Not Osiris, ( marc answers, finally looking up at set. it's not the first time he's been on his knees in front of a god and it won't be the last time, though where khonshu had always been cold, set is his opposite. the warmth, the heat is unfamiliar to marc, discomforting, and the form that set takes edges much more towards human than any shape khonshu had ever opted to take (except bushman, though marc knows that the khonshu that'd accompanied marc on his elaborate, messy, blood-drenched fall from grace hadn't really been khonshu at all), and marc finds himself missing the cool, distant presence.
priest, set says. it's how marc had introduced himself and it's how he often chooses to identify, the alternative less-than-pleasing given who marc is trying not to be, but the title sits strangely, sounds odd to his ears when uttered by a god. son. spector. marc. familiarity and paternalism that marc has never once stopped to consider deeply or even at all. khonshu was his god, so of course marc was his son.
his mouth twists, a momentary lack of surety gracing his features before settling — as per, evidenced by the well-worn lines of his face — into a frown. marc has always tried to do too much, has travelled as far and as wide as those that have needed his help have asked him to — chicago more than once, despite how much he'd sooner avoid the city, south america, the middle east, all places where marc spector had worked and moon knight was later needed to pick up the pieces. it didn't always work, and marc never blamed moon knight for that — the failings were all marc's own, the expected fallout from a life of indiscriminate violence, of saying yes to whoever wrote him the biggest cheque, and an inability to know when to stop.
marlene had tried to pull him back more than once, twice, thrice; jean-paul, too, more times than marc has ever realised. gena. crawley. all of them, in their own way, had tried to warn marc of the perils of stretching himself too thin, of how his delicately constructed house of cards was likely to collapse at the merest hint of stress.
marc hadn't listened then, and he isn't about to start listening now. )
Don't underestimate me. ( his answer, then. marc is firm and absolute in his self-belief, however that might sit discordantly with the dark, troubled depths of his eyes, or the shadows that sit beneath them. ) Grief has never stopped me.
( khonshu has never taught marc much of anything and marc had never asked any questions. he'd been the only god to ever pay marc attention, to ever claim him as their own, but there's a chasm between them: khonshu's wishes, marc's wishes. khonshu's greedy need for vengeance, marc's innate need for violence versus his desperate longing to be anything but that.
khonshu had always treated marc as pitiful and pitiable, foolish for not knowing more than he does, but marc had always opted not to know. knowledge hadn't helped him before, as elias spector's son, and knowing more about khonshu, about any of it — it benefited neither of them, in truth.
his lips twitch at the question, a curl of conflicted emotion pulling at the corners of his mouth and making itself known in the lines of his face as set presses his hand against marc's shoulder. )
no subject
priest, set says. it's how marc had introduced himself and it's how he often chooses to identify, the alternative less-than-pleasing given who marc is trying not to be, but the title sits strangely, sounds odd to his ears when uttered by a god. son. spector. marc. familiarity and paternalism that marc has never once stopped to consider deeply or even at all. khonshu was his god, so of course marc was his son.
his mouth twists, a momentary lack of surety gracing his features before settling — as per, evidenced by the well-worn lines of his face — into a frown. marc has always tried to do too much, has travelled as far and as wide as those that have needed his help have asked him to — chicago more than once, despite how much he'd sooner avoid the city, south america, the middle east, all places where marc spector had worked and moon knight was later needed to pick up the pieces. it didn't always work, and marc never blamed moon knight for that — the failings were all marc's own, the expected fallout from a life of indiscriminate violence, of saying yes to whoever wrote him the biggest cheque, and an inability to know when to stop.
marlene had tried to pull him back more than once, twice, thrice; jean-paul, too, more times than marc has ever realised. gena. crawley. all of them, in their own way, had tried to warn marc of the perils of stretching himself too thin, of how his delicately constructed house of cards was likely to collapse at the merest hint of stress.
marc hadn't listened then, and he isn't about to start listening now. )
Don't underestimate me. ( his answer, then. marc is firm and absolute in his self-belief, however that might sit discordantly with the dark, troubled depths of his eyes, or the shadows that sit beneath them. ) Grief has never stopped me.
( khonshu has never taught marc much of anything and marc had never asked any questions. he'd been the only god to ever pay marc attention, to ever claim him as their own, but there's a chasm between them: khonshu's wishes, marc's wishes. khonshu's greedy need for vengeance, marc's innate need for violence versus his desperate longing to be anything but that.
khonshu had always treated marc as pitiful and pitiable, foolish for not knowing more than he does, but marc had always opted not to know. knowledge hadn't helped him before, as elias spector's son, and knowing more about khonshu, about any of it — it benefited neither of them, in truth.
his lips twitch at the question, a curl of conflicted emotion pulling at the corners of his mouth and making itself known in the lines of his face as set presses his hand against marc's shoulder. )
That wasn't part of what he asked of me.