Chapter Text
Set stood alone on an empty battlefield and stared down at the seared, unrecognizable body of his predecessor. The sun beat down the back of his neck, but he did not notice it. He was cold. The logical portion of his brain told him that he should be feeling something. The expected reaction under these circumstances should be crying, heartache, rage, some kind of emotional response to the sight of the broken corpse of his friend and pharaoh. It was notable that he didn't. He tried to conjure an emotion; all was flat. His skin felt distant, like it belonged to someone else. Why was he so cold? He shivered.
His brain went through a list of names. Mahad. Karim. Shada. Kisara. Weeks of grief, everything he had, bleeding out of him drop by drop, until there wasn't anything left to offer his poor cousin. Nothing. Just a dull, numb, empty sort of tired.
He should feel guilty, at least, ashamed of not feeling anything. He couldn't manage that either. He didn't care.
In another time, in another age, in the back room of a building in a city in a country oceans away, two people will sit across a table and tell the story of this battle once again. They will tell it very differently, condense it to suit their needs, twist the plot and add new characters. Theirs is not the battlefield that Set contends with.
This battle, the real one, was both shorter and longer. Bakura had been dealt with long ago, dead in the ruins of Kul Elna, but it took Akhenaden weeks to gather his armies. The pharaoh spent them preparing, smashing his name off of walls and shredding papyrus, forbidding anyone to speak it. He fought alone, at his own insistence, and the demon was sealed as soon as it showed its face. No one saw anything besides light, so bright it burned or blinded anyone who didn't look away fast enough, and it was over so soon that there were only a few casualties. At the place where the pharaoh's corpse lay, the sand beneath it had been turned to glass.
Scattered across the body were tiny, angular gold pieces. Whatever was left of the pendant. He knelt down and began collecting them in his palm, the metal warm from the sun, almost too hot to touch. He scoured the nearby sand, squinting. He could not afford to miss a single piece.
It was not long before the rest of the world caught up to him, people streaming in to start poking at rubble. Isis and Siamun appeared behind him. Siamun could not look at the body; Isis had her hand over her mouth, and could not look away.
"Is that...?" she asked.
Behind them there was a raw, high-pitched, awful scream, and two of them snapped around to look. Mana, wailing, sobbing, being gently restrained by a soldier who was trying in vain to comfort her. She'd caught a glimpse of the pharaoh's corpse, no doubt, and become inconsolable.
Set stood up, careful not to drop any pieces. "The pharaoh was successful. We are saved." he said, monotone, dull. He looked at Siamun, and gave him the puzzle pieces, falling from one set of palms to another, triple-checking that he had not dropped any. "Take these, and do not lose them."
"Of course, pharaoh." he said, taking them carefully, and for a second Set was almost startled out of his not-feeling, confused to be addressed as king, until the world caught up again. Of course, you were next in line. Of course, this is what he asked of you. Siamun is your own vizier now. Royalty is faster than light, and coronation merely a formality; there is always already a king.
Set went back to looking at the corpse, thinking of nothing. They let him stand in silence.
"His tomb is already prepared." This was not a question, but a statement.
Siamun finally spoke. "What of the other body?"
Set flicked his eyes beyond the late pharaoh's corpse. It was not the only one. There was Akhenaden, one eyeball gleaming, lying in the sand already half-rotted by whatever black magic he'd infused himself with. In his robes were several millennium items, the ones he had taken to make his pact, and had been yet unrecovered.
Set's mouth finally twisted into something beyond a thin line, a veneer of disgust. "A mere traitor. Leave him as carrion."
"Set." Isis said, firmly. Just his name, like a warning.
"What," He almost laughed, suddenly wanted to laugh, but there was no joy in it. "You would give evildoers a funeral? You are too soft, Isis."
"The dead must be buried. It is not our place. The gods will judge them." She shook her head. "You would deny your own father the afterworld?"
"He is not my father." He said it louder than he meant to. "He would be better served fed to dogs and crocodiles. Filling a beast's stomach is more good than he ever did in life."
"...It is our duty," she said, slowly, "to show mercy."
"...If you must. A pauper's grave, then." A concession, for her sake. Ten minutes in and he was starting to sound kingly. He still couldn't dredge up any feelings so he was filling the empty space with business, curt practicalities. He reached down to the body and snapped the millennium ring's string off of its neck, with a sickening sound. He tossed it to Isis. "When Mana has composed herself, give this to her."
Isis's eyes widened, catching it. "She's only a girl. You think she's prepared?"
