Rameses no longer felt any brotherly love for Moses. No longer would he turn a blind eye to the man's so-called miracles in favor of the slaves under his rule. He had been willing to overlook anything for him. Brush things neatly under the rug and pretend that things were as they once were.

No more.

Not when Amun, his Amun, lay cold under a sheet, his body far too small for the golden coffin that had been prepared for him. His Amun would never again draw breath, and Moses was the one who had done it. He felt his chest grow tight at the thought.

Rage, pain, and utter hatred burned in his heart. He could not believe the audacity of the man, to look him in the eyes, to call him brother... when in cold blood, he had stolen a young life in the name of his God. A god which did not belong in his halls, and a god that made him sick to think of.

And you. Gods, you. You hadn't eaten. You hadn't slept. He didn't think you'd even left the chamber where the sheet covered his only son. Grief was pulling you down, taking your life as surely as it had taken Amun's. Where Rameses resorted to anger, it seemed all you could do was cry.

It was you who found the boy. Already cold, already gone. Your scream had made his blood run cold. He gave the order to have any remaining of Moses people he loved so much executed.

Afterwards, he knelt beside you. He didn't know what to say. "Ib," he whispered. Nothing came out after that.