Owning is nothing like keeping.
…….
Ryou thinks the air should be like honey, thick and sickeningly golden. Somehow, things are never how they should be. The elegance intends to kill him slowly.
The party is nothing, with bejeweled guests drifting to and fro in shrouds of white linen, fine and thin as ghosts, sipping nectar from delicate cups. He feels alone in his servile gestures, intently earnest in his offerings. Blossoms decorate their hair, wrapping around throats, and it hurts to move.
He feels bedazzled, trapped, with the delicate notes of the stringed instruments trailing to murmurs above him. The ceiling is low, painted with the frowning faces of infinite gods, as the guests slowly circle in the same ellipses as the stars. Their conversations are aimless, their eyes cold, mirrors to defend themselves against the onslaught of jewels, layer after layer of protection built from a myriad of lies. He had no such protections, and they overwhelm him. Conflicting emotions battle invisibly in the air, and he sweats.
These people have pampered hands and smooth, shining skin, and the contrast between his own skin, white and coarse as salt, startles him. His eyes blur. Ryou's skin prickles, softly shadowed and untouched by the dizzying air, as if he's a statue, a pillar as unavoidable and unseen as the royal monuments, infinite obelisks that tear holes in the clouds.
He backed away cautiously from the drifting murmurs to a dark corner, feeling behind him with one hand. With luck, nobody would notice.
Without luck. Ryou tripped, colliding with what appeared to be a smudge of color in the darkness.
The lump proved to be a small boy, probably a child, Ryou thought, who wanted to go to the party but was too young, and so he snuck down to watch, and felt a surge of empathy for the boy, both of them watching the glamour of elegant figures and languid gestures tracing the air. The boy told him earnestly that it wasn't his fault, really, and Ryou denied it politely.
He saw the glint of blue in the darkness, like a lazy eye, and saw it flashing against the copper wrist.
Ryou choked, startled, and thought suddenly, this is one of the reasons that should have come up when I said it was a bad idea; you never know when you're going to come across what is either a very young thief or a very great nobleman…He thought this through again and dismissed it, turning his attention back to the child, who stared at him with pleading eyes, shadowy and enormous in the faint slant of light from down the hall.
He blinked. Once. Twice.
Good enough. He sighed, and said weakly, "I was never that cruel a person, so you needn't look at me that way."
"I know," said the boy, standing up gingerly. He smiled at Ryou, who stared back at him silently, unfazed by the appeal. The smile disappeared; then returned full force, genuine.
"What exactly are you doing here?" asked Ryou. He thought hard for a few seconds, smoothing his face into the nearest impression of sternness he could muster. If this were a thief, he would have to be either very new, and very good, or very good and very innocent, neither combinations seeming plausible. Noble children were strictly supervised, though, lest they be stolen, cursed, or should ill come to them. Highborn children were very powerful pawns.
"I'm Set's brother," he added, "H'tr", and the whole damning feeling hit Ryou with enough force to make him gasp weakly, much like a fish out of water.
He bent down and stared intently at the boy, causing him to blink a little.
The current High Priest, Set, had inherited the title at a young age, and secured it by dint of his strength, ruthless tactics and careful cunning, and was currently advisor to the Pharaoh. Not many would have named their children after him, nor used it lightly. Set was rumored to be a hard man.
"Ah," said Ryou. Set was first cousin to the king, all of the other direct heirs having died in an epidemic. He had only one other blood relative likely to inherit after him.
He started, -
Ryou started slightly, and walked towards the door. The sounds of the party drifted vaguely towards him, with a new undercurrent. The child followed him for a few steps, and then stopped. Ryou looked over his shoulder at him questioningly.
"If there's anyone in danger, it's me," he said dryly. "Please come."
The boy followed him outside. Ryou could feel his puzzled gaze on his back.
