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Miri closed her eyes, trying to listen, and the world fell away. Their voices had grown strong over the past few months, though Miri had often felt trapped in a misty bubble, with nothing to do but listen. But even now, it varied. Sometimes it felt like a gentle whisper in her ear, the kind that made the little hairs on her arms and neck stand at attention, other times it was a cascade of sound, a roar, as all the voices mingled in one loud chorus. Those days, she had to sit in a tent, block out as much light as possible, and wait for the pounding in her head to pass.
It made sense. The gods were so powerful, and she was nothing but a frightened girl. Sometimes they murmured about death and famine and pain and the spot between Miri’s eyes started to burn. Some days it was all too much. Those were the kinds of words that Miri of Lea did not want to utter aloud. Amenemhat had said a few days prior that she was to start her act soon, and she needed to know what the gods thought. But they were speaking of other things: of chaos and sunshine and storms. They had more important things to discuss than the day-to-day life of a fifteen-year-old girl, far from home and filled with anxiety.
Miri leaned forward, resting her forehead on her knees. She was hiding, ashamed and nervous, in a spare tent. This was her home. Her family traipsed around her, just out of sight, rehearsing for the next show. Her chest expanded slowly as she took a deep breath, then three, then eight. Surrounded by poles and empty cages and extravagant rugs, her mind began to settle. Though the murmuring remained, Miri’s many months under Rekhmire’s care had taught her the importance of staying calm. Being hysterical and frantic only made it worse; the gods would speak louder, trying to make sure she heard them, and she would spiral out of control. No, in order to be the best vessel—the best prophet—possible, Miri had to keep her wits about her. She raised her hands to her head, pressing down on the spots the healer had shown her. Her mind settled further, so she stood, staring at the entrance to the tent. This migrant camp was her home now. She was sent here by the gods, and she must fulfill her purpose.
And so, small frame no longer trembling, the voices fading to a manageable background noise, Miri rose to her feet. Hazel eyes peered at the entrance to the tent, only a strand of fierce light shining through to land in a stripe across the ground. Miri stood at the end of the strand, the tips of her toes just barely illuminated. The light was calling her, so she followed it.
One lingering blink. No furious attempt to shield herself from the blinding sun, though it stared down at her, hot and merciless. Miri barely felt it. Shoulders held back, kalasiris falling nearly to the ground, chin level and eyes blank, she looked as proud and confident as she was meant to. The pride burned gently in the pit of her stomach, fear left behind her in the tent like an old pair of sandals, or the skin of Kesi’s snakes. Though she had never been inside Amenemhat’s tent, it was easy to find, positioned well to affirm his leadership and far more regal looking than the tent she shared with Raziya and Ari.
Miri stopped just outside, hands clasped in front of her. Yes, one of the gods whispered, audible above the rest of the monotonous buzzing. The faint outline of a smile appeared on Miri’s face, pleased despite herself. It was getting easier and easier to decipher what they wanted. Clearly, they wanted Miri to go to Amenemhat, to perform for him, to speak the words they gifted to her.
The smile faded back to a neutral, peaceful expression as she announced herself, just as the gods instructed her. “Excuse me? It’s Miri. I’m ready to learn.”
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The gods were speaking.
Miri closed her eyes, trying to listen, and the world fell away. Their voices had grown strong over the past few months, though Miri had often felt trapped in a misty bubble, with nothing to do but listen. But even now, it varied. Sometimes it felt like a gentle whisper in her ear, the kind that made the little hairs on her arms and neck stand at attention, other times it was a cascade of sound, a roar, as all the voices mingled in one loud chorus. Those days, she had to sit in a tent, block out as much light as possible, and wait for the pounding in her head to pass.
It made sense. The gods were so powerful, and she was nothing but a frightened girl. Sometimes they murmured about death and famine and pain and the spot between Miri’s eyes started to burn. Some days it was all too much. Those were the kinds of words that Miri of Lea did not want to utter aloud. Amenemhat had said a few days prior that she was to start her act soon, and she needed to know what the gods thought. But they were speaking of other things: of chaos and sunshine and storms. They had more important things to discuss than the day-to-day life of a fifteen-year-old girl, far from home and filled with anxiety.
Miri leaned forward, resting her forehead on her knees. She was hiding, ashamed and nervous, in a spare tent. This was her home. Her family traipsed around her, just out of sight, rehearsing for the next show. Her chest expanded slowly as she took a deep breath, then three, then eight. Surrounded by poles and empty cages and extravagant rugs, her mind began to settle. Though the murmuring remained, Miri’s many months under Rekhmire’s care had taught her the importance of staying calm. Being hysterical and frantic only made it worse; the gods would speak louder, trying to make sure she heard them, and she would spiral out of control. No, in order to be the best vessel—the best prophet—possible, Miri had to keep her wits about her. She raised her hands to her head, pressing down on the spots the healer had shown her. Her mind settled further, so she stood, staring at the entrance to the tent. This migrant camp was her home now. She was sent here by the gods, and she must fulfill her purpose.
And so, small frame no longer trembling, the voices fading to a manageable background noise, Miri rose to her feet. Hazel eyes peered at the entrance to the tent, only a strand of fierce light shining through to land in a stripe across the ground. Miri stood at the end of the strand, the tips of her toes just barely illuminated. The light was calling her, so she followed it.
One lingering blink. No furious attempt to shield herself from the blinding sun, though it stared down at her, hot and merciless. Miri barely felt it. Shoulders held back, kalasiris falling nearly to the ground, chin level and eyes blank, she looked as proud and confident as she was meant to. The pride burned gently in the pit of her stomach, fear left behind her in the tent like an old pair of sandals, or the skin of Kesi’s snakes. Though she had never been inside Amenemhat’s tent, it was easy to find, positioned well to affirm his leadership and far more regal looking than the tent she shared with Raziya and Ari.
Miri stopped just outside, hands clasped in front of her. Yes, one of the gods whispered, audible above the rest of the monotonous buzzing. The faint outline of a smile appeared on Miri’s face, pleased despite herself. It was getting easier and easier to decipher what they wanted. Clearly, they wanted Miri to go to Amenemhat, to perform for him, to speak the words they gifted to her.
The smile faded back to a neutral, peaceful expression as she announced herself, just as the gods instructed her. “Excuse me? It’s Miri. I’m ready to learn.”
The gods were speaking.
Miri closed her eyes, trying to listen, and the world fell away. Their voices had grown strong over the past few months, though Miri had often felt trapped in a misty bubble, with nothing to do but listen. But even now, it varied. Sometimes it felt like a gentle whisper in her ear, the kind that made the little hairs on her arms and neck stand at attention, other times it was a cascade of sound, a roar, as all the voices mingled in one loud chorus. Those days, she had to sit in a tent, block out as much light as possible, and wait for the pounding in her head to pass.
It made sense. The gods were so powerful, and she was nothing but a frightened girl. Sometimes they murmured about death and famine and pain and the spot between Miri’s eyes started to burn. Some days it was all too much. Those were the kinds of words that Miri of Lea did not want to utter aloud. Amenemhat had said a few days prior that she was to start her act soon, and she needed to know what the gods thought. But they were speaking of other things: of chaos and sunshine and storms. They had more important things to discuss than the day-to-day life of a fifteen-year-old girl, far from home and filled with anxiety.
Miri leaned forward, resting her forehead on her knees. She was hiding, ashamed and nervous, in a spare tent. This was her home. Her family traipsed around her, just out of sight, rehearsing for the next show. Her chest expanded slowly as she took a deep breath, then three, then eight. Surrounded by poles and empty cages and extravagant rugs, her mind began to settle. Though the murmuring remained, Miri’s many months under Rekhmire’s care had taught her the importance of staying calm. Being hysterical and frantic only made it worse; the gods would speak louder, trying to make sure she heard them, and she would spiral out of control. No, in order to be the best vessel—the best prophet—possible, Miri had to keep her wits about her. She raised her hands to her head, pressing down on the spots the healer had shown her. Her mind settled further, so she stood, staring at the entrance to the tent. This migrant camp was her home now. She was sent here by the gods, and she must fulfill her purpose.
And so, small frame no longer trembling, the voices fading to a manageable background noise, Miri rose to her feet. Hazel eyes peered at the entrance to the tent, only a strand of fierce light shining through to land in a stripe across the ground. Miri stood at the end of the strand, the tips of her toes just barely illuminated. The light was calling her, so she followed it.
One lingering blink. No furious attempt to shield herself from the blinding sun, though it stared down at her, hot and merciless. Miri barely felt it. Shoulders held back, kalasiris falling nearly to the ground, chin level and eyes blank, she looked as proud and confident as she was meant to. The pride burned gently in the pit of her stomach, fear left behind her in the tent like an old pair of sandals, or the skin of Kesi’s snakes. Though she had never been inside Amenemhat’s tent, it was easy to find, positioned well to affirm his leadership and far more regal looking than the tent she shared with Raziya and Ari.
Miri stopped just outside, hands clasped in front of her. Yes, one of the gods whispered, audible above the rest of the monotonous buzzing. The faint outline of a smile appeared on Miri’s face, pleased despite herself. It was getting easier and easier to decipher what they wanted. Clearly, they wanted Miri to go to Amenemhat, to perform for him, to speak the words they gifted to her.
The smile faded back to a neutral, peaceful expression as she announced herself, just as the gods instructed her. “Excuse me? It’s Miri. I’m ready to learn.”
Social intelligence, for a man like Amenemhat, was not a talent.
It was a skill, learned as a young man and forged as a facsimile of the real thing. The ringmaster of the Tempest of Set did not feel as he suspected others did, forging their connections authentically with the intention of being bettered by such people. No, Nem observed and imitated, creating his understanding of the human condition while intent on keeping himself an arm's length from anything that resembled attachment. There were the few that breached that distance, the members of his family.
