Sand and Tears

Disclaimer: All recognizable characters belong to Universal Pictures. This unfortunately includes Ardeth Bey. Damn, damn, damn. Laura Anderson Rutherford is mine, well, sort of, in the sense that she's a figment of my twisted imagination.

Summary: We were from two very different worlds, almost completely separate, and it was by slightest chance we even met at all. Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if we never had. But there's that 'we,' the whole problem, right there in plain sight. So what happened?

Author's note: In a sense, this has been done before. But never the way that I intend to do it. This deals mainly with the first meeting of our two main characters (almost the only characters at this point, but I'm sure you'll forgive me) and the development of the character of one Ardeth Bey. What is he like when the proud leader in him goes on vacation? And how exactly did he get the way he is during The Mummy? This is the first in a trilogy, and can stand alone although it will have sequels.

Sand and Tears

Part One: Counsel

It lies innocently enough on the writing desk, next to the inkwell, having absolutely no idea what it is doing to me. As I stare at it I become acutely aware that I am miserable, no, far beyond that, but what I am exactly I don't dare ask myself. It would only lead to further heartbreak. Yes, heartbreak. Well, that's fairly normal, you think. That's part of life, you'll get over it. Everyone does.

You'd be wrong. Not everyone gets over it. I've been like this for almost two years, something of an empty shell, so removed from and yet so in tune with my emotions that I feel drained, exhausted, all the time. You ask, as I ask myself, How did this happen? I don't know. I guess you could say it started a very long time ago, with my first few months on Egyptian sand. But to understand that story, you have to know where I come from, and that's quite a tale to tell.

I was born Laura Anderson, youngest daughter of Hera (yes, Hera) and Ron Anderson, in a small house in a bad neighborhood in Dublin, Ireland. I have four older siblings- much older, the youngest of them was nine when I was born- Anna, Jamie, Clara, and Ethan. Classic, almost stereotypical names, I know. But between my mother's three jobs and my father's drinking problem, there wasn't much room for creativity.

At least, that's what I've been told. My mother died during childbirth, and I doubt my father took a single sober breath afterwards. We five children spent most of our days on the streets, fighting for our food. Ethan called me his little scrapper, and taught me to fight off the older kids with a few very effective techniques that I still remember today. We lived that way until I was seven and my father died- I never found out how, but I remember hearing things that suggested it wasn't a very honorable death. Afterwards my brothers and sisters got jobs in factories and they took me away to the orphanage, where I spent another five years fighting for my food and learning to swear.

When I was almost twelve, a couple named Jim and Sarah Rutherford came to the orphanage. I later learned that their only son Robert, 17 at the time, had just died of the grippe and they were looking for someone to fill the hole he'd left in their lives. A friend had suggested to them that they adopt a child, as they were too old already to conceive again, and although they hadn't been planning on getting a girl or indeed going through with anything at all, we took an instant liking to each other and I found my first real family.

The first thing I learned about the Rutherfords is that, while slightly eccentric, they were very easy-going. They were also rich. Sarah thought it was so funny that I went around doing maid's chores. She was frustrated by it, at first, but some habits die hard- at the orphanage you got lashes if you didn't do your chores or if your room wasn't clean. Anyway, they accepted the quirks of my personality without question- except the fact that I kept getting myself into fist fights with boys. I don't think they ever really understood that, but I had a lot of aggression as a teen.

After one particularly nasty incident, the Rutherfords decided to come out of retirement. They'd been somewhat forced out of their field- archaeology- when Robert was born; he'd never exactly been healthy and couldn't handle being moved around much. The Rutherfords had started their own museum in London- did I mention they were British? Or was it just implied by the name?- afterwards and settled down, but I guess there were just too many memories of Robert around the house and so we took off after the next assignment they got.

Italy is a beautiful country, with lots of interesting historical sites, but outside the Rutherfords' area of expertise. After about seven months they got transferred to Greece, which was wonderful. My mother was Greek (could you tell by the name?) and so I'd always been fascinated with everything that has to do with the country. During the two and a half years we stayed there I picked up a lot (okay, almost all) of the known ancient Greek and discovered that I have something of a talent for languages. That's a blessing; it's made my life so much easier over the years.

Then came the big breakthrough in their careers- though they were older than the average archaeologists, with the age came experience and a reputation. The Rutherfords were transferred to what would be their final destination- Egypt.

That sounds fairly grim. What I really mean by this is that due to Sarah's condition- I've forgotten exactly what it was- she needed to stay somewhere dry and warm. Or, in this case, hotter than the seventh layer of hell. At least, that's what I thought at first. It didn't take me long to get adjusted, although I was pretty sunburned the first few weeks before my fair skin adjusted to being exposed to the harsh sun. It took a little longer to get accustomed to being stared at whenever I opted not to wear a hat- having very curly blonde hair will get you an audience in Cairo, that's for sure.

We never went on digs for more than two weeks at a time, due to Sarah's failing health. When we weren't on a dig site, Sarah would visit a memorial they'd had put up for Robert so that they could continue to honor his memory properly. There was never much talk of a stiff upper lip where Robert was concerned. She went alone, every Tuesday, and brought a flower from her garden every time.

When we were on dig sites, I wasn't often allowed to do much practical work. Mostly I got stuck with cataloguing. There's only so much you can catalogue, however, without getting bored, and so I found myself learning yet another language. Arabic is difficult, but I often found myself in the company of the hired workers, just listening to what they said and how they responded to each other. And ancient Egyptian wasn't all that similar to Greek, but I found myself studying that, too, and after nearly two years of life in Egypt I was a very proficient translator.

