January 14th, 1995 – 19th Arrondissement of Paris
The walls did little to quieten mother's low sobbing.
Nor did the walls hide father's deafening silence. Not surprising. He'd lost his voice months ago. When the realisation that the promise he'd made to them died years ago, dead and buried when he lost his arm in the accident.
No one would hire a one armed Algerian in construction even on terrible pay and there were no other jobs available in their community for his father. He closed his eyes, trying to tune out his mother's sobbing. It was becoming easier now.
Would it be long before he no longer cared for his mother's cries?
He closed his eyes, his hands gripping tighter on the hair on his scalp as he lay on them. There weren't many options available for him to help his father avoid deportation now that he didn't have an employment contract. They could've managed had this been two years from now, after they'd gained citizenship by naturalisation.
He earned enough now anyway to make sure food was on the table and so did maman. But now…the best they could hope for is father and his siblings to come back after his mother gained citizenship or maybe he could bring them ove-
He felt a small body press into him, for comfort, and he creaked open his eyes as faint sniffing that shook the entirety of the small body slowly clung onto him with a death grip. A faint smile that was less of a smile as it was a resigned but fond expression came across his face and he took out his arms from underneath his head and patted her back. "Shhhh…it'll be alright." He murmured softly, his gaze trailing towards the other presence in their tiny room. Zak was still asleep, thankfully.
He returned his attentions to his six year old little sister. With their father's injury she no longer slept with their parents and shared the room with him and Zak.
A room barely able to fit two beds now had to be climbed over in order to reach the door. "We'll be alright." He told his sister with a reassuring tone.
"But I heard maman say we might have to leave to back to Algeria" she whispered almost inaudibly and the panic and sadness could be heard in her tones. He placed his hand onto her head and stroked it slightly as he tried to soothe her.
He sighed inaudibly before he smiled a little helplessly in the dark. He knew that as well. It didn't surprise him. Maman would never leave father if she could help it.
"I don't even remember Algeria" she whispered furiously as he felt her physically exclaim how much that seemed to bother her.
"Algeria is beautiful." Abssamad said to his sister with a smile on his face.
"Especially Annaba, our home city." Abssamad added fondly, slightly lost in his memories. They'd leave Annaba three years ago and still he remembered the city as if he were just there yesterday ago. Food, the smells, the architecture, the football!
"The ocean is so clear you can see your feet even far away from the coast. The weather is beautiful and there are green fields and farms as far as you can see in the countryside."
"Really?" the awe and hopefulness in her voice was wonderful and heart breaking.
"Yes. But this is our home now" he said as he flicked her nose.
As wonderful life was in Annaba, his family was poor there and had no connections in the city and they would have always stayed poor there. Here, at least, they had a chance to make a better life even if they had to bear the racial contempt on a daily basis. Especially as Front National didn't seem to be losing support any time soon.
"And I promise, things will be better soon" he said to her before patting her on the head. "I haven't lied to you ever, have I?"
"No" was her muffled answered as she buried herself into his duvet, hugging him tightly. "Love you Sam" she mumbled as she slipped away into sleep.
He raised his hand and traced his fingers along the paper thin wall, his fingertips feeling the contours of the old flaking paint, his mind deep in thought as he felt Zara breathe. After a little while, after their mother's sobbing went silent and after he'd heard her leave, he gently moved Zara away from him before getting up and leaving the bedroom.
He saw his father on the couch, the television turned off and sitting in silence. Abssamad sat across from his father who didn't even seem to register his presence.
Father had always been a strong man, stronger than he looked.
As a boy, he'd marvelled at his father's ability to lift things that were twice as heavy as father, even one time picking up a Volvo and moving it with his strength alone.
Now, he looked like a shadow of that man.
No more was there a man who looked like he was unbeatable, no more was that happy smile on his face that made people like him even if he frustrated the hell out of them.
"I have a plan" he said, breaking the silence.
He didn't get a response. He swallowed the pain he felt at seeing his strong father so broken and he leaned forward placing a gentle hand on his father's thigh. "It'll work out, baba. Once I have citizenship, I can bring you over in just a few years, I pro-"
His father placed his calloused hand on top of his hand, a familiar haze of strength transmitted in his father's desperate grip. "I'm sorry, Abssamad" father said, finally looking up and meeting his eyes. Father's eyes were remorseful. Full of shame.
"I have failed you."
He shook his head and placed his other hand onto father's weary hand, a sad but grateful smile on his face. "Baba…" his voice was low but gentle and firm.
"You did not fail me." His gaze was fierce as he spoke those words.
"You are the best father a son could hope for. This is just a hardship we will recover from."
His father's face attempted a facsimile of a smile but it fell short. And, there was something his father's eyes that made him worry, scared him really.
His father softly shook his head before he smiled, this time more genuine.
"Tell me about school. Are you still liking the history class the most?"
He didn't respond immediately and his father raised his eyebrows at him expectantly and before he knew it, he was telling his father that he still liked history the most. The classical histories of Carthage, the Phoenicians and the Romans of course he liked the most.
He couldn't get that feeling out of him however. A feeling that had scared him
He should have listened to his instincts.
2nd of March, 1995 – Nogent-sur-Marne, Military Barracks
He'd felt the soldier's eyes on him the moment he walked passed the gates.
The hands on the rifle gripped a little tighter and he almost stiffened in his steps at the sight but he pressed on, masking the momentary fear he felt at the action.
"I want to join the Legion." He said to the officer calmly and with what he hoped to be without a hitch in his voice. The officer said nothing for a while, his blue green eyes staring down at him with a blank expression.
"You want to join the Legion?"
"Yes." He said firmly as the soldier stared intently.
"Nationality." The French soldier said after a while.
He resisted the urge to swallow. "Algerian."
"What is in the bag?"
