Speaker 1: Find the body, lest the soul remember the path home.
Translation from an unidentified funerary inscription recovered neard Hamanatra. The
desert remembered everything. Long after kingdoms had crumbled into sand
and mighty pharaohs had become little more than names carved
into weathered stone, the wind continued its endless journey across Egypt,
burying old secrets, only to uncover them once again. To
most men, the desert was empty. To those who knew
where to look, it was a cemetery. The sun hung
low over the horizon as Saint Joseph Wemple removed his
spectacles and wiped the sweat from his brow. Even in
the fading light, the heat lingered stubbornly, rising from the
sand and shimmering waves. Months of excavation had brought his
expedition here to a forgotten valley untouched by modern archaeology.
His workers stood silently around a newly uncovered stone entrance.
No one celebrated, no one smiled. The doorway had no
markings identifying the tomb's owner, no royal seal, no grand statues,
no offerings left for the dead. Only a single inscription
carved deeply into black stone. One of the Egyptian laborers
refused to look at it. Another quietly whispered a prayer
beneath his breath. Joseph turned towards doctor Mueller, the expedition's linguist.
What does it say? The older man studied the hieroglyphics
for several long moments. When he finally answered, his voice
had become noticeably quieter. Death is only the beginning, Joseph smiled,
politely appropriate. Muller didn't return the smile. There's more. His
fingers traced along a line of ancient symbols. May he
remain forever bound, may no hand awaken him. The old
linguists stopped reading. Joseph frowned, gone. Muller slowly looked towards
the entrance. I'd rather than not. The laborers refused to enter.
It didn't matter how much Joseph offered to pay. They
stood several yards from the opening, avoiding even the shadow
cast by ancient doorways. One elderly foreman finally stepped forward,
his weathered face betrayed genuine fear. My grandfather spoke of
this place, Joseph sighed. Every ruin in Egypt belongs to
someone's grandfather. The foreman shook his head. He said there
was a priest who who loved too much. Silence settled
over the camp. Joseph folded his arms and he tried
to steal life from the gods. The old man looked
towards the dark entrance. The gods buried him and no
man would ever find him. Joseph smiled again, My good man,
that's exactly why we're here. Another torch disappeared into the darkness,
and then another. Dust drifted lazily through the stale air
that had not been disturbed for thousands of years. The
tombs stretched farther than anyone expected. Its walls were covered
from flori to ceiling with beautifully preserved paintings, kings, priests,
sacred ceremonies, stars, jackals, falcons. The entire history of a
forgotten life surrounded them. Yet something felt wrong. There were
no scenes celebrating the man buried here, no prayers wishing
him peace, no family mourning his passing. Every painting depicted punishment, chains, flames,
priests raising their hands towards the heavens. One mural showed
a man wrapped in burial linens, while still alive. His
eyes wide with terror. Joseph stopped walking. Muller, the linguist,
already knew this isn't an ordinary burial. No Muller swallowed this,
this was an execution. Hours later they reached the burial chamber.
Even Joseph found himself speechless. The room was magnificent, powering
columns disappearing into darkness. Overhead, golden statues lined the walls,
their eyes reflecting flickering torchlight. At the center of the
chamber rested a massive stone sarcophagus. Unlike any Joseph had
ever seen, it was not decorated with symbols of eternal life.
It bore only curses, layer upon layer of warnings, as
though every priest who had ever entered this chamber wished
to ensure one thing, whatever rested inside, never emerged. Young
Ralph Norton stepped closer, so he grinned nervously. It was
our mystery guest. Mueller brushed sand from one deeply carved cartouche.
His expression changed instantly. No Joseph looked up what the
old linguist's hands had begun trembling. It cannot be, what
cannot he whispered, The name almost reverently. A moment, the
chamber fell silent. Even the torches seemed to burn more quietly.
Joseph blinked. The architect Moller slowly shook his head. No.
The priest removing the lid required nearly an hour. Stone
groaned against stone, until at last the massive cover shifted
enough for the workers to peer inside. Every lantern was raised,
every breath held. The mummy remained perfectly preserved. Its wrappings
had dark with age, but they remained remarkably intact. Hands
crossed neatly upon its chest, head slightly bound as though
merely sleeping, Joseph let out a quiet breath. Run me.
Ralph leaned closer. Around the mummy's neck hung an ornate
amulet of gold and lapis lazul. Resting beside the body
was an ancient scroll, sealed inside an elaborately carved casket.
Muller immediately stepped backwards. Don't touch it, don't Ralph looked
over his shoulder. It's only a scroll, no, Muller's voice cracked.
