Two Eyes Cenote Dinner & Diatribes

such a sign came in the form of nothing more than a barely perceptible tilt of the man's chin. he wanted to hear this; machiavelli had presented it well.

the fellahin went on, speaking of safiya. khusobek was careful to analyze the care with which that name was mentioned; if he saw something in it, for now it went unsaid. there was an aspect here, that his daughter had influenced the decision to send the man forth; it was appreciated in a softening of the icewater gaze.

guard remained, slowly lowered. they had shared the same confusion, machiavelli and himself, and it had hinged upon — it was where the blame belonged, in hands that were neither his nor those of the servant. but for his pride the crocodile was unable to place it there; he held it in his hand, in his heart.

machiavelli had come to apologize for khusobek's wrists pillared around his head, for the way he had twisted the thorns into the mouth speaking now; his stare pinched and he glanced away.

apology given; a smile's hint ghosted to life on khusobek's mouth. "i enjoyed what i did, as i too felt justified. i only regret it was you in my rope, machiavelli." honesty granted back, eyes holding those of the other. 

his eyes traced now, to see if the lines remained; his shoulders stretched in a broadening breath. "do you care if herod values you, while we are being direct with one another?" the nature of the servant's relationship with this man tempted more than curiosity; he sought the blueprint of new power.