But, every year, his family grew larger. The Tempest of Set under the care of its ringmaster, began to flourish. The signs of decay that were implanted by the foolish Somgi of Cairo were, little by little, diminishing as his successor offered himself as the means of course correction. More authoritarian than his father had been, Amenemhat utilized his youth and his keen eye for talent to bring himself to the forefront of the Tempest of Set, and sought to carefully analyze each of its family members so that they grew and matured to his designation.
Today, he meant to focus specifically on a girl that'd been brought on. A sister of one of his favoured acrobats, Raziya, Miri was a girl that he hadn't yet the chance to grow more acquainted with. But, he knew much about her from her sister. 'Touched' by the Gods, as she believed she was, the fact that the girl truly believed in that sort of wonderful facade would grow to be an asset if it could be cultivated carefully. She was young, she was attractive, and those two more than anything else were a proper start for her.
So, he waited for her, arranging for a table to be brought into his tent along with a steeped clay pot with tea should she have the inclination to use it. Amenemhat was, unfortunately, quite ignorant as to the particular vehicle for Miri's performances. He'd been far too involved with the betterment of the Clique and the premiere show, the Tempest of Set for which the circus was named. Moving outward from the tent, he sought to have his hand in every aspect of the circus and strengthen his understanding of everything that it was.
I will be the light to guide the circus to where it belongs. They are wanderers following the path of the north star.
Pleased to continue with the understanding, he listened as Miri introduced herself and made her presence known. He offered a smile, or the facsimile of one as he gestured for her to sit in front of him. Amenemhat wore a pleated shendyt, secured to his waist by a leather belt along with a tunic. Clearly, the man dressed for comfort in the moment. They'd taken the day off from travel to perform, though there were several hours yet before the time for that was nigh. More than enough time to assure himself of Miri's aptitude and position on the circus grounds for the evening.
"Come, come, my dear. I want to see what you've come up with and offer my suggestions, afterward."
The ringmaster's smile grew wider still as he waited, his fingers interlocked and over the table, a polite interest set upon his features.
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This character is currently a work in progress.
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Social intelligence, for a man like Amenemhat, was not a talent.
It was a skill, learned as a young man and forged as a facsimile of the real thing. The ringmaster of the Tempest of Set did not feel as he suspected others did, forging their connections authentically with the intention of being bettered by such people. No, Nem observed and imitated, creating his understanding of the human condition while intent on keeping himself an arm's length from anything that resembled attachment. There were the few that breached that distance, the members of his family.
But, every year, his family grew larger. The Tempest of Set under the care of its ringmaster, began to flourish. The signs of decay that were implanted by the foolish Somgi of Cairo were, little by little, diminishing as his successor offered himself as the means of course correction. More authoritarian than his father had been, Amenemhat utilized his youth and his keen eye for talent to bring himself to the forefront of the Tempest of Set, and sought to carefully analyze each of its family members so that they grew and matured to his designation.
Today, he meant to focus specifically on a girl that'd been brought on. A sister of one of his favoured acrobats, Raziya, Miri was a girl that he hadn't yet the chance to grow more acquainted with. But, he knew much about her from her sister. 'Touched' by the Gods, as she believed she was, the fact that the girl truly believed in that sort of wonderful facade would grow to be an asset if it could be cultivated carefully. She was young, she was attractive, and those two more than anything else were a proper start for her.
So, he waited for her, arranging for a table to be brought into his tent along with a steeped clay pot with tea should she have the inclination to use it. Amenemhat was, unfortunately, quite ignorant as to the particular vehicle for Miri's performances. He'd been far too involved with the betterment of the Clique and the premiere show, the Tempest of Set for which the circus was named. Moving outward from the tent, he sought to have his hand in every aspect of the circus and strengthen his understanding of everything that it was.
I will be the light to guide the circus to where it belongs. They are wanderers following the path of the north star.
Pleased to continue with the understanding, he listened as Miri introduced herself and made her presence known. He offered a smile, or the facsimile of one as he gestured for her to sit in front of him. Amenemhat wore a pleated shendyt, secured to his waist by a leather belt along with a tunic. Clearly, the man dressed for comfort in the moment. They'd taken the day off from travel to perform, though there were several hours yet before the time for that was nigh. More than enough time to assure himself of Miri's aptitude and position on the circus grounds for the evening.
"Come, come, my dear. I want to see what you've come up with and offer my suggestions, afterward."
The ringmaster's smile grew wider still as he waited, his fingers interlocked and over the table, a polite interest set upon his features.
Social intelligence, for a man like Amenemhat, was not a talent.
It was a skill, learned as a young man and forged as a facsimile of the real thing. The ringmaster of the Tempest of Set did not feel as he suspected others did, forging their connections authentically with the intention of being bettered by such people. No, Nem observed and imitated, creating his understanding of the human condition while intent on keeping himself an arm's length from anything that resembled attachment. There were the few that breached that distance, the members of his family.
But, every year, his family grew larger. The Tempest of Set under the care of its ringmaster, began to flourish. The signs of decay that were implanted by the foolish Somgi of Cairo were, little by little, diminishing as his successor offered himself as the means of course correction. More authoritarian than his father had been, Amenemhat utilized his youth and his keen eye for talent to bring himself to the forefront of the Tempest of Set, and sought to carefully analyze each of its family members so that they grew and matured to his designation.
Today, he meant to focus specifically on a girl that'd been brought on. A sister of one of his favoured acrobats, Raziya, Miri was a girl that he hadn't yet the chance to grow more acquainted with. But, he knew much about her from her sister. 'Touched' by the Gods, as she believed she was, the fact that the girl truly believed in that sort of wonderful facade would grow to be an asset if it could be cultivated carefully. She was young, she was attractive, and those two more than anything else were a proper start for her.
So, he waited for her, arranging for a table to be brought into his tent along with a steeped clay pot with tea should she have the inclination to use it. Amenemhat was, unfortunately, quite ignorant as to the particular vehicle for Miri's performances. He'd been far too involved with the betterment of the Clique and the premiere show, the Tempest of Set for which the circus was named. Moving outward from the tent, he sought to have his hand in every aspect of the circus and strengthen his understanding of everything that it was.
I will be the light to guide the circus to where it belongs. They are wanderers following the path of the north star.
Pleased to continue with the understanding, he listened as Miri introduced herself and made her presence known. He offered a smile, or the facsimile of one as he gestured for her to sit in front of him. Amenemhat wore a pleated shendyt, secured to his waist by a leather belt along with a tunic. Clearly, the man dressed for comfort in the moment. They'd taken the day off from travel to perform, though there were several hours yet before the time for that was nigh. More than enough time to assure himself of Miri's aptitude and position on the circus grounds for the evening.
"Come, come, my dear. I want to see what you've come up with and offer my suggestions, afterward."
The ringmaster's smile grew wider still as he waited, his fingers interlocked and over the table, a polite interest set upon his features.
Any nerves that might have been twisting in Miri’s stomach dissolved completely when Amenemhat smiled at her. Months of reinforcement returned to the forefront of her mind: this was her family, they loved her, she loved them… She returned the man’s smile with a faint one of her own, the dreamy look still present in her eyes. Under Rekhmire’s care the world’s noises had faded, and now the girl looked distant and somehow still piercing more often than not.
She entered Amenemhat’s tent without fear, sitting opposite him. Her Egyptian was nearly perfect now after months of steady practice. It was impressive, really, though Miri was not quite sure how she’d managed it. Some days she emerged from the fog knowing more than she remembered learning. And, at some point, the gods had decided she knew enough for them to start murmuring in Egyptian. Now, only the Hebrew accent remained, just barely strong enough to turn heads towards the foreign girl.
She suspected that Rekhmire had been speaking with the ringmaster, though she couldn’t be sure, so she resolved to tell all in her own words. “The gods have been speaking quite often,” Miri began, a muscle in her face twinging ever-so-slightly as she thought of all the loud, overwhelming moments that threatened to drown her. “They whisper ideas in my head when I meet someone new.” She had been thinking a lot recently about how best to serve the circus, and the idea seemed so absurdly obvious. “I was thinking,” her voice dropped to a murmur, smooth and confident and captivating, “That I could speak their prophecies. The will of the gods should be made known, no?”
The buzzing in her head intensified, so another hint of a smile appeared on Miri’s face. The gods were pleased with the concept. Her eyes never wavered from the man’s face. “They guided me to you, after all, and I want nothing more than to continue to serve them. They have assured me that the best way to do that is to serve you.” The gods murmured approvingly again. They seemed to like Amenemhat and had since the moment Raziya had first written about his commanding presence and generosity. He is worthy, they whispered, sending tingles down her spine.
Gazing at Amenemhat with large hazel eyes, she waited patiently for his verdict. It was clear why the gods approved of him. He was everything Raziya had said and more: handsome and strong and charismatic, like honey in the shape of a man. Yes, following the gods will was quite easy in this case. He had welcomed her, a small girl with no skills or importance, into his family with open arms. It was the least she could do to serve him with an open heart. And so she sat in the ringmaster’s tent, voices swirling through her head and mingling and merging with her own thoughts, lifting Amenemhat higher and higher until he was only a few tiers lower than the voices themselves, for that was where the leader of her family belonged.
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Any nerves that might have been twisting in Miri’s stomach dissolved completely when Amenemhat smiled at her. Months of reinforcement returned to the forefront of her mind: this was her family, they loved her, she loved them… She returned the man’s smile with a faint one of her own, the dreamy look still present in her eyes. Under Rekhmire’s care the world’s noises had faded, and now the girl looked distant and somehow still piercing more often than not.