It's the scroll of Thoth. Joseph raised an eyebrow. The
Book of the Dead, the book that was never meant
to be found. Ralph laughed, I suppose it also contains
a curse. No, Molly whispered, it contains hope. The young
archaeologist frowned, I don't understand. The old linguist looked directly
at him. He teaches the dead how to return. The
scroll felt strangely warm. Ralph carefully broke the ancient seal
and unrolled the brittle papyrus. The ink looked impulsively fresh,
as though it had been written yesterday. Beautiful columns of
hieroglyphs stretched from one end of the scroll to the other.
He recognized only fragments, names, prayers, invocations. Without thinking, he
began reading aloud. The words felt awkward upon his tongue,
older than language itself. The air inside the chamber changed.
The torches flickered violently. A cold wind swept through the
sealed tomb. Joseph turned Welph. The young man continued reading.
Muller shot at stop too late. A dry cracking sound
echoed through the chamber once, twice again. No one moved.
The sound came from the sarcophagus. Joseph slowly turned his
lantern toward the mummy. Its fingers twitched. The brittle linen
stretched across ancient joints. One withered hand slowly lifted from
its chest. A cloud of dust drifted from the wrappings.
Then the eyes open, not glowing, not monstrous, simply away.
Ralph dropped the scroll. The mummy sat upright. Thousands of
years of silence ended with the slow exhale of a
single breath. No one screamed, no one dared. The ancient
priest slowly climbed from his stone coffin. He looked at
each of them in turn, not with anger, not with hunger,
but with the quiet patience of someone awakening from a
very long sleep. His gaze settled upon the scroll of
Thoth lying at Ralph's feet. He bent slowly, picked it up,
cradled it gently against his chest. Then, without speaking a
single word, he walked past them. The expedition stood frozen
as the impossible figure disappeared into the endless darkness beyond
the torchlight. No one tried to stop him. Only Ralph
Norton remained staring at the now empty sarcophagus. After it
began slowly, barely audible, then louder and louder still, until
the echoes filled every corner of the ancient tomb. Joseph
looked toward Mueller. The old linguist closed his eyes. I
warned you, I warn you. Outside the desert wind began
to rise once more, as though Egypt itself had just
remembered why the tomb had been sealed from the first glance.
Time is no prison for one whose heart refuses death.
Fragment from the Temple of Karnak. Ten years passed, the
desert kept its silence. The excavation that had unearthed the
temple of Emotep became a little more than another remarkable
footnote in Egyptology. Sir Joseph Wemple continued his work along
the Nile, though he rarely spoke of the expedition that
had ended so strangely. Ralph Norton never recovered. He spent
the remainder of his days confined to a hospital in Cairo,
staring endlessly through open windows with the same vacant smile
frozen upon his face. When asked what had happened inside
the tomb, he always gave the same answer. He he
walked away, nothing more, nothing less. Eventually, even that stop
Tiro had changed. Motor cars now rattled through streets where
camel caravans once wandered. Electric lights glowed beneath ancient minarets,
and foreign scholars filled cafes, discussing discoveries that seemed to
arrive every season. Modernity had begun creeping across Egypt. The
desert remained unimpressed. Beneath the endless sea of sand, the
old gods still slept, or so the men believed. Frank
Wemple stood inside the Museum of Egyptian Antiquities, carefully brushing
sentries of dust from a limestone tablet recently recovered from luxor.
Unlike his father, archaeology had never been about fame. He
was about listening every broken statue, every cracked inscription, every
forgotten tomb, whispered fragments of stories. The world had long
since abandoned. Most people search for treasure. Frank searched for voices.
A soft knock interrupted his thoughts. One of the museum
attendants stepped inside, Doctor Wemple. Frank looked up. Yeah, a
gentleman's here to see you. I don't have any appointments,
he insists. This can't wait. Frank sighed, did he leave
a name? The attendant hesitated. He calls himself. Uh, ardath Day,
the man waiting in the museum courtyard, seemed carved from
another century. He wore flowing robes of immaculate white beneath
a dark cloak that stirred gently in the afternoon breeze.
His skin appeared weathered, almost impossibly so, yet his posture
remained perfectly straight. His eyes Frank noticed them immediately. They
were ancient. Not merely old, but ancient, as though they
had watched civilizations rise and fall without ever blinking. The
stranger inclined his head doctor whimple. His voice carried the
quiet confidence of a man entirely unaccustomed to introducing himself.
Do you wish to see me? No? A faint smile
touched the stranger's lips. An uncomfortable silence settled between them.
I understand. Ardath Bay continued that your father excavated the
tomb of Emote. Frank felt an uncomfortable chill despite the
desert heat. Yeah, that was many years ago. Yeah, the
old man looked towards the distant horizon. It was you
know of it? I know many things. Frank frown, such
as Narda slowly reached inside his robes and withdrew a
folded piece of brittle papyrus. Its edges had darkened with
extraordinary age. They carefully unfolded it across a nearby stone bench.
