Ugh. Most of you have probably forgotten about this story at this point…please accept my apologies, it's been way too long since I've updated. I've had all sorts of computer problems and school anxieties and personal complications…however, I'm done with the academic year, so the updates will be coming regularly after this. That's a promise. (If I don't keep it, please antagonize me about it…) In recompense, I think this is the longest chapter yet…

The story's kind of taken a darker turn in this chapter…I kept the rating the same, but if you think I should change it just send me a message or let me know in a review! Just a warning for the faint of heart, it's weird, and probably a little disturbing…the first part is a continuation of the first part of Chapter 2. That said, it'll probably still be a bit confusing. It will all be explained in time…

Thank you once more to all those who reviewed last time! I really take your thoughts to heart and your reviews help my writing so much…and they make me really happy too! =D My heartfelt gratitude to ltkk022, Tenshi no Toki, TealPhoenix, Jaims17, haku fan1, Rahuratna, Chibi-Roy-Chan, Mittelan, Alug-Andaaz-Hai, BlackxCinderella, Goddess of the Black Moon, mystralwind, Salarah, Calm Envy, MokoBunChan, The Sin of Envy, AFC~, name_your_price, Slave To My Pen, ranchan-akari, and one anonymous reviewer whose review had me laughing hysterically (thank you, and no you didn't ruin it don't worry). I follow a lot of your stories and am continually honored that such talented people like my writing.

Just a few extra things – sorry if it's a little slow, it'll pick up in the next chapter. Also, in response to some queries, Marik will not be making an appearance in this story. Just so you know. =)

ʘ

Mahado didn't move. Malik began to carefully edge out sideways between him and the wall.

"Not so fast." Mahado's hand was on the wall next to him, trapping him there. He gazed down at the younger man with an unpleasant gleam in his eyes. "What's your rush?" He was way too close now.

"It's late," Malik stammered, still looking at the ground. "And if there's nothing else you need me to do here…"

"On the contrary," returned Mahado. "There is." With a vague smile, he reached up and ran his fingers through Malik's light-colored hair. The younger man was stock still, barely daring to breathe.

"The night is almost spent," the older man murmured. "Why would I go back now?"

Time stood still for a brief moment. Mahado watched Malik intently in the darkness, as if trying to memorize his face. One hand continued to play idly with Malik's hair. Malik was uneasy, desperately wishing to be anywhere else. He felt queasy. One part of him was screaming to cut and run, while the other urged him to stay still and not do anything that could potentially make things worse.

Mahado's expression was one Malik used to notice in the eyes of the palace cats. As a child, he used to watch them sometimes when he was taking a break from his books, studying them and trying to understand their ways. Of course, he never got too close, since they were revered as gods and could potentially get affronted by his proximity. Malik had his private doubts about whether the cats were really deities, but had always kept them to himself along with quite a few other questions.

Ishizu was sometimes mystified at her brother's fascination with the cats, but assumed it was a sign from Bastet, an omen that she was watching over Malik. What he didn't tell her was that he didn't like them at all. He was only trying to comprehend their motives. They were adored and well-fed, but nonetheless, would always prey on the first mouse they saw. They got their joy out of catching the mice, pretending to let them go, only to turn again at the last minute and crunch their heads between their teeth. It was a cruel game. As if it wasn't enough that the cats encouraged doomed hope of survival, but in the moment before their death, the folly of the mouse was revealed, its foolishness in believing it could have been saved. And after all, wasn't that the worst thing you could do to one who was dying – prove that their entire existence had been a joke?

And yet, when the occasional asp would slither across a cat's path, the cat attacked it with deadly purpose. It would never toy with a snake the way it did with a mouse, the way Mahado was doing right now. At first, Malik would be confused. Why did the cunning asp, with its slitted eyes and flat head, get more sympathy than the mouse? But one day, an asp lashed out with its fangs, the cat was dead a minute later, and it all suddenly became clear. It wasn't about kindness at all. The cat simply knew the asp would bite back.

Slowly, the hand that was entwined in Malik's hair tightened until it hurt. Mahado was still watching him with the careful, detached interest of a puppeteer, curious how long it would take for him to protest against the pain. Not wanting to give him any satisfaction, Malik shut his eyes, willing himself not to make a sound.

He heard Mahado chuckle to himself, and the next thing he knew, the priest's lips were suddenly on his, demanding and insistent, kissing him hard enough to bruise. Malik's eyes snapped open, and he made a noise of protest that was muffled against the other man's mouth.

Mahado bit down on his lower lip – not a romantic lover's nip, but a bite hard enough to draw blood. Malik gasped in spite of himself, and Mahado seized upon the opportunity to thrust his tongue between Malik's lips before he knew what was happening.

Unlike some, Malik had never dreamed of his first kiss being with anyone in particular. Despite the meaningless caresses he saw in the palace and the city, from the Pharaoh with his concubines to the prostitutes on the street, Malik had always defiantly held onto the belief that his first kiss would prove to be nothing less than a herald of true love. Perhaps others would dismiss a kiss as a mere trifle, something lovely and fleeting and as insignificant as moonlight on the water. But for him it would be different.

It would be something special, something completely separate from the usual dullness of the day-to-day – something beautiful and filled with light and endowed with meaning. He knew somehow that love wasn't simply lust, or the fondness one would feel for a friend. Nor was it the flame of infatuation – because infatuation burned away eventually, didn't it?

