i.
Horus, admittedly, is not close with his father at all. He is not meant to be: Osiris dies before Horus the Younger is born, but Horus the Elder (and subsequently Edfu) remembers his brother well. He visits the Hall of Judgement a bit sporadically, but Father does not sleep, not truly.
The Hall is busy. Osiris' judges have a functional system, weighing hearts, casting decisions. It's all paperwork, some kind of ancient bureaucracy, and Horus hates it. He hates it all. This kind of kingship isn't meant for him (and painfully he knows this was Carter's next step; the living Horus into the dead lord Osiris). There's some pomp and circumstance for his arrival—the judges bow, Father addresses him with an unfairly deep voice. Both lords in their own rights, but Horus of Edfu will always fall short.
In all senses.
"Father, can we speak privately?" he asks; he's already disturbed a court that isn't his, but order in his own is rare. Father sends the court to break. The throne room empties with a flash.
Horus holds respect for his father, of course, so he chooses to not continually shout across the space. He does sit on the floor, regardless of what it may mean. He overrules Father by law. "Mother sends her regards, and a few words I prefer to not repeat," he starts. Father's blue skin tinges darker. Horus could be proof of immaculate conception himself. None of his looks come from his father. "I'm sure Mother has mentioned my plans, concerning the Kane boy?"
"She has."
"Including the child?"
"…yes."
Horus nods, leaning back on his hands. "It'll happen. Carter picked out his own title, the whole…nineteen yards." That doesn't sound right. He resumes, "The boy has his title and originally he agreed on before thirty, to keep himself young. And now, at twenty-nine," more so physically than actually, "he wants a child, which throws a wrench in the plan." Unable to agree on roughly anything with this new development (there was a brief argument just a few days ago, dealing with Carter buying a blanket not for Sadie's boy, one of those petulant arguments where Carter refuses to budge and Horus doesn't cave for the purpose of Carter being cute), but fine elsewhere, Carter drifts further away from his perspective godhood. "Can we start the process without…hampering his ability to conceive with a mortal?"
Father leans back as well, chin propped on his palm. "Have you started any?"
"He slept in the Duat with no issue," physically, at least. Carter hasn't slept alone since (not that he often did), curled as close as possible. Another bump in the road. It'll be fine. They'll be fine.
Father hums, dark golden eyes glazed over. Something they all share, even Carter, to some extent; his are more mortal in their base color, not that he would have it any other way. "I will consult Imhotep, as I do not recall the process."
Horus interjects quickly, "The boy doesn't want godhood, only immortality." Deep in his pocket, his phone starts to vibrate and without looking, he knows who it is. He is pushing it on the timing. Another diner, another girl, another lunch full of legalities. Turning the phone on silent, he rises to his feet, stretching his back. "I have to be going. Send word if you find anything," he finishes.
Father is firmly himself, deep blue skin rich against the white fabric of his outfit. "I hope to meet my grandchild," he says, smile tugging on his lips.
Internalizing his groan, he responds, "Have they not brought the pup to see you?" Rarely has he seen this playful side of his father, meant for happier times, time with his mother. Technically, again, he is not meant to know his father. "We will, if we have her," he answers truthfully, tucking his hands into his jacket pockets.
Father nods, smile now reaching his eyes. What would that be? Number eight, in terms of grandchildren? Horus' five, Anubis' one, Sadie's boy, Carter's girl. The girls are sorely outnumbered. "You will." Something mischievous plays in his eyes.
Horus is gone in a flash. Into Carter's car, and he fixes his collar in one of the little mirrors. I'm here, princeling, he promises. Give me a moment. I was visiting Father.
Then spruce yourself up with cologne. The Duat leaves a stench. Carter doesn't sound pleased with him, but that will change. He opens the center console, taking out the cologne they keep there for...emergencies. Whatever works, really.
Is she here? he asks, spritzing his wrist and neck. Naomi Rasmussen. Twenty-five, one child of her own, prospectively searching for her second surrogacy. Married woman. Good blood, good health, and from what he's been able to discover, nothing unfortunate in her lineage. The tenth surrogate they've interviewed; the former nine either rubbed both (or one, usually Horus) of them the wrong way, or the bloodline held something unforgivable in it (Hellen blood is his main concern, followed by Roman, and a few other varieties he does not like). Whoever they picked would be the biological mother of Meritites Kane. It mattered.
She's three minutes out. Get in here. Horus fondly rolls his eyes. He opens the door, makes sure to not scuff his shoe against the door, and ducks into their usual diner. Carter is never hard to find, alone in a booth, pastel yellow button up, dark brown pants, curls brushed back. Horus slides in beside him, dropping his arm over his shoulders. Carter, without looking up, says, "Well, you don't smell like the Duat."
"I tried." Horus kisses his temple. "Mother has Father excited over Mer."
"Dominic Parennefer but 'Mer'?" Already he sounds fonder. They really don't stay mad at one another for long. His eyes wander over to the waiter making his way to their table; Carter follows his eyes. "I ordered you coffee and juice. They have those mixed juices you like so much. Mango-pineapple this time."
Horus nods, quiet as the waiter drops off their drinks. This diner is familiar. They've been here before, having frequented Brooklyn more than usual the past several months. Their travel has been low recently with the exception of the First Nome (as if Horus can enter there). "Mer will be yours, unlike Dominic Parennefer."
Carter rolls his eyes. "You're so odd." Once in a blue moon. "But you're right. Our baby. Oh, gods." He glances up at him. "How do we explain your father to her?"
"In due time. She'll be a magical child, Carter. Father can glamour his skin. It will be fine." Horus kisses his temple again, then takes a sip of his coffee. Eleven isn't too early, nor is it too late.
Right on time, perfectly lining up with Carter's "three minutes out" is the grey sedan Carter said Naomi Rasmussen drives. One day, he'll identify cars. One century, maybe. He can only adapt so fast, unfortunately, despite the collective effort. But he knows what a car is, knows that the woman stepping out of the car is Naomi Rasmussen, and his position as a god regulates him to believing in faith, to putting hope in Ma'at and being an officer of her abilities, but this is the only one he's felt good about.
Naomi Rasmussen is shorter than Carter, maybe five-two at her tallest, more leg than torso though. Her black hair falls in sheets and bangs stop short of her thin eyebrows, and her cheekbones, while high, are rough. She's dressed in a sensible dress that stops at her knees, that soft peach color that adorns Carter's throw blanket for the couch and travel, light lace dusting over her chest. The neckline comes up to a perfect stop on her collars, looping around, yet her shoulders are bare. That old part of himself, the archaic one attracted to women, notes the flare of her childbearing hips. She looks capable of bearing children with little issue.
Some of these characteristics will be Mer's.
Carter handles most of the talking with their surrogate candidates. A diplomat in all he does. He smiles, waving over the woman. They all exchange careful pleasantries, though Horus does need prodded, shaking her hand. She sits across from them, laying her clutch on the table. "Let me see," Naomi Rasmussen starts, "you must be Carter," she correctly points, "and you're Horus," correct, again, "both Kane?" Her voice has a familiar lyrical quality.
"You're right. Thirty years." More like seventy. Immortality before he's one hundred. No question, no complaints.
Carter leads them through the conversation, which Horus is only partially present for. The routine questions he's heard nine times before (family, personal background, desire to be a surrogate, values, etc.) and while he files answers away, he does not actively listen to what he says. She gives good answers, none that scare him, and he tunes a bit more after his second glass of juice. Then the boy apologizes, reaches into his bag (still the same bag he's kept since they met), pulling out the unfamiliar packet. Horus raises a brow over his cup; only three made it past Carter's usual preliminaries before a tight smile and a, "We'll contact you."
Horus squeezes the boy's shoulder. Maybe he should be a little more involved, but everything feels right. Ma'at beats painfully in his chest and head, forcing her to pay attention to it. The two magician surrogates they interviewed did not receive this sort of reaction, the seven previous mortals did not receive this response, but Naomi Rasmussen has. I think this is the one, princeling. Feel. He shares a bit of Ma'at's oppression with the boy, feeling him quiver beneath his arm.
