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

She does shudder, though with the gentle consolation of his calm. Somehow she’d come to anticipate retaliation, or force. She’d expected the same wrath of Akashingo’s jodai, or the firm order of a man outranking her.

The coy’s arms are perhaps kinder to release him, though she does not, instead wrapping a paw closer; to be held tighter. Meseba is a strong tree, proudly stoic in her rain. And for a moment she lives in his rich, imperial earth, seeking the vulnerable depths of a soul which he shared with her.

“I am sorry, Meseba,” she whispers quietly into his fur, sensing the subtle inflections within the muscles of his chest; the flex of arms. Like a tree holding strong against a thousand storms.