Chapter Text
Far off from these a slow and silent stream
Lethe the River of Oblivion rolls
Her wat'ry Labyrinth whereof who drinks
Forthwith his former state and being forgets
Forgets both joy and grief, pleasure and pain.
- John Milton
Steven woke up drenched in water.
“Oh bloody hell,” he said, looking up at the ceiling.
The house was always leaking. At this point, it was just an accepted, if annoying, part of his everyday life. Just like the constant rain that pelted his house, day in and day out. He could barely remember the last sunny day he’d seen while living here. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say they were a myth.
But that was English weather for you. It was simply like that. Nothing he could do about it.
He rolled out of the bed, and then pushed it into the corner, away from the drip. With no human and bed buffer to stop it, a small puddle started to form on the floor.
Once he’d changed into dry pyjamas and swapped the damp sheets with one of his spare ones, he retrieved his flip phone from its night-time home on his bedside table, and dialled the only contact he had. While it rang, he searched for a bucket. As expected, the generic 'leave a voicemail' message started to play in his ear, and he waited patiently for it to finish before he started speaking.
“Hiya mum,” he said, as cheerily as he could. “Hope you slept well. It’s yet another rainy day here. I know, can you believe it? It’s dreadful. The house is not having fun with all this water, but I’m sure it’ll be fine. It’s handled worse.
"And it's not like—Aha, I found a bucket! I might need to buy some more at the rate I’m going. Or better yet, call in a plumber. Or a carpenter? You know, I’m not really sure. Who deals with leaks from rain? Sorry, I’m babbling. How’s it over there? How’s dad?”
He pressed the phone between his neck and shoulder, and placed the bucket under the leak. The drop gave a resounding plop against the plastic.
“Well, I better leave you to it. You’ve got a long day ahead, I’m sure. Well. Love you to the moon and back. Laters gators.”
He pocketed the phone and made his way downstairs. There wasn’t much chance she’d ring him back today; she was constantly busy with her hectic life. But he always carried the phone around during the day, just in case she did, by chance, call him back. He didn’t want to miss her simply because he was off in another room.
The first thing he noticed as he ventured into the kitchen was the magnets on the fridge, all designed to look like Scrabble letters. The landlord had rearranged them into a message yet again.
STEVEN,
DON’T MIND ALL THE LEAKS; THEY WILL BE FIXED UP IN A FEW DAYS, TRUST ME.
REMEMBER. DON’T GO INTO THE BASEMENT.
Steven rolled his eyes. At this point, that particular warning was ingrained into his brain. The basement was a no-go zone thanks to it being under maintenance, as it had been for far too long. Steven couldn't remember a time when it hadn't been. Or even why it needed maintenance in the first place. Surely it should be fixed by now. But, still, he wasn’t going to go poking any bee hives by going down there. He knew better than to go where he wasn’t meant to.
With the landlord’s morning warning out of the way, Steven started his daily routine. He made himself a bowl of soy porridge, and turned on the telly, making sure to put on the closed captions so he could focus on the words being said. Not that it was all that necessary, since he practically knew the documentary that was playing word for word.
It was about the Canopus, the great Egyptian city that sank to the bottom of the sea, and how an archaeology team managed to unearth its treasures after thousands of years of it being lost and forgotten. No matter how many times he watched it, Steven couldn’t help but smile giddily as he listened to the archaeologists talk about their discoveries, and what they meant about life in the ancient city.
At one point, one of the archaeologists started to talk about how the term ‘canopic jar’ was derived from the same legend for which the city got its name.
“Canopus is also the name of the second brightest star in the night sky, did you know?” Steven said aloud. “It was a big part of celestial navigation back in the day.”
He looked over to his left with a smile, only to falter when there was no one beside him. Right, of course. He was being silly. There wasn’t anyone around. He wasn’t sure how he kept forgetting that. With a sigh, he ate another spoonful of porridge.
A new archaeologist popped up on the screen, and started to talk about Thonis-Heracleion, another city that sank down in Abū Qīr Bay, not far from Canopus. The city had been the home of a great temple dedicated to Amun-Gereb, as Amun was known in the city, along with another temple for his son, Khonshu, whom the Greeks associated with Herakles.
“Not sure why,” Steven murmured to himself. “Can’t say the two have much in common, aside from having a dad who was a big deal in their pantheon. What do you think?”
He glanced over at the fluffy pillow at the end of the couch. It, predictably, said nothing.
“Mm, my thoughts exactly,” Steven said.
He shovelled another spoonful of porridge into his mouth and let the documentary play until it was finished.
After that it was, all in all, a pretty ritual day. He read his books, listened to music, and watched the telly. It was nice and relaxing, and just the kind of simple he enjoyed. And yet, despite the comfort the routine gave him, every few minutes he found himself looking longingly out the window and wishing he could be out there, somewhere in the world where the clouds were far away.
Somewhere where the rain was all but a distant memory.
That night, he dreamt of a desert.
“Well, this is certainly one way of doing it,” he murmured as he picked himself off the ground.
As he brushed the sand off his shirt, he peered around curiously. The desert was flat and red-toned, with great cliffs off in the distance. There were no tumbleweeds floating by, to his disappointment, but it didn’t seem to be the kind of desert to have anything like that anyway. He wasn’t really sure what desert in the world it was even meant to be, having never seen anything quite like it himself.
But he must have seen it at some point; afterall, it had managed to hook itself onto his subconscious at some point, or he wouldn’t be dreaming about it.
That was one thing he’d always been strangely proud about: the fact that every dream he had was of the lucid variety. He liked to think of it as his own personal superpower. To have control over his own dreams.
Well. Sort of.
Control, perhaps, was pushing it a bit far. Sure, he could control his own actions and thoughts, but beyond that, he didn’t have much say on what transpired. He couldn’t turn the sky pink on a whim or summon scarabs from the ground. He couldn’t fly or turn into an animal or anything like that. In fact, his dreams were always quite tame, to the point most would likely call them boring.
But they weren’t boring. Not to him.
He was just happy to be out in the world.
With a spin, he looked up at the cloudless sky with unbridled glee. It’d been so long since he’d last seen it. He’d forgotten how blue it could be.
Or how warm the sun was. Oh, it was wonderful. He closed his eyes, and raised his head to the sky, soaking himself in the sunlight. Something that had grown tight and withered in his soul started to unwind under the gentle heat, and he let out a relieved sigh.
Now this was—
"Get down you idiot!" a voice yelled. "Do you want to get shot?"
Steven jolted awake with a gasp.
Whatever joy the sunlight had given quickly vanished along with the dream, and all he was left with was a lingering panic at the sudden shout that had woken him. It took a few minutes for his heartrate to slow back to something reasonable, and he fell back onto the mattress with a disappointed huff.
The dreams never lasted as long as he wanted.
Steven rolled his head over to look out the window. It was speckled with raindrops, and the blurry world beyond was shrouded in grey. There was not a spec of blue to be found, let alone a ray of light.
Steven sighed. “Brilliant.”
Another rainy day.
Steven couldn’t sleep.
He rubbed his eyes tiredly, willing his brain to shut down please, despite knowing that pleas like that never actually worked.
In the past, when insomnia hit him hard, he’d sit by his window and stare up at the stars until he drifted off. But thanks to the constant rain, there were no stars to see.
And all his other methods—fidgeting with his Rubik's cube, reading a book, counting camels—had been used up without any success.
All but one.
With a groan, he rolled out of his bed, making sure to drag the duvet with him. He wound it around him and trudged downstairs. It was as chilly as a winter’s night, and he purposely let out a deep breath and watched the condensation float upwards like dragon’s smoke. He chuckled softly at the sight before continuing on to his desk, upon which sat his computer.
He didn’t use it for many things. He got most of his information from the books he had scattered around the house, and he wasn’t on MySpace or any of that sort of thing. The computer would be left to gather dust if not for one particular thing.
He booted the computer up, and pushed his chair into a spin, tapping his hands on his lap while he waited for the computer to get its systems going. It was a clunky old thing, and he’d never quite figured out how to change his icon from the default picture of chess pieces, or even how to change the background. He wasn’t particularly great with computers, and unfortunately there wasn’t anyone around to help him, so he left it be. Better to deal with default settings than risking the whole computer falling apart due to him pressing the wrong button.
