Archive of Our Own

Sunlight. 

This is the first thing Marc sees in A’aru, in the Field of Reeds. He sees the gentle yellow glow from the reeds themselves, whispering softly against his legs. He sees the shadows of green and gold stretching into infinity. He sees an orange sky above as though dawn has just broken. There are no clouds. The sun is behind him, its warmth gentle on his white-clothed back. It is not the sun of Chicago that watched coldly as he packed his bags and left, only to return years later to throw his yarmulke to the ground, too drunk and too distraught to remember to kiss it again. It is not the sun of New York that rose silently the morning after his first kill as Khonshu’s avatar and showed him what he’d done to that man, awful and predatory as Khonshu had insisted he was. It is not the sun of Cairo that burned impassively as he watched a kid fall for a goddess he believed so terribly would protect him. 

Marc falls to his knees in the reeds as he remembers that kid. He hadn’t looked much older than Marc had been when he himself ran away from the place he grew up. If Harrow had come for Marc at that age, if he had promised pre-emptive judgment for all the killers and abusers of the world before they could do worse to others, if he had shown him safety and a community of people proven to be innocent, if Ammit had judged both Marc and his mother and chosen one of them to survive, if he had just known for sure when he was younger—

He should have saved that kid. 

Marc turns and faces the sun. He’s been here before. The Field of Reeds is supposed to be a paradise, isn’t it? Even if he doesn’t deserve it? Marc takes one slow inhale after another. Of course he remembers. This is the sun that smiled as he became a boyfriend for the first time, a lover, a fiancé, a husband. This is the sun that shone over coffee dates and snarky comments about the British museum and bike rides over the Thames. This is the sun that witnessed him fall in love against every instinct and rationality and moral fiber of his being. This is the sun that saw the splinters of unadulterated joy in his fragmented soul and illuminated him from the inside out. This is the sun that gave him a second life, a second chance. This is the sun that watched over him when he faltered and fell and locked himself away. This is the sun that protected him, that promised to guard and protect the other parts of his soul while he retreated into darkness again. This is the sun that shone over the only city Marc could properly consider his home.

This is the sun of London in the summer. 

This is the sun of two of the only people Marc cares about in the world he left behind.

This is Layla’s sun.

This is Steven’s sun.

And Marc is deprived of them both now. 

He shuts his eyes. He reaches back into his mind, to the place behind his eyes he knows his alter should be. There’s nothing. Of course there’s nothing. Steven had seen the truth, after all, seen who he really was, who Marc really was. What else is there to say? What else is left?

The Field of Reeds is meant to be a paradise. And yet. Marc sits on his knees and lets the reeds trickle over his face. He’s never been more alone in his life. Is that what paradise is meant to be? Taweret had looked at his scales with some kind of surprise, and Marc couldn’t believe the plummeting of his own heart hadn’t upset the balance again. Bring that talking hippo back and dare her to weigh his heart again. Marc would sink so far into that boat that he would anchor it long enough to bring Steven back on board.

Why is he here, when Steven is not? And why is Steven gone, when Marc is not? Marc looks inside again, deeper and deeper. He yet finds nothing, nothing but a desperate, aching emptiness. And that emptiness follows him back to the surface, cascades down his face in grief greater than what he felt for his mother. At least when his mother had died, he could escape into Steven’s innocence, his ignorance, if even for just a few aborted minutes. He could sink away then and watch Steven wander through a better life, knowing with a broken sort of relief that at least one of them didn’t have to feel the hurt of it all. At least one of them had been safe. At least one of them had been happy. Happier, at least.

But now Steven knows. Is that why Marc can no longer feel him? He clutches at the front of his shirt as though he can tear out the heart that is no longer in his chest. There’s no one to hear him. Even if someone were, who is Marc to care? He cries, he sobs, he screams. The reeds are quiet and sunny as ever. Marc wants to tear fistfuls of them from the earth, bleed the ground dry and let nothing grow there again. Forget a paradise. Even here Marc wishes for nothing but to disappear. 

“Marc?”

Marc’s head whips up at the sound of a boy’s voice. No. At his brother’s voice. Marc stares open-mouthed at a six-year-old Randall Spector, round-cheeked and soft-haired. He looks up in desperate disbelief. It takes him a few moments to process, let alone to say his name. “RoRo?”

Randall’s smile is soft, gentle. He waves a hand. “Hi, Marc.”

“What—” Marc wipes his face with his sleeve. It’s not much use. “What are you doing here?”

Randall tugs at his sleeve. “Come on, Marc. Let’s go. I’ll be Rosser this time.”

Marc doesn’t know if the sound he makes is a laugh or a sob. “Okay, buddy. Yeah, okay, you be Rosser. I’ll… I’ll be. I’ll be…”

Randall looks at him curiously. “You’re Dr. Grant, remember?”

“Yeah.” Marc closes his eyes, blinks away the last of his tears. Forces himself to stand, take his brother’s hand. “Yeah, okay, RoRo. Yeah, I’ll be him.” 

Randall squeezes his hand. “You look a bit sad today, Marc.”

“No, no, it’s just—” Marc tries to smile. “I just—it’s been a while, hasn’t it, I mean—” He squeezes his brother’s hand, both of them. He holds Randall’s face, brushes his hand through his brother’s hair. Randall stares curiously as Marc whispers incredulously, “You’re really here? I’m not making this up?”

Randall squirms from Marc’s touch. In Rosser’s accent, he says cheerfully, “Come on, Dr. Grant. Let’s go.”

“Randall, wait.” Randall stops when Marc says his name. Marc wants to say I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, but all he cannot bring himself to speak. Instead, he tries to put on the right accent. His voice breaks more than he wants it to. “You ready for an ad-ven-cha?”

Randall breaks into a wide grin. “I sure am, Dr. Grant!”

“Where do you want to go?”

“Let’s go to Egypt this time!” Randall bounces around Marc’s legs. “Remember the temple of terror?”

Somewhere deep in Marc’s memory, he does remember the second volume of the Tomb Buster series, but he can’t recall the plot for the life of him. Or the death of him. Egypt. Temples. Chasing after some foreign king’s tomb. It’s all too much and too close, and Marc stops in his tracks.

