— i'll say a prayer, as i cast it to the flame

[redsoil]

WHO: set & others
WHERE: around the netherworld
WHEN: check headers for specific dates/times
WHAT: a catch-all for everything during his time in-game
WARNINGS: physical violence, mentions of sexual abuse, hanahaki syndrome, etc.

Comments

[dodgeouttahell]

[It stings his skin and he craves it further. The first-ever glimpse of the Sun as it rose through and over the horizon had blinded him, slapped his unaccustomed skin with its heating rays despite only being the soft herald of dawn. Underneath him, the snow had sizzled into a pool, and the grass had turned brown. He had taken a breath as though it was the very first time, his eyes prickling at the sight of gold scattering on the sea, Eos' rosy fingers.

The breathes in sharply now, too, as those hands skate further high, eyes wide. He takes in the scent of the blood, the burn against his cheek, and the gooseflesh on his skin from how his own thaws the parts of him that had seized, and he's so much more aware of the cold around them.

The sight of those tears is terrifying. Hauntingly beautiful as he is like this, Set looks perfect in the jagged edges of his vulnerability, in the deep red chasm of his essence. Water pools under his tongue, but he dares not wonder of the salt in those tears or the tang of that blood. Instead, he doesn't want it. Doesn't want those tears, doesn't want the grip with which Set's throat seems to claw at his own voice, trying to draw it back, stop him from saying such things.

He'd much rather see the loud and obnoxious god he first met; he seemed happier.

Beings like them aren't laureled with high oaths and bright depictions, no matter how harrowing one such as an Olympian could be. War and blood incarnate alike, they're known as unwavering, unbreaking, unbiased.

Instead, he shakes. He's shaken to the core. Why did he reject it so if it's not hatred that he's felt?

('Why would you worship those who are Unshaken?' his childhood friend had once scoffed when, with Zag's fingers in silver strands, asked why mortals wouldn't raise temples and worship him. Zag had continued brushing his friend's then-long hair but felt a little sad in his still-young chest.)

He knows he shouldn't walk over the fine thread of hope again, not in this world, not with this deity—

—does he, though?

He draws breath again. His fingers squeeze around the bloodied hand on his cheek as though that's a thread. Unblemished, but the grip of someone who's held too many a weapon for his princely status.] Allow me to assist you, Lord Set.

[He'll be unwavering.] Please.

[redsoil]

[ ( -- her mouth was a slash of red, the crux of her a thing that existed to enrage and destroy; goddess of destruction, sekhmet, her lioness-headed mantle and throaty whisper in his ears, mouthing words as she stood behind him in the reflection of the mirror. she never lied, not she. there was no need to lie, for it was only the hidden, bitter truths of the heart that would urge walls to crumble, minds to shatter, hearts to fold -- ) ]

You'll think less of me.

[ If he allows anyone to help, if he allows them to see beyond his wrath and his messiness, they will see him for what he is. Zagreus, scion of the underworld, will come to laugh at him; the gods of Helles were formidable entities, he had known them in battle countless times, known how readily they would come for Egypt if he did not stand in their way and thwart them every time. If they knew he was weak, barely a god anymore, they would --

Egypt would --

Ah, but Egypt had already fallen into decay. Because of him. Only now, with his removal, would it begin to recover. He had taken it from Osiris and consigned it to darkness, and now, the rightful King would rebuild it from the ruins Set had left behind. There was no need for him, really. ]

When we met, [ he utters, speaking back to their first coming-together; to the notice board and the scrap of paper and how readily Zagreus had snapped at him. ]

I had only wanted to play.

[ Like a child incapable of properly expressing himself. ]

[dodgeouttahell]

['Play? Play?! Was dangling about a piece of paper like he were some animal with a chase instinct considered play in Egypt, making a fool of an—'

Zagreus sighs. Enough.

It wouldn't matter what Zagreus would think of Set. It shouldn't matter to Set himself or Greece or Egypt. Zagreus is no god, despite being born from who he was born.

Here's the same prideful entity, storms, and chaos that have been translated into tales by the shades of a great hundred-headed being that went against Zeus, that fathered the frightening hound that guards the gates of hell, that sends the most ferocious volcano into a frenzy. From fire to sandstorms, suffocation, and… despair.

And yet.

Here is that same god cradling his face the same way his mother had when she found out he lived. He trembles as if he's not made of divinity and jerks at it as though he wants to stop himself from doing so, tears staining his cheeks and chin, blood smearing over Zagreus' own skin, painting him with the same shade of his eyes and hair. He feels like wearing his colors, becoming one of his own.

(And wouldn't that be nice, becoming one of anything or anyone else?)

Regret and amends lather his tongue despite how he says he'd think less of him.

But how can he, when he's doing what no other god would even phantom doing, which is to live amongst their people and to want to redress?]

I know. [He nods, tries to at least bring a smile to war's face. A ridiculous endeavor, he knows, but he at least is trying, a tentative quirk of his lips.] I will never think less of you than I had back then if that helps. But I know I was also in the wrong for acting and thinking the way I did. I have passed it, that moment.

[His hand on Set's slides over his arm to reach his shoulder. Squeezes there, slowly, gently. After all, he has not requested permission to touch him, so if he shakes it off, it's easy to do.] Consider my aid an offering to the Red Lord of the Red Land. It's up to you if you wish to accept it or not.