He walked into a side courtyard, small and shadowed, the low wall trailing dark vines. Their flat leaves shone faintly in the moonlight, and he found himself at a loss for words. However did he manage this? Hem netjer was unlikely to become the next Pharaoh, being in ever way as perishable as their ruler. He walked with the heir to the Two Kingdoms in lotus-scented darkness. The shadows suddenly seemed to be both fascinating and malevolent. He rubbed his arms, disturbed.
"I won't be in trouble," said the boy quickly. "Elder brother won't punish me, so none of the servants will mention this to anyone. I just wanted to see the magicians."
Ryou slanted a brow at him. "Somehow I think it will be slightly more than that," he said mildly. "Let it be sufficed to say that your brother is not exactly admired, while respected, and there will be alarms. Unless, of course, you want disappear, and maybe have your body found in a fisherman's net."
"I was bored," said the child, a bit sullenly. His hands dangled heavily at his sides, and his shoulder hunched, preparing for a fight. "Sometimes I wonder why I'm always bored."
"Don't think," suggested Ryou. His fingers traced the edge of a broken stone absently. A small purple creeper had attached itself to the reddening stone, threading through his fingers. He pulled pieces off and threw them away.
"It's a fault to think. If you think, you will inevitably become bored, and intelligence is a constant habit. Stupid people enjoy themselves as much as any."
The boy looked down, biting his lip. He tilted his head and swallowed clearly, the curve of his cheek making him appear even younger than he had to be. He perched on the edge of a gilded bench, legs swinging.
Ryou watched him, feeling the corners of his lips curl faintly upwards. His throat tasted deliciously of bitterness and sleep. He reached underneath the bench and lit the wick, settling the bowl carefully on the ground. There was a design of flowers molded on it. Sharp pebbles littered the ground underneath carelessly; he guessed it wasn't commonly used.
The boy looked up, tears gleaming on the edge of his lashes, and sniffed, swiping the back of his hand across his nose. "I wanted…I wanted to see them. They were supposed to have painted faces, and skins like ebony, and, and…necklaces made from elephant teeth and wood…"
And woolen hair, Ryou finished silently. And shoot sparks out of their mouths, and crack tables with their knuckles. Of course.
His shoulder bumped the wall encircling the little garden, cold and crumbling. He looked at the boy. He looked worried, and a little crease of skin formed between his eyes.
"You must be lonely," he said inanely, and looked at the shadows behind the bench. The plants were gardened, but the stems were crumbling. They looked black from his vantage point. It was a shame; the garden was pretty. His eyes were steady, but he pressed his fingertips against his palms.
The child didn't seem to be listening, his eyes wide and unseeing, small hands wrapped around knobby knees. "Yes," he said, absent, "afterwards, they sent me away." A curious smile began to appear around the corners of his mouth.
"They sent me away from the sickness, and their own ambitions-nobody trusted anyone with my education, but there were two perfectly good heirs, healthy…strong…" His harsh breaths were perfectly clear, the only sound in the stillness. Ryou stood motionless, almost helpless in the overwhelming, childish pain. The boy lowered his lashes, his skin faintly blue. Ryou stood near him, silent, his hands clasped behind his back.
"They brought me to a wonderful place, really: a city of salt. Imagine, a city of salt! I suppose they envisioned a sparkling city, cleansing, purifying, even, not a bunch of dull, gray huts, inhabited by silent people, as blank as the city itself... Their skin flakes off, you know," he added matter-of-factly, "and it stings…you have to be very careful when you get hurt, or you might pass out from the pain.
Their hair looks like straw. Everybody is very careful…the sand corrodes everything, so you can't tell what might be in your food, and it hurts to look at things after a while… All their mouths look like thin lines, clamped shut on secrets, and after a while you dream about fresh water. The old people are all practically blind. And when the rain comes, that's worst of all…" he shuddered, moving closer to Ryou. His skin smelled odd, with a heavy, waxy scent, milky, and a hint of something sweetly decaying.
