Disclaimer: I don't own The Mummy franchise or any of its characters. Believe me, if I did Ardeth and Jonathan would rarely see the light of day. Ever.
Warnings: Honestly nothing at all major. Some angst, some fluff, some man kisses, snuggles, and happy naked times, and of course, since we are going for realism here, some sand that gets into some places that sand really has no business getting into. It happens, it's inevitable, kind of like hot man sex in the desert. (Dies with happy).
Authors Note #1:Please read and review. I am excited to see what you all think. I am open to comments, advice, and constructive criticism. This is my first Mummy story so I am especially looking for constructive feedback.
Looking for the Right Kind of Sand
"Happy is he who can give himself up." -- Naguib Mahfouz
He wasn't really sure why he eventually left England. It hadn't been a spur of the moment idea, or due to any irrepressible need to go adventuring, or on a gentleman's tour. He had simply woken up one day entirely, and inconsolably heartsick for something that he could neither define, nor name. Finding himself altogetherly at a loss, hapless against the keen burn that had smouldered to a barely contained blaze in his chest, filling his blood with a manic sort of energy that threatened to only build as the idle days continued to pass him by. He began to feel almost smothered by the fathomless pressure that had begun mounting in his breast, something that if he were an honest man, he would have outright admitted to himself had been building and surging within him for quite sometime now.
He didn't know why, he didn't know how, what, where, or possibility even who…all he knew was that he couldn't stay stagnant in Britain any longer.
And on that damnable morning, the day dawning clouded and threateningly dark enough to suit to his mood, he still didn't know why he forced himself to say a few jokes as he hugged Alex and Evey, or why he plastered on a wreath of encouraging smiles as he shook Rick's hand and allowed him to pull him into a heartfelt gentlemanly embrace. He didn't know why the falsehoods sprang so easily from his tongue as he told them all exactly what they wanted to hear, that he was going abroad for a period, to get some air and stretch his legs as it were, and that yes he would write, and yes he would be back soon, perhaps in a few months or so when the wanderlust was duly satisfied. While at the same time, what he did not tell them, was that the night before; he had quietly packed up his rooms and had everything shipped off to storage.
He didn't know why he didn't tell them, as honestly, he really didn't know why himself.
But despite all that, despite the easy fake smiles and falsehoods, he was perhaps equally as glad that he wasn't going to be there to see Evey's face as it fell when she would eventually open up his room to grab some book or trinket and only find a room full of echoes, where the sound of her surprise and distress would be all but smothered admits the thick dust covers and the long covering sheets that had been hastily draped over his bare dressers, wardrobes, and book shelves. She would no longer see a rumpled up nest of a bed that was liberally draped with an assortment of quilts and woven rush mats that he had toted all the way from Egypt before they left the first time. Instead, all she would find would be a bed stripped of its linens, a dust cover already placed over it, effectively masking any lingering scent or sign of his possession.
He didn't want to be there for the distressed noise he knew would slip unbidden from her lips, something that he knew would bring Rick and Alex to her side immediately, just as it had bidden him, so many times before in their youth when he would appear at the merest hint of the sound, ready to soothe the hurt. To take her up in his scrawny adolescent arms, murmuring trifles and small comforts in her little ears, holding her until she had entirely forgotten whatever it had been that had caused the sound in the first place.
He didn't want to be there to see Alex's face crumple, not really understanding why his devoted, fun loving uncle would leave them, especially like this, having left wearing a crooked halo of falsehoods and misconceptions. And neither did he want to see Rick's stoic, but growingly troubled look, or the concern that would inevitably flash through his strange, and admittedly somewhat feral American mind. He hoped the old chap wouldn't call in too many favours from contacts of ill acquaintance in order to learn of his whereabouts. He hoped the man would recognize the signs and simply accept the inevitable, that he had left with the intention of not coming back. At least not for a time..not until he figured out what he had to figure out..
Because if he knew one thing for certain, he knew that he could no longer continue on the way he had been. He simply couldn't, he couldn't take it anymore..
For a long time he had been content with his life, it had been one of invariable ups and down, trials and triumphs, fleeting victories and lingering contentment. He had both experienced and borne witness to love, death, horror, lust, greed, avarice, adventure, loss, happiness, debt, and victory in all its forms. He knew when to stand and fight, he knew how to hold his own and strike back, and in kind, he also knew when to step back, he knew when to retreat in order to survive and fight another day.
He had lived a life entirely of his own choosing, caring little for the opinions of society, and all the other bureaucratic flap-trap that was rampant in Britain and her colonies. He was not naive, he knew what civilized society thought of Jonathan Carnahan, the treasure hunter, the wild, neglectful scholar, and the wayward son. He knew, yet he cared not a drop. He lived his own life, he enjoyed well the times of enrichment and victory, and in times of hardship and indeed somewhat serious bouts of mischief and boyish shenanigans, he quietly survived and indeed thrived off the challenge.