Well then.
(the god-king still protects the mortal-king, and even will when he's immortal; he knows this much.)
Another thirty-minutes of easy banter between the two. Good signs. It works. She works. Ma'at thrums beneath his skin, itching to touch the future queen's mother. Mother. And to think he criticized Carter for being too eager.
Carter stops briefly, phone buzzing against their thighs. "Do you mind? It's my parents."
Naomi Rasmussen has an easy grace about her. "Go ahead." Carter gives him a kiss on his cheek as he lets him out, and he can try to not respond, to be a stonewall, but he drags a smile out of the god. The energy does not change, even with his darling gone, but Naomi Rasmussen carries it, green eyes shining tenderly. "Quiet type?" she asks.
Horus shrugs. "Not particularly. I let him do the talking," he says. How many cups of juice can he drink? Regardless, any questions Horus will ask have less to do with the legality of surrogacy and Naomi Rasmussen's life, more to do with his old, stuck way of thinking.
"He's good at it." At some point, she ordered a water. "I can tell you love each other very much. You both wear it on your sleeves." Naomi Rasmus-Naomi smiles. "Do you have any questions, Horus? Just between the two of us?"
A thousand. He peeks outside, Carter leaning against the car, smiling. A beautiful boy. "…I'm the only child of a widowed mother who holds me tightly yet, and I her," Horus starts, "but I come from an old fashioned family who hold their values dearly. Motherhood is important, children are everything, those sort of things. Perhaps it's the way the women in my life reared me, perhaps it's the way I view things independently, but its hard for me to conceptualize carrying a child for nine months and willfully signing it away." He holds eye contact with her. "I do not think less of you for it, but I am too old to truly understand."
Ten seconds. Naomi does not lose her smile. "There wasn't a question in there, but I know what you're getting at." Her delicate fingers play with the strap of her clutch, running it back and forth between the tips of her fingers. "I like carrying children. I like being pregnant, the feeling. When David-that's my husband-and I finally got pregnant, I enjoyed every second of the nine months. And I've loved every moment of my four year old daughter. She's my pride and joy. Then I found out some people couldn't have children, couldn't experience the joy of their own biological offspring, couldn't adopt, or just wanted their own. The first couple I surrogated for, the woman had an entoptic pregnancy. Still the couple's child, and I enjoyed the pregnancy, enjoyed the joy on their faces when they held their baby. And if I can give you guys that joy, even if it's my eggs, then I'll do my best to do so."
Joy. That's what children are. He has five already (only three have been reborn; it always takes longer when Hathor has to do it herself), and only one of them has brought that unbridled joy he sees in Sadie's eyes when playing with Dominic Parennefer. Children are precious-Mother made sure he knew that, but his have been lackluster.
And surrogacy. Isn't that weird? He cannot imagine it. Mother and Hathor (she's growing back into her old role) have been patient with him, but things are slow-going, in-between sessions of court, feasts, and dealing with foreign gods. Admittedly, the women need their own studying to fully explain it to him, long moments in Carter-free-lunches with nothing based in science (thank goodness), coaching a thirty-something man with the mind and soul of a millennium old god. It's for Carter, blissfully rambling about Meritites Kane, opening an old man's mind.
Things are always different with Carter. The boy's short patience is more than he deserves.
Horus sighs. The women assure him that he isn't that stupid, simply out of touch, that there is nothing wrong with that. "Rasmussen," he begins, "I thank you for your explanation, but it doesn't do much for me. I've been stubborn in my ways for years."
Naomi cocks her head slightly. "Are you older than Carter?"
"By a bit." The mortal years never quite work out, so he doesn't mention them. Met when the boy was a teenager, but he's decently older, another temporary roadblock on their path to having this baby. Carter, sometimes, is still seventeen in his eyes, a bright-eyed high school student too focused on chemistry and still reeling from the tseju-heru bite that mars his ankle. Carter, sometimes, is still fifth-teen, freshly crowned as king, barely knowing the god for a year, slayer of Apophis and awkward over the whole thing. Sometimes, Carter is still twenty-two, and dinner is being interrupted. Sometimes, he doesn't feel the decades he's spent with the boy.
Sometimes, he thinks about that dinner and remembers his mortality.
Sometimes, things are fine.
Sometimes.
Horus sees movement out of the corner of his eye, and it's his boy, one of those brilliant smiles that makes his heart race. He doesn't bother to get up, letting the mortal trap him in the booth. We should stay in the palace tonight he says, arm back around his shoulders.
We'll see. Carter places his hand on his thigh. "Sorry about that. Where were we?" Amount of contact, financial compensation, living situation (they are technically out of state).
They leave the diner by two, conversation getting away from them. They depart with handshakes, Carter promises to get in touch, and he drags Horus back to the car. "I can't believe we never taught you how to drive. Well, I can believe it, but if you don't know by now, I doubt you'll ever want to."
"I like her," Horus says. "And I don't, no."
"That's a first." There isn't the hug he thought he'd receive but the lilt in the boy's voice is enough. "Why her?"
Horus opens Carter's door for him, Ma'at still churning in his stomach. "We talked when you took that call-"
"-it was from Brooklyn-"
"-and, I don't know, she passed my requirements." Horus gets in the passenger side, fiddling with the radio controls. Ma'at is interfering with it. A nap should calm Ma'at, and he's had a long day. Carter places a hand back on his thigh, and Horus squeezes it. "Ma'at likes her, little king, and you cannot ignore Ma'at."
Carter smiles. "If Ma'at says so. I like her too. Why don't we sleep on it?" he says. "If we still feel the same over lunch, I'll let her know."
They, in fact, do feel the same twenty-four hours later. Ma'at has stilled with a bit inside of him with a bit of touching between the two kings, a night together in bed and a slow breakfast. Carter has rarely let go of his hand since he uttered the words "I like her" and making the phone call is no different.
ii.
When Naomi Rasmussen confirms that she is two months pregnant, Horus not only allows Carter to start shopping, but he finally gets his immortal princeling. Horus arranges with Mother to handle his duties for a day (but assuring her she can send anything she likes) and does so likewise with Carter's father and uncle. It takes a few hours, keeping Carter a little closer than needed, sitting across from him. Horus takes them to the same palace where they've been sleeping (and true to his word, he hasn't let Carter sleep alone since).
Sitting across from each other, Horus holds Carter's hands, palm side up. The spell is a simple one that even Horus can handle, albeit in a more godly form for the sheer energy, though the way Ma'at churns in his heart sends him reeling. What are those air pockets called in one's chest? That's what it feels like. The process requires him to become more acquainted with his soul than he has been recently.
The time ends with a success, feeling the divinity of Carter's soul latched onto his. Horus peers into the Duat, and there Carter sits with his newly appointed golden glow. Surprise, surprise, Horus was right. He looks wonderful with it. They're still individuals, but as long as Horus lives, so does Carter. Immortal soul, immortal body, complete with that longevity gods possess.
Good. Things are perfect.
Horus pulls the princeling closer, kissing his temple, his cheeks, his jaw. "Are you alright?" he asks.
Carter shrugs. "I feel okay. Are we staying overnight?"
He nods. "Precautions." He tucks his head against his shoulder, sigh tugging at his lips. "Let's get up. I'm too old to sit on the floor."
"You are pretty old," he replies. "I'm cold too." Eventually, they make their way from the training hall and into the sitting room. The couch is comfortable, palace updated, sitting together close. The boy has his magicians bag sitting in front of the couch, pulling out his various means of entertainment, resting against Horus' side beneath a fleece blanket. Carter's head on his shoulder is always a good place to be. "You seem tired."
He shrugs the unoccupied shoulder. "I'm alright, darling." Horus watches the tablet over his head. It starts to rattle around his head that if anything happens to the pregnancy, he's lost Carter's hope of a child all because of his impulsiveness. But he can't think like that.
The boy nods. "Are you willing to baby shop?"
"I don't really have a choice, do I?"
"You don't." Carter sighs. "We have seven months. Are we getting a new apartment?"
Horus' eyes feel heavy. "I don't think we need one. We'll be fine." A bit brazenly, "We can get a cradle to keep in our room until she's older. Then we'll worry about a crib."
