Author's Note:
We're almost there! Almost therealmost therealmost thereJ Sounds exactly like the battle to blow up the Death Star in Star Wars huh?
I think the end of the story has been the hardest to write, especially when dealing with parallel timelines, not knowing when and how to split the chapters! And sorry to those who hate angst -this story just seems to abound with angst and more angst and it's what you're going to find again in this chapter!
But it deals exclusively with Nefertiri and Djosyn (Rick's and Evy's incarnations in ancient times!) so I hope I don't disappoint their fans!
Anyway, hope what I've done and am going to do will not throw you off track as past and present merge like montages found in film. Or worse, make you hate this story because things/plot/characters just don't seem to be working out!
Chapter 22
Nefertiri stood outside the Medjai tent that was Djosyn's, thanking the gods that he had returned before the end of his duty, even if his sole purpose was to relocate the ailing Medjai and their quickly dwindling numbers.
It was the tail end of sunset again, the same sunset that she had observed, unchanging as night would surely come, except for the variation of the hues and colours since Djosyn had whisked her away from the palace. The darkness that would descend very soon and cloak Egypt in mysterious splendour had never seemed more welcome, compared to the growing darkness that she knew was found in the hearts of the Medjai.
But Djosyn seemed already lost to her; he lay outside of herself, the change in their relationship still left unspoken.
I do not know what has happened in the Egyptian court, but Aretas sent word that we have lost three of our scribes, their scrolls disappearing with them, Djosyn had told her several times.
So Sahure thinks of continuing Ramses' legacy, she had mused aloud.
We do not know, his reply to her was grim and direct. There is evil awake in the land and we do not know if there is enough light that fights it. Man now knows of no world where stories and retellings are honoured, and has lost the power of crying tears that are stirred by them.
Djosyn, she had grasped him then, the weight of the Medjai cannot be laid only in your hands!
His gaze had turned hooded, flickers of emotion than ran through his eyes quickly disappearing as he suddenly turned on her.
Why do you speak this way, Nefertiri?
She had been taken aback; he had never spoken this way to her before; the warrior front that emerged overtaking the gentle and tender man that she had come to associate with him and in that moment she had despaired so painfully, wondering if it was then ever possible to know another completely.
Her response had been only a glacial stare, dumbfounded, and not immediately accepting, before she had slowly turned and took steps nowhere, as long as it was steps that led away from him.
He had not stopped her then, with his gentle hand, and she had construed it as a fissure in their suddenly brittle relationship; the unquiet time stretching the strength of even those who were thought as unbending.
Djosyn had grown more distant since that encounter, entering his tent that night only when she was fast asleep, and rising before she fully awoke. It was a pattern that was to continue in the days to come, physical closeness not accounting for their separation that was wider than the length of the Nile.
His intimate gestures and touches had ceased completely; it was as if desire had died the same demise as his other warriors-scribes had.
She had moaned the loss inwardly, too proud to beg, yet vacillating between proud, trembling indignation and self-pity, callously reminding herself that the queen of Egypt need not have lowered herself for a mere Medjai guard.
He was racing against methodical cycles of the sun and the moon; the tide of the Nile that went on despite all that he did, she thought bitterly, knowing that it had not been anything otherwise ever since she had lost the child. It was so long ago, she thought, strangely fitting that that fearful memory should recede as far back as she could will it.
She was restless now, outside his tent, hands stroking her shoulders in memory of him, feeling yet again as an individual who was accepted because of Djosyn, wondering about her rootlessness now that he had in effect, rejected her.
She did not know where he was. It appeared as if nightfall would come and pass as it did for nights that had abruptly turned from glorious to torturous, granting her his fleeting and unspeaking presence.
Nefertiri's gaze on the far western horizon held, and the sand dunes appeared to shift despite the still dusky air. She squinted slightly and with growing dread, caught sight the Egyptian soldiers heading towards the cluster of tents where she stood. The heart seemed to cease its rhythm of life in her throat, only a cracked squeak emerging past her strangled vocal cords.
Djosyn!
Where was he? Had he seen their advance towards the camp?
