Chapter 408
"Come Home With Me"
The Time of the Pharaohs…
The Forsaken Continent
(I was,) Imhotep began, (a road she would never take…
Ours a love that hinged on possibility-what we could offer each other was infinite potential. Reality never stood a chance against that kind of promise….
She represented a singular perfection; she had to because she contained none of the trappings of a real relationship….
She was perfect in part because she was an escape; she seemed always to offer more.)
Before the dawn, Imhotep stirred awake to find himself alone on the makeshift bed of hay. He and Ronda had attempted to take refuge in an abandoned barn from the elements and the mist, the silver blanket of death that had swept across the forsaken continent and plagued all life upon it.
(Ronda?) Imhotep's eyes searched through the dark barn, his nostrils trying to ignore the putrid stench of the dead Ponyta carcasses that were too heavy for the malnourished Forsaken to remove and bury.
Before he could stand, the door opened, "Oh," Ronda blinked at the yawning pharaoh, "Did I wake you?"
Imhotep shook his head, "Nah. Just getting up," his eyes zeroing-in on the dangling Sentret in her grasp.
"They're all I could catch," holding up the small bit of game that she'd been able to hunt, "everything else is barely eatable because of the mist."
Imhotep yawned, "I'll start us a fire," unclipping the ball that contained his Typhlosion.
Ronda smiled, "Just like old times, right?"
Imhotep shook his head, "Some things never change."
Ronda stared at the promise ring on his finger, "Then again, some things do change, right?"
Imhotep gently patted the shoulder of his most trusted companion, his Typhlosion, "Thanks, old friend," before recalling the blazing echidna.
As the skewered Sentret roasted over the makeshift fire, Imhotep searched for the right words to say but nothing came. After all that happened, what could he possibly say to Ronda?
(I'm sorry. I'm sorry I wasn't strong enough.) Imhotep pondered. (No. There's no excuses for the way everything went down. I should've been stronger.) Cursing himself. (I should've been stronger.) He repeated to himself.
Ronda impatiently poked at the skewer and turned to him, "Are you okay?"
"Uhh," he awkwardly quipped, "Yeah, just hungry."
Ronda searched his eyes and immediately sensed he was giving her a half-truth. A fallacy to guard what truly plagued his mind. "…Aren't we all?" Sitting back and wrapping her arms around her knees, "Especially here. I'm sure the Promised Lands aren't starving."
Imhotep, once again, had no words. What was he supposed to say?
The Promised Lands were ripe with resources and weren't enduring the mist at all. The only thing that plagued the promised lands was the greed of the various warlords, conquerors and constant in-fighting amongst the pharaohs.
Ronda, studying the distant gaze of Imhotep, fell silent. It'd been so long since they'd seen eachother. Now, it all felt ethereal to once again be sitting in hell-on-earth and scrapping just to eat and make to the next day. It was, 'just like old times', as she had said.
"Come home with me." Imhotep finally said.
"What?" Ronda blinked.
"I mean what I said, come home with me." He stated flatly. "You and your family being exiled, that wasn't right. But now, Madagascar is going to be independent from the Eastern Empire. It'll be a land where all are welcome regardless of color, so long as their heart is in the right place. Come home with me."
Ronda closed her eyes and turned away, "You know I can't do that." Ronda exhaled, "I cannot just leave these people, the children, I cannot just leave them to die. Not while they still look to me."
Imhotep downcast his eyes and exhaled. It was clear that The Forsaken continent was a sinking ship. The constant warfare, lack of resources and the mist had destroyed the means of survival for majority that lived there. "Just come with me."
"No." Ronda retorted flatly. "Look, you're pharaoh now. Maybe you see things a bit differently than a lot of us regular people do-"
"I'm still the same man I was the day we met in that coliseum."
Ronda shook her head, "You're just lying to yourself, Imhotep. After going into that coliseum, no one walks out the same person. We both know that."
Imhotep sighed, "What Mohammed did was wrong? So now, let me correct my brother's mistake. You and your family are welcome to come back with me to Madagascar."
Ronda stared at him, unsure of how to respond. He claimed to be the same man but it was crystal-clear that he had grown. The awkward boy had grown in both stature and also in confidence. Gradually, he was finding his own voice and adapting to making hard-choices and decisions. The boy in the coliseum was nothing like the man beside her now.
"I don't care what my brother says." Imhotep declared. "The pale-skin excuse was ridiculous. You have the blood of the Promised Lands within your bloodline. Your skin tone shouldn't have gotten you and your family banished."
