Two Eyes Cenote A Winged Insect to Your Funeral Pyre

Forward dated!

Underneath the shimmering canopy of stars, Machi stepped into the cenote, enveloped once more in the familiar embrace of scents and sights after a month's absence. Despite his lingering reservations, a growing sense of belonging stirred within him, hinting at the possibility that this palace amidst the shifting sands could become more than just a temporary hideout.

The pouch in his jaws seemed to weigh heavier than it had on the journey. By all accounts, the trip had been a success, however, beneath the veneer of accomplishment, an undercurrent of anxiety coursed through the man as he approached Eset's compartment. He intended to make her aware of his return, and, perhaps, to thaw the frost that had settled onto their relationship like a blizzard.

He paused as he neared her den, drawing in a steadying breath to calm the nervous flutters in his chest. The prospect of winning over @Eset loomed large in his mind, for he knew that securing her favor was crucial if he harbored any hope of finding secure footing among the desert's inhabitants.

Hebsut, the man called softly into the chamber, his voice respectful and low, I've returned from Moontide with a gift. May I have a moment of your time?

The palace of Muat-riya is drawn by paw in the fine sand floor of Eset’s chamber. She sits staring at the map with everything else obliterated from attention while walking the passages in her mind- then a voice startles her into the present.

“Come in,” she gives a turn rising from the edge of her bed to greet the newest servant. When Machiavelli enters she is reminded that there is something bureaucratic and rehearsed about him, and her spine stiffens. The man is only observing courtesies, and there is no denying his value, nor his contributions to the palace.

Yet the hebsut sits like a suspicious feline, looking for a second face beneath his poise and furtive gesture.

"You've made good time," she observes, "how was the journey?"

Opaline eyes slipped to the map as the man dropped the feather before Eset, a grin spreading across his maw in a way that could have almost been described as smug. The journey was nothing short of spectacular, a flawless execution if I do say so myself. It won't be long before we witness the establishment of a new trading post, mark my words, he remarked, his tone dripping with self-assuredness.

Ah, I see you've been keeping yourself occupied as well. Busy as a bee, our Hebsut. Won't the Pharaoh be delighted, he observed, seemingly completely unruffled in the face of her thinly veiled skepticism. Could it be you're already planning the decor for the next grand affair? The man asked, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes as he awaited her response.

Machiavelli flaunts himself. It is as if he attempts to lock her into some choreography of feints which was fixed to outwear her. He is impeccably presented. The angles in his face admit neither doubt nor weakness. Eset’s eyes flick down to the pristine feather then back to him. Her ears shift. She is not playing her perfect machine.

“Do I give the impression of being easily bought, Machiavelli?” He is quietly observed. “Keep your flattery and tell me why you are here."

"If that doesn’t suit,” she motions with a brow, “the door’s behind you.”

---

Madam, if I thought I could buy your affections, you would find yourself with riches far beyond a measly hawk's tail, The man replied with a snort. This humble offering is but a grateful fellahin's gift to his Hebsut, nothing more, he assured with a dismissive wave of his paw. I have yet to properly express my gratitude for your willingness to extend hospitality and welcome me into your home when, frankly, good sense would have dictated otherwise. Gifts, I find, are an appropriate starting point.

Please, allow yourself to relax. I assure you, I have no intention of causing harm, His eyes met hers evenly as he paused, considering his next words carefully. You will find I am many things, Lady Eset, least of all honorable—I am not above using someone for my own benefit, The dove-coated wolf admitted, his voice soft yet resolute.

However, he continued, lowering himself a comfortable distance from her, careful not to disturb her plans as he rolled the pouch he had brought with him beneath one pearl-pink nail, I am forthright, and there is trust to be found in honesty.

You ask why I am here, so let's cut through to the heart of the situation. I will speak plainly, Machiavelli asserted, turning his gaze away from the pouch and back to the woman before him. You are a rather important figure here in the palace, Madam, both to Legend, whom I find myself growing rather fond of, and to the higher-ups. If I ever hope to make this place my home, I will need to begin by finding an ally in you.

