Chapter Text
Give me the bones of
What you believe
Maybe they'll save you
From me
Will I be the strong hand
Keeping you safe
Or will I break you
In half
Strong Hand by Chvches
Prince Atem loved the palace courtyard in the moonlight. He liked the way the sand, so dull and dry in the day, was turned to silver stardust. He liked the coolness of the air, in summer, and even the rare frigidity of the desert winters. He liked the quiet—the lack of voices, and the solitude that came with sneaking out of his bedroom window in the dead of night.
His father, the pharaoh Akhenamkhanen, knew of these fondnesses; told him to at least let a guard or two keep him company. But Atem had no desire to do so, and so did not heed his father. He felt safe within the palace grounds, and indeed had never strayed outside the walls.
On one moonless night, the young prince—with scarcely ten years to his honored name—walked among the carefully cultivated flowers that lined the western side of the palace grounds. His head hung back, eyes wandering across the distant field of stars above. Though his body was weary from the day’s activities, his mind was keenly alert. He thought of his father, fondly.
The scritch-scratch noise didn’t pique Atem’s interest right away; he dismissed it as desert rats scrabbling at the palace wall just outside. But it grew louder and more rhythmic as Atem walked. Eventually he slowed, pressing one ear to the stone beside him, and the sound jumped into focus. It was the sound of digging, surely, but it seemed unlikely to Atem that small animals could make such a sound. Not rats, then... a jackal, perhaps... or a wildcat... He wondered if there could be a desert lion on the other side of the wall. He’d never seen such a creature up close, though a beast-tamer had once been brought in to entertain his father's court at a banquet.
Across the courtyard, a single guard patrolled—Atem could scarcely make out the man’s silhouette, from his distance. Other than that, no living soul moved in the darkness. There would be more guards outside the palace’s perimeter, of course, but within the walls there was little need. Atem looked towards the palace, identifying his father’s window high above. He could smell the palace kitchens nearby—a meaty and herbal scent that hung heavy in the air. He heard the palace livestock shifting about in the stables.
Atem scrambled up; found the cracks in the wall with nimble fingers and bare toes. The top of the wall was carved decoratively, making it easy to scale. Atem paused at the summit, gazing out across the expanse of empty desert that flanked the palace’s westward side. Night concealed the horizon, rendering it invisible; where sand dunes became sky was for only the gods to know.
Atem glanced back at the palace, illuminated by the flames of torches and lamps. The stars paid the desert no such favors, and Khonsu hadn’t appeared in the sky that night.
The sound of scratching drew Atem’s attention once again; he looked down. There was a shape near one of the palace’s rear gates, crouched just outside a circle of light from a torch mounted on the wall. It was a creature, surely, fixated on the ground. Atem tilted his head, then slithered down the wall. He felt a thrill of apprehension as his feet touched the sand—the untamed land outside the palace.
Atem crept forward. The soft ground, still warm from the daytime sun, muted his steps. He realized that the creature was sitting upright and wondered if it might be a demon; he tried to recall the stories he’d heard of such beings. There was no telling what might’ve come out of the open desert. He came within a yard of the being and paused, fascinated.
Perhaps a demon, but perhaps not.
“Oh!”
The prince’s soft exclamation made the shape jerk; it spun around to attention and immediately stumbled. It fell backwards, into the light of the torch. Atem drew a sharp breath.
The shape was a child—no older than Atem himself, though somehow much smaller and frailer. His bones stuck out, sharp and unforgiving, casting deep shadows across his body in the dim light. But more horrifying was the wound—the festering clot of blood and fluids obscuring half his face, so swollen that his right eye was forced shut. Atem’s stomach flipped end-over-end; he thought he might retch, but thought that would be horribly insensitive, and unbecoming of a prince besides.
The feral little child bore his teeth; tried to get up and failed, his legs folding like splintered twigs beneath him. Atem, still hidden in shadow, saw when he started to tremble.
“Get away... don’t come any closer...!” The child's voice was a dry rasp, almost lost in the still night air; his narrow chest heaved. “Get away!”
Atem looked down; saw the claw-marks in the sand, and knew the boy had been digging. It took him a moment to realize why, however, and when he did his stomach twisted with pity.
“We bury things so the scavengers won’t find them,” he said softly, and the strange boy stiffened. “But you must’ve been watching.”
“Go away!” the thief spat again, managing a bit more volume. Atem did not obey, but crouched down on his haunches; stared, and thought.
