Lion Head Mesa a whispering god

kiseki-yoku was rising.

queenly whispers surrounded the royals' glowing pool, and into it senmut stared as if he might divine the voice within the catacombs. he was not able to determine what had changed of the wellspring, only that in some minute way it had shifted.

kiseki-yoku whispered unto itself to nichibotsu and hinode;

satsu's smile curling upon redstone walls.

senmut thought he must be going mad.

as of late, the palace had received @Machiavelli but no eset. a stifling heat in the wintertide air gripped red priest, and in search of that sweetened familiarity he moved purposefully through the scarlet halls.

a scribe with a prince's step. voice beckoned to the fellahin and senmut did not wait to be bidden. "is she well, machiavelli?" he asked, worried greenlight gaze etching over the traveltorn figure of the pearlspill man. he did not allow himself to remember, not in this moment.

Sorry for the late reply! I'll try to be a bit quicker with the next one.

The man could be found in a forgotten corner of the palace grounds, where sprawling prairie grasses met desert sand. His thin figure lay wrapped tiger-striped in shadow, hidden beneath the swaying foliage.

Just how long had he been lying there? The answer seemed unclear. But one might observe the way the dust and sand clung to his pelt, giving him the appearance a figure sculpted of clay and grass and all manner of natural things, left then to be remembered only by the earth and her slow envelopment.

As the Prince's voice broke the silence, the grasses burst to life as if startled, and something small bolted into the distance. The cold, opal-sheen eyes tracked the retreating figure's disappearance, a small huff of air escaping through the dog's nose.

Slowly, Machiavelli unfurled from his reclined position, limping forward a few paces from the dense thicket and onto a patch of ground where the wild growth began to thin. A dirt-stained forepaw rose and began to cover something over with earth.

He did not look up, his attention fixed upon his work.

Of whom do you speak?

no ur good! <3

anger rose sharp in senmut, followed by regretfulness. it was clear that machiavelli was not himself, and so he stooped, sliding his own palms through the dust until his toes bumped the smooth limb of the fellahin. "eset."

in boldness his arms went around machievelli, hauling the man upright. he had been sorely used and harmed; senmut sought the fracture of light in those pearlspill eyes.

"come." to the wellspring; he would sponge the dust from machiavelli himself. "i need to know what has happened."

earnestness replaced even the brief spark of rage.

There was a sharp spark of pain as Machi was pulled from his place, made known through the wince and abrupt intake of breath, the harshness, and accusation in his eyes as they met Senmut's in a look that, if the half-breed did not know better (and perhaps at this precise sleep-deprived moment he didn't), could almost be described as particularly irritated.

Gentle. The only word offered in warning reply; yet another look at the priest's earnest face pulled a breath deep from within Machi's lungs. A forepaw pulled over his hollow, tired face. Please, darling. Tacked on, softer this time.

A make-shift pelt bag was gathered from the grasses, and Machi limped to the red man's side, prepared to follow.

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.

Many thoughts warred within the dog's head: Eset who had not been found by his messenger, Khusobek who lay injured, and Tavina who had been imprisoned at the behest of their oh-so-revered leader. Yet, through it all, one image burned brightest—the wicked glint of Herod's fangs.

When Senmut’s breath found his throat, it was that image that held Machi captive, and for a moment, he was in another place, surrounded by rivers of shining gold. He blinked, pale lashes fluttering like moth wings against the haze of his thoughts.

It was a long moment of heavy silence before the dog could open his mouth to reply, and another pause further still before words emerged, torn between relief and want, and exhaustion, worry, and pain.

Did Senmut know of Tavina's imprisonment and the reason behind it? He lifted a paw, his innate grace at odds with the trembling that betrayed him, and brushed it against the priest's cheek, a sick feeling rising in his stomach.

Machi’s lips quirked into a brittle shadow of their usual smirk. He leaned in, placing a teasing kiss featherlight on the man’s brow, the kind of armor he donned so easily, yet so transparently.

Not when I’m this revolting, you beast, he murmured, voice low, an attempt at humor threading through the exhaustion that lined every syllable.

"that is the wrong sort of ruining thought," senmut rejoined just as dryly, hiding the fact that his body indeed had initiated its unceasing response to machiavelli even amid the winterspiced waters.

he began to gather it in slow rivulets, smoothing its pour down the back of those slim shoulders and the fine neck, along the slender arms to their pointed elbows.

he sluiced the water along machiavelli's body until he could restrain his worry no longer. "do you not wish to speak of it?" asked quietly the priest, besotted by his own demand to know and yet there existed in him a deep refusal to press the fellahin further.

senmut knew very little and was aware of it, at least in this regard.

