Work Text:
When he first rises, the people do not yet know him. He understands this. He was born with all the memories of Amonkhet herself, as though the plane could not bear to allow her gods to wallow in ignorance ever again. The plane tells him his name and gives him the will of the living and the dead, who pour their devotion and determination into her sands.
He is new. New life is still rare. He knows this. He understands that the people may not yet welcome him.
Of course they surprise him. It is his first lesson: do not underestimate my people. These are the living and the dead who have persisted through it all. They do not need you and you do not need them—but you are both better for having each other.
A lesson the others once learned, he knows, though that memory is so old that even Amonkhet herself has difficulty showing it to him. He does not press. He understands. She is dying. He will not ask more of her than she can give.
And still, she gives so much. She whispers his arrival in the winds, so that when he rises, the people do not know him, but some of them have been waiting.
A woman with braids piled on her head and the mark of a dead god walks forward, utterly unafraid. He loves her. It is not a choice; it is instinct. It is the oldest impulse Amonkhet knew to pass on.
“Greetings.” She smiles and spreads her arms, all openness and faith. “I am Olufemi, vizier of Oketra the True. May we know your name?”
I am Ketramose of the Breaking Dawn. He kneels, wanting a better look at this survivor who still holds faith for a fallen god. I am of determination and hope, of solidarity and endurance, of peasantry, of the living and the dead.
Olufemi, vizier of Oketra, bows her head before turning to the crowd behind her. “He is Ketramose! God of the Dawn and Determination!”
The people cheer. They cheer and he can feel their hope and endurance flow through him. He loves them. There is a part of him which knows the last god who honored the dead, and he wonders how she could have forgotten this. Some of them already stand out to him. They shine brighter, even though that should be impossible under the intense rays of the twin suns. Some of them are wrapped in white cloth, Anointed and newly free. Some of them are yet living, scarred from battles and hardship, but still fierce and unwavering.
One shines brighter than the rest. He knows what this means.
Ketramose waits until she has turned back to him, still down on one knee. He will not rise above her in order to make this request. He will meet her on her level—or as close as he can get. Vizier Olufemi. You bear the mark of one of my predecessors. I do not expect you to turn your back on her, yet still, I have a request for you.
“If it is in my power, Fierce Ketramose, I will gladly obey.” Her smile has not wavered. It is a strong, wide smile, carved over years of hard work and faith.
Will you be my first vizier, Olufemi of Naktamun, of the sands, of birth and survival?
The shock is plain on her face. It is more than fair. He waits patiently while she gathers her thoughts.
“Fierce Ketramose, I will not abandon my vows to Oketra.” She meets his eyes without fear, and he is glad of it. “To turn my back on her would be to turn my back on myself and all those I have stood by since my birth.” He expects that to be the end of it, and he is content. Disappointed, but he is still so new. He thought he understood her glow and what it meant, but perhaps that was the arrogance of the young.
She surprises him again. How long will these people keep surprising him? “However, I do not think she would begrudge me taking on new vows. After all…you do remind me of her.”
High praise from such a devoted vizier. The highest praise possible, his inherited memory tells him. A deep and true sense of pride and love wells within him—not his own, it’s too old and well-trodden for that. A piece of Olufemi’s first god, which Amonkhet placed in him, so he might always be True to her people. I accept your terms, faithful Olufemi. You need never turn away from the first god of your heart. I ask only that you stand by me as well.
“I will do this gladly, Ketramose.” She does not startle when he reaches a hand down and puts one finger in front of her. She only steps forward and places her own hand on his skin.
She is so warm. He is made of ferocity and the dawn, and yet she still feels so very warm. He wonders if her touch would burn him, given long enough. She is all white mana, solidarity and hope and unwavering faith, but it burns like the twin suns in her heart.
All of the Amonkheti must be like this, Ketramose thinks with no small amount of wonderment. They must need that fire to survive. The idea that he could burn bright enough to stand beside these people…it is truly humbling. He will need that humility, if he is to be faithful to them.
That burning faith ignites him, and an understanding passes between Olufemi and himself. He can sense her now, differently and more deeply than the rest of the crowd. The ones who still shine so brightly will someday feel this way to him as well, he knows, but for now there is the world, the people, and his brilliant vizier.
He is grateful to her. More than she will ever know. She will not be his highest priest (that, he senses, will be someone who is both younger and much, much older than her), but she will always be his first.
I am truly grateful to you, Olufemi, twice-faithful vizier. He pulls his hand away and stands, addressing all of the people gathered before him. As I am grateful to you all. Amonkhet burns with your determination. We will stand together and bring each rising dawn.
They cheer. They cheer for him and his clumsy words. They shout and wave their arms and he feels their faith almost as a blow. It pierces him, mixes with all the sand and faith and fire until his very being is filled with the approaching dawn. He is so struck by it that he almost doesn’t notice another presence, large and strange and familiar. He looks up to see Sab-Sunen, Nurse Mother of the Luxa, standing in her river and gazing back at him over the crowd between them.
She nods, satisfaction and love in all of her. Welcome, Ketramose of the Rising Dawn.
He can only nod back. They are both new here, and their sole counterpart for the people of Naktamun is farther away, though he does feel something of her presence. Hazoret, God of Zeal, God-Survivor. Godseeker now, traveling with her cohort, scouring the sands. When next she returns to the city and her children, he expects to be humbled once more. In a good way, he thinks. A true way. The humility of understanding, of faith, of survival. Of love. He can already sense her in another of this city’s viziers. Amonkhet provides her name: Samut the Tested, Vizier of Naktamun. Ketramose wonders if she will test him. He intends to rise to the challenge.
This, he realizes, is what it means to be a God of Amonkhet. The plane is right. The people do not need him in order to survive. He does not need their faith in order to exist.
And yet, together like this, they are so much more.