Once he was logged in, he opened up MSN Messenger.
He wasn’t sure why he’d even downloaded the program in the first place. It wasn’t like he had many people to talk to: even after years of having a profile, he only had one friend in his contacts.
Well, he supposed even then friend was a bit of a stretch. Despite being pen pals since they were both kids, he knew next to nothing about the man he spoke with, beside his moniker of ‘M’ and the fact that he was an ardent traveller, constantly jetting all over the place. Trying to get him to talk about his life was like trying to open up a Quality Street box with a potato peeler. But it was certainly better than nothing. At this point in his life, M was the only person Steven really had to speak to.
Well, apart from his mum, but it was too late to call her. And she was absolutely dreadful at returning messages. M, for all his aloofness, at least bested her in that department. M often would reply in seconds, typing at a speed that was truly unfathomable. If Steven didn’t know better, he’d think M spent all his time at the computer, waiting for Steven to message him.
Steven hoped that was the case now. He really just needed someone to talk to. Getting his thoughts out of his head often helped him sleep better.
With slow precision, he wrote his message out and—once he was sure it didn’t sound too pathetic—hit send.
Steven says: 'Hiya. How have you been lately? Nothing too exciting I hope.'
Before he could even lean back into his chair, the computer beeped.
M says: 'Steven, it’s late, why are you awake?'
Steven smiled. Good old reliable M. Always there when he needed him.
Steven says: 'You’re awake too, mate.'
The computer beeped almost immediately this time.
M says: 'I’m busy. On a mission. Tagging along with some archaeologists in the Egyptian desert.'
Steven couldn’t hold back a delighted gasp. Here he was, trapped in what amounted to almost a constant monsoon at this point, and his friend was off gallivanting in Egypt, having the time of his life.
Steven says: 'Oh, that sounds brilliant. I’m so envious!'
M says: 'Yeah, well, you shouldn’t be. It’s just a whole bunch of sand and rocks at the moment.'
Steven glanced over at the window, following a raindrop as it descended down the glass.
'Wouldn’t mind some of that myself at the moment,' he wrote. 'Learn anything interesting?'
M says: 'You know I don’t really keep track of all the stuff, bud.'
Steven groaned. 'Egypt is absolutely wasted on you, mate.'
M says: 'Hey, that’s what I’ve got you for. My own personal history encyclopaedia.'
'You give me too much credit', Steven wrote out, only to pause. It was true that he often got messages from M asking a random assortment of history questions, but he’d never had the pleasure of being out there with his friend to support him on his adventures. Steven’s fingers hovered over the keyboard with indecision, unsure if he should add his honest thoughts.
Eventually, he typed out: 'I wish I could be there with you.'
This time there was a pause before the reply.
'Maybe in the future,' M said. 'We’ll see how this job pans out first.'
Steven blinked, shocked. M had never once offered anything like that.
'Really,' he said, 'you’d actually let me tag along?'
'No promises,' M said. 'And only if it was safe. But like I said, we can figure that out after this job is done. If it ever gets done. I don’t think these guys will ever find Kansoo’s temple, or whatever it is.'
'Khonshu,' Steven corrected.
'Gesundheit.'
Steven could almost see the cocky smile behind the word. 'You knew it was Khonshu, didn’t you? You just wanted to rile me up.'
'You can’t prove anything, bud. Anyway, I gotta go. The leader of the expedition looks like he’s found something. It’s probably nothing, but you never know with these sorts of things. We can talk later, alright.'
'Alright,' Steven said. 'Stay safe.'
'I will. Now go to sleep, Steven.'
'Fine, fine.'
Steven switched off his computer, and stretched out his arms with a yawn. Proper exhaustion, to his relief, was finally creeping up on him. It wouldn’t take long for him to doze off now. He ventured back up to his bed and quickly got himself comfortable.
With thoughts of Egypt, Steven soon drifted off to sleep.
Steven had never been struck by lightning. He didn’t know anyone who’d even come close, nor had he spent much time reading up on the experiences of those who had. It was little more than a cautionary tale to him, something he could only imagine.
He just wished his imagination wasn’t so vivid.
For several moments, all he knew was pain. It hit him so suddenly and with such viciousness that it left him blinded, the world white with agony. He couldn’t hear it, or even feel it, but he knew he was whimpering. He wanted to wake up, he wanted to wake up so bad, but it was as if a wall was stopping him, leaving him to bear the suffering.
The pain did not lessen, but eventually it did loosen its grip on his thoughts, enough for him to locate the origin of his current agony. Steven clutched his stomach with a groan. The fabric under his skin was damp and sticky, and confused, he pulled his hand away and held it up to his face.
A thick red liquid covered his palm, and he watched with morbid fascination as it dripped sluggishly down his wrist and under the sleeve of his shirt.
“What?” he slurred. “Is that...”
Blood. It was blood. His hand was drenched in blood. As was his shirt, he realised a moment later, when he glanced down at himself. It was all over him, and it was getting worse by the second.
Oh. He hadn’t been struck by lightning. He’d been shot. More than once, it seemed.
He'd never dreamt of being shot before. He couldn’t say he liked it.
His vision dimmed and brightened, but he managed to lift his head up a little and make out a bit of his surroundings, even with the darkness of the night against him. It certainly helped that most of the things around him were on fire. Even burning, he still recognised some of the objects; it looked like it had been some sort of archaeological dig site, with an assortment of trowels and other tools lying around the camp.
In any other scenario, that little tidbit would have excited him, the knowledge he was close to the very thing that he was passionate about, but right now, the only thing on his mind was the pain, burning through his stomach like a wildfire.
Steven sunk into the ground, letting the cool of the night sand seep into him. Oh. That was nice. Very nice. He wanted to sink right into it. If he couldn’t wake up, at least he could drift for a bit. Just...be somewhere else for a while. Yes. That’d be nice.
The sudden sound of gunfire jolted him back into alertness. A fear that felt strangely foreign bled into him at the sound, and his heart rate racketed in his chest as he looked around frantically for the source. At first, he couldn’t make out anything beyond the scattered fires and the temple that rose out of the sand like an unburied piece of treasure.
And then he saw them, the archaeologists, all lined up like ducks in a row with their hands behind their backs. Some were squirming, trying to break free of their binds, while others sat slumped, tears rolling down their faces as they sobbed and said their final prayers. None of them were trying to run, the scattered bodies that populated the camp disavowing them on the notion; those who had run had lost their lives all the same.
All thanks to the man that lurked behind them, a gun in his hand and a wicked smile on his face.
He was saying something, but Steven was too far to make it out. He didn’t miss, however, the man raising his gun to one of the archaeologists' heads.
The woman barely had time to flinch.
A bang, and she collapsed to the ground lifelessly with a gaping hole in the back of her skull.
Steven’s scream was drowned out by the sound of the others. They only got louder and more frantic when the man raised his gun to the next hostage in line. Steven could only watch in horror as he got shot down too.
“No, no, stop,” Steven croaked. “Stop.”
He pushed himself up off the ground, and only managed to stumble one step before he collapsed back down. The impact only made the pain in his stomach worse, and he moaned weakly.
Another gunshot echoed through the air, and Steven whimpered as he pressed his head into the sand.
“No, no, no,” Steve mumbled, the lump in his throat growing almost too thick to speak through. “This is wrong. This is wrong.”
As he continued to mutter the delirious pleas, a force like someone pressing down on his head started to make itself known, and he grimaced at the feeling. The world tilted dizzyingly around him, and he fought to stay conscious, even as the burden increased.
“Oh, god, I’m so sorry, Steven. I...I didn’t mean for you to see this. Please, you have to go.”
Steven was too weak to be surprised by the unexpected voice, let alone look for the source of it. He could only assume someone was standing behind him; he just hoped they didn’t have a gun.
“You have to help them,” he said. “Please, help them.”
The voice behind him made a sound like he was choking. “I can’t.”
Steven sunk into the sand, unable to hold back a despaired whimper. The gunshots were getting louder and louder each time, and the pain in his stomach seemed only to deepen in turn.
