Notes: Hello readers! I hope that all returning are used to my writing style by now…heh. If you are then I think you'll find this chapter to your liking. Ryou arrives at last! I'm dying to know what you guys think of him. His character is sort of a mystery, so I took some liberties there as well. Also, someone alerted me as to the shipping of the pairing in this story. I found out that tendershipping only includes Yami BakuraxRyou. I have Thief King BakuraxRyou so that would be gemshipping. Sorry for the mistake! Enjoy, (hi fallen-angel!).
Warning: Contains yaoi, yes…isn't that why you're here? Blood, gore, language, character death…your decision to stay or not.
Disclaimer: I don't own Yu-Gi-Oh.
Chapter 2
"Why give yourself up like this, Ryou?"
The boy asked himself this question. His dirty, cracked leather sandals hit the floor of the dungeon, slapping against the moisture there with a resounding squish that reverberated through the corridor. Snow white hair cascaded down upon bony shoulders. His skin, though pale by nature, was tinted darker by many harsh hours under the sun and a fresh coat of dirt that settled form months without bathing. Briefly he wondered why the floor was even wet if it did not rain down here or anything, but that was a topic best left alone.
The better question was: Why was he here? These were the dungeons of the pharaoh's palace. No one but thuggish guards, High Priest Akhenaden, and High Priest Seto dared to venture down here. It was a grim place filled with torture devices and the echoing memory of agonized prisoners, wallowing in pain, begging for unanswered deliverance. Ryou really was not supposed to be here. His master would kill him if he found out that he had been here in the first place…
His master. Such a mean man. Mindlessly, out of habit, Ryou felt the scars on his back where the whip had cut into him numerous times…then he stopped himself. That also was a topic best left alone. But he could not help it. These dungeons called back such bad emotions, making him slightly morose.
With surprising force, the boy wrenched his mind back on topic. Why was he here?
Because he had heard it. The sound of screams…so painful they could not be ignored.
Well, you should be hearing screams coming from this section of the palace… A more rational side of his mind mentioned. This is Pharaoh Atemu's prison.
Still…they sounded so painful…agonized…how could he just pass by? There had been four of them. In a row. Each with diminishing vigor but still so…had there been four? Was it more like five? Well, yes there were five. But the fifth one was more like a whimper than anything else. Ryou only heard it because he had strained to listen for more. Why had he strained? He wanted a name. A reason to put on his sheer empathy.
Why was he empathetic? That was the best question of all. He had no answer. But there was something about suffering…any suffering…it called to him consistently, inexplicably. And this person who bawled so helplessly sounded like he needed empathy. It was almost as if he had shouted Ryou's name when he screamed.
All that foolishness aside, you really should at least put the basin down. He was carrying a small basin of water, for his master's bath. The water was freshly drawn from the well and it was late in the evening when Ryou had been summoned for it. The well was always Ryou's favorite place to be when it was this time of night. Pure velvety blackness washed over him from the Egyptian sky. Yes, it was very cold. Freezing. But that was practically nothing if you looked at the beauty of the scene. The coldness actually added to the splendor, in all truth. It gave bite and magnificent pain to the simple pleasure.
The boy did not think it wise to put down the water. He may not return this way when he left and to loose his master's basin would surely be a cause for punishment. Punishment…Ryou did not need that. No. No. No, it was better to keep the basin…yes…the scars on his back began to sting out of memory…yes, keep the basin.
Now…if he could only figure out where he was in the dungeon. Oh, this had been a foolish decision. He was lost now. "Victim of your own foolishness," as his master always said. Ryou responded to this in silence. He rarely ever spoke. Ryou disliked speaking. Ever since his sister, (dear, precious Amane, who followed him everywhere and depended on him for everything), had been violated and beaten to death by thieves all those years ago, Ryou had hardly found any reason to speak more than a few words at a time to people other than himself. Speaking. It was an almost painful experience.
Enough of that. The most important thing—the very thing that would justify his presence here in the first place—was to find out where the prisoner he so desperately sought lay in agony. He needed to make a decision: Go back or keep searching for this man he did not even know, (and he knew it was a man, those cries had not been feminine).