“Dr. Grant?”

“Randall, listen,” Marc says softly. He kneels and meets his brother’s eyes, putting his hands on his brother’s shoulders. “I’m not Dr. Grant, okay?”

“Well, I know that,” Randall says in his natural accent. “It’s just a game.”

“No, I mean.” Marc closes his eyes, wills his voice not to crack. He can at least get through this part, right? If he’s dead, there’s no need to keep secrets. There’s no need to protect anyone else anymore. “Steven Grant is a real person. And I’m not him.”

Randall’s eyes widen. “Really?”

“Yeah.” Marc nods. “I’ve met him.”

“What’s he like?”

“Well, uh, he—he’s vegan,” Marc stammers. At Randall’s confused expression, he explains, “He doesn’t eat meat. Or cheese or eggs or anything that comes from animals. Um. He’s really smart, knows everything there is to know about Ancient Egypt. He enjoys watching cricket matches. He has a goldfish named Gus. And he really likes chocolate. Uh. He… he gets postcards from his mom. He calls her every day. He works in a gift shop, but, uh, he’s always wanted to be a museum tour guide. He knows, like, four languages at least. And he’s good at Rubik’s cubes.”

Randall looks unimpressed. “He doesn’t sound very cool.”

“He is, though,” Marc insists. Before he knows it, he indignantly adds, “He saved my life, you know.”

“How?”

“I…” Marc trails off. Where to even begin? How can he tell his brother, his brother that died because of him, that there’s yet another person Marc failed to save? How can he say that pressing every good memory of his mother into Steven is what gave him the strength to weather through the worst years of his life, that Steven’s oblivious happiness had anchored him even when his ribs hurt so bad he couldn’t eat, that Steven’s uncomplicated faith in humanity had kept Marc from spiraling completely, that simply watching Steven smile and wave and even apologize if he didn’t have an extra cracker to throw at the pigeons in the park grounded him in the aching normality of a life he could never have? How can he describe the way Steven had first looked at him in terror, then in confusion and disbelief, in varying degrees of disgust and annoyance, that Marc had resigned himself to even his own alter’s hatred and promised Steven he’d find a way to go dormant for good? How can he find the words for the change in Steven’s eyes when he’d seen Marc die that night, seen him fall on Khonshu’s altar lifting his own gun to his chin? How can Randall ever understand that it wasn’t pity or sympathy or any of those unwanted things that colored Steven’s voice when he said, almost disbelievingly, Khonshu was manipulating you from the start. Marc had wrecked the careful trajectory he’d put Steven on in just a matter of days, found everything crumbling to sand all around him again, and Steven had only held him without blame, without all the things Marc hated about himself. Steven looked at him like someone who saw him in spite of all the blood on his hands, in spite of the awful things he’d done under the excuse of being Khonshu’s avatar. Steven had seen everything Marc had wanted to hide from him, but he still hadn’t hated Marc. In fact, his hatred and disgust had seemed to melt away completely by the time he held Marc’s shoulder outside his mother’s shiva and told him, You were just a child. It wasn’t your fault.

Randall can’t understand any of that, and Marc can’t bring himself to think about how Steven is still alone and frozen in the Duat. So instead, he says, “Steven was there for me when no one else was.”

“Did you go on any adventures together?”

“Yeah.” If only Randall knew. “Yeah, yeah, we did. We even went on a quest to save the world together.”

“Did you?” Randall’s eyes fill with admiration. “Did you really save the world?”

Marc tries not to think about the falling purple streaks in the Duat, souls plummeting into nothingness. He knows what his own victims have done, knows what the others might do. He knows that they’ll come to deserve that judgment, eventually. But when should they make that call? Right before it happens? Right after? After children are killed and hurt and beaten to within an inch of their lives? Isn’t there some kind of safety in Ammit’s judgment if it will prevent people from being hurt? If Ammit had found Marc when he was still a boy, Randall wouldn’t have drowned and his mother wouldn’t have spiraled and his father wouldn’t have been all alone in his helpless grief. If Ammit had found Marc when he was still a boy, his family wouldn’t have been torn apart because of him. 

Or. If Ammit had found Marc when he was still a boy, Steven wouldn’t have had to tell him all those years later that his brother’s death wasn’t his fault.

Marc rubs his brother’s arm. Nods. Smiles. “Yeah, RoRo. Yeah, we did save the world.”

“Can I meet him? The real Steven Grant?”

Marc’s smile falls. “He… he’s not here, buddy. He, uh. He’s… he’s not coming.”

“Why not?”

“He’s gone now,” Marc says dully. “I… He saved my life, but I couldn’t save his. I should have. I could have, and I didn’t. I should have fought harder, so he wouldn’t have had to. I should have gotten up, should have at least gotten away from the edge—”

“Marc?”

“I should have kept an eye on him!” Marc cries, chest heaving. Randall stares at him as Marc holds his brother’s face and whispers, “And I should have kept an eye on you, too. I never should have brought you to that cave. And even when it started flooding, I should have found a way to keep you safe.” He doesn’t add, because losing you was what made our mother hate me. He doesn’t add, because if I died and you were the one safe, she never would have beaten you. He doesn’t add, because you were the only thing keeping me safe.

Randall studies him as he fights not to lose his composure. And Marc does his best to hold his brother’s gaze, to not look away and to not shut himself up into silence, to feel everything that washes through him. Steven’s not here to help him through it anymore. He has to step up and take it on his own.

Randall’s face becomes solemn, his expression relaxing. Marc taps his arm. “RoRo?”

Randall’s eyes fill with a soft blue glow. “Marc Spector.”

Marc scrambles back to his feet, backing away from his brother. Randall does not follow. “What the hell did you do to my brother?”

“Do not be alarmed, Marc Spector.” It’s an oddly familiar voice, but Marc can’t quite place it. “This is merely one of many forms I can take in A’aru. Your brother is safe, I assure you.”

“Who are you?”

“I am Osiris,” Randall says. “God and king and first lord of the dead. And I am in need of you.”