“It hurts.”
The pressure in his head did not lessen, but there was something almost comforting about it now, as if it were a weighted blanket keeping him grounded. “I know. It won’t hurt for much longer. I promise. Just go to sleep, okay. Everything...everything will be fine.”
When the force pushed against him again, Steven did not fight it.
Steven woke with a sharp pain in his stomach.
He ripped the duvet off of himself, and looked down at himself for any sign of blood. But there was nothing; his shirt and tracksuit bottoms were completely clean, save for perhaps a few toothpaste stains and a bit of tomato sauce on his elbow he hadn’t noticed until now. When he pulled his shirt up to inspect his stomach, there was only unblemished skin.
He sat there for a while, simply staring at the non-existent wound.
The dream had felt so real.
Thunder drew his attention away, and he glanced over at the window. The rain had turned into a storm sometime in the night, and the usual light drumming on the roof had turned into a heavy cacophony of sound, thunder rumbling every few seconds. Now that he was focusing on it, Steven couldn’t help but flinch at each crack; he’d never been a fan of the sound it made, always far too loud, but now it was even worse. It sounded like a gun being fired.
But it’d only been a dream.
It’d only been a dream.
It’d only been—
A flash of lightning suddenly lit up the room in stark white, and for a moment, Steven was blinded. He screwed his eyes shut and covered his ears just in time to muffle the loud bang of thunder that followed.
When he opened his eyes again a few minutes later, the soreness in his stomach had faded away entirely.
That was...strange.
He rubbed at the skin of his stomach fretfully, unsure what any of it meant. Had his pain in real life leaked into his dream, and if so, why had it been so extreme? He wouldn’t say he had a high pain tolerance, but he wasn’t one to exaggerate small injuries either.
With a sigh, he laid back down on his bed, and stared up at the ceiling.
He knew without having to close his eyes that he wouldn’t be getting any more sleep tonight.
There was a pigeon in the kitchen.
“Oh? Hello,” Steven said, freezing in the doorway. “How did you get in here?”
The pigeon cocked its head to look at him, and Steven found himself backing up a step at the sight of its deep, unsettling black eyes.
He didn’t want to sound rude, but it was without a doubt the ugliest pigeon he’d ever seen. It was white in the same way a bone was white, and its feathers were bedraggled, struggling to cling to its malnourished body.
Perhaps that was why it was eating his food.
“No, wait, hold on,” Steven murmured. Once he was sure the pigeon’s attention was fully back on its meal, he warily ventured into the kitchen, squinting at the bloody steak that was now laid out on the kitchen bench, half-pecked away.
Steven didn’t keep steak in his fridge. He didn’t keep any meat at all.
“Where did you get this?”
The pigeon paused and, with a slow, deliberate movement, it looked back over at him.
“Did you steal this from one of the neighbours?” Steven asked, before realising how silly it was to ask. It’s not like the pigeon could tell him. Or that he had any neighbours. Still, he found himself going on. “They won’t be pleased with you if they find out. And I’m sure it’s not very good for you either. Why don’t we get you back outside so you could eat something more suited for you, yeah? A worm maybe.”
He reached over to the bird, hoping to shoo it away towards the window. When it didn’t even flinch at his attempt, he crept closer.
It was then that, with a scream-like caw, it fluttered up and scratched his face.
“Ow!” Steven cried out, instinctively lifting his hand to protect his cheek as he backed away.
It didn’t hurt awfully, but his eyes teared up all the same. When he dabbed at the skin of his cheek, his fingers came away red.
“What was that for?” Steven said. “I’m trying to help you.”
The pigeon stared at him. It did not move its head. It did not even blink.
Steven wouldn't say he was afraid of the pigeon, but he certainly wasn't comfortable around it either.
“Fine, stay there," he said. "See if I care."
The pigeon would leave in its own time.
The pigeon, to his displeasure, did not leave in its own time. On the contrary, it became a common visitor. And a very disruptive one at that.
It knocked down his trinkets, scratched up his furniture and—perhaps worst of all—decided that his house was its toilet.
Steven could almost swear the bloody thing was enjoying itself. He certainly wasn’t.
"You are the worst, you know that," he told it. "You shame all other pigeons. Who are lovely, unlike yourself."
The pigeon didn't even deign him with an answer. When it wasn't pecking or clawing at him, it preferred to pretend he didn't exist.
One of its most unnerving habits was when it would stare at an empty space in a room, intently tracking some unseen movement. As if it saw something he didn't.
Steven found himself gazing in the same direction as the pigeon, trying to decipher what exactly had its attention. Most times, he only ended up going cross eyed from staring at nothing for too long.
But sometimes, when he gazed into those empty corners, he could almost swear something was staring back at him.
After the dream of gunfire and sand, Steven didn’t dream for a very long time. Long enough that he got used to going to sleep and waking up the next morning with only a blank, empty space between the two.
It was because of this that he was especially surprised when he fell asleep one night and found himself on the floor of a hotel room.
Steven looked around in confusion. It was a beautiful room, fit for royalty. Not for him, that was for sure. He played anxiously with his sleeves, a sense of misplacement overcoming him. He glanced at the door, waiting for someone to walk in and question what a bloke like him was doing in a place like this.
That’s how dreams like this usually went, anyway. He was never where he was meant to be, never acting right, never doing what he should be doing. He was always the odd one out. But not tonight, it seemed. The door didn’t open, and no one came to yell at him.
It was a pleasant surprise.
A warm breeze drew his attention to a nearby window. The curtains fluttered to and fro, giving him momentary snippets of the rich night sky beyond. The quick glimpse of stars was enough to draw Steven over.
The first thing he noticed was that he was several stories up, and that the hotel itself was on the edge of a river, the only thing between it and the water being a wide promenade and its companion gardens. Late night wanderers trotted past, and Steven fought the urge to call down a greeting to them. Dream or not, he didn’t want to bother strangers.
Steven looked up from the promenade, and peered out across the water. In the night time, he couldn't see all that much on the opposite side, and he leaned out the window, hoping he would make out more further down the river. In one direction, all he could make out were indistinct, distant buildings that didn’t help him pinpoint his location in the least. He was starting to think maybe he wouldn’t be able to figure it out; it was a dream after all.
And then he saw the temple, shining in the night like a beacon.
His eyes widened, and for a moment he could only gape at the sight until his bubbling delight caught up with him.
"Oh my days" Steven exclaimed, bouncing on his toes. He waved his hands around, unsure what to do with them in his excitement. "I’m in Luxor. Luxor! Oh, this is wonderful! I’ve always wanted to come here! There's so much to see. But—oh dear, everything must be closed by now. Except the temple. I wonder if I can walk to it from here. I'm sure it'd hardly be a short stroll, but if I'm this close, what's an hours walk really? Nothing. I could do it."
"I don't think I've ever seen you this drunk."
Steven startled with a yelp, and spun around to face the room, which was no longer as empty as it had been. A woman was leaning against the door. Her curly hair was shiny with sweat, and the loose-fitting white shirt and pants she wore were dirty and stained with all manner of marks. Even her hiking boots hadn’t escaped whatever onslaught she’d faced, the fabric worn and distressed.
And yet, despite looking like she went one-on-one with a desert and lost, she was absolutely stunning.
“Wow,” Steven said, as awed by the sight of her as he had been with Luxor Temple.
She gave him a pleased, affectionate smile, and that only made him melt further, both in relief and adoration. She wasn’t here to yell at him then, thank goodness.
"How many have you had?" she said, gesturing to a pile of beer bottles beside the room's queen bed.
Steven didn't drink—he didn't like the taste, or the feeling of losing control that it gave him—but he counted the bottles anyway. "Erm...six?"
The woman gave a pointed look to the bin beside the room’s bathroom door. It too was filled with bottles, enough to make Steven’s initial count of six pale in comparison.
"I was only gone for a few days," the woman said. She seemed amused by the whole thing. "Missed me, did you?"
“I suppose I did a little bit, yeah.” He took in her dirtied adventuring gear. “Where did you go?”
