| A Storm In The Desert (Bast) |
[03 Jan 2008|08:25pm] |
The temple at Kom Obo was long forgotten by most, the sort of place that only tourists went - and not often, for them. At least, their visits were infrequent enough to allow him time for this. Hanging from the upper edge of the temple, hanging over the dual entrances, Horus slowly pulled himself up. His elbows were locked in place for the five hundred and eleventh time that morning. Thirty-nine more times would see him done. For now, at least. The strain wasn't leeching strength out of his limbs, at least not yet, but the stone was slippery beneath sweat-covered fingers. He remembered that all too well. Not technically home, this place. Just one of the many places that he went to free himself from constant chatter of souls whose purpose was unknown even to them. It was no way for a person to live, forever indentured to one king or another. Part of the reason that he hated being called king, in the first place. His mother might have called that silly, but it was how he felt. After thousands of years ruling Lower Egypt, where the fertility lay, Horus could only think of it in one way.
There were few enough reasons to bother with the temple. Half of it was dedicated to another goddess, whom he hadn't seen in at least a thousand years. The rest of it was his, and close to his mother's temple as well. Five hundred and twelve. Horus stared over the dusty stone which was his only handhold, toward the horizon where the sun was slowly creeping into the sky. Horus felt a moment of relief flood through him, but only a moment. Five hundred and thirteen. The new moon was coming, for two days this time. It seemed the only time he lived for was those two days. The outlander hadn't come to see him in quite some time, and Horus was fine with that. But he wanted to be ready in case he did. Five hundred and fourteen. Isis didn't think that the outlander would trouble him again any time in the near future. Five hundred and fifteen. Horus had learned not to take that for granted. The his eye had paid the price for that lesson. One of his more expensive, even if Thoth had been both circumspect and kind in restoring things to their previous condition.
Five hundred and sixteen.
The sun was climbing higher, challenging him. As though it were a race of some kind. Five hundred and seventeen. Five hundred and eighteen. Horus' hands slipped, only just, but it was enough to upset his balance. Precious seconds lost. This was the only time he felt alive. The muscles were starting to burn, starting to protest the activity. Horus shifted his hands slightly, slid them along the edge of the stone. Sweat dripped down his forehead, onto his chin. Into his eyes. Only the absence of the moon could blind him. He kept going. Five hundred and nineteen. Five hundred and twenty. Five hundred and twenty-one. The ancient places were growing fewer, and far between. There weren't many temples that the outlanders hadn't found, weren't many caves unknown to them. It seemed that all of Egypt was going to be swallowed in the modern age. Horus didn't know what to expect of it other than trouble. Outlanders were always trouble, even if they came bearing gifts and words of friendship. Especially, though, if they didn't. Five hundred and twenty-two. Five hundred and twenty-three.
His concentration was broken by a pair of feet that appeared in front of him. Horus let go of the stone in surprise, hands slipping away. The fall was a good twenty feet. His body went limp, arms out to either side. First to collide with the stone was his back, followed by his shoulders. The head came last, and the sharp sound that his skull made when it slapped into stone made him grind his teeth together. He stared upward in a daze for a long moment, one hand on the hilt of the ancient curved scimitar at his belt.
No, it was just Bast. He couldn't help the smile that spread across his face. When they were children she'd taunted him in this way or that way, but now it was a humorous surprise to both of them when she managed to catch him unawares.
"Toss me my shirt," Horus called up to her, standing there on the edge of the temple; she looked too pleased with herself.
The cat who ate the canary. Or the hawk, in this case.
|
|
