To Follow the Route of Ra
Summary: "Come, Amu, let us continue our next great journey together. Let us follow the route of Ra so that we may be reborn once again… Into the afterlife..." They are born; they die; and are reborn again as they follow the footsteps of the Sun God down the river Nile; towards their judgement.
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In the dead of night demons lurk.
In the darkness that encompasses the world there prowl beasts and monsters of unthinkable malice and evil. When the sun sinks below the dunes they stalk the edges of the calm, sleepy cities rising from the sand, for during the day the temperatures soar, but at night the air is cold enough to chill a person to the bone and they thrive on it; that same coldness that works their way through their veins and hearts like a creeper that works its way up a stone wall.
Many things these demons are capable of – many unspeakable things. They take many forms. They may be invisible to the naked eye or opaque against the candlelight; walk on twos or fours; or they may slither or crawl or creep their way through the night. They inflict pain upon people's souls or lurk within their minds and pick out all the things that person does not wish to recall, but soon they'll be wide awake and weeping because, as much as they try to prevent it, their demons like to rise during the night and disturb their peaceful slumber.
Terrible things, these creatures are, but, perhaps the worst kind of all, are the ones who walk among us. They are not metaphorical or invisible or small enough to ignore. They walk on twos and interact with others and have the full control of their consciousness to seek out and manipulate those they wish to twist for their own immoral purposes.
They are the worst, yet the most unavoidable.
The Pharaoh of Egypt was struck down in the dead of night by such a demon – physical and cold and all too real – and from the moment that it was announced from the Palace the citizens wept, mourned the loss of their great King and watched their backs in case such a beast could attack again.
And truly mourned, he was, for Aruto Tsukiyomi had been considered the greatest of Kings for generations. He was the God on Earth; the son of Ra – the Pharaoh. He was all-powerful and wise and great and strong. He commanded the Kingdom of Egypt – the civilisation carved out of the harsh heat of the desert, settled and clustered around the life-giving river all sat in the very palm of his hand – and he was respected; honoured; even worshiped.
It was said that the Sun God, Ra, once wept and, from the tears that fell from his eyes, up rose man and Aruto watched over all of Ra's men with a fondness for each of his subjects. The Pharaoh was a great man. He was a kind man. Aruto Tsukiyomi took much pride in the growth and the prosperity of his people… So when he was cruelly taken down and found with a dagger protruding from his back in his chambers, the people were baffled as to why such a man would be murdered in the coldest blood. After all, the usually observant Pharaoh had never seen it coming until the knife was already inches beneath his skin and perhaps that was the most worrying thing of all. The knowledge clung to the people within the Palace – never knowing when or where this deathly shadow would reappear and grip them in its malevolent claws, nor whether it was still among them and walking as one of their own – and the tension was often thick in the air.
But life went on.
Aruto had left a family – a wife and three children who remained in the Palace after his death and had attended the funeral with glassy eyes and a last, choked-up farewell. The wife, Souko, had fallen into a depression almost immediately after his death. The woman had been with him for most of their lives and since the incident she had rarely spoken, too wound up in her own sorrow to pay attention to the world drifting all around her.
The Tsukiyomis had always been a strong and tightly-knit family. The Pharaoh and his wife had rarely left each other's sides (he had seemed to take little interest in any of his concubines) and their children had taken to participating in public events, particularly the son who was to soon become the next ruler of Egypt. Aside from their son, the daughter, Utau, was renowned for her voice which was said to have been bestowed upon her by Hathor herself and then there was the third and youngest: Hikaru, the small boy who had been found by the Pharaoh crawling around in the mud of the city streets, dirtied and bruised and inches from starving to death in a cruel way no infant should have had to suffer… And so, his heart struck with sympathy and compassion, Aruto had introduced a third member to their family. The boy was quiet and could mostly be found studying the work of his father whose footsteps he aspired to follow someday, but he was also polite and patient and Aruto often praised his adopted son for his good traits.
And of the first son… Ikuto was preparing to become the Pharaoh and his coronation would take place that following day. But, for now, it was night and the Prince had settled, leaning against the rails of the balcony and overlooking the busy capital of Wasat. The coolness of the air was enough to condense his breath and he stared in mild fascination at the steam that rose before his face. His breath misty like the fog that rolled over the banks of the Nile, he realised as the chill on the stone numbed his fingers, as the hairs on his arms stood on end and as his breath stood out clear against the sky that he had never really felt more alive. Well, not alive, but more like living. More like breathing and feeling and sensing and aware of the life around him and all its details and colours.
It bothered him to know that he'd only been so acutely aware of life itself since his father died. He wondered how ready he was to take his place, but, more so, he wondered how long he would last before he received a stab in the back too.
It had been awful. To hear the breaking of the vase and the grunt of the struggle; to hear the sudden alarmed shouts of the guards and finally the strangled cry of pain as the Pharaoh's life was cruelly cut short; to see his mother cry and spot the pool of blood that seeped from under the thin curtains of his father's chamber…
It was still awful.