She lit up at the question. “We decided to head out near Deir el-Medina. We thought there might be some clues there that could send us in the direction of the Scarab, but still no luck on that. We did, however, manage to stumble upon an ostracon, small enough to go unnoticed for so many years. It was beautiful. There were a couple of Brits tagging along with us, and they wanted to take the piece back with them, but we managed to argue our claim on it, which means it’ll stay right here in Egypt, where it should be.” She paused then, looking at him self-consciously. “Sorry, you’re probably not interested in this, are you?”
“No, no, I am,” Steven said, excitedly gesturing to her to go on. “I find everything you’re saying absolutely fascinating.”
She seemed surprised at the answer, but it was enough to make her straighten up with renewed vigour. She continued to go on about the expedition, talking about how they’d managed to find the ostracon in the first place, and how amongst the Hieratic writing that covered the limestone, it depicted an illustration of the goddess Taweret, marking the relic as an offering of some kind.
Steven gazed at her as she spoke, his smile only growing at the passion that eked into her every word and movement. It was as endearing as it was lovely. He wouldn’t have minded a whit if he had to spend the rest of his life listening to her.
She seemed to be winding down her wonderful ramble when she looked over at him, bemused. “What?”
Steven quirked his head. “What are you ‘what’ing about?”
“You’re giving me a dopey grin.”
"Oh,” Steven said, reworking his face into something less embarrassing. “Sorry. It’s just...This is wonderful. Really. I wouldn’t mind having more dreams about you.”
The woman raised an eyebrow. "Oh? What kind of dreams?”
Steven frowned. “Well, I don’t know, it’s not really something you decide, is it," he began to say, only to notice her sly expression. Steven's face suddenly grew very hot as he realised what she was implying, and he shook his hands. "Oh, no, oh god, not those kinds of dreams. Oh bollocks, I really didn't mean it like that. I—"
"Hold on, are you blushing right now?" The woman laughed. "Oh my god, you are! I didn't even know your face could get so red!"
Steven’s face somehow managed to burn even hotter, and he ducked his head down.
"Hey, no need to be embarrassed," she said, leaning forward to meet his eye. "I think it’s sweet, actually. It's nice to know Fort ⸺ isn't completely invulnerable."
Steven frowned as he considered her words. "But isn't that a bad thing? For a fort to be vulnerable? Means all the bad things you want to keep out can get in, and well, that's not great, is it. Sort of against the point, yeah."
The woman huffed, giving him a faintly annoyed look. "It was just a metaphor. Stop reading into it."
Steven floundered. "Oh, right, sorry, I wasn't trying to be rude, I'm not all that great with metaphors, my teachers used to always say I think too literally, and it’s true, I certainly can at times and—"
The woman giggled, her annoyed look vanishing quickly enough for Steven to realise she'd only been playing. "Oh wow, you really are drunk, aren't you? Good to know you're cute when you are though," she said, bopping him on the nose. "Especially that little accent you're doing. What is that? British?"
Steven gave an awkward smile. "Thank you. I like yours too."
The woman gave him a smile so warm it put the sun to shame. She reached over and took his hands, and pulled him over to the edge of the hotel room’s one and only bed. Once they were seated, she pulled one of his hands onto her lap.
“It’s been really nice having someone around to talk to. Especially since...” She shook her head, her smile only falling for a moment. “Well, it’s just been nice. You’re not what I expected.”
Steven frowned, baffled. “...Thank you?”
“Oh, you know what I mean,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I thought you were going to be a real arsehole. But you’re not. Well, not all the time,” she added after a pause.
Steven gave her a bemused smile, unsure how to respond.
“What I’m trying to say,” the woman went on, “is that I’ve really appreciated your company.”
She was staring right up at him, leaning closer and closer.
Instinctively, Steven leaned closer too, closing his eyes. He could feel the heat of her breath against his skin, the lightest tickle against his nose as hers brushed past it. Part of him wanted to shy away, to apologise for the confusion and leave. The other part wanted desperately to feel her lips on his. He’d never kissed anyone in his life, and while he wasn’t sure this counted—it being a dream and all—he still wouldn’t mind his first being with her. He leaned in closer to close the gap between them, and when he did not feel her lips, he leaned in more and—
And landed smack bang on the floor.
He startled at the sudden change, and scrambled into a sitting position.
The hotel room was gone, and in its place was his bedroom. The kaleidoscopic brightness of his dream only made reality seem even more washed out and dreary.
His residual alarm faded at the realisation of where he was, and he slumped against the side of his bed with a sigh.
Couldn’t even get a kiss in his dreams. That was pretty sad, wasn’t it.
It wasn’t the only sad thing. He wandered over to his window and peered out. There were no temples, or rivers outside. Nothing but rain, pouring on and on without reprieve.
Another rainy day, just like all the rest.
He leaned towards the window and breathed onto the glass. Once it had fogged up enough, he traced an unhappy face with his finger.
Even that faded away.
Deciding he was in dire need of a mood boost, the first Steven did that morning was put on one of his comfort songs.
Steven set the stereo on repeat so he could listen to it without interruption. He pulled out his fluffiest, heaviest blanket from his linen cupboard and wrapped it around himself.
Blanket in tow, Steven snuggled himself on the sofa and let his eyes drift closed. He wasn’t particularly tired, but it was comforting to shut out the world and have nothing but the warmth of the fabric around him and the song playing in his ears.
Just as he was about to doze off, there was a loud ping.
Steven’s eyes fluttered open, and he peered blearily over at the computer. He hadn’t even realised he’d left it on. He couldn’t quite make out what was on the screen, his vision still blurry from his almost-sleep.
With a sigh, he unwound himself from the warmth of his blanket cocoon and slunk over to the computer.
There was a message from M.
M says: 'I’ve got a song stuck in my head. And I can’t get it out.'
Steven raised an eyebrow. It was a bit out of the blue, but M often had a habit of doing that, starting conversations without much context. Curious, Steven sat down and typed a reply.
Steven says: 'Yeah? What song is it?'
M says: 'Some Joni Mitchell song, I think. 'Both Sides Now'.'
Steven’s eyes widened with surprise. Talk about coincidences.
Steven says: 'Wow, that’s mental, I’m listening to that song right now!'
M says: 'No kidding.'
Steven could swear he could hear the message being said in a deadpan voice.
'Not a fan, I take it?' Steven asked.
'Eh, I prefer the 90s. Nirvana, Green Day, Radiohead, that kind of stuff.'
'Oh, a grunge kid, were you?' Steven said, amused. 'Hm, yes, I can see it all now. Little you, belting out ‘Creep’ in his bedroom. Probably still do it now, yeah?'
'I...don’t do that. And you can’t talk. You listen to mopey songs all the time.'
'That’s not true! I listen to happy songs too!'
'Oh yeah,' M said. 'Name one happy song you listen to.'
Steven considered the question. 'Um. ‘Big Yellow Taxi’?'
'Seriously? In what world is that a happy song?'
'It’s the first song that came to mind!'
'Admit it, you’re a sad sack.'
'Sorry, mate, I can’t hear you over the grunge music you’re playing at full volume.'
'Steven,' M said, the single word saturated with exasperation.
'Nope, sorry, can’t hear you. Anyway, I’m going to go and listen to my sad sack music now, whether you like it or not. Laters.'
'Steven!'
Steven shut off MSN and grinned triumphantly. He knew he’d eventually return to an onslaught of annoyed messages, but for now, the amusement was enough to boost his mood considerably.
It was only when he turned off his computer that he realised that his song wasn’t playing anymore. And from the sounds of it, it hadn’t been playing for a while. He looked back at the stereo with a frown.
“Sobreviviré,” the stereo hissed, a hint of static touching the word, “buscaré un hogar / entre los escombros de mi soledad.”
Steven frowned. It didn’t sound like any song he owned, or even knew, for that matter.
“Paraíso extraño / donde no estás tú / y aunque duela quiero libertad / aunque me haga daño.”
He wandered over to the stereo cautiously, and looked over it for any sign of malfunctions. One thing he did notice was that the small display that usually told him the song number was blank.
“Ah, ah, ah, ah! / debo sobrevivir, mintiéndome.”
He reached out to pause the song, but he’d only raised his hand up a little when the music shut off by itself, right in the middle of a word. He drew his hand back in surprise, but when the stereo showed no signs of lighting on fire from some faulty wire, he cautiously reached his hand out again and pressed the eject button.
