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Khensu’s earliest memory is playing with his mother’s tail. He is in a warm and well-lit room and he is safe.
His clearest early memory is curled up against his father’s side, dozing as he teaches a history class. There are a lot of big words that go over his head, but the story(?) is still interesting. Mother comes in at the end of the class, giving him a quick nuzzle before striking up a conversation with Father, their tones quiet and worried. Khensu pays them no mind, the students that are still trickling out are much more interesting, gushing over how kitten-soft his fur is and giving him the scritches he wants right behind his ears.
Khensu homeschools himself in the early years of his education, devouring book after book, asking his parents questions about everything. He spends most of his parents' working hours in the academy’s library, reading as many books as he can, asking any present students for help (or just company) if he needs it. Mother and Father spend their lunch breaks with him, listening to him ramble about whatever is on his mind. They call him ‘little moon’ so often that it takes him longer than it probably should for him to learn his real name.
He’s enrolled in the academy as soon as he’s old enough. Khensu learns about math and literature and history and science and the war. When his parents have their hushed conversations he listens, even though he’s not supposed to. He meets his parents’ friends and makes some of his own. He still sits in on his parents’ classes sometimes, more often actually, now that they aren’t trying to hide the existence of the war from him as much. He stops when Mother leaves her teaching job for an empty space on the council and Father . . . the funeral is nice. Mother becomes colder. She no longer calls him ‘little moon’. He starts addressing her by title only, never Mother.
Khensu graduates and joins the academy staff as an assistant teacher to the current history professor. He takes her place when she retires. Mother only talks to him when their jobs necessitate it. He learns to not take it personally. She’s busier now. The wellbeing of the Ailuros system is more important than anything else. (Is more important than him.)
In the months leading up to the prophecy, everyone is abuzz in a way Khensu has never seen before. It takes him a while to identify it as hope. One day (almost exactly six months before Cleopatra’s foretold arrival) he’s called before the council, and he can hardly believe what they tell him.
“You want me to greet her when she arrives?”
Mother flicked her tail. “Yes. We have decided that due to your extensive knowledge of Earth’s history, specifically Ptolemaic era Egypt, will prove useful to helping her acclimate to the current time.”
Khensu dips his head. “It would be my honor.” It balms the hurt that’s always aching in the back of his mind that Mother thinks that he is the best choice for this responsibility.
A month after Cleopatra’s arrival Mother asks how well she’s acclimating. The conversation leaves a sour taste in his mouth.
There’s something off about Cleopatra’s midterm assignment. The further they get into it the more obvious it is. Mother wouldn’t put me in danger, Khensu reassures himself as he gives Cleo a C for an abominable show of stealth. It keeps nagging him though, only getting louder as they arrive at the tomb and venture inside. It screams at him when Cleo triggers the alarm and gets them locked in with a bunch of murderous robo mummies.
Mother The council is infuriatingly calm as he questions them. Infuriatingly sure of their rightness in throwing a fifteen-year-old into danger. He loses his temper and Mother snaps back, dismissing him from the council’s presence. He can’t help but stalk out. He’s too angry. Angry at Mother, at the council, at how he feels like a kit throwing a tantrum.
Mother asks him to meet her in the vault where they’re keeping the sword. He can’t help but make a couple remarks about how much P.Y.R.A.M.I.D. seems to value the safety of the student population. Mother ignores him for the most part and requests that he look at the sword before they send it to Karnek for evaluation. Khensu thanks her for trusting him with this task and Mother replies that trust has nothing to do with it. Something bursts and covers his insides with pins.
Khensu doesn’t hesitate (long) when the children come to him with their discovery. A voice in his head says, Motherthe council won’t like this. Another voice says, I don’t care.
Mother orders his arrest after Cleo is accused of murder. He stares at the prison glass and wonders how everything went wrong. After a couple of days (at least what feels like a couple of days) Akila and Cleo are brought in unconscious. Akila wakes up fairly quickly, but Cleo stays out for hours.
