Disclaimer: I do not own Yugioh or any Yugioh character depicted in this fic.
Jabberwocky
"One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back."
"Jabberwocky" - Lewis Carrol
The night wind howled, lashing at the boy's shivering form as he surveyed the scene before him, but enthusiasm is an effective antidote to any discomfort felt by the young. In his case, the excitement of the chase, of proving himself worthy. Worthy of what, he wasn't certain, but something inherent in his nature always spurred him head-first into these situations; some of them wickedly difficult to extricate himself from.
Like that one time, when Baba had still been alive and he had been dared to steal his tobacco pouch while he slept. Baba, despite the facade he presented, became recklessly violent when angered or in battle. The boy had known that he risked his life in this pursuit, but he had been dared. And Bakura, the five-year-old, self-titled Prince of Thieves, backed down from no challenge. Especially if the grocer's son had issued it in the first place. That Jalal. Psh. Bakura could rub his fat face in the dirt with one hand tied behind his back. Like he could do to every other boy his age in the village, even some of the older ones. Everyone knew that if they escaped the might of his small fists, they could only pray to escape the agonising pinch of his sharp teeth in various, tender parts of their anatomy.
And so, while Baba had slept, Bakura had made use of his prodigious skills in sneaking and crawled under the table, the odour of stale sweat, horses, old leather and camphor producing a familiar sensory amalgamation that did nothing to comfort him. He still bore the scars of the last time Baba had beaten him, on his bottom no less. The tobacco pouch hung like a ripe fruit, tempting and laden with fragrant herb stolen from a merchant caravan that Baba had ambushed with the scouting party last week. Baba had even let Bakura take a pull from his pipe once, in one of his more benevolent moods.
In the denouement, Baba had opened his eyes at the wrong moment, precisely when Bakura had slipped the fastening on his belt and was about to slink away victoriously. A heavy hand had grabbed his hair, twisting viciously, pulling him kicking and thrashing through the air till he hung nose-to-nose with the bleary-eyed, terrifying vision of barely-sober fury. The other boys had scattered the moment Baba had awoken, Jalal being the foremost. And Bakura had done the only thing he could think of in that moment of sheer horror. He bit Baba's nose. Hard.
Suffice to say, he had not been able to return to the house for five nights, until the unsightly swelling on Baba's face had settled. Jalal had taunted him about sleeping in sacks near the communal fire like the lesser thieves and watchmen of Kul Elna. But when he had finally returned, looked Baba in the face and seen the small flash of amusement and pride before he was thrashed soundly, he knew that the dare had been well-played, even though he'd been caught. And he glowed with silent, inner self-congratulation at this victory, much to the consternation of his play-mates who did not understand. Even he did not fully comprehend, but he felt good all the same, the way only a child can.
Bakura did not understand the concept of love. Sentiments of this nature were not bandied about freely in Kul Elna. Such things belonged to the rich, those that could afford the luxury of attachment. And so, when Baba had never returned from a raid and the silence that preceded his men had told the villagers all they needed to know, Bakura didn't recognise the unbearably heavy, choking sensation that grasped at his insides, the hollowness that had been left by Baba's absence. He had gone some distance off and watched the sun rise, wondering why it was that these senseless tears fell. Baba hated crying. Even when Bakura was a baby, he had been slapped every time he so much as sniffled. Angrily, he wiped the moisture away. He would not shame Baba. He would not shame himself. And the days passed into weeks, and the weeks into months, and the silence that reigned where Baba's stertorous snores had once conquered all other sounds only induced a slight ache in his heart. But still, that elusive gap would not be filled. Bakura became brash, arrogant, reckless, always seeking the danger that he knew Baba would have sought himself. His old play-mates slowly lost their old camaraderie to awe and respect over the months that followed Baba's death and a new leader raised his small, shaggy white head where no boy had ever had ascendency before. And then Usi came.