It's rare, but it happens occasionally. I wasn't allowed outside, but it sounded like it was a thousand little creatures, creeping towards me inside the hut…I worried that the edges would melt and the slab that acts as a roof would come crashing down on me. And then the little creatures would come and step over me carefully with their small feet and creeping arms, and stare at me with lidless eyes…
And they're all fools out there, aren't they? Nobody of consequence, really, just gamblers and dolls, to stand around court…nobody who could possibly be near anybody. And none of my dear siblings visit, anyway. They-they send messages, I think. " He looked down, his hair shadowing his eyes. A small hand wrapped delicate fingers around Ryou's wrist, impossibly strong. His fingers felt sharp little knives encased in a flesh covering, digging into his skin; looking directly into his eyes, Ryou could see a little black slit in the very center of each eyes, all the color around them drained into a strange paleness, growing and shrinking in sharp, brief flashes.
Oh, thought Ryou, and threw himself forward, pushing all his weight onto the slender, soft skinned arm with its copper bones. He scrabbled furiously for the wrist digging into his own, something abruptly wet leaking down his own arm, and wrestled at the amulet. The cords seemed to be stiffly unyielding-a small hand reached around and clawed at his eyes furiously: their shadows twisted and cut sharp angles across the soft decay of the wall. He forced his body immobile against the creature, every muscle aching with the strain of keeping the berserk fury contained.
The surface of the stone was smooth and cold: he scratched desperately at the polished surface with the flint he had used to light the lamp, hands shaking, and laid the final lines, inexorably gentle. Blood throbbed in his ears.
Ryou was flung aside with a violent strength, weak as a limp doll. He lay on his back and breathed through his mouth, in hard, choking sobs. Fuzzy black dots danced on the edge of his vision, and he was distantly aware there was blood on his face.
Something horrible and angry was there, grew and gathered into itself, building, then disappeared, howling and furious. The grass rustled and was still. He tried to muster the strength to turn and look, failed, and tried again, and this time managed, propping himself on one elbow. The garden looked strangely peaceful, the ground swept clean of everything except a few torn creepers and low growing plants. The lamp flickered, and went dark. He glimpsed the twisted body of H'tr, dark and very still, and crawled forward, scraping his knees and palms.
H'tr's pulse flickered, faint, but his skin was warm, clothes a little torn by the struggle. Relieved, Ryou sat back on his heels, debating what to do, as faint sunlight appeared over the edge of the garden. He sat there, still, for a while, and when brighter light broke over the horizon, turning the bricks of the Lord's house to gold, anxious soldiers found the Heir and a white haired boy sitting upright in a side garden, sleeping.
…………
"I'm not sure I understand," said the boy plaintively, not the boy, Ryou reminded himself, the Heir, when he wasn't being not H'tr, but still the Heir, and it made his head hurt. You could have died without the technicalities, he thought for the third time, so it was a small price to pay.
He realized he was sitting, and started to get to his feet, weakly. The room was swaying lightly, catching him out of the corners of his eyes, dimply bright. H'tr poked him, and he sat down again quickly, fighting nausea.
"Grape?" asked THAT CHILD, kindly, offering an ebony bowl. Ryou shuddered, and looked away quickly, trying to control her rebellious stomach. The hot light in the room made him squint, and he couldn't quite see past the dim glare of the sun outside.
You've a name, he said, struggling to explain, slow and awkwardly truthful. He stared blankly at the light flooding the room, and did his best to explain, kindly and reasonably, that a reluctant ka of a deceased member of the royal family had possessed him, and attempted to take Ryou, too, in the bargain, because he was inconspicuously noticeable. Which didn't make much sense to him either-
"You gave me your true name," said Ryou thoughtfully. "The amulet for protection said Heir, but you gave me your real name, your-self, in a way. Why?"
H'tr looked at him. "I don't know. I guess it was because you were somebody that was needed to be trusted, and that I didn't know I was being possessed. It's funny, in a way…I thought it was of my own free will, and if it seemed a bit odd, I didn't think of it. If people can't tell when they're being possessed, then how would anyone else know? How did you guess?"
