Redemption

by Renee17

Seventy years have passed since the destruction of Ahm Shere. In the Sudanese desert, an archaeological team's discovery begins a chain of events that could end an ancient curse, or unleash a new one upon an unsuspecting world. COMPLETE.

25. Chapter 25

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

What a long road it seems I've traveled. The beauty and terror of it! The crying of the gods or children, the yellow flowers calm in the last gold light. The names of all the powers seem shouted out by blades of grass, by clouds, by rocks underwater, by the darkness in the mouths of caves, by dead men under the burning sand and in the hearts of mountains. Let me hurry to them then as a man hurries home to rest after a long day in the fields. I've gathered and tied my life to my waist like the pelts of magical animals. Nothing common or rare escapes me. I carry the power within. I've fallen face down upon the earth to gain the power of heaven, powers greater than the ceaseless shining of stars, powers as great as the sun at creation. Having lived the life demanded of me, I shall step into eternity. Long and quietly I spoke with my soul of death, of love, of things that mattered. I am clothed in light, loved and touched by light, bound by light to enter light. On my heart I bear the scars to prove I lived and I live still. And I live forever. I've been shamed and beaten and have cried out for revenge as I gazed on the empty face of sky. I learned the story of my existence as I lived it, as it was spoken from the mouths of gods. I've passed through the terrors of night. Thirsty and tired I fell by the roadside. I've lifted my face to eternity and been blessed by the kiss of morning.

Now, like a hawk, I rise into the air, into the heart of the universe. I rest on clouds, hearing joyful things—the song of sparrows, the buzzing of bees, the laughter and pleas of courtesans, the wind murmuring in carob trees. I am whirring as a hawk. With the eyes of the hawk I see, think his thoughts and know the joy of his heart. My flesh is vibrant as air, my words sharp and long as a shout.

Today all the old men in heaven are happy. They are made strong as bulls in green pastures, ready to run, to snort and bellow, ready to make many children. Today is the last day of the world. The sun will not set, the light never wane. We've reached the knot of eternity. A million million years are with us. The breath of life enters. Rivers flow unending. Great is the power of the human heart to love, to change, to make new. The word of light has been spoken and has lived by our hands, in our bodies and in the things we made. Truth shall not pass away. As I turn to dust, I turn to light. I have come home to my father, my brothers, my children, my friends. I have come home to myself. Though my house falls to dust and my fields turn to sand, the light of Egypt lives a million years in me. I shall enter the eye of fire forever. I shall gaze into fire and find the comfort of wife, children, home and cattle. In the dream of an old man, in the eye of eternity, I shall live forever.

--Excerpt from "Becoming the Hawk Divine", Egyptian Book of the Dead, as translated by Normandi Ellis

Bright morning sunlight filtered through the blinds, gilding the dust motes as they drifted through the still air. By day, the small hospital room showed its age, but it was clean, and bright, and pleasant enough, even with the ever-present institutional scent of bleached linen and disinfectant. But for someone who had lived in the room for two weeks, it was a prison.

Eliana reclined on the narrow bed, picking at the thin blanket with impatient fingers. A thread came loose from the hem, and she worried at it, unraveling the snowy white fabric bit by bit.

"My love." Imhotep reached over, laying a gentle hand on hers, stilling the nervous movement. "They seem to need every blanket they have here. You are destroying one of them." He smiled at her, a gentle reassurance. "Doctor al Faran will be here soon, as will your father." As he spoke, he took her hand in his, gently massaging the tenseness from it, loosening her grip on the ravaged blanket. "You will be leaving here soon, I give you my word."

"I can't wait to get out of here," she snapped, running a hand through the mass of hair that fell about her shoulders in haphazard curls. It was combed, but hastily, and although she rarely bothered with more than the most rudimentary of cosmetics, she felt that she would happily kill for a tube of mascara and a mirror. The standard-issue hospital gown was simply an added insult. But even those things were tolerable, if annoying, as was the bland, poorly cooked institutional food. What Eliana detested about her present accommodations was the complete lack of freedom and privacy—she hated being awakened several times a night when the shift changed and the nurses did their rounds, and she despised the feeling of captivity that she knew was a necessary, but hideously unpleasant, part of hospitalization. "If I have to stay here one more day, I'll go insane."

"Well, we can't have that, can we?" said a voice from the open doorway. "I don't know what they have in the way of psychiatric facilities here."

Imhotep and Eliana both turned to face the woman who had entered the room. Callie stood there, a mischievous smile on her face, waving a sheaf of papers in front of her. "Your discharge papers," she said, then teased, "But if you're too busy, I can come back later…"

"No!" shouted Eliana, jerking herself upright. "Bring them here—I'll sign them now, right away!"

Several quick steps brought Callie to the bedside, and she laughed as Eliana plucked the papers from her hand, reaching for a pen that lay on the bedside table. "Read through the discharge instructions, then I need to do a quick exam, and you can sign and be on your way." She glanced briefly towards Imhotep, then turned her attention back to Eliana. "Will Professor Bernstein be picking you up?"

Eliana didn't even glance up from the papers as she finished skimming the second typewritten page. "Yes. He's hired a car and driver."

Callie nodded, and leaned against the small table while Eliana continued reading. Again glancing at Imhotep, she asked, "You're not returning to the site right away, then?"

"What?" Eliana looked up, but her gaze was distracted. The discharge instructions were simple, with little technical language, but they went on interminably—wound care, bathing instructions, symptoms to watch for, when to seek medical attention… Amazing that they hadn't included a map of Khartoum and information on sightseeing opportunities while convalescing. "Oh—no. Dad thought that I should take it easy and relax in style for a week or so." She grinned. "Besides, he's got some business to take care of with the government officials here in Khartoum. He's taking full advantage of the fact that it was Sudanese nationals that almost managed to create an international incident at the site. They're working out details on how the rest of the excavation—if you can call it that anymore, considering the fact that everything in Ahm Shere is aboveground now—will be handled, and giving in to Dad's demands, for the most part. He's loving it, just as you would expect. And they're putting us up at the Grand Holiday Villa for the duration of our stay here," she added, smiling broadly.

Callie's eyes widened appreciatively. "That's a beautiful place. Much nicer to recuperate there than in here, I'd say."

"You'll not get any argument from me on that," agreed Eliana, skimming the last page. Finished, she set the papers to one side and looked up at Callie with a grin. "All done. Examine me, and get me out of here!"

Again, Callie's attention strayed to Imhotep, who had moved to the room's lone window, and was staring expressionlessly out into the street beyond. Was it her imagination, or had his countenance gradually grown more and more bleak during the course of her short conversation with Eliana? Watching him carefully, she noticed the tightness around his mouth, the lines of fatigue and tension around his eyes. No, she wasn't mistaken. There was something troubling him. But what? Eliana was being released; she was completely recovered from the injury she'd sustained in the pyramid. What else could it be? A small frown creased Callie's brow.

"Imhotep?" she asked, not wanting to sound like she was trying to get rid of him, but wanting a few moments to speak with Eliana in private. "Could you step outside for a few moments? I just need to do a quick exam…"

He started, roused from whatever thoughts were occupying him, and turned a blinking gaze towards the women. A look that could have passed for discomposure flickered over his face, and he nodded, heading for the open doorway. "Of course. I apologize." His eyes drifted to Eliana, and he managed a small smile. "I will wait outside."

Eliana returned his smile happily, not seeming to notice anything beneath the surface, and nodded. "Don't go too far—we won't be long."

Another half-smile that just missed his eyes curved his lips briefly. With a quick nod, Imhotep left the room, shutting the door behind him.

---

Callie made quick work of checking Eliana's vitals—pulse, blood pressure, temperature. Normally, such work was left to the nurses, but in this case, Callie wanted to do it herself. She had a personal involvement in this case that went well beyond even her usual high degree of professionalism. The strange setting and bizarre circumstances of the Ahm Shere dig had formed a strangely intimate link between them all, and Callie needed to see it through to the end.

After checking the dressing over the nicely healing wound in Eliana's abdomen, Callie straightened, adjusting her stethoscope around her neck once more. "I'd say you're doing much, much better than any of us would have expected, when you were first admitted," she told her patient. "You can go home."

Eliana let out a pent up breath. "Thank god!"

"God surely must have had something to do with it," confirmed Callie, "because no matter how good a doctor I manage to convince myself that I am, it was more than just modern medicine that pulled you through this."

"I know." It was a whispered acknowledgement, the hushed solemnity of the two syllables giving voice to a profound, heartfelt awe. Already the time she had spent between one existence and the next was fading to a dim, shadowed memory, but Eliana would never completely forget the wonder and majesty of the being she'd encountered there, or the profound changes the deity had wrought in her.

Over the days she'd spent in the hospital, she'd tried to explain her experience to Imhotep, and while he'd come close to understanding and appreciating what she'd encountered, she doubted that anyone could truly fathom its significance. Just as she couldn't fully comprehend what Imhotep had gone through in his centuries-long journey and final deliverance, her encounter with the god was a personal, private thing—one that could be described, but never fully understood. She didn't know, in fact, if even she truly understood the depth and significance of the healing of her own soul. She could feel the change in herself, had recalled her past as Anck-su-namun, as Meela; even, perhaps, as other women, in other times—lives with no faces, no names associated with them, and the resultant feeling of wholeness was unique, had been missing from within for her whole life. For the most part, though, she hadn't even known to what depth the sense of loss and deficiency had gone. To completely comprehend what the god had accomplished was beyond her meager mortal capabilities. But her gratitude was in no way diminished by her lack of understanding. What she—what Imhotep—what they had experienced and been given was nothing short of a miracle.

All the fears that she'd had before—that she'd somehow be lost during the joining, that her own essence would be tainted by the stain of sins committed by the others—were gone, replaced by the sure knowledge that she was still Eliana, still the person she'd always been—yet also more, somehow. And the worst fear of all, the fear that when Imhotep realized Anck-su-namun had been restored, returned in mind and soul, if not in body, that he would completely forget her—Eliana, the woman he'd come to know, the woman he'd held in his arms, the woman he'd grown to love… That fear had nearly vanished as well, swept away by the realization that Anck-su-namun had always been a missing part of her psyche, had always been a part of her, and Imhotep had always loved her, loved them both, regardless of the name or the face that she wore. He had always, from the very beginning, seen beyond the surface, down to the fabric of her being, and had recognized her for who she was, who she had been, and who they were together. He loved her—a name was meaningless currency when judged against the substance of a soul. The fact that although he had rejoiced in her newfound memories, it had changed nothing between them, not even the name by which he called her, proved that he understood this, had always understood it. The only thing that had truly changed between them was her appreciation for all that they'd suffered, all that they'd lost, all that they'd weathered to finally be together. The difference was not in Imhotep at all; it was in her.

The minutes passed, each woman lost in her own thoughts, and finally, when the silence between them lengthened from a companionable quiet to an uncomfortably stifling intimacy, Callie coughed softly, breaking the spell.

"Well, then," she said, strangely reticent to meet Eliana's eyes. "I'll leave you alone so you can get dressed and ready to leave." Signing the last of Eliana's discharge papers with a small flourish, Callie headed for the door.

"Wait." The voice was Eliana's, but the compulsion to stop the doctor came from another. Callie turned, a mild curiosity widening her dark brown eyes. Eyes that Eliana—with her newfound memories—recognized on some level.

"What is it?" No sound of perturbation, no trace of anger, or bitterness, or acrimony. Nothing. If Nefertiri—or Evelyn Carnahan—was in there somewhere, she was buried deeply, more deeply, even, than Anck-su-namun had been.

