CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
This day I am with you. Stabbed by the light of the great mind I wake. The sun crests the hill and the hawk, according to a higher will, whirls and circumscribes day. I am called from my house. I shuffle sand underfoot, but my heart leaps. I open, am pierced by light. A cry escapes my lips. I know not what I say; it is the language of soul beneath skin, the song of birds in acacia trees.
Beautiful is the golden seed from which the corn arises; beautiful the sun on the hill from which springs god's day. My body nourishes some unfolding time and purpose. I shine bronze as Hathor's mirror. My heart lifts like the sun. Passion and power quiver on the land, casting long shadows. Shot through with light, I glow and quiver. Stones of sunlight pile up in heaven. Emerald is truth when gods draw near. Blessed are we by sun.
Ra is the child, a golden knot of flesh dropped from open air, bright star in the dark house of Osiris, heir to the ages, word edged into world. He grows a long beard and sits on the mountain, knowing its secrets. He rises from the flood. Drawing up water, he quenches the thirst of his people. They drink and enter the river. Always burning, always returning, always constant and new.
It is his breath we breathe, his love that endures, his power that moves the world. We are the quivering of his arrows, the stirring of his hands. We are his spirit moving in matter. May the eye of god pierce us and give us the grace of his will. We are held in god's hands. Like the ocean, we whirl and remain the same. We are bound by law and held by the truth of change, that all seasons return, and that which was once and is no more shall come again.
Sing then, rejoice and bind yourself to god's will. See how the seed falls from the tree and is buried. Die at once and live again. You shall grow like that sycamore, rooted in matter, bound for boundless sky. You shall be blown by the wind. You shall see the storm and sing its praises. You shall lie in the fields and kiss the earth. Raise your arms. You shall see the fury and power of god and change forever.
Drink the cup of heaven. Let grace roll down your head like water. Drink in earth; take in the things of the world. The barley grows straight in rows; the young shoots unfurl according to a higher purpose. Truth rides visibly through the world. Have you not seen it? The sun shimmers with the power of gold. We are breathless in golden air. Drink in the light and praise the cup of forever that spills out the threads of eternity.
--Excerpt from "Greeting Ra", Egyptian Book of the Dead, as translated by Normandi Ellis
The dark was soft, enveloping, eternal—the comforting warmth of the womb, the pitch black of the universe before time began. It was everywhere, everything—the void, the abyss, creation waiting for the single word of awakening. She was a part of it all, a tiny speck in the vastness of possibility, and the incredible tranquility of being encompassed by this endless vacuum of potentiality surrounded her and warmed her and made her feel totally loved, totally cherished, totally at peace.
She remembered nothing, was nothing, felt nothing but the remarkable sense of harmony and completeness. She was not just one being, but many; she felt the presence of the others, was a part of them, yet still somehow distinct. It was everything, she was everything—it was beyond description, and she never wanted the feeling to end. There could be nothing more than this, nothing better than this, nothing more fulfilling. And yet…
Far off in the black depths of eternity, a single pinpoint of light bloomed, and she felt the change it wrought, felt the pitch of the soundless music change, sharpen, become more distinct. The light grew, drew nearer, and then came the Voice.
"Awaken, child."
It reverberated in her mind, a thing of depth and purity and an ageless, timeless beauty that she could barely comprehend, even unfettered as she was by corporeal limitations. It was a Voice that inspired awe, and could have invoked fear, had she sensed any malevolence at all in its tone. There was none—just an expansive, all-encompassing love that warmed her like the summer sun.
"Who are you?" Instinctively, she phrased the question in her mind, knowing that the radiant Voice would hear.
"Whom do you believe me to be, child?" The Voice spoke softly, tenderly, but with a hint of exasperation; a creator to an errant creation.
"I don't know." But another question invaded her mind, this one more pressing than the first. "Am I…" she hesitated, although she knew there was no reason to be afraid of forming the word. She was safe, here. "Am I…dead? Is this…"
Gently, the Voice corrected her. "You are in a place of…waiting. It is neither the old nor the new, the past nor the future, the life you left behind nor the life in the realm beyond. It simply…is."
"So I am dead," she persisted.
"You are…making a transition."
It was not a direct answer, but she sensed it was all the Voice would provide. But her earlier question had not been answered, either. "Who are you?"
"I am," intoned the Voice, and the answer rang a bell somewhere in the depths of her mind, somewhere far off, long ago, distant and faint with time. "I am who I shall be."
It clicked into place, even with no solitary mountain to climb, no burning bush before which to kneel. "You are…God?"
"You and your forebears would know me as such," agreed the Voice. "They would call me the god of their ancestors—Abraham, Isaac, Moses. Some from your time would know me as Allah, while some would see me as a triune entity. Still others would recognize me as a being of nature, of the rocks and hills and plants and trees of Earth and elsewhere. To them, I am Spirit. Others yet would see me in the flaming wheel of the sun as it crosses the sky, and call me Ra. Some say I am many, some say I am one. I tell you—all those are part truth, part illusion. I am known by many names, but always have I been known." It paused. "I am."
Silence fell, and stretched, and filled the void as the light ebbed and flowed in a pulsing sphere of being.
Afraid to shape the question, she did so anyway, the formless words faint with an uneasy disquiet. "Why am I here?"
"You cannot yet pass beyond this place," the Voice explained, patient and loving as a father to a favored child. "A price has been exacted, but a choice must be made, and damage must be repaired, regardless of that choice."
"A price?"
"A kind of price, yes." The Voice stopped, seeming to ponder its choice of words. "Better still; let us say your soul has been tested." It paused again. "It has passed its test. The first test."
"What sort of test have I passed?"
"You have learned love, child. Love that gives of itself and asks nothing in return. Love that offers great sacrifice without expecting any reward. Love that dies so that another may live." An indulgent glow bathed her soul. "That has been your first test, and was the first price. You have paid it."
"And the other tests?" She was afraid, now. She sensed the importance of this time, these trials, and she feared them—feared that she would be tested, and found wanting.
As if sensing her apprehension, the Voice quieted, grew more serious. "There is but one."
"Only one?" she asked, frightened of the answer. "What is this test?"
It was a whisper in her mind. "You must learn to face the darkness within your own soul." A tendril of thought, the Voice drifted like smoke through her mind, billowing into the dim, hidden corners where the shadows lay, seeing all. "You must face it, and accept it. Then will the broken pieces become one. Then will you be whole." A pause, as the voice allowed her to assimilate this. "Then will the curse be ended."
"I don't understand," she protested, although a small part of her mind whispered to her that she did. She had known it all along, sensed it during the lonely years of her childhood, ignored it during the deceptively tranquil years of her late adolescence and early adulthood, and had it hammered painfully into cognition in the blazing forge of the last few days of her lifetime just past. The darkness was there, a hated blot hovering just outside the periphery of her being, a stain constantly threatening to bleed and spread and permeate her existence. She had fought it, ignored it, raged against it, fled from it, and now, finally, the time for running was past. "Why? Why should I accept it? It's bad—evil—I should erase it from existence, not accept it as part of me."
