#'What if I'm irritating?' She's known you for 17 years and has been asking you for 2 of those years to move in.
Text
Left to Ruin: Chapter Four
Summary: Prince Ahkmenrah returns to his beloved capital city, to find someone he cares about has left. Merenkarhe steps down as ruler and names his son King of Egypt, and his daughter Queen.
Previous Chapters
Word Count: 5696
Warnings: none
Tag List: @xmxisxforxmaybe, @r-ahh-mi, @theultraviolencefan, @hah0106, @rami-malek-trash, @diasimar, @sherlollydramoine, @flipper-kisses, @ivy-miranda-2390, @txmel, @sunkissedmikky, @concentratedsassandcandy, @babyalienfairy
(Let me know if I missed you, or if you would like to be added to the tag list)
A/N: Thank you all for the comments, likes and reblogs last chapter! They all make me feel like the 🥰 emoji. Again, as a disclaimer, I am not an ancient Egyptian expert and google only knows so much. So yeah, I took so historical liberties while writing this to make my life easier, but tried to keep it as “authentic” as possible. As a helpful guide: Ahk is 17 and his sister is 13 by the end of this chapter. Just so it’s clearer given that there’s a bit of a time jump in the middle of this chapter.
It was a vastly different thing, watching the world from the window of his cabin pass after spending two years immersing himself in every sight, smell, and sound. But that was where Ahkmenrah felt safe: in the cabin, next to the window. All the sights that had enthralled him when they made their way north now had no luster; it was just sand and river and sky. He wanted to be home.
The night a man sought to take his life; Ahkmenrah lacked the want to move from the corner he rooted himself in. He’d stayed awake until dawn and well after, too afraid to close his eyes for fear of opening them to another attacker. Kamuzu and the pharaoh never strayed from his side, but respected his want for silence; perhaps one day he would find the strength to talk about what had happened, but not one soon. When sleep did come, the prince spent it tossing and turning, his dreams vague but ominous. They wove a narrative his conscious mind had difficulty piecing together; like sand through his fingers, his nightmares slipped into obscurity once he was awake. Ahkmenrah figured that was for the best.
Finally, the evening before he was to arrive back in the capital, Ahkmenrah was blessed with a slumber that was black and empty; providing him with ample rest to keep the demons at bay. He didn’t want to return home with an aura of fear emitting from him. He was a prince; he wanted to arrive as one.
The sun was high overhead when the pharaoh’s vessels docked in Waset’s market port, and Ahkmenrah mustered his courage to step onto the deck for the first time since leaving Men-nefer. After days in the shade, his body craved the golden light beaming upon everything in sight. The welcomed heat tingled over his starved skin and worked a languid smile onto his lips. Even his worries burned and vanished under the powerful heat. The fragrance of spices from merchant stalls on the shore mixed curiously with the briny water of the Nile, and Ahkmenrah filled his lungs with that strange coupling over and over until he fixated it in his memory.
The prince blinked until he found his focus, and he swore he could feel the black of his eyes narrow to needle points in the bright light. The palace was the first thing he saw, and it made him smile. His heart yearned to be home just as much as it had yearned to see the marvels of Egypt. The towering walls of his palace in the distance served as a reminder to those he left behind, the faces he missed and would revel in seeing again.
His father was close by, supervising the men preparing the chariots that would parade them back to the palace in an echo of their initial send-off. His father turned when he heard him approaching and gave him his usual closed-lip smile.
“I'm pleased to see you out, Ra’s light will do you good.”
Ahk couldn’t help but agree, only a few minutes out of the shadows of his cabin and he felt anew.
“I am arranging for a platoon of guards to escort you back to the palace in secret,” the pharaoh idly said, his focus still overseeing the men working on the chariots.
“No,” Ahk said firmly.
Meren’s brow hoisted into an arch.
“I need to ride in on a chariot too,” Ahkmenrah told him, tired of being afraid. “I don’t wish to dwell on what happened. The sooner I am back to a usual routine the better.”
Merenkahre’s smile was toothy and almost grander than the sun shining overhead. He pulled his son into his arms for a quick, but tight embrace, praising his Ahkmenrah’s bravery.
The prince and the pharaoh both donned the most stately of their attire; all the gold, and gems shimmering like the light reflecting off of the surface of the Nile--casting about hundreds of prisms. Ahk felt rejuvenated by his regal raiment; he wore it proudly, wanting whoever it had been that sought to destroy him to know they had failed. Once more, the common people gathered in crowds to greet them with cheers and awed expressions. Ahk cast a smile to them each feeling a revival of his spirit swelling to combat all the apprehension that plagued him the past few days.
His smile remained even after he found himself back within the palace walls, and the end of his journey was marked by the sound of the gates shutting behind him. There was a bittersweetness in the thunderous echo of those shutting gates; they meant his time as an adventurer was over and duty awaited. More importantly, they signaled he was safe in the company of people who cared about him.
Shepseheret was waiting on the steps of the palace, as though she had stood there for two years awaiting their return. She wore a warm smile on her lips that was more beautiful to behold then all the heavens, and the surrounding gardens combined. Merenkahre pulled her into a long embrace, lifting her into a passionate kiss as her feet kicked behind her. Ahkmenrah smiled at the two of them, their love more real than the earth under his feet at that moment. The king and queen lingered, heads tilted together for a prolonged moment, reveling in the presence of the other. His father whispered something, and Ahkmenrah watched his mother's blithe features slip into something darker. She hastily pulled him into a powerful embrace, laying several kisses to the top of his head.
“My darling Ahkmen!” Her words were muffled as she spoke against the crown of his head. “You are safe now.”
“I’m fine mother,” he assured her.
Merenkahre cleared his throat and the queen ceased her fussing, smoothing out her son’s curls with a smile.
“The prince and I must speak to the council,” the pharaoh announced.
Shepseheret rolled her eyes and sighed, fondly shaking her head.
“Always business with you two. Go on,” she urged inclining her head toward the palace. “I’ll be in the West Garden waiting to hear all about your adventures.”
Ahkmenrah beamed at his mother and promised to do so before turning to follow his father to the council chamber.
The pharaoh’s slew of advisors filed into the council room and took their seats wearing looks of surprise on their faces. An unspoken question lingered about the room: what had their king and his son back in the capital a day and a half early? Kahmunrah was the only one who had not yet arrived--his empty chair next to Badru practically screaming his absence into the mostly silent interior.
“Let me begin by clearing up any rumors that may have traveled faster than we could,” Merenkahre began. “We find ourselves home early due to an unfortunate incident in Men-nefer. My son was almost slain by an assassin.”
A collective gasp filled the chamber, and every councilor offered some form of condolence or proclamation they were glad the attempt on the prince’s life had failed. Ahkmenrah sat quietly and nodded his thanks, not wanting to focus on what had happened.
“It is my intention to send men north to sniff out potential threats and report back so that we may prevent future attacks,” the pharaoh stated.
More of the advisors nodded, some of them mentioning potential culprits that might seek to destroy the monarch. Merenkahre waved his hand however, also--it seemed--not wanting to put any more focus on what happened in Men-nefer.
“Now that, that is out of the way, would someone mind telling me where my eldest son is?” The pharaoh’s irritation was obvious in the flair of his nostrils and pursed lips as he eyed the only empty chair at the table.
“Kahmunrah is finishing up matters in the throne room, my pharaoh,” one of the men said.
Merenkahre nodded as some of the frustration in his features ebbed. The pharaoh scratched at his chin and tossed a glance around the table before he spoke again, “How did Kahmunrah fair governing the nation and the people?”
Ahkmenrah sat up a little straighter, his own interest piqued. He spent more than one night while he was away wondering how his brother would do with a taste of so much power. A part of the prince feared he would return to a ruin or a pile of ash--Kah did so love violence. Surely that would show through with his method of ruling. The advisors, however, surprised both the prince and the pharaoh. The consensus commended Kahmunrah, noting only a few times the advisors had to step in to keep him from acting too rashly on an occasion.
“What was the matter he acted out on?” Merenkahre asked, brows furrowing.
“Theft, concerning a family of servants, my pharaoh,” one of the men explained.
“What was stolen?”
“The Tablet of Ahkmenrah,” the man said.
The pharaoh glanced at his son, and Ahk’s face held the same look of shock and confusion. His father promised that few knew about the magical tablet, or where it was kept--Ahkmenrah didn’t even know it had existed. How would servants have known where to find such a thing?
“Where is the tablet now?” Meren asked.
“Back in its temple. It was recovered only a day or so ago,”
The pharaoh frowned; and even to Ahkmenrah that sounded suspicious, but he wasn’t sure why.
“And what became of the servants who supposedly stole it?” the pharaoh asked.
“Kahmunrah wished to execute them, publicly, but it couldn’t be proven that they were culpable, so they were exiled from the palace grounds.”
Merenkahre thought a moment, digesting all that had been brought to light until finally, he nodded.
“Very well, what matters is, that it is back where it belongs.”
The sound of the chamber door opening and the cadence of footfalls that followed caused everyone to shift their attention to the door as Kahmunrah swaggered in. He was dressed in the most regal of his garments--outshining the king himself.
