Author's Note: Thanks to those to read the Prologue. Sorry about the wait. The site was in read-only mode when I wanted to update, and… argh. This is getting very, very annoying ::growls::

"Hmm… I wonder if… no…"

His musings cut into the recording of a concert from some such performer, and he furrowed his already creased brow as he perused the paper, eyes squinting at the small prints under some of the headlines. There was never anything juicy in these things. Tabloids… what did they know? Nothing but propaganda and hype, the lot of them. But then again, there were sometimes some interesting offers in them; nevertheless, ones that never failed to whet his appetite.

Jonathan Carnahan cocked his head, and sighed, wondering why he had even bothered with the record at all. He wasn't even that keen on it.

"That's what I get for borrowing blindly from Evie," he muttered to himself… and of course, by borrowing, he meant… without her strict or knowing permission. He would give it back, he had just been notoriously and naturally curious, as he had always been, since childhood. Evie had had the brains, and he had had… the nose. No, that sounded wrong. What was the word he was after? He had always been the inquisitive one when it came to material things; yes… that was more like it. He had always had a nose for profit.

Though that made him sound greedy, something he wasn't exactly opposed to, but he wasn't keen on it either. It had often got him into deep trouble, somewhere around waist-height actually. It was a trait of his, and not one he was willing to part with anytime soon. It was part of who he was, and dammit, Jonathan was proud of that.

"Ah, here we go…"

Smiling, he nodded. "This is more like it." He made a mental note of the page and without dropping his paper, took up a pen by his side, and jotted down the details. As he was reaching back to lift the paper to his nose again, he heard it.

"Hey, Uncle John."

With a startled yell not unbecoming a ten year old, Jonathan jerked in his chair rather violently, successfully sending both the newspaper and the pen he had been using up into the air, the sheets scattering all over the place, and falling like giant, oversized snowflakes all around him. With wide, dark eyes, he glanced at the young figure standing, laughing before him. The tousled blonde head shook from side to side in his mirth, and Jonathan smoothed down his shirt as he grumbled out, "Well I'm glad you found it so bloody funny. Sneaking up on me… you should know better."

"Just thought I'd come by and see you." Alex took it upon himself to perch youthfully on the arm of another armchair opposite his uncle, and Jonathan watched him curiously, noticing his ever-ready posture and tension. He had gotten that from his father, Jonathan knew… didn't doubt it for a second, nor had he ever. He had his mother's eye and brain for Egyptology, and his father's strength and cunning… best of both worlds really.

"Let me guess," Jonathan began slyly, "they're at it again."

Alex nodded, in an almost distracted fashion, bending down from his seat to pick up his uncle's dropped pen, and tossed it towards him casually. Jonathan snatched it – or rather, fumbled – out of the air in front of his face, and quickly put it down on the table as he cleared his throat. "Thought they would've grown out of that by now."

"Fat chance."

Jonathan knew he was to be forever intrigued and perplexed by Alex's odd voice. From having a typically English mother, and a far beyond typically American father, it fluctuated frequently between the two, wavering and dipping at odd words and intervals. When around the youth, Jonathan had noticed it depended on the company as to whether or not it was dominantly American or English in accentuation.

"So… you look a little… what's the word?"

"Sweaty?"

"That'd be the one." Jonathan lifted a brow, and then smiled. "Ah, dad's at it again, 'eh? Teaching you the old rough and tumble."

"… You know, that is a bizarre way to describe sparring, Uncle John… and a little scary." Alex's brow furrowed beneath his blonde locks. His slight curl had been inherited from his mother. The boy – though he was technically classed an adult now – had a point.

"Right… see what you mean. Sorry." He shrugged. "How's it going then? The old sparring lessons." He always ran out of topics fast when it came to Alex. The younger man always tired him out – conversation wise – so easily that Jonathan found it hard to keep a track on what had been discussed. He supposed he should pay closer attention. He always found it so difficult, though.

"Good."

"Ah… he beat you again, didn't he?"

"He didn't beat me." Alex averted his eyes for a moment, and then looked back, jaw set in a determined fashion. "He cheated."

"And by cheated you mean… knocked out the back of your knee." It was far from being a question, because Jonathan knew he was right. It was the same story every time.

"If you want to get technical," Alex complained, standing from the seat, and wandering to the record player. "Hey, isn't this–"

"With permission, I'll have you know. She let me borrow it; no need to mention it at all, none whatsoever." Jonathan blinked when Alex looked at him sceptically. "All right, fine, I took it without asking, but she doesn't care anyway. Give her a book on Isis or whoever you fancy, and she's in her own little world. You know that better than anyone, after all, she's the one who taught you everything about Egypt and the Gods and what have you."

Alex chuckled after a while. "I love it when you ramble, Uncle John."

"Goody… I do try so hard to be funny," Jonathan drawled sarcastically, only making Alex laugh louder. Jonathan had to admit though; he enjoyed spending time with his one and only nephew. He was fun to have around at times, and delightful at others. He was smarter than Jonathan could ever hope to be, and that inspired him… but he would never admit it. It was better than sitting in his big house all by himself anyway. He couldn't quite attract the ladies as he had been able to before… not that he minded.

Oh, who was he kidding? It was downright disheartening to think about it. Ten years ago, he would have been able to… okay, now he was deluding himself. Sighing, he started to gather up the sheets of his spilled newspaper, noticing Alex helped him. It seemed he had gotten his considerate nature from his mother as well, something Jonathan wasn't about to complain for.

"So, have anything in mind for…?" Jonathan had a habit of inquiring as to Alex's future prospects, even though he had a fair idea on what the young O'Connell had always wanted to do with his life.

