Sea Lion Shores metal and dust

Though she professed to hate the sea, Hatshepsut found herself upon the edge of the roaring crash all the same. The lap of foam upon sand confused and terrified the Regent, though she in her pride would never admit such a thing. Lestat had gone, perhaps to horrify yet another village filled with unsuspecting innocents, and although she was pleased he was pursuing the Gift given him by Akasha, she missed the oddity all the same.

The pale, fluid lines of another creature standing tensely before the gaping maw of the rough waters caught her eye, and the Regent paused in her careful trek across the sands to appraise the beast. Hale and slim, the wolf glowed in the light refracted from the ocean; it was an eldritch shadow the creature cast, and, intrigued, she approached.

Stepping quietly, Hatshepsut approached, letting her footfalls grow heavier so that he might hear her, and respond accordingly.

His eyes were the colour of pale wine; she recalled its taste well. Aware of his appraisal, the small Egyptian drew herself up with a knowing glint in her gaze, though she too dipped her head respectfully. They were well met here; there were no ranks to bandy or challenges to be met. “You are not from these lands,” she observed, the accent of Karnak clear in her tone. Hatshepsut had little time for greetings, yet her voice was amiable enough, though clearly questioning.

The crash of the ocean, too near for her liking, sounded, and her eyes moved to it briefly, though her attentions returned swiftly to the man before her. His body and the colour of it had first ensnared her interest — now the cadence of his softly spoken words intrigued her further.

Silently she waited for him to speak, for his accent was familiar somehow.

The expression in his eyes was beginning to stir a long-dormant sensation in Hatshepsut. As a girl, though she had never been given over to childish crushes and frilled fancies, she had been handed to her dullard, whinging half-brother, Thutmose II, to forge the sacred bond between bloodkin that supported the majestic lineages of Egypt. It was upon their wedding night that Thutmose, full of resentment for the radiant girl who had stolen their father's eye, usurped his place and popularity among the Karnak courtiers, and been named Regent against all tradition — it was upon that night he learned that he could subdue Hatshepsut in the basest, most feral way.

His own brothers had taken bets for the following morning, mocking Thutmose even in that way, but he had proven himself before them, and when Hatshepsut fell pregnant, he preened and pranced with a newfound confidence. After a harrowing experience during the birth of her daughter, who was almost immediately whisked away to be reared and pampered by concubines and nannies and eunuchs, the young Regent reappeared in two days' time upon her father's right hand side, much to Thutmose' utter disgust. The brief bloom of desire that had unfurled in Hatshepsut's young heart upon reaching her age was destroyed, presumably to never blossom again. Until now.

His gaze, piercing as well as riveted, were causing the bantam ruler some discomfort, as she found herself responding quite unbidden to him. “I am not. I am Ma'at-ka-Ra Hatshepsut, Regent of Karnak, Beloved of Amun.” The woman smiled as she spoke this last; having no herald to speak her titles could make her seem vain and unimportant despite their lofty sound, but Hatshepsut was empowered by them. Lapis eyes softened somewhat as she watched the man, and she was silent, waiting again for him to speak, to disclose his name, his origins.

Pharaoh. She had wanted it to be so for her also, and his title caused an intake of breath to slip forth from her chest; Hatshepsut tensed, standing taller beneath his gaze. Cursing herself for being so distracted by him, by the cool vibrato of his accent, so similar to her own that it evoked memories of the Nile, she sought the words to answer him. Thutmose had banished her upon the death of their father; he was determined to break the old ruler's word. His sister would never lead, even with the title of Regent as her own, not unless she formally stood beside him as his wife and Queen.

But she had refused to be satisfied with such; the throne of Egypt was within her reach, and so she had bared her teeth to Thutmose, and challenged him, scant weeks after Neferure's birth, her diminutive body unhealed from the ordeal of birth. And so she had lost to her cruel, foolish brother — he had thrown her out of Karnak, with the order that she never return on pain of death.

In her reverie, Hatshepsut too looked toward the sea, darkly fascinated by the chaotic curl of the waves. A legion of her father's soldiers, all good men, had perished during an excursion to the sea when she was young — she had hated the brine ever since. “I wanted to be Pharaoh,” the Egyptian found herself murmuring toward the pale wolf, the feline grace of his body not squandered upon her.

