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Chapter 1 Menkaura waited in the conference room patiently. His solid gold king chess piece felt heavy and comforting in his palm. His surroundings were very polished and so was he. The suit was strange, but the silk lining was comforting. He waited for what seemed like a moment. This was how Smenkhkare was. No punctuality. No sense of time. As he was for all the 4000 years they have lived. But no matter, Menkaura had all the time in the world. Suddenly the door knob started to turn. Unconciously, Menkaura straightened up and looked in the direction of the door. Not wanting to betray his eagerness, he quickly sat back and wore a passive expression, playing with his king. Almost too quiet to detect, Smenkhkare stepped into the room, footsteps as light as raindrops. He did not look in Menkaura’s direction as he closed the door. He then looked up, but stayed where he was, by the door. No one spoke, and silence was flaunting its weight. Menkaura listened to Smenkhkare’s even breathing. Soft, fleeting. He looked at his face. Angular and possesing an excellence in beauty. His long, unmarked neck. So…breakable. His hair, the darkest of browns. Long, as if strands of the purest silk hung down his back. His eyes. The light, gleaming colour of honey. How I’d love to rip them out. He was lean, as always. Tall, as always. Lovely, as always. Mine, as always. Menkaura broke the silence, in their native tongue. “Hello, Smen”. Smenkhkare almost flinched at the name, but kept his face and voice neutral. “Menkaure”. While Menkaure took the liberty of calling him that name, Smenkhkare always called him by his full one. “To what do I owe this visit?” It is no pleasure, that is certain. Menkaura gave a little smile. “Must there be a reason?” “We agreed-“ “I agreed to nothing”, Menkaura interrupted, forcefully. Menkaura got up and approached Smenkhkare. He repeated slowly, “I agreed to nothing.” “You haven’t changed, Menkaura”, said Smenkhkare, tiredly. Menkaura moved to touch Smenkhkare’s hair. Smenkhkare, agitated, flinched away, patience wearing thin. Menkaure did it again, disregarding Smenkhkare’s wishes. He tucked a lock of Smenkhkare’s hair behind his ear. “If only you had been female, Smen-“ “Aye, I am not.” “-you would have been my wife”, he continued, ignoring Smenkhkare’s words. Smenkhkare moved away violently. “Our Lord Pharoh and Pharoh’s wife had only males, Menkaure”, he said, as if he had said this many times before. Menkaure put his hands in his pockets. He quite liked this fashion. Pockets were a lovely thing. He almost looked like he belonged to this time. With his cropped, business like hair and his clothes. Unlike his Smenkhkare, however. “And I persuaded them to keep you. You survived our siblings, Smen.” He held Smenkhkare by the shoulders. “If it weren’t for me, they would have buried you living. With the rest of them.” He approached Smenkhkare and put his hands on either side of his face, whispering, “No gratitude for thine savior?” Smenkhkare pushed Menkaura away, and Menkaura let him. Before Smenkhkare can say anything, the door opened and in walked Gwen, Smenkhkare’s secretary. She was the typical secretary one might think of, what with the tight formal clothing, the skirt too short to be anything near appropriate and the gravity-defying bosom any woman would kill for. She had an almost vulgar beauty to her that hit you between the eyes. She paused to look at the men before her, one standing tall, the other, her boss, wearing an expression of wariness and resignation behind the slightly dishevled curtain that is his hair. “Excuse me, sir,” she said in a husky voice, one that is obviously not hers. “There are two men outside, and they won’t leave”. Smenkhkare replied in perfect english, giving himself a slight brogue. “Please try your hardest to remove them, Gwendolyn, whomever they may be.” She would not have distrubed him if they were harmless. Her face soured at the name he called her, for she hated her given name, and yet he insisited on calling her such. The next words came not from Gwen, but from Menkaura. “These men are my own, miss”, he said, dispencing with uniqueness and speaking with no discernable accent. “If you would be so kind as to show them in.” “Do not show them in, Gwendolyn”, Smenkhkare said calmly. This somewhat agitated Menkaura. “Miss, I will not say this again”, he said in a menacing, low voice, eyes flaring. “Let. Them. In.” His clipped tone frightened to the extent that she ignored her employer’s instructions and ran out to beckon the two men through. In came the two men, not followed be Gwen, who thought it best to remain outside. The men were large and imposing. Their physiques were of unmatched caliber, that even under their suits, their muscles rippled with every breath. Smenkhkare’s eyes widened slightly as he recognized the men. The first was Nakjtnebtepnefer, the beautiful and strong champion, befitting of his name and pride of his family. The other was Wosret, the powerful one. While he lacked Nakjtnebtepnefer’s appealing looks, he was a match and better to him, for his scarred face betrayed a countenance more fearsome than Anubis himself, and a turbulent life to match. Smenkhkare’s breath quickened, for not only had he recognized these men, he had also felt their cruelty. Their servitude knew no bound or obstacle. Now, he well and truly was cornered. These men were the leaders of the fiercest, most ruthless band of soldiers this world had ever seen. These men are elites. These men are… Medjay. Comments are welcome