Author's note: This fic is set from the First World War up to just before the start of the Second. It does contain some violent themes.

J'attendrai

It was unseasonably cold in Brussels and the last to enter the bar was glad to kick the door shut behind him, its cast-iron frame settling into place without a fuss. Which was a shame, because he'd have liked to have been able to teach it a violent lesson. The climate was playing merry hell with his temper. Fortunately this unprepossessing bar, the Salle de l'Âme, represented the end of his search in Belgium. After tonight Bakura would return to his own country, whichever way things went down.

The dilapidation of the place was almost comforting, an establishment that had been lived and loved in, fallen into disrepair through use rather than neglect. The scent of cigarette smoke had long made a home in the upholstery of the place. The walls were painted yellow, or tiled in characteristic stylised swirls behind the bar, to disguise the nicotine stains. Bakura followed the band past the wooden booths to the small stage at the rear of the room, depositing the heavy case he was carrying next to the grand piano, peeling off his gloves and hat and rubbing some feeling back into his fingers while he watched the band leader negotiating with the bartender.

Bakura hadn't expected his mark to be hiding the puzzle in plain sight, but there it was, the inverted pyramid shifting slightly against his chest as he talked. The gold seemed overly flashy against the bartender's simple black waistcoat and white shirt, black apron knotted at his waist. But then Atem never had been one for subtlety, the crazed streaks and spikes of his hair paying testament to that. In an odd sort of way, Atem's hair was reminiscent of the geometry of the town with its stepped roofs, neatly chaotic squares, and the tendrils of the art nouveau movement sweeping muted colours around the streets.

Atem caught Bakura's gaze, responding with a customary smile, but nothing more. Bakura had heard about Atem's memory loss, but he had rather been hoping that his appearance might trigger some traumatic flashback. He could have challenged Atem right here and now for the puzzle, a glorious showdown with his travelling companions as witnesses, a fight that would leave him bloodied, breathless and triumphant over the body of the former official. Still, the sneakier ways were often the best, particularly if you really wanted to inflict some emotional scars.

Accepting a cigarette off one of his bandmates, Bakura shucked his black greatcoat and cream scarf, sucking on the stick for warmth and exhaling the light smoke towards the ceiling, where it settled comfortably. It was a shame those men were involved, really: they had nothing to do with that long-passed conflict, and coming from gypsy stock, it looked like trouble would be heading their way from a more westerly direction. Bakura would be glad to leave Europe behind.

He found a glass being pressed into his fingers and Atem's gaze direct upon him. "On the house," the bartender said cordially, but there was a slight frown set into his features. Perhaps his recall was returning?

"Mort subite," Bakura pronounced casually, reading the glass. "I'm sure it won't come to that." He cocked a toothy grin at his opponent, waiting to judge the reaction. Atem returned the smile, uncertainly, and for a moment Bakura thought – but no. "I hear that one a lot," Atem said, and went to flip the sign on the bar door before returning to polishing glasses.

The night was already in full swing by the time Marik Ishtar found the iron door set into the powder-blue housefront. The booths all being taken, he leant in against the bar to order a drink from the pretty barmaid, raising his voice to be heard over the quintet. The music was pretty inoffensive material, dance numbers in the French style. Guitars and bass provided the rhythm, with the solos passing between violin and saxophone – the newest member of the band. During a brief respite, Bakura nodded as he spotted the blond head at the bar, Marik raising his glass in reply.

The band were due a break, Bakura's cheeks aching with the effort of sustaining the embouchure, so he was thankful when the leader declared the end of the set. Conversations sparked up after the polite clapping had subsided. Bakura removed the saxophone sling, tucking the long ponytail of white hair out of the way, and was about to try and have a quiet word with Marik when he noticed Atem moving in. He cursed under his breath, settling for a seat on the piano stool and another cigarette, observing the exchange.

"You're new in town?" Atem opened the conversation, leaning with his arms folded on the counter.

"Just visiting," Marik answered in slightly accented French with an ingratiating smile. "I stand out, don't I?"

