Don't own.
………
He never lives until he sleeps.
Alpha
Ryou, sixteen floods, third apprentice to the second scribe of the noble lord … and orphan, was…late.
Very late.
He ran frantically, palm fiber sandals slapping the hard baked earth, eyes unfocused; a stitch in his side calling attention to itself with every gasping breath. Bright sunlight caught in his hair, bleached like the bones of thieves that lay scattered on the edges of the outside riverbanks. He twisted suddenly, barely avoiding a collision with a sour-faced baker balancing a basket of bread, and scrambled forward, ungainly adolescent limbs a-kilter.
Success! He was almost there…almost there…Ow.
That hurt. A lot. Clutching his banged head he stumbled aside, ignoring the fragments of rubble caught in his still unshaved hair, and continued running.
No matter. He snarled almost audibly, dodging past blue shadowed alleys and mud brick walls, eagerly calling vendors, moving people in coarse wigs and white linen, past widening painted eyes following his actions with startled surprise. He ignored the stares, moving faster, past slow grey donkeys laden with papyrus and clusters of children, sleek, glossy ships with bright billowing sails and purple shadows on the glittering water; hurrying beside ebony skinned slaves with colorfully dyed litters on their sweating shoulders, and simply ran with all his might, muscles protesting.
The very sky seemed to taunt him, pale blue and far reaching, the relentless sun brutally heating still tender reddened skin, still not accustomed to the heat, even after living in such intensity for nearly all his life.
Ryou opened his eyes, stumbling to a halt in front of his intended destination. He sighed forlornly, fruitlessly tugging at his formerly white shenti, and frowned, a fine line appearing between his eyes. He entered the Tradesman's gate gingerly, rapping lightly on the coarse bleached wood.
A passing maid, hurrying with her armful of linen, saw him and promptly gasped, shrinking to the other side of the dark passageway with a hand over her mouth. He sighed. He wished he had time to console her, but he was already late, he thought unhappily. Why couldn't they just stay away?
Shrugging, he walked into a cool green garden, albeit small, and smiled awkwardly, and, he hoped, charmingly at the lady sitting on the edge of the brick lined pool, cool in sheer linen with a twist of lapis beads and ridged green gold at her throat.
"Lady," he murmured, his right hand moving to his left shoulder.
Lady Teana looked at him with eager, lotus blue eyes and smiled kindly, amused. Her fingers brushed the edges of the curious necklace, and she looked down quickly, tucking her hair behind her neck. She wore no wig, but merely a thin strip of gold-embroidered linen to hold her short hair back.
Ryou stood awkwardly, his dusty feet spread on the warm, recently swept brick. His gaze skittered over the neat drapes of linen and glanced at her hand, still holding crumbs of food intended for the garden's pet goldfish. An unusual lady, while seemingly naïve and distanced from court affairs and intrigues, she was still a favorite of the Pharaoh, and had continued to be so for several years. He felt a prickle brush his spine, and refrained from shuddering, keeping his eyes obediently fixed upon her feet. You didn't stay long in court in that sort of position without either being very, very clever, or very affluent. And rich, no doubt, but Pharaoh's favor opened up many opportunities to earn wealth. Many opportunities, and just as many to lose more.
Such as your life. No, you didn't disrespect someone who had wielded influence for that long, which in itself was enormously impressive. The fact that she did it without Shadow powers was even more astounding.
"I'm sorry for the delay, Excellency," he said softly, not lifting his eyes. He offered no excuses, no explanations. Doing so would waste even more of a noble's time, and while it could be considered bold not to attempt to shift blame, he was willing to take the chance.
That method of action had earned him his place here, if a small one. That reputation for discretion had brought him, a half trained scribe, with a bare knowledge of hieroglyphics to even sort through a jumble of old scrolls in an important house. He'd have to do better though, and not grow too complacent.
