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He sees his king when he is just beginning to apprentice.
Kasala has to squint as he looks up to the towering figure, the sunray overpowered by him and him alone. He bows before Deshret reaches him, all lanky limbs and headdress that still hasn’t been fitted yet. It almost falls off while Deshret addresses him, kind enough not to point it out.
“At ease, young man,” he says. Voice not quite as what Kasala heard from the court’s description of it. “No need to stand in ceremony. I am not visiting on an official capacity.”
That is true. The head priest didn’t tell Kasala anything of sort, didn’t tell him to sweep the front and change the oils in all the brassier. Deshret’s presence had been a surprise. More so from his entrance at the backdoor, instead of at the gate. He had dropped the scroll in his hand after the king peeked his head in, royal regalia and with his staff, the Key of Khaj-Nishut.
“My lord,” Kasala says again. “What can this humble servant serve you with?”
That earns a chuckle.
“Nothing. I merely want to see how the temple faring is,” Deshret answers and he raises his hand, a gesture for him to rise. “I heard there was only one apprentice accepted this year. I suppose that is you.”
“I am, my lord,” Kasala nods. “I was fortunate that Priest Ramses saw me fit to be taken in.”
“Ramses has a keen eye in finding good apprentices. He may be stern and hard to please, but he is fair and wise. You’ll do fine as long as you heed his guidance.”
“I will,” he replies. “I shall do my utmost worthy of an apprentice.”
Deshret seems to smile at that. And it is bright, even inside the room. He glances around, then finds the scroll on the floor. Picking it up, he raises a brow as he reads.
“The hymnal prayer,” he hums. “Quite the difficult one also. Are you studying it for the next festival? My, my, Ramses believes in your capability, then. I never heard him putting the duty to an apprentice.” Kasala shakes his head, holding out his hands and words readied to deny such praise, but Deshret continues, “Sing it to me,” he says and there is amusement in the way he swiftly leans on the wall with ankles crossed, “I’d like to hear how far you’ve gone.”
“I…” Kasala takes a breath. He hasn’t mastered it. Gods, he hasn’t even managed to get the tune right. The thought of delivering a dismal performance had him shuffling his feet, twisting his fingers.
“Go on,” Deshret said. His relaxed stance didn’t lessen his authority. Not one bit.
What a mortal can do except obey?
It is a disaster. His tone is woefully off, and his voice flitted uglily in the middle. Kasala knew he is looking like a jester rather than an apprentice piece of the most sacred temple. He doesn’t manage to reach the end before Deshret stops him. Yet where he expected a laugh or a pitying sigh, he receives a light clap.
“Could have been better,” the king rubs his chin, “you need to focus on the breathing and learn to not sing it from memory. Do you know why my court minstrels and singers play like the birds?”
“Because they’re gifted with the ability…?” Kasala tilts his head.
“No,” Deshret pushes himself off the wall, “They hone their craft. Day and night they practice, through sweet and tears and blood they pour their soul into what they do. Now, I do not mean you must do as they do. You are a priest, not a performer, but you understand, don’t you?”
Kasala nods.
“Good,” Deshret smiles. “Then, listen well. I shall demonstrate.”
People say that the Scarlet King never sings anymore ever since the Goddess of Flowers’ passing. That the voice of the eagle is swallowed by the loss. The generation who remembered his singing had gone and been buried, and thus, no one hears the king to ever join in the songs. Not even the ones in joy and happiness.
Kasala wonders if he is dreaming. Because their god-king is letting him to hear him so openly, so freely in the privacy of the temple. He can’t stray away from the sight, standing there with oversized robe over his lanky body and dusty stone floor under his feet. His king has a powerful voice like the storm yet flowing like the rivers veining underground. It tugs at his throat, pulling him to try to join, and ends before he tries.
“My lord, you sing wonderfully,” Kasala can’t help but say. “I’m humbled to be allowed to hear you. I… your voice… I cannot possibly compare.”
“While your praise pleases me, you should not lower yourself for it. And for you to say my voice is perfect,” Deshret closes his eyes, “you haven’t heard what my friends could do.”
And Kasala knows what he means. His friends – the other two God-Kings. The one who is now slumbering in the Eternal Oases while the other has built her dominion in the rainforest. A flicker of something old, something aching passes his king’s face. It disperses the next, yet its shadow remains.
