The Seeds of Unrest: the Iconoclast Oracle

[beleos]

RUNNING OUT THE CLOCK

The situation is bleak.

The Blight - and the massive labyrinth of roots tearing both cities asunder, spreading deadly flowers wherever they penetrate - have progressed to a point beyond catastrophe. People are dying in rapid numbers. Bearers are having difficulty keeping up with the spread of infection - even among one another. The collapse of Kenos seems inevitable; a cure will not come in time. You can do nothing but watch as each new day brings further disaster, ticking down the seconds until it all falls apart.

And then, you feel something seize your Shard. As if physical fingers have wrapped around it, as if it is being clutched through you by invisible hands, you feel invaded. You feel wronged. But before you can panic, a voice enters your mind through Communion.

“Excuse the dramatics, but there isn’t much time for pleasantries. The Trees are about to hit the point of no return. But there's still work to be done. The Tree of Life will take you where you can find it: the Oracle and the creature causing all this mess. Fix this when you find them. However you'd like.”

Have you heard Aetos’ voice before? Perhaps it is the first time; perhaps it is familiar to you. Either way, the last thing you will remember is a confusing jumble: a spell of immense and incredible power, one utilizing the Tree’s strength to shelter you. The sensation of every cell in your body coming alive, yet seeming to break apart and render you into billions and billions of tiny pieces, all hovering in different times and places across all the different iterations, timelines, and realities in which you have ever existed. A voice that speaks not through words asking your forgiveness, unspeakably sad.

And then, there is nothing.

AWAKENING

Your eyes open, gritty with the feeling of a long, deep slumber.

Perhaps it takes a moment to shake off the heavy veil of exhaustion, to recollect what you were doing before you fell into this state of hibernation - but as soon as you do, you feel an immediate sense of foreboding around you. It is thick in the air, oppressive and pervasive, and you aren’t left long to wonder at its source. You lay beneath the branches of the Tree of Life, but as your bleary eyes focus… you see it. The Tree is all but bereft of life. Its bark has withered down to gnarled wood, the soft lichen dried up, and the grass that should be alive beneath you is long dead and gone. There is not so much as a single leaf on its decaying branches.

It has been this way for a long, long time... you realize this with a feeling of intense dread as you see it - the beautiful expanse of stars, of the cosmos, of universes scattered like starlight above the tree's boughs, gone. In its place hangs a sickly, ominously low-hanging, and dying sun ready to sing the end of everything.

You can't help but wonder how long Kenos has been in this state, but a sense of gratitude fills you as you realize that the Tree expended the last of its energies to protect you, the Bearers, during your state of rest. Had Aetos worked with the tree to see you sent here?

The next question comes quickly: how much time do you have left…? And can you find the Oracle before that time expires?

ABANDON HOPE (DAYS 1 & 2)

The cornerstones are still active and will take you to whichever city you wish to see.

Highstorm and Springstar sit like empty monuments to the cities that were once filled with life - yet the first thing you will notice is they are strangely absent the signs of the Tree’s overgrown roots, the Blight, the catastrophic damage that you can recall all too easily. Instead, each city sits as those they were summarily abandoned overnight, leaving nothing but their shells behind. There is a stillness in the air that is unnatural and unsettling. Despite the lack of any sign of the citizens of either city, you cannot help but feel… watched.

Something terrible happened here. Best you find the Oracle before something terrible finds you, instead.

The burning of a dying sun beats down on you wherever you go, unbearable heat sending waves off the aged cobblestone streets. Perhaps it is your instinct to seek refuge in the shade - but linger too long about the shadows and that feeling of eyes on your back, of being unable to breathe, of your world closing in around you will grow untenable and drive you back into the light. If you hope to explore the ghostly shell of your city in search of the Oracle - or to sate your curiosity, some problem-solving might be in order.

And while you acclimate yourself to your circumstances, you cannot help but note you feel wrong inside, somehow…

EXPLORATION

• If your characters choose to explore previously unreachable areas, please use THIS TOPLEVEL to report when they get there in the thread! We will get back to you with what is discoverable in that location.
• The following areas are off limits for exploration: below Yima’s Manor; below the Church of Heliopolis; Alenroux; Kowloon.
• The Great Trees of both Highstorm and Springstar are in a similar state to the Tree of Life and will not respond to Communion.
• Generally speaking, items will be of poor quality. Most will look as though they’ve aged thousands of years. Others will be in half-decent shape, but sparingly so. Oddly enough, it doesn’t seem like the whole city has aged at the same rate, so especially diligent rummagers can find worthwhile supplies. Please consider this should be rare and don’t go overboard!

