Another Version of the Truth
How long had it been since he was last in Egypt? Years, at least. He had taken Knell there once, to see what was left of the hieroglyphs and pyramids. Surprisingly the Earl had left the great monuments untouched; he felt no need to destroy the temples and architectural triumphs of mankind. No, the great sandstone structures had fallen prey not to the Earl or to time but to the descendants of the very people who had constructed them. Used as shelter from akuma, many had been carved out from the bottom up in the hopes of constructing safer places to live. The gold they once held had long since been pilfered, and the ancient knowledge their walls contained had been worn away by human hands and exposure to the elements.
It wasn't just Giza, though. Cairo, Thebes, Rosetta, Tanta, Samalut... Most were abandoned now, the simple brick houses that lined the streets quickly destroyed by roving akuma and the merciless sandstorms that buffeted the area. Now the flooding of the Nile went untracked; its banks no longer used to plant and harvest crops. Papyrus reeds grew unused, and what records the temples had kept were destroyed by now.
There was something harrowing about returning to Egypt alone. When he had brought Knell with, it had been a sort of pilgrimage, a "return" to their roots. The Bookman Clan had begun here, after all, three thousand years ago. Whether it grew out of a cult of Thoth, a service to a Pharaoh, or some other source, ironically no one could remember. He had taught her this and shown her the sites still associated with their history; taught her how to belong to something bigger than herself.
Now he was here alone, nearly fifty and feeling older than he ever had. With Knell, he could pretend there was still hope. He could go through the same motions his mentor had, passing on the knowledge and skills she would need in order to succeed as a Bookman and do the same for her apprentice. But now he was alone with his thoughts and his past and the past of all his predecessors; forced to face who he was in the clan and everything he had taught and done and felt.
He had a heart now.
...He always had.
Walking through the shadowed ruins in Abydos he fancied, for just a moment, that he could hear the old panda's disapproving scoff. You had one too, old man. He was talking to phantoms.
He ran his hand across the cool, rough sandstone wall and watched the dust cloud up beneath his fingertips before the wall stopped abruptly. The desert sun rained through the lose white cloth covering his head, keeping his fragile white skin from burning too horribly. There were, occasionally, disadvantages to being a redhead. Through the gaping tear in the wall he could see the remainder of the city, bright and dusty and abandoned as it had been when he'd visited before.
After a long moment, Bookman turned from the view and continued walking.
It wasn't just Giza, though. Cairo, Thebes, Rosetta, Tanta, Samalut... Most were abandoned now, the simple brick houses that lined the streets quickly destroyed by roving akuma and the merciless sandstorms that buffeted the area. Now the flooding of the Nile went untracked; its banks no longer used to plant and harvest crops. Papyrus reeds grew unused, and what records the temples had kept were destroyed by now.
There was something harrowing about returning to Egypt alone. When he had brought Knell with, it had been a sort of pilgrimage, a "return" to their roots. The Bookman Clan had begun here, after all, three thousand years ago. Whether it grew out of a cult of Thoth, a service to a Pharaoh, or some other source, ironically no one could remember. He had taught her this and shown her the sites still associated with their history; taught her how to belong to something bigger than herself.
Now he was here alone, nearly fifty and feeling older than he ever had. With Knell, he could pretend there was still hope. He could go through the same motions his mentor had, passing on the knowledge and skills she would need in order to succeed as a Bookman and do the same for her apprentice. But now he was alone with his thoughts and his past and the past of all his predecessors; forced to face who he was in the clan and everything he had taught and done and felt.
He had a heart now.
...He always had.
Walking through the shadowed ruins in Abydos he fancied, for just a moment, that he could hear the old panda's disapproving scoff. You had one too, old man. He was talking to phantoms.
He ran his hand across the cool, rough sandstone wall and watched the dust cloud up beneath his fingertips before the wall stopped abruptly. The desert sun rained through the lose white cloth covering his head, keeping his fragile white skin from burning too horribly. There were, occasionally, disadvantages to being a redhead. Through the gaping tear in the wall he could see the remainder of the city, bright and dusty and abandoned as it had been when he'd visited before.
After a long moment, Bookman turned from the view and continued walking.