Bleeding Idiots
Author: icypinkpop
Pairing: Psychoshipping (Yami Marik x Yami Bakura)
Warnings: Angst, gore, violence, graphic murder, implied sexuality/paedophilia.
Author's note: This is a fanfiction work for my best friend, Julesie, who has long lamented the distinct lack of Psychoshipping fan work. I hope that I can give her something entertaining to read, that is based in canon and portrays her favourite characters in a suitable way. Ju, this is for you!
...
I: Initiation
When you knew you would never amount to anything, you didn't have much to lose.
Brown bread was Bakura's least favourite thing to eat. He stuffed it past his canines anyway, stomach growling and grumbling under the ratty, olive-green tarp that hung over his snow-white shoulders. One bun a day. He usually ate better just sneaking bits from the local market up his sleeve, and raiding vineyards for their sweet grapes.
Then again, he supposed that some fortune had played into that unceremonious event the week prior. Spine pressed to the cold brick with iron bars a few feet in front of his face, he slumped and ran his mind over the happenings of the not-so-distant past. He reached downwards and held the hem of his tunic with dirty fingernails, sitting cross-legged and playing with the simple band around his ankle. Come to think of it, maybe he was actually lucky to be alive after what had happened.
...
"Bring three more pots of stew to the harem. Another ten concubines were shipped in from Libya yesterday."
"Ten?! As if he can use that many! Does Akhnamkanon know?"
"Shh! They'll cut your tongue out!"
The two skinny women arguing in the kitchen were blocking Bakura's view. Finally, the voices ceased and he smiled slightly. They hadn't noticed his twisting of the screws on the window-frame with a sharpened stick, nor the shifting of the glass pane as they scurried out from the kitchen. Slowly, he eased the pane down to set it on the ground and slipped inside over the countertop, planting his bare feet on the kitchen floor. It really was the utmost of excitement; dodging the guards hadn't been easy, even while trying to access the palace from the back way, and he had just barely managed to go undetected by climbing through the olive trees and hoisting himself over the brick wall.
Times were becoming desperate. Unlike when he was a younger and cuter child, Bakura, at nineteen, could no longer use a wide-eyed stare to convince kiosk owners to feed him a free slice of cheese or leg of fowl. He had resorted, as many orphan teens like himself did, to thievery from markets and gardens. It was enough to get by, but after a couple of years, the pastime had become just as much a diversion as it was a lifeline. Bakura had soon found himself more skilled than ever before, easily picking potatoes and cabbage heads from market stalls and sliding them up his long sleeves without detection.
Of course, as skill increases, the excitement in performing the same task over and over goes down. Boredom combined with an outright lack of will to live had brought Bakura to the edge of the palace grounds. Toes curled in the earth beneath him, he had decided what he would do. He would enter unannounced, find something, anything he could steal, and retreat. Anything made of gold or silver would attract a hefty price, but the danger had been the deciding factor in his choice. He knew his life was in jeopardy, and that any guard that happened to walk in at the right time could easily cost him his head…But what did he have to live for, if not a thrill?
Safely in the royal kitchen, Bakura admired for a moment the large racks of utensils. No real gold or silver, his experienced eyes told him, not that that was a surprise. He would have to look deeper inside to find anything valuable, like glass beads, perhaps, or feathers.
His hair rose on end immediately at the sound of a door hinge. Brown eyes flicked back and forth and Bakura, spotting a laundry bin by the wall with wheels on the bottom, immediately darted over and collapsed inside. A heap of smelly cloth surrounded him and he gagged silently, pulling it around his body and waiting.
Startlingly, the cart began to move. It stopped for a moment, and he thought he might have been seen, but it then resumed movement, the squeaking of the wheels accompanied by the small footsteps of what was presumably one of the servant women. His heart beat fast in his chest as he closed his eyes. This was it…What a chance! Had Isis used her magic to bless him with this stupid servant girl that couldn't recognize an extra 70lb of emaciated person? He smirked.
After a few moments, the sound of another door opening and closing met his ears. He bit into his tongue to silence any loud breaths that might have escaped his face. The cart began to move again and came to a halt a few moments later. Unmistakably, the footsteps clicked away and the sound of the door shutting rang out again.
