Leavetakings

by Redhawk

The page burst into the Royal garden unannounced with only the sounds of his sandals grinding against the sand to herald his arrival. "High Lord, the Pharaoh lies ill. The healers fear the worst." he blurted, lungs heaving for breath.

The man kneeling in the mid-day sun, known as En Sabah Nur, nodded his head once in acknowledgement of the news. "I knew this day would come," he mused aloud, regretfully. The day his one love would leave him, though not by choice. To the page, he waved a hand in dismissal. "Your message has been delivered. Leave me, boy. Send for the Royal Guard."

As the boy fled, only the merciless beating of the sun and the harshness of the sand against his legs remained to splash harmlessly against Nur's skin. Inside, his mind and his emotions were awhirl.

~Nephri is dying.~

The news came as a shock, even though he knew that it was destined to be. As she grew old and bent, he had remained young and firm. Still, the heartbond between them remained strong, even as the days grew long, and the disaffected mutterings of the people turned into long knives in the dark. Even when those long knives claimed the life of their beautiful daughter, the bond between them only grew stronger in their grief.

But now, Nur could feel his heart growing heavy as it never had before. The shade of his life lay dying, and outside, dimly, he could hear the beginning of revelry.

Nur fought back the snarl that appeared on his twisted features, striving to remain calm. His wife lay wasted, and her people celebrated. Were they truly such tyrants, that the people should offer their prayers of thanks to Ra Himself that she began her journey to the lands of the dead? There had been discord, yes. Any ruler has to deal with malcontents, that was plain to anyone in any position of power. They had put down the rebellions with an iron hand and fought back the foreign devils from across the sea. They had imposed order on anarchy, the rule of law on the lawless.

He knew what the people thought of him. He could scarcely avoid it, whether from old women who spit their water on the sands at his feet, to brave men who refused to have any dealings with the Royal household as long as the immortal spawn of Set befouled the sanctity of the throne.

His control over the army was tenuous at best. The warriors bent spear to him begrudgingly, no matter the victories, no matter the glory he brought them. No matter what he did, or what victories he achieved, the foul muttering of "Demonspawn!" followed his deeds like a leper.

Baal, had he survived to see this day, would have laughed.

~Do you see it now, jackal? You've become that which you were raised to fight!~ Baal's memory accused.

Nur shook his head in denial, sending long fine black hair spilling over his his shoulders and face. ~I have been stern but fair!~ he protested.

~And this is why the people sing at your fall?~ Baal's memory retorted.

~They do not recognize the necessity of what we did! They never have! Without the iron hand, the Upper Kingdom would be in _flames_ by now, or ground under the bootheel of the foreign devils!~ Nur snapped at Baal.

~Men must have freedom.~ Baal's memory murmured. ~Without it, they will fight to the last man, sacrifice everything, to secure it. You should have remembered this, my son. Did I not teach you this at my knee, when you were just a babe?~

~They HAD freedom!~ Nur retorted angrily. ~I gave them leave to do as they always had, save for being at my beck and call. And for _this_ they brand me tyrant? For _this_ they sing as my wife dies? I let them believe what they wished, worship how they wished. The burden I placed on their backs was lighter than Rama-Tut's by far!~

Baal remained stubbornly silent inside of Nur's head as Nur fought visibly to relax, to let Ra's essence bathe him in his healing light. The peace of mind he sought was spoiled by the sounds of revelry. Not from over the wall this time, but from inside the palace.

His own servants, his courtiers, the men who had been at his side for the last twenty years, sang and danced at the death of his beloved wife and Pharaoh.

Rising to his feet, Nur snarled openly, preparing to send the offending courtiers to Osiris personally. Only the crunch of approaching footsteps and the clank of armor stayed his hand.

The Royal Guard had arrived. And judging by the look of them, they still held their oath to the Pharaoh close, as their khopeshi's razor-sharp edges were splattered with brains and gore.

"My Lord, there is fighting in the castle," the lead Guard announced. "We have to get you out of the Palace. Now."

Nur nodded once, and then looked the lead Guard in the eyes. "I would wish my beloved a speedy journey to the Underworld. Have the priests come to prepare her for her journey?"

