the calm after the storm

@Merneith or any of your Akash, eheh!

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And so, his infernal rodeo had finally come to an end at the sand-blown borders of a desert that now stretched out before him. He had long since thrown himself from the inhospitable back of the terrible horned creature, and in his fall, he had ironically wounded the very tendon that bore his name.

His step was no longer as sure as it once had been; a distinct flaw now marked his movements, a slight limp. What a terrible ordeal he was enduring: His father’s army was nowhere to be found, or perhaps the fifty men possessed the miraculous ability to mask their scent. A pungent odor lingered, that of weary, battle-worn men, having marched long from Lupopolis. Yet, he smelled nothing, nothing at all. Neither them, nor the poor farmer woman who had also fallen into the clutches of the horned giants.

But there was something else. With his nose to the wind, he had certainly caught the scent of the desert—its scorching sands and its meager plants. But there was something more... A scent, at first barely perceptible, but soon it seemed as though it had always been there and everywhere. How had he failed to notice it before? A city? A camp? There were people in this desert. A lost cohort? Who could possibly take root in such a place? Nothing grew in the desert—not life, not cities, and certainly not armies. And yet, there were people.

The man stopped, thoughtful, before this immense stretch of land that already seemed to be toying with him through a mirage. A figure wavered in the distance—or so it seemed to him.
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 Early morning she appears and sings, and perhaps all those who hear it feel the hurt in their heart for a songbird’s sonnet. Up against the natural partition where dune flattens to brushy earth no voice can penetrate; not the glimmering laments of Pharaoh’s daughter.
 

 "Yet, is there loss after all?
 For what e'er drifts from one place,
 is with the tide to another brought,
 and there's naught lost beyond recall,
 which cannot be found,
 if sought."

 And still she is drawn along the widow’s walk to wait for him. For Khaem.

 Days pass into the next, but on this one there is vividness that answers the amiirad’s deep and poignant longing with an emerging figure. No onyx lines his expression, nor gold to glint him so radiantly. He manifests from the desert in shades of ivory and a soldier’s standing to appear before the princess.

 Upon her breast suspends the locket of Sekhmet and over her shoulders the protection of Neith, and within her superb shields does Merneith step forward, crimson eyes drawing upon the guardian.

 “Hello,” she offers the strange man, tone elegant, eyes sure.
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She seemed entirely real, almost palpable, and her voice did not carry the echo of some mirage conjured by the vast, desolate expanse. She had greeted the citizen, whose ears had instantly turned toward her, intrigued, astonished. She appeared to be a young woman—a puella—and of noble lineage, if one were to judge by the finery she so carelessly displayed.

What could a girl be doing in the heart of the desert? She bore no signs of flight, no trace of exhaustion clung to her features—at least, not at first glance.

The soldier drew closer. She carried the scent of sand and wind, but beneath it lingered something else, something ineffable. What an enigma she was, standing there, a vision against the endless dunes.

“Hello,” he answered at last, uncertain, straightening as his gaze swept the horizon in search of a frantic mother, an avenging father… Nothing. Only the boundless desert stretched before him, merging seamlessly with the sky.

“What are you?” A specter, an omen, a message from the Vestals of Lupopolis. Achille had never been a man of faith, yet if this was a sign of providence, it had to be heeded. Slowly, he bowed.

“What is your message? I'm all ears, Messaggera divina.” he asked, now certain that this child was no mere wanderer but a herald of fate itself. Not all was lost—he was on the right path. Or so, at least, this apparition would soon reveal.
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 In no grand place are they unified, but the meeting is engraved upon the princess’ heart with meaning all the same. Bowing earthward is the marbled soldier with an idyllist’s tongue and a serviceman’s helm, covering the sacred sands with his arcing vastness. For a lingering moment Merneith only watches, that ingrained part of her feeding upon the sight of his lowered muzzle— the bite of which could snap her neck if he chose.

 “Please rise, great warrior,” the princess in her gilded silks releases the man, standing delicate and still at his front. She allows his fine, sagacious visage to fill her eyes, covered head-to-toe in the shining victories of battle.

 “I am Satriya Merneith, amiirad of Akashingo, daughter of Pharaoh Isetnofret Muat-riya, Goddess of the blue oasis,” the girl recites her nomen, cut clear with a gentle tongue. All his own words placed within her flush and pervade, his speech is beautiful, for he too had deciphered this ordinance between them.

 The divine dwelt in kismet.

 “What is your name, noble one?” Neith inquires, wanting his name to red her lips.
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Achille straightened at the messenger’s request—or rather, the divine girl’s—uncertain, intrigued. These titles, these names, they meant nothing to him. Never had he heard of such a goddess; his pantheon, at least, had no guardian of the Oasis. A minor deity, perhaps? Or worse, a pagan one.

What peril lay in speaking with her? Was this some trial set by his true gods, a test of his loyalty?

“Achille. Son of… Non importa, I am alone for now.” He had buried the end of his sentence, only to resume it with greater intent “Placed under the protection of the god Mars, of conquests and battles.” Or so the Vestals had told him, as they conferred upon him the blessing of Vesta, whose will they carried.
Still intrigued, the soldier allowed himself to study the young woman, circling her, seeking to catch her scent. Was she a demi-goddess? A conjured illusion, the artifice of the so-called goddess Isetnofret Muat-riya?

“I had never heard of such a goddess,” he admitted at last, though a trace of unease crept into his voice.
The gods were omnipotent, but they were also fickle, quick to anger. Achille placed his faith in war, in Lupopolis, but he had learned as well to fear the wrath of the divine. Yet what was a goddess of the Oasis before Mars, the warrior? Far from her desert, could she still wield her capricious fury? And was there anywhere in this world where one might stand beyond the reach of the gods?

“Nor of such titles…” he added, returning to stand before the young woman with the name too long to belong to mortals. And yet, she seemed tangible enough. Did the gods and their emissaries not descend only to torment the living?

Achille walked a treacherous line, torn between caution—poised to endure divine retribution, to fight for his life—and a growing, dangerous curiosity…
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