She was darkness and he was darkness and there had never been anything before this time, only darkness and his lips upon hers. She tried to speak and his mouth was over hers again. Suddenly, she had a wild thrill such as she had never known; joy, fear, madness, excitement, surrender to arms that were too strong, lips too bruising, fate that moved too fast.
- Margaret Mitchell
Ancient Egypt, 1403 BC
She looked at the sinner standing before her, begging to be spared. His rough linen kilt getting bruised as he crawled closer to her feet, head bowed and hands outstretched as if in prayer. Legneia gazed at the sputtering human and her heart clenched with regret. She hated her job.
“Goddess, forgive me for I have sinned. Please, Nephthys, lady of the mansion, spare me!” he sobbed at her feet.
“I am no Goddess; I just stand before those who have harmed others with their deadly hunger. I am Legneia, torturer of the dead,” she stated in the cold voice she had rehearsed. But her hands were quivering and her whole being was quivering, she couldn’t bear to torture him to death – even if he did deserve it.
“I will make it quick,” she whispered, resulting in loud wails from the lusty farmer.
Legneia flicked her wrist speedily and the farmer’s neck snapped. His body stilled in the kneeling position, but slowly, he swayed to the right and his body thumped with minimal sound. She walked over and to his exposed face and squatted down, pressing her shaking finger on his eyes, she closed the lids to a lifeless pair of black eyes that reflected the gold in her eyes too brightly.
“You should have abstained,” she murmured and got up.
She walked aimlessly through the shadow veiled mud brick homes. The only sound came from the singing crickets that screeched into the dark, moonless night. She looked up to the skies, once again silently praying to whoever was up there, wondering why he had chosen her for such a heavy task. She wasn’t suitable like her brothers and sisters; they all were ruthless.
Lost in her thought, she didn’t notice the shadow squatting at the edge of the river. The oil lamp illuminating his strong shoulders, fine kilt and richly made leather sandals but his face was in the nights grasp, teasing her with only an outline of his structured jaw.
Curiosity got the better of her.
She walked to the bank of the flowing Nile, and seated herself a little distance away from the stranger. Legneia used the night to her advantage and made sure not much of her was seen; she lodged in the depths of the shadows provided by the date tree.
“State your business,” he bellowed from his side of the bank. The shuffling of her long red garment had made him aware that she had come.
“My business is not with you, I merely come here to seek comfort with the holy river,” she replied.
“At this hour?” he asked but she did not give a reply. A stretch of silence passed between them as they both indulged in their respective thoughts.
Moments passed and no one said a word, Legneia wondered when he would talk to her again so that she could reply him this time. She quite liked his voice. The golden illumination that the fire provided suddenly diminished and a shuffling sound followed it. In the little light that the stars provided, she saw his silhouette make its way to her. With a grunt, he dropped down next to her, his fine linen touching her bare ankle. He was no common man; he was a noble of some sort.
“Does the Holy River give you answers you seek?” he asked after a while.
“No, but I feel like nothing can. I have been destined to the life I’m in and the gods seem determined to keep me there.”
