Work Text:
Bayek dealt with pain the only way he knew how: he kept going. When Bayek was hurting, the only thing he could do and not get caught in his own darkness was exhaust himself. After Amunet and he had parted ways, after they had avenged Khemu’s death, he continued to build the Brotherhood and fulfill his tired duties as Medjay with an unwavering fervor. That is— until he couldn’t.
His recruits were the first to notice his exhaustion.
“How long has it been since you rested?” They questioned.
“There are more important things at hand.”
After all, the Brotherhood would not build itself.
The second person to comment on his wearinesss was Rabiah, in Siwa. The old town made Bayek’s heart ache. His pain reflected in her eyes as she brought a hand to his face, gently rubbing a thumb across his cheek as if to smooth the dark circles that had formed under his eyes. He cast his gaze to his feet at her concerned tsk.
“The sands have wearied you.” That, and so much more.
He took to traveling at night— less chance of heatstroke and all the better chance to not be lost to the darkness’s ghosts. Staying still would only leave him vulnerable.
He met with Amunet from time to time— to discuss targets, recruits, and where the Brotherhood was headed. Amunet would cast him wary glances, a knowing glare that he only averted.
One day, after coming in from the blistering sun, he stumbled, blinking away a brief rush of vertigo. Amunet was at his side, water pouch in hand, cutting directly to her concern.
“You need rest.”
“I am fine,” he replied, begrudgingly taking the water that Amunet offered and taking a sip. She looked at him with an air of disbelief, the cutting edge of her gaze softened by the concerned tilt of her eyebrows.
“Since when is exhaustion “fine?” Amunet persisted. Unfortunately for them both, Bayek was just as stubborn as she was. Since we’ve had to fight to keep Egypt alive, since the Greek and Roman leadership has made our collective faith dwindle, since our son died so that greedy men could have their way, since we left each other.
“I said, I’m fine.” Bayek handed Amunet her water pouch and walked to table where their recruits gathered. They all cast knowing glances amongst themselves, but none of them said a word.
They had a new target. A corrupt priest serving in the Serapeion— taking worshippers’ offerings and selling them to make a profit for the Roman army. It seemed that even with their leader dead, they were an impending force.
Despite Amunet’s admonishing persistence that Bayek rest, he insisted he be given this target; the priest was particularly dangerous, and he had a cold knot in the pit of his stomach that one of their less experienced recruits would fall victim to the priest’s wrath.
Night fell, and Bayek took to the rooftops, darting between shadows and evading the night’s patrol. He came upon the buildings surrounding the temple, crouching on the edge of a rooftop to catch his breath. Despite the rush of adrenalin and elevated heartbeat, he could feel exhaustion cloying at his bones.
Bayek was tired.
He took a steadying breath, and made the jump to the Temple’s roof.
The assassination went smoothly — as smoothly as killing in such a sacred place could be— it was everything Bayek could do not to let his sentiments get the better of him. The priest was a danger and a detriment to innocent people; it did not matter how he felt.
He lingered a moment at a window before disappearing into the night; so lost was he in his own thoughts that didn’t see the guard patrolling two rooftops away. An arrow whistled past his shoulder, breaking Bayek from his reverie. He flinched, focussing in on the guard who shot at him.
He grabbed the side of the window and jumped out, rolling to a crouch on the roof below. He whistled, beckoning Senu to distract the alarmed guard. Perhaps it was his exhaustion that affected his perception, but he was caught by surprise when a second guard appeared at his right, staring down at him as he attempted to make a run for it. Bayek narrowly dodged the swing of the immediate guard’s mace, rolling again and springing into a run. Blood rushed in his ears as he jumped between rooftops, more guards having joined the pursuit. He had not been swift enough.
Bayek willed his legs to carry him faster, to ignore how his feet slipped slightly on the tile roofs.
Another arrow flew past him, skidding on the tile and landing near his feet. He could have fought the guards, but in his current state, he may not have had enough energy for a prolonged fight.
Just as he thought he was out of range of the archers, he heard the whistle of another arrow. This time it made a hit, burying its tip in his shoulder. The impact and sudden pain was almost enough to send him sprawling, but he kept his feet. He turned, jumping onto a lower rooftop, ignoring the jarring force that lanced through to his knees. He continued to run, breath becoming shallow from the exertion.
“After him!” Still, they persist. He wasn’t fast enough to outrun them this time. He hesitantly looked over his shoulder. The guards were farther away than they had been, but close enough to make another arrow hit. Should they be so lucky. Or should I make another mistake.