My world fell apart a few weeks after I turned seventeen. Sarah had taken a nasty fall on a dig and, after we returned to Cairo, remained laid up in bed trying to recuperate. She died two days later.

I had overheard Jim and the doctor talking in the kitchen after returning from tending Sarah's small garden- my responsibility when she was unable to look after it- and discovered that her poor heart had just given out on her, that she'd died peacefully in her sleep, weakened from several conditions I no longer recall. I was devastated.

The funeral was two days later, with just a few people from the city invited, but I couldn't bear to talk to them; didn't want to be reminded of my adoptive mother's absence. It was a Tuesday, and, deciding to honor her tradition, I plucked some nameless white flower from the garden and made my way towards the graveyard where I could give Sarah's beloved son a sort of reunion gift.

As I walked, I couldn't shake the bad thoughts I was having about Jim. He hadn't drawn a sober breath since Sarah's … passing on, and it was worrying me because I cared for him and didn't want to see him in such a state. Sarah never would have allowed it. I also felt somewhat like I was being watched; maybe it was paranoid of me, but every step of the way to the graveyard I swear my spine was tingling. One of the first things you learn living on the streets of Dublin is to trust that tingle. The other one religious flexibility- one week the biggest bully on the street is Catholic, the next, a Protestant. You learn to roll with the punches.

At any rate, it was very late and very dark by the time I got to the graveyard, and I was both physically and mentally exhausted, and content to sit on the low wall rolling the flower between my hands and watch the shadows around Robert's memorial. Soon Sarah's grave would join it, and I felt tears prickle behind my eyes for the first time since I was seven years old.

And that was the first time that I saw him. "Your husband, perhaps?" a low, smooth voice asked of me in slightly accented English. I wouldn't admit it for nearly two and a half years, but that accent melted my insides and nearly made me drool. It was, quite simply, delicious.

"I'm too young to be married, much less widowed," I answered, then, out of respect for what was undoubtedly his culture, at least going by the accent, "where I come from, anyway. I'm just filling in for an old friend."

"Ah." The shadow-man pulled himself up onto the wall beside me. He volunteered nothing of himself. I would later learn that this was exactly typical of him.

"So what are you doing here?" I asked, both dying to hear more words out of his sweet mouth and genuinely curious.

"Seeking counsel," he replied, tilting his head back and watching the stars. "But the spirits are strangely silent tonight."

"I know what you mean," I answered. And I did. There was no one left to counsel me, either. I told him as much.

He looked at me with a funny expression on his face. I could see large dark liquid eyes watching me, and his profile in the moonlight radiated both power and sorrow. "There is always someone who will listen," he said cryptically, turning away and watching the sky again.

I didn't want to talk about it anyway, and changed the subject. "How did you know I spoke English?"

He gestured to Robert's memorial. "Rutherford is not a common name in these parts," he explained. Well, so much for mystical powers of deduction. There probably wasn't a more reasonable man on the planet.

"Oh," I replied, feeling horribly childish and stupid. "Of course." There was another awkward silence. "Have you found your counsel yet?"

A dry smile. "At this point, I'm not even sure who the counselor is supposed to be."

"Well, nobody's omniscient. If you want my advice, you're going to have to tell me what's bothering you." Fairly sure I was the object of some intense scrutiny, I wondered if he'd even been alluding to the fact that I was the one meant to be giving the advice. I fidgeted with the flower some more, then tucked it behind my ear. He hadn't corrected me on the 'nobody's omniscient' statement, and that had thrown me off, too. There was definitely more to him than met the eye- not that I could see much in the darkness, just a still profile regarding me silently.

Finally he turned away, back to his stars again. "Tomorrow will mark the dawning of a new age for my people, and I am expected to lead them. I cannot refuse- to do so would be to choose exile and recrimination from the only family I've ever known." He paused, giving me time to absorb the earful. "But there are responsibilities that I am not sure I want that go along with it. I am expected to marry, to produce heirs, but leave them to perform other… duties." Later, I would learn that this included keeping tomb raiders well away from dangerous sites, keeping various magical objects from falling into the wrong hands, and fighting the undead. (The dead, too.) Yes, it's quite the job he's got.

"But?" I prompted, beginning to see a small piece of the puzzle.

"But I would not force a woman to do this," he continued reluctantly. "If I asked, she would be bound by her family's honor to accept. And I would not have a woman that did not love me."

"That is quite the dilemma. There is no woman who has captured your heart, then?"

I thought I already knew the answer, by his location and demeanor. Either she had gone on to a better place or her heart belonged to another, which would definitely explain the aura of solitariness surrounding him. Little did I know- it was his father who laid that night on his deathbed, and no lover was there to be found. "I did not say that." He was giving me that peculiar analytical look again, and deftly plucked the flower from behind my ear when I turned away.

"Then I would say that there is no course of action you can take but to be true to yourself. If you stop being true to yourself, you cease to exist in the most basic of ways. Something essential inside you dies. You become, in effect, another person." This above all: to thine own self be true. It was a good credo. I had no idea what had gotten into me at the time, though. I felt like some sort of bloody oracle.

But he nodded slowly, and helped me down from the wall. "I must go now," he said, standing much taller than he had before. I had to assume that this was much more normal for him- born to lead, his regal bearing came from years of practice. Never mind this sulking in the graveyards business- it was probably horribly out of character, and that was why he was leaving. "I thank you for your advice." He seemed about to say something more, but turned away, clucking to the shadows, then mounted and rode off on a horse that I hadn't even known was there.

It wasn't until I was nearly home that I realized the fate of the flower.

That flower. That blasted flower. How on earth did it end up on my desk almost ten years later? Well, let me tell you, it's something of a long story…