A/N: So I made an Ancient Egypt AU to a show that already partly takes place in Ancient Egypt... Ah well.
I figured that the best way to get these two together was to transport Malik to the past, and just to make it a bit more simple, I approached it more like a historical novel so I didn't have to incorporate all the elements of Yugioh's occasionally complex canon.
That said, the closest thing I am to a historian is sharing a department with some at university (and even then our relationship is more "ugh historians"-"ugh ethnologists" than anything friendly), so forgive me for all the historical inaccuracies. I did some research, but seeing as the time frame is what it is, I'm sure there's some errors. And some historical facts I just had to ignore for the Rule of Cool and Rule of Oh-God-This-is-Already-10k-and-I-Really-Don't-Have-the-Time-to-Incorporate-That. I hope for your understanding and forgiveness.
I decided that the closest thing to a Tomb Keeper would be a Tomb Builder, which is why Malik in this story lives in Deir el-Medina, the village of the tomb builders of the Pharaohs between 18th and the 20th dynasties (Yugioh takes place probably at the end of 20th dynasty (except the English dub, which takes place in 3000 B.C., a choice I've never understood)). I've tried to keep the story as self-contained as I can, but I'll put some notes at the end of the historical facts (+references I used).
Lastly few notes on names: I'll be calling Deir el-Medina Set Maat (The Place of Truth), cos few places said that it would have been called in the ancient times. The Valley of the Kings is alternatively called "The Valley", "The Grand Necropolis" and "The Royal Necropolis".
Suppose I should warn that there is mentions of child abuse in this fic. Considering it's Malik and his father we're talking about, no one can honestly be very surprised, right?
Enjoy, as always! There'll be more ramblings at the end.
Freedom of Choice
The village of Set Maat was located in the edges of the desert, on the West side of the Nile, though from the river one couldn't even see there being a whole village, so hidden it was by the cliffs surrounding it. Only a single road, running north-south took people to the gates of the village. Inside were perhaps 70 houses, built in close proximity.
Closest real city to Set Maat was the great Waset, situated by the river, bustling with activity, with life. Set Maat was alive as well, but its life was much more sombre, much slower, and all the time the village's eyes were upon the matters of afterlife, of death.
Set Maat, the place of truth, and the people living there, the servants to the place of truth, existed only for one purpose. They were the keepers and the builders of the tombs of the Grand Necropolis. Every Pharaoh who wished upon eternity came to Set Maat with humbleness uncharacteristic to the son of the sun-god, and asked the people to build them a place of everlasting rest.
And the people of Set Maat would build it, making the trip to the Royal Necropolis, and mining a tomb to the side of the hard rock under the desert sun. Not only that, they would paint the walls of the tomb with stories and pictures, they would bless the tomb, they would put spells in it to ensure that the Pharaoh had the best chances in the judgement that awaited him in the after-world and they would build traps to keep robbers away, so nothing could disturb the rest of the Pharaoh's remains.
It was a blessing to be born in Set Maat. Most children were secure in the knowledge that their path was laid out in front of them. They would become painters, diggers, artisans or scribes like their fathers, and their job was the most important in the whole of Egypt, the job of raising their kings to eternal life. Occasionally a child would not find work in the village and would set out to see the world, but the education they had received in their home town would ensure that finding well-paid employment wasn't difficult.
Not all of the children were happy as such. Some were not happy about the path that was set up with them. Some children grew up disobedient, restless, looking into the desert to find adventures, a different kind of life.
The house of Ishtar was a long line of servants of the Place of Truth. Their particular speciality was the job of a draughtsman, the person who wrote up everything that would be placed upon the walls of the tomb; from spells to the stories of the Pharaoh's life and his deeds. The eldest Ishtar, patriarch of his family had risen to the position of the Master Draughtsman at a very young age, and held the position still, which made the Ishtars one of the most revered families in the village. The Master Draughtsman was a commanding presence, though he had never been the kindest of men, and only turning more cold after his wife died. He was completely devoted to his duty, and kept him and his family mostly on their own.
There were three children. Rishid was a boy the Ishtars had adopted before having any children of their own. He was hard-working, but the father of the family considered him little more than a servant, so instead of being taught to write like a proper draughtsman's son, he did a lot of physical work around the house, occasionally helping as a stone-mason when the construction of a new tomb began in the Valley.
The eldest biological child of the couple was a daughter, named Ishizu. She mostly worked around the house, as women did, though as she showed much interest in the gods, she often helped with the religious holidays of the village. Especially close to her heart was the snake goddess Meretseger, she who loves silence, the patron goddess of Set Maat, and each morning she would leave offerings to the goddess' shrine they had in their house.
Both Rishid and Ishizu grew up to be respectful, contemplating, obedient children, due the combination of their mother's love and their father's discipline.
Then there was the third child, Malik. Malik the troublemaker. Malik, who's mother died giving birth to him, and so he never got to feel her love, only the father's discipline. The boy his father had huge hopes for. The boy who would become the Master Draughtsman after his father, whether he wanted it or not. Malik, who would be smart enough if he cared to learn. Malik who was disobedient and rude to absolutely everyone, who talked back to his teachers the one day, and the next day would come back with his eyes unfocused, and he would sit still and not talk, absolutely brimming with barely contained rage.
It soon became clear that the public classes almost all of the kids in the village attended to learn the basics of writing wouldn't work on him. So he was taken out of the regular classes as his father started teaching him by himself, with occasional help from Ishizu. The family, which had been isolated to begin with, became even more isolated, and Malik most of all, since his father controlled the kid's moving about the town. The only friends Malik truly could say he had were his brother and his sister, and together they were the only thing that could stand against their father.
There were moments of peace in the house of Ishtar, when their father would leave to the Valley to work for days at a time, and leave the three children by themselves. The women of the other houses were watching them, of course, making sure they didn't get into any trouble, but those moments were still the happiest in Malik's memories. They were the only taste of freedom he ever got.
These moments of peace without their father's presence stopped when Malik turned 13, and attempted to escape the village. He had barely gotten past the gates when he was brought back by force. After that his father always took him with him to the Valley, claiming that it was time for the boy to learn what his future work would entail.
Malik grew and learned what he had to, more out of necessity than any desire to learn. He grew to hate his father, hate his whole village, hate the Grand Necropolis and the dead buried deep beneath the ground and he grew to hate his Pharaoh, without who, he believed, he would be free to do as he wished. Without who his path would be his to choose.
