Two Eyes Cenote pétalo

he comes again to the foothills of the sparkling cenote, the rich scent of water clinging to the air. 

this time he brings another packet wrapped in the silk of steppe-beast pelt. more saffron, its purple petals curled up. long cloves of cinnamon. a fat hare. and finally, the cloying green of juárez’s most potent gift. 

again, he does not call. he watches, waiting for those of the palace to take note of the dark stranger at their door.

at his most tolerant, khusobek was patently not. eset's teeth turned to medusa had him on the high rush of anger.

it was easy to assume more where he knew little. but this slinking thing had spoken more than once to his daughter, and this the crocodile would not abide.

his shadow darkened the world only once; he kicked the packet and the hare aside and set his own fangs to scour and to drive off.

he meant to harm, not truly understanding what amount of time they had spent together, but disliking it all the same. if this man wanted entry, he could ask: the skulking must stop.

a different gift waits for him. soto hears the thunder of feet before he sees him — the girl’s guardian, smoky malevolence driving his hard features.

his offering is thrown aside. the contents unfurl like offal spilling from viscera; he has no time to lament his pains soiled by dirt before khusobek is upon him.

to fight back incites reprisal — there is a larger objective at place than his pride. soto sinks to the ground immediately, folding his limbs under his stiff ribcage and allowing the man his dominance.

pain would be soto’s smoldering torch to bear, all for the great green to spread its black fingertips wherever it lands.

he was a hotheaded beast, and the crumpling of the form beneath him confused khusobek long enough to bring down the boil of his rage.

to his knowledge, this was the second bundle left by the silent man. his mind probed around the oddities, again grasping to where this individual had spoken with safiya enough times for his daughter to learn some handful of his inferior words.

his teeth closed on the nape; when it was bloodied he moved down the spine and seized the man by its base. fighting would break the bone; paralysis.

khusobek began to drag the man back toward the mouth of the cenote, that thorn-studded vine dancing in his mind.

when the man moves to that vital spot, it takes all soto’s power to yield despite every nerve in his body telling him not to—  his life unflinchingly delivered in another’s hands. 

between gritted breaths, soto drowns the unpleasant sensation of pain by thinking of what unspeakable things he will do  to this man’s face; what horrors he might unveil before stripping life from him - it’s thin balm, but it keeps him focused on his goal.              

he’s dragged. where — or what this man’s motive is, soto relinquishes it all. he is willing to endure untold amounts of pain for his cause — perhaps that is the true reason he still clings to life, an unwanted film on the side of stone that cannot be erased.

muat-riya's new captive did not fight.

it was in the taking below that he thought of how far akashingo was from the cenote; how the man's screams would never touch safiya's ears there.

but this man did not belong to him. khusobek chanted this to himself over and over, at last releasing the man largely unscathed in the same prison cell which had once kept machiavelli.

his chest heaved with the need for this release of pain; it burned in khusobek, it lived in his eyes, the deep desire to shed the stranger's blood in slow droplets that took a half-dozen days to fall.

"inform the hebsut that i have captured a man i have reason to believe is leaving poisons." a muscle in his jaw leapt. "tell her he is always looking for our youngest soldier." an embellishment. he sent the fellahin then to @Eset.

outside lay the greenery. khusobek did not dare send another to bring it. he only fought with himself not to harm this man further. he spoke no common; objectively it would prove nothing for the palace to torture him. and yet — he hunkered like a stone idol to wait.

he’s brought to a crude cell where dampness has made its habitation among the seeping walls of stone and moss. a faded but pervasive scent of rot and another soul lingers  — soto does not need to exercise much imagination when it comes to the fate of the cell’s former occupant. 

his gaze flickers to the man who’d dragged him here. did this man marvel how simple it had been to subdue him? did he wonder why a man as him might fold so easily, what motives lied in wait beneath the surface lurking, crocodilian in its patient purpose?

soto would see to it nothing was left to the imagination when his hour came. 

the man speaks — nothing about his tone garners promise. soto studies the cell, noticing pale furs shed along one corner. 

he unfolds himself slowly and begins to groom the slobber from his spine.

“Khusobek?” Echoes off the ceiling in a voice raw with concern. She stands at the door to the prison, gaze first finding the mazoi's, then flicking to the half-coy jailed in their cells.

The smell of sweat drenches the air, thick as tar. Dimmed are the stranger's eyes in the half-light, his chin dropped against the slope of his back.

She pads alongside the red guard, asking in lowered tones, “who is this man?”

a decision charged khusobek, and as eset came to his side, he turned profile to seek her countenance for a moment.

"he has brought things for my daughter. gifts. on the border is a sack of green things he tossed there today."

the captive was regarded with that waking anger, the muscles along his heavy shoulders bunching — rippling.

and so for this reason, he turned his eyes back toward eset. "it is not the first time they have met. she knows more of his words than i."

soto is pointed in his studying of khusobek as he rakes out each tangle of knotted fur. he will know the direction of every shaft of hair on this man's body when he is done with him -- and khusobek will know all of him.

a woman pans into view; she is a far lovelier shape than his captor, and her voice is lowered. soto preferred women in most dealings -- men were strong, pugilistic, and blinded by belief of their superiority. but women -- they had scratched a living on the underside of men's sharp-edged grandoise, and he finds that they often can be reasoned with.

he sits up straight as the murmured tones reach him, the last of his fur smoothed from khusobek's trespass.

Not the first time. Alarm twists its point deep in her belly.

Khusobek will be inconsolable. She does not need to read his eyes to know this. He seethes as a pyre, muscles in his arms and shoulders rippling with all the destruction he could inflict. With his restraint.

Eset looks up into the tight face, eyes wide in silent acknowledgment of this control, but communicating also that they were of the same mind in this.

Her attention is drawn back to the captor. She takes one step nearer the cell, face catching in a soft stream of overhead light.

“Are you Soto?” She asks the man, peering now more closely.

soto.

dragon's nostrils bristled. khusobek begged whatever lord of chaos might attend them now for reprieve, for control.

his mind on this matter was made. icewater glaring washed around the captive, for he too wished to know.

it changed nothing; he waited to be untethered.

he ignores the man bristling with malice; it's the woman now who comes close, face briefly illuminated by a rare slant of light.

soto anticipates the usual: more meaningless words, more infuriating catechisms he does not have the patience to learn -- but she speaks his name, and he cannot help the way his spine straightens.

si, he breathes, leering between the tethering bars. ¿y tu?

It was a question she might have gathered enough context to answer.

She didn’t. Unmoving, her eyes sink down to the floor, absent of glorious faith, closing to the spine-shuddering rush of children’s screams.

Lancelike, her turn for the door, seeking the exit. Only once did she pause, gaze fixed coldly ahead, but speaking  to Khusobek:

“I will not be back to check on this room for three days.”

There it wove between the words: do what you will.

his nod was deep, sharply made. 

his eyes were almost gentle on the man. three days. 

"she is merciful," he said in a voice chained in guttural power. "but both of you expect me to begin now." eset saw his rage; she had slipped any tie from over his head.

her dog.

a wry smile of piercing pleasure came to him, and once more he was tempered to the fired belly of an iron god. "i will be back, soto."

he turned to his post at that bloodstained doorpost.

more murmured conversation. soto’s gaze passes questioningly from woman to man. eset leaves, and it’s just khusobek and soto now. 

he presses forward, gibbous yellow eyes leering as khusobek speaks his name. he senses — tastes even — the bristling malice of the basilisk and his hungry gaze communicates bring it, puta.

adios, khusobek. soto croons, blowing the guard a kiss before settling back into the reaching black of his prison.