"If she is truly Mahad's apprentice, she can handle it." He glanced at the eye, still shining in his father's skull. They had a great many items and very few priests. His court was looking a little sparse. "Siamun," he asked, "Would you take up the key again, for a little while longer?"
"I would be honored," he said, bowing his head, "but I am an old man. You would do well to find a replacement soon."
"In due time."
The previous pharaoh had forbidden his own funeral. Normally, the death of a king would be a singular event. Processions through the streets, music, a mass mourning in every corner of the city, but before his death he had extracted promises from each and every priest that there would be no such thing. Too much risk that someone would speak his name, he said. The sooner they forgot him the more permanent the seal. For the safety of the kingdom, he insisted, he would not just be smashed from every wall and tablet but his existence ripped out of their very mouths, referred to only by epithet or ideally not at all. He was buried quietly, in secret, with all the proper rites but little fanfare.
Yet over the next few days something settled over the city, something palpable. Markets closed and whispers ran like lightning through the streets. A god has died, you know. Sounds muffled themselves and colors turned paler than usual, like the whole world had curled up into itself to cry. Every footstep in the palace was soft and conversations low and hushed, as if afraid to wake someone, like the walls themselves ached and no one wanted to disturb their grief. It did not matter how much he had begged them to forget him. It did not matter how tall the little king had stood, voice ringing, and demanded to be erased. They could not help it. He had been loved.
Set was staring a large, blank tablet. He ran his fingers across the chisel in his hand, but did not move to use it yet. He was still picturing the lines. The rod was on his belt, and nearby sat the eye, the ring, and the scales, which he had taken to keeping near his person at all times, trusting no one else to look after them. On a table was the pendant spread out in pieces, a few clicked together; the remnants of a token attempt at reconstruction.
There was a polite knock on the door, and Siamun entered his chambers. The key hung around his neck. He bowed. "You called, your majesty?"
Set nodded. "What of Kisara's tomb?"
Siamun restrained a face. This had been the talk of the town recently, a source of fascinated gossip and incredulous looks. The pharaoh, who had never been married, had declared that his queen was retroactively and posthumously a dead beggar woman no one had ever heard of, and demanded that she be buried as such. "It is such short notice, pharaoh. Her body was given all due care, but your orders for the pyramid were...ambitious." He tried to say it carefully. "Ambitious" was a word for it, for sure. More ambitious than the previous two pharaoh's own tombs, more than anything Deir El-Medina had ever tried before. "It will take time to complete."
"See to it." He nodded. "Of new priests?"
"We have assembled quite a list! No doubt we will find someone worthy of carrying the items. We shall arrange for you to see them as soon as possible. Everything will be done in time for the coronation." he said. "Mana is...still distraught over the deaths. I have asked the guards to search for her. You know how well she hides, when she wants to make herself scarce."
Set sighed and put down his chisel. He stared at the tablet in careful consideration.
"Are you...well, pharaoh?" Siamun asked, eventually.
Set twitched, in defensive anger. "Do you think that I am not?"
"Never! You seem to me as fit as anyone. Certainly more than this old geezer, ha ha!" His laugh was dry and rasping, and his smile wide. Siamun Muran had been advisor to three different pharaohs by now, and a royal priest before that, and you could hear in his voice. The delicate dance between advice and deference, of correcting without contradicting, of offering without offending, of you-are-always-right-but-if-I-may. Set couldn't stand it. Talking around something in dizzy terms so as not to make someone else angry struck him as craven.
Siamun said the next part gently, quiet. "We have all been hurt, though, by such terrible losses. These are difficult times. I hope that you are allowing yourself to rest."
It did not work. He remained tense, insulted. "I do not have time to rest." he bit back. "Tell me about the granaries."
Isis sat cross-legged, eyes closed, fingertips pressed to her necklace. She had been here for time indeterminable, searching for something, grasping.
Her eyes flew open. She gasped in shock, and ran from the room.
"...They're a little behind on their taxes, yes, but the harvest that year was difficult."
"What about Amarna?"
"Well, it's—"
The chamber doors burst open, banging against the inside walls from the force, and standing there was Isis, and beside her two very nervous guards who seemed unsure about whether they were supposed to stop her and hoping they wouldn't get fired for not doing it.
"HE WILL RETURN!" she shouted, a proclamation, and the whole room went quiet.
They let her stand there for a few moments, collecting her breath.
"...When?" Siamun asked, grave.
