Editor's note: this story contains scenes of non-consensual or reluctant sex.
*****
Part Two as promised!
The museum came into view and Anabeth was more than just a little impressed. A great building of terracotta-coloured stone stood tall in front of a garden filled with exotic flowers. The detail was minimal in comparison to the great buildings in England and yet so similar, with statues of women framing the large entry. The building couldn't have been more than ten years old, but it was a beauty, nonetheless.
Peter offered Anabeth his hand as she stepped out of the carriage, once they had pulled up to the front of the door, but barely touched her palm. There was a small frown on his face as though touching her troubled him. Beth tried not to read too much into it.
The inside of the building was as lovely as the outside. Cool, white marble spanned the length and breadth of the first great room, flanked by sand-coloured pillars. To Anabeth's disappointment the artefacts on display were sparse and uninspiring. This museum needed an exhibit worthy of its stature.
"Miss Brightbury?" A heavy accent greeted them from a discrete door on the left of the room. The door blended so well with the sand-coloured stone that it took a moment for Anabeth to find the man.
"Yes," Beth smiled warmly. The man was clearly a native, though he was dressed as though to embody the British.
A shame,
she thought.
The native clothes here look so much cooler than a three-piece suit.
"I am Karim," he smiled back. "We are ready to begin the meeting, if you'll follow me."
Anabeth moved to the door, Peter and Mr Banks following closely behind her.
"Karim is a friendly man," Peter whispered behind her. "Akhenaten's right-hand man if you will. He is the only one who he really speaks with."
"Why does a descendant need a right-hand man?" Anabeth questioned as they climbed a discreet set of stairs.
"The power they wield seems quite great," Mr Banks replied. "It is as though among the natives Akhenaten is a sort of aristocrat. A duke among their personal hierarchy."
"And what is Akhenaten's full name? I cannot go in and address him as that," Anabeth whispered to Peter.
"No one knows. He hasn't yet done formal introductions with any British men. He refuses to speak to them directly, and his men simply refer to him as Akhenaten."
Beth felt a sense of tension over the matter. Of course, the English men would be offended by any native in a colony considering themselves in a higher position than a Brit.
Karim led them through a hallway with large wooden doors on either side. It was long and narrow with a huge pained window at the end, which somehow managed to light the full corridor. The doors on the right stopped halfway down, besides one final door which Karim opened for them.
Anabeth could feel her stomach flipping around itself. She had never conducted a meeting of such great importance. So much was resting on her shoulders she wondered what would happen if she made a mistake. One tiny mistake could ruin everything for her.
The room inside was panelled with a rich red-brown wood on the floor and walls. A great table sat in the centre with chairs placed all around. Surrounding the table were men in all manners of dress, though it was clear that the British men were not conversing with the Egyptians.
"Miss Anabeth Brightbury, and company," Karim announced to the room as though they were entering a 19
th
century ball. She could feel Peter bristle beside her as though by not announcing his name he was any less important.
The crowd turned to look and Anabeth scanned the room, stopping on one particular face.
Her first thought was why her legs hadn't given up. Should she not have fainted? Was that not the only appropriate response?
Staring at her was a man identical to Sekhemkhet's ghost. A face so ingrained in her memory that she would have known it anywhere. And yet it was impossible.
But everything, down to his dark golden skin and long, dark hair was the same. And the look in his eyes - a starving man staring at a banquet that had been laid out just for him, waiting for someone to tell him
yes, you can have it now
.
It was him and yet it could not be him.
"Shall we take our places then?" Karim asked. No introductions. No shaking of hands, just straight to business.
Anabeth found her place at the centre of the left side of the table. At the top sat Sekhemkhet -
no,
Anabeth reminded herself,
Akhenaten. His name is Akhenaten, and I mustn't forget that
. Across from her was Karim and beside her was Peter. Mr Banks took a seat on a bench at the side of the room, removed from the discussion.
"Miss Brightbury," Akhenaten finally acknowledged her. "I hope you have had a pleasant journey."
His smile was beatific.
Just like I remember
, she thought before she could stop herself. But there was something about his smile that was too like Sekhemkhet's so she could not ignore it. A sense of challenge - a quirk that made her think they were sharing an inside joke.
"It was quite pleasant, thank you. I am very happy to be back in such a beautiful country. I have missed it these past two months."
"Egypt has missed you too," he replied, unheard by the rest of the group as they finished settling into their seats.
"The matter at hand," Karim began, "is the ownership and the distribution of the artefacts found in the tomb close to the Pyramid of Djoser. Founded by Anabeth Brightbury, but the legal property of Akhenaten." Peter sat straighter, ready to intervene at the mention of Anabeth's involvement, however Karim continued. "Akhenaten would like to propose that the tomb and it's contents remain here in Egypt, under the watch of the natives."
There was a silence in the room - the kind that made Anabeth stay totally still. She knew that this kind of tense silence could be shattered by the slightest movement, bringing pandemonium. She was right.
Akhenaten shifted in his chair, his elbow resting on the table with his hand on his chin. His fingers rested on his lips, just enough to cover the small smile playing there. The smile that had Anabeth's stomach flipping around.
Who is he?
"I
beg
your pardon?" One British man began, though he was cut off by several others. It was like how her father had described the scenes at parliamentary debates before order could be called. '