NOTES

Here are some prompt reminders - see the full thing at the OOC Summary!

• Characters will have a diluted connection to the Zenith or Meridian.
• There will be periods powers are weakened or non-functional during days 1-2 (up to player discretion).
• The sunlight results in scorching; the shadows cause claustrophobia and fear while outdoors.

THE RITUAL (DAYS 2+)

The place you started your journey to Kenos is also where it seems it will end. As soon as the first Bearer makes contact with the Iconoclast effigy, you are collectively drawn to the roots beneath the Tree - like a pang sent through your Shard. Your objective has been found. The Oracle awaits.

Trusting Aetos seems like a fool's errand, but you must put your hope in the Tree. What choice do you have left? It's time to find what lies at the end of this.

Bearers descend, your steps echoing in the dark, cavernous space. Once brimming with life and vitality, the roots are now dried and brittle like the bones of some ancient leviathan that died long ago. As you make their way deeper into the earth, the deadened roots twist, leading you to a vast chamber deep within it; the air here is thick with the smell of decay, and the faint glow of luminescent fungi and mosses barely illuminates the space.

To your left, the Bearers will notice what has drawn them here - and the object of their search.

An effigy sits on the ground between two darkened tunnels. The effigy is made of gnarled, dead branches woven together in a humanoid shape; its hollow, empty eyes are sightless, yet you cannot help but feel it is watching your every move. Branded on its forehead is the Iconoclast symbol carved into the rough wood.

Once all Bearers are present, the Ritual will begin. Your means of exit have been sealed off, and you are trapped, slowly deteriorating together…

NOTES

• Bearers will have access to the Ritual Chamber which is a very wide, open space with the effigy situated against the far wall from the entrance. Several smaller tunnels off-shoot from the Ritual Chamber. They all run to dead ends; some are very small or narrow. This may afford you meager privacy away from the group.
• Once a Bearer steps into the Chamber, they can no longer head back out the way they came. They’ll find themselves automatically walking back into the Chamber as if of their own volition.
• For brevity’s sake we won’t list them out again here, but the complete description of effects Bearers will experience days 2+ is available in the OOC Summary.
• The effigy is impervious to damage.
• It Is Watching You.
• In a dead-end root tunnel attached to the Iconoclast’s Chamber is the Blighted statue of an Otter that may be familiar to some… Please see THIS TOPLEVEL for more information!

THE PURGE (DAYS 5+)

The sap has festered in your veins for what feels like days. It’s impossible to tell how much time has passed; this place has no sunlight. The effigy watches as you remain trapped, huddled together around it, unable to leave as you find yourself sick with the affliction of the Meridian, Zenith - or both.

And then… something finally gives.

Though it does not move and speaks no words, you feel the effigy offering you guidance. Knowledge. Much like the Tree speaks to you in impressions and feelings, you are conveyed wisdom you did not have before: a way to take what you want and rid yourself of what you do not. A way to make your convictions known to all who would hear them. A way to be known. To write your path in blood, be it yours… or theirs.

When all is said and done, only one force - Zenith or Meridian - will gain its favor.

Show it who you are. Show it what resolve looks like to you - and what you are willing to do to attain it.

NOTES

Here are some prompt reminders - see the full thing at the OOC Summary!

• You can Purge your alignment through various methods: Trading, Corrupting, or using the Effigy itself.
• All characters will understand the end goal is for everyone to Harmonize; the alignment with the higher rate of Harmonized Bearers alive when time’s up wins the Oracle’s favor.

NOTES

• A reminder that the Harmonization tally will take place on Friday, the 19th and be open through Monday, the 29th. The results will be released on Wednesday, the 31st OOCly.
• Don’t forget to submit any deaths to the Death Tracker, with a gentle reminder characters will remain dead until the event conclusion!
• Reminder to fill out the SETTING POLL ASAP if you haven't already!
• Have some MUSIC if you'd like. LYRICS here!
• HAVE FUN!!

CODING

Comments

viBRATES TOO, cw for self-harm

[diversionist]

Don't be an idiot.

[ cassian snaps impatiently. he takes a fingertip of his left glove between his teeth and pulls the whole thing off; then pockets it, freeing the bluish white crystal from his palm. in this state of heightened communion, his anger is a palpable thing. his frustration at the situation; his worry for jyn, for other bearers he knows; the force of his focus currently pointed at the one in front of him. it's a pure thing, his attention. genuine in its intensity as much as his concern. ]

You chose to be Meridian, didn't you? [ he gestures brusquely for set to bring his own shard out. ] Is that still what you want?

