Ronin Warriors Fan Fiction ❯ The Way of the Jackal ❯ Beginnings ( Prologue )
[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]
By: Faia Saiyajin 
Anime/Manga: Ronin Warriors Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Drama / Comedy / Adventure / Action / Occult | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 01.08.2003 | Pages: 1 | Words: 3.1K | Visits: 258 | Status: Completed
Anime/Manga: Ronin Warriors Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Drama / Comedy / Adventure / Action / Occult | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 01.08.2003 | Pages: 1 | Words: 3.1K | Visits: 258 | Status: Completed
Title: The Way of the Jackal
Author: Faia Saiyajin
Series: Ronin Warriors
---
The sun shimmered, obscenely hot, behind the jagged fangs of mountains to the east. The gathering of men marching away from it didn't notice the baking rays, not even breaking a sweat as they continued on.
The men, members of a hunting party, were naked from the waist up, wearing only short linen skirts, and broad belts that held their sheathed bronze swords and quivers of arrows. Their sandaled feet seemed to dance over the rocky soil, as they lifted their longbows in celebration. Those that weren't walking rode white horses with proudly arched necks, a fine breed of Arabians. The horses were decorated, their steps high, mirroring the spirits of the men on their backs, that carried long spears, each as tall as himself, tipped with a foot-long bronze blade. Two of the men on horseback carried a heavy litter, bearing the carcass of a large lion, his shaggy black mane and yellow eyes having lost their fear-stirring fire.
Of the three dozen men, one dozen walked, another dozen rode. That left 12 more, who rode in the front of the caravan, on small chariots, pulled by matching roan stallions. Gilded and worked as they were, the crafts were light, and meant for speed. Spears and half-empty quivers of arrows jostled and twitched on the floorboards. The men in the chariots whooped and whistled, the true reason the rest of the party was so happy.
"Bak-her!! Bak-her!!" The triumphant cries of victory made the two men in the front chariot smile, although neither turned to acknowledge it.
"You already have the support of the people, my young Prince." The one on the left said. He held the reins in hands that were callused, trained to the ways of the sword. Tanned from long hours in the sun, and as tough as old leather, the Guard Captain of the Pharaoh's Armies smiled, though he did not look down at his companion. He was young, the youngest man to ever reach the esteemed title of Guard Captain, but also undeniably old. Nearly 25, and well into his prime, by Egyptian standards. He wore the typical skirt and belt of all men, but the gold gauntlets on his forearms and the heavy necklace that rested against his broad chest told of his position. The gauntlets were plain, save for a single wolf face in the center. Their mouths were open, baring teeth that had been obviously exaggerated by the crafter's hand. Bright sapphire eyes glittered in their gold faces. Eyes not unlike the man who wore them. Kale had seen one of the beasts, and lived to tell about it. It was a wonder that with all the battles Kale had seen, he'd had time to be the boyhood friend of the Prince, sharing in the revels. Teasing the High Priests, mooning after the girls, chariot-racing… That was all just memory, now. The scars that marked the Guard Captain's body were evidence of his rank and skill. Rumors circled that the Gods had forgotten about Kale, and those that did not smiled upon him with favor. Kale should have been dead long ago. He'd escaped one demise after another, with only a scar, and a new story to tell those who were eager to listen - which of course was anyone with hearing.
He'd earned the scar he was most famous for in his first encounter with a wolf. He and his army had sailed north to Babylon, to carry the favor of Pharaoh. He'd gone ahead to scout the trail, when a large wolf lunged for him, driven to the lunatic stunt by madness and desperate hunger . The way in which the story was retold made it seem fantastic, blown out of proportion during the feast signaling their return. It would have been dismissed as the drunken ramblings of warriors, had Kale not brought back proof. The body of the wolf that nearly cost him his sight, and the scar. The wolf, all black and gray, high as his waist, sat stuffed in Kale's apartments, poised for the strike, fangs bared, glass eyes gleaming from behind the snarl. The scar that he carried with him was the most prominent of the numerous ones on his muscled body. It emerged from Kale's wild midnight blue hair, coursing straight down his left cheek, some how miraculously skipping over his eye. It stopped just at his nose, but not before a smaller scar crossed it, right below his eye.
"As I had hoped, Lord Kale. A Pharaoh must have people who believe in him. If not, his kingdom will crumble, no matter how strong the stones that build it."
"Spoken wisely, Prince." Kale did not take his eyes from the path ahead, but he smiled his winter-white smile, knowing that he was being watched. "But you must remember that you are not yet Pharaoh."
"I know, Kale. But if I am to live up to the grand expectations everyone seems to have of me…" The Prince looked obviously embarrassed, and looked at his hands as they grasped the high front of the chariot. Rings of gold and precious stones decorated his fingers, followed by gauntlets not unlike Kale's, only these were marked with jackals instead of wolves. He scowled, feeling the tug in his hair as a small braid slipped over his shoulder, weighed down with long bone beads.
Shoving the beaded strand back into place irritably, he screwed up his face, looking contemptuously at the fringe of hair that touched his eyebrows. Despite his title as Crown Prince, he did not wear the typical braid of a Pharaoh-to-be, the left side of his hair gathered into a tight plait, the rest of his head shaved bald. Perhaps it had to do with the color of his locks. It seemed to make the High Priests and other Lords bow with their faces almost touching the floor. Even the most uneducated commoner would stare openly, in a mixture amazement, awe, and fear. His mother had black hair. His father too. So why was his hair the color of sunset? At the moment of his birth, he was born with this accursed red hair of his, and green eyes. He never knew the comforts of normalcy, what with his father --Great Pharaoh Nefer-- so swelled with pride and joy that he nearly burst, and his mother doting over him like he was the greatest gift to mankind. Then there were the Priests. Mumbling about Prophecies and Ways, studying him constantly, his learning ability, his aptitude with the sword, every nitpicking little detail. They were as irritating as the mosquitoes that came when the Nile flooded its banks every year, and left everything sopping wet, rife with stinging insects. At least that scourge was only once a year. He had to endure the Priests constantly.
If it weren't Dais, he would have surely lost his temper more than once with the High Priests. With one look of his blue eye --no one knew how the other had been lost-- he could send anyone running for cover. There were stories about him, too. That he was a Warlock, and had offered his eye to Ra in exchange for mystical powers. Dais paid no heed to the rumors, but he was a Ra man, serving the Sun God faithfully. Perhaps it was a kinship between mortal and God, both of them having lost a physical part of them, but gaining something better from it. Ra's left eye was the moon, and his right the sun. If he did indeed share a bond with Ra, then Dais' left eye was the thing of nightmares, stories about it told to disobedient children to keep them in line. His right eye was no better, sparkling, always hiding something. Dais was no older than Kale, but he too had ascended to an exalted status despite his age. His snowy white hair was another thing of legend, always worn loose about his shoulders. Women who were brave enough swooned over him. Dais took it all in stride, wearing his trademark half-smile, when he showed any emotion at all. 'The Gods do with men as they see fit.', he had a habit of saying.
To top off the strange company the Prince kept, there was Sekhmet. Despite being bearing a female name --a Goddess' name, no less!, Sekhmet was quite possibly the most feared man in all of Egypt. If he was indeed a man, that is. With his wiry green hair, his unnerving eyes, toothy smile, and ever-pale skin, Sehkmet was thought to be a Naga, a fierce serpent demon. He looked the part, too. If it weren't for the fact that he was Pharaoh's adopted son and the Prince's brother-friend, the people would have sent the young boy into the desert the instant they saw him, or killed him on the spot.
He'd been named after Sekhmet, the lion-headed Goddess and daughter of Ra, when he'd been found at the foot of her statue, in her temple. Beside the silent, watching infant, lay a dead cobra. Its blood was on the babe's swaddling clothes. He bore the mark of the bite on his neck. How he escaped that death added to the mystery, and the fearful looks he earned from everyone. Supposedly the cobra had bitten him, and then died, thus transforming what had been a human child into a Naga. Despite their persistent efforts to make the King and Queen give up the babe, they refused, and raised him as their own son. Since that didn't work, the Priests insisted that the child be named Sekhmet, to perhaps quell the evil that they were sure was in it, the product of a vile Seth-spawned thing, hoping that naming him after the Goddess would incite her to protect him. Fortunately Pharaoh consented before the Priests tore their hair out with worry and frustration. Sekhmet was two years older than Kale. He was frail in appearance, but he was not. He'd broken arms and legs of men three times his size when wrestling, and as skilled as Kale was with the sword. He had a cruel expression when he was angry, looking very much like an angered pit viper. Yet when he was not being ferocious and such, he was harmless, despite the fact that he supposedly feasted on human sacrifices and paid homage to Seth daily.