Marc blinks rapidly, hot anger flushing through him as he remembers the botched trial in the pyramid. His body shakes with the memory of Khonshu pushing his way in and wrenching his voice from his throat, the exertion and exhaustion and sheer violation of it all. He forces it down, the way Harrow had called him unwell, practically goaded Marc’s own confession from his lips. It’s just a memory. He hopes it’s a glare that he throws at the god of the dead. “The hell do you want?”

“You were right about Arthur Harrow.”

Marc suppresses the urge to scoff and throw his hands up.

“He has released Ammit from her ushabti form and is wreaking havoc upon the living world.”

“And?”

Osiris exhales. “The world is in disorder, Marc Spector.”

“And you want me to do something about that?” Marc shakes his head. “You had your chance. You had your chance, and you chose not to listen.”

He’s about to turn away when Osiris calls after him, “We were wrong.” And maybe it’s the fact that the god speaks with his brother’s voice, but Marc cannot help but listen. The gods would not listen to him, but he will listen to them anyway. Isn’t there some universe where that’s fundamentally screwed up?

Osiris repeats, “We were wrong.”

It’s as close to an apology as a god is able to make. Marc bows his head. As much as he wants to ignore the havoc in the living world and sink into the reeds and demand the god leave him alone, he knows better. The gods’ version of justice is inscrutable, unknowable. The atrocities that they allow are for their own reasons. Who are men to defy them in feeble attempts to comprehend the grand nature of it all? Who is Marc to refuse who he is?

“Khonshu needs his avatar.”

Marc’s head jerks in confusion. “Khonshu’s back?”

Osiris gives a half-smile through Randall’s face. “He will be shortly. And I understand that there are others that Khonshu is looking at if you truly wish to remain here.”

Layla. Marc shakes his head. He won’t let that happen. Can’t let that happen. “No. I’ll do it.”

“Then answer me honestly,” Osiris pronounces. “Did you ever feel exploited by Khonshu in your time serving as his avatar? Did you feel misused or disregarded in your service to him?”

“No,” Marc says. It sounds natural, even to him. It’s the same lie he’s told himself over and over. His work is necessary. He can take a beating. He can make a kill. The suit will keep him alive. And if not him, then Khonshu will find someone else. God forbid this happen to anyone else. 

“You admitted in our chamber that you were unwell,” remarks Osiris. “And yet Khonshu chose you for his avatar all the same. So I will ask again, and I ask genuinely. Will you be safe if you return to Khonshu’s service?”

“I’ve been his avatar for years,” Marc says through gritted teeth. “Why the hell would I stop now?”

Osiris’ expression is unreadable. Or maybe Marc does not know what a subtle hint of sadness looks like on his brother’s face. “Then come, Marc Spector. Rise and walk through the gates of life again. Khonshu will meet you in the world of the living, and if you both do well, the Ennead will reconsider the imprisonment of your patron.”

“No, wait.” Marc plants his feet in the ground, finds his resolve. “I’m not Khonshu’s only avatar. If you’re going to bring me back, you have to bring Steven back, too.”

“Steven?”

“Steven,” Marc confirms. “And…and you have to bring back Jake, too. We left him in the psych ward because I wasn’t ready for Steven to meet him yet. I can’t be Moon Knight again without him, without either of them.”

Osiris tilts his head curiously. “Your alters.”

“Yeah.”

“Did you not want better lives for them?”

“One’s stuck in a fancy coffin on your underworld boat going God-only-knows-where, and the other’s trapped in the sand like some common killer out there!” Marc snaps. “In what universe are those better lives?”

“That is not what I mean,” Osiris says. “You are the one whom Khonshu saved, not your alters. When he healed your body, you are the one who brought them back from the dead with you. Now I am offering you their freedom. I know every soul that passes through the Duat. I can feel Steven Grant, lost among the sands of unbalanced souls. I can feel Jake Lockley, trapped in a tomb among your memories. When you board the ship of the dead again, you will find them both. I give you my word this will be so. You can choose whether you want to send them back here, to A’aru and eternal paradise, or you can return to the state Khonshu found you in. Three souls in one body or one. That will be your choice. I will personally accompany your alters to their paradise, if that is what you choose.”

Marc knows a dismissal when he hears one. He knows how quickly the gods can move between planes, how disorienting it can be for the people caught between. He doesn’t even dare to blink. Before Osiris can do anything, Marc blurts out, “Wait!” 

Miraculously, the god of the dead waits.

Marc’s voice trembles only slightly. “Can I say goodbye?”

A moment. Then Osiris nods. Randall’s eyes glow momentarily, and he leaves Marc’s brother. Randall blinks his confusion. “Marc?”

“RoRo.” Marc takes a deep breath and holds his brother’s shoulders. “I…I have to go now.”

“Okay.”

“Because—” Marc starts, then abruptly stops. He’d been expecting Randall to ask why, and he’d come up with a hundred different sugar-coatings in the time it took his brother to simply accept that he was leaving. His throat closes. 

It’s Randall who speaks. “It’s okay. I know you didn’t finish saving the world yet.”

“I’m sorry, RoRo,” Marc whispers. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“No, I mean—when we were kids, I—”

Randall silences him with a hug. And Marc’s shoulders shake as he sinks to his knees for the last time to wrap his arms around his brother’s small frame. He cradles Randall’s head in his hand, scared of crushing Randall’s ribs if he squeezes too tight. Randall’s head nestles into the crook of Marc’s neck, fists bunching in the back of Marc’s shirt. They’re pressed against each other the way they were in that cave all those years ago. But instead of death in drowning darkness, there is life on solid ground. Marc knows this by the way Randall’s breaths tuft into his hair. He can’t forgive himself for Randall’s death, not yet, but at least now he knows that somewhere in the planes beyond human understanding, Randall still lives and plays and does not fear the rain. And that is enough for now.

“I love you, Randall,” Marc whispers.

“I love you too, Marc.”

And with that, Randall dissolves from Marc’s arms. A fresh wind stirs in Marc’s hair, carrying the familiar smell of sand and night. The reeds fall away, and Marc finds himself kneeling on the bow of the boat that had brought him to A’aru in the first place. A cacophony rises in his ears. What?