Ryou listened absently while Lady Teana chatted aimlessly about his work. Apparently they were merely records from the former pharaoh's reign that she wished to have determined if the current Pharaoh would be mildly interested in.
He blinked, not raising his head. Come to think of it, wasn't it more usual for the steward or a higher servant to instruct him about this? Perhaps she was simply meticulous. That made sense, he admitted to himself, eyeing the painstaking lines of the garden, the carefully cultivated blossoms, and the overdone jars. A bit of script, winding around one glazed jug caught his eye. The army had slain ten thousand men, they have returned in safety, the army has captured a thousand living captives, they have returned in safety…It trailed off at that point, hidden behind a stand of lotus and a few aimlessly placed bowls of greening water. He shifted, trying to read the rest but the lady had already risen, trailing blue and gold threaded scarves behind her drifting white skirt.
He followed her along the pathway, his footsteps slow, unaccountably disturbed by what he had read. True, captives were not in the least rare in Egypt, where they could range from 'diplomatic ambassadors' to tiny children, but still…. the army has slain ten thousand men…he was glad to be a scribe. A peaceful, if monotonous life suited him.
She led him to a small shed, overgrown with pale green vines and shaded with a cluster of palm trees on the outskirts of the white walled home. Ryou found himself in possession of a large copper key, and, with a final obeisance, was left to shift through the unknown contents of the shed. He glanced back and was almost blinded by the glitter of white and gold; the lady looked strangely out of place surrounded by shadowy foliage and thick palm trunks. He hurried to unlock the shed, the metal of the lock smooth and almost greasy underneath his fingers. With effort, he pushed the door open.
The shed, though by no means diminutive, was in lesser proportions to its unpromising outside. There was a jumble of extremely old, torn, and mixed scrolls at the bottom of the dirty painted floor, but nothing more threatening. He hastily wiped his hands on his shenti, and set to work.
Quite a few hours later, he had little of use or possible interest to anybody, much less the pharaoh. True, the scrolls were extremely old, but the writer appeared to be as intent on flattering the 'mighty prowess of the beloved Pharaoh, the Son of Ra, his Excellency's great army' as he was on detailing the affairs and gossip of that time. Which was all probably fiction. Some of the papyrus had gotten stuck to the other rolls, so that dividing the pages was a meticulous task, one that required a great deal of effort for little information.
He sighed tiredly, raking his fingers over his scalp, preoccupied. He was almost done, but something seemed off…somehow. The descriptions of the gilded nobles of the time could be accurate, but a few of the descriptions of the bloodshed in the army's conquests sounded…too accurate to have been painted from imagination.
Pushing the scrolls aside, he smiled at the servant who brought him food on a covered dish. The boy looked about thirteen, with sharp eyes and from what he could see in the short shoulder length lock most Egyptian boys sported, oddly colored hair. It was almost purple, with streaks of dingy red…he leaned forward doubtfully, his fascinated eyes following the unusual coloring…
"Is something wrong with you?" screeched a harsh voice.
Startled, Ryou almost fell over from his cross-legged position, sleeping legs refusing to obey him. So much for politeness and goodwill. He felt vaguely shocked, and noticed it amusedly, almost laughing aloud at his former paranoia.
"No," he said reassuringly, holding his hands in the air as a gesture of surrender, "It's nothing. Really. I just got a bit dizzy, that's all." He smiled nervously, hoping to placate the irate servant. Widening his eyes to add to the effect, he groped behind him, searching for a weapon, even a papyrus one, to help attempt a show of defiance if it truly came to blows. Not that it would help him.
The boy eyed him doubtfully, eyebrows furrowing above small irises. He glared angrily. "Well, back off," he sneered. "Unless you do want to pick a fight?"
Ryou shook his head vigorously. "Wouldn't dream of it," he assured the boy. He reached for the plate and opened it, blissfully ignoring the servant, who left, muttering softly. He bit into a grape happily, and reached for a nearby scroll to continue reading.
….
