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Chapter Text

Rest, Sweet Child

SILT OF THE NILE, it dirties your nails—death is near.

Caught in the heat of Ra's brilliance, you blink away the dust on your lashes, body long-since soaked, ruined, splayed pathetically upon the ground of the riverbank, sun-drying. There’s a persistent ache, a pulsing throb of a recent branding, angry with its rawness and a marking of what you are, of where you’ve come from—the ankh, symbol of life, both embedded and raised on the skin of your shoulder. A curse, you think. A curse you can never be rid of. Filthy, too. Every part of you. The brand, the torn and frayed threads of your tunic, stained from the dirt and mud you’ve been pressed upon for hours now. And yet, nearby, the rippling water seems to remind you:

The Nile’s banks are as deadly as they are life-giving.

Every ache and pain strikes you anew, felt in a sense that is both dull and excruciating. When the swallowed water within your lungs builds and sloshes with your cough, you’re beyond grateful for the way your body instinctively turns over, retching onto the ground with a wet splatter, soon wheezing, hurting…dying.

Death…death is near.

The last of your consciousness tethered to the world is snipped, eyes rolling back, fading, mind and body slipping into a void that seems so, so, so much more welcoming than this. Even the sounds of windswept waters are drowned out by the thick silence of repose. It beckons you. Rest, and you’re not above indulging. Hot, scorching heat still spreads along your back, shining from the high-set sun, unforgiving, and soon that too is a forgotten sensation.

Rest, and the water of the Nile kisses your ankles—protection.

Chapter Text

The Weight of Life

A BUMP IN THE LONG JOURNEY wakes you.

Geb and Nut have swallowed the sun—starlit nightfall, moonlit dunes—and you’re no longer left upon the riverbank of the Nile. Loose wares and pottery are jostled with the next dip, and your eyelids peel open, weary after the disturbance all the same, but it becomes clear to you: you’re in motion, on the road, perched upon the small, wooden bed of a humble cart, swathed and covered by fabrics and wool. You’re being transported, being hidden, you’re being…saved? Or…worse yet, you’re being taken to the nearest auction for the market, and that is enough to instill cold dread whisking down your spine, but…you’re not bound.

There’s no scratch or burn of rope tied too tight at your wrists nor your ankles.

No accursed collar fastened around your neck, no heavy chain.

And perhaps your freedom is not yet lost.

This is no caravan cart.

Blinking sleep away, if only a little hopeful, you shift upon the rickety planks of the too-small cart, pushing yourself upright as slowly as you can without risking the splitting pang of your head. Warm, woolen blankets once thrown over you slip and fall into a rumpled mass on your lap as you sit. Aches and chills ripple through your limbs, some harsh reminder—that you’re still weak, still burdened with a spell of perpetual exhaustion, and your throat is still lodged by a lump you grow tired of swallowing down, dry and thick.

Safe. You feel…safe?

Safe enough for you to lift your gaze, searching out across the expanse for your surroundings, but there’s still a voice, too; it’s a voice you remember, blue-lotus eyes and jewels, motherly; yes, you remember, you remember: Rest, sweet child. You have earned this grace. Honor my mercy. Even the memory of it has goosebumps rising, because you remember the men all the same. You remember the drag of the dagger, remember the cold press of a blade, the deaths. So sudden. Something beyond your mind’s comprehension, you remember the water of the Nile rising up, swallowing men whole, and yet you remain. You, a branded slave, a terrified thing…you, somehow worthy of mercy after what you’ve done…why?

Still—it isn’t until now that you notice an eerie quietude.

There's an odd weight on the breeze, passing softly through.

It’s hard to tell whether it’s instinct or fear that draws your gaze.

What remains true is what you feel, what you see:

There, further down the dusty trail, a vortex of dark sand and shadows slowly dissipate, wisping off into swirling tendrils. In its place stands a figure, the shape of a man, a silhouette blackened by the night, a tall crook in hand, but the head…the head is of no human’s. There are ears, perked like an animal’s, a jackal's, but in the center of its shadowed head—an ankh, glowing, golden. Like the long-set sun, ever real. Unmistakable.

But it doesn’t warm you to see it now.

Because now you’re drenched in darkness, just the same.

And yet, it feels…it feels…not unkind.

It feels—

“Thank the gods, you’re awake.”

Startled, gasping, you flinch at the voice that speaks behind you. Eyes wide, you turn and catch sight of a man, older, bald—the cart owner, of course. He sits upon the small driver’s bench, a leopard's coat filling your vision, slant across a shoulder, denoting his status. Priest. Clean shaven, his long years of life have bent his spine forward, hunched where he loosely holds the reins to a pair of strong, slow-moving oxen.

It’s a thorough glance that tells you enough, but you’re too bewildered, snapping your head back around to see if the dark figure is still on the road, but…but it’s gone. As fast as it had been there—swirling smoke and sand, ankh stark against the shadows—it’s nowhere to be seen. Not on the outskirts, not further down the road, nowhere. He was there, was he not? You did see him, did you not?

Hardly thinking, you turn back for the cart owner, for the priest, hands mindlessly clutching at his shoulder.

“Did you see a figure? A…A spirit?” and your voice is a pathetic, trembling sound. “He was there—I…”

The elder pulls his reins for a hard stop, oxen bellowing.

Between the neatly lined kohl of his eyes, your gazes meet, wordless, and you remember your station.

He is a priest…a real priest.

You withdraw your hand.

Remember respect.

“Forgive me…”

There’s a lingering silence thick enough for the whistling wind to roar in your ears. Scattered sand bites into the wood of the cart, granules caught in the folds of the layered wool on your lap, gritty against your skin. Regardless, the priest glances at your guilty hand, ensures that it stays where it rests, then trains his steady gaze on you.

“What did you see?” he wonders.

A dark figure, of shadows, sand…

“I saw…” you say, swallowing, glancing around. “I saw a…figure. Tall, in the darkness.”

The priest hums his understanding.

“A figure?” he says. “These roads are often patrolled, perhaps you merely saw—”

“No, it…it was no man,” you realize, eyes downcast for the fabric on your lap. “I saw an ankh…glowing.”

If there is any moment that you fear your sanity is to be questioned, it is now. As the priest considers the weight of your words—the real, burning truth and worry in your eyes—he seems to cast away any doubt. And perhaps you should not be so surprised. Bearing the title and status of priest, one must be accustomed to ramblings such as yours. For all the prayers he’s heard and made between the walls of the temple he hails from. Miracles.

Such as this.

Or…a curse.

Wordless, the priest turns, whipping the reins to spur the oxen onward once more, and heavy hooves are slow on the sandy trail. Pottery and wares begin to clatter again, filling the silence when your voice doesn’t. You watch as the priest bounces about during the bumpy ride. Only Thoth knows how long you’ve been traversing across this terrain, unforgiving as it is. Widespread sand and distant palms flank the cart from every periphery, moonlight veiling across the path.

“Don’t worry,” he says, peering over his shoulder. “I don’t think you are mad nor delirious.”

Ah, so he believes you?

Wants to believe you?

You have not known reassurance like this in so long, have not felt heard or seen like this, too.

Against a backdrop of midnight, the priest turns for you, a sympathetic softness to his voice:

“Tell me, are you feeling any worse?” he asks.

Even your smile is pathetically weak as the corners of it tremble.

“I’m fine.” Nausea ties your innards into knots. “Thank you, priest.”

I’m fine—a lie.

You’re aching.

You’re fatigued.

You’re struggling.

You’re still dying—

“Good, good,” he says, turning back for the road ahead. “I’ll take you back to a temple for recovery. You’ll require time and rest, and you will be cared for…protected. With the caravans traveling across every province of Egypt, it’s unsafe for women to remain on the roads, although I’m certain you’re already aware of that. I saw the bodies, back at the riverbank of the Nile where I’d found you.”

Fingers grasping at wool blankets, a shiver of the desert night coaxes you to draw them over your shoulders, pulling them tight around yourself. Balancing as the oxen-drawn cart juts and creaks, those wheels catch every stray stone and dip in the road, but you crawl over to clamber onto the empty space beside the priest on the cart’s bench. A particular groove in the road, rough, has you losing your strength, nearly tumbling off the cart onto roadside dunes, but a faster hand grapples your arm.

“Ah—careful—do you not need to rest a while longer?” stresses the priest.

Adjusting, you cast a sideward glance and take a breath.

“No—I’ve…I’ve rested enough as is,” you say.

Another lie. Too bold this time.

Because you know that the priest knows that it’s a stark lie, but you don’t expect for him to voice it. If anyone stares at your face for too long, too hard, the gauntness will start to show; the tragic darkness beneath your eyes will start to deepen, resembling a sickly hue; the ring of bloodshot red in your gaze will start to haunt anyone, and they’ll know: rest is something you’ll always need, but it’ll always be something you’ll never get enough of.

Those worn-out wheels keep rattling along, and you’ve resorted to chin-in-palm.

“I’m known as Fenu, servant of Isis.”

That gets you to look, lifting your tired eyes.

“Fenu…?” you say. “You worship Isis? Goddess of Magic?”

“I do, yes,” he clarifies. “I reside at the temple with my wife, sweet Mayet, and many others.”

“A safe haven,” you say, assuming. “Is it…nearby then?”

“Mm,” he hums. “It’s where we’re headed now, unless you’re opposed?”

The wool of the blanket draped over your shoulders brushes the column of your neck.

Your smile is as true as it is weak. Warm and flickering.

“No, no, I…” you speak quietly, grateful. “I’d prefer to go there…thank you.”

Ra has rolled the sun to the edge of the earth—soft, early dawn breaking.

The village fares the same as any other precinct of Egypt.

Even if you’re swathed in loose fabrics, veil worn, eyes barely visible, face and hair covered for your safety—a woman on the streets will surely place a target on your head—you dare to note your new surroundings. Adobe homes, palmwood, a common market, the smell of thick spices and roasted meat to break the fast of the villager's inhabitants. All seems as it should, save for one crucial absence…

There are no women and children.

None on the streets, none in the homes, either. Only men walk the dusty alleys, tending to their properties and trade. Husbands, fathers, sons, and brothers all without their wives, mothers, daughters, and sisters. It’s what drives you to turn your gaze onto Fenu, still perched, poised upon the cart at your side, reins in hand. Hiding your face, your voice is muffled through the veil you wear, curious:

“There are no women…?”

Fenu watches one of your brows rise with the question, and he only nods once.

“Worry not,” he says as the ridden cart approaches the enclosure walls of the temple. “They are well and protected, as I said before.”

Although your confusion is rightly warranted, you feel an instinctive need to pull and tug the full-body robes tighter around yourself, lest a naughty gust of wind blow the linen from your head and bare the truth of your identity amongst a sea of men. Upon your observations, some are rather harmless, it seems. Peasants, no more privileged than the slave you are…were…are unfortunate enough to line the main roads, left to starve and beg. Corpses litter the roads as well, a few bodies left to rot in the sun, the buzzing of flies swarming.

And yet, there are some men whose intentions are not so primitive. Men of the slave caravans scour the sandy streets as well, khopeshes displayed on their hips, glinting, as they gather in whispering groups, some even guffawing, their latest prisoners and slaves shackled and tied. Helpless. That could’ve been you. If not for…

For the inexplicable. For the magic of the Nile.

You swallow for the thought, and settle lower.

The temple grounds are in full view.

You will be safe.

You will be safe.

Arrival at the temple of Isis is without fanfare or ritualistic tradition.

In truth, you’re grateful for it. Grateful for the lack of prying eyes most of all, for you’re not a sight worthy of due attention. Even concealed under the swathes of loose linen, you doubt you’re a sight promising of anything worth the hassle Fenu had gone through to save you. Noble as his soul is, you can’t help but to suffer your self-doubts.

Feet bare, the slabs of the temple’s exterior courtyard are incredibly warm as you step down from the cart. Obelisks denote the divinity of Isis, carved inscriptions and hieroglyphs written across the granite. The temple’s pylon is just as elaborate, vibrant images and rituals carved into the walls to mark the significance of this sacred ground. Up ahead are the steps that lead into the sanctuary itself, and at the top stands a small, elderly woman, wooden cane and all. There’s a brief moment of your gaze trying to catch hers from the distance, but you find her eyes to be…closed.

Blind?

Seeking guidance, you turn, searching for Fenu.

He tends to his goods, unloading the pottery and full sacks from the cart’s bed.

“Fenu?” you call, meandering over. “The old woman up there, who is that? Is she…”

“Blind? Yes,” Fenu tuts. “That is Hanekate, High Priestess of Isis. Head of this temple. If you seek proper recovery, she is the one you will consult with.”

All his word does is make the fear truer.

“Alright…then…” comes your hesitation, glancing back at Elder Hanekate in the distance, but you speak for Fenu, asking: “Will you introduce me?”

Fenu’s sly smile does not go unnoticed, a degree of himself let loose for the familiarity he’s found within you during the short journey from the Nile.

“Are you afraid?” he teases. “She will not reject you if your heart is without heavy weight.”

Heavy with what kind of weight, you wonder. A grim thought to be had is of what you carry in your heart. It’s certainly not weightless, not free of any regret, of any wrongdoing, and definitely not free of any sin. Your recent choices have seen that through. Blood on a blade, death on your conscience. Heavy, heavy, heavy…too heavy. Better to leave your thoughts unsaid, and you think instead to offer Fenu a smile of equal merit, something drawn from the softer parts of yourself.

Waiting, Fenu nods, a hand kindly gesturing for you to approach the High Priestess.

“Go on,” he encourages.

And you do…

Turning, you feel another gust, softer than the rest, rippling through the fabric you're wrapped securely within. The steps up to the temple’s entrance seems a monumental obstacle, but your feet lead the way, bare and padding softly on the slabs as you ascend, leaving Fenu and the cart below. The higher up you go, the nearer High Priestess Hanekate is, and the more you notice of her. The curl of her short, gray hair, the blue and kohl lined at her eyes and lids, even the blue hue to the lips of her thin, inviting smile, eyes still closed.

“Welcome, child,” she greets.

And like that, the worry melts, dripping like slow honey.

“High Priestess,” you find the words, bowing your head, even if she cannot visually witness your shown respect, your eyes glancing at her from your angle, adding: “I…I’ve arrived in the company of Fenu, a servant of this temple. He promised me safety and…and perhaps a place for me to recover. To…heal.”

A hand reaches out, the jingle of gold bracelets resounding, and Hanekate’s palm is settled on your shoulder—upon your branded ankh.

“Lift your head,” she requests, her warbled voice all warmth, softer still. “You need not beg for entry.”

The hand upon your shoulder slips from its perch, a palm cupped at your covered chin and tilting your head upwards. It’s a wordless coax. It’s a request that you understand, slowly rising from your bow, the fabrics of your wrapped linen shifting when you straighten to your full height. Hanekate’s hand still levels your chin, held high, higher than you would ever hold it otherwise. And there’s nothing you can say, no words worth the interruption of the observant daze Hanekate’s lost within.

She hums a little, contemplative…thoughtful.

“I’ve been expecting you, child,” she says. “Isis has sent me recent word of your arrival. You are welcome here…our goddess has permitted it.”

Ra’s sun is brilliant, high for the midday, caught in the length of your lashes and reflecting on the gold and stones of Hanekate’s broad necklace.

“Expecting…?” you utter, disbelievingly breathless, because it all seems so far beyond you, so imposing.

“Whatever troubled you before…” Hanekate says. “You are no longer tied to it. You are free. Rebirthed.”

To believe her words…gods, it’s something you want more than anything. To see the truth in them, understanding that your shackles are long-since broken. Now…now marks the true beginning, a chance to make something of the life you’ve been given—honor my mercy.

And you still recall those words, that divinity spoken through a part of yourself once untapped. A part of yourself that hums standing here, upon these sacred grounds of a temple courtyard, standing here in front of the embodiment of faith in High Priestess Hanekate. There is much to be learned from this life you’ve been offered. Much to be rewarded and gained. Much to be given…for others, for yourself. So much in a life that is yours to claim, and it has been so long since you were last able to feel this.

Hope.

Some odd willingness to live and rectify all that’s been done to you, and you will do right by the mercy you’ve been gifted.

By Hanekate, by the divine voice you’d once heard at the riverbank of the Nile.

You will find a way to make it true.

“Come now,” the High Priestess urges, her painted nails gently dragging across your jawline when she releases your chin. The wooden cane she clutches taps softly on the stone as she turns to lead you inside of the sanctuary. “We will put food in your belly, water your soul, give you a place to lay your head for the nights. Come, come. After sorting the offerings and supplies, Fenu will be joining us later. His wife, Chief Priestess Mayet, will be most eager to meet and welcome you.”

And once more, you follow.

Warm bread, herbed and deliciously spiced, breaks so easily in your hands.

This coolness felt throughout the inner walls of the temple are a welcome contrast to that beating heat of the desert sun. A temple, its halls and walls half-ruined, half-intact, yet fully ancient. The wall reliefs depict a myriad of rituals and myths, and Isis is a constant subject among them. Hieroglyphs are abundant, vibrantly pigmented, carved upon the pillars, the high flat ceilings, too. Yet, the softness of the cushioned mat you’re kneeling upon is a distracting comfort. You devour a common meal from your place, the bread and sweet onions and water filling your stomach, and the grapes are a pleasant side. And all of this…it feels like a luxury.

The loose swaddle of fabric has been shed from your frame, pulled from your head and face, and it’s safe to be revealed here.

As a woman, as a former slave…it is safe.

Simmering wood from the glowing clay oven still crackles, and Chief Priestess Mayet is as kind as both Hanekate and Fenu had promised. She had been the one to usher you within the temple kitchens, the one to plop you down onto the soft mat to ‘rest your weary legs’ and she had been the one to prepare your meal, all from scratch despite the demand. And even now, she sits alongside Hanekate, the pair of them offering you company and ensuring your knowledge of the temple and its daily existence, but of course, it’s only natural for the conversation to switch to more pressing concerns…more curious questions regarding you.

Mayet is a frail elder much like High Priestess Hanekate.

With her gleaming jewelry and her draping priestess robes, Mayet turns for you, asking:

“If you would like a helping of meat, there is a spare fowl we can offer you…”

Taking the drinking cup in hand, you smile with a shake of your head, bashful.

“Ah, no, thank you…” you say. “You’ve already done so much. There isn’t much else that I need.”

Mayet hums, allowing your kind modesty, until:

“The other women are excited to meet you…” she tells you. “It’s been so, so long since anyone new has joined us in this temple, especially someone who’s been called forth by Isis herself. What a blessing. What a miracle, hm…”

Mm, and there it is again, tangled in the sweetness:

Isis and her divine calling for you being mentioned.

“Excuse my ignorance, Chief Priestess, but I must ask…”—you set your bowl of food aside—“…why would Isis seek to bless me with her mercy? I doubt there’s anything of true importance to my existence, and…I'm only—”

“Easy now,” Mayet says. “It does not matter where you’ve come from, or what position you found yourself in before now…whether you hail from the farthest provinces of Egypt or even beyond that…it does not matter.”

“And I’m expected to figure out my calling on my own?” you wonder.

Mayet nods. “It’s what we did as her servants…”

“Am I expected to serve her?” Such responsibility.

But Hanekate interjects, then:

“We cannot answer that for you,” she says. “What matters is that you make good of her mercy. Honor it well.”

Do well by it, by her. Isis.

“Tell me, child…” Hanekate prods still, but the solemnness in her voice, that leveled depth heard within it, has you blinking her way and attentive for her next words: “How did you come to receive the blessing of the goddess Isis? For every encounter, there is a story to be shared. I, myself, have once encountered the miraculous brilliance of her power and love. Her guidance. And I have paid the price for it as well, without regret.”

Her blindness, you think.

A grave thing to lose.

The cost of devotion.

“I…” But for all your words, you truly do attempt to find the ones best suited for a divine encounter, but all it does is hinder you—

The firelight is warm in Mayet's eyes.

“Go on, don't worry about the nature of your words or how they will come to sound,” she encourages. “We will not ridicule you.”

They will not find fault in your words if they are only true.

A comfort.

A promise.

“I…was on the western riverbank of the Nile when she came to me,” you say, thorough and softly spoken. “I’d escaped the shackles of slavery, fought through my captors, jumped from the boat into the depths of the Nile. I nearly drowned, panicked, but I’d made it to the riverbank, nearly dead. And…I remained there for some time, beaten and bruised and all my breath seemed lost. The sun beat me down, dried me out, and kept me down still. Only Thoth knows how long I’d been there, weak and starving…but then there were…men of a caravan, I think.”

Out of habit or simple nerves, you glance at both priestesses—still listening—and your words pour again:

“They sought to ruin me. Sell me…enslave me all over again. Offer me as a gift to Seth. They…sought to end me. But I think Isis had been there with me, her spirit in the Nile or…somewhere. I remember a voice…I remember being told the words: you have earned this grace, honor my mercy. And I believe those to be the words of Isis herself…she saved me, protected me…she showed me what true protection is. Of its importance, and soon after…Fenu arrived, and from then on…it brought me here to this temple. To my rebirth or…purpose.”

There’s hardly been a heavier silence.

Hanekate takes hold of her wooden cane, using it to push herself onto her sandaled feet once more. Mayet remains in her place, although her gaze falls from you and takes interest in the glow of the clay oven—rumination. And it’s still so quiet. So, so, so quiet, until Hanekate hobbles slowly over, that careful tap…tap…tap of her stick on the stone flooring resounding. Soon enough, she’s in front of you, drawing your gaze upward from the low perch of the mat.

Kohl-lined and closed, her eyelids are still a stark pigment of painted blue.

Hanekate’s lips stretch into a smile, blue-stained all the same—divine-like.

“Then you know what you’ve been called to do, child,” she tells you, urging.

Blinking, you look up at her through your lashes, certainty in your voice:

“Protection. Rebirth.”

For the night, you had expected a dreamless slumber.

Had thought yourself to be free of darkness and regret, but alas, it cannot be.

It comes to you in the shadows again, curling threads of blackness, and you’re back at the western bank of the Nile. Between the tall reeds and calm waters, you stand. Surrounding you still are the corpses, several men of the caravans—worshipers of Seth—splayed upon the dirt. In your hand, somehow heavy, cold, stained…your stolen dagger.

The inscribed ankh thrums in your palm.

So does the brand on your shoulder.

Lifting your hazy gaze from the dagger in your hand in favor of observing the spread of darkness and static air, you find that the shadows have likened to the shape of a colorless figure. The same sight you’ve seen before from the bed of Fenu’s cart, that same body of a man, head of a jackal…and the sacred ankh symbol glows, profound, at the center of its head.

And its voice, his voice, ripples deep:

“The weight of a life, of a soul…”

Your hold tightens on the dagger, and—

The night of the waking world is back in your view, eyes peeled wide open, sweat-slick, breathless and fully awake. Above, there’s only the flat ceiling of the temple chambers you’ve been offered, moonlit and solid. Real, you remember. Every bit as real as the reed-filled mat you’re splayed upon on the cool floor, as real as the press of something resting in your palm. Drowsily sitting upright with a curious glance at your own hand, you find it within your grasp:

The dagger.

Once lost.

But it’s here, in your hand somehow. Once it had been in your dream, but…it's real.

You will not rest soundly during the night.

The next morning, inscriptions and images of the stone wall reliefs are cold against your fingers.

Dragging a hand along as you traverse the temple corridor, the soft murmurings of voices grow more prominent as you approach the nearing chamber. Chief Priestess Mayet had mentioned the collective excitement of the other women for your arrival, but you had not expected them to welcome you so openly the night before. It had been all smiles and warm hands taking your own, and they had kept you in good company for that first night before curfew, reassuring. They speak now amongst one another, voices sifting through the temple walls, curling around the columns and marking this place as a true sanctuary with their words. For them to feel so safe to speak as they do—quiet laughter filling the chamber all the same—it eases you, warms your veins.

Turning the corner, you halt at the chamber archway, palms plastered on the cool stone walls, but you go unnoticed at first.

The women are huddled in a loose circle, settled comfortably upon gathered cushions and mats and soft linen. A sweet spice of incense is thick enough in the air that it fills your lungs with one breath, and the sprouting greenery of tall palms complement the pigmented paintings on the walls and ceiling. They talk and laugh and are donned in similar kalasiris dresses, their hands occupied with crafting jewelry and ritual objects.

Smiling, you step inside, your presence known at once.

The sound of clattering, worn jewelry softly echoes when heads turn for you.

“Anput! Come, sit,” beckons a woman you fondly remember being named Wabet. “Come!”

For the thrill in Wabet’s voice, you cannot bring yourself to refuse.

The stone is cool as your feet pad across the distance, approaching the assortment of mats and linen to find a place within the gathered circle of women. Giddy laughter catches your attention, the children of the temple playing amongst themselves all the same, carved toys and leather balls in hands, youthful locks swishing as they bound about. Safe, you remember again, everyone is safe here.

Nestled upon the plush mats alongside the other women of the temple, you turn for Wabet, a brow high.

“Anput?” you say, bemused but half–chuckling.

Wabet looks up from the beads in her hand.

“What is it? You don’t like it?” she asks.

“Is it common to receive a new name like this?”

“Not ordinarily,” she says, but not without a small grin. “However…with your history of being…enslaved…the women and I only thought that if you’re truly to be reborn and free, then why not bestow upon you a new name befitting your new life? Besides…”—Wabet turns to catch the eyes of the other women, all of them smiling warmly—“…you responded to the name without a moment’s hesitation, didn’t you, Anput?”

Enunciating your newly-given moniker, Wabet nudges you with an elbow, drawing out a smile before you shyly dip your head.

This…this is nice.

Before, you had a name once. A name given to you at birth, and a name most cherished before it had been stripped away for your enslavement. Any trace of the identity you held—before being forced to bear a lowly status below even a peasant—had slowly withered with your self-worth. Torn down, degraded, seen as less than human. A tragedy none should suffer. A fate none should be burdened with. A life none should be subjected to. And yet, it had been yours…

To have a name now.

A name born of freedom.

Of the life you will come to live…

“I love it, Wabet,” you admit, tone softer. “Thank you…all of you.”

Wabet tsks affectionately.

“Ah-ah,” she quips. “Don’t thank us so soon—Kebehwet, come and give Anput your gift, hm.”

Realization dawns, your eyes widening the smallest bit. Another gift? From her daughter?

Surely, this is all too much, more than you truly deserve.

“Wait, wait…” you try, but it’s far too late when Wabet’s daughter is already prancing over.

Her little frame settles easily on her mother’s lap, those big, kohl-dark eyes glancing around at the rest of the surrounding women. Wabet runs a gentle knuckle down her daughter’s round cheek, whispering words to her that the young child nods eagerly for, understanding. She fumbles with something in her small hands, and Wabet sweetly ushers her to come your way.

“Anput…” says the young girl.

Your newfound name is a sweeter sound on her tongue and ever innocent—worth protecting. She ambles over, halting in front of you and anxiously catching your gaze before you flash her an easy smile. It’s enough to soothe her nerves, the young girl grinning back, missing at least three of her teeth. Extending out her small palms for you, she presents a pretty gleam of glazed stone.

A scarab amulet.

“For…f-for your…your rebirth…” she says, stuttering on the words and quietly spoken, small.

Rehearsed. Her mother taught her that. Endearing.

“For me?” you say, reaching to take the amulet in your own hands. “Thank you, little one. Truly.”

Another flash of those missing teeth and round eyes, and then she’s peeking back at her mother—Wabet nods, smiling—and the young girl scampers off to rejoin her friends almost immediately, and you can’t rightly blame her for it. And you’re left with the smooth cut of your new scarab amulet, a beautiful piece, artfully crafted.

A rebirth.

“Mm?” Wabet hums, prodding softly. “Is it not official now? Your new life?”

“How could it not be?” you tell her. “I don’t know…how to thank you all. Properly, that is.”

“Ha—worry not,” says someone, far-off, carving at a small slab of stone, perhaps an idol of Isis.

“There is nothing expected of you,” agrees another priestess, sitting close at your side.

Wabet's head tilts, speaking:

“We are all present in this temple, protected together. And here”—she gives you some thread, a copper needle, and a handful of colorful stone beads—“we’re crafting jewelry for the next round of votive offerings for Isis. Have you ever made a necklace before? It’s very simple, we’ll be glad to teach you how to do it if you haven’t.”

The incense is still quite earthy and sweet as you consider your answer.

“I know a little,” you say, taking up the tools to begin with deft hands.

Still—your mind wanders as you work. Of the dream you had last night, the sudden appearance of your lost dagger in the small hours. With all that you’ve been given for a warm welcome within the temple, then perhaps it isn’t so farfetched to assume that one of the other women, if not Wabet, had thought the gift of a dagger would be a sweet surprise for you to wake up with. Although, it couldn’t be the original dagger, could it? No, it had been left on the riverbank of the Nile, clutched in the grasp of a dead caravan slaver. Even if it makes little sense, the idea of someone giving it to you in the night seems far more plausible than other outlandish possibilities of it just appearing there.

“Wabet…?” you call for her, eyes still set on your task as you speak.

“Yes?”

“Last night…did you, or one of the other women, leave a gift for me while I was asleep?”

“Hm? No…” she says, peering up for a quick second. “None of us left our chambers. We never wander in the nights, not even through the temple corridors. It’s too dangerous, or at least that’s what High Priestess Hanekate always tells us. Why do you ask?”

Swallowing, your gaze flickers for her briefly.

“I had a…dream last night,” you share your truth. “I dreamed of a…spirit of some kind, and…it was strange.”

“Ah,” Wabet sighs. “It sounds as if you were visited by a god in your sleep.”

Another woman glances over, interested, raising a brow as she adds:

“Perhaps these sacred grounds are having an affect on you, Anput.”

There’s a second voice that chimes, eager:

“Which god was it, then?”

Which god, you ponder over her question.

Your fingers slowly stop, pausing on the necklace’s early progress.

“I—well…” Conflicted, you attempt to recall the details. “This god was…very dark, shrouded. As if he came from the shadows.”

Wabet harrumphs. “A god of Duat?”

Plausible, but…

“I’m not sure,” you say, the lines of your face pulling taut. “I remember the body of a man, but the head of a…jackal, I think.”

“Odd,” Wabet mutters. “I’ve never heard any myths of a god fitting that description. Are you sure it was a god? A curse?”

“I’m still not sure at all,” you confess again. “Perhaps I’m simply mad with delusions.”

A few of the girls and women chuckle at that, light-hearted.

“Or…” comes Wabet's opinion. “Maybe this is something you should discuss with the High Priestess…”

Truthfully, you think to consider it, running the idea through your head, and you almost shift to stand and go in search of the High Priestess, but there’s a voice that keeps you rooted to the reed-filled mats, all heads turning:

“There will be no need for that,” High Priestess Hanekate announces from the chamber archway, one hand on her wooden cane, the other held at her back. “I’ve heard all that I need to know about this visitor in your dream; this…new god you speak of.” Despite her obvious blindness, eyes still closed, Hanekate’s head turns in your direction, addressing only you:

“Come with me, Anput. We shall discuss the concern of these dreams of yours.”

Chapter Text

Faith Lost, Faith Gained

TWO PACES BEHIND, you follow High Priestess Hanekate, and your mind is rife with thoughts.

Thunk…thunk…thunk… goes the tap of Hanekate’s walking stick, reverberating in the long hall.

But now… now you wonder even more, feet padding along the corridor as you wordlessly follow the High Priestess. Dreams like yours…these visions of another god, could it truly be a curse? Some form of blatant blasphemy experienced in the temple of another deity? Does it anger Hanekate? Isis? Would the goddess herself take offense to what you’ve seen on her sacred grounds? Is it a sin? Is it a mark on your head, your heart? Stained?

With a soundless sigh, you cast a glance at the temple walls as you walk—carvings of Isis, all-seeing, all-knowing.

There are long inscriptions, the deep colors of ritual murals, and there’s still a part of you that wants to touch and admire every groove of the temple stone walls. And still, you remember composure is a trait you mustn’t forgo. Discipline. Respect, most of all. Especially now, and it feels right to stay your hand, clasping them duly in front of you, moving along the temple corridor, ambling deeper into the lowermost chambers, halls less frequently visited.

“You’ve taken well to the temple,” says Hanekate with wood against stone, thunk…thunk…thunk…

For all your worry, Hanekate’s spark of conversation doesn’t strike you as being miffed.

Thunk…thunk…thunk… and she leads you further down, hunched and small.

Your eyes peer at the back of her head, suddenly eased, reassured.

“The women here have been incredibly kind to me,” you say. “Were it not for any of you…”

Hanekate leads you further down, descending stone steps, navigating through a narrow path.

“Mm…” she hums. “And the name you’ve been given is quite appropriate, yes? Considering the path your life has taken. Your rebirth.”

Anput. The birth of your recent moniker had been the death of the life you led before. As far as you’re concerned, you’ve died so long ago. Before you’d escaped into the Nile, you were already dead then, you think. Since the day your freedom had been stripped away, since the moment your birth name had been lost on the lips of others, since the time you realized you were but merchandise—you’ve been dead. Collapsed upon the Nile’s riverbank, you’d only been a soggy husk. That is, until the magic of Isis had touched you, that kiss of the Nile, a promise of protection you had no right to earn, and yet…

Perhaps it could’ve been better if you were allowed the grace of death instead.

“Although I’m grateful for all that everyone’s done for me, for this new chance at life I’ve been given, I find myself…wondering…” Your palm presses against the cool stone, sliding softly along as you descend after Hanekate, and you confess in the privacy and lowlight: “I often wonder if…perhaps death would’ve been a fairer fate. That perhaps passing into Duat and facing judgment upon the scale for admittance into the Field of Reeds would’ve been…easier.”

Thunk…thunk…thunk… as Hanekate takes each step.

Lower and lower still, curling vines begin to line the walls.

Green, winding stems wrap around the tall columns.

Hanekate knows this temple, knows its passages, its secrets.

But she knows your heart bears a cruel weight, too.

“Death…it does not come without its own trials, child,” says Hanekate, simple and true. “If death is what you wish, do you believe your soul would be granted passage to eternal life so easily? Look into your heart, consider its state…all that it holds within.”

A thought to bear. The idea of your soul transcending to Duat as it is, your heart weighed upon the scale alongside the feather of Maat. Your heart, your heart, your heart is too heavy to ever gain rightful admittance to the Field of Reeds. Too heavy to pass without punishment, bearing witness to its destruction, and perhaps your rebirth truly is the path you’ve been called to take, destined, even…that perhaps Isis’ mercy had been sacred.

Crossing through the final archway of the temple's narrow passage, palm leaves sprout from the edges. The temple expands into an open chamber, a body of still water pooling at its center. Even down here, at the lowermost levels, plants thrive well and are abundant. Hanging vines loop at the top of tall columns, statues line the walls, moss has spread along the stone, palm trees stretch and curve, all healthy.

Your eyes dart across the sight of the large, living chamber.

There, with the calm water and floating lilies, High Priestess Hanekate stands at the water’s edge.

“You understand that this temple is more than a place of worship, yes?” Hanekate says, voice echoing, quiet.

“Yes, High Priestess,” you tell her, approaching to stand at Hanekate’s side. “This temple is a safe haven.”

“And do you understand how this temple has come to be such?” she asks.

“Because…” You steal a glance at her, briefly. “You are here to guide and protect the women and children…”

“You’re not wrong,” Hanekate says, clarifying: “Although it is not only by my presence that this temple stands to be untouched. Have you not ever questioned why this place has not yet been raided? Why the women and children have not been stolen away? Do you truly believe that an old, blind woman like myself could stand between this temple and a horde of disgruntled men and soldiers? Tell me, do you really believe that I alone can fend for the entirety of this temple?”

“I dare not question what you’re capable of, High Priestess,” you admit, and it’s every bit the truth.

Hanekate smiles, the edges of her closed eyes curving with it. Real.

“Fear not, child,” she says. “I know what most would think. They would say it’s impossible, wouldn’t they?”

For a moment, you almost nod, but remember your words: “They would, yes.”

“And those who doubt seem to forget that Isis is the goddess of magic,” Hanekate says.

Magic. In the stone of these walls, laced in the inscriptions. Magic.

“And it is Isis who casts her magic upon these grounds, do you understand?” she adds.

“Then…this temple is protected by magic?” you come to realize.

“All around these walls, a barrier has been conjured to repel anyone who wishes harm or wrongdoing against the innocents within the temple,” Hanekate explains, lifting her wooden stick, allowing it to softly ‘plop’ within the shallowest edge of the water. “This is the will of Isis herself…and this is the mission I’ve been called to fulfill. I must protect our women and children through the power of our goddess’ magic.”

Thoughtless, you watch as ripples spread from the point where her walking stick dips into the water.

“I feel it,” you say, coming to understand that weight of this mystical chamber. “I’ve always felt it, I think.”

“Mm…” hums Hanekate. “Then you must also understand that if you’re having inexplicable dreams or…visions of an unknown entity, that it’s within the interest of the temple to ensure that it—that you—will not bring harm to the women and children.”