Bayek knew the area well enough; the next roof dropped off into the marketplace, right above the stables, where there sat a hay cart for the horses. Bayek used his momentum to jump off the wall of a balcony and use his good arm to haul himself to the higher rooftop. He half ran, half shuffled along the ridge— he was nearly to the edge, when another shout sounded somewhere to his right, his eyes darted to the potential threat. His lapse in concentration caused his foot to slip on the roof’s tile. He tried to correct his stride, however his tired muscles couldn’t compensate, and he tripped, one foot landing and twisting before he could gain his feet. He tumbled, rolling off the edge of the roof with a cry of pain. He was able to grab the edge of the roof before he fell, controlling his descent enough to swing himself through an open window that appeared before him.
Bayek landed with a grunt in a heap, keeping still for a moment to try to quell the rushing in his ears. The guards flew past the window, unaware that their target had taken to indoors for his escape. He was fortunate.
Taking stock of his injuries -- his ankle emanated a bone-deep throb, his shoulder felt seared -- Bayek rose to a sitting position, leaning heavily against the wall, trying to catch his breath.
He suppressed a groan as he pulled himself to his feet, swaying slightly as he attempted to keep his balance. Bayek tested his weight on his injured ankle, and nearly fell again as the throb turned into a stabbing pain. He was able to catch himself with his uninjured foot, sizing up the journey he had to make back to the bureau. The Hidden Ones’ hideout was half the city away; Bayek grit his teeth as he imagined how difficult the journey would be.
Gripping his injured arm to hinder the movement of his shoulder, Bayek came to the stairs that led out of the building. He managed, leaning heavily on the railing and giving everything he could not to groan at the pain that emanated from his ankle every time he stepped. It was already starting to swell, making his sandals and shin-guards uncomfortably tight.
Very slowly, Bayek made it to street level. He considered taking his mount, but even if he were to make it up onto the camel, he wasn’t sure if he could make it off again. If he continued at his current pace, however, he’d be a more than viable target for the city guards— and an obvious spectacle, drawing attention.
Conceding to the risk of being stuck on his camel for the foreseeable future rather than getting himself caught, Bayek called his mount, taking a deep breath as she settled in front of him. Grabbing the saddle with one hand, he jumped off of his uninjured foot and made the attempt to hoist himself onto his camel. Surprisingly, he maneuvered himself onto the saddle and looped the reins around one hand, tucking his injured arm at his side, his hand resting near his lap. Bayek pulled the reigns, encouraging the camel forward at a walk. Trotting or galloping would only serve to jostle his shoulder, so Bayek settled for the slow — yet steadier than he could be on his own two feet — trek back to the bureau.
Their recruits greeted him eagerly as he came upon the entrance; they gave pause as their eyes moved to the arrow in his shoulder and the blood now dripping down his arm.
“You are injured,” one of them exclaimed, putting a hand on the flank of his camel to steady her. Bayek nodded.
“The priest is dead. Despite my wounds, I fare better than he.” Bayek grimaced as he swung one leg over his camel, positioning himself to hop onto his uninjured foot. He stumbled as he hit the ground, his best efforts at keeping his injuries from moving unsuccessful. One of the recruits pulled Bayek’s arm over their shoulders.
“How badly are you hurt?” Bayek grunted, leaning on the recruit to keep weight off his ankle.
“A twisted ankle, and this arrow wound.”
“Do not worry, Bayek. We’ll get you patched up.” The recruit led him into the bureau, guiding him to the corner they had set aside for tending to the wounded. Bayek looked up as he limped through the door, only to find Amunet’s withering glare. It was softened by a flicker of concern, deep down, but the tone of her voice cut through it.
“What happened?” Amunet questioned, straightening from where she leaned over their informant table.
“The priest is dead,” Bayek said.
“And you are hurt.”
“This life is not without risks.” Bayek and the recruit made it to a chair; he let out a brief huff of pain as he settled. Amunet moved to stand in front of him. The admonishing glare in her eyes softened as she looked him over. Bayek met her gaze, unsure of what else to say.
“We need to stitch this arrow wound— it’s still bleeding,” the recruit piped.
“Do what you need,” Bayek affirmed.
The recruit summoned a healer, who made quick work of tending to Bayek’s injuries. First, the healer pulled the arrow from his shoulder, then stitched the wound and wrapped it with linen and willow leaves before moving to wrap his ankle. Bayek had to fight the darkness that encroached his vision. The pain coupled with his exhaustion was almost too much.
The healer finished his work, standing, and placing a gentle hand on Bayek’s good shoulder.