"You speak as a mortal still, my child," said the Voice, patient as ever. "The truth is that all creation is forged of light and dark; there is balance in all, beauty in the antithesis, harmony in the opposition. What is love without hate, rage without indifference, joy without despair? For one to exist, so must the other. There is no denying the nature of things, child.
"Your denial of who you are is a part of the curse that blights your soul."
"My curse was to never be allowed to pass through to the next world," she stated, remembering it from somewhere, sometime. "To be trapped forever in an endless cycle of death and rebirth." She considered where she was now, and humor, apparently not tethered to the human form, reared its head. "I seem to be making some progress in that regard, anyway…"
The Voice was a low rumble through the darkness, almost a chuckle. "You have progressed in that regard. And that is the choice you have purchased in passing the first test. You will be allowed to cross over, should the remaining obstacle be removed."
"You mean…there is more than one curse?"
"A curse is perhaps not the right frame of reference. You suffer an…affliction of the soul, a scourge that was not placed by those who sought to curse you, but by another." Deceptively soft, the Voice dealt the killing blow. "You were damned by he who sought to save you, doomed not by hate, but by overreaching love." It continued, perceiving her confusion. "Again, there is balance in the end. Acts of love can birth evil, just as evil can forge love. He who sought to save you, by spitting in the face of the natural order, by meddling with the divine, by opening and reading from the accursed book, doomed you."
He. It was important, somehow, that this nameless he be given a name, but she was unable to do so, powerless to dredge it up from the forgotten path she had just traveled. He…love… She fought harder, strained against the ephemeral bonds of oblivion that held her. He…loved…me… Who had loved her? Why was that question now so vitally important?
"You struggle overmuch, child," the Voice rebuked, albeit gently. "Quiet your mind, and let the memories return."
"How…"
"They are a part of you; they have never been gone," the Voice explained, ever loving, ever patient. "They were simply…misplaced."
She waged a small battle within herself, but finally managed to still the confusion, calm the anxiety. As the furor quieted, she felt a door within her mind creep open, sensed a pathway clear, broaden. Slowly, cautiously, the memories began to cross the barrier, trickling back into her consciousness like the first runnels of thawing snow before the spring melt. Slowly, then faster and faster, the memories came, now a stream, now a flood, now a cascading torrent of feeling and emotion that swept away everything in their path. The floodgates were unlocked, the dam was breached, and she…
She remembered.
And with the memory came the emotion, and with the emotion, the longing. Fear, pain, grief, loss…and an overpowering, unending, enduring love. She remembered.
"Imhotep." The name itself was a memory, happiness twined irrevocably with grief; love forever bound to loss.
"You have remembered your past. Good. All is well." The observation was nearly lost to her, caught as she was in the tide of her returning memories.
Connelly could feel the cold stench of perspiration caking his shirt as he raced down the slick-floored tunnel to the grotto. How much time? Was there enough? Had Hassan managed to…?
The Sudanese intelligence officer appeared at the end of the corridor, wiping his hands with a spotless handkerchief. Connelly slid to a stop in front of him.
"Did you do it?" he panted, out of breath and afraid of what he'd hear. "Did you disarm the bomb?"
Hassan flicked his cold black gaze over Connelly's flushed features. Not so much as a hair was out of place on his head—he was as impeccably groomed as ever. There was no sign that he'd just been in a race to stop a clock that was ticking out the last minutes of their lives. There was also no sign as to whether or not he'd won that race. He went back to cleaning the remaining dirt smudges from his hands.
"Our fanatical friends were not that advanced," Hassan observed, just a trace of self-satisfaction leaching through. "It was a crude device—child's play to dismantle."
Connelly visibly sagged with relief. "Thank god," he said, his usual sarcasm set aside for now, replaced with a more heartfelt emotion. Hassan had bought Callie and the medical team the time they'd need in the improvised surgery to try to do what they could for Eliana. He'd tried to tell Callie about the bomb, that it wasn't safe for any of them to stay inside the pyramid, no matter how much they needed the surgical equipment in the infirmary. Her hands covered in Eliana's blood, Callie had glared at him in disbelief. Shaking her head, she'd pushed past him, following the stretcher carrying Eliana. "You'll just have to get rid of the bomb, then, won't you, Matt?" she'd tossed over her shoulder, already walking away.
"Thank god," Connelly repeated, a weary smile on his face as he looked at Hassan.
Hassan cocked an eyebrow at the American. "God had nothing to do with it, Connelly," he said, heading up the tunnel. "But as for me… You're welcome."
Awash in the remembering, adrift in the feelings, Eliana floated in the drifting ebb and flow of a lifetime of memories. The Voice let her wander there for a time, then called her back to herself, to the present, and to the remaining trial.
"Now comes the test." The Voice spoke, its pitch deep and solemn, and she focused on the void, felt a disturbance in the darkness, an eddying current that swirled and writhed. She knew this was a precursor to the test, a forerunner of what was to come, but…
"Wait!" her mind cried, needing to know. "Imhotep. He is…alive? The curse has been lifted from him?"
"He is mortal, and he lives, and his soul bears no trace of the evil that marked it." The Voice seemed pleased by this—pleased, even, that she had asked.
"Thank you." Her relief was palpable, as alive as the swirling morass that surrounded her. Letting go, for now, of her fear for him, she focused on the undercurrent in the darkness, and for the first time, she felt them, felt their presence.
The…others.
Souls waited there, watched her with unseeing eyes, souls that had once lived, and breathed, and loved, and hated, and died…and been consigned to this hazy nothingness since that time.
How many were there?More than one, more than two, although she only had names for two, names that he—Imhotep—had provided. But there were more, many more, countless souls, lifetime upon lifetime. Souls—or rather, partial souls—bas—that had been born, died, and gone on, leaving the ka to begin the endless cycle once more. The ka that had last resided within her mortal body.
"Who are they?" she whispered, already knowing the answer. She could feel them, pushing up against the darkness, surging within it like an unstoppable tide.
"They are who you have been, child," answered the Voice, not unkindly. "They are a part of you, as you are a part of them."
"But…" The protest broke forth, a cry from the depths of her soul. "But…you said before that I was not whole, that pieces were missing." She was terrified now, of what that meant, of what the test would be. "I don't believe you! I am whole. I am complete! I do not need them!" She panicked now, afraid of the greedy flood of hungry spirits, afraid of the unseen hoard, terrified of what it would require of her to accept this…to accept them.
"You believe that to be so," said the Voice, a quiet, still presence in her mind, stable and solid in the midst of the chaos. "Yet it is not so."
"But why?" Terror spilled from her thoughts, seeped from her mind, rancid and sour. "How?"
"It was the Book, child," said the Voice. "The Black Book." The Voice directed a thought to the clamoring spirits, and the din seemed to subside slightly. "It is not for mortal hands to open the book; not for human mouths to speak the words. The spells bound within its obsidian pages contain varying degrees of evil. The only spell with the power to do what he required—bring back the soul of one so long gone, and cursed, as well—was the one that should never be attempted by a mortal—especially not by a mortal that carried such rage within his heart."
"But what happened?"
"The spell fed upon the rage in the soul that channeled the power, and the rage corrupted the spell, perverted it, turned it into a thing of destruction, instead of the rebirth that was his true intent." The Voice paused, as if pondering something. "He could not have known this; he had no way to know such a thing. It is part of the Book's legacy—has been since the dawn of time, when first it was created. The Book contains secrets not meant for mortal eyes. That is why it is forbidden."