Ah, and of course, the conversation was destined to roll back to this issue.

“High Priestess, please…please have faith in me,” your voice wavers and catches, and you want so badly to take her hands in your own, but you value the respect you’re expected to uphold in her presence. Words bordering on the line of anxiousness, you press: “I would never wish harm upon the innocents of the temple. And…and my dreams, the figure I remember seeing hasn’t given me a reason to fear it.”

Hanekate keeps her walking stick dipped in clear water.

“To know whether or not this entity is truly malignant or not is the concern,” she says, and for once, she turns her head in your direction, the lines of her face austere. “Anput…try to describe your visiting entity. Tell me all that you can.”

All that you remember:

The ankh.

The crook.

The jackal.

“I’ve seen it—him—twice before,” you begin, hands coming together, wringing loosely. “And both times, I remember a stillness in the air…a weight on the wind. He was always shrouded in darkness, bearing the ankh, and on his head was a headdress, I think…a jackal.”

Still, High Priestess Hanekate keeps her head turned for you.

Even through her eyelids, her blind stare can be fully sensed.

She taps her fingers against the wood of her walking stick, considering.

“That describes how the entity appeared, yes…” she says. “But it doesn’t explain how this mysterious being made you feel. That is what matters most. There are many things—human and beast alike—that come to us in many ways, in many shapes and forms. Some are even frightening, but not all that unsettles you is malicious. Even if this entity carried a darkness with it, what did it make you feel?”

Fearful. Uneasy. Furious.

None of that.

“I felt…as if I was never in danger,” comes your truth. “When I saw him, it also felt as if he was…curious about me, somehow. That he might’ve wanted something from me, or that I have something that he needs, something that I might know…or something that I shouldn’t know.”

A glint of sunlit water shimmers at the corner of your gaze. Beautiful.

But you're far too invested in the contemplative shift and pull of Hanekate’s brows.

“And do you know of something significant?” she prods. “Is there anything that you are…withholding?”

Something within you, something worth keeping a secret from the likes of a blessed High Priestess?

The idea of it all is absolutely absurd.

Your restless fingers tangle even more.

“No…” you utter. “No, I—there’s nothing significant about me. Nothing that I know.”

Unless it’s the burn of the sun on your skin, the tug and twist of rough rope tied at your limbs, the sizzle and smell of your own flesh being branded, the—

“There is something within you, Anput,” and High Priestess Hanekate is the catalyst that keeps you rooted. “You, child, you were spared and protected by Isis for a reason that is surely significant, whether you believe or feel it yourself or not. And perhaps the unknown entity lingers for that same reason.”

And even if it’s true, even if there is some divine intervention taking place, it still renders you skeptical. If only because you’re…you. If only because the life you’ve lived before this moment has never been something deserving of this. Not the warmth in Hanekate’s voice, the unconditional acceptance from the women and priestesses of this temple, the rebirth you’ve been given, not the name of Anput. But it is real, and it is yours, and you have taken it all to be true.

Wordless as you are, a soft clinking of Hanekate’s bracelets fill the silence.

She reaches up, resting a hand on your shoulder—upon the brand of your ankh.

Her palm remains there, a careful squeeze and weight to precede her voice:

“Now…you’re tense,” Hanekate says. “Confused. You want answers, yes?”

Even if she cannot see it, you nod for your truth:

“Yes…” and it's easy for you to say it aloud. Own it.

“Then I suggest you pray,” Hanekate speaks softly now.

“Pray?” you echo. “Then who should I pray to? Isis or…”

“Pray to whichever god calls to you.”

“I understand,” you concede. “I would like…to pray tonight.”

Or whenever your prayers will be heard best.

Hanekate’s palm slips from your shoulder, trailing all the way down your arm.

She finds your nearest hand and she takes it.

“Very well,” she tells you. “When the moon is high—you will pray then.”

And you will pray with an open heart.

Moonlight veils the bathing chamber.

Purification is well underway.

Stripped of your clothes, cool water sluices over your frame, poured from the bathing vases by the hands of young priestesses. Bathed in natron and oils, you don’t miss the curious glances that roam over the brand marked upon your shoulder—unable to be wiped away, unable to be cleansed—but they say nothing of it. More water is poured, trickling heavily into the bathing pool, and you allow them to scrub and swipe at your limbs. At the edge of the chamber pool, Chief Priestess Mayet and High Priestess Hanekate oversee the process to its completion. They observe when you're guided by the young priestesses, stepping from the water, properly dressed in white linen and thoroughly clean. Purified. Scrubbed of filth and sin, they would say, now prepared to pray and speak with Isis.

Soon, you’re led into the temple’s inner sanctuary, its most sacred chamber for daily prayer and offerings. As you saunter within, it’s a long, narrow space lined with columns and pristine stone, not unlike the entirety of the temple itself. Further within the inner sanctuary, a statue of Isis rests still upon an altar, encased within a golden-gilded shrine that you now kneel before.

Precious lapis lazuli—lotus-blue—inlaid as stone eyes.

And still, you dip your head to pray…

You pray for the answers you seek, clarity and guidance…

          …you pray…

                         …you pray…

                                        …you pray…

…and there is nothing you receive in turn. No divine sign.

Only silence, only time wasted, only cold regret and doubt.

“Your goddess has abandoned me.”

The words run harsh, even if your tone favors softness. Like a reference point, High Priestess Hanekate can only follow the sound of your voice, hearing the graceless steps of your feet on cold stone, weaving through the temple corridors. Thunk…thunk…thunk…and this time, Hanekate is so far behind you as you go. For whatever reason, whatever softer part of your heart, you slow to an easier pace, allowing her to approach. Thunk…thunk…thunk…and she’s closer.

“Do not lose faith, Anput,” Hanekate begs, such an impossible request. “Isis does not abandon those who—”

“And yet, she’s abandoned me…” cuts the hurt in your voice.

“She has not, and she will not,” Hanekate tells you, her small, hunched frame halting by your side. “Your answers will come.”

“If not now, then when?” you wonder, beseeching. “When, High Priestess? I've prayed for hours, and felt nothing.”

Because you would like to know that you’re destined for more than just withering behind the tall walls of a temple.

Hanekate hobbles to stand in front of you instead, "peering" up at you with those closed eyes, her blue-pigmented lids.

“This anger,” she says, lifting her walking stick, tapping it lightly against your chest. “It’s been in there all this time, hasn’t it? Rage. Resentment for the life you suffered before now. If this is the state you prayed within, then it’s no wonder your faith went unnoticed. I understand that you’re still upset, that you feel…wronged, no? Enslavement is bound to taint anyone’s heart with anger and hatred, but it’s not what Isis would ask of you, do you understand? It’s not what our goddess would want for you to carry in your heart as you pray to her. Learn to tame your rage, lighten the weight in your heart, and perhaps your prayers will be heard, child.”

A shame that you have such a hard time believing that now. Before your prayers went unheard, before giving a part of yourself to this temple, you would have.

But now…

Now…

Heaving a breath, you swallow when Hanekate slips her stick away from your chest.

“Go on,” she urges, nodding her head toward the distant chambers. “Join the others for food and drink. For now, unravel and be.”

Prayers unheard, faith lost, you heed her suggestion…and you will simply be.

Beyond the temple’s enclosed walls, the landscape is hardly visible.

A glow of firelight spreads high, gradient-like against the ink of night.

Palm flattened atop the smooth stone of the terrace wall, you can still hear the shared conversation of the women within the adjoined chamber. Tendrils of incense waft, curl, and dissipates on the desert air. Bitter, blood-red wine still lingers on your palate more than the herbs of bread. Soft laughter spills, nearly constant now that the wine has been shared and consumed among the women, but you’ll find it in yourself to join them again later.

Or perhaps, it would not be so long before they find you.

“Anput…”

A chalice is placed upon the terrace wall, slid toward you, and it’s not so hard for you to recognize the tone. Sweet Wabet. The glint of her bracelet catches that cool shine of moonlight when she withdraws the hand that offers you another drink. Acknowledging her, you offer a kind smile, weak, before turning back to the sight of the village, and all Wabet is left with is your side-profile. And of course, you feel her stare. Of course, you do.

Saying nothing, Wabet shifts, a hand on her hip.

It’s wordless, but you understand her gesture all the same:

What’s wrong? Tell me.

Turning, you give in and admit to your woes.

“Wabet…you’re a priestess, aren’t you?” you ask.

“Many of us are,” she reminds you, dark wig and adorned jewels swaying when she tilts her head. “And for the ones who aren’t—you included—they are allowed within the temple for protection by Isis’ will. The caravans are still scouring the province as we speak.”

A gentle ripple of wind courses through, your fingers mindlessly reaching for the stem of the given chalice, twirling it atop the terrace wall.

“Right,” you say. “And…have you ever had rage in your heart?”

“Rage?” Wabet laughs a little, searching your eyes. “Ah…have I burrowed under your skin already? It’s happened before with others, but this is the first time it’s happened so soon. And here, I thought you appreciated my company.”

Her light-hearted jest has you chuckling, head shaking.

“No, no,” you manage, taking a hold of her arm, squeezing affectionately. “I’m not upset with you, my friend, but...does Isis answer your prayers? Does she hear you?”

If her heart isn’t heavy with rage nor anger, if her heart isn’t stained by resentment…

Wabet takes a breath, peering out at that glow of the village, and her voice is quiet:

“Hm, I see now. Do you feel unheard by our goddess?”

“Well…earlier tonight,” you begin, glancing down at the red wine. “I fear that my prayers have gone…unheard. And perhaps it’s because my heart is not free of anger?”

Wabet nods, slow and barely seen, but your words are sinking deep.

“I should feel rage toward my daughter’s father,” she tells you. “For what he did to us, abandoning my daughter and I during our time of need. There was nowhere for us to go, so I turned to my faith…” Wabet shifts upon her feet and looks skyward, no doubt to keep the tears from falling and staining her cheeks with running kohl, but she’s back to catching your gaze, admitting: “I believed in Isis. My trust in her love for all her children is what eased my worries, what made the rage within me wither away, and perhaps…you should place your faith and trust into something as well. If there’s one thing I want you to promise me, it’s that you’ll find your faith.”

All your words have fallen away from your mind when Wabet allows the emotion to claim her like this.

The most you have for her is a nod—you’ll find your faith, you will.

But a nod is not a promise Wabet will accept, tilting her head once more with a quiet, disapproving tsk.

Her gaze is watery, voice sodden, and when your silence stretches for a moment too long, she reacts.

She’s quick to do it, taking your hand in both of hers, holding tight and true.

“Only a promise will make me believe you,” Wabet says. “Promise me, Anput, hm?”

Another smile for her curves at your lips, something reassuring, something true—the sound of the women chattering still echoes from the chamber. In there, no rage is laced in their words, no resentment is thick in their laughter. Only peace is here, and for now, it becomes possible for you to find and feel, too:

“Fine—for you, I promise…” and your voice is stronger, worth believing.

Wabet smiles. Satisfied. Through the wet gleam in her eyes, she juts her chin at the untouched wine you’re mindlessly swirling.

“Good,” she tuts, spirits regained. “Now hurry—there’s more wine to be consumed.”

It feels softer, the ankh branded upon your shoulder, that is.

When the temple is at its quietest, sitting cross-legged upon your mat, your careful finger traces the brand lines, and you will have to accept it. Like all things you cannot bear to change on your lonesome, you will have to find something in it to cherish. For if things are to be as High Priestess Hanekate had said—your answers will come in time—then maybe giving yourself time to cope with your long suffering will help to lead you down a path meant for you. That perhaps, there will be a day when you lay eyes on the ankh brand and not feel fury.

It will be so.

Whether Isis will ever deign herself to hear your prayers or not.

She isn’t the only god worthy of changing the course of your life.

She isn’t the only god that has made contact with you, at least…

You press your entire palm upon your branded ankh. A new god, you remember. A new god willing to visit your dreams, to catch your gaze in the waking world, to listen. And perhaps a prayer for him will not go unheard nor ignored. If there’s any faith to be found in honor of your promise to Wabet, then it can be found in the belief of this god. Dark shadows and sand.

The weight of a life, of a soul…

And his voice had been nothing if not heard and real in your dream. The dagger once given to you in your sleep still rests upon the mat at your side, and for whatever instinctive pull, you reach for it, taking the inscribed hilt within your hands and holding tight.

“God of shadows. God of my dreams,” and the praying comes without thought; your voice is softer, edging into sincerity, pleading: “Can you hear me…? Are you…are you listening?” Swallowing, you rise to your feet, dagger in hand as you amble toward the chamber’s terrace, standing at the stone half-wall. “Come to me. I pray for your guidance. I pray for your protection.”

You don’t know what, who, you’re asking for. All that you know is that wish for something to believe in, for something deserving of your faith. A sign for your divine calling, if nothing else. Selfish…this is selfish and you’re so far from ashamed, the softest gale caught in your attire, eyes closed. There’s only a small part of you that considers the possibility of offending Isis by praying to another deity on the sacred grounds of her temple. Surrounded and cared for by her devoted servants, perhaps the chance of you being smited where you stand upon the open, moonlit terrace is not something so unlikely.

There are no offerings you can spare for this jackal god, no foreknowledge of what might appease him for his favor.

And yet, it hardly stops you, lips shaping words, and again…

          …you pray…

                         …you pray…

                                        …you pray…

“Let us in! Give us our women and children! Now!”

Dropped, the dagger clatters to the stone at your feet.

Eyes snapping open, heart rapid, you hurry to peer down from the temple terrace, search for the culprit below. It’s a man’s voice, a person's stark ire, and it’s even more unsettling when you realize that a horde of them have gathered at the temple’s exterior walls. Torches and weapons in hand, they stand beyond the transparent, magical barrier, unable to penetrate the temple’s defenses.

“You!” shouts an irate villager, his head notably turned in your direction. “Give me my wife! Give her back to me!”

“You can’t do this!” bellows another, tossing a stone.

“Let them out of there! I’ll kill you myself! I swear in the name of Seth!”

“What gives you all the right to steal our women and children?!”

Whatever streak of bravery that claims you has your body moving closer to the terrace wall, standing high above the firelit horde.

Your hands rest on the stone before you gather the energy to shout back:

“They’re protected here!” you respond to them. “Your women and children are safer here than they are with any of you!”

All it does is anger them even more, lights a brighter and hotter flame.

“Protected! By who?! You?!”

“Yes, by me! By others! Yes!” You double down, dipping low to retrieve your dagger, pointing it at the horde.

“Lies and tricks!” It's the deeper growl of another. “Step foot outside of the temple and I will cut you down!”

A spear is tossed for your head, but the barrier catches it mid-air, sending it topping to the ground instead. Ah, so they would seek to kill you, if not for the barrier. Although it isn’t fear that twists and knots your innards, rather it's the fact that once the women and children of the temple are permitted to leave, they would be returning to families so volatile. Men who are more than willing to see your end for simply ensuring the safety of their loved ones.

“Your women are safe within this temple!” you bite back, unyielding. “Leave this place be! Go!”

“Not until you release them!”

Another spear and two arrows collide against the barrier.

And somehow, you hardly think to flinch.

“Leave! Now!” your voice scratches this time, rough.

“I’ll strangle you with my bare hands, beautiful! Come here, then! Come here!”

You slam a fist upon the terrace wall. “I said leave!”

“Anput…”

That voice is softer…nearer…High Priestess Hanekate. Gathering what remains of your loose temper, you’re heaving by the time you turn for the sight of the High Priestess—cane and all—shuffling into your provided chamber. Whether it’s shame or regret, your heart feels as if it will physically plummet. For her to see you like…like this. That bitter rage in your eyes, still there, still thrashing about within your soul. No end in sight. Your heart, still weighed down.

More arrows hit the temple barrier behind you, forgotten.

The voices of the men are lost to you now, your steps leading you away from the open terrace, slipping into the chamber.

“High Priestess…” you try for an excuse, for a reason, but find that perhaps none will suffice. “They were threatening the temple, threatening me…I…I just…”

Even if the horde of men are still causing a commotion outside, you don’t bother to instigate any further when Hanekate hobbles closer. Thunk…thunk…thunk…and she stands before you, the lines of her face set deep and foreboding. She reaches out, a sight you’ve grown to accept, small wrinkled hands searching for your wrist. Hanekate slips her hand further, painted nails skimming the hilt of the dagger you hold firmly in your grasp.

“What are your intentions with this…?” she asks, fingers tapping the hilt.

“I was going to defend the temple if they sought to breach the barrier,” you say. “I would’ve…protected this place.”

Hanekate’s hand slips from the dagger’s hilt, favoring the edge of her walking stick.

“Protect,” she repeats. “You would protect by taking lives then.”

Defiant as you are, you’re silent.

“Hm…” Hanekate hums. “Killing, the taking of a life…it is not the will of Isis. You’re branded, are you not? With an ankh upon your shoulder—I’ve felt it before, recognized it. Do you know what it symbolizes? Life…life that you should try to preserve, not take.”

“I know, I know—and that's what I’m doing, High Priestess,” and you can’t seem to hold your tongue for much longer. “I’m protecting…every priestess, every woman and child, every follower of Isis. I am protecting them. Even if Isis won't hear me when I call upon her, I will not stand to let these innocents be threatened and harmed. This is how I will honor Isis’ mercy.”

For once, for a startling moment of silence, High Priestess Hanekate is the one to be rendered wordless. No matter the extent of her wisdom, it unnerves you to watch the pull and tug and her features, eyes forever closed. Thin, blue lips are set firm, and she thinks to offer you a final warning, some curt reminder:

“The weight of a life…the weight of taking it…of death,” she nearly whispers.

Hanekate’s hold tightens around her walking stick, and with a low breath, she turns to take her leave.

Thunk…thunk…thunk…she goes, and you’re left to bear the weight of her words.

This night will be another restless one.

Beyond the terrace that you still stand upon, the horde of men have long-since scattered, firelight gone from the high temple walls. All is quiet. Within the chamber, this space that has become your own, the sight of your mat still beckons you for due sleep, but it’s hardly the place you wish to be. Thoughts wound tight in your mind, you’ve placed the dagger on the terrace wall, moonlight streaked along its serrated blade, and you know the blood you’ve spilled by its edge. You know the weight in your heart, know the price of your rage, and you’re certainly paying it now, aren’t you?

A scolding from the High Priestess leaves you lingering in the night.

Tall, skinny palm leaves shiver with the breeze that passes, and for just a moment…you revel in it. Feel the cool slip of wind rippling through your clothes, carving up your skin with a charming tickle. But tonight, the goosebumps rise with it, too. A chill skitters across your flesh, leaves the hairs on your nape rising, standing on end—you know this feeling. From your first moments upon Fenu’s cart, that long desert night, the far-off sight of a jackal head and ankh.

That stillness, that weight on the wind.

A visceral lurch has you turning from the terrace, staring hard, squinting into the darkness of the temple chamber instead. Conjured shadows and black sand come together at the chamber’s far corner, swirling, a whirlwind of thick darkness taking solid form in mere seconds. Perked jackal ears mark the tallest point of an already looming figure, that golden ankh at the center of its headdress. He stands solid within the temple chamber, the gleam of his thick anklets only adjacent to your humble mat, but he’s…tall. Still imposing. Hidden beneath the shadow of his jackal mask, his eyes are on you, certainly felt and certainly unabashed. As if studying you.

His black shendyt, fastened neatly at his waist, rustles when he takes a step forward—you flinch, gasping, stumbling backward.

No, no, no.

If this chamber were to fall any more silent, your pulsing veins and heart will be heard, even with the distance that parts you. Far across the chamber floor, out of arms’ reach, you still find yourself backing away, feet sliding atop the stone, until your back collides with the terrace wall. Desperate fingers and palms flatten against the stone, as if you could will yourself to phase through its solidness. If only, if only, if only.

He takes another step, and you nearly startle, wanting to climb atop the wall, barely resisting the urge as your breath goes ragged. As if somehow sensing your discomfort, the very visible unease, the unknown figure halts where he stands. A subtle cascade of sand and shadows loses form, the jackal mask falling away, disintegrating.

What’s left of him seems to be…a man.

Waves of dark hair, rippling, sprawling, long and ever thick. Strands fall errant around his face—pale-skinned, unblemished, kohl-lined eyes, painted far too elegantly…but a dark, onyx gaze beneath the long fan of his lashes is equal parts regal and shrewd. So easily is your breath caught. An innate reaction, one that distracts you from the hand tremors where you grip the terrace wall, but even that soon fades, your hand steadying.

For the reveal, some part of yourself finds a degree of calm.

For his eyes on yours…it’s not like looking at any other man.

“Please…have mercy.” There’s nothing else that seems right for you to say, breathing out still: “Mercy.”

Seeking the same mercy you were shown by Isis, desperate for that streak of forgiveness you hope all gods have within them for their lowly subjects. Something within them that softens for human begging, for the inferiority seen in your wide gaze, your gulping breaths. Maybe he'll see something worth saving.

“Do you know to whom you are now speaking to?” he says, voice silvery and clear.

“Forgive me…” your tone is heedful, soft. “You speak as if I should know, and yet…”

If at all possible, his expression seems to shift.

“You need not fear me,” he reassures.

“I…” Breathless; you're so breathless. “I’m not afraid of you.”

“Then why do you beg for mercy?” he prods.

“Because you're…” Blinking at him, swallowing. “You’re no man.”

“If I am no man, then you must know what I am.”

“A god.”

“Mm…”

“Whatever you are…” You muster lost courage, peeling away from the terrace wall, bare feet stepping slowly over. Slipping into the chamber, you pad across the floor, closer now, and he's tall…incredibly, distinctively tall, and he's still…there. If you’re not afraid, you’ll show it. Close enough, chin tilted to hold his testing gaze, high above, you reach to touch him, palm falling upon the very real warmth of his cheek. “I feel…no reason to be afraid.”

Breath feathers upon the bridge of your nose. A god breathes, like you, like humankind. If there are any boundaries to be crossed, you've certainly slipped past them now. So quickly do you pull your hand away—moonlight in your palm.

“I’ve heard your prayers,” he tells you. “Countless times before this night. I’ve heard them. I’ve heard…you.”

“My prayers?” No matter your efforts, your voice wavers. “You…you heard them? Heard me? Listened to me…”

Despite the weight of your heart? Even with the rage you carry within? The still-standing resentment toward all who have hurt you before? Despite it all…you’ve been heard. He listened when no one else would, when Isis had discarded your prayers so readily.

“There are none who spare their prayers and offerings for me. None yet,” he adds. “Few know of my existence within the pantheon, making your prayers…unexpected.”

If he is truly some new god, not yet widespread across the lands of Egypt, then…

Peering up at him, you take a mindful step back, eyes tracing the length of the black ribbon draping down his neck.

“Am I…so unexpected?” you ask.

“Are you not?” His earrings glint, head barely tilting.

He observes, a curious look present in his eyes, long hair purling across the width of bare shoulders, broad, and this…it's another moment for you to appraise him.

“If you would grant me this knowledge,” you utter, bowing your head, hands clasped, unsteady. “I would like to know your name? I’m…I am Anput.”

How do you ask a god for his name? How do you receive it? How do you look him in the eye, feeling the touch of wind on your back from the high terrace?

There's never been a stare so perceptive, so discerning, as if the truth of all that weighs your heart is exposed. As his gaze bores through your skin, you feel it necessary to lift your eyes once more, brave enough for the risk. Vulnerability. Judgment, even here, and if all the gods are due to see your sins upon your fated crossing into Duat someday, then this is the closest you'll come to the weighing of your heart in this living realm.

“Anubis.” His voice carries a shallow drift of black sand, rising; a gentle maelstrom. “God of the Dead.”

And gone, gone are the shadows and the presence of a god—of Anubis.

Chapter Text

Eternal Life, Finite Death

THE SUN OF RA HAS BURNED bright five times since, but Thoth's moon has glowed four turns after.

You’ve not spoken of the deity—of Anubis, new God of the Dead—to any other soul.

Not even when the men and caravan soldiers crowd the temple pylon again.

Not even then, not even afterward, and not even—

“Everyone has heard of what you did.”

—not even today. Wabet’s words should not cast a barrage of goosebumps along your skin the way it does, such a dreadful chill that warrants your immediate attention. Crouched low, you reach to gather another arrow from the littered temple courtyard, arms already full, but you add another to the collected bunch and swallow that unease. Rising to your full height, loose linen caught in a desert breeze, you turn your bones to iron and stone. Composure.

“Ah…have they?” But you’ve trained your tone for something calmer.

Surely, she knows nothing of your divine encounter; there’s no way anyone should know. No one and nothing, except for the tall walls of the temple corridors and every sacred mural, those painted eyes on stone. All-seeing. Isis. All-knowing. And it will remain so. Recalling the memories alone is enough for you to question if it had even truly happened. For a god to have stood before the likes of you is a tale, fabricated from the threads of your desperation. Without a doubt, it had all been images strewn together by your imaginings, but a visceral pull and push reassures you otherwise.

It happened.

He had been there.

Anubis, god of the dead.

“They have,” Wabet says, nodding, meandering across the courtyard to approach, explaining: “Four nights ago, yes? When the villagers gathered at the temple walls and left this…this forsaken mess for us to clean. After that night, the High Priestess told us what happened. She said that you were—how should I put this—fearless? Foolish would be the better way to describe what you did, standing tall against a mob of angry men and torches”—she takes a discarded arrow in hand, thumbing at the sharp, stone point—“and these weapons, they were all aimed for you, no? Where you stood upon the temple’s terrace? Hm…you were courageous, and that is what High Priestess Hanekate had called you…very, very brave.” Placing that same arrow into the dusty basket she keeps propped at her hip, Wabet adds: “But I’m not so surprised. Not by you, at least.”

She means for comfort to lace her words, and you know it, you do, but alas…

Shame lingers. Strikes true, like a loosed arrow from Heliopolis, nocked by the bow of Neith.

“I wasn’t aware that my being filled with rage was also regarded as bravery in her eyes,” you say.

“The High Priestess only wishes for you to let your heart be free of any undue weight.”

“Undue? Wabet…it’s too late for that now.” Too late for your heart.

Regardless, Wabet blows a breath. “She was like you…once. The High Priestess.”

Quieted, you crouch and retrieve another wasted arrow before rising again.

“Like me?” you say, doubting. “A slave, someone embittered, a—”

“A woman tainted by rage.” And Wabet has mastered the art of silencing you. “Has Hanekate not yet shared with you the story of her past?”

Those twin statues of Isis within the courtyard hold a grandeur you cannot ignore, gazing at them and shaking your head—no, she has not.

“Until she tells you the true details of it herself, I will only share this: she was filled with an anger not unlike your own, Anput.” Wabet takes the arrow from your hand and deposits it within the held basket alongside the rest, reed fletching rustling as she says: “Blade in her hand, so long ago, High Priestess Hanekate sought retribution, but it was Isis who granted her the wisdom she tries to pass on to you. To all of us. Now…she may not be so sweet in her teachings at all times, but she lives by Isis’ will, knows what is required of a person’s heart in order to be deemed worthy enough for forgiveness, worthy of eternal life after finite death. Something all of us will have to face, no? Judgment.”

Brave, you remember. If Hanekate had thought of you as such before, then it had been left unspoken when she stood before you that night.

Moving further along the courtyard perimeter, both you and Wabet fall into easy step, warm stone underfoot.

Dipped in the temple’s courtyard canal, water fills and spills from within the clay jug you hold, kneeling low and humming a sweet tune as well. Temple rituals and maintenance are no easy tasks—delegated daily, expected to be completed without fail—but you’ve taken it upon yourself to do your part all the same. Cleanliness, you’ve learned, is paramount. Purification, so when the priestesses had bestowed upon you the duties of water-bearer, gathering jugs full from the grounds’ canal for daily usage, you had not dared to object.

Filled to its brim with cool water—dripping, rivulets streaming endlessly—you lift the full jug, hoisting it at your hip.

Crossing the courtyard, few threads of your linen dampened, you make note of where you’re needed:

This water will be utilized for the daily cleansing of Isis’ statue within the inner sanctuary.

Then the idol will be clothed for the night, properly stored for blessed rest.

A simple task you’ve been trusted with, yes, but a task no less vital to the daily rituals of this temple and its servants. Perhaps it’s something appreciated by Isis herself. Some small offering of servitude that will better represent who you are. Someone far more worthy of weaving together prayers, of kneeling before her golden shrine. Such thoughts and hope are what keep your mind occupied as you begin ascending the temple steps. Quietly, sloshing water jostles within the jug as you go, step after step, but the softest trill caresses your ears.

Halting mid-way, you peer through the spaces of the stone columns lining the entrance steps.

Trill…trill…trill…like a sweet birdsong.

Your head swivels, searching.

Trill…trill…trill…

A beckoning.

Deliberate.

Trill…

Another turn of your head, most determined, and soon you do spy it. Perched high upon the stone shoulder of Isis’ statue rests a small, head-cocking bird. Feathers the color of pale sand dunes, it bats its little wings in place for a moment. A sight far different from the low-gliding birds of the Nile, or the pecking fowl often teetering at the wet riverbanks, fat for hunting. Instead…there’s an elegance, a poise not often seen in birds of such a puny stature.

There have never been brighter eyes—lotus-blue—against the pretty swirl of Nut’s bloodred dusk.

Eyes like the goddess Isis, all-seeing, all-knowing.

Blinking at the gawking thing for a moment longer, you readjust the jug at your hip, fresh water rippling within, before you turn to resume ascending the steps once more. Even then, there’s the burn of eyes on your back still. Odd. If the blue-eyed bird is so content to remain settled upon the curvature of Isis’ statue, then you are most willing to leave it be without cruelly shooing it off.

Once inside, the cool walls of the temple are a relief from the deep, near-blistering warmth of Egypt. Servants of the temple are scattered throughout the corridors, some tending to the plants, others lighting and placing incense, all among other routines. Firelit sconces light the way along the inscribed walls as you wander deeper within the temple, jug heavy and ever full. Within the narrow hall of the most sacred inner sanctuary, Chief Priestess Mayet and her husband, kind Fenu, await you at the gleaming shrine.

Fenu is the first to approach, your vision catching the leopard rosettes upon his shoulder.

“Here, Anput, I’ll take it,” he offers, hands outstretched, gold wrapped at his wrists.

No sooner, the jug of water is taken into his own hands.

He gathers and pours it into a prepared basin nearby, the trickle of water resounding.

Mayet shuffles over, swathed in her priestess robes.

“Apologies, Chief Priestess,” you so kindly begin, lowering your head. “I would’ve arrived sooner had I not been distracted. The birds here are unusually keen.”

The core of your words are meant to be taken as some good-natured jest, but there’s little to be distracted by within the enclosure walls of the temple grounds. Therefore, it doesn’t surprise you when Mayet’s curiosity cannot be contained, her eyes finding yours through the lowlight of the inner sanctuary.

“Did the bird have blue eyes?” Mayet prods. “Small enough to fit in the palm of your hand?”

Well, in truth…

“Yes and yes,” you tell her. “Is it a regular occurrence?”

It's too hard to miss the way Mayet’s smile stretches.

“His is a welcomed and revered presence here,” she says.

“His?” you wonder aloud. “The bird has a name, then?”

“Horus, son of Isis and Osiris.”

Mayet seems to revel in that wide look in your eyes, the aimless wrangling of your hands coming together, because…Horus? The new ruler of Egypt for these past few weeks? Horus, a true god among men? Horus, here, spying through the eyes of a common bird? And yet, for the experiences you have been subjected to as of late, perhaps this incident should not leave you so entirely speechless. For all your sightings of shifting shadows and sand—Anubis.

God of shadows. God of your dream. God of the dead.

If Anubis can be true, then why not Horus?

“He watches over his mother's temple?” you surmise. “Protects her servants as well?”

Mayet nods. “Always. It was here where he and Isis found safety, hidden and out of reach from Seth’s tyrannical reign.”

Close by, Fenu begins the ritual of bathing and purifying the statue of Isis, water trickling.

Chief Priestess Mayet admires the diligence of her husband before she grasps loosely at your elbow, guiding.

“Come with me,” she requests, hobbling along, holding your arm for leverage—and you allow it, too.

This is certainly not a novel predicament: you, ever compliant and willing, following the lead of an elder priestess through these adorned, stone walls. You know this path all too well, remember the descending steps through the narrow passages, remember the expansion of a beautiful chamber. The winding vines, tall palms, spreading moss on pigmented stone, and green lilies upon the still water.

Magic. All over, protection. Magic.

Standing at the water’s edge, Mayet turns and gives your arm an urging, gentle tug.

“Closer,” she says, advising. “Step within the water; feel her magic course through your veins, welcome it.”

If it had been the request of any other outside of the temple walls, you would have practiced caution. Cold, hard distrust. But for the words of a priestess from the temple you owe your life to, you obey, sinking your feet into the clear, rippling water. Green lilies sway as you wade deeper, your linen soaked at your waist. All you’re left to await is the touch of promised magic, and it comes as liquid coolness in your veins. Weightless. Like there are stars fallen from Nut’s late sky burrowed within your skin instead.

Waist-deep in the watery embrace, you turn for Mayet.

“Incredible,” is all you can manage, a refraction of blue liquid light in your eyes.

“Isn’t it?” Mayet agrees, smiling for your awe. “Now, if there is ever a time of desperation, you must come here, allow yourself to be submerged.”

There’s worry in your gaze this time, voice uncertain: “As in…dive within its depth? It's so shallow, how could I…”

“To your eye, it is,” Mayet explains. “But you'll find that there are more hidden secrets within this temple that you have yet to discover. Allow the magic to take you where it may. Sink within this water in your time of need and protection. It will take you. Accept you.”

If her cryptic words are meant to be comforting, you struggle to feel it through the squeeze and turn of your stomach, anxious.

“Take…take me?” you say, feet shifting upon sediment. “Take me where?”

“If the time comes: do have faith and find out for yourself.”

Another request that harbors a bitterness—faith, in what, in who? You’ve seen that faith within yourself dissolve, seen it go unheard, unacknowledged by the very goddess Mayet and the rest worship. Ah, although it will benefit you to remember the opposite truth as well. That you had been heard all the same, listened to by the ear of a new god bearing no obligation to regard your prayers, to catch and receive that aimless faith you’d thrown to the shadows and the moon. Faith, and it has gotten you this far, at least, both strained and strengthened, too.

With a final gaze into the surrounding ripples, you know that when the time comes, if it ever does:

You’ll swallow, gather your breath, and you’ll slip into the depths, carving through whatever magic will await you.

Long days of tending to the temple and its rituals leave you craving these moments.

Within the warm light of a low brazier, kneeling upon your mat with a spread of precious oils, you’re content to spend the early night hours moisturizing. Before your time within the luxuries of a temple, there had been so few opportunities—none, in fact—for you to devote the necessary time to nurture your body like this. No cosmetics had ever been so readily available for your lowly usage as a slave, often tied to the demands of domestic duties instead of relishing self-care. But now…now those days are long since passed.

Rubbing oil within your palms, warming and spreading thin, you reach to lather your shoulders.

But alas, a misplaced gust crosses the space, billowing through sheer drapery, palm leaves trembling, and the brazier fire blows out, engulfing your allotted chamber and you in darkness. Kneeling still, unmoving and bravely rooted, you chance a glance at where the brazier’s extinguished flame has left only crackling embers and hot, glowing firewood. A thin tendril of residual smoke rises and dissipates against the flat ceiling above, and it’s all…so…silent.

Stillness, not at all unfamiliar.

This odd weight in the air.

“Anubis…?”

Searching crooked shadows and corners is all that you know, all that can be of him.

Until he chooses to let himself be perceived. Truly and completely known.

Such is not an act you will demand of him, settled upon your mat, voice soft:

“I feel you…”

Breathless, again. Breathless, always.

From the corner of your eye, wispy shadows and sand begin to take form alongside the smoking brazier—fshhhh. Like trickling sand, like windblown reeds. The shaping darkness is only a loose silhouette before Anubis steps through it, ever tall and still great. Just the same as he had been all those nights ago. His grand mask falls away at once, and perhaps there is no further use for the pretense of it if you have already laid eyes upon his visage, have already seen him for this true form.

His gaze roves across the chamber, eyeing the sparse furnishing and landing notably upon the dagger, always within your reach. It rests atop the mat you’re still plastered upon. If fear were to take you, it would only require a swiftness of your hand to wield it, and yet…you won’t. Not even when Anubis’ attention falls on you.

Worse still, is that he’s wordless. Staring.

“Welcome,” you barely greet him, hands duly clasped upon your lap. “I…I must ask: why…what brings you to this realm, god of the dead?”

What you don’t foresee is the barest twist of his features, lips set and brow furling.

Perhaps your words and approach are too formal. Unnatural. Unlike yourself.

Still, it’s too late for you to linger on it, watching when Anubis slowly paces the edges of your chamber.

He glances at the wall inscriptions, tone low: “You owe your life to Isis’ mercy.”

You remember the Nile, remember the magic, the corpses spread on the riverbank’s soil.

