Lion Head Mesa they feed on temple grain ☥

he felt himself responsible for them all; khaemwaset had watched mother and father disappear into unknown horizon. some part of childishness had been left behind in the glen. now he laughed again, harder, as neith filled her mouth with flowers.

was life easier for her? she too held the destiny of pharaoh or consort.

or queen.

queen satsu. queen treva. he knew their names as much as he had been taught by their priests, reared in full understanding of the dynasties which had culminated in his own breath. he knew their power, and that the redstone tomb which loomed high as one walked to the serpent; that it had been built first for a queen and that the second had birthed their pharaoh now in the Horus favor.

somber in silent the amiir considered. to never see rashepses or toula again; the very thought tightened his chest and threatened to close his throat with panic.

just briefly, khaemwaset allowed merneith to see it, just a moment before his face closed and a cunning smirk took its place. his turn now, dancing backward toward the door, out into the hallway, his trajectory made for the empty throne-room where not even senmut sat.

dusted, cleansed, resplendent with flowers restored each day, the rough-hewn dais seemed gigantic, and he wanted to see them now. to see them as his golden eyes rested on the lioness. "then two of us will rule, neith," khaemwaset assured. two. only two.