Carter glances up at him. "I like that. Cradles are called bassinets, by the way. Here." His fingers fly across the bright screen. The loading circle spins on the screen, but it finally loads. Service cannot be too good in the Duat. He hands him the device, curling a little closer in the process. Some of them look ridiculous, and he really does not understand them, but he checks them for aesthetic value. Carter handles all things mortal, and he handles the money.
He finally finds one he likes (after adding a dozen to their cart), going to show the princeling, but the kid is sleeping against his side, limp like a doll. After checking that he's breathing (he is) Horus puts the tablet down. Carter sleeping means he doesn't have to pretend to be fine either. He settles down with him too, content for the first in a while. Immortal Carter, Meritites Kane is conceived. Things are well.
They sleep for a dozen hours. His shoulder aches from the way they sleep cramped on the couch, but, hey, Horus has Carter, who sleeps without nightmare, without fuss, but gods does he fidget, falling down on his lap. That's how he wakes up, catlike Carter Kane wrapped around his hips.
The Duat's sun has set, darkness seeping into the palace. It's quiet, as it should be, things are appropriate, things are calm. Ma'at has settled in his heart, in his stomach. Ma'at is satisfied. No wonder he slept so well. Horus glances down at Carter. He's Ma'at as well, and Ma'at has taken to them. The young immortal now has the faint golden glow of his own magic woven through his curls and outlining his form. Horus smiles, winding his hand through his hair.
Carter does not budge. He gets it. Using his godly form over the one he usually graces Carter with saves him that exhaustion. Mother should be proud; how often does he cast spells? And how often do they go right? They should all be proud of the partially incompetent king.
But his boy is immortal.
Finally.
He lets him sleep how ever long he wants. Tiredness is acceptable. All the signs of immortality will take a while to sink in.
Still, Horus cannot sit still for long. Horus reaches down to grab Carter's phone (he's got a new game to play). There are a platitude of notifications, but one catches his eye.
Naomi Rasmussen (3:45PM)
The due date is June 21st!
Carter's phone has underlined the date and put it in the calendar already, only two weeks after Carter's birthday. His heart races at the thought. He leaves the notification untouched for Carter to see, then opens up to the games. Seven months is plenty of time to get the baby's room ready. Sure, time works differently for him and it often bites him in the ass, but they'll be fine. Things normally do. He's lucky like that. Seven months until they have a child.
(He fights himself on who's having her: Horus and Carter, Carter and Naomi Rasmussen? The baby will be a Kane, and that's what matters.)
Meritites Kane, their baby in yellow, Ma'at's future queen, present princess. Will a Kane dynasty start? They don't strike him as the type, but who knows with the Kanes? Technically, if there was a lull, and the boy wanted it, Carter could be sat on the throne indefinitely.
But the boy doesn't want that, and he's not going to force anything.
He wonders if Naomi Rasmussen has his number, but he doubts it. The phone is a rare occurrence. Carter handles all things mortal, of course, because he's a few degrees of incompetent outside of the throne.
Meritites Kane. If Carter has a middle name, she probably needs one. Dominic Parennefer has one. Horus doesn't have one, but him having a last name is just a mortal formality. They don't need to confuse him further with an abundance of names.
Ma'at is a fickle mistress, and so is his body, despite the tender way he treats it (as of late; no war, no excessive fighting, even his hunting has slowed to a respectable level but not extreme). Horus gently gets up without disturbing the boy, leaving the phone. How equipped is this palace? He never expected to eat here, but magic keeps everything rolling. He grabs his khopesh in passing, making his way to the kitchen. Lights flutter around in that anxious manner before presenting him a plate of meat and vegetables. He keeps it in the dining room, casting a weary eye around the corner for any possible Carter-mishaps.
Forty-five minutes pass before he has company. Carter nudges his chair but sits in his own. The phone is clutched in his hand. "You know, you need shots again when Mer's born."
"I got them already!"
"Dominic's almost five, Horus, which means it's been five and a half years." Carter rests his head on his arms. "Ideally, I'd like you to get all your vaccines, but do they really matter if you change bodies? I'll ask your mother." His princeling has one of those smiles that melts his heart.
Mortal concerns. Neither of them are mortal.
Watching Carter steal a piece of bread off of his plate, he leans back in his seat. "We'll see, Carter."
"…we have a few hours," Carter says, peeking at him, hazel eyes bright. The faint glow is still there. He'll have it for a while, of course. Sometimes if Horus looks at Mother the wrong way she's outlined. "You know, no responsibilities at all. Both of us." The boy does not know of his agreement with Mother of course, but he does not need to know everything.
But he does.
Horus cocks his head. "What do you want?" he asks.
Carter shrugs. "I don't know." His eyes slide shut, tension gone from his shoulders. "You won't let us go out, will you?"
"You're to rest, princeling. I'll forcibly take you to bed, though sleeping is optional."
He huffs. "Fine." No complaints. Carter taps his calf with his foot, leaving it there.
(god-king and mortal king-no, no, that's wrong; there is no mortal king any longer, only god and consort.)
Horus sighs fondly. "Carter Kane: Immortal Consort-"
"-and the King's Vessel. I'm sorry that out of all the physical forms you could have had, you got stuck with mine."
"Hasn't stopped me yet. Do you need another afternoon of praises?"
Another little shrug. "Maybe. I won't complain."
A lazy afternoon never hurt anyone. Horus does tell the boy everything he loves about him in a roundabout way, only speaking Kemetic against sun-blessed skin. Carter squirms beneath him, legs tight around his hips. He's comfortable like this, and that matters. There's a lot to them, but he can handle it, even if the boy is incapable of being quiet anymore. Confidence between the two. "Will you teach her Kemetic?"
"Me? Teach?" he says. "You overestimate me. There's spells for that, dearest."
Carter runs his hand over his shoulder, "And there's an importance in actually teaching, not being reliant on spells." Horus hums, figuring he can humor the boy. Today's a special day, one that will be marked on the calendar. December is turning out to be an important month for the two of them. December 6th as Carter's immortality, December 24th as the day they met, and most importantly of all, Horus' birthday on the 28th. "We're having a baby," he says again.
"I know, princeling," Horus answers, thumb brushing over the small of his back. "You're going to be a father."
Without looking, he knew Carter was grinning. "You're the 'Papa' type, I take it." It was a statement. Not a question. Hooking his arm around his shoulders, he's dragged closer, and he naturally accepts it, burrowing into his shoulder. "At what point is it appropriate to tell everyone?" he asks. Only then does Horus realize that telling Father the details would be moot. He would only confused. Like father, like son.
The sun had slowly begin to rise, rays peeking through the curtains and into the room. Modern beds did not compare to the one they presently were sprawled out in. "After the first three months. Early March? Unless that conflicts with Baby Kane's birthday too much." Horus doesn't want to leave this bed, in all honestly. Just Carter in his fresh immortality.
He made Carter immortal. Not Mother.
Excited again, isn't he always?, Horus easily pries the boy's legs down, rolling onto his back. Carter laughs, sitting up proudly. He squirms on his lap, an easy rock of his hips to bring them closer yet, cheeks pink. His youth, forever. The heaviness of his soul was outset by Carter's youth. Horus had been that young, at some point. "Anything for you and Meritites, dear boy." The girl has not been born yet, but it is true. True, true, true. Meritites is equally under his protection, even now.
Carter smiles, and "Meritites" rolls smoothly off his tongue like it belongs there. Horus eyes the golden band on his finger, lapis-lazuli set deep and center. How did they agree on that one? They did not get it from a store, because Horus barely tolerates shopping now, let alone years ago. Nor was it from Horus' ancient collection of jewelry; Carter and the hordes of women in his life argued that that was just rude. Where? The lapis was there from when they met, mirroring the armband Horus first had when they met.
Right. It hits him. The boy's best friend made matching sets for their engagement party. Carter did not tell him it was happening, and Horus did not react correctly, he was informed later, but Carter did not stay mad for long, wrapped up in one another in the glow of their engagement.
