Laid To Rest

His blood pulsed in his ears. The treasure of a lifetime might have been right before him, right beyond this final barrier. In a vain attempt to steady his sweaty, shaking palms, he wiped them against his field khakis before making the tiniest of incisions in the door’s upper-left-hand corner with his small hand-drill. It was warm, so very warm, and things were so very delicate, more than he ever imagined possible. With a small match, he tested the incision for noxious gases before peering through the peephole.

It was a cool night, well deserved after months of work carried out in secret under the cover of darkness. The Builder sipped his bouza on the hill beside the river, letting the drink and the spirits of the dead fill him. The world was so very different from when he laid his father to rest, but also so very much the same: the river flowed ever north to the sea, the sands shifted at the breeze toward the sea, even the sounds drifting from the city across the river were the same, even if that city was not as it once was. Seats of power changed. People remained. They worked all day and drank their bouza and wine by night. Some things remained as they should be.

He leaned back, elbows digging into the sand, enjoying the din from the east and the silence of the west. Life and death, together.

Some things changed. Some things should remain as they ever were.

His Partner beside him found no such joy in life’s little nuances, or so the Builder gathered by his constant fidgeting. “It is all wrong,” his Partner said, and the Builder noted the slight slur to his speech.

“It is as it was. It is as it will be.”

“How can you say such things? His father ruined everything.”

“The son restored things to the way they were.” It was a true enough statement, and the now dead boy was much revered for it.

“And look how the gods honored him for that–a swift and early demise. Some sins of the father cannot be undone by the son.”

The Builder took another long drink of his bouza. They were the last two, his Partner and him, who had worked for long days to finish the work that needed to be done. He liked his Partner well enough, but he was boisterous at the worst of times. Looking out over the river, the Builder thought about his own father. He’d been a good man in his time, receiving all of the proper honors of a good builder when he passed into the afterlife. The Builder remembered that day the sadness of mortal loss intermixed with the glory of eternal life. The harshness of illness intermixed with the peace of eternal rest. They buried him with very little, but the Builder hoped that the sparsity would let his father’s body lay unperturbed in his humble vault. That was how things should be. “What would your father say to such hearsay?”

“That boy’s father killed him; may his soul remain at rest. I imagine he would have many words harsher than my own. Because of that boy’s father, I am little more than a poor laborer rather than the son of a High Priest as I once was. I should be drinking the finest of wines from beyond the sea, not this swill.” To emphasize the point, his Partner poured what remained of his bouza over the sand. It congealed, a rock against the blowing grains across the surface, but before the light of the morning shone across the east, the Builder knew it would soon crumble.

“I am sorry.”

“You don’t know sorrow. Did you watch your mother starve herself as a beggar so you could live?”

The Builder opened his mouth then closed it. No words he offered could change what happened any more than he could prevent the life and death of the sun each day. He said a silent prayer, hoping that his Partner’s family might find peace in the afterlife.

His Partner’s head slumped, arms dangling between his legs. “It should be mine. I shouldn’t have spent my nights sleeping under the stars. I should be in bed, warmed by a priestess. It’s all there…It should be mine.”

The warmth of the bouza vanished, and the Builder listened intently as his Partner babbled. “What should be yours?” he asked cautiously as if the gods themselves listened, though the Builder knew they certainly did.

“Gold, gems, they are wasted on him,” his Partner spat upon the sands.

“Careful now, my friend.”

“Wasted I tell you! Come friend, we can do it. No one will know and we will both be rich men. Only we know where the actual door is hidden.” His Partner’s eyes were suddenly alight, full of the fury of the midday sun.

The Builder paused, and the world seemed to pause with him. The sands settled, the din died, and even the great river seemed to slow. They had built a secret stairwell, the true stairwell to the final resting place that only they knew of. It had been their sacred duty. They could be in and out with no mortal soul knowing. What were a few gemstones, a few bits of gold, to a god? He knew there was enough of them in there.

They could both be rich men. Very rich men.

“We cannot,” the Builder said, as defiantly as his bouza allowed. The old gods had been restored. Things changed. Things remained. His father would be proud. It was a good night for great reverences.

Before his mind registered the pain, the Builder felt himself tumble to the sands. He rolled, the sand sticking to the blood that now dripped down his back from the wound on his head. The sands, the din, the river, the entire world burst forth from their moment of calm, and his Partner stood over him, bouza pot shattered. “You will not stop me then. I am sorry, but this must be done. For my father. For my mother.”

The pain arrived, blinding, unending. The Builder knew he must be dead for he seemed to see the sun rising in the west, such was the intensity he felt from a place behind his eyes. He had not given in. He would be greeted in the underworld. He hoped his father would be there, to see his eyes when the Builder’s heart was finally weighed. Would it balance against the feather?

His Partner stumbled, drunk. He was close. The Builder felt the spray of kicked sand over his tunic.

Some things changed. Some things should remain as they ever were. There was peace in death that should lay eternally undisturbed. It was how things should be.

With what strength the Builder had left, he kicked, and felt the satisfying crunch of bone. The pain nearly blinded him as the Builder rolled and snatched toward his drunken Partner. He knew, with certainty now, the sun was indeed rising over the western horizon, over that great dead expanse. Hands flashed, bodies twisted.

Some things remained: duty, honor, reverence. The Builder would keep those things to the end over any petty plundered gold. With his strength invigorated, the Builder straddled his Partner and pressed his face into the sand, stifling his screams. Warm blood dripped down his tunic, down his back. His Partner’s arms flailed, slapped, then stilled, forever.

Some things should remain. The Builder collapsed as the sun rose in the west, peaceful in the knowledge that the stairwell would die with him, that the boy, the god-king, would remain forever peaceful in eternal sleep. As his eyes closed one last time, the Builder swore he saw the boy king walking toward him, his face the brightest gold of the most glorious sun.

His eyes adjusted in the faint glow of the match within the peephole. Deep in his chest, his lungs and heart constricted at the sight beyond.

“Dr. Carter, can you see anything?”

“Yes! Wonderful things.”

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A/N:

Huge shout out to Paul for inspiring this story off the back of our banter. If you've enjoyed this, please leave a like and an insight below. If you really enjoyed this, tips to fuel my coffee addiction are always appreciated. All formatting is designed for desktops. My best stories can be found below: