Lion Head Mesa gold drenched

From his high perch, Akhtar greeted the sun with enthusiasm, his voice ringing, welcoming, bringing forth the day with praises of the sun.

Deep in his head, though, the thoughts spun, out of control. Akhtar was a good priest, had been a good boy until the flounce of the Fellahin had turned his eyes astray. Who was he now? But who was he before, something whispered.

A stray, the deposed prince, so lonely and so so sad? Who wouldn’t have fallen for the whiles of the fellahin? He was a man, a priest, a higher up. They looked to him, came the coo, for guidance from their gods. The gods of the conquerors, who deposed him, who killed his father, who had ruined his life.

Why wouldn’t he be bitter? Why wouldn’t he relish in wealth? Why tell truths, when lies would get him further.

He shook his head and continued his chanting.