Chapter Text
Aziraphale can’t recall ever feeling more out of place.
As he follows the courtiers, undoubtedly all much higher in rank than him, he bows his head low, trying to avoid drawing more attention. He knows it’s a futile endeavour. With his bright hair, he has always stood out from a crowd. Walking among the dark-haired courtiers through the gates of the king’s palace, the situation isn’t any different and he can feel the royal court’s eyes on him.
His fair hair isn’t the only thing serving to make him stand out, though. Having been called upon on short notice (he’d barely had time to finish his breakfast), Aziraphale is only dressed in a white linen tunic with a simple beaded collar and reed sandals. He didn’t have time to paint his eyes or put on more than the two bracelets he is now wearing. Many of the men beside him are dressed in much more intricately woven skirts and all of them are wearing kohl and more jewellery than him.
Aziraphale clutches his satchel closer to himself and comes to stand next to the courtiers, awaiting admittance to the throne room. Apart from the way the others are eyeing him curiously and, in some cases, sceptically, the officials seem relaxed. Everything looks to be as usual. Yet still, no one has told Aziraphale why he is even here. He’d been summoned to the royal palace early this morning by one of the priests, but had been given no further explanation. Aziraphale could only assume it had something to do with his occupation.
Eventually, the doors to the throne room open and Aziraphale follows the courtiers, bowing to the doorkeepers as he passes them. Inside, Aziraphale can’t help but look around, trying to take in as many of the elaborate decorations, carvings, statues and inscriptions as he can. Who knows, this may well be the only time he will ever set foot inside the royal palace.
Aziraphale recognises most of the inscriptions as protective magic and praises for the king and the gods. From where he is standing he can make out a painting of the goddess Nekhbet[1] and several depictions of the king himself in various scenes. He is unable to stop himself from marvelling at the craftsmanship of the designs.
Like most other citizens of Waset[2], Aziraphale had never seen the king up close. Once, during a festival about a year ago, he had come within several hundred cubits[3] of the pharaoh, but even then, the king had been shielded from view by his bodyguards and fan bearers.
However, there is not a soul in all of the kingdom who hadn’t seen depictions of the king or had not heard the tales of his beauty. Especially the pharaoh’s long, flaming red hair and amber eyes (said to have been bestowed upon him by the great Amun-Ra[4] himself) were universally recognised and many citizens dyed their own hair and wigs with red henna to show their devotion during festivities.
A door towards the back of the throne room opens and shortly after, a figure emerges. Aziraphale only catches a brief glimpse at the pharaoh before he throws himself to his knees, arms stretched out in front of him and head bowed low to kiss the ground. His heart is beating fast in his throat. The honour of being in the direct presence of the king is immense and even if this may be Aziraphale’s only time meeting him, he is determined to make a good impression.
Being of lower rank, he rises after the last of the courtiers has done so and stands. His eyes are drawn to the bottom of the throne dais where two agile cats, one jet-black, the other multi-coloured with a white belly and paws, are sitting near the pharaoh's feet, tails twitching playfully. Next to the dais, the king’s vizier stands, watching the officials. He is, in and of himself, an unimposing man, but his fine dress and jewellery speak loud of his high status.
Finally, Aziraphale allows himself to raise his eyes to the king.
Pharaoh Crowley, son of Amun-Ra, sits gracefully on his throne. Clad in finely woven and pleated linen, his belt richly adorned with ceramic beads and gold, a wide necklace of the finest gems draped over his shoulders, and with his nemes headcloth of blue and gold stripes, the head of a cobra raised protectively at the front, he is a sight to behold. His god-given deep red hair is arranged to show just beneath his headdress, and with his slender frame, long arms and legs, and fine features, Aziraphale finds it hard to look away.
None of the paintings and songs of praise had come even close to doing justice to the king's beauty.
Feeling heat bloom in his cheeks, Aziraphale lowers his head again, waiting for someone to speak.
He doesn’t have to wait long. The vizier steps forward and indicates for the first courtier to lay out his daily report. Aziraphale listens carefully as one after another the officials inform the king and vizier about progress on the latest temple constructions, the water levels of the river[5], status of the fields and harvests, and the situation at the kingdom borders.
Aziraphale is familiar with some of the information. For two years now he has been employed by the government, where his duty as scribe is to calculate, oversee and protocol the construction and repair of ships to aid in the transport of food and wares between the Two Lands[6]. Thus, he knows a thing or two about construction work and, seeing as he works by the river, is intimately familiar with the water levels.
The last of the courtiers has finished his report and steps back. Even without looking around, Aziraphale can tell that all eyes are on him now. He swallows nervously, his hands fidgeting with the strap of his satchel. His gaze wanders from the vizier to the king, and Aziraphale wishes he could see the pharaoh’s facial features better; but the distance and the way the king’s headdress casts a shadow across his face make it almost impossible to decipher any emotion.
