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uzurimisery · 3 months ago

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the space between two bodies. / satosugu x reader / part 1

Warnings: MDNI, happy ending, angst, cheating (not really this is explained in part 2), unhealthy relationships/coping mechanisms, suicidal ideation, depression, smut, no sorcery au, unedited

A/N: I started thinking about Gojo with anxiety and nihilist Geto and then what that looks like in a poly relationship with someone as flawed as they are

part two

“We’re sorry but we’ve decided to go with another candidate now. We will retain your information on file should a more suitable role open up.”

The email stared back at you, the words on your phone screen blurring as droplets of rain hit it as you read it over for the hundredth time. Today was just another shitty fucked up day in the endless string of shitty fucked up days that had become your life. The third consecutive month of unemployment in a row. At least previously you could get temp jobs but now each day that passed just ate away at you with how useless you felt.

Pocketing your phone, you pull out a 100 yen coin and put it in the vending machine.

You didn’t even like your old job but Jesus it was like no one was actually hiring. And when you did get an interview, you’d get ghosted afterward. On the rare occasion they didn’t ghost you, you’d receive a rejection letter like this one. It was preferable, you supposed, that your existence and effort were at least acknowledged, no matter how much it stung. Still hurt like a bitch to be told you weren’t good enough.

Anything would be better than this, fuck you’d take being overworked and underpaid if it felt like you were doing something. This endless cycle of gnawing uncertainty and applications, interviews, followed by rejections. Worse than that you were out of deodorant and trying to find some in Japan was a Herculean effort.

Yeah, it’s been a shit go and you’re fucking exhausted.

Maybe you’d go be an English teacher like everyone else who moves to Japan. You wouldn’t need a co-teacher so the pay would be better if you were just starting out. Not that you wanted to teach again dear god that was less than ideal. Thank god you had settled status. The thought of having to deal with visa issues at the same time made you feel sick.

Maybe you could work at a host club. You turned, staring at your reflection in the glass. Your boobs weren’t half bad as you pushed them up from the underside like a push-up bra would. Or sell feet pictures. The market was probably oversaturated at this point but maybe there would be some interest.

Wait Jesus had your hair looked like that all day? Fuck. No wonder that girl kept staring at you on the train she thought you were a lunatic.

Sighing you press the button for 4H. It wasn’t like you’d always been this way, sort of drifting in a sea of uncertainty abroad your boat of doubt with no wind to guide your sails. There was a period of time, maybe a five-year stretch after you had graduated from university where your life was on track. An entry-level job in your degree field, a long-term boyfriend turned fiance, wedding planning, and a great group of friends. Shit, you had it all.

The fiance was the first to go.

As it turns out, finding your fiance in bed with the girl he swore you didn’t have to worry about, his tongue halfway down her throat like he’s trying to do an endoscopy, is a terrible way to find out you’re being cheated on. When he noticed you standing in the doorway he had the gall to sputter some bullshit about how it was your fault it happened. You were too focused on your work, you didn’t give him attention, blah, blah, blah. It was you who broke the relationship up by working so much and being married to your job. And as he paid for the overpriced four-bedroom apartment in an area of Tokyo that you didn’t even like, you lost the apartment in the breakup.

You couldn’t slum dog millionaire your life away on Shoko and Utahime’s couch forever eating tubs of ice cream and binging TV after that, so everyone told you, or rather forced you, to move in with Suguru and Satoru. Bouncing around from couple to couple. It did give you some stability and just as things go up so must they come down.

The company you were working for was liquidated after an investigation by the federal government found years of tax fraud. Luckily they got bought out, and you thought maybe if you put in work you could still climb the ladder. But all those late nights in the office, conbini dinners, and unpaid overtime, you were just another name on a severance list.

It felt like waves were crashing over you, each one larger than the rest. Almost like you were tied to a dock during a hurricane, a tsunami, or some fucking natural disaster that threatened to drown you if you didn’t hold onto something but there wasn’t much to hold on to. You could hold onto the minuscule amount of friendships that you had at least. It was far too awkward and messy to keep up with anyone else other than your main four since the rest were so tied to your ex-fiance and his life. Stupid fucking lawyer.

The four of you were close-ish. Less close since Shoko had gone on rotation at a university on the other side of Tokyo. It meant she and Utahime had moved nearer to it since Utahime was willing to commute. But Suguru and Satoru were still close with you and still dating. Biting as that felt at times.

You met Geto first in a shared philosophy lecture. One of those run-of-the-mill ones, but the content that really got the two of you talking was nihilism. It was the seminar groups after class you shared where he really saw you. Stripped away of pretenses and your nerves laid bare. Not just another face in a lecture hall but something more, something human. The deep indents of nails in your palms and the rubbing of your hands together under the table. He had seen right through you, recognized the darker parts of himself in you- it made you feel understood.

The machine made a mechanical noise and the lights flickered. Sighing you kick the machine lightly to see if anything happens, if life could give you this one thing today that you so desperately needed. Just like everything else, nothing goes your way and your stupid drink stays logged on the shelf. So like every reasonable person you kick the machine again.

“Stupid fucking piece of shit machine,” you murmur a growing string of profanities under your breath as you repeatedly kick the machine

All you wanted was one of those ¥100 coffee drinks that were loaded with caffeine to keep going through your slog of a day was that so hard? Maybe it would be best if you just packed it up and called it quits. Move back home with your parents and be berated daily. Why aren’t you married? Why did you and Kosuke break up? When are they going to get some grandchildren? They aren’t getting any younger you know. Face the cutting shame of fucking up another opportunity, another chance.

What was the point in trying anymore when you couldn’t even get a stupid drink that you don't honestly even want at this point out of a vending machine so you can go home and masturbate to audio porn before you cry yourself to fucking sleep?

Suguru’s voice cut through the spiral of thoughts, your name on his lips.

“What are you doing here? I thought you had an interview and you’d be home late?”

Of course, he’d catch you like this.

“Hey Sugs,” it came out as a groan as you kicked the machine again, a loud clang following as your drink hit the bottom of the dispenser. Bending down, you grab the can before turning and facing him. “I did.”

“How’d it go?”

“Like shit.” Maybe you should work on your delivery. This flat effect is really making you should like a bitch. Are you a bitch?

Geto’s eyes raked over you, infuriatingly calm and measured. He was always so carefully disheveled, the type of person to look effortlessly put together no matter the occasion. Stupid name-brand black sweater over a white button-down half tucked into chinos with a chain on the belt. His hair, shiny and perfect, was neatly tucked into his signature half-up-hald-down look to keep the strand out of his eyes, minus the one for style. Notably, he was wearing his glasses for once, sleek frames perks on a tall nose. Oh, he smelt nice too, his sandalwood and bergamot cologne hitting you as he stepped closer, extending his umbrella to cover the two of you. Fuck he was so handsome it wasn’t fair.

“I'm sorry to hear that,” Geto replied softly.

You shrugged, trying to brush it off. “ It is what it is.”

But the reality of it clung to you and drug you down, down, down into the depths of your psyche. That small, scared feeling you tried so hard to suppress started bubbling up again, twisting your insides into knots. It made you feel sick, so much like a lost little child in a world that had grown far too big and complex. Here it was, rearing its ugly head, in front of one of the top ten people you never wanted to see in such a shit state.

But that's all Gojo and Geto do at this point. They pick up the broken, crumbling pieces of yourself that slip between your fingers. You feel like a cracked vase leaking water all over the place no matter how desperately they try and patch up the ceramic. Each day the gap between you and them grows more apparent. They were both soaring and you were falling to the ground and rolling around in the mud.

Geto had just done a four-page spread in Architects Digest, even though he was a pretentious motherfucker who hated the magazine. And Gojo… God, he’d just opened for Prada at Paris Fashion Week. They went viral on every social media platform a while back for how hot and gay they were. You’d been caught in the crossfire of your accounts being tagged and gained a social media boost, but that also meant a bunch of people DMing you telling you to take pictures of them.

The most fucked up thing about it all was the gnawing feeling that chewing on your bones that you were being dragged around like an accessory to remind them how good they had it. A permanent third wheel they’ve been stuck with since university. Two talented lovers on the brink of permanent importance and their weird little friend who follows them along like a lost puppy. It wasn’t even true and that's why it hurt so much. You knew they believed in you, thought that you could be a successful artist, and supported you in it even, but the jealousy rotted inside you like a festering wound. You weren’t even jealous of their success, only just partial, but it was like you weren’t good enough to be around them.

Maybe you were better off as wall decor in the life they were building together. Something quiet and serene that didn’t demand anything from them. Better that than the bitter, jealous mess you were every time you saw them succeed.

He starts, the same spiel he goes to when you get like this. “You can always-”

“No.” your voice comes out sharper than you intended, but you don’t care.

“I don’t know why you act like it’s such a bad off,” Suguru presses, his calm demeanor only pissing you off more.

“I don’t want to work for you.”

“Why not.”

You snap. “Because I don’t want to, Suguru! Is that so hard to understand?”

Fuck, you wanted to storm off, go back to the house, and slam the door behind you as you went. But it didn’t matter if you stormed off, you lived in one of his guest bedrooms. Both of you were just headed to the same place. Sad little rescue that you were.

Suguru assessed, his eyes softened, breaking you down. He picked out every one of your insecurities as he stared at you. Microscopic inspection, each of your cells was being assessed for your state of being. Have you eaten? Was it enough? Had you slept? Are you even capable of taking care of yourself in this state?

The weight of his gaze made your chest tighten, and before you could control it, try and reel it back in, tears welled up in your eyes. Blinking them back, you swallowed hard, the lump in your throat bobbing as you did. You hated this. Hated the way his care, his pity, felt like a knife twisting in the last remaining shred of pride you clung to.

Pity was the killy of pride and you should accept that your pride was already decomposing in the septic tank in the backyard.

Fuck up, fuck up, fuck up. All you ever were, all you’d ever be. Every loose thread of your shirt feels like it's cutting against your skin. The hem of your trousers drowns your feet like you're wearing your parents' clothes. Shabby. Uncouth. Inept.

Wordlessly, you turned on your heel and fled, rushing out of the side street as the tears spilled past your lash line. You couldn’t do this anymore--no more questions, no more pity. No matter how hard you tried, how hard you struggled, clawed your way through the fucking dirt, you could never be like them. Never be good like theme, never right like them, never fit like them. They had these perfect little lives that they could boast to everyone about. When they spoke, people listened. People cared what they had to say. The world parted for them, it was the Red Sea and they were Moses, making space. There’d always be room for them to shine.

But you were screaming into a void, your throat raw, bloody, and you were aching from the endless effort to be seen, to be heard. You wanted to be looked at like your own person, your own successes. Hard to be noticed for something that rarely happened. No matter how loud you screamed, how much you begged, your voice was just lost in the noise.

You knew Suguru would follow. He always did. Even if you didn’t live in the same house, he’d have followed you. His voice was muffled by the pressure in your ears but you could hear him trying to talk to you. He let you get all the way home and inside the gate of the house before he grabbed your wrist and yanked you backward.

Trying to pull away, your shoulder wrenched painfully as you trashed in his grip.

“Calm down,” Suguru spoke firmly, pulling you into his chest. His sweater was soft, and your face smushed against the fabric as sobs wrecked your body, trembling like the earth in an earthquake.

