A tentative reentry into this world.


An irksome day at best, Gaara could say.

Which was better than most, seeing as no one was dead. Gaara's sovereignty had been marked by plagues of fear and desperation. And Gaara made no moves to change people's ideas about him, because mostly, it was the idea of the man who'd sired him. He wanted his rule to be an iron one, and Gaara had nothing that interested him enough to change that.

All he ever did was read and research, and because the Pharaoh didn't get in the way of that, Gaara didn't cause problems, either.

Not saying that he never had.

There was one and only one time during which he'd been required to kill a man, and he'd secluded himself ever since. He barely interacted with other humans, as a matter of fact, and that was the way everyone liked it.

So he was wondering, when he walked into the master suite in his relaxation wing of his center household on his compound-...

Why there was someone else in his room?

Why there was someone else, wearing his valuables, half naked, in his room!?

He narrowed his eyes and put down his books, and began walking forward slowly. The big eyed idiot who he'd currently targeted was staring- likely in fear, unmoving. Gaara was going to kill him.

"A god," was the first thing the idiot said. It gave Gaara only a moment of pause.

"What are you doing in here," he growled.

"I-I-I... I am your new servant. I am here to... please you."

Gaara had to pause once more, and then his face twisted up into a nasty, hungry scowl. He said, "You're about the farthest thing from pleasing me. Take off my finery, heathen."

At least he didn't have to be told twice. The young servant jumped to comply, quickly sliding the intricately woven pieces of silver and lapis lazuli off of his head and shoulders. He pulled the fine silver rings from his ears and his fingers, and laid it all gently on the bed, neatly arranged. He scrambled off the bed, the sheets of which were- for once- rumpled. He then knelt awkwardly, eyes still widely following Gaara.

Momentarily distracted from the infidel aggravating him, Gaara went to inspect. He feared picking the jewelry up, knowing that the slave had just donned them. Yet, he realized with a scowl, they were too important to him to let anyone else clean them of the servants filth.

"You," he hissed. The dark haired heathen took that as an invitation to say everything that was on his mind.

"I-I-I-I- Had I known I would be sold to a God, I would have m-made myself more presentable. I have only bathed in a natural spring, and not holy waters. Perhaps donned something more modest..."

Gaara paused, slightly intrigued by the slave's manners. Still, he was enraged enough to want him dead. He knew he was making a murderous face, one that sometimes stood there when he was making his most important decisions. It had given his father a dominion over Egypt that no Pharaoh had faced before. His counsel made no special moves to manipulate him even when they should.

The commoners who dared think of revolt were swayed by the all powerful chess piece Gaara was.

"Maybe you will show me modesty in death," he said slowly, his voice uninflected and icy. The slave looked less alarmed than Gaara would have liked, though the widening of his big, black eyes was rather pleasing.

He would like that look frozen on his face in death.

"No! I-I-I mean," the slave sat up straighter, and squared his jaw, looking Gaara in the eye for the first time, "I am yours, to play with or kill as you please. But I implore you not to kill me until I have proven I will be of more use to you as a living being."

Gaara looked at the slave, who looked back, not defiantly, nor the way a sniveling cheat might. It surprised the prince into being, for lack of better term, impressed. Why would he want to impress Gaara? Even knowing he was next in line to become a god, there was no doubt it was through power and fear mongering.

Why would someone want to impress a demon? Gaara narrowed his eyes.

"Stand up," he said viciously, and the slave complied, quickly, without fumbling. He immediately glued his eyes to Gaara's feet. The prince noticed for the first time many things about the slave. Though his skin was clear and soft seeming- as though he bore womanly habits with lotions and perfumes- his shoulders were broad, and his muscles were pronounced. Even the shine of the infinite little scars he had spread across his torso and upper shoulders seemed dulled. The top he wore was merely a silk vest, so Gaara could peer at him and find he seemed like a sportsman.

"Make yourself useful," he said, leaving the statement open to interpretation. The servant stood still for only a moment, then swung himself forward and reached into a bag Gaara had not noticed before. He stood guardedly beside the post on his bed.

The slave pulled out heavy white wraps, rolled tightly and neatly. He wrapped his forearms and hands in them, right down to his fingertips. Then slowly, as if approaching a wild desert beast, he moved towards the bed- to Gaara's most prized possessions. He did not like the way that made him feel. Fire coiled in the pit of his stomach while his shoulders chilled.

"Heel, slave," Gaara demanded. The man did stop, but he did not back away.

"I was trained to polish and clean silver by one of my former masters. I will undo the mistake my unworthy hands have done, and make no err in touching these things with my bare hands again," said the slave to Gaara's feet. He held up his hands, his long fingers arching towards himself. Gaara stand tense, but made no move in protest when Lee approached again. He did so slowly, and carefully collected the rings into his hands first. He wrapped them in the fine pillowcase, made of Chinese silk they'd imported from the southernmost coast.