The Prince, haunted by sudden memories of his father's death (a chill swept up his spine), pushed away from the balcony edge and left the cool of the open air, instead opting for his chambers and a good night's rest before his coronation tomorrow.
He had waited his whole life for the day when Aruto would preferably step down from his post in his old age and hand the rule of Egypt to him. He remembered how his father had always encouraged him to learn the trade – "and learn it well!" he would say, "Be ready, Ikuto, to be a great leader!" – and had often taken pride in the thought that one day his son would be as worshipped and praised as he was. He had often wished to live to see the day, yet neither of them thought there was much chance of that – the stacks were placed far too high against the King. But, to be taking the throne only days after his father had received a bitter, callous end at the hands of an unknown murderer… It left a bad taste in his mouth.
"Just you wait, old man…" Ikuto mumbled to himself as he stalked through the dim corridors of the Palace. "I'll be great," he continued, feet tap-tap-tapping against the stone; "I'll be just as great as you wished me to be." (A second set of tapping had sounded from the other end of the passage, but, too submerged in his own vows, Ikuto didn't hear them) "I'll find out who the hell dared to cut you down." He spat; "They'll pay." He swore;
"They'll pay!"
...And then Ikuto froze.
The night, still and cool, allowed a breeze to trail through the corridor, but there was something else. The flicker of the candlelight behind him danced excitedly. The silence suddenly closed in around him to suffocate his senses. And then he heard it – it had been watching him, following him, smirking at him – sadistic, mocking, just audible;
"Heh."
And then he noticed the shadow that stretched along the wall.
The next few seconds were a blur of heart-pumping terror.
Turning, Ikuto barely missed the blade that fell to hit the stone. It caught the shoulder of his clothing, but he escaped without a scratch and spun, after side-stepping and grabbing a flaming torch from the holder to his left, to face his attacker head-on.
The man all wrapped up in a dark, concealing robe stepped forward, blocking the other end of the corridor and Ikuto suddenly felt like a tiny, panicked fly trapped in the web of a spider. The beast lunged with his weapon, uttering a cry of determination, but the Prince stepped back, too well-trained to abandon his wit even for but a moment.
What followed was a torturous dance during which the Prince of Egypt was forced to shamefully continue to just avoid whilst the brute continued his assault. Damn him! His sword was in his chamber! The nearest guard was out of hearing range! Curse them!
The attacker lunged again, but Ikuto was quicker and he brought the torch in his hand down with such a force on the back of his head that his eyes could have been knocked straight out from their sockets. Hindered, the man groaned loudly and, in the process of backing up and cradling their injury, their hood slackened. Ikuto was dumbfounded. He brought his torch forwards and, to his utter shock, the firelight illuminated a face that the Prince knew and even respected.
Knowing that the jig was up, they too paused. Ikuto stopped and stared, his eyes widened and his mouth hung agape.
"Ka… Kazuomi…"
The Royal Vizier stood before him, the weapon in his hands gleaming brightly in the torchlight and in the back of his mind Ikuto remembered that, shortly after the body was discovered, the killing object had disappeared from the scene. He looked at the hilt. In the dim light he could faintly make out a blood stain.
His mind reeled – his heart that had been so wildly pumping seemingly stopping dead and he felt a strange sense of emptiness with the shock that none other than Kazuomi Ichinomiya was the one to wield the blade that had killed his father. He… His father had been betrayed… Horribly betrayed..! He didn't understand! Kazuomi was the Vizier – the highest member of authority besides his father! – he had been dearly trusted and had followed his father throughout the man's entire life as Pharaoh so… So why?
"Ichinomiya!"
The dagger came down again and the older man stepped forward to try and kill or at the very least injure his opponent, but to no avail. Ikuto was in a state of shock. Forget being attacked unexpectedly in a dark passageway, but to be attacked and then to be greeted by the eyes of his dear dead father's most loyal subject…
"Ikuto…" The man's low voice was a steady rumble as he advanced towards his target. Ikuto stepped back, but he just kept on going.
"Why..?"
Step.
"Why would you-?"
Step.
"Why would you kill my father?"
The Vizier grinned horribly at him – the expression completely void of mirth and Ikuto's body was suddenly consumed by the fiercest rage to ever have coursed throughout his body. His fist clenched hard enough to almost draw blood and he didn't realise until it was too late that some invisible force was causing him to approach his attacker. In his fury he forgot that he was weaponless.
He seethed; "Kazuomi!"
The Vizier growled, a glint in his eyes as he, like a soldier in the heat of battle, watched the enemy charge towards an army that he knew he could not beat, yet he kept going. It provided a sort of morbid amusement to know that one would so foolishly race towards their own deaths without a second thought, fuelled by adrenaline and desperation and anger.
Ikuto rushed forward, raising a fist, intending to strike the traitor senseless…
But the punch was intercepted by the Vizier's own and the momentum of Kazumoi's fist to his gut made Ikuto stagger uselessly forwards, knocking past the other and into the wall behind them. Kazuomi whirled round and came in for a second attack, but Ikuto was still younger and faster and he easily dodged, circling his opponent and making clear of the deadly knife. They circled each other like lions; like gladiators in far-off countries, baring their teeth like animals.
