Narrative Sands, part one ~ (Volks Lucas, F-17, F-40, Tsukasa) [IMG heavy, light m/m]

preceded by Waiting for Cait

This is story #21 in the Back Garden series. Start reading from the beginning?





I remember...




I opened my eyes first to sand. Endless desert, stretched out from my fingertips. The burn of the sun on my skin. This is the land I came from.




I remember the wind that lifted me. In the air, others like me, born from the western sands; in the air, we were birds, and the wind carried us from the desert to the river.




The river is life. It waters the land and the people that work it. By day we soared along the river, on the winds that push it down to the sea. As Ra's boat carried the sun across the sky, so did we follow the boats of men back and forth across the water.




Then darkness would fall and wrap itself around us. In darkness we came down from the air and in the moment our feet touched the ground we took on the form of men.
The people knew us as ba: spirit birds, soul guides. By night, for those whose time had come, I took them by hand and led them from their bodies into the west, into the deserts of my birth, and finally to the gate.




It calls to all the spirits of the dead, and to guide them to it is my purpose. Beyond it lies I know not what, but its draw is strong: it is a promise of rest and solace. I took the hands of pharaohs and field workers alike. I led children wide-eyed and delighted in their release. I held babes sleeping soundly. I led the criminal and the pure, the infirm and those cut down in the prime of their lives. Death knows no distinctions. One by one, all souls will pass eventually between the stones of the gate.




And yet, there are, like grains of sand that cling to the skin, a handful of souls who cannot move on. I know not why, perhaps they have some purpose left unfulfilled. Again and again, they refuse the hand of the ba, instead choosing to linger as ghosts among the living, resting in statues and tombs, until by some means they are reborn into the world.

I have known one such soul...




??: (murmurs) ...and in the case of the burial chamber, it shall be dug deep into the earth below the great structure. By use of rope and sledge and careful calculation of gradient against weight, the eternal body of His Divine Majesty will be lowered unto its final resting place.




His name was Imhotep. He was born the son of a common builder, and yet by the end of his life, by his own merit had risen to become vizier of the kingdom, second only to his Pharaoh in rank and power. I have seen the workings of many great men through the ages, but with his eyes the colour of the Egyptian sky, Imhotep was the first.




I knew him from a time before his name was known at every bend of the river Nile. Before news of his sage insight came to the Pharaoh's ears, Imhotep was a priest, and every night it was he who laid out offerings for the souls of the departed.




The dead have no need of food, but the ba cannot live on air alone. We took the offerings from temple altars as our due.




I was young and hungry. I took little care to soften my steps or listen for the movements of the priests around me.

 

Imhotep: Boy, whatever hunger is gnawing at your insides, this food is not for you.




Siris: (starts back in silence)




Imhotep: Do not fear, I won't mention this to the chief priest. You have taken nothing after all.




Siris: Mortal, I am no thief.




Imhotep: (looks more closely) ...indeed, it would appear that you are not.




Siris: (draws back as if to flee)




Imhotep: Wait, please. If you will.




Imhotep: (settles) I'm curious: can you tell me something of yourself, and why you have come here at such a late hour? Even in this poor light I can see you are not suffering from lack of food, nor are you from any of the near villages.




Siris: (stares long) ...who are you?




Imhotep: My name is Imhotep. I have served the spirits of our ancestors here for some years now.




Siris: And this thing you carry?
Imhotep: (faint smile) The temple is expanding, and I have some knowledge of building from my father. Each night I must keep watch over the offerings and the dark hours are long. Calculations help pass the time.




Siris: The living have more need of your skills, priest Imhotep. You are not meant to serve the dead.

 

Imhotep: Perhaps. Is it as one living or dead that you speak to me now?




I recall in that moment I heard the final rattling sighs of an old priest, whose nearing time had drawn me to the temple. In death was my purpose. Imhotep had many years of life still within him and the living were of no concern to me.




I was very young.

Siris: (stands, begins to walk away)




Imhotep: No, please! Forgive me, it matters not what you are. I can see you where you stand, so you must be as real as I.




Siris: (pauses a moment)
Imhotep: Please. At least tell me your name, so that I might offer prayers for you.




Siris: Pray if you wish. My name is Siris.




Imhotep: Thank you, friend Siris. I will pray and perhaps one day we will meet again.




Again and again. I believed our next meeting would be in guiding him to the gate, and time and again, I was drawn by the sound of my name in his prayers. But eventually the prayers ceased. I did not sense his passing. Another ba had taken his hand. Or so I believed.
Years passed, hundreds, and I thought no more of it until death brought me again to the temple...




He was neither priest nor scribe, but a high official's son learning his letters. He did not have Imhotep's eyes, his were dark as the Nile in full flood, but his face...




I never learned the young boy's name, nor what became of him after he left the temple. But with him, my search began.




