Dear readers,
This story just popped into my head. While it's not explicit, there's a lot of disturbing (at least to me!) imagery in there, thus the M rating. It's mainly just manic Set's thoughts, which are perverted and – well – manic! I think Set is a really interesting character – what makes him tick, that sort of thing. He's one of my favourites, and this is what I think might be going on in his head, though... perhaps he's less lust and more rage in reality! Phil.
Warnings: non-con fantasies, sadism, incest
Killing the boy was never an option. At least not right away.
There are too many other things Set has planned for the falcon, all of which are preferable to a quick, easy death. Those are fantasies, such as the one where his nephew writhes on the sheets beneath him, staining the sheets with his golden blood, tied up like a goose for a feast. Oh yes. Set has many plans for the little falcon before the end.
Of course it's more difficult now than he imagined when they first met – the falcon boy a bare one thousand years old, a child by god's standards, and his mother Isis glaring at him, Set, hatefully. Could she see the greed in his eyes when he looked at her son?
Sister, oh, sister, Set chuckles to himself as he walks across the camp. It needn't have come to that if only you picked me, not our brother, that scurvy cur, Osiris. The child would never have become a target – the child would never have become this rotten...
Dark skin, whiter than moonlight hair, permanent tattoos – divine markings – framing the eyes and cheeks, that long nose which is more of a beak – no wonder they worship you as the falcon, the majestic animal of the sun, those human dimwits – how fitting is it that your father is the god of death? Fine fingers, bare feet, jewellery jangling – the boy revolts Set equally as much as he fascinates him. And the eyes – quicksilver and molten gold, burning into him with that hatred, that loathing, and all it does is torture his mind, burn into his soul, that divine gaze. As if the falcon is trying to read him, trying to scorch the bad, the madness, the insanity, out of him; it does nothing but cause a twinge somewhere in Set, in pleasurable places that would get him called 'sick' by his sister if she knew – but if he can't have her, the boy is the next best thing, isn't he? And the blood: Golden Blood. Always gold.
Set kneels down into the sand – the position he'll have the falcon in once he gets a hold of him: There's an abundance of liquid on the ground, at the place he knew it would be. Golden liquid – a god's blood – this particular god's blood. It's where he shot him down, a strike which he hadn't thought the falcon would survive, but had he perhaps hoped? It's difficult to tell, even in his own mind: There's nothing he desires more than the boy's death, and yet it is as though he is merely playing with him. Death – but not yet. Not right away.
Lord Apep doesn't care about the boy, product of Isis and Osiris affections, object of Set's hatred. Lord Apep wants only the other boy – the time traveller, the child of the future, who means nothing to Set. And yet things have become difficult with the emergence of that boy – while it has made his nephew greatly vulnerable, there isn't much time left for playing. It's all business now. Set doesn't like that – he had so many plans for the falcon.
Set brushes a finger over the molten gold, which hasn't quite dried yet: A god's blood – of course it wouldn't. Many a miraculous qualities are attributed to a deity's blood – immortality, healing powers, superhuman strength – but when Set raises his slick, gold-coated fingers to his thin lips, he thinks of neither. On contrary to what one might believe, the falcon's blood doesn't taste like any of those things, and not iron-clad like that of a human either. It's an undefinable taste, something between the metal of a blade and Thoth's herbal potions (Thoth, the fool who will aid them of course, still trying to piece together the relics of old in which nobody believes any more.) though it fills the tongue and the mouth.
A tingle that has nothing to do with the supposed divine attributes of deity's blood spreads throughout Set's chest, seeps into his mind, consumes his body with a pleasant gush of warmth. There is something about blood – this blood especially – that never fails to excite him. It is most unfortunate that the falcon was able to flee – with Set's quarry nonetheless – for there manifest themselves all those enticing options they could be doing right now... The falcon in no state to flee or resist, Set stronger than ever...
Set licks his fingers clean, all the while ignoring what is going on behind him: Mortal fools, apophi, his own mercenaries... They don't have an idea of what is going on in his head, though many of them would die to have such access... They worship him, beasts and men alike, because they were always that needy – the human race – someone to lead them, and they'll follow like sheep...
Set laughs out harshly, a mirthless bark that echoes eerily in the silence: Part of why he wants so desperately to break his sister's defiant son is this. The falcon has never learned to respect authority – a rebel from the beginning, glaring at his uncle, an elder he should respect, from behind his mother's protection. Then again, Set knows why the boy came to exist. He is no fool, as Isis would have him believe.
Set is the reason: The brat was born – conceived – to kill him. The act of two mad people craving revenge. And yet none of it is his, Set's, fault. Had Isis not chosen the older brother – Osiris – she would never have had to deal with his death and the madness that came afterwards. Set wouldn't have had to kill Osiris. They could have lived together peacefully, if only Isis had chosen differently – had chosen him.
But no matter. Set can begin again.
What is the easiest way to break his sister? How can he assure that she will never be happy? How can he be certain that she won't get the pleasure of revenge? How can he assure her endless suffering because of that one fatal choice?
Set laughs again, harsh and sharp.
