Disclaimer: The characters and premise of The Mummy and The Mummy Returns are property of Stephen Somers. Lord Meren, and other assorted characters / information from that universe are property of Lynda S. Robinson.
A/N: "So through a glass and darkly, the age long strife I see, where I have fought in many guises, many names, but always me." – Gen. George S. Patton.
YEAR OF THE SCORPION
--------June 21, 1933---------
Mark
Clang!
One dark eye peeped out from behind rich gold layered upon stone.
Through the masses of finely woven linen shifts and oiled skin, battle raged.
Four razored bronze edges came together; the boy winced. Courtiers murmured, shifting in the sudden absence of battle-noise.
"Put your mask on! Let's not scar that pretty face."
A scowl flirted with existence, was dismissed from Nefertiri's face. The noise of clashing blades scathed his ears, echoing in the court. Trident-daggers skidded across marble.
Meren's eyes widened. Fifteen he might be, husband and royal charioteer – but still in training. Crouched behind the column painted with hieroglyphs of gold proclaiming the reign of Amunhoteph III, he could see Pharaoh. The living god was not quite as expressionless as the Priest of Amun at his side.
Blasphemy it might be to think the living god so, but – He's worried. He cannot let the courtiers see . . .
His daughter-in-law was demonstrating her prowess in battle against the newest royal wife. And she was losing.
Why is the Priest smiling?
Clashes between Pharaoh and the priesthood of his father, the god Amun, were numerous and often; but as he glanced about the room Meren realized that few had their attention on the living god and the Priest Imhotep. The royal court was a nest of vipers, all now intent upon the 'practice' held before them.
Lions hunting the ibex. A shiver crawled down his spine on scorpion's legs.
Flesh slammed into stone.
The battle axe was wrested from her grip; quick as a striking cobra, the tip of a spear hovered at Nefertiri's throat.
"You are learning quickly, Nefertiri. I'll have to watch my back." He'd once seen a cat smile so, flexing its claws into a rope of scales. Felines were sent in to kill the snakes, when one was loose inside. . .
"Yes. And I'll watch mine."
Blood rushed in his ears; his ka struggled wildly within him. Why am I so afraid?
Meren drew a breath to calm his heart. Pharaoh was speaking.
" - protect the bracelet of Anubis than my lovely daughter, Nefertiri."
Young as he was, and untrained in the ways of the court, Meren still spied the way Pharaoh's words drew attention from the tension between the two. He touched her! The living god honored her – and Meren could see the jealous calculation in dozens of eyes. Princess, wedded to Amunhoteph IV and favorite of the Great Royal Wife, Queen Tiye, Nefertiri was far above the preening men and women arrayed in sheer linens and wigs, draped with gold and lapis lazuli.
Especially the firstborn son of Amosis; his father was only a nobleman, courtier, and Friend of Pharaoh. Though no longer wearing the sidelock of youth, Meren had yet to be counted among the battle-tested warriors.
But in the royal court, efforts to scrounge power and prestige were timeless as the gods of Egypt. With that touch, Nefertiri had gained false friends and enemies beyond count.
"And who better to protect me than my future wife, Anck-su-namun."
"Son of Amosis."
Meren whirled – he hadn't heard –
The Grand Vizier smiled down at him. Ay held a staff, though he was not yet bent with the age that had silvered his hair and carved lines in the skin around his eyes. That the man had remembered him was a surprise; Meren had only rarely been to court, as an attendant to Amosis.
He licked dry lips, murmuring a formal greeting.
"I believe your father is looking for you."
The chill of the palace clutched Meren's ka.
"Ay!" Amosis was a man made large with good food and drink. His frown deepened upon seeing Meren, and the youth paled.
"Amosis." Only one whose place was at the right hand of Pharaoh could exhibit such unconcern. Or such disregard for the prestige of others.
Meren was so saturated with trepidation that he could do naught but stare. For long moments the words of his elders flew above his head. His fate, once they reached home, did not bear contemplation.
"Boy!" his father snapped.
Meren straightened, lowering his eyes and addressing his father immediately. "My Lord?"
"He does not seem so ill-mannered, Amosis," Ay commented, a smile twitching at his lips.
Amosis snorted in disgust. "The boy is willful and disobedient, lazy in his studies. I pray daily that training with the royal guard will remedy some of his faults."
Meren kept his face still with effort, though he could not prevent the dull flush creeping into his face. He was not yet skilled at wearing a courtier's expressionless mask. But that would change.
He shoved tangled blankets away, the air cool on sweat-drenched skin. Mark Fletcher scrambled from his bed, the echoes of harsh breathing loud in his ears.
Noise from the sleeping ranch crept into his senses. The rain muffled it, but reality reached soothingly out to him. Dark eyes blinked. Heaving lungs steadied. A dream?
