They've been searching for years. Some of them for decades. Archaeologists and anthropologists. Historians and guides and diggers and preservation specialists and translators and one very old strigoi. An expedition such as this has a thousand moving parts and a hundred experts at the top of their respective fields. The resources involved are staggering, the expenses astronomical, but striga live a long time, and well, time is money after all.
He isn't attractive, like some of the younger ones; the spells preserving flesh have come later. His face is lumpy and deformed, too many patch jobs and too distant the recollection of his face. His eyes burn with amber fire, and his skin is ashen grey. His arms are as thick as some men's torsos and his legs are like tree trunks. His hair is lank and black, long and greasy. Beneath his dust-stained furs some of his bones show. He wears gloves wherever he goes, and heavy coats no matter the heat. He is the sort of monster that the American and British lawmakers picture when they discriminate against his younger cousins, but that's ok with him; he's always been a monster. Hundreds of years ago he had sacked cities, burned children just to make a point. Thousands of years ago he had murdered people for the power in their deaths. He has done terrible things, and regrets none of them, but there have always been reasons for his atrocities. Not for him the indiscriminate violence for violence's sake. He slaughtered armies because he wanted land, not from any particular desire to see the individuals dead. He murdered emperors because he wanted power, not because their life offended him. What offense could they give? He has lived longer than even the oldest empires! By the time the mayflies bother him, by the time he's gotten around to doing something about it, they're already long dead. Today, he doesn't care about power or land or renown. He's ruled the steppes for an age, and that tired him. He's slumbered for another age, and that bored him.
His name is Shan Yu, and he's awake.
His expedition has searched for years, but years don't matter to him. There have been representatives from every major college and university, but it's always been his blood money behind the endeavor, and his hand directing it. They follow the cryptic words of an ancient book. A terrible spellbook, bound in human skin and filled with the writings of a forgotten king. A writing protected by so many layered enchantments over so many years that even Shan Yu himself couldn't damage the thing. It's his phylactery, of course. The most foolish of the sorcerer-priests that worshiped him had bound their souls to gold and silver; to flashy jewelry and ornamental objects, but gold is soft and easily deformed. The wiser ones had bound themselves to stone or iron, but iron rusts and even stone erodes eventually. Not Shan Yu's phylactery. Not Nagash's book of flesh.
In the first pages, there had been an account of the ancient necromancer's ancient troubles. Talk of a great black pyramid beyond the Nile. And so they searched. For years, until many of the original members of the expedition had retired and left their places to the next generation. So it is with mayflies. At long last, they've come to the place: he can feel a turmoil in the winds of magic that could be nothing else.
The diggers dig, the archaeologists delight in fragments of ruined pottery, the anthropologists debate what this or that trinket may have been used for. He feeds power into the diggers' sinews, and doesn't tell the archaeologists about the treasures they have yet to discover. The things that will make broken pottery seem as worthless as the sand the diggers struggle to move.
This had been a verdant place once. It's a desert now, but once it was a great thriving forest- his finely tuned third eye can still see the aftershocks of the forest's death all these eons later. Taken to fuel Nagash's great magics or collateral damage from some terrible war? He neither knows nor cares.
And so they dig, and dig, and dig. Some question his leadership, and the desert cats take them. His is the book of flesh, after all. Cats are easy for him. They dig, and there's the obsidian capstone, gleaming and perfect. Still polished to a mirror sheen five thousand years later. Cameramen film excitedly, funding pours in, and the scientists theorize and postulate. There's a party, and the delay irks Shan Yu, but what's a day to the many millennium he's seen? He lets them live because they would be inconvenient to replace.
And so they dig. More of the great structure sees a sun it hasn't seen in five thousand years, and treasures of unparalleled historical significance are unearthed. Fine shields and swords and spears from Greece, scarred by the tumult of battle. Skeletons, shattered by the bite of blades or torn asunder and deformed by a sorcerer's fell touch. The scientists know enough these days to recognize them for what they are. The finds are carefully catalogued, cleaned, preserved, sent to various museums and universities, and the work continues. There are enough men that the preservation doesn't slow the operation.
Monsters are unearthed then. First broken remains, horribly deformed and forged into unliving weapons, but very much inanimate. Later, terrible things which shouldn't have been forgotten. The first is a half-intact ushabti, marble armor crumbled away in most places, rock-hard bone splintered. It kills three before Shan Yu disposes of it. There are whispers, but litchdom isn't illegal here, and that's what they imagine he is. Next they find a colossal necrosphinx which slaughters its way out of the pit in spite of its missing limbs. He disposes of that too.
