99 Pieces of a Soul
By The Naked King
"Over the Flock"
In the shiftless haze of the near night the form stood, keeping silent watch over the waters of the river. The back was not bent with age, nor were the shoulders stooped with care, but there was a tenseness to the form, a rigidity that could not be explained away except by that which suggested a great and terrible burden to be borne.
The same body would have lazily fished these same waters only a few days before, laughing at the heat and the sun as if they were brothers, jaunty smile inviting challenge and companionship. How terrible the burden must be, how great the charge, to erase that smile and make that lithe body grow stiff with expectation.
"I bring to you these prayers because I have been negligent," the words rose up, fervent as the heat. "I blame only myself for what has befallen me, and I ask that you treat me with mercy for my foolishness." Hands clenched, knuckles white with strain, brow furrowed in painful frustration. "I did not realize … I did not understand … But now I do."
"You've charged me with this task," restlessly he began to pace the shore, where a track was already worn. This was not the first time he had come here, to the place where water and earth and sky all met, and it would not be the last. "But I am failing! Already I feel aged so many years since you have given me this burden!"
Rage stole across the features, younger than they first seemed, face still rounded with youth. Short and calloused fingers toyed with the bangles of gold that hung from his wrists, tugging them off to throw them to the ground. "I didn't want this! Not now!" With a skyward cry he fell to his knees. "You give this to me and then you refuse to tell me what to do!"
And then he fell still, fingers digging into the dirt, black soil rising between the gaps, his body wracked with shivers, the beginnings of suppressed sobs. He could not cry again, it was an oath he had made to himself in the dead silence of his own chambers in the deep of a night not so long ago, but the unshed tears stung his eyes and tugged at the back of his throat.
Battling with himself, he finally managed to still his trembling hands and push himself to his knees. Reaching up, his fingers brushed against the Pendant of the Gods, his body shivering with the memory of the power that had flowed through him the first moment he'd held it in his hands; the power he had since grown accustomed to.
"What would you do if I took it off?" he asked them, those formless whispers that lived beyond the realm of the living, beings forged of gold, and heat and light. "Would you strike me dead now? Is that my value to you?"
Falling back onto his haunches, he sat in the dirt, wrapping his arms about his knees and staring off into the distance where the sun played games with the water, running away to a place where the river could never follow.
"Why did you leave me?" he rasped. "Why did you leave me when I am not ready?"
The river and the sun did not answer him, nor did any whispered voices from the depths; they did not give him answers to the questions his soul screamed in the darkness that he allowed no one to see. Why, no matter how many times he prayed, did no one answer him? Why did Ahkenamkamun-Osiris remain ever silent, as cold as his monuments, as distant as he was in life?
"I only wish to be at least as half as competent as you were, but I cannot do that without your blessing," he squeezed his eyes tightly shut. "Pharaoh … How am I to follow in your footsteps? They will never be pleased with me."
"You told me to do what's right," as sigh pushed past his lips into the darkening air. "But what does that mean? Pharaoh … Please, answer me …" He choked on his own voice, stuck somewhere his the space between his chest and his mouth. "Father …"
No answer rose in the space between his breaths, no words came from the rising darkness to assuage his fears or sooth his worried heart. Instead he was left alone with his thoughts, and the only answer to his inquiries was to be found within his own mind.
The dead did not answer, their cold lips choked with secrets.
"Great Pharaoh."
The still figure crouched upon the ground stirred, pushing himself to his feet, fingers pressed against the surface of the pendant. He did not turn around to look at the steward, who shuffled his feet as he awaited his master's orders, eyes downcast, not daring to look upon the fledgling god.
"I suppose that it is time to go," all the strain in his voice had disappeared, and as he turned to face the man his expression was carefully controlled. "Go ahead and tell the Priests to bring my liter. I tire of walking."
His dark eyes leveled solidly on the steward for one tense moment before the man bowed, stuttered his apologies for his clumsiness, and skittered away to relay the sovereign's orders to his entourage.