"What the hell?"
-------August 19, 1933----------
Rick
Master bathroom shot to pieces. Two bookshelves, a rug, and table from the back parlor. And that weapon still sticking out of the wall in the hallway -
The figure that staggered through the kitchen door interrupted his catalogue of the damage done to the house. His brother-in-law, mussed from sleep that had left bruised bags under bloodshot eyes, dropped into his chair and made an effort at manners that emerged as a bleary moan. "G'mornin'. What's for eating, then?"
"Good afternoon, Uncle Jon," his son corrected, smothering a little giggle in his bowl of soup.
A hand flapped in the direction of the youngest at the table. "Whatever."
There was surprising silence as Evie stirred a bubbling pot on the stove. It didn't have a chance in hell of lasting, Rick reflected.
Sluuuuurp.
Jonathan rolled his eyes.
"Alex."
Sluuuuuuuuuuurp.
Evie swallowed her sigh. "Alex."
The blond mop lifted, flashing a devil-may-care grin at the table. Great. He should know – he'd seen the expression often enough in the mirror. "Listen to your mother, Alex."
"Da-ad!"
Evie, stern as she turned to the stove. "Don't slurp your soup."
Blue eyes pleaded. He could never resist that look . . . . Later, he mouthed. Alex grinned at him. Rick winked back.
Evie reached for ladle and bowl, passing it off to her brother. "Be careful, it's –"
"Hot!" Jonathan yelped.
A lunge saved the ceramic bowl from smashing and spattering its contents across the floor. Hot! "Geez!"
Thin cheeks bulged, blowing frantically on stinging, red fingers. Jonathan's eyes teared. "What the bloody -"
"Jonathan! Watch your language!"
Alex giggled, crouched against wicker seating.
He couldn't resist, and didn't bother suppressing his grin. "Evie did just pull it off the stove, Jonathan." An embarrassed sigh reached him. No time like the present. "Evie and I were wondering if you would take Alex to the British Museum today."
"But I want to stay with you!"
And cue the temper tantrum. Alex's objection wasn't entirely unexpected.
Rick turned to look his son in the eye. "It's only for the afternoon, Alex. Your mom and I thought you might want to have some fun before you have to start school again."
"But school's not for another month!" Alex protested again. His uncle was sipping his soup carefully, one eye on the exchange and the other on the steam rising from his bowl.
"But you're going to be helping us get the house together again," Evie told him, ruffling blond hair before turning back to the stove. "And then we've got to make sure you're still up to date in all your subjects, before you go back."
Alex groaned. "But Mum, that stuff's boring."
"That doesn't mean you don't have to learn it." I might be a pushover, but even I draw the line somewhere. And his family knew that education was the point Rick wouldn't budge on.
Crestfallen blue eyes dropped; arguing would get him nowhere, slow. "Alright."
"Well, Jonathan?"
Silence. Rick frowned. Jonathan's not hungover – but he's awfully pale -
"It would only be for the afternoon." Evie turned back to the table, catching sight of her brother's wide eyes. "Jonathan, are you alright?"
Hiisssssss.
A shadow was slithering across the tiles of the kitchen floor, toward his wife. She frowned, and he remembered that look from a tomb, and the hiss of patterned red, yellow, and black. Finger grabbed for something, anything, on the table.
Before Evie could heft the snake out of the way with a toe, he threw it. He didn't know what it was, but it struck with an accurate thunk, and then the snake was flailing wildly on the floor, its serpentine body painting a writhing trail of red across tile.
Motion in the corner of his eye assured him that Evie had leapt up on a chair, out of the way.
Scales twitched, twice more, and were still.
"Rick!"
He shrugged, unapologetic, moving over to examine the snake himself. It didn't react to the nudge of a booted foot, and so he pulled the knife from its body. The blade had lodged an inch or so below the base of the skull, not high enough for a quick death, but effective nonetheless.
"What is that?" Alex asked, intrigued.
"That," his wife responded tartly, "is one of my good table knives."
I'm in trouble. Rick tossed her a playful, little-boy smile, and she smiled back before she could help it. "It's an Egyptian asp," he informed their son, grasping the dead snake behind its head. It never hurt to be cautious.
"Are they poisonous?"
It was Jonathan who answered, his face a pasty grey. Soup spattered the front of his shirt; the spoon had disappeared into the deep bowl. "You bet."
"I'll get rid of it," Rick offered. "I was done with my food anyway."
If anything, Jonathan's face went whiter at that, and his brother-in-law swallowed, locking eyes on the grain of the wood supporting their meal. "I think I've lost my appetite."
Rick heard the noisy gulp of someone ordering their stomach to stay in place as he passed, aiming for the door.
"Neat!"
"Oh, no you don't!" came from behind him.