Ronda challenged, "You'll state the obvious to me, what happens when you have to walk into Ethiopia and stand in front of Mohammed and Sasha and say the same thing?"
"I'll tell the same thing I did on my wedding day." Imhotep snapped, then, he immediately regretted it. He had wed an outsider. For love? Perhaps. Out of rebellion to his brother's bigotry? Definitely.
Seeing the wrong and bigoted judgment of Mohammed had only pushed Imhotep closer to AJ and only increased his desire to have a separate land for all. He understood, Mohammed has his reasons but, in the end, his brother was wrong. He'd become too ruthless and twisted after he kneeled before the Goddess Isis and pledged himself to her. She'd manipulated Mohammed.
(I'll make it all right again. I'll get my brother to see things clearly one day.) Imhotep thought.
"Oh," Ronda smiled, "They're ready," gesturing to the roasted skewers.
The Sentret barely satiated Imhotep's hunger. However, it was better than nothing.
After stomping out the fire, the two stepped out into the mist.
"The antidote," Imhotep exhaled, gazing at the scores of infected and triaging how many would survive the day, "I'm not sure if we can make enough to save everyone."
Ronda leaned close to him, their fingertips intrinsically tangled, "Then you save the ones that you can." She advised.
(She's right.) Imhotep silently nodded. (There's only so much I, by myself, can do. At the same time, if I ask Mohammed for help to distribute the antidote, there's no way he'll agree to it. Then again, why would I ask him for anything? Madagascar has to be independent. We can't do that if we always run to him and Sasha for everything. Ronda's right, we save those that we can.)
"Caw!" Suddenly, the cry of a raven in the distance caught their attention.
The blackbird stood out among of the silver fog, its dark feathers contrasting aesthetically against the white mist, while symbolically polymerizing with the bringer of death. The raven glided into a descent before casually dropped a coiled up scrap of parchment at the feet of Imhotep before sweeping back into the sky and disappearing through the mist.
"They found you?" Ronda blinked. "Do you think the others have been following you?"
Imhotep shook his head, "It could be the Italians. We were guests, it only makes sense that they'd be keeping tabs on where I am, right?" He shrugged. "Well, whatever news this is," plucking the parchment out of the dirt, "it probably isn't good."
For a moment, Imhotep stared at it, unsure of whether to open it or not. Did he really want to know what was happening?
Was it from the Italians?
Was it from AJ and the situation with the Nexus had gotten even worse?
Was it from his brother or Sasha?
He hesitated until Ronda shrugged, "Well, are you going to see what it says or not?"
"Umm, yeah," He cleared his throat, untying the message and uncoiling it. He stared at the parchment and the three words written across it:
"Embrace the hate"
Agatapu Anoi'a Coliseum
During High Chief Maivia's Reign…
"Embrace the hate." Imhotep whispered to himself in the darkness of the coliseum's antechamber, "Embrace the hate," he repeated, strangling the hilt of the dagger in his left hand, and gently squeezing the warm ball that contained his most trusted companion / his mother's love in his right-hand, "embrace the hate," he repeated.
The sealed doors kept the dark narrow antechamber cool in contrast the sun-beaten sand that the fighters would soon step onto.
Imhotep knew Anoi'a Coliseum well. He'd broken so many bones (both his and his enemies), spilled so much blood and sacrificed so much of himself that it was hard to recognize himself in the mirror anymore.
"Embrace the hate," He whispered as the gargantuan double-doors in front of him were pulled open and a beam of golden light stabbed into the narrow corridor. Then, the thunder of cheers echoed across the stone walls, deafening his ears. Cheers so loud he could no longer hear his own voice.
Still, he repeated, "embrace the hate…embrace the hate," as he marched out of the darkness and onto the blazing sand.
The soles of his uncovered feet were on fire with each step he took, the crowd was so loud he couldn't hear his own thoughts. His eyes measured the opponent in front of him.
(What?) Imhotep's eyes measured not one, but two opponents staring back at him.
(I thought it was supposed to be one-on-one.) Imhotep gawked, tightening the grip on his blade.
The two men across from him were both twice his size.
One had to be over seven feet tall, his body however was wrapped in bandages a-liken to a mummy.
(What the fuck?) Imhotep pondered as he stared at the mummified and stiff opponent.
The other was stocky, obviously a Forsaken with a thin beard and sweat-matted brown hair that had been cut and shaped to resemble a crescent moon.
(What in the hell is going on?) Imhotep wondered if this was a joke that his lanista was playing on him.