I sought his face at every bend of the river. I scoured houses, towns, temples. Drawn by dying souls, I searched every room, every niche and crack in their surrounds. Circling further, I traversed the delta, and for the first time in my life flew over open sea. All in hope that I might find him again, reborn into new life.

But it was not Imhotep whom I caught plunging from the sky on wings made of feathers and wax.




His name, he said, was Icarus, and he had oceans in his eyes. He said he had been a prince once, on an island of priests and indigo dyers. With his nimble fingers he turned seaweed into cord and leaves into linen, a needle of bone and threads of bark; he sold his gems for jars of wax. I held the brace as he mended his wings. Then I taught him how to fly.

 

Together, we crossed oceans and islands. I had been in the service of death since I had drawn my first breath. With Icarus, I knew what it was to live.
We followed rivers and mountains. We drank from the high lakes where the Nile river begins. We ate the summer fruit that grows on the slopes of Olympus. We rested in the sand and in caves and on beds of forest moss.
By night, when the sighs of the dying stirred in my blood, Icarus would take my hands between both of his, until all I could feel was his heart beating, and we would sleep.

Together, for a time, I could forget...

~​

Many stories were told later of the birth. Trees across the Aegean bent their branches to the north. The birds lowered their eyes even as they raised their voices in song. The earth trembled with his first wailing cries– not in terror, but in joy! For here at last was a master worthy of her vastness.

A child of god...




They called him Alexander.




It was long past dark, and we had taken shelter above the wide bay of Thera. My rest was interrupted but once on the night Alexander was born, and it was only the sharp breaths of Icarus, lost in his dreams.




Perhaps Icarus had a glimpse of premonition that night. When he awoke, there was a new restlessness in his blood. He spoke little of it. But sometimes he would look out over the sea with a yearning to fly further, and see more than the islands that had contented us for so long.




Alexander swept out of Macedon like a summer squall. He marched east and the armies of Persia crumbled before him. He marched west and breached the sea fortress of Tyre. He marched south, to the delta of the Nile. Icarus longed to follow and I could not say no. The ba do not feel as humans do, but as fruit clings to the vine that nurtures it and reeds will always bend closer to water, in my own way, I did love him.

We flew south, following the plumes of kicked up dust. When the cries of dying soldiers rang in my ears, Icarus took my hands between his own, as he always had. Then I heard nothing but the beat of his heart.




It was in the south that Alexander built his first city. The walls of Alexandria lie on the edge of the western sands. It is the land that I came from, and I had been far too long away. Gliding on the desert winds, alone, in silence, I felt a peace settle within my chest. Here is where I was meant to be.




Alexander never stayed in one place for long. As his armies made ready to march, I took Icarus' hands between my own.
He said the time of gods and heroes was ending, could I not feel it? He said there would never be another man like this one. He said he would follow Alexander to the ends of the earth.
I did not argue, I knew it was all true. I asked him only that he stay.




In the morning, rank after rank of soldiers marched off into the sun and Icarus watched them go. For me, he put aside his yearning to follow, and resolved to await the Great King's return.
In his own way, I believe he too was in love.




Alexander came back to us in a casket of gold.

While his soldiers wept for their god in mortal dress, Icarus saw and took to the skies. Giving chase, I heard his cries: our world was gone, our time dust and ashes. His howls of grief tore at me as his fingers tore through the clouds, higher and higher.




His wings were not made for high altitude winds. The moment the brace buckled, I knew.

After that, there was only shedding feathers and my heart plunging into the sea...

 

Years I waited. Tides rose and fell. Fringes of the old city washed away, a lighthouse and a library were built. I walked the line of the shore and waited for his soul to surface. However long it might be, when Icarus finally reached through the water, I would be there to take his hand. I would guide him to the gate. And then, together, we would step through.

Years I waited...




...but he never emerged.




??: Light-giving Apollo...




??: Friend, are you ill? Can you hear me?
Siris: (desolate)
??: Come, let us get you to the temple.




It is a measure of my life's luck that, blind with grief for Icarus, I should once more stumble upon Imhotep.




In this newest life, his name was Iollas, and the gods he sang to were Greek. His temple, once a house of pharaohs, now raised its voice to Apollo, lord of the sun.




He took me into the temple and under his care, amid the lotus blooms and quiet pools of fresh water, I felt my heart begin to heal.



continued in Sands, part two


(stock images sourced from Wikipedia and Google Images)

 

Thank you all so much!

Minskavary: Siris' Egyptian roots have been hinted at since the very beginning of this mini saga, but this is the first time I've had the chance to really go into the details of it all. It's so much fun to do!

 

Thank you all so much!

orphansparrow: This photostory was quite literally years in the making: there are photos taken at my apartment in Japan, at Tenshi no Sato, and my place now back in Australia. International moves make photo editing a bit of a challenge . I'm so glad you enjoyed it though!