Lion Head Mesa snowlands

at the altar of Neith.

charmion had laid the feathers of a hawk. four. one pointed each direction. in the middle of them he had delicately placed a mass of meat. to be blessed, to be devoured, to be preserved in the cold desert air — the specific did not matter. prayers had been whispered over it.

and now he crumpled, he wept into work-strengthened arms.

The palace carries a silver sheen from a recent flurry of snow, and a softness that otherwise did not fit with what Nazli remembered; but there came the sound of crying, too, and this felt apt, and this drew her from the rooms where children slept.
Once a mother, then a nurse maid, it was difficult to turn off that maternal instinct. Nazli moved further until she saw a crumpled figure and sank beside them, thinking perhaps it was a child out of their bed, perhaps missing the cenote.
Her gaze traced the offering, the feathers, the face of this stranger — ah, not a stranger at all, but a fellahin.
Nazli offers herself without a word, there to listen, perhaps to pray.

she would visit the alters of each her cubs—ensure they were cleansed, and take them to pray. but before that of her daughters were two beings.
priestess. attendant. Toula had brought with her her own offerings. she did much the same as the Hemet—but she would pray, once her own items had been properly placed.

to weep at an altar before a Hemet is one thing. he cannot imagine this is peculiar, even if none know his reasons. for surely many people paraded their griefs and woes to those more holy than them!

to weep before Pharaoh? he is reduced to nothing more than river water. melting and moving about in a manner to free himself of such a clumsy, crumpled position.

in his mind, neither of them had come to witness his ordeal.

a sniffle and wild blinking of olive eyes — my highest apologies, Divine One and Holy One. now he crumples but in bows towards the women, seeking forgiveness at their feet.

How odd, to be visited now by Pharaoh herself! Odder still, to think in that briefest glimpse of her approach that she was someone else (Makono! No, not for years now); and still, a child in Nazli's eyes, except also a woman and a mother! Everything juxtaposed.
The fellahin shies away from their own display and bruefly Nazli is filled with a familiar sorrow, wanting to urge them, no, no, do not hide this but understanding why they did.
A shift of her dark eyes to the blue of the Divine, the slightest dip of her chin, the smallest smile.
Nazli then presses her nose to the stranger's shoulder, brief, wishing to comfort and impart some courage in the connection. Can I help with anything?