Two Eyes Cenote --the third act--

His dreams are odd, twisting things. Turning in on themselves, leaving him without answers to questions, giving him answers to questions he had not asked yet. Past, present, future, they all meld into a humming choir who speaks a language lost to Akhtar and his kind.

Perhaps spoken once, in a place long ago, in a time where they were adapting, looking less as they did now and more wild. When he looked more like the others in Akashingo. When his family had never been thought of. He chewed a bone by a warm fire and listened to the honey tones of creatures who fed him and allowed him to lay on their feet at night. Maybe he knew the words then. But he did not now.

He woke again, this time to warmth, a humming line against his sore body. Not humming, he realized seconds later, purring.

Bast, warm against him. He struggled to raise his head even a little, the motion knotting muscles he didn’t even know could hurt. But he managed to get the cat in his eyesight.

Bastet He wanted to say.

His mouth moved, but no sound came. Nothing more than a bone dry croak.