Two Eyes Cenote tiburon

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khusobek's mind created fractals of this image, neatly sliced and laid aside in transparent sheets, to be loaded into the mind for new torment.

swiftly, swiftly, and for the first time in many years the crocodile felt the true brusqueness of a licking fear. it had not come at the clutch of teeth to the juncture of his neck, but in the moment before, python wrapped in sibilant coils around his brawny forearm.

between them in vampiric draught they threaded the needles of their own pain, fed it back and forth in some hellish barter. prisoner gripped and he rained down his blows in sanctimonious and violent resolution.

this dance, it had an end. in his own throat died the names of the other fellahin, smothered by the hot-oil pouring of his own pride. all the justification he had to kill now was here, kill as he had killed before. murder to feed the hunger which yawned in the crocodile's hungering gut.

breath! knocked from him with a kick of the rangy, monstrous limbs. blood-offering cut from the delicate flesh at the corner of one hateful eye was not enough to soothe khusobek for what —

for what —

in sick sibilance sang heartbeats meant never to be strung in such cadence; his pulse thudded in thunderous terror, the faint salt of vomit tightening in his throat. soto's blood rained down upon him and he drank it. another heave of his body; he knew inherently where the windpipe lay and how much pressure was needed to cut through the thickness there; ear to ear.

in the society of men there existed a creed of violence punishable by that most fel, a schrodinger's tarot of who was deserving, and how an ultimate pain might be exacted. he was enraged with himself for believing this only to be an exchange of mutual agony, captivating them both with a rampant race for what limit might be first broken.

this had not been part of it, his mind snarled in dark protest, milliseconds of time stretching to hours, to eons, twisted and spun by harpies on some far-off mountain. better to die a man.

before khusobek could acquaint himself with this notion of death, soto lanced the dream. hatshepsuun had bled him of so very much that he could scarcely comprehend this new wounding to that spirit which he had thought was eaten.

once he brought his wounded arm up, noticing how slowly blood arced through the air as he slammed it with futility into the straining shoulder above his body — choked to mist as his mind mercifully began to blur, leaving behind only an animal's instinct to be still.