It was already dusk when Ryou walked down the streets of the City of the Dead, amid a dark flood of others, workers like him returning to their families and quarters at the end of yet another blistering, weary day. The rising walls of houses along the streets and leaning trees shadowed the faces of the crowds, men were barely visible save the faint outline of figures and the paleness of linen shentis, punctuated briefly by the flash of copper or enamel from amulets and bracelets. They surrounded Ryou in a silent stream, unwaveringly moving, some jovial from beer, others silent and tense, while faint streaks of orange and umber traced the tips of the highest walls and outlined reaching branches.
The lady had been fairly pleased by his work, if not useful to her, it was a documentary to add to her library, and that was good enough for nobles, he guessed. He had been given a handful of coins and a promise of a few word of earnest approval both to his master and in the occasion any others might question her of his services, and he was content to simply walk along the street, savoring the gentling heat and mild breeze.
He reached his quarters and entered silently, slipping into the room where all four apprentices slept.
….
The city awoke slowly, mud-brick walls and homes dyed gold by the sunlight, slender white and black birds clouding the air above the dazzle of the turquoise water and embroidered sails. Smoke arose from gilded and painted temples, bewigged priests and priestesses cloaked in the shadows of early morning walked distantly too and fro. Eager fishermen cast out grey brown nets smoothly, anchored in small dark coracles, and with the same purpose and rhythm as the surrounding farmers.
Ryou watched them with hooded eyes, restlessly fleeing his quarter to avoid rest and sleep and something vague and indefinable taking form in his dreams. He smiled sweetly and wrapped his cloak further around his bare arms to protect them from the damp, cold, bright air.
It was a lovely day to sit inside. Ryou sat one of half a dozen or so braided rugs, diligently scratching at the papyrus on the tablet that he was assigned to. None of the other boys around him spoke, which would have been attributed to the fact they were possibly as smart as rocks, and maybe less, or for the presence of their teacher.
The scribe was short, with folds of copper skin across his face and knees and elbows, and a wide white smile that wasn't particularly pleased. He tended to wear ordinary shentis, properly pleated and tied with beads in his hair and sash to denote prosperity, which indicated he was a fairly good scribe. His name was unordinary and hard to remember, and, as an apprentice, Ryou merely called him master.
There was possibly only one other person in the class of any small interest, and that was the third apprentice, Duke. Barely a flood older than Ryou, he was both skillful and deft, but seemed to radiate an air of contempt towards the sometimes-humble profession of a scribe.
Untitled, yet seemingly comfortable with his strange name, he had reached manhood early, and grown his hair to his shoulders, which his acquaintances insisted was a wig. Ryou often wondered absently at the practice, but decided he was in no position to inquire, and deferred.
Eventually the day ended. Ryou frowned, barely furrowing his brow as he shelved today's work in the cool clay room, his thoughts lingering over Lady Teana's assignment. It seemed like much money for little work, yet the thought of a dishonest mistake was temporarily troubling, nothing more. How odd it was that the records should speak of a thousand captives, though from the allotment of provisions the army could have barely marched to the outskirts of the desert, much less a foreign land. Most of the captives took were often the result of long, blistering marches or travel by boat, yet Egypt was a vast land.
Aye, that was it. Egypt was certainly a great empire, and now and then it was understandable that a few territories should grow bold and attempt to strike back at their captors.
He walked along the riverbank, dark mud beneath his feet, and pitied the avengers, so enterprising and yet so foolish, to dare to defy such a nation. Yet, Egypt was not an unfair taskmaster, especially not now, when the young Pharaoh daily grew wise and twice loved by his people, strong and stern and upright as a spear, though not as stern as his father was rumored to have been…
The former pharaoh was reportedly grim, from what Ryou had heard, and had ruled with a harsh hand, yet Egypt had prospered, so truly he could not have been a terrible king. Or perhaps he had been, but he was dead now, may he rest in the afterlife.