"Just…" Eliana started, only to stutter to a stop. What could she say? I'm sorry? Forgive me? It was all a mistake? I didn't mean to… To what? Kill your father? Kill you? Nothing seemed believable; worse yet, nothing seemed adequate. There were no good words.

"Just…" she tried again, swallowing past the lump in her throat. "Thank you."

Callie smiled, returning to Eliana's bedside. Reaching out, she took Eliana's hand in hers. Mercifully, she didn't brush off the gratitude with a disavowal of its importance. "You're quite welcome," she told her, with a quiet solemnity and a gentle squeeze of the hand. Brown eyes met green, and a long-sought peace stole over Eliana's heart with her words. Maybe it had taken seventy years, maybe three thousand, but the old enmity between them was gone, and nothing of the hate or bitterness remained. Time was in this case, like in so many others, the great healer.

Callie spoke again, undoing the fragile silence, but the words she spoke were no less healing. "You had too much to live for, and far too much to lose. How could I stand by and watch all that slip away from you?" Her grip tightened on Eliana's hand, and her eyes filled with a sheen of tears. "How could I stand by and watch what losing you was doing to Imhotep?"

The lump returned to Eliana's throat. "Some people could have," she confessed. Inside, her heart twisted painfully. Some people could even have struck the killing blow and enjoyed watching the pain spread outward like ripples on some evil, stagnant pond.

"I don't know about that," refuted Callie, a staunch optimism firming her voice, squaring her shoulders. "I think most people want to do the right thing, most of the time, if circumstances allow…"

Eliana watched her, recognizing the determined innocence and resolute goodness in the wide set eyes. So hard to believe that those eyes had seen anything but goodness. So hard to comprehend all that had come before. But the past was gone, and nothing could change what had passed in decades and centuries gone by. All that could be done was to face the future with a new understanding, a new appreciation.

"Maybe," was all that she could find to say.

"Have the two of you made plans?" asked Callie, startling Eliana with the directness of her question.

"Plans?" she repeated stupidly, not really sure of what she could say, although she knew full well what Callie meant. What would they do now? Where to go now that they had successfully thrown off the shackles of the past? There had been no time to make plans; there was never any opportune moment to discuss the future. They had simply been content to embrace the present, and the unbelievable good fortune of being together at last. But the future loomed large, a blank canvas waiting to be filled, and they were like children, presented with a rainbow of colors and an empty page, unsure of what hues to use, what patterns to draw.

"I don't know," she answered finally, looking up into the doctor's eyes. Perhaps some of her uncertainty showed, for Callie responded with a reassuring smile.

"He loves you," she told her. "He loves you deeply. Almost losing you very nearly destroyed him—I've never seen such grief." The warmth of her hands seemed to take the sudden chill from Eliana's, and Eliana returned her smile with a wan one of her own.

"Our love for each other isn't the issue—at least now it isn't," Eliana answered, unsure of how to explain what it was, exactly, that was the issue. "It's more that…I don't know…so much has happened, it's hard to figure out exactly where to go from here." She paused, looking into the doctor's eyes to see if she'd understood. "Our situation is…different than most."

Callie bit her lip, not sure of what to say. Perhaps this dilemma, whatever it was, was the reason behind Imhotep's strange despondence before he'd left the room. She'd known that something was bothering him, but…

Nonetheless, she'd seen enough to know that these two would overcome whatever the issues were, no matter how different, or difficult. "Don't be silly," she told Eliana. "You two have something very special between you. You'll figure it out, I'm sure of it."

Eliana dropped her eyes. "You're right," she said, pulling her hand away from the doctor's. "We will."

"You will," repeated Callie, patting Eliana's hand and turning to go. "With a love like that, you have to." Eliana didn't miss the sudden wistfulness in the young doctor's voice, or the hint of sadness that crept into her eyes.

"Callie?" she called out, and the Egyptian woman stopped near the door, looking back with a question in her eyes. Eliana felt compelled, almost, to return something, at least, to this woman, in whatever way she could.

"Have you seen anyone else from the dig lately? The American agent, maybe?" Eliana watched closely, and saw the guarded expression that quickly came over the doctor's face.

"No, I haven't," Callie answered, a hint of defensiveness in her voice. "Why?"

"I was just wondering," said Eliana, a tiny smile lurking on her lips. "If you do see him, give him my best, won't you? He's a good man, and I feel that I owe him my thanks, too."

Callie's face lost the mask of wariness as she nodded in agreement. "He is a good person. If I see him, I'll tell him." The wistfulness was back. "But I doubt that I will."

Eliana's smile broadened. The doctor had yet to learn that in some matters, fate had the final say. "Oh, I don't doubt but that you'll bump into each other somewhere," she told her.

"Maybe," muttered Callie, looking distinctly uncomfortable, and took another step towards the doorway. "Well, you take care of yourself, all right?"

"I'll be fine," Eliana confirmed. "But Callie? If there's one thing that I've learned from all of this, it's that when fate hands you a chance, an opportunity—even a small one—you have to grab it with both hands, and hold tight, because you may not ever get a second chance. And if you feel something for someone, if you love someone, don't ever walk away from that, at least without giving it a chance—there is nothing more important, in this world, or any other." She searched the doctor's face, looking for some sign that the Egyptian woman had gotten the message. The hesitancy was back in Callie's eyes, though, and with a sigh, Eliana finished. "Thanks again, Doc." Callie's eyes widened in surprise at the nickname Eliana had used. But there was no hint of teasing or subtle sarcasm in the American woman's face or eyes. Whatever Eliana had meant, she hadn't meant to mock or ridicule. "Good luck to you, okay?"

All Callie could manage was a hasty nod as she reached for the door handle.

---

The hallway was narrow, darker than the rooms it adjoined, and Imhotep paced back and forth, restless and impatient. Eliana would be released—that was a true gift, for he doubted that she could have withstood spending any more time imprisoned here. That she was well enough to go home was another priceless gift. But that she was going home—where ever that was, anymore—created new anxieties.

Where was home for Eliana? A tent in Ahm Shere, where her father would be spending the next six months, at least? Here in Khartoum, perhaps, where she could work with Akil Hamid in cataloging the treasures they'd unearthed and prepare them for shipment to the museum? In Cairo, at the Museum of Antiquities? She was a linguist, though, not an archaeologist, and that limited her options within a museum setting. Back to across the sea, perhaps, to the United States, to the university where she had a teaching position? Or with him? And where, exactly, would that be?

Never before had Imhotep felt so much an outsider. He was a man with no past, no identity, no place in this world. He was an Egyptian, but that country would not claim him. He had reappeared in Sudan, but that country was no home for him either. He loved a citizen of the United States of America, but would that alone guarantee him a place there? Stopping his restless pacing, Imhotep leaned hard against the railing that ran the length of the corridor on both sides, gripping it so hard his knuckles turned white. What was he to do? Above all else, he wanted Eliana—wanted to claim her as his own, take her as his wife, make their union legal and binding in the eyes of both the gods and men. But how could he even ask such a thing, of her or her father, when he had nothing, was nothing? He had no doubt that he could find a place for himself in this new world, given enough time, but they had already waited so long…

Angrily, he shoved himself away from the railing. There were no easy answers to his dilemma, and worrying over it like this was getting him nowhere. He had to do something; but what? Talking to Eliana's father was vitally important. He and Bernstein had to come to some sort of understanding before he could ask her to accept him as a husband. But how could he expect a man to give up his daughter to someone who had no way of providing for her, providing for a family? He would certainly not allow a daughter of his to enter such a union. He had no idea of what he'd need to do to forge an identity for himself; he didn't even know who he could ask for help. Eliana perhaps? But that galled him; she was just recovering from her injury—he didn't want to burden her with his difficulties.

A quiet cough drew his attention away from his inner turmoil and made him wince inside. Who had witnessed his fit of temper? He relaxed a bit when he recognized the dark garb of Ardeth Bay and the casual disarray of Matt Connelly. They had seen him in far worse condition than he was now, and their shared experience in Ahm Shere had formed a bond, of sorts, between the three men that went well beyond the superficial.

Ardeth was the first to speak, tilting his head towards the closed door of Eliana's room. "Eliana is being released today, is she not?"

Imhotep nodded, a look of relief on his face. "She is. Doctor al Faran is with her now, completing the necessary examination and documentation." He noticed Connelly's furtive glance towards the closed door to Eliana's room, smiling inwardly at the discomfort that the younger man just managed to hide. "They should not be long, if you need to speak to the doctor," he added, solely for Connelly's benefit.

Connelly shot him a look. "I'm here to see your girlfriend, actually."

Imhotep raised an eyebrow, and that simple look spoke volumes.

"Relax, man," Connelly laughed, amused by the unspoken protectiveness in Imhotep's expression and stance. "I only need to get a statement from her so I can wrap up my report on the Ahm Shere incident. Nothing else. I thought I'd wait until she was ready to go home, instead of bothering her when she was busy getting better." He quirked his own eyebrow at Imhotep, in a passing imitation of the priest's own expression. "That okay with you?"

Imhotep gave him a shrugging nod. "You will have to wait for the doctor to finish with her."

"Not a problem," said Connelly, casting another furtive glance at the door. "Any idea how long that might take?"

Another shrug was the priest's only reply. A white-garbed nurse came by, pausing to speak to them in Arabic, making a shooing motion with her hands, and pointing down the hallway.

"She says we cannot loiter in the hallway," translated Ardeth for the others, making calming motions with his hands at the agitated woman. He spoke a few words to her, and she nodded, seeming satisfied, and moved off down the hall. "We are to wait in the lounge at the end of the hall."

The lounge, if it could be called that, for it was surely not comfortable enough for anyone to indulge in anything remotely resembling "lounging", was located at the far end of the hall, in a room that had once been used to house patients, but now held an assortment of mismatched chairs, a burnt-out coffee pot, several presumably cheerful-looking photos hung in cheap plastic frames and a tired-looking plant.

"How much time have you spent in this place?" asked Connelly, taking in the shabby forlornness of the tiny room with a single, dubious glance.

"Enough," confessed Imhotep, the single word conveying volumes. Truth be told, he had lost track of how many hours he had passed in that room, waiting for word on Eliana, waiting while doctors examined her, waiting while they ran tests, waiting, waiting, waiting…

He was tired of waiting.

"How long will this 'statement' take, Connelly," Imhotep questioned, his impatience flaring anew.

"Not long," said Connelly, leaning back against the doorway. "It's the last piece of my investigation," he added, not taking his eyes off the priest. "Statements, eyewitness accounts, photos…" He grimaced in self-derision at the mention of the photos. "Although I must confess, those are clearly not the work of a prize-winning photojournalist." His glance sharpened again as he looked once more at the Egyptian man. "Background checks," he mentioned conversationally, resuming his list, "of everyone at the site."

Neither man said a word, so Connelly figured he'd just grab the bull by the horns—or the camel by the hump, if that's what it translated to in this part of the world. "Funny," he started, watching them both carefully, "everyone's story and background checked out just fine, even the terrorists. Well, their IDs were fake, of course, but we were able to track down their real identities without too much trouble. Only one person we have absolutely nothing on." He waited, looking between the two men. When neither spoke, he offered, "Anyone wanna guess who?"

Ardeth shrugged. "I assume my identity could have proven difficult to confirm, given the record-keeping practices of my people…"

"Oh, you were an interesting piece of history to trace, Bay," Connelly admitted, "but we did manage to confirm that you were who you said you were. I'll give your "people" points, though, for being one of the most close-mouthed and secretive groups I've ever run across. No, not you, Bay," he said, shaking his head and turning to face Imhotep head-on. "Anyone else wanna take a shot at guessing?"

