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Israel was in turmoil and Hazael couldn’t believe that he was caught in the middle of all of it.
He was convinced that he was just unlucky, given how he kept managing to run across a vast majority of flare-ups of unrest in the city. For the few, he didn’t manage to stumble across on his own? His brother Tiras was sure to be there instead; inciting the peaceful citizens of Judea towards violence against their unwelcome guests. So, the cowardly Israeli was more than aware of the trouble that was plaguing the place that he called home and how the tension was steadily growing between the two groups of people. It was clear that things were going to boil over, but he wasn’t sure when or where that final lit match would strike. He could only pray that he wouldn’t be caught up in the chaos when the pressure cooker that was xenophobic Israel finally did explode.
However, life still needed to go on. As much as Hazael would have liked to hide in the relative safety of his kennels, home or his father’s store; he still needed to head out into the city. He would just have to accept the risk that he might run into the skirmishes forming throughout the city and do his best not to get himself caught up in another one.
This didn’t mean that the boy was not taking precautions though.
Much to his father’s chagrin, Hazael refused to leave the safety of their family’s home without his loyal hound Bracha by his side. Avriam thought that the actions of his son were foolish as the golden Saluki offered absolutely nothing in terms of intimidation or protection, but the older man didn’t know the worth that the canine had to his son. Hazael needed Bracha at his side if he wanted to stand a chance of escaping any sort of impromptu riot that he could run into on the streets of Israel. After all, he literally could not see without her. Not with his god-awful eyesight and lack of promised improvement from the drops that the Greecian had given him in exchange for his deerhound those few short months ago. His vision was so blurry that he was practically blind. It made it far too dangerous for him to get swept up into the turmoil of Israel without someone by his side and there was no one he trusted more in this world than the dog he had hand-reared and considered the one shining light in his world of political unrest and belittlement at the hands of his family.
This need for him to have his hound at his side was at play when his mother, Levana, sent her boy out to the family’s store in search of several ingredients that the women needed for that evening’s meal. Hazael was not keen on heading out on his own, but it was safer to send him instead of his mothers or sisters. People were more likely to leave him alone, especially if he had Bracha by his side. So, he made his way through the winding city streets, quickly moving along the shortest route so he could spend the least amount of time possible away from home. That was the idea anyway, but things could never be that simple, could they?
As Hazael made his way to the area where his father’s shop was located, making sure multiple times that the key was safely tucked away in his pocket, he could start to see the signs that there was trouble was lurking. Having grown somewhat used to the chaos that infested in his city; he knew right away from the sight of the empty streets that something was happening. It also didn’t hurt that Hazael’s disability forced him to be more reliant on his hearing, making it sharper than most. He could hear the distant shouts and cries that signaled a small mob had formed nearby. Bracha whined at the noise, uneasy with the violence that Hazael guessed was only a few blocks away.
Drawing the leash tight, Hazael tried to hurry through the streets towards his destination where he could take shelter if the crowd turned to the streets where he was. However, that plan came to a grinding halt when Bracha’s signature maternal instincts took over and rushed forward. The sheer force of the action forced Hazael to drop the leash and watch helplessly as his dog rushed down a block that was close to the mob, barking all the way. “ Bracha!” The boy called in a panic, fully aware of how in danger he was with his canine no longer at his side.
He took off after the dog, using her barks to guide him through the blobs of colors that he knew to be houses and abandoned market stalls. He moved slowly, trying his best not to trip. Luckily for him, there were not too many obstacles in his way and Bracha didn’t seem to have wandered too far. In fact, he could almost make out the sandy gold that he associated with the creature at the end of the street, leaping up onto a white blob. As Hazael approached the pair, he could see that Bracha had found a man who was leaning against a stall.
“ Bracha! Come here!” He said sternly to the beast, not understanding why his dog would break away to just bother a man, especially given how tense the canine had been. “ I am so sorry sir, I don’t know what’s gotten into h-” He started to say apologetically, but Hazael’s voice died in his throat when he saw the bright bloom of crimson on the man’s outfit, right around his leg. All the color drained from his face as he realized that the man was badly injured, probably from the mob just a few streets over.
“ Yahweh have mercy, are you alright?” He asked out of sheer astonishment, even though the answer was clear to see. The stranger needed help and the principles that Hazael had been raised with forbade him from not trying to help. “ My father… he has a shop nearby. There are supplies there. Let me…” He practically stammered out, clearly flustered by the situation at hand. After gathering Bracha’s leash and wrapping it tightly around his hand, he reached out for the much older man so that he might lean his weight onto Hazael for support.
Together, the men hobbled back through the street and through the short distance to Avriam’s store. Once there, Hazael shakingly opened the door with the key in his pocket and ushered the man inside to a chair that he might finally rest in. Only when Hazael had made sure to lock the door behind him did he go back to the man and moved to look at the bloody mess that was the stranger’s leg, “ May I?” He asked as he lifted the fabric somewhat to expose the injury. However, the sheer sight of the mess was enough to force Hazael to draw his breath inward for a moment as he breathed in a gasp, “ What in Yahweh’s name happened…”
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
Badges
Deleted
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Israel was in turmoil and Hazael couldn’t believe that he was caught in the middle of all of it.
He was convinced that he was just unlucky, given how he kept managing to run across a vast majority of flare-ups of unrest in the city. For the few, he didn’t manage to stumble across on his own? His brother Tiras was sure to be there instead; inciting the peaceful citizens of Judea towards violence against their unwelcome guests. So, the cowardly Israeli was more than aware of the trouble that was plaguing the place that he called home and how the tension was steadily growing between the two groups of people. It was clear that things were going to boil over, but he wasn’t sure when or where that final lit match would strike. He could only pray that he wouldn’t be caught up in the chaos when the pressure cooker that was xenophobic Israel finally did explode.
However, life still needed to go on. As much as Hazael would have liked to hide in the relative safety of his kennels, home or his father’s store; he still needed to head out into the city. He would just have to accept the risk that he might run into the skirmishes forming throughout the city and do his best not to get himself caught up in another one.
This didn’t mean that the boy was not taking precautions though.
Much to his father’s chagrin, Hazael refused to leave the safety of their family’s home without his loyal hound Bracha by his side. Avriam thought that the actions of his son were foolish as the golden Saluki offered absolutely nothing in terms of intimidation or protection, but the older man didn’t know the worth that the canine had to his son. Hazael needed Bracha at his side if he wanted to stand a chance of escaping any sort of impromptu riot that he could run into on the streets of Israel. After all, he literally could not see without her. Not with his god-awful eyesight and lack of promised improvement from the drops that the Greecian had given him in exchange for his deerhound those few short months ago. His vision was so blurry that he was practically blind. It made it far too dangerous for him to get swept up into the turmoil of Israel without someone by his side and there was no one he trusted more in this world than the dog he had hand-reared and considered the one shining light in his world of political unrest and belittlement at the hands of his family.
This need for him to have his hound at his side was at play when his mother, Levana, sent her boy out to the family’s store in search of several ingredients that the women needed for that evening’s meal. Hazael was not keen on heading out on his own, but it was safer to send him instead of his mothers or sisters. People were more likely to leave him alone, especially if he had Bracha by his side. So, he made his way through the winding city streets, quickly moving along the shortest route so he could spend the least amount of time possible away from home. That was the idea anyway, but things could never be that simple, could they?
As Hazael made his way to the area where his father’s shop was located, making sure multiple times that the key was safely tucked away in his pocket, he could start to see the signs that there was trouble was lurking. Having grown somewhat used to the chaos that infested in his city; he knew right away from the sight of the empty streets that something was happening. It also didn’t hurt that Hazael’s disability forced him to be more reliant on his hearing, making it sharper than most. He could hear the distant shouts and cries that signaled a small mob had formed nearby. Bracha whined at the noise, uneasy with the violence that Hazael guessed was only a few blocks away.
Drawing the leash tight, Hazael tried to hurry through the streets towards his destination where he could take shelter if the crowd turned to the streets where he was. However, that plan came to a grinding halt when Bracha’s signature maternal instincts took over and rushed forward. The sheer force of the action forced Hazael to drop the leash and watch helplessly as his dog rushed down a block that was close to the mob, barking all the way. “ Bracha!” The boy called in a panic, fully aware of how in danger he was with his canine no longer at his side.
He took off after the dog, using her barks to guide him through the blobs of colors that he knew to be houses and abandoned market stalls. He moved slowly, trying his best not to trip. Luckily for him, there were not too many obstacles in his way and Bracha didn’t seem to have wandered too far. In fact, he could almost make out the sandy gold that he associated with the creature at the end of the street, leaping up onto a white blob. As Hazael approached the pair, he could see that Bracha had found a man who was leaning against a stall.
“ Bracha! Come here!” He said sternly to the beast, not understanding why his dog would break away to just bother a man, especially given how tense the canine had been. “ I am so sorry sir, I don’t know what’s gotten into h-” He started to say apologetically, but Hazael’s voice died in his throat when he saw the bright bloom of crimson on the man’s outfit, right around his leg. All the color drained from his face as he realized that the man was badly injured, probably from the mob just a few streets over.
“ Yahweh have mercy, are you alright?” He asked out of sheer astonishment, even though the answer was clear to see. The stranger needed help and the principles that Hazael had been raised with forbade him from not trying to help. “ My father… he has a shop nearby. There are supplies there. Let me…” He practically stammered out, clearly flustered by the situation at hand. After gathering Bracha’s leash and wrapping it tightly around his hand, he reached out for the much older man so that he might lean his weight onto Hazael for support.
Together, the men hobbled back through the street and through the short distance to Avriam’s store. Once there, Hazael shakingly opened the door with the key in his pocket and ushered the man inside to a chair that he might finally rest in. Only when Hazael had made sure to lock the door behind him did he go back to the man and moved to look at the bloody mess that was the stranger’s leg, “ May I?” He asked as he lifted the fabric somewhat to expose the injury. However, the sheer sight of the mess was enough to force Hazael to draw his breath inward for a moment as he breathed in a gasp, “ What in Yahweh’s name happened…”
Israel was in turmoil and Hazael couldn’t believe that he was caught in the middle of all of it.
He was convinced that he was just unlucky, given how he kept managing to run across a vast majority of flare-ups of unrest in the city. For the few, he didn’t manage to stumble across on his own? His brother Tiras was sure to be there instead; inciting the peaceful citizens of Judea towards violence against their unwelcome guests. So, the cowardly Israeli was more than aware of the trouble that was plaguing the place that he called home and how the tension was steadily growing between the two groups of people. It was clear that things were going to boil over, but he wasn’t sure when or where that final lit match would strike. He could only pray that he wouldn’t be caught up in the chaos when the pressure cooker that was xenophobic Israel finally did explode.
However, life still needed to go on. As much as Hazael would have liked to hide in the relative safety of his kennels, home or his father’s store; he still needed to head out into the city. He would just have to accept the risk that he might run into the skirmishes forming throughout the city and do his best not to get himself caught up in another one.
This didn’t mean that the boy was not taking precautions though.
Much to his father’s chagrin, Hazael refused to leave the safety of their family’s home without his loyal hound Bracha by his side. Avriam thought that the actions of his son were foolish as the golden Saluki offered absolutely nothing in terms of intimidation or protection, but the older man didn’t know the worth that the canine had to his son. Hazael needed Bracha at his side if he wanted to stand a chance of escaping any sort of impromptu riot that he could run into on the streets of Israel. After all, he literally could not see without her. Not with his god-awful eyesight and lack of promised improvement from the drops that the Greecian had given him in exchange for his deerhound those few short months ago. His vision was so blurry that he was practically blind. It made it far too dangerous for him to get swept up into the turmoil of Israel without someone by his side and there was no one he trusted more in this world than the dog he had hand-reared and considered the one shining light in his world of political unrest and belittlement at the hands of his family.
This need for him to have his hound at his side was at play when his mother, Levana, sent her boy out to the family’s store in search of several ingredients that the women needed for that evening’s meal. Hazael was not keen on heading out on his own, but it was safer to send him instead of his mothers or sisters. People were more likely to leave him alone, especially if he had Bracha by his side. So, he made his way through the winding city streets, quickly moving along the shortest route so he could spend the least amount of time possible away from home. That was the idea anyway, but things could never be that simple, could they?
As Hazael made his way to the area where his father’s shop was located, making sure multiple times that the key was safely tucked away in his pocket, he could start to see the signs that there was trouble was lurking. Having grown somewhat used to the chaos that infested in his city; he knew right away from the sight of the empty streets that something was happening. It also didn’t hurt that Hazael’s disability forced him to be more reliant on his hearing, making it sharper than most. He could hear the distant shouts and cries that signaled a small mob had formed nearby. Bracha whined at the noise, uneasy with the violence that Hazael guessed was only a few blocks away.
Drawing the leash tight, Hazael tried to hurry through the streets towards his destination where he could take shelter if the crowd turned to the streets where he was. However, that plan came to a grinding halt when Bracha’s signature maternal instincts took over and rushed forward. The sheer force of the action forced Hazael to drop the leash and watch helplessly as his dog rushed down a block that was close to the mob, barking all the way. “ Bracha!” The boy called in a panic, fully aware of how in danger he was with his canine no longer at his side.
He took off after the dog, using her barks to guide him through the blobs of colors that he knew to be houses and abandoned market stalls. He moved slowly, trying his best not to trip. Luckily for him, there were not too many obstacles in his way and Bracha didn’t seem to have wandered too far. In fact, he could almost make out the sandy gold that he associated with the creature at the end of the street, leaping up onto a white blob. As Hazael approached the pair, he could see that Bracha had found a man who was leaning against a stall.
“ Bracha! Come here!” He said sternly to the beast, not understanding why his dog would break away to just bother a man, especially given how tense the canine had been. “ I am so sorry sir, I don’t know what’s gotten into h-” He started to say apologetically, but Hazael’s voice died in his throat when he saw the bright bloom of crimson on the man’s outfit, right around his leg. All the color drained from his face as he realized that the man was badly injured, probably from the mob just a few streets over.
“ Yahweh have mercy, are you alright?” He asked out of sheer astonishment, even though the answer was clear to see. The stranger needed help and the principles that Hazael had been raised with forbade him from not trying to help. “ My father… he has a shop nearby. There are supplies there. Let me…” He practically stammered out, clearly flustered by the situation at hand. After gathering Bracha’s leash and wrapping it tightly around his hand, he reached out for the much older man so that he might lean his weight onto Hazael for support.
Together, the men hobbled back through the street and through the short distance to Avriam’s store. Once there, Hazael shakingly opened the door with the key in his pocket and ushered the man inside to a chair that he might finally rest in. Only when Hazael had made sure to lock the door behind him did he go back to the man and moved to look at the bloody mess that was the stranger’s leg, “ May I?” He asked as he lifted the fabric somewhat to expose the injury. However, the sheer sight of the mess was enough to force Hazael to draw his breath inward for a moment as he breathed in a gasp, “ What in Yahweh’s name happened…”
By the gods, Zoser hated Israel.
Judea, as a whole, he could tolerate. His time in Damascus, while in the company of Councilman Amiti and his family, had proven to soften his view of the entire kingdom, despite the lingering anti-foreign thread that seemed to weave every conversation together. The only thing they seemed to dislike more than the Egyptians were the Greeks, which also stung in its own silent way for Zoser, particularly since the seemingly only kind person he had enjoyed speaking with during his stay was a Grecian slave woman on the first day of arriving in the land.
Now, though, his blanket statement of hatred towards Israel was amplified by the increasing tensions. A frightened populace managed to lash out like a cornered animal at any moment, and much like animals, often did so without thinking.
Of all the cursed things in the world, the ship that he had been trying to take away from Judea had been delayed on its voyage in and required a few extra days to ready itself for departure back to Alexandria. Zoser could have screamed. One more day in this city was going to be the death of him, he was certain. He had even considered trying to venture a few days ride away to another province, hoping for a bit of relief, but even for him, that seemed too drastic.
Instead, he returned to a boarding house that seemed to be a bit kinder to the foreign merchants who came and went through the city, yet he made the horrid mistake of daring to venture out of his rooms to simply gain some air. No sooner had he made his way down the street, passing by some vendors who glared, did a shouted Judean accusation ring through the air as someone pointed towards him.
Were they accusing him of stealing? Or simply existing?
Did they recognize him from the issue with the hand weeks before?
Showing his hands to prove that he had done nothing wrong and attempting to say so in their own language only seemed to provoke them further. Wild-eyed Israelites began to shout at him. His own protestations were drowned out as he tried to back away, his own wash of concern and fear in his eyes as in doing so, he knocked down a rather small, demure woman behind him.
It was then that a number of blows began to rain upon him - after all, he had just assaulted a woman like a heathen, barbaric Egyptian sand rat would. At least, those were the words he caught in the situation.
He was not certain how it happened but he began to bolt away, shoving through the crowd and only angering them further when something sharp caught at his leg, the ripping of his skin unmistakable as he cried out in pain. In his fall, he managed to grab hold of a stack of food crates, using his limited upper body strength to heave and upend them, sending a shock through the crowd as what he could only guess were some kind of melon tumble forward like stones down a hill. It created a barrier and with the adrenaline rush of fear through him, he pressed forward down a winding street as fast as his long legs could carry him.
It took several corners that he turned before the shouts of the crowd were even more diluted and the loudest sound was the ringing of the blood rushing through his ears and his own heavy breathing. Zoser was not an athlete, the only prowess in his form being gods-given by the Moghadam blood in his veins. That same blood which was now spilling down his leg.
His running had been more of a swift limp, and the moment he turned a corner he all but crashed into the post of another vendor stand, and he made the horrifying mistake of looking down at his leg. Bile crept up into his throat as he saw it, his eyes wide and dilated with fear and shock at the sight. Only once he saw it did the pain in his thigh really begin to register, as he took a shaking hand to lift the edge of his kilt and see the unsettling shock of pink flesh beneath his brown skin, doused in red blood like the juice of a pomegranate flowing down his leg.
"Fuck...fuck fuck..." he murmured, among other curses as he could hardly peel his eyes away from the sight. Never before had he sustained such an injury, and he was shaken significantly by the sight. Worse than that fear was the sound of a dog's barking approach, making a beeline for him.
By the gods, instead of being nearly killed by a mob, he was going to die by being mauled by a random, blood-thirsty dog in the streets of Israel.
Fuck.
"Down! Down! AWAY, YOU DAMNED CURR!" Zoser all but yelled in panicked Coptic, trying to cling to the post to keep himself upright as a shot of stinging pain in his leg nearly sent him reeling back.
To make matters worse, he glanced up to find a man running towards him, shouting words he did not understand for a moment in all his panic.
His chest heaving at his loss of breath and his eyes wide in apprehension and horror, Zoser all but flailed an arm at the man's initial approach, his mind taking a moment to register the words the man was saying. Help? He was helping? That...didn't seem right. Not in Israel.
It took a moment for him to realize the truth of it though, for the younger man's words to settle. His expression seemed genuine, which only had Zoser even more doubtful of the entire situation. Not even the scholars in Damascus had offered him such a similar courtesy.
Every step of the way as he hobbled alongside the man, Zoser kept glancing over his shoulder, like the wounded prey he felt he had become, until they reached the doorway of a shop. Once inside, Zoser all but heaved himself into the chair, head lolling back and eyes clenching shut as he tried to catch his breath, the pain in his leg becoming ever apparent with each exhale, feeling the pulse around it.