[ a sharp wedge of glass materializes in his free hand, an opportunistic bit of pocketing from the abandoned cities before they'd been trapped underground. he doesn't wait for an answer before dragging it across the skin of his hand. sap beads along the cut where there should be blood, but the flicker of pain that radiates from him is the only reaction he gives to that. ]

[redsoil]

[ He chose to? Why? ( Let it go, let the world go. He will be truly free, untouchable. Osiris would be gone, forever. Finally, every nightmare would be over. ) The idea of holding onto the hope that because Egypt's god of war persisted, so-too would his world is laughable. He is poisonously Zenith, finally close to contentment and rapture. Finally close to making good on his vow to the Lady, and finally free of the senselessness of the Meri Shard-bearers. The ones who make demands of him, as if they have any right to! ]

I, [ cradled there, in his palms, is the last of it. The warmth of Meridian's light, the painful heat death that awaits the future. ]

I promised. I hate this. I want to be Zenith and be me, but I promised.

[ Set closes his fist around the mote of light, clutching to it. Clinging to it, desperate and obviously, achingly unwilling to give up on it. He will swallow it, bury it, gut himself to hide it within his flesh if he must, but he would rather die to the Oracle than fail them. His chosen pillars. The ones that matter, back home.

( Cassian's memories are of war, and he strains for them. To hear them, see them, feel them, empathize with the man himself. )

He bites down, into the flesh of his own wrist. Carving furrows into his skin with the graceless brutality of a god of violence and rapturous chaos, sawing into his flesh until sap flows sluggish and dark from the rends he leaves. It paints his mouth, and he draws back the curtain of his hair — exposing his Shard, which he has never truly hidden. It is the color of a red injury, a painful fissure that sits over his heart like someone has carved into him to tear the organ out. A Shard that mirrors his vulnerability, the wreckage of him. ]

I want to be Zenith, but I need to remain Meridian. Cassian, please.

1/2

[diversionist]

[ set is not the first person to beg cassian for something.

help. hope. mercy. cassian has regarded many a man with the same inscrutable expression he turns to set now. his shard of glass has gone returned to its hiding place, once it became clear set wouldn't ask for its use, and he regards set's torturous journey to his answer. the violence he takes to his own body (messy, some detached part of cassian's mind notes), the sap on his mouth and wrist, the exposed red shard. it's the kind of vulnerability cassian would call unwise to show him, that brought regret to those who have.

whatever else he is, he isn't the empire. he doesn't steal peoples' free will; he doesn't conscript or condemn them to lives they didn't choose. causes they didn't choose. (to deaths, yes, and he's even done that here. he is what he is.) he betrays, but not like this, and not for nothing. so: there is not even the most fleeting of temptations to coerce set to zenith. it doesn't cross his mind to go back on his word. set says, i need to remain meridian, and that's the only thing that matters. ]

Then remain Meridian, [ he says, and it's not unkind.

he takes his own shard to set's wrist, first, then replaces it in his hand with the sap facing outwards. then he pulls forward to smear his bleeding palm on set's red ruin of a shard.

and just like that, they are connected — ]

2/2

[diversionist]

[ the first time they ever spoke, cassian had allowed set to glimpse the truth of him. it had been a calculated decision, as all of his are. aware of his inexperience in this world, his lack of supernatural ability, and his unwillingness to express the full extent of his skills — he had chosen to make up the difference by responding to set's desire for convictions. on this score, he'd known himself to be overflowing. the gamble had paid off, and he'd considered the risk one worth taking. all the better that set had turned out to be someone he didn't mind having this truth, as well as others. (cassian, set says, and he doesn't regret that either.)

this is different.

the bond that opens between the two of them roars to life with the ferocity of an earthquake, shaking every single one of cassian's carefully built walls to rubble. the layers of distance he keeps between himself and the world crumble in a single instant, all of his hidden thoughts and longings and fears and desires blazing forth like a raging sun. the meridian in him burns hot, a familiar ferocity of hope, a deep-rooted love for people and places in his galaxy that has begun to spread to those here; the zenith in him frosts and snaps, his rage and his grief so interwound with his sense of self as to be inextricable, the refusal to accept the galaxy as it is much older than the paltry months he's spent in kenos.