The priest said nothing. What, after all, was there to say? That any record of his life or death—if indeed those records still existed, and had not been erased when the Med Jai evoked the Hom Dai and wiped him from history—existed over three thousand years in the past? That he had been raised from undeath by Eliana and freed from the most hideous curse known to man by none other than the great god Amun-Re himself? That Connelly should know him, because he himself had encountered Imhotep some seventy years in the past, during one of his own past lives? None of those avenues seemed particularly productive, or especially prudent, so Imhotep stayed silent. Let the man think what he liked.

Ardeth, however, looked beyond the obvious difficulty to the opportunity that lay beneath. "Mr. Connelly, it is perhaps fortuitous that you, of all people, encountered this obvious lack of identification." He watched carefully for Connelly's reaction, but the younger man wore a look of careful neutrality tinged a bit, perhaps, with mild curiosity.

"Why's that, Bay?" he wondered, shoving his hands in his pockets and settling back to enjoy the game.

"Our friend Imhotep, here," Ardeth explained, walking over to the priest and putting a companionable arm around his shoulders, "is an Egyptian. He heralds from a remote, little known village located far from the modern world of the Nile Valley. Their records of births, deaths—virtually everything of importance, was not stored in the modern manner—on computer disk and electronic storage devices. What history was not passed down orally was kept in simple paper form, and when the village was destroyed, a tragic result of the inner bickering brought on by the temptation of modernization and progress, all the records were destroyed." Ardeth shot a surreptitious glance at Connelly, who was watching him with the same sort of rapt fascination one reserves for viewing the freakish, but strangely spellbinding acts in a traveling circus sideshow.

"Keep going, Bay," Connelly prompted, dragging his hands from his pockets and crossing his arms in front of his chest. "I wouldn't interrupt this story for all the camels in Iraq."

Deciding that he had absolutely nothing to lose, Ardeth plunged ahead. "The village was quite primitive, which explains much about the fashion in which Imhotep was trained as a healer. Their ways followed the old ways. You might say," he added, with an inward roll of his eyes, "that they were lost in time, a throwback to the individuals who peopled Egypt in ancient times."

A choking sound from Imhotep drew Connelly's attention to the priest, and Imhotep carefully schooled his features, moving away from Bay and crossing to the far side of the room to gaze out the window. The stoic set of his face revealed nothing of what the priest was thinking, which was just as well. There was no need for Connelly to know that Imhotep had begun to believe that Bay had taken leave of his senses. What sort of dung was the Med Jai attempting to spread here?

Connelly seemed to be having trouble of the same sort. "And about how far back were they thrown, Bay? A couple thousand years? Back to the good old days when a guy could just walk out his front door and pluck a stem of that wonder plant—silphion, right?—from the endless supply of it that grew everywhere? You know, before it became extinct? That far?" His eyebrows rose questioningly. "Or a little farther, even?"

Imhotep turned his back on them completely at that. Connelly, although he seemed harmless enough in this incarnation, was skating dangerously close to the real truth. Imhotep had no idea what Bay was trying to accomplish, but anger began to simmer inside him at the Med Jai's meddling. What on earth was the man attempting to accomplish? And why was he even trying to accomplish it in the first place?

"Their ways were ancient," agreed Ardeth, not betraying anything with his expression or tone of voice. "Alas, when the village was destroyed, many of the elders were lost with it, and the remaining villagers scattered to the four corners of the wind. Their entire society is lost now, for all time."

"Yup, there's that time thing again," agreed Connelly, shaking his head in wonder. "And let me guess… Imy here," he gestured towards the priest with his thumb, "is the last remaining member of this ancient, time-locked society."

"You are an astute man, Mr. Connelly," said Ardeth, with a quick bow of his raven-haired head. "It is exactly as you say."

"So it's pretty useless for me to look any further for any kind of documentation that our friend here even exists, is what you're telling me?" Connelly asked him, already knowing the answer.

"That too is an unfortunate truth," agreed Ardeth, feeling rather like a used-car salesman—telling the truth, but only when "truth" was defined in a slightly skewed, distorted way. "But happily," he continued, working his way towards his real goal, "you are in a unique position to help him with this unpropitious tragedy."

"Oh, I can just imagine," drawled the American. "Let me guess—he needs some help with his unfortunate lack of identification, huh?"

Imhotep's ears perked up at this, for at last he began to see where Ardeth Bay was going with this outlandish fiction. He turned to face the two men, watching in quiet amazement as his future—and his past—was redefined between the two of them.

"New documentation would be extremely helpful, in this instance," agreed Ardeth, a look of pleased innocence on his face. It didn't fool Connelly for a minute.

"And why would I do that?" he asked. "The CIA isn't in the business of providing mystery men with new identities."

"Are they not?" inquired Ardeth, his voice bland and neutral. "I was under the impression that that was exactly what they did, in certain circumstances. Is that not what your American Witness Protection Program deals with? Or is it just the FBI that has the power to accomplish such feats?"

Connelly scowled, stinging from the double slap that Ardeth had just delivered. Not only had he stepped neatly into Bay's trap, but Bay had also questioned his abilities as a CIA operative. And that was one thing that Connelly would not stand for. "Of course we do that, Bay—the FBI doesn't have anything on the CIA. But generally, new identities are created to protect someone, not just to give them a new identity for the sheer hell of it—and usually that someone has earned the protection in some way."

The next layer of Ardeth's snare fell into place. "Earned the protection? By risking his own life, perhaps? By walking unarmed into a roomful of terrorists, in a building rigged to explode at any moment, just to help an agent of the American government regain control of a situation that should never have been allowed to progress that far anyway?"

Connelly straightened with a snarl. "Now just a minute, Bay…"

Ardeth took a step forward, holding out his palms in a placating gesture of peace. "I meant no disrespect, Mr. Connelly. I was simply emphasizing the fact that the American government does owe Imhotep, at least to some degree. A simple matter like providing him with documentation and identification seems a fairly reasonable trade, does it not?"

Connelly glanced between the two men, a scowl on his face as he tried to figure out just how he'd managed to be so thoroughly bamboozled by the two of them. Imhotep, of course, was completely, maddeningly expressionless. Bay, on the other hand, was—even more annoyingly—the picture of innocence. Connelly glared at them both again, and then, in a mercurial shift of mood, laughed out loud.

"I give up, Bay," he sighed. "You win. You're right—it's the least we can do. Give the man a new identity—hell, give him his old one. You tell me. What does he need?"

"Identification, primarily, in the form of a birth certificate, proof of citizenship—he is an Egyptian, you have my word on that. If the CIA cannot arrange for such papers, perhaps your good friend, Mr. Hassan, can arrange for some assistance from the Sudanese government. You would think," he speculated, tilting his head to one side, "that they would be most eager to settle things between your two governments and make amends in some way."

"Oh, you'd think so, wouldn't you?" agreed Connelly, beginning to grin. "Yeah, I bet Hassan can help us out a little with this. What else?"

"A passport would be most useful," suggested Ardeth, gathering steam. There was one other thing that could benefit Imhotep immensely, and it would only be a small lie, after all… With a shrug, he decided to go for broke. "And perhaps the most useful of all, you could arrange to have his university diploma replaced."

"College? Where'd he go?" Connelly glanced at Imhotep once more, but the priest was apparently quite content to let Bay speak for him. "What's his degree in?"

Bay thought quickly. "Egyptology, specifically focusing on the New Kingdom time period, with an emphasis on the religious cults of Osiris and Isis, and the healing rituals and practices of the time."

Connelly's head had begun to swim. "This would be an advanced degree, of course…"

"Definitely," agreed Ardeth, nodding emphatically. "A Ph.D. With honors." A small twitch of his lips betrayed his amusement. "Believe me—no one living today knows more about this time period than our friend Imhotep."

"I'm not going to argue that, Bay. We're sort of beyond that now, anyway, aren't we?" Connelly conceded. By now, he had dragged out a small notebook and was taking notes. He looked up from his scribbling to ask, "And where'd he learn all this fascinating stuff? The U of Cairo?"

Ardeth responded with the first world-class university that came to mind. "Oxford. Great Britain."

A pause, and Connelly looked up at him for a second, his eyes pinning Bay to the spot. Then, with a shrug, he wrote that down, as well. "Oxford it is." A moment more, and he had tucked the notebook back into his pocket. "Anything else, while we're at it?"

By that time, Ardeth had decided that he had pushed Connelly about as far as he was willing to go. A shake of his head ended the list. "No, that should suffice."

"Gee, ya think?" Connelly glanced at Imhotep again. "Who'da thought that beneath that tough guy exterior lurked such a scholarly sort, huh?" Laughing at the priest's quick frown, Connelly headed for the door. "Give me a couple of days, Bay, and have our friend here hang tight. I'll see what I can do—and I'll see if Hassan can help me pull a few strings. I'll be in touch."

Quietly, Imhotep spoke up from across the room. He had followed enough of the conversation—with its confusing assortment of unfamiliar terms—to realize that what Connelly was doing for him would be beyond repayment. "Thank you."

The words stopped Connelly in his tracks. Looking back, he stared wordlessly at the priest for a long moment, his usual bland expression replaced with one that was strangely intent. Almost, almost… A memory tickled his brain, but it was long ago, and far away, and nothing he could do managed to call it up from where it lay, dormant and forgotten. Shrugging, he gave up trying. The man had helped them, after all, and he seemed like a decent enough sort. So he had a shady past. Who didn't have something to hide?

Ardeth seemed to pick up on Connelly's thoughts, for he said quietly, "This is not a mistake you're making, Mr. Connelly. There is nothing to fear from him. I will stake my own life, my own reputation, on that."

Connelly looked at Ardeth, the look on his face almost comical in its amazement. "Oh, that's rich, Bay. One mystery man vouching for another. Priceless." Shaking his head, he once again headed for the door. "Like I said, I'll be in touch." He reached the doorway, hesitating. Finally, he simply couldn't resist the opening Ardeth had provided. Turning back, he wore a look of pure, guileless innocence.

"Oxford in England, huh?" He grinned at Imhotep, who returned the gesture with a small smile of his own. Turning the ingenuous grin back towards Ardeth, Connelly remarked, "Pretty good, for someone who doesn't speak a word of English."

Too late, Ardeth realized his mistake. Cursing inwardly, he opened his mouth, searching for the words to rectify his error. A complacent gleam in his eye, Connelly waved him off, happy simply to have scored a point, however late, in this little game. "Don't worry about it, Bay—you were right. We do owe him something." With another grin, he turned to Imhotep. "Just a little piece of advice, big guy—better hire a language coach, pronto. But wait—that would be your girlfriend, right?" With a wink, Connelly headed out the door. "Bet those lessons will be fun…"

His laughter echoed down the hallway for several minutes before it faded away into the everyday sounds of the busy hospital. With a small smile, Ardeth turned to face Imhotep.

"Welcome to the twenty-first century, my friend."

---

Bernstein saw Matt Connelly in the hallway, nodding to him agreeably as they neared each other. Bernstein liked the young American, even if he had lied about his background when he'd first come to Ahm Shere. He could understand that—Bernstein himself had been known to twist facts and bend the truth when a situation warranted. He had had a slightly harder time forgiving Connelly for not filling him in on the situation before it had reached a head, though—it was because of that that he and Eliana and everyone else had been put in danger. But Eliana was fine now, and the pyramid was intact, and the Sudanese government had never been more agreeable about meeting Bernstein's scientific demands. Things were definitely going in the right direction, and above all else, John Bernstein was a practical man. All things considered, he was willing to let bygones be bygones.

"Hello, Matt," he called out as their paths crossed, and the young American paused, bobbing his head in a quick nod.

"Hiya, Professor," he said.

"What brings you here?" inquired the older man, noticing Connelly's glance towards the closed door to Eliana's room.

