Fic: Path of Kham-sin.
Title: Path of Kham-sin.
Rating: PG 13
Pairings: Set/Nephthys
Disclaimer: I did not create this mythology, that was a well before my time.
WARNINGS: None.
Summary: A conversation about life, death and the desert.
Path of Kham-sin
The sandstorm comes upon the caravan less than an hour before the Chariot of Ra sank into the underworld. Long, gritty brown fingers of wind flow down nearby rock hills, tearing into the unprotected travelers, biting exposed skin of cheek and forehead. They try to run, but with the storm surrounding them till it blocks the horizon, there is no-where to go. Many hunker down, long desert robes pulled tight around children to keep out the scarring sand, others lie prostrate, only a pocket of air created by the forearm to provide life for many long minutes.
It is those less familiar with sand traveling, those with more ego than wisdom who are claimed by the storm. Running into the bitter cloud of razor cuts ends swiftly in confusion and bloodied wounds. If the face isn’t protected, choking death soon follows.
By the time the air clears, dusk is seeping purple haze onto the land and near half the caravan is lost. Some infants without air to breath, many elderly too slow under protective wraps and the foolish, un-recovered beneath new unblemished dunes. Unable to travel further while injuries are tended, the caravan makes a marginal camp. Simple meal of grain paste and dry fruit then the songs begin.
Mostly female, occasional male, voices rise into the suddenly peaceful night calling for benevolence from the unseen.
*****
Less than a league away, atop the rocky hill, a being greater than man watches the destruction below. Unbothered by the vicious dust storm, indeed he had reveled in it, Setekh now stands, powerful arms crossed over his chest and listens to the mourning cries of a dozen voices. If his unusual visage could smile, there might be a smirk across the equine-like features.
“You are cruel.”
Set doesn’t turn from his view of the devastated caravan, even though the words are addressed to him. Her lilting voice, hushed in the evening air holds pure contempt, tinged with sadness.
He knows full well the sadness is not for him.
“Yes.” His agreement prompts a small sigh of frustration from the woman, his long ears flicker slightly as she walks across the sand to linger at his side. From the corner of his eyes Set absorbs the sight of her. Rich midnight hair that only the most priceless of Pharaoh’s wigs could hope to imitate, coal dark eyes in an aristocratic, lovely face. Lapis trimmed gossamer gown barely clothing long limbs of deep, golden skin and brilliant blue-green feather wings, falling like water from her shoulder blades.
She had come to this rocky hill not for conversation with him, but because the songs below are for her. For Nephthys. They call to their lady of compassion, the guardian of death that she might prepare their fallen loved ones for the underworld. And because she is Nephthys, sister of Isis and protector of the dead, she answered their call.
“So many lost,” the censure in her voice digs at him, but Set does not flinch. “You brought down that storm for your own pleasure. For no other gain than to watch them panic and flee. You are cruel my Husband.”
He snorts through the elongated snout his form displays and lifts a marble pale finger towards the north. With preternatural sight no human can match, she follows the gesture and spies the dim oil-fueled lights of an oasis campsite.
“For nine hours the signs were clear,” he doesn’t raise his voice beyond a murmur, she could read his thoughts if he allowed her, but they agreed many centuries ago to permit each other that privacy. For their sanity if nothing else. The curling lilt in her words non-existent in his unusual voice, its exotic cadence both disconcerting and attractive in its strangeness. “Many hundreds read the warning and stayed by the oasis. They,” the pale hand forms a dismissive flare of fingers at the battered encampment below, “thought they could outrun a desert and arrive at the market a day earlier than their rivals. They dared me Sister-Wife, so I called their dare and thus…they loose.”
Lips tightening, Nephthys acknowledges his point with a grudging nod, satin hair slipping forwards over her shoulder. Once he would have ventured to comb it back with his fingers. But not for many years.
She steps closer to the rocky edge of the mound on which they stand and raises her arms and wings to the balmy night air. Set feels the currents of her power swirl towards the woman before him and cannot quell, has never been able to do so, a rise of admiration at the strength she wields.
Often seen as the forgotten sibling to her bright and clever sister Isis and their staunch, noble bother, Nephthys displays her glory not in acts of miraculous benevolence but in unknown compassion and care. Her affection for the people of the desert is unquestioned and the seriousness with which she conducts her duties unparalleled.
As her power flows into the broken hearts below and guides the spirits of the dead towards the barge of the underworld, the cries of grief ease and the songs of mourning soon soften to an end. He should remain silent in the poignancy of the silence she has created. But he is Set after all and certainly no lord of peace.
“Ahh, how they love you my sister.” It’s snide and petty, but it takes her attention from the suffering on the sand.
“And how they hate you my brother.” The verbal shot is obvious, but he takes the jab for the truth that it is.
“But they respect our beautiful desert Nephthys.” He strolls closer to her, knowing how his form irritates and sends her calm off balance. “They do not take it lightly or try to bend it to their will. They may indeed hate me, the children of this land, but they fear and respect me even more. You will not see another caravan be so dismissive of my warnings for many months to come.”
Once again he is right and how she hates it. The tension in her back a sign of his success in annoying her.
Nephthys turns suddenly, wings a swirl of colour in the darkness. Her face hard, voice like the metal from beneath the sand.
