It was a time of strife and sadness in those days. The king and queen were doing their best to keep the people satisfied, but to no avail. There were droughts, diseases and all manners of calamities. For the rulers, there was no rest.

The queen became ill, from such stress and lack of proper nutrition—because of the drought. The king was in great despair, for she with child—their second, whom the doctors were predicting to be a daughter. Their first child was a male, only two years old at the time, yet always they had longed for a daughter. A beautiful girl, the people said, nodding to each other. She'll be a beautiful girl.

One day, when the queen felt well enough, she went to her window, pale and weak, yet knowing that she was felling much better. For this, she was thankful, one hand resting gently over her swollen stomach. Not long now, she knew. Not long at all, the doctors had said. The queen smiled, breathing up the summer air.

Out the window, however, she saw something that made her heart trill, then freeze.

Despite the terrible drought, there grew bright, fresh, green rapunzel in the garden just outside of her window, within the gardens of the terrible witch, Yami Bakura.

Calling out to her husband, the queen's eyes shone with vigour, lust. They were shining in morning dew, those green leaves, the delicate purple blossoms. But should one trespass upon the witch's garden, she knew not what might happen.

"You called for me?" said the king, in a cheerful mood for the day. The pheasants were pleased enough to stop their riots for now, rain was starting out in the Eastern reaches of the kingdom and his wife would be well soon enough. All was good.

"I must have it," the queen said, hand trembling as she pointed out the rampion. "I cannot thrive without it. I crave it. I need it."

"Need. . .?" The King laughed, the sound pitching up nervously. "Now, dear, be reasonable. You can't—"

"I fear I will relapse into my illness without it, even just a taste, my darling, do you love me? Do you care at all?" Looking seriously at him, the king's wife clutched the fabric about her stomach. "You do care for me, do you not?"

"Of course!" Hastily, the king agreed, reaching out to touch her shoulder. "I love you, with all my heart, with all it takes."

"Then please," the queen said, dewy brown eyes widening slowly, "show your love for me. Retrieve what may heal me and my disease-wrought body."

"That's a little melodramatic—the doctors said it was just a touch of the flu," the king muttered, scratching at his forehead where the crown pressed too deeply.

"What?" snapped the queen.

"I spoke not, my queen." The king kissed her forehead, staring out the spacious bay window. "Erm, and how might I go about fetching your heart's desire?"

"Climb out the window. It's not that hard; I used to do it all the time."

"Really, now?" The king frowned, chewing on the inside of his cheek. "Well, I'll try, but—"

"I said, 'do you love me?'"

"Yea, right. I do." The king scotched past the queen, oofing and umphing as he tried to fit around her pregnant body. Which didn't move aside to let him through.

Finally getting past her, the king set one ginger foot out the window, catching his trousers upon the sill. "Damn," he spat, very unroyally. "Dear, could you untangle that for me?"

"Here, you clumsy oaf," she said in reply, yanking until he was freed.

"Thank you, darling dear." The king adjusted his crown, half-tripping, half-stumbling onto the ground, one shoe falling off in the whole process. Bending at the waist with a short puff and groan, he picked it up, placing it back on his foot with a lot more noise than necessary.

"Now, get that plant, there." The queen pointed, hoisting herself up. "No, no, not that one, you idiot; that's a morning glory, which looking nothing like the rapunzel. Yes, finally, that one. Now, bring it to me, dearest."

"Ah, yes, of course," the king grumbled. "Ever since the day I married you, it's been get that, get this. Good job, you insolent fool. Yap, yap, yap."

"What?"

"Nothing, love of my life!" the king chirped, handing over the flowery plant. "Whatever you wish, all for my beautiful bride."

"That's what I thought you said." The queen moved a bit, just enough to let her husband back in the window. "Now, see? That old witch isn't such a big deal as people make the stories to seem."

"Still, we shouldn't go trying to get on Yami Bakura's bad side. I mean—"

"Oh, shut up, you old worry-wart." The queen stripped the root of its pastel green leaves, tearing them neatly in half, before placing them in her lap.

"What, you're not even going to eat them?" the King said, frowning.

"Not without a salad to go with it," the queen said, rolling her eyes. "Who was it that put sense into your head? Now, go get me a plate—a salad plate, mind you—and some salad stuff to go with this, then I can eat it."

With one long, colossal sigh, the king tramped off, muttering thing under his breath, things about women and why his father said he should've never gotten married and the sense in that and on and on about little things in that vein.

With a plate of lettuce, tomatoes, radishes and other such veggies arranged fashionably on a nice salad plate, the king returned, proud of himself for the arrangement and his own wit for not neglecting to obtain a fork to go with it.

"Now?" he asked, giving the food to his beloved.

"Now," she confirmed with a wide smile.

With a deep inhale, the king watched on with curiosity as she mixed the rapunzel leaves into the pre-existing salad slowly. Stirring it with her fork, she suddenly drew back, looking into the midnight blue-violet of her husband's round eyes. "Dearest," she began, "no dressing to go upon the salad?"

