Jounouchi (past)
The sandals were stiff.
He remembered that, and the taste of salt in the back of his mouth. His tongue felt heavy, dry and big, lolling around in the empty cavern of his mouth, his arms stiff with attention at his sides. The uniform, scarlet and leather and linen made them look like huge brilliant beasts in the glare of the midmorning sun, pale damp teeth flashing amid sleek bronze skin.
He took of the heavy helmet, gilded lines and looping curves of stitched leather hot and sticky in his sweaty hands, and mopped his brow and the bridge of his nose, hesitated, shrugged, and fitted the helmet along his head again. Jou hefted his spear proudly, his pride, the part of his outfit that he took really special care of, regardless of what the captain said, and rejoined the troops. They were sullenly streamed toward the white walled quarters, tiny and multiple.
They were all somewhat disgruntled, and he felt it press on him, the enormous discontent, unvoiced grumbling and murmurs like a heavy weight composed of people and noise and hot breath, and felt the excitement rise up again in a colossal fist beating against his chest, so hard and fast it hurt, and he collapsed gently, wheezing, upon a bench. The beasts snarl, unwrapping themselves, like frail moths emerging frantically from cocoons, tearing at delicate flesh so ravenously he wondered why they just didn't die from exhaustion right then and there.
He knew. There was a project, a special assignment just for them, and he knew. They didn't, had resigned themselves dolefully to the endless routine of marching and training, grey meals and boring, forlorn nights. He amused himself, looking at those dry, lined faces, wondering how they would change, knowing what he did, and exulted secretly in his knowledge.
There really wasn't anything better than this, he thought.
It was night suddenly, time, urgently crashing around him in broken quick waves, startling and burnished. He moved absently, his body's reaction automatic, regular as breathing. Men moved around him as if awakening from sleep, anxiously, and he felt like sneering, laughing, yelling out his contempt into their worried faces, unafraid. He wanted to breathe, to get away from the overwhelming mass of worry, a hive of humans.
They marched in sync, sharp spears flashing in little reflections of light from the smoky torches, the smog blowing into their eyes and choking back in throats. He swallowed something bitterly arid, impulsively wanting to break the silence. The men were strangers wearing the faces of friends, familiar and cold with bright glazed eyes, and he was almost afraid.
The night was dark, unclouded and cold, and he felt so lonely. There was nothing to do but to keep up the interminable marching, lifting heavy armor with each swinging step, tiring and boring work, really. They paused for a minute to eat a crumbling handful of bread, a piece of fruit before they were off again and bits of clouds trailed over their heads, red and faint indigo.
The village was a vast disappointment, a pale splotch on the horizon, small and crowded, a few bits of wood nailed together to make up a community. The people were squat and tall, with the same sort of tiredness in their faces. He searched their faces earnestly for some sort of indication that they were truly criminals and saw instead indignation.
They herded them like sheep, the children stumbling slightly with dirty feet, the women straight-backed and proud. The sky grew dimmer above them, faintly blue as they splashed through murky water, a bitter stream that swept around the edge of the continuous sand. He shoved a dawdling girl tiredly; invigorated by the approving smiles he received. He felt happy, whole. He was a soldier.
He fingered the chalky tablet that hung around his throat; the stone was cool and comforting, as if he was holding a piece of his heart. The carving was worn, rubbed by cloth and fingers, but distinct.
Bakura
He repressed a grimace with difficulty, not the first of that evening.
The endless droning of his current drinking companion could almost be bearable, were it not for the underlying hint of a whine in lowered tones that set his teeth on edge.
He reached for the clay bottle, the dark speckled glaze of the jug cool and heavy in his hand, a welcome contrast to the unappealing sight of the half-drunk man beside him. Bakura traced the ridges of the vessel, running his thumb over parts of it where the glaze had thinned and feeling it's smoothness in his scarred hands. White and blue veined with cold, a contrast to the pottery in his hands, he rubbed the tips of chapped fingers together, suddenly impatient.