I would humbly request that you grant me further courtesy so that we may start anew. In return, I offer my honesty and transparency. I am prepared to answer any inquiries you may have truthfully and to the best of my ability, in the hope of earning your trust and reciprocating it in kind. Does this proposal sound agreeable to you, my Lady? If not, I shall take my leave at once.

An ally.

“So this is your broker for peace,” her voice flattens, aiming towards him the effect of a slap in the face.

“Tell me then why I should trust our palace to a man who is least of all honorable and not above using someone for his own benefit?” Eset follows the shift of his feet with the force of her burning eyes.

He was an ivory piece upon a senet board. She had to get rid the spool. The spool was up to no good.

“Legend can be unnerving but she is not one to strike out of turn. Tell me why you attacked her that day.”

She awaited his truth, to see if he’d tell it.

The beginning of it, I hope, Machiavelli replied with a soft smile, as if extending a hand to gently fend off her impending assault.

An excellent question indeed, my Lady, he concurred, his voice rather calm despite the tension in the air. I am not foolish enough to expect you to put your trust in me blindly. Rather, I seek the opportunity to earn your confidence through my actions, starting by providing you with answers.

My attack on Legend was a regrettable case of mistaken identity, He admitted with a resigned shrug, It's as simple as that.

Whom did I mistake her for? That, my esteemed Hebsut is where I place my trust in you: I am being pursued. Machi admitted earnestly, his opal eyes meeting hers with a pleading sincerity. I cannot say by how many or when they will find me, but I know they draw closer with each passing day. In my misguided judgment, I mistook Legend for one of those adversaries, prompting my attack.

So, why should you trust me? he asked, posing the question with a tinge of self-reflection. Because, like any rational being, I am motivated by self-preservation. My survival hinges upon establishing a refuge here in Akashingo. Therefore, it is undeniably in my best interest to ensure this palace and its inhabitants flourish.

I understand your skepticism, and respect it, Machi sighed, lowering his gaze briefly to the pouch under his paw. However, I lay bare my soul before you. I did not come here with the intent to deceive you, Lady Eset.

He is youthful, arrogant and smart, but there is no danger yet if she does not let it bluff her. Eset does not take her eyes from the fellahin, watching every move as he lays bare his story.

So- some sort of horrible fate awaits him. The very walls of the palace had become a fortress, a refuge from the desert and her cruelties. At this point in her life Eset had to worry about what was and wasn’t favorable to Muat-riya and its residents, as Pharaoh had chosen to use her power to elevate her. Once again she finds herself debating the virtues of such a choice, her feelings no more or less complicated than the spider’s web woven by Machiavelli himself.

“Why do these wolves hunt you? Who are they?” Her questions are quick now that they’d cut through the bullshit.

Defense flared hastily in the man, raising the hair along his spine in a flash. With a desperate restraint, he quelled the urge to spit "It isn't important!" like an animal, cornered and caged.

Yet, even in the comforting delusion of self-preservation, he couldn't deny the importance of the matter. It would be far wiser to address it now while there was still some semblance of control, than to face it head-on when his pursuers inevitably closed in. Steeling himself, he forced his mouth open:

I... I, um...

The words stumbled uncertainly from a mouth suddenly dry, each syllable heavy with the weight of unspoken fears. His feathered tail wound tightly around his slender frame, a dove-white paw absentmindedly stroking through the fur as Machi grappled for the right words.

Frustration gnawed at him as he struggled to articulate his thoughts, only to be met with silence. His paw rose to his neck as if to offer some explanation.

I...It's complicated. he finally managed to breathe out, his fist clenching in frustration. I apologize. I know that isn't a sufficient explanation. Please grant me a moment to gather my thoughts.

The man's pearl-pink nails traced heavily through the wispy tail for a moment, his ears pinned to his skull.