It was so long ago. It wasn't that long ago.
Carter's his.
Horus wears his wedding ring all the time (it would be hypocritical to demand it of the boy and not follow through), though typically not on his finger. In the mortal world, yes, snug around his finger. In the Duat? He wore it around his neck, safe against his chest.
"You are the most precious thing to me," Horus drawls, gripping his hip. "I'm sure Mer will come close."
"You even shortened her name," he says fondly. "You shortened a name."
Rolling his eyes, ignoring the bubbling feeling in his chest, "I am a man of many talents, Carter." Horus runs a hand through the boy's short hair. Letting this bundle of joy down hurts him every time he does it, and he does not want to continue the trend with Meritites. Not after her birth, but with her.
iii.
The Duat's sun only shines brighter the older he gets. His eyes adjust quickly, but it is obnoxious. But the day is fine so far, save for the Lady of the West laying beside him, her equally golden eyes transfixed on the horizon. Hathor is not one for the hunt (Mother brought him a report, middle of the night, concerning a fissure, where an old god brazenly bled out; how could Horus not scratch the itch?) but she tagged along as he took his leave.
"It will appease Sekhmet," she said as an explanation, easily shrugging. At least the women has armor, the red-clay color of her counterpart, fitted perfectly.
Horus holds his tongue. It is not always his place to speak. Thing about something calming. Carter. Pretty boy. It is early June, not too long before Horus will not leave the boy, for both his birthday and the impending day of Mer's birth. Yesterday was thirty-seven weeks exactly.
"Appeasing Sekhmet does not mean you put yourself at risk."
She smiles. "You would not let harm come to me." She is all knowing, like the sun. Hathor playfully knocks against his calf, smile turning too…Sadie-like. "Will your girl know of me?" He cannot simply disregard Hathor, and their old hope of a girl amongst their five boys. The queen was still his preferred deity; he would have to be blind to ignore Hathor's beauty and allure. But now Carter was the focus of his attention, immortal but not godly.
He shrugs. The horizon is clean. This cannot be a waste of time; he is old (though not the oldest present) and tired. "I am sure you will come up. You can be one of her numerous aunts."
And, yet, it's hard to keep his eyes off of her (the Kane children agree), watching a mirage of emotions fly across her regal features before becoming more refined. "I would like that, my lord," she says.
"I am glad."
Their marriage was never silent, but both know the severity of the situation. Ophis had returned from wherever he had been since Egypt's fall, and feral. More wolf than man, more primordial than wolf. Hathor could charm almost anything.
He was much less refined.
The wolf stalks into their area; Horus feels the itch of battle, pulling his khopesh out. Hathor, weaponless, follows him down as a distraction to both parties. He tousles with the grey-blue large wolf in the sand, here to subdue, not kill, legs wrapped around the beast, forcing it's jaw shut. Hathor does have her talents, summoning her ribbons, twined around their mistress.
His first mistake in years come at sparing a protective glance to ensure Hathor is safe; his grip wavers, and Ophis' snaps his king's arm in his jaws, twisting. Golden blood bleeds out. That is how Horus knows the man's gone feral. Ophis was the king's scout in times of war, another piece of confirming the king's power. Golden blood splatters the sand. It has been centuries since he bled like that. The wound itches, but he feels no pain. This is his domain.
The ribbons bind Ophis in quicker time that he expected. He's only seen mortals use the ribbons, and had forgotten how efficient their true mistress was. Father knows of the current events, and he has Hathor transport Ophis to the dungeons of the Hall of Judgement. Nephthys can rehabilitate him. Once the stinking, deranged mutt is gone, Hathor grips his arm, pulling it out. The stretch hurts the muscle.
Her magic laced finger tips feel like spice, warm as they prod at his wound. His love may be focused on Carter, but the queen still sparks sexual electricity within him. ("Really, birdie. I get it. She's distractingly beautiful. She makes me feel the same, but how could she? Hathor and him had a history.) "It's festering already. Who knows what he had on his maul?" Her golden magic arches across the open wound, temporarily suturing it, and she applies a tourniquet. "Let's get you to your mother, and keep this from your boy."
(the god king…really, cannot lie to the immortal king.)
"He's going to know. He always does," Horus says. The wound does look nasty, and he does not need to send Carter into one of his fits.
Hathor takes him to his rooms; they may no longer be together, but how do they ignore the millennia they spent with one another? "I'll go get your paperwork and your mother. No way of escaping it this time." He lounges on the couch, pinching the bridge of his nose. He cannot die, not truly, and this little wound should not put him too far back. He'll be here for Mer's birth. He has to be.
Horus digs around in his Duat locker for his phone. His injured arm remains propped on the side of the couch, blood oozing out of the loose stitches. Golden blood stains the white couch. He calls Carter without checking beforehand, listening to it ring. Unlike him, Carter always answers. "This is different. What's up, birdie?" he says smoothly. For Horus to call there has to be a good reason.
"I just-wanted to hear your voice." He hasn't had a fever in a long time, but he can get them. He hopes the wound doesn't get infected. He doesn't want a fever. "How's your day? Just talk, princeling. Birdie's tired."
Concern is evident in his voice. "Not like you to be tired before three. Are you sick?" It isn't lying if he simply doesn't answer, right? Carter does give into his request, however. "I'm out with Mom right now 'cause she doesn't have classes today, she says hi, by the way, and we're getting some stuff for Mer's room. Mom found a dresser she really likes so we're probably getting it. We're behind on her room, you know? She's almost here! Oh, and Naomi sent me a picture of the day's ultrasound." He keeps talking, and Horus leans back against the couch, simply listening.
Such a good, lovable boy. Soft, immortal, his. Perfect, too, in some kind of way, long legs, tender skin, hazel eyes that draw everything and then some. Carter Kane. Horus Kane. Meritites Kane. What a world. Feeling cold is never a good thing, finding a blanket in the Duat to cuddle up with in lieu of Carter. Cold. Bleeding out. He's surprised Mother's this slow, though she arrives within a few seconds of the thought.
Godhood is not a catchall.
Mother, when seeing that he's on the phone, thankfully keeps her mouth shut. Carter keeps chatting, unaware of what's happening within the Duat. Mother cleans his arm the old fashioned way, complete with warm water and soft linen. "This is a deep wound," she says quietly, "that's why you're bleeding gold. It might scar, but all Momma can do," really, "is bandage it and apply a spell to keep it infection free."
Horus nods lazily, reading through his stack of work for the day. The current stack concerns Ophis, and he signs off on whatever they say. Something about his treatment and the second outcome if it does not work. Then, there's Happy Acres, a project petitioned by Carter's old babysitter Bes, in addition to Bastet (whatever her, him, and Tawa-ret were was not his concern), and he approves it too. Further requests by simpler gods for simpler means. Then there's numbers, something he understands, of the amount of their gods that have returned, magicians, godlings, and sentient shabiti. He ignores the letter from the Greeks.
He hands the stack back to Mother, and with a kiss to his forehead, she leaves. "Princeling, do you know how much I love you?" He cuts him off mid-ramble. His magic is taking special care to heal the wound the best it can, to speed up the process.
Even without seeing him, he knows the boy is flushed. "I-I know, birdie. We should go out tonight."
Horus eyes the stark white band-aids wrapped around his arm. "We'll see, dear boy. It depends on the time and how I'm feeling."
Carter hums. "Okay. I want cuddled when I come home."
"I'll be in the Duat, but alright. We have a deal, baby boy." Horus pulls his feet onto the couch. "I'll let you go. I'll see you when you get here." They exchange a few more I love yous before they disconnect. Horus' phone disappears again into the deeper Duat, and despite his better judgement, Horus dozes off.
Who knew a simple wound could hurt so badly? He's the king of the gods, for goodness sakes. Fine. For fucks sake.
It is a good nap, he gives it that. The wound itches supremely, and he wants to scratch it badly, till it bleeds again. That's a bad habit; if his permanent body could scar he would be riddled with them. The body he's shared with Carter has a few scars over it, but they're faint and on the verge of disappearing. He's fully woken up by the sound of Carter entering their rooms, bag hitting the floor, shoes scuffing the floor. "Birdie! I bought you something!"