“Good of you to join us, Kahmunrah,” Merenkahre said in a tone that was somewhere between being genuine and annoyed all at once--taking note of how his eldest son presented himself.
Kah situated himself in his usual seat between Badru and Ahkmenrah, his hubris radiating and blatantly offensive.
“How does my little brother fair after such terrible slights in Men-nefer?” Kah gave his brother a look of concern that was almost mocking, and it made Ahk’s stomach slosh sickly.
“How did you hear about what happened in Men-nefer?” Merenkahre probed, his eyes narrowing suspiciously.
Kah blinked, suddenly looking as though he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t have and threw the pharaoh a crooked smile and a shrug.
“Rumors spread quicker than wildfire, father. I heard about it a day ago--I was assured that my dear brother was safe, so I went about the business that you tasked me with.”
Merenkahre held his son’s gaze for a long time before letting the scrutiny fade and moved on. The rest of the council meeting went about as normal, and Ahkmenrah endured it all as he was expected to, putting in his two cents where he felt was necessary. He was tired and longed for the few hours to himself he knew would follow; Ahk wanted to hug his mother again and revel in her warmth. He wanted to see his little sister. Mostly, he wanted to find Nouke and tell her all the stories he promised to bring back with him.
***
Ahkmenrah’s feet found a leisure pace as he wandered the familiar hall of his home with Kamuzu at most a few steps behind. The corridors were nearly vacant as the day began to draw to a close; only a few stragglers still tended to their chores, and he hoped that Nouke was done with hers. A fresh warmth bubbled inside of him as his feet carried across the stone floor, it was a thrill he knew came with the notion of seeing his friend again. His grin was hard to quell and his heart beat with an unfamiliar fervor just thinking about his friend from the garden; alien or not, Ahk relished in the new sensation.
As promised, he found his mother in the West Garden, seated on the edge of the central fountain with Setshepsut beside her. His sister was playing idly with the lily pads floating on the water's surface, and it wasn’t until their mother nudged her with her elbow that the princess turned to see her brother approaching.
“Ahkmen!” Her face burst into a smile and she ran to greet him; the lily pads suddenly forgot.
She crashed into him with such force Ahk almost tumbled backward. Set had definitely grown while he was away. The top of her head was just under his chin, but she still held the same childlike wonder that she’d possessed when he left her.
“I missed you!” she said, squeezing him tight.
She’d definitely gotten stronger too, he mused matching the intensity of her embrace.
“I missed you more.” He kissed the top of her head, causing her to grin.
Shepseheret was the next one to fold her arms around him tenderly--a mother's embrace. Her dark eyes sparkled with the onslaught of tears as she cupped his face in her hands, her thumbs sweeping back and forth.
“My heart ached while you were away,” she confessed and kissed his forehead at his hairline. “Look how handsome you are; my little boy left and returned a man.”
Ahkmenrah pulled his lip between his teeth and smiled, drawing his mother and his sister into another embrace. It was an almost perfect moment--Nouke was the only one missing.
“I have so many stories to tell--and gifts,” Ahk said looking to each of them. “I even brought some home for Nouke.”
His mother and sister exchanged a brief look, and Ahk felt the atmosphere in the garden shift suddenly. A heavy sorrow hung in the air and cast a veil over his mother's features strong enough to twist Ahk’s own smile into a frown.
“Nouke and her family left the palace, Ahkmen,” his mother said softly. “I’m so sorry, my love. I know what she meant to you.”
Something dark and less forgiving than fear crept into him, his heart hammered but ached with every fervent beat. His throat was tight and dry.
“What?” His voice was shakey.
“She left,” his sister affirmed, sounding just as grief-stricken as he felt. “I’m sorry I couldn’t watch out for her like you asked me too.”
Ahkmenrah threw his sister a smile that was much too heavy to hold longer than a second or two.
“They left while I was away hosting the Festival of Isis--not long after you and your father left. I don’t know why they went. I would have asked had I been here.”
There was sadness in his mother’s eyes too, and he recalled that Maketaten, Nouke’s mother, had been her friend as well. Ahk wasn’t the only one who’d lost someone they cared about, and he wasn’t sure if that made him feel better or worse.
Ahk could feel tears brewing in his eyes, and he struggled to hold them. It wasn’t princely to cry. He didn’t want her to be gone. Why would she have left him?
“But I promised to tell her stories,” Ahk murmured more to the ground than to anyone.
His mother scooped him back into her arms to soothe him.
“Oh my sweet boy,” she said holding him together. “I know.”
***
Despite the heaviness that troubled his heart, grieving the absence of his friend, Ahkmenrah had little time to dwell on his sorrow. In less than a week of returning to Waset, he was named Pharaoh of Egypt--ruler of the land of his father.
The day of his coronation was a whirl of fittings and lavishness that made his head spin. He was decorated with extra fine linens, a jeweled collar that glittered at even the slightest of movements and befitting of a king. He was given gold, gem incrested bracelets, and belts. Down his back trailed a flowing cape that shown like sunlight and billowed like reeds caught in a breeze. The final touch was the heavy kohl around his eyes, dark and precise to define the stormy grey-blue of his irises.
It was the first time that he truly felt like a king and Ahkmenrah had to stifle the prideful smirk growing on his lips; the confidence however, he radiated gladly. He entered the throne room chest out and chin high; eyes trained to where his father waited at the throne. Ahk had practiced that moment the evening before and a dozen more times in his head, but nothing compared to the reality. In his chest, his heart was beating at an impossible rhythm; a mixture of nerves and excitement. His feet were the opposite. Each step seemed to glide across the polished stone of the grand hall. There was a crowd of faces around him--a rally of priests, advisors, and noblemen. He could feel their watchful eyes the moment he entered the room, but as he walked nearer his destiny, they swiftly became nothing more than the hieroglyphs in the background on the walls.
A proud smile was painted on Merenkahre’s face as he watched his son approach. He was dressed simply for a man who had not yet abdicated the rule of pharaoh: no capes or furs, just regal garments akin to anyone of noble birth. Ahkmenrah would always remember how strange that moment was seeing his father dressed so modestly.
The prince knelt before his father, and Merenkahre stood. Without a word, Meren removed his crown and placed it on his son's head. When Ahkmenrah stood, the room around him, including his father fell to their knees in a show of loyalty to their new king.
The evening passed just as swiftly as the morning, taking on a significantly less formal tone. As was a tradition for the new king, a parade followed the ceremony in the throne room which allowed the common people a gander at their new ruler. To a degree, riding in the chariot surrounded by a squadron of guards and Medjay felt less like a celebration and more like he was marching off to war. Their militaristic formation around all sides prompted the new pharaoh to wonder if such precaution was custom or a side effect of the mishap that had happened in Men-Nefer a week prior.
Nevertheless, Ahkmenrah flashed a pearly smile to all his subjects, waving to the children who gazed up at him in wonder--a part of him wishing he could take the time to thank them all for their loyalty. His eyes did scan the crowd for a familiar face; a face that he had kept in his mind during his years away, but in the sea of faces, none of them were familiar.
While the celebration in the courtyard was to honor his coronation with feasting, drink, and entertainment, Ahkmenrah still managed to spend most of the convivial fete conducting essential matters of the crown--the weight of his newly acquired headdress already cumbersome on his shoulders. For hours, he smiled and laughed and spoke with important men campaigning for a seat at his council table, some of whom he met on his pilgrimage, but the majority were strangers. Most hung on him with overcooked praise that Ahk was not fooled enough to buy into. He wanted good men to guide him--just men. Not the pretenders who swarmed him like a flock of circling vultures to a carcass--no. Ahk was not interested in how they could help the crown. He much preferred the opinions of the men who were not afraid to tell him they thought him too young or inexperienced to rule--the ones who spoke such things with respect instead of contempt. Ahkmenrah understood their caution. Their fear stemmed from the loyalty they had to the realm; men who wanted the best for Egypt, and not themselves. Those were the men who would guide him to make choices that ensured he kept the Maat teachings and fed the land instead of lead it to ruin.
***
The pharaoh Ahkmenrah sat on his throne with his heart beating rather nervously in his chest. The celebration of his coronation lasted well into the night, and admittedly, once all the official matters were seen to; he'd indulged a little too deeply for a man with a river of responsibilities awaiting him at dawn. While his heart hammered, his head pulsed with it--too much to drink. His throat was dry, and he was sure only the entire Nile could quench his thirst. Still, Ahk built himself a more or less gathered composure, dressed in his new golden robes and raiment, and perched himself on his throne to begin the rest of his life with what dignity he could scrounge up.
More than a dozen men stood before him, their expressions stoic. Some had been a part of his father’s council while others, he could recall their faces from the night before. Ahk knew they were waiting on him to begin; the scrutiny in their keenly focused eyes altogether unsettling. Despite almost a lifetime of practices, actually being king felt profoundly strange. The nervous sensation was akin to standing on a ledge much too high, readying to jump: stomach queasy at the thought of not sticking the landing. Even so, Ahkmenrah corrected his slouched posture, cleared his throat, and lept.
“First, I should thank you all for your loyalty, to myself and the empire,” he spoke, doing his best to mimic the bravado his father always used when he was making a declaration.