"Toiletries. A bar of soap. Two toothbrushes. One tubes of toothpaste. One bottle of shampoo. Four boxers. Four socks. A pair of flappers. That's it."
The soldier didn't respond, physically or with words for a long moment. It was beginning to make him nervous. Thankfully, the soldier did do something…
The soldier simply stepped aside and gestured with his rifle for him to pass through.
He walked passed without another word.
He arrived at the lobby and there were eight there already even seven in the morning. All but one looked European and half looked like they in their thirties or older.
He eyed them discretely before he took a seat next to the African who sat alone.
The African smiled at him before returning his attentions to the brochure he had in his hands, seemingly eager to read through it.
He filled out the form and it wasn't long after that another soldier called them forward and they followed. None spoke during the entire walk.
As soon as they were through the building, they were told they had to take the first test. A pull up exercise to test their physique. He'd always been naturally fit and his work as a backroom staff at the supermarket let him have enough exercise when he wasn't exercising after work or school.
One of the eight was cast out at this stage for failing to get the minimum number of pull ups…before the journey even began. The next few days was nothing but being ran through drills to test their physique and endurance.
"Abssamad Nur." The soldier called out and he stood up. The soldier stared at him for a moment before he turned around "Follow me."
"Take a seat. I will get your information on the computer shortly." The soldier said before turning his gaze towards the screen. He was an older man, some grays in his hair although he looked still fit enough to be an active soldier. Most of the officers and soldiers here were like that.
He sat in the seat opposite the soldier behind the computer screen who had files upon files on his desk. "Mr Nur." The soldier said firmly after a minutes, his eyes fixed onto him.
"Sir." Abssamad said quietly but calmly, meeting the older man's gaze.
"So you moved to France with your parents and two siblings from Algeria in 1992."
"Yes. Sir."
"Born 26th of February 1977." The soldier glanced at him slightly "Aged eighteen." The soldier looked at the files again.
"Hmm. Your mother works as a cleaner, subcontracted out mostly to clean commercial offices. Your father worked at Allez Construction on permanent contract until…" At this the older soldier looked at him. "Until his accident in September 1994. He was let go a few months later."
"Yes sir." Abssamad confirmed.
The soldier didn't break his gaze when he spoke again.
"Found dead forty six days ago in the Seine."
"He took to drinking after his…termination. He must've slipped and drowned."
It was clear that the soldier knew otherwise.
The French probably knew when and where each of them shit.
The soldier didn't correct him and moved on. They had his school records and the comments his teachers had. The soldier asked him about school and his relationships with the teachers. He questioned him on his status with the police, ties with gangs or criminal elements. On and on the questions went on and he answered truthfully.
After that, his work as a storeman was touched upon just as his siblings were briefly touched upon. It seemed like it was enough for the soldier as he handed Abssamad a document that would give him a new personal story.
His past…would no longer matter. His past…would no longer be his own.
"Once you leave here…Your name will be Samuel Bensusan." The soldier told him.
He nodded as he stared at the document. It was temporary, he knew this, yet he felt complicated feelings rumble in the pit of his stomach.
"Is that acceptable?" the voice of the soldier drew him out of his thoughts.
He looked up and met the soldier's gaze.
"Yes."
A number of recruits were kicked out at this stage, men who had bet everything on the Legion and had nothing left. It mattered not.
The testing grew more rigorous then. Days turned into weeks and the tests grew harder and harder as the days went by. More and more were made to leave.
Yet, for those that remained, there was a sense of comradery that he was finding it harder and harder to tune out. Johnny the Dutchman could make the most miserable laugh with just a few of his impressions. Lucky the Ukrainian could silence an entire room with his absurd stories that to this day had not ended.
Others shared their stories about why they were here and how much it mattered to them. Most knew each others reasons now though he never spoke up and they never pressed. He was grateful for that.
After he got back from a lone run in the evening and gotten a shower, he'd gotten onto his bunk and took out a history book on Carthage Mrs Henrietta had given him.
He was interrupted when the Cameroonian, Bishop, knocked on the metal frame of his bunk. Bishop smiled at him. "You like to read?" he said nodding to the book.
Bishop's French accent was heavy. Heavier than most others that spoke French.
Heavier than his.
"I do." He answered succinctly. Most were used to his short responses.
Most also understood that he wasn't one for idle chat. It seemed the Cameroonian wasn't aware...
"I like to read too." He said as he brought out a thin picture book. Comics, he realised as he stared at the colourful pages. He'd seen a few in the bookshops.
Never got interested in them.
"That isn't a book."
"It is." Bishop said offended. "Just because it isn't so boring looking doesn't mean it doesn't have messages, or meaning or a story to tell. A book captures the imagination." Bishop waved the comic in front of him.
He could see that it was in English. 'Marvel' seemed to be the name of this comic.
"This captures the imagination like no other."
He looked at the Cameroonian a little amused. Despite himself, he was a little impressed by the argument that the African had. "Maybe that of children."
Bishop laughed, this time far from offended and instead rocked a grin.
A very confident grin.
"My friend…you know nothing."
Somehow, he'd made a friend out of the Cameroonian and soon his lone runs became a thing of the past. Most of the time Bishop would talk his ear out of this and that, only a quarter of the time not about comics and the Marvel universe. Surprisingly, he was also opening up a little when it came to his interests in history…he shared stories of the ancient past, including a few histories of notable West African peoples.
Soon enough, they were all on a train to Lyon and on their way to Aubagne Incorporation Centre, the heart of the Legion.
They were made to strip naked and ended any levity there and then. Personal belongings were not allowed to be kept during selection and training period, only money and cigarettes.
After passing another set of physical test, he was interrogated by a dozen interrogators. This was by far the hardest thing he'd been put through.