The low snort from Kale broke him from his daydreams. "And what expectations are those, my young Prince Anubis?"
He grimaced. Oh how he hated that name. At first, when he was a child and young teen, he'd enjoyed it, knowing that this was his adult name. Princes and other royalty were given two names, one as a child, and another later on, to distinguish their passage into the adult world. Plus, his name was the name of a God. And he was made to wear his red hair in the fashion his namesake did. Long bangs that touched his eyebrows (which were forked at the ends, another point of contention in his quest to be normal), and forelocks that rested in front of his ears, brushing his collarbones. The rest was also long, reaching his shoulder blades, decorated with a few beads and whatnot. But as time wore on, and he began to see what being named after the Jackal-headed God meant, he grew to hate it. Ominous-sounding , duty-laden, repulsive, complicated… He tossed his head, composing himself. "You know full well what they are, Kale." Anubis glared at his old friend, ignoring the formalities of public appearances, shooting him that fiery look that his glass-green eyes so easily conveyed.
"To put it quite bluntly, my Prince," Kale enjoyed the way Anubis glowered at him, "I wouldn't really give a damn about the Prophecies that bother you so. Why would you let a group of crotchety old men get under your skin?"
Hearing the tone in the Guard Captain's voice, the hunters closest to his chariot fell back a dozen or so paces, poorly concealing their grins. Kale's distaste for the High Priests was evident. Pharaoh Nefer's word was gospel to him, and that was all.
Anubis sighed, and knuckled his left eye in agitation. "Because, Kale, those 'crotchety old men' are trying to string me along. They're trying to lead my life for me, so that I follow through on this great plan of theirs."
Kale cut him off by snorting. "Why do you let them?"
They'd had this conversation before, countless numbers of times, Anubis voicing the same concerns, Kale giving the same answers. So far, neither had come to a satisfying conclusion.
"I don't have much choice, Kale. It is my duty as Prince to fulfill my destiny." He sighed heavily, tracing a finger over the silver inlay on the chariot's railing. Destiny and duty. There were two words he could deal without. All he wanted in this world was nothing he was getting. Game to hunt, adventures to have, and perhaps a wife to cuddle with afterwards, that was all he desired at this moment. Becoming Pharaoh was the least of everything. Fulfilling the 'Prophecy' that the Priests hid from him, but intended to make him follow, was even further behind.
"You're actually very lucky. You just don't see it yet."
"Eh?" That was a line not scripted for this act. Cocking his head, looking at his old friend sideways, Anubis raised a brow in confusion.
"Face it. If it weren't for your so-called destiny, you would have already been married and coronated. Your father is old, Anubis. And his health is failing…" Dismissing what would have been a remorseful silence between them, Kale smiled wryly at the Prince. "And you're also lucky that Sekhmet is a he and not a she. Else it'd be him you'd be married to." He grinned, waiting for the thought to occur in Anubis' head.
It didn't take long. Nose crinkling in repugnance, he shivered from head to foot. Sekhmet as a girl. The thought was horrifying. And he'd be MARRIED to her! "Phaaa!!" Tossing his head, his shiver deepening into a shudder, Anubis clenched the chariot's sides, to keep from vomiting. "How could you even THINK of such a thing?!"
"Well, you have no sisters." It was true. Anubis was the first birth-child of the Pharaoh and his Queen. When he had been born, the Queen's womb, a rotten mass of black tissue, had come away with the newborn, thus preventing further children and an immediate wife for Anubis. His parents were brother and sister. It was Egyptian royal tradition. Almost a law.
"Dais says that it's because it's part of the Prophecy. That I would be an only child. 'Her greatest joy, and her greatest pain.'."
"I don't claim to admire Dais for his ties to the temples, but he is the only one of that lot who won't steer you wrong. It would do you good to listen to him." They weren't exactly fond of one another, but the Priest and the Captain put aside their differences for the sake of the Prince. Long ago, when they were just young boys, they swore oaths over Anubis' cradle to protect him, and they weren't about to break their oaths simply because one did not like the profession of the other. Sekhmet had taken the same vows as well, although he got along well with both Dais and Kale. Strange, to think that in his own way, he was both a warrior and a priest.