There was silence. Bakura released a soft breath through his nose. Perhaps he had been wheeled into a laundry closet, which was a good place to stay for a moment and plot. Slowly, he opened one eye, then the other, and shifted until the covers fell from around his face. The mud brick roof met his eyes from about fifty feet above him. There was light here…
He waited until he was sure he heard no signs of movement before slowly sitting up amongst the mess. The room presented itself to him with gleams. There was an unbelievably large bed in the central space with a deep, blue silk cover hanging over the top, garnished with a multitude of beaded pillows and soft satin throws. He practically salivated as he glanced around; blue Persian rugs over the mud floors, and soft blue and lavender curtains draped among the windows, letting in just enough light to see. Slowly, he rose from the laundry cart and tiptoed further into the room. There were rich, dark wood shelves lining the soft brown walls, slats covered in decorative dishes containing sparkling jewels and gold bangles.
A thought occurred to him immediately. This was no servant room, no Harem, and certainly no laundry closet. The Pharaoh…?
It was at this moment that Bakura's eyes trailed from the shelves over the bed down to the small table draped with a white silken cloth that sat beside the window. Something gleamed and he quickly made his way over to it. It…appeared to be a pendant, and a large one, at that. Gold gleamed from the hanging tips around the edge of the outer ring, and an eye, a somehow familiar eye, stood out from the centre of the triangle.
Pale fingertips reached for the item. They touched the cool edge and he lifted the necklace. At first, he considered putting it around his neck, but instead he more sensibly tucked it into the front of his shorts under the long tunic cloth, draping his shirt over it carefully.
He stood back to his usual height and suddenly, a voice, startled and soft in its delivery, forced Bakura's head to snap back over his shoulder.
"Huh?"
The person was thin, tall, and pressed back against the door of the bedroom beside the laundry cart. Long chestnut hair framed the golden face, and blue eyes peered at him with terror from their sockets. He opened his mouth out of shock, unable to help what came next.
"GUARDS!"
...
Apparently, teenage break-ins were just something that happened at the palace once in a while.
That was what the prison guard here had told him, at least. It was infrequent, but not unheard of. Typically, they were put to death, but since the Pharaoh was out of town on business, there was not yet a formal trial process for Bakura to be put through. Therefore, the authorities had simply thrown him in a general holding cell on the edge of town, and would wait for Atem's return before he could be tried for his crime. Amazingly enough…the person in charge of guarding Bakura and keeping an eye on him didn't seem particularly harsh. He supposed that was how he had managed to save his throat for this long.
He glanced at the very tip of a gilded spike that peeked out from underneath the pillow on top of his cot. He had shunted the item so firmly into the waistband of his shorts that, despite the shaking from the guards and general physical contact, they hadn't detected it under the many layers of material. Bakura supposed he also hadn't been properly investigated due to the room owner's persistent shrieks that he be put into a "JAIL! NOW!". Had that brown-haired fairy remained calm about the incident, he couldn't help but wonder if they would have investigated him more thoroughly. It had seemed rather like the guards were anxious to get rid of him.
Footsteps brought him from his memories and Bakura looked up at the tall, golden male who stood outside the cage bars. Bakura greeted him with a toothy smile. The man wore a brown tunic with a red beaded sash around his waist, as was custom of guards that worked for the monarchy, he knew, and the blond hair was lifted in messy tufts at the sides and backs of his head. They watched each other through the torchlights that beamed from the walls.
"Bedtime."
Bakura scoffed slightly and stood up from where he had been sitting in the corner.
"I'm not tired."
"Go to sleep."
He licked his teeth. For seven days now, this man had been bringing him his daily meal and the wooden bucket he had to use for sanitary purposes. It was disgusting, obviously, but Bakura had become more comfortable than expected. After all, it was a roof over his head, which he didn't have half the time. He was beginning to think he might get away with his stunt after all, by some stroke of luck.
"Where's the Pharaoh? Put me to death already." The man's eyes narrowed at his smirk.
"You're on a thin line, brat. You're lucky I have patience."
Bakura continued to smile. He moved a little closer to the bars, leaving about a foot between the two men.
"Hm, bedtime, you say? You could put me to bed, if you wanted," he said softly and put a hand delicately on one bony hip, tilting his head upwards and to the side.
