Title: My Kingdom for a Horse!

Rating: PG-13 for violence and character death.

Summary: The pharaoh must stay in power until the Millennium Items can be created; it is the only way to stop the Shadow Games from destroying the world. But meanwhile there are the more mundane battles, between man and man, and what you lose in these is not your soul; it is your life. These are the battles where courage and strength are not enough, where people don't wait their turn, where sacrificing one soldier will not bring in another, and screaming "Mirror Force!" will not protect you from the onslaught. These are the battles in which a friend today could well be an enemy tomorrow, so you might as well kill him now. When the pharaoh learns that within a month one of his own family members will destroy him, what choice does he have? He must destroy them first.

Day 15 (at most 15 days remaining)

It was very dark.

Mokuba suspected that this was to make the experience as unpleasant for him as possible. It was amazing how his senses had heightened with vision taken away; every distant footfall was an earthquake, every low murmur thunder. Even his own breathing sounded harsh and deafening in his ears… but at least it meant he was still alive.

It could've been worse, he supposed. The temperature was decent. Dungeons were usually freezing cold, weren't they? Even if the ground was a bit cold, at least it felt smooth and clean, not gritty like he'd expected it to be. The wall didn't bite into his shoulder blades when he leaned gingerly back against it. (He ran a hand along its surface. It wasn't rough at all.) And most importantly of all, there weren't, well, rats and things, skittering around, or spider webs lying in wait, ready to ambush an unsuspecting hand, cautiously probing in order to get some sort of bearing on the surroundings. Mokuba seemed to be alone in the room, for better or for worse.

Oh, another important thing: Mokuba wasn't chained up, although this might have been more of an insult than a benefaction.

As Mokuba waited, he wondered what he would do when the waiting was over. He would have to be strong, he decided. For Seto, he would be brave, he would not show fear…

click

Mokuba paled, straining his eyes in an attempt to see through the darkness. That hadn't been the lock, had it? No, it was too soon, he didn't want to die yet…

The door opened slowly, momentarily blinding Mokuba with the light. By the time he could take his arm from his face, the door had already closed, the light gone. In that brief moment, though, Mokuba had seen a figure in the doorway—no face, but it had been enough. Mokuba knew who it was immediately.

A pharaoh was distinctive in every way, even his silhouette.

Now Mokuba was blind again but he could still listen. Where he had strained his eyes before, now he strained his ears, listening, listening… But he couldn't hear a thing. Was his sense of hearing malfunctioning?

An eternity passed before he heard the first footstep, shortly followed by another. They were sedate, unhurried: a pharaoh never rushed.

"Mokuba," said the pharaoh, and Mokuba nearly choked. "How are you doing?"

The voice was exactly the way Mokuba expected a pharaoh's voice to sound, when he really thought about it. The words were spoken with a lazy sort of grace, like a cat stretching or perhaps a cobra raising its head, but there was a hint of cruelty, of steel. Although the way he spoke there was no question of disobedience, the voice was soft, almost a whisper; the pharaoh knew how to command submission without so much as raising his voice.

Mokuba did not know what to say. Before, he had pleaded, he had threatened what his brother would do when he found out, but it was hopeless now. The pharaoh himself was visiting Mokuba, and that could only mean one thing…

"Hm," said the pharaoh. "Not in a talkative mood? I wonder if there's anything I might do that would change your mind?"

And suddenly Mokuba knew that he would talk, eventually. The pharaoh wouldn't even have to force him in any way. Mokuba knew he would talk until he was blue in the face if it meant he would stay alive for another hour, another minute, another second. Mokuba knew he would say anything to delay the inevitable, to greedily soak up what little life he could scrounge. The knowledge shamed Mokuba, but all the same, he found his lips moving.

"Why should I talk?"

"Why, Mokuba…" The pharaoh's presence neared. Mokuba tried to recoil but he couldn't very well lean backwards through the wall. "…because there's so much you could tell me, of course."

"What do…" Mokuba tried to snap but found a quaver in his voice. No, he had to be brave, brave for Seto. He couldn't show his fear. "What do you want to know?" he tried again.

"Mm," said the pharaoh slowly. "Quite a lot, actually. For example, your brother, he has a, ah, Gift, does he not?"

