Lion Head Mesa they feed on temple grain ☥

"you there," snapped the glossydark prince. "come here."

over the servant's bowed head, icegold eyes examined the hairs there as amiir considered the silence of the antelope, the resignation of the crocodile, the abject misery of the lion-cub.

"i want to make a gift to my sister," khaemwaset declared. "she is sad. i will see that she is happy."

not long thereafter, a parade of fellahin swayed along the corridor, carrying all manner of dried desert blooms and their delicate fragrances to the chambers of princess @Neith, where they would be set in decor, sprinkled, lain over shelf and bedding; profusions of color to make her eyes alight with joy once more.

arrogantly, he did not know @Charmion had already offered such gentle luxuries, and had his own gifts announced loudly.

she did not deserve her sadness. like mother, neith was a goddess, and goddesses must not weep.

An enormous fresco of her namesake goddess smiles down at Neith from her furs. She stares at her minimalist features, at the eyes of yellow fire that flare from her face.

Suddenly her room bursts to life with color and fragrance and servants’ deft marching!  Displaced varicolored petals flutter to the floor in arresting cascades. She gasps, whirling, grinning, surrounded by the fellahin’s blessings and encouragements.

“Who’s sent you?!” Neith laughs, for a hopeful moment expecting mother and father to turn the corner into her rooms–

She is no less emotional to see Khaem standing at her door in his beautiful, darkened glory. So much like papa. And strong; strong enough for both of them. Neith’s eyes dampen and the princess draws her brother to the center of the room to join her rose-tinged dance.

someone had already been within her rooms, gilding them with petals. even as neith reached for him, a great jealousy poured through the veins of the obsidian prince.

"hello, sister," he greeted, attempting to remain upright and proud as their divine parentage.

he began to twirl with her beneath the downfall of fluttering petals. "you laugh again. good."

for her. for him. for them all, that the joy of princess neith be heard once more in the halls of akashingo.

Khaem is elegant. His evening coat shimmers when he moves, his white teeth like glistening glass beads. The princess drapes her neck around his shoulders, “you spoil me.”

She adored him with every sinew in her body, and wondered at the guilt that constricted her heart in admitting so to herself.

What if Satakh were to catch them?
What if Den?

She knew, as she knew the depths of her own soul, the makings of her crocodile brother’s animus towards their second-born sibling. How he would loathe to see Khaem in the niche of her arms, where he was meant to be.

But was it so wrong to fill these empty spaces with bursting laughter and energy from one she loved? She felt undone, as big and bright as the sun in the liquid spill of Khaem’s brace. And where was Den?

Some things she did not profess to understand, perhaps not wanting to, including whatever it was her lion-prince made her feel.

“When do I get to hear my brother’s laugh?” Neith chimes, pressing a cool nose meant to tickle into his chest.

neith.

"you are a goddess. we worship them."

he grinned, his laughter soft. unused, perhaps. khaemwaset had always been a serious boy, and now even faced with the joy dancing in his sister's eyes, he was not sure how to express his own.

yet she guided him in this even now, and his face remained open. vulnerable.

semer-wati or pharaoh, he would make himself worthy of these moments, of his regard.

at last in jest, uncomfortable with how much of his spirit was visible, he stooped, took up a mouthful of delicate white petals, and snorted them in bullish humour right over neith's ears.

There; the laughter.

His grin, his true, rare grin that always had a little naughtiness in it.

She understood why it was so hard for him, that he towed the same delicate score between child and god that put him at odds with all the mortal world. In these moments she learned from Khaem and his transcendence, when he looked at her as if he had the soul of an ancient God forced into a child’s framework.

And she, his inverse. A child grappling with her godhood. Reminding him how to laugh.

Neith bucks backwards into his gusts, making a fool’s game of seeing how many flower petals she can fit into her mouth before sneezing them all out. She scampers gleefully about the room, only ceasing at the lancet of a little window outside her bedroom to see that the sun is setting on yet another day.

One more day without momma and daddy.

“What if… they never come back."

he felt himself responsible for them all; khaemwaset had watched mother and father disappear into unknown horizon. some part of childishness had been left behind in the glen. now he laughed again, harder, as neith filled her mouth with flowers.

was life easier for her? she too held the destiny of pharaoh or consort.

or queen.

queen satsu. queen treva. he knew their names as much as he had been taught by their priests, reared in full understanding of the dynasties which had culminated in his own breath. he knew their power, and that the redstone tomb which loomed high as one walked to the serpent; that it had been built first for a queen and that the second had birthed their pharaoh now in the Horus favor.

somber in silent the amiir considered. to never see rashepses or toula again; the very thought tightened his chest and threatened to close his throat with panic.

just briefly, khaemwaset allowed merneith to see it, just a moment before his face closed and a cunning smirk took its place. his turn now, dancing backward toward the door, out into the hallway, his trajectory made for the empty throne-room where not even senmut sat.

dusted, cleansed, resplendent with flowers restored each day, the rough-hewn dais seemed gigantic, and he wanted to see them now. to see them as his golden eyes rested on the lioness. "then two of us will rule, neith," khaemwaset assured. two. only two.

