My Warframe is StRoNk!

Armon knew weight.

Weight to be carried here and there, weight to be lifted to keep himself strong.

He also knew the weight of expectation, of others beside him in the Pharaoh’s army. The weight of knowing that if he did not hold the line under assault, it was his brothers beside him that would suffer.

The weight of a massive gate crashing down, one that he held up as long as he could to let his fellow soldiers escape. But eventually he could hold it no longer and that weight came down upon him, crushing his arm.

The loss of weight as he woke up in the healer’s tent without it.

He understood weight.

And yet the weight of the amulet placed around his neck by the young prince felt different in a way he could not name. It did not worry him yet; it would make sense in time or it wouldn’t. But he wasn’t alone in it.

The three new guardians emerged back into sunlight from the maze below, following their Pharaoh and prince, behind them came his entourage of priests and scribes and a sorcerer. Armon turned his head to look at his fellows.

Fellow guardian Nefer, young and headstrong, the royal charioteer. His amulet was crimson, the passion and blessed by Bastet. And their leader, Ja-kal, Captain of the Royal Hunt and wearer of the azure, the loyal, the all-encompassing in sea and sky blessed by Horus.

The verdant remained unused and still in the vault for reasons Armon didn’t know or really worry about.

Armon wore the amethyst, the royal, the authority, blessed by Khnum. An oddity, as apparently this amulet was known to bear the leader, but the will of gods was often misunderstood. Armon was fine with not leading; he was a soldier. The weight of leadership was not one he wanted. His burden was to support the others, to carry out their authority in the prince’s protection. It was a weight he knew and welcomed. A weight that, by all accounts, he should no longer have. He was a lesser man without his arm.

Yet the Pharaoh chose him anyway. Yet Armon beat all his challengers anyway.

The ritual was ended, so he was not surprised when the procession stopped and he readied himself to move on and take Ja-kal’s orders. What did surprise him was the Pharaoh turning and looking at him, his eyes relaxed and a smile on his face.

“Guardian Armon, I have something prepared for you to aid you in your duty.”

Armon paused, dumbstruck, only managing to get out a hesitant, “For me, O Pharaoh?”

The sorcerer that had accompanied them in the ritual swept passed, not even looking at Armon as he tapped his ebony staff on the ground and said, voice clipped, “Come with me.”

Armon glanced to Ja-kal who shrugged then gestured the warrior on. So they followed. Armon wasn’t sure if this was a matter only for him, but was relieved to see Ja-kal and Nefer coming along as well.

They were led to a side room, stripped of whatever its true purpose was for the moment, though Armon had to guess it was for something official and proper, considering the marble floor and walls lit to brilliance from the rays of Ra streaming in from a skylight. Off to the side two servants flanked a large, covered litter, something bulky under the linen covering.

The sorcerer went to it in a flutter of gold, green, and white robes, or would have, had said robes not been pulled by the little prince Rapses, taking a handful and being dragged behind. The sorcerer turned and frowned at him in such a way that Armon found himself tensing, but then the man smiled and beckoned the prince closer. The sound of the retinue entering the room after them and taking positions, the scribe sitting and setting out his tools once more, covered the sorcerer’s words as he lifted the linen on the litter, showing Rapses what lay beneath. The boy bounced in excitement, smile wide, before the sorcerer pat him on the head and sent him skipping back to his father.

Armon couldn’t help but smile after the boy a bit himself. The position of Guardian was one of honor, of prestige, but the kid wasn’t so bad himself. A ‘scamp’, Armon was sure his mother would call him. But more than that, watching Rapses look up as his father, the Pharaoh’s hand on his shoulder even as he spoke with Ja-kal, left a fond ache within the large man’s chest. It felt a long time ago yet barely any time at all his father had left for battle and never came home.

A plucking at his shoulder made Armon jump and nearly swing, only to turn and see the sorcerer pulling at the half-shawl he wore to cover his barren shoulder.

“Hey!”

“This needs to come off,” the sorcerer nagged.