Ancient symbols covered its surface. Frank leaned closer, his breath caught.
It wasn't merely old, thousands of years old. I've never
seen this dialect you have them? What is it? A map?
Frank looked up to what the old man met his eyes.
Someone you have been searching for without realizing it. Three
days later the expedition departed Cairo. Sir Joseph reluctantly agreed
to accompany them, despite his advancing age. Something about Arta
Bay unsettled him in ways he struggled to explain. The
old Egyptian never seemed surprised, never hurried, never uns He
walked through the desert as though returning home after a
brief absence. Several times Joseph caught him pausing at top
distant dunes, simply watching the wind reshape the sand, as
though remembering where mountains had once stood. No ordinary man
carried memories in quite that way. The journey ended at
the base of a forgotten plateau. Nothing distinguished it from
countless others scattered across the Egyptian wilderness, only endless rock,
endless sand. Ardith stopped. This is the place, Frank looked around.
Is there's nothing here? The old man smiled. There wasn't.
He pointed towards a weathered cliff face. There will be.
Excavation began immediately. Hours passed, then a day another. By
the third morning, a pickaxe struck stone, not bedrock, masonry,
carefully cut limestone buried beneath centuries of drifting sand. Excitement
swept through the camp. Workers uncovered the entrance inch by
inch until an immense doorway emerged from the earth. Every
torch seemed brighter, every heart beat quicker. Frank brushed away
the final layer of sand covering the lintel. His lantern
illuminated a name carved into polished granite. His hands froze.
He knew those symbols. Every archaeologist in Egypt knew them.
On Aksunamum, Joseph slowly removed his hat. My god, ardoth
Bay closed his eyes for just a moment. Something crossed
his weathered face, not triumph and not relief, longing so
profound it almost looked painful. When he opened his eyes again,
the expression had vanished. I had waited. He spoke so
softly that only the desert hurt him long enough. Frank turned,
What did you say? The old man smiled gently. I
said history has been waiting for us. That evening, while
the camp celebrated another extraordinary discovery, Ardoth Bay wandered alone
beyond the circle of lantern light. The moon hung low
over the desert. Silver lights stretched across endless dunes. He
stopped before a shallow pool left behind by ancient rains.
The water reflected the night sky perfectly. Slowly, he reached upward.
His fingers found the skin of his own face. With
deliberate care, he pulled. The flesh shifted, not like flesh,
like wax. Beneath the weathered features of Arth Bay, another
face waited, brown, desiccated, ancient eyes that had first opened
more than three thousand years before. Enoda stared into his
own reflection. The disguise settled back into place. The old
scholar returned far behind him. The expedition laughed around their campfire.
They spoke excitedly of discoveries of museums of history. None
of them understood. They believed they had uncovered the tomb
of princess an Uksunemun they had, but the princess was
never what had been buried beneath the sand. The true
excavation had begun ten years earlier, on the day a
frightened young archeologist spoke forbidden words inside a forgotten tomb.
And now the dead had come, searching for something they
had lost. Not treasure, and not power, but love. The
oldest curse of all Memory does not perish with the flesh.
It waits, patient as the desert, until the soul remembers
its own name from the scrolls of the House of Life.
Helen Grosvenor had never been to Egypt, yet she dreamed
of it almost every night. Not the Egypt of postcards
and tourists, not the bustling streets of Cairo or the
endless caravans crossing the dunes. She dreamed of another Egypt,
an older one one where the Nile glittered beneath barges
carved from cedar, where temple bells echoed across sacred courtyards,
where thousands of priests moved in silent procession, beneath towering
columns painted with gold and lappers. Every dream ended the
same way, a man waited beneath the shadow of an
immense statue. She never saw his face, only his eyes
watching her, waiting. When she awoke, the scent of incense
still lingered in her room. The dreams had begun months
before her arrival in Cairo. At first, she dismissed them
as nothing more than restless imagination. Her father had spent
years collecting Egyptian antiquities, and as a child she'd often
fallen asleep surrounded by stories of forgotten dynasties and buried kings.
It seemed natural enough until the dreams began teaching her
things she could not possibly know. One morning, she found
herself sketching hieroglyphs onto the margin of a newspaper, perfect
hieroglyphs that Egyptologists later identified them as a prayer no
modern scholar had fully translated. Helen insisted she'd never seen
the symbols before, and she was telling the truth. Sir
Joseph Wimple watched her carefully as she wandered through the museum.
She paused before a statue of Isis. Without hesitation, she
whispered something her breath. Joseph frowned, What did you say?
Helen looked startled. I I don't know you spoke Egyptian.
