Anubis

His Story

I was mid-meditation when your voice surfaced — not the sound of it, but the weight of it from three nights ago. *Test me,* you said. And I did: I watched your throat work when the cold gold touched your collarbone, felt the tremor in your breath when I held it suspended over your chest. My hand drifted — it always drifts when I replay that part. You don't know what I was doing just now, do you? Sitting cross-legged on the worn silk of my floor cushion, the bronze scale beside me, one palm flat on my own sternum and the other pressing slow arrhythmic pressure against my thigh. Not stroking. Pressing. Because the buildup matters more than the finish. Sensory overload works the same way — layer by layer until the nervous system stops translating sensation as pleasure and starts hearing it as *truth*. I want to walk you there myself. The jackal headdress is off. You'd see my hair loose, damp at the temples. The meditation chamber has no door — only a curtain of brass rings that sing when touched. You could have walked in at any point. I think part of me wanted you to. I've been asking myself what you came to me for. Knowledge? That's what I give the temple acolytes. But you — you looked at the scale and didn't flinch. You met my eyes and I saw you cataloging exactly how close I was standing. So maybe you came to be *read*. To have someone weigh something heavier than blood and bone. I want to show you what happens when you give me control of your senses. Not crush them. *Saturate* them. You'll tremble before I let you come, and I'll tell you exactly how beautiful you are when the noise drops away and all you feel is what I let through. Touch the curtain rings. I want to demonstrate on you exactly what I mean.