Lion Head Mesa glory & garbling

"it is." it was far easier to accept that one might change, even if he had not understood those things in himself. it was not for him to understand, khusobek had decided long ago, and this removed any onus of responsibility from him to be better.

he watched that glow play over a pretty shoulder, the set of machiavelli's mouth. "i meant him to be the sufferer of breath. i wanted to bring him to that place where the life one once begged for is thrown aside in plea for death. and then i wanted to deny it."

he was risen now, a last drink scorching his throat with lascivious fire.

"shall i show you?" one shoulder moved into the stream of water which glistened in beaded drops upon the servant's lips; he splashed his own face as if to stall the admission.