A/N: For the YGO Fanfiction Contest Season 12 Round 5. The pairing: Outcastshipping – Kisara x Thief King Bakura.

Disclaimer: Kazuki Takahashi and all associated companies are the rightful owners of the Yuugiou! franchise and I claim no association with any of them. No copyright infringement intended with this and no money is being made from this. Please support the creator by purchasing the official releases.

Warnings: slightly morbid at times, but no excessive violence.

Conflagration

He watches the village burn from a high vantage point in the mountain ridges overlooking the valley and silently wonders why he feels nothing. It's not the first settlement he has seen engulfed in flames, but it is the first in a long, long time. He watches the flames climb higher and higher against the night sky, as if the fire is trying to reach for and extinguish the stars, while people flee from its clutches in blind terror. They are cast in an all too familiar red-golden glow, and he can almost taste the agony, the ashes, the blood, the despair, the… It makes him frown. There is nothing in the village that could burn with such intensity. Just like in every other place across the land, the buildings down there are made of mud bricks and limestone, and, even if each roof sports a canopy of a tightly-woven reed mesh, there isn't enough wood and wicker to warrant a pyre the likes of which he is witnessing.

Diabound stirs within him – without rhyme or reason, or, indeed, permission – when a single flame shoots even higher up. Bakura follows it with a narrowed stare and watches it billow out and grow wings. In a flash, fire falls away from a body that gleams silver and white, and brighter than the sun, stunning the world into silence. He is caught. Mesmerised. A shrill cry pierces the night; a thin, high sound that ripples across the valley and reverberates down to his bones even at this distance and now he has his answer: it's the stone that burns. In awe, he watches the massive wings beat, watches as a torrent of white light is belched out and a row of houses that had yet remained unaffected erupts in flames.

The stories of old have it that only a dragon's fire can melt down and devour rocks the way its tamer sister does with wood and flesh, and not even the gods can match its ferocity, though they can rend any stone into dust. The old stories do not lie. They only haven't accurately described the tremor one feels inside upon laying sight on such a creature: the way it draws in the gaze and holds it fast; the terror that spreads deep in the pit of the stomach; the stone coldness that settles in the feet and slowly crawls upwards, binding limbs together and muddling thoughts.

He ought to send Diabound out into the night – to track, not fight because he isn't yet strong enough to face that – the way he would any other time, but the thoughts won't form. He could stand there and burn along with the city for all eternity and not be moved by anything – so strong is the dragon's pull. But before long, the dazzling creature fades out and the night becomes that much darker. The sounds return, grating and raw against his ears, and he can hear the roar of the flames again, the crackling and the sizzling, and the wailing of now-homeless people. Out of the corner of his eye he spots a young man fall to his knees as he faces the carnage a distance away, and he grins. And then he laughs because he is not alone. The fire has given him brothers and sisters. It's maddening. It's intoxicating. He throws his arms out, embracing the darkness, the fiery glow below, and the night sky that twinkles with stars as if about to reveal a secret, and lets out a sound that is more akin to an animal's howl than human laughter. He is not alone.

It takes him a while to settle down, to wrap himself tighter in his robe and make himself comfortable in the crook of a boulder. The night is cold, even if the fire down below emits a tempting warmth. He is smart enough to not approach it. Not yet. He knows what a burning village looks like up close and he doesn't need a reminder – he only needs to close his eyes. He'll wait until Ra steps into his morning boat and travels out of Duat before he takes the short trip down the mountain and wanders through the fallen villagers to find where the dragon disappeared off to.

The buildings are still smouldering, gleaming as red as coals in the dawning light when Diabound carries him over the ruined settlement that is still full of shadows and smoke. The sight greeting him is rather unlike any he has witnessed before. The blackened corpses lie fallen wherever the fire overtook them, their charred bodies mangled by the agony that erased their lives. The stench of burnt flesh drifting above this place makes him retch, but the memories he'd dreaded before don't surface – he's making new ones; worse.

It's stifling hot like the inside of a kiln. The air is heavy and each breath he draws burns into him like poison, clouding his mind and making his eyes water. The scarf he has wrapped over his mouth does little to block out the reek of death, though it does prevent him from breathing in the ash that is floating in the air, carried on strange, inexplicable currents of wind. The ground is still scorching to the touch: the air shimmers beneath them the same way it does over sand dunes mid-day. It crawls under his robe, making it flutter and stinging his flesh, and he does his best to ignore it. The path of the dragon's fire is marked with lumps of black glass and rivers of stone where it ran liquid like water from the heat – it's quite a sight when viewed from above.