A puff of breath through the pink nose was the amused response. Forgive then, my assuming mind. Was Machi relieved to hear it or disappointed?

The same paw, unwound from Senmut and traveled instead to trace the path of the grooves that painted the dog's pale throat. I am only here because Eset saved me. That is why she left Muat-riya.

An army is not sent to collect a slave, nor a Hebsut, it seems, voice low, careful, unsure of the thickness of the ice upon which he tread.

"and who said these things?" senmut asked, attempting to keep his voice moderated for both their sakes. his palms skimmed the shoulders of machiavelli once more, but now he moved round to sponge desert dust from the soft chest.

"eset left muat-riya to find you, alone. you return to akashingo alone. where does that leave her?" he did not hold suspicion, only an abiding, haunted worry.

at last he stilled, holding those eyes with his own gemstone stare.

The first question was left unanswered. Machiavelli did not speak the name aloud—could not, until he was more certain of the prince's stance. Yet, it remained acknowledged if not only by the sickness and dread that lay plain upon his face, or the quickening thrum of his heart as he searched Senmut's gaze.

What do you know of Tavina's imprisonment, darling? A question returned softly, the dog's hesitation apparent. His words were a shield, not for himself but for Eset, for Muat-Riya—for the threads of loyalty he dared not fray. He would not have her found only to share her lover’s fate (if she were not sharing already), nor would he be so foolish as to breathe life into the treasonous embers smoldering in his thoughts.

Not yet.

the ministering of the priest halted for a moment, arms falling back into the water as surprise crossed his face — and then knowing.

"our Semer-wati informed me that tavina had trespassed against the gods. he expects an example made of her before them."

the only example, senmut slowly realized, was himself, his weak capitulation to god and to wealth. machiavelli was careful; machiavelli did not trust in his safety, and for that was the red priest stricken anew.

his wet palms raised to cup the debonair face even in its torment. "tell me."

The dove paw cupped Senmut's own, Machiavelli's head falling into the caress. For a moment, he said nothing, mind working to catch the fluttering scraps that were Meseba's words tossed over a winter-swept down—and perhaps more importantly yet, how to reveal this all to the Prince in such a manner that was not treason.

Eset left Muat-Riya to find me alone, he repeated at last, the words rising up slowly, bubbles pooling to the top of a surface-tense wellspring. The opal-sheen eyes lifted then, searching once more the emerald gaze that shimmered like gemstones beneath the dim light.

Tavina wanted her found—wanted her safe—much the same as you and I now, the half-breed continued. This was…disagreeable to Semer-wati.

disagreeable. senmut thought of the man who had pinned him, had held him; had introduced pain and its sinful pleasure in just a series of searing moments, that time here of which he had never spoken.

and until now he had not thought of it this day, and felt a swift sickness he kicked down inside himself. "and what became of tavina?"

tones holding now an ice they had not before. once more he lifted his touch to wash one of machiavelli's forearms as a terrible, terrible seething started to grow from a singular root.

For an instant, something flickered across the Prince's face—too quick to catch, too subtle to name. It snagged Machi’s attention nonetheless, a curious quirk pulling at his brow. A muddy ear flicked, opal eyes darting to the doorway and lingering as paranoia took root, next then to the ancient walls that seemed eternally listening. A shiver ran up the dog's spine.

Drawing himself back to the moment, he fixed his attention once more on Senmut, lips curving into a smile, I think, Machi began, the words laced with a faintly melodramatic lilt, if I am forced to linger a moment longer in these waters, I shall freeze to death where I stand, darling.

His voice dropped slightly then, pitched low enough for discretion but not so low that an attentive shadow might not catch it. Might we retire to your chambers? A sly pause, coaxing, head tilting ever so slightly as he let the faintest hum of amusement bleed into his next words. Perhaps there, you could share all those ruinous thoughts, hmm?

"ah, fair," taking this moment for a chuckle, something light to lift the mood. machiavelli; he helped the wolfdog gently from the cold wellspring, putting around his shoulders one of their plush bathing-pelts. 

pristine rams'-hair encircled machiavelli's face for a moment, softening the worried anger wishing to take form on senmut's own; a trail of prints slowly faded in the direction of the priest's rooms. "you will find my chambers — less opulent than before. i — at times i feel as if i am losing myself to our wealth."

senmut did not explain; he began to move about the room in small frenzy once they had arrived. "please. sit," offering another coverlet of antelopehide as he stooped to lay out a small meal of his own, pieces of stag-heart and fish roe accompanied by cacti-pulp mixed with stubborn teeth into something fermented and perhaps gently sweet.

quietly now, from his place among the mats, he glanced up toward machiavelli who occupied a more noble place, pleased at the contrast here in his rooms.