He was lightheaded, though whether from the loss of blood, or the lack of air in his lungs, or from the fear of a near death experience, he did not know. Still, he took a moment to gasp a few panting breaths with his eyes screwed shut before they flung open as the man approached again.
Zoser's eyes flicked around the room, trying to comprehend his surroundings, and he looked again apprehensively at the dog that paced around the room as well. Once the young man knelt, Zoser stiffened but nodded as the man lifted the kilt of his leg, also hissing as the fabric peeled away from the widened gash. He felt he was going to be sick, but swallowed hard to try to respond to the man's words.
"The people are angry," he said, his words a bit of a croak with his accented and limited Hebrew, "I did not do anything, but they attacked. I did not do anything. Someone fell and they...." Zoser lacked the other words to describe the rest of the scenario, but made generalized gestures of anger, with gripping hands and slicing motions through the air. Gesturing down to his leg, he added, "I do not know what it was."
Taking a free hand, he wiped the cold sweat from his brow and away from his eyes a moment before glancing down at the young man, now nervous about his purpose behind this, "Healer?"
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
Badges
Deleted
Deleted
By the gods, Zoser hated Israel.
Judea, as a whole, he could tolerate. His time in Damascus, while in the company of Councilman Amiti and his family, had proven to soften his view of the entire kingdom, despite the lingering anti-foreign thread that seemed to weave every conversation together. The only thing they seemed to dislike more than the Egyptians were the Greeks, which also stung in its own silent way for Zoser, particularly since the seemingly only kind person he had enjoyed speaking with during his stay was a Grecian slave woman on the first day of arriving in the land.
Now, though, his blanket statement of hatred towards Israel was amplified by the increasing tensions. A frightened populace managed to lash out like a cornered animal at any moment, and much like animals, often did so without thinking.
Of all the cursed things in the world, the ship that he had been trying to take away from Judea had been delayed on its voyage in and required a few extra days to ready itself for departure back to Alexandria. Zoser could have screamed. One more day in this city was going to be the death of him, he was certain. He had even considered trying to venture a few days ride away to another province, hoping for a bit of relief, but even for him, that seemed too drastic.
Instead, he returned to a boarding house that seemed to be a bit kinder to the foreign merchants who came and went through the city, yet he made the horrid mistake of daring to venture out of his rooms to simply gain some air. No sooner had he made his way down the street, passing by some vendors who glared, did a shouted Judean accusation ring through the air as someone pointed towards him.
Were they accusing him of stealing? Or simply existing?
Did they recognize him from the issue with the hand weeks before?
Showing his hands to prove that he had done nothing wrong and attempting to say so in their own language only seemed to provoke them further. Wild-eyed Israelites began to shout at him. His own protestations were drowned out as he tried to back away, his own wash of concern and fear in his eyes as in doing so, he knocked down a rather small, demure woman behind him.
It was then that a number of blows began to rain upon him - after all, he had just assaulted a woman like a heathen, barbaric Egyptian sand rat would. At least, those were the words he caught in the situation.
He was not certain how it happened but he began to bolt away, shoving through the crowd and only angering them further when something sharp caught at his leg, the ripping of his skin unmistakable as he cried out in pain. In his fall, he managed to grab hold of a stack of food crates, using his limited upper body strength to heave and upend them, sending a shock through the crowd as what he could only guess were some kind of melon tumble forward like stones down a hill. It created a barrier and with the adrenaline rush of fear through him, he pressed forward down a winding street as fast as his long legs could carry him.
It took several corners that he turned before the shouts of the crowd were even more diluted and the loudest sound was the ringing of the blood rushing through his ears and his own heavy breathing. Zoser was not an athlete, the only prowess in his form being gods-given by the Moghadam blood in his veins. That same blood which was now spilling down his leg.
His running had been more of a swift limp, and the moment he turned a corner he all but crashed into the post of another vendor stand, and he made the horrifying mistake of looking down at his leg. Bile crept up into his throat as he saw it, his eyes wide and dilated with fear and shock at the sight. Only once he saw it did the pain in his thigh really begin to register, as he took a shaking hand to lift the edge of his kilt and see the unsettling shock of pink flesh beneath his brown skin, doused in red blood like the juice of a pomegranate flowing down his leg.
"Fuck...fuck fuck..." he murmured, among other curses as he could hardly peel his eyes away from the sight. Never before had he sustained such an injury, and he was shaken significantly by the sight. Worse than that fear was the sound of a dog's barking approach, making a beeline for him.
By the gods, instead of being nearly killed by a mob, he was going to die by being mauled by a random, blood-thirsty dog in the streets of Israel.
Fuck.
"Down! Down! AWAY, YOU DAMNED CURR!" Zoser all but yelled in panicked Coptic, trying to cling to the post to keep himself upright as a shot of stinging pain in his leg nearly sent him reeling back.
To make matters worse, he glanced up to find a man running towards him, shouting words he did not understand for a moment in all his panic.
His chest heaving at his loss of breath and his eyes wide in apprehension and horror, Zoser all but flailed an arm at the man's initial approach, his mind taking a moment to register the words the man was saying. Help? He was helping? That...didn't seem right. Not in Israel.
It took a moment for him to realize the truth of it though, for the younger man's words to settle. His expression seemed genuine, which only had Zoser even more doubtful of the entire situation. Not even the scholars in Damascus had offered him such a similar courtesy.
Every step of the way as he hobbled alongside the man, Zoser kept glancing over his shoulder, like the wounded prey he felt he had become, until they reached the doorway of a shop. Once inside, Zoser all but heaved himself into the chair, head lolling back and eyes clenching shut as he tried to catch his breath, the pain in his leg becoming ever apparent with each exhale, feeling the pulse around it.
He was lightheaded, though whether from the loss of blood, or the lack of air in his lungs, or from the fear of a near death experience, he did not know. Still, he took a moment to gasp a few panting breaths with his eyes screwed shut before they flung open as the man approached again.
Zoser's eyes flicked around the room, trying to comprehend his surroundings, and he looked again apprehensively at the dog that paced around the room as well. Once the young man knelt, Zoser stiffened but nodded as the man lifted the kilt of his leg, also hissing as the fabric peeled away from the widened gash. He felt he was going to be sick, but swallowed hard to try to respond to the man's words.
"The people are angry," he said, his words a bit of a croak with his accented and limited Hebrew, "I did not do anything, but they attacked. I did not do anything. Someone fell and they...." Zoser lacked the other words to describe the rest of the scenario, but made generalized gestures of anger, with gripping hands and slicing motions through the air. Gesturing down to his leg, he added, "I do not know what it was."
Taking a free hand, he wiped the cold sweat from his brow and away from his eyes a moment before glancing down at the young man, now nervous about his purpose behind this, "Healer?"
By the gods, Zoser hated Israel.
Judea, as a whole, he could tolerate. His time in Damascus, while in the company of Councilman Amiti and his family, had proven to soften his view of the entire kingdom, despite the lingering anti-foreign thread that seemed to weave every conversation together. The only thing they seemed to dislike more than the Egyptians were the Greeks, which also stung in its own silent way for Zoser, particularly since the seemingly only kind person he had enjoyed speaking with during his stay was a Grecian slave woman on the first day of arriving in the land.
Now, though, his blanket statement of hatred towards Israel was amplified by the increasing tensions. A frightened populace managed to lash out like a cornered animal at any moment, and much like animals, often did so without thinking.
Of all the cursed things in the world, the ship that he had been trying to take away from Judea had been delayed on its voyage in and required a few extra days to ready itself for departure back to Alexandria. Zoser could have screamed. One more day in this city was going to be the death of him, he was certain. He had even considered trying to venture a few days ride away to another province, hoping for a bit of relief, but even for him, that seemed too drastic.
Instead, he returned to a boarding house that seemed to be a bit kinder to the foreign merchants who came and went through the city, yet he made the horrid mistake of daring to venture out of his rooms to simply gain some air. No sooner had he made his way down the street, passing by some vendors who glared, did a shouted Judean accusation ring through the air as someone pointed towards him.
Were they accusing him of stealing? Or simply existing?
Did they recognize him from the issue with the hand weeks before?
Showing his hands to prove that he had done nothing wrong and attempting to say so in their own language only seemed to provoke them further. Wild-eyed Israelites began to shout at him. His own protestations were drowned out as he tried to back away, his own wash of concern and fear in his eyes as in doing so, he knocked down a rather small, demure woman behind him.
It was then that a number of blows began to rain upon him - after all, he had just assaulted a woman like a heathen, barbaric Egyptian sand rat would. At least, those were the words he caught in the situation.
He was not certain how it happened but he began to bolt away, shoving through the crowd and only angering them further when something sharp caught at his leg, the ripping of his skin unmistakable as he cried out in pain. In his fall, he managed to grab hold of a stack of food crates, using his limited upper body strength to heave and upend them, sending a shock through the crowd as what he could only guess were some kind of melon tumble forward like stones down a hill. It created a barrier and with the adrenaline rush of fear through him, he pressed forward down a winding street as fast as his long legs could carry him.
It took several corners that he turned before the shouts of the crowd were even more diluted and the loudest sound was the ringing of the blood rushing through his ears and his own heavy breathing. Zoser was not an athlete, the only prowess in his form being gods-given by the Moghadam blood in his veins. That same blood which was now spilling down his leg.
His running had been more of a swift limp, and the moment he turned a corner he all but crashed into the post of another vendor stand, and he made the horrifying mistake of looking down at his leg. Bile crept up into his throat as he saw it, his eyes wide and dilated with fear and shock at the sight. Only once he saw it did the pain in his thigh really begin to register, as he took a shaking hand to lift the edge of his kilt and see the unsettling shock of pink flesh beneath his brown skin, doused in red blood like the juice of a pomegranate flowing down his leg.
"Fuck...fuck fuck..." he murmured, among other curses as he could hardly peel his eyes away from the sight. Never before had he sustained such an injury, and he was shaken significantly by the sight. Worse than that fear was the sound of a dog's barking approach, making a beeline for him.
By the gods, instead of being nearly killed by a mob, he was going to die by being mauled by a random, blood-thirsty dog in the streets of Israel.
Fuck.
"Down! Down! AWAY, YOU DAMNED CURR!" Zoser all but yelled in panicked Coptic, trying to cling to the post to keep himself upright as a shot of stinging pain in his leg nearly sent him reeling back.
To make matters worse, he glanced up to find a man running towards him, shouting words he did not understand for a moment in all his panic.
His chest heaving at his loss of breath and his eyes wide in apprehension and horror, Zoser all but flailed an arm at the man's initial approach, his mind taking a moment to register the words the man was saying. Help? He was helping? That...didn't seem right. Not in Israel.
It took a moment for him to realize the truth of it though, for the younger man's words to settle. His expression seemed genuine, which only had Zoser even more doubtful of the entire situation. Not even the scholars in Damascus had offered him such a similar courtesy.
Every step of the way as he hobbled alongside the man, Zoser kept glancing over his shoulder, like the wounded prey he felt he had become, until they reached the doorway of a shop. Once inside, Zoser all but heaved himself into the chair, head lolling back and eyes clenching shut as he tried to catch his breath, the pain in his leg becoming ever apparent with each exhale, feeling the pulse around it.
He was lightheaded, though whether from the loss of blood, or the lack of air in his lungs, or from the fear of a near death experience, he did not know. Still, he took a moment to gasp a few panting breaths with his eyes screwed shut before they flung open as the man approached again.
Zoser's eyes flicked around the room, trying to comprehend his surroundings, and he looked again apprehensively at the dog that paced around the room as well. Once the young man knelt, Zoser stiffened but nodded as the man lifted the kilt of his leg, also hissing as the fabric peeled away from the widened gash. He felt he was going to be sick, but swallowed hard to try to respond to the man's words.
"The people are angry," he said, his words a bit of a croak with his accented and limited Hebrew, "I did not do anything, but they attacked. I did not do anything. Someone fell and they...." Zoser lacked the other words to describe the rest of the scenario, but made generalized gestures of anger, with gripping hands and slicing motions through the air. Gesturing down to his leg, he added, "I do not know what it was."
Taking a free hand, he wiped the cold sweat from his brow and away from his eyes a moment before glancing down at the young man, now nervous about his purpose behind this, "Healer?"
Hazael was sure that if his father knew that his son had opened his store to a stranger, the older man would have flayed him alive. But desperate times called for desperate measures.
He tried to keep this in mind as he examined the man’s wound, temporarily tuning out the story Zoser was telling of what had happened. Though once he began to focus he stiffened though at the sound of the man’s voice and a ray from the setting sun danced across the injured man’s skin. Even Hazael, with his dull mind and poor eyesight, could not deny the truth that was staring him right in the face. This man was a foreigner. He did not belong in Judea and if the golden skin he could see peering out from the few patches that were not encrusted with blood; this man was Egyptian. He was from the land that had oppressed his people before the greeks. Who brought the plague all those years ago that decimated his city. Who brought war to his streets and enslavement to those who wished to live in peace. This man, as weak as he was after the run in from the mob, was dangerous. His people brought Hazaels’ nothing, but death and destruction.
And here Haz was. Tending to him. Caring for his wounds.
What had started as an action stemming from the kindness of his faith suddenly seemed to be nothing more than a trap. What would healing this man amount to? Giving him another chance to bear arms alongside Egyptian soldiers so that he might slaughter Hazael’s people. Will he repay the kind actions with chains for the boy? He had thought he was rescuing a fellow Israeli. How on earth had he gotten it so wrong?
Dear Yahweh, what on earth had Hazael gotten himself into?
This sudden change of heart was clearly visible in Hazael’s actions as he dropped the fabric and instinctively looked up at the stranger with eyes as wide as plates. He quickly rose from where he had been crouched, instinctively wanting to put distance between himself and the man as he ducked among the wares of the shop. His mind was reeling over this discovery, unsure of what to do as memories of the last time he had encountered an Egyptian played in his mind. He had only been ten and his memories were fuzzy regarding the day that the thieves had descended upon the market… but those eyes. Hazael would never forget those cloudy eyes and how cold they were. How they didn’t care what happened to the little boy, trapped in the monster’s grip. Did Zoser have that same malicious expression? Was his heart one of stone too?
“ You are not from here.” He sharply accused in his native tongue from the other side of the shop once he had gathered his senses, but failed to hide his wary expression as he regarded the man, “ You are Egyptian, aren’t you?” The truth was written quite plainly on his golden skin and would be difficult for him to deny. His nationality was enough to bring a serious pause to aiding him. It would certainly be far safer for Hazael to turn the man away and cast him out of his father’s shop. Let him end to his own wounds or die in the street. It was not Hazael’s place to care. Some of the people in his city would even commend him for such a thing.
But the boy knew that this was the wrong thing to do.
He had rescued this man under the pretense of following the scripture of his faith. Hazael was to be kind to those in need for one day he too may be in Zoser’s position. The words of Yahweh were clear and who was Haz to challenge it? No one. There wasn’t a person alive or dead who would dare to say that they knew better than their creator and Hazael was not about to be the first.
So, as much as it pained him and how it went against everything told to him by his city’s recent history, Hazael forced several deep breaths into his lungs to calm himself. It worked -- barely. Still, it was enough to allow Hazael to mutter into the tense room, “ Yahweh says to help the stranger for we once were the stranger.” He wasn’t sure if the man could even hear his words, but if he could, it would surely be enough to reassure the man that even though Hazael was cut from the same cloth as the people who had attacked him a short while ago; his devotion to his god commanded him to help Zoser against Hazael’s better judgment.
Not wanting to dwell on his words or second guess his promise, Haz turned his back to the man as he began to rummage through the wares. He was on the hunt for supplies he could use to heal the man. Anything that could serve as a tourniquet, bandages, antiseptics, or simple cleaning agents were fair game to the nineteen-year-old boy. He had no formal training when it came to caring for wounds as large as this, but he had learned quite a few things from tending to his dogs. They had their fair share of accidents over the years and Hazael was the only one that they could turn to in those moments. Surely, the basic things that he had learned could be applied to this man? Especially given the fact that his own heritage made him as equal as the dog sleeping quietly in the corner of the shop in Hazael’s eyes.
Quickly scurrying back to the man with all sorts of goods that were hard to make out in the dim light; Hazael found it difficult to look at the man directly as he set up what he needed to at least clean up the wound. Due in part to his own failing eyesight, Hazael was forced to pull a crate over to the pair and prop the man’s leg on top of it with a candle burning dangerously close to the fabric. Before the man could protest the logic of placing a candle so close that Zoser could surely feel the heat radiating off of it, Hazael said sharply in a tone that was all too reminiscent of his first mother, “ I need it to see. Don’t move.” He was sure the man would protest anyways, but Haz didn’t really care. If Hazael had to be uncomfortable, fearing for his safety at the hands of this Egyptian; then it was only fair that the man should squirm a bit too.
“ The people of Israel do not attack over nothing. We are peaceful. Surely you did something to set the mob off.” Hazael said coldly, returning to the conversation that had occurred before the Israeli had realized the nationality of the man he was attending to. It occurred to him for a moment that the Egyptians may not know what Hazael was saying due to the language barrier between them, but the boy didn’t much care. It wasn’t like there was anything that could be done anyways. Israeli boys did not learn the languages of those who wished to crush their city underneath the heels of their boots.
As this tiny bout of conversation was occurring, Hazael set about tending to the man’s leg, hoping to get it done as quickly as possible. His past experience had him first reach for the long strip of cloth he had found, folded over once to tie around the top of the man’s leg to cut off any further blood flow to the wound. That at least would make it easier to clean and see what the damage truly was beneath the crimson blood. Hazael also hoped that it would numb the leg a bit as he had no supplies for that purpose in the merchant’s tradepost.
Once he was satisfied with the strength of his makeshift tool, he reached for a small satchel of water to clean the blood away. However, the man’s final question forced him to pause for a moment, keeping him from pouring the water on top of the wound. Hazael was not a healer and the basics he knew came only from tending to his dogs. He knew that he could do enough to keep the man from dying, but anything beyond that he doubted that he had the skill for. Would it better to lie and put the man at ease? The accusations he had made in his statements earlier and the knowledge that Hazael did not know what he was doing would surely bring some undue stress to the man. That would make this all harder, but then again, lying was a sin.
Keeping with his faith, Hazael decided to tell the man the truth as stress-inducing as it may be. “ No.” Hazael said bluntly as he unscrewed the cap of the water skien and turned back up to the man with an almost apologetic expression on his face, not giving him much of a chance to react to the revelation that his ‘savior’ had no medical training, “ This will sting.” His tone was flat as he poured the water over the man, wisely keeping his free hand firmly attached to the man’s foot so that it was pinned down if the man decided to kick about in reaction to the pain. They didn’t need both of them injured, after all.
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Hazael was sure that if his father knew that his son had opened his store to a stranger, the older man would have flayed him alive. But desperate times called for desperate measures.
He tried to keep this in mind as he examined the man’s wound, temporarily tuning out the story Zoser was telling of what had happened. Though once he began to focus he stiffened though at the sound of the man’s voice and a ray from the setting sun danced across the injured man’s skin. Even Hazael, with his dull mind and poor eyesight, could not deny the truth that was staring him right in the face. This man was a foreigner. He did not belong in Judea and if the golden skin he could see peering out from the few patches that were not encrusted with blood; this man was Egyptian. He was from the land that had oppressed his people before the greeks. Who brought the plague all those years ago that decimated his city. Who brought war to his streets and enslavement to those who wished to live in peace. This man, as weak as he was after the run in from the mob, was dangerous. His people brought Hazaels’ nothing, but death and destruction.