Malik saw the Pharaoh Akhenamkhanen only once. He had visited the village several times before through the progress of the making of his tomb, but each time Malik had been locked inside the house.
The day was warm, and Malik, reluctant as always, had been dragged out by his father to meet the Pharaoh. The whole village had to be there, the Pharaoh wanted to see everyone who had worked on his tomb. Malik's father, being the Master Draughtsman, would get to talk with the Pharaoh, while Malik was pushed into the crowd alongside his siblings.
The Pharaoh arrived and he was something else than what Malik had expected. Just a man with few soldiers. He looked old, and tired, not at all like a son of a god. Still Malik glared at the Pharaoh, willing him to look at him and notice the hate burning up inside him.
Akhenamkhanen looked around the people of the village crowded around him, and a smile appeared on his face. He looked grateful. Content. Happy. At peace. Malik hated him for it.
His intense stare never left the Pharaoh, until the man was out of sight. Malik wanted to go after him, talk to him, but when he took a step out of the crowd, Ishizu caught his hand, and pulled him back.
"We have to go back home, before father comes back," she said, pulling him away. Malik never got to see the Pharaoh again.
The Pharaoh died, and as people like him do, the others were made very aware of the fact. Set Maat was in a bustle. During the period of the mummification of the remains, they had to finish the tomb as quickly as they could, because they would start on the new Pharaoh's tomb as soon as the other one was done. The funeral day came and went and so did the newest Pharaoh of upper and lower Egypt; Atem, son of Akhenamkaden and son of Ra.
Malik saw the new Pharaoh during these proceedings. He was young, didn't look much like his father, and seemed rather uncaring for the people of Set Maat. It was grief, after having lost a parent. Malik couldn't bring himself to sympathize. The construction of the new tomb would begin soon, and that would mean his father taking him out to the Valley to watch it being built. It would mean more intense lessons, as his father expected him to able to do the job of a draughtsman already. It would mean little free time, and even less freedom.
And more arguments. Fights. Yelling, that their neighbours pretended they didn't hear.
The fights had always been part of Malik's life. They had started simple enough. Malik's family was a family of draughtsmen, and he should be too; learning to copy and write religious texts so when his father finally died he could take on his mantle. Was that all there was in Malik's life? All that was going to be? Him writing spells to help a Pharaoh who he might luckily meet once or twice in his life. This couldn't be all.
Malik's father didn't take questions like these well. He preached of holy duties, of the sheer importance of their work in ensuring that the Pharaoh could have a life eternal. Like any of that mattered to Malik.
So they fought.
There had been few weeks of silence when Akhenamkhanen was buried. Malik's father had been busy alongside the other workers in finishing the tomb, and Malik had been too delighted that his father was busy and didn't have time for him to make any comments.
That silence didn't last long. After the burial, Malik's father dragged him out to the Valley as part of the group who would be deciding on where Pharaoh Atem's tomb would be built. It had turned into a screaming match almost immediately, and since nothing could erase the words that had already slipped from Malik's mouth, blasphemy and all, something else had to be done.
This was a punishment. Having to spent the night alone in the Grand Necropolis, by the freshly sealed tomb, with no one else there but all the dead of the old.
The other people congratulated on how Malik's father put Malik to do the work that he certainly wasn't supposed to do in his position. How it showed that despite adversaries the village held together. Malik knew that his father didn't care about that, he only wanted to punish his son. To show that there was worse fates than having to sit inside writing all day. That smart mouths were not appreciated.
Here he was then, sitting on a rock next to tomb of Pharaoh Akhenamkhanen. Tomb robbers had been a problem ever since Malik had been little, but since Akhenamkhanen's death, it had turned into a full-on war against their village. Tombs were broken into, and the village's supplies were raided also. One villager had already been killed trying to stop the thieves.
Someone was searching for Akhenamkhanen's tomb. And it was clear they wouldn't stop until they found it.
They hadn't been able to locate it yet, only because the village of Waset had been posting so many guards. There were more people guarding the Royal Necropolis than there were guarding the village.
Malik's father had ordered Rishid, who was on the expedition as a water-carrier, to go with Malik. The purpose of the night was to teach Malik, not to get him killed by thieves or scorpions, Rishid would ensure that. This was not the first time they spent a night together in the Valley, although this was their first in this part, and honestly Malik was grateful for the company.
They were positioned by the freshly sealed tomb, just the two of them, acting as the Door-Keeper of the Tomb, a title that usually was reserved on the people guarding the tomb they were working on, but would have to do. There were members of Medjay, Thebean guards, positioned all about the Valley, mostly by the big entrance and the few smaller paths that the thieves might use to get in. None were close to the actual tombs, so as to not alert the thieves of the exact location of the tomb. There were also the expedition, camped in the other end of the Valley, by what would become the construction site of the tomb of Pharaoh Atem.
So it felt like it was just Rishid and Malik in the cool desert night. They had spent their time in silence, both wrapped in their clothing against the coldness that appeared as soon as the sun went down. Rishid had not spoken, he knew better than not to. Malik was still fuming about the fight. It seemed that this was getting more and more common in the Ishtar household.
Finally, after hours, Malik suddenly stood up, glared at Rishid, and said:
"Where are these so called thieves?"
"Hopefully not here," Rishid answered.
"Gah. If my father wishes to bore me to death, he didn't need to put me here as the writing lessons would do just as well."
"I think father tries to teach you patience and respect for our former kings."
"Well, he's failing. Spectacularly," Malik all but spat out. He crossed his arms across his chest and glared at the stone wall behind them, below which the Pharaoh's tomb laid.
Rishid said nothing, just turned to frown at the same stone wall as Malik.
"I will take a walk," Malik said, after a while. "At least I can do that here, unlike at home. You stay and make sure that stupid wall doesn't do anything."
Rishid hesitated. He had always been hugely protective of his brother, but he also knew that little time spend alone and even pretending to be free might help to subside his temper for a while, sparing another pointless spat that Malik was bound to lose.
"Fine," Rishid said. "But don't go far, it's dark."
"I've noticed," Malik said rolling his eyes and then immediately feeling bad that he was acting aggressive towards his brother. Rishid was not at fault.
"I'll be careful," he added with much more even tone. Rishid nodded, and settled back next to the tomb door.
