To Bring Forth A King

I am Sobek who makes the herbage green, who causes the seeds to be productive. Nothing grows without my power. I am the breath of life, that which makes things grow. The Nile is my sweat, my skin, my seed, the silt that brings life to the land.

I am primal like Min, proud and fecund. I am the land, he the tears of Ra, and their mortal bodies. I come as a flood, retreat as a gentle lapping wave, and leave nothing behind. All life comes from me; nothing can escape me.

I made the good god Wesir green, after he had come to know death. The Throne needed an heir, and regenerative power was needed. The Lady called to me, the two good sisters called to me, and I came to the good Lord’s side, to see that death had overcome him.

It was terrifying in its majestic tragedy. The first death always causes ripples and waves, grief and confusion. The land sighed and spilled tears, withered and dry. All life knows death, all death knows life, but only the Lord of Djedu knows death’s mysteries. He is set apart, closer to those who die, set apart from the deathless ones who have been through his court.

I know death, because all things grow and die, grow and die from each other, but it is a different death. It is not Weredju’s death. My life returns, grows anew, dies and lives, changes form, cycles through the night and day, and stands transcendent above all else. My death is not final.

Weredju’s death was final, and it caused the land to grieve. The waters gave life, and took his away. The Red Lord had won, and paid a terrible price for what he had done. He is red with blood, with the desert sand, and the rift through the Two Lands lasted many years. He grew in terror, made the sky shake, and the land crumble to dust, such was his grief at what he had done.

Such is the price for the first death for the one who causes it. It was the first death, and the last death, born of love, and buried in tears. It is not a kind burden, to cause the first death, such as it is not a kind burden to be the first to die. Life is precious, and death a comfort, and a terror, for those who face it.

And yet, life stagnates without them, and the pain a necessary price for continued creation. Without movement, without cycles, there is no life, no ma’at, only isfet and chaos.

And yet, Weredju brought forth life, as we all must do. I made the cycles continue, brought forth fertile seed from the cold, dead ground, and created life anew with the two Ladies.

Heru, he who is above, came froth from the dead Lord, created to soar above the two lands, to see all that is, and will be. He who soars above his father to watch over him and defend him. He who is ever watchful, the strong King, champion of the Two Lands. He came forth from Weredju, from the Throne, from her sister, and I, forged from the cradle of death to shine a new light for the Kingdom.

I brought forth the dead Lord’s seed and made life, gave him breath, filled his nostrils, and formed his body from my fertile silt. I gave him sharp eyes, and strong wings, and fierce claws, armed to protect and defend. Wings which, like his mother, will breathe life into the lands, into the dying ground, to bring forth seed once more.

Heru came forth in darkness, a small feeble light unable to fight the darkness away. The first sliver of moon after the dark moon brings hope, and Heru brought hope. As the moon waxes and grows, so Heru would grow and mature, hidden away as the moon eclipses the sun, until he could take back what was his, and save the kingdom, and the Red Lord, from each other, to bring forth peace and life, to the lands. He would come as the inundation, as the flooding Nile nurtures the dry, thirsty ground, giving life and bringing succour, and the chance to start again.

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