“Somehow,” you utter, and leave it as is. Those fateful words still ringing: honor my mercy.

Anubis cuts a gaze for you. “And you don’t know why she did it? Why she chose you?”

To be chosen? This is all talk of myths and tales, things shared amongst children. Although you mustn't disregard the possibility when a living god stands before you now, those rippling waves of dark hair, the cool temperament and composure. All of it becomes even more real when Anubis redirects his path, tired of lingering at your chamber walls, his feet are light, yet somehow carry an unfathomable weight when he comes closer.

At the edge of your mat, he stands, your gaze drawing upward for his looming frame, words tumbling:

“I’ve prayed to Isis for her guidance and answers,” you tell him. “I’ve devoted my time to her temple and loyal servants, and yet I’m still none the wiser of her intentions with me. And…I don't—forgive me, but I don't know your true intentions either, Anubis, God of the Dead.”

Seldom does a human gain the courage to question a god, and seldom does a god find himself without due words. Anubis peers down on you from his height—bathed in shadows and creeping, silver moonlight. Slowly, he descends to a leveled crouch, moving like curling shadows, like a jackal stalking, prowling the desert night and desolate necropolises.

What remains true is that your suspicion is warranted. Even before your prayers, why did this God of the Dead seek to come to you? That night, on the long road you traveled with Fenu, and even after that there had been the incident of your dream, Anubis' words in your ears—the weight of a life, of a soul…

And it all begs the question: why?

“Because your soul required my guidance,” Anubis admits, voice even. “In need of passage to Duat for your final judgment.”

Mouth bone-dry, you shift upon your mat.

“Duat…the realm of the afterlife, but…” you try to catch your words. “But I didn’t die.”

“Upon the riverbank of the Nile, you were dead.” It's no surprise that a god speaks so matter-of-factly. “Only briefly.”

But dead all the same.

“I…” Your pulse quickens, nausea coming fast. “No, no…I didn’t—I couldn’t have.”

Anubis keeps quiet, and it’s enough of an answer—stop this denial; yes, you did die.

Trembling, you bring an unsteady palm to your mouth, voice muffled, stupefied:

“Then…then…then…”

“Then…?” Anubis echoes.

“Then why didn’t you…take me?”

You’re brought back to those thoughts you once harbored, that perhaps death would’ve been the fairer fate for you instead of unbidden mercy. The chance for you to cross the river of Duat had been within reach through the guidance of Anubis himself…and you had missed it. He had denied your chance at eternal life, and for what reason? If you were able to make your choice in that moment, you would have willingly followed him, would have placed your lost soul in his hands, and you would have trusted.

With Anubis, you would have gone.

Would have transcended.

And yet…

Anubis doesn’t bother to stray from moments of quietude, especially now. His gaze is just as impossibly dark as it had been that first night, the cosmetic shimmer of pale pigment beneath his eyes off-handedly catching the daze of your own when he speaks:

“Because you were touched by the magic of Isis,” he says. “Her magic is the reason you’re alive.”

Scent of the smoking brazier, burning firewood, wafts through.

And it’s hard to understand it all, this convoluted mess of the gods and their whims, but it’s real and very much in tune with the ugly—and often beautiful—complexity of humankind. Before now, you had always believed that there would never be a bridge to close the gap once thought impossible to cross between god and man, but here and now, as Anubis, a new god, reveals himself to a human, a slave reborn anew, that gaping rift becomes even thinner.

You swallow your disbelief. “And because of Isis’ magic within me, you followed me to the temple? Why?”

“I studied you. Observed,” says Anubis, correcting. “I grew curious of your significance, wondered why you were still permitted to live.”

Why your life holds more weight than any other.

The weight of a life, of a soul…

Yours, somehow unknown to him.

“And I still wonder.” Anubis searches your eyes, gaze dipping to the curve of your shoulder. The ankh brand, seen and known, accursed.

He lifts a hand, worn bracer moonlit, fastened around his forearm, and he moves as if he means to reach for your brand…

As if he means to touch the raised scarring, purify it so, as if he means to—

Clenching his eyes shut, too tightly, long lashes fanning against the fine, meticulous lining of kohl, Anubis gathers a part of himself—some part you had not known to be lost in this moment—and promptly, he rises tall to his feet. Once more, he’s so high above you, once more unreachable; a venerated god, soon to be.

“I…must go,” he declares, dubious, as dark sand and shadows roll in to form his jackal mask. Departure imminent.

But before your parting words can be shared—will you come back, will you find and bring me lost answers?—the rest of Anubis is drowned in darkness, whisked away with the night. And again…you’ve been left in a cold absence, left with questions still. Questions of him more than of yourself, and until those answers come with clarity, you will carry out your humble duty as water-bearer of this temple, will keep your prayers for a god of Duat lowly spoken and always true, weaved within the night for him.

You will have your faith renewed, will keep it so.

Chapter Text

And Still, You Rest

^“ANPUT! GET UP! ANPUT!”

Wrested away is your dreamless slumber.

“Breached—they've—! The temple’s barrier has been breached!”

Blunt nails carve welts into your shoulders, plastered palms jostling you awake. Upon the reed-filled mat, blinking through the hazy blur, you reach mindlessly back for the hold that claims you, catching the bejeweled wrist of your assailant. Shaken, the lines of your vision come into slow focus, squinting up for the figure that looms. Moonlit, white linen is stark against the chamber’s shadows, frantic breath filling the silence, and this silhouette is known to you:

“Wabet…?”

“We must flee!”

As the stupor of sleep wears thin, you push yourself upright.

“Flee?” you question. “For what? Why? What’s happened?”

“Men…on the temple grounds—caravan mercenaries—the barrier has been breached!”

Like heavy stones in your gut, the urgency of the situation settles. Invasion.

“Impossible…the barrier has been conjured by the magic of Isis herself!” you hurriedly whisper. “There’s no way it could be dispelled so easily.”

“But it has happened, Anput…” Wabet shakes you a little more, begging for sense. “It has, and we cannot stay here.”

“How—how could they have managed to get through?” Your dazed eyes are wide. “Has there been a weak point that’s gone overlooked? Or…or…”

“It doesn't matter now, does it?” Wabet grapples with you, hoists you to your feet. “We must go! Now!”

It’s a desperate, hushed shout. She tugs at your arm, urging haste. Swallowing dryly, your gaze searches across your chamber—all seems in place, save for Wabet’s duress and the even smaller frame that clings to her waist. Her daughter, little Kebehwet. Sweet, sweet Keb, panic in her honey eyes as well, and it becomes all the more real.

Another rougher, tighter pull is given to your arm—crescents etched into your skin—as Wabet seeks to guide you toward the chamber’s exit. And this…this is desperation on her part, some mindless survival tactic that you’re sure many of the women and priestesses are accustomed to: Flee. These women and children are not trained for the horrors of battle and are hardly fit for the challenge of defending themselves from a horde of khopesh-wielding soldiers, followers of Seth. Bloodlust has always been at the forefront of the caravans’ mission. Taking women and children as merchandise, slaves to be sold, bodies to be slaughtered, sacrificed, and only for the whims of a single god-ruler long since dethroned and exiled.

But perhaps…it could be different.

“Wait—hold a moment,” you say, wrenching your arm free of Wabet’s grip.

Shuffling across the cool chamber floor, you retrieve your dagger from underneath the mat you once slept upon.

Wabet’s eyes catch the telling glint of the blade, and she keeps her daughter even closer.

“Anput…you…?” her tone wavers, even while quieted; terrified.

Huddled by the farthest wall, Wabet and young Keb watch as you pad toward the open terrace, crouched.

Peeking over the low terrace wall, several lit torches glow amber within the courtyard below, soon scattering. Mercenaries.

Careful to avoid being sensed, you slink away from the terrace wall like a serpent, hurrying back within the chamber, dagger still in hand.

Keb whimpers for the stern pull of your face, harsh within the low light, some untapped instinct driving your words, your promise:

“Everything will be alright,” you tell them—poor reassurance, but an attempt all the same.

Whether they believe you matters not, but the mother and daughter are left to observe when you head for the chamber exit next, pressing yourself against the inscribed wall nearest to the archway. Steadying your breathing, you lean to peek around the stone corner—empty, for now. Only the flickering fires of the mounted wall torches crackle low and constantly, those golden-orange glows lighting the long corridor, but…but it’s quiet. Too quiet. Quiet enough for you to hold your breath, straining to listen through the bloodrush pulsing heavily in your ears, and—

Voices.

Careful murmurings.

Peeling away from the chamber wall, and with a come-hither gesture of your head, you beckon Wabet and Keb to approach. Wabet’s hands are tight and secure around her daughter’s shoulders as she leads her along, the two of them situated close to you, plastered against the stone all the same. By the walls, you're better hidden from clear view should a stray man cross the corridor without warning. Although you highly doubt anyone would pass through these quiet halls any time soon, caution is to be taken. If not now, then they will come later.

Your head leans toward Wabet, whispering:

“Those men are no common villagers, not from here,” you tell her, you remind her, you warn her. “Listen to me…you must stay hidden. Take your daughter, flee for the lowermost chamber. The passageways leading there cannot be discovered so easily by outsiders. I’m certain the other women and priestesses will head there as well, right?”

Wabet nods, jerked and rough.

“Ye—yes, yes,” she says. “And you? Are you not…?”

You breathe deeply through your nose. “I must find Hanekate.”

“No,” Wabet refutes, whisper-shouting. “The High Priestess will be with the rest of the women and children at the lower chambers, we must go there together!”

“Please, Wabet—I…” Halting yourself, you close your eyes. “As the protector of these temple grounds, she will not flee.” Opening your eyes, there's the hard set of your brow, speaking: “If there’s anyone who can fortify its strength and expel the intruders, it will be the High Priestess. But not all of us can afford to flee when Hanekate’s whereabouts are unknown and with the barrier broken. I have to ensure that she’s safe, that she’s aware of this situation. I have to defend this place alongside her. I have to…”

There’s a heavier moment when Wabet’s jaw is set firm, unwilling, and yet:

“Tsk,” she concedes, voice tight. “For you…we will go.”

The thin smile you offer her slips and falls.

“I’ll be fine,” you say.

Consolation proves a weakness of yours, but it’s all you have to offer now. You know nothing of the future, of how this foolish endeavor will repay you, and you hardly know of the kiss of death. It has touched you before, left upon the riverbank, shared with you by the words of Anubis, and if there’s any truth to what he has sowed within your mind, then perhaps…perhaps death is not something you should think to fear.

What you truly, deeply, so innately fear is falling back into the fate you had barely escaped.

Stripped away of your individuality once more, another name lost, another life, too.

You’ve already lost your birth name, you will not lose another. Not Anput.

Not the souls you've come to cherish—the innocent, and…

“Sweet Keb,” you say with a smile, sincere, scavenged from deep within as you run a hand through the young girl’s hair. Within a fold of your attire, you reach, brandishing the familiar gleam of pretty, glazed stone—the scarab amulet, as polished as the bright morning she’d presented it to you. Her round eyes, glossed with fear-stricken tears, seem transfixed when you swiftly loop the thread of the amulet over your head, draping it down your neck to be proudly worn.

“This will protect me…and I will protect you and your mother.”

Young Kebehwet still holds her mother’s waist, still blinks up at you—trusting, at least.

Distant footfall can be heard padding throughout the temple halls.

Jars shatter and braziers are heard falling over, clattering. Too close.

The mercenaries are perusing, and you catch Wabet’s eyes.

“Go,” you order. “Straight to the lower chamber; stay quiet, stop for nothing and no one.”

“Gods protect you, Anput,” Wabet says in passing.

And the pair rush briskly off, fading down the long corridor.

Now…

Hanekate. Dagger tight in your hand, you slink past the chamber archway, lingering against the temple walls of the corridor, treading opposite of where Wabet and her daughter had fled. Left only in the firelight of stationary torches, you move along, eyes darting across shadows. Attempting to recall the location of High Priestess Hanekate’s bedchamber seems a great deal harder when your heart rages as it does. The nerves only worsen when you consider the chance that Hanekate may not be present within her chamber by the time you reach it, even so…

There’s blood on a wide mural, slick and dripping.

A tall brazier has been knocked aside, charred wood scattered on the ground, embers popping.

Worrying your lip until the flesh aches, you keep moving.

You lose count of how many turns you take, crouched low, steps light and hurried. Too many times do you find yourself halting where you stand, petrified by the abrupt padding of heavy feet on the temple flooring, staining this sacred place underfoot, disregarding due respect. Only once their sounds have faded do you resume sneaking along the passageways. All the while, your ears are keen for the sound of any woman or priestess in distress, but you’re more grateful to not hear much at all aside from stalking intruders rummaging through the storerooms and kitchens—all these goods left to waste in a fucking temple; if we cannot find the women, then we can at least gorge on beer and meat; fine jewelry, too, but Seth will not be pleased with such meager offerings; a woman, a priestess of Isis, that’s what we need, what we won’t leave without…

Their words mean naught as you remain hidden and go further.

Soon, you enter the hypostyle hall, dwarfed by the grand columns.

Between the towering stone, you come upon a corpse—fresh blood, still wet.

A priestess of Isis has been left, body motionless against a column’s stone base.

Too late—too late for her, and your heart squeezes as your gut lurches.

It had been the slice of a khopesh’s curved blade, crimson stark upon her dirty, rumpled dresses.

Sparing a simple prayer through trembling breaths, you descend and reach to lower her eyelids.

How many more women have these soldiers slaughtered in the name of Seth? Although the thought sickens you, leaves a lump lodged in your throat, you still hold the will to go on in your search for the High Priestess. As you scurry between the towering columns of the temple ground’s hypostyle hall, your palms sting with the cut of your own nails as you grip your dagger even tighter, too tight now. You’ve tried to convince yourself that death is nothing to fear, have witnessed it firsthand, but it still terrifies you. Still bids your limbs to run cold, like long-sunless desert sand left to erode your veins.

A spread of fire-glow catches your eyes between the thick columns.

More voices, deep and hearty, cold with bloodlust.

A pair of caravan members.

Dashing, you throw yourself behind a nearby column, hidden.

“Two priestesses have met my blade already, feisty little witches, and look where it got them.”

“Damn it all—won’t they simply surrender themselves? Body and all, it’ll be so much easier.”

They walk closer, steps better distinguished, the firelight brighter, but you’re motionless.

“Hm…and we won’t have to keep cutting them down if they do. I hate scrubbing thick blood from my blade.”

You hear one of them laugh discontentedly through his nose, grouching:

“Kuentamen wants at least one priestess taken alive for Seth’s grand offering.”

“Bah! Then instead of kissing Seth's feet, he should be here to wrangle them up if he wants one so ba—”

A distant screech of another priestess pierces, and rising voices echo from further within the temple grounds, too—your heart plummets.

One of the mercenaries spits upon the hypostyle hall’s ground.

“I’ll search this area again,” declares the scratchier voice of the two. “Go see what the others have found.”

Feet recede into the depths of the temple grounds, but there remains another still. He sighs, mumbling curses beneath his breath. Ears straining through another rush of blood, you listen as he ambles along the columns, searching between gaps, khopesh still sheathed. Weaving between the hypostyle hall, he carries no small measure of leisure. Foolish. Or perhaps so confident in his belief of himself and his blade that he dares not to worry of the risks. Ah, but he doesn’t know of you, of your will to live. Survival turns even the most fragile of beings into beasts unrecognizable.

Ensuring your hold on the dagger is true, you dip from one column to another, near-silent. If you are a serpent—the winding cobra, the slithering snake—curling and slipping through the wide hall unseen, then this soldier is a greedy mongoose, fangs bared, sniffing, hunting.

He lingers by the hall’s southern exit, guarding where you need to slip through.

A distraction would suffice, a stone thrown across the halls, some ruse to draw him away from his new post, but there are no guarantees that it will play out as intended. Or better yet, if they wish to capture a priestess of Isis alive, then you will claim the role—real priestess or not, how would a common caravan member come to know of the truth? If they are so desperate for a willing captive, then why would he think to object to your surrender? Only then will you drive your blade through him.

“Anubis preserve me,” you whisper.

Not for Isis, not for Horus, not for Osiris.

Not for any god hailing from the original Ennead, either.

Lifting the dagger, you press trembling lips against the cold hilt—please.

No sooner, you hastily tuck the blade within a fold of your worn linens, carefully stepping away from the thick column that once concealed you. Maneuvering into the hypostyle hall’s center, firelit and alone, you quietly clear your throat to be heard. A khopesh is drawn without hesitation, the sharp sound of a blade cutting through the night. Just beyond, standing tall at the hall’s exit, the shendyt clad mercenary is quick to locate your slow-moving frame, his voice bellowing between carved stone and cool sand:

“Stay where you are!”

Heeding the bite of his order, you halt, raising shaky hands, palms visible. Vulnerability, and your voice is small:

“I…I-I’m…I’ve been sent by the…the priestesses of this temple as a…volunteer offering for…Seth.”

Appraising you for a moment, his gaze slides over your stature and attire, misses the fold where your blade rests.

He grunts a little, approaching, skeptical. “A volunteer…No, that's a sacrifice, flower. Is that what you are?”

“Yes,” you lie, fast, gaze darting between his thin face and the low ground. “I’ve been…offered to willingly surrender myself.”

The flat of his unwashed khopesh blade presses under your chin and lifts. Cold, cold, cold.

“Are you a priestess?” he wonders, blinking slowly. “Brave, piteous thing.”

If not for the blade against your chin, you would dare to nod, but alas:

“Yes…yes, I am,” you lie again, tongue barely darting to coat your quivering lips.

Eyes caught dangerously at the sweetness of your mouth, he hums.

A part of you wants to whimper, but you never will.

“Good,” is all the mercenary breathes, withdrawing his khopesh—

Slipping the dagger from your linen, you waste little time in lunging for the man. He stumbles with your force, caught unguarded and far too late to parry the path your small blade takes, sinking it deep between the junction of the mercenary's neck and shoulder. His wet cry startles out, but when his body topples, so do you, clinging on as the both of you hit the ground with a sharp clatter and thud. This is survival, you will not go back to enslavement, you will not lose yourself again.

Such are the only thoughts that keep you firmly rooted to this moment. Stone-hearted. Never-minding the gurgling struggle of the caravan member caught beneath you, your hand wrenches the blade from his neck, a spill of blood eager to pool around him. Dismounting from his writhing body, the nausea runs its course through your gut, but you’re not due for your woes and guilt until after you’ve survived, until this temple and its women and children are safe again. Protected.

Threads stained by ugly bloodred, you’re heaving, catching lost breath, searching.

Hanekate.

Find her.

The barrier must be restored.

Feet suddenly heavy with a weight unknown, you jog through the hypostyle hall and leave the body. Nearly approaching the last few columns, you don’t expect the forceful collision of another being to tackle you to the ground. Too hard, too fast do you crumple upon the hall’s floor, crying out, wind stolen from your lungs. Thick, strong legs straddle you upon the hard ground, callused hands are far too eager to curl and squeeze around your throat. It’s too fast. All of this. Too much. There isn’t time for you to think, to realize fully that your dagger has clattered from your grasp, but you do know that the back of your head throbs, blood rushing even worse now.

Pressure overwhelmingly tight around your windpipe, cruelly constricted, your mouth salivates on its own accord, choking, gasps brittle. Your feet begin to kick, desperately thrashing, still too weak—it's maddening. One hand claws uselessly at the man's wrists, nails scraping, digging and tugging into his skin and flesh, leaving naught but thin scratches. No use, all of it. Dagger lost upon the ground elsewhere, it's still too far out of reach.

Tired of your markings, the mercenary's forehead drives hard against the bridge of your nose.

Death is near.

Vision spotted and hazed, smelling and tasting coppery blood, you palm pathetically at the side of his face, shoving his head away, fingers raking until you aim for the eyes, gouging. He yowls, hisses, recoils almost instantly, reaching to nurse his wound, but it's through his falter that you bury the heel of your foot fast and hard into his gut, and you begin to clamber, crawling away. Coughing, breath lost, throat burning, you still search for your dagger, spying it just an arm's reach away. A rough hand snatches your ankle, squeezing like a too-tight snare and tugging you back with a strong, single pull. Slid across the floor, balance gone, you collapse onto your stomach, instinctively rolling supine instead to pound and punch at the man above you.

Death is near.

His laughter is an ugly, vicious growl, amused by your struggle, that squinted eye indulging in your writhing.

Anubis…you're uncertain if you're gasping the name aloud, but it feels as if it rests so easily on your tongue…Anubis, Anubis.

“Shh, shh, shh—your nonsensical chanting won't save you, witch of Isis.” He grapples both of your restless wrists, pinning. “Seth will have better use of you, I'm sure.”

Seth. God of War. God of Chaos. God of Evil.

All of this…in the name of Seth.

“Leave her!”

Beneath you—beneath the mercenary, beneath the row of tall columns, beneath the flaming braziers—the solid ground begins to quake, a dull rumble to scatter pebbles and shake your blood, too. This is not the will of great Geb, for his land only reacts to the force disturbing it, rattling your bones, your heart. As the mercenary's good eye widens, ogling beyond at something you've yet to see, his hold slackens around your wrists, daring to let you free. Blood in your mouth, a rivulet of crimson at your nose, you pant and point a most perplexed stare at your enemy. He seems breathless, somehow, rushing to withdraw from your frame completely. Like a thin-legged flamingo fresh from its mud nest, this soldier struggles to stand on his own two feet, knees weak.

The ground still shakes and shakes and shakes, all enough for you to gather your bearings and follow his distraught gaze. Blinking, the caravan mercenary backpedals further and further away, on the verge of fleeing. For all the magic you've been exposed to within these sacred, enclosed temple walls, you have never considered this to be a possibility:

A standing, moving, huge statue of Isis approaches, living, all grating stone and wild magic in her image. Each step of the animated statue is heavier than the last as it draws near, both terrifying and awe-inspiring. At the being's stone feet, standing hunched—no less in grand power—is High Priestess Hanekate.

“Rest, sweet child,” she says, and hobbles toward you…thunk…thunk…thunk.

Ah, words that you know, remember, and a warmer caress of magic curves up your skin.

Perception swimming, a dull ache still pulses through your head, throat raw, but you try to stand.

As if Geb has tilted his earth beneath your feet, you topple once more, disoriented.

Wabet. Kebehwet. Mayet. Fenu.

“The…barr—the barrier,” you mumble, breathy. “Restore…need…protect…”

The Isis statue is so close now that it looms, its magic felt, emanating.

“You've proven your heart's worth, Anput,” Hanekate says.

She doesn't have to kneel to press a wrinkled palm upon you, and yet she does.

“Rest.” Like a spoken spell, an ancient incantation.

And the last time you were told to rest, you were left upon the slant of the Nile riverbank.

And the last time you were told to rest, it had been in the cadence of Isis' voice.

And the last time you were told to rest…you had slipped into death.

And still, you rest.

Chapter Text

River of Duat, Endless Night

THE LAST TIME YOU were bid to wake…

…there had been the scratch of dirty sandals against your chin.

The last time you were bid to wake…

…it had been by the rattle and bump of Fenu’s cart, ever safe.

The last time you were bid to wake…

…the temple had been breached, Wabet’s terror all too raw.

Ah, but in an ideal world, this time you will wake to the plush comforts of spread mats, perfumed linen, sheer drapery, and beautiful jewelry adorned upon your wrists, your ankles, your neck, your ears, your arms. You will wake to your very essence no longer aching, swathed in the spiced smoke of curling incense. In an ideal world, you will wake bedecked with pretty carnelian, lapis lazuli, serpentine, and coated in gold leaf. In an ideal world, you will wake within the Temple of Isis, healed, unscathed, circled by the gathered smiles and laughter of minor priestesses, caught alongside the childish giggling of the youth heard beyond the temple’s limestone pillars. In an ideal world…you are safe again. The magical barrier is recast, restored, and impenetrable.

Everyone—Wabet, Kebehwet, Mayet, Fenu, Hanekate—is safe, protected.

But alas, you stand within a world that is so, so, so far removed from the ideal.

And this…does not feel like waking at all. This feels like wandering, searching.

Like a lost soul.

Abandoned.

“Is someone…here?” 

You try speaking, uncertain, but perhaps it’s a waste of breath, unheard.

Not unfamiliar, you think rather bitterly, dwelling on Isis and her deafened ears toward your prayers.

Calling into the barren, sunless landscape that surrounds you, it would seem that you’ve awakened within another realm, stranded. Alone. Beyond, there’s only a darkened backdrop of high desert mountains, jagged and muted in hue. Even moonlight cannot carve through that opaque bleakness of the sky above, swirling clouds left to drift. A constant, deep rumble vibrates through your soul, humming and low. Felt. There is no cold, no balmy heat, no stroke of calm wind. Only stillness, only cool sand upon the craggy, widespread terrain, scattered beneath your bare feet.

“Where am I?” 

Nothing and no one is near to answer you still.

But somehow, fading through thick quietude is a whisper of wet ripples—a glint of water catches within your eye’s view, far-off. It’s the purl of a dark river that seems to mirror the Nile's grandeur, Egypt’s sacred winding serpent. The land’s life source itself, bringing generous floods and silt, water for parched throats, to soak stained skin, and it’s your sole inkling of hope within this desolate realm, too. The truth behind this river is something you can't bear to ignore when there’s so little else for you to investigate within this strange place. To find answers.

And so, either bravehearted or foolish, you approach the body of water, soon standing at the dark riverbank’s edge where you peer into the inky spread of water and see nothing, not even a reflection to call your own, not even—

“You stand within Duat.”

Although you do not feel and recognize the change of the air within this realm, you do know the voice and its steady inflection on those words. Turning from the dark river, you lower your head before your eyes dare to even lay upon him. Finally, something familiar when all else confuses you, the revered name falling from your lips without thought:

“Anubis…my lord.”

Silence reigns, testing, before the God of the Dead muses:

“Do you understand what being here means for you?”

That you’ve been torn from your mortal realm? That you've been snatched away from the bloody murals, from the ruined bronzed braziers tossed and scattered upon the temple floors post-invasion? Saved from the sight of corpses of minor priestesses littered within those holy halls? That you’ve succumbed to whatever injuries you’d sustained when you were caught within the hypostyle hall, scuffling between lotus-topped columns? That you are…

“I'm dead.”

“No.”

This…this is what draws the courage from within, laying waste to sacred decorum and all things expected of a human in the presence of a god. It's all gone and disregarded, forgotten when you lift your head, wide-eyed, pointing a direct and steadfast stare upon a living deity. Again, either bravehearted or foolish, but you will leave the judgment of your actions for Anubis to sort through at a later time, because for now your heart—what’s left of it within this realm, at least—seems to lurch within your chest, phantasmal and absolutely unsettled.

If you are not dead, then…

“How am I…here?” you wonder, eyes met with the dark mask of a red-eyed jackal. “Is this…is this not forbidden, or…?”

Anubis’ mouth twitches to speak, your gaze instinctively darting down to acknowledge the movement, too. But beneath that shadow of his headdress, too dark are his eyes for you to catch and read, so the telling line of his mouth will have to do. The firm pull of it, the way he shapes his words for you, clearly spoken:

“Your soul wanders,” he says. “Misplaced, you roam Duat, but in the waking realm, your body rests—you waver between life and death.”

Existence in the state of limbo.

“Then…my fate is my own now?” Your own to control, to pull and push? Lead astray? “Truly my own?”

The long drape of Anubis’ ribbon shifts, black, fastened loosely around his neck when he nods, only once.

“It always has been,” he reminds you, as if it should already be known. “Did you think the fate of your life had always been in the hands of another? Of the gods?”

Before now, you had rarely considered your life to be your own. Had barely processed the possibility of the life you’ve led to be even worth claiming. That emboldened sacrifice made by your own volition, those long days as a slave, but at the time of your lost freedom it had been worth it, worth every bit of the suffering. Separation from all and everything you’d known to hold dear, but it had been…worth it. And if your life is truly yours, as you now stand before the river of Duat, then perhaps a chance at claiming blessed eternal life is within reach.

An opportunity you would be most remiss to ignore.

“If my life is mine, then I wish it to be made eternal within the Field of Reeds, guided there by your hand, Lord Anubis.”

Quietly does the dark river flow, a muted trickling of water to fill the space when Anubis’ words cannot. Will not. For a god sworn and bound to guide lost souls through the trials of death, such hesitance on his behalf is…unexpected. All that you require is his blessing, some part of him that’s willing to grant you rightful passage through this daunting realm, to conquer every challenge hidden within these jagged shadows. Soon then, he will be there to witness the weighing of your heart within the Hall of Truth. Even if your heart outweighs the feather of Maat in the end, perhaps his presence will soften the moment when you’re cast asunder by the judgment of Osiris, God of Life and Death, himself.

And it will be so.

It will be so…it will be so.

You will not run from it, won’t deny the due judgment you’re faced with in the true end.

And thus, you resist the roil and twist of your gut, bowing your head for Anubis once more.

“My lord.” Imploring, your words skew softer—please. “If my choice is to be made, here and now…will you take me?”

Thunk…thunk…thunk…goes the tall crook, materialized within Anubis’ hand, colliding against the dry land below, and you’re reminded of High Priestess Hanekate, your head lifting on its own accord, eyes wider, throat inexplicably tighter. Wabet. Kebehwet. Mayet. Fenu. The Temple of Isis. And so quickly does your desire for death and finality blow fast away, as if swept off with the fury of a sandstorm and gone.

Thunk…thunk…thunk…Anubis thumps his crook again, purposefully. You daren’t question his intention, throat still lodged, gaze transfixed on the sight of his heka when tendrils of smoky threads spiral and whirl from his tall crook. He raises it higher, sways it about in the still air of Duat—fshhhh, and there's that sound of trickling sand, low winds gathering to slip through, softly billowing your linen and creasing Anubis' dark shendyt. His conjuration hisses, taking on the wispy forms of gathered silhouettes before you. Humanoid figures. Six, you count. The shadows undulate, refining themselves into distinct frames. Six women.

Six women of the temple.

Devout children of Isis.

Here, lost in Duat.

     Dead.

               Dead.

                         Dead.

“Anput?” Yet the voice belonging to one is hollowed, recognized. “You should not be here, Anput, you—”

Wabet. Your Wabet, here. Dead? No. It cannot be. Wabet.

Whatever drives you forward is a force that proves unstoppable, your feet shuffling atop the ragged land, hands outstretched, reaching. Despite the rush, your touch phases through Wabet’s shadowy shoulder, its coolness unearthly and igniting goosebumps raising fast along your skin, mouth agape, eyes wet and wide. No. You reach again, again, again, your palms sinking within her shadow and finding purchase on nothing. No, no, no. Frantic, your eyes dart across her form, head to toe. This is her, this is your Wabet, this is her essence, her…her soul.

“Wabet…?” Thick and soggy as it is, your call is heard, sensed.

Wabet’s spirit regards you, the focus of her own vision seeping through.

“Wa—Wabet…?” you manage once more, voice splintering. “Why…?”

A degree of delirium coats your tone, caught in denial, taken by disbelief. Confusion.

You glance at Anubis once—still there, shrouded under that jackal mask, wielding his crook. Knowing.

And yet, you’re back to Wabet’s spirit, wanting to reach again, wanting, wanting, wanting…

You want to take her hand, to squeeze in that way you always favored, like those warmer moments atop the temple's high terrace.

“My friend,” you say, swallowing when your heart crawls up your throat. “I’m…sorry. I’m sorry. Sorry—s-sorry…I'm…”

Upon your cheek, like a cool, swift breeze within this arid realm, Wabet’s touch flows through you.

“No, no, no…” she shushes, voice carrying in the way echoes do between hall columns during hours of prayer. “Do not apologize for this. Do not blame yourself, hm? Did I not speak of this day when all souls and hearts shall be judged within the halls of Duat? Do not weep for me, for us”—with a wispy sweep of her hand, she gestures to the surrounding shadows that accompany her—“we are prepared to see our hearts upon the scale. We are not afraid. And nor should you be.”

Blinking back the burn and throb of your eyes, you say:

“I weep for my failure. I…was to protect you, all of you, and I’ve failed you. Lost you! If I had only—”

“Ah-ah,” Wabet cuts through. “No…you did what you thought was best for the whole of the temple, yes?”

“But it was foolish, Wabet—I accomplished nothing. I sent you to your death!”

“You may have lost, but within the temple, you saved more than you are aware of.”

“No…” you utter, shaking your head. “That was Hanekate’s doing. She is the one who saved the temple, she saved me, I…”

…was only a burden.

Wordless is Wabet, considering your guilt, the low hang of your head, and yet still she finds it ill-placed.

“The temple still needs you, Anput. The High Priestess needs you, and my daughter needs you, now more than ever.”

Sweet Kebehwet. Still alive.

“Keb is—what happened to your daughter?” you press. “Is she within the temple? Unharmed? Safe?”

Wabet’s spirit seems to waver, if possible.

“I…do not know,” she confesses, low. “I cannot say for certain that she still lives, but a greater part of me needs her to be alive. She…she was struck in the fight, cut by the curved blade—cut deep, too deep. And…I'm unsure if she is alive, or if she has already passed through the perils of Duat ahead of me.”

If she is not a little spirit of Anubis’ shadows and dark heka, if she is not here in Duat…then perhaps she does still live. The sweetest seedling of hope sprouts somewhere deeper within you, wild, tangled, urging your return to the waking realm in order to confirm a youth's fate. It’s more than enough for your resolve to piece itself back together, slowly and carefully all the while. Enough for you to swallow down that thick, incessant lump once and for all, fingers twitching for both adrenaline and something else untapped.

“If there is one last thing I could ask of you,” Wabet says, but you can hear the quiver in the echo of her phantom voice, that she doesn’t wish to place such weight upon your shoulders, but her reliable options run short, her trust even harder to place with anyone else but you. Another breath, another rush of cold chills skitter along your hands where Wabet’s spectral fingers linger between yours—she wishes to hold your hand, to squeeze like you do, to ensure she’s heard, felt, when she tells you:

“My daughter, my child. If she still lives, tell her I never meant to leave her alone,” is all she says, and it’s enough, it’s understood. “But if she awaits me within the Field of Reeds, I will assure her that you are strong and well.” 

It’s your cue and inspiration.

Thunk…thunk…thunk…Anubis' crook has signaled a coming end.

“These souls require passage,” he announces.

His clear word solidifies it, makes it true that this moment, this promise, will be the last of yours for her.

One to ever honor. Save a daughter, soothe a mother.

You, Wabet, and every present spirit turn for Anubis’ call then.

Their path awaits, those long trials yet unconquered. The slow crossing over the river of Duat remains, too.

And yet, if they have Anubis as their divine guide—all will be fine.

This, you know.

“Follow him,” you say. “Trust him…as I do.”

Somehow, somehow…beyond the innate sense of mortal inadequacy, you look and catch Anubis’ eyes beneath the shadow of his mask. Dark as ever. You're a human who still looks upon a god, who knows the face behind his mask, remembers the voice that once spoke to you within the lone silence of your allotted chambers. And still, leaving the side of Wabet's spirit, you dare to approach him. Despite whatever distaste a god may feel witnessing a mortal step to them so unabashedly as you do, Anubis makes no move to condemn or stop you short of his space. No, no, no…he watches instead, curious or impressed? The answer eludes you, but regardless of it, your nervous tongue darts out to coat your lips, eyes quickly flitting to the ground when you’re close enough to feel that muted vibration of his energy.

It's there, it's real, it prickles beneath your skin.

“My lord, Anubis, God of the Dead,” you say in careful tones, lifting your gaze. “I humbly ask that you…guide these souls safely for their due judgment.”

For me. Such remains unspoken, yet it does not go unheard.

And it would seem that nothing goes wholly disregarded when it caresses the jackal’s ears, forever perked. Subtle and true, Anubis nods, wordless: for you, I will; for all who pass through this underworld, I will, and it's all expressed through his singular motion, but this time, more than any other dutiful obligation, this will be for you. The long nose of Anubis' headdress dips low in a discreet bow of the head, a concession of his own for you, and the ankh upon the jackal mask's forehead glints like Ra’s sunbright gold. In this realm, absent of any sliver of daylight, you wonder how it still shines.

You turn and look to Wabet, to the waiting wraiths.

A smile for them is offered. May their eternal lives be bountiful.

With Anubis, they will be safe, guided for the Hall of Truth.

But you cannot follow. Not this time.

“Pass safely,” you remind them.

With a tilt of his crook, Anubis casts a wave of brisk magic—darkness, shadows, and sand—swathing you within a suffocating vortex.

Swallowed within its dark maw, you’re painlessly rent from Duat in favor of total nothingness, brief oblivion, before—

—gasping, breathless, you squirm upon the makeshift mat of flattened reeds, piled linen jostled and rumpled around your slow-moving limbs as you come to, but magic still swims within your veins like liquid fire. Isis’ magic, you think, lighter heka, warmer. Not the chill of Anubis’. Not anymore, not in this living realm. You’ve awakened, groggy, returned to the quietness of Isis' temple. But alas, with such a curt reentry into your wounded body, you curse the eager ache of your head that rages tenfold, and the insistent scratch of your abused throat burns raw. Above, the flat ceiling sways.