“It seems as though the Gods have shown you mercy. You will live, neb.”
“Thank you.” Bayek nodded. The healer bid them farewell, and Amunet moved to his side.
“Bayek…” Amunet put a hand on his shoulder. He leaned into her touch, exhaustion finally catching up to him, his eyelids heavy. He could have sworn he heard Amunet sigh.
“We need to have you take your armor off.
“Leave it. I’ve slept in it before.”
“Do you want to be in more discomfort than you already will be when you wake next?”
“Bayek illicited a soft groan, yet relented. He accepted Amunet’s assistance as she first took off his weapons, then moved to his cowl.
The back of Amunet’s hand brushing against his face made him pause. He lifted his gaze, realizing that she had stopped, too.
“How long has it been since you last rested, Bayek? And, I mean properly slept and eaten.” At Bayek’s silence, Amunet let out a frustrated growl.
“Unlike you to brood when you’re upset— spending too much time with Senu, then?”
“The Order needs to be eradicated,” Bayek finally spoke. “I cannot rest while innocent people are in danger.”
“Once a Medjay, always one.”
“Evil never sleeps, so I cannot either.”
“These are very selfish reasons. What of our brothers and sisters who have joined our cause? You insist that they take care of themselves, is this not truly your wish? Our Brotherhood will not survive if we run ourselves into the ground.”
“That is not what I want— it would never be.”
“Then why do you insist on doing it to yourself?” Bayek said nothing, averting his gaze to his feet again— and after a long stretch of silence, Amunet continued helping him disrobe.
There was a reason he didn’t take his clothes off very often— it was a pain, now exacerbated by his wounded shoulder. After a few minutes of fumbling with his cowl and trying to untie the straps that kept the cloth in place, he defferred to Amunet’s more deft hands.
Once his torso was bare, leaving him in only his leggings, Amunet snaked a hand under his good arm and around his shoulder, heaving him to his feet. The sudden movement made him gasp, but he gained his balance with Amunet’s grounded presence at his side. She led him to a nearby bedroll, gently easing him to the floor to lay, a gathering of pillows cushioning his head and shoulders.
“Rest, Bayek.” Amunet turned, reaching for the pitcher they had stored with water and a cup. By the time she had filled the cup and turned back around, Bayek had fallen to sleep.
***
Bayek had had nightmares ever since he was a child, so finding himself in the middle of one once again served to be very little shock. Still, surfacing in the waking world was jarring, and found him letting out a choked cry, sweating and panting as he shook off the tendrils of sleep that plagued his consciousness. He tried to sit up, to move, but the lance of pain that traveled through his shoulder and echoed through his back confined him to remain prone. He grit his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut, grunting as he lay back down.
Slowly, he began to take in the world around him again. It was night, the warm glow of fire and candlelight illuminating the room in snatches. A sheen of sweat had gathered on his skin, and he shivered.
Movement sounded beside him— Bayek’s eyes darted to his side, trying to engage his hidden blade. It wasn’t until he realized it was Amunet still at his side that he remembered that he didn’t have his weapons.
“Amunet. I’m sorry, I…” Amunet had moved to grab a blanket, covering Bayek up to his chest.
“You had a nightmare.”
“It seems I still cannot rid myself of them.” Seep still clung to Bayek’s voice with a low, gravelly rumble.
Silence passed as Bayek tried to quell his racing heart.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Amunet’s voice was soft, almost a whisper. Bayek shook his head, the movement almost imperceptible.
“The sands have not yet settled.” Amunet’s mouth quirked in a sad smirk— a lament for their struggle?
“I do not think they ever will,” Amunet said, solemnly.
“My nightmares have changed,” Bayek admitted. “Now that Khemu’s Ka is at peace, I no longer fear that he is lost in the duat.”
“Grief is not so simple a matter,” Amunet replied.
“It is not.”
Silence. Again. There were times in their youth, when the two of them would spend hours, into the early hours of the morning talking of how they would change the world, protect the people, and preserve all that made their world special. Their silences weren’t tense, and words would travel between them as surely and as smoothly as the stars traveled across the sky. Now, that was gone.
“What is that smell?” Bayek took a deep breath, suddenly noticing the earthy, herbal aroma that permeated the space.
“Chamomile. I made tea.” Amunet rose, walking over to the fire that burned in the corner of the room. A pot rested above it, the liquid inside steaming. Amunet took two cups and filled them, handing one to Bayek. He skeptically took the tea and brought it up to his face, sniffing it.
“It is a calming herb. It may help you sleep.”
