You have been so immersed in your grandmother, Tatiana's, journals that you nearly forgot the other journal that had been unearthed in Amenken's tomb. Brad had snagged that one rather quickly, but, when you go to him to ask to borrow it, for at least a little while, he informs you that Alwin has it.

Damn.

Would Alwin let you take a look at it? Could you even find Alwin so easily? You checked the tomb after reemerging from the Refuge of the Chosen and Alwin was not there. You only managed to catch Brad in one of the corridors, muttering something about removing parasites from a live host.

Uh… you didn't want to pry into those private musings. Not now, at least.

Eventually, you do find Alwin, sitting slumped against one of the columns in the Great Hall, a bound book lying open across his knees. You freeze for a moment, a worst case scenario flitting through your mind.

Is he hurt…? Dead… even?

You cross the smooth, sand-scoured floor of the hall cautiously and, as you get closer, you notice that, although Alwin's eyes are shut, he is far from a repose of rest – of the temporary or the final kind. One of his hands twitches as it lies across the pages of what is undoubtedly Amenken's journal. His brows are deeply furrowed, even more so than they usually are. Which is saying something.

“Alwin…?” You try, softly, as if to avoid waking a Siberian grizzly getting ready to winter in the taiga hinterlands.

His eyes snap open so quickly, you take a step back.

“Alexander? What… what are you doing?” He asks, the lines of his face smoothing out a bit. Though you can still see beads of perspiration clinging to the tip of his nose and chin.

You clear your voice. “I was looking for you. For… Amenken's journal, to be exact.” You glance pointedly at the open journal. “Brad told me he handed it to you,” you add the explanation of 'how' just in case.

“Ah.”

It is all Alwin says for a moment. Then he struggles to his feet, looking more like a sixty-something-old man than he ever has before. When he straightens up as best he can, he takes a long, lingering look at the journal, the calfskin cover scuffed and spotted with some sort of water damage.

Alwin extends the journal to you and you notice that his hand is shaking.

The last thing he says before leaving you to your own devices is: “The man was an accursed book-burner.”

And your heart is gripped by cold claws of guilt and dread.

It takes a good five minutes before you can move from the spot where your feet had rooted themselves to the floor. Alwin couldn't know… could he? Your own role in 'book burning', in conveniently editing and disposing of knowledge for the Soviet Union… you kept that close to your heart. The only Chosen you might share such a thing with is Grigory and… and… you haven't seen Grigory for some time.

Where is he? Your heart clenches again. The first person you had felt a true sense of camaraderie with in a long time.

You do your best not to dwell on Alwin's assuredly offhand and meaningless comment, as well as the concerns you harbour about Grigory's well-being. Instead, you take up a spot on the main staircase, sit down and begin to read.

There are a few spots that were damaged enough that the meaning of the passage was nigh impossible to make out. But it looks like Alwin did his best to restore them, leaving little scraps of paper inside the journal with estimates of what symbols are missing. You agree with most and correct a couple of others as you decipher the text.

As you delve into Amenken's journal, you read about a man who is thoroughly flawed and painfully human. So human and so filled with heart that you ache for him even as you resent what he is doing. Is it because you see some of yourself in Amenken?

Amenken was far from the scholar that some of the other hieroglyphs and imagery has depicted him as. It was his brother, Iumeri, that was the renowned scribe and academic, to the point that he had a great library and collection of knowledge of his own. Amenken was far too interested in travel, politics, and waging warfare to protect his domain than to stay put amid papyrus scrolls, vellum manuscripts, and tablets filled with family histories.

The two brothers loved each other. Or, at least, that is what this journal professes. To the point they were to be buried together in a joint tomb. The tomb you now stand in, you abruptly realise. Huh. You suppose that could be an expression of intense filial devotion. To share your final resting place as well as with your spouse and children.

But something changed. While Amenken was often away, Iumeri took care of his daughter, Hetepheres, allowing her to wander the scribe's vast collections. One day, those wanderings took Hetepheres down a different path. One that her father did not approve of.

I was horrified to learn that Hetepheres' stories of powerful beings sprouted from her time in my own brother's archives. And, not only that, Iumeri did not halt such childish notions. He encouraged them. How could he?!?

Of course, I confronted him. Demanded to know of these false gods. Iumeri, blast him, protested. Said they were not 'false', but merely 'new.' Gods of learning that could teach us much if we only just listened.

You skip ahead a few pages, your reading increasing in speed as you rush to find the dreadful deed.

It is done. I sent a unit of guards to set my own brother's collection alight. His life's work. He will never forgive me. But it must be done or we are doomed.

No… no… you push back the urge to stop reading, to pause in your translating of ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs to your native Russian. It hurts, but you feel as if this hurt is well-deserved. Discovering the truth about Tatiana hurt. It is only fair that reading the confessions of Amenken, the confession of destruction of knowledge, would cause another type of pain.

The confessions soon reach their climax: Their screams haunt my every hour, no matter waking nor asleep. I can receive no respite. My one and only daughter, Hetepheres, is dead. And, along with her, Iumeri. Somehow my daughter snuck into the library before the burning. Iumeri must have tried to save her. He failed.

If he had been successful, if he had saved Hetepheres, would I have forgiven him? Useless thoughts. The kind he would have entertained. It is his fault that Hetepheres is gone even more than it is mine. Cursed be his name. No one shall speak it in this life or the next. If he must be laid to rest, it will be a pittance of a grave and he will rest with his beloved false gods and wicked knowledge.

The words grow ever more bitter and twisted. You get the sense that the more you read, the more these confessions are flowing forth at the end of Amenken's life. Near that final hour where many humans, no matter their upbringing or the era in which they lived, give in to fear of punishment and confess.

By the time you reach the final lines, you are fighting back tears. You probably look even worse than Alwin did when you stumbled upon him. You certainly feel awful.

I am sorry. For the poison that had filled by heart and mind, that killed my own flesh and blood. Hetepheres lost. Iumeri cursed. My heart is too heavy to be approved by Maat. If I should make it to Osiris in paradise, perhaps I shall see both of them there. If not… then I accept my punishment. May Iumeri accept his.

You gasp and clasp the collar of your shirt. You shut the journal and bend over, the tears slowly dripping down the bridge of your nose onto the calfskin of the journal, further damaging it.

But you don't have the capacity to care. You are consumed by grief, by guilt, by pity… for the fate of Iumeri and Hetepheres… over the thought of your own past wrongdoings, and pity – no – empathy for Amenken, the politician-warrior who had it all only to lose the very same.

You don't want to end up like him. You are afraid you are already stuck on a similar path.

You want to change. But, for now, you mourn.