“To your right, avatar!” A voice bellows above him. Marc flinches away as a black-furred jackal-headed man, even taller than Khonshu, swings a long, forked staff at him. It takes him a moment of hard blinking to realize that he’s just been rescued from a sandy zombie. The jackal-headed man, whom Marc guesses is some other god, spins the staff and nods at him.

Marc blinks to ground himself. The boat is way more crowded than he remembers. An ibis-headed figure grunts at him to clear the way as he ties a complicated sailor’s knot to rigging Marc doesn’t remember seeing. Across the deck, several baboons screech at each other as they carry ropes here and there. Taweret waves at Marc from one side of the ship, unfurling a massive sail alongside a snake-headed woman and another woman with huge white wings. At the stern of the ship, wielding a crook and flail, is a blue-skinned man with a tall white crown. Two other figures with snakes for heads accompany the blue man, along with a massive ram-headed man who smashes his head into three unlucky souls at once. Marc barely manages to dodge as a massive lion darts across the deck with a sandy soul in his jaws. He tosses it in the air, and it’s batted overboard by another lion. It takes Marc a few moments to realize that both lions are connected by their back legs. Doubtless Steven would know exactly who that is.

Steven.

“I’m comin’ for you, bud,” Marc whispers. Before that, though, there’s someone else he owes a long-overdue apology. 

Dodging sandy souls and anthropomorphized deities alike, with the occasional grunt and punch and kick, Marc flings the doors to the psych ward open again. The lamps swing as the boat crashes over the waves of the Duat, but Marc shakes his head and balances himself. He knows where he’s going, after all.

He finds the room almost immediately. Or maybe the room finds him, its door open and inviting. The single red sarcophagus within rattles, upright as though it’s going to start walking on its own if Marc doesn’t open it soon. And Marc does.

And when he cracks open the lid of that coffin, his other alter springs out in a maroon sweatshirt and light grey sweatpants. He looks down at himself in confusion, pats his head, and says with an undeniably New York accent, “Where in the Goddamn shit is my Goddamn Cubs cap?”

“Jake!” 

“Marc?” There’s no hug between them, but Jake Lockley still punches Marc’s shoulder in greeting. Marc moves with the friendly blow and answers with a strike of his own at Jake’s chest. “Hey, the hell is goin’ on out here?”

“Uh, long story short,” Marc says quickly, “we died, Harrow released Ammit, there’s a talking hippo and a whole bunch of other people outside, we gotta save Steven, and we’re gonna meet Khonshu up top because Osiris is resurrecting us, I guess.”

Jake holds up a hand. “Okay, first of all, what the hell. Second of all, what the hell. Third, what the hell. And lastly, what the fuck.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t let you out sooner,” Marc exhales in a rush. “I didn’t know it was going to be like this, and I wasn’t ready for Steven to meet you yet, and then a lot of things started happening at once, and—”

“Oy, Spector.” Marc shuts up at the casual roughness with which his alter jostles him. “Fuck all that, man. Just tell me where the fight is, yeah?”

“How do you feel about some sandy zombies?”

“Sounds messy.” Jake grins. “Just my type.” He reaches up as if to tip his cap before realizing it’s no longer there. “Okay, someone’s going to die if I don’t get my hat back soon.”

Marc and Jake burst through the white double doors to the deck. Jake stares slack-jawed at the clouded orange sky above them, the purple lights hurtling to the ground like dying meteors. He swears loudly as he’s almost run over by a large frog. Marc only shrugs helplessly at him. Jake throws him a you-have-so-much-explaining-to-do-later sort of look and charges into the fray. Marc joins him, holding back a portly soul with a flat newsboy cap while Jake punches it over and over in the face. As it dissolves, Jake picks up the cap and dusts the sand from it. After turning it over in his hands, he decides to put it on and spreads his arms in a questioning pose. Marc rolls his eyes and shakes his head. Jake only nestles his new cap tighter on his head and elbows another soul behind him.

A howl at the bow makes Marc jerk his head up. Another jackal-headed man, with white fur this time, raises a hand to his snout and howls. “We have eyes on him! To port!”

“To port!” the ibis-headed figure Marc passed earlier bellows. Tawaret and her snake companion pull the rudder, and the boat swerves. Marc nearly crashes into Jake as both of them fight their way to the bow with the white jackal. Marc’s heart pounds in his ears.

Steven.

“A rope!” The white jackal cries, and the black jackal tosses one to him. 

“Halt the boat!” The blue-skinned man above yells, and Marc realizes with a jolt that he knows that voice. This must be Osiris. The god notices Marc staring and gives a nod of acknowledgment. Per his order, the boat grinds to a halt. Osiris raises his voice once more. “Protect Khonshu’s avatars! Let them not touch the sand!”

The ibis god ties the black jackal’s rope into a harness around the double-lion creature. One head snarls, then the other. The white jackal ties the other end around his waist and dives from the side. Marc and Jake both grab at the rail, watching him fall. The white-winged woman who helmed the rudder with Taweret soars above them both, diving to help the jackal.

Meanwhile, a horde of other souls start to climb up the sides of the ship. Some come armed with knives and bats. Others come on their own. Jake gives Marc a nonchalant shrug, and the two of them fall into a familiar rhythm like retired dancers remembering a routine from their youth. When Jake goes high, Marc goes low. When Marc pins a soul, Jake smashes it into oblivion. He’s not sure at what point Jake finds a knife, but Marc doesn’t complain. Marc sticks to his own fists, though, mostly pinning and stunning souls for Jake to hack and stab. 

“So whaddaya mean you weren’t ready for Steven to meet me yet?” Jake yells over the chaos.

“Do you really want to do this now?” Marc grunts back. 

“I’m just sayin’, man.”

Marc is blessedly saved from an answer by the beat of wings overhead. The white-winged woman lands on the deck, struggling with another sand soul, while the white jackal climbs up behind her, shaking sand from his head. The soul in the woman’s arms flails and kicks as she sets it down. Marc meets the soul’s unseeing, stony eyes only for a split second, and he rushes over to him.