She entered Amenemhat’s tent without fear, sitting opposite him. Her Egyptian was nearly perfect now after months of steady practice. It was impressive, really, though Miri was not quite sure how she’d managed it. Some days she emerged from the fog knowing more than she remembered learning. And, at some point, the gods had decided she knew enough for them to start murmuring in Egyptian. Now, only the Hebrew accent remained, just barely strong enough to turn heads towards the foreign girl.
She suspected that Rekhmire had been speaking with the ringmaster, though she couldn’t be sure, so she resolved to tell all in her own words. “The gods have been speaking quite often,” Miri began, a muscle in her face twinging ever-so-slightly as she thought of all the loud, overwhelming moments that threatened to drown her. “They whisper ideas in my head when I meet someone new.” She had been thinking a lot recently about how best to serve the circus, and the idea seemed so absurdly obvious. “I was thinking,” her voice dropped to a murmur, smooth and confident and captivating, “That I could speak their prophecies. The will of the gods should be made known, no?”
The buzzing in her head intensified, so another hint of a smile appeared on Miri’s face. The gods were pleased with the concept. Her eyes never wavered from the man’s face. “They guided me to you, after all, and I want nothing more than to continue to serve them. They have assured me that the best way to do that is to serve you.” The gods murmured approvingly again. They seemed to like Amenemhat and had since the moment Raziya had first written about his commanding presence and generosity. He is worthy, they whispered, sending tingles down her spine.
Gazing at Amenemhat with large hazel eyes, she waited patiently for his verdict. It was clear why the gods approved of him. He was everything Raziya had said and more: handsome and strong and charismatic, like honey in the shape of a man. Yes, following the gods will was quite easy in this case. He had welcomed her, a small girl with no skills or importance, into his family with open arms. It was the least she could do to serve him with an open heart. And so she sat in the ringmaster’s tent, voices swirling through her head and mingling and merging with her own thoughts, lifting Amenemhat higher and higher until he was only a few tiers lower than the voices themselves, for that was where the leader of her family belonged.
Any nerves that might have been twisting in Miri’s stomach dissolved completely when Amenemhat smiled at her. Months of reinforcement returned to the forefront of her mind: this was her family, they loved her, she loved them… She returned the man’s smile with a faint one of her own, the dreamy look still present in her eyes. Under Rekhmire’s care the world’s noises had faded, and now the girl looked distant and somehow still piercing more often than not.
She entered Amenemhat’s tent without fear, sitting opposite him. Her Egyptian was nearly perfect now after months of steady practice. It was impressive, really, though Miri was not quite sure how she’d managed it. Some days she emerged from the fog knowing more than she remembered learning. And, at some point, the gods had decided she knew enough for them to start murmuring in Egyptian. Now, only the Hebrew accent remained, just barely strong enough to turn heads towards the foreign girl.
She suspected that Rekhmire had been speaking with the ringmaster, though she couldn’t be sure, so she resolved to tell all in her own words. “The gods have been speaking quite often,” Miri began, a muscle in her face twinging ever-so-slightly as she thought of all the loud, overwhelming moments that threatened to drown her. “They whisper ideas in my head when I meet someone new.” She had been thinking a lot recently about how best to serve the circus, and the idea seemed so absurdly obvious. “I was thinking,” her voice dropped to a murmur, smooth and confident and captivating, “That I could speak their prophecies. The will of the gods should be made known, no?”
The buzzing in her head intensified, so another hint of a smile appeared on Miri’s face. The gods were pleased with the concept. Her eyes never wavered from the man’s face. “They guided me to you, after all, and I want nothing more than to continue to serve them. They have assured me that the best way to do that is to serve you.” The gods murmured approvingly again. They seemed to like Amenemhat and had since the moment Raziya had first written about his commanding presence and generosity. He is worthy, they whispered, sending tingles down her spine.
Gazing at Amenemhat with large hazel eyes, she waited patiently for his verdict. It was clear why the gods approved of him. He was everything Raziya had said and more: handsome and strong and charismatic, like honey in the shape of a man. Yes, following the gods will was quite easy in this case. He had welcomed her, a small girl with no skills or importance, into his family with open arms. It was the least she could do to serve him with an open heart. And so she sat in the ringmaster’s tent, voices swirling through her head and mingling and merging with her own thoughts, lifting Amenemhat higher and higher until he was only a few tiers lower than the voices themselves, for that was where the leader of her family belonged.
This is my home.
And Amenemhat sought for it to become that for all of his charges, whether willing recruits or the enslaved conscripted to carry the labours of the Tempest of Set upon their shoulders. The means by which Amenemhat did this were unkind, but concern for those who were not yet pliant to the will of the circus was inconsequential. It did not weigh upon his conscience to turn others to his machinations, for in the end, they were marionettes at his disposal.
The thought did not leave the ringmaster's mind as he nodded in acknowledgement. Her delusions of the gods speaking to her did not escape his notice. Rekhmire kept him up to date with the status of those that sought to become performers, and it was not without use for his performers to harbour delusions. For some, it was the status of Godhood for their saviour, Amenemhat himself. For others, it was as Miri herself, that there were voices in their heads that commanded their movements and informed their motivations. Aside from fostering loyalty to the circus, it was none of Nem's concern how they did their tasks. Only that those tasks were completed to his satisfaction.
Nem listened without letting his features hold an expression, listening from the source itself of how the 'Gods' spoke to her and how she wanted their will to be done and that knowledge given to others. It was rather passionate, even, a sort of infectious drive to do the will of the Gods that could serve his purposes nicely. However, if the voices were unabashed... it could be problematic. The concern with those who suffered with delusions were that they were given to the fanatical belief in their own truth. Rather than use logic, they used emotion to dictate their path and emotion was a very dangerous means by which to make decisions.
However, as she completed her sort of introduction to her means by which she created her act, the will to serve and the dictation that it was the Gods that commanded it... was interesting. Would she be amendable, then? Would her act shift in accordance with his will? Passion was difficult to control, but in the education offered by Rekhmire, those passions were sought to be inflamed by driving in a force of loyalty to the circus and by extension, its ringmaster. How successful was Rekhmire in blending the two together? How might Miri serve to improve the circus through her act?
It was beneficial for the circus to have ancillary performances outside of it. For even those who could not afford the admission of the main act could spend money at the merchant stalls or provide alms to the performers outside, all of which ended up benefiting the circus regardless. Keeping people invested, keeping them there, and adding a sense of mystique that exhilarated and sowed in them a desire to return... that was the objective of every performer, every artist, and the primary means by which the ringmaster exploited the people of Egypt to perpetuate the place he'd come to love so.
"It is my pleasure to be the recipient of one so impassioned by the will of the Gods, Miri. What is it, then, that you see in my future? What do the Gods tell you of the path that I am on? Show me, how you read their will and interpret their design," he commanded her.
The ringmaster opened his hands, placing them palms up at the table as he mused internally,
Show me what use you are to me.
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This is my home.
And Amenemhat sought for it to become that for all of his charges, whether willing recruits or the enslaved conscripted to carry the labours of the Tempest of Set upon their shoulders. The means by which Amenemhat did this were unkind, but concern for those who were not yet pliant to the will of the circus was inconsequential. It did not weigh upon his conscience to turn others to his machinations, for in the end, they were marionettes at his disposal.
The thought did not leave the ringmaster's mind as he nodded in acknowledgement. Her delusions of the gods speaking to her did not escape his notice. Rekhmire kept him up to date with the status of those that sought to become performers, and it was not without use for his performers to harbour delusions. For some, it was the status of Godhood for their saviour, Amenemhat himself. For others, it was as Miri herself, that there were voices in their heads that commanded their movements and informed their motivations. Aside from fostering loyalty to the circus, it was none of Nem's concern how they did their tasks. Only that those tasks were completed to his satisfaction.
Nem listened without letting his features hold an expression, listening from the source itself of how the 'Gods' spoke to her and how she wanted their will to be done and that knowledge given to others. It was rather passionate, even, a sort of infectious drive to do the will of the Gods that could serve his purposes nicely. However, if the voices were unabashed... it could be problematic. The concern with those who suffered with delusions were that they were given to the fanatical belief in their own truth. Rather than use logic, they used emotion to dictate their path and emotion was a very dangerous means by which to make decisions.
However, as she completed her sort of introduction to her means by which she created her act, the will to serve and the dictation that it was the Gods that commanded it... was interesting. Would she be amendable, then? Would her act shift in accordance with his will? Passion was difficult to control, but in the education offered by Rekhmire, those passions were sought to be inflamed by driving in a force of loyalty to the circus and by extension, its ringmaster. How successful was Rekhmire in blending the two together? How might Miri serve to improve the circus through her act?
It was beneficial for the circus to have ancillary performances outside of it. For even those who could not afford the admission of the main act could spend money at the merchant stalls or provide alms to the performers outside, all of which ended up benefiting the circus regardless. Keeping people invested, keeping them there, and adding a sense of mystique that exhilarated and sowed in them a desire to return... that was the objective of every performer, every artist, and the primary means by which the ringmaster exploited the people of Egypt to perpetuate the place he'd come to love so.
"It is my pleasure to be the recipient of one so impassioned by the will of the Gods, Miri. What is it, then, that you see in my future? What do the Gods tell you of the path that I am on? Show me, how you read their will and interpret their design," he commanded her.
The ringmaster opened his hands, placing them palms up at the table as he mused internally,
Show me what use you are to me.
This is my home.
And Amenemhat sought for it to become that for all of his charges, whether willing recruits or the enslaved conscripted to carry the labours of the Tempest of Set upon their shoulders. The means by which Amenemhat did this were unkind, but concern for those who were not yet pliant to the will of the circus was inconsequential. It did not weigh upon his conscience to turn others to his machinations, for in the end, they were marionettes at his disposal.