"I know. I know that you and Dais and Sekhmet all look out for me." Anubis' words were contrite. "I appreciate it, I do. You are all as brothers to-"
"Save your sentiments for later, Prince Anubis." Kale's tone was as hard as steel, the corners of his mouth tightening. Ahead of them, someone on horseback raced at a breakneck pace, the frantic waving of the rider foretelling bad news. The party came to a dead halt, all eyes trained on the messenger.
He and Kale wore matching looks of reticence, the formality of one of higher status addressing a lower. Before the horse came to a stop, the slave, one of the Queen's maidens, leapt from the horse, bowing at the feet of Anubis, her cheeks red. He recognized her immediately as Mia, fair skinned, with brown hair and large blue eyes, a captive from some war Anubis did not care to remember. Wearing a simple linen shift, and no jewelry, Mia had been with Anubis' mother for as long as he could remember. He often looked on her as a second mother, but this was no time for affection. An itch sprung up between his shoulder blades, but he didn't move to scratch it. "Don't stare at me all day, Mia. Speak."
"I bring grave news to my Prince Anubis." Mia said hastily, still puffing for breath, as if she had been the one running, and not the horse. Her humility faltered. "Your father…"
She wasn't able to complete the sentence, as Anubis stiffened, eyes wide. Kale looked as nervous as the horses he held in check. Dragging Mia onto the chariot with them, Anubis held her still while Kale slapped the reins hard. Leaving the startled men behind, the Prince, the Guard Captain, and the slave hurried forward, towards the white gates of the city.
Outside the palace, Anubis found a throng of guards, soldiers, and priests, buzzing with worry. Dais and Sekhmet stood away from them, waiting, apparently, for Anubis. Kale followed behind, leaving Mia to lead the horses to the stables.
Stiff with nervousness, trying to hide his fear, Anubis pushed past the others who crowded around him, to the pair. Dais was the opposite of the man at his side. Sekhmet fidgeted about, scrubbing both hands through his thick hair. Dais was cool, almost cold, but there was a certain touch of sorrow in his eyes, despite his stone-still posture. "My Prince."
Anubis could find no words. He merely stood there, mouth hanging open a little, arms limp at his sides. Kale was behind him, and he could feel the man's apprehension. Dais, in his immaculate robes, offered a necklace to him. It was large, intricately carved. The falcon's head, royal symbol and his father's namesake, stared back at him, indifference in its amber eye. Anubis stared at the thing as if it would bite him. Dais remained emotionless, carved out of marble. His words were factual, and to the point, allowing only the smallest amount of pain.
"He is dead, Anubis."
Author: Faia Saiyajin
Series: Ronin Warriors
---
The sun shimmered, obscenely hot, behind the jagged fangs of mountains to the east. The gathering of men marching away from it didn't notice the baking rays, not even breaking a sweat as they continued on.
The men, members of a hunting party, were naked from the waist up, wearing only short linen skirts, and broad belts that held their sheathed bronze swords and quivers of arrows. Their sandaled feet seemed to dance over the rocky soil, as they lifted their longbows in celebration. Those that weren't walking rode white horses with proudly arched necks, a fine breed of Arabians. The horses were decorated, their steps high, mirroring the spirits of the men on their backs, that carried long spears, each as tall as himself, tipped with a foot-long bronze blade. Two of the men on horseback carried a heavy litter, bearing the carcass of a large lion, his shaggy black mane and yellow eyes having lost their fear-stirring fire.
Of the three dozen men, one dozen walked, another dozen rode. That left 12 more, who rode in the front of the caravan, on small chariots, pulled by matching roan stallions. Gilded and worked as they were, the crafts were light, and meant for speed. Spears and half-empty quivers of arrows jostled and twitched on the floorboards. The men in the chariots whooped and whistled, the true reason the rest of the party was so happy.
"Bak-her!! Bak-her!!" The triumphant cries of victory made the two men in the front chariot smile, although neither turned to acknowledge it.
