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bradshawshawaiianshirt · 14 days ago

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the mummy | part 2

Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw x reader AU

The year is 1927 and famed archeologist Bradley Bradshaw is running on whiskey and the last of his reputation. His best skill? Charming every woman in the room - until you show up with a sharp wit, zero patience for his ego, and a lead on finding the Lost City of Nefertari. No matter how intelligent you are, it'd be unheard of for a woman to lead an expedition, so you need a front man, someone with money and connections. Luckily (or unluckily) for you, Bradley fits the bill - even if he's more interested in chasing skirts than treasure.

Rumoured to be full of gold, jewels and one vengeful mummy, the city might kill you - or make you rich. The mummy is one thing, but can you both survive each other?

length: 2.8k

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Egypt, 1927 – The Hotel Continental, Cairo

The sun climbed early and fast in Cairo, already too hot by the time you stepped into the shaded terrace of the Hotel Continental. You had chosen a table near the edge, half-tucked behind a potted plant, close enough to watch the street but far enough that no one could watch you.

You ordered coffee. Then tea. Then another coffee, just to keep your hands busy.

It was 9:06 am.

He was late.

Not that you were surprised. Bradley Bradshaw didn’t strike you as the punctual type. Or the sober-before-noon type. And yet here you were, waiting for him – a man you barely knew and had even less reason to trust.

You smoothed the crease of your skirt, checked your watch again, 9:09.

It wasn’t the time that bothered you. It was what the waiting meant.

Because under the carefully constructed shell – the one that spoke with confidence, that looked men in the eye and never blinked – there was a sharp, gnawing truth:

You were terrified he wouldn't come.

Bradley was a risk, no question. He was the kind of man who could drink away opportunity, charm his way through disappointment, and vanish the moment things got complicated. But he was also experienced. Connected. And for all his theatrics, his scandal, and the stories trailing him like sand, he knew Egypt better than anyone still drawing breath.

And if he didn’t come... what then?

The map you’d found – well, stolen – was real. You were sure of it. But it didn’t matter how right you were. Not in a world that didn’t want women digging though tombs or rewriting history. Alone, you were clever. Determined. Brave, on good days. But not enough. Not without someone to back you.

You hated that.

You hated needing him.

More than that, you hated that he got to be the one who decided whether the future you wanted was possible.

Bradley had connections, field experience, and enough ego to draw attention away from you if things got messy. But he also had the power to walk away.

A waiter brought the coffee. You thanked him too politely, then stared down at the cup.

If he didn’t show, you’d try something else. Go to Luxor. Disguise yourself. Bribe someone. There were always other paths. They’d just be harder, riskier, slower.

And the truth was – you didn’t have time for slow. Not if you wanted to live the life you desired, the life your father would scoff at.

Your fingers brushed the edge of the satchel at your side – the one containing the map. You hadn’t shown it to anyone. Not yet. You'd told Bradley just enough to test him yesterday, to see if there was anything left behind the famous name and faded charm. But if he didn’t show – if you’d bet everything on a washed-up drunk with no fight left – then the last thread of your plan might unravel before it even began.

9:13.

The sound of boots on stone got louder as he approached you, and a shadow moved across the table. You didn’t look up right away. You didn’t want him to see the relief.

“You’re late.” you said, cool and clipped.

“I’m not,” came Bradley’s voice. “You’re just early.”

You glanced up then. He looked sharper than yesterday – barely. Shaved, clean shirt, but still carrying that well-worn look, like he lived a little too close to chaos to ever look fully polished.

He sat without asking, and nodded towards your cup of coffee. “Is that one for me?”

“No.”

He smirked, eyes roaming over you. “Didn’t think so.”

You paused, studying him. “You’re hungover. A late night with a lucky lady, was it?” you asked sarcastically, reluctantly pushing your half-drank cup of coffee towards him.

He grinned and took a sip, leaning back in the chair. “Hey now, I don’t spend all my time drinking and bedding women.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Your collar is askew, and you stink of perfume and whiskey.”

Bradley’s cocky expression faltered at that. You were observant, he'd have to keep that in mind. He coughed, awkwardly adjusting his collar. “Right. Well, I may have enjoyed myself a bit too much last night.” he admitted, a hint of redness creeping up his neck.

Your eyes roamed over him, almost judgmentally, before you caught yourself. There was a short pause, until you spoke. “You’re lucky I didn’t leave.”

He sat with that same languid ease from the day before- like he was always halfway between charm and exasperation. “Have to admit, I wasn’t sure you’d still want my help.”

“I wasn’t sure you’d show.”

You held each other’s eyes for a beat, and something unspoken passed between you – not trust, not yet, but recognition. Two people who were used to being disappointed by the world, wondering if this would be just another case.

“I came because you said you had something important,” he said. “And you had that look – like you knew something no one else did.”

