[ She remembers that originally she came to Egypt to pass a form of judgement. She bridges worlds, as had Oracles before her, and they murmured injustices. She can remember arguing with the Head Priest and his elder about the removal of spirits and their containment in stone tablets. Topics of conversations turned to questions as High Priest Seto attempted to understand the nature of one particular prisoner, as well as the self proclaimed Thief King Bakura making his stand. Then Zorc, and the spells Atem used... it all seems to fade into the background. Especially as the last few weeks dragged on in her attempts to heal him.
She snapped from ther thoughts the moment he began to move. A swift breeze of panic grasps her as she gasps. In a moment she has her free hand on his other arm, guiding him to lay down again , while the other clutches onto his own. Her eyes instantly lock to his as she follows her own motion. Now, once again, she hovers above him. ]
No, your wounds are yet to fully heal...
[ The hand on his arm moves to rest on the side of his face in an attempt to guide him to look at her. Even if he cannot recognize her, perhaps he can understand the tone of her voice. After a shaky exhale, she tilts her head up enough to kiss his forehead. ]
You can't move - not yet. Not until you can sit with ease at the very least.
[ Formalities fall to the side as her worry grows and panic begins to set in. She can sense the deeper wounds re-agitating, threatening to worsen once again if he continues attempting to sit up. The hand holding onto his own wraps in a warm glow as her eyes close to focus on those wounds again. ]
Please, Atem.
[ She so rarely says it -- his name. Formalities, duties, the fact that Pharaohs are seen as the living embodiment and holder of divine will. The notion that saying his name, in her mind, implies a level of familiarity and companionship she had not been given permission to have. Thousands of small reasons she has always told herself to keep a level of formality of distance between them.
After all, she is only the Oracle. There is no need or use of her other than that.
Even knowing all that she does of her position and status... she finds that she has yet to move either of her hands. ]
deeply ponders- what if are are both?
She snapped from ther thoughts the moment he began to move. A swift breeze of panic grasps her as she gasps. In a moment she has her free hand on his other arm, guiding him to lay down again , while the other clutches onto his own. Her eyes instantly lock to his as she follows her own motion. Now, once again, she hovers above him. ]
No, your wounds are yet to fully heal...
[ The hand on his arm moves to rest on the side of his face in an attempt to guide him to look at her. Even if he cannot recognize her, perhaps he can understand the tone of her voice. After a shaky exhale, she tilts her head up enough to kiss his forehead. ]
You can't move - not yet. Not until you can sit with ease at the very least.
[ Formalities fall to the side as her worry grows and panic begins to set in. She can sense the deeper wounds re-agitating, threatening to worsen once again if he continues attempting to sit up. The hand holding onto his own wraps in a warm glow as her eyes close to focus on those wounds again. ]
Please, Atem.
[ She so rarely says it -- his name. Formalities, duties, the fact that Pharaohs are seen as the living embodiment and holder of divine will. The notion that saying his name, in her mind, implies a level of familiarity and companionship she had not been given permission to have. Thousands of small reasons she has always told herself to keep a level of formality of distance between them.
After all, she is only the Oracle. There is no need or use of her other than that.
Even knowing all that she does of her position and status... she finds that she has yet to move either of her hands. ]