"Hello? A-Anyone there?"
A middle-aged man cried out hoarsely, voice cracking from both exhaustion and relief as the foreign village seemed to teeter dizzily before him. They were alive. They were alive!
Too dried-out for tears, he settled for burying his face in the precious bundle he clutched desperately to his chest. His infant son, sand-clogged eyes clumped shut, was too far gone to bawl in complaint of his cracked lips and shriveled belly. "I'm sorry," the man whispered, hoping that his son would be able to hang on for just a little longer.
He jerked up as a hand suddenly clamped him roughly on the shoulder, and he came face-to-face with a younger man.
"Hey, whatcha got there?" he piped up excitedly, "Stolen goods? Weapons? Beer?"
"A child," the older man rasped, carefully keeping the top of his son's head hidden beneath swaths of cloth. "Please, we need food and drink, if you would be so ki—"
"Well why didn'cha say so?" the sanguine youth interrupted, slinging an arm around the other's back and steering him into the village. He cupped a hand around his mouth and shouted, "Hey everyone! It's another newcomer! …Er..."
The young man turned to his weary guest with a quirked eyebrow. "Uh, what's your name?"
Practically trembling at this incredible show of hospitality, the stranger answered, "It no longer matters—I have cut almost all ties with my former life. But you can call me Mshai."
Nodding unquestioningly, the young man resumed calling out, "Oi! Get off your asses and get some grub for Mshai and his child, here! …And maybe some for me, too!"
The traveler Mshai stared in amazement as hordes of villagers poured out of their modest, lopsided mud-brick houses. His first instinct was to flee when he saw several monstrous, tattooed men lurch forward meanly, but he just ended up gawking at the bright-eyed children that poked grubby heads from behind their sinewy legs.
Blinking to clear his own mind, Mshai looked at the villagers again. They were hulking, dirty, disfigured even—and most of them were families. He observed with interest as the young man who had guided him now strode into the crowd to embrace his sweetheart, guffawing and spinning her around on a whim.
As he took all this in, he became aware that every single pair of eyes were focused intently on him and his son, and he looked down self-consciously. A scruffy boy detached from the chattering crowd to approach him, neck craning upwards inquisitively.
"What's his name?" he questioned, tugging on Mshai's arm and hopping incessantly in an attempt to get a view of his son.
His hand groping blindly, the swaths on the child's brow were swept aside, revealing unnatural silver locks.
Mshai froze.
The twittering villagers fell silent, staring at the child's impossible hair in astonishment. Backing away tersely, Mshai forced out, "Sorry for bothering you all—thank you for your time—w-we'll just be leaving now." He spun around and bolted, not waiting to see if they pursued.
When strong-armed hands began closing around his shoulders, he blindly wrenched himself every which way as he desperately tried to escape. "Don't hurt him! Let us go!" he burst out when the hands didn't loosen.
"Easy, easy! It's okay!" cried a gravelly voice. Peering down at him with raised eyebrows, a grizzled man held him steadily until he calmed down. "We're not going to hurt anybody. Okay?"
Gasping at the adrenaline that shook his body, Mshai's eyes darted over the villagers that just continued to regard him with unthreatening interest. "B-But he's… don't you all know, he's—"
Amongst them, a bald woman merely smiled. "He's perfectly lovely, dear."
At that, all Mshai could do was gape as other men and women nodded their heads in agreement, and the bald woman proceeded forward and stroked his son's hair without a sign of repulsion.
"Oh, he's so cute!" she cooed, "And such a pretty shade of silver, too!"
It was around then that Mshai pitched forward, suddenly feeling like his legs were too weak to support his weight.
"Whoa, there!" exclaimed the enormous grizzled man as he caught the dumbfounded traveler, practically lifting him off the ground. He raised his head to bark at the others, "Hey! Didn't anyone feed this guy?" Almost at once, several villagers hastily pivoted on their heels and rushed to their homes to offer their meals.
Mshai shook his head for a moment, before saying breathlessly, "You don't understand—he's supernatural, he's different!"
Helping the flustered traveler stand upright, the large man asked shrewdly, "And does that matter?"
It was only after a few steadying inhalations that Mshai could answer, "Everyone else seems to think it does." His exhausted voice betrayed the remnants of a long, bitter journey as a haunted glow took hold of his eyes.
Bowing his head and tracing his son's gleaming bangs with his thumb, the traveler quietly said, "When he was born, his mother tried to drown him. So I took him and left, but… well. We were chased out of every village we went to, hardly given any rest or shelter; everyone took one look at him and said he was cursed. They treated us as if he were a disease that could be caught."
