Lake Rodney Sailor Song

For @Eset <333

Sleeping exposed, out in the open, with the possibility of murderous cultists prowling the mountains in search, had been unthinkable, thus, it hadn’t taken long for the dark, ugly bags under the dog's eyes to grow from ziplock to tote-sized.

He’d insisted on taking watch each night, pacing the edges of their makeshift camp in unending, jittering circles, twitching with the unvoiced fear that sleep would claim him if he stopped for even a breath, whether he wanted it to or not.

And when, at last, exhaustion had claimed him, it was not for long. His sleep shattered in fits, torn apart by gasping breaths and bared teeth, jaws snapping at shadows that danced just beyond his sight, his snarl caught in the echo of the Abbot’s cave. Waking like that had left him shaken, the shame and embarrassment of the incident sealing the dog's mouth for an entire day.

So when the lake finally shimmered into view, he felt a flicker of hope. He set off to scout, his search leading him to an abandoned coyote den. It was cramped and muddy, but it could be expanded to make a passable shelter for the night. However, The Prophet, something near royalty himself, however much he denied it, was not accustomed to the gritty work of den-digging, and by the time he’d finished, he was half-buried in dirt, more mud than dog with a coat blanketed in grime, and his mood all the darker for it.

Eset, he called, wiping a filthy paw across his face and only succeeding in smearing the muck further. He glanced over the little hollow, envisioning the night’s patrol routes before nodding to himself. What do you think of this spot for tonight? Far safer than being out in the open.

A flicker of satisfaction softened his features as he mapped out the patrol paths in his mind, ticking each turn and vantage point. The Hebsut would be safe and comfortable, and he would already be prepared—therefore eliminating any moment he'd have to sit down and, heaven forbid, fall asleep.

All that moves pivots her ears. Nothing else seems to stir, not a leaf, not the air, but she shivers and nods, a stiff pad towards Machiavelli suited in earth.

It is what he doesn’t say that has her attention, no talk of the abbot nor his death. Against their desert pelts the prickling air burns cold with what they’d left behind, the last vestiges of Machi’s history.

The chill peppers her nose when she looks into his tired face, a long, silent gaze before gently coaxing him towards the span of water where lies the late wintery sun.  Along the banks the coyote dithers in quiet, feeling the tepid pool of water at her paws.

“It plays in my head, too. Not in nightmares, but dreams. Every night I see you kill him.” She does not find the kaleidoscope eyes. There are better words to compensate for his wounding, she knows, but they would not be half as true. Machiavelli had done what he needed to do. There is no disgust in her voice. If they are full of contradictions, let them be so together.

As blood-red orange grows gradually over the sky, Eset slowly submerges into the lake and looks back for the flickering face upon the shore.

The dog lingered behind her, a shadow made flesh as she padded into the shimmering waters. It was something like shame that sparked within him as she spoke, although he could not imagine why, and he turned his head away, eyes falling onto some distant place in the endless expanse of grass. His paws twitched, restless, the tips of his nails digging into the earth with a rigid body to match.

Filthy, filthy creature is he.

He shut his eyes tightly, his face contorting in an expression he quickly forced away, smoothing it over into some cold, unfeeling thing. When he reopened them, he found Eset in the lake, the urge to follow blooming within his chest. But the dirty paws wouldn't move, rooted to shore as though afraid the water might burn like something holy against his skin.

His voice, when he finally spoke, was cracked, and it was clear the emotional creature was fumbling with the ties of his mask,

When you dream, and you see us there, whose face is it when it is not his?

Upon the shore he is a man fettered. Concern colors her eyes, she paddles silently closer, so if he looks forward he might be met with a small compassion against the lonely scale of the lake. Her lips part to make room for his name, but it is Machi’s knowing question which follows.

Nothing is said. Her eyelids fall. Under the surface of this winter lake Eset’s heels are grabbed, dragging her into the murk of old moments.

Drown, the water begs, so real in her ear that she’s certain Machi would have heard it too.

“My father’s,” she speaks into existence, and he’s lost all power. Her eyes flutter open; her legs are released. Her quiet gaze reaches for Machi.  “He is the reason I cannot stay attached to anyone. Why I distrusted you.”

Her steps draw forward. Three years he’s lived inside her like a secret. “Holding onto him– I will lose everything. Everyone. I don’t want to live for him anymore.”