Was true love the transcendent union of Nun and Naunet – chaos met with the abyss, form born of formlessness, bringing forth the light of being? Was it, like the love of Tefnut and Shu, as changing and as stormy as water and air? Maybe, like the passion of Nut and Geb, it was as inexplicable as the mysteries of earth and sky. Or perhaps it was the patient, kind love of Isis and Osiris, strengthened by adversity and lasting until the end of time.

In Malik's mind, falling in love was a little like dying. He couldn't know what it was like until it happened, but still he wondered. And sometimes he wondered too about the unknown beloved with whom he would share his first kiss. He wondered what this person would look like, if he would fall in love right away or slowly, if they would meet tomorrow or at some distant point in the future. And he dreamed of that someone finding him worthwhile, maybe even precious. He dreamed of having someone to cherish himself. And he dreamed of this person, whoever they might be, who would be an oasis in the desert of his soul - a shelter from the storm that raged within him.

The first emotion that surfaced was not anger, or fear, but disbelief. This can't be what a kiss is. It can't be. Malikcould feel the priest's loathsome tongue sliding against his own, wet and forceful, pushing deeper into his mouth. There was the metallic taste of blood on his lips.

With a shudder of revulsion, Malik summoned all the strength he could find and violently wrenched himself away from the priest. He stumbled away, impotent fury rising in his chest, feeling as if he had been robbed. He spat vehemently, his only thought that he needed the taste of Mahado out of his mouth.

A moment passed, and he straightened up slowly. He could sense the priest's eyes on him from behind.

"Isn't that sweet." Mahado's voice was cold and hard. "So now I know what you really think of me."

Carefully Malik wiped his mouth, and a creeping horror dawned on him as he realized what he had just done. Useless tears of outrage still stood in his eyes, but although he hated himself for doing it, he forced himself to mutter an apology.

"Don't lie. You're not sorry." Malik heard Mahado walk closer to him and forced himself to stay where he was. "Are you aware of the penalty for such disrespect?" Do not run. It will go worse for you if he sees how scared you are.

"I apologize if I offended you." Malik tried to keep the hatred out of his voice.

"Offend me?" Mahado sounded intrigued now. "Someone like you could never offend me. A priest is not insulted by the comments of a slave."

The words stung, despite how often their like had been heard before. "I'm not a slave," Malik said quietly.

"Is that what you think?" said Mahado, and Malik tensed as he felt the priest's hand on his shoulder. It was a weirdly inappropriate gesture of amity, and Malik suddenly wondered if the priest had been drinking.

"Let me tell you something, then." He gave a mocking chuckle as his fingers began to trace slowly along Malik's neck, deliberate and proprietary. Malik shuddered.

"Despite what you may think," Mahado continued, "being a slave is not about what family you were born into. It's about whether you were made to control others, wield power and command respect – or whether you were born to follow orders, serve your betters and hold your tongue. Do you really need me to tell you which you are?"

Mahado laughed then, a hateful sound to Malik's ears. You have no idea, do you? Ishizu, Atemu, Seth? That the man you hold up as so noble, so good and so just – that he could laugh like that?

And finally, at that moment, it became too much. Malik whirled around to face Mahado, shoving his hand away. "I'm no slave," he told the priest from between gritted teeth. "You have no idea what I am. You have no right to tell me what I am and am not, and you have even less right to touch me."

The catlike look was back in Mahado's eyes again, as if the game had become more fun the instant Malik decided to fight back.

"You think I don't know you?" Mahado stepped closer to Malik. The younger man retreated to maintain his distance; dimly he was aware they were approaching the far end of the hallway. One step backward, one step closer to the outside…

"You'll find, as you go through life," Mahado told him, advancing steadily, "that those who talk the most are the hardest to get to know. And those who don't talk…well, they're a little on the obvious side, if you know what I mean. You think just because you don't talk, I can't tell what you're thinking. But I regret to inform you it's exactly the opposite." For all his philosophy, Mahado sounded no less menacing.

Malik stepped backwards into the empty space beyond the end of the hallway, on the opposite end from the sealed chamber where Aknamkanon lay. Here, the hallway widened into a circular junction where myriad tunnels and hallways met and diverged. One of the paths eventually led back to the outside of the tomb, but there were many different ones to choose from, and Malik couldn't tell in the dimness which he had come by. He might not have remembered, even if he had been able to see. The only light there was emanated from the oil lamps in the hallway. The rest was unreadable darkness.

"The opposite?" Malik didn't really want to hear Mahado's answer, but he hoped to distract the priest enough so that he would be able to attempt some kind of escape. They were getting farther and farther away from the last traces of lamplight in the hallway now, and the shadows grew around Mahado's face until his features were almost consumed by the darkness.

"You think you're special," Mahado continued, voice cold with disdain. The light lingered in his eyes and then vanished as the last glow of candle light left them. "You think you're different. You think you're going to see the world – I've seen you with those books of yours. You manage to fool people into thinking you're some sweet, passive, humble little nobody – but the truth is, you think you're so much better than the rest of us…"

"Well, guess what, Malik? The truth is, you're not special. You're no different from any other slave." He scoffed. "And what ever made you think you were going to travel and see the world? You wouldn't know what to do outside the city limits, never mind outside the Kingdom of Egypt. And you think you're so superior, aloof, untouchable…" Mahado laughed, that horrible slow laugh again. "Well, I guess I'll be the one to show you how wrong you are."

