[ The Last Dance has been a place of great relief to him, a favored haunt where he slips into the teeming crowds of stage actors, artists and artisans and becomes nothing more than another eccentric, lovely face in the crowd. To lose himself among them feels like a safety he has not known in centuries; to be unpursued, unmolested and secure among strangers who mind their own and refrain from uninvited contact is a balm he only otherwise has when biting into the lingering, dark blossom that blooms in his soul.
To have one of the only places he has allowed himself to feel safe be assailed by the memory ( of the Blight / crawling green vines, rampant growth that clawed at his legs and sought to suffocate him below it ) ( of his own Meridian-born power / a theft, a stolen thing that proves nothing about him, save for that he must pilfer the authority of a true god to accomplish anything ) ( of people, held in his hands as he sought to be enough for them to behold and believe in / alas, even mortals would instinctively know a false god, a god of no true might save for what he has been granted as reward ).
You are unreal to them, Osiris consoles him, in the place he thought he was safe, impossible in existence, but pitiable in your attempt to be enough for them. You are enough to me, you are everything I have dreamed of.
Quetzalcoatl's hand comes to him, the impression of her gentle, warm mind. He cannot help it, when he flinches from her with a strangled sound — the startled upswing of his claws catching at the front of her poncho, narrowly missing purchase across her chest. She is as warm as Osiris's hand upon him, for he was a child of dignity and warmth, easy to love, like her. ]
No, no. What did I do?
[ The Tree? The Oracle? Why is Osiris here?
I would find you in any life, in any world or hole you choose. You know what that dream meant, Set — you know, together we would be their new world. Deshret, Kemet. ]
SAD!!! crycat
To have one of the only places he has allowed himself to feel safe be assailed by the memory ( of the Blight / crawling green vines, rampant growth that clawed at his legs and sought to suffocate him below it ) ( of his own Meridian-born power / a theft, a stolen thing that proves nothing about him, save for that he must pilfer the authority of a true god to accomplish anything ) ( of people, held in his hands as he sought to be enough for them to behold and believe in / alas, even mortals would instinctively know a false god, a god of no true might save for what he has been granted as reward ).
You are unreal to them, Osiris consoles him, in the place he thought he was safe, impossible in existence, but pitiable in your attempt to be enough for them. You are enough to me, you are everything I have dreamed of.
Quetzalcoatl's hand comes to him, the impression of her gentle, warm mind. He cannot help it, when he flinches from her with a strangled sound — the startled upswing of his claws catching at the front of her poncho, narrowly missing purchase across her chest. She is as warm as Osiris's hand upon him, for he was a child of dignity and warmth, easy to love, like her. ]
No, no. What did I do?
[ The Tree? The Oracle? Why is Osiris here?
I would find you in any life, in any world or hole you choose. You know what that dream meant, Set — you know, together we would be their new world. Deshret, Kemet. ]