Mokuba gasped. You did not talk about ah-Gifts. Even the almighty pharaoh had hesitated in posing the question, and for good reason. Mentioning Gifts was grave solecism, and actually asking about them was unthinkable. Then again, thought Mokuba, this was the pharaoh. What couldn't a pharaoh do?

Even worse than this breach in etiquette, however, was the realization that was currently striking Mokuba like a half-brick. The pharaoh was using him to find out more about Seto. And worse still was the fact that Mokuba was going to comply without protest. He had always thought that he would resist if the time came, would rather suffer terrible agonies and death than betray his brother, but now that he was being put to the test, he was failing ingloriously before it had even really begun, simply because he was afraid to die. It was with a deep sense of self-loathing that Mokuba considered the pharaoh's question, mentally begging his brother to forgive him.

There was no denying that Seto did have a Gift. They tried to hide it, because such a thing was rare and quite frankly people looked at you funny if they knew, but Mokuba had watched water turn to ice in Seto's hands and there was no contesting evidence like that.

"Yes," said Mokuba, in a small voice.

"Mm," said the pharaoh in a noncommittal manner, suggesting that he had already known anyway. Mokuba felt marginally better. "And, although I realize that the Gift rarely strikes twice, so to speak, I do feel I must ask: do you also possess one?"

Mokuba's mouth moved silently a few times before anything would come out. Hoarsely: "No."

"No, Mokuba?" Mokuba could imagine the exquisite eyebrows working. "Not at all?"

"No."

"Hm," said the pharaoh. No other words followed, and silence descended to fill in the empty space.

Mokuba waited uneasily. The pharaoh was uncomfortably close, close enough that Mokuba could feel his presence, stoic and still and very, very patient.

"Well, maybe I do," said Mokuba finally, driven by nervousness. "Seto says I can make things, I don't know, glow. I can… bring the light into things. Sometimes he'll pass me a bit of ice and I'll put my hands over it and it'll start… shining. I don't know why, I don't think it's even a gift at all, I haven't been able to do it with anything else…"

"Here, Mokuba." Something cool and hard was pressed into his hands. "I am not Seto Kaiba, and cannot make nor maintain ice at room temperature. We're just going to have to make do with the next best thing. This is crystal, carefully cut, with no impurities. Can you make it glow?"

He knew, thought Mokuba, sucking in air. The pharaoh had known all the answers before he'd even asked the questions. Although Mokuba was happy that he hadn't betrayed his brother after all, he also felt slightly put out. He tried to focus on the crystal in his hands. Anything to live a little longer, right? He tried to pretend it was one of Seto's beautiful ice sculptures (once Seto had made one to look like the two of them and even though one of the spikes of Mokuba's hair had broken when he had tried to put the light in it had still been the most amazing thing he'd ever seen), but it wasn't the same, it didn't call to him the way Seto's ice did… And that was another thing; Mokuba could tell the difference between normal ice and ice that Seto had made because the ice Seto made was friendlier and readily accepted the light where normal ice just ignored him the way this crystal was…

"Ah!" cried Mokuba, because suddenly there was light. It hurt slightly because the crystal didn't want his light inside it but Mokuba had to keep it in…

"Mm," said the pharaoh, and Mokuba saw suddenly that the pharaoh's eyes were shining but weary, that his face was cold but very, very young… "It seems such a shame," he said, voice dropping in volume with every syllable. "It seems such a shame to have to put this talent to waste…"

What are you talking about? Mokuba wanted to ask, I'm not wasting this talent.

It took only a second more before it sunk in, and Mokuba felt his heart race, his breathing hitch, his muscles all tighten.

"Tell me, Mokuba," said the pharaoh, "can you take this light back out of the crystal?"

Mokuba could only nod dumbly. It was a relief to be able to stop holding the light in but he was afraid of what would happen next and in the dark he wouldn't be able to see it coming.

"Good boy," said the pharaoh. "Now, I have one last thing to ask of you—"

"Wait!" said Mokuba, all but bursting into tears. "Wait, can you… can you tell Seto I said… I said… I love him… and, and I'm sorry… and I'll miss him… and…"

Mokuba expected the pharaoh to laugh coldly, to refuse, to ignore the outburst. Instead, the pharaoh repeated, "You love him, you're sorry, and you'll miss him? Is there anything else?"

"I… I… I wanted to thank him. For everything he's done for me."