“What?” Come off? His mother had made this for him to cover the scarred stump that remained. All the assurances given, all the praise and words of honor and heroism, couldn’t change the looks people gave it, or stop children from making noises or even running away. His youngest sibling had burts into tears in terror at the sight of it for a while, and it hurt every time. The solution was a simple drapery of linen, held on by beaded collar.

The small assembly gathered in this room were grown men and women, save Rapses, many hardened fighters, so while none would flee or point, Armon couldn’t bear the inevitable twists of the mouth or raised eyebrows.

The sorcerer, however, was deaf to this inner struggle. “I need to attach it.”

Pharaoh Amenhotep cleared his throat, loudly. “Perhaps I want to do an official proclamation first?”

The sorcerer gaped, then bowed and backed away, chided.

“Forgive my brother,” Amenhotep said, though not without a touch of fondness, “he gets...overenthused.”

The sorcerer crossed his arms, his staff standing on its own, with a “hmph.”

Brother? Armon wasn’t aware Amenhotep had siblings. On the other hand who else could get away with hmphing the Pharaoh in company?

It was now Pharaoh Amenhotep who crossed his arms and stood tall, those gathered in the room instinctively lowering themselves to a bent knee or bow, all silent and waiting.

“Armon, son of Namart, soldier of our army, and so once a defender of our land and people. Your valor saved many a man, but it cost you. You understand sacrifice more that most.”

Armon lowered his head. In the Pharaoh’s words were pride, but they also left a physical sensation. His arm was gone, and yet could still be felt, as though the memory of it was enough to pain him still. He swallowed.

“A lesser man might have surrendered to that loss, but your strength of heart rekindled the strength in your body, and you rose beyond adequacy to that of the best despite your disability. You defeated all challengers in the Maze. Strength, courage, adaptability, loyalty. All this is required to be a Guardian. And only the best of these do I entrust the safety of my son.”

The weight of the amulet pulled at Armon.

“You understand sacrifice,” the Pharaoh continued, his voice no quieter, tone no softer, and yet was there something more human in his words; the speech of a man underneath the living god, “and so you understand better than most what it means to be a Guardian. For to be a Guardian is to sacrifice, to give more than life, but your soul, to the protection of the future of Egypt.” He dipped his chin slightly in a nod of respect, “I would lessen that burden when I can.”

Once more Amenhotep lifted his head high, and the Pharaoh, voice of the gods, declared, “Armon, son of Namart, to you does Egypt, with her wisdom and magic, return that which was taken in your service to her.” His arm swept outward.

The sorcerer stood and snapped his fingers. The servants in the back of the room lifted the litter and brought it forth, laying it before Armon, who could only remain kneeled in confusion. As they stepped away, one of the servants took hold of the linen covering and pulled it clear.

Armon stared in awe.

The arm upon the litter was wrought in gold, amethyst, and what appeared to be a shaped stone of vibrant purple hue...or was it a metal as well? Armon couldn’t tell from the distance, but that was not what truly caught his eye. The arm was huge, even by his standards; larger than his real arm. The way it had sunk into the fabric of the litter when carried revealed a heavy weight as well.

More than that, the arm was smooth, fluid in shape, many elements flowing together into a whole as a real arm. Armon had seen those rare prosthetics constructed by priests and wizards, but they were skeletal or inhumanly shaped, and even enchanted could do little more than lift itself. Armon could not afford one of those even if he tried.

Such a beautiful, powerful looking thing, this arm, and the Pharaoh had it made for him.

So much so that, laying there, despite its near flawless appearance, it seemed somehow bereft. It was waiting for him.

“Rath, you may proceed,” Amenhotep intoned.

The sorcerer nodded and knelt over the arm, hands running over it as though to check its secrets one last time before turning to Armon.

Rath? Where had he heard that before…

This time when the sorcerer plucked at the linen over his barren shoulder, Armon reached up and unclasped the collar. He hesitated then, looking from the arm, Rath, and then his shoulder. He hated the worry suddenly curling in his gut.

“You’ve, uh, done this before, right?”

The sorcerer's eyes flicked up to him then back down. “I’ve performed medical manipulations on the human form before, yes.” He paused, tapping a finger to chin in thought. “Attaching a limb, though…”

Armon swallowed and looked to Ja-kal. The hunter smiled at him and nodded, unconcerned. Well, if Ja-kal was not worried, then Armon wouldn’t be either. He took a breath and pulled the half shawl off completely.

