The Gods of Arasha

Khet hated the sun.

It was always hot in Arasha. Waves of shimmering heat dogged his steps, magnified by a merciless sun that sat unchallenged in clear blue skies.

Often, Khet had cursed the sky for its passivity. Arasha was hot enough; surely the heavens could conjure a single cloud, some meager relief for those unfortunate enough to walk the streets.

The sky never listened.

Khet’s suit stuck to his arms as he wound his way through narrow, choked alleyways. Arasha was an ancient city in the process of being reborn; old buildings of stone and timber were being knocked down and replaced by clean, gleaming steel. Modern markets had taken the place of old bazaars, and Khet longed for the day that neat, angular streets would replace the confusing sprawl of alleys that wound around the city center like veins feeding a heart.

Khet was the architect of these changes, the man behind the sleek glass towers that rose out of the desert like the fingers of a new god. Arasha had been a wreck after the war, plundered and ruined by the thunderous guns of invaders. Craters still marked the city like pockmarks on the face of an adolescent, the gifts of foreign planes that had filled the sky like locusts before they dropped their bombs. Those same invaders had proclaimed themselves liberators, they who couldn’t even speak Arashi. It had been Khet, a son of Arasha itself, who had offered his services to them. A “cultural liaison” they’d called him. The Arashi knew him as something else.

Rat.

Their scorn only emboldened him. It was Khet who convinced the new rulers of Arasha to modernize the city as they rebuilt, trampling on tradition in the name of ROI. On his advice, they had razed the great temples. At his suggestion, they had burned the olive trees. By his whisper, they had toppled the statues of the wind god.

Brick by brick, Khet shaped his new city. Brick by brick, the past yielded to him. Soon, all of Arasha would be of his design.

Soon, but not yet. There was one monument left unchanged.

The temple at Karaheel, Arasha’s last place of worship. A devotion to the god of the sun.

Its dome rose high above the city, gleaming in the ceaseless heat. Khet looked at it, and felt a chill creep up his spine despite the oppressive heat.

For years he’d argued for its destruction. He yearned to see it fall, to see that mighty dome shattered in the dust. He didn’t yet know what he would replace it with. Apartments, maybe.

A monument to himself, if he could pull it off.

Ahead of him, crowds swirled. He wasn’t the only one wearing a suit, but they were rare enough that he drew eyes as he shouldered his way through the crowds. Men in light, flowing robes gave him dirty looks, and women spat in his path as he passed.

“Sveli! Sveli!”

A group of children surrounded Khet, pulling at his thick suit as they shouted at him.

Rat, rat.

Khet ground his teeth. What right did they have to malign him? Arasha was his home, just as much as it was anyone else’s. The city didn’t belong to the past, to antiquated architecture and old men in dusty sandals.

Khet was a man of the future, and it was to the future that Arasha belonged.

He shouted at the children and they ran off, laughing at him as they disappeared into the crowd. He checked his pockets; everything was still there. He pulled a handkerchief from his blazer, dabbing ineffectually at his face as sweat poured into his eyes.

He heard a faint sound in the distance, and the crowd went still as everyone strained to listen.

Bells rang out across the city.

Khet froze. The bells almost never rang; he could remember it happening only once before, when he’d been a child walking with his mother. He remembered the fear on her face, and felt it written across his own as more bells joined the chorus.

Fear quickened his steps as he saw people all across the street shut their doors. The bells only meant one thing.

Sand.

Khet had minutes to find shelter. Sandstorms were exceptionally rare in Arasha, and it was usually easy enough to find cover.

Not this time. Not for him.

Khet looked around to see people locking their doors. The only buildings aside from private residences were offices, hulking steel monsters full of fair skinned foreigners safe in their towers. They would watch the storm slam into the city and not crack their doors an inch.

He staggered through the quickly emptying streets, his suit tightening around him as he fought through the heat. The wind was picking up, and Khet struggled to remove his tie as grains of sand danced around his loafered feet.

His heart pounded as he broke into a run.

He couldn’t outrun the desert, but he wouldn’t let it consume him. There had to be somewhere he could go, somewhere he could hide.

Please, he thought, his eyes on the great dome at Karaheel. It loomed over him in judgement, silent. Please.