the two forces war with each other, nearly balanced in strength, but the zenith's strength is bolstered by his desire for it. cassian andor would just as soon not throw his lot in with a faction he doesn't trust, but — between the two — the one he wants is zenith. the one he needs is zenith.

an old woman's voice, rent with static: there is a wound that won't heal at the center of the galaxy. there is a darkness reaching like rust into everything around us.

flashes of white armor; the thundering of footsteps of whole battalions on the move; unimaginable strength steamrolling over villages, over cities, over planets, over entire quadrants of the galaxy. massacres on a huge scale. people displaced, discarded, left hanging in the square for insurrection, left hollow-eyed trembling versions of themselves for the crimes of not submitting, for no crimes at all. a beam of green light, a city in the desert tearing itself to pieces, the planet seeming to cave in upon itself.

it's easy for the dead to tell you to fight.

and he has; he has; he has. whatever set might have suspected before, he knows this for certain now. cassian has killed, has betrayed, has sabotaged so often he's lost count, so often he couldn't remember it all if he tried. he's seen open battlefields, has barely fled with his life; he's spearheaded, been part of, many more clandestine operations. unnoticed, when the job was done right, unapplauded, done under the cover of darkness. he's fought so hard he's certain there's nothing else to him. he'd told vash, not so long ago, some people aren't meant for peace. he's spilled so much blood, deserving and not, and he's condemned himself just as much. he will, has, should pay for his choices, no matter his reasons. the purity of his cause doesn't absolve the crimes his hands have committed, the lies his mouth has told.

a young man's voice: remember this, freedom is a pure idea. the imperial need for control is so desperate because it is so unnatural. and then, perhaps surprisingly, jyn's voice: we'll take the next chance. and the next. on and on until we win...or the chances are spent.

he does need zenith, unlike set. he has his own promises, like set. are promises to the dead any less binding, when the one who made them is alive? he cannot simply reinstate a galaxy clenched in the grip of the empire. the idea is intolerable; the idea is unconscionable; the strength of this conviction burns like a brand. if his galaxy is gone, then he will not see it brought back under tyranny and oppression. does that make him a monster in the eyes of the meridian, in the eyes of objectivity? then he is a monster; he is already a monster, long past. let the shattering of his decency, his self, his life be part of the foundation that forges a better galaxy. let people be born and live and die without the shadow of oppression stretching long over their planets. let people know freedom, as he hasn't. and so, to this end, he releases the burning meridian energies inside of him; and so, so this end, he welcomes the cool zenith energies that nearly overflow inside set. ]

1/2 cw sad children and allusions to sexual assault

[redsoil]

[ Remain Meridian.

Even as Cassian says it, the war god's mind contorts and writhes in pain. A choked cry escapes him, mournful as his eyes snap to find Cassian's. His pain is as self-inflicted as the rends he has torn in his own wrist, to loose the thick sap that has replaced his blood; as self-inflicted as the bruises and thorn-scratches that litter his throat, his limbs, from tugging at the dark vines and beautiful, cruel red of the iris-like blooms. His pain is that which has been inflicted upon him, poured into the seams of a mind that had been held in such loving hands, and dashed at the feet of one who was trusted.

His own shard emerges partly, cupped in the curl of his palm. Asymmetrical and jagged, he feels the moment when Cassian touches his hand to it ( the second individual to ever come in contact with him in such a way — ) and it is a nightmare. It is bliss. Where Cassian presses his own shard to Set's torn wrist, Set clasps the man's forearm in a way that comrades-in-arms have countless times, in countless lives. He holds fast to Cassian, as they join — connect — ]

[redsoil]

[ The formation of a bond like this is different, than any other trade he has undergone. It feels like dying, like rebirth.

Suddenly, he knows exactly who Cassian Andor is. As though he has been tattooed, immediately, upon his soul. Set can only imagine what is received in kind — what things are exposed, what will be thought of him in the end. All that Cassian is fills him, aligns itself to him and perhaps it is because of that, because this trade is equal, that he relinquishes himself. ( Set, who asks of convictions because he yearns to align himself with the unstoppable force of others; Set, who holds conviction, and has been broken down. He is a lie; a lie fed to him by one he loved and was loved by, and allowed to live until such a time that he did not need to live that lie anymore. )

He needs Meridian, and Cassian will find — it is not because Set wishes for the return of his world, for himself.