The sponsors pay for guards, and moral plummets, but the finds are too precious to abandon. They dig deeper. More of them die, but it doesn't matter. They're just mayflies. So what that they die? They were going to anyway in just a few short decades. He spends their lives like a gambling addict spends coins. Finally, three full years since the excavation began, they unearth the entrance. All massive black marble pillars and massive black marble sphinxes and a roof high above of the same material. Shan Yu is not surprised when the sphinxes come alive, but the excavators are and they suffer greatly. Shan Yu doesn't care.
The interior is richly decorated and expansive. Hundreds of rooms, and dozens of halls. This is not a tomb, or wasn't built to be one at least. The archaeologists jabber excitedly about how "unprecedented" the structure is. How unique it is from all the other pyramids that have been found. Shan Yu ignores them. There are skittering scarabs here, lazily flexing scorpions, pale withered locusts: the appearance of a thriving ecosystem. The scientists think they're alive. Shan Yu knows better.
The throne room is sprawling and dark. The weight of thousands of tons of obsidian and thousands of years of age both lay heavy over the place. There is no sarcophagus here; this is no tomb. Just a heavy gilded throne and a corpse.
On the corpse's head is the golden crown of old Egypt, and on its shoulders the gold and lapis mantle of office. About it's hips a linen drape of a garment and a gem-studded golden belt. The forgotten finery of a forgotten empire. There's green flame in the corpse's eyes. It's bones creak as it looks up, it's skin stretches and groans and cracks. "Who dares disturb the slumber of Nagash, fifth prince of Egypt?" The corpse's voice is thin and wispy, like eddies of sand in the desert. Here is one who can end even so mighty a sorcerer as Shan Yu, and the Mongolian warlord knows it.
He bows, and works the spell he came here to work.
Elsa looks up from the newspaper. "They found Nagashizzar," she comments matter-of-factly.
"Pardon?" Anna's father turns from the coffee he's brewing- too bitter, overcooked, Elsa doesn't need her magic to tell her that, but she's hardly going to go insulting her hosts. Her parents raised her better than that, no matter how long ago that may have been.
"Nagashizzar," she repeats. "The black pyramid," she tries hopefully. The man gestures blankly.
"I know this one!" Anna chimes in before Elsa can continue, which is just as well because the attention was starting to make her uncomfortable anyway. "The black pyramid of Nagash, right?"
"And that is?" Anna's mother asks without looking up from the mail she's sorting.
"Nagash? The first litch?" Anna preens like a songbird at the attention. Elsa is happy to leave the spotlight to her girlfriend- how odd, to think of anyone as her girlfriend after all this time? To think anyone could love her? It's doomed to failure, of course, as soon as Anna sees how pathetic she is, but Elsa can let herself enjoy it in the meantime, right?
"Hmm," Anna's mother goes back to the mail. "Letter from the university," she says, separating out the offending article and opening it with a neat flick of her fingernail.
"What is it?" Anna tries her best to peer over, but she isn't tall and her mother's chair is. Her mother frowns. A thunderous, furious expression.
"You failed?" She demands, whirling in the younger woman.
"Probably," Anna shrugs. "Which classes?"
"All of them!" Her father is coming over now. Elsa tries to hide behind the newspaper. "All of them? What were you doing?"
Anna shrugs again. "More important things," she replies unconcerned.
"More important things?" Her mother repeats, louder. Elsa can feel the woman's heart rate pitter-pattering in the winds of magic.
Elsa opens her mouth, but doesn't say anything. What can she say? Anna has come to her defense so many times, isn't it time she returned the favor? But how? The titanic maelstrom of power she's accumulated buzzes insistently in the back of her head, demands to be used like a reservoir behind a hydroelectric dam. That isn't the solution though, and Elsa tamps down the urge.
"She's been helping me," the litch says quietly, but the interjection freezes the conversation and Anna directs a grateful smile her way. Elsa feels a thrill of something not quite physical in her unfeeling heart.
"You've been wasting time with your girlfriend?" Anna's mother demands. She injects enough venom into the word "girlfriend" that it hurts more than a slap ever could, and reverberates in the winds of magic like a heavy stone hurled into a still pond.
"I've been helping," Anna replies, and there's venom there to match. "I've been doing something useful. I'm seeing shit that people are going to write entire history books about, and I'm trying to wind up on the right side of it."
"So you're letting yourself fail out of college?" Anna's mother demands loudly. There's a hand on Elsa's shoulder. She jumps, turns, who… only Rapunzel. Elsa forces a grateful approximation of a smile. "You can't give up your own future for some girl. You can't waste your entire future for a phase…" Elsa winces, but Anna cuts her mother off.