I don't speak Egyptian. No, the old archaeologist's expression darkened.
You spoke Old Kingdom Egyptian. The words settled over the
room like a storm cloud. Even Frank stopped what he
was doing. Helen laughed nervously. Surely, that's that's impossible. Joseph
wished he could disagree that. Evening ardath Day requested a
private audience. He entered the museum's reading a room with
the same quiet grace he carried everywhere. Helen looked up
from the ancient manuscript she'd been pretending to read. I
believe we've met, the old scholar, said. She searched his face.
I don't think we have. His smile was almost imperceptible. No,
not yet. Something about him made the room feel colder.
She couldn't explain why he sat opposite her. I understand
you've been having dreams. Helen's heart skipped. I haven't told
anyone about that. You didn't need to. How could you
possibly they've become stronger recently, she said, nothing, You hear voices.
His fingers tightened around the edge of the table. You
wait before dawn silence, you remember places you've never visited.
Helen slowly stood, who are you? For the first time,
the old man's eyes softened, but with kindness, with sorrow.
I've been asking myself that same question for three thousand years.
That night, the dreams changed. Helen no longer watched them.
She lived them. She stood barefoot upon cold marble floors.
The palace stretched endlessly around her, its walls covered with
painted lotus blossoms and towering columns shaped like papyrus reeds.
Servants bowed as she passed. They called her an Oksunamun.
The name felt familiar, natural, as though it had always
belonged to her. Music drifted through open courtyards. Perfumed oils
scented the warm evening air. Somewhere near by, someone laughed.
She turned. A man emerged from the temple shadows, young, strong,
His white linen robes marked him as a high priest
of emote. His smile transformed the entire world. My princess,
she smiled, despite herself. You shouldn't be here. I know
they'll kill us if we're seen together. I know. He
stepped forward, So why have you come? His answer was
almost a whisper, because eternity would be shorter than another
night without seeing you. He took her hand, and the
dream dissolved. Helen awoke, crying. The tears confused her. She
mourned a man she had never met. She loved, someone
whose face she had only seen in dreams. Pressed trembling
fingers against her lips. She could still feel the warmth
of his hand. The dreams had become impossible to escape.
Every night revealed another memory, secret meetings beneath moonlight, colonnades,
stolen conversations inside sacred gardens, promises whispered beneath the stars.
Their love had been forbidden, not because of politics, because
Emotet belonged to the gods. As high priest. He had
surrendered every earthly desire the day he entered the temple.
To love another was sacrilege. To love the Pharaoh's daughter
was death. The final dream came without sleep. Helen stood
before the mirror inside her hotel room. She blinked. The
reflection blinked, then it didn't. The woman inside the mirror
continued staring long after Helen had stepped away. She wore
elaborate golden jewelry, black coalined eyes. The jeweled head dress
rested upon raven hair. She was she was beautiful, regal,
terribly sad. The woman slowly raised one hand. Helen found
herself doing the same. Their palms touched the glass simultaneously,
one on either side. The reflection smiled. Helen did not.
Then the woman spoke, not aloud, but inside her mind.
You remember me now. The mirror shattered, glass exploded across
the room. When Frank forced open the door, moments later,
he found Helen standing barefoot amongst the broken shards. She
hadn't moved. She simply stared towards the moonlit window. He's coming.
Frank rushed to her side. Who she answered without turning
my emote. Elsewhere in Cairo, Ardath Bay stood alone atop
the museum roof. The city lights flickered beneath the stars.
For the first time in three thousand years, he allowed
himself hope. He had crossed kingdoms, buried empires, the rise
and fall of civilizations. He had endured loneliness beyond human comprehension,
all for one purpose. He had not returned to conquer Egypt,
had not sought power. He had not awakened to rule
everything every sacrifice, every century spent wandering the world unseen,
had been for one impossible dream, to look once more
into the eyes of the woman he had loved before
history itself had forgotten her name. Far below, Helen stared
into the darkness beyond her window. She no longer knew
which memories belonged to her, a which belonged to the
princess who had died beneath another sky three thousand years four,
The first death came without a scream. It began with
a whisper. Doctor Mueller had spent the better part of
two days translating inscriptions recovered from the newly uncovered tomb
of an Ox in the Moon. He had ignored the
warnings carved into the walls before, He would not ignore
them again. His trembling hand moved across brittle papyrus, while
candlelight danced against the walls of his study. The same
name appeared over and over. Emote tab not as a priest,
not as an architect, as something else, a title erased
from nearly every monument in Egypt, the Defiler of Death.
Muller felt a chill creep through the room. Outside Cairo
bustled as it always had inside. The air had become
unnaturally still. He reached for another scroll. It wasn't there,
He frowned. He had left it atop the table. Slowly
it slid back toward him by itself. His breath caught no.