"But he was stopped. Both times he tried to use the Book, he was interrupted…"
"One time, he was not."
Meela. Of course. The vicious, murdering bitch who had, in the end, betrayed him. Meela was the product of the Book's power—and its devastation.
"That is not entirely true, child," warned the Voice, reading her thoughts as easily as if she had shouted them aloud. "The spell simply…amplified…what was already there. By then, the damage was already done."
"What damage?" Frustration colored her voice, making it the equivalent of a mental shriek. She didn't feel damaged.
"The Book caused a …splintering, of sorts." The Voice was matter-of-fact, as if it was explaining a simply, ordinary process, rather than outlining the process by which a soul was doomed. "It acted with the curse already placed by the others, and created a permanent rift. The curse placed by your enemies tied your ka to the earth, doomed it to cycle after cycle of rebirth." It paused; then finished the explanation. "The curse inadvertently placed by he who loved you took the same route with your ba—tethering it to this murky realm of betweenity, rather than leaving it the freedom to cross to the other side."
"But…you can allow them to cross, surely," she rationalized. She wanted nothing more than for these shadowy half-beings that she sensed were waiting for…something….to go far, far away from her. "Let them pass through."
"There is but one way for them to do that, child," said the Voice, a note of sadness creeping into it. "You sense this as well, do you not?"
She did. She could feel each individual ba hovering in the ether, sense it, recognize it on some primal level. Worse yet, she could sense the empty spot inside her own psyche where it…fit.
"No!"
"That is a choice you must make, child," allowed the Voice. "That is the test you must pass. But be warned," it said, dropping lower, a note of forbidding entering it. "By refusing them, you condemn yourself to the same fate."
"Refusing them? What do they want?"
"They wish to be whole again."
"You mean, to leave this place, to go on…"
Again, the voice plucked the half-formed thought from her mind. "What was damaged must be repaired; what was torn must be mended. To gain your freedom, you must accept who you are, who they are, who you are together."
"But…some of them were evil—I know at least one of them was…"
"All creation is a mixture of light and shadow." The Voice was cool, cruel in its heartless logic. "Why should you be exempt from this law? To gain your freedom, you must accept this as true; you must face your own inner darkness and accept it as a part of who you are."
"There is no other way?" Her mind begged, pleaded for some other choice, some other way.
"There is not."
"And after this…" she questioned. "What then? You spoke of another choice…"
"You will decide whether to cross to the other side, or to return to the lifetime you have left behind."
"You mean I can…go back?" she asked, hope painting the question with wonderment. "It is not too late?"
"Time has no meaning here, child," explained the Voice, patient as always. "It simply…is."
A vision formed in her mind, a face swam into her consciousness—two gold-flecked eyes in a lean, bronze face. Imhotep. My love.
"I want to go back."
"You know then," intoned the Voice, "what is required of you."
"She's back." The nurse sounded shocked, as she watched the beeping peaks and valleys of the heart monitor. "Normal cardiac rhythm and holding."
Robillard threw Callie a look that was a mixture of disbelief and grudging respect. One autocratic brow arched in a brief salute. "Well done, Doctor," he admitted. "I would have given up before now."
Callie's hands were shaking as she set the paddles aside. "There's been enough death here already." Her legs were shaking, too, as reaction to the earlier surge of adrenalin finally began to set in. But there was no time to coddle herself, and she shook off the weakness. "Can you do this, Robillard?"
He paused in the middle of issuing an order to the nurse. "I may be a researcher today, but let me assure you, Doctor al Faran, my medical training was provided by the French military, and I served in a variety of field hospitals on several continents for six years." He seemed offended that she would doubt him. "You go and make sure we have a helicopter standing by to fly her to Khartoum after we're done here. I can manage to patch her up until we can get her to a real hospital."
Callie nodded, and started to leave. Imperiously, he demanded, "And hurry up, get back here, and scrub in. You'll be assisting."
Ignoring her internal panic, Callie did as she was told. She hurried.
For once in his life, apart from the years he'd spent as an acolyte in the temple, subject to his master's—the old high priest's—whims, Imhotep willingly followed another person's command.
He waited.
It should have grated on him, to allow Robillard to issue preemptively dictatorial orders as he had, commanding everyone save the hastily drafted surgical team to remain outside—outside the pyramid itself, preferably, or at the very least, in one of its outer rooms. It should have offended him, to be summarily dismissed as he had been, pushed out of the infirmary by well-meaning but impersonally resolute hands. He, after all, was a healer as well, although he recognized that the extent of Eliana's injuries were far, far beyond anything he could hope to repair.
He should have been all of those things—angry, annoyed, offended—but he was none of them. He was numb. The shock of everything that had happened had finally settled on him, and the resulting deadening of feeling, of sensation, of reaction, was a merciful fog that obscured what otherwise would surely have been a heavy enough blanket of grief that it would have crushed the life from him. As it was, he was in a daze, wandering aimlessly through the outer passageways of the pyramid. Some instinct kept him well away from the great hall. He had no desire to go anywhere near it—he would happily never set eyes on any of it ever again—the hulking golden tomb, the seething sea of evil green that surrounded it, the ocean of sand beyond. If somehow he—and Eliana—could put all of it behind them, walk away from it all—if some miracle would allow that—he would happily never look back.
Eliana.
The grief threatened to burst through, and he called up the numbness again, desperate to hold it back. He couldn't let it breach the barrier he'd erected against it, or it would eat him alive, consume his spirit like the carnivorous scarabs consumed flesh. The anesthetized wasteland surrounding his heart was a poor fortress, but it was all that stood between him and grief- and guilt-induced insanity. It had to hold.
The sound of voices reached him, and with a lackluster curiosity, he followed the sound to a small antechamber, just inside the pyramid's outer walls. Dispiritedly, he watched the tableau unfolding inside.
He recognized Jean Godfrey from his brief visits to the infirmary. An Englishman—Charles, he thought, fluttered in nervous, stuttering agitation over a lightweight gurney that held Eliana's father. Doctor Godfrey was trying, in vain, and in what was a surprising lack of patience, for her, to convince Charles to stay with Bernstein until she could get back to the infirmary and send out a med tech to watch over him until he regained consciousness. A few of the English words, Imhotep could by now pick out and understand. The rest was meaningless gibberish.
He was about to retreat back down the hallway, leaving them to complete their strange drama on their own, when Charles caught sight of him. In a flurry of movement, the Englishman raced to his side and latched on, a drowning man making a desperate grab for a life raft.
"Imhotep! Thank heavens!" Although he was hopeless in the field, the British archaeologist was no slouch with regard to academics, and his Hebrew was flawless. "This…this woman wants me to stay with John until she sends a nurse back, and I don't, I can't… Well, dammit! I'm no doctor! What if he wakes up? What if he's in pain? What do I do? How do I tell him about…?" He broke off, even in his self-centeredness knowing instinctively not to mention her name, at least not now.
Imhotep looked away from the babbling Briton, first to Bernstein, then to the doctor. Jean rolled her eyes, a non-vocal indictment of the still-babbling Charles. Another glance at Bernstein revealed that he was breathing deeply, steadily. His only injury had been the blow to the head—he should be coming around soon. Watching over an unconscious man was surely well within Imhotep's capabilities.
"Go," he instructed Charles. "You are useless here. Tell the doctor I will stay with him until he awakens."
Charles nodded and swallowed, his prominent Adam's apple bobbing up and down like a bouncing ball. A hasty stream of English directed towards the doctor was followed by his hasty retreat. He nearly ran from the room.
"Thank you," offered Jean, with a wry grimace towards the empty space where Charles had stood. That phrase Imhotep did know, and he nodded his acceptance of her thanks. "Someone will be along shortly," she promised, and though he didn't understand that, he nodded again as she turned to leave.
On her way to the door, Jean hesitated, not sure if she should push the subject or not, but unwilling to leave without at least offering some words of comfort, however small. She came back, placing a soothing hand on Imhotep's arm. "She's in good hands," she assured him, although she knew he probably didn't understand a word she was saying. "Robillard's a good doctor, even though he's a colossal windbag. And Callie is a wonder—she has more heart than anyone I know. She won't give up on her." As she had expected, the words were unintelligible to him, but the warm sympathy in the woman's blue-gray eyes needed no translation. Imhotep managed a weak smile in return.
With a final pat on the arm, Jean left, and Imhotep was alone with the unconscious man. Leaning against a nearby wall, he settled in to keep his vigil.
Eliana could feel the spirits pressing closer, seeming to sense her weakening resolve. All around her the nameless, faceless wraiths circled, watching, waiting. Hoping.
"I am afraid," she said, though the admission was unnecessary. The Voice already knew.
"That is understood, child," it said, something approaching sympathy in its deep resonance. "And understandable, as well. Perhaps this will assist you in overcoming your fear."
A command went forth, into the ether, and slowly at first, then more and more violently, a churning began. At the center of the disturbance, one shape, one specter, separated itself from the rest, and moved closer. Tentatively, fearfully, Eliana reached out with her mind, summoning the courage to face this nameless, unknown entity. Though eyes were useless here, her mind provided an image for her through the mental contact—sleek, ebony hair; dark, almond-shaped eyes; a tall, dark-skinned, voluptuous body. Eliana gasped as she recognized the face in her mind.
"You are…"
"I am Anck-su-namun," the other offered, speaking through the silent mental channel. Egyptian, Hebrew, English—the language was irrelevant; the dialect of the mind was universal. "I am who you once were."
Eliana felt a wave of psychic dizziness wash over her, a fast and furious storm of feelings and emotions. Facing this wraith from the past was like looking into a warped mirror where a familiar image is distorted, altered, made unrecognizable. She knew that the face in her mind was one she had once worn, but it felt alien, the visage of a stranger.
Eliana turned helplessly towards the Voice, looking for guidance, but finding none. It had withdrawn, retreated, leaving her along to face her nemesis…her past.
The shadow neared. "Imhotep?" it asked, the mental note it struck one of endless love, hopeless longing. "He is alive? Well? Returned from the hell to which he was consigned?"
Eliana dismissed the strangeness, the odd sensation that she was talking to herself, and answered the apparition. "He lives, and the curse is lifted."
"Thank the gods!" Relief first, followed almost immediately by a forlorn sort of guilt-ridden yearning. "And has he…forgiven? Or does hate now fill his heart, where love once grew?"
Eliana's head swam. "There was much anger," she allowed, "much bitterness. But he has forgiven…you. And he loves…" Me? You? Us?
The other seemed to nod, then backed away. "Wait!" cried Eliana, and the shade paused. "Do you all remember your lives? Do you all remember him?"
The manifestation nodded again. "We remember who we were when last we walked the earth. For some, those memories have faded in the eons that have passed. Others remember more clearly. And…" Grief shot through the mental highway connecting them. "Only two of us, save you, were ever able to walk with him, however briefly." A pain-filled pause. "We remember."
The spirit went on, and Eliana could swear that the entity's silent voice carried the suggestion of barely checked tears. "On some level, we all remember, no matter how rich or wonderful a life we led. Always, there is the shadow of loss; always, there is the emptiness; always, there is the yearning."
Eliana could sense the return of the light; feel the Voice's presence drawing near once more. One last time, she looked at the hovering shade. An understanding, of sorts, had been forged. Eliana knew the emptiness that Anck-su-namun's shade had spoken of; how often had she felt that herself? And the longing? It was an ever-present ache in her soul. The love? It burned like a pure flame—eternal, everlasting, spanning the eons that had passed, making the dust of centuries seem but a moment.
She knew what was being asked of her, knew what was required. It frightened her, but to some extent, it shamed her as well. What price, after all, was she willing to pay to return to him, to have one more chance at a lifetime with the man she loved beyond death, the man she had spent millennia trying to find? And what price had he already paid; what endless suffering had he endured, through the eternity of years? What was he suffering now, believing that he had failed once more, believing her to be lost to him forever? He had made his choice, given up everything for her once again. Never once had he hesitated, never once had he faltered.
No, he had not failed her. It was she who was weak—Imhotep had proven his love over and over again, demonstrated the strength and steadfastness of his heart during every one of his awakenings. She had failed, every single time. And that, too, shamed her.
But no more. With this one, last test, she could repair the damage, right the wrongs, cast off the remnants of curse that held her. Imhotep had done his part—had done more than his part. It was her turn, now. If this was the only way back…
She spoke before the Voice had a chance to form the question. "I have made my decision. Do what you must." Resolve firmed her thoughts, gave them strength and substance. "I will return."
Akil Hamid slammed down the radio's microphone, anger and desperation in every move he made. Shakily, he removed the headset as well, and more gently, laid it down on the table. Ardeth looked on, impatient, but willing to wait a few moments for the other man to collect himself.
"They said…" Hamid stopped, rubbing a hand over his eyes. "They said the helicopter we've been using for supplies is unavailable for several days, even for an emergency. It's being repaired. And all their other choppers are already chartered."
"What?" Ardeth nearly shouted in frustrated disbelief. They had to have some way of airlifting Eliana to a real hospital in Khartoum, after the doctors here did what they could for her. Callie had been adamant about that. The best they could hope to accomplish here was to stabilize her and do some hasty field repairs. To survive, Eliana would need the full services of a real medical facility, and soon. "We have to have a helicopter."
A crashing from the trees drew their attention to the jungle. The sound grew louder, nearer, and finally they could make out a familiar form approaching through the brush.
Robert Price emerged from the green fortress of the jungle, shoving a bloody, dazed man ahead of him. They both looked bedraggled, but the stranger had definitely gotten the worst of it. A black eye, split lip and bruised cheekbone marred his features, and those were only the injuries that were visible to the eye. From the way he gingerly held his side, it seemed a sure bet that he had a cracked rib or two, as well. Price simply looked disheveled.
"Mr. Price?" Akil sounded stunned—in the chaos of the last half hour or so, he had completely forgotten about Price's foray into the wilds of Ahm Shere. "What has happened?"