The thought did not leave the ringmaster's mind as he nodded in acknowledgement. Her delusions of the gods speaking to her did not escape his notice. Rekhmire kept him up to date with the status of those that sought to become performers, and it was not without use for his performers to harbour delusions. For some, it was the status of Godhood for their saviour, Amenemhat himself. For others, it was as Miri herself, that there were voices in their heads that commanded their movements and informed their motivations. Aside from fostering loyalty to the circus, it was none of Nem's concern how they did their tasks. Only that those tasks were completed to his satisfaction.
Nem listened without letting his features hold an expression, listening from the source itself of how the 'Gods' spoke to her and how she wanted their will to be done and that knowledge given to others. It was rather passionate, even, a sort of infectious drive to do the will of the Gods that could serve his purposes nicely. However, if the voices were unabashed... it could be problematic. The concern with those who suffered with delusions were that they were given to the fanatical belief in their own truth. Rather than use logic, they used emotion to dictate their path and emotion was a very dangerous means by which to make decisions.
However, as she completed her sort of introduction to her means by which she created her act, the will to serve and the dictation that it was the Gods that commanded it... was interesting. Would she be amendable, then? Would her act shift in accordance with his will? Passion was difficult to control, but in the education offered by Rekhmire, those passions were sought to be inflamed by driving in a force of loyalty to the circus and by extension, its ringmaster. How successful was Rekhmire in blending the two together? How might Miri serve to improve the circus through her act?
It was beneficial for the circus to have ancillary performances outside of it. For even those who could not afford the admission of the main act could spend money at the merchant stalls or provide alms to the performers outside, all of which ended up benefiting the circus regardless. Keeping people invested, keeping them there, and adding a sense of mystique that exhilarated and sowed in them a desire to return... that was the objective of every performer, every artist, and the primary means by which the ringmaster exploited the people of Egypt to perpetuate the place he'd come to love so.
"It is my pleasure to be the recipient of one so impassioned by the will of the Gods, Miri. What is it, then, that you see in my future? What do the Gods tell you of the path that I am on? Show me, how you read their will and interpret their design," he commanded her.
The ringmaster opened his hands, placing them palms up at the table as he mused internally,
Show me what use you are to me.
Miri could not sense what Amenemhat was thinking. He watched her in the blank, open way that she watched him. But she knew he was a clever man and, like her, he would be powerful in the ways of observation. She had learned to notice tiny details—nothing was too small to be of importance to the gods. Her eyes kept falling on the little scar in his brows, wondering where it came from. Who would dare cause pain to this man? Observation came in different levels. For his purposes, with so many people to watch over and care for, with so much work to be done… Miri was sure he would be in tune with every breath she took, each flicker of her eyes. It was admirable, really. She rarely met people as cognizant of their surroundings as she herself, but of course, Amenemhat was a godly man.
This knowledge only filled her stomach with a softly simmering nervousness. It was her first real test; that much was clear. Up to this point, the gods had been private voices, instructing only her. They spoke, and she acted accordingly. But now, to serve the circus, to serve Amenemhat, she needed to listen even more closely. Hazel eyes flickered down to where his hand rested, palms pointed to the obscured heavens, on the table. She could see the lines dancing across them to form his life. She could see the strength in his wrists and forearms, the veins twisting like snakes up and up and up. And slowly, the fear dissipated. The gods began to murmur.
Take his left hand. It has a direct line to the heart. Small hands steadier than she could have hoped, Miri did as she was told, one hand cradling his and the other gently beginning to trace the lines. As her fingers ran over each little ridge and valley, the whispers increased, infused with a steady, pleased hum. The gods could not be more impressed with the man before her. But the words were complicated, weaving a dark and confusing narrative, beating louder and louder like the pulse she could feel beneath his skin. For once, she could not find a way to express the words.
“I—” she started once or twice, furrowing her brows and never once looking up. “You are strong-willed and ambitious, perfectly following the path that was laid out for you.” The gods hissed and Miri shivered, hoping he could not see the shame edging into her eyes. Amenemhat had asked for his future. Knowing his personality was not enough. He wanted power, fame, respect… would he get it?
Yes, hissed the gods, still bordering on fury. She was failing them. Stupid girl, would we let our chosen one fail? “Of course not,” she breathed, unaware that her lips had moved. Miri tried to regain focus, concentrating on the feeling of his hand between hers. Power in every finger, strong lines and toughened skin. One line that refused to break, though each other line it passed tried to interfere. “You will continue down this path.” Her voice grew steadier again, though she still could not look up, “You will accomplish all that you desire on a streak that began… in recent years. You—” she stopped, releasing his hand and looking at him with blank eyes, keeping the sudden feeling of sadness tucked away. Tell him. “You will experience betrayal at least twice, and pain, but it will only make you stronger, stronger, until one day, far from now, the dream will end in shadow.”
Miri desperately hoped that she would not live to see the shadowed days. It sounded both tragic and legendary and she did not want to see the fall of a king. The gods did not tell her all the details. Unlike most of the people she encountered, Amenemhat was special, chosen. They kept him in a golden shroud, telling her only what they thought would satisfy him enough to keep her. He was given privacy that others would not be. She was small and insignificant, but she was their voice, sent to serve them through him. He needed to trust her. And while it felt cruel to end on such a sour note, Amenemhat was nothing if not worthy of the truth. Miri was a vessel of the truth.
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Miri could not sense what Amenemhat was thinking. He watched her in the blank, open way that she watched him. But she knew he was a clever man and, like her, he would be powerful in the ways of observation. She had learned to notice tiny details—nothing was too small to be of importance to the gods. Her eyes kept falling on the little scar in his brows, wondering where it came from. Who would dare cause pain to this man? Observation came in different levels. For his purposes, with so many people to watch over and care for, with so much work to be done… Miri was sure he would be in tune with every breath she took, each flicker of her eyes. It was admirable, really. She rarely met people as cognizant of their surroundings as she herself, but of course, Amenemhat was a godly man.
This knowledge only filled her stomach with a softly simmering nervousness. It was her first real test; that much was clear. Up to this point, the gods had been private voices, instructing only her. They spoke, and she acted accordingly. But now, to serve the circus, to serve Amenemhat, she needed to listen even more closely. Hazel eyes flickered down to where his hand rested, palms pointed to the obscured heavens, on the table. She could see the lines dancing across them to form his life. She could see the strength in his wrists and forearms, the veins twisting like snakes up and up and up. And slowly, the fear dissipated. The gods began to murmur.
Take his left hand. It has a direct line to the heart. Small hands steadier than she could have hoped, Miri did as she was told, one hand cradling his and the other gently beginning to trace the lines. As her fingers ran over each little ridge and valley, the whispers increased, infused with a steady, pleased hum. The gods could not be more impressed with the man before her. But the words were complicated, weaving a dark and confusing narrative, beating louder and louder like the pulse she could feel beneath his skin. For once, she could not find a way to express the words.
“I—” she started once or twice, furrowing her brows and never once looking up. “You are strong-willed and ambitious, perfectly following the path that was laid out for you.” The gods hissed and Miri shivered, hoping he could not see the shame edging into her eyes. Amenemhat had asked for his future. Knowing his personality was not enough. He wanted power, fame, respect… would he get it?
Yes, hissed the gods, still bordering on fury. She was failing them. Stupid girl, would we let our chosen one fail? “Of course not,” she breathed, unaware that her lips had moved. Miri tried to regain focus, concentrating on the feeling of his hand between hers. Power in every finger, strong lines and toughened skin. One line that refused to break, though each other line it passed tried to interfere. “You will continue down this path.” Her voice grew steadier again, though she still could not look up, “You will accomplish all that you desire on a streak that began… in recent years. You—” she stopped, releasing his hand and looking at him with blank eyes, keeping the sudden feeling of sadness tucked away. Tell him. “You will experience betrayal at least twice, and pain, but it will only make you stronger, stronger, until one day, far from now, the dream will end in shadow.”
Miri desperately hoped that she would not live to see the shadowed days. It sounded both tragic and legendary and she did not want to see the fall of a king. The gods did not tell her all the details. Unlike most of the people she encountered, Amenemhat was special, chosen. They kept him in a golden shroud, telling her only what they thought would satisfy him enough to keep her. He was given privacy that others would not be. She was small and insignificant, but she was their voice, sent to serve them through him. He needed to trust her. And while it felt cruel to end on such a sour note, Amenemhat was nothing if not worthy of the truth. Miri was a vessel of the truth.
Miri could not sense what Amenemhat was thinking. He watched her in the blank, open way that she watched him. But she knew he was a clever man and, like her, he would be powerful in the ways of observation. She had learned to notice tiny details—nothing was too small to be of importance to the gods. Her eyes kept falling on the little scar in his brows, wondering where it came from. Who would dare cause pain to this man? Observation came in different levels. For his purposes, with so many people to watch over and care for, with so much work to be done… Miri was sure he would be in tune with every breath she took, each flicker of her eyes. It was admirable, really. She rarely met people as cognizant of their surroundings as she herself, but of course, Amenemhat was a godly man.
This knowledge only filled her stomach with a softly simmering nervousness. It was her first real test; that much was clear. Up to this point, the gods had been private voices, instructing only her. They spoke, and she acted accordingly. But now, to serve the circus, to serve Amenemhat, she needed to listen even more closely. Hazel eyes flickered down to where his hand rested, palms pointed to the obscured heavens, on the table. She could see the lines dancing across them to form his life. She could see the strength in his wrists and forearms, the veins twisting like snakes up and up and up. And slowly, the fear dissipated. The gods began to murmur.
