#when something is wrong

The days have been long since last he laid eyes upon home, and the time away had been unkind to him.

There had been a very questionable ‘archaeological excavation’ almost at the complete other side of Egypt. At this site were housed several very important relics that the Medjai would not see disturbed, as usual for the fate of mankind and of balance.

He’d had a sense of foreboding––a heavy and uneasy feeling––from the moment home had rescinded into the sands, the mirage spiriting it from view.

It had not been disproved.

It had taken half of a massacre, casualties on both sides, to get the point across after attempts at reasoning with the stubborn fools had failed.

It had not been easy. It never is.

But some things are better undisturbed, no matter the cost. If blood was the cost, then he would pay it, even were it his own, so long as it meant that Balance was maintained for one more day, that life would continue on as it had for centuries.

Yet, even after the archaeologists had gone their own way and the Medjai had relocated the relics… still there was that feeling, remaining as though coiled around his heart.

He had thought that perhaps it might be the sadness that more Medjai had fallen––perhaps it was even simply that he was weary and longing to be home again. Regardless, he had locked away the unwanted feeling, actively ignoring it as he and his men journeyed home.

Now as they enter into their village, he wonders if perhaps the feeling had been a premonition, the whispered warnings of the ancient gods that sleep below the sands and above the skies…

Everywhere he looks, there are signs of sickness.

On the outskirts, there are fresh graves––more than he has seen since the battle against the forces of Anubis––and acrid smoke fills the air as women throw clothes and blankets into great fires, burning them to purge the disease from their homes.

Even through his exhaustion, he halts his horse long enough to inquire of a passing gravedigger what had sickness had done this. A desert fever of some sort, the man told him, the likes and magnitude of which the village had not seen in decades. He thanks the man and rides on to the stables, dismounting and entrusting his horse to those who work there before turning his steps toward home.

Children and women weeping, that is what he hears as he walks, and the sound is enough to break his heavy heart.

For every step he takes, the feeling intensifies though he accounts it to the grief of his people, and for every tear-stained face he sees, he walks just a little faster, eager to be home to see his daughter.

Something drives him, pulls even his own tired feet onward until he reaches the door.

He shrugs that nagging sensation away again, instead thinking of what he must expect entering the home that he and his daughter share.

The routine had begun even before the battle with the Anubis warriors, but it had only increased in predictability since then.

As soon as he opened the door, the girl would appear from he doesn’t even know where and practically throw herself at him in a, perhaps too excited, hug that would nearly knock him over if he didn’t brace himself beforehand.

Despite the fact that he should likely scold her for being so emotional, so childish––after all, she is the daughter of the Chieftain of the Medjai, descendants of those who guarded the pharaohs––he has never quite been able to do so. The thought of dimming that bright smile, of somehow curtailing or taking from that show of joy at his return…

He shakes his head, a quiet smile appearing on his worn face.

No. He’d not be greeted any other way, no matter how foolish some might think it.

After only a moment to take in a breath, he opens the door, stepping inside and waiting…

Yet he hears no footsteps, no shouts, and he still has his footing.

That feeling is rising again, threatening to escape the bounds he had placed upon it, but he will not allow that. There’s no reason to worry. Perhaps she is simply in the kitchen and could not hear the door.

He turns his steps, entering the small kitchen to find it empty.

His brow furrows and he walks from the kitchen and further into their home, in his distracted state leaving the door open behind him.

“Zafirah?”

Her bedroom is the next place he checks yet that too is empty.

The study is the same.

As is his own room.

At finding their home so empty, something cold grips him, all restraints at last leaving that fluttering and unseemly weight in his chest.

Perhaps she could be––

Yet even as his thoughts have moved to create the next possibility, a voice calls his name from the door. He walks from his room and back to the main room where a shadow falls across the floor as the sun makes it’s final descent behind the figure at the door.

Once he has come closer, he sees more of his visitor and what he sees makes his chest tighten in a way that he wishes it had not.

The eldest of the village healer women.

“Auntie,” he addresses her with the standard endearment, a strained note to his voice that creeps even into the smile he gives her. “What brings you here?”

The question fills the charged air between them, uncertain and in some ways defying that it be answered, yet the old woman opens her mouth and speaks.

“You have noticed that there was an outbreak of sickness in the village?”

“Yes, I noticed as I rode in. I saw several women burning clothes and sheets…”

He doesn’t ask. He can’t ask. He simply waits, dread rising.

She hesitates only briefly before she sighs and continues.

“… I am here about your daughter. About Zafirah.”

He freezes, gaze unblinkingly focused on this small and withered healerwoman speaking the name of his daughter in a way that––

He has no words, and she must sense it for she continues speaking, unbidden.

“She volunteered to assist myself and the other healers. Normally, with such a sickness, I would have turned her away but we were so shorthanded and so many had fallen ill that…” the woman sighs once more, her face seeming almost ancient. “… I allowed her to remain with us and to tend to the sick…

“I began to notice that she did not look well, but she assured me that she was fine, simply tired from the long days helping some and simply dulling the pain for others for whom we could do no more…”

Again there is a hesitation and Ardeth could almost shout at the woman, tell her to spit out whatever she is here to say and then tell him where he may find his daughter, but at length, she continues.