The interrogators were ruthless and his remarks about them knowing when and where they shat was prophetic. They knew everything about his family's time in Annaba, his extended family in Algeria, the reason for their move…the death of his father. They even knew about the Algerian support system that his mother paid into, a system that would pay one family the collection of money in cycles.
By the time he was out of the interview, his nerves had almost gotten the better of him. If he could see himself, he did not doubt that he looked a little pale. He didn't know if they would accept him, especially if they knew that much about him.
He cared little about France, or the Legion but he cared about succeeding in here for he knew that his family needed the money he could send back and the rights that he'd win once he did the full five years. He needed this. He needed it.
Days passed and more tests and runs were conducted. Showers were a minute long and they were timed each time. Their time was regulated and not a moment was wasted or allowed to be wasted.
The wait was excruciating and finally they were made to assemble for the proclamation, for the announcement of who was good enough. They called name after name. Each time his name wasn't called, his heartrate rose higher and higher.
He had no idea what he was to do after thi-
"Samuel Bensusan"
The call startled him yet his body moved as if it was moving on its own and he stepped next to someone also selected for the Legion, relief now sunk through him. Another bout of relief he surprisingly felt when Bishop was also called forward.
They shared a small grin before they lost the look before the supervisors could see.
They were back in the barracks not long after.
"You have all been accepted." The supervisor said as the successful were lined up.
"If someone among you isn't ready to accept this choice. Right now, do not waste yours or our time. I will ask one more time; does anyone want to leave?"
"No Sir." They all barked out firmly in confirmation, a firmness that Abssamad spoke with as well and he knew that the hard work would only just start.
For his family though…this would be much needed.
15th of April, 2003 – Paris, Directorate of Military Intelligence
He walked through the building and walked through the security barrier. He'd flashed his I.D. Card and made way towards the lifts. After arriving to the fourth floor, his eyes silently scanning the array of manned desks, he made way towards
"Ah, Sam" Didier Arnaud said as he reached out with his hand which he shook.
"Sir" He acknowledged with a tight nod before he took the seat that Didier gestured towards. Didier smiled at him before a serious expression grew on his face.
"I'll be straight to the point. The Americans have reached to us with a sensitive matter." Didier began, all levity gone as his gaze turned penetrating.
He leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs as his hand went into his pocket. A curious look was passed to Didier who simply waved him on and he took out a box of cigarettes and a lighter.
After taking a long drag from the cigarette, he answered.
"They want us to question for them."
"With them." Didier corrected but they both knew the truth.
Whilst the Americans could do it fine on their own, with their own Arabs or Iraqi ones, France was better at it. Didier continued "They're getting close in capturing Hussein. They want to be sure they're being driven to the wrong path."
He took a long drag of the cigarette "The subject is given them reasons to doubt?"
Didier smiled thinly before he threw a dossier at him. He eyed Didier momentarily before flipping it open and reading it. False positives on a few instances. Irregular heartbeats. On and on it went. A flicker of annoyance ran through him.
"If this is accurate"
"It is." Didier interjected.
"Then this man is hiding at least a few things." He sighed before he took a drag of his cigarette again. He looked at the dossier one more time before closing it and throwing it on the desk. Didier smiled.
"The next plane to Haifa leaves in eight hours." Didier reached out across from the table and took out a ticket from underneath a stock of documents before he leaned over towards him, ticket in hand. "The Americans are expecting you."
He sighed slightly before taking the ticket and stubbing out his cigarette on the ash tray. He looked at the seating. At least it was first class. He nodded to Didier and left.
He watched Paris through the window as the taxi driver took him to his next destination. He was hardly here in this city. Five years with the Legion took him all across the world and his work with the French Intelligence agency took him every else he hasn't been.
He handed over the cash to the taxi driver as he pulled up and he paused for a moment as he stared at the shop. Bishop's Comics and Records. His call sign, a Bishop – yes, very creative – was nestled in the spot where the I in Bishop should be.
A faint smile made it on his face as he walked to the front of the door.
There were about half a dozen people there, most of perusing the Records area.
"Ah Sam!" he heard his old friend call out from behind the till, the familiar white grin cutting across his face. He grabbed a walking stick and walked around the till.
He chuckled as he made his way to him. Bishop engulfed him in a big hug before he let go. "Ah, you didn't tell me you were coming! I would have closed up sooner."
He smiled at his friend. "That's OK."
"No, no, it's not OK." Bishop clapped and it was loud, enough to capture the attention of all. "We're closing up in five minutes." Bishop said loudly exasperating him.
"You didn't have to do that."
"Eh" he waved off "My friend comes to Paris after more than a year? Of course I do!" It was an hour later that they were by a local bar sharing a drink.
"Leaving already. Pah." Bishop said as soon as he heard that he'd be leaving within the day. "I believe I'm more a Parisian than you are. You're a tourist!" Bishop said with a smile.
"I'm not a tourist." He said slightly offended. "I'm just…" he trailed off with a shrug which made Bishop chuckle.
"How's things? The store doing OK? I hear people are buying more from the internet nowadays." He stated a little concerned. Bishop smiled at him.
"They are but I have a website now." Bishop said proudly. "Jacques set me up."
Jacques was a friend of theirs they met in Marseille after their tour ended. Gifted with computers. "Ah, that's great." He said genuinely.
"It is! Funnily enough, I make more online than I do from the store now. Jacques did something to make my website more visited than the others in France. And the fact that we sell comics that in French helps a lot too."
He was glad for his friend. The army was never his real calling and he was most happy when he was doing what he loved…which was everything to do with comics.
"Speaking of old friends and family." Bishop began meaningfully, his gaze unblinking. "How is the family?"
"Same as always. You know this." Sam said calmly as he leaned back in his chair and pulled out the box of cigarettes. Bishop frowned slightly as he lit it up.
