It rose from the sand; a rearing behemoth of goldenrod, both defiant and withstanding of relentless desert wind. So lavish and marvellously flourished it was, set in such a desolate plain... the vast abyss filled with what would eventually become the sands of time to a drifter, one could only wonder as to how it rose from the depths; from the very grains themselves. Perhaps it did.
Facing the east, as to catch the amber eye the moment it touched the moon-chilled sands, the palace would soon be cast aglow with its daily aura, its magnificence, as if it was another sun somehow left behind; its very essence.
But for now, only the emerald tinge on the hem of the sky was signate of such a forthcoming. Despite this time that so harshly demanded silence from those of flesh, two darkly clad forms stood before the great jaws of the palace entrance. The soft coo of wind through the shallow wall grooves occasionally veiled the figures' murmured exchange. Both were facing the palace entrance, its threshold gravitating attention with its elaborate accents. But this was not of what the two discussed.
There, in the center of the stone entrance hung a rag-wrapped corpse, dangling to the peak of the arch by a single spike-transfixed bandage. The long-dead form swayed, a graveyard pendulum, its facial wrappings torn to frays and wafting vaguely in a whispering breeze. It was as if the two were hypnotized by the methodical movement of the body, or perhaps by the grotesque bits of flesh that still clung to its exposed, sunken face.
The figure nearest the macabrous sight was a great deal older than the other. Crevices and burrows were visible into his leather-brown face, as if a rather sloppy artist had etched them in. Coarse white hair surrounded thin lips, giving his stern features a sage and timely air. A simple white cloak enveloped his aged frame, his head dominated by a volumious hood. None of these details, however, stood out as much as the golden orb that resided where his left eye had once been.
His companion, as alluded, was a young man, nary a flaw upon his prematurely solemn features. A finely-sculpted bone structure was all but hidden beneath a formal priest headdress, the brim casting shade over hawk-blue optics. Next to the plainly clad old man he cut a very impressive figure, to say in the least; his shoulders seemed to taper upwards with large, golden mounts, similarly-composed bands adorning his slender arms, chest, and lithe waist. Dark blue cloth covered his torso and waist, the golfen-bordered garb gravitating about a golden ankh on the priest's chest. This ambient presence, coupled with the gold rod, gave the impression of a lightning bolt-bearing Zeus; a god who walked among men,
The old man's voice was slightly choked by age, not facing the man as he spoke. "We must await the monks to cleanse the area before anyone goes near."
They lapsed into a silence, the young man seeming to listen to something far away. "Who has defiled Akunumkanon in this... despicable manner?" he asked quietly, though he knew the answer. He merely wanted a full account from the other man, who seemd to have an ear to the ground with all happenings in the kingdom.
Akunadin's reamainging almond eye briefly brushed the corpse again, closing momentarily in a hollow resignation. "His Pharaoh's sarcophogus was disturbed when his tomb was trespassed upon... no longer than five hours ago." he had known the younger man's subtle request disguised as an inquery, obliging as always; the priest had only been summoned from his chambers no more than an hour prior to their rendezvous.
"The scribes' chamber was intruded upon as well. Many recordings and the like were stolen..." he felt his companion's presence tense slightly. "...that was when Akunumkanon was disvcovered. The sentry was hysterical for several minutes, supposedly from the presence of the Dead... but..."
The deititious man waited patiently for the report's conclusion. He finally prodded for it. "But?"
The man still held a seasoned gaze on his capering brother, once the most powerful being in Egypt, now a ridiculed ragdoll, conforming to the sand-speckled winds.
"It was because he saw him, Seto, murdering his fellow guard as he watched from a hidden berth. Bakura."
For a moment the two lapsed into silence, only the wind droning as it pulled at their clothing like an attention-hungry child. "What is it you wish to do, Priest Seto?" Akunadin waited for a response from the young man behind him; he received none. "Priest...?" he turned to his superior.
The horizon had rapidly begun to shed the dark fur of a nightsky, a fire flaring rapidly behind the lithe young man. As if the heavens themselves were enveloped in the beginnings of a blazing inferno, the fierce eye mounted the reaches of sight and illuminated the priest. Liquid gold swallowed his frame, glinting from his adorned body and giving him an aura of a god himself. The object he palmed, gold itself with the mark of Horus seemed aflame as he spoke.
"My only wish..." The impending brilliance and intenisty of the liquid fire that drenched , no, engulfed his lean body seemed to leave his eyes untouched. Like the sky - both in color and depth. "...is to serve to the pharaoh to His every whim."