The Guard swallowed heavily. "The priests did not come," he said quietly. "They refuse to befoul their holy places with the..."

"Do not leave it there." ordered Nur. "I would hear all of it."

"They refuse to befoul their holy places with the bound slut of a demon." the Guard finished quietly. "My Lord, I am sorry."

Nur rocked back on his heels, stunned by the news. Unbidden, tears leaked down his misshapen face, to drip off his thick jawbone only to be drunk by the greedy sands. "The priests told you this?" he asked quietly, eyes closed, fists balled.

"My Lord, they did," replied the Guard. "I swear it."

Nur raised his eyes to the blessed light of Ra and screamed his pain to the blue sky. As his cry rang through the stones of the courtyard, Nur turned to the lead Guard, the promise of murder in his eyes. "Find my son. Give him gold, and supplies - whatever he will need to make a new life for his family. I will attend to the priests myself."

The lead Guard nodded, and turned to the rest of his men to give them orders. Behind them, Nur's right hand gleamed, taking on the very unnatural sheen of well-oiled, well-sharpened steel.

As Nur walked through the halls of the Palace, his mind whirled in a chaos of pain. Now his beloved wife, who had risked _everything_ to stand by him, would be denied the peace of the afterlife that she so richly deserved. All who stood in his path, be they reveller, courtier, soldier, or servant, died with Nur's steel in their throat. The flagstones soon became slippery with spilled blood that lapped around Nur's sandals like the tide of the River Nile.

Soon, he came to his beloved wife's chambers. His chambers, once. Since his wife's illness, she was the sole occupant, with servants and slaves to provide for her every desire, to attend to her every need.

The chambers were deserted, with the plain signs of looting everywhere. Silks shredded, gold statues missing. The bust of Nephri and their two children that Nur had carved with his own hands lay on the floor, shattered into a hundred pieces. Fingering the rubble, Nur let out another cry, a howl of vengeance.

The cry drew attention, of the sort that carried poisoned knives and shrouded itself in black. The first attacker died clutching his ruined throat. As he fell to the ground, Nur leapt over his body, screaming a war-cry and swinging his blade in a decapitating strike. His blade bit through flesh and bone as if they were sand, separating the next assassin's head from his shoulders in a spray of blood.

The third darted forward, poisoned blade dripping ichor. His blade bit home into Nur's grey flesh, but Nur's return strike left the would-be assassin clutching his entrails and howling.

Concentrating, Nur's flesh ripped, expelling the deadly taint with an evil hiss. As his flesh knit and mended, Nur stopped to examine his would-be attackers. To a man, they all bore the sigil of the Priests of Anubis. The jackal-headed one's sign was burned into each man's chest, right over his heart.

Straightening his gore-soaked garb, Nur strode into his wife's bedchamber, death in his eye and steel as his hand.

Inside, clustered around the bed, huddled a half-dozen men in black robes. Slaves around them bore the grisly tools of the embalmer's art, drill and saw and linens. On the bed lay a hacked-upon corpse, only barely recognizable as Nur's beloved wife Nephri.

Her body had been - violated. Blood and entrails were draped over her unmoving body in a mockery of enbalming, her features locked forever into a screaming rictus of pain. She wore nothing, and her modesty lay exposed for the world to see.

"You are all going to die for this," Nur said quietly, savagely, his voice cold. "She was a good woman, a good Pharaoh. She only wanted to serve Egypt and the Gods as best she could, as was her right by blood."

Lunging forward, Nur was a whirlwind of death. He ripped the priests apart, sending their mutilated bodies flying through the air away from Nephri's mortal remains. Their screams were sweet music in Nur's ears, the crunching and ripping a fit counterpoint to the bloodlust raging through his mind.

Once the priests were gone, Nur cleared away the instruments of torture with a violent sweep of his arm. With tears in his eyes, he tenderly wrapped her violated body in the silk bedsheets. Carrying his bundle lovingly in his arms, he walked slowly out of the bedchambers, and out of the Palace.

There was nothing left for him there.

No one dared stand in his way.

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