I hope I haven't confused anyone into believing that thief Bakura is Catholic Christian. That's M'emo. One thing they do have in common is being fluent in 12 Egyptian dialects. But M'emo also knows later languages that aren't invented yet. Bakura just quotes random things and Diabound sings songs that haven't been created yet.

Note to that one reviewer: Psst, there is a smoochy scene at the end of this chapter. pause

Note to everyone else: Don't take that seriously.

Kisara was jerked awake quite suddenly, and it occurred to her that they had reached some vicious turbulence. What a strange happening, she thought; the winds couldn't be that treacherous. . . . They certainly didn't feel like that, yet Diabound was flailing about in it, as though about to suffer a hurricane. Bakura was yelling at him, too loud and indistinct for her to decipher. She only caught a few words here and there—

"For gods' sakes just ignore it!"

"But Bakura . . . it hurts . . . we need to stop . . ."

"No! Keep on going!"

But evidently Diabound wasn't going to keep on going, whether he wanted him to or not. His wings were quickly given out, and from what Kisara could see, the snake had fallen and was now little more than a dead weight at the end of the human half. Regardless of Bakura's valiant show of stubbornness, they were going down. Kisara yelped, grabbing hold of Diabound in hopes of not flying off, an empty hope. She found herself flailing through the air (somehow she recalled this happening not too long ago . . .), the air screeching past her, the ground flying nearer, and then a sudden splash.

Bakura was the first to regain his senses after the fall, partially because the sensation of running water bringing forth even more blood from one's wound was quite nasty enough to bring anyone to their senses. He cursed, shook the water out of his eyes and hair, and looked quickly around. They had fallen into a river—most likely some annex of the Nile, with a few pleasant-looking trees not far off. He saw Diabound fallen not far off . . . and Kisara, looking nearly dead and floating away at a rather alarming velocity.

Neither of those traits were preferable to him, and he was quick to put an end to them both. He called to Diabound sharply, but the beast wouldn't wake, and so with a frustrated snort he darted after Kisara by himself. He caught her and dragged her ashore, holding her nearly upright and trying to bring the water out of her lungs. It was outstanding how quickly she had nearly drowned.

When it seemed she was to remain in the nearly catatonic state, he found himself suddenly very anxious for her to wake up. For a brief moment, the cause of such a fear perplexed him, but of course the cause was eminent: If she were dead, he would lose any leverage against Set. If she were merely unconscious, he risked being the victim of her dragon. He shook her again, but it was still another few minutes until she was properly restored, squinting up at him in uncomfortable confusion.

She didn't seem to recall where she was or who he was for a few moments, her expression blank. Then, of course, realization came to her eyes, deluded by the pain and the wet and miserable and oh. . . . Overwhelmed by the moment and her terrible situation, she wept, limp in his arms. Involuntarily, Bakura felt a twinge of sympathy for her. A recollection of a similar predicament was brought forth, but he managed to subdue it.

"Quiet, girl," he snapped, tossing her down onto the sand and getting up, which of course only exacerbated the situation, and she cried out even louder. Thoroughly irritated, Bakura walked away from her into the shade of the tree and sat there until her anguish was overcome—something that happened about fifteen minutes later. That finished, he looked to her briefly, then went back to what had been occupying his thoughts previously: the blank air, something that managed to entertain him a good deal of the time.

"We'll have to stay here for the night," he announced, to both Kisara and his ka. Kisara nodded slightly, but he didn't notice, nor did he notice when she made her pathetic way to the shade and sat down somewhere near him, like a defeated, wretched animal. She sniffed a little, and kept her knees hugged up to her chest, but she was otherwise sedate. Bakura didn't mind her presence. Could it even be considered a comfort? It was difficult to tell, as the components for real companionship were beginning to grow fuzzy in his memory—it had been so long since he had known anyone fully that the memory was far off and somehow perverted by time that he questioned its validation. But he was sure that having anyone else near him would be a great discomfort to him, so perhaps Kisara's silence was a treasure all on its own.

Diabound wasn't taking the dilemma well at all. As the sun began to sink below the horizon, he fretted about blood loss, fretted about his own pains, fretted over Kisara—it was only Bakura's icy glare that managed to silence him. And with the silence that followed, Kisara tried to tie herself into a knot, in hopes of disappearance.

Just then, she noticed her belongings that she had bought in the city, scattered about her. Scampering from one to the next like a mouse after breadcrumbs, she gathered them all to herself and sat back down to look through them. Her dresses had gotten a bit wet, but she managed to amuse herself by scrutinizing them, admiring them. She really might look pretty in them, regardless if there was anyone there to see her. It was the girlish joy of wearing them.