But nothing came out. The stereo was empty.
“That’s odd,” he murmured to himself.
He supposed it was bound to happen sooner or later though. The stereo was getting on in years, and it was only natural for it to start playing up.
He didn’t think much of the incident until a few weeks later, when he was in the middle of one of his favourite books with the radio on. He normally zoned it out while he was reading, but he liked the quiet, background noise it gave. It was far better than the constant sound of rain.
He was so absorbed in his book it took him some time to notice the music had changed at all, but like a fly buzzing in his ear, it slowly started to creep into his awareness until he could no longer ignore it.
There were people arguing on the radio.
Steven glanced over the stereo, baffled. A radio drama? He didn’t think they even did those anymore. It certainly wasn’t the most entertaining, from what he’d heard so far; it was just a couple arguing back and forth with each other with increasing anger. And increasing volume.
Steven wasn’t particularly fond of loud voices, and he hugged his hands to his chest anxiously at the sudden, unexpected presence of it. But, despite his discomfort, he didn’t turn the radio off.
“You were gone! For almost a week!” the woman in the radio drama cried. “You can’t just come back here and pretend that never happened.”
The other actor sighed. “It wasn’t anything important, I swear.”
“I think I have a right to hear what happened before we decide if it was important or not.”
“I...can’t.”
“Why not?”
“I just can’t!”
The woman sighed, and there was the sound of footsteps. “I don’t know if I can do this anymore. All the lying, all the disappearing without a word or an explanation. I keep trying to cross the divide between us, to be there for you, but you just keep digging it wider, and I don’t know what to do anymore.
"I want to believe that nothing happened while you were away, but...I don’t know if I can. Because how can I trust you if you won’t even trust me?”
“I...I want to. I do. I just...” The man sighed, unable to find the words. But Steven had read enough books to know what was being left unsaid.
“You’re scared,” Steven said. “You’re scared if she really knew you, she’d hit the ground running, so you push her away instead so she never has the chance to hurt you like that. ‘Cause you’ve got it in your head she’s leaving no matter what happens, you absolute duffer.”
There was a lingering silence after that. Then, with an audible clearing of his throat, the man spoke.
“I’m scared,” he admitted hesitantly. “I’m scared that if you really knew me, you’d leave as soon as you could. Because the real me...well, it’s not pretty. So...so I keep you at hand’s length. To protect myself. And I can’t stop doing that. Even with you. I wish I could, but I don’t know how.”
Steven glanced at the radio in surprise. Save for a few things here and there, it’d been practically word for word to what he’d said. Huh, how about that. He hummed, chuffed with himself; only a few minutes of listening and he already had a good grasp on the characters.
“I understand, I do,” the woman said in a soft voice, “and I’m sorry for whatever happened in the past to make you feel that you need to do that, but I can’t be in a relationship with you if you think so little of me that you assume I will leave the moment you let me know you better. And you don’t seem to realise how selfish it is of you to only think you will get hurt. Can’t you see how much this is hurting me too?
"So, yes, I get it, I do, but we can’t keep our relationship going if this is going to keep happening. It’s not fair to me, or you. You will never be happy with me, because you’ll never let yourself be happy. And I can’t be happy with someone who will only ever be smoke and mirrors.” She sighed, and there was a sound of a door creaking open. “I...I hope you find someone who will help you learn to trust again. I wish it could’ve been me.”
A door fell closed, and then there was silence, permeated only by the tick of a clock, a dooming reminder of how she was getting further and further out of reach.
“Shit,” the man murmured. A sound almost like a sob followed. “Shit.”
Steven couldn’t see the scene himself, but from the thump sound that followed he could only assume the character had crumpled to the floor. A spur of sympathy sparked in Steven’s stomach, and he looked over to the radio. It was only a character, one he didn’t even know the name of, but he couldn’t help but feel sorry for the bloke. He clearly had some trust issues, and was self-destructive to an unhealthy degree, but he didn’t deserve this to be his ending to whatever story was being told. It didn’t have to be a tragedy.
“Come on, mate, go after her,” Steven urged. “Love’s about taking chances, innit. So why not take the leap? Let her know the truth, whatever it is, rather than assuming the worst about her. She deserves the opportunity to decide, don’t you think?”
The man on the radio seemed to pause, his shaky breaths growing quiet for a moment, as if he was listening to a sound outside the room. Steven used the absence of dialogue to add more of his thoughts.
“And you deserve a chance too, y’know. To see what love could really be like, if you didn’t constantly sabotage it. I think it’d do you wonders to have a friendly face who you can trust, and loves you for all your blemishes and warts.” Steven laughed and looked around at the empty room that surrounded him, and the even emptier world outside his window. “What I wouldn’t give to have something like that.”
There was a huff that sounded strangely affectionate.
“Okay, okay, fine,” the man muttered. There were sounds of him getting off the ground, and then the turn of a doorknob. “But only because she’s worth it. God, I better not regret this, Steven.”
All Steven’s good humour vanished in a single moment, and he bolted up. “What did you just say?”
Before he could get any sort of reply, the radio fizzled out into static.
“No, no!” Steven shouted, springing off the couch. “No, you can’t conk out on me right now, you bloody machine.”
He rushed over, hand hovering uncertainly over the radio. He wasn’t sure how to fix it, or even what was wrong with it. All the while, the static got louder. He cringed away at the sound, and for a brief moment, was tempted to simply turn the radio off.
But he couldn’t. He needed to know.
“No, no, come on,” Steven murmured as he fiddled with the dials.
... - . ...- . -. / .-.. . .- ...- . / .. - / .- .-.. --- -. .
He winced, and tried another channel.
-.-- --- ..- / -. . . -.. / - --- / ... - --- .--. / .-.. --- --- -.- .. -. --. / -.-- --- ..- .----. .-. . / --- -. .-.. -.-- / --. --- .. -. --. / - --- / .... ..- .-. - / -.-- --- ..- .-. ... . .-.. ..-.
Steven continued to turn the dial, but the static did not fade, no matter what frequency he tuned into. Desperate, Steven picked the radio up and shook it. When that didn’t work, he slammed his palm into the side, hoping to jossle some wire inside and get the connection back.
The stereo simply continued to hiss and crackle. No voices, no arguments, no signs that anyone was on the other side.
Steven fell back on his knees, and he stared at the broken machine.
The man had heard him. The man on the radio had heard him, and replied.
Steven swallowed. He knew there was no way that should be possible. It wasn’t a two-way radio or anything, he knew that much, and even if it was, there wasn’t any sort of way it could’ve picked up his voice, not without some sort of microphone.
Unless it was hidden somewhere else in the room.
“Oh this is proper creepy,” he muttered, glancing around the room. “Hello? Stalker? Are you there?”
He wasn’t sure what he wanted to happen. Of course he didn’t want it to be true; the idea of someone hearing his every word, seeing his every action made his skin itch. But, if it were true, at least that would explain why he’d never quite felt alone in his house.
“No?” Steven tried again. He rubbed his forehead tiredly. “Either you’re playing possum, or I’m just imagining things then. Which is prob’bly the case, yeah. God, I really need more sleep.”
With a huff, he switched the stereo off, and the house once again fell quiet.
All except for the rain.
There was a package on his kitchen counter.
Steven approached it warily; he couldn’t remember the last time he’d received any sort of mail, let alone a package. It wasn’t a big one, roughly the size and shape of a book. That was the only reason he'd approached it at all.
On the top of the package, there was a sticky note, a short message scrawled out across it.
Well, that was first. Steven didn’t realise the landlord even knew that was a genuine form of communication. He plucked the note off the package.
Steven,
Thanks for all the help.
Steven blinked. Help? What had he done recently that could be considered help? He had cleaned the living room yesterday, but he did that every week, and he’d never gotten any gifts in the past because of it.
Perhaps this was the start of some sort of reward system the landlord was trying.
He shrugged. Ah well. He supposed the reason didn't really matter. Don’t look a gift horse in its mouth and all that. Not that you should look any horse in the mouth, gift or not. They all had awful teeth.