The villagers left to listen to the newcomer's tale nodded in understanding. The grizzled man made a noise of disgust. "It wouldn't be the first time. Lately there's been a lot of talk of children with strange appearances and strange powers—and of the terrible things that have been done to them." With that, he spat onto the ground with clear repugnance, as if that was all that needed to be said.
Mshai shuddered and drew his child closer. "Fear makes people blind. Nowadays, hospitality is rarely afforded to those who are different."
It was then that the muscle-bound man offered a warm, crinkling smile beneath his wild beard. "Then welcome to Kul-Elna, my friend. Here, everyone is different."
"Welcome" – such an unbelievably sweet-sounding word. For the first time in a long, long while, Mshai smiled. "I… I think I noticed," he joked with a weak laugh, beginning to appreciate fully how wonderfully abnormal the village was.
His grey eyes landed with new comprehension on the swords that rested at the villagers' sides, on their unkempt appearances, on how there appeared to be people of seemingly varying races and backgrounds standing so comfortably together; these people were outcasts. Perhaps they had ended up here the same as him—lost with nowhere else to go, yet strangely finding their way with people as lost as themselves. Perhaps…
"…Would you be so kind as to let us stay here? Just until we're back on our feet, at least," he asked, an unbearable surge of hope beating in his chest.
The townspeople buzzed in unanimous approval.
"What, you don't want to live here? Do we really smell that bad?" the grizzled man boomed jocularly.
"L-live…," Mshai stammered, "I mean of course, that would be incredible—"
"You can live with me!" a one-eyed woman volunteered, winking at him with her remaining eye. "I could always use the extra company."
"I have a spare room," offered another.
One of the hulking tattooed men announced, "My daughter would love a new play-mate!"
Astounded, Mshai could barely contain his gratitude as he was directed deeper into the village, where warm houses and warm arms were open to welcome them.
In the midst of the lively chatter, he ducked his head down to offer a joyous expression to his child. "Bakura," he whispered to his son, "We're home."
Prince Atem crept through the palace halls, the orange torchlight casting fragmented shadows across every wall. Going at a painfully slow pace so that his clinking jewelry wouldn't be heard, he reached the courtyard and hid behind a pillar with bated breath.
Unawares that they were being heard, Priest Akhenaden and Priest Shadhi paced through the dry night air as they exchanged sober words.
"Violence and crime within the capital city are still on the rise," reported Shadhi, the Millennium Key glinting as it hung from a length of twine around his neck. "With the pharaoh so ill and unable to rule, there has been a severe breakdown of authority. I am beginning to fear the worst…"
Nodding stiffly, Priest Akhenaden asked hoarsely, "Do you think the pharaoh is going to…?"
Upon hearing the priests talk about his father, Atem grew rigid and tense against the stone pillar, awaiting that dreaded word.
"…Die?" Shadhi finished for the older priest in a reluctant whisper. "I do not wish to think it, but it is possible; the doctors and shamans have done their best, with no promising results…" He paused to glance at Akhenaden.
The man's long pepper-colored hair was streaked with bone white, and dark creases cut across his strong features. Atem had noted this before with curiosity—Priest Akhenaden always seemed to look so much older and tireder than Father for some reason, even though their ages couldn't have been much different.
With a sigh, Shadhi said, "I apologize. I should not talk of such stressful topics with you; I just keep forgetting that the pharaoh is your brother, considering all of the formalities you are still made to keep as his servant."
Something about that statement made the older man stir imperceptibly, as if something uncomfortable had been awakened. "No, no… it is quite alright. You were just recently appointed, after all, and I'm sure you've had more than enough to keep your mind busy." Expression unreadable, Akhenaden stopped walking to stare at the blackened sky. Whispy strands of hair fell from his face to expose the hard, chilled gold of the Millennium Eye in his eye socket.
He mused, "If he does die, then I suppose that means that his son Atem will be the one to take the throne…" It sounded a bit strange to the prince, the way Akhenaden said it—the same kind of strangeness one feels when someone unpleasantly breathes into your ear so that your very spine seems to crawl—or perhaps he was just imagining things.
Either way, he didn't stick around any longer—he had heard more than enough. Struggling to sneak away as silently as he had arrived, Atem tip-toed away until he was out of earshot, then straightened and began sprinting through the echoing halls, face screwing as he attempted to push down feelings of grief.
Maybe the priests were wrong. Maybe the doctors were wrong. He would—he had to get better.
Now out of breath, he stopped dead in front of a doorway, staring into a cavernous, unlit room.
A supine silhouette of a bed-ridden man shifted as if awakening. "Son," he exhaled weakly, "Where did you go?"
"…Nowhere, Father," Atem softly answered, stepping forward and returning to his vigil by the sickly Pharaoh's bedside. Clasping a hand around his father's cold weathered one, he blinked back tears in the terribly quiet darkness.
