Post by Anac Su-namun on Jul 28, 2004 3:50:12 GMT -5
(For the sake of this fanfic the books have not left Hamonaptra, or are back there, which ever version you like best!)
Egypt:
1921
Circe looked at Kuran’s sweat-drenched face, and felt that familiar ache inside her. Her hand touched his cheek; it was cold and bathed in sweat as he fought against the fever in his blood, he could not die, he just could not. Her eyes filled with tears as he began to thrash in his sleep, more violently than ever before. “Help him!” she pleaded desperately with the physician.
“There is nothing I can do now, his life is in the hands of God.” He said not meeting her eyes, and continuing to pack away his instruments, “This fever will pass, and he will collapse into a coma. Which may last for a week, a month perhaps longer, it’s impossible to predict.” She collapsed in a dejected heap, her shoulders racked with sobs.
Later her mother had entered the tent, and lifted her onto her feet, with the help of her brother, and carried her gently from the room, she was exhausted emotionally and physically. As she lay in her own tent that night, she dreamed, first of Kuran; suddenly the effigy of Osiris at Karnack rose up behind him, covering him in its shadow. She saw his face contort with pain, and then he vanished. Her fear clouded her thoughts and she felt like she was drowning in despair. Suddenly the statue of Horus stood before; his great wounded eye beat down upon her. She quailed under his gaze but felt her anguish lift; two great books emerged from the shadow, one ebony, the other the colour of the noonday sun.
Circe woke with a start, it was still dark outside, and a nightingale sang on a bush on the edge of the Oasis. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes, the sheets fell away from her as she rose and lifted the flap of the tent. She shivered, not from the cold but a kind of chill that ran the length of her spine, a dread in her stomach. The Gods had made it perfectly clear, she must find those books, or Kuran would die, they were offering her a chance to save his life, she must take it.
Circe’s horse stood in the shelter of an overgrown bush, and chewed distractedly on a handful of dhurra millet. Circe looked over her shoulder as she loaded the last of her hastily gathered supplies. Swinging onto Bast’s back she headed out into the dessert, hoping the Gods would guide her, she only had enough water-skins to last four days, and enough food for ten.
Urging Bast into a gallop, she set out as a faint line of crimson light, diluted the perfect blackness of a morning sky.
Egypt:
1921
Circe looked at Kuran’s sweat-drenched face, and felt that familiar ache inside her. Her hand touched his cheek; it was cold and bathed in sweat as he fought against the fever in his blood, he could not die, he just could not. Her eyes filled with tears as he began to thrash in his sleep, more violently than ever before. “Help him!” she pleaded desperately with the physician.
“There is nothing I can do now, his life is in the hands of God.” He said not meeting her eyes, and continuing to pack away his instruments, “This fever will pass, and he will collapse into a coma. Which may last for a week, a month perhaps longer, it’s impossible to predict.” She collapsed in a dejected heap, her shoulders racked with sobs.
Later her mother had entered the tent, and lifted her onto her feet, with the help of her brother, and carried her gently from the room, she was exhausted emotionally and physically. As she lay in her own tent that night, she dreamed, first of Kuran; suddenly the effigy of Osiris at Karnack rose up behind him, covering him in its shadow. She saw his face contort with pain, and then he vanished. Her fear clouded her thoughts and she felt like she was drowning in despair. Suddenly the statue of Horus stood before; his great wounded eye beat down upon her. She quailed under his gaze but felt her anguish lift; two great books emerged from the shadow, one ebony, the other the colour of the noonday sun.
Circe woke with a start, it was still dark outside, and a nightingale sang on a bush on the edge of the Oasis. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes, the sheets fell away from her as she rose and lifted the flap of the tent. She shivered, not from the cold but a kind of chill that ran the length of her spine, a dread in her stomach. The Gods had made it perfectly clear, she must find those books, or Kuran would die, they were offering her a chance to save his life, she must take it.
Circe’s horse stood in the shelter of an overgrown bush, and chewed distractedly on a handful of dhurra millet. Circe looked over her shoulder as she loaded the last of her hastily gathered supplies. Swinging onto Bast’s back she headed out into the dessert, hoping the Gods would guide her, she only had enough water-skins to last four days, and enough food for ten.
Urging Bast into a gallop, she set out as a faint line of crimson light, diluted the perfect blackness of a morning sky.
