The sun was setting on Egypt by the time the convoy rode back into Memphis, and Atem wondered how it would ever rise again. He'd spent the slow ride watching the sky bleed red, unable to will himself to look at Ra's stone slab, drawn behind the foremost horses and bearing the body of his beloved wife. Seto had wrapped her in his cloak, but the evening wind blew the white linen away, revealing her peaceful, pale face for all to see. The soldiers stole disbelieving glances as they marched and the priests mourned in deafening silence.
Atem had long since wept the last of his tears, his face dried by the arid desert breeze. When they finally arrived at the villa, he considered breaking away from the convoy — following the sun into the mountains, chasing Ra's light so as to never let it set on Satiah's last day. But when he laid eyes on her father, waiting intently with the rest of the Conclave outside the villa gates, it seemed as though night had already fallen.
Atem drew his horse to a sudden stop, watching as Metjen stepped forward and scanned the convoy in search of his daughter. The earnestness in his eyes gave way to fear as his gaze fell to Atem. The look sent a lash of shame across Atem's heart, causing him to drop his head and dismount. In his periphery, he saw Metjen pushing through the line of despondent soldiers, just as the horses drawing his daughter's body came to a halt. From his mouth came a subtle sound — sharp and inward, as if he'd burnt himself on a smoldering coal. Voice thickened by this heavy gasp, he breathed a soft, "No."
He repeated the word — over and over, his voice growing louder and louder — but Atem's eyes had long since fallen to the ground, where he watched the sands shifting beneath his feet until the full weight of a father's rage connected squarely with his jaw. Stunned, Atem stumbled back and landed flat against the ground, but in his numbness he felt neither the pain of the blow nor the impact of his fall — only the taste of bitter blood pooling on his tongue.
Blinking back stars, Atem tipped his chin down to watch as a storm of soldiers swarmed Metjen. "You were supposed to keep her safe!" he shouted, thrashing against the hands holding him. "You were supposed to protect my little girl!"
Atem made a move to stand up, aided swiftly in his effort by Seto and Mahad. He waved both off, then turned to the soldiers and did the same. With hesitance, they released Metjen, who jerked his shoulders and spun away immediately. He strode back to the slab and kneeled down hard at his daughter's side, brushing a trembling hand across her cheek. She had since been surrounded by mourners — priests and former attendants to her household, including her handmaiden, who threw herself over the body of her ward, muffling keening cries into Satiah's middle.
As Atem watched, a thin stream of blood dripped down and stained the front of his tunic. Swallowing hard, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then slipped past the gathering crowd and into the villa.
Day turned to night and then back into day, but Atem felt neither the setting of the moon nor the rising of the sun from beneath the Sekhmet's temple. Priests had come and gone from the embalming chamber in a regular rotation, some to bestow blessings upon the queen's body, others to simply observe their king's ceaseless vigil. After some time, the Sacred Guardians came to pay their respects as well. Seto offered to sit for Atem and let him rest, but he'd dismissed all three of them with a wordless wave of his hand.
In his solitude, Atem studied Satiah's face intently — memorizing each line and curve, storing the images deep in the recesses of his heart. It felt odd to think of her as dead, when no earthly thing had taken her life — there were no bloody wounds upon her body, no lingering signs of sickness. If not for the stillness of her breast, Atem might have thought she was simply sleeping.
Even though he knew the embalmers would call it sacrilege, he reached out and stroked her cheek. The flesh was as cold as stone in the dead of night.
At the sound of more footsteps descending the stairs, Atem at first had no intention of even taking his eyes away from his wife. But when Metjen stepped into the torchlight, Atem pulled his hand back as though he were a child caught stealing from a merchant's stall. They locked eyes, and the burden of the father's sorrow nearly suffocated Atem.
Metjen stopped at the opposite side of the slab on which his daughter now rested; when he dropped his eyes to her body, Atem forced himself to steal a breath. Metjen reached out and laid his hand over his daughter's. He stroked her knuckles and danced his eyes all across the slab, never stopping to look at any one part of her for more than a few seconds. All the while, a thin shimmer gathered along his sparse lashes.
"Tuya tells me she was with child," he said softly. When Atem failed to reply, Metjen looked up. Two tears escaped the prison of his eyes, only to be lost somewhere deep within the lines carved on his face. "Did you know?"
