Two Eyes Cenote i'm a waking hell and the gods grow tired

Both of them silenced, as with a spell, and the quiet pulsing of blood, her chest jumping while the green of his eyes lit with both the reflections of the cenote and the gloss of her own– like a river of flames in his forests.

“Meseba,” she breathes her surprise, throat burning with the reawakened name, struck with how much she does care for him– how she’d come to rely upon the strength of him; his mind, his company. And at once she fears the idea that she might ever lose him.

“I–” the low voice falters, amber eyes glazing with fluvial sheen as she looks up into the face which holds no distress; and in that moment she is overcome with just how firm the mazoi is. She steps forward, a single black paw hovering for a reach. “I care for you,” a whisper, quieting to a tremble.

“But– I do not know my heart,” she admits at last, overwhelmed. She could give no future to Meseba. Belonging to the gods, she would never again endure such failures as a woman.

Even then what remained unspoken was how she was pulled in ways she had no understanding of to others– confessions she would not– could not make.

The grace of her ears fall, she looks high into the man’s handsome face, searching his steeled grays, burning to offer her ash and fearing most to see a dismantling in his evergreen eyes.

“Meseba,” again she whispers, hand fluttering then for his arm.