Authors Note:
Okay as it seems my new fic Of Kings And Thieves is not being received with the most outward displays of enthusiasm, and I'm determined that I shan't be a one trick pony, I have put that fic on hiatus and I will post my first romantic fic.
I personally believe most view Bakura (Yami Bakura) to be either obsessed with Ryo or he barely acknowledges his existence, either they are joined hip to rear or they are on the verge of killing each other. Bakura is also perceived to be the far more dominant of the pair, as with Yami in Still Standing, I believe he is far more vulnerable than he lets on...
Gah! Listen to me gush like the silly little fan girl I am. (no disrespect to fan-girls, who are far more sane than I sound at this moment in time.) You aren't here to listen to my rantings. You want a little bit of fluff to make you all warm and gooey inside... Like chocolate pudding. Mmmmmm.
Disclaimer:
Blah blah blah.Yu-Gi-Oh! Blablubah blah blah! Which roughly translates to... (whips out trusty goobly-de-gook to English dictionary) I do not buy, rent or own any of the Yu-Gi-Oh characters or story lines. Just those what are milling around in that mush that is, apparently, my brain. Oh, and that I must remain at least 100 meters away from all male Yu-Gi-Oh characters (and Mai) at all ti... Hey! That's not funny Bakura!
Khamsin.
Chapter. 1: A Night Interrupted.
He'd been having a good sleep. Wrapped up all snuggly in warm furs and blankets, dreaming of honey cake and thick soured goats milk, when he was so rudely wakened. He uttered a tiny whimper as the furs and blankets were torn from him.
"Yes, I know Little one. You are sleepy. But you must waken for me."
Cracking a reluctant eye open, he grumped at the woman who tugged him to his feet. Her eyes, as blue as the pale sapphires Pharaoh wore on his hands, her skin, a milky and smooth colour, refusing to bake brown despite the time she spent in the desert heat, and her hair that fell over her shoulders was of such crisp white that it gleamed in the sunlight brighter than the moon that hung in the skies. These genetic traits were all too common amongst the Tehenu people and, though the Egyptians found it to be hauntingly beautiful, it was scorned upon. Blue-eyes, pale skin and fair-hair was almost as good as a death sentence, although she had managed to dodge the swap fever that had claimed so many of her people.
The boy rubbed his eyes and snuffled back tired sobs as he was quickly dressed. His own hair gleamed as brilliantly white as his mothers, but his skin was darker, proof of the Egyptian blood that his father provided mingled through his veins. Slowly he pulled his hands from his eyes and stared through rusted coloured orbs. "Momma," he whimpered and threw himself against her and stamped impatiently for her to pick him up, frustrated and sulky that she did not immediately comprehend that, as with all youngsters, mother was supposed to understand what every word, sob and action was implied to and attend to every demand instantly or else be subjected to enormous strops.
She quickly gathered the child in her arms and walked to the hut window. Outside she could smell the burning, and hear the screams. Taking a deep breath she raised one leg over the windowsill and easily escaped into the heaving mass of panic. Men and women ran through the village in blind fear, small children who'd escaped their parents grasps were swiftly trampled by the stampede.
She did her best to ignore the battered and broken bodies of the dead or dying, as a mother her only instinct was to protect her own offspring. She was managing quite well until a woman hailed her, and to her horror the woman was dragging the dead body of her own son, no more than seven, by a dislocated arm behind her.
"By Isis's fruitful womb." the woman shrieked, her free hand clawing toward her. "Help my son to safety," she eyed the boy in the her arms. "One mother to another. Please, I fear my boy is gravely injured."
Her blue eyes fell upon the boy in the dirt, he was clearly dead. This woman must be aware of that, simply by the way the body flopped and dangled from the arm without so much as a whimper. "You son is dead."
Then she saw the woman lunge, snatching at her child. Instinctively he raised her free arm to deflect the attack, grabbing her around the face she held the flailing woman at bay. Madness and rage burned in her eyes as again and again she snatched at the boy, only coming away with a few strands of hair in her talons.