Sam smiled at Bishop gratefully. "Samantha is doing well in school. She's looking to study economics whilst Sammie is still intent on his football. So far it looks like he might make it. It is good enough." He said before he drank of his gin.
His family was well taken care of. Did it matter if his mother wouldn't speak to him or let him see his siblings? She took the money and that is all he needed from her.
Bishop looked sympathetically at him but thankfully the subject moved on to women, a much happier conversation point.
Weeks Later…
He walked out of the cell, the dirty rag in his hands soaking with blood and sent a cold look to the officer in command as he answered in English.
"The locations are misdirections. You won't find him there."
The American officer looked pissed but he didn't care and moved to walk past him.
"Where are you going? We still need a name who does know." The American asked as he grabbed hold of his arm.
He stopped and turned mechanically to the American and looked him directly in the eyes. "My work here is done. You wanted truthful answers. You got it. All the people he named, are dead or in hiding. Find them and I will get you truthful answers. Until then…" he jerked his arm free from the American's grip before simply walking away
21st of June, 2016 – Paris
"Uncle!" a delighted niece shouted out as she stormed out of the townhouse.
He picked her up before launching her in the air, her delightful laughs were wonderful. He nestled her in the crook of his arm as she clung onto his neck.
"You've grown." He said with a smile as he led them into the house.
"Four centimetres!" she said holding up four fingers. "I'm growing really fast!"
"You are." He said indulgingly as he turned his gaze to his sister and her husband.
They welcomed him in and they caught up, not having seen each other in almost a year. His sister talked about some merger her company were going through and the promotion she was getting on the back of it though said she had to fight hard to remain in Paris instead of moving to Montreal.
Mostly, he listened as his sister and her little family talked throughout the evening.
There wasn't much he could share anyway.
With a little help, he made sure his sister got the graduate job she deserved and from there, she got to where she was all on her own. Her husband, a Maghrebi, was a good man who taught mathematics at a decent high school.
Their brother also did alright for himself. Football didn't pan out but he did land a good youth coaching job after he'd helped him out for a few years. Now, he was a youth coach at PSG which had nothing to do with him all.
Yes…he thought as he listened to his niece talk about school.
He'd done well for the family.
UNKNOWN…
There was little that could describe the realisation that you were actually being born in the very moment of birth nor the realisation of the implication of being reborn. Reborn with your memories intact at that. The same goes for the realisation that the place and time you were reborn may not actually be close to when you died.
Or that the life you were born into was going to be brief.
Very brief.
Disgust and fear and hate towards him were expressions that he was accustomed to.
Though, to say that he didn't expect those same vocalisations from his new parents was putting it lightly. He didn't understand them, nor did he recognise their language, it was strange and didn't sound like it was Arabic or any of the other languages of the Sahara but there were many tones of familiarity here and there.
He couldn't see very well, his eyes were not developed enough for that, but he knew hate and he knew fear and they felt it amply for him based on the whispers and hysterical vocalisations from both the men and women around him at the time.
The scorching heat from the sun began to fade away as the hours ticked away.
At least they didn't smother him.
That would have been a kindness they didn't care to give him.
Perhaps kin slaying was a taboo for these people, whoever they were. In truth, he did not care. Not when they were keen enough to let the desert do the deed for them.
Scorching heat gave way to cool weather before it also gave way to awful coldness.
They'd left him half a day now and he was beginning to feel thirst and his skin was beginning to crack. He had little control over his limbs so he couldn't work them to cover his face from the melting sun or the biting night.
It wouldn't be long before he perished.
Three days was the norm one could survive without water and he was a newborn.
An irony, he mused to himself, a cosmic irony that would have made him laugh had his vocal chords been developed enough to allow for it. To die so agonisingly when mere days old despite the miraculous nature of being reborn in the first place.
Was this his punishments for the killings and the amoral ways he'd led his life?
For disavowing the Divine's existence?
For his forsaking of nobility that he'd promised himself he would not do?
It was a creative punishment at least, he thought to himself mirthlessly.
Morning arrived and his thirst and pain grew stronger.
Deliriousness began to take hold of him by midday and cries he held no control over escaped his infant mouth. His mind had begun to shut down in the middle of the night and he must have imagined seeing another two days and another two nights.
The thirst and hunger and pain was unbearable now and the faint inkle of sane consciousness that he held was begging for death to come and claim him.
When he felt himself lifted up from the ground, he thought death itself had come to answer his pleas and he reached out to the shadowy figure.
He felt himself move and he heard a commotion, the same kind of sounds of anger and fear he'd heard before, and he realised that it was not death that had come for him and perhaps it was his parents again. As his consciousness threw away some of the deliriousness, he realised that the language was slightly differe-
His hunger and thirst and pain melted into the background as he heard a man gurgle. A gurgling that sounded like choking on one's own blood. There was now silence as the man finished dying. He didn't care and a cry escaped his mouth which seemed to jog the people around him into awareness.
He felt a wet rag on his mouth and he'd hungrily sucked it dry and he cried once more, this time louder and a fresh wet rag was placed on his mouth again. Again and again this happened and when a wet rag was dragged across his face, he'd felt the call of sleep beckoning him.
He heard the man holding him say something and it felt like it was said to him. He didn't understand but he understood nonetheless. The tone and the confidence in the man's voice was unmistakable.
As his consciousness began to slink away into the distant realm of sleep, he realised that this life would not be easy, not with the kind of savagery he'd witnessed thus far in his short few days of living, and perhaps this life was destined to be short, postponed for a few more weeks if not days but strangely, it did not faze him.
After all, death would come to all eventually.
Seventeen Years Later…
"It begins here and now, Nur. On the first full summer eve of your seventeenth year." Nawwara sneered out with a look of contempt, his hand tightening on the hilt.
"One alone and unarmed against three of us wielding weapons." Qamrun said dangerously as Qamrun and Mamat got into a stance wielding his curved bronze sword and slowly moved to encircle him. "A battle to the death."