It was the look that had intrigued him most. Sure, you were beautiful, and he could imagine himself trying to flirt with you over a few drinks and eventually end up spending a long night with you. Although, something told him you wouldn't fall for his usual moves.

You hesitated.

This was it. The moment you could still walk back. Say nothing. Play it safe.

Instead, you reached into your satchel and slowly withdrew a leather-bound portfolio, worn and scuffed. You opened it carefully and turned it towards him.

He leaned forwards. And then – went completely still.

The map.

Ancient parchment. Hand-drawn glyphs. Compass markings. An outline of a city lost to sand and time. At the top, barely legible: Nefertari.

Bradley looked up slowly. “You weren’t kidding.”

“No.”

“Where did you get this?”

“I can’t say,” you said carefully. “Let’s just say the British Museum has more crates than curators.”

His eyes widened slightly, then a sly grin crept across his face. “You stole it.”

“I recovered it.”

“Illegally.”

“Quietly.”

He gave a low, impressed whistle, his eyes roaming over you from head to toe. “You don’t strike me as the thieving type.”

“I’m full of surprises,” you said flatly, “You tell anyone, and I’ll deny it. Even if I have to bash your head in with a canopic jar.”

He couldn't help but chuckle at that, enjoying your quick-wit. He'd never met anyone like you before, that much was clear already. “That’s the most romantic threat I’ve ever received, sweetheart.”

Your expression hardened. “Let’s get one thing clear, Mr. Bradshaw.”

The flirtatious smile dropped from his face, if only slightly.

“If we’re going to work together, we do so as equals. Partners.” you said firmly. “No winks, no innuendos, no clever little lines. I need your expertise. Not your charm.”

He studied you. It was unnerving and you were almost worried he was about to shut you down, the same way everyone else had, but you kept a straight and firm face anyway, not backing down.

Then after a beat, he nodded. “Understood.”

A pause.

“But for the record...” he added, slowly grinning, “my charm is part of my expertise.”

You rolled your eyes, stood, and slung the satchel over your shoulder, grabbing the map and tucking it safely back inside. “Then this will be a very limited partnership.”

You turned, heading toward the lobby.

Behind you, you heard him mutter with a grin, “No flirting. That’ll be the hardest part.”

You didn’t look back.

You couldn’t afford to let him see the faint smile tugging at the corner of your mouth.

The car jostled along the uneven track out of Cairo, dust coiling behind you like a desert ghost. You sat stiffly in the passenger seat, your satchel clutched close, one hand gripping the worn leather strap, the other tapping against your knee in a restless rhythm.

Bradley drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting lazily on the window frame. He whistled off-key as the city shrank behind you, his hat pulled low to shield his eyes from the sun.

“You still haven’t told me where we’re going,” you said, narrowing your eyes.

Bradley grinned. “To see someone who might actually take you seriously.”

“Oh good,” you muttered. “That's a comfort.”

He smirked. “You said you wanted a partner, not a cheerleader.”

You folded your arms, narrowing your eyes slightly. “You didn’t say anything about driving me into the middle of nowhere.”

“We’re not in the middle of nowhere. We’re going to see Dr Mitchell. Maverick.” he said. “He was my mentor. He was a genius. Still is, probably. Taught me everything I know – before I got clever enough to think I knew better.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Maverick? I know that name.”

“You’ve probably seen it in obscure footnotes and forgotten library indexes.”

“I have,” you admitted. “But nothing substantial. His papers were either unpublished or buried. I read a few, tried tracking down one - The Unseen Tomb of Nefertari - but it was missing from every archive that claimed to hold it. Even the museum librarians didn’t know who he was.”

Bradley snorted. “They wouldn’t. He burned every bridge on his way out of the academic world.”

“Probably because of his obsession with curses and spirits,” you said, arms folded. “Protective wards and funeral rituals – his work read more like folklore than archeology.”

Bradley shrugged. “Well, maybe folklore’s what we need.”

You turned your head to look out the window. “I don’t know,” you said, hesitating. “I’ve come this far on facts and maps. I don’t want to chase stories.”

Bradley didn’t answer right away. His eyes stayed on the road, but his thoughts drifted to your voice – sharp, deliberate, and just a little weary, like someone who’d been underestimated too many times and learned to be sharper than the room demanded.

“You talk like every university-trained man I ever knew,” he said finally. “Only, they didn’t have your instincts.”

You blinked, surprised at the sudden... compliment?

You didn’t respond, but your shoulders shifted slightly – less rigid now, maybe.

Bradley didn’t say anything else; he just focused on the road ahead. But still, he found himself aware of you in a way that wasn’t quite professional. It wasn’t just your knowledge – it was how you carried it, like it was armour and burden both. He was honestly beginning to enjoy being around you. There was something relentless in you, something he recognised. Maybe even admired.