Nearby, lingering voices exchange an observation:

“High Priestess?”

“Hm? Yes, Tani?”

“She…she stirs.”

Chapter Text

Tears of the Wedjat

^“WE HAVE LOST MANY…far, far too many.”

“Six of our priestesses?”

“Five bodies. One taken, dead—yes.”

Failure. The realization of Tani's word burns harsh, singeing through your limbs in a worse way than any residual soreness, all wrought from defending yourself, from defending this very temple, no less. Failure, failure, failure, and it wrenches your eyes shut, hissing when the temple’s best healer—your current confidant—Elder Priestess Tani, spreads a soothing unguent along your wounds. Gently now, she tends to the near-split of skin marring the bridge of your nose, but like the pinch of angry beetle pincers, it stings, and you crease your brows for it…and for more.

Your reawakening since the invasion has been accepted without suspicions when there should be a plethora of questions. You were nearly dead, your soul had surely fled your physical body; this return to the waking realm should not have been possible, and yet…you'd been met with the relief of awaiting priestesses. To have you back, conscious, is a possibility that had almost erred on the unlikely, but you have pulled through, groaning and all.

Elder Priestess Tani had been the first to ensure your wounds were properly tended to, and High Priestess Hanekate had been most welcome to the urging. For you will need your strength, need your body free of pain; you will need your peace of mind as well, but that will come with time. A lot of time, a lot of care; a colder truth to counter that warm rush of healing magic Hanekate had cast upon you before leaving you under the care of Tani, as you are now.

Deft hands, clinking bracelets, and the wafting smoke of incense cater to your senses, small comforts during early dusk, and Tani rummages through her supplies. Medicinal oils, herbs, healing incantations and spellwork all at her free disposal, but your fingers skim across the glazed, scarab stone amulet—still worn. Rebirth. Protection.

“What of the youth?” you wonder, the hollowed echo of Wabet’s wraith in your mind—my daughter; my child…

Like a haunting from Duat made true, there are no spells powerful enough to ward away Wabet's voice.

Elder Priestess Tani holds her tongue, dips her fingers for more soothing unguent, and swallows.

Breath held tight, you lean away from her when she reaches to lather another cut upon your furled brow.

“Anput—?” she utters, befuddled and hesitating, malachite-green upon her lids. Life.

“Don’t—do not call me that…please…” Catching Tani off guard, your voice splits for the warning you give her, for the freshly realized denial of the name you once claimed to be your own, because now…now you feel most undeserving of that name when the reborn life you were meant to lead with it has been torn asunder like this, lost to you. It had been lost since the moment you failed Wabet, when you failed her innocent daughter.

“The children…” you say again, persisting and needing this truth, at least: “You haven’t answered me, Elder Tani: how many children were lost?”

Bitter bile roils within your intestine, creeps up your throat, but you’re faster to force it down.

Tani eyes the bob of your throat, your fluttering lashes against that damp look in your eyes, and she knows.

“Two…” she finally says, voice low. “Wabet’s child and…Nesmut’s wailing babe. Both gone. Cut down by the caravan.”

Dead, then. Bound for Duat.

For its dark river.

Sweet Kebehwet. Sweet Wabet.

You choke back a harsh sob and catch yourself.

May they reunite between those golden-green reeds, windblown, found within that eternal spread of life. But now, within your hand, the coolness of the amulet’s pretty stone goes slick with the sweat of your palm; how tightly you hold it, how dearly priceless it becomes. Rebirth. Transformation. And again, you will have to make it true. Redemption. Reclamation. Your life is your own to claim, is it not? A truth that Anubis had bestowed upon you himself with the knowledge and surety of a deity’s word, and who are you to question it? To doubt divine wisdom? Your life…it is yours. Restore it.

Claim it, steal it back, no matter the horrid cost, and the thoughts seem hardly your own. Determined, yes, but…destructive.

Something parallel to a tease in your ear, some whisper of sly Sekhmet. Take what is yours, wrench it free. Revenge—

“Here. For the pain,” says Elder Tani, gently spreading unguent along your brow with a thumb. Chance anointment.

Like the kiss of the Nile you’d known upon its riverbank, the oily unguent soothes, melts the voice's malice away.

And it soothes, and soothes, and soothes…

Several times have you counted the death and rebirth of the sun and moon, swallowed and spat from Geb’s earth in turns. Several times still have you counted nights when Nut’s stars kept you company whenever sleep proved a trite, elusive thing. Ah, but now you hardly believe that you truly need more rest, nor do you truly…want it. For those days and nights since the massacre of the invasion, since major loss and failure—since dark Duat—you have favored time to be alone with your thoughts.

Quiet is the temple courtyard, and hoisted upon your hip, water sloshes within the carried jug as you cross the expanse.

Water-bearer, and your sacred duty is still needed, just as Wabet’s wraith had insisted. Daily rituals of the temple are due to carry on, and it would be most insulting of you to disregard such customs. Water for purification is always needed within the holy halls, within the sanctified pool chambers, and the inner sanctuary, too. Yet beside even that, there is the issue of repair. Of cleansing the sin and blood from the murals, scrubbing the stains from the inscribed rituals carved into the long walls. There has been water provided by you to sluice upon the floors, to rid the temple stone of the invasion’s filth.

Corpses of the temple’s servants, felled by the khopesh blade, have been bathed by the cool water that's been hauled from the courtyard canal by you. There have been hours when you stood by the chamber walls, holding a jug of water and offering its soft trickle as you poured more into the basins for the priestesses to use. After cleaning and closing wounds of the dead, you’ve watched them dip their coated hands within the still water, watched the bloodred diffuse and stain it whole.

But their hands were always raised cleansed again, dripping.

It’s through this that your comfort comes true, as something needed, as something clean, as something so easily sacred—as the temple water-bearer.

A single, bare leg is dipped within its shallow depths, crystalline. Neither frigid nor warm, and simply…cooling.

Swallowing, thick and slowly, your brow creases when your throat still aches. It's been many days and nights since the attack, but the pain lingers true, and the imagery remains vivid. You still remember the too-tight constriction of the mercenary’s hands wrapped around your throat, dirty nails pressing, digging into your jugular and cutting your breath. You remember the spittle, the darkened edges of your vision, that throbbing at the back of your head, and you remember the worst of it still.

Your nonsensical chanting won’t save you, witch of Isis, he had said through bared teeth, Seth will have better use of you, I’m sure.

Seth. Murderer.

Seth. Kill him.

Seth. Revenge.

Seth. Evil god.

Seth. Kill—

“No.”

Sekhmet’s curse infests your mind, muddles your thoughts with prayers of bloody, stone-hearted revenge, but urges for destruction will do you no good…right? Nothing will come of seeking the head of a god, of thirsting for immortal blood, for craving sweet revenge. What will you stand to gain from hunting Seth, the god of War and the endless desert sands himself, an Egyptian sandstorm embodied? What will you find in that? In Seth’s penitence? Redemption. Reclamation. Rebirth.

Revenge, hisses the whisper in your head, Sekhmet’s influence. Revenge.

“No…no,” you deny again, staring hard into the still water. “I can’t.”

Ah, but, yes… yes, you can, because you already have.

Blood has been spilled on your accord.

You’re no stranger to that sick elation, your blade plunging through the flesh of another. You’re not a being of purity, no paragon of goodwill for Isis’ teachings and faith among her kin. You’ve fled from slavery, you’ve wrestled through the restraints of your captors, been branded, you’ve done away with your master by the edge of his own blade. You’ve exacted justice in the price of blood. An evil thing, a sick, sick last resort, and yet…you’ve done it.

But it has all been for the sake of your survival, has it not?

Every life you’ve drained, every sin committed.

Not for the pleasure of depravity.

Not for…chaos’ sake.

Casting away darker thoughts and doubts, you pull your submerged leg from the chamber pool, water sloshing and droplets pelting on the pristine stone flooring. Where your leg is still wet, your light kalasiris dampens, thoroughly, clinging to the skin, fabric now see-through. Regardless of the rippling water slowing to a motionless surface, you stare into its reflection of yourself. Still here, still…breathing.

Blinking, you shift and lean closer to the water.

You lift a hand, pressing fingers upon the scarred ankh forever marked on your shoulder. So be it.

It is yours to bear and bare all the same.

Fingers slipping from there, you gaze upon your own eyes—red-rimmed, strained. Tears have been relentless, and even now you think to gulp down whatever is lodged in your throat, blinking away an everlasting burn at the back of your eyes, too. Curse this…all of this, and the sight of yourself does little to calm the heat that flares hot beneath your skin, seen or not—it’s there and persistent.

Now is a time when you need Wabet’s teasing, her disapproving tsk. That sweet urging of hers to gather yourself, regain dignity, to dry your pretty eyes before the kohl starts to run. Her shoulder should be there to nudge your own, pressed mindlessly against your seared ankh, unconditionally, and perhaps she would quip about how much you resemble a drowned rodent when your tears begin to fall. And alone, you laugh into the chamber’s silence until it dissolves into a sudden sob.

One…two…three…teardrops ripple into the chamber pool.

Your reflection renders itself distorted as tears disturb the water.

But behind the reflection of you, stands tall another over your shoulder.

Anubis. Unmasked. Shendyt and ribbon-clad. Crook nowhere to be visibly found.

He’s a pallid sight even through the water’s reflection, through your burning eyes, blurred tears and all. Since your wandering of Duat, he seems even more an exemplified figure of what the sunless netherworld is capable of creating. Osiris’ bidding. But here, between the colorful pigments of ritual murals for Isis’ worship, he stands stark against the vividness—basalt and alabaster personified.

Sniffling, you feel the flare of shame.

A god watches you cry.

“Forgive me…”

Wordless, Anubis approaches, and the way your skin prickles—humming from the inside out—reminds you that this is true and real. Divine. He lowers to crouch at your side, and by now, this should not faze you, his dark eyes darting across the lines of your features when his own remain so stoically set. A deity’s bearing. Disciplined or simply inhuman, you’ve yet to discern, but for whatever touch of curiosity a god holds within for human emotion, you will allow him this moment to witness yours. In truth, it would be harder for you to withhold it, your eyes heavy with tears at their red rims, lashes coated and soaked as you sniffle again.

Anubis’ head tilts, earrings glinting through the length of his hair. He lifts a hand, and ever so softly, plucks a tear from the crest of your cheek with a knuckle. Even your tear manages to stain his skin, darkened by the running kohl that still streaks. The dark lining has curled and spread around your eyes, your lashes—tears of the wedjat.

“Do the gods mourn their losses?”

And it’s such a human thing to ask.

Human enough that Anubis considers his answer, perhaps finding nothing of merit. Instead, he reaches for you once more, the pad of his thumb sweeping thoroughly under your eyes, catching at those wet lashes and smearing away kohl. And perhaps this should not be, the gentle swipe of his thumb gracing your skin, your eyelids slowly fluttering shut beneath the innocence of his touch. There is no pretense here. No ulterior motive for him to claim your vulnerability as his right to bid you as something beneath him and lowly.

“Gods are immortal,” he tells you, even-toned, your wiped tears seeping into his skin. “We do not simply…die.”

“Of course…but…gods can still be lost, can't they?” Your eyes reopen, lids heavy. “Exiled. Disgraced. Forgotten.”

There are things, beings, memories that even a god can lose, yes? Parts of themselves. Pieces worth missing. Legends and myths are born from their losses, are they not? Their misgivings. Tales of betrayal, revenge, and blistering hot rage, too. You’ve heard the tale of Osiris and Seth, heard the horrors of envy wrought to fruition even among the gods. Lessons humans are cautioned with, mistakes to be learned from their gods, spared the misfortune of enduring those pains because of it.

“And you, Anubis…” No formality, no rift is marked in your words when you ask him: “You're a god without worship, and I wonder: which fate has befallen you?”

Before now? Has he been exiled, disgraced, forgotten, or lost?

“None,” he says, and truly means it.

“Then…” you say. “What are you now?”

“Seen,” he says, and means that, too.

Seen. Even if only by you. Loyalty, devotion, and faith can be found in a single heart long before it spreads and flourishes as something revered among the masses. Fear, hatred, and betrayal follow a similar path as well, but perhaps Anubis will not have to suffer such from the root of your beliefs. He has never given you a true reason to detest his nature. Never instilled a sense of dread. Yes, he’s a god forged from the shadows of Duat, marked by death and darkness, and yet, he is so far from fearsome.

But he is seen, and he is recognized for what he is and will be.

From here and onward, his name can only spread.

Egypt will soon come to realize him just as you do. A time when the people will sing his praises, recite better prayers than yours, will bring greater offerings of his liking for due favor, and they will carve his name and jackal figure upon the murals. Rituals of his ceremonial deeds will soon be inscribed upon limestone, inked upon fine papyrus all the same. Never a god to be stained by bloodlust, not a ruler nor tyrant of disturbed whims. Not a god like Sekhmet, not like Seth.

Seth, Seth, Seth, Seth—

Revenge.

“What do you know…of the god Seth?” you dare to ask, embittered. “Do you think he’s a god capable of reason? Of…remorse?”

Before you, still crouched low and close, Anubis’ countenance hardens for the god’s name, voice curt:

“Why do you ask?”

Revenge.

“Is he not to blame for what’s happened here?” you wonder. “For all that this temple has lost? Suffered? That I’ve…”

Words caught like tangled vines, your eyes are still full with those tears of the wedjat.

And Anubis…Anubis cannot leave you like this.

Revenge.

Drying upon your skin, the kohl runs cracked and faded down your still-wet cheeks. A sight unignorable for Anubis when he blinks at the streaks, ruined, and soon reaches to wipe the dampness and spilled kohl from your eyes. He withdraws his touch only to turn, lowering a hand into the cool water, fingers drenched with its sanctity before he washes the smeared cosmetics from your skin. The pad of his thumb sweeps across the delicate mess, feather-soft and thorough, until he’s most certain that your cheeks are clean, dried, that the edges of your eyes are not so impossibly weary.

Alas, this is how he will have to leave you, until next time—his one believer, his one loyal heart…broken.

“I think nothing of Seth.” Anubis’ jackal mask whirls into its solid form before you, settled dark and imposing upon his head—red-jeweled eyes, golden ankh. “He is an evil god. Accursed. A threat to the people of Egypt. This land must be rid of him…and soon.” He moves away from you and stands at his great height, the pull of his summoned magic bringing forth his tall crook to hand, and declares:

“My father, Osiris, ruler of Duat, has ordered his capture. The God of War will not bring you anymore pain. Seth and his followers will never hurt you again…you have my word.”

Chapter Text

Eternal Vengeance

SUNBRIGHT YELLOW STAINS your hands like powdered gold.

Brilliant bloodred dusts along the ridges of your knuckles.

Kneeling within one of the many wide temple storage rooms, you handle a mortar of fresh, finely ground pigment. Red and yellow, a blend that resembles the spreading sunset just beyond the temple enclosure. But for later sifting, lip tucked between teeth, you pour what remains of the crushed ocher upon a woven reed sieve, stained fingers smoothening the powdery pile for better filtering. Come moonrise, paintings and carvings are to be given as offerings for the temple’s lost priestesses. Funerary rituals long overdue. Rich colors—of vibrancy, vitality—will be thoroughly prepared for due crafting and more, all by way of your diligent grinding and mixing of crumbling stone amongst the spread of tools you've long since scavenged.

Through these pigments, letters are to be written for the dead. Spells of safe passage are to be inscribed, painted upon papyrus and glazed amulets all the same. Personal belongings once left behind will be returned, offerings, grave goods, all supplied for the purpose of following the dead into that awaiting, eternal life. And you'll press a final kiss upon the offered shabtis, too; you will recite the shabti spell, invoking light heka, and breathe life and freedom into their phantom lungs. For Wabet, for Kebehwet. 

That which they deserve.

Humming a tune, you rearrange the pigments, earthenware clattering along the spread linen that you sit upon as you work. Lit sconces upon the walls provide firelight and quiet crackling in silence's stead, but…there's footfall padding across the stone flooring, heard just outside of the storage room walls. Settling upon your haunches, your gaze darts for the doorway, listening, frozen, breath caught within your lungs. Fear. You recognize this feeling. The knot that tightens and strains within your gut, heart suddenly raging. Danger. Another thought that renders you rigid, stained fingers twitching, reaching for the stone pestle, holding tight enough that your blood runs hot through your palm and stings.

You remember the wide hand squeezing your throat.

You remember the taste, the smell, of sour blood.

You remember the caustic burn of his breath.

You remember, you remember, you remem—

“Ah,” comes the easy breath of bald Fenu.

With a dull clatter, the pestle slips and rolls from your hand. Safe. Passing through the storage room's opening, Fenu takes no notice of your shift in nature, but you watch him, wordless as he steps inside and bears a woven basket in his arms. He shuffles by, eyeing the colorful mess of your work in turn. His armlets and earrings glint a brighter gold against the fiery sconces as Fenu settles the basket atop a palmwood shelf, next to the aligned shabtis of pretty faience.

“More offerings for the temple? From the villagers?” you wonder aloud. “Surprising…to think that they would seek Isis’ favor.”

“No, no…I’m afraid not,” Fenu says, removing its lid and rummaging through the contents of the basket. “These are more belongings of the dead.”

“Mm. I see…” your voice dips, quieter, turning to pluck yellow ocher shards into the mortar. “Belongings of our lost priestesses then?”

“Rather…the belongings of a caravan mercenary,” Fenu corrects. “One of them, at least. We were not the only ones to suffer losses.”

If anyone should know such a grim fact, it should and would be you. To know that plunge of your dagger’s blade slicing through human flesh is a core memory of the temple’s invasion that you will never be rid of. And yet, in that moment, within the hypostyle hall there had only been liquid flames licking through your veins. Only a heart hardened to strong stone. There had only been…survival. No time could be spared for your regrets, to allow the weight of a life you’d taken to tether you down with guilt, but you know how much it affects you—to kill, to live, to be.

Hanekate’s teachings and Anubis' words have never rang more true: the weight of a life, of a soul. For even the caravan mercenaries are subjected to losing their lives. There’s a path for them to take to Duat all the same, though their final judgment may prove less forgiving for the sins of their hearts, weighed against the feather of Maat, and laid bare before Osiris’ mercy, too.

And so…what of your heart?

A matter for another time.

Fenu continues sorting through the basket, and your fingers scoop away the last of the yellow ocher, placing it within the stone mortar. Perhaps this silence, as you take the pestle in hand to begin crushing the yellow ocher, will be enough for you to sit with Fenu’s last words: we were not the only ones to suffer losses…

Grinding the pigment, kneeling, you chance a glance at Fenu.

He pulls a crinkled papyrus from the basket of the mercenary’s belongings, holding it near a lit sconce within the storage room’s dim light. The lines of Fenu’s face have long since skewed taut, brow furled as he closely skims whatever has been inked and drawn upon the fine papyrus. Withdrawing your gaze, you focus on the pestle and mortar, twisting and grinding and pressing—these fragments will make a lovely pigment of yellow—but then your eyes flicker back to Fenu, too curious.

“Something of importance?” you dare to ask, peering.

Drawn from his reverie, Fenu sighs, catching the look in your eyes.

“...Nothing worth your concern,” he tells you, smiling, but the edges of it slip.

With a hum of concession, uncertain, you nod, swallowing as you reach for fragmented red ocher.

Still, you listen when Fenu hastily gathers and rolls the papyrus, clearing his throat. A nervous tic, you realize. Fenu is a man of cool bearing, and if your time spent within this temple has lent you any knowledge of its holy inhabitants, then you’re right to feel that Fenu’s behavior is…uncommon. Without lifting your gaze from the crushed ocher within your held mortar, you make note of where Fenu stashes away the mysterious papyrus, tucking it at the bottom of the basket, buried beneath the rest of its contents; a deliberate choice. Odd. A papyrus worth hiding, worth your suspicion, although your doubts will have to wait as Fenu approaches.

“Be sure to rest, hm,” Fenu says, nearing to stand at the edge of your spread tools. Rest.

The dark rosettes of his slanted leopard garment fill your vision when you look up at him.

“…Of course,” you say, restless fingers wringing together upon your lap and so very stained.

Before leaving, Fenu glances down for the wild sight of your hands, streaked through and beautifully dusted:

Palms painted like Egypt’s dusk-red desert; the golden-yellow spindles of your fingers, like sweet god rays.

And you will bear these colors and their truths; they will become you—eternal yellow; vengeful bloodred.

Chapter Text

Sins of Bloodlust

BY MORNING'S LIGHT, Chief Priestess Mayet complains of a mess left within the temple’s storage room, that a particular papyrus is missing. Fenu insists nothing should be out of place…and you say nothing. Water is poured into the inner sanctuary’s basin by your careful hands, and your head is bowed low to take your leave, wordless still.

By midday’s lull, you’re absent from the calm of crafting jewelry for the daily votive offerings, but your lack of presence doesn't go unnoticed by the women. Instead, you prefer to linger within the kitchen alone, sorting through your pick of goods. No one will notice the missing fruit, nor the crumbs where a loaf should be, and not even the lack of fresh vegetables.

By early dusk, the women of the temple raise brows when you excuse yourself from dinner, your meal hardly touched. Elder Tani finds you alone within the living chambers, stuffing items within a traveling sack and staring hard at a marked papyrus on your lap. For a fleeting moment, your gazes meet…but she turns a blind eye.

By nightfall’s darkness, the whole of the temple has retired for rest, slumber.

But you…you rise, wide awake upon your reed-filled mat.

You gather your heavy traveling sack.

And you slip away.

Revenge.

You pull the veil over your face—eyes visible, dark with kohl—body swathed in robes, from head to toe.

Concealed. Ready.

Crossing between the last columns of the unoccupied hypostyle hall, your steps are hurried. If hunger is to roil within your belly, then you’ll make do with the bread and fruit you’ve snatched from the temple’s kitchen. If an illness is to infect your mind or body, then you’ll recite the minor healing spells, you’ll spread soothing unguent to all bleeding and bruised wounds. If danger dares to rise, then you’ll brandish the blade you’ve favored to keep tucked beneath the linen folds of your attire, that familiar secret, that deadly deception, your sin to bear.

Ahead, the tall pylon walls are all that stand between you and the world beyond the temple’s ward.

Certainly it'll be a world less forgiving than the protection of the Isis’ temple and her servants, but alas…

Holding tight to the thick edges of your traveling sack, tied closed, you rush across the last stretch of the hypostyle hall and its columns, beelining for the towering pylon. Standing braziers crackle and pop, glowing bright as you pass them all, your speed alone whooshing the flames to flicker, embers rising in your wake. Your shadow crosses the stone walls like a blur as well. Ephemeral. But it’s the silence that unnerves you, and yet, it’s not as if you had not expected the quietude, especially at this hour, when the temple’s inhabitants are often left asleep until Ra rolls the sun around for due morning.

Still—by then…you will already be gone, forgotten, gods willing.

For the coolness of night, the stone beneath your feet is bearable as you hurry along, steps muted.

Between the light linen framing your face, you glance at the temple’s pylon gate. So close, five paces, but—

“You wander blindly into danger, child.”

A warning and a soft plea.

Warbled.

And for whatever softness that still implores you to abide by the call, you slow to a halt before the tall pylon gate. Like so many times before, like those nights when your frustration and rage had been so close to claiming you, you’re inclined to await her approach. Thunk…thunk…thunk… goes the familiar thud of her wooden walking stick upon the temple ground, heard just behind you, and you remember to harden your spine, your resolve, into iron and stone.

“High Priestess Hanekate,” you breathe through your worn veil, turning to face her. “I—”

Stolen sack still in hand, your head bows for a moment. Shame? No. Respect, even if she cannot see it. Perhaps she can feel it, sense it in the air as much as you sense her long-standing authority over this sacred place. In the same vein and way you’ve always felt Isis’ magic between the stone walls, masterfully imbued in the long inscriptions, and laced in the pure water you once sought to faithfully bear. Thunk…thunk…thunk… and she stands hunched before you, features solemnly fixed.

She lifts her wooden stick, bracelets clinking, and nudges knowingly at the heavy sack you hold. Stolen goods of the temple.

“Anput,” is all she says, oblivious to the grimace you’ve fostered for the false name—undeserved, not yours, lost.

Your words are useless now, readjusting your hold on the sack of gathered supplies, studying Hanekate’s expression, waiting.

Eyes forever closed, High Priestess Hanekate lifts her head as if to physically meet your gaze, but alas, it cannot be.

“Yours has been a strange company here within the temple,” Hanekate says. “Your dreams. Your prophesied arrival by Isis herself.”

“It’s only…strange…because Isis has yet to give me answers,” you say. “Is it not wrong for me to remain here? To pray and beg to a goddess who does not hear me?”

“Perhaps you’re simply not meant to know the answers before a due time,” Hanekate suggests. “For now, at least, your ignorance of Isis' intention is your blessing.”

And thus, it would seem that Isis is keen to keep her secrets, from the knowledge of humans and gods alike.

From you, from Hanekate, and from Anubis, too. God of the Dead. God of Duat. Son of Osiris.

“High Priestess?”

“Hm? Speak.”

“Does…the name”—you swallow—“Anubis mean something to you?”

“Anubis of Heliopolis…?” she echoes. “Son of Seth and Nephthys?”

Seth. Seth. Seth. Murderer. Vengeance. 

Revenge, and the sly whisper is back, hissing. Revenge.

“Se-…Seth…?” You stumble backward. No. That’s—“Anubis is…?”

“Fear is in your voice, child,” Hanekate notes, face pulled taut and aged still. “Calm down. Breathe. Tell me…what’s wrong?”

What’s…wrong? Well-meaning as it is, her concern has you breathing out the most maniacal of disbelieving laughter, soundless and tight. What’s wrong, asks the High Priestess when the very mention of a single god’s name is capable of paralyzing you like this. Of shooting ice down your veins, dredging up ugly nausea and bringing with it the sudden hand tremors you try to will away, nails digging into the material of your supply sack. What’s wrong…when the raw terror within you fuses dangerously with a spark of rage. A single ember to set a wildfire aflame.

What’s wrong? What's wrong is…

“Seth…” you croak, shaking your head. “He has to…I have to…”

Again, you falter backward, steps loose and twisted, off-kilter.

Thunk…thunk…thunk… and Hanekate follows suit.

“None of that,” she says, softer than before, sweeter, lifting a thin hand.

With ease and black, painted nails, the High Priestess pulls the veil down from your face, exposing your features, your gaping mouth, perspiration glistening, and you can breathe. Revealed, seen, even by blind eyes, by the grace of Isis herself. Magical. Divine. Hanekate places a palm along the side of your face, the cool press of bracelets touching your skin, and your jaw sets firm beneath the moonlight, because you wonder: What does a priestess of Isis feel within you? That same rage, perhaps? Something stronger? Something…worse?

Eternal vengeance.

Humming, Hanekate’s hold slips down to hook a finger beneath your chin.

She coaxes you to lift your head, hold it higher, like that first time you’d met.

“I know what’s in your heart—the weight of it, unbearable,” she tells you. “I know your hatred.”

“Then you know that this…”—your head shakes in her grasp—“…this is what I must do. I have to.”

I have to. Words and a declaration once spoken when you had left Wabet and her daughter to fend for themselves because you had to be elsewhere. The memory is something bitter, but even more of a reason for you to avenge them. To ensure another night like that is nearer to impossible, but only if you cut away the source. If you strike down the cause, the rotted root of all senseless sacrifice and death that taints Egypt like a scourge. If you can swing a blade through Seth, then…

“But this is not a path that Isis wants for you to take,” counters Hanekate.

“And you seem to forget, High Priestess,” you say. “I am no follower of Isis.”

A truth that’s harder to believe, but a truth, nonetheless.

Yes, you’ve dedicated your time to serving under the divine guidance of the Goddess of Magic, but that hardly constitutes for your full and true loyalty. Isis has given you more chances at life than you are even worth, has provided you with connections and steadfast warmth of the priestesses and servants of her temple, and yet…and yet, your attachment, your devotion to Isis has been born from obligation. Your life for your servitude. A fair trade, but it has never warranted your full faith, because even that is a golden commitment that must be thoroughly earned, especially when you’ve suffered the misfortune of having your prayers go unheard.

Unacknowledged, even. All by the very goddess who deemed your life worthy of preserving, and for what? To be so easily discarded? Ignored? Cast aside, only for your desperate prayers in the night to be heard by a god most unexpected.

For Anubis to take your pleas upon himself.

And there is comfort to be had, felt, in that—in his grace.

Exhaling, both audibly and deeply, Hanekate holds firm to your chin, words lowly spoken:

“The sins of bloodlust cannot and will not be tolerated. If you leave, you cannot return to this temple. Not with the stain of your disgrace.”

Banishment. Exile of your own, and how will you fare any better than the disgraced God of War himself?

There’s a burn that simmers the back of your eyes, welling, throat so tight that simply swallowing will only worsen it.

Holding your sack of supplies even tighter, its weight is forgotten when you decide:

“I understand.” You blink back the burning blur, and feel like you’re uttering a curse upon yourself. “You’ll soon forget the sound of my voice.”

Lost for words, Hanekate withdraws her hand and lets it settle in place upon her gnarled walking stick. She will not stop you. She will not even cast the blessings of Isis upon you for your journey, but there’s hardly an inkling of ill-favor toward her for it. As High Priestess, as the divinely guided protector of these sacred grounds, Hanekate is only doing what is expected of her, what she must do. And that, you understand. That, you respect. Even if your path calls for vengeance, bitter anger, deeper sorrows to weigh you down, your aspiration is much the same: protect the temple; see that women and children throughout the nomes of Egypt are safe from Seth’s reign.

For once, High Priestess Hanekate’s head lowers. Nothing more to say.

And again, you pull the veil over your face, turning, and make way for the temple’s pylon gate.

There’s a different taste of freedom on the starlit horizon, coppery and sour.

Like bitter blood, spilled.

Unfettered, you roam through the dusty alleys.

A cat yowls, some hauntingly beautiful call, from somewhere far beyond your sight. Goosebumps prickle along your skin as you drift through the honeycombed pathways of adobe houses. Few men dare to traverse the village at this hour, some conversing amongst themselves and granting you easy passage without so much as a double take for the linen you’re wrapped within, veil worn. A bit of grace you’re glad to be permitted. As long as you keep your head low, avoid unnecessary eye-contact, and as long as your lips remain set in a firm line and voiceless, you might even consider this a clean escape.

Moonlight proves an advantage more than a hindrance.

Firelight, however, is another cause for concern that you’re keen to avoid.

Starlight reminds you, if ever given the chance, that there’s something you must thank Nut for.

Sunlight will not come along for a long while, and you have no intention of being within the perimeter of this place by then.

Belongings clutched closely, body and curves shielded from probing eyes, you brush shoulders with foul-smelling peasants, beggars with open palms and untrimmed nails. The broadness of a caravan mercenary has chills skittering down your spine when his eyes slip over yours, a blade glinting at his hip, and he smells like all the rest—of sword oils and musk. A warrior’s stench. Between your silent prayers and whatever streak of luck you’ve been granted by the gods, the caravaner eyes you for but a brief moment before the clumsy collision of a mumbling beggar sets the mercenary off into a tangent—Filthy pest! Begone with you! Waste of skin! Begone!

As if he scolds you and your insolence instead, you’re quick to make yourself scarce of the scene, hurrying down the pathway, head low.

Through narrow turns and curves you traverse, ducking beneath hole-riddled, flapping tarpaulins of the barren passages, too.

It isn’t until you reach the palm-filled outskirts do you hear something fascinating:

A low, resounding bellow carries on the still air.

The call of a camel, and one you’re curious enough to seek, promptly following the echo of it. Cautiously and ever vigilant, head swiveling this way and that, you find yourself approaching a quaint camp. Nestled at the base of a cluster of tall palm trees, a humble fire crackles in the night. Pitched is a single tent of nothing but sturdy wood and a windblown, sandy canvas, but then you hear it again—that deep rumble—and your gaze darts for the mass of fur resting idle upon the sand and sparse golden-green grass. An actual camel, saddled and slowly grazing.

Beautiful, truly.

It snorts at you, even bellows again, impossibly louder.

“Hush! Hush!” And you've never wanted to clamp your hands over a camel's rowdy snout more than you do now, hissing.

Your gut plummets when the tent begins to shake, an irritated groan—some croak of a sleep-laden human—resonating from within.

“Quiet, Ibi!” comes a complaint, some disheveled man clambering out of the tent to throw a glare at the animal: “Stupid beast! You insist on—”

Bearded, gruff, clad in dusty robes and ill-content with a poor night's disrupted rest, his words are caught when he espies you within his sight.

He wipes the sleep from his eyes, blinks rapidly to confirm and believe for himself that you stand true and real. 

But when the camel rumbles out another sound, it sparks up fury in this strange man’s heart.

“Ibi! Be silent! My splitting head!” he snaps, nearly seething, and turns a harsh eye for you, grousing next: “And you, dusty peasant—what do you want? I have nothing for you.”

Peasant? The absolute gall of this stranger to call you such. Although it goes unseen behind the fabric and veil, your face twists, affronted. Biting your tongue to keep from lashing out—and ultimately ruining your guise as a common man—you ignore him, and cast a gaze out for the spread of land that you're due to traverse on your lonesome. Moonlit and bathed in pale-blue, that imposing stretch of desertscape seems all the more…daunting. For as far as your naked eye can see, beyond the scattered palms and patches of grasses, nothing but the parched sands and those long, long, long days and nights of scarcity await you.

Conquering a journey across the desert dunes alone is something that doesn't strike you as impossible, but perhaps it could be made more bearable if…

Shifting on your feet, large robes swaying, you chance another glance at the slow-chewing camel, considering. 

“Go on about your way, peasant,” urges the man, waving a dismissive hand. “Go!”

His curt order disturbs a small gathering of songbirds, wings fluttering from nests of low, spindly thickets. 

Standing fast, dismissing his demand, you untie and dig within your supply sack, hand reemerging with the gleam of a pretty broad necklace. Gold. And well…the temple will not miss its jewelry, and you're most certain that Isis can do without a grand offering for a day or two. Interest shimmers true in the man's eye when you toss the necklace at his feet. He dips to pick it up, but when he rises, gold in his shameless hands, you point at his camel, wordless—I want your mount. 

He glances at his camel, then peers back at you, but not without a bemused double-take before he fully and regrettably understands.

“No, no, no.” He wags a finger. “My camel? Ibi is not—”

You reach within your sack, dig deep, and toss a pair of turquoise frog amulets, and a ring.

He stares down at the offered items, that resolve of his visibly crumbling for shiny temptation.

Lifting his widened eyes, he watches when you nod at Ibi, voiceless still—give him to me.

“I—” he swallows, thick, and stares at his camel for a long, hopeless while. “I will not—”

And again, you brandish even more jewelry, throwing another broad necklace of colorful beads and glass at his feet. 

“How?” His voice, this time, is like a low growl. “Who are you? Hm?”

Equal parts inspired and utterly suspicious, if not disbelieving of this wealth you flaunt so carelessly, his face hardens. What—and quite frankly who—could dare to stop him from robbing you for all you're worth? Here and now? Beneath the shroud of nightfall and lack of witnessing eyes? Naive is what you are, what you seem to be, at least. How you stand within the outskirts, where mercenaries and desperate beggars alike scour the village for prime prey like you. Here you stand, tossing jewelry at his feet as if he is some diseased-skinned vagrant.

Too afraid to get close. 

Too quiet, too wary.

Too displaced.

Well…

“Speak!” He surges forward, two grand paces, and your heavy sack thumps to the ground, startled. “Answer me!”

Disturbed all the same, Ibi bellows from his perch before the camel rises to full height, dust billowing as he steps around, restless. It hardly registers between either of you that within your hand, held tight and low, is your poised dagger. A blade not unfamiliar to the stain of blood. He catches himself, regaining some sense of self-restraint when he runs a wide palm down the curl of his beard and groans. The arid breeze is rough at the back of your throat, slipping through the worn veil as you crouch, retrieving your lost supplies. 

Dagger still in hand, dusty sack of supplies in the other, you nod your head toward Ibi again, determined—sell me your mount. 

Considering, truly, this stranger clears his throat, adjusting the twisted belt at his hip.

Persistent. If there's anything he can say of you, it will be that. Brave as well, maybe.

Dark eyes take in your stature, hidden beneath the thin linen you're swathed within. Yet, you know what he wants, to reveal the secret you're so obviously keeping. Wants to ruin the facade you're so dedicated, so impressively desperate, to uphold. But alas, he blows a breath through his nose, conceding, features wrought taut as the windblown sand skitters by and carves into your ankles like a million, tiny scorpion stings. Behind him, caught at your blurred periphery, the canvas of his vacant tent ripples, palm leaves rustling for a sweet desert hymn. Harmonic.

Ah, and perhaps this bitter haggling could be that, too, and the "cameleer" sighs.

