October 23rd, 2285 – Top Floor Suite, Amway Grand Plaza Hotel
Anubis stood in silence, gazing out over the Grand Rapids skyline from the high windows of the Divine Suite. The city slept beneath him in the dim hours, and on the far edge of the world the first pale breath of dawn began to stir. He was clad in a robe of utter black, without sigil or ornament, and over his face hung a mourning veil that turned his eyes to shadow.
His mind was as it always was on this day, the day mortals named the Great War, and which the Enclave now called Remembrance Dawn. Of all days, this day pressed most heavily upon him. Two centuries had passed, yet the ache remained, deep in the marrow of his soul. He still felt the weight of the multitude who crossed over—not only in the instant the fire rained down, but in the long, unending procession that followed. No war, no genocide, no plague that had ever scarred the earth bore even a pale reflection of it.
He closed his eyes, and the memory rose like a tide. He saw again the surge, the lines unending, souls stretched beyond sight awaiting judgment and passage. Neither he nor any of the other gods of death and reckoning had been ready.
And yet the signs had been plain to those with eyes to see. The pantheons whispered of it in their councils. Through the veil they beheld the gathering storm. For already the riders had gone forth:
Famine, gaunt and hollow-eyed, had taken his horse.
Pestilence rode after, veiling the earth in sickness.
War thundered upon them, bearing sword and fire.
And Death waited, still and silent, until at last he mounted.
And when he rode, he rode wide, and his scythe swept far.
“And Hell followed with him…” he murmured, voice low as if speaking only to the dawn. His mind drifted back to that terrible moment when all the gods bore witness to Death’s descent.
The veil had torn that day, a rending so deep the heavens themselves shuddered. Not since the moment of Christ’s death upon the cross had the veil trembled even slightly, not since that holy fracture when the earth groaned and graves yawned open. But this was a sundering beyond reckoning.
Hundreds of fission suns bloomed in the span of mere breaths, and with them came a flood of souls beyond counting. The weight of that passage shook the firmament, a surge so great it left scars upon creation itself.
Even now, after centuries, there were places where those wounds had not closed. Cities that bled shadows. Lands where whispers clung to the wind and the soil remembered fire: Detroit, the Capital Wasteland, Los Angeles, and others besides.
They were places where the divine dared not linger, not for want of will but because the wound itself still breathed.
A sudden change in the room’s atmosphere broke him from his quiet contemplation. He didn’t have to turn his head to know who had joined him in his vigil.
“Ma’at…” he murmured as her presence settled around him. “You know I don’t wish to be disturbed on this day.”
He turned his head slightly, just enough to regard the other jackal divine, her fur a radiant white in stark contrast to his onyx black. She wore a simple black linen robe, a single golden pin gleaming on her right shoulder, etched with weighted scales and a feather above them.
“You always shut yourself away like this,” she said softly, a hint of chiding affection in her tone. “It wouldn’t hurt you, brother, to stand with them just once, at one of the remembrance services.”
She moved to stand beside him without a sound, and together they watched as the first rays of light spilled over the horizon, gold and purple hues unfurling across the clouds, a quiet benediction reserved for mornings such as this.
That tone…
He knew it well; knew when she spoke not as a divine avatar but as the sister she had been in mortal life, long before they were chosen to bear the mantles of the gods themselves.
“This day,” he began, his voice low and rough around the edges. “It always weighs heaviest on me. So many judged; I still see every one of their faces. So many lost, so many confused, not even knowing how they had come to stand before me.”
His shoulders tightened, breath catching as he forced himself to keep his gaze on the horizon. “I… don’t want those who follow us now to see me like this.”
His words trembled on the edge of an emotional collapse, a voice straining to keep its stoic mask in place even as the cracks began to show.
Suddenly, he felt her hand slip into his, warm and steady against his own.
“Then,” she began softly, “let them see the man who was, before the mantle ever found him. Let them see Caleb Locke.”
Her words carried no edge, no judgment, only the quiet strength of the sister she had once been. For a moment, Ma’at’s divine cadence fell away, and it was Evelyn who stood beside him.
“Let them see,” she continued, voice low and sure, “that even the divine may weep for the memory of lives snuffed out by a cruel prank played upon the universe.”
He couldn’t reply. The words caught in his throat as hers struck a place within him he had long kept buried, the part of him that had once been simply Caleb Locke, standing in stunned disbelief when the news reached their Enclave cell that the world above had ended. Even as mortals they had felt it: that shift in the air, the sense that something vast and sacred had been torn apart.
He felt the veil slip from his head and realized only then that tears had begun to gather at the corners of his golden eyes. Her hands came to rest gently on either side of his head, steady and sure, drawing him closer until his brow touched hers.
And then the tears came in earnest, silent at first, then shaking sobs breaking free as two centuries of grief poured out. They traced down the sharp planes of his jackal visage, falling unheeded as he mourned for all of mankind, for all the souls he had carried in silence.
Ma’at’s, no, Evelyn’s, hands moved gently along his cheeks, stroking away the tears as they dampened his fur.