Atem nodded, taking in Marik's tanned skin and shock of blond hair. It was an unusual look, but then, less so than his own. "Algeria? Morocco?"

"Egypt, actually." Marik narrowed his eyes, trying to keep the bile and hatred from spilling out. They couldn't do this now, not with the bar so full. If he could persuade Atem to keep chatting, maybe keep the bar open for him and the band for a little while after closing…

"Egypt?" Atem's brow puckered in concentration. "I'm told that's my homeland. I don't remember it, I'm afraid."

"Perhaps I could talk to you later, when you're not so busy." Marik waved a hand to indicate the bar's customers, and the overworked girl pouring the multitude of beers. "I might be able to describe some things that jog your memory." Like the killing of my father, he thought, gripping the glass tightly to steady his hand.

"Let's do that," Atem replied. Marik resisted the urge to reach over the counter and strangle that confident smile right off his face.

Baqir was too young to have been conscripted, but when the recruitment officers came to his village, he wasn't going to let the men go without taking him too. There was pay, and food and clothing rations, and the village was poor enough that six months building a railway seemed like a pittance in comparison. But six months had turned into many more following the declaration of martial law, and those months were spent under the harsh sun, dehydrated and hungry, often sick, and always under the threat of armed guards. Baqir sang along with his fellow recruits, songs of hurt and despair, holding on to the thought of the hero's wage that he would take home to his village.

Then the Germans had fired, shells tearing up the ground and the newly laid tracks, the shrapnel taking out a large proportion of the men who had survived the direct attack. Baqir had tried to run for cover, but there was none to be found. He lay on the sand, face down and hands over his head, listening to the orders from the militia for the men to get back to work, fix the mess the Germans had made. He listened as the men refused, panicked, and listened as the machine gun fire laid into the remaining labourers.

Baqir lay amongst the bodies, blood and sand under his fingernails and matted into his hair, praying to keep his heart from beating so they didn't kill him too. He told himself there was nothing he could have done. He was just a kid. But still he cursed himself for not trying.

The guards had been easy enough to dispose of. Baqir had trailed them back towards civilisation, crept in to their tent while they slept and slit their throats with a jagged metal shard from the twisted-up tracks. He could have accepted, maybe, deaths from the initial attack as a fact of war they'd faced when they were recruited – but for his own countrymen to mercilessly slaughter the frightened peasants, after they had come to support a battle which wasn't theirs, was unforgivable.

Malik wasn't allowed outside. It wasn't safe, his father said. His sister could go, to bring food and other necessaries, but Malik and Rishid had to stay indoors. He'd heard Rishid arguing with his father about it, the night of the explosions, while Ishizu held Malik, trembling, under the bed. Rishid had wanted to go with someone who'd visited earlier in the day, a man with strange hair, but Father wouldn't let him.

They were arguing again, now, in front of Malik. Father struck Rishid knocking him unconscious against the wall, and he must have struck Marik too, because the next thing Marik knew he was being restrained by his siblings, screaming over the body of his father. They wouldn't tell him what had happened. He'd figured it out for himself, though. The visitor had left papers, a recruitment offer for Rishid. He must have come back after Father refused permission. The papers were signed, so Malik had a name to put to the face. Atem would get what was coming to him for destroying Malik's family.

Baqir had thought his retribution to be complete. Fate had other ideas. Working in local government records got you lots of juicy bits of information, such as the fact that the mayor had been taking backhand payments to recruit locals into the Labour Corps, and even more to organise the armed guards necessary to keep order. The mayor had died long since, but he had sunk his considerable savings into gold. Rumour had it that his son, an ex-recruitment officer, bore the inheritance in the form of a particularly extravagant bit of jewellery, made in pieces for ease of smuggling. That trinket represented the very lives of the men in Baqir's village, and it would be his final quest to take that symbol back where it belonged.

