I know i know, Its been almost two months since i updated this (but i broke the 60 day limit by two weeks YAY!) But Here's the new chap! Score!
At the moment, I'm still working on FanFics but I also have a short story I'm working on for Fiction, in the middle of preparation for the most evil aspect of college that one must pass: The Writing Placement exam (ans i can't take my fa Teacher Dr Payne's crearive non-fiction class in the spring unless i pass it before December GRRRRR!), reading and tearing through a shit load of books for my history paper which I'm really into, working a bunch os shift-i will NEVER work a night-shift unless its on the weekend AGAIN!-and I have Fanfic ideas pouring out of my ears! So yeah, I'm currently focusing on OL and AIEW at the moment, but I'm also determined to get WH done by Halloween and I'm also working on DR. so yeah I got a lot going on, ut do not get discouraged, I REFUSE to leave my fics not updated so at the most I will update all three at least once a month maybe more, depending on how the chaps play out.
Also (grabs mircophone)FOR THOSE OF YOU WHO HAVEN'T SEEN MY PROFILE PAGE-THERE IS AN IMPORTANT NOTICE THERE FOR ALL MY FANS AND REVIEWERS I'M REQUESTING, SO PLEASE LOOK IT OVER-AND APOLOGIZE TO ALL MY FANS OF MY FAIRYTALE SERIES. So please, look that over for me, I'd greatly appreciate it!
Dedication: For Chi, for putting up with my horrid Grammar (stables to brain: EDIT TWICE)! Thanks girl!
As always, read, review, critique, comment, aske questions and let me know what works.
*Also, apologies but Ryou and Bakura won't meet until next chapter-I'm sorry! But I can't WAIT to write the next chap! so enjoy!
Chapter Five: Paris
The city of Paris was more alive than Bakura remembered.
The Mardi Gras festival livened the streets with stands and shops; banners and costumed performers and courtiers. All around him, children frolicked in masks, carrying bags and sneaking treats from the stands. Dancers performed in the streets decorated with beaded necklaces and bracelets and lavish costumes in vivid green, purple and blue. People gathered around to see the entertainment while others continued to hang banners and poles or help build the huge stage in the center of the plaza.
No one noticed the silver-haired acrobat racing across the roofs of the buildings, tying curtain strings to poles, while down below, his family and other performers erected tents over the stage for the circus. Over his shoulder hung a string of jewels and he leapt from pole to pole, tying the ropes securely.
"Bakura! Hurry up!" Said 'white-head' was broken from his thoughts by a high-pitched voice calling his name. He looked over the ledge of the roof and groaned as his older sister glared at him with impatience.
"Alright, Alright I'm coming!" He leaped elegantly from the roof, grabbed one of the nearby poles with his hands and swung his weight around it like a racket toy until he slowly slipped towards the bottom. When he reached the right angle, he let go and landed like as panther in the heart of the stage.
"Show off," Mana snorted.
"And why shouldn't I?" The gypsy acrobat boasted proudly, removing the string of jewels from his neck. His wind-blown silver hair fanned around him, glowing like quicksilver in the light. The sunlight had darkened his Spanish skin to a nice tan in the year they'd been in France, making his vivid, emerald eyes radiate.
He strolled over to the girl and patted her blond head, knowing it would piss her off. Mana growled and swatted his hand away. "Stop that! You may be taller than me," she warned, "but I am still older."
"Only by two years," Bakura corrected, gathering the jewels in his arms. His eyes sparkled with delight as he eyed each beautifully carved jeweled object. His fingers hooked around an octagonal-shaped diamond pendant on a thick silver chain and he licked his lips with delight, only to be rendered speechless when Mana snatched it away.
"Wha…" He couldn't form a full word, let alone a sentence.
"Where did you get this?" Mana demanded, examining the pendent, unsure if it was a real diamonds or not.
"Relax, it's fake," Bakura replied, making a grab for it but Mana, using her smaller size to her advantage, maneuvered out of the way. Stunned by the hasty movement, Bakura crashed to the floor, screaming as his treasure scattered.
The girl exploded in a fit of laugher as the man got to his knees and desperately gathered the material into the train of his thick, burgundy trench coat.
"That's what you get for stealing!" Mana scolded playfully, earning her a harsh glare and a growl from her adopted sibling.