“I am Beloved of Amun; I was chosen by Him to lead, and this my earthly father knew. But my brother, my betrothed, did not accept this. He did not accept when my father appointed me as Regent over all of Karnak, and he did not accept the word handed down by the Divine One.” A strange light filled her eyes then; Hatshepsut had done her grieving over the loss of everything she held dear, but the rage she felt toward Thutmose II had no bounds.

“He banished me,” the small ruler finished crisply, whatever emotion had briefly wavered in her voice shed as if it were a serpent's skin. Lapis eyes found the brilliant jewelry set in the snowy Pharaoh's face, and with a tiny tremble of her lips, she dipped her head low before him. He had achieved what she had not, though Hatshepsut was well aware of the impossibilities posed by her sex.

“And you? We are far from home, you and I, Pharaoh. Surely the word of the gods was not the only thing to draw you to this place.” Again she glanced toward the sea, but its draw had fled her, and this Ankh Khafra was much more intriguing than the treacherous saltwater.

Hatshepsut did not think of that which she had underwent as suffering; she had very little self-pity, and that which she did was contained within herself. This man, this Ankh Khafra — surely he had been given the throne, groomed for it from birth. Their struggles were similar, and yet vastly different — while she resented him in some small way on her unbased assumption that his rise to Pharaoh had been effortless, Hatshepsut understood that their roles were never meant to be the same.

After her banishment, she had wandered for some months. Eventually her body let go of its milk, relieving the Egyptian of her inner maternal cry for Neferure, and she healed, though her mind was never divested of her hatred for Thutmose and how he had reduced her. The woman settled in a location far enough from Karnak as not to arouse her brother's ire, and after some time received word that their father had been laid to rest and Thutmose II was now Pharaoh. Hatshepsut never returned to the place of her birth, but set off in resolution that one day she would reclaim that which had been stolen.

The pallid Pharaoh held her interest; she watched him closely as she spoke, the lapis lazuli of her eyes cool with intrigue, giving a sharp nod at his intelligent words. Curiosity burned in her breast to know his innermost story, but she was sated by the tale provided: a father's order to his handsome son. “Why did he not marry you to your sister?” the Regent inquired, contented enough with his manner to relax somewhat and lower her haunches to the sand, plume coming to rest 'round her forepaws.

Perhaps the royalty of Khafra did not practice the old ways, but Hatshepsut felt that they were the proper conditions to assure the continuation of any lineage, and was interested to know if such an arrangement had been made, only to the dissatisfaction of the man before her. While she appreciated the specimen of his masculine beauty, his story was what was important to the cool hunger of her logical mind, and with an open expression she waited for Ankh to respond.

A foul taste entered the Pharaoh’s mouth when his companion summoned the question that was – by their standards – quite appropriate. It had been suggested that he was to wed Isis. The Egyptians wanted a clean bloodline for royalty, and Ankh had been informed that by taking his sister as his mate, they would seal the Khafra line for years to follow. It had taken more of his life than he could ever admit to keep his father from wedding them. The pallid ruler did not believe that his present company would understand his hatred for his own blood. While she had shared a story with him of betrayal and disaster, Ankh still believed that she would not perceive his fears. It was fair to admit that even the young hybrid did not fully recognize his own apprehensions. Instinct had driven him away from the marriage of Isis, but he had believed it to be the workings of the Gods. Luckily, so had his father or the outcome of his tale would have been drastically different.
Drawing his lightly-colored eyes upwards, the white male frowned heavily at the question that still hung between them in the salty air. “The Gods had different plans for me, or so my father thought. His intentions were for me to find the bloodline of royalty elsewhere. To leave my sister behind, I would be expected to forge a new dynasty. To take two kingdoms and merge them into one,” he explained with a bitter edge to his voice. It was the role of a pawn, Ankh knew this much. Still, he could not have explained to the Egyptian woman his fear of Isis and her torment. Had he been forced to wed the witch of the desert, he surely would have abandoned his home and his duties out of cowardice alone. It was fortunate that the Gods smiled down on him.
Ankh wanted to believe that he was a brave creature. That, when faced with an impassible object, he could overcome all that fell into his path. He had discovered more about himself in his journey than he had ever wished. Mostly, that he was fearful of an inevitable end to his life. The Pharaoh was young and had already seen horrid times in the Osahar kingdom. He was no stranger to struggle. It did not shape him well into a beast of courage, however. Instead, the pallid ruler found that he was more fearful of his destiny than he was intended to be. Insecure to a fault. Perhaps this was what had driven him so far from his homeland. And then, he wondered, maybe it truly was just fate.
Fixing his gaze back on the female, Ankh allowed a moment of silence to pass between them before posing his question. “Would you have stayed?” his voice was shaky as the inquiry fell from his dark lips. “Had your betrothed not banished you to these lands, would you have stayed and obediently sat beside your bother?” It was a question that dug deep into her moral standings and her conformity to their ways. He was curious, though, to see if this specimen had deeper desires than what she had already shared with him. Ankh knew she wanted the throne, but then, most did. It was a noble position to carry the title of Pharaoh. He could taste her bitter feelings when she had spoken of the foul creature who had outlawed her from her very home. It was in this that his wonder was rooted. Could she have remained mated to a creature of betrayal? Was she as obedient to their customs as most?