Thus, before this dark spell had enveloped him, over the length of the past few harrowing months, ones where he had been for all intents and purposes, both prosperous and content, he would have said, that for the vast majority of his years, he had been well pleased with the cards in which life had so varyingly dealt him.
But now something was off, something was different..wrong. Now the life he had been living seemed empty and strange. And he didn't want it. Not more. Not again. He couldn't.
So, instead of sending that first letter that he had promised to send when he reached his first stop, three weeks, and four countries since Britain he bought a postcard in Cyprus that pictured the Minorca Islands on it, the Spanish flag looking garish and cheap to his English sensibilities as it lay emblazoned across the left hand corner.
And when he all but threw the offending card into the post box, having written only a few broken, hesitant sentences onto the back, he tried not to think about the fact that it slipped from his fingers and into the slot as easy as a lie does from the lips.
He had never even been to Minorca, no self respecting Briton ever would. Too much bad blood had been spilled there, and far too much animosity and hatred still lingered in the hardy, seaside soil for reconciliation. But he had sent it always, and the guilt that had followed his blatantly misdirection faded far quicker then it really should have.
He left Cyprus that very same night. He had never really liked being near Greece that much away. Father had abhorred Greece, so he figured it was all but hereditary.
He wasn't really sure why, but two months and eight countries after the first postcard, he found himself sitting in a dilapidated docking port in British Somaliland, completely surrounded within the potent African wilds, ankle deep in the wrong kind of sand, and staring with a strange sort of focus at a rack of sun faded postcards on display behind dozing travel clerk.
And while he still didn't know why, it was in that very moment that he suddenly realized where it was he was going.
He booked passage on the next steamer ship to Egypt, waking the clerk out of a dead sleep with a few sharp words in the local language, spurring the man into action as he clapped for attendants to handle his trunks and luggage even as the apparently nearsighted clerk carefully counted out his pound notes, eyeing the crisp papers with a greedy gleam that was not so dissimilar from that of a particularly stinky companion they had had the displeasure of traveling with on camel-back over eleven years ago now, through the sands of the Sahara, towards Hamunaptra.
A certain stinky companion who just so happened to have had an excellently selective palette when it came to bringing along a particularly delightful red wine. A talent he somehow highly doubted the clerk behind the desk even remotely possessed, as he had had the misfortune to have sampled the local brew the night before. It was a dark sort of swill, something that apparently passed for 'wine' in this part of the world, and while the local rot-gut was certainly potent enough to knock even the most seasoned wine consignor for a loop, it was also quite likely acidic enough to rot through ones stomach lining as well.
The morning before the ship set sail, he wasn't quite sure why, but he found himself purchasing two of those aged postcards, ignoring the curious eyes that had followed him around the length of the shop, weighing heavily against his back as he bid the same clerk from the day before to bring out the circular display of postcards so he could have a closer look.
The rack had squeaked reproachfully as he twirled it around again and again before he finally decided, finding the selection available somewhat lacking in a proper summation of the current nature of the British colonies, but decided not to get too chuffed about it as no sooner had the thought occurred to him, a particularly large German in a crisp brown satin suit and bowler hat shouldered his way to the front of the ticket line beside him, looking for all the world as if he had somehow gotten off at the wrong port, displaying a temper fit to match his ruddy, angry red complexion as he begin to rant and rave in a garbled, barely discernable stream of German. The entire room simply stared in a mixture of irritation, confusion, and awe as the foreign man offended their ears with his admittedly rather brutish language, while at the same time managing looking nearly as though he had just stepped off an advertisement for Bainbridge's itself, looking entirely out of place in his European finery, and stark blond hair.
Aristocrats! Honestly, satin in this heat?! Any self respecting middle class Englishman would certainly know better!
This time he didn't think twice as he slipped one of the faded, black and white cards into the rather rickety looking mail slot by the desk, choosing one that had "Montreal, Canada" proudly emblazoned across the front, and thick, block lettering.
However, even as he boarded the steamer and watched thankfully as British Somaliland faded slowly into the distance behind him, he still wasn't quite sure why he had also bought an equally as faded postcard that showed a picture of Egypt's rolling sands. Or why, for the entire length of the voyage he kept it safe in his breast pocket, the side displaying the loose golden sands and the distant dunes turned so it was pressed directly against his heart…
"You can tell whether a man is clever by his answers. You can tell whether a man is wise by his questions."
-Naquib Manfouz
A/N: Let me know if you want me to continue. I am not sure, being newbie to writing in the Mummy fandom, how much of a current desire there is for stories, or indeed attention to them.