“Fine. Come.” He turns, approaching his idle mount, but his words are for you. “Take him, then.”

Darting your nervous tongue across your lips, dry and firmly set, you glance around the midnight outskirts for good measure…but you do follow.

“Easy, Ibi. Easy,” he sing-songs, a hand grasping at long, loose rope reins. “Gods be praised; I'm finally rid of you, you beast.” 

Something deep reverberates through Ibi's breast, those long camel lashes blinking slowly for the words, as if indulging them, knowing them. One large hand settles on the camel's flank, patting, the other tugging the reins firmly downward as an easy guide. On cue, Ibi's tall forelegs dip first before his hindlegs do the same, lowering himself upon the ground once more. Ready to be mounted, riding gear intact.

“Here,” he says, handing over the reins, words soured. “He is yours. More trouble than he is worth—than what you've foolishly bargained.”

Chapter Text

Cursed, Blessed

CREAKING OF A WELL PULLEY splits the silence.

But you tug regardless, gripping the rough rope, frayed and thick, as the filled bucket finally reaches the top, messy droplets pelting. Dusk is more than eager, leaving the desertscape in a crimson hue, its beloved sun dipping ever so slowly, nothing but a radiating semicircle against the earth’s western edge, like Ra's red disk upon all the murals you've ever seen. Even better than those sights, the balmy widespread heat cools slowly with it, and after tying off the rope to suspend the bucket where it sways and sloshes, you drag the back of your hand across your forehead, exhausted. Sweat and grime.

Water, water, sweet blessed water—you huff a relieved breath, reach to pull and set the filled bucket atop the stone well’s edge, bracing it.

Tilting the bucket, a small sluice of water coats one of your hands and dampens the sand at your feet before you quickly guide it upright again. Just a tad bit of water for you to rinse away residual filth before you handle your drinking supplies. Risk of disease runs high and you’re no fool to disregard it, but with your hands thoroughly rinsed, you make quick work of refilling your supply of drinking water.

Unfortunately, this will have to be a hurried stop and rest.

Where there is a functioning water well, there are people. Men.

Some distant village or capital, but you’ll flee before truly knowing.

“Ibi, up-up-up~” you call, gathering your supplies simultaneously.

Glancing over your shoulder, you watch as your mount rises from his low perch, dust and sand falling from his thick coat in billowing clouds. He gives a low snort, steps slow as he approaches for the familiar beckoning of your voice. For all the complaints of his prior rider, Ibi has yet to sow seeds of true trouble. Yes, the camel has a penchant for constant rumbling, bellowing, and snorting—oftentimes resulting in your clipped slumber—but it hardly constitutes as something for you to scold the poor animal for. Such is within his nature. A thing to be most expected, and a trait you bear no part in attempting change.

Ibi is within reach no sooner, welcoming the guide of your hand as you grasp his loose reins and slide the bucket of water over for him to drink. A gentle hand pats your mount’s neck, but your head is back to turning this way and that—surveying. Nothing but visible vortexes of blown dust and sand curls and dissipates in the far distance.

The last sliver of Ra’s red sun begins to descend.

Nightfall will be upon you soon.

As Ibi laps up—rather messily and noisily—the last of the gathered water, you fasten your supplies upon his sturdy gear. Ready, you coax Ibi to lower to the ground and you climb atop his back, settling and adjusting the reins before you signal him to rise again. Holding tight to the reins, squinting, you take another gander of the land, reaching within your tied supplies to refer to the papyrus of the caravan’s hidden hideout location. Not too impossibly far now. Your bearing has been good for the past few days and nights, so what will make this decent stretch any different?

“Tsk-tsk,” you click, practiced, urging your mount right along.

And through the dusk desert, you ride, seated upon Ibi for his easy, slow-set gait.

Caught as a silhouette, a shadow carves upon the sand, and a long-eared jackal lopes from the west.

Two sunrises and two sunsets worth of traveling are enough before a long rest is preferred.

Settled, and far more accepting of your company, Ibi bellows quietly to himself, contentedly relaxed as his thick fur glows from the small fire you’ve managed to light. It’s a humble thing of gathered kindling, but bright enough in its flame to lend you sight as you turn to rummage through your supplies, pulling out that vital papyrus and taking a moment to gander the land out of instinct. As if someone, or worse yet, something, is due to ruin your night.

Still alone, you find yourself.

Ah, but somewhere within the temple, a meal and chatter is to be indulged for this night, but you’re in no right mind nor predicament to enjoy any such pleasantries shared over laughter; to indulge the spiced sweetness of incense instead of the scorched earth and charred firewood you smell now. In truth, you would wager that the absence of your presence is hardly one worth noting among the women and children—of those blessed enough to remain under the protection of Isis and her devotees. Since the invasion, there has never been a time when your smile shined true, your words never drenched in warmth since, and now…

You watch an ember pop from the fire—rise too high, fade against the stars.

Another soon follows, brilliant, and another after that.

Persistent things. Brave things.

Foolish…things…

Like you, Anput, but the thought, the once beloved name, is invasive even if it is of your own musing. Casting doubts aside, you breathe deeply and gather the stolen papyrus into your hands, studying the markings, ensuring that your current path will not lead you and Ibi astray into the dunes. All that surrounds you now is the very far off sight of craggy escarpments, and sand, sand, sand fills in the rest of your vision, contrasting the night sky. It would be so easy to lose your way out here. So terrifyingly possible. Your supplies—and those generously given to you by Ibi’s prior rider—are bountiful enough for now, but there is only so much that will last before you will be granted the opportunity to happen upon a market or perhaps even a passing trader, if you are so fortunate.

Alas…

A caravan hideout, deep in the desert; you’ll find it, find him.

Seth.

But like all times before, the air…it falls still. Heavy.

Marked papyrus in hand, already knowing, feeling, you close your eyes for a moment as Ibi’s low-pitched, guttural rumble resounds. Even your mount recognizes the shift, it seems. Nothing prepares you still for the sight of the God of the Dead, jackal mask distinct—black, red, gold—standing opposite of the fire when your eyes reopen, looking up, flamelight carving upon his skin; his long ribbon, his dark shendyt. Imposing. Real again.

“Have you…come to berate me as well?”

The words tumble, and you regret them…somehow.

Masked, Anubis is as wordless as he has ever been, no matter your question, that sharp presumption. It isn’t baseless. Not truly. Because with all that you’ve done since your last meeting, committing yourself to this disgraced path of bloodlust, of vengeance, it would come as no surprise to be met with Anubis’ criticism of it. Perhaps in the same way you had earned High Priestess Hanekate’s disapproval, once standing at the base of the tall temple pylon.

Still, if it’s not the foolishness of the revenge you seek, then why else would Anubis appear before you now? Every time before, there had always been a reason—like his confusion over your strange significance to Isis and her grace upon your life; like your hopeless prayers you’d once directed at him in your time of faithless desperation, heard and seen from the temple terrace; or even your wandering into Duat, tasting life and death after the temple attack; and even your…humanity and mourning, too, those tears of the wedjat he'd wiped away. Every encounter with Anubis has drawn out and peeled away layers from your core, leaving you raw, bleeding, and you wonder what tonight’s reveal will be? What part of yourself will be known now, if he is here?

Fshhhh—dark sand and shadows fall from the shape of his jackal mask, dissolving it away.

The small fire still crackles when Anubis’ hair falls loose.

He’s breathtaking in the way that gods are.

Incomprehensibly.

But staring…staring will not make it any easier for a mortal mind to grasp, and thus you’re quick to tear your eyes away from observing him for too long, looking down at the papyrus you still hold, hastily rolling it up instead. Ibi bellows lowly behind you, and perhaps the divinity is felt beneath your mount’s skin just as much as your own, as any human’s. Like you. Veins humming, fingertips prickling, breath stolen.

“Are you certain of this?” Anubis keeps his tone leveled, pointed. “Hunting down a caravan hideout alone…”

Of course, of course, of course he senses your vendetta.

“You know it yourself, don’t you?” Your voice holds resolute depth, legs tucked close upon the loose sand, staring up at Anubis’ height from across the flames, fearless. “You know that the caravan mercenaries, followers of Seth, and the God of War himself are threats against all of Egypt. You know, Anubis, of the lives Seth and his men have stolen and taken. You said yourself that Seth is an evil upon the land that Egypt must be rid of—I aim to see that made true.”

Before his influence spreads…

More lives lost, more temples desecrated, more children and women gone, gone, gone.

“So do I,” Anubis counters, but reminding you: “And I said that Seth will never hurt you again.”

“He won’t,” you dare to say, sharp.

“He will.” Anubis begins crossing by the edges of the fire, closer. “If you do this…he will try—”

“Then I’ll fight back; I have to.”

“—but I will not let him hurt you.”

Again. That same promise made anew.

The silence runs deep, settles somewhere within you, someway. The desert's stuffier. Heavier. More embers rise from those forgotten flames, twinkling, burning at the corner of your eye. But breathing deep, sitting upon the comforts of cool sand, you swallow, faced with a promise of a god, and find that your gaze wavers once again. Overwhelmed. Disbelieving. And you stare down at your lap, wordless for it, one of your hands running up your arm, warm against the desert's night chill. Even farther does your hand wander, rubbing from your elbow all the way up to your shoulder, tracing the raised scarring of your branded ankh, always there…always…

Yours to bear and bare, you remember, closing your eyes, willing your heart to believe it.

Your palm covers the scarred ankh upon the skin of your shoulder, squeezing enough that Anubis takes notice.

“That scar. It’s cursed—although it cannot be healed, removed, it can be purified,” he offers, even closer, shifting to stand at your side now.

“Cursed?” you wonder, stuck on the word, blinking back.

Anubis is not unfamiliar with crouching lower for your level, sand rolling beneath his knees and weight when he kneels.

“Such a brand deems you inhuman, less than,” he says, eyes narrowing. “It is a curse at its core; understand this.”

Oh, but you do understand.

“And…” As if ashamed, your palm still covers the ankh brand. “And you can break its curse? Purify it?”

“Is that not your wish?”

“Of course it is…”

“Only say the word.”

And it will be so.

“Anubis…”

You don’t know why you voice his name, why the possibility is so hard to take in, but Anubis’ bearing is comforting, that calm disposition of his. Someone who means every silver word he says, seeks to keep every promise made, too. And as he lifts a large hand, your eyes dart to follow its path—he reaches slowly, intent for the shoulder that bears your brand, but even before his touch is fully there, you shiver for the hum of chilly magic, and you know it to be Anubis’. The same rush you'd felt and recognized during your cross into Duat, when the strength of his magic, his power, had been at its most vital, strengthened within his own realm. But now…he reaches and reaches, your veins thrumming for the anticipation, expecting, needing, but there is a part of you that does not want…this.

“W-wait…” you utter, unsure, darting a fast hand to grasp Anubis’ before his touch can fall upon your scarred shoulder, and holding.

For the moment, your heart stutters.

With brave fingers latched, curled around the hand of Anubis, you don’t expect unease to set in. Why? Because you’ve touched a god? Denied him the chance to break a common curse that’s been set upon you? Because you’ve disregarded and rejected his divine right to cast his magic upon a human like you? Is this not the purpose of the gods? To guide and heal, if they are not deemed evil. To hear and see the tribulations of humanity, to have mankind believe and accept gods, even as you do the opposite of that now, resisting, and Anubis catches your eyes, patient enough.

Responsively, your thumb presses softly into the palm of Anubis’ hand, tightening your hold—please.

“Let me…let me bear this,” you manage, breathless again. An impossible request. 

Posturing with a tilt of his head, hair rippling like spreading pigment over his shoulder, Anubis blinks once, musing.

“You would keep a curse?” he poses, hand still willfully caught in yours, but: “Why?”

Question of the long night, for all that will and has already transpired. Why?

And with the large breath you take, your chest expands, gulping.

“Because this brand is my own to bear,” you tell him. “My own wound to heal and see conquered…self-reclamation. I'll find a way to break this curse myself, if I can.”

A chance to reclaim all that was lost the very moment your enslavement was made true, your long sacrifice. And you will not let the cruel brand of an ankh, once seared into your flesh by hot iron, defile its symbol’s true meaning. Life. Of its purest and truest form. Life. Of its trials and hardships. Life. Your own to take back and live, but it will not be done through the magic and favor of a god. Not even through Anubis’ goodwill. No, this will be your chance to see that curse broken and forgotten, your life returned to you in full. It will be your chance to bare that ankh upon your shoulder to the world, and you will thrive in spite of it.

Slowly, you sweep the pad of your thumb across the lines of Anubis’ wide palm, a caress worth the courage it takes to have this. Even afterward, your phantom touch will linger. 

“Very well.” He slips away. “There exists far greater curses of Egypt than that of your affliction; there are far more dangerous people…wicked gods…who bear them than you.”

Chapter Text

Windblown, Sandbitten

ANUBIS' PRESENCE IS GONE when you wake for sunrise.

Rest. I’ll be here—words he had meant.

Words you had trusted.

And rest is precisely what you had done, soundly, as Anubis kept his promised watch over your camp, settled across the fire until the hour of that honeyed sunlight bled through.

But now…all that remains of the night’s charred kindling is covered beneath a small mound of sand, and you kick even more upon it for good measure, covering any trace of your presence before you dare to depart. Every footstep you’ll leave upon the sand will be wiped away, layered by the morning’s wind, and even Ibi's trail will be swept away by blown sand all the same. A good day for traveling unseen.

With food and drink consumed, supplies packed, senses gathered, and another stretch of traveling left to conquer, you know that you cannot afford to dwell on the absence of Anubis, no matter how much you would rather pester him with questions:

If you truly have been cursed by a slave brand, will regaining your sense of self truly be enough to break it? What other curses are spread throughout Egypt? Is the curse you’re afflicted with the reason why you’ve lost nearly all that has ever meant something to you? Is a curse the reason why you will never hear Wabet’s voice again? Why you will never watch Kebehwet mold so easily into her mother’s arms?

Is it…a curse?

Or is it Seth?

Vengeance…

Regardless, during the long days of your quest, you have not crossed paths with nomadic merchants nor soldiers of any caravan. There has only been you and the strides of Ibi upon the stretch of sand. Not even the shadows of Anubis have rolled upon the land since that last meeting. No loping jackals. Odd, yes, but perhaps there is a reason for your lack of contact with a living god. Obligations, responsibility, and eternal duties that far exceed your importance, your lowly impertinence.

Still—you travel for three more days, three nights without Anubis.

On the fourth day, seated upon your mount, you espy spiraling tendrils ahead.

From the desert plateau, between far-off red cliffs, you squint to confirm it—smoke.

A camp, perhaps? Or maybe even the hidden caravan hideout itself, now discovered? Finally? Truly? It’s a streak of hope and dread you’re careful not to blindly believe. Not yet. Not now. Not here. Two people are not enough for a proper caravan. Not the company for a god like Seth to keep. Besides, you will have to get closer for better observation to be sure on whether they are mercenaries or simple men. All the while, you'll have to keep your presence unknown. Unseen. Wandering about in the current, soft light of dusk is out of the question. Only the darkness of nightfall will provide you with the most effective shroud.

But…there’s a reason why your gut tightens, turns, and twists. Something visceral stirs within you the longer you stare at the far away fire. Laying eyes upon that distant camp, two figures are still caught in fireglow. Caravaners? Merchants? Simple travelers? As one figure remains prone upon the ground, swaddled in blankets and fabrics—resting or wounded, you cannot be certain—the other sits alertly up, and there’s no chance for you and Ibi to pass unseen. Not in the hue of this early dusk, when a deep red of the low sun spills over the desert like a tide of blood.

As much as you would prefer to carry onwards…you mustn’t. Sighing, you make to guide Ibi to turn away, but despite the distance between you and the far camp, the more vigilant of the two silhouettes turns a head in your direction without fault. Almost too quickly. Inhuman. Bearing senses beyond those of a mere human being, the distant figure rises fast to his feet, revealing grand height, clad in a white shendyt. Heart caught in your throat, blood frozen in your veins, you can do little else but remain there, unmoving upon Ibi's back, but that man…

He senses you.

He certainly sees you now.

“No, no, no,” you mutter, hands shaking, scrambling to spur your mount. “Ibi—tsk, tsk, tsk!”

With a startled bellow for the suddenness of your order, Ibi immediately pivots, stirring sand.

“Huh?! Wait—stop!” comes a harsh plea of a man, giving chase on foot. “I said stop!”

But there’s not even an inkling of compliance within you as you pull your veil over your face, leaning forward and low upon your mount, and Ibi’s paced gait extends into a gallop across the plateau. Reaching speeds impossible for mankind, all you hear is the whistle of wind, the heavy thuds of Ibi’s rushing steps, and you dare to grin to yourself. Like a tale torn from legends, ripped from the finest papyrus scrolls and made real, you speed across the desert and feel… free—

—until you’re not.

All at once, you’re quite practically blown away, lifted from your mount by a gust of too powerful wind and sent airborne. Spiraling, limbs flailing, you're caught in a wild vortex. Below, Ibi still trots along, aimless, oblivious to the absence of your weight upon his back, but as for you? There’s absolutely no pride to be had in the scream that rips from your throat and ripples through Shu's air, echoing far and wide. But alas, just as fast as you had been swept high, your rapid descent has you clenching your eyes shut, bracing for your collision with the ground. It’s the hard fall that knocks the wind from your lungs, sand digging into your skin, coating your lashes when a cloud of dust billows with your impact.

Taking in a greedy gulp of air, you inhale sand, coughing, tongue layered with bitter grit, but…

Get up…Get up…

Scrambling, you shake the sand from your face and hair, blinking rapidly through the dry blur, catching sight of only hazy shapes and shades. The desert is still dusk-red, and nowhere between the distant dunes and high sky do you spy your mount. Gone. On hands and knees, spitting sand from your mouth, you ignore the dull ache of your back, squinting against the next gust of wind.

“Ib-Ibi…!” you rasp, throat burning, sand-scraped. “Co-…come, Ibi…!”

Your hands sink deeper into warm sand, dusted, blindly crawling.

“Ibi!” you call. “Please…Ibi—”

Footsteps and a presence lingers, some balanced voice coming with it:

“Why did you run?”

As if all the strength within your limbs falls fast away, you collapse upon the sand, weakened by the voice. Terrified. There’s the awful pinprick of dread that stabs at your fingertips, that twists through your chest and sends your heart into a haphazard frenzy. Breath coming short, painfully shallow, you barely gather the courage to shift upon the sand, turning just enough to face him. Caught.

Instead of a hard set gaze, you’re met with the faux countenance of a falcon mask.

Skin bronzed, the wide, gleaming gold of your pursuer's broad necklace catches threads of the sun. 

Odd. Elaborate headdresses and precious jewelry are often reserved for those of high birth, of reverence, power. And this man before you…he reeks of it. Standing tall enough to loom over where you’re crumpled pathetically upon the sand—granules rolling from the folds of your ruined attire—he edges closer to kneel. The hairs on your nape stand on end. Too close. Too frustratingly familiar, and somehow his presence does not evoke fear, and realizing such makes his question even more relevant: Why did you run?

Voiceless, you stare up at those unblinking eyes of the falcon, gaze darting to note the line of his mouth, too. Firmly set. Waiting.

Behind your veil, your own mouth opens and closes, dry, speechless, because what can you possibly say?

I fled because I feared you would hurt me, kill me.

It's an obvious answer, but alas…

“Because I…”

Ah, but you quickly realize your lapse in sense—your foolish mistake, Thoth’s wisdom long lost to you, because: you’ve spoken aloud. And you’re left to watch the shift of his mouth when it falls agape before he’s quick to close it again. Shadowed beneath his mask, there are no eyes visible for you to read. No way for you to peer into the innermost parts of this man’s true emotions and intention. Unnerving. Beneath the easy blue of his falcon mask, you watch his lips shape for words:

“You’re…a woman?”

It’s not condemnation when he speaks, and you find yourself grateful for it.

But you swallow thickly, brave enough to stand your ground, breathing back:

“And you’re…you’re no ordinary man.”

Because he’s certainly some high born, some high priest, some ranking soldier—

“Then you do know me?” he wonders, hopefully. “Horus, king of Egypt. Son of Isis and Osiris.”

Isis. Osiris. King.

Horus…?

Horus.

By now, you’re exhausted of the chills that favor running through your veins.

“Ruler of Egypt…” you whisper back. “God among men.”

And you remember Mayet. The spying, little birds. You remember the Chief Priestess' detailed anecdotes of the long days when Horus and his mother, Isis, had found refuge within the temple when he was but a child. A time when the magic of those sacred grounds had kept them both safe from the dark doings of Seth at the height of his bloody tyranny. Within the enclosed walls of Isis’ temple, the haggard goddess and her son had found their safe haven in the same way you had, but now…now such security is long lost for you, at least. Banishment. Gods, you would laugh at the irony of your predicament, if only you did not think you would seem so insane in the eyes of the great Horus of Egypt.

Still—there is hilarity to be found, in some dismal sense.

Because here you sit, sandbitten and windblown, before the son of the very goddess you’ve so brazenly disregarded. Is this some affect of your curse? Some sick jest? Are you being tested? By Isis herself? By Anubis? By…by Seth? Even by Osiris, as you bear his ankh upon your shoulder? These thoughts are as infuriating as they are utterly ridiculous, and you’re not above mocking yourself for falling into the hands of gods, tossed about like a pitiful plaything.

“I truly am cursed,” you mutter, pulling the veil from your face, tilting your head for the bloodred sky and chuckling.

Masked, Horus hums his confusion, watching your slow descent into madness.

“Please understand, I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he says, and it's so earnestly said, too.

Somehow, his concern strikes you as something most unexpected, clipping your thoughts.

You breathe deep, shake your head, and dare to search for his shadowed eyes, telling him:

“I was only frightened because I didn’t know it was you, my lord.”

And you know his thoughts, recognizing the twist of his mouth.

Horus glances around the desertscape, checking over your shoulder.

“You’re running from someone?” he asks, and it's almost expected.

“No, I—” you hesitate. Seth. “I’m…searching…for someone.”

At the very least, you’re not lying to the new ruler of Egypt.

Not entirely, that is.

Considering, Horus nods. “Family?” he guesses. “A friend?”

Family. Friends. All lost to you now, in the name of Seth.

Seth. Seth. Seth. Seth—

Something within you twists so tightly that it physically hurts, and your head cranes away. Hissing, you wince and shift to try and stand, but Horus is faster to reach for you, grasping at your shaky limbs, large hands caught at your back and arm. He guides you as you wobble, your aching back none too pleased by the sudden strain, but you refuse to stand with a posture that is anything but dignified in front of Egypt’s ruler—no matter the pain.

Grimacing, a pulsing ache chases down your spine.

A pillar of flesh and bone, Horus stands tall, leveling you by the elbow and waist. His touch registers as something careful, barely there, and yet all too real. But perhaps having risen to your feet, the difference in height is fully perceived, and your reality becomes all the more known to you. Horus. New ruler of Egypt, and he stands here within this wide desert to assist you. Surely, this moment should be as divine as all those times when you breathed the same air as Anubis, and you do feel it:

The magic of Horus.

Warm, like his mother’s.

Like the temple’s guarding ward.

Like Hanekate, Mayet, Wabet, and Tani.

Warm, like protection, and reassurance, like true faith.

Where Horus’ hand wraps loosely around the bend of your elbow, his trace of divinity urges you to pull gently away. And even if Horus’ lips part in a questioning manner, wind whistling in turn, you blink and turn away to stare at the desert's arid vista instead. Avoidance. Self-preservation of the most subtle form. But you will allow him to know your appreciation, quietly spoken:

“Thank you, my lord.”

You speak as if you mean to divert his attention from the distance you’ve put between the two of you. Far enough away that the warmth emanating from Horus’ very being and energy does not seep into your veins, leaving your blood humming as it does with Anubis. One god’s unearthly aura is more than enough; more than you rightfully and naturally deserve. Turning, you gaze out at the wide expanse of the plateau, and you remember what must be found.

“Ibi!” you call, features taut as you squint to search the land. “Ibi! Come!”

Horus follows the line of your gaze as it darts across the red desert.

“Ibi?” he says, testing the name. “Companion of yours? The one you’re searching for?”

“Ah, no…no,” you tell him, huffing out a frustrated breath. “Ibi is my mount.”

“Hm,” Horus hums. “And he’s gone. Lost. Unfortunate.”

“With all of my supplies, no less,” you groan, scrubbing the dusty heels of your palms against your eyes. “Cursed…absolutely cursed.”

Anubis had been more than right, it seems.

But more importantly: where is the god now?

Several days have been spent without the protection he had once promised, and the realization of his word having now been broken burns something bitter within you. Abandoned, again? No, no, no, no. Rejecting it, rebuking it, you physically shake the thought from your head—Anubis would never dare to abandon his one believer—and to further quell your doubts, you begin trekking across the desert in search of Ibi instead. That is the most pressing matter at hand; your missing mount, your missing supplies. The whereabouts of a god of Duat is far beyond your right to know and understand.

“Listen—don’t you wish to sit for a while?” Horus suggests at your back, lingering. “Take some time to gather your strength. Let your body rest. You can’t hope to find your mount in this condition. It’s reckless. Too dangerous. Allow me to go in search of your lost mount instead.”

Oh, but you’re so very tired of being told to rest.

“I have no choice,” and you deny a king, declaring yourself independent as you trudge defiantly onward in spite of your discomfort, and only once do you peer over your shoulder. “Forgive me, my lord Horus, but if I hope to find the one I seek, I must do this. Now. Alone.”

Despite the best of your efforts, your quiet hiss and sigh are caught by Horus' acute senses.

“You can argue and resist all you’d like, but it’s clear that you’re in pain,” he says.

“And you think that will stop me?” The words spill as a challenge at their core, but you turn away again, lifting a hand, cupping your mouth: “Ibi!”

What can easily be mistaken as the sound of a low breeze is nothing but Horus breathing out a long sigh. Exhaustion.

“How ironic. You’re just like him,” he mumbles. “Won’t you listen…for your own sake?”

Interest piqued, you come to a halt, turning for Horus’ falcon mask.

“Like who?” you so bravely wonder. “I’m just like who?”

“Ah…” Horus—great ruler of Egypt, son of Isis and Osiris—swallows for your curious tone, and says: “A companion of mine. Someone…very dear to me.”

Companion? The second figure that you espied at their small camp and fire? Swathed in blankets?

“I saw another person at your camp before,” you mention, tone speculative. “Was that him? Resting? Wounded?”

Horus nods. “He’s…suddenly fallen ill lately. The events of the night before were more than troublesome for us.”

Hm, and so even the ruler of Egypt is subjected to the throes of misfortune.

Something so surprisingly humanizing for one of his stature, of such pedigree, but it compels you, nonetheless.

“Will he make it?” you ask.

“Of course he will.” Such faith.

“Then could you take me to him, my lord?”

“Take you to—that…that won’t be necessary, really.”

Now he's the one avoiding this, shaking his head for sudden denial.

“I apologize if I’m overstepping any boundaries, but if your companion is sick, then perhaps I could tend to him?” you say. “Most of my medicinal supplies are lost with my mount, but until he's found…I know healing magic that I learned from the priestesses of your mother’s temple. Incantations. Spell work. I’m no healer, no devoted priestess to invoke the most potent of healing magic, but…maybe…I could help?”

The time it takes for Horus to consider your proposition is enough for you to spend willing away your nerves. Patiently, your gaze drops to the barren ground. 

“You resided at my mother’s temple?” Horus says, slowly circling you as if to confirm it himself. And perhaps he'll be quicker to forgive the blunder of your meeting and your strange aura when he tells you: “Ah, I should’ve sensed my mother’s magic within you sooner, but…it seems her essence has been spoiled by another's. Something darker. Colder. Familiar, but still unknown.” 

Anubis, you think; the hairs at your nape rise. His energy, traces of him left with you.

Regardless of it, Horus seems willing to cast your faults aside in favor of the touch of his mother's magic that lingers within you—like the warm sweetness of faded incense, curling around him like some etheric embrace. How could he ever dare to leave you stranded? It becomes true when a hand reaches to guide you along, palm pressed lightly, unknowingly, upon your accursed shoulder, and he welcomes you: “Our camp for the night, it's this way.”

Only now, guided by the hand of Horus, are you close enough to recognize it.

For once, peering, you see beyond the shadow of his mask.

That gaze—beautiful lotus-blue, unmistakable.

The all-seeing eyes of Horus.

Chapter Text

For Him, For Him, For Him

^“PLEASE, KEEP YOURSELF WARM…there, by the fire.”

Because a desert chill is unlike any other.

It splits through your dusty robes, carves up your skin, and the kindness of Horus’ offer will not go unacknowledged. Flames crackle as you approach the site together, and you take in the sight of it: only a single fire and a blanket-clad figure that rests unmoving beside its warmth. Nothing and no one else. This is a ‘camp’ not unlike the small ones you’ve favored to spend your nights by, the kind of resting space that’s only meant to last for a single night’s slumber before you wake and take to the land again. You’ve no doubt that Horus and his companion are of the same mindset—by early sunrise, they’ll be gone. To whatever destination awaits them ahead.

But that isn’t your concern, nothing you’re truly permitted to know.

All that matters for you is to keep your word:

Tend to Horus’ ill companion.

Instead of relishing the fire’s lure, you make haste for the shivering figure wrapped in blankets, laid still upon the ground. It hardly matters that all else is tinted by nightfall’s pale moon and deep darkness, because somehow, you can still perceive that vivid red. Crimson hair, splayed upon the spread of white linens, enhanced by the fireglow still. Mesmerizing…in a way you’ve never known to be possible, and beneath your skin, you’re buzzing—

“Is…is this him, my lord?”

Oh, it’s your voice, but your words don’t sound as if they are truly your own.

Like something distant, far off, though it doesn't stop you from thinking about—red.

Red, red, red, red.

Bloodred.

Blood.

“Mm. He’s been asleep since the night before,” Horus says, ambling to stand tall at your side.

Wordless, you lower to a crouch, close enough for the red to bleed fittingly into the edges of your vision, and you see him—truly see him—for once. Even while flushed, skin blotched pink, pale, and sweat-soaked, the sight of the red desert personified has goosebumps rising and spreading along your arms, and you know this feeling. You’ve known it to be true and real with Anubis, with Horus, too, and yet…you’re careful when you lift a hand from your robes, and even slower to rest the ridges of your knuckles atop his forehead, dampened and burning hot to the touch.

A red brow twitches for the brush of your hand, the lined kohl of his eyes thick.

“He’s running a terrible fever.” Sliding your knuckles further down to rest upon the crest of his companion’s cheek, you feel the weight of Horus’ gaze, and tell him: “It would be best for him to rest as he is, but he’ll need to put some food and water into his body…and soon. For now, though…”—you raise your chin to find and hold Horus’ shadowed eyes beneath his mask—“…I’ll do what I can. It may not be much, but I can ascertain that he’ll be comfortable for a while, at least.”

Horus folds muscled arms across his chest and nods, understanding.

“Do what you can,” he insists, but softer still: “Please.”

As you call upon her magic, may Isis be forgiving of your faithlessness.

Swallowing, you reposition your hand to place your palm across his red companion’s forehead. Closing your eyes, you remember all that you’ve been taught, all that you’ve observed within those enclosed walls of the temple grounds. You remember the faintest trace of Isis’ magic imbued within the walls and its murals; you remember the cool waters, the warm wafts of sweetly spiced incense; you remember the tall, lotus-topped columns, the magic inscribed in carvings; you remember the barrier, the laughter of every minor priestess, the smile of Wabet, the innocence of Kebehwet; you remember the brief teachings of healer Elder Tani.

You remember…and the warmth of Isis remembers you, too.

It spreads from your veins, pooling at the heart of your palm.

“Now…come to me,” and you speak, clearly, preparing for modest magic.

In your mind's eye, the incantation comes to you, as it has been called forth.

With eyes still closed, palm lit with golden warmth, you recite tangled words of a minor healing spell. A draw of spoken heka, something light enough for you to call upon, a spell that requires only pure intent and knowledge, the barest grace of Isis’ magic. But it comes forth within you, magic thrumming in your palm as your words spill and are received by the night. By Isis. Heard. Even as the magic courses through you, it seeps into the companion of Horus and stills the shivers that once rippled through him.

Calm.

The chills have ceased to torment his body, the lines of his face promptly unfurling.

Sensing a shift, his temporary relief, your eyes flutter open, hazy from the flood of magic.

“There…” you softly utter, breathless. “That should…that should help, for a whi—”

But a string of stray coughs wrack you, severing your words short, and Horus dips down, clutching at the shake of your shoulders.

“Easy, easy—are you alright?” You barely hear him, but you feel the steadiness of his hold. “What’s happening? Hm? What’s wrong?”

Chest aching, you swallow down whatever thick lump is lodged in your throat, and glance at Horus through your furrowed brow.

Softening, you shake your head. “It’s alright…truly. It was to be expected, I suppose.”

“Expected?” Horus’ jaw visibly clenches. “You didn’t tell me that you were sick. In fact, I didn’t sense any illness before, so how…?”

“My lord…that’s because I wasn’t sick,” you say, pointing another gaze at his companion, ensuring. “I only did what I knew I could for him.”

Horus’ hold is still there, still softly prodding for answers, for reasons, even if he doesn't verbally ask them…that is until:

“What did you do, then?” he wonders, hands slipping from your shoulders to your elbows, cradling. Warm. “Will you be alright?”

Such unbridled concern for one entwined with his mother's essence—how devoted, how faithful.

From your periphery, your eyes glance over a spill of red hair, then met with the curved beak of Horus’ mask again.

“I recited a spell to lessen the effects of his illness,” you explain, simply, still the slightest bit winded, words ever so quiet against the pop of fire. “But in doing so, I willingly subjected myself to suffer the same. Whatever pain I alleviated for him was cast unto myself as a result. There was no other outcome for such a spell. By sunrise, I should be fine, healthy again, but as for him…I’m afraid he’ll have to fight through what remains of the fever that I couldn’t break. But for the night, he should fare a bit better. Easier.”

Horus’ exhale is nearly felt.

“Was there no other way?” he asks, so involved, so true. “No other healing spell of my mother’s?”

That would not harm you?

“Perhaps,” you admit, every bit selfless. “But I’m left ignorant of such spell work. My knowledge regarding magic is limited, my lord. And what I did know, I recited for him.”

For the man of bloodred hair, for the man whose existence buzzes beneath your skin, too.

For the man who is more than a man.

For him.

For him.

For him.

Chapter Text

The Guardian God

^“MY MOTHER'S TEMPLE, how does it fare these days?”

“Resilient, my lord. Protected.”

“Horus.”

“My lord?”

“Horus…call me Horus, please.”

A smile, one caught by the softest edges of the fireglow, is a sight you had not thought a king of Egypt to be so capable of. And yet, it eases you, unravels the tense set of your muscles enough for you to offer a smile of your own, gracious and relieved all the same. You hope, however, that your reciprocation does not offend him. That your own warmth is allowed to spill in his presence, that your comfortability to be settled by his side—instead of far across the flames—is not unwanted, and you hope even more that when you test his name on the breeze, he won’t regret his leniency:

“Horus…”

Ah…and with a nod of that falcon mask, he truly doesn’t mind; doesn’t bristle for the sound of your voice wrapped around his name, there and gone, like a wisp of perfumed smoke. Sweet. And he doesn’t mind the sight of you growing shy after speaking it either, wringing your nervous hands together upon your lap, fingers tangled and sand-kissed. The prickly magic of Isis’ spell still hums in your palm, too, and you remember—she’s with you still; like her son, like her magic.

But—where is Anubis…?

“Tell me: this person you’re searching for…do you think you’ll find them?”

Horus’ question is colored with a shade of concern you’re quick to notice.

It’s dangerous, you can almost hear him say it: you must reconsider this.

“Having come this far…” you say. “I must.”

“But how much farther will you go?”

“However far fate leads me.”

“Hm, even to death?”

Then, silence…

Not a question that carries the same degree of concern, but a question to somehow gauge your perseverance. A king’s method of sound judgment. Even Horus’ smile has fallen away in favor of the staid press of his lips, visible below his mask, and you wonder even more of how severe the look in those shadowed, lotus-blue eyes are. But to death, he asks? You’ve crossed and wandered within Duat, you’ve laid eyes upon the dark river of souls, you’ve known and revered the one who guides the dead, you’ve learned the truth of it, of death, and you do not fear it.

Still—your gaze slides toward Horus’ red companion nearby.

He rests easier since the success of your minor spell work, soundless.

And with the sight, a thought occurs to you, emboldened and real.

“For your companion, Horus…” you begin. “Would you do the same?”

Stumble toward death? 

For him, for him, for him—

“I’d do anything.” For him.

Horus’ admission is of the truth. So much so that you can’t help but to turn and try to find his gaze—beneath the shadow, beneath the mask—and the firelight is generous enough to grant you the smallest glint of blue, the length of dark lashes, but when he senses your stare, there’s a part of your boldness that melts away. It becomes harder to hold his gaze; these gods and their imposition of power. And as if caught in the midst of something forbidden, a sin, your eyes dart off, drawn to the small fire.