Despite the tremble in his voice — she did not know if it stemmed from ire or trepidation — the Pharaoh's suggestion drew cold blood through Hatshepsut's veins, and her gaze dropped several degrees in warmth. Thutmose had been a fat, craven child, and though the long months spent among the soldiers of the royal guard had carved his pubescent body into that of a man, he remained a cowardly, deceitful beast. To be his wife was to be subservient to a madman; it had only been through her absolute power over the harem that Hatshepsut had been able to deter him in the evenings during their marriage, filling the perfumed halls with a retinue of delicate-limbed, virginal waifs.

To sit at his side, to wear the crown of Queen upon her brow, to hear the court of Karnak repeat her titles, to see them bow — it had not been enough for the diminutive woman. The lapis of her eyes continued to hold Ankh's own, the tight limning of her lips a clear indication of her displeasure at his keenly pointed question. But it was one that held validity; had not the Regent asked the same of the snow-cloaked man? And so at last she stirred, prising her stare from his to regard the ocean beyond them. “I would not have stayed.”

A mirthless smile tipped up the corners of her mouth, and in time she returned her attention to the pale Ankh, he who wore the headpiece of Pharaoh but did not share in the beliefs that had strengthened Egypt for many years. To ask of Thutmose, to question her loyalty to the throne of Karnak — it had been an intentional inquiry, perhaps one devised to reveal. Hatshepsut was well aware of the court's-games that royal children were reared to play; she was well-versed in the nuances. A lesser-bred beast might have simply asked the Regent what it was he wished to know, but Ankh wore the stamp of kings, and ancient lineages flowed in his veins.

“Would you have married your sister, had your father willed it?” came the slow purr from her lips, her eyes once again trained keenly upon him; it was but another step in the formal game, and her disposition grew still and cool once more.