"All things golden belong to me"—that was the belief that the Thief King lived by.
And right now, laid in front of him was indeed a lot of gold.
A slick smile widened on the teen's angular features, which coupled with his pinprick, predatory pupils and the scar that tapered from the bottom of his eye, gave him a truly wicked appearance.
"Excellent work, men," he absently commended, striding past three of his companions who were slumped panting against the limestone walls. They had taken shelter for the night in the entrance to yet another tomb—whose tomb, he couldn't care less. There were dozens of pharaohs, queens, and nobles buried within the Valley of the Kings, and the Thief King raided them indiscriminately. He was a fair man, after all.
"K-King," a young man croaked, the scanty moonlight highlighting the streaks of sweat down his face, "We should probably… call it… a night."
With groans of fatigue, the other men nodded their identically black-haired heads in agreement. Bakura ran a hand through his silver bangs with exaggerated exasperation.
"You're already complaining, Wati? After just a little heavy lifting?" he asked with an amused gleam in his eyes. "It's not like you've never carried a sarcophagus before." He motioned to the golden casket that had been unceremoniously thrown face-down on the floor.
Still short on breath, Wati protested incredulously, "Easy… for you to say! Do you even know… how heavy sarcophagi are?"
"If you spent less time complaining and more time working, you'd be in better shape," chuckled a leathery-skinned man beside him. With a grunt, he stood laboriously, towering over the rest of the group. "But in all honesty, King, I think you've already proven yourself by now. You don't have to clear out every tomb in the Necropolis."
As of late, the King of Thieves had seemingly made it his objective to ransack whatever sacred burial chamber he could find, though not for the riches; as a master of his trade and the unofficial yet revered leader of bandits big and small, he already had access to ill-gotten wealth that rivaled the pharaoh's in value.
Though his followers couldn't fathom why, what he was really after was the act of sacrilege itself, of the extraction of the gilded sarcophagi and the scattering their mummies across the land to gradually decay in the open, no doubt to the horror and outrage of the people of Egypt. But he still had yet to glean complete vindication from his bizarre mission, and as it were the men that accompanied him had been gone from their encampment for days; they relied on it as a place to restock, rest up, and pool resources with the rest of the thieves that had been taken under Bakura's wing, and they were presently worn thin from going so long without it.
Replying to his gruff, large-built associate, Bakura said, "Nebi, I'm not stopping until the pharaoh himself knows my name."
With a deliberate show of nonchalance, he stepped lightly towards the mouth of the tomb as if to enjoy the view. In the distance, the moon's bleached skeleton grin brought a ghostly light to the desert sands, though the beauty was quickly lost on him. He knew that, somewhere, an old dead village was rotting in a long-forgotten valley.
With some discomfort, the condensed band of thieves glanced at the oddly silent back of their leader.
"King…," Nebi started hesitantly, only to be cut off as the teen raised his hand, commanding silence.
"Hold it," Bakura muttered, ears pricking at the nearing clopping of hooves. "Men, it sounds like we have company."
Reflexively, everyone drew out their daggers and swords and scrambled to their feet. They crowded around the tomb's entrance to get a proper view of the intruders.
Down below on the path that wound through the Valley of the Kings, the group rounded the corner and were now in plain sight. They bore glaring torches that made set Bakura's skin on edge, and they were all on horseback.
One person rode commandingly ahead of everyone else on a striking white stallion, and like his peers was completely concealed beneath a dark hooded cloak.
Bakura snorted. "Would ya just look at how that guy carries himself? What a pompous ass." He crossed his arms with unconcealed disdain, clearly not liking the idea of someone encroaching on his territory.
Trembling with anticipation from behind him, one of his men licked his lips hungrily. "I say we jump 'em on the count o' three! One—"
"Hang on, Odji," Nebi scolded, placing a steady hand on the man's shoulder, "Wait until the King gives his orders."
The group of intruders were now standing still, horses fidgeting uneasily on the worn earth while the hooded men glanced about suspiciously. How very subtle. These people were probably tomb robbers as well, or perhaps they had caught wind of the Thief King's whereabouts and wished to end the infamous scourge of Egypt's imperial cities. Either way, they didn't look like they were up to any good.
Wati was in a crouch by Bakura's side, looking up at the teen with impatience. "Well? Are we gonna attack or not?"
"Shut up and follow my lead," the Thief King whispered, sporting an all-too-familiar devilish grin. "We may as well have some fun tonight." Not waiting for his men to react, he leapt lightly out of the tomb and began scaling down the cliff side, experienced footfalls barely displacing a pebble.