Rising smoothly from the table, he ignored the faint protests of the slumped man behind him. He tossed a few coins deftly into the air, the money flashing in reflected light across the room to land neatly in the innkeeper's outstretched palm.
Bakura strolled outside, carefully nonchalant. The air was cold and damp, the stars barely visible in thick darkness. He stretched, reveling in the sense of freedom, his widening eyes fixed on a distant pinprick of yellow light in the obscurely clumped marshes. It looked almost homey, like a faint beacon in the chill of night. He wasn't deceived by the comfortable appearance.
It was so very easy to believe yourself safe.
Ankle deep in murky water, he waded carefully in between small hillocks of marsh weeds and sand, grit squelching between his toes. Bakura ignored the higher ground, mindful of snakes that dwelt in such places, preferring the cool of night to the dry heat of day to seek victims. The sodden edge of his cloak flapped damply against the skin of his back, but he walked onward, his eyes still watching the approaching light, barely discernable as the silhouette of a lantern in a low window, the structure behind it fading easily into the dark.
Up close, the house was even sparser, thick planks making up the bones of the house; thinner planks and bits of salvage were used as patches. However, not a bit of light except the window shone through the driftwood, and Bakura strode towards it, shrouded in his cloak.
He entered carelessly, without knocking. There were a few men grouped around the inside of the house, which consisted of one wide, rickety room, and a small staircase at the opposite end of the room that led away into the dim upstairs. The doorway was clouded with spider-webs, pale and velvet with dust that seemed to cling to his thoughts distantly. He felt suddenly naked, and bereft of the cold night air.
The men randomly scattered at various intervals looked up intently; swarthy faces and dingy linen moving towards him eagerly. The light was thick and golden from the crowded fireplace, illuminating harsh outlines and softening features, punctuated here and there by metal hilts.
Bakura smiled into the room. The night was dark and incessant outside the small house, an oasis in the gleaming mire.
…
"What could possibly be so urgent, Bakura?" demanded one man. He was thin, with a badly dyed wig; slender scars marked his back as he shifted forward, but the flickering firelight hid the horizontal lines binding his back, making them into darkness. His dull, mud colored eyes were intent upon Bakura, blank and eager.
He shrugged fluidly, masses of draped crimson sliding off his shoulder and fading into the faint shadows that dwarfed him like a gigantic echo. The light, giving him color and vitality, outlined tensed muscles and white gray hair, like a gigantic cat preparing to spring. They drew away from him almost unknowingly, huddled in little dark groups.
"So impatient?" he asked coldly, raising a gentle eyebrow. Bakura was angry; his eyebrows slanted downward, making a bitter line above his eyes.
"It's unlike you to be to hasty. We're simply curious what event could prompt such a reaction," wheezed a small figure, sitting cross-legged against the fireplace frame.
He was a dyer during daytime, or pretended to that line of work, he was immensely proud of his short list of accomplishments, which he flaunted eagerly to any available ear. He had a strange affinity with bugs, labeling them as beautiful and clever, and presided over many small communities in which he was an invisible and yet much felt ruler. He was called Weevil by those among his trade, both during daylight and nightfall, for the resemblance to the small, crawling creatures, but wore the name proudly, as a title. He talked and listened in the same tone, a high nasal sound that seemed to come from speaking through his small nostrils, rather than his mouth, he had acne and oddly colored hair, from the dye fumes.
Bakura had never liked him, nor seen fit as to associate himself with him, yet they often turned up in the same circles, for the simple reason of pursuing a like goal, or a whisper of an allusion to one, which the Weevil loved.
Bakura nodded curtly, folding his arms, heavy fabric falling in sharp lines above his knees. He smiled, his eyes bright and coppery, something almost fascinated in his face, roving eyes never leaving the criminals' faces.
"What did you think? That I was caught, or feared guards, or had been…deposed?" said Bakura frankly, watching them avidly.
