Two Eyes Cenote Dinner & Diatribes

"i am a tool and i can see when my purpose is unnecessary," he said in self-deprecating jest. "and i am often awkward, but when you are a dour man with a ruined face, few question your emotion." his eyes flickered. "the very formidable which you mentioned provides a shield against being seen." 

khusobek wanted to tell machiavelli that there was no grace in him, that it had been ended so long ago. that the day he had ended up in hatshepsuun's bed had felt at first like serendipity, until the man who had been that boy at last figured it out. she had wanted his weakness to be centralized only in her; she had wanted to own not only his body but the loyalty of his very spirit.

and she had been given this! in eternal offering, khusobek growing from eager youth to the jaded man she had made of him, the dark thing she could call upon to be a hound for her, a rat sniffing out secrets in the gilded corners of her palace.

"teachers need no patience," he declared. "a child learns or they do not. but you may find, in such an endeavour, that those children may learn more swiftly than a polished noble." still; the idea was silvered and hopeful; he let himself think of it.

no grace, all those years. none. a father unknown, a mother blurred by age and ended so early by murder that khusobek did not remember her face. he had belonged to the throng of peasants, and it was from this throng that hatshepsuun had seen fit to choose.

machiavelli's gentle flattery felt more genuine as the moments passed; he wanted to comment upon the servant's generosity and the acceptance of this between them a marvel in understanding, but his crimson ears wished more the new revelation. the way in which this fellahin presented such knowledge did not quite charm khusobek, or rather charm was not the most useful word. it was a deep intrigue he wished to indulge.