[ Atonement is the path he had said he would walk, and the rest of the Ennead — for all their hatred of him, for all their desire to see him erased like a blemish from the face of history — had agreed to allow him to serve that penance. Nephthys had wanted him to connect with humanity, to find a way to feel unity in his heart towards them... and he cannot deny that he has begun to feel it. There are some people in Kenos who he feels deeper within him than others, and some who he finds himself circling — drawn in by gravity.
Cassian is one of the people with a unique gravity, whom will either suffer or be saved. There is not much that Set can do, beyond support him towards one of those ends and know that in the end, it is the human who has the right to choose their fate. Quetzalcoatl hoped for their happiness, and Set? Set simply hoped to witness their conviction, and where it would lead. If in the process he could rattle their minds and hearts, for better or worse, he would ensure he was content merely with that.
After all, he was an evil god. Stripped of old honor, old service, faithfully-kept duty and protectiveness until naught was left to his name but followers who enslaved and killed and abused, madness in the hearts of men was his lot now. To prick Cassian with his warmth and know he might be instilling such madness, too? Well. Perhaps it is how they will keep one another from falling, no matter if their happiness or misery is writ into stone.
Cassian yields against him, stone given to the patient battering of wind that will carry it away piece by piece and transform it into sand. The dark waves of his hair tickling the underside of his chin as he turns his face into the scent of him, into the scent of gunfire and blood and the lemon verbena in his hands. He is mindful of the plant, as he curls his knees under himself and settles his weight into the line of Cassian's own form. Their position similar to the one he found himself in below the Tree, where his head was on Cassian's shoulder.
And he pushes the fingers of his soul into the ice, until he can take a handful of it and snap it up in a fist, warming chunks in his own palms until cold, fresh water pours between his fingers to join the sea again. Even as he works, there is the sense that he can only do so much, because his own body is an ache, his attention fragmented when he no longer has to hone it so intently. Even the god is tired, wrung out in the wake of his revival. ]
Good boy.
[ Maybe the kindness of a war god is madness in and of itself.
After all, Set does not operate outside of his domains ( and thus is not risking his erasure ), if he is inspiring a man ready to kill his heart to survive to yield to a disorder of the soul in lieu of personal peace. ]
no subject
Cassian is one of the people with a unique gravity, whom will either suffer or be saved. There is not much that Set can do, beyond support him towards one of those ends and know that in the end, it is the human who has the right to choose their fate. Quetzalcoatl hoped for their happiness, and Set? Set simply hoped to witness their conviction, and where it would lead. If in the process he could rattle their minds and hearts, for better or worse, he would ensure he was content merely with that.
After all, he was an evil god. Stripped of old honor, old service, faithfully-kept duty and protectiveness until naught was left to his name but followers who enslaved and killed and abused, madness in the hearts of men was his lot now. To prick Cassian with his warmth and know he might be instilling such madness, too? Well. Perhaps it is how they will keep one another from falling, no matter if their happiness or misery is writ into stone.
Cassian yields against him, stone given to the patient battering of wind that will carry it away piece by piece and transform it into sand. The dark waves of his hair tickling the underside of his chin as he turns his face into the scent of him, into the scent of gunfire and blood and the lemon verbena in his hands. He is mindful of the plant, as he curls his knees under himself and settles his weight into the line of Cassian's own form. Their position similar to the one he found himself in below the Tree, where his head was on Cassian's shoulder.
And he pushes the fingers of his soul into the ice, until he can take a handful of it and snap it up in a fist, warming chunks in his own palms until cold, fresh water pours between his fingers to join the sea again. Even as he works, there is the sense that he can only do so much, because his own body is an ache, his attention fragmented when he no longer has to hone it so intently. Even the god is tired, wrung out in the wake of his revival. ]
Good boy.
[ Maybe the kindness of a war god is madness in and of itself.
After all, Set does not operate outside of his domains ( and thus is not risking his erasure ), if he is inspiring a man ready to kill his heart to survive to yield to a disorder of the soul in lieu of personal peace. ]