RESURGAM (Arthur Harrow x F! Reader) Chapter 17: An apple of discord
"'You have already as good as put your hand to the plough; you are too consistent to withdraw it. You have but one end to keep in view—how the work you have undertaken can best be done. Simplify your complicated interests, thoughts, wishes, aims; merge all considerations in one purpose: that of fulfilling with effect—with power—the mission of your great Master.'" -Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre
Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16
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The sun was directly overhead, and the pain in the Thorn's heel had subsided to a dull, steady throb by the time she and Layla left the apartment. It was hot enough to squash any remaining doubts about the possibility of spontaneous human combustion, and even covered head to toe in practical, desert-friendly garments, she could feel her skin cooking in the impossible air.
Layla, hatless and vested, seemingly dressed more for Canadian fall than Egyptian summer, reminded her to hydrate. "I'm serious," she said, plucking a bottle out of the Thorn's backpack and shoving it into her hands, "don't stop drinking for more than a minute. It's scary how fast you're going to lose fluids out here. Even your sweat will evaporate before you can wipe it away.
The Thorn took the water (it was more of a small tank than a bottle), remembering when it was Arthur taking care of her, smiling up at her as she swayed on the back of a camel, looking at her like she herself had created the golden desert and laid it like a blanket beneath them. No one would ever look at her that way again, eyes shining with an indescribable depth of love, love for her and nobody else, love beyond description, love beyond sanity.
"I've never been on a real dig before," she admitted to Layla.
"Really? Not even when you were at university?"
She shook her head.
"Too expensive?"
"My advisor said I hadn't earned the opportunity."
"...Oh. Well, we'll see if you've earned it now."
They had reached the Great Pyramid, and all at once were swallowed by its shadow.
"Weird that it's so deserted," the Thorn observed.
"As far as the people of Cairo are concerned, what happened a few nights ago was a freak storm," Layla explained. "Though, of course, there are the conspiracy theorists as well."
"Any conspiracies that come close to the truth?"
"Not close enough for us to be worried."
The Thorn felt her head snap around, possessed, not for the first time since they'd left the apartment, of the feeling of being followed.
"Okay," said Layla, "let's actually get started." She swung her backpack around to the side, yanking its zipper. "Oh, just a heads up—this might upset you a bit. Sorry."
She extracted it with a horrible air of practicality: The battered remains of the staff of Ammit, its reptilian eyes black and empty. Even with the two heads melted into one, the Thorn recognized it. A cold wave of agony fell over her.
She felt a sob begin to rise through her chest, only to die on reaching her throat. What came out instead was a small, strangled gasp, a sound so quietly pathetic she was instantly ashamed to have uttered it in the presence of the Pyramid.
She didn't want Layla to hold it. It belonged to Arthur; it was part of him. Seeing it without him was so, so wrong.
"Let's see if this works," Layla said, taking the broken head of the staff and awkwardly fitting it together with the next piece. "I'm going to need your help with this, okay?" She said it gently, almost pleadingly, as she looked the Thorn in the eyes and held out the rest of the splintered staff.
The Thorn swallowed her pain, took the pieces and helped to fit and balance them together while Layla doctored the staff with duct tape.
"There's a good chance we're wasting our time here," Layla warned, "but as far as I know, this is the only way to get into the Chamber without being summoned by one of the Ennead."
An icy laugh touched the back of the Thorn's neck. She stiffened, hating it.
"Is Taweret here," she asked.
"She's usually with me."
"Is she," the Thorn cringed in anticipation of her own question, "cold?"
"What?"
"When she stands near you, is it cold?"
Layla snorted lightly. "On a day like this, I wish. Hey, drink some water. You don't look good."
The Thorn did as she was told. Layla wrapped her fingers around the staff, and the Thorn tried to observe how strange it all looked. Arthur's elegant cane, deformed and broken, wielded by another person. The agonizing indignity of the duct tape. The way Layla looked at it—pure disgust—as she raised it in the air and brought it back down to meet the ancient stones.
With a reluctant, heaving moan, the Pyramid opened its mouth. Four thousand years of silence passed through the opening and evaporated into the orange desert air.
"You must have dreamed about this since you were little," Layla said, leading the way into the black corridor.
The Thorn gave a noncommittal "hmm" of assent. She was grateful for the constancy of Layla's voice, strong and steady above the unbearable silence of the tomb.
