The Sun Replied
Summary: You expected nothing by jokingly saying "Good morning, Ra" to the sun each day as you walked to work. Well, today, Ra answers back
Warning(s): None! :)
Words: 3,161
Note(s): This is set in the Moon Knight universe, after the events of the show occurred
You didn’t mean for it to become a ritual.
The first time, it was just something to press into the empty space.
Your walk to work isn’t long, not really, but it stretches in that particular way quiet moments do, long enough for your mind to start turning on itself. Long enough to notice things you’d rather blur past. The jagged cracks splitting the sidewalk like old scars. The same car alarm shrieking in uneven bursts down the block, as if it’s caught in a loop it can’t escape. The low hum of a waking city that never quite drowns out the quieter, heavier noise underneath- your own thoughts, pressing in before the day has a chance to bury them under conversations, tasks, or distractions.
So you look up.
The sky is clear in a way that almost feels intentional. Not soft or forgiving, but sharp- an uninterrupted stretch of pale morning blue pulled thin across the horizon. The sun hangs there, just cresting the edge of the world, already too bright, already insisting on its presence. It forces your eyes to narrow, light catching along your lashes, spilling gold into everything it touches: the rooftops, the pavement, the edges of your vision.
And because there was nothing else to say...
“Good morning, Ra,” you muttered.
A joke.
A dumb one, if you’re being honest. The kind that only feels clever at two in the morning, when your screen is the only light in the room and you’re half-lost in a spiral of mythology threads and comment sections that take themselves just seriously enough to be convincing. You’d scrolled past posts about sun gods and ancient rituals, about people who once believed the sky itself had a pulse, had intention, had eyes.
It lingered longer than it should have.
Maybe that’s why you said it.
Or maybe it was just the silence.
Either way, it wasn’t meant to be anything.
Just a throwaway line tossed into the open air, an attempt to soften the edge of a world that, at that hour, felt a little too vast and a little too uninterested in you.
You expected nothing.
You got nothing.
No shift in the light. No warmth curling differently against your skin. No sign, subtle or otherwise, that anything had heard you, much less cared.
That should’ve been the end of it.
But the next day, you did it again.
Not intentionally, not in any way you could point to. It just… slipped loose from somewhere behind your teeth, like your body remembered before your mind had the chance to weigh in. Same stretch of sidewalk under your feet, uneven and familiar. Same angle of sunlight cutting across your face, forcing your eyes half-shut. Same quiet pressing in around you, dense and expectant in a way that made the words feel almost necessary.
“Morning, Ra.”
You didn’t break stride. Didn’t pause to think about it. The words fell behind you as easily as your footsteps, swallowed by the space you left in your wake.
By the third day, you noticed.
Not just that you were saying it, but that you were waiting for the moment to.
Your attention started to catch on the details. The point in your walk where the buildings began to thin, where brick and concrete gave way just enough for the sky to widen overhead. The way the light hit there, unobstructed, sharper- less filtered by glass and shadow.
By the fifth day, it wasn’t an accident anymore.
You timed it.
Not consciously, not at first, but your steps adjusted, your pace settling into something just deliberate enough to land you there at the right moment. You’d glance up before you spoke now, squinting into that same unwavering brightness, as if checking that everything was in place.
By the second week, it had rules.
It had to be outside- saying it through a window felt wrong, like trying to have a conversation through glass. It had to be during that exact stretch of your walk, where the sky opened just enough to make the moment feel… unobstructed. Clear. Direct.
You weren’t superstitious. You knew that.
But there was something about consistency that settled into your bones anyway. Something about repetition that made the act feel less like a joke and more like… acknowledgment.
Or maybe it just made it feel less ridiculous.
Less like you were talking to nothing.
You never expected a response.
Why would you?
The thought barely even qualifies as a question- it’s more like a reflex, something instinctive and dismissive that settles into place before anything else can take root. Of course there wouldn’t be an answer. Of course there couldn’t be.
Gods- real, imagined, half-remembered from old stories that have been worn smooth over centuries- don’t pause for things like this. They don’t lean down out of the sky to acknowledge someone mumbling a greeting between crosswalks and coffee. They don’t sift through the noise of a waking city to pick out a single, ordinary voice and decide it matters.
There’d be stories: real ones, not the kind buried in textbooks or retold for entertainment. News reports that didn’t sound like satire. Footage that couldn’t be explained away or picked apart frame by frame until it lost its shape. The sky itself would feel different, like it had weight to it. Like it was something more than empty space lit by something distant and indifferent.
Cars pass. Tires hiss against pavement. A screen door slams somewhere behind you. The same car alarm down the block stutters into life and dies again, unresolved. The sun rises because it always has, not because it’s choosing to.
You reach that stretch of open sky, the one you’ve unconsciously measured your mornings around. The buildings fall away just enough, the horizon widening like a held breath finally released. Light spills down unobstructed, sharp and golden, catching along the edges of everything.
You tilt your head back, squinting.
“Good morning, Ra.”
The words leave you like they always do- quiet, almost incidental. A habit. A ritual. Nothing more.
You take another step.
And something answers.
Good morning.
