Lion Head Mesa Wishing You the Best in the Worst Way

Oh, dear heavens above, Machiavelli’s voice cracked, horror painting his features as he all but collapsed against the cold floor. His trembling frame pressed flush to the stone, shoulders drawn tight, shrinking beneath Semer-Wati’s piercing gaze. I—I beg your forgiveness, a thousand times over.

Shattered-glass eyes flicked upward, hesitant, barely daring to meet the dark figure’s stare. As though the very act of looking upon him might be yet another transgression. I have been away, stolen for many months, he whispered, voice faltering. When I last walked these sacred halls, it was Pharaoh Toula, most radiant, who bore Amun-Ra’s divine light. I did not know—could not know—that she had left us, that you, holy one, in your infinite grace, had ascended in her stead.

The words poured from him faster now, spilling over themselves in a desperate bid for absolution. Please, exalted one, forgive my ignorance, the blasphemy of my unworthy tongue. I shall make it up to you immediately.

When finally summoned to action, Machiavelli slunk forward, a picture of absolute contrition, until he reached Rashepses’s side. It was here, however, that his confidence faltered, a crack forming in the practiced veneer. He had been rarely called for service of this sort—usually finding himself receiving such ministrations instead of offering them.

Dove paws hovered, then pressed firmly against the tight muscles of Rashepses’s shoulders, working the knots in patterns he had once found most pleasurable.