This story was also written for the Eleventh Round of the Seventh Season of the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition: Love Them or Hate Them
I'm writing as Chaser 1 for The Tutshill Tornados.
Chaser 1 prompt: A character gains immense powers (super-hero!AU, god/demi-god!AU, some sort of spell/curse, anything goes)
These are the prompts I'm using as a chaser to score some extra points:
2: (song) On top of the World by Rachel Bearer
4: (quote) Talent is an accident of genes and responsibility – Alan Rickman
9: (colour) burnt gold
Disclaimer: I don't own any part of the world J.K. Rowling has created. It's all hers, from Diagon Alley to Hogwarts to all the people living there.
Thanks to my fantastic team for betaing!
A/N: Demi-God AU set within Ancient Egyptian Mythology (All facts on Egypt checked by my Egyptologist husband).
To make it more authentic, our favourite HP characters have received Egyptian names, they are as follows: Voldemort - Wadjmose, Harry - Herihor, Dumbledore - Duaenhor, McGonagall - Mutemwiya, Hermione - Henutmire, Binns - Buneb. Ahmose is an OC.
Any similarity to the Kane Chronicles by Rick Riordan is purely coincidental (I haven't read the books) which is most likely due to being based on the same theories and mythologies.
Title: The Son of Ra
Words: 2995
The Pharaoh Wadjmose had been reigning the great kingdoms of Kemet—the black land—and Deshret—the red land—for longer than anyone in the Kingdoms could remember. He was the Son of Anubis, the god of the afterlife and a Heka, a priest—a magical being descended from the gods.
As a member of the priesthood, he was uniquely blessed to rule over the country—that is what the populous thought. The Pharaoh was good at instilling fear in his subjects and forcing them to do his will, but running a kingdom required more than that.
Burnt gold skin—that was the sign that you were a child of the gods. It manifested around eleven years of age, and when it happened, the child was sent to the Temple of Heka to be trained, no exceptions. Once their training was complete, they often went to manage the temples of their godly parent or to teach at the temple. Some were chosen to attend to the Pharaoh—these were not chosen lightly. They had to share the Pharaoh's ideology that they deserved to rule, that they were better than non-Hekas, that they alone could rule the great kingdoms of Kemet and Deshret.
Xx
Herihor was such a child. Now at the age of eleven, his skin began to tint gold, before darkening. He was treated with scorn and fear from the only family he had—his mother's sister, her husband and their son. His parents had passed away years before, though he did not know why.
Herihor had always been different. For example, he was strong, so he was often sent to work in the quarries. His uncle worked as a clerk counting the grain harvests and calculating the levies for the Pharaoh. He called it the work of the Gods. Usually, Hekas were treated with awe—they were priests, magicians, healers—but for his family, Herihor's golden skin was just a reminder that he was not like them.
"Boy, there is someone here to see you," his uncle called from the main room of the large mud villa which the family lived in.
Herihor brushed back his messy black hair and took a deep breath. He was used to the stares, the look of wonder when people saw his skin, but still, the expectation that he was supposed to be great, that he was supposed to be someone special, was hard for him to grasp.
He rushed from his small chamber—which was previously a small storage cupboard—to where his uncle stood waiting impatiently. It was then that Herihor saw the man standing with his uncle. He was like Herihor—he had the same burnt gold skin—but he was much older, even older than his uncle. On his forehead was a symbol that Herihor knew from his temple studies—attendance of which was compulsory for children of the elite. It was the symbol for the god Heka—god of magic and practice of magic.
"Hello Herihor," the man said, moving around his uncle to take a good look at him. "My name is Duaenhor, and I am the head priest at the Temple of Heka."
In all his studies, Herihor had not heard that there was a temple to Heka. To the contrary, they were told that such a temple didn't exist. Herihor went to say this, but Duaenhor raised his hand to stop him.
"I know you were told that the Temple of Heka doesn't exist, and to the general populous, this is true. But not for people like us."
"I am sure you are wondering why you, like me, have this skin tone?" Duaenhor asked. "Why you are stronger and can do things your peers cannot?"
Herihor was silent. It was true—he did wonder. He had always been stronger. He could make things he couldn't explain happen, and then his skin changed colour.
Duaenhor continued, "You see Herihor, like me, you are a child of the gods. You have been blessed with this talent, by having the bloodline of a god and this comes with great responsibility."
"I am a child of the gods?" Herihor asked. "But who… which god?" Herihor reached up to touch his own forehead, which was still clear.
"You will gain a symbol like this one"—Duaenhor pointed to his own symbol—"when you are admitted to the temple. Then we will know who your godly parent is, and you will be trained accordingly. We will leave here as soon as I have gone over the particulars with your uncle."
Herihor nodded—this was his chance to break free. To get away from his family. He could hardly believe it.
Xx
Several hours later, Herihor and Duaenhor arrived at the Temple of Heka, his new home. The Temple looked grander than any temple he had ever seen, and he had seen the Great Temple of Ra in Luxor. Herihor was speechless as he was guided into the temple; a kind hand on his shoulder shook him out of his reverie.
