Chapter Text
A’Nazaha Wa-Tahtib: "the art of being straight and honest through the use of stick"
One of the oldest forms of martial arts, Tahtib originated in Ancient Egypt as a military exercise to learn how to wield deadly weapons while on the battlefield, including but not limited to: the knife, the spear, the axe, and the mace. Tahtib transformed over time from a military practice to a tool for social cohesion, settlement of disputes, and eventually, performance art.
Laughter bubbled up from the riverbed of Atem’s throat, his smiles hiding the pockets of joy until they burst from his lips like the pop of air reaching the surface of the Nile. Ra blazed down on the gardens in all his glory; beyond the palace walls his power wrecked and ruined anything that dared cross the sands alone, but here, behind the pylons, the sun only facilitated growth and beauty in the form of green grass and wild pink and purple flowers. The heat of the day was baking the entire country like a clay oven, the searing waves rising from the ground like transparent snakes escaping the sand.
Despite the brutal burning of the akhet† sun, giggles fizzled through tight lips and snarks rang out among the three who sought to escape the unbearable heat by laying in the shade of the garden. Kemyt† nearly forgotten in his lap, Atem fingered the jagged edges of an ostracon†, the others strewn haphazardly about the grass like a shattered pot, the red ink nearly baked into the surface from the heat.
Mana pulled on a lock of Mahad’s hair in retaliation to a comment that Atem hadn’t heard, too lost in his own thoughts for that handful of seconds. “Mahaaad, you know that’s not true!”
“How am I to know your studying habits if you never perform them in the first place, Mana?”
The girl huffed, crossing her arms in a manner that was childish for her age, playing up the act to gain a reaction. “Just because you live with your nose in your scrolls every day does not mean the rest of us should suffer the same fate.”
Atem bit his lip to try and quiet the rising bubbles, but the telltale snort gave him away, and the three of them delved into a chorus of giggles and flailing limbs, much too undignified of any of their positions, and when Atem opened his eyes again, still holding onto his stomach, he saw Set.
If Ra was baking the desert in the akhet sun, Set was burning it to the ground with every step he took. Heat radiated off of Set’s shoulders, hunched and tight, as he walked, and if Atem let his mind wander, he could imagine the black footsteps trailing behind in the scorched earth. Set blazed along the courtyard path, making a right turn into the open entranceway to the north wing of the palace, linens flaring out behind him as if to create distance from anyone who would dare to come near.
“Did you see that?” Atem turned to his companions, confusion and concern battling for the primary emotion he felt under his skin. Both pairs of eyes blinked at him confused, silently asking Atem to elaborate. “Set?”
“What?” Mana looked up at him dubiously. “What about him?”
Atem pursed his lips, doubting what he had seen as he looked back at where Set had last been. The mark was too close to his spine to be feasibly self-inflicted; it was as if Set had been struck by another. If someone had done that to him…. Atem shoved that particular worst-case-scenario down, out of sight. “I think something’s wrong...”
Mahad waved off his concern, turning back to Mana and motioning her to return to the scrolls at her feet. “There’s always something wrong with him, my prince.” Mahad gave him one last long look before dismissing the subject completely. “It just depends on who he decided to pick a fight with today.”
The next day, Atem was alone in the garden, palette and pen in his lap and text resting next to him. The telltale clack of sandals slapping from sole to sand as Set stamped his way across the courtyard was enough to keep Atem’s eyes averted, lest the hot-headed young priest direct that anger onto him. He kept his eyes down on the gesso board†, trying to copy his own texts in the peace and shade of the sycamore figs, until Set had passed. He risked a glance up and caught sight of a new mark on the other shoulder in the second before Set turned the corner towards his rooms. Focus completely lost, Atem’s left hand slipped and a bright red line of ink intruded on the carefully copied symbols lining the white board. Nearly shaking with anger that was not aimed at himself, he wiped away the ruined work uncaringly with the meaty edge of his hand. He stared down at the blank palette, not daring to write down the thoughts floating around his head.