Usi, with his quiet, rugged, weatherbeaten face that told of distant lands traveled, of strange spectacles witnessed. Usi, with his magic-tricks, performing slights-of-hand so skilful that even the sharp eyes of the thieves had trouble following him. Usi, with his aura of danger and mystery, his scrutiny that stripped you down to bare bone and a few feelings. His empty eyes, always watching. And young, brave Bakura, so aged beyond his years and yet so naive to the true nature of men, fell under his spell. Only a few days after the enigmatic drifter came to Kul Elna, the boy was seen in his company everywhere. Usi was nothing like Baba; he was silent where Baba roared, he smiled with no feeling where Baba slapped his knee and doubled over with laughter, he preferred the shadows at the edges of the crowd where Baba needed to be the centre of attention. His mode of operation fascinated the young child, who was drawn to this polar opposite of the man who had raised him like a moth to a flame. In his mind, Usi offered a stability that he needed, a standard to which he could be called. He never recognised the way Usi looked at him, the expression adorning his face when he regarded Bakura the same as when he watched the cock-fights and the insects that crawled near the campfires. Bakura stood out from the other boys; he was bright, agile, cunning and possessed a devilish wit and daring that Usi found . . . amusing. A suitable pawn indeed.
So Bakura found himself here, watching this tomb. Usi had not directly told him to be here, doing this. He had not even suggested it. He had merely informed Bakura, casually, that where he came from, boys were initiated into men when they performed an act of courage that equalled or even surpassed the deeds of the clan warriors. Such as bypassing the Royal Guards at the tombs, braving the numerous traps set throughout and obtaining a relic from the burial chamber that served to prove their passage. Of course, for a boy his age, as Usi condescendingly put it, simply getting past the guards into the first chamber and eluding them to emerge once more, might be sufficient to grant him worthiness. Never did he tell Bakura what he would be worthy of; the boy had taken it for granted that the older man meant access to his company or permission to travel with him and see far-off and exciting places. Perhaps even his affection. Determined to prove that he deserved Usi's respect, he had crowed about how he could get past the guards with ease and even snatch an item of priceless value from the tomb. Usi had regarded him expressionlessly, with a measuring glance that to this day made even his blood run cold. The uneasiness of the men around him, the glances exchanged in hesitant secrecy, barely made an impression on his young, excitable mind. He would show them, especially Jalal. He would be a man.
"He's a clever boy . . . "
"More like the old man than he knows . . . "
"He doesn't really think . . . well . . .you know . . . "
"That he can get past the Imperial Guards?" A snort of laughter. "Of course he does! He's Bakura!"
More chuckling followed. Silence.
"The old man wanted to train him. A master thief, he said the boy would be. Pity he never told him that."
Nodding followed this statement. One raised his head slightly. "If any young one can get in there without the guards knowing, it's that one."
"Hmmmm. We should call him back before he does. Tell him we were pulling his stubby little leg."
One of the company turned slowly, expression coldly implacable. "Call him back? I thought we had a wager, my good men."
An uncomfortable pall settled on the company the moment this man spoke. All eyes turned away, yet nobody dared indicate that they weren't listening. The one who had defended Bakura's thieving ability, however, frowned.
"We don't hold wagers on the life of one of our own, Usi. Especially the young ones. Ra knows, with the Pharaoh's men on the move, we need to keep our numbers up."
Usi said nothing, merely stirring the embers of the fire, sending up sparks in the direction of the speaker, illuminating his young face and broad-shouldered frame. In turn, the shadows seemed to grow on the traveler's side of the fire.
"Are you backing down from a bet, my good man?" came the soft query.
Still undaunted, the thief stared back. "We had no bet. Only one in jest, Usi. Bakura is a good boy, there's no need to put him at risk." He paused, leaning forward, a curious look on his face. "He follows you around like a tail, doesn't he? I thought you were fond of him?"
Usi smiled his humourless grimace. "As fond as you are of your sword, I suppose. Would you have the same regard for it if you did not put it to use and it emerged unscathed, battle after battle?"
Uncertain laughter followed this statement, but the man opposite did not smile. He regarded Usi with a guarded glance of aversion before standing. "I'm going to fetch the boy before he does something stupid," he muttered.
"You will spoil our sport?" Suddenly, Usi was all smiles and gentle words, a paternal air stealing into his manner. "Come now, a little entertainment never hurt anybody. You yourself said that the boy is skilful enough to find his way in and back out."