“A little more than week ago, she was in the healing house with us and I realized that she look even worse than last I had noticed, yet just when I meant to tell her that she should go home to rest, she collapsed…”

His chest constricts more still, heart clenching and thrumming painfully, as though a snake had wound its way around him and sunk its fangs into his heart.

Before he can get out the words, she speaks again, once more seeming to know his fear.

“She has fought the sickness well. Already she has outlasted the time of those who have succumbed to it, but she is still very weak and remnants of the fever still linger…”

“Take me to her.”

The words are distant yet adamant, not a request but an order even though it feels as though the cold and raging storm waters of the Nile are rushing through his veins.

She bows her head, not another word spoken as she turns to lead him to where his daughter continues her fight. He follows without a sound, the cries that had filled his ears on the walk to his home now muted, the bitter smell of the smoke is nothing compared to the harsh and violent churning of his stomach.

He has fought the undead. He had fought the Army of Anubis.

But this…

This is entirely something else.

At the Healing House, his guide steps to the door and opens it, motioning that he enter.

Thoughts a whirling storm of utter chaos, he tries to anchor them to something, to find calm amidst this storm. His anchor is supplied to him in the form of a single gesture from the elderly woman––a gentle hand placed on his arm––and he pulls himself together. Meeting her gaze, he nods and steps into the building, allowing her to lead him to the back room.

No sooner is he through the doorway than his eyes fall upon her, his breath catching in his chest.

Dear God… That cannot be his child. Not his Zafirah. Not the child always so vibrant and full of life.

It is only her strained expression and the rise and fall of her chest that convinces him she still lives.

Ignoring the protest of one of the other healerwomen––he had not seen her when he entered and a word from Auntie silenced her and sent her to see to the other patients––he walks to his daughter’s bedside, taking the seat of the woman that had been sent away.

He almost reaches out then, but stops, fear catching him.

She looks so tiny, so fragile.

Zafirah has always been small, especially when compared to his own towering frame, but now…

Her skin is a pale and terrible mockery of her usual sun-kissed hue, a thin sheen of sweat glistening under the light of the candles that light the room and her dark and often unruly curls––that she had inherited from her father––in disarray.

Again his breath catches, a quiet and pained utterance escaping him, “My daughter… My life…”

Very gently he takes one of her hands in his own, his other hand ghosting the loose strands of hair from her face.

At the contact, her brow furrows, eyelashes briefly fluttering before she opens her eyes.

Her gaze is unfocused at first, but when she sees him, she seems to focus and to relax, if only a little, and an exhausted and heartbreaking smile tugs at the corners of her lips.

“Baba…?”

Her voice is quiet and breaks from disuse, but he pulls a smile onto his face all the same, for her.

“Yes. It’s me, Zafirah.”

“When did…?” The words clearly escape her, smile dimming with mild confusion, but he knows the question.

“I only just returned today.”

The slightest nod is his reply and he can see how she fights her eyelids, sees her search for her next query––always she has so many questions and yet now she struggles to find even the next one––and so he leans forward and gently places his hand on her forehead, keeping his voice low and calm, soothing.

“Shhh, ‘firah. You’re tired. You should rest.” At his words, he can see the first signs of a question forming and he silences it before it can even begin, knowing what this one will be as well. “Don’t worry, my daughter. I’ll still be here when next you wake. I promise.”

With the assurance, she seems to relax again, another fatigued nod given as her eyelids droop once, twice more, before she drifts to sleep.

The smile he had held for her vanishes, his jaw clenching both in worry and anger.

What had Auntie said? That she had been like this for over a week? That she had begun to show signs longer ago than that?

What if he had been here? What if he could have watched over her? Wouldn’t he have noticed long before anyone else? Would there have been something to be done sooner?

A quiet shift of feet breaks him from his thoughts, reminding him of Auntie’s presence and, without turning from his daughter, he addresses the old woman, voice deceptively calm and even.

“Why. Why was I not informed?”

There is a heavy sigh and then she explains, “With the recent raids throughout this area, the men remaining would not hear of any one messenger venturing out and with the sickness, they would not risk sending out a group no matter what we said…”

What can he say? That they should have risked damning the village to bring him word of his daughter? That they should have gambled the life of a single messenger that he could reach his destination, unharmed?

No. That’s not fair to any of them, no matter how much he wishes he could say the words. He is not only a father. He is a leader. He is the Chieftain of the Medjai.

And this is part of the price he pays.

His silence must be deafening because at last Auntie speaks again. “There’s nothing that could have been done more than was done, Ardeth. She’s a strong girl. She’s fought hard. She’s too stubborn to give up now.”

That’s when he turns, a weary glance over his shoulder. He can’t get out the words right now, the ‘thank you’ that the healerwoman is owed, but again she seems to understand, a smile and a nod given in return before she makes her way from the room and back to her other patients.

He’s exhausted. Moreso now than even when first he reached the village, the strain of his sadness for his people who had lost so much and of his fear for what he could have––and might still––lose… There are very few things he wants than to lie down and to sleep…

But he won’t leave. He’d made a promise to his daughter, and he’ll not break it.