He laughed softly, his voice changing to an amused whisper, soft and grating, as if talking to children; they felt the change and resented it sullenly. "I have a proposition," he suggested softly. He paused.
The pharaoh is mine," said Bakura, suddenly furious, strong white knuckles clenching on the edge of his cloak, his expression dreamy. He stopped, startled, and plunged onward.
"Pharaoh is vulnerable.
Should we, even people like us, decide upon a course of action and follow it through, there is no one who would stop us. They believe in their infallible little god upon a pedestal, they do not look beyond the alabaster walls of their gardens, the silver temples. They are afraid, so terribly afraid lest the tradition of centuries be broken for one man, for the sons of Ra, for themselves, and the idea that perhaps someone might decide that they are wrong. The idea is inconceivable to the devout, and none will be less! None would ever be less. They dare not even dream!"
He went on grimly, his mouth a straight line that seemed to promise untold wonders and blasphemy in the same words. The speech seemed to be almost unwilling, desperate, and they listened and subsided into murmurs.
The room was silent, a gray broken beam arching above their heads to pierce the night sky. A little light had come out to color the stars.
He was a leader, they felt instinctively, and for all those who despised him there was no gainsaying his authority. The absolute incredulity of what he was saying was marvelous, new. They were fascinated by his promises, bedazzled by the glamour of it. Imagine, having such daring as to attempt to strike at the pharaoh himself, with them by his side, reaping the glory…
He leaned forward with a sarcastic smile; something almost bitter came into his eyes as he watched the emotions play across their faces. He murmured softly to himself, almost noiselessly as the most reluctant among them debated, agreed, and refused. He could wait. He would not give up.
The question of funds was brought forward, introduced almost reluctantly by the group of men, no man would risk his own money, his future on such a thing, it was preposterous to expect that, they said pleadingly. It was too much to ask, all these men had a small amount, true, but that was for retirement in small luxury somewhere, someday…
Bakura reached for his cloak and emptied out the treasure that had weighed it down in the murky water, sodden and clinking onto the table. He stood over the amulets of kings, the necklaces and bracelets of great ladies as if he were unaware of them, his back straight.
The Weevil reached out a greedy hand before he could stop himself and pulled back, his face a mask of confusion and indignation. Casually, Bakura put a proprietary elbow on the heavy gold, leaning forward slightly. He looked away from the dark, shining jewels, the delicate wired collars and smooth, rich bands, and the glint of greed in the small eyes of his fellow criminals; the pile felt cool and uneven under his elbow.
He stared at the thick golden smoke filling the room, bright as riches and just as easily lost, at the low little fireplace and the short gray beams that lay across the windows, and listened to them, eagerly chattering, and thought, they don't know why.
They really didn't.
…
In the days that followed, Duke seemed to seek Ryou out more to talk. Mostly they discussed aimless things, like the work that they were given, but strangely enough, they rarely discussed the upcoming party. The other scribe seemed to view it as something precious, a forbidden subject, and after a while Ryou gradually fell into the same habit.
They met by the river occasionally, when the most basic of outlines for the party couldn't be put off any longer, and Ryou asked Duke why he wanted this so very badly. The light was dim among the green rushes, and his hand made absent little circular movements, stirring fine dust that blew upwards.
"Because people need entertainments, and I'm going to be the one who gives it to them. Because Egypt is overflowing with great scholars, generals, and poets, and they all choose to overlook a basic human need, the fact that people want to be entertained, and aren't.
Everyone out there leads such boring lives, endless cycles of the same job, over and over again."
"That's the way things need to be. If people don't do these jobs, they won't get done. You do know that the economic structure will collapse without the common laborer, right?"
"You're grasping at straws, Ryou. Look around you. Egypt has never been more successful, or richer. We have thousands of laborers from different countries flocking here, to learn what we do, they way we do things. Even if labor eventually goes outward, there will still be enough of a population to keep jobs steady. Besides, with people like you, ones who take their jobs so seriously, I won't worry about that. You are my market, that type of personality that endures an endless job without complaint, even if you are sick of it."