"Sorry. Single, but not interested."
"Are you sure?" Bakura continued to watch the man, taunting, testing. It was a part of his personality that had become inescapable, especially since the disinterest in life had kicked in. What did he have to fear?
"I'll tell the Pharaoh you'd be good concubine material, then."
Bakura actually winced at that, provoking a little smile from the guard. As if this underling actually had any face-to-face contact with the Pharaoh. Still, the thought was enough to be disgusting.
"Tch." He moved over and plopped his skinny body down on the cot with a sigh. Curious, he glanced back over one shoulder to find the guard still watching him.
"Fine. As you wish, uh…"
"Jono."
The man gave him a lingering look before walking away. It occurred to Bakura that, despite there being a few other cells beside his own, he seemed to be the only prisoner in the jail. The sounds of doors moving kept Bakura awake for a few more minutes, until the darkness whisked him away to sleep.
...
"How much longer?"
"We don't know, sir. The trade regulation arrangements are taking longer than expected."
"What about the prisoners?"
"You only have one here at the moment, right? A Bakura…something or other? We've sent word of his transgressions to the Pharaoh by horse."
"And?"
"No written reply, but one of his royal guards explained to us that petty crimes aren't of interest at the moment. With all the legalities required, the Pharaoh doesn't want to be bothered about issues like this while he's away."
A sigh.
"I see. So we don't wanna move him?"
"You'd have to do it on your own time. We'd recommend giving him the brand and setting him loose. Extra precautions have been taken around the palace in the past three days. We've had no successful entries thus far."
Bakura slowly sat up as he listened to the words being spoken outside the cellblock. He glanced over towards the open door, able to tell the two were outside.
"So what, that's it? You know where this guy was found, right?"
"Yes, but it was most certainly a happy accident on his part. There's no way a ragged kid in that state could have planned his way into that room intentionally. Brand him, so he'll be identifiable in the future if need be. Afterwards, let him go. No use continually putting in food orders to keep him alive."
The voices became softer. Bakura assumed their owners were moving away from the door. He sat up all the way and reached beneath the mattress, gently grasping the golden treasure there and tucking it into the waistband of his pants. He flipped his tunic over it just as the door shut and the blond male he recognized returned to the front. Slowly, as if in a dream, the guard took his key out and unlocked the cell door.
"Looks like you got lucky, kid." Jono entered the cell. Swallowing, having overheard the conversation and realizing what was about to happen, Bakura backed up slightly on the cot.
"The royal messenger told me I can let you out. The Pharaoh don't wanna be bothered with the likes o' you."
Bakura shifted, almost in disbelief. From his own experience and the conversation he had eavesdropped upon, he knew he had done something rather serious.
"…That's it?"
Jono snorted as he looked down on him. "Yeah. You'd better be grateful. I dunno how you ended up in Priest Seth's room, but I'm surprised you still got your head."
Bakura had been in the process of standing up and had to immediately grasp an iron bar to stay on his feet. That…The blue silken sheets flashed in his mind. The silver and gold, the white. Those colours…
"Priest Seth?" he asked with a dry mouth. The High Priest? The one who always stood right behind the Pharaoh at ceremonial stuff with the big hat and blue robes?
Nodding, the blond reached out and snatched Bakura by the hand. He pulled him along like a ragdoll, through the stone corridor to the door, and yanked it open roughly.
The sunlight kissed Bakura's white face. All of a sudden, the smell of nature and the clean breeze of the air caused him to waver on his toes. This was really it…? A slap on the wrist, some nights in a cell, nothing else?
"You mentioned branding," he realized and looked up at the man that held his arms behind his back. Jono raised an eyebrow, seemingly recognizing that he had overheard their conversation.
"Yeah. On the leg. That's what gets done to people who break into the palace, y'know. That way they can identify you if y' get loose." Usually the prisoners were executed anyways, but they were typically branded with Atem's crest beforehand in the unlikely case of an escape.
The hair bristled on the back of Bakura's neck as he stared into the stolid brown eyes. He knew there was no fighting it. He could make a break for it, but Jono's muscled form convinced him not to try. The guy clearly weighed twice as much as he did and had the power to use his bulk effectively. One didn't become a guard of the monarchy without some serious physical speed and strength. Still, the thought of hot iron burning through the flesh of his calf…
"…" And suddenly, his hands were freed. He stumbled forward a little, perching on his toes.