“It has been a while since I truly sang,” Deshret chuckles and he gives the scroll back. “I hope you gain something out of it, young Kasala. I shall look forward for the festival if you manage to impress Ramses.”
He reaches out and Kasala ducks slightly, preparing for another bow. But Deshret merely touches his headdress, a finger on the snout before he pushes it up, so his eyes aren’t obscured. The king smiles again – he is incredibly generous with it – and it is a brilliant glow that Kasala burns into his mind.
---
Head Priest Ramses puts him to lead after he perfects the prayer song. It causes murmurs, both jealousy and awe alike with the older priests, but Kasala can’t give them much thought when he has such an important duty.
He is young and as he stands in front of the procession, he feels far too inexperienced. Tapping his staff or foot would make it obvious and Kasala won’t have his nervousness shows. This is a festival to welcome the harvest season, and with it, their worship to another bountiful year under their king. He can’t mess up. He’ll tarnish everything if he does.
From where he stands, he can make out King Deshret. Sitting on his throne with hands folded on his lap, he meets his eyes even this far. He gives the slightest of nods his way and somehow it is enough to have his nerves calm down. Kasala straightens himself up more, head held high.
Breath. Breath. Breath.
He opens his mouth and he lets his voice take over.
It earns him the king’s smile throughout the ceremony. Kasala shouldn’t beam too much inside, but he does and it is a reward on its own. He doesn’t notice the stares the other priests give him to his back the rest of the day, though he can’t find it himself to care. His king is satisfied with his effort. That is the most important thing he could ever dream of.
---
He sees his king again when he has settled into being a priest.
The moon shines brightly and its silver light almost seemingly bouncing off the pond, glimmering like stars. Kasala was tending the small patch of flowers grown for the incense before Deshret showed himself. But he is older now – and calmer – that Kasala only blinks then bows as the deity stands close to the flowers.
“My lord,” Kasala greets, “what brings you to grace the temple with your presence at this hour?”
“A reprieve,” comes the easy reply. “I find the temple’s garden to be far quieter than the one at the palace. The scent here is wonderful too. Perhaps I should ask you to plant these flowers at my own garden.”
His king has not the royal garb on him. Only linen and silk draped around his body with only the gold gleaming from the heavy necklace. But even so, his presence is full and steady. Kasala hears his answer and raises a brow.
“My lord, forgive me but are you perchance slipping away from your evening council meeting?”
He has long learned that his king abhors too long of words and appreciates the straightforwardness in well-threaded sentences. Deshret huffs, as if caught like a child taking sweets off the table, before he shrugs.
“They bore me lately,” he says sighingly. “The matters they bring are nothing of urgency and they do not need my guidance every step of the way. I may be the king and their god, but I can’t always hold their hands like a newborn. They would have pleased me if they understand that I would honor them when they could hold their own.”
Kasala can’t fully understand that. He knows, but still he speaks. Hand pouring the last of the water onto the soil. “Then, my lord, what would you like to do to pass the time until they cease waiting for you?”
“Humor me,” Deshret says and touches a flower. “Have you any suggestion?”
“I do not have many except that I’ll be returning home after this and prepare myself a dinner before writing several holy scripts into fresh papyrus. I’m afraid that will bore you, my lord.”
Deshret looks at him for a moment before he gestures with his hand. “On the contrary, I think it will be interesting. I never visit any of my priests’ abode unless for delivering decree or punishment, and that is quite rare. I’d like to see yours if you allow it.”
“My lord, you are always welcome inside any house as this is your kingdom and we are your subjects,” Kasala tips his head forward in reverence.
“Does that mean you allow me?”
“Yes,” Kasala nods. “Yes, of course.”
“Then lead the way,” Deshret says and there is that smile again. Assured and shining.
Kasala is glad that he has just cleaned his house this morning.
---
Having the king in his humble place feels too big, too stifling. Wherever he observes something and steps on, the building dips deeper into the sand, the very walls bowing to him. Kasala isn’t sure if his wooden table wares are clean enough despite his scrubbing as he serves them both dinner while Deshret holds a potted plant, busy observing the thorns and leaves.
He expects quietness as they eat, but his king widens his eyes and takes another huge bite of the dessert. The sight reminds Kasala once more that gods do not follow human’s way, even in food as Deshret bypasses the meat and rice for the sweets. He is half-nibbling and half-inhaling the slice of kunafa.
