We sat beneath the shade of the palm, yet the silence was not restful. The air was heavy, thick, as though every breath carried a whisper not our own. Cleopatra was quiet, her gaze on the river, and though she was still young, I could sense that she felt the same weight pressing on her as I did.
At first glance the Nile seemed calm, its surface glittering with sunlight, birds circling over the branches of water. But the longer I looked, the more wrong it appeared. The waves did not flow with the current—they twisted against it, curling into spirals, as if moved by will rather than nature.
"Do you see it?" Cleopatra's voice broke the stillness. She tried to sound brave, but there was unease in her tone.
"I see it," I replied, rising to my feet. At that moment, the sand beneath us trembled. First faintly, then harder. The palm under which we sat groaned.
Cleopatra leapt up and clutched at my arm. "What's happening?"
I could not answer. Before us the water rose like a wall. Not high, not violent, but solid—as if the river itself had become a gate. And then it opened. Not toward the shore, but inward—into darkness.
A force struck us like a fist. I heard Cleopatra cry out, her voice drowned in the roar of water, and then we were both dragged into the depths.
The water was ice-cold, sharp as a thousand blades. My chest burned as though I drowned, but when I opened my eyes, I was not dying. I was standing. The water lapped only at my knees, black and polished as obsidian.
And in its surface, shapes began to form. Shadows. Images.
Before me appeared a man. Myself—and not myself. His body was strong, broad-shouldered, his face proud and whole. He had everything I had been denied. He was not a eunuch. He was a man untouched, unbroken.
Around him stood women. Beautiful, bare, their eyes burning with hunger. Their hands stroked his arms, his chest, their lips whispered his name. Amenemhet, Amenemhet… In their voices was every desire I had buried, every hunger I had silenced.
My heart thundered. Heat filled my chest, shame and longing tangled like serpents.
"This is what you wanted," the water's voice hissed. "This is what you could have been."
I tried to turn away, but my legs refused. Every step drew me deeper into the vision. I could almost feel their warmth, their breath.
"No," I whispered, but my voice was weak. "That is not me…"
"But it could have been," the water mocked.
Then another sound pierced me—raw, desperate sobbing. I tore my gaze from the women and saw her. Cleopatra.
She stood a few steps away, but her eyes did not see me. Before her lay the image of her mother, pale and fading on a bed, breath rattling like dry reeds. Cleopatra stretched out her arms, reaching, but every time she touched, the figure dissolved into ripples.
"Mother!" she cried, her voice breaking. "No! Don't leave me!"
I froze, torn between my own torment and hers. Cleopatra—always proud, unyielding—now knelt, broken, drowning in grief.
"Cleopatra!" I shouted. "It isn't real! Look at me!"
She shook her head, tears blinding her. "It is real! I see her! She's dying!"
The women in my vision called me louder, their touch nearly dragging me in. My body trembled with the weight of it. With a snarl I ripped myself free, forcing a step toward Cleopatra.
"That is a lie!" I roared. "An illusion! The truth is here!" I struck my fist against my chest. "Here! We are alive! You and I! That is real!"
She wavered. Her eyes darted between the fading image of her mother and my outstretched hand.
"Trust me!" I begged. "Trust me, not the water!"
For a moment, eternity stretched between us. Then she reached—her fingers brushed mine. And in an instant, the visions shattered.
Her mother dissolved into mist. My phantom self and the women vanished into nothing. The black water cleared, turning crystalline, pure.
We stood face to face, drenched and trembling, clutching each other's hands. Our breathing came ragged, but we were alive.
Then the river itself began to glow. A wave rose—not of water, but of light—and from its heart a figure emerged.
A woman, robed in a mantle that shimmered like the night sky strewn with stars. Her face was radiant and stern, and upon her brow was the crown shaped like a throne.
Cleopatra gasped and fell to her knees. "Isis…" she whispered.
I knelt as well. My tongue felt bound; I dared not raise my eyes.
The goddess smiled, gently, though her voice shook the air like the song of a thousand women, and like the whisper of water over stone.
"You have passed the trial," she said. "You have seen your weakness, and yet you did not choose it. Truth has cleansed you. And so I come, to lead you further."
The river blazed around her, as though the Nile itself was held in her hands.
Isis stood before us, radiant, her presence filling the banks of the Nile. The water shimmered as though every drop carried her light.
Her gaze lingered on Cleopatra for a heartbeat — gentle, almost motherly — before turning fully to me. When she spoke my name, it was more than a word. It was power, memory, and recognition all at once. My heart faltered.