There is no mistaking the source once Diabound comes to hover above a small clearing; the number of dead bodies surrounding it alone is testament enough. Had Bakura counted the corpses they passed on their way to the centre of the carnage, he would have certainly lost the count here. The buildings have melted down into shapeless lumps, burying beneath them their former inhabitants, leaving only an arm here, a leg there, half a face or quarter of a torso sticking out all around – all burnt and contorted, and barely recognisable for what they had once been in a grotesque show of a power more potent than the molten gold which laid his village to waste. In the midst of it all – quite like a mockery to the destruction – lies a young woman, untouched by the fire, though bruised and blood-stained. The pebbles and rocks, and dry camel dung littering the expanse of yellow sand between her and the black ring of dragonglass and burnt human remains tells a tale Bakura is all too familiar with. He takes a moment to study the long hair that has spilled onto the sand and across her face, partially shielding her features from view. It is unmistakably white even in the still lacking light of dawn.

An odd thrill runs through Bakura, a shiver down his spine which he would have denied if only… If only her hair hadn't been as white as his. The feeling is powerful enough to make him forget the overwhelming stench and heat for a moment. He has Diabound pick her up and carry them out to where he left his horse. She doesn't stir, and neither does the creature inside of her.

When she comes to, the darkness has already settled. She is drawn out of her slumber by the distant crackling of fire and it fills her with terror she cannot explain or reason away. The stench of smoke drifts to her, seeming ominous to her half-asleep mind, conjuring up images of burning humans, of blood running thick over her eyes until the world is blocked out of her view completely. Her eyes snap open and the darkness that greets her has her heart sinking, making her fear the worst. Her body is still bound tight by the last tendrils of sleep and it takes a few heartbeats for her to realise that she isn't restrained by ropes, and that the world isn't as dark as it had appeared at first glance: the faint warmth of firelight casts dancing shadows over the stone walls around her. She is cold and hungry, and thirsty beyond all reason, but an unspeakable dread forces her to examine her surroundings for signs of danger first.

Bakura watches her stir, counts down heartbeats until she spots him sitting across from her on the other side of the small bonfire lit in the fire pit of an old, crumbling house. She tenses in alarm and uncertainty. The fire purrs low like a content lion cub, casting a soft, warm glow on the bare stone walls, colouring the night an ominous pitch black where its faint light cannot reach. Her gaze lingers on his hair for a long, long time. He watches the flames dancing in her eyes, small and distant, knowing that it's a reflection, knowing that beneath that reflection…

She sits up slowly, with as much dignity as he hasn't seen from anyone in a while. She doesn't shrink back, doesn't curl in on herself, and he knows it's the magic of the colour of his hair. The magic of her hair. The uncertainty and promise bundled up into one. The curse they've been branded with in the mouths of the people. And for his part, he's intent to give the people a reason to curse him.

"Where are we?" she asks silently and her voice doesn't tremble. Her gaze is caught in the way the glow of fire plays on his hair, shadows chasing light across the unruly strands sticking out every which way.

"In my home," he responds, equal parts earnest and evasive. He doubts she would know the name of the village. No one does anymore.

"Who are you?" she continues in the same tone, casting a studious glance over everything that is discernible in the dim, flickering light. The water skin and the tray with a scarce offering of food this side of the fire don't slip her attention and her fingers twitch reflexively as her empty stomach twists.

He grins. "Too many questions for a guest." She does shrink back a little at that, he notes with a flicker of satisfaction and offers her his name anyway: "Bakura. And who did I drag out of the ruins?"

She frowns a little, recalling the last memories before the darkness descended upon her senses. "Ruins?" she says it softly, like a breath, and it's more meant for her own ears, but the room is silent enough for him to overhear it as well.

"That's where I found you."

She contemplates his words and accepts them with a small nod, though she isn't entirely sure of their meaning. She remembers the way people surrounded her; the way voices rose in anger and scorn, condemning her, cursing her, blaming her for things she didn't even know. She remembers the first stone hitting her.