Then she observed a strange bottle, placed matter-of-factly in the middle of her possessions. She took it up in her hand, observing some strange concoction within, certainly not of water.

"What's this you've got, girl?" Bakura interjected, snatching the bottle up out of her hands before she could look further.

"I . . . I don't know. . . ." she admitted. The thief merely snorted in reply. He examined the bottle, popped off the top, and sniffed at its contents. Deeming it to be nonpoisonous, he took a sip and walked away with it.

"Where you going?" asked Diabound petulantly.

"Somewhere without that girl's whining," he replied, none too quietly. Though Kisara had in fact been quiet for quite some time, she felt a sort of stabbing sensation in her chest at the accusation.

Diabound followed his master sullenly as the captive watched, and quickly followed. Unnoticed, she trotted after them, until a tall boulder served her to better use. Bakura settled down a few yards away, his Ka having draped itself encircling that general area. She observed now that the sun was setting, and doing quite a pretty job of it. She shielded her eyes from it so that her brow would not hurt from squinting.

Bakura took another swig from the bottle he had acquired and was silent, staring off sullenly into the lucid sky. Again it amazed her just how quiet he could be, and for how long—one would imagine that such a quiet soul would be shaky and weak in speech, yet she knew with what conviction and passion he could speak. It was, perhaps, that she had come across one of the few human beings who would actually take the time to consider what he said before he said it, something his Ka didn't seem to share.

"Now will you do something about that cut?" Diabound pleaded.

"In a minute," Bakura said, noncommittally, like a child putting off a household chore. "After I get a bit of rest, without the wind or that dragon girl's howls in my ears." (Howls? thought Kisara, hardly so!) "And the sooner you stop your silly bothering, the sooner I'll actually do what you want."

Then, to Kisara's surprise, the Ka addressed an issue that had been the core of her broodings for quite some time. "Why do you treat the girl like you do?" She observed that not even Diabound called her by her proper name, but that hardly mattered. What she cared about was his concern—she had always had the thoughts close to her, but had never thought to voice them. After all, Bakura had every right to treat her roughly, assuming he didn't kill her. The inquiry seemed out of place, awkward. She was glad she wasn't the one to have asked.

"Come again?" said the thief, meeting the gaze of the huge snake, causing it to cringe back considerably.

"Why do you have to treat Kisara so badly? She's a nice person, it seems such a shame that you do . . ." He paused, as if through revelation. "It would seem almost hypocritical of you, considering your own—"

"What?" snapped Bakura. "A hypocrite, am I? You know I'm not doing this on my own behalf, you know how much time and thought I've put into this retribution—oh, but of course, if you do think so, of course I'm being hypocritical! And selfish, at that! Is there anything else you would like to accuse me of?"

"Aw, no, Bakura, we didn't mean that . . ." cooed the human half, shrugging its shoulders defensively. After further questioning as to his real meaning, the ka merely shrugged again. Then, after a short moment: "I know you're only doing this for them, Bakura, but—what would you do if you actually did something on your own behalf for once?"

Bakura made a sound if that were the most idiotic question possible to ask. "Well, I certainly wouldn't be here." As to where here was, he didn't specify.

Diabound was surely aware that his luck was running deathly thin, but he carried on: "This was never part of the original plan, Bakura, and you know it. This kidnapping, raiding—you said all you wanted to do was take your revenge out on the Pharaoh, and you have . . . why can't you just let it rest, think of something else for a while?"

"I have no future, Diabound, you know it as well as I do. Thievery is a plausible profession but hardly a wholesome one . . . and frankly my family's honor and reputation is ruined enough without it."

"You were the one who really emphasized that old tale that it was a thief's town. . . ."

"Shut up!"

Bakura now stood, if briefly, his hands clenched. Kisara wondered what Diabound could possibly mean to achieve with this argument. He would only make him angry . . . or would he? Bakura was losing himself far too quickly, in his elongated silences Kisara had observed him to be someone who knew that showing anger meant showing weakness. Diabound meant to get through his stubbornness—why he had waited until now, she was not sure. But then it became clear: the Ka finally lead on to his thesis.

"Bakura, please, see reason for once! You know you cannot handle this, you will only end up hurting everyone. . . ."

"What does it matter what I can or can't handle? I'm not a child anymore, Diabound, so stop insisting like I act like one!"

"It's that ring you had, Bakura, that made you so mean, even to your own family, surely you notice the difference now that it's gone, it's better this way, don't go back to the city for it, it's an evil thing. . . ."