It was hard to speak through the tears, so all you could do was try and slip out of his hold as you sobbed. You didn’t want this comfort. You wanted to run from your failure. From how suffocating life felt and that no matter what you'd never be enough. Worse than that, the sweet sickly feeling that trickled down your throat that when he held your life this, it made the world feel just a little bit more bearable. As if somewhere you could survive another day if he kept touching you. It wasn’t yours to feel and he wasn’t yours to hold.

Suguru lets you wiggle around. You hit his torso a few times, your strength fading as you cry. When your sobs turned to hiccups and gasps for breaths, he gently cupped your face, thumbs brushing away the tears that still spilled from your eyes.

“Talk to me,” he said softly, barely above a whisper. The songs of a city nearly eclipsing it.

What could you say? How could you explain this feeling? This horrible guilt, pain, and jealousy ate away at you every single day. The tears came harder now, speeding up as if to help drown you in your misery and take you out of it for good. Hiccuping you drew breath, sharp and quick, hoping to speak but nothing comes out. Words claw at your throat, digging it with sharpened points. It hurts the way they hang onto you.

“Is it all too much again?” His voice is so soft, warm like fleece pajamas fresh out of the dryer as he holds you so delicately.

This wasn’t the first time that one of the three of you had been so consumed by dread, suffocated by the weight of life itself. Suguru knew it all too well himself, from high school to know he held it tightly in his hands. It never went away from him, he just learned to live with it, let it fade into the background, and let a constant hum of despair serve as the baseline for the day-to-day.

His thumbs brush over the apex of your cheekbones again and the tenderness shatters you, another wave of sobs tearing through you. They pull you under, out into the open ocean, and through their rip current.

“I just..” you start, it scratches your throat, thick with phlegm. “ I can’t do this anymore.”

His voice remained steady. “Do what?”

“Any of it. I can’t do it.”

“You’re capable of it. You can do it.”

Jarring, rough, whipping across your skin as the rubber band pulls too tight and snaps. You lash out, and it stings where it hits. The anger cuts through your skin like your fingernails leave crescent moons in your palms.

“No, I fucking can’t!” It's ripped out of you as you stalk away like a wounded animal. “I can’t okay. I can’t do shit. I can’t keep a relationship without being cheated on. I can’t manage to get my own place. I can’t get a fucking job. I can’t sit here and pretend like I’m not fucking wasting away in my own misery watching you and Gojo and Shoko all succeed and be the only one of us still shooting for the stars and coming crashing down to earth every single fucking time. You and Gojo with your perfect little lives look at me like a charity case to be fixed.”

“We have never looked at you like a charity case.” His tone was firm.

“Really? Then what the fuck do you look at me like, huh?” You press the question circling back around. “Is it pity? Did the two of you see some poor stray that you wanted to take in and keep like a pet when we met at university? Is that it?”

His eyes were hard, unreadable.

“It is that. You pity me.”

“Jesus, no! We don’t pity you- I don’t pity you! Is it so hard to believe that I care about you?”

“Yes, it is! There’s no reason for you to care,”

“What the hell wouldn’t I care?” Suguru’s voice raised to a shout, frustration cracking his facade.

“Because I’m just like everyone you hate!” Your chest heaves as you let out a flood of emotions. “ No ambitions, contributing nothing to society, just leeching off others.”

“You’re not like them.”

“I am. On paper, I’m exactly like them. The only reason that you’d keep me around is because it makes you feel good to watch me suffer or you pity me.”

“How many times do I have to tell you that I don’t pity you?” His voice cracked with emotion, but you didn’t stop.

“Then tell me why you care!” It comes out so desperately. You're begging him for understanding, to know why he stays. To know why he lets you in.

For once he looked uncertain. His mask slipped, revealing the cracks in his facade. It’s been so long since you’ve seen underneath it you’d almost forgotten how he looked when he wasn’t pretending to be happy.

“Or is it that you don’t care?”

Something flashed in his eyes, flickerings of things you only saw when he looked at Gojo. He opens his mouth to speak and then closes it. There's a fear in his eyes, like if he acts in this moment something may crack and crumble like the foundation of a house that leaves him crumpled in a pile of wood. He doesn’t, or won’t, give you an answer.

So you turn on your heel, the conversation over in your mind, and head to the front door. You’ll go up and pack a bag before heading across town and crashing on Shoko and Utahime’s couch before calling your parents and groveling to them.

But as you reach the door, Suguru reaches you. His arm wraps around your waist and he spins you around and pushes your back against it. He’s got you pinned.

“It’s because I love you.” It’s the faintest breeze that passes from his lips, like a car driving past on a hot day, sweat making your shirt stick to you. “I care because I love you.”

Everything is frozen in a still frame. Neither one of you moves, neither one of you breathes. A still moment that holds you tight, threatens to squeeze you so tightly your heart bursts.

“What do you mean by that?” You swallow as you speak, like pebbles in your throat.

Suguru blinks back tears, looking up and then back at you. “That I love you. Fuck! I’m in love with you.”

Disbelief makes your voice shake. “No, you’re not not. You’re with Satoru.”

“And? I can’t love both of you?”

“No, you can’t,” Hypocrisy tastes acrid on your tongue. You know damn well you could never pick between the two of them, that this blighted jealousy you feel towards them is more the fact they have the other rather than their success. It’s something you don’t admit but it’s there. “Besides, you’re lying to me.”

“No.” His response was firm and immediate. The whole time you’d known them, their worlds had revolved around each other. They’d been the only thing for each other for so long. It was an unspoken truth that they were made for each other in a way that could only be sewn by the fabric of the universe itself. Something so profoundly and divinely created it had been written in the fabric of life at the moment of the Big Bang.

“I’ve seen you watching.” Suguru’s tone is low, cutting, it vibrates through you as he has you pinned.

A sick, icy dread wraps around your spine. It starts in your toes and crawls up your body. Your muscles lock in place as it climbs up until it's all the way in your head. Paralyzing fear grips you.

“I don't…” The lie is transparent before it comes to fruition. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” It’s brittle, cracking on your teeth as it passes through them.

“Don’t play innocent.” Suguru’s voice was sharp, cutting through the air like a blade. The tension between you tightens and winds up to pitch, but there's a current that punctuates it. One that feels heady and warm. One that excites you in the same way it embarrasses you. “I’ve seen you watching. I’ve seen you for years. The first time, maybe it was a mistake. But last week? Three weeks before that?”

Your mouth went dry, choking on the excuse that tried to bubble up. Like finely ground chalk powder coasted every surface of it. “I—”

He cuts you off before you can even try to defend yourself. “I know you get off on it too. Leave your curtains open while you touch yourself. Saying his name, my name.”

Horror twists inside you like a knife, your heart dropping to the pit of your stomach. You’d always been so careful, never acting when you thought they were home. Never want to risk exactly this happening. Your face burned like you drank half a liter of vodka in a go. Maybe you’d wake up and realize this was a nightmare. The humiliation was unbearable.

“Imagine my surprise,” Suguru continues in a low chuckle, left hand slotting perfectly against your waist, “when I came home early one day and saw that.”

The tears that had stopped in your flash of anger spill hot and fast down your cheeks. The raw, hot shame and embarrassment muddle you. It makes you want a sinkhole to open up beneath you and swallow you whole. You can’t meet his gaze, your vision blurry.

“I’m sorry. I’ll move out.” you stammer out, the words falling in a chopping spiccato, desperate to create space between the two of you. You’d never be able to face him again.

“Who said anything about moving out?” Suguru comes, pulling you closer to him till you're flush against his chest. He bends down, breath tickling your ear. You feel the sharp pressure of his teeth grazing the shell of it, a jolt going through your body. “You don’t get to leave now.” Pulling back, he meets your eyes in a half-lidded gaze.

Both of you are playing the game again. Looking for something unspoken, some cryptic clue you need to decipher. He was searching for discomfort, disgust, anything to make him draw back and stop. You searched for understanding, dissecting how it got to this point. Every moment, every glance, every touch from him that you had ever overlooked.

He always held a soft glint in his eyes when he looked at you. Something subtle, normally reserved for Satoru. It warmed the edge of his voice when he spoke and crinkled the corners of his eyes when he smiled. There was that softness for Shoko, but it was different. The one he had for you was a more reserved, pulled-back, and dialled-down version of what gripped him when he looked at Satoru. He had always viewed you this way.

The times you sat sandwiched between him and Gojo, your legs brushing against him, his arm slung around your shoulders to reach Satoru. Pulling you against him on the train, in clubs, at parties, the bump of your hips against his own. Compliments when you wore flattering, his pushing Satoru to dress you up. He liked it best when you were in shorter dresses and skirts with tights.

Suguru had always wanted you, but you had failed to notice.

Instinct took over before reason could temper it. You pushed off the door, your hands flying to the loose part of his hair at the nape of his neck. The strands feelt just as silky an shiny as they look between your fingers. Without hesitation, the space between you two diminishes. You aren’t sure who closes the distance first, but your lips lock hungry. Teeth knocking against each other as you both desperately cling to the other. It's rough and aggressive, both of you starved animals feasting on flesh. The taste of copper spreading in your mouth as he bit down on your lip making you whine. His breathing becomes your own, heady mix of desire and dark, primal urge..

His tongue pushes against yours, taking advantage of your now open mouth, wet and warm brushing against the back of your teeth, laying claim to your mouth. Geto was dominating in all aspects of his life so it was unsurprising that he set the pace and led you to where he wanted to be. He moved your legs up, patting your ass to jump, to then wrap around his waist as he pressed you against the door. You grind your hips against his growing erection as he holds you there, and you can feel the heat of him even through his pants.

Suguru pulls away panting. His eyes are half closed, lips blushed a beautiful red and damp with saliva. He moves in again, this time to your neck, where he bites down hard. You squirm as he sucks a dark and angry mark, his mark, on your skin. The bite of his teeth against your skin feels right. It eats away at the jealous monster inside you every second he’s latched onto you.

Fed up with the door, Suguru opens it and carries you through the threshold. He moves the two of you through the genkan, toeing off his shoes while you kick your own off, and into the living room where he drops you on the couch. There’s an air about him, so intense it’s nearly oppressive, as his fingers inch up underneath your sweater, sliding it off of you. It’s a predator circling their prey, the success of a hunt now that he’s got you on your back against the soft fabric of the couch. He’d been waiting for this far longer than you thought and it spurs you on.

Suguru moves in tandem with you, tugging off his sweater and button-up shirt, exposing his happy trail. The dark dusting of hair makes your mouth water. Once his shirt is off, his hands cover your chest through your bra, palming your tits like stress balls. It's unpadded and lacey, and it lets him feel as if your nipples get hard. He pushes the cups down, leaving them to rest under your breasts, and pushes them up slightly, accentuated by your being on your back.

His fingertips close around your nipples as he pinches and pulls at them. You knew how much of a sadist he could be. One night you watched him edge Satoru for an hour straight. Seen how hot he looked with Gojo in his mouth as he writhed around. A sweet moan escaped you as he played with your nipples and rolled his hips against yours. It makes your head feel fuzzy, thoughts focusing purely on him. His weight presses down on you, so heavy and right it makes you ache.

You lunge forward, propping yourself up on your elbows to kiss him again. It’s just as messy and hungry as before, years of built-up desire between the two of you saturating your every pore. It settles in your bones that pulses in time with your heart.