He would think back on it later, and wonder if perhaps his fear had made him irrational. It might have been a trick of the light, or the look in Mahado's eyes, or the way it seemed his hand was moving toward the ceremonial knife at his side - but at that moment Malik felt suddenly sure that Mahado didn't intend for him to leave the tomb alive.

He feinted right abruptly, as if he was going to dash for the tunnel nearest him, but quickly turned and ran towards another that was to his left. He darted through the darkness blindly, praying his foot wouldn't catch on something and fall, not caring anymore that he couldn't see where he was going or that he might be running into a trap or worse. Behind him he could hear the priest's angry shouts, a reassuring distance away, as he tried to figure out where exactly Malik had gone. Malik hoped Mahado couldn't see in the dark too well. His own eyes were wide open, in protest of the blackness all around.

Nothing is what you are, and nothing is what you'll be.

He stumbled and almost fell, but picked himself up and kept running. The empty air whistled by. The blackness was abysmal, neverending. He put his arms out on either side and discovered he could feel the walls on both sides of a narrow hallway. He let his fingers trace along the stone as he ran. At least he knew the space he was in, and at least he wouldn't run into a wall…unless this was a dead end. But he didn't allow himself to acknowledge this possibility. He could hear Mahado behind him, and although he was still a good distance away, he knew the priest had discovered the right path and was following him.

Malik's fingertips ran along small ridges and notches in the cool limestone – hieroglyphics, but that didn't tell him where he was. There was writing on almost every wall in the underground tomb, but in the dark, the engravings were meaningless. This must be what it's like to be blind, he thought, cursing his luck. If he'd had more time maybe he would have paused to try and decipher some of the carvings, which might have given him some clue about where he was in the tomb, depending on the story they described. But Mahado was after him, getting closer by the second – he could hear the man's voice behind him, calling out his name, but the syllables of the word were suddenly alien, unfamiliar. The sounds echoed hollowly off the walls of rock, repeating and bouncing off each other, until the reverberations combined to reach his ears: Malik.

Come back, Malik.

Is that really my name? It sounded like a plea in a foreign tongue, urgent and meaningless.

The passageway took a sharp turn to the right and narrowed. The words beneath his hands changed to carved faces, and as his legs carried him farther and farther down the passageway, his fingers went skimming over sealed lips, hands frozen in motion, and countless eyes carved of stone, wide-lidded and unseeing. The walls seemed to be filled with eyes in the dark, watching blindly as he tore down the tunnel. His heart was pounding so hard it should have torn free of his rib cage. The back of his throat tasted like blood.

Malik, stop. Come back.

Malik.

The priest was still behind him, somewhere. The echoes multiplied in the confined space until it seemed to Malik's terror-warped mind that not one but many voices were calling him. Different voices, some no louder than a whisper – some lost, some angry or sorrowful. Oh, Malik, they mourned. Come back, Malik! they screamed.

Suddenly and without warning, the passageway came to an end. The walls beneath his fingertips gave way to empty space and for one terrifying instant Malik thought he was going to plummet off the edge of some underground precipice. He came to halt and realized, with a sense of acute relief, that the floor had not given way, just the walls; it was not a trap. Trying to catch what was left of his breath, he noticed that while the floors of the underground hallways in the tomb were level and smooth, the ground beneath his feet now had become rough and unfinished, as if the workers had stopped mid job.

It dawned on Malik that he must be at the edge of the tomb. Perhaps it was a dead end, perhaps it wasn't. He didn't know what to expect. The danger of running into a trap, however, was probably past.

He needed to find a hiding place; Mahado was advancing, fast. He could hear the thud of his running feet coming closer, carrying down the tunnel. Malik walked out further into the empty air, and after a moment his hands found contact with another rock wall – this one uncarved, as blank as the floor. He ran his hands further down along the wall, and found a round opening and beyond, a sort of hollowing out of the rock. A niche or a hole of some kind? He had no idea what it was, but his options were limited; Mahado was getting closer and time was running out. He lowered his head and climbed inside the cavity.

It was low ceilinged, less than his standing height, and he had to bend in order to fit. The first thing he noticed was a putrid stench that filled the hollow space. It was the scent of rot, something ripe to the point of decay. The only thing that kept him from retching was the fear that Mahado would hear and find him. If he managed to be quiet, there was still a chance the priest might not notice the hole. There might be another passageway nearby to lead him astray; if Malik could wait here until he had passed on or given up, he had a hope of escaping – however distant that hope might be.

Gingerly, he stepped a little farther into the cavity, trying to find its dimensions so he had some idea of the space he was confined to. It was a small catacomb, probably improvised by the workers to store equipment and tools while they were building the tomb. Impossibly, the darkness seemed to be even thicker here – the pressure of the blackness around him was almost like being underwater.

He stepped on something soft, and as his foot landed on it it gave way easily with a wet sound. The stench suddenly got much worse. At the center of the soft substance was something long and slippery and hard, almost like a bone, and then he realized what it was.

Do not scream, Malik. That would be bad for you, would it not? He will find you if you make a sound. What is there to be afraid of anyway? What is dead cannot hurt you.

That was a different voice, a quiet one. But Malik's mind refused to think about this. If he thought about what was in the catacomb with him, he might go insane.

Mahado's footsteps came to the end of the hallway. Malik could tell he was now walking into the strange space at the edge of the tomb. He half-expected the priest to call him again, make some accusation, curse him, perhaps – but he said nothing. Outside the catacomb, he could hear Mahado pacing back and forth on quiet feet, listening.