Rick found a bag for the thing, so it wouldn't drip gore down the hallway behind him. Dropping chill, limp scales and wrapping them with cloth, he listened to Evie scold Alex for not finishing his soup. His son's voice rose in protest – was cut off by soft reason.
"Dad! Wait up!" Small feet pounded after him, bouncing golden hair and sparkling blue eyes above a furiously chewing mouth. "Mum made me finish the vegetables," he complained as soon as his tongue was free. "I don't like carrots!"
"They're good for you," Rick unlocked the gardener's shed. "Grab that shovel, okay Alex?"
"Yeah. What are you going to do with it?" Metal scraped rocks; the shovel was bigger than Alex, however the little boy hefted it.
"Bury it, on the edge of the property."
"Did you know that asps -" and Alex was off, chattering over the bite of edged metal into sod.
A moment with a shovel in the far side of the drive and the snake was part of the past. Blond hair bobbed as his son, bored with the burying of the reptile, raced back to the house. Rick's pace was a bit more sedate. He was still a bit sore from being beaten to hell and back by both Imhotep and the Scorpion king; the marks where fiery hands had tried to pull him into the underworld had not yet faded.
I'm glad she decided to take the job as curator. Dropping the shovel against the wall of the gardener's shed, Rick snapped the padlock closed again.
Evie had agonized over the decision, before finally accepting the Bembrich Scholars' offer. At least now, she'll be safe.
------------------------
Alex
"And Mum said that they keep the – wow!"
Uncle Jon laughed. "Your mum hasn't changed all that much, Alex."
A blond head shook in denial. "Look, Uncle Jon, look! It's the mummy of the priest Manetho! I'll bet it was in the basement all this time!"
He would, too. No bet like a sure thing, Dad always said. He also said never to wager anything with Uncle Jon. Not that Alex would lose, knowing his mum's brother. But they'd none of them get Uncle Jon to shut up about it after.
Mr. Hafez had kept so much of the really neat stuff locked away down there. Mum would kill him if she knew how much he'd used Dad's lessons on lock picking. But he had to practice! And he hadn't gotten caught.
"Come on, come on!"
Alex pulled his uncle's hand with all his might. But the older man seemed reluctant to get very near the glass mummy cases. It was ages ago. Alex shook off a lingering shudder of his own. Well, not ages. But a week was close enough.
"Don't you want to go look at the dinosaurs, Alex?"
"Yeah, right, Uncle Jon," Alex scoffed.
And they had the whole room all to themselves. Well, almost. The only other person was a grown-up all the way down at the other end, looking at a stone sarcophagus. Alex thought of all the other kids he'd seen here with their parents. Babies. Too scared to see the mummies. They were only here because it was raining outside, anyway.
"D'you know how they make the mummies, Uncle Jon?"
The older man groaned, very faintly.
"Mum told me! They take a sharp poker and stick it up your nose, smush all your brains up and then rip 'em out through your nostrils!" Alex pulled his nose away from the glass long enough to frown at his Uncle. There was a strange noise . . . Weird. "Are you all right, Uncle Jon?"
"Fine, fine." Uncle Jon waved a hand at him. His face was a nasty whitish color.
Taking that as a sign of interest, Alex kept going. " – out after ninety days." Ooh! The sarcophagus he'd seen in the basement, but there hadn't been enough light to tell what the hieroglyphs meant – "After they brush all the natron – that's the salt – off, the skin's all black and shriveled and dry. 'Course, you gotta say the right prayers an' stuff before you start to – ummph!"
He'd bounced right off it, whatever it was. The floor was hard.
"I'm so sorry. Are you all right?"
A strange hand, extended, helping him up. Alex brushed himself down. Uncle Jon was checking him over. "Yeah. Sorry."
"Thanks for the help," Uncle Jon said jovially. He stuck out a hand. "You're American?"
Alex cricked his head back to get a good look at the man. Tall! Well, Dad was taller. But Dad was taller than everyone.
The man gave Uncle Jonathan a curious look, but shook his hand. "I am. My name is Mark Fletcher."
"Jon Carnahan, and this is my nephew Alex," Uncle Jon said.
Alex stuck out a hand. Mum said not to talk to strangers, but Uncle Jon was here. And shaking hands was . . . weird. No one in England did it. No one in Egypt, either. But Americans did.
"Sorry," he said again. "I didn't see you. I was reading the hieroglyphs."
"That's very impressive."
Alex gave him the eye. Whenever a teacher at school said that, they were just treating him like a little kid. I don't lie! He wouldn't, especially about something like that. Even if he did, from time to time, forget to mention things. Like his trips to the basement of the British Museum. But they're not all that important anyway.
But Mr. Fletcher didn't look like he was laughing at Alex on the inside, the way other grown-ups did. "My mum taught me."
"Bloody awful to have a baby sister who's such a know-it-all," his uncle put in glibly.