Suguru doesn’t separate from you, but he slides your trousers and underwear off in one go as you kick your socks off. He tugs his own off hastily, boxer briefs following in turn. His public hair is trimmed, a close crop like you’ve seen it before. Like every other aspect of him, it’s neatly maintained, put into its place, and kept there.

His fingers dig into the flesh of your hips as he pulls your hips up by his head. Your back is half off the sofa as he places your legs over his shoulders and parts your core with his fingers. He blows cold air onto your clit that makes you squirm before he licks your clit. Moaning, you try to grind yourself against his face but his hands tighten on your hips, holding them firm. You’d get what he wanted to give you. Fight against it and get nothing, or accept it.

He was slow to start. His tongue lazily explores you, getting familiar with your taste. It pushed against your clit, wide and flat, before swirling his tongue around it. The ball of his tongue piercing rubbed against the most sensitive part of you. Your hips jerk forward and he looks up, a warning in his eyes, but he doesn’t stop. Suguru curls his tongue again, this time moving it side to side, letting his piercing catch on your clit purposefully. Every action he takes is measured as he picks up speed while latching his lips around it to add delicious suction. Two of his fingers slide inside you, reaching far deeper than your own ever could. He pumps them in and out of you, driving you closer to the edge.

You felt your pussy drooling, liquid gushing out and covering his chin. The muscles in your abdomen tightened with each passing second until you swore they'd cramp. It was all too much as you came, jerking and contracting in on yourself. Black spots dot your vision as your world shakes on this axis.

Sugru watched as you came, pulling back from your pussy to stare at your face. His eyes never left yours as he rubbed soothing circles into your skin with his thumbs. He could cover nearly all of you with how big his hands were, warm and calloused. Minus a cold spot on his left hand.

His engagement ring.

The silver felt like it burned your skin as he smiled at you and planted a kiss on your inner thigh. It glimmers in the low light, bouncing light off like a homing beacon. Bubbling sickness, bile rising in your throat, disgust palming at your skin. What had you just done? You’ve just violated a boundary so gigantic with Suguru. Let your own selfish need for intimacy lead you to this. He was engaged to your best friend. They were getting married next year.

You rushed to grab your clothes, panic surging through you. The world spins around you.

“What’s wrong?”

“We shouldn’t have done that,” you buttoned up your trousers, throwing your sweater on. Your hair is a mess and your skin feels clammy and flushed. The need to vomit is overwhelming. “This was a mistake.”

Suguru’s rising from the couch, trying to grab you, stopping you from moving but you dodge his hand. “A mistake?”

Your left hand meets your mouth as you bite the nail of your thumb. It clicks against your front teeth.

“Satoru won’t mind-”

“A mistake Suguru,” You shake your head, bending down and grabbing the rest of your stuff. “Please. Just forget this.” Without waiting for his reply, you run up the stairs and slam the door behind you.

You really are a bitch.

©️ uzuzrimisery

#uzuri writes #jjk fanfic #jjk imagines #satosugu x reader #jjk imagine #satosugu imagine #gojo satoru imagine #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru #geto suguru #geto suguru x reader #geto suguru imagine #gojo x reader #geto x reader #i swear this gets resolved and everyones happy

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ohdeersthings · 2 years ago

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Clouds of Rain

Neteyam X F!Reader

Part 3 of Clouds Series

Summary: Everyday you and Neteyam get closer, but now he's seen a side you want to hide

Warning: Toxic parents, a little angst, fluff moments between Neteyam and Reader, Neteyam and Reader are eyeing eachother 👀❤️

When the day had started, distant sounds of thunder echoed around the forest. Shadows crept across the moss covered floor as a storm rolled in. Many Na'vi relished in the rain, the prosperity it brought to the food and animals almost seemed mystical, but to you it brought a sorrow.

You weren't allowed out of your families tent on stormy days, even though you were seen as a grown adult, you were unmated, uncourted, so therefore, still a child in your parents eyes.

You longed for the sunshine and blue skies, but Eywa seemed to want a day of rest and restoring water to the cycle of life. "(Y/N)! Come here at once!" Your mother's voice cut through your day dream as you stared out into the vast mist of rain in the distance.

You stood from your position and walked with small steps to your mother. Your youngest sibling, a boy the age of three, sat in her lap fast asleep. You wished you could curl up like that, remembering the days she would coo at you and kiss you sweetly, that changed when more siblings came along and suddenly you couldn't do anything right in her eyes.

Kneeling in front of her, she spoke,"You are to go get us some fruit from the gathering circle, be quick, you are to come straight back, do you understand," her tone left no answer needed, it was a demand.

You nodded, going to stand but her hand tightly grapsed your wrist, pulling you back around to face her, her dull yellow eyes hard. "Answer me girl!" "Yes mama," you quietly spoke, eyes meeting her face but not her eyes, she hated when you looked at her in the eyes.

Releasing you, she waved you off and you quickly turned and hurried out. It wasn't usual for Na'vi to be abusive to their children, yet it wasn't unheard of. Your parents just happened to check every mark there was, verbal, emotional, mental, and physical. It just depended on their mood of the day to determine how your day would end.

Reaching the gathering circle, you picked the nicest looking fruit that you hoped would appease her rath, you began to walk back with it bundled in your arms, only to run smack into another person.

The fruit got squashed between both bodies, the juice sticking to your arms, chest and stomach, your mouth slightly open in shock. That was unexpected, but then again you were rushing with your head down.

"Oh Great Mother, I'm sorry!" Neteyams voice made you jolt up to meet his eyes, his face worried as he realized he ran into you. Just another foolish episode it seemed.

"(Y/n)! I'm so sorry, let me help you," Neteyam reached down to grab the fruit, but it unsavable at that point. You covered your mouth with a soft laugh, not wanting to upset the man in his rush to help you.

"Its alright Neteyam, no harm done," you assured, a smile gracing your lips. Neteyam was a light in your gray world, he could do no wrong in your eyes. The thought of the fruit left your mind, now focused solely on spending time with Neteyam.

"Come," you helped him up, his words stumbling over each other as he tried to figure out how to help, "B-but your fruit? Let me, let me help," you shook your head, waving it off, "There will be more fruit, but let's go get washed up," he let you drag him away, the fruit left forgotten on the floor.

Mother would not be happy later.

~.~

Laughing as you two walked up the edge of the village where vases of water sat, you let go and approached the water. Cupping your hands together, bringing the cool water to your face and neck, you breathed in a sigh of relief and shut your eyes, the water doing good to help rid the sticky fruit and seeds that stuck to your skin.

Neteyam allowed his eyes to trace over each water droplet that ran down your soft skin, going where only his eyes could imagine and where he wished he could touch too. Oh to be envious of water.

"Aren't you going to wash up?" Your soft voice broke his concentration, eyes looking to your face and seeing your glowing green eyes staring at him with your eyelids lowered, a look you weren't trying to give him but his thoughts quickly wondered and this caused him to rush forward, almost dunking his head into the water to cool himself off.

You giggled, having noticed his look from before and allowed your own eyes to slowly rake over his flushed body. His years of training doing wonders for him, the muscle and strength he held made your tail flick a few times before you willed it to stop and wrap around your leg.

"I am sorry, for ruining your fruit," Neteyam wiped his face of water, looking down at you though you smiled.

That pretty smile made him weak.

"Its alright, there will be more fruit later," you looked up at him, "let me make it up to you," he offered, though you grew confused. How would he make it up to you? Why did he feel the need? It was only a few pieces of fruit, surely you could replace it on your own.

"Oh? How?" You asked, arms crossing and staring at him intrigued, your hip jutting out a little causing him to gulp, trying to focus back on you as a whole.

"That's for me to worry about, now, let's go grab you some more fruit," he placed a small kiss to your head as he walked by, your face flushing as you trailed after him.

It was true you had kissed him before, a few weeks ago before he took you flying on his Ikran, but since then it had only been longing stares and a few light touches. A whisper here and there in the others ear, both of you too scared to ruin what you had going on. Scared that your realities would be crushed by the world if the true feelings were spoken out into the air.

~.~

Arriving back at the gathering circle, Neteyam grabbed new fruit to replace the ones he messed up, placing only one in your arms and he carried the rest.

"Oh no, Neteyam I can carry It really," you begged, not wanting him to follow you home. Not to the horrors that may await you. "Nonsense, allow me to help you, it was my fault," he grinned, not picking up on your worried tone.

It seemed he didn't have to, for your father's voice cut throught the air like a knife. "(Y/n)!" His deep, growl like voice caused you to freeze, Neteyam frowning when he saw the fear plaster on your now pale face. His eyes glanced behind you where two figures were appearing.

"Papa," you greeted, turning where the tall, brooding Na'vi man stood. He was one of the best hunters in the clan, your younger brother, only three years younger than you, trailing behind him with a small, smug look.

Your brother quite enjoyed when you got in trouble, but that's only because he himself didn't have to bare your father and mother's disapproving gaze.

"What are you doing? Your mother has been waiting and here you are, goofing off and laying around like you always do," Your fathers eyes made you shrink, head down into your shoulders hoping to disappear.

Neteyam placed himself between you both, chest puffing up to match your father. He didn't like how dull your eyes got, he hated how you tried to shrink instead of stand tall. "The fault is mine, sir, take it up with me. Leave your daughter out of this," Neteyam hissed, his tail lashing at the thought of what this man would say or do to you, his own child.

Your Father seemed to realize who he now faced, eyes narrowing suspiciously as they darted between Toruk Maktos oldest son, the future leader of the clan and his own child, his only daughter and oldest child.

The way the young man stood in front of you, challenging him to dare say another word had your father ask,"Who are you to tell me how to talk to my daughter? Have you courted her, mated with her," he knew the answer, but your father wanted to prove a point.

"No sir, but the fault is mine. I caused her to drop fruit and helped to clean her up, so any qualms you have you can deal them with me right now," Neteyam promised, knowing that the fact you two really weren't together stung, but he would defend you no matter what. He loved you that much.

It seemed as though Eywa had a saving grace, his own father, Jake Sully, appeared. "What's going on here?" Jake looked narrow eyed to the hunter in front of him, he knew (F/N) well, the man was very strict and harsh, but one of the best hunters to the clan.

You rushed forward, tired of all the arguing and not wanting a whole fight to break out. "Neteyam was helping me with fruit, I was clumsy and dropped it," you spazzed through your words, not turning to meet either Sully mens eyes behind you, focusing on your father instead, scared of what he would say more or do.

"I'm sorry Papa, I will be more careful from now on," Your father didn't want to cause a bigger scene infront of his Olo'eyktan, so he called for your brother to take the fruit who glared at you as if you had asked him instead of your father. "We will speak at home," your father leaned down close and threatened, eyes of green, though darker than your own, stared right through you. His words a silent threat that more than talking will be done at home.

"Yes Papa," you submitted, ears pulled back in fear and humiliation. Fear of what your father would do. Humiliation that Neteyam had to witness you like this.

Your Father and brother stomped away, your shoulders tense as you turned to see both men staring at you sadly.

"Thank you for helping me Neteyam, I'll see you around," you hurried out, words like mush as you trailed off into the direction your family had gone to.