He suppressed a snicker as he heard the flustered breaths of his men as they attempted to catch up—stealth just wasn't their thing. But given the conspicuousness of the torch-bearing men before him, sneaking up on them for an ambush shouldn't have been a problem—
"I know you're there."
Huh.
Concealed head jerking in Bakura's general direction, the apparent leader of the group held his torch higher. "If you're the Thief King, then show yourself," he ordered, voice muffled by a cloth wrapped over his mouth and nose to protect against the sand.
Bakura just chuckled, lazily fingering his dagger while purposefully skirting just out of sight of the revealing torch light. The flames were really starting to bother him. "Impressive; most people never hear me until it's too late. How'd you figure out where I was so quickly?"
"Intuition." The stranger cocked his head to the side, and Bakura struggled to read his expression beneath all of that ridiculous clothing. He could just make out kohl-rimmed eyes and a teasing, confident voice that rubbed him the wrong way.
"You don't say." By now the Thief King's men had reached his side, tense and staring at the opposing group in unease. Bakura kicked at a rock, watching with amusement as the disruption made the stranger twitch edgily as he squinted blindly into the shadows; the advantage was still his.
"And what's a poor, defenseless little play-group like yours doing in the Valley of the Kings?" he mocked. "Haven't you heard? There's some bad, scary men that live here, and they really hate trespassers."
Against Bakura's expectations, the stranger burst out in shrill laughter. "You're calling us a play-group? I take this to mean you've never heard of the Ghouls, then?"
Bakura scoffed. "No. Why should I freaking care?"
The stranger drew himself up with obvious condescension. "The Ghouls are currently the most dreaded band of thieves to plague the city of Thebes. I had thought that everyone involved in crime would have known about their fearsome reputation by now."
Sensing the challenge posed in the leader's voice, Bakura remarked dryly, "Doesn't ring a bell. And as fearsome as I'm sure they are, they should be careful to stay on their own turf. The King of Thieves has already laid claim to Thebes."
"Funny—the capital city hasn't seen hide nor hair of the Thief King as of late. As far as I've heard, he's just been biding his time ransacking smelly old tombs, while new and much more competent crime lords are taking over," the stranger sneered.
Bakura bristled at the man's blatant disrespect; he had thought it would have been fun to toy with the stranger, but the guy's arrogance was getting old really fast. Faced with his notoriety, anyone else should have been prostrate with terror by now.
"And I'm guessing one of these jackass crime lords is you?" Bakura asked with a noticeable abandonment of humor.
With a sardonic, self-important chuckle, the man replied, "That's me. I'm Marik Ishtar, and I am the master of the Ghouls." With a fluid sweep of the arm, he motioned towards the cloaked followers behind him. Their heads were bowed and stilled in a peculiar silence.
Raising an eyebrow, Bakura deadpanned, "I don't give a fuck. Just tell me what you want, and then I'll decide whether to let you live or not."
At that, his men shifted their positions restlessly at his side, taut grips on their weapons making them ache. Odji was practically keening in his throat out of impatience, but Bakura just shot him a glare.
The one named Marik held up his hands. "Relax. Why should we fight, when we have diplomacy at our disposal?" Still unable to see his facial expression, Bakura had a hard time telling whether the man was joking or not. "I'd like to make a deal with you, if you're willing to listen."
With a curt bark of laughter, the King of Thieves shook his head, forgetting that his adversary wouldn't have been able to see the gesture. He was already rich and nigh-invulnerable; what leverage could this foolish brat possibly use? "You've got a lot of nerve! But I guess there's no harm in humoring you. Go on, then," he said, spreading his arms as if in welcome.
Readjusting his grip on the reins, Marik's eyes widened with ardent desire. "I want the secret to your power."
Bakura faltered. It wasn't as if no one had ever asked him something along those lines; practically everyone was after more power, and he knew he had lots of it. But the hunger that burned in Marik's voice was baffling—he didn't want power, he needed power—and the Thief King was, just for a second, reminded confusingly of himself. Perturbed, he chose to remain silent.
In response to the other man's conspicuous lack of response, Marik began explaining himself levelly, though he leaned forward in barely subdued eagerness. "Don't act like you don't know. I've heard all the rumors—they say the Thief King can pass through walls. Kill ten men in one breath. Transform into a monster. I don't know how true any of this is, but I do know that it's a mystery how you came to dominate the thieving world at such a young age, and I want to know how."
Hm hm hm. This mortal seems pretty sharp, Bakura.
With an intake of breath, Bakura felt dark words reverberate in his head. "Shut up," he hissed to himself. No one else noticed how the shadows lengthened all around them, or how the torches the Ghouls held briefly flared upwards.
Forcing himself to regain his composure, the King of Thieves responded, "And why should I tell you anything?"