The people who worked in the palace kitchens often buried inedible parts of food—gristly bits of meat, woody vegetable stalks, unsalvageably burnt bread—on the edge of the palace grounds, so that night hunters wouldn’t be attracted. But human scavengers didn’t rely on scent alone; they couldn’t be fooled by a layer of topsoil and sand.
The thought of anyone eating the rubbish—dirt-encrusted rubbish, now, no less—made Atem’s throat close up.
“I’m not going to hurt you.”
The other child shifted; gave a strange little whine, and again tried to rise. His legs wouldn’t support him.
“You’re sick,” Atem said, inching forward. The thief’s chest began to heave more violently. “That wound...”
The thief drew his lip back; snarled like a cornered animal, but seemed unable to flee. Atem stopped moving toward him, and again thought.
“Wait here. Please. I’ll be back. Just... wait here, okay?”
The thief didn’t reply; Atem could see the gleam of some liquid dripping down the right side of his face. The prince darted away, back along the palace wall. In his endless exploration, he’d found a gap in the stones, concealed from within by a patch of shrubbery. He crawled inside, ignoring the scrape of thorns as he wriggled back into the yard and dashed, quickly and quietly, back to the palace.
Prince Atem didn’t expect the thief to wait; didn’t expect him to still be there when Atem returned. But he was, huddled up in a jumble of bones and threadbare clothes. For a moment, Atem thought he might not be breathing. As the prince neared, though, the thief startled to attention; scrambled up into a crouch, and again bore his teeth. Atem dropped down before he got too near, leveling their heights.
“Here. You don’t need to dig that up. See?” The prince held out a piece of cloth in upturned palms, upon which rested a small loaf of bread and a chunk of roasted meat pilfered from the slumbering palace kitchens, along with a waterskin. The thief’s eye—that one eye, glossy with fever and fatigue—widened sharply, and his fingers clutched at the dirt. He didn’t try to stand—it wouldn’t have worked, they both knew—but dragged himself closer. Atem wanted to move forward, to save him that tremendous effort, but didn’t; waited patiently, even as the thief hesitated.
“... Why?” the child croaked out, after a moment. His chest convulsed.
“You need it,” Atem said, and then placed the offerings on the ground.
Again the thief hesitated, eye flicking between Atem and the food and then back again. But eventually desperate instinct won out, and he pulled himself a bit farther forward. He fell upon the food, a starving animal, all growling and drool as he ate. Atem watched in morbid fascination, having never seen life pushed to such a breaking point and intrigued despite the nausea that threatened at the back of his own throat. Only once did the thief retch, a violent convulsion, but he didn’t vomit.
When the food had vanished, there was a moment of quiet—the thief’s wheezing breath was audible, but that was all. Then Atem inched forward.
“Come on.” Atem extended his hand. “You can’t stay here. They’ll find you if you come inside, but I’ll show you my best hiding place. Come on.”
The thief regarded him mistrustfully, his gaze far older than suited his small body. But he leaned forward; asked again, “Why?” in a voice that did not rasp, but instead cracked.
“Because you’re hurt,” Atem said. “You might die.”
The thief stiffened; choked quietly and bent his head, shoulders shaking. “Because... I might... die...” he whispered, and Atem nodded.
“I don’t want you to die.”
“... I don’t want to die.”
The thief’s hand was calloused and dry, his fingers like brittle reeds. Atem pulled him gently along, guiding him through the hole in the wall and then deeper into the palace grounds, calling upon his knowledge of the guards’ routines and sticking to the deepest of shadows. At some point the thief managed to get to his feet and walk, and Atem wondered at the mysterious strength he possessed, even so close to death.
At the rear of the courtyard stood a massive statue of the pharaoh—of Atem’s father, Akhenamkhanen. Looking up, Atem could see his own balcony directly above it. It had been peering down from that vantage point that he’d noticed the gap in the statue’s foundation, and upon exploration he’d discovered a small, natural cave within the stone construct, likely a crack that had widened steadily since the statue’s creation. Nearly impossible to detect from the ground, it was that spot that Atem took the tiny thief to. The thief shied away, for a moment, glaring up at the stone effigy, but then steadied and followed Atem inside.
Once deep within the stone, the thief dropped Atem’s hand; collapsed, his strength spent. Atem crouched beside him. In the near-pitch-black inside the statue’s base, the gruesome wound on the thief’s face was scarcely discernible.
