Lion Head Mesa [m] chorro

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el verde, silvertongue called it in her begging; the green. and the green had changed her in permanency. despite the fact that its echoes had left her body, she felt its touch, its compelling pull. sometime in her raving she had pulled ramesses' name from her memory, cried that she had once served queen satsu. she knew the number of red hallways; she knew the count of rooms it had been when she left for blackwater. whether or not she was believed, she did not care. her days were marked by those memories; silvertongue was lost in them, believing herself to be back from blackwater, returned to a dynasty that no longer existed. her eyes saw only years ago, and she put herself to work as a fellahin, returning to the parts of what she knew, what the green had not destroyed.

a woman. incoherent and rambling things that Lord Gucci might have once spoke of. charmion distracted himself from the absence of the small Lord. he busied himself with the royals and —

her, maybe. charmion did not think himself any kind of master of the fellahin, but he taught where he could. he kept his large ears fixed upon whispers and his eyes always watched shifting shadows.

what is your specialty? he had with him a dark fur, freshly washed and being laid to dry in the mesa's sun.

"i am whatever pharaoh wants me to be," silvertongue chuckled, voice a pleasant peal even as she continued her cleansing of the floor which led out to the red land itself. "i have no specialty but his desire." a wink offered; she curved her thin body over the demanding task. "you are new. did the queen bring you to her court?" silvertongue murmured, glancing up toward the stranger's face once more.

pharaoh. his.

charmion wondered if something was afoot that he did not know about. yet maybe it was only more rippling echoes from things Lord Gucci had seen first. his devotion to his house did not buy him endless knowledge. only what the little Lord wished to (endearingly) yap about on their long journeys.

had someone broke this woman? his mother might have offered a strong strike for his thinking and he felt it like a phantom pain, lips thinned into contemplation.

no, waterdancer. there were no titles between fellahin, but he'd bestow upon her something better than woman when he addressed her. i am the gifted servant to Lord Gucci and the House of Gucci — but i serve the royal palace as a whole, too.

he looked for anything in her face now. maybe a knowing or the lack thereof.

waterdancer, he called her. silvertongue brightened. "i know gucci." once she had prised dirt from the neb in the swirling warmth of the wellspring; now he had ascended to a high place among akashingo. "you are his body servant," she observed, her eyes sweet with curiosity. "it has been a long time since i saw him. so well he must have done for himself." her tones for this fellahin who had come to visit with her. "i imagine you have been in the throne rooms, then. grand, are they not?" she said with the easy sigh of one used to admiring wealth.

something about her inspired an unfamiliar warmth in his cheeks. he imagined very much that that was why she was a waterdancer, a figure of desire and imagination.

the House of Gucci flourishes beautifully. he told her with a soft clearing of his throat. and yes, the throne rooms. they are glorious. the whole royal palace is. he would not be heard saying otherwise that much he could be certain of.

he entertained a cautious two steps towards her. might i invite you along with me, waterdancer? i am to lay this to dry and then clean the House of Gucci chambers. where he hoped would soon fill with the soft twinkling sounds of his Lord again.

"certainly. i will come." her lost limb hardly registered any longer, and especially not to the girl belen who looked toward the other servant with shining eyes. "does the body servant to the house of gucci have a name?" she purred, falling into step once she had disposed of the stained cloths and stretched her legs a little. ramesses might enjoy the look of this one; he favored jawahir and possessed kasmut. the man beside her might well find himself in those strong and pretty arms if he was ready for such jubilant attention.

he felt flattered to be addressed as such. a ghost of a smile as he led them down the newly cleaned hall. they would both know where to walk, he felt certain of this in the way only a fellahin could.

charmion. who called him that still? when was the last time he had heard his name? he was reminded once more of the special kind of relationships that could be built between servents. yet he ought to remind himself too of the misery that could follow them.

do you have something you wish to be called or shall you remain as waterdancer? he allowed himself a brief look at her now that they walked with one another.

"charmion. i am belen," she offered, tones almost artificial in gaiety. "i would have liked to serve the neb in — all ways — but he was startled, i think," she said, open between herself and he in the way of fellahin. that he was a pretty sight himself was a second pleasure, and she found herself thinking of those fine gilded men who had served pharaoh and trained her to do the same. "what sort of man is he, behind a closed door?" she asked of gucci then, tongue caught between her teeth for a smirking moment that perused charmion with an open intrigue.

beautiful belen. waterdancer to the royals and their desires.

he would never forget her for any moment, he thought. how could he? especially when she spoke of his Lord so freely! if humor existed within him it only showed in the small flash of his olive eyes, not daring to reach his lips.

i do not believe he changes much, belen. maybe the right answer in politics as much as it was truth. and pharaoh? is it still kind eyes behind closed doors? it was a shame he had not become a neb or mazoi himself. perhaps he would have excelled at it with such a noble heart.

instead he made for a spot where the morning sun warmed stone and might dry the fur through the heights of the afternoon. content to spread it out and settle stones on each side so it might not billow away.

