In the Nile's Emerald Depths, chapter 5
Major developments in this chapter. We're approaching the end of the ancient side of the story-in another chapter of two we'll be getting to Leora's POV.
Reviews have not been so forth coming. Feedback would be great, but this fandom had died down a bit since the movie's glory days. It's to be expected-at least I've gotten some response, unlike my on-going Aeon Flux bit. Talk about a ghost town.
Anyways, enjoy.
-XXX-
They found ease in their marriage. Imhotep was, simply put, the marrying sort. Masika took a little time to find balance in her new life, but they soon enough were on an even keel. They rubbed along quite nicely then. Running a household had never appealed to her before, but she found she quite liked it. There was a small fleet of servants more than willing to help her plan around the day. Her husband came to appreciate the effect of a figurehead of the household-as a whole, the day ran much more smoothly. Sensible decisions were made without his consultation. For a good, long time they were happy.
Masika loved the freedom of marriage. As a child, she'd heard women speak of figurative chains being unbound upon their unions, and always took it as a silly, unrealistic thing. But then she saw- - - there was no need for permission to go to market, alerting anyone whenever she left the house, or visited the garden. She no longer required escorts to the temple. And, with her own allowance, shopping was suddenly much, much easier. Imhotep did not care what she did in regards to decoration, food, planning. It was all hers to control. Masika loved it.
Quickly, the pair found themselves in a small storm of older, wiser, longer-married friends, offering advice, support, and eagerly awaiting the arguments. Most had suffered through heartbreak in the infant months of their unions. To see even the most dedicated couple at odds with one another would assure them that they were normal. To fight was natural.
Unfortunately, they were disappointed- - - while there were occasional spats and disagreements, no wars came. It just wasn't them; they communicated well enough.
-XXX-
He never experienced as much pride as seeing her swollen with child. Humming gently, she would wander throughout their home, one hand resting on her growing bump. He might sit and watch her for hours on end, perfectly content. Masika was surprisingly mellow in her condition, which only furthered their quiet happiness.
They had their dark moments. Masika's mother had perished in labor, taking her second child with her. This haunted the entire pregnancy. The couple fretted together. When the memory surfaced, Masika would grow distant. Imhotep was put on edge in these moments. As the months passed, he knew they could not live like this; they needed a back-up.
He delved further and further into magical studies- - - something he ought to have done long ago. There were healing spells in his mentor's scrolls, small and vast, for everything from cuts, bruises to broken limbs, bruised organs and severe lacerations. The greatest could bring back the dead, healing the body and retrieving the soul from Anubis's realm. The scroll warned of the god's offense at the removal of a soul, but an offering and plenty of prayers should sway his wrath.
The thought of such a spell impressed the priest. How very useful, that he might revive those close to him. As for his wife, well….they need not worry over what should a wondrous occasion. He might very well save his wife and child, should it be needed.
Imhotep could never forgive himself if he did not try.
However, his wife was entirely opposed to what the scrolls had to offer. Something he wasn't prepared for.
She happened across the old papyrus scrolls one afternoon by mistake. Masika came to inquire after their evening plans- - - she felt too tired for a visit to the court. Draping herself behind Imhotep's chair, she lightly nuzzled his neck. Her husband chuckled softly. The papyrus was jostled, making a distinct crackle. Reaching down, Masika asked after the contents' of her husband's reading materials. Casually, the priest replied, "A few chants, ceremonial healing spells. Things I thought might be…useful. To us."
"Us?" Masika tugged the scroll away to scan the primitive paper. The deeper into the tect she became, the further she drifted from him, stepping away fully at one point to pace the floor. Wary, Imhotep was silent as his wife shook out the paper, squinted to read the hieroglyphs, bit her lip. In no time her pallor had whitened, colour vanishing.
Turning to him slowly, expression grave, she said, "A resurrection spell? For-"
The pitch of her voice was enough to make him wince. Imhotep replied calmly. "I want to be prepared."
"For this?" she whispered. "I don't even want to think- - - "
She was clearly distraught. He rose cautiously. "It is nothing more than a precaution."
Trembling, Masika asked, "And what of the baby? This spell is for one. What then?"