“Don’t think about lying,” he says, so perceptively and like a warning. “What do you truly seek?”

The fire crackles, a resounding pop echoes, and you blink, confessing: “Revenge.”

“Vengeance,” he adds, flattening a palm upon the ground. “For who? Yourself?”

“For Egypt.” Bleeding heart, and you declare it with such tenacity that Horus hums.

“A woman of the people,” his tone teeters, most intrigued. “I sought the same once. Selfishly.”

Impressed or inspired, your gaze draws back to Horus, firelight and red in your periphery.

“You…?” Disbelief is in your voice, and Horus smiles for the sound, albeit briefly.

“Ah, you find it hard to believe?” he prods. “In my youth, I chased vengeance within Khemmis. But…the truth is…I didn’t seek revenge, not in the sense that you crave for. No. What I sought…was a change. But I still yearned for something different than what you hope to achieve. I didn’t have the whole of Egypt in my heart. There was hardly a thought given to those who suffered because that was the life I was accustomed to, for hundreds of years. I’ve watched women and children fall victim to slavery and worse as the god supreme reigned, hunting for my mother and I, but it was all so…common.” Horus’ lips twitch for a brief moment, caught in his words. “And I grew so tired of living on the run…It wasn't long before I wanted, needed, something different.”

A chill—whether from Horus’ words or the desert night—has you pulling your blanket tighter around yourself.

“What kind of change did you wish for?” you dare to pose.

The answer…you fear that you will detest it, and yet…

“A change in my life,” he admits. “Selfish, like I said before. It wasn’t a lie.”

The insinuation makes your stomach turn.

“And…did you find it?” Your palms are pulsing still. “A change?”

Horus takes a deeper breath and glances at his red companion:

Still there, still resting, and still so very, very dear to him.

“I did,” he says at last, and tears his gaze away to find yours instead, and goes on: “With only my mother’s dagger, I wandered through Khemmis, where the god supreme had been rumored to dwell. I wanted to know the reason why my mother and I were condemned into hiding. Running. But what I found was not only my answer, but a change that altered my life. More importantly…”—Horus raises his chin the slightest bit, and you’re met with lotus-blue—“…In the end, I learned to forgive.”

Forgive? The god supreme?

“You forgave… Seth?”

The god’s name burns on your tongue when spoken; like ashes, bitter; like a crude curse in and of itself. And when Horus holds your stare—that all-knowing, all-seeing gaze cutting through your own—you feel a barrage of chills rippling through your limbs and core. Whether it’s the effects of the illness you’ve drawn from his red companion, or the raw magnitude of Horus’ tale, you grip the threads of your blanket and hold tight. Seth. Horus forgave Seth, he—

“Ah—you’re shivering again,” Horus observes and raises a hand to conjure a careful gust of wind to stoke the fire.

As the flames whoosh and spit and crackle, you feel the blooming warmth spread.

“Thank you, my lor—Horus,” you manage, bundled up and all.

“You’re exhausted, too, aren’t you?” he asks in turn. “Your day's been challenging, I’m sure.”

There’s little use in lying, in telling a harmless fib, but it’s doubly so when you are indeed due for rest. The whereabouts of both your mount, Ibi, and a god of Duat will perhaps be better understood with a well-rested mind. Besides, the effects of your magically contracted illness presses the weight of sleep upon your eyelids, and it’s closer to impossible for you to hide such from the likes of Horus. He’s proven himself keen enough to know better, despite any words of denial you may try to uselessly spew.

All you decide to offer is a nod, implying—you're absolutely spent.

Through flickering firelight, you nestle yourself upon Geb’s solid ground.

“Well, then…” Horus rises. It’s the glow that catches your eyes first, a sacred radiance that overwhelms the desert darkness and you. Peering from your low perch, you’re hardly prepared for the sight of resplendent wings that are newly spread upon Horus’ back. Fully manifested, their glow dims for the natural plumage of a common falcon—the wings of Horus. When he senses your stare, like all moments before, Horus turns to stare down at you.

“Your mount is still out there,” he reminds you. “Ibi, you said?”

Dumbfounded, you nod again, propped onto your elbows and wide-eyed.

“Then I’ll go search for him while the desert is still.” Horus grants you a kindly smile, something reassuring. “You, rest.”

For once…for once, there is no urge for protestation. There will be no use of it against Horus, especially now. The mass of his wings flutter when he readies himself in the open space, crouching low, before he leaps from the ground with a powerful beat of divine wings, stirring up a cloud of dust and sand. The billowing vortex has you squinting your eyes, shielded by a hand, and Horus soars high, soon lost to the night sky, far beyond your sight.

Rest, this time, does not come easy to you.

Oh, but it does make haste to leave you.

Through the rasp of a coughing fit—not of your own—your slumber is torn, ripped through its middle, and your eyes peel open for the sight of Nut’s stars above. Hazy still, blinking slowly through the blur of sleep, you remain supine and simply stare, gaze set upon those stars left to hang there. Limbs heavy, sleep-laden, your eyes are half-closed, almost serene in spite of the cool gust that disturbs loose sand and blows it around you. Sand bites softly at your ears, the tip of your nose, your too-dry lips, and catches in your lashes—

The next cough is nearly breathless, wheezed, and still not one of your own.

It’s enough for the veil of sleep to slip cleanly away as you turn onto your side.

Across the still-burning fire, your eyes fall upon him: Horus’ companion.

He’s still lost in his own dreamscape, even as another cough bursts from him, his breathing harsh and thick.

There’s hardly a true thought put forth when you push yourself up, gathering your blanket around your frame, before you shuffle quietly over. Glancing around the camp as you go, there are no sights worth your concern, at least. Only barren lands and distant escarpments surround you. Horus has yet to return, and the barest hint of guilt digs into your chest. It’s because of you that he’s even out there, flying and soaring about, all in search of your lost mount. That mischievous Ibi.

Even so, you find yourself standing before the man of red. His breathing is what draws your worry. That wheezy, slow inhale. Lowering to your knees, settled at his side, you take another closer look at the sheen layered thinly upon his skin; the blooming bruises, stark against his cheek and brow; the discoloration on the plush edge of his lips, too. Not only sick, but beaten. Another pang strikes and twists your stomach into a knot in the same breath.

He manages another rough exhale.

As if called upon by that alone, your hand reaches for him, a careful knuckle slipping aside an errant strand of crimson hair—you’re buzzing, again, again, again. But alas, you disregard the way your instincts warn you. The back of your hand graces his forehead, lingering for the stubborn heat of his fever, a contrast against the chill of the air that seeps through your blanket, and surely it’s seeping through his all the same. He shivers. You sigh, brows pinched.

Would another minor spell help him?

It would be dangerous, it would be foolish, it would be mad, but…for him.

The same as before, your palm falls gently across his forehead and brow—

     “Anubis…my…Anu…bis…forgive…for…give…me…”

For a moment, you stare, heart in your throat as it swells.

     “I’m so-rry…Anubis…my son…Nep…Nephthys…I…”

Your hand wrenches itself away, and the tremors are sudden. Too hot does your skin and flesh burn, but it singes beyond the heat of an illness. This is no effect of a stray fever, no flush of self-consciousness nor simple rage. This…this…is more than you had ever anticipated to feel once you had laid eyes on him. Between the rushing flood of searing hot fury, disbelief comes and goes—it can’t be him, can it? But even that soon fades to reluctant acceptance, and after that, it only worsens. When the realization burns true, your rationalization burns, too. Burning, burning, burning until there’s little left but that pure, potent fury.

He calls for Anubis.

He calls for Nephthys.

He calls for forgiveness.

He is…

          Seth.

                    Seth.

                              Seth.

Here. The sin of bloodlust runs thick in your veins—sullies your essence—when your wild eyes are homed in on Seth’s throat. Revenge, hisses the whisper, once dormant, Sekhmet's influence returned anew and darker, revenge, now is your chance. Now is the time when you can prove all who once doubted you wrong. Now is the moment when the blood of a god will be spilled, and you wonder: will it be of liquid gold? Or do the gods bleed red, just the same as you? He is sick, he is weak, and he seems no more a god than you do—plastered upon linens, sweat-soaked, and wheezing.

Is this the God of War? The god of chaos and the wide desert sandstorms? Is this the revered, powerful deity?

And you remember still—blood on the temple murals, fallen braziers, the bodies of priestesses, lifeless eyes hollowed by fear, dresses stained red.

Red, red, red…bloodred.

And it’s all you see now.

For Egypt.

There will be no more hunted women.

There will be no more dead children.

For Egypt.

Wild-eyed, trembling, your hands slowly reach for Seth’s throat, wrapping around. Damp skin. His pulse point thrums beneath your thumb, and it will only take a long squeeze. To strangle him the same way his follower had once attempted to end you. Thumb pressing down, you hear that strangled choke, watching as his dry lips part, but he’s too weak to wake and resist. Pressing even harder, the tendons in his throat begin to shift and strain, and you feel it, too. Beneath the night’s darkness, your bloodlust reigns true, until…you dare a glance at his face.

The pulled red brows, the long lashes and eyelids squeezed shut, kohl-lined and still red.

But senselessly, he gasps: “…Isis…” and a shock takes you.

Eyes snapping wide, clear and seeing, your hold slackens.

The pad of your thumb slips from his pulse point. His life…

“I’m sorry…” you whisper; his life, it is not yours to take.

Shaking still, your fingers fall from the slender slope of Seth’s throat, and it becomes true: you cannot do this. For all the pain that simmers within you, burning just beneath the prickle of your skin, every bit of your prior rage seems misplaced, and worse…impossible. Softened to a point of regret and frustration, your teeth clamp down on your lower lip, drawing a pearl of blood where the flesh is too chapped, still sandbitten.

“I’m sorry…” Words hardly spoken, lodged, and almost soundless as the copper tang of blood settles on your tongue. “I’m sorry…”

Is this your penitence? Apologies meant for Seth? For Wabet and Kebehwet? For Hanekate, for the faith you’ve lost in favor of the sins you follow? For relatives you’ve left behind when you were sold into enslavement for their sake? For the life of sin you’ve been given?

An apology for yourself all the same.

“I’m so, so sorry…” you nearly sob.

As wind and sand wreak havoc through your wrapped blanket, robes, and skin, you fall limply back onto your haunches, hands free from Seth, but still thrumming. Breathing deeply, beneath dusted lashes, your gaze points at him. For the longest while, you simply stare, unblinking and unmoving. You watch as the god shivers, as his red brows furrow even more than before, those closed eyes clenched tight. Bruised and all.

And again, Seth trembles. The discolored blotches of his skin are still coated with feverish sweat when you unwrap your blanket from your shoulders. Leaning over, you spread the blanket over Seth’s frame instead, your careful fingers pulling and tucking the edges so that no stray gust will chill his bones. You know naught of a god’s resilience against an illness, and you hardly expect a god to even succumb to the mundane sicknesses of humankind, but Seth seems as if he is the unexpected exception—in godhood and more.

Adjusting the blanket snug around Seth’s neck, like a feather’s kiss, your knuckles brush the underside of his chin, and Seth’s head leans sideward, red hair spilling, too. Bewitching. It appalls you as much as it intrigues, and a part of you hates how quickly your hand reaches to slip the strands free from his face. You hate how much you care that he is not shivering anymore with the added warmth of your blanket placed taut around him.

You hate how it doesn’t matter that you’re left to brave the chill instead.

But he's warm, comfortable for a time, and you find that matters more.

And a part of you despises that Seth—god of war, of sandstorms, of the grand desert and chaos—rests at your fingertips, protected, and you remain so willingly by his side, eyes wet with unshed tears, and you'll be here until Horus returns, until the sun rises from the far east. But another part of you…another part is relieved, warmed, by simply knowing that Seth—god of protection, of strength and marked perseverance itself—is safe with you. 

     “I’m…s-orry…I'm…sorry…”

A guardian god, bloodred, mirrors your pain. 

     “For…give…forgive…me…”

Chapter Text

God Hunter, God Seeker

SETH STILL RESTS…

Even as the low sun rises from a cleft in the east, and even as the land remembers its daily dry, pale hue and heat…he still rests. And you? For the long hours that followed your crack in judgment—when your fingers curled around his throat, when your self-restraint barely tamed you—you’ve resorted to the role of a muted guardian. For him. Bitter as the thought is, it's a truth. For him, for Seth, you’ve remained by his side, listening to the struggle of his breathing as it passed through the night. Regardless of the chill, you’ve been rooted here, as you are now, warmed, painted by new dawnlight at last.

With a glance—the slightest turn of your head—you observe him:

Red hair, burnished, caught in the early sun.

Bruises like soft, violet blooms.

Throb…throb…throb…and still, pulsing, your palms are ripe with Isis’ residual magic, your mortal flesh and blood so unaccustomed to the use of such raw divinity. Untrained, unpracticed. Abating it, your mouth presses thin, repeatedly flexing your hands into loose fists, praying it subsides soon, but instead of willing the sensation away, it only makes it painfully worse. Defeated, your gaze and attention slips away from Seth in the same moment, too. He’s fine. He will be fine. He’s…still safe. With you. Ah, but such is a thought you would’ve found absolutely preposterous some few weeks ago. When you’d first held that papyrus map marked with the location of a hidden caravan hideout, there had been nothing…nothing…but unsavory vengeance.

The sins of bloodlust cannot and will not be tolerated.

High Priestess Hanekate’s warning and condemnation.

It had been a shock, straight to the marrow of your bones.

But those words had been real, had been true, and you’re paying the price of it now in shame and guilt. In banishment. All sense of security and safety has been stripped away, leaving you here, of all places. In Seth’s domain, no less. The wide desert, all his. A far cry from the tall walls of Isis’ temple enclosure, the lily-filled pools and lakes, the alabaster columns, murals spread on the high ceilings—gold, red, green, and blue. Eternal power, life, and rebirth. Once above your head, you remember a beautiful mural depicting the blessed Ennead.

Still—would it be so bad to return? To show yourself before the temple, filled with regret? Claiming redemption? Is it impossible? Are your deeds so disreputable to warrant being shunned? Is a second chance something you’re not even worthy of being given? You wonder of this, hands wrung together, skin dry from the aridness, and you’d give anything for the chance to dip within the temple bathing pools. Scrub yourself clean of your sin, of thick regret; to nurture your skin, your soul.

Soon, soon, soon, you think, pray, and hope.

“Soon…” you breathe aloud, too, and try to believe it. Soon.

Staring down at your dusty cuticles, your mouth twists, and—

A long, drawn out bellow of a camel sifts through the wind.

As if called upon, your head snaps up for the familiarity, squinting, eyes shielded by a hand as you peer through the desert haze of rising heat from the ground. Shifting, your linens gather even more sand, dirtying the already-stained ensemble as you rise to stand. The soles of your feet are warm against the ground, if not a bit unsteady, tipping forward to gain a better view, leaving that still-resting, still-feverish Seth a few paces behind you. Oh, but what you see is one of the greatest of sights:

Ibi, found, guided by the hand of Horus.

And your supplies seem intact all the same.

As quickly as the relief floods you, like the Nile lapping upon the embankments, that unsettling pang of something darker strikes true and cuts your excitement short, drying out and wilting it all away—anger. Like some sense of betrayal that you, perhaps, have no right to feel toward a new, great king. But it’s human nature, is it not? To let the bitterness of being lied to affect your better judgment and whisk away any trace of respect that may have been held within you for him, because the King of Egypt has been keeping secrets from you.

Lying…about Seth.

All that alleviates the churn of your stomach is the possibility that Horus had been hiding Seth’s identity for your sake. That maybe…he’d already known your intention from the start, from the very moment you’d met. I’m searching for someone, you’d said, and even then, perhaps Horus had known your truth, sensed the malice tucked away in your vague wording, felt the hurt, too.

Soured, fuming, by the time Horus and Ibi are within range, you’re wordless after their approach, devoid of a greeting for Horus. There are no exclamations of your gratitude, no rushing toward him with a beaming grin, and it’s so…silent between you. Even Horus takes notice of the somber press of your lips, the way your gaze flickers across his falcon mask, and you hardly bother to hide your reproving mood. Ibi, absolutely oblivious, rumbles something deep, swaying his head about as Horus offers up the guiding reins.

“Did you sleep at all after I left?” he asks.

Concern is something Horus struggles to conceal.

Is such not a vice for a king? A means to an end?

Ah, but what does it matter now?

Voiceless, you reach for the reins in Horus’ hand, blunt nails skimming against his palm lines, and you guide Ibi to amble by your side instead. Dragging your knuckles down your camel’s long neck, you notice how his rough, dusty coat is layered with sand, and you swipe plumes of it away. Another deep bellow releases when Ibi turns his snout toward your face, blowing hot breath against your skin. Repelled as you are, your quiet laughter ripples out, affectionately nudging your mount’s head aside. And for a moment…for a moment, you can almost forget that Horus stands tall, his all-seeing gaze searing into you, sensing. Uninvitedly reading you.

And what? Does he expect your boundless thanks?

Does he feel entitled to a show of groveling?

Your throat runs dry, scraping out:

“Did you plan on telling me…?”

Loose sand skitters in the softest pass of wind.

And you've cut right to it then, slicing through the unseen veil, and the king's ruse is up.

For the low tone you’ve taken, Horus’ head—masked still—turns for you, wholly. Unbroken.

He knows the tone underlying your voice, too, recognizing the words and your most visible ire.

Horus tilts his falcon mask toward Seth, back to you, then back to Seth again, but at last: you.

“Anubis, he’d said in his sleep,” you tell him, clearing your throat, prying: “Nephthys, too.”

Beneath his mask, Horus regards you, voice stinging like snake venom: “He said that, did he?”

“You…take me for a fool, my lord…?” There’s such distance in that formal address; betrayal. “He’s—”

He’s Seth. Seth. Seth. Slayer of women, of children. The crux of Egypt’s downfall. Murderer. Evil…

“Will it be a problem?” Horus steps around you, your words and thoughts clipped as he approaches Seth.

A problem? You, having to be around Seth, of all the deities? What if it is a problem? To know that Horus is protecting him when your hands once itched to strangle him? What if there will be another moment when you’re left alone with Seth, when you cannot subdue your urges? What if Seth wakes before the next sunset and moonrise? What if he perceives you? What if he’s everything you’ve heard of him and more? Worse? What if Seth comes to and ends you himself, sending you to Duat with a heart that’s yet to be relieved of its heaviest weight? What if…what if none of this truly matters anymore?

Ah—but what if the truth is: you’re tired?

Worn down to your weary bones, stripped bare by wind and sand, proven wrong and foolish and weak and—

“You should get him somewhere safe.” You’ve taken to a quieter tone. “Somewhere he can recover…and rest.”

Somewhere away from you. Far, far, far…

Turning, still gripping Ibi’s reins, you catch a glimpse of Horus gathering an unconscious Seth within his arms.

Sun threads gleam on the gold of his mask’s beak, and Horus isn’t shy to press murmuring lips against Seth’s temple.

Comfort. Reassurance. Whispers of warmth, you’re most sure of it.

The King of Egypt raises his head again, holding firmly to his uncle.

“Is the temple still as resilient as you say it is?” he asks. “Under Hanekate’s guidance, right?”

You nod, curtly. “The caravan still targets the priestesses, but… yes; your mother’s magic protects them.”

“Then that’s where all of us will go.” Horus declares, stepping to begin that long trek, but—

“I…” Tongue set like solid stone, your words, somehow, remain bleak and measly: “I can't go with you.”

Curling dust rises, whirls, as Horus halts, his own reins having been pulled back by you, and he ogles instead, bemused.

“Huh…?” Of course, raw confusion.

“I can’t go back.” Gesturing toward the desert, you emphasize the vague path. “Back to the temple, that is.”

Horus’ mouth falls open, baffled…if not seemingly doubtful of your truth. Offended, even.

You? So easily rejected from his mother’s temple, and now, of all times? No, no, no.

“Nonsense.” Horus shakes his head, arms still full of linens and long, spilling strands of red. “That’s…”

“My…my lord, I—” words caught, you breathe deep. “—I’ve been… banished from your mother’s temple.”

Horus tilts his head, dares to lean closer.

“Banished?” This time, it's blatant disbelief.

Running the back of your hand across your brow, any hint of pretense has long since been bludgeoned into smithereens.

“Seems you weren’t the only one harboring half truths, my lord.” Absentmindedly switching the reins from one hand to another, you squint for the sight of dawn’s desert, the land heating up by the second, hazy and vast. “It’s funny how much you can learn about yourself when you succumb to rage. At least…at least that’s what I’ve come to understand during my time within your mother’s temple. A beautiful place…lovely souls, your mother’s priestesses and servants. Kind.” A smile twitches at your lips, forlorn and wistful. “From where I’ve come from, what I've endured…the elders and women I met at the temple were unlike any I’ve ever had the honor—the simple right—to even stand beside. Mothers and wives and sisters. Horus, if there’s anything about your mother that I can understand, then it’s her love for her followers. I get that…I do. I think I even felt it, too—that love.”

Something so irrevocably true. The love of Isis for her mortal children. For…for you, too, perhaps. In some vague way. In the magic that remains. Liquid fire in your veins. The thought alone is enough for your tepid smile to grow, to warm like sparked embers, and like so many times before, your head dips to hide it, staring down at your dusty feet upon the sand, lip tucked between your teeth to fight something back. Because after the smile, comes the tears, and after the tears, comes the weakness, and after the weakness…

…Duat's chill rakes down your nape.

Daring to lift your gaze again, you’re met with the full sight of Horus. He listens, intent for your words of his mother—but your eyes slip to Seth in his arms.

“But love…I have no right to speak of it when all I’ve chased after is hatred,” you admit, embittered for your own choice. “After the temple was attacked by…”—you swallow, taking a moment to verbally recount the tales—“…after the temple was invaded by men of the caravan, followers of Seth, six of the temple’s priestesses were…ki-killed.” Gripping Ibi’s reins tighter, you try to calm the hand tremors. “After that I…I…felt and only recognized guilt and…rage. I was so angry, Horus…I…I don’t want to feel like that ever again, and I don’t want…” For a moment, your dampened eyes settle on the fanned lashes of Seth, and you realize:

“I don’t want to hurt him anymore.”

Not as you once believed you did.

And…was that bloodlust ever true?

Frustrated, ashamed, you sniff and look elsewhere.

Away from both Seth and Horus, away from vulnerability.

“You haven’t committed a sin,” Horus draws your gaze back when he adds: “You spared my uncle’s life.”

Even higher does the sun rise from the far east, heat simmering on your skin, sunlight in your eyes, too.

“But I still feel it,” you confess, palm pressed against your chest. “Looking at him, standing here, it’s still…”

Horus nods, understanding at least, before he reminds you:

“Remember: you can learn to forgive my uncle…in time.”

Like Horus did, during his poor youth within Khemmis? To forgive so completely, so unconditionally. Maybe soon, but…not now. Not when simply catching a glimpse of Seth, unconscious within Horus’ arms, still casts a hint of fear in you alongside that awful fury. But it's Horus' faith that renders you speechless, knowing that this time his belief rests within you. In your ability, in the barest chance that you, someday, may find it in your heart and its burdens to truly learn to forgive.

When you reach out, when you reach for that which should be unattainable, forbidden, your hand finds the firmness of Horus’ upper arm.

“I’m grateful for your kindness, my lord.” Over warm skin, your thumb brushes, sweeping through the soft fringes of his armband. “Horus.”

His mask shifts when he angles his head to peer at your hand that so bravely clutches his arm, only to return his shadowed gaze and wonder:

“You’re really—you're not going back?” Disappointment lathers his words. “With us?”

Sand-kissed fingers squeeze the width of Horus' arm, feeling the grain of sand against his sunloved skin, too.

“Fly your uncle to the temple.” Your touch falls. “Beware of Hanekate’s scrutiny…if you can.”

So that he may not suffer the same scorn and consequences that you have.

“I’ll deal with that, don’t worry,” Horus says, but still: “What will you do? Where else will you go?”

The reins within your free palm shift and twist. Ibi. Turning, you’re met with the hottest blow of foul camel breath.

Lifting a hand, scratching that thick underside of Ibi’s chin, you blink and hum, considering your new path aloud:

“Mm…” Musing, you glance back at Horus, at the golden-eyed falcon mask. “There’s still…someone I need to find.”

“For vengeance?” he wonders, rather warily. “Revenge?”

“Not for this one…” and you further ease him with: “No.”

But for faith. For loyalty. For Anubis. Still missing and gone.

For red-jeweled eyes. Jackal mask. Heka crook. Golden ankh—

“Good,” Horus says, oblivious of it. “Then I won’t prod. Just…be safe?”

A request. As if he has a reason to believe you cannot and will not be. 

Safe, you think. You stay safe as well, my kind lord Horus. You and Seth.

And for that, you grace Horus with a blessing of your own, smiling to speak:

“Farewell, Lord Horus.” For now, for a time. Master of wind, lord of air, of Egypt.

Conjured wings emerge and spread upon Horus' back, grand, plumage fluttering.

He secures Seth, takes for the high skies, and soars into the blinding bloom of Ra’s sun.

Newly alone, you regard Ibi in the wild moment, gently tugging sunbaked reins:

“Come—tsk, tsk, tsk.” Mount following, you stride onward.

And so, the red desert still breathes, Seth still lives.

But alas, alas, alas…the weight of a life.

“We've another god to find, Ibi.”

The weight of a soul.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Your Lost Truth

^“FATHER SAYS THE PASSAGE to Duat is through the Nile.”

“Then why haven’t you been there yet?”

“Because I’m not a god yet, that’s why.”

“But one day, you will be…right?”

“Maybe…yeah, I mean.”

“…Anubis?”

“Mm?”

The Nile shines a hue of flamingo-pink in the sunset, your small fingers dipped within it, dress neatly hiked at your bent knees.

“I don’t think it’d be so bad…” you say, glancing up for Anubis. “You, not becoming a god. At least then I wouldn’t have to grow old alone…and die…alone.”

“How selfish. Don’t be ridiculous,” Anubis says with a smile, boyish. “You won’t die alone.”

“Then tell me: do you really, really, really want to be a god? Really…really, really?”

“Of course, I do,” he says. “…it’s my fate, isn’t it?”

Pouting, you squint your pretty kohl-lined eyes at the child lordling, and declare:

“Fine—then I’ll become a goddess, too.”

If it means being with him, for a while longer, at least.

Anubis laughs, light-heartedly, yet you find that you adore the sound more than the purling Nile.

“Sorry…” Anubis sighs, rubbing a hand along his nape. “I don’t think you can be a goddess, Anput.”

“Why not?” you challenge, cupping a handful of spilling water in your palm. “Isis is my mother—of course, I can.”

“But…” Anubis catches his words, sinking down to crouch by your side. “She’s not your birth mother, you know that.”

True, you’re her cup-bearer, just a child she took pity on when your own parents had perished at your birth, and yet:

“But she’s still my mother,” you say, water trickling through your fingers.

Silence takes Anubis, his white ribbon caught in the same breeze that dances through your dress.

“Besides,” you say, regardless. “Maybe in Duat, things could be…different.”

“What do you mean?”

“There are no rulers in Duat, are there?”

“Not that I know of,” he tells you, staring hard at the wide river, as if it will bring forth answers, too. “Only souls of the dead.”

“If there are no rulers, then…” You reach over, claiming Anubis' hand. “Why not let it be us?”

Anubis seems to swallow, and considers it: “…Us.”

And your eyes fill with the sunset, smiling: “Us…”

Lovers.

Anubis and Seth, but that’s not—

Mid-thought, breath teases your skin, your mouth…

And the press of lips fall over yours: a kiss, ephemeral.

But too soon does the fleeting warmth split away, just as fast as you register it as something entirely real, and your thoughts, your lost memories, are left in fragments, too. Stunned. A kiss? Anubis, he's…he’s kissed you? So assuredly, so easily. The moment alone leaves you blinking through the sweet confusion, arms still wrapped around Anubis’ waist, body still pressed close, heat still blooming from every point of contact, and his own arms are still curled around you, palms at the small of your back and steady.

Lovers. Why not let it be us?

The thought, the memory, crosses your mind—stubborn at the forefront—and all you rightly do is stare through the sanctuary's firelight, chin tilted upward, dazed when Anubis dips low again, lips searching for yours and finding them, parted and sweet. Another kiss. Open. Lingering. The taste of him, both forbidden and somehow binding. Like dark magic in and of itself, and it draws out your trembling sigh, spilled into his mouth. The press of his nose skims and burrows gently against the crook of yours when he dares to deepen it, dares to invite your body to remain flush against the solid planes of Anubis’ abdomen. And in a mindless touch of your hand, you drag a brave palm along the god’s tapered waist, breathing heavily, desperately, through your nose. Breathless, breathless, breathless again. Always, but—

“Wa-wait…”—your lips skim Anubis’—“…please.”

Lovers.

“Hm…?” Anubis’ kiss lands at the corner of your mouth, his words spilling breathily: “Is this wrong?”

This? Wrong? Your gusty sigh travels through the dark sanctuary, curling around the pillars and stone.

“Lovers…” you say again, as if the word, spoken from Anubis' lips, had been your memory trigger all along. “You said that you’d thought you and Seth were…lovers?”

Anubis keeps silent, his heat encompassing against your barely-standing body, but he withdraws enough to peer down for you through the length of his lashes, attentive.

“Back at the temple,” you recall, flattening a palm against his chest, tucked beneath the draping ribbon, and you wonder if there is a heartbeat within for you. “I was told by the High Priestess that you were…the son of Seth and Nephthys, raised in Heliopolis. And…I understand how absurd this sounds, but…now, I think it's true. A part of me knows that it's true, wants it to be, but even so, then how can you not know? Are you not aware of that? Have you somehow…forgotten?”

Anubis’ mouth presses firm, brows pinched. “In the desert, Seth had claimed the same.”

“Then it must be true,” you say, knowing. “You are…were…the son of Seth and Nephthys.”

“Perhaps, though I remember nothing of it,” Anubis says. “Nothing of Seth.”

“You’re saying he wasn’t your father?”

“No…I’m saying that I suspect that my memories are…incomplete.”

“Missing…” you muse aloud. “What do you remember? If anything?”

“I am the son of Osiris, King of Duat, and Nephyths, Goddess of Peace.”

“And of Heliopolis?” you prod.

“I was raised there, of course…”

“And us?” The pink Nile of your new memories.

Anubis takes the side of your heated face in his palm.

“Nothing,” he says, but: “Do you remember anything about us?”

“I—yes.” You lean into him, breathing. “Now…I remember you and me.”

Memories you hadn't known you'd been missing all this time.

Tilting your head, quivering lips press against Anubis' palm lines.

“I remember myself,” you realize, finally, as the warmth of his touch blossoms.

Yes…you remember…you remember…you remember…something…someone…

Eyes slipping closed, you're still searching within for more, for yourself, for your lost truth.

“Am I destined for mortality, mother?”

Once laying upon a chaise lounge, retired for the evening and donned in due nightwear, Isis looks up from her papyrus scroll, a cut of blue darting for the sight of you. The way you stand there, letting those words hang in the evening air, at risk to be whisked away by the feathers of the servant fanners that Isis promptly dismisses with a wave of her hand. They scurry by, tucking large ostrich-feathered fans under their arms, heads bowed as they pass you, too. And here, there's the scent of warm incense that can only be described as magical, golden, and divine, fittingly so.  

Furling the scroll, discarding it at her side, Isis shifts, upright against the cushioned lounge, its frame finely carved for feline heads and tails.

“Is something wrong?” Her attention is yours, fully. 

“No—I just…what I mean is…” you say. “Why would a god care so deeply for a human? I’ve never seen any other god so involved, and so…merciful.”

“Why would you ever question that?” Like it's an incomprehensible thought to her.

“Isn’t it a waste of the gods’ time?” you say, steps slow to enter the bedchambers. “Tending to a human when all I’m destined for is death? Isn’t it…unfair, mother? To think that one day I will perish, my soul sent to Duat where I will linger alone? The gods do not die, at least not in the way us mortal humans do. Won’t there come a time when I’ll be wrested from Heliopolis, from Egypt, and forced to leave the ones I hold dearest? None of you will ever join me in Duat…not King Osiris, not Seth, not Nephthys, and when he becomes a god…not even Anubis.” You look up, then, teary-eyed; human. “Not even you.”

Isis’ features shift through a myriad of expressions.

Concern, realization, sympathy, and this quiet urgency.

“Come…”  Isis opens her arms for you, sheer shawl slipping to the bend of her elbows. But there's space for you at her side, where you settle upon the fine chaise lounge, not for the first time throughout your sensitive and fragile youth, yet the embrace of Isis' warm perfume is always immediate, comforting, when she drapes an arm around you still.  “Don’t you remember the story behind your birth?”

Nodding, you withdraw enough for Isis to catch and hold your hands.

“The story of how my birth doomed my parents?”

“No—you’ve doomed no one, sweet child.”

She looks at you, but you've never known a more somber smile to pull at her lips, not like this.

“So beautiful…you don’t even realize your own truth.” Isis lifts your chin. “Tonight—you’ll know it.”

By use of idle magic, Isis commands a levitating oil lamp to lift from her nearby desk, and it follows as she stands from the chaise.

“Walk with me,” she requests, patiently watching as you stand to primly adjust your dress and jewelry, curious eyes flitting to her.

Isis leads you out of her bedchamber and into the palace halls, torchlit, adorned with endless murals and tall ceilings.

“Long before you’d ever been conceived, I’ve yearned for a child of my own.” Isis' voice echoes through the long corridor, footfall muted against the cool stone flooring, much like your own. “I spent nights ruminating over the possibility that Osiris and I would come to an agreement regarding the matter, but my dear husband has been short of time and consideration for any hope of a family. And yet…I can’t fault him for it. Not when all of Egypt now depends on his steady reign. And for a time, I even thought it was…because of me. That maybe—well, there are some things better left between a husband and wife.”

Isis offers the kind of smile that suggests you're far too young to know nor understand such marital trepidation, alas:

“King Osiris…he never longed for a child in your marriage? Not even now?” 

You've plucked a nerve, like Hathor with a discordant chord of her beloved harp, and Isis sighs, heavily and true.

“It’s difficult to say. Perhaps there will come a time when I can give Osiris a family.”  With a turn, the pair of you have reached one of the many palace colonnades, standing between tall stone, where moonlight seeps through the wide columns in moted slats.  “And when Nephyths gave birth to Anubis…naturally, my longing only deepened. As she and Seth validated their love as a family, I could only look on, as wife and queen.”

Briefly silenced, leaning on the column stone, you watch the moon's facade upon the pond of the palace courtyard just ahead, rippling among the floating lilies and lotuses.

“Mother…” Your tone alone is sagelike. “A marriage doesn’t have to be proven through a child.”

Oh, Isis smiles, rubbing a thumb along your still-soft knuckles, not yet bitten by sand and labor. 

“There was a couple, soon after. Humans. Devout servants within my temple,” Isis tells you. “I heard their prayers, night after night, prayers for a child of their own. You understand, they couldn’t conceive. No matter how hard they tried, it only always ended in heartbreak and false hope. And for that couple, followers of my own, such faith and devotion…I felt only sympathy. And pity.” Isis looks at you, thoroughly moonbathed. “In turn, for their devotion, I blessed them with the only miracle and gift they could not have before.”

“Gift?” you ask.

“The gift of creation.”  The blessing of the goddesses.  “And do you know what came of that gift?”

Isis brushes a knuckle down your cheek.

You blink once, quiet, knowing; sensing.

“You,” Isis says. “Born of magic, you’re a part of me. Whether or not you were born from my womb, of my blood, you’re mine.”

She kisses the crown of your head, words spoken in your river-scented hair: 

“You are a goddess, my Anput, my sweet child—my daughter.”

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

You're Safe…

FIRST, YOU FIND HIM by the quiet river, Horus.

Sitting there, divine, propped against the village’s mudbrick well, he tosses a handful of breadcrumbs onto the ground at his feet. A number of birds swoop low and land, pecking at scattered crumbs, yet there’s one bird that prefers the height of Horus’ shoulder, perched there. Blue-eyed and trilling sweetly, it's the very same bird that you followed here, guided through the ruined temple’s courtyard and halls by its song and flitting shadow against the walls. And as that graciousness takes root within you, smiling to yourself as you walk slowly over, you clasp your own hands loosely together, and dare to speak:

“Took my word. I’m glad…Horus.”

Coming to the temple, resting.

It’s not surprising, truly, when Horus seems to have already expected your company, especially considering his senses, his divinity, and his simple knowing. So he turns his head, still adorned by a falcon mask, and regards your approach. At his feet, the birds keep pecking right along, and Horus sprinkles more crumbs upon the ground. And yet, looking up, he smiles something subtle and welcoming as you settle by his side, leaning on the well’s mudbrick, too.

“In hopes that you’d return as well,” he admits. “Were they out there?”

A little bird scuttles by your foot, yet you turn and hum, puzzled, “Hm?”