"I didn't steal them," Bakura protested. "The lady threw it out the window because it and I quote, 'looked fake.' You'd be shocked what these people throw out!" His eyes greedily looking over the collections of jewels, pendants and broaches he'd gathered after wandering around the city's upper streets.
"True." Mana grinned, juggling the pendant in her hand. "We'd make a killing selling this thing."
Bakura looked flabbergasted, as if he'd have a heart attack from the very thought. "Over my dead body!" He howled and lunged at it again but Mana danced her way out of the man's path.
"Now, now, pequeña Esmeralda," Mana teased, waving her finger as if the man were still a disobedient child. "What would Mama Silence say if she caught you hording all these treasures for yourself?"
The glare the thief gave the girl wasn't one of sibling banter but one of bitterness and loss "Do not speak so light-heartedly of the dead, sister." He scolded harshly.
Too late. Mana realized her mistake, but she retaliated nonetheless. "Don't berate me, Bakura!" she snapped, though there was a small sob in her voice. "I loved that woman just as much as you did."
Bakura sighed mournfully. Even though it had been a year since their beloved adoptive mother's passing, the wound was still fresh and it still burned every time she was brought up—especially for Bakura. How could it not? Silence had been the one to rescue him in his darkest hour, picked him up and given him a family. He owed her his life.
"Now, now you two, what would our beloved Madame think if she saw you two arguing over her?" The two youths whirled around. Behind them stood the leader of their caravan dressed in an outrageous black, skin-tight outfit decorated with vibrant blood-red straps all over. A matching headdress held back his dramatically long black hair. Next to him stood an equally tall man in an outrageous purple mantle and robe with his long brown hair hidden beneath his hood.
"Master Chaos is right, you two," Mahado smiled at his younger siblings. "Mama Silence would never want a single soul to mention her name in remorse. Yes, things are better up there and the loss is painful but at least now she and Master Samir are together once more."
The two nodded, though Bakura's grip on his jewels tightened as if they offered some form of comfort.
Chaos's deep blue eyes darted towards the bundle in the man's arms. His eyebrow rose elegantly. "Do I even want to know where you found those?"
Bakura snorted. "No, I did not steal them. I only steal from the rich and that's only if I give it to someone less fortunate than I am, or bring it to the church."
"How noble of you," Mana teased.
"That's enough you two," Chaos scolded light-heartedly. "If you're done, why don't you three go entertain our guests," he gestured to the throng of people arriving for the grand events scheduled to start as soon as the noon bells of Notre Dame rang.
"Are you sure, Chaos?" Mahado asked. "There's still much to be done."
"Besides," Bakura chimed in, licking his lips as he gazed back at the crowd. "I want to see more of the city before I perform."
Chaos froze. "It's too dangerous," he said quickly.
"I'm one and twenty, Chaos," Bakura protested. "I'm not a child anymore, I can handle myself."
"That's not the point!" Chaos corrected. "Paris isn't known for its kindness to gypsies. And lord knows the guards especially dislike you."
Bakura snorted and crossed his arms. "Pah! I could escape those fools with my hands and feet tied together," he boasted proudly. "I'm more than a match for them."
"It's true, Chaos," Mahado chimed in with a laughing smile. "Don't forget, Bakura was always our volunteer distraction if ever we needed to leave a place in a hurry."
Chaos bit his lip. The newly appointed King of Gypsies was no fool. He knew well he couldn't stop the rebellious youth from doing what he wanted and everyone knew Bakura was more than capable of taking care of himself. But the thought of him in the streets of Paris brought Silence's final vision to his mind. Did he dare tell the rest of the family his concern? No, he concluded, closing his eyes in deep thought. He'd promised Madame Silence on her deathbed he'd do everything in his power to protect the three, especially Bakura. Lord only knew the man had been through enough.
And besides, they came to Paris seeking Silence and Samir's legacy—the Court of Miracles, a place reserved only for the lowest class of Paris; a place that could be a kinsmen to hell as well as a cousin to sanctuary.
"Fine," he sighed in defeat. "But I don't want anyone going anywhere without one or both of the other two as well. Last thing I need, is you three getting lost before showtime."
