Nephthys had seen empires rise and fall, countless sunrises painting the desert with gold, and enough pharaohs to fill a large enough necropolis. But lately, even the eternal cycle has felt like a grind. As a mummy and mother, her days (and nights and millennia) were a non-stop whirlwind of managing dusty scrolls, ensuring the beetle collection was properly recorded and, of course, tending to her lively young, whose bandages always seemed to come undone at the most inconvenient moments.
She had caught glimpses of her reflection in polished obsidian: the familiar, dimpled contours, the fine lines that were not wisdom but pure, unadulterated exhaustion etched deeper than the hieroglyphs on her sarcophagus. She felt… unkempt. Not like the great, eternal Nephthys, but like an ancient relic long left in the sun.
The whispers had reached the Afterlife – strange stories of mortal women who were injected with “fillers” to fill their eyes. Nephthys scoffed. Newfangled. What was this modern magic? Would it react with embalming fluids? Would it produce papyrus instead of rubbery skin? How could he know what the results would be? A bad sheet wrap could be adjusted, but this… this was internal. And the pain! Even a mummy had nerves, albeit dry ones. Most disturbing of all, what would Osiris say? Or her ancient confidantes? Would they do this, judging her for caring about something as… mortal as her appearance after all these centuries? Guilt, even for a bereaved queen, was a heavy shroud.
However, the fatigue remained. The longing for a spark of her former brilliance grew stronger. One dusty afternoon, mustering up her courage (and her most venerable travel linens), she sought out About Face, Philadelphia’s famed aesthetic treatment center.
The council room was bright, almost insane after the dim glow of her tomb. Her provider, serene and impeccably dressed, smiled reassuringly. Nephthys, true to her nature, did not 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 under her eyes with a growl that conveyed millennia of sleepless nights. She erased the lines around her mouth, her gesture clearly asking, “Can these really be smoothed over?” He held up a bound finger in a gesture that clearly asked, “Will it hurt?” She mimed a scowl, then a dramatically full one, her head tilted in silent questioning: “What natural beauty assurance do I have?”
Her provider, a woman of deep patience and understanding, understood. He showed diagrams, explaining how hyaluronic acid (a substance, he noted, found even in ancient organic matter) gently replenished the volume. He demonstrated fine needles, ensuring 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 change. He spoke of respecting individual anatomy, even ancient anatomy. “Our goal, princess,” he explained, “is to use dermal filler in Philadelphia to restore your bottom line, don’t change who you are. To help you feel as great as your heritage.”
Nephthys thought. The expert’s words, her calm confidence, the visible results… The fear began to subside. She nodded slowly, a silent assent that vibrated with the weight of her decision.
The treatment was surprisingly gentle. A brief stinging sensation, a subtle pressure, then a soothing coolness. Nephthys felt a strange, tingling sensation over the decades (no, millennia) of the imperceptible relaxation of the face began to rise.
When they handed over the mirror, Nephthys gasped – a soft, un-mummy-like sound. Her eyes, which had been dull, now shone with surprise and an emerging joy. The hollowness was gone, replaced by a soft fullness. The deep lines had softened, smoothed out, not completely gone (which would look unnatural on an ancient being), but enough to erase decades of weariness. She still looked like Nephthys, no doubt, but Nephthys really, really happy millennia. She seemed, dare he think, preserved. Dot.
A genuine smile, one that hadn’t graced her lips in ages, pulled into the corners of her mouth. She touched her face and then the hand of her injector in a rare gesture of gratitude. She felt lighter, more alive, as if the dust of the desert had been rid of her soul. Later, back at her tomb, Osiris praised her unexpected “shine”. Her besties simply admired her “well-rested” appearance. Nephthys, feeling herself again, simply smiled.
Her experience with dermal-filler in Philadelphia it had revived its original luster and it was glorious.