And here Haz was. Tending to him. Caring for his wounds.
What had started as an action stemming from the kindness of his faith suddenly seemed to be nothing more than a trap. What would healing this man amount to? Giving him another chance to bear arms alongside Egyptian soldiers so that he might slaughter Hazael’s people. Will he repay the kind actions with chains for the boy? He had thought he was rescuing a fellow Israeli. How on earth had he gotten it so wrong?
Dear Yahweh, what on earth had Hazael gotten himself into?
This sudden change of heart was clearly visible in Hazael’s actions as he dropped the fabric and instinctively looked up at the stranger with eyes as wide as plates. He quickly rose from where he had been crouched, instinctively wanting to put distance between himself and the man as he ducked among the wares of the shop. His mind was reeling over this discovery, unsure of what to do as memories of the last time he had encountered an Egyptian played in his mind. He had only been ten and his memories were fuzzy regarding the day that the thieves had descended upon the market… but those eyes. Hazael would never forget those cloudy eyes and how cold they were. How they didn’t care what happened to the little boy, trapped in the monster’s grip. Did Zoser have that same malicious expression? Was his heart one of stone too?
“ You are not from here.” He sharply accused in his native tongue from the other side of the shop once he had gathered his senses, but failed to hide his wary expression as he regarded the man, “ You are Egyptian, aren’t you?” The truth was written quite plainly on his golden skin and would be difficult for him to deny. His nationality was enough to bring a serious pause to aiding him. It would certainly be far safer for Hazael to turn the man away and cast him out of his father’s shop. Let him end to his own wounds or die in the street. It was not Hazael’s place to care. Some of the people in his city would even commend him for such a thing.
But the boy knew that this was the wrong thing to do.
He had rescued this man under the pretense of following the scripture of his faith. Hazael was to be kind to those in need for one day he too may be in Zoser’s position. The words of Yahweh were clear and who was Haz to challenge it? No one. There wasn’t a person alive or dead who would dare to say that they knew better than their creator and Hazael was not about to be the first.
So, as much as it pained him and how it went against everything told to him by his city’s recent history, Hazael forced several deep breaths into his lungs to calm himself. It worked -- barely. Still, it was enough to allow Hazael to mutter into the tense room, “ Yahweh says to help the stranger for we once were the stranger.” He wasn’t sure if the man could even hear his words, but if he could, it would surely be enough to reassure the man that even though Hazael was cut from the same cloth as the people who had attacked him a short while ago; his devotion to his god commanded him to help Zoser against Hazael’s better judgment.
Not wanting to dwell on his words or second guess his promise, Haz turned his back to the man as he began to rummage through the wares. He was on the hunt for supplies he could use to heal the man. Anything that could serve as a tourniquet, bandages, antiseptics, or simple cleaning agents were fair game to the nineteen-year-old boy. He had no formal training when it came to caring for wounds as large as this, but he had learned quite a few things from tending to his dogs. They had their fair share of accidents over the years and Hazael was the only one that they could turn to in those moments. Surely, the basic things that he had learned could be applied to this man? Especially given the fact that his own heritage made him as equal as the dog sleeping quietly in the corner of the shop in Hazael’s eyes.
Quickly scurrying back to the man with all sorts of goods that were hard to make out in the dim light; Hazael found it difficult to look at the man directly as he set up what he needed to at least clean up the wound. Due in part to his own failing eyesight, Hazael was forced to pull a crate over to the pair and prop the man’s leg on top of it with a candle burning dangerously close to the fabric. Before the man could protest the logic of placing a candle so close that Zoser could surely feel the heat radiating off of it, Hazael said sharply in a tone that was all too reminiscent of his first mother, “ I need it to see. Don’t move.” He was sure the man would protest anyways, but Haz didn’t really care. If Hazael had to be uncomfortable, fearing for his safety at the hands of this Egyptian; then it was only fair that the man should squirm a bit too.
“ The people of Israel do not attack over nothing. We are peaceful. Surely you did something to set the mob off.” Hazael said coldly, returning to the conversation that had occurred before the Israeli had realized the nationality of the man he was attending to. It occurred to him for a moment that the Egyptians may not know what Hazael was saying due to the language barrier between them, but the boy didn’t much care. It wasn’t like there was anything that could be done anyways. Israeli boys did not learn the languages of those who wished to crush their city underneath the heels of their boots.
As this tiny bout of conversation was occurring, Hazael set about tending to the man’s leg, hoping to get it done as quickly as possible. His past experience had him first reach for the long strip of cloth he had found, folded over once to tie around the top of the man’s leg to cut off any further blood flow to the wound. That at least would make it easier to clean and see what the damage truly was beneath the crimson blood. Hazael also hoped that it would numb the leg a bit as he had no supplies for that purpose in the merchant’s tradepost.
Once he was satisfied with the strength of his makeshift tool, he reached for a small satchel of water to clean the blood away. However, the man’s final question forced him to pause for a moment, keeping him from pouring the water on top of the wound. Hazael was not a healer and the basics he knew came only from tending to his dogs. He knew that he could do enough to keep the man from dying, but anything beyond that he doubted that he had the skill for. Would it better to lie and put the man at ease? The accusations he had made in his statements earlier and the knowledge that Hazael did not know what he was doing would surely bring some undue stress to the man. That would make this all harder, but then again, lying was a sin.
Keeping with his faith, Hazael decided to tell the man the truth as stress-inducing as it may be. “ No.” Hazael said bluntly as he unscrewed the cap of the water skien and turned back up to the man with an almost apologetic expression on his face, not giving him much of a chance to react to the revelation that his ‘savior’ had no medical training, “ This will sting.” His tone was flat as he poured the water over the man, wisely keeping his free hand firmly attached to the man’s foot so that it was pinned down if the man decided to kick about in reaction to the pain. They didn’t need both of them injured, after all.
Hazael was sure that if his father knew that his son had opened his store to a stranger, the older man would have flayed him alive. But desperate times called for desperate measures.
He tried to keep this in mind as he examined the man’s wound, temporarily tuning out the story Zoser was telling of what had happened. Though once he began to focus he stiffened though at the sound of the man’s voice and a ray from the setting sun danced across the injured man’s skin. Even Hazael, with his dull mind and poor eyesight, could not deny the truth that was staring him right in the face. This man was a foreigner. He did not belong in Judea and if the golden skin he could see peering out from the few patches that were not encrusted with blood; this man was Egyptian. He was from the land that had oppressed his people before the greeks. Who brought the plague all those years ago that decimated his city. Who brought war to his streets and enslavement to those who wished to live in peace. This man, as weak as he was after the run in from the mob, was dangerous. His people brought Hazaels’ nothing, but death and destruction.
And here Haz was. Tending to him. Caring for his wounds.
What had started as an action stemming from the kindness of his faith suddenly seemed to be nothing more than a trap. What would healing this man amount to? Giving him another chance to bear arms alongside Egyptian soldiers so that he might slaughter Hazael’s people. Will he repay the kind actions with chains for the boy? He had thought he was rescuing a fellow Israeli. How on earth had he gotten it so wrong?
Dear Yahweh, what on earth had Hazael gotten himself into?
This sudden change of heart was clearly visible in Hazael’s actions as he dropped the fabric and instinctively looked up at the stranger with eyes as wide as plates. He quickly rose from where he had been crouched, instinctively wanting to put distance between himself and the man as he ducked among the wares of the shop. His mind was reeling over this discovery, unsure of what to do as memories of the last time he had encountered an Egyptian played in his mind. He had only been ten and his memories were fuzzy regarding the day that the thieves had descended upon the market… but those eyes. Hazael would never forget those cloudy eyes and how cold they were. How they didn’t care what happened to the little boy, trapped in the monster’s grip. Did Zoser have that same malicious expression? Was his heart one of stone too?
“ You are not from here.” He sharply accused in his native tongue from the other side of the shop once he had gathered his senses, but failed to hide his wary expression as he regarded the man, “ You are Egyptian, aren’t you?” The truth was written quite plainly on his golden skin and would be difficult for him to deny. His nationality was enough to bring a serious pause to aiding him. It would certainly be far safer for Hazael to turn the man away and cast him out of his father’s shop. Let him end to his own wounds or die in the street. It was not Hazael’s place to care. Some of the people in his city would even commend him for such a thing.
But the boy knew that this was the wrong thing to do.
He had rescued this man under the pretense of following the scripture of his faith. Hazael was to be kind to those in need for one day he too may be in Zoser’s position. The words of Yahweh were clear and who was Haz to challenge it? No one. There wasn’t a person alive or dead who would dare to say that they knew better than their creator and Hazael was not about to be the first.
So, as much as it pained him and how it went against everything told to him by his city’s recent history, Hazael forced several deep breaths into his lungs to calm himself. It worked -- barely. Still, it was enough to allow Hazael to mutter into the tense room, “ Yahweh says to help the stranger for we once were the stranger.” He wasn’t sure if the man could even hear his words, but if he could, it would surely be enough to reassure the man that even though Hazael was cut from the same cloth as the people who had attacked him a short while ago; his devotion to his god commanded him to help Zoser against Hazael’s better judgment.
Not wanting to dwell on his words or second guess his promise, Haz turned his back to the man as he began to rummage through the wares. He was on the hunt for supplies he could use to heal the man. Anything that could serve as a tourniquet, bandages, antiseptics, or simple cleaning agents were fair game to the nineteen-year-old boy. He had no formal training when it came to caring for wounds as large as this, but he had learned quite a few things from tending to his dogs. They had their fair share of accidents over the years and Hazael was the only one that they could turn to in those moments. Surely, the basic things that he had learned could be applied to this man? Especially given the fact that his own heritage made him as equal as the dog sleeping quietly in the corner of the shop in Hazael’s eyes.
Quickly scurrying back to the man with all sorts of goods that were hard to make out in the dim light; Hazael found it difficult to look at the man directly as he set up what he needed to at least clean up the wound. Due in part to his own failing eyesight, Hazael was forced to pull a crate over to the pair and prop the man’s leg on top of it with a candle burning dangerously close to the fabric. Before the man could protest the logic of placing a candle so close that Zoser could surely feel the heat radiating off of it, Hazael said sharply in a tone that was all too reminiscent of his first mother, “ I need it to see. Don’t move.” He was sure the man would protest anyways, but Haz didn’t really care. If Hazael had to be uncomfortable, fearing for his safety at the hands of this Egyptian; then it was only fair that the man should squirm a bit too.
“ The people of Israel do not attack over nothing. We are peaceful. Surely you did something to set the mob off.” Hazael said coldly, returning to the conversation that had occurred before the Israeli had realized the nationality of the man he was attending to. It occurred to him for a moment that the Egyptians may not know what Hazael was saying due to the language barrier between them, but the boy didn’t much care. It wasn’t like there was anything that could be done anyways. Israeli boys did not learn the languages of those who wished to crush their city underneath the heels of their boots.
As this tiny bout of conversation was occurring, Hazael set about tending to the man’s leg, hoping to get it done as quickly as possible. His past experience had him first reach for the long strip of cloth he had found, folded over once to tie around the top of the man’s leg to cut off any further blood flow to the wound. That at least would make it easier to clean and see what the damage truly was beneath the crimson blood. Hazael also hoped that it would numb the leg a bit as he had no supplies for that purpose in the merchant’s tradepost.
Once he was satisfied with the strength of his makeshift tool, he reached for a small satchel of water to clean the blood away. However, the man’s final question forced him to pause for a moment, keeping him from pouring the water on top of the wound. Hazael was not a healer and the basics he knew came only from tending to his dogs. He knew that he could do enough to keep the man from dying, but anything beyond that he doubted that he had the skill for. Would it better to lie and put the man at ease? The accusations he had made in his statements earlier and the knowledge that Hazael did not know what he was doing would surely bring some undue stress to the man. That would make this all harder, but then again, lying was a sin.
Keeping with his faith, Hazael decided to tell the man the truth as stress-inducing as it may be. “ No.” Hazael said bluntly as he unscrewed the cap of the water skien and turned back up to the man with an almost apologetic expression on his face, not giving him much of a chance to react to the revelation that his ‘savior’ had no medical training, “ This will sting.” His tone was flat as he poured the water over the man, wisely keeping his free hand firmly attached to the man’s foot so that it was pinned down if the man decided to kick about in reaction to the pain. They didn’t need both of them injured, after all.
Zoser could not help the shuddering puffs of breath that he made, as if trying to calm himself. At first, it was not the pain that registered with him but the thought of the blood leaving his leg. He was not a hardened warrior like his nephew or the countless others in Egypt. By and large, he was considered 'too soft' for his own culture, and yet, they did not often mind given the benefits he provided in his position.
Right now, though, he minded a great deal.
How did people like Osorsen cope with injuries like this? Of course, there were physicians trained to go with the armies into battle, and if this young man had any experience, then perhaps he would be just fine, as those soldiers had been.
His mind was buzzing with anxiety and too many thoughts flying through his mind and reminders of pain that he almost missed the young man pausing and then looking up to him. Zoser, chest still heaving with his pained breaths, blinked and met his eyes, registering his words.
Shit.
Zoser groaned in response, seeing very quickly where this was going, rubbing a hand over his face in frustration. How had the young man missed that? Zoser was ridiculously tall man and looked the part of an Egyptian sand-rat, even from a distance. A thought dawned on him. Pulling his palm down over his face, his eyes narrowed slightly, as if to examine the young man's eyes, but it was too dim in the room.
In the archives, one of the younger men had a cloudiness form over one eye, which made it difficult for him to see at time, at least in certain areas. Things the physicians did seemed to help, but it still made the young man struggle with inscriptions at times. Did that same affliction cause this young man to mistakenly help? A slight scoff of a laugh escaped him followed by a hiss and groan as his hand brushed by his thigh again.
"I am," Zoser conceded through gritted teeth at the newfound pain in his leg from a simple touch, "I am a scholar for my people, they invite me to University Damascus. We build our own. In Egypt. Alexandria. I came to help, to learn-" He cut himself off from speaking more after a moment. Noticing the pause after he spoke.
The young man was deciding. Already, Zoser's mind began to think of alternatives to bleeding on the man's floor and being stoned to death in the streets for existing. So far, to his despair, the lightness in his head did not offer many other options. With another slight scoff in his mind, the faintness of tears from the pain stinging in the corners, he wondered if he was going to die, if the young man would even allow for a filthy Egyptian to send a few dying letters back to Cairo to explain his failure to return.
However, it surprised him when the young man spoke under his breath, Zoser only truly caught the first part, the mention of Yahweh. A bout of nervousness prodded at him as he watched the young man look through drawers, and Zoser recoiled slightly by sitting up a bit straighter in the chair, gasping at the shot of pain in his leg as he did so. The young man moved closer with the lamp, the heat of the fire seeming to add to the sensitivity of the wound. Zoser shifted to recoil again but when the man snapped at him not to move, Zoser obeyed.
Swallowing hard, his hands and breath shaking, he heard the man's words and shook his head, piecing together the accusation again. The overwhelm of the entire circumstance of being in Judea seemed to have culminated in this moment, with his worthlessness being reiterated every waking moment through glares and phrases and curses and spitting at his feet. While, yes, he was considered commonborn, much of Zoser's life had a distinct privilege to it, and to be seen so drastically differently in these few short weeks cut him to the core, even deeper than the gaping wound on his leg.
Against his body's desires, a combination of external and internal pain and suffering pulled the stinging of tears from his eyes to dampen one cheek, particularly as he winced and looked away from the young man's meddling around the wound.
"No...I did nothing...I just want to go home," he replied, his voice thick with emotion as his white knuckled hand gripped the arm of the chair, occasionally hissing and groaning as the young man set to work.
It seemed that while they were in the moment for admitting things, the young man felt like admitting as well that he was not, in fact, a healer. Zoser tried not to react upon learning that, seeing as the last thing he would want to do was to offend the man and have him stop helping in whatever way he could. It was not worth it.
He barely had a moment to brace himself before the water hit the wound in a rush of searing, stinging pain that had Zoser halfway between gritting his teeth and feeling like he was going to be sick. His leg seemed to seize on its own in response to the pain, but the man had the forethought to hold it down. One hand moved up to grip at the front locks of his hair tightly, as if looking for anything to hold onto. He felt he could pass out, but knew that with this much distrust in the room, he could not risk that, let he be left for dead.
After a few panting breaths and reassuring that what little he had eaten that morning was going to stay down, he glanced back at the young man, then down at his leg, and immediately away from it at risk of being sick. He needed a distraction. BADLY.
"Talk to me," Zoser asked, voice thick with pain and emotion, "Anything. Just talk." He struggled a moment, knowing that the young man may outright refuse. He had to take a different tactic, his breath coming in shuddering pants still. "Tell me about your god."
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Zoser could not help the shuddering puffs of breath that he made, as if trying to calm himself. At first, it was not the pain that registered with him but the thought of the blood leaving his leg. He was not a hardened warrior like his nephew or the countless others in Egypt. By and large, he was considered 'too soft' for his own culture, and yet, they did not often mind given the benefits he provided in his position.
Right now, though, he minded a great deal.
How did people like Osorsen cope with injuries like this? Of course, there were physicians trained to go with the armies into battle, and if this young man had any experience, then perhaps he would be just fine, as those soldiers had been.
His mind was buzzing with anxiety and too many thoughts flying through his mind and reminders of pain that he almost missed the young man pausing and then looking up to him. Zoser, chest still heaving with his pained breaths, blinked and met his eyes, registering his words.
Shit.
Zoser groaned in response, seeing very quickly where this was going, rubbing a hand over his face in frustration. How had the young man missed that? Zoser was ridiculously tall man and looked the part of an Egyptian sand-rat, even from a distance. A thought dawned on him. Pulling his palm down over his face, his eyes narrowed slightly, as if to examine the young man's eyes, but it was too dim in the room.
In the archives, one of the younger men had a cloudiness form over one eye, which made it difficult for him to see at time, at least in certain areas. Things the physicians did seemed to help, but it still made the young man struggle with inscriptions at times. Did that same affliction cause this young man to mistakenly help? A slight scoff of a laugh escaped him followed by a hiss and groan as his hand brushed by his thigh again.
"I am," Zoser conceded through gritted teeth at the newfound pain in his leg from a simple touch, "I am a scholar for my people, they invite me to University Damascus. We build our own. In Egypt. Alexandria. I came to help, to learn-" He cut himself off from speaking more after a moment. Noticing the pause after he spoke.
The young man was deciding. Already, Zoser's mind began to think of alternatives to bleeding on the man's floor and being stoned to death in the streets for existing. So far, to his despair, the lightness in his head did not offer many other options. With another slight scoff in his mind, the faintness of tears from the pain stinging in the corners, he wondered if he was going to die, if the young man would even allow for a filthy Egyptian to send a few dying letters back to Cairo to explain his failure to return.
However, it surprised him when the young man spoke under his breath, Zoser only truly caught the first part, the mention of Yahweh. A bout of nervousness prodded at him as he watched the young man look through drawers, and Zoser recoiled slightly by sitting up a bit straighter in the chair, gasping at the shot of pain in his leg as he did so. The young man moved closer with the lamp, the heat of the fire seeming to add to the sensitivity of the wound. Zoser shifted to recoil again but when the man snapped at him not to move, Zoser obeyed.