Malik picked one of the wider paths going down towards the bottom of the valley. He kept his eyes on the ground, to make sure he didn't step on a scorpion or a snake. Not all the things in this valley were dead, after all, though most of those kind of creatures preferred more cheery living conditions, like the desert.
Walking around the Valley was the farthest he had ever been of Set Maat. He knew other people left the village all the time, to visit the temples of Waset, to get shipments from the docks. Some people left and were never heard from again, except for an occasional letter to let their parents know that they were doing fine in far off places like Abu Simbel or Tanis, or even different countries completely. Still others, like his father, preferred to stay in one place. His father was born in Set Maat and in Set Maat he would die, and there he would be buried. And there was Malik, who savoured the moment of walking in the Grand Necropolis, for the simple fact that he could get away for a while, even if the view of rocks and sand and his sandalled feet below him was not much to write home about.
He was so focused to watching where he was putting his feet that at first he didn't notice anything off. He paused, halfway through the walk down, and looked around him. In the distance he could see the lights where the guards were camping, at the other entrance of the valley.
A slight movement caught his eye. He wasn't sure what it was at first, just a shadow behind one of the larger rocks. Then he realized that this was a shadow of a man. Now, there was no reason a man would be standing behind a rock in the Royal Necropolis unless he was one of those thieves coming to rob a tomb. And if there was one thief, that surely meant there were other thieves about as well. Malik nervously looked about him but all he could see in the light of the stars and the moon were more shadows, that could have contained a whole army, or they could have contained no one at all.
It was perhaps time for him to return to Rishid.
A hasty step, a beginning of a hopefully quiet retreat caused a loose rock to roll out from under Malik's sandal. He lost his balance, only regaining it at the last moment. But the damage was already done, as the rock hit another on its way down, making a sound. The shadow jumped, looking straight at Malik.
Malik froze, he wondered if he could reach Rishid before it was too late.
Before Malik could make a move, the thief was already upon him, seizing the front of his shirt, and pulling him close. Malik could feel a blade of a dagger pressed against his throat, gentle for now, but with a clear warning that if he made a wrong move he would surely be killed. The dagger forced his head up, so he couldn't see anything of the man, except a tuft of white hair.
"Do not shout for help little tomb keeper," said a voice, low and angry. "Or I will cut your throat."
A flare of annoyance took over upon being called a tomb keeper, and Malik opened his mouth. The blade pressed against his throat, a warning.
"I'm not a tomb keeper," he struggled out.
"Oh?" the thief said. "Well, now I am curious. What are you then? You're no thief, not part of my group at least. No thief of mine would be so clumsy."
"Says the person who wasn't even smart enough to hide from me," Malik blurted out, regret catching up only at the end of the sentence, when the words were already out, hanging in the night air. He closed his eyes and waited for his miserable life to be over. Instead of getting his throat cut, he felt the blade retreating.
Malik dared to open his eyes, and look at the thief, who was standing now couple of steps away from him. He was younger than he sounded, perhaps only a few years older than Malik. His hair was completely white, like the light of the stars. There was a nasty jagged scar going down his right cheek. The eyes that were staring at him were faintest of lilacs, and glassed over like he was stuck in some other place. The thief was dressed only in well-worn red coat and a traditional skirt, though instead of white, like the one Marik was wearing, it was dark blue.
"What is your name, stranger?" the thief asked.
"I'm Malik Ishtar of Set Maat," Malik answered.
"So you are a tomb keeper."
"Technically no," Malik said. "My family's mostly scribes and draughtsmen."
"Yet you are here, in the Royal Necropolis at night. There isn't anything to write upon here, so I must assume you are watching a tomb?"
"Well, I'm not watching it right now."
The thief barked a laughter.
"Not very interested in your job, I see," he said. "Makes it easier for me I suppose."
"You are here for a tomb," Malik said.
"Not just any tomb," the thief answered. "The tomb of Pharaoh Akhenamkhanen."
"I guess that's a living," Malik said. He swayed on his standing spot slightly, relaxing, watching the thief's reaction. The thief didn't appear to be a threat at the moment, though the dagger was still in his hand. Yet, he was the first person who found what Malik was saying amusing. Usually his words caused either ire or were completely ignored. This was a fascinating person, something new in Malik's dull life, even if a lawless, possibly murdering thief.
The thief clicked his tongue, and wagged a finger at Malik.
"If I were here to make a living out of Akhenamkhanen's tomb I would have brought more of my men. No, Malik of Set Maat, this crusade is my own."
"A crusade? What have you got against the Pharaoh?"
"What have I not got against the Pharaoh?" The thief wondered. "The son of sun-god, who is in charge of lives of every citizen of this country. A mere nod from him could kill hundreds, for no other sin than existing. Yet none question this. Most people spend their lives doing what they are told to, growing food and what not, watching the seasons change as the Nile rises and falls, doing what their fathers did, even if there is a whole world out there full of wonders and magic. Instead of thinking for themselves these people turn to dead Pharaohs for advice, as if they knew any better. I don't care if they're gods or mortal men, if Pharaoh has done wrong why should he deserve an eternal life beyond the grave when a commoner caught of crime receive not even a chance. Mortal men can judge gods just as gods can judge mortal men. And that is what I'm here to do."
"Quite a speech. Are you trying to recruit me?" Malik asked.
The thief tilted his head and very noticeably measured Malik from head to toes. Then he shrugged.
"Unless you are willing to show me the way to the Pharaoh's tomb, then I think I'll pass."
"I might," Malik said, though he doubted that the thief took his words with much seriousness.
"Isn't that kind of opposing the whole point of your village, tomb keeper?"
"Don't act like you know anything about me, based on what my villagers do," Malik snapped. "You just hold a big speech about how people should not blindly follow the path set out to them by their fathers, yet you assume I do. That my life and my character is set in stone because I was born in the village of tomb keepers."
The thief was taken aback. He blinked once, twice.
"Fair enough," he said.
This surprised Malik. He waited for the thief continue, but as it became clear he wouldn't, he sighed, and asked:
"May I know your name?"
The thief swayed on the balls of his feet, shot a glance at Malik and then finally said:
"I am Bakura, the king of thieves. My father was a thief, as was his father, although both of them are dead by now. So I continue what they started."
"I didn't know thieves had kings."
"It merely means that the other thieves respect me enough to follow me around."
"The attacks on our village. That's been all you?"
"I was rather hoping your village would be more concerned about their food supply than these old tombs, at least enough to send some of the people from the Valley to protect the village, while I sneaked in, but apparently not."
