At the Feet of the God.

I am kneeling before the shrine, bathed in the brilliance of the candlelight reflected through the crystal lotus candle-holders. The room is pitch dark except for the radiance of the altar, and the soft glow of a candle for the Akhu.

My Father stands on the shrine. His image is magnificent. He is shining silver, crafted into lean muscle and fierce strength but somehow, His face is gentle. His eyes are wide and His mouth quirked into a pleasant, bemused smile. The incense curls around Him like a snake.

I see none of this. I see only the floor, my face pressed down in prostration. The fibers of the carpet are just barely itchy against my forehead. I smell the strong incense. I feel His presence before me as warm pressure, like a hand on my back. He is smiling.

Get up. So I do.

Give me my staff. I am puzzled. He had rejected the scepter that His image came with when I bought it, because at some point it had been damaged, and the paint was worn of in a spot. I want it anyway.

I take it out, and slide it back into His hand. It is the was-scepter, a symbol of strength and dominion. He is satisfied. Somehow His eyes seem to sparkle with silent, Unseen laughter.

You have a thing or two to learn about power, daughter.

I bow once more, kneeling and raising my hands in reverence. I lay my forehead to the ground. Not in fear, not in lowliness, but with comfort and peace. I am at the feet of my Father. I am at the feet of His power. There is nowhere I would feel safer; nowhere I would rather be.

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