Work Text:
Khonshu hums an old melody as he works.
From above, the moon casts a gentle glow over the towering statue built in his likeness, and the body lying on the dais at its feet.
He measures each strip of bandage through the hollow of his eye and unravels it across the man’s skin, pulling it taut and winding it round the body to begin anew. Clawed fingers move to an ancient rhythm, laying white ribbons next to each other in a delicate patchwork, mending the wounds beneath.
One. To restore honor, duty, and the perseverance of right against all wrong.
Two. To restore humility, curiosity, love without bounds.
Three. To restore the burning will to protect, and to fight after all else has failed.
Cradled in the arms of a god, Marc Spector sleeps.
Three cracks, Khonshu notes to himself. But that will be no burden.
A lone beetle wanders onto the dais where Marc’s head rests, and Khonshu sweeps it up in the palm of his hand, releasing it onto the temple floor. “Shh. You’ll wake them before I’ve even finished.”
He lifts Marc's arms and folds them gently across his chest. You failed to protect my subjects – those who travel under my watchful eye. But Khonshu rewards effort. He lays the last bandage over the man’s eyes.
Khonshu steps back to admire his work. One hand remains, stroking the dark curls of his slumbering knight. A gesture of comfort before all that is to come.
“Rise, my son,” Khonshu commands.
Marc Spector opens his eyes by the white light of the moon.