Of course he has the answer: The easiest way to assure Isis stays broken is her son, whom no doubt she loves albeit he was conceived through hatred. Set can only hope – can only imagine – what will happen if the falcon is broken. Will it drive Isis madder than she is even now? It used to be a priority for Set – breaking his sister, making her pay for her transgression, for choosing not him but that filthy brother of theirs.
He isn't so sure any more whether this still holds true. He's watched the falcon grow up, century after century, always from the distance, from the shadows, waiting for an opportunity. Isis must have known, for she was always there to protect him, until that fateful day when the Pharaoh came to take him away, to put the divine child to use to protect the throne... And yet, the Pharaoh had Ra's protection – Set couldn't get at the boy there... There was only one solution: Kill the Pharaoh. Kill what he stood for. Drive Ra out of him. This endeavour had proven more easily than Set had thought – the falcon wasn't there to fulfil his duty – no, Set had chosen that moment when the falcon was gone to attack...
Set's lips curl into a smile: A part of the falcon was destroyed that day when he found out what his uncle had done. His innocence shattered. Set likes to believe it was that which caused the falcon's hatred of him to grow to immeasurable heights.
But no matter: The more the loathing, the more the fun they'll have when they get to enact Set's fantasies, which are plenty. There is no doubt that the falcon will fight him to the end. He'll have to use force to restrain his nephew – as much force as he pleases, and yet he won't use too much. After all, he wants his nephew conscious for what is going to happen.
Unconsciously, Set's tongue darts out to wet his lips: He likes pain, likes to inflict pain. There will be a lot of that – of both – when he gets a hold on his nephew. There is no doubt he will, because the boy will want revenge for that arrow in his eye. If he makes it.
Set grins again: Of course the falcon will make it. The descendant of Ra is not stupid; she will know what to do for the mutilated eye, she will make the connection to Thoth, or the falcon himself will. If only he could watch the falcon writhe in agony while the arrow – poisoned of course, so the god can't heal himself – does what it was meant to do: Keep the wound open. Kill if possible. Kill slowly.
Unfortunately, Set isn't there to watch it, and it won't kill his nephew. Not if they act quickly. Not if they act wisely. And yet, for now the images in his head are enough. It's almost as if he can see his nephew, thrashing on the ground in front of him, helpless, stripped of his powers by the poison, thrashing in pain and agony.
Set wonders: What will happen when they meet each other again? Another gush of warmth quivers through him, coiling heat and tightness in his gut, muscles stretching taut as his body reacts to the images.
The falcon will fight; it's in his nature to do so. Set will be stronger; of course he will be. A tangle of limbs, a fight in which both gods will use the full extent of their powers, a real battle, and yet it will be futile. Of course Set will be victorious.
He can see it now: The falcon's strength dwindling, blood all over his face, that obscene, sculpted body which he never conceals, torn ankles and bare feet slick with gold. Set will slam him into the ground, where the open wounds will meet sand. He might even spare more poison to keep them open – who else could know but another god about the poison?
Set giggles madly, feeling hid body tauten again, as heat coagulates in the lower parts of it.
He won't tie the falcon's hands. Holding them will be enough – enough to show his nephew there was never a chance for him, to demonstrate his power, to revere in the younger god's hopelessness and desperation, the struggle and anger that will be to no avail...
It would be most perfect if Isis could watch what her brother does to her son. The thoughts alone elicits a small groan from his lips as the heat intensifies.
He will want to see the falcon's face – helpless and defeated under him; the falcon's reluctance to wear clothing like a normal person will of course play in his favour. He can take his time with the boy's body, the firm muscles, the heat radiating from the feverish skin, the indignation with which the boy will struggle once he realizes what will happen...
Something between a longing moan and a laugh escapes Set's throat raggedly: By then, the falcon won't be in any condition to argue. Set won't wait for him to recover. He will use the blood – the generous amount of blood from their earlier fight, golden and beautiful, divine, waiting to be tainted by him – to prepare his nephew. Not to make it easier – dry would be so much better as Set knows from experience – but because – because the blood: Golden and glistening.
How loud will the falcon scream? Even with the blood, Set won't go easy on him; and it won't be a lot of blood either, just a bit – symbolic, that's what it will be. Symbolic for his triumph. Symbolic. The falcon's blood. Isis watching. How loud? Loud enough to even penetrate his mad father's head? The father who can't save him? The mother who won't be able to do anything but watch, knowing it is all her fault?
Set's armour is incredibly tight, straining, and his breath quick and fast. Yet he cannot – not yet. It would only be half fun alone, even with those enticing images in his head, even with the cries of his nephew (so realistic in his head) resounding throughout his skull.
But there will be a time – a time soon; it has to be soon, because he craves that. The submission; the fight to the end; the agony he will cause; the feel of his nephew clenching all around him; more golden blood spilling as he tears him apart, pushing deeper each time, intending to break; the desperation in the falcon's eyes; the falcon's cries – beautiful in pain; naked skin slapping against skin – what an obscene sound; Isis forced to watch; How loud will the falcon's screams be?
Set lets go a shuddering breath: The imagery alone is almost enough to make him come undone, and yet he hasn't so much as moved and inch since he sat down to taste that golden blood.
"Not yet," he whispers softly into the night, a grin twisting his face. "Horus..."
I had fun writing it – it was an exercise certainly! :)