"Give him to me you stinking whore!" the woman howled over the child's terrified screams.
Still holding her boy in one arm a strange change came over her, her blue eyes chilled and her face darkened. She slipped her hand from her son who shrieked and clung even more tightly to her now his support had gone, wrapping his short legs around her. Squatting, she groped the ground, never taking her eyes off the spitting, shrieking woman and grasped something. Then she swung with all her might. The impact was never heard, the only way she knew the blow had struck was when the eyes rolled up into the skull and the woman crumpled to the ground, dead.
She barely had time to gather her breath before the shouts of terror had redoubled and the whinny of the chariot horses were almost upon her. There was no longer time to escape, she snatched a quick glance at the top of her sons head and her chest tightened. He trembled in her arms and buried his face into her chest, tired and frightened. She knew this was the last time she would ever hold him, touch him. Gathering her thoughts she spotted an upturned cart with a panel from the front torn free, she raced to it and dropped to her knees. She wrenched the child from her body and bundled him through the splintered wood. He rolled over once and scrambled to face his mother, confusion and fear marred his features.
He opened his mouth to speak but just that moment the hoof beats vibrated so violently through him, he stared at the ground in terror, half expecting it to split beneath him and swallow him up. Then his mother made a strange sound and fell. Bright red stuff gurgled from her mouth and dribbled to the sand, rolling into little balls of mud.
"Momma?" he called and dragged his belly along the biting sand.
She rolled her slowly glazing eyes up to his face. "S-stay hidden, Little one." Fresh bright lung blood gurgled out of her mouth, she was slowly drowning in her own blood, the sticky fluid collected sand onto her lips. He hesitated and stared at the bloody froth bubbling up from her throat and her lips quivered beneath it. "Don't-" Her eyelids fluttered once. Twice. Then closed.
Something in his throat caught and, no matter how hard he tried to swallow, the lump would not dissolve. His stomach clenched so hard it hurt and numbed his whole body all at once.
No more screams reached him as he retreated into his little world of misery, he didn't know if they faded out over time or weather he simply stopped hearing it. Hours dragged and he still just lay there, cowering beneath the cart until finally he felt brave enough to haul his exhausted body to his mothers side. His eyes, dark and sunken with misery, stung with the dryness of fatigue as he squirmed and wriggled from beneath the cart and into his mothers arms. He closed his eyes and, at last, the lump dissolved and he sobbed, heartbroken.
"Shhhhh."
The wind stroked its way over the charred remains of the village.
He tried to move, but something held him still, something warm and solid.
"Shhhhhh."
The sound came again and he realized it wasn't the winds whispering. His eyes flew open and he could make out a dark and vaguely unsettling, yet familiar shape. He blinked hard and it came into focus.
"Bakura?"
Another hard blink and the blanket of sleep fell away. Ryo's face, twisted with worry, hovered above his. "What did you dream?"
An image flashed. The burning. The screams. His moth-
His heart hammering, Bakura crushed his face against Ryo's collar and took a deep breath, grounding himself with his scent, his touch, making sure he was still real. Still alive.
"I just want- I need to sleep." Trembling, Bakura pulled sharply away, his cheeks reddened slightly in embarrassment. He didn't understand why he still felt awkward around Ryo, he should be past all that juvenile behavior, but he still found himself shutting the boy out. His muscles tensed and bunched in his shoulders, waiting for him to prod and insist they talk. He needn't have worried, Ryo wouldn't prod, he never did. He was quite happy letting Bakura be Bakura and if he didn't volunteer the information then he didn't ask. That was just his way of dealing with the thief.
After a moment, Bakura relaxed and eased himself back against the pillows. Pulling Ryo hard against him, just so he would know if he weren't there, and eventually fell back to sleep.
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Phew. Now hopefully this will get a bit more of a reaction and it seems a lot more like my writing style. I'm debating actually pulling Of Kings And Thieves. Anyhoo, I am still trying to think of a name for one of my chinchillas any suggestions mail me.
Please r&r as I miss your words of wisdom and encouragement.
Tis a male chinchilla btw.
Stay smexy. xXx