***"Some of them understand why, and some do not, but they all understand that their happiness,
the beauty of their city, the tenderness of their friendships, the health of their children,
the wisdom of their scholars, the skill of their makers, even the abundance of their
harvest and the kindly weathers of their skies, depend wholly on this child's abominable
misery." ~Ursula K. LeGuin's "Those Who Walk Away From Omelas"
AN: You can find LeGuin's short story online if you want to read it. TKB reminds me of that little child locked in a closet in Omelas. This story is kind of a retelling of that basic concept. The first half is Citronshipping, and then it goes into Thiefshipping.
Disclaimers: Language, violence, cutsey-nicknames, literary references, potential feels, and male/male lemons, y'know, that stuff that makes the story fun to read.***
After watching them die, and watching them burn, and watching them cast into molds – human no more, family no more, mother and father no more, but merely baubles for the Pharaoh's court – the child collapsed. When he opened his eyes to glaring streaks of yellow-white sun, he couldn't remember his name or the name of his family. At first he couldn't remember anything, but then the smell of horses, blood, and smoke returned from the back of his memory along with the sounds of fighting and screaming and the desert wind blowing through flames. The child wailed, his voice parched and raw from smoke, but he wailed without stopping.
He looked at the sunlight and the smoke-rent bricks of his hiding place, and then he saw white wisps; he thought them ribbons of smoke leftover from the fires, but they took a shape that poorly mocked human form. The child reached out his arms, wanting to be held by his mother, wanting to be comforted by touch and the warmth of human hands. The ghost reached out, but the smoky form slipped past the child's body and into the grit and sand. The child understood, though only in a vague way, and he screamed louder because he knew he'd never be held again. The ghost keened with him, others joined the spirit in her morning. The charred ruins of Kul Elna echoed with the wails of the damned.
He cried until his stomach twisted into jagged knots. The pain forced him to roll on his belly and wretch into the sand. Only a thin trickle of pink backwash dribbled into the ground, and then the child dry heaved until he near chocked on his own sobs. The ghost swirled around him like a cat against one's ankle, trying to comfort best it could without words or physical contact. The child, dressed only in rags and the ash of dead loved ones, stumbled to his feet and braced himself against the wall beside him. He felt a fever burning through him, ravaging his body much like the flames did to his family the night before. He forced a step forward and crashed to his hands and knees. The ghost twined around him, joined by another – mother and father no more.
He couldn't cry anymore, too dehydrated and too fevered, so the child knelt in the sand with burning eyes and wished for the hand of his mother to light on his forehead despite the knowledge that it would never happen again. Other spirits joined him and whispered in the language of the dead, a language without proper words. They encouraged him to stand – family no more, neighbors no more. He stumbled through the charred skeletons of buildings. In one he found a clay jar with only part of the top broken. He grabbed the non-fractured half of the jar's clay lip, carried it to the river that wound close to the village, and filled the jar with water.
The child stumbled back to the black shell of his old hut and sat down, using his cupped hands to drink from the broken jug. Drinking straight from the river wasn't safe; the water gave life but some times it gave fever as well. Not that it mattered, he already felt his fever boiling just under his russet skin. Usually they had beer with their bread instead of water. Perhaps some jars of beer remained in cellars, but the child wasn't sure and didn't have the strength to look. Scanning the village, he only saw burnt brick and smashed doors and scattered pottery, so he sat and drank cold water from his hands and wondered if he'd get to be a ghost with the others after he died. The child curled up against the wall, sunlight washing over him from the now roofless building, and fell asleep. When he awoke he thought he, too, burned in the fire that destroyed his family. The child cried for his mother and the ghosts circled around him. After a moment the child realized he wasn't on fire; instead, his fever ate away at his body from the inside out. He drank from the jug again and shivered. He knew he should look for grain, make bread like he'd seen his mother do every morning, but his body felt melted with fever-heat. He wasn't solid enough to stand.
He summoned his Ka, a white beast a little larger than the child. He clung to the creature for warmth, tears leaking down his cheeks as he watched the ghost circling him but unable to help. Diabound wrapped his wings around the child and the child fell back into a fevered sleep. When he awoke again the stars greeted him, countless white fires burning in the cold, black sky. Heat still floated off of the child's body like wavy mirages rising from the sand, but the child shook from both chills and the cold air. He sent his Ka out, gathering wood for a fire. When the wood piled high in front of him, the last survivor of of Kul Elna used heka to ignite the wood.
He sat and watched the fire. Both Diabound and ghosts wrapped around the child. Fresh tears bathed his face, hot as his fever. The flames brought memories rushing back to him – screams – blood – the froth gathering in the corners of the soldiers' horses' mouths from their long ride – blood – screams – Kul Elna citizens formed the foundation of the Pharaohs tombs and their daggers, building tools, and farm equipment couldn't hold against spears and swords – screams – blood – fire – fire – fire – death – gold – ghosts. A high pitched whine snapped the child away from his fevered thoughts. He jerked his tear-blurred gaze in the direction of the sound.