“Whoever you were searching for…” Horus says. “Did you find them?”

Anubis. Duat. Heliopolis. Isis. Godhood. Memories. Ascension.

“I think…I found more than that,” you realize. “And Seth…how is he?”

“Alone.” Horus says. “Went back to the temple with heavy thoughts.”

“And you?” The words weigh on your tongue. “How are you feeling?”

“Me?” Horus wonders. “Within my mother’s protected village, how can I feel anything but…safe?”

“Even after Isis has fallen, back in Heliopolis?” you ask. “Are you not worried about that? Uneasy?”

“Make no mistake…I’m worried,” he says, at last. “But what good will it do for the son of the great magic goddess to fret before her followers?” He pauses, and lets the shoulder-perched bird take flight, and the two of you watch as it recedes, squawking, and flies higher into the eternal twilight of this magic realm. That is, until Horus' gaze burns through your side profile like a falcon on a new hunt, and asks you, “And what good will it do for the once lost, now found daughter of the great magic goddess to do the same?”

Daughter of the great magic goddess.

You turn back to him, blinking profusely.

“Horus, I—” you hesitate, throat tight. “How long have you known?”

“For certain?” he says, and breathes. “Perhaps…as long as you have.”

From the recent words of High Priestess Hanekate.

“Then, Isis…”—you swallow—“…she never told you?”

Being kept in the dark like that.

Horus’ jaw sets, then loosens.

“For centuries, mother and I were on the run from uncle Seth’s tyranny. Mother promised, over and over again, that she’d protect me during those years; that she’d protect her sweet child, her son…me. And for so long, she promised to do ‘better’…” Mouth pressed downward, Horus swipes the last of his breadcrumbs from his palm. “Tell me…why would she promise to do ‘better’ if she had not already tried to protect someone close to her before my birth? The thought gnawed at me, even as a youth. I pondered, constantly, over what she’d meant. Had she already lost someone before, besides my father? Had she lost more than just our rightful place among the gods within Heliopolis?”

You…she lost…you.

“But,” your voice softens. “You never asked?”

And Horus raises the question: “Why would I?”

If she had not the strength to tell him herself?

“Now…knowing everything,” you begin to state the obvious, treading carefully, “would you ever consider me as…?”

“As my sibling? My sister?” Horus wonders, too, already contemplative and solemn. “If I’m honest, then…I’m unsure.”

“You're confused?”

“Torn,” he clarifies.

Ah, and you are, too.

Unabashedly so.

Within Egypt, to proclaim one as a sibling is to proclaim one as…equal. A most sacred bond formed in shared lineage, in shared blood and mind. A closeness unparalleled and indisputable. A bond that can only be comparable to the likes of Nut and Geb, of Seth and Nephthys, of Osiris and Isis, of…Anubis and you, in some bizarre sense. But for the connection to be true between you and Horus, well…such is a proclamation that cannot be so easily realized. And knowing you were not truly born from the womb of Isis, it would be a proclamation made without a true bond of shared blood.

“And Seth…never bothered to mention me?”

But you’re still a persistent thing when you ask him that, peering close and hard at Horus’ mask. Your gaze flits from the worn, blue headdress to the way his mouth searches for the shapes of believable words. Then, you watch the way he folds his arms across a bare and wide chest, the way he breathes deep; you see everything. Horus’ mouth twitches, opening, closing, as if there is a true answer for your question, but he—for whatever reason—keeps the due knowledge to himself. Has Seth ever spoken of you? Your past in Heliopolis? Your lost truth?

Horus turns, and nods his masked beak toward the river.

“Ask him yourself,” he says. “Mother’s temple—find him.”

And to the ruined temple, you’ll return.

Next, you find him on the other side, Seth.

As promised, by both Horus and Hanekate, he remains within the sacred grounds of Isis’ temple. Water droplets drip and pelt, rolling down your skin and drenching your attire as you wade toward the shallow edge. Moonlight guides the way forward. It paints the water surface like pale jewels, it casts both shadow and light upon the chamber’s support columns, and it settles softly on the curled vines, the sprawling palms, and the smooth facades of rocks and stone. It even spreads itself across Seth, where he’s splayed—supine, arms and legs outstretched—atop the face of a wide enough boulder, and he’s alone.

Whether or not he senses you, as Horus did, is hard for you to know.

If he does, then Seth doesn’t think to acknowledge your presence. But you step onto dry grounds, and feel the uncomfortable cling of your wet clothes. Plip-plop, plip-plop, and you stand there, silent, slick hands clasped, fingers nervously tangled, and it’s so, so quiet. Plip-plop goes the countless water droplets, and you swallow, eyes set on the sight of Seth as he remains atop the rock face—eyes closed, his red hair damp, loose, and full.

“Seth.”

His still fingers twitch.

Your insides plummet.

He heard you, he—

“Anput?”

—knows your voice.

Even with the recognition that rests in his utterance, you’re stepping back, chest squeezing, running, running…you want to be running, you should be running. Alas, you’re not. You only stumble backward, splashing into the shallow edge and trying hard to ignore the way your legs have gone near-numb. Tingling, prickling, shaking. Seth…the murderer, the once tyrannical ruler, the evil god…he calls your name like it’s something worth hearing, worth knowing, and worth protecting.

No, no, no.

It can’t be—

“…Anput…?”

He says it again, and you feel as if you’re submerged, left to drown under the temple's water again—ears somehow muffled. Seth shifts to push himself upright from the massive boulder. Wet or not, the spill of his bloodred hair falls behind his shoulder, and those eyes…those eyes are entirely wide as he points a stare right at you. A part of yourself falls away, and it passes by like those full body chills of Duat. Seth’s brow furrows, unfurls, and furrows again before the whole of his face seems to come undone, softening.

In spite of the obstructive robe he’s wrapped within, Seth peels himself from the boulder, stands tall, and leaps swiftly to the ground. It’s hardly a second later that the desert god approaches you in sure strides, almost eager—as you take another mindless step back—before you find yourself gathered in Seth’s arms. A palm spreads wide and cups the back of your head, cradling you against him. Your chin rests atop his firm shoulder, and you can do nothing but blink rapidly. Red, silken strands of his hair catch in the beat of your lashes. The arm curled around your back holds you so close that your shocked breath comes out in an audible exhale, yet your own arms are limp at your sides. Numb.

“You’re safe,” Seth breathes in your ear, and there’s the sodden sound of relief in his words. You’re safe.

He pulls away, only enough to peer down at you, only enough for you to get an eyeful of his expression:

And there's a…smile, a quivering smile.

His red eyes are welling with tears.

Seth…this is Seth…this is…

“I’m sorry, Anput, I…”—he reaches to hold your face between his palms—“I’m sorry. You were such a sweet child. Isis was right, you never deserved it, you never did…”

And all you can do is stare, and stare, and stare.

He speaks and cries for a past you hardly know.

“Please,” Seth says, and a thumb swipes across your warm cheek. “You…you remember me, don’t you? You do, tell me you do…please. I can't lose you, too, please…”

Plip…plop…plip, and the water droplets fall.

“I…” you hardly manage to say. “I…don’t…I”

“Have you been with Isis?” Seth rushes to ask.

“N-no, I—” Your voice scratches, as if disused.

“Osiris and Isis. They'll want to know you're here, but…no, no, damn Osiris! But Nephthys? Have you spoken with—argh!” Words tangled, frustrated and nearly steaming, Seth’s palms fall from your face in favor of taking both your hands in his, squeezing. “Anubis? My Anubis, have you been with him at all? And…and what about Hathor? Wait, shit—have you ever returned to Heliopolis? But you’re here, you must have spoken with Isis, you had to—there’s no way you’d be here without her intervention. She led you here, didn't she? To protect you? To keep you hidden from…from me …but…shit…” He gives a gentle tug to your hands, lifting and pulling them close to his chest. “Are you alright? Please, tell me you are.”

There’s a moment of due silence, when you’re able to allow this exchange to sink in and to sink deep. You stare up at Seth as red tresses curtain the edges of his countenance like spilled blood, and you feel the dampness of his wet robes where your held hands are pressed. And this is Seth, you keep reminding yourself. A god you once hunted, so foolishly, so haughtily. The war god who commands the caravans, those responsible for the deaths of innocents. Of Wabet, of sweet Keb, of five devout priestesses for the very goddess who apparently raised you.

Fury should seep right through your pores and sully the skin of Seth, should it not?

Revenge should be made true, and your vindication should be commended, no?

Once, you sought to end him, wanted him dead, wanted him gone.

Once, your hands were wrapped tight around his neck.

Vengeance should be yours and deserved.

Egypt should be protected and avenged.

Are you alright, he asks, and it all falls to ruin.

“I…” You nod your head. “I hope that I…will be.”

And never has your voice reverberated so heavily.

Seth sighs, still holding your guilty hands against the lub-dub of his heart.

He leans in, gaze gentle, and presses a tender kiss between your brows.

“Anput…I've missed you,” he speaks against your still-wet skin, but—

Something rustles through the thick palms of the temple’s oasis, and Seth reacts to the interruption as a war god is expected to: Instinctively. Fearlessly. He pulls away from you, spins around to face any mortal danger head-on, and coaxes you behind him with an arm, covering you. Oh, but there's something that's large and potentially looming, hidden in the new spread of shadows. The nose of a familiar jackal mask slips through the darkness first, and that gleam of red-jeweled eyes shines, gilded by gold and a centered ankh.

You recognize the way your skin prickles as those shadows dance and curl like black smoke. The air renders itself stifled, its energy siphoned and snuffed like fire in the breath of a sandstorm. Fssshh—and the only sound of loose sand and dark magic you’ve come to know. The tingle of your skin, from the inside out like ill-contained heat, is a sensation you’ve only ever known to associate with Duat and its god-prince. Your gaze points ahead for the sight of an enormous figure that stands amid the hissing darkness, jackal-like…yet, human, godly.

But Seth knows it, too.

“Anubis?” he calls out.

The figure amasses: pallid skin, dark shendyt, and a stitched mouth; no—

“He’s hurt…” You writhe, needing to move, to help, yet Seth shields you.

“Don't,” he says, and cuts a red glare at the figure instead. “Anubis?”

Alas, the growling, stitch-mouthed being—Anubis, certainly, undeniably—raises a large fist high above your heads, and you hardly register the reflexive speed with which Seth snatches you and leaps well out of its range. Anubis slams a heavy blow to the ground where you once stood, splitting the stone and boulders, quaking Geb's earth. A thick plume of dust rises and slowly dissipates, yet when Anubis recovers, searching across the open chamber's expanse, you and Seth are nowhere to be found…

…until Anubis, still manic, looks up.

“Give me a damn break! You seriously want to try your luck against me? If you keep at this mindless rampage, you’ll end up hurting Anput! You don’t want that, do you?! So, listen…don't be fucking stupid,” Seth scolds from above, seething, shoulders squared and standing atop a high, lotus-topped support column of the chamber. All the while, he braces you securely at his side—for your protection, always—though he further reprimands his son, and bellows, “How pathetically low you’ve stooped, Anubis—and here I thought I raised you better than this!”

Anubis lunges for another attack, swiping, nails like claws.

Seth tsks, and you're taken, hastily, within his arms.

Protected—again, and again, and again, and again.

Chapter Text

Centuries Ago, Lifetimes Ago

^“HELP ME WITH HIM, Anput. There—take his other arm.”

Anubis, once hostile, is unconscious and prone. Down. Jackal mask removed and all; he's a person once more, still a god, still a son. And for that, for the horrific realization, Seth hastens to hoist him from the ground, slinging Anubis’ limp arm around his shoulders before he points an expectant glance at you—help me; help him.

“Hm…right,” you say, tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth.

Dust still rises in the quiet aftermath, and moonlight splashes a known paleness across the ruined chamber, but at last, the fight is over. Columns are collapsed in heaps of stone, palm trees felled and split. Claw marks defile the walls like deep inscriptions of their own, scratching through tales of Isis upon the murals and painted reliefs. And yet, the sacred water remains still, glass-like, reflective, shining from the edge of your vision as you scrabble to abide by Seth’s request.

You step around Anubis’ form, mindful as you lower yourself to crouch by the side of him that Seth does not already occupy, and you reach for Anubis’ other arm, lift, and drape it over your shoulders. How unsurprising it is, to find him so cold to the touch, like Duat, like death—such a contrast, you think, to the heat you recall once emanating from every plane of his skin; sliding against your own, his hands once hot at your hips, your waist, your every curve and dip, but now…

He’s cold…

Motionless.

Breathing.

Breathing…

“Shit,” Seth hisses and grunts as the two of you support Anubis’ weight. The war god stares sidelong at his son’s lolled head, as dark waves of Anubis' hair spills over, and says: “Didn’t think I hit him that hard, but…”—Seth sighs—“…at least he’s gone back to his normal size. For now, it seems. We should take him someplace to rest until he wakes up. There’s a space that Horus and I were allowed to stay in when we first arrived at the temple. Let’s take him there.”

And there, you take him, together.

Settled upon the chamber’s bed, Anubis remains unresponsive.

Even as Seth spends time to assess his son’s condition, he never stirs once. Not when Seth draws hands upon his pale face, turning his head this way and that; not when Seth murmurs his worries to the ether like a madman, fretting over Anubis’ head—did I hit him too hard? I couldn’t have, could I?—and the god-prince of Duat remains motionless when Seth sighs his earnest, paternal frustration, and withdraws to leave his son. For him to rest there when all else seems pointless. Alas…as the space of the bed that Anubis rests on is left vacant upon Seth’s absence—while said god paces the room to gather his thoughts and composure—you waste no time to claim it yourself, sitting at the edge, turning, and taking one of Anubis’ cold, cold hands within your own.

A part of you, admittedly, fears what you might see when you examine Anubis’ face, though you do, regardless. Such cannot be helped; your worry, your care. And yet, as you lean ever so carefully over Anubis, there’s the distinct quiver of your gut—his lips, once sewn shut, are bruised and painfully chapped. Thus it pains even you, to recall the plush softness of them within Duat’s realm, and you would be most remiss to do nothing for him.

Remembering the layout of Isis’ temple, you peel yourself from the bed, leave the chamber, and make way for the temple’s storage rooms.

Surely, there are oils and ointments worth gathering.

Something to help, at least.

Upon your return, Seth has wandered to the chamber’s terrace, outside, caught in Thoth’s moonlight as he observes the commotion of the village's unsettled men and caravan mercenaries. Plotting. Planning. Waiting for an opportunity to invade the temple once more. Lit torches and campsites lend the landscape a dotted hue of fireglow, yet above, Nut’s starscape is an endless spread. Seth is wordless, standing there, arms folded as his light robes lift and fall with soft winds, yet you will leave him with his thoughts, with his natural posture for guarding—whether he realizes it himself or not; you recognize it still, and admire it so.

A Guardian God.

No more, no less.

With oils and treatments in hand, you make way for Anubis. He's still unmoving, still breathing, and you find that matters more than all else. Slipping through the canopy drapes, you sit upon the bed’s edge, and spread the medicinal oils on your lap. With a finger, dipped within the unguent, now coated, you lean gently over Anubis, eyes roving without thought over the planes of his skin, his lax features, and the shimmer of cosmetics that complement the shape of his eyes, kohl-lined, too. Beautiful, still, you think, and so carefully, so slowly, like a feather’s touch, you spread the first layer of soothing unguent on Anubis’ lower lip first, then you tend to the upper. For a careful while you continue to treat his lips, soothing where the stitches were once sewn and deep.

Only after you deem it a task well done, with Anubis’ lips tentatively treated, do you set the supplies aside for later use, if needed.

And as if it will seal your deeds, enhance your prayers for his recovery, you lean down to press a kiss against the high crest of Anubis’ cheek—

“Hm…centuries later, and you’re still inseparable,” Seth comments, propped against the terrace archway. “It’s both comforting and nauseating.”

Withdrawing from Anubis, only slightly surprised, you sit upright and turn for Seth.

Centuries later…even that simple statement hangs weighty for you.

“We’ve always been close, then?” you wonder. “Anubis and I?”

Back at Heliopolis—as young demigods, as young royalty.

Young souls, young hearts. Innocence.

Seth tilts his head, red hair spills over.

“You speak as if you don’t remember,” he says. “Do you?”

“No, not…not entirely, I’m afraid.”

Seth sighs, rubs the bridge of his nose, and ponders plainly:

“Do you truly not remember me, either?”

“Not exactly.”

Unfortunately, you think, and blink as you notice Seth breathing heavily, drawn and deep.

“You smell like him, Anput,” he says, off-handedly. “Like Anubis…why is that?”

You…smell like Anubis? Even now? Even after you bathed within the hidden village of Isis’ temple, after you changed your attire, scrubbed yourself clean, and even after all of that, Anubis’ scent, his energy, his magic, lingers on you like a jackal marking what’s theirs. And perhaps it had been so. When his breath and teeth once grazed your ear, when the frantic press of his lips left yours kiss-swollen and humming, when his nails split through your clothes, traced your spine and skin. Yet it had all been in the spur of the moment, and neither you nor Anubis heeded the possibility of what it was you were truly establishing between the two of you—a binding, a bonding—yet, all you know is…

“I…I’ve been with him,” you speak, and there’s no use in lying or denying. “That's why.”

For a moment longer, Seth narrows those eyes, flicks a glance at your joined hands, tangled and cradling Anubis’ limp fingers—protective, even here—and when Seth seems to expect your falter, for you to rush and release his son’s hand to save yourself the wrath—you don’t. Brave one. Loyal one. Worthy heart. Faithful. Rather than withdrawing from Anubis to deny any conclusion that Seth may rightly draw, you’re courageous enough to endure, to hold the god-prince's hand tighter, to accept whatever reprehension his father might spew at you, and yet…Seth only raises his chin, holds his head higher, and hums.

“In every life,” Seth says. “Gods or demigods—the two of you remain devoted.”

“Does it…surprise you?”

Seth huffs. “How could it?” 

And you stare at him, then, emboldened and ready as your fingers hook firmly around Anubis'. 

“I'd like to know,” you say, resolute. “Tell me: how was my life in Heliopolis? With the Ennead?” 

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Speak to Me
— NSFW —

WHY WON'T HE SAY SOMETHING? 

Yes, Anubis seems keen to wrap himself around you in midnight privacy.

Yes, you revel in the sought-after reality of his touch and presence; reawakened.

Yes, there is a spike of your heartbeat when his breath is right there, right there, but—

No, no…this isn’t right.

Say something, your mind rebels when he mouths along your jawline. Anything. Say something, you think, but Anubis is no more inclined to speak than he is to pry himself away from you. Another nip, another small lick—his arms tighten around your body—and a degree of your concern takes over. Something’s still not right, but has anything ever been since your meeting in Duat? Although intrusive, your thoughts encourage you to withdraw. You angle your head aside, pulling away from Anubis’ mouth as the coolness of air sweeps across the skin of your newly freed jawline, yet when Anubis chases your warmth, you pull apart again, still in his arms. No. He relents, understands…although wordless.

You lift a palm to cup his face, and stare.

Your thumb graces his cheek as you wonder; hoping, praying:

“Are you still with me…?”

He blinks; his hands are still at your waist, kneading; needing—yes.

“You understand me?”

He leans into your palm, closes his kohl-lined eyes and exhales—yes.

“And are you…are you alright?”

With a turn of his head, toward your hand upon his cheek, the feather-touch of his breath and healed lips cross the latticework of your palm lines. A soft tickle and warmth lingers before Anubis claims a taste of you there, too—licking once along your palm’s heart line. His lips press lower, fascinated by your inner wrist, but his near-forgotten hands at your waist pull you closer as he stamps more kisses below your wrist, then down, down, down along your forearm to the bend of your elbow, and up, up, up to your shoulder, your ankh mark—your curse.

“S-Seth will want to know that…”—your voice is lost when Anubis kisses the top of your shoulder—“…that you’re awake.”

Seth. Seth. Seth. For the mere utterance of the name, Anubis lets loose a snarl, and he searches for your neck. The low rumble settles against your skin like the thrum of distant thunder, caught at the hollow of your throat where the tease of his teeth graze you, and canines indent your flesh for his soft, soft bite. Pulse quickening, you can’t hope to suppress that quiet sigh of yours, airy bliss, and your arms lock tighter around his neck for the embrace you’ve caged him within.

Ever-receptive to the subtle way the tendons in your neck ripple, Anubis endeavors to taste more of you, dragging his tongue up the center the of your throat—you gulp, heave a shaky breath, and shudder—but the wet warmth of his mouth finds the underside of your jaw, nibbling, and wandering to linger below your earlobe.

“Sp-speak…speak to me.”

He takes your lobe between teeth—tugs. Your shiver runs deep.

“Please…Anubis…”

Please, what? Please speak? Please don’t stop? Please stay with me?

Please, please, please…Anubis releases your lobe, teases his teeth along the edge of your ear, and licks the inner curve.

In languid sweeps, his lips find your jaw, your heated cheek, your lips—another slow lick marks the corner of your new smile…

…and you pay dust to your inhibitions, tilting your head to kiss Anubis fully, tangling a hand in his hair at the back of his head as you urge him closer, the other clutched at his shoulder for leverage. Your desperate whimper encourages him to accept this, to accept you, and Anubis—led by a force that crosses and blurs the line between soft inexperience and primal instinct—knows to gently prod your lips with his tongue, begging for entrance which you eagerly grant him, parting your mouth open enough to remember the taste of him, too. Like your tryst within Duat, like the desperate encounter between the pillars of Anubis’ sacred sanctum.

Though, this is no such place.

This…is a temple of Isis.

The thought gives you pause.

And yet, when Anubis pushes his tongue into the depth of your mouth, the edges of your teeth, like the sweetest tickle, and your hesitation falls away, slipping your eyes closed, sighing into his mouth. You don’t dare miss the chance to pay him back in kind the same attention, the same love-bites, that Anubis has already given you, breaking apart from his mouth by only a hair’s breadth to take his lower lip between your own teeth, clamping down to pull ever so softly. And you hear his breathy groan; you release him, breathless, head tilting back once more when the god claims your mouth all over again, and his heavy exhale skitters across the skin of your cheek in a single, wild huff.

Is it your taste that drives him to heated madness?

Your inviting warmth and poorly hidden want?

Oh, but does it matter now? It should. It should.

Because below, beyond the temple walls and pylon, beyond the ward of spell work and faith, caravan members fall to their deaths. Out there, in the deep night, Seth and Horus face the blades of mercenaries all for the temple’s sake—for Isis’ beloved devoted, for you. They fight and spill blood, and yet you…you remain here, caught in Anubis’ arms, savoring the taste of him as his father tosses himself in the quiet fray, even as a demigod. Shouldn’t you be there to help? Alas…

“They…th-…they need…us…Anubis…Anubis…”

He lets a hand wander down the small of your back, further, further…settling over the sweetest, prominent curve of your rear before he squeezes—not gently, not subtly. You feel yourself push flush against him, breaking the kiss only to stare, wide-eyed, to see him. He’s only ever been seen in the darkness, but you wonder, briefly, of how a sight can be so numbingly beautiful as him. Now, you cannot place the reasoning of your infatuation on that of the simple beauty of all gods. No. You’ve seen the remarkable beauty of others—of Seth and Horus, former god and god-adjacent, respectively—yet even they fall short of stunning you like this.

For however long your dazed eyes dart across his features, Anubis spends it guiding his hand around the front of your hip, and dips it down to grip the softness of your upper thigh just when you press kisses against his throat, his chin, his lips once again. He slips his traveling hand under the hem of your attire, and smoothly cups the heat of your bare cunt with his cold palm; shocked, your breath hastens, gasping softly against his mouth. You shift on your feet, thoughtlessly widening your stance for him, letting your body react to his touch before your mind rightly can. With his other hand, he hikes the plain threads of your attire upward, bunching the linen at your hip as the temple air finds and caresses your skin.

The palm between your legs moves, and Anubis drags perfect fingers along your slick cleft, ghosting over your core to gather what wetness has already laid claim to your most sacred parts. All for him, all for him. He feels further up your slit, and you’re more than certain that your trembling breath is felt against his skin when you try to contain yourself and press your face into the crook of Anubis’ neck. Further, further, please—slowly, the touch of his middle finger brushes over your bud, already throbbing, sensitive, and you jolt against him as that gentle pleasure darts briefly through you.

Anubis stills at the reaction he’s been given, and doesn’t move until he feels you sweetly kissing his neck. Keep going, don’t stop, I need you, and you hope he’s aware of the desire you have for him now, body pressed impossibly close, legs spread to take his hand even as you stand, because you need more. You need him, please, please, you need him.

You nearly clamp your teeth against his flesh when Anubis rubs slowly around your clit, testing, understanding, and undoubtedly willing to draw forth your bliss with his own hands. You resort to silent gasps, gripping his shoulder like an anchor, nails digging into his pallid skin for the careful pace he’s found with you.

“…Faster,” you breathe, and nip desperately at his throat. “More. Please…”

Obediently, he circles those fingers around your excited bud with a clearer intent, and even now, in the silence of your pretty gasping, both of you can hear the quiet, wet rhythm of your slick being smeared around your clit. Faster, faster. When Anubis adds a feather of more pressure, you release your first audible moan, letting it ripple along Anubis’ neck and his pulse point. Yes, yes…

“Don’t stop…don’t stop, don’t—” you pant and crave, urging him on as that swell of pleasure builds. “Don’t sto-ah…”

By now, your hand that was once braced against Anubis’ shoulder darts down to grasp his working wrist, keeping him pressed against you.

He tends to your clit that much harder, relentlessly, so fucking perfectly that your eyes roll as your head lolls upon his shoulder. Mouth agape, brow knitted, your body stiffens as that first, wonderful burst of your climax takes you like a tidal wave, softening into Anubis as you let the currents roll in sweet, sweet bliss. You rut gently against his fingers, knees almost weak and buckling as your hand—tangled in Anubis’ long tresses—rubs lovingly along his scalp, too, keeping him as close as you can.

Still holding his wrist, your grasp loosens in favor of twining his arousal-coated fingers between your own. Appreciatively, you find the strength to lift your head, glazed eyes catching the dark lure of Anubis’ before you kiss him softly, slowly. All the while, you guide his hand back to the warmth between your legs, carefully situating his fingers near the depth of your entrance where you flutter and ache for his touch most.

Against his lips, rasping, you tell him:

“Inside. I need you inside of me…slowly…gently…”

You watch his face the same way he watches yours.

Maddeningly slow, Anubis presses a finger into you, just a little, enough, and seems to marvel at the way your stance wavers. An instinctive leg lifts high, supple and quivering, to anchor at his hip, brushing against the dark fabric of his shendyt. With it, Anubis doesn’t seem to miss the way your shining cunt opens for him like this. There’s a new, dazed wonder in his eyes, one you’re bound to see answered as you encourage him.

“I’m yours to touch,” you speak it, invoking. “Yours…I—ah—”

Deeper, Anubis slowly eases his single finger inside you again.

In the same moment, he slips out of your warmth completely.

Caught at the juncture of desperate and enamored, you somehow bring yourself to watch, curious, as Anubis withdraws his hand from between your legs, and raises it to the spit-shine of his lips. His fingers glisten with traces of you all the way down to his knuckles; he shortly eyes the novel sight and lets his tongue lap teasingly at the mess, tasting your gathered essence in its entirety, then fully sucking his ring and middle fingers, thoroughly wetting them before he lowers his hand to your eager, throbbing cunt once more.

He skims over your still-sensitive bud, and parts your lowermost lips, spreading you open even more with a lewd, light sound.

“Yours…” you breathily remind him, so far-gone.

When Anubis slips two fingers inside of you, submerged, your body softens to something boneless. He lets you lean into him, sagging, your leg still raised, ankle clumsily hooked at the back of his thigh and black shendyt, trembling as he slowly guides his fingers back out of you, and in again, slicker, easier. You give a pant of his name, allowing yourself this moment of utter vulnerability, offering your body to his desires. The filthy sound of your cunt wetly swallowing his fingers fills the chamber’s silence. Your breathing quickens the moment that Anubis’ fingers do, too, easing in and out of you with gradual speed, urging you to roll your hips in order to drive him deeper, meeting the rhythm that his slippery fingers fuck into you.

His mouth finds your skin, tongue lapping at your collarbone.

Exploring the way your body melts and molds to his touch, Anubis’s fingers slide up into you, deeper, harder, and he manages to hook his fingers in such a way that has you rising to the tips of your toes, slack-jawed. Ecstasy, pleasure, crawls up your spine, one vertebra after the other. Knuckles deep, he thrusts his soaked fingers inside of you with a new vigor capable of having you see stars behind your lids. Overwhelmed, you're at the very edge of climaxing, already beginning to spill, cumming a little around him, down your inner thigh, and unabashedly letting your moans fall whenever and wherever they may—his name, your blabbering, your praises for him; and again, you cry his name, his name, his name:

“Anubis, Anubis…I-…ah…I can’t last…I can’t—Anubis…”

Don’t stop, don’t stop—

Seeking full release as your body lurches with the sinful in-and-out of his fingers, you mindlessly reach down to rub furiously at your clit.

Every pretty roll of your hips gets erratic, riding his hand as Anubis holds you upright when your body weakens, untethered and his.

There, there, there—

You unravel beautifully around Anubis’ fingers as if you haven’t reached such a high in a millennia—or ever, ever. His name settles on your lips, belonging, broken between near-voiceless moans as you spasm in his hold. Slowly, Anubis slips his fingers from inside of you, favoring the feel of your waist to keep you stable as you descend from whatever higher point you’ve reached, far more intense than that first time.

You’re quivering by the time you return to the real realm, gaze unfocused, but Anubis guides you back to him, kissing you fully.

I’m here, he says without his words, and you know only to kiss him back, you're here.

Anubis, sensing your exhaustion as it sets into your marrow, adjusts to lift you off your unsteady feet, cradling you against him with his arms hooked under your knees and around your torso. Your head rests in the place that feels carved for you, settled at the crook of his neck once more. Before you realize it, Anubis makes his way over to the chamber’s divan bed, and through your still-fluttering lashes, you think there’s the swirl of dark wisps—familiar heka and shadows, black sand—beginning to whirl around the edges of your vision. Like a soothing warmth you've known before, there's a heaviness to your eyelids as a call to rest claims you.

Are you so tired? Or is this a spell? Some work of magic? Anubis' energy? His doing? Alas, whatever it is that lures you to sleep has already consumed you like a spell—eyes closed, breath evening out—by the time Anubis lays you upon the divan, leaning close to breathe in your scent below your ear all before he nuzzles you. He rises tall with his shadows, fading away—leaving you again—just as you drift off into a dreamscape, a forlorn sadness taking root.

Rest…Rest…Rest…

And, you do. 

You do.

Chapter Text

Bonds of the Netjeru

LIKE A FIERY BLOOM BEHIND YOUR EYELIDS, sunlight pierces, bleeding through as you come to.

Sluggish, your body twists to stretch stiffened limbs, arms extended, fingers blindly reaching for…for…?

Anubis. Your eyes flutter open, aching when daylight’s brightness blinds and levels as you rise, calling:

“Anu—?”

Thunk…thunk…thunk…

Your call is severed. Every low thud burrows beneath your skin, for this is a sound that's been hard set into your memory banks, and you know before you see her—High Priestess Hanekate—that she will be filling your line of sight. From the open terrace, just as hunched and frail as you remember, Hanekate hobbles past the archway where generous morning light spills behind her like a fitting backdrop.

Thunk…thunk…thunk…

She ambles further within the sunlit chamber. Empty. Only you, it seems, even though the prior night still lives vibrant in your mind, your heart, the very core of yourself. Remembering, you press your thighs together, mindless in your reflexive reaction, and present yourself as someone visibly poised, even before the blind. Hanekate, unaware, wanders to your bedside, yet as you linger upon the divan, disheveled enough for shame and guilt, a part of you is morbidly grateful for the priestess' obliviousness.

Her voice rings like an old comfort.

“I thought I heard you,” she says, grinning. “Hm, you feel…tense, child.”

Blinking, you swallow, swivel your head—left, right—and find no one.

No Seth. No Horus. No Anubis. Nervous, you tap a thigh once, sighing.

“What unsettles you?” Hanekate prods, patient enough.

“High Priestess…” you greet rather hoarsely. “Are we…alone?”

For the plainness of your question, Hanekate offers a spell of laughter.

“Alone? Are you not the one who would have a better answer to that question between us?” she jests, light-hearted, painted lips spread in that same smile. “Of course we are. I came to check on your well-being when you didn't return to Isis' village with Horus and Seth last night. But I'm glad to find that you've been left unscathed, and seemingly none the wiser of…the incident.”

Your brow sets low, hardened.

“Has something happened?” you prod. “Is the temple—?”

“No, no. The temple is well, and so are the women.”

“Then…”—you clamber nearer to the bed's edge—“…what happened?”

Hanekate lifts a hand from her walking stick to wave it dismissively.

She knows your streak by now, knows it'll do no good to wind you up.

“Oh, nothing so terrible,” she says. “Everything and everyone is fine, but…”

“But?” The unsaid chokes you.

“Seth was wounded last night.”

“Wounded? How? I mean, how badly? Is he okay? Is he—”

“Horus brought him back to Isis' village last night,” she says, though her tone has lowered. “Seth's arm was severely wounded, and he'd already lost a great deal of blood by the time they arrived, but…with my healing spells and available medicine, he's been able to rest with relative ease. He's fine now, recovering and being tended to by Elder Tani and the other healers. I don't suspect that it will take long for him to regain his strength.” High Priestess Hanekate permits due silence to linger as the information settles in your mind and heart, but she reaches, gold bands upon her thin wrists clinking, and she finds your nearest hand as she admits, “Anput…despite it all, I'm relieved to find you unharmed.”

The hand upon your own weighs heavy.

You—unharmed, unscathed, and why?

Because Seth insisted on your safety.

Stay with Anubis; when the invasion commences, you should retreat; it'll be safer for you, he said.

“I'm only safe because Seth told me to stay with—” Anubis. Your throat catches at the name, hesitating; Hanekate mustn't know of his involvement, of his presence, and so you swallow thickly, correcting yourself with, “Seth told me to stay…here.” But you blink, too, managing an exhale, and find within yourself a renewed empathy as you tell the high priestess, “Hanekate, I'd like—no…I need to see him. Seth. Is it alright if I do that?”

Listening to the accumulation of something sincere in your voice, Hanekate nods and advises you:

“Please do.”

In good faith, before departing for the village, Hanekate gives you time.

She leaves you to your routine and your lonesome in favor of making her known rounds throughout the temple and its halls, curating its state.

When she exits the chamber, the thunk of her knotted walking stick barely heard, you muster energy to loosen and rise. From the divan to the standing basin, you manage to drag yourself, leaning over the still water within it. A glance downward, clutching at the basin's curved rim, you catch an eyeful of your reflection—the faded kohl smeared soft around your eyes, the strap of your dress left askew upon your shoulder, and when you look at your lips, pressed firm for your own scrutiny, you remember only the fervent kiss of Anubis. In your discolored reflection, there's a reminder of deeds already committed. 

An image of someone beautifully ravished; regrettably abandoned.

Clearing your throat of its stubborn lump, you dip your hands in the basin's water, and watch your reflection ripple before it breaks.

Medicinal incense claims the air—a thin haze swirling—when you enter the quiet annex.

Here…is where Seth should be recovering, as High Priestess Hanekate directed you before. Standing, your hand finds leverage upon the adobe wall, pressed against that cool mudbrick as you peer into the final room. Beyond the walls, birdsong carries like a comfort, and within the warm light—dappling through the low, thatched roof—a single acolyte of Isis sits kneeled upon the floor to your left. In her hands, she tends to an incense holder; from it, a tendril of soft smoke rises in an upward, winding spiral to dissipate with the rest.

Your eyes trail off, searching further.

Behind her and to your right, upon the single platform, padded with a long mat as a makeshift bed, Seth lies unmoving, resting, swathed in a layer of fresh, draping linens. The spill of his hair seems tied, neatly fastened to leave the whole of his features unhidden, seen. You swallow at the sight of him, and lean against the open archway to give yourself respite. Moments to sort your thoughts, prepare yourself for how emotions will come and go in sure waves once you’re standing before him again. For now, though…you’ll let the drifting incense calm you as you breathe in deep.

With a start, hearing your exhale, the young acolyte lifts her bowed head, torn from her silent prayers, before she finds you standing there, leaning against the pale-brown, adobe archway, somehow contented. You miss the way her eyes expand, the way her clumsy hands fumble with the holder as she springs to restless feet.

“Oh—my lady, Anput…I—”

“Hm?” You stand straighter. “No…no, you don’t ha—”

“—I wasn’t expecting your arrival so soon,” she says. “Forgive me—”

“Please,” you ask of her, and finally step within the room. “It’s alright.”

The young acolyte, dark wig swaying, bows her humble head.

“Bu-…but, my lady—”

“You don’t have to call me that,” you say, edging closer. “I…I’m not…”

You're not what?