“Steven? Steven, hey, hey—come on, buddy, it’s Marc—”

Steven looks up almost as if in recognition. In seconds, though, his hands find their way to Marc’s throat, and he pushes him against the railing as if to take them both over the edge. Marc slaps at Steven’s hands, unwilling to make a fist if it means possibly disintegrating his alter’s form. Jake grabs onto Steven from behind, his weight the only thing keeping the others from falling over. Marc manages a choked, “Steven” as he struggles to keep them all on the boat. It’s all he has breath to say. “Steven.”

“Kebechet!” someone calls. Maybe that means incoming, because a moment later, the pressure lifts from Marc’s throat as a splash of water washes over the three of them. Marc nearly tumbles over the edge, but Jake grabs the front of his shirt and pulls him inside the boat, spluttering and coughing. 

“You alive, Spector?”

“Still kicking, Lockley.”

Once he knows Jake’s all right, Marc immediately swivels his attention to the human-shaped pile of wet sand that’s collapsed next to them. Tentatively, he reaches for what he thinks is Steven’s back. Sand solidifies into flesh beneath his hand, and Steven gasps back to life. Relief washes over Marc as he wipes away the sand and dust from the back of Steven’s head. Steven’s hands shake terribly, his skin oddly reddened. His voice quakes when he looks up and sees Jake. “Marc? Funny hat you’ve got there.”

Steven staggers over for a hug, but Jake puts a hand up. “Uh, no. That’s Marc.”

Steven blinks his confusion when he realizes Marc is crouched behind him. He looks from Jake to Marc to Jake to Marc. “Um. Explanation?”

“Long story short,” Jake says, “Hiya. I’m Jake. I live here too. Yeah I killed those guys in Cairo. Yeah they would have killed us. I pop in every now and again. Nice to finally meet.”

“Er, right, pleasure.” Steven awkwardly shakes Jake’s hand, looking at Marc the whole time with a very you-have-so-much-explaining-to-do-later sort of look. “Steven Grant. Steven with a V. And I guess you already know Marc, then?”

“Yeppers.”

“Yeah.” Marc takes a deep breath. “It’s really good to have you back, Steven.”

“Yeah.” Steven moves in for a quick, tight squeeze. He sighs over Marc’s shoulder. “Really can’t say I recommend getting stuck in death sand like that.”

Marc rubs Steven’s back. “I won’t let you go again, okay? I promise.”

“Thanks, mate.”

Marc’s about to let go of Steven when he feels another set of arms wrap around them both, squishing them back together again. “What are you doing, Jake.”

Jake hums on Marc’s other shoulder, the brim of his cap digging into the side of Marc’s neck. “Can’t a man join a hug when he feels like it?”

“This is nice,” Steven admits.

“Yeah, Spector, enjoy it while it lasts,” Jake says, holding them tighter. “Once we get back up there, we’re all going to be smushed in the same body again, remember? And we also gotta deal with the fuckin’ death dodo.”

“Wait, what?” The hug dissolves as Steven looks from Jake to Marc. “We’re going back?”

Marc nods grimly. “Harrow released Ammit, and we’re needed on the front lines again.”

“Full speed ahead!” Osiris booms above them. 

Steven’s head jerks up as the boat begins to move again. Marc catches himself on the deck for balance, and Jake plants his feet into the floorboards. Steven raises an incredulous finger. “Is that—?”

“Osiris? Yeah, think so,” Marc says. 

“And that must he Kherty, the helmsman,” Steven says, pointing at the ram-headed figure accompanying Osiris. Kherty cocks his head when he hears his name and offers a wave to the three below. Steven waves back. His jaw falls open when he looks around the now-crowded boat, completely oblivious to the sandy souls that are trying to kill them. “Oh my days, is that Ma’at? Goddess of justice who gives her feather to the scales? Oh, look, Marc, that’s Anubis, god of the dead with the was sceptre—that’s Thoth over there, with the ibis head—god of wisdom, y’know, and the double-lion creature must be Aker, god of horizons— ‘scuse me, but you wouldn’t happen to be Kebechet, would you?”

Marc doesn’t understand how Steven can nerd out at a time like this, but the snake-headed woman whom he addresses flicks her tongue, slitted eyes crinkling with delight. “Sure am.”

“Uh, huh?” Jake tilts back his cap.

“Daughter of Anubis,” Steven explains. “She brings water to the dead when they’re waiting in line for judgment.”

“Or she dunks a zombified soul to bring him back to us,” Marc realizes. He’s never had any reason to thank any of the Egyptian pantheon before, but he hopes Kebechet recognizes his nod as one of gratitude. The goddess puts a scaly hand over her chest, patting the strap of a large canteen at her side. 

“Just doing my job,” Kebechet says pleasantly, transparent eyelids blinking. “Friend of the dead and all. You three’d best head inside. It’s going to get a bit messy as we approach the gates of Osiris.”

Marc doesn’t need to be told twice. He claps Jake’s shoulder, and the three of them head back towards the psych ward. Steven’s still pointing and rambling when Marc ushers him inside. 

“So what now?” Jake asks. “We just wait?”

“Yeah, pretty much, I guess.” Marc crosses his arms and leans against a wall. He’s rolling Osiris’ offer around in his head. He knows what the right thing to do is. And also the selfish thing. He exhales. Why does what he want never align with what he knows is right?

“Something on your mind, boss?”

“Nah.” Marc waves Jake’s question aside. “Just not exactly looking forward to what’s happening up there.”

“Ooh, right.” Jake rubs his hands together, wiggling his eyebrows as he points at Steven and Marc. “You two need to get your shit sorted with Layla, don’t you?”

Marc groans and pinches his nose while Steven shakes his head with a “Come on, mate, that’s not fair.”

Jake puts his hands up. “Just sayin’. I fear that woman more than death itself. Okay, maybe that’s not fair, seeing as we’ve already died a couple times and it wasn’t that bad.” At Marc’s murderous look, he says defensively, “Look, Layla’s cool, but she’s definitely not my type, okay? Besides, y’all’re married, and I’m not one to get in the way of the happy couple.” He says this last part with a meaningful glance at Steven, who reddens and puts his face in his hands.