All three groaned. "I mean it!" Chaos said firmly before starting down the platform and back towards the tent. "If any of you three disappear or cause chaos before show time, you'll be sleeping outside!"
"Oh fine!" Bakura wailed in defeat, stomping the entire way back to the caravan. Once safely inside, he stashed his newest collection in his secret place: a simple wooden box he'd hidden behind one of the caravan's floorboards. Once it was free, he undid the lock and deposited the contents inside. Only one object stood out among the others: his emerald, the very pendant his mother had given him on a silver chain.
He hesitated to close the box when his eyes caught sight of it. Subconsciously, his fingers graced over the smooth surface. It was no bigger than a large walnut and looped at the top with a silver chain. His fingers grasped the chain and brought it to meet his face. He hadn't worn it in awhile, too afraid of losing it or it being stolen by the guards. How could a gypsy afford an emerald, after all?
"I miss you, mum," he smiled and gently hooked the chain around his neck before slipping the emerald beneath the safety of his collar. The sudden weight against his chest felt invigorating like being reunited with a missing part of himself.
"Best change into your costume!" Bakura jumped and screeched in surprise, snapping his box close and returning it to its hiding place out of instinct before turning around.
"Never do that again, Mana!" Bakura snapped, but the girl just laughed.
"Alright," she climbed inside and pulled out a lavish gold and lavender outfit consisting of a shoulder cut top and short pink skirt with matching boots, hat and red jewels. It was an outfit that would've been considered scandalous had it been worn on any other day but Mardi Gras.
"Are you going to wear yours?" She asked, unclasping her large blue earrings.
"Nah." Bakura waved her away and made his way out the back to give her privacy. "I hate dressing up, I'll wait until show time; it'll only take a few moments anyway."
"Suit yourself," Mana smiled. "Now shoo!"
Bakura obeyed, grabbing his dance slippers and the series of bells he wore when he performed on the way out.
Once he was gone, Mana closed the curtains and left him on the steps.
Deciding to get ready while he waited, Bakura buttoned his burgundy coat down to his waist. Trimmed along edges and tail of the coat were pale white and gold designs, but the sleeves exposed his arms from his forearm down. Once that was done, he took a long string of gold bells and a belt, tying them around his waist. The tiny bells chimed together when he moved, making a pretty twinkling sound. Next, he slipped off his brown sandals and replaced them with a pair of sterling silver slippers that left his ankles exposed before wrapping two gold-bell anklets around each ankle. Now came the hard part: putting on the bell bracelets—a task next to impossible to do with one hand. After a small war with the heavy bells, he finally growled in defeat and slammed them down at his side.
"Need some help?" Mahado offered, kneeling over so he was eye-level with the young man.
"Please," Bakura replied, holding out his bare wrist and the bracelet of bells in the other hand. With a simple click, Mahado secured the bracelet in place before moving on to the next one.
"Are you wearing your emerald?" Mahado asked, surprised when he notice the lump over his heart since Bakura rarely wore the object out of fear of losing it.
"Under my coat," Bakura replied, while Mahado clasped the bracelet around his second wrist. "Like hell am I letting the guards jump to conclusions and take it from me."
"Clever," Mahado nodded. "Where's Mana?"
"Right here!" The girl emerged, dressed in the outlandish outfit that showed off her slender arms and legs and her elegantly curved shoulders. She carried a lyre in one hand and a rod that matched her costume in the other.
"Then let's make haste!" Mahado led the other two, grabbing a flute.
The three dashed towards a corner, not far from the clearing but far enough to attract attention. Mana removed her hat and placed it on the floor, then plopped herself on a crate with the lyre in her lap. Once comfortable, she began playing. Taking a position on the back corner, Mahado followed her example and began playing the flute.
Bakura took that as his cue and stood tall with his wrists held above his head, then he spun around elegantly and began a dance he knew by heart. The bells jingled around his wrists and ankles as he moved, shaking with a smooth vibration like multiple ice coated branches clinging against one another in the wind. The sound intensified as he shook and rolled his hips. Soon, a crowd formed, clapping their hands and throwing gold coins in the hat. Others snorted at them and glared in disgust.
Bakura didn't hear them. He danced his heart out before doing a back flip and landing in an elegant crotch, earning cheers and whoots of approval from the crowd.