His eyes slowly trailed across as he shifted his body slightly to give himself full view of the three. Mamat's expression was twisted into a snarl, a delighted snarl as he perceived this was their long awaited chance to rid him without the protection of Baal…not that the man protected him overly in the first place.
They did not kill him as a child but they did everything short of it.
This was a brutal tribe, a brutal clan.
Survival of the fittest was their creed and their way of life.
Simple brutality, he thought silently and contemptuously.
"If you are to be fully accepted into the tribe…and to know the mysteries and magic within, you must first return our blood to the ancient sands. The hungry desert must feed." Mamat said with a flourish, a mean menace in his drawl.
"So ask yourself, monster. Are you prepared for this moment? Are you worthy of it…?" Nawwara remarked disdainfully.
With a slight exhale, he breathed out and straightened himself out as he turned towards Nawwara, his red eyes fixed onto the powerfully built man. The disdain grew on the man's face and he showed little fear though there was a slight tension in his body that did not belong to one unconcerned.
"Are you fit?" he heard Mamat say behind him as he began to walk towards Nawwara, his gaze firmly locked onto the contemptuous man.
Above all others, Nawwara had been the one that gave him the most scars as a child. Nothing that would see Nawwara killed by Baal, his adoptive father in this world, but he took joy in harming him at every opportunity he got.
He would die first.
"For such is the creed we live by, tested by the elements, by drought and famine, and war. The survival of the fittest" He heard Mamat scream out before he ran towards him and it was the trigger for the other two to do the same.
He extended his grey, ash looking arms slightly, his feet barely made contact on the sand as he prepared himself and time slowed down as the first blade was swung downward towards him. His eyes swept towards the standing and hooded red robed tribesmen as the sword slowly inched towards him.
Most of them prayed for his death, the others hoped he lived just long enough to rid the land from the alien pharaoh. Despite living amongst them for all of his life, he had not earned the slightest amount of respect – only respect could be earned in this clan, nothing more, nothing less – and there was nothing he could do to earn it.
Irony, it seems, had followed him well into his second life and this time it was stronger than ever. He would have despised them all if he at all cared about them.
The saving grace, at least, was that he knew now who he was meant to be and what this world was and once more, he reaffirmed to himself of the silent promise he made to name his firstborn after the Cameroonian.
He ducked under the blade, his body twisting as he dropped low and angled his body to avoid the second strike. He glanced behind his head and saw Mamat leaping in the air with his blade behind his head.
"Now, boy! Turn and face your attacker. At long last, through rites and ritual, we will rid ourselves of your foul presence!" Mamat bellowed out.
'Dramatic fool' he thought to himself with an annoyed exasperated feeling as he twisted himself back up and faced Mamat in less than a blink of an eye, his hands having clawed against the sand with a scoopful of dirt in his hands and he threw it towards Mamat's face who shouted in alarm and in pain but he had little time to follow up and injure him.
He leaped backwards and avoided Qamrun's strike. Narrowly.
Qamrun's face showed a flicker of surprise before he snarled at him and begun to strike again and again making him almost dance on his feet.
He jumped backwards as none of the strikes made purchase and Nawwara stepped forward this time to strike him down. "This is long overdue boy"
A gleam entered his eyes as he saw Qamrun also move to attack him and calculatingly stepped a few steps backwards, closer to Qamrun, his hands moving in a whirlwind as he took hold of Qamrun's sword arm and twisted his wrist before kicking his calf forcing him downward.
Qamrun tried to struggle against his hold but he was many, many times stronger.
"You should have been left to rot in the sand right where the Akkabans abandoned you! You are a living curse on our people, it is your presence that has brought the Pharaoh's wrath and made exiles of us!" Nawwara snarled out, murmurs of agreement ringing in the crowd of hostile tribesmen.
He couldn't dispute that.
Knowing what kind of world this was, knowing who he was, it was likely very much connected that the alien chose to come to this here and now.
What made him wonder, however, was why?
Could the alien know about the being he'd been reborn as?
But then, shouldn't things have changed now since he was someone else?
He had little intent to follow that path of megalomania nor did he care for mutants or any of the fittest of the fittest shit that the tribe peddled.
Nawwara dashed forward, his eyes shining with malice and eager anticipation. He swung his sword, speaking as he did so "Your mad benefactor saved you then but by rule of ceremony, Baal is forbidden to interfere n-"
Faster than the eye could see, he twisted Qamrun's arm, breaking it in the process and pierced through Nawwara chest, through where his heart was. Shock permeated through the tribesmen but before another second ticked over, he grabbed the sword that Nawwara let go and drove it through Qamrun's skull, killing two of the fiercest fighters of the tribe within moments.
He spat on their corpses, a bitter satisfaction coursing through him. He never took satisfaction out of killing nor the torture but he'd make an exception of this lot. And the most of the tribe should he need to.
He veered his gaze towards Mamat who was still trying to get the sand out of his eyes. He grabbed the sword he stabbed Nawwara with and with a gleam in his eyes, he threw it at Mamat and it sunk into his chest before he could even do anything with it.
Once more, he spat at the floor before he turned his gaze towards the now silent tribesmen. Some of them had thrown back hoods and stared at him with hate and fear and contempt. A slow curl of the lips that could pass for a smile, though it was far from friendly, came across his face and it made some stiffen.
One of the tribesmen stepped forward and threw back his hood. It was Baal, his adoptive father. Despite being in his late forties, the man was still built like a mountain for a normal human. Tall and as wide was a tree trunk, it was no surprise that he commanded utmost respect and fear from the clan.
The only thing that the clan would truly hold against him was the protection Baal offered him. He allowed his gaze to veer towards the tribesmen once more.
