[ 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. ]
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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. ]