Steven unwound the string and slowly and carefully peeled the package open, making sure not to rip the paper in anyway. He held it over his palm and shook it until a small book slid out. He didn’t recognise it by the cover or by the name.
“Desbordes-Valmore,” he read aloud. “Les Pleurs.”
He flipped the book open to one of the middle pages, and flicked through it curiously. He didn’t have the strongest grasp on French, but from the way the words were laid out, he could tell the pages were filled with poems.
A book of French poetry; certainly one of the more unique gifts he’d received.
Now it was all a matter of learning how to read it. He looked into the package, but it was empty.
“Not to be rude, but a dictionary could have been helpful,” he murmured.
From across the room, the computer beeped. Steven peered over at the new message on the screen.
M says: 'Shit. Hang on. I have to go back to the bookstore.'
Steven shook his head. M was so strange sometimes. Steven set the book down on the counter with a promise that he’d try to parse some of it later. After cooking himself some vegetarian tamales, he settled in for the evening with a cuppa and a documentary.
That night, he dreamed of French poems and pocket dictionaries.
M, strangely, was interested in what Steven had to say about Desbordes-Valmore, once he truly started to get a gist of how to read French. Steven didn’t mind in the least; any excuse to ramble about the things he liked was an excuse he liked.
M says: 'So, which poem is your favourite so far?'
Steven says: 'Oh, well, it’s so hard to pick. They’re all lovely. But I think I liked 'Les séparés' the most. It’s sad, but beautiful. I’m still figuring out how to read it, but I found myself really drawn to this line in particular: ‘Je te crains; j'ai peur de ma mémoire; Elle a gardé ta voix qui m'appelle souvent'.’
M says: 'Yeah, I have no idea what that means.'
Steven says: 'Uh, well, the rough translation is: ‘I fear you. I fear to remember / For memory holds the voice I have often heard'.'
M says: 'Still no idea, but I’ll try to keep it in mind. I have a friend who might like to hear it. You planning on reading any more of it tonight?'
Steven says: 'Oh, no, I’m knackered. Think I might just have some vegan Freddos and watch ‘Horrible Histories'. They're having an Egyptian special today.'
M says: 'Hold on, I've seen that playing on the TV when Lay—er, a friend was channel surfing. Isn't that a kid's show?'
Steven says: 'All the best shows are. And you're one to talk; isn't your favourite film one for children? ‘Tomb Buster’, or something.'
There was a lingering pause. 'You...remember that?'
''Course,' Steven said. 'You ramble about it to me sometimes. I can tell it's one of your big interests, like Egyptology is for me.'
'What do you know about it?'
Steven frowned. This was starting to feel like a very odd interrogation. 'That you like it. A lot. Especially when you were younger. You knew it all off by heart; you even used to reenact whole scenes. You had all the posters—not that there were many—and all the figurines. It made you happy.'
'That's it? Nothing else? Do you know the plot? The...characters?'
'Nope. Never seen it myself, I'm afraid. I prefer watching documentaries. Or cartoons. But I do have a question though: is it some sort of sequel to Ghostbusters?'
The strange tension in M's message left in a flash. 'No, but I definitely want to hear how you'd think that'd play out.'
'Oh. Um. Let me think for a minute. Alright. So. Those ghost busting blokes got so sick of dealing with all the bloody ghosts that they decided, to heck with it, we're going straight to their dead bodies and busting them there and then. Bam! No more ghosts. The end.'
'Sure, I'd watch that.'
'Am I way off?' Steven asked.
'Like a submarine landing on the moon. Not even close, bud.'
'Guess you'll have to tell me more about it then.'
'Nah, I clearly talk to you about my stuff enough. I think you deserve a turn. You know, why don’t you tell me something about Egyptology. You have my permission to ramble as long as you like on one condition: it can only be on a topic of my choice.'
'You had me at Egyptology, mate. What topic are you thinking?'
'Khonshu,' M said. 'Tell me everything you know about Khonshu.'
Steven woke to the sound of something shattering downstairs.
He groaned; he must have left a window open, and the wind had knocked something down. Whatever it was, he was far too tired to deal with it now; that could be a problem for Morning Steven. He resettled himself back into his bed and closed his eyes.
The sound of his table screeching across the floor had him rocketing back to alertness.
Something breaking in the night might have simply been an accident, perhaps spurred on by his pesky pigeon housemate. But the sound of furniture moving? There was no other way he could spin that.
Someone was in his house. And it definitely wasn’t the pigeon.
He sat there, frozen, listening for any sound of footsteps. It was hard to make out anything over the thudding beat of his heart in his ears, but there didn't seem to be any movement coming from downstairs, from what he could tell. The floors were hardly squeak-free; he should have at least heard a groan of wood here and there. Either the person was the master of sneaking, or the person had already made their escape.
Whatever the case, he could hardly ignore it now.
With a gulp, he pulled the lamp off his bedside table and lifted it up into a defensive position. It was hardly the most suitable weapon to protect himself, but between a blanket, his poetry book and his phone, it was the best choice he had available. With it in hand, he started to make his way out of the room.
Steven took each step down the stairs as slowly and softly as he could, hoping all the while that his drumbeat heart would not give him away. He couldn’t hear the sounds coming from the living room anymore, but that only made him more nervous. The intruder could be hiding just out of sight and he wouldn’t even know. His neck prickled at the thought.
Lights danced across the wall of the living room. It was enough to tell him that the telly was on.
It hadn’t been when he went to sleep.
“Oh shit,” Steven whispered. That definitely confirmed it. There really was someone here.
He tightened his grip on the lamp, and with a swallow, tiptoed down the hallway. Steven pressed himself as close as he could against the wall as he ventured down the hall, walking on the balls of his feet to try and keep his footsteps as quiet as possible. It was a skill he’d learnt in his youth, though he wasn’t quite sure why. Whatever the reason, it was coming in handy now.
He managed to make it to the doorway without being ambushed, much to his relief. He did not let his guard down though, and he leaned over to peer into the room, his lamp at the ready in case whoever it was jumped him.
Thankfully, there didn’t seem to be anyone waiting for him. The living room, however, was in shambles. The coffee table had been kicked across the room, leaving a trail of fallen knick knacks and books. Pillows and blankets were scattered everywhere, many with their fabric torn.
It didn’t look like someone trying to find something. No. Someone had gone on a rampage.
Amidst the chaos, the telly had been left untouched, save, of course, for the fact it had been turned on at some point by the stranger. It seemed to be playing a wedding scene of some sort, with the veiled bride-to-be striding calmly down the aisle with a bouquet of dried flowers in her hands, which were covered in fine and beautiful henna patterns.
There was no sound to be heard, but at the bottom of the screen there was subtitles.
Así que puedes fingir todo lo que quieras pero eso es algo que nunca serás.
Spanish? Was it some sort of telenovela? It didn’t look like one; if he wasn’t mistaken, the wedding looked Egyptian. Steven squinted and tried to read the words, but his Spanish was rudimentary at best. His mother had never taken the time to teach him, and what he had learnt in school had faded from lack of practice.
The subtitles vanished before he could even attempt to parse it, and were replaced with another set of words he couldn’t comprehend.
Al final todo se desmoronará. Porque no podemos evitar romper cosas.
With a huff, Steven picked up the remote to turn the volume back on. The TV, however, remained silent, no matter how many times he pressed the unmute button. He batted the bottom of it against his palm, frustrated.
“Why won’t you work?” he hissed.
He must have knocked a button accidentally in his annoyance, because in one blink, the wedding vanished into a sea of static. Steven flinched back at the sudden change.
The subtitles were still on the screen however, but they now loomed large, taking up far more space than was necessary.
Esto no tiene que ver contigo. Vuelve a la cama, Steven.
Steven quickly shot the telly off, and the room descended into a dim black and white around him. He backed away from the TV, eyes shifting frantically. He didn’t need to know Spanish to know that the subtitles had been talking to him.
“Hello?” he called out hesitantly.
His leg brushed against the side of the table and he leapt away with a yelp. Even when logic kicked him and told him it meant no harm, the residual panic did not fade in the slightest, and he wrung his hands together fretfully as his eyes darted around the room.
