Two Eyes Cenote Dinner & Diatribes

For @Khusobek <3
Set shortly after this thread

The tranquility of night had settled over the palace, casting a serene stillness in the blue-lit corridors. A soft chorus of slumbering breaths filled the halls, blending with the faint whisper of a cool breeze filtering through the limestone. But Machiavelli remained awake. His paws moved soundlessly across the smooth stone floor as he slipped through the passageways, a shadow amidst shadows, until he arrived outside of the Mazoi's chamber.

With a slow, controlled breath, Machi tilted his head slightly, as if weighing the wisdom of disturbing the peace he was about to interrupt. Still, there were things that needed to be said, and for once, he felt the pressing urge to speak them.

Khusobek, he called softly, his voice a low murmur that barely disturbed the night air, yet it carried enough weight to reach the seasoned guard within. May I have a moment of your time?

For a moment, only silence greeted him, and Machi steeled himself. He knew, perhaps better than anyone, that he was the last creature Khusobek would want to see at this hour—or any hour, for that matter. Yet there he stood, tail low, head dipped slightly in a show of reluctant humility. The uneasy, forced peace between them was fragile, but if there was any chance of mending what had been broken, this was where it had to start.

his children grew so fast that khusobek, already a father in a distant land, experienced for the first time a sense of paternal wistfulness. each day that they played and they worked was one he saw as miniscule, growing smaller and smaller still.

water, splashed overhead from a night's rain which trickled into a pool, its rivulet a fresh glisten in the moonglow. he let it course over the broadness of his shoulder; it sluiced along the defined musculature of his back, which did not tense at machiavelli's voice.

"enter."

now, what did this particular man want of him? stepping from the tiny stone cistern for which he had chosen this room, the man moved on pantherine feet to pivot, to watch as the servant made his entrance.

droplets of water fell in translucent beading to the room's floor. eset's hand was at work here, preserved; the masculine air prevailed. behind khusobek, his bed was unmade but it had lain in just those folds for so long that the hides had begun to stiffen. his nights were spent most often in the perfumed and inviting rooms of his wife. this was his first room, and it was here he came to bathe away the sand.

"why do you seek me?" he asked in quiet poise, eyes ready to see what machiavelli revealed with his own.

I wish to offer my sincerest apologies for what occured that day in the prison, Machi began, his voice quieter than usual, yet holding a sincerity that could not be easily dismissed. He hesitated for a moment, opal eyes meeting Khusobek’s glacial blue, searching for any sign that he might continue.

If no immediate protest came, he would press on, his words measured. It has lingered on my mind for quite some time, though I made no effort to apologize. I assumed, perhaps wrongly, that it would be... unwanted. The dog paused briefly, his gaze steady but cautious. However, after speaking with Safiya, I was convinced to try.

He could not be certain Khusobek cared to hear the reasoning behind what had transpired, yet Machi continued anyway. His tone was measured, though the vulnerability beneath it was apparent. It was my mistaken belief that I was to be handed over to Herod. I sought to provoke your anger, hoping you might... beat me. Herod only values that which is untouched— unblemished. The bitterness in his voice, though subtle, crept into his words, a wound reopened.

I... cannot say that I regret what I did, given what I believed at the time, as I was acting under the assumption that the Hebsut had sent you with the intention of... interrogation, he added delicately, leaving unsaid the darker implications that hung between them. There was a brief pause as the half-breed gathered his thoughts before he concluded, softer now, I am truly sorry, however, that my schemes brought you unnecessary trouble.