"Because then I'll give these back." Marik snapped his fingers, and in seconds a few more Ghouls came into view, galloping into the valley with several unmanned horses in tow.
In shock, Bakura and his men stared at the animals as they whinnied in distress, pulling back against the ropes that bound them to the Ghoul's own horses.
"What the fuck have you done to my horse?" the Thief King burst out lividly, making out what was unmistakably his own steed amongst the captives.
The Ghouls began backing up in unison as Marik simpered, "Such a well-trained beast. Such a shame if you didn't get it back—you must have spent years raising it. And then what will happen to your reputation when everyone hears that the King of Thieves was stolen from?"
Eyes bulging in moderate surprise, he ducked down and dodged Bakura's knife as it was thrown furiously at his head, and turned his white horse around in hasty retreat. "Whoops! I can see when I'm not wanted!" With a nod, he and the rest of the Ghouls took off.
"Where do you fucking think you're going?" Bakura raged, rooted where he stood for just a moment out of sheer disbelief.
Shouting gloatingly over his shoulder, Marik answered, "I'm going to give you time to think about my offer. Meet me outside of the valley at noon!" Picking up speed, the Ghouls then rounded a bend and disappeared from view amongst the cliffs.
Swearing, Bakura reached over his back to sling out his bow and arrow, sprinting after the group with his men not far behind. But when he turned around the corner, there were no horses, no Ghouls in sight. Just a starry expanse of sky where the valley gave way to flatter land—where he'd have to meet Marik later that day.
"Shit," Bakura cursed, "How could they have disappeared so damn quickly?"
Grinding his teeth in frustration, he shoved his weapons back in place. Breathing heavily, Nebi jogged up beside him, narrowing his eyes when he also saw that the Ghouls had vanished.
"…They had more than four horses," he noted.
"I know."
"That means that they've stolen from the others back at camp."
"I know."
"That means that they know where we all live—"
"I fucking know!"
"We shouldn't have stayed separated from the others for so long."
Seething too much to bother responding to such useless hindsight, Bakura just turned on his heel and shoved Nebi aside, marching back towards the tombs.
It was going to be a very bad day.
"M-Master Marik?"
"What?" the young man snapped as he dismounted from his white steed, lowering his hood to reveal strikingly blond hair.
The moon was sinking lower in the sky as his band of thieves collectively led their horses by the reins towards the bank of the Nile, so that they might all drink.
The Thief King's horses were being noticeably uncooperative, neighing and straining against their reins and nearly toppling the Ghouls that were struggling to subdue them.
"I, uh, I have some reservations about, um, t-this plan of yours…," one of his servants spoke meekly, looking down at his own feet.
Sighing for no particular reason other than to make the man uncomfortable, Marik shrugged as he unwrapped the dark cloth from his mouth, exposing his entire face. His soft features were arranged in irreversible harshness, violet eyes barbed and threatening like a hard-shelled scorpion sting. "I've already thought everything out. I told you not to talk unless it was important."
"B-But master, if you return to the Thief King in person, when he's already expecting you, he'll just kill you!" Immediately, the servant flinched as if expecting punishment for his outburst.
To his surprise, Marik chuckled lowly, though it didn't make him any less fearful. Somehow his master's laughs were a little too scalding to sound lighthearted. "I know that. There's no way he's going to let us keep his horses, or his secrets. So we're going to let him have both."
In timid silence, his servant watched in puzzlement as Marik calmly drank from a pouch of water. The young man continued, "In fact, after our meeting with the Thief King, he'll be walking away with more than he bargained for…"
"P-Pardon?"
Marik smirked, the gesture distorted by the shadows cast on his face as a small bonfire sputtered unevenly on the sand. "Don't worry about it. I'll give you all a briefing once the sun rises."
Thinking better than to push for more answers, his servant muttered a quick "As you wish, master" before scurrying away; whatever hazardous plan his master could have in store, it would probably be less dangerous than if he were to make the young man angry.
Left alone, Marik stared down at the little fire as he rested a hand on the neck of his horse, fingers fidgeting in its ivory-spun hairs. He took some brief comfort in the bright flames, the cold bite in his eyes thawing to their orange glow.
He was so close.
So close.
If he could pull this off, then he could find them.
Tan fingers wrapped around a pendant that hung from his neck, Marik watched the waters of the Nile searchingly until dawn broke over the horizon.
Bakura was a master of improvisation—but he also liked to be prepared.
Which was why he and his men were armed to the teeth, itching to slit the throats of the bastards that were impudent enough to catch them off-guard.
The sun had peaked in the sky, and being unaccustomed to being awake, much less outside at this time of day, the band of thieves found the heat to be irritatingly stifling.
