Two Eyes Cenote Dinner & Diatribes

His thoughts wandered to the squeaky little Jackdaw, and despite himself, a soft, almost wistful smile curled upon his lips. The memory lingered, stirring something faint but familiar in his chest. I must admit, he mused, amusement flickering in his gaze, I do believe it.

But then, as swiftly as the lightness had come, something darker, more reflective, seeped into his expression. His brow arched slightly, a delicate motion that belied the harshness of his thoughts. Trust, you say? He let it hang in the air for a beat before his lips curled into a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Would that not make me wholly untrustworthy by default? The smile was courteous, charming even, but there was something dangerous beneath it. A note of intrigue, confusion, perhaps even warning, threaded through the velvety tones of his voice.

I’m certain you can imagine, he continued, his voice lowering into a conspiratorial hum, the sorts of deeds I’ve committed—and worse still, those I’ve conveniently ignored—all in the name of surviving royalty and its extremes. The smile still lay politely upon his lips, but the disgust in his eyes told a different story.

To answer your question, however, no, I do not regret being here. Machi shook his head, reflecting on the truth of the statement. I think I have begun to transform into a different sort of creature since my arrival in Muat-riya. Perhaps for better, perhaps for worse.

He tilted his head slightly, gaze drifting to some distant point as he considered the unthinkable. Herod's death had seemed such an impossible dream, always in sight but just out of reach. But now, with the help of The Blue Palace's inhabitants, it drew continually closer to his grasp.

Perhaps, he mused, a faint, teasing lilt returning to his voice, in this land of endless opportunity, I shall reinvent myself as an entertainer. The notion, while absurd, brought a flicker of warmth back to his expression, the dark cloud that had momentarily settled over him lifting. He allowed the corners of his lips to tug upward into a self-deprecating grin, the charm sliding back into place with effortless ease.

Imagine it—traveling between the courts, basking in the applause of adoring crowds, he said, his voice dancing on the edge of jest, though there was a spark of something genuine beneath the humor, as if he could almost picture it—a life of freedom, unburdened by the past.

A soft chuckle escaped him, and he shook his head as if to dismiss the thought, though the amusement lingered. After all, what else is a man with a face as pretty as mine to do, when there is no apparent brain behind it?