He was in his own world, a world where he was in control. Where he had no fear of guards or prosecution, only aware of the freedom and weightlessness he felt with each graceful step. Each elegant spin, each thrust foreword or jump back made him feel like he was dancing on air. He smirked as all eyes followed him; as women and men alike followed the curve and flow of his body before leaving, either ashamed or disgusted by their thoughts or because something else demanded their attention.
He didn't care. When he danced, he was in control. He was the one swooning anyone who saw him to his will, to get them to forget about their silly, simple lives and focus only on him and give him whatever he wanted.
His smile curled at the corners as more gold began to fill the hat. After all, what good were a talent and a passion if he couldn't use them to help his family?
He laughed as he danced; the bells chiming perfectly with each graceful step.
This was why they came to Paris, why he left Spain and followed his gypsy family: because, despite the prejudice, despite the guards, despite the radical crusaders who saw them as pests, or criminals, or tried to brand them as heretics when they were no less Christian than anyone who attended Notre Dame, Paris was a City of Dreams. A city that, like the beautiful sanctuary of Notre Dame, named after the patron saint of outcasts herself, offered the people and all those who came there hope for a better future.
At least that was how Bakura saw it.
Paris. He spat to himself, throwing a rich black and violet mantle over his shoulder. Hard lavender eyes glared at the map that did nothing to aid him in his quest. His eyes darted about the city where identical half-timber houses and Gothic buildings made up the core of the city, separated only by cobblestone streets. The combination created an enormous labyrinth one could easily get lost in for decades. The only area that looked remotely different from the rest of the city was the courtyard where the stunning cathedral, Notre Dame, towered over the rest of the city.
It had been decades since he'd returned to the city and already he despised it. He'd left the city and his life behind when he forsook university back when his brother had become Bishop and adopted the ward the church affectionately called 'the angel of Notre Dame.' His brother - just the word left a bad taste in his mouth – was the only reason he'd returned to the city in the first place.
He'd always delighted himself with sex (men or women), games and drinks, all of which had been drawn to an abrupt halt when the overly-righteous man had cut off his money and demanded his return to Notre Dame.
He growled in annoyance, crumbling the useless map in his hands and tossing it over his shoulder. "God damn him," he cursed his elder twin. "I haven't been in this city in almost fifteen years! How dare he summon me back!" he growled in furry. His wild mane of bleached blond hair bristled around in his anger. He quickly composed himself and brushed imaginary dust from his black and purple armor.
It didn't matter why he was in Paris; all that mattered was that he was. "Besides," a dark smirk curled across his lips as he gazed at the festivities being prepared, "what better time to return to Paris than the Mardi Gras Festival?" He licked his lips. Mardi Gras always was his favorite holiday; the one day when it was okay to be sinful and party yourself sick. But first he had to affirm his new position with his brother and assert his authority. Then he could have his fun.
"Pff," he snorted, looking around with no sense of direction. "You leave town for a decade and they change everything," he groaned in annoyance, stomping through the streets.
The cobblestone courtyard spread before him, winding in all directions like the back of a multi-headed, dust-colored snake, lined on either side by identical buildings, separated only by arches overhead. Bakers, weavers, millers and their wives flocked the streets and shops, shouting and scolding at either each other or their customers. Birds flocked the roofs and children frolicked in the streets, seeking treats. Horses drank form troughs or ate barrels of hay. Fifteen years and the city looked as boring and annoying as it did the day he left, yet somehow, everything changed to the point where nothing was as he remembered.
What little money he had left from his journey jingled in his pocket, obnoxiously reminding him of the desperateness of his separation. His brother better of kept his word. It didn't matter if the Bishop saw this as his last chance to spare his brother's soul from eternal damnation, as long as the new position and the riches it guaranteed were legit, he couldn't cared less. He didn't need to be reminded he was going to hell, his brother made that fact perfectly clear when the man found out he'd spent all his time at university enjoying carnal pleasures for the first time in his life.
So what if he was a failure as a scholar? His brother was already the Bishop and far more intelligent than the both of them. And wasn't the Bishop already raising that angel he adored as penance for any sins he committed? Didn't that mean he was in the clear? The man laughed.
