More Written in the Stars stuff, what.

Title: The Gods Love Nubia
Author: Nina/TechnicolorNina
Fandom: Yu-Gi-Oh!
Pairing/Characters: Mahado and Baruti from WITS.
Word Count: 3 732
Story Rating: Eh, T/PG-13 for a bit of swearing on Mahado's part.
Story Summary: . . . Mahado as Dennis the Menace with magic? Kinda? Also, angst.
Warnings: Not really.
Notes: First off, this is in Written in the Stars-verse, but very, very, very pre-Millennium World. I determined the epic Mahado backstory fic was probably never going to happen, so you get this, instead – just a little slice of life (with plot) when Mahado's about 18. If you've never read WITS you're not going to know who Baruti is, so as a quick note, he's Mahado's tutor/master (and also the original bearer of the Millennium Ring). Also, Mahado's a runaway from Nubia. And on the topic of Baruti's nickname for Mahado: yes, I know "darkie" can be interpreted these days as derogatory, and yes, that is how Mahado takes it. That's not, however, the way it's intended – as a Nubian, Mahado's skin likely is a fair bit darker than that of the Egyptian nobles around him, and Baruti simply gave him a nickname based on the facts. My Grandpa Fred used to call me "blondie." Same thing, really.
Feedback: There may be something out there that's better than a review containing concrit, but if there is, I haven't found it yet. So if you have two minutes and you wouldn't mind? Please? Arigatou. (And concrit is cool. Flames are not.)
Special Thanks/Dedications: This story is for Velasa, to whom the idea for the Aida Cycle was first pitched. Cheers, dear.

The gods love Nubia, we have to keep believing
Though scattered and divided, we are still its heart
The fall of Nubia, ephemeral and fleeting
The spirit always burning though the flesh is torn apart.

"The Gods Love Nubia," Aida

"It's true?"

"It's true."

"But why - ?"

"Well, the rumour going round – "

" – not possible. He's a slave."

"Hail - Spider!"

Mahado closed his eyes and took the deepest breath he could. Baruti had told him he'd be stripped of 'prenticeship if he couldn't learn to control his temper, and this time Mahado was pretty sure he meant it. He wondered if it would be worth it to try to grow an extra set of arms and really scare the shit out of them all. He wasn't supposed to – he had been lectured more than once that he must not use his magic that way – but under Baruti's tutelage, it had come to seem that there was no end to the things he could do, and he could always claim he'd simply had a mental image of himself with four arms and it had simply happened. He'd somehow managed to make Siamun's hated rod disappear that way, after all. One minute he'd had his hands against the wall, waiting for his legs to be caned for backtalking, and the next Siamun had been exclaiming in fear when the rod simply vanished from his hands. Baruti had cast, and when it came out that no, Mahado really didn't know how he'd done it, he'd gone unpunished altogether. Yes – it might be worth it, just maybe. Mahado squeezed his eyes shut.

Soft, little darkie. The best things come to the meek.

Mahado bit his lip in anger at the echoing memory of another hated nickname. He liked to study in the sun, and his chores often took him outside. His skin had burned almost as black as that of a sailor from Punt, and the stupid old horse had taken to calling him "darkie" in consequence. He swallowed, hard, to keep from screaming, and schooled his face blank. Then he turned around.

"Yes, Scorpion?"

He saw who was behind him and immediately regretted his choice in revenge tactics. Backtalking to Ankhnadin was not quite as disastrous as sassing his xenophobic brother, but it was close. If Ankhnadin decided to take it badly, Mahado would probably be dead or close to it by this time tomorrow. He was relieved when Ankhnadin started laughing, instead.

"I'll forgive you that for the good news. It's made all the palace a bit loose today, I think."

"What news?" Between first his studies and then his chores, Mahado had heard nothing. Most of the palace slaves were afraid of him, and the servants looked down on him. His news came mostly from Baruti, and what little came from the palace itself he got from a stripling servant girl named Shemei. He'd seen neither of them since dawn.

"Amonasro is dead, and no new king's been crowned."

Mahado felt something very cold slide into his stomach. Had he ever been to Greece, he might have thought it something like swallowing a hard-packed handful of the snow that fell in the mountains. He hoped the shock he could not hide would be misinterpreted.

"There's no heir?" Piankhu hadn't been dead the last he'd heard, but news from Nubia was half-wrong most of the time and half-missing the rest. Ankhnadin shrugged.

"There are light-armed soldiers here, and they've requested an audience with Akhenamkhanen this evening."

"It doesn't bother you, Lord Ankhnadin?" Mahado was hardly aware that he was questioning the authority, or at least the sense, of a member of the royal family; had he begun to recite from his day's lessons he would have been equally unaware. He was being spoken to, and common custom dictated he must answer. It was simply something to say.

Ankhnadin shook his head. "Hardly. The captain has already indicated a perfect willingness to leave all weapons at the door. The swords they carry would appear to be part of their standard ceremonial uniform."