Horus groans. "Inside voice, little love. Birdie's tired."
Carter crosses the room, grey plastic clutched in his hands. The boy's brow furrows. "What's wrong?" he asks again, and avoiding the truth with Carter directly in front of him is difficult. He squats in front of the couch, laying a hand on his forehead. "What happened? You're sweating," he notes.
"Birdie got a little injured. That's all." He pulls his arm out from beneath the blanket, and Carter's face pales, jaw tensing. "I'm okay, baby boy. Just tired. Come on. Get your cuddles."
"How?" Horus explains the morning to him, leaving out some tidbits about Hathor. Carter frowns deeper. "My poor bird." Carter graces him with a soft kiss to the temple. "Come get in the actual bed. Undress a little."
Sighing, he sits up, dragged by the hand by a pouty princeling. As if he's a servant, unbefitting of him, Carter undresses him, pulling their comforter back and tucking him under it. "Really, Carter, I'm okay. Being around you mortals makes a man sensitive."
Carter strips down too, and for a change of pace, lies behind him, arm over his waist. That's. Rare. "Well, good thing I'm not a mortal, then," he says, tucking his head against his shoulder. "Doesn't my magic intermingle well with you?"
"You will help me heal, if that's the question. My permanent host and fixed consort."
His princeling nods. "Then rest up. I'm just glad you're okay. Then I'll show you all we bought the baby."
iv.
She is born on time. Meritites Kane is born before five in the morning, small and complete with strong lungs. Carter grips his hand excitedly, pulling him through the halls of the hospital. The boy hasn't slept well as of late, but his energy is swell despite the bags beneath his eyes. Another bout of anxiety hidden from the god, but things are alright, having spent the last week preparing the girl's room.
They're buzzed into the maternity ward and go through the similar motions of signing in, affixing badges to their shirts; this is a different hospital than the one Dominic Parennefer was born in, but the lay out is the same: dark corridors accented by a brightly lit nurses' station, computer carts dotted around the floor. He's been here before; life is cyclical and repetitive.
Naomi Rasmussen looks fine for recently giving birth, but Sadie did too. Modern women must not carry it like women use to. Assuming they would was wrong of him. "They're giving her a bath," she says on seeing them, sigh leaving her mouth but a smile pulls at her lips. "Six pounds, eight ounces. Nineteen inches. So far, she looks like you."
Carter does not wear shorts in public unless he's playing that sport of his but he's everything right in the summer sun and heat. Horus glances down at the top of his head. "I'm sure she does." Exultant. Lovely. Awkward with his words. His. Theirs.
She gestures at the rolling table, a manila folder home beside a dull salmon pitcher and white foam cup. "There's that, eventually. But one of you need this," she gathers up a plastic bracelet decorated with infantile animals. In what world are ducks child friendly? "Security bracelet, so she can stay with you when I'm out of the room. She'll be ready to go home on the 24th and so will I." Three days. Three short days. His heart skips another beat. Carter, feeling his nervousness (him? nervous?), squeezes his hand.
He lets Carter have the band. He's her father, after all. It's snug on his wrist, Horus unable to slip his finger beneath it, veins warm and hidden. He gives him a smile as he fidgets, before turning back to the mortal to discuss more technicalities. The boy is sweet. The boy is immortal, in contrast to Mer's mother.
Oh, good.
"Do you mind getting me a drink from the cafeteria?" Naomi asks. "Anything will do."
Horus goes to get it, what use is he?, but Carter offers, dismissing the woman's offer of a few dollars. "No problem," he says, kissing Horus' cheek, shoving him into a chair, hand playful on his chest. Young, immortal, and such a contrast to him.
He watches Carter go. Naomi does not let the air remain silent. "How are you handling this? We haven't talked as much as Carter and I." How is he handling this? Having a tiny mortal babe means he cannot be that emotionally repressed anymore. He opened up for Carter. He can keep doing it.
"I am-" kind to women; a gentle lord, understanding "-I am alright. The bo-Carter's ecstatic."
Naomi pulls her blanket tighter around herself, hair falling down her temples. "You're not the expressive kind."
"I am constantly leaning this language," he offers. "It is far from my first."
Her smile is a constant. The baby will have her smile. Probably. "See, I didn't know that about you."
Horus, forgetting himself, laughs low, between a snort and choke. "It's easily spotted. Language training," magic, "does not provide cultural cues. The Kane family has spent years trying to explain them to my family."
"Are your families close? I was close to David's family," who was David again? spouse? "until they heard about my plans to surrogate. They aren't tolerant of it."
Why are hospitals so dreadfully cold? Get me something warm to drink. "We are. His younger sister is with my cousin, so it's doubly hard to escape mingling." On record, Carter was the only Kane romantically involved with a god, permissible as he was still Horus' host. Mother and Horus turned a blind eye to Anubis' and Sadie's relationship, because there wasn't one. None at all.
She nods. "I get that." Horus crosses his legs, leaning back in his chair. He's felt fine ever since his exercise in the desert. Carter scolded him ("What if something happened to you? You can't just run off without telling me anything. If I did that you would-"), but it was worth it.
There's a soft knock at the door, and his stomach drops, knowing that it isn't Carter. Who else would it be? The baby. A nurse rolls the bassinet in, the same tanned cabinet and plastic box that seems to be the standard set up. His eyes fall to it as it stops beside Naomi's bed. She recites the baby's birthday and last name (Kane, Kane, Kane).
Naomi glances at him, and he knows what mischief looks like. "Would you like to hold her?" she asks. Despite the distance, he can clearly see the babe. Golden skin, dark brown hair lightly dusted on her head, peeking out from beneath a hat, cheeks full but high, nose only a button. She's swaddled up in a white blanket. Her mother has brown eyes, so there is hope.
"No, no. I'll let Carter hold her first. He's her father."
"So are you, Horus." She says it so basically, so plainly, as if he isn't a god.
To her, he isn't.
Horus stands up from the chair, and goes to squat beside her, peering at her through the clear plastic. A child. Carter's child. His sixth. She's something else, little, and his previously dropped stomach flips. "You're a tiny thing, aren't you? But you're your father's babe. I-Papa can see it already." He wonders how much he loves her, even if the thought is early. It's Carter's girl, it's his girl.
Naomi blinks. "What language is that?" she asks.
What's the modern one? "Egyptian," sums it up, doesn't it? She scoots over to give them space.
There is little sound except for the television in the back. He marvels at Meritites Kane, and unfortunately the urge to hold her itches at him. Horus feared hurting the baby ever since they assembled her crib. Everything for the baby is so little, and she matches it. Little. Easy to break.
Carter eventually comes back; Horus both feels his presence and recognizes the hand on his shoulder. "Not to say I told you so, birdie, but I did."
"Must you be so smug, princeling?" he says, sparing a look up at him. You're still short, even from this angle.
Oh, shut up. Carter gives him, yet again, a cheap styrofoam cup, but it is warm, and that's what matters. He takes a precautionary sniff before drinking; some of these cheap drinks are on another level of poor. "I hope he didn't bother you too much," he says dryly, as if he's a misbehaving child. Carter kisses his cheek again.
(the immortal king understands, doesn't he? he always does.)
The mortal shrugs. "He was a little mouthy." Oh. They're joking. Alright.
"He can be," Carter answers. "Sometimes he graces me with more than ten words." Carter crouches beside him, one hand on his thigh for balance. Are you alright?
Horus hums. The boy is quiet likewise, pretty golden eyes staring at his daughter. Carter's joy is present in his mind, a familiar feeling that Horus has felt time and time again. His hand wipes at his eyes, and Horus can only offer an arm around his shoulders for comfort. "You're a father, princeling."
Carter cries hard enough for him to worry. Really? he teases, but the boy has always been emotional. He rubs his back for the duration of it, playing with the boy's wedding ring. Naomi is kind about it, giving them as much privacy as she can, playing on her phone.
Eventually, after his crying spurt, he steals Horus' drink, complaining about his knees beneath his breath, and going to sit on the small couch. "Have you held her?" Carter asks, and Horus feels an old pang of jealousy hits him when the boy's attention is on the baby.