"Our friend, here," he prodded the man's back with his gun, "didn't seem interested in cooperating when I showed an interest in why he was flying a helicopter into Ahm Shere." He stopped, clapping a pseudo-friendly hand on the man's shoulder. The dark-skinned Sudanese groaned and fell to his knees. Price smiled. "I was able to convince him to fill me in on who he was meeting." An ominous darkness shone from his eyes as he surveyed the area. "Where are Azziz and Bashir?"
"They are…" Hamid started, only to stop when Ardeth placed a hand on his arm.
"They won't be needing a ride," said the Med Jai, stepping forward. "But we do need that helicopter…"
"But who will fly it?" worried Hamid, his eyes darting back and forth between the others.
"I will," supplied Price, laughing at their surprise. Puffing out his chest, he informed them, "Six years in Her Majesty's Service. I can fly any model chopper they make, except the newer ones—too many gadgets in those." He gave the Sudanese man a shove, sending him facedown into the dirt. "But the one this scum flew in is an old one. I could fly it blindfolded."
"You are sure?" The Voice held no surprise, just a question.
"I am," she vowed, turning away from the seething darkness and towards the pulsating brilliance. "If this is what I must do to return to Imhotep, I will do it."
"Your love is that strong, then? That lasting?" There was curiosity in its tone, but approval as well. "You would face what you fear most, and conquer that fear, all for the love of this mortal?"
"If it were necessary, I would give up my own soul for his." It was a repetition of the assertion she'd made to Ardeth, an eternity of hours ago.
"Child, you are giving up nothing," said the Voice, gentle assurance in its ageless beauty. "You are not selling your soul. You are claiming the lost pieces of it, the fractionated parts that have been lost over the centuries."
"I have a question, before you…begin."
"Speak," instructed the Voice. "We have all the time we need."
"What will I be, when it is done?" A trace of the old fear was back in her voice, making it quaver. Fear of losing herself, fear of giving up what made her unique, a distinct individual, separate from these other lives. Fear; always the fear.
The Voice seemed almost to laugh. "You will be who always you were," it answered. "No less, and yet much more."
"Will I be them, too?"
A sound of assent entered her mind. "You will be them, they will be you. But your fear is groundless. Always has it been, always will it be so. Your memories will be theirs, as theirs will be yours. But parts of this connectedness exist already—look within. You know it to be true."
One last time, the Voice assured her. "Have faith in the rightness of nature. Trust that the laws by which the universe is governed are unerring. Believe, child." The light grew fractionally brighter, moved a tiny bit closer. "Believe."
Eliana hovered in the middle of the conflagration—the light on one side, the dark on the other—a lone speck of almost-mortal humanity in the midst of a swirling metaphysical haze. One last time, she faced her doubts, her fear, her hesitation. One last time.
Then, she closed her mind to them, instead grasping onto the image that had sustained her for so long. Imhotep. Casting aside the emotions that fed her weakness, the feelings that would hold her back, she grasped onto the ones that would carry her through—faith, hope, love.
And the greatest of these…
"I am ready."
The Voice said no more, but the light flared white hot, burning cold, blazing, growing, expanding in a flaming burst of magnificence, enveloping her, engulfing the darkness as well, obscuring and obliterating everything with the pure fire of Creation. In a moment, the light had claimed all, sweeping everything it had gathered up into its fiery crucible of restoration. It swept through her, around her, within her, and it brought with it the others, except now they were others no more. Like shards of broken pottery, threads ripped unfinished from the loom, they were bits and pieces of a greater whole, a puzzle that had stood fragmented and forgotten for centuries and only now was being assembled. In the swirling vortex of light, the pieces came together, the threads knit themselves into an unbroken skein once more, and the shards fell seamlessly into place.
You shall see the fury and power of god and change forever…
Bernstein regained consciousness with a gasping moan, raising one hand to weakly clutch at his head, using the other to try to lever himself up from the gurney.
Imhotep was there in an instant, gently but relentlessly pushing the older man back down. Bernstein's eyes snapped open; his brows drew together in a fierce frown.
"Imhotep." It sounded more like an accusation than a name. "What the hell has happened?" Frantically, Bernstein looked around, wincing as pain shot through his head. Reluctantly, he lay back down. "Where is Eliana?"
And how could he answer that? With the whole, painful truth, or a kinder lie? In the end, Imhotep settled for a mixture of the two.
"She is with the doctors."
"Ellie was injured?" Bernstein, dazed, groggy and in pain though he was, would not let this go. "How badly is she hurt? Will she be all right? What happened?"
How long could he keep the truth from Eliana's father? Not long. The man was obstinate, determined, and Eliana was, after all, his daughter. With an audible sigh, Imhotep released a tiny bit of information.
"The doctors are trying to repair the damage. She was injured…"
Bernstein cut him off. "How was she injured? How bad is it? Damn you, man—tell me! She's my daughter."
Imhotep stared unblinkingly at Bernstein, his dark eyes quietly reflective. How much could he—or should he—tell him? Could the older man withstand the shock, the grief, of not knowing if his daughter would live? Could Imhotep himself withstand the telling of it?
Bernstein reached out a shaky arm, taking one of Imhotep's hands in his own. The older man's face, once resilient with an age-defying youthfulness, now looked every one of its fifty-four years. His eyes were old, as well, sunken and shadowed. His voice shook when he spoke. "Please. Please tell me what happened."
Imhotep hesitated for a second more, not wanting to relive the memory himself, but understanding Bernstein's need to know. In the end, he could not refuse the man's heartrending plea. "Lie still. I will tell you everything."
The tale took less time to relate than he would have thought, and Bernstein, amazingly, was quiet through its telling. Only at the end, when Imhotep's voice fell silent, did the older man speak.
"Damn them!" he swore, his voice a harsh sound of pain. "All this—for what? Their religion? Their god?"
Imhotep watched as the man raged. Mercifully, the numbness was still there for him, hiding his own grief, masking his own rage. "Two of them are already dead—and no doubt damned by their own god. The others are imprisoned, and will be brought to justice. All that is left now is to wait, and hope, and pray."
Bernstein looked up at Imhotep, and in the wake of his own pain, looked beyond it, and saw the deep well of torment in the Egyptian man's eyes. An almost visceral shock passed through him as he recognized it for what it was—an agonizing grief, born of… Born of…
"You love her?" he asked, shell-shocked and wondering how all this could have transpired in a matter of days. Had he been so preoccupied, so distanced, that he hadn't realized the true depth of what was building between his daughter and this man? "You are in love with my daughter?"
Why deny it? What point would there be to such a disavowal? Imhotep turned his golden brown gaze on the older man, letting him see the truth of the words he spoke, and the depth of his emotion. "I love her beyond words, beyond reason, beyond life itself. She is a treasure beyond price, more precious than anything in this life or the next." He stopped, closing his eyes, grimacing as he fought to keep the ramparts he'd built around his despair in place. "Yes," he finally finished. "I love her."
Bernstein stared at the man, his mouth opening and closing several times, not sure of what to say. "I see," was the best he could do, and he cursed himself at his inadequacy. "And Eliana? Does she return this love?"
Imhotep couldn't look at Eliana's father any longer, for fear of giving in to his pain, his grief, all the pent up heartache he was barely holding in check. All he could manage, as he tore his eyes away, was a choked "Yes."