"Uncle Jon!" cried Alex. Blue eyes widened. No, wait, don't! A hand ruffled his hair anyway. "Hey!"
"So," his uncle changed the subject, directing his attention back toward the stranger. "How do you like London?"
It's a nice smile, Alex decided. The man's face warmed with it, making him look friendlier. "Today doesn't count," the boy put in. "Rain never does."
"Of course," Mr. Fletcher said solemnly. "I do like London quite a bit. Though I came across some workers hauling a mangled bus out of an alley. Someone drove it into a low bridge – scraped the whole top level off."
"Ah. Shame," Uncle Jon managed. His forehead gleamed in the lighting; he was sweating.
Alex snickered, and went back to looking at the hieroglyphs. 'Behold, I am in thy presence, O Lord of Amentet.' The Book of the Dead!
"There was no one in it, but I thought I heard something about a crushed mummy skeleton." Mr. Fletcher shrugged. "It was odd; I don't think I'll be using the public transportation anytime soon."
"Oh, that doesn't happen often," Alex vaguely heard Uncle Jon. 'Grant thou that I may be like unto those favored ones who are in thy following, and that I may be an Osiris greatly favored of the beautiful god, and beloved of the Lord of the Two Lands –'
"I've lost track of the time. I must be going. It was nice meeting you."
"And you," Uncle Jon nodded.
Alex managed to peel his attention from the inscription – it was just getting to the good part, the Weighing of the Heart! "'Bye!"
"Americans," his uncle grunted, as the man's coat swiftly vanished through the door.
Alex grinned.
' – And beloved of the Lord of the Two Lands, I who am a veritable royal Treasurer who loveth thee, Maya, whose word is true before the god Osiris.'
------------------------
Evelyn
"Look out!"
Muscle barreled into her, and she was slammed between marble and flesh.
The floor seemed to tremble beneath her, accompanied by a thunderous roar.
Silence, unexpected and absolute.
The Museum tilted on its axis once more.
"Ma'am? Ma'am?"
She registered the harsh, familiar accent even as the world swirled around her. Evelyn O'Connell took a breath, ordered her vision to stop its nonsense, and blinked.
Crouched between her, and the remains of a massive stone block that had snapped free of its tethering ropes, was a dark-eyed American.
"You're hurt!" Surprised, she reached for the trickling redness on his neck, and found her hand firmly grasped by the body that was propping her up.
"There now," came a familiar firm voice. "Just take it easy, Curator."
"Hugh?" She was even more confused. What was her 'assistant' doing here?
The white-haired man had been a major force in keeping the British Museum up and running for the past two decades. He'd also dandled her on his knee when she was barely out of nappies. Hugh tutted at her. "You've had quite the scare." Though from the way his voice was shaking . . .
Frustrated with all the attention, she took a deep breath, tasting coarse rock dust. "Thank you," she told him, squeezing cold fingers reassuringly. "But I really must get up."
"If you insist," Hugh muttered with a grin, hauling her to her feet. Once there, she was able to survey the damage.
Taking in the white-faced workers, tattered ropes and nearby rubble that had been a two tonne block in the temple's east wall, she shivered. I owe him my life, she realized, and turned to thank the stranger.
He had followed them to their feet, but rather than look over the disaster, he was shakily braced against the scaffolding. A white handkerchief stemmed the flow of blood.
"Are you quite all right?"
Brown eyes, blank of intent or expression, focused in on her.
She frowned. I could read more in a stella. But he doesn't look well. He'd taken a good knock to the head – pieces of the block, hefty and jagged, littered the ground.
"Yes." The man's attention wavered, split between her continual regard, and the scene. Taking in what was going on, with a swift glance.
"Are you sure?" Hugh didn't look convinced, either. And she trusted his eye.
Evelyn nodded toward him, giving Hugh a look when he seemed reluctant to let her go. "I'm perfectly all right," she hissed, trying to quell the flush that wanted to rise in her cheeks. "Thanks to him."
Her short assistant ran a hand over cloudy strands, shifting his attention to where bone-white knuckles gripped metal scaffolding.
Brown eyes blinked dizzily.
"Watch it!" Hugh called, bracing the stranger as he swayed.
A curse slipped from between clenched teeth.
That's one I don't think Rick's ever heard. Evelyn tamped down on a smile, moved to the man's other side. "Did you send someone for a doctor?"
Hugh nodded. "Paul's a good lad – more sense than most. He'll be back right quick."
The tall body at her side shifted. Her move to steady him was unnecessary. Whiter than a sheet, though. "And where do you think you're going?"
The stranger stared down at her, raised a quiet brow. "There's a bench, over there. It might be prudent to get out of the way."
"Of course," she decided, glancing at Hugh. "Come along, then."
