[ — seized in that same desperate, clutching grasp, he twists his wrist. Not to get away, but to jam his palm more firmly across Gen's and sink his own nails into the side of the young man's hand. A few are split, gone ragged from clawing at roots, battering doors; some are missing, from tearing at his own hair so as to free himself from another's hold. He digs into Gen in equal measures, and balances the weight of Meridian's warmth, and Zenith's chill, between them. An answer, silent and potent.
Set finds meaning in them both, without reservation. Just as his mind parts and reveals the calm, the factual sense of he who finds nothing wrongful with the parts that Gen has shown him, not his wrath, nor his attitude. There is a faint fondness for him, and a consideration that accompanies his acceptance — and then, he folds back the soft, gauzy linen of his mind and reveals unto the seeking teen.
( — which one of you loves their child more, Set asks of two women, their cheeks gaunt and brown skin gone sallow. Their hands shake, fearful and half-starved, as they look up, up high to the god who regards them with little more than contempt, even as he challenges their life. Because only the victor will remain a mother. He watches them, their dark eyes flicking from his countenance to the other woman. They circle one another, fearful and crying: Sister, please. One pleads. The other lunges for the sword between them, and runs her through.
Another woman. Gasping through a broken jaw, as she claws at a god's chest and garbles words in a language that Gen may not understand, but the meaning is clear: Monster. Murderer. Set leans over her, and the swimming, loose thought within the hollowness of his mind is — about how much her hateful, defiant eyes look like those of his sister's. He wraps his hands around her throat, and holds her down until she twitches no more. )
( In another moment, miasma pours from the dark bracelet he 'wears' upon his wrist. It sings in screams and agony, and wraps around his mind and throat, as he dies in the same way those women had — as he suffers, writhing, under his own hands and knows the pain he caused them. )
( Ma'at stands before him, and releases the end of the scroll in her hands. The weight of the words upon it fall to the ground and carry on, further, further, further. Set, you stand before the Ennead — murderer of those you were sworn to protect, tyrant of Egypt. Your crimes are too numerous to voice, your sovereignty taken falsely from the brother you slew —
I am guilty, he tells her, without hesitation. In the crowd of whispering gods, stands his weeping wife. A child's tired, shrill cry echoes through the halls. Sentence me, so that I may see with my own eyes, hear with my own ears, and feel with my whole heart — the agony I caused. ) ]
— I need to take them home, [ he tells Gen, as he turns his wrist over to show him that same dark 'bracelet', looped around his wrist. It is dormant now, unharmonized and depowered as he is. ] I promised someone I would pay for the things I did, and they promised they would wait for me. However long it took. I owe them, for what I did to them. They're still here with me, all those I slaughtered. I killed them because, [ he falters, then.
Does it matter why he killed them? Will Gen even want to hear that a god seeks to atone? That a god killed thousands, undeserving ( and one, deserving, the spark of agonized wrath screams: Osiris, you deserved it. For trying to take him, for hurting him! ) and wants to bring them home? ]
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Set finds meaning in them both, without reservation. Just as his mind parts and reveals the calm, the factual sense of he who finds nothing wrongful with the parts that Gen has shown him, not his wrath, nor his attitude. There is a faint fondness for him, and a consideration that accompanies his acceptance — and then, he folds back the soft, gauzy linen of his mind and reveals unto the seeking teen.
( — which one of you loves their child more, Set asks of two women, their cheeks gaunt and brown skin gone sallow. Their hands shake, fearful and half-starved, as they look up, up high to the god who regards them with little more than contempt, even as he challenges their life. Because only the victor will remain a mother. He watches them, their dark eyes flicking from his countenance to the other woman. They circle one another, fearful and crying: Sister, please. One pleads. The other lunges for the sword between them, and runs her through.
Another woman. Gasping through a broken jaw, as she claws at a god's chest and garbles words in a language that Gen may not understand, but the meaning is clear: Monster. Murderer. Set leans over her, and the swimming, loose thought within the hollowness of his mind is — about how much her hateful, defiant eyes look like those of his sister's. He wraps his hands around her throat, and holds her down until she twitches no more. )
( In another moment, miasma pours from the dark bracelet he 'wears' upon his wrist. It sings in screams and agony, and wraps around his mind and throat, as he dies in the same way those women had — as he suffers, writhing, under his own hands and knows the pain he caused them. )
( Ma'at stands before him, and releases the end of the scroll in her hands. The weight of the words upon it fall to the ground and carry on, further, further, further. Set, you stand before the Ennead — murderer of those you were sworn to protect, tyrant of Egypt. Your crimes are too numerous to voice, your sovereignty taken falsely from the brother you slew —
I am guilty, he tells her, without hesitation. In the crowd of whispering gods, stands his weeping wife. A child's tired, shrill cry echoes through the halls. Sentence me, so that I may see with my own eyes, hear with my own ears, and feel with my whole heart — the agony I caused. ) ]
— I need to take them home, [ he tells Gen, as he turns his wrist over to show him that same dark 'bracelet', looped around his wrist. It is dormant now, unharmonized and depowered as he is. ] I promised someone I would pay for the things I did, and they promised they would wait for me. However long it took. I owe them, for what I did to them. They're still here with me, all those I slaughtered. I killed them because, [ he falters, then.
Does it matter why he killed them? Will Gen even want to hear that a god seeks to atone? That a god killed thousands, undeserving ( and one, deserving, the spark of agonized wrath screams: Osiris, you deserved it. For trying to take him, for hurting him! ) and wants to bring them home? ]
Because I was weak. And scared.