“Who—?” the thief gasped out family, and Atem hesitated.
“I live here.”
“A... servant?”
Atem remained silent; the thief didn’t question him further.
“... I’m going to bring some more food and water, but don’t eat it all now,” Atem said, after a moment. “Sleep, and you’ll have it here when you wake up. I can’t see to treat your wound now, so I’ll be back in the morning, when there’s light.”
The thief didn’t speak—only watched Atem with that one shrewd, almost-but-not-quite-hostile eye of his. Atem nodded, if only to reassure himself, and then wriggled back outside. By the time he had returned—with not only more bread and water, but with bedding—the thief was unconscious. Atem gazed at him for a moment, perplexed by the turn his life had taken that peaceful night.
“Rest...” he murmured, and put the supplies down. “Rest. I’ll be back in the morning.”
... ... ...
Atem was weary, come morning, and irritated by his father’s oblivious good cheer. He suffered through breakfast and his morning lessons, then slipped away from Mahad at the first opportunity to check on the foundling stashed away in the base of pharaoh’s statue. He half expected the thief to have fled, but found the child exactly where he’d left him. The statue’s cracks allowed a fair amount of daylight into the little cave, and Atem saw, for the first time, the full extent of the damage to the thief’s tiny body. He was emaciated, the shape of each bone clear beneath his dried-papyrus skin, which was scuffed bloody in several spots. His gray hair was hopelessly matted. Most troublesome, the mass of flesh on his face was a menagerie of angry reds and purples, white ooze contrasting starkly against it.
“I brought more food,” Atem said; what he’d left the night before was gone.
The thief, while still physically shaky, seemed more alert. He accepted the parcel Atem offered; unwrapped it. He ate slowly, with relish laid bare despite his attempts to hide it, and sipped water. He didn’t speak.
“I brought medicine, too,” Atem said, after some time. “Can I look at your wound?”
“Your own pharaoh’s men did it,” the thief said, his voice muffled by bread. “To mark me as a thief.”
Atem swallowed; said, “I’d guessed. But the punishment for thievery isn’t death.”
“You’re right. I don’t die if I steal—I die if I stop stealing. I starve.”
Atem shifted, uncertain of how to reply. Eventually, he motioned to the loaf of bread. “You didn’t have to steal that.”
“You’re right,” the thief said again. “You stole this.”
“I did not,” Atem said, a bit indignant. “That’s from my own breakfast.”
That seemed to catch the thief off-guard, and he didn’t reply.
“I’m going to take a closer look,” Atem asserted, after another pause. The thief didn’t speak, but fell still when Atem leaned in. He smelled of rot, sour, and the prince struggled to keep his nose from wrinkling. The damaged area radiated heat, and Atem took great care in cleaning away some of the dried blood and scabbing. The thief didn’t move, scarcely seeming to breathe as Atem worked. When Atem reached the flesh itself, the thief’s teeth grit subtly; he began to periodically flinch as Atem worked.
Once the worst of the debris had been cleared, the shape of the wound revealed itself: a long slash, starting just above the eye and ending at the bottom of the cheek. There were a couple of smaller, lateral tears in the skin along the sides of the main cut.
“It didn’t get your eye?” Atem asked—the first words that had been spoken since the process began.
The thief said, quietly, “No.”
Atem sighed. “That’s good.” He finished cleaning and dressing the cut, treating it with the powerful herbal poultice that his father’s magicians made. When he’d finished, he shuffled backwards. “There.”
The thief blinked his good eye; touched the dressing lightly. Atem didn’t expect thanks and didn’t receive them.
“If I live... and do terrible things...” the thief said at last, “you’ll have to live with that.”
“Why would you do terrible things?” Atem asked, genuinely perplexed. “You mean like thieving?”
The thief shook his head. “I hate your pharaoh. I’ll kill him, one day.”
Atem felt a chill down his spine, but didn’t let it show. “Why?”
The thief didn’t answer, staring off to the side, growing quickly listless. Atem chose not to press.
“I’m going to run off,” the thief said, after some time. “I’m not going to do anything to repay you. As soon as I can, I’m just going to disappear, and you can rot with the rest of your kind.”
“That’s fine,” Atem answered, and again had the satisfaction of catching the thief off-guard. “But please don’t leave before you’re ready. You might die.”