Ryou looked from the steady, curious gaze of H'tr and to the blank faced guards, acutely aware of their attention: his own eyes half closed. He spread his hands flat at his sides. "You looked well, healthy and young, and you felt wrong, like a dead bird in the middle of a packed cart: something you see and comprehend but don't consciously acknowledge."
"But you did," said the Heir softly.
Ryou nodded briefly, uncomfortable. "It's this look-like someone dying, or soon to be dead. Something in the eyes, I think. It's…
-Like something rotting slowly in the sun, and flaking off into little dried pieces."
"Thank you," said the Heir, at length, and Ryou smiled.
….
He didn't want to stay. There was a reward for his good deed, but there were always rewards: shining and silver and so smooth you couldn't hold it. It slipped through your fingers, and disappeared in fine, dripping threads.
Give it to a deserving, hard working guard; Ryou said at length, his throat hoarse from polite, bitten off words. I can't stay here. There were alabaster vases filled with lilies and the couches were carved like animals, with gleaming teeth. He felt like he'd break, that his veins would become like an old man's, shattered and splintered blue underneath his skin.
"It's just one of those things," he said. They pressed a handful of scarabs and ringed coins on him absently; his only request was a mirror, a beautiful polished oval of bronze with a notched handle. He took it and went quietly out, away from the frantic quiet of the elegant house and into the sun, which warmed his face and his shoulders. He closed his eyes and tipped back his head, and walked unhurriedly back to the shop.
They noticed he was gone, but he said he had been working for the Lady again, and smiled just like that, and the other boys had looked at him strangely but gone away quietly, with less of the teasing that was normal. He didn't care.
Duke came up to him, and tried to speak to him quietly, aside from the others, but Ryou brushed him away, no longer caring to be polite. He worked silently in the room with it's little low windows and it's little lowly workers, and found himself at odd intervals in the day caught half-turned in an unfamiliar gesture. He sighed, and ignored it, as he always did.
When Duke came to talk to him the shadows were long and spidery, and Ryou was numbly fragile and achingly tired. Heat flushed underneath his skin. The other boy waited, his eyes narrowed in defense.
"I hope you had a nice time," Ryou said at last, his throat scratchy. "I wanted to-I wished you well. I did. I didn't mean…" He coughed and thought irritably that this was undignified and ungraceful, and felt ashamed in complaining. His eyes traced the lines of Duke's dusty, sandaled feet.
A hand offered him water and he drank gratefully, sipping greedily, and swiped the back of his hand against his mouth.
"Luckier than me, then," Duke said quietly. He closed his eyes and opened them again, face blankly devoid of pettiness. "Your hands," he said in surprise.
Ryou held them out before him, palms facing upwards, wrists exposed. He turned them over carefully, gently surprised. "Yes," he said at last, his voice dizzy and light, unrecognizable in his own ears, "but I did not know you had a penchant for stating the obvious."
"I don't," Duke breathed, "but this goes beyond any such scruples. You should see a healer, or a priest-run into any demons, little scribe?"
"A few," said Ryou, attempting to be neutral. "Don't…" he tried to smile and turned away. "Don't tell anyone, please. I'm not quite mad yet, or I'd prefer not to think I am, or be considered so."
"Yes," said Duke, so Ryou left. The sun was low and the horizon was striped with the shadows of doorframes, houses, roofs, and thresholds. There was a low, monotonous hum of insects, and aside from the occasional wave of a palm-leaf fan, the people crouching in the shadows could have been clay. He did not want to go back to the Quarters, or anywhere else, really.
I'm spoiled; he thought pettishly, too much to regain a footing in the real world, full of things like beer and onions and bread and hemp sandals, and plain, dull people. It's not that they're not human, it's that…there are people who do not act like people, who are more of human and human traits than anything like the ones who live normally, prosaically, and cannot do anything but comprehend of such things dimly; and those are our values, or Gods, or ideals. And I am too much of an idealist to care for that.
And that's the most frightening thing.
Being proven wrong is a blessing, then.
…
I'm sorry for the lateness of this chapter, but I fear it falls too short of my ideas. That's bad writing, then.
The most I'll ask of you is honesty.