Title: Blood and Gold
Author: Wayfarer
Rating: R (Violence? Gore? Sort of…)
Pairings: None
SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS: If you know the fate of the village of Kuru Eruna and how the Sennen Items were created, then you're safe to read. If you don't even know what the heck that is, then turn around. Major Bakura spoilers in the Memory World arc. Anyone who only watches the American version of the show is certain to have no idea what this is all about, unless you like spoilers, then you might. lol
Characters: The great Touzokuou Bakura!... as a cute little innocent kid… And mentions of Akunadin (blech, what a loser), and sort of Pharaoh Akunamukanon… (he's boring) without actually mentioning a single name in the fic! ::cheers::
Notes: No, I did not try to steal the title from Anne Rice. Haha. She annoys me to no end. I wish I could read Japanese better, so that I could read fanfics about this arc on Japanese sites. Since I can't, though, and there aren't really any English writers who have fics about it, I'm trying to make due writing them on my own. Next time, I'm gonna write something good and yaoi-ful, just because this one wasn't.
Summary: The fate of the village of Kuru Eruna (well, that's how I spell it, anyhow…), and how it effects a young thief king in training. The story's more serious than my commentary, though. Hehe, read on. It's short, so it can't be too painful.
It was sudden. The flash, the fire, the rain that soaked the walls, heavy of blood. A mist of flesh and bone, an unclean swipe of a blade. The national army. The royal insignia.
They laughed and taunted as they came through. No warning, no hesitation, no logic could make sense of it. Their eyes were murderous. Their threats were searing and painful. Nothing hurt more than the screams of the innocent ones, the people, the children, the ones who had never hurt or suffered.
Whose sense of justice made this happen? Was it even real? It was so visible that it became invisible, a mesh of blood and gore, of swords and regality and fear.
He ran as fast as his legs could carry him. His family was already shuffled away. Two steps behind and he heard them as they cried out. They didn't say his name. They did not want him found. He wished he were with them, so he would not feel alone.
He hid and watched, wide eyed as they came and teased skin with bronze and copper. He never thought human life was so frail, his skin so thin and worthless. He couldn't look down to hide his terror. His eyes were glued wide open, so full of fright that for so long he could not even think of moving.
"You bandits had it coming to you!" They cried, eyes white and black and lacking in any semblance of guilt or compassion.
"You all deserve to die! The nation has supported you for far too long!"
"The faster you run, the faster we'll find you!"
"The Pharaoh's God commands it! The Pharaoh needs to wipe your tainted blood from this land!"
"Petty thieves! You brought this all upon yourselves!"
They had nothing to give but their bones. He heard them crying as the army came and took them swiftly into the next world.
Commanders came through, a priest of the highest order with a look of the devil, and men carrying the various dead. Their eyes were bugged out and lifeless, shut tight and pale with throbbing red tears. Their arms were limping and legs snapped in two. Their hands were curled around others', a final farewell.
It was a lifeless parade, like soulless, angry soldiers carrying painted human dolls. Hideous, grotesque and deformed. The ground was stained in blood, and it permeated the walls and deep into the underground, the afterlife, the mud where the bad people went when they died.
He was too afraid to run out and attack them. He was young, he was defenseless. He could not even lift a sword to swing it, let alone murder a single one of these savages. The priest in the front was smiling. His hands were not yet covered in blood.
The boy shook with fear. He was smart enough to know he could not do a thing, and it hurt.
With wild eyes, a man shot a glance over to his window, his door, his hiding place. Taking a side step, the man spoke aloud to another.
"There's one we missed--," he said, pointing to the place where the boy was. "Shall we take 'im too?"
The boy spun around and hid behind the wall, staring into the darkness of the rest of the empty home. They continued to talk, but his tension was such that it made his vision turn white with pure terror.
"No, the High Priest says we have all we need. Let the little one be."
"Pity," said the first soldier, spitting off to the side. "All we need is for a little one to grow, and we'll just have another thief to deal with. Let's just get him now, before he has the chance--."
"Don't forget the orders of the High Priest," said the second one. "Let's do what we need, first. These bodies need to go into that building over there. Don't worry about one scrawny kid. He'll die out here without anyone, anyway."
"Heheh... Saves me the trouble of bringing out my sword again. Lucky bastard."
"Come on."
The two soldiers walked on with their heavy weights, the dead they were dragging along. The boy was frantic with fear. Once the parade march came to a finish, he heard the muffled laughter of a multitude of men. Then there was silence. The voice of the high priest rose above all others. He could only hear clippits of his speech, hidden behind the crackling of a searing fire, the sawing and tearing of limbs.
"...with these lowly sacrifices shall be made seven items..."