Put simply, he resumed, his voice strained, I believe they aim to reclaim me and return me home. Opal eyes flickered towards the woman, breaking their gaze from the cavern floor. As for who they are... Machi hesitated, searching for the most apt description before settling on the most rudimentary, a man named Herod, along with any lackeys he can muster. He cared for my mother and I.

Things took a dark turn, He confessed, clearing his throat. And I managed to escape, but only after killing several of Herod's men. I... I don't know. Perhaps it was always bad, and I was simply blind to it.

“By your own admission, your presence here endangers us all!” She accuses, face bright with fire, clutching the last of her restraint only so they would not be overheard. Their people; their children! How can she raise a defense for this stranger?

Yet Gods- what a mockery she makes of herself! Was she not also from a cruel nation with stale traditions, surviving on the kindness of strangers? Would she not also choose blood over exploitation, if given the chance? Only in death would she be made to return to slums of Shuyet.

She is inclined to believe him. But it is too much- too much for a serf turned master; for a girl turned overseer.

“I need your honesty, from here on out. There is too much at stake,” her eyes dart his own, demanding quick compliance. “I will relay what’s been said to Khusobek. We will devise a plan to secure the palace.”

It wasn’t a kinship. She could not offer such a thing to this man she barely knows and whose motives are obscured. For long she stares at the marbled stone floor, suspended with indecision. Until finally-

"I will not throw you to the crows."

Relief surged through the man, an overwhelming sensation that swept through him like a tide of warmth as the gravity of her decision settled in. It was as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders, and he couldn't help but feel a wave of gratitude flow over him, threatening to buckle his knees.

Thankfully, he was already on the floor and spared the embarrassment of collapsing in front of her. With a quiet exhale, he steadied himself, reassured by her words. Yes, she was upset, but she was also willing to listen, to understand. That, he could work with.

I do not believe him to be a threat to anyone other than myself, the man began, his voice steady now that the immediate danger had passed. Locking eyes with the woman, he spoke with a quiet resolve, Herod is a man who prizes appearances above all else, and revels in mind games. He would not show up threatening overt violence, of that I am certain.

He uses his appearance to his advantage—a frail frame, a kind face, his gaze held hers firmly, but in the shadows, where he is unseen and his power is absolute, that is where his malevolence emerges.

She takes a deep breath, but the tension will not go away. She is not sure what to make of Machiavelli’s resolve in the face of her uncertainty, the kind of confidence that suffuses his features from time to time. Seldom has she felt so out of her depth, so inexperienced. She hated feeling the weaker player. But she would have one distinct advantage: that this pursuer would not be as prepared for her as she was for him.

“His power is not absolute; not in this palace. Tell me his weaknesses.”

Machi pondered the question deeply, his gaze fixated on the floor as he sifted through the ever-changing labyrinth of his thoughts in search of a chink in the older man's armor.

I believe... he began slowly, his greatest strength lies in the art of deception. He thrives on being underestimated and understanding the games he plays is paramount to gaining the upper hand.

Furthermore, it would be prudent to avoid being alone with him, he added, a hint of unease lacing his words, if circumstances allow. And, Machi cleared his throat, that extends to the companionship of fellahin as well.

Machiavelli needn’t say more. Eset understood the implication. She was tired of being a piteous creature, and she could not allow the fellahin to become prey. Not while she held the title of hebsut. Towards him she steps, bringing their faces closer, locking him into that same intensity.

“There will be consequences for him, Machiavelli,” her voice all but fades to a whisper, “if he steps foot here with an attempt to do harm.”

“Do you understand?” Now she wanted Machiavelli to acknowledge her meaning, the one she dared not speak aloud.

Mature Content Warning

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The fellahin's opal gaze met Eset's with chilly solemnity, his jaw tensing as she drew near.

In silence, he extended a single delicate dove paw, inviting her further approach.

With frigid grace, he guided her touch, leading her hand to the umber blend of fur between his shoulders, then beneath it, where her fingertips would encounter the rugged terrain of his flesh, pocked and dented.