The young thief crossed his arms stubbornly. "He's never been on a raid before. He's good at sneaking and stealing, but what use is that without experience or someone to guide him? You may not know it, wanderer, but we have an unwritten law in these parts; no young one's leave the compound without an elder or permission. If the Pharaoh's men got hold of one . . . how long do you think a child lasts under torture?"
Some of the men around the fire nodded in agreement, smoke rising from the glowing coals of their pipes as the motion made their heads wag back and forth. Usi glanced at another thief, a thin, sour faced man who had been silent throughout the entire conversation, occupying himself with sharpening a blade. The man glanced back; they momentarily locked gazes. Usi turned his eyes back towards the young man who had challenged him.
"Well then, a simple solution, my good man. Why don't you accompany him?"
The statement caught the one addressed off guard. "Go with him? But . . . "
"Or are you also . . . nervous?"
Another laugh, this time heartier, made its rounds amongst the group of men. The young man bristled. "Very well, I will accompany Bakura. This will be his first raid . . . under my supervision," he added proudly.
"Oh, I envy you," said Usi smoothly, "I was hoping to take the boy myself . . . ah well."
The guards were shifting position in the shadows cast by the crumbling limestone wall surrounding the vaults. Bakura and his chosen protector, Hasani, were concealed behind a low hillock, their dusty cloaks allowing them to blend in with the sand-dunes and the sparse, dry grass that dotted the area. Bakura had wrapped a length of finely-woven linen around his face, as demonstrated by Hasani, to keep away the harsh sting of the night wind. He had also been awarded a shortened belt and a hilt for a small dagger. Hasani watched the boy sidelong with some anxiety. Huddled beside him, the cloak enhancing his small stature and drowning his child's limbs, the boy looked like he belonged more in a cradle than in the open, with a weapon he was more likely to cause himself harm with. Young ones were usually taught the skills of raiding when they reached twelve summers, this one was far younger than any that had gone before. He was losing faith with every passing second; this was surely a suicide mission for a child.
Placing a firm hand on Bakura's shoulder, turning the boy towards him, he said, "It's not too late to turn back. Think. Think well."
As stubborn as ever, Bakura lifted his small chin and gazed down his nose at Hasani with a strangely imperious air. "I'm going in. Usi said to prove I was a man. I will do it."
The conviction in his words startled Hasani, somewhat. The bright, blue-grey eyes surveyed him with a fierce glint that told him that the boy would not be persuaded by direct means.
"All right, have it your way, dungbrain," he muttered, "But since you're younger than most at their first raid, I will be behind you every step of the way."
"But you're too big, you'll get in my way," was the artlessly blunt reply.
"Watch your tongue," the elder growled, "I'm not coming in, just staying out here to make sure the guards don't slice you to pieces. Don't wander too far in, just the first chamber, grab something and you're out again." He paused, seeing the rebelliousness sneak into Bakura's face before adding, "And don't even think of disobeying. If you take too long, I'll come in and fetch you. I'm sure that will make Usi proud . . ."
He watched the boy subside into sulky silence with satisfaction. "Good. Now follow me."
Sliding from their hiding place, Hasani with the smoothness of long practise, Bakura with the stealth of youth, they crept closer towards the guarded entrance, bent double. When they reached a close-enough point, Hasani loosened his belt and drew out a small sack which he fastened around Bakura's waist. From another pouch, he produced finely ground charcoal mixed with powdered incense which he smeared onto the boy's face and hands to mask tell-tale body odours and darken his complexion. Surveying him, he nodded as if satisfied and jerked his head. Without further need of encouragement, Bakura was off, trailing low, swinging away every time one of the guard's fields of vision threatened to encompass him. From behind him, he heard a low call, a whistling so faint it might have been the wind. The guards' ears perked up; they were obviously aware of the ruses used by tomb robbers to gain access to the vaults. Silently, one gestured to the other. Nodding, the second picked up his spear and disappeared round the corner of the wall in the direction of the call, whilst the other remained, eyes wary and watchful as he scanned the dark around him. Bakura picked up a small pebble and tossed it. It skittered a few feet away, rolling slightly, creating a loud enough diversion for the remaining guard.
"Who goes there?" he demanded loudly, obviously planning on alerting his partner.