"Well," said Connelly, "I was here to get a statement from your daughter, but I've suddenly gotten a little surprise assignment." He grimaced, remembering the conversation he'd just had. "And it might be a little tricky—embassy stuff, you know?"

Bernstein made a wry face in return. "I feel for you, Matt. There's nothing worse than a bureaucrat who knows you need him. They're like sharks smelling blood."

"You got that right, Professor," the younger man agreed, with a ready laugh. "If it's okay with you, I'll postpone talking to Eliana until after this is taken care of…"

"Not a problem, Matt," agreed Bernstein. "We'll be at the Grand Holiday Villa for at least a week. Come by anytime. I'm sure Ellie would be happy to talk with you there."

"Thanks, sir," Connelly said with a wave, as he headed down the hallway. "I'll talk to you later then, and give Eliana my best. We're all glad that she's come through this as well as she has."

"I'll do that, son."

Bernstein watched as Connelly made his way down the hallway, turning left at the first intersecting hallway and heading for the entrance wing. With a sigh, he turned towards the door to Eliana's room, but stopped when he saw Ardeth Bay and Imhotep coming towards him down the hallway from the lounge. Watching as they approached, he was struck by the notion that all three of these men—Connelly, Ardeth and Imhotep—had wandered uninvited onto his site, and each, in their own way, had managed to change the course of events at Ahm Shere significantly. Not one of them had admitted to knowing the others previously, but it was amazing how they'd all three managed to find each other and form their own odd little group. Quite possibly, it had happened that way because they were all strangers to the dig. It was possible that they had felt like outsiders and misfits, and had banded together out of mutual loneliness. But Bernstein had a gut feeling that wasn't quite the situation, and he'd learned, through his many years in this business, to trust his gut.

"Hello, you two," he said, as they neared. "A good day, eh? Ellie's been waiting for this moment for weeks—almost from the moment she woke up here."

Ardeth smiled and agreed; Imhotep's only response was a slight upward twitch of his lips. It was a wan smile, and it seemed to Bernstein that he should be happier than that on the day Eliana was supposed to come home. Bernstein watched him, wishing not for the first time that Eliana could have chosen someone else—this Egyptian was too enigmatic, too aloof, for Bernstein's tastes.

It wasn't that Bernstein didn't trust him, exactly. Imhotep seemed to be a decent enough person—he pulled his own weight at the site, he was polite, if not friendly, with the other workers, and there was no question about his feelings for Eliana. But there was just too much about him that Bernstein didn't know. And Imhotep wasn't exactly offering up his secrets, whatever they were, willingly. He was a mystery, and unlike an archaeological dig, where a little mystery was a good thing, making everything more interesting and exciting, Bernstein didn't much like mystery in the man his daughter, for better or worse, seemed to have fallen in love with.

But that was Eliana's choice, and he'd have to live with it, he supposed. With a sigh, he faced the Egyptian man. "You've talked to Ellie, I suppose? She's ready to come home? Are the papers signed?"

Imhotep nodded. "They are, and she is quite ready."

"Good, then. I came up to see if she needed anything, and then I'll be heading down to finish up the insurance paperwork and have the car brought around." He headed for the door to her room, but Imhotep stepped forward, placing a restraining hand on his arm.

"If you could give me a moment, Professor Bernstein," the priest requested, his voice low and, for him, uncharacteristically anxious, "I would like to speak with you." He shot Ardeth a look. "Privately."

"What is it?" Bernstein was instantly worried. "Ellie? She's all right, still? Nothing has happened?"

Imhotep was quick to reassure. "No. No—Eliana is fine. I am sorry—I should have been more clear…"

"If it is permissible, I will go and say my goodbyes to Eliana while you two talk." Ardeth had his hand on the door, but waited for both of them to nod before he entered the room. "Enjoy your conversation, gentlemen."

Enjoyment would be hard to come by. Alone now, silence descended between the two of them, thick and uncomfortable. Bernstein looked at Imhotep questioningly, waiting for the other man to speak. Imhotep, his normal poise gone, was edgy and ill at ease, seemingly at a loss for words.

Finally, Bernstein couldn't stand the Egyptian man's discomfort any longer. He spread his hands in a questioning gesture. "Well, Imhotep? Here we are. What is it you wanted to talk about?"

Imhotep opened his mouth, started to say something, then closed it again. With a sigh, he turned away from Bernstein, praying to all the gods he knew that they would help him find the right words. So much depended upon the outcome of this conversation.

Although John Bernstein was a hard man, an impatient man, he was not a cruel one. It was clear that Imhotep was under a great deal of strain, and to a certain extent, his heart went out to the younger man. He knew, after all, how much Imhotep loved his daughter. He had scarcely left her side during the last few weeks. In the first days after her arrival here, Imhotep had been with her nearly every minute of every day. Quietly, he moved behind him, placing a hand on the Egyptian's shoulder.

"It can't be that bad, Imhotep. What is it?"

With a visible effort, Imhotep straightened and squared his shoulders, turning around to look straight into Bernstein's eyes. There was no easy way to do this. The best approach, Imhotep knew, was straightforward directness.

"I would like to ask your daughter to be my wife, Professor."

The sentence, though simple, hit Bernstein like a blow to the stomach. It had come this far, then? He guessed that it should have come as no real surprise—he already knew how much Eliana loved the man. But marriage? She had only known him for a week or so, hadn't she?

"This is a bit sudden, isn't it?" Bernstein choked out. "You two just met not that long ago."

Imhotep could have laughed at that, but held back his mirth. How could he explain in any satisfactory manner that he and Eliana had known each other for centuries; that their souls had endured hell itself to be together? There was no way—not to someone who didn't know the whole of the story. And if Bernstein were ever to know the whole of it, it would be Eliana's decision to tell him. To anyone not already intimately acquainted with the tale, it sounded like the ravings of a madman.

"Our paths have just recently crossed in this lifetime, Professor, but I feel as though I have always known Eliana. And always loved her." There. Not quite a lie, but not quite the whole of it, either.

"I know you two have feelings for each other," Bernstein allowed. "But marriage? Isn't it a bit soon?"

Imhotep sighed, and stared down at his hands, clasped loosely in front of him. Soon? A courtship of three thousand years? Still, her father had no way of knowing how very long they'd waited. "No amount of time will change my feelings for your daughter, Professor. I love her. I feel as though I have always loved her. I believe she feels the same." He looked up, meeting the older man's eyes again. "Even so, I will not ask for her hand unless we have your blessing."

Bernstein seemed a bit taken aback by Imhotep's directness, as well as his stubborn adherence to tradition. Since when did this generation bother to so tenaciously seek their parents' approval for their decisions? His estimation of Imhotep climbed a notch.

"Imhotep, if Eliana agrees to marry you, I will not stand in your way," he said, his voice almost gentle. He could see how very much this conversation was costing Imhotep—he knew enough about the man by now to know that he was proud, and confident, and a leader. To submit to the will of another would not come easily to Imhotep, not even in these circumstances. Especially not in these circumstances. "You haven't even mentioned it to her?"

"I have not," said Imhotep. He seemed perplexed as to why this should come as such a surprise to Bernstein. Perhaps this was not the way marriages were arranged any more. Still, it was the only way he knew, and it seemed to him the correct way to go about things. "It would not be fitting, until my family and hers had settled on an appropriate bride-price."

"Bride price?" Bernstein nearly choked. "Bride price? Good lord, Imhotep—what are you talking about? I'm not about to take any money from you for my daughter…"

With a weak smile, Imhotep interrupted the flow of words. "That is perhaps just as well, seeing as I have none. Still, the custom remains. If I had family, which I do not, they would be required to meet with Eliana's family—you—and settle on a bride price. Only then, once the tradition was observed, would it be appropriate for me to ask Eliana to be my wife."

"Good lord," Bernstein repeated, completely flummoxed. "You really do come from a different culture, don't you? Things aren't even done this way in modern-day Egypt anymore."

"The old ways are not necessarily that archaic," the priest countered. "There is much to be said for adhering to tradition and custom."

"I suppose you're right, at that," said Bernstein, lifting a hand to weakly rub at his aching temple. "So. You've just told me that you want to marry my daughter. You've also just told me that you have no family and are basically penniless." Steely blue eyes bored into Imhotep's. "If I'm going to do this the traditional way, I should object to that, shouldn't I?"

Indeed he should. Imhotep had always known that this would be the difficult part—convincing Bernstein that he was fit to marry Eliana. It was true he had nothing now, but…

"Yes." How could he give the man anything less than an honest answer? "If Eliana were my daughter, I would hesitate as well. There is no reason—save for the fact that Eliana and I love each other—for you to agree to this union, and almost every reason under the sun for you not to." He made no excuses, told no lies. If Bernstein were to agree to this, he would do so knowing the facts. "I have no family, no home, no past to speak of. Still, I will tell you that should you agree to this marriage, I will spend my lifetime making your daughter happy, providing for her, caring for her, loving her." He hurried on, not wanting Bernstein to interrupt him. "It is true that I have no fortune—none at all. Any wealth that I once had is gone—has been gone for ages. But I am a resourceful man, and I have no doubt that I will find a way to provide for Eliana—to provide for us both. And wealth is not the only currency of value in this life—if love is considered, Eliana will be wealthy beyond measure."

Bernstein said nothing, staring deeply into the dark mystery of the Egyptian man's eyes. That there were secrets there, he was sure. But did that matter so very much, after all? He considered himself to be a fair judge of character, and he was convinced that Imhotep spoke the truth when he said that he loved Eliana with all his heart. And wasn't the younger man absolutely right when he said that love was the most important thing? The rest would come in time, and they were both young, and… And hell, Bernstein himself remembered only too well what it was like to be young, and piss-poor, and wanting only to have a chance…

"I can't ask for much more than that, then, can I?" Bernstein conceded, his expression softening into one of acceptance. "Go ahead, ask her." He very nearly broke into a grin at the disbelieving expression that crossed Imhotep's face. Then, a moment later, he did grin. "You have my blessing, Imhotep. Ask away." He clapped a welcoming hand on the priest's shoulder. "I'm pretty sure what you'll get for an answer. Welcome to the family."

Disbelief warred with relief on Imhotep's face, then abruptly lost the battle. His mouth curved into the first genuine smile he'd worn since the conversation had begun. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me, Imhotep. Just make my daughter happy."

"It will be my life's work, Professor."

Bernstein laughed. "Keeping their wives happy takes up the greater part of most men's time, son—don't you know that?" Seeing the confused look that crossed the other man's lean features, Bernstein's laugh trailed off. "Maybe you don't. Well, you seem pretty smart—you'll pick it up pretty fast, I'd imagine."

"Professor Bernstein, I promise you—Eliana will be happy."

"I believe you, son." Bernstein considered for a moment, weighing his option, choosing his words carefully. "Have you thought about what you'll do in the meantime? Before you get your feet on the ground, I mean?"

Before he could do anything, Imhotep needed the documentation that Connelly was providing. Without it, he was beginning to understand that he would have a difficult time doing anything. With it, doors would begin to crack open. But for now? Imhotep shook his head. "I had not thought of anything past seeing Eliana fully recovered."

"I thought as much," confirmed the older man. "Look—if you'd like to stay, and help out with the dig, you're welcome to. Ellie and I will be staying in Khartoum for a week or so, but then we'll both be going back to Ahm Shere. I know that working a dig isn't the most glamorous occupation in the world, but it'll give you a place to live and an honest wage until you figure out what it is you want…"

"You would do this?" Imhotep asked.

"Look here, son." Bernstein's voice was gruff, but underlying its stern tone was a measure of respect and growing affection for this man who loved his daughter. "I don't know where, exactly, you come from. Hell," he stopped, as if realizing for the first time how little he actually did know about the Egyptian man, "I don't even know your last name…"

"Last name?" Imhotep seemed perplexed, and Bernstein realized that the man had no idea what he meant.