"It's not about my sexuality," she snaps. "That's not what we're talking about. Yeah, I like Elsa. Romantically. That doesn't matter- sorry Elsa, that's not what I mean. I mean… I just…" the little redhead closes her eyes and tries again. "I'm not helping her because I love her. I do, but that's not why. The shop owner people didn't love Anne Frank- not in the romantic way at least- but they still helped her. My feelings for Elsa don't make helping her wrong, as much as you hate me for them."
"We don't hate you…" Anna's mother begins, but her daughter doesn't give her a chance to finish.
"You just hate the lifestyle," Anna finishes loudly. "Yeah, I've heard it before. That's just an excuse to hate the person and feel ok about it. This still isn't about my sexuality. You're mad I'm failing? Well watching the news I'm not so sure I want to go into journalism any more. I'm not sorry I failed however many classes. I'm doing something worthwhile. I can always retake the classes…"
"Worthwhile?" It's her mother's turn to cut her off. "Worthwhile? You don't live in Nazi Germany, you live in modern America." They ignore how the lights flicker.
"Well excuse the fuck out of me if it's getting hard to tell the difference," Anna stands, ignores the way her chair clatters to the linoleum behind. "You want me to turn on the news? I guarantee you there's something on there about how litches are being mistreated. Maybe another dead Supreme Court judge who voted pro-undead."
Rapunzel takes Elsa's slender hand and pulls gently until the frail litch follows her from the room. It doesn't help much- the argument is plenty loud for Elsa to hear from another room- but the gesture is kind. Rapunzel leads her up the carpeted stairs. That helps more- Elsa can't quite make out the words now at least- but she can still hear that an argument is taking place.
"They aren't fighting about you," Rapunzel says abruptly.
"It sounds about me," Elsa replies quietly. Rapunzel gestures to the bed- they're in Anna's room, Elsa realizes with a disconnected sort of surprise. She sits awkwardly, adjusts her clothes more from habit than from discomfort.
"It isn't," Rapunzel insists. "It's… Anna's a fighter. She… well, you know her. She's not one to suffer an injustice. Certainly not in silence. And, well, she sees an injustice in her mother. It's not the first time this has happened."
"Her mother doesn't like me," Elsa grumbles.
"Her mother doesn't know you," Rapunzel corrects. "I don't think she knows what you are. I think we would all overhear the shitshow if she found out, honestly."
"That's…" Elsa pauses a second. "What are they arguing about then? I thought it was about me?"
"Anna's mother is angry, because she feels Anna is throwing away her opportunities," Rapunzel sits beside the old litch, careful to maintain a few inches of separation, but whether it's a respectful gesture or a disgusted one, Elsa doesn't know. "Trust me," Rapunzel continues. "They fight every holiday. I give it maybe fifty-fifty odds that Anna goes home early."
"Thanks," Elsa replies. Her throat feels tight, like she vaguely recalls it did when tears were imminent, but that's ridiculous because her throat hadn't felt anything in decades and tears are an impossibility for people like her. "That does help," she finishes lamely.
"Good," Rapunzel smiles cheerfully, and rests a dainty hand on Elsa's tired shoulder- not disgust then? Maybe? "Now, what do you like to do?"
Elsa returns the smile as bravely as she can and shrugs. "I like the space program," she tries- Anna hadn't liked that Elsa has no hobbies, Rapunzel probably wouldn't either. "SpaceX is launching a rocket tomorrow. I like watching that sometimes?"
"Well, that's tomorrow, and we need something for right now," Rapunzel replies. Elsa shrugs, so Rapunzel goes on, "Ok, here's what we're going to do. I'm going to do your hair up all fancy so you can't hide behind it anymore, and while I do, you're going to tell me all about yourself." She moves, rearranges,
Elsa can hear the unmistakable rippling buzz of a zipper. She looks over sharply- Rapunzel's suitcase. There are dozens of bottles and sprays, some labeled in English or French, others in languages she doesn't know how to identify, much less to read. There are brushes too, four of them. Elsa can't comprehend what one would possibly need more than one for. "I like hair," Rapunzel says quickly. "Now look that way. I can't get to your hair like that."
Elsa turns obediently. "It's cold and lonely," she recites dutifully. She doesn't feel the cold of liquid on her scalp or the tug of the brush, but does feel the motions of Rapunzel's arms in the winds of magic. "I don't feel, so sometimes I hurt myself and don't find out about it until later…"
"No," Rapunzel cuts her off. "Not that. I… unless you want to talk about it? I mean, you must get asked about litchdom and black magic and stuff all the time. I'm sure you're tired of answering inquisitive mortals. Tell me about yourself. Tell me your dreams. You've got to have a dream, right?"