The thief gave a little snort—almost a laugh.
“I’m serious,” Atem said. “Stay here as long as you need—or as long as you want.”
The thief didn’t reply.
... ... ...
Atem returned that evening with food and fresh dressing for the thief’s wound.
“Palace food,” the thief said abruptly, though a mouthful of meat, “is even better than I ever dreamed.”
It was the most emphatic thing Atem had yet heard him say, and it made the young prince laugh. “I’m glad.”
“Though rotten fish would probably taste good, at this point,” the thief said, a dry note of humor in his voice.
“Maybe, but palace food is a lot better than rotten fish.”
“True.” The thief paused; he watched Atem carefully, out of the corner of his good eye, as Atem worked on his injury. “... You’re not going hungry, right?”
“What?”
“You said it was your food you brought me, this morning.”
Atem felt a surge of surprise. “No. I’m okay. It’s okay, really.”
The thief’s eye narrowed, just slightly. “Either you’re lying, or you palace folk sure eat richly.”
“We do,” Atem said, almost apologetically. Egypt was a prosperous place since his father had brought peace to the war-torn country with the mysterious Millennium Items, and the pharaoh and his chosen enjoyed the best fruits of that prosperity. “A little too richly, for my taste.”
The thief seemed to consider that, then shrugged and closed his eyes. “It benefits me, right now, so I’m not complaining. Judging, for sure, but not complaining.”
Again Atem laughed; finished with dressing the thief’s wound. He waited until the thief finished eating, then said, “I could bring some water, if you’d like to bathe. There isn’t much room in here, but...”
The thief nodded slowly; said, “That’d be... nice.”
Atem slipped out to fetched a couple of pitchers of water and soap. He brought a set of his own clothes, as well.
The thief took great care to clean the grime from his skin. It seemed to Atem, observing the behavior, that he must have lived with every human dignity at some point, and that saddened the young prince. What led you to this? he wondered, watching as the thief meticulously untangled his hair; rinsed it twice, then once more for good measure. Where is your family? With how well you speak, how you act... you couldn’t have been raised by the jackals...
When the thief had dried himself, he pulled on Atem’s clothes. He sighed quietly at their softness before he could check himself, then cleared his throat crossly.
“Feel better?” Atem asked.
“Human,” the thief answered, unwittingly echoing Atem’s earlier thoughts. “I feel human.”
“Because you are.”
“Yeah...”
For a moment they sat together, still and silent. Then Atem gathered up the pitchers and dirty cloth; said, “I’ll be back.”
“Do what you want,” was the thief’s muttered answer.
Atem smiled. “I’ll be back.”
... ... ...
Atem visited the thief briefly the next morning, and returned once again in the evening with a senet board tucked under one arm.
“What’s that?” the thief asked; his voice, muffled by a mouthful of roast meat, wasn't hostile, and that warmed the young prince.
“Senet. Haven’t you ever played it?”
“Have. Like mehen better.”
Atem laughed, surprised. “I’ll bring a mehen board next time, then.”
The thief looked at him curiously, cleaning the grease from his fingers with long, languid strokes of his tongue. “Huh? You want me to play?”
Atem tilted his head; he’d placed the board down between them. “I thought you might be bored.”
Then it was the little thief’s turn to laugh; Atem smiled at the improbable warmth in the sound. “Bored? I could eat and sleep like this for years and not get bored of it.”
“Do you want to play a game of senet?”
The thief smiled—a touch wryly, the wrappings on his face crinkling with the movement. “Sure. Let’s play.”
They played far more than a single game—they played, indeed, until the light was gone and they were forced to quit. Atem promised to bring a mehen board the next day; the thief thanked him.
... ... ...
“You’re in a good mood, son,” Pharaoh Akhnamkanon commented, smiling across the breakfast table.
Prince Atem nodded, busy tucking food into his pockets while still trying to sate his own hunger (as he had, despite what he might tell the little thief, been going a bit hungry). It had been nearly a week since Atem had first encountered the thief, and still he was hiding beneath the statue of the pharaoh.
“Have you got a new friend among the palace children?” the father asked gently. Atem gave a small, noncommittal shrug. “Well, I hope you’re having fun.”
“I am!” Atem exclaimed, and beamed at his father—at his pharaoh, whom the little thief claimed to hate. Atem wondered, yet again, why that could possibly be. He resolved to ask, during their game of mehen that day.