“Did you make this?”
“Yes, my lord,” Kasala says, and he cuts the kataifi into more parts.
“It’s delectable,” he hums with a sort of awe that shouldn’t have any place for something Kasala made so easily and plainly. “The attar, the clotted creams, and nuts. Oh my,” he squints at the kunafa between his fingers, “you also added some cheese. My, my, this is a full delicacy. The kitchen at the palace never baked something like this. Who taught you?”
Kasala ducks his head under the gleaming interest of Deshret’s eyes. “My father,” he scoops his rice, “he had a huge sweet tooth and my mother always stopped him from adding sugar to almost everything. Especially his bread.”
They would bicker in the kitchen like children. His mother holding his father away from the bowl with her foot while his father kept pushing to sprinkle a few more sweetness by twisting around her. A little Kasala would giggle as they ended up with flour all over before his mother pushed his father out to clean up. At the end, she still added a tiny bit more of sugar into the desert for the day and sighingly smiled when her husband beamed.
That is a long time ago now.
“Your father had a brilliant idea,” Deshret rests his face on his palm. “This is incredibly good. You should make more, I insist.”
“I can give the recipe to your head baker, my lord.”
“No, no,” Deshret shakes his head. “It won’t taste the same. It is with whose hands the result will be determined. I want what you can make.”
Kasala straightens himself, hand on his chest. “As you wish, my lord,” he says and perhaps it is Deshret’s sheer look of happiness that he finds himself adding, “but in exchange, I hope you would attend the meeting again tomorrow and the next. We as your subjects will always need your guidance and our hearts are at ease whenever you are with us, my lord.”
The chuckle flows from the god’s mouth clearly like tinkling bells at sunset. Deshret grins as he takes one more kunafa. “A clever priest you are, Kasala,” he says and leans forward. “So be it. Your request is not difficult and selfless. However, I won’t just ask for this,” he waves the sweets, “I’ll be requesting others too if you can make them.”
“I do have some of my father’s recipes with me, my lord.”
“Good, then it is an agreed deal. Now, be a good subject and pour the wine that you have been saving in that jug,” Deshret lifts his cup. “Your king is parched.”
It is ridiculous of a tale, but having a deal to serve your god treats after he does one of his duties is something that Kasala keeps smiling underneath. Who would have thought his king would be giddy about receiving om ali and baboussa whenever he is done with his council for the day?
Kasala keeps it a secret. His king trusts him to witness this side of him, after all.
---
The next time he sees his king is when he becomes the Head Priest.
Per tradition, the new headdress will be placed upon his head by the Scarlet King himself. A custom born out of the first priest to ever serve the god and built a temple in his name. Kasala wakes at the break of dawn, washes his limbs and face, before he puts on the robe befitting his new position – linen cut and dyed as instructed. He still replaces the incense and opens the hallway to the sanctuary, finding calmness before the ceremony soon.
Deshret arrives far earlier than he is supposed to. The gold and jewelry clinking quietly as he steps inside. None of his entourages are in sight. The god standing with arms behind his back, walking languidly as he studies the hieroglyphs carved into stone.
“You are ready it seems,” he says when he reaches him. “That’s good,” he nods and touches the headdress in the form of the jackal. “Today shall be an important day in your life. You will bear all responsibilities and do your duties alongside the aid of my friend’s spirit that dwells within these walls.” He holds it gently, an expression flitting pass his eyes before he turns to Kasala. “Be sure to honor them well. They are quite strict and too steadfast at times, but they are just and wise. Characteristics that I do hope you are going to keep cultivating as long as you are alive.”
There is nothing Kasala can do except acquiescing his words. He has been taught in this path for over a decade and has sworn into. This is his life. His work on this earthly realm. He says as much to his king and Deshret smiles at that. A benign smile which radiates with the rising sun.
When the ceremony do start, Kasala lowers his head in front of attendees, and the weight of the headdress is assuring. He holds Deshret’s hand in both of his as he kneels, pressing his forehead against it, feeling a warmth like sunbaked sands on skin and rough like the most fabled warrior. Kasala doesn’t let his thought wander when he thinks how despite it all, his king’s hand is deceptively fragile and fit well between his own.
He stands after it is done. Deshret’s face a cool slate, full of silent approval and regality. Kasala steps away and he joins the ranks of the court. The day is just beginning, the sky is blue and bright. A new chapter of his life.