Swallowing hard, his hands and breath shaking, he heard the man's words and shook his head, piecing together the accusation again. The overwhelm of the entire circumstance of being in Judea seemed to have culminated in this moment, with his worthlessness being reiterated every waking moment through glares and phrases and curses and spitting at his feet. While, yes, he was considered commonborn, much of Zoser's life had a distinct privilege to it, and to be seen so drastically differently in these few short weeks cut him to the core, even deeper than the gaping wound on his leg.
Against his body's desires, a combination of external and internal pain and suffering pulled the stinging of tears from his eyes to dampen one cheek, particularly as he winced and looked away from the young man's meddling around the wound.
"No...I did nothing...I just want to go home," he replied, his voice thick with emotion as his white knuckled hand gripped the arm of the chair, occasionally hissing and groaning as the young man set to work.
It seemed that while they were in the moment for admitting things, the young man felt like admitting as well that he was not, in fact, a healer. Zoser tried not to react upon learning that, seeing as the last thing he would want to do was to offend the man and have him stop helping in whatever way he could. It was not worth it.
He barely had a moment to brace himself before the water hit the wound in a rush of searing, stinging pain that had Zoser halfway between gritting his teeth and feeling like he was going to be sick. His leg seemed to seize on its own in response to the pain, but the man had the forethought to hold it down. One hand moved up to grip at the front locks of his hair tightly, as if looking for anything to hold onto. He felt he could pass out, but knew that with this much distrust in the room, he could not risk that, let he be left for dead.
After a few panting breaths and reassuring that what little he had eaten that morning was going to stay down, he glanced back at the young man, then down at his leg, and immediately away from it at risk of being sick. He needed a distraction. BADLY.
"Talk to me," Zoser asked, voice thick with pain and emotion, "Anything. Just talk." He struggled a moment, knowing that the young man may outright refuse. He had to take a different tactic, his breath coming in shuddering pants still. "Tell me about your god."
Zoser could not help the shuddering puffs of breath that he made, as if trying to calm himself. At first, it was not the pain that registered with him but the thought of the blood leaving his leg. He was not a hardened warrior like his nephew or the countless others in Egypt. By and large, he was considered 'too soft' for his own culture, and yet, they did not often mind given the benefits he provided in his position.
Right now, though, he minded a great deal.
How did people like Osorsen cope with injuries like this? Of course, there were physicians trained to go with the armies into battle, and if this young man had any experience, then perhaps he would be just fine, as those soldiers had been.
His mind was buzzing with anxiety and too many thoughts flying through his mind and reminders of pain that he almost missed the young man pausing and then looking up to him. Zoser, chest still heaving with his pained breaths, blinked and met his eyes, registering his words.
Shit.
Zoser groaned in response, seeing very quickly where this was going, rubbing a hand over his face in frustration. How had the young man missed that? Zoser was ridiculously tall man and looked the part of an Egyptian sand-rat, even from a distance. A thought dawned on him. Pulling his palm down over his face, his eyes narrowed slightly, as if to examine the young man's eyes, but it was too dim in the room.
In the archives, one of the younger men had a cloudiness form over one eye, which made it difficult for him to see at time, at least in certain areas. Things the physicians did seemed to help, but it still made the young man struggle with inscriptions at times. Did that same affliction cause this young man to mistakenly help? A slight scoff of a laugh escaped him followed by a hiss and groan as his hand brushed by his thigh again.
"I am," Zoser conceded through gritted teeth at the newfound pain in his leg from a simple touch, "I am a scholar for my people, they invite me to University Damascus. We build our own. In Egypt. Alexandria. I came to help, to learn-" He cut himself off from speaking more after a moment. Noticing the pause after he spoke.
The young man was deciding. Already, Zoser's mind began to think of alternatives to bleeding on the man's floor and being stoned to death in the streets for existing. So far, to his despair, the lightness in his head did not offer many other options. With another slight scoff in his mind, the faintness of tears from the pain stinging in the corners, he wondered if he was going to die, if the young man would even allow for a filthy Egyptian to send a few dying letters back to Cairo to explain his failure to return.
However, it surprised him when the young man spoke under his breath, Zoser only truly caught the first part, the mention of Yahweh. A bout of nervousness prodded at him as he watched the young man look through drawers, and Zoser recoiled slightly by sitting up a bit straighter in the chair, gasping at the shot of pain in his leg as he did so. The young man moved closer with the lamp, the heat of the fire seeming to add to the sensitivity of the wound. Zoser shifted to recoil again but when the man snapped at him not to move, Zoser obeyed.
Swallowing hard, his hands and breath shaking, he heard the man's words and shook his head, piecing together the accusation again. The overwhelm of the entire circumstance of being in Judea seemed to have culminated in this moment, with his worthlessness being reiterated every waking moment through glares and phrases and curses and spitting at his feet. While, yes, he was considered commonborn, much of Zoser's life had a distinct privilege to it, and to be seen so drastically differently in these few short weeks cut him to the core, even deeper than the gaping wound on his leg.
Against his body's desires, a combination of external and internal pain and suffering pulled the stinging of tears from his eyes to dampen one cheek, particularly as he winced and looked away from the young man's meddling around the wound.
"No...I did nothing...I just want to go home," he replied, his voice thick with emotion as his white knuckled hand gripped the arm of the chair, occasionally hissing and groaning as the young man set to work.
It seemed that while they were in the moment for admitting things, the young man felt like admitting as well that he was not, in fact, a healer. Zoser tried not to react upon learning that, seeing as the last thing he would want to do was to offend the man and have him stop helping in whatever way he could. It was not worth it.
He barely had a moment to brace himself before the water hit the wound in a rush of searing, stinging pain that had Zoser halfway between gritting his teeth and feeling like he was going to be sick. His leg seemed to seize on its own in response to the pain, but the man had the forethought to hold it down. One hand moved up to grip at the front locks of his hair tightly, as if looking for anything to hold onto. He felt he could pass out, but knew that with this much distrust in the room, he could not risk that, let he be left for dead.
After a few panting breaths and reassuring that what little he had eaten that morning was going to stay down, he glanced back at the young man, then down at his leg, and immediately away from it at risk of being sick. He needed a distraction. BADLY.
"Talk to me," Zoser asked, voice thick with pain and emotion, "Anything. Just talk." He struggled a moment, knowing that the young man may outright refuse. He had to take a different tactic, his breath coming in shuddering pants still. "Tell me about your god."
Hazael didn’t know what he had been expecting when he asked the man if he was Egyptian or not. The answer was already clear to see on his golden sand-rat skin. However, he could say for certain that he did not expect Zoser to also say that he was a scholar of all things -- forcing Hazael to physically pause for a moment at the sheer absurdity of the thought.
“ ... So you are not a soldier then?” Hazael asked cautiously after a long and thoroughly awkward pause. It was safe to say that the Israeli boy had not expected Zoser to involve himself in the arts that defined Hazael’s own culture. Instead, he had assumed that the man before him was deeply entrenched in the activities that bitter Judeans expected all Egyptians to take joy from; fighting, killing, destroying and everything else that had torn apart his homeland just a few decades prior. Hazael was not too outlandish for making this assumption either. Zoser held an imposing figure. Even as the man was sitting down, practically writhing in pain, Hazael could see that Zoser was tall and decently well-built. It wasn’t that outlandish to assume that the other man must have filled out that figure through the trials of war.
However, he had never considered that Zoser may have been a scholar instead. The notion just did not match with what Hazael knew of the sand rats to the south; that they were all brutish and thirsty for blood. It wasn’t a charge that they could deny either. Not after they have made Judea suffer over the years. The assumption that all Egyptians were like this was so commonplace in Israel that Hazael didn’t know how to approach this revelation that the man before him broke that mold. He wanted to accuse the man of being a liar. Say something about Zoser being a spy sent to remap the layout of Judea so an Egyptian invasion of the military-less country would be easier. It would be an easy accusation for Hazael to make and one that would be impossible to defend… plus not to mention it would make the twisting knot of hate in Hazael’s stomach entirely justifiable.
But that would be wrong.
The whole reason why Hazael was doing anything to help Zoser in the first place was that it was the right thing to do. It didn’t matter that it went against the cultural standards that the boy knew. Following Yahweh’s commands trumped any fears of Egyptians and their blood.
So in an effort to try and chase these angry thoughts from his mind as Hazael came closer to the man and started to tend to his wound, the boy asked, “ Why travel to Judea to learn? Surely, you have other universities in Egypt.” Although the words and tone were harsh from the sheer reluctance that Hazael had when it came to Zoser; these questions easily had to be the kindest things that the boy had said to the man since dragging him into his shop. After all, Hazael could have said any number of hateful things to the man, accusations of the damage that his people had caused to Hazael’s homeland; but the boy held his tongue and instead tried to take an interest in what an Egyptian was doing out here in the barren lands of Judea. Tried.
He had to admit though that it was strange that an Egyptian would travel to just see a university. It just didn’t make sense to him -- but that was probably because thus far in his life Hazael had nothing to do with the institution in Damascus. He wasn’t one of the boys in his family who dreamed of attending the university. As far as he was concerned, Haz would be lucky enough to visit Jorah or Benaiah when they grew old enough to walk through the building’s twisting corridors. Hazael knew that he did not belong there so he gave little thought to the university as a whole.
But could he be wrong?
He ignored Zoser when the man had countered that he had done nothing to set off the mob. Of course, the xenophobic boy didn’t believe him. Hazael knew his own people better than to assume that they would suddenly rise up for no reason. Not when the only justification that the Israelis needed was quite literally written across Zoser’s face. The man should have known better than to travel alone in Israel. Could a scholar be really foolish enough to believe that as an outsider, he would be safe traversing through the streets as the people lived in fear of the Greeks?
He wanted to make some double-edged comment about Zoser’s poor decisions, but he decided not too as he poured the water over the man’s wound. Just like he had predicted, the Egyptian man tried to move his leg away from Hazael, but the Israeli boy only pushed down harder as he alternated between pouring the water and wiping it away. He needed to see how deep the wound was and how big it had been. It took a moment to properly clean off all the of red liquid, but once Hazael could see the long gash; the boy couldn’t hold back the sharp intake of air. It was huge. The whole wound must have run up the length of Zoser’s calf, starting just above the ankles and ending just a few inches below the knee. Luckily for the man though it did not appear to be that shallow or wide. That would make it easier for Hazael to deal with.
Knowing that his reaction to the wound probably frightened the man, Hazael quickly covered up his own shock by hastily saying, “ It’s nothing, it’s nothing. I’ve seen worse on my dogs.” It was true, it would be easy for Hazael to apply some antiseptics and bandage it up. He had just been startled by the size of the wound. That’s all.
He was also somewhat surprised by Zoser’s sudden interruption. He wanted Hazael to talk about… his god? The boy did not hide the puzzled look on his face as he glanced up at Zoser. He couldn’t tell if the Egyptian was being serious or not. After all, why would a sand rat take interest in the lessons from the Torah, even if they were in excruciating pain? It was confusing and didn’t make sense... Then again, nothing about Zoser was logical to Hazael. So, he decided to indulge the man and speak of the reasons why the Israeli was aiding the man.
“ Yahweh tells us to help the stranger for we once were the stranger and we could very easily be them again.” He started off saying as he released his hold on the man’s leg and tried to reach over for a small vial of Hyssop, an antiseptic plant that was common in the African realm. However, as Hazael released his hold on the man’s knee, the blood began to pour out of the man’s wound anew. A string of curses came from under Hazael’s breath as he quickly set the Hyssop down and instead reached for a small strip of cloth that he had found.
Tying it tightly above the man’s knee so that it could act as a tourniquet, Hazael continued by saying, “ He reminds us that we are supposed to treat others with the same kindness and grace that we would hope for if we were separated from our homeland again. If we don’t do that, Yahweh will not listen when we ask him for help in our time of need.” Hazael was rambling at this point as he fiddled with the tourniquet, trying to keep it tight enough that Zoser’s leg will not be soaked in blood again. He was so focused on the task before him that he didn’t even notice the irony in what he was saying. The people of Israel, who had done this to Zoser, were not following the doctrine that Hazael was presenting as a simple way of life… but then again the scripture did label Egyptians as the enemy. Perhaps those who started the riot were justified in this? Especially after the pressure that Israel had been under the last ten years with Taengeans in their midst.
Hazael was more concerned with what was right in front of him though, not what was outside the door. So, he picked up the Hyssop again to clean the wound. Even though he knew by now that Zoser had asked him to speak about Yahweh so that he wouldn’t be able to focus on the pain, Hazael couldn’t do that any longer as he was not good at multitasking. Even though Hyssop was an excellent healing agent and was well known for this purpose, it was dangerous. Even in the diluted form, it could cause seizures and other sorts of horrible maladies if too much was given. Hazael needed to focus as if that were to happen, there was no way that the Israeli would be able to help him.
So, taking a page out of Zoser’s own book, Hazael tried to offer a similar distraction and he hoped that it was one that Zoser might be favorable too. After all, he didn’t know much about scholars, but the boy did know that they liked to debate. “ What about your gods? How do you keep track of them all?” Hazael asked as he quickly began to dab the Hyssop onto the wound, hoping that Zoser would have been able to hear him before the inevitable screams of pain erupted from his chest.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
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Hazael didn’t know what he had been expecting when he asked the man if he was Egyptian or not. The answer was already clear to see on his golden sand-rat skin. However, he could say for certain that he did not expect Zoser to also say that he was a scholar of all things -- forcing Hazael to physically pause for a moment at the sheer absurdity of the thought.
“ ... So you are not a soldier then?” Hazael asked cautiously after a long and thoroughly awkward pause. It was safe to say that the Israeli boy had not expected Zoser to involve himself in the arts that defined Hazael’s own culture. Instead, he had assumed that the man before him was deeply entrenched in the activities that bitter Judeans expected all Egyptians to take joy from; fighting, killing, destroying and everything else that had torn apart his homeland just a few decades prior. Hazael was not too outlandish for making this assumption either. Zoser held an imposing figure. Even as the man was sitting down, practically writhing in pain, Hazael could see that Zoser was tall and decently well-built. It wasn’t that outlandish to assume that the other man must have filled out that figure through the trials of war.
However, he had never considered that Zoser may have been a scholar instead. The notion just did not match with what Hazael knew of the sand rats to the south; that they were all brutish and thirsty for blood. It wasn’t a charge that they could deny either. Not after they have made Judea suffer over the years. The assumption that all Egyptians were like this was so commonplace in Israel that Hazael didn’t know how to approach this revelation that the man before him broke that mold. He wanted to accuse the man of being a liar. Say something about Zoser being a spy sent to remap the layout of Judea so an Egyptian invasion of the military-less country would be easier. It would be an easy accusation for Hazael to make and one that would be impossible to defend… plus not to mention it would make the twisting knot of hate in Hazael’s stomach entirely justifiable.
But that would be wrong.
The whole reason why Hazael was doing anything to help Zoser in the first place was that it was the right thing to do. It didn’t matter that it went against the cultural standards that the boy knew. Following Yahweh’s commands trumped any fears of Egyptians and their blood.
So in an effort to try and chase these angry thoughts from his mind as Hazael came closer to the man and started to tend to his wound, the boy asked, “ Why travel to Judea to learn? Surely, you have other universities in Egypt.” Although the words and tone were harsh from the sheer reluctance that Hazael had when it came to Zoser; these questions easily had to be the kindest things that the boy had said to the man since dragging him into his shop. After all, Hazael could have said any number of hateful things to the man, accusations of the damage that his people had caused to Hazael’s homeland; but the boy held his tongue and instead tried to take an interest in what an Egyptian was doing out here in the barren lands of Judea. Tried.
He had to admit though that it was strange that an Egyptian would travel to just see a university. It just didn’t make sense to him -- but that was probably because thus far in his life Hazael had nothing to do with the institution in Damascus. He wasn’t one of the boys in his family who dreamed of attending the university. As far as he was concerned, Haz would be lucky enough to visit Jorah or Benaiah when they grew old enough to walk through the building’s twisting corridors. Hazael knew that he did not belong there so he gave little thought to the university as a whole.
But could he be wrong?
He ignored Zoser when the man had countered that he had done nothing to set off the mob. Of course, the xenophobic boy didn’t believe him. Hazael knew his own people better than to assume that they would suddenly rise up for no reason. Not when the only justification that the Israelis needed was quite literally written across Zoser’s face. The man should have known better than to travel alone in Israel. Could a scholar be really foolish enough to believe that as an outsider, he would be safe traversing through the streets as the people lived in fear of the Greeks?
He wanted to make some double-edged comment about Zoser’s poor decisions, but he decided not too as he poured the water over the man’s wound. Just like he had predicted, the Egyptian man tried to move his leg away from Hazael, but the Israeli boy only pushed down harder as he alternated between pouring the water and wiping it away. He needed to see how deep the wound was and how big it had been. It took a moment to properly clean off all the of red liquid, but once Hazael could see the long gash; the boy couldn’t hold back the sharp intake of air. It was huge. The whole wound must have run up the length of Zoser’s calf, starting just above the ankles and ending just a few inches below the knee. Luckily for the man though it did not appear to be that shallow or wide. That would make it easier for Hazael to deal with.
Knowing that his reaction to the wound probably frightened the man, Hazael quickly covered up his own shock by hastily saying, “ It’s nothing, it’s nothing. I’ve seen worse on my dogs.” It was true, it would be easy for Hazael to apply some antiseptics and bandage it up. He had just been startled by the size of the wound. That’s all.
He was also somewhat surprised by Zoser’s sudden interruption. He wanted Hazael to talk about… his god? The boy did not hide the puzzled look on his face as he glanced up at Zoser. He couldn’t tell if the Egyptian was being serious or not. After all, why would a sand rat take interest in the lessons from the Torah, even if they were in excruciating pain? It was confusing and didn’t make sense... Then again, nothing about Zoser was logical to Hazael. So, he decided to indulge the man and speak of the reasons why the Israeli was aiding the man.
“ Yahweh tells us to help the stranger for we once were the stranger and we could very easily be them again.” He started off saying as he released his hold on the man’s leg and tried to reach over for a small vial of Hyssop, an antiseptic plant that was common in the African realm. However, as Hazael released his hold on the man’s knee, the blood began to pour out of the man’s wound anew. A string of curses came from under Hazael’s breath as he quickly set the Hyssop down and instead reached for a small strip of cloth that he had found.
Tying it tightly above the man’s knee so that it could act as a tourniquet, Hazael continued by saying, “ He reminds us that we are supposed to treat others with the same kindness and grace that we would hope for if we were separated from our homeland again. If we don’t do that, Yahweh will not listen when we ask him for help in our time of need.” Hazael was rambling at this point as he fiddled with the tourniquet, trying to keep it tight enough that Zoser’s leg will not be soaked in blood again. He was so focused on the task before him that he didn’t even notice the irony in what he was saying. The people of Israel, who had done this to Zoser, were not following the doctrine that Hazael was presenting as a simple way of life… but then again the scripture did label Egyptians as the enemy. Perhaps those who started the riot were justified in this? Especially after the pressure that Israel had been under the last ten years with Taengeans in their midst.