It couldn’t be coincidence that the marks were fresh and Set had had morning lessons in the temple. If Akunadin was allowing this, or worse, was the source of the marks… Atem knew there was little he could do against his uncle, the brother of Per-A’ah†, and the last thing he wanted was to somehow make the abuse worse. But if Set got the idea Atem was trying to fight his battles for him… Atem’s displeasure at that thought was strong enough for a physical reaction, and the grimace that clearly showed on his face was out of place amongst the lush foliage around him.
He might have an idea, and it might involve some royal scheming… If only to lessen the blows the best he could.
On the first day of the next decan†, Pa-neck stared down his long nose at Set as he kneeled for morning class, hands on his hips and scowling as if Set was the beetle beneath his sandal. Set just looked up at him, unimpressed.
“The prince has requested you accompany him for the day.” The priest threw a hand up to wave him away. “You are dismissed. Do not think this means you are to shirk on your own work. I expect today’s texts to be memorized by tomorrow.”
Set stayed kneeling and unmoving, merely blinking up at his teacher. The prince? What the hell had Atem done? A shoo-ing motion and a pointed “Go!” from Pa-neck spurred him into action and he gathered up his supplies like a startled animal.
He stormed out the way he came, uncaring of any politeness or courtesy expected from the nephew of Per-a’ah. After searching for the better half of the hour, he found Atem in the courtyard sitting on a window ledge, uncharacteristically awake to watch the sunrise. Set let the load he was carrying fall from his arms, purposefully creating clatter and catching Atem off guard and almost making him launch off the ledge.
“What is this business with me being your tutor?” Set let all of his frustration infuse into his words. Atem’s hackles were still raised from being surprised.
Atem rolled his eyes, and shook the tension from his shoulders, realigning his posture with that which was expected of the royal family. “I’m not going to order it, but I simply wished to make use of your expertise for the day. You are free to leave if you want.”
Set threw up his hands, gesturing wildly. “I did not ask to be your tutor; that is the magician’s job, or any of your infinite tutors given the position! I don’t have time for this.” Set raged on, pointing at Atem. “I do not have the luxury of lounging around the gardens day in and day out, being hand fed my education.”
Atem crossed his arms and cocked his head to the side, a challenge writing itself in the red specks of his gaze. Set’s eyes narrowed. "Are you saying you do not think you could handle being my tutor for the day?” he asked, purposefully ignoring the blatant jab.
"You-," Set nearly spluttered before regaining control of his tongue. "You couldn’t handle one day as my student,” he threw back, mirroring Atem by crossing his own arms.
The smile that split Atem’s face in response rivaled the morning sun, and Set did his best to ignore it. “Then it’s settled. If you think you’re up for it, meet me on the training grounds in half an hour.”
A servant handed Atem the nabut and he graciously accepted the stave, running a reverent hand over the wood. The leather at both ends was beautifully oiled and provided a grip to keep from slipping and to lower the chance of friction burns. Atem grasped one end in his right hand, and held the stick above his head. With a nod from Atem to signal he was ready, Set swung his own nabut in a lazy, easy arch. Their nabuts languidly met in their respective middles over and over again in proper form, the deep thunk of the wood resonating above the voices surrounding the two of them.
Set made eye contact and struck down towards Atem’s ribs. Atem barely blocked him in time, and was a bit quicker to block the next blow towards his shoulders, but completely missed the one aimed into his gut. Atem doubled over as he backed up, dropping the nabut and holding up one hand to signal Set to wait as he clutched his stomach with the other.
Set shook his head. “How did you miss that, Atem?”
Atem coughed, then grabbed the nabut at his feet and straightened. Atem waved his free hand flippantly. “Lucky shot. Just go again.”
Wood harshly met wood, and Set took him down in less than three strikes, pushing Atem down to his knees with the stick at his back. Set looked at him with increasing incredulity, seeing the sweat beading down Atem’s neck when Set wasn’t even breathing hard. Set backed off and stepped away. “Do you even know what you’re doing? Do I need to go over basics with you?”