"The Millennium Items belong by right to Kru-Elna." said Bakura stately. "I refuse to abandon them simply because of your stupid superstitions about them."

Diabound whinnied. "But Bakura, be reasonable. Would your family really want this? They were simple folk. They're not worth all this. . . ."

He had gone down the wrong road. The thief's eyes flashed with a rage previously reserved only for the Pharaoh. His voice a deep growl, he warned, "Don't tell me what my family is or is not worth." And then he spoke no more.

Several moments passed in quiet. "Oh," moaned the human half of Diabound, "This is all wrong, this is all wrong. . . ." but from his master he received no consultation. Instead he sat silently for a few minutes, then stood, with the intent of returning to the small oasis.

Kisara leapt up and hurried before him, so that he wouldn't know that she had been eavesdropping. Thus, she sat down in the sand and trailed her finger through the water idly:

"Hullo," she said matter-of-factly, as Bakura came close. He halted, looked into the water, and he did so perhaps a bit haphazardly, as the contents of the bottle were surely alcoholic and probably had some power over him. But either it had subdued effect on him or he was intentionally keeping himself sober, most likely the latter. Kisara puzzled silently over this, wondering if Diabound's insistence that he didn't do any drinking was perhaps misled.

Then, "Hullo," he returned, and Kisara was suddenly stunned. She had been so little expecting a response, much less one so lacking in evil intent . . . ! And then he sat down not far from her, staring rather broodingly at the water. Perhaps, she thought, Diabound's thoughts were what he thought in his own head as well. It would make sense, as Diabound was indeed a reflection of him. If it were true, then surely his statement would have hurt more than any accusation the king's priests could have made. It was plenty reason to set him off balance, for as much as he could shout in the Ka's presence, she felt sure that he possessed a sense of conscience—how ever perturbed and deluded--that was bound to claw at him in his moments of silence. Perhaps that was why he had returned to her.

"The Nile will flood late this year," he observed idly. "A shame, the farming communities will suffer. Eventually it might also get to the cities, but . . . they always buy so much bloody surplus . . . which'll all go to rot anyway, it doesn't matter. . . ."

Kisara ventured to relate. "My family," she said quietly, "lives underground mostly . . . we don't hear of the farmers aboveground . . . but when it rains sometimes it floods us." She paused. "That's . . . how my little brother died."

Saying this seemed to spark a profound interest in Bakura, and for the first time he came to look at her directly, as though first acknowledging her being. She was immediately self-conscious: his stare was deep and sharp, and seemed very out of place.

"You had a younger brother?" he asked.

She nodded, though slowly. "Yes . . . he was young, only about four. It didn't take much water to drown him, it was sad . . ."

"Your only brother?" he pursued.

"Yes."

He nodded his head sideways. "I imagine, then, that families have become smaller since I was a child. . . ." But then he made a sound almost in disgust, and said, "But of course it hasn't been nearly that long—merely seems as much. How much could it have been since that day? Ten years, added to the four . . . fourteen years, and since it is now nearing the rainy season, it has been two months, also; now dusk, it is eight hours until the almost morning whereupon the sun will never rise again. . . ."

At this point Bakura seemed to have forgotten Kisara's presence altogether. The drink had caused him to talk of much more than he would have been inclined to otherwise, talking for his own behalf, giving such little information as to bar understanding, but saying enough so as to instill a curious fear into his captive's heart, remind her of the foggy dream and dread the sleeping hours. She wished that fear quenched, ever so, and was inclined to inform Bakura of her nightmare when he continued:

"And of course the Pharaoh was meant to die . . . what matter if it was not what I originally set out to do, it's what my family would have wanted—it's what they do want, they told me so. . . ." He shook his head, as though intent upon physically dislodging some objectionable idea from it. Kisara shook slightly, the notion that she was in the presence of a madman returning to her. He frightened her, made her pity him, caused her to hug her legs to her chest, bury her head in her arms, to speak. . . .

"Bakura?" she whispered, the hum of the wind nearly overpowering the sound. He did not hear her, or at least showed no sign of having heard. He eyed the water intently now, so absorbed in its workings that she felt sure that he was in search of something below its surface. Not something wispy or abstract, no reassurances, no recollections, but something more concrete. What that thing was, however, she could hardly determine.

