Two Eyes Cenote i'm a winged insect, you're a funeral pyre

tag for reference, though you are absolutely welcome to join if you want, tazi! <3

sleep has not come without fighting tooth and nail for meseba as of late; imprisoned by worry over @Eset and the tug-of-war of wanting to see her, speak to her and giving her space and not wishing to be an intrusion upon her grieving and healing.

but he cannot help it; he who is not a man of the watch by choice or nature. it is written into the marrow of his bones to be protective over those he cares for ... and he cares for the hebsut; more than he was willing to admit to himself ( not out of shame but his own plaguing fear of rejection ).

eyes watch the dark, handsome stranger attending her with spearing jealousy that seethes beneath his skin like a darker plague.

in the infancy of the night, meseba takes up his post upon the gate; eyes closing for a moment as he basks in Sopdet's hour; a crown of starlight upon his brow. he can feel Her and Osiris, feel the ancient, earth old stirrings of Them but he does not reach out to touch it. to take what advice They wish to offer him.

reserved. hesitant. afraid that it might be exactly what he needs but not what he wants to hear.

eyes open in time with an heavy exhale; gaze cast out to the horizon, raptorial and dutiful.

Sleep. Prune the dead leaves, water the roots, cycle them between sun and shade—never too much light, lest they burn and wither. They are your last hope now, keep them alive. Sleep. Repeat.

This was the half-breed's mantra, the rhythm that steadied his mind and kept his paws from trembling. By day, he immersed himself in the delicate care of his garden, coaxing life from the loamy soil with a meticulous touch. He found solace in the blooms, their vibrant colors and pretty scents a welcome distraction from the lingering presence of those who would see him captured. But when the sun dipped below the horizon and the palace was draped in the deep velvet of night, he would slip away from his sanctuary, moving like a ghost through the silent halls of the place he once called home.

Tonight, the dog made his rounds along the palace's limestone walls, the starlight catching on the pearl of his fur. He paused now and then, listening to the shifting of sand beneath his paws, the faint trickle of water streaming from one of the cenote's cerulean eyes into the lower chambers. He knew every corner of this place, every hidden path and darkened alcove, every stone that might betray him with a clatter. Yet the palace was always full of surprises, and this evening, his route brought him to an unexpected encounter—a figure standing alone at the gate, a sentinel lost in thought.

Machi’s breath caught, just for a moment, his heart giving a quick, startled thump. It was the first time he had seen this guard since his release. The urge to flee, to melt back into the shadows, surged within him, but he tamped it down, feeling instead a stubborn resolve to stand his ground, smooth everything over, and begin anew.

Drawing a slow breath, Machi padded forward on featherlight steps, his paws barely kissing the ground. His posture was relaxed, nearly casual, tail swaying as he approached. He could sense the tension in the air. His eyes narrowed, studying the guard’s troubled expression, the crease of his brow, the sigh that slipped unbidden from his lips. There was something in that sigh—a weariness, perhaps, or maybe a hint of frustration.

Machi settled himself beside the larger figure, lowering himself onto his stomach and letting out a soft, almost inaudible exhale. His ears pricked forward, attuned to the smallest shifts in the man’s demeanor, the subtle cues that might reveal his thoughts.

The stars are beautiful tonight, hmm? he ventured, his voice soft, almost melodic, carrying with it a gentle warmth. There was no need for sharp words or defensive posturing tonight, no reason to stoke the embers of suspicion. Instead, he let his tone convey a sense of quiet camaraderie, an olive branch offered in the stillness of the dark.

He tilted his head back, his gaze drifting upward to the vast expanse of the sky, a sea of indigo dotted with countless stars, each one a tiny beacon in the void.

I find there’s something rather humbling about them, he continued, his voice low and contemplative. Makes one feel... small, wouldn't you agree?

the stars, while usually safe harbors of peace for him, do not necessarily bring him the same peace they once had. not this night. not with the dark plague-like things seething in his stomach, in his heart. and meseba is disappointed. in himself, in truth.

in a very un-guard-like way, meseba gives a small start as machiavelli's voice startles him out of his reverie. that half worship state he'd put himself into. he blinks and turns his head to fix machiavelli in his gaze. meseba, despite machiavelli's freedom, does not trust him.

perhaps it is unwarranted, but his judgement was cast the moment he was placed behind the bars of their prison.

tonight ... drawls meseba finally, after a long pause. tonight, they act as mouth piece of Sopdet and Osiris. and i do not want to hear what they have to say, because he wouldn't like it, he knows. tonight, i do not find them beautiful.

why are you out here? asks meseba next, not in the mood to mince words.

I should have announced myself, the half-breed murmured, offering an inclination of his fair head. I can't imagine I was the company you were expecting.

Ah, Sopdet and Osiris, Machi’s voice was a velvet thread, quiet and calm, as if trying to stitch together the jagged edges of Meseba’s vexation. I suppose even the gods have their restless nights, just as we mortals do. He gave a small smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

Do they speak to you often? he asked, though his tone held no jest, only curiosity. He sought to understand the man beside him, even if only through his relationship with the gods he served.