“I’ve never had it, before.”
“My Aunt swore by it— she used to say that it could fix anything.”
“I’m surprised Rabiah never had us drink it, for all she treated our wounds.” Bayek took a sip, grateful for the warmth that it spread in his belly.
“It is the most harvested along the banks of the Nile, perhaps she didn’t have the resources to have it brought to Siwa.”
“She’s Rabiah, she can do anything, I’m sure.” Amunet let out a chuckle, a quick bout of laughter that lit her face like the dawn of a new day. Bayek smiled.
Before long, Bayek had finished his tea and was nodding off again. Amunet gently took the cup that he limply grasped in his hand. As his eyes closed and his breathing evened out again, Amunet cupped Bayek’s face in her hand, bringing their foreheads together for the briefest of moments.
“Rest well, Bayek.”
***
The next time Bayek woke, the sun was setting again in the sky. He blinked as he noted the last rays of light faded from the sky. Amun had kept him safe from the nightmares that normally plagued him during his sleep, now fighting Apep as the rest of Egypt slept. He tried to sit up, shoulder stiff and still throbbing. He felt a hand at his back, easing him into a sitting position.
“How fared your sleep this time?”
“Amunet? Have you been here this whole time?”
“Don’t try to pull the ‘you haven’t rested’ criticism on me, you don’t get to.”
“I…” Bayek paused.
“Eat. You’ll need to regain your strength.” Bayek complied, taking the plate of food that Amunet handed to him. They ate in silence.
Bayek finished, fiddling with a date pit, ignoring the sticky mess it was making of his fingers. He felt no less tired. Amunet was the first to speak.
"What is wrong, Bayek?" What wasn't wrong?
Gods, he missed her, missed Khemu, missed Siwa and they had lost so much, so many. He could do nothing about it.
The deeper they fought into the viper pit of those who would seek to corrupt and break down the people, the more it felt that they were losing. Something was better than nothing, but Bayek could see no end to it.
Egypt was dying.
He had seen and dealt so much death, he wondered if he would ever feel whole again.
Bayek's mind flashed to over a decade ago, when the killer, Bion had tried to eliminate the last of the Medjay. The man who had so been withered by killing that he hardly seemed to believe in anything else-- Bayek had seen a similar look in his father's eyes.
What, then, had Bayek become?
"Bayek?" Amunet’s voice pulled him from his thoughts. Amunet's hand over his made his throat painfully tighten. Tears started to well in his eyes. He swallowed, trying to clear his throat.
“These burdens that have been thrust upon us, feel too heavy to bear.” Amunet’s hand tightened to grasp his. “I have missed you.” Bayek looked to Amunet sitting beside him— her eyes spoke what she did not want to say.
Our love was never meant to be. We cannot forge the bond we once had. Our old lives are renounced. But how she still loved him.
And he, her.
Bayek pulled his hand away from hers. Some things had to be left to be lost to the desert sand.
***
Healing was slow. Though Bayek’s wounds were not serious, they still pained him even after he was able to regain his feet. He gradually worked the strength back into his shoulder and ankle. He stayed in the Bureau for the first few weeks, then slowly started training with his bow and making short reconnaissance trips around Alexandria. Amunet was by his side, helping him train— it almost reminded him of when they were young, aspiring Medjay.
They both had changed so much.
By two moons’ time, he had healed enough to resume his full duties with the Hidden Ones.
One evening, the sun set on Egypt, as it always did— and always would, Bayek mused. Why could their lives not be so certain? Looking out over the city from above had always instilled a sense of calm, of humility within Bayek’s heart. They were all so small, yet they kept going. A rustling sounded behind him— he recognized Amunet’s gait as she walked up behind him, sitting beside him so that their shoulders touched.
“A beautiful evening,” she mused. Bayek nodded. He let his eyes remain on the horizon.
“I would be remiss to say I don’t still care about you,” Amunet then said.
“Me too.” Bayek hung his head.
“But, we are both entrenched in this secret war. Being husband and wife would only lead to more pain.”
“Our personal wants are our sacrifices for this cause. So that no others would have to bear the tragedies that we have,” Bayek said.
“It does not mean that we are enemies forever sworn apart.”
“I know.” Bayek looked over to Aya, who leaned her head forward so that their foreheads touched. Her presence was calming, like chamomile tea.
Their bond was forever changed, and so too were they. But as the sun set on Alexandria, Bayek found a sense of peace, that they were both still alive, still breathing, still feeling, and they could still fight the pain that they were faced with. And so they would. And so he would.