“I find it only fitting my Grand Consul be handed to a man who knows the struggles of the crown first hand: Merenkahre, my father--do you accept this charge?”
The pharaoh’s father fell into a kneel and bowed his head.
“It will be my honor, my king, to serve you and the empire.”
Ahkmenrah had to keep from grinning at how ridiculous it was to hear his father address him as king. He also found it difficult to quell the significant weight suddenly gone from his shoulders with the knowledge he would have his father’s guidance during his rule. It lent the confidence he needed to press on without fearing a tremor would shake his hand or crack his voice.
The pharaoh moved on, naming men to his council: some he let keep their positions, others, Ahk dismissed or granted new power. The most notable replacement being Kahmunrah as Consul of Montu--keeper of war and the position he had been preparing for most of his life.
The pharaoh’s older brother let a sardonic chuckle escape and echo in the hall, a contemptuous titter that caused all the newly appointed advisors to send him a glare.
“Do you not want the position, then?” Ahkmenrah asked, brow raised.
Kah’s wry features gradually fell into a look of disbelief and mild embarrassment. His dark eyes scanned over the faces looking to him with such scorn; he fell to his knees too, and the realization sank in.
“No, broth--my king.” Kah swallowed. “I would be honored to hold such a mantle.”
“Than it is yours.”
Once all the seats had been filled, Ahkmenrah felt he could breathe a little easier; being pharaoh was not going to be as tricky as he thought.
He dismissed the men who didn’t make the cut, thanking them for their time, and those who had been replaced, he thanked for their service to the former king and the empire. The rest he addressed collectively, as he had seen his father do.
“At this moment, are there any other matters that need immediate attention?”
Tak-Sharu, the pharaoh’s high priest took a step forward, cupping his hands and bowed before he spoke, “There is the matter of a queen, your majesty. A pharaoh needs a queen so that heirs can be produced and taught to continue Egypt's great empire.”
A queen? Akh’s brow furrowed and suddenly he was nervous again. Before he could speak, however, Merenkahre stepped forward as well.
“This matter has already been decided,” he told both the pharaoh and the priest.
Ahkmenrah’s brows creased further, “It has?”
Merenkahre nodded, looking more regal and kingly at that moment than the pharaoh himself. “In two years' time, my daughter, Setshepsut will be of childbearing age, whereupon; Ahkmenrah will wed her and she shall rule at his side as queen.”
Immediately, Ahk felt his heart sink and his stomach churn; the frown that threatened to twist onto his features was difficult to deter, but he managed to retain an indifferent composure. To keep bloodlines pure, it was common such marriages were arranged. Ahk knew his father’s first wife had been his sister. Even knowing it was custom did little to combat the unpleasant feeling that seeped down to his very bones. He loved Setshepsut. They harnessed a bond that no one could ever sever, but Ahkmenrah knew his feelings would never grow beyond that.
“Very well,” the pharaoh sighed, suddenly bereft and disinterested in the rest of whatever the council had to say. He had been king less than a day and already he felt golden shackles fastening tighter around his wrists.
***
The first two years of Ahkmenrah’s rule were prosperous, but the young king spent many meetings and royal affairs second-guessing every decision he made. Having to carry so much weight on his shoulders was a grueling task--one that he was determined to master. Every day was easier; he leaned on his father’s advice less and less as his confidence grew. His life fell into a routine of mornings at prayer, early afternoons in the throne room addressing civilian matters and evenings with his advisors in the council chambers. The days were long and arduous, and so different than the lazy hours spent with his friend in the West Garden or along the Nile. But being able to help the people he ruled was almost worth the sacrifice--almost.
The day he wed his sister, Ahkmenrah woke with knots in his stomach.
They were entirely too dissimilar from the way his gut writhed with excitement the morning of his coronation. The knots were born out of a sensation wholly different than excitement. True, he loved his sister. Setshepsut meant the world to him, but a husband was to love his wife so differently than a brother was to love his sister. Their marriage was a new obstacle Ahkmenrah was unsure he would ever be able to maneuver the way he was expected to.
The entire city celebrated when the pharaoh had his queen. People lined every alley and square to catch a glimpse of the royal couple as they rode through the streets of Waset on parade in a chariot pulled by white stallions. It was an echo of the journey he made after being named king; a chance for the commoners to see who it was that ruled them. Ahk did find joy in that venture around the city, forgetting for a moment why it was he was out of the palace walls.
He held his sister’s (wife’s) hand as they rode, taking in the sites--never letting the touching go further than a hug or kiss to the other’s cheek. Setshepsut marveled at the city as they snaked through and down different roads that would eventually loop back toward the palace. Her wonder made Ahk smile, and he took a moment to remind himself he was lucky it was her he was tied to forever and not a stranger. Set would always be special to him.
The wedding feast that followed was only slightly less grand than the one that celebrated the pharaoh’s coronation. The music was loud and the banter louder. The food and drink flowed freer and more abundant than the waters of the Nile. Everything right down to the placement of the oil lamps evoked an aesthetic that served to remind all in attendance how truly great their king, queen, and Egypt was.
Ahkmenrah held a smile on his lips as he sat next to his queen, doing his best to put on a good face for all who came to celebrate his union to Setshepsut. Every hour or so he would catch himself frowning as his thoughts wandered into obscurity before throwing an upward curl to his features once more. It was strange not being able to find conversation with Set--the two of them were often inseparable. And the longer he sat watching the jovial guests twirling about, the more Ahk missed the camaraderie he and Setshepsut used to have.
“Are you ready to go?” Ahkmenrah asked suddenly, tired of watching people enjoy something he couldn’t.
Setshepsut blinked his direction, eyes blown wide with a hint of fear. She didn’t say a word, but she stood, and Ahk stood too. The pharaoh took a moment to thank his guests and encouraged them to carry on with their celebrations. When he turned back to his sister, she was tense and staring off into the distance.
“Set.” He offered his hand to her as he spoke gently.
She continued to stare.
“Set?” Ahk murmured just as gently but louder to break through her sturdy resolve.
Her dark eyes turned to him, almost pleading, before falling to his hand. She stared at it for a long time, and Ahk waited patiently.
“It’ll be okay,” he promised.
Hesitantly, she reached for his hand but didn’t look at him. Neither of them said a word as they walked through the nearly empty halls to the pharaoh’s chambers. Even after the doors were shut and they were truly alone they remained quiet. Ahkmenrah, however, did let himself relax somewhat, no longer under the gaze of so many watchful eyes. And for a moment he forgot what was expected of him--what was expected of them.
He sighed a breath of relief and routinely began to remove the overabundance of ornamentation that made up his word robe: cape, collar, and crown until he wore only his golden shendyt and belt. Ahk sighed again, lips upturned slightly at the corners feeling free without the heavy garments and went to pour himself a drink. He indulged in a long swig, relishing in the way his mind began to settle until the clank of jewelry hitting the ground jolted him back to reality.
Setshepsut stood at his bedside, slowly removing her own barbels with the expression of a frightened, nervous child. The pharaoh watched idly for a moment, not thinking much of it as he drank until she began to slide out of her gown--the look on her face intense enough to bring tears to her eyes.
“No,” Ahkmenrah choked out, quickly putting his drink down and crossing the room to stop her.
The sudden movement startled her, causing her to jump, and she threw him a look of confusion.
“No,” Ahk said softer, taking both of her hands in his.
“But we--”
“I know.” He held her gaze until some of that fear ebbed and led her out onto the balcony.
“I can do this…” Set told him, but the crack in her voice gave her away.
Ahkmenrah smiled softly and shook his head. He wasn’t going to let his little sister make sacrifices as he had.
“Is this what you want?” he asked. “Please answer truthfully.”
The importance of duty had been a lesson drilled into his head all his life, surely Set had been taught the same. He didn’t want those teachings answering for her. If she truly wanted to be his bride then, Ahk supposed, he was going to have to learn how to love her differently…
“Do you?” she held his gaze as she spoke, searching his expression for an answer.
“No,” Ahk told her without hesitation. “I love you, Set. But I’m not sure I can ever be a husband to you.”
Instantaneously, the apprehension that darkened Setshepsut’s face drifted away, and she smiled as she embraced him tightly.
“I feel the same!” she rejoiced, her words a little muffled with her face pressed against him. “When you wanted to leave the party, I thought that you wanted to…” her eyes drifted to the bed inside the pharaoh’s chamber.
Ahkmenrah chuckled somewhat and kissed the top of her head as she pulled away. “No, I was tired of everyone watching us.”
“What are we going to do?” Set asked.
“Well,” Ahkmenrah thought a moment as he pulled her to sit beside him with their backs against the stone railing of the balcony.
“You will go about your days as queen, and I will go about mine as king. No one has to know what we do in here. Even if all we do is sit and watch the stars for the rest of our lives or play Senet until the sun comes up--I will be happy.”
Setshepsut pulled her bottom lip between her teeth as she smiled at her brother.
“I’ll be happy with that, too.”
The king and queen remained on the balcony under the stars, spending hours talking and laughing like they used to, and when Setshepsut finally left to return to her own chambers, the dark of the sky was mixing with the pastel hues of morning. Ahk lingered, watching the helix of colors overhead with a content smile on his face and warmth in his heart knowing without a doubt that he would never lose the bond he had with his little sister.