He'd have left as soon as he could but…
His gaze went towards his adoptive father who held a glimmer of pride in his eyes. He owed that man his life many times over. And despite the brutality, it was not hard to miss that the man cared for him in his own way. For all of that, he owed him.
And so he would repay it all in full. Or until he was dead.
The tribesmen began to walk away when his father arrived by him.
"Ignore them." His father waved away, a look of disdain flashing across his face before he settled his gaze onto him. "They are weak and foolish."
He said nothing before he nodded slowly, giving the appearance that he agreed.
In a way though. He did agree. Was it any wonder that the man he'd been reborn as turned out the way he did? Abandonment by your parents and by your clan.
Being raised this brutally with a harsh worldview amongst people who should be your family but instead hate you just the same as those who abandoned you?
No, it was little wonder at all.
His adoptive father seemed satisfied by his stoic silence and placed a hand on his shoulder before pointing towards the jackal statue in the distance where the moon hung between the ears of the statue.
"The time has come. Look there, my soulson. That stone totem marks the place where the one called Rama-Tut was found…where all the mystery lies."
An intense look came across Baal's face. "Your fate, too, will be found below."
Many Hours Later…
"Walk where I walk, always, Nur, When I walk only."
Baal's words echoed as he clung onto the crumbling rock that he hung from.
A shadow descended on him and he looked up and saw Baal look at him sternly.
"The ground was never as solid as it appears in this region."
With a sigh, he pulled himself up with a single hand and reached out with the other, digging his fingers into the rock face before he climbed upward. He reached the top and his father harrumphed and stood back up straight as he leaned on his staff before turning away but not without saying.
"Fault lines shift and stir with regularity here. Such regularity, in fact, that our temple-builders mapped out the patterns carefully…and built the hound of the hill to reflect these changes for all eternity"
As he got back to his feet, he saw Baal disappear around the bend of the path and with one more sigh he followed in Baal's exact footsteps.
He caught up to his father and it wasn't long before they were at an entrance of a cave. "We sandstormers alone are able to follow the last of night's light…and into the depths of day's darkness…so follow me, my son…" Baal said as he stood before a small hole in the ground.
His father spared him a look, a determined look and when he spoke, he could feel that Baal believed everything he said. "Because I am sure the place you will be shown holds the key to defeating our enemy." Baal looked back at the small hole before he crouched down and began to pull apart the small hole
"Prepare yourself boy…much as any could or should…" and the ground below them collapsed and they fell. He saw a glimpse of the surrounding but he pulled Baal upward they fell and when they landed, they landed with a splash and on their feet.
Baal knocked the butt of the staff against the bottom of the flooded chamber though he didn't let that distract him from the surroundings, even when Baal spoke again.
"For the unbelievable."
Strangely detailed stone faces, snarling and shouting and furious stone faces, dotted the cavernous chambers, with raised stone bridges seemingly leading to faraway places, beyond the shadows, whilst the mouths of the stone faces seemed to lead to other chambers.
He was almost sure that this wasn't made by the present age people, for the simple fact that the teeth, yes the faces had teeth, were gleaming white and looked like teeth.
"Do you know what this place is?" he asked Baal who harrumphed.
"A most wicked place. A miracle. A place of wonders and mysteries pertaining to the pharaoh." Baal answered. He veered his gaze towards the faces, scrutinising them intently. They looked…human.
He knew it meant little. This world…this universe was filled with races that were human looking. The sense of irony amused him. Aliens who looked more human than he did, a human born to human parents.
"You believe his source of power dwells in this place?" he asked Baal.
Baal turned to him with a satisfied look before he nodded affirmatively.
"He is no god. He is a man, that, I am sure of. After all, it was I who discovered him, broken and sightless when he first appeared in our lands some years ago."
"You never told me this" he stated curiously.
Baal shrugged "You never asked. You never ask" Baal pointed out.
"So the stories about the sphinx that appeared in the sky in a blinding light?" he asked intently, moving away why he never asked questions. Most of the time, he picked up all the information without needing to ask. His mind was much quicker than it was in his first life. Answers were deduced easily. And when it came to things like this, he hardly would question it. There was little need to.
The people in the tribe were never ones to lie about such a thing.
The only redeeming quality the tribe really had.
And, he thought himself, after the realisation of who he was and all the magic he'd seen from the people and from Baal, he'd just chalked it up to just being just another thing. Why not advanced aliens? Baal grunted.
"Exaggerated. True but exaggerated."
Baal waved his hand across the chamber. "He did appear in such a sphinx but it crashed and broke apart. This, in fact, is a fragment of that vessel."
They walked into the mouth of one of the faces and his eyes peered with laser sharp interest as he saw the glowing hieroglyphs on the walls. He placed his hand over the hieroglyphs before taking them off and looking at his hands. Not a single smudge.
The walls felt like stone and the hieroglyphs were cold to the touch. Possibly crystal and most likely not of this time…perhaps not even of this world.
Baal's expression tightened.
"This is where we found him. Our tribe took him back to our camp, nursed and nurtured him. Made him a survivor…much as I would do for you, soon after."
The tribe did not show such…kindness lightly.
The mystery they must have felt had been great enough for them to act as they did. In a way, the tribe finding the man was fortunate as most others would have not even approached the space ship due to the superstition primitive peoples of this time had.
"But the accursed stranger betrayed us, and with his impossible weapons we could not begin to understand…enslaved the clan." Baal's outrage could be heard in his voice. He wondered if the irony ever registered with the tribe, that they, the self-proclaimed fittest of the fit were made weak. Probably not, beyond a few.
Perhaps only Baal could have understood.
"He tortured us to bring back here but we were strong and none ever revealed this location to him." Baal stated and it made him eye his adoptive father speculatively.
Yes…that summed the tribe up.
"A tragic few escaped, and he hunted us all like animals since."
