Chapter Text
The world was a large place, full of things that even the wisest on the mortal plane could not understand. It was so big and so empty, yet so full, all at once. For a child of twelve it was even bigger. For a child of twelve that had just lost their remaining parent, the world seemed endless, completely empty and yet full of darkness and pain.
The young crown prince of Kemet watched from across the room as several guards went past slowly, reverently bearing the body of his father, Pharaoh Aknamkanon, from his bed chambers. His father had been ill for a while, but he had finally taken his last breath and was now on his way to the embalmer’s place so the proper funerary rites and rituals could be observed.
Now the prince was under a time limit. The embalming process took seventy days, plus another seven days before the mourning period was officially over and he would no longer be prince. At the end of that period, he would become pharaoh, so the extra days would be needed to organise things. The kingdom would be placed on his thin shoulders, and he would become The Living God, Son of Ra, He of Sedge and Bee, Pharaoh Atem.
He didn’t want to be those things. He didn’t want to be without his father. He didn’t want the kingdom to have a new ruler.
One person broke away from the seemingly never-ending parade that followed his father and approached the young prince. They knelt down fluidly and bowed, waiting to be acknowledged. As the silence stretched on, they chanced a quick look at the prince.
Atem knew someone was there, but he couldn’t bring himself to care or even look to see who it was. Everything felt blurry and distant, and he briefly wondered if he would recognise whoever it was in this state even if he had been looking. His gaze was still focused on the doorway where people were still passing by, but even they were fuzzy and indistinct humanoid shapes, little more than patches of different tones and colours against the walls.
“My Prince, is there anything I can do for you at this time?” asked the voice of a young man.
It penetrated the fog just enough for Atem to look down and see Mahad, his guardian, protector and friend, kneeling on the ground. He stared dumbly, hearing the words but not comprehending any of them. He tilted his head, his tri-coloured hair messily tilting further as a number of small locks fell free from their usual position.
“My Prince?” Mahad repeated, his expression showing nothing but concern.
“Mahad,” Atem said slowly, his voice soft and small.
“Is there anything I can do for you at this time?” Mahad asked again, surreptitiously checking that the prince was actually hearing him.
The young boy shook his head gingerly. “Nothing that is possible,” he whispered.
The older boy frowned, his heart twisting in sympathy for the small royal. “Would you like something to eat or drink?” Mahad doubted the answer would be a positive one, but he would have to keep an eye on the prince and make sure he kept his strength up amid this trying time.
Atem shook his head, his stomach lurching uncomfortably at the thought of food. How could he eat knowing his father was being prepared for his final journey?
Mahad stifled his sigh. He wished to sit next to the prince and offer some physical comfort, but protocol forbade such an action. The magician could only hope Prince Atem would seek comfort himself and therefore evade that protocol entirely. Mahad changed his posture from kneeling to sitting, leaving his body language open for the slim chance Atem would approach.
Atem did not take the invitation. He sat there, unmoving and despondent, until night fell over the land.
The older boy sent a servant to fetch food and drink while he patiently coaxed the prince to his bed chambers. A beautifully crafted table sat off to one side, usually used for taking and reading notes or a good game. He sat the prince down in a matching chair just as a servant bearing a tray arrived. Mahad took the tray, gently setting it down on the table, and nudged the cup of water to the side of the tray right in front of the despondent boy. There was a small cup of wine, but Mahad feared even a small amount would do more damage than help.
The prince wrapped his hands around the cup, interlacing his fingers. He took a small sip and shuddered, muffling a sob by taking another sip. He wanted to send Mahad away, to shed his tears in private. Yet he didn’t want to be alone any more than he already was. He could at least be sure that Mahad would not share his weakness with anyone.
With this in mind, Atem placed the cup down and buried his face in his hands, letting the sobs loose.
Mahad shuffled his weight from foot to foot, watching the prince anxiously for several moments. He stepped forward, right beside Atem, and extended a careful hand that stopped only an inch away from the bare skin of his slender arm.
The young boy leaned over, silently accepting the offered comfort. He felt Mahad’s arms encircle his trembling torso.
Nine days had gone by since the pharaoh had taken the first steps towards his journey to the Field of Reeds. The atmosphere of the palace was somewhat subdued, but many strived for a sense of normalcy. Not only for themselves, but for the young prince that moved about the palace with very little life behind his eyes and movements. It did not bode well for the kingdom if their soon-to-be pharaoh was not full of vitality. How could he be the conduit between the gods and the land if he lacked the strength to carry out the gods’ will?
Atem had tried to carry on as usual, but even the mundane daily tasks seemed to take so much more effort, and he had very little energy to spare. It took all he had in him to get through each day with the minimum of effort expended. There always seemed to be eyes on him. He could feel them, feel the judgement in them, and he felt that those eyes found him sorely lacking.
