Summary: When you live forever, sometimes the only friend you have is the man trying to kill you. Atem is not ready to admit defeat yet. After all, if Bakura wins the game, everything will be lost. Pharaoh Atem/Thief King Bakura

Warning: Violence & Swearing

A Million Grains of Sand

by Mahayana

1638BC – Egypt

The moment Atem's eyes snapped open he knew what he was meant to do. He stared up at the churning sky above him, feeling every cut, burn and bruise on his body. The clouds were clearing already, the evil that had summoned them dispelled. But he could still smell burnt human flesh on him. The remainder of his army, his men… his people, they were crying. Atem braced one bleeding hand on the ground and pushed himself up. He looked down at the puzzle around his neck.

It was singed. Some pieces were sticking out of the smooth, golden walls like something had pushed at them from the inside, trying to get out. Atem grimaced. He had used his name to seal Zork Necrophades into the puzzle. And he had used his life force to keep him in it. And Atem was still alive.

Atem looked around. The thief king was lying unconscious fifteen meters from him. He could feel the other man in his mind, something new inside his chest pointing to the thief's presence like a compass needle. He didn't know how long the thief would stay unconscious. Already, the other man was tossing his head, as if trying to wake from a bad dream. Atem clenched his fists.

And now he had to run.

Pharaoh Atem did not exist anymore. His life sacrificed to the god pyramid like the memory of his name. This was how Horakhti willed it. In exchange for his name and immortal soul, Atem had sealed the evil inside the god pyramid. And so long as Atem stayed alive, the evil would remain sealed. It was Bakura's duty to prevent that. If Atem was the avatar of Ma'at, then Bakura was Isfet. The world must stay balanced, and with every good, there comes an evil. Zorc Necrophades was born from the suffering of the innocent seeking revenge. Their cause was just too. And the gods deemed Bakura worthy to carry their voices. So Atem ran. He ran for his living people, and for the blue sky above him, and for every wailing child yet to be born. And Bakura would hunt him like a jackal, trying to take his life and release Zork back into the world to reap his revenge. Atem prayed to the gods that he would live forever.

1478BC – Mycenae

Escaping Nekheb had been easy once Atem had traded some of his jewellery for safe passage up the Nile and across the sea. He knew that Bakura would feel the direction of his footprints, but he could make it hard to follow. He had traveled to Cyprus, stolen passage on a Mediterranean vessel bound for Anatolia and finally landed in Mycenae. His jewelry had only lasted him for that first year. He had traded it for smaller trinkets, bronze and glass, less precious and less likely to be stolen than lapis lazuli and gold. But even they vanished as his need for food and shelter drove him to barter and spend. Atem wasn't used to having to steal his food. As pharaoh everything had been provided for him. Unimaginable feasts filled with exotic fruits and delicacies traded from far-off countries. Figs. Oh how he missed figs. Now, he had trouble imagining such opulence. But Atem was clever. He hadn't studied politics and warfare, poetry and foreign languages for nothing. He traded knowledge for food. Worked as a scribe and a bard. And once he had passed beyond the borders of his culture, he laboured for his meals, worked in the fields and stables and back-rooms during the day like other commoners. Gambled and drank with them during the nights. His body showed strong muscle, his skin shades darker from the heated kisses of the sun. Atem was alive. He hadn't aged a day past 23. And in 160 years Bakura hadn't beaten him yet. Atem thought that maybe he could live the rest of his eternity in peace.

The Mycenean night was cool despite the sizzling heat of the day. This season the walled city wasn't at war with its neighbours, Tiryns and Tenea. And, as a foreigner, this meant that Atem could find employment much easier amongst the battle-hardened lords and masters of the Mycenae. There was plenty of work to do: rebuilding, forging, and fortifying for the wars yet to come. His current master had allotted Atem a place in his stable, amongst his horses. That was where Atem slept. The hay wasn't comfortable, but it was clean and better than sleeping outdoors. Atem nestled deeper into his blanket and breathed in the rich scent of horses. He would have fallen asleep, or maybe he had been dreaming already, for he woke to a sudden pain in his chest. He opened his eyes hazily, not comprehending what was happening. The dim shape of the roof above him remained still, but the horses neighed nervously. They smelled blood. Atem looked down to see a knife handle sticking out of his chest. The blade had buried deep. He could feel his heart beating around the steel, the razor edges cutting into the muscle with each throb. Atem took a deep breath, swallowed down the pain. Once the shock wore off, he knew he would be in agony.

"I can't believe you'll live through that. I was hoping you'd just die."

Atem glanced to his side where a dim figure leaned against the wooden support beam. He squinted through the dark.