“Why?” The thief answered question with question as he rolled the dice; moved his marker and took a bite of bread. “Because this is all his fault.”
“What is?” Atem pressed, picking up the dice; he gave them a shake before tossing them, moving his own game piece accordingly.
“You’ll understand, some day. When I’m older, I’ll come back and explain it.”
The little thief’s strength seemed to be returning, bit by bit, and his wound was healing well. Each day Atem expected to find that he’d run off; each day the thief was still there, waiting for his visits.
“Where do you come from?” Atem asked, watching with slight anxiety as the thief’s game piece closed in on his own. He rolled the dice; got a three.
“A place that doesn’t exist anymore.”
Atem wasn’t sure how to reply; the thief overtook him, rounding a curve in the snake.
“Your family?” Atem asked eventually.
“They don’t exist anymore, either.”
“I’m sure they’re living well in A'aru.”
“I’m sure they aren’t.” The thief’s voice dripped bitter sap, and Atem tilted his head.
“Why do you say that?”
The thief didn’t reply; moved his game-piece to the center of the board, and said, “I’m the snake, now.”
Atem nodded; he rolled the dice, to send his marker fleeing back in the other direction.
“Their ba and ka were destroyed, along with their bodies,” the thief said, after a moment, and Atem stiffened. “There’s nothing left of them to be judged, or to make it into the afterlife.”
“That can’t...” Atem murmured, and caught the gleam of tears on the thief’s cheeks. He fell silent.
“Got you,” the thief said softly, as his game piece reached Atem’s. He swept them both off the board and asked, “We’ll switch to senet?”
“Sure. Senet it is.”
... ... ...
Several days later, Atem arrived at the statue at dusk; it had been more difficult than usual to slip away from his friends among the palace-folk.
“Sorry,” he gasped out, upon finally squirming into the little alcove. The thief looked up, unruffled. “It’s too dark now to play anything, I think...”
“It’s fine,” the thief said, an oddly sad note to his voice. When Atem made a questioning noise, he said, “I’ll be leaving, tomorrow.”
Atem laughed breathlessly, and the thief tilted his head. “I’m so glad you told me,” the prince murmured, and the thief looked away.
“Yeah, well... whatever...”
Atem edged forward; the food he’d brought, for once, sat untouched. “You don’t have to. If I talk to Pharaoh Akhenamkhanen, vouch for you, I’m sure—“
“No!” The thief’s voice was sharp; furious. It dropped again immediately. “No... sorry, but... no. I could never... I mean... I hate your stinking pharaoh. I stand by that. I’ll kill him, one day. And everyone close to him.”
Atem felt a deep stab of remorse but didn’t argue.
“I’ll come back, one day, I swear it,” the thief said. “Then you’ll understand. If you’re still here, at the palace...”
I’ll be here, for sure... Atem thought, with a trace of humor. What he said aloud was, “I’ll look forward to it.”
The thief didn’t respond, instead unwrapping the meal that Atem had brought him. The wound on his face had improved—it would leave quite the scar, but it was no longer open or raw. It would heal. He ate slowly, with relish, chewing thoroughly before swallowing each bite. He looked far less hollow than he had; though his bones were still visible, prominently, he no longer appeared as frail.
“You’ll miss the food, won’t you?”
The thief chuckled. “I’ll miss that. I’ll miss a few things.”
Atem stopped short of asking what else he would miss. The thief wouldn’t be convinced to stay, he was certain. Atem had no desire to sour their farewell with an argument.
“Do you need anything? Before you go?”
The thief shook his head; didn’t reply. Atem sat patiently while he finished his meal, and then they shared the silent stillness of the statue’s interior. When Atem made the slightest move, the thief reached out; caught his wrist. Atem stiffened, surprised, and met the thief’s gaze—both his eyes, clear and bright in the darkness. His grip was strong.
“Stay with me tonight. Please?”
While there was no trace of vulnerability in the thief’s voice, it was laid bare in his eyes. And, although aware that it might cause trouble, Atem could do nothing but nod.
“Sure. I will. Of course.”
Atem leaned back against the stone; the thief lay not only beside him, but against his shoulder. After a moment, the thief snuggled further into him, pressing their small bodies close.
“Is this okay?”
“Of course... it’s fine, of course...”
When Prince Atem woke, the defused dawn light rousing him, he was alone. The golden bangles he’d been wearing were missing, and that made him happy.