( Golden chains, the embodiment of order and control, bite into Cassian's throat. A pyramid of light bathes him in the indisputable authority of his fellow god, of Ma'at who stands just and infallible, who oversees the dominion of the gods and places their hearts upon their scales to judge, to weigh. A teenage boy stands before Cassian, pale skinned and short-haired; his eyes are so dark, red-rimmed from long hours spent shattered and weeping.

I can no longer tell whether the pain I am feeling is mine, or theirs!

The boy — beloved, beautiful, beyond reproach — cries. Huddled in the soft folds of linen, he holds a dark, rotting arm in clear agony. Crystalline pain, as the teenager begins to dwindle in age, begins to shrink before his very eyes. One moment, nearly a man grown, and the next rounded of cheek, large of eye and so very, very sad. The pain is unmistakable. The torment. The plea that he speaks, a child begging his father to protect and guide him once more: Please, save me father. I will wait as long as I have to, I will endure it all with you. Pay for your sins, lift this curse. And when that day comes, if that day comes... we can all start anew, from the beginning. Can't we? )

A war god, is a violent god. And Set, before Cassian, cannot hide his tyranny. The brutality of his rule, the words whispered about him. Traitor, kinslayer, monster. Bane of Egypt, ruination. God of famine and decay, why did you forsake your people? The knowledge of evil scrapes across Cassian's mind like dry bone, like the plunge of a vulture's beak picking meat from his own body — abandoned in the red sands, forgotten and denied his afterlife. Set's wickedness lounges among drink and drug, slovenly and careless in its presence, as if begging Cassian to observe it — to hold it against his memories of the Empire and realize how foolish he was, to give his name to a creature like this.

Set's maliciousness seats upon a throne, and gazes down upon Cassian with a smile of self-satisfaction upon his face.

Set stands before him, mouthing his name mournfully: Cassian, please. Please, as he lifts his hands. There are bruises upon him, clear signs of hands that have held him down, of teeth that have torn at his mouth and throat. Set's maliciousness wears a mask. This one, who pleads brokenly: Please, do not look here, does not. Some monsters are monsters. Some are men, who make bad choices. He would rather die, than be seen. He will die, he will DIE. He will seize that shard of glass and bring it down upon his own shard, because Cassian is seeing him — he is seeing Osiris. He is seeing the thing he wishes to be Zenith for.

He is seeing Set, with his arms curled around the small form of a dark-haired child. Curled together as snug as two commas, breathing even and soft and peacefully together. The boy is but an infant, fat in the belly and arms, fist tight in a lock of red hair. And Anubis's father pushes his nose deeper into the shorn-short fall of his child's dark hair, where he smells most strongly of his mother, and breathes a sigh of contentment. Come home, Anubis pleads, atone, and come home.

What he will not do, is apologize to Cassian Andor. For seeking the restoration of one world, means the restoration of all worlds. And he resigns himself to his duty, an ignoble god who seeks a life long lost to him. The cry of his child is the sound Meridian makes for him, as he lets go of what he wishes he could have — the crisp, cool clarity of Zenith — and pulls to him the burning, scalding penance that awaits him with Meridian. ]

ENTER KEY

[diversionist]

[ set may call the pain self-inflicted, inflicted by another. but as the connection opens between them, as set makes a keening, miserable sound, cassian thinks, he may not forgive me for this. and the sentiment is accompanied by the overwhelming sense that he doesn't deserve forgiveness, for this or otherwise, anyway. what the sentiment is not accompanied by, however, is regret: what's another unforgivable choice that he's been asked to make among many?

and then cassian andor sees.

he jerks in set's grip, flinches away from the sheer enormity of set's mind, from the barrage of images and experiences. he has never truly believed set for a god, not even when man gave way to sand and created miracles for a child, but now the truth is blinding. but now he sees the child, this child, and he understands better what he'd seen before; and he feels a love that is both familiar and alien. he never has, never will be a father. but he's been a caretaker, and he's failed a child who needed him, before. (he was a child, himself. that doesn't matter; the blame is still his.) atone, and come home. in this moment, the emotions are so vivid that they could be his.