Hazael was more concerned with what was right in front of him though, not what was outside the door. So, he picked up the Hyssop again to clean the wound. Even though he knew by now that Zoser had asked him to speak about Yahweh so that he wouldn’t be able to focus on the pain, Hazael couldn’t do that any longer as he was not good at multitasking. Even though Hyssop was an excellent healing agent and was well known for this purpose, it was dangerous. Even in the diluted form, it could cause seizures and other sorts of horrible maladies if too much was given. Hazael needed to focus as if that were to happen, there was no way that the Israeli would be able to help him.
So, taking a page out of Zoser’s own book, Hazael tried to offer a similar distraction and he hoped that it was one that Zoser might be favorable too. After all, he didn’t know much about scholars, but the boy did know that they liked to debate. “ What about your gods? How do you keep track of them all?” Hazael asked as he quickly began to dab the Hyssop onto the wound, hoping that Zoser would have been able to hear him before the inevitable screams of pain erupted from his chest.
Hazael didn’t know what he had been expecting when he asked the man if he was Egyptian or not. The answer was already clear to see on his golden sand-rat skin. However, he could say for certain that he did not expect Zoser to also say that he was a scholar of all things -- forcing Hazael to physically pause for a moment at the sheer absurdity of the thought.
“ ... So you are not a soldier then?” Hazael asked cautiously after a long and thoroughly awkward pause. It was safe to say that the Israeli boy had not expected Zoser to involve himself in the arts that defined Hazael’s own culture. Instead, he had assumed that the man before him was deeply entrenched in the activities that bitter Judeans expected all Egyptians to take joy from; fighting, killing, destroying and everything else that had torn apart his homeland just a few decades prior. Hazael was not too outlandish for making this assumption either. Zoser held an imposing figure. Even as the man was sitting down, practically writhing in pain, Hazael could see that Zoser was tall and decently well-built. It wasn’t that outlandish to assume that the other man must have filled out that figure through the trials of war.
However, he had never considered that Zoser may have been a scholar instead. The notion just did not match with what Hazael knew of the sand rats to the south; that they were all brutish and thirsty for blood. It wasn’t a charge that they could deny either. Not after they have made Judea suffer over the years. The assumption that all Egyptians were like this was so commonplace in Israel that Hazael didn’t know how to approach this revelation that the man before him broke that mold. He wanted to accuse the man of being a liar. Say something about Zoser being a spy sent to remap the layout of Judea so an Egyptian invasion of the military-less country would be easier. It would be an easy accusation for Hazael to make and one that would be impossible to defend… plus not to mention it would make the twisting knot of hate in Hazael’s stomach entirely justifiable.
But that would be wrong.
The whole reason why Hazael was doing anything to help Zoser in the first place was that it was the right thing to do. It didn’t matter that it went against the cultural standards that the boy knew. Following Yahweh’s commands trumped any fears of Egyptians and their blood.
So in an effort to try and chase these angry thoughts from his mind as Hazael came closer to the man and started to tend to his wound, the boy asked, “ Why travel to Judea to learn? Surely, you have other universities in Egypt.” Although the words and tone were harsh from the sheer reluctance that Hazael had when it came to Zoser; these questions easily had to be the kindest things that the boy had said to the man since dragging him into his shop. After all, Hazael could have said any number of hateful things to the man, accusations of the damage that his people had caused to Hazael’s homeland; but the boy held his tongue and instead tried to take an interest in what an Egyptian was doing out here in the barren lands of Judea. Tried.
He had to admit though that it was strange that an Egyptian would travel to just see a university. It just didn’t make sense to him -- but that was probably because thus far in his life Hazael had nothing to do with the institution in Damascus. He wasn’t one of the boys in his family who dreamed of attending the university. As far as he was concerned, Haz would be lucky enough to visit Jorah or Benaiah when they grew old enough to walk through the building’s twisting corridors. Hazael knew that he did not belong there so he gave little thought to the university as a whole.
But could he be wrong?
He ignored Zoser when the man had countered that he had done nothing to set off the mob. Of course, the xenophobic boy didn’t believe him. Hazael knew his own people better than to assume that they would suddenly rise up for no reason. Not when the only justification that the Israelis needed was quite literally written across Zoser’s face. The man should have known better than to travel alone in Israel. Could a scholar be really foolish enough to believe that as an outsider, he would be safe traversing through the streets as the people lived in fear of the Greeks?
He wanted to make some double-edged comment about Zoser’s poor decisions, but he decided not too as he poured the water over the man’s wound. Just like he had predicted, the Egyptian man tried to move his leg away from Hazael, but the Israeli boy only pushed down harder as he alternated between pouring the water and wiping it away. He needed to see how deep the wound was and how big it had been. It took a moment to properly clean off all the of red liquid, but once Hazael could see the long gash; the boy couldn’t hold back the sharp intake of air. It was huge. The whole wound must have run up the length of Zoser’s calf, starting just above the ankles and ending just a few inches below the knee. Luckily for the man though it did not appear to be that shallow or wide. That would make it easier for Hazael to deal with.
Knowing that his reaction to the wound probably frightened the man, Hazael quickly covered up his own shock by hastily saying, “ It’s nothing, it’s nothing. I’ve seen worse on my dogs.” It was true, it would be easy for Hazael to apply some antiseptics and bandage it up. He had just been startled by the size of the wound. That’s all.
He was also somewhat surprised by Zoser’s sudden interruption. He wanted Hazael to talk about… his god? The boy did not hide the puzzled look on his face as he glanced up at Zoser. He couldn’t tell if the Egyptian was being serious or not. After all, why would a sand rat take interest in the lessons from the Torah, even if they were in excruciating pain? It was confusing and didn’t make sense... Then again, nothing about Zoser was logical to Hazael. So, he decided to indulge the man and speak of the reasons why the Israeli was aiding the man.
“ Yahweh tells us to help the stranger for we once were the stranger and we could very easily be them again.” He started off saying as he released his hold on the man’s leg and tried to reach over for a small vial of Hyssop, an antiseptic plant that was common in the African realm. However, as Hazael released his hold on the man’s knee, the blood began to pour out of the man’s wound anew. A string of curses came from under Hazael’s breath as he quickly set the Hyssop down and instead reached for a small strip of cloth that he had found.
Tying it tightly above the man’s knee so that it could act as a tourniquet, Hazael continued by saying, “ He reminds us that we are supposed to treat others with the same kindness and grace that we would hope for if we were separated from our homeland again. If we don’t do that, Yahweh will not listen when we ask him for help in our time of need.” Hazael was rambling at this point as he fiddled with the tourniquet, trying to keep it tight enough that Zoser’s leg will not be soaked in blood again. He was so focused on the task before him that he didn’t even notice the irony in what he was saying. The people of Israel, who had done this to Zoser, were not following the doctrine that Hazael was presenting as a simple way of life… but then again the scripture did label Egyptians as the enemy. Perhaps those who started the riot were justified in this? Especially after the pressure that Israel had been under the last ten years with Taengeans in their midst.
Hazael was more concerned with what was right in front of him though, not what was outside the door. So, he picked up the Hyssop again to clean the wound. Even though he knew by now that Zoser had asked him to speak about Yahweh so that he wouldn’t be able to focus on the pain, Hazael couldn’t do that any longer as he was not good at multitasking. Even though Hyssop was an excellent healing agent and was well known for this purpose, it was dangerous. Even in the diluted form, it could cause seizures and other sorts of horrible maladies if too much was given. Hazael needed to focus as if that were to happen, there was no way that the Israeli would be able to help him.
So, taking a page out of Zoser’s own book, Hazael tried to offer a similar distraction and he hoped that it was one that Zoser might be favorable too. After all, he didn’t know much about scholars, but the boy did know that they liked to debate. “ What about your gods? How do you keep track of them all?” Hazael asked as he quickly began to dab the Hyssop onto the wound, hoping that Zoser would have been able to hear him before the inevitable screams of pain erupted from his chest.
The sound that came from Zoser could only loosely be described as a laugh as the boy asked if he was a soldier. He shook his head a bit in response, but remembering that the lad's sight may be of an issue, he replied, voice thick with a blend of stress, pain, and emotion.
"No, no. Far from it. I hate fighting, blood," he all but stammered, making a disgusted sound as if to emphasize his aversion to it, shaking his head.
As a natural communicator, the language barrier had proven frustrating for him this entire journey. He had relied a lot on his hands to help fill in the blanks for the Judean words he did not know entirely. In fact, in both Coptic and Greek, he spoke with his hands for emphasis as well. Perhaps it was just a trait of his? He did not know, and now was not the time to think of such things. Still, talking to the boy was helping steady the unsteady feeling in his gut that came from fear of pain and death that lingered down a potential path before him.
"No, no University in Egypt....yet..."Zoser said, his voice shaking as the pain made his already horrid Judean even worse as he tried to coax his mind into translating even a simple sentence before him. He continually made the mistake of trying to watch the young man work and catching sight of jarringly pink flesh beneath is tan skin, and the nauseating drip of his own blood on the floor. He looked away again, this time just closing his eyes as he spoke, one hand gesturing to help him understand.
"I make one, with the Queen," he started, tapping his chest a moment, "University in Greece, in Judea....not in Egypt. I see them, I want to make ours...Library....many books, statues....for Egypt to learn."
He could have continued speaking but a groan of pain cut him off. He was prepared to keep going, just to fill the dead air between them with the distraction of shattered conversation when the sharp hiss of a shocked breath sent Zoser's eyes flying wide as he looked at the boy.
That was not a good sound.
"What? What is it??" Zoser asked, toeing the line of panic as the young man retied the makeshift tourniquet around his knee again and made a comment that it was not that bad. Zoser did not believe him for a single moment. The man's young face betrayed the experience of someone who knew how to heal.
A dark huff of laugh and a sad smile of dark humor crossed his features as he leaned his head back again, gritting his teeth as he murmured in Coptic under his breath, "Ah, yes. Not much difference there then, between treating Egyptians and dogs, eh?"
Zoser tilted his head back and tried to focus on breathing steadily, his chest shuddering every few breaths or so as his knuckles turned white against the grip he held on the arm of the chair. His eyes screwed shut to stop the potential tears from falling but also as he concentrated on understanding the young man's words.
Ah, right. Over a thousand years ago, the Judeans were overrun from their homeland. Zoser knew of the Twelve Sons and the ancient Judean kings against the rising empires to the east. They lost, they were driven away.
They were driven to Egypt for a time and enslaved. That was part of his own history, he knew, though not many outside of the scholars knew details of it. Yes, there was animosity that was borne of that bad blood, but to Zoser, he had hoped that a dozen centuries or so would soften the blow over time, especially with the benefits of trade, commerce, and knowledge shared in their contemporary period.
Well, then there was the War a decade ago, reopening wounds that freely bled. Judea had no military, he gathered - which seemed entirely bizarre to him, given the history of their people. Why not at least form a way to defend yourself, right? It was likely part of their faith he did not understand. Did their Yahweh want them to suffer? These questions lingered in his mind as he made a mental note to ensure there were a number of Judean texts or translations sent to Alexandria as they began to stock the shelves.
Zoser cracked an eye open, to peek down at the young man as he asked his own question, cautious at first.
"Will that talk make your god angry? I am in his home," he asked, half-serious and half-darkly humored, "I offend too much, do not want to offend more...but..."
Zoser took a deep breath, tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling, gasping and twitching occasionally as the man worked the hyssop onto the wounds.
"There are many...for there are many parts of the world....learning, death, food, law, sun, moon. The gods have...jobs? We...you want food, you find a baker. You want horse, find a horse man. Same for gods." Zoser held up a finger to indicate. "One man does not do all jobs. Each man, each job. Same for gods. Need things? Pray to the god with that job. Follow rules - pray, temple - make the gods happy." His hand gestured as if pointing to different people around the room, indicating his thought process.
The distraction helped. He was a lecturer by trade, after all, so even though his ability with the language was horrible, the direction of his logic was sound. After all, he was simply explaining the ways of the gods just as he had done with the young Queen around the age of six or seven, when her mind became more and more curious. It was simple logic, just a simple lesson, and it distracted him well enough, but soon the tedium of the constant sting and and pull on his leg began to leave him exasperated.
"How much more?"
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The sound that came from Zoser could only loosely be described as a laugh as the boy asked if he was a soldier. He shook his head a bit in response, but remembering that the lad's sight may be of an issue, he replied, voice thick with a blend of stress, pain, and emotion.
"No, no. Far from it. I hate fighting, blood," he all but stammered, making a disgusted sound as if to emphasize his aversion to it, shaking his head.
As a natural communicator, the language barrier had proven frustrating for him this entire journey. He had relied a lot on his hands to help fill in the blanks for the Judean words he did not know entirely. In fact, in both Coptic and Greek, he spoke with his hands for emphasis as well. Perhaps it was just a trait of his? He did not know, and now was not the time to think of such things. Still, talking to the boy was helping steady the unsteady feeling in his gut that came from fear of pain and death that lingered down a potential path before him.
"No, no University in Egypt....yet..."Zoser said, his voice shaking as the pain made his already horrid Judean even worse as he tried to coax his mind into translating even a simple sentence before him. He continually made the mistake of trying to watch the young man work and catching sight of jarringly pink flesh beneath is tan skin, and the nauseating drip of his own blood on the floor. He looked away again, this time just closing his eyes as he spoke, one hand gesturing to help him understand.
"I make one, with the Queen," he started, tapping his chest a moment, "University in Greece, in Judea....not in Egypt. I see them, I want to make ours...Library....many books, statues....for Egypt to learn."
He could have continued speaking but a groan of pain cut him off. He was prepared to keep going, just to fill the dead air between them with the distraction of shattered conversation when the sharp hiss of a shocked breath sent Zoser's eyes flying wide as he looked at the boy.
That was not a good sound.
"What? What is it??" Zoser asked, toeing the line of panic as the young man retied the makeshift tourniquet around his knee again and made a comment that it was not that bad. Zoser did not believe him for a single moment. The man's young face betrayed the experience of someone who knew how to heal.
A dark huff of laugh and a sad smile of dark humor crossed his features as he leaned his head back again, gritting his teeth as he murmured in Coptic under his breath, "Ah, yes. Not much difference there then, between treating Egyptians and dogs, eh?"
Zoser tilted his head back and tried to focus on breathing steadily, his chest shuddering every few breaths or so as his knuckles turned white against the grip he held on the arm of the chair. His eyes screwed shut to stop the potential tears from falling but also as he concentrated on understanding the young man's words.
Ah, right. Over a thousand years ago, the Judeans were overrun from their homeland. Zoser knew of the Twelve Sons and the ancient Judean kings against the rising empires to the east. They lost, they were driven away.
They were driven to Egypt for a time and enslaved. That was part of his own history, he knew, though not many outside of the scholars knew details of it. Yes, there was animosity that was borne of that bad blood, but to Zoser, he had hoped that a dozen centuries or so would soften the blow over time, especially with the benefits of trade, commerce, and knowledge shared in their contemporary period.
Well, then there was the War a decade ago, reopening wounds that freely bled. Judea had no military, he gathered - which seemed entirely bizarre to him, given the history of their people. Why not at least form a way to defend yourself, right? It was likely part of their faith he did not understand. Did their Yahweh want them to suffer? These questions lingered in his mind as he made a mental note to ensure there were a number of Judean texts or translations sent to Alexandria as they began to stock the shelves.
Zoser cracked an eye open, to peek down at the young man as he asked his own question, cautious at first.
"Will that talk make your god angry? I am in his home," he asked, half-serious and half-darkly humored, "I offend too much, do not want to offend more...but..."
Zoser took a deep breath, tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling, gasping and twitching occasionally as the man worked the hyssop onto the wounds.
"There are many...for there are many parts of the world....learning, death, food, law, sun, moon. The gods have...jobs? We...you want food, you find a baker. You want horse, find a horse man. Same for gods." Zoser held up a finger to indicate. "One man does not do all jobs. Each man, each job. Same for gods. Need things? Pray to the god with that job. Follow rules - pray, temple - make the gods happy." His hand gestured as if pointing to different people around the room, indicating his thought process.
The distraction helped. He was a lecturer by trade, after all, so even though his ability with the language was horrible, the direction of his logic was sound. After all, he was simply explaining the ways of the gods just as he had done with the young Queen around the age of six or seven, when her mind became more and more curious. It was simple logic, just a simple lesson, and it distracted him well enough, but soon the tedium of the constant sting and and pull on his leg began to leave him exasperated.
"How much more?"
The sound that came from Zoser could only loosely be described as a laugh as the boy asked if he was a soldier. He shook his head a bit in response, but remembering that the lad's sight may be of an issue, he replied, voice thick with a blend of stress, pain, and emotion.
"No, no. Far from it. I hate fighting, blood," he all but stammered, making a disgusted sound as if to emphasize his aversion to it, shaking his head.
As a natural communicator, the language barrier had proven frustrating for him this entire journey. He had relied a lot on his hands to help fill in the blanks for the Judean words he did not know entirely. In fact, in both Coptic and Greek, he spoke with his hands for emphasis as well. Perhaps it was just a trait of his? He did not know, and now was not the time to think of such things. Still, talking to the boy was helping steady the unsteady feeling in his gut that came from fear of pain and death that lingered down a potential path before him.
"No, no University in Egypt....yet..."Zoser said, his voice shaking as the pain made his already horrid Judean even worse as he tried to coax his mind into translating even a simple sentence before him. He continually made the mistake of trying to watch the young man work and catching sight of jarringly pink flesh beneath is tan skin, and the nauseating drip of his own blood on the floor. He looked away again, this time just closing his eyes as he spoke, one hand gesturing to help him understand.
"I make one, with the Queen," he started, tapping his chest a moment, "University in Greece, in Judea....not in Egypt. I see them, I want to make ours...Library....many books, statues....for Egypt to learn."
He could have continued speaking but a groan of pain cut him off. He was prepared to keep going, just to fill the dead air between them with the distraction of shattered conversation when the sharp hiss of a shocked breath sent Zoser's eyes flying wide as he looked at the boy.
That was not a good sound.
"What? What is it??" Zoser asked, toeing the line of panic as the young man retied the makeshift tourniquet around his knee again and made a comment that it was not that bad. Zoser did not believe him for a single moment. The man's young face betrayed the experience of someone who knew how to heal.
A dark huff of laugh and a sad smile of dark humor crossed his features as he leaned his head back again, gritting his teeth as he murmured in Coptic under his breath, "Ah, yes. Not much difference there then, between treating Egyptians and dogs, eh?"
Zoser tilted his head back and tried to focus on breathing steadily, his chest shuddering every few breaths or so as his knuckles turned white against the grip he held on the arm of the chair. His eyes screwed shut to stop the potential tears from falling but also as he concentrated on understanding the young man's words.
Ah, right. Over a thousand years ago, the Judeans were overrun from their homeland. Zoser knew of the Twelve Sons and the ancient Judean kings against the rising empires to the east. They lost, they were driven away.
They were driven to Egypt for a time and enslaved. That was part of his own history, he knew, though not many outside of the scholars knew details of it. Yes, there was animosity that was borne of that bad blood, but to Zoser, he had hoped that a dozen centuries or so would soften the blow over time, especially with the benefits of trade, commerce, and knowledge shared in their contemporary period.
Well, then there was the War a decade ago, reopening wounds that freely bled. Judea had no military, he gathered - which seemed entirely bizarre to him, given the history of their people. Why not at least form a way to defend yourself, right? It was likely part of their faith he did not understand. Did their Yahweh want them to suffer? These questions lingered in his mind as he made a mental note to ensure there were a number of Judean texts or translations sent to Alexandria as they began to stock the shelves.