But as they blinked away itching beads of sweat and their impatience rose for the Ghouls' arrival, they didn't dare voice their complaints. Just one look at their leader shied them into silence—his jaw was taut, his movements unusually tightened and conservative, much the same way a snake would deceptively coil in on itself before the strike.
Aside from his formidable temper in and of itself, there was always something about Bakura when he was truly, wholly angry that inspired a kind of rapturous terror in his followers. The monster that slept within him—that was what made the Thief King's enemies flee screaming, what made the onlookers break into shivering perspiration and pledge their allegiance to him on the spot.
There were hints of when the monster was stirring; the boy's silver hair would almost seem to bristle and spike up like lightning, and the pigment in his eyes would bleach out into a steely color.
It was because of these tell-tale signals that his men currently stood a few wary feet from him and held their tongues in unusual timidity.
When the Ghouls finally appeared in the distance, Bakura just narrowed his eyes and made a "tch" noise, lips pulled back just-so in a chilled sneer. He wasn't upset just because his horse was taken—underneath everything, he also loathed the idea that someone had bested him.
As he had gotten older and more experienced, he had grown accustomed to winning every single time, because there was one big thing he had to do before he died, and how else was he going to prove to himself that he was ready to pull it off?
Failure was never an option, and with that in mind he knew he still needed to be more powerful.
As the moments passed, all soon realized how the Ghouls had disappeared so quickly the prior night—as they rode, their horses cleaved through the miles with ease, hooves pounding at a dizzying pace. The Thief King's frown deepened, reluctantly impressed; he had never seen anyone travel so swiftly before.
When the party arrived with a cloud of dust, his own horses were quivering and frothing at their mouths as they were dragged along, exhausted from having to keep up.
Odji jumped to his feet and unsheathed his sword, eyes bulging out in their typical nervous manner, and Bakura had to raise a stilling arm to prevent the rest of his men from killing the Ghouls on the spot.
As much as he wanted to see the damned fools drowning in their own blood, he wanted some answers from their master before he acted.
"…Where's Marik?" Bakura interrogated sharply, quickly picking up the absence of the man's white stallion. Amongst the congregation of men and animals, there were only roan and black horses.
One of the Ghouls just inclined his head curtly. "He did not feel it necessary to attend," came his carefully dispassionate reply.
Bakura growled. Of course the bastard would be too full of himself to even bother coming—the coward probably wasn't willing to risk his neck in the Thief King's presence again.
Reflexively he searched for his own steed, relaxing when he finally sighted it unscathed. But oddly enough, there was some boy planted uncomfortably atop its back. His torso was bared and he wasn't garbed in those stupid robes that the other Ghouls wore, and judging by the shackles clamped on his wrists and ankles he was most likely a prisoner of some sort.
"What's that boy doing on my horse?" Bakura demanded, cocking his head in the teen's direction.
The Ghoul who had spoken before once more responded, "He's our servant. We have him tend to the horses."
"By 'servant', I take it you mean 'captive'," Bakura remarked critically, giving a pointed look at the chains that bound the boy. "He does not accompany you willingly."
The prisoner opened his mouth as if to speak, but the Ghoul nearest to him must have shot him a glare beneath its hood, because he hurriedly fell silent and shrank down.
Further scorn bubbled in the Thief King's chest. What, Marik's servants need servants now?
"I've had enough. Now tell me what I want to know." Head held high, he managed to give the impression that he was looking down on his enemies… which was a notable achievement, considering that they were all on level ground and the Ghouls were raised on horseback.
"Just who is your leader, exactly? How did he know where to find the rest of my men? It should have been impossible to locate us," Bakura catechized a bit sorely, the back of his neck prickling at the thought of his whereabouts being leaked into the public. He had just about hit his last nerve.
"Have you forgotten our deal? If you want your pitiful animals back, you have to answer our questions," a Ghoul spoke contemptuously.
Standing ready and alert, Nebi glanced at Bakura's feral teeth-bearing smile with recognition. He nodded at the other men, and they took a collective step back.
Voice low and menacing, the King of Thieves simpered, "Let me rephrase my question, then." His eyes flashed with the same kind of savage finality as a lion's would with the snap of the neck of its prey.
A blinding white light burst from his chest, making the Ghouls cry out in surprise and their horses back away in alarm. Suddenly, towering above everyone was a shining alabaster creature, with the upper body of a statuesque man that tapered down into the twisted form of a snake. Bulging muscles flexing as it leered impassively down at the party, it unfurled sturdy ivory wings with a blast of air.
The captive boy's eyes widened and his mouth parted in awe.
"Meet my ka, Diabound. I'm sure you'll get along nicely—so long as you don't let him tear your heads off," Bakura announced boastfully. "So here's our new deal: give my back my horses, tell me what I want to know, and then maybe I won't kill you all."
