Moral Of The Story

Chapter Four

One Day Ago.

Bursts of yellow and orange set the sky ablaze. The sight should have blinded him but there was nothing but a sense of warmth settling beneath his skin and a lightness within his heart. It was so quiet. Nothing beyond the sound of the rustle of reeds and his even breath.

"Your heart is full," Taweret said softly.

It was only then Marc felt the slight weight in his hand – his heart. Alone.

"Your journey is over."

Marc stared into the endless horizon; his shoulders unburdened at the sight of paradise. "It's so... Quiet."

The words were barely audible, hesitant to break any moment of silence for fear it wouldn't return.

"The peace you've always wanted but never had." Taweret smiled at him. "You're manifesting it. No danger. No loneliness or hurt."

Loneliness.

Marc blinked at the word, his mind flooding with memories. Memories of Steven, the Duat. Layla...

"I– I shouldn't be here," he stuttered. The sky deepened into a fiery amber with shades of red. He turned to Taweret suddenly. "I have to go back. We have to go back for Steven."

"He's gone, Marc. The Duat has him." Taweret looked at him with deep sympathy, as she said, "Please, enjoy your peace."

"It's not mine to enjoy," he whispered.

Taweret shook her head, ear twitching as she attempted to sooth him. "Marc, your scales are balanced."

"No, no. They were only balanced because of Steven!" He yelled breathlessly, tears trailing. "He deserves to be here!"

He stared at Taweret, her sympathetic expression unaffected by his sudden outburst. She stepped toward him and touched his shoulder comfortingly. He felt his emotions release, almost overwhelming as he tried to speak.

"It should've been him," he told her thickly.

"But it's you." Her words only seemed to upset him more. "Your scales are your own, Marc. You've righted any wrongs. You deserve to be free. To be happy. You don't need Steven, not anymore."

Was that true, he wondered. He had Steven beside him for more of his life than not. And even now his skin prickled with silence, waiting for the familiar British voice to remark on the mythology of this place. But it never came, and its absence left Marc with a harrowing pang of grief. And the idea of eternal solitude had never sounded more miserable.

Marc furrowed his brows, determined. "We need to go back for him."

Taweret's eyes flitted to something behind him.

"Finally finished a life of adventure, I see."

Marc turned. "Dr. El-Fauoly?"

Abdallah chuckled, waving his hand dismissively. "No need for manners here, Marc. We're in paradise after all."

He was unsure what to say as he stood there staring at the man, who had no clue that he was Marc's father-in-law. In Abdallah's hand was a pink scarf with black stitching illustrating scarabs. Marc looked away, feeling shame creep up his spine.

"I think I'm in the wrong place then."

"Your scales balanced," Abdallah pointed out.

"Must've been some mistake 'cause I'm pretty sure you don't bump into people you've killed, in heaven."

Abdallah looked at the scarf. "I've had a long time to think about my life here, Marc. I think a lot about my daughter, whether I had done any of it right. Maybe I should've spent less time digging for the past and spent more time in the present. I think about where she is now. Whether she is still as happy as I left her. And I think about that night. I remember how you tried to protect me and all of my men." The man gives him a comforting look. "You did not kill me, Marc."