"I am the most beautiful thing," I repeat to myself again like a mantra. I'm sitting perfectly still, wearing my finery. My golden necklace of Amirakabech, my silk robes.
A little dusty, perhaps, but silk none the less.
"I am the most beautiful thing," Each time I say it I realise it's more true.
I curl my hand over the end of my throne's arm rest, feeling the worn fossilised mahogany polished by my palms which had long since rotted away.
I'm certain now. I'm definitely the most attractive thing here. Still, silent, regal in my meditation. How many millennia had I known this? Buried here with my two thousand slaves and servants.
Buried alive, so desperate were they to be with me into undeath.
A blinding shaft of light speared the wall behind me, and then another as the seal on my tomb was broken. Visitors? This can't be right. I'm here, waiting for the end of the universe.
Here, with my splendid things looking beautiful.
A bolt of sunlight cast deep shadows on my ugly, skeletal face. It bleached my dry hair, my dusty dyes. I saw the faces of the thieves. _They_ were the most beautiful things.
My clawed hand clenched tight.