And there is was; the sorcerer frowned as he observed the garish scars, one eyebrow arching high. Armon tried not to flinch away at his fingers probing freely onto rough skin.

“Hey now…”

“This was a field operation, wasn’t it?”

The question was asked quietly, beneath what observers could hear, and the sorcerer’s voice oddly soft, the straining pitch eased.

Armon could only nod.

“You’re lucky to be alive. Surgery in the field often…” he trailed off, then stood, swift like a striking snake, hands waving at the observers. “Well? Chat among yourselves, this will take a moment,” he huffed. Some took the hint and meandered into small groups, murmurings filling the chamber.

“Thanks,” Armon mumbled.

Rath barely glanced at him before snapping his fingers and again the servants were back, positioning themselves on either side of the golden arm. Straining, they lifted it and held it there as Rath dawdled over it, fingers sweeping inside the large, round shoulder piece. Hieroglyphs glowed as he touched them, looped around several rings of light joined like a chain that seemed to move around a central point as Armon watched. But then he’d blink and they hadn’t moved at all.

Rath said, “There will be pressure. I cannot promise no pain.”

Armon nodded. “I can handle it.”

“Good. It will not be quick.”

The two men positioned the arm, the rounded shoulder against the stump that was all that was left of Armon’s own. The metal was cool.

“Steady,” Rath hissed at the servants as he placed his hands on the shoulder piece, maneuvering it carefully until the stump slipped into the shoulder’s opening, fitting snugly, then pressed it down and held it there with one hand. The other he lifted and traced a circle in the air, green fire left in his finger’s wake. He began to invoke.

Skin and metal I call upon my lineage to bind Great gods three, the same I ask in kind

O Sekhmet, fierce yet merciful, I call you O Thoth, wise in all things, I call you O Ptah, who guides my hand, I call you

Powers above and below grant me control To make man and metal once again whole.

The circle of green fire was drawn down and looped around where the metal of the shoulder pressed into Armon’s skin. It tingled and began to warm the metal. Then a pulling began and Armon winced. Rath continued to invoke the three named gods, fingers twirling in air, but the pulling persisted, the metal growing hot and soon the words distorted in Armon’s ears as the pressure built.

It seemed as though the arm was intent on pulling the whole of him into it, and for a moment he feared the pull would get so strong his skin would rip and the metal would clamp down and tear what was left of his torso away. Sweat beaded his forehead and he grit his teeth as the pain ripped from the shoulder outward. The arm was going to rip him apart...it was burning him...it was…!

Easing, and gone. The weight remained, pulling at his skin and muscles, but no longer trying to suck him into its magical depths.

Rath waved the two servants away and they were all too happy to go. He squat before Armon then, peering into his eyes, checking on his wellbeing without asking. He must have been satisfied with what he saw as he nodded.

“All done?” Armon hadn’t realized he was panting.

“No. That was binding the arm to your body. Now I have to bind it to you.”

“Huh?”

Rath rolled his eyes. “A magical construct such as this that requires control needs to be bound to all aspects of you. It is attached to your body, but if I do not bind it to your soul and your mind it will just hang there. Fear not, I have built multiple contingencies into it that should several aspects fail it at least won’t fall off.”

Armon had no idea what he was talking about, so he didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to as Rath continued on his own.

“Now, to bind it to your soul and mind I will need your true name.”

“Uh,” Armon looked at the large arm weighing him down and the crowd, “you want my name.” A statement more than a question. Even Armon knew a true name taken could give power over him; you never gave your name to anyone.

“No,” Rath assured, “you already spoke your true name into your amulet, yes?” he pointed at the ram’s head hanging around Armon’s neck, “I will pull the name from it using my magic, no one will hear your name including me. The maze below has certain protections against magical listening spells but not so much up here, and my brethren are getting better at hiding them from me…”

“From you?” He took his amulet and held it out for Rath.

“It is the nature of sorcerers to be nosy. And not always for good reasons.”

“You’re a sorcerer.”

“And my concern is the protection of the royal family. Even against my own order.”