Ryou shuddered, the cool of the mud and the faint hum of insects no longer as reassuring as they had been a few minutes ago. He turned his attentions towards the familiarity of the ink-dark Nile, and dismissed the thought.
…
Such vagrancy, so dwelleth the jackal, the hound, the cat, all creatures of endlessly winding paths and without peace, save within love …Such a fool that poet was, thought Bakura, idle and malevolent, so simple minded.
So truthful.
So obscenely condescending.
So ridiculously incorrect in its knowledge, born of a soft handed writer with a bricked home and with food on the table.
He had nothing to do. No plans, no crafted meeting for suspicious deeds.
The sky was blue, hazed with black and a net of pale stars glimmering above him, the bone colored moon lost in the dark distance. The light was hard and thin on the masses of mud and the silhouette of plants and the ground soft; jagged reeds curving around a crouched figure in a half-circle.
He existed absently, distantly, breathing the river's scent. The reflected light of lamps was orange, enveloping the riversides and glistened slickly along the rushing currents of water. His skin felt pleasantly cold, and he breathed easy, alive and immortal under the brilliant eyes of the gods.
….
Ryou hurried, his sandals slapping the stone of the streets, and crept inside the adjoining room that housed them. He unlocked the door with the silent ease of long practice, carefully moving in the dark to avoid brushing objects or disturbing sleepers.
He lay there in the dark, enveloped in the folds of his blanket, and watched the dim, brilliant light against the curve of an abandoned clay jar, half hidden below the slit above the wall. The faint moonlight angled before touching the pallets of sleeping boys, merely covering the expanse of bare ground strewn with a few straws.
Wrapping thin arms around his knees, he narrowed his eyes in thought.
It didn't do for a scribe to be too curious.
….
Dark isn't black.
Darkness is a description of things, relative to time and place. It is fleeting, easily made, never captured. Dark is not a shade, not a color. Dark is not evil, though often found where evil is done, it is not tangible, though it often appears to be; it leaves no traces. It has a strange scent, illusive and comfortable.
It casts a shadow, though rarely seen, and only by those of keen eyes.
It has a color of its own, when deepest. Commonly rumored to be velvet black, which is odd, since no mortal fabric will ever compare to it in texture, nor navy blue, it is something of a hint of red, and plum, of the color of wine in a shadowed, pale blue room, of a wilted rose, or that shade found on the night of a burned house, seen by scurrying people and interested watchers, of sorrow, of old love, or absence. Like that of dried blood on a black windowsill, sometimes seen in the glint of old, extremely precious gems that have passed multiple hands. Like avarice in a raven's eyes, and the darkness under the wings of a pigeon. Like the shadows underneath the floor stones of a temple.
Not many who have seen it choose to describe it, skipping easily to more whimsical, exciting events.
It is not a god, nor a thing to be feared, and it is special, in that way, for it serves no ruler, partakes but is not irrevocably joined; a skillful watcher at the tables of kings.
Dark, like all things, should be respected, though it cannot be abused.
It sees many strange things, and tells not one. Perhaps it would, could it speak our language; then again we have no proof it does not, merely that it has never responded to coercion.
The former, however, is doubtful.
Yet there is no denying it is an avid watcher.
….
"Thief! Help!"
Loud voices and the sound of pounding feet past their quarters broke the illusion of peace and Ryou's untroubled sleep. Around him, irritated grumbling of awakening apprentices rose in annoyance, but he choose to ignore them, focusing instead upon his former thoughts.
Thoughtfully blinking sun-dazed eyes, he propped himself up on one elbow, and shifted easily upon the tempting pallet that promised more sleep. If there were any such events that happened once, they were in the past. There was nothing to be done. Reluctant, he rose and tucked his blanket in a neat roll at the end of his meager bed and hurried out into the dusty sunlight.
Even to innocent blood spilled by a past pharaoh.
And Pharaoh was nothing less than god incarnate.
