Two Eyes Cenote ninety-third

The dog listened to the priest's insistence, its mottled flank pressed heavily against the cold stone. Rounded ears flattened against its skull, trembling from the hopelessness that seemed to seep from its very bones. Its eyes, wide and glassy, fixed upon the red man with the same despair as a rabbit caught far from its burrow.

Senmut, it began, the words barely above a whisper, for it was afraid its voice would crack if it spoke any louder, If anything that happened between us was real, for even just a moment, I beg you, the plea trembled in the air, a fragile thread of hope and misery intertwined, please, just let the infection spread. Let the rot overtake me—let me die here. The words spilled out in a frantic rush, its chest heaving with the effort of speaking.

Please, I cannot go back. The final appeal was a broken sob, the dog’s gaze imploring, searching Senmut’s face for any sign of mercy, any glimmer of understanding. Its paws trembled, clear-pink claws scraping against the stone floor as if seeking purchase in a world that seemed to be slipping away faster than sand through an hourglass. Its legs buckled under the weight of its body, and rather than collapse the beast lowered itself to the ground, slow and unsure.

But there was an understanding, perhaps between both of them, perhaps not, that if the prince were to approach, the beast would not bite, only submit to the touch that was once longed for, but would now sting like flames lapping against its skin.

Its gaze would find purchase on some faraway spot on the stone, and gradually lose focus, silent tears carving a path down the clenched jaw.