---
As Head Priest, his work isn’t merely revolving around performing rituals, overseeing burials, and guiding the new groups of apprentices. There are farmlands beyond the temple gates that produce grain and livestock, priests and laborers and craftsmen under his command, and the matters of taxes. He doesn’t just manage a temple; he is running a large household. It can be hard, can be frustrating when mortal interests clash and interwoven, but it is also satisfying and fulfilling. And his king acknowledges his every effort.
Speaking of his king…
… He has become a fixture around the temple. He doesn’t appear during the day except for official matters, preferring to visit when dusk falls where the place is empty. Deshret talks over sweets and wine he serves him. About the comings and goings of his court, about the intricacies and simplicities of his retainers, and about knowledge and wisdom. The last part he is fond of discussing, to mull over – something that he imparts onto Kasala through his musings. Sometimes though, bits of the past and memories slip through the gaps.
They leave perceptible stains on his mien, but Kasala doesn’t point and doesn’t say anything. For all his majesty and benevolence and shine, his god is a lonely god. A Mourning King. Sitting in his throne room, surrounded by advisors, jinn and intrigues, yet still he sits and stays far from them. Kasala won’t delusion himself to think he is the king’s closest or anything of the sort. The only thing he hopes he manages to do is to be someone who can offer a sliver of safe camaraderie for him. Where for a moment, Deshret is just a god speaking to a mortal without the flairs and troubles of his divinity.
After all, even gods need a friend.
---
For some years, it goes about the same.
He has his temple and his king has his kingdom.
For some years, it is quaint.
His king still finds him, looking pleased with the desserts before they chat under the moonlight.
For some years, it is peaceful.
Until the madness that brews underneath eventually spills and spreads.
---
Second time. This is the second time King Deshret has missed a ceremony and his fellow priests begin to whisper amongst themselves while Kasala keeps a schooled face. The king has not been sighted lately, seemingly sequestering himself in his palace and inciting rumors of secret ploy. Kasala may not be often found in court, but he has heard even there, his king is only surrounded by his advisors and he speaks to no one else.
Something is brewing here. Something that is starting to cast a shadow from the horizon.
People are talking and they are thinking. The Goddess of Flowers perished decades ago while the Lord of Verdure has not returned, and now their Al-Ahmar is beginning to waver. Kasala keeps his faith, keeps the others steady, but he, too, wonders about his king. Because he has known him, and he sees a gaze that is drawing away, spiraling into an imperceptible whirlpool which he can’t comprehend. It grows more and more each day, and Kasala thinks if the advice of his counsel is truly well and sound.
That night, his king doesn’t come to the temple. That night, Kasala decides to do the opposite. He goes to Khaj-Nishut, the seat of power, and he searches for his king. The halls are dim, merely lit by a few torches. Kasala walks through the hallway, finding him nowhere before he steps outside once more. He casts his gaze to the canyons surrounding the valley and notices the flutter of silver hair gleaming underneath the moon.
“My lord,” he calls when he reaches him.
And Deshret turns to which the sight tugs at Kasala. His lips are dry, his proud stance stuttering, and his eyes are wilting. He stands not as a god, but as a husk. Kasala rushes forward, formalities forgotten before they return the second, he gets close.
“Kasala,” Deshret says, and it sounds faint. “Why are you here?”
“I have come looking for you,” he bows quickly. “You haven’t been sighted for weeks now, and your people are hoping you are alright. May I inquire as to how you are faring, my lord?” He frowns. “I admit I am a little worried myself.”
It takes a while for Deshret to reply. To address him fully. White tunic flowing with the breeze and sands blowing at bare feet. “I do not know,” he answers. “I seem to have find what I have long been seeking, yet I feel unfulfilled.” He sighs and tilts his head to the sky. “It still isn’t enough. I need more so I can finally answer my own wishes and prayers. Tell me, Kasala, my priest,” Deshret turns and there is a clarity in between the muddled look he gives, “how far would you reach out for your ambitions until you deign it enough?”
For mortals, perhaps a Vision is the line that could stop you as it is an approval from the gods and what more would one want from that? But others, even those with Visions would keep flying higher and higher, so close to the sun before they either burn or float down themselves. Ambitions are powerful yet they are also transient to some and frightening to few. For gods… he can’t quite tell. He has heard of gods dying and gods being punished. Yet does the heavens apply the same scale to weight them like with humans? Kasala doesn’t know the answer.
