Lion Head Mesa [m] Elephantine

The mare’s slash to his shoulder had been cleansed and dressed in careful wrappings by Izaiah. Now the king sprawled upon the feasting couch in his private chambers, nursing the bruises to ribs and chest.

“Bring to me @Nasima.” He commanded of a servant and flexed his sore shoulders like a desert cat.

Placed a governess to the royal children of the palace was a task she had not expected to be placed upon her—and the days passed so very quickly as she worked diligently not just to prove her worth to Pharaoh and Semer-wati but also to gain the trust of her new wards.

They were a flurry of energy, with keen eyes and sharp minds, and she worried that an outsider such as herself would not be as helpful.

So when she was summoned by another fellahin to the private chambers of Akashingo’s king, she felt a flutter of nerves dance within her chest—was she failing in her duties?

She moved at once—afraid to lose what had been bestowed upon her, eyes darting to the glorious walls of the palace and knowing she would miss the luxuries extended. Swallowing, head bowed, she was announced before settling in the entrance of the chambers, form now sweeping low—her gaze only grazing up to the man’s darkened figure momentarily, her breath catching. “You've called for me, your Eminence?”

She was drawn through the twisting hallways to stand, breathless in his presence. Worried. Beautiful. He placed upon her a well-merited look in gold.

“Come in, Nasima,” Rashepses bid. “I have torn my shoulder during a hunt. Do you know how to soothe it with your hands?” A brow raised in question, his gaze lingering. Smoldering.

The king shifted upon the couch, the width of his back welcome to her manipulations, should she give them.

Ushered in by his voice alone—she stood, holding back the tremble of a paw and trying not to worry at her lip. Her eyes traced only the darkness of his paws—the stretch of his form leisurely spread upon the dais.

She had expected to discuss his children—his expectations of her. Instead, he spoke of an injury, and in her surprise, she found her her lilting iris eyes seeking out the shoulder in question, her mouth pressing into a small ‘o’ of surprise before she rallied.

“Of course, Semer-wati,” she murmured, and with a directive set, she turned, murmuring to another fellahin who whisked away at the request of some basic ingredients.

Looking up only momentarily to take in her surroundings—lavish—godly—she partially wished she could further study the things a man of such great beauty took comfort in, but instead she moved quietly closer, diminutive not just in her nature but feeling so very tiny in his presence.

Her eyes skimmed the shoulder, a small frown pulling at her features, a paw lifting tentatively to begin exploration of the muscle before abruptly pausing—pulling back. “I’m sorry—may I?”

It was then the other fellahin returned, and she murmured her gratitude. She mixed quietly—if she found it curious that he had requested her and not one of the palace doctors, she would never speak it aloud. A small salve was made with deft paws—nudging the tortoise shell which held her concoction closer for his inspection—oils, bergamot, aloe. “Do you have an aversion to strong scents, my lord?”

“No, Nasima, I am not aversed to much.”

He watched the coy woman with growing interest in how her eyes quickly glossed over the ornate embellishments of the king’s quarters. Her pedestrian scent and narrow beauty, the filigree of ash upon her shoulders, all of it was a welcomed diversion to the enflamed knots under his skin.

Gilded eyes falling to half-close, the king's back stretched broadly in eager anticipation of a feminine touch.

“I trust my young gods have been apt pupils,” his voice deepened. Of course, no mortal would dare revoke such a statement. “How are you finding the palace?”

“Mmm,” she murmured in quiet acceptance of his words—partially as she ensured the proper ratio was placed within the salve. She wiped her paws clean for the moment, eyes falling back to the man, stretched before her with not just the confidence of a royal, but that of a god.

Many times, she found herself at a loss with words before him. Now was certainly one of those moments.

“This will cool the muscles for a moment as it sinks in,” she offered, lashes fluttering as she finally gazed up to his eyes—and only at what seemed like his acquiescence, she lifted a paw after dipping it delicately to the salve, beginning to massage it gently to the shoulder area he had revealed to her. “If it is too much, let me know,” she whispered, finding her tongue dryer—her gaze once more averting to where she worked.

At the inquiry of the four royal children, she felt her mouth curve up in a smile. “Not just apt pupils but truly a joy to be around,” she offered him, considering their impish nature and inquisitive natures.

