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IC INBOX ( KENOS ).
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█ To Commune with Set is to stand barefoot in an endless, scorching desert. The sun illuminates all, scalding the shadows themselves out from underneath whomever enters his dominion; the arch of gentle, distant, waves of sand mask the precarious chasms, towering dunes akin to mountains. The sense of vastness, timelessness, is of particular notice, lending itself to the alien, eldritch quality of his mind. There is a dark storm in the distance, and you know intimately that this divine being is far from benign. You cannot bargain with a force of nature. You can only survive it. |
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[ 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. ]
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[ 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. ]
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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. ]
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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. ]
cw: for big nona the ninth spoilers lmao the kenos lore resumes next tag
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.
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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. ]
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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. ]
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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. ]
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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... ]