Anai 1

Anai’s forearms felt like lead after hours of wringing papyrus. She had to squeeze the excess water out of the raw form of the precious plant’s reeds, that were meant to be slapped together and dried into smooth sheets of writing scrolls for the scribes. She must keep up the momentum if they were to make the deadline set by the chief - as a maid of Hathor she cannot falter, for hers was a position of honor among the other girls, being the sister of the last Bride of the Nile. For the 18 years that she had lived, Anai had been groomed to be a servant of the goddess Hathor - the divine lady of music, fertility and love. She would have to serve her in whichever way the High Priestess of Memphis ordained proper, and for the next two months such honor entailed the patient act of collecting the grown papyrus reeds off the eastern banks of the Nile and wringing them out such that they were damp enough to hammer flat by the next maid in the operation line. 

All the girls were dressed in simple linen shifts, their hair loose and unadorned, in strict keeping with the customs of this sacred tradition of papyrus production. The sigil of Hathor, stitched in gold thread to their plain gowns, was the only embellishment. Such was her life, Anai, one of duty and honor. And to that theme, the maids of the temple of Hathor sang their hymns every sunrise and sunset. While at the production line however, their songs could be heard from leagues away throughout the day, and centered around the fertile soil of the beloved Nile which gave their very Egypt its lifeline in abundance. Their voices ebbed and flowed like the soft waves that lapped the Nile’s banks, in perfect harmony and pitch. After the sun had set, it was customary for a sizable crowd to gather for the last performance by the girls. It involved Anai playing her harp to her beautiful song, while the girls danced around her. The beauty of this supplication to Hathor drew the villagers in earnest year to year for the duration of the sacred collection period.   
 
By the age of 13, Anai was so adept at her harp that the High Priestess herself took note and seemed to remember Anai by name. Tonight, as she played, Anai could hear her name whispered softly among members of the devout crowd. She shouldn’t let any pride in her fame creep into her heart; it was not the way of Hathor. Humility was imperative to maintain at all times, for what she did she did for the goddess and the good of Egypt. But was infatuation to be kept at bay as well, she wondered, as she noticed the soldier of the last four nights fix his steady gaze on her, as sedate as ever. He’d been showing up alone so far and never made any attempt at approaching her, but so fixated was his stare that she could almost feel its warmth on her skin as she stroked her harp.
 
A lone wolf eyeing his prey patiently...she brushed off the thought as she packed her harp for the night, it was ludicrous. This was an honorable member of Pharaoh’s infantry as seemed from the sigils embroidered on his kilt. She could however still feel his eyes on her back as she moved towards her tent. Dare she look? All the other girls had turned in for the night, while she cleared up their site, and it was almost full dark by then. She had to take a peek back. The breeze felt chilly on her bare shoulders and arms as she turned her head towards the shore. There he was...still as a rock, close to the water, like he’d just come out of its depths, his head turned towards her. She couldn’t make out his eyes in the shadows but she felt sure they were trained on her; there was no mistaking the energy of that steady gaze. The intensity. It left him in waves and hit her full force, one after another, and her skin prickled with it. It glued her to her spot for a moment, her breath caught in her chest. Then she willfully turned back and headed back to her tent; soldier or not there was danger where this man was concerned and she had to keep it out.