It was only once he was led from the water that the tremors claimed him—small at first, then growing until they coursed through his frame in waves; for he was well and truly cold, yet the freeze seemed secondary in Machi's thoughts. The rabbit-skin bag was gathered again with care, and as they walked, he pressed against the Prince for warmth, his body soft and subdued, expression teasing. Long lashes fluttered and dipped low in a flirtation that bordered on coy, and yet, it wasn’t Senmut’s face that occupied his attention; it was the faces of those who passed them by, making note of any that seemed to linger just too long in his periphery.

When they arrived, the bag was discarded with haste, dropped to the nearest surface and accompanied by a single pointed warning: Don’t touch.

While Senmut busied himself, Machi stood sentinel at the threshold, languid beneath the pelt's warmth. He leaned against the cavern's wall, gaze locked on the corridor beyond, pale eyes unblinking. It is dangerously easy to grow complicit and malleable in the embrace of comfort, came the gentle reply, though the dog's stare never left the hall.

Only when the meal was set and the silence stretched long enough to assure him they were truly alone did Machi finally allow himself to sit. He accepted the hide with a grateful nod and pulled it tightly around his trembling frame, posture shifting as one rounded ear angled sharply toward the doorway, ever-vigilant.

As I have heard, Tavina was attacked and imprisoned, Machi began, voice low. Due to my injuries, Eset left me to return ahead to Muat-riya, however, when a messenger was sent to her, they returned without a reply. She could not be found.

senmut turned to a statue of red marble on that floor as machiavelli nestled himself deeper inside the antelope-hide and began to speak. modulated voice made short work and ordered detail of imprisonment. deceptiveness. his eyes drifted now to the pouch which his companion had dropped, and then moved to the hall, narrowing as if he knew one one of rashepses' spies toiled there.

"and our pharaoh," senmut heard himself say a thousand miles distantly, "did she not intervene?" yet he knew its truth; their ruler would have freed tavina with a word had she cared to do so. with another she might exile her husband as well; these things were within her power, a strength it appeared she had surrendered to her nightfall consort.

a great sigh at last poured from senmut, and he pushed some portion of the meal toward machiavelli. "so. by all rights eset should have been here, but she is not. and there now appears to be a second reason, aside from our enemy in the desert." rashepses himself, meting out an unkind justice with the nobility endowed by akashingo.

"how poor a prince am i, to see none of this happen. to hear none of it." a figurehead. a brittle bone doll. he shut his eyes in quiet self-loathing. "please eat, even if you have no appetite, machiavelli."

It’s my assumption she sanctioned this—unless, of course, she too remains conveniently unaware, the piebald man murmured, tone just as casual as how he prodded at the meal before him, idly rearranging its contents. Forgive me for being frank, darling, but if Pharaoh had any genuine concern for these events, Eset wouldn’t have ventured out alone in the first place, would she?

My fear, however, is that she did make it back to Muat-Riya. The desert ruffians, troublesome though they may be, can be dealt with, and the Hebsut is resourceful. The consort, however? Machi sighed, shaking his head and leaning back to be further enveloped in the pelt. His voice dipped low, quieter now, One way or another, she must be found quickly.

Machi’s gaze drifted upward, shattered-glass eyes glinting serpentine from beneath the heavy folds of the pelt. You have heard of it now, came the blunt reply, voice soft but the suggestion clear. I will keep you informed of whatever I learn.

he had no answer for that, for any of it. to machiavelli's statement he gave a look and a nod, but senmut felt he was in danger of falling into a despair. 

almost did the red prince part his jaws to utter his secret, one less dire than the death of ramesses — or was it? — 

but he could not. how might after all these words he share the corruption that the Semer-wati had unleashed inside his own flesh? senmut did not even know how to name it. he had not wanted it — until desire had risen, the pleasure of being rutted inside a divine hierarchy in which there could be no ascension for him.

"is there not a prison inside muat-riya?" he asked, turning with great effort his thoughts from the circling of this bleak air.

Please let me know if this is too much assumption or if you'd like anything changed! <3

There was that look again—and once more was the russet man caught in the pulse of the half-breed's opal-sheen gaze. Machi's eyes narrowed, ears pulling back despite themselves and the importance of surveillance.