“This wasn’t just a statement of respect Set. You have been deliberately harming the people of these tribes for years. We have seen the pattern in the spirits of those in the barge and we notice that you aren’t punishing the disrespect of the Dendaren or Nubtanite…your favorites.”
“We?” It is a ridiculous response. Set knows exactly to whom she refers, but he wants her to say it, to confirm finally what his whole divine family knows. Exactly where Nephthys’ loyalties lie.
She turns her face away; the innate honesty in her divine soul still pricks her for her choices. But Nephthys, of all their quartet, is the one to suffer her conscience the most. Irony of their immortal lives that it the soft-hearted youngest who is put to the test so often, between adored, beloved sister and true-bonded husband.
“You are a cunning creature Husband, none of us can rival you in that power,” Nephthys ignores his query to reveal her siblings names, “but we are not so touched by Ra’s sun as you might hope. Our sister watches every move you make, as does our brother.” It’s a veiled threat, or a warning. Even after centuries of marriage he cannot read her when she chooses to hide her emotions.
A threat maybe, but one he easily ignores. Cunning is a rightful title for Set, he will not challenge his bother and sister while they are united on the throne of their realm. Not overtly.
“And you Wife?” He toys with his name for her as she does, one moment emphasizing their marriage, another their family bond. “Do you watch every move I make?” Once again he closes the gap between them, this time lowering his arms to trail fingers across her fine, linen gown. “I thought I was barred from your presence some decades ago. Have you changed your mind?”
Her breath hisses in between small white teeth at his actions and the blatant sexuality he allows to flow between them. There is another power his siblings cannot rival him for, although his choices of target are a very select group. But Nephthys of all his conquests has stronger resistance than any other. She holds still at his delicate touch, unresponsive and cold.
“I watch Brother, what you have become,” there is some amount of despair in her words and Set stops the gentle movement of his fingers at the tone. Raising her own hand, Nephthy rests the palm on his animal countenance, cheekbone strange and inhuman under her hand. “These creatures are not understood and feared, yet you have taken them into your very body. You know what it means to us that your power is used so ruthlessly on the desert people. Deliberate in your cruelty, you plot and plan all the time now Husband. What have you become, what do I look upon?”
Tossing his equine head back from her sweet touch, he reaches into the core of his power and lets his form become fluid, to flow into the crocodile, the hippopotamus, the mule and the scorpion, before becoming human once again. This time with the face he was born with, the face of her brother. Marble pale, auburn-red hair brushing his shoulder-blades, tall and strongly built like no desert dweller.
It is the face and body of the man she married, of the brother she once clung to, the being she loved before he become something twisted that could achieve his ends…whatever they were.
“Your dshr-haired lover Nephthys? Your foreign born bastard who could never have come from Nut’s sacred womb?” The sneer on the handsome face is horrible in that he is still beautiful while reeking of contempt and hate. “Would you prefer to look on this?”
He gives her no time to answer, tangling strong fingers in her midnight hair and pulling her face to his for a bruising, powerful melding of lips. Nephthys doesn’t fight him, instead curling close, hands brushing the night-cool skin of his bared torso, catching on the warm gold of his jewelry. His anger cools somewhat by her free-given passion, the kiss ends gently, bodies close, human faces now inches apart.
“I miss my brother, my husband Setehk.” Her words are mere puffs of breath on his lips. “Yes, I want my family united again. I want you to join us at Heliopolis, to stand at our brother’s side and to welcome you into my bed.”
For a moment she thinks he might agree, might repair the damage and ask for forgiveness for his actions.
But looking into her lover’s face, Nephthys forgets exactly whom she is talking to. That Set, Setekh is not only the lord of the desert and master of storms…he is also chaos and pride incarnate.
Pushed back by his powerful arms, she almost stumbles, her unearthly grace gone in the presence of her husband.
“You mean fawn at our brother’s feet? No.” The white skinned human face is gone, replaced by that of a myriad animal that has no name, only the magnificent red hair remains. Voice mean and prideful, Set continues, “He does not deserve his throne or the crown he wears, I will not pretend otherwise.” As she gathers her composure he looks on from behind the mask of his face. “But thank you Sister-Wife, now I know where your loyalties lie…where they always have.”
He turns back to the rocky drop and looks down on the quiet caravan. White-shrouded forms the only indication of his wrath. Set considers killing them all, drawing the fluid from their bodies, leaving desiccated remains a parting gift for his estranged wife.
“My loyalty has been with our sister since she held my hand as I walked my first step, I have never said otherwise.” Nephthys sounds almost mortal in her weariness. Maybe he won’t kill them for her after all.
“It wasn’t loyalty I was offering Husband.”
The moment is caught by time and frozen.
Set does not move.
He feels her power coil within her and braces slightly in case she means to attack, but then…nothing. Only the swoop of wings and a grief-filled cry as a falcon, wing tips coloured lapis blue, ascends into the night sky.
The sandstorm is gone. It’s passion and destruction over until more foolish desert-walkers believe they can defy Setekh of the Red Sands.
Her voice was sweet, a touch of something he had not sampled in many years. But it was an indulgence that could not, ultimately, be allowed. A fair offer, a chance at redemption for one who perhaps did not deserve it and was thus rejected for stronger reasons, for another purpose.
A purpose greater than even the Gods of Egypt might understand.
A legend to come.