New perspectives; Part IA: The Jovial Warrior
Disclaimer: I don't own Armon or any of the other guardians. DIC does. Lucky them- a pity they won't do anything with them, like say, make a second season of MA!
Armon sat in silence at the kitchen table, looking darkly into his bowl of soup. The tasteless substance could not sate his hunger, indeed, it only worsened the aching longing he felt for the food and comforts of his home in Ancient Egypt. This world held nothing for him, and this night, like so many others, he had woken up in agony from dreams of his life as a powerful warrior in Egypt, respected, adored by the women who flocked to his door in droves, not caring if he made a commitment to them or not as long as he took them to his bed. He had been a warrior of mythic proportions then, and had he lived, he would have retired comfortably at the head of Pharoah's armies.
But all that had been stolen from him, yanked from his grasp due to the scheming of one vizier, one man who had been so blinded by his own ambitions that he could not wait for nature to take its course. Amenhotep would have fallen, and soon- had not healers been sent to his bed each night at ungodly hours, those last few weeks before the death of the prince? And the boy prince himself, troublesome as he may have been to vizier Scarab, was still just a boy, and could have been easily manipulated. There had been no need for Scarab's actions. Those actions that had cost Armon everything.
The jovial warrior. That was what Rath called Armon now, derisive as only Rath could be- what would he say to the hatred that Armon now felt for Scarab, as everything he lost piled up on him, as he mechanically made his way through battle after battle, laughing and smiling, pretending that everything was alright. It wasn't hard to do. None of the guardians respected Armon's mind, indeed, they liked to pretend he didn't even had one, for his job was to be the brawn, to mindlessly attack as ordered, not to ponder the implications and consequences of his actions- Ja-kal and Rath had made it clear they wanted to do that for him.
Never had he resented anyone as much as he resented Rath. That same silly refrain that dominated their arguements- Brain! Brawn! Brain! - suggested that Rath only thought of the two of them as two extremes, with Rath the one with rational thoughts, while Armon was but a beast of burden, who should follow the tactical orders and planning of his mental superiors.
But not anymore. Armon was finished with this life. Either the others would recognize his value- ALL of his value- or he would leave them. As if they could guard the prince without him. Armon would like to see that whiny little intellectual bash his way through a line of shabties, or even get through a battle without being thrown to the ground. What would he do, Armon wondered with an amused smile, if now there were no Armon to come rescue him, no Armon to take on impossible odds against Scarab's minions while Rath worked one of his slow, often faulty spells?
But Armon didn't need to speculate- soon, very soon, his "friends" would find out just how much they needed him at their side. Leaving his chicken soup only half finished, Armon went over to Rath's desk and pulled out a sheet of papyrus and a pen from Rath's hoardings. As he fit the pen clumsily into his one remaining hand, Armon thought bitterly of his tutoring in the army, where he had learned the basics of writing the lowest of hieroglyphic scripts- although to Rath, he had not even conceded this small knowledge, for Rath was firm in his belief that no soldier had the mental capacity for any art that was reserved for scribes.
Dredging up the letters from deep within his memory, Armon carefully penned out a short message for Ja-kal and the others. Taping it on the front of Ja-kal's sarcophagus, Armon glanced up at the clock. Soon the others would return from Presley's soccer game, and he would have to put off his departure once again. He'd been doing that far too often lately- now, or never! Hoisting his sarcophagus into the air, Armon went outside, his modern garb hiding the bandages that betrayed his mummified state. Reverently lifting the sarcophagus into the back of the SUV he'd been refurbishing for the past few months, Armon drove off towards the center of the city, his own stash of modern coinage his ticket to what he hoped would be a more satisfying life.
A half an hour passed before a jubilant crowd of guardians and one young resurrected prince entered the sphinx. Even Rath had gotten into the spirit, so to speak, for the victory of the prince's team had been in part, he liked to credit himself, do to the tactics of war that he had been teaching Presley of late.
The boy in question, who disagreed with Rath on the value of the scribe's teachings but was far too gleeful to argue, rushed ahead into the kitchen to seek out the man who he DID consider responsible for his heightened athletic skill, Armon.
Later, Presley would realize the first sign of trouble was the nearly untouched bowl of soup sitting on the counter. He had never known Armon to leave a meal unfinished- indeed, it sometimes seemed that not even Scarab and all the gods of the Egyptian pantheon couldn't stir Armon from a good meal.
But all Presley thought when he entered the kitchen was that perhaps Armon was watching the television, or practicing egyptsu- although Presley heard none of the tell tale thuds that usually accompanied such an exercise. Making his way through the sphinx, Presley saw no sign of his giant companion, until finally he reached the guardian's sleeping area. Presley's jaw dropped when he saw the blank wall where Armon's sarcophagus had been propped, and he shouted instantly for Ja-kal.
It was a tired falcon guardian who answered Presley's call, and he half walked, half stumbled over to see what had caused the young prince such alarm. Seeing the note taped to his sarcophagus, Ja-kal stepped up and carefully removed it, reading it with pain in his eyes.
"What is it Ja-kal?" Presley asked nervously, trying to decipher the scrawled letters but recognizing only a few of the hieroglyphs. When Ja-kal did not answer, he asked loudly, "Where's Armon??"
Ja-kal looked down at the young prince sadly. "He's... moved out."
To be continued in Part IB of the Jovial Warrior. Please email me with comments at rathera@hotmail.com. Thanx for reading!