Atem shook his head lightly, even though his heart screamed that it was a lie. How could he not have known, when he'd seen the glow of new life behind her eyes every time she looked at him?
Metjen inhaled sharply. "She gave you everything," he said. "And you let her die. All so you could … complete your collection." The venom in his voice was undimmed by the presence of tears. "Was it worth it?"
The words impaled Atem — left him struggling for breath like a wounded animal. Air rushed back into his lungs only when an echo of footsteps entered the chamber and drew Metjen's iron stare away. Mahad soon emerged at the bottom of the stairs, and he dropped into a deep bow upon realizing the moment he'd disturbed.
"I apologize, Pharaoh," he said, voice thick with solemnity. "The embalmers are asking if they should prepare the queen's remains for transport back to the capital."
As Metjen turned back around, Atem quickly averted his eyes again. For a torturous moment, he looked upon Satiah's face one last time — willing himself to remember the perfect smile she had given him before returning to the warm embrace of the afterlife.
"No," he said, standing sharply. "Bury her with her kin. Her soul should not be forced to wander in search of those she loved."
Head still angled low, Atem left his wife's side and cut by Metjen and Mahad, finally feeling the raw throb of the wound in his cheek.
Two weeks passed as slow as wind eroding stone, during which Satiah's body was embalmed, swathed, and prepared for burial. Atem existed in a constant state of numbness, having to fight to keep himself present enough for even the most basic of governing duties. Thankfully, the rest of the court soon arrived from Thebes, and they were quick to step in to help their king cope with his loss.
As news spread of the queen's death, mourners from all over the kingdom began flooding into Memphis to pay their respects. Atem knew he shouldn't be surprised by the outpouring of support — though Satiah had only been considered royalty for four months, and served as queen for even less time, she and her family had been the subject of great admiration all across Lower Egypt for decades. But somehow, seeing the grief permeating among nobles and commoners alike only deepend Atem's guilt.
When the day of her entombment finally arrived, Atem could not even bring himself to leave his bedchamber. Instead, he prepared himself in solitude — dressed in his finest clothes, tinted his eyes with paint and ink, and donned his most formal regalia. He stared at his reflection as he slid the blue-and-gold nemes down over his brow, and it suddenly struck him — that he hadn't worn the headdress since his wedding day.
The thought cut him like a knife — visceral enough to send a glimmer of tears into the corners of his eyes. He pressed the heels of his hands deep into his head, as if that might physically force the despair back inside him. If not for a loud, sudden knock at the door of the residence, he might have been unable to hold in his anguish. After sucking in a deep breath, he stood up and tidied the smudges of ink beneath his eyes, then called out, "Come in."
The door creaked open and closed, followed by the sound of uneven footsteps climbing the stairs. Atem turned and watched as Jahar entered the bedchamber, who stopped and gave as deep a bow as his cane allowed him. He, too, was wearing his best robes in preparation for the burial of his most beloved student.
"You wanted to see me, Pharaoh?" he asked, straightening.
Atem gave a single nod. Jahar looked at him expectantly, but Atem failed to find his words. Though the priest's gaze was not as severe as Metjen's, it was still shrewd and calculating — as if he were flaying back Atem's skin and peering into the soul left behind.
Finally, Atem cleared his throat. "Tomorrow, the royal court will make its way back to Thebes," he said. "When we leave, Memphis and its Conclave will have its rulership restored."
Jahar's expression remained unchanged by this news — not a single glimmer of joy or flicker of relief.
"Metjen will return to his former role as nomarch," Atem went on, to ensure Jahar understood completely, "and you will be allowed to reclaim your title of Chief Priest, if you wish."
Again, Jahar gave no reaction. He simply took a deep breath — in, and then out. "I suppose you think that will fix everything?" he said at last.
Atem gaped at the old man. His sorrow suddenly turned to festering rage. "Would you rather I threw you back in prison?" he spat, pivoting toward the priest. "Would you rather I had put you both to death, like everyone said I should have?" His scalp burned with a familiar pain — a shard of bitterness driven in and splintered off during their brutal duel. "Is that what you want from me?" He raised his voice to a near shout, punctuated by more prickling silence. "Is it?"
"I want nothing from you, Pharaoh," Jahar snapped. "What I want, no man on earth could give to me."
