Chapter Text
The Afterlife Anthology: Say My Name
Chapter 1 – A Different Kind of Tenderness
His back hurt. His legs hurt. His thighs were cramped from sitting on this blasted golden throne. How was it possible to even experience this level of discomfort as a spirit? Wasn’t the blessed Afterlife, Sekhet-A’Aru, the realm overseen by Lord Osiris himself, supposed to be Paradise?
Atem took a slow, deep breath, willing himself to remain at attention as yet another governor from a different district approached him, backed by a crowd of worried craftsmen and women – painters, sculptors, musicians, dancers, bakers, and so on – all bowing and gazing up at him worshipfully, beseechingly, as if he had all the answers.
Well, he was supposed to. He was their god-king, after all. The once-Nameless Pharaoh, twice-winner against Zorc Necrophades, now restored to his rightful place in the heavenly Field of Reeds after several millennia of imprisonment in the Millennium Puzzle.
And yet, despite all of the incredible victories to his name, Atem had absolutely no idea how to undo the fact that he had somehow run afoul of a goddess.
Not one of the vicious, warlike deities, no – that would perhaps have been less humiliating.
No, the almighty Pharaoh Atem, revered as the savior of Kemet and the world at large, had somehow earned the ire of the most gentle and nurturing goddess of all: Lady Hathor, the wife of Lord Horus, and the mistress of love, sex, and beauty. How and why he had managed to provoke her of all beings, he was still trying to grasp.
To his right, Vizier Shimon shot him a warning glance that said Stay awake, you fool before beckoning the governor, Amenhotep—a stocky, balding man with a neatly trimmed black beard who looked to be around his thirties—forward to the foot of the six steps leading up to the throne.
Amenhotep remained on his knees as he spoke, his head bowed to the smooth deep red tiles below, and his voice so quiet that Atem had to strain to hear him—“My Lord Pharaoh, for many days, every craftsman, no matter their trade, is noticing accidents and misfortunes abound in their work. Ochre will not blend into paint, harp strings break, lutes and flutes do not play in tune, carefully sculpted bowls crack when no one is looking. Normally glowing amulets and necklaces look ashen and dull. Merchants are unable to sell their wares, and dancers have lost their grace and suffered injuries. Beer will not ferment, and every sip of wine tastes of vinegar. The moon has lost its radiance and even the stars themselves seem to have dimmed. Lady Hathor continues to punish us, and we are at a loss for what to do.”
That makes two of us, thought Atem exasperatedly, though he kept his face impassive.
The discontented murmurings of the gathered men and women grew, and Atem groaned internally. At least four other governors had already sought audience with him since Lord Ra’s rise this day, and every single one had shared similar woes brought to them by the citizens of their region.
Though admittedly, the wine tasting of vinegar was new. If there was a way to get even the peaceful people of Sekhet-A’Aru to riot, it would be to tamper with any of the alcohol his kingdom produced by the barrel.
Atem drew another deep breath and attempted to reassure the frightened assembly. His stern baritone voice echoed throughout the throne room, bouncing off the polished mud brick walls and the pillars behind him. “I have had multiple audiences with multiple governors from across the city, all bearing the same news. Rest assured that my Vizier, my sacred guardians, and I are all working tirelessly to heal whatever breach there has been with the Goddess Hathor that she should show her displeasure in such a way.”
Amenhotep, still kneeling at the foot of the stairs, opened his mouth, seemed to think better of whatever he had to say, and then closed it again, before bowing hurriedly and backing away to rejoin the congregation. Six heavily muscled guards armed with iron spears stepped forward from their positions at each side of the stairs and escorted the throng of palpably anxious citizens out of the chamber and back to the outer gates of the palace.
Atem leaned his head back against the throne, exhausted. He noticed with annoyance that even the gold gilding at his back had lost its usual gleam despite the near-tearful servant he had noticed scrubbing it mercilessly early in the morning. (He had gently reassured the frantic woman that no, she would not be put to death, and frankly they could not die again – before politely dismissing her and taking his seat).
Shimon raised a gray bushy eyebrow at him, his dark eyes boring into Atem’s own. “Well, my King? What is to be our next move?”
