When air finally tore into Satiah's lungs, she felt as if she'd been born again.

She surged to a sitting position, her head craning wildly as she tried to familiarize herself with her alien surroundings. No matter which way she looked, strange shadows crept and crawled, framed by dull, angular shapes. She finally forced herself to settle her breathing — and her gaze — and slowly, the structures around her came into clearer focus.

Stairs.

Hundreds and hundreds of stairs — some leading up, some down, some sideways or completely inverted — forming a grotesque, crisscrossing labyrinth of limestone. Each twisting path eventually led to a cold iron door, but like the stairs, they decorated the walls and floors and ceilings without any regard for the laws of nature.

With another shuddering breath, Satiah pushed herself to her feet, turning in a tight circle as though she might somehow recognize one of the paths that lay before her. She worked her jaw up and down, trying to will herself to call out for help. But she feared what force might respond if she did. Would it be the warm voice of her husband, leading her to safety? Or would his dark reflection try to deceive her, beckoning her deeper into this jagged maze to be lost and alone forever?

In the end, Satiah found no words — nor did they find her. Instead, a warmth pierced like an arrow through the empty chill — so present and palpable and she could almost see it: a string of fate, meandering between the slopes and rises, showing her the way to some unknown but indisputable truth.

Against her better judgment, Satiah followed the warmth — trekked slowly up winding stairs and through narrow hallways, past unwelcoming doors and precarious ledges. There was something eerily familiar about this glow which led her onward — like the scent of dawn on the first day of harvest, or the feel of crease in a well-worn letter. It reminded her faintly of her husband, but there was something older and deeper about it, as if it were woven with the wisdom of millennia.

Finally, after turning a sharp corner, Satiah arrived at a closed door. On it, a great, wide eye stared back at her, carved deep into the black iron and left to rust in shades of green and orange. She lowered her hand to the metal ring, then braced herself and pulled. The heavy iron groaned as it swung open, and after her eyes had adjusted to a flare of harsh light, Satiah was met with strikingly familiar sight: the royal gardens, stretching out before her as clear and true as the day she'd left them two months prior.

She knew just by the tinge of the sky that it was midmorning — the golden hour for enjoying leisure time in the gardens, when the sun warmed the air but had yet to breach the palace walls with its unforgiving heat. Just looking into the bending palms and blooming flowers threatened to stir up nostalgic tears behind her eyes. She remembered with a wanting ache the many mornings she'd walked between the flora and fauna with her husband, their voices quiet but hearts singing in a full, resonant harmony.

Perhaps it was this melody which pulled her into step again — sweet, silent notes braiding into the string of fate that was already wrapped around her middle, tugging her deeper into rows of pristine hedges. She felt herself called toward the Sacred Lake — the place where she and Atem had first begun their lifelong bond. When she emerged from a thick line of trees and set her eyes upon the Lake, her heart leapt to see a shaded form reclining on the far edge. The form's aura and posture struck Satiah as instantly familiar, but if she had seen this person before, it had not been in the land of the living.

As if sensing her presence, the form turned, bringing a mature, feminine face into the soft glow of morning. Satiah studied it intently: refined cheekbones, sophisticated brow, narrow eyes — all framed by an unmistakable pattern of crimped blonde fringe and sweeping black curls. Upon her regal head sat a simple but dignified circlet, molded with the Eye of Wadjet.

The woman smiled, then lifted a hand to gesture toward Satiah, who willingly followed the gentle beckon around the edge of the Lake. As she came within arm's reach, Satiah met the woman's eyes — misted the same shade of violet as her husband's and glistening like lotus petals in the dewy light.

"You are the queen," Satiah whispered.

The woman's cheeks rose up even higher. "And so are you." Satiah flushed, the heat burning deeper when Queen Meresankh reached out and took her hand. "Come, darling — sit with me."