Though his words were sharp, Atem felt as if they were cauterizing his wounds. The searing pain turned to a dull throb — softer, yes, but pervading, as if it might ache in him forever. "Then what am I supposed to do?" he breathed, sorrow returning to choke at his throat. "What are any of us supposed to do?"
He sank down on the edge of his bed, hanging his head heavily in both hands. The anger that raked pins and needles across his flesh was the only thing keeping his tears at bay. When Jahar hobbled forward to lay a hand on Atem's shoulder, the needles turned to blistering spikes. He jerked back, sweeping his arm out to cast the old man's touch away. Jahar didn't flinch. The coals of his eyes flared to life with defiance.
"Have you learned nothing from her?" Jahar whispered, his breath like hot desert wind. "She did not give her life so that you could wallow in your own self-pity. If you must weep, do not fool yourself into believing you weep for her. For she has found more joy now than you or I deserve in a thousand lifetimes." Jahar looked up, casting his eyes around the ceiling as if he were watching a tiny bird fluttering between the rafters. "What should you do, you ask?" He straightened and folded both hands over the pommel of his cane. "Stop making the same foolish mistakes as your father. Stop searching for the future within the rubble of the past. Instead, build from it." In the sinking evening light, he became a statue — unbent and unbroken even by the sands of time. "And defend what you build with your life — just as she did."
Jahar reached out again, and this time Atem did not recoil from the man's touch. It was heavy with all the wisdom of his many years — but also with compassion. For the first time, it felt as if someone were truly trying to help Atem make sense of a world without Satiah. Many men and women had come and gone offering sympathetic words and pitying prayers. But it had all fallen into the abyss of his heart — all of it, except this touch. This lifeline. This purpose that Satiah had given her life to protect.
For weeks, he had been asking himself — why? Why had she given up on the future she had fought so hard to forge? Perhaps it was because she believed the vision she saw in Ra's black mirror — that her husband was destined to become a cruel and monstrous king. Perhaps she saw it a mercy to remove herself and her child from such an existence. But as Atem looked up, into the eyes of a man who had known Satiah since birth, he remembered. This was not her way. The only fate she had ever believed in was the one of her own making.
No. The truth was infinitely worse than the lie he'd been telling himself. The truth — Satiah's truth — was this: that she had only given up her future because she knew her husband was too weak, too prideful, too deluded to forsake his own.
Slowly, Jahar drew away and bowed before his king. When he turned to leave, Atem blinked back a sudden glare pouring in from the window across the way — the capstone of the Great Pyramid, shimmering like the first star of night against the indigo sky.
Atem had rarely seen dawn breaking upon the Valley of the Kings. Pharaohs and their families were only ever entombed at dusk, when the sun strained its way out from behind the flat plateau beyond it, casting a holy crown across the horizon. Now, as the royal ship lazed by the Valley on its way toward the capital, Ra's light touched every crack and crevice carved into the mountainside.
At the peak of the winding road leading into the Valley itself, sunlight warmed the faces of the statues flanking either side of the path — Osiris and Horus. Father and Son. They came to life against the cerulean sky, but even bathed in the breath of their creator, they seemed forlorn. Atem knew it was because their true warmth was missing: Osiris, his wife and Horus, his mother — Isis.
Leaning over the starboard railing, Atem watched them — could all but see the whites of their eyes moving as the ship skimmed by, yawing gently to the east as it did. As if heeding some unspoken call from the goddess of her namesake, Iset soon came to join Atem at the side of the ship. Her eyes were as deep and fathomless as the Nile. For all her wise intuition, it seemed the only thing she could now predict was the question poised on the tip of her king's tongue.
"Did you see this future?" he asked, still watching as the father and son receded into the haze of morning.
"I saw … this darkness," she confessed, in a voice that felt as thin as seafoam. "But her light shone through it." She lifted her hand and folded it over the molded Eye of her Necklace. "Even now, I still feel it."
Atem wished he could say the same. All he felt now were the weak flickers of the things she left behind — the words she'd spoken, the sound of her laughter, the memory of her smile. All things, he knew, which would soon begin to fade, weathering in the ceaseless ebb of time — just like his mother. His brother. His father.
"She is waiting for you," Iset said, her words suddenly a crashing wave. "They both are."
This truth, more than anything, was what terrified Atem. He'd heard it countless times in the prior weeks — as if it was supposed to be some comfort that she was there and he was here, just waiting for the fickle fortune of death to reunite them. But coming from Iset, the notion felt more real than ever. How could any man be expected to submit himself to the pains of life knowing his greatest treasure was only a heartbeat away on the shores of the afterlife?