Take his left hand. It has a direct line to the heart. Small hands steadier than she could have hoped, Miri did as she was told, one hand cradling his and the other gently beginning to trace the lines. As her fingers ran over each little ridge and valley, the whispers increased, infused with a steady, pleased hum. The gods could not be more impressed with the man before her. But the words were complicated, weaving a dark and confusing narrative, beating louder and louder like the pulse she could feel beneath his skin. For once, she could not find a way to express the words.
“I—” she started once or twice, furrowing her brows and never once looking up. “You are strong-willed and ambitious, perfectly following the path that was laid out for you.” The gods hissed and Miri shivered, hoping he could not see the shame edging into her eyes. Amenemhat had asked for his future. Knowing his personality was not enough. He wanted power, fame, respect… would he get it?
Yes, hissed the gods, still bordering on fury. She was failing them. Stupid girl, would we let our chosen one fail? “Of course not,” she breathed, unaware that her lips had moved. Miri tried to regain focus, concentrating on the feeling of his hand between hers. Power in every finger, strong lines and toughened skin. One line that refused to break, though each other line it passed tried to interfere. “You will continue down this path.” Her voice grew steadier again, though she still could not look up, “You will accomplish all that you desire on a streak that began… in recent years. You—” she stopped, releasing his hand and looking at him with blank eyes, keeping the sudden feeling of sadness tucked away. Tell him. “You will experience betrayal at least twice, and pain, but it will only make you stronger, stronger, until one day, far from now, the dream will end in shadow.”
Miri desperately hoped that she would not live to see the shadowed days. It sounded both tragic and legendary and she did not want to see the fall of a king. The gods did not tell her all the details. Unlike most of the people she encountered, Amenemhat was special, chosen. They kept him in a golden shroud, telling her only what they thought would satisfy him enough to keep her. He was given privacy that others would not be. She was small and insignificant, but she was their voice, sent to serve them through him. He needed to trust her. And while it felt cruel to end on such a sour note, Amenemhat was nothing if not worthy of the truth. Miri was a vessel of the truth.
This is going to be fun, Nem considered as he waited patiently for the girl to begin. Part of the joy in being the ringmaster for the Tempest of Set was in the interim between performances. Every performer was an asset, a tool to be given purpose. Amenemhat took his job very seriously, but in the same token, there was diversion to be had. Just as the circus entertained the world, it did the same for the ringmaster. Given to fantasies of the circus in his youth, always he'd imagined the day when he could attend. Then, when he could, he imagined the day he could be significant. And then, when he was, he imagined the day he'd be in control.
And now, he was.
Amenemhat was the final say, the maker of the decisions that would bring the circus to fruition or to ruin. Years of living in his father's shadow gave him ideas, inspiration, and the experience he needed to act on both of them. So too had it given him the power to read people. Years before, he'd struggled with understanding the human condition. It was difficult, even in the earliest days of his wresting power over the circus, to truly understand what it was to know the minds of others. The facade was not always there, but once it was raised and once he indulged in his practice, in his observation into imitation into control, he was keen to perpetuate it. He reveled in it all, from watching performers in their moments of elation to the way that Miri herself, in this moment, showed the signs of her nervousness.
Clearly, it was a big moment for her. It was a deciding factor, the moment, perhaps, that she envisioned proving her sister Raziya's faith in her. Amenemhat always wondered how the conditioning the circus enacted affected the minds of the subjected, but so rarely was he disappointed in the result. In silence, Amenemhat observed the young Judean girl just as she observed him, following the path from his hands and up his forearms. He saw the shift in her expression as the nerves.
Good girl. Fear does not belong in performance. Show your strength and come into your own.
He'd give her the advice vocally if she needed it, but it was becoming more and more obvious that it was unnecessary. Whatever it was, whether her perceived conversations with the Gods or a dose of self-confidence, Nem was pleased by what he saw. She seemed uncertain at first, but more and more she delved into an assessment of his personality. However inconsequential it was for Nem to hear such an assessment, it was a proper lead in for a performance. To know one's patronage was the very essence of the crucible of Nem's self-tutelage. It was the most important factor, and while she seemed to cringe at her introduction, he said nothing, encouraging her to continue.
"Of course not."
The words escaped her and she hardly seemed aware of it, likely speaking to her hallucinations. It was the first visible sign of the symptoms Rekhmire's treatments instilled in her, but he shrugged it off. If he had a question about it, it was lost as she continued on, moving from her introduction and utilizing it to move on with her predictions. Her voice, as she interpreted the 'will of the Gods' became clearer, stronger. She took hold of his hand and played along the calloused digits with her softer ones. She read the signs in his palm and went forward with her divination.
"You will accomplish all that you desire on a streak that began... in recent years You -- will experience betrayal at least twice, and pain..."
Oh?
Amenemhat found her predictions, a story of power through adversity, to be fascinating. However, he had his first inquiries about the nature of her prediction. He did not interrupt her, curious to know how she'd complete this prediction. Betrayal, pain... and growing strength until an inevitable end.
Rather vague... She speaks well, though, he assessed. It was to be expected for predictions to be shrouded in mystery. More than once he'd seen these sort of acts from afar, with fortune tellers using a generally far more... eccentric means of doing their job. They were at times erratic, but the same sort of doom-and-gloom that resided in Miri's words lived in theirs. It was profitable... until it wasn't.
"I do not fear shadow. All that I work for is for perpetuity. My death, when it comes, will hopefully have an heir to remain and take over my work," he answered her words, shrugging his shoulders somewhat. Her cadence, her way with words once she worked through her confidence... it was very passable. He enjoyed her prediction and had not lost interest throughout the entirety. He was impressed, but not without response.
"That was very... good. And I'm confident that the performers and help would appreciate your services when the circus isn't in function. However, for the sake of the crowd, Miri... I'd suggest finding something to say that's altogether less... gloomy. Our patrons come to be entertained, and certainly, they come to you in an effort to find reassurances of wine and women in their presumably very near future."
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This is going to be fun, Nem considered as he waited patiently for the girl to begin. Part of the joy in being the ringmaster for the Tempest of Set was in the interim between performances. Every performer was an asset, a tool to be given purpose. Amenemhat took his job very seriously, but in the same token, there was diversion to be had. Just as the circus entertained the world, it did the same for the ringmaster. Given to fantasies of the circus in his youth, always he'd imagined the day when he could attend. Then, when he could, he imagined the day he could be significant. And then, when he was, he imagined the day he'd be in control.
And now, he was.
Amenemhat was the final say, the maker of the decisions that would bring the circus to fruition or to ruin. Years of living in his father's shadow gave him ideas, inspiration, and the experience he needed to act on both of them. So too had it given him the power to read people. Years before, he'd struggled with understanding the human condition. It was difficult, even in the earliest days of his wresting power over the circus, to truly understand what it was to know the minds of others. The facade was not always there, but once it was raised and once he indulged in his practice, in his observation into imitation into control, he was keen to perpetuate it. He reveled in it all, from watching performers in their moments of elation to the way that Miri herself, in this moment, showed the signs of her nervousness.
Clearly, it was a big moment for her. It was a deciding factor, the moment, perhaps, that she envisioned proving her sister Raziya's faith in her. Amenemhat always wondered how the conditioning the circus enacted affected the minds of the subjected, but so rarely was he disappointed in the result. In silence, Amenemhat observed the young Judean girl just as she observed him, following the path from his hands and up his forearms. He saw the shift in her expression as the nerves.
Good girl. Fear does not belong in performance. Show your strength and come into your own.
He'd give her the advice vocally if she needed it, but it was becoming more and more obvious that it was unnecessary. Whatever it was, whether her perceived conversations with the Gods or a dose of self-confidence, Nem was pleased by what he saw. She seemed uncertain at first, but more and more she delved into an assessment of his personality. However inconsequential it was for Nem to hear such an assessment, it was a proper lead in for a performance. To know one's patronage was the very essence of the crucible of Nem's self-tutelage. It was the most important factor, and while she seemed to cringe at her introduction, he said nothing, encouraging her to continue.
"Of course not."
The words escaped her and she hardly seemed aware of it, likely speaking to her hallucinations. It was the first visible sign of the symptoms Rekhmire's treatments instilled in her, but he shrugged it off. If he had a question about it, it was lost as she continued on, moving from her introduction and utilizing it to move on with her predictions. Her voice, as she interpreted the 'will of the Gods' became clearer, stronger. She took hold of his hand and played along the calloused digits with her softer ones. She read the signs in his palm and went forward with her divination.
"You will accomplish all that you desire on a streak that began... in recent years You -- will experience betrayal at least twice, and pain..."
Oh?
Amenemhat found her predictions, a story of power through adversity, to be fascinating. However, he had his first inquiries about the nature of her prediction. He did not interrupt her, curious to know how she'd complete this prediction. Betrayal, pain... and growing strength until an inevitable end.
Rather vague... She speaks well, though, he assessed. It was to be expected for predictions to be shrouded in mystery. More than once he'd seen these sort of acts from afar, with fortune tellers using a generally far more... eccentric means of doing their job. They were at times erratic, but the same sort of doom-and-gloom that resided in Miri's words lived in theirs. It was profitable... until it wasn't.
"I do not fear shadow. All that I work for is for perpetuity. My death, when it comes, will hopefully have an heir to remain and take over my work," he answered her words, shrugging his shoulders somewhat. Her cadence, her way with words once she worked through her confidence... it was very passable. He enjoyed her prediction and had not lost interest throughout the entirety. He was impressed, but not without response.
"That was very... good. And I'm confident that the performers and help would appreciate your services when the circus isn't in function. However, for the sake of the crowd, Miri... I'd suggest finding something to say that's altogether less... gloomy. Our patrons come to be entertained, and certainly, they come to you in an effort to find reassurances of wine and women in their presumably very near future."