"Tell me about it."
Bakura grinned at this, a quick smile with a flash of teeth.
"You are a curious thing, Malik of Set Maat," he said. "I've met some people from your village before and none of them had seemed any way reasonable."
"Living only thinking about other people's deaths does that to you."
The smile turned to a frown, as Bakura muttered:
"I'm sure it does." Before Malik could catch any reason for the sudden mood shift in his eyes, he brightened up again. "You're not very fond of your life in there, are you?"
"Not very fond is a bit of an understatement."
"Hmm, then perhaps I will not kill you to get to the tomb. The world needs more people like you."
"I'd like that," Malik said hardly being able to contain his sarcasm. Even if this man was clearly dangerous and more than capable of murder, Malik couldn't still take the situation seriously. This was perhaps the most exciting thing that had happened to him, in his whole life, so he figured it was best to push just see how far it would go. Bakura at least seemed to appreciate his smart mouth.
"Maybe you could be made a thief after all," Bakura said.
"Oh, I don't think now is the good season for joining, seeing that the Pharaoh has promised to send his army to disband some raiding bandits bothering our village."
"Indeed?" Bakura said.
"Indeed," Malik mocked. "You can try to get into that tomb, though I must say that my brother's here as well and he isn't as lenient as I am. You are free to try to brawl him, although you are rather small for that. Or you could order your men to retreat for a while, and save some lives."
"You're trying to tell me how to do my job?"
"I'm telling that perhaps an open confrontation against the Pharaoh might not work in your favour, o' king of thieves. The tomb is not going anywhere."
Bakura made a face.
"Disappointing, but you might be right. Although, if you are playing with me, and there is not Pharaoh and his army coming then you better pray that I never get my hands on you."
Malik shrugged.
"The advice was free, take it or leave it."
"Perhaps I will," Bakura answered with a sigh. "Let the Pharaoh rot for a couple of weeks more. I must go now."
He didn't wait for Malik to say anything, just turned around and left, disappearing back into the shadows so quickly and smoothly, Malik wasn't certain that he hadn't just dreamed all of that. He shook his head, bringing his hand to his neck, to touch where the thief's blade had been. There was blood on his fingers, it seemed Bakura hadn't been as gentle with the dagger as it had first appeared. So at least some of that had been real.
He made his way back to the tomb, where Rishid was supposed to be waiting. Actually Rishid had fallen asleep on the spot, probably because he had spent the day carrying around water for a group of ten people.
Malik didn't wake him up, instead sitting down on one of the rocks, as he watched the sun come up and he thought about the strange thief.
The raids to Set Maat stopped, at least for a while. Long enough for the Pharaoh's troops to come by, rattle their swords, turn over rocks and find nothing and then retreat back, leaving few more soldiers to the village, mostly for show.
The site of Atem's tomb was decided and the people of the village eagerly awaited for the plans to arrive, so they could get to digging. Malik followed his father around the village in various meetings where people talked what they would implement in Atem's tomb. There were talks about it becoming even greater than his father's tomb, more complex, and impossible to rob. There were always talks like this. Malik followed the conversations in silence that often followed his punishments. Inside he was boiling as always. The rage was there, just below his skin, blistering and burning no one but himself until he finally let it out. Only Rishid's and Ishizu's calming presences and the few days his father gave him as days to stay at home, kept Malik from exploding.
He might have appeared calm on the outside. But inside he was going over the words of the thief Bakura over and over. He felt the truth in them, and watched in contempt as the others hurried to build a resting place for another Pharaoh who cared not for them.
Seven days had passed without an incident, which pleased Malik's father. After yet another meeting Malik was forced to attend, Malik couldn't hold back any more, shouting out the speech Bakura had given him, almost word to word to his father. And that's why he was in the darkness. All alone.
The cellar had only been a scary story at first. Whenever Malik misbehaved, his father would tell him of the cellar, where all the bad children were put in, and in the darkness lived all kinds of monsters, who would eat the naughty children.
It worked on Malik for a time, but soon no scary story could keep him contained. So he got put into the cellar, a small room below their living room, where only food was usually kept. The first time he had screamed, cried, pleaded for his father to let him out, swearing he could hear the monsters coming for him. After few hours his father had opened the hatch, secure in the knowledge that Malik, scared half-witless, had learned his lesson.
He hadn't, and in time he became very well acquainted with the cellar. But after the first time, he kept silent, swallowing the screams, swallowing the tears. He wouldn't give his father the satisfaction of letting him see that this place had any affect on him.
This was how Malik was in the cellar right now, all silent, listening to the sounds above him. He was curled into a ball, because the cellar wasn't big enough for him to sit with his legs straight, or even stand up.
"Father, he is only a child." This was Ishizu's voice. She had tried to come in between Malik and their father, when Malik had started shouting, but could not stop the row. Nothing could. "He says things children say."
"He knows exactly what he is saying Ishizu," was their father's reply. "He is old enough for that. He is doing it on purpose, to offend me."
"Then don't raise to his level," Ishizu said.
"He is an insolent brat and must be punished as such."
"But..."
"No more words, Ishizu. Back to your duties."
Ishizu didn't reply. Or if she did, Malik couldn't hear it from the cellar. The silence had came. There was nothing to do but to wait until his father's anger subsided.
Malik was older now, and he didn't fear for monsters in the darkness anymore. He knew the whispers in the dark were his own mind trying to fill the heavy silence itself. The whispers spoke of revenge, they spoke of hatred, they spoke of injustices done upon him.
They lit up the anger that always had been there, just under the skin, they brought it to surface. Confided in this little dark room, there was nothing to turn it on, so it burned Malik. His memories, his thoughts, all caught up in the torrent of the rage.
He let it, because it was the only one keeping the fears at bay. The fear of the dark, the fear of the monsters, the fear of the anger and what it was capable of; the anger burned it all out.
He closed his eyes, and let it rage, useless. Let it turn from whispers to words to shouts. And waited.
Ishizu and Rishid were there to pick him up, after their father had gone to bed, and it was safe to let him out. Rishid carried him out of the cellar, as his legs had gone numb hours ago and refused to carry his own weight. They retreated to the room they shared, and Ishizu sang lullabies she had learned from her mother to comfort Malik.
But nothing could diminish the rage that was burning Malik from the inside.
