In the aftermath of nine devastating plagues that ravaged ancient Egypt, a high priestess desperately seeks to prevent the impending tenth plague. Still, her efforts fail, leaving her at the mercy of an enraged pharaoh. Meanwhile, the pharaoh's son...
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Re'hotpe shamelessly stared. His eyes moved from the bearded man to the torn-up woman lying immobile at his feet.
"When would my mother wake up?"
"Soon." His voice was gruff, and Re'hotpe thought the sound resembled the man.
"Is she going to die?"
"Who?" The man stood and with deep concentration began turning the stick that held two impaled fish. The fish roasted over the fire, giving off a sizzling sound as drops of liquid dripped into amber flames and hissed.
"The wounded woman."
"Which wounded woman?" He gave Re'hotpe a flat look. "Both women are wounded."
Re'hotpe gulped, both from the intimidating presence of the man and the aroma assaulting his senses. He was famished and his stomach would not shut up about it. It wouldn't stop growling and churning.
"Erm...I mean this one." He pointed for emphasis. "What happened to the side of her face?" Re'hotpe cocked his head to get a better view. She would have been beautiful if not for the shocking wound on the side of her face. It resembled claw marks from where he sat. Shuddering at the sight, he forced his eyes away.
"Why don't you worry about your mother?" The man grumbled as he sat on a fat log across the fire.
Re'hotpe gazed at the man, observing his every move. There was something overwhelmingly weird about him. When he took hold of his hand at the sea floor, Re'hotpe recalled nothing after that. His mind had gone blank, but it came back to life when he opened his eyes to the flat planes of the wilderness. It was late evening, and the sky had already taken a dark blue hue that encroached on the last traces of sunlight.
He watched with keen eyes as the man arranged his long black tunic around his feet. A light brown turban was wrapped around his head and he appeared distracted by whatever he was reading on a parchment.
"Stare harder and your eyes might fall off."
Re'hotpe swallowed and looked around. "A-are you talking to me?"
"No, was talking to the man behind you."
Re'hotpe sprung to his feet and spun around, expecting to see a person at his back. When he saw no one, he turned to the man with a weary frown. "There's no one there."
The man looked back at him with that same flat expression and a lifted brow. "What? It's no fault of mine that you don't understand the concept of sarcasm." He sighed and stood, walking to the fire again.
"What is sarcasm?" Re'hotpe sat then allowed his eyes drift to his mother. She looked to be asleep but the cloth wrapped around her head was a symbol that she was trapped in something deeper than slumber.
"Hard to explain."
"That's it? You're not even going to try to make me understand?"
