( khonshu is on asgard, jailed by the aesir. marc knows this. marc has spoken with khonshu, been spoken to by khonshu. (marc, my son, pay me a visit soon. I miss you—). marc has not. marc does not have much to be grateful to khonshu for, does not have much he appreciates for the life marc — moon knight — has is a life marc has grown to loathe and regret.
he doesn't need to speak with khonshu to know that something's wrong. it starts as a gnawing sensation at the edge of his thoughts, eating away bit by bit, an emptiness, a doubt that eventually, finally gives way to stark realisation: the moons are wrong.
( no, that's not it, they're fakes that shouldn't be. the moon — the real moon, the one that marc should work in the shadow of at night, has been taken, held captive— —like khonshu— (father). )
he stands dressed in white, looking up, gaze fixated. he frowns, though it's visible only through the pulling of fabric — white! of course — across his face, a crescent moon stitched neatly at the forehead. it's matched by the small crescent moons that serve as buttons on his waistcoat, as cufflinks at his sleeves. marc is not the moon, but he is its servant. he works by its light.
a voice, paternal and mocking all at once, tells him that it needs to be rescued, that how can he — marc spector, moon knight! expect to protect the travellers of the night if the night is wrong?! it echoes in his bones, in his being, and he knows the voice (khonshu) is right.
footsteps behind catch his attention (distantly) and it's not until they stop that he does anything other than stare at the not-moons. it's then that he turns his head and drops his gaze, eyes seemingly as white and silver as the moons should be behind the mask. )
They're not real.
( he says, and it's with the conviction, the faith of a man who knows it in his soul that what he says is correct.
(no, he will not be offering any evidence at this time.) )
the moon, howling ( pt. 1 )
he doesn't need to speak with khonshu to know that something's wrong. it starts as a gnawing sensation at the edge of his thoughts, eating away bit by bit, an emptiness, a doubt that eventually, finally gives way to stark realisation: the moons are wrong.
( no, that's not it, they're fakes that shouldn't be. the moon — the real moon, the one that marc should work in the shadow of at night, has been taken, held captive—
—like khonshu— (father). )
he stands dressed in white, looking up, gaze fixated. he frowns, though it's visible only through the pulling of fabric — white! of course — across his face, a crescent moon stitched neatly at the forehead. it's matched by the small crescent moons that serve as buttons on his waistcoat, as cufflinks at his sleeves. marc is not the moon, but he is its servant. he works by its light.
a voice, paternal and mocking all at once, tells him that it needs to be rescued, that how can he — marc spector, moon knight! expect to protect the travellers of the night if the night is wrong?! it echoes in his bones, in his being, and he knows the voice (khonshu) is right.
footsteps behind catch his attention (distantly) and it's not until they stop that he does anything other than stare at the not-moons. it's then that he turns his head and drops his gaze, eyes seemingly as white and silver as the moons should be behind the mask. )
They're not real.
( he says, and it's with the conviction, the faith of a man who knows it in his soul that what he says is correct.
(no, he will not be offering any evidence at this time.) )