DISCLAIMER: The Mummy certainly isn't mine. However, all characters outside of the movie/books/video games certainly are.

This is the product of my extreme frustration of a lack of finished, quality stories on Imhotep. I'm sure there are some, but my searches have yielded little. This won't necessarily be of quality-I'm not going to boast that much-but I will do my best. The subject matter isn't the most popular on . Either way, I'm off of my HP/OUaT kick. I need something else to get the creative juices flowing.

The original series TV show is not a part of the canon of this story. In my world, Imhotep was not resurrected a third time by a fellow with peculiar glasses.

The Egypt-centric part takes place about 5-7 years prior to Imhotep's mummification. I did a crapton of research. Somethings, however, are very fill-in-the-blanks.

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In his twelfth year as High Priest, Imhotep developed an unadvised attraction to the Pharaoh's favourite concubine. It did not, needless to say, end well for him, nor the concubine. It was the typical punishment-save for the curse. The mistresses died at her own hand, a dagger to her heart. But her love was later apprehended, and paid for his crimes. Tongue removed, his men mummified, the High Priest was cursed with a Hom Dai of eternal life and suffering.

Or, at least, what the Medjai assumed to be eternal life and suffering. They did not predict three thousand years later a librarian might foolishly release him and his curse upon the world, thus temporarily ending his suffering. Or that, several years following that incident, he would be resurrected once again in the middle of London. One cannot simply account for resurrections, however, and the Medjai consoled themselves in the afterlife that things of this nature were unpredictable and muddy at best.

But, when it happened a third time, the Medjai had to shake their heads. Clearly the High Priest wasn't meant to be contained. Thrice he'd been released from the bindings of his curse, and by a woman each time! The foolish Evy, knaving Meela, and then, quite suddenly, the young Leora.

She was not particularly notable—an Egyptologist for an uncle, opera singer of a mother, of Greecian descent. At eighteen, 1936, she had been shipped to Alexandria, unwillingly, as part of her mother's research for a London production of Aida. Uncle Horace had been quite obliging in allowing the women full run of his Alexandria home-not as those it was too much of an imposition, as it was rare Horace was ever home. The weeks passed, and Leora soon found herself alone in her uncle's house. Mother had all too readily rushed to London to oversee production details. Leaving her daughter on her own in a foreign city with an unknown relative.

It was a veritable recipe for disaster.

Had anyone thought to forsee the third resurrection, they wouldn'tve looked to Leora Rainier as the one to read the text, go through the motions. Horace, perhaps, but not the girl. Not at all.

It was quite an accident, too. She knew little Egyptian-only bits and pieces she's picked up from Horace's work, nothing from Aida. Leora was, indeed, quite an unlikely candidate for the mistake. And yet…someone had to have stumbled upon the book. Someone must've read the proper words, pronounced the exact verbs, pulled some power from the great beyond and held it long enough to resurrect a three-thousand-some-odd-year-old priest. If one looked beyond the surface, it made quite a bit of sense.

The Rainiers were a French lot who'd come over several decades prior to the Napoleonic Wars. The most recent Rainier, Barnabas Rainier, had married a very pretty Greek girl, Olena, sister to Horace, and a wonderful soprano. The result of the passionate union was Leora, who had inherited a Grecian name and little else from her Mediterranean heritage. Olena was a primarily English person who had divorced her Greek roots early in her immigration to the Islands. She came from a long line of social climbers. Her mother's mother's mother had been something of a minor princess, but the family had only fallen from there. Many mothers back, however, into the third century B.C., there was a not-so-minor merchant's daughter, a member of court and friend to the Princess Nefertiri, daughter of Seti I.

Masika Oni-Rehema. The compassionate one, born in rain. Her mother's idea. A Greek and an Egyptian. Not unheard of, but she was still an exotic creature to the court.

So, it was easy to conceive how Leora might've been tangled up in the business of resurrecting a treacherous priest. Especially considering that priest was something like a lover to Leora's many-great grandmother.

Masika Oni-Rehema. Daughter of Osi, the Greek merchant. Member of Seti's court. Friend to the Princess Nefertiri. And lover to the High Priest Imhotep.

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She wasn't supposed to be anyone special. As her father said, being a foreigner in a land with such a monarchy meant that you kept your head down, your voice low, and did everything possible to avoid unnecessary attention. Masika heeded these words as best she could-but subtlety wasn't something one could possess when being the Princess Nefertiri's best friend. Nefertiri was, in general, a mild person who took moderation to heart. It was those of the court who insisted on the fan fare and escorts. Masika took the attention as best she could.

Friendships are not always easy, and a relationship with the princess was anything but. Still, the merchant's daughter took it in stride; she was a compassionate girl, saw the princess's struggle with her lot in life, then took it upon herself to ease the burden of royalty. Her father was cautious, at first, but managed to take on the perspective that ties to the Pharaoh's family could be nothing but positive. Therefore, Masika accepted her place with all the grace and ease of one of noble blood. It was not particularly difficult with Osi's blessing in hand.

That is, until the High Priest began staring across the Great Hall.

His fixation began rather casually. A glance, on occasion. Nothing more. Then, the imposing man began to lock eyes with the merchant's daughter for longer periods of time, as though trying to decode her thoughts, or send a message solely through eye contact.