This is going to be fun, Nem considered as he waited patiently for the girl to begin. Part of the joy in being the ringmaster for the Tempest of Set was in the interim between performances. Every performer was an asset, a tool to be given purpose. Amenemhat took his job very seriously, but in the same token, there was diversion to be had. Just as the circus entertained the world, it did the same for the ringmaster. Given to fantasies of the circus in his youth, always he'd imagined the day when he could attend. Then, when he could, he imagined the day he could be significant. And then, when he was, he imagined the day he'd be in control.
And now, he was.
Amenemhat was the final say, the maker of the decisions that would bring the circus to fruition or to ruin. Years of living in his father's shadow gave him ideas, inspiration, and the experience he needed to act on both of them. So too had it given him the power to read people. Years before, he'd struggled with understanding the human condition. It was difficult, even in the earliest days of his wresting power over the circus, to truly understand what it was to know the minds of others. The facade was not always there, but once it was raised and once he indulged in his practice, in his observation into imitation into control, he was keen to perpetuate it. He reveled in it all, from watching performers in their moments of elation to the way that Miri herself, in this moment, showed the signs of her nervousness.
Clearly, it was a big moment for her. It was a deciding factor, the moment, perhaps, that she envisioned proving her sister Raziya's faith in her. Amenemhat always wondered how the conditioning the circus enacted affected the minds of the subjected, but so rarely was he disappointed in the result. In silence, Amenemhat observed the young Judean girl just as she observed him, following the path from his hands and up his forearms. He saw the shift in her expression as the nerves.
Good girl. Fear does not belong in performance. Show your strength and come into your own.
He'd give her the advice vocally if she needed it, but it was becoming more and more obvious that it was unnecessary. Whatever it was, whether her perceived conversations with the Gods or a dose of self-confidence, Nem was pleased by what he saw. She seemed uncertain at first, but more and more she delved into an assessment of his personality. However inconsequential it was for Nem to hear such an assessment, it was a proper lead in for a performance. To know one's patronage was the very essence of the crucible of Nem's self-tutelage. It was the most important factor, and while she seemed to cringe at her introduction, he said nothing, encouraging her to continue.
"Of course not."
The words escaped her and she hardly seemed aware of it, likely speaking to her hallucinations. It was the first visible sign of the symptoms Rekhmire's treatments instilled in her, but he shrugged it off. If he had a question about it, it was lost as she continued on, moving from her introduction and utilizing it to move on with her predictions. Her voice, as she interpreted the 'will of the Gods' became clearer, stronger. She took hold of his hand and played along the calloused digits with her softer ones. She read the signs in his palm and went forward with her divination.
"You will accomplish all that you desire on a streak that began... in recent years You -- will experience betrayal at least twice, and pain..."
Oh?
Amenemhat found her predictions, a story of power through adversity, to be fascinating. However, he had his first inquiries about the nature of her prediction. He did not interrupt her, curious to know how she'd complete this prediction. Betrayal, pain... and growing strength until an inevitable end.
Rather vague... She speaks well, though, he assessed. It was to be expected for predictions to be shrouded in mystery. More than once he'd seen these sort of acts from afar, with fortune tellers using a generally far more... eccentric means of doing their job. They were at times erratic, but the same sort of doom-and-gloom that resided in Miri's words lived in theirs. It was profitable... until it wasn't.
"I do not fear shadow. All that I work for is for perpetuity. My death, when it comes, will hopefully have an heir to remain and take over my work," he answered her words, shrugging his shoulders somewhat. Her cadence, her way with words once she worked through her confidence... it was very passable. He enjoyed her prediction and had not lost interest throughout the entirety. He was impressed, but not without response.
"That was very... good. And I'm confident that the performers and help would appreciate your services when the circus isn't in function. However, for the sake of the crowd, Miri... I'd suggest finding something to say that's altogether less... gloomy. Our patrons come to be entertained, and certainly, they come to you in an effort to find reassurances of wine and women in their presumably very near future."
Miri awaited Amemenhat’s reaction with bated breath. This. This would determine if he kept her, or if he turned her away and denounced her as a fraud. The poor girl thought her heart might break to see disappointment in his eyes, to hear him scoff at her. Knowingly or unknowingly, she had waited her entire life to prove herself to the human who mattered most, and the moment was here at last. Her own words kept swirling in her head, mixed with the gods continued laughter and murmuring. They refused to reveal their own opinions on her little performance, finding mirth in her anxiety. After a moment, her nerves settled again. There was nothing to fear. As the gods had said, they would not let her fail. And the gods were never wrong.
Her first thought was that Amenemhat was fearless. Logically, Miri knew that all humans feared something, whether or not they spoke it into the open air. But Amenemhat was special, and powerful, and to not fear shadows meant he might not fear anything at all. Nephthys was amused, at the very least. Though she did not speak, Miri could feel the smile that must exist somewhere in the darkness.
Withdrawing her hands from his—the loss of sensation like a snapping rope—Miri awaited the inevitable criticism. She had been nervous, she had faltered. But she had spoken truth, and she could accept whatever he perceived her flaws to be.
Good. He had hesitated before speaking the word, but Miri pretended not to notice. The praise would come first, of course. Amenemhat was good at making her—and, presumably, others—feel safe. She could work with good. Her Egyptian had improved by leaps and bounds since her arrival, and her knowledge continued to grow every day. The words would come. But the content of her prophecies? Gloomy? The hint of a frown passed across her face like a spirit. She had merely spoken the indescribable truths fed to her in as simple a form as possible. The tiniest spark of outraged flickered in the pit of her stomach. The gods’ words were not gloomy. They were truth, pure and simple, and it was not her fault that mortals might not be able handle words of truth.
A fork in the road. The gods went silent, allowing her to make her own choice. She could bow her head and accept the criticism. She could ask why? Or she could refuse altogether, defending the gods’ words as stone tablets, unchangeable.
“Wine and women,” Miri repeated quietly, large eyes staring as blankly as ever at the ringmaster. “Must I cheapen my words—the gods’ words—so that patrons walk away with the same blissful ignorance with which they arrived?” She paused, and mulled it over. His argument was not completely beyond her comprehension, but it sent little prickles of something down her arms to think of lying. “I… confess, I do not understand. Do our customers not deserve the fullest truth? Did they come to seek lies?” Miri’s voice held no hint of malice or challenge, though the latter certainly hid itself in the base of her spine. They were the questions of a girl who had spent years in shadow, doing everything possible to please her parents for the safety of herself and her brother. Miri did not want to return to shadows, and she did not understand why she ought to, even for a performance.
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Miri awaited Amemenhat’s reaction with bated breath. This. This would determine if he kept her, or if he turned her away and denounced her as a fraud. The poor girl thought her heart might break to see disappointment in his eyes, to hear him scoff at her. Knowingly or unknowingly, she had waited her entire life to prove herself to the human who mattered most, and the moment was here at last. Her own words kept swirling in her head, mixed with the gods continued laughter and murmuring. They refused to reveal their own opinions on her little performance, finding mirth in her anxiety. After a moment, her nerves settled again. There was nothing to fear. As the gods had said, they would not let her fail. And the gods were never wrong.
Her first thought was that Amenemhat was fearless. Logically, Miri knew that all humans feared something, whether or not they spoke it into the open air. But Amenemhat was special, and powerful, and to not fear shadows meant he might not fear anything at all. Nephthys was amused, at the very least. Though she did not speak, Miri could feel the smile that must exist somewhere in the darkness.
Withdrawing her hands from his—the loss of sensation like a snapping rope—Miri awaited the inevitable criticism. She had been nervous, she had faltered. But she had spoken truth, and she could accept whatever he perceived her flaws to be.
Good. He had hesitated before speaking the word, but Miri pretended not to notice. The praise would come first, of course. Amenemhat was good at making her—and, presumably, others—feel safe. She could work with good. Her Egyptian had improved by leaps and bounds since her arrival, and her knowledge continued to grow every day. The words would come. But the content of her prophecies? Gloomy? The hint of a frown passed across her face like a spirit. She had merely spoken the indescribable truths fed to her in as simple a form as possible. The tiniest spark of outraged flickered in the pit of her stomach. The gods’ words were not gloomy. They were truth, pure and simple, and it was not her fault that mortals might not be able handle words of truth.
A fork in the road. The gods went silent, allowing her to make her own choice. She could bow her head and accept the criticism. She could ask why? Or she could refuse altogether, defending the gods’ words as stone tablets, unchangeable.
“Wine and women,” Miri repeated quietly, large eyes staring as blankly as ever at the ringmaster. “Must I cheapen my words—the gods’ words—so that patrons walk away with the same blissful ignorance with which they arrived?” She paused, and mulled it over. His argument was not completely beyond her comprehension, but it sent little prickles of something down her arms to think of lying. “I… confess, I do not understand. Do our customers not deserve the fullest truth? Did they come to seek lies?” Miri’s voice held no hint of malice or challenge, though the latter certainly hid itself in the base of her spine. They were the questions of a girl who had spent years in shadow, doing everything possible to please her parents for the safety of herself and her brother. Miri did not want to return to shadows, and she did not understand why she ought to, even for a performance.
Miri awaited Amemenhat’s reaction with bated breath. This. This would determine if he kept her, or if he turned her away and denounced her as a fraud. The poor girl thought her heart might break to see disappointment in his eyes, to hear him scoff at her. Knowingly or unknowingly, she had waited her entire life to prove herself to the human who mattered most, and the moment was here at last. Her own words kept swirling in her head, mixed with the gods continued laughter and murmuring. They refused to reveal their own opinions on her little performance, finding mirth in her anxiety. After a moment, her nerves settled again. There was nothing to fear. As the gods had said, they would not let her fail. And the gods were never wrong.