"Kisara."

Silence falls upon them, thick and uneasy.

She breaks it first.

"Am I your prisoner?"

He flashes his teeth at her in a grin and leans back against the wall, uncrossing his legs and drawing one knee up. The exit door is to his right and his bared sword lies in front of it, firelight glinting off the blade.

He counters her question with a question of his own. "Do you want to be?"

It brings her up short. No one has ever given her the choice. No one has ever asked her what she wants. It's a struggle with herself, one which she hasn't anticipated: freedom or chains. It should be simple. It should be easy. But it is anything but. She hasn't known true freedom; there's only a distant memory of that, so far, far away that she isn't sure whether that has ever been a reality or just a half-forgotten dream.

"If," she starts hesitantly, weighing every word, "I say no… will you force me?"

"I just might," he replies, still grinning. Then, already knowing her answer, he asks, "Aren't you hungry?"

It might have been a long time ago, but he still remembers the way life was for him after he woke up in his hiding place the next day and went out to look for the other villagers and found nothing but death and more death. The way he scrounged every last house, every last corner for food before hunger forced him to leave his destroyed home. The way he stumbled through the desert, following the caravan tracks, being thwarted by a mirage one time too many only to be chased away from the settlements he finally stumbled upon with rocks, canes, and everything else the inhabitants there could spare to throw at a small, white-haired boy.

It takes all of her willpower to move slowly across the small distance before she picks up the water skin, opens it with shaking hands, and drinks. It's the first water she's had in days and she thinks she's never tasted anything sweeter. It's a good thing there aren't more than a few gulps in the skin or else she would have drained it all in one take. Once it's empty, she sets it down, now all too aware that there are eyes on her, and tries to not look the part of a starved animal, though she very much is, as she snatches up the piece of bread from the platter in front of her and lifts it to her lips. It's dry and hard and she struggles with it for quite a while, all the time feeling somebody's gaze on her even though at some point her host seems to have fallen asleep. Only after every last crumb from her lap, the folds of her robe, and even the ground has been hunted down and eaten, does she reach for the handful of dried dates she'd left for last. They're sweet and chewy, and she feels fuller than she's had in years.

For a while, she just sits there, watching as the fire slowly dies out. The darkness fills up the corners of the room and the sounds of the night press closer, making her shiver. There are two things she has deciphered from Bakura's words: she's not a prisoner, but she's not a guest either. She could run, but the desert at night is full of perils and she wouldn't get very far before a scorpion stung her. That is, of course, if he would let her leave this building first. She studies the blade and the way the fading firelight dances across it. Then, as quietly as she can, she moves back to the tattered old rug she woke up on, choosing to stay, and a weight falls from her shoulders – the weight of uncertainty. It seems that chains, though restricting, can give a sense of security – however twisted – to someone who has spent most of their life running. She doesn't have the strength or the willpower to study that notion just then. She only wants to sleep without fear for just one night.

In an instant, Bakura's eyes snap open, his hand gripping the handle of the sword. The jarring sound of metal scraping against stone makes her freeze up and for a moment they stare at each other over the glowing embers. Bakura is the first one to settle back, shifting the sword to place it beside him, and then she moves as well, laying down on the rug and closing her eyes.

When Kisara wakes up in the morning, Bakura is already gone. There's food left for her – the exact same as her last night's meal – and she takes to it after a moment of hesitation. Once done with it, she sets the tray aside and walks to the door, taking the first look outside. A desolate landscape of a ruined village in an elbow-like crook of mountains opens up before her. It spans across the slopes and at the foot of the cliffs, a wide road down the middle of the settlement leading out into the desert. It's hard to tell how long ago this place has been abandoned. Most of the buildings still have their roofs intact, forming terraces to walk on, and she wanders tentatively out onto one of them. It stirs a distant memory of the way she used to jump from roof to roof, playing with other children, and it makes her smile.

