[closed/complete] Characters: Bastet (sacredfeline) and Horus (falconhead) Date/Time: A few days post-Horus/Anubis fight. Location: Bastet's place in Rome Rating: Low Warnings: Angst. Summary: Brother and wife come to terms.
If common sense could have been the first thing she turned to in her grief, then she wouldn't have hid herself from all of her family, Surpanakha naturally included. However, she had despite their meaning well and wanting to be there for her. She had barred herself from seeing people, refused the idea of having to talk about things that should have never happened in the first place and stewed in her misery, angry and sorrow.
One didn't have to be married to hurt over the loss of someone but Bastet found herself resenting marriage. She was Anubis' widow now and even the idea of those words made her feel a bitterness that wasn't logical against the whole idea of wedlock. She didn't want to a bride, a wife or a widow. She saw how Hathor could be happy that way and wished her sister a world of happiness for anything she wanted but for herself? Marriage suggested things she wasn't sure she liked.
Speaking of her sweet sister there was Horus. He had a family to consider, Hathor and, of course, himself. Anubis would not have survived without his plea for mercy being accepted. But, as noted, being rational was not her strongest point these days and she couldn't help but continue to associate the poor man with the death, as Anubis' executioner. Even in her moments of attempting logic, she saw him with the sword, saw the pup's blood be spilled and unease boiled in her.
How she would ever face him again without those images in her mind, she didn't know. At that moment, she was sprawled in bed, ignoring the food that had been brought over and picking at the hole she had made in a shawl of hers.
Horus was taking the issue as badly as Bastet. Though he had to carry on, if only for Hathor's sake, most times he found himself seated, staring off into space, robbed of both purpose and pride. What self-respect could he have, if he had slain his own brother? True, better his own hands than the hands of a stranger, or worse, at the words of that Greek bitch, but even the knowledge of that was little consolation.
He knew Anubis did not want him to blame himself, but that was a difficult standard to hold up to. Instead, Horus set about to accomplishing another promise he'd made to his brother: the promise to take care of Bastet. It took a bit of inquiring to find, but eventually he'd procured the details from Hathor, and after steeling himself up mentally, he took to the streets of Rome.
After finding the home and knocking at the door, he was ushered in by a servant, who was quick to supply him with a glass of wine before disappearing in search of the mistress.
"She's been terribly ill lately," the servant explained, rushing to set the crude glassware on the small table before scurrying out of the room. "But she shall be informed of your presence, sir."
Horus could see the little bits of awe in the servant's eyes. Gladiators in themselves were of no consequence, but victors held a special place in the eyes of these people. Horus resented it. He was no victor, no Roman god come to human shape. But he suffered the servant's attentions with the little patience he had remaining, schooling his face into a neutral expression until his composure at last broke into relief when the servant departed.
Bastet would hear the whispers of their guest before the servant came to inform her. Reluctance twisted in her abdomen and she fought with the urge to send out a message that she was not seeing anyone as she got up. Even if she did that, he could bring Hathor next time or even Ma'at. Maybe even Ra.
It would be a good ten minutes before she showed up, needing to at least wash her face. Beyond that, she figured the man would understand if she looked less than put together. Bastet intended to go in, be neutral, show him she was going to be fine and send him along to assure the others. Clean and simple.
However, the moment she saw him, her face betrayed her what with a mixture of uncertainty and hurt, attaching him to the blood and death that would not leave her be. Hands into fists, the once-goddess remained a distance from him, struggling not to clench her jaw as well. It wasn't right to blame him, to associate him so strongly with wasn't his fault but it was so hard not to.
Words were needed, to fill any silence she might provoke, to avoid any questions if she could. "Did Hathor send you?"
He saw what was clearly written on her face, but she did not feel the brunt of the pain. Surely, she suffered, but her own was nothing compared to his. For a moment, he was filled with righteous indignation at the accusations in her eyes. Would she have had the strength to carry the sword in his position? It was a burden he'd had to bear, a burden so many others would crumble under. And the ensuing guilt, the aftermath... there were no words for the pain, the memories that haunted him step by step. What did she know of how he felt?