By the gods, Ryou then came upon the perfect place for making decisions: A fork in the road. The corridor now split into three sections separate hallways. The one on his left was completely dark, not a torch in the entire hallway. Straight in front of him there appeared to be more insane torture devices with people…in them…Ryou tried not to look. Then on his right, there appeared to be a set of cages filled with raucous, dirty men that looked almost insane with rage. They were all piled on top of each other. Thousands of hands reached between the bars for a group of five guards, standing and laughing at them in their plight.
Ryou could never be caught here. The right corridor was eliminated immediately. Also, it did not seem like the man he wanted was housed there. None of the men were speaking coherently, anyway.
So it was either straight ahead or to the left. Ryou hated to enter the room filled with men being tortured, it would be impossible to help them all. Most likely, the cries he heard were form there…he should probably just turn around now.
Then to the left of him, he heard something strange. It sounded like only one person was imprisoned there in the darkness. Only one? He could hear just the sound of a single man growling to himself. Somehow…he knew that the person who had bellowed such an abandoned cry could only be down that corridor.
The decision was made. With his free hand, Ryou reached up and stole a torch from one of the walls, (he needed light, the darkness was impossible). Staring into his bleak destination as if staring into uncertainty itself, Ryou made the final choice. Once he went in there would be no return without profit. Was he ready?
Of course. Why ever not?
Cracked sandals sloshing on the watery floor, the boy plunged into the darkness to find the prisoner.
As soon as the light from the previous passage had disappeared behind him, still with no prisoners in sight, Ryou began to feel uneasy. This section of the dungeon was probably the worst torture imaginable. Complete lack of the senses. Ryou could think of nothing worse. Any person could go insane staying here for more than a few minutes…but there was no turning back now.
With his feeble torch that offered a width of less than five feet of light, the white haired slave started to feel chilled to his core. Something unnatural occurred in these depths, (occurred? Past or present? No way of knowing). Perhaps the most chilling thing of all about this was the distant moaning he heard of that single person. Each step brought him closer to this tormented man. What would he find when he finally got there?
Indeed, he was alone in this place. There were many twists and turns in the passage, but that was all part of a section of cells. All of them were empty, though. How was that possible? Maybe this type of torture had been outlawed or was only used on the most heinous of criminals.
The cries came closer and closer, with each passing step. Finally Ryou neared the cell that appeared to house the doomed criminal. Hesitantly, he offered the light to the cell. With slight reproach, he realized that his arm was shaking. Yet, the moans were so feral…almost a beauty to behold…
But what he found there was anything but beautiful.
The creature—creature? Well, yes—in the cell did not even look human. He—it?—was contorted on the floor in the left back corner, not touching the wall but still very near to it. A thin slab of bloody flesh, torn and stained cotton was all that met Ryou's vision. Except for something else…slicked back with grease and grime, a fly-away mess of untamable white hair.
White? Was the hair white? Like his? Yes. The hair was white like his.
Immediately upon seeing that hair Ryou felt unafraid. White hair. Like him. In the next second, his small body was pressed against the bars, fumbling with the thick lock on the makeshift door, (it was rusted, but it seemed that whoever had locked it did so rather eccentrically, making absolutely sure that there were to be no accidents). There seemed to be a fire in his veins all of a sudden, like he could not reach the creature quickly enough. Faster…and faster…the thing needed help.
Throwing the tub of water down, (an act which caused some liquid to splash on his broken sandals), Ryou ripped out a small butter knife that he had stolen once from the palace kitchens. He kept it with him always, never sure exactly why. But now he needed it. Shoving the thin slightly dull blade into the lock, he thrust with all his force on the handle to get the thing to turn—please open. A faint click the boy's angelic, shell shaped ears, and he desperately pushed on the door.
The small, bolted door gave way and Ryou stumbled into the cell. Immediately he smelled something rancid, something stale and putrid…something rotten decomposing before his very self. Yet his frantic mind did not register the smell. Instead, his small body rushed to the side of the creature.
Without any hesitation, Ryou laid his cool hands on the enflamed body. The skin was so hot to the touch…it nearly burned him. Gasping slightly, the boy withdrew.
No time for that. Ashamed but with renewed vigor Ryou shook himself and set his childlike hands on the body once more. This time, he was able to turn it over so that it was no longer lying face down. Faintly he noticed that the man's arms were bound by inch-thick ropes. Horrified, he cut them with his butter knife, (dulling the blade almost completely).