Bakura crept closer, keeping to the rugged shadows of the uneven wall. Usi had taught him a handy trick a few days ago which he had taken much pleasure in perfecting. The art of voice projection. And the guard fell for a low whistle that seemed to come from somewhere amongst the rocks to his right, whilst a small shadow darted through the momentarily disregarded gate. Once in, Bakura had to restrain himself from crowing in delight. Hah. Jalal should see him now.
Outside in the chill bite of the wind, Hasani waited patiently. One of the guards had been alerted by his call, and, as expected, was trailing slowly towards him, leaving his companion to Bakura. He saw the man pause a few feet away, gaze traveling over the surface of the hillock. He carried a short-handled throwing spear and a cross-bow. Hasani shifted slightly again, each movement designed to create a little noise, drawing the guard further and further away from the vault. The young man's concern over Bakura's fate was gradually ebbing away in the thrill of his trap. The boy was a natural, he would make it out safely. All Hasani needed to do was get this one far enough to incapacitate him without any struggle and make his way back to pick up his charge if help was needed . . . and then a great pain at his temple and darkness.
At the end of Hasani's life, which was no long affair in any case; he only survived three months after this particular incident, he would attest to the fact that the other guard may have sneaked up and knocked him out from behind. How this was possible, he had no earthly idea. Hasani, despite being a good judge of character, was one for action, not thinking. He would, however, subsequently wonder why the guards would have forsaken their position for hunting him down, and why they hadn't killed him when they did. None of the Pharaoh's guards left a vault unattended. None of the Pharaoh's guards spared a tomb robber's life. He was glad that the boy escaped unscathed, however, even if he seemed strangely subdued afterwards and avoided others whenever possible. However, he did not puzzle over this for long. There were more important things for him to concern himself over, such as the imminent threat of the Pharaoh's troops. In shorter terms, the rest of that night was a painful blur for Hasani. Not so for Bakura.
He had not dawdled in the tomb, taking Hasani's threat to drag him out in all seriousness. Moving like a darting fox, he pattered softly about within, wary of traps and snatching anything that looked valuable enough to boast over or small enough to fit into his sack. At the end, he'd had to leave some things behind. Unlike other children, he had a strange sense of practicality, something that Baba had been somewhat responsible for. Breathing deeply, he welcomed the fresh night air back into his lungs as he hastened softly to the entrance.
Remember, don't rush and grow careless because you are near the end. The escape is developed to the highest art amongst thieves; it sets the master apart from the hounds.
Baba's rare sage advice ringing in his ears, he edged forward. The dark shape of the other guard came into view, but something was wrong. He was not alone. With him were three others who conversed in low voices, nodding and shaking their heads and gesturing vigorously. Still undetected, he had crept closer, intent on hearing their discussion.
" . . . a sound, a low whistle . . ."
" . . . And he never came back?"
" . . . From over there, behind those rocks . . ."
"Damn thieves! They run amock in this place . . ."
Snatches of their conversation allowed him to piece together that the other guard had never returned and the one he had hoodwinked had alerted some others. He frowned. Surely Hasani would not have allowed this? Then again, maybe this was part of the test. Maybe Hasani was lurking just beyond the rocks ahead, ready to spring out and help him if he was injured. All men suffered some wounds, according to his knowledge. To prove himself worthy, maybe he would have to sustain some. He sucked in his proud little chest, ready to face whatever awaited him.
He would grit his teeth and grimace sourly when Ma tended his wounds, the way Baba did. He would not even whimper.
In the darkness beyond the vaults, the night wind whipping thin cloaks outwards, their shapes resembling barely visible, ragged flagmasts, two pairs of eyes watched, one eager and vicious, the other bottomless, deathlike, coldly amused. Silent as statues they stood above the unconcious form of Hasani and the disembowelled form of the guard. And they waited for the evening's entertainment to begin.
They were returning to the tomb, he could hear the crunch of their footsteps above the pounding of his young heart. Two were to search the tombs for any unwanted activity, the others to set out in search of their missing companion. He breathed out, trying desperately to calm himself, but his body did not pay attention. Pushing away from the wall against which he leant, he knew that he would have to make a run for it; both guards were burly in the small enclosure within the wall and he knew that they would be able to detect him very quickly. And no matter how young the culprit, they were not forgiving.