"Get lost."
Bakura turned around and caught sight of Jono's expression. The guy looked slightly unsure, but his hands were at his sides and he stood quietly on the grass without a movement or a shift.
"As far as they know, you're branded, 'kay?" He bit into his lip lightly, as if trying to work his way through a problem. The white-haired male said nothing.
"You're close enough to dead, anyway. No point in causin' you more pain." A pause. "…You got some disease or somethin'. It's obvious." A tanned finger gestured towards Bakura's exposed face and collarbone.
Bakura shrugged softly, used to remarks and looks towards his atypical skin tone.
"Born like this."
Jono sighed and crossed his arms.
"Go on. I see you again, you're dead."
He didn't need to be told twice. Sucking in a deep and long breath of the outside oxygen, Bakura turned and ran. He sprinted his way over the soft soil and grass, for once getting a good look at the surroundings of the holding prison he had managed to escape. It was clearly somewhere on the edge of town, far from the royal grounds, surrounded by the thick brush of forests and long grasses, with only a dirt trail leading up to the small structure where he had lived for seven days. He ran from the path that led towards civilization, instead making his way through the dense trees, feet squishing in the soaked grass and soil that began to envelope his ankles.
He couldn't help but feel a cloudy sense of disappointment pass down through his skull and into his spine. All that work, just to be let off. Not that he had wanted to be struck to death by arrows or branded deep into his flesh, but it seemed almost too easy. He supposed the Pharaoh really was the only person demanding and controlling the executions, and that without him there, prisoners not charged with serious crimes were kind of left in limbo or released to reduce expense.
The soft press of cold metal against his midsection caused him to slow his footsteps, until he slid down against the trunk of a tall tree and sat against a fat root at the base. Slowly, he retrieved the golden item from its hiding place against his skin, extending an arm.
This… The realization dawned on him as he looked at it once more in full view, the sparkling spears that dangled from the body of the ring. Gold shimmered in his eyes. Priest Seth's room…By that fortunate accident, he had ended up in the room of Pharaoh Atem's first cousin, and stolen what appeared to be one of the monarchy's foremost treasures.
A grin moved at the side of his chapped lips, hair dirty and flung over each shoulder to frame his burgeoning smile. What luck, for the establishment to have treated him with such disregard, like a common street beggar who wasn't capable of hiding anything, let alone using his brain? It almost seemed like a sign from the gods. This beautiful artefact, whatever it was, had chosen him. He slowly lifted it and hung the cord around his neck, but wasn't stupid; he tucked the pendant beneath his baggy shirt, watching as it disappeared from view.
His first instinct was to sell it. Clearly, it was at least plated with gold, and would fetch a high price at the market. However, since it seemed to be a piece from the nobility, he knew he would have to exercise caution. Usually, guards and other such persons from the palace didn't typically frequent the peasant marketplaces, but he knew a piece like this would attract attention, possibly from somebody who could identify it as Priest Seth's and make Bakura's incredible escape all for nothing. It seemed obvious that going through the black market was a better route. By doing so, he would be able to meet with other rare item collectors who knew how to keep their mouths shut about the rarity and illegality of certain items. He anticipated a high price point, as well.
"Heh. Suckers." Bakura stood up slowly against the tree and felt the gold clinking against his stomach. Oddly enough, the thought of keeping the item occurred to him in that moment. It seemed so exquisite, and such a bizarre and fortunate coincidence, that he should be awarded with such a treasure after living his entire life off the scraps of society. Perhaps it foreshadowed even greater things to come.
A thrill of life surged through his blood. The smart thing to do would be to sell the item, but that didn't mean he couldn't wear it on his person until that time came. He was aware of an underground market at the north western edge of the province, one that would likely accept his treasure with open wallets. Smirking to himself, the shaggy-haired male took off along the edge of the forest, toeing his way across some stones to cross the small stream that burbled in his path. The smell of grass and cool forest air brushed past his cheeks, and he revelled in the silence. He would take the scenic route.