Next Chapter-> Chapter Five: Bound to You
#Ahkmenrah#Ahkmenrah x Original Character#Ahkmenrah Fanfiction#Night at the Museum#NATM#NATM Fanfiction#Left to Ruin#Rami Malek Character#Rami Malek Character Fanfiction#Rami Malek Fanfiction#Rami Malek
40 notes
·
View notes
Note
I love you fics! You don't have to write this prompt but I can't stop THINKING about this. Michael's held captive by Manes and Alex breaks into the facility where he is, using his super smart codebreaker brain. He finds Michael tied to a gurney and hurt, bad. He gets Michael out to where Max and Kyle are waiting. Then every one has a moment of taking care of him as he fights to live through the night and then he wakes to find Alex by his side. I would write it, but I'm rusting! Peace and love
This has been in my inbox forever. I’m sorry. But against all odds, I did it. You can also read it on ao3.
17:00
“What do you mean ‘you can’t find Michael’?” Alex asks, an edge of panic rising in his voice. “This is Roswell, not New York fucking City.”
Max and Liz are standing on his front porch, and while Max appears to be worried, almost vibrating out of his skin with dark bags under his eyes, Isobel mostly just looks pissed.
“I’m sorry Alex, we’re we supposed to plant a tracking chip in our brother like he’s a wandering dog?” She asks with an unkind smile, and if he didn’t know her better, he’d think she was trying to burn holes in his body.
Alex sighs loudly, squeezing his eyes shut and raking a hand through his hair, trying to come up with something, anything. “You can get in people’s mind,” he says after a moment, turning back to Isobel. “Can’t you just go through his mind, and find out where he is?”
Isobel clicks her tongue and smirks. “Oh, shucks, why didn’t I think of that before? Oh right, because I’m not a GPS tracker.”
“Iz…” Max says, and Alex guesses it’s supposed to be a warning but it only makes Isobel more furious.
“Max! He’s basically blaming us for Michael’s disappearance when he’s most probably the last one to have seen him.”
“Nobody’s blaming anyone,” Max says, trying to defuse the situation. “How long has it been since you last saw Michael?”
Alex doesn’t even have to think. He’s been replaying the last two days on a loop in his mind. Michael, Monday morning, getting out of bed early, way earlier than he usually does. Michael making pancakes in Alex’s tiny rundown kitchen, wearing nothing but his loose gray boxer and one fuzzy purple sock. Michael, kissing Alex goodbye, his mouth tasting of sweet maple syrup. Michael, telling him he’d be working on the ranch all day and running errands later that night. Michael, saying not to wait up for him. Michael, kissing him again, once against his cheek, once more against his lips.
Then radio silence, all through Thursday and now Wednesday.
“Two days,” Alex says. “He left on Monday morning and then nothing.”
“Ok,” Max nods, his voice tight. He turns around, lifts his hat to run a hand through his hair and looks back at Alex. “Ok. Have you tried anything to find him?”
“Other than calling us?” Isobel adds. Max gives her a look, but doesn’t otherwise reprimand her.
Alex swallows and nods. “Yeah,” he opens the door wider and goes into the cabin, to the little nook in his living room he turned into an office and sits down in front of the computer. “I put a tracker in his phone, right? But not just a normal app, something a little more… sophisticated.”
“Yeah, that’s not psycho possessive at all,” Isobel mumbles but Alex decides to ignore her.
Alex had been a little shaken up after discovering that the man he’s been in love with for the past 10 years was secretly an alien living among them. Even now, the thought of it sounds completely surreal but Alex had rolled with it and nodded along to Michael’s story. It didn’t take long for Alex’s instincts to kick in, though, and he came up with multiple worst-case scenarios where Michael was discovered by the authorities, or the military or worse – his dad. Alex had to take precautions but he’d hoped to never have to use them. So much for wishful thinking.
“About 20 years ago, the military purchased a bunch of satellites, mostly used for global positioning, but they only made a couple of them available for the general public, which is what we use for our phones’ GPS for example,” Alex explains, entering his credentials and starting up the program.
“So we’re only getting a certain range depending on the number of satellites available to use,” Max says, making sense of where Alex is going with this.
“Exactly. But with a larger number of satellites, we get a more precise and up-to-date location because there are more satellites to bounce back the information.”
“Ok, so why does it keep saying, ‘signal cannot be detected’?” Isobel asks, referring to the green letters blinking on Alex’s screen.
“My best guess was that Michael was being held in a military base. As far as I know, the only technology that can interfere with a military grade signal is military itself.”
Isobel shrugs. “Alright, so let’s raid a couple military buildings.”
Alex chuckles, entirely unamused. “I’ve got this covered. I called up every base within the perimeter of the signal, asked if we had any prisoner that fits Michael’s description and turned up nothing.”
He doesn’t add the part where most officers were suspicious of Alex’s demand and his motives, and so Alex had to resort to using his dad’s influence to get what he wanted. Alex wasn’t proud of it, but the result was that Alex was actually getting intel that he could trust.
“The only other logical explanation if he were being held in an abandoned, underground facility or if he were in outer space,” Alex swivels around to find Isobel and Max sharing a look, their faces having gone pale. “What? What is it?”
“I think I know where Michael’s been holed up,” Max declares and Alex notices how stiff his movements have become. His face has gone taut, still too pale, but there is a glint in his eyes that Alex wants to interpret as hope and determination.
“Max, we don’t know–”
“It’s the only place,” Max interrupts her. “Come on, let’s go.”
18:00
When they get to the scrapyard, Liz and Kyle are already waiting for them.
“I called reinforcements,” is Max’s only explanation and Alex doesn’t question it. It seems to be an all hands on deck situation and Alex will take any help he can at this point. Still, he smiles back gratefully at Max.
“We moved the trailer like you asked,” Kyle says as a greeting, getting out of the passenger side of the pickup truck.
“No manches,” Liz replies, grinning as she slams the driver’s door. “We moved the trailer? Remind me what you did except doubt me and cry that the chain was gonna break?”
Kyle waves her off. “Semantics,” he says and grins when Liz shoves him aside. “So what’s up with the Scooby Gang?”
Alex could answer, but he’s buzzing with anxious energy, his mind reeling with all the different ways Michael could be in trouble at the moment. Thankfully, Max goes straight to the point: “Michael’s been missing for two days.”
Liz frowns at that. Kyle simply arches an eyebrow. “Yeah, but it’s Michael. Are we sure he’s not just sleeping off a hangover under the bar at the Wild Pony?”
Alex clenches his fist, his anxiety quickly giving way to irritation but Liz is the one who answers Kyle, shaking her head. “No, Maria mentioned that she hadn’t seen Guerin at the Pony in a while. Definitely not in the last two days.”
“We have reasons to think he’s being held in an unused military facility,” Alex explains, once he’s regained some of this composure.
“And we think we know where to find it,” Isobel announces.
Max grabs hold of the manhole cover usually hidden by Michael’s trailer and lifts it, propping it up against the ground. “Ladies first.” Liz climbs down, quickly followed by Isobel, Kyle and then Alex, Max right behind him.
The first thing Alex notices is how dark the room is and dusty. He coughs a few times, suddenly reminded of the sweltering Iraq heat and the sand that would get everywhere, how the taste would stay in his mouth after a few weeks in the desert. His lungs quickly adjust.
“Had I known, I would’ve brought masks,” Kyle says once he’s on solid ground. “There could be mold or mildew in here. Try not to breathe through your mouth as much as possible.”
“You’ll be fine,” Max says when he’s in, and turns on the lights.
Alex realizes that they’re standing in what is probably an old Cold War bunker that Michael turned into a lair filled with alien artifacts. Without thinking, Alex runs a hand over the schematics lying on the table, his eyes roaming over the vials full of unknown liquids and the equations on the wall. At the end of the table, his eye catches the several pieces of what seems to be glass, the colours shifting ethereally in a familiar way. Alex takes a closer step, blinking rapidly as if he expects the image in front of him to disappear. It’s real, though, Alex knows this much. These are the same as the strange object he found in the wall of his cabin. He’s Michael’s missing piece.
“Here,” Max’s voice on the other side of the room cuts through the white noise in Alex’s head, brings him back to the present. Max has pulled down a map that shows all the military bases in Roswell and beyond, around New Mexico. Most of them Alex recognizes but the ones circled with a red X, those Alex has no recollection of their existence.
“Michael has been investigating top secrets and abandoned facilities to get whatever information he could find about our… species,” Max explains, wincing at the wording. “That’s the latest one he found,” Max points to the only circled location not to bear an X. “He refers to it as Trinity. I think this is where we’ll find him.”
Alex nods. “Ok. We need to find him tonight.”
“Alex, it’s almost two hours away, by the time we get there it’ll be dark and we don’t have a precise location,” Kyle points out but Alex shakes his head.
“It’s already been two days,” his voice wavers, almost pleading. He doesn’t say out loud what he’s actually thinking, a constant stream of he could’ve been badly injured or he might already be dead. He tries to push those thoughts to the back of his head but then all he thinks is I should have kissed him one more time and that’s almost worst. “We can’t waste any more time.”