Armon arched an eyebrow at that and couldn’t help a little smirk. “Really? Jump on in with us guardians, then. There’s an amulet left.”

Rath’s eyes snapped to him, sharp and unreadable. Armon felt uneasy.

The Pharaoh apparently had better hearing than Armon imagined, as he paused mid-sentence from his conversation with Ja-kal to interject, “Rath was my guardian, once upon a time. That’s why the amulet remains unused.”

Those sharp eyes released Armon to shift to the Pharaoh now, Rath’s mouth drawn down.

Amenhotep’s guardian? That was where he knew the name!

“You’re the Sword of Wadjet?” he asked.

Rath’s eyes were no longer sharp as his attention returned to him, but wide at the recognition, his head tilting smugly. “I am.”

“Oh. I thought you’d be bigger.” And older. That was a long time ago…

The smug was wiped right off Rath’s face and he sniffed. “How fortunate for you I’ve heard that enough that it hardly offends me.”

Armon thought otherwise. Still, he struggled to imagine this slender, squeaky-voiced man once one of Egypt;s greatest warriors. Maybe bad guys were easier back then. He struggled to hold back a snicker.

Rath hmphed again and grabbed the amulet, green sparkling between the fingers of his other hand. The amulet flashed and trilled and Armon had an odd sense of it being...unhappy Rath was doing something to it.

“Do you know what you’re doing?”

“I am the only one who knows what I’m doing with these things,” he hissed through his teeth, “Calm, amethyst, I mean no harm.” He touched the amulet, drawing green fire from it to the hulking shoulder piece of the arm. “Khnum, as you guide the Nile waters, so guide the true name of this one to the arm wrought in your own…” he murmured.

The amulet pulled, its weight momentarily increased, and then across the line of green fire danced a brilliant golden light, into the arm that pulsed and made Armon shudder. Then the weight eased, from amulet and arm. It still hung there as he kneeled, a useless metal construct, but no longer was it trying to drag muscle and skin down with it. Rath twitched his fingers and the green magic vanished before he stood and stepped back.

“Alright,” he muttered to himself, “here goes…”

The worry curled in Armon’s ample gut again. “Wait, what should I be doing?” Let him do something, this sitting here was killing him…

“Hold still.”

Rath clapped his hands together and thunder rumbled far away outside the palace. The pressure in the room changed, static tangible on the skin. The chatter of those assembled cut off and some stepped back and away from the sorcerer. The Pharaoh didn’t back away but crossed his arms, eyes narrowed and watching as green and white lightning flickered and shot across the floor to Rath’s feet before forming a circle around him.

Nefer tensed, looking around in concern but taking no action as Ja-kal remained calm alongside Amenhotep. Armon thought he even saw a smile at the magic crackling through the room. Prince Rapses was not so assured and near clung to his father’s leg, though he made himself brave and looked around with wide eyes.

Taking a deep breath, Rath lifted off the floor, hovering in air. He did not turn but reached behind him, hand open. “Aker.” The ebony staff flew to his hand and he turned its dual serpentine heads to the golden arm.

Aside from the flashing lights across the floor and around the sorcerer, nothing seemed to be happening, and yet Armon could swear it was loud. He could barely hear, save Rath’s invocation that cut through the static like a thin blade.

To protect royal blood from ruin and strife Khnum, o creator, bequeath this golden arm life.

And Armon was on fire. Heat and energy seared through him from the arm, the pressure of the room slamming onto him and then dissipating. He dropped forward with a grunt, his arm habitually catching him and sparing him an embarrassing fall. He wasn’t on fire...he was fine, though the sweat and prickling along his skin said otherwise.

It was quiet again, save the energetic twittering of the spectators, and Rath was on the ground as a normal man should be, leaning over the artificial arm.

The arm that continued to hang there.

“Was something supposed to happen?” Armon said between heavy breaths.

The sorcerer frowned and sat back on his haunches, staff across his knees and knuckle tapping at his chin before it ended up between his teeth. His face twisted into ugly annoyance and he slapped the shoulder piece hard with the flat of his hand.

“Ow!”

Rath’s eyes lit and he grinned in triumph.