Night fell, and the thin male found himself sat against another tree with a small fire blazing before his lap. He had been fortunate to locate a slightly drier area, further from the streams and winding rivers that cut through the woods, where he had been able to collect some dry twigs and make himself a one-person campsite. In addition, he had successfully trapped a freshwater eel in the previous stream and was now roasting it on a spit above the flames, watching it cook to a delectable golden brown. The little leather anklet began to warm against his calf, sending a pleasant swath of heat down through his pale toes.
He had been nodding off slightly to the scent of dinner when the sound of wings flapping and shrill squawks brought him back to the present. He sat up quickly and looked around. There was nobody in sight. Immediately assuming somebody had followed him into the area, Bakura got to his feet and peered around the tree, gazing into the dimness of the surroundings. The clearing he had chosen had seemed so secluded…
He saw no one. Perhaps it had been a large animal? Rarely, lions and other types of animals frequented these forests, since they were far more secluded and near the water sources than most of Egypt. Keeping on his toes, the slender form moved his way through the brush towards the edge of the clearing a few feet away, using the moonlight to guide his pale feet over tree roots and clumps of long grass.
Bakura caught sight of movement and immediately ducked behind the nearest tree. Cautiously, he peeked around the corner. A shadow appeared to take the form of a tall, hooded figure, barely discernible as it made its way over the grass towards the edge of the forest about ten feet away. He held his breath as the figure bent down, seemingly fiddling with something on a patch of ground. The back arched, and a low, dull creaking sound ground through the pale ears.
He winced as the compact patch of ground was lifted. Dark hands emerged from the sleeves of the robe and the figure stood, lifting the hatch from the earth and allowing it to fall back as if hinged. Bakura could make out the sight of mud-brick stairs leading down from the hatch into the darkness. Without pause, the figure began to descend. The same hand extended and grasped the edge of a thick rope sitting over the top step, pulling the hatch back down and closing it completely with a dull creak.
Puzzled was too weak of a word to use in this kind of circumstance. What kinds of people lived underground? He had heard legends of people doing so for ritual or ceremonial purposes, but the stories had ended there without much more to them besides speculation. Wary, Bakura made his way back to the fire and removed the eel from the spit.
He ate his meal in silence, crunching on the bones. It was hard for him to ignore…but perhaps it was the smart thing to do. Once he was done, he could find a more secluded place to stay the night. He was skilled at being homeless, anyways, and it wouldn't be hard to find a comfortable tree limb or a clearing with nobody in it. He gnawed into the head and licked the scales against his tongue, spiked bangs perking on either end of his forehead. People could be creepy.
"nnnrrAAHHH!"
More birds cried and beat their ways out of the surrounding trees and Bakura leapt up away from the fire. No matter how far-away that scream had sounded, it was like a death-shout…
His heart began to go into overtime. Something scary was happening. Perhaps this was where they brought bad slaves, to be tortured to death with needles in their eyes. He had heard urban legends about that, too. Slow, putting one foot before the other, he nervously approached the clearing again. He jerked back instinctively at the sight of the hatch wide open, rope dangling onto the soil. Why was it open?
"AHGGGH!"
He tensed and jerked backwards again. He could hear more voices now, some shouting, that same one screaming as if it were the last sounds it would ever make. He knew he should run. There was no way it was safe to be near this kind of a situation…
And yet he took a step forwards. A small voice in his mind reminded him that he wanted to stay alive; he had something valuable to sell, after all. Still, he slowly inched his way over to the hatch. Making sure there was nobody in the clearing around him that he could see, he bent to his knees and squinted down into the hole. He couldn't see anything…
So, for Ra-knew-what reason, he planted his small white foot with the small anklet onto the first step, following with the next as he descended. The darkness began to fade into a deep red, illuminated by a torch Bakura identified on the brick wall to his immediate right.
As he went down further, foot by foot, a louder scream met his ears, followed by shouts and raucous yells. He shifted back but stood silently, eyes adjusting to the darkness, gazing with trepidation and fearful excitement at the scene before him.
The space opened up at the base of the stairs into a large, mud-brick room lit by torches mounted on all sides of the wall. In the centre of the room were two figures, one thrashing and pulling away from the other, who appeared to have the first's arms behind his back. The screams and shouts echoed throughout the cold cave.
"Father!"
"Sit down! Sit!"
