he was getting used to this place, and it frightened him.
most of the folk he had met thus far either looked at him with jaded, hardened eyes, or as if he was only meat upon bones. the priest man carried an air of royalty even if he was not, and at least had the decency to greet him with respect — a part of the sheltered core softened for him, even if only by a fraction. the rest of them, however; well.
he wonders if the true royals are anything at all like their rather uppity townspeople. he wonders if he will smell minya upon them.
heat clings to his brow as he skitters through the courtyard, a small bundle of newly harvested roots held in a small palm-frond pouch. the throne room appears to be vacant; the delicately decorated walls call to him like a siren. he'd never been in there.
slinking down into the entryway, he makes no effort to hide his path as he hesitantly begins to skulk inside. nothing like minya, no, not at all, and yet a shiver of recognition slides down his spine until it reaches the tip of his tail. he moves to examine the intricate paintings and carvings, gingerly reaching out to run a slender forepaw along the ridges of the sandstone as if the entire mesa may crumble beneath his touch.
he wonders if the royals feel this way too.

there is a voice, a mighty tempest that stirs izaiah's belly into a sea of lava. when he turns to see who it comes from, he's met with a lustrous man built from onyx and staring at him with eyes of molten gold. a shiver runs down his spine.
the servants move as if they are in perfect sync, positioning themselves to where izaiah had eyes on all sides of him. the man's breath smells of wine and blood, and it is warm against his cheek. there was no mistaking his identity.
how old are the paintings? the boy asks, straightening himself so that he may not look so small beside him. he gasps when he is touched, averting his eyes purposefully down to the floor and fiercely attempting to convince his heart to stop pounding before it jumps straight out of his ribcage.
my name is izaiah, his expression remains stoic despite the hint of a crack in his voice. you must be pharaoh's consort.

semer-wati. right. zayin.
a flash of tongue pokes from between the sesh's lips in order to wet them. my mentor sent me here. think of me as a gift to you and to pharaoh, he nearly sneers, but instead chooses a reserved lift of his lip in a playful smirk. i am told i'm taking a place beside tavina, the doctor of what's now muat-riya.
he is no idiot. the look in the king's eyes reminds him starkly of the fellahin who had attended him that night; the same hungry stare that travels from the curve of his neck to the slim make of his hips. he's beginning to learn that perhaps attractions of this nature are not so uncommon here.
he pads over to the bottom of the steps, leaning against the base and resting his chin atop the cool sandstone. the dark eyes are almost beckoning, teasing. my hope is that i can be of the utmost assistance.

competent. as if izaiah was anything but. his teeth shimmer as he purrs a dry laugh. i was trained by one of the most prominent doctors of my homeland, his head straightens, chin briefly lifting from the dais in order to meet the king with silent rebellion. i've studied everything from addiction to rabies. i can tell you exactly where every organ in your body lies. i can even show you.
the touching of his face almost roiled a growl from him, but he keeps it locked between his teeth. he makes note of the use of plural gods, as if there could ever be any above his own.
he is almost flirting and almost not with the king himself, but was most certainly flirting with the crocodile's teeth, lurching ever closer to the proverbial waiting mouth. i'm confident that both she and your gods will be pleased by my abilities.