Title: Turn and Turn Again.
Summary: Two of some things given out of context to previous lives. One-shot.
Disclaimer: I don't own The Prince of Egypt and therefore make no money from writing this drivel.
Warning: One is of the movie, one is of AU with crossing over for some of animated Dreamworks and this is not meant to be slash, which is weird for me. This was also done as a request when I really don't have the time, so it's also, unfortunately short.

A Main Attraction:

Moses noticed almost everything about all that went on about the palace, and he was only a year old. It was difficult not to notice everything when cycles of movement and life repeated over and over in an endless dance—from the way the servants went about doing whatever they had to do (a lot of it revolving around the tall, crisp man that his Pretty Lady sometimes brought along with her to see Moses and his Big Brother), to the way the noisy Fat Man and Thin Man spoke to lines of people carrying sweet smelling stuff in bowls that chanted a lot, to the way the Pretty Lady carried Moses and Rameses around every other afternoon to the strange place he had floated into in that basket.

A strange thing about noticing everything normal that happened, was really when something strange came about.

Like that morning when he and his Big Brother were brought to the edge of water by the Pretty Lady. That morning, when Rameses was being carried in the water by the tall woman, with the gold along the softness of her hair, her laughing when Rameses struggled and was put on the edge of the stone floor to just let his feet tuck in and out of the water, splashing it onto the woman's shift, Moses was held by one of the younger servant girls and looked out passed the fronds of the water. When his eyes spotted something interesting, he did not cry out to get its attention, but rather, he just looked on.

Standing behind the fronds, hidden and almost unnoticeable if he hadn't been looking just there and at that time, he saw a little girl that he thought maybe he could remember, but it was from a long time ago. She was just standing there, staring at him with big brown eyes that reminded Moses of the Pretty Lady, but younger and less…high. The Pretty Lady always seemed higher in many ways from every other soft, little person he came in contact with, and very different from the withered man in that big room in the palace that was always cold and covered in curtains and stone and gold things that Moses wanted to touch, but either the servants or Rameses always prevented him from doing so. This girl didn't have that high personality, she seemed even less likely to be high than the servant holding him in fact.

Rameses fell into the water and let out a little, excited cry, Moses looked down, and then when he looked back again, after the Pretty Lady pulled Big Brother up from the water, the small, not high girl was gone.

Moses felt a little lost at that, not looking to find this new and old and interesting person. He started to cry, his face scrunching up in the most unattractive way, giving form to the blood rushing to his face and little tears running down his cheeks. And he didn't know why, not really.


It still feels odd to be the only two Egyptian men in (quite possibly) the entire tri-state area of Paris; even more-so when Moses and Rameses go to work in the studio for some young American man named Cale that ordered them from dawn until dusk to make some of the most uncomfortable poses ever along with the other models from Russia and Spain, Anya and Chel. It wasn't so bad for them in the studio that must have leveled in the temperature of ninety degrees with stale wind that just moved around when Cale's assistant Marina, considering the pay was more than they had ever made in their lives, but it was still awkward.

Arms far above his head, holding up a mirror that diverted the light from outside across the room to hit Rameses right along his shoulder as he leaned against the far wall, holding Chel around the waist so her head could comfortably touch the floor and fan out her deep ebony hair, Moses could never have dreamed of being so happy to hear the little egg timer placed beside Cale as he painted them with pineapple and magenta give out a succession of chirps—telling them all that it was about that time that Marina would be arriving back with their lunch and they could move again.

"Alright, my little wage slaves," Cale spoke up, the lit cigarette that he'd been smoking for the last fifteen minutes hanging from the corner of his mouth as he sucked in a breath and exhaled the smoke through his nostrils (a thing that Moses took note made Anya, laid out on her stomach wearing nothing but a false smile, cringe a little at). "You can move about now and speak and eat when Marina gets up here with your fattening, greasy café burgers. One hour break."

Similar and not from statues coming to life—or, not even statues, more like the victims of Medusa or the evil fairy in Sleeping Beauty—all of the models breathed and stretched out; Moses carefully setting down the mirror to grab the robe he was only allowed to wear during break from the wall wrack and grabbed two cigarettes from the pack he carried around in the pocket of the robe. One for him and one for Rameses.

Cale continued on with his painting, doubtlessly filling in white canvas with the tricky color puce, ignoring all of them, like the misanthrope he was as the door to the studio opened and Marina came stubbing in with food and drink for the models.

"Do you suppose that he'll finish this painting sometime this century?" Rameses queried to his little brother, his own robe tied around his waist, the upper torso of the robe hanging like an animal pelt, considering his arms were on fire from the blood rushing through them; his nimble fingers accepted the offered cigarette from Moses and he inhaled so deeply that half of the white stick peeled back swiftly into gray.

"Nah," Moses shrugged, accepting his ordered, high in grease and calories from Marina, along with the bottle of cold coffee he'd also requested, "He's too much of a perfectionist. Maybe it will be finished by his grandchildren."

"Oh, but where would he hatch the eggs to get those? Some kind of bog?"

Moses waited for his brother to exhale his own smoke before slugging him lightly in the stomach, blowing three rings of smoke from his own mouth as the bald older man hacked a little, but laughed at his own joke.