Bramblepoint [M] The Night Comes Down like Heaven

Thank you so much for this thread <33

He felt the shift within the prince, subtle and chilling, like the first frost of winter creeping over an unexpecting, dewy morning. A sudden stillness hung between them, and Machi couldn't shake the gnawing suspicion that he had somehow said something terribly wrong. Perhaps it was his choice of words, the inflection in his tone, or some unintentional nuance.

Whatever it had been, the dog felt the weight of his misstep settle heavily upon him. Guilt and shame clawed their way up his soiled paws, entwining around his thin frame with the oppressive weight of a thousand bodies, clinging, grasping. Dirty.

Machi's heart yearned for the priest to react, to shatter the awful silence with anger or frustration. In some hidden recess of his soul, he longed for Senmut to confront him, to ask for an explanation, or perhaps begin a conversation that might clear the air. Anything would be better than this quiet acceptance that felt like a blade twisting in his chest.

But no such outburst came. The priest remained composed, his departure marked by a quiet resignation that stung more than any harsh words could have. The foolish dog kept his gaze fixed on the grass, unwilling to look up until he was certain that the prince had gone. Only then did he allow himself to breathe, the ache in his chest spreading like a bruise.

Slowly, as if walking in a haze, Machi gathered up the remains of their meal. He moved mechanically, tidying the space with practiced precision. The scent of the food, once appetizing, now turned his stomach. Each piece of debris he picked up felt like a fragment of his shattered pride— his hopes, and he returned the bits to their pouch with more force than was needed. The silence around him left plenty of room for the echoing thoughts that chimed away in his mind. Stupid, stupid was the little whore that got big ideas about being anything but. Icarus had flown too close to the sun and now he was left wading in pools of wax.

It would not happen again. So when the meal had been tidied away, and Machiavelli was clean and presentable, the doll returned to the camp with a pretty porcelain mask set upon his face, tied down and double knotted with ribbon and chain— a warm smile painting his lips that could not quite thaw the chill of his eye.