He's, just like his daughter, made one too many mistakes. The spoiler, and always has been. Like father, like daughter, really. He'd cared so much about getting there, that he'd not seen the forest from the trees. ]

I needed you to know. To save her, before... [ A swallow. ] Before she's lost again. She's already dead, Set. There is no saving her, if she is not here. Even if it is all saved, she is still gone, unless she is taken away from there.

[ Is that not the thing that binds the two of them, then? That their loyalty was ultimately tethered to their absent children, their suffering children, their dying children. Like Set, Silco saw the pain of others and found it no greater than his own — no more important, no more indicative of some greater good or evil. All they saw was their own. All that mattered was their own. Anubis could arrive in Kenos right this moment, and ask him to throw it all away — and, with guilt and shame, he would. It would hurt, but he would.

Perhaps it is a mercy, then, that Anubis has never come to Kenos. Not like Jinx, whom had flitted into and out of Silco's life in a way that had cornered him, driven him deeper into the claws of his contract. Until there was no way out, until all he had left was to ensure something survived beyond him to care for her. ]

My sister is a goddess of miracles, Silco. A woman who loves women and children and would drown the world for her own. I come from an era when gods still walk among men, and do deeds on their behalf. I would lower myself before a woman who I loved and betrayed me, and ask her for one more intercession. For Jinx. When Meridian wins, I readily see a way for her to live — safe and free.

[ And it goes without saying, that he would never allow Piltover to continue, even if Meridian were to win. ]

If Lady Yima could not save Jinx now, she will not be able to save her in the future. Only I can, and I am not walking in a direction that does not contain countless possibilities for her survival. I will not take that risk, because — I care for you. And your wishes. I really do.

Miracles.

[ He says it with disbelief. What were miracles, to people like he, and Jinx? They had been denied so much, for so long. They lived in squalor and poverty — though they were perfectly comfortable in the Last Drop, and Jinx had never known a day of hunger after Silco had hugged her that first night in the rain — underneath the noses of those that looked down on them. ]

Set, I cannot bank on a miracle. Twice I have.

[ His fingers curl around her shard, and it's so gentle, despite the way he trembled. Twice, she had been here, violent and grand. He knew. ] Whatever your quarrel with Yima, I do not look to her to bring Jinx here. She has tried, twice and both times the tree called her back.

[ Well, that answers why Silco hates the tree so much, doesn't it? ] I...don't even know if your world will allow her, or accept her.

[ The skin around his blinking eye tightened, and he closed it. ]

Think about it. Were I to leave Zenith, what would happen to her shard?

[ He knew. People left Zenith all the time. Yima would yank it back. She had a persona of softness about her, but Silco knew. He'd seen it, beneath the comforting smiles, the things that Silco found lurking in her deception. She'd asked him to make monsters, she had told him that Aetós's attention was not unwelcome. He knew that she would take Jinx back.

She had once told him, all those months ago, that to her, there was nothing more important than reuniting family.

He did not believe that she would reunite him with his daughter, unless he paid for it.

But it was transactional, and that he understood, more than anything. Transactional was how they had lived their lives. That was how he could function. ]

I have to proceed this way. It's our only hope.

[ He picked her up, held her in his hand, cupped like she was the most precious thing in the world. ]

If it is not enough. If I can't —

[ Silco was one man, is what he didn't say. He could fight and fight, and fight, but he could not be anywhere. Could not do as much as was needed. He believed in fighting for it, but he understood. He was not a fool, after all. He knew that Meridian promised hope, and hope was infectious. ]

It's why I ask you to watch over her. Yima can't take her, if I don't betray her. She can't wipe her from reality, if I die enacting her will. It's not my life I'm fighting for.

It's hers.

[ He'd promised her that he would never leave her. He knows he will. He doesn't have a choice, now. ]

You only know a miracle as something that happens because a divine agent happens to interact with you — Silco, I am that divine agent. My sister is. We are not separate from you, in our time.

[ In that, miracles are entirely possible. They are not wishes or hopes, but real things that happen; the same as apocalypses, mass slaughter, magic and cosmos. For Silco to say he cannot bank on a miracle, to Set, is the same as saying he cannot bank on his own power changing something. It is foreign to a god, whom makes such things happen. And then he tips his head, as if judging Silco for — ]

You fear Yima more than anything, and that is what she's counting on. To rule you with fear and control you, the way Piltover looked down upon you and Jinx — pitiable, and easy to manipulate. Cassian and Jyn left Zenith with the Shards of their loved ones. And do not dare voice your doubt that my world would accept her, when I exist there, despite all my slaughter and misdeed.

[ THough his words are harsh, he parries each of Silco's beliefs with an assertion of his own. Because he believes in more than Zenith's silly little promises, empty and whispered into desperate, foolish ears. A leash to control them, which he manifests in the palm of one hand: a long string of sand, morphed into the shape of a collar and leash that loosely entwines itself around Silco's throat before being jerked into the sand-facsimile hand of Yima herself. ]

Silco, I will not let Yima touch her. If Zenith is to win, I will never allow a woman like Yima to have any hand in the world to come. I hope you would find it in yourself to stop being so afraid of her, and take of her what is yours.

[ With that, he tucks Jinx's shard gently back into the man's palm. ]

Do not accept anything less than everything.

[ There's a slight moment of befuddlement.

Silco's fingers instinctively curl over his daughter's shard, as if he had done it countless times, the small, faint comfort that it was. Some doubted the shards, but Silco knew. Perhaps it was foolish, perhaps he believed too much, but he knew she was there, because the shard was not cold or chill, but vaguely inert, mild to the touch. That was perhaps not a guarantee, but he could imagine a sense of Jinx's wild and carefree attitude, the spark of chaos still residing within.

His eyebrow drew down (the other still and unwavering as always, drawn in as it was) because Set spoke of fear, as if Silco feared Yima.

He opened his mouth, but closed it, and his only moving eye narrowed slightly. ]

For all that they were present after they shifted, yes? [ He asked, with a slight scoff. ] I do not doubt that they would have been taken away. It's what I would do.

[ The shards were a gift for loyalty to Zenith, after all. ]

Regardless, I am not with Zenith out of fear, Set. I exist beyond it. [ Foolish words, perhaps, given what will transpire soon. ] I am with Zenith because I do not want our worlds returned.

Jinx's body is gone. [ His fingers tighten. ] Do you think we will be shard-bearers when our worlds are returned? We were not before. Why would they not return to how we were before?

[ But more than that, Silco felt it was right to destroy them. To rend and tear and destroy them because he wanted nothing more than to exact his final revenge on these worlds. For the crime of existing, because he'd lasted now for two years (or nearly) without his daughter. Had her taken more than once, and for all of Set's (supposedly) irrational hate for Yima, he did not think this was her. Not when his loyalty was so easily bought by her mere existence. No. No he did not think it was Yima. ]

I intend to have what is mine, you do not have to fear that, Set. Never fear that. I am taking what is my right. Nobody will stand in my way. Not even Yima.

IC INBOX ( KENOS ).

Early Takiltu; communion

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post-dryad dream

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Cw: eye stuff

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a letter sent at the start of emru

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a few days after the scorching isles... you thought i was kidding!

oh i have a great idea | cw allusions to sexual assault, victimhood

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how does everyone like gaslighting

love it, like good soup

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cw: spicy

SPICY!!!! archie pls

heard a pls

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after the manon debate (voice)

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