"I fear that the image has become foggy now," said Bakura, "One can now almost question whether anything that has happened before now was real or just some madness I have made from my own mind. Surely it would relieve some of the pain to confide in another . . . but there is, of course, no one. There is no reason that any outsider would wish to be near one so cursed—and Diabound is stupid in his idealistic views, he would very much like to think that Kru-Elna had never fallen, he sees not the necessity of revenge," Here he took pause yet again to search the waters. "However, that girl. . . ." And here Kisara felt as if the gods themselves had caught her insides and twisted. "That girl is not as the rest, certainly like none of those who dwell in the cities. There is perhaps—" But he cut short his musings in a sharp cry, springing up and stumbling back a few paces, as though visited upon by a specter. He had seen something in the water, Kisara was sure of that by his eyes, but upon looking she could find nothing so frightening. The thief murmured something to himself that Kisara could not hear, but she shivered: here already was a new emotion from her captor that she had never known before—fear, a dreadful, hopeless fear that spread to her as well. She also wished to be as far away from the water as possible, flitting back to the shelter of the trees.

Bakura lingered, eyes fixed on the spot where he had seen the ghost—if that was indeed what it was—shaking slightly. But the scare did seem to have a sobering effect on him, and within a minute or two he joined Kisara by the trees, quite nearly back to normal and in a rather sour mood (though, she observed, he still appeared to be in the practice of talking to himself):

"That bloody Diabound had better stop whining soon, I'm sick of sitting here," he growled. "We would be perfect prey if Set were to find us here, and I can't risk loosing everything for some silly flesh would." Immediately after he had said this, he faltered, finally acknowledging the cut, but just as quickly he shrugged it off. "Why are you staring at me like that, girl?" he demanded. "Have some respect, you're bloody lucky for some regular hostage whore: most would have had you raped by now."

Kisara replied quietly that she was much reassured by this indeed. Bakura took her response as substantial, storming off to gripe at Diabound. Kisara shivered as she watched him leave, and wiped the sand from her eyes.

Presently she found herself falling asleep. As her lids closed, she could almost see the shapes of the ghastly trees forming around her, but they did not come. It is hard to tell when or how one thing leads to another in the foggy land of one's sleeping hours—she knew that she had begun in with the trees, but then just as quickly she was somewhere else: The sun had long been set now, and the light of the moon permitted her a vision.

She thought herself to be not truly alive; she was not fully aware of having arms to move, nor hands to touch; nay, she felt rather like the narrator in some epic poem—an ambiguous observer, a helpless watcher.

Like most dreams, it was difficult to put a proper order to anything; one moves about as though shrouded in a golden fog, one that appears acceptable while in the state of unconsciousness, yet nigh unimaginable to the waking eye. What she saw now tugged at her memory as though she had lived through them once before—and it would not be until much sober meditation was done on the subject that she would realize that she had never known anyone she had seen in sleep. Yet it was definitely someone's memory she had stepped into, and not a perfect one, either. The rooms, the people in them, the clothes they wore—everything seemed tinted a raggedy shade of grey, and their movements were often jerky and unnatural. It became clear that the recollection was an unwanted one, somehow morbid or condemming. In her half-existent being, Kisara drew back.

There was a boy there, and upon seeing his white hair Kisara accepted him to be Bakura, only partially registering that he must have been much younger. He was watching, with no particular enthusiasm, a women she could only assume to be his mother. She did not share the stark-white quality of his hair, though it did appear to be graying quite prematurely, and she ran her hand through it as she paused in her work. She was weaving a coat out of colored wool with a makeshift machine that went ko-chunk, ko-chunk whenever she wanted to secure the treads in place. She ran her fingers down the cloth to check for mistakes, having finished the initial design. Craftily, she toyed with a strand of wool until it came undone, then wove it in the contraption, finally securing it with another strand to perfect the pattern. Bakura swayed in anticipation, but when she finally held up the finished product, the brilliant red and white coat that she had always seen the present day Bakura wear, his movements froze and he stared at it. There was obvious disappointment in his expression which only grew as the coat was fitted over him. It was sadly large for him, draping more like a women's gown then a proper coat, and he shrugged it off mechanically.

"What's wrong, Bakura?" inquired his mother, a small note of desperation about her. "Don't you like it?"

"It's fine," he said, in that tone that half hoped that she would catch the sarcasm and half that she would not. Immediately after he shook it off completely and scampered off into another room so as not to embarrass himself with his own frustrated tears.

Now instead of waiting to see the mother's reaction to all this, Kisara found herself remaining with Bakura, who had forced himself into a corner. As with most little boys, he was unwilling to admit even to himself his own vulnerability and was going quite red with the effort. He uttered half-boiled insults to his mother and the loathsome present, scowling at the floor with a scowl, hiding his face altogether when a newcomer stepped into the room: his father.