A creak from a nearby floorboard had him screaming, but when he turned, there was no one there. His body started to tremble.
“If you don’t come out right now, I will freak out,” he said, as firmly as he could manage, which wasn’t at all. “And you won’t enjoy that, mate, trust me.”
For a moment there was a dreadful, terrible silence that only made his heart racket louder. Then, after the silence lingered far longer than what was comfortable, there was a squeaking sound from the window, and Steven instinctively snapped his head to look at the source.
A line had been drawn upon the condensed glass, and it was growing.
“Oh god,” Steven breathed.
He watched in horror as a word was slowly but surely spelled out onto the fogged glass, each letter dripping like blood.
JUST
Steven backed up until he collided into the corner, and with a trembling breath, he sunk down and tried to make himself as small as possible. He did not take his eyes off the glass. The next two words came with the same creeping precision.
A BAD
“No, no, no, no,” Steven mumbled in lieu of breathing.
DREAM
Steven woke up drenched in water.
“Ew, ew, ew,” he said, shaking out his hands. He didn’t like the feeling of the wet sheets and duvet clinging to him, and he was really getting sick of waking up like this.
He peeled himself from his bed and quickly changed into some dry pyjamas. Once he’d done that, he planted his hands on his hips and looked up at the leak above his bed. Funny how such a small amount of water could cause so many problems. He really needed to get it fixed; for now, a bucket would have to do. He shoved his bed out of the trajectory of the drop and once he was sure he’d sleep safely, he went in search of a bucket.
Like always, he dialled his mum and waited for the beep.
"Hi Mum,” he said. “Hope you’re having a good morning. Just the usual here for me. Leaks dripping, buckets to find. Though, I had the worst dream last night. The house was haunted. Or my telly was haunted? I can’t really remember. It’s all blurry now. But it gave me a right scare.
"Clearly I’ve been thinking about ghosts too much. It’s seeping into my dreams, and that’s not great is it? I’m hardly the most courageous. I think I might try and read something light today to steer my mind towards something less gruesome.”
He wandered past the fridge, and groaned at the magnets that had once again been rearranged. The pleasantries had been gone away with, leaving only a simple, annoyingly familiar message.
DO NOT GO IN THE BASEMENT.
“Alright, alright, bloody hell,” Steven said, shaking his head. He remembered the phone in his hand a moment later. “Oh, sorry, not you, Mum. My landlord is just up to his usual antics. Honestly, at this point, I want to go into the basement just to see what all the fuss is about. Surely the maintenance can’t be that awful. Anyway, sorry for the little rant there. I’ll call you tomorrow, Mum. Love you. Laters gators.”
Once he’d located a bucket, he went about his usual morning routine: making breakfast, and then switching on the telly to watch a documentary or two. He settled on watching one about the importance of animals in Ancient Egyptian culture, especially in terms of the afterlife. The Egyptians would mummify their pets to ensure that when they died, they would meet their beloved pet in the Field of Reeds.
“It’s quite sweet, isn’t it,” Steven said. “Maybe I should get a pet. It’d be nice to have someone to keep me company in the afterlife.”
He thought for a moment. He wasn’t quite prepared for a cat or dog, and as much as he loved birds, he didn’t want to keep it caged away when it could be out in the world. Not scratching up furniture and poor people's faces, like a certain someone he knew.
“A fish, maybe? I know they used to mummify them too; they even found a little fish coffin once. Certainly a better send off than being flushed down the toilet, yeah.”
Like always, no one answered.
Steven nodded. “Hm, I’ll think about it.”
He continued to watch the documentary, listening to the archaeologists talk about the sacred importance of animals in relation to the gods. It was all very fascinating, even if he’d already seen it a bajillion times before.
It was only half way through when a wave of exhaustion rolled over him. His eyes fluttered closed with the sudden weight, and he let himself sink into the couch tiredly. The voices of the documentary faded away in white noise.
It was when he opened his eyes again that realised he must have dozed off.
He was in a kitchen that wasn’t his own. Or, he supposed it was a kitchen. He couldn’t quite make it out.
Usually, everything felt strangely real in his dreams, crisp and lucid, but now there was a blur to everything, a sense of unreality he often didn’t feel. It was like looking at the world through a side view mirror, everything further away that it should be.
Steven tried to focus on the world around him, but it was a struggle even to do that. He could faintly hear the sound of things being moved about, and there was someone moving in the corner of his vision. Steven's eyes drifted sluggishly over.
A woman was rifling through a cupboard, clearly in search of something. Steven stared at her, her features sharpening just enough for him to make them out. She looked vaguely familiar, but when he tried to grasp the memory of where he'd seen her before, it slipped out of reach.
"Aha, there it is," the woman cried out in delight.
She pulled out a dusty red box that Steven would have assumed was a tool box if not from the green circle on the side that held a white cross.
"Been a while since we've had to use this," she commented, hefting the first aid kit onto the kitchen bench. "Alright, hold out your palm."
Steven wasn't sure which one she meant, so he held out both. It was then he realised why she'd gotten the kit out.
There was a bloody cut between his thumb and index finger of his left hand. It wasn't deep enough to need stitches, but it was hardly superficial either. It looked like it should be hurting, pretty badly too, but the sensation was as distant as everything else.
Steven usually would have averted his eyes at the sight, but his usual disgust did not even register in his brain, and he was left staring at it. The woman, on the other hand, winced.
"Oh, baby, that looks pretty bad," she said. "Khonshu's in one of his moods again, isn't he? Is that why he isn't healing you?"
Steven frowned. Khonshu? In a mood? She made it sound like he and the Egyptian God were squabbling friends. Unless it was someone she knew simply named that? It wasn't impossible. He'd meet a few Thors and Persephones in his life; why not a Khonshu too?
He went to speak, to ask after the matter, but the words would not come, flitting away before he could catch them and collect them together into something resembling a sentence.
It was a feeling he was familiar with, if only vaguely. Usually, his brain was overflowing with words, pushing forward to get out of his mouth whether he liked it or not, but there had certainly been a few rare times he had just shut down altogether, unable to say anything. He couldn’t say he enjoyed it overmuch. He tried to will the words forward, but that only made them flit away even further.
There goes any chance of a conversation. He just hoped she wouldn't think he was being rude.
"⸺?" the woman prompted.
Steven hummed.
The woman looked up from the wound, and gave him a considering once over, before reaching out to place her hand on his uninjured palm.
"Can't talk?"
Steven blinked, surprised by her immediate understanding. He nodded.
"That's okay," the woman said with a gentle smile. "Just hum or tap me if you need my attention. I'm going to start cleaning up the cut now? Are you ready?"
Steven hummed an affirmative.
She worked about cleaning up the cut, leading him over to the sink so she could rinse the blood away. Once his hand was dry, Steven watched enamoured as she gently kneaded antibiotic lotion into the skin around the wound. And, then, with the same careful patience, she began to wrap a bandage around his hand.
The soothing motions, along with her calming chatter about an ancient artefact she'd saved from being locked away in a British museum, helped to slowly but surely bring the world back into focus. It also, unfortunately, brought the pain back into focus as well, and he winced at the delayed arrival of sensation.
"Sorry, ya amar," the woman said. "I'll be done soon."
As promised, she finished only a minute or so later.
“We’ll have to change it later,” the woman said, “but I think that might just be my best work.”
Steven inspected the dressing. She had indeed done a wonderful job, enough to make all the mummified pharaohs jealous. Steven beamed up at her. He couldn't say the words aloud, but he hoped she knew he was incredibly grateful.
"It's the least I could do," the woman said, seeming to understand his unspoken words. "It was my fault anyway. I shouldn't have startled you like that."
Steven softened his expression. It's okay.
The woman looked around the rest of the kitchen. There were vegetables lying out on some of the counters, Steven realised, some already cut up. Someone must have been in the process of preparing a meal before Steven had gotten injured. Or at least, he assumed that was the story the dream was telling him.
"You can't cook dinner with your hand like that," the woman said. "Maybe you can make me tamales another night."
Steven nodded. His mum used to make tamales for him all the time when he was younger; to this day, they still brought him a sense of comfort. He just wished she had taught him her recipe. All his attempts at recreating them had fallen flat.