With a sigh the tension released from the great Pharaoh's body, and he turned his face back to the river. "This is not over," he said, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. "I will return and someday you will give me the answers I need … the answers which we both need."
He turned around, crossing his arms over his chest, watching as the steward returned with an entourage, the men stumbling after him, carrying his liter between them. For a moment he entertained the idea of changing his mind and deciding to walk anyway, but decided against it. He didn't wish to appear fickle.
"I am ready," he announced as the men came to a halt in front of him, kneeling in the dirt.
Without looking into the faces of his servants, he seated himself, placing his elbow on the arm of the chair and staring listlessly into the distance. Feeling himself rise into the air, the Pharaoh allowed some of the tension drain from his shoulders, though he remained poised.
The air around him cooled and the landscape drifted slowly by, and his mind began to drift to other things. Far from the realm of the physical world, floating back and beyond the deep black of the soil and the lush green of the new fields, even beyond the red of the cliffs, his mind went up and away, submerged within the realm of thought and conjecture.
What is to become of me?
He thought as he looked upon his kingdom, the farmers even now working their fields, though Nut prepared to swallow the sun. Though the scene was idyllic, perfectly adhering to Ma'at, anxiousness churned within his heart of hearts, and he could not help but fear that the balance was soon to be swayed in the favor of blackest chaos.
"You look troubled, King."
The Pharaoh looked left toward his companion, who sat at rapt attention, his gaze unwavering. He scanned the other, paying close attention to every detail of the Priest's posture; his clenched knuckles, the tensed muscles of his neck, the way his lips twitched into a slight grimace.
"Are they somehow displeasing you?" The Priest motioned to their escort with a sweeping gesture, indicating eve his fellow priests, a few who strayed ahead.
The Pharaoh snorted and turned away from the other, fixing his gaze once more on nothing and everything all at once. "You are always so harsh, Priest Set."
"I only want to ensure your happiness," he could hear the scoff in Set's voice, a note of the usual offended superiority bubble to the surface as if from a spring. "But the Mighty Bull remains ever distant. How am I to know what is within his heart if I do not ask? I am but a man, after all…"
"It is not for man to truly know the ever-changing hearts of the gods," he said dismissively. "He can only guess and attempt to appease their whims with his offerings."
"Shall I bow to you, then?" Set barked a laugh, and the Pharaoh watched as several sets of curious eyes fought the urge to stare upon them. "What offering would appease the man who is as fickle as the gods? The man through whom all divinity flows?"
"It would appease me," he said with careful diction, "if you were leave me to my thoughts." He heaved a sigh, shifting his weight so that he leaned fully upon his elbow. "Though I know you too well to think you will ever leave me be."
A silence stretched between then, though the Pharaoh knew that Set was not done speaking. It is a contemplative silence, one that he is certain will reveal some new revelation from the world in which Set lives; a place where chaos is necessary to ensure balance. Still, as it spans between them, his mind once again begins to spiral away, consciousness soaring in lazy circles over their caravan, keeping close watch.
When the time comes, will I be able to do the right thing to the exclusion of my own feelings?
The moment he had been filled with the Royal Ka he had cast away his old mortal arraignment and taken upon himself the splendor of a fledgling godhood. He alone stood as their mouthpiece, through and from him their will came down directly, though he Priests could divine such things through the traditional methods. He had been entrusted with this nation and he wondered, looking upon the hazy and oppressive future, if he would be able to live up to the expectation of all of divinity.
"I cannot leave you be, Mighty Bull," the response finally came, biting through the Pharaoh's reverie with the edge of stark cynicism. "We both know that I am the dark hand of your eminence, the shadow that watches and waits for the opportune moment to do that which your godly flesh may find impossible."
"Do we?" he turned his eyes once more to Set, piercing eyes boring straight into Set with atypical severity. "There is nothing impossible for my godly flesh. Even you, Priest Set, do not know the full extent of the ways of the divine. But how could you? You have not seen a god, not in full, for I am only half their ilk, a pale reflection of the splendor that lies all around us, yet unseen."
