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Skin on skin. They cannot help but continuously touch each other - hands on hands, hands on face, arms around the other, cheek to cheek, face to neck, mouth to mouth, mouths and hands greedy to be everywhere. They can do so freely now. There are no watchful eyes to hide from, no paint to give away any indiscretions, no commands they're breaking - here, now, Imhotep gives the commands, to these men in red that follow his every order, that look to him as though he is a living god. She has seen his powers, more than Seti ever possessed, and is not so sure they are wrong. There is a part of her that knows them, knows their names, understands their motives, but these memories are foggy, like dreams that she cannot quite put together. Like dreams, the longer she is awake, the hazier they become, but she finds she doesn't care because she can touch freely, touch anyone, whoever she wants. She can wear whatever she likes, can cover up entirely if she so wishes, and though she does not remember choosing the dress she wakes in, she decides that she likes it - the functionality, and the little amount of skin that it reveals. Her body had been on display for all to look and want and never touch save one who she wanted to run from; now her body is hers, hers alone unless she chooses to share it. She can chose to share it - choose who to share it with. The thought thrills her, and she reaches for him in their tent, to remind herself this is real - they are real. Real and alive and free. Skin on skin. She missed this. She's never known this, either - she's felt him before, beside her, above and under her, felt him inside her, but never without a sense of urgency, a need for darkness and closed doors and hidden alcoves. They were always in shadow and secrets and now she can straddle him and kiss him freely, tell him she loves him without the fear of another hearing her blasphemy. She demands him - demands this living god, a thing she could never do with Seti - to touch her, touch her everywhere, kiss her, bed her, her hungry whispers becoming louder and firmer, until she is gasping out orders without a care that anyone hears. She thinks that maybe she wants them to, wants all these men to know who their holy one worships, wants to revel in this new and strange freedom. He obeys her every word, rolls them over so she is pinned between bedding and body, makes quick work of her new clothes and his - suddenly there are too many of them and she curses every shred of fabric separating their bodies - and then he's pressed to her, settled between her legs, and every movement leaves no trace of kohl or gilded paint. This is freedom. A luxury so many others took for granted, something that they used to steal as though they were precious jewels. He whispers to her of all that they will accomplish together - all that they will claim and conquer. Promises that no one will ever have power over them again, that no one will ever control her body against her will. That he'll give her everything she wants, but she kisses him, tells him this is all she wants right now, just him, just them, just this feeling of their bodies joined without any fear of discovery, without any care of heresy. He smiles into her kisses, fingers finding all her sacred places, and promises her it will always be like this, for eternity. "We are the gods, now, my princess Anck-su-namun," he says, lips to her ear. Skin on skin. She believes him. How could she not? He groans her name, and she sees stars. What she feels could be nothing less than divinity.