The six Guardian Priests had done their best to keep things running in the intermediary period. They had presented the prince with the Millennium Pendant, promising to train him in its use soon.
For Atem, it was the one thing his father owned that would not be buried in his tomb with him. The only heirloom, aside from the throne, that he would ever receive. He didn’t want to wear it. Its own weight seemed to increase the weight of his sorrow every time he put the cord the Pendant hung from around his neck each morning. But it was his now, his responsibility, and he couldn’t be seen outside of his bed chambers without it.
Not only was it a symbol of his power and status to the people, who needed to see him wearing it now, but he could not leave the item unattended due to the risk of thieving hands. People coveted power, but the seven Millennium Items could not, would not, be wielded by just anybody. The last person that had tried to steal one had their hands burned almost to the bone while their mind took complete leave of its senses. The item had been the one to deliver the punishment.
Siamun, a short elderly man who was the tjaty - the vizier - and a Guardian Priest, approached Atem as he meandered up a hallway. For once it seemed the young prince realised it was better not to run and hide from his guard escort; a fact that pleased Siamun greatly.
“My Prince, I must speak with you,” Siamun said, bowing from the waist. He was unable to kneel down properly and could only hope Atem would overlook his inability as his father did.
“Rise, Siamun,” came the prince’s tired voice. “What do you wish to speak of with me?”
The vizier straightened up. “There is a man that has just arrived at the palace. He says he has crucial news he will only share with the pharaoh. I cannot apologise enough for disturbing your mourning period, my Prince, but if there is crucial news then he will only deliver it to you now. I beg your forgiveness and offer all of my wisdom and protection to be at your disposal,” he said, bowing his head and lowering his eyes.
Atem’s heart clenched as the moment he’d dreaded had arrived. It was time to step up and start fulfilling his father’s duties. He gave a long, languid blink accompanied by an almost silent sigh.
“Very well,” he said as firmly as he could. It came out softer and shakier than he intended and he winced internally. “Lead the way.”
The walk to the throne room was both far shorter than his nerves liked and nowhere near long enough for him to prepare and brace himself. The large golden chair that served as the throne loomed ominously, appearing bigger the closer he came. Atem stopped in front of it, surreptitiously biting his lip, but he couldn’t bring himself to sit in it. He whirled around, electing to stand before it instead. His guards automatically moved to positions on either side of the throne, ready to move at any threat that came forth.
“Where is this man?” the prince asked.
“I shall fetch him,” Siamun said, giving a quick bow and scurrying off as fast his body, and dignity, would allow.
It was not long before the vizier returned, leading a travel-worn man. He stopped the man a respectable distance from the prince and went to stand before the prince, off to one side. The man had only glanced at the prince briefly before his eyes widened and he all but threw himself on the floor.
“You know of whom you appear before,” Siamun spoke, his deep tones resonating throughout the mostly empty hall. “Speak your piece.”
“My Prince, I had not heard the news, for I travelled swiftly and spoke to few. I beg your forgiveness, O Light of Ra, for interrupting…” the man trailed off fearfully, his whole body trembling.
Siamun frowned and moved to speak, but Atem held up a hand and he stopped immediately.
“Speak your piece,” Atem said, repeating the vizier’s last words, “and we shall hear you,” he added.
“I am most grateful for your mercy, your Highness. I come from one of the outlying villages, bearing news of an impending attack,” he said shakily, reaching for his waist and pulling free a rolled-up scroll of papyrus that had been held in place by his shendyt. “This is a report written by the village scribe. I was tasked to deliver it here, to the pharaoh,” he continued, stumbling awkwardly over the last word. He held the scroll up, still resolutely facing the floor.
Siamun stepped forth and took the scroll, unrolling it when he got back to his official position. His eyes roved over the contents, his eyebrows pulling lower the further he read. Deeming it safe, he passed the scroll to Atem.
The prince read the scroll, carefully going over each and every written glyph to make sure he missed nothing. Several small outlying villages had been attacked and raided in the past month by unknown parties. Same type of dress, same mode of attack for each one. The headman theorised that these attacks were only the start of something larger, like an insect sending out its feelers before it moved forward. He was requesting help from the pharaoh in the form of armed soldiers, to not only confirm these attacks, but take a prisoner and find out if a larger force was on the way. To keep the outlying villages safe, yes, but possibly also the rest of the villages and cities between there and the palace.
Atem’s mind raced as he went over the options. This was his decision to make now, and he didn’t want to rush in and make a mistake. His father had made it look so easy! He wanted to help the villages and find out if there was a larger problem, but he couldn’t divert too many forces away from the palace in case the raids were a test or a diversion. The Millennium Items were a powerful draw for many thieves and assassins, and their holders needed to be protected. Still, the military force was quite large, despite the drop in numbers from the war his father fought. He could spare some to protect the vulnerable people who did not possess magic to protect themselves.
