[ PERMANENT. ] a (k)atch-all log for kenos

[dawnlord]

WHO: Set ( redsoil ), Bondrewd ( dawnlord ), Drizzt ( twohand ), et. al
WHAT: i actually can't stand month-by-month logs so i'm gonna crush my boys into one perma-log for anything outside of events
WHERE & WHEN: Listed in comment headers, or under the cut.
WARNINGS: General warnings for violence, vulgarity and unethical science. Will update/comment with warnings!


I struggle so hard w/ month-by-month logs, so y'all have to deal with my weird organization...

— [MARCH | SET] GOT NO SHAME, GOT NO PRIDE

Comments

[redsoil]

[ get wrecked vash!!! ]

— how can I?

[ Take a load off, that is. He does not require sleep, his existence is a vast and endless thing that Meridian needs. He must be both proof of their ideal, that it is real and attainable because if he did not exist, how could his world? He must be the shelter for those who yielded to Zenith, to refocus their minds and hearts in a different direction, in case ever they needed to lean back and close their eyes to the cold. Even to pretend.

( The ghost in his head calls to him, urging him to stop and slow. Not to go. ) In his lost thoughts, he has lumbered closer to Vash. Fingers curling, claws hooked and ready to be brought to bear against him. But. Vash has seen Horus, and Set could not hide the begrudging things he had felt for the other god. The stirrings of trust, of respect, of disorienting sentiment at his endless, earnest, patient resolve to be there for him. ]

If I do not keep going, he will catch me. He will take everything from me and replace it with himself, and I will —

[ Slowly, he hooks his fingers, his claws, into the red collar of Vash's coat.

It is such a lovely shade. It does not match Set's eyes or hair, which also match the blanket of flowers. ]

My brother was always easier to love. Kenos would love him, too.

[intervener]

[ he and Set are not of the same Aspect. there is no heightened Communion between them, no fathomable reason why Set's pain should feel so visceral, as palpable as if it were Vash's own. maybe it's the sheer force of something kept repressed and held back, finally bubbling to the surface, a sickness being bled forcefully from the skin when the pressure grows too much to contain it.

Vash doesn't understand the full picture, of course; the snippets he gleans from Set's ramblings - mention of a brother; of being caught. replaced. a kinder, more charming sibling, maybe. someone Set is at odds with, and yet--

and yet...

Vash understands the complicated bonds of family. he is the last person to judge someone else in those shoes, much as he wishes Set weren't wearing them. the pain that bond is causing a man who tries and tries and tries to do the right thing - it isn't a burden Vash wants him to bear. isn't he shouldering enough already?

so when clawed fingers curl into the fabric of his coat, he doesn't make any moves to remove them. this is a gesture of desperation - like a cry for help, he thinks. it's heartbreaking. it's unfair. but it's necessary, because bottling it all up again will only make all of this worse. each footstep Set tries to take will continue to sink deeper in the sand for that oppressive weight until the day it simply buries him. he needs to lighten the load.

Vash stretches a gloved hand, reaching for Set like one might a cornered, wild animal who may be skittish and unsure what to do with such kindness. it seems an apt comparison, somehow, sad as that may be; he settles his hand gently at Set's upper arm, close to the curve of his shoulder. something about this - despite the grandiose notion of this... being, this veritable force of nature holding the title of godlihood... Set well and truly feels far more like a child, right now. ]

But you are here, and he's not. He can't take anything from you that you don't give him.

[ slender fingers softly squeeze in an attempt to root the other man here - to the present, to the physicality of the two of them, sat here among the natural beauty of Alenroux, a departure from both the homes they're used to. ]

And we wouldn't let him, anyway. You came first. I kinda already like you.

[redsoil]

[ Everyone is someone's child.

Even a god, who ought not to fixated upon human bonds — for they do not hold natural sway over the interactions of divinity. Technically, the moment that he ascended he was ungoverned by heritage, untethered from parents and siblings, perfectly independent and equal among all the gods of Egypt. Yet, he still felt isolated. Alone. They ought to have no concept of alone, among the collective — but, he did. Some small need, unmet, has left him injured for years.