“Khet!”

He spun towards the voice, barreling in its direction without a second thought. The air was thick with sand, and he wondered who he knew in these streets that had recognized him through the haze.

He tried not to breathe as he ran, the sand lashing at him like shards of glass as he struggled in the direction of the voice.

“Where are you?” he called, voice desperate.

“Here!”

Khet saw a dim outline through the storm and rushed toward it. He slammed into the side of a building, nearly falling on his back before strong hands grabbed him by his lapel, hauling him through a door.

He’d been pulled into a dark room, a scattering of sand following him as his savior slammed the door shut. Khet’s haggard breathing filled the space as he coughed, clearing his throat to little effect.

The stranger passed him a canteen, and Khet drank from it greedily.

His eyes slowly adjusted to the dark, the silhouette of his rescuer becoming clear. He was a young man, dressed in the light robes common in Arasha. Thick hair hung in front of his face in dark curls, and warm brown eyes brimming with concern peered out at Khet.

“Are you okay?”

The stranger had a deep voice, one that seemed to echo around the room. Khet nodded, handing the canteen back.

“Fine,” he wheezed. “It’s been a while since I was caught in a storm.”

The stranger snorted.

“Clearly you weren’t expecting one,” he said, pointing at Khet’s clothes. “Suits don’t fare well in Arasha. They fare even worse in sandstorms.”

Khet managed a smile. There was something off about the stranger; the brown of his eyes was too bright, as though there was some light within them. His voice kept changing, modulating, as though he was trying to decide on which variation of the same accent to use.

“Thank you for your help,” Khet said, drawing himself up as he tried to get a good look at his host. The darkness kept most of him obscured, and he had trouble seeing anything but his eyes. “Forgive me, but have we met before? Maybe on a project? You called me by name, but I’m having trouble placing you.”

The stranger chuckled. Khet smiled awkwardly, confused.

“Of course I know you, Khet. You’re a famous man.” The stranger gestured further into the room. “My name is Surya. Please, remove your shoes.”

Surya moved deeper into the darkness. It was an old house, with ceramic oil lamps lining the walls. Surya lit them one by one, and Khet was startled to realize they weren’t alone.

At the center of the room sat a low table. Other people lounged on cushions scattered around the space, sipping tea and watching him with bright, interested eyes. They wore long robes, and Khet found he couldn’t tell which were men and which were women. He swallowed, kicking his shoes off and doing his best to keep the sand that clung to him confined to the threshold.

Surya beckoned him forward, and Khet followed hesitantly. He didn’t like the way the strangers watched him.

“A pleasure,” he stammered out, still uncomfortable in his suit as he sat on one of the cushions. “I’m called Khet.”

A titter went through the group.

“Oh, we know you Khet,” a muscular woman said, picking over a plate of dates without looking at them. “You’re hard to miss. Especially in that suit.”

Khet barked out a laugh, too loud. Surya sat uncomfortably close to him, handing him a clay cup.

“I fear,” Surya said, throwing a casual arm around Khet’s shoulders, “we have our new friend at a disadvantage. We should introduce ourselves.”

The woman pouted, crooning.

“But Surya,” she said, teeth glinting in the candlelight. Her canines looked like razors, and Khet struggled to drink his tea. “He knows us already, doesn’t he? How could he have called us if he didn’t know our names?”

Khet’s blood froze in his veins. He felt numb as the muscular woman stood, revealing bare arms covered in tattoos. Swirling patterns filled every inch of skin, and the way her muscles flowed as she gesticulated made it look like the patterns were alive.

“If I’ve done something to offend you,” he stammered through a dry throat, noticing how heavy Surya’s arm was around his shoulders. “I assure you, there is an explanation. Even still, I apologize.”

“Oh,” the muscular woman purred. “Did you hear that Surya? He apologizes.”

She stood to her full height, looming in the dim light like an oak tree.

Khet tried to rise as she drew close, but Surya’s arm around him kept him anchored to the cushion. For a thin man, Surya was shockingly strong. Hot tea spilled on Khet’s suit, but the pain it brought him was the least of his concerns.

“Stop playing with him Riah,” Surya said, squeezing Khet’s shoulder painfully.