But Horus was too weary for anger, not after the countless targets he'd massacred in the moments succeeding his battle with Anubis. The bite disappeared as quickly as it had settled, replaced by a heaviness that weighed upon every muscle of Horus's body.
"No." There was a pause as Horus rubbed his temples - he was so tired, tired of thinking, tired of reliving the moment over and over and over. One of them had had to live, as pretty as it would have been to sacrifice themselves for each other, it would have been monumentally irresponsible, leaving their shared family to pick up the pieces. And the burden (so many burdens they threw him: kill Set, rule Egypt, kill your brother, take care of your family) had turned to him to bear.
"I made him a promise."
"A promise," she repeated hollowly. "Let me guess, to look after me if something...to look after me?" If Anubis returned, she was going to kick him. He wouldn't deserve it but she'd probably do it anyway. Men could be so thick or maybe he expected her to take it better than she had been. To be more sensible.
Lord, Ma'at would have been. But not her. Not right now. Her fingers were flexing and she was moving again, wanting to sit down. She placed herself on a chair not far from him but not close enough to be within reach, something that had nothing to do with fear and everything about feeling distant from her family.
"He was the only male family if that was it." Wearily, she picked at the edge of the seat. "Though I don't really want to go anywhere - with anyone," she added on.
He nodded - it had not been too hard to guess, and he was unsurprised that she'd gotten the situation immediately. Taking into account her subsequent explanations, he chose his next words with care.
"I won't force you anywhere you don't want to go." Much as being forceful was within his nature. "Just... if you need anything. You're - you're under my protection."
Bastet nodded, ceasing to pick at the seat before it developed a hole. It meant no one would be able to push her around with him behind her. It was pathetic how women were treated - in any era. She'd known freedom as the daughter of Ra in one life and as the daughter of liberal-minded parents in her current. But some weren't so fortunate. She only felt a need to sweep them with one paw under her protection. She was the one who should have been doing that anyway. It was near foreign to have someone else do it for her.
Once and then twice, she peered up at him, very quickly before she had her eyes back down on her lap. The third time, she kept her eyes on him, though more focused on his shoulder. Her lips rubbed together as if unsure about allowed the words she wanted to speak out.
"I'm trying to look at you and not see the blood," she finally admitted in a half-whisper. "And I know it's not your fault. It could never be but...how do you stop that?" Sekhmet had been the warrior and though Bastet was not without a few fierce traits of her own as a protectress, she was milder than her sister. The approachable, gentle one who had the best festivals.
"It's wrong. I know it's wrong," she added almost feverishly. "And I'm not accusing you. I'd be wrong if I did that. I wish I had never gone to watch. I didn't know...I wish none of this had happened. For either of us. Any of us."
"Time," he said, gruffly, understanding more than she knew. He could remember himself plunging the blade through Anubis, time and time again. He wasn't sure he could ever forget.
But there were other things - "I remember her smug face every time." There was no need to qualify - who else would be smug but the goddess who'd started all this, Khaos herself. "And then I know where my anger should lie."
Of course, he was angry at himself. So angry, so guilty... But it felt damn good to have someone to blame. To have some justification, a reason that unequivocally said it was not entirely his fault, that he hadn't chosen this path...
That he wasn't Set.
Bastet wasn't a perfect creature and it was about then that it sank in how much this burdened Horus. The thought had existed but she had not really acknowledged it with even her previous statement. A sense of shame flickered in her and she shifted slightly. Cats were selfish but they could give. She could give.
"I'm sorry. I haven't been thinking of anyone but myself lately." Her teeth ran over her lower lip a few times. "I...yeah. I'm sorry."
"You have no reason to be." Neither of them did, if Horus was being completely rational, but that didn't prevent him from returning the favor. "I'm sorry, too."
There was a tired sigh as he looked into her eyes. They were both suffering, both looking for people to blame, both filled with hurt and with shame. "We'll make it through, Bast," he said, using the nickname reflexively from all the time spent with Hathor. "And he'll come back to us."