"Then I'll likely hear the outcome from - my tutor, I imagine." It was common knowledge that Mahado loathed his teacher, and nobody tried to talk him out of his feelings – some of Siamun's pupils were known to be of a mind that Baruti had taken Mahado on as much to have someone to torture as to have someone to teach – but calling the man names in front of Ankhnadin was definitely not the best idea. Mahado had escaped a serious whipping by only a hair. He had no desire to tempt the gods further.

He thought Ankhnadin looked at him strangely when he was dismissed, but he decided he'd probably imagined it.

"You're rather quiet, little darkie."

Mahado's shoulders tensed, but he said nothing. It wasn't worth a fight. Not now.

"You've created quite the stir in the palace today."

Mahado swallowed against the angry and bitter words that were just begging to be screamed. "If my actions have displeased – "

"Nothing of the kind." Mahado still did not turn to see his tutor's face. He hadn't shed a tear, but his eyes were still suspiciously red. The last thing he needed was to be labeled a traitor. "It's simply that the Nubian contingent we currently entertain have come looking for you – Hekanefer."

"That isn't my name," Mahado answered automatically.

"No longer, perhaps. It was, once, was it not?" Mahado did not answer, and after a pause, Baruti spoke again. "You never mentioned that your presence here had nothing to do with a coup for the Nubian throne. It would appear there's been a bit of a prevarication on your part."

Mahado closed his eyes. "It's better – this way. The Nubian people have no love for Egyptian blood just now."

"Perhaps it's the will of the gods that you change that."

"I can change nothing. What's one man against the will of thousands?"

"One king against all the country will still prevail."

"I have no claim on the throne. You should know that." Mahado spoke again only through a sheer force of will. "I was a bastard child."

"And yet, they call you heir to the throne."

"They mistake me. Piankhu is the heir. I've never had any misconceptions to the contrary." Mahado turned around at last. There was no point in trying to hide – not if his birth name had been revealed to the court. They knew who he really was. He met Baruti's eyes. "What ties have I to Great Nubia? He was my king, once. I've not been under his protection for years."

"He was your king once, perhaps. But bastard bloodline or not, he remains your father."

Mahado dropped his gaze to his hands, folded in his lap; Baruti found plenty of things to chide him for without Mahado adding fuel to the fire. He could only imagine Baruti's reaction to an eighteen-year-old sobbing for a man he hadn't seen in two and a half years – more, a man with whom he'd never had anything but the most perfunctory of conversations. His shoulders, too big for someone still in childhood years, gave him away. He tried to steady them, and when he couldn't, he brought his hands up to cover his face. His place – Egyptians on every side of him and his fealty sworn to the pharaoh – would not permit his grief. He could at least offer a proper show of shame.

A hand dropped onto his shaking shoulder, and Mahado braced himself for the punishment sure to be forthcoming – maybe a hard squeeze, or perhaps the hand would pull away and then slap his neck. Baruti was nothing if not skilled in disciplining wayward students. The hand traveled over his shoulder – Baruti was going to squeeze his neck, Mahado just knew it, and how he hated that – and then came to rest on his far shoulder. It was the first genuinely friendly touch Mahado could remember receiving since coming to Egypt.

"You're excused from lessons if you wish to return to Nubia for his interment. I'd make your excuses."

Mahado shook his head and swiped at his eyes with the back of his hand. "I appreciate the offer, Teacher, but I think it's best if I stay here." He paused to breathe and clear the thickness in his throat. It hadn't seemed so full of tears all the day long until now. "I don't belong there any longer." Mahado wished he had something to dry his face. His tutor stood.

"I think it best if you remain in the complex this evening. We can address the guard tomorrow."

"I'd rather not," Mahado admitted. "The pharaoh is a good man – " something Mahado did not really believe, at least not where half-breed Nubians were concerned, but saying it was a way to keep himself out of trouble – "but if the guard decided to carry me off, I've rather an idea he wouldn't stop them."

"They offer you the world to make yours, and you'd turn them down," Baruti marveled. Mahado shrugged.

"I think I've got about all the world I can handle right here."

If Baruti had an opinion on Mahado's words, it didn't show; his face remained blank. He only nodded. "I've work in the palace this evening. You're excused from your runes."

"Yes, Teacher."

Mahado sat until he heard the door in the front room. Then he took the bread and beer he'd saved back from his evening meal, and wrapped it in a cloth. He set his face into the desert and walked.

He appeared to be going nowhere, but in fact he had a very specific destination in mind.

