Amaunet, queen of Apophis, is pampered and cosseted.
She rises at her leisure from bedclothes of silks and satins, instantly surrounded by female slaves who wrap her in gossamer robes and guide her languid steps to the bathing chamber. More slaves await her there, some unfolding snow-white linens, others pouring golden jugs of steaming water into the sunken pool with its mosaic of mother-of-pearl and lapis lazuli. Rose petals float on the water's surface, and the spicy scent of musk incense drifts on the currents of air. Amaunet graciously permits the slaves to divest her of her robes and escort her into the bathing pool, where she is cleansed and anointed with fragrant oils of myrrh and terebinth.
When she is satisfied with her morning ablutions, Amaunet raises a hand in lazy command, and the slaves rush to bear her from the water. She rarely has the patience to remain still as they dress her in the day's chosen finery, but she is generous enough to allow them to scurry after her as she walks out of the steamy room. They reverently lift her hands to lacquer her nails with henna, slipping rings onto her fingers and bracelets onto her wrists; they strap golden sandals, with the names of her enemies woven into the soles, onto her dainty feet; they smooth beaded brocades and sheer pleats of heavy silks against her body; they enhance the queen's natural beauty with kohl, malachite, and ochre; they arrange the thick coils of her lustrous hair with jeweled combs, taking great care not to tug on even a single strand.
A slave pulled at a snarl, once. It took the woman nearly two days to die.
Just as they fasten the clasps of her necklaces and earrings, and finish binding her calves with cords of copper, Amaunet reaches the dining chamber. With regal dignity, Amaunet sinks onto the pile of luxurious pillows. Her gaze passes lazily over the bowed heads of the slaves kneeling before her, gold and silver dishes proffered in their upraised hands. She chooses some sweet glazed walnuts and nibbles slowly, paying little mind to the cascading music of the harpists and the endless tinkling of the fountain of water in the far corner.
To the symbiote coiled against the woman's spine, all this is routine and commonplace -- perhaps even boring.
To the host, used to roughly woven linen, blowing sands, hand-ground flatbreads, and the careful rationing of water, it is luxury beyond imagining.
But Sha're would gladly abandon it all in a heartbeat, if she could only be free of the demon and walk on Abydos again.
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by Fig NewtonKapitel Bemerkung:
Inspired by my own prompt of "Sha're, water."
The gulf between Sha're's former life and her experience as Amaunet's host is vast beyond imagining. Set sometime in Season One, with no spoilers outside of Sha're's predicament.
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