Hideaway Strath Synapses Snap Back in Blissful Anguish

With nothing more than a flick of his ear, Machiavelli signaled, and a soft hide—brought with the intention of drying his thin frame—was brought for Zitari’s comfort. She’d find refuge from the cold, and he would make do with another back at camp.

But now she wanted a story.

What, he wondered, could he tell her? His mind sifted through memories like jagged stones, each more twisted than the last. How he had cannibalized his lover? Or perhaps about the time he had slaughtered his council in cold blood? Maybe even how he had buried his old self, only to be dragged back kicking and screaming and told to dig?

Machiavelli was nearly childlike in the way he sunk under the waters, pink nose blowing a jet of frustrated bubbles as the stream lapped at his cheeks. His grip on reality had become loose—more so than it already had been that was—in the passing weeks, yet he still understood those were not exactly sharing material. How did one politely confess that their past was far from anything fit to share?

He racked his brain for one that wouldn't—rightfully—terrify her.

Once, when I was very young...there was this boy I knew, Machi leaned his head back against the bank, closing his pale eyes as he remembered. This boy had a rather brilliant, and frankly reckless, idea to sneak out past dark—past the guards and sentries—to see the stars from a tall hill nearby. I was horrified, naturally, but he… well, he had a way about him, persuasive, you might call it. And I was, perhaps, rather desperate to impress him.

He chuckled, a soft, warm sound, laced with something young and long-buried.

He managed to coax me out, and there we were, two little ghosts slipping past the guards. It was as if every cricket, every rustling leaf, was set to betray us. But we reached the top, and the boy stretched his arms wide, as if he could scoop up the whole sky, the halfbreed continued, his own arms pulling wide at the recolection. He tried to get me to lie down in the dirt to stargaze ‘properly,’ as he put it. I remember acquiescing, lying there, stiff as a board, refusing to relax—still mortified that we’d broken curfew.

Machiavelli’s smile grew, a touch of wistfulness in his expression.

But he was so delighted, pointing out the constellations and whispering about the ‘adventure’ we were having. For once, I didn’t mind the dirt or the rules we’d broken. I only minded when dawn came, and we had to slip back in. I was utterly certain my master would know exactly what we’d done. But he simply winked, patted my shoulder, and promised, ‘It’s worth the scolding.’ And somehow...he was right.

A comfortable silence settled between them as Machiavelli allowed the memory to linger, softened by time yet sharp enough to feel real again.