Ryou could see the flaws in Duke's argument, but he did have a point, to a degree. He let the allusion to his motivation slide, knowing that he was a boring person. After all, Duke was wrong in that. He was satisfied with his life, and how it was going.
There wasn't any good telling him that the market for amusements and novelties was occupied by the same people who in the other boy's mind, would supply plain work; foreigners became less interesting after a period of time, when they started to settle in Egypt.
Duke was careless sometimes when they spoke, and Ryou picked up hints that he wasn't supposed to have heard. He knew that Duke could not do this on his own, and that is what too late to get another partner, and that he planned to show a small entertainment of his own at the party. He also knew that the other boy was changeable when forced to confront facts, but that happened rarely, that he ignored reports of conquests except when he thought it would serve him in some way, that he prayed and ignored authority with equal abandon. It was easy to like him and be liked back, but that was friendship was not an important part of Duke's goals, so anyone relying on that would find themselves disillusioned, and quickly.
You think that because you can't endure your own profession that others can't, and that's where you're wrong, you and your infallible arrogance. There isn't a person here who won't adapt to work, simply because it's a necessity of life. And I'm not exactly about to fall at your feet and agree unquestioningly to your ideas, either.
I'm not his lackey, thought Ryou, and perhaps that's why he chooses me to confide in, to polish his ideas and prick at his pride. He needs me, at least for this part of his plan, and I have my own agenda, even if he is the type of person to forget who helped him easily.
How ironic.
Ryou walked single file along the goat path, sheer cliffs surrounding him. The cliffs were enormous and cleanly scrubbed by the wind, monstrosities of rusty stone brushed with sand, like a coating of fine powder. They cast sharp, infinite shadows of blue pink that swallowed his own.
He felt like an intruder among them, the colossal blocks of stone almost brushing shoulders with each other. A harsh wind whispered around him, hollow and loud in his ears. Ryou picked his way around the debris on the path, distracted.
The sky was sharply blue as it curved overhead, a dim speck that perhaps was a falcon barely visible through the crack in the overhead rock. The air was dizzying, and he crept along a ledge until that ended, and it turned into a gray-brown hillside. He scrambled upwards, coming to a little dip in the sand.
The small hollow was lined with sand, and tiny pale flowers half hidden by sharp edged grass. He sat down carefully, the sand warm beneath him, his arms wrapped around his knees, knees tucked under his chin. He watched the curve of a creamy wing flash in the air below him, and the winds flatten the tall grass. He sat. He remembered.
This country was hot and dry, dusty and bitter and coldly, starkly, changeable, unloving; it would steal your breath from you before you knew, leaving only a frail wind to rattle a dry husk in the unrelenting red sun. He lived there with his sister and his family, but mostly his sister.
"You'll murder someday," his sister had said, and he had been startled, then angry, his sandals scuffing the stone pavement. "I won't," he insisted, but she had smiled at him dreamily and started to drift away, except he ran up to her and shook her, afraid. His fingertips had bitten into the graying linen that she wore, and he had closed his eyes as the yellow sunlight made a bright haze in the garden. "I won't," he said, pleading, and he knew he must have bruised her afterwards, causing blood to blossom beneath her skin in petal shaped indents. He had kept his eyes shut, blank, against the faint fragrance of her hair, like earth and flowers and sweat.
The flowers smell like her hair, and he remembers that now.
"You'll murder someday," she said, smiling faintly.
Short. Sorry, but it'll get longer…I'm a bit busy these days, but the plot is outlined.
Yami Hitokiri; I tend to get caught up in descriptions, sorry…and the plot, trust me, it isn't what you think it is.
Sazume; please don't die! Here's another chapter. And you'll have to wait and see. Next chapter, promise.
Ryuujitsu; Hi; hm. Thanks for answering. Please…be inspired, and keep writing! Flashes penlight in shifty eyes.