“Tjaty Siamun, send two score soldiers to these outlying villages. Going by numbers of attackers and the frequency of which villages are hit, the soldiers can be split into one score per two villages or ten to each of the four that have been attacked. They are to repel the attacks, capture prisoners to be brought back here for interrogation, and send reports back. They are to remain deployed for four cycles unless recalled by my order,” Atem said, voice steady and tone as firm and authoritative as the twelve-year-old could make it.
“Yes, my Pharaoh,” Siamun said with a deferential bow, not moving until he was dismissed.
“Weary traveller, you may rest in the palace until the soldiers are ready to leave,” Atem said to the still bowing man. “They shall escort you home.”
The man let out a gusty breath and bowed lower, if that were even possible. “O Great One, I cannot lay enough gratitude at your feet for your wisdom and generosity!”
“Leave and prepare,” the prince commanded.
“Yes, my Pharaoh,” Siamun said again, partly glad and partly frustrated that his face covering hid his proud smile. The boy had done phenomenally well for his first official act as more than the kingdom’s prince. He led the man away to a place to rest, put a guard on the door, and went to execute his orders.
Atem waited until only his guards were left before blowing out a shaky sigh. His knees wanted to give out as his legs felt like slender reeds, wobbling in the wind one way and being pushed back the other way by the river’s flow. It would not do to sit on the floor, even if the only witnesses were the four guards assigned to him personally for the day. There was no way he would sit down in the throne yet, no matter how unsteady he felt.
“I’m going to the kitchen for a drink,” he said to the room at large, mouth dry. He strode off, knowing his guards would follow.
Siamun found him some time later and informed him that the soldiers and the travellers had departed the palace. Atem nodded, casually leaning against the closest wall to help his unsteady legs bear his weight. The walk to the kitchen and the drink there had helped, but seeing Siamun again had brought it all back.
“You did an impeccable job, young Pharaoh,” the elder said, being sure to enunciate each word clearly.
Yes, Atem thought, he was pharaoh now. Even if his official coronation hadn’t happened yet, he had technically gained the title the day after his father ceased to draw breath. While the praise was sorely needed and appreciated, to let him know he hadn’t messed up his first royal duty, the title was an unwanted knife between his ribs. He nodded, his tongue feeling too swollen and heavy in his mouth to be able to form any words.
He had sent those soldiers away. If any did not return, it was on him. Atem may not have wielded the weapon that caused the fatal blow, but their blood would be on his hands regardless. He cast the thoughts aside. The soldiers had only just left. They were trained for this. His mind was simply latching onto negative thoughts about everything at the moment.
This is what it truly meant to be pharaoh. Atem held the life of every Egyptian in his small hands. It was too much, but it was his burden alone to bear. He had to be strong in front of Siamun, so he nodded in acknowledgement and turned away, walking off in the opposite direction.
Thankfully, the elder made no move to follow him. Atem wandered aimlessly, his feet simply moving, though he tried to appear as if he strode with purpose. People were less likely to try and stop him if he already seemed busy, though there were few that would dare try and stop royalty in the first place. The hallways vanished, no longer hemming him in, and he blinked, finally taking in his surroundings properly.
The garden.
No one was permitted here apart from the royal family and those charged with tending to the place. Atem should have some privacy here for a short time. Even his guards were not permitted entry unless he called for them, or they saw him in danger.
His slim fingers reached out, caressing a green leaf with gentle, curious fingertips. Its vaguely waxy texture reminded him of papyrus, and he frowned, his hand dropping listlessly by his side. Part of him wished the messenger had made it to the palace when his father still sat the throne, while another part selfishly wished he had not come here at all. His fingers could still feel the papyrus message reporting the attacks. Even here in the garden he was reminded of things he was trying to distance himself from. At least the air was fresher here. As magnificent as the palace was, there were times when it felt imposing, musty, the air stale.
Atem had grown up here. He could scarcely imagine the effect it had on visitors. He could hardly imagine some foreign dignitary, awed by the palace, taking this tiny, teenage king seriously. His father had looked like a proper ruler; tall, strong, dignified.
In comparison, Atem was short, lean, and uncertain. He dressed the part, but that was easy. His court regarded him well, at least. He dreaded having to meet a foreign power, to exude the aura of Kemet’s pharaoh as his father had. He couldn’t lean on poor old Siamun for such things. While he was sure that Siamun would help, it would make him look weak in front of others, and that was not something he, or the kingdom, could afford.