"(Y/n)-" Neteyam reached out, but his father's hand on his shoulder stopped him, a huff of defeat in his lips as you disappeared from view.

"Give her some space, (F/n) is not one to mess with, getting her in more trouble may not be a wise case," Jake instructed, Neteyam clicking his tongue in annoyance and anger.

"(Y/n) shouldn't be suffering with them! It was my fault that the fruit fell, she shouldn't have to pay for that," he felt himself become hostile every second that passed, now beginning to pace in front of his father.

"(Y/n) deserves to be free! She is a grown woman, not a pet or a child!" He cried, Neteyam turning his body, eyes gazing after your invisible figure one last time.

"She so gentle, I want to watch her float on the clouds, not be tied down," Neteyam whispered.

~.~

Taglist: (there is a lot of yall 🤣)

@jaymiemallari21 @ssc7514 @itsemy01 @zbeez-outlet @danamq1 @cwufst @sourpatches111 @eywas-heir @heaven1oo4 @neteyamforlife @naynay2808 @msjae @ultimatebluff @jjkclub @ksata @otukirey @im-in-a-pansexual-panik @whenercolorfulrainbowlol @teyamdefender17 @tejas-kris @serpientez @thexplosivegirl @inluvwithneteyam @dead-28 @brooklynscherry-z @weridpersonhelp @he110hon @rainbowsocks @andromets @awriana @alldaladiesloveleooo @loves1ckgirl @pixiexdusts-world @yagirldd @wwwellacom @melllinaa @dreamingsmile @starstruckmentalitypaper @velvetskies @mxrgodsstuff @ambla-nezie @wiltedkyinn @giannadodson @glowbugsblog @boggiesho @mentallyillartist @hastalapastayuh @

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maverick-werewolf · 2 years ago

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(PUBLIC) Preview - The Curse of Ankhu, Book I

It's time for a public preview of my next upcoming book! A novella to be released this spring, The Curse of Ankhu, Book I is around 30k words of adventure and mystery, set in the deserts of the Far South in Wulfgard, inspired by the cultures and mythologies of ancient Egypt, Persia, and more. It is the first of 3 novellas that will tell the full tale of the ancient curse of Ankhu...

A rough draft synopsis of the upcoming novella, and partially as the series as a whole:

Deep in the mysterious desert of the Red Land, Deshret, lies an ancient tomb, the resting place of one of the greatest evils the world has ever known: Pharaoh Ankhu the Endless. Long did he reign and oppress the people of the Black Land, Kemhet. So great and terrible was his power that the gods themselves descended, defeating and cursing him, burying him in foreign land deep in a labyrinth never to be found by mortals. Now Ankhu rises again with each darkening of the moon, a walking mummy, searching for that which he may never find… his own still-beating heart, denying him passage into the afterlife. Over the untold ages, Ankhu’s tomb remained undiscovered, a secret protected always by the loyal Medjay, an order serving the many pharaohs of Kemhet who came after. But now a new threat has arisen— Lord Tefnahkt the Red, cultist and warlock, drives his many slaves to uncover Ankhu’s resting place, unlock his evil power, and unleash him upon the world once more. While a small group of Medjay work to stop Tefnahkt’s plans, one slave may become the key to stopping Tefnahkt – and putting an end to his and Ankhu’s evil once and for all. In a race against time, five Medjay and the rebellious slave Djedar Rath must stop Tefnahkt from opening the tomb before the coming of the new moon, when Pharaoh Ankhu the Endless will awaken once more.

Expect to see the cover art reveal soon, and the book will also feature two illustrations, as well as a map of the regions in which the story takes place. This will occur with a much larger announcement, including a synopsis of the series.

Coming this spring!

Enjoy the preview!

---------------------

Part I

Destruction.

Citizens gathered before the approach of a great temple where statues of the gods once overlooked every aspect of their lives. Those statues had been torn down and hacked to pieces, their stones scattered across the city. Many of the colorful hieroglyphs along the base of such statues had been slashed through and otherwise defiled, their images broken, while only desolate feet stood where mighty monuments were meant to sit or stand.

Now came a new ruler: one who did not tolerate effigies of this land’s ancient and still-reigning gods, nor of the many pharaohs who had come before him: he who defied the sacred order of all things, including the duties of Men to maintain balance and the natural cycle itself.

Down the middle of the streets marched a procession of men and horses. A chariot gilded in gold and jewels, pulled by the most beautiful of steeds wearing attires of precious metals and gems, rode in the center of the army. The wealth on the chariot alone may have amounted to more value than the accumulated possessions of every conquered soul in the crowd.

The chariot came to a halt at the far end of the cowed audience, and the man who drove it stepped out before his people. He was tall and elegant, with a face like chiseled stone, his every severe feature rivaling those of the nearby toppled statue of the god Osiris. He wore only some robes about his waist and gold ornaments around his arms and neck and ankles, freely showing much of his body. The form of a living god was something to be eternally admired… though Ankhu’s sinuous muscles and prominent veins hardly held the majesty of the perfect-bodied statues his soldiers had destroyed.

The people did not cheer for him. Silence spread across the crowd as Ankhu stepped up to a pedestal, one hastily erected by his warriors for such an occasion.

Speeches were for weak men, however. Ankhu gave no speech. He stood and looked out across his latest conquest, needing no words to prompt all those before him to kneel. Every man and woman under his stare lowered themselves to their knees, bowing until their noses touched the earth. They swore loyalty – and swore to fear him, as he commanded of all under his rule.

But still there were those who did not fear.

As he looked over his subjects, one of his own warriors lunged with sword in hand. Barely three feet separated them, giving the soldier an easy opportunity to stab his long-time ruler in the back and at last defeat Pharaoh Ankhu the Endless, God-King, Demon-Sired, High Priest of the Black Temple and oppressor of Kemhet.

Ankhu kept his gaze forward, looking out at the people. He would not even regard the man who dared stand against him. With but a wave of his hand, the soldier fell to his knees, dropping his sword and crying out in pain. Slowly, Ankhu turned to face the man as he suffered, clutching at his chest, his soul writhing within him.

Ankhu said to the denizens of the conquered city, “Gaze upon this man. He is one of your own neighbors who turned traitor to serve me in my conquest of your home. Now he raises his sword against me: a pitiful, mundane weapon.” Ankhu did not kneel to pick it up, as Ankhu knelt for nothing. Instead he gestured to another soldier, who ran over and scooped up the fallen blade, bringing it to his pharaoh.

Ankhu took it – and then, with but a glance, turned it to dust that blew away in the desert wind.

“No weapon can harm me,” said Ankhu. “No mortal can end the reign of Ankhu the Endless.” He looked out across his latest conquest – and scoffed. “When he joined my forces, this man begged me to show mercy. He pleaded with me that I might spare your homes, your families, your souls. And so I did, for I can be merciful… But now his actions have forfeited all your lives.”

Terror spread through the people before him. While some knelt frozen in confusion and fear, others began to scramble. They hoped to escape or at least hide, or even to reach the nearest horse and set off in a random direction into the mercy of the desert. Compared to Ankhu, even the bleakness of the dunes seemed welcoming.

Once again Ankhu lifted a hand, and from it flowed power unspeakable. Within moments, the skies began to blacken. Swarms of a black, swirling mass blotted out the sun – and then descended upon the city.

They were insects of hell, a plague never meant to be seen by Men. They would devour all in their path: flesh and bone, animal and crop, and their touch would spread a pestilence that couldn’t be identified nor cured.

Such was the will of Ankhu.

---

Alas, the will of Ankhu was all but forgotten. Eventually, the Endless found his end.

Over the course of untold years, perhaps even thousands or more, Ankhu’s reign fell into ambiguity. Statues of his might erected by the empire he had built were since torn down or otherwise defaced by his former subjects, and the passing of ages had its way of forgetting or distorting history. If anyone short of a truly learned scholar did know Ankhu’s name, they knew him only as an ancient evil pharaoh and little more than a legend… but one ancient order remembered everything.

Those whose oaths bound them to preserve such history and to remember the greatest of evils above all else were now the only force standing between past and present – standing in the face of history repeating itself. They were the order known as the Medjay.

Or so legends claimed. Not that the slaves working in the middle of the desert would know.

Day had long since passed into night, and like every night, the master kept slaves working. None would dare defy Tefnahkt the Red, owner of every slave present. But one slave’s time to rest had come at long last.

Djedar Rath finally dropped his well-worn pick. Even after being driven for so many years under the same orders and whips, this felt exceptional. So much as fetching a drink of water resulted in harsh glares and reminders to get back to work, especially for him.

Heavy arms aching and sore, Djedar finally left behind the secluded little chamber he had chosen as his personal project. The dig site where he and the other slaves worked seemed so vast they could never uncover it all, and new walls were discovered every day. They had been given orders to search every chamber for an entrance into some mysterious, larger complex. The order had been issued a week or more ago, and despite working every day and night since, they’d found nothing but more dust-coated walls and obelisks colored in hieroglyphs. Master Tefnahkt the Red was growing impatient.

False doors dotted every ruin they tried to enter. Empty rooms stood everywhere, leading to nothing. So far, they hadn’t found a way inside whatever greater structure rested deep beneath the sands. The room in which Djedar had worked all day was yet another pointless chamber, every wall lined in symbols and other sandy, almost worn-away images he hadn’t yet deciphered.

Cold night wind chilled the sweat covering Djedar’s almost naked form as he stepped into the open desert air, making him shiver. Other slaves continued to work in the light of the tall torch poles and braziers scattered over the massive dig site, but Djedar’s time was done – at least for tonight. He didn’t speak to any of them, stalking through the various projects toward one of the many camps where slaves were allowed a few hours of rest.

He passed by the current center of interest in the dig site: a treasure room, a chamber locked away behind bars golden in hue but sturdier than true gold – or any other metal they’d ever known. Warnings on the wall told of how the treasure was cursed and never to be disturbed; Tefnahkt, of course, did not care. The slaves worked there day and night, though Djedar was not allowed to do so, for fear he would sabotage the efforts due to being a ‘traitor.’

Apparently something in the room was structurally unsound. Djedar always kept his ears open, and he overheard a slave-driver shouting orders to the workers to be careful digging in the chamber, as an integral support pillar had weakened and could collapse at the smallest provocation. Interesting, but not of any importance. Not to him. All he wanted was sleep.

But as he prowled past groups of slave-drivers and armed guards, Djedar paused. Some of Tefnahkt’s men had gathered not far from his resting place. One nudged a sleeping old man with the butt of his spear.

“Get up,” the slave-driver ordered. The old man barely stirred, letting out a confused sound, half a cough and half a groggy grunt. “Get up!”

Djedar approached, though he stood just beyond the reach of the nearest torch’s light. “Enough,” Djedar said, drawing their collective glares. He didn’t balk. “He’s been sick for days.”

“Sick or no, he’s slept for six hours now,” the slave-driver retorted.

“Do you really expect a sick old man to work this time of night?” Djedar asked calmly.

His interruption drew attention away from the elderly slave, who huddled in his blankets, pulling them over his splotched, bald head. Djedar didn’t so much as glance his way, keeping his eyes trained on the slave-driver who turned toward him.

“If he’s too sick and old to work,” said the slave-driver as he took a step nearer, long whip dangling from one hand, “tell me why we shouldn’t throw him out in the desert and let him start walking. Tefnahkt the Red doesn’t waste food on the weak.”