Atem could sense the amusement mingled with frustration in the older man’s gravelly voice. “Remind me, Master Shimon, what offerings have we attempted in the last few weeks? It’s all beginning to blur together to me.”
“Hmmmm… in addition to planting three nehet to make up for the one that was destroyed –” here Shimon looked pointedly at Atem, who flushed – “we have sent at least 70 honey and cinnamon cakes, 10 amphorae of our best grape wines, 80 date loaves, 100 tiger nut cakes, 2 figurines of Lady Ma’at from our best sculptors in the brightest blue imaginable, almost 500 deben of jewelry crafted from lapis lazuli, 2 carved turquoise statues of Lady Hathor herself, an expensive bronze sistrum, and about half the kingdom’s myrrh incense.”
Exhaling sharply, Atem pinched the bridge of his nose. “Anything? It’s clear that she is still displeased, but has there been any sign of… well, anything at all?”
Shimon coughed. “Well, the last delivery of freshly baked bread was stolen by a pack of baboons, and a herd of cows stampeded the cart carrying pomegranates. Fortunately, the farmer was unharmed.”
Atem grit his teeth in frustration. He had been racking his brain for days to figure out what more the goddess wanted from him, and so far, all of their efforts had come up short. Frankly, dueling Thief King Bakura had seemed more straightforward than this, and he much preferred an old-fashioned Diaha to having to dance like a fool to the whims of a deity refusing to let go of a grudge.
Shimon stroked his grizzled beard thoughtfully. “As of right now, since he has exhaustively searched our libraries to no avail, we have Master Aknadin researching scriptures in the libraries of the Per-Ankh in your father’s lands to find any additional clues as to how to appease Lady Hathor. There is unfortunately little information on the matter, as she is not a goddess prone to wrath—”
Yes, as everyone keeps reminding me. Master Shimon, I am aware of the irony of the situation,” Atem almost snapped, before catching himself and casting Shimon an apologetic glance. He continued more calmly—“I am still trying to figure out how else she wants me to redress her grievances and what lesson she is trying to teach me. None of the apologies or gifts have worked so far, and our people are becoming more and more frightened.”
Shimon cleared his throat, brushed a nonexistent speck of dust off of his dark blue headdress, and placed it back on his head. “Indeed. Now as I was saying, Master Aknadin is researching scriptures. Isis is meditating and attempting to divine a possible answer from the goddess herself, since Lady Hathor does oversee the affairs of women and may be more willing to communicate openly with her.”
Atem nodded silently, his brow furrowed in thought.
“Mahad is re-assessing the wards against the Duat, to ensure that there are no more breaches letting in wild spirits who incite Isfet under the guise of an affronted goddess. Karim is overseeing the sculpting of the tablet you commissioned in Lady Hathor’s honor. Shadah and Seto have taken a patrol out into the streets of the kingdom and are investigating to see if they can find anything else unusual—beasts escaped from the Duat and hiding amongst the people, magical mischief-makers, and so on.”
Atem shot him a quizzical glance. “Mana normally leads the security patrols out and about the kingdom, especially if there is concern for magical workings at play. Where is she?”
Shimon’s eyes crinkled, and Atem was sure the old man was now laughing at him. Shimon said lightly, “She would normally be working alongside Mahad in reinforcing our magical defenses, yes. However, she is currently still engaged with… ahem, reconstructing the temple of Lady Hathor which – as you know – was also completely destroyed alongside the sacred nehet during the battle against rogue spirits near Lily Lake some weeks ago.”
Reddening again, Atem huffed. “It was an accident! Mahad and Mana were there and can attest to this. I would never disrespect Lady Hathor by purposely destroying her shrine or burning the sacred nehet, and Pharaoh or not, Lord Horus would not have left me standing if he had thought that I had…!”
Shimon raised his hands placatingly. “I meant no disrespect, my King. But, as you know, even the kindest gods and goddesses can be… sensitive to slights, intentional or not.”
Sighing, Atem bowed his head contritely. “Thank you, Master Shimon. My apologies.” After a moment, he added, “Perhaps I will go see Mana. She may have thought of something new.”
Shimon merely smirked, a knowing, mischievous glint in his eyes. “I’m sure spending some time with her would lift your spirits tremendously, my Pharaoh.”
