[ The comb is set down upon the dressing table with a soft clatter, while Set rubs his fingertips together to disperse the rest of the product and finishes stroking it into Liem's hair. He toys with the ends of his bangs to ensure they look disheveled enough, some sort of imperfection that blends well with the heaviness of his brow. Set, too, has a stern brow. For someone who cavorts, his idle expressions are far more severe than they are possessed of the fits and bursts of mania that possess him ( especially in public Communion, as if he has multiple faces and masks he wears ).
As he strokes his thumbs across the line of hair he has laid, he tucks the rest of the product along the nape of Liem's neck, to hold the smaller, stray hairs there in place. And then he touches the dangling earring with the back of a crooked finger, to turn it so that the man can see the delicate hieroglyps etched upon it. It must be custom-made, for Set's ancient language is either dead with their worlds, or dies in the future. And to him, his world has to have a future, as he has not seen the day when the kingdoms of his land are naught but dusty tombs and forgotten peoples.
Sebastian would tell the truth, even if it was cruel or obscured in some ways. And Set's own research had concluded it.
To Liem, he says: ] It is a saying, from my lands. Long before a nation called "Greece" takes over my Egypt, we effectively warded our borders with spoken prayer and song. My duties included the defense of these edges, from those who would seek to leave us with our precious things, or those who would seek to enter with wicked intentions.
[ His other hand cups Liem's shoulder, follows the line of his bicep to his forearm. Spreads, warm across his palm. ]
There is no direct translation I can give, but it is a wish akin to those they would give to those who defended those edges, and were thus far from home. Like you. We will draw fresh waters, mine says. And yours says, we will dampen the altars. It was a promise, between those who went and those who stayed. That together, we would wash all uncleanliness from our hands, under the same roof.
no subject
As he strokes his thumbs across the line of hair he has laid, he tucks the rest of the product along the nape of Liem's neck, to hold the smaller, stray hairs there in place. And then he touches the dangling earring with the back of a crooked finger, to turn it so that the man can see the delicate hieroglyps etched upon it. It must be custom-made, for Set's ancient language is either dead with their worlds, or dies in the future. And to him, his world has to have a future, as he has not seen the day when the kingdoms of his land are naught but dusty tombs and forgotten peoples.
Sebastian would tell the truth, even if it was cruel or obscured in some ways. And Set's own research had concluded it.
To Liem, he says: ] It is a saying, from my lands. Long before a nation called "Greece" takes over my Egypt, we effectively warded our borders with spoken prayer and song. My duties included the defense of these edges, from those who would seek to leave us with our precious things, or those who would seek to enter with wicked intentions.
[ His other hand cups Liem's shoulder, follows the line of his bicep to his forearm. Spreads, warm across his palm. ]
There is no direct translation I can give, but it is a wish akin to those they would give to those who defended those edges, and were thus far from home. Like you. We will draw fresh waters, mine says. And yours says, we will dampen the altars. It was a promise, between those who went and those who stayed. That together, we would wash all uncleanliness from our hands, under the same roof.