( yes, and he does say it peevishly, the little brat. this is perhaps an occasion of makoto being animated by memories and illusions of how he believes he should behave, keeping in his mind's eye the image of the most powerful demons of Hell (an image he would have to force himself to admit is J, and only J) and doing all that he can to emulate it down to the very marrow of his gifted bones. perhaps he might have been interested in such a reply from someone who had faced the same harsh realities that he had; for someone who knew, just as he did, that "choice" was a lie sold to those without the power to affect others and their own situations — it's smoke and mirrors, a cheap and feeble justification of cruel artifice that, if they didn't have a direct hand in creating, they certainly didn't want to send tumbling down.
he has never had a choice in any of the shit hands he's been dealt; the only one he had managed to claw, scrape, gnash, and tear away for himself had been that which he had come to find when he realized his only true inherent value. not as a heart, or as a mind, or as a fierce and unending torrent of passionate determination (though perhaps J had treasured him for these things as well, even if he had never successfully communicated it in a way makoto had comprehended and accepted): it was as a body, which was ironically the only thing he possesses that wasn't actually his. how did he trade himself and spend himself away, and to whom, and for what? these are the only choices he feels he had ever truly made for himself.
it's why he asks for trade. he asks for something substantial, something quantifiable, something he considers real. devoid of the perception of power that would have very literally made him powerful in Hell, this is the only thing he has left to him, the only thing he values.
his eyes narrow to bloody gashes as set describes his other so-called "choices." his anger rises again, another wave to batter an already-distressed shore. he leans forward at his first set of questions, lip peeling away from inhumanly sharp teeth in an expression of indignation. )
If I wanted that, I would "choose" better than you.
( the only thing more infuriating to speak with a god about than power is death. as if it's a concept he would ever know to fear — or to crave. at least not in the same way a creature such as makoto (or perhaps even as J) might. at this point, makoto isn't even really sure if taking set up on his offer would work. he had chosen death when he had summoned and contracted with J, and he had denied it to him. and even when he had rejected his presence in kenos with everything that he was, as scoured as he was from his experiences in horos, he had still subconsciously formed the spiritual scar tissue necessary to survive here. he feels as though he will persist, no matter what, regardless of what it is he wants.
but, in truth, he doesn't want to die. the only time he had ever wanted to die was in his utter despair, trapped in a world that damned him as a sinner and a criminal and a deviant and a monster before he had even done anything wrong, unable to see any future for himself. he likes to believe he has changed, since then.
but if he wanted someone to take him in hand, with sorrow and compassion and pained understanding, to end him once and for all — that individual would not be set.
he continues — and set could have no idea of what sort of ground he treads upon, how thin and treacherous this ice is. how fathomless and deep the waters below are, having welled up and filled this vacuous space by the force of sheer spite alone. though easy to incite, there are very few things that will cross a line to where makoto moves entirely without thinking, and this is one of them; his hand snaps out like a striking snake, hand entangling in the golden jewelry ornamenting his neck and shoulders, pulling makoto himself bodily closer if the god himself proves immovable.
and as he does so, a flash of an image presses itself into his mind through the turbulence of Communion: a man not necessarily unlike set in physique, his long hair somewhat curled and platinum blond instead of deep red, head crested with scything horns rather than the mask of a divine animal. in this fleeting image, this brief memory, the demon smiles at him knowingly (perhaps even challengingly), his pale flesh torn and bloody, body tearing away into gore. ) For that, there is already a sun in my sky, ( one that in every way he navigates by, which he is unable to ever escape, ) ...unless you are offering yourself as a replacement.
( a single, harsh laugh. ) And besides, ( he says, tongue razor-sharp, ) It's men who are meant to offer themselves up on altars to the gods. Isn't it rather obscene to propose the opposite?
no subject
( yes, and he does say it peevishly, the little brat. this is perhaps an occasion of makoto being animated by memories and illusions of how he believes he should behave, keeping in his mind's eye the image of the most powerful demons of Hell (an image he would have to force himself to admit is J, and only J) and doing all that he can to emulate it down to the very marrow of his gifted bones. perhaps he might have been interested in such a reply from someone who had faced the same harsh realities that he had; for someone who knew, just as he did, that "choice" was a lie sold to those without the power to affect others and their own situations — it's smoke and mirrors, a cheap and feeble justification of cruel artifice that, if they didn't have a direct hand in creating, they certainly didn't want to send tumbling down.
he has never had a choice in any of the shit hands he's been dealt; the only one he had managed to claw, scrape, gnash, and tear away for himself had been that which he had come to find when he realized his only true inherent value. not as a heart, or as a mind, or as a fierce and unending torrent of passionate determination (though perhaps J had treasured him for these things as well, even if he had never successfully communicated it in a way makoto had comprehended and accepted): it was as a body, which was ironically the only thing he possesses that wasn't actually his. how did he trade himself and spend himself away, and to whom, and for what? these are the only choices he feels he had ever truly made for himself.
it's why he asks for trade. he asks for something substantial, something quantifiable, something he considers real. devoid of the perception of power that would have very literally made him powerful in Hell, this is the only thing he has left to him, the only thing he values.
his eyes narrow to bloody gashes as set describes his other so-called "choices." his anger rises again, another wave to batter an already-distressed shore. he leans forward at his first set of questions, lip peeling away from inhumanly sharp teeth in an expression of indignation. )
If I wanted that, I would "choose" better than you.
( the only thing more infuriating to speak with a god about than power is death. as if it's a concept he would ever know to fear — or to crave. at least not in the same way a creature such as makoto (or perhaps even as J) might. at this point, makoto isn't even really sure if taking set up on his offer would work. he had chosen death when he had summoned and contracted with J, and he had denied it to him. and even when he had rejected his presence in kenos with everything that he was, as scoured as he was from his experiences in horos, he had still subconsciously formed the spiritual scar tissue necessary to survive here. he feels as though he will persist, no matter what, regardless of what it is he wants.
but, in truth, he doesn't want to die. the only time he had ever wanted to die was in his utter despair, trapped in a world that damned him as a sinner and a criminal and a deviant and a monster before he had even done anything wrong, unable to see any future for himself. he likes to believe he has changed, since then.
but if he wanted someone to take him in hand, with sorrow and compassion and pained understanding, to end him once and for all — that individual would not be set.
he continues — and set could have no idea of what sort of ground he treads upon, how thin and treacherous this ice is. how fathomless and deep the waters below are, having welled up and filled this vacuous space by the force of sheer spite alone. though easy to incite, there are very few things that will cross a line to where makoto moves entirely without thinking, and this is one of them; his hand snaps out like a striking snake, hand entangling in the golden jewelry ornamenting his neck and shoulders, pulling makoto himself bodily closer if the god himself proves immovable.
and as he does so, a flash of an image presses itself into his mind through the turbulence of Communion: a man not necessarily unlike set in physique, his long hair somewhat curled and platinum blond instead of deep red, head crested with scything horns rather than the mask of a divine animal. in this fleeting image, this brief memory, the demon smiles at him knowingly (perhaps even challengingly), his pale flesh torn and bloody, body tearing away into gore. ) For that, there is already a sun in my sky, ( one that in every way he navigates by, which he is unable to ever escape, ) ...unless you are offering yourself as a replacement.
( a single, harsh laugh. ) And besides, ( he says, tongue razor-sharp, ) It's men who are meant to offer themselves up on altars to the gods. Isn't it rather obscene to propose the opposite?