When Ryou saw the face of the sufferer, an adamant pang ripped itself free within his chest cavity. The man—man? Well, yes—in his arms had curled white scars mixed with fresh new red ones covering his face. Thick lines of blood and something yellow that could have been vomit traced down his chin leading to a body that was so badly injured, Ryou found himself reminded of an animal carcass he also saw once in the palace kitchens.
Mindlessly, the white quaffed boy began caressing the wounded face. The pang became a repetitive beating within him. Despite the wounds, the strong smell of death that radiated over him, and the ugliness of his lacerated flesh, Ryou could not help but notice that this person had once been very attractive. Perhaps it was the look of pain on his fair face, so quiet that it looked as if he might die, that made him feel so strangely. If he did not die…
Die? No. No. This man would not die. Not if he could change the cruel, twisted fate of the gods that decided a human endure this violence. And he could. And he would. "Do not die…" Ryou pleaded to the heavily unconscious man. As he began ripping his shirt to make bandages and tearing off pieces of his sandal for sutures, one question kept repeating itself over and over again in his mind, keeping a steady rhythm with the palpitations in his heart.
What kind of mortal human could do this to another?
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Fire. A blistering, burning sensation charred Bakura's nerves with every intake of breath.
Something soothing…a soft, cool hand on his forehead. He was laying on something smooth, comforting. Cool hand stroking burning flesh…
What was this? What was going on? Bakura's damaged mind tried to piece it together but could not. He could barely even open his eyes. The last dregs of emotion within him stirred at these new sensations.
The calming of his fiery skin. Such divine relief…
The cool hand left him for a moment. Bakura frowned. No, damn it. Attempting speech, a small groan escaped his lips.
Alas, it returned. Something clean against his lips. Water? Bakura was not sure if he dared to hope for such a thing.
Wait. Water. This water could be tainted. This could be a man trying to murder him in a potentially weakened state—hell, this man could be the pharaoh himself, pretending to nurse him while truly carrying out his perverse plans to kill the tomb robber. May the sensual Egyptian skies crack open and fall to their doom before Bakura accepted poisoned water from the pharaoh.
Fleetingly, Bakura gathered his final remnants of strength. Pooling them together to form action, the sly, crazed thief suddenly lashed out at his savior with a loud snarl. Even though his eyes were open, his body contorted and vicious facing the now retreating form, the thief king's blurry vision could only see in disfigured outlines. A person…small…untamed, matted hair…pale, sickly looking skin…hands coarse from previous years of labor. Definitely not…the pharaoh.
Defeated muscles screamed at Bakura. No more movement… he dropped and let the pain consume him once again. At least his attacker was not the pharaoh.
If not the pharaoh…then who? What kind of mortal human would take pity on the notorious monstrosity known as Bakura?
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The sun entered the palace window at just the proper angle to reflect piercing golden light off the center of the Sen-Nin Puzzle. Yami stared at it, remarking silently on its crafted beauty as he did always when gazing upon his burden. The Sen-Nin Puzzle. It was both a gift and a curse.
The pharaoh sat on his high throne. Long, cavernous stretches of space loomed before him in precedence. He had seen it all before; the palace's valor failed to impress him any longer.
Could he actually describe the leaden feeling in his chest as boredom? How unfitting for a king to feel. But there was nothing to do, these days. With Bakura gone, crime had reduced to an almost rare occurrence. Duel monsters was now used as a past time to entertain his priests and servants, not as a method of protection. Earlier plans to reconstruct the city his former adversary had destroyed were long since put into action. The city was actually almost complete. Yami longed to see that. It would mark triumph in this time.
Yami hated boredom. It led to unpleasant things. Egypt itself was still a kingdom of treachery. No one—not palace guard nor high priest—could be trusted. Now that the place had been lured into a dull period, people would be itching to take over the throne. So here the pharaoh sat, defending his holy position to the last crevice of inactivity that resided there.
Ah, Tomb Robber…
Lately, Yami's attention had been drawn more and more to this old topic. The pharaoh had not once gone down to the torture chambers to see his old adversary. He hated it there. Why would he want to witness his boastful enemy now reduced to nothing in the madness of the prison? It was so intense down there any pointedly sane person could loose their mind. Bakura had not been pointedly sane to begin with—the tanned ruler found it more than likely that the thief king had been driven to complete madness by now. Strangely enough, the thought saddened him…
It was the damn respect again. How haunting to realize that even the fiercest of men could be driven completely incontinent with extreme enough measures. Perhaps it reminded Yami of his own fragility…yes, that certainly explained his fascination with the subject of Bakura's imprisonment. Indeed.