He was tall and muscular, in many ways like the modern Bakura, but with a far more pleasant disposition. He wore a rather dirtied robe made in a similar fashion to the one Bakura had been given and had messy black hair which he scratched at absentmindedly as he eyed his dejected son. The intention of this visitation was nothing new. Something in the strange mentality of the good husband insisted that he should come to the aide of his wife when confronted with such a horrible threat as a seven-year-old pouting son. He approached Bakura and crouched down next to him, his brow furrowed and jaw set to show abject disappointment. Finally he took a breath and said:

"I know you been watching her make that thing for you. How long she been at that weaver now?" No reply. He pursued. "Four weeks? Five? Six, even?" Bakura muttered some incomprehensible reply, still refusing to glance upwards. The father sighed. "Bakura, you made your mother very sad just now. She's been very busy taking care of the baby, but she went through all that trouble to make you that coat because you wanted it so badly. And now you won't even wear it!"

"She just could have bought one from the caravan," Bakura muttered grudgingly. "This one looks stupid. Why can't I have one like the other kids?"

"Because," said his father sagely, but then paused to collect his thoughts. "Because . . . well, it wouldn't be special then. Your mother takes pride in her weaving, and when someone puts that much care and love into something, it means something more than something you can just buy somewhere else. Do you understand?"

"No."

After another elongated breath, he nodded his head to one side and stood. "Well, you will someday, son." He turned to leave, but added as he disappeared through the door, "Now go apologize to your mother, Bakura." But as to be expected, Bakura didn't move. The lecture had hurt his budding ego quite a bit, he wasn't about to damage it any more.

His attempts to remain there until pitied upon by his mother failed, and he soon lost interest in the endeavor. He quitted the room.

Outside, the sun was beginning to set—a cheery red-orange hue. Bakura scampered out of the house and stared about at the other adobes indecisively until he came across an old woman sitting peacefully in front of her door, admiring the sunset.

"Hey, Auntie Emmah," he said.

The woman smiled faintly and looked to him. "Ah, Bakura! What brings you here today? Did you get that new coat your mother was making for you, hmm?"

"No," said Bakura, "it was too big, an' Ah hated it. Everyone will laugh at me now. . . ."

"Ahh. . . ." said Aunt Emmah, rocking back in her chair. "That's a shame."

"An' then Dad yelled at me, he's so stupid—Ah don't ever wanna go back there."

"Is that so?" Still, indifference in her voice. Bakura seemed to accept this answer, and quieted himself for some time after. A good few minutes passed in this fashion, until he ventured, on an entirely different subject—

"Hey, have there been any travelers come to Kru-Elna in a while?"

The old woman paused. "Oh, not for some time now. Ever since those rumors got started up about us being bandit-housers, seems everyone's been avoiding our poor village."

Bakura propped up his elbows on the porch. "Why d'people go an' spread rumors like that when they're not true?" he inquired.

She shrugged. "Oh, people rarely need a reason. If a person can't find someone else to detest, he gets anxious and jittery. You kids all know perfectly well the rumors you start about each other aren't true, and yet you go on believing them, don't you?"

"Well, yeah. . . ."

"There you go, then."

"But— but-" Bakura sighed, realizing his defeat. The two sat in silence for some while, the old woman rocking back and forth peacefully. Suddenly, she glanced up, leaned forward, a look of interest passing her face.

"Well, speak of the devil," she murmured, "I do believe I see someone coming right now."

Bakura whirled around and, seeing the newcomers in the distance, clapped his hands enthusiastically. "Oh! Oh, wonderful! I bet they're bringing spices and potteries and everything! Come on, auntie, let's watch!"

And then the world blacked out. Kisara gasped, suddenly aware of her own presence. She blinked, glanced around a little at the twanging ring of utter silence.

She heard a confused utterance of something she couldn't quite comprehend and then, with all the severity as if she were the one hit, she heard it. The perfect ring of a blade, accompanied by the ever-so-small sound of quickly severed flesh. And then, naturally, the screaming. Screaming from all around her. She wheeled about, hearing it far away, right in her ear. She heard maddened hoof beats, coming far too close, right over her. She was losing balance, waving her arms frantically to catch herself—

She woke with a start, her chest aching with her sudden awakening. She had rolled onto Diabound.

And now the moment of truth.

Diabound: grabs the Blues Eyes White Dragon and gives her a big wet one

And there you have it.

Hah, I love using the word "perverted" in a non-sexual way.