he winces at the sharp retort. of course. osiris, cut into pieces and strewn across egypt. marc thinks he might have used that as a threat once. it had seemed effective, but marc isn't sure if it was the threat itself, or marc's commitment to the bit.
but myths are myths, and marc thinks that khonshu's proven well-enough that he ought to take those with a grain of salt. )
I didn't say my death preceded ( he gestures with a hand )this, I just said that I've died before and I've come back. (before here. in the desert, at the foot of khonshu's statue, dehydrated and delirious. he'd drowned in the hudson. sometimes he's wondered if they were just near-death experiences, and what he'd felt to be dying was just his body fighting to live, what he'd thought to be khonshu saving him, bringing back was just — delirium. marlene had certainly thought so. frenchie, too.
marc crouches, ignoring set in much the same way he'd ignore khonshu. he lets the bitterness, the anger, the pointed disgust and distaste wash over him. it's familiar and though marc wouldn't describe it as welcoming, it's comforting in some dark, perverse way.
he reaches out to touch the creature's still body, blood still wet and pooling in folds and crevices. it's a strange creature, one he doesn't recognise from myth or legend or even life. the body might still be warm, he thinks, though the gloves he's wearing make it hard to tell. )
—I don't care. ( he says at last, still not bothering to look back up at set. instead, he rests his hands on his knees, not bothering to clarify what it is he doesn't care about, and then he stands. marc's not very good at clarification, his thoughts often disjointed and meandering, stuck somewhere between four aspects when there's nothing else to focus on.
he means all of this, of course — zenith, highstorm, meridian, yima, cyrus. he'd thought it might have been a hysterical delusion brought on by stress or trauma or simply, even, a nightmare. he expects an agreement of sorts, a reminder that if he's to distrust anything, it's his mind.
there's more to it, of course. he doesn't think he knows enough either way to hold a true opinion; doesn't think he'll ever know enough, men like him aren't privy to the finer details. he doesn't think it's as simple as all that, and he's bored and tired of arguments, pissing contests between higher powers who think the illusion of choice is as good as a choice.
set's goals make sense for him, he thinks. he can imagine khonshu saying something similar, can almost hear the associated, co-existing demands of how to achieve it, of what marc must do to ensure khonshu's aims are met.
he wonders who set makes those demands of. )
Don't harm anyone that falls under my protection, and I won't oppose you.
no subject
he winces at the sharp retort. of course. osiris, cut into pieces and strewn across egypt. marc thinks he might have used that as a threat once. it had seemed effective, but marc isn't sure if it was the threat itself, or marc's commitment to the bit.
but myths are myths, and marc thinks that khonshu's proven well-enough that he ought to take those with a grain of salt. )
I didn't say my death preceded ( he gestures with a hand ) this, I just said that I've died before and I've come back. ( before here. in the desert, at the foot of khonshu's statue, dehydrated and delirious. he'd drowned in the hudson. sometimes he's wondered if they were just near-death experiences, and what he'd felt to be dying was just his body fighting to live, what he'd thought to be khonshu saving him, bringing back was just — delirium. marlene had certainly thought so. frenchie, too.
marc crouches, ignoring set in much the same way he'd ignore khonshu. he lets the bitterness, the anger, the pointed disgust and distaste wash over him. it's familiar and though marc wouldn't describe it as welcoming, it's comforting in some dark, perverse way.
he reaches out to touch the creature's still body, blood still wet and pooling in folds and crevices. it's a strange creature, one he doesn't recognise from myth or legend or even life. the body might still be warm, he thinks, though the gloves he's wearing make it hard to tell. )
—I don't care. ( he says at last, still not bothering to look back up at set. instead, he rests his hands on his knees, not bothering to clarify what it is he doesn't care about, and then he stands. marc's not very good at clarification, his thoughts often disjointed and meandering, stuck somewhere between four aspects when there's nothing else to focus on.
he means all of this, of course — zenith, highstorm, meridian, yima, cyrus. he'd thought it might have been a hysterical delusion brought on by stress or trauma or simply, even, a nightmare. he expects an agreement of sorts, a reminder that if he's to distrust anything, it's his mind.
there's more to it, of course. he doesn't think he knows enough either way to hold a true opinion; doesn't think he'll ever know enough, men like him aren't privy to the finer details. he doesn't think it's as simple as all that, and he's bored and tired of arguments, pissing contests between higher powers who think the illusion of choice is as good as a choice.
set's goals make sense for him, he thinks. he can imagine khonshu saying something similar, can almost hear the associated, co-existing demands of how to achieve it, of what marc must do to ensure khonshu's aims are met.
he wonders who set makes those demands of. )
Don't harm anyone that falls under my protection, and I won't oppose you.