"Surname? Family name? You know—I'm John Bernstein? Matt Connelly? Ardeth Bay?" He watched as realization stole over Imhotep's features.

"I am afraid that this is another cultural difference between our two worlds," said the priest, not in apology, but by way of explanation. "I am Imhotep. That is all. If there was ever another name by which I was known, I cannot remember, and do not know."

Bernstein waved his hand at him, not even wanting to get into this latest revelation. Sometime he and his son-in-law-to-be were going to have to sit down and have a long talk about this remote tribal culture he sprang from. No last name? But for now… "Imhotep's a fine name, son. Don't worry about it. As I was saying—I don't know where you come from, but I'm an American. There, we judge a man by his actions, by his character, not by his pedigree. Well, at least we say we do. You are what you make of yourself—and that depends on how smart you are, how capable, how ambitious, how hard-working." He measured Imhotep in a glance. "I don't see you lacking in any of those qualities. You'll do fine. And if working at the dig for a while helps you out, I'm happy to have you there. Besides—Eliana tells me that you know quite a bit about the Scorpion King legends. You never know where that information will come in handy." He patted Imhotep's upper arm once more, giving him a quick smile of reassurance. "Things will work out."

Imhotep stared at Eliana's father, unable to believe the other man's generosity, his willingness to help a virtual stranger. That he would be this gracious, under the circumstances, astonished the priest—astonished him and humbled him. He had never dared hope, not in all the long years that he'd been imprisoned by the Hom Dai, cursed and reviled by all, that fate could so thoroughly restore what he'd lost—his name, his honor, his love, his family. John Bernstein was a man he found himself respecting—and with the respect came a curious affection. Imhotep himself, though he'd lived as a man for slightly less than two score years, was ancient, if one counted the years spent victim to the curse. Yet he found himself beginning to think of Eliana's father as his own—or at the very least, as someone he could respect and grow to care for in that way. What a long road he'd traveled, just to find himself starting over once more…

And what a blessing it was to be able to do so.

"Thank you." How many times had he said that already this day? How many more times would he find himself saying it in the days to come? Again, Imhotep felt humbled by the surprising goodness of the people around him. Little by little, the hard shell of cynicism that had surrounded him was falling away, as he slowly rejoined the world that had reviled and rejected him—the same world that he had reviled and rejected, the same world that he had railed at and cursed during the long years of his torment. But today he found himself in a new world—a new time, a new place, a new beginning. Step by step, Imhotep worked his way back into the fragile but indomitable circle of humanity's embrace, and realized just how much he had mourned its loss. Finally, after a journey of thirty-three centuries, he had come full circle, back to familiar shores, back to life, back to humanity.

Finally, he had come home.

---

The door opened quietly, only the whispering hiss of its hinges betraying the intruder. Eliana looked up from where she lay on the bed, fully dressed now, but resting, waiting to go, and expecting to see Callie, or Imhotep, or her father, but not the Med Jai. And certainly not the Med Jai alone. She had not seen him since the last day in the pyramid, since their last conversation, not since… Not since she had remembered, not since her experience with the god, not since… Not since she had become the woman he despised above all others.

"Ardeth." Her throat closed over the syllables of his name, and irrational fear, based on her newly recovered memories of Anck-su-namun's life drained the warmth from her skin and the color from her face.

He saw the change in her demeanor towards him immediately. Whereas before, Eliana had been open, gracious, for the most part accepting him willingly as a companion and a friend, this new woman was withdrawn, nervous—even afraid. He could see it in her eyes, hear it in her voice, sense it in the wary way she regarded him—a hunted animal watching the predator as it closed for the kill. He knew, as well, the reason for her fear. In the days since her accident, he had spoken with Imhotep at length about all that had occurred, all that had transpired, and he well knew that Eliana carried Anck-su-namun within her once more—Anck-su-namun and Meela and all the rest. He knew that she remembered those lives, remembered her past, remembered the role that he and his ancestors had played in the tragic, centuries-long saga. He knew that whereas before, she had rejected Anck-su-namun, rejected Meela, had once even rejected the notion of past lives, she acknowledged them now—if not with eagerness, then at least with acceptance. He knew, and he didn't care. Just as the not-long-past chain of events had forged an unlikely, but nonetheless unshakeable bond between the two men—the Creature and the Med Jai, the executioner and the condemned—the allegiance he felt towards the woman who was before him now was just as unwavering. It didn't matter who she was, who she would be, or who she had been. She was Eliana, and Eliana had once been—and would always remain—his friend.

He simply needed to convince her of that.

After what seemed like hours, but had surely been just a moment or two, he nodded, acknowledging her. "Eliana." He moved forward a pace or two, his hands at his sides, attempting to appear as non-threatening as possible. He could see the tension in her hands as she gripped the threadbare blanket that lay beside her, the knuckles white and the fingers clenched into fists around handfuls of fabric. A sigh escaped him, and he stopped where he stood, watching her with a hint of sadness seeping into his eyes. "You are well?"

She nodded, silent, watching as he pulled a chair over to the bedside and sat beside her. He leaned back, saying nothing, simply watching her with a gentle, steady regard that he hoped was reassuring. The wariness was still in her eyes, though, and the tension was still a palpable, living thing, evident in the stiffness of her posture, the tightness of her mouth, the way she clenched and unclenched her hands. He couldn't think of anything to say, so he just sat there, hoping that some benevolent deity would place the right words in his mouth, conjure up for him a way to correct this unease between them. But no kindhearted being interceded, and silence filled the room, thick with the encumbrance of the past, heavy with the weight of words unspoken.

Eliana glanced at Ardeth, then dropped her eyes and began picking nervously at the blanket once more. The Med Jai watched her for a time, then sighed again, and with a gesture curiously reminiscent of Imhotep's, reached out and stilled her hand. Her eyes jumped to his at the contact, and they bore the look of a rabbit just caught in a hunter's snare.

"Eliana," he said, the musical cadence of his softly accented voice bringing with it the sound of the desert, the feel of the sunlit sands of Egypt. "There is no need to be fearful or ill at ease. No matter the rest, no matter that you have recovered your memories, remembered your life as Anck-su-namun. The past is history, dead and buried, and shall remain so. The curse is finished, entombed under the dust of centuries. You have nothing more to fear from the past—or from the Med Jai."

"So you say, Ardeth," she hedged, but he could see the doubt in the clear green of her eyes. She had not pulled her hand from his, though, and he took that as a hopeful sign. Perhaps the Eliana who had once called him friend was still there, somewhere, and she—if not the others—could be convinced to forgive him for the part he had played in her misery, hers and Imhotep's, and call him friend once more.

He watched as some of the fear faded from her eyes, replaced in part by simple distrust. She continued, her voice growing stronger, the distrust seeming to transform to anger as she spoke. "So you say. But you are only one of the Med Jai. Can you speak for them all? Perhaps I have no need to fear you, but do I—do we—truly have nothing to fear from them?"

"You do not." The answer was swift, certain, and carried not just a trace of obdurate honor, and a hint of wounded pride. Above all, Ardeth was a Med Jai, and the Med Jai, if not infallible, were a people of unyielding principle. "I am a leader among my people, Eliana. If I tell them that the Creature is no more—as he surely is not—then my word will not be questioned. Only a few among us—the tribal leaders, the elders—will know the truth, the whole of the story. They will hear it from me, and they will believe."

"You sound very certain of that, Ardeth," she allowed, but still the hesitation was there.

"As should you be, Eliana," he reinforced. "You are my friend." The statement was unequivocal, a plain fact. "Though it sounds unbelievable to my own ears, Imhotep himself has become my friend. He is not the Creature of legend that the curse once made him. He is a man—no more, no less—and has proven himself to be a man of honor. A man," he added, "who I would be proud to call brother."

Her eyebrows twitched upwards in disbelief, prompting Ardeth to add another irrefutable fact to his argument. "Besides that, Eliana, he has received absolution from Amun-Re himself. And who are the Med Jai," he asked, a self-mocking grimace curving his lips downward, "to question the will of a god?"

"You really think you can convince them to leave us in peace?" she questioned, still not daring to believe that the dream was within their grasp. But even so, her tone had softened considerably, and Ardeth could see bits and pieces of the woman she had been seeping through, warming the chilly atmosphere of the room. Warming him.

"They will believe," he promised, "and will act according to those beliefs." He saw the hope begin to shine in her eyes, and pressed his advantage. "You will be safe, Eliana." The words were spoken softly, a caring reassurance, reinforced by the gentle squeeze he gave her hand. "You will both be safe. On this, you have my word."

She did not question him further, and silence descended once more. Aware that there was still a residual awkwardness between them, Ardeth steered the conversation to safer, more neutral territory. "You are feeling well?" he asked. "Strong enough to leave? You seem eager to be released from here."

"You can't imagine how relieved," she laughed, and with the soft, breathy sound, more of the old Eliana returned, the small smile that remained on her lips making her look more like the woman he'd first met, all those weeks ago. So much had happened since then—the time could be measured easily in days, but seemed more like lifetimes. In some ways, he supposed, it was lifetimes.

"And you are fully recovered?" he pressed, still somewhat worried for her. True, she'd been hospitalized for weeks, and all the doctors, including Callie, who'd been inexplicably more protective of Eliana than any of the rest, had felt she was ready to be discharged, but her injuries had been so severe… "We thought we'd lost you, you know."

She looked at him, then, really looked at him, and he felt the last of the barriers between them fall away, and Eliana emerged completely, fully, at last. The rest were still there, he knew, and would remain so, but she was there with him once more. Eliana. His friend. A small twinge of…something…twisted his heart, and he resolutely stilled it. There was no place for that. Not anymore.

"I thought I'd lost me, too." It was a softly worded statement, a short phrase that alluded to much, much more. She was referring to more than just the possibility of losing her life, Ardeth knew. From what Imhotep had told him, Eliana's journey, in the time after her injury, had been a long one—long and confusing and heart-wrenching. She had been forced to confront what she most feared, most despised, and embrace it; accept it as part of herself. She very nearly had lost herself. But she had endured, and triumphed, and emerged stronger from the journey. She was whole now, complete in a way that she had never been before. Imhotep had tried to explain it, and Ardeth had thought that he understood. But in the end, how could anyone but the person so transformed ever hope to truly understand the transformation?

She smiled, and a small, tentative flicker of humor brought the emerald fire sparkling back to life in her eyes. "I'm fine, Ardeth," she assured him, one hand instinctively going to her upper abdomen, pressing gingerly against the one remaining bandage, hidden beneath the thin fabric of her shirt. "I'm going to have a pretty nasty scar to show for it, but I'm fine."

His eyes followed the movement of her hand, knowing that the physical scar she bore from this would not be the only lasting memory she'd have of Ahm Shere. Everyone, it seemed, had collected a scar or two on this odyssey. And some scars had been healed, as well. In the end, he supposed, it balanced, somehow.

"We all have scars, Eliana," he said, his voice deep and quiet, his dark brown eyes reflecting a calm wisdom far older than his years. "Some are on the outside, visible to the world; others are hidden deep within, unknown to any save ourselves. Do not be ashamed of your scars, Eliana. They are a badge—a testament to the fact that you have lived, and live still—a record of where you have been, a proof of where you are now, and a reminder of where you still must go."

She stared at him, deep into his eyes, so deep that he felt she must surely see into his soul, see his own scars, external and internal. Her regard was steady, solemn, endless; laced through with the knowledge of not just one lifetime, but many.

"And you, Ardeth?" she asked, finally breaking the silence. "What do your scars remind you of?"