These gazes were unsettling. When they occurred, Masika sought to find any excuse to exit the room, fearful of Imhotep's dark eyes and the brooding set to his heavy mouth. She wanted nothing to do with the man.

Unfortunately Imhotep certainly wanted to associate with Masika. He even went so far as to make personal calls upon her home.

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The pounding echoed through Masika's skull like an unskilled drummer unleashing his lack of talent upon an unwilling audience. It was evening, late, and she hadn't the slightest clue who would be calling upon the house.

There he stood, legs apart, intense eyes glinting in the oil's light. Clad in a bloody burgundy shendyt and open black tunic, Seti's High Priest was silent, appraising his hostess as she waited, open-mouthed, on the top step. He brought no one, save for himself, and it appeared he walked, as she saw no chariot. Then again, the temple was not so far away…Masika shook her head slowly, blinking.

"My lord, ah, please, you grace our home," she gestured, and he followed her indoors, saying nothing. Masika tried again.

"My father is currently meeting with a client. Is there anything…is there anything I might get you? Will you wait, sir, or might I tell him you came to see-"

"Suten-Ra has died," he said bluntly.

"Oh…my…"

Suten-Ra was honorary wife to the god Ra. She was picked for the position at a young age, and trained for years under the old wife. Suten assumed the role only a few years ago, but had only recently succumb to a sickness none of the physician could cure. She lived in the temple, with the priests and a lesser wives of the god. Her death was something of a tragedy.

"I am so sorry," Masika murmured. "That is a pity. She was a good woman."

"Excellent in her devotion," Imhotep agreed. "I come tonight to request a favour of your faith. With Suten passed, and several of our wives also taken by Suten's disease, we are short hands in the honoring of the god. We need, for the time being, a few young women to take up the prayer."

Masika blinked. "Oh. There a few ladies in the court-"

Gently (she did not know he could be gentle), the High Priest stopped her. "No, Rehama, it is not they that I seek. I ask that you temporarily take up a marriage to the god."

She knew not what to say. To refuse would offend the priests, something her family could not afford. It was a true honor to be selected, even temporarily, to be Ra's bride. But to live in the temple, to abandon her princess was unthinkable. Masika began to ask of the duties when Imhotep reassured her, "We would only require you for the morning and evening prayer. You would offer tribute, prayer, and devotion to the idol. Nothing more would be required. You may stay here, with your father, as you are so near the temple."

The night-coloured eyes bore into hers. Without quite knowing what she doing, Masika found herself nodding. An expression of relief (again, an unknown to her) passed over Imhotep's features.

"You honor us, Rehama."

"Masika," she corrected, still dazed.

He considered. "I prefer Rehama. You embody compassion."

With that, he departed. Masika was left entirely embarrassed and horrified with what she'd agreed to do for the gods knew how long.

The next morning, before the sun had awaken and dressed in a clean blue shift, Masika walked to the temple, rushing up the expanse of stairs, across the reflective floor for the room of ceremonies where the idol sat on a pedestal. She was, of course, stopped before she could even properly enter the room. Nebit, the handmaiden to the wives, took one sweeping look over Masika's attire, shook her head, and lead the young woman to a small vestibule, where she was stripped down to nudeness. Her hair combs were removed, and the dark waves were combed viciously till they shone even in the dim light of morn. Then she was given a new cotton shift-one that was extremely thin. It left nothing to imagination.

To her severe embarrassment, the High Priest awaited them. Masika was absolutely mortified-or she might've been, but there simply wasn't time. Food must be offered, prayers given, and glories paid. The entire process took a little over an hour. Imhotep oversaw the ceremony, his face impassive as Masika stumbled through the many lines of text.

Afterwards, the High Priest insisted on walking her home. Again, he waited as she dressed again in the blue shift. He complimented her on the colour as they exited the building. Masika mumbled a thanks, still bashful following her exhibition in the temple.

"I thank you, Rehama," Imhotep began halfway between the temple and her home. The city was starting to wake, the bustle of bakeries, shops, and stands taking life. "You have done well. Your devotion is admirable."

She bowed her head. There was a pause.

"You were…apprehensive?" he offered.

"Very," she said softly, staring straight ahead. Out of the corner of her eye, she could have sworn the High Priest winced.

"You did well," he repeated seriously. "though you were as quiet as a mouse. A…Panya."

Mouse. He called her a mouse. Masika bit her lip.

"I am sorry if I displeased you. I will try harder next time, my lord."

His brow furrowed. "No, no. I do not mean to say you in anyway failed. It was…it was merely an observation. Besides, what is there wrong with a mouse? Even mice can be brave. With time. And encouragement."

They had reached her home, and Imhotep halted.

"You are a Panya," he murmured. Masika was surprised with how close he'd gotten without her realizing it. She could stare deeply into his dark orbs, even make out flecks of gold near the center of the iris. "A beautiful, young Panya. And there is nothing wrong with being a Panya. Know that you were chosen for a reason."

She knew this. But she simply didn't understand the reason.

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Please review!

Masika Oni Rehema—Born in rain, wanted, compassionate

Panya—Mouse

Zahera—flower

Suten-Ra—Royal Sun