Djedar didn’t miss a beat. “Tefnahkt the Red also doesn’t waste slaves. You don’t give the orders here.” He lifted his head higher, looking down his face at the guard. “I’ll take his place for the night.”

The man barked out a laugh. “Taking the place of a dying old man, are you? Fine. You’ll work his shift and we’ll let the useless sod take your sleep.” He nodded back to where Djedar had come from. “Go.”

With that, Djedar left. Every throbbing muscle in his body asked him why he would be so stupid. Why would he work himself to the bone even more than the masters demanded already? But he was beyond caring. Besides, he had a personal project to continue.

Making a beeline through the dig site once more, he returned to the same chamber, taking up a shovel and lantern from beside the entrance. He ducked low under the half-broken doorway before rising to his full height again in the secluded room which led nowhere.

If he didn’t have work to show the next slave-driver who checked on him, he would be punished for it. Whipped, most likely. For now, however, Djedar put aside his other tools, carrying the lantern to look along the walls again.

He couldn’t read all that incredibly well, being a mere slave essentially all his life, but he’d seen enough buildings and scrolls to teach himself a few things. Stealing the occasional text for himself also helped. Familiar symbols dotted the walls, but they only seemed like sections of the full story.

Depictions of the Old Kingdom gods lined all sides of the chamber: the many animal-headed deities of Kemhet, the Black Lands – Djedar’s homeland. Falcon-headed god Horus the Younger worked alongside the fearsome lion-headed goddess Sekhmet as they subdued a man who wore the royal headdress, the menes, like the gods themselves to indicate his divine status as pharaoh.

The first images had been scraped off the wall. The second showed the divinities putting the pharaoh in black chains to bring him before the god Anubis, judge of the dead, a deity depicted as a man with the head of a black wolf. Presiding also was Set, god of chaos – but why would Set be there?

What story did they tell?

“Rath!” another of the slaves, one who often wanted to gossip, called from the half-collapsed doorway to his left. In the corner of his eye, Djedar saw a dark shape with a familiar face look in at him. “Are you alright? Why’re you still working?”

“I like working,” Djedar answered lightly. That wasn’t true, of course.

“Weren’t you digging in here all day already? Why do you dig in there, anyway? Looks like it could collapse on you any second.”

Talking so much would draw attention to them. “I guess it could. It’s very exciting.” Djedar flashed the man a quick smile. “What’re you doing?”

The other slave scoffed, shaking his head and leaving. Flippancy usually had a way of sending off annoyances. Djedar returned to work, running his fingers along the walls, searching for any lever or button. He paused occasionally to knock the flat of his pick against the stone, listening for hollow openings behind the facade.

His curiosity went unrewarded. The chamber was a dead end. Every wall stood thick and sturdy, hiding nothing, and deterioration destroyed the colorful stories the stones once told. Still he had only the partial tale about the strange pharaoh the gods themselves put in black chains and, seemingly, judged before his mortal death.

A need to know the full story drove him to return to work – not for any slave-driver and certainly not for his master, Tefnahkt the Red, but for himself. A soft portion of the wall tempted him with potential secrets underneath, so he resumed his digging there. After the day’s work and several more hours into the night, Djedar had created a hole so deep he could nearly stand in it.

Unfortunately, that left him vulnerable. He couldn’t see the entrance anymore. Experience told him never to have his back to the door, even in the best of circumstances… but he had no choice. Exchanging his pick for a shovel and putting his lantern at the edge of the pit, he descended into the hole under the wall once more to shovel into the deep, hard earth.

Eventually, he dug deep enough that he could fit his entire tall frame into the hole and work almost upright under the stone walls of the chamber. Maybe he could even dig a tunnel out of the dig site itself and escape again. Every moment he worked, however, fear of an ambush bit at the back of his neck…

Movement. Someone entered the room behind and above him. Djedar froze, listening, hearing only one set of feet – which meant it probably wasn’t a slave-driver. They were smart enough never to walk alone near him after what he’d done. But it also meant whoever crept up on him probably wanted to kill him.

“Djedar Rath,” said a voice which dripped hatred. “The one who tried to run like a coward and a weakling and got so many of us killed. Traitors shouldn’t dig alone.”

“You can’t betray that to which you swore no loyalty,” Djedar replied, looking up to regard a slave he did not recognize.

The other slave – skinny, as slaves were – crouched over the hole with a sneer on his young, scarred face. “Most of us disagree. By being here, we’ve sworn loyalty. It’s commanded of us, by something higher than us. All is Lord Tefnahkt the Red’s will – we should be grateful that we serve him.”

Djedar nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, I’ve heard. Most of you enjoy being made into a working dog for a man who pretends to be a god.”

Outrage widened the other slave’s eyes, huge and white. He snatched up the pick from beside the hole and swung it downward. Djedar had barely enough space to jump back and avoid catching the pointed head of the pick in the top of his skull.

Before the other slave could lift the tool again, Djedar grabbed it, pulling on it so hard it jerked the man off-balance, disarming him in the process as the pick slid from the other slave’s sweat-slicked hands. Djedar dropped the extra makeshift weapon in the pit, keeping his shovel instead. He then climbed out of the hole and rose to his feet while the other slave scrambled back, gnashing his teeth in anger. Even looking up at the much taller Djedar, the slave remained defiant.

“You’ll pay for your insolence!” he spat. “They’ll reward me when I haul your body out, traitor – surely Lord Tefnahkt will know you’re more trouble than you’re worth!”

Djedar didn’t say a word. He kept the shovel in his hand but held it down to his side, watching the other slave’s every movement. He looked like a man possessed, a true believer in his cause, his stare wild and violent.

Too many slaves here didn’t care what they were digging up – they had lost their humanity along with any good hope. Any who’d managed to retain their soul had been forcibly purged from Tefnahkt’s flock long ago. Save for the occasional old slaves well past their prime, those who remained deeply believed in some greater reward from Lord Tefnahkt the Red when they found whatever he had them searching for. They worshiped their master as a greater being, a god among men, who would uplift even the lowest of slaves with his benevolence.

This man certainly believed it. Djedar didn’t.

The other slave charged forward. Djedar swung his shovel, but the other slave caught it, wrestling Djedar back a step – toward the pit he’d dug. Trying to make him lose his footing. Djedar didn’t budge, standing his ground—

His opponent tried to drive a knee up into his stomach, but Djedar twisted to one side to escape the blow, relinquishing his grip on the shovel in the process. Before the shorter man brought the shovel back around in a wide swing at Djedar’s neck, Djedar lunged forward and backhanded him across the jaw, his hand hard as a brick.

But the slave recovered faster than Djedar expected. The point of the shovel met with his side, not quite hard enough to draw blood with its dull head – but hard enough to send pain into his ribs and force him back a step again. Djedar’s lost ground spurred the other slave into a frenzy.

He charged. Djedar saw it coming and, at the last moment, side-stepped. He drove forward once the other slave missed his mark, chopping the side of his hand into the other slave’s throat. Choking and coughing, the man dropped the shovel, clutching his windpipe. Djedar took hold of the shovel, pried it free from the other slave’s weakened grip, and then used his greater height to bodily throw him right into the hole.

He went down in a heap, sputtering and kicking up sand. As the other slave struggled back to his feet and began to claw at the edge of the pit, Djedar lifted the shovel, his gaze cold. The other slave stared up at him in bewilderment, as if he hadn’t expected recompense – just before Djedar brought the tool down on the crown of his head.

A man dying was a hideous sight. The other slave went still in an instant, going limp like a ragdoll and falling back into the hole in an ugly heap of underfed limbs. Prying the shovel free of bone, Djedar silently worked to fill in the man’s newfound grave.

Burying his crime in his night’s work didn’t bode well for the review of his progress. This would have the slave-drivers believe he’d been sitting around in a dead-end room doing nothing, but his punishment would be far greater still if they discovered a corpse. His masters knew he’d been working this chamber for a while…

“Slave!” a slave-driver called from the doorway. Djedar faced him with as impassive an expression as he could muster. The slave-driver didn’t seem to care either way. He barked without really paying him much attention, “Mistress Meresamun summons you!”

Perhaps this would allow him some distance from the corpse. Djedar followed the slave-driver through the low doorway and back out into the desert night. There, all the slaves assembled on their knees, heads down, forming great rows lining the walkways around the dig site. The slave-driver behind Djedar gave him a shove toward the line, but Djedar hesitated, watching the woman who could halt all their work with the utterance of a few words.

Behind her trailed a long, red train from the form-fitting kalasirisor sheath dress she wore. It left bare her arms, pale shoulders, and glimpses of her legs to show pristinely smooth, light olive skin. Intricate makeup surrounded her dark eyes that flicked over the faces of the kneeling slaves. Gold jewelry wound its way along her upper arms and bangles hung from her wrists while a large, shimmering pectoral covered her upper chest. Beautiful of features, with long, perfectly straight hair of raven black fixed with a golden crown, one could have mistaken Mistress Meresamun for royalty rather than nobility.

Djedar blinked, then furrowed his brow. He had never seen her before. She wore red, like Tefnahkt…

“Kneel,” ordered the slave-driver at Djedar’s back. Faces of his fellow slaves, some frightened but most simply angry with his noncompliance, glared up at him.

Djedar didn’t immediately comply, earning himself a sudden crack on the back of his skull. A whip bit him, hot blood trickling through his short hair. He cringed, vision briefly blurring from the pain, but he knew better than to react. With his brief moment of defiance over, he finally knelt like all the other slaves. Unlike them, however, he didn’t bow his head.

The woman reached him then, having apparently picked up the pace when she heard the whip. She looked at him briefly before frowning over to the man who’d struck him.

“And what,” said Meresamun, “was the purpose of that?”

“He wouldn’t kneel,” the slave-driver answered.

Meresamun stared at him. “You barely gave him time. These people are not to be harmed for no reason. Am I making myself clear?”

Though Djedar didn’t look, he heard the slave-driver’s feet shuffle in the sand. “Yes, Mistress. I apologize.”

“Your feeble apology won’t fix his head, nor the illnesses you’ve been letting sicken so many. Tefnahkt paid a hefty sum for these slaves, and we’ve had more than enough die over the years, much less those… disappearances. I won’t have you abusing his property on some petty power trip.”

Meresamun turned her attention to Djedar next, looking into his eyes. Djedar knew better than to meet the gazes of his owners, but sometimes he couldn’t help himself. She seemed amused by his defiance, taking a step forward – and then grabbing him by the chin.

It took all of Djedar’s well-practiced willpower not to react. He remained still while she hummed thoughtfully, gripping him hard and pushing his head to one side, admiring his every feature. Djedar still didn’t look away from her.

“He’s strong,” she said. “Handsome, too. Is this the one that escaped?”

“Yes, Mistress,” replied another slave-driver from nearby.

Meresamun smiled. “Tell me what happened.”

“By my understanding, he was born a slave and was later purchased by Tefnahkt…”

“The short version.”