"kind eyes. rougher touches," silvertongue said, and closed her eyes to laugh, face upturned in pure bright pleasure to the domed scarlet roof overhead. "you are very pretty, charmion. que bonito." her eyes darkened; suddenly her face was very close to his own and she whispered, "he would like you." she bit her lip. "queen satsu would see you dance also," and silvertongue pulled away; she danced merrily ahead of charmion down the corridor in the vague inclination of brainstem which remembered only a past before the greatest agony. her paws helped him to move the stones, her gaze dancing again in teasing warmth as they met his face for a moment.

"you are very pretty, charmion."

he did not think this was some grand revelation. a man did not make it to his noble service without hearing such words once or twice. yet maybe it meant something more from someone who was beautiful, who said it to perhaps help him.

wasn't it good to be seen as beautiful in the eyes of a court?

queen satsu. a piece of something shooting by like a comet in the sky. a shining legacy twinkling in belen's eye before she is off to help him with the task. he did not think he had it in him to ask who she meant or where she thought she was. she was too radiant and he was suddenly too nervous to break any piece of her further.

how do you think Lord Gucci might feel if i am a dancer instead? it is a twinkle in his own eye full of warmth and humor.

"ha! lord gucci would find it a credit to him, to have so lovely a bloom in his collar." yes; they were both familiar with that tinkling dog-tag. she missed it. crystalline it rang for her now, spun from memory as the rest of her gossamer dreaming. "look; i spilled strawberry juice here, when i was a girl," she said with a low laugh, pointing to a stain on the lefthand side of their path. they were passing the throne rooms now; she winked and pulled charmion into the domed space with its red-hewn dais, two of them. pharaoh and queen. she put her head to one side. "do you know what happened here?" her eyes were mirthful.

he wondered if he was in danger with her. not the kind that comes from blood and teeth. no, no. he thinks she is the kind of danger that came from dreams and stardust.

he should not be charmed by broken glass — but he does not want to think of her like that.

olive eyes gazed upon an old stain, as if he might live through her in these memories she spilled. until suddenly he felt spun around her. dazzled in a way that disarmed him so deeply that he was unsure if he'd ever recover. her boldness to be here and his unfamiliarity in what felt like intrusion.

no, he breathed out and felt the warmth of a wall behind his back. maybe he should gaze upon the room and worship it, but he is scared that if he looked away from her she might become nothing more than a dream. will you tell me?

ramesses sat upon the larger of the thrones, smiling down at belen from the golden insistence of preserved memories. dreamily she gazed at the plinths of stone; she glanced in a sultry manner at charmion and danced closer on her three legs, running her paw along his shoulder before she extended the same touch to the warm arms of the throne. reverent; remembering. "he calls me here, our Horus God." the green; the green; it took; it gave. her eyes swallowed charmion. "he calls me here and against the throne," she whispered, her eyebrow arching to finish her sentence, heated laughter swirling around the pair of them as she pressed her spine back against the ancient scarlet stone and opened her arms to the other servant.

waterdancer.

he understood why any God or mortal might call upon her. she painted pictures with her fluid movements and the whispers of things divine. he felt he had not earned any of this. the warmth of her, the stardust of her dream making.

yet he drew closer to her again when she opened her arms. i do these things with much time, waterdancer. he offered in a low whisper. our absence will be noticed. he reached a paw to cradle her face and look into the gemstone eyes she held.

belen — for she was belen — scintillated with pleasure at his swift response, the strength of his arms. that same strongness was in her and they had built it with the work of their labors. pressing her cheek to his hand, belen glittered at charmion and leant back against the polished sit of red stone from which gods made their edict; "we will make up a story," arching now, teasing; she was made for this, molded by her singular skill and ready to ply it in such exquisite expertise her companion might well weep.

she was anything, she was everything. he wanted it all and yet even in the warmth of her nearness he faltered.

no, he whispered softly. he could do many things that were asked of him, but — i would not make stories to hide that i held your company, belen.

it was not an act of romance but perhaps it was chivalry all the same. he would have extended such to any who offered their own mortal body with such warmth and kindness.

every moment since silvertongue had been returned to the service of pharaoh was one which spent its small time suspended in the amber of vintage recollection. to disturb one of these pasted jewels might dispel the dream entirely. beautiful, gleaming charmion; his humble regard of her pressed belen to think, and she did not want to think. consideration brought headaches in green striation; even now she pulsed for the verde, thirsted deep in her spirit. "then no made-up stories," and she pulled him closer, "only new ones to write."