Zoser cracked an eye open, to peek down at the young man as he asked his own question, cautious at first.
"Will that talk make your god angry? I am in his home," he asked, half-serious and half-darkly humored, "I offend too much, do not want to offend more...but..."
Zoser took a deep breath, tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling, gasping and twitching occasionally as the man worked the hyssop onto the wounds.
"There are many...for there are many parts of the world....learning, death, food, law, sun, moon. The gods have...jobs? We...you want food, you find a baker. You want horse, find a horse man. Same for gods." Zoser held up a finger to indicate. "One man does not do all jobs. Each man, each job. Same for gods. Need things? Pray to the god with that job. Follow rules - pray, temple - make the gods happy." His hand gestured as if pointing to different people around the room, indicating his thought process.
The distraction helped. He was a lecturer by trade, after all, so even though his ability with the language was horrible, the direction of his logic was sound. After all, he was simply explaining the ways of the gods just as he had done with the young Queen around the age of six or seven, when her mind became more and more curious. It was simple logic, just a simple lesson, and it distracted him well enough, but soon the tedium of the constant sting and and pull on his leg began to leave him exasperated.
"How much more?"
Hazael froze for a moment when Zoser mentioned that he was working with the Queen of Egypt. The Judean boy didn’t know much about her besides that she ascended at a young age. Perhaps she was no older than his brother Jorah? Not that it mattered all that much to the Judean boy. Before this moment, she was just some child who was the figurehead for the source of Judea’s misery. She was the face of a culture and people that not only brought so much torment to Israel directly through their plagues and wars, but also indirectly through the need of the Greeks to be in his city to keep them in check. For ten years the Greeks had been mucking up Israel and now people were dying. As far as Hazael was concerned, that little girl was at fault. If her country wasn’t so prideful and so eager to fight and slay, slaughter and wreak carnage; the Egyptians could have made peace with the Greeks, giving the Taengeans no reason to remain here. She had the power to end his people’s misery. She was their Queen. That little girl could pass some decree and make it so.
But she hadn’t. Now the Judeans continue to suffer.
Hazael pulled back for a moment, digesting the news that the man before him had access to someone who could end this misery. Granted, Hazael was far from an expert in Egyptian politics. He had no inkling that this little girl whose name was a curse in his city had no real power in her own. Not while her mother and husband puppeteering her influence like a fancy marionette. However, this wouldn’t have mattered much to the Israeli anyway as if Zoser decided to protest the amount of power she personally had, Hazael’s own ignorance would wave his defense of the Queen off as little more than gibberish. “You know the Queen?” He asked cautiously, for the first time taking care to speak slowly and clearly so that the man understood what he was saying. Up until this point, Zoser had been the only one attempting to cross the barrier that stood between them. The Israeli just couldn’t bother to care. At least not until it was important to him. “You can talk to her. Tell her to make peace with the Greeks so that us Judeans could cease in our suffering.” Although he was trying to keep his tone neutral so that Zoser could understand, Hazael couldn’t hide the raw emotion that was behind his plea that was bleeding through his words. He had been raised under the notion that both sides had the power to remove the Greeks by laying down their weapons and bringing an end to the tensions between the two countries. They were both too stubborn to do it. But now Zoser had seen how terrible things were in Israel and how angry the people were. His connection to the queen may bring an end to this. May.
The boy couldn’t even comprehend how on earth this could have happened. How was it that he, a nearly blind boy who had spent the last several years fearing that he had angered Yahweh somehow, ended up being the one that could plea for his people? Hazael couldn’t help, but think that this was his chance to redeem himself from whatever sin had brought his terrible eyesight down upon him. This had to be Yahweh showing that the boy was still in his favor. Right?
Hazael didn’t even stop to consider the possibility that not only was the being overconfident in his abilities to convey a convincing argument, but also Zoser’s willingness to listen. The older man was practically writhing in pain and again, the boy did not know that Hatshepsut did not have that kind of power. No matter how passionate his plea may be, it was bound to fall on deaf ears. Even Zoser was able to push through his pain long enough to listen to what the Judean was saying, there was no way that the Queen of all Egypt would care about the plight of one Judean City. The whole notion was simply unfathomable, but at least Hazael had tried. That was the best that he could do given the circumstances.
It around this point that Hazael came to his senses and went back to tending to the older man’s would and ensuring that the Hyssop was doing its job. He waved away the concerns and muttered comments from Zoser that were made in a language that he could not understand. It really wasn’t as bad as Hazael initially made it seem as the boy should have expected the tourniquet to fail at first with how large the wound was. It would take some time for the wound to start naturally sealing on its own as the wound was so massive. Hazael had forgotten this, explaining his shock, but now he had his wits again, he went ahead with the Hyssop, hoping that his body would be able to form a scab. If it couldn’t when Hazael would eventually release the tourniquet… well, there was one option to force the wound to stop bleeding. Cauterization. Hazael wanted to avoid this route though as if Zoser couldn’t hand a little sting and a little blood based on the pained way he grits his teeth and clung to the chair, there was no way he was going to be able to tolerate actual flames closing the wounds for them. Hopefully, they wouldn’t have to resort to that though.
For a moment as Hazael worked, things were quiet until Zoser brought the discussion back to the gods and religion. The Israeli scoffed at the notion of talking about the Egyptian’s false idols would somehow anger Yahweh. “I am not proclaiming them to be true, am I? We’ll be fine.” Hazael said with the slightest smirk, trying to set the sand rat at ease. It was a good thing that the Judean now needed to remain in Zoser’s good favor as he was not above admitting that he nearly tossed in a line about how the Egyptian was already a lost cause in the eyes of his god. No matter how true Hazael thought it was, that sort of thing would likely not sit well with a man who Hazael now expected to fight for Israel on their behalf… but also it didn’t hurt that the Israeli might be wrong. After all if his suspicion that Yahweh brought Zoser to Hazael to help free the Judeans from the Greeks like some cowardly, blind Moses; the sand rat couldn’t entirely be a lost cause now could he?
Either way, Hazael quietly listened to Zoser’s description of the Egyptian Pantheon as he rummaged around for bandages in his pile of supplies. In truth, it didn’t make much sense to Hazael, although he appreciated the effort that Zoser went through to explain it in the Judean tongue. At least that way Hazael could follow along with such eloquent phrases as ‘horse man’ and the whole notion the gods having jobs. It just seemed too complicated for the boy. How could all the Egyptians remember them all? It was easier to have one man for one job. Plus not to mention the whole other can of worms that this conversation opened with the notion of gods needing different jobs and all. “So you rely on your gods for things such as bread and horses instead of relying upon each other?” Hazael asked with one eyebrow raised as he found the bandages and began to start wrapping up Zoser’s leg. The wrappings were light at first as Hazael truly expected that he would need to change them again if the first time that he had removed the tourniquet had been any indication. These bandages were just to keep Zoser from fainting at the sight of how much blood Hazael expected to pour out at first. “With so many gods having a say, it seems to be that you Egyptians would have trouble establishing your own fates. Too many gods meddling in things. Yahweh creates us and then sets us free. It is up to us to secure all these things we need.” Hazael was blunt in his words, but it was just the simple truth in his eyes. It was up to every man to make their own decisions as to the lives they would lead. Having more that one god in the mixture was certainly a spell for disaster. However, if that’s what the sand rat wanted to hold his fate in, so be it. It was his decision. It was the wrong one, of course, but it was his choice nevertheless.
Hazael didn’t say anything when Zoser questioned how much longer it would be until he was done as the boy was finally starting to reach the top of the wound. It would be easier for him to just finish the job than to indulge questions like that. When the wrapping was finally complete, Hazael betrayed his idea of not telling Zoser that this might not be over yet by not securing the end of the bandages when he finally pulled away. As Hazael fully expected that Zoser would bleed through them, it would just be easier to leave it this way. But who knew, maybe the Sand Rat would surprise him?
“I’m going to release this now,” He said as the boy tugged at the cloth strip holding the blood back, and let it fall slack upon the floor “Do not move. It will need a moment to heal before you can stand on it.” Hazael also didn’t mention that it was probably best that Zoser stayed put until the distant shouting of the mobs died down as the night descended. As long as Zoser was here, keeping his leg elevated, he was safe as Hazael’s father was respected enough in the community that no one would break in to get to a sand rat hidden in the back. However, there was no telling what would happen if Zoser doubted the safety that this shop provided and decided to take his chances wherever he was staying as he already knew that all of Hazael’s experience relied on dogs, not humans.
Though then again, maybe Zoser was enjoying their chatter about gods and whatnot. If the man was really a scholar like he said he was, then surely he would not be opposed to a bit of theological discussion, among other things…
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Hazael froze for a moment when Zoser mentioned that he was working with the Queen of Egypt. The Judean boy didn’t know much about her besides that she ascended at a young age. Perhaps she was no older than his brother Jorah? Not that it mattered all that much to the Judean boy. Before this moment, she was just some child who was the figurehead for the source of Judea’s misery. She was the face of a culture and people that not only brought so much torment to Israel directly through their plagues and wars, but also indirectly through the need of the Greeks to be in his city to keep them in check. For ten years the Greeks had been mucking up Israel and now people were dying. As far as Hazael was concerned, that little girl was at fault. If her country wasn’t so prideful and so eager to fight and slay, slaughter and wreak carnage; the Egyptians could have made peace with the Greeks, giving the Taengeans no reason to remain here. She had the power to end his people’s misery. She was their Queen. That little girl could pass some decree and make it so.
But she hadn’t. Now the Judeans continue to suffer.
Hazael pulled back for a moment, digesting the news that the man before him had access to someone who could end this misery. Granted, Hazael was far from an expert in Egyptian politics. He had no inkling that this little girl whose name was a curse in his city had no real power in her own. Not while her mother and husband puppeteering her influence like a fancy marionette. However, this wouldn’t have mattered much to the Israeli anyway as if Zoser decided to protest the amount of power she personally had, Hazael’s own ignorance would wave his defense of the Queen off as little more than gibberish. “You know the Queen?” He asked cautiously, for the first time taking care to speak slowly and clearly so that the man understood what he was saying. Up until this point, Zoser had been the only one attempting to cross the barrier that stood between them. The Israeli just couldn’t bother to care. At least not until it was important to him. “You can talk to her. Tell her to make peace with the Greeks so that us Judeans could cease in our suffering.” Although he was trying to keep his tone neutral so that Zoser could understand, Hazael couldn’t hide the raw emotion that was behind his plea that was bleeding through his words. He had been raised under the notion that both sides had the power to remove the Greeks by laying down their weapons and bringing an end to the tensions between the two countries. They were both too stubborn to do it. But now Zoser had seen how terrible things were in Israel and how angry the people were. His connection to the queen may bring an end to this. May.
The boy couldn’t even comprehend how on earth this could have happened. How was it that he, a nearly blind boy who had spent the last several years fearing that he had angered Yahweh somehow, ended up being the one that could plea for his people? Hazael couldn’t help, but think that this was his chance to redeem himself from whatever sin had brought his terrible eyesight down upon him. This had to be Yahweh showing that the boy was still in his favor. Right?
Hazael didn’t even stop to consider the possibility that not only was the being overconfident in his abilities to convey a convincing argument, but also Zoser’s willingness to listen. The older man was practically writhing in pain and again, the boy did not know that Hatshepsut did not have that kind of power. No matter how passionate his plea may be, it was bound to fall on deaf ears. Even Zoser was able to push through his pain long enough to listen to what the Judean was saying, there was no way that the Queen of all Egypt would care about the plight of one Judean City. The whole notion was simply unfathomable, but at least Hazael had tried. That was the best that he could do given the circumstances.
It around this point that Hazael came to his senses and went back to tending to the older man’s would and ensuring that the Hyssop was doing its job. He waved away the concerns and muttered comments from Zoser that were made in a language that he could not understand. It really wasn’t as bad as Hazael initially made it seem as the boy should have expected the tourniquet to fail at first with how large the wound was. It would take some time for the wound to start naturally sealing on its own as the wound was so massive. Hazael had forgotten this, explaining his shock, but now he had his wits again, he went ahead with the Hyssop, hoping that his body would be able to form a scab. If it couldn’t when Hazael would eventually release the tourniquet… well, there was one option to force the wound to stop bleeding. Cauterization. Hazael wanted to avoid this route though as if Zoser couldn’t hand a little sting and a little blood based on the pained way he grits his teeth and clung to the chair, there was no way he was going to be able to tolerate actual flames closing the wounds for them. Hopefully, they wouldn’t have to resort to that though.
For a moment as Hazael worked, things were quiet until Zoser brought the discussion back to the gods and religion. The Israeli scoffed at the notion of talking about the Egyptian’s false idols would somehow anger Yahweh. “I am not proclaiming them to be true, am I? We’ll be fine.” Hazael said with the slightest smirk, trying to set the sand rat at ease. It was a good thing that the Judean now needed to remain in Zoser’s good favor as he was not above admitting that he nearly tossed in a line about how the Egyptian was already a lost cause in the eyes of his god. No matter how true Hazael thought it was, that sort of thing would likely not sit well with a man who Hazael now expected to fight for Israel on their behalf… but also it didn’t hurt that the Israeli might be wrong. After all if his suspicion that Yahweh brought Zoser to Hazael to help free the Judeans from the Greeks like some cowardly, blind Moses; the sand rat couldn’t entirely be a lost cause now could he?
Either way, Hazael quietly listened to Zoser’s description of the Egyptian Pantheon as he rummaged around for bandages in his pile of supplies. In truth, it didn’t make much sense to Hazael, although he appreciated the effort that Zoser went through to explain it in the Judean tongue. At least that way Hazael could follow along with such eloquent phrases as ‘horse man’ and the whole notion the gods having jobs. It just seemed too complicated for the boy. How could all the Egyptians remember them all? It was easier to have one man for one job. Plus not to mention the whole other can of worms that this conversation opened with the notion of gods needing different jobs and all. “So you rely on your gods for things such as bread and horses instead of relying upon each other?” Hazael asked with one eyebrow raised as he found the bandages and began to start wrapping up Zoser’s leg. The wrappings were light at first as Hazael truly expected that he would need to change them again if the first time that he had removed the tourniquet had been any indication. These bandages were just to keep Zoser from fainting at the sight of how much blood Hazael expected to pour out at first. “With so many gods having a say, it seems to be that you Egyptians would have trouble establishing your own fates. Too many gods meddling in things. Yahweh creates us and then sets us free. It is up to us to secure all these things we need.” Hazael was blunt in his words, but it was just the simple truth in his eyes. It was up to every man to make their own decisions as to the lives they would lead. Having more that one god in the mixture was certainly a spell for disaster. However, if that’s what the sand rat wanted to hold his fate in, so be it. It was his decision. It was the wrong one, of course, but it was his choice nevertheless.
Hazael didn’t say anything when Zoser questioned how much longer it would be until he was done as the boy was finally starting to reach the top of the wound. It would be easier for him to just finish the job than to indulge questions like that. When the wrapping was finally complete, Hazael betrayed his idea of not telling Zoser that this might not be over yet by not securing the end of the bandages when he finally pulled away. As Hazael fully expected that Zoser would bleed through them, it would just be easier to leave it this way. But who knew, maybe the Sand Rat would surprise him?
“I’m going to release this now,” He said as the boy tugged at the cloth strip holding the blood back, and let it fall slack upon the floor “Do not move. It will need a moment to heal before you can stand on it.” Hazael also didn’t mention that it was probably best that Zoser stayed put until the distant shouting of the mobs died down as the night descended. As long as Zoser was here, keeping his leg elevated, he was safe as Hazael’s father was respected enough in the community that no one would break in to get to a sand rat hidden in the back. However, there was no telling what would happen if Zoser doubted the safety that this shop provided and decided to take his chances wherever he was staying as he already knew that all of Hazael’s experience relied on dogs, not humans.
Though then again, maybe Zoser was enjoying their chatter about gods and whatnot. If the man was really a scholar like he said he was, then surely he would not be opposed to a bit of theological discussion, among other things…
Hazael froze for a moment when Zoser mentioned that he was working with the Queen of Egypt. The Judean boy didn’t know much about her besides that she ascended at a young age. Perhaps she was no older than his brother Jorah? Not that it mattered all that much to the Judean boy. Before this moment, she was just some child who was the figurehead for the source of Judea’s misery. She was the face of a culture and people that not only brought so much torment to Israel directly through their plagues and wars, but also indirectly through the need of the Greeks to be in his city to keep them in check. For ten years the Greeks had been mucking up Israel and now people were dying. As far as Hazael was concerned, that little girl was at fault. If her country wasn’t so prideful and so eager to fight and slay, slaughter and wreak carnage; the Egyptians could have made peace with the Greeks, giving the Taengeans no reason to remain here. She had the power to end his people’s misery. She was their Queen. That little girl could pass some decree and make it so.
But she hadn’t. Now the Judeans continue to suffer.
Hazael pulled back for a moment, digesting the news that the man before him had access to someone who could end this misery. Granted, Hazael was far from an expert in Egyptian politics. He had no inkling that this little girl whose name was a curse in his city had no real power in her own. Not while her mother and husband puppeteering her influence like a fancy marionette. However, this wouldn’t have mattered much to the Israeli anyway as if Zoser decided to protest the amount of power she personally had, Hazael’s own ignorance would wave his defense of the Queen off as little more than gibberish. “You know the Queen?” He asked cautiously, for the first time taking care to speak slowly and clearly so that the man understood what he was saying. Up until this point, Zoser had been the only one attempting to cross the barrier that stood between them. The Israeli just couldn’t bother to care. At least not until it was important to him. “You can talk to her. Tell her to make peace with the Greeks so that us Judeans could cease in our suffering.” Although he was trying to keep his tone neutral so that Zoser could understand, Hazael couldn’t hide the raw emotion that was behind his plea that was bleeding through his words. He had been raised under the notion that both sides had the power to remove the Greeks by laying down their weapons and bringing an end to the tensions between the two countries. They were both too stubborn to do it. But now Zoser had seen how terrible things were in Israel and how angry the people were. His connection to the queen may bring an end to this. May.
The boy couldn’t even comprehend how on earth this could have happened. How was it that he, a nearly blind boy who had spent the last several years fearing that he had angered Yahweh somehow, ended up being the one that could plea for his people? Hazael couldn’t help, but think that this was his chance to redeem himself from whatever sin had brought his terrible eyesight down upon him. This had to be Yahweh showing that the boy was still in his favor. Right?
Hazael didn’t even stop to consider the possibility that not only was the being overconfident in his abilities to convey a convincing argument, but also Zoser’s willingness to listen. The older man was practically writhing in pain and again, the boy did not know that Hatshepsut did not have that kind of power. No matter how passionate his plea may be, it was bound to fall on deaf ears. Even Zoser was able to push through his pain long enough to listen to what the Judean was saying, there was no way that the Queen of all Egypt would care about the plight of one Judean City. The whole notion was simply unfathomable, but at least Hazael had tried. That was the best that he could do given the circumstances.