Gaara had been, in some manner, pleased to receive that as a gift (offering) after successful negotiations with the Yunnan province. He didn't sleep on it, of course, but that was unimportant. Gaara liked to have expensive and beautiful things his life. It wasn't unreasonable. He was sovereign prince of all Egypt, next in line to take the throne. He never thought, even with his title, his fine silk pillow sheet would be used as a sack to transport his fine silver to-...

"Where are you going," he asked, much before he processed that it was a useless question. This man had already admitted to being Gaara's possession. He could follow him where he pleased.

"I have found," said the slave as he continued out of the doors, "that silver polishing goes best in the kitchen, my liege."

Gaara, who was not a commoner, had never read anything about silver polishing, was once again intrigued. The slave seemed unsure of whether to lead or to follow. Gaara, who had not one shred of pity in his heart for him- he barely had the physical manifestation of a heart- stepped around him and lead a relaxed pace down the grand hall. The slave followed silently.

In the kitchen, the man took the wooden bowl he found by the sink and carefully placed each ornament in it. He rambled around the kitchen, opening cabinets and pulling bottles from them. At least he showed reluctance and caution whilst doing so, knowing the man who'd kill him was still there. Gaara still might, too. It was still his first option. He just wanted his silver polished, as was promised, and then he'd have no use for him.

Gaara never had any use for another person. Whomever had put it in his room would pay dearly. Probably Temari. She could use a lesson...

From the ingredients he found, the slave made an odd sort of paste. He scrubbed the silver with it in a way that made Gaara's body do those strange things again. His urge to know whether his silver would look well polished overrode them. The man placed them on the table and grabbed a soft sponge from the rack.

Gaara was glad he did not cook in that kitchen, nor that he allowed any of the palace servants in his kitchen. He would be enraged should he see the slave wiping away the paste with a sponge used for dishes. He dipped the sponge in the bowl, which he had filled with something Gaara highly suspected was lemon juice.

He gave the fine jewels and precious metals one more wipe before pulling from the sack silver polish. Gaara had not even remembered him stowing them in there. He supposed that those long fingered hands were the smuggling type.

Gaara watched this slave work, meticulously and without distraction. His face was set hard, cheekbones sharp beneath his focused eyes. He wore a frown of concentration, Gaara could see from where he stood.

He was so focused on watching the taller man that he did not notice when he finished cleaning. He jolted as the man turned and knelt at his feet, using the pillowcase as a platform to present the now shining jewelry.

Gaara was astonished. Her least favorite jewelry, he'd been told as a child. His mother's least favorite jewelry, worn down and scratched, always seeming to cause her misfortune. The only thing of her he'd been allowed to have.

And now, here it was, sparkling before him like it had been scrubbed clean of those lies. He could imagine it. His mother's golden skin, shimmering under these well worn silver plates. Sparkling like the Nile under the hottest of suns, yet never breaking a bead of sweat. Her smile.

Gaara felt something underneath his heart but above his stomach seize. He needed to move, do something, maybe sit down- but all he could do was stare.

"My liege," the slave's clear cut voice pulled him from what might have been a fatal stupor. Gaara had no doubt he'd stopped breathing. Was that why it hurt him so?

"Do not move," he said in a breathless tone that he didn't like on himself. He turned from the room, quickly making his way back to his room. A lesser being would have been scurrying, but Gaara did nothing less than glide to and from his room and back to the kitchen.

He opened the ornate jewelry box his sister had gotten him on his fifteenth birthday, in the hopes that he might spare her life or something. At times, he was glad he had. He still needed interactions with someone who wasn't a conniving, murdering counsel member.

Other times, he wanted to crush her bones and use her blood as dye for his sand. He supposed that relatives did tend to make you feel that.

Once his precious possessions were safely ensconced, he peered down at the slave. The black haired man only looked down, as if humbled to be in Gaara's presence. The sovereign supposed he was.

"... It was, admittedly, a useful skill that you learned to possess," said Gaara, not actually going so far as to thank the slave. The stern, austere, focused man picked up his head, but let his eyes go no further than Gaara's chest. The smile that bloomed from him was, too, astonishing as the gleam of the silver jewelry.

He seemed to happy to have been not really praised, and Gaara felt odd. He second guessed, wondered if he should compliment the man flat out. It was something he never did- neither option. It made him confused enough to say, "Should you prove to have more fine skills than that, I may yet find you more useful in life than death."

The man's already wide, dark eyes grew two sizes again, and Gaara was again reminded how much the sight pleased him. He was unsure why it did so when the same thought was not connected with death, but it was an easily dismissed notion. The man's head touched the floor.