"You love him, you're sorry, you'll miss him, and you wanted to thank him for everything he's done for you. I understand." The pharaoh gently patted Mokuba's shoulder. "I'll deliver the message personally. Now, can you look at me?"

"What?"

"You saw me when we had the light. You remember where my eyes are. Look at me." Swallowing heavily, Mokuba did. At first all he saw was darkness, but as he searched, his gaze locked with something unseen. Eyes seemed to solidify before him, red and impassive. "Don't look away, Mokuba," said the voice. Mokuba knew he couldn't even if he'd wanted to. The eyes moved, and Mokuba's gaze was inexorably drawn to follow them as they rose. Something wet landed on Mokuba's cheek—sweat? blood?—but he couldn't focus enough to figure out what it might be. Something cold touched his throat, but it was surprisingly painless. He thought he heard someone scream, but he hardly spared it a second thought. All he could focus on were the red eyes, the red eyes, slowly fading to black.

Outside the room, the guards listened to the scream, and winced.

"Does that sound kind of… low to you?" said one.

"What do you mean?" said another.

"Well, it sounds kind of… adult. And it's just a kid in there."

"What, are you saying the kid's killed our pharaoh (may he reign a thousand years)?"

"No, no. But you have to admit it sounds like of like our pharaoh (wise and beautiful beyond all peers)."

"Don't be stupid. It can't happen."

"Yeah, but what if?"

"Well, what if? Do you want to go in there and check?"

"No way."

"Me neither. The pharaoh (blessed and sacred be his name) is on his own."

In only two weeks, Pharaoh Atemu the Yuugiou had earned a reputation as the bloodiest pharaoh the kingdom had ever seen. To eliminate contenders for the throne, the pharaoh had methodically gone and killed all his male blood relatives.

The strange thing was that, before the two weeks, Yuugiou had been widely regarded as a capable and just ruler, and there was even talk of Egypt entering its "Golden Age" under his rule. It certainly was more peaceful.

Ah well, people said. It was all the power. It went to your head. Someone hurry up and kill him so we can get on with the next ruler already. And pass the ale, would you?

Atemu held on through the intense pain until he was sure Mokuba was dead. With as much care as possible under the circumstances, he set the boy on the floor. Immediately heslammed his hand into his mouth, biting down hard somewhere between wrist and thumb to muffle his scream. When he felt he could, Atemu struggled up, using his free hand and the wall for support. Only after he had leaned against the wall for a while did he dare extricate his hand from his mouth. This was done with some difficulty as his teeth seemed to have locked in place, but he finally managed it, taking deep, ragged breaths. He rubbed his hand on the royal robes and leaned his head back against the wall, hearing the crown clink, feeling the coolness spread across his scalp.

When his breathing returned to normal, he straightened up, adjusted his clothing, lightly touched his face and hair to make sure he was presentable, and left the room.

"Guards," he told them, voice clipped. "Take care of Mokuba's body. Clean him up but don't embalm him yet. Seto will come asking for him when he finds out what happened. Let him have the body, pay for a burial, and not just a decent burial either, I want a good one as befits a member of my bloodline. If Seto asks for anything else, give it to him, within reason of course, but whatever you do, don't promise him a word with me. Understood?"

"Understood," intoned his guards.

Nodding imperatively, Atemu walked away, trying to keep up a semblance of calm.

"Hail Yuugiou our pharaoh, the Morning and Evening Star, son of—"

"Quit it," snapped Atemu, brushing past his retainers and into the house, calling over his shoulder, "and there's no need to follow me either, but since I know you're not going to leave me alone anyway, you might as well wait in the hallway while I talk with Mahaado, rather than hiding in the fountains like last time." Atemu sighed as his guards contrived to look innocent. "Yes, I saw you, and I'm not going to believe it was just a duck, either."

He turned away, trying again to muster composure. A pharaoh did not lose his temper, he acted with dignity and—

"My pharaoh!" cried Mahaado as the door opened. Atemu hurried inside to escape his guards' prying eyes and closed the door behind him. Mahaado, meanwhile, kneeled and bowed.

"Mahaado," said Atemu reprovingly, shaking his head and taking Mahaado firmly by the shoulders. "You know there's no need for that."

"As you know that, should you ever demand obeisance, I would be on my knees immediately."