Atem fought back a smile as he stood, stretching his neck and his arms, before descending the steps. Shimon added, “Also, I must head west this evening to visit Pharaoh Aknamkanon’s kingdom. I trust you will be all right in my absence?”
Nodding, Atem raised his hand in a warm farewell to the older man. “Safe travels, Master Shimon. May Lord Khonsu watch over you.” Shimon bowed his head before walking away through a side passage out of the chamber.
Atem smoothed his royal blue cape and adjusted his gold armlets and DiaDhank as he glanced up at the giant Eye of Horus boldly carved into the walls on each side of the throne. Then, sighing, he turned away and began the long trek towards the palace stables to fetch his horse. He was ultimately responsible as the intermediary between the gods and the people. Whatever else Hathor wanted from him to make amends and prove his dedication, it was up to him and his court to figure it out.
Two weeks earlier…
Yanking the creamy white linen sheets over him, Atem groaned as his head hit his headrest. The endless meetings between himself and the military, the high priests and priestesses, and the regional governors in order to coordinate repairs of the destroyed temple, the replanting of the nehet, and the reinforcements of the barrier to the Duat had drained him every single day for the last few weeks. Every evening he retired to bed with a pounding headache and a desire to strangle at least one high-ranking member of society for dragging their feet on mobilizing the necessary people and equipment.
The fact that he had barely been able to spend any private time with Mana did nothing to help his temper.
To be sure, they still met every day to talk – it’s not that he didn’t see her. Despite her ascension to the position of high priestess and the increase in work that brought, Mana still routinely sought him out every day to chat at meals or in the gardens, often bringing tiger nut cakes (and gossip) from the kitchens to share with him. In the exceedingly rare moments where her, his, and Mahad’s schedules all aligned, she would invite (drag) them all out to swim together in any one of the secret pools she had discovered during her jaunts out to the desert.
But… he now craved the tender, quiet moments in her chambers where he could lay his head in her lap away from prying eyes; he missed the comfort of her fingers interlaced with his own, the press of her soft lips against his, her giggles and exclamations as he shared stories of his adventures with Yugi and his friends, the feel of her head in the crook of his neck as he held her close against his chest...
He let out another sigh as he turned on his left side and rested his palm on the downy mattress, flicking away a stray goose feather which had leaked out of the stuffing. Someday, he hoped, if she saw fit to continue their relationship along its new course, Mana would sleep and wake alongside him, nestled in his bed and in his arms.
But this pining would do him no good in getting to sleep, he thought, covering his burning face with his hand. The chaos would settle, they would fix the shrine, maintain stronger wards against the Underworld, repair the damages to the roads and trees, and then he and Mana could pick up again where they had left off. He closed his eyes, willing himself to sleep.
“Atem.”
He spun around, looking for the source of the smooth, melodious, feminine voice. It was unheard of for anyone—save for his parents—to address him by his given name.
Other than a towering sycamore fig tree bearing dark green foliage studded with plump fruit the color of the setting sun, his only company was a lone pearly-white cow grazing in a lush, grassy knoll nearby. He cast his gaze over the glittering cerulean waters in front of him, and then up to the cloudless light blue sky lit by a beaming golden sun—still, no one.
“Here, you confounded fool.”
Atem started, his piercing violet eyes widening in surprise as the cow suddenly spoke. She ambled over to him with an easy self-assurance that he had never seen in any kind of livestock. Most striking of all were her eyes: a brilliant, shimmering turquoise.
In that instant, he knew he was in trouble.
“My Lady Hathor, forgive me.” Atem knelt immediately, inclining his head in respect to the goddess of love and beauty. “How may I serve you?”
If a cow could look at you as if you were an idiot…
"You could start by not destroying my nehet. The dead rely on those trees for sustenance and shelter, amongst other things. And taking care to protect my temple would have been a nice gesture.”
Atem winced. “I understand, My Lady. In our haste to beat back the escaped beasts and rogue spirits of the Duat, we were careless in our spellcasting and caused a tremendous amount of damage. Will you please allow me to make amends in addition to the repairs of the shrine and the replanted trees?”
His gaze had dropped to the sand for a mere split-second; when he again looked up at the cow, in its place stood a positively radiant, statuesque woman clothed in a striking scarlet sheath dress which fell to her ankles. Her jet-black hair curled in shining waves over her shoulders, and upon her head rested a crown bearing a ruby-red sun disk, flanked by sleek black cow horns.