Not a goddess?

Not a royal?

Not…?

“I’m not-…I’m just Anput.”

As you have always been.

Wordless, beneath the dappled light, she lifts her head once more.

Only an arm’s length away, your expression softens for her.

“I’m just Anput,” you tell her again; the name you've been given. 

Hands clasped at the front of her dress, the acolyte blinks.

“That…is a comfort,” she says, gaze briefly catching yours; genuine.

Sweet birdsong trills even louder, and you touch her small elbow to insist.

“Go. Take some time for yourself.” You smile. “I’ll sit with him.”

She follows your gesture, understands, though the young acolyte spares a final glance at Seth upon his place—still resting, still fine—before she lowers her bashful gaze to her locked fingers. With a shift upon her feet, she dares another look at you—your kind-warm eyes, your patience—and feels there will be no harm in leaving you with him alone.

“He’s been unconscious since Horus brought him to us,” she tells you as a final note. “We’ve been keeping our eyes on him here. If…if there are any complications with him, please don’t hesitate to find me, or…anyone else within the annex. Elder Tani should be nearby as well…and the High Priestess, of course.”

Your comprehending nod and hum is enough to quell her.

Shortly after, as the common swish of her dress resounds when she passes, the young acolyte is swift to leave you standing in the room, alone, to be caressed by the rising wisps of new smoke. Mindlessly and gratefully, your gaze follows her as she goes, then redirects towards the sight of Seth. Here, the sun still settles on you instead, slatting through the thatched roof, honey-like, as you amble further within the quiet room, eyeing the lined earthenware and medicines upon the jutting wood shelves. Below, you step along the soft spread of woven rugs—their colors remind you of the blue-green turquoise of Khetiu Mafkat, the pale-pink conches of the sea's shoreline, and the green of date palms.

In this silence, you approach Seth’s bedside.

He doesn’t look dissimilar to the way he did during your first meeting.

That odd hour, within the midnight desert, caught between sand dunes.

Oh, you remember it well. The sickly shiver he’d been stricken with—a terrible fever then. Yes, yes…even if you can’t recall the life you once lived in Heliopolis, you remember that, and standing before him now, you swallow hard to tame your emotions. The worst turn you can take is to find yourself wallowing again in that long-forgotten…hatred. That ugly drive of bloodlust, and how it led you across the biting desert, straight to the very god you were once seeking, hunting. That same terrible disgust you warred against, and all at the very mention of his name you would find yourself shuddering.

But now, you let your eyes scale Seth’s form.

His face; the rise and fall of his chest; his injured shoulder; his…wrist?

Your eyes narrow when a dangerous fusion of suspicion and curiosity rises. Regardless of it, you focus on the sight of the dark markings wrapped, embedded within the skin of Seth’s wrist. An eerily familiar churn of your gut has you flitting your gaze away, darting to eye the room’s empty archway, as if ascertaining no other soul is near to witness your probing. With no one near—no stray follower of Isis, no healer, no priestess, no shy acolyte—you heave a quiet breath and turn back to Seth, reach out, and take his limp wrist in your hands.

For a while longer, you examine the oddity; a simple, dark pattern that seems woven around Seth’s flesh like a bracelet. Despite its unassuming appearance, you note the low hum of its energy. For every second you spend scrutinizing the strange bracelet, the more that same energy extends, unseen, from the markings and wraps around you like an intangible, constricting, dark serpent. You’ve known the unmistakable aura of a curse, and you know it even now—like you know your own—and recognize that darkly ethereal pull.

Not a curse of Osiris.

No curse of Isis, but…

…Nephthys.

Seth’s cursed wrist slips from your loose hold. His hand falls upon the cushioned mat with a quiet ‘thud’, though the demoted, still-recovering demigod doesn’t stir. Your mind reels back to the curse’s source: Nephthys, Goddess of Peace and Harmony. The beloved sister-wife of Seth. Mother of Anubis. Why? Why burden her love by such severe measures? Ever drawn to the mystery, you study the curse mark with a renewed interest, determination settling heavy within you as you run careful fingers over the dark lines.

Its energy spills, unleashed at your soft touch, and spreads along your flesh, consuming your hand in winding, cold darkness—

      ‘̴W̴h̴y̷ ̵d̷i̴d̴ ̵y̷o̵u̷ ̷s̸l̷a̴y̶ ̴m̵y̸ ̶s̵o̴n̵s̸ ̸a̸n̶d̵ ̸I̷,̴ ̷S̷e̴t̵h̸?̷’̴   ̷
‘Why did you slay my sons and I, Seth?’
̵‘̴W̷h̴y̷ ̷d̷i̷d̴ ̷y̶o̸u̴ ̶m̸u̸r̴d̵e̶r̵ ̸m̷e̶,̵ ̷S̴e̶t̷h̴?̴ ̸I̷ ̴w̴a̷s̵ ̷a̴ ̴m̷o̷t̶h̷e̷r̵.̵’̶
‘   Why did you murder me, Seth? I was a mother.’
̷         ‘̸W̵h̷y̶ ̷d̴i̵d̵ ̷y̸o̸u̷ ̷m̷u̷r̸d̸e̶r̸ ̸u̷s̷,̸ ̷S̶e̷t̶h̸?̵’̵
‘Why did you murder us, Seth?’
̵‘̵W̷h̶y̶ ̶d̴i̷d̶ ̸y̴o̴u̵ ̴c̵u̶t̷ ̴m̷e̴ ̴a̸n̷d̵ ̶m̴y̴ ̷s̵i̴s̶t̸e̸r̷s̵ ̶d̶o̸w̴n̷,̵ ̶S̴e̸t̸h̸?̸     ’̵
‘Why did you cut me and my sisters down, Seth?’
̶          ‘̷W̴h̵y̶ ̷d̴i̴d̷ ̵y̸o̴u̵ ̴s̵l̵a̴y̴ ̴t̴h̶e̷ ̸i̸n̴n̵o̴c̶e̶n̸t̶,̴ ̷S̶e̸t̶h̸?̸’̴
‘Why did you slay the innocent, Seth?’
̶‘̸W̸h̶y̶ ̵d̷i̸d̸ ̵y̷o̸u̵ ̶f̵o̷r̴s̵a̵k̴e̸ ̷o̷u̷r̶ ̶s̴o̸u̶l̸s̷,̵ ̵S̴e̷t̵h̶?̴   ’̸
           ‘Why did you forsake our souls, Seth?’

Ba spirits. Their grief extends within you, souls bound to Duat, yet tethered to the living realm through their unresolved rage—

        ‘̷A̴n̷p̸u̶t̴…̵w̴h̴y̶ ̴d̸i̵d̴ ̶y̷o̴u̵ ̵l̷e̴t̴ ̷S̷e̵t̴h̵ ̴l̶i̷v̴e̵?̶’̵   ̷
‘Anput…why did you let Seth live?’
̷‘̴W̶h̵y̴ ̴h̴a̴v̷e̵ ̷y̷o̷u̶ ̶n̵o̷t̸ ̵a̴v̸e̴n̶g̵e̷d̸ ̶u̸s̸ ̷y̸e̸t̵?̶’̴  ̵
         ‘Why have you not avenged us yet?’
 ̶   ‘̵W̸h̵y̴,̴ ̶A̵n̵p̸u̴t̵…̵h̷a̴v̸e̸ ̶y̸o̶u̸ ̴n̷o̴t̴ ̶a̴v̴e̴n̷g̸e̵d̴ ̸y̶o̸u̸r̴s̵e̴l̶f̵?̴’̵
‘Why, Anput…have you not avenged yourself?’
 ̴   ‘̶K̸i̴l̶l̸ ̴h̷i̶m̶.̴ ̵S̷e̸v̸e̶r̸ ̶t̷h̷e̸ ̵b̷o̶n̵d̷ ̵t̵h̶a̴t̵ ̴t̴i̵e̶s̸ ̵u̸s̷ ̸t̷o̴ ̸S̸e̷t̷h̸.̶    ̶
  ‘Kill him. Sever the bond that ties us to Seth.
̷      ‘̷G̴u̴i̷d̷e̶ ̷u̷s̶ ̶t̵o̴ ̶D̵u̵a̵t̷.̶ ̵S̸a̵v̸e̴ ̴o̴u̶r̶ ̵l̵o̸s̷t̸ ̶s̴o̷u̶l̷s̵.̵ ̵K̵i̷l̸l̴ ̴h̷i̷m̸.̷
‘Guide us to Duat. Save our lost souls. Kill him.

This curse, you writhe, tears in your eyes, it’s…it’s…

   K̵i̷l̸l̴ ̴h̷i̷m̸.̷
                            Kill him.

                                                  K̵i̷l̸l̴ ̴h̷i̷m̸.̷
                 Kill him.

K̵i̷l̸l̴ ̴h̷i̷m̸.̷
                                   Kill him.

“Stop!” Crying out as the curse’s energy simmers to something intolerable, burning white-hot, you wrench your hand from Seth’s wrist—

The curse recoils, its inky reach dissipating, fading from your once-tainted flesh. From the bend of your wrist to the tips of your trembling fingers, the dark smear of the curse nearly slithers away like a living substance until it retreats back onto Seth’s wrist, dormant; a subtle bracelet of Nephthys’ foreboding energy once more.

Shaken, your hand harbors a new tremor as you raise it, inspecting your appendage as you turn it from palm to back once, twice, thrice. Untainted. Within yourself those voices still echo: Sever the bond that ties us to Seth. Guide us. Protect us. Save our souls. Kill him. An anger, once forgotten like much of your existence, curdles in the pit of your stomach like unsettled bile. You know this hatred. You know this shared rage with the spirits of the dead—of the ba sealed within Seth’s curse.

The sin of bloodlust.

Your worst delusion.

It’s been too long since you last recalled the smile of Wabet, of sweet Keb’s innocence. Both lost. And yet, it’s been even longer since you last sought after the weight of a blade in your palm, but alas, your glassy, tear-welled eyes flit across the room, searching—across the shelves, the tables, the earthen pottery—until you catch sight of a single knife left idle within a reed-woven basket upon the floor. Next to the platform that Seth rests on, its blade is tucked among a recently discarded bundle of bloody linens. Seth’s blood, no doubt. Perhaps left there since the initial scramble to heal his wound.

Revenge, Anput, as if Sekhmet is whispering evil in your ear once more. Vengeance. With hardly a sliver of resistance, you crouch low enough to retrieve the basket’s knife. Did you forget what Seth has done? Sekhmet taunts, disembodied. To you? To the innocents of Egypt? Her influence is a toxin. Did you forget how the dead suffer? Tied to his sins.

In your hand, the blade glints—deadly.

Before your eyes, Seth rests—exposed.

Again. Another chance.

Breath steadied, you grip and raise the knife to Seth’s throat…and press.

The edge of the blade doesn’t slice his skin, not yet. No, no…no.

Stemming from you, sentient, your shadow briefly warps, unseen but felt. 

Don't.

A teardrop—your own—falls silent on Seth’s cheek.

His red brow twitches, and your resolve wanes pathetically, guilt-ridden.

“I won’t…” you tell the ether, the waiting dead, and withdraw the blade.

Defiant against your darkest thrill, you let the knife fall from your hand, hearing its dull clatter upon the wide rug. Sniveling once, you hurriedly swipe the heels of your palms at your dampened eyes, ridding your lashes of their wetness, of any trace of your prior temptation and wickedness. Should any follower of Isis find themself wandering into this very room for their routine check-ins on Seth's condition, you would surely hate for them to see you like this. The young acolyte and her concern. All the questions it'll raise. All the attention. The pity. All things you would not wish to receive when the truth is tangled in a web of betrayal, regret, atonement, and forgiveness. 

Instead, you gather yourself and settle upon an arrangement of patterned, cushioned mats, situated at the wall opposite of where Seth rests.  

Beyond the annex, birdsong and insect chitters recite a tune as old as Egypt. 

As old and ancient as endless time itself.

Chapter Text

Better than Gods

WITHIN THE SHIMMERING RIVER, and a day after Horus has been away to keep vigil over the caravan movement, a gaggle of women and girls of the village—dresses, robes tied in mindful high knots along their thighs—stand conversing, knee-deep in calm water. They dip, rinse, and wring pieces of soaked clothes and linen together. Though you wonder, standing dry beneath that riverside palm shade, if whether Sobek’s crocodiles carve through the watery depths or rest atop the slanted banks with their hopping plovers, like those of the known Nile. You wonder, too, if Taweret’s hippos are content to tread and gather elsewhere along the river’s stretch; if Thoth’s long-beaked ibises deign to pluck small fish from shallow edges; if frogsong will fill the quiet night for the coming hours as Nut’s sky darkens above.

A girl, likely having witnessed only six floods of the Nile in her lifetime, splashes through the shallow water, droplets like bright jewels, as her mother gives playful chase—their sunbright laughter radiates, warming even your skin, despite the short distance. Within tickling hands and arms, the girl is soon ensnared, wriggling and squealing, caught in a fit of glee. Her mother grins, presses kisses to the top of her beloved head of hair, and mutters unheard words, encouraging her daughter’s smile to somehow broaden—love.

This…is this the life you were intended to live?

Forgoing promised godhood; forsaking divinity?

Accepting humanity; redefining your life purpose?

A gust sifts through your lashes as you cross your arms.

“High Priestess.” Your call resounds before it can be withheld.

Beneath the isolated palm shade, next to you, Hanekate hums.

That same wind softly falls away, its touch fading; phantasmal.

But you shiver despite the surrounding warmth.

“Would you have said anything?” you wonder.

“Hm…?” She tilts her head closer to listen.

“If I hadn’t fled the temple,” you say, “crossed Duat…”

If you hadn’t learned of your past…met Anubis.

Would she have said anything—the truth? The lie?

Anything at all.

“I’m but a lowly servant of our goddess' will,” Hanekate says, but try as she might to maintain calm stoicism, her voice carries a solemn warble. “Understand. I could not break my word and devotion to our merciful goddess. Not when I understand the very torment and grief of losing a daughter as well. For all of her beloved believers, and for me, Isis laid the path for a precious mission within her temple as its chosen protector. Ah…well, though as you now know, there was far more than just this sacred ground I was entrusted to oversee…there was you. I know naught of what Isis had to endure in order to bring you back—the terms she had to accept…the sacrifice. But, what I have been permitted to know is that she wished for you to lead a life in blissful ignorance of the divinity you once held, and that you now hold, within. She protected you and gave you a—”

“A better life?” you hiss, and stare hard at the blue of Hanekate's eyelids. “After she let me die? After she let me fall into the hands of caravan slavers? After she abandoned me?”

Disappointed, caught in reluctant disbelief, you can only offer a single nod of heartbroken understanding, and swallow, dislodging your too-tight throat.

“As much as I’d hoped otherwise,” you sigh, and give a shake of your head. “I knew you would say…something…like that.”

Tilting your head back, you slip your eyes closed to feel scattered slats of sunlight seeping through swaying palms. 

“All this time.” Your eyelids are a burst of aura colors. “I never had a choice in my life, did I?” 

Whether you were to die or live. Whether you were to forget or remember. 

High Priestess Hanekate would sooner weaponize her faith than admit the simple wrongness of withholding your truth. She kept that due knowledge from you. She lied. And for what? For the favor of her goddess? Of your goddess-mother? Did she truly believe at the time of your first arrival within the temple that ensuring your ignorance would have been the lesser of all evil? To let you submit to the common life of Egypt, while you were forfeiting your prior birthrights and connections. To let you forget…forget, forget, forget…

The Ennead.

The Netjeru.

Heliopolis.

Anubis…

There’s a part of you, within, that lurches as if stricken physically ill.

Palm shadows cast shifting shades over your countenance, and if Hanekate were able to take in the sight of you now…oh, she would find naught but a woman torn. But through her blindness, her knowing sense, the High Priestess reaches for you—the clink of her worn bands alert you as your eyes reopen—before she curls a finger under your dipped chin. Ah…you remember this touch, the subtle gesture and the message it holds, as Hanekate coaxes you to lift and hold your chin high once more. The message: remember yourself, remember your pride, your strength and soul; remember, remember, remember…

“Now…” she breathes. “It is your choice to make—will you embrace humanity…or godhood?”

Is it a choice that should be so heavily considered? For all the revelations of godhood’s cruelty, there seems little worth defending; choosing. The gods of Egypt have committed sins that have seen the innocents subjected to suffer the consequences. Every selfish deed has always come at the price of another’s well-being—like Osiris and Seth, all the gods and mortals ruined, lost, for their blood-feud. And yet, through it all, it’s humanity that somehow remains faithful, with all their prayers, offerings, and temples. All their devotion, despite the gods’ unattainability, despite the gods’ scorn, their rage, wickedness, brutality, insatiability, entitlement, apathy, and more, more, more.

Still—a chime of pretty laughter dances from the women and children, mothers and daughters…

…and you remember…love…

Your heart swells for that alone.

Humans are better than Gods. ^[1]

Thus, your realization is stark:

      “I choose humanity.”

Chapter Text

Reawakened and Returned

A SINGLE DAY TAKES AN ETERNITY…but Seth rises.

Word has spread throughout the annex, yet you are not without your bout of relief and restlessness. Even time feels…peculiar…slow and barely passing as the deep violet of dusk seems never-ending beyond the humble mudbrick walls. Before now, you spent your hours performing the familiar chore of hauling jugs of water from the village well, following the requests of the Elders and Healers, assisting where and when you can, regardless of whatever perceived status you've come to garner among the women and priestesses.

Anput of Sacred Heliopolis.

Daughter of Miracles.

Miracle Daughter.

Lady Anput.

Demigod.

But you're fast enough to deny the elevation well before the women are able and willing to even offer it. Eager to slip and descend from the high pedestal you find yourself being placed upon time and time again. Gentle when you state your preference for a simple name, free of its formalities and titles. No lady. No goddess. No lost princess of Heliopolis, of Duat, of Egypt.

Only Anput.

Upon Seth's reawakening, however, Chief Priestess Mayet and her husband Fenu claim the authoritative rights of speaking with him first, of welcoming him back and orientating Seth as the modest guest they falsely believe him to be. Soon after their exchange, it's your chance to face the demoted god…your chance to find yourself hesitating at the same open archway of the annex where Seth has been granted a space to dwell. To regain lost strength and bearings as he sees fit, as his "fragile" demigod body will allow and require.

Swirling unseen from the dusklit room, you remember the scent of medicinal incense. How it thickens when you finally garner the courage to step through the archway, exposed, speaking calm and light into the air:

“Seth? I do hope your wound isn't…unbearable.”

To think your first words are so sincerely concerned.

Seth—once resting supine, not asleep—rises on his mat to prop a knee, rest an arm atop it, and sits upright. No longer tied back, his hair spills vibrant against the loose, pristine robes he's been wrapped within since the incident. For the simple switch of his position, Seth's mouth presses thin, breathing deep as he slowly rolls and loosens his wounded arm. All the while, those red eyes set on you, cutting through those last shafts of honey-thick sunlight, fading.

Any harshness to the low set of his brow seems to soften.

“Unbearable?” Through discomfort, Seth smirks. “Don't humor me.”

Another step further inside, and your smile stretches, too.

“Of course,” you appease. “Who am I to show concern for a god?”

“Pft. A far better option than any other human here.”

“That's because you underestimate them.”

“Humans?”

“Yes, the humans.”

“…I know.”

Then he knows they are more; better. He knows.

And so Seth is a god capable of understanding.

Feet upon the favored woven rugs of that same turquoise blue-green, of that same conch pale-pink, of that same palm rich-green from before, your gaze flits from Seth's eyes and down to the dark, dark markings of his—of Nephthys'—curse. If he is a god capable of knowing the worth of humans, then is he not a god capable of feeling their pain, their rage? All that's been wrought into the curse he carries. Those weeping ba. The pleas they chittered to your soul when you laid a hand upon Seth's wrist:

   K̵i̷l̸l̴ ̴h̷i̷m̸.̷
                            Kill him.

                                                  K̵i̷l̸l̴ ̴h̷i̷m̸.̷
                 Kill him.

K̵i̷l̸l̴ ̴h̷i̷m̸.̷
                                   Kill him.

…I won't…                              …I won't…

Alas, if Seth is a god cursed to atone and repent, then…

“Are you alright, Seth—?”

“Anput, have you been—?”

Speaking in tandem, the two of you fall silent again.

But when Seth doesn't say more, doesn't answer nor repeat his question in the stark quietude, you nod and lift your gaze back to his.

“I've been…” Safe, calm, protected, all settled for: “Fine.”

Either relieved or having expected nothing less, Seth hums.

“And Anubis?” he wonders. “Have you been with him?”

Anubis. His lips, his touch, his fingers deep inside of you—

“Not since the night you were…” You eye his arm. “…hurt.”

“Fuck.” Seth drops his face into a hand and sighs.

“But I'm sure he's alright,” you add.

This desperate sort of comfort, and it's all you have, for all the titles you're meant to bear with so little to your name despite pedigree.

Equal parts disbelieving and hopeful, Seth scoffs, muffled into his palm.

“And what makes you so certain of that, huh?” A half-groan.

What makes you believe that? Nothing provable. Nothing you can say to Seth in this moment that he would blindly believe, especially when even you can hardly find the faith to believe in it, too. But…there's a sliver of reassurance in there, in the simple fact that you've spoken it aloud—there's always power in spoken words, an intent and belief given to the ether, to the open air for Shu to keenly decipher. Make it true. Make it real. Like every spoken spell, every curse, and every spoken declaration, confession, and admission has its consequence, its reward.

May yours and Seth's be Anubis' return.

Beyond the annex walls, the sky darkens.

Dusk will soon give way to twilight.

Ra will give reign to Thoth.

And Seth slowly lifts his head from a hand, tilts a gaze for the speckled thatched roof, exhales, and casts his stare back at you—somehow gentle.

“After everything I've done to you,” he says, shaking his head. “I never thought I'd see the day you'd be comforting me, of all the gods.”

Even during these few days and hours, you know the array of motions you've managed to wade through. From the edge of a knife pressed against Seth's throat in the night, to your words attempting to soothe the unease that weighs him down now. Who would ever think to see such a day? From the bloodlust you once drove forward on, drunk on it like Egypt's finest liquor and drugs. From your seething pledge of avenging all that the half-ruined temple had lost. Seeking revenge for every woman and child slain.

But that same god—murderer; evil; bloodred—sits injured, and…appreciative.

For you. For this. For the women and healers charged with his health.

Even if this is but a brief moment to cherish, you swallow and agree:

“At first…I believed I'd die before I'd dare feel sympathy for you.”

Carefully spoken or not, the words are sharp enough to wound Seth.

There was a time when you considered death a better fate than offering your kindness to him. Is that not a revelation capable of tearing into any heart? Of shredding it through? Fuck…fuck…Seth is silent when he goes jarringly still, perhaps unsure of how to accept this truth.

He straightens his posture; a gesture to regain his lost dignity? A need to remain unbroken? But Seth breathes out through his nose, tightens his face, and nurses that injured arm, wincing again. You watch him when he sighs, frustrated, betrayed by the limits of his own body before he turns and reaches for a small, unused container of unguent and medicine, sealed by a spell of warm healing and Isis' magic. The work of a devoted follower, of the Chief Priestess, no doubt.

For a moment he turns the container, eyeing its angles.

You wonder if he feels the pull of Isis. Her magic.

The same way you do. That unforgettable warmth.

“Mayet and Fenu said this would help my wound. How?”

The desert god, nearly clueless when it comes to medical practices.

More accustomed to inflicting injuries than receiving or treating them.

“It'll soothe your pain, at least,” you tell him.

“Hm…” He lifts a red brow. “Should I apply it now?”

You step forward. “How badly does it hurt?”

“Ugh. Enough to annoy me.”

“A good enough reason to use it, then.”

“And I just, what…lather it on?”

“If you can—”

“Of course I can…”

Seth fingers at the container, indignant, promptly prying its lid.

He scrutinizes the contents within, wrinkles his nose.

“Shit,” he whispers. “How much do I need?”

Rather than answer, you stand nearby and hold out a palm.

Frowning, Seth looks at your face, your hand, your face again.

“No…” he dryly tuts. “I can do it myself. Go rest.”

Offered hand still outspread, waiting, you tsk much like Wabet.

“Will you trust me?” Brave of you to ask.

For this. For whatever may transpire afterward, too.

                        Will you trust me?

A moment, a consideration, and Seth soon acquiesces.

The weight of the unguent container falls in your palm.

Somehow, you lack the sluggishness of exhaustion tonight.

For all of his insistence toward you to lie down and get your due rest, it's Seth who succumbs first. A time ago, as a mighty god in no need of it, perhaps he knew naught of the demands of mortal slumber and how it falls upon one, whether invited or not. Inevitable, and sometimes unexpected. All those countless times you've drifted off into sleep, only to jolt awake in a disorientated haze.

Tonight—with a small, hand-held candleflame—you kneel by Seth's elevated mat as he rests, and busy yourself with sorting through the provided basket of fresh linens intended for changing the dressings of his wound. By now, you've already gathered and discarded the old and bloodied ones from before. Elder Tani was most willing to hand over an assortment of clean linens afterward, and you, most grateful to receive them in Seth's stead.

You've already removed smoky incense from their holders for the night, too. In the morning, for prayer and cleansing and healing, you'll light and place even more in their places, but for now, only the residual wisps of their warm scent teases your nose as you pilfer through the reed-woven basket, but…

…a breeze, serpent-like, seems to slither by.

Hands buried in the pile of soft cloth, you come to a halt, frozen as the skin of your arms thrum and prickle like a chill that races from fingertip to chest. A cold skip in your heart's rhythm. There hasn't been a strike of wind all day, all night. Hasn't been a reason for your body to hum like some low vibration, stemming from your marrow—you know this feeling. Idle on the pounded earth next to you, upon the pretty rug, your candleflame dies, blown-out.

You're drowned in darkness all over again, save for threads of moonlight. Beneath and beside you, too, your shadow trembles, warps with life. Both entranced and petrified, you watch as the edges stretch beyond your known shape. Grains of black sand and smoke rise from its inky darkness, whirling about like a gentle sandstorm of its own. A swell of known, dark heka floods the air and weighs down upon you, familiar.

You spring to your feet and stand by Seth's mat.

To protect him? To shield him? To conceal him?

For whatever reason…

The swirling shadows, the black sand, it solidifies.

In its smoky place stands the form and height of…

                          “Anubis…?”

And yet, still wordless—Duat's god-prince exists.

Whether you expect his silence or not matters little when you can't seem to look elsewhere. Among the darkness and shadows of night, he seems so at home in a sense that transcends the usual understanding of the common notion. Dwelling within his own divinity. There is, perhaps, no greater belonging for him…though there seems little else that can serve as a greater sight than watching the god of death step toward you now. The way it fills you with nothing less than life; the irony of it all.

Anubis stands close enough now for you to tilt your head, feeling that unearthly fusion of Duat's chill and the natural warmth of him.

He gives you an unspoken greeting of his own, gathering you within his embrace, so full of you, arms around your waist, your back, and precious waves of his hair curtain softly around you as he presses his forehead to yours. And you…it's without thought that your hands slide upwards, past his abdomen, skimming the hanging ribbon, pausing there for the memory of clutching it, yet further still until you cradle Anubis by the sides of his neck, knuckles tickled by the hair that sways, thumbs sweeping against smooth skin.

Besides Duat and my father, after what he did, there’s only one other person Anubis would slink back to—you.

How right Horus was then, stating that.

“You never left.” He was always here.

And slowly, Anubis lifts away from you.

He stares, observing, seeing clearly.

Still—perhaps he sees too clearly now.

Sees things, someone, that perhaps he shouldn't.

Hands still upon you, Anubis recognizes Seth.

Only you, only Seth.

Only Seth, only you.

Chapter Text

Is It Not Us…?

ANUBIS' HOLD ON YOU FALLS AWAY; his palms and fingers slide to withdraw—like slipping silk, like rolling droplets—soon replaced by some dreadful chill of knowing as you watch him sidestep you and drift toward Seth, never minding whether the desert god is still asleep or not. He'll wake him. As if you've molded into Anubis' shadow when he moves, you turn, trail after him, and dare to grasp one of his arms, squeezing to warn him.

“Wait…wait, Anubis…!” It's your whisper-sharp call. “Don't.”

Without his words, you consider it a miracle that Anubis does halt. But wounded, Seth still remains a near-motionless frame upon the platform-turned-bed where he rests. Had Seth not been demoted and stripped of his full divine strength, then perhaps he would have roused the very moment every small flame within the annex was blown out, and he would've certainly risen to the whirl of dark heka that preceded Anubis' initial reveal, having embodied your shadow for Thoth knows how long.

“Let me wake him first,” you suggest.

Patiently, somehow, Anubis understands.

And so you turn back toward his father.

“Seth…? You should wake up. Now…”

                      Please.

Regardless of whatever reaction you're bound to be met with as you nudge his elbow—whether it's a harsh spill of words, a reflexive fist, or a face and mouthful of conjured sand and fury—you watch as a fanned spread of red lashes scrunch together and soften again, quivering to a hazy flutter as Seth finally stirs in the night. With all the expected grouchiness of having his slumber disturbed, he blinks up at you through whatever blur he wars against. His brow is wrinkled taut, but…it's when you swallow thickly and step aside to reveal Anubis standing tall behind you does the tight pull of Seth's features melt away. To know the look of relief, of one finding something once so sought after…

“Anubis!” Darkness and all other sensory hindrances aside, the presence and sight of Anubis draws Seth straight up. “Why are you—No, how are you here, huh?!”

His worn robes rustle when Seth scrambles to his feet.

Wide-eyed, he passes you and draws hands toward his son's face.

“I—Anubis?” Seth cradles him by either pallid cheek. “Answer me.”

Even you can recognize how perturbed Seth is by Anubis' silence.

“He won't speak.” Your quiet interjection is both necessary and foreboding, made worse with: “Or…maybe he can't.”

At this very moment, you can only imagine the surge of emotions within Seth. To even make any futile attempt to understand it seems an insult toward him now. Because how could you understand this? Ever? And the sharp look Seth shoots your way upon processing your words is enough to make you almost regret telling him. But he had to know. Had to realize the truth of his son's state. Perhaps he'll have answers—those divinely known—sooner than you ever will. Alas…

“What do you mean he 'won't speak'?” Seth presses, but with his head and his red gaze turned briefly toward you, he misses the moment when Anubis leans in close, presses his nose to Seth's neck, and breathes deep. Seth flinches. “Did you just—?! Stop!” Nudging Anubis away by the shoulders, Seth nearly shouts loud enough to disturb the rest of the entire complex. “What's wrong with you? Are you an animal?!”

No response. Anubis tilts his head, dark strands spilling sideward.

Seth measures the degree of aloofness in Anubis' eyes.

“Back in the temple, you don't think I hit him too hard, do you?”

He swivels Anubis' head around—left, right, up, down.

“Even so,” you say, “How can you explain those sinister roots?”

Once attached to his mask like living creatures, dark.

Although true, your words do little to ease him.

“Fuck…” Seth gently shoves his clingy son away. “Is he stupid?”

“Anubis was nothing like this the last time I was with him,” you add.

Before his manic rampage within the temple, stitch-mouthed. 

“The last time?” Seth wonders. “Back in the temple?”

Again, Anubis latches onto Seth, nose buried in his hair.

“No, before,” you say, regardless. “In Duat, he made sure to protect me from Osiris,” you say. “He never gave me the chance to stay in Duat with him. What Osiris did to him after I was cast back to Isis' temple…I wish I knew. But most of all, I wish I was there to stop it from happening. And perhaps I should've been there.” …I should've fought with him…and you dread the conclusion you're drawn to suspect, though it's the only plausible explanation: “It couldn't be a curse, could it?”

Frustrated, Seth redirects his attention to Anubis and studies him, but it's your gaze that wanders to the dark mark of the curse that's been imbued within the flesh of his wrist.

Seth, however, lifts an eyebrow, inclined to prod:

“And what if it is a curse?”

“We break it…”

“High Priestess, please forgive me.”

You feel nothing if not invasive.

In her bed, and with thin, silver-lashed eyelids perpetually closed, Hanekate's head turns your way, slowly roused awake and sitting upright to listen. Never mind your disruption of the High Priestess' slumber at such an awful hour, your confession and request will likely leave Hanekate in an even graver state. For you to ask this of her, for you to admit that another uninvited man, another all-blessed god, has stepped foot within this sacred place of Isis' devoted is enough to have you smited.

You carefully descend to your knees at the edge of Hanekate's bed.

“As the lost daughter of your gracious goddess…can you trust me?”

Swathed within too-large robes, Hanekate nods—Yes.

“A man…” You correct yourself: “A god is present within the complex.”

“Seth? I treated his wounds initially, or did you forget that, Anput?”

“Yes, but it's…this god, he isn't Seth,” you clarify. “It's Anubis.”

The High Priestess settles into a comprehending silence.

“As in, Seth’s son…?”

“He's more than that.”

Companion. Equal.

        Heart.

“Anput.” She layers your divinely given name with sympathy, wariness, and an unbelievable softness. “I've already committed a terrible violation when I permitted Seth within this village. After all the ways that he has devastated Isis and her followers over the centuries is not a deed that can ever be forgiven. And yet, he dwells within this place with Horus hovering after his every move and word. I allowed this transgression to exist, and you expect me to worsen it?”

Hanekate is, understandably, upset that any strange man from the outside is here. She is, without a shadow of a doubt, within her right to berate you where you stand—lost demigod or not—but clearly, clearly, she cares little for concealing the disappointment that tugs her features. The downward pull of her lips, the weighty sigh that she spills.

But, Hanekate folds her hands upon her lap, declaring:

“I cannot disrespect Isis' will by offering sanctuary.”

Because Anubis is a god under Seth's influence.

No. On your knees, you shuffle closer. No, no, no.

“High Priestess…” There's little point in hiding the hurt in your voice. “I get it. Truly. By allowing a god, the son of Seth, inside of this sacred place is an affront to you and Isis, and I'll endure whatever punishment or shame is set to befall me, but…help Anubis. It's his mind, it's…it's not right. His words are gone, his sensible thoughts; he's been reduced to a shell. He's the last standing light of my past life, even if I can't remember it. From everything that I've been told by Seth…”—you swallow, throat dry—“…If what he's told me is true, if whatever I feel whenever Anubis is near me is connected to that shared life we've lost…High Priestess, I can't bear to not do whatever I can for him. Please.”

Alas, the elder woman beholds you, not by sight nor sound, but rather by the sullen, near-desperate energy you exude with every moment and with every attempt you make to respectfully appease. Hanekate takes a concessive breath because of it.

“Is he in immediate need of my attention?”

Enlivened, your eyes widen. “He's calm, but…”

Help him. Help him. 

With a tilt of her head, a twitch of her brow, Hanekate lifts a hand—perhaps to quell or silence you—though it's without a clear consideration that you lean forward, reach out, and clasp her thin, bangle-clad wrist to hold. If Hanekate has never known the weight of your touch, she does now. All this discordance within your heart, once healed and now ripped open again as a burden that would've seen you denied entrance at the temple pylons those moons ago.

You wonder, then, if the High Priestess would spare a thought for the alternative. What would happen if she denies your request for Anubis' treatment? What choices would you resort to, then? She's seen the lengths you've gone to for the satisfaction of vengeance, fleeing from the security of the temple of Isis in favor of traversing Egypt's lands on your lonesome. Yet, to have survived all of that. To have returned, twice the woman you were before. Who else would you turn to? How many risks and long journeys would await you, conquering those lands with a near-mindless god at your side? 

“You're still uncertain?” you ask her.

Silence; Hanekate is still as stone.

“High Priestess,” you utter. “You wouldn't be doing this for me. Not even for Seth. Do this for the boy who suffered. Do this for Anubis. He deserves, at least, this much kindness, doesn't he? And I think you know that, too, don't you? If there's anyone who's innocent in all that's happened among the gods, isn't it him? Isn't it…?”

                                       Is it not us?

With newfound finality, Hanekate slowly pulls her aged hand back.

She turns her head away to speak, “I'll examine him in the morning.”

Your head drops in a relieved sort of bow, kneeling. “Thank you—”

“But…” and her word is a sickle, slicing clean through the sprouting reed field of your gratitude. “…After I tend to him, Anubis must leave this place—he is not welcome here, no more than Seth is. I've tolerated one unwanted presence within this precious place for Horus, so it will only be right to offer the same leniency for you. However, child, the terms are still the same: Anubis and Seth must leave, sooner rather than later.”

Ah…a sentiment you've been faced with once before, twisted and layered in different words, though still the same: Banishment. Worse still, such is a fate you've suffered long before, having once been deemed an exile from Heliopolis at the height of your divine youth. Being shunned and turned away is naught but a misfortune you've endured twice before and certainly one you can accept and survive yet again.

“Whatever happens to Seth and Horus is none of my concern,” you say, hardened. “Once it's finished, once Anubis' mind is healed, I'll leave with him.”

You've left him once before…

…you will never do so again.