While he seemed a tad shaky, there was no risk that he was going to pass out as they crossed the room. And while they sat and waited for the doctor to arrive, it gave her a little time to try to thank him properly.
He shrugged it off. "I just saw what was happening before anyone else did. I hope you aren't hurt?"
"A few bumps. Nothing new to me," she assured him. "Oh, that reminds me. My name is Evelyn O'Connell. I'm the Curator of the British Museum." It still felt funny to say. She held out a hand.
He gave her a puzzled little glance, but shook firmly. Calluses. No businessman. The sun-tanned skin gave lie to the idea that he might spend his days indoors. "Mark Fletcher."
"You're familiar with the mechanics of construction, Mr. Fletcher?" Hugh, trying to be pleasant, trying to distract him.
A pause. "A little. I know my way around the ropes, so to speak."
Though if the vertical line between his brows was any indication, there was little they could do to distract him from the awful headache he must have.
"Madam Curator!"
The American winced.
Evelyn turned at the shout, and bit down a sigh of relief. "Paul," she smiled. "And Dr. Warren, thank you for coming so quickly."
Rose Warren gave her a quick grin. "All right there, Evie?"
"Never better. Just a little banged up," she amended, at the green gaze's skepticism.
"It might have been a lot worse," Hugh's face was drawn, and she reached out. Hugh was practically her uncle; a long-standing friend of their father, since before either Jonathan or Evelyn herself was born.
"I'm sorry," she murmured. Sticklike fingers gripped hers, and the assistant curator gave her a weak smile.
"It's thanks to this gentleman here that she wasn't killed," Hugh continued. Evelyn saw green eyes shift again, wasting a moment on appraisal and then becoming professional once more. He was attractive, she agreed. But he was also bleeding quite a lot, and very pale.
Rose got straight down to business. The bag opened; Hugh and Evie gave her room. "Name?"
He flinched back from the light shining in his eyes. "Mark Fletcher."
"Birthday?" The bloody cloth was tugged from his fingers.
"December 14, 1899."
"Where are you from?" Rose turned his head to the side; he simply shifted, moving his body out of her way.
"Durham, Montana."
"How many fingers?"
"Two."
What looked to be not-so-gentle poking at the cut. Evie winced in sympathy. "Does that hurt?"
I'd think so, she thought wryly. Jonathan had fallen and knocked himself senseless on a dig when they were young. Her parents had been frightened for him; but he'd gotten in even more trouble for playing near a shaft he'd been told to stay away from.
Gritted teeth. "Yes."
Swabs and alcohol came out; the pungent odor had Hugh and Evie wrinkling their noses. Rose was plainly used to it, but Mr. Fletcher.. . I can't ready any expression on his face. She glanced at the discarded, crimson-dotted kerchief. Why does that bother me so?
"I think you need stitches."
"I'm not surprised."
Rose gave him a careful look, and Evie hid a smile at the quick riposte. There was no trace of expression on his face, no hint as to if he'd been baiting the petite, fiery doctor. But she thought he might be.
"And you have a concussion," Rose continued, never missing a beat.
Evie brought a hand up, ostensibly in thought. It covered her smile just as well. Nothing threw Rose for long. But a concussion . . . She couldn't help the pang of guilt.
"It's not serious, but you do need to rest. Unfortunately, I'd recommend that you have someone wake you every hour, for the next twenty-four. Is someone traveling with you?"
"No."
Rose gave him a considering look. Back into the bag went the swabs. She paused, hands on metal latches. "I would suggest, then, that you come with me to the hospital for overnight observation."
Even quieter. "No."
A green glare met impassive brown, bounced off. Oh, dear. Looks like I've finally found someone as stubborn as Rose. She wondered, a little absently, if the world could stand it.
"Excuse me, Madam Curator?"
Paul, nervously twisting his cap in thick hands. The young man was head of one of the teams of laborers hired to help reconstruct the Tomb of Perneb in the Egyptian gallery.
"Yes?"
"Ma'am – we were wondering what to do now that the mess's been cleared up. The block from the east wall was destroyed in the fall -" As had been part of the floor, and she was only thankful she hadn't been under it at the time. Leaving Hugh to mediate between the stubborn doctor and recalcitrant patient, she returned to work. At least this way I can be sure neither of them will run off before I have the chance to speak with them.
Fifteen minutes solved the problem of how to continue on their timetable to reconstruct the temple. Ordering a replacement wasn't the most authentic solution, but it was the simplest. The broken block was not completely destroyed; it would be put on exhibit as well, in a separate case. But the information that was lost –
Evelyn grimaced, heading back to where Rose was sitting behind the American. Hugh was holding a light close and looking as if he had no idea how he'd gotten there. Though knowing Rose, she simply told him what to do, and he found himself listening before he really thought about what he was getting into.