Like soft clay, Satiah let herself be guided down to the edge of the Lake beside the queen mother. They gazed at one another for many long moments, and though thousands of words gathered on the tip of Satiah's tongue, none of them found their way out of her mouth. Instead, she gave a light clear of her throat, prompting Meresankh to lift a finger to her own lips.

"Shh," she hissed, looking over her shoulder. "Here they come."

Satiah leaned outward, squinting through the tangled brush behind the queen mother. There, twittering laughter rose up into the humid air, followed soon after by an eruption of leaves and flower petals as two children burst heedlessly into the quiet clearing.

Bittersweet delight tumbled in Satiah's stomach as she watched the young princes chasing one another in circles, their voices ringing out in a chorus of carefree amusement. Each wielded a play sword made of bound and bundled reed stalks, which they cracked together in wild abandon at every opportunity. Even now, Tefnak stood much taller than his younger brother, perhaps already a teen, but Atem did not let his small stature hold him back — he swung his sword bravely, as if nothing in the world could touch him.

But then, Tefnak's eyes glinted, and with a wicked smirk he cocked his arm back, whipping the rigid bundle of reeds across his younger brother's wrist. Atem cried out and dropped his sword, pulling his arm in to cradle it against his middle. When Atem began to sniffle and whine, Tefnak, too, dropped his weapon and swept in to take his younger brother's shoulders. "Oh, please don't cry Atem!" he hissed, peering fearfully over his shoulder to where his mother sat. "It's not that bad! You're fine!"

But the dam couldn't hold — the younger boy was soon consumed by full, keening tears. At this, Meresankh cleared her throat, causing Tef to straighten and turn fully. "Boys," the queen mother called. "Come here."

Face aglow with shame, Tef took his brother's shoulder, and they both shuffled forward to stand before their mother. Neither boy seemed to pay Satiah any mind, and though Atem had since tempered his sobs, she couldn't help but feel a slight lash of pity as she watched him clutching his hand to his chest.

Meresankh dipped down to catch her youngest son's eyes. "Let me see," she said, holding out her hand.

Atem sniffled and laid his wrist in his mother's palm. Meresankh tutted lightly and caressed the reddening skin, then leaned down to give it a gentle kiss.

"That will be quite the bruise tomorrow," she said. "But you'll be alright. Won't you, my little soldier?"

Atem bit his lip to keep it from trembling, then nodded decisively. When he took his hand away, he rubbed his eyes to clear them of his tears.

"Good." The queen mother leaned up and addressed her elder son now. "Tefnak, apologize to your brother."

Tef's face twisted into a slight sneer. "But I didn't do it on purpose, Mama!"

"Then it will mean all the more when you tell him you're sorry."

Satiah found her cheeks tugging with a smile at the woman's stern tone. She'd always assumed Atem had inherited his steady resolve from his father, but it seemed a firm hand came just as effortlessly to the queen mother as well.

Tef clicked his tongue and rolled his eyes. "I'm sorry, Atem," he said in a begrudging grumble.

Atem looked up at his older brother, his eyes shining with undimmed adoration. "It's alright," he murmured, voice no louder than the peep of a tree frog. "I forgive you."

A knowing smile broke on Meresankh's lips. "There," she said. "Now both of you run along. And be more careful, hm?"

Both boys nodded, then turned and skittered back to their play swords. Tef stooped and picked up both of them, put his arm around his little brother's shoulder, and led the way deeper into the maze of hedges beyond.

Turning back to Satiah, Meresankh let out a deep, wistful sigh. "I prayed to the gods my second child would be a girl." Her smile widened, and Satiah couldn't help but mirror it. "But in the end I'm glad those prayers went unanswered. For the path of a woman's life demands many more sacrifices than a man's."

Satiah lowered her eyes a bit, letting the words sink into her heart. It was true, the path of her own life would have been virtually free of struggles had she been born a man. And yet, without those struggles, it was possible she might never have known her greatest love.

"Tell me, my dear," the queen mother said, pulling Satiah's attention back up. "What made you decide to embrace motherhood?"

