Lion Head Mesa Wither

Slinking through the corridors, Jawahir found their way to the old quarters of the queen. There the children had taken over for a time - it became Siptah's room - but now it sat empty.

With nobody around to see them, Jawahir crept inside. They looked to the musty bedspread of furs, then to the shelf in the stone wall where dusty items decorated the space, and nosed across them.

They huffed a breath, sending a plume of fine dust in to the air. Then, peering over one shoulder, Jawahir stole their way to the bed and sprawled upon it. Relishing the feel of the furs - the stale vagaries of Satsu left behind.

The jewel promptly rose from their imagination and feigned tidying the bed, then the room, as if nothing had happened.

It was happenstance that Lilitu found herself passing by the queen's old quarters, but movement within caught her attention, and she paused at the entrance.

Jawahir? she called out, ears canted forward.

Barely anyone had set paw here since Satsu's death. It seemed a haunted place. Even just outside, her fur prickled, and she felt restless, as if ghosts were on her tail. She wondered what kind of courage Jawahir had to come here.

Or what reason. . .

The hebsut heard a voice at the door — the princess of the backwater! It did not trouble Jawahir to be found; they had been quick to enjoy themselves, and now stood tidying the space again. They stopped this to draw towards the door just as Lilitu entered.

Did you need something, nebet? Their voice was light, with eyes averted in the customary submissive manner. The coyote could still feel the warmth of those furs pressed upon their body and felt thrilled.

The servant woman came to meet her, and Lilitu shook her head quickly, briefly. No, I was just passing by and saw you, she replied. I haven't seen hardly anyone around here, since. . . She lifted her shoulders in a shrug, acknowledging the situation without further words.

Since. It felt like a word that ruled her life lately. And not just the mourning period, but beyond—everything following her arrival here felt like a since. 

When would she feel complete again?

Can I ask you something? she queried, then, without pausing more than a few heartbeats, went on: Why me? I'm not a princess. Never have been. But you all call me that. And you sought me out, looking for a mate for your prince. Why me?

—saw you.

Jawahir wondered what exactly the girl saw, for how long, and to whom she would tell; but in the next breath Lilitu was moving on to other things and Jawahir could let themselves relax a moment. What did it matter if they were seen in the queen's quarters? Fellahin were not forbidden to tend the spaces of the palace, even those reserved for the dead.

Can I ask you something? Jawahir's ears twitched. The nebet asked a silly question that the fellahin wanted to dismiss outright, but could not.

It is the will of our lord Ramesses. That was the simple way to put it. I was sent to our neighbors to find one such as you, and by agreeing, you were made a princess. Marriages like this are common in the home of the pharaoh; they strengthen friendships between nations. Although to call Brecheliant a nation was pushing it.

That was simple enough.

So it wasn't me, it was Brecheliant, Lilitu replied. And there was no one else suitable there. . .?

It made her feel absurdly worse—like she'd rather grapple with impostor syndrome at being chosen for this marriage. The fact that it could have been another girl, and she hadn't been sought out specifically, burrowed under her skin.

So stupid.

Well, thank you for telling me, anyway, she added, shrugging. And for dealing with me being all wishy-washy about it.