I do not expect a response, the dog added after a moment. However, I thank you for listening, he finished, bowing his head respectfully, and awaiting dismissal.

such a sign came in the form of nothing more than a barely perceptible tilt of the man's chin. he wanted to hear this; machiavelli had presented it well.

the fellahin went on, speaking of safiya. khusobek was careful to analyze the care with which that name was mentioned; if he saw something in it, for now it went unsaid. there was an aspect here, that his daughter had influenced the decision to send the man forth; it was appreciated in a softening of the icewater gaze.

guard remained, slowly lowered. they had shared the same confusion, machiavelli and himself, and it had hinged upon — it was where the blame belonged, in hands that were neither his nor those of the servant. but for his pride the crocodile was unable to place it there; he held it in his hand, in his heart.

machiavelli had come to apologize for khusobek's wrists pillared around his head, for the way he had twisted the thorns into the mouth speaking now; his stare pinched and he glanced away.

apology given; a smile's hint ghosted to life on khusobek's mouth. "i enjoyed what i did, as i too felt justified. i only regret it was you in my rope, machiavelli." honesty granted back, eyes holding those of the other. 

his eyes traced now, to see if the lines remained; his shoulders stretched in a broadening breath. "do you care if herod values you, while we are being direct with one another?" the nature of the servant's relationship with this man tempted more than curiosity; he sought the blueprint of new power.

Machi stood, waiting for the dismissal that didn’t come. Slowly, he raised his gaze once more, opalescent eyes meeting the Mazoi's steady gaze where the hint of a smile was found. He listened quietly, as the captain spoke in turn. A soft flush bloomed across the quartz-stone cheeks. Clearing his throat, he waved a paw in dismissal, his voice resolute.

I hold no grudge against you, Khusobek. His words were calm, offering peace. If that is how you feel about the matter, then let it be buried.

There was a pause, a brief flicker of hesitation before Machi ventured into more dangerous waters. He could not leave without addressing a far graver accusation.

I hope it goes without saying that I did not attempt to murder Legend? His voice dipped, carrying a note of discomfort, the weight of that accusation too heavy to let linger. It is true that I mistook her for a bounty hunter when we first crossed paths and... ambushed her. But she was not harmed. His tone quieted further, We have since made amends.

If I had cared to be valued by him, I would have remained at his side. The dog's tone was near brusque, betraying the rawness of that particular scar. But, sensing the need to soften the defensive blow of his response, he quickly added, more curious than confrontational, Why do you ask?

another nod. "i believe you. and given your situation, you had reason to fear hunters. legend can be terrifying if she desires." there was a note of admiration in his tone for the yaret, and another for the sort of person he now understood machiavelli to be.

quickly the tongue in the pretty mouth moved, and khusobek saw the pain in that response. "because if you are someone who has survived royalty and its extremes, over and over, then you are someone i can trust. i only want to know if you regret where you are now."

he did not.

peace between them. his scarlet ears flicked. "what will you do now?" the guard asked, genuine curiosity tied into his tone.

the warm air had dried his fur rather quickly; he relaxed now, waiting to listen with more of a storytime air in the atmosphere between he and machiavelli now.

His thoughts wandered to the squeaky little Jackdaw, and despite himself, a soft, almost wistful smile curled upon his lips. The memory lingered, stirring something faint but familiar in his chest. I must admit, he mused, amusement flickering in his gaze, I do believe it.

But then, as swiftly as the lightness had come, something darker, more reflective, seeped into his expression. His brow arched slightly, a delicate motion that belied the harshness of his thoughts. Trust, you say? He let it hang in the air for a beat before his lips curled into a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Would that not make me wholly untrustworthy by default? The smile was courteous, charming even, but there was something dangerous beneath it. A note of intrigue, confusion, perhaps even warning, threaded through the velvety tones of his voice.

I’m certain you can imagine, he continued, his voice lowering into a conspiratorial hum, the sorts of deeds I’ve committed—and worse still, those I’ve conveniently ignored—all in the name of surviving royalty and its extremes. The smile still lay politely upon his lips, but the disgust in his eyes told a different story.

To answer your question, however, no, I do not regret being here. Machi shook his head, reflecting on the truth of the statement. I think I have begun to transform into a different sort of creature since my arrival in Muat-riya. Perhaps for better, perhaps for worse.

He tilted his head slightly, gaze drifting to some distant point as he considered the unthinkable. Herod's death had seemed such an impossible dream, always in sight but just out of reach. But now, with the help of The Blue Palace's inhabitants, it drew continually closer to his grasp.