It around this point that Hazael came to his senses and went back to tending to the older man’s would and ensuring that the Hyssop was doing its job. He waved away the concerns and muttered comments from Zoser that were made in a language that he could not understand. It really wasn’t as bad as Hazael initially made it seem as the boy should have expected the tourniquet to fail at first with how large the wound was. It would take some time for the wound to start naturally sealing on its own as the wound was so massive. Hazael had forgotten this, explaining his shock, but now he had his wits again, he went ahead with the Hyssop, hoping that his body would be able to form a scab. If it couldn’t when Hazael would eventually release the tourniquet… well, there was one option to force the wound to stop bleeding. Cauterization. Hazael wanted to avoid this route though as if Zoser couldn’t hand a little sting and a little blood based on the pained way he grits his teeth and clung to the chair, there was no way he was going to be able to tolerate actual flames closing the wounds for them. Hopefully, they wouldn’t have to resort to that though.
For a moment as Hazael worked, things were quiet until Zoser brought the discussion back to the gods and religion. The Israeli scoffed at the notion of talking about the Egyptian’s false idols would somehow anger Yahweh. “I am not proclaiming them to be true, am I? We’ll be fine.” Hazael said with the slightest smirk, trying to set the sand rat at ease. It was a good thing that the Judean now needed to remain in Zoser’s good favor as he was not above admitting that he nearly tossed in a line about how the Egyptian was already a lost cause in the eyes of his god. No matter how true Hazael thought it was, that sort of thing would likely not sit well with a man who Hazael now expected to fight for Israel on their behalf… but also it didn’t hurt that the Israeli might be wrong. After all if his suspicion that Yahweh brought Zoser to Hazael to help free the Judeans from the Greeks like some cowardly, blind Moses; the sand rat couldn’t entirely be a lost cause now could he?
Either way, Hazael quietly listened to Zoser’s description of the Egyptian Pantheon as he rummaged around for bandages in his pile of supplies. In truth, it didn’t make much sense to Hazael, although he appreciated the effort that Zoser went through to explain it in the Judean tongue. At least that way Hazael could follow along with such eloquent phrases as ‘horse man’ and the whole notion the gods having jobs. It just seemed too complicated for the boy. How could all the Egyptians remember them all? It was easier to have one man for one job. Plus not to mention the whole other can of worms that this conversation opened with the notion of gods needing different jobs and all. “So you rely on your gods for things such as bread and horses instead of relying upon each other?” Hazael asked with one eyebrow raised as he found the bandages and began to start wrapping up Zoser’s leg. The wrappings were light at first as Hazael truly expected that he would need to change them again if the first time that he had removed the tourniquet had been any indication. These bandages were just to keep Zoser from fainting at the sight of how much blood Hazael expected to pour out at first. “With so many gods having a say, it seems to be that you Egyptians would have trouble establishing your own fates. Too many gods meddling in things. Yahweh creates us and then sets us free. It is up to us to secure all these things we need.” Hazael was blunt in his words, but it was just the simple truth in his eyes. It was up to every man to make their own decisions as to the lives they would lead. Having more that one god in the mixture was certainly a spell for disaster. However, if that’s what the sand rat wanted to hold his fate in, so be it. It was his decision. It was the wrong one, of course, but it was his choice nevertheless.
Hazael didn’t say anything when Zoser questioned how much longer it would be until he was done as the boy was finally starting to reach the top of the wound. It would be easier for him to just finish the job than to indulge questions like that. When the wrapping was finally complete, Hazael betrayed his idea of not telling Zoser that this might not be over yet by not securing the end of the bandages when he finally pulled away. As Hazael fully expected that Zoser would bleed through them, it would just be easier to leave it this way. But who knew, maybe the Sand Rat would surprise him?
“I’m going to release this now,” He said as the boy tugged at the cloth strip holding the blood back, and let it fall slack upon the floor “Do not move. It will need a moment to heal before you can stand on it.” Hazael also didn’t mention that it was probably best that Zoser stayed put until the distant shouting of the mobs died down as the night descended. As long as Zoser was here, keeping his leg elevated, he was safe as Hazael’s father was respected enough in the community that no one would break in to get to a sand rat hidden in the back. However, there was no telling what would happen if Zoser doubted the safety that this shop provided and decided to take his chances wherever he was staying as he already knew that all of Hazael’s experience relied on dogs, not humans.
Though then again, maybe Zoser was enjoying their chatter about gods and whatnot. If the man was really a scholar like he said he was, then surely he would not be opposed to a bit of theological discussion, among other things…
Whether it was the significant loss of blood or his mind trying to numb itself to the panic and pain that had bombarded it in the past hour, Zoser noted the feeling of lightheadedness that fluttered behind closed eyes. It had not descended into overwhelming dizziness....yet. That, he thoguht, would come likely the moment he tried to stand. He took a moment to swallow and then inhale a few deep breaths to replace the air he lost while running through the streets and then being tended to in this dim refuge.
With that, it felt as if he could hear the boy's words more clearly, and he opened his eyes again to see his face, almost as if watching his lips would make the foreign words make more sense.
"Yes, I know her," Zoser echoed, confirming. His brows furrowed a bit as he tried to make sense of the request. It was as if this boy thought that Egypt was singlehandedly causing the turmoil in his city. If anything, Egypt had no hand in this - the Israelite rage and fear was the source of it's own downfall, in his opinion. It seemed the only sin in this land was to not be from this land, and anyone who fell into that category would face their wrath - as he had.
"It has been ten years since war, boy," Zoser noted, before hissing at the sting of the hyssop on his leg. Shaking his head and raising a hand as if to stop the boy from protesting his words, Zoser cut him off by adding, "But, I will speak of Judea...to the Queen. I will."
Whether or not he made it home, it seemed, was still to be determined. Yet, with the promise an large and aching scar that would form on his leg as a souvenir, he was certain that he would be able to recount that and what the boy asked as soon as he returned.
The distraction of talking about something familiar, like the gods and goddesses of his homeland, was cut short it felt, as the pain of the boy's working on his leg became too distracting. So much so, that he nearly missed what the boy asked about the gods having jobs.
"No, no, not for bread...but for Sun, Death, Love...those are god-jobs," Zoser tried to clarify, a break in the pain making his words a bit clearer, "How can a god be both of war and love? Of death and life? Of Sun and Moon? Too different to be all. So, many gods - many jobs. Same in Greece. Only different in Judea. Not saying 'no god' but...one of many more."
Everything he said, as far as he was concerned was correct. Zoser, as far as he was concerned, could believe that there were different gods for different places. Those in the mountains did not need gods of the sea, and those by the sea did not need gods of stone. Greece and Egypt had many gods, some similar and some very different...but they all had their own names and their own duties. Zoser, in his deep thinking moments in the quiet of his study with a cup of wine in hand, had pondered many of these things. Who was to say that the wars of Egypt and Greece were not just between men, but also between the wills of their gods?
Gods in Greece fought one another often, playing cruel tricks and using the mortals below as pawns in their games. Jealousy and war happened between them and others paid the cost for it.
Why was Judea the outlier here? Zoser tried to imagine a world where the Greeks only worshipped Zeus but none of the others, or that the Egyptians only worshipped Ra, and none of the others. Granted, in Egypt, many of the gods worked to kill one another to rule over all - is that what had happened in Judea? Had Yahweh removed siblings from potentially gaining power?
Having one god for all things did not make much sense to Zoser, but it might serve as an explanation as to the confusion of the people, in his mind. It was as if he were to take on all the duties of building the Library himself, from organizing the books to painting the walls to laying each individual stone to doing the math to ensure the roof stayed in place over it all. It was too much for one person - so, to be all things to a people surely was too much for one god, right?
If he had the words in Hebrew, he would have expressed that, but by the time he considered voicing it, the boy issued his warning to not move as he tied the last of the cloth around his calf.
"Thank you," Zoser said, the words quiet on his tongue but genuine in tone, as he glanced towards the door. The streets were still loud but the sun began to hang low. If they were nearing mealtime, then the Judeans would once again hide-away in their homes for such a time and, hopefully, forget about him long enough so that he could make his way back to the docks and rest aboard the ship until it set sail in the morning.
"Good by dark?" Zoser asked, gesturing to his leg and then tilting his head towards the door. Hopefully, the boy would catch his drift. It seemed that, unless he wanted to pass out on the floor as it was, he would need to wait.
At that thought, he sighed, blowing the heaving breath out through his lips and settling his shoulders.
Now that the wound was no longer being pestered with, his thoughts clarified and the words came easily to him.
"I was a guest in Damascus, at dinner," Zoser started, slowly, making sure not to ruin this short tale with a mistaken word, "There was a girl and a small dog." The sound of the dogs in the yard had brought on this thought, "Are your dogs big or small?"
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This character is currently a work in progress.
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Whether it was the significant loss of blood or his mind trying to numb itself to the panic and pain that had bombarded it in the past hour, Zoser noted the feeling of lightheadedness that fluttered behind closed eyes. It had not descended into overwhelming dizziness....yet. That, he thoguht, would come likely the moment he tried to stand. He took a moment to swallow and then inhale a few deep breaths to replace the air he lost while running through the streets and then being tended to in this dim refuge.
With that, it felt as if he could hear the boy's words more clearly, and he opened his eyes again to see his face, almost as if watching his lips would make the foreign words make more sense.
"Yes, I know her," Zoser echoed, confirming. His brows furrowed a bit as he tried to make sense of the request. It was as if this boy thought that Egypt was singlehandedly causing the turmoil in his city. If anything, Egypt had no hand in this - the Israelite rage and fear was the source of it's own downfall, in his opinion. It seemed the only sin in this land was to not be from this land, and anyone who fell into that category would face their wrath - as he had.
"It has been ten years since war, boy," Zoser noted, before hissing at the sting of the hyssop on his leg. Shaking his head and raising a hand as if to stop the boy from protesting his words, Zoser cut him off by adding, "But, I will speak of Judea...to the Queen. I will."
Whether or not he made it home, it seemed, was still to be determined. Yet, with the promise an large and aching scar that would form on his leg as a souvenir, he was certain that he would be able to recount that and what the boy asked as soon as he returned.
The distraction of talking about something familiar, like the gods and goddesses of his homeland, was cut short it felt, as the pain of the boy's working on his leg became too distracting. So much so, that he nearly missed what the boy asked about the gods having jobs.
"No, no, not for bread...but for Sun, Death, Love...those are god-jobs," Zoser tried to clarify, a break in the pain making his words a bit clearer, "How can a god be both of war and love? Of death and life? Of Sun and Moon? Too different to be all. So, many gods - many jobs. Same in Greece. Only different in Judea. Not saying 'no god' but...one of many more."
Everything he said, as far as he was concerned was correct. Zoser, as far as he was concerned, could believe that there were different gods for different places. Those in the mountains did not need gods of the sea, and those by the sea did not need gods of stone. Greece and Egypt had many gods, some similar and some very different...but they all had their own names and their own duties. Zoser, in his deep thinking moments in the quiet of his study with a cup of wine in hand, had pondered many of these things. Who was to say that the wars of Egypt and Greece were not just between men, but also between the wills of their gods?
Gods in Greece fought one another often, playing cruel tricks and using the mortals below as pawns in their games. Jealousy and war happened between them and others paid the cost for it.
Why was Judea the outlier here? Zoser tried to imagine a world where the Greeks only worshipped Zeus but none of the others, or that the Egyptians only worshipped Ra, and none of the others. Granted, in Egypt, many of the gods worked to kill one another to rule over all - is that what had happened in Judea? Had Yahweh removed siblings from potentially gaining power?
Having one god for all things did not make much sense to Zoser, but it might serve as an explanation as to the confusion of the people, in his mind. It was as if he were to take on all the duties of building the Library himself, from organizing the books to painting the walls to laying each individual stone to doing the math to ensure the roof stayed in place over it all. It was too much for one person - so, to be all things to a people surely was too much for one god, right?
If he had the words in Hebrew, he would have expressed that, but by the time he considered voicing it, the boy issued his warning to not move as he tied the last of the cloth around his calf.
"Thank you," Zoser said, the words quiet on his tongue but genuine in tone, as he glanced towards the door. The streets were still loud but the sun began to hang low. If they were nearing mealtime, then the Judeans would once again hide-away in their homes for such a time and, hopefully, forget about him long enough so that he could make his way back to the docks and rest aboard the ship until it set sail in the morning.
"Good by dark?" Zoser asked, gesturing to his leg and then tilting his head towards the door. Hopefully, the boy would catch his drift. It seemed that, unless he wanted to pass out on the floor as it was, he would need to wait.
At that thought, he sighed, blowing the heaving breath out through his lips and settling his shoulders.
Now that the wound was no longer being pestered with, his thoughts clarified and the words came easily to him.
"I was a guest in Damascus, at dinner," Zoser started, slowly, making sure not to ruin this short tale with a mistaken word, "There was a girl and a small dog." The sound of the dogs in the yard had brought on this thought, "Are your dogs big or small?"
Whether it was the significant loss of blood or his mind trying to numb itself to the panic and pain that had bombarded it in the past hour, Zoser noted the feeling of lightheadedness that fluttered behind closed eyes. It had not descended into overwhelming dizziness....yet. That, he thoguht, would come likely the moment he tried to stand. He took a moment to swallow and then inhale a few deep breaths to replace the air he lost while running through the streets and then being tended to in this dim refuge.
With that, it felt as if he could hear the boy's words more clearly, and he opened his eyes again to see his face, almost as if watching his lips would make the foreign words make more sense.
"Yes, I know her," Zoser echoed, confirming. His brows furrowed a bit as he tried to make sense of the request. It was as if this boy thought that Egypt was singlehandedly causing the turmoil in his city. If anything, Egypt had no hand in this - the Israelite rage and fear was the source of it's own downfall, in his opinion. It seemed the only sin in this land was to not be from this land, and anyone who fell into that category would face their wrath - as he had.
"It has been ten years since war, boy," Zoser noted, before hissing at the sting of the hyssop on his leg. Shaking his head and raising a hand as if to stop the boy from protesting his words, Zoser cut him off by adding, "But, I will speak of Judea...to the Queen. I will."
Whether or not he made it home, it seemed, was still to be determined. Yet, with the promise an large and aching scar that would form on his leg as a souvenir, he was certain that he would be able to recount that and what the boy asked as soon as he returned.
The distraction of talking about something familiar, like the gods and goddesses of his homeland, was cut short it felt, as the pain of the boy's working on his leg became too distracting. So much so, that he nearly missed what the boy asked about the gods having jobs.
"No, no, not for bread...but for Sun, Death, Love...those are god-jobs," Zoser tried to clarify, a break in the pain making his words a bit clearer, "How can a god be both of war and love? Of death and life? Of Sun and Moon? Too different to be all. So, many gods - many jobs. Same in Greece. Only different in Judea. Not saying 'no god' but...one of many more."
Everything he said, as far as he was concerned was correct. Zoser, as far as he was concerned, could believe that there were different gods for different places. Those in the mountains did not need gods of the sea, and those by the sea did not need gods of stone. Greece and Egypt had many gods, some similar and some very different...but they all had their own names and their own duties. Zoser, in his deep thinking moments in the quiet of his study with a cup of wine in hand, had pondered many of these things. Who was to say that the wars of Egypt and Greece were not just between men, but also between the wills of their gods?
Gods in Greece fought one another often, playing cruel tricks and using the mortals below as pawns in their games. Jealousy and war happened between them and others paid the cost for it.
Why was Judea the outlier here? Zoser tried to imagine a world where the Greeks only worshipped Zeus but none of the others, or that the Egyptians only worshipped Ra, and none of the others. Granted, in Egypt, many of the gods worked to kill one another to rule over all - is that what had happened in Judea? Had Yahweh removed siblings from potentially gaining power?
Having one god for all things did not make much sense to Zoser, but it might serve as an explanation as to the confusion of the people, in his mind. It was as if he were to take on all the duties of building the Library himself, from organizing the books to painting the walls to laying each individual stone to doing the math to ensure the roof stayed in place over it all. It was too much for one person - so, to be all things to a people surely was too much for one god, right?
If he had the words in Hebrew, he would have expressed that, but by the time he considered voicing it, the boy issued his warning to not move as he tied the last of the cloth around his calf.
"Thank you," Zoser said, the words quiet on his tongue but genuine in tone, as he glanced towards the door. The streets were still loud but the sun began to hang low. If they were nearing mealtime, then the Judeans would once again hide-away in their homes for such a time and, hopefully, forget about him long enough so that he could make his way back to the docks and rest aboard the ship until it set sail in the morning.
"Good by dark?" Zoser asked, gesturing to his leg and then tilting his head towards the door. Hopefully, the boy would catch his drift. It seemed that, unless he wanted to pass out on the floor as it was, he would need to wait.
At that thought, he sighed, blowing the heaving breath out through his lips and settling his shoulders.
Now that the wound was no longer being pestered with, his thoughts clarified and the words came easily to him.
"I was a guest in Damascus, at dinner," Zoser started, slowly, making sure not to ruin this short tale with a mistaken word, "There was a girl and a small dog." The sound of the dogs in the yard had brought on this thought, "Are your dogs big or small?"
Zoser could describe the function of the multiple gods in any number of ways, but Hazael would still be skeptical of it. As far as he knew, It festered a reliance on the deities and made it far too easy to blame them for any shortcomings in life. Have a particularly bad harvest? Lay the fault with the god of agriculture. Were you stiffed by an unscrupulous merchant? It would be easier to curse the god’s name than recognizing one’s own misguiding that allowed them to be swindled in the first place. To the young Israeli boy, who was struggling just as greatly with wrapping his head around the concept of Egypt’s gods as Zoser was with his own, this system of having gods for everything seemed to be the perfect recipe for a lack of accountability for one’s own actions. After all, when there was only Yahweh, one was forced to reflect upon themselves for any misfortunes and put in the work themselves to correct it.
Judea might be strange in the eyes of the rest of the world as they were the only one with one god -- or at least only in the known part of it, but Hazael didn’t see that as a hindrance like Zoser might have. In fact, he would say that it was a strength for them and it made the people as a whole hard-working and resistant. After all, Judea was not Egypt. They did not have some grand Nile flowing through this country’s heart. His people had followed Abraham into the desert and made their way of life here, despite the terrible odds stacked against them. That would have never been possible if they had to spend their time praying to ten different gods in order to get one task done. Yahweh had made them self-reliant. Gave them a way to self-govern without the need for a King like all other kingdoms. He taught his people, like a kind and loving father, how they must be able to care for themselves and take responsibility for their own fates.
This concept was something that Hazael tried to convey to Zoser after the man finished talking about how there were different gods in the land of the Nile. “What is left for the mortals to do then if there is a god for everything? Seems like it would easy to forget and cause offense. It is easier with one god. One set of rules to follow, one man to keep happy.” Given that Hazael was both far from being a scholar on theology -- or really of any type like Zoser was-- and also being preoccupied with the injury on the other man’s leg, he wouldn’t have been surprised if he had done a terrible job of showing the man what he thought the benefits of living under one god were. It was a rather difficult thing for the young man to accomplish, given that the concept of multiple gods was just so foreign to him that the mere thought of comparing the two religious systems almost felt blasphemous to him. There couldn’t be more than one god, it was just that ridiculous of a concept for him.
Shaking these thoughts out of his head, the young man decided instead to focus on the injured leg before him. Especially as he was now releasing the tourniquet. Hazael knew that if the measures he had taken anywhere had been faulty, this man could very easily bleed out on the shop floor. Hazael was not keen on letting this happen for multiple reasons so as he removed the cloth, the young man could not move his gaze from the wound, watching the bandage for any signs of excessive bleeding. He knew that there would be some surely, that was going to have to be part of the healing process to let the wound scab over, but the young man would surely be able to get a gauge on if the bleeding was too much and a new healing route would need to be taken.