What he knows is this. Ambitions are fires. Warm and beckoning and a strength as much as they are destructive when I they run wild and unhindered. They shine brightly, but they can blind you like the dark. There are only a few that can tempter the flames, but Kasala believes one to be the most important.
“Until my heart tells me otherwise,” he answers. “Until my heart judges me and tells me, my lord.”
Deshret looks at him. “I see,” he says and closes his eyes briefly. The seconds stretch between them. “I understand,” he crosses his arms. “Thank you, Kasala. You may leave now. Tell the people that I am doing fine, and I shall see them soon.”
Before Kasala does, he glances at his king one last time. “My lord, will you rest tonight? If nothing else, this would comfort me that you slumber well.”
“I will,” Deshret says and Kasala is glad for the chuckle he lets out. “Now go, I wish to be alone for the moment.”
Kasala leaves while his king stays. Face towards the moon, the heavens above.
---
King Deshret shows his face at the next ceremony. And all is quiet once more. His king visits the temple again and Kasala performs his duties with a smoothness that brings.
But that calmness is momentary. A breath before the storm.
Perhaps Kasala should have seen it coming. Should have noticed far sooner. He is only a man, however, and no man can ever fathom the length of what a god would do when sinking into madness.
---
The first sign is the failing crops.
Farmers flock to the temple for an answer, a solution. The desert has always been a harsh environment, but the lands they occupy are always fertile. The livestock are turning weaker, sicker, despite them continuously grazing. The rivers and wells taste bitter like curdled, rotten milk. Their grain will hold for the rest of the year, but the soil has turned acidic and instead of nurturing life, it poisons everything.
The second and the third signs quicky come in successions.
There are wails heard throughout the city, throughout the residence from every direction. Men and women lingering in the streets, holding their heads and mumbling their words. They beg for silence, beg for the whispers to stop yet peace never comes. Some try to sleep, some try to lock themselves in a dark room, and some more… Kasala closes their eyes while telling his priests to take their body. He takes the knife, still dripping fresh blood, cringing to put it in the basket that is slowly filling up.
“Head Priest!”
He glances over his shoulder and sees an old woman catching her breath. She points to her house, gripping his sleeve as she steers him to a bed where a little boy lies. He doesn’t seem to have the whispers in his head, but his arms and neck are afflicted with scales. Dark scales like snakes. His body is much too warm, the boy whimpering for he doesn’t understand. Kasala bites his lips, holding the boy’s hand for comfort.
“What should we do, Priest Kasala?” The old woman cries. “Please, help us.”
The healers had given him several concoctions. Things that do not work except to calm people down. Kasala can only give her one and makes his way to another family whose mother just died by jumping off the roof. He sees her bliss from being released out of the whispers.
His priests are looking at each other, assuring the visitors left and right. But they aren’t immune themselves. He sees several of them all, their oldest and youngest, and Kasala does not know what to do. He does not know.
Go to the king.
The spirit within him says.
Go to the king. He has made a grave error.
Kasala runs to the palace. “What did my lord do?” He asks along the way. Sandals skidding on sands.
The spirit stills before it sighs.
He released something that is forbidden. Go to your king. Before it is too late.
Kasala runs faster.
---
Khaj-Nishut is a dark valley when he arrives. Patches of murky mud seep out of the grand architecture. Every soul tries to leave the place – nobles, dancers, minstrels, servants, guards. Kasala stays at the side as he inches closer, he can’t see any other entrance aside from the main door which is shut tight. It is never closed, never once. If it does, then it means there are threats and dangers here.
The air is heavy and Kasala tries not to let the faint lullabies pull him.
His lord. His king. He finds him standing there, palms opened with the same darkness pooling under him. He is looking somewhere far, far away, and his radiance is being engulfed.
“Kasala,” Deshret notices him. Faint and echoing. “What have I done…”
“It’s dangerous here, my lord,” Kasala says but he halts when Deshret raises his hand.
“Do not come closer. You must not touch this. Leave now.”
He can’t. Not when his king is fraying at the edges.
“You too, my lord,” he reaches out as far as he can. “You will only be swept away. Please, I implore you,” he grunts, “come with me.”