Malik held his breath. Mahado stopped pacing. Now everything was quiet and still in the grave. He heard something he thought was the sound of insects crawling.

Malik didn't breathe, and the silence dragged on. He strained to hear, hoping against hope that Mahado would start walking away, but by then the blood was rushing in his ears. His head felt light. He realized, with a strange clarity, that he was going to lose consciousness. Wasn't it strange that he'd been able to go without breathing for this long? He wouldn't have thought it was possible, but apparently it was.

Later, he remembered thinking, just before he passed out, that it was sadly pointless to have held his breath. Mahado would just hear him collapse, anyway.

ʘ

At first, in the blackness, Malik thought that he had died.

After a while, though, he realized that he was breathing, and alive. Perhaps I'm in a dream, he thought. Caught in the web between worlds. He wondered if he would be stuck here forever, and hoped not, because his back was sore, and his shoulders were twisted behind him.

As the pain came back, Malik became aware that his head was throbbing too. And then the memory of everything returned. Oddly enough, he remained calm at first.

He was sure Mahado would be gone. But he remembered more or less how to get back. If he kept his hands on the walls the whole way, he would be able to find his way back to the hallway he'd been in before, the one that led to the Pharaoh's chamber. After that, he didn't know what he'd do, but he doubted he would care, because at least he would be in the light of the oil lamps. Beyond food or water, he wanted light. The darkness felt like it was seeping beneath his eyelids.

When he tried to move, though, pain shot up his arms. Mahado had bound his hands together at the wrist behind his back with what were, Malik realized, the leather straps from his sandals. They were tied loosely enough so they wouldn't cut off the blood, but tightly enough so Malik knew he had little hope of getting free.

At first he tried talking to the darkness, to see if Mahado was still there. His legs were numb and his arms were useless. Part of him didn't believe that Mahado would leave him here to die. He wouldn't have disappeared without doing him the common courtesy of slitting his throat. But the silence stretched on unbroken and Malik's pleas grew more and more hysterical until he was cursing Mahado at the top of his lungs, shouting every insult he could think of into the blackness, where it bounced and echoed down the labyrinth of empty hallways within the web of the underground tomb.

He screamed until he ran out of things to say. And then silence; pervasive and thick, like a fog. It dragged on and on until his fingers, fidgeting nervously, found themselves trying to twist back at the knots of the leather straps to get them free – but after a few moments of fumbling, he realized they were of the kind of secret ritual knot known only to the priests. He would never be able to untie them. This realization awoke sorrow in him, as if mourning himself already dead, and it spilled out of his eyes down his face, hot and fierce.

Malik wept for a long time, but after a while his tears dried up, as tears will. He was simply too exhausted to go on. And besides, his sorrow was useless. Why did the impulse to cry survive even when there was nobody around to hear? It didn't make sense. Why tell his troubles to an empty tomb?

For it was an empty tomb indeed. All the sounds Malik had imagined, all the voices and echoes throughout the tunnels, they had all died down. Nothing but dead silence for immeasurable distance, so profound that his ears buzzed in protest. It was something like what having your head full of natron must be like, Malik thought. But he was going to die and for this reason, his thought had no consequence, and might as well have not existed. After all, there would be no-one else to give his thoughts to from now on, no-one to listen or remember. Aside from the soft, dead thing in the dark somewhere next to him, he was alone.

He had now done everything he would ever do. He had said everything he would ever say. He had had his chance to make his mark in the world, and now it was over. Now that he had talked and screamed and wept himself hoarse, the fact of his impending death loomed over him in the quiet. His time on earth was done, and Malik was no longer sure any of it had meant anything. Ishizu, no doubt, would tell him that this was only the last stage of his journey before he joined the eternal world of the spirits, before he went to see the Gods face to face. This was a joyful time, according to her. But suddenly, everything she had ever told him seemed to be complete nonsense, myths and fairy tales for children. He felt as if a veil had been lifted from his eyes and for the first time, he saw things as they really were. Was there any reason to think he wouldn't just descend into oblivion? What if all the kings in their pyramids – Khufu and Thutmose and Khafra – were dead,really dead, and were now nothing more than mouldering bodies?

Even if there was a point to all those rituals, he knew there would be nobody to prepare his own body for burial, nobody to read the right spells over him to ensure his spirit's survival. Even if he had been embalmed, he would probably just rejoin the Pharaoh's court to be a servant in the afterlife as well, or become a wandering ghost. But as it was, he would just remain here, underground, unburied, decaying – his heart would crumble, along with everything he had ever thought or known. His name would be forgotten, and his soul would be lost, like a grain of sand in the storm. He would die and vanish into anonymity – for who would remember him, after all? There was a wisp of life in him, like a candle flame – but it could be extinguished so suddenly, and what would be left of him afterwards? Nothing more than the remnants of the flesh he had once inhabited…

Malik didn't want to think about this, but as soon as he tried to think of something else, his mind would return to the thought he had been trying to escape – gnawing at it gleefully as a hungry rat, eviscerating it, turning it inside out, refusing to be satisfied until it had gotten to the heart of the matter. What else was there to think about? His five senses yielded nothing; it was dark and silent and numb, and even the smell of the rotting thing had become less noticeable after time. Everything he had ever learned or heard or known seemed suddenly useless, as inconsequential to him now as what they would be serving for breakfast in the palace. There was an empty place in his heart that he had never noticed before, and that was where fear now made its home, curling up comfortably as a waiting snake in its hole.

And so it was, perhaps out of desperation, that Malik began to tell himself stories.