He sinks. Folding slowly to his knees before Vash, elegant even while caught in the undertow of punchy shock and hostile misery. There is no other way to be. His hands trail up from the place he had grabbed, following the line of Vash's shoulder, his arm, until he can fold one over the place he has been touched. ]

I cannot trust that. [ Protection will always be conditional, when offered to him. Or, it will be a mocking thing. A god? Needing protection? Hah! ]

It is too late, anyways. What he wanted, he had from me. Now, all he must do is wait — either I will go to him, in despair, or he will destroy everything in his way to get to me.

[ sound familiar vash???

Still, despite the futility in Set's words, he holds fast to that hand. Even as he pries it from his bare skin, feeling the coil of skin-sickness within his belly, he holds it between his own. Idly examining his fingers, the glove, the feeling of it. ]

— how can you be like this? [ And he flicks Communion toward Vash. The ghostly impression of Set's acute sense of smell, which can pick up the uniqueness of divinity itself, treasure below earth, blood spilled in the far corners of Egypt's lands — and the pain, in Vash. ] Gentle, but so far away.

[intervener]

[ trust isn't something Vash demands - or even asks - from others. whether it's because he doesn't believe himself deserving of it or that it is too presumptuous a request is inconsequential, he doesn't need it. actions speak louder than words, and regardless of faith - or a decided lack thereof - he won't let himself let Set down.

he's lost enough. he suspects Set has, too; losing any more pieces of himself can't be acceptable, either.

Vash permits Set to take his hand, lets the god examine each of his fingers as if they were mysterious, curious things. the gentility of the gesture is at distinct odds with the eerieness of the words that follow - and yes. the cold, hollowing tendril of frigidity and familiarity that curls through his insides to hear Set lament his fate...

the quiet feeling of Communion - Set's Communion, nostalgic for the way it brings Vash back to warm, sun-baked sands beneath clear, blue skies - manages to banish that temporary cold, even if the sensation that unfolds between them is not precisely comforting. it is more comforting than what preceded it. (why are the similarities he finds between himself and this man ones that fill him with grief, with the ache of empathy, and fear, and loss, and--)

Vash remains still where Set has crouched before him, but through the space of Communion - a place he is comfortable, a place he is used to after so many years reaching out to his sisters in an unspoken bond - he is a bright red beacon on the horizon of desert sands, seated among the stretch of undisturbed dunes that have soaked up much suffering. Vash has tugged the glove off his scarred hand, running the fine, coarse grains through his fingers as if he can see and count each and every one, finds something important in their number. ]

That isn't true.

[ what he's refuting might not be immediately obvious, but at least he thinks to clarify as each small, precious grain filters through his hand. ]

Things are different now. I don't think they'll ever be the same as they were, either.

[ Set's divinity has been altered. and that means his brother's would be, too; this is something Vash has given a great deal of thought, a great deal of sleepless nights contemplating for reasons Set would understand.

that familiarity. ]

He can't take what you don't give him. We're right here to stop you if you try, you know?

[ the last grains of sand trickle from his fingers; the Vash seated among the scent of fresh soil and earth joins the Vash seated among the vast stretch of desert. a gloved hand squeezes Set's; a naked hand presses into the land in unison. ]

[redsoil]

[ In the midst of the stirring of Communion between them, he glimpses a desert that is both familiar and not. He can identify it by structure, he can feel the ghostly impression of hundreds upon thousands of grains of sand being lifted from the ground and poured through a scarred hand. He can feel each mote of earth as if it were the fullness of his body, being laced across scars and the grooves of palm and fingers, falling through the air to reconnect with the vast sprawl of the rest of him.

( I have stolen it from you, he had cried to the ghost looming in the dark corners of his mind; fingers at the nape of his neck, like the weight of a collar, a hand working itself to be held by his own. The red lands had prevailed, and the black lands had fallen under Set's dominion — arable lands now flourished at his touch. An impossibility that horrifies him, even as he utilizes that power. I create, now. Without you. Except, is Osiris not creating through him?

