"I can't believe you let him get away."
Satiah's words dug sharply into Atem's flesh, peeling back his composure with the precision of an embalmer's knife. Heated, she paced back and forth before the altar of the Gods' shrine — one of the few places left unscathed by Bakura's men, thanks in large part to the strong magic protecting it.
"He has everything now," Satiah spat, pacing faster. "The Tome, the Codex—"
"This isn't the end," Atem interjected. "I shattered the Codex. And the spell — I've had it memorized since before we left for Faiyum. We're still a step ahead—"
"But you had him, Atem." She rounded on him, her wild eyes flickering in the light of the braziers. "You could have crushed him with the Gods. But you let him go." She threw her hands up in defeat. "Why?"
He hesitated. He knew she would be unsatisfied with the truth, but in the presence of the Gods, he felt compelled to speak it just the same. "I had to get to you," he breathed. "I had to make sure you were alright."
At this, she crossed her arms and turned her head away, shaking it lightly. "If you were so desperate to be with me," she said, looking back, "then why did you send me away in the first place?" Her voice was softer now, but no less barbed. "I could have helped you. We could have beat him together."
"You don't understand," he gasped. "I — I just… I can't—" He exhaled sharply and sank down to the step of the altar behind him. "What does it matter? What's done is done."
The heat of her anger still beat down on him, forcing his head into his hands. A quiet, guiltful moment passed, broken by a shallow breath as Satiah knelt before him. He fought the urge to pull away when she took his hands in hers, bringing them to her middle.
"I trusted you to do what needed to be done," she whispered. "Why didn't you trust me to do the same?"
Words clung in Atem's throat like congealed blood. How could he bear to tell her? That he'd let doubt into his heart the moment they'd returned from Khafra's pyramid? That his faith had been shaken by all the things he'd seen, and all the things he feared he'd see?
But as he looked into her eyes — flicking back and forth like a predator watching prey — he could tell: she already knew it all.
She sighed and lowered her head, and for a moment Atem thought she might be preparing to dissect him again with her words. But she held her tongue, instead pulling his hands up to kiss them once. The motion was one of pity more than bitterness, and when she stood and disappeared into the darkness, Atem was left feeling as though she had flayed everything away but the malignancy which plagued him.
For the first time since Satiah returned home, the sunrise over Memphis burned red.
She watched from the top of the villa watchtower as Ra emerged and painted the smoldering city in tones as deep as blood. All around, smoke still billowed and choked the air — writhing fingers reaching up from the market district; an angry fist of black soot pouring out of the scar where the Temple of Hathor had once stood.
But even behind this curtain of darkness, there was evidence of hope — people coming together to tend the injured, bury the dead, and begin rebuilding. Jahar's rebel priests had worked through the night to drive out the rest of the bandits and rally the civilians, and just before morning, Anuket and her militia from Sapi-Res had arrived with provisions of food and fresh water. Healers had been dispatched to the remaining temples and monuments, where refugees were beginning to gather for shelter.
There was a strange beauty in watching candles flicker in every window of every temple left untouched — as if the light and hope of humanity might outburn even the wrath of the gods themselves.
Indeed, Ra was still cowering behind a thick orange cloud by the time a presence came to join Satiah in the watchtower. Leaning over the side of the roof, she saw her father mounting the ladder, looking as though he'd aged a hundred years in the last twelve hours. He pulled himself onto the roof and settled down beside Satiah in the corner. For a long time, they simply stared out at the horizon together, watching as the remnants of their past were pieced back together.
Slowly, the red tinge of the sky burned off to a deep, clear cerulean, blending down to touch the wide mouth of the Nile in the distance. Satiah felt her eyes start to water, first from squinting against the rising sun, but when her father wrapped an arm around her shoulder and drew her against him, a trickle of tears escaped and fled down her cheeks. She turned, smothering the wetness against the front of his robes.
"I don't want to be a distraction," she whispered into him, as if the folds of his cloak might capture and conceal this confession. "I don't want to be the reason this kingdom falls."
But her father slipped a finger beneath her chin, lifting it up to greet his shining face — and the blue sky eclipsed around it. "I think a bit of your husband's hubris is rubbing off on you," he said, his eyes squinting with a smile. "My dear, kingdoms do not rise and fall off the back of one person." He looked up, and Satiah followed his gaze, out toward the city again. "It takes all of us. Together."