“Newt,” King Crowley suddenly says. It’s the first he’s spoken since they entered the throne room. He looks towards his vizier, who nods.
“Scribe Aziraphale?”
Aziraphale startles, dropping his satchel and bowing towards the vizier. “Yes, vizier, sir?”
“Step forward, please.”
Hastily, Aziraphale does as he’s told.
“You are currently employed under the government, keeping records of the construction of merchant ships, is that correct?” the vizier asks.
“Yes, sir.”
“And you know arithmetic and can read and write cursive[7]?”
Aziraphale nods. “Both scripts[8], sir.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Aziraphale can see the pharaoh lean forward. “Impressive.” His voice is quiet and calm. Aziraphale can feel a blush colouring his face.
“Thank you, your majesty.” He bows deeply to the king. The shift in position allows more light to meet the pharaoh’s face and, also being closer to him now, Aziraphale has the chance to get a better look at his features. The king’s eyes are lined in kohl and gold pigment, his nose follows a gentle downward curve, his lips are thin and shine faintly in the light. But what captivates Aziraphale the most, is the colour of his eyes. Once again, the depictions had fallen short. They look like pools of liquid gold, ready to be drowned in.
Something brushes against Aziraphale’s calf and he jumps, tearing his eyes away from the pharaoh and towards his feet. The colourful cat is looking back up at him, her tail flicking back and forth.
“Nedjem[9]!” The pharaoh calls gently and as the cat strolls towards him, he gives Aziraphale just the barest hint of a smile, as if to apologise for the animal.
Aziraphale bows his head.
“You’ve been called here,” vizier Newt continues, “because the scribe in charge of supervising and recording the construction of the newest addition to the temple has fallen seriously ill quite suddenly. At this point there is no telling if he will make a recovery or pass on, but with Akhet[10] fast approaching we need an immediate replacement.”
It makes sense. With the river about to flood, bringing with it the rich silt needed to cultivate the fields later, many farmers would temporarily join the construction efforts at the temple. Someone able to manage the workers with fundamental knowledge about the construction was needed. Someone, like Aziraphale, who could calculate the required material and manpower, and who could then document it.
Still, it would be quite a step up from Aziraphale’s current work.
“We have heard good things about you, scribe Aziraphale; that you work with care and diligence. Thus the king would like to offer you this opportunity.”
The vizier voices it as an offer, but realistically Aziraphale knows he has no choice, no right to refuse and that he would likely be punished if he tried. Not that he would, the position is much more prestigious than overseeing merchant ships.
“It would be an honour. Your majesty. Sir.” Again, Aziraphale bows deeply.
“Very well,” vizier Newt says, “your work will begin immediately. You will be shown to the site and are expected to make yourself familiar with your new tasks. Do you have any questions?”
“No, sir.”
The vizier nods. “Then all of you are dismissed.”
Aziraphale gets down to his knees again. While his hands are on the ground he silently thanks Thoth[11] for this opportunity.
“Oh and scribe Aziraphale? You are expected to report to the king and me regularly.”
“Yes, sir.”
As he leaves the throne room with the other courtiers, Aziraphale wonders just how much his life is going to change now.
Crowley awakes with his head throbbing. He stares up at the image of Nekhbet painted on the ceiling of his bedchamber, the ankh signs[12] below, and sighs. He is tempted to blame his aching head on the heat the last month of Shemu[13] tends to bring with it, but in reality it is more likely the stress of having to replace the scribe responsible for the record-keeping of the new temple construction. Not that Crowley actually did all that much to find a replacement, entrusting his vizier and priests with the task, but it still caused him a good bit of worry. If they didn’t find someone, and quickly, it would cause a significant delay in the construction. But he trusted Newt; and the vizier had told him he had his eye on someone, a scribe working for the government by the river.
Crowley is about to rise when he hears a soft noise and seconds later, a black cat jumps up on his mattress.
“Good morning, Miu[14],” Crowley greets him. The cat meows quietly, before curling up on his stomach. Crowley smiles and pets the cat, resigning himself to a few more minutes in bed.
When he finally rises and walks into the robing room, his staff welcomes him, ready to wash and dress him for the day. No one remarks on his delay.
Crowley lets the motions wash over him; most days he would prefer to spend his morning in solitude and today is no different. But as it is, he lets his servants take care of his hair, nails and perfume oils.
When the time to get fully dressed comes, Crowley hesitates in front of the display of headdresses. There is really no reason to wear the elaborate nemes when his only real duty today is to hear out his courtiers and meet the new scribe, but Crowley doesn’t feel particularly royal or god-like today, so he reckons the nemes might help him act the part. He informs the handlers of his choice and waits for the hairdressers to arrange his hair in a suitable fashion.
Once the whole matutinal spiel is done with, it’s time for breakfast.
Crowley moves through the palace, nodding to the servants and royal court officials as he passes them. Miu is following him closely and as he enters the dining hall, Nedjem joins him as well.