The pallid male did not know what had overcome him, but in the moment she answered, he felt a wave wash over his rattled nerves. He knew that what he had asked had not been proper. Ankh knew the formalities of the Egyptian people. They were not in the lands of heated sands and never-ending suns, however. She could not damn him for inquiring when their laws and rules did not apply to the beachside where they stood. But then it had been months since he had seen his home, and perhaps the change in his life had aided to a change in his culture. Nonetheless, her response had culled a peculiar sensation of relief inside the Pharaoh. He could not have explained it to her, had she asked, but his shoulders seemed to relax and the length at which he held his skull sunk to a position of casualty and comfort, if that could be achieved by such a creature.
Her words meant that he was not alone. Hatshepsut may not have realized it, but she had forged a fire in Ankh’s chest that would soon turn to billowing smoke. For the time that they spent on the beach, though, he was grateful for the sheer fact that this slender creature of beauty had provided him with an answer he had so desperately needed to hear. Their culture did not look lightly upon those who rejected the beliefs of the society. It was not uncommon that the pallid ruler felt like a pariah in his own desert kingdom. Isis and Sekhet had done no help to aid him in this discomfort. In every opportunity that seemed to arise, the two sisters actively sought to diminish Ankh until he was nothing more than a fearful whelp of a creature. In his time away from the vipers, the pale creature had come to respect their intuition and savagery. He knew, though, that if he were to return… he could not see their actions in the same light.
The question that followed struck the air in Ankh’s time of thought. For a moment, he had almost missed her words. Tossing his ears forward, the exotic creature tilted his head to one side for only a moment before the gravity of her query actually sunk into his bones. There was an increasing change in his physicality; a discomforted twitch of his whiskers, and the stiffness in his spine and back. How could he answer such a question for the lapis-eyed allure that sat before him. Ankh felt his teeth grind together and his sallow eyes fell away from her narrow features.
As a Pharaoh in training, the pallid ruler had always wanted to please his father. Ankh had wanted nothing more than to have the man smile down on him – to tell him that he had done his kingdom well, and that he was proud. It was all entirely fanciful. Of course, Ra Khafra had been a vicious ruler and had spread poison into his family. The only contention to this was that Ankh had not realized what his father had done. He had not yet seen the dismay that his mother had carried with her until she died. The young ruler had not seen the wrath that had fallen on his younger brother in an attempt to construct the youngest Khafra boy into a soldier. Ankh had been so blinded by their ways and their cultures that he had not truly witnessed the deceit that had taken place inside of his very family. It had been Ra who had diseased Isis and Sekhet with thoughts of power. Ra had been the one to turn Aahmes into a mute. It had been Ra all along.
“No,” the pallid beast said after an uncommonly long gap between her inquiry and his actual answer. He had decided that he would be honest with her, because she had offered him the very same. “It would have killed me to disobey my father, but I could not have wed my sister.” Finally, his haggard gaze lifted from the sands where it had been locked and locked itself back on her sharp features. The Pharaoh could not help but to wonder… how many more of his demons would this fair creature unearth?

Of course Hatshepsut had wondered if she could have one day loved Thutmose, but she determined it would have been impossible. She had watched him grow; they had all but been reared together, and so the Regent knew that he would have never become an object of desire for her, even if his usual attitude had not been overbearing and repulsive. She could not have remained subservient in the shadow of one far inferior to her. Their father, the Mighty Bull, had not wanted Hatshepsut to wed her half-brother — indeed, he had elevated her above Thutmose, made her Regent in his stead. He had intended that his beloved, fierce daughter follow him as Pharaoh, though this was not to be. Tradition prevailed after his death.

Ankh spoke that which might be considered treason, had not the pair of them been in an unmarked land, and of the same mind. Her gaze softened, and her body relaxed from the tension she had been holding since his inquiry. “I also could not have wed my brother, had my father intended it. I would have defied him.” Her eyes held his own, and she was struck anew by their beauty, though the intricacies of what she had said moments before caused her mouth to tremble slightly with its intensity. To stave off the moment, Hatshepsut chuckled coolly. “Ah, we are a well-met pair, by Ra!” she swore lightly. “We are both disobedient children in our own ways. What are the chances that we would have met here, upon this distant and foreign shore?”

Her question was rhetorical, but her eyes glimmered with a new light. Like most of her kith, the diminutive ruler did not believe in chance, but in Fate. Hatshepsut had been intended to be elevated by her father, only to lose the crown to the more conservative supporters of her brother, and she had been intended to be banished, also. Why not believe that Fate had led her to this man, if only for cruel humour?

For a moment the Egyptian pondered the other possibility, wondering vaguely if he was questioning of the same, but dismissed it all the same; she was an embittered woman, devoid of her lineage and her virginity. She, surely, with her darknesses and her ambitions, was not the fresh-limbed young bit of feminine royalty Ankh's father had envisioned for him, and so she quelled the inner quaver for his masculine loveliness with a stiffening of her heart.

While he was beautiful, Hatshepsut was no simpering dalliance, to be drunk up and tossed aside. She had given of herself to no man — Thutmose had taken what was hers — and the Regent was quite taken with the notion that she would never do so. In the harem, there had been concubines and wives who, divested of their king's presence once he had summoned them for a few nights, took comfort in the perfumed presences of one another, but Hatshepsut did not believe that the glissade of loneliness that fell upon her at times would prevail enough for her to desire that.

“What will you do now, Pharaoh?” she asked at length, her voice a proper tone. “Will you seek out a daughter of this land and return home? will you continue to wander?” She herself was lost, oh so lost, but she was unwilling to reveal this to him, the pale Pharaoh Khafra.