To his chagrin, the goddess Hathor placed her hands on her hips, much like a mother scolding her child—which he supposed he was, to her.
“Young man,” she began, raising an eyebrow. “This is certainly not your first transgression against me. Now you’ve always been a more serious sort, and not much given to smiles or laughter. I suppose I cannot entirely blame you—much of your reign was marred by the rampage of that monster Zorc Necrophades, and after your death and imprisonment… well, you’ve had precious little reason for joy.”
Her face and tone softened on the last few words, and Atem held his breath, hoping against hope that she might be more lenient than he had initially feared.
"But do not think it has escaped my notice that even as a child, you were consumed with competitions and constant study. You disdained learning to dance, and paid little attention to music. As you aged, you rarely stopped to appreciate the fragrance of the lovely blue water lily, the elegance of the ibis, the singing of the lute, or the gentle rhythms of the sistrum. And the worst offense of all… never taking note of the steadfast love your sweet friend and playmate held for you up until the very end of your life, and far longer.”
Atem closed his eyes, his shoulders sagging; not for the first time, he felt the cold hand of regret squeeze around his heart. What was he to do about past mistakes?
Almost as if she had read his mind, the goddess sighed and reached out a luminous hand and gently ruffled his hair. Her fingers felt like the caress of a warm breeze rushing over his scalp.
"Child, I have overlooked much thus far. You are a favorite of my father’s, and you have rendered the world a selfless service, not once, but twice over. There is much to be owed to you, and Lord Ra-Horakhty smiles upon you. However… the people of Kemet have always been a deeply sensual kind, always looking to celebrate, to dance, to sing, to see the loveliness in the world around them. I worry, little one, that you have spent so long engaged in battle that you have forgotten the beauty of love, tenderness, and life itself.”
Atem furrowed his brow, now bewildered. “My Lady Hathor, if I may… I have made my mistakes, but I have also had wonderful teachers of compassion and kindness along my journey. My soul-partner Yugi Mutou, in particular, was instrumental in reminding me of the importance of patience, gentleness, and mercy.”
For the first time, Hathor smiled, though now there was a hint of slyness to it. “Indeed, you have improved much under Yugi’s influence, as he did under yours. But I refer to… other kinds of ecstatic joy and tenderness as well.”
Atem felt his cheeks heat, and the image of Mana laughing as she ran along the riverbank, her dark brown waves flying behind her, flashed across his mind. Hathor’s shrewd grin widened. “That young woman will broaden your mind in ways you cannot yet imagine.”
Atem remained silent, looking forward resolutely. It did not sound as though Hathor was planning on letting this entire matter drop, and he was unsure where she was leading him.
The goddess appeared to be lost in contemplation; her large blue eyes were settled on him, but appeared faraway. “Yes,” she murmured. “I think it is time you learned a lesson from me.”
Atem narrowed his eyes suspiciously; his stomach flipped as a thrill of unease ran down his spine. “My Lady?”
Hathor’s deep red lips twisted into an almost predatory smirk, and Atem was unpleasantly reminded of the maternal deity’s other face—that of the lion-headed, wrathful Lady Sekhmet. Mana did always tell him to relax and enjoy himself more, but really, were all these theatrics necessary? All this because he wasn’t prone to “ecstatic joy,” as the goddess called it, and because he didn’t dance or sing or appreciate music and art as much as others?
Hathor’s eyes flashed, and Atem stiffened, recalling that she was, in fact, likely still reading his thoughts. “Do not forget the destruction of my sacred tree and shrine, accident though it may have been,” she snapped.
“Now, I have made up my mind. Since you are fond of games, your kingdom will lose my favor until you can, from the depths of your heart, demonstrate your devotion and respect for me and my domain. This will not be something you can duel your way through, prideful little one. You fought valiantly to protect life in the world—but what is life without beauty, mirth, and the pleasures of the senses?”
With that, she strode indignantly back to the sycamore fig tree and before his eyes, disappeared into its trunk, leaving Atem kneeling in the dirt.
Atem’s eyes snapped open, and he placed his right hand to his forehead, squeezing his still-throbbing temples. Damn. Damn. Damn.