a bit of mischief, from her—but not ill intended! the young Satiset quite enjoyed a good game of “dress up”, and today her unwitting participant was none other than her favored Mazoi. she quite adored her dearest Nakhtmin—he was fierce always when it counted. but she recollected fondly the days when she was much, much smaller and he was as big as the most daunting of mountains to scale and he patiently allowed her to scale him. and then, having the further patience to allow her to crow proudly between his horns (right next to his ears) that she was the mighty Neferseba!
he was kindest to her, above the rest of her siblings; a girl among three rowdy boys ought to be resilient, and she was!, but only she had successfully scaled mount Nakhtmin to the top.
she heard the rustling of wisteria behind her. at last she turned to look over her shoulder, and saw his prongs sufficiently decorated! Satiset let out a happy noise, that was quick to become laughter as he spoke. well, you look valiant in your victory, Mazoi! I do not even need to give you a garland—you have made one yourself! came her delighted words. and then she marveled at the path he had made with a gasp. look at this! no finer path has ever been seen! oh! did you know that would happen? did you do that for me?! she looked to a nearby fellahin with a little laugh. wherever she walked, there were flowers in her wake—there might come to be a rumor that where she moved, flowers bloomed. her imagination again ran wild with the idea, and she smiled; Satiset would know the truth of the retelling of the scribe. well, I must walk upon it, then, she decided with a wagging plume; she would not insult him by ignoring his beautiful work.
she could not remember then a childhood memory when she was but a babe, where she had believed such a thing to be truth! she had delighted in “her own” magic—it was always her people that helped her conjure it.
she moved to the walkway of wisteria, smiling happily at him. her Nakhtmin!
he, as wolves and predators were, was also a killing thing—she had never seen prey, or something soft, when looking upon him. he was far more likely to wield his weapons than she herself was, after all! even the flowers upon his horns did nothing to change that—it was the very picture of irony. like flowers on a knife. you could never miss the literal sharp end of it, so stark beside something truly soft. herself… the flowers.
still, though, you look most magnificent, Mazoi, she informed him happily. and then she thought of her dearest Osiris—she thrilled at the idea of wisteria, tangled prettily within his mane!