Two Eyes Cenote marble & tooth

grateful for his life, khusobek grit a prayer to Set and hauled his aching body the last few feet to the cenote.

the wounds soto had ripped in face and wrist ached; he needed them cleaned. he needed rest.

he needed safiya to be safe.

having pulled a muscle in his leg on that last part of his intent run back from akashingo, he paused now, calling for @Eset and for @Meseba, to council. 

on a stone shelf he set down the packet of herbs sent by senmut.

The jodai’s call rent the air and she fled the halls to him, chest writhing in worry. Seeing him, she felt her mouth go dry.

Khusobek overworked himself. Her lips part to say as much, to implore that he rest, but shut as briskly as the thought occurs. A father’s pain she could not know, and yet there was no greater she could imagine.

“Come here,” the hebsut whispers, directing him to lay at the edge of the cenote where she gathered a pawful of laurels, dabbing them into the cool water as they awaited Meseba’s arrival. Only then did she perceive the strain in his gait, but forced the concern from off her lips, if not her face.

As gently as she can manage, Eset begins to sooth her hand over the side of Khusobek’s face, using leaves to clear the grit from the deeper lacerations.

“How is she?”

the crocodile's return does not exactly fill meseba with joy, if only because he is not sure that it bodes well for his daughter. was the girl going to make it? if she was still alive ( though he almost dared not to think of such! ) ...why was he not staying with her? she might've been promoted to a mazoi ... but she was still just a child.

would she have been meseba's child, he would've had to have been pried from her side by tooth and claw.

grimly he approaches the two, taking note of how eset tends to the crocodile with a brief flash of jealousy. he does not allow such things to linger. it is not the time. instead, he comes to a halt, completing their triad ... willing himself to feel sekhmet's presence as he waits for the crocodile to answer eset's question about safiya's well being.

"alive." he leant his cheek into her soft palm, closed his eyes with nostrils flaring a moment.

eset could never know what soto had done. and yet she was the only soul inhabiting their universe in who he desired to place such trust. necessary the work then, to keep safe the kingdoms which guarded safiya's life. "with the erpa-ha." he extended his own paw toward the satchel of things. "he sent those."

eset; he gave it to her, the gesture of parting as meseba arrived. "pharaoh has yet to arrive. i assume the message must have reached them already." he regarded the others. "it may be prudent to see if luneshale is safe. it may be equally prudent that our force remain here."

he thought of kiyya's eyes upon him; upon him in the dungeons, and his belly lurched.

There’s something in his eyes– something she cannot place. Veiled in the next moment by determination.

“Then they are enroute. Tavina will be there soon, and she will be in the most capable hands,” Eset encourages, rinsing her paw before clutching the parcel. It is all here, everything she’d asked of the Erpa-ha. For the first time since the bloody exchange, her mind quiets, resuming a mild pulsing. In spite of everything, she is calmer than she had been the night before. It is not enough to spare the look of guilty attendance when Meseba’s green eyes flash over them.

“No more violence here,” the hebsut speaks abruptly between mazoi and jodai. “Whatever the course of action, it cannot happen on the grounds of Muat-riya.” She sets aside the herbs and brushes her pawtips against Khusobek’s sullied wrist, sending up a quick prayer of thanks.

“If you do go to Luneshale, it will be only to investigate so we have an idea of how best to defend ourselves,” though she fears the idea of provoking the raiders, and the disagreement flickers in her eyes.

Still, these were the two minds Eset most trusted with military strategy. She straightens, silently consulting.

eset speaks that blood may not be shed on the sands of muat-riya, which leaves them only with the option of taking the fight to those responsible. he's never dealt with war before, nothing beyond the brutal competition of siblings vying for their father's love and it makes his stomach twist in guilt that eset trusts him with advice he cannot give.

his instinct is to take the fight to them, to go on the offensive rather than remain on the defensive. to slip into the cloak of executioner and end them before giving the opportunity to strike again. perhaps they wouldn't attack again ... but perhaps young safiya had only been the beginning.

i think we should consider going on the offensive ... once we've gathered more information about them. i worry they will keep coming back until they've gotten whatever it is they want. or until we are all dead, though he doesn't dare utter those words. but in the end, meseba is just mazoi and he would do as the captain and hebsut commands of him.

"it is time we used our teeth, hebsut, in a fashion organized. i will heed your order. no more blood here." but here was not everywhere.

the investigation must take place. he drew up, prepared to be finished with the discussion. his bow was low. but his glance was for meseba. perhaps there was some tension here to be dispelled.

She steels herself, listening to both explanations, waiting for concern to reduce itself perceptibly. Only two among Muat-riya ranked as mazoi, and she did not wish to risk them. But they were targeted. This infuriated her much more than was revealed in her carefully fixed mien.

“All right,” Eset nods her head, acquiescing. They would go to see what could be found. By that time they would have a report, and Pharaoh will have sent soldiers in support.

Khusobek turns. She moves to follow swiftly, blocking his leave with her narrow frame.

“Tomorrow,” it is an order. Her hand outstretches, paw uncurling to reveal three of the golden poppies sent from Akashingo. In the narrow space between them, Eset did not veil her worry. “Rest tonight.”

When the room again goes silent, the hebsut returns to the silver soldier, blood rushing into her cheeks.

“Meseba,” her eyes raise to the hardened lines of his face, “I am not with Khusobek. He is a married man.”

But she remembered the threatened way Inji, Nazli, and even Legend had looked at her, like she was the cyprian nymph come to steal their men away. Would Meseba do the same?

And were they wrong?

it feels settled to meseba. they would go on the offense, draw the bloodshed away from the sands of their home. the soul devourer and sekhmet and anubis would dine their fill on souls and hearts of the damned.

he moves to follow the captain; a soldier ready to duck out of the tent and prepare for the battle to come — only for his steps to stop as eset speaks to him, as she turns to face him. there's an ache in his chest and the low push of breath in an exhale does little to ease it. shame heats his cheeks, following the humiliation that his jealousy had been caught redtoothed.

clearly, he under estimated how well hebsut could read him.

you need not explain yourself to me hebsut, it is after a prolonged moment that meseba forces himself to speak. it is none of my business either way.

he swallows thickly. forgive me eset, i am trying. to hide how he felt? to not let it consume him like the hungry sands? all of the above, perhaps.

Once, she had belonged to many.

The politicians always had a sweet way of talking. She knew it was to convince themselves that she liked it. That it was good for her, a girl of her circumstances. She was fortunate to be with them.

But Meseba– he wasn’t like them. It was why her nose sought the downy warmth of his jaw and pressed a chaste kiss there. It wasn’t enough, she knew that. Maybe he would even find this consolation insulting.

If he touched her. If he had her. Would it be enough?

She says nothing, but steps back, throat suffocating on the words, a feeble look in the amber glaze.