His musing was interrupted when a flock of courtiers dressed lavishly for the festivities flocked the streets, strolling towards the center courtyard where the main festivities would take place. Their heads were held high and their noses were upturned to assert their superiority among society. He snorted and pivoted his heel, joining a crowd. He was a noble now, after all - if his brother kept his word. Any direction to the heart of the city was better than asking one of those simple-minded peasants for help—pride had kept him silent earlier. Let the stupid courtiers have their fun, why ruin it by informing them how insignificant they truly were?
He grinned with delight when he rounded the corner. The bell towers of Notre Dame towered dramatically over the plaza, telling him the heart of the city was just around the corner. The Palace of Justice wouldn't be too far.
A little girl ran in front of his path, pulling fiercely on her mother's hand towards a small circle where a crowd had gathered. Her eyes widened with childish wonder, releasing a squeal of excitement.
"Stay away, child!" The woman scolded as they passed, "They're gypsies, they'll steal us blind!"
His eyes darted to what had aroused the girl's amusement. Gypsies huh? He wondered curiously, and strolled over. He had time to kill.
Forcing his way through the crowd, his eyes widened as he took in the spectacle before him. In a corner just outside the center of the ally, a group of three danced and played without a care in the world. In the corner, sitting on a stack of boxes with a lyre in her lap, sat a girl in a revealing gold and lavender outfit; sunshine yellow hair cascaded down her back, swishing as she swung her head in a flowing, rhythmic pattern. Her elegant fingers danced across the lyre strings, creating a blissful tune. He licked his lips at the sight of her. Youth was still evident in her childish appearance but adolescents had certainly been kind to her.
Across from her in the back of the threesome, a man in an outrageous purple mantle and robe sat cross-legged, suspended on a flat crate that gave the illusion that he was floating. His eyes were closed but he played a flute with all the skill and talent of a mythological satyr. His music was in perfect tune with the girl playing the lyre and the bells that rang with a sweet sound every time the dancer, the ringleader of the threesome, moved his body.
Taking pity on the entertainment, he pulled two gold coins from his purse and dropped them into the hat by the girl. His brother could always pay him back. Slowly, as he turned to leave, his eyes caught sight of the third spectator as he spun around as elegantly and easily as if he was floating.
He froze at the sight of the dancer. What adolescence had done for the girl, adulthood had made perfection of the young man. His body was lean and perfectly proportioned; the gypsy's height around the same as his, maybe an inch or so shorter. Delicious caramel skin pulled tightly over slender arms and legs with firm muscles. He licked his lips, wondering if that skin tasted as delicious as it looked. The gypsy's face matched his form flawlessly; his features sharp, elegant, and clear of all blemishes. A long mane of wild, quick-silver hair cascaded in elegant spikes down his back while the bangs spiked up like bat-wings, revealing his eyes. The crown jewel of the gypsy's appearance was his large but sharp eyes; the most striking color green he'd ever seen.
Just as he turned to face him, the gypsy boy smiled. The shadows of the clearing they'd chosen played off his features, illuminating him in a way neither the darkness nor the light could separate. Then, suddenly, the Gypsy's eyes met his and he smiled. A seductive smile played across his face. He lowered his wrists to his side and shook his hips; the bells around his waist, wrists and ankles chiming in accordance with their master.
Again, the man danced, the smirk on his face never changing. Good God, if this was what the man did when he was teasing, he couldn't even begin to imagine what he was like in bed. He licked his lips at the idea, wondering what he'd look like in only the bells. He wondered who he'd have to pay just to spend one night with him. The thought formed a huge pit of desire in his mind.
A loud whistle broke his concentration. Above the crowd, on a ledge, a boy with a wild mane of sky-blue hair stood with a concerned look on his face before jumping down on the other side of the wall. The three froze, then scattered.
He growled in furry. How dare they leave before he got that gypsy's name! He turned to glare at the reason for their departure, and then froze. Three men in heavy black and grey armor arose into the clearing; their eyes focused on one thing. He followed their gaze and his gut twisted with a mixture of delight and anger.
They were focused on the gypsy on the street gathering gold coins—the very gypsy he, not a moment ago, had intended to prostitute.
Bakura resisted the urge to curse when Syrus, one of the boys he knew from Chaos' court, whistled loudly, a sign of their warning signal. Mahado and Mana followed his example and stopped their playing instantly. The two made a dash back towards the plaza, just as three guards in black armor poured into the streets. At least back in the plaza with the costumes and entertainers, they'd be safe.