and there is revulsion, at this ruination of egypt, at this evil war god, at this tyrant. how can there not be, from a man who gave everything to fight a tyrant? (he had said, once, a cause that was worth it. without that, we're lost.) there is revulsion, at this wickedness. and also — at the wickedness that has been visited upon this god. unfathomable, to accept one for a god and to see a god as a victim of violence; and yet these two things live and breathe together, and more besides. horrific things have been done to him,

and yet, he would keep that promise to a loved one rather than escape. and yet, he would rather die than be seen. wants to die, deserves to die. how can cassian andor of all men not understand this? some monsters are monsters; some are men, who make bad choices. how can a monster look to another and say, no, you are worse than me? they have no more secrets between them, in a deep sense. things that are unknown, yes, but

composure broken, cassian's breath shudders against his ribs. but he lets the meridian drain from him like pus from a wound; and calming, bracing zenith flows into him like clean waters. eases his breathing, soothes his fears. he's traded one-two-three times now, and set's was the worst case of them all, has the most zenith to give him. he's traded one-two-three times now, and for the first time in kenos he feels the clarity of harmonization. he feels the infection of conflicting alignment energies dispelled. it's heady, this feeling. intoxicating to a man who had, until recently, completely defined himself by commitment to a cause. set can feel that right now, with stunning intensity.

and then he takes a deep breath, like a man who'd been drowning, and reaches to brace himself against set's shoulder, a mirror to the grip the god has on him. ]

[redsoil]

[ Cassian Andor is a child of war. However many years he has lived, he can only ever be a child before the infinite longevity of a god; he is dependent on the world and its people to define him, to give him reason to climb the insurmountable mountains and carry on with his tired, unrelenting pace as he seeks victory. peace. an end to an empire that massacres and subjugates, that leaves people haunted by their own shadows and bleeds a grand darkness that will pervade even the most just of hearts.

Set sees light cleave a planet, and in the shape of the Communion between them — as they trade memories and sentiment like blows, he cradles the horrible war machine of the empire between his palms and gazes upon it. He is a god of war, and even though he embodies those horrors, his mouth frowns and his brows knit as he holds the star that brings rampant death between the pale curve of his palms and narrows his eyes upon it. Hungry, and hateful. ( 'You must not turn a blind eye to the manslaughter that happens within war... in the end, the curse of those that have died innocent deaths will gather, and it will become your sword, destined to bestow death upon others... That's why my sword is the strongest and sharpest of them all.' )

Cassian needs Zenith. It is not difficult to understand what he needs, given what Set has observed. A place barren of hope, save for that which boils angry and hostile within the man who absolves him of Zenith's calm, collected focus — and in Communion, Set presses his hands to the burning core of Cassian's heart and wills him, faint: Do not let this comfort dull your edges, do not let it claim all that you burned for. Though he knows, in this, Meridian's dream will be purged from him and pressed back into Set's own hands.

Meridian's warmth is the warmth of his son, tiny hands and round cheeks, the milk-soft scent in his hair, the weight of him pillowed across his chest as he dozes in the rays of the sun. It is the plea of a child who would have been able to save himself, had he simply abandoned everything — the father who had loved him, tormented him, and the memories of their life before all went wrong — who chose, instead, to suffer with him. It has never felt more clear to Set in that moment, and it will never again be as clear as it was then, where he belongs. In the shuttered beams of light, pouring between the tawny-gold wings of a falcon-helmed man who holds him at his lowest and vows austerity, support, footprints in the sand at his side.

He feels Cassian with clarity. With the hand that is not slick with blood, he follows the line of his shoulder, and clasps the shape of his face in his palm. With a face bruised from fighting, and tears making a ruin of him ( still lovely, for a he is a god that is beloved in his ruination and misery by so many others — ), he manages a watery, faint smile. ]

ꜥnḫ wḏꜢ snb, Cassian.

[diversionist]

[ cassian andor does, in this moment, feel like a child.

flayed open and vulnerable, completely transparent to the god in front of him; and the reciprocity of this does not bring him the relief he would've expected. has felt, the last times he traded energies. cassian andor is a spy, and secrets are his trade, information the currency of his profession. the openness going both ways is a safety net; when both have something to lose, have a blaster to the other's weak point, then they're more likely to work harmoniously. sometimes, anyway. shared interests can overcome much, if not all, hostility. a lesson he learned quickly of the rebel alliance itself, strained as the relations across its different cells often are.

cassian andor is a spy, and no one can ever be allowed to see the whole of him. not even his allies, not even most of his superiors, and certainly not anyone when he's out in the field. except that obfuscation has been a necessity since he was a child: nine years old and being taught how to lie about his name, his age, his home planet, his family. the only mother he's ever known died two decades later, the last person left to know his whole story. and even she hadn't lived to see him become a weapon in the hands of the rebellion. all this to say: it isn't until set lifts a palm to his face, infinitely gentle in this touch, that cassian realizes he was awaiting condemnation. even the words in another world's tongue, comprehensible to him through communion, bear no sharp edges at all.