Isobel sighs. “Alex is right. We need to get him out of there.” Liz nods along.
“Ok so what do we need?”
“I’ve got gear back home that should help us locate the base pretty easily,” Alex speaks up and everybody nods sternly, looking expectantly at him. It’s almost like being back in Iraq, Alex thinks. Combat search and rescue, the usual. Except the stakes have never been higher. “And Kyle, you should bring a med kit.”
Alex doesn’t miss the way Isobel slightly flinches. “Just in case,” he adds.
“Copy that.”
Alex nods. “Ok. Let’s all meet at my place at 19:00 sharp.”
Combat search and rescue. It’s been done a thousand times.
“Don’t be late.”
22:00
They’ve been walking through endless hallways for what feels like forever and Alex is growing more and more restless. Max, walking beside him, doesn’t seem to be doing much better. He’s clearly on edge, a little jumpy, but his eyes are focused as if determined that they’ll find Michael and get him out of there. Alex starts to have his doubts.
“What if this isn’t it?” Alex murmurs, letting his unease get the best of time. Max is unshakeable though as he shakes his head.
“No, this has to be it,” he says and Alex has to believe him.
They continue to make their way through the long, empty hallway in silence. Alex is not picking up any other heat signatures than his and Max’s. They go through yet another hallway. They let the silence build. Alex tries to imagine Michael in here, confined by these dark, damp walls and the thought alone is enough to ignite more anger inside of him, pushes him to keep looking.
The walkie-talkie buzzes in Max’s hand, and through the infrared goggles, Alex can see how it made Max jump. He doesn’t comment on it.
“Guys, we’re in Wing G,” Kyle’s voice rises through the static. “Isobel thinks she’s picking up something. Over.”
Alex nods to Max and Max raises the walkie-talkie to his mouth. “We’re on our way. Stay where you are. Over.”
Max and Alex give each other a look but don’t otherwise say anything as they quickly make their way through the maze of hallways to where Kyle, Liz and Isobel are waiting for them. When they get there, Isobel is sitting up against the wall, her eyes screwed shut with Kyle crouched next to her. Immediately, Max joins them on her other side, carefully smoothing the frown lines between Isobel’s eyebrows.
“What is it Iz?” he asks, squeezing her hand.
Isobel shakes her head but doesn’t open her eyes. “He’s here, I can feel it but,” she trails off, as if out of breath.
“Where is he?” Alex asks and he’s surprised at how calm his voice comes out, the complete opposite of what he’s feeling inside.
“He’s here but it’s,” she cuts herself off again, curling on herself as Max softly runs a hand through her hair. “It’s so faint, but it’s here.”
“Faint?” Liz asks but Isobel doesn’t have time to elaborate as Alex’s alarm on his tablet goes off, the piercing sound echoing through the mostly empty room. “Jesus Alex, what is that?”
Alex turns off the alarm but pinpoint the source of the trigger. “Sudden massive power surge,” he explains, still tapping on his tablet. At first glance, it seems like the power surge happened right where they are standing, leaving Alex confused. He looks up, scanning the room until he finds what he’s looking for. A subtle, indistinct line on the ground, disappearing under the dusty carpet pushed against the far wall. “Right beneath us.”
He crosses the room and pulls the carpet, revealing a concealed trap door leading into the basement.
“It’s gotta be there,” Isobel murmurs, still weak from exertion, beads of sweat rolling down her forehead.
“Kyle, Liz, stay up there and keep an eye on Isobel,” Alex says and Max waits for Liz to take his place next to his sister before standing up and following Alex down the creaky wooden stairs.
There is a constant beeping sound, but not enough lighting to distinguish anything and Alex and Max move quietly around the room. They reach a couple rows of bookshelves when a voice stops them straight in their tracks.
“A disgraced deputy and a crippled walk into a lab… it feels like there’s a joke in there somewhere.”
Alex’s blood runs cold, but still he stands up straight, his jaw clenched painfully, and makes his way to where his father is waiting for them. Sergeant Manes’ face splits into a mean, sharp smile, the way a shark would look at a fish before eating it alive. Alex’s focus isn’t on his father, though; Michael is there, lying on a gurney with a strap across his chest, looking pale but definitely alive.
Alex swallows around the lump in his throat as he tears his eyes away from Michael to look back at his dad. “What is this?”
“Oh, this?” he replies, pointing at an unconscious Michael and raising an eyebrow. “Just a little… experiment.”
Alex can feel Max trembling with rage next to him and he only hopes he doesn’t plan on doing something stupid and impulsive.
“What did you do to him?” Alex asks, his heart pounding in his ears but trying not to let the panic seep in his voice.
Sergeant Manes sighs. “Well, first, I had to calm him down. He’s a feisty one, that’s for sure. He loved to swing those bookshelves around, and while that was entertaining, it became a hazard to my work environment.” He stands up, opens a drawer and pulls out a little vial, drawing a sharp intake of breath out of Max. “Thankfully, your friend came up with this nifty little solution. I’m afraid our friend has become a little unresponsive, though,” he continues, walking over to Michael and cupping his face to move it from one side, then the other. “He’s not as much fun to play with now. But look,” he raises his head to fix his cold eyes on Max. “You brought me another friend. How thoughtful.”
It happens quickly. One second, Sergeant is taking a step towards them, his hand going at his waist to unholster his gun and smash it against Max’s temple. Max stumbles backward and Alex moves to come up between his father and Max. The next second, he’s sprawled out on the floor, Liz panting heavily as he lets a lead pipe fall out of her grip. “Your dad talks a lot,” she says to Alex and then goes straight to Max, falls to her knees next to him. “Are you ok?”
There’s a nasty cut on the side of Max’s head, blood falling down his cheek but he waves them away. “I’m fine,” he says, and then, “Michael?”
“He needs the antidote,” Liz tells Alex, not moving from Max’s side. “We need to get him to my lab.”
“We’re two hours away!” Alex says, his voice shaking, the pit in his stomach quickly bubbling up to the surface.
“Well, drive fast! We’ll put him with Kyle in the backseat so he can check on his vital and keep him alive,” Liz says, dragging Max up and letting him slump against her. “Michael’s gonna be alright Alex. Come on.”
Alex takes a deep breath as he unstraps Michael and takes him in his arms.
They’re gonna be alright. They just need to drive fast.
02:00
It’s the middle of the night when Michael finally wakes up in Roswell Community Medical. Alex is in a chair next to his bed, fully alert. He’s been like this for the past two hours, despite Liz and Kyle’s reassurances that everything was going to be fine.
“He won’t wake up right away because he’s drained of all energy,” Liz had explained when Alex had asked her why Michael was still unconscious after receiving the antidote. “You should rest too.”
Except Alex hadn’t been able to sleep, hadn’t been able to look away from Michael once they got him back and Liz knew this and convinced Kyle to let Alex stay despite visiting hours being over.
And now the sheets are rustling and Michael is slowly opening his eyes and Alex feels as though his heart is about to jump out of his throat.
“Alex?” Michael murmurs, his voice scratchy and Alex grabs the glass of water on Michael’s table.
“Here, drink this,” he says and lifts the plastic cup carefully to Michael’s lips, a wave of relief washing over him as he watches something as mundane as Michael drinking water. Once the cup is empty, Alex set it down back on the bedside table and turns back to Michael, not daring to take his eyes away from him for too long. “You really scared me.”
“I know,” Michael says, and even though he still looks too tired, Alex can also tell how sincere he is. “I’m sorry.”
Alex shakes his head. “Don’t apologize,” he says softly, hand coming up to stroke Michael’s cheek.
“I shouldn’t have kept it from you,” Michael continues and for a moment, Alex is confused until he remembers the bunker and the glowing pieces of glass.
“Everybody has secrets,” Alex says and for a second, an image of his own piece of alien glasses flashes behind his eyes. He should tell him, he’ll know eventually, but for now it can wait. “What I don’t understand is why you still sleep in your piece of junk when you have a beautiful post-war bunker right underneath.”
Michael grins, his eyes lidded and Alex thinks he should really let him go back to sleep. “Because I wouldn’t have a good excuse to shack up with you in your rustic cabin,” Michael says and Alex rolls his eyes, unable to ignore how fond he is of the man in front of him.
“Go back to sleep,” Alex tells him, moving his hand from his face to his curly hair. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”
“You know, I just don’t sleep as well anymore without you next to me,” Michael says, sheepish and Alex knows that Michael knows exactly what he is doing. It should probably be scary how well someone else knows his weak spots. It makes him vulnerable.
Alex finds that he doesn’t care much.
“Scoot over, you giant baby,” he says and Michael obliges with a low giggle that fills Alex’s chest with warmth. “You’d better not steal the blanket this time.”
Michael sighs as he relaxes against Alex, quickly drifting back to sleep. “Anything for you Alex.”
And Alex closes his eyes, pressed against Michael, letting himself relax for the first time in days. He doesn’t know if he says it out loud or if it’s just in his head, but Alex doesn’t care either way. “Anything for you Michael.”
22 notes
·
View notes
Text
Chapter 1 - Hang My Head, Drown My Fear, ‘Til You All Just Disappear...