Yes, of course, one I'm exceedingly familiar with in fact, Machi replied, accompanied by a ruffled sniff, although it seemed half-hearted. Did Senmut know something about Eset he felt reluctant to share? Tavina perhaps? The dog's stomach gave a lurch, imagining what might have become of her in that grim place. Slowly, a dove paw was extended across the meal, placed near enough so that Senmut might take it if he wished. Darling, are you alright? You look as though you might be sick.

oh —

"machiavelli. something is happening inside our palace. i do not know its face," senmut breathed, standing now, pulling away from the pretty dog until small lights from skyvent shafts illuminated his upturned features, "and i do not know its name. but evil stirs in akashingo, and i fear our Consort has fallen prey to it."

head shaking, arm raised as if to strike the unhearing wall, though in the end his touch was only light. shoulders curving, a great inhale drawn. "i knew when i saw him that he would not be content only being her lover. he wants the power possessed by pharaoh and her eyes are besotted with him."

treason on his tongue to lace the final words: "it should have been me who toula chose to stand beside her." the jealousy, the corruption, the rising angst; yes these things too had found their place in senmut.

The dog adjusted the pelt, drawing it close as though it might shield him from more than just the cold. His paw, retreating, curled tightly against his chest, eyes tracking the prince's movements.

Perhaps, the piebald man agreed, his voice low, reflective, as he absorbed this new information, however, unfortunately for all but her Highness's self, she chose Rashepses. And, as you’ve rightly said, she appears to be quite taken by him.

He tilted his head, the faintest trace of a tart smile curling at the corner of his lips as he smoothed a wrinkle from the edge of the pelt. I do agree, however, Machiavelli continued, tone sharpening, that both his gluttonous ego and lust for power lie entirely out of check. It is a matter that his wife, in her infinite power and— a pause, his tongue lingering briefly on the word before releasing it, —protectiveness of her people, would do well to address. Particularly if she is as steadfast in that duty as so many seem to insist. The final words landed heavier, underscored by the faint shift of the feathered tail against the pelt, a restless movement that betrayed the otherwise statuesque stillness of his body.

Machiavelli let the silence stretch just long enough to invite contemplation before tilting his head the other way and continuing: So, Erpa-ha, Pharoah's chosen Prince of Akashingo, what is your intention with all of this? A second calculated pause, the dog's eyes glinting like a blade.

To see Rashepses removed from power, perhaps?

one look into the moonstone eyes unraveled senmut — but he thought then of isetnofret and how he had denied such beauty entry into akashingo. it was from a sense of protection, no matter how misplaced.

a wan and humorless grin clung to his mouth for a moment. "we have already spoken treasonously," he said with cerise chin jutted toward the entryway, as if to defy any spying ears. "i will not say what i intend to do, if only to spare you whatever comes next."

plausible deniability. his eyes asked that machiavelli understand, paw turning to cup that palm against his own. eyes shut for a moment; senmut tilted his head back and drew a steadying breath. "you must preserve yourself now; seize the opportunity to leave. wait for eset. i speak as your prince and your — and your companion, machiavelli. i would not see you hurt again for this realm."

Machi stood then, pelt falling away and crumpling in a pile on the floor, expression matching Senmut's own. Oh, darling, you know I couldn't do that, he said softly, head tilted wistfully. I'm afraid I've grown much too fond of you silly desert wolves to turn my back on you all now. To turn my back on you.

Herod— the name uttered as though it might evoke his restless spirit, —subjected me to things Rashepses might only dream of. There is nothing he could do to frighten me, Machi stated confidently, tone leaving little room for disagreement. And beyond that, I'm afraid I'm far too stubborn to allow you be rid of me that easily, he sighed, even if I only pop in from time to time to ensure you haven't grown too comfortable in your wealth again, hmm?

Do not look so grave, my darling, I will not see you weather this alone.

"thank you, machiavelli. truly." and for a moment the despair lifted, and his face was brushed with another expression: a mild desire he turned away at once. "if herod was worse than rashepses, and you escaped, then i should have no fear of my own."

he and makono, standing before fennec.

the image eclipsed any bodily want; he felt his shoulders loose and a horrid exhaustion stealing into every limb, a tiredness that had nothing to do with physicality.

"will you stay?" senmut asked before the nerve left him; "stay with me, tonight. we do not even need to inhabit only this room. but i take comfort in your company, machiavelli. you bring me peace."