The first song rose and fell into the cold night air, followed by another one. The youth stood, swaying on his feet and waiting for his death to come. He knew the songs of the desert well and recognized the calls of jackals. The child expected a pack, sandy brown fur and hungry bellies, but he only saw one. The creature stood twice the size of other jackals and his fur gleamed black not beige. The ghosts rushed towards the beast, doing their best to bow on the ground.
I cannot lead them through the Duat.
The child heard the words in his mind as he might hear speech in a dream. His eyes never left the sleek, gleaming fur or hard, golden eyes.
They're bound to this place. To the Tablet.
The child didn't understand until he remembered the slab and the gold birthed from it – human no more. A brutish wind blew the child's bangs into his fever-bright, silver-gray eyes. The smell of ash and death clung to the wind.
Are you strong?
The child stood taller, but the jackal's narrow, pointed ears rose higher that the windblown locks of white hair shifting around the child's head. Still, the last survivor of Kul Elna stared at the god Anubis without flinching. He was of Kul Elna. He was strong. He nodded.
Let's see how strong.
The jackal lunged, but Diabound intercepted and shielded the child. The beast snapped his jaws shut and the white spirit representing the child's life force slipped away from the dagded, ivory teeth before they could sink into his serpentine tail. They fought, the jackal with teeth and claws, Diabound with tail and the strength in his arms. The child controlled Diabound with the power of his will. He'd learned how to summon and use his Ka from his father, just as he'd learn to wield his heka from his mother. His father often bragged of his son, the youngest in village history to summon his Ka.
Diabound and the jackal were even-matched, circling one another, attacking, and retreating in turns without one managing to hurt the other. They fought until the stars started to fade from the sky as the black of night slipped into deep indigo. Even-matched, but the child was only that, a child. Fevered, hungry, and grief-weary, the child didn't know how long he could hold out against god. The jackal feigned an attack at Diabound, the Ka blocked, but it wasn't the Ka the jackal aimed for. Instead, the beast, black fur glossy with sweat and effort, turned his claws towards the child. He turned his face, trying to dodge the attack, but the long, black claws scored two horizontal cuts on the child's cheek. The shock of pain knocked the child to the ground, too weak from fever to brace himself.
Yes. You're strong.
He slept.
The child didn't know how long he slept, but a soft, cool hand lighted on his burning, bleeding cheek and woke him. For a moment he thought it was his mother come to sooth him after a nightmare. He'd open his eyes and be in bed, and then he'd rise and eat bread and drink bear with his family. He would wrestle and swim and race with the other boys while the village girls learned how to mill grain with sand and bake bread. Everything would be well again and he'd cry in his mother's arms until she scolded him and then he would laugh because it would be a joy to be scolded by her. His sudden change from tears to myth may even win him a fig – she always had some hidden for when he was especially good.
It was not his mother. Nothing would ever be well again, and figs would taste like ash for the rest of his days. When the child opened his eyes he saw a woman, beautiful, scented like water lilies, her face made up with kohl and her cheeks stained dark. She held an ostrich feather in her hand and looked at the child with sadness in her expression.
The child looked around and only saw dark, sullen gray. The buildings stood gray and ruined atop gray sand and under gray sky. Nothing moved, the ghosts swirling around their destroyed village hung in the air, still and motionless. The only thing that still held color and movement was the fire burning high beside him. The flames still danced though the child couldn't feel the breeze that moved them. He reached out his hand and heat washed over his palm, but when he took a step closer his sandal made no sound against the ground. The child turned back to the woman. She wore square-cut emeralds and sapphires on her throat and gold bracelets at her wrists. A crown circled her brow, a thin circlet of gold with a gold Ostrich feather in the center.
"Am I dead?" the child asked. His voice felt like a knife in his throat because of all his wailing and breathing in smoke and ash the night before. At least in the gray nothing-world he couldn't smell the charred stench of the village.
"You're dying," she said. Her voice had a no-nonsense quality to it. Like the old women in the village – she would not soften the truth to spare the child, but her words weren't unkind, merely fact.
"Death doesn't scare me. Where did the jackal go? I will follow him through the Duat."
He saw a man appear beside the woman. Sleek, black, and lean, he was also beautiful like Ma'at, but his smell was that of a beast and of newly dug earth and not of flowers.
He looked at them. For a long time he looked at them. He looked at the jewels and gold adorning their gorgeous bodies and the warm, fresh linens, and their clean, shining hair, and he hated them. He hated them for their finery, hated them for their easy manner, but truly he hated them for forsaking his village. The child's bottom lip trembled; his fists clenched into knots. "You are bad gods."
Ma'at wept, silent tears that shimmered against her painted cheeks. "We let our children choose, and sometimes they choose the ways of Isfet."