The threat of barbarous activity had dulled her senses, plunging her into a haze, surreal and numbing, paralleling the night in which the Angel of Death swept across Egypt killing all the heathen firstborns, the night that she lost her own child.
Run, see Pharaoh's soldiers! They come for you!
A voice was heard shouting, and it belonged to him, her Djosyn, answering her silent question. Yet it was its unfaltering, hard tone that told her much more. The ironic twist and shift in the Egyptian political world had made the game such that Egypt and its current ruler had turned against its beloved Medjai.
His voice thawed the freeze in her limbs, although she had not caught sight of him. Without hesitation, she ran around the tents, lifting their flaps hurriedly, raising the alarm, and screaming to all who would hear.
Ne'aat! Ne'aat! Za'mankh em-heb!
The sleepiness of the camp was rubbed away by the hand of violence that was sweeping towards them, unarmed Medjai with open fear in their eyes frozen and embedded in the ground in shock.
Za'mankh em-heb! Za'mankh em-heb!
Several footsteps she heard as she passed from a tent to another, her heart sinking, seeing that they were outnumbered.
The already unbalanced population of the Medjai left in the clusters were their women and children; the remaining men folk were those of the council, the disabled and Djosyn.
Many staggered outside their tents, squandering precious seconds as their eyes focused on the advancing soldiers, before regaining their ground and fleeing where their feet took them.
Kep'tah! Kep'tah!
Their swords were drawn; she could now make out their faces -impassioned, lacking of rage; soldiers carrying out orders of the Viceroy.
Flee!
Flee! Flee! She told them, frenzied and panting, unheeding of her own safety as she herded the children towards the craggy mountains that were a distance away.
Riders who rode for the singular intention of destruction bore down on the Medjai camp that had only been partially relocated by Djosyn, scattering those, who ran in all directions receiving the brutal punishment of decapitation when they were caught by the infinitely faster Egyptian soldiers on horses.
The screams had increased; they were unnaturally loud and they pierced her ears; she could barely hear herself hollering above the din, and she could not erase the imprints that the frightened faces made in her sight as they fled mindlessly for cover.
There were many of them, like the torrents that the Nile was capable of, Nefertiri thought as they came closer, producing during the flood season that would not halt until all the ground surrounding had been inundated with red and fertile blood.
The sight was as vicious as it was awesome; the daylight fading into a darkness that gradually blanketed the riders that stormed the village, the widespread torching and the silver sheen of blades only hints of chaos and violence unpalatable.
Merciless they were, noteworthy of Ramses, and now Sahure, as they pillaged and burnt the Medjai tents, slashing wildly at those who ran too slowly. They fell, one after another, the lame and the elderly, the loss of the wisdom of the tribe.
At the corner of her eye, she saw and heard the dull thud of a body hitting the ground, the white hair of Ahura spread around him, the legendary Medjai who had lived through the reigns of Akhenaten and Tutankhamun.
Djosyn was returning their furious slashes, initially strong and unwavering; fear was an acrid taste on his tongue, yet grit and fortitude were the strength that flowed through his limbs, until he visibly weakened from the strain and the defeating knowledge that the strength of one was never comparable nor enough to the strength of many. There were screams of women and children who were also punished brutally for their husbands' treachery to the Egyptian court, as she ran with those who ran towards nearby cliffs, averting her eyes from multiple blades that swung downwards, without mercy.
Nefertiri thought she heard Djosyn's cry of pain, but the frantic turns of her head as she ran still did not grant her the comfort of knowing that he was alright, for she had not caught sight of him at all.
The beating of hooves down her trail intensified, and she thought she heard the powerful swing of the blade as it arched through the air, sailing towards her back -
The royal Queen Nefertiri I see her!
It was a young soldier, still with the lingering ruddiness of youth, who had miraculously stopped the trajectory and the momentum of his sword from slicing through the middle of her back in shock, recognising the former chief queen of Egypt.
My queen, forgive me, but you must come with me. I cannot allow this. He dismounted with the swiftness of lightning, bounding her hands with rough hemp. It was a half-hearted struggle that she had put up; her athletic training and quick reflexes discarded in panic.