Moving with gentle precision, he directed her next to trace along his throat, brushing over constellations he had only ever drawn himself, an obsession that would never smooth no matter how much he scrubbed.

There, he paused, a soft huff escaping his lips, his voice a rumble beneath her touch,

Good.

Her breath catches. She wants to yank herself away, to put a hundred yards between them, to draw back into the comfort of her shadows where the dark insulation keeps everyone at a distance. Instead, she is still. Her eyes close.

Gently, Machiavelli lifts her paw to his hackles. She feels the roughened skin; poreless; thatched; the kind that will never again grow fur. She is standing beside him in the Shuyet slums.

The tips of her fingers are traced down over old pits to the heat of his torn throat. She feels the humiliation he’s suffered at the hand of the Master; the terror of his existence locked inside the walls of the menagerie.

Rising bile twists her stomach. Machiavelli's voice is little more than a hoarse vibration under her touch. She cannot speak in turn. Her mouth is too numb for it.

How much of their culture was built on those like her- like him?

The girl's hand beneath his trembles. When she opens her eyes a lamina of tears cascade into the fur of her cheeks.

“I wish you could be safe here. I- I cannot make that guarantee. For any of us.” Eset’s voice is small and shameful. Her head falls dizzyingly towards the floor. She feels sick as her hand lingers over his scars, the visible manifestation of powerlessness.

“But- I do promise to try.”

Amidst the myriad of expected reactions—anger, suspicion, perhaps even neutrality—a different response emerges: tears cascading down the stoic visage of Hebsut, and at that moment, somewhere deep within the recesses of his chest, a cobweb dislodged from a heart long shrouded in dust.

He did not know her story, although he felt he could guess. A fleeting urge to offer solace flickered within him, yet he hesitated. They were not friends, nor did they share a bond beyond their newfound alliance. Still, there was a silent understanding that tethered them together—a recognition of shared pain and a mutual goal.

As her hand trembled, he offered a gentle squeeze, a silent reassurance before letting go. It was a small gesture, perhaps insignificant, but it was the best he could offer.

That is more than I could have hoped for, Machi responded softly, turning his gaze away to grant Eset the privacy to weep without inhibition. He admired—perhaps even envied—her unguarded display of emotion. He would not judge her for it—no, he refused to be the one to shame her for her tears.

When the crying subsided, he cleared his throat, turning back to the woman. I would like to return the favor, My Lady, he said, rising slowly and dusting himself off. Starting with this, the pale man added, poking a nail into her map. You're missing a spot.

He releases her and she retreats, wiping at the dampened cheeks with the back of her wrist. Only when she is recomposed does she turn to face Machiavelli again, whose claw is plunked into the center of her map, an indentation made where a wall should be.

“That’s not possible,” she declares stubbornly while clearing her throat, “I mapped these routes out myself.”

Poising over the blueprints, Eset triple checks her work, tracing the intricate hallways in her mind and considering the rooms and alcoves that often went overlooked. For long her stare burns a hole at his point, until her head snaps back in flustered realization. It cannot be accounted for.

She looks up at Machiavelli, the tears still standing in her eyes.

“Take me there.”

The man felt a swell of gratitude wash over him at Eset's acceptance of his change in topic. A soft smile painted his lips, and with a graceful movement, he elegantly tucked a forepaw to his chest in a half-bow. Of course, he murmured.

The journey back to his quarters was an arduous one, navigating through labyrinthine tunnels that twisted and turned until they reached the fellahin quarter, culminating in the furthest chamber beyond even those.

Machi pushed aside the hung pelt that marked his doorway, holding it aside for Eset to pass through before following her in. A small sigh of relief escaped him as he realized that Legend's scent had more or less dissipated from the room after their time away at the beach—conversation on that subject was best avoided for now.

The compartment had not changed much since he had first taken up residence: The gentle glow of fungi still illuminated the room, casting ethereal shadows upon the walls, the glittering stone reflecting their aquatic hues like scattered jewels. In the back corner, the simple bed lay dormant, its surface coated in a thin layer of dust from a month of unuse.