Satiah let the words sink deeply into her heart, watching as her father traced his eyes along every shattered temple and crumbling monument. It suddenly struck her — that this was not the first time he had seen their home in such a state. She had been just a child then, when her father had been called upon to defend Memphis from a bloody invasion — and he had gone to great lengths to shield his children from the devastation their city had endured at the hands of the Nubians.
"That strength," Metjen said, nodding to the horizon, "is what has kept this kingdom standing tall for centuries since before you were born — and so it will remain for long after you are gone. Not even a king of thieves can take that legacy away from you, or your people."
Satiah knew her father had meant these as words of comfort, but at the mention of Bakura, she felt her sorrow being scorched away by anger again. It seemed as long as he lived, her legacy was destined to be marred by bloodshed — but at the same time, to go on letting him stoke her wrath seemed just as ill-fated. This was Bakura's true evil, Satiah realized — that he could drive his enemies to so much ire that they were forced to define their very existence by it.
In this way, Satiah came to see Atem's restraint in a new light. It wasn't weakness which had stayed his hand against Bakura, nor even something as benevolent as mercy — but rather a desire to turn away from the temptation of vengeance, and to define his legacy by no man's will but his own.
Satiah was pulled from her reverie when her father lightly jostled her shoulder. She looked up to see him smiling knowingly, as if he could read her very thoughts through the windows of her eyes.
"I wish you could have seen the look on Aknadin's face when he saw me and Jahar leading the charge," he said, bearing his teeth in a full-on grin. "A shame we hadn't arrived just a few minutes later."
Satiah let slip a short, gratifying laugh at the thought, then pulled back to shoot him a suspicious look. "But you said all of us, Father," she said chidingly. "That means even men like Aknadin."
Metjen barked a chuckle of his own and stroked Satiah's shoulder again. "I suppose you're right, my dear," he admitted, looking back out at the city. "Spoken like a true queen."
It was three full days before the full account of casualties was recorded.
Atem stood in the shadows of the prayer hall within the Sekhmet's temple, which had been turned into a temporary embalming chamber after the city's own morgue had proven too small to handle the load. He lifted the papyrus in his hands, but he had to read the ledger several times before the weight of the loss truly sank in.
Eight priests. Fifteen bandits. Twenty-two civilians.
Four of them children.
Slowly, he lowered the ledger and swept his eyes across the sea of bodies, all in different stages of the embalming process. Some were already fully wrapped in linen, others just now being bled and incised. He found it both relieving and shameful that he did not recognize any of the dead eyes gazing up at him. Still, he felt it all — every prick of the knife, every whispered prayer, every wailing cry from a loved one over the body of their son, daughter, father, mother, brother, sister, husband, or wife.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of two men carrying a stretcher beside an open slab nearby. An embalmer came over and helped the men transfer the body of a small child onto the slab. The enormous stone dwarfed the boy, who looked as though he couldn't have been any older than Meriti. Atem watched, unblinking, as the embalmer manipulated the boy's rigid limbs, laying them down by his sides; then, he soaked a rag in water and carefully began washing away the soot and ash from the boy's face, revealing cheeks as cold and pale as the moon.
Standing there, it was hard not to sense the creeping fingers of despair reaching for him, threatening to choke all hope out of him. But what he felt instead was a warm hand falling to his arm, pulling him back from the brink, as only it could. He turned, letting himself wade into the shallows of his wife's eyes.
Slowly, she lowered her hand to grip his wrist, and when he looked down, he saw his knuckles had flashed white, the ledger now crumpled between his trembling fingers. He slackened his grip and let out a trapped breath, allowing Satiah to take the papyrus out of his hand; she folded it in half and laid it on an empty slab nearby. When she came back, she fit herself tight against him, her chin resting on his shoulder. His heart beat to life again at the feel of her breath warming his throat. After a quiet moment, he turned and encircled her in a firm embrace, one hand threaded into her hair, the other locked around her shoulders.
"I don't want to lose you, Sati," he whispered into her ear. Then, at the end of his breath, the truth came out: "I can't."
