Aelius watched his master work with practiced hands, now stained with the blood of the slave. Aelius felt his turmoil continue, but the initial wave of panic that had washed over him was ebbing away as Amenemhat mixed blood and sand into a thick slurry of death. What was done, was done. There was no use feeling anything over it now--anything except perhaps a sense of duty, and satisfaction at having done his sacred duty. A priest no doubt felt satisfaction when their prayers and offerings were given to the gods, was following the will of his own so different?

Aelius knew he was no priest, nor did he wish to be. He had no notions of such importance or grandeur. He was simply a devout follower, tasked with being whatever was needed to appease the will of Set. And he would, without question--despite his own occasional misgivings. He was only mortal, and bound to be fallible, but it was the struggle that made the difference. Through the storm’s chaos was the eye, and the calm appreciated. Through the wake of seemingly aimless destruction was there rebirth and rebuilding. These things Aelius knew, and clung to. Amenemhat would steer the tempest true. Aelius never doubted that, merely his own strength to be the oarsman Amenemhat needed to keep the boat on course. But if he could not be that for his master, than he would rather be dead, and damned.

“Your will, is mine to carry, and my duty is laid before me,” Aelius swore solemnly, as he crouched down, and dipped his fingers in the blood that had not yet soaked into the sand. The mere feel of the liquid on his flesh made him want to scream, and heave, and wail and writhe as he remembered the nightmare of his first kill. But he did not let those emotions show--not to the man who he had pledged his everything.

The sword dancer rose, resolute in his new purpose. He would catch his prey, and he would make him suffer, and when his master bid him to do so, he would strike the fatal blow. With a curt nod to the ringmaster he was off, and the hunt was on.

It was surprisingly easy to track Shakir, Aelius had thought as he ran with an easy gait. He had struck a crippling blow on the boy it had seemed, judging by the drag marks still in unmarred by the sand. Aelius did not question his good fortune--instead believing it to be a willful action meant to help him along with his dark purpose. Even in the dark, Aelius had no trouble seeing where he was going, or seeing the tracks in the sand. The moon, in her elegance and brightness, shone down mercifully, the pale sand soaking in her beams made the hunter grateful for his continued good fortune as he ran towards his pitiful prey.

He lost track of time, how long he had been running for, somewhere in his mind he knew it could not have been very long--Shakir had gotten a few merciful minutes of a head start--but Aelius was in prime form, agile, and cunning like a fox. Shakir’s lead was quickly closing, and Aelius hunger for the kill was rising--but that would wait for Amenemhat to see the life drain from his eyes.

The tracks stopped abruptly atop a dune, and Aelius stopped dead for a moment, looking into the darkness. There was only one way his quarry had vanished, unless some god had taken mercy on him, and that was trying to hide himself behind the dune. Aelius shook his head, he had to give Shakir credit for trying. This night however, nothing could save the boy. Aelius was a harbinger of fate, and there was no more running to be had. His sword draw, he leapt down to the back side of the dune, landing with an expert, practiced ease.

The panic in Shakir’s eyes was brighter than the moonlight flooding the sands, but no amount of panic would matter. The boy had to die. For a multitude of reasons--not the least of which was Aelius’ own survival. But the boy needed time to marinate in his fear, that much Aelius knew, and judging by the wild look in Shakir’s eyes, he knew it too. Aelius did not wait to strike. He swung his sword, the flat of the blade making contact with the knee that he had not struck previously. A sharp crack of impact, metal on skin, and the snapping of bone rang out through the air. Shakir’s despairing, pained wail came next. Aelius sighed, briefly wondering if his master could hear the cry ringing out through the night--and then realized that if Amenemhat could hear it, so could any predators looking for a meal. How could he have been so careless?

Without giving the boy another chance to cry out, Aelius took the pommel of sword to Shakir’s head with a swift, unforgiving crack. The sword dancer had pulled most of the force from his swing at the last second. He did not want to kill Shakir here, but it would not do to have him drawing every creature roaming the night towards them. Shakir crumpled to the sand in a heap and Aelius cursed softly at the thought of having to drag him back to Amenemhat. The ringmaster had been right about that, as he always was--but it still had seemed wrong to simply indulge in the kill without earning it. Now at least, he would have earned it by the sweat of his own brow.

Aelius unceremoniously grabbed Shakir by the ankles and began dragging him back to where his fate waited. As he moved he cursed Shakir, bitter about having to clean up the boy’s mess. It was unbecomingly petty, but given the amount of work Aelius had ended up needing to do, perhaps it was deserved. Still, at the end of the night, it would hopefully prove his worth to his master--and that was truly the most important thing. So lost in his own thoughts was Aelius that he almost walked right past Nem with Shakir dragging along behind him. But a sudden wiggling and fighting from his captive prey, who had come to, snapped him out of his reverie just as he arrived at his destination. He dropped Shakir’s legs, both damaged enough that he was not going to be running away, and bowed to Amenemhat.

“I return, with a rat in tow,” he said, a weariness on his voice after the physical exertion of hauling Shakir back. “I made sure to restrain myself, just so you could see the light in his eyes go out. I offer his life to you, that it may please you. My sword, and my life, are yours--whenever you want his time to end, retribution will be swift, and merciless.”

Aelius stood above Shakir, sword ready to deal the final blow--all he waited for was Amenemhat’s signal. A flick of the wrist and his dark, desolate duty, would be done until his master called on him once more for his needs.