Satiah felt another blush spreading on her cheeks as she stared into Meresanhk's nebulous eyes. "Your son…" she started, voice thickened by tenderness. "He has been good to me. He … He has shown me love."

The queen mother reached out and took Satiah's hand again, laying it lightly in her lap. "I am so very glad to hear that," she said, brushing her thumb across Satiah's fingers. Meresankh was quiet for a moment, and when she returned her eyes to Satiah, there was a serious glow to them. "But there must be something more," she pressed. "After all, becoming a mother often demands the greatest of sacrifices."

At this, Satiah felt a flutter deep in her core. She pulled her hand instinctively out of Meresankh's grasp and pressed it into her middle, but the feeling was already gone. "I saw something in him," Satiah whispered. "A future. Filled with peace … and joy." She dropped her hand away from her waist. "Perhaps it was just a foolish dream."

"Maybe," the queen mother agreed. Her voice was soft — almost musical. "But perhaps it was not."

Satiah smoothed her lips together, pinching her teeth down hard to stave off encroaching tears. Her mind was haunted by the dark images she'd seen in Ra's black mirror, but the grace of the queen mother seemed to outshine even the light of the Almighty One.

"Our empire was built on the selflessness of brave women like yourself," Meresankh went on, sweeping her eyes around the garden. "Women who have given every bit of their bodies and souls to the betterment of this nation — this kingdom ruled by men. Most of those men, even the most noble ones, can never fully comprehend such sacrifice. So we must take it upon ourselves to show them."

The queen mother reached out and dipped her hand into the waters of the Sacred Lake. The surface broke in gentle ripples, and Satiah watched as her own reflection bent and shattered.

"Even still, they may not see our worth until after we are gone." Meresankh pulled her hand back to run her fingers along a lotus drifting by. "Only then will they ask themselves what they have lost."

The queen mother plucked the lotus, then turned and offered it to Satiah. When she took it, another flutter rose deep inside her.

"The best we can hope for is that they remember the lessons we taught them," Meresankh continued, "and that they cherish the memories we become."

When Satiah looked back up at the queen mother, the sun was beginning to crest the palace walls behind her, surrounding her in a warm halo of light. But as Ra's eye ascended, it seemed to grow only larger and larger, until it hung like a bleeding, beating heart over the gardens, warping the air with oppressive heat.

Panicked, Satiah looked down just in time to see the lotus turning to ash in her hands. She sucked in a breath of hot air and reached out, but the queen mother was already withering away. The illusion melted along with her, all the color and beauty of the world running into a river of radiant light, rushing forth to submerge Satiah in the molten gold of Ra's fire.


Staring into the blinding truth of death, Atem could not understand why euphoria suddenly gripped him. He thought at first it was denial — rising up like a shield before him, casting off his pain and replacing it with utter contentment. But when the blinding flare of calamity suddenly dimmed, he finally realized where his joy was coming from: still clutched in his trembling hands, his Pendant sang another sonorous note and sent forth white mist that cleaved a void through the God's light before it could engulf him.

Given respite from the inferno, Atem opened his eyes fully to see the mist coalescing into the familiar shape of his wife, standing tall behind her ka. The blaze broke hard on the Shieldmaiden, and though the creature buckled and writhed, she did not falter; her mighty shield cut through the flames like the hull of a ship through rushing water.

The rapture in Atem's heart turned quickly to reflexive fear when he saw Satiah weakening before him, her arms trembling as she kept them raised to channel her ka. Fighting the pain gripping his own body, he staggered forward and draped himself over her shoulders, bracing her against him and clinging supportively to her arms. He surrendered to her the last sliver of his essence — strengthening her long enough to withstand the firestorm crashing upon her ka. They breathed together — one heart, one spirit, one truth — until, at last, the God relinquished its judgment, breaking free to leave them in perfect darkness.