Inside, everything is as usual. The food is all laid out and Anathema has taken her seat already, smiling at him as he enters.
Crowley takes his seat beside her, lifting her hand to press a kiss to her knuckles.
“I hope you slept well.”
“Pleasant enough,” Anathema replies with a twitch of her mouth.
They eat honeyed bread and fruit in pleasant silence for a while. Crowley, who is never very hungry in the mornings anyway, tears his bread into smaller and smaller pieces before dipping them in goat’s milk.
“You’re meeting the new temple scribe today, right?” Anathema asks after taking a sip of her beer[15].
Crowley nods. He picks up a date. “I hope he is as well suited as I heard.”
“Newt told me that he talked to several people who spoke highly of him.”
Crowley hums and slowly chews the date.
“Everything will be alright, my dear,” Anathema says softly. She puts a hand on Crowley’s upper arm and gives him a reassuring smile.
“You always did have a knack for knowing how things will turn out. I hope you’re right this time as well.”
When Crowley enters his throne room almost an hour later, Nedjem and Miu in tow, he quickly surveys the group of courtiers kneeling before him. It doesn’t take him long at all to pick out who must be the new scribe. Even in his position at the very end of the lineup of courtiers he’s hard to miss, his curly and unusually bright hair catching the light.
Crowley listens as one after another his officials give their reports. Though, he can’t help his gaze drifting to the new scribe time and again. His dress is fairly simple, a white linen tunic with a modest collar. He’s wearing two bands on his arms, one on each, and is clutching his satchel to himself. Even though the scribe seems to be listening attentively to the courtiers, Crowley can tell that he’s feeling nervous.
Once all the reports are relayed, Crowley indicates for Newt to go ahead. The scribe makes a good first impression. He’s polite, speaks well, and when he tells Newt that he’s able to write and read both scripts as well as calculate, Crowley can’t help himself from moving forward in his seat.
“Impressive.” The word leaves his mouth before he’s even really thought about it. Immediately, the scribe—Aziraphale—bows deeply to him, and if Crowley isn’t mistaken, there’s a faint blush colouring his cheeks now.
At Crowley’s feet, Nedjem gets up from where she’s been sitting and strolls towards the scribe. She’s always been very curious and Crowley isn’t surprised that she would go to inspect the new person at the court.
Aziraphale however, didn’t seem to have noticed the cat approaching, and as her tail brushes against his ankle, he startles.
“Nedjem,” Crowley calls with a chuckle. He smiles at the scribe who bows again.
Newt then continues to tell Aziraphale why he has been called to the palace and what his future tasks will be. Again the scribe listens carefully and Crowley is starting to think that maybe Anathema was right again and everything will work out just fine. Even having to replace a very important position among his officials on short notice. But he’ll have to wait and see how the next few days and especially the beginning of Akhet will play out and if the scribe can live up to the expectations.
After Newt has dismissed the courtiers and everyone has left the throne room, he turns towards Crowley. He’s fiddling with one of his armbands.
“So, what do you think?” he asks.
Crowley scoops up Nedjem from the floor and sets her on his lap, uncaring about the cat hair he’ll get on his robes. “I am cautiously hopeful that he will be a good fit. He is polite and if he is truly as talented as he says, he should be able to fulfil his duties well enough. I guess only time will tell.” Crowley sighs and pets Nedjem’s head. “At least Nedjem seems to have taken a liking to him already.”
Newt seems to breathe a sigh of relief.
“You were worried?”
The vizier shuffles his feet. “Not about his abilities. I have talked to enough people working around him by the river who spoke highly of him. But I know how selective you are about your officials, my king.”
“Hm.” Crowley supposes he’s right. He has a bit of a reputation to uphold, too. Thanks to the previous dynasties’ brutal style of ruling the Two Lands, many common folk still believe him to be an equally ruthless ruler. It’s protection in and of itself to keep up appearances, though Crowley has never actually done much to give the impression of being merciless. If he’s quite honest, Crowley hates being feared, but he also knows that it’s better like this. At least for now, while his reign is still in its infancy, as he has only taken on the position as king about a year and a half ago. He finds some comfort in knowing the people close to him, few as they may be, know his true nature.
Crowley spends the rest of his day much like he often does. A trip to the temple, a walk around the gardens with Anathema (who gives him a very pointed I-told-you-so look to which Crowley replies that so far the new scribe hasn’t actually done anything and they will still have to see if it’ll all work out), and a quick refreshing bath.
When he returns to his bedchamber in the evening, Crowley admittedly feels a lot better than he did in the morning. Just before he falls asleep, imagery of the gods and his bodyguards keeping watch over him, he decides to keep a bit of a closer eye on the new scribe. There is something about him that fascinated Crowley when he stood there among the others, though Crowley can’t exactly pinpoint it. Apart from his outward appearance—hair that light wasn’t often seen in the kingdom—there was something that drew Crowley in, making him want to know more about the man. He just hopes his instincts aren’t betraying him in this.