“You are a stubborn one,” his king laments, but at the end, he takes his hand.
---
Forbidden Knowledge. The source of all the madness and plague has a name. It comes from the border that should not be crossed, a massive information that not even a god can process. For wants of his desires and ambitions, they burn his king and now he is left to keep the ashes.
The kingdom is weeping and grieving. The Forbidden Knowledge taints everything and everyone it touches. What once was a glorious, proud civilization is eroded so terrifyingly easy with a cruel fate. King Deshret witnesses this destruction and Kasala knows his sin is clawing over his back.
If not for Greater Lord Rukkhadevata, his people would have perished cursing his name.
She hears their cries. Her presence is gentle with hidden strength, and swiftly she instructs the surviving people to build temples that she infuses with the power of life. The glow of dendro shines from their tops, connecting like constellation, and it is enough to temper the disaster.
What remains of them are slowly settling in Aaru Village, a far cry from the grandness of their kingdom, but the last bastion to its existence. The scales and whispers are dying down, cleansed by the combined power of two god-kings. Kasala stays as long as he can amongst the people, amongst the embers of what remains, yet soon he goes to where his king is.
He has become better with Lord Rukkhadevata around. There is an ancientness in how they address each other and in a language that is long forgotten by humans. Kasala kneels when she notices him, but she asks him to rise. She exudes wisdom in all its forms, a deep, strong root underneath her appearance. A noble deity. When she stares at Kasala, he feels she can see everything. A different sort of knowing than the king.
“No need to stand on ceremony,” she says, and her voice is the tranquility of rustling leaves. “I’m sure we have enough of those in these times.”
He shakes his head. “I am a mere mortal. I stand no station higher than what is afforded to me, and I wish to offer you my sincerest gratitude for offering your hand to us.”
“I came back for a friend,” she smiles, and even that is as soft as flower petals. “I have done what I could for now,” she looks over the desert horizon, “but the rest, I’m afraid, is up to the people and their king. However, I am glad that he has someone loyal in you, Priest Kasala.”
“There are many who are just as loyal as me, Greater Lord Rukkhadevata.”
But they both know that is not true. The children of the desert still have their deference towards King Deshret, and yet some waver while a few completely lose their faith. What kind of god causes ruin to his own followers? Over the burials and resettlements, Kasala can’t admonish them for he understands the loss they suffer. Not everyone can be him, who finds it in himself to choose to serve his lord.
“Please stay with him, Priest Kasala,” Rukkhadevata says with a weight in her words.
And Kasala nods. After she walks away, he stands, and once more, finds his king.
---
Deshret stands with his staff on the cliff overlooking his withering kingdom. Underneath his feet, dendro concentrates there, forming a small patch of grasses and wildflowers. He hears Kasala’s arrival, but they both are quiet. Sometimes Deshret keeps his attention on the Hypostyle Desert, sometimes to the Desert of Hadramaveth, while other times, he stares at Mount Damavand and the sky.
“I have been a fool,” Deshret says. “And I paid for it.”
“My lord…”
“No, let me,” he continues, “She had warned me yet still I pursued mine. I pursued my desires and wishes, even as my last friend had also left me. I sought and sought, until my own eyes bled from what I’ve seen, and my mind driven to the brink. At the end, all I unleashed is a destruction that does not reward me and mocks me by destroying my dominion.”
He laughs and it is filled with joy and sorrow. A melodious and terrible music. There is something more to what his king is saying, something that should stay in the dark.
“My lord,” Kasala tries, “What exactly did you do?”
Deshret hasn’t turned to him when he answers. “Desires and transgressions,” he chuckles. “A way to reach the heavens and release the shackles they command on this world. To seek the ancient shade, the prim…” He stops and the wind falls silent. “No,” he then says and finally addresses Kasala fully, “No, you should not hear anymore of this lest I bring a calamity to you, my priest.”
Sadness. There is nothing but sadness in his eyes. It twinges at Kasala.
“My lord…”
“You should keep your distance. I do not trust myself to not divulge what you must not hear in this state. Leave. For your own sake.”
“My lord!” The rise of his voice belatedly stopping, but he can’t bear the sight. Can’t bear the sheer forlornness his king is shrouded in. His king is an eclipsing sun and Kasala can’t leave. He just can’t. Won’t. He steps towards him. For once not with a bow and priestly decorum. “I am your priest, your subject. I have sworn into your service ever since I was young, and I have known you my whole life. You are my lord, my king, my god. You may have caused all this destruction, but you stay. You don’t leave. So, please, let me do the same for you. I’ll stay by your side to see this through.”
