it's a barb that he longs to hurl in set's face, regardless of what its outcome might be — a petty, childish, and ultimately human instinct to try to cause harm when suffering one's own pain or riding one's own fear. there is not a single thread of set's own conviction here that he feels he can accept. he does not believe in the ultimate goal that Meridian promises to its Harmonized because he feels it is far too broad and idealized, crafted sweet as honey to draw the largest number of flies — without insurmountable proof that what he claims is possible, that all worlds would be restored and that the Shard-Bearers would be offered choice into which one they wished to return, to him it's still a risk. because it had felt like it still was to her. he does not condescend to try to lecture set about the nature of war, so it's in anger he feels like he's being disregarded on his comprehension of the nature of fear — it can often be strongest when the object of that fear is still out there, its location and nature undescribed, because that apprehension of its potential and the dread of the unknown is one of the strongest living creatures can muster. he could personally shelter her as far away from it as possible, but the fear would be a cancer that would grow out of his reach, festering in the knowledge that all that she feared most still existed out there, in her own mind waiting to claim her. a comprehensive lexicon of fear himself, he knows there is no logic to it.
it is only in Zenith, in the complete assurance that all worlds that had existed before had fallen into Oblivion, never to return, that she would find absolution from the burden of that fear.
he shoves away the names, coldly furious at what he sees as incredible hypocrisy. as these latter days of the Oracle's ordeal have worn on, it has (perhaps predictably) been Meridian who have been hunting down and killing those that have Harmonized with Zenith, both those that had been as such initially but especially those that had converted. it seems not only a paltry defense but an irritating one that he would brandish names — names of people that john himself knows — as those that might do her harm in Zenith's name. if she found solace in Zenith, john knows they would protect her furiously; what a ridiculous hypothetical, when Meridian already have copious blood on their hands.
he wants to bring all of these arguments to bear to set. he, too, wishes he could crush him under the weight of them. but he increasingly knows that there's no point. there is no debating a god — by their very nature they write their existences, so how can he expect his heart to change on that which he feels ironclad?
he does have one thing to say, however, because it regards that very nature: ) You would tie her to you in a storm. ( his voice is oddly still; he frowns, dark eyes sharp. ) But you are a storm.
( perhaps not the same one. but one that she would have to continue weathering all the same.
one that he has, as well. and he's already so tired.
ultimately what pains john more than what he perceives as erroneous, unfounded assertions and hypocrisy is what set does last: he robs him of what he perceives as his own personal agency in this. in these caverns, he feels distant to the Eye — not completely separated, as he had been when he had first arrived in kenos, and not completely blind to it, as he had been in the tunnels beneath the Institute, but it gives him more clarity and more certainty in his — his, as jonathan sims the man, not the Archivist, not the avatar of the Eye — thoughts and his decisions. set would tear that all away. reduce him to all that he fears and worries that he might become: a monster that cannot be trusted, motivated and animated by nothing more than the nervous twitches of an entity it cannot entirely understand. that, even here, distant and adrift from it, he would have no personal power in this situation but to be carried by the demands of the Oracle in its absence.
even though its current is enormous, john does what he can to shut himself off to the pressure of Communion. he goes cold, distant, and remote; set sits back and reaches for his hand, but he yanks it away, glaring, and he says only one thing to him. )
Get off of me, Set.
( if there's anything more he has to say about the situation regarding rudbeckia de borgia, he will not do it like this. )
no subject
it's a barb that he longs to hurl in set's face, regardless of what its outcome might be — a petty, childish, and ultimately human instinct to try to cause harm when suffering one's own pain or riding one's own fear. there is not a single thread of set's own conviction here that he feels he can accept. he does not believe in the ultimate goal that Meridian promises to its Harmonized because he feels it is far too broad and idealized, crafted sweet as honey to draw the largest number of flies — without insurmountable proof that what he claims is possible, that all worlds would be restored and that the Shard-Bearers would be offered choice into which one they wished to return, to him it's still a risk. because it had felt like it still was to her. he does not condescend to try to lecture set about the nature of war, so it's in anger he feels like he's being disregarded on his comprehension of the nature of fear — it can often be strongest when the object of that fear is still out there, its location and nature undescribed, because that apprehension of its potential and the dread of the unknown is one of the strongest living creatures can muster. he could personally shelter her as far away from it as possible, but the fear would be a cancer that would grow out of his reach, festering in the knowledge that all that she feared most still existed out there, in her own mind waiting to claim her. a comprehensive lexicon of fear himself, he knows there is no logic to it.
it is only in Zenith, in the complete assurance that all worlds that had existed before had fallen into Oblivion, never to return, that she would find absolution from the burden of that fear.
he shoves away the names, coldly furious at what he sees as incredible hypocrisy. as these latter days of the Oracle's ordeal have worn on, it has (perhaps predictably) been Meridian who have been hunting down and killing those that have Harmonized with Zenith, both those that had been as such initially but especially those that had converted. it seems not only a paltry defense but an irritating one that he would brandish names — names of people that john himself knows — as those that might do her harm in Zenith's name. if she found solace in Zenith, john knows they would protect her furiously; what a ridiculous hypothetical, when Meridian already have copious blood on their hands.
he wants to bring all of these arguments to bear to set. he, too, wishes he could crush him under the weight of them. but he increasingly knows that there's no point. there is no debating a god — by their very nature they write their existences, so how can he expect his heart to change on that which he feels ironclad?
he does have one thing to say, however, because it regards that very nature: ) You would tie her to you in a storm. ( his voice is oddly still; he frowns, dark eyes sharp. ) But you are a storm.
( perhaps not the same one. but one that she would have to continue weathering all the same.
one that he has, as well. and he's already so tired.
ultimately what pains john more than what he perceives as erroneous, unfounded assertions and hypocrisy is what set does last: he robs him of what he perceives as his own personal agency in this. in these caverns, he feels distant to the Eye — not completely separated, as he had been when he had first arrived in kenos, and not completely blind to it, as he had been in the tunnels beneath the Institute, but it gives him more clarity and more certainty in his — his, as jonathan sims the man, not the Archivist, not the avatar of the Eye — thoughts and his decisions. set would tear that all away. reduce him to all that he fears and worries that he might become: a monster that cannot be trusted, motivated and animated by nothing more than the nervous twitches of an entity it cannot entirely understand. that, even here, distant and adrift from it, he would have no personal power in this situation but to be carried by the demands of the Oracle in its absence.
even though its current is enormous, john does what he can to shut himself off to the pressure of Communion. he goes cold, distant, and remote; set sits back and reaches for his hand, but he yanks it away, glaring, and he says only one thing to him. )
Get off of me, Set.
( if there's anything more he has to say about the situation regarding rudbeckia de borgia, he will not do it like this. )