Mahado sprinted to the edge, waiting for the younger two. In her hastiness, Mana grabbed her hat, but it toppled over, spilling the coins.
"No!" she screamed in horror and dove to retrieve them but Bakura stopped her.
"No time, go with Mahado; I'll get them!" He told her and gently shoved the girl towards Mahado.
"Bakura," Mahado shouted at him, but the green-eyed gypsy ignored him. "Damn it, why doesn't the boy ever listen?" Mahado cursed, dragging Mana back to the plaza. Once she was out of harm's way, he could then scold his younger sibling for his reckless bravado.
Once the two were out of sight, Bakura dove to the ground and scooped as many of the coins into the hat as he could, ignoring the men as they charged closer. Like hell he was letting those corrupt bureaucrats rob him of his family's hard-earned money.
A smirk of victory crossed his face when he stuffed the last coin in the hat but his heart sank when three pairs of heavy, armor boots blocked his path. Before he could look up, two men wrenched him to his feet. One of them made a grab for the hat, but he balled it into a pouch and evaded the man's hand and struggled against his two captures.
"Alright gypsy, where'd you get the money?" A tall guard with short blond hair and cold grey eyes ordered, making a grab for the hat he'd balled into a pouch. But he evaded the man's hand and struggled against his two captures.
"For your information, I earned it!" Bakura protested, wrenching one of his arms free from a younger guard: a man with outrageous spiked brown hair, a Spanish tan, and large grey eyes.
"Gypsies don't 'ern money," he snapped in a rough British accent.
"That's right!" The third man snatched the bag from Bakura's hand tauntingly. "They steal it," he said with a gleam in his large grey eyes; blood red hair curled neatly beneath his helm.
"Yeah, 'cause you'd know all about stealing, wouldn't you?" Bakura snapped with a dark chuckle before elbowing his current captor, forcing him to let go. Taking advantage of the redhead's shock, he grabbed the bag and made a dash for the plaza but the blond man snatched his arm in his thick, meaty grip.
"Trouble maker, huh," he laughed arrogantly. "Maybe a day in the stocks will cool you down."
"I don't think so," Bakura grinned before kicking the man in the jaw. The guard reeled back in pain.
"Hey!" The two guards lunged at him but Bakura evaded their lunges with a clever step to the side, then back. "Oh come on boys, you can do better than that," he taunted before backing up against the wall. The three guards cornered him, but he stood cool and confident. When the three men lunged, he knelt to the ground and, with a powerful leap, jumped over them as they crashed together and somersaulted into a landing. Rolling back to his feet, Bakura ran toward the far wall and, with quick steps, ran up the side. Then, he grabbed one of the low- hanging gutters and hoisted himself onto the roof. He could hear the clatter of the guards' boots on the ground, shouting curses and screaming at him to come down.
"Bye boys!" He teased with a wink. With that, he sprinted across the roof. The guard followed him, parallel on the ground. Again, he evaded them with an elegant leap from the building to the wall and vanished over it. A wall blocked the passage, too tall for three men in heavy armor to climb, meaning by the time the guards got around to the other side, the gypsy would be long gone. Bakura laughed victoriously from the other side, laughing all the way down the street as he heard the guards cursing from the other side.
He licked his lips greedily as he opened the hat and counted the heavy spoils, his eyes grinning as he examined a gold coin between his fingers. "Today was a good day," he chuckled re-entering the plaza—only to freeze when he found his guardian and older siblings standing in a half-circle waiting for him. Their arms crossed and a hard, stern look filled their faces. Chaos tapped his foot impatiently; the look on his face was one that always made Bakura shiver as a child, and it had yet to lose that effect.
"What?" Bakura asked, trying to play innocent, but knowing a scolding was inevitable.
"What," Chaos began sharply, "did I just get through telling you not to do half an hour ago?"
Shit. This wasn't the first time he'd let his arrogance get the better of him when it came to outwitting the Bishop's guards. And this time he certainly wouldn't receive any leniency, like he did in the past "I got away, didn't I?" He could've kicked himself for such a lame excuse.