"Amenemhet," said the goddess, "I remember your deeds. I remember the temple you restored when others would have let it crumble. I remember the places of silence and song you raised, where people once again found my voice. You honored not only stone and idol, but life itself, which I have always guarded. That is why I stand before you."
I bowed low, pressing my forehead into the sand. Never in my life had I felt such weight and such lightness together.
"You have passed the trial of purification," Isis continued. "You were shown temptation and pain, and yet you did not surrender. For this, I give you a gift that will serve you when truth is veiled in shadow."
She raised her hand. The river between us glowed, and from its surface rose an object. Not a sword, not an amulet — but a papyrus scroll, sealed in a case of gold and lapis.
"This scroll is not written with ink," Isis said, "but with memory. When you open it, it will reveal what is hidden — not by conjuring visions, but by showing the connections others fail to see. Paths that seem closed will open before you. Truths that others fear to speak, you will feel within your heart."
The scroll drifted toward me and settled into my hands. I felt its weight — not heavy, but solemn, as though I held not just a gift, but the trust of the goddess herself.
Cleopatra gasped, her eyes wide with awe. "Mehet…" she whispered. "She entrusted you with the wisdom of the gods."
Isis leaned closer, her gaze piercing me as though she saw every thought within me. "But the gift would be nothing without the warning. Your Pharaoh — the man you serve — has an enemy close at hand. Not in distant lands, not upon battlefields. Betrayal is born at his very table, from lips he calls friendly. Remember my words, when shadows seem the shortest."
My chest tightened. Words rose in me — Who? Who is it? — but Isis lifted her hand, silencing me.
"It is not yet time. The names will come when you are ready to hear them."
Her body blazed brighter than our eyes could bear. We shielded our faces as light consumed everything. When it faded, there was only the river again, calm and quiet.
But in my hands lay the scroll of the goddess. And in my heart echoed her warning, carved deeper than any blade could cut.
Cleopatra stepped close, her voice trembling with wonder. "Mehet… why you? Why not me?"
I looked at her, but no answer would come. I only held the scroll tighter, knowing the answer was not mine to give — it belonged to the gods.
Cleopatra stood beside me, her gaze fixed on the scroll in my hands as if it were a fragment of the heavens. Her chest rose with sharp breaths, her eyes gleamed with both tears and fire.
"Mehet…" she whispered, her voice trembling. "Why you? Why not me?"
I opened my mouth, but before I could speak, her words burst forth like a flood, unstoppable.
"All my life I was told I am the daughter of Pharaoh. That I am chosen, that the gods watch over my every step, that my path is greater than myself. And now? Now Isis herself appears before us, my goddess, my mother in the heavens—and she looked at me only briefly, like at a shadow. But with you she spoke! To you she gave a gift! To you, not me!"
Her voice rose, sharp as a blade. "You are a eunuch! A slave! You do not even have a name of your own! And yet she turned to you as if you were Egypt's son, not I, her daughter!"
Tears rolled down her cheeks, but they were not the tears of weakness. They were the tears of pride wounded by divine choice.
I stood before her, my chest tightening. I wanted to tell her she was wrong, that she was more than I could ever be, that her destiny was far greater than mine. But the words stuck in my throat.
"Perhaps…" I finally managed softly, "the gods do not choose by blood, but by deeds. You are the princess of Egypt. Your path lies ahead. I am only the one who walks beside you. Maybe that is why they chose me—because I can bear a burden you are not meant to carry."
Her eyes flared with anger. "But I want that burden! I want the gods to see me, not only you! I will not always stand in the shadow, I will not be the one who only listens and waits. I want to be the one chosen!"
Her cry carried across the river, echoing against the water like her defiance had become part of it. Then her voice broke, leaving silence. She stood there, breathing hard, her shoulders trembling.
I looked at her, and inside me everything was torn apart. My mind told me her anger was natural—that this was not the jealousy of a child, but the pain of a young woman who felt overlooked. And yet… in my heart I felt guilt, as if the gift I held had been stolen from her hands.
Silently, I begged Isis to give me strength. To one day show Cleopatra that she too was worthy.
I stepped closer and spoke softly:
"Isis knows what she is doing. And when your time comes, you too will receive a sign. I do not doubt it."
Her eyes locked with mine, burning. "Promise me," she said, steady but fierce, "that when that time comes, you will not stand before me. You will not overshadow me. You will stand with me."
I bowed my head, though her words struck me like a blade. "With you, princess. Always with you."
She turned toward the river, so I would not see the way her lips trembled with unspoken words. I gripped the scroll tightly, and its weight burned into my palms. It was no gift. It was a trial. And though I vowed to guard it, I felt another vow take root within me—that her anger would one day be quieted only by the gods, never by me.