He eyed the surroundings, yellow baby faces on honeycomb webs marked either side of the bridge. He'd been awed and shocked many times in this life of his.
Warriors who could beat down the biggest and meanest of the Foreign French Legion. Brutality that far outstripped even the most amoral Blackwatch soldier.
Magic that seemed scarcely believable.
Yet this.
This was by far the strangest he'd ever seen.
What kind of insanity could inspire someone to fashion the interior of a space ship in this manner? His expression became slightly grimmer.
He only wished he'd taken more of an interest Bishop's obsession.
"This place could take him home" he stated rather than asked.
Baal turned to him, a satisfied look on his face. "Possibly. And more importantly, this place that he so craves, possesses the means to his defeat. An artefact, a relic that survived whatever catastrophe brought him here." The satisfied look disappeared and a look he'd recognised all too often took hold instead.
"Incredible and full of promise and prophecy, this relic is of great power."
There was a light at the other side of the tunnel and they were inching closer to it.
"How will visions defeat the pharaoh?" he questioned sceptically although he already gotten to the conclusion that it must have been how Baal had found him.
"You're right to be sceptical. I would be too had I not seen your face in the object."
Baal turned towards him, scrutinising him intently. "So you understand." Baal said satisfied and he nodded slowly as they passed through the end of the tunnel towards a strange statue of people with one of the people holding up a glowing thing.
"I am what the pharaoh wants." He stated as he moved closer to the statue. "I suspected as much." He wondered if the pharaoh also knew of his rebirth.
"You are destined for greatness." Baal only stated proudly in his own way of agreeing to his 'specialness'. 'You're right in a way, Baal' he thought to himself a little darkly. 'You would be proud how that version of himself had turned out'
A fleeting feeling of concern crept into his soul.
Would he be destined to turn into that thing he'd seen in Bishop's comics?
Was it all predetermined?
The allure of using the relic was proving to be impossible resist for it held answers that he craved, that he hungered for. As part of the tribe, he'd joined the raids onto villages and nomadic peoples. He had little choice in it lest he give the tribe the vindication, reason and justification they needed to kill him and Baal.
He owed Baal far too much to simply walk away and in the back of his mind, he did think that this possibly alien pharaoh was related to why he was here.
Knowing the kind of man the other version was, he feared that he'd be turned into that version. There were all kinds of beings in this universe, terrifying beings that could do things to you that were worse than death.
That is partly why he did not try and deal with the pharaoh before. He was strong enough to deal with any normal human but until he knew what he was dealing with, it would be stupendous to go in blind. He did not need his army and spec ops training to know that.
Now he knew that this was potentially just a man – none of the beings he knew this universe contained would need healing from primitive tribesmen – he felt more confident in freeing himself of several chains.
He'd always planned to deal with the pharaoh one way or another as a way to repay a significant portion of his debt to Baal but also to free himself from the tribe whose way of life he hated.
They were a product of their time, yes, but it was a toxic mind-set that had little place to take root in North Africa. In the North Africa he'd built.
A glimmer of something caught his eye and he moved towards it. He brushed his hand against it and carvings were made apparent. Carvings of the same man, again and again…and again and again. He frowned as he looked at the carvings.
"They're all the same…the same carving of Rama-Tut"
"Yes…but we do not know what they mean. Not yet. In time however…" a growl escaped Baal's throat "We will discover all there is to know about the man and we will crush him."
He felt a draw towards the carvings and his finger found purchase on a button and the wall split unveiling an orb. It was technological, that much was clear. This was no magical orb and he wondered… "No!" Baal warned out as he reached out for it.
"No! EN SABAH NUR, do not touch it!"
He stopped at the call of his full name and turned around.
Baal looked relieved before a grave expression came across his face.
"These are forces we don't understand yet…we must be patient."
For a long moment, he stared at Baal until finally he nodded. Baal slackened slightly.
"Patience has gotten us this far. It will get us further."
That was tru-
The ground shook and before he knew it the ceiling was collapsing. He only had a split second and he used that limited time to reach out and grabbed the orb and when he wrapped his hand around it, he was hit with uncountable number of images, of visions. And…before he could even process them, he was struck down by a massive object and he lost consciousness.
…
…
He came awake to a soul crushing pain, the sounds of Baal's voice becoming clearer and he understood them to be his name but he could not focus on it, he could not dwell on it.
For there was a rock that pierced him through the chest. His screams was loud, guttural and when he stopped, it was only to stop coughing, coughing blood.
"No…no, no, no…" the stricken notes in Baal's voice were alien, almost sounding as if they were tinged with grief along with believable disbelief.
"It can't end now…I refuse to let it…"
"I'm dying…" he murmured as the aching pain began to dull and his body was beginning to feel weaker. So seventeen, huh…?
Better than he originally estimated, before he knew who he was reborn as.
Such a shame too…especially since he'd seen what could happen within the Orb of Visions. So glorious…so satisfactory…far better than he could have hoped for…
He didn't know for certain, or why he thought so, but he knew that the visions were not set in stone…nothing really was. Only what could be… what could have been…
"It seems like fate played us both…father…" the man had earned to be called father.
He laughed, blood ran down the sides of his mouth. He knew what…who the Pharoah was now. And what a problem he'd turn out to be if he wasn't ended.
At least he had his answer. And it wasn't his problem anymore, even if he felt the grief of the better Egypt that would not come to pass with his death.
"Father…listen…take the orb…you can make him flee…I can tell you what you must do…" Kang the Conqueror was human. He could die like any man could.
Especially a Kang that was without the bulk of his advantages.
"Hush. You are delirious with pain. Do not concern yourself with that."
His father gripped his hand. He made to speak but his father shook his head and stared sternly at him. "Do not concern yourself with that."