His father was not done with his punishments. The very next day he sent Malik back to the Grand Necropolis, to continue to guard the tomb of the Pharaoh. Even though there hadn't been any signs of thieves in weeks, even though there was no villagers in the valley at the moment, as they were still waiting for the construction plans to arrive.
It was a pointless task, and they both knew it.
Rishid came with Malik, and they made their way to the Valley in silence. There were few guards from Waset about again, but none would even know that Malik and Rishid were there. If they were lucky the guards wouldn't mistake them for thieves and impale them on the spot.
"Think of it as a camping trip," Rishid suggested, as they had settled on the rocks near the Akhenamkaden's tomb.
"A camping trip in a valley that's filled with corpses," Malik said. "I am delighted."
Rishid frowned.
"Maybe a walk would help?" he suggested.
"Maybe," Malik said with a sigh.
He made his way down the path and managed to even reach the bottom of the valley. He wasn't sure where to go next, as the walls of the valley were surrounding him, towering dark blocks. And in those walls, he could recognize the places where the tombs were hidden. The more he looked, the more he saw of them. There was nowhere to turn in the Valley without looking straight at a resting place of a dead Pharaoh.
"Fancy meeting you here, little Tomb Keeper," the voice said behind him, suddenly, saving Malik the trouble of having to make a decision.
Malik spun around to look at Bakura, who was leaning against one of the rocks.
"I could say the same for you," Malik said.
"I said I would come back for the tomb, didn't I?
"You did," Malik said. "I didn't say I would be back, but here I am."
Bakura strode to him, and examined him closely in the moonlight.
"You mentioned that your family was scribes and draughtsmen. Yet here you are again guarding the Pharaoh's tomb."
"I am not here voluntarily," Malik said. "This is what my father considers punishment."
Bakura's eyebrows shot up, and his lips twisted into a slight smile.
"Indeed? What is your horrible crime to which the punishment is spending a night among the dead, in mortal danger from both thieves and creatures of the desert?"
"I am not in mortal danger from you," Malik pointed out, and when Bakura snorted, added: "Am I?"
"Not at the moment, as long as you keep amusing me. And answering my questions."
"I don't want to continue on the path that my father has set out to me, he disapproves."
"Interesting, little tomb keeper," Bakura said. "You've never been outside your village besides this valley?"
"No."
"No wonder you would want to throw it all away. Let me tell you few things about how the real world works. This village of yours, is very important to the Pharaoh, which is why you get water, you get food, you get clothes. Other people? They don't get that. They can work until there's no skin on their backs, and still die of hunger. They can be drafted into a pointless war and die there, not knowing what they're fighting for. They can be a little child, and die by the mere virtue of their father being a criminal. There is no one in the world out there who brings your food to you. There's no one out there who can guarantee that the judgement you get is a fair one. So the people do what they have to. There isn't as much choice out there as you might imagine."
"Wait, now I'm confused. Last time we met, you talked about the wonders of the outside world, about how more people should choose to do something else than what is given to them. Now you're taking that back?"
"It can be both," Bakura said. "The world is not black and white. And people are people, they don't want to choose. They rather continue on the path set out to them. It is easier."
"Is that the path you're following as well? A path someone else set out to you?"
"I was free. But the Pharaoh laid my path out when he wronged me. After I am done with my revenge I may be free again."
Bakura turned to look at the sky above. The anger was written all over his face, it was in the teeth bared between tight lips, it was in the crinkled nose, and most importantly it was in the faint lilac eyes, making them shine, but the more Malik looked at the anger, the more he realized that it was different from his own. His own was a burning, stuck under his heart where it occasionally raised itself in a hot flash, consuming all else.
Bakura's anger was a storm, barely contained, and just as consuming. But it was colder, stingier, more focused. And sad. Definitely sad. It was the undercurrent in it, and once the anger burned through, the sadness would remain.
"So choose your life," Bakura said. "You may be your father's son, but that doesn't mean you have to follow his footsteps."
"Says someone who just said there isn't that much choice in the world," Malik pointed out. It was the wrong move. Bakura closed in, abruptly, the anger surfacing in him.
But Bakura had no time to do anything, before Rishid's voice echoed in the valley, calling for Malik. Bakura moved surprisingly quickly, catching Malik by the collar, and pulling him up. Malik could feel his breath hot against his skin, as the thief snarled:
"Now I have stopped being amused. I am done with games. I am done with wasting time in this Valley with you. I give you few choices, little Tomb Keeper. I will be back, and either you try to stop me and I will kill you, or you make sure you are not present. Simple isn't it? And completely up to you. Just like you wanted." Bakura smiled, before letting go, pleasant as always, nodding his goodbyes to Malik and starting up a small path. Malik stared after him, until he disappeared behind the rocks. He turned to look at where Akhenamkhanen's tomb's door laid, though he couldn't even see that far in the darkness.
Rishid appeared next to Malik.
"Where have you been?" he asked.
"Got distracted," Malik answered.
"You shouldn't have gone that far."
"Is the Pharaoh's tomb still there?"
"Yes, but..."
"Then it doesn't matter."
They were shouting, screaming, again. It had started with Malik copying the text that his father had set out for him. It detailed the life of the Pharaoh Akhenamkhanen and all the glorious deeds he had supposedly done, turning the horde of invading foreigners away from the gates of the Waset with the power of great magic. If it was supposed to be impressing it was failing rather spectacularly. Especially when, in his boredom, and because his father had left him to work alone, Malik started adding words in between the text. Messing up the message with crude words. Praise be the Pharaoh indeed.
He was pushing his father, and he knew it. He didn't care.
His father came back, and there was a moment of silence as he reviewed on what Malik had written. The silence turned cold, as he finally got to the part where Malik had started to doodle his own.
"Do you think this is a game?" he asked, turning to Malik.
"Absolutely," Malik answered. He managed to get out no other word, as his father's hand connected with his cheek. The sound echoed through the house. Malik staggered back from the force of the blow. Still, he met his father's eyes, standing defiantly in front of him.
Even when his father seized him up by the collar, and forced him down to the cellar, his gaze didn't waver. If only the anger burning inside him could burn his father too.
Ishizu was the one who opened up the cellar door after hours of darkness. Malik was curled up in an unmoving pile, deep inside the dark hole.
"You push him too far," Ishizu said, as she helped him up from the cellar.
"I know," Malik said. "That was the plan."
Ishizu only shook her head, inspecting the bruise that had formed on his cheek.
"Where is he?" Malik asked.
