@ofkemet

He had a small window in his room that was shaped like a keyhole.

He thought that maybe, with the right key, he could unlock the sky and find Nuet waiting. He loved more than anything the rich shade of blue-black just as the sky was beginning to lighten with morning, the color leeching away into bottle green before the startling smudge of indescribable color along the horizon line. Just when he thought he had decided whether or not it was brown or orange or tawny, he blinked and could tell no longer.

That color, he decided, was the embroidered trim on the hem of Nuet’s dancing skirts that she fluttered at him coquettishly before folding them away to don a more sensible dress of scrubbed blue.

And Nuet’s night dances were very beautiful, of course, but he preferred the artistry in the way she would paint his mother wine-dark and velvety with broad strokes of sable before delicately outlining her with soft moonlight brushstrokes of ivory and mother-of-pearl and then wash her with burnt sienna and honey as the sun rose.

And he would sneak into her labyrinth-like rooms at night and sometimes just watch the art in motion, crouched by his mother’s bedside with his chin resting in his hands.

In the hours blessed by Ra, she walked the palace halls with the assurance of those whom are truly blessed with beauty. And he would follow next to her, one hand fisted in the white linen of her skirts, at peace knowing that the name of a god and a mother such as this, he too would be beautiful one day.

But for now, it was night and Nuet had not yet begun her labours to bring Ra forth into the world. Or if she had, he could not see; the sky through his keyhole window was murky with thunderheads and flickers of lightning flashing through their underbellies. Silent, he slipped from his bed and stepped carefully over the nursemaid lightly snoring on her pallet. The door was already partially ajar and he slipped through the crack without a sound.

He padded down the corridor, chafing his arms for warmth and shuddering at the frigid marble tile underfoot. A clap of thunder echoed ominously through the halls and suddenly he was running, throwing open his mother’s door and shutting it behind him breathlessly. With his back braced against the door, he slid to the floor, forehead braced against his knees as he choked around the lump of fear lodged in his throat.

"Mút," he croaked, inching forward on his hands and knees until his fingers caught the edge of her bedding.

"Mút," he whispered more insistently, drawing back the linens just enough to wriggle in beneath them as another roar of thunder screamed through the palace. He clasped his hands over his mouth to stifle the shout that wanted to burst forth, rolling onto his side and burrowing his face against his mother’s bare chest.