"No, none." The king crossed his arms. "And you'll just have to eat it like that, too, 'cause I'm not—er, you'll ruin the flavour of the delectable rape plant I picked with care for you."

"Rampion."

"Yes, yes, rampion. Eat it." The king looked out to Yami Bakura's garden, wondering how long it had taken to cultivate such a lovely ensemble of colours and odours. Really, the rampion was but a small thing, compared to other beauties within the grounds that made up the garden.

The queen nipped at her meal quietly, hands trembling with the excitement of tasting this, what she'd been desiring for almost ten whole minutes now. Her fine white teeth closed over the fork, pulling in the spinach-like leaves. The king watched nervously, deeply coloured eyes widening as he heard the woman he loved gasp slightly, then dig in deeply to the salad.

Her eyes lit up, sparkling in an inhuman way (what eyes even sparkle?), her pale-skinned hand clutching the fork releasing tension, before she looked to the king, a loopy smile on her face.

And then she started stuffing her face with the salad, green bits poking out of her mouth as she breathed in the food, quickly leaving no trace behind. "Oh, my dahling," she said, around a mouthful of the salad. "Oh."

After that day, the king thought that would be the end of it. That his wife would see that the rampion tasted just like spinach and that it was dumb to risk your life for a spinach wanna-be.

But instead, the queen sat at that window, pining after more of the stuff. Pregnancy cravings, the doctors said sagely, yet the king saw the way she was thinning; even with all that baby fat (not that he mentioned the fat). She was wasting away for even a taste.

"Um, hey." The king scratched at his beard a few weeks after the first rapunzel incident. "So, my dear, what has been troubling you as you sit here these weeks? Y'know, stress could be bad for the baby. . ."

"I want more of the rampion. I cannot live without it." With a melodramatic gasp, she flumped over her chair air, lolling to one side. "Oh, honey-bear, would you be ever so kind and go fetch me more of the plant?"

"Well, dear, I can't really do that. You see, there's an evil witch who owns the garden and—"

"I know, you nitwit." Lifting her head just enough to snap at him, the queen rolled her eyes. And then flopped over again, moaning.

"Darling honey poo."

"Don't 'darling honey poo' me! Go get me the plant. Now." The queen pointed a regal finger at him, obviously not too bad off to order him about.

"Yes, honey." The king added another complaint to his Royal List of Things to Complain About to the Royal Psychologist. Yes, a royal list.

The window hadn't gotten any larger since his last climbing out of it, which the king discovered as he tried to squeeze out. If anything, he himself had grown about the middle, now that the famine and drought were beginning to clear up.

"A little help?" He grunted, almost out, yet not quite.

"Getting fat, my love?" The queen poked his love handle, the tickly touch enough to rocket him onto the ground, face red and crown half off his head.

"Look who's talking!" he snapped, pointing to her large stomach.

"I'm pregnant!" she yelled, throwing a nearby baby shoe at him.

"Yea, right! You're just fat and covering it up! That's why you're trying to eat rape plants now! To get skinny!"

"What the hell is wrong with you! And it's rampion! Now get me my dang spinach!"

"Language!" The king gasped, covering his mouth. "My queen!"

She exhaled slowly, counting to ten. "Sorry, that just slipped out. Would you please hurry the hell up and get me my plant now?"

"Of course." The king smiled softly, touching her hand with his fingertips. Deep down, he loved her. No matter what, even crazy pregnant-lady hormones. They were in this together.

The king made his secretive way into the garden, tripping over plant roots and sounding like an elephant herd approaching. However, he wasn't apprehended as he descended into the garden, even as he plucked the rampion. He felt almost like there was no way that anything bad could happen. Really, though, he'd been in the garden once already, without the witch confronting him. Yami Bakura didn't just let things slide, right? The king figured that much anyway, and here he was. Pssh, even if he was caught, what then? Ohh, scary—being turned into a frog.

The king straightened, his spine reminding him of his age. He mumbled complaints against it, eyes upturning to freeze at the sight of the witch.

Yami Bakura.

Just standing there, seeming not to notice the king, who was trembling in fear as he half-stood, knees weak.

"Urmf?" The witch looked up, the strange device in the pale hand buzzing. "'GardenAlert© has detected a new presence in your garden. Is this activity recognised?' I don't give a damn about my garden's security," Yami Bakura mumbled.

But still, the soft, apple-green gaze swept over the grounds. That was when the king was noticed, hunched uncomfortably, fidgeting and waiting to be noticed, 'cause his back was back to groaning.

"Yami Bakura," he babbled, now falling to his knees, as if to beg forgiveness as the witch approached, hands tucked in deep, gently lined fabric pockets on his shirt. "Forgive me! But, it was not I who contrived such a plan as to steal from you—the hell're you wearing?" The last sentence was a hiss, the king waving his hand at the pale witch's attire. "My Ra, are you a man? Everyone said you were a witch, so I just assumed—"

Bakura sighed, a long, deep, used-to-it sigh, rubbing his face. "Yea, genius, I'm a man. I don't know which buggering bastard thought it'd be fun to spread the little thought that, 'hey, Bakura should totally be called a witch, not a magician.' Six and a half bloody years in Mage University overseas, and I'm a witch. Ra," he said, spitting the word in feline-esque manner, "Magician, got it?"