“Oh. Uh – he’s been a part of some strange events. Many slaves disappeared in a sandstorm, including women and children, leaving only him and a few others behind… plenty of slave-drivers died, too. Don’t know what exactly happened, though. I wasn’t there. He himself also escaped into the desert once, alone. Killed a slave-driver who’d been watching over him, killed two slaves who tried to stop him. How he survived with no supplies is beyond anyone, but we found him eventually and brought him back. I don’t know how long he was out there. He’s hard-working, he’s just too smart. And vicious.” The man sniffed. “He’s dangerous. If it’d been up to me, I would’ve killed him for what he did. But Lord Tefnahkt ordered us not to.”

“He was brought before Tefnahkt?”

“Many times. He’s one of the only slaves willing to speak to him, give reports. Most of them lose their nerve and start praying to him instead. Tefnahkt used to have this slave take care of his animals after the palace was built, but we’ve been short on manpower, so we brought him out to the dig a good while ago.”

Meresamun turned Djedar’s face the other way – then farther still, looking at the whip mark on the back of his head. Djedar didn’t move, though his thinning patience did prompt him to inhale a slow, deep breath. Surely she would get bored at some point.

At length, her grip on his chin turned to gentle cradling instead just before her fingers slid away along with her attention. Djedar swallowed, trying not to show his relief too obviously.

“Interesting,” said Meresamun. “He will join those going to the fortress in the morning, then, and tell Tefnahkt of the work done here. If he’s already escaped once, keep him in chains, but don’t beat him again unless he actually deserves it. Pointless cruelty costs Lord Tefnahkt time and money.”

“Yes, Mistress,” the slave-driver replied – but then he asked hesitantly, “Who is to lead this caravan?”

Meresamun gave a dismissive wave. “Tefnahkt wanted to see that man who calls himself… what was it? Something like Blacksword.”

Djedar couldn’t stop himself. “Blacksword has never led a caravan to the fortress.”

The other slave-driver moved behind him; he heard his whip slither in the sand, preparing for another strike. But Meresamun lifted a hand and stopped him, looking at Djedar where he knelt and fearlessly met her gaze.

“Why’s that a concern?” she asked.

“We lost a caravan not two weeks ago,” the chatty slave-driver behind her put in. “And we lost another one a few months before that.”

Meresamun ignored him. Her only focus was Djedar, waiting for him to respond.

“The fortress,” Djedar answered calmly, “is beyond the border of the Blasted Wastes.”

She nodded. “I know; I’ve been there. Magnificent, isn’t it? Tefnahkt took me there himself more than once.” She smiled, as if this was a friendly conversation – she didn’t even seem patronizing. She actually seemed genuine. “If Blacksword doesn’t get practice now, he won’t ever be able to lead caravans to the fortress. You seem to have a lot of experience surviving in the desert. I’m sure you can offer advice.”

Djedar scoffed but didn’t answer. As if any slave-driver would listen to advice from a slave, particularly a slave who had killed some of their own. He enjoyed the journey to the fortress well enough, being strange in his own ways and having made it a few times, but every man knew each trek could be their last. The Blasted Wastes were no place for any mortal, not even one who knew how to survive the harshest of ordinary deserts.

A dry smile tugged at Djedar’s lips. He lifted his head and asked, “And who are you, Mistress Mereasmun? I’ve been a slave of Tefnahkt for years… but I’ve never seen you. I’d certainly remember if I did.”

Meresamun laughed. “Well, you’re not likely to see me again, I’m afraid. I came to visit in case Tefnahkt himself was here, but he spends most of his time at the fortress now. That’s far too perilous a journey for me without him by my side to protect me. Crossing the Blasted Wastes, even only a few leagues, with naught but these slave-drivers to protect me is unacceptable.”

Djedar intoned a thoughtful hum low in his chest, nodding. “I see… a consort, then. His favorite, I imagine.”

She only smiled and moved away. “An impressive mouth on that one,” she commented to the slave-driver who had answered her questions earlier. “In more ways than one, too. I like him. Try not to let him die in the cursed desert.” As she walked away, still looking over the other slaves as she went, Djedar heard her continue: “I’ll return to Waset in the morning— wait. What about this one? Why was he beaten? Stop groveling for just one moment, slave…”

She stepped off the path again to examine another slave. Djedar stopped paying any attention, letting his eyes wander up to the stars instead.

They said the stars were signs from the gods, a promise they would always be there watching over. Stars showed the eternity of the deities of the Black Land. Right now, though, not even the stars nor the sliver of a moon Djedar so enjoyed brought him any comfort. Death frightened him, even if he would never admit it. Staring death in the face by wandering the desert or challenging his owners was one thing, but setting foot in the cursed desert was something else entirely.

Another caravan dared to enter the reaches of the Blasted Wastes… the arrogance of Tefnahkt the Red knew no bounds. Building a fortress out there was more than arrogant enough, outright insane in fact, but to keep sending caravans through these deserts and losing over half of them felt incredibly wasteful. It was no small wonder Tefnahkt currently possessed so little manpower, relatively speaking. How long would it be before he ended up in one of those lost caravans, instead of one of the few that actually made it?

And yet, the more he thought about it, Djedar found himself looking forward to the journey. Any chance to leave the dig site and return to the open desert once more might be worth it… even if dying one day in the Wastes wouldn’t surprise him, with Tefnahkt carelessly pushing everyone’s luck.

---

Starlight cast a strange glow upon the desert, lighting the bleak sands in so deep a blue that the flowing dunes looked like a painted ocean. Not so with the sprawling activity far below, however, where slaves worked themselves to the bone in the middle of those seemingly endless sands, the torchlit site of their work nestled deep within the middle of unlivable desolation.

The slaves toiled night and day uncovering ruins so ancient most never would have believed them to be real. Great blocks of sandstone erupted from nowhere in the dig site, and they had already uncovered several statues of various Kemheti gods, particularly the wolf-headed Anubis, standing watch over the long-buried structure hidden deep beneath the desert.

Others would have thought time alone had hidden the structures away. But the one who watched them from afar knew differently: these ruins had been buried on purpose, hidden from the world, sealed away and inaccessible.

From where he rested flat on his chest, the dwarf Buharum stared down at the faraway dig site, watching the slaves go about to and fro like ants.

He perched his bearded chin atop his folded hands. These Men he watched were not like him. Buharum was what they called a Bes-ak – those derived from the bearded god Bes, shortest of all gods but an important figure in the pantheon of the fertile Black Land, Kemhet. The Besak-ha, his people, had lived here for many ages.

Most people called his kind a simpler, perhaps less savory name… a dwarf.

Northerners would have jumped to the conclusion that a desert was no place for a dwarf, but not so for him and his unusual people: he had grown up here all his long life, spanning the lives of many mortal Men, and so had his ancestors. Buharum wasn’t ancient, by any means, but even he and his people considered this tomb ancient. He never imagined Men would suddenly want to dig it up. How did they even know about its existence at all?

Having lived so long, few things ever came to truly concern him. This, however, did.

“Brother,” said a voice at his back, and Buharum craned his neck to regard the speaker, “Solon wants you.”

Kukrum, Buharum’s brother by clan but not blood relation, stood just beyond the crest of the dune. Like Buharum, Kukrum was also a dwarf, not a mortal Man. Also like Buharum he had ruddy skin and a massive black beard of thick, intricate braids and bronze ornamentation covering his entire front. His suit of lamellar armor perfectly matched Buharum’s own, bronze in hue and light in make. At least, such armor was light for a dwarf. The clan-brothers also wore matching headdresses, so they almost looked like twins.

“Very well,” said Buharum as he rose up from his place in the sand, only halfheartedly dusting himself off before trudging back toward the encampment. His companions sat in a rough circle, though they had no fire around which to gather. Light would draw unwanted attention.

Three Men waited for the pair of dwarves. Kukrum chose to make himself look unimportant by standing off to the side, letting the three humans present turn their full attention to Buharum, who folded his arms over his mighty beard.

Mortal Men and immortal dwarf alike had come together in this little group, all part of something greater: the Medjay, an ancient order meant to protect the land of Kemhet, guarding its pharaoh and its people… and keeping safe its ancient secrets.

The Medjay, of course, were a much larger organization than this trio of humans and two Besak-ha. But they were the only ones who had been available to undertake this particular mission – and the Medjay as a whole remained unaware just how desperate a situation this had become. Someone actually uncovering the Tomb of Ankhu seemed impossible.

Back to the matter at hand, however, Buharum looked over his other companions. Rarely did Buharum ever see any of the Men of their group lighten up, but right now they looked so grim that he almost wanted to kick sand in their faces. Worrying themselves to death would hardly help the situation, and their lifespans were short enough already.

Their leader rose to his feet. Solon Sun-Eyes was an Imperial born in Kemhet and wholly integrated into their ways, as good as a Kemheti himself. He wore only simple white clothing, a composite bow and quiver on his back, and knife at his side. His revealing attire showed off his skin bronzed yet still fairer than many Kemhetis, as well as his heavy muscles and his sizable gut from too much Kemheti beer. Every hair on his body he kept shaved so body was perfectly slick, save for his dark eyebrows. This only served to highlight his bright hazel eyes, as well as his still more unusual tattoos.

Black, jagged tattoos covered his body in strange, disturbing, winding patterns. They touched all his limbs, his neck, and even his head and face. Runes written in the same black ink nestled between the assorted curves and prongs of the sundry designs.

Even Buharum had no idea what any of it meant, including the runic letters. Supposedly, the Dwarves had long ago mastered the art of ancient runic magic, said to be the language of the creator gods themselves. However, Buharum had never actually bothered studying it, in spite of his dwarven heritage. Far too complicated – and probably a drag.

“Buharum,” said the incredibly tattooed Solon in his voice like thunder and grinding stone, “what did you see?”

“Plenty of movement, even now,” Buharum replied. “They’re always active. I can’t see their faces from here, but I’d bet they’re as exhausted as you lot look.”

“This is no joking matter.”

Buharum shrugged. “Oh, I know it’s not. Of everything we protect, this is the most important. But…”

“But nothing,” cut in the only woman present, a knife-wielder by the name of Farrah, clad in robes of deep crimson. She hailed from Deshret, the Red Land. She flipped her long, black hair away from her swarthy face, eyes gleaming with hatred. “I watched the camp earlier. There are guards, but we’ve faced forces their size before. We could split them up and pick them off – then we go into the camp and take out the slaves.”

Solon glared at her then, his face like stone. “No. We do not harm slaves under any circumstances.”

Farrah scoffed. “Even if those slaves are helping to end the world?”

“Here now, they haven’t even found the blasted door yet, and the world’s not gonna end. You’re just catastrophizing early,” Buharum remarked. Everyone ignored him – lost in their own arguments, as usual. Leave it to them to not listen to a dwarf.

“Yes,” Solon snapped back at her.

Farrah threw her hands in the air. “Fine.”

“It wasn’t by their doing that they serve those with evil in their hearts,” Solon went on like some kind of poet, straightening the quiver on his back.

Next, the tallest and darkest figure among them spoke: the third human in the group, one who called himself Dunewalker. “Inspiring words,” he said, “but all men carry evil in their hearts.”

Everyone fell silent then, at least for a moment. Dunewalker was the eldest of the mortals present, a few years older than Solon, leaving Farrah the youngest of all. Buharum wasn’t sure of his exact age, but if Dunewalker didn’t keep his head and his face perfectly shaven like Solon, Buharum guessed he would’ve had a decent touch of grey in his hair.