"Bakura."

"Yo, Pharaoh. You're doing well. I like this new palace you have. Sleeping amongst filth suits you."

Atem narrowed his eyes. He grasped the knife and jerked the blade out of his chest. The pain seared through his bones like lightening. He grit his teeth. "You know you have to defeat me at a game first. You cannot kill me before then, no matter what you do to me." He threw the knife back at Bakura. The blade went wide, clattering to the floor somewhere amongst the shadows. Atem's vision blurred, his heart's blood soaking the blanket freely now that the steel wasn't holding it in anymore. Atem focused on his breathing. Steady. Cold sweat beaded his forehead.

Bakura couldn't kill him, but Atem still felt pain. He was susceptible to every sensation a human body had. The difference was that his healed eventually. Even if his heart stopped, his soul would not move on. It would stay with his torn body until it mended, suffering with it. Atem dreaded the thought of turning to ash, or drowning eternally undersea. He didn't trust Bakura not to go that far. He mustn't lower his guard.

"Who wants to wait fifty years to kill you? I am not a patient man."

Atem smirked. "It took you enough time to find me."

"Don't flatter yourself. I've been following you for weeks, and you haven't noticed."

Atem frowned. He was slipping then. Or the thief was getting better at concealing his life force.

"That is of no concern to me," he lied. "What matters is that you're wasting your time trying to assassinate me. Others have tried. This is not the first time a man has stabbed me through the heart in hopes of ending my life."

Bakura laughed, a rusty sound, like he wasn't used to it.

"I have had my share of stabbings, but none have managed to hit my heart. And none that have tried survived." Bakura smirked like a desert fox.

"Perhaps you should let me try," Atem clutched the dirty blanket to the knife wound, trying to staunch the flow. "This wound deserves a return of favours." His heart was still beating at least. He hated the unnatural stillness of his body once the beat was silenced.

"I'd like to see you try," Bakura bared his teeth in challenge.

"Maybe next time. I'm tired now, and I'll be seeing you in 40 years anyway to beat you at another game." Atem fought to upkeep his bluff, but a wave of dizziness nearly brought him down.

The thief scoffed. "You've only won three times. You can not win for eternity. One day, I will defeat you. And that one day is all I need."

"Not if I kill you first."

"You don't know how," Bakura taunted. "160 years since our contract started, and you still don't know how to kill me. You're slow."

"I don't want to hear that from you. Now go away. You are tiring me." Atem lay back down and rolled over in the hay, turning his back to Bakura. Bakura's eyes slitted in rage.

"DON'T YOU DARE IGNORE ME!"

Atem stiffened as Bakura ran at him, jerking him back from the hay. A set of hard knuckles buried themselves in Atem's jaw with such force that his head snapped to the side. He got a foot between himself and Bakura just in time to avoid a second punch. The knife wound flared in pain as Atem twisted to get out from under the thief. He groped around the hay by his head, searching for the puzzle that never left his side. The solid-gold pyramid was often the reason men tried to stab him in the dark hours of the morning. Tonight however, it was going to save him. His hand found one corner of the puzzle, grasping it desperately he hefted it straight at Bakura's face. It collided with Bakura's nose with a satisfying crunch. Bakura screamed in pain and threw himself off of Atem, clutching at his bloodied face. The horses shifted nervously at the commotion. Atem could hear footsteps outside, somebody probably coming to investigate what was going on. Bakura stared hatefully at Atem. Getting caught in the middle of a fight to the temporary death wasn't in either of their interests.

"I'll hunt you down in forty years, you fever-rotten whore's son."

Atem cradled his bleeding knife wound with the same care that Bakura was holding his shattered nose.

"My lineage was impeccable. You're the whore's son, thief."

Bakura spit him in the face, a mixture of saliva and blood.

"I have many reasons to kill you. But I'll add this to the list."

Atem smiled grimly.

"Go ahead and try. No matter what game you choose. No matter how much you practice. I will always be better. You will never win."

"We will see in forty years then, won't we," Bakura threw back as he pulled himself through the barn window. He disappeared into the night without looking back.

Author's Notes:

If the world ends in 2012, you know Atem lost the game.

I hacked 2000+ words off this story. Sorry Malik, you'll have to be a dashing, upper-class German immigrant circa 1860s some other time.

What strange mixture of concepts inspired this plot? "Around the World in 80 Days", "Tom & Jerry" and "Harold & Kumar" of all things… (And maybe a little bit of "Baccano!") Be glad I never got around to writing the 2001 era… Bakura has a Mohawk.

Written for a contest. Constructive criticism appreciated!