Detroit Michigan, MGM Grand Hotel May 17 2017
(Chris is 52, Andi is 29)
CHRIS:"Fuck... why won't this fucking key work!" I growl as I stick the hotel key in the door and jiggle it as best I can but nothing is working.
"Chris, hey man... here I got it, " Martin Kirsten says as he catches up to me and sees me struggling with the hotel key. One thing about having a bodyguard is that they always seem to be right up your ass even when you least expect it. I step aside exhaling as he tries the key for himself. Amazingly he is able to open it. He turns and smiles at me gesturing for me to go in, I just roll my eyes and head inside my hotel room.
"Is there anything else you need Mr. Cornell?" He says as I head over to the small desk in the room, my laptop sitting on the desk waiting for me to answer some emails.
"Um... I could use something to take the edge off," I say as I sit down at the desk, flipping my curls out of my face and attempt to turn the laptop on.
He steps into the small washroom, and I hear him turn on the tap filling up a glass of water, then moving back over to me, pulling out a bottle and giving me two pills.
"Fuck, this fucking thing isn't starting up again," I say as I force stop the computer and try to start it back up again.
"Here, let me?" Martin says.
"Have at it," I say disgruntled gesturing to the MacBook as he hands me the pills and the glass of water. I take the pills from him swallow them as quick as I can and he hands me a couple of Oxycontin which I crush up on the desk and treat my nose to that sweet burn.
"It seems to be dead... here... I'll uh..." Martin trails off and finds the cord to the MacBook but still no response from it. I eventually just tell him to forget about it for now.
"Is there... anything else.. you need at all?" Martin clears his throat as I take the last sip of my glass of water.
"No, I'm good..." I sniff still slightly feeling anxious and irritated but it should subside in a bit.
"Ok," Martin says and makes his way towards the hotel room door.
"Goodnight Mr. Cornell,"
"G'night..." I throw him a half smile as he heads out the door. Once the door closes, I walk over to it and lock the deadbolt.
Feeling exhausted with the release of euphoria kicking in, I lean back in the chair a bit, flip my curls out of my face and run my palm over my cheeks, feeling the stubble on my face. Fuck, it's been a long night, and damn this ringing in my ears wont stop. Suddenly my iPhone starts ringing and I notice it's Vicky again. Fuck, I wish she'd just leave me alone. I let it ring for a few minutes and realize she won't give up so instead I pick up the phone.
"Hey... yea... no...what...? Yea... I told you I was sending you those papers. No, no I didn't... is this what you called earlier for? No I'm just... I'm just tired... no I didn't... What is that supposed to mean...? Wait what are you talking about? look, my lawyer is contacting your lawyer so there really is no need for you to keep calling at all... Vicky... No... hey don't hang up, Vicky? Vicky...! Fucking God damn it!"
I hang up the phone and toss it on the desk. Why does she always have to do that? Why does she always have to make me feel like this. I'm always fucking up. I'm never good enough. I know I'm the one who wants a divorce but she doesn't need to make me feel like this. I can't help it. I want out. I just wish it didn't take me so long to finally see her for who she really is.
I get up from the chair and head to the bathroom. I rummage around in the bathroom and find exactly what I'm looking for.
"You want a piece of me... well I'll fucking show you,"
This is it. I'm gonna do it this time. I'm done.
I take in a deep breath close my eyes and know that at any moment, I won't have to worry any more.
No more pain. No more burden. No more sadness. I will be free.
All of a sudden I hear a loud crash, then a scream that sounded like nothing I ever heard before coming from the next room over. I flick my eyes open, let go of the breath I was holding and look around the bathroom for a moment to realize what I was just about to do. I start to pant and feel shaky as I take the rubber exercise band off from around my neck. Then there was another loud noise in which I started to panic.
"What...? What the fuck?" I say to myself and throw the rubber exercise band on the floor and storm out of the bathroom.
I quickly make my way to the door, open it to see the hotel hallway dimly lit, and someone disappear around the corner. The door to the room next to mine was wide open but no lights on at all. I could feel my heart pounding as I peer in through the door and see a young girl laying curled up, face down on the floor completely naked. I look around the hallway and see no one, then look back and walk in the room to see if she was alright. As I approach her I could see that she was breathing, but she wasn't moving at all.
"Holy shit..." I say to myself and grab one of the hotel sheets from the bed and move over to her, crouching down beside her to cover her up. I didn't know what to do.
Should I wake her? I need to wake her to make sure she's ok.
"Hey... uh... miss?" I clear my throat and gently rub her shoulder. She groans and suddenly begins to cough, loud and hard.
"Jeezus, are you ok?" I ask worriedly.
I move my hand up to her face where her dark curls lay strewn across and push them away to reveal her young features. She turns her head as she tries to stop coughing, her brow furrowing as she attempts to catch her breath. Her eyes flick up to me, dark and slightly clouded as she looks like she's trying to make out just who she was looking at.
No fucking way...
"Hi.. you uh, you alright?" I ask again. I wasn't exactly sure what to say to her. Suddenly her eyes grow wide, gasping as she quickly sits up, shrinking away from me.
"Hey, no it's ok... I'm not going to hurt you," I say trying to re-assure her. She looks down at her self, her dark curls falling down around her shoulders and a few curls falling in her face, realizing she was completely naked in front of me and quickly grabs the bed sheet to pull it up to her bare chest.
She flips her curls out of her face and looks around the room, looking like she's trying to figure out where she was. She looks back down at herself examining her arms and legs almost looking like she's trying to make sure everything is intact and then flicks her eyes back to me.
She then lets go of the blanket she was holding and before I could stop her, she moves so quickly over to me and wraps her arms around my neck, embracing me in a hug.
I was so surprised at first that I just sat there for a moment but the feeling of her hugging me was something I didn't know I needed until it happened. I slowly move my arms and place my hands on her sides, slowly moving up her back, feeling her soft smooth skin under my rough calloused fingers. She continues to hold me and I can hear her softly crying as I move my arms to hold her tighter to me.
Holy Shit...
"Shhh... it's ok..." I say softly. She slowly pulls away from me, wiping her tears from her cheeks, but seemingly not caring that she no longer held the bed sheet to cover herself.
"I'm sorry," She half giggles, still wiping away her tears. I glance over her, and my heart begins to pound.
It's her... I can't believe it's her.
"It's ok..."I give her a half smile trying my best to not make it awkward for her, and she moves back to wrap her arms around me once more.
"Mr. Cornell...? Mr.Cornell - Oh, shit, I'm sorry..." Martin says when he walks into the room and sees me holding this young woman, clad in only a bed sheet in my arms.
"No, no man it's ok... what is it?" I ask as I turn and look at him, while she pulls away from me wiping her tears and wrapping the sheet around herself.
"Uh, Vicky called and wanted me to check on you. You weren't answering your phone so she panicked and called me to make sure you were ok... Are you... ok...?" Martin trails off awkwardly as I now see how this might look to him.
"Yea, yea, I'm ok... just tell her I was down at the bar or something... I don't know whatever you can come up with..." I say suddenly being brought back to the miserable reality that I so desperately wanted to be free from.
"Ok... um... do you need anything... maybe... at all?" He says glancing at her and then back to me.
"No man, I'm alright... but what time is it?" I ask.
"Just after midnight... um... 12:17am," Martin says glancing at his watch.
"Ok... uh... thank you," I say and he nods, giving me a half smile then leaving the room. I turn back to see her giving me those worried eyes again and I softly smile at her.
"My bodyguard... he's always up my ass...." I joke and she giggles, the sound making my heart flutter like it always has. It's been years, but it's her. I didn't think I'd ever see her again. She's so young but so gorgeous and I feel all those feelings bubbling up to the surface again. I've known her since I was 15 years old, she's still exactly the same and so incredibly beautiful.
She came back to me... She finally came back to me.
#soundgardenfanfiction#chriscornellfanfiction#grungefanfiction#alternate universe#sciencefiction#fantasy#time travel#my story#also on wattpad#time after time
19 notes
·
View notes
Note
I'm in dire need of a fluffy scene where Claire tries to read the lines on Jamie's palm and she ends up failing miserably.
Liv says: So this isn’t fluff, so to speak—but I hope it’s still fun! Set about 2-3 years before puir Frank the Mailman died in the Three Witches AU. No worries if you haven’t read it. This one stands alone! :)
Intersection: A Three Witches Story
Claire knew this was against coven rules. Like, totally outside the realm of acceptable witch behavior.
To dole out one’s magical talents—particularly at the county fair—was a bit manipulative (in regards to the customers), a bit sad (in regards to Claire). Still, she liked to think she was working for a kind of greater good. Ensuring the happiness of all mankind! And that was almost admirable, wasn’t it? Giving hopeful glimmers of adulthood to the stork-like teenagers, comforting the mopey singletons who trudged around, heads bent? She’d offered such assurances as:
“A new man will come into your life. A handsome one—with a huge prick! His name…I think his name begins with a ‘T’.” (This to the recent divorcee, clutching her naked ring finger like a burn. She hadn’t known what a “prick” was but was no less forthcoming with her money.)