Khet frowned. He knew that name.

“Riah?” he looked into her burning eyes. “Like the wind god?”

“Not like the wind god,” she said, every word spat through clenched teeth as she towered over him like the shadow of a mountain. “I am the wind god.”

Khet laughed, but no one else did.

“I see what this is,” he said, smug. He crossed his arms, glancing at the other strangers around the table. He pointed at them in turn. “Stop me when I’m wrong. The man with the clock tattoos must be Gize, right? The woman next to him, with the long nails and the wings tattooed on her eyelids—Semayi, I’m guessing?”

Khet chuckled, clapping his hands together in delight as a room full of myths stared at him.

“What great wonders have I worked,” he asked, sarcasm scratching at every word like the sand under his collar, “to warrant the visit of so many gods? All we’re missing is Ashewa, but I suppose the sandstorm is keeping her busy. Hard to manage, probably, even if you’re literally the god of sand.”

“You seem awfully comfortable, Khet.” Surya sounded almost sad, like his hopes had been dashed.

Who is he supposed to be, Khet thought. A priest?

“Why shouldn’t I be?” he asked. “What do I have to fear from a room full of beggars, whispering the names of dead gods? I’m too old to be frightened of fairy tales. When the storm abates, my employers will come looking for me. If they find me harmed in this hovel, rest assured that you’ll suffer for it.”

Surya sighed, removing his arm from around Khet’s shoulders.

“Khet, for your own good, don’t threaten us.”

Khet turned his head, rising to his feet as he stared angrily at his host.

“Who are you even supposed to be? Surya isn’t the name of any god I recognize. If you’re going to pantomime the divine, you might as well get it right.”

The storm was weakening outside. All Khet had to do was wait, and he would be—

He let out a squawk as Riah lifted him effortlessly from the ground with one hand.

Khet blinked; no woman could be that strong.

She tossed him across the room effortlessly, and Khet felt something snap in his torso as he slammed into the hard ceramic tile of the wall. He slid to the ground, breath shallow. Had she broken his ribs? How many? He had no idea how to check, but it hurt to breathe.

Riah drew closer to him, and Khet struggled to crawl away before feeling her fingers in his hair. He gasped in pain as she drove a knee into his back and pulled his hair, forcing his gaze upward.

She leaned in close, whispering into his ear.

“You have no right to speak the name of gods,” she said, squeezing her fist until Khet felt like his scalp was going to come off. “You have no right to call yourself Arashi.”

Khet wheezed, broken ribs stabbing into his lungs as he squirmed in her grip.

“I have every right,” he managed through teeth clenched in agony. “Arasha belongs to the future. Arasha belongs to me. I’m more Arashi than you are.”

A pair of ankles crossed into Khet’s field of vision. Surya stood above him, eyes blazing like the sun.

The oil lamps blinked out until Surya’s eyes were the only illumination in the room. They lit the space around his head slightly brighter than the dim light that illuminated the rest of the room, giving him the impression of an aureole.

Surya squatted down, coming eye to eye with Khet. He smiled sadly, taking Khet’s face in his hands.

“Earlier, you asked me who I am.” He flicked a hand out, and blinding light flashed in Khet’s eyes. “You’ve cursed the sky many times, but it was I who you despised. My heat. My warmth. My Karaheel.”

“Wait,” Khet said, horror filling his voice as he realized his mistake. “Wait, I didn’t—”

“You did,” Surya breathed out in a whisper, his voice almost soothing. “I wish things were otherwise. In another life, we might have been friends. But in this life, you turned your back on the gods of your mother. And for what? So you could play the fool for your conquerors?”

Shining tears fell down Surya’s cheeks. He moved his thumbs over Khet’s eyes.

“You don’t understand,” Khet said, defiant. “I made the best out of a bad situation. Where were you when they bombed us? Where were you when Arasha burned?”

“We were everywhere. Soon we will be nowhere.” Surya sighed. “You destroyed our temples. You toppled our statues. But you called to me in the storm, little Arashi, and I answered.”

Surya leaned close, kissing Khet on the forehead.

“Thank you for your prayers.”

Khet screamed, then fell silent as Surya pressed his thumbs down.