"You already have the support of the people, my young Prince." The one on the left said. He held the reins in hands that were callused, trained to the ways of the sword. Tanned from long hours in the sun, and as tough as old leather, the Guard Captain of the Pharaoh's Armies smiled, though he did not look down at his companion. He was young, the youngest man to ever reach the esteemed title of Guard Captain, but also undeniably old. Nearly 25, and well into his prime, by Egyptian standards. He wore the typical skirt and belt of all men, but the gold gauntlets on his forearms and the heavy necklace that rested against his broad chest told of his position. The gauntlets were plain, save for a single wolf face in the center. Their mouths were open, baring teeth that had been obviously exaggerated by the crafter's hand. Bright sapphire eyes glittered in their gold faces. Eyes not unlike the man who wore them. Kale had seen one of the beasts, and lived to tell about it. It was a wonder that with all the battles Kale had seen, he'd had time to be the boyhood friend of the Prince, sharing in the revels. Teasing the High Priests, mooning after the girls, chariot-racing… That was all just memory, now. The scars that marked the Guard Captain's body were evidence of his rank and skill. Rumors circled that the Gods had forgotten about Kale, and those that did not smiled upon him with favor. Kale should have been dead long ago. He'd escaped one demise after another, with only a scar, and a new story to tell those who were eager to listen - which of course was anyone with hearing.
He'd earned the scar he was most famous for in his first encounter with a wolf. He and his army had sailed north to Babylon, to carry the favor of Pharaoh. He'd gone ahead to scout the trail, when a large wolf lunged for him, driven to the lunatic stunt by madness and desperate hunger . The way in which the story was retold made it seem fantastic, blown out of proportion during the feast signaling their return. It would have been dismissed as the drunken ramblings of warriors, had Kale not brought back proof. The body of the wolf that nearly cost him his sight, and the scar. The wolf, all black and gray, high as his waist, sat stuffed in Kale's apartments, poised for the strike, fangs bared, glass eyes gleaming from behind the snarl. The scar that he carried with him was the most prominent of the numerous ones on his muscled body. It emerged from Kale's wild midnight blue hair, coursing straight down his left cheek, some how miraculously skipping over his eye. It stopped just at his nose, but not before a smaller scar crossed it, right below his eye.
"As I had hoped, Lord Kale. A Pharaoh must have people who believe in him. If not, his kingdom will crumble, no matter how strong the stones that build it."
"Spoken wisely, Prince." Kale did not take his eyes from the path ahead, but he smiled his winter-white smile, knowing that he was being watched. "But you must remember that you are not yet Pharaoh."
"I know, Kale. But if I am to live up to the grand expectations everyone seems to have of me…" The Prince looked obviously embarrassed, and looked at his hands as they grasped the high front of the chariot. Rings of gold and precious stones decorated his fingers, followed by gauntlets not unlike Kale's, only these were marked with jackals instead of wolves. He scowled, feeling the tug in his hair as a small braid slipped over his shoulder, weighed down with long bone beads.
Shoving the beaded strand back into place irritably, he screwed up his face, looking contemptuously at the fringe of hair that touched his eyebrows. Despite his title as Crown Prince, he did not wear the typical braid of a Pharaoh-to-be, the left side of his hair gathered into a tight plait, the rest of his head shaved bald. Perhaps it had to do with the color of his locks. It seemed to make the High Priests and other Lords bow with their faces almost touching the floor. Even the most uneducated commoner would stare openly, in a mixture amazement, awe, and fear. His mother had black hair. His father too. So why was his hair the color of sunset? At the moment of his birth, he was born with this accursed red hair of his, and green eyes. He never knew the comforts of normalcy, what with his father --Great Pharaoh Nefer-- so swelled with pride and joy that he nearly burst, and his mother doting over him like he was the greatest gift to mankind. Then there were the Priests. Mumbling about Prophecies and Ways, studying him constantly, his learning ability, his aptitude with the sword, every nitpicking little detail. They were as irritating as the mosquitoes that came when the Nile flooded its banks every year, and left everything sopping wet, rife with stinging insects. At least that scourge was only once a year. He had to endure the Priests constantly.
If it weren't Dais, he would have surely lost his temper more than once with the High Priests. With one look of his blue eye --no one knew how the other had been lost-- he could send anyone running for cover. There were stories about him, too. That he was a Warlock, and had offered his eye to Ra in exchange for mystical powers. Dais paid no heed to the rumors, but he was a Ra man, serving the Sun God faithfully. Perhaps it was a kinship between mortal and God, both of them having lost a physical part of them, but gaining something better from it. Ra's left eye was the moon, and his right the sun. If he did indeed share a bond with Ra, then Dais' left eye was the thing of nightmares, stories about it told to disobedient children to keep them in line. His right eye was no better, sparkling, always hiding something. Dais was no older than Kale, but he too had ascended to an exalted status despite his age. His snowy white hair was another thing of legend, always worn loose about his shoulders. Women who were brave enough swooned over him. Dais took it all in stride, wearing his trademark half-smile, when he showed any emotion at all. 'The Gods do with men as they see fit.', he had a habit of saying.