The mind of a god is a tangled thing, secure and unsure in a single dizzying swoop. )

Vash is a red thing, against tawny sands. As Set has always been, too. Red-upon-gold, a fleck of crimson stain — ever-wandering, outcast from people and kindred like, a vagrant existence. As Vash leads his hand, real and unreal, to the land, he slips his fingers into ( sand / soil ) and dips his palm low, hooking it as if to gather a palmful of earth into it. Among the fields of Alenroux, he brings Vash's hand with his own, buried in dark, freshly-watered soil that begins to prickle with Meridian's energy. A delicate green sprout emerging, a second, a third. A blossom springing to life.

In Communion, that hand scoops the man himself from the desert sands — a palmful of sand dune and solitary man-of-red, cradled easily in the hand of a being that knows itself to be infinite, bound into a uniformity of flesh and limitation of ability. He is the desert, sunlit and burning, inhospitable, and he could easily imagine himself as the boundless thing upon which Vash walks. So, as he grows something in reality, he reaches his other hand down and presses a finger to the horizon that Vash might look into. Spreads heat-haze and savagery at that boundary, beyond which the delicate, tenuous green-and-blue of an oasis would be found for the weary.

Once, he had been a god of oases for weary, lost humans. A wild creature that would toss them headlong into waters they desperately needed, abandon them under shade to cool them. That, in the end, is the place where he tucks the mental impression he holds of Vash. We're right here to stop him, Set barely hears, over the rushing sound of his own flinching heart. ]

— it is hard, [ he admits, ] to think that I could be first in anyone's mind or heart. You would never be held to that promise. I cannot ask people to not form their own opinions, or hold off on seeking their own conclusions. Even for me. It might prove safer, to turn from me in favor of better gods.

[ He would like to be something people could find themselves looking to, in hard times. It would not be so bad, to be the force that others placed their faith in, amidst the unsureness of the world. Perhaps that is in his nature, too. ]

Still. I am not strong enough on my own, to conquer my doubts. So, I hope you mean what you say, and hold my promises and vows against me like weapons.

[intervener]

[ the Vash seated in front of a god stirring life between their entwined fingers and the god lifting him from the very sands of their shared desert -- one that defines both of them, yet belongs to neither -- feels much like having been split into two pieces, existing in two spaces simultaneously, those experiences ultimately folding into one. this could (should) be a daunting experience to a mortal mind attempting to comprehend something as enormous, as infinite, as boundless and unknowable as a god -- and any human of Vash's world would surely feel fear bubbling upward at being held at the behest of such a being.

the red stain among the grains of sand slipping from Set's hand sits in that palm among the desert - the desert that is part of Set, a part of his godhood, of his lands and home and things precious to him. Vash isn't afraid; there is an unspoken and intrinsic trust as a finger beckons and green eyes wander to behold the breathtaking sight of an impossibility in the deserts of Vash's planet. Set doesn't know it -- how special Vash finds this gift, how remarkable and infinitely priceless a creation he'd brought forth in a single touch.

the Vash of Alenroux surrounded by greenery watches the gentle, fragile sproutlings in Set's hands with the same kind of wonder.

and after a moment of almost faraway, dreamy admiration, in a way that seems second nature to him, the hands of a man beneath clear blue skies and baking sun reach out to touch those of a deity encompassing each grain of that sand, the hot breeze upon one's skin. at the same time, a pair of gloved hands cradle Set's around the fertile earth. beneath burning sun, among the sands -- beneath gentle sunshine, surrounded by the thick scent of nature, the Plant closes his eyes and leans his forehead into -- against -- Set('s), eyes closed. ]

We don't need 'better gods,' and you don't need weapons. [ Set has too many; he turns his thoughts into them, and the person he buries those weapons into most is none other than himself. spills hot smears of red, soaks the sands with them, over and over and over again in an attempt to kill what cannot die. ]

But if you decide this is what you want to do--

[ the soft, warm trickle of life burgeons further, blooms like a flower unfurling, as if Set is a conduit to more than the Meridian's life-giving properties. ]

--then do it. You can.