"I see," Bernstein repeated. For a long while, neither of them spoke, each caught up in their own private misery, their own personal anguish as the interminable waiting dragged on. Then, Bernstein extended his hand tentatively, reaching for and taking the younger man's hand once again, giving it an encouraging squeeze. "She'll make it," he tried to reassure them both. The assertion rang hollow, but it was at least an effort at optimism, an attempt at hope. At this point, it was all that either of them had.
Imhotep looked back to Bernstein, and their eyes met and held, golden brown meeting steely blue, and the in the depths of their shared despair, a bond was forged between them, an allegiance formed from the love they both felt for the same woman—to one, a daughter, to the other, a shining dream that had sustained him through hell itself.
Hope. It was all they had. For now, it would have to be enough.
"It is finished, child," said the Voice, rousing her gently from the drifting half-sleep she'd fallen into. "You have passed the test. It is complete."
"But…" The disorientation fading, Eliana searched her mind. She felt the same. No lurking presences, no sense of otherness, no feeling of her mind being invaded. "It can't be finished," she protested. "I don't feel any different at all."
"You are not different," chuckled the Voice. "You are who always you have been. But what was missing is now replaced. The brokenness has been repaired." It waited while she searched inside herself once more. "Look for the memories, child. They will show you the truth of it."
Callie was exhausted in both mind and body when she finally walked out of the pyramid's perpetual dimness and into the quickly fading daylight. She took a moment to lean against the golden stone of the arched doorway, sucking in a deep breath of the hot, damp air. The smell of plants and trees assaulted her senses, the smell of the jungle, but it was a blessed relief from the dry, stale air inside the pyramid, and she welcomed the change.
With a groan, she straightened, pressing a hand against her back to ease the tired muscles. She felt like she'd been in surgery for days, instead of hours, and the kink in her back was a reminder of the strain she'd been under. But she couldn't dally here forever—there were people waiting for her, desperate for the news she'd bring. Squinting into the dusky twilight, she headed instinctively for the mess tent, knowing that's where the little company would assemble.
As she rounded the corner of the structure, the last few rays of setting sun glinted off the rotors of the old-model helicopter idling in the small clearing. "Thank god," she whispered. They'd managed to get the chopper. Eliana's chances for survival had just gotten better. Her gaze shifted to the man sitting in the pilot's seat, familiarizing himself with the controls. Robert Price? What was he doing in there? Ah well, that was one question she didn't need answered right now. What mattered was that it was there, and ready, and they had a way to get Eliana to Khartoum.
The moment she stepped inside the tent, all conversation halted, all heads swiveled to watch her. She paid no attention to the others—there were only two people whom she cared about finding right now. Scanning the assemblage, she spotted Bernstein, propped up in the most comfortable chair they had, holding an ice pack to the back of his head, looking like he'd aged fifteen years since she'd last seen him. Dark circles shadowed his eyes and his skin drooped, sallow and slack, from his jaw line. He watched Callie approach with a mixture of hope and fear warring in his faded blue eyes. Slowly, he removed the ice pack, laying it on the table behind him, and dropped his hands to his lap, twisting them together in spastic, anxious movements.
Imhotep sat nearby, where he could still keep an eye on his charge, although he was now focused entirely on the young woman, who had held Eliana's life—and his future—in her hands. Unlike the older man, slouched and hunched over, Imhotep sat ramrod-straight, years of training keeping his face set in lines of stark self-control. Only his eyes, dark and haunted, revealed his inner anguish.
She approached the two, stopping when she reached Bernstein, dropping to her knees near the older man. She knew how deep Imhotep's feelings ran, but John Bernstein was still next-of-kin. Taking his hands in hers, Callie smiled.
"She made it."
Bernstein let out the breath he'd been holding, closing his eyes and offering up a silent prayer of thanks. Giving his hands a squeeze, Callie stood and walked the short distance to Imhotep. She didn't kneel again, but stood looking down at him. Tentatively, not knowing how he'd react to the contact, she reached out her hand, laying it gently on his shoulder. "She made it, Imhotep. She lost a lot of blood, but we were able to transfuse her and repair the damage inside, and if we get her to Khartoum quickly, she's got a very good chance of pulling through."
She had expected some sort of emotional response from him, but the sudden appearance of tears in his eyes caught her unawares. To her surprise, the Egyptian reached up, taking her hand in his, holding it tightly in both of his, hanging onto her as if she were a lifeline. She did kneel down, then, reaching up with her other hand to tentatively touch his face. "Imhotep," she assured him, "she made it. She has a good chance of making a full recovery."
He nodded silently, not trusting himself to speak, not trusting that he could find anything coherent to say. Finally, he closed his eyes, visibly gathering up the reins of his self-control. A shudder racked him, and he looked back at her, the moisture of unshed tears turning his eyes a dark mahogany.
"Thank you." His voice was rough, harsh, the deep baritone a rusty imitation of its usual rich tones. The words seemed to tax him to the point of silence once more, and Callie knelt silently, unwilling to pull away, even though her knees protested and her back screamed. Slowly, Imhotep lifted the hand he still held, turning it over, examining its contours, subjecting it to a slow, methodical scrutiny, as if he could see inside the skin, to the bones and tendons and muscles inside. Finally, with a sigh, he released her. "You have a gift, Doctor," he said, staring into her eyes. "You are a true healer. I—we—are in your debt. Thank you." Uncomfortable under his steady regard, Callie stood and took a step backwards, a sound of embarrassment escaping her.
"You're welcome," she stammered, finally tearing her eyes away from him. What was it about the man that made her feel like she'd known him before? No matter. Another decision needed to be made, and quickly. Encompassing both of the men with her steady gaze, she began to explain the logistics involved in moving Eliana to Khartoum.
The helicopter was a small one, she explained. They'd be able to fit the pilot, Eliana and one of the doctors—probably her, although Robillard could pull rank at the last moment and decide to accompany Eliana himself. That was doubtful, though, since his real interest lay in documenting the remarkable progress Doug had made in just the last few hours. It would most likely be Callie herself that would fly to Khartoum with Eliana. That left room for one other passenger. She looked between the two men, not wanting to ask the obvious question. Which one of them would go along, and which would be left behind?
Bernstein stared at his hands, still twisted together in his lap, then looked over to where Imhotep sat, his face purposely emotionless, studiedly calm once more. No matter how desperately he wanted to be near Eliana, this man was her father. He, Imhotep, had no claim on her at all except a claim of the heart. He had not asked for her, had not paid the bride-price, had made no arrangements at all to formalize their union. There had been no time. Legally, he had no rights at all, no matter what emotional rights he could claim. Imhotep was a man unused to deferring to others, but in this case, he would. He had grown to respect Bernstein, and he loved his daughter with all his heart. This time, if they were to have a future—if they were to plan a future—it would be done properly or not at all.
Bernstein saw the fact of this in the other man's eyes, but he looked beyond that and saw the desperate need to be with her as well, and with a sigh, he turned back to Callie. "You'll be taking her soon?" At her nod, he turned to the Egyptian. "You go. She'll want you there when she wakes up." Seeing the disbelieving hope in the younger man's eyes, Bernstein made his voice as gruff and hearty as he could manage. "You tell her, when she wakes up, that I love her, and I'll be there as soon as Price can get the chopper turned around and ferry me back to Khartoum."
