• Drip. Spreading out like demon's wings, the ink stain spread from the small droplet that had fallen from the stylus held in the idle youth's hand. His once tan skin was pallid now, whitening from the days spent indoors and away from Ra's harsh eyes. Around his slender wrist was an ankh, there to protect him from the demons that plagued the world. His torso was wrapped in a rough tunic, and his dark hair was lank as it brushed the back of his clothes. His odd almond shaped hazel eyes were unfocused as he stared at the wall that was tinged with the blood of the sunset.
    Drip. His thoughts rolled away like the mist on the ocean that sometimes sprang up early in the morning. Rolling around in his head, memories flowed in and out like the tides that brought fisherman and their catch to land. Foremost in his mind came the first catch, a memory of a shy girl who he knew was of the highest house. He had seen her in her litter, pale and quiet as the servants carried her. Once, he had seen her get out and walk, when a servant had twisted his ankle. She had called for a doctor to take care of him, but no one knew where one was. He had shyly gone up to her and offered to bind the man's ankle to help him walk on it. He had helped her, and made her smile such a brilliant smile that it made him wonder why the Pharaoh hadn't taken her as his wife yet. Then she was whisked away and carried back home in her litter, and he was sure she had never thought of him again, unlike him, who thought of her everyday.
    Drip. He remembered how she had asked him how he, a simple scribe, knew how to treat injuries. He had only smiled at her, and gone back to work. The truth, ah the truth.... His mother had been good with healing. She had taught him how to bind wounds, create salves, make remedies for illnesses. His father had insisted on him being a scribe, but his mother had taught him simples for healing. But in the end, it had done her no good. She had still wasted away by a fever he could not allay, making him ache horribly in his heart. If he had just learned more....
    Drip. This time, a tear was mixing in with the black ink that stained the rough hewn stones. Closing his eyes, Phorus willed away the memories, so all that was left was the task of copying records that lay ahead of him.