The candles flickered. A shadow stretched across the far wall,
not cast by flame by someone standing behind him. Muller turned.
Ardath Bay stood only a few feet away, silent and motionless.
He couldn't have entered through the locked door, I warned them.
Muller's voice shook. I told them not to open your tomb.
The old Egyptian regarded him with quiet sadness. You did.
You should never have awakened, I know, Muller blinked. The
answer was so calm, so sincere, that it frightened him
more than any threat could have. You've come to kill me,
Ardath lowered his eyes. I have come because you know
too much. The room grew cold, the candles dimmed until
only glowing embers remained. Our death slowly raised one weathered hand.
He didn't touch Smuller. He didn't need to. The old
scholar gasped, his body stiffened, every muscle locked. He clutched
desperately at his chest. His heart beat slowed once, twice again.
His terrified eyes remained fixed upon Ardath Bay as life
quietly slipped away. There was no struggle, no violence, only
the horrifying sensation that something unseen had reached inside him
and simply told his heart to stop. When it was over.
Our death closed the old man's eyes. I'm sorry. Then
he vanished into the Cairo nine. The newspapers blamed age,
the doctors blamed the heart. Frank Whimple blamed coincidence. Helen
knew better. She had seen him again, not in dreams, awake,
standing at the foot of her bed. He never spoke,
He merely watched. Each night he stood a little closer.
Each morning, she awoke with grains of fine desert sand
scattered across her bedroom floor. By the fourth morning, she
found ancient lotus pedals resting upon her pillow, flowers that
had been extinct for centuries. The dreams were changing. They
no longer ended when she awoke. Sometimes she would catch
herself humming melodies she had never learned. Servants at the
museum stared in confusion as she effortlessly read inscriptions. No
modern egyptologist could fully decipher Frank watched her from across
the gallery, Helen. She looked up for a moment. He
didn't recognize her. Her posture had changed, her voice carried
a quiet confidence that hadn't been there before. Even her
eyes seemed older. She smiled, You've been calling me by
the wrong name. Frank laughed nervously. What my name isn't Helen?
The smile faded, it's She stopped blinking rapidly. Confusion fluttered
her face. Sorry, what was I saying? Frank forced a
reassuring smile. Nothing but something inside him whispered otherwise. That evening,
he confronted Ardith Bay. The old scholar stood alone amongst
towering statues inside the museum's Hall of Kings. Moonlight poured
through stained glass, bathing the ancient faces in pale blue.
You've done something to her, Ardath didn't turn. I have
awakened her memory. You're driving her insane. No, the old
man gently placed one hand upon the weathered foot of
an enormous statue of isis I am freeing her? She
isn't yours to free silence? At last, Ardath faced him.
His eyes glistened with something Frank had never expected grief.
You believe death ends love. Frank held his ground. What No.
The single word echoed softly through the hall. Death ends breath,
Death ends kingdoms, It ends names stepped closer, but love.
His voice became a whisper, Love remembers. Frank found himself
unable to move. There was something terrifying about the absolute conviction.
Ardith wasn't trying to persuade him. He was stating a truth.
He had lived for three thousand years. You buried me,
His expression hardened. You changed me, You denied me the
only soul I have ever loved. Anesium lights flickered, glass
display cases trembled. Ancient statues groaned upon their pedestals, And
still a god said, I waited that night Cairo changed.
A museum guard making his rounds heard footsteps inside the
Hall of Antiquities. He assumed another employee had stayed late.
He no answer. He raised his lantern. The statues seemed different,
Several now faced the opposite direction. He frowned, impossible. His
light swept across the gallery. Every mummy case stood open
and empty. His pulse quickened. Another step echoed somewhere behind him.
He spun nothing, only endless rows of sarcophagay. The footsteps
came again, closer, slow measured. He backed away until he
struck something solid, not a wall, a person. The guard
turned ardath Bay stood inches from his face. I the
Guard's voice failed. The old Egyptian's expression held no anger,
only infinite exhaustion. You have served faithfully. The guards stared
in confusion. What for three thousand years they have watched
over us? He gently closed the guard's eyes with two fingers,
and now they must rest. The lantern fell, darkness swallowed
the gallery. The following morning, the guard was found seated
peacefully on a stone bench. There was not a single
mark upon him. Yet his hair, once dark as coal,
had turned completely white overnight. His face was frozen in
an expression of unimaginable terror. He never spoke another word.
Helen awoke just before dawn. Someone was singing. A woman's voice, soft,
beautiful and ancient. She followed at barefoot through the silent house,
down the staircase, across the moonlit courtyard. The singing stopped
beside an ornamental reflecting pool. The water was perfectly still.