Imhotep stood, hardly daring to believe that Bernstein would allow him to go, when it meant that he himself would be left behind. It was an act of stunning generosity, and it left him dumbfounded with gratitude. Sinking his knees in front of the older man, the priest looked into the weathered face, the faded blue eyes. "Are you sure this is what you wish?"
"Of course it's not what I wish," laughed Bernstein, although the sound was a sad one. "What I wish is that we had a bigger chopper, or better yet, that Ellie had never been hurt in the first place. But since I can't have what I wish, I'll do what she would want. And Ellie would want you there." He stopped, stared into Imhotep's eyes with a penetrating gaze that saw far, far more than the priest would have allowed, had it been any other man. "I asked you before if Eliana loved you." Imhotep nodded, waiting. "I already knew the answer, Imhotep. It was there in her eyes every time she looked at you, every time she thought of you. She loves you, and she would want you there. Now go—they'll be wanting to leave soon."
Imhotep rose to his feet, glancing first at Callie, who waited for him near the tent's perimeter, then back at Bernstein, who was staring off into the distance, where the chopper waited. "Thank you," he told Bernstein, who merely nodded. "When Eliana awakens, the first thing I will do is relay your message to her."
Bernstein did look up, at that. With just a hint of the man he had once been, just hours before, struggling through to twinkle in his eye, he curved his lips in a wry smile. "The first thing, eh? Are you sure about that, Imhotep?"
Imhotep grinned back at him, for the first time feeling a shaft of true hope enter his heart, chasing some of the shadows away. "Well," he corrected himself, and the hope inside him expanded a bit more, filling more of the empty places inside, "perhaps the second thing."
In a flash of movement, he was gone, following Callie to where the chopper waited. Eliana had already been placed inside, an assortment of monitors and equipment surrounding her, carefully watching and regulating her status. As they drew nearer, the engine's whine increased in frequency and pitch, as Price prepared for their departure.
In the last rays of the setting sun, the helicopter lifted smoothly away from the clearing, banking hard to the right and making a half-circle around the pyramid before curving back towards the north and west, where the first stars of the evening were already visible in the deep indigo sky.
"Take care of my daughter, Egyptian," Bernstein muttered, as the helicopter shrank into a quickly receding spot of dark against the darkening sky. He watched until it was out of sight and listened until the sound of the rotors had faded completely away, before turning back to the others. Akil Hamid was by him almost immediately, putting an arm around his old friend and retrieving the ice pack for him.
"You'll be there soon, John," said his friend, and Bernstein looked up at him with a shaky smile. There was nothing he could think of to say, so he said nothing, his thoughts turning back once more to his daughter. Somewhere along the way, he realized he'd begun thinking that it was just the two of them against the world, a father-daughter team, and now he discovered that he'd need to rethink that philosophy. How had she grown up so fast? And how had he missed so much of it?
With a sigh, he sank back down into his chair, wincing as the cold of the ice pack touched the abraded lump on the back of his skull. The pain chased away some of his anxiety, though, and closing his eyes, he settled in to wait.
The memories? Eliana skimmed through the pages of her life—her youth, her childhood—and found nothing new, no extraordinary revelation. The Voice sensed her confusion. "You must look further—beyond that life, to…before."
And then she sensed them—foggy, distant, but there—hazy images of long ago, existing in her mind like afterimages burned into the retina after a flash of lightning. Real, but not real. There, but there no longer. Seventy years ago—Meela, filled with rage and desperation, and a cold, shivering panic. Back generations further—lives she had no name for, the memories of which were cloudier, less distinct. Back through the millennia, back to… A secret, sacred garden, known to only her and… The priest, turning to greet her, a warm smile stealing over the handsome, bronze face, a face that was too often solemn, too often set in a mask of purposeful arrogance. A warm ripple of deep, rich laughter, a sparkle in the gold-flecked depths of his eyes, and then… Hands reaching out, drawing her close, enfolding her in the sanctuary of his arms. Imhotep. Anck-su-namun.
The memory was there, but there was no sense of foreignness to it at all, no sense of it belonging to another. It was hers, part of the fabric of her mind, her soul, so much a part of her that it seemed strange for it not to have been there all along. And with that realization came another as well. For the first time in her life, Eliana felt…whole. There was no sense of fear, no gnawing uncertainty about who she was, or her part in the unfolding tapestry of life. For the first time ever, she felt…right, comfortable in her own skin. She could have laughed in jubilation, could have wept with joy, but all that she really desired was to find her way back, to crawl into the sheltering circle of his arms and never leave them again. How long had it been? For a part of her, not so very long at all—for another part, it had been forever.
"I remember," she exclaimed, in awe at the change this benevolent entity had wrought. "I remember." One last time, she looked into the light, and felt the love and compassion within its flaming depths. "Thank you."
The Voice pulsed momentarily brighter, then faded back to its usual brilliance. "You are ready, then, to choose your path? Ready to choose the road upon which you will travel?"
She laughed then, a giddy peal of pure joy. "I have been ready to traverse this path for a hundred lifetimes or more." She felt like her heart would grow and grow, keep expanding until it simply floated away, filled to overflowing with her love for the man she had waited centuries to find again.
"I am ready," she repeated, reining in her elation, growing serious once more. "Please," she asked, making one last request of the Voice she had come to know as her god. "Send me back. Send me home."
"It shall be as you desire, child," answered the Voice, and once more, Eliana found herself wrapped up in the cool brilliance of a thousand suns. It surrounded her, protected her, wrapped her within the comfort and safety of its loving embrace, and she felt herself floating, drifting, rising through layer upon layer of luminosity, traveling through the darkness, traversing space and time and ending where she had begun.
She felt the light begin to fade and pull away from her, felt the strange heaviness of her limbs as she sank once more into her mortal form, and then, with a last, wondrous flare of warmth and beauty, the light was gone, winking out and leaving her alone in her body. She felt the light's disappearance, but in a small breath of wind, a voice brushed against her mind in a fleeting farewell.
"Live, child, and love, and rejoice," it said, touching her mind with compassion and love. "This day you have been reborn—complete, and whole, and unblemished as the day of your creation. Laugh, and sing, and feel joy. All will be well." The whisper faded, but the sensation of love and well-being remained, and she drifted off again, into the healing slumber of mortal sleep.
The light from the small fluorescent lamp suspended on the wall above the narrow hospital bed cast a pall over Eliana, painting her features a sickly greenish shade. She lay still, unresponsive, and although the nurse had explained as best as she could to Imhotep that the drugs they'd administered were supposed to keep her asleep, it still seemed to him that she'd been unconscious for far too long. But her breathing was deep and even, and she didn't seem in any pain, so he quieted his fears as best he could and attempted to trust them. They, after all, knew more about what to expect from her recovery from the surgery she'd had than did he. So the hours passed, and Eliana slept, and Imhotep kept his silent bedside vigil until the nightshift nurse came in during the wee hours of the morning and found him asleep in the hard-backed chair, his head resting on the bed beside Eliana's unmoving hand.