Her first thought was that Amenemhat was fearless. Logically, Miri knew that all humans feared something, whether or not they spoke it into the open air. But Amenemhat was special, and powerful, and to not fear shadows meant he might not fear anything at all. Nephthys was amused, at the very least. Though she did not speak, Miri could feel the smile that must exist somewhere in the darkness.
Withdrawing her hands from his—the loss of sensation like a snapping rope—Miri awaited the inevitable criticism. She had been nervous, she had faltered. But she had spoken truth, and she could accept whatever he perceived her flaws to be.
Good. He had hesitated before speaking the word, but Miri pretended not to notice. The praise would come first, of course. Amenemhat was good at making her—and, presumably, others—feel safe. She could work with good. Her Egyptian had improved by leaps and bounds since her arrival, and her knowledge continued to grow every day. The words would come. But the content of her prophecies? Gloomy? The hint of a frown passed across her face like a spirit. She had merely spoken the indescribable truths fed to her in as simple a form as possible. The tiniest spark of outraged flickered in the pit of her stomach. The gods’ words were not gloomy. They were truth, pure and simple, and it was not her fault that mortals might not be able handle words of truth.
A fork in the road. The gods went silent, allowing her to make her own choice. She could bow her head and accept the criticism. She could ask why? Or she could refuse altogether, defending the gods’ words as stone tablets, unchangeable.
“Wine and women,” Miri repeated quietly, large eyes staring as blankly as ever at the ringmaster. “Must I cheapen my words—the gods’ words—so that patrons walk away with the same blissful ignorance with which they arrived?” She paused, and mulled it over. His argument was not completely beyond her comprehension, but it sent little prickles of something down her arms to think of lying. “I… confess, I do not understand. Do our customers not deserve the fullest truth? Did they come to seek lies?” Miri’s voice held no hint of malice or challenge, though the latter certainly hid itself in the base of her spine. They were the questions of a girl who had spent years in shadow, doing everything possible to please her parents for the safety of herself and her brother. Miri did not want to return to shadows, and she did not understand why she ought to, even for a performance.
There was always the matter of the carrot and the stick. Performers, in so many ways, were like livestock. They yielded a reward to be harvested at the cost of being maintained and allotted the opportunity to yield their bounty. To allow them to hone their craft, to grow into their role, to banish away the sort of embarrassment or self-doubt that crept within the hearts of so many... it was an art form, to lull the life out of them.
It was an art form that was one of his several primary responsibilities. There were leaders who would sit in the shadows, an aloof force that accomplished nothing but an aura of stale fear that crept into the back of the mind. There was the legacy of Somgi of Cairo that he brought to the forefront. Decidedly complacent in what he had, he left the leading to other people and decided to make no use of the potential for charisma that existed within his bloodline. Amenhotep was reputed as both a fearsome and charismatic man, juggling power and showmanship in a way that his grandson could only imagine...
There was always the light and darkness whispering in his ear in this regard.
But, regardless, he saw it in himself to proceed with competence. Where Miri had been nervous, she seemed more comfortable, where she'd been a mystery, her very soul seemed laid bare for him to observe. It was not difficult to see that she struggled with her Coptic, even if it was masked in a layer of cadence and charisma that she brought out over the course of her performance. Miri of Lea was, if anything else, making the effort and he could not fault her for that. It was his expectation for her to stumble, and his purpose in having her perform for him first. He would educate her, even if the words he had to say were not to her taste.
The blank stare given after his assessment was not unexpected. A woman so given to her notion of divine intervention, of the whispers in her ear being not the byproduct of drugs and indoctrination but the literal Gods speaking to her... it was difficult to expect her to react in any way other than doubt and even defensiveness. He told her a truth, one side of the coin that was her performance. He'd complimented her and berated her, and if her notions proved too difficult to dissuade, then he'd find some other use for her. At the very least, she did not lash out verbally, debating him every step of the way.
"It is just an example," he began, shrugging his shoulders with a sort of dismissal. Whether she truly challenged his words or not, she did not show, but it was a simple thing to perceive the questions for what they were. The presumption that the Gods spoke to someone, that their words were prophecy brought about a sort of arrogance that was not new to Amenemhat. After all, how many times had he called himself the emissary for Set in the insulation of the Tempest of Set's inner circle. For those who understood true devotion to the circus, it was a natural progression for him to assume such a role.
It made one blasphemous to contradict, if the words and commands were pulled down from the Gods themselves.
"There is discretion to be had. The circus is not a temple, where those that come to you are pious and in search for the truth. They come for spectacle, for the simplicity of distraction. I enjoyed your prediction. It was well-spoken and certainly, the providence of the Gods is necessary to take into account."
Carefully, he wove between the facts he wished to relay to her. He wanted her to be useful to him, to push through her doubts. If breaking a few of the eggs that were her fantasy needed to be done... then there was the need to clean up the mess. But, if he could explain his purpose properly, then perhaps it could all be avoided.
"I trust you, Miri, to understand when to take that discretion into account and to bring to the people what we need from them. Your soothsaying has the potential to draw people into the circus for you. Your performance is special in ways that the work of the Clique performers cannot be. They will know your name and speak of your wonders."
A hand shifted to rest atop Miri's own, his fingertips brushing along her knuckles before he added,
"Some come for truth, and you will tell them that. Others come for lies, and you will feed them what they want to hear. You require the perception to know who needs what, and that is my suggestion to you as you move on to performing for other people, which you will."
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There was always the matter of the carrot and the stick. Performers, in so many ways, were like livestock. They yielded a reward to be harvested at the cost of being maintained and allotted the opportunity to yield their bounty. To allow them to hone their craft, to grow into their role, to banish away the sort of embarrassment or self-doubt that crept within the hearts of so many... it was an art form, to lull the life out of them.
It was an art form that was one of his several primary responsibilities. There were leaders who would sit in the shadows, an aloof force that accomplished nothing but an aura of stale fear that crept into the back of the mind. There was the legacy of Somgi of Cairo that he brought to the forefront. Decidedly complacent in what he had, he left the leading to other people and decided to make no use of the potential for charisma that existed within his bloodline. Amenhotep was reputed as both a fearsome and charismatic man, juggling power and showmanship in a way that his grandson could only imagine...
There was always the light and darkness whispering in his ear in this regard.
But, regardless, he saw it in himself to proceed with competence. Where Miri had been nervous, she seemed more comfortable, where she'd been a mystery, her very soul seemed laid bare for him to observe. It was not difficult to see that she struggled with her Coptic, even if it was masked in a layer of cadence and charisma that she brought out over the course of her performance. Miri of Lea was, if anything else, making the effort and he could not fault her for that. It was his expectation for her to stumble, and his purpose in having her perform for him first. He would educate her, even if the words he had to say were not to her taste.
The blank stare given after his assessment was not unexpected. A woman so given to her notion of divine intervention, of the whispers in her ear being not the byproduct of drugs and indoctrination but the literal Gods speaking to her... it was difficult to expect her to react in any way other than doubt and even defensiveness. He told her a truth, one side of the coin that was her performance. He'd complimented her and berated her, and if her notions proved too difficult to dissuade, then he'd find some other use for her. At the very least, she did not lash out verbally, debating him every step of the way.
"It is just an example," he began, shrugging his shoulders with a sort of dismissal. Whether she truly challenged his words or not, she did not show, but it was a simple thing to perceive the questions for what they were. The presumption that the Gods spoke to someone, that their words were prophecy brought about a sort of arrogance that was not new to Amenemhat. After all, how many times had he called himself the emissary for Set in the insulation of the Tempest of Set's inner circle. For those who understood true devotion to the circus, it was a natural progression for him to assume such a role.
It made one blasphemous to contradict, if the words and commands were pulled down from the Gods themselves.
"There is discretion to be had. The circus is not a temple, where those that come to you are pious and in search for the truth. They come for spectacle, for the simplicity of distraction. I enjoyed your prediction. It was well-spoken and certainly, the providence of the Gods is necessary to take into account."
Carefully, he wove between the facts he wished to relay to her. He wanted her to be useful to him, to push through her doubts. If breaking a few of the eggs that were her fantasy needed to be done... then there was the need to clean up the mess. But, if he could explain his purpose properly, then perhaps it could all be avoided.
"I trust you, Miri, to understand when to take that discretion into account and to bring to the people what we need from them. Your soothsaying has the potential to draw people into the circus for you. Your performance is special in ways that the work of the Clique performers cannot be. They will know your name and speak of your wonders."
A hand shifted to rest atop Miri's own, his fingertips brushing along her knuckles before he added,
"Some come for truth, and you will tell them that. Others come for lies, and you will feed them what they want to hear. You require the perception to know who needs what, and that is my suggestion to you as you move on to performing for other people, which you will."
There was always the matter of the carrot and the stick. Performers, in so many ways, were like livestock. They yielded a reward to be harvested at the cost of being maintained and allotted the opportunity to yield their bounty. To allow them to hone their craft, to grow into their role, to banish away the sort of embarrassment or self-doubt that crept within the hearts of so many... it was an art form, to lull the life out of them.
It was an art form that was one of his several primary responsibilities. There were leaders who would sit in the shadows, an aloof force that accomplished nothing but an aura of stale fear that crept into the back of the mind. There was the legacy of Somgi of Cairo that he brought to the forefront. Decidedly complacent in what he had, he left the leading to other people and decided to make no use of the potential for charisma that existed within his bloodline. Amenhotep was reputed as both a fearsome and charismatic man, juggling power and showmanship in a way that his grandson could only imagine...
There was always the light and darkness whispering in his ear in this regard.
