Disclaimer: I do not own Yugioh, the Yugioh characters depicted in this fic or 'Lamashtu'
Author notes: The constructive feedback I have received from all reviewers is amazing! Thank you very much!!! A note, this chapter is far more introspective.
The River of Thought
The song and splash of the paddy field-workers, the hum of dragonflies, the all-pervading warmth of the sun and the steady lift and drop of his horse beneath him all formed welcome travel companions as Bakura navigated the winding dirt road away from Ur. The monotony of the journey somehow helped alleviate the ever-so-slight nagging feeling at the back of his mind as to the wisdom of his deal with Lamashtu. The missing child was aggravating his conscience more than it should. The demoness chose to take, I simply chose to be there.
And yet . . . he thought back to their meeting, how she had pressed the imperative nature of his task onto his mind. There was no need for what she did. And of that, she is fully aware . . .
She had imparted to him the location of the item she wished him to bring to her. His destination lay further north, deep in the cedar forests where he needed to find an isolated ziggurat erected in the honour of Nergal, Sumerian God of the Underworld. The landmarks she had provided and his own tracking skill would be enough to get him there, the concern lay in what would happen after. Would she keep her end of the bargain? He knew that she was fully capable of restoring his Ka to full strength, but she was ancient, she was cunning. He had never kept his word in any agreement he had undertaken, and he knew that she had read it in his eyes.
If he could but grasp that elusive answer, unlock the door that held Diabound so maddeningly at bay, he would not need her. Fleeting as his moment of glory had been when she had flooded his Ka monster with his old power, he knew that this would not be a simple matter of retreiving an artifact. But the origin, where this all started . . .the duel.
Oh, that he remembered well. So close . . .so very, very close he had been. The Pharoah had been no match for him. As his hatred grew, so did Diabound's strength, his rage. And then, the High Priest . . .
Bakura ground his teeth, eyes gleaming with wild fury. He recalled the words that had been spoken, the supercilious tone, the condescension and the righteousness in that aristocratic face, the cold, hard eyes.
This land has been tormented long enough by your self-serving, twisted sense of justice, Thief. Your people have perished long since . . . they are dead and gone. There is nothing you can do, no atrocity you could commit, no pain you could cause, that will ever bring them back.
He closed his eyes, the reins etching deep ridges in the fleshy portion of his palm. You bring suffering, agony and fear. Do you think they are proud?
His own voice, sibilant with suppressed anger. You think my people's souls are at rest? Ha! You know nothing, you are nothing, High Priest. You are the child of a nation born in guilt, the slave of a monarch whose hands are steeped in the blood of my people . . .
Do you hear yourself, Thief?, strident and fearless, You are a monster, a man with a soul so profoundly evil that even the Millenium Scale could not measure the extent of your depravity and wickedness! And you dare insult my Pharoah, the most honourable man in this land?
Honourable? A man who was born to a murderer?
Bakura! The Pharoah had cut in, raising his arm, one finger extended to pin him down, I cannot answer for what has happened to your people, Thief, that knowledge is beyond me. But I have offered compensation on the numerous occasions we have had confrontations . . .
Compensation! Ha! What do you take me for, Pharoah? Do you hear them? The ghosts of Kul Elna? I do. I fulfil their desires, I am their emissary. Diabound is fueled by their need, my need. You will not defeat us . . .
Enough! Standing tall, command radiating from every limb, Seth had ordered the first attack. And again, and again, their strength combined against him, Diabound roaring, defying them with every shattering blow of energy. And then the final strike, the one that had proved his undoing. Why? Why had Diabound failed him? Why had he been there, strong as the foundations of Kul Elna for one second and crumbling the next?
There was something, something else, at the back of his mind. What had happened? Why did he feel as if Seth was responsible? It could not possibly be his strength, Diabound was far stronger than either of them. Could it be . . . Never. He had never doubted his people, he had never doubted himself. Diabound, do not fail me . . .
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His body was sore, the muscles in his arms, back and legs twisting painfully with every jarring movement of the horse, every dip and rise in the deserted track they followed. All was dark, he had been heavily blindfolded. The Rod was in their possession, he could sense the small trickle of Shadow magic, characteristic of when a Millenium Item was near, but not directly with the holder. But that would not be nearly enough to break the runed shackles placed on his wrists and ankles. The magic was similar to his own, and yet different. The language in which enchantments were created and the properties of the items imbued with power varied. He would require much more time if he were to figure out how these binds functioned.
He had, furthermore, been strapped to the horse to prevent his falling off during his periods of unconsciousness. However, he had been awake for some hours now and he could tell that they had chosen a far less-frequented route through the marshes. The damp smell of decay, the whirr and sharp bite of the gnats and the muffled sound of the horse's hooves as they tramped and forged through mud and grass gave him the necessary clues. His captors had given no indication of where they were heading, or when they would get there. None of them had spoken to him, besides the occasional prod or sharp command. His head slumped forward onto his chest, mind travelling far back to Sumer, to Ibbin-adad, the dead soldiers in the shadowed street, the maddened priests in their cloistered room and the tablet of Inim Shara . . .Praise be the Enlightened One, we of the brotherhood seek truth . . .
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Six days of travel had brought him far north, past the cities of Mari and Terqa, further than the near junction of the Euphrates and Tigris rivers. The land around him rose in gentle slopes, different from the flood plains and marshy stretches near Ur and Lagash. The air became cooler and dryer with the increased elevation. He'd had to purchase warmer clothes and a sheepskin wrapper to wear over his shora. The wind bit into his dark skin, so accustomed to the caress of the Egyptian sun, and, when he removed his headdress to breathe easier, tousled his white mane till it stood out in even wilder disarray than before. The trees began, low shrubs amidst which ground-nesting birds whirled upwards with startled, admonishing screeches when disturbed by his horses's cantering hooves. The cedar woods began some way north west of Terqa, a wide tract which stretched all along the interior and a good portion of the coastline.
Within the forests, the grass was low at first, yellow where it faced the rays of the rising and setting sun and greener, quieter at the interior when he traversed deeper. Bakura felt a strangeness, a sense of the ethereal, being alone between these silent, spreading trees. And then he sensed it. His never-failing sixth sense. He had felt its presence as he had gone further, a deeper shade against the shadowy greenery, the stretching, ever-grasping boughs. It followed, watching, waiting. He could sense hunger, hatred, bestial knowledge, but nothing beyond. He knew Lamashtu, knew the slow-poisoning, tainted brush of her mind against his. This was different, but not any less dangerous. A watcher, a sentinel, he thought, and here, I am the intruder. He smirked as he went deeper, gloom falling over his solitary form. Intruder. That is a part I play well, my friend.