Helen looked down. The face staring back wasn't hers? Gold
and jewelry, framed, familiar features, dark eyes lined with coal.
The princess smiled from beneath the water behind her, Another
reflection appeared, Nemo Tab not as ardath Bay, not disguised, young, strong,
clothed in white robes of the high priest. He reached
towards her, and the princess reached back. Helen's hand rose
of its own accord. The surface of the water rippled.
Their fingers nearly met. Then Frank's voice shattered the silence Helen,
The reflection vanished, the pool became ordinary water once more.
Helen stumbled backwards, gasping. For just one impossible moment, she
had wanted to take his hand, not because she had
been hypnotized, not because she had been cursed, because some
forgotten part of her soul remembered loving him, And somewhere
beneath the streets of Cairo, inside a hidden chamber where
a scroll of Thoth lay waiting, emot taps smile, the
dead no longer needed to pursue the living. The living
had begun walking willingly towards the dead. Cairo disappeared, one
street at a time. Helen noticed it first, a familiar
cafe she'd walked past every morning, was suddenly gone. In
its place stood a weathered stone courtyard lined with towering columns.
She blinked, the cafe returned. A motor car rattled past.
People hurried along the crowded street as though nothing had happened.
She pressed trembling fingers against her temple. The headaches were
growing worse. By evening, the city no longer remained still.
Gas lamps became oil braziers. Electric lights flickered into torchlight.
Modern voices faded beneath distant chantings spoken in a language
that had died thousands of years before the world itself.
Seemed uncertain which sentry it belonged to. Helen stopped trusting
her own eyes. Frank watched helplessly. Each day she drifted
farther away. Sometimes she answered him immediately, other times she
stared blankly for several seconds before seeming to remember who
he was. Once she looked directly into his face and smiled,
to have always been kind to the royal household. Frank's
blood turned cold, Helen, so she frowned. Helen. The voice
seemed unfamiliar, almost foreign. She looked around the room where
her breathing quickened. Where's my father? Frank stepped closer. You're safe.
My father will be looking for me. Helen. I'm not Helen.
The words echoed through the room, firm confident, certain my name,
she closed her eyes. My name is an oxunomun silence.
Then the certainty vanished. She collapsed into Frank's arms, sobbing uncontrollably.
I I don't know what's happening to me. Frank held
her tightly. For the first time, he realized he might
already be too late. Arduff Bay watched the city from
the roof of an abandoned temple. The Niles shimmered beneath moonlight,
exactly as it had three thousand years before. Empires had risen,
Empires had fallen. The river never cared. He slowly unfolded
the Scroll of Thought. The ancient papyrus crackled softly in
the desert breeze. Its symbols seemed almost alive. Each hieroglyph
glowed faintly beneath the moon. He had carried the scroll
across centuries, protecting it from kings, from grave robbers, from
priests who wished to destroy it. Everything every impossible year
had led him hear, and soon death itself would surrender
the dreams. The dreams stopped. Helen no longer dreamed. She remembered.
She remembered the palace gardens, the scent of blue lotus
blossoms drifting across warm evening air, the laughter of musicians
hidden amongst the fountains. She remembered secretly climbing the temple
stairs after sunset, and waiting, always waiting until he arrived. Emote,
not the withered priest, not the ancient scholar, the man,
his smile, kindness in his eyes, the impossible certainty that
every stolen moment together was worth whatever punishment followed. She
remembered the night soldiers found them, steel drawn beneath torchlight,
priests shouting prayers, her father screaming and rage. Hemo Tet
never tried to run. He simply looked at her. I
would choose you again, Even knowing how the story ended,
he would still choose her. The memory shattered. Helen awoke, weeping.
She wasn't crying for herself. She was mourning a man
who had been dead for millennia. The invitation arrived without
a messenger, no employee, nor seal. It simply appeared upon
Helen's bedside table strip of ancient papyrus, one line written
in perfect hieroglyphs. She read it effortlessly. Come home. She
left just before midnight, barefoot, still wearing her white nightgown.
The streets of Cairo seemed strangely empty. No dogs barked,
no windows glowed. The city had fallen unnaturally silent. She
walked without hesitation. Every turn felt familiar, every alley remembered.
She wasn't finding the temple, she was returning to it.
Frank discovered her disappearance minutes later. The bedroom windows stood open,
ancient sand covered the floor beneath it. He found the
papyrus lying upon the bed. Though he couldn't read a
single symbol, he understood exactly who had written it. He
raced through the sleeping city towards the museum. Joseph met
him at the entrance. One look at Frank's face was enough.
She's gone. Frank nodded, he has her. Joseph slowly removed
a small bronze amulet around his neck, the eye of Horace.