He kept that thought to himself.

Your grip on the satchel tightened. Inside, wrapped in linen, was the map.

You hadn’t meant to steal it.

But you also didn’t leave it behind.

Still, you weren’t sure an old man with wild theories was the key to unlocking it.

But Bradley was convinced and maybe he was right.

Maybe Maverick could help.

Maverick’s house stood quiet beneath the late sun, it’s walls cracked and half-swallowed by creeping ivy. A weathered brass knocker hung on the door, but Bradley didn’t bother knocking. Instead, he pushed the door open and walked straight in.

Inside, the study was more tomb than home.

“Still alive, old man?” Bradley called.

“In body, if not reputation,” came the dry reply. Maverick stepped from behind a bookcase, face sharp, eyes still quick. “You’ve brought company.”

He seemed wary as Bradley introduced you, “She’s the reason I’m out of bed before noon.”

Maverick’s gaze lingered. “Well. The English send prettier spies these days.”

You didn’t blink. “Not a spy. Just persistent.”

Maverick gave the barest smile. “Come in, then. Let’s see what you think you know.”

The study was a chaos of scrolls, open books, and strange relics half-swallowed by dust. There was no order - just layered madness in a dozen languages. You moved in without hesitation, stepping around piles with the ease of someone used to being in the way. Bradley watched you, noting how your fingers hovered near one table, drawn instinctively to the oldest pages. You weren’t intimidated – just focused.

“Sit,” Maverick said. “And show me what you’ve dragged halfway across the world.”

You glanced once at Bradley, then unslung your satchel and unwrapped the linen bundle. The map unrolled across the table with a sigh of age, the ink catching the last of the light.

Bradley, standing beside you, found himself watching your face rather than the artefact. There was something in the way your brow tightened – intensity without fear. He’d known scholars who trembled to handle papyrus. You looked like you belonged with it.

He shook his head a little, clearing the thought, and walked over to the shelf where Maverick usually kept his scotch. He casually poured himself a glass, watching you both as he took a sip, immediately feeling more at ease.

Maverick’s mood changed the moment he saw the map. The sarcasm drained out of him. “Where did you find this?” he asked sharply.

Your voice was steady. “In the British Museum archives. A crate labelled 1853.”

Maverick's eyes flicked up. “And you stole it.”

“I rescued it,” you said, without flinching. “From a slow death in storage.”

Bradley hid a grin behind his glass. There was that edge again – blunt, unapologetic. You didn’t care if a man like Maverick approved. You knew what you were worth.

He didn’t realise how rare that was until he saw it on you.

Maverick leaned over the table, his fingers hovering, but not quite touching. “This seal is ancient. This... this shouldn’t even exist.”

“I believe it’s the final burial map,” you said. “For Nefertari. It matches no known tomb, no documented dig. I’ve cross-referenced desert wind patterns, dry riverbeds, and temple star alignments. They all converge here.” You pointed without hesitation. “Kharga Pass.”

Maverick stared at you. “You’ve already done the work.”

“I needed confirmation,” you shrugged. “Not instruction.”

Bradley let out a quiet breath through his nose. He didn’t say anything, but something settled in his chest. This wasn’t luck, and it wasn’t charm. You were brilliant. He’d seen PhDs get flustered by half that information. You made it sound like common sense.

Maverick stared at you a moment longer, then gave a soft, almost reverent chuckle. “You remind me of someone. Me, when I still thought I could make the world listen.”

He moved to a stack of yellowed papers and pulled out a worn page full of overlapping translations and annotations. “This,” he said, laying it beside the map, “is the reason I was laughed out of Cambridge. I was sure that Nefertari’s tomb, the one discovered, was a decoy. Ramses was a clever man after all, and her remains? Never found.”

He pointed to a half-faded line of glyphs. “A fragment from a burial tablet found east of Thebes. It was dismissed as myth. This speaks of a man – Sekhemotep. He was an advisor to Nefertari. A priest. Possibly something darker. The text is vague – intentionally, I think. He betrayed her, stole something precious.”

Bradley placed his half-filled glass down and leaned forward. “Stole what?”

Maverick tapped the page. “A jewel – the Heart of Nefertari. A ritual object – possibly to preserve her ka.”

You frowned. “Part of her soul.”

“Exactly,” Maverick said. “Without it she couldn't pass to the afterlife. This proved my theory that her remains were buried in a tomb elsewhere. The Lost City of Nefertari. But, as it were, no one would believe me. They called me mad.”

Bradley and you shared a glance, before he asked, “And this Sekhemotep?”

“Cursed to guard her tomb for eternity,” Maverick said, like it was the most casual sentence in the world. “Neither living nor dead. Bound to the tomb until the Heart is returned.”

Your arms folded slowly, eyes locked on the map. Your jaw tightened slightly – but you said nothing.