To top off the strange company the Prince kept, there was Sekhmet. Despite being bearing a female name --a Goddess' name, no less!, Sekhmet was quite possibly the most feared man in all of Egypt. If he was indeed a man, that is. With his wiry green hair, his unnerving eyes, toothy smile, and ever-pale skin, Sehkmet was thought to be a Naga, a fierce serpent demon. He looked the part, too. If it weren't for the fact that he was Pharaoh's adopted son and the Prince's brother-friend, the people would have sent the young boy into the desert the instant they saw him, or killed him on the spot.
He'd been named after Sekhmet, the lion-headed Goddess and daughter of Ra, when he'd been found at the foot of her statue, in her temple. Beside the silent, watching infant, lay a dead cobra. Its blood was on the babe's swaddling clothes. He bore the mark of the bite on his neck. How he escaped that death added to the mystery, and the fearful looks he earned from everyone. Supposedly the cobra had bitten him, and then died, thus transforming what had been a human child into a Naga. Despite their persistent efforts to make the King and Queen give up the babe, they refused, and raised him as their own son. Since that didn't work, the Priests insisted that the child be named Sekhmet, to perhaps quell the evil that they were sure was in it, the product of a vile Seth-spawned thing, hoping that naming him after the Goddess would incite her to protect him. Fortunately Pharaoh consented before the Priests tore their hair out with worry and frustration. Sekhmet was two years older than Kale. He was frail in appearance, but he was not. He'd broken arms and legs of men three times his size when wrestling, and as skilled as Kale was with the sword. He had a cruel expression when he was angry, looking very much like an angered pit viper. Yet when he was not being ferocious and such, he was harmless, despite the fact that he supposedly feasted on human sacrifices and paid homage to Seth daily.
The low snort from Kale broke him from his daydreams. "And what expectations are those, my young Prince Anubis?"
He grimaced. Oh how he hated that name. At first, when he was a child and young teen, he'd enjoyed it, knowing that this was his adult name. Princes and other royalty were given two names, one as a child, and another later on, to distinguish their passage into the adult world. Plus, his name was the name of a God. And he was made to wear his red hair in the fashion his namesake did. Long bangs that touched his eyebrows (which were forked at the ends, another point of contention in his quest to be normal), and forelocks that rested in front of his ears, brushing his collarbones. The rest was also long, reaching his shoulder blades, decorated with a few beads and whatnot. But as time wore on, and he began to see what being named after the Jackal-headed God meant, he grew to hate it. Ominous-sounding , duty-laden, repulsive, complicated… He tossed his head, composing himself. "You know full well what they are, Kale." Anubis glared at his old friend, ignoring the formalities of public appearances, shooting him that fiery look that his glass-green eyes so easily conveyed.
"To put it quite bluntly, my Prince," Kale enjoyed the way Anubis glowered at him, "I wouldn't really give a damn about the Prophecies that bother you so. Why would you let a group of crotchety old men get under your skin?"
Hearing the tone in the Guard Captain's voice, the hunters closest to his chariot fell back a dozen or so paces, poorly concealing their grins. Kale's distaste for the High Priests was evident. Pharaoh Nefer's word was gospel to him, and that was all.
Anubis sighed, and knuckled his left eye in agitation. "Because, Kale, those 'crotchety old men' are trying to string me along. They're trying to lead my life for me, so that I follow through on this great plan of theirs."
Kale cut him off by snorting. "Why do you let them?"
They'd had this conversation before, countless numbers of times, Anubis voicing the same concerns, Kale giving the same answers. So far, neither had come to a satisfying conclusion.
"I don't have much choice, Kale. It is my duty as Prince to fulfill my destiny." He sighed heavily, tracing a finger over the silver inlay on the chariot's railing. Destiny and duty. There were two words he could deal without. All he wanted in this world was nothing he was getting. Game to hunt, adventures to have, and perhaps a wife to cuddle with afterwards, that was all he desired at this moment. Becoming Pharaoh was the least of everything. Fulfilling the 'Prophecy' that the Priests hid from him, but intended to make him follow, was even further behind.
"You're actually very lucky. You just don't see it yet."