After a few tense moments, the white cloth remained pristine and Hazael released the bated breath that he was holding. It seemed to be that Zoser was going to make it out of this in one piece, after all. That was an immense relief to the young man as he had not been entirely sure how he was going to explain to his father that there was a dead man in the shop if that came to pass. That would have been an interesting conversation, to say the least -- but Hazael was lucky in the fact that his father would never need to know as he nodded in assent to the notion that Zoser would be gone by the time the evening sun turned to darkness. In truth, Haz would want this man on his way earlier than that so that he still might be able to find his way home before the sun truly set. After all, it was difficult enough for him to traverse this city in the daytime, it was going to be an absolute nightmare in the darkness.
However, he was not going to rush Zoser out. Not while the jeering of the mob was still elsewhere in the city, loud enough for them to hear. In truth, Haz had his doubts that they would all retire when the sky became dark. The fires within them were well-stocked to burn bright into the night, but the numbers should at least lessen. That much was basically a given, but Zoser would still have to be careful in his journey back to the docks.
The boy did perk up a bit when dogs were mentioned and Zoser specifically asked about his hounds. Hazael didn’t often get a chance to talk about them, with him being such a social pariah at home, so a small smile crossed his face as he described the main group of his hounds to Zoser, “In between, they’re all mostly Bracha’s height” Hazael said as he turned to face the interior of the shop and gave a short whistle to rouse his dog from wherever she had been sleeping. The ever-loyal hound was up in a flash and trotting over to the side of the Judean boy. When she was close by, it was easy to see that the dog reached just above his knee in height, making it certainly bigger than a lap dog, but not big enough that Hazael would call them so as well. Not when he had seen larger hounds wandering the streets. “Some are bigger, some are shorter… But she’s normally the mother so most are her size.” He explained with a small shrug. Bracha was good at producing litters of the certain quality that he sought for his little business so it would make sense that she was the mother for most of them.
What really piqued his interest though was the mention of another owning dogs, especially in Damascus. The creatures were not treated in the highest regard in the religious texts that all Judeans lived by so he was a bit surprised to hear that he wasn’t the only one. Little did Hazael know that this girl actually had one of Bracha’s pups so surely Zoser might see a resemblance to the little pup in the bigger dog at the young man’s side. “Really, what is her name? Many people don’t owe dogs here so it is rare to hear of another.” He explained with a touch too much excitement. After all, as far as he knew, Maeri was a girl from Judah, not Damascus. There was no reason for him to make the assumption that she would be dining with an Egyptian so far away from home, but once he did learn… Well, Hazael was certainly bound to have quite a few questions as he had no idea that she was in the middle of marriage arrangements with the Jaffe family.
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Check out their information page here.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
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Zoser could describe the function of the multiple gods in any number of ways, but Hazael would still be skeptical of it. As far as he knew, It festered a reliance on the deities and made it far too easy to blame them for any shortcomings in life. Have a particularly bad harvest? Lay the fault with the god of agriculture. Were you stiffed by an unscrupulous merchant? It would be easier to curse the god’s name than recognizing one’s own misguiding that allowed them to be swindled in the first place. To the young Israeli boy, who was struggling just as greatly with wrapping his head around the concept of Egypt’s gods as Zoser was with his own, this system of having gods for everything seemed to be the perfect recipe for a lack of accountability for one’s own actions. After all, when there was only Yahweh, one was forced to reflect upon themselves for any misfortunes and put in the work themselves to correct it.
Judea might be strange in the eyes of the rest of the world as they were the only one with one god -- or at least only in the known part of it, but Hazael didn’t see that as a hindrance like Zoser might have. In fact, he would say that it was a strength for them and it made the people as a whole hard-working and resistant. After all, Judea was not Egypt. They did not have some grand Nile flowing through this country’s heart. His people had followed Abraham into the desert and made their way of life here, despite the terrible odds stacked against them. That would have never been possible if they had to spend their time praying to ten different gods in order to get one task done. Yahweh had made them self-reliant. Gave them a way to self-govern without the need for a King like all other kingdoms. He taught his people, like a kind and loving father, how they must be able to care for themselves and take responsibility for their own fates.
This concept was something that Hazael tried to convey to Zoser after the man finished talking about how there were different gods in the land of the Nile. “What is left for the mortals to do then if there is a god for everything? Seems like it would easy to forget and cause offense. It is easier with one god. One set of rules to follow, one man to keep happy.” Given that Hazael was both far from being a scholar on theology -- or really of any type like Zoser was-- and also being preoccupied with the injury on the other man’s leg, he wouldn’t have been surprised if he had done a terrible job of showing the man what he thought the benefits of living under one god were. It was a rather difficult thing for the young man to accomplish, given that the concept of multiple gods was just so foreign to him that the mere thought of comparing the two religious systems almost felt blasphemous to him. There couldn’t be more than one god, it was just that ridiculous of a concept for him.
Shaking these thoughts out of his head, the young man decided instead to focus on the injured leg before him. Especially as he was now releasing the tourniquet. Hazael knew that if the measures he had taken anywhere had been faulty, this man could very easily bleed out on the shop floor. Hazael was not keen on letting this happen for multiple reasons so as he removed the cloth, the young man could not move his gaze from the wound, watching the bandage for any signs of excessive bleeding. He knew that there would be some surely, that was going to have to be part of the healing process to let the wound scab over, but the young man would surely be able to get a gauge on if the bleeding was too much and a new healing route would need to be taken.
After a few tense moments, the white cloth remained pristine and Hazael released the bated breath that he was holding. It seemed to be that Zoser was going to make it out of this in one piece, after all. That was an immense relief to the young man as he had not been entirely sure how he was going to explain to his father that there was a dead man in the shop if that came to pass. That would have been an interesting conversation, to say the least -- but Hazael was lucky in the fact that his father would never need to know as he nodded in assent to the notion that Zoser would be gone by the time the evening sun turned to darkness. In truth, Haz would want this man on his way earlier than that so that he still might be able to find his way home before the sun truly set. After all, it was difficult enough for him to traverse this city in the daytime, it was going to be an absolute nightmare in the darkness.
However, he was not going to rush Zoser out. Not while the jeering of the mob was still elsewhere in the city, loud enough for them to hear. In truth, Haz had his doubts that they would all retire when the sky became dark. The fires within them were well-stocked to burn bright into the night, but the numbers should at least lessen. That much was basically a given, but Zoser would still have to be careful in his journey back to the docks.
The boy did perk up a bit when dogs were mentioned and Zoser specifically asked about his hounds. Hazael didn’t often get a chance to talk about them, with him being such a social pariah at home, so a small smile crossed his face as he described the main group of his hounds to Zoser, “In between, they’re all mostly Bracha’s height” Hazael said as he turned to face the interior of the shop and gave a short whistle to rouse his dog from wherever she had been sleeping. The ever-loyal hound was up in a flash and trotting over to the side of the Judean boy. When she was close by, it was easy to see that the dog reached just above his knee in height, making it certainly bigger than a lap dog, but not big enough that Hazael would call them so as well. Not when he had seen larger hounds wandering the streets. “Some are bigger, some are shorter… But she’s normally the mother so most are her size.” He explained with a small shrug. Bracha was good at producing litters of the certain quality that he sought for his little business so it would make sense that she was the mother for most of them.
What really piqued his interest though was the mention of another owning dogs, especially in Damascus. The creatures were not treated in the highest regard in the religious texts that all Judeans lived by so he was a bit surprised to hear that he wasn’t the only one. Little did Hazael know that this girl actually had one of Bracha’s pups so surely Zoser might see a resemblance to the little pup in the bigger dog at the young man’s side. “Really, what is her name? Many people don’t owe dogs here so it is rare to hear of another.” He explained with a touch too much excitement. After all, as far as he knew, Maeri was a girl from Judah, not Damascus. There was no reason for him to make the assumption that she would be dining with an Egyptian so far away from home, but once he did learn… Well, Hazael was certainly bound to have quite a few questions as he had no idea that she was in the middle of marriage arrangements with the Jaffe family.
Zoser could describe the function of the multiple gods in any number of ways, but Hazael would still be skeptical of it. As far as he knew, It festered a reliance on the deities and made it far too easy to blame them for any shortcomings in life. Have a particularly bad harvest? Lay the fault with the god of agriculture. Were you stiffed by an unscrupulous merchant? It would be easier to curse the god’s name than recognizing one’s own misguiding that allowed them to be swindled in the first place. To the young Israeli boy, who was struggling just as greatly with wrapping his head around the concept of Egypt’s gods as Zoser was with his own, this system of having gods for everything seemed to be the perfect recipe for a lack of accountability for one’s own actions. After all, when there was only Yahweh, one was forced to reflect upon themselves for any misfortunes and put in the work themselves to correct it.
Judea might be strange in the eyes of the rest of the world as they were the only one with one god -- or at least only in the known part of it, but Hazael didn’t see that as a hindrance like Zoser might have. In fact, he would say that it was a strength for them and it made the people as a whole hard-working and resistant. After all, Judea was not Egypt. They did not have some grand Nile flowing through this country’s heart. His people had followed Abraham into the desert and made their way of life here, despite the terrible odds stacked against them. That would have never been possible if they had to spend their time praying to ten different gods in order to get one task done. Yahweh had made them self-reliant. Gave them a way to self-govern without the need for a King like all other kingdoms. He taught his people, like a kind and loving father, how they must be able to care for themselves and take responsibility for their own fates.
This concept was something that Hazael tried to convey to Zoser after the man finished talking about how there were different gods in the land of the Nile. “What is left for the mortals to do then if there is a god for everything? Seems like it would easy to forget and cause offense. It is easier with one god. One set of rules to follow, one man to keep happy.” Given that Hazael was both far from being a scholar on theology -- or really of any type like Zoser was-- and also being preoccupied with the injury on the other man’s leg, he wouldn’t have been surprised if he had done a terrible job of showing the man what he thought the benefits of living under one god were. It was a rather difficult thing for the young man to accomplish, given that the concept of multiple gods was just so foreign to him that the mere thought of comparing the two religious systems almost felt blasphemous to him. There couldn’t be more than one god, it was just that ridiculous of a concept for him.
Shaking these thoughts out of his head, the young man decided instead to focus on the injured leg before him. Especially as he was now releasing the tourniquet. Hazael knew that if the measures he had taken anywhere had been faulty, this man could very easily bleed out on the shop floor. Hazael was not keen on letting this happen for multiple reasons so as he removed the cloth, the young man could not move his gaze from the wound, watching the bandage for any signs of excessive bleeding. He knew that there would be some surely, that was going to have to be part of the healing process to let the wound scab over, but the young man would surely be able to get a gauge on if the bleeding was too much and a new healing route would need to be taken.
After a few tense moments, the white cloth remained pristine and Hazael released the bated breath that he was holding. It seemed to be that Zoser was going to make it out of this in one piece, after all. That was an immense relief to the young man as he had not been entirely sure how he was going to explain to his father that there was a dead man in the shop if that came to pass. That would have been an interesting conversation, to say the least -- but Hazael was lucky in the fact that his father would never need to know as he nodded in assent to the notion that Zoser would be gone by the time the evening sun turned to darkness. In truth, Haz would want this man on his way earlier than that so that he still might be able to find his way home before the sun truly set. After all, it was difficult enough for him to traverse this city in the daytime, it was going to be an absolute nightmare in the darkness.
However, he was not going to rush Zoser out. Not while the jeering of the mob was still elsewhere in the city, loud enough for them to hear. In truth, Haz had his doubts that they would all retire when the sky became dark. The fires within them were well-stocked to burn bright into the night, but the numbers should at least lessen. That much was basically a given, but Zoser would still have to be careful in his journey back to the docks.
The boy did perk up a bit when dogs were mentioned and Zoser specifically asked about his hounds. Hazael didn’t often get a chance to talk about them, with him being such a social pariah at home, so a small smile crossed his face as he described the main group of his hounds to Zoser, “In between, they’re all mostly Bracha’s height” Hazael said as he turned to face the interior of the shop and gave a short whistle to rouse his dog from wherever she had been sleeping. The ever-loyal hound was up in a flash and trotting over to the side of the Judean boy. When she was close by, it was easy to see that the dog reached just above his knee in height, making it certainly bigger than a lap dog, but not big enough that Hazael would call them so as well. Not when he had seen larger hounds wandering the streets. “Some are bigger, some are shorter… But she’s normally the mother so most are her size.” He explained with a small shrug. Bracha was good at producing litters of the certain quality that he sought for his little business so it would make sense that she was the mother for most of them.
What really piqued his interest though was the mention of another owning dogs, especially in Damascus. The creatures were not treated in the highest regard in the religious texts that all Judeans lived by so he was a bit surprised to hear that he wasn’t the only one. Little did Hazael know that this girl actually had one of Bracha’s pups so surely Zoser might see a resemblance to the little pup in the bigger dog at the young man’s side. “Really, what is her name? Many people don’t owe dogs here so it is rare to hear of another.” He explained with a touch too much excitement. After all, as far as he knew, Maeri was a girl from Judah, not Damascus. There was no reason for him to make the assumption that she would be dining with an Egyptian so far away from home, but once he did learn… Well, Hazael was certainly bound to have quite a few questions as he had no idea that she was in the middle of marriage arrangements with the Jaffe family.
The distraction of conversation and the tediousness of translating his thoughts into a language unfamiliar served to keep his mind off the horrifying sight of torn flesh and blood. If this conversation were in Greek or Coptic, he would be able to explain it far more clearly, even with an injury. He might have had a thought to correct his lack of fluency upon returning to Egypt, study up on it a bit so as not to be too much of an embarrassment the next time he visited.
However, as things stood, Zoser was quite certain that he would never step foot on Judean soil again, and likely would advise others to do so as well.
A people so barbaric under the guise of prudishness and propriety. And they had the gall to call Egyptians barbarians...
"No different than to learn to write words," Zoser mused, offering a bit of a shrug and a sigh as the young man continued his efforts to mend Zoser's leg. It was a resolution without agreement, it seemed. Besides, he considered that if he spoke too much more on the topic then he risked potentially having another Judean throw something at his head. That was getting very old very quickly.
Whether it was the loss of blood or the easing of tension from this temporary, dog-scented sanctuary, a wash of fatigue came over Zoser, and even with the fiddling the young man continued to do on his leg, he felt his blinks go long a few times, heavy and tired.
For a brief moment, he lost the name of the girl's dog, the need for rest muddling his thoughts. His brows furrowed and he brought a hand to his chin, tapping a finger there as his mind raced to remember.
After a moment, he sighed, "I do not remember. I know it, but cannot think it."
His hand shifted up to run across his face and through his hair, the worst of this incident being over it seemed. It was settled - once the Judeans retreated into their homes for their evening meal, he would make his way through darkened streets towards either the ships or the boarding house that the kind, young woman - Hannah - had guided him to upon his arrival.
"I rest until dark. Then, I go. Hm?"
It sounded as though it were a question, though his mind had been solidly made. Nodding in assurance, Zoser began to settle back into the chair, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning his head back slightly. Before he closed his eyes, he nodded to the young man again, "I thank you, for helping."
Then, with a heavy, beleaguered sigh, Zoser closed his eyes and tried to find some rest until the sun set.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
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The distraction of conversation and the tediousness of translating his thoughts into a language unfamiliar served to keep his mind off the horrifying sight of torn flesh and blood. If this conversation were in Greek or Coptic, he would be able to explain it far more clearly, even with an injury. He might have had a thought to correct his lack of fluency upon returning to Egypt, study up on it a bit so as not to be too much of an embarrassment the next time he visited.
However, as things stood, Zoser was quite certain that he would never step foot on Judean soil again, and likely would advise others to do so as well.
A people so barbaric under the guise of prudishness and propriety. And they had the gall to call Egyptians barbarians...
"No different than to learn to write words," Zoser mused, offering a bit of a shrug and a sigh as the young man continued his efforts to mend Zoser's leg. It was a resolution without agreement, it seemed. Besides, he considered that if he spoke too much more on the topic then he risked potentially having another Judean throw something at his head. That was getting very old very quickly.
Whether it was the loss of blood or the easing of tension from this temporary, dog-scented sanctuary, a wash of fatigue came over Zoser, and even with the fiddling the young man continued to do on his leg, he felt his blinks go long a few times, heavy and tired.
For a brief moment, he lost the name of the girl's dog, the need for rest muddling his thoughts. His brows furrowed and he brought a hand to his chin, tapping a finger there as his mind raced to remember.
After a moment, he sighed, "I do not remember. I know it, but cannot think it."
His hand shifted up to run across his face and through his hair, the worst of this incident being over it seemed. It was settled - once the Judeans retreated into their homes for their evening meal, he would make his way through darkened streets towards either the ships or the boarding house that the kind, young woman - Hannah - had guided him to upon his arrival.
"I rest until dark. Then, I go. Hm?"
It sounded as though it were a question, though his mind had been solidly made. Nodding in assurance, Zoser began to settle back into the chair, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning his head back slightly. Before he closed his eyes, he nodded to the young man again, "I thank you, for helping."
Then, with a heavy, beleaguered sigh, Zoser closed his eyes and tried to find some rest until the sun set.
The distraction of conversation and the tediousness of translating his thoughts into a language unfamiliar served to keep his mind off the horrifying sight of torn flesh and blood. If this conversation were in Greek or Coptic, he would be able to explain it far more clearly, even with an injury. He might have had a thought to correct his lack of fluency upon returning to Egypt, study up on it a bit so as not to be too much of an embarrassment the next time he visited.
However, as things stood, Zoser was quite certain that he would never step foot on Judean soil again, and likely would advise others to do so as well.
A people so barbaric under the guise of prudishness and propriety. And they had the gall to call Egyptians barbarians...
"No different than to learn to write words," Zoser mused, offering a bit of a shrug and a sigh as the young man continued his efforts to mend Zoser's leg. It was a resolution without agreement, it seemed. Besides, he considered that if he spoke too much more on the topic then he risked potentially having another Judean throw something at his head. That was getting very old very quickly.
Whether it was the loss of blood or the easing of tension from this temporary, dog-scented sanctuary, a wash of fatigue came over Zoser, and even with the fiddling the young man continued to do on his leg, he felt his blinks go long a few times, heavy and tired.
For a brief moment, he lost the name of the girl's dog, the need for rest muddling his thoughts. His brows furrowed and he brought a hand to his chin, tapping a finger there as his mind raced to remember.
After a moment, he sighed, "I do not remember. I know it, but cannot think it."
His hand shifted up to run across his face and through his hair, the worst of this incident being over it seemed. It was settled - once the Judeans retreated into their homes for their evening meal, he would make his way through darkened streets towards either the ships or the boarding house that the kind, young woman - Hannah - had guided him to upon his arrival.
"I rest until dark. Then, I go. Hm?"
It sounded as though it were a question, though his mind had been solidly made. Nodding in assurance, Zoser began to settle back into the chair, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning his head back slightly. Before he closed his eyes, he nodded to the young man again, "I thank you, for helping."
Then, with a heavy, beleaguered sigh, Zoser closed his eyes and tried to find some rest until the sun set.
