Notes

UNDER THE BRUTAL WRATH OF RA, one girl's eyes told a story of both ambition and destiny. A future in which a slave's words would dance off their thirsty lips with the same value as the touch of a Goddess.
The little girl's eyes remained fixated on the silhouette of the slaves. With a heavy sigh, she sank into the sand and whispered a prayer for strength.
Uneasy, an old woman from her neighboring village touched her hand, bare of the colorful sleeves. "Priestess, you must not overexert yourself. As someone who has seen life leave all my children's eyes, I will not allow you to follow the same fate."
Asherah looked down at the old woman's hand on hers and maneuvered her tied one over. “Follower, we must pray every second of the day. And may our cries reach Yahweh's ears.” She said confidently. "Our faith must never waver. There may be times in which we blame him, but remember, Yahweh will always be with us.”
The frail woman eyed Asherah, admiration adding to her relief. "Thank you, Priestess."
The fear of death lingered in her mind. She touched her lips, fear slicing into her, deep. If only I could believe the words I speak. Asherah touched her pale, worn face, her tan color diminished by extreme hunger.
Now Asherah imagined her parents, the grief of losing their only daughter. It was the last day of spring, the moon has just past now the sun is visible, bright and round in the early morning sky. This is the season where they would celebrate the second year of life for her little brother, Seth, the youngest of three children.
The old woman took hold of Asherah's arm. "Priestess, watch your step," she coughed low, holding onto the last thread of strength she had left. The wind carried the pungent smell of the ancient city, the place called Amarna. There was a river of men immersed in their own conversations, dawdling beneath the shade of the large trees.
Now and then a stronger wind sweeps through the city streets, through the avenue of white limestone and painted walls that spread throughout the beautiful land.
"Enough!" An Egyptian guard bellowed, furious. "Let me test if my blade is sharper then that tongue of yours."
He drove his sword into the male slave, twisting the blade, vicious. His eyes widened, he gulped down his own blood, his legs giving out as the guard yanked the sword free.
Blood sullied the guards hand like a glove of gore. The slaves cried out a high, quivering wail. Asherah scrambled back seeking for a security within the crowd of slaves.
There was blood everywhere, pumping out of the body in massive gouts. Asherah trembled before the horrid sight, unable to attain some sort of strength to move on. The crowd was hurriedly pulled by their ropes, unable to see as the guard discarded the body into an alley only to be left forgotten.
"Line up," the vendor spoke. His voice was deep, emotionless, and collected; selling human beings didn't seem to bother him at all. For him, this was a normal ritual.
"Raise your head." He ordered Asherah. She did as told, frightened of what may happen to her if she were to disobey. The tugs of the chains rattle as the men pulled on them one by one for close inspection.
The men's collective gaze crawled over her body like a piece of fine meat in a butchers tent. She could feel their hot breath on her skin as they inspected her, the smell of onions and meat lingered around her nostrils. She scrunched her nose when the men would turn unable to afford the child delicacy.
Suddenly. Fingers propped up her chin holding it in a cupped hand, her eyes fell deep into his, seeing her own reflection lost in his dark midnight orbs. His hands caressed her arms feeling its width, "You're a strong one," his voice was toneless, it did not express any emotion nor did it give her a string of hope to be bought by him.
With a swift throw of coins, he pointed at Asherah. A part of her wanted to run, but then she thought of the dead slave killed merciless.
He was brave.
The cold man untied her ropes, and for a mere second she believed she was free. However, before she follow him she looked back at the old woman, left to dwell in her own nightmares.
May we meet again.