Perhaps it would afford him a slight advantage if they were sufficiently awed or intimidated.
He loved a good, fair game. But in the game of ruling a kingdom, he would take harmless little advantages like that. His people deserved his best efforts and letting them down was not even an option he wanted to acknowledge as even existing, despite the numerous fears of doing so that bounced around his mind, taunting him.
The garden was not helping to clear his mind. It was not even helping to settle it.
Atem sighed. His stomach gurgled. He put a hand to it.
He sighed again, frowning, his shoulders slumping. The days since his father’s passing had been a battle with food. His body needed the sustenance, but his stomach was heavily affected by his mood, and the thought of a meal made it roll with nausea. He had been getting by on a mouthful or two at a time throughout the days, but it was not enough, and he was truly starting to feel it.
The thought of approaching the kitchen made him shudder. He could flag down a servant and get them to fetch something for him, but they would end up laden with a whole platter as soon as the kitchen staff were told it was for their prince. Well, pharaoh, now.
No, if he wanted something he was sure he could finish and keep down then he would need to acquire it himself.
Atem turned and started walking to the kitchen. The odds of someone stopping him increased, but he really did need the food. If he became weak and sickly from not eating, his people were the ones who would feel the sting as the gods pulled back their favour.
If he could not do it for himself, then he would do it for all of the souls counting on him for their peace and well-being.
“There you are!” cried a feminine voice the moment the hallways threatened to swallow him again.
He had only just begun to turn his head when a weight pounced on him, clinging tightly and nearly toppling him over. Muscle memory kicked in and his arms encircled the weight, hugging and supporting it.
“My Prince! You feel thinner. Are you eating?”
Atem couldn’t help but smile. Trust his dear friend Mana to cut to the heart of the matter in her usual forward, earnest manner.
“As it happens, I am on my way to the kitchen right now,” he replied, amused.
“I’ll come with you!” she said eagerly.
He raised an eyebrow at her and waited. She gasped and let go, sliding off him even as he still kept hold of her. He rolled his eyes, and she hit his arm lightly. Then she froze, glancing around, and only relaxed once confirming that no one had witnessed her hitting royalty. The guards had yet to realise he had left the garden, and he enjoyed being free of their watchful eyes. Atem laughed and strode off, breaking the light hug, and leaving her scrambling for a few steps.
“Are you not meant to be studying under Mahad right now?” he asked.
“I’ve earned a break,” she muttered.
“I will not hide you when he comes seeking you,” he said.
She jogged until she was walking beside him and pouted. “As your friend, you should.”
“Mahad is also my friend,” he pointed out.
“Well… I’m a friendier friend!” she said, waving her arms for emphasis.
He turned his head and stared at her. “Friendier?”
“Hush!” Mana said, hitting his arm again. She shook out her hand as her knuckles collided with his golden armlet.
“Ah, divine punishment,” Atem said solemnly.
Mana levelled a very unimpressed stare at him. His composure melted after a few seconds, and he smirked. The odd servant scurried by, carrying out whatever task they were currently assigned, only stopping long enough to show reverence. With Mana by his side, he appeared engaged in something, so only one of the High Priests would approach or interrupt. The hallways remained priest-free, and the pair reached the kitchen.
It took mere moments for one of the kitchen workers to register their presence. He bowed. “How may I be of service?”
“Don’t mind us, we’ll help ourselves,” said Mana. She was glancing about to spot something tasty to snatch.
At her words, the man shuffled out of the way. Atem strode forward, looking around for something small and easy to eat, being more subtle than his friend. Baskets of various fruits and vegetables were lined up in the cooler part of the large room, while rows of bread and cakes stood ready on shelves. Mana grabbed a couple of empty baskets and handed one to him.
He grabbed some grapes, a melon, and several little cakes. He went back to the doorway and waited for Mana to join him. He eagerly walked away from the busy kitchen, popping a grape in his mouth as he walked.
Mana looked at the contents of his basket and then at her own, which was easily twice as full. “Sweets are not a meal,” she said, a slight admonishment in her tone.
He sighed. “I know…”
She put a hand on his arm and they both stopped. “You are thinner. I worry for you.”
“I will be fine.”
Her face fell into an expression full of concern. “Promise me you will eat a decent meal tonight. Please.”
“I promise to do my best,” he said after a beat.
Her eyes narrowed. “I shall find Mahad, and we will join you for the meal,” she said in a manner that brooked no argument.
Atem tried not to grimace. He had no desire for his friends to witness his struggles with food, but their encouragement would likely help him eat enough to satisfy his body’s needs for the first time in days.
“Fine,” he acquiesced softly.
Mana cheered before plucking a grape and holding it up. He smiled, took it, and popped it in his mouth, savouring the rare treat.