He felt a tiny stab of pain at her words, a shadowy twinge of soreness from a nearly healed wound that every once in a while still troubled him. The ache was fading, though, the wound steadily mending itself, growing less and less troublesome each time he saw Imhotep and Eliana together. As they should be, he added. The haunting question of what could have been was gradually giving way to a surety that indeed, fate's tapestry was a plan crafted by divine hands, not mortal ones. What should be; would be. A tiny part of him, though, would always feel something special, something extraordinary, for this woman.

"They remind me," he finally answered her, "that life is a beautiful, mysterious, and utterly precious gift, and should be lived to the fullest and treasured with every breath, every heartbeat. Life, love, friendship… What greater gifts than these can any man hope to receive?"

A single tear formed in her eyes at his words, welling up and making the green shine like a living gemstone. "Those are beautiful words, Ardeth." She wiped at her eyes with a corner of the blanket, then reached out herself and enfolded his hand in both of hers. "I'm sorry for doubting you—for doubting your word. I should have known better. I should have trusted you, trusted your honor, your decency. You are a remarkable, beautiful person, and you will always be my friend—trusted and treasured beyond words."

Words failed him in the swell of emotion her words wrought, and he could only incline his head in a brief bow, accepting the priceless gift of her friendship and trust. It was all the more precious for the fact that it was undeserved, all the more treasured for its being given freely, without reserve. No words he could find, or speak, would do it justice.

For a time, then, neither of them spoke; everything seemed already to have been said—additional words would only be redundant.

---

Connelly muttered to himself as he waited for the elevator to arrive, thinking about the hoops he'd have to jump through to try to arrange for the paperwork and documentation he'd all but promised to procure for Imhotep. Oxford, he snorted to himself. Yeah right. And I graduated from MIT with a degree in nuclear engineering, too. Bullshit. But still, the guy did know his ancient history, and all that healing stuff did sound right, even though he seemed to have missed the extinction of one of his favorite herbs. And really, if they guy wanted paperwork to prove that he was some sort of academic egghead, what was it to Connelly? After all, it wasn't like he was asking for state secrets, or something. What the hell, he thought. Oxford it is.

Someone struck him from behind. Or rather, someone ran into him from behind. He heard the sound of files hitting the ground and papers erupting from them. In slow motion, he turned, knowing who he'd find there before his eyes confirmed it. Callie.

"Hey, I was just coming to look for you," he informed her, his eyes sparkling with amusement to see her so flustered. "But thanks for bumping into me—you saved me the time to hunt you down."

"Mr. Connelly…" she started, red-faced with embarrassment as she bent to pick up the maelstrom of flying paperwork. Quickly, Matt bent to help her.

"It's Matt, remember?" he corrected, his large hands straightening and organizing handfuls of the hopelessly mixed up forms and memos and charts. "It hasn't been that long, Doc. Or is being in civilization again making you go all formal on me?"

"Matt," she stuttered. "I'm really not this clumsy." She glared at his politely sarcastic smile, the disbelief manifest in his slightly raised eyebrow. "Really. I'm not. I don't know why it is, but you seem to bring it out in me for some reason."

"Yeah, you could be right, Doc." He capitulated, looking properly put in his place. Only the remaining twinkle in his eye gave his true feelings away. His next words exposed them utterly. "I just have that affect on women. They all tell me that." He laughed at her annoyance, quickly helping her to retrieve the rest of the mess littering the hallway, then taking her arm and pulling her to her feet. "Seriously, Doc. I was coming to look for you."

The annoyance faded from her face, but the bright flush remained. Connelly took that as a good sign. He liked keeping her guessing, enjoyed keeping her slightly off balance. It boded well for his future plans. If he could figure out what, exactly, those future plans for her—for them—were, he thought wryly, that would be a bonus. All he knew was that he couldn't just walk away from her—there was something special, something unique, growing between them. It had been there right from the start, and it had only grown stronger during the time he'd spent at Ahm Shere. He could feel it, he'd swear that she could, too, and he'd be a fool to leave without at least exploring the possibilities.

"You were?" Callie seldom wore glasses, not needing them for anything but lengthy reading, but that what she'd been doing since leaving Eliana, and with a quick shove, she pushed them up more firmly. They gave her an air of bookish academia, sitting between her eyes and the rest of the world like a transparent shield, and Connelly decided he liked the challenge that presented. "Why?" She sounded genuinely astonished, and Connelly wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not. Surprises were great, and all, but he didn't think he was too pleased by the idea that she found it so amazing that he'd actually go out of his way to look for her.

"Just to make you blush like this, Doc," he teased her, but when the flush turned from embarrassment to anger, he sobered immediately, reaching out and holding her back when she would have twisted away. "I'm sorry, Callie. I'm a jerk, okay? I came to see you because…"

She refused to make this easy for him, and stood there, her lips compressed in annoyance. She barely managed to keep from tapping her foot in impatience. Really—she had better things to do than stand around in this hallway, listening to Matt Connelly and his never-ending stream of wise cracking. She did. Truly. When she realized that she was trying to sell herself on the idea, she stopped the mental conversation, skewering him with a glare. "Because why, Mr. Connelly?"

"Matt, please, okay?" He pleaded, looking like he might fling himself to his knees at any moment, and beg her to call him by his given name. He reached out, taking her hand in his, holding it lightly, so that she could pull it away at any time, if she wanted. She didn't. For some reason, she liked the feel of his fingers wrapped around hers, all big and warm and sturdy. She shivered, and he was instantly solicitous. "You cold, Doc?"

With a shake of her head, she dismissed his concern, and pulled her hand away at the same time. "No. I'm fine. But Matt," she said, emphasizing the name, "what did you want to see me for?"

"I…" he began, but stopped, realizing all of a sudden that he wasn't exactly sure why he'd been so intent upon finding her. It was just that he couldn't seem to walk away without seeing her one more time, and there was no way in hell he could explain that without sounding like a third-rate romance novel. He settled for something just short of it. "Didn't want to be rude, you know. I was here; I figured you were, too, and since we sorta got to be friends out in the jungle and all…" He gulped, wondering if he could possibly manage to babble on any longer. "Well, I just came by to say hello, I guess, since I was here seeing getting a statement from Eliana…"

"I see," Callie said in reply, and the hint of disappointment in her voice caught his attention. Her next words, though, shot him down abruptly. "Well, hello, then…and goodbye. I've got charts to do." She spun on her heel, heading for the hallway.

He was after her in seconds, following at her heels like a stray dog begging for a handout. "Okay, Doc, I give up." Outpacing her, he spun around in front of her, blocking her path with his bulk. She stopped with a glare, holding the papers to her chest like a shield. He held out both hands, palms up, in a gesture of silent entreaty.

"Oh, grow up, Matt," she snapped, pushing the glasses up on her nose once more. "If you have something to say, just say it."

He opened his mouth, closing it with a snap when he realized he had no clue what to say to her. When it fell open again, she responded with a tart, "Is this your fish imitation, or do you truly have something to say to me?"

"Geezus, Callie—give a guy a break, will ya?" He ran his hand through his hair, rumpling it into further disarray. "Okay—I wanted to find you, because…because I just wanted to see you again, okay?"

For the first time, a genuine smile started to bloom on her lips, but she held it back with deliberate sternness. "Why?"

"Why?" he parroted, wondering if at any moment his brain would begin to dribble out his ears, considering it had apparently turned into mush. "Well…"

Her foot tapped out a staccato rhythm on the floor, as she enjoyed his discomfort.

"Because…" he swallowed hard, trying to decide between humor and truth. For once, truth came out on top. "Because it feels like we have unfinished business between us, that's why, Doc." His expression completely serious now, he took her hand in his again. To hell with it. If he ended up sounding like bad pulp fiction, screw it. That's what he'd sound like. "Because when I'm with you, I start to think that there's more to life than chasing bad guys around the globe and cracking stupid jokes just to keep myself sane. Because you make me feel like I'm twelve years old with my first crush on a girl way too pretty and way too smart to ever look twice at a wise-ass guy like me. Because maybe I want to see if that feeling goes away, or if there's a way to make it last."

By the time he was finished, her already dark skin had flushed to an even duskier shade, and her eyes were wide open, misted over, and gleaming with some emotion halfway between happy bewilderment and sheer terror. Mouth working, she began to stutter out a reply, but to her amazement, and his own, Connelly stopped the words with a quick kiss. It wasn't much more than a peck on the lips, but the tingling aftershock as their mouths parted stayed with them both. That innocent kiss held a promise of much more, and they both knew it. It was only a question of what either of them would let it become. And Matt knew what he wanted it to turn into. He had thrown the ball squarely into her court. It was up to her, now, whether or not she'd stay in the game. He hoped like hell that she would.

"Matt," she began, then stopped, searching his eyes with something akin to desperation. "I don't know what to say to that…"

"Don't think about it too much, Doc," he suggested. "Just say the first thing that comes to your mind, okay?" He tried to ignore the fact that he sounded like he was pleading with her. "Are you glad to see me again?"

Her blush deepened, and she dropped her eyes from his. An experimental tug told her that he held her hand more tightly than before, and for now, she let it stay where it was. She didn't really want to break the contact, anyway. "Yes. Yes, I guess I am glad to see you." His quick grin of triumph was quickly dashed by her next words. "I must be a glutton for punishment."

At the crestfallen look on his face, she repented quickly. "Matt, I'm just kidding. Really. I am glad to see you." He had put himself on the line, she realized. Maybe she needed to join him there, at least a little bit. "I missed you, actually."

Again, he remained serious. "I missed you, too, Doc." Without realizing it, his thumb had begun to rub little circles over the back of her hand, feather light, teasing, making her heart race and sending her pulse skyrocketing. "So…will you have dinner with me some night? Since we're both in Khartoum for a while?"

Her face abruptly fell. "Oh," she said, her voice flat, dejected. "Oh. Matt, I'm sorry. I'm not going to be in Khartoum for long. I'll be leaving in two days."

"Well, how about tonight then—I'll buy you dinner, and we can maybe get together again when you're back. I'll be here for a week or so, yet…"

She shook her head, pulling her hand away from his with a quick jerk. "No, Matt—you misunderstood me. I'm not coming back. I've taken a new job—with Robillard and his team, actually. Studying the virus, and the antibodies in the serum. It's incredibly exciting work—cutting edge stuff, the likes of which no one's seen before. If we found a cure for this virus, maybe we can get close to curing its offspring, you know?" Her voice trailed off, as she realized that her excitement over the medical breakthrough didn't really matter right now. It was thrilling stuff, but… The excitement drained out of her voice, leaving it flat and brittle. "The job is in Geneva, Matt. I'll be relocating there before the end of this week. With Doug fully recovered, and Eliana discharged, it seemed like there was no reason for me to stay here…"

His heart felt like it had turned to lead. "Oh." He dropped her hand, shoving his hands deep into his pockets, half turning away from her. "Well, congratulations, then, I guess, and good luck." A small smile hid his shock at the news. "Robillard, huh? You really are a glutton for punishment."

