Nephthys had seen empires rise and fall, countless sunrises paint the desert gold, and enough pharaohs to fill a rather expansive necropolis. But lately, even the eternal cycle felt like a grind. As a mummy and a mother, her days (and nights, and millennia) were a ceaseless whirlwind of managing dusty scrolls, ensuring the scarab beetle collection was properly cataloged, and, of course, tending to her spirited little ones, whose bandages always seemed to unravel at the most inconvenient times.
She’d caught glimpses of her reflection in polished obsidian: the familiar, sunken contours, the fine lines that weren’t of wisdom but pure, unadulterated exhaustion etched deeper than the hieroglyphs on her sarcophagus. She felt… unpreserved. Not like the grand, eternal Nephthys, but like an ancient relic left too long in the sun.
Whispers had reached the Afterlife – strange tales of mortal women injecting “fillers” to plump up their visages. Nephthys scoffed. Newfangled. What was this modern magic? Would it react with her embalming fluids? Would she sprout papyrus instead of supple skin? How could she possibly know what the results would be? A bad linen wrap could be adjusted, but this… this was internal. And the pain! Even a mummy had nerves, albeit desiccated ones. Most unsettling of all, what would Osiris say? Or her ancient confidantes? Would they tut-tut, judging her for caring about something so… mortal as her appearance after all these eons? The guilt, even for an undead queen, was a heavy shroud.
Yet, the weariness persisted. The longing for a spark of her former radiance grew stronger. One dusty afternoon, gathering her courage (and her most respectable traveling linens), she sought out About Face, the renowned Philadelphia aesthetic treatment center.
The consultation room was bright, almost jarringly so after the dim glow of her tomb. Her provider, serene and impeccably clothed, smiled reassuringly. Nephthys, true to her nature, didn’t speak. Her voice, if she forced it, was a dry rustle, a distraction.
Instead, she used her ancient, bandage-wrapped arms. She pointed to the hollows beneath her eyes with a grunt that conveyed millennia of sleepless nights. She traced the lines around her mouth, her gesture clearly asking, ‘Can these truly be smoothed?’ She raised a bandaged finger in a gesture that plainly questioned, ‘Will it hurt?’ She mimed a lopsided face, then a dramatically over-filled one, her head tilting in silent interrogation: ‘What assurance of natural beauty do I have?’
Her provider, a woman of profound patience and perception, understood. She showed diagrams, explaining how hyaluronic acid (a substance, she noted, found even in ancient organic matter) gently replenished volume. She demonstrated the fine needles, assuring minimal discomfort with advanced numbing techniques. She presented a portfolio of “before and afters,” carefully curated for natural-looking, harmonious results, emphasizing facial balance rather than dramatic alteration. She spoke of respecting individual anatomy, even ancient. “Our goal, Princess,” she explained, “is to utilize dermal-filler in Philadelphia to restore your essence, not to change who you are. To help you feel as magnificent as your legacy.”
Nephthys considered. The expert’s words, her calm confidence, the visible results… The fear began to recede. She nodded slowly, a silent assent that vibrated with the weight of her decision.
The treatment was surprisingly gentle. A brief, pinprick sensation, a subtle pressure, then a comforting coolness. Nephthys felt a strange, tingling sensation as the decades (no, millennia) of subtle facial sagging began to lift.
When handed the mirror, Nephthys gasped – a soft, un-mummy-like sound. Her eyes, which had been dull, now gleamed with surprise and a nascent joy. The hollowness was gone, replaced by a gentle fullness. The deep lines had softened, smoothed, not vanished entirely (which would have looked unnatural on an ancient being), but enough to wipe away decades of weariness. She still looked like Nephthys, unequivocally, but like Nephthys on a really, really good millennia. She looked, dare she think it, preserved. Perfectly.
A genuine smile, one that hadn’t graced her lips in centuries, tugged at the corners of her mouth. She touched her face, then her injector’s hand in a rare gesture of gratitude. She felt lighter, more vibrant, as if the desert dust had been gently brushed from her soul. Later, back in her tomb, Osiris complimented her unexpected “glow.” Her confidantes merely admired her “well-rested” appearance. Nephthys, feeling truly herself again, simply smiled.
Her experience with dermal-filler in Philadelphia had rejuvenated her original radiance, and it was glorious.
