Lucky You; Lucky Me
Author notes: I do not own Bakura. I don't own Yami either. I own absolutely nothing in this fic including the spiffy song that Bakura sings about Thoth. That is from The Circle of Isis, a very happy and informative book. I own the plot. Wee. Lucky me. (Title reference!) So enjoy it. It'll get better. Yami/Bakura yaoi… Teehee. Yummy-nummers. I don't own that phrase either. Sorry. Better luck next time.
Chapter 1: Black Cats and Broken Mirrors
A swish of a cloak, the bustle of business in full swing in the city of Thebes. The citizens of Thebes barely noticed a certain white-haired stranger as he waltzed through the city-streets.
He wore a look of proud determination, his face etched with the wear of a young man who had grown up more quickly than he should have. If the people of Thebes could see what horrors he had seen, many would slit their own throats, unable to bear the pain and misery.
Walking past a nearby vender, the young man grabbed an onion off the cart and took a bite, allowing the taste to invade his mouth. The vender began to call out in protest, but after a silencing glare from the cloaked man, immediately shut his mouth.
Without warning, a man dressed in official-looking robes began to shout heatedly to the crowd.
"Move yer filthy hides! Make way for your Pharaoh! On your knees, peasants!" he growled menacingly.
Glancing nervously at each other, the citizens began to move to the sides of the street. Raising a brow, the young man stood firmly in his place, quietly munching on the onion. The guard glared at him, placing his hand on the young man's shoulder.
"I suggest that you step out of our way… before I decide that we don't want to wait for your smelly ass… peasant." hissed the guard in the man's ear.
Smirking lightly, the man gave a mock bow, purposely kicking the dust up from the road. Grinning, he lifted his eyes to lock with the guard's.
"Then I shall move for his Highness. After all… who am I to insult the Holy-brat." he snickered sarcastically.
SMACK! The guard's eyes flared dangerously as his hand flew across the man's tanned cheek. The young man recoiled, loosing his footing and falling to one knee.
"I demand your name, filthy rat! You speak treasonous words! It is dangerous ground upon which you now tread!" bellowed the guard, his hand poised to strike again; a venomous snake preparing to bite. Recovering from the blow, the man hid his eyes, glaring at the ground.
"They used to call me… Bakura." he replied scathingly, his voice filled with malice. The guard sneered at his inappropriate retort, then grabbed him by his arm, pushing him off to the side with the rest of the peasants.
All of a sudden, a ripple of applause and joyous cheering began to surge through the throngs of people. Bakura perked his head up, clambering to his feet and brushing the dust and dirt out of his clothing, his eyes surveying the oncoming bustle of movement.
A procession was slowly approaching around the corner. A brightly colored litter was in the fore-front. Upon a silky purple pillow lay a young boy, no older than a fifteen year-old. Beside him on a second litter sat an older man. Bakura narrowed his eyes, his brain clicking in comprehension.
This was him. This trash was Akunumkanon; the source of his misery, the scourge of his life, the murderer of his village and loved ones.
A gentle breeze from the East cooled the backs of the hard-working citizens of KuruEruna. Just outside of the small village's farthest outer walls sat a small boy, no older than five years old. He was digging tiny holes in the white desert sand with his chubby miniature fingers.
"Wisdom has wings. Wisdom can fly. Could wisdom come to one such as I? Teacher of Gods, Teacher of kings. Oh, I would learn from Thee, I would earn wings…" he sang softly to himself, holding a small doll in his other arm.
He looked up, gazing at his beloved village. His dark eyes widened slightly as he watched strange men ride through the gates on white horses. Having never seen horses before, he picked up his belongings and rushed back to the village, his breath catching in his throat as his stumbled through the sparkling white dunes.
As he ran closer and closer, he could hear heated conversations rising over the granite walls. Cursing and angry words floated to the child's ears, causing him to slow down slightly in fear.
The walls neared slowly. He could see dark wisps of smoke unfurling themselves toward the blue sky. The sounds of slaughter and splattering blood replaced the conversations. The frightened child stopped at a small break in the wall, trembling with the dread of what he might find.
Screams of women and children pierced the fading afternoon air. Men and their sons fell one by one, like cattle dying of the plague. Desperate husband's and father's throats were cut, splattering their shrieking wives and daughters faces with their thick red blood.
Men in armored robes piled the bodies of the deceased off to one side. Tears dripped from the young boy's eyes, falling down the bridge of his sun-washed nose. His eyes scanned the area of the village, searching for some sign of his family. What he saw would literally scar him for the rest of his life.
Atop the pile of bloody corpses was his mother. Patches of her hair were torn from her scalp and rivulets of dark blood flowed down her fragile face. Her clothes were torn from her body; only small pieces of cloth melted on her broken body remained.
The little boy stifled a cry of terror, his stomach convulsing into tight knots and slowly releasing through his mouth. He looked around for some escape, some outlet for his intense emotional pain. He found his answer in a small rusty knife. Vowing never to forget the desecration of his people, he slit his own cheek, once in a vertical line, twice in two horizontal lines.
He sobbed desperately, wanting so badly to die; to be with his mother. He could smell the flesh of his people burning, melting the bones of their bodies. Curling up in the fetal position, he closed his eyes, wanting to float away… wanting to be a part of the growing darkness…
The parade faded into the distance, the sudden movement of the crowd startling Bakura out of his trance. His dark eyes narrowed as he grabbed a random passer-by, pulling him close.
"Tell me, friend. Where might I find the palace of the young Pharaoh?" asked Bakura amiably. The man removed Bakura's hand from his shoulder, tsking lightly at him.
"And why in Ra's name should I tell you, stranger?!" he retorted, dusting the place where Bakura's hand had just been as if Bakura were just another soiled scoundrel.
Bakura grabbed the man by the front of his garb, pressing his face close to his own.
"Answer me." The man's eyes widened with fear, struggling against Bakura's grip. He looked around, as if searching for help. Bakura grinned, seeing the look of terror on the man's pale face and thoroughly enjoying it.
"Oh, and don't bother shouting for help, friend. A word would no sooner escape your lips lest I place my cold steel across thy throat…" Bakura added scathingly. Stuttering horrendously, the man pointed toward a large obstruction at the center of the city.
Bakura grinned, nodding gently and tossing the man into a stand of watermelons. He began to strut toward the obstruction, its tall golden towers coming slowly into his view. So… this was the stronghold of the enemy… the mouth of the lion. He laughed to himself.
He would have to be careful… He needed a good, no, a great plan if he was to accomplish anything. The young Pharaoh's face crept into his mind.
Sneering at the palace, he turned away, his robes flying in a sudden gust of wind. He would return… and he was not about to be stung by that black-hearted scorpion.