You stop so abruptly your shoe drags hard against the pavement, rubber catching with a rough, jarring scrape that echoes louder than it should. The motion jolts up through your body, sharp and grounding, like something trying, and failing, to remind you where you are.
Calm.
That’s the first thing your mind latches onto. Not gentle, not kind- just… composed. Controlled in a way that suggests it has never needed to rush, never needed to raise itself to be heard.
And beneath that calm-
Weight.
Not the kind you hear, but the kind you feel. It settles into your bones, sinks past your skin and muscle like gravity deciding to focus on you alone. Your chest tightens around it, your breath catching just slightly, like your body doesn’t quite know how to make room for something that vast.
The light shifts.
Not across the sky- nothing so broad, nothing so easily dismissed as weather or coincidence or the slow turning of the earth.
It moves toward you.
At first, it’s almost imperceptible. A tightening of brightness at the edge of your awareness, like the world has subtly rebalanced itself without announcing the change. The street doesn’t look different. The buildings don’t cast new shadows. The horizon remains exactly where it was a moment ago.
And yet, the warmth on your skin changes character.
It sharpens.
What was once simple sunlight becomes something more deliberate, more directed. It no longer just falls on you. It finds you. It gathers across your face, your hands, the line of your shoulders with unsettling precision, like an unseen hand turning a lens ever so slightly until everything unnecessary drops away and only you remain in focus.
Consistency is rare, the voice says.
It doesn’t rise or fall. It doesn’t shift with emotion or emphasis. It simply is, carried through the air like something older than sound, like meaning shaped directly into presence rather than spoken words.
You let out a short breath- sharp at first, then fractured halfway through, like it can’t decide whether to become a laugh or just collapse into something quieter. It catches in your throat anyway, thin and disbelieving, leaving a faint sting behind your teeth.
Your mind scrambles for something solid to stand on, something normal enough to hold the moment in place.
“I said ‘good morning,’” you argue weakly.
The words come out uneven, stripped of their usual certainty. They sound smaller than you intend them to, carried out into that unnaturally attentive air like they’ve lost confidence halfway through leaving your mouth.
You swallow, then add- because your brain is still reaching for something, anything that makes this feel less like what it is:
“That’s not exactly a sacred rite.”
I did not name it sacred.
The calmness of it is almost worse than anything else.
Because it leaves room.
Room for implication. Room for interpretation. Room for the uncomfortable idea that something vast and ancient is standing on the other side of your ordinary words, regarding them with a seriousness you never intended them to have.
“…You’re telling me,” you continue, your voice tightening slightly around the edges, as if you’re trying to keep it from cracking into something less controlled, “that saying ‘good morning’ every day somehow… what? Got your attention?”
The question hangs there the moment it leaves you- thin, exposed, immediately feeling too large for the sidewalk it’s spoken on. It drifts into that unnatural stillness the same way a stone drops into deep water: small at first, then swallowed by something much bigger than it should be able to disturb.
The light doesn’t flicker.
It doesn’t hesitate.
It simply holds, unwavering in its focus on you, warm and precise as a gaze that has never once looked away since it found you.
For a moment, there’s nothing but that attention.
Not silence exactly- something more deliberate than silence. A pause shaped with intent, as if the world itself is waiting for the answer to finish forming properly.
Yes.
It doesn’t arrive like speech so much as declaration, pressed directly into the space around you without needing breath or distance or permission. It doesn’t echo, because it doesn’t need to repeat itself. It lands fully formed, complete in its certainty, as though ambiguity is not something it has ever had to accommodate.
The warmth across your skin deepens a fraction, not increasing in intensity but in presence, as if that single syllable has anchored it more firmly to you. The air feels slightly narrower again, the world subtly re-centering itself around the fact that you are still standing here, still being regarded.
You become very aware of your own posture.
“Okay,” you say, and the word comes out flatter than you intend, stripped of its usual function as agreement or dismissal. Here it lands somewhere in between, uncertain and thin. “That doesn’t really explain-”
You stop.
You realize, distantly, that your hands have gone slightly cold despite the warmth pressing against your skin. A contradiction that makes no sense and yet is happening all the same, like your body can’t agree on whether it should be reacting to the sun or something inside the sun.
You are noticed
The words pause there, and for the first time you feel something like intent gathering behind them- not emotional, not human, but aimed.
You are consistent. You are attentive. You return.
Each sentence is delivered with the same unbroken calm, but they do not feel interchangeable. They land in sequence, precise as measurements taken without hesitation. There is no praise in them. No approval. Just accounting- careful, deliberate recognition of pattern.
I offer you a choice. You may refuse.
The warmth across your skin shifts immediately, deepening: not increasing in intensity in any measurable sense, but changing quality, as though the source has moved closer in definition rather than distance.
You could become my conduit. My Avatar. A presence in the world where mine cannot remain unbroken. You would act. You would be given what is necessary to do so.
Your eyes shift slightly- half instinct, half disbelief- toward the empty stretch of sidewalk, toward the ordinary continuation of the world that refuses to acknowledge what is happening here.
“Why me?”
There are other people.
The thought comes unbidden, sharp and immediate, as if your mind is trying to restore order by sheer repetition alone.
