The Curse
No one in Cairo knew what to do about the dark-haired stranger. At first they were delighted that a scholar was interested in their history. But as the days wore on all they ever saw of his pursuits were crumbled up pieces of paper. When they caught sight of him they were met with a disheveled man with increasing stubble on his jaw.
They began to wonder about him: his erratic behavior, his severe case of writer's block, his dour mood… Researchers grew discouraged but this stranger was taking it to a new level. There was talk that this man was succumbing to a curse. In these modern times it was difficult to believe in such things, and yet how else could they explain what was happening?
Truthfully, August couldn't even explain it to himself. He came to Cairo hoping the ancient stories would chase away the one he lost, but the writer in him wouldn't let it go. He took out his typewriter to begin putting the story back together. No matter how long into the night he typed, or how many scenes he drew, the story evaded him. The only one he could create perfectly was his own; every other one felt wrong. The words didn't flow together and all of his drawings were distorted.
He knew what the Egyptians thought of him and naturally dismissed it. He was protected from the only curse that mattered. He brushed his struggles aside as severe writer's block and nothing more.
And yet… The one thing that was drilled into his mind was how magic always came at a price. Serious magic brought him into this world, protected him from Regina's wrath. Even good magic, like the kind that gave him life, came with a price. August always assumed the price for him was separation from his father and living with the knowledge that his father wouldn't know him. But what if there was more?
August thought of his book, of the great care he gave to every page. Every word was a memory from his old life. When he drew the pictures he would put his heart into it because these were people he loved or feared. All of that work was because deep down he wanted the reader to believe in it. What if all of his love, fears and memories were a kind of magic? What if he poured all of it into that book without knowing?
He picked up a piece of crumbled paper, smoothing it out carefully. If he were honest with himself, August would admit he wasn't putting nearly the same amount of passion into the work this time around. The story was the same yet it felt different.
August hoped that he really did put magic in the book, and that somehow it would find itself in the hands of a person willing to believe.