Another sigh fluttered across the nape of his neck, and suddenly she was pulling away, turning a sober gaze up to him. "I know, my love." She held his face in her hands a moment, then reached up to tuck a lock of his hair behind his ear. "But I am not your possession, Atem. I never have been. You can't lose me just as much as you can't own me." The words felt strange cradled between the soft melody of her voice and the subtle curve of her lips. "Either we're in this together, or we're alone."
She looked out over the darkening chamber, and for some reason he knew she didn't mean just him and her. She meant all of them — the dead and the living; the sinners and the innocent; the weak and the strong.
This was their duty as king and queen — to let their purpose be guided by collective justice. But as he looked upon his wife, Atem couldn't help but wonder what their life would have been like had they never been forced to accept such a responsibility — if they'd had the freedom to live for no one but themselves. Perhaps they would have followed the path fate had set for them, to be quiet stewards of Ineb-Hedj, with the hope their future children would one day come to rule it justly and fairly. Or perhaps they would have been content to keep one another at arm's length, never drawn together by their shared pain. Would he have fallen in love with her if he'd never seen her resilience and strength? Her grace and perseverance? And would she have accepted him if he'd never restored her ka?
As if sensing his thoughts, Satiah looked back at him, her eyes veiled and guarded. She took his hand in hers and gave it a light squeeze. "I suppose this means we don't have the luxury of delaying our last descent," she said.
With a deep breath, Atem nodded his agreement.
She gave a dry hum of understanding. "And when shall we go to meet our creator?"
Atem looked back across the somber chamber. A man and a woman now stood beside the body of the child, weeping silently as a priest recited a prayer over their fallen son.
"In five days' time," Atem said. "When the sun reaches its peak."
At dusk on the eve of their final descent, Satiah found herself wracked by an unfamiliar fear.
Her body trembled as she stared out the window of the residence, her eyes wide and dry from watching the shadow of night slowly climbing up Khufu's pyramid. Anxiety wrung her stomach in its hands, sending chills up and down her spine and a cold sweat collecting on her brow.
As her mind raced with thoughts of what would await them in the Father's tomb, she found herself both tempered and tormented by the absence of her husband, who'd been called away some hours ago to address a pressing issue regarding the city's battered defenses. Satiah was glad not to burden Atem with her worries, but equally, she longed for the comfort of his embrace.
When the door to the residence suddenly creaked open, Satiah stood at attention and turned to look down the dark stairway, somewhat relieved to see Tuya coming up, bearing a tray of food in her hands.
Tuya smiled softly as she approached, giving a light bow. "The king sends his regrets that he'll be unable to join you for dinner, my queen," she said. "Would you like your meal in here or out on the terrace?"
Satiah let out a sharp sigh. "The terrace is fine," she replied.
Tuya curtseyed again and swept out onto the terrace; Satiah followed, her nose filling with the trailing scent of fresh food. Though her stomach panged with emptiness, the constant twisting and turning in her gut made thoughts of even the most appetizing dishes seem suddenly unpalatable.
As Tuya placed the tray down and turned back, it seemed she sensed Satiah's unease. "My queen, you look ill," Tuya said as Satiah came to stand beside the table. "Is something the matter?"
Satiah pursed her lips tight and shook her head. "Just nerves."
Tuya hummed skeptically, then reached out to lift the cloche covering the main course on the tray, revealing a large cut of blackened chicken.
A cloud of steam wafted up to surround Satiah; the heavy scent assaulted her nose, sending an uncontrollable roil into the pit of her stomach. She tried to stifle the reflex that followed, but it was no use — spinning around, she staggered to the corner of the terrace and bent over a planter, retching the thin contents of her stomach into the dirt.
Halfway through her heaving, she felt Tuya's hand at her back, rubbing lightly in circles. "There, there…"
With a shiver, Satiah spat the last of the foul-tasting acid onto the ground and straightened, turning to face her handmaiden.
"Nerves indeed!" Tuya hissed, leading Satiah back inside and lowering her to the stool by her vanity. "Let me look at you." Tuya pressed a hand into Satiah's forehead, and her cool fingers felt heavenly against the flushed skin. Suddenly, Tuya clicked her tongue, her shrewd eyes glinting. "When was the last time you had your blood, my dear?"