(unlike cassian. he's bidden, do not let this comfort dull your edges, and the whisper of a response that comes is that he is nothing but sharp edges. there is no softness left to him. even soothing, cleansing zenith cannot change that.)

he swallows. and he looks at this ex-tyrant who would beg for an alignment even as it burns his hands, eyes bright with tears, for love. something as pure and simple as the love for a child; and, bound in communion like this, a love that cassian feels as keenly as if it sprang from his own heart.

(on the day of maarva's funeral, he had been asked to take care of himself. he had answered, rueful, it's too late for that. that is the sense that filters through communion now, without words, in response to this god's blessing. lifted from his war, he has some semblance of a purpose here in this conflict and these people. purpose, not life, is what's left to him.)

he swallows, and he says nothing. ]

[redsoil]

[ Set has never wished to change hearts. His existence alone would win the idolatry of armies, inspire warriors to act as though they were truly the avatars of his peerless might. He is the sole red-head, a crimson banner below which Meridian could wave. And he is full of doubt, poison that seeps into every crevice of his soul and whispers in the patient, far-sighted voice of his own kin that he cannot stand for the people of Kenos, because he is a lie. A false god, one who cannot remember his own ascension and was crafted in the image his own brother set forth for him. All power, all purpose, all shape of him belongs to Osiris.

It is a miserable existence, punctuated with the desperate play-pretend he performs to ensure no one sees him for what he is. A painfully human divine, who both seeks and spurns mortal life. Who tries to understand, and proclaims he will never. He is a being of vast personality, unending experience and insanity — the contradictions within him almost obscene, but notably right. And Cassian Andor is a man, much like that. A spy, who functions in the shadows and cannot look at himself without wanting to pick apart every failure, every time he fell short.

He thinks of Cassian falling. Of the cool Zenith energy that he gave him, because he needed it. Of Cassian, pouring his battered heart out before Set and thinking he would be condemned for his sins. As if Set had any right to condemn him. As if he could not pour himself out alongside those sins and say we sing the same songs, and they are naught but a scream. He holds Cassian's face, holds his hand, and looks across his face. He does not need to search, for it is still all there. ]

It is good to meet you, Cassian Andor. [ His surname, he has found in their connection. ] Whatever becomes of us, I feel I will always think that of you.

[ And slowly, he begins to pull back. It is so much, to be known and not blamed. To be known and not shamed for his weakness, to not inspire disgust for what was done to him. For not being strong enough, for not being enough of a man, a father, a husband, a god. ]

[diversionist]

[ he closes his eyes.

it is so much, to be known and not blamed. and yet it doesn't even come to him to blame set for what was seen. what should he condemn? that someone hurt this god and violated him in a horrific way? no. what should he condemn? that set loves a child, that this child loves him in turn, so much as to fight his own nature, a whole faction, for him? no. what should he condemn? sins long past, atrocities committed, choices looked upon with shame? is cassian any better than him in this regard? can he really not understand doubt, self-recrimination, wearing a mask as and when it's needed?

what should he condemn, then?

he breathes out, slow. and in his mind, he holds that answer as a fragile, precious thing. whatever becomes of us, i feel i will always think that of you. it is not a small sentiment. it is not a thing that is easily forgotten. it isn't even easily heard, easily held. and with the cool waters of zenith closing over his head, filling his lungs, he starts to feel the magnitude of whatever. choices made in necessity are as inescapable as any other. he knows that as well as he knows his own name.

he opens his eyes, and he lets his hand fall from set's shoulder, as the god begins to pull away from him. ]

Don't let it get this bad again, if you want to keep your promise.

[ is such a cold response, on its face, to that assurance. isn't it? and yet there's no possibility of it being taken so: not with the genuine flush of concern that accompanies what he says. not even jyn knows that he was a caretaker for much of his life before the rebellion; but if he had anyone left to return to — and set does. paradoxical to the alignment he's chosen, he wants set to keep his promise. ]

[redsoil]

[ They have to part, they cannot remain lock-and-step together — feeding off of one another's convictions, knowing them for unattainable so long as the other stands in their way. The war god does not mourn the fact that to return to his world, he may have to trample upon the fires within Cassian Andor. That he will have to wrest control from the hands of Zenith, and bring back all worlds — even the worst ones, with no hope, with only an inevitable end awaiting them once more. Apocalyptic worlds. War-torn worlds. Worlds where their Shard-bearers were dying, or dead. Impossible worlds, worlds they do not miss or yearn for.

