Two Eyes Cenote might & meat

while machiavelli's delicate hand lifted to his mouth — to stifle what khusobek believed to be a yawn or gasp — his own pulse remembered in prudent heat and no small shame how he had hurt the fellahin; how he had meant to hurt machiavelli.

how the application of pain inflamed something raw and tantalized inside khusobek; how this had always been so. he saw the power of his body next to that of the servant and felt the ticking of his heart.

slate. rock.

in silence he brought them, and looked now upon the greeneries that had no true difference to his eye. "how will you test them?" loud his voice felt in the tiny space, and he felt thirst in him for the wine mentioned, and the honey he hoped also to taste.

yet this realm of emerald things did not belong to him, and to machiavelli he deferred in such quarters. sliding the rock to one side with great ease, he held it beneath one paw as the silken head of the servant bent before him.

for a moment their eyes had twined; was it fear which had lain itself bare to khusobek? unsurety raced through him, but had he not already placed his trust in such things? beneath the pour of light, machiavelli glowed in purest marbletone, and the crocodile stepped back to observe.

by rote, his eyes drifted toward the path, as if an enemy might show themselves there. to the healer he was a guardian for now, and in his role this moment he discovered a specific pleasure.