[redsoil]

[ ( Yes, they do. Meridian deserves a proper god, someone real, not an imposter masquerading among them; they deserve someone like Isis, plagued by her own temper but adoring of others. A woman who would break her own world for vengeance with one hand, and be bastion and blade to defend the vulnerable and weak without mercy for their oppressors. Meridian deserves Horus, calculating and calm, who would take them by hand and lead with youthful vigor, bridging gaps and distances between so many hearts. Instead, they have Set. )

He finds Vash among the sands, so easily. Like they call to one another across realms, despite the opposition of their Aspects, they feel — fated? in a sense. Is he drawn to Vash because of the scent of sand on him, the burning heat of the sun scalding the back of his head and his shoulders, stooped low under some invisible weight? Is it because he is paranoid, perhaps? Because he cannot parse anything from Vash, not sentiment or emotion, but he still speaks so kindly as if he feels all that is around him.

In their minds, he tucks Vash into the oasis. ( — a memory blossoms; the haggard stumbling of someone lost, tongue dry in their mouth, throat closed, unable to cry or do anything more than slowly, painfully wither in the heat; the thundering of feet and hooves in the sand, of wheels turning and churning, the animal-cry of great chimeras that rush across the land; the snagging of their arm, by the brutal hand of a man in the mask of some unknown animal, wind in their hair and world thrust beyond that which their mind can comprehend; to be dropped into a small realm of green, of warm waters they can drink their fill of, the chariot and its god vanishing just as quickly into the horizon. )

In Alenroux, he looks between them and folds his mind back into itself. He leaves Vash with the oasis, though. And remains folded against him, his brow leaning into the Plant's own. ]

— keep it, [ the thing between them in the dirt, some errant crop he's encouraged to grow — eggplant, maybe? ]

I decided my path long before I came here, so. Do not fret too hard.

[intervener]

[ this impossibility nestled among the endless dunes and rocky crags of the desert is a surreal reminder that Vash is far and away from home, however much the sand and wind and skies are familiar. he is in Kenos; he is among those who are beyond his understanding, far, far from their homes - just as far as Vash is from his own.

here sits this small patch of life that blooms where growth is impossible, a bright, brilliant smudge of green on an otherwise empty horizon.

Vash's eyes remain closed where he is still against Set, the gentle feeling of life weaved to feed another, which will in turn feed more. it is a beautiful cycle. ]

Whatever you chose, it was before you came here. Everything's different.

[ he repeats himself, gently and patiently, lacking the edge of judgment. it is a truth; Set's circumstances are different. the one who haunts his footsteps, too, is different. ]

I won't hold anything against you, no matter what you do. The only thing I won't sit back and allow is for you to betray yourself.

[ because that man lingering in his shadow... he isn't here. and yet, he might as well be. Vash can imagine the sickening prospect of that fear, the remembered pain of unhealed wounds re-opened, paralyzing Set, even forcing him at his own throat before he is a danger to any other. a many-toothed maw opening to clamp down hard on the pulse of redemption, bleeding him until all he has left is to wallow in the crimson river of his own regrets. ]

[redsoil]

[ Lightly, Set presses the pad of his finger to Vash's mouth.

The universal sign to hush now, delivered by someone both maddeningly audacious and deeply fragile. There is a wealth of otherness to Set, at any given time; a mind that does not work quite like anyone else's, foreign in the way it considers things and concludes others. There is a patch of greenery, of tamarisk surrounded by small succulents, slender palm trees that cast shade across the arid ground muddied at the center by the groundwater that has found its way to the surface. Dug up, perhaps, by countless hands that had worked to enlarge the hole. The scent of marjoram and licorice in the air, the darting figures of omnivorous bustards flashing throughout the foliage and sands. ]

Nothing is different.

[ It cannot be, or he will have less reason to remain with Meridian. ]

I have simply traveled further than ever before, and need but turn back on my path to return home.

[ Though he straddles the line between Meridian and Zenith, his belief in Meridian's ability to accomplish what they say they are able to is without question. He has seen the rise and fall of worlds, the decimation and recreation of life. His own family laying their hands upon their realm to shape, reshape and perfect it; some part of him instinctively knows that the weight of his world remains tethered to reality. He just — knows it is. Even if he would persist, without Egypt, he just knows something would be different if it were truly gone.

Eventually, he will go home to that place. To the man that Vash knows he fears ( and loves, shamefully ), and the punishment that awaits him. For now, he can wrap himself in delusion and partake in that fleeting, fragile thing known to some as 'friendship'. ]

So, nothing is different. But, I will concede that — many things are new.