Her ka burnt to cinders, Satiah collapsed in an instant, and the most Atem could manage was to soften her fall as he came crashing to his knees along with her. Gathering the remnants of her strength, she turned in his arms, and Atem felt hope entering his battered spirit when he saw a smile take her lips. She reached up, gripping tenuously to his face as if to ensure she wasn't simply dreaming. Atem smiled back and cradled her against him, reassuring her with his loving embrace that she was here, she was safe, she was home.

But as he gazed down at her, harsh light lit her face again, and Atem looked over his shoulder to see the Immortal Phoenix sweeping back through the darkness. He braced himself, but the God sailed over their heads in a steep arc, stopping to hover in stillness above the black mirror once more. There, the Almighty One extinguished its flames and returned to the protection of its golden sphere, where it had once slumbered peacefully for millennia.

After a moment of deafening calm, a soft light pulsed outward from the sphere; as it cascaded over Atem, he felt it restore the vigor of his ba. Satiah, too, found her strength again, enough to pull herself out of his arms and settle forward on her knees.

Renewed and alert, Atem wondered if perhaps this wave of peace heralded their victory — that Ra had been pacified, and their quest to secure the three Holy Ka was finally at its end. And yet, he and Satiah remained trapped in the God's domain, basking in its merciful glow like supplicants. He knew there must be something more — that they had yet to fulfil the conditions demanded of them by the Almighty One.

Spurned, Atem struggled to his feet, casting his eyes up to the sphere floating overhead. "Holy Creator," he cried out. "I beg of you. Commit yourself to our cause. We need your strength to defeat the evil rising in our kingdom."

Silence once again gripped the chamber. Behind, Atem heard Satiah staggering to her feet as well. When she came to stand at his side, the sphere gave a gentle lurch, shining another beam of light upon both of them.

The voice of the Almighty One threw itself into the deep: "My Light cannot be wielded in hands stained by Darkness."

Atem felt his breath halting in the wake of his Creator's words, but he forced himself to reply. "I have rejected the Darkness in my heart," he called back. "I swear allegiance only to the Light."

More silence. As the void threatened to close in, Atem found himself suddenly more desperate than he'd been even with Ra's immortal blaze bearing down on him. He refused to believe that he'd failed — refused to accept that all the pain, all the suffering, all the spiteful defiance had been for nothing.

"Please," he gasped, thin and mournful. "Tell me what I must do." Fearing tears might seize him, he turned his eyes down to the floor like a scolded child.

The sphere gave another soft tremble. "Atem, son of Aknamkanon," Ra declared. "If you wish to defeat the Darkness set free by your kin, you must first give to me everything which your cursed Millennium Items gave to you." The Creator gave a contemptuous, scornful pause. "Offer up to me your birthright. Your legacy."

At this, Atem looked up, finding his eyes drawn not to the God's light, but to the mirror below it — the abyssal plane from which his dark reflection had emerged. As he gazed into its depths, a sudden grinding noise rose up; the mirror slowly began to sink into the floor, peeling itself away from the golden sun behind it like a slow-moving eclipse. When the mirror was gone, Atem squinted into the familiar flare left behind, and he was suddenly reminded of the wrathful star from his dream the night before — how it had reached for him with wanting arms and taken him into its fiery grasp.

"I don't understand," he called out, looking up at his Creator again. "Would you have me relinquish my title as Pharaoh?"

The words seemed to force resentfully from his mouth, as sharp and bitter as knives. Every fiber of his being rejected this fate — this truth that would take from him of everything he had toiled these many long months to achieve. Why would the Almighty One grant him its blessing, only to strip him of the strength needed to wield it? Who would lead his people against the Darkness if he was forced to step aside?

Just then, Satiah's hand fell softly to his shoulder. He turned to look upon his wife, her face set aglow in the lingering shine of his tears. But whereas his heart was spilling over with despair, her eyes seemed lightened by hope and purpose. She stepped into him, her hands rising to cradle his face, and she kissed him as softly as a mother kisses her sleeping child.

