Luneshale Pass Cerastes

if you have the time? <33

There was no relief to be joining with the second half of their kingdom. It was like stepping into a banquet hall in which every feast-goer secretly had a knife stowed at their backs. But another stab was the face of @Zaahira who she had seen so little of and whose eyes she’d caught once at the ceremony. She was reminded of how they smoldered like liquid gold, and though the journey had left a dull ache in her limbs she chanced her approach just before sundown, when dusk had just set itself loose in the sky.

“Good evening, Zaahira,” her low voice rasped formally; respectfully.

gasps softly

With the Queen came her escorts; the fellahin, whose absences both individually and as a group were felt. Tuna, a dear friend to Zaahira, and Eset—
The liquid eyes fell upon her when the commotion had come to a low simmer, and as such, she was greeted with all the formality of a bumbling, frightened hare. Oh, hello, I did not expect you to wish to see me, she wanted to say, but it falls short as space is made beside her along her nightwatch post. you are welcome to sit. How was the palace while empty? the flicker of an old flame crosses her features. And your journey?

<33

She was not turned away, though if for the sake of politeness or a sincere invitation, she could not read it in the mazoi’s bearing.

“Thank you,” she expresses regardless, her eyes searching Zaahira’s for a breath before seating herself beside a bronze shoulder. Her own body grew ungiving with guilt, though attempts are made to quell it as the warrior speaks.

“Quiet,” she answers first before professing, “It was peaceful.” She had enjoyed moving about the halls when they rang with the sound of only her footsteps and it was Toula alone she attended. But she was too ashamed to reveal herself as a creature intrigued by court politics, one that craved to have her own paw in it, a treasonous quality for a servant of the palace. Eset pans her view away across the flatlands bathed now in blush.

“The journey was fortunately uneventful; we made good timing. The Queen is in good health and spirits,” she adds, knowing their ruler’s wellbeing is of great personal concern for her.

“How are you?” She asks with more than a modicum of concern stretching along her face as she returns her eyes to Zaahira.

Quiet and peaceful, uneventful. Zaahira wished she could say the same of her time in the desert. I am so happy that she is well, an affection pools in her eyes, lips tugged into a small curl. she looked so beautiful this evening. Fellahin did a wonderful job. some part of her knew it was Eset's own touches that made the Queen's arrival all the more divine.
How was she? It has been... so-so. I am enraged and I wish for these vile pigs to feel the wrath of Osiris. We have had few issues in claiming our new lands. except for one thing, that one thing; she looks to Eset as the duskglow cups her face and wonders if it is her place to tell her of this.
But she was a woman. A fellahin, no less; and maybe it was paranoia, maybe it was the fear of a man like Khaba rising to pharaoh nibbling and snapping at her — she winces, holding that gold-woven gaze for a beat. But Eset, her voice lowers, as if afraid one of them might crawl up behind them; heart catching in her throat. I fear we have a tyrant among us.

She watches as the features on Zaahira’s face mount with disquiet and her words devolve to whispers of secrecy.

Senmut was not who she spoke of, nor was it Thumose, who had in the fellahin's mind shown himself to be a respectable sphinx among the subjects of Akashingo. Zaahira’s conjecture left only one in question; the newest arrival and the one consort she had not yet acquainted herself with.

“Prince Rashepses,” she names, scarcely audible, and immediate dread shifts her closer to the edges of Zaahira’s glower to ask, “has he hurt you?”

She knew.
No, not yet, she swallows the dull knife lodged in her throat. but I fear he may.
He is not a kind man, Eset. And he knows that I do not like him. a breath is held in her throat amid a gravid pause. He has men with him who have already caused disruption. He had them seize a coyote townswoman, during a meeting, against the command of erpa-ha. If that was not a warning that he and his soldiers will bring destruction to our kingdom, I do not know what is.
Thutmose, too, she was not fond of; but he did not seem as harsh of a threat in the grand scheme of matters. I am to become jodai, as is the Queen's word. I will have no choice but to serve him if he is to be crowned pharaoh. And I am... terrified. For our Queen. For the mazoi. For what will come of the fellahin, soft and gold with a deep, cutting worry. I fear we are doomed.

Zaahira’s words and the way she speaks them are alarming. Her heart hammers. Perhaps it is naivety, but Eset felt she could, at least in small ways, safeguard the fellahin against a ruthless brunt of servantship. But Zaahira was a pack guardian, in this fact alone crept into her bones a fear of dark days and cold nights ahead-

“Nothing will come of it,” she interjects with a hale intonation, face taut with denial. Still she was glancing at every shadow. “Senmut will be Pharaoh. The princes will leave with their men and you will be Jodai.”

“Queen Toula will never let a tyrant supersede her pack,” she reminds her. Nothing will come of it- because they had Toula.