There are always other people.
You can feel them in the abstract, even now- scattered across the city in their own uninterrupted continuations. People moving through their mornings with purpose that doesn’t require explanation. People whose lives are already legible in ways yours suddenly feels… less so. Defined roles. Clear trajectories. Faces that would make sense if someone were to single them out and say this one, of course this one.
People who carry themselves in ways that seem to justify attention before it’s even given.
People who matter in obvious ways, visible ways, measurable ways.
The phrasing sharpens in your mind as it forms, like you’re stacking arguments against something that hasn’t actually contradicted you out loud. People whose importance doesn’t need interpretation. People who exist within frameworks that already understand them- names that would fit cleanly into a statement like this without bending it into something unfamiliar.
People who would make sense in a sentence like this.
Because you are here.
The warmth across your skin shifts subtly again, not increasing, but re-centering, like attention narrowing further until there is no remaining ambiguity about what is being looked at.
You return, the voice continues, calm as ever. You speak. You do not require recognition to continue.
The confusion in your chest doesn’t ease. It deepens, because nothing in this explains selection. Nothing in it justifies you as a singular point of contact in something that feels immeasurably larger than singular anything.
You assume worth must be earned through visibility. Through impact. Through scale. That is not the case.
The words settle with unsettling ease, like they’ve been placed exactly where they were always meant to go.
“…Alright,” you say.
The word barely makes it out at all- more breath than speech, more surrender than statement. It leaves your mouth and immediately disappears into the space between you and the light, swallowed so completely it feels like it might never have existed outside your own mind.
For a fraction of a second, nothing changes.
Then, your world ignites.
Light floods everything at once: no origin, no direction, no boundary. It doesn’t pour in from the sky so much as overwrite it. The air, the pavement, your own skin- everything is suddenly defined in a brilliance so complete it erases the idea of shadow rather than filling it.
And it isn’t just around you.
It is through you.
Inside you.
Behind your eyes. Beneath your ribs. Threading through every place you’ve ever understood as “yourself” until there is no clear separation between where you end and the light begins.
There is no pain in the way your mind expects pain to exist.
But there is intensity so total it refuses comparison.
And then- beneath the overwhelming brilliance, beneath the impossible saturation of light that seems to erase the difference between seeing and being seen- you feel it. Something remembering how to exist inside you properly.
It feels like a lock turning after years of resisting every almost-fit, every near-alignment, every moment where something nearly worked but never quite held. A mechanism worn by time and repetition suddenly finding the exact cut it was always meant to respond to.
You will carry the sun, he continues. And it will carry you in return.
Then the light begins to change, like attention slowly lifting its hand away from your face.
The overwhelming brilliance doesn’t vanish- it unthreads. It loosens its hold on the world in stages, each layer of impossible brightness peeling back without resistance, like it had only ever been holding itself there long enough to be acknowledged.
The pressure in your senses eases first.
Then the saturation in the air.
Then the way everything had felt too sharply defined, as if reality itself had been overexposed.
Bit by bit, the world returns underneath it.
Street. Pavement. Distance. Shape.
Sound filters back in- muted at first, then slowly reclaiming its ordinary texture. A passing car. The faint scrape of movement somewhere behind you. The city resuming what it had been doing all along, entirely uninterested in whether or not anything extraordinary had just occurred.
And then, the light is gone.
You are standing on the sidewalk exactly where you were before it began.
Your feet are still planted against cracked pavement. Your weight is still yours. The air is still ordinary against your skin, no longer shaped by attention that felt too large to be real.
A breeze passes, indifferent.
There is a matter requiring proximity. You are to meet an agent of Khonshu, known as Moon Knight
The moment it is spoken, it feels less like introduction and more like designation. A fixed point in something larger than the conversation, something already in motion long before you were included in it.
There is no image given to you. No explanation. No story attached.
Only the name, held steady in that same impossible calm.
They will be aware of me.
Another pause, slightly longer this time, not for emphasis, but as if allowing the instruction to fully settle into you, into whatever part of you has already begun to accept that this is how things now proceed.
Moon Knight.
That isn’t a mystery. Not entirely.
Even people who don’t follow anything like this kind of thing know the shape of it. A vigilante. The kind of presence that shows up after violence has already happened and leaves before anyone agrees on what they saw. A man. Or something like one. A figure that belongs to rooftops and alleyways, to the spaces where law and absence of law overlap and stop caring about the difference.
The voice does not elaborate. It does not soften the edges of that name or translate it into something more manageable. It simply leaves it there, fully formed, as if your understanding is assumed.
You become aware, faintly, of how strange it is that your body is still here doing normal things- feet on pavement, weight balanced, breath continuing on its own- while your thoughts try to catch up to the idea that you have just been instructed to meet a masked vigilante as if this is a logistical appointment.
“…Why him?”
Because he moves where I do not remain continuously present.
“So I meet him,” you say, and there’s a careful edge to it now, something trying to reassert logic into a space that keeps refusing to behave logically, “because you need… what? A go-between?”
Because interaction must occur where certainty and uncertainty coexist. There is a disruption. Anubis is missing.
