Nesert Wepset

They buried the eye first. Not the body. Not the crown. The eye. Because Wadjet does not need a throne to see. She only needs water. For three thousand years she slept in the Nile Delta, coiled around the root of a papyrus that forgot it was a plant. The flowers grew over her — not to hide her, to feed her. Each lily was a prayer from a woman in labor. Each sunflower was a king's first breath. Each foxglove was a warning she chose not to speak. The cobra did not guard her. The cobra was her. Its hood flared with the same green she wore when she was Ra's daughter, when she struck enemies with fire, when she nursed Horus in the swamp while Set hunted them. She sits now on the eye that opened beneath her. Not above it. On it. Because she has learned that power is not looking down. Power is being the thing that sees. The water ripples when she breathes. The flowers turn when she thinks. The butterflies are not butterflies. They are pieces of her old wings, the ones she shed when she decided protection was not enough. She wanted to grow instead. She does not open her eyes. She does not need to. The eye below is doing it for her. And it has seen everything. This is Wadjet waking. Not returning. Not remembering. Just — waking. Because the world has finally made enough noise to disturb her sleep. She is not angry. She is patient. And that is worse.