She managed a grin at the thought. Long experience had told her that laughing at her troubles was the best solution; at least until she could get back to her husband's arms and cry out her fears to him. It was never so difficult when there was someone to share the load. Rick . . .
"Evelyn?" Hugh kept his voice low. Rose reached out absently and tilted his hand to direct the light back at the cut. Which she was sewing, disgruntled at having lost the battle.
"What?" She found blue eyes checking her concernedly once more.
"I think you should go home."
She balked immediately, blinking. Why on Earth would I –
Hugh backpedaled. "Let me take care of the rest of the clean-up. Nothing more can get done today, until the workers check the equipment. You've made arrangements for tomorrow. We can still open the exhibit on schedule, if the masons are quick. Go home, take a rest."
Evelyn sighed. Hugh knew how to be persuasive, and – I am tired.
He pressed, just a little. "See your husband and son." A pause. "You had a close shave, today."
Rick. Alex. That decided it. "All right."
"Evie!" A beloved voice. Her eyes widened.
"I had Paul call him," Hugh admitted.
"Hugh, you're a darling!"
He laughed. "On with you, now!"
She turned, was caught up in strong arms. Strength, enfolding her in love. A heart beating in tandem with her own. Rick . . .
------------------------
Rick
When he saw the destruction, his heart nearly stopped. Oh, my God. No one seemed hurt, there was no sign of injury or panic – just the remnants of adrenaline. Shell-shock.
And rubble, from the massive stone block, scattered far over the floor. The workers looked to be cleaning up the worst of it, but –
Rick took a deep breath. Where's Evie!
And a beautiful, beloved voice calling out instructions to the men working with tools and ropes. Moving, a little stiffly but moving, toward –
He saw Dr. Rose Warren, and his heart sped up once more. "Evie!"
Soft curves and curls and grey eyes smiling up at him. "Rick," she breathed.
Arms around one another, they held tight, trading soft whispers. In this moment, the world was just them.
Minutes it took, for his heart to slow, to match hers. Comforted. The fear that it all might have been ripped away was slow to leave him. God, Evie. But he didn't need the memory of Ahm Sher now. He held her at arm's length a moment. "Are you alright?"
"I'm fine. Truly. A few bruises, but -"
He saw in grey eyes how close it had been. Swallowed hard.
"I want you to come to the hospital for overnight observation."
They turned, and Rick saw for the first time the person Rose had been treating. His height, maybe a little shorter – he couldn't tell, as the other was sitting. Lean, with brown hair and eyes, tiny lines of pain around the lips. White bandage just below the hairline on the back of his neck. "No."
I've never seen Rose turn quite that shade of red before. Green eyes lit with anger. Rick winced, anticipating –
"Thank you, Dr. Warren." Soothing words, as the man stood. He's American. I'll be damned. Rick saw the caution in every move, and knew the doctor did as well. "But there's really no need."
Rose opened her mouth, fury mounting.
Rick stepped in. "Mark Fletcher?" His grip was firm. "I'm Rick O'Connell."
"Evelyn!" he heard Rose hiss. And then the two of them were three steps away, whispering lowly and thick as thieves. My Evie . . .
"Evie told me what you did for her." He kept his voice low, for the other's ears only. "I can't thank you enough."
Brown eyes studied him a moment, seemed to give up whatever they had been going to say. "You're welcome," he said quietly. He reached down, and stuffed a bloodied handkerchief in his pocket.
"Well, he can stay with us," Evie put into the silence between them. Rick turned, mildly surprised, and saw the other man stiffen.
"No, thank you. I couldn't possibly -"
"It's no trouble," Evie cut him off, clearly having made up her mind. "It's only one night, after all."
The other American stepped back, uncomfortable and searching for something to say.
Rose looked relieved that someone would be watching her patient. "He needs to be woken every hour. If you can't, then call me, immediately. It's a minor concussion, but there's still a chance he could slip into a coma if there's a complication."
"Rick?" Evelyn asked, sudden uncertainty in her gaze.
"It's your house more than mine, love," he whispered back. "Actions speak louder than words." The man had saved his wife, and Rick was in his debt. If the other man needed help because he'd been hurt while doing so -
Rose snapped a few more instructions at them, before giving Fletcher one last intimidating glare. She seemed quite put off when the man didn't even notice, and stomped off in a huff.
Rick whistled, lowly, and caught an elbow in the ribs. "Evie?"
"Don't make fun of Rose," she scolded. But that familiar grey gleam warmed him through.
He pulled her against him, and left off with teasing her about her spitfire best friend, more easily than he might have an hour ago. "Alright."
Evie frowned a little. Can't get anything by her.
Motion in the corner of his eye brought Rick's head up. "Mr. Fletcher?"
