Lion Head Mesa bird of paradise

she had hit something.

not the gold they were weaved of, but oil. slick and rich in and of itself. coating her and flattening every ripple in herself.

the first was poisoned by his own mother. the next raged against gods, save for Ra. only to be turned upon by the very same. burned by the sands, as if Ra had not done enough.

for these tales she looked upon the horse. sitting and oozing. bubbling. flies collected along it where the ravens had left. symbolic as it soured.

she could not imagine siptah as a Divine Consort.

but she had not imagined any other either, had she?

does he know? or has he closed his eyes so as to not see it all? can he be trusted to be Divine Consort or will all of this already divide?

and for the first time since their falling out, she sought his advice here. in truth, in strength.

she looked to her father now.