The two opponents were huge and although, the agility that Imhotep's wiry, whispy frame granted him was a bonus, this would be a tough fight. Winnable, but tough.
The crowd quieted as Kevin Sullivan, a lanista known for importing some of the finest fighters from the forsaken continent; and also trafficking them from the Northern Empire's Kemet to the Eastern Empire's Ethiopia rose and cleared his throat. "Today," Kevin Sullivan, his pudgy face painted with eerie dark symbols around his eyes and cheeks spoke, "the upstart's 'beginner's luck' ends. From the Forsaken Continent I bring to you, The Man of Question and The Yeti!" He introduced.
Imhotep shook his head, ignoring the crowd, ignoring everything.
"Embrace the hate, embrace the hate, embrace the hate!" All Imhotep needed was to hear the roar of the gong.
Then, sitting in the seat of the High Chief, stood his son, Dwayne, scowling down at the gladiators. He'd always yearned to be one of them but forbidden by his father. However, no match could commence without the blessing of the High Chief. As this wasn't the match of Ethiopia's champion, but a mere grudge match among two powerful lanistas, Dwayne had been sent in his father's place. So that the High Chief may handle more pressing matters.
Leering down and wishing death on all three combatants, Dwayne waved his hand.
The gong pounded, and for Imhotep, everything faded to black.
Panting, blood pouring out of few cuts on his shoulder and back, Imhotep slumped against Melbu. Its abilities had been more than enough to finish The Yeti. Imhotep's only challenge had been defeating the hulking frame of The Man of Question who'd obviously been made impervious to pain by milk of the poppy (opium) prior to the fight. Still, he'd found a way to slay the Forsaken gladiator but not before having his nose broken and nearly losing an eye and several fingers.
The cheers and roar of the crowd felt good, but in the end it was meaningless.
"Thank you," he panted, running his bloodied hand over the sleek fur of his Quilava/warm scales of the Charmeleon.
The echidna would soon fully maturate to its final form in due time. The lizard would soon grow to full maturation in due time.
Dart, his first and most trusted companion, had won him this battle and so many others /Melbu, a symbol of his mother's love, had won him this battle and so many others.
A soft clunk sounded. Then, a ping. And then, another.
Imhotep smiled, leaning against his partner as the crowd one-by-one showered the battlefield with gold.
The cheers were meaningless. The gold, however, meant everything to him. Gold, more than enough to feed his family for the next few moons.
Imhotep stumbled out of the pits and through the antechamber and back to the stables with Dart/Melbu by his side every step of the day.
Exhausted and throat as dry as sandpaper, all he craved more than the anthills of gold the crowd had given him was water at the moment.
At the end of the antechamber stood a very familiar face, tall, massive, bald head with sight likely in one eye, "You did good, Imhotep," he smiled.
Imhotep glared at his lanista, Kane, "You could've told me it was two-on-one you-"
Suddenly, Imhotep felt the wind knocked out of him and the oxygen being squeezed out of him. Kane had grabbed him by the throat and slammed him against the stone wall, "You what?!" Kane demanded.
Dart/Melbu growled, ready to strike if given the word.
Imhotep turned his companion and shook his head. Kane, the monster, seemed impervious to fire. No flame could burn the man, it seemed. So the flames of Dart/Melbu would be useless against him.
"What were you saying?!" Kane demanded.
Imhotep, wounded and barely able to stand, gasped for air before Kane released him.
"I took you and made you what you are, boy." Kane hissed, "I made you the upstart! I made you!" He snarled.
Imhotep clutched his throat, staring up at the cold and empty eyes of his lanista.
"That gold," Kane growled, "half of it is mine."
"What?" Imhotep coughed.
"You wouldn't even be in this coliseum if weren't for me," Kane summarized, "You'd still be fighting in piss-alleys for peanuts if weren't for me."
Imhotep gritted his teeth.
"Besides," Kane chuckled, "Sullivan has quite a few fighters in his Dungeon of Doom. You'll fight a new batch each week and by the end of it all, we'll both be rich." He smiled sinisterly, "Seems like a fair-trade from where you were before I came along, right?"
Imhotep could remember the slums, starving and barely able to eat before he'd picked up fighting just for whatever he could earn to feed the family after his brother had been drafted into the army.
"I taught you," Kane raised his gloved hand which began to glow, "to embrace the hate and it made you what you are," looking down at the gladiator he'd created, "and now, the world will always know that you belong to me," extending his blazing glove onto the skin on Imhotep and branding him.