In front of him stood an older woman. She was tall with elegant, almost cat-like features. She smiled at him. "Welcome to the Temple of Heka, I am Head Priestess Mutemwiya," she introduced herself. "You are just in time—we are about to perform the ritual on the new acolytes. It was then that Herihor noticed the symbol of her forehead—she was a daughter of Bastet, the cat god.
Soon he was eagerly looking around at all the older acolytes, priests, and priestesses, to see which god their parent was. Anything to distract himself from the unknown of his own godly parent and a ritual that he knew nothing about. What if it was a mistake? What if he didn't belong here after all? What if he was destined for a life working in the quarries?
He was led to a small chamber where a group of children his own age stood, each with burnt gold skin. A single stool stood in the middle of the room and a headband made of leather with the vulture symbol of the mother goddess Isis lay on it.
"Welcome to you all. Now that we have everyone, we will begin. When I call your name, you will come and sit on the stool. The headband will be placed on your forehead, and then we will see who claims you." Mutemwiya explained.
"Henutmire."
A bushy-haired girl stepped forward, and the band was placed around her head. A moment of silence followed, then suddenly a light shone down through the temple, the girl exclaimed, and the band was removed. In its place was a symbol, "You are the daughter of Thoth." Herihor watched as the girl stepped down, she was smiling from ear to ear. 'She must be brilliant then,' Herihor thought, 'being related to the god of knowledge and all.'
"Herihor."
Herihor gulped and made his way up to the stool, his heart pounding in his chest. 'What if I don't have a godly parent?' he thought, but before he could say anything, the band was placed on his head.
Silence once again filled the chamber, and then the light came. But this light was different than the one he had just witnessed with Henutmire. As it filled the entire room and blinded them. Herihor felt his skin warm as if he was lying directly in the sun's rays.
"I claim you, Herihor. Rise, Son of Ra."
His forehead burnt and as the band was removed, everyone gasped.
"You… you are the son of Ra." The room was silent. Herihor looked around confused, they were looking at him with awe, a lot like the people in his village when he gained the burnt gold skin.
He was led back to the crowd of acolytes as people whispered around him. Why, he didn't know.
After the last of the acolytes were claimed, Duaenhor stepped forward.
"Now welcome once again to you all. You have taken the first step of your new lives, the life of a Heka. Here you will be trained to harness your godly powers, and we will do our best to guide you on your destined path. For many of you, that path is to serve your divine temple, but for others, your path may be more unique."
Duaenhor's eyes fell on Herihor, and Herihor felt his breath catch. He felt a pressure, such a burden that he was almost drowning in it and he didn't even know what it was yet.
"For now, you will be taken to your chambers. You will need a good night's rest as training starts tomorrow!" Duaenhor raised his hands, and Herihor's clothes changed to the shendyt of an acolyte, a linen skirt around his waist in white with gold trim. His bore the symbol of Ra whereas others had their own symbol embroidered on theirs.
Xx
Time seemed to go far too quickly at the temple, and before he knew it, he had been there for a month. They had learnt how to call upon the magic resting deep within them, the ball of divine power resting in their core. He had yet to learn why he was the subject of everyone's stares—what was so special about his claiming. He knew that Ra was the sun god and one of the high gods of Egypt, but surely there were others.
In the training, they seemed to expect more of him, and he dreaded the moment when they learnt he was lacking. He relished, however, in the freedom he had gained from his family, but the pressure was slowly but surely getting to him.
"I don't belong here," he told Henutmire—his one friend. She wasn't intimidated by his parentage unlike everyone else in their class. "I wish I had the talent like you do. You were brilliant today."
Henutmire shook her head, "You do belong here, Herihor."
"Why does everyone expect so much from me? Just because I am the Son of Ra?" He placed his hands on his forehead, unconsciously rubbing his symbol as he had come to do.
"Yes and no," she said. "We have been here for a month now—have you seen or heard about another child of Ra?" She looked eager to tell him the answer, but she waited.
Herihor bit his lip and thought back to his arrival at the temple, where he had observed the other acolytes, priests, and priestesses. He had seen no one with the same symbol as him. He shook his head as if to give Henutmire permission to explain.
"You are the first Son of Ra in a lifetime," she stated. "Ra is our supreme god and the Pharaohs of Kemet and Deshret have almost always been Sons of Ra. So, they expect great things from you."
A Pharaoh? He had the potential to become Pharaoh. It seemed hard to believe, but later in his society class, they were told exactly that and then their teacher, Priest Buneb told them something which caused all eyes to look at Herihor.
"There is a prophecy: The Son of Ra will reign true over the Great Kingdoms of Kemet and Deshret. He will have powers the Son of Anubis does not. Life, Prosperity and Health." Buneb explained. "As many of you remember from the last class, our current Pharaoh is Son of Anubis."
The murmuring started, but Buneb ignored it and continued. "What the non-heka population believe is that the Pharaoh is a god and that is why he has been on the throne for centuries. But the truth is this, he stole the throne from the last Son of Ra and has used dark magic to stay there ever since. It is said that only a Son of Ra can take back the throne."