Here we are, my dear Hebsut, the man smiled. Please make yourself comfortable, this will take me but a moment. He passed the woman, turning to the rock that adorned his wall—a familiar obstacle that required a near Herculean effort to move.

With painstaking effort, Machi exerted every sinew of his slender being, muscles flexing as he pushed and pulled with relentless determination. He adjusted his stance, shifting his weight as he grappled with the stubborn stone, his breath coming in measured puffs as he strained against its weight.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the pale man succeeded in moving the rock, albeit only slightly. His muscles quivered with exertion as he paused to catch his breath, a triumphant gleam in his opaline eyes as he surveyed his handiwork. The man had managed to drag one end far enough away from the wall so that the pair could squeeze past, although squeeze they must. This revealed a very small, very narrow tunnel leading deeper into the palace's depths.

I hope you're not claustrophobic, though I daresay you might fare better than I, Machiavelli remarked playfully through labored breath, casting a teasing glance at Eset's petite frame. I would offer the honor of going first, but that wouldn't quite be gentlemanly of me, now would it? With a lighthearted chuckle, he lowered himself onto his stomach and began to slither into the darkness of the tunnel, his form disappearing into the inky void.

As he pushed forward, the air grew thick and oppressive, heavy with the musty scent of ancient rock, seeming to press down against him like a weighted blanket.

The silence that enveloped them was broken only by the sound of their labored breathing and the occasional scuffle of paws against the wet stone. Time seemed to warp in the darkness, stretching out endlessly as they forged ahead, the tunnel winding its way deeper into the bowels of Muat-Riya.

Occasionally, their path would lead them past a patch of softly glowing fungi, offering a brief respite from the oppressive darkness. But these moments were fleeting, and soon they were plunged back into the blackness, relying on instinct and touch to guide their way forward.

As they pressed on, the air grew colder, the walls closing in tighter still until it felt as though they were being swallowed whole by the earth itself. Yet, Machiavelli pressed forward, seemingly confident in his direction.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, a faint glow appeared in the distance, growing steadily brighter as they drew nearer. With a final push, they emerged from the tunnel into a cavern bathed in the soft light of the moon filtering from between cracks in the rocky ceiling above, their journey through the darkness at an end.

The room was large and airy, a stream bubbling from one wall and flowing through to form a large pool in the middle. Plots of dirt and sand with colorful flowers dotted the chamber at odd intervals, their bright petals shining silver in the moonlight. Tortoiseshell bowls were lined against the wall, each filled with varying levels of water, crushed petals steeped in the mixture, casting a fragrant aroma upon the air.

She stands speechless in the middle of the room as the pressure of so many sensations bears down upon her. She smells everything acutely, the floral perfumes, the wetted air. Fungi blooms an eerie pale glow that casts shadows over the cobbled path. Every scuff of sound, every whisper here is magnified. The breaths she intends to keep quiet are loud.

“It’s poison,” her stomach turns and she cannot keep the dismay from creeping onto her face. How long had this been happening, right under her nose?

“What do you intend to do with this?” She fears she already knows the answer.

Machi watched her, taking in the myriad emotions flickering across her face. Her silence spoke volumes, the weight of the situation pressing heavily upon her.

Yes, it’s poison, Machiavelli confirmed, his voice a calm, steady current against the storm of emotions raging in his companion. They're beautiful, aren't they? He plucked a bloom from the loamy soil. The pale luminescence of the fungi mingled with the moonlight, casting ghostly shadows over his piebald fur.

He could see the fear and uncertainty in her gaze, the unspoken questions that lingered on her lips.  What do I intend to do with this? he echoed, a faint, almost wistful smile curling at the edges of his slender muzzle as he paused before answering further. Why, I intend to use it, of course.