He told himself all the legends Ishizu had told him as a child, all the myths he had read, all the yarns spun on summer evenings in the Pharaoh's city. He had always had a good memory, and his voice filled the silence for hours, recounting fables and fantasies to the listening darkness. When he ran out of tales he knew, he began to make them up – wild dramas populated with crocodiles and kings and Phoenician sailors. But after a while these stories too descended into chaos, running amok and losing coherency. And finally, when he had run out of things to say, Malik fell silent once more.

It was then that the voice came, quietly, as if it had been there all along.

Why don't you tell another story? it asked.

It startled him so badly at first that he was unable to say anything. It was the same voice that had spoken to him before, that had told him not to be afraid – but he'd been sure he'd imagined it. The voice said nothing else for a while, waiting, and finally Malik replied.

"What?" he said. But the voice said nothing. "Is anyone there?" he asked again at length. He could have sworn he'd been alone.

Nobody's here, said the voice. It was close, very close, and somehow far away. It sent apprehensive goosebumps up Malik's spine, but the voice itself wasn't frightening.

"Who are you?" he demanded.

The voice laughed, as if at a private joke. Malik realized the laugh was not coming from outside, but he heard it as if it was originating from somewhere within – like the droning of a fly that had crawled into his ear and was flitting about inside his head.

"You're not me," Malik said. It was a fact. The voice said nothing. "Are you a ghost?" Again, only silence was his reply.

Malik considered the idea that he might have already gone crazy. But as soon as the thought emerged, the voice came again.

You're not insane, it said. You're as sane as you'll ever be.

"You can hear me thinking," Malik said. The voice assented.

"Why are you here?" he asked.

Why are you here? the voice echoed.

The voice was one he would never forget, he was sure of that. But as soon as he tried to pin down what was so strange about it, it degenerated into vagueness, impossible to define. It was like the whisper of a feeble wind in dry grass, and it was like the buzzing howl in the center of a sandstorm, and it was like the last drop of water evaporating from a riverbed – and it was like none of these things at the same time.

"What do you want from me?" he asked finally.

I want you to tell a story, it said. It sounded calm, and a little sad, and so alien and so familiar it broke his heart. It awoke a strange frenzy in Malik's soul, like a cornered animal, as if mania lay just beneath its placid surface. Or maybe it was just him. It was impossible to tell, just like it was impossible to tell if the voice was toying with him or not.

"I don't know any more stories," Malik said, and it was the truth.

Make one up, said the voice.

"About what?"

Tell a story about a little boy, said the voice.

Just as he was about to protest that he couldn't, Malik felt the words come loose on his tongue, unbidden, and he began to tell a story. The story was not his own, and the words came from a place that was strange and far away.

Once, not so long ago, there lived a little boy. He walked the pathways of love, but still, he was often lonely.

Malik went on talking, unable to stop, and he would have sunk into the grip of terror had not a presence settled itself over his brain, like a warm wool blanket. He didn't worry after that. Thoughts and words came and glimmered briefly before disappearing, like stones sinking beneath the surface of a black pool.

This was a little boy who knew of the heat waves before they arrived, who dreamed of the rains before they descended, who could tell when the storms were about to come. And one day a storm came the likes of which he had never seen before…

Later, when Malik tried to think back on it, it was more like a blurry memory from early childhood, or a half-remembered dream. Details of what had been said seemed to shimmer and glow with a bare light, changing constantly, and looking back, Malik realized that he hadn't been feeling entirely himself. All he remembered was the sensation of having been asleep for a long time and finally awakening. He was aware of secret knowledge opening to him, hidden structures of the universe becoming apparent. There was the sense of a high wind in his heart, that blew through the core of his being – cold and exhilarating. There was a crack in the vision of his mind, like the door of the sun, through which shone a light that glared a thousand times brighter than the noonday Sahara, brighter than the eye of one who is dying. He knew what the light meant, and somehow he knew he couldn't look at it just yet, so the door of the sun closed, and the darkness descended over his mind once more. Later Malik would think back and regret that he couldn't remember anything definite, except that thoughts and memories and opinions, which he had once held so important, had seemed to vanish, to melt away like panthers in the mist.

ʘ

Mahado returned three days later, and Malik killed him. That much he knew.

There had been tentative steps in the darkness, loud in the silence, and Malik had waited for him to draw nearer. A golden light appeared on the walls, softly at first and then brighter, until Malik had to close his eyes against the pain. When he finally opened them, it might have been a minute or an hour later, and the priest was kneeling before him. His face was pale, etched with fear and something like remorse. He was looking into Malik's face, and when he saw that Malik was looking back, seemed to relax slightly.

"I thought you would have already died," he said. This struck Malik as an unusual thing to say.

Mahado went on talking, urgently and plaintively, as if he was trying to redeem himself. He talked about a purification ceremony, something evil, a ritual that must be performed. None of it made any impression on Malik. He was beyond caring what the priest had to say, and the incredible fact of his return only registered with Malik much later.

Eventually, Mahado must have realized this, for he broke off abruptly with an apprehensive look on his face. Malik watched Mahado watching him, and it seemed to him that the priest looked even a little afraid.

Where has the cat gone to, Mahado? he thought mockingly.

Mahado took a knife from his robes and deftly cut through the leather straps that bound Malik's wrists. With unprecedented gentleness, he helped Malik climb out of the niche and pulled him to his feet.