Marc still hasn’t completely forgiven Steven for that kiss, but he still shoots back at Jake, “But you are one to set up a steakhouse date for a guy who’s clearly vegan.”

Steven’s expression changes from embarrassment to confusion to utter betrayal. “That was you?”

Jake shrugs. “You got me back with a well-done filet, so I’d say we’re even.”

Steven only stares. “And this whole time I thought it was just Marc—wait, are you responsible for getting New Gus, too?”

Jake shakes his head as Marc raises a hand. “No, that was me.”

Jake elbows him. “Man was out here threatening every pet shop owner in a ten-mile radius for a one-finned goldfish. We literally only spent about eight hours in the Alps and then two entire days looking for goldfish. Almost wound up paying some guy in Indonesia for one, didn’t we?” 

“Sorry, what?”

“Yeah, well, Jake’s the one who said you wouldn’t notice if Gus magically grew another fin overnight,” Marc says. “Even though I told him you definitely would, since you’ve had Gus for well over a year.”

“Hey, in our defense, we got one that was basically the same.”

“We tried,” Marc corrects as Steven buries disbelieving hands in his hair. “Though realistically speaking—”

Steven silences him with a finger. “Don’t even say it.”

“We’ve been gone for days—”

“You mean to tell me we spent two days looking for a fish and it’s gonna die again?” Jake throws his hands up. “I’m just gonna go back to my fuckin’ coffin. You two deal with this.”

“Hey, hey.” Marc grabs Jake’s arm, even though he’s about ninety percent sure his alter is just joking. “No coffins, okay?”

“Actually, those are sarcophagi,” Steven corrects.

“Yes, Steven, thank you,” Marc enunciates. “Sarcophagi. None of that.”

Jake studies him curiously. “You all right?”

“Yeah, yeah. ‘M fine.”

Steven’s brow furrows. “We don’t have to go back, Marc.”

“I know.”

“I mean, you saw the deck out there—there’s plenty of gods who can take the fight to Ammit instead of us.” Steven tries for a smile, a chuckle. “They’d probably do a lot better than both of us, right?”

“Oy,” Jake interrupts. “Speak for yourself, Casablanca. My bases are covered.”

“Didn’t you admit to murder earlier?”

“That was just violent self-defense.”

“Violent self-defense—” Steven sputters. He spins to Marc. “How long has he been running around in our head for?”

Marc shrugs. “’Bout as long as you, I think? Hard to say, seeing as the three of us don’t exactly remember the same things.”

“What things does he remember, then?”

“Uh, yeah, that’s fine, just talk about me like I’m not here.”

Marc ignores him. “Pieces, just like you. But if you’re asking about Moon Knight, yeah. Took a bit to win him over, but he knew about that. And he always knew we were a system. He just never really met you. I wasn’t ready to do that.”

“Does he know?” Steven asks. “About Mum?”

“Fuck that woman,” Jake spits. At the stricken look on Steven’s face and Marc’s involuntary flinch, he hurriedly adds, “Was probably not the best response in hindsight.” At his alters’ silence, he sighs. “Look, you two loved her in your own ways. I never did. I don’t have any good memories of her, all right? So excuse me if I think she’s a bitch who got what she deserved.”

“But there were good things,” Steven protests. He tugs at Marc’s sleeve. “Weren’t there? I mean, my memories of her can’t all be lies, right?”

“You got the best of the three of us, Steven,” Marc says quietly. “And Jake and me? We got whatever was left. It wasn’t pretty, all right?”

“Why’d you make him up, then?”

“Oy, I’m still very much a person, y’know,” Jake seethes. “Maybe I’m not the quote-unquote original, but I’m as real as you are, Steven. You had your own life, yeah? Well I had one, too. Didn’t have a goldfish or a cute date or anything, but I had a job and everything, all right? I paid my share of the headspace rent.”

“You had a job.”

“Part-time stunt driver.”

“You’re not serious.”

Marc sighs. “You drove taxis, Jake.”

“That’s basically the same thing, especially when everyone drives on the wrong side of the road.”

“You can drive?” Steven asks incredulously.

“Hey, who do you think saved your ass in that cupcake truck, huh?” Jake jabs a thumb in Marc’s direction. “You think this idiot can drive half as well as I can? Took him four tries to get his license as a kid, and he only got it the fourth time because I stepped in and did the test for him.”

“I never got my license,” Steven mumbles.

“Eh, you can take the bus.”

“Well I don’t need to anymore, seeing as I don’t exactly have a job, now, do I.”

Jake sucks in air through his teeth. “Ooh. Yeah. Right. That sucks.”

Steven gives Marc a pointed look. “Still going to need compensation for that, mate. I don’t think Khonshu’s exactly going to pay rent for us.”

“Steven, your apartment’s paid for,” Marc says. “I bought it.”

“What?” Steven backs away in shock. “Did you make up my landlord, too? Who have I been paying rent to every month?”

“Air fare,” Marc sighs.

“Bribery!” Jake exclaims.

“Hotel fees.”

“Hush money!”

“And you did that with my paycheck?” Steven wrings his sleeves into sweatshirt paws. “I’ll have you know that gift shop-ists aren’t exactly well-paid! I saw your bag full of money in the storage unit, Marc.”

“Okay, that was my emergency stash—”

“You had stacks and stacks of euros and American dollars and other things, too!”

“That was in case we suddenly needed to pack up and move somewhere else!”

“Which, in hindsight,” Jake notes, “probably wouldn’t have happened anyway since Marc doesn’t want to be too far from Layla. Your apartment’s literally only about half an hour away from our old place, Steven.”

Steven’s nose scrunches. “What, really?”

“Well, of course, I can make the drive in ten,” Jake says smugly.

Steven closes his eyes briefly. “This is a lot, Marc. This is a whole bloody lot.”

“For what it’s worth,” Marc says, “I’m sorry I kept you in the dark, Steven. I just thought we would have been better off that way.”