Dunewalker was an impressive man, particularly given his lean musculature left largely visible in his simple outfit of a leather harness, a vest, and a metal plate strapped over his heart, along with trousers and boots. Dunewalker’s skin was darker than anyone else present, a rich ebony in hue – a rare sight in Kemhet, Deshret, or indeed anywhere outside his faraway homeland of Axa, in the deepest south. His people had no desire to travel so far as to mingle with the folk of other lands, and Dunewalker seemed to feel the same way, especially since he never shared his real name.

Everyone looked grimmer than ever, their thoughts turning inward.

Buharum rolled his eyes. “Is it a quality of not living very long that makes you all so damn serious?”

Dunewalker flashed him a quick, bright grin, though Buharum didn’t read mirth in it. “I’ve never met a Besak who loves to flaunt his immortality as you do, Buharum. What made you thatway?”

“We are all immortal, Dune,” Solon put in. “The Besak-ha aren’t taken by age, but our souls will continue their journeys when we leave these bodies behind.”

“Great,” Farrah muttered, “another sermon…”

But Dunewalker straightened up and said, “He’s right. And that’s what concerns me most – the creature and its immortal soul still trapped in that… labyrinthian tomb.”

For the first time since the conversation started, Buharum’s fellow dwarf Kukrum spoke up from the edge of their sad little camp. “Do you think those poor slaves even know what they’re digging up?”

“Would it matter if they did?” Farrah remarked. “They’re slaves. They have to do what they’re told.”

Solon went to his horse and removed a bedroll from the saddle. He returned to their sitting circle to toss the blanket to the ground, spreading it pointedly over the sand.

“Get comfortable,” he ordered. “We’ll take turns watching the dig site. You’re right, Farrah: slaves must do as they are told. That’s why we’re going to wait until a convoy leaves, bound for their master. Then, we follow that back to whoever is behind uncovering the tomb, and we put an end to this.”

An ‘end’ to what, exactly? Buharum wanted to ask as he sat down to clean his mighty crescent axe, just for something to do. But he didn’t bother voicing his question.Why anyone would want to dig up the tomb of Ankhu seemed unfathomable. The only thing in that place was death.

Death – and one of the greatest evils the world had ever known.

---

Sleep was all but impossible to find in a slave camp. Somehow, though, Djedar managed enough rest to awaken alert and ready to face his fate. He went with silent reservation, herded with a handful of other slaves across the eternally bustling dig site.

Day had not yet broken as they prepared to leave. Torches and lanterns still chased away the shadows throughout the dig, and exhausted slaves toiled with glazed-over eyes everywhere Djedar turned, the whips of their drivers and blind loyalty to their master keeping them working. A thin veil of early morning light, pale against the dismal deep blue sky, had only just begun to chase away the stars. It crept into the far edges of the horizon and offered hope of respite to the night-working slaves.

The walk was long, given the size of the dig. When they at last reached the convoy, Djedar didn’t find it impressive. Five horses were assembled, each intended for a slave-driver. One enclosed wooden wagon stood at the ready, two horses pulling it; the wagon was shaped almost like a small ship, not unlike some Kemheti funerary barge, which immediately put Djedar ill at ease. But it seemed at home in the sands, given its broad wheels and design suitable for desert travel.

Behind the wagon trailed a camel loaded down with supplies, tied to the hind of the wagon by a single rope. Camels were a rare sight in Djedar’s homeland of Kemhet, as the people of Kemhet considered them unclean and unfit for use even as a pack animal, preferring donkeys or oxen. Here in Deshret, however, camels were used for all sorts of purposes, even as mounts.

The slave-driver who called himself Blacksword hadn’t yet mounted his horse, marching around barking orders while spittle flew from his thick, black beard. Long curly hair of the same color hung past his shoulders, and dark, beady eyes set under a heavy brow made him look meaner than a serpent. His deeply ruddy skin told of his Deshreti birth and heritage of desert wanderers, as did his attire of robes to protect from the sun and several belts holding blades.

“Kemheti,” Blacksword barked, wheeling to glare at Djedar, “I was told you’ve traveled this way before.”

“Yes,” Djedar answered.

“I was also told you’ve survived in the desert alone for days.”

“I have.”

“And no one knows how you did it.”

This time, Djedar didn’t bother responding.

Blacksword continued anyway, undeterred. “I come from a tribe not far from here. My family has walked the Red Lands since long before you and whatever slave spawned you were even lifting bricks. I do not want your advice unless I explicitly ask for it, is that understood?”

Djedar replied with a smile, “I’ll remember that.”

Blacksword spat a thick wad of saliva in the sand at Djedar’s feet. Had he asked, Djedar would’ve advised him promptly that wasting his water in such a way wouldn’t get him far, no matter how long his ancestors had lived here. As it was, he didn’t say a word.

“Good,” Blacksword snapped, turning away. “Put him in chains, as Meresamun ordered!”

Two more slave-drivers came forward, heavy chains rattling in their hands. One knelt to shackle Djedar’s ankles while the other tightened irons around his wrists, connecting those to a metal ring enclosed about his neck. Djedar, like all the other slaves, wore nothing more than a shendyt, or essentially a civilized Kemheti loincloth, and the many chains bit into his bare skin.

Such elaborate restraints drew the eyes of his peers, the slaves watching from the wagon. From the looks on the faces of one or two, they knew why he wore such shackles.

But Djedar merely flashed a quick smile to the men who had put him in chains and said, “Thanks, it’s impressive. Quite the fashion statement for seeing Tefnahkt.”

“Lord Tefnahkt,” one slave corrected harshly. Djedar ignored him.

“You’ll walk alongsidethe wagon for now,” Blacksword said, motioning Djedar forward with a swing of his arm. To another slave-driver, he said, “Tie a rope so he can’t wander off.”

When a rope had been fastened around his chains, the other end tied to the side of the wagon, Blacksword was finally satisfied. Djedar didn’t comment all the while, already at work figuring out how he could escape his bonds if the need arose.

They set off in silence, save for the creaking wagon and shifting sand around the horses’ hooves. No road stretched before them for their travel as they set off in a seemingly random direction away from the dig site, into the vastness of the desert. The sand beneath them had been packed only lightly, subtle but noticeable, telling of other caravans that had come this way before – others belonging to Tefnahkt, over half of which had been lost in the desolation of the Wastes.

Hopefully they wouldn’t meet the same fate.

Resigned, Djedar walked alongside the wagon, chains rattling with every step. At least they hadn’t put a muzzle on him, he supposed, though it almost surprised him given Blacksword’s attitude. The shackles on his wrists cut into him almost as badly as the ones on his ankles, so he turned his attention outward.

Emptiness surrounded them, a sea of seemingly endless sand in all directions. Soon the dig site disappeared over the rolling dunes that still carried a faintly blue hue, so early was the morning light. The convoy moved between the dunes at a slow but steady pace. As they traveled, the sun came all too soon and lent its golden light to the desert, turning the sky a brilliant blue.

Civilization was a foreign concept to these timeless red deserts of deep Deshret, so far from anything that even the wandering tribes of the Deshreti people dared not set foot here. These lands rested on the doorstep of the Blasted Wastes, a place no mortal man should tread after its accursed fate.

Djedar didn’t know many details of its fate. He knew little of history and culture, though he learned whatever he could when he got the chance. Still, most everyone in the Southron lands knew at least some of the tales… though apparently there were those who still hadn’t heard them.

Several hours into their trek, around the time Djedar’s legs began to ache from shuffling in chains beside a horse-driven wagon traveling treacherous sands, one of the slaves riding on a seat jutting from the wagon’s side gave him a long look and said, “Are you the man who almost escaped?”

Djedar feigned ignorance, regarding the other slave with a look of wonder. “Someone almost escaped?”

The slave stared at him briefly. “They say he killed several men.”

“Well, I hope we don’t meet him. He sounds dangerous.”

“They say he wandered the desert and no one knows how he survived. No one goes out in those dunes and lives.”

Djedar shrugged, manacles clinking loudly. “We’re in those dunes right now. Are you expecting to die?”

“What? No. We have supplies and— ” He paused and stared again, then blurted, “Are you simple?”

“Relatively. I’m only a slave, after all.” Djedar side-eyed his would-be interrogator, the faintest hint of a smile playing on his lips. “What about you?”

He scoffed. “Tell me about the Wastes, if you’re so smart.”

“You’ve never made this journey before, then?”

Suddenly the other slave balked, shrinking like someone had raised a whip. “No. Is it true there are monsters that don’t feel the bite of steel?”

Djedar almost considered actually telling him what he knew: great wars long ago had corrupted the region with so much magic that it seeped into the very spirits of the land, changing them forever – everything from the sands themselves to the wildlife had become abominations, immune to most mortal weaponry. The Wastes were a place where directions made no sense and living nightmares hunted in the night, longing for the sweet taste of human flesh over all else.

But he said instead, testing the waters, “Don’t you trust the power of Tefnahkt to protect you?”

The slave perked up in an instant, puffing his chest out and answering immediately, “That’s true – you’re right. Lord Tefnahkt commands these lands. He’ll watch over us, won’t he? He watches over all who serve him, even the lowest slaves.”

Djedar snorted. “I never said he’d watch over us.”

The slave stared at him for speaking blasphemy. “Then you don’t believe?”

Well, that concluded the conversation. Djedar let his gaze wander over the horizon, watching the waves of heat shimmering in the air and focusing on putting one foot before the other.

The slave added after a moment, sounding angry, “You should believe. He’ll see us safely to the fortress – it is his bidding.”

Djedar said nothing. The dig site and beyond were in Set’s lands, the red deserts away from Kemhet’s borders, but not even Set’s merciless reach extended into the Wastes. Whatever dark god exerted his bidding over the place they were going, Djedar didn’t know, but he knew for certain it wasn’t Lord Tefnahkt the Red.

Shame the slave who spoke to him was yet another zealot. In a way, he wouldn’t have minded a conversation. Something to take his mind off his suffering, the way his feet ached and his legs burned, his throat pleading for a drink.

Then he almost collapsed.

But he didn’t. Djedar only stumbled, his assortment of chains trying to deafen him once again with their incessant clinking. He righted himself quickly, straightening up and dismissing his pained grimace to replace it with a grim stare instead.

Blacksword slowed his steed, throwing Djedar a look. He was the only slave who’d been forced to walk, so he stood out with or without restraints.

Another slave-driver looked also, then shot Blacksword a confused glare. “You let him waste away and our heads will roll for it. Lord Tefnahkt won’t hesitate to punish all of us if we let his animal-keeper die. I’m not feeding that damn elephant or anything else in his menagerie.”

“Then maybe he should be keeping the animals instead of digging,” Blacksword answered, taking a long pull from an animal skin doubtlessly full of heqet: essentially, nutritious beer.

“You know Lord Tefnahkt wants the slaves helping with the dig.”

Another moment of silence passed. Hooves beat gently in the sands, the wheels creaked on rhythmically. Djedar thought about letting himself fall just to see what they would do, but pride kept his legs moving and his head high.

“Blacksword,” the other slave-driver hissed again, insistently.

“I won’t die just because you don’t like this stupid slave,” a third slave-driver snapped. “You know Lord Tefnahkt favors that one. Whether you see his reasons or not, it is his will that the slave lives.”

Rolling his eyes, Blacksword finally gave another wave of his hand and ordered, “Put him on the wagon – and give him something to drink. We don’t need him slowing us down.”