Malik was able to move his arms for the first time in three days, and the blood shot through his veins, hot as liquid fire. He flexed his fingers and was delighted to feel the life spring back into them. Mahado had brought an oil lamp with him to light the way; it had been placed on the floor by the wall. Malik picked it up.

"Good idea to bring this," he told Mahado.

Mahado assented quietly. His face looked drawn, and there were bruise-colored shadows under his eyes, as if he hadn't been able to sleep.

"I don't need it anymore, you know," Malik said.

"What?" said Mahado. But Malik had already thrown the oil lamp against the wall.

The light sputtered as it went out. The darkness descended again. There was a scuffle, but even though Mahado was both taller and stronger, Malik managed to wrench the knife from his grip. Later, it would seem to Malik that Mahado hadn't been fighting as hard as he should have.

Now he had a rock pressed against Mahado's windpipe, and the priest's ragged breaths were quickly diminishing. Malik grasped the knife in his other hand; its edge was smooth as a song and sharp as betrayal.

So what will you be, Malik? Will you be a mouse or an asp? Will you run the minute you can, or will you return what has been visited upon you? Will you take what is yours by right?

But by that point, it wasn't even a question anymore. There was no choice now, if there ever had been. At twilight, the sun sinks towards the horizon, and no power on earth can make it stay its course. Malik raised the knife in one hand, and no power in heaven could have made him lower it. And the knife flashed in the darkness; the asp reared its head.

ʘ

There was a sound, like many voices all talking at once, an unintelligible cacophony of gibberish. Some spoke unfamiliar words while others growled or laughed or screamed. The voices echoed, repeating and multiplying before fading into quiet. And images began to race through Malik's head, quick flashes, unfamiliar visions, one after the other, passing by too rapidly to take any of them in. There were alien landscapes, strange monuments, unknown faces, isolated movements that made no sense. There were many images at once, frenetic and bizarre, accelerating until they all seemed to blend together in a sea of color without shade and motion without form, utterly divorced from meaning. Later, Malik would not remember any of them. He would only remember that there had been a voice whispering urgently above the confusion. He'd thought at the time it was his own.

ʘ

Akefia woke up. This immediately put him on guard. He never woke up in the middle of the night unless something was wrong. At the moment, however, nothing seemed extraordinarily out of place. Nobody was yelling, the horses were quiet – everyone was fast asleep, and there was a peaceful lull over the cave. Normally, Akefia would have been temporarily annoyed that this was the case, since if the universe had conspired to wake him in up in the middle of the night, there should at least be some excitement to show for it. But despite appearances, the Thief King was sure something was not as it should be. The feeling was like an uneasy snake in his gut, coiling and uncoiling. Nearby, the oil lamp still flickered. Judging by the wick, it was around three in the morning.

And then he remembered that the young noble was supposed to be here too, but there was no sign of him. Cursing under his breath, Akefia ran a hand through his hair and got to his feet. He knew Malik wasn't exactly happy about the new direction his life had taken. He hoped the boy hadn't gotten some kind of bright idea about trying to find his way back to the city, or even worse, striking it out on his own, because if that was the case Akefia was in for a lot more trouble than he had originally bargained for. Malik had seemed obedient and compliant enough at first, but it was possible he'd read the noble wrong. After all, it wasn't like he said much. And then, of course, there was the possibility that he wouldn't have anything to worry about after all, because there were plenty of opportunities for a quick death in the Sahara at this hour of the night, any number of which Malik might have already met with. This was a very unwelcome possibility, since it would mean that the Thief King had failed at keeping his promise. Akefia couldn't remember the last time he had taken such direct responsibility for someone. If Malik was going to make it more difficult than it needed to be, then by Ra, there would be hell to pay – unless, of course, he wasn't alive anymore.

Malik wasn't by the fire pit, as Akefia had hoped, which left only one possibility as to where he had gone. It was a windy night, which meant sand, but the Thief King didn't bother to cover his face before he ran out into the desert.

As it turned out, he didn't have to look far before he found Malik. He was standing a good distance off, facing away from the cave entrance, which was concealed in the foothills of a low mountain range. There was a clear line where the shadow of the rock gave way to moonlit sand, and this was where Malik was standing now – caught halfway between the shade and the radiance of the moon, which seemed to know the night was already half spent and was shining all the more brightly as if in desperation.

Akefia was silent. He didn't like getting worried, and because of this he didn't worry very often. He had been fully ready to tell the boy what the consequences would be if he ever pulled a stunt like this again – but something about the way Malik was standing had made the thief stop.

At first, Malik appeared to be standing perfectly still – rigid, almost – but then it became apparent that he was actually swaying slightly back and forth, steadily, like a cobra bewitched by the flute. It wasn't noticeable unless one watched him carefully. He rocked on his heels gently, the way one would rock a baby to sleep – and the sand beneath his bare feet made a soft, repetitive sound as it shifted. There was something at the noble's feet, which, the Thief King realized as he drew closer, was the decimated carcass of the camel from that evening.

At some point in the last few minutes, the wind had died down to a plaintive murmur. Akefia approached Malik quietly from behind. He appeared to be sleepwalking, and if he was, Akefia didn't want to wake him up. As he wondered why Malik would have come out here, it occurred to him how strange it was that he'd been able to navigate his way out of the cave asleep. In his experience, people tended to sleepwalk in places they knew well – if Malik had been living with him for years, perhaps it wouldn't have been so odd, but the boy had only arrived a few nights ago.

