Bonesplinter Ravine [M] Be the First to the Feast, Let's Choke on the Past

Prophet. The word, dripping with reverence, rolled off the wolf’s tongue, trembling with devotion. Machiavelli almost laughed at the absurdity of it all. Prophet? Oh, the poor fool had no idea. He didn’t know how far the dog before him had fallen from that pedestal—how far he had tumbled from the heights of divinity. But Machiavelli didn’t correct him, didn’t bother to strip the wolf of his illusions. What would be the point? People believed what was easiest, what was most convenient for them to accept. The truth was often too heavy, too ugly to bear, and so they chose to see only what they wanted. Challenging that would be a waste of breath. It was easier—kinder, even—to let them worship their false gods in peace.

The wolf’s gratitude flowed like a river, unending and earnest. His voice, an unyielding murmur of praise, wove together memories that had long since faded for Machiavelli, though they clearly burned bright in the wolf’s mind. Machiavelli couldn’t remember him—not really—but he had seen hundreds like him. He could still recall those moments of fleeting power, when his words were law and lives bent to his will with just a whisper. The faces blurred together now, a crowd of wide-eyed believers staring up at him with hope igniting their gaze. Once, that hope had tasted sweet, a heady elixir of power. Now, it curdled in his gut. He wasn’t a savior. He never had been.

The air shifted as they stepped into the light. The sun’s final rays spilled across the world, casting the sky in a soft wash of gold and burnt orange, as if the heavens themselves were on fire. Machiavelli breathed in deeply, the burst of fresh air filling his lungs with a relief so intense it was almost painful. The coolness of it swept away the staleness of the cave, and for a heartbeat, he was more grateful for that breath of air than he had ever been for any lover he’d taken into his arms. But the moment was short-lived.

The opal eyes locked onto the golden figure like a magnet drawn to iron. Herod. He stood, bathed in the sun’s dying glow, the perfect picture of power and control, his frame gleaming like some celestial being set down among mortals. He had always been that—an untouchable force—everything Machiavelli had once thought he needed to survive, to thrive.


And now he felt sick.


The wolf by his side gave him an encouraging nod, completely oblivious to the silent plea in Machiavelli’s eyes. He didn’t want to go with Herod. He didn’t want to be anywhere near the man, let alone follow him into the trees where no one could see them. The urge to run—to flee back into the shadows of the cave—seized him, but Machiavelli was no fool; choice had never been a luxury in Herod’s world.

Steeling himself, Machiavelli forced his feet to move, each step forward a battle against the tremor that threatened to shake him apart. His body ached, his wounds still fresh, but that was nothing compared to the sickness twisting in his gut as he limped toward Herod. He was led into the trees, the golden light fading to a dusky gray as the forest swallowed them whole, the distance from the camp growing with each step.

As Herod spoke, his voice as smooth and commanding as ever, Machiavelli’s mind wandered, seeking refuge in anything but the present. He remembered a night, months ago, spent beneath a similar swath of trees, but with someone else. @Senmut. The memory was a haze, a brief flicker of warmth in the coldness that had settled over him. For a moment, he allowed himself to dwell on it, to grasp at the fraying edges of hope, but even that was beginning to waver.

Herod spoke on endlessly, though the words barely registered in Machiavelli’s mind. He didn’t need to hear them. He knew the script by heart. Herod always knew what to say and how to frame his words like a lifeline, offering salvation while tightening the noose.

He was jolted back to the present with Herod's touch upon him, and it took all of his strength to not pull away, instead only quietly meeting the golden eyes. He was grateful for the near instant reprieve, breathing out a quiet sigh of relief as they continued walking.

And now Herod spoke of binding him again. Of Elveera’s wish to see him restrained, controlled like some wayward beast. Anger flared in the half-breed's chest. He wished to speak to her, to make her understand. If only he could get through. But then, Herod was beside him, close—too close. The world shrank. His throat tightened, memories flooding back with sickening clarity.

Machiavelli pulled back, just enough to break the contact, his breath coming faster, harder. He didn’t dare meet Herod’s eyes—he couldn’t. Not yet. If he looked, he knew what he’d see: that same calculating gaze, confident that Machiavelli was still his. Still the boy Herod had shaped, molded, broken.

I don’t think that will be needed, he whispered, his voice barely audible.