"Father and Rishid left to the Grand Necropolis. The digging of Pharaoh Atem's tomb starts tomorrow."
"I should go too," Malik said. "Father wants to put me to watch over the tombs again."
Ishizu frowned, but said nothing as Malik started to pick up the clothes and other things he would need.
At the doorway, when he was leaving, Ishizu walked up to him and said: "Don't do anything stupid."
"Stupid? Why would I do anything stupid?"
"Malik. I know you are angry, and I wish there was something we could do about this. But there isn't."
Malik's teeth clacked together, but finally he said: "Don't worry sis. I'll be fine."
Before leaving for the Valley, Malik stopped by the warehouse, where all of the tools used in the building of the Royal tombs were kept. Inside was a scribe in waiting. He was one of the younger ones, which was probably why he was stuck in a job such as this.
"I need a pickaxe," Malik told him. The scribe looked at him, and frowned.
"I know you Malik Ishtar. You're a draughtsman, not a digger."
"Father thought it was best if I had a taste of some physical labour."
"Then why didn't your father come and get the pickaxe and explain the situation himself?" The scribe wondered.
"My father is a busy man, which you should know by now. Are you going to be the one that explains this to my father?"
The scribe made a face. The Master Draughtsman's temper was well known across the village, although the full extent of it was mostly saved for his children. Still, many remembered the numerous times people had been flocked because of disrespecting the eldest Ishtar's wishes.
"Fine. But it better get back along with the rest of the working equipment, and in good shape, or I'll have your hide." The scribe disappeared into the back room and come back soon with a pickaxe, which he handed to Malik. "I'll write your name down to the list."
"Thank you," Malik said.
No one stopped him on his way to the Valley. No one would. The people of the village were supposed to go to the Valley, and the people who saw him take up the winding path to the Valley must have assumed that he was simply a worker who had for reason or another been left behind.
The sun had already set when Malik arrived into the valley. In the distance he could see the campfires where the workers were camping, by the site of Pharaoh Atem's tomb. His father was there, and Rishid was there.
Malik made his way to where the tomb of Pharaoh Akhenamkhanen was. He sat down upon the rock and munched on a bread that he had taken from their home's pantry before leaving. The pickaxe he set down on the ground. He didn't want to light any wicks, just in case someone would see it in the distance and come investigate.
The only light offered to him were the stars and the moon and the camp-fires in the distance. Malik watched them, and wondered what Rishid was doing. He would normally be here with him, making sure no thief actually could get to him.
Malik would not have liked the company anyway. Not today. His cheek was still stinging from the hit, and his muscles were sore from hours spend in the darkness and then taking the path to the Valley. The stars were out and the night wasn't particularly cold, just very very dark.
He was hoping Bakura would come tonight. He had said he would try again, even if it meant eventually killing Malik, and Malik was here, and here was the tomb. The tomb of the Pharaoh, who Bakura hated and who Malik hated just as well.
He waited, staring at the sky. The anger was boiling under his skin, moving inside him, familiar like a friend, and dangerous and burning-hot like the sun. He took comfort in it, had always done. When his sister turned to the gods and his brother turned to work, to forget what they had to endure, Malik took it all in, let the anger consume him. It was such a part of him, that it was almost like another skin, just below his own, moving in ways unexpected, burning up everything inside.
It felt better this way.
He came to himself, when he heard the sound of a footfall beside him. He looked up, and there he was, the thief, looking down at him, anger flashing in his eyes, and a dagger ready in his hand.
When Malik rose up to greet him, Bakura frowned, and the hand holding the dagger wavered. A moment of hesitation. Bakura sighed, and put the dagger away.
"What happened to your face?" he asked. Malik's hand reached to touch his cheek, where the mark from his father's hand still burned. The anger flared up in him again, at the concern in Bakura's eyes, normally so cold, and again at his father, at the Pharaoh, at his village, at the whole world.
Bakura must have seen it, because he cocked his head, crossing his arms, and waited. Malik only shook his head.
"Fine. Where's your brother then? I looked around and didn't see anyone. Don't you usually bring him with you?"
"Not today," Malik said.
"Oh?" Bakura raised his eyebrows in curiosity.
Malik took few steps until he was standing right in front of Bakura.
"You wanted into the Pharaoh's tomb?" he asked. "I'll show you."
Malik thought Bakura would faint at those words. He grinned so wide, teeth flashing, let out an laugh full of disbelief.
Malik didn't wait for him to say anything, instead he turned his back on the thief, taking the pickaxe and leading him to the stone wall. He led him several paces away from where the actual doorway laid, because that was sealed tightly. He found it soon, a small crack in the stone, indistinguishable from the rest to anyone who didn't know to look for it.
"There," he said, pressing his hand against the crack, feeling its rough edges. "The calculations were not accurate when they started digging. One of the side rooms almost surfaced. We did cover it up, but it was a hasty job, since the Pharaoh's health was failing and we needed to finish the tomb in time." Malik turned to Bakura, and handed him the pickaxe. "Few hits, and you should be able to get through."
Malik watched Bakura work in silence. It was clear that this was not the first time Bakura was doing this. But something about this was special. Even in the faint glow of the lantern Bakura had lit, he could see that the thief's hands were shaking. Nervousness or excitement.
When there was crack in the wall, big enough for the thief to fit in, Bakura turned to Malik.
"You've been here during the construction?"
"Most of the time," Malik said. "My father wished me to learn. I've never seen it when the artefacts and the body was brought in."
"Care to show me around?" Bakura asked, offering the lantern. Malik took it. Bakura made way, so Malik could peek through the hole. It was maybe half a meter off the floor. The room, which Malik had only seen empty was now filled to the brim with various objects, mostly furniture and small statues of people; Pharaoh's servants in the afterlife. There was a table just below the hole, and Malik stepped onto it, caring not for the statues he knocked off it as he did so. The table creaked under him, not made to be stand upon.
Once Malik was down, he waited for Bakura to follow.
"They put out various traps on the tomb's entrance, but we've passed them all," Malik said. "No one outside our villager would know of this entrance."
"Keh," Bakura said. "You've certainly made my life a lot more easier."
Malik didn't answer, though, he was rather liking the feeling that he was helping. And he was curious about seeing what the tomb contained and what Bakura was going to do there. Bakura took a quick look around the room they had arrived in, but decided that nothing there was worth his time, so he just motioned for Malik to lead the way.