The sun fully mounted into the cerulean depths. The body of Akunumkanon became motionless.
o-o-o-
The suffocating heat was denied passage to the young man, cool water having enveloped his lean body. Again a wooden pail was filled and again he poured it over himself, eyes half-masted and head reclined slightly. The red linen cloak was absent of the thief, leaving the water to trace the hollows in his skin, memoirs of blades that had sunk their mark. Darkened vines twined about him, snakes that seemed to writhe when he moved; ones that seemed to hiss when looked upon.
Only his frayed pants remained, the offwhite linen wavering slightly as a merciful desert wind blew by the figure. Running the unoccupied hand through his ivorn mane, he let the water seep past it and bless the back of his neck. The knifeslits of mahogony grew slightly, more amberesque pouring forth as if lifeblood from some deepening wound. Lips turned up slightly, revealing the tips of premordial jags as the figure's gaze bore up into the fatal sun.
"You haven't me yet." he muttered, replacing the pail on the sandstoned well.
The black stallion lifted his head from his own pail of water, reguarding the approaching thief with polite curiousity. He gave a half-classed grin as thre wind snapped the buck's ebony locks, the steed's gentle brown eyes adapted to the sand-spat breeze. He had even taken a palace horse.
Slipping his cloak back over his still slick chest, the Bandit King stepped astride his mount, tightening the reins looped about the well's wooden railing. He unfastened the pack of spoils from the beast's back, slinging it over his shoulder before turning back to the corpse of a village.
The skeletal remains of huts, meager scraps of the civilization, denied that they had ever housed flesh with their now bare frames. Wind and sand, rain and storm had eaten away the memory of life that had once flickered. The gathering of small dwellings that had once given forth the joys and losses of mortal existence, those that had bourne witness to the slaughter of a weak militia, those that had been flecked with the scarlet life of slain children, that had echoed with the piercing grief of a widow, were now simply fossils of what had once been.
The thief drew a deep breath, letting his breathing fend off the overwhelming sound of unjust death. He was home; Kuru Elna.
Like thorns, the spirits seemed to press against him, whispers melting with the breeze and forcing themselves into this mind. He closed them off; this was the only time it felt unsavory to his interests, this task that was chained to him.
A slow ache of reminder strove fruitlessly to crawl into his chest, his hiding place of oh-so many years ago reaching his sights. It was there he had stowed away, the deathcries of his playmates and neighbors fresh unto his ears, engraining themselves into his mind with white-hot reality. He could scarcely distinguish his heartbeats as bellowing calvary unhesistatingly crushed children beneath coalish hooves, the beautiful brown sands inked a vivid crimson...
It was here the slow ache of reminder revolted against his control, forcing itself unbidden to his mind. He heard himself gasp before -
"Bakura? Bakura!" his mother's voice rang out for him. His eyes widened as he saw the young woman running towards him, having to avoid the bodies carpeting everthing. He felt a pang of relief and joy at seeing his mother through the haze of blood and carnage. So badly he wanted to leap from his niche in the wall and run towards her as well, but he was so horrified... he was helpless in the wave of terror that threw him like a leaf in the gale.
"Bakura!" she called again, her voice cracking with emotion, dark hair streaming behind her. Her eyes suddenly dimmed, and everything slowed down.
At first he didn't even know why she had stopped. Around her the chaotic scene had lulled slightly, but the harvest was not yet over. He felt a moan crawl form his throat as he saw the spears that had claimed the woman's chest erupt from the flesh, scarlet rain in their wake.
Growling, he shook his head sharply, causing his pale hair to ripple slightly. Doing his level best to ignore the area, he trudged onward to a small, covered pit in the center of the village. A sheet of iron was laid over the small concavity, but this was kicked aside as the thief dropped the sack from his shoulder. As if alive, the embers within the pit began to glow as the wind brushed them. His own private dusk.
Soon the embers grew into a pillar of golden-red, dancing and flickering for the attention of any. The now empty sack was limp with a lack of contents, the scrolls it once held having been fed to the beautiful fiery plumage.
Eyes veiled, head reclined heavenward, Bakura felt the lingering presence of death cringe away from the fire. Here was life, the exuberance that defied stillness, and the opposition could not bear its presence. Forced back, the spirits quietened.
How funny. Though the fire blazed then, so full of energy and existence, moments ago was it not merely a trace of what it was now? And upon devouring itself, soon would it not return to the same state? Of course, it could not rear itself lest there was a driving force that spurred it into life, that stoked it into brilliant existence. Why, then, did it seem so invincible? Was merely that which seemed immortal really hollow and weak, and the powerless not nearly as feeble as presumed?
The dying flames summoned the thief form his musings, tamed by the lack of itself to it former embers. The pit was quickly reconcealed.
o-o-o-