But, regardless, he saw it in himself to proceed with competence. Where Miri had been nervous, she seemed more comfortable, where she'd been a mystery, her very soul seemed laid bare for him to observe. It was not difficult to see that she struggled with her Coptic, even if it was masked in a layer of cadence and charisma that she brought out over the course of her performance. Miri of Lea was, if anything else, making the effort and he could not fault her for that. It was his expectation for her to stumble, and his purpose in having her perform for him first. He would educate her, even if the words he had to say were not to her taste.
The blank stare given after his assessment was not unexpected. A woman so given to her notion of divine intervention, of the whispers in her ear being not the byproduct of drugs and indoctrination but the literal Gods speaking to her... it was difficult to expect her to react in any way other than doubt and even defensiveness. He told her a truth, one side of the coin that was her performance. He'd complimented her and berated her, and if her notions proved too difficult to dissuade, then he'd find some other use for her. At the very least, she did not lash out verbally, debating him every step of the way.
"It is just an example," he began, shrugging his shoulders with a sort of dismissal. Whether she truly challenged his words or not, she did not show, but it was a simple thing to perceive the questions for what they were. The presumption that the Gods spoke to someone, that their words were prophecy brought about a sort of arrogance that was not new to Amenemhat. After all, how many times had he called himself the emissary for Set in the insulation of the Tempest of Set's inner circle. For those who understood true devotion to the circus, it was a natural progression for him to assume such a role.
It made one blasphemous to contradict, if the words and commands were pulled down from the Gods themselves.
"There is discretion to be had. The circus is not a temple, where those that come to you are pious and in search for the truth. They come for spectacle, for the simplicity of distraction. I enjoyed your prediction. It was well-spoken and certainly, the providence of the Gods is necessary to take into account."
Carefully, he wove between the facts he wished to relay to her. He wanted her to be useful to him, to push through her doubts. If breaking a few of the eggs that were her fantasy needed to be done... then there was the need to clean up the mess. But, if he could explain his purpose properly, then perhaps it could all be avoided.
"I trust you, Miri, to understand when to take that discretion into account and to bring to the people what we need from them. Your soothsaying has the potential to draw people into the circus for you. Your performance is special in ways that the work of the Clique performers cannot be. They will know your name and speak of your wonders."
A hand shifted to rest atop Miri's own, his fingertips brushing along her knuckles before he added,
"Some come for truth, and you will tell them that. Others come for lies, and you will feed them what they want to hear. You require the perception to know who needs what, and that is my suggestion to you as you move on to performing for other people, which you will."
That which Miri had been previously unable to see was becoming clearer and clearer, and the new knowledge was both comforting and utterly incomprehensible. The gods had sent her here. They wanted her to speak their will and make their words known. And yet… they had priests and priestesses and their own infinite power to tell their own prophecies. Miri of Lea was not special in this regard.
Miri had always struggled with the idea that she might not be unique, that the one special thing about her might not be special after all, but some fluke of nature. The circus is not a temple. The words echoed through her head in her own voice, bouncing from the faces of the gods but never quite absorbing. She absorbed their words, but she was not precious the way they were. This could be her downfall. And yet, in that moment, something else became clear. She had been sent to speak the gods’ words, yes, but more than that, she was sent to serve Amenemhat, the chosen one. The gods had sent her to him, and while they would always be the most important, the ringmaster was less than a single step behind. And he sat in front of her now, teaching her that the performance was more important than the words. Could she look behind her pride and accept his words as the most important truth? Could she knowingly lie to mortals who came to seek their fortunes?
But that was not what he was asking of her. She need not lie to those who believed in truth. She need not lie to those who didn’t. Amenemhat was merely asking that she weave her words into a good story for those who thought her a pretty face or a powerful aura and nothing more. She felt her heart settle back into a slow and steady rhythm as his hands rested once more upon her own. She was not special to the gods. But she could be special to the circus, to him. This was her calling. Miri did not need the world to know her name. She only needed to fulfill her purpose.
Excitement began to burn in her eyes as she looked across the little table at Amenemhat. He thought she could be great, if she could only obey him and his requests, as well as the gods. He thought she could be even more important than the beautiful bodies that flew through hoops of fire each night. She could provide truth in a new form: Amenemhat’s truth.
“I understand,” she said at last, struggling to put her revelation into words. She felt sure she would be able to tell the difference between drunken patrons looking for funny words and the promise of a good time in their futures and a lost soul looking for wisdom. But Miri needed to be perfect, for this to work. What would happen if someone slipped through the cracks? “The performance can be the truth,” she murmured, burning the words into her soul and forcing her eyes back to his. Amenemhat had given Miri a power she could only have dreamed of before. The uncertainties would fall away soon enough. They were not worth voicing, not to a man with more power than he had imbued in of her knuckles as he touched them one by one. She had been wrong to question him at all, though the result was a clearer mind than she had had since arriving in Egypt. “I see the way forward.” Miri smiled, and for once it did not feel strange or foreign upon her face, but serene and pure.
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This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
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That which Miri had been previously unable to see was becoming clearer and clearer, and the new knowledge was both comforting and utterly incomprehensible. The gods had sent her here. They wanted her to speak their will and make their words known. And yet… they had priests and priestesses and their own infinite power to tell their own prophecies. Miri of Lea was not special in this regard.
Miri had always struggled with the idea that she might not be unique, that the one special thing about her might not be special after all, but some fluke of nature. The circus is not a temple. The words echoed through her head in her own voice, bouncing from the faces of the gods but never quite absorbing. She absorbed their words, but she was not precious the way they were. This could be her downfall. And yet, in that moment, something else became clear. She had been sent to speak the gods’ words, yes, but more than that, she was sent to serve Amenemhat, the chosen one. The gods had sent her to him, and while they would always be the most important, the ringmaster was less than a single step behind. And he sat in front of her now, teaching her that the performance was more important than the words. Could she look behind her pride and accept his words as the most important truth? Could she knowingly lie to mortals who came to seek their fortunes?
But that was not what he was asking of her. She need not lie to those who believed in truth. She need not lie to those who didn’t. Amenemhat was merely asking that she weave her words into a good story for those who thought her a pretty face or a powerful aura and nothing more. She felt her heart settle back into a slow and steady rhythm as his hands rested once more upon her own. She was not special to the gods. But she could be special to the circus, to him. This was her calling. Miri did not need the world to know her name. She only needed to fulfill her purpose.
Excitement began to burn in her eyes as she looked across the little table at Amenemhat. He thought she could be great, if she could only obey him and his requests, as well as the gods. He thought she could be even more important than the beautiful bodies that flew through hoops of fire each night. She could provide truth in a new form: Amenemhat’s truth.
“I understand,” she said at last, struggling to put her revelation into words. She felt sure she would be able to tell the difference between drunken patrons looking for funny words and the promise of a good time in their futures and a lost soul looking for wisdom. But Miri needed to be perfect, for this to work. What would happen if someone slipped through the cracks? “The performance can be the truth,” she murmured, burning the words into her soul and forcing her eyes back to his. Amenemhat had given Miri a power she could only have dreamed of before. The uncertainties would fall away soon enough. They were not worth voicing, not to a man with more power than he had imbued in of her knuckles as he touched them one by one. She had been wrong to question him at all, though the result was a clearer mind than she had had since arriving in Egypt. “I see the way forward.” Miri smiled, and for once it did not feel strange or foreign upon her face, but serene and pure.
That which Miri had been previously unable to see was becoming clearer and clearer, and the new knowledge was both comforting and utterly incomprehensible. The gods had sent her here. They wanted her to speak their will and make their words known. And yet… they had priests and priestesses and their own infinite power to tell their own prophecies. Miri of Lea was not special in this regard.
Miri had always struggled with the idea that she might not be unique, that the one special thing about her might not be special after all, but some fluke of nature. The circus is not a temple. The words echoed through her head in her own voice, bouncing from the faces of the gods but never quite absorbing. She absorbed their words, but she was not precious the way they were. This could be her downfall. And yet, in that moment, something else became clear. She had been sent to speak the gods’ words, yes, but more than that, she was sent to serve Amenemhat, the chosen one. The gods had sent her to him, and while they would always be the most important, the ringmaster was less than a single step behind. And he sat in front of her now, teaching her that the performance was more important than the words. Could she look behind her pride and accept his words as the most important truth? Could she knowingly lie to mortals who came to seek their fortunes?
But that was not what he was asking of her. She need not lie to those who believed in truth. She need not lie to those who didn’t. Amenemhat was merely asking that she weave her words into a good story for those who thought her a pretty face or a powerful aura and nothing more. She felt her heart settle back into a slow and steady rhythm as his hands rested once more upon her own. She was not special to the gods. But she could be special to the circus, to him. This was her calling. Miri did not need the world to know her name. She only needed to fulfill her purpose.
Excitement began to burn in her eyes as she looked across the little table at Amenemhat. He thought she could be great, if she could only obey him and his requests, as well as the gods. He thought she could be even more important than the beautiful bodies that flew through hoops of fire each night. She could provide truth in a new form: Amenemhat’s truth.
“I understand,” she said at last, struggling to put her revelation into words. She felt sure she would be able to tell the difference between drunken patrons looking for funny words and the promise of a good time in their futures and a lost soul looking for wisdom. But Miri needed to be perfect, for this to work. What would happen if someone slipped through the cracks? “The performance can be the truth,” she murmured, burning the words into her soul and forcing her eyes back to his. Amenemhat had given Miri a power she could only have dreamed of before. The uncertainties would fall away soon enough. They were not worth voicing, not to a man with more power than he had imbued in of her knuckles as he touched them one by one. She had been wrong to question him at all, though the result was a clearer mind than she had had since arriving in Egypt. “I see the way forward.” Miri smiled, and for once it did not feel strange or foreign upon her face, but serene and pure.