Ow? His entire body frozen, Armon regarded the arm. It wasn’t vibration, or the mere connection of the metal on skin, that was… “I felt that,” he said slowly.

“Of course!” Rath beamed, voice swelling with pride, “You may have to hold or pick up the prince, and without the ability to feel him, you might accidentally hurt him. Metal doesn’t yield like skin and muscle, though I tried to replicate that with the gold. Granted, it’s no where near what your real arm could feel, but you’ll know you’re touching something and adjust the pressure of the hand accordingly. You see, within the metal plates I formed a magical mesh that will…”

Armon stopped listening, his focus entirely on the arm. ...His arm.

He could feel it.

It was a dull sensation, like it was far away, vague, but he could feel it.

He started to stand, carefully. The arm was heavy, heavier than his old arm and he was going to have to adjust to the misbalance in combat but it wasn’t trying to hurt him anymore. Because it was his.

Either done talking or realizing no one was listening, Rath reached out and helped Armon up, trying to lift the heavy golden arm. “Bound to your soul and mind it may be, but like any other injury you’re going to have to re-learn how to use it, so don’t push yourself, but I want you to try and wiggle your fingers.”

Wiggle his fingers. Such an easy thing, and yet, “How do I do that?”

Rath tilted his head. “Same as you do your other hand.”

Not helpful. Armon swallowed and regarded the new hand. His hand. His hand. Move. Come on… He bit his lip, fearing that after all this nothing would happen. That it was just another magician’s con to… No. It was his hand, his fingers, and they were going to move.

A twitch, a spasm.

One finger curled, the others half followed.

Armon gasped, bit his lower lip, and willed like he never had before.

The golden hand curled into a fist.

Nefer whooped and there was a scattering of claps and congratulations. Rath’s eyebrows rose upward, nearly into his tall headdress, and for a split second Armon thought he looked impressed.

The sorcerer coughed. “Well done! You do my work credit. Now, you will not have full control overnight, it will take time, don’t rush it.”

“I don’t think I’ll be able to help myself,” Armon said, voice shaky as he tried not to laugh and whoop himself.

The sorcerer sighed. “Be that as it may, if you feel anything...off, come to me directly. And while it may be gold I have magically reinforced it; it’ll take a lot of punishment. ...Presumably. But do try and be careful with it, I can’t replicate all that very easily.”

Grinning wide as he managed to get the fist to twist slightly, Armon forced his attention away from his arm to listen to Rath’s rambling. Mostly. “You made this?”

The smug twist of the mouth was back as Rath nodded. “I did. ...Under the directions of the great Pharaoh, of course,” he added with a bow to the approaching ruler.

Amenhotep’s tone was casual as he said, “Rath’s being selectively humble. I told him to make the best arm he could manage and, well, I should know better than that by now. Normally he at least sends his specifications to the royal smiths for the parts he needs but this time he was insistent on forging every piece himself.”

“And I thank the Lord of All Lands for his patience, but the slightest malformation or miscalculation could result in disaster down the line.”

“Of course.”

The Pharaoh gave his former guardian a nod and, understanding his dismissal, Rath bowed and backed away. Leaving his staff to stand on its own again, he scooped up Rapses with a grunt before the boy could get too underfoot.

Armon too bowed to his ruler, much lower than Rath had. “Great Pharaoh Amenhotep, thank you for this.”

“It was earned long ago, Guardian Armon, may it serve you well, but also remind you of the responsibility you bear.”

“Always,” he said, looking to the prince, who was apparently frustrated with being held back from seeing this new wondrous arm himself and was squirming relentlessly in Rath’s arms. Fed up, the sorcerer handed off his nephew to a chuckling Ja-kal.

Of course, Ja-kal solved this by carrying Rapses over himself before setting him down. The boy was immediately at Armon’s side, asking his guardian to move the hand again.

Armon smiled and obliged him, lowering himself to one knee.

The arm was heavy, its weight mismatched to his true arm. But Armon understood weight, and merely shifted his leg, and moved as though the arm had always been there.

The weight of the arm was real, Armon simply had to adjust. The weight of the amulet, of the prince’s life, was not so simple, but very heavy nonetheless.