"What do you think?" he replies.
Just like with Dominic Parennefer, Carter looks wonderful holding a baby, when the little thing finally wakes up (or as awake as a newborn can be). Peas in a pod, whatever that expression is. Horus refuses to hold her, not callously, but she is small and tender, skin waxy beneath the finger he brushes over her cheek.
Presently, the feelings stirring in his chest have nothing to do with the baby, so he keeps them away from Carter. Yet just like with Hathor, the joy has to do with the one he loves so dearly obviously happy, face bright as Meritites' tiny hand breaks the confines of her swaddle, adorn with a matching bracelet with her name on it, swatting against the god's finger. "A little terror aren't you," he mocks, and she bares her gums at him.
Ma'at approves.
v.
Mer's first birthday is also at Brooklyn House, a tradition now. It's smaller than Dominic Parennefer's was, and none of Carter's friends have had children yet despite their ages. Only the closet of the close, but despite that, Horus does not appreciate being left with them.
The girl of the day grows tired after her cake, and Carter goes to put her down in his old room, icing smeared on his cheek.
Horus has learned names, though, just through exposure. Sadie. Walt. The mutt. Dominic Parennefer. Ruby. Julius. Amos. Bastet. Mother (there's a later event for Father and Nephthys). Hathor, Nephthys, and Father sent their best wishes.
Easy.
Jaz, Alyssa, Zia, Cleo, Shelby and her former ankle biters. Julian (who, for years, he was convinced was another Julius; following his path did not warrant special attention). Felix. Sean. Philip. Khufu. Various shabiti. The rogue thermos still prowled the halls, and Freak shrieks on the same balcony as Philip.
Mother forces him to go clean up, and he figures, hey, might as well find Carter, as if that's ever been hard. Brooklyn is an unchanging maze. He climbs up the old stairs, cracking the door open to not wake Mer. He's made the mistake of waking her before, a little too brazen at eleven in the morning (he dropped something on the floor, probably his khopesh, and the baby woke; Carter was unhappy).
Horus spies Mer (little daughter, little princess) curled up in their old bed, curly hair poking out from beneath her white and red blanket. He's been here. He'll always be here. That's the life he's doomed to.
But he also spies the object of his adult affections, slim and youthful, in the on-suite bathroom, rag scrubbing at his face to clear himself of icing. For such a young baby, Mer had a perfected, précised throw. Horus even spots icing on the back of his neck, and further figures that's enough of an excuse to get handsy. He enters the bathroom, closing the door a little behind him, enough for privacy but the bed is still seen. Horus swipes his thumb across Carter's neck, smooth icing coating his skin. Carter shivers a little, leaning back against him. "I'm tired," he gripes, limited in his social interactions, peering up at him. "I wasn't going to nap to not leave you alone, but since you're here-"
"No napping," he says, kissing his cheek. "I'm here for other bedroom activities." Carter is easy to trap against the counter, always has been, stealing the rag away from him as he turns in his hold.
Carter levels an unamused glare at him. "Our daughter is right there," he reminds.
Horus lays another kiss down, this time to his neck. The icing is almost as sweet as Carter. "I know she is. She won't see a thing, princeling."
His little prince plays with his shirt, pulling at the buttons in his uncertain way. "We have a daughter, birdie. She's a year old." Horus hums and nods. "We have a daughter. You and me. We're married with a baby." Carter looks up at him, brilliant hazel eyes locked onto Horus'. He tilts his jaw up with his thumb, giving him a brief kiss to his mouth. "Give me another one." Assuming he means kisses, he relents, and is further confused by the boy's laughter. "Another baby."
"We have one."
He laughs again. "You aren't listening. I said give me a baby. I want to make a baby with you," he says, cheeks flushed at the admittance.
Horus grins, one of his princeling's hands coming to rest on his cheek, kid busy with kissing his jaw. The god hikes him up by the back of the thigh to sit him on the counter. The space between his thighs is warm, and he doesn't mind being there. He's never minded the spot. "Not having siblings is how you turn out like me," Horus jokes. "She would look cute with a sister."
"Trying to make up for the girls you never had?"
Before they can really get pass the teasing (and maybe it's for the best; both of them being gone for an extended period usually means one thing, and Carter's friends don't need to have that on their minds), Mer wakes up, gurgling to herself. Both of them share frustrated glances with one another. The boy gets down, kisses his cheek, and ducks back into his room. Horus sighs and adjusts his pants, counting backwards from ten.
(the god king loves, but needs loved in turn, from either prince or princess.)
"Uh, birdie? Could you come here?"
Of course he can. He steps out, ready to speak immediately, but he spots Carter's cause for concern. There's Mer in her birthday outfit, leggings complete with stars and shirt blindingly yellow, giggling, but where her mouth should be is a beak, and hair, fluffy down feathers. Fledgling falcons aren't as pronounced as their elders. Carter's face is calm, and he follows suit. "My baby's been replaced with an eyas!" he exclaims, and Mer giggles again, standing up.
Carter's face dips in and out of panic. "Just because Papa calls you his eyas doesn't mean you have to turn into one." He hooks her under the armpits, setting her on the floor. She leans against the bed for balance, round hazel eyes now outlined by dark red feathers, but something across the room catches her attention, and she scurries away on her hands and knees. Carter turns to him, worry evident on the face. "How?"
"She's a Kane," Horus answers. He's not worried at all, and he even feels closer to her like this.
"But she-Sadie and I never just transformed!" he whispered-yell.
Horus shrugs. "You and Sadie didn't grow up around magic. You may have been magical children, but that was it. Besides, I shifted around six months." He playfully taps Carter's cheek to drown his mounting panic, looking down at the eyas tumbling over the floor. "I haven't even gotten you to half transform, my dear prodigy."
Carter's skin flushes, stammering for an answer. "I know I suck, birdie, but I could probably do that. I just don't want to," he offers. "How long will she be like that?"
That was hard to say, given that she couldn't choose when she shifted. "By herself? Who knows. Probably until she gets hungry. Worse comes to worse, I can change her back, though I hate forcing my magic on such a little thing. Mer! Come to papa," he calls. Her little bird head appears from Carter's old minifridge, beak chomping away at a bottle.
The girl closes the distance back to them, using his pants to pull herself up. Adoration shines in her beady eyes. She's hoisted back on the bed, and he gestures to Carter to give her support. Playfully, the girl nips at his finger, just as if she were her regular old self, but she doesn't understand the strength of her beak, drawing blood. Carter makes a noise similar to the girl, eying him.
Horus smiles, prying his finger free. "No biting, princess. Papa might bite back." He pulls the collar of her shirt forward, and the feathers hang past her clavicle, but her chest is free, but red where the feathers irritate her. Unlike him, her feathers are blood free. "But…she's never seen either of us transform, has she?"
Carter shakes his head. "I mean, you came home last week with the falcon head and played with her for a minute. She is at the age where babies mimic, though I didn't think she could mimic magic." Mer keeps nipping at his fingers. Better him than Carter. "You know how us silly mortals get the precautionary 'don't stay an animal too long' warning?"
"You're not mortal, but yes."
"Does that apply to her?"
"Applies to all mortals, dearest. I think she'll get hungry before then." Horus runs his fingers across her beak, admiring it. Smooth like a real bird. He's impressed with her, given that half forms are hard to intentionally achieve; Carter rarely transforms, but he's skilled enough to smoothly move between forms. "Good job, baby girl," he cooes, ruffling her feathers. She giggles out her beak.
The baby wasn't asleep for long, and even her bird eyes droop with weariness. Carter puts her back to bed, barricading her with pillows to ensure she doesn't fall out of the bed. "I don't want to go back, but I guess we have to. Maybe she'll change back in her sleep?" Carter goes to kiss her, stumbles for a moment, and settles on between her eyes. The boy grabs his hand, pulling him along. They leave the door crack to hear her, heading downstairs.