Or this, to the bucktoothed 16-year old picking at his acne scars: “You’ll be the coolest person in college. Captain of the ultimate frisbee team!” He’d been disappointed at that one, enormous chompers clamping over his bottom lip. “Ho ho ho there, young man!” she’d said then. “Ultimate frisbee is cool where you’re going. The coolest cool.” And then he’d smiled, a patchwork of teeth and holes, which Claire hoped someone might find endearing. A nice and wholesome blind girl, maybe.
And then this, to the both of them: “For just $5 more, I can guarantee it! All you have to do is buy this magical rock and carry it with you wherever you go.” Nevermind that said magical rock was actually from Claire’s backyard. Nevermind that several of them were speckled in bird shit. Maybe some cicada guts.
But that was the thing about desperate Mortals. Metaphorically speaking, their whole lives were a succession of bird shit plops and smeared bug guts. So they didn’t even notice when it was covering their $5, not-magical rock.
“Yes please! I’ll take two!” the divorcee had cried, handing Claire a ten dollar bill. (Did she think this would bring two men into her life? Because that’s not how Claire’s bird shit rocks worked.)
“Um. Yeah. That’s sounds pretty sick,” said Beaver Bobby. “I’ll buy a rock.” He’d paid in all quarters but, hey, beggars can’t be choosers.
If her best friend Gillian were here, she would likely call this “an exploitative farce,” two terms she would’ve picked up from her beloved Word of the Day calendar.
“Claire,” she would hiss, “this is such an exploitative (Wednesday’s word) farce (last Friday’s word).” And then she’d pull out her Moleskin, update her word count with a self-satisfied tick. Her record, she claimed, was sixty words in a single morning, and Claire imagined a horrible plague descending upon their town, zombifying everyone until they could only grunt “verisimilitude.” Gillian thought an expanded vocabulary made her smarter but, really, it just increased her smart-assedness to a barely tolerable level.
Luckily, Gillian wasn’t here to offer one of her impressive synonyms because she’d bailed on their plans. If Claire could place money on it—and she couldn’t, with only $7 to her name, the very reason for this “manipulative/sad/exploitative farce”—Gillian was protesting GMO’s one county over. Perhaps arguing for the rights of beluga whales. Or, and this was the most likely, she was loitering at the Creamy Whip, breasts thrust at a very specific angle so that customers’ cones would find their shirts and not their mouths.
Psh! Now if that wasn’t an “exploitative farce” then Claire didn’t know what was. Gillian had mosquito bite boobs and a push-up bra more magical than her own powers.
But here was the thing: Claire wasn’t completely faking it. She wasn’t, so to speak, wearing a bra with three inches of padding. She could read palms, see futures unfurl, weblike, across strangers’ skins. Forks, divots, complex branches—each had such a distinct voice, that Claire had no doubt as to whether or not, say, Mr. Duncan over there would choke on a hot dog and die very suddenly. Or whether young Malva—that girl with the cotton candy and ruffled socks—would pop out a kid by the time she was 17. Claire, being a witch, knew precisely what would befall her clients by simply looking at their hands.
But of course, teenage pregnancy and death by synthetic meat logs weren’t exactly good for customer satisfaction. And so Claire would read Mr. Duncan’s palm, and she would see Mr. Duncan’s red face, gasping on a particularly troublesome bit of hot dog, but say he’d live until he was 85. A little white lie for a happy client. And a happy client meant A) money, B) a potential second visit, and thus C) more money. The $5 rocks weren’t scams, just for-profit business cards.
So she was lying, but not, y’know, totally lying. She’d deal with the prevention of hot dog-induced deaths later, when it better benefitted her monthly budget. (Because just as she wasn’t a complete liar, she wasn’t a complete asshole either.)
The fair had died down to a trickling of stragglers: mostly drunks, a couple of junkies who’d staggered into Nayawenne County for cheap-rate smack. Sighing, Claire stood to begin packing up, turned off the moody sound effects, gathered Gillian’s stack of Tarot cards (all hand-painted variations of herself: man Gillian; tree Gillian; Gillian with bigger-than-mosquito-bite boobs).
In the five hours since Claire had arrived, she’d made $120. Not a terrible turnout if one compared it to last year’s fair, when an angry swarm of Bible-thumpers had tossed her earnings into the funnel cake fryer. Sally Bain—or, as Claire called her, Sally Bane-of-Her-Existence—had rallied her troop of Jesus warriors and thrust crucifixes into Claire’s face, chanting things like, “Begone Satan!” and “This is God’s land!”
Which was kind of funny when you thought about it. If God wanted to claim ownership of Nayawenne—out of every other place in the universe—then he was pretty damn stupid.
Fortunately, Claire had suffered no further Bible-thumping, crucifix-wielding disturbances. Sally Bane-of-Her-Existence had fled town once she’d discovered her husband had fucked the organ player up in the ass. And in the church rectory, no less. (Such irony! Claire’d had absolutely nothing to do with it. Ha.)
It had been a windy afternoon, and Claire’s crystal ball was now coated in a fine layer of dust. Though it was only for decorative purposes—for customer satisfaction!—Claire decided she ought to give it a nice shine, make it look at least halfway capable of revealing visions of tomorrow.
Witch Tip #1: Unbeknownst to Mortals, crystal balls were like kisses from a true love. Which was to say, not powerful in the slightest. The most a kiss could do was give you mouth herpes. And, at its highest power, a crystal ball would fly across a room, break a window and the pinky toe of an irritating significant other. Not that Claire had experience with either situation. Certainly not the mouth herpes.
Claire ripped off a paper towel and went to grab the Windex, only to realize she’d left the Windex at home. Had, by a stroke of poor planning, only brought the herbal tonic she sometimes had to spritz into her eyes when they got a bit cloudy.
Witch Tip #2: Seeing the future had its drawbacks. Your eyes would get all crusty if you did it too much. As if your body was punishing you with goopy morning blindness. Honestly, it was pretty gross.
Well shit, Claire thought. She spat on her hand and rubbed the ball, hoping the couple beside “Whack-A-Democrat” wouldn’t think she was, like, doing something sexual to an inanimate object.
But whatever the couple thought, they were watching her, whispering behind their hands and giving her darting glances. Oh God, Claire thought, Bible-thumper radar blaring. Did Sally Bain send them? Did she organize a sabotage via prayer? Was it possible to raise an army of vengeful Baptists an entire state away? (Claire wouldn’t be surprised. She’d heard of stranger things. Done some of them herself. See also: anally-fucked organ player before he was anally fucked.)
But no, the couple wasn’t looking at Claire with the fury of God in their eyes—but fascination. The woman, a petite but sturdy thing, was shoving her partner in Claire’s direction. Making a not-so-obvious pointing gesture, like, Her. Her! that he seemed somewhat reluctant to obey. Still, he did, and soon he was striding towards Claire, long legs stomping up clouds of dirt dust, red hair matching the synthetic blood of a “whacked” Bill Clinton.
“Are you…” the man began, looking nervously over his shoulder. The woman pursed her lips, arched her brow like, Do it, you pussy. He shoved his hands in his pockets, defeated. “Are ye done for the day, lass?”
“I was just about to pack up, but I’ve time for another reading if you’re interested.”
“Aye…” he said, completely unconvincing. “Aye, I suppose I’m interested.”
“Well then, take a seat, Mr…?”
“Fraser. Jamie.”
He was huge. Like, mega huge. Like, he could probably eat her. He was also ridiculously attractive, which meant that if he did eat her, Claire would ask him to do it again. She most definitely would not mind being inside his mouth.
“So what’s it going to be this evening, Jamie? Tarot? Crystal ball? A pal—”
“My sister says as I should have ye read my palm.”
“Oh! Splendid. Is that your sister back there?”
“Aye, that’s Jenny.” Again, he looked over his shoulder at the woman, her eyes unblinking despite the tidal wave of dust. As if to explain her behavior, he said, “We just moved here from Scotland. Only been in Nayawenne County for a few weeks now.”
“Dear me,” Claire replied, and then cringed. Attractive, mega huge men made her nervous—and sometimes her nerves made her sound like a 50’s housewife. It was a problem, she now realized, she ought to fix. “I mean, like,” she continued, “bloody hell. That’s a long way.”
“Family orders.” He shrugged. “But yer not so close to home yourself. British, by your accent.”
Claire nodded. “I’ve been here for a while now. Packed my bags when I was 20 and moved for…” She floundered for a plausible explanation. “Well. A guy.”
This, like Claire’s palm reading, was not a total lie. She had, indeed, come to America for a man: Ray, one of her classmates, had sought her input on a new enchantment in ‘04. A healing spell—Claire’s specialty —prepared from some rare fungi found in the hills of Appalachia. But Claire had about as many romantic feelings for Ray as she would a toad. Too many all-nighters spent with his warty nose and her (she liked the think) perfectly attractive nose stuck in the same spell book.
She’d stayed, though, after that. Anything—even bumfuck Ohio—was better than going back to England, where every witch wanted to hex her…
But that was a story for another time.
This story, right here, continued with a ripple of concern across Jamie’s face. Claire regarded him, wary, but glad Gillian wasn’t here to ruin their conversation with Words of the Day, beluga whales, or push-up bras. Jamie was, at the moment, only hers.