The woman smiled. "How about I use some of what you prepared so far to make us some hawawshi instead? That sound good to you?"
Hawawshi? Steven cocked his head.
"You've had it before, back in Cairo. Don't worry, you'll like my version of it just as much. And if you don't, I will forsake you," she said with a playful grin.
And then, with the casual intimacy of a close partner, she leaned in for a kiss and—
Steven's eyes snapped up.
He was in his bed.
“Uh,” he said, glancing around.
Hadn’t he been on the couch when he’d fallen asleep?
Oh, please don’t tell me I’ve started sleepwalking.
He really didn’t want to have to start dealing with that. The leaks were enough.
The dream lingered in his mind, the woman in particular. He wished he’d learnt her name. She seemed lovely. He hoped he would have more dreams about her, ones where he was actually in a state to have a conversation with her. Still, even the short, hazy time with her had been enough.
Steven sat up and inspected the palm she’d bandaged. Of course, being awake, the bandage was gone, as was the wound that it had covered. His hand was completely fine, and he wasn’t sure why he’d expected any different.
It had just been a dream after all.
The pigeon was having another one of its ‘staring-at-empty-spaces’ days. It made the hairs on the back of Steven’s neck stand up, and he couldn’t help but glance anxiously over at the pigeon and the place it was glaring at every few minutes. It was really starting to get on his nerves.
Steven turned back to the computer. He’d been talking to M about modern Egyptian dishes and street foods—M seemed to know quite a lot, surprisingly, and in a strange turn of events, he was the one teaching Steven about them—but he could no longer ignore the invisible elephant in the room.
Steven says: 'Do you ever feel like you’re not alone, even when you are?'
M says: 'Not really a great question to ask while I’m alone in a tomb, bud. But yeah. All the time, really.'
Steven says: 'Hold on, a tomb? What on earth are you doing in a tomb?'
M says: 'Just doing a few errands for, uh, a friend.'
'Errands?' Steven scoffed. 'Trust you to consider going into a tomb a bloody chore. You really don't realise how good you've got it mate.'
'Trust me, it's not as good as you think.'
Steven couldn't fight back the bitterness that swelled up at the statement. 'Better than my life, I bet. You go off on all your adventures and I'm just stuck here, all the time. If my life was a movie, then someone out there is rewinding the tape so I can start the same day every day.'
There was a pause. 'What would you do? With your life, I mean, if it wasn’t stuck on rewind?'
Steven pressed his cheek into his fist. 'I don’t know. I'd move back to London, I think. From there...well I'm not sure. Get myself a flat I guess. Maybe some sort of pet to keep me company. And I'd get a job, of course.'
'Yeah? What kind?'
'Well, I would be absolutely thrilled if I could work at a museum. Preferably one with an Egyptian wing. That would be lovely.'
'Shocking,' M deadpanned.
'Yeah, ha ha, I’m predictable, I know. But it’s my dream job.'
Key word being dream. Steven’s smile fell and he slumped in his seat. That’s all it’d ever be. Sure, Steven could imagine it all perfectly, but he would never live that imagined life anywhere outside of his own head. He’d never have that. He sighed and rested his head on his arms.
'But it’ll never happen.'
'Don’t say that, Steven. It could, one day.'
'No, I don’t think it is. I can say it as much as I like, but it’s all just wishful thinking, innit. I’m just going to be here, like always, forever.' He sighed. 'I don’t even know what I’m doing anymore. I try to think of some reason, some purpose, but I can’t find it. I feel...useless.'
Exhaustion seeped into him, so deep he didn’t even feel up to relocating himself to his bed. He closed his eyes. The computer kept beeping, and Steven could almost swear he could hear a muffled voice coming out from the speakers, but he was too tired to focus on it.
'Steven?' M said. 'Bud, you’re scaring me. Where’s this all coming from?'
'I don’t know. I’m just tired. Really tired. I think I might sleep for a bit.'
Steven drifted off.
For a time, there was nothing. No dreams, no nightmares, just nothing. It was the most peaceful sleep he’d ever had. He would have been happy for it to last forever.
It was a quiet ping from the computer that eventually stirred him. He blinked groggily up at the screen, waiting for his eyes to focus. He had a new message.
'You gotta come back, bud. I can’t do...I can’t do this all on my own. Please, I need you.'
Steven almost scoffed upon reading it. Like anyone needed him really. He let his eyes drift back closed.
Another ping had him stirring again.
'Steven, I’m sorry if I ever made you feel useless. I hid you away, kept you locked up because I thought that’d keep you safe, but I should have realised how much that was hurting you. How unhappy you were. I let you down. I’ll do better from now on, okay. Just please come back. Please.'
Steven frowned. M sounded really desperate. It wouldn’t be right to leave him to deal with whatever he was dealing with by himself. With a yawn, Steven sat up and rubbed his eyes, trying to clear away the heaviness that was threatening to pull him back into a nice sleep. Not yet. He had to stay awake and help M.
'Only because you said please,' he said.
'...Steven?'
'Yeah?'
'Steven! You're here. You're really here. Buddy, I thought I'd lost you. You were gone for so long.'
Steven frowned and looked at the time on his computer. 'I was only gone for a few minutes.'
Huh. He was sure he’d been asleep for longer than that.
The reply, for once, was not instantaneous. It took some time before the computer popped up with a new message.
'For me, it felt like months. I...I really missed you, Steven.'
'Oh. Thank you, I suppose.'
'Don’t even do that to me again. Please.'
Steven wasn’t really sure what he’d done, but he shrugged anyway. 'Alright, I promise.'
They talked for some time after that, M strangely hesitant to leave. Steven didn’t really mind; he liked having someone to talk to, and it was nice when they also wanted to talk to him. Eventually, however, M grew tired, and said his goodnights.
Steven cracked his back, sore from being at the computer for so long, and spun his chair around.
Steven’s mouth fell open.
“What the hell?” He looked around the room. “How is this possible?”
The house was a complete and utter mess. Dust covered every surface as if they’d been left uncleaned for months, and the corners of the rooms were littered with spiderwebs.
That wasn’t all, unfortunately; the kitchen chairs had been splintered beyond repair, the coffee table broken in two, and even his sofa had not been spared, the fabric torn to pieces. When he leaned over to glance down the hallway, he saw that the photo frames had all fallen to the floor, their glass scattered across the floor in a mockery of fallen snow.
Mould now stained the corners of the ceiling black, and Steven winced at the sight. He should have known the leaks would cause some damage sooner or later. Still, there was no way it could have formed without him noticing.
"I was only asleep for a few minutes!" he cried, standing up.
Walking through the living room was like traversing an obstacle course, and with each step his resignation grew. There was no way he could go to bed with his house in this state.
Knowing he had a long night ahead, he decided he would make himself some dinner. It's not like a little more mess would make any difference. Though, he might have to clean the benches first. And check to see if the food was okay. And make sure all his cooking utensils weren't covered in dust.
Yep. Long night indeed.
"Oh, and of course the landlord leaves another message, bloody hell," he muttered, noticing the telltale signs of the magnets having been rearranged again.
It was more jumbled than usual, the letters drooping with huge gaping spaces between them.
PLE AS E CO M E BAC K PL EASE I DON T WAN T TO B E HERE AL ONE
Steven cocked his head. That was...well, by far one of the strangest messages that the landlord had left. He pushed the letters in line so that message was neater, but apart from that, left it be.
"Such a strange man," he murmured.
After making himself dinner, Steven spent the rest of the night tidying up the living room and kitchen. The mould he couldn’t do much about, nor the broken furniture, but he managed to clean up the dust and return most of the things that were scattered around back to their rightful place. The room was in a far better state by the time the sun rose, but there was still a lot he would have to deal with over the next week or so. Maybe even longer.
“Well, at least it’ll keep me occupied, I s’pose,” he said.
He stretched out his sore limbs, and then wandered over to the kitchen, the cleaning having left him hungry once more. He'd have himself a bowl of cereal and then he was heading right to bed.
That thought got pushed to the back of his mind the moment he stood in front of his fridge.
The magnets had changed.
DON’T GO DISAPPEARING ON ME EVER AGAIN. GOT IT.