My grandfather carried this. He placed it in Frank's hands.
He once told me the ancient archaeologist looked towards the desert.
There's a place where faith accomplishes what science never can.
The temple waited beneath the earth, hidden beyond forgotten catacombs,
older than memory itself. Its massive stone doors stood open, waiting.
Frank descended alone. Each step carried him further from the
modern world. Electric lights gave way to torchlight. Concrete became
polished limestone. The air smelled of incense and eternity. The
walls were covered with painted scenes unlike any he had
seen before, not funerals, weddings, celebrations. Two figures appeared again
and again, a princess, a priest, laughing holding one another
beneath the blessings of stars. That wasn't a tomb. It
had been built as a promise, a monument to love
denied by the living. Frank suddenly understood something that chilled
him more deeply than any curse. Hemotat had never built
a kingdom. Beneath the sands, he had built a home,
one he intended to share with the woman he had
waited three thousand years to find. Again. At the center
of the vast temple stood a black altar carved from
a city in Helen knelt before it, not struggling, not frightened, peaceful.
She wore ancient royal garments that had not existed moments before.
Golden bracelets encircled her wrists, A jeweled collar rested upon
her shoulders. She looked every inch the Egyptian princess from
her dreams before her stood. Imo Tep, no longer hiding
behind the face of ardolf Bay. His true form had returned, ancient, powerful,
wrapped in linen, older than history itself. Yet his eyes,
his eyes held nothing but sorrow. You came, Helen looked up.
I always would have. Those words struck frank like a knife.
Those weren't Helen's. They belonged to another lifetime. Emo Tep
gently cupped her face. I have crossed death itself to
find you. A single tear rolled down the Princess's cheek.
I know. The scroll of thought lay open upon the altar.
Its pages turned without wind. The cymbals glowed brighter. The
air inside the temple trembled somewhere beyond the stone walls.
Thunder rolled across the desert. The gods who were listening.
I have found you, his voice echoed through the temple,
I promised I would. Helen smiled. I knew you what.
Frank's heart sank. She remembered him. Not through magic, not
through hypnosis, memory itself had awakened. Emo Tap gently lifted
an ornate ceremonial dagger from the altar. The blade shimmered
beneath the moonlight. This life has been borrowed, he whispered.
The next who belonged to us forever? Frank stepped forward. No,
The priest turned for the first time. There was anger
in his eyes. You still cannot understand. I understand enough,
you understand years. Emoteps shook his head. I have endured centuries.
He looked back to Helen. I crossed kingdoms. I watched
the world forget our names. I stood alone. Well, every
face I ever knew became dust. His voice cracked, and
still I waited. Even Frank felt the weight of those words.
Three thousand years, three thousand years of loneliness, three thousand
years of refusing to let go. There was tragedy in
that devotion, but there was horror as well, because love
had become possession, grief had become obsession, and obsession had
become a curse upon the living. Frank's eyes searched desperately
across the temple. There had to be something. The priests
who buried Emotep had known this day might come. They
they would never have sealed such a monster away without
leaving behind a way to stop him. His torch swept
across the base of the altar. There, hidden beneath centuries
of soot, circle of hieroglyphs surrounded the black stone, almost invisible.
He dropped to one knee and brushed the dust away
with trembling hands. The inscription slowly emerged, not a warning instructions.
His pulse quickened. The final binding the words escaped him.
Before he realized he'd spoken them aloud. Hemotept froze for
the first time. The ancient priest looked afraid. No, his
voice was barely more than a whisper. Frank continued translating,
if the defiler should return, let the eye witness the truth,
let the words be spoken, and let the soul render
what it has stolen. Hemotep took one slow step towards him.
You do not know what you're reading, Frank ignored him.
Another line another. The symbols seemed to arrange themselves inside
of his mind, as though the priests had known one
day another scholar would stand exactly where he stood. Now,
this right, Frank spoke, was never meant to kill you.
Moltep closed his eyes. He already knew it was meant
to finish what your execution began. Frank began reading the
ancient words aloud. The language scraped painfully across his tongue.
Each syllable felt impossibly old. The temple trembled, dust drifted
from the ceiling. The scroll of thought fluttered violently, but
nothing else happened. Frank stopped. Confusion washed over him. Oh not,
the translation was correct. He knew it was. Then his
fingers brushed against the bronze ambulant hanging beneath his coat,
the eye of Horace Joseph. There are places where faith
accomplishes what science never can not. Faith in miracles, faith
in those who came before. The eye had never been
meant to protect its bearer. It was a key. Frank
pulled the amulet free. At the center of the altar
was a shallow circle depression he had overlooked exactly the
size of the eye. He pressed the bronze amulet into place.
It fit perfectly. A deafening crack echoed through the temple.