He closed his eyes, gave himself a few seconds to get properly oriented and dived for the entrance. Even his small form could not escape the detection of the hawk-eyed guards. A hand swiped at him, the fingers actually grazing his throat before he was past them, running faster than he ever had in his life. The world passed in a blur around him as a shout went up and he heard the sound of running feet.
Crossbows! he remembered with sudden fear.
He began to move in a quick zig-zag the way he had been taught, sweat pouring down his face and cooling to chilly fingers of ice down his back as he listened to the thud and zing that the deadly intruments made. Puffs of sand erupted around him as he began to swing more erratically, desperate to reach the cover of the rocks before he was speared through. He could hear the longer strides of the guards as they strove to match his smaller ones.
Where is Hasani? Has he abandoned me?
In those moments, Bakura sincerely regretted his rudeness towards the older thief. Maybe if he had been more respectful Hasani wouldn't have left him to die . . . he was so scared. Turning his head was a mistake. A cold rush of air and a mind-numbing pain was all that registered as he tumbled to the dirt. Something warm and wet was gushing down his face and his right eye was completely dark. The entire side of his face felt as if it were on fire. The footsteps sounded louder behind him, a triumphant shout from one of the guards cutting off into a scream of agony as a missile sped overhead, thudding into the man's unprotected flesh.
Through the haze of pain, Bakura registered that help had arrived. Hasani hadn't abandoned him after all. But amongst the men who picked him up, who wiped the blood away and scrutinized his eye, patted his back and told him what a brave boy he was, he could not discern Hasani's familiar, handsome features. The thieves of Kul Elna, despite their rough existence and bloodthirsty policy, would certainly not allow one of their own to be taken by the Pharaoh's men so easily. And, it was generally agreed, this little one had more guts than many grown men in their village. He would be saved; he had certainly earned the right to it. The old man would be proud.
Amongst the banter of the returning party, Bakura sat in place of honour on the lead horseman's mount with the rider seated behind him. A powerful salve had been applied to his eye, many assuring him that it would heal and he would see again, but none mentioning that it would scar permanently. They knew the boy better. Knew that he would like to make such a discovery by himself, knew that strange as it may seem, he would be proud to wear such a physical token of bravery at such a young age. Little did they know what that scar would come to signify later, that the boy sitting so proudly at the head of their procession would deliberately deform his face further, one lengthwise gash across the vertical scar as a vow to destroy the Pharaoh, and a smaller beneath to signify his hatred for Usi and subsequent revenge, the man he would never forgive for betraying him twice.
And so, adrenalin allowing him an unprecedented level of alertness, he heard of the bet Usi had made. At first he swelled with pride, ecstatic that Usi had so much faith that he had layed such a huge amount of money on his success. But when they reached Kul Elna, there was no sign of the traveler and Bakura, who had been expecting to be greeted as a son and companion, felt his heart sink. Had he done something wrong? Had Usi expected him to do better? The unfairness welled up in him, creating tears that no amount of physical damage could induce.
But soon he knew better. And this knowledge came the moment he saw Usi sitting around a campfire in his usual position, with the other men. That descisive moment when he looked into the man's eyes and with a horrified certainty, knew the true nature of the wager that Usi had made. The man he had idolised, the man who's company he constantly sought, the man who had filled that gaping void like no other with his trust.
And looking into the soft, brown eyes of his host, so young, so impressionable, the ancient thief knew the weight of emotional responsibility for the first time. One that had been denied him, one that had rankled and festered for all the centuries of his long life. A life that had degenerated into one betrayal after another. He had been a fool to think himself one step ahead when Usi rejoined his ranks years later. A bigger fool than he would ever admit. Bakura knew that Usi had never meant for him to survive that fateful night, never forgiven him for proving him wrong. And yet, here was this boy, this living, breathing, thinking being, a modern projection of himself. He was as much in the present as he had ever hoped to be, despite the obstacles and the long imprisonment of his soul. And now, he would not allow anyone to take this new prize away, no matter what the cost. In Ryou Bakura, the spirit had found immortality.
A/N: A healthy flashback always helps :) Review!