Caught, the man stopped. Sneaking away? He didn't blame the other; it was an awkward situation. He'd at least had a few years to get used to overwhelming English hospitality. "Car's out front," he said. "Let's go home."
------------------------
Mark
Sunlight. Praise be to Ra.
He pushed the thought, and the last shreds of the strange dream, into the deep recesses of his ka. What a godawful night. Finished dressing, Mark smoothed the bedclothes of the richly-furnished room.
Every hour, on the hour. A touch to his shoulder, a voice in his ear. Woken, and barely back asleep before it was time to prove once more that he hadn't fallen into a coma.
His watch read almost five hours into the new day, but it was more than enough for him. I don't know how I let myself get talked into this.
Oh, it had been incredibly awkward. The doctor so insistent, when all he wanted was to go to the closest approximation of home he had in this country – which for the month was a small flat, almost outside the city – and sleep. He'd had concussions before; two, to be precise. He didn't need to be observed.
"Good morning."
He turned. Rick O'Connell leant in the doorway. The man had been much easier about allowing a complete stranger into his home than Mark would have been. Though that might have had something to do with a whispered conversation between husband and wife. He'd never seen a man blanch so quickly; but he wasn't unfamiliar with the feeling. Irony and fine wine are the only things that improve with age.
"Morning."
A tired, wry smile reminded him that he wasn't the only one who hadn't slept last night. "Sleep well?"
Mark managed a smile of his own, eyes sweeping the room. Good. I have everything. "Thank you."
"No." The blond head shook slowly. "You saved Evie – I owe you more than I could ever repay."
He'd been avoiding this conversation since the previous evening. "Well, you saved me from spending a night in the clutches of that doctor, even if you didn't know it." He shuddered lightly, hoping the other man would take his cue, and just let it go.
White teeth flashed. "Rose Warren?"
Mark shut the bedroom door with a wince. "Yes."
"A holy terror."
"She couldn't wait to have me locked in the hospital, at her mercy," Mark said dryly. "Call it even."
Mulish stubborn, the other American, with a look of blank refusal on his face. But Mark had broken some of Montana's most willful stallions to bridle. O'Connell opened his mouth, ready to spill protestations into his ears.
"Please," Mark cut him off. Drew on a five-thousand year old memory of calm, and an expressionless mask in the face of murder and intrigue. "It was an accident – everyone was lucky. You owe me nothing."
The blond head nodded, thoughtful. "All right." The sparkling grin surprised Mark. I know that expression. He'd swear he'd never seen the man before, and the name O'Connell wasn't exactly rare. "Hungry?"
"I wouldn't say no to food," Mark replied carefully.
"To the kitchen."
How long has he been in England? It seemed only moments later Mark was seated in a bright, airy room with a heaping plate in front of him and overwhelming hospitality perched on two chairs nearby, luckily preoccupied with one another. American accent or not, he'd been ushered in and fed with all the preemptory assurance this country's people were famous for.
At least the food is good –
"Hey! I know you!"
Mark looked up, and almost choked on his toast.
The little blond boy from his visit to the British Museum's mummy rooms had just barreled through the door as if all the demons of the netherworld were on his heels. Mark swallowed, wiped both hands against his napkin, and nodded.
"Alex, this is Mr. Fletcher," Evelyn interjected, intercepting the boy on his way to the table.
"I know," Alex chirruped, blue eyes curious. The small form bounced into a chair on the other side of the table. "I met him in the Museum yesterday. In the mummy room."
"We – ran into each other. There was another gentleman -" Mark managed, hiding his surprise.
"Evie, I'm starving, is there any -" Carnahan pulled up in surprise. "You!"
"Mr. Carnahan," Mark inclined his head. Underneath the table, fingers clamped on the chair's arms. For a moment, gold garments overlaid the man and his sister, throwing him into a time long past. Mark blinked; the images blurred into contemporary clothing. Not again!
"Jonathan, you know Mr. Fletcher?"
Carnahan dropped into a wicker chair across the table, reaching for the plate of eggs. "Ah, yes, Alex bounced off him in the Museum yesterday." Muffled by a mouthful of food, the next words came out slowly. "But I say, chap, what are you doing here?"
"You didn't hear about the accident?" Mark could feel a headache pushing at his temples. He didn't miss the glance that the older O'Connells exchanged.
"My sister and Rick are always managing to get into some sort of scrape or another," Jonathan shrugged. Rick snorted, but his face was white.
The little boy looked alarmed. "Accident?"
Evelyn stepped in. "It's nothing serious, sweetheart. There was a little trouble reconstructing the Temple of Perneb yesterday. Some of the ropes were not strong enough to take the weight of the stone blocks, and broke. Mr. Fletcher was passing by, and pushed me out of the way." The little boy was now almost in her lap, arms wrapped fiercely around her waist. "I'm quite alright, Alex." It barely reached Mark's ears.