"Eh?" That was a line not scripted for this act. Cocking his head, looking at his old friend sideways, Anubis raised a brow in confusion.
"Face it. If it weren't for your so-called destiny, you would have already been married and coronated. Your father is old, Anubis. And his health is failing…" Dismissing what would have been a remorseful silence between them, Kale smiled wryly at the Prince. "And you're also lucky that Sekhmet is a he and not a she. Else it'd be him you'd be married to." He grinned, waiting for the thought to occur in Anubis' head.
It didn't take long. Nose crinkling in repugnance, he shivered from head to foot. Sekhmet as a girl. The thought was horrifying. And he'd be MARRIED to her! "Phaaa!!" Tossing his head, his shiver deepening into a shudder, Anubis clenched the chariot's sides, to keep from vomiting. "How could you even THINK of such a thing?!"
"Well, you have no sisters." It was true. Anubis was the first birth-child of the Pharaoh and his Queen. When he had been born, the Queen's womb, a rotten mass of black tissue, had come away with the newborn, thus preventing further children and an immediate wife for Anubis. His parents were brother and sister. It was Egyptian royal tradition. Almost a law.
"Dais says that it's because it's part of the Prophecy. That I would be an only child. 'Her greatest joy, and her greatest pain.'."
"I don't claim to admire Dais for his ties to the temples, but he is the only one of that lot who won't steer you wrong. It would do you good to listen to him." They weren't exactly fond of one another, but the Priest and the Captain put aside their differences for the sake of the Prince. Long ago, when they were just young boys, they swore oaths over Anubis' cradle to protect him, and they weren't about to break their oaths simply because one did not like the profession of the other. Sekhmet had taken the same vows as well, although he got along well with both Dais and Kale. Strange, to think that in his own way, he was both a warrior and a priest.
"I know. I know that you and Dais and Sekhmet all look out for me." Anubis' words were contrite. "I appreciate it, I do. You are all as brothers to-"
"Save your sentiments for later, Prince Anubis." Kale's tone was as hard as steel, the corners of his mouth tightening. Ahead of them, someone on horseback raced at a breakneck pace, the frantic waving of the rider foretelling bad news. The party came to a dead halt, all eyes trained on the messenger.
He and Kale wore matching looks of reticence, the formality of one of higher status addressing a lower. Before the horse came to a stop, the slave, one of the Queen's maidens, leapt from the horse, bowing at the feet of Anubis, her cheeks red. He recognized her immediately as Mia, fair skinned, with brown hair and large blue eyes, a captive from some war Anubis did not care to remember. Wearing a simple linen shift, and no jewelry, Mia had been with Anubis' mother for as long as he could remember. He often looked on her as a second mother, but this was no time for affection. An itch sprung up between his shoulder blades, but he didn't move to scratch it. "Don't stare at me all day, Mia. Speak."
"I bring grave news to my Prince Anubis." Mia said hastily, still puffing for breath, as if she had been the one running, and not the horse. Her humility faltered. "Your father…"
She wasn't able to complete the sentence, as Anubis stiffened, eyes wide. Kale looked as nervous as the horses he held in check. Dragging Mia onto the chariot with them, Anubis held her still while Kale slapped the reins hard. Leaving the startled men behind, the Prince, the Guard Captain, and the slave hurried forward, towards the white gates of the city.
Outside the palace, Anubis found a throng of guards, soldiers, and priests, buzzing with worry. Dais and Sekhmet stood away from them, waiting, apparently, for Anubis. Kale followed behind, leaving Mia to lead the horses to the stables.
Stiff with nervousness, trying to hide his fear, Anubis pushed past the others who crowded around him, to the pair. Dais was the opposite of the man at his side. Sekhmet fidgeted about, scrubbing both hands through his thick hair. Dais was cool, almost cold, but there was a certain touch of sorrow in his eyes, despite his stone-still posture. "My Prince."
Anubis could find no words. He merely stood there, mouth hanging open a little, arms limp at his sides. Kale was behind him, and he could feel the man's apprehension. Dais, in his immaculate robes, offered a necklace to him. It was large, intricately carved. The falcon's head, royal symbol and his father's namesake, stared back at him, indifference in its amber eye. Anubis stared at the thing as if it would bite him. Dais remained emotionless, carved out of marble. His words were factual, and to the point, allowing only the smallest amount of pain.
"He is dead, Anubis."