Callie watched as he valiantly made an attempt to cover his disappointment, and found herself fighting off the urge to throw herself into his arms and beg him to kiss her until she had forgotten all about viruses and serum and research and… And she had little doubt that he'd be more than capable of accomplishing that goal. Tentatively, she reached out a hand, touching his arm and staring up at him. "We could still have dinner tonight, Matt. That is, if you still want to…"

His eyes shot to hers. Was is just his imagination, or did she sound as though she was just as disappointed as he that they'd have so little time to really get to know each other? Gazing deep into the dark, rich brown of her eyes, he realized that there were some moments in life when you just had to say "What the hell," and do what felt right at the time. In his next thought, he found himself calculating just how many vacation days he had coming to him, and just exactly how much time it might take him to convince her that Geneva, Switzerland was the one place in the world he'd been waiting his whole life to see. He'd give himself a fair shot at the last bit—he could be a pretty convincing guy, when he wanted to be, and when the situation warranted. And as for the time off—hell, he never took any time off—he'd probably be able to play American Tourist in Switzerland for a month, maybe more. And his boss back at headquarters had better not give him any grief about it—he'd worked his ass off for them for years. The time was his, and he had it coming. And there were still a couple of days to spend in Khartoum. He could clear up Imhotep's documentation in that amount of time—especially with Hassan helping him. It could be done; and by god, he was going to do it.

Suddenly, things didn't look so bad after all.

Callie saw the smile begin to grow on his face, saw the mischievous twinkle start to crawl back into his eyes, and she tipped her head to one side, giving him a puzzled smile of her own. "You like that idea, then? Dinner tonight?"

With a wicked grin, he leaned closer, one finger reaching out to straighten her slipping spectacles once more. "It's a great idea, Doc. Truly inspired. We'll go out, have dinner, make a toast to the future."

Her eyes brightened. "A celebration, then?"

"You got it, sweetheart. A real celebration. You've got this new job, I'm wrapping this one up, and who knows what the future holds? We may as well ring it in together." As he spoke, he tucked her hand into the curve of his arm, and turned her so that they were walking together down the hallway. "That work for you?"

"I'd like that, Matt," she said, looking up into the sparkling blue of his eyes and wondering why she had ever thought he was rude, or annoying, or… Giving herself a mental shake, she stopped her woolgathering. "I'd like it a lot. To the future?"

"To the future, Doc, to a great future." Ahead, the bright morning sunlight shone through the hospital's wide entranceway. Matt signaled to the doors with a nod of his head. "It's a nice day out there right now, even. I know a little place down the street—it's a used bookstore, mostly, but there's a little café out back, and they serve a mean espresso. You got time for a quick break?"

She didn't, really—she had mountains of paperwork to complete before her shift ended, and she had errands to run, and a staff meeting at the clinic, and… She looked out the plate glass doors, to the street outside, where people bustled, and cars passed, and the bright daylight beckoned. Another glance, this time to the stack of papers clutched in her arms. And finally, she looked up into Connelly's face again, and something in his eyes stopped her cold. She blinked, trying to clear her vision, but the niggling sensation of déjà vu remained. It felt almost like she had been here before, or been somewhere, or… But regardless of the place, it had been this man who was with her, and there was nowhere else in the world she'd rather be. For a moment, Eliana's words came back to her…when fate hands you a chance, an opportunity—even a small one—you have to grab it with both hands, and hold tight, because you may not ever get a second chance…

Tugging him over to the nearby information desk, Callie deposited the small bushel of papers on the already cluttered credenza. "Keep these for me, will you?" she asked the started receptionist. Not waiting for the woman's reply, she turned back to Matt.

"Coffee sounds wonderful, Matt. Let's start that celebration a little early. What harm ever came from playing a little hooky, anyway?" Grinning at his look of surprise, she gave his arm a tiny squeeze and pointed him towards the door. "The paperwork will wait. Life won't. Lead the way, Mr. Connelly."

"Now you're talking, Doc," he crowed, heading for the doors, and the sunlight, and the future. "Now you're talking."

---

"Come on in, join the party." Eliana's voice called to them through the doorway, in response to her father's soft knock. Seeing him, she grinned and swung her feet over the edge of the bed. "You took your time getting up here, didn't you? Get me out of this place, Dad!"

"Glad to see you looking so well, honey," Bernstein told her, crossing to the bed and giving her a hug and a kiss on the cheek. "You'll look even better once we get you out of here and to somewhere more comfortable."

"That's what I keep telling everyone," she agreed, "but no one seems to be in any particular hurry to do anything about it."

"You know how these places are with their paperwork," sighed Bernstein, holding his hands out in a gesture of entreaty. "It's like signing your life away…"

"Don't worry about it, Dad." She waved off his excuse. "I just want to go, now, okay?"

"We're all set," Bernstein promised her, with a quick nod. "I'm going to head down and have the car brought around. Imhotep can help get you downstairs and to the front entrance, all right?" He didn't expect any objections, but… Her wide grin was answer enough. "You two take your time, all right? No rushing around, reopening wounds or anything. Abdul drives slow enough anyway—you'll probably beat us down there as it is."

"I must be going, too," Ardeth stated, rising from the chair in which he had been seated. He exchanged a glance with Imhotep, and a brief nod of understanding passed between them. He turned to Bernstein. "Professor Bernstein, I am sorry to say that I will not be returning to Ahm Shere. Duty calls, and I must return to my family in the north."

The archaeologist looked at Bay, not sure if he was saddened or relieved to see the last of this mysterious man. In a way, Ardeth's arrival at the dig seemed to have been the precursor to all of the other fantastic occurrences, and maybe with his departure, things would settle back into something akin to normalcy. But Bernstein had to admit that he liked the man, and he would miss having him around. There was something oddly reassuring about Bay's presence, and his contribution to Ahm Shere's rediscovery would be missed.

"Are you sure, Ardeth?" he finally asked, watching as the younger man walked towards him. "There's still room for you there, if you'd like to stay. We can always use an extra set of hands, and a good brain…"

"Thank you, sir." The Med Jai conveyed his appreciation for Bernstein's offer with a small bow. "But no. I am needed elsewhere, and I must go." He reached out, and the two men shook hands briefly. "I thank you, though, for your kindness, and for letting me be a part of your team for the short time I was able."

"Don't mention it, Bay," said Bernstein, his respect for the younger man showing in his smile and the warmth in his eyes. "And come back and visit us anytime, you hear?"

"One never knows what fate holds in store, Professor, and if the opportunity presents itself, I will most certainly see you again." Ardeth returned his smile, then glanced briefly towards Eliana and Imhotep. Bernstein caught the look, and realized that while he hadn't been especially observant about such things, the younger folk at the dig had obviously formed some strong attachments. Eliana was looking at Bay unhappily, obviously sad to see him go, and even Imhotep seemed to regret that the man was leaving. Odd, because Bernstein could have sworn the two of them had taken an instant dislike to each other, bristling and circling each other like animals guarding their territory. That distrust seemed to have subsided now, though—they must have come to terms with whatever was bothering them, and set it aside.

But whatever the reason, it looked like the three of them needed to say their own goodbyes, and while he wasn't a particularly diplomatic man, Bernstein did have sense enough to know when to leave. "I'm going to head down for the car now, Ellie," he said, already heading for the door. "You three say your goodbyes, and I'll see you downstairs." To Ardeth, he lifted a hand in farewell. "God speed, Ardeth, and stay safe. It's been a pleasure knowing you."

"The same to you, Professor," Ardeth returned, making a curious swirling salute with his dark-skinned hand. "May Allah guide you in your journeys, and keep you safe."

Bernstein left, closing the door behind him, leaving the three of them alone in the room.

---

Ardeth stared at the door for a long moment, then turned back towards them, his black desert garb swirling briefly, then settling around him like a covering of shadow. He moved to stand beside the bed, gazing down at Eliana for a small eternity before finally bending to press a brief kiss to her forehead. "Be happy," he whispered, loud enough to be heard, softly enough that only she heard it. Turning to Imhotep, he reached out a hand, clasping the priest's in his, his other hand on Imhotep's shoulder. "And goodbye to you, my friend. May your gods bless you and guide you, and keep you safe." A quick squeeze of the hand, and he was backing away, turning to leave. At the door, he paused, turning once more to face them. The smile he wore was sincere, but tinged with sadness.

"Godspeed to you both. Live, love, laugh—enjoy all the many riches this world can offer you. Be at peace, and know that I leave you in peace." He was gone in a swirl of light and shadow.

When the sound of his booted feet could no longer be heard echoing to them from the hallway beyond, Imhotep turned to Eliana, a question in his eyes.

"What is it?" she asked, concerned over the apprehensive look he wore. Surely there was nothing that would keep her here longer; surely he and her father had not had words; surely…

"Eliana," he said, closing the distance between them, reaching out and enfolding both her hands in his. "Nothing is wrong," he promised, seeing the worry in her eyes. "I have spoken to your father," he said, and then fell silent, his usual adroitness with words gone, replaced with an unfamiliar awkwardness.

"He didn't…you didn't…" she broke off, upset again. "You did have some sort of argument, didn't you?"

Two fingers pressed against her lips, and she fell silent, waiting for him to explain. "We did not argue, Eliana." His eyes crinkled at the corners, and a self-mocking smile pulled at the corners of his lips. "And if you will give me a moment, I believe I can gather my wits enough to tell you…" With a grimace, he lapsed into silence again.

"Tell me…?" she questioned, the movement of her fingers on his lips unbearably erotic, reminding him, even in the sterile setting of the hospital room of things better left for other times, other places, certainly not an open room in a public institution. But still… He replaced his fingers with his mouth, silencing her with the teasing movement of his lips over hers, stealing the question from her mind, replacing it with a fog of desire.

"If you insist on interrupting me, I will have to find other ways of silencing you," he warned, releasing her mouth briefly, poised to reclaim it if she chose to ignore the warning. Eyes sparkling, she opened her mouth, as if to speak, daring him to silence her once more, and with a matching flare of humor in his eyes, mixed with something else entirely, he obliged. But this time, the kiss was brief, just as tender, just as intimate, but over much more quickly, as though he really did want to have the conversation he'd tried to start before. "Eliana," he begged, "please have mercy. Allow me a moment…" He pulled away, releasing her hands, closing his eyes as he sought to center himself, regain the eloquence that normally came so easily to him. This time, she gave him the space and silence he required, and when he opened his eyes again, she could see that he had found what he needed.

The look in his eyes when he met hers stole her breath away. It was an expression of pure yearning, an endless hunger, an unquenchable thirst. It was all of those things and more—it was love, and desire, and an aching, infinite need. Her eyes roamed over his face, memorizing every plane, every angle of his beloved features. Slowly, one of her hands reached out to touch him, tracing the strength of his brow, the line of his cheekbone, the fullness of his lips. He turned his head, capturing her hand in his, pressing a kiss into her palm before meeting her eyes again.

"Eliana," he began, holding her hand in both of his. "I love you." She opened her mouth to return the sentiment, but he shook his head, touching his fingers to her lips once more. "I know that you have doubted this, and the blame is mine. I was a blind, stupid fool—I knew you from the moment I first touched you, from the moment I found you in the darkness of Ahm Shere, just after you had spoken the words to release me from the hell that imprisoned me. I knew you—you, the part of you that makes you special, unique, not just a face, or a name, or a body, but you—your essence, your spirit…your soul. Souls do not change, my love, and yours is as it always has been—beautiful, rare, extraordinary."

His eyes searched hers, and his hands cupped her face, thumbs tracing the lines of her cheekbones, the strength and gentleness of his touch warming her everywhere inside—even places where she didn't know she'd been cold. Her hands encircled his wrists, and she held him to her, closing her eyes and leaning towards him. Gently, he pressed kisses to her eyelids, her forehead, the bridge of her nose, and finally, a soft, fleeting pressure of his lips on hers reinforced his next words. "I knew you, and I let the shock and anger blind me to everything else. When I realized what had happened, that you hadn't returned for me at all, but that enough time had passed for you to have lived, died, and be reborn…" He shook his head, his mouth a grim line, the anger turned inwardly. "Forgive me."

"There is nothing to forgive you for," she began, only to have him interrupt her again.