She paused a moment—considering his next question. “It’s unlike anything I’ve seen,” she shared, her smile turning shyer now. “Everyone is very kind.”

Everything about her was careful. His look scarcely betrayed such considerations as their eyes met over Nasima’s salves. She touched him, then. His muscles were stiff and sore under paw, but they gradually began to loosen as the woman worked laboriously to bring life back into them.

“It is magic, what you do,” the royal grinned, taking in a lungful of herbal air, still and receptive beneath the fellahin’s steady ministrations. 

“Petenet,” he named her then, in the ancient language, chin sweeping slowly over one dark shoulder to watch her elegant face in full.

His grin infectious—shyly, she looked to him as he complimented, and her own smile became more true upon her slender features. “Bergamot is magic,” she murmured before ensuring her eyes directed once more to her task—surely, it was no wonder the royal princes and princess were so beautiful—their parents were the very definition of it!

“Mint is, too. Perhaps, next time, we can try that,” she offered—and then realizing her assumption that she would be the one tending to him—she felt a blush creep up her cheeks. “I can make the suggestion to your fellahin…” Bumbling—tongue tied. He made her so tongue-tied!

And then—he whispered a word to her, and she blinked, looking up to him, though she continued to knead one paw to the muscle, to mend the pain along the collarbone—the cusp of a shoulder blade. “Petenet?” She whispers the word—foreign to her, and upon her tongue as ice lazuli eyes reach up to simmering gold.

“Such modesty. I will hear you have pride in your good work,” Rashepses told her, a smile slowly rolling his mouth slowly. The hooded gaze was upon her in divine relaxation, admiring her feminine eloquence with open study. Those eyes, the most startling blue he’d ever seen.

“I desire for no other to attend to me in such a way. They would only pale in comparison,” he spoke with pleasured tones, unfurling his neck once more. On the far wall he watched the fellahin’s lithe shadow as she bent over him.

“Rose,” the king translates from egyptian, “the color you wear on your cheeks.”

Did the coyote woman bloom for him? Rashepses did not seek her eyes now. He gazed leisurely upon her blue shadow.

Again, her touch would pause as he spoke—the glance of soft peridot meeting the gilded lava of his own, and she felt her throat run dry. Nasima was naive in many ways, but surely, his desire to have no other attend to him for his injuries spoke of not just a certain fondness, but of something further…

Yet she could not imagine it! The way he wove words of compliments to her when he held the love and devotion of divinity such as Pharaoh—

—yet wasn’t such duty beneath her? Surely, if he requested, his wife would see to his every ailment, as one did when truly in love. But he needn’t worry her so, not when Nasima could do such work and assist…

Assist. To assist. She felt the lilt of her smile at his cloying words, her paw dipping once more to the salve and to rub at the base of his shoulder and nape, gently soothing—assisting.

And deciding then, that bergamot was a scent she would forever cherish. “We will let this settle on your skin—and then, after a relaxing sleep, you should find the pain to have subsided greatly. A bath in salts and hot water will also do you wonders, Semer-wati.”

Her kneading paused. The king grinned. Hot blood thrummed through his veins and a noise like a lion’s purr rose from deep within his throat. Rolling onto his side, Rashepses caught her slender paw in his own, gently pulling her closer.

“Assist me once more, Nasima,” he whispered, eyes gleaming.

Her inaction stirred movement from the man—the rumble from his throat at first mistaken for disproval, and so when she felt the grip upon her wrist, she almost flinched—glacier eyes bearing widely toward the molten lava of the divine one who beckoned her now.

While there was no fury in those seering eyes, there was hunger, and she felt her heart stutter at the thought as her gaze traced the finely crafted cheekbones of such a beautiful tempest. He was alluring—the fire to her ice, and any stricken thought of right from wrong was instantly reduced to ash. “How should I assist you, my King?”

She almost could not recognize the low octave her voice took on—nor the whisper of it.

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He seized her, a rough turn to have the narrow body pinned between plinth and chest.

“Will you play coy with your God?” His breath was hot on her cheek, his dark nose a controlled hairsbreadth from the long, pointed coyote’s ears. Teasingly he skimmed the peaks of her hips, breathing heavily between deepened rumbles.

“Would you lie here and let me have my way with you? Or would your teeth find my neck?”