When she pulled back, she smiled, and Atem found himself paralyzed by the sight. Nothing but his wide eyes followed as she moved away, toward the sun, and though he reached and called and begged for her to turn back, Ra's light soon opened up to welcome her into an eternal embrace.

Behind her, the sun bloomed out to consume every inch of his vision. Shamefully, he turned away, into the safe arms of darkness.


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When Atem regained his mind, he felt as though an eternity had passed. He awoke to the muddled sound of water, lapping at his ears and all around his body, and the rich scent of fertile earth. Sunlight beat down on him, though it was not the torrid flame which had threatened to engulf him in Ra's domain — simply a warm and welcoming glow.

The sensations enveloping him were blissful enough that he felt no desire to rouse himself from this dreamscape — and likely wouldn't have, if not for thoughts of his wife finally returning to his mind.

Satiah.

When last he saw her, she was walking fearlessly into the burning star at the heart of Khufu's pyramid. He remembered calling for her, reaching for her — but had he truly followed in her footsteps, or had he been caught in Ra's flames, his spirit burnt to cinders in its wake?

At this thought, he opened his eyes. The sky was painted with the warm white brushstrokes of the sun, stretched like a thousand arms from the glowing orb directly overhead. At the edges of his vision, an endless sea of reed stalks rose up, their feathery tufts waving welcome as a breeze sifted through them. Slowly, Atem sat up, feeling cool water trickling down his scalp and wetting the front of his tunic. After rising fully to his feet, he cast his gaze around the rest of the surreal landscape.

Golden reeds wove on and on, as far as the eye could see, deep into a mist that diffused the edges of the world into nothingness. Here and there, sloping hills rose up over the ankle-deep water, only to dip back down to shallow pools that flashed placid white in the sun. Over a few of these low lagoons, palm trees stood like silent sentries.

Atem settled his eyes on the next nearest oasis, lifting a hand to shade his brow from the glare of the sun. His heart tumbled to see a familiar figure standing beneath a palm tree, a flicker of white linen and ashen hair lifted by the breeze.

Satiah turned, and even from what seemed like an eternity away, Atem could see the smile dancing on her face.

He felt himself called in her direction, as if nothing in this world or the next could keep them apart. But the closer he drew, the more it seemed as though a stranger had taken her place, somewhere between the minutes or hours or years since he'd seen her last. But she smiled again as he came within reach, and he knew this was his wife — the woman to whom fate had tethered him, like the moon to the sun.

"What is this place?" he asked.

Satiah let her gaze drift across the neverending horizon. "A'aru," she said. "The field of reeds."

Atem refused to look away from her, fearing she might burn off like morning mist if he did. "Am I dreaming?"

"In a way." She turned back to him, and the breeze blew a glint of sunlight across her face. "This is what your future could look like — should you choose to accept it."

A familiar fear shuddered through him. "I don't understand," he confessed. "If this is my afterlife … then why are you here?"

Her smile grew. "Oh, my dear," she said, reaching out to graze his cheek with her fingers. "You are the visitor in this realm."

The truth of her touch pierced him like a knife. "No," he breathed. "That cannot be. The God spoke to us. He demanded my birthright. My—"

"Your legacy?"

He heard it first — laughter, high and quiet as the thinnest string of a lyre, barely audible over the trickle of water around their ankles. Still, Atem refused to look away, even as Satiah turned her head toward the sound. But without the beacon of her eyes, the pull was too strong — his gaze was soon drawn with fearful wonder to the water's edge. There, under the ripple of sun and shade, all the best pieces of him and his wife wove together into flesh and bone and spirit — at first no more than a wisp of her honeyed skin and his wild hair, but growing, growing, growing with every passing moment, into something — someone.

Atem squeezed his eyes shut, sending unbidden tears cascading down his cheeks. He could feel Ra's fire reaching for him, lashing at his back, threatening to burn away this future.

Then — the torrent of Satiah's touch extinguished the god's wrath. She held Atem's face in both her hands, drawing his eyes back to her.

"Do not be afraid of this joy," she whispered, "even if it will be years before you feel it."