He understood and remained silent and felt his body grow weaker and weaker and he drifted in and out of consciousness for what seemed like hours, and Baal broke and moved the rocks that pierced him until he was free. Twice Baal reset his bones, in his arms, pain coursing through him each time, and twice he felt strength return in his arms…strength that he was also feeling returning in the rest of his body.
"The bleeding has stopped." Baal said with a hint of awe despite his stoic expression. Baal picked up one of his arms and he winced slightly. "Your bones are nearly healed." Baal turned his gaze towards him.
"You should not be alive and yet you are…even healing. Fast." Baal smiled and it was a wicked one. "There is hope."
Baal crouched closer and wrapped more rags around his body.
"We have always lived in the tribe by survival of the fittest…it is the only thing that kept us from oblivion in this harsh world."
He remained silent to that. It was true, from a point of view. This world was unforgiving to weakness. Weakness meant death to not only oneself but also potentially to the entire tribe. Like a deceased limb, weakness was cut off.
Weak people were cut off.
In a nomadic life in a place of strife…he understood.
And, he thought to himself, if he survived this…all of this…he would see to it that he'd built a strong Egypt that could withstand the necessity for it.
An Egypt that stood tall, not amongst the corpses of the weak but with the strong holding up its weak. He knew many of the challenges that would come to Egypt would see it conquered and broken and its people made tools for the conquerors and he would not see that happen.
Egypt…one of the cradles of civilisation…would stand the test of time.
Just as he saw in his visions.
"And now it claims us both if I cannot get you out of here."
…
…
…
They waded through the flooded chambers, the pain that had been strong days ago now grew duller as the hours passed even if his body was stiff and weak still.
"We're back where we started." He said, realising that he recognised the features of the dim surroundings. Baal grunted wearily and dissatisfied.
"I know. I have been trying to find another route now that the path out is buried."
Baal shook his head as they walked up to a dark region of the chamber, their hope that perhaps it led to somewhere was null and void and frustration welled up in him.
"We're wasting time." He said agitated before he hit the wall in frustration. The wall cracked, surprising him since he'd not put much strength in it and he felt the wall crack…and important, felt it sound hollow almost.
He hit it again, this time with more force and the wall burst apart. He stepped slightly, surprised at the sight of such advanced technology until he realised that this was a fragment, perhaps more, of the ship and a gleam of interest entered his eyes.
"This is Tut's." he remarked and Baal grunted affirmatively.
"This is the secret of what makes pharaoh a god and why man bows to him." Baal turned to him, his eyes shining in the dim light of the crashed ship fragment.
"And it holds the key to your future."
Baal spoke of what he'd seen that day, the day the sphinx ship crashed as they walked into the ship. There were pillars with hieroglyphs, bronze and gold statues, strange metallic spider webs. All that along with the fact that Kang made a ship in the shape – and in stone – of a sphinx, spoke ill of the man's sanity. Seriously…why?
Baal then spoke of Kang disappearing into the desert and returning fully healed and his sight restored with strange weapons and an army at his back. Some of the tribe had survived and Baal had found the orb, the relic, and it was there that Baal had seen a vision of him in the future.
…A future where he had thousands of worshippers and was the ruler of the world.
A future that was different from the one he'd seen. A future that would have been had he not been reborn. A future that was dead and buried.
He spoke not of it however. It was the reason why Baal had sought him out. The reason why Baal called him son and to claim him.
By the end of the tale, Baal looked tired, older than he'd ever looked. He had seen the sign of his coming death when they'd been stuck in that cave.
"I fear our time together nears its end. Soon…I must lie down."
Oddly, he felt…saddened by those words. Deeply. For all that he knew that Baal was far from a good father and did not raise him without motive…he had been crucial to his survival and there was a part of him that cared for him as a son.
A small part.
"If I can survive with my heart and lungs almost destroyed, you can survive this."
Baal smiled grimly as he reached out to him. "Do not make this more difficult than it has to be. My time has come. This is the way of things."
"Look about us are signed of how special you are" he said gesturing towards the hieroglyphs. "Read from these hieroglyphs as I did years ago. '…from the Sands he comes. Neither god nor man…Kingdoms bow at his feet and mankind weeps in his presence…'" the words sounded acidic to his ears and he felt sick at the words.
This was nothing to aspire to. He'd seen enough despots and dictators and warlords in his time. He had no wish to become one. He vowed never to become one.
He would not become one.
"'…he is En Sabah Nur…THE FIRST ONE' You are to be my weapon against the pharaoh." Baal said as he turned around and fanaticism shone through Baal's eyes.
"My hope for tomorrow." He said with his arms raised high in the sky before he almost collapsed and leaned against the wall.
"I must rest…" Baal said as he slid down against the wall and he caught Baal before he truly fell. "I am the weak now…and the weak must never burden the strong…"
He remained silent as Baal smiled weakly.
"My strong silent son. Seek out the sphinx…hidden wonders lie there…fulfil your destiny…" Baal trailed off, his eyes closing as his breathing became laboured.
He only watched as life left Baal.
After he felt no more pulse, he carefully laid the man down.
"My destiny is not what you think it is…father. Or what you wished for." He said quietly as he closed Baal's eyes. "It will be better. The strong cannot never be burdened by the weak for the strong are strong enough to take on the burdens of thousands until the weak are strong enough to stand on their own feet."
He stood up, rising to his full height.
"Thank you." He said after a few moments to the body.
He was not a good father but he showed the only kindness he'd had in this life.
The leather bands around his hands squeaked as he clenched his fists tightly.
"Kang…"
Kang would die. That would happen, he'd see to it.
And so would the others like Sekhen and his conspirators.
He turned gaze towards the pillars with the hieroglyphs.
There was a reason why he was born into this being and he'd long decided that it was not to be the destiny of another soul. No…
He would give a new meaning to En Sabah Nur, the first one.
And Egypt…
Egypt would be first to see what it means.