Lion Head Mesa a whispering god

gentle — it was the name of every touch which followed, from the gait the prince must keep for machiavelli's comfort to the way he urged the other to lean against him through the corridors of red stone, down to the wellspring itself.

he sent all others away. the water was cold here this time of year, but he entered its stillness first. "they say that cold water opens the scent of the sealillies. look. they float here, gotten in trade from moontide."

he extended his arm to help the other down over the smooth lip of stone and down into the frigid water, spine against the worried chest of the prince while scarlet arms encircled to hold him upright in the wellspring. "i have been filled by ruining thoughts," he breathed against the side of machiavelli's neck, eyes closing in fervent thanks to silent deities.