“He’s out of the picture now,” she said. “The guy, that is.”
“Sorry to hear that. I’m just out of a break-up myself. One of the reasons I was none so unhappy about leaving Scotland.”
“Oh, well…” She looked down as if expecting two beverages to materialize, waiting to be held aloft. Instead, she grabbed her bottle of eye tonic. Lamely spritzed it into the air. “Here’s to being single then!”
“Aye, to being single,” he said, the mist falling slowly between them. Claire had never heard a proper guffaw before, but the sound that came from Jamie’s mouth was what she’d always imagined a guffaw to be. Warm, kinda strange, totally hot.
“So,” she began, getting back on track. “You said your sister put you up to this? Any specific reason for that?”
“Dinna ken,” Jamie replied, smiling a little beneath his (also) perfectly attractive nose. “I dinna question Jenny when she tells me to do something. She’s into this kind of…” He looked at the crystal ball, the cards, the rather tasteless turban sitting lopsided on Claire’s head. “Weel, whatever you call this.”
“How wonderful,” Claire said, giving Jenny another once-over. Adorable, really, when Mortals got caught up in the craft. One minute they were watching Oprah, swallowing her New Age-y drivel, and the next thing they thought they were gods. Practicing divinations, performing séances in the streets with Glade candles and getting hit by Aramark trucks. (She’d read about it in the paper once.)
“Well, I suppose we should get on with it then. Will you open your hand for me? Palm up, please.”
Jamie laid his hand on the table. It, like the rest of him, was huge.
The last man Claire went out with had also had large hands. He’d taken her to the theater and—there was really no other description for it—had swallowed her with his bulk. Sucked her face, handled her boobs like a hungry squirrel might stockpile acorns. She could still taste his buttery-saltiness on her tongue, the little bit of crunched kernel that had slid from between his teeth to the back of her throat. She’d coughed, choking, and when he’d reached to pat her back, he’d decided to take a handful of her tit instead. Just held onto it, leech-like, while the fugitive kernel slowly killed her. (Luckily, his other hand—the one not squeezing her boob—handed her the Diet Coke, and she survived.)
Jamie wouldn’t do that, she thought. His big and gentle hand would pat her back first, then return, lightly graze her tit as if by accident. It would, quite possibly, be the most artful tit-graze in all of human history.
And sitting here, trying to read Jamie’s palm, Claire realized she wanted his hand, right there, quite badly. To have his thumb teasing her nipple through her shirt, maybe traveling a bit lower. Slipping beneath the elastic waistband of her panties, to her crotch, which Louise at Louise’s would’ve waxed just for the occasion. The noises she would make would disturb the other viewers, but Jamie, with those big and gentle hands, would not muffle them.
“D’ye see anything interesting?” Jamie asked now, and the image of his hand on her tit, while fingering her in the 13th row of the Regal Cinema, vanished. Was promptly replaced by worry.
“Well, it’s funny, really…”
The true answer was: nope, nada. Nothing. Not even a flicker of Jamie wrapped around a toilet bowl, vomiting bad cheeseburger on a Saturday night. Jamie Fraser’s palm was like one of those ancient texts she and Ray had pored over, all bizarre hieroglyphs and nonsensical syntaxes. But while they had managed a crude translation, this was something entirely different. Jamie Fraser’s palm, Claire knew, would never reveal its secrets—no matter how hard she tried.
Which was why Claire swooned a little bit, and why Jamie had to reach over to keep her from toppling to the ground. His hand, though it did not brush against that sacred spot of her breast, did find the small of her back, stayed there a touch too long. Through her fog of shock, Claire thought: There’s some sort of time etiquette for this kind of thing, right? A three-second max before it veers from a purely platonic gesture into something kinda sexual?
“That bad was it?” Jamie said, smirking.
“Sorry,” Claire replied, leaning into him. She lingered over his face but found no indication that he was feeling the same way, or even thinking, Blimey! That just veered from a purely platonic gesture into some thing kind of sexual!
“Fine. I’m fine. Peachy keen as they say!” Claire cleared her throat to keep her voice from cracking. “It’s just—your hand is a bit unusual is all. I’ve not seen anything like it.”
“Is ‘unusual’ a good thing or a bad thing?”
Well, Claire thought, that depended on what exactly was being called “unusual”. Because what she was feeling was really fucking unusual, and what she was feeling was a bone-deep, stomach-fluttering ache. Like Cupid had shot his arrow straight up her ass, punctured all her gory insides and skewered her heart like a shish kebab.
“I dunno, really. I guess it means—”
“I’m special?”
“You could say that.” Was she blushing? She was blushing. “Mr. Fraser…”
“Jamie.”
“Right. Jamie. I’m afraid—God, this is a little embarrassing—I can’t actually read your palm. There’s nothing there.” She slid the fiver across the table, feeling too frazzled to consider spinning one of her lies. “These things happen from time to time. I’m, uh, probably just tired. But you can have this back. I won’t take your money.”
“‘Nothing,’ ye said? You didn’t see a thing?”
“Afraid so. Nothing to worry about though. It’s not necessarily a bad omen…It’s—it’s hard to explain.”
For a man being given a very sincere and full refund, Jamie’s face was abnormally pale. The color had drained from his cheeks, and his hands—so incapable of leech-like grabs!—began to tremble. Two crooked fingers beat a nervous rhythm into his pant leg, and he quickly got to his feet.
“Keep the money, lass,” he said, “You can pay me back later.” And if he wasn’t in such a rush, Claire would’ve been able to confirm that she had, in fact, heard him say, “I’ll see you soon, Claire.” That her name wasn’t a tacked-on politeness, but something he’d said with the utmost tenderness.
And if Claire had been an upstanding member of the Coven Coalition— a studious practitioner of spells—she would’ve been able to hear Jenny and Jamie’s conversation from 50 feet away. Instead, she was forced to define Jenny’s smug whoop as if it were Gillian’s Word of the Day.
Jenny’s Smug Whoop (n):
1) a victory celebration, i.e. I told ye so, did I no’?!
2) proof of a mutual understanding of Witch Tip #3, i.e. A witch cannot see her own future (yet another palm-reading glitch). If, for example, Claire read a client’s palm, and her reading was filled with blips of blankness, then she had likely stumbled upon a deep intersection. Or, rather: a point in time where her future and the client’s were so intertwined—beyond family, beyond friendship—that Claire could not see the specific event due to her involvement and the aforementioned glitch.
And so there was one reason—one very momentous reason—that Claire could not read Jamie Fraser’s palm. He had a future, no doubt about it, but every second was marked by a certain curly-haired, British witch. (Refer to: a deep, ongoing intersection.) She, Claire Beauchamp—who was not at all an upstanding member of the Coven Coalition but who would certainly enjoy having those big, gentle hands in her underwear for the rest of her days—was Jamie Fraser’s future. You could, if you were of the romantic persuasion, even say they were soul mates.
The discovery of one’s soul mate has adverse effects on one’s respiratory system, and so Claire found it hard to breathe. She scrambled through her purse, found her flask, and took a hearty pull.
“I take it yer off duty, then?” said an unfamiliar voice. “Claire, is it?”
Claire looked up to find Jenny Fraser, that same smug wash of victory tugging at her eyes.
“Aye, but of course it is. I ken that already.” Jenny cleared her throat, expanded her chest like a sermonizing Sally Bain. “You’re Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp, born October 20th, 1989 in Oxford, England. Parents, deceased—verra sorry for yer loss, by the way—and an uncle, missing in action. Yer also currently broke, by the looks of it, which is why yer selling wee pebbles covered in shite.”
Claire, utterly speechless, simply said, “Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ,” through a mouthful of gin.
“Christ, to be sure. Sadly, Mr. FDR is a bit worse for wear. Got a proper skelping back there.”
Claire looked around wildly and found Jamie watching them—albeit, still visibly flustered—by the freshly bludgeoned Roosevelt.
“Did the Coalition send you?” she asked, frantic. “Am I in trouble? Because…Look! I’ll stop selling the bird shit rocks, all right? Just please don’t report me.”
Jenny shook her head, laughing.
“Nay, it’s nothing like that. It’s only—weel, it appears you’ve just confirmed something I’ve suspected for some time now. About you and my brother.”
Witch Tip #4: Magical beings—witches, wizards, fairies, vampires, etc. etc.—are everywhere. The old woman throwing Reese’s Pieces at the ducks could very well be a shapeshifter. Your random client at the county fair could have a witch for a sister.
“If you’re referring to how I couldn’t read Jamie’s palm, then yeah, I—”
But Jenny interrupted, happily offered her hand for shake.
“I’d say that settles it,” she said. “If yer going to make a lovesick fool of my brother, then I think we should be friends, aye?”
#kaitrionabalfe#apologies for the profanity#three witches au#;mod liv#featuring: geillis#featuring: jenny#how many times have i written jamie and claire's first meeting?#TOO MANY FAR TOO MANY
147 notes
·
View notes
Last Seen Blogs
zefriyanangga
SANGAT TERJANGKAU, INILAH Biaya Pembuatan Lapangan Futsal
hindisamacharin
Hindi Samachar
judginghoya
Baby U
peach-belly
Peach
urban-demons
Fyriee