Steven gives a slow shake of his head. “I understand why you did what you did, Marc. But. Just. Can we try not to have any more secrets, especially big, other-person-shaped ones? Huh? Can we try that?”

“Ouch.” Jake grimaces, but the light in his eyes is still hopeful, asking Marc the same question.

Marc looks down. “Yeah. Yeah. We can try.” We won’t have much longer together anyway.

The halls around them shift as though settling. Jake looks up. “Did we stop?”

“Must be.” Steven taps both their arms. “Come on, let’s go.”

Marc trails after Jake and Steven as they trace their steps back to the deck. He’s already rehearsing what he’ll tell them. It’s not fair to you two. This is my service, not yours. I don’t want to put you both through any of that again. I can’t keep using you to escape my own problems.

When the doors crash open this time, Marc sees light like he’s never seen before. The sky has opened, purple lights crashing like meteors into the sands. An orange glow fills the boat, though, and this seems to keep the lost souls at bay. Some of the other gods seem to glow as well. The ibis-headed god whom Steven had called Thoth raises his head and disappears from the deck, shooting upwards into the sky like a smokeless rocket.

“What’s happening?” Steven asks the question that Marc is just beginning to form.

“Some of the gods have been without avatars for a long time,” a voice rumbles. Marc, Steven, and Jake simultaneously whirl around as Osiris descends to the main deck, regal in his white crown and robes. “They must return and choose their champions.”

“Where’s our old bird?” Jake looks around.

“Khonshu went on to heal your body,” Osiris answers. “He does not need to seek someone new, since he has someone willing.”

“That’s us,” Steven says brightly. Marc swallows and blinks rapidly to ground himself. It’s going to be okay. This is the right thing to do.

Taweret gives a small wave as she also glows and vanishes into the sky, alongside Kebechet and Anubis and Ma’at. Steven waves to each of them as they go, whispering their names and pointing out the other gods as they, too, disappear to find avatars of their own. Jake gruffly tips his cap.

“Marc Spector,” Osiris says. “Are you ready?”

Marc doesn’t look at his alters. He can’t. He nods mutely at the blue god. “Please take care of them for me.”

Marc feels warmth blossom in his chest and hands as a soft orange light begins to fill his skin, too. He doesn’t think about how Layla’s going to ask where Steven is and he’ll have to tell her. He doesn’t think about how Khonshu’s going to be pleased that it’s just the two of them now. He doesn’t think about how he’s going to look into mirrors for alters that are no longer there. It’s for their own good, he thinks. After all, he’s the one who made the deal and he’s the one that should pay for it. And if this keeps Jake and Steven away from Khonshu, well. This is the right thing to do, right?

“Marc?” Steven’s voice is so small. Marc can’t look at him. “Marc, wait, what do you mean—aren’t we going back together?”

Jake jostles his shoulders. “Spector, come on. Talk to us, man. What’s going on?”

Marc pushes him away and looks up at the sky as though Khonshu’s armor will take him again. Any second now, right? Any second now. If he stays any longer, he doesn’t think he can follow through.

“Marc…” How dare Steven use that voice on him. Marc chances a look back at him. Steven’s eyes are glistening, melting. “Are you just going to leave us here?”

Jake recoils. “On the dead boat? Fuck off, man, do you wish we were dead?”

“Of course not!” Marc snaps. The light fades from his hands, but he doesn’t notice. “But I’m the only one here that’s Khonshu’s actual avatar, okay? I’m the only one that needs to go back. You two never asked for this, all right?”

“Oy,” Steven cuts in. “You watch it. We’ve got suits of our own, you know.”

“Uh, I don’t,” Jake offers unhelpfully.

“Okay, he doesn’t,” Steven amends. “But we’ve both dealt with these crazy jackal things—”

“Nope.”

“We both went up against Harrow with you—”

“Not really, it was just those truck guys.”

“Okay, uh, we’ve both gone grave robbing for Khonshu—”

“Eh.”

“We’ve at least seen that old vulture around, haven’t we?”

Jake holds up two fingers. “Twice.”

“Okay, mate.” Steven plants his hands on his hips. “What do you even do here?” 

“Fight off bad guys when we’re not Moon Knight,” Jake shrugs. “Save your asses when you get indecisive. What can I say, I’m a people person and I can take a few hits without the armor. Works out, doesn’t it? Oh, and I clean up bodies every now and then because you’re a vegan who can’t stand the sight of blood and he gets himself into an existential moral crisis every time Khonshu makes him kill someone.”

“Oh.” Steven blinks. “That’s actually—that’s quite helpful, actually. Sorry.” 

“’s’aight.”

“Point is,” Steven says, holding Marc’s forearm, “you still need us, all right? Forget this whole lone-wolf thing you’re doing. What happened to ‘I’ll never let you go again’, hm?”

Marc tears his gaze to Osiris. The warmth in his chest burns like hunger. He glares at the god of the dead. “Can’t we just get this over with?”

The god’s expression is unreadable. Or maybe Marc just doesn’t know what a subtle hint of sadness looks like on his face. “I can only send a willing soul.”

“I am willing.”

“Are you?”

“I told you I am!” Marc shouts. “I’m ready to be Khonshu’s avatar again, so send me the hell back already!”

“Damn it, Marc, what did you do?” Jake’s the one who grabs his collar, but it’s Steven who asks the question. He repeats it, voice breaking ever so slightly. “What did you do?”

“If I don’t go back,” Marc whispers, “Khonshu’s going to go after Layla. I can’t let that happen.”

“You mean we’re not going to let that happen,” Jake corrects.

Marc makes no move to free himself from Jake’s grip. “I can’t put you two through that again, either. It’s… it’s not worth it.”

“Put us through—” Steven almost scoffs. “Getting that suit, punching that jackal, going on that adventure with Layla and finding the effing tomb of Alexander the Great—those were the best worst days of my life, Marc.”

“I mean. We also got stabbed and gaslit and beat up and killed,” Jake adds, “but yeah, we had some good moments. You don’t get to take that away from us.” 

Marc looks down. “It’s awful work.”