The wind returns. Kasala wipes sweat from his neck, and he feels his thudding veins. He lifts his chin higher as Deshret widens his eyes a fraction. His king then sighs, but there is a faint smile. “You are a strange one, my priest,” he says and at least, that darkness is gone for a little bit. “Very well. As your god, I command you to stay. Do not waver now. Not today, not tomorrow, and not the next.”
“I will not,” Kasala says. Swears. “I will not.”
“Good,” Deshret says.
Some light returns to his mien and in this oasis of the newly built temple, Kasala admits he looks beautiful. Unbowed and proud despite everything. He offers him his hand. His king takes it and Kasala remembers the first time they ever touched like this. It feels like a lifetime ago now, but the warmth and surety are the same. The only difference is that his king grips him back, and Kasala allows him to do that throughout the night.
---
For some days, it goes about the same.
He has his king and his king has him.
For some weeks, it is quaint.
He stays with his king and his king never asks him to leave.
For some months, it is peaceful.
Until the miracle cannot last much longer and stops altogether.
---
Mitigate. What they have done is only to mitigate the disaster. The Forbidden Knowledge remains, still existing, and as long as they do, the dark scales on people’s bodies and dying soil are there. A threat to all things living and wanting to thrive.
His king sees this and knows what he must do. It was a god who unleashed Forbidden Knowledge into this world, thus it should take a god to eradicate it completely.
It doesn’t lessen the heaviness when Kasala hears him.
“Is there no other way, my lord?” He can’t help asking.
Deshret remains in his seat. A far cry from his throne. Khaj Nisut has been sealed for good. There is a determination of a thousand years in his voice. “Rukkhadevata will aid me, but the weight of it is on my shoulder. I shall go to the place where I found the source and sacrifice my whole power to close it. Only then, this will cease.”
Kasala fists his hands behind his robe. He knows his king is wise, and if he believes there is no other way, then there is none. He knows yet still he aches. Somehow.
“What about your people? They will have no one to lead them.”
“You and the rest of the priests will do that,” Deshret replies. “And let me remind you that even before I came from the sky, the desert tribes had been flourishing without a god. My people are strong, and with the wisdom you hold, I believe they will survive and thrive once again. Will you do that for me, my priest?” He asks and Kasala goes down to his knee to him. “Will you remain my priest after I’m gone?”
“Yes, of course,” he says as he gazes up to his king. “I will.”
Deshret looks at him, truly looks, with all the colors of his eyes before he releases a breath. A quiet tremble in it. He lowers his head, the crown on his head suddenly a heavy thing. Kasala feels the onus of his being in his hands as he grasps him.
“Oh, Kasala, my Kasala,” Deshret murmurs, “perhaps if there were more time, more chances. What I have for you could be something more…” He says and he closes his eyes. “Perhaps if things were different… I could…”
It is here Kasala witnesses something not even the legends ever tell. Something private. Vulnerable. That he vows to keep this all to himself for his king. Because no one needs to know that the sun can shed a few tears that the parched sands drink, and how Kasala lets him settle in his arms like a mortal instead of a deity with all his sovereignty and erudition. A god who allows himself a respite.
And Kasala wonders since when is he brave enough to tighten his hold around his king? To dare tracing comfort along his back and brush the dampness on his cheek? He wonders how it feels right to hold him like this. He rests their foreheads against each other, the beat of his heart in throes.
“My king, my Eternal Lord,” he whispers with all the softness he can muster.
My Deshret.
“Sing with me,” Deshret says. “Sing with me before I must go.”
So, Kasala does, and their voices form a song. A tune of farewell. For the first time, Kasala grieves, and it is almost unbearable in the inevitably way that sandstorms blow. For the first time, he believes he grasps the yearning of the djinn have for someone. For the first time… he doesn’t want to follow his lord’s words to release him.
But in the end, there is Forbidden Knowledge and there is the world.
Kasala lets his king go with an inexplicable finality. Deshret lets his priest go with a smile.
---
The sun and the eye – the form of his king – float to the sky. A torch and a star in the hands of Rukkhadevata. She lifts him gently before letting him descent into the pool of darkness, a goodbye interlacing in her wordless gesture. The proud king of the desert falls and brings with him the scourge of Forbidden Knowledge back into the depths.