Why am I out here? Machi echoed softly, his gaze drifting momentarily to the sky before falling back to Meseba. There was a pause, as he considered his words carefully. Charm only went so far when the other man’s trust was already brittle, if it existed at all.

I would say the same as you, Machi replied finally his tone void of malice, however it seems your duties aren't at the forefront of your mind tonight. He shifted his weight as he settled more comfortably, quiet now as he offered the Mazoi a listening ear— one to be taken or ignored as he wished.

i expected no company, meseba murmurs brusquely, a small thought that he hoped machiavelli hadn't expected him to answer differently. there was a distinct and definitive line of distrust between the oldguard and machiavelli. and he understands what the other man is trying to do, or so meseba thinks he does: sewing a sort of connection by touching upon Sopdet and Osiris.

but in the steady heartbeat like an ancient war drum in meseba's chest as he looks to machiavelli, whispers in a voice older than the sky and bones, how would machiavelli's heart measure against the feather? would the scales of justice tip in his favor or would his soul be left to the devourer?

how do you think your heart will weigh against the feather of Ma'at, machiavelli? asks meseba, ignoring the question asked in favor of his own. a heavy question, even if meseba himself wasn't even sure how his own heart would measure on the scales. maybe Ammit would devour his soul, in the end.

and maybe meseba was ok with that.

there is a soft bristle of meseba's guardhairs as machiavelli touches upon the fact that he was distracted. the breath that leaves the oldguard is a harsh push, a low snort. that is none of your business. a sharp snap of a book closed: meseba would not be offering any sort of insight into the his inner workings.

at least, not with machiavelli.

Machi’s expression held its usual composure, though for a brief moment, a flicker of amusement danced across his opalescent eyes. It was fleeting, however, as the man's question was quick to cull it. How would the dog's heart weigh against the feather of Ma’at? The query hung in the air, the gravity of it undeniable. It wasn’t a question that could be dismissed with a simple quip.

Ah, Machi’s voice, when he finally spoke, was soft, carrying a note of thoughtful melancholy, as though he were sifting through long-buried memories. The feather of Ma’at. He let the name linger on his tongue, like tasting something bitter yet familiar.

You know, I wondered the same thing myself once, the half-breed admitted. There was a man who came to us— he was older, and required help preparing a heart scarab. Machi explained, his gaze fixed upwards, tracing invisible patterns between the stars. I was just a child at the time, yet I couldn’t shake the certainty that Ammit would devour me whole if I ever stood before the scales. A faint, humorless chuckle escaped him, a wisp of sound lost to the night.

He tilted his fair head, eyes narrowing slightly as he pondered his next question. But then, it led me to wonder... if a Pharaoh, in all their glory, denies Ma’at and instead exalts Apophis, leading their subjects into chaos, whose heart would Ma’at judge? Theirs— or those who followed the one they trusted most dearly? His voice was quiet, taking on the casual tone of one proposing a philosophical, yet, there was an edge of sincerity.

Ah, of course, Machi replied smoothly, inclining his head respectfully, his voice dipped in honeyed tones but with no hint of insincerity. Forgive me for overstepping. I meant no offense. Despite his curiosity, the dog knew well enough when to retreat. He had tested the waters, and Meseba had made it clear where the boundaries lay.

the perspective that machiavelli offers feels like a trick to meseba, as he stares at the proverbial issue set before him: would Ma'at judge the Pharaoh or the subjects? were they not all responsible for the weight of their own hearts? it was easy to push the blame on others, to hold no accountability. but they were meant to follow Pharaoh blindly, for the Pharaoh's were gods on the salt of earth.

we all must hold accountability for our actions, speaks meseba, finally; gaze cutting. i do not think Ma'at's focus is so singular. She looks at all things. the feather, meseba strongly believed, did not lie.

but he was not Ma'at and thus was not able to base his judgements beyond what he saw and was told. he would not know truth from lies. he only had his own limited discernment and it was flawed.

to the ask of forgiveness for overstepping, meseba is stoic, offering no reprieve. for in meseba's mind, machiavelli had overstepped: they were not friends and meseba's trust must be wrenched from his teeth as if were in the deathgrip of a crocodile.

Hmm, yes, I suppose you’re right, he conceded, his voice carrying a thoughtful sigh, more to himself than to his wary companion. Meseba, predictably, offered no acknowledgment of the apology, and Machi allowed it to pass without further comment. Trust, much like an empire, was not the sort of thing that could be forged in a single night. Yet, despite his composed demeanor, there was a slow simmer of frustration stirring deep within him. Since his imprisonment, the palace seemed to have completely turned on him— something he had anticipated, but that he could not quite forgive Eset for.

With a quiet sigh, he straightened, the elegant plume of his feathery fur shifting as he shook the dust from his coat.

Thank you for granting me your perspective on the matter. I suppose, then, I should continue my own journey toward accountability. The half-breed murmured, casting a final glance toward the stars, before letting his gaze fall back to the Mazoi. If you find you have need of me, he added with a polite incline of his head, I’ll be continuing my rounds.

a simple grunt is given; as close to a goodbye as meseba is willing to give. he is glad for machiavelli's departure ... for many and more reasons but chiefly so he can nurse his jealousy and sulk in peace.

which he continues to do the moment the snake of eden is out of his sight.