Satiah's eyes slowly grew wide, her mind wheeling with uncertainty. "I… I don't—"
Just then, Tuya reached out and brushed her fingers against Satiah's breast. Pain stung at the tender skin, causing Satiah to hiss sharply and reel back. Tuya stood upright and clasped her hands over her heart. "My queen," she breathed, "you are with child!"
Satiah felt another knot forming in her stomach, this one less visceral and more fearful, even as Tuya began to chitter with glee.
"What a blessed day!" Tuya exclaimed. "We must find the king at once—"
"No!"
As Tuya turned, Satiah shot her hand out and clamped it around her handmaiden's wrist. Tuya looked back, utterly stunned.
"The Pharaoh must not know," Satiah pleaded. Seeing Tuya's severe look, she went on: "Not until we return from Giza." But Tuya remained conflicted, even as Satiah pulled her hand back and wrapped it around her tumbling stomach. "Please." Satiah bit back the unexpected well of tears at the corners of her eyes. "Do this for me."
Tuya's face softened with pity, and she swept in to wrap Satiah in a light embrace. "Of course, my darling… Of course."
At this, Satiah choked a sob into her handmaiden's side, tears flowing out like rivers as reality finally set in. She had been hiding the truth from herself for weeks now — brushing off the flutters and the pain and the malaise, hoping that if she just kept moving forward, just kept diving headfirst into darkness, perhaps the light would never catch up with her.
Atem awoke with the sun, first fighting, then welcoming Ra's light, which had finally succeeded in pulling him from his dark dreams.
Careful not to wake his wife, he rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling, his mind slowly losing its hold on the strange scenes which had plagued him through the night. He remembered walking through a thick marsh of reeds, emerging at the banks of the Nile. Its placid surface had been filled with the gold light of the noonday sun. Across the way, Satiah stood beneath a bent palm tree, her hands cupped around her mouth as if calling for him, though no sound reached his ears. Without hesitation, he'd waded out into the deeps, legs straining against the swift currents. But before he'd even made it halfway across, he looked down to see the water was completely gone, leaving nothing beneath his feet but a wide, black expanse, with an angry star pulsing at its center. He fell — plunging through weightless air, watching as his wife grew to no more than a flicker among the rushing darkness. Heat clawed at his back, and he turned, seeing the star beneath him turning into a pit of fire. As he surged toward it, dozens of arms unfolded themselves from within it — small, soft arms; unblemished and ghost-white — reaching up as if to welcome him to their embrace, but just before he collided with the blinding blaze, he'd awoken with a start.
Though these images seemed intent to escape his mind now that the haze of sleep was wearing off, the heat of the star remained. Just thinking about it warmed him to a state of discomfort, until a sheen of sweat had gathered in the valley of his spine and behind his knees. Carefully, he pulled the covers away from his lower half and made a move to sit up, only to jolt at the feel of a hand falling to his arm. He turned, greeted with Satiah's wide eyes cast over her shoulder in his direction.
"Don't go," she breathed. "Stay with me."
He stared at her, and for a moment her eyes looked almost as empty as the void of blackness which had opened beneath him in his dreams. When his gaze finally trailed down to where her hand gripped tenuously around his wrist, he realized — she was shivering.
Urgently, he shifted to embrace her, fitting himself against her back, one arm curling tight around her middle. Perhaps it was because his own skin was burning, but when Atem touched his cheek to hers, it felt cold as ice. She turned her chin over her shoulder, searching for his eyes as if she were afraid he might be gone if she let him out of her sight. Holding tighter, he moved his lips to her ear, where he hushed her lightly between pressing kisses into the nape of her neck.
"I'm here," he whispered, threading his fingers between hers where they lay trembling around her middle. "I'm not going anywhere."
Atem held his wife for many long, quiet moments, sharing his warmth until her shivers settled and some semblance of peace returned to her. With his chin nestled into the curve of her neck, he gazed out the window across the room, watching as the sun threw its light against the capstone of the Great Pyramid, waiting for the moment when they would arrive to awaken the God within.
AN: UwU so much happening in this one. So much sad. So much happy? So much in between! But what's gonna happen next? Your guess is as good as mine XD update might be slow for the next one as I still have some deep thinking to do. I know where I'm going, just not necessarily how I'm gonna get there... Thanks so much for joining me on this wild ride tho. I have never had so much fun writing fic before so I'm just overjoyed to share that fun with you! See you soon (hopefully)!