The boy scrambled out of his doors to hear better, to try and see what was happening. His eyes darted around skillfully, noticing any movement, if anyone was near enough to threaten him. He made it to another hideout. He knew how to evade enemy eyes.
"...wield a mighty power, so vast that no army holds a chance against it..."
He glanced inside the chamber, down the stairs where the stage was set. One wrong move and he could be noticed. What he saw was no less shocking than before, but this time they were not his friends, his family, his neighbors and companions being slaughtered before him. These were lifeless dolls. Surely these were not real people.
"...their dark blood shall mix with this pure gold, and the items shall be created..."
Toy limbs were shocked apart, cast inside the mass of boiling yellow. A crimson line painted the yellow with a dark flare. Stirring it, it cast the gold into a deeper shade, but it shone with the power of the sun. The huge vat of blood and gold bubbled and boiled like a witch's brew. The entire room smelled like copper and sweat. It stung in the boy's nose, his eyes rimmed with it like dry and painful tears. How had this all been set up so fast? How much time had passed?
"...with these items, our people will live in peace and freedom for millennia! By the Pharaoh's will we make it so! By the will of the Gods, we make it so!"
The army cried out with empty cheers. The bodies were kicked and strewn around, added to the vat, being filled by darkness. The room felt confined, stretched to the limit with darkness. The boy could feel the evil in the hearts of these men, the leaders, the high priest, even the Pharaoh who ordered this done. Betrayed by the Pharaoh. Betrayed by the Gods.
"Justice shall prevail in this kingdom once more! No longer shall our people suffer. No longer shall your families go hungry or live in fear of assault and captivity. Divine law makes our land powerful! These are the very weapons of the Gods!"
The mixture of boiling yellow and red was poured into a mould, a strange sculpture from which evil would be born. A greedy, hungry mist enveloped the men. Sometime later, the black vapor vanished and bright jewels appeared upon the shape of an empty man, like a sarcophagus with no body, the hollow crypt of a nameless and sinister king.
The high priest laughed, and the soldiers followed alongside him. Darkness like a monster rose from the sculpture, an evil heart attacking the evil men who created it, called it into being. The boy could not see all that was happening, for everything occurred in a blur. The darkness expanded and dissipated, but did not disappear for good. In fact, it multiplied. It was seeded in the very walls of the city, the empty heart of the chamber, but it could no longer be seen.
The boy ran to hide again, in a place out of sight of all the others. He was shaking and sweating, but his hands were cold as ice. What was it that happened? It was so real it was almost illusionary, but the smell of blood and gold, the smell like twisted copper, was etched in his mind. He could taste it on his tongue, and it seeped down his throat, making it constrict and threaten to choke.
All he could see in the darkness of his hiding place was the reflection of the fire on the dark gold items. His fear was absolute, and he did not move from his spot. The image, like the taste of the scent, was all consuming. It burned like a fire on his soul.
Blood and gold. Blood and gold was his life, his past and present and the thing that would haunt his dreams even as he walked awake. Blood and gold was eternal, his companions and family preserved for all time. The empty dolls and soulless eyes of the dead were nothing in comparison to the red and yellow fire of gold smelt in the shadows. The blood in that gold was his own.
He felt so much that his heart died with fear. He stopped shaking, but he did not stop thinking. The gold fire. The bones of his village. The cries of the innocent dead. The laughter of the high priest. The angry taunts of the soldiers. The divine justice of the Pharaoh.
What had they done to deserve such a fate? Whose sense of justice brought such misery?
His thoughts boiled away the fear. He felt as hollow as the stone on which he knelt to keep himself steady. His feet were bare, too poor for good sandals. How much money would it take to feel alive again?
His thoughts boiled down to merely feelings, lasting sensations. The taste of copper. The gold. The jewels, the items, the weapons of the Gods made of his blood.
His feelings boiled down to hatred.
Hatred of the soldiers. Hatred of the high priest. Hatred of the Gods who betrayed him.
Hatred of the Pharaoh, whose twisted sense of justice did not include the opinions of the people he claimed to protect.
His hatred brought him back to life, filled the hollows of his fragmented body with a passion to define justice on his own. He could paint on a smile and pretend, but inside he was only a clay doll, fashioned with a desire for blood and gold.
He ran a hand through his unnaturally white hair, filling it with dust and debris. He let his head hang between his knees, curled up against a wall. For now, all he could do was wait, and dream that he was really alive.
Well, that's my take. Little Bakura's drawn so cute in the manga. :::: He's certain to have been a pesky little brat with puppy-dog eyes that no one could resist! Too bad all you see of him is him watching as his village gets slaughtered, so he's all wide eyed and scared. Hope my fic wasn't too painfully boring.
Please review? I'll sparkle if you review! Hehe. :)