"Yes, my liege," he said, muffled by the marble tiles, "I shall do my best not to disappoint you!"

Gaara knew he couldn't see this action, but he nodded his head and turned back to his room. It was evening now, and though he wouldn't sleep very much, he would retire to his room as was his nightly routine. His father liked to force him to join his midnight war meetings. Mostly to remind the generals who their King (or Queen, if one were to look at the specifics of the game) piece was.

Never mind that they were not actually at war with anyone.

The best way to avoid a fight was to avoid it. Besides which, no one would dare go to his compound after dark. Not even his siblings.

He slipped into his room and closed the door, fully prepared to strip to something more casual. He hadn't heard the slave follow. He was pulling off his outer robes, prepared to hang them up when another set of hands slipped them from his grasp.

Without thinking, Gaara whipped around, sand peaks raising and sharpening into pikes and claw fingered hands gathering to protect him. The slave stood grasping the cloth with pale knuckles.

Yet still, his wide, terrified eyes did not ascend past Gaara's midsection. It made him pause, the sand stilling with his afterthought.

"What are you doing," he growled. The slave folded his robe as he fluidly got down on his knees. He made sure it did not touch the floor.

"As a servant, I am trained to assist you dress and undress," he replies, fingers shaking on the cloth but big eyes steady. Gaara felt something between anger and the inability to move collide in him at the same time. He didn't understand it.

"I undress myself," he said angrily, "and slaves sleep outside the compound."

Satisfaction and something much less pleasing curled up in him at the same time as he watched the man flinch. His terrified face solidified back into that angry pout he'd worn in the kitchen. The man replied, "Pardon me for speaking out of turn, my liege, but I will not sleep outside of the compound."

"And why not."

It was supposed to be inflected as a question, but he had no patience now. Gaara's temperature was going from hot to very cold very fast. It would be such a shame to have to kill this man now after he'd done him a favor.

"You are a god... yet somehow have not been served your rightful place. The others do not understand the importance of serving a master like yourself. So I shall do my job as your servant. I shall not leave your side," the slave said resolutely.

"I can undress myself," he repeated, that angry, motionless feeling growing as he did. The kneeling man's solid face grew more austere. He still did not move.

"I understand, my liege... but you should not have to," he said. Slowly he turned and placed the folded garment across the Prince's chaise. He reached forward, through the sand, his hands now steady. His long fingers slid across Gaara's ankles, undoing the clasps at the cuff of his pants. He lifted them.

His fingers were gentle where they untied his sandals. Still, Gaara did not like the way his wrist brushed against his ankle. It sent shivers straight down his spine and jolts up his legs. The feelings met behind his navel and squeezed, and he sucked in a sharp breath.

"Don't," he snapped, and the man's fingers flinched away far enough to let Gaara step away. He did not. After a minute or so, the slave reached again, undoing his sandals and pulling them off. He did so with the other cuff and sandal. He did not touch Gaara again.

Gaara had never been treated this gently. It confused his already overworked brain. He focused on what the slave had said- he was a god. And gods should have not only what they needed, but what they desired. Hadn't all the things he'd done deserve praise and worship?

Surely not all, but he had been an obedient and scholarly son. That, at least, deserved something.

The slave pulled himself up and undid the buttons on his trousers. His ministrations were calm and collected. He folded each piece of clothing as he removed them. Gaara's trousers, vest, and robe all lie atop one another, neatly. Eventually, the man got to the buttons of Gaara's cream colored shirt. Slowly he undid them, one by one. When Gaara's chest was bare, he slipped around him and slid the fabric from his shoulders.

He was so gentle that Gaara felt he was in a daze. He'd even stepped out of his trousers as if some ghost were removing them for him.. The man's eyes never left his work. He never even dared glance at Gaara's face. Just as well, all the men and women who served the royal court knew that rule. Never to look directly upon a member of the royal family. But everyone knew they peeked from once in awhile. It couldn't be helped, since they were servants who had millions of things to do and remember.

Gaara guessed there was not one person who could follow that rule as well as this man.

"Is there a gown you prefer to wear this evening," the slave's soft voice jolted him up. He looked around.

"In the chifferobe there, second drawer down," he said slowly. The man went, pulled out the soft navy trousers and a wrap around shirt that Gaara liked to lounge in. He led himself back to Gaara and dressed him with the same care and slowness with which he'd undressed him.

"Where shall I take these to be laundered," asked the man. Gaara felt himself drift down onto the chaise where the clothes had been. He tipped his head toward the wall and replied, "Basket."

Though he wasn't tired, his head lolled. Everything seemed dull and soft, like he was lying in the fields of cotton and papyrus. He had been prepared to read, but maybe he would do it later...


I will do my best to post this quickly.