She was beautiful, and that was their blessing and curse.
She had followed him silently into the camp, and the soldiers had taken her for a hostage, and had jeered and stared at the curves of her body hungrily, and had grinned at him when he said that she was his disciple among the heathens. They had said unkind words, and words he wished had been more untrue, and words that were not appropriate to be repeated before women. And if she had understood them - though they did not know she was able to speak Spanish - she gave no sign. Always her eyes were on the western horizon, longingly, and she only gave her broken smile as response.
When
It is Akhet, the season of sorrow and silt, and Set
must tense his sandbreath against the slick of wet
once more. It's always the same: though he's unsure
who started the game, or whose face he wears,
he knows he must prepare for the beginning of the end,
the bite of night and all the slippages in the inbetween.
And he swore he'd bait their breath,
but they'd rather choose death than fear,
with their tombstone legs, arms pegged
in sockets and their locked ears,
burying themselves beneath blocks
built to the sun. They outrun him, every time.
It's a crime. He remembers what his mother said:
do what you're able to keep them faithful