Alex simply quirked a brow, and smiled lopsidedly, reminding Jonathan so much of Rick that he froze for a moment, before reminding himself that he should be used to it by now. He didn't need to say anything out loud. It was all in his gaze and expression, and practically screamed 'you should know by now'.

"You know, I do wonder what your mum thinks about that."

"Well… I am an adult. I think I can decide for myself," Alex followed, and stood, a handful of papers in his grasp. He gazed at them, furrowing his brow. They were out of order, in disarray, and he obviously wasn't keen on putting them back into place.

Jonathan stood as well, and placed the papers – along with those Alex handed to him – onto the table, to be sorted later, when boredom really kicked in.

"Plus," Alex added, obviously as an afterthought, "I am an O'Connell."

Jonathan glanced to him sidelong, and smiled. "Well, I can't argue with that. I have to admit, I didn't expect anything less from the minute you were born. You've got your mum's Egyptology, and your dad's combat skills… watch out, world, here comes Alex O'Connell. Be afraid…" He added a slight tinge of feigned menace onto the last section, and heard his nephew's laugh, his reward just as he had hoped.

Alex sighed, and picked up a switchblade from the mantle, toying with it cautiously, and Jonathan heard the flick and snap as the young man opened and closed it quickly and rhythmically. Give it a few more minutes, and he'd tell him to stop it if he hadn't already. Everybody had their limits.

"Alex?" Jonathan ventured, knowing his nephew was paying attention even if he didn't audibly confirm as such. "You have told Evie– your mum, what you want to do, haven't you?"

"Of course I have… not that I need to. I think she's like you. I think she knew all along. She's tried to talk me out of it, spouting all the stories about the myths being real, and the danger, and the peril, blah, blah, blah," Alex returned with a sigh, "but it doesn't stop me from wanting to anyway. I can take care of myself."

"Yes you can," Jonathan agreed, turning to look at Alex properly. "But they're your parents. Doesn't stop them from worrying, does it?"

Alex stopped flicking the blade, regarding it as he turned it in the light for a moment, before he eyed his uncle. "What do you mean? Dad's never said anything–"

"Well of course he hasn't, kiddo, not to your face," Jonathan revealed, wishing he hadn't from the moment Alex's posture tensed slightly. He had no choice but to keep going. Alex would get it out of him anyway, so what was the point in resisting? "He doesn't say it, because he's proud of you anyway, after the war… but he doesn't want anything to happen to you, obviously. It's a parent thing. Let them worry."

Alex snapped the knife shut, eyeing the ceiling almost impatiently with a lengthy sigh. "Everybody's always worried about me."

"That's because," Jonathan began comically, striding over to the mantle as well, "you're the key to carrying on the O'Connell line, of course! Why, who would carry on your dad's old tricks if something happened to you, 'eh?"

Alex looked sceptical for a moment, before smiling with a slight laugh. "Look, it's not as if I'm going to read from The Book of the Dead, or steal The Bracelet of Anubis…"

"Again."

"All right, again, and that wasn't entirely my fault. How was I supposed to know it wouldn't come off?"

"There's a rule I like to follow…"

Alex cut in quickly with a grin. "Take first, ask later?"

"No, not that rule." Jonathan waved his hands dramatically, and placed himself theatrically back in his seat as if he were on show. "The other one… about… um… okay, sod the rules, I can't remember them anyway. But that's all in the past. I know you're not Rick and Evie, but you've got them inside you, and that should be enough to make anyone worry."

"Very funny," Alex grumbled, before slumping his shoulders in defeat. "If mum got her way, I'd be a librarian or a curator for the rest of my life."

Jonathan cocked his head pensively. "And would that be so bad?" Before his nephew could respond, he screwed up his face, waved his hand again, and shook his head. "Forget I asked that. She tried that once herself, and… she doesn't get on with mobile shelving units."

Alex's face bore all the signs of curiosity, but for the sake of Evie's pride, Jonathan refrained from indulging his nephew in the details. Alex looked disheartened or annoyed by that slightly, but shrugged it off, settling into the chair opposite Jonathan after a little while.

Glancing around, Jonathan noticed the clock on the wall. It was almost four already. His stomach did a hungry flip, and he heard it growl, knitting his brow as he looked to Alex, asking, "So… um… what's Evie got planned for this evening?" With a nervous laugh, he knew the young O'Connell would understand what he meant by that, and when Alex smiled warmly, Jonathan grinned.

Light, somewhat pained eyes stared out the front of the building, her arms hugged around her, even as a shadow lingered behind her. She felt it more than heard it, and knew just who it was. He frightened her, though she had been advised he was the one to seek… locate and plead with. They had said he had no compassion; that the years had beaten it out of him, for all that he had suffered and lost himself, but here he was… helping her. She still found it hard to believe for herself, though she didn't doubt the severity of the situation.

Desperate times…

"It is time," he said to her, his voice thick and deep, reverberating in Ancient Egyptian around the walls of her home and carrying to her boldly. It made her spine tingle, and she cast her eyes downward and around, to take in his feet as he stood behind her. Why was he suddenly commanding her? Was it not her who had provided him freedom?

Regardless of this fact, she found herself nodding consent, and replied, "Yes."

"The men must be sent."

"Yes," she offered again, and turned, walking past him, on her way out of the room, but when she was reaching for the door, his voice stopped her dead in her tracks.

"Do not reconsider your actions… it is to correct the wrongs done to you that we are doing this… is it not?" He made a quiet noise of consideration. "I doubt you wish to back out of this chance to have what is yours once again."

She turned her eyes upon him, her blonde curled hair falling to her shoulders like a light shroud, and she replied with, "Of course not. I will send the men."

He nodded slowly, a singular action, and she left the room, hurrying away down the corridor almost as if she were afraid he was watching her from the shadows. She could feel his eyes upon her back as she moved, and after a moment, she took to lightly jogging.

To Be Continued…