Atem choked back his sorrow and encircled her in his arms, pulling until her forehead was resting against his. "What about all the other joys?" he hissed. "What about the years we were supposed to spend together? This fate was not meant for you."

Her lips turned up into a pitying smile. "Such pride does not become you, my love." Slowly, she took his hands away to cradle them against her middle. "All I ever wanted in this world was the freedom to follow my own will. When fate took that away from me … you gave it back."

Atem held her hands like forged iron, in a grip that would surely have brought pain had this world been real.

"I made this choice," she said, "not because of any god's decree — but because I love you. And I truly believe you will be the one to balance the scales of truth and shadow." She lifted her hand, brushing her fingers across his cheeks to wipe away his tears — one side, then the other. "I know that when the time comes, you will be ready to face the darkness in your heart. Maybe not today, maybe not in a year, maybe not for fifty years. But it is all I can do now to give you that time."

Atem lowered his head, watching his own quiet tears falling into the earth. Satiah slipped her finger beneath his chin, and when he looked back up, he was almost blinded by her radiance.

"Yes, the gods are powerful," she said. "And maybe, in the end, we are nothing to them. But we have something they do not. We have the gift of life. And the freedom to choose what to do with that gift." She smiled again, and from this wellspring of her joy came everything meaningful in the world. "Perhaps it is the gods who are bound by fate, and we who are the ones with the power to change it."

She lowered both hands to cradle the Pendant around his neck. He watched as she ran her fingers along the planes of gold, bringing forth another clear, resonant note.

"Always remember that this is your burden — not your blessing."

Atem looked up at his wife again, and fate drew them together, into a kiss that felt as warm as the waters of creation. He held her there, pretending for just these few, infinite moments that he might still be able to change her will.

But then, another melody of laughter floated out from the shadow of the tree. Satiah pulled away, her cheeks rising up with a mirthful smile. She looked over her shoulder, and when the giggle grew louder, she moved to chase it.

"I'm coming!" she sang, and then she disappeared into the shadow, taking all the joy and warmth with her.

Darkness rose up all around, and soon Atem was plummeting back through the bulk of time and space, bound once again for his earthly realm. He could feel the heat of reality rushing up beneath him, but he kept his eyes upturned, watching the field of reeds growing smaller and smaller amongst the rushing cosmos. He wanted to scream — wanted to claw his way back through the heavens to the twinkling star where love and bliss had left him. But when his body collided with cold granite, he remembered again what it was to feel pain.

It paralyzed him — filled his lungs with furious, gulping breaths; wet his face with hot tears. If not for this visceral instinct to survive, he might have let himself lie beside the tomb of the Father for all eternity, staring up at the ceiling and waiting for the sky to come crashing down again. Instead, his muscles flexed and sinew tightened against his will, turning his head to the side to see a crumpled nest of white linen nearby.

Choking on sobs and bitter tears, Atem struggled to his hands and knees and crawled toward his wife, who lay beside him in perfect stillness. Gingerly, he rolled her onto her back. The way the flames from his dwindling torch danced upon her face made it look almost like she was still moving — dark lashes fluttering, lips preparing to turn up into a smile — that radiant, captivating smile. But when he took her into his arms, her shoulders collapsed inward and her head lolled back, like a puppet with its strings cut. She felt heavy and laden, as if she'd been hollowed out and filled with all his sins and regrets.

Sucking in a shuddering breath, he moved a hand to support her head — leaned down, brushed a kiss on her cold lips, and crunched a fist tight into a tangle of her hair. He felt himself rocking back and forth now, a sickening, circuitous motion, as though it might somehow send life back into her.

The thought pulled a ragged moan from deep inside him. Unbidden, his hand fell away from her face, hovered for a moment over her heart, then sank down onto her middle. He pressed blindly into the still-warm flesh — flat-palmed and trembling, as if he were lost in a dark room, searching for light.


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AN: Goodbye Satiah. You were the best character I've ever had the pleasure to write.