Sadie shoots them a knowing look, a look that says Indecent degenerates, and Carter rolls his eyes. Dominic Parennefer is outside playing with Freak and Philip, so with the primarily adult crowd, Carter finally lets him have another drink. Mother has been sipping her wine this whole time, which is the correct method of doing this, instead of borderline chugging his glass. Wine never lasts long in Horus' cup.
The mortals and Carter (head on his shoulder) discuss something…mortal, inner workings of nomes and varying stats, while the present gods look dreadfully bored. Mother only came for the baby, Anubis because of his host. He keeps his arm around Carter's waist, softly stroking his side (he can feel Julius' eyes on him; he still hasn't accepted what they are). Mer got through most of the party, and it seems as if the same goes for Carter. The magicians that don't live in Brooklyn House any more, all grown, start to filter out. When they're alone, or close enough to alone, he kisses Carter's forehead, Want to spend the night?
The boy shrugs lazily. His eyes mirror their daughter's, heavy. "We should go check on our little falcon," he says, but makes no motion to move, cuddling up further into him. Figuring it's only Cleo around, playing on her phone, he scoops Carter up in an age old cycle, carrying him up the stairs. "Stupid bird," he grumbles, but strips down to his boxers and t-shirt with no complaints. "Cuddle me. Cuddle us."
Horus makes sure the baby's breathing, first and foremost. Her long naps always worry him. She is. He strips down to only boxers, laying on Mer's other side. "Well, come here." Both prince and princess are small enough that Horus can hold the two of them; the bird doesn't stir.
In fact, the bird doesn't stir for another three hours. She sits up between the two of them, warbling in her throat. "Papapapapa -" a cry is building in her magical vocal chords.
"Hungry, baby girl?" Her short yell answers him. It rebounds off the walls, high and shrill. Horus sits up, and the baby crawls on to his lap, demanding attention. "Then you have to change back. See?" He covers her eyes from the light as he changes into his half form too, carrying her into the bathroom. They look strikingly similar, except he has no down feathers, darker, and Mer's head pivots as she looks at him and back at the mirror.
Her tiny hand yanks at his feather with a giggling shriek; Carter rolls over onto his side, curled in a ball. "You have to change back, sweet girl. See? Bird," it's easy for him, so he slows the process so she can follow, "no bird." She continues slapping his neck, fingers curling where feathers use to be. "No bird, bird. Bird, no bird." He demonstrates again.
The girl's a Kane.
But maybe she's too young for the Kane luck, and her playfulness turns into wails and fists. "Oh, baby," he soothes. "It's okay. Papa'll take care of you." Oh, he hates this. Forcing magic is nothing but trouble.
Horus taps her forehead, the golden Eye of Horus glowing in contrast to her soft feathers. He isn't quite sure how it works, but it does; falcons are his domain. It takes under a minute for his eyas to transform back into his baby girl. Her skin is tinged red still from a reaction to the feathers, hair mussed and eyes shimmering with tears. "See? Look. All Mer again." He points at the mirror; her sobs turn into a hiccupping laugh.
(After doing it a few more time over the period of a month, Mer figures out how to willfully change form, but they acquire a charm from Sadie's husband to be sure.)
vi.
Horus gets home…late. Completely dark when he stumbles into the kitchen, only the light from the coffee maker blinking against the war. No giggling, no tearful pleas for another bedtime story. The table holds a myriad of toys and brightly colored paper, a cardboard tiara crumpled beneath one of Mer's plush toys. Right. Kindergarten graduation. He explained to them that he'd be absent.
He goes to curl up with his little husband, stripped down to his boxers and pulling the sheets back. Without looking at him, Carter says, "Go see Mer. You broke her little heart." He's draped in one of Horus' sleep shirts, dark green and soft, chest exposed.
"She knew," he says, wanting to sleep some before they left in the morning. He made Carter immortal; he's becoming mortal.
"It doesn't mean she's not upset. She's a little girl madly in love with her papa. You're not getting in this bed until you talk to her."
"It's midnight, princeling."
He shrugs, sparing him a glance with those pretty hazel eyes. "See her." Carter also graces him with a brief kiss, propping himself on his elbows, first cheek, then mouth. "Then we'll have a little fun. I've missed you," he complains. Horus hums, running a hand through the boy's hair. "Unless you're old and tired."
He laughs gently. "We could fool around before I visit the little princess."
The boy catches his eyes. "Nice try." He pats his hip in some mocking get going, boy motion, shooing him out of the bedroom. It's honestly insulting, but Carter gets away with it. It's natural, at this point.
Horus traverses the short distance to her room; Mer still makes him unnerved, on a deep level. Tiny, playful, but as emotional as her father yet with far less knowledge and, shockingly, reason. Admittedly, she's easier than Ihy ever was, but Ihy had centuries of knowledge despite his young years. She had nothing to compare them to.
Light streams out from beneath her door, past the girl's intended bedtime. Or. Well. They normally have story time at eight, and Mer stays up a little longer by herself before going to bed. But it works, and she does not have problems getting up in the morning, so they leave her be. Midnight is late for her though, rarely up past nine.
He knocks on the door, hand gripping the knob. "Can I come in, sweetheart?" he asks; she gives some kind of noise that doesn't sound like a no. He slowly opens the door, almost comforted by the level of orange that decorated her room. Mer adored the color, from sheets to curtains to an accent rug. The color bordered on overwhelming, straining his eyes, but, again, they let her. Different shades of the color, and Carter balanced it out with others; her spring quilt was a mint color decorated with clouds, carpet and walls the standard fare, grey dresser complete with a lamp. Save for the quilt and the abundance of orange (she loved tulips, too; that, Horus remembered) the rest were more neutral colors.
Plus, Mer's room made him feel gigantic. Mer's room was accommodated for her. Her dresser was meant to be easily accessible for her stature, and her bed was close enough to the floor that she could easily scale in and out (unlike their bed, which occasionally deterred her yet). An easel in the corner, split between marker and chalk, a toy box of her choosing. Fostering independence, Carter said, quoting some study that he knew Horus had no interest in, but skin was a good way to attract his attention.
"It's past your bedtime, sweetheart." The domed nightlight plugged in by her bed doesn't glow. "What are you doing up?" he asks softly; he crosses the room to her bed, sitting on the floor beside it, arms on the bed.
She picks up her coloring book, turning to show him. Marker stains her fingers. "Coloring. Look." As if she's giving a presentation, she flips through her favorite winter coloring book. Blue snowmen. Yellow Christmas trees. Pink snowflakes. "That's Bast't," she says, pointing at a green cat wearing an elf hat.
"Bastet isn't green, honey."
"She is if I say so."
Horus smiles. "Why don't you give it to her the next time you see her?" He knows too that Mer drew a picture of her and Mother (blue stick figures in the desert), and it stayed proudly displayed in her chambers. Ruby and Julius had something similar from the time they took her to the zoo. Any drawings meant for her parents got pinned to the fridge, but Horus kept the neon pink and green polka-dotted falcon on his person.
Such a good girl.
Mer nods, putting the coloring book back on her lap. They sit in silence for a few moments, only broken by the sound of marker scratching the paper. He takes in her small frame complimented by her quilt around her shoulders and owl printed nightgown. Carter breeds well. The Kane family breeds well.
Being the adult (no, really?), Horus breaks the silence. "Daddy told me that someone is unhappy. Any idea who?" The girl sees his eyes for what they are, and he knows as she only ever looks in the silver one.
She grumbles beneath her breath about giving Daddy a'talk'n. Mer shifts. "Tommy's parents came, and they're divorced. Ashley's grandpa came. You did'nint." She sniffles, rubbing at her nose. Horus doesn't catch her before she smears marker on her cheek.
"Didn't," he corrects gently. "I told you I couldn't come, sweetheart. You knew." Magic is good on ink, clearing her cheek with a swipe of his thumb.
Mer picks up a different marker, scribbling with a little more intensity. She rips a hole in the page. "But I saw Da sittin' all by himself. I talk about Papa all the time and everyone thinks two daddies are cool and then only Da shows up." Her speech issues come clearer when she's sleepy and when she's upset.