“Not if it’s you,” Steven says. “Not if it’s us.”

“Yeah,” Jake agrees. “We’ve been in this together from the start. Fuck Khonshu, man, forget about him. If that murder seagull wasn’t in the equation, would you still want to get rid of us?”

“Of course not.” The confession’s out before Marc can convince himself of another lie. He squeezes his eyes shut. The glow in his chest threatens to go out completely. Osiris watches impassively. Or maybe Marc doesn’t know what curiosity looks like on a god’s face.

Steven holds his shoulder. “Then don’t let us go, Marc. Let us go with you.”

Jake holds his other shoulder. “You wouldn’t last long up there without us anyway.”

Marc looks from one to the other, alters that have been with him since he was a scared, beaten child with nowhere else to put his trauma and grief—one to protect his body, the other to protect his mind. Emotion floods him like sunlight, and he gathers them into a tight, tight embrace. He used to think that there would come a time when he wouldn’t need Jake and Steven anymore, that he’d be able to take whatever life threw at him with at least some semblance of grace. He used to think that there would come some time when he would confront his alters like extensions of himself and tell them, You were a part of me I needed to keep separate, but it’s time to come back now. And maybe that’s still true. Maybe that time will come. But it is not now.

Jake and Steven wrap their arms around Marc and each other, too. Steven actually cradles Marc’s head. He whispers, “Sneaky move there, quoting the Oresteia at me. Don’t think I didn’t notice.”

“Quoting the what?”

“We’ll read you a bedtime story when we finish kicking Harrow’s ass,” Jake hums. “Greek tragedy. Ax murder, angry vengeance ladies. Ballers stuff.”

“Did you just call the Oresteia ballers—”

“I’m a man of culture, Steven—”

“Hey.” Marc pulls his head up just enough to look in his alters’ eyes. “Are you two sure about this? It’s going to be really messy up there. You don’t have to come along. I mean that. We’re not going to get this chance again.”

“Hey, Spector.” Jake’s grin bleeds into his eyes. “You know me, man. I’m here for you. Always have been. Not gonna stop now.”

Marc butts his head against Jake’s. “Thanks, Lockley.”

“Me, too.” Steven clears his throat. “Dunno how much I can really do, but you two’re gonna need someone who knows their history, yeah?”

“Steven, you are so much more than just some history nerd, you—” Marc stops abruptly. The words are there, right at the tip of his tongue, but he doesn’t know how to say them. It’s nothing like what he wanted to tell Randall about, and yet it’s everything and more all at once. Maybe someday, when the fighting is done and they can have a few moments to themselves under London’s forgiving sun, Marc will figure out what to say and how to say it. For now, he settles on, “You’re the best of me.”

“Yeah, well,” Steven mutters, sniffing quietly, “That’s not really saying much, yeah?”

Jake pokes Steven’s shoulder blade. “Are you cryin’, Stevie?”

“I don’t exactly see dry eyes on you, Sherlock Holmes—”

“I’ll have you know this isn’t my usual look, okay—”

“You find that cap on a corpse or something—”

“Y’know, you’d be surprised—”

A soft but deep, resonant clang makes the three of them spring apart, if even slightly. Osiris raises his crook and flail in an X across his chest as though mummified. He clangs the instruments together again, then a third time. “Marc Spector. Steven Grant. Jake Lockley. I take it then, that the three of you intend to return together to the land of the living and will reclaim the mantle of being Khonshu’s avatar once more?”

Marc and Steven and Jake look at one another before giving matching nods. Steven’s hand finds Marc’s, and Marc gives him a reassuring squeeze. Yeah, he’s not going to let Steven go so easily. Jake notices and links his elbow in Marc’s as though to one-up Steven for host’s favorite. Marc holds onto both of them as he gives Osiris their answer. “We’re a package deal, man. All or nothing.”

Orange light fills Marc’s chest again, doubled in Steven, tripled in Jake. Marc closes his eyes and lets it wash over him, lets his pulse return to his heart, lets life rush into his lungs again as it had all those years ago. Is he afraid of going back under Khonshu’s wing again? Of course. He’s fucking terrified. But he’s no longer going in alone. He knows from the hum behind his sternum that Jake’s not just going to play cleanup crew after the messy missions, that Steven’s not going to take a backseat when they’re traveling. It’s liberating in a way, having the walls down between the three of them. Maybe this is what Osiris truly meant by giving his alters their freedom.

And maybe it’s the Duat playing yet more tricks on his mind, but for the first time in his life, Marc can see a future for them. He can see himself gliding over rooftops at night, cape fanning out against the sky with daggers in his hands. He can see Steven in his suit, adjusting his tie as he bids a pair of detectives farewell for the night. He can see Jake chase after some unseen opponent through darkened alleyways, guided by moonlight. And he can see Layla with them as well, suiting up alongside them to find another buried tomb or lost treasure, giving him an extra shoulder nudge for Jake and a kiss on the cheek for Steven. The road there will be long. It will be hard. It will be full of hurt and anger and grief and secrets slashed open, uncertain hearts laid bare against feather-heavy truths. There are many things Marc still can’t forgive himself for, things he never expects forgiveness about. But at the very least, he can learn to let go of his own self-hatred. For Steven’s sake. For Jake’s. For his own.

It's going to be messy out there, but they’re going to be okay. 

Marc can still feel Steven and Jake on either side of him when the light washes over them completely. And he realizes something, as he wakes up in the shallow waters of an empty tomb, with Khonshu standing above him and his armor covering his newly-healed chest. He realizes it when he unmasks and panickily splashes the water and checks for two reflections, even as the moon god insists he get up and get moving. He realizes it when one reflection waves with a thumbs-up and the other pats his uncovered head with an exasperated eye-roll. Khonshu is loud, and he is manipulative, and he is obnoxious, and he is everything Marc wants to run from.

But this was never about him.

This was never about Harrow.

This was never about Ammit.

The armor may have healed his wounds, but it’s the faces in the water that give Marc the strength to stand again. So he does. One foot in front of the other. The water whispers behind him as he rises like the sun over his home. And his heart is fuller than the moon.