Disclaimer: I don't own anything from Prince of Egypt, though this story idea and the character Nourhanne is completely mine.
This story is based on my Rameses fangirlness. I needed an outlet so here it is! It's basically what went on in Egypt after Moses left according to me. It has pieces of history and pieces of the movie and then pieces of just.. me. xD Enjoy!
Why Give Me a Heart?
Rameses woke to the morning's warm rays as they filtered through his airy tent. He turned over in his scented sheets, bringing the dark-skinned African beside him into view. She stirred as well, her black eyes fluttering open as her lips curved upwards. A smile. The pharaoh wanted to retch.
The tent was large, almost as large as a bedchamber. Pressing the soft cloth to her breasts she couldn't help but wonder if he had any emotion at all. Her expression turned to one of pain as he stood up, wrapping a cotton sheet around him. His browned back was turned to her, but… she could sense his tension. His frustration. He was finished with her. And she knew it. Perhaps her place in the palace would not be as great as he had promised. Perhaps she would no longer even be invited into the palace. As the servants rushed in to wash his face and apply his kohl, their reluctance to look at her set it in stone.
"Good-bye, your Majesty!" she somehow managed to chirp, sounding much happier than she felt. Rameses waved the back of his hand, his eyes now on the woman who deftly applied his cat-eyed look for the day, "I'll see you in the palace!" One boy unfolding the pharaoh's clothes looked up at her, holding the African's gaze for a moment before bursting into a fit of giggles,
"The palace. Yes. Be sure to see you there," The pharaoh still did not turn around, "Sorry in advance if I don't see you until then…" were the last words she heard as she left the tent, her body still mostly uncovered, tears streaming down her cheeks. The damned Egyptians… What God had ever chosen to make the man so cruel?
xXxXxXx
Memory flooded her mind like the river Nile, the one thing that would now rule her life. Ironic how, just days before, she'd been decked out in gold as beautifully as any of the Egyptian Pharaoh's women. Now…Now what had she been reduced to? A woman in chains, staggering in the burning African sun, to be the lowest of the low: a slave.
Her father had been a merchant. A merchant. She didn't belong here among the moaning, groaning black-skinned slaves. She had had a happy living, a loving father, and…well…freedom. The Syrian Desert may have been as baking as that of the Africans, but it had been her home, not this sandy pit of hateful slave market upon slave market. As the days wore on, she found herself wishing for a master. The desire was pathetic, but it would save her from such endless torture.
A part of her still refused to believe that her father had made her leave. Jamal had loved her. Even Haifa, her mother, had loved her; notwithstanding Nourhanne having been a daughter.
Nourhanne could recall as clearly as the beating sun Farah, her truest friend. Her father and mother only socialized by discourse. The constant anger and conflict could be seen even in public. They had no other way to lament their ill fortune of birthing five daughters. As the senior wife, Farah's mother had won her father's true heart. And with her five daughters, Farah's mother had lost it. Haifa had never accused Nourhanne for her accidental femininity. Then again… Nourhanne had been their second born after Bashar… her parents had had a son.
Perhaps she was being childish… Though Jamal had given her up, what could a trader in his position do? Egypt had ruined the economy of the markets when it lost its slaves. Her blame was not her in father.
It was Moses' fault! Had he not freed the Jews, the slave trade would not flourish so! Egypt would not be buying entire markets at a time to make up for its loss! Surely she could not listen to the tiny voice in the back of her mind—that the true blame could only be placed on her and only her. She'd been the one caught by those awful sneering demons that called themselves men. She'd been the one unable to escape, and, in the end, she would be the sweaty slave.
Nourhanne would no longer be handled with care as a rich merchant's daughter. Nourhanne, the 'fiery flower of Jamal,' was now just a sun-darkened face among thousands. She would be beaten for anything and to be touched inappropriately for everything. Tears flowed freely as the blisters on her feet hardened to calluses, the bruises and cuts on her bare arms and back scabbing over as she cursed the day a master would finally buy her.