Holy Father Amun, grant me grace and patience …
"Do you say this because you can commune with the gods in any place you wish?" Set laughs again, the sound harsh against the expanse of the still darkening fields, echoing far. "Not all of us have the luxury of closeness, my king."
The Pharaoh sighs, the noise a barely imperceptible rush of air from between slightly parted lips. His gaze shifts and he focuses on the distance, where buildings loom less than an hour away, a network of palaces that house servants and staff, priests and advisors. Beyond that was the city, a sprawling network of buildings bleached white in the sun. Thebes was not the only such city, and many others bordered the river, north and south, even in the marshes of Lower Kingdom.
This is what had been entrusted to him. This was his home.
"Of course I recognize this," he said. "Though not call gods require intermediaries. As you well know." His tone chastised, disapproved of Set's attitude toward the gods of the peasants, those to whom they could pray without intercession. "All gods are divine. All worthy of praise, and you are no less or greater than the farmers who keep these lands for all your gold and arraignments."
We are all judged in the same way, in the end. The same Ma'at applies to us all.
"Oh yes," Set snorts. "Only you are next to the gods. How presumptuous, my king. Please forgive your servant for daring to think that the sheppard is greater than the sheep."
"Is the sheppard greater than the sheep?" the Pharaoh mused, free hand coming to rest against his pendant once more. "Is not the sheep more valuable for what it provides? The sheppard is there to care for the sheep, to watch over the flocks and make sure they do not harm themselves, but the sheep could live on without him, even though there might be a few more casualties."
"So what you are saying is that the peasants could exist without us, but we are necessary to keep them from hurting themselves."
"Another sheppard would likely come from the bulwark," the Pharaoh said dismissively. "Do not even the foreign nations have kings?"
He felt Set's eyes upon him, attempting to divine the secrets of his heart which he kept locked away safely inside as to never appear weak or sentimental. Of course that was not all he hid. There was far more to his heart than simply weakness. There was obligation, duty, morality, and the desire to do right no matter what, burning within him like a pyre, rising high and hot, fueling him.
"Then why are we here, o Mighty Bull?" Set's voice was thick with derision. "Tell me, oh Beloved of Atum, if the sheep can live on their own, then why are we here?"
"Do you not know the answer already?"
He paused to think, worrying his lip, shifting his weight again so that he sat straight, back rigid, staring out upon his land. A sense of undeniable pride filled his heart, growing within him until it filled every part of his body and he felt as if the essence of the world itself were passing through him. It was only then that he continued to speak.
"A sheep by itself cannot realize its full potential. Alone it wanders and grazes, sometimes it is killed because it wanders off foolishly, other times a predator attacks and it is unable to defend itself. The sheep may not need the sheppard to survive, but it does need him to realize its full potential and to live in complete security."
He stroked the pendant with his fingers, thinking of Ahkenamkamun-Osiris' accomplishments. Had he not defended their country? Done everything conceivable to ensure that Ma'at had flourished and the posterity of the people survived, untainted with the blood of those wretched Asiatics.
"We are the divinely appointed sheppards of this nation, Priest."The Pharaoh mimicked Set's earlier action, motioning to the land about him with a sweep of his hand. "The gods have put us here to ensure that Ma'at reigns, and that these people, the personal creations of the gods, have a sheppard to ensure that they continue to exist and glory the gods."
He took a breath. "The universe must remain in balance. The gods benefit from it. We benefit from it. One day all we be destroyed, but today is not that day. And until that day arrives it is our job as the divinely appointed sheppards to tend to the flocks of the gods."
Set remained silent, and the Pharaoh knew he had won. Set would think on these things for some time and no longer open his mouth to speak, allowing them to all descend into blessed silence. It was an opportunity he relished, the chance to be alone with his thoughts.
I am the divine sheppard. Of course I will do what must be done.
He reminded himself that he was no longer a child, that the youth lock had long been shorn. More-so he was the mouthpiece of the gods, the chosen king who knew the names of the god beasts housed within the Wedju Shrine. When terror came, and it would come, he would be prepared.
Whatever fate had in store for him, he would walk toward it unflinchingly.