"Yea, yea, yea, I know." The king waved his hand some more, jabbing his finger at Bakura's red hoodie-jacket. "That! That's the real problem." He lowered his voice, tugging at his breeches. "Look, we've got some real time-period Nazis out there, and hoodies and jeans are not 19th century German attire. 'Kay, mate?"

"Uh, yea, I know." Bakura tugged at the cinched material at the bottom, a light smile and pink glow settling on his face. "I mean, usually I wear the right stuff an' all, but I was in the middle of a date and then I got the whole damn GardenAlert© thing, so I didn't really have time to change." His brows drew, face clouding as he shot the king a look. "What are you doing, anyway? You interrupted something really important, you little bastard."

"Look, I'll be level with you." The king cleared his throat, regaining all the regalilty of a man not cosplaying as a German king in 1812. "My wife has some weird cravings. She's pregnant, so. . ." He shrugged, grinning. "Blame her?"

"Still, you're gonna steal the spinach rape plant thing? Why that?"

"Ask her!" Jerking a thumb to his beloved who watched in horror, checking her nails and make-up in the window's reflective surface.

"I get it. Relax." Bakura yawned, shifting his feet, checking his mobile for the time. "I have to, like, punish you and stuff, but I really just want to get this over with." His albino eyebrows wiggled up and down in an anticipating, lusty manner. "Right, right, one second." He typed quickly, fingers rapping in rhythmic strokes across the screen.

The king stiffened, whispering a desperate "time-period. Please!" This plea was unheard.

Bakura's search, good magician punishments for interrupting kings who just cut off your chance to lay your date, returned good results; he read off the first, blandly. "Take the next child/first-born. So, yea, the waifu's pregnant?"

"Waifu isn't a word yet."

"It is now."

"Anyway, yes, she is. So?"

"I gotta' take the kid." Bakura flipped his long hair away from his face, fingers stroking it away from his cheeks. "I mean, stupid as the thought is, top result. Can't argue with that."

"Ra, you'd be the worst father ever." The king's eyebrows lifted in amusement, smile soft. "Look, when I was twenty-four, I was seducing women into my royal harem." He frowned. "Then I got married at twenty-six."

"Ouch." Bakura leaned his weight to one side, thumbs catching in his front jeans pockets. "Well, I'm sure I can handle it or something. I'm a capable magician."

"Trust me," the king said, also slumping into a relaxed position, "you're not ready for a kid. Screaming all night long? Crapped-in pants, vomit all over your nicest shirt and non-stop tiredness? You're really gonna' sign up for all that, out of your own free will? Man to man, YB, just chose whatever the second result is."

Bakura considered the thought, then shrugged, looking down at his mobile. "Turn trespasser's whole family into amphibians. Cool, I guess I'll just—"

"Baby it is." The king turned on his heel, waving the rapunzel in the air. "Okay if I keep this?"

"Yea, sure." Bakura frowned, cocking his head. Seriously, though, what the hell was he gonna' do with a baby? That was a dumb decision.

•••

The king returned to his queen then, and they shared sorrow. This was the long awaited daughter, who would fulfil her mother's secret plan of matriarchies ruling their kingdom. Without this baby, the people would label the king as a thief, a worthless person.

They had a choice to make.

A choice that could change whom the protagonist would be of a story set in 19th century Germany.

As usual, the king suggested a course of action—which the queen kindly put out of its misery, ordering her own superior idea to be carried out. The king stood by, shrugging, knowing that whatsoever his wife wanted, he must also want. That was just the way it went.

Three weeks later, Princess Bakura Amane was born, quietly, without the usual pomp of a royal child's birth. Her parents stood by her, proudly, their first child, small for his age, fiddling uncertainly at his father's leg. "Papa," he said, "she's so loud. How can she be a heavenly noise when she makes bad sounds?"

"One day, Ry-chan, she'll be big and make beautiful noises." Ryou's father scooped him up, holding the child close. The prince wiggled away, opting to play in the corridors instead.

"Are we really going through with this?" he asked, sighing. "With so much life to live, too."

"I just gave birth. Show me some sympathy." The queen impatiently held out her hand to be kissed. "Well?"

"Yes, dear." The king kissed her hand obligingly, eyes following the boy he'd always yearned for. But, his wife wanted a girl. So girl it was. He turned away, soft white blankets hanging loosely from his hands. Ry-chan'd just started talking recently, bits and scrambles of words thrown in jumbled sentences. He smiled, slow and regretful.

But this was what had to be done.

He turned to one of his nearby assistants. "Fetch the young prince," he said, blue eyes casting down. "Wrap him in these, then give him to Kalim. He'll know what to do."

"Yes, my king!" the servant said, hastily bowing and rushing off, white cloths dangling loose in his hands. The king turned away, breaths slow, burdened by his own act. What has to be done, will be done.

And that was all there was to it.