Cantering backwards, the Ghouls' horses kept their moist eyes glued onto the looming monster, and their riders shook where they gripped onto the reins. They exchanged concealed glances before one spoke up tremulously, "W-We won't answer any of your demands!"
Feigning a pouting disappointment, Bakura replied, "Suit yourselves." His looming ka descended upon them, the very air that surrounded it seeming to contort with unseen energy. Thrusting his open palm into their direction, Bakura exclaimed, "Helical shockwave!"
Straightening attentively, the captive boy watched as the Ghouls skittered back before hesitantly slowing when nothing appeared to be happening. A beat later, and a thunderous surge blew the entire party off the ground, raising a whirlwind of debris that smacked unsparingly into the Thief King and his men with the sting of scalding water.
As Bakura winced and lost focus, Diabound wavered before diving back into the depths of his heart, disappearing completely.
Wiping the grit off of his face, he saw that the blast had torn the binds off of all the horses as the Ghouls scrambled to their feet, some clutching at their newly acquired injuries. Moving efficiently, he jammed two fingers into his mouth and whistled, all of his horses pricking up at the ears and galloping back towards their master. With some dismay as he vaulted onto his own stallion, he noticed that it had a limp.
"Shit," he muttered, patting its neck almost apologetically, no doubt in his mind that his attack was the cause of its injury.
"'Shit' is right!" Wati coughed from behind, sand streaming down from his hair as he pointed ahead furiously, "They're getting away!"
He was right. Though their movements were lopsided and much slower than before, the Ghouls had managed to mount their horses and were making a haphazard escape. Jaw clenching in frustration, Bakura dug his heels into his steed, but as the beast lunged forward it was clear that with its injury it couldn't go at half their speed.
"Just let them go," said Nebi as he examined his horse, "With the horses as tired as they are from being dragged along everywhere, they'd never catch up."
Swearing repeatedly under his breath, Bakura glared at their shrinking figures irately. Those bastards would pay someday.
Wati huffed with similar frustration. "Your ka went completely overboard, you know! You could have killed us all!" he exclaimed with exaggeration, trailing off submissively when the King of Thieves shot him a menacing look.
The man had never grievously harmed any of his fellow thieves before if they hadn't deserved it, but the crocodile-toothed snarl he had on his face suggested that he was about to. "I had everything under control," Bakura seethed adamantly. "I always do. So shut your bitching mouth and let's get going."
"Ah, so we can finally get back to camp and the others? Excellent," Nebi noted lightly, not seeming to be intimidated by the dour atmosphere, and mounted his frazzled steed while the others followed suit. "Anyways, we'd better get these babies back to their masters." Thick neck muscles bulging, he jerked his head back in the direction of the several other horses that were riderless.
"Well, their masters should have been able to fucking take care of them." Bakura swore those good-for-nothing associates of his would pay hell and then some as soon as he got back.
Half-twisting his back, he only made a nominal glance at the procession behind him to ensure that everyone's horses were there. No one had bothered to fasten the rest of the animals to the ones that had riders—they were trained and loyal enough to know to follow the crowd.
Chattering irritably to himself and fidgeting incessantly like a crackling fire, Odji awkwardly threw his head straight back in a show of impatience. "Let's go! If we end up staying out in the sun any longer than we have to, I'm going to go crazy!"
"Too late for that," the Thief King grumbled under his breath, and brusquely took hold of his reins as if to drive everyone forward before pausing abruptly. "Ah. Right."
His eyes landed on the captive boy some distance away, no doubt having been blown clear off Bakura's horse when Diabound attacked. Movements hampered by the chains that had apparently withstood the blast, he was still struggling to his feet. Or perhaps he had been hurt, too…
Aggravation only slightly fizzling out from this distraction, the Thief King told the others, "Hold on. I've gotta handle this."
Urging his steed forward tentatively, he found that it could still proceed just fine so long as it was kept to a canter, and made his way towards the floundering young man. From afar he noticed with springing interest that the boy's hair, which hung in curtains about his bowed face as he attempted to straighten up, was captivatingly light—like a golden idol bathed in milk, or ivory sands glowing with sunlight.
Bakura's lips pressed together grimly. It didn't matter how nice the kid looked, in the end—it was which side he would choose.
As the King of Thieves neared, he drew out a long, densely-crafted sword—he typically disliked using it, because it was so hefty—and held it aloft.
Now beneath the shadow of his arm, the young man stared up at him almost calculatingly, though his violet eyes seemed stretched haplessly wide as they traced the glinting outline of the blade. And then their gazes locked.