Their black surroundings were softening to a shadowy indigo, then a dark teal. The corridor widened into a doorway, and the Chamber of the Gods bloomed around them like the belly of a whale.
Even in ruins, it was glorious. The now-distant sunlight fell in a single bluish column, spotlighting the heart of the pyramid. A garden of toppled stone masterpieces spread before the two women.
"It was pristine a few days ago," said Layla. "You would have liked to see it then." The bitterness in her voice turned the words to poison.
"You said you needed to take care of something here?" said the Thorn.
"Yeah. Follow me."
They made their way through the destroyed Chamber. She felt the realization like a dagger to the heart: Arthur had been here. He had breathed this dusty air. His glassy footfalls had echoed through the pyramid. Had he walked slowly, leaning on the cane, or had adrenaline quickened his pace? Had he thought of the Thorn as he summoned Ammit and enabled the desecration of the ancient tomb? Did he resent her for robbing his goddess of an avatar, forcing him to take her place? Or did he simply wish his love were still beside him as he finally fulfilled their shared goal?
"Four thousand years of history at your fingertips, and you stand here despairing over a man. I'd like to say I expected more from you, human, but alas..."
She felt her feet stop moving. She heard the cry melt from her lips. Her body drenched in cold, she watched Layla's back moving away from her.
"You okay?" Layla called. "We can take a short break if you need it."
"I'm good," the Thorn called back, stumbling on shaky legs to catch up.
"Go on, little thorn. Follow your leader. One new friend goes before you, and another stays behind to catch you when you inevitably stumble." The voice dripped with sarcasm. It filled her bones. Whoever—whatever—was behind her, it had no breath.
She picked up her feet—right, then left, then right again—and made them follow Layla into a black tunnel in the corner of the Chamber. Layla had packed her a flashlight; she swung her backpack around to her front and rummaged for it. A fumbling of shaky fingers, click, and she had a small circle of yellow to lead her through the black.
"Here," said Layla, stopping and slinging her backpack to the stone floor. She extracted a small lantern, handing one to the Thorn. "Set these up around the perimeter."
One by one, the lanterns illuminated the small room, and the wall of ushabtis. Layla was unpacking a large box filled with soft packing materials.
"Where are we taking them?" asked the Thorn
"The Egyptian Museum. A friend of my father's works there as a conservator. There's no safer place in the world for a bunch of stone gods."
Together, they gingerly carried each ushabti from its post and nestled it in the box.
"It feels wrong," said the Thorn. "Like we're...manhandling them, or something. They're gods, and we're just..." She trailed off, sealing Anubis in a cocoon of packing wrap.
"I know," said Layla. "But after seeing what happened when Ammit was released—"
"And Khonshu," added the Thorn.
There was a heavy, exhausted pause. The ushabtis lay face-up in their crate, eyes blank and colorless. She couldn't help but feel reminded of the stolen statues in Arthur's study.
"Can they see us?" she asked.
"Yes, little thorn, and hear you as well."
The lanterns flickered. The Thorn looked instinctively to Layla, who was calmly packing up the last ushabti (Sekhmet). Only the thin, hard line of her mouth betrayed her secret anxiety.
"You should help her. We wouldn't want to be useless, now, would we?" The voice was directly in her ear now, and she felt the bony tip of a beak brush her earlobe. "Or perhaps it would be better to keep your hands to yourself, lest you risk her seeing your incompetence."
Layla stood. "Get the lanterns."
The Thorn did so, thankful for the direction.
They shuffled carefully through the labyrinthine corridors of the Pyramid, the Thorn going first this time, a flashlight in each fist, lighting the way for Layla to carry the precious crate full of gods. And of course, the third presence following them, which neither woman would acknowledge.
They delivered the crate to Layla's contact, then returned to the apartment in silence. The Thorn, too tired to undress, too anxious to lie down, sunk to the floor in front of the pristine white bed. The setting sun made a halo around the pyramid, the great tomb now empty of one more set of treasures.
What made Layla different from the young Arthur Harrow who had taken artifacts from ancient tombs? What separates preservation from desecration?
"You think too much, little thorn."
She sat up violently, her head bouncing against the side of the mattress. One by one, the hairs on her arms stood at attention as the lingering resonance of the voice touched them. She forced herself not to look at him, fixing her gaze forward, at the window, where the sun at last disappeared below the orange horizon.
