Lion Head Mesa stele

little by little did meadow relent, until in her voice ramesses heard the doubt he had meant to sow. she spoke of work and shadows, and he took this to mean that reyson kept himself guarded in a way she did not understand.
that was the way of men. even he kept much from treva. she shared his leadership but to be pharaoh was to be alone, as he had told makono. and yet it was reason to leverage, to glance across her chin and mouth and the proud arch of her neck.
"you are correct, of course." why did she want this? already she seemed tremulous with unsurety. or perhaps pharaoh saw only what he wanted. "i do not think a soldier made for blood is also made for beauty." meadow had remained organized and poised — until this moment. it was no frenetic nature; she did not exclaim upon his rightness nor weep.
but she had questioned this before she ever came to akashingo, he chose to assume.
"you are too precious to be relegated to shadows," ramesses said softly, and searched her eyes for the sign that he had been correct. all her expressions could not be veiled; she was open as a mossy clearing. 
now he was closer; now he sought to fill all her senses with his nearness, and he with her own.