Now if only he could make peace with the matter and move on.
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A dim light glowed in the background. Bakura's fragile eyes were opening just in time to see it drawing nearer and nearer.
The mechanics of his mind began working, albeit slowly. Where was he? Blue gray eyes rolled around in their sockets. He was still captive in the cell. But he had known that; the news did not particularly surprise him.
His wounds. The same foggy blue eyes rolled down to the now slender body of the thief king. White bandages wrapped themselves all along his arms and legs. Not a single wound was left unattended. Additionally, Bakura noticed that his bonds had been cut. Both arms hung freely down at his sides.
"What the hell?" he whispered. When had all this happened?
Unable to keep his eyes open for too long, Bakura laid back and tried to concentrate, (why had this become so difficult in the godsforsaken hellhole the pharaoh had condemned him to?). Alright. So he had not been freed by his enemies. But they had decided to heal him? No, that did not make any sense. Then why the bandages? He could not grasp it.
Obviously, someone in the palace had taken it upon themselves to heal the bleeding, helpless prisoner. Bakura felt slight unease amid all the amusing irony portrayed in this situation. Ha. Someone had saved him. The kingdom was bent on destroying itself, was it not? How sardonic. The malicious side of Bakura reveled and squealed in appeasement. He could surely accept this new tangle in the never-ending knot that was the outcome of his original failure.
And yet…there was a twinge of tension underneath all this mockery. He could not shake it. The dim light that came ever-closer to his position did not help either.
The light. What was that, anyway? Some guard? Did the guards even come to see him anymore? He assumed so; in the beginning of his sentence he remembered seeing them every now and then to bring food to his cell. (Death by starvation seemed unworthy apparently). Although now that he looked in the corner where the food usually lay, he found only empty space. This confused him.
The light drew nearer still. Bakura could view it behind closed eyes it was so close. Damn, it was bright. Maybe he wanted some sleep. No consideration for thieves, he supposed.
Eventually a sound like a lock being picked entered his ears. Who…what did it want…where had…what? Bakura's tired muscles clenched with adrenaline. If he had to fight, he would.
The door creaked open. Small quick feet that sounded bare foot pattered over to his side. He heard another noise, like something heavy being placed near his head. An axe, perhaps? No, that would be stupid. Why go through the trouble of healing him when the plan all along had been to decapitate him? So, he waited and listened, alert and alive behind his façade of sleep.
More noises. Something cold touched his arm and peeled back the bandages, exposing his gashes to the dank air in the prison. A small chill ran up Bakura's spine. He tried to hide it, (sleeping men did not feel chilly, did they? No, they felt dead), and hoped it turned out real.
Water splashed somewhere around his upper ear. It sounded so fresh…suddenly his tongue felt like a piece of leather in his mouth. He wanted some of that water. Without dwelling on it, he felt the water—cold and slick—run down his arm, cleaning out the area for infection. A human's hand was obviously behind the rag that cleansed him; he could feel the small strokes of skin underneath it.
Calmly, without haste, something slippery and freezing was slathered on the wounds. Pain shot through him, quickly and quietly, but only for a moment. After that moment, the usual ache of his burden subsided and he was left with only a dull sore sensation. It was amazing liberation from the horrible, gouging feeling of the cuts that normally accompanied him. Wonderful salve…
Apparently this person had obtained a job as something of a healer, then? Perhaps. His healer moved all over his body, tending the wounds with great care, every now and then stopping to rinse the disease-ridden rag. It became sort of mechanic after a few minutes. Before Bakura could even stop himself he felt muscles relaxing under the gentle touch.
Finally, the ministrations moved to his face. He had cuts there? Bakura was not even sure anymore. There were some small bandages under his eyes; the tomb robber could feel them.
Soft fingers applied pressure to the fleshy section of Bakura's cheekbones. He twitched. When was the last time such light contact had been given to his face? Not since the days before the destruction of Kul Elna. He had basically abandoned all tenderly physical human contact when the pharaoh's father murdered every villager in his home, (except one). After that he had given up such trivialities as kindness and touching. What was the point? Bakura hated to be fooled. He hated to be the butt of someone's joke and he loathed being under the care of someone else. Now this…healer whom he did not even know had taken the prisoner's burden solely on their giving shoulders? This he could not accept.