Gently, she shook him awake, and indicated with a nod of her head the more comfortable chair they'd scavenged from some other room and brought into Eliana's room while he'd slept. It was not a bed, by any means, but it was vastly more comfortable than the wooden chair, and Imhotep gave the nurse a wan smile, and blinked bleary, bloodshot eyes at her when she handed him a blanket as well.
The nurse knew he spoke no Arabic, and she spoke little Hebrew, but she'd asked around, and between her own meager knowledge and that of the other staff on duty that night, they had come up with a rough translation of what she'd heard the doctor saying earlier that evening. Reading from a scrap of wrinkled notebook paper, stumbling over the words, she attempted to pass on at least some information to the poor man.
"Your woman? She is…sleeping. We gave her…pills…to make her…sleep and…recover from the…cutting?" Shaking her head, she grimaced over the poor word choice. "The…procedure? The fixing?" Imhotep nodded. He understood her well enough. She continued, scrunching up her face as her mouth contorted around the unfamiliar Hebrew words. "We must…wait. And pray. She will…wake…when it is right time. Nothing else to do. Wait."
Imhotep nodded again. Always a quick study, and amazingly adept at languages, he called upon the few Arabic words he'd picked up during his time at Bernstein's dig. "Thank you." A wide smile broke over her face, and she let loose with a mind-boggling stream of Arabic that had him blinking in bewilderment. He held up his hands, shaking his head, the confusion on his face combining with the pallor of sleep deprivation to give him a look of helpless exhaustion. She took pity on him, ceasing the baffling stream of vernacular and reaching out to take the blanket from him once more, waiting as he moved the cushioned chair closer to Eliana's bedside, then covering him with the rough, warm wool.
A few minutes later, having checked Eliana's vitals, the nurse left, and Imhotep was alone with Eliana once more. Sighing, telling himself he'd only just close his eyes for a short while, he folded his fingers around the coolness of her hand, and leaned back in the chair, whispering a brief prayer to the gods to guide her spirit safely back to him.
Hours later, he awoke, confused and disoriented, blinking the grittiness of sleep from his eyes and looking dazedly around the room. Something had awakened him, but what? He had nearly managed to chalk it up to the befuddlement of his tired brain, when the sound came again—a low, weary moan. From Eliana.
He shot upright, abandoning the blanket, the chair, shaking off his fatigue as a rush of adrenaline shot through him. "Eliana?" he whispered, leaning over her still form. "My love? Can you hear me?" Another moan, this one slightly louder, and her head moved, turning to the side, then rolling back again. Her fingers flexed in his grip, and she drew in a small, gasping breath, releasing it again in a sigh. Her eyelids fluttered once, twice, and then cracked open, revealing a sliver of green. "Eliana—wake up. Come back to me, Eliana," he pleaded. "Come back. Please."
Her eyes opened a fraction more, and she gave his hand a weak squeeze. Lips—chapped, cracked, sticky with a pervasive dryness—parted, and he strained to hear the word she tried to articulate.
"Imhotep?" Her voice was dry, scratchy, weak from disuse, and laced with pain. "Is it…over?"
"Yes, my love," he was quick to assure her. "Yes. It is over. You are safe. We are safe. The men—Azziz, Bashir, their henchmen—are either imprisoned or dead. Your father is well. He sends his love and will join you as soon as he is able."
"You?" she rasped, her voice a weak whisper. "You are…here? Safe?"
"Yes," he nodded, an answering murmur. "It is over, Eliana. Completely. The curse is lifted—gone. It will never come between us again."
"Good," she sighed, closing her eyes. "Good." A sigh escaped her lips, and she managed to croak out another word. "Water?"
Scanning the bedside table, Imhotep saw the pitcher, and filled a glass. Gently, carefully, he lifted her head, helping her to take a few feeble swallows. It seemed to help, for when she spoke again, her voice was stronger, clearer.
"What will happen now?" Her eyes, a clear, pure green, searched his face, looking for an answer.
"You will rest and heal. I will be here with you," he replied, lifting one hand to softly stroke her face. "After that—I do not know. We will have to decide what to do then."
She nodded weakly, her eyes falling closed once more. "So…tired."
Imhotep closed his fingers around her hand once more, the other hand still drifting over her cheek in a soothing caress. She turned towards his touch, weak as a kitten, but still wanting the warmth and nearness of him. "Rest, my love," he urged. "Rest and heal. We have time." It was an unbelievable, wondrous statement, but it was the truth. Thank the gods, it was the truth. They had time—all the time they would need. "Sleep now. I will be here with you, and you will be safe."
She murmured something unintelligible; then, with great effort, pried her leaden eyes open once more. "Imhotep."
"What, my love?"
She smiled. "Love…you."
He blinked back the tears from his eyes, swallowed the lump in his throat. When he spoke, his voice was rough with barely checked emotion. "I love you, Eliana. More than life itself." Another smile, and she was asleep again, but there was a hint of color in her cheeks now, and her sleep was less a drug-induced stupor and more a restful, healing repose.
He placed a brief kiss on her lips, then sat back down, careful to keep her hand engulfed in the warm protection of his. His happiness lulled him into a deep, dreamless sleep, and for the first time in days, Imhotep slept soundly, peacefully, even in the discomfort of the chair's lumpy padding. For the first time in centuries, he fell asleep knowing that he would wake up the next day, and the day after that, with Eliana by his side, and no curse shadowing their lives, no scourge tainting their existence.
Their sleep was restful and tranquil, and in their mutual exhaustion, neither thought to wonder over the fact that their entire exchange had been conducted spontaneously, naturally and instinctively in the Old Tongue.
Alone in the void, the light pulsed again, then condensed and drew inward, preparing to depart. One last time, it scanned the void, looking for any trace of what had just transpired, casting about for any vestiges of what had come to pass. One last time, it probed the darkness—searching, seeking…and finding.
A single, solitary soul—a tiny spirit, left behind when the others had joined, overlooked in their renewal, forgotten in their departure. Smaller than the others; different than the others. Different, and yet…a part of them.
"You, too, wish to return?" The Voice knew the spirit, recognized it at once. It too, after all, was a part of Creation.
This soul, though, knew no language, had no vocabulary but the instinctive speech of the heart. Yes, it said. Yes. Please.
"You have waited long. Eons have passed since the time that was designated for your birth, your lifetime. Do you not wish to go on? Do you not wish to cross to the next world? Be sure of your choice, little one—the mortal world is fleeting, and brief, and all too often filled with heartache and misery. Are you sure?"
Yes, cried the tiny soul. Please. I want to live; I want to love; I want…
"Very well," said the Voice, warmth and a fatherly love resonating within its rich timbre. "You shall have this lifetime you so desire. You shall return as well."
To them? asked the soul, longing in its small, childish voice. They are mine…
"They are yours. You are a part of them, and they of you," assured the Voice. "Of course you will go to them."
It felt the surge of happiness within the small soul, felt it rush to join the others, and gently reached out, holding it back, comforting it in its disappointment at not being allowed to follow immediately. "But not now. Abide with me a little while longer. I will be with you until the time is right," the Voice assured, wrapping the little being in a comforting blanket of light and love. It felt the tiny soul's disappointment fade, replaced once more with patience and acceptance. Once more, the Voice spoke its wordless, silent promise. "Soon. Soon, little one. Soon you will join them. Soon you shall live again, as well."