Greatwater Lake seventy-ninth

it was a small retinue which arrived upon the lake.

senmut stood silent as the herald shouted out his titles, his summons, and his call for audience.

much rested upon the meeting with the woman @Zharille.

the little man arrived with his guardsmen. someone shouted, and she knew them to be names of things but zharille reacted like a nun would to expletives before the holy host.

her arrival was not quick, on purpose; she bludgeoned her way to the southern border to stare him down.

proud, menacing.

she needed no titles to prove her worth.

she arrived, all power and no ponderousness.

senmut was silent for a moment.

"this land is beneath the claim of akashingo. you forfeited your claim to it when you abandoned this lake the first time."

the green eyes were hard.

the desert thought this was their land? zharille snorts. she looks one way, the other, then down at the dirt beneath her feet. she drags a fist through it, leaving scores.

when her gaze levels with the little man again she has something close to humor in her eyes.

mine. always mine.

what was he going to do about it? the fur of her nape rippled; she kept watch of his retinue in her periphery in case of sudden movement.

little man want lake? must take. or trade. already little man took daughters. keep daughters—racharra, she choose you. the humor has left her eyes by now.

lake, mine.

"i remind you that my presence here is a courtesy extended only because of those children," senmut answered evenly.

"you could be routed tonight, and you know this," he said, and looked idly around the barren lake which had once been a kingdom. 

"will you die here, zharille? say it; i will raise my voice and have it done in a moment. no banner will be raised here save that of akashingo. it is final."

rage, white-hot, ignited by his audacity.

but he was right, and that made it all the more infuriating!

zharille could hold her own against many, but not the concentrated efforts of a kingdom. the fact that someone as spineless as this little man could hold so much power against her and on her land, put her beside herself.

she snarled, but gave no word.

her body was tense and eager to charge forth, as she could easily pull the little man to pieces over this —!

she did not want to be underheel of these people; little dog, not her, never her!

lake mine, she reiterates, however her tone is not so pointed. zharille... vassal? then zharille stay?

"that was the agreement," senmut answered dryly, watching the woman rove to and fro.

it seemed she had learned logic. tact. and while the red prince would have preferred to see racharra here, in the stead of her mother, he was now deeply curious.

"you are our vassal. claim in our name. you will need numbers."

pausing. alluding. the green eyes continued to observe with disconnected interest.

she understood, but she was resistant. there would be no double standard—racharra had chosen, and zharille would make her own choice known. she lunged and stopped short of the man, teeth shining; his entourage most likely reacting, if she was lucky he would show his yellow belly too.

no harm done—a test, checking efficacy of their reactions, and the mettle of the man she had grown to loathe.

standing there, zharille would make it known: zharille bow to no desert man. fire-time soon. this was a threat. cubs be born here, lake cubs. strong cubs, learn from mother. unlike the children who had been brainwashed against her, those she would no longer count among her children.

little man, say kill zharille? try, zharille end you now. nothing would come between her and her biological imperative. or, give zharille lake cubs, you walk free.

a curious proposition, or a preposterous one? his desert people would have a foothold through blood, and gain the strength of zharille's bloodline, which they already benefitted from.

pharaoh had cultivated his devotion so strongly that senmut managed not quite to flinch; the muscles all along his jaws tensed with the effort, rippling in a feral way as teeth flickered.

he chided himself. but he had not given ground to the wild woman, and this at least could be noted. "you could kill me," he said agreeably. "and then your head would be mounted at our gates until you were only bones. you would be hunted, and endlessly."

let her at last, and truly, recognize her disadvantage.

"your time comes soon. you say you will not bow to a desert man."

the emerald eyes shone; "but you will lie with one."

he wanted to hear it.

she would get what she wanted, and the desert would gain land without so much protest, certainly without as much bloodshed.

zharille choose. that was her perogative; regardless of all other things settled here, she would not accept the touch of any weak man.

she had enough of weakness with khaba.

lake cubs be strong; who strong enough for zharille? hm? if he named himself she would surely riot; and of the subservient thief-dogs, zharille would have only made a feast of them.

for a long while, he studied her. it was quite a proposition, namely because he did not know who in the palace, save the Consort himself, who might apply.

he would have pressed the foreign prince, cornelius, but this was not a thread.

"the final choice belongs to pharaoh." they had played at words and threats enough; now he straightened in the intent to return.

"your lake will have an answer."

or the lake would be sent bristled teeth.

if there was nothing else, senmut would turn for akashingo.

he could promise nothing, the little snake.

she watched him go, belaying the urge to give chase; and when she was alone, she would go and let loose her rage across her domain.