There is no pleading in the gentle tones. No suggestion. Only a moment’s honesty, and in shivering nakedness she comes to the fellahin's side. Companionship; it is all Eset can offer Machiavelli. Companionship, and hope.

His ears twitched as he listened, gaze flicking to hers and then away again, retreating. It was a painful thing to admit, he knew, and somehow eyes upon you made it all the worse.

He breathed deeply. I never knew my real father. But there was a man—he came to Godsmouth every moon. Always with ‘gifts’ for Herod. My mother despised him. I didn’t understand why, not then. But now... now I think I do.

He shook his head slightly, as if disbelieving, working out something in his mind as he spoke. It was Herod that raised me, since I was just a pup. He—he wasn't all bad, you know. There was good in him. I've seen—saw it. He had a sense of humor, though you wouldn't believe it.

The half-breed looked down, fidgeting as he picked dirt from around his nails. I didn't realize, for a long time, that anything was wrong. Not until Juno. That was when I learned that what we did... wasn’t what other families did.

A sharp, humorless chuckle broke through, brittle and forced, I mean, besides the cult and all, obviously.

Machi paused, silent for a moment before his voice broke through the lake's serenity, Your father, he is your Herod? There was no need to clarify his true question further. He knew she would understand.

His suffering is quiet. Her heart is sickened by the details and all those he need not elaborate on, but which the mind inevitably will. Eset’s eyes hold when her chest thrums nervously. Her nod in turn is slow; accepting. “I was a bauble. Entertainment for his clientele."

Shame. it is always the first emotion. Ashamed to be worth so little.
Anger. With herself. For not being stronger. Anger with her mother that she'd let it happen.
Fear. That it would happen again.

"We cannot undo it," she whispers at last, "and I wont waste my life trying. He wins, that way. I want to be worth something– more.” And when she speaks, he is slipping away. Dragged under, caught in undertows of the lake that would pull him farther and farther away from shore.

Cautiously, Eset brushes a damp paw against Machiavelli’s. A tender weight. Featherlight. He is strong. He is enduring. “You are worth something more,” she tells him.

He dipped a paw into the water, black filth spreading from him in ripples.

Cold.

When his gaze rose, he saw the emotions flicker across her face, recognized them intimately, for they mirrored the ones he had carried so often himself. His paw lifted slightly, hesitating in the charged space between them, before lowering again—an unspoken promise not to tread where she had not invited him, not to take from her what had been taken from them by so many others.

Then I hope, he murmured, his voice low, that when you dream, it is your shadow that looms over that bastard, not mine.

And he was grateful then, when Eset reached out to him. He took her paw firmly, hoping to pour into her the same strength she had offered nights ago.

Someone less would not have done what you did for me. Fought for me, believed in me, saved me from myself. The words caught in his throat, and there arose a burning in his eyes, a sharp, stinging sensation that forced him to close them briefly, his grip tightening around her hand.

Akashingo did not save me, Eset. Muat-Riya did not save me, Pharoah did not save me. He blinked heavily, his voice wavering as he spoke. I was going to die there. I knew no one was coming for me. But you did.

You did.

A sniff betrayed him, his face hot with embarrassment, the flush spreading beneath his fur. I apologize for my lack of composure, he laughed, strained, hurriedly wiping a paw across his eyes. It seems I must have managed to get dirt in my eyes while digging. How terribly inconvenient.

Violence seemed easy. Anger, easy. Anything, easier than accepting Machiavelli’s words. The urge to run, the need for space, it is all still there. But she refuses, clinging to the tether of his voice. They’d carried each other, fought for one another, spent whole nights side-by-side. And they were here, now.  She wouldn’t turn from him. Her heart keeps identical pace, her hand resting heavier over his, in a true connection.

Eset didn’t want vengeance. She wanted this.

Her eyes trail his face closely, roaming the delicate paleness of sharp cheeks and the opal eyes like two glistening moons. When he upsets himself her mouth breaks into its own smile, then into a genuine laugh.

“Swim with me,” she urges, feeling regret and release as their skin breaks contact to merge with water. She teases Machi with a small splash then spins to float along her back. On the still glassy sheen and over their curved faces flickers the first of starlight.

“I hope when I dream… it is of someone else entirely,” her heart beats on anxiously. Something of yearning creeps into the gently curled lips. Endless miles spanned between here and Muat-riya, and still her sentiments felt so much larger in comparison.