Perhaps, he mused, a faint, teasing lilt returning to his voice, in this land of endless opportunity, I shall reinvent myself as an entertainer. The notion, while absurd, brought a flicker of warmth back to his expression, the dark cloud that had momentarily settled over him lifting. He allowed the corners of his lips to tug upward into a self-deprecating grin, the charm sliding back into place with effortless ease.

Imagine it—traveling between the courts, basking in the applause of adoring crowds, he said, his voice dancing on the edge of jest, though there was a spark of something genuine beneath the humor, as if he could almost picture it—a life of freedom, unburdened by the past.

A soft chuckle escaped him, and he shook his head as if to dismiss the thought, though the amusement lingered. After all, what else is a man with a face as pretty as mine to do, when there is no apparent brain behind it?

Mature Content Warning

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The participants have indicated the following reason(s) for this warning: mention of sad things, death

and quite a story it was.

khusobek's lips flicked in a quick smile. "you should never have been underestimated." machiavelli spoke with such a warmth that the crocodile might have thought the torment in the cells a dream — had he not seen his own marks bit into the same muzzle which now spoke in such airy tones.

though he would not say it, though there was no reason to bring up what had been buried, the very silver of machiavelli's tongue was why khusobek had moved to bind it. disarming, personable, cunning; he saw the survivor's iron beneath the sculpted beauty.

he had seen it inside other prisons and within harems; he had seen it in the terrified, dying eyes of a selfish priest's young concubine. forbidden to the holy man by dint of his very worship, the girl had been a possession. like machiavelli. but unlike the man before khusobek who had leveraged many parts of himself to become something more, she had died, hidden in the early stages of her labor until it was too late for the midwives to intervene.

he had seen it then, and he saw it now. what existed between khusobek and machiavelli was the profane unsaid, the sum of trials that carved both into what they now were.

such things needed no words to be understood. "you have earned your trust," the man spoke all the same, shifting as he watched the servant.

"the palace has that effect," he said quietly. "perhaps you should see akashingo also. there could be — efforts for you to pursue in both places. a school, maybe, for fellahin." testing, awed by his own thought; the crocodile was silent now.

I find that being underestimated can be an exceptionally valuable asset, the man crooned slyly. Though I must admit, I imagine it proves considerably more challenging for someone as formidable as yourself than it is for someone like me.

He paused, a thoughtful expression softening his features as his digits traced an idle pattern against his own wrist. Still, I must give credit where it is due. I confess, I underestimated your grace, and for that, I am genuinely appreciative. A soft chuckle escaped his lips, carrying with it a hint of relieved amusement. In truth, I had envisioned this entire encounter unfolding with far more awkwardness. So I suppose I must thank you for sparing me of that particular humiliation.

You have earned your trust. For the first time, the tension in Machiavelli’s slender frame began to melt away, more noticeable now in its absence. His shoulders relaxed as Khusobek’s words settled over him, stirring a warmth he had not anticipated. Machi regarded the captain now with a softer expression, the usual guardedness fading as a gentle, almost disbelieving smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. I am truly glad to hear it, he murmured sincerely, gaze traveling over Khusobek as if seeing him anew.

A school you say? Machi echoed, tilting his head slightly as he pondered the notion. I am surprised that such an organization does not already exist, if I am to be completely honest. I have always held a deep appreciation for the pursuit of knowledge, especially when it pertains to subjects that ignite my curiosity, and I could see many others here feeling the same, he stated, his tone encouraging. Perhaps it might open to all those interested in learning, noble and fellahin alike.

He let out a soft, self-deprecating laugh, his expression shifting into something almost playful. I would offer my knowledge, however, I’m not sure I’d make much of a teacher, unfortunately. I lack the patience, I fear. He shook his head, the briefest hint of distaste crossing his features before a new thought seemed to strike him, brightening his eyes.

Speaking of, Machi continued, his tone shifting once again, this time more focused. There is something I would like to ask you about, if you’d indulge me for a moment.

