the moon? the moon? months?

aghast, jaw slack. nakhtmin's prattle drums against her eardrums without piercing the brain.

eight months?

he is still talking as she buries her face in her hands. any moment, she is sure, her weight will lift off the sands and drift off skywise. unmoored by the real. and she was, wasn't she?

first awakening somewhere cold and dense with mist, greeted by a hunter's teeth. next a blink sent her to the sands, accosted by an antelope. as she thought she'd left the heat, all it took was the water for her to return.

the length of her memory was measured in hours. 

months?

nakhtmin's words are heard as echoes, still she hears them. palms move away from face. her wide eyes squeeze to slits.

yes. she lifts to her feet, dusting her fur. yes, yes. your pharaoh. i need to see him. or a priest or a prophet or-

fingers wriggle with frustration at herself.

anyone else.

and this she punctuates with a pointed look towards nakhtmin.