The sky was pure blue, dotted by wisps of clouds rising over the winding city that echoed the movements of the scurrying people, small as ants, bustling about morning rituals. The river dipped beside the city, winding and curving against the forefronts of the multiple harbors, their wooden posts bleached pale gray by the constant white sun that eclipsed everything, looking down upon hurrying marketplaces, awakening homes and workers, seeking out even the most hidden of corners.
And of course, what happened within them.
Ryou inwardly rolled his eyes, unwilling to listen to another round of hen picking by the cross old woman who sold figs, small and shriveled as she was, she certainly wasn't lacking for breath! He smiled politely, as was expected of him, anything less would have been immediately seen and considered an affront to the woman, who claimed to give him the best price in the marketplace…and a dozen lectures for each coin saved. He wouldn't have been here at all, except her figs were the best in the marketplace, ripe and sweet and mellow, and fairly priced, because almost none would endure the tongue lashing that went along with the bargaining.
He inclined his head respectfully when she finally ran out of breath, and left with his figs before she could muster the strength for another round, slipping into the currents of moving people.
He slumped against a nearby wall gratefully; relaxing in the small shade it afforded him. Scanning the crowds for potential bullies and troublemakers, those who'd attempt to steal what he bought with his meager copper coins and beat on him and walk away laughing, so tense he nearly jumped out of his skin when someone touched his sunburnt shoulder.
Duke has golden skin and long fingertips and perfect nails, which never ceased to amaze Ryou. He smiled at Ryou with cat green eyes, deeply shaded with kohl and black and almost luminously flat with little gold spots caught from his bracelets to angle in his eyes.
Ryou relaxed instinctively, disliking Duke for that fact alone, trying to think through the dazzle of that smile to what he might want with him. Companionship, perhaps, and Ryou certainly wasn't the stupidest of all the apprentices, nor the most boring.
"Aren't you glad the old man decided to let us go today, because he was given a 'favored' invitation to the Master Architect's feast?" commented Duke, leaning against the wall as well. "Pray that his good mood lasts!"
Ryou nodded, quiet. He hadn't much to do with the other apprentice, certainly not enough so he'd be sought after to talk to aimlessly on a day of pure freedom. That fact alone was enough to put him on his guard, he mused, nervous hands brushing across stone. His fingernails were worn and stained, and his skin as pale as milk, which only served to accentuate the stains, and seemed particularly unkempt compared to the other boy. He tucked them self-consciously behind his waist, turning to look at Duke, who was still chatting aimlessly.
"Yes," he said neutrally, offering no more room for conversation or offense, and started on the path through the city. Duke fell alongside him, his shoulders slightly tensed. He smiled wryly, amused at Ryou, who felt annoyed then blankly tired.
"You certainly didn't pick me for my conversational skills," he murmured, skirting around a farmer's sack filled cart, carrying grain, most likely.
Duke followed, hurrying to keep up. "No," he admitted. "I did not. However, I was hoping you would aid me in a project of mine." Lowering his voice further, conspiratorially, he spoke again. "One of great importance."
"A mission from the pharaoh himself, no doubt," retorted Ryou, though intrigued.
"No, of course not," said Duke, shrugging. He grinned, flashing white teeth, like a crocodile, Ryou thinks, charming and confident. "Better."
He looked at Duke, who's still smiling, albeit more nervously now, but still golden and cat-eyed and obnoxiously blatant, and decides.
"I'm in."
…
The plan, Ryou decided, was the stupidest thing he'd ever heard. It was also the most exciting.
Apparently, an overconfident nobleman, named Lord Nebamun had decided that it would be a splendid idea to impress the Pharaoh and his court through an exotic display of magic.
It was to happen five days after the coming storm.
That's when they came in, acting as servants for extra money. And for the chance to bedazzle an important member of court.
etc.
Comments;
First epic. Planning on twenty chapters, so this is going to be long in production, I think. Eventual yaoi.
Inspired by a truly wonderful Egyptian AU fic, and just about ten thousand bad ones.