A few shreds of flesh still clung to the camel's bones, and flies were already buzzing around it lazily, alighting on the corpse only to fly off again half-heartedly and then land once more on an exposed vertebra, or in an empty eye socket. Without the covering of skin, the head looked raw and naked, a lipless mouth exposing oddly sharp teeth. The camel's ribcage lay open to the moonlight, like a treasure chest that had been emptied out.

The wind sighed, and the sands shifted, and the flies buzzed, but still, it was too quiet. Warily, Akefia realized that the only breaths he could hear were his own. This seemed to be impossible – after all, your respiration slowed down when you were asleep, but it didn't stop – but thirty seconds passed and then a full minute, and there was not even the slightest ghost of a breath from Malik. His arms hung by his sides stiffly, but oddly enough his fingers were in motion, describing useless patterns in the air, curling and uncurling restlessly as if playing an invisible harp.

Akefia approached his side, studying Malik's face. Although his eyes were open, he certainly didn't appear to be awake, and he made no sign of having noticed the Thief King's presence. He was gazing down at the corpse by his feet, face devoid of expression, eyes half-lidded and vacant.

What had drawn him out here? The Thief King was certain this wasn't normal behavior, even if he was sleepwalking. He could be hallucinating, perhaps, as a result of stress, or dreaming. That didn't explain the fact that he wasn't breathing, though. Or his hands. They seemed to be moving with a mind of their own, reminding Akefia of the small crabs that one saw sometimes on the banks of the Nile.

The moonlight reflected from the sand back onto Malik's face, making it look pale and washed out. After a moment Akefia realized that in the whole time he'd been watching him, the boy hadn't blinked once. He didn't even seem to be looking at anything in particular – those dull eyes were just open, somehow, unseeing, as if he were listening carefully to some secret internal music.

The Thief King decided the strangeness had gone on long enough.

"Majesty?" he said softly, not wanting to wake him too suddenly. But Malik made no sign that he'd heard.

The Thief King reached out and put a hand on his shoulder. Judging by how cold his skin was, the noble had to have been out here for over an hour, he realized. Akefia touched him, and just like that, the spell was broken: Malik shuddered violently and his eyes snapped open, uncomprehending, before he doubled over and sank to his knees, gasping for breath. His lungs felt like they were on fire; he gulped down the cool desert air as desperately as if he had been drowning.

His vision was dark. Dimly, he became aware of a warm hand on his back, and then he realized that the Thief King was kneeling beside him. He took a few more breaths, and the shudders subsided into shivering. His eyes stung horribly, but his sight was returning already.

The Thief King was asking him if he was all right. He rubbed his eyes hard before opening them again, blinking at the man by his side. His eyes were unfocused, and he looked utterly confused, Akefia thought, but at least he looked like himself again.

Now the Thief King was asking what his name was.

"What?" Malik whispered. He felt lost.

"Do you remember your name?" the Thief King repeated. His voice was calm and steady.

"Malik," he said. His voice came out uncertain and hoarse. "Where am I?"

"The desert," said the Thief King. He rose to his feet and held a hand out to Malik. He looked solemn. "It's time to go back in."

After a moment of hesitation, Malik took Akefia's hand and managed to get to his feet. Immediately, a sharp pain shot through his legs. Malik managed not to stumble or fall, but he couldn't hide a wince, which Akefia saw.

"Do you think you can walk?" he asked. Malik nodded; the Thief King looked doubtful but nonetheless turned and began to walk back in the direction of the foothills.

The night was mostly spent; there was a faint line of light on the horizon – the first sign of the soon-to-be-rising sun. The brightness had not yet spread to the land – the desert had formed a slight valley at the base of the mountains, which meant it would remain in shadow long after the mountain ranges and flatland had been drenched in the light of day.

Akefia was ahead of him, only faintly discernible in the darkness – and the next moment he had vanished. Malik looked around to see where he might have gone – since he wouldn't just vanish into thin air, would he? Unless Malik's mind was playing tricks on him again.

To his credit, he didn't yell when Akefia's arm suddenly materialized out of the rock and pulled him impatiently inside the cave.

Later it would occur to Malik that he should have put two and two together when Akefia vanished, but in his defense he had been rather disoriented, and Teti-En's spell had been the last thing on his mind.

Once they were back inside the room, Akefia seemed to read Malik's mind, for he immediately lit several more oil lamps. There was the familiar scent of wood smoke and opium in the air and, feeling slightly better, Malik sat on the divan, sinking into the soft golden cushions. He discovered that he really didn't want to know what had happened. He just wanted to go back to sleep as soon as possible.

The lamps, as it turned out, seemed to be more for Akefia's benefit than his own. The room was now well-it, and the Thief King was standing at the foot of the divan, arms folded, looking down at Malik with a slight frown.

"What is it?" Malik asked, feeling like he sounded a bit ridiculous. What it was was obvious; he just wished he could know what the Thief King was thinking.

Akefia said nothing, just kept looking at Malik with that watchful expression, intense and ever so slightly troubled. At length, however, he seemed to have reached a conclusion on what was to be done, and produced a half-full bottle of some dark liquid from the shadowy recesses at the base of the statue, which he held out to Malik.

"Have a drink," he said, sounding not unfriendly.

"No, but thank you very much - " Malik began to reply, when Akefia cut him off abruptly.

"I'm not asking," he muttered, "I'm telling you. Have a drink."

