[ Like an overripe fruit, Set seizes at that stray thought. ( A goodbye that would never be said. ) Even though it splits in his grasp, it is a thing he tucks away into the depths of his mind — among the other stray thoughts, throw-away comments, glancing blows and rapidly-hidden expressions he watches for. It goes to the place where Set hoards things, his own conquests and spoils, and sometimes sifts his fingers through to feel something, anything. The prerogative of a god, unfathomable and otherworldly in his own psychology.
If Zenith's hopes make a world that is beyond chaotic, he thinks he could enjoy it. Less so than his own enjoyment, he thinks — with Anubis, with Horus, he could find something to accept about it. Yet, the allure of hundreds, thousands, millions of worlds that glisten and gleam upon his mother's body, her starlit skin full of the distant dead ( souls, and were those souls, perhaps, not worlds? ) — and the idea that Zenith's world could be sterilized by their leader, whom loves without pity or passion, and made clean, pristine... useless? That is anathema to him.
With him, they could do it. Without him, he knows they are delusional. Only one of their visions will win out, he thinks. ]
I would still be where I stand, if I were in your place.
[ Because Osiris, with his peerless stance and dark eyes, would take Yima's hand. And briefly, in Silco's mind — those fathomless, pitiless eyes look upon him with true apathy. With the eyes of someone who would ignore Silco's clawing, Silco's wrath, and find nothing in it at all. The same eyes that would look upon Set, softened and creased at the corners. Warm. ( Hungry. Possessive. ) His own 'Vander' does not want him dead. He just wants him, however possible. And Yima would give him that.
He dips into Communion, pushing his hand deeper into Silco's grasp. Seizing him up, reaching for the Meridian within him — demanding it, commanding it to come to him. Silco does not want it, nor need it. Thus, it belongs to Set. Meridian must come to heel, and leave this man. ]
I really do like you. [ He says. Without fanfare, without guile. Because Silco is right, and his thoughts have always been Set's own — they will become monsters, glutted upon power and they will gladly watch the horror in their own faction's eyes as they continue on their paths. Their paths, though... require, that Set forever remain where he is. Silco, for all he stands firm with Zenith, could do the same with Meridian; like a whisper, like cool shadow cast by the brightest ray, Set assures him of that, not to ask him for hope, but to tuck it into a pocket. A dark favor. A bitter candy. A ravenous opportunity.
His gaze, settled upon the join of their hands, flicks up. Heedless and burning direct, as he slides his other hand — his free one — across the space between them, to press his fingers, his palm, the whole of his burning touch, to the scar on Silco's face. ]
no subject
If Zenith's hopes make a world that is beyond chaotic, he thinks he could enjoy it. Less so than his own enjoyment, he thinks — with Anubis, with Horus, he could find something to accept about it. Yet, the allure of hundreds, thousands, millions of worlds that glisten and gleam upon his mother's body, her starlit skin full of the distant dead ( souls, and were those souls, perhaps, not worlds? ) — and the idea that Zenith's world could be sterilized by their leader, whom loves without pity or passion, and made clean, pristine... useless? That is anathema to him.
With him, they could do it. Without him, he knows they are delusional. Only one of their visions will win out, he thinks. ]
I would still be where I stand, if I were in your place.
[ Because Osiris, with his peerless stance and dark eyes, would take Yima's hand. And briefly, in Silco's mind — those fathomless, pitiless eyes look upon him with true apathy. With the eyes of someone who would ignore Silco's clawing, Silco's wrath, and find nothing in it at all. The same eyes that would look upon Set, softened and creased at the corners. Warm. ( Hungry. Possessive. ) His own 'Vander' does not want him dead. He just wants him, however possible. And Yima would give him that.
He dips into Communion, pushing his hand deeper into Silco's grasp. Seizing him up, reaching for the Meridian within him — demanding it, commanding it to come to him. Silco does not want it, nor need it. Thus, it belongs to Set. Meridian must come to heel, and leave this man. ]
I really do like you. [ He says. Without fanfare, without guile. Because Silco is right, and his thoughts have always been Set's own — they will become monsters, glutted upon power and they will gladly watch the horror in their own faction's eyes as they continue on their paths. Their paths, though... require, that Set forever remain where he is. Silco, for all he stands firm with Zenith, could do the same with Meridian; like a whisper, like cool shadow cast by the brightest ray, Set assures him of that, not to ask him for hope, but to tuck it into a pocket. A dark favor. A bitter candy. A ravenous opportunity.
His gaze, settled upon the join of their hands, flicks up. Heedless and burning direct, as he slides his other hand — his free one — across the space between them, to press his fingers, his palm, the whole of his burning touch, to the scar on Silco's face. ]
As partners, then.