The room led into the central passageway, a long hall going down, at the end of which would be the resting place of the Pharaoh. Malik raised the lantern, to disperse of the heavy darkness that filled the tomb. On the walls, pictures and writing, his father's handiwork, jumped alive at the touch of light. The eyes of the painted figures seemed to follow them as they descended deep into the forbidden tomb.
The passage ended into a great pillared room, the room where the king's sarcophagus laid. The light of Malik's lantern gleamed on all of the gold, blinding. The room was full of tables toppled with jewels and statues, shrines and furniture, clothes and caskets filled with more of the same and papyruses filled with prayers and spells. And in the middle, raised slightly from the floor was the sarcophagus, it's lid covered in gold. Bakura let out a low whistle.
"Fancier than most," Bakura said. "Probably because this has not been robbed before. It'll be a pleasure."
Bakura strode to the sarcophagus, the king's resting place. He immediately started working on opening the heavy lid. Malik turned away from him, to put the lantern on a holder on the wall, used by the workers. He turned on one of the tables, and started to examine the jewellery piled there. He could hear Bakura's heavy breathing, the grinding sound of stone upon stone as the sarcophagus finally opened, and a laugh, victorious but somehow still bitter.
This was a man's final resting place. If they destroyed it, they would destroy the man's soul. Yet. Who was this man to Malik? A king, true. But he had always been nothing more than the idea of destiny. Malik picked up a golden necklace from the table, weighed it in his hand. This single object was more beautiful and more expensive than anything Malik had ever seen in his life. And Bakura had said that he got it good. Yet there were hundreds objects there similar to this one and some even more detailed, even more beautiful. Malik put he necklace on, felt it heavy against his chest, felt it cool against his skin that was burning with anger. He turned to look at Bakura.
"Suits you," Bakura said with a grin. He had already managed to pull of both of the lids off the coffin, and was now sitting on the edge of the sarcophagus, legs tangling outside, his whole body twisting as he reached into the coffin, tearing off the wrappings on the body. There was something very childlike in his position, his feet tapping a playful rhythm against the stone below them, as he ripped the mummy's wrappings off and threw them to the air. The most expensive jewellery would be inside the caskets, and it was clear that Bakura was not afraid to get his hands dirty. At some point he had pulled a small brown bag from a pocket on his coat, and had settled it against the edge of the sarcophagus, dropping interesting looking things in it.
Malik approached the sarcophagus. He didn't know what he was expecting. Something. Defiling a Pharaoh's corpse was a crime punishable by death, surely it had to feel like something. Something heavy. But when he looked at the corpse, it's wrappings torn off and some dried leathery skin peeking out from below, he found out that he felt no such things that a member of Set Maat was supposed to feel. Certainly no guilt, no shame.
He felt good actually.
He could feel how much this would hurt his father, and that, if nothing else, brought a smile on his face. This was his revenge. Against his father, and against the Pharaoh, both of who had taken away his life, his choice, masking the unquestioned servitude in hollow words such as duty and destiny.
Bakura, unceremonious as always, dropped the wrappings on the floor, having snatched several rings and various other jewellery off the dead man's corpse. He took a lazy look around the tomb, before sauntering to the opposite corner to look at a shrine situated there. Malik tilted his head, looking at the corpse. The head was still wrapped, there had been nothing off interest there. What was left of the great Pharaoh was a pathetic leathery corpse. It brought a smile to Malik's face.
Life didn't end at death. It just changed form. But it would end if the resting place would be destroyed. This was why they had started to build the tombs below the ground, hidden from thieves. They couldn't have known that a person from a family of builders would be there to destroy it.
A sound of breaking clay caught Malik's attention. He turned to Bakura, who was standing by a table, his hand outstretched. On his feet were pieces of pottery. Bakura met Malik's eyes and said: "Oops" in a manner that made it clear that it had not been an accident at all. The grin didn't help the impression either. Malik grinned back.
Malik strode to one of the tables, and with one sweep of his hand made all the items carefully placed on it hit the stone floor, with a clatter. Bakura laughed, delighted like a child. Prompted by the encouragement, Malik continued to the next table, grinding the jewels and the pieces of shattered pottery beneath his heel as he went.
Malik's and Bakura's eyes met. Bakura was still grinning from ear to ear. Without even pausing to look at what items were on the table, Malik flipped it over with one violent move. Bakura had to sit down for a while, he was laughing so hard. That didn't slow him down for long. Soon the tomb was in a flurry, the two of them swiping all the carefully placed items off onto the floor, throwing things to the floor and the walls, tearing up the curtains and fabrics, and if something particularly beautiful caught either of their eyes, it was promptly pocketed.
There was a cacophony of noises, echoing on the low ceiling of the tomb. Cracks and clatters, sounds of shattering, and laughter, like two children playing, free for the first time in their lives.
With each item destroyed, Malik felt the anger washing off his body like water from a seagull's back. This was his revenge, this was his his choice, this was freedom, and as the anger drained from his body, he felt lighter than he had ever before.
Finally there was only one place remaining, one chest, which contained the four jars that contained the innards of the Pharaoh. Bakura was standing in front of it, his look suddenly rather more serious, the smile fading fast. He picked the first of the jars, the one which contained the Pharaoh's lungs, weighed it in his hand.
Then with a sudden shout he flung it at the wall. It hit it with alarming speed, and shattered.
Bits and pieces fell on the floor below, scattering fluids about, a lump of something, probably the lungs met the floor with a wet sound, falling into the shadows. The sound of the shout and the shattering echoed in the room, before fading into a perfect silence.
Malik moved to look from the wall, still stained by the contents of the jar, to look at Bakura. He was standing at the same spot, his shoulders heaved with heavy breaths, and his hands were clenched into fists. And the sadness was surfacing, taking hold, the anger was all but drained. Bakura's whole body was shaking, quiet at first, but then turning more violent.
And then the laughter started, a small chuckle at first, but then erupting out, filling the tomb. There were tears in Bakura's eyes, as he lifted the second jar and flung it the same way. The third and the fourth one soon followed, with the laughter never stopping.
As soon as he was done, and the silence had taken over again, Bakura looked around himself, like he wasn't sure where exactly he was anymore. The whole room was in shambles, the carefully places objects strewn across the floor, broken, and few of them having disappeared into the thief's bag. The paintings on the walls, so carefully crafted by hand across multiple months, were now nigh unreadable because of the bottles of paint smashed and the jars of innards sprayed on top of them.