"But there is," he assured her. "Even after my initial shock—when you and I had talked, when we had spent time together, when we had…made love…" The rich music of his voice deepened, grew rough with the memory of their night at the pool. "Even after that, I could not bring myself to confess my love for you—I was too proud, too afraid. I have hurt you unbearably, and you need to know that I was wrong. There has never been a moment when I truly stopped loving you."

"You mean when you stopped loving Anck-su-namun, don't you?" Her voice was a quiet whisper, giving voice to all her old fears, all her old doubts about who it was that Imhotep truly loved. She'd thought they were gone, but there they were again, crawling back from the depths to which they'd been banished.

"No." He waited for the single word to penetrate the wall of her doubt, then tipped her face towards his. Waiting until the emotion-clouded green of her eyes had focused on him, and he was absolutely sure he had her attention, he shook his head. "No. You need to stop thinking of these parts of yourself as separate entities, my love. They are not. They are you; they have always been you. Think of it as the soul changing garments as it moves through time, through the different cycles of live and death, birth and rebirth. Although the outer trappings change, and that is reflected in looks and personality, the inner core is unchanging, constant. You are who you always have been. The name does not matter, the face does not matter, even though you are now just as beautiful as you ever were before. What I recognized in the darkness of Ahm Shere, what I knew as the woman I'd loved—the woman I still loved—was you. I did not cease loving one woman, and begin to love another. Neither did I begin to love one woman, hoping that the other would reappear, somehow. You are the same, you have never been different to me—and the rejoining you experienced has simply brought the scattered pieces of your soul together again. Even you have said that you feel complete now, in a way you did not before." He paused, searching her eyes once more. "Is it so impossible for you to believe that I can understand this, and that the words I speak to you are true? I love you. You. Who you are now, who you have always been." He gave up with a sigh, and dropped his hands from her face. "I do not know what else I can say, what else I can do, to convince you of this, but I will gladly spend the remainder of my days attempting the feat."

She watched him silently as the certainty in her heart that he had spoken the truth, that he loved her—Eliana, the person she knew as herself—warred briefly with the remaining shards of doubt. Biting her lip, she bowed her head, remembering her own words to Callie, just minutes before. … if you feel something for someone, if you love someone, don't ever walk away from that, at least without giving it a chance—there is nothing more important, in this world, or any other.

What was she doing? What was the matter with her? Imhotep loved her. He had pledged his love in so many ways, so many times, it was ridiculous to doubt him. And she knew, intellectually at least, that what he said was true. It was a matter of convincing her heart to believe it, now. The part of her that was Eliana still held on to some of those doubts—but the part that was Anck-su-namun, the part that was Meela, the parts that were other women, down through the ages—those parts of her knew already, and accepted the truth of what he had said. If she could recognize herself as one complete being now, was it so hard to believe that Imhotep could do the same? That he had done the same, even before the god had healed her fragmented soul?

"I love you, Imhotep," she whispered, her hand lifting briefly to his face, caressing the smooth strength of his features. "And I know, beyond a doubt, that I would be a fool not to believe what you have said. This has all been a lot for me to understand, to accept…" She smiled into his eyes, resolutely laying aside her fear, and embracing the future—their future. "But I will work through this. I will."

"And I will help you, in whatever way I can." There was no way she could doubt the quiet intensity of his promise.

"I know you will," she nodded, with another smile, taking his hands in hers. "And I believe I'll take you up on that offer about the rest of your days…"

He returned her smile, but the look in his eyes was serious. "I love you more than life itself, Eliana—more than anything on this earth." He dropped his eyes, playing with her fingers, twining them with his, caressing them as he held them. "We have made so many mistakes, you and I," he continued, "so many false starts, so many misunderstandings…"

"I love you, Imhotep," she said, needing to say the words, needing to let him know that he meant everything to her, as well. "There is nothing in this world or the next that means more to me than you."

He nodded, lifting his eyes once more. "We have been given another chance, you and I. It is more than we could have ever hoped for, more than we could have dreamed. We have a chance now—a hope for a future. We are free, and the forces that held us apart for so many centuries are gone—ashes in the wind. There is nothing to stand between us any more."

He spoke the truth—there were no further obstacles. But if that were the case, why did he look so serious, so solemn? "Imhotep, that is cause for celebration, not sadness. Why are you so somber? We can finally be together."

"This time, Eliana," he said, and the full curve of his mouth set in a determined line, "this time will be different. No more hiding, no more secrets. If we are to be together, we will be together under the blazing noontime sun, not hidden by the dark of night. Our union will be blessed by the gods and by man, not cursed and reviled by them. I will settle for nothing less—it is everything or nothing, this time. You are mine, and mine alone—and I am yours. I will hide no longer."

"What are you saying, Imhotep?" she asked, uncertain whether to rejoice or be afraid. His words sounded like an ultimatum. "You know I love you. I want to be with you—there is nothing I want more."

"Then you will be my wife, Eliana." He watched her reaction to his words, hoping to see joy on her face, bracing himself for whatever else he might find. "I have spoken to your father," he continued, the words coming out in a rush. "He has given us his blessing."

"Of course he has," Eliana said, tears welling in her eyes. "He knows how much I love you. He would never stand in the way of that…"

"You need to understand, Eliana," Imhotep cut her off, needing to spell out the uncertainty of what the future held for him, for them both. They had love aplenty, but he was a man out of time, displaced from everything familiar to him, facing an uncertain future. "I am nothing here. In the past, in Egypt, I was a wealthy man—I had power, influence, a place in my society. I was respected—a priest, a healer, a vizier to the most powerful man in Egypt. There, I could have given you a home, security, the finest clothing, jewels, anything your heart desired. Here," he grimaced, "I am uneducated as to the history and technology of this world. I have no occupation, no way to provide for you." No matter what modern trickery Connelly and Bay might employ, he added mentally. He saw her about to protest, and he quickly continued. "I will find a place for myself here, Eliana. There has never been anything I could not do, if I set my mind to it. I will learn, and I will create a future for myself, for us. But this will not happen overnight. It will take time. Your father has offered to let me assist with the Ahm Shere excavation until that time comes, but…"

"But that's wonderful," she exclaimed, moving to embrace him. He held her at arm's length, staring into her eyes.

"Eliana, there is nothing more that I want than for you to be mine—legally, lawfully, joined in the eyes of god and man." One lip curled down, in rueful expression of self-disgust. "But I have virtually nothing to offer you. In my day, it was customary for the man to pay a bride-price to the bride's family before asking for her hand. It was expected; it was required. In my day, I could have given you riches beyond compare."

"In your day," she responded quietly, "you could have done nothing. I belonged to the one man you couldn't free me from. We were powerless, more helpless than the lowliest slave, poorer than the most lowborn servant. There, we had no future. Here…the possibilities are endless." She reached out to touch him again, cupping her hand around his jaw, running her fingers over the smoothly shaved bronze skin. "I have no doubt of what you can do with your life Imhotep, in this time or any other. You are a remarkable, extraordinary man, and I would be proud to be your wife. I don't care about wealth, or status, or position—I love you. We have waited eons to be together. Surely in all that time, we have learned that the greatest treasure on earth is the freedom to love and be loved." She gazed into his eyes, the green of hers glowing with love for him. Her hand drifted down, slowly coming to rest over his heart. "There is nothing on the earth more important to me than to be with you. The rest will see to itself. I will marry you, Imhotep—today, tomorrow, as soon as we can. We've had so little time together here—there was never any time to talk, or to plan… There are so many things I want to show you, so many wonderful things out there waiting for you to see, and do, and experience…" She broke off, flushing with the realization that she sounded rather like a twenty-first century tour guide, trying to sell the era to a visitor from the distant past.

Imhotep nodded, a smile softening his lips and setting the gold flecks to dancing in his eyes. He understood her eagerness to share her world with him. He was no less eager to begin exploring it with her. He captured her hand in both of his, and brought it to his lips, placing a tender kiss on her knuckles before lowering her hand to the bed once more. "There are marvels aplenty in this world of yours, my love. We will explore it together, then, you and I."

Eliana studied him, watching every nuance of expression and feeling pass through his eyes, cross over his face. Reaching up once more, she traced the curve of his face, the strong line of his jaw, the full curve of his lips. "I have faith in you, Imhotep—faith in you and faith in the god's promise to you—to us. You will find your place in this world, and I will be there to celebrate its discovery with you."

She leaned towards him, pressing a kiss to his lips—a kiss not born of passion, but of trust and faith and boundless, unending love. "And this world is ours, not just mine. It is your world now, too. And it awaits you, as well, with all its treasures, all its opportunities. Just reach out your hand and take what is offered; it will be yours."

Imhotep could feel the moisture welling in his own eyes. Slowly, his fingers reached to remove the golden serpentine spiral that he wore on the smallest finger of his left hand. Somehow, like the scarab pectoral, which he still wore underneath his modern garb, it had survived his awakening and rebirth from the shattered ruins of Ahm Shere. It was a sacred ring, a symbol of eternity, a token worn by the priests of Osiris to mark them as the god's. It was hardly the kind of ring he had thought to present on such an occasion, but in its own way, it was more fitting than any other. It signified life from death, eternity from nothingness, a seamless binding of past to future. Few other symbols would be as appropriate. Taking her hand, he fit the ring onto Eliana's finger, where the heavy band reached almost to her knuckle.

"This I can offer you," he said, feeling ashamed that he had nothing else. "It is the only thing of value that I possess."

"You're wrong," she said, shaking her head as the tears coursed down her cheeks. "You've already given me the greatest treasure in the world—you've given me your love." She looked down at the heavy golden band that looped around her finger—golden twists and spirals that both captured and reflected the sun's light. "The ring is beautiful, but no treasure in the world can match your love."

"Are you sure of this, Eliana?" he asked, the doubt creeping into his eyes once more. "Be very sure. Once you are mine, I will not let you go. It is forever, this time."

She laughed then, pushing against his restraining hands and launching herself into his arms, giddy with joy. Throwing her arms around his neck, pressing a kiss against his jaw, she whispered, "I have always been yours, my love. Always."

He embraced her then, as well, a fierce hug that squeezed the breath from her lungs. Burying his face against the softness of her neck, he felt his heart expand until he thought it must surely burst. Over the pounding drum of his heartbeat, he could barely hear the words she said. But they sounded familiar, somehow. For a second, he thought he'd heard…

"What?" he asked her, pulling away just a little, searching her eyes. "What did you say?"

"I said," she laughed through her tears, as she pressed her lips against his, sealing their promise to each other with a touch of mouths, a bond of flesh and spirit that would never be broken, "Our love is everlasting, eternal—a love that lasts longer than the temples of the gods."

---

In the darkness of space, ninety-three million miles away from the green-blue planet it had just passed by, invisible now to the inhabitants of that world, the solitary comet began its elliptical pass around the sun before heading back into deep space.

A few thousand miles from the flaming conflagration, the perfect orbit of the comet wobbled, faltering as a giant flare from the sun's surface reached out towards it, knocking it to one side, infinitesimally altering its path. That was enough.

The comet wavered, moving fractionally closer to the burning surface, its orbit compromised, its precise path no longer sure. Flailing, it began a losing battle against the massive gravitational pull working against it. But the battle was over even before it began. With an inexorable finality, the solar flare lanced out again, enclosing the comet in a burning fist of flame, dragging it down in a killing embrace.

The comet hurtled through the layers of the sun's atmosphere, passing through the corona, traveling through the chromosphere, plunging into the photosphere, and finally burying itself within the burning reactor of the sun's inner core. In seconds, it was over, the comet's atoms split apart and vaporized, its essence absorbed and transformed by the massive fusion furnace.

Almost immediately the storm on the sun's surface subsided, and the burning ball of flame once again became a peaceful beacon of warmth and life, shining down upon the Earth as it had for untold eons.