Atem gave a curt nod, as if to assure her he understood, even though he didn't. But soon, the ship was easing its way into royal waters, and Iset seemed to realize her time was running short. She bent into a steep, burdened bow, then backed away to join the rest of the court standing portside. When the ship finally bumped into the wharf at the foot of the palace, Atem moved to join them. On the stone stairs below, Shimon waited alone. He looked as though he'd aged another decade over the last three months, but the shine of hope in his eyes was clear even from this distance.
Once the disembarking platform was secured, the Guardians made their way down it, one by one. Atem was last to descend, lagging so far behind that Shimon was forced to take several long strides to meet him. The elderly vizier stretched his arms wide, and Atem fell into them without a moment's hesitation. For a moment, it felt as though he were embracing his father again, even though Shimon was little more than half the height of the former Pharaoh. Had there not been a multitude sets of eyes gazing upon him, Atem might have broken down and wept right there. Instead, he forced himself to pull away. Shimon said nothing, but his thin lips wavered up into a condoling smile.
Together, Atem and his advisors began the slow walk back toward the palace. In the gardens, every tree, every stem, every blossom felt somehow different, as if they'd all withered and died in his absence, only to grow anew once more. But the uncanniness of it all didn't hit him fully until he rounded the corner to the Sacred Lake. There, the sun filtered through the palm leaves and glittered upon the bluegreen water, painting a perfect replica of the morning he and Satiah had made their lifelong vow to one another. The sight struck him to stillness, and all at once he understood the meaning of Iset's words.
The living memory was interrupted by a sudden wisp of movement in his periphery. He turned to see Mana rising up off the far edge of the Lake, her posture stiff and obstinate. She fell sharply into motion, blowing in like a sandstorm, stopping before him at arm's length. Atem could see clearly the red gleam in her eyes and the quiver of her lower lip.
It happened quick — she raised her hand and tried to strike him, but Atem caught her wrist at the last moment. His other hand snapped up to clutch her shoulder, supporting her as she crumpled against him. Though she struggled to find her feet and pull her hand away, she soon gave in and let herself come undone in his arms. Tears gripped her — silent at first, her shoulders convulsing and eyes squeezed shut. But when an inward breath filled her lungs, the full burden of her anger and woe rushed forth like a starshower.
"Bring her back!" she cried, her voice keening through the courtyard.
"Mana—"
"I don't understand! Why didn't she come back—?"
"—Mana!"
"She said she'd come home—"
Atem wrapped his arms tight around her, muffling her words and cries into his shoulder. As he held her there, each tear she shed felt though it were seeping beneath his skin, collecting in his heart. "I don't understand either," he whispered, quiet enough so only she could hear. "But I think she is home, Mana. I think she's where she needs to be."
"But how do you know?"
He wanted to tell her — wanted to paint the picture of A'aru for her, with its rows of golden reeds, warm sun, and gentle breeze. Wanted to tell her all about the little soul he'd seen by the water's edge, and the joy that had followed Satiah when she'd left his side. But try as he might to find the words, nothing in this world seemed enough to capture this beauty, this grace, this peace. Instead, he stroked Mana's hair and dried her tears, until Mahad finally approached and peeled her away from him. They walked toward the palace, shoulder to shuddering shoulder, taking the rest of the court with them.
But Atem stayed behind, staggering forward to lower himself down on the edge of the Sacred Lake. As he swept his gaze back and forth across the shady gardens, he thought this might be the closest thing to A'aru he would ever find on earth.
Atem hardly slept anymore.
How could he, when in his bedchamber his wife still lived and breathed? Her scent lingered on the cushions of their bed, no matter how many times the linens were soaked and scrubbed and hung to dry in the beating sun. He heard her voice in the whisper of the wind — gentle, familiar sighs of content. In the light of the full moon, as was shining upon Egypt tonight, he could all but see her silhouette standing at the window, veiled by the billowing curtains, looking out over her domain. But he knew even if he called her name, she would not turn.
So instead, he would rise, dress in silence, take up a torch. Walk through the moonsplashed halls, where there was less of her to be seen and heard and felt. Breach the open air on the east side of the palace — see the first drop of dawn bleeding into the inky sky over the Shrines of Wedju. But he would not linger. Instead, he would descend the steep stairs, ignoring startled looks from the dozing guards, and walk across the wide, flat stones until he found himself inside his own Shrine.