Meridian's power has never run so rampant within him, it has never been as powerful as it does now. The wave of it, the heat of it, the conceptualization of power and strife that builds within him is as white-hot and clarifying as the death-knell of the star that brought death to worlds. The embodiment of destructive power sings like a war cry within him, narrowed and honed upon the Zenith with the knowledge that he will not mourn to deny them what they desire. He will revel in their despair, he thinks. He will trample upon their dream, crush their opposition and only in the end, only in the quiet of his world with his child in his arms, will he utter their names as a litany. ]

I could warn you. 'You may live in the reality you choose to need, but actively oppose me and I will strike you down'. [ You know. ] I do not think I need to, though. It will not matter, I know your heart. If there is a way, when I attain victory, to shatter your Empire with my own hands — know I will, Cassian. For all you lost, and for the heart you had to let die.

[ Do not let it get this bad again, and it will not.

There is only one thing, now, that will turn him to Zenith. And if he goes, it will be permanent and devastating. ]

I will keep my promise. Fix your eyes on me and watch.

[diversionist]

[ cassian looks at him, unflinchingly.

not for the first time lately, he looks upon divinity and considers it akin to looking into the sun. the building fire is nearly blinding, ruthless and merciless and powerful beyond comprehension. it should cow him, to look at set and feel this conviction and hear i will strike you down, but it doesn't. he's spent his entire life standing in opposition to impossibly huge, powerful structures — what's another? and set is not like the empire, or even the republic before it. his enemy, but not his enemy. someone he likes and cares about and is glad they've met and accepts him. it's not the same thing.

so he shakes his head slightly: no, he doesn't need the warning. no, it doesn't matter. set does know his heart. and if there are situations like this one again, like the beyond, where working together is necessary — he suspects then, as before, they'll be able to work in harmony once again. it isn't a complete loss.

it isn't a complete loss, because if there is a way, when i attain victory, to shatter your empire with my own hands — know i will. that is all that he wants; that's the only thing that's left to him to want. if these factions can be trusted at all, and that's in doubt, then at least there's a way to tear down the empire whichever succeeds. it has to mean something, everything he's lost and everything he's done. and if set can, does, keep this promise as well as the one to his son — cassian would be at peace, dying for that. there are worse deaths.

(a pinch of regret, easily missed, something new and soft — there needs to be a way for jyn to live, in the end, if that's what she wants. he doesn't care about his life; but then again, she's always been a survivor, skeptical of causes. hard to imagine her putting herself directly in opposition to meridian.) ]

I won't look away. [ a tilt to his head. so, in turn, ] Don't let me down.

[ because he chose this — he came upon set being pulled under by zenith, and he did not let it come to pass. because he chose this — to fight, once again, for the sake of this galaxy. because he chose this — to trust set in this promise to end the empire. to see it destroyed, whichever of their convictions wins kenos. the relief it gives him is nearly as strong as that which he breathes in from zenith's calm. but only nearly. ]

[redsoil]

[ With a brisk swipe of his hand, he drags his fingers through the blood-sap upon his chest, upon his Shard, and looks upon it as it stains his palm. Fingers. It is not an unfamiliar sight, as commonplace as someone might think it ought to be to a god of war and violence. Cassian Andor bled for him. Saved him. He did not have to, but it was the choice he made. For himself, for the women that had come to Set before him; the stern-eyed woman who he had seen as a spiteful little thing, but took his pain-seeking hands in her own with all the patience of a childhood friend. ( A little, just a little, the two of them simmer within him as if he has known them forever — Cassian, Jyn — and has he not? Has he not been the war that had defined them, pushed them, injured them. ) ]

Ask them what their new, perfect world looks like, Cassian. Ask them what it will take to attain that perfection. And when they answer, [ his jaw shifts, because Cassian has saved him.

Cassian needs Zenith.

And Set is still an avatar. One who removes the first stone, that supports a straining dam. Who asks the difficult question, impertinent and cruel. Whatever the answer, at least the question was asked. At least the knowledge comes to fruition, instead of dying on the vine. Slowly, he shifts his posture and leans in. Leans himself along Cassian's shoulder and tucks his head tiredly against the man's shoulder, even as he whispers the words. Even as he accepts his choice, and takes this momentary solace in his presence. ]

When they answer, I hope you think of the Empire.