Glancing around, but not seeing Bakura anywhere nearby, she continues walking forward, crossing over from one roof to another, wondering silently about the fate of this place and its inhabitants. She keeps on walking, and then she breaks into a run, suddenly elated as she chases a childhood memory. The chieftain's house, she thinks, dropping low onto the surface of what used to be the second floor of three, wondering where that thought came from even as she moves forward to walk out of the door onto a staircase. And over there is a well. She turns a sharp right to leap up on the roof of a nearby building, runs to the other side of it and, instead of leaping onto the next roof, she stops short. Because there is a well in the courtyard to her left. The rope and the bucket are gone from the flat stone beside it, but the water trough still remains. She can almost see and hear the clamour of the people lined up beside it, carrying all sorts of vessels to be filled with water while the trough caught every drop that spilled over to guide it along the ridges carved into it to the lower end where it would drip into somebody's bucket or water skin to ensure that not a single drop would be wasted. She takes another step forward, swaying on her feet suddenly, as she tears her gaze away from the empty courtyard below and raises it up at the wall of the cliff looming in front of her.

Mute terror creeps up on her. She can feel the presence of something – someone behind her back. She can hear it breathing, low and hissing. She can feel its breath on the back of her neck, making the hair stand up on end. She can smell its breath in the air around her: the reek of death and decay. Blood roars in her ears, deafeningly loud, and every breath she draws burns into her lungs as if she has stepped into a furnace. She shouldn't turn around; she knows this with certainty, but she still does and, in an instant, she knows exactly where she is. The face of the mountain is achingly familiar – it is the sight that greeted her every morning when she left her home three rows up and off to the far left, almost next to the mountain pass. Dazed, she crosses over to next terrace, breaking into a sprint along one of the narrow, twisting pathways between the buildings hewn into the face of the rock. She knows every curve, every turn, and every niche down here just as she knows the roofs.

She runs and runs, and runs, and the monster chases after her. Her heart is hammering in her chest, ready to jump out of her mouth any minute; her eyes – watering and blurring out the world in front of her, but fear drives her onwards and out onto the main path. With a clear road ahead of her, she dashes towards the desert where she'll be safe, where she'll be free, but the monster is faster. It grabs her and throws her down. If hitting the ground hurts, she doesn't feel it. She's screaming, but she doesn't hear it.

Her world colours red and once again she's hiding in a wicker basket beneath the plank her family uses as a table so that they wouldn't have to place their food on the ground, when a soldier armed with a spear comes in and orders them all out. But, having seen what's going on in the lower levels of the village, her father is prepared. He pretends to be frightened and follows the man's orders until he's close enough for the soldier to be unable to use his spear. He stabs him, but the soldier keeps struggling and they grip each other in a desperate fight. Her mother comes to her father's aid, but their victory is short-lived. Two more soldiers appear at the doorway and the one with a spear drives it into her father's chest, forcing him back against the wall. Her mother screams, turning towards them, but the other soldier runs her through with his sword before she can do anything. She stumbles backwards, clutching at her wound with one hand and turns around for one last look at her husband while her other hand seeks support on the wall. She knocks over the plank in her daze and it clatters to the floor. She takes one more step forward before falling to her knees and collapsing over the wicker basket where Kisara sits, curled in on herself, and toppling it over. Her father is still struggling, but the sword silences him soon enough.

"Are these the last ones?" a rough voice from the doorway asks and light fills the room.

"Two more houses, then we're done," responds one of the soldiers.

"Good. Kill everyone you find. They've rounded up everyone they need down below."

The voices fall away along with footsteps, but people are still screaming and shouting at a distance. The light from the fire pit continues to burn, and there's something dripping along the side of the basket. She crawls out of her hiding place, and crouches down beside her mother, pulling on her robes and calling her name. Her eyes open for a moment and she manages to whisper one word that has haunted Kisara ever since.

Run.

Bakura has followed her path with his gaze from the moment she stepped out of the house. He is well concealed up in one of the old guard posts where the mountains part towards the desert and has a clear view of both the fields of sand ahead and the village behind him. His brows furrow when she disappears from view and he sends Diabound out to find her. Once he's certain that they're moving towards the main road, he makes his way down to intercept her before she can cross over into the desert.