Horus shifts on the ground. Only now does he notice that her newest coloring book sits on the floor. Using one hand, he flips through it. All filled, and recently. He can smell the fresh ink. "I wanted to be there, princess. I would have. But you know how busy I am."
Something shifts inside of her visibly. Her temper is Carter's in its infrequency, but someone else's in range. Hopefully it is not his, but he's kept it under wraps. She throws her marker at the wall, cap off, leaving a mark there too. "You didn't come!" she yells. Horus feels Carter rouse in his mind, and he puts that down. "Papa didn't come! You come to the Easter party but not my special day. You're unbusy any other time." Her voice is high. She shoves her capped markers off the bed, and hurls her book on the ground. It's almost cute.
This is the part he fears. Discipline. Little mortal bones. "Meritites," Horus says, catching her small hands in one of his. "Count to ten," he commands firmly. Carter handles discipline, mostly. He knows the boy wasn't physically disciplined as a child, and neither is Mer. Mom would just sit us down and explained why what we did was wrong, he explained, and then we'd fix whatever we did (unless him and Sadie got into fights; that resulted in separated time in their rooms). His ideas had worked so far.
Horus wants to vomit at the thought of spanking her.
She doesn't like it, never does, but she does so, a full breath between each number. Her cheeks are red. In his hand her fists uncurl. She's tired. Horus ducks his head down to maintain eye contact with her. "You don't throw your markers, Meritites. It doesn't matter if you're frustrated."
Mer huffs, but nods. "Okay, papa."
"Let's clean up." He grabs her marker box (orange, of course), holding it open for her to fill. She collects the ones beside her bed first, then totters over to the one sitting beneath the wall. It doesn't take much longer for all her coloring supplies to be put away, but the girl sniffles all the while.
Clambering back into bed, she curls on her side facing him, plush otter held to her chest. Her hair falls on the pillow. "I'm still mad at you," she says sternly. The skin of her brow furrows.
Horus flicks the lamp off with magic. Mer's hazel eyes remain fixated on him, but her lids droop. "I'm sorry, princess," he says again. "Daddy sent me a picture. You both looked nice."
(mortal's king and mortal princess, a picturesque scene of beaming smiles and matching blues, king's shirt, princess's gown; the god king's heart stopped; anything, anything for them.)
Mer nods. "We always do. But I wanted Papa there too. You're my papa. I love Papa." Smile pulling at his face, Horus leans forward to kiss her forehead.
"And Papa loves the princess very much. Can you try to forgive me?" Meritites doesn't say anything, but her own toothy grin blossoms. She scooches back, a singular grabby hand directed at him. He sighs but complies. He doesn't really fit on the bed, not in any shape, feet hanging over the edge, but Mer curls up against his chest, covering his shoulder with a section of her blanket. "For me? How generous."
The girl does not take long to fall asleep, maybe ten minutes top. He waits another few to ensure she does not attempt to worm her way into Carter's bed. Horus thinks about staying with her, but Carter made promises. He leaves another kiss to her sleeping forehead (he can tell she's truly out, mouth parted a hair) and a vocal comforting decree that he loves her.
He's. Tired. His bones tell him this through both doors, pushing half after midnight, turning the television on low, crawling atop his little husband. "Carter," he whines. "I am in the girl's good graces." Horus digs around their nightstand, equally tired hands drawing nonsense on his sides. He gives a brief synopsis of his meeting with the princess heir, and Carter kisses his knuckles, complimenting him.
"She's asleep-asleep?" he checks. Horus settles between his legs.
Horus tuts. "When have I not put her to sleep?"
That's enough for both of them. Carter holds him close, nails scratching at his shoulders with zero ferocity, and Horus leaves bruises that won't be seen tomorrow. The late hour and languid moments make both last longer than usual; Horus is willing to bet that he dozes off in Carter's neck at some point. They're both content by the night, and they use magic to clean up; Mer tends to barge in during the mornings. Carter curls up in a similar manner his daughter had done, head pillowed on his chest.
Yet despite their late nights they all wake up on time. Mer makes sure of it, shaking them both awake with a singular hand, the other occupied with a cup. Horus hums, shooing her back into the living room, promising to be out, but she giggles. Carter smiles at her, sitting up. "Good morning, honey. We're not leaving for a few more hours."
The light of the television tints her hair blue as she precariously stands on the edge of the bed. "I want cheerios but there's no milk."
"How about eggs then?" he asks. Horus gets up, rubs the sleep out of the golden eye, and switches off the television. Mer looks between the two of them, and seems to remember something, bouncing on her toes. Watching to ensure she doesn't fall and hit her head, he rustles through the closet. Where are they going again? Some park. He knows that and he also knows that Carter could just handle everything, but the boy has to make breakfast.
"Papa called me cute."
"Well, you are."
Mer nods, taking a swig of what Horus assumes to be one of his juices. "Papa also said I could ride a ride all by myself."
Carter easily calls her bluff. "Papa doesn't even know where we're going. And we'll see. If you're tall enough, sure. Deal?"
"I guess," she answers, jumping down. "Papa! Come with me." So demanding, so bossy, but it is within her confines. She doesn't wait for any kind of confirmation, bounding back off to her room.
He shakes his head, kissing Carter's forehead. "You're wrapped around her finger," he says, a smile on his smooth face. "Do you mind getting her dressed? Breakfast?"
Horus is confident that that's where she disappeared to. "Sure."
Primarily, the girl dresses herself. Her little self puts careful consideration in what she does, asking Horus for his input and then saying why he's wrong. She's as far from a quiet child as one could be, prattling on constantly, but it's in good nature. He can appreciate the position as listener; that is a new trend in this century. Mer pulls on swim shorts (having picked them out herself at the store), more salmon than orange, decorated with seashells. "Where were you?" she asks, looking up at him.
"I was with grandmama. We had a meeting." Horus ruffles her hair.
Her small hand grips one of his, pulling him deeper into her room. Her closet is full of shoes, equally tiny, and she starts to go through them. "Can I go with you tomorrow?" Mer being in school made him and Carter's schedules easier to handle, but now they'll go back to their old set-up.
Plus, Mer did know about who Horus actually was. If she fully comprehended it, that was another thing. Despite having entertained the idea of not telling her until she was seven, magic was too hard to hide with Kanes. When the girl accidentally exploded the pipes in the bath tub, yelling that she did not want to take a bath, did they tell her. It was an explanation.
Mer knows that Daddy is the magician king, that Papa is the god-king, whatever that means, and further explanations proved fruitless. Yet in spite of the truth being in the open, Mer has only been to the Duat once, to visit Horus' father.
"We'll see, sweetheart." Not a magician yet, Horus worries what the Duat would do to a mortal's growth. "Why don't you wear your sandals?" he offers, the weird gel material that conformed to her feet well. Horus looks for her swim shirt next, carefully picking through the accordioned clothes in her laundry basket. For once, he knows that if it isn't in there, it is actually lost, but lucky it is there, white, collar green, long sleeved, and decorated with sharks.
Thankfully, she puts it on. Keeping clothes on Mer is difficult at times, has been difficult for three years. "Do you know how to swim, Papa?"
Horus offers a pullover (June mornings can still chill), and thankfully she accepts it, pulling her hair out of the hood. "I do."
"I don't."
"You'll learn."
Meritites Kane has her father's eyes, and now they stared steadfast at him, locked in. Horus has known this from the day she was born, small and peering up at him from her place amongst swaddled blankets, alight with joy and mischief. Ever changing between hazel and amber, with Horus unable to pinpoint it, they are close enough to his, to godhood, to settle the…he hates the word, the idea being applied to him…the fear (a substitute) that the girl is just that. Carter's girl. Isn't papa just a word? Words only have power when given.
Blood was just a word, too, by that logic. Blood was given the meaning of family, but Horus, a civilization ago, was given the meaning the distant one.
Mer breaks contact first, grabbing her otter off her bed, and, again, is bringing her coloring book to the table. She clutches them to her chest in a familiar motion, tugging on the hem of his pajamas. "Okay," she says with a nod. "But breakfast. Can I sit by you?" as if the island wasn't three stooled with the girl in the middle.
"Sure, sweetheart."