Lion Head Mesa queen of the morning

for senmut, the procession, the scene, the rite: it was all so overwhelming in a precise and poignant way.

ramesses glowed as he came to stand between the priests, and senmut's heartbeat quickened as the pharaoh raised his voice to waiting treva. she was all the goddess it was whispered: a feral forest idol plucked from mossbed to now rule eternal alongside the lord of the red land.

they spoke to one another in poetry.

senmut wore the headgarb and badge of his office, but he did not yet feel like a priest. only the solemnity of the moment kept him grounded. he chanted lowly between each sentence, a timeless prayer against any ugly magick which threatened the union of pharaoh and shabti.

senmut draped them both in decorations of flowers. "Amun smiles," he whispered to them each, voice steady. he spoke for the god. he spoke for the pleasure of those who watched.

and when they descended, he did not immediately follow, stricken and pierced as he was by the energy of the night.