Angrily, Bakura threw his eyes open to meet the stranger. He had attempted to frighten the person into submission, but instead his machinations turned against him.
Directly before him was a set of eyes the same smoke-filled lapis color he wore, along with the same cottony white bush of hair floating behind his face and the same. For a brief moment, Bakura felt like he was looking into a mirror.
The boy above him jumped back several feet after the eye contact. Bakura rolled over away from him, having shocks pulsating through his heart at an alarming rate.
Laying on his stomach now, the tomb robber cautiously rotated his head to stare at his healer, who was in a crab-like position at the opposite end of the cell. What in all the hells…he thought curiously. The boy could have been his splitting image if not for a few minor differences. Fear beamed at him through the soft facial expressions on the delicate form. The thin, bony chest rose and fell speedily beneath beige-ish clothes that look unwashed and haphazardly sewn. A pair of bony legs lay sprawled before the figure, portraying all possible meanings of innocence in their scrawniness.
Such pale skin…fluorescent white almost. Bakura himself had never seen such a thing in all his life. This person had such angelic, feminine features beneath the dirt on his face and hands—could he call it a male? Female perhaps? Bakura stared at it, (in his mind, he no longer noted it as masculine), wondering.
When the initial shock diminished, Bakura moved into a slightly offensive, slightly passive position and asked in an untrusting voice, "Who are you?"
No answer. All he received was a blank, fearful stare.
"What are you doing here?"
Nothing. Not even movement.
"Do you work for the pharaoh?"
Eyes so hauntingly like his own blinked. It was something. Bakura decided to wait. When that got boring, he began again, finding the dual position uncomfortable and relenting into a resting stance with heavy breath. "What…do you…want?" He panted. May the gods damn all those responsible for his revolting weakness.
Seeing his momentary limitation, the thing opposite him began to shift into a sitting position, ready to attend his side. Despite the sleep and pain nagging at the corners of his vision, Bakura did not want to be crowded by this individual. He clawed a hand in his direction accompanied by a low growl. It recoiled.
Good. "Get…away…" he strangled out, lips twisted into a snarl. Bakura absolutely loathed when people swarmed him. He would sooner kill this boy…girl?...than let it get any closer. If only he was not so weak…he would tear this person apart right now.
Slowly, his hands began to slip and lose their hold on the floor. They spread apart little by little, bit by bit, and every few seconds he found himself closer to the wet stone…sinker deeper…and deeper…slowly…
With a small exhale, Bakura collapsed. He had no strength. "For all the hell-ridden demons of the underworld…" he cursed.
His unwanted companion saw that he was now officially powerless once more. So the slave-like creature crawled forward to meet him. Bakura's eyesight was becoming hazy with tiredness; it became increasingly difficult to remain conscious. Grayish blue eyes slipped closed. His tongue would not form a sentence.
Out of everything, Bakura knew that he hated this the most. Sleeping in front of his enemies…it brought such venomous emotions rising within him.
In the darkness, the thief king felt a hand—cool and gentle—on the side of his face. As if trying to wipe away his self-imposed grief, it began stroking his skin in a familiar manner. Despite everything that screamed at him not to submit, Bakura found himself rather taken with this caressing.
There in the darkness of the pharaoh's prison, the infamous Tomb Robber let a long sigh. Sleep took him quickly, tranquilly, defying the very essence of the prison. The sleep lasted only a short while. But it was a sleep that marked the softening of something that had been hard and bleak for a very long while.
A/N: Well. What did you think?
Sorry if that middle part with Yami seemed kind of random or like fill-in again. I really wasn't trying to do that. Like I said in the last chapter, Yami plays an important role here. Don't forget about him. Also, it let the reader now what was going on outside the dungeon. A little change of scenery, right? Oh, and I recently learned that Amane is an actual character in the Yu-Gi-Oh manga. She died in a car accident along with Ryou's mother. Ryou still writes letters to Amane like she's still alive, (it's so sad…). It's all in the manga. (That helps.)
Please review. I really hope this story isn't as bad as I think it is.