He was facing Atem now, leaning over the official in his office chair, his knife to Atem's throat under the cord that held the pendant. It was simply a matter of deciding which way to move the blade. Atem bore as much responsibility as his father, having participated in the recruitment program, and by the emotional weight of the treasure hanging around his neck. But Baqir wasn't expecting the door to open, having taken care of Atem's guards, and a momentary flick of his eyes to the left was enough for Atem to push his chair back and drop out of Baqir's grasp.

Atem made a dash for the window, Baqir not following, having noticed the gun in the intruder's hands. Malik fired, but too late, and by the time he got to the window Atem had ducked out of sight.

"The gold's mine," said Baqir, eyes fierce on the newcomer.

"And his life is mine," said Malik, meeting the gaze equally.

Atem's disappearing act was a good one. Malik and Baqir would pursue leads, meet to formulate a plan, and end up frustrated by nothingness. They'd travel, change their appearances and names to get closer to sources and turn up only dead ends. They fought, sometimes, not speaking for a year, until some new piece of information dredged up hope that the other might hold another piece of the jigsaw. The one constant seemed to be the understanding forged in that instant in the mayor's office.

The bar had closed, the door locked behind Bakura's last band mate after Marik had secured Bakura's invitation to the gaming table on the grounds of making up the numbers. It was quiet, but the music still rang in Bakura's ears, and Marik was certain he could hear the blood rushing in his own.

"I'll go first." Atem rolled the three dice, the sound of each tapping the table in sequence. "A pair of ones. Not a great start." He passed the dice on to Marik. "Your turn."

"Four, six, one," Marik read after the roll. "Is that good?"

"I'm afraid not," Atem smiled in commiseration. "Bakura, if you would?"

"A pair of sixes," Bakura smirked, taking a swig of beer. "I win."

Atem inclined his head gracefully. "In accordance with the stakes of this game, you may ask me any question you wish."

"Hmm," Bakura swirled the cloudy liquid in his glass. "A little philosophy, maybe. What is justice?"

Atem frowned, thinking hard. "The fair upholding of a moral right, in accordance with the law."

"And if the law conflicts with the moral right, what then?" Bakura caught Marik's sideways glance, but kept his expression neutral.

"Then the law may require revision."

"Or discounting."

"In certain cases, perhaps, where swift action is required…" The creases in Atem's forehead grew stronger.

Satisfied that Atem had just absolved Bakura and Marik of any wrongdoing in their planned course of action, Bakura moved on. "Marik, it's your turn to throw first."

Marik rolled a pair of fours, taking advantage of his reroll and sighing when the result was a pair of threes. "To you, Bakura."

"Triple two," read Bakura.

"It's a good roll," agreed Atem, picking up the dice and rolling one between thumb and forefinger. "But I think I can do better."

The dice stopped on four, two, one, Marik about to congratulate Bakura on his second win when Bakura spoke. "Best hand in the game, Atem. What's your question?"

All pretence of sociability dropped, at that. Atem's expression moved beyond serious into anger. "Why are you two really here?"

"What do you mean?" Marik feigned innocence, trying to drag the confrontation out.

"You called me Atem, Bakura. That's not the name I go by. You've both been observing me the whole night, and not in a friendly manner, either. I don't know what you think you know, but if you knew me in some previous capacity, I would greatly appreciate you sharing that before you judge me. Perhaps there is some way I can help."

Bakura snorted, indicating the gold weight around Atem's neck. "Let's up the stakes, then. You put that in. I'll put this." He removed from his pocket the identity bracelet that had marked him as a member of the Labour Corps, dropping it in the centre of the table. "If you win this round, I'll tell you everything I know."

"And if you win?"

"I get the gold."

"And I get you," interjected Marik, placing his silenced pistol on the table next to Bakura's seal.

Atem was silent for a moment, contemplating the table, before placing the puzzle on the table. "Very well. I believe it is your turn to roll first, Bakura?"

Bakura's heart almost stopped as the last dice spun into place. Four, one… and two. "Well, would you look at that," he snarled in challenge. "I win again."

"I wouldn't bank on it," smiled Atem.