The destruction was complete. Bakura suddenly spun around, and looked at Malik. The smile on his face was genuine, though bordering on maniac. And suddenly he started towards Malik.
For a brief moment, Malik was sure that Bakura would smash him too, the only thing in the tomb not broken, not torn. He quickly picked a packet of pearls he had pocketed to his hand, to use as a weapon, if Bakura were to attack, though it probably would not even hurt him.
He didn't have time to do anything else, before Bakura was upon him, seizing him by the shirt, and capturing his lips with his own. The small packet that Malik had been holding, slipped from his fingers out of shock, scattering the pearls inside on the floor. Malik however never heard them hitting the floor, as his own heart was thundering inside his rib cage, right below the point where Bakura was tugging at his clothes, pulling him closer, like he was pulling at his heart too, right out of his chest.
Bakura kissed hard, pushing their whole faces together, sharp feeling of bones below the warm skin, reminders of mortality. There was aggression in the push. There was sweat on Bakura's skin, or perhaps they were tears. And he was so warm, so very very warm, warm lips, warm skin, warm hands and a warm breath ghosting over his skin.
Malik just stood there, shocked and still. Finally his hands, all by themselves, came up to clutch Bakura's face, to feel his soft hair. And he finally returned the kiss, angling their faces better, so that he didn't feel like his nose was getting smashed against Bakura's cheek. But he pushed back instead of pulling away, and Bakura made a delighted grunt in the back of his throat.
Finally they separated, and the breath that had been hitched in Malik's throat finally escaped in a low whine. Slowly, Bakura untangled his hands from Malik's coat, took a step back, let out an awkward chuckle and said:
"My thanks." He had never sounded as genuine as he did then. And then he just turned around and returned to claim his loot bag.
"I better get out of here, before the sun comes up," Bakura said. Malik nodded mutely, not sure if any of that had even happened. There was nothing to say so he claimed the torch, almost burnt out and led the thief outside. It was still dark, but the sunrise wouldn't be far away either. Bakura turned to block their entrance with few rocks, though the work he did was admittedly quick. In few hours, it would be full day, and people would start to wonder where Malik was. He could go and join them, saying that he wanted to help. His father would love that.
Maybe at some point someone would notice that Akhenamkhanen's tomb had been visited in and destroyed. At that point, the accusations would soon turn to Malik, they were bound to. Maybe they wouldn't discover it at all, secure in the belief that Akhenamkhanen would be safe in the tomb build for him by the best tomb builders in the whole of Egypt.
While Malik had been musing, Bakura had already started down the path to the bottom of the valley. He stopped, when he noticed that Malik was still standing by the blocked entrance they had used. He returned.
"So Tomb Keeper," he said.
"Wish you'd stop calling me that," Malik murmured.
"Make me," Bakura said, which earned him a death glare strong enough to make him grin. "Fine. Malik. You made a choice. Now it's time for another one." Bakura extended his hand, palm up, offered to him, fingers golden with stolen rings. "You can choose to go back to your village and live the life that was set out to you. You will not see me ever again, and hopefully no one will ever find out what happened here. Or. You could come with me."
"What happens then?"
"Smart question. I wish I knew. What happens is a lot of choices. If you come with me you can choose to go wherever you wish, it is up to you." Bakura grinned. "And if you so choose, you can stay with me for a while. I'd like that. My plans, however, might not suit you, and I will not hold that against you. I am on a fool's quest. Have always been. It's only because of you that I even got this far."
Malik stared at the hand, and then at Bakura. The lilac eyes were shining, finally, glinting with faintly contained amusement. Malik suddenly realized why this whole situation was funny to both of them. Bakura had never been faced with a choice, the Pharaoh had set the road on him just like it had with Malik, and now he was choosing to ask Malik to come with him. This situation was as new to him as it was to Malik.
Malik hesitated.
"There is a thing I must ask of you before I choose."
"Which is?"
"Would you help me get my brother and sister as well?"
Bakura frowned.
"Consider it payment for helping you get to the tomb," Malik said.
"I could have gotten into the tomb without you, could have just killed you, would have spared me the trouble."
"But you didn't. You made the choice."
"Fine," Bakura said with a sigh.
"Shall we, then?" Malik asked, taking Bakura's hand and lacing their fingers together. Bakura started to lead him down the path, out of the valley, towards freedom.
A/N: So there was that. Phew. Malik's super-hard to write. But at least I got some practice now. My main beef with TKB, on the other hand, is that he looks way better without a shirt than me. What gives, dude?
I have to say, writing historical stuff, I could really feel the limits of my English language in a way that I normally don't (I am by no means fluent, but I get around). They really don't teach stuff like "what things would have been called in Ancient Egypt in English" in school. So probably some mistakes there as well.
Okay, so I promised some random historical babble. So yes. My main inspiration for this fic was Christan Jacq's novel-series The Stone of Light, which centers around Deir El-Medina's people. I haven't read it in... 8 years? So my memory of that is very vague. If you're into historical fiction and Egypt, you might want to check it out.
I'm writing a casteshipping long fic atm, so I used some of the research I've done for that in this. But more specifically I used two books:
- Bierbrier, M. L. 1989. The Tomb-Builders of the Pharaoh. American University in Cairo Press. Cairo, Egypt.
- Brier, B. & Hobbs, H. 1999. Daily Life of The Ancient Egyptians. Greenwood Press. London.
They're both fairly old, and possibly not the best on the subject, but those were the ones I could access via my university, so they just had to do.
Ah, what else would I need to say. Well, they were very inspiring. Bierbrier's book talked about how the houses of Deir El-Medina looked, and they did indeed have small cellars, and apparently they had found corpses of children, buried in the cellars, which inspired me to write Malik locked inside one. I can't imagine that being fun.
In the manga, it's mentioned that Kul Elna is a village of tomb builders turned robbers near the Valley of the Kings, which I would take to mean that Kul Elna is Deir El-Medina. In this story, Kul Elna is located elsewhere.
It's true that the Deir El-Medina was ravaged by tomb robbers for a time during the late 20th dynasty (or Ramsessian period), but none of the people caught were from the village (some worked for various temples in Thebes though). The capital was eventually moved from Thebes to Tanis, and so Valley of the King received no more bodies and Deir El Medina and its people fell to disuse as well.
Anyway, if you want more information that's probably far more accurate, check out the books. They were fairly quick reads.