Herihor felt colour fill his cheeks. They depended on him—the future of their world depended on him.
xx
The year went by faster than Herihor liked to admit. He had gained skills in swordsmanship, archery, and hand-to-hand combat. Herihor found that his strength was unmeasured. He was stronger than most acolytes, so to avoid injuring them, Herihor trained in private with the oldest acolyte in the temple. Ahmuse, who, as the Son of Sakhmet, the Lion Goddess, was the only person stronger than him physically. His magic was strong too, but nothing Priestess Mutemwiya couldn't handle.
Despite his strength, Herihor learnt slowly. He needed more time to understand and often failed several times before he got it right.
Herihor had a sword in his hand, poised to attack Ahmuse. He had bruises and cuts—he could heal them quickly with his magic, but he needed them as a reminder.
"I've got to get it right, even if it takes me a thousand times to do it," he shouted over to Ahmuse.
Duaenhor had stressed to him the importance in his training. He was the only one who could stop the Pharaoh, and the Pharaoh wanted to kill him. So, he had to keep trying. He had to prove he could use the genes the God Ra had blessed him with and be responsible for the kingdoms of Kemet and Deshret. He had to even if the pressure was killing him.
Ahmuse came for him again, and this time, Herihor was ready. He had his youth on his side as he glided out of the way of Ahmuse's sword before laying a hit on the man's side.
Ahmuse chuckled, spat blood on the floor beside him and shouted, "Good! You are improving!"
Herihor smiled. He was starting to feel confident. He could do this.
Just then, an alarm sounded, fuelled by divine magic as a voice projected.
"The temple is under attack—junior acolytes return to your chambers. Senior Acolytes, Priests, and Priestesses, please come to the main foyer."
Herihor froze. This had never happened before. What was happening? Who was attacking them?
He went to put his sword away, but Ahmuse stayed his hand, his voice serious, eyes determined. "Don't. You might need it. Be careful," Ahmuse implored, as the room erupted as several people entered. Herihor recognised the priests, but there were people in black robes. They wore a mask, the mask of Ammit, the Devourer of the Dead. They were the Pharaoh's men.
"Get out of here, Herihor! They have come for you!" Ahmuse pushed him and shielded Herihor as one unusually large Ammit came running towards them. Black smoke-like magic flowed out of his fingers, and Ahmuse screamed, his arms tearing up upon impact.
"Go, Herihor! Go!" he encouraged upon Herihor's hesitation before thrusting his own hands forward as yellow magic surrounded the Ammit, causing him to pass out.
Herihor ran. His right hand squeezed the sword tightly, his other hand free and ready to use magic. But he knew few ways to attack, they had mainly learnt how to call forth their magic, how to move objects and cast shields. 'It will have to do', Herihor thought as he ran. 'Nothing is going to break me now'. The sounds of combat filled the air as he dodged groups of Ammites and other priests in black and gold robes.
"Find him!" he could hear the voices say. "Find the Son of Ra! Kill him!"
Herihor had to make it—he had to get away. He had to fight. He may be young, but he couldn't let his colleagues and classmates be killed for him. He had to believe that Ra had given him this talent for a reason.
His hands grew sweaty as he continued towards the junior acolytes' chambers, where he knew the Ammites would be looking for him, where Henutmire and his colleagues were. He had to protect them.
He rounded the corner and there they were holding their own but losing strength rapidly. He had to do something, anything. "Ra, godly father, if you are listening, please. Please, help me!" he prayed.
His symbol burned, and he felt magic flow through his veins. He concentrated. He didn't know how to control it, but he imagined a magic rope, a tether flowing around the Ammites, pulling them away. He willed his magic to wrap tightly around these people, to stop them from hurting others, to strip them of their powers, which they did not deserve.
One of the men broke free, but as he raised his hands to fire his magic at Herihor, nothing happened. He had lost his powers. The man choked and sobbed as his hands started to pale, and the burnt gold of his skin faded away.
There was a gasp of shock from the junior acolytes as he saw it worked. He had done it. How had he done it? Within the magical rope, the other Ammites too were pale and silenced. They couldn't hurt anyone anymore.
A thunder of footsteps came from behind them, and Herihor spun around, hands ready to cast again.
"Stop Herihor! It is over. They are gone"—Duaenhor stood before him, his eyes twinkling with pride—"thanks to you."
Xx
The next day, Herihor was called to Duaenhor's office.
"Herihor, thank you for coming." Duaenhor encouraged Herihor to sit across from him. "I wanted to thank you—you saved your classmates' lives yesterday."
Herihor nodded. Despite it all, he was still confused—why him? But instead of holding it in, he had to finally ask. "Is it true?" Herihor finally asked the question that filled his mind. "Am I the prophesied Son of Ra?"
"Herihor, you did something yesterday which is unheard of. Never has a divine power been taken from another child of the gods. Never."
"He will have powers the other does not…" Herihor supplied.
"Yes, exactly. Now you are not ready to face the Pharaoh. You may have defeated some of his Ammites, but you are far from ready. But you will be. I will make sure you are when the time comes." Duaenhor smiled at him, and for the first time, Herihor felt like he was on top of the world. He would stop the Pharaoh and save the Kingdom, just as Ra wants him to.