Two Eyes Cenote A Winged Insect to Your Funeral Pyre

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.