[The angular, alien look of Liem’s face in the garden’s shadows presents little of pity or comfort. It is a face that seems designed for sullenness and suspicion and hauteur, and indeed it had met Gen’s demands and entreaties both with equal coolness, unmoved by the desperate frenzy of his fear and rage.
But then, Gen had not needed any external pressure to make Liem the target of his anger, and he had not seemed to recall that any friendship might ever have existed between them. Under those circumstances, it had been easy to treat him with disdain.
Had Set committed some wrong against him, to have been used as the instrument of his greed and his impatience? Or had he simply been unlucky enough to have leverage against him fall into Gen’s hands? By the roiling within Set’s mind, it was closer to the latter. Even as the god settles heavily, threateningly atop him, condemnation makes a scowl pass over Liem’s face.]
Gen…
[That is too far, even for him. He had not known that such depths of mania and obsession existed within the boy, that he would set alight his own existing bonds rather than relinquish control over this one precious memory.
The arm clutching the bundle against his chest tightens… and the rest of Liem’s body goes limp. When he opens his mouth again, what comes out is — a word, foreign and incomprehensible, but perhaps familiar enough to be recognizable. After all, Set had had cause to hear it spoken before, beneath the castle in the Scorching Isles.]
The bag at my hip, Set. Reach within.
[He does not dare relinquish his grasp on the precious book between them, and he prefers not to return his dagger to its sheath when it is still wet with Set’s blood. But it does not matter. Now that the password has been spoken, the opening of the fist-sized leather pouch no-longer leads to a mundane little pocket.
Anyone can reach within to access the secret space — large enough for a man’s arm to disappear within past the elbow — and grope around the bottom to find… no, not that little travel journal, not those spare pens from Xanadu or the emergency coinpurse, but a shard, obvious in its crystalline solidity.]
no subject
But then, Gen had not needed any external pressure to make Liem the target of his anger, and he had not seemed to recall that any friendship might ever have existed between them. Under those circumstances, it had been easy to treat him with disdain.
Had Set committed some wrong against him, to have been used as the instrument of his greed and his impatience? Or had he simply been unlucky enough to have leverage against him fall into Gen’s hands? By the roiling within Set’s mind, it was closer to the latter. Even as the god settles heavily, threateningly atop him, condemnation makes a scowl pass over Liem’s face.]
Gen…
[That is too far, even for him. He had not known that such depths of mania and obsession existed within the boy, that he would set alight his own existing bonds rather than relinquish control over this one precious memory.
The arm clutching the bundle against his chest tightens… and the rest of Liem’s body goes limp. When he opens his mouth again, what comes out is — a word, foreign and incomprehensible, but perhaps familiar enough to be recognizable. After all, Set had had cause to hear it spoken before, beneath the castle in the Scorching Isles.]
The bag at my hip, Set. Reach within.
[He does not dare relinquish his grasp on the precious book between them, and he prefers not to return his dagger to its sheath when it is still wet with Set’s blood. But it does not matter. Now that the password has been spoken, the opening of the fist-sized leather pouch no-longer leads to a mundane little pocket.
Anyone can reach within to access the secret space — large enough for a man’s arm to disappear within past the elbow — and grope around the bottom to find… no, not that little travel journal, not those spare pens from Xanadu or the emergency coinpurse, but a shard, obvious in its crystalline solidity.]