Metal Birds

Chapter 39: To Egypt Again

The Egyptian Wilderness, October 13, 1940

Matthew and Francis made it clear that they weren't going to pester him for his decision to go to Egypt. No. In fact, they barely said a word. Upon further convincing, Arthur managed to get Matthew to stay, for Francis' sake. Even then, the convincing took time. He promised to write. He promised to be back as soon as he could. Even then, it would be difficult. Sending a letter from somewhere allegedly filled with combat would be a struggle, but a struggle he could figure out how to overcome.

And now, he found himself sailing aimlessly over orange-beige hills and the occasional outcropping of slightly darker rocks. He had flown down, straight through Spain as unnoticably as possible, before slipping over Gibraltar and then across Algeria, Tunisia, and then Libya until he found himself passing over the Egyptian border. It took him about a week, and it was incredibly tiring.

Arthur wasn't necessarily built for hot weather travel. He never flew during the day, instead he would try to find and outcropping or a well and hunker down during the day, keeping his head covered as he slumped against the stones, and if he was lucky enough, a series of cliffs served as his shelter.

However, Arthur often found himself venturing towards the coast to ensure he didn't pass out from dehydration. While it wouldn't kill him, -Britain was doing fine as far as he was concerned- he would definitely pass out until someone got water into his body, which in the desert, would be highly unlikely. Or impossible.

It wouldn't serve well in his intentions.

The week, though tiresome, was something he repeatedly had to convince himself would be worth the journey.

So far, Arthur had little to go on. He could go to Kafr Saad, but even if he could catch a slipstream, it would add a day's time to the journey. And time was something that could not be wasted. Even then, it was the only place he was sure Imhotep might be, other than Cairo, but he felt nervous about Cairo.

He wasn't positive about the military population there, or if Imhotep might even be there at all. That, and Nations were always very sneaky about their presences. There was a slim chance that Feliciano, or even Ludwig might be there. It was a chance he didn't want to take, if that was the case.

What he was always nervous about was approaching wells where people already were. Sometimes there were residents at the well, and even though he would be ridiculously thirsty, he would make himself consider the approach.

He didn't really want to be seen. No matter what the others had to say, he wasn't sure how humans approached Nations in this part of the world. He didn't want to scare them, and he didn't want to be 'killed', or worse. So he would force himself to float around the upward gales until the travelers or well owners moved on, hopefully far beyond eyesight.

Often he just tossed his canteen down, tied to a stick, stood for a few gulps and then lowered the thing down again. If he felt safe enough, he would sit and preen with his free wing oddly balanced over his head to block out the sun, with his shirt soaked and draped over his burning back and shoulders. If it got windy, he left. If he spotted movement on the distance, he left, and if, on the rarest occasion of only once or twice, he was met by a surprised or accusing voice; he would bolt to the skies faster than a falcon.

One evening, Arthur found himself slumped against the two inch wall of a well with his shirt over his head, which had been soaked from the waters of it. He kept his eyes glued on the tiny tuft of golden grass that had decided to attempt to root itself. Not long ago he had watched the occupants of the well leave, and he felt alright enough to hunker down for sleep. He'd been flying a bit longer than usual, and he was sure now that he was going to be on the last leg of his journey.