He didn't know if he should've laughed at the guard's stupidity or shake his head in disappointment. In the span of five minutes, three of his brother's guards had been both outwitted and humiliated by a mere gypsy. Although he couldn't deny boy's flexibility gave him a few thoughts that would give his brother a heart attack if he ever found out about them.
"Ah! That was pathetic!" he said, purposely boisterous.
The three guards turned to him with confused expressions.
He laughed at their idiocy. "No wonder the bishop hired a new Captain. If his guards are so pathetic they can't even catch a simple gypsy boy, it's no wonder crime is so rampant in Paris!" His mocking tone and laughter caused all three men to growl in anger and mortification, their egos clearly bruised by the dismissal of their skills.
"Why you-" The blond man lunged at him but he stood still. The second the blond guard fisted his shirt, he snatched the man's wrists and gave it a painful twist, then threw him to the ground. The guard groaned in pain.
"We'll teach you, peasant!" The remaining two glared at the man dangerously. Each pulled a dagger from their belts, hoping to scare him into submission. He rolled his eyes and decided enough was enough. It was time to remind these simpletons of their place. He pushed aside his cape and pulled out an elegant silver sword with the Bishop's seal etched on the blade.
"I beg your pardon, Lieutenants?" he mocked with an arrogant smile.
Immediately, the two men dropped their daggers, stuttering in fear and horror, "Captain Malik!" They retreated so quickly one of them stumbled and the other struck his own helm trying to salute. Ignoring their mortification, the two straightened themselves up and saluted. "At your service sir!"
Captain Malik smirked. Seems his brother had kept his word after all. "Now then," he drew back his sword and embedded the tip in the ground, mere centimeters from the blond man's face. He froze and gazed up at his Captain, praying his actions, which could be condemned as treason, would not be reported.
"Lieutenant Raphael, is it?" he asked the blond man.
Raphael nodded.
Malik smiled victoriously. "The Palace of Justice, if you'd be so kind?"
With the guards leading the way and clearing the path of any civilians, Malik reached the Palace of Justice much faster than expected. A pit rose in his gullet at the thought of seeing his brother again. Though the two had always shared a strong bond, Marik never let it slip that he thought his brother was beyond redemption. It made him wonder what his true motive was for summoning him back to Paris; he knew better than anyone Marik wouldn't just cut off his spending and then grant him one of the highest positions in Paris out of the goodness of his heart.
The castle had not changed since the death of Saint Louise. It still maintained all the beauty of a stunning medieval French castle. The Conciergerie looked just as domineering and magnificent as it had back then and the dark stone framework and roofs chilled anyone who entered it. An appropriate appearance since it was now the house of the courts, which, no doubt, always spelled doom for the accused.
When he entered the front gates, he dismissed the guards and called for the Bishop; it was high time the two settled this issue.
"Malik." The Captain looked up at the sound of his name. The Bishop stood before him, a taller, identical version of himself: sharp lavender eyes, wild bleached bone-white hair, sharp features and dark skin despite the man's lack of sunlight. The only difference between them was that Marik's hair was wilder, he wore a black and purple cleric's robe and his features were sharper, more severe. Malik's were more aloof, his hair hung loose and wild and he was dressed in the armored outfit of a captain.
For a moment, the two stood on either side of the other, identical faces unreadable of emotion. Then Marik smiled. "I missed you, brother."
He opened his arms to hug the man, and despite himself, Malik returned it.
"Welcome back to Paris," he greeted.
Malik offered a small smile. "You didn't give me much of a choice," he joked, crossing his arms over his chest. "Seems not much has changed in fifteen years."
Marik sighed, his gazed darkening. "Yes, it's true." He turned around and motioned for his brother to follow him. He did so. Slowly, the two men traveled through the castle, avoiding the catacombs where prisoners lay behind bars or in torture devices while they awaited trial or were serving their sentences.
"It seems despite all my efforts to eradicate the corrupt from this city, it still exists," Marik spoke sadly. "My poor ward, lord bless his naïve soul. He can't see it, but I do." Finally, Marik led his brother to a balcony that offered a grand view of the city and the plaza below. The view was second only to Notre Dame herself. "I see the dark, evil heart of this city," he gestured towards the plaza where the circus was setting up for Notre Dame. All around the alleys, gypsies danced in the streets, beggars pleaded for money, and other outcasts flocked the city for the festivities.