Malik didn't need to be told twice. He took the flask, and as Akefia lay back down across from him, he noticed that he was rubbing his eyes. It was an oddly incongruous gesture, somehow childlike, and it made Malik feel instantly guilty. For what, he didn't know, but it was obvious he'd done something to wake the man. On their first night under the same roof, nonetheless. And then to collapse like that in front of him…so much for good impressions….

"You may not be aware of this," Akefia said drily, "but you're actually supposed to drink alcohol, not cradle it like a baby."

Malik hastily tipped back the flask, and was grateful for the burning sensation it made as it went down his throat. It was stronger than wine, something that tasted like fire and honey mixed together, and he managed not to cough as he set the bottle back down. He shuddered as the warmth filled his veins, blooming in delicious heat somewhere in his chest and spreading outwards to his very fingertips.

"Well, Majesty, now that we're all cozied up," the Thief King said amicably, "would you mind telling me what the hell just happened?"

There was a long moment in which nobody said anything. Malik seemed to be trying to stare a hole through the floor; from this Akefia predicted he wasn't likely to get much useful information. Malik, meanwhile, was trying to wade through his acute embarrassment and see if he could remember anything, but was drawing a blank.

"Your guess is as good as mine," he said at length. His eyes were still on the floor. "Why was I out there?"

Akefia shrugged. "You don't remember anything?" Malik only shook his head.

"Well, you're going to have to give me some context here," said Akefia cagily. "I mean, is this a regular thing with you? Should I expect habitual nighttime forays into the desert?"

"No, no," said Malik anxiously. "It's never happened before. I don't usually do…strange things like that," he trailed off.

Something seemed to be pressing in on his mind, something that didn't want to be held off.

"I think I was dreaming," he said, more to himself than to Akefia.

And then it came back to him, all at once – the sound of the lamp as it shattered and the heavy handle of the knife and the whistle of the blade as it came down. And he remembered – the memory twisting unwanted in his consciousness like a worm in the flesh.

"I killed him," Malik whispered. Hysterical sorrow was rising fast in his chest and try as he might, he couldn't stopper it. "I really killed him."

Akefia was watching him with an unreadable expression in his eyes. Malik swore to himself he would not let the man see him cry. Hadn't he shown himself to be weak enough already? But his sin was before him, grinning in its immediacy. He had long since scrubbed the blood from beneath his fingernails, but he could remember its warm flow over his hands and the thick smell of iron heavy in the air, as if it had been only moments ago…

His eyes were filling with useless tears, and he covered his face. "Holy Ra, forgive me," he pleaded under his breath. "Osiris and Meretseger, forgive me…"

Nothing moved or spoke within the chamber. It was so final, so irreversible. It isn't fair, Malik thought desperately. The Gods know how screwed up we are. Shouldn't we be allowed a second chance, some kind of opportunity to redeem ourselves? Shouldn't he be allowed to bring Mahado back to life, to piece him back together like Osiris, and erase the stain of guilt? Why tell stories about such things if they're impossible?

"It was a nightmare, then," he heard Akefia say. He nodded in reply. It was as good a name for it as any, although whatever had happened that night didn't feel like any bad dream he had ever had before. It had been reliving the entire thing. Maybe that's my punishment, he thought hopelessly. Maybe I won't ever be able to sleep again.

"This is the first time you've killed a man, then." Malik looked up, and was surprised to see wordless understanding in Akefia's grey eyes. His usually animated face was now thoughtful and still.

"Is this what it's going to be like?" The question sprang from his tongue almost before he was aware he was thinking it. His own voice sounded to him shattered and wretched.

"You'll have nightmares for a while," Akefia told him slowly. He seemed to be choosing his words with care. "Maybe even for a long time. But they'll go away eventually." He sighed. "Everything does."

There was the truth, and nothing could be done about it. Akefia would have surprised to know that, nonetheless, Malik was feeling consoled – if only slightly.

"You'll be able to sleep now," he told the younger man. "You won't dream after this."

It worked almost like an incantation. Malik felt his eyelids instantly growing heavier, and an inexplicable sense of relief lifted some of the weight off his chest. There was no earthly reason he should find solace in Akefia's words – after all, the man had just told him he would be having nightmares for perhaps years to come – but something in the straightforward way he'd said it made the noble feel, at least for the moment, slightly less alone.

"Hey – Thief King?"

"Hm?"

"Thank you."

"No problem." Silence, and then: "You know, you can call me Akefia if you want."

And suddenly, for no reason that he could name, Malik felt a spark of happiness. "Akefia…" The sounds of the word rolled off his tongue effortlessly, like a summer breeze. The carefree 'ah' interrupted so abruptly by the guttural, passionate 'k' before the rest of the name was released in one sustained breath, like a spell, a zephyr. It was beautiful.

The thief lay awake for longer than usual, his thoughts circling endlessly like birds of prey. It was clear something strange was going on, but the boy didn't seem to know any more than he did. One thing in particular still gnawed at his mind. He was uncommonly alert, and a very light sleeper. It was extremely unusual, therefore, that he hadn't heard Malik get up and leave the room. He knew he should have woken instantly. This was troublesome, since Akefia didn't like the idea that he was getting careless. There was no explanation for it, save that he was considerably more tired than usual.

What Akefia didn't know was that Malik's feet hadn't quite been touching the floor.

Meanwhile, sleep was beginning to overpower Malik's exhausted brain, and he found his weary thoughts returning, again and again, to that name.

Akefia, his mind breathed, drawing out the vowels, enjoying the sound they made, like leaves in the wind. Akefia, Akefia.

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