"When we are long dead." she said. She touched her necklace again, almost unaware of it. "When empires have fallen, when a millennia has thrice passed, the pharaoh will return. You will know him by the gods he wields. He will collect the millennium items and retrieve his memories, and save the world from evil once again."
"...Isis," said Set, casually, "have you considered simply writing your prophecies down, instead of interrupting important conversations?"
She pressed her mouth together in frustration. "Do you not consider this momentous news?"
"Momentous to the people who come after us, I am certain. The empire has not yet fallen, if I have any say in it." He glanced down at the stack of papyrus he'd been shuffling through. "By any chance, do you know when we'll find Mana?"
"Fourteen seconds. She overheard me, and will now begin running down the hall." she responded, automatically. She returned, remembered the present, and spoke again firmly. "We must prepare for him. There is work to be done now."
Set smiled. It was always funny, to watch Isis's eyes go in and out of focus like that. "Excellent. Where was she?"
"Storeroom C, third crate on the left."
"We will wait for her, then. I should have asked you days ago."
"You would not have."
It was only a few more seconds before they heard the sound of running footsteps and Mana, tears in her eyes, bolted underneath the arms of the even-more-confused guards and threw herself into the room. "He's coming back?!" she asked, voice cracking.
"No." Set answered. "However, I believe I have something for you." He reached for the table behind him and picked up the millennium ring, dangling it by the string.
"Master's!" she shouted, and ran forward and snatched it, and clutched it tightly to her chest and sniffled. There was no flinch, or hesitation, and indeed nothing happened. As expected.
Set realized he was now staring at his entire court. The pharaoh's great chosen: An old man, a crying little girl, and Isis. Gods help them.
He put his papers down. "Now, Isis," he said, "What work, exactly?"
"He will remember nothing when he returns. We must..." She seemed to struggle, trying to hold on to something. "Ensure he has the tools he needs. Something to guide him."
"How specific."
"It is difficult, when the future is so distant." she said. Her eyes fell on the pieces of the pendant. "The pieces must be placed in his tomb."
"Reconstructed?"
"Eventually. Not by us." She frowned, and touched her necklace again. "He will choose."
"We will have a vessel made for them." He waved a hand to dismiss them all. "We will speak on it later."
"But—"
"The pharaoh has requested you all leave his chambers." he said, and glanced at the guards.
Mana, still a little sniffley, walked down the palace halls still clutching the millennium ring. She took the broken string and tied it back together, and reverently placed it around her neck, just like Mahad used to wear it. She touched it and closed her eyes, convinced that somehow she'd be able to feel his presence.
The ring was so much heavier than it looked. It had a strange, persistent warmth, like it had been left in front of a hearth too long. With it came a rush of power, a flood of understanding, the way that magic swirled around its dangling points, eager to guide. Her master had always been able to find her, no matter where she was hiding, and she'd never been able to figure out how. She grinned, the heir to an old secret, like he'd left her a puzzle to solve.
She walked past a courtyard, the one she remembered was the prince's favorite because it had a little dug-in pond with frogs that he said was nice to think by. She thought about the time when they were eight and she snuck one down the back of his shirt and he screeched so loud the guards came dashing in, fearing horrible danger, and only found him in tears clutching a little frog while Mana rolled on the ground laughing so hard she couldn't breathe. She felt her throat close up again.
She knew she had to be brave. You are the future, is what everyone said. Mana thought that she didn't want to be the future and that being the future was stupid if it meant that so many people had to die. Still. Focus. What would her master do? He would remind her of her responsibilities. He would warn her, like he always did, that magic could be deceptive, and to treat it carefully. That even the most anodyne spell could turn deadly if something went wrong, and so you must be vigilant, scrupulous with your precautions and strict with your exercise of power, even if all you were trying to do was levitate a feather. To use her head, and to not be forgetful, and not to put frogs down the new pharaoh's shirt.
She gripped her fingers tightly around the ring's edges. She would wield it well. She could summon him from the slabs now, if she wanted, but she wasn't going to be selfish. She wouldn't disturb his rest until she had to. And she wouldn't do it until she could show him something to be proud of. Something the prince she wasn't allowed to name would be proud of too.
Mana walked through the courtyard with the points pressing into her palms, full of resolution, but almost stumbled a second later as the floor seemed to tilt. A strange sort of vertigo, like the world was slipping, like almost falling asleep; an awful taste in the back of her mouth, of something she couldn't name.
She recovered and shook her head, thinking it must be nothing. For a moment, she almost swore she could hear laughter, echoing behind her in the halls.