"i am a tool and i can see when my purpose is unnecessary," he said in self-deprecating jest. "and i am often awkward, but when you are a dour man with a ruined face, few question your emotion." his eyes flickered. "the very formidable which you mentioned provides a shield against being seen." 

khusobek wanted to tell machiavelli that there was no grace in him, that it had been ended so long ago. that the day he had ended up in hatshepsuun's bed had felt at first like serendipity, until the man who had been that boy at last figured it out. she had wanted his weakness to be centralized only in her; she had wanted to own not only his body but the loyalty of his very spirit.

and she had been given this! in eternal offering, khusobek growing from eager youth to the jaded man she had made of him, the dark thing she could call upon to be a hound for her, a rat sniffing out secrets in the gilded corners of her palace.

"teachers need no patience," he declared. "a child learns or they do not. but you may find, in such an endeavour, that those children may learn more swiftly than a polished noble." still; the idea was silvered and hopeful; he let himself think of it.

no grace, all those years. none. a father unknown, a mother blurred by age and ended so early by murder that khusobek did not remember her face. he had belonged to the throng of peasants, and it was from this throng that hatshepsuun had seen fit to choose.

machiavelli's gentle flattery felt more genuine as the moments passed; he wanted to comment upon the servant's generosity and the acceptance of this between them a marvel in understanding, but his crimson ears wished more the new revelation. the way in which this fellahin presented such knowledge did not quite charm khusobek, or rather charm was not the most useful word. it was a deep intrigue he wished to indulge.

Machiavelli had long lived by a principle, learned early and held tightly: never offer flattery unless it is deserved. To the dog, empty praise was more than just dishonest—it was a double-edged sword. People were often far more intuitive than they appeared, and hollow words had a way of breeding resentment, cutting deeper than silence ever could. Perhaps it was this very belief that lent him a certain allure; when Machiavelli offered praise, it was genuine. He meant every word, and that sincerity, often drew others to him, like moths to a flame's dying breath.

So when his opalescent eyes narrowed, thoughtfully traveling over Khusobek, it wasn’t out of vanity or jest. His gaze lingered with genuine consideration, unbothered by convention as he studied the man like one might study a work of art—one demanding a closer look. He shook his head slowly, voice carrying a tinge of disbelief, almost as if dismissing some absurd notion.

Dour, perhaps. Ruined face? The words came soft, with a slight rise of his brow, as though the very idea were something that didn’t quite sit right with him. Boldly, he lifted a paw, gesturing with an almost playful insistence. Don’t be so modest. Turn for me, will you? Let me see you in full.

And with the air of an artist contemplating the delicate brushstrokes of a portrait, he took his time—his gaze sweeping over the captain as though weighing every scar, every line, every imperfection, not as flaws, but as defining marks of a story well-lived. The smirk that tugged at his lips was subtle, teasing, as though he had only reached a conclusion after this thorough assessment.

No, no, I think not, Machiavelli declared at last. You do yourself a disservice. I’m quite certain you must drive the women wild.

And in that moment, Machiavelli may not have known just how much his past mirrored the guard captain's own, but some part of him felt the kinship, sensed a kind of quiet understanding between them. It lingered there, unspoken but not unnoticed.

For now, however, he let his thoughts drift inward, pondering the truth in Khusobek's words. A flicker of self-awareness crossed his expression, and a small, self-deprecating smile curled at the corner of his mouth. Perhaps you’re right, he admitted. If my childhood has taught me anything, it’s that nobles often believe they have nothing left to learn. His mother’s voice echoed faintly in his mind, a ghost from long ago.

Machiavelli’s eyes softened as he shifted the conversation, glancing down at his paw before continuing. I wish to teach Safiya about gardening. Nothing dangerous, of course—just the simple art of growing lavender. Though, I can understand why the prospect might seem... less than agreeable. He hesitated, weighing his next words, then extended an olive branch, a wry smile flickering across his lips. I extend the invitation to yourself as well. Perhaps you might join us and preview just how suitable a teacher I am.