Mahado sat up, his back protesting at being forced from its prostrate bow. It was close to sunset, and high past time he went back to the complex, but something that had been drilled into him since he was a mere toddler was this: when entertaining gods, one did not shirk one's duty. He whispered the last of his prayer - lay the hand of guidance on my brother, give him wisdom to make Nubia flourish - and followed it with a mark of reverence. Only then did he stand and cover the altar, ready to leave the makeshift temple in a small cave he called his own, protected by the camouflage of the desert. It was a poor place to worship, but he had nowhere else. He accepted and believed in the gods his mother had worshipped – Osiris and Tehuti and Hathor and Bast – but he also believed in the gods of his motherland, and he would go to his death, almost forty years in his future, still holding their names in his mind. A few of the gods of Egypt were also the gods of Nubia, but hardly all – and the gods who took interest in only Egyptian affairs could not be entrusted with the fate of Piankhu as he went from being Mahado's brother and sometime rival to being the one called Great Nubia, Golden One. Mahado turned to pick up a small pile of the stones he used to hold his makeshift cover in place.

For the second time that day he felt his stomach twist like a piece of linen being washed at the Nile. He'd always been careful to ensure he wasn't discovered, and had on more than one occasion begun his prayers at his little altar by apologising for the length of time since his last devotions. Today, it seemed, was a day for discoveries he'd hoped would never be made. The breath he took was deep, and it trembled.

"Hail, Teacher."

Baruti did not enter the cave, nor did he look at the tiny altar, constructed of flat desert rocks and covered now with a plain piece of linen, that sat at one end. His eyes were on Mahado's face.

"It grows late."

Mahado nodded. He hadn't had the time to put the rocks in place to hold the linen down, and it would be a long time before he could come back – if ever. He could only hope nothing would come in.

"Are you near-finished here?"

Mahado blinked, the truth startled out of him. "I've only to finish the sealing."

"Then be quick about it."

Mahado did as he was bid, carefully sealing down the cloth so the animals of the desert would find no way beneath it and onto the stone altar. It had never been blessed and its spiritual properties were therefore dubious, but he could at least keep it from being actively profaned. At last he slipped out of the cave, hoping his punishment would amount to a whipping and not a trial. Baruti nodded in the direction of the complex. Mahado followed him in a penitent silence, although he knew that even on pain of death he would never - could never – betray the gods who had carried him safely across Nubia, through the Egyptian border, to the court of the pharaoh. And even though he and Piankhu had never really gotten along, he couldn't find it in himself to abandon the memory of his family, either.

"You have a long day tomorrow, darkie. I told the pharaoh of your intentions, but your presence and word is still required to make it formal."

Mahado's head jerked up at the sound of Baruti's voice. He opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out.

"I'd suggest you bathe this evening. You look like you got in a fight with a desert dog." Baruti motioned to the door. Mahado slipped inside and made for the door to the back of the rooms he and Baruti called home. Then he paused.

"Teacher?"

Baruti only looked at him. Mahado took a deep breath. He didn't want to say it, but his honour required it.

"When I've washed, where am I to go?" He found himself morbidly interested in the answer, which might be the back workroom – strapping – or the throne room – formal judging – or even back into the desert – exile. Baruti continued to stare.

"I would have thought that was clear. It's late, you've a long day before you tomorrow, and you'd best be fresh when you face it. Are you really so idiotic, or have you been 'prenticed to a fool?"

Mahado looked down at his feet. Usually he would have been biting back a furious retort, but the fire seemed to have gone out of him.

"You're to go to bed. Do you think you can find your way from the washroom, or ought I to draw you a map?"

"I just – " Mahado broke off, appalled and furious to find himself near tears. Baruti motioned him back into the front room, sat on a bench, and motioned for Mahado to sit opposite.

"I won't say I think you've shown good judgment," Baruti said. "Because quite frankly, I think you had a lie-in the day the gods handed out common sense."

Mahado nodded, eyes fixed on the hands he'd folded firmly in his lap. Baruti settled into his preferred lecture position.

"Pharaoh Akhenamkhanen's first year was not a peaceful one," the elder magician said. "The Hyksos attempted to overturn his throne, aided by all kinds of the lower element."

Mahado said nothing. Baruti reached across the small table and touched Mahado's arm.

"I was called into service as a physician to the wounded, and it happened that one of the men I treated was a Nubian – an exile who found refuge with the Hyksos after the villagers in his town cast him out as a child for having six fingers on his left hand. They said he was cursed."

"He had recourse to the throne," Mahado answered automatically. "Great Nubia is gentle to all the kin of the country." Then he remembered that Amonasro was no longer the ruling king and would not be an "is" ever again on this side of the Nile, and he was unable to stop his tears. Baruti squeezed his arm – but it was a gentle squeeze, the kind a man would offer to a friend.

"When I came upon the man among our soldiers, he'd lost the hand that caused him such trouble to begin with, and where it had been, he bled as red as any Egyptian. And when you entered this court, whipped half to death, your blood was also red." He paused. "I can only believe that a man capable of bleeding as we do would also feel grief, as we do, and would wish a blessing on his kin, as we do – by praying to those gods he sees most fit."

Mahado nodded. Baruti patted his wrist.

"Wash. Sleep. You have a long day tomorrow, Mahado. Let the gods make light your cares."

"If they could –" Mahado left the sentence unfinished and shrugged. Baruti nodded him toward the back.

It was in the middle of scrubbing his neck that he realised it was the first time Baruti had ever used his real name.