It is only the two of them.

Ichor and lily drench the air, thick as bee’s honey. Rivulets of molten gold and jewels texture the seats of Pharaoh and Consort. A striking pulse afflicts her veins. She takes a careful step inside, unsurprised to find the cathedra opulently maintained even in mother’s absence.

On one wall the relief of grandfather Pharaoh Ramesses looms above Khaem.
The resemblance is preternatural.

Rising forcefully before Merneith is the Queen's dais. Her chest fills and falls in thoughtful silence.

Beside her, Khaem is grounded in his stance. But his eyes glint keenly, wide with passion. The princess has never seen this look before, and she does not know whether she can trust it.

“When that day comes, it will divide us,” Neith whispers solemnly. “You know this. I know you do.”

"it will divide two of us," and he reached to take her paw in his own. each polished, coiffed, smoothed; they were divinity incarnate, resplendent in their own image. 

ramesses' eyes gleamed from the portraiture, and beneath them he stood taller. "the two most deserving, my sister. they will sit upon these thrones."

khaemwaset was far too devout to speak into existence the names he thought might be worshipped here, but his smile was singular, for neith alone when he turned his eyes to her again.

once more the prince gazed upon the thrones in reverent silence.

He is not brother.

He is soft-toned thunder, melodious, obsidian, blistering as earth’s center. Dignity, power, conviction; his touch imposes none of Den’s fastidious harmony, but the promise of intense polarity.

In their life full of distinction, ordered beauty, magic– it was Khaem who was the master. Khaem who had never once turned away from her.

The rhythm of his blood and spirit are true. He takes her hand and suddenly she is swimming in his essence, twined with his flesh.

“Who are you?” Neith asks, flung into the blaze of Ra’s stare–
entirely transparent there.

"i don't know."

before the shimmer of neith's eyes, his own coalesced into pure wonder; he stared at the work above the throne and felt his own chest swelling with an awareness he did not yet understand.

"sometimes i feel like i was never a child." lingering; reluctant; he let go of her paw and stepped toward the Horus Throne. mother's throne. 

solemn hand touched the ancient scarlet stone, passing his touch over its edge as if he could imbue himself with the stories that the rock held secret in itself.

"sometimes — sometimes it feels as if i remember the throne, neith. as if i was —" but that could not be, and khaemwaset shut his eyes with a smile which held vague mockery for himself, for his own notions.

Fear; fear. A child feared. Did a goddess?

Neith is released and she staggers back with an emitting breath.

“Khaem,” the spirit who walks in her brother caresses the horus throne, “you’re scaring me.”

Why could she not turn away?

that fear in neith's voice stilled khaemwaset's paw upon the granite dais. he turned to her with a startled blink that perhaps restored the prince over what he had been, a thinning veneer draped over what he was.

"i did not mean to frighten you," amiir spoke with chastisement in his voice, ears splayed to show the breadth of his unwillingness to let her be scared of him.

a final glance to the thrones. "come. let us go to the top of the mesa. we should join the erpa-ha for prayer."

but he was somber as he looked at neith, hoping to see her own face clear of its trepidation.

In the blink of an eye stands her brother again. The one who holds her when she is frightened and conjures magnificent spectacles just to hear her laugh.

But now Neith has seen. The infant Goddess peering into something ancient. With reverence, and listening fear, the garnet eyes wide and naive upon that which perhaps she was never meant to witness.

And in her small body she is conscious of an awakened command, sharp like cold winds, waiting fiercely for him to repossess–

Unbelief has not a space within her to breathe, with no glances astern the amiirad flees from the two thrones, from Khaem, to barricade herself in her room.

<3

there was something within khaemwaset, growing, anubic-head rearing sharp into his very throat. almost from the moment of sentience he had sensed its presence.

now it had showed itself in dire flickering to neith; now she fled him and as the sound of her steps retreated, a horrible pain rose in the dark brother.

it was an anguish drowned quickly by anger. khaemwaset glared hotly into the eyes of the portraiture and jerked away from the throne.

he would not take to his own rooms, but to the top of the mesa, bound there by something more he did not understand.