Khensu can’t think, can’t see. Mother was a spy, was a traitor. He can’t make out her expression. He can’t tell if it’s because of the tinted glass of the prison cell or because his eyes are starting to water.
He visits her, before they go to destroy Octavian's weapon. ‘How could you?’s and ‘why?’s are said. She looks down on his faith that Cleopatra will save them. She brings up Father and he snaps a little, because Mother avoids talking about Father like the plague and the way she says it ‘You sound like your father.’ as if being like his father is bad or undesirable. She bites back, losing her temper in a way that she almost never does. He’s stunned into silence for a moment, watching as Mother pulls back into her statue impersonation. He informs her that they’re going to infiltrate Octavian's ship to destroy his weapon and that this might be the last time she ever sees him. He waits for a reaction. He gets none. Khensu turns to leave.
“Goodbye, Mother.”
Khepra cradles her paws around the newborn kitten in front of her. He is the only alive one in his litter, the one other kit dying a few hours after birth, but perhaps that is for the best. She is the only of her siblings, littermate or otherwise, to outlive their parents, and she would loathe to have her son experience such extensive grief. Khepra and Najum will mourn their lost daughter, but their little moon is too young to grieve.
Little moon.
He doesn't have a proper name yet. Khepra’s family often named their children after the dead gods for luck. Najum’s family named their children with words from long dead languages. The plan, before the second kit had died, had been that one child would be named Khensu, after the moon god, and the other would be named Qamar, which Najum had informed her was the word for moon from an old Earth language called Arabic. They don’t have to choose yet. They’ll have a few days before the birth certificates (and their daughter’s death certificate) need to be filled out.
Her little moon yawns, stretching as he does so, redirecting her attention to him. It’s a shame that Najam hadn’t been able to get the day off of work. He’d wanted to meet the kits as soon as possible. (He should’ve been able to meet their daughter before she took her last breaths.) Her little moon stirs, more strongly this time, and starts mewling for milk. She nudges him toward her belly and lays her head down. Today has been exhausting. A nap would do her good.
. . . . .
Khepra lays on the hospital bed listening to the beeping machinery. It’s getting more difficult to breathe. (Everything is getting more difficult.) She can hear the whirring of the door as it opens and closes and the padding of soft footsteps approaching her. She hears the quiet thump as they leap up and settle on to the chair next to her. Her nose does more to identify them than her failing eyes. Khepra couldn’t forget this scent if she tried. She starts talking before he can.
“The evacuation was so sudden they didn’t have time to take all the necessary precautions.” She hates how raspy and weak her voice sounds. “The holding cells. They collapsed.”
Her little moon leans forward, placing his front paws on the edge of her bed. “It’s okay. You don’t have to-”
“I didn’t kill Talibath. Khensu. You need to know I would never . . .” Khepra trails off as a small coughing fit overtakes her. Her little moon either doesn’t notice or has the social grace to not comment.
“I know.” She can’t make out his expression. She can’t make out the inflections in his voice or scent, or anything that would give her insight into what he is feeling. “It was Kek. He tried to sabotage the launch. We’ve detained him.”
“My concern was always for the safety of Ailuros. The agreement was Cleopatra in exchange for our security. I should have known better. I should have . . .” Khepra pauses for a moment, gathering her thoughts.
“I’m sorry I let you down. I’m sorry I didn’t treat you like a son.”
“Mom . . .” The machines are beeping slower. She doesn’t have much time left.
“You really are so much like your father. He would have been so proud to see what our little moon has become. Brave.”
Khepra sinks into her pillow. She is clinging to consciousness now. “I hope that Cleopatra fulfills the destiny you so desperately want to be true. I . . .” She exhales her last breath, and everything goes dark as she falls into her final rest.
“Khepra? Khepra! It’s really you!”
Khepra blinks. Everything is so bright suddenly, there are so many smells and sounds and she can feel the sun warming her back. It is a bit overwhelming.
As her vision clears her throat seems to close up. She recognizes the cat standing in front of her. “Aset?” Her eldest sister purrs, eyes glimmering with mirth as she turns around to head into the grasses.
“Come on, they’ll all be so happy to see you.”