And they had different reasons to fear Rashepses and what his reign would be capable of; she knew this.
Eset, a fellahin. A servant. She had no power, no say; if he commands, she must answer; give her body to whoever he says she must. She is the gunk under his proverbial shoe, and Zaahira knew it in the way he looked to that innocent desertland wide-faced girl.
Zaahira, too, would have a body no longer hers, but in pearls of crimson and not white. A queensguard, a soldier of the highest power; and even still, his words growl in her mind like a lick of thunder. You will bow to me.
I trust her, yes, her throat closes and she forces her voice to roll and clear, eyes brimmed with glass. but what if he uses her? Tricks her? She is young, Eset. Blind to the true malice of the world. When we went to war with Greatwater, she sought no bloodshed and I am still amazed it was possible with a man like Khaba was. Her eyes narrow as her brows knit her face. And what if he takes us by force if she chooses Senmut? I fear we do not have enough mazoi to fight his men. I do not know if it is worse to let him in and bear it, or to fight him with what we have.
One paw slinks outward, skirting the sand in search of Eset's; ash against fire. I would die for our Queen, Eset. I would die to protect us. You.

“I have faith in the Gods and Queen that none of this will come to pass. Toula is young but she is wise. She will make a choice that is best for her people,” she tempers a breath, offering reassurance beneath the steadiness of her paw in the belief that they were more than sheep awaiting the slaughter and the Queen had promised her people safety.

“I hope you will not worry- especially not for me. I will go on in the way I always have,” this she knew. She did not fear a Pharaoh unless he meant to make her a mother.

”Zaahira- about what happened-“ she glances ahead now, the heavy guilt returning, “I’m sorry. I know it was a while ago. I should have apologized sooner.”

Akhtar, Tuna, Tavina, Legend, Senmut, the Queen, Khusobek, even — and Eset, now, in this show of something real and reaching that had not existed between them prior. Or perhaps it had, and was merely buried resolutely beneath layers of caste. She owed them all her protection, her grace, her loyalty. Of course I will worry. I always do.
Jodai.
You are right. I am just... anxious. That she will be blinded by his grandeur. I was too, once. I pray that the Gods will be merciful, and will bring us closer to who is right for her. For us.
And then, as if the fissure between them had burst and shattered with a crumbling might; an apology. For a while, Zaahira is at a loss for what should come from her in return, a soft croak of surprise stuck in her throat. She had merely been doing her job, what she was programmed and trained to do — and yet.
That little flower, she remarks suddenly, voice dropping to a mere whisper; searching and grappling with her eyes and sinking into that softness, the feeling of dainty paw beneath her own. was that you?

The flower. Zaahira searches her face and the subsequent silence is almost too long to bear. She reaches with affection, and a raw vulnerability to look for the thing she has had and lost, a life made beautiful with a counterpart. But she does not know about the kind of woman Eset is.

Zaahira wants love. Toula trusts implicitly. Tavina is a friend. Senmut keeps her in confidence. They see a loyal, god-fearing servant. They don’t see that she is insidious and hungers for power; that her lust for Khusobek is because she likes the idea of being ruined; that she is born of sin and will also be unmade in it; that she is the ashes of an old fire- and she wants to be.

“Don’t,” she looks down at the mazoi’s paw holding over her own, and shakes her head, “don’t make the mistake of thinking I am good.”

And when she lifts her eyes again there is only stone.

Original sin was a concept that felt so foreign, even now; that one is created in guilt, that they will forever be shackled by such. And that Eset, a lowblood, by such a standard, may forever be doomed for things she did not ask for. There is forgiveness, Eset, she murmurs. when you kneel before Osiris for judgment, He will decide if you are covetous. If you have added weight to the balance. And for us mortals, there is reason for everything.
For Zaahira had been tainted, too; was agenda not part of life? The climb of ladders, the grifting, the balance of such in combination with pursuit of morality. You gave me the flower, her paw slips away and returns to her own body. that is good enough for me.
Her eyes turn to the sky, now painted with swirls of indigo; the stars look down upon them. I appreciate the apology. I am sorry, too. For that. For everything.

There is forgiveness- but it is for those who seek it.

Coolness stings her hand where once the mazoi’s paw had been. She doesn’t move but listens to Zaahira’s words, and agrees silently. There is a reason for everything.

And all of Zaahira’s love to give, it would be wasted on a girl like Eset.

She sits with her as a last glimpse of sun falls off beyond the distant mesas, before turning to meld with the dark.

“I will keep my ear to the ground,” her voice is hollow until she casts a lingering glance back into the woman’s stark face, “Zaahira, please take care of yourself.”

Empty space between them, now; a rift, a false hope for something — someone — perhaps untouchable.
This was her own fault. You too, Eset. I will keep you in my prayers. Even if you do not think you deserve it.
When the gaunt shadow of Eset disappears, her head tips back to face the scarred moon, bathing in its glow. To Sekhmey she prays tonight, whispered to no one.

O Sekhmet, Eye of Ra, Great of Flame
I praise You and fear You wholly, lady of protection;
Come forth, come toward our women, our Holy Queen, keeper of red sand!
Our Eset, your humble servant pleads
Protect us and preserve us from all arrows
And every evil of this year.

The desert breeze whistles as it tousles the fur of her back, and she imagines it is Sekhmet who embraces her in place of the woman who may never.