Lion Head Mesa they feed on temple grain ☥

"you there," snapped the glossydark prince. "come here."

over the servant's bowed head, icegold eyes examined the hairs there as amiir considered the silence of the antelope, the resignation of the crocodile, the abject misery of the lion-cub.

"i want to make a gift to my sister," khaemwaset declared. "she is sad. i will see that she is happy."

not long thereafter, a parade of fellahin swayed along the corridor, carrying all manner of dried desert blooms and their delicate fragrances to the chambers of princess @Neith, where they would be set in decor, sprinkled, lain over shelf and bedding; profusions of color to make her eyes alight with joy once more.

arrogantly, he did not know @Charmion had already offered such gentle luxuries, and had his own gifts announced loudly.

she did not deserve her sadness. like mother, neith was a goddess, and goddesses must not weep.