In the vast, windswept deserts of ancient Egypt, Anubis, the god of death and guide of souls, stood watch over the delicate balance between life and the afterlife. His realm was one of dignity, of respect for the cycles that governed all things. He did not fear death, for he knew it as merely the quiet hinge upon which the door of existence swung. Souls passed through his care like grains of sand slipping through an eternal hourglass, and he tended to each one with unwavering compassion.
It was during one of his journeys to the outer realms, while guiding a lost soul through the shadowed lands, that Anubis first met Kali, the goddess of destruction and transformation. She was fierce, draped in midnight, adorned with necklaces of skulls, her skin painted like the blackest night. Yet in her eyes there was a spark, a wild flame he had never seen before. She was death, yes, but death in its most primal, chaotic, and unyielding form.
Kali moved like a storm; her steps were thunder and her gaze was lightning. Anubis was drawn to her, not out of fear, but out of a deep recognition. Here, he saw a kindred spirit, a fellow guardian of the cycle, one who did not merely allow death but embraced it, danced with it, reveled in its transformative power. And she saw in him something that intrigued her, a calm in the storm, a quiet strength that grounded the ferocity within her.
Together, they forged an alliance, and then, over the ages, a love. With their combined powers, they ruled over the world’s cycles, guiding souls, overseeing death and rebirth, honoring the forces of creation and destruction that bound the cosmos together. They harnessed the earth’s raw magic, woven into the soil, the rivers, the stones, and they spoke of a vision, to lift the earth and help it grow, to guide it towards an ascendant path.
Anubis, ever the dreamer, desired a world where even death could serve life, where the earth could rise as a being, transcending itself. He envisioned casting a great spell to aid the planet’s ascension, one that would foster harmony between light and shadow, between life and death. He knew, however, that such a spell would demand a sacrifice, a life given freely to help all life.
In the deepest act of love, he chose himself.
Anubis began the ritual, calling upon the ancient forces, weaving his life essence into the spell. His heart was full of purity, the kind of love that desired nothing but the world’s growth. He lay in the heart of a tomb, wrapped in linen, surrounded by sacred herbs, preparing for his mummification, the final step in offering his life for the spell.
But as he crossed the threshold, as his spirit left his body and the magic took shape, Kali intervened. She felt him slipping away and refused to let him go. Her love turned to fury, she could not bear the thought of his sacrifice, the loss of his presence, the quiet power that had tempered her own. With a cry of rage, she severed the spell, bending it to her own will. She harnessed its power not to uplift the world, but to bind it, to enslave it under her control.
The earth itself shuddered under her command. Life and death, once a balanced dance, became a one-sided domination. Her shadow fell over the world, darkening its heart, twisting life and death into a cycle of suffering. And Anubis, bound by the very spell he had cast, was forced to watch in despair, powerless to intervene.
Lifetime after lifetime, Anubis was reborn, but each time, Kali found him. She recognized the spark of his essence, the soul she had once loved, and each time she snuffed it out. In every incarnation, he suffered under her hand, murdered, humiliated, crushed, his memories wiped clean only to begin again in another form. She played out her cruelty with a fierce, relentless desire to keep him under her control.
But the spirit of Anubis was resilient, and in each rebirth, he learned a little more, remembered a little more. Fragments of his ancient self began to return, and with each life, he regained pieces of his purpose, of the vision he once had, of the love that had fueled his sacrifice.
Finally, in one incarnation, he awoke fully. He remembered everything, the spell, the sacrifice, the betrayal. The memory of Kali’s cruelty and his love for the world merged into a single, clear purpose, to reclaim his sovereignty and restore the balance.
Anubis confronted Kali, his spirit sharpened by lifetimes of suffering and tempered by the purity of his original sacrifice. And in one final act, he split the world in two, dividing it like the symbol of yin and yang. One half became a realm of shadow, with a seed of light at its core, and the other a realm of light, with a seed of darkness. Each world contained the essence of creation, and both worlds would grow, each struggling toward balance in its own way.
With this act, Anubis restored the cycle. No longer bound by Kali’s grasp, he became both guardian and guide once again, watching over these twin worlds, each a reflection of the other. He understood that both light and darkness were needed for growth, that each world held the elements necessary to become whole.
And so, Anubis resumed his ancient task, a silent guardian once more, guiding the cycles of birth and death. In the depths of both realms, he could feel the echoes of his own heart, in the promise that one day, perhaps, both halves might come together again, like a cell dividing and reuniting in the birthing of life anew.
In the end, Anubis had reclaimed his purpose. He was the keeper of balance, the one who bridged life and death, and his soul was at peace, knowing that in every dark corner and every bright dawn, his presence endured, quietly watching over the timeless dance of creation.
Anubis is not a dog headed god at all and never was, history has tried to make him less than by humiliating him and calling him a dog to bing him to heal.
Maybe people thought this was befitting because of his loyalty and good hearted nature, but it was a terrible error to mistake this as his weakness.
I prefer to think of him and his good nature as a slayer of fools. One who don’t suffer fools gladly.
It may well have taken him thousands of years, but he who laughs last, laughs the deepest.