The boy's pupils bored right into Bakura's with a cutthroat violence that had the effect of something sinking its talons into his jugular and pulling him down into the river—there was the icy, brutal slap of the water on his face, there was the dizzying spinning out-of-control as he was plunged into churning currents, there was the fathomless darkness and not knowing where was up and not being able to breathe—and the boy blinked, and the moment passed. And, face blanched but impassively masked, Bakura inhaled quietly.
From his elevated vantage point, he regarded the stranger more carefully, both as if he were something fragile and something dangerous at the same time.
"Will you come with me?" Bakura asked almost softly. He normally voiced that question as a demand to the people he came across— "Join me, or die" – but somehow that kind of crassness didn't feel appropriate right now, in the same way it wouldn't feel right to shout when no one is around to hear. Regardless, the options he offered were the same.
The teen glanced from the blade to his face with dawning comprehension and swallowed, offering a wan smile.
"Only if we are going the same way."
The words felt feathery to Bakura, tickling and irritating in that they hinted at something, yet floating out of his reach when he tried to grasp at what that something was. Jaw clenched, he tightened his grip on the sword hilt and, as the other teen flinched, he brought the blade crashing down decisively.
Tinkling, a few rusty links fell to the ground as the rest of the chains hung loosely from the captive's metal bindings, having been chopped effectively in half. Chest hitching as it rose and fell tumultuously, the now-free teen just barely swayed as if dazed before hesitatively spreading his aching limbs apart.
"Next time I ask you something, you'd better give me a straight answer. Freaking smart-aleck," Bakura muttered, sheathing his sword and flicking his head to where his men and the rest of the horses were waiting a ways off. "Get on a horse and don't give us any problems while we travel, alright? I'm sure my ka could squash you like an insect if you decide to be as insufferable as one."
Crisply turning his stallion around, Bakura began heading leisurely back as the former prisoner had to jog briskly to keep up, chains rattling incessantly. "So you're taking me with you?" he questioned slightly out of breath, not so much from the exertion as from the scare the other had given him.
"Unless you'd rather take your chances in the desert by yourself—I'm sure that without any food, water, or means of travel other than your own two feet, you'd do just fine," Bakura snarked. "I really don't care if we are going the same way or not—I'm sure there's a home you could return to or something, but I'm not gonna baby-sit you and escort you there."
To his surprise, rather than reacting with indignation, the stranger just shrugged. "I don't mind. My hometown had been destroyed when the Ghouls came and ransacked everything, and as everyone evacuated and I straggled behind, they happened upon me and took me as their slave. Having been separated from my people for so long, I have no idea where they are now, and have long since given up hope of ever seeing them again." He spoke with disquieting calmness, as if he were merely talking about the weather, but it didn't stop Bakura from feeling a tendril of sympathy.
His own memories came flooding back all too easily—the burning buildings, the screaming villagers pouring out of their crumbling houses, only to fall into the waiting maws of the dead-eyed soldiers—and the iron lump of hatred in his chest grew.
The dark voice in the back of his mind came back—though really, it had never left. It whispered, Never forget.
"Those sons of bitches," he hissed aloud as he thought of the Ghouls and their leader Marik's gloating voice. It had been a while since someone had managed to get so under his skin. "Listen, kid, if it's any consolation to you, if you stick with me I can promise you'll have your vengeance."
Blinking in surprise as if unsure how to react, the teen was silent for a bit before replying, "Thanks, um… huh. I've just realized, I haven't even learned your name yet." He gave an apologetic look, blond bangs brushing just above his large eyes.
So the kid had never heard of the Thief King? He must have been kept in the dark ever since he was captured—how else could he have not caught some form of gossip concerning the man? "It doesn't matter. But you can call me the King of Thieves, or just King if you want," Bakura informed, for once speaking without a hint of irony.
The corners of the teen's mouth lifted at this, perhaps in amusement at his rescuer's ego, though he said nothing. Not seeming to catch this, the King of Thieves went on, "So. What's your name?"
The stranger went on blinking his violet eyes and gave a bright, disarming smile. A cloud passing overhead cast his face in absolute shadow.
"I'm Namu."
Author's Note: ...and then Bakura and Marik had totally awesome buttsex.
...What? Isn't that the main reason you're reading this? To get to the smut?
Awkward joking aside, thank you for reading this huge-ass of a first chapter. I never intended it to be this freaking long, but... eh. It happened.
Hehe. I like the idea of a younger, less-experienced Thief King Bakura, to be honest.
Anyways, I hope this was enjoyable for you, and if you could take the time to let me know what you think, then it would be much appreciated. Almost as much as I appreciate you. For existing.
...Also, the other day I saw a restaurant called Malik's Kabob. As a YGOTAS fan, this made me incredibly happy.
Oh yeah, and Merry Christmas/ Happy Politically Correct Holidays!