"This is the one day of the year everyone, and I do mean everyone, comes out into the open," he chuckled darkly. "The gypsies have come to this city more than ever this year and with them all the corruption of the world." His hands gripped the banister.
Malik raised an eyebrow, failing to see the meaning behind his brother's logic.
"My ward believes these creatures are capable of goodness, that they can change, but he is young, naïve. He can't see the cruelty of Fate and that the outcasts are outcasts for a reason: because God decided it."
"Why did you summon me back to Paris, Marik?" Malik demanded lowly.
Marik turned to his brother with a smile. Even after fifteen years, the estrangement between them had not changed.
"I asked you to return here for the very reason I told you," Marik explained, "to be the Captain of the King's guards, or rather, the guards of the Palace of Justice. I am only a Bishop, Malik. My power among the law is limited, but with your help, we can eradicate the corruption of this city." He spoke grandly, as if the two were rushing off to a war, and each step Marik took closer to him, the more Malik liked the idea. "And, together, we can do what I have been trying to do for twenty years: find the Court of Miracles, the gypsy sanctuary."
Malik's face fell with disgust. "You summoned me after all this time to help you arrest fortune tellers and street dancers!" he roared furiously.
Marik grabbed the front of his brother's shirt and pulled him to his eye level. Rage blazed in his eyes as well as pity. "I summoned you here so you could do something with this miserable excuse of an existence you call a life!" Malik stumbled back when Marik forcefully let him go. He collected himself and listened to Marik's rant. "The gypsies are the leaders of the outcasts, the beggars, the poor, the prostitutes, the thieves, the corrupt! They infest this world like fleas on the carcass of a rat! Once we find their sanctuary, we find them all, and we can finally purge this city and return it to its shinning glory as the home of Our Lady." Marik's voice changed from one of disgusted horror to one of mad glory. "Imagine it, brother," he turned to Malik with a look of sheer bliss. "Our city, free of all corruption."
"A lovely dream." Malik agreed with a dark grin. "So, what do you want me to do?"
Marik matched his brother's grin. "I want you to capture any outcast you see, any gypsy. If they break the law, imprison them and I want you and your guard to expel them from the city." A dark glimmer of triumph flashed in Marik's eyes. "I know it won't be easy, but I know between the two of us, we shall succeed." He took Malik's hand and clasped it in his own, a memento from when they were children. Malik smiled and squeezed his brother's hand in agreement.
Behind them, the noon bells rang loudly from Notre Dame.
"Ah, duty calls," Marik sighed disappointed, but none the less turned to leave. "When was the last time you attended the Mardi Gras festival?" he asked in a sly tone.
"Not since before I left," Malik replied, licking his lips at the festivities he was about to partake in.
"Good," Marik sighed before stopping in his tracks, causing Malik to crash in to him.
The captain opened his mouth to demand an explanation but Marik had beaten him to it. "Then I have only one request." The look on Marik's faced silenced Malik in an instant. "My ward is going to be at the festivities, in disguise, most likely. I'm testing him, you see. Therefore," he turned to Malik with grave protectiveness, "if you see Ryou Glory, do not approach him, do not speak to him, do not even look at him or say his name. I don't want him to know that you or I know of his presence there. I want to test him. If he succeeds, I have underestimated him. If he fails, however, I shall punish him as I see fit.
Malik nodded and rolled his eyes once Marik turned around. If it weren't for the man's keen hearing, he'd have growled under his breath.
Ever over-protective of that brat, Malik growled, a damn shame. The boy was too beautiful to be locked away by Marik's life of chastity and sacrifice. But oh well, it didn't matter, Malik smirked to himself. Today, he was free to do as he wished. Tomorrow, he'd officially begin his duty as Captain of the Guard.
I'm so proud of how this chap came out.
It got a few rewrites while typing and editing. PAY ATTENTION TO THE EMERALD!
Also Malik has arrived! Yes, and he is EVIL! XD Malik and Marik: those two are quite something as twins aren't they? These two are what you call: one twin is good and the other twin is evil. Now the question is, which one? Mwahahahahahaha! I told you to scrap all you know about Phebous! Mwahahaha! But be warned, Malik may surprise you in this!
As always enjoy! Again Special thanks to Chi for betaing!