The convoy’s pace slackened long enough for the other slaves to help Djedar. No one had lifted a finger to help him all the while, but now the slaves hurried to grab Djedar’s arms and haul him up onto an exterior seat, apparently still not warranting a resting place inside the wagon itself. One man then passed Djedar a skin of heqet, which he took and uncorked without a word, forgetting his long-fought-for dignity and drinking deeply.

---

Djedar lost track of time as they went ever deeper into the desert, as was wont to happen when one neared the dark magic of the Wastes. Time didn’t matter, anyway: all that mattered was staying alive. The struggle for survival took his remaining focus, as Blacksword occasionally ordered him down from his seat, forcing him to walk himself numb before his fellow slave-drivers reminded him that Lord Tefnahkt wanted Djedar alive and capable of speech.

Eventually Blacksword lost interest in him, which told Djedar they neared the Wastes. The looks of resolve and general annoyance on the slave-drivers’ faces steadily melted into fear and concern – all except Blacksword, who remained confident. Djedar couldn’t decide if that worried him more or less.

Then, things changed. The land around them became something different. Slow at first, Djedar picked up on even the subtlest hint that they neared the Blasted Wastes. It started with a strange sensation in the air, almost like humidity: not something a desert often felt. A sticky, cloying sensation settled onto his skin thicker than the sweat already coating him.

“Djedar Rath,” Blacksword called, catching his attention. “Is that your name, slave?”

“Yeah,” Djedar answered wearily. “What?”

“Consider this me asking for your whatever wisdom you’re supposed to have. Are we going the right way?”

Djedar allowed a pause before answering, “You don’t know which way you’re going?”

“I’m navigating,” snapped another slave-driver. “I’ll take care of it, Blacksword. We’re going the right way.”

Blacksword didn’t say another word, looking away from Djedar; that meant he wasn’t supposed to speak. Djedar fell silent once again, slipping back into thought.

Next, the sands began to change. The red sand steadily deepened and grew pale, becoming very faintly grey. Then, every grain around them suddenly looked ashen, until all the various blues, greens, reds, and whites worn by the convoy stood out in an almost frightening way, like they entered a world where color did not belong.

As if the utter desolation of the unforgiving red deserts in Deshret hadn’t been terrible enough, the Blasted Wastes made any man long for the comfort of at least the familiar, no matter how arid and dangerous. Because, for every peril in an ordinary wasteland, the realm that had once been the Empire of Sinkarya so long ago held ten perils more… none of them familiar.

Worse still, perhaps, was the fog. The longer they traveled, the heavier it became. As day fell into night, clouds settled around them, just as colorless as the sand under their feet. The other slaves wore masks of terror, while every slave-drivers’ hands rested on his weapons. Djedar steepled his fingers together before him and stared off into the distance, his brow knit, silent as the grave.

“Is night falling?” asked one slave, keeping his voice low like disturbing the stillness might kill him. “I can’t tell.”

“Shouldn’t we be resting by now?” said another. “I feel like I could fall off the cart.”

“Blacksword,” a slave-driver called from horseback, “let’s make camp before we go even deeper into this accursed place.”

Blacksword roughly pulled his steed to a halt, wheeling to face the convoy he led. “Make camp!” he shouted. “Tomorrow we ride day and night! See that the animals are fed first and keep the slaves together!”

The wagon halted on a flat patch of sand away from any dunes, the slave-drivers dismounting and motioning the slaves off their seats to help set up camp. Djedar leapt down and watched everyone hurry around him, bringing out supplies for the horses first while others set up a perimeter.

No one paid him any heed; he couldn’t help, shackled as he was. Djedar wandered to the back of the wagon and looked at the camel standing there chewing gods-knew-what, as they hadn’t passed even a thorny shrub for days. Djedar lifted a hand, and the camel lowered its nose into Djedar’s touch.

“You wouldn’t get far on that beast,” remarked a nearby slave, “if that’s what you were hoping, traitor.”

Djedar gave a low chuckle, but he didn’t answer.

Everything seemed reasonably alright until Blacksword gave another shout— “Asan, get over here!” The slave beside Djedar immediately went to answer the call, but Blacksword kept issuing orders. “All of you, set up torches around the camp! Keep them lit all night, I don’t want a single one going out!”

Those words sent Djedar’s stomach dropping so low that his gnawing hunger, which bordered on starvation, was instantly forgotten. Blacksword patrolled around the camp on foot, one hand gripping the hilt of his namesake black khopesh sword sheathed at his hip: a wicked crescent-shaped and axe-like blade, curved but still bearing a vicious point at the end despite its relatively squared-off tip. Djedar gave Blacksword such a deep stare that it drew his attention.

“What?” prompted the head slave-driver.

“Torches aren’t a good idea,” Djedar answered.

Blacksword laughed, his yellowed teeth colorful against the grey world. “Fire drives away animals, Rath.”

“These aren’t animals. The creatures that live here understand fire; they don’t fear it. If you set up torches, you’re as good as inviting them to a banquet.”

Yet again Blacksword waved his hand. “Go to sleep, slave.”

With that, he turned away and resumed barking orders. Djedar scoffed, setting his jaw, but he said no more. He retrieved his bedroll and threw it underneath the body of the wagon, spreading it out with difficulty thanks to the chains still squeezing his wrists.

“What are you doing?” asked the same slave who’d spoken to him during the journey, the one who really thought Tefnahkt would keep them safe. “You really are simple, aren’t you?”

“Simplytrying to stay alive,” Djedar replied, flashing the slave a brief smile.

“You’re like a child hiding under his bed.”

“Under the bed is where the monsters live. Your mother didn’t tell you that?”

The slave laughed. “That makes even less sense. Why would you hide under there, then?”

“Because in the Wastes, the monsters don’t hide, so under the bed is vacant – and I’ll be taking it.” Djedar lifted one shackled hand, kissed where his thumb rested against the middle of his forefinger, and used that to motion a smooth gesture like a salute off his forehead. “Good night.”

The bewildered slave watched Djedar crunch his tall self to squeeze between the wagon wheels and then underneath the length of the cart’s body, stretching out so he wouldn’t get run over if it moved. Bending down, the slave insisted upon staring at him some more. Djedar quirked a long, dark eyebrow and stared right back.

“No, I’m not sharing, if that’s what you’re going to ask.”

“You’re insane,” declared the slave.

Djedar frowned. “I thought I was simple.”

The man shook his head and moved off, finally. Thanking the gods for his relative solace, Djedar at last attempted to get some rest.

Not long after he drifted into a faint and unrestful slumber, still plagued by thoughts, a sound pulled him from his poor attempt at sleep.

He opened his eyes to an even darker desert night, fog masking the moon and stars from view. Only a faint spill of pallid glow, distilled by the strange mist, lit the grey sands. The light of the torches around the halted convoy still burned, casting an orange haze by which one could see hints of the nothingness around them.

A whisper drifted over the camp. Djedar knit his brow and sat up as far as he could without hitting his head on the underbelly of the wagon, looking around. Everyone else still slept, various slaves and slave-drivers snoozing on their bedrolls, scattered around in the ring of torches. A few seemed uneasy, shifting now and then, perhaps partially awake – but clearly not awake enough to hear…

“Djedar,” a voice called, sounding almost otherworldly. It sounded almost like Blacksword, and yet the more he thought about it, the more he knew it wasn’t the lead slave-driver. This voice breathed his name half through his nose and half in his throat, ending it in a hiss that sent a chill up Djedar’s spine. Cautiously, Djedar dragged himself out from under the wagon, sand partially masking the sound of his assorted chains.

Nothing moved. There were still no signs of life around them. A quick gust of wind stirred the ashen sands, sending air too cold even for a desert night billowing over the camp and disturbing the many blankets and bedrolls. The horses woke, shifting on their feet, and the torchlight danced ominously.

Then two torches went out.

It made Djedar start, whirling to face the sudden darkness. But nothing moved there, either – at least, not anything he saw.

“Djedar, come to me,” the voice whispered again like someone stood right over his shoulder. His skin prickled along his neck, and he turned again to face the sound – only to see that two more torches had gone out.

They were being hunted.

“Horus have mercy,” Djedar muttered under his breath.

Finally, a few others in the caravan started to stir. Another slave nearby sat up, blinking in alarm.

Then came the voice again. “Asan,” it called. The slave beside Djedar reacted instantly, looking in the direction of the voice that sounded so like and yet unlike their leader, Blacksword.

Without a word, the slave Asan got to his feet and began marching right toward it – away from the remaining ring of torches. Djedar didn’t move, but he snapped, “What’re you doing?”

“Blacksword calls,” replied Asan. “You may not care about your duties to Lord Tefnahkt, but I do. Blacksword serves his will.”

And he resumed walking. Against his better judgment, Djedar blurted, “Go out there and you’ll walk right down a monster’s throat.”

“Monsters can’t speak,” Asan scoffed, but regardless, Djedar’s words made him hesitate…

At least until the voice called again, sounding so much like Blacksword that even Djedar almost wondered. “Asan – come. Now!” it beckoned.

And so the slave went. No longer hesitating, he strode right out into the fog. Djedar almost had to admire how the depths of Asan’s stupidity lent him such bravery—

He heard a distant crunch. No scream broke the stillness at any point, but Djedar knew the muffled meaty crack of a human neck. Such a sound was unmistakable.

Then something laughed.

It wasn’t a human laugh. It wasn’t the cold chuckle of an assassin, nor the triumphant laugh of a warrior. It was a distorted noise, throaty and undulating, first high almost like a hyena and then so low it resembled the deep baying of a hound, and yet not familiar like either. Djedar didn’t have to see its source to know such a voice was not of this world.

His blood ran cold, and for a moment, he couldn’t make his own muscles move.

More slaves awoke, and something thudded within the wagon. Blacksword came staggering out, still wearing all his gear. He looked around with wild eyes before his gaze settled hard on Djedar, but only briefly. Another slave-driver woke up nearby, and Blacksword turned to him instead.

“Who said that?” he asked.

“I didn’t hear anything,” replied the other slave-driver.

Djedar ignored all of them. He took the general confusion as a chance to search the camp. One slave-driver had a long, straight-bladed knife in a dark sheath near his pillow. Djedar scooped it up, tucking it less than comfortably behind the front of his belt. If Blacksword saw a knife on him, he wouldn’t have it long.

“Blacksword?” called one of the slaves, catching Djedar’s attention again. He started off into the desert like the first man, disappearing into the mist.

“No, you idiot – I’m here!” Blacksword bellowed after him. “Get back here!”

Too late. Up went a scream this time, piercing the night – the wrenching cry of a man’s final shout before his death. Then came the meaty crunch, this one louder than the first.

“Fools! Stay in the camp!” Blacksword ordered, drawing his blade. “Stay close to the wagon – no one is ordering you out into the desert!”

But Djedar hesitated. He watched the slave-drivers usher the remaining slaves back around the wagon. The horses snorted and stamped at the sand, ears flat against their heads. If he ever were to escape, this would be a perfect chance. But to escape out into the Wastes…

“Djedar,” the voice whispered practically in his ear. He cringed and hurried back to the convoy, though the shackles around his ankles slowed him down. No – he couldn’t escape. Not right now, not while they were being hunted—

Something lunged from the mist.

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