"Right, I'll remember that," said Atemu, sitting down. Instantly, the chair was his. Only the pharaoh could make possession of a chair look so regal.

"How's the war going?" asked Mahaado, as he seated himself back behind his desk.

"I feel so foolish running around from one end of the battle to the other. I feel like someone's tipping the world like a see-saw and I'm just tumbling back and forth… but at least it means I can pass through the capital on my way to the next skirmish and check in with you. How are the genealogies coming?"

"They're coming," said Mahaado. "I've managed to trace your line back another 2 generations since your last visit, but most of them seem to be dead."

"Thank the gods," said Atemu. "Or thank me. Whatever. I don't think I can take much more of this, Mahaado."

"Why must you insist on killing them all yourself?" asked Mahaado, looking concerned. "You know you could get countless other people to do it for you. Look how much it's draining you. You're so pale… Here, let me get you some tea…"

"It's… something I must do," said Atemu. "Thank you," he added, accepting the tea. Taking a long drink, he felt himself relax, slightly. "Who else is left?"

Mahaado nodded, all business now, scrutinizing the papyrus that stretched from one end of his desk to the other, covered with names and lines and "married to"s. "Did you… take care of the Kaiba brothers?"

"Only Mokuba," said Atemu. "That was hard enough. I kept trying to convince myself he was only a boy, what harm could he do… But remember Pharaoh Ratek the Fourth (praise be his, forever and ever), how he was usurped by a nomadic tribe using his eight-year-old cousin as a figurehead. And the first Ratek, too (full of grace and clemency); one of his daughters used her— their— son to take the throne when the child was only five… I could go on with these all day, Mahaado, but the point is, well, I had to kill him."

Mahaado nodded grimly, and withdrew a jar of red paint from his desk. With his brush he carefully made a thick, red slash on the papyrus, over the name Mokuba Kaiba. There was a depressing abundance of red on the paper, fanning out from the central name, written in black, which was Atemu's own.

"As far as we know at the moment, that leaves Seto Kaiba… Katsuya Jounouchi… Oh yes, remember Ryou? Ryou Bakura? He was another one with a… well, you know. He could just disappear from sight? Yeah, I've been searching, and I finally found his brother. At least, I found the village he lives in. I couldn't find whether or not he's alive, though." Mahaado continued looking over the paper. "And… Yes, there seem to be just those three left. And, of course, myself."

"Mahaado…"

"You know I would never betray you, my pharaoh, but I also know that you must do what you must do. I only ask that you wait until I've finished the genealogies, so that I can die knowing I've served my purpose."

"Mahaado, no…" Atemu felt like burying his face in his hands and only the strictest of pharaonic training prevented him from doing so. He struggled to calm himself yet again. "You're not helping, you know," Atemu said finally, with as much nonchalance as he could summon, and took a sip of tea.

"I'm sorry. Say, are we winning the war?"

"I don't think so. It seems endless."

"Well, if the prophecy was right…"

"Yes, if the prophecy was right. I don't even know if I should hope the prophecy is right or not anymore."

"I understand."

Atemu set the cup down. "Anyway, I should go. I'll be back in a day or so. Have you sent someone to fetch Katsuya?"

"No, I haven't," said Mahaado.

"Send your friend. The Celt."

"What? But he's not very good at fighting…"

"I don't want any more people to get hurt than necessary, and I know your friend doesn't either. A perfect fit."

"Right," said Mahaado. "If all succeeds you will find Katsuya waiting for you in the palace when you get back."

"Goodbye," said Atemu, walking to the door. "Good luck."

"You too," said Mahaado, but Atemu was already gone.

You come seeking my advice, Yuugiou?

I do. This war is destroying my kingdom. I must know what I can do to end it.

I foresee that the end is near. Within thirty days, the final battle will be fought, and your side will emerge victorious. However, your win will not come without a price, for in these last days, a rival claimant for the throne, of and after your own blood, will come to power among your opposition. Although he will lose the final battle, he will win as well; when the tally of the dead is taken, the pharaoh of Egypt will be found among them, the rival's dagger in his back, the crown fallen from his head forever. Hear these things and weep, pharaoh, for I have foreseen the end, and it is near. Do you understand?

How can you—?

Do you understand?

I do. Thank you, Isis.

In thirty days or less, then, my pharaoh.