There was a deafening silence that engulfed the room as the Nile's flood on spring banks. The couple stared at one another, the few feet physically separating them suddenly feeling immense. Lips parted, Masika's breath had stopped. Her husband appeared very, very somber.
"I cannot live without you," he began. "And, unfortunately, if you both…go…it will be you I shall seek."
Masika sank to her knees, eyes on the floor. When she glanced up, tears welled in their corners.
"The baby…will have only just come into the world. Their soul will not be concrete. It is as if for every second spent in this life is like a thread attaching the soul to earthly existence. You will have many threads. And they…they shall not," he explained softly.
His wife shuddered against the stone. "Imhotep."
"I am sorry, Masika…."
"This is only a possibility," she whispered. "Not certain! Oh, Isis."
He was fierce. "I will not let you…not when I might…."
She shook her head. Imhotep crossed to kneel before her, gathering her to him. Both pensive, a hearty pause followed. Each had been hurt in an inadvertent, well-intentioned manner. Neither knew what could prevent a further divide. It was as if the surface had just been slightly cracked. If they went deeper, they feared discovering even more incompatible notions. And then they would simply break.
No one wanted that.
Finally Masika spoke.
"This is only a small possibility; many have overcome similar circumstances. The steps we've already taken may have prevented me from sharing my mother's fate. We cannot dwell, it will kill us. I don't want to consider…"she breathed, swallowing slowly. "I wish to only speak of this once, and then never again."
Masika looked him straight in the eye. "If you love me, you will let me die. You will save our child, and leave me to Anubis. And, even if the babe is healthy and I fade, Imhotep, I bid you: let me pass."
"How can you ask this of me?" he whispered, eyes dark.
"I cannot have that spell in your debt. It would kill you. And what of the god? His anger could not affect us? What of later?" Masika caressed her swollen womb. "Everything has its price. I shall pay this one."
"I cannot let you."
"You must."
She said this so simply. Imhotep was so taken aback. He reached for her belly. It was tepid. Beneath the flesh there was a slight vibration. Their child. When he glanced up, she was watching him, head tilted.
"As you wish, Panya."
-XXX-
With that, he put away the scrolls. As promised, they did not speak of it again.
Then came the day. The single day all of his worst fears came to realization.
It started in the morning. He awoke to her in his arms. She shuddered against the blankets, as though cold. Imhotep blinked back morning sunlight as his wife shifted toward him. Sweat lined her forehead. Her husband reached out, and as she moved closer, her features jolted in a wince. Imhotep's brow furrowed. "Masika?"
She stared up, open-mouthed, breathless.
"What is it?"
Her mouth contorted again. "Oh, Isis," she murmured. "I've started, I think.."
In a second he was sitting up, out of bed, crossing to their bedroom door to shout for servants. When they came, all she could make out were hushed tones. No distinct words or phrases. Seconds later he was back, on his knees beside her, eyelevel.
"A midwife is coming. How do you feel?" His fingers skimmed her brow and cheek.
Masika's eyes were tight. "It hurts far more that I thought it might," she whimpered slightly.
"It will hurt," he reminded her. "But you are strong. You can bear this."
His wife almost laughed.
The midwife and her women arrived in only fifteen minutes-fifteen minutes too long, in Imhotep's mind. But they had selected her for skill, not proximity. She bustled in with her three girls, moving Imhotep to the corner.
The first thing the midwife did was push back the sheets. Then, they found it. The beginning of his nightmare.
Deep burgundy stained the linen. Masika did not see this, as she was being lifted to sit by two of the girls, gasping from the motion. But Imhotep saw, and the midwife saw. They exchanged horrified glances. Then, a silent communication passed between the priest and midwife: Do not tell Masika. Not yet.
Then, as if it were like any other labor, the woman calmly turned to her girls, setting them about work, ordering new sheets, boiling water, and something cool for the mother. Imhotep did not leave his wife's besides as the rush of activity moved by them.
Hours passed. Masika's pain increased doubly. Imhotep's lips were tighter than a bowstring.
"Is it always this bad?" Masika asked, withering from discomfort.
"Only with your first," the midwife assured her merrily. But her expression when she turned away told Imhotep otherwise; this pain was not normal. Whatever his wife was suffering, it was not standard for most labors.
