[ 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. ]
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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. ]