The child choked on a sob. Tears spilled down his eyes though he tried to hold them in. He tried to hold all his feelings in, but his chest was too small. "Then where's justice? The Pharaoh . . . the Pharaoh is supposed to uphold your laws. He's supposed to be your rule incarnate. Then why did royal soldiers burn—" Another angry sob cut off his words and the child smashed them away from his cheeks with clenched fists.
Ma'at used the hem of her dress to dry the rest of the tears and dried blood from the child's face. She took off his sandals and cleaned the ash from his feet before returning the shoes. Smudges of gray and red defiled the unadulterated cream of her dress when she stood back to her feet. The child held his breath. He wanted to hate them more, hate them as much as he hated the soldiers that brought the torches and the royal magicians who brought the dark spell, but he couldn't. The gods before him were manifestations of Judgment and Justice – they were all he had left.
She touched the crown of the child's head, smoothing down a lick of unruly, white hair. "There is still you and your choice."
The child shook his head, dislodging the goddess' fingers in the process. "The dead can't choose."
Anpu knelt to face the child. "You're not dead yet, but if you come with me I will guide you through the Duat and we shall judge you and take you to the lands of Aaru."
Ma'at nodded in agreement. "Kul Elna was a town of thieves, but they were still Ra's children and the law does not give the priests or magi the right to make blood and soul sacrifices to the darkness. Priest Aknadin has tipped the scales towards chaos, and all the land will suffer because of his actions."
"Good." The child's fist dug into his sides. "Good. They should suffer, too."
The jackal in human form studied the child. "In the field of reeds you'll know no suffering, child. Come with me and you'll know joy forever."
The child stared back at Anubis. "My mother . . ."
"I cannot guild them to judgment. They're bound to the Tablet. Only by returning the seven Items to their rightful place and opening up the Great Door can the souls of your clan be released."
The child's eyes burned silver, not from fever but from will. "Then that's my choice. I must gather the Items together in order to unbind their souls."
Anpu stared at the child. "If you choose to live, you will be the counterweight on Ma'at's scale, a way to eventually restore order. Many will suffer along your path of vengeance, but more will suffer if you don't interfere. I have fought with your soul and judged its strength and your will. You are strong enough, but if you free your people it will be at a great cost to you."
Ma'at lowered her head. Her long onyx hair hung across her shoulder like heavy cloth. "If you choose to live, your anger and hatred will consume you. Twice you will fight the Pharaoh for the land of Kemet, and twice you will lose, and twice you will plunge into the darkness – the womb of Isfet, the Shadow Realm. The first time you will be trapped in one of the golden relics for three millennium and the second . . ." Ma'at held the feather tight against her breast.
The child didn't falter. Chin held high, he continued to stare at the gods as if they were anyone else and not gods at all. "Tell me."
When Ma'at looked up, fresh tears collected on her cheeks. "Your spirit will be corrupted by the darkness, by the one that existed perhaps before even the Ogdoad. To ransom your village you must pay with your own soul."
Anubis nodded. "The demon-god will bind himself to you, twisting your need for redress into cold vengeance. Twice you will fight the Pharaoh over Kemet, and twice you will lose. The second time will allow the Pharaoh to open the door to the afterlife and once that door is sealed forever, the Tablet will go back to the Shadows and your people will be free of it. Then I can gather them for their Tribunal."
"But not you," Ma'at whispered. "You'll be joined in spirit to the Darkness and Anpu will not be able to guild you to the fields. This is your only chance. Do you understand, child? Your only chance to escape a fate worse than Ammit. There is peace in oblivion, but not in the Shadow Realm." A sad smile spread across her lips. "Choose death. I need you to balance my scale, but I cannot stand for you to suffer the darkness. Choose death."
The child took her hand, the one holding the Ostrich feather, and kissed it. "I'm sorry, but I want to live."
The jackal nodded his long, dark-skinned, human face. Pride showed in the gold of his eyes as he stared at the child in rags with the ash of his village clinging to his body except for his feet. "Then turn your back to me, child."
The child bowed and obeyed, leaving the warmth of the gods behind him. After three steps the living world embraced him. Sounds of wind, the fire, and locusts exploded into his ears. The sands around him glowed silver in the moonlight and the sky was as black as Anubis' skin or Ma'at's hair.
His fever was gone, cured by the gods that he first hated and now loved. Judgment and Justice, they were giving him a chance to even the scales, and to the small child, that meant destroying the royal palace as completely as the soldiers destroyed the village of Kul Elna. The ghosts encircled him like a cloak made from vapor. He reached out his hand and let them pass through him, the closest he could get to holding them. "I'll avenge you," he whispered. "I'll avenge you and save you." His palm curled into a fist. "I swear it."
***I have no set update schedule for new chapters in this story, but it'll probably be on Fridays, unless work interferes. It has 9 chapters, but I think I'm going to add an short epilogue after that as well.***