Author's note: This is a long overdue requested ficlet, which I finally got around to writing. I happen to like how it turned out, though I wish it had been longer. On one note, I would like to explain my reasoning for Anck-su-namun's feelings toward Imhotep. I don't believe she left him at the end of TMR, I believe Meela had been taking back some control for a while before then (the novelization hinted at this also). Just to clear some things up, since I did get a review before that complained about her feeling too sentimental towards him. Anyway, hope you enjoy and please review.

Disclaimer: Not mine, not making profit, not claiming, no suing me, please.


I can see him every time I glance at Pharaoh. Right there, standing beside the god incarnate. High Priest of Osiris, as powerful as the god among men himself, perhaps even more so in some ways. And just as helpless as I am in all others. He is was perfect as a god, and my worship goes to him and not Pharaoh.

Perhaps that means my soul is damned. Perhaps I shall suffer when I die and then be sent to oblivion. Perhaps the gods and goddesses will take pity on my plight and forgive me of my infidelities. Perhaps they will see that it is my high priest who deserves my body, my love, my loyalty, my worship. Perhaps they will understand that the god on the throne is nothing but a man and a pig. Or perhaps they will be just as lowly as he is.

My high priest has stopped trying to council my when it comes to the gods. He has forsaken all hope of turning me to them for guidance and strength. He finally understands that he is my guidance and my strength. I have never said so, for my pride forbids me from saying such thing to any man, but my high priest knows. He is not a man, he is a god, and I worship him.

The gods curse me for it, I believe. Perhaps that is why I am barren. Perhaps that is why I am still favorite despite my infertile womb. They mock my plight, and they trap me in it, and they grin with cruelty at the painted bars on my body.

It is too late to save my soul. If I had any faith in the gods and goddesses, I would pray for my high priest's soul. But I have no faith in any except him. Only he has ever proven himself worthy of my faith. My being.

Our souls are damned, and there is nothing left to do but smile and pretend until we are alone once more. And then we can bask in the glory of our paradise during the brief moments the gods are kind and cruel enough to give. If I had faith in them, I would thank them for those moments. But I only curse them instead. And I smile a cat's smile, filled with secrets that only my high priest will ever unlock.

He is my sin and my reprieve, and there is nothing I can do to rectify that. Perhaps, though, that is merely my choosing. Everything is irreversible. Because the selfish, prideful part of me wants it to be.