Atem’s eyes narrowed, hating the way the remark stuck itself in his lungs and stoked a low flame, the smoke wafting and infusing itself in the words his lips composed. Each word burned on its way out. “Still your tongue and go again.”
Set, feeling vindictive, swiped his nabut low and caught the back of Atem’s ankle as Set’s body spun with the stick, and Atem landed hard on the sand, not expecting the contact nor the blow. The leather of Set’s nabut glared down at him, a thumb’s width from Atem’s nose.
“You bastard…” Atem groaned, closing his eyes, not moving to stand just yet as waves of pain rippled through him.
“And if this was a battlefield, you’d be dead by now, prince. Get up and go again. You’re too aware of me and not enough of my stick.”
Atem rolled over and pushed himself off the ground, rubbing at his left hip with the ghost of a smirk across his lips. “I assure you, that is not the case, priest,” he threw back the title and the lewd suggestion at Set’s expense. Set’s eyes narrowed.
Atem was barely in stance by the time Set’s stick made contact with his stomach, doubling him over, then Set’s wrists spun to the left and connected the leather to the back of Atem’s knee, sending him to the sand again. Once the flurry of dust had subsided, Atem just laid there and stared at the clear desert sky, biting his cheek to try and school his expression until the immediate pain had passed. Some of the others there to train had stopped to watch the commotion, and concerned whispers grew among them.
“I assure you, I can do this all day. And stupid jokes like that will end with you eating sand. Again.”
Atem got to his knees more slowly this time, his lips parted in a snarl, and Set mercifully let him take his stance before striking. Atem followed him, blocking the strikes but with the sacrifice of ground as Set forced him back with each one. Atem nearly missed one particularly swift uppercut strike and the force of it caused Atem to misplace his hands on the leather shaft; Set immediately took advantage, hooking the end of his stave around Atem’s wrist, pivoting high and pulling Atem’s entire body with him. The pain shot up Atem’s twisted arm and through his shoulder as the other contorted him towards the sand, forcing him to drop his own nabut as Set nearly pressed into his side. Neither of them noticed the courtyard around them had gone completely silent until a frustrated growl from Atem echoed around them.
“Have they even been teaching you?” Set asked disbelievingly, but Atem had the feeling the question wasn’t entirely meant for him as he struggled as best he could in the hold. He ground his grit teeth, and nearly sighed when Set released him, feeling flooding back into his arm.
“Obviously not enough,” Atem spat sarcastically, rubbing at his wrist.
Set took his stance, ignoring Atem’s tone. “Again.”
“I think that’s enough, young priest.” A new voice came up from behind Set, and Atem looked around him to see two of the training instructors, one nervously glancing between Atem and Set, and the other looking like he was ready to knock the latter on his ass.
Set, incensed from both the interruption and the implication, opened his mouth to speak his mind but Atem cut him off swiftly with a curt wave of the hand. The full force of Atem’s ire was directed at the man who had interrupted their training session, his linen head covering flapping in the light wind, and Atem’s arms shaking with the misplaced urge to remind the man of his place. “Do not interfere, Tjeker. Not here; not ever.”
There were so few instances of Atem having lost his temper that if you asked most of those who worked in the palace they would claim to have never seen the prince angry. There had been loud tantrums when he was younger, many frustrated tears shed, but he had never once been unkind. Now, the vehemence dripping from the young prince’s tongue caused Tjeker to take a step back, the force of it like one of the barque-tipping winds that plagued the Nile waters the closer to the cataracts. Everyone in the field would now be able to lay claim to having seen Atem stoked like a wildfire, and that knowledge kept every eye in the courtyard trained on the group in the center, afraid of making any sudden movements lest the prince turn on them next.
Without waiting for a response, Atem turned back to his sparring companion and took his position, head held high and determination swimming in his eyes. “Go again, Set,” he ordered. Set hesitated for only a moment, eyes flitting to Tjeker then back to Atem, before lifting his nabut and engaging.
This time, when Atem landed in the sand, it took a little longer for Set to put him there.