"You have not answered me!" the young Prince began through gritted teeth. "Ichinomiya," he spat; "what in the name of the Gods do you think you're doing?"
The Vizier – his face ominously shadowed in the dim light of the passageway – replied in a tone barely audible. "What does it matter, Ikuto?" he said terrifyingly calmly. "You won't live to see it!"
And Ikuto found himself under attack yet again as the other lunged forward, brandishing his dagger, however this time Kazuomi managed a hit and Ikuto snarled, backing away and freeing his shoulder from the blade. The pain swelled horribly quickly and blood pattered down onto the tiles, the blood horribly warm and seeping unpleasantly into his clothing to stick to his skin. But Ikuto had no time to focus on his injury. He was disadvantaged – he saw that now as the blow apparently brought back the heavy reality of the situation. He had to get out. He had to escape. He was the future of his father's nation; he had to find a guard or, at the very least, he had to retreat for his own weapon before he could come back with a vengeance.
And that's how Ikuto found himself on his feet, sprinting as fast as he could down the shadowed pathways in the maze of the Palace, feeling humiliated and afraid, fleeing like the hunted as he was pursued by the savage predator mere paces behind him. He turned corners, side-stepped, pumped his legs as fast as they could take him through many confusing corridors, yet with every pound of his feet upon the stone tiles, pain jolted through his body and spots clouded his vision as he bled upon the floor. Kazuomi would follow his trail, he realised as he felt it slide along the hand pressed to the wound , he would follow and he would be found and he would die a painful, meaningless death just as his father had only nights ago. Alone, cold, terrified…
"GACK!"
A resonating, heavy thud sounded as, in his gloomy thoughts, Ikuto slipped in a trail of his own fresh blood that he had intended to follow backwards in the hopes of tricking his opponent.
But, alas, as his head pounded and as his heart beat, his vision began to fade and, reluctantly, Ikuto had no choice but to slip into unconsciousness and all the while the demon stood above him, sneering – a sadistic, malevolent shadow that blocked all light and muffled all screams.
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The fog had settled thick upon the sand and stone, veiling all within its domain and so it was that no one saw the man in the night, lugging the sack over his shoulder. No one saw the glint in his eyes or heard the chuckle escaping his curled lips. He glanced over his shoulder. Even the glow of the lights which usually shone bright from the Palace windows could not be seen.
The scene was perfect – suited to evil deeds. He heard the water before he saw it, the gurgle of the Kingdom's life source echoing in the air like vindictive laughter. He chuckled again. It was like having an audience and yet, as it was, no one would ever know of what he'd done down by the river bed.
No one would know.
He finally felt the water lick at his open toes and so the Vizier let the sack drop to the ground. Though, in truth, it was not exactly a bag or a sack; just a wounded man bundled in fabric to keep the blood from dripping onto his clothes. He couldn't return to the court with blood stains on his person.
Tossing the dirtied, stained sheets aside, Kazuomi took one sweet second to stare down at the unconscious Prince and he laughed. He did not chuckle; he laughed a harsh, solid bark of laughter and knelt down for a moment to savour the moment. The wretch would die of his wounds. The dagger had dug deep and the blood still seeped, though admittedly less so right now, but he had still lost much and he would lose even more asleep and in the hands of a treacherous conspirator.
"Ikuto…" he said lowly so that anyone passing by might mistake his tone for a sort of genuine, loving affection. But the illusion was ruined as he calmly rose and proceeded to give the young man a harsh kick in the side, spitting; "Disappear into the dirt from whence you came, wretch." And, with that, he sent Ikuto another forceful kick, sending him rolling down the little slope beside the Nile and into the deep, murky waters.
"I doubt even Ammut could stomach your sordid heart."
And as the last strand of blue atop his head disappeared, bobbing as he was swept away from the scene, Kazuomi watched until he had vanished from sight. He walked away, coolly, tranquilly as the demon cloaked itself once again; concealed the glint in his eyes and the dagger beneath his robes.
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Ra: A God associated with the sun and most commonly represented as a man with the head of a falcon. He was thought to have also travelled into the underworld every night and then back again as the sun was reborn in the morning.
Hathor: The Goddess of music (among other things).
Ammut: A demon who ate the hearts of those who were not allowed to pass into the afterlife. Their heart would be weighed against a feather to determine whether they were worthy of passing the test and allowed to move on.
Wasat: Wasat was twice used as an ancient Egyptian capital, known today as Thebes. I never made up my mind about when exactly in ancient Egypt this story was set and I don't plan to give an actual historical period, so I just chose the capital that I'd heard most about.
Vizier: The highest ranking member of authority in Ancient Egypt, apart from the Pharaoh. The title was given by the Pharaoh himself and they served him loyally – one of their duties even concerning the Pharaoh's safety.
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A/N: Wow so perhaps I shouldn't be writing another story, but it's only a small one and I had the inspiration. It's always hard for me to let certain ideas go.
I am no Egyptologist, so I apologise for any historically inaccuracies in this fanfiction.
Anyway, reviews/comments/critique would very much appreciated. ^^