She couldn't wait to go home. She couldn't wait to kiss Tavina again.

Machi recoiled as the water splashed over him, a single eye squeezed shut while a dark rivulet carved a path through his fur, leaving a glistening trail of dove-pearl in its wake. He exhaled sharply, more from surprise than displeasure, the faintest quirk of amusement tugging at his lips.

And here I thought we were sharing a moment, he drawled, exasperated, rolling his eyes with exaggerated sarcasm as he sniffed away the last of the prickling sensation in them. The teasing edge in his tone was soft, playful—a rare glimpse of levity that perhaps thus far had gone unseen by Eset.

He rose then, his movements steady, as though testing the strength of the moment before it slipped away. Pulling himself the rest of the way to the water's edge, fully intending to mirror her poise—only to falter at the bite of the cold. For an instant, he lingered, caught between hesitation and determination, before he gave a low chuckle, a flash of mischief igniting his gaze.

Without warning, he plunged into the lake, shattering its still surface in an exuberant cascade, surfacing moments later in a dramatic burst. Water streamed from his mouth before he paddled closer, his fur now luminous under the soft sheen of rising starlight, each strand shimmering with renewed brilliance.

And who, pray tell, might that be? he asked at last, voice sly, smooth, yet trembling faintly as he adjusted to the sudden change in temperature. A crooked smile curved his lips, one brow arched. Someone dazzlingly beautiful, I trust? Surely nothing less would catch your fancy.

700 ahhhh!

“Tavina.”

She liquifies. She liked to have the doctor’s name in her mouth. There is such a cleanness to it. A goodness.

Affection had always been a paltry, meek thing. It was operatic. Procedural. Her own desire felt wrong. It wasn’t easy for her. Often she felt confused. Envious. They had both survived the Gods' cruel machinations, and after all Tavina had endured, she was the stronger one.

Eset feels her pulse, loud in her head. Tavina was married before, but the coy had never know an intimacy as this.

“Would you tell me about your lovers?” She asks, half to be distracted from where her body longs to be.

Woohoo! Congrats! <33

Machi hesitated, his expression contemplative, before a spark of disbelief lit his face. The doctor? he exclaimed. So that’s your type, is it? The clever ones? Someone sharp enough to match wits with you? His opal gaze glimmered with amusement as he added, I suppose I can’t fault you. Intelligence is a rather tempting attribute, after all. His words lingered in the air, half teasing, half an observation, and the wink that followed seemed almost an afterthought. It was a rare reprieve from the weariness of recent weeks, as though the water had drawn away his troubles along with the muck.

But when the question turned his way, the levity evaporated. He groaned, draping a sodden arm over his eyes. Must we dredge up my personal failures? he sighed, voice low and resigned. I've had many lovers—some I cared about more than others. He thought of Juno, of those he had never bothered to learn the names of. However, since I've arrived here, I've taken two lovers—not one, but two mind you—and do you know how it ended? Utterly, spectacularly ruined. Both of them.

He sat upright, tossing water as his frustration spilled out. I'm not seeing either of them any longer, he exclaimed, his tone tinged with disbelief, and I didn’t even try to eat them! The declaration hung in the air like some absurd, self-righteous protest, his face working itself into a scowl, and then with a huff, he confessed, Granted, I might have started seeing them because I believed you’d sell me out, dearest Eset, the moment you learned about Herod. But, can you really blame me? I needed someone with a vested interest in keeping me alive. His paw sliced through the water, sending a spray as his voice climbed in pitch. But then—oh, the irony—I began to care. I dared to let my guard down. I allowed myself comfort. And it backfired!

He flung water into the air for emphasis, before slumping dramatically again. What’s worse, he continued, his tone quieter now, almost confessional, I should hate them. I should curse their idiotic names to the four winds. And yet— he lowered his voice further, as though revealing a deeply embarrassing secret, I see their faces, hear their voices. I miss them. He glanced sideways, a disgusted smile playing at his lips. Imagine that. Me. Missing someone. Utterly humiliating.

With another anguished groan, Machi sank beneath the surface, only to resurface moments later, his eyes just above the waterline, glowing faintly like a sulking crocodile. He let out a mournful sigh. That settles it, he announced theatrically, I’m going to forgo lovers entirely and sell myself to a nunnery. Do you think they'd take me?