"I…" Elsa shakes her head and earns herself a warning thump.
"Stay still," Rapunzel admonishes.
"Sorry," the little litch replies. "No dream really. I guess I have a dream that I'll make it through this political mess without getting hurt again? And, um, that I'll enjoy my time with Anna while she'll have me?"
"While she'll have you?" Rapunzel repeats. "You need a therapist."
Elsa shrugs. "Sorry, she says. Don't move. Got it."
"But you're not going to go to a therapist, are you?" Rapunzel asks. Elsa shrugs again and earns another thump. "Fine," Rapunzel continues, "then I'll be your therapist. I mean, I'm really really not a therapist, but like? I think I read somewhere that there was only like a couple percents difference in some study, between therapists and random college students? I don't fucking know."
Rapunzel and Anna seem so different to the battered litch sometimes, but she imagines they must have been close as children. As close as they are now, probably. There's the same excitable tendency to ramble, to trip over their words and make an adorable mess of themselves. The same fierce defense of… well, everyone. "Ok," Elsa says quietly, because she imagines it would make Anna happy.
"Right," Rapunzel says. The brush catches, and she gives it a solid yank. "Sorry, there's a knot. So, I'm not going to try to convince you that Anna's not leaving. Marsh tried that, and if you won't believe her brother, you're not going to believe her cousin either. Anna won't leave you, but that's not what you need to hear. Your thing isn't that you think Anna will leave you, it's that you think everyone will, right? Am I at all on the right track?"
"I guess," Elsa replies, because, well… isn't everyone going to leave her? They have before…
"And you think that everyone is going to leave you," Rapunzel continues, "because you don't think you're worth loving or whatever?"
"I guess," Elsa says again. "Everyone leaves eventually, what's the common denominator?"
"That they're mortal, and mortals die?" Rapunzel thumps the litch again, but Elsa can't imagine why.
"It was rhetorical," she grumbles.
"I know it was," Rapunzel replies. "I just wasn't going to play that game. Look, I don't know who all you've known, so I can't really talk specifics, but I don't think your family had a choice about leaving you, right? I'm not sure you can count them? And Pabbie hasn't left you. He's got to see something in you, right?"
"He thinks he owes me a debt or something," Elsa grumbles.
"That's a lie," Rapunzel snaps, then goes on somewhat more gently. "That might be a lie you believe, but it's still a lie. Pabbie cares a lot about you. He's too… how do I put this… too go-getterish to leave debts unsettled? If he thought he owed you something, he strikes me as the kind of person who would repay it and then be done with it? He's repaid his debts and is sticking around anyway. And if he leaves you, it will be because he's an old goat and the reaper has finally caught up with him."
Elsa winces, and her thoughts turn to the eldritch stockpile boiling just beneath her fingers. She could keep that from happening ever, but then what of Anna? Anna has asked for it, Pabbie hasn't.
She's spared from her thoughts by the drumming of furious feet on the creaking stairs. Anna bursts into the room, her face the same shade of red as her hair. Her chest heaves in the most interesting way. Her fists are clenched so tightly they've squeezed away all their color. Her eyes burn with a flame that makes her scarlet hair seem dim. There are tears in the corners of those fierce eyes.
"Pack your shit," she says. "We're leaving."
AN: Happy Spooktober friends! As always, thank you for all the follows/favorites/reviews. Moar plz! Ahem. I'll try to earn them with more regular updates. I have aspirations to update at least once a month now that the rough draft of my original work is finally done but I have no idea honestly if I'll be able to stick to that.
Ambulance pro tip: full moons are NUTS. I am the least superstitious person you will ever meet. I don't believe in anything that can't be explained by science, but… holy crap. I respect the power of the word "quiet" on duty, and I respect the power of the full moon. I don't know what it is. Maybe something magnetic? Maybe confirmation bias? Maybe people subconsciously recognize that it's a full moon and that they are therefore expected to go crazy? I don't pretend to know. What I do know, is that every full moon has twice as many calls as any other day, and they're all WEIRD. Tomorrow is a full moon. And a weekend. And a blue moon. And Halloween… and I'm on duty. Please, for the love of fuck, just… don't tonight. Please don't do anything crazy, please don't do anything you don't want to have to explain to a paramedic, just have your bowl of candy, greet the trick-or-treaters, awww at their little costumes, and then go to bed. I'm so tired of getting bitten…