He would always try to resist — that pull to look at them. The Gods. Hung high on the walls like soulless trophies. Beautiful, yes — but empty. Nothing more than portals to a void where only power and might and unending destruction reigned supreme.
Instead he would lower his eyes, down to the slabs that were full and vibrant and infinitely more precious to him. For here was where his wife truly lived — nestled between the tablets of his father and mother, directly above his own. The last fragment of her essence, clinging to the world of the living.
Even from her towering place of slumber, the Shieldmaiden's eyes remained open. Watchful. Alive. And though he longed to call upon the warrior, to visit with her as he had done so many times with the spirits of his fallen kin, he hadn't yet found the strength. It was easy, now, to conjure up the ka of his mother, who had been gone from his life almost as long as she'd been in it. Likewise, the seal of silence had been broken on the spirits of his father and brother the moment he'd called upon them in the Valley of the Kings. But to summon his wife's ka — even after the finality of her entombment, even after seeing her pass to the afterlife with his own eyes — seemed like a line he could never uncross. A stele etched deep into stone, marking the everlasting truth of it all.
But how could he have forgotten the one and only promise he had ever kept to her? That her choices would be hers and hers alone. That promise had not ceased with her death — and just as it had been her choice to leave this piece of her spirit trapped in stone, so too would it be her choice to lift the curtain of darkness and call upon it.
So he watched, breathless, as his wife's tablet glowed hot and white, each carved line bleeding with spiritual essence, rushing forth like a broken dam to pool on the floor of the Shrine. When the Shieldmaiden of Sekhmet took her corporeal form, she was crouched down on one knee, her head bowed in unmerited reverence, her weapon laid dutifully at her side.
In a moment that should have been euphoric, Atem felt his skin catch aflame with anger. This was not how he wished to remember his wife — bent over like a servant, waiting to be used at his whim. He surged forward a step, causing her to lift her black eyes with a start.
"Rise," he said.
Hesitating, she swayed her shoulders back, causing her silver shield to glint where it lay braced against the floor.
"Stand!"
She flinched, but obeyed, taking up her spear and rising to her full, towering height. Atem stared hard, but not quite at her. Rather, he traced the sweeping curves of her shield, the bristling fur of the lion's pelt upon her head, the rigid lines of her posture. These were the memories he would keep — living proof of his wife's strength, grace, and will.
"You are not mine," he declared, as true as if it had been written in the stars. "This is not your home."
But she resisted, and the flame in Atem's heart burned only deeper. He swept his arm out to the wall, where her tablet still glowed warmly.
"Go!"
Slowly, the Shieldmaiden looked over her shoulder, gazing up at her stone prison. Atem could feel his breaths coming in shallow rasps now, his vision misting with a shimmer that turned the torches on the walls into bleeding stars. When the Shieldmaiden looked back, tears were gathering in her eyes as well.
"Do it!"
She braced herself and turned fully, readying her spear in a javelin hold. She held it there, perched over her shoulder, fist tight and trembling. Atem watched, mouth half-parted as if to cry out again — but all the air had long since left his lungs, leaving him hollow to the core.
Finally, the Shieldmaiden answered his wordless plea — heaved her weight into a powerful thrust and released the spear. It sang like a freed bird as it sliced through the air, connecting squarely with the middle of her stone tablet. The slab cracked almost perfectly down the middle, then in half again, and again, until pieces began breaking away and falling thunderously to the floor of the Shrine. Each shard was like a weight bearing down upon his soul, pulling him to his hands and knees — threatening to drag him into the very underworld itself. He lifted his head just in time to meet eyes with the last remnant of Satiah's spirit, watching through a haze of tears as she faded forever from the world of the living.
AN: Words can't express how grateful I am that you have reached the end of this fic. Yes, for those of you who were asking — this is the true end of the tale of Atem and Satiah. Of course I'm so sad to have torn them away from one another, but Ascension was always meant to be a complement to the canon — not a replacement for it. To that end, I have planned one final chapter — an epilogue, to tie it all back to where Atem's first story ended, and where his second one began.
Again, thank you so much for your readership. It means the world to me that you kept coming back, all the way to the very last word.