His shattered-glass eyes sparkled with fire as he held the delicate flower to the moonlight, the drooping petals casting a purple sheen across his pale face. In a world as unforgiving as ours, one must take extraordinary measures to protect oneself, he said, his tone softening, an almost tender note threading through his words.

I've been hurt before, he murmured, his voice a soft brush that ruffled the delicate petals. Beaten, betrayed, all those I cared about torn from my grasp. And yet, I survived. I fought back. I escaped, His gaze hardened, the softness in his voice replaced by a steely resolve, I will never be hurt like that again.

I take no pleasure in this, Machiavelli began, his voice laced with sorrow that seemed almost genuine. Yet survival often compels us to embrace what others label as 'terrible.' Those who would now scorn my ruthlessness are the same who turned their backs on me—on us. Venomous eyes locked onto hers, the intensity of his gaze almost tangible. They sit upon their lofty moral pedestals, content to pass judgment, to soothe their consciences with the belief that they are inherently good. They delude themselves into thinking they could never be driven to commit such 'horrid' acts. But these so-called paragons of virtue flee in times of sorrow, vanish at the first sign of discomfort, and stay silent to avoid conflict, even if it means turning a blind eye to the suffering of a defenseless child, or a mother in desperate need. Their hearts are filled with disgust for others' suffering, yet they do nothing to alleviate it. They do not truly care—they only act to avoid the judgment of others.

He stepped closer to the coywolf, his presence overwhelming, an angel fallen and set aflame in the moon’s silver glow. But you, Eset, you are different. You understand, don’t you, my lady? The necessity of protecting oneself, no matter the cost?

His voice softened, head tilted as he seemed to search her ember gaze imploringly—desperately, I can see it in your eyes, too. In the way you move, in the way you let your head hang. I know that we have fought the same battles. I know you understand this necessity. You, who have seen the harshness of our world firsthand.

Machiavelli paused, allowing the weight of his words to sink in. You know as well as I do that compassion is a luxury we can ill afford. To survive, we must be willing to do what others cannot. This garden... it's our shield, a guarantee that we will never again be at the mercy of those who would harm us.

I trust you, Eset. I need you to see that while my methods may seem extreme, they are driven by a desire to protect those I care about, he leaned down, his gaze flickering to the soft curve of her jaw before meeting gold again, including you. Machiavelli reached out, holding the bloom between them, its petals gleaming ethereally in the dim light. His voice was a whisper against the woman's ear, a gentle caress, coaxing and persuasive, Take it, he urged.

He spoke not in words but plainsong; divine, shining. True-voiced and clever. And when she looked into his eyes he was no mere servant, but an officiant of justice; of great deeds. The procurers, the customers, the masters- did they not deserve to suffer as they had suffered?

Beaten. Betrayed. Humiliated. She was never going to be her again.

She searches the fellahin’s kaleidoscope eyes. Were they the same? This grove of venom, was it so different from the rows of black hellebore she cultivated within her own quarters?

She is dazed, wearied by a sense of hopeless disgrace and by the darkest of cravings in the secret parts of herself that she could not even comprehend. His hand appears in front of her face, in it a pale bloom with the most delicate of petals. She is struck that a small, ordinary thing of so much beauty could be capable of destruction. She imagines taking the flower; holding the power of life and death within the palm of her hand. Her throat strains. Her paw lifts…

She slaps his hand from her with a defensive snarl. The ruptured petals fall in limp pieces to the ground.

Machiavelli thinks he understands her. But he doesn’t know a thing about her.

She braces herself, spine arching, tail flaying, casting blades from the fire of her eyes. “There are innocent people here- families. Children. I want this destroyed. I’ll give you two days to do so.”

She slants herself into his face.“We are not the same. I am not a murderer.”

She fled then, and did not look back.

Yayyy! Thank you so so much for this thread!

She searches his gaze, and he delves just as deeply into hers. The fear, the repulsion, the doubt—it is all there, plain as day. The scent of her turmoil rolls from her body in waves, and even as the gift is slapped away from his grasp, a crooked smile parts the man's lips.

As you wish, my lady.