After nearly twelve solid hours of labor, the baby was ready to come. Her shattering contractions peaked. A little more blood escaped with each. Dusk had fallen. The High Priest was pulled from the room when he began to speak of the spell. Without a word, his wife's face crumbled and she burst into tears. The midwife scolded, and insisted he be removed until reasonably calm. Imhotep protested as the girls shoved him out the door. He remained outside for twenty minutes, anxiously fretting.
Earlier in the day, he'd cornered the midwife to confirm their options.
"Her body will not handle this. The baby will be born, and she will fade."
"No-"
"There is no way around it. This child will be born, but his mother…she may last to morning. But the blood…maybe not."
He would not allow it. There was an alternative. If she would see his misery, perhaps.
When Masika began pushing, Imhotep was allowed to enter. Her cries pained him greatly, but he simply held her wrists, ignoring the blood and the midwife's strained expression. Ages passed before the head appeared. Masika prayed to Isis for strength while Imhotep silently bided Anubis to spare his wife.
Finally, finally the baby was out. The midwife's girls swept it away. A few seconds later there was a high-pitched cried. Sagging against the headboard, Masika gasped in relief. Her husband rose as the child, swaddled and cleaned, was presented. It was passed directly to Masika. Still aching, in breathless awe, the mother examined her read, wrinkly, sobbing creature as thought it were the most precious she had ever beheld.
"What-What-?"
"A boy," the midwife offered quickly. "Healthy and strong."
Masika stroked her son's nose with one finger. He'd mostly stopped crying, leaving only muffled whimpers. Imhotep sank beside her, catching her elbow for a gentle caress. But she only had eyes for her boy.
"Nsu," she said quietly. "Strong."
She looked to her husband for confirmation. His gaze was already upon her.
"Yes. Nsu."
-XXX-
When they told her, she was very quiet. Imhotep remember then her mother had gone this same way. The pain, the blood…all similar. After a lengthy pause, Masika spoke.
"Very well, then."
Her husband roared.
"Masika!" He stood. "No, we can prevent this. I can stop this. You're being foolish."
She watched him rage, then calmly asked the midwife, "My son, please."
"Yes, miss," the woman quickly complied, turned from the room to retrieve the babe.
Imhotep fell to his knees beside their bed, eyes blank. Masika took his hands into her own, touching the knuckles.
"Will you not even consider…." He faltered. "Rehama…Panya, you are my life."
"And you are mine," she assented. "Entirely. Which is why I cannot let you do this. The cost is not worth it. Imhotep," Masika took his chin, tilting it up. "I love you. You do not deserve a life with that debt. I swear, when your time comes, I shall be there waiting for you. But until then, you must let go."
"You want to leave me," he accused darkly.
His wife shook her head, lips curling. "You think I would wish to die? To see my child grow up motherless? To watch you mourn? This is not what I wanted. I seek life as much as you. But not this way."
As much has he cursed her, caressed, demanded and pleaded, she would not allow him to even entertain the notion; he'd made a promise. She swore to resist all efforts.
Already weary, the stress of the argument drained her. Guilt settled over him, and Imhotep faltered in his words. So, he rested beside his wife. The midwife entered when silence resumed.
When the baby came, they sat together, observing their son. While the night moved on, Masika sunk further and further into bed- - - even sitting was tiring. For the most part, Imhotep spoke, reliving aloud their courtship, describing their son's blazing future. Masika smiled, breathe labored.
In the early hours of the morn, Masika gave a small, shuddering cry. Her husband, who had left for a cup of water at Masika's request, flew up the stairs. Upon his reaching the threshold, his wife half-turned in the bed. She locked eyes with the High Priest, then, quite suddenly, the eyes lost focus. Mouth, partially open, his love lay frozen in her weary loveliness.
She was gone. Departed to Anubis's judgment chamber.
He would never forgive her for that.
-XXX-
I'll be honest-I didn't research anything about miscarriages or women dying after giving birth. Everything up there was a result of imagination of what it might look like, how a midwife in ancient Egypt might run a labor, etc. If I've made any majoy mistakes (I'm 18 and never had kids), please let me know so that I might make the fixes.
Awesome.
~Dania