Maverick noticed. “You already knew some of this.”

“I didn’t know the name,” you said, carefully. “But I knew of the legend. The myth. The... curse.”

Bradley glanced sideways at you, something nagging at the back of his mind. The way you answered. The precision. He didn’t believe for a second this was all new to you.

But he didn’t call you on it.

Instead, he asked curiously, “Is there a way to stop it?”

Maverick nodded. “Only the blood of Nefertari can restore the jewel and lift the curse. That’s what the translation says. The bloodline is the key.”

His eyes lingered on you, almost tauntingly, as he added, “I had a theory that her bloodline continued, an illegitimate daughter.” He paused, his eyes drifting to the scarab pendant around your neck. “That looks sentimental.”

You swallowed hard, fingers drifting to the pendant. Your thumb ran over its smooth surface. “From my mother.” you muttered.

Bradley watched you, his chest tightening with the sense that you were both standing on the edge of something ancient and dangerous – and that you were part of it in ways he didn’t yet understand.

He wasn’t sure why, but the thought didn’t scare him.

It intrigued him.

Maverick finally leaned back.

“You’re chasing something real. But if you’re not careful, it will find you first.”

---

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whencyclopedia · 1 year ago

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Deir el-Medina

Deir el-Medina is the modern Arabic name for the worker's village (now an archaeological site) which was home to the artisans and craftsmen of Thebes who built and decorated the royal tombs in the nearby Valley of the Kings and Valley of the Queens.

The ancient inhabitants called the village Pa Demi (“the village”) but it was referred to in official correspondence as Set-Ma'at (“The Place of Truth”) because the workers there were thought to be inspired by the gods in creating the eternal homes of the deceased kings and their families. Early in the Christian era the village, then deserted, was occupied by monks who took over the Temple of Hathor for use as a cloister. The temple was referred to as Deir el-Medina (“Monastery of the Town”) and this name finally came to be applied to the entire site.

Unlike most villages in ancient Egypt, which grew up organically from small settlements, Deir el-Medina was a planned community. It was founded by Amenhotep I (c.1541-1520 BCE) specifically to house workers on royal tombs because tomb desecration and robbery had become a serious concern by his time. It was decided that the royalty of Egypt would no longer advertise their final resting places with large monuments but, instead, would be buried in a less accessible area in tombs cut into the cliff walls. These areas would become the necropolises now known as the Valley of the Kings and the Valley of the Queens and those who lived in the village were known as “Servants in the Place of Truth” for their important role in creating eternal homes and also remaining discreet regarding tomb contents and location.

Deir el-Medina is among the most important archaeological sites in Egypt because of the wealth of information it provides on the daily life of the people who lived there. Serious excavation at the site was begun in 1905 CE by the Italian archaeologist Ernesto Schiaparelli and furthered by a number of others throughout the 20th century CE with some of the most extensive work done by French archaeologist Bernard Bruyere between 1922-1940 CE. At the same time Howard Carter was bringing the treasures of the royalty to light from Tutankhamun's tomb, Bruyere was uncovering the lives of the working people who would have created that final resting place.

History of the Village

The earliest extant ruins at the site are from the reign of Thutmose I (1520-1492 BCE), son and successor of Amenhotep I, but there is no doubt that it was Amenhotep I who first planned the site. He and his mother, Ahmose-Nefertari, were worshipped as protective gods at the site throughout its history. The workers also venerated the cobra goddess Meretseger (whose name means “She Who Loves Silence”), the personification of the Theban necropolis and protector of the dead and, especially, of their tombs.

By the time of the New Kingdom (c.1570-c.1069 BCE) tomb robbing had become almost epidemic in scope. Although measures such as false doors and labyrinths had been a part of tomb building since the Old Kingdom (c.2613-2181 BCE) they were not effective in keeping robbers from reaching the burial chamber and the vast treasures left there with the deceased. One gains an understanding of exactly how great the wealth in these tombs was when one considers the treasures of Tutankhamun's tomb discovered by Howard Carter in 1922 CE. Tutankhamun died before he was 20 years old and had not yet amassed the kind of wealth a king like Djoser (c.2670 BCE) or Khufu (2589-2566 BCE) would have had entombed for the afterlife.

The Valley of the Kings was selected as the new necropolis for royalty and the village was planned for easy access (a half hour's walk) from a worker's home to the tombs. The village was in continuous use from the time of Thutmose I until the collapse of the New Kingdom in c. 1069 BCE. Although the community and nearby necropolises were planned to safeguard the tombs of the kings, human greed and opportunity would eventually work to undermine the plan and some of the workers themselves would turn to robbing the tombs they had helped build and protect for an easy and quite substantial payoff. For most of its history, however, the village seems to have functioned as it was intended.

#History #AmenhotepI #Deirel-Medina #ThebesEgypt #WHE #[#]

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