“I don’t think I’ve seen you cry like this since we became vessels,” she whispered, her voice a balm. “In fact, I don’t think I’ve seen you cry at all since our last Christmas as Evelyn and Caleb.”
He drew in a shuddering breath, her touch steadying him as she tilted his face up to meet her gaze.
“It’s… it’s all so overwhelming,” he managed, voice raw. “The weight of memory. The weight of duty. All because Loki felt he had to make a point.” The name left him like venom, sharp and bitter.
“And,” she said softly, easing him toward a nearby sofa, “they would not have chosen us if we had not been worthy in their eyes, or capable.”
“I feel the weight of judgment every day, same as you,” she continued, her tone lightening just enough to bring him back from the edge. A faint smile curved her jackal muzzle. “And at least you have the benefit of souls not being able to lie to you.”
A surprised, weary chuckle slipped from him. “True,” he admitted, letting out a long, heavy sigh. The simple quip, so like Evelyn, was enough to steady him, to draw him back to something resembling calm.
She turned her gaze back to the window. By now the morning sun bathed the city in warm light, the streets below beginning to stir. Even from their lofty perch, they could see civilians moving through the avenues, dressed in mourning black, drawn toward the day’s services.
“They always wonder where you are on this day,” she said softly, eyes still on the gathering below. “Even the priests of your temple.”
“I… still don’t want them to see me,” he murmured, voice low. “Not on my most vulnerable of days.”
She reached over, her fingers wrapping gently around his hand, her touch both anchor and comfort.
“Then,” she whispered, that soft, familiar warmth only a sister could give, “let’s spend it together. Remember them together. That way, you don’t have to bear the burden of memory alone.”
He only nodded in reply, falling silent once more. Together they stood at the window, watching the city and the rolling hills beyond. Autumn had laid its hand across the land, and the trees blazed with reds, golds, and deep umbers, brilliant colors only this season could bring.
After a long, peaceful moment, he spoke again, his voice hushed.
“I don’t think anywhere else in the world ever looked quite this beautiful at this time of year,” he said softly. “There’s something about this part of the world you just can’t find anywhere else.”
She nodded, her eyes still on the distant hills.
“I brought something,” she said after a pause, a faint note of mischief in her tone. “Something I’ve been saving, but could never quite find the right time for.”
His brow lifted slightly, ears angling with curiosity. “Oh?” he asked, tilting his head just so.
A moment later she produced a bottle, dusty dark glass catching the morning light, a very old red wine.
“I smuggled this into the bunkers when we were first sequestered,” she admitted, a soft grin tugging at her lips. “I had a feeling we’d be down there for a very long time. But I never found the right moment for it. Until now.”
“You know,” he began, his tone dry, a hint of amusement edging into his grief, “for a goddess of divine justice, you do seem to take a certain pleasure in breaking the rules.”
Her grin deepened, eyes glinting with familiar warmth.
“Only in certain cases,” she teased, “and really, who’s going to be upset with me about this? You?”
A quiet laugh slipped from him then, small but real.
She slipped away to the kitchen and returned a moment later with two chalices and a corkscrew in hand.
“This is an old vintage,” she said as she set them down, her tone gentle but touched with a hint of nostalgia. “The year the bombs fell, if I recall correctly. Not the fanciest bottle on the rack at the time, but cheap enough, for those days at least.”
“2077,” he read aloud, brushing his thumb over the weathered label. “A tricentennial bottling.” His voice softened further as memory stirred. “I think I remember the winery. It was local, trying to keep the spirit of the country alive in those dark times.”
She took the bottle from his hands, working the cork free with practiced ease. The soft pop seemed to echo faintly in the quiet room. With care, she poured a deep red into each chalice and handed one to him.
He raised the cup to his nose, letting the aroma rise. “It smells of history and memory,” he murmured.
She nodded, lifting her own chalice. “A toast,” she said softly, her voice steady. “To the memory of those who have passed on, and to the future that lies ahead.”
“To memory,” he echoed, meeting her gaze. Together, they tipped their glasses back.
The wine was dark and full, a perfect balance of bittersweet, a taste of loss and life intertwined.
They let the moment settle between them, the taste of the wine and the warmth of the sun mingling with the silence. At last, she spoke again.
“Lucien is back from deployment,” she said softly, her eyes still on the horizon. “I think you should meet with him. His time out there has left him troubled; he carries his own shadows, his own weights. I’ve spoken with him, but…” Her voice faltered just slightly, touched by a mother’s ache. “I fear there is only so much I can do for him.”
He turned to her, meeting her gaze for a few quiet breaths before nodding. “I’ll speak with the lad,” he murmured. “Gods know, it might be good for me too.”
And so they sat, letting the city wake below them. They sat not as the chosen avatars of gods, not as judge or keeper, but as Caleb and Evelyn Locke, brother and sister, sharing a morning of remembrance.
Together, they held the silence.
Together, they held the memory.
And together, they kept the light of the past alive, even as the day moved gently on.