"You know who I am. You know what I'm here to ask."
"No. I won't do it."
"I'm already inside you. I feel what you feel—the grief, the shame. I could help you harness it."
"I said no to Ammit. Why do you think I would say yes to you?"
"Because I am—"
"'Real' justice?" She tried to coat the words in sarcasm, but they came out choppy and scared.
"And because we suit each other. You've wasted your power, little one. I saw you today, trotting behind Layla like a dog, doing her bidding. Before that, you followed Harrow. You weren't made for such an existence."
His words struck her like a hot poker. Now, she turned to face him. "Layla is helping me, asshole. I'd be on the street without her." Or worse...no, probably worse.
He let out an approving "hmm." The ghost of a smile was in his impossibly black, dead eye sockets.
The Thorn felt her shoulders asking to turn inward. Her body wanted to cower. "Fuck you!" she spat in a strange, high voice. "I know what you're trying to do. I'm not stupid."
An awful laugh wrapped around her like a mockery of a hug. "Oh, precious thorn. I know you're not stupid."
"I heard all about what Arthur went through because of you. I heard what you did to Marc, and Steven. If you think I would put myself through that willingly, then you do think I'm stupid. And stop calling me 'thorn.' You know my name."
Khonshu was quiet. She could feel him assessing her.
"Poor child," purred Khonshu, now speaking from inside her the way Ammit had done. "That's what you are, aren't you? A little human child who thinks she can tell a god what he can and cannot do.
"All your life, you have tried and failed. You think now, after losing everything, you can start over and expect a better outcome? Poor thing, always striving to prove your intelligence, to contribute something to your world, something special" (he drew out the word in a humiliating, excruciating drawl) "that would bear your name and yours alone.
"You don't just wish to succeed, little thorn. You want power, the power to annihilate anyone who ever doubted you, to make them beg for mercy. In a way, Harrow was right—you would have made an excellent avatar for Ammit. But even had you made yourself available to Ammit, she still would have chosen him.
"Ammit wanted Harrow for the same reason I rejected him—"
"He left you."
"Is that the story he told you? Interesting. Do not interrupt me again, thorn."
"STOP CALLING ME THAT! My name is—" She gasped into silence, choked by something rough and smelling of rot. She grabbed it—it was a piece of his robe—and tugged.
"The more you fight, the harder I pull. If it comes to it, I'll take your head off; paint the walls a lovely bright red. Won't that be a nice surprise for your new friend Layla?"
She went limp. Bruise-colored clouds shaded her vision.
"Good." He released her neck, and breath spilled from her lungs like a breaking dam. "I am not like your Arthur. I will not soften at the sight of your tears. I do not care that you are weak. Your connection to me will make your body strong; that is all that matters.
"There are humans who lead, Thorn, and those who are better off following behind like sheep. You know you have the potential to lead, and yet you have willingly degraded yourself, little lamb, for his sake."
She blanketed her face with her hands, and in less than a moment her palms were slimy with tears.
"You loved him not as a husband—an equal partner—but as your caretaker. In all your time with him, did you ever make a choice that was not also his?"
She ached to speak up and tell him no, she did love Arthur, as a husband and a partner and everything else. She hadn't always agreed with him, not in her heart anyway, though her words had usually echoed his. Yes, she adopted his diet, but only out of practicality. He made such delicious meals, why would she not indulge in them, even when her body was begging her to feed it something else? She would have given up TV anyway—probably—and why wouldn't she go to bed and wake up at the same time as her fiancé?
No. No, Khonshu was wrong. Arthur had wronged her, but they had also been partners. Equals.
"Be careful what you think. I am inside you. I know your every thought. For instance, though you refuse to admit it to yourself, I know you are considering my offer."
This was the hell Marc had faced, and Arthur before him. Her thoughts were no longer her own. No more secrets, no private imagining and remembering; even her nightmares would be shared—if she accepted Khonshu.
The choices clamored on either side of her, squeezing her tight, squeezing the breath out of her. A chorus of black fireworks erupted in her eyes, and Khonshu's voice came as though from far away. "Sleep, then. Enjoy your rest, while you can. I will give you two months to make a decision."
He was gone, her mind came back to her, and just as the god had predicted, exhaustion fell over her like a blanket of tar. Too tired even to climb on the bed, she fell against its side and slept like a dead woman.
