Bakura had been born to war
Bakura had been born to war. It had accompanied his first steps, shadowed his first words, and when he'd carved himself to the bone, his hateful battle with the Pharaoh was only ever expected. As anticipated as breathing, even when he died, and that breathing was borrowed.
The world was war, and the world was loss. The world was the neighbours mourning their son. The world was a square inch of fear buried in his chest.
His father had cupped his head, touched his cheek. "Never be afraid, Bakura." The sun curved over the river, casting a shadow at their feet, and warming Bakura's skin. "Our King is the child of Ra, and we are under his light, and protection."
He nestled into the rough palm of his father's hand. It had been a gentle lie, because if the war came, Bakura would be born and die under its shadow. But Bakura was young, and fear was tight in his chest. Gods were gentle things, like sunlight, like the soothing touch of his father's hand.
When his father's flesh boiled gold, and the firelight was bathed with blood, Bakura knew the war had come. That gentle things did not protect against that square inch of fear. In an instant, his world was swallowed. And in the next, and the one after. Through that amber night, Bakura's world was cracked into smaller, and smaller pieces. Sharp, angry parts that he couldn't hold in his hands without bleeding.
The world was gone. Blotted out. A child roaming the skeleton of an empty village, and feeling his ribs grow under his fingertips.
They had been animals all along. Killed like them - bled out, consumed - and now like an animal, Bakura was driven from his home by hunger. Belly aching, and skin burning in the afternoon light, Bakura moved across the river into the city. The river held life and death on each side, and though he had left his dead in the west, moving east had still felt like dying.
But - and the whisper ran through the streets - the war - the whisper crept inside Bakura - the war - the whisper grew into hope, felt like life - the war was over.
He went to see the God speak. Bakura pressed against the side of a building, fearful of the flooding crowd, but desperate to sit in the light and see the God. Hunger drove him, drew him; heart aching, and wanting. The war was over, and the God was a gentle thing.
And the God wore blood around his throat, where it gleamed and shone in the sunlight. He held his hands up, and they were clean, "The war is over!" But the blood around his neck was golden.
The people screamed. Blessed the God. Worshipped him in cries of thanks. The King had protected them. They had given the Kingdom their children, willingly, and the King had given their children back to them - hope, and life, and-
Bakura's people had died like animals. They had given their blood, and their flesh, and their bone, but not willingly. Their deaths, but not their lives. They were worth less than the screaming, burning crowd of people around him. Than the God in his palace.
Ma'at was not meant to weigh your heart down, but it sank in Bakura, like a stone in a river. He followed it, sinking to the floor. The God's hands were clean, and the People cheered, and the animal howl in Bakura's throat was drowned out.