I doubt it. He'd had enough encounters with death to know it was never easily brushed off.
"Well what's he doing here?"
Jonathan's manner was tactlessly forthright. Rahotep, was Meren's first thought. No! He was Mark, not Meren. But the Englishman did resemble the Prince he had known in his former lifetime, in personality if not body. Whereas Evelyn . . . He had to fight the urge to bow obeisance to the Great Royal Wife, whenever he saw her. Nefertiri's beauty had been famed throughout the Two Lands, and not without reason.
Fingers gripped a cool glass of juice, and he sipped, listening with half an ear to her explanations to her worried brother and son. She didn't tell them before? Neither of the O'Connells had, he noted. And couldn't help but wonder why.
Fool, he berated himself. How often did you tell your children when you were in danger? They had known; Kysen most of all, but even Isis had not been immune to the evils that tracked him, from court to the intrigues he investigated.
Mark shook himself free of the Egyptian noble to find the table staring at him. It's getting harder. "I'm sorry?"
Evelyn smiled at him. "I was just curious as to what brings you to London, Mr. Fletcher."
"Business, I'm afraid." A small lie – but even he barely believed the truth.
"Oh?"
He detested small talk. Biting back a sigh, he used patience rarely tapped to smile. I'm a guest. They want to know more about me. It's only natural. "I'm the manager for a ranch in Montana – horses. The owners want to bring thoroughbreds into their stock. I've been sent to contact a breeder in England." Something he'd been meaning to do for awhile, and probably never would. Not now.
"Do you travel often?" Rick, curious around a mouthful of eggs.
One shoulder lifted in a shrug. "Some." England. Germany. "Mostly Europe. This is the first time I've been to London, though."
"Have you been to Buckingham Palace?" Jonathan tossed him a grin.
"Tourists always go there to stare at the guards." Alex grinned too, little-boy mischief shining clear in blue eyes. "They always look straight ahead, no matter how many faces you make at them."
"Alex!"
"Evie, it was only the once," Rick interjected.
The woman snorted, and then gave Mark a tolerant glance. "Do you have family, Mr. Fletcher?"
It hurt. He buried it in his ka, feeling the unseen mask slip down once more. "No," was his answer, with a game smile. He missed her, so much. And as for the rest of them –
"Well," Jonathan snorted, "You're not missing much." And then the man fielded a punch from his sister and a stuck-out tongue from the little boy who leant around her to glare at his uncle.
Mark reached for the juice, politely ignoring the playful interaction. Tugged his sleeve down as it hiked up his left forearm. Do you even know how lucky you are? From the expression on Rick O'Connell's face, he did.
------------------------
Jonathan
"Do you have a phone where I might call a taxi?" The man's – Fletcher's – voice cut calmly through the racket. Evie's glare dissipated, and Jon took the opportunity to stick his tongue back out at his nephew. Better hope Evie never finds out we were all at the palace. It had been amazing, really, that his brother-in-law had lived just outside London for almost ten years and never been there.
Rick pushed his plate aside, rising stiffly. "Right over here. You have someplace you need to be?"
"You could say that." The other man's face was blank, and Jon frowned. That's really odd. Well, it probably wasn't important. Some people were like that; dull as sticks, too. Would it kill him to smile?
And then it happened again.
Jonathan blinked – but his sister was still wearing the linen shift, her hair straight and black and beaded with gold. Court wig. Their kitchen had disappeared, memory that he knew wasn't his substituting an ancient room. Plastered walls were white, paint in the shape of people and boats and ducks along the Nile. Ra's rays were hot, soothing to him as he stood in the chill temple.
"Jonathan. Jon." Gray eyes stared worriedly into his. Evie. "Are you all right?"
I'm losing my mind – A memory that, thank God, was his, saved him.
"You haven't exactly been yourself lately, with all these dreams and visions -" Rick waved a hand by the side of his head.
"They're memories from my previous life. Honestly, I'm not losing my mind!"
"Yeah," he shuddered.
Fingers tightened on cool cotton as Evie pressed his shoulder. "Are you certain?"
Their guest hadn't noticed; for that, Jonathan was thankful. "Talk to you later," he whispered. Fletcher was gathering his things to leave; the taxi was visible far down the drive. Chill sweat broke out on his skin. How long was I trapped in that memory? The trouble was, it only felt like a second . . .
Jonathan frowned, hanging back as Rick and Evie said goodbye at the door. He had the vaguest feeling that he knew the man from somewhere else. If he could just put his finger on it . . .
Ah, well. It'll come to me.
A/N2: While I would not post this generally without having the rest finished, I really don't like my work for the second chapter, and I'm just looking for a bit of feedback, 'cause I want to scrap it and start over. Questions, random plot musings, constructive criticisms all welcome, please!