She was dragged back to what was left of the Medjai camp, a sorry place of tattered and stray pieces of cloth, limbs that had been hacked apart. A solitary man knelt amid the ruin surrounded by other warriors, the smote of one man's anger.
Oh gods, Djosyn!
He knelt face down, bound in the hands as well as the legs, head snapping up as he turned sharply at the sound of the approaching woman kept in check by the young soldier, arms visibly bulging under the effort to free himself, under the bonds that held him captive, meeting her gaze and holding her captive in turn.
It was all in vain; he winced at the blunt jab that the hilt of a sword made on his neck, before the man who held the blade spoke.
The Medjai traitor, you see before you, Queen Nefertiri, a mocking voice drifted towards her, a finger pointed accusingly at Djosyn, crafty and sneering.
The tip of a blade was held against his neck by their leader - Sahure! It was him! Speechless, she saw that it was Sahure himself who had rode out into the desert in search of the Medjai and their scrolls, the leader of the raid.
But no unnecessary words needed, my Queen. You once escaped Ramses' order when he decreed your execution, he said so softly that she strained to hear him.
The night that she had cheated death, whose swift wings had not quite passed over her.
Today, the luxury is mine to allow you to watch your beloved bear that execution for you.
Djosyn was unmoving, wordless as he stared first at Sahure, before turning his eyes to Nefertiri, his gaze increasing in intensity, immobilising her.
Be strong, he seemed to say. And I will see you again.
Surely the gods of the Underworld will not be unkind, Djosyn, she thought of the tragedy that life had comprised lately, the rise and fall of strive and beauty.
With a slight nod of his head to his commander, the sword was raised for the last time, deliberately slow and unhurried for the Viceroy to savour his moment of triumph over the Medjai. Djosyn held her gaze, kept his unwavering eyes set on hers as the blade that was pointed at his neck, held by Sahure's hand, momentarily lifted itself in a high arc towards the sky, its menacing gleam disappearing as fast as it appeared as the trajectory of the downward swing slicing the thick bone, severing major arteries and joints, his life unexpectedly snuffed as if it were flames that danced in desperation in the advent of strong wind.
She could not breathe, choking in the roiling anger, helplessness, pain and breathlessness meshed together in her as the sword was lifted. All she saw, as was what he wished, were his eyes that held her wretched face, conveying the love that he wanted her to remember for always, the last remembrance of him before they shut tightly at the impact of the blade connecting with the hard bone and muscle of the neck.
Nei, Djosyn, Nei! But the words were not screamed out, neither were they whispered out.
Had she not watched Seti also die by the sharp end of the blade as well, by the hand of someone he had utmost trust for? Had not Djosyn and the Medjai died by the hand of the Egyptian court that they had faithfully served?
Djosyn's end had been swift and quiet, and she soon found herself in a dizzying universe that held only her and Djosyn; it was only her in the desolate company of corpses that freely littered the ground. The soldiers and Sahure had suddenly vanished from sight, madly spiralling into nothingness, and she did not feel herself dropping to her knees in the red, red blood that leaked from his severed neck, nor know how long she knelt in front of Djosyn's dismembered body, reconciling the sight before her with the man whom she had only seen as whole and complete.
Now he was truly lost to her, the breach that separated them before too unimportant in contrast to this permanent breach of death, which words and embraces seemed no longer effective.
But it could not have been long, even though an eternity passed, for the impatient stomping of the hooves of the horses reached her ears, penetrating the clouded, grieved mind.
Take her away, bring her back to the harem, which is now mine to enjoy, the Viceroy ordered, before mounting his horse and heading in the direction of the palace.
Stunned, she felt arms hauling her onto the back of one of the horses as they retreated from the ruins of the camp. It was over; no last or backward glances that she gave, her mourning for him spent during those moments when the cosmos had revolved around them. The world was so mute and parched, silent again, the moon so pale.
The siroccos had started their eerie howlings, ghosts of the desert that joined her mourning, rapidly shifting the sands over the scattered corpses and the ruined tents, burying them in nature's own manner, forever lost.
