Luneshale Pass a letter, first;

her missive returned on the blood-orange sunset, and senmut felt each word sink into his very soul; like lapis rings, he turned them in his mind as the akashingoans settled for the night. ribcage expanding with a sigh that carried a thousand things.

he did not love the queen in a way a husband might seek to love her; he loved akashingo in her, the divinity of her line, and she as her own person, possessor of spirit and intellect and wants that diverged from ambition or bloodshed. senmut loved her goodness and had breathed easier in the peace that the lotus princess had brought by her very kindnesses.

her beauty, her lineage, her education, her courtly manners; all reasons also to favour her, to adore the jewel blessed by the gods. not a prize to be claimed but a goddess in her own right, to be treasured and feared above all.

this he had in the burning thrum of his chest; this he had in spicewine flowing through veins that did not sleep and head that ached to bow once more in her presence? would thutmose see her only as a pretty girl, a vessel for an expanded military might? would rashepses treat her with the same gilt he gave himself, the same honors? could men be trusted to ensure a queen remained such?

senmut shut his eyes, and the desert grew cold upon him, and darkness found the silent moon glowing down upon the young priest who now also held the title of hereditary prince.

what would my father think of me now? old, proud pihuri, father to many children, though the souls of seven had been called to the Land of Reeds through the years. he had sent his son to be a scribe, unable to feed the boy when mother's-milk had dried up from years of hunger. aahmose, she had cried and clutched at the bundle which had been senmut, but pihuri had addressed her roughly, and at last they had surrendered the newborn boy to the priest of Amun at the worn temple.

born into the dark earth of aswan, born into sandlash and windstorm, where peasants eked out a meager existence in a nome farflung from the presence of any pharaoh — that was the blood to which he would bring a divine marriage. no title bestowed by even the queen herself could change him into a hallowed soul, worthy of joining her name.

peasant child, foundling of priests, acolyte, scribe-trained, scribe-for-hire; up and up as senmut grew, given more opportunities as he learned to formalize himself. 

but pihuri, pihuri would only beam and smile to see such blessings on the young son he had once given up. and here senmut felt salt upon his mouth, and when he raised a wondering paw to his cheek, it came away wet.

his father would think him worthy to sit beside the queen. they had not foregone their honor when she had created an erpa-ha out of him. 

your creator, she had said, and at last he summoned the servant. should not a man of humble birth occupy the throne where so many proud blooded ones had sat? was his own accomplishment so little, that he should even consider himself sullied? legend's voice, that of eset; senmut now reached out to grab the proverbial flail in his mind, and in his mind, no churning of Ma'at upended akashingo when he had touched the sacred item.

tonight senmut would fast. tonight he would dream; but for now, in satin blue-dark, he dictated the words in response to their queen.

i wait for the dust of sand upon the horizon to announce your coming.
humbled am i to know your ear seeks my voice;
joyed am i to know your heart speaks on my safety
Amun has smiled upon our excursion and your people wait in delight to look upon your face.

my mouth reminds them of your name. when i rise to greet Ra, i know He too moves your spirit in that hour. there is an emptiness here among the sands that no prayer can fill. i fear only worship might temper such ill-ease, and so i wait in eagerness for the moment i might be a servant in your divine presence once more.

unbidden, the prince felt a warmth upon his face as he spoke moreon, and soon he stopped, turning contemplative verdant stare upon the farlands where akashingo reigned, as her hand also would here in the desert.

you look upon the bloom i brought, and i look toward the sun-bathed dunes.
a leopardess moves upon the golden sand;
she is golden and she is jetstone
the antelope run from her eyes
she is queen, and he is afflicted with the sickness of longing
he has drunk from the river of desire
and Horus has answered the rose-colored sound of his voice

did he mean such things? senmut had never written in this way before; all words he had once held had been dictated to him, as scribe, prized for his near-flawless recitation. now he found himself perturbed and at wonder what had driven such things, and if it was disengenous upon the heels of his tighter message.

he paced awhile, and then stopped; he thought himself prepared to take the role of pharaoh, and worthy of it also. to contemplate it again brought a refreshing rush of confident relief. senmut collected himself and considered that perhaps in this freedom he had found desire. careful he would be with such things.

a fan; fashioned over several days. collected hawkfeather for the plumes, daubed cacti-sap to hold. eleven in all, supported on palest hareskin. the long haft was tooth-stripped of bark and stained in floral dyes, as deeply orange as senmut was capable of in his limitations. a fan, to be held by fan-bearer. but moreso, at its base, a first carving, the small mark which delineated her queenliness and another below, to indicate his position as eternal servant.

now the gift and letter went to the queen herself, and in the skill of his work, the promise of a holy smile and the blessing of what senmut hoped was a stirring of some passion, some true gift if their ruler decided it was he she wished.

this much, at least, must be his to give.