"YAAGH!" From his dark spot a few feet away from the nearest torch, Bakura observed the scene. The taller, more powerful figure struggled to keep hold on the thinner one. The sight of the wet and jerking face brought his focus to the person in front, who pulled and kicked as if it were his last chances at life. Blond, wild hair exploded in tufts around the wet eyes and open mouth, framing the dark skin with glistening gold. The slender male in a cream-colored tunic similar to Bakura's continued to thrash until his head was yanked backwards by the hooded male, whose physical details were not nearly as evident.
The gleam of a knife at the dark throat flashed before Bakura's eyes.
"Father!"
"SIT!"
The blonde's voice was weaker now, choked by the thickness of tears that began to drip from his chin. The top of his face was obscured by hair, and Bakura inhaled slowly, trying to keep as silent as possible as the pleading echoed dimly through the room.
He would have assumed this was prostitution or slave punishment, had he not heard that word… A son, disobeying his parent?
"You have to receive the initiation!"
A disgusting gargling noise brought Bakura's eyes back to the two. The thin male had collapsed to the ground and had his hands around his neck, grasping, as if trying to push and hold himself together. Before Bakura could make any move to escape the dungeon, the blond male raised his head slowly as the taller figure messed about behind him, seemingly preparing something. The person set the knife on the table behind the two, where it gleamed, and Bakura glanced back to find the blond with his head raised and wide, light eyes gazing right into his own from across the room.
The eyes pierced him and he froze. They were wide eyes, seemingly a light grey or blue, and spilling over with tears. The forehead was dark with bruises, and blood coated the bronze lips and chin. The mouth was open and tongue out slightly, and Bakura's gaze moved down to the golden hands that grasped at the neck there. A fountain of dark crimson erupted over the fingers as they fought to hold it in.
Slowly, he looked up and met the silent, light eyes for a second time, the desperation sending a chill through his veins.
"…" He tiptoed his way down slowly. Breaking their gaze, he reached the fourth to final step and, holding his breath, made a soft leap. The pair was about fifteen feet from him, on the other edge of the room, so he remained in the shadow. The robed figure was behind the blond still, sliding the sleeve of his robe along the blade. This had to be fast…
Bakura turned and surveyed the shelves along the sides of the room, looking at the numerous rolls of papyrus and ornamental metal decorations. The glass of a gleaming bottle caught his eye and he made his way up, snatching it quietly by the neck and grasping it tightly in his fingers. It didn't appear to be filled with anything. Perfect.
He exhaled in relief, and jerked in horror when the robed figure turned to face him. Eyes gleamed from inside the hood, and suddenly, the large figure rushed him fast, the clap of sandals on hard earth thumping in Bakura's ears.
"Who the fuck?!"
Bakura turned and darted to the side, keeping the bottle behind his back as he did so. His eyes had fully adjusted and he watched as the male jumped after him, trailing a few feet behind. He grit his teeth and growled. Like hell he was going to die at the hands of some nameless asshole!
"C'mere!"
Fingertips grabbed at the back of his hair and he spun, swinging his arm around. The body of the bottle slammed forcefully into the hard skull and the man screamed, falling first-first into the brick of the steps that lead down into the room.
"AGH!"
Glass shattered and sprinkled along the brick with small clinks. Bakura yanked his arm backwards, staring at the sharp-edged bottleneck in his grasp and dropping immediately to his knees.
Before the man could retaliate any further, he swiftly thrust the ragged glass down and shoved it into the back of the man's neck. Blood immediately shot up and spurted through the cloth of the hood as the man's wails echoed and emanated around the room, body convulsing pitifully in the corner. Bakura stood immediately, knees aching as he turned around and met those light eyes once again. He paused before quickly taking off in the male's direction, standing before him with the hesitancy of ambivalence. The dark-skinned boy grasped his neck still, blood leaking over his fingers in small streams. As they watched one another, the blond glanced to the side where the hooded figure lay twitching, and then returned his gaze to Bakura. For a moment, Bakura realized what he had done, and wondered for a second or two, until their eyes met again.
Then, they blond began to smile. His lips spread and he stared at the pale man with a wide grin, blood dripping from over his fingernails.
Without a thought, Bakura smiled in return. If nothing else, this was going to be interesting.
...
Thanks!