He leaves behind a gilded kingdom in the desert, legends that his people will inherit from generation to generation, a legacy of his sacrifice…
… and a priest who he held dear as a friend and a dashed possibility.
---
Rukkhadevata eradicates the remaining Forbidden Knowledge, exerting all her powers for them who were not born under the lush eaves of her rainforests. Her deed turns her form into that of a child, and Kasala is there when she returns from the vast desert, meeting her near the Wall of Samiel.
“It is done,” she says in a very young voice that is far more akin to bird chirps now. “He left me with some parting words for you.”
Kasala lowers himself, and it is odd to have a small god on her toes to whisper something in his ear. The sand blows weakly at them, engulfing her cadence that only he can hear.
“I see,” he merely murmurs. “Thank you, Greater Lord Rukkhadevata. May I accompany you back?”
She nods and he follows her for a moment into the border of her domain. He can smell the dampness, the fresh abundance of life just from the wall. A foreign thing when he is so accustomed to the heat and dryness. He bows to her and this time, she doesn’t stop him.
“What will you do now?”
“I shall continue on to be my lord’s priest and stands guard over one of the new temple to guide his people,” Kasala answers with an ease that has settled into his bones. “That is what my lord wished for and what I want.”
“Then, I wish you good health and give you my blessing,” she says before opening her palm, a soft green shine sparkling between her fingers. It washes over him, kind and temperate. “Goodbye, Deshret’s Kasala,” she smiles, and it is hopefully bittersweet.
She disappears into the foliage of the forests.
Kasala does not step further. He turns to be in the land of the Great Red Sand once more.
---
For some days, it is quaint.
Everything that has changed begins to be a new rhythm.
For some weeks, it is quaint.
He finds the business of a priest again.
For some months, it is peaceful.
He lives his life, spending it in the temple.
Kasala keeps all his memories, keeps them all close to his chest until eventually, the eternal slumber greets him. He places them in his tomb, ensuring them for the future whom might need what he remembered. All of them, except the scintillas that are too private to share, too aching to give. He knows these will bleed outside when he is well and truly gone, but just this once, he wants them for himself until he can’t anymore.
He wouldn’t mind. Would understand.
Kasala still misses him after all these years. Still dreams of him. His king, his lord, his… Deshret.
.
.
.
There is something more that the device stored.
He hums, an eyebrow raised as he tinkers with it. There is data inside, hidden beneath other data that is it was pushed into obscurity. The Scarlet King’s technology does not yield easily to outside interference, but he finds he can dig deeper without much resistance aside from the assigned protocol.
“Al-Haitham, what are you doing?”
“Discovering something,” he replies and doesn’t turn to see the newcomer but leans against him when he arrives behind him. “I think it is something interesting.”
Cyno looks over to the statue. “There is more to the priest’s memory?”
“I believe so,” Al-Haitham says.
“Well, we can try unlocking it after you rest. You’ve been here all day.”
“Just a bit more,” Al-Haitham insists before Cyno pulls him by his cape. “Oh fine, I’ll rest, my general mahamatra.”
They sit some steps away, Cyno procuring a new waterskin and pita pockets from the sack, but the other picks up the baklava instead of the former. He rolls his eyes, sighing at the man.
“You seem impatient on opening that memory,” Cyno hums. “Why?”
Al-Haitham shrugs, nibbling at the sweet. He stares at the jackal statue; at the tranquility the tree exudes. The air is cool here, brimming with life despite the desolate sand outside. Carrying with it a sense of mellow fulfillment of the priest’s duty and end. Somehow, it also feels nostalgic.
“No reason. I’m just curious,” he answers.
“I see,” Cyno says. “That is something we share here.”
“You too?”
“Yes. I don’t understand specifically why, but this place has been on my mind ever since we discovered it,” he muses and picks a stray leaf.
“Then, we better open that new data,” Al-Haitham says. “We are both curious, after all.”
“Yes,” Cyno nods and he smiles. “Yes, we do, don’t we?”
It is peaceful here. A fullness not merely from the concentrated elemental energy around. The tree is still, and the statue’s eyes are dull, but there is a breeze flowing from somewhere and the sun manages to shine through the ceiling’s cracks.