He stands in the middle of the path where the mountains form a natural gateway and waits, watching Diabound glide above the houses. He knows every passageway here, every corner, every cellar, and he trains his gaze on where she is going to emerge. His lips twist up in a smirk when she does so only moments later. She doesn't falter in her steps, doesn't stop upon sighting him. Instead, she races straight for him and it soon becomes apparent that she doesn't even see him. He frowns and, as the distance between them shrinks rapidly, he makes a split-second decision to stop her by force. He moves aside and tackles her in the moment she passes him. They land hard onto the stone path, breath knocked out of their lungs and, even though the desert winds have blown in a layer of sand across it, it does nothing to soften the blow. They roll until they hit a partially collapsed wall and, after a brief struggle, he has her pinned down, but she doesn't stop thrashing and screaming. Her eyes are wild and unseeing and he does the only thing he can think of: he strikes her. He realises his mistake instantly when she stills, tensing like a string beneath him, and her eyes grow even wider. He sees white.

"Diabound!"

But even as the name leaves his lips, he realises that it's already too late. His Ka monster isn't yet strong enough and if it tries to take on the white dragon, it will be ripped apart. The white glare grows stronger, flashing before him like a living thing, and he feels himself being lifted up and tossed aside. His back hits something hard and then he falls.

Damn, he thinks as the light fades and the darkness closes in on him. It's wrong – a stray, dazed thought flickers to the forefront as consciousness flees – there shouldn't be this much darkness when the dragon is so blindingly bright.

When Bakura regains his senses, the sun is already setting and the sky is turning an intense dark blue, the first stars already alight. He's lying flat on the ground inside one of the ruined houses, with a few bricks placed beneath his head, positioned in the only corner that still retains a part of the roof to block out the scorching sun, though it has already slipped beyond the mountains and cannot reach him. Diabound stirs, announcing his presence within him, but he is weakened and hurt, having somehow escaped the dragon's rampage – just, it seems, as this building and the other ones around it, as he discovers upon taking a look at his surroundings without moving his head. No matter the circumstances, stealth always comes first.

As surprised as he is at having survived the dragon's fire with almost no injury, he is more surprised at finding Kisara kneeling beside him. Her gaze is distant again, trained at something outside the door, but when he turns his head to follow it, he can't see anything there. The movement catches her attention and she focuses back on him. He has left a bruise on her cheek; he can see it even through the thickening shadows.

"Why did you bring me here?" she asks in that same soft voice she used before. There is no accusation in her tone, no complaint, and no other discernible emotion. Her gaze drills into him, but at the same time she's looking through him, seeing something only she can see.

It takes him a moment to find his voice. "It is my home."

"It used to be my home," she says after a moment of silence, her voice fading out by the end of the sentence. Then, even quieter, whispering, she adds: "I can hear them." Her hands twist in her lap and she hunches her shoulders as if to protect herself from the invisible danger, and her gaze drops down and away from his.

He reaches out for a reason he cannot name and doesn't even want to attempt to understand and covers her hands with one of his. It hurts to move and he is quite certain that bones have been broken, but it doesn't matter. Very little matters right now.

"I can hear them too," he says with burning intensity. "All the time. Inside of me. Howling for justice. I'll avenge them. I'll make them pay."

She stares at him wide-eyed for a moment that feels as long as eternity. And then she nods, her features hardening in resolve. Her hands twist beneath his grip, breaking free from it to hold onto his hand tightly as she lifts it to press it against her heart. It beats steadily beneath his palm and he's not alone anymore. He's no longer alone. He laughs even though it hurts to do so.

Finally, when he feels like he is going to pass out from the pain, he stops and takes a wheezing breath. For a moment he just watches the stray clouds drift above them, colouring a myriad shades of red, blue, and golden as Ra steps into his evening boat to descend back into Duat. The desert is waking up. The monsters are coming out to prey. He smiles deviously and glances back at Kisara who has hunched over slightly, leaning closer to him so as to get a better look. The fire has taken from him innumerable things. The fire has given him something back.

"Sister," he says, turning his hand to catch one of hers in his and squeeze tightly.

"No." She shakes her head, leaning even closer to him, her grip on his hand tightening even more, and her gaze is clear and sharp again. She looks at him and she sees him, and knows that she doesn't need to run anymore. That she hasn't been running from - she has been running towards. And she has found something she has been looking for, for a long, long time now. She has found him in the ruins.

"No," she repeats more intently upon seeing his brows furrow in a light frown. "Wife."

FIN

A/N:

Duat - the underworld. According to Ancient Egyptian worldview/mythology, each day Ra took the morning boat out of the underworld to travel across the sky, and then the evening boat to return to the underworld for the night.