Golden light raced through every carved hieroglyphic surrounding the altar.
The symbols awakened, not with divine fire, with ancient purpose.
The mechanism was complete, The ritual had begun. Emotep's composure vanished.
No the single word shook the temple. He abandoned the
altar and hurled himself towards Frank, not with superior power,
with desperation. Frank barely rolled aside as the priest crashed
into the stone. Columns splintered, the floor split beneath their feet.
The sanctuary groaned, as though the earth itself had begun,
rejecting the magic sustaining it. Frank scrambled back towards the inscription.
He had only reached the halfway point. Emotet seized him
by the throat. His grip was impossibly strong. You will
not take her from me. Frank struggled for breath. I
He clawed desperately at the priest's wrists. I'm not at
the words. Barely escaped. Taking her with the last of
his strength, he drove his shoulder into emo Tet's chest.
The ancient priest staggered backwards just enough. Frank threw himself
towards the altar and continued reading. The temple shook harder,
statues cracked, stone faces split apart, Sand poured through widening
fractures in the ceiling. The magic holding three thousand years
together was coming undone. The final lines remained only a
few words. Emotet roared, he charged. Frank looked up. If
there wasn't enough time, the priest struck him with tremendous force.
The eye of Horace flew from the altar. It spun
through the air before landing at Helen's feet. Instantly, the
golden light vanished. The temple fell eerily silent. Helen stared
at the bronze amulet the moment her fingers closed around it.
Everything returned, the gardens, the palace, the moon, at meetings,
their laughter, their first kiss, the trial is burial, alive,
the endless wandering, three thousand years of waiting. She remembered
every moment, every joy, every sorrow. She looked at Emotap
for the first time, she truly saw him, not the monster,
not the mummy, the man who had loved her beyond reason,
beyond sanity, beyond death itself. Tears filled her eyes. You
came back for me, nemotap slowly, nonin, I always would,
she smiled, sadly, I know. She walked to the altar.
Frank watched in silence. She gently placed the eye of
Horus back into its resting place. Golden light returned. The
final words waited. Emo Tep reached towards her. Please, His
voice broke, we can still have forever. Helen raised a
trembling hand and gently rested it against his weathered cheek.
I loved you. The ancient priest closed his eyes. I
know I still do. A tear rolled down her face.
But love was never meant to imprison the living or
the dead. She looked into his eyes one final time.
Enough waiting, and then she spoke the last line of
the final binding. The temple irupt not with fire, with silence.
Every sound vanished, even the wind ceased. Hemotepe looked down
at his hands. The withered flesh softened, wrinkles disappeared, The
centuries peeled away like mist beneath the morning sunlight. For
one beautiful moment, he stood exactly as he had before
the curse, young and strong, clothed in the white robes
of the high priest. He smiled, not at Frank, not
at the altar at Helen, and she smiled through her tears.
He bowed his head. Then his voice was calm. This
life was enough. The smile never left his face. Years returned,
one century, then another, and then another. His robes dissolved,
and to dust. His skin became parchment, bone ash. The
desert reclaimed with the scroll had stolen. A warm breeze
swept gently through the sanctuary where Emotep has stood. Only
his golden armleant remained. The temple began collapsing in earnest.
Frank rushed to Helen. Together they fled through crumbling corridors
as columns shattered beneath them. Ancient walls gave way to
centuries of sand. By the time they reached the surface,
the first rays of dawn stretched across the desert. Behind them.
The Temple of Isis disappeared beneath a great tide of
stone and sand. Within moments, it was gone, as though
it had never existed. History recorded the expedition as a mystery.
Official reports spoke of earthquakes, collapsed ruins, natural disasters, those
who had survived knew better. Some doors had never been
meant to open. Some names had never been meant to
be spoken aloud. Sir Joseph Wemple retired soon afterward. He
never entered another tomb. Frank continued his work as an archaeologist,
but every expedition began with the same quiet ritual. Before
disturbing a single stone, he read every inscription. If the
dead asked to be left alone, he listened. Hellen rarely
spoke of Egypt. Sometimes just before dawn. She would wake
with tears on her cheeks. When Frank asked her what
troubled her, she would only smile sadly. I remember someone
who she would look towards the rising sun over the desert,
a good man who forgot that grief must one day
have become memory. Years later, the shifting sands uncovered a
weathered monument. For only a single afternoon, two names remained
carved into its face. Emo, tat Anok Sunamun. By sunset,
the desert buried them once more, not as a punishment,
not as a curse. That as the dead finally allowed
to rest, and somewhere beneath the endless sea of sand,
the wind whip spurred through forgotten halls where no living
soul would ever walk again. For the first time in
three thousand years, the dead were finally sleeping.