[She takes it, pulls a piece out, and rips a mouthful off with her teeth. This is how Atem's always chewed her bread: not even palace food can completely avoid getting grit in it, so she breaks it off in hunks and works it gently in her mouth. When she's got two hands free, she'll do it much more delicately with her fingers, but with the basket occupying one, it's just, bread ripping time.
It's probably because Bakura is here that Atem keeps thinking about the time they ran a gauntlet through the traps in an old nobleman's tomb, just to see if they could. If Atem's slowed down enough that Bakura can step on her foot, she'd probably be dead if she tried it now. The tomb door closing behind her, indeed.
Bakura's out there having adventures, staying sharp, only getting stronger, and Atem's dealing with petty squabbles over granary measurements and reciting the same prayers over and over and over to gods whose statues look dead to her, without the excuse of youth anymore to explain outbursts and challenges and bad behavior and pride. Is this it? Is this how it's going to be, until she becomes the wife of the next pharaoh? If she gets too old to be a good prospect, this very likely could be her life until she dies. Empty prayers to dead stone and audit reports.
Ugh.]
I see it isn't stopping you!
[She pulls a loaf of bread out of the basket and presses it to Bakura's chest, near the collarbone. Take it or leave it, beloved companion.]
Here, a cut of the spoils. We're going to the gardens, to get in the water. I need to wash the air in there off of me.
no subject
[She takes it, pulls a piece out, and rips a mouthful off with her teeth. This is how Atem's always chewed her bread: not even palace food can completely avoid getting grit in it, so she breaks it off in hunks and works it gently in her mouth. When she's got two hands free, she'll do it much more delicately with her fingers, but with the basket occupying one, it's just, bread ripping time.
It's probably because Bakura is here that Atem keeps thinking about the time they ran a gauntlet through the traps in an old nobleman's tomb, just to see if they could. If Atem's slowed down enough that Bakura can step on her foot, she'd probably be dead if she tried it now. The tomb door closing behind her, indeed.
Bakura's out there having adventures, staying sharp, only getting stronger, and Atem's dealing with petty squabbles over granary measurements and reciting the same prayers over and over and over to gods whose statues look dead to her, without the excuse of youth anymore to explain outbursts and challenges and bad behavior and pride. Is this it? Is this how it's going to be, until she becomes the wife of the next pharaoh? If she gets too old to be a good prospect, this very likely could be her life until she dies. Empty prayers to dead stone and audit reports.
Ugh.]
I see it isn't stopping you!
[She pulls a loaf of bread out of the basket and presses it to Bakura's chest, near the collarbone. Take it or leave it, beloved companion.]
Here, a cut of the spoils. We're going to the gardens, to get in the water. I need to wash the air in there off of me.