Lion Head Mesa khepresh

Akhtar was silent.

Calmly, he tucked charms and herbs into the wrappings. He did not speak, did not look up from his godly assigned task.

But, perhaps, a part of him, ugly in its face and name, was laughing. This thing that had happened, these people deserved. He swatted away the thoughts, recognizing their bloody tinge. It was the part of him that seethed, that burned even now, to tell them. Tell them he was a prince, that his mother and father had loved him more than life itself, and they, their gods and their priests and their sickly colored kings, had taken everything from him.

He had been a boy. Just a child. His eyes canted to the heir.

As young as him. At least the boy kept a father, though Akhtar was not certain how lucky it was that the father was Ramesses. His eyes came back to the wrapped form of the queen. He bowed his head to murmur a final prayer, before he stepped away, adjusting his stole.

He shot a final glance over his shoulder.

His eyes, deep brown, flashed in the light.

Then, he was gone, ducking into the bowels of the mesa.