Disclaimer: I do not own Yugioh, any Yugioh characters portrayed in this fic, or 'Lamashtu'

Author Notes: And yet more incorporation of Sumerian mythology. Here's the next chapter . . .

The River of Thought

The fresh smell of overturned earth from the young, thrusting shoots and the mossy texture of tree trunks under his fingers became his focus as he concentrated on the presence hunting him through the cedar forest. It was nearing midday, he had camped outside the forest the day before in order to begin his journey at dawn. He knew that whatever it was that followed him would wait for the cover of nightfall to make its ambush.

He began to whistle, a deceptively cheery tune, leaning back casually in his saddle. Reaching out, he plucked berries off a nearby tree and tossed them into the air, catching them deftly in his mouth. He snapped branches off trees, nearly crushed several small animals under his horse's hooves, took pot-shots at roosting birds with apple cores and scattered the burnt remains of his fire by kicking them around. He grinned as he felt the rage build all around him in an almost perceptible aura of menace. Continuing in this irreverent strain, he disregarded every aspect of the forest's well-being, the hatred growing and growing in his potential attacker's thoughts.

Anger makes one careless. It makes you braver than you should be, and you will be at my mercy . . .

Diabound's dark essence crept slowly from his mind, filtering soundlessly amongst the tiny, pointed cedar sprigs and upwards, upwards to where the stalking shadow became visible, approaching faster now that his fury against this intruder was at its peak. And so you make your first mistake . . .

A heavy, musky odour began to permeate the forest, awakening a primal craving within the guardian of the cedar forest. Bestial as he was, he knew not what it was that made him desire blood with such fervour, warm as a sunbeam, heady as tree-sap, so sweet, so fresh . . .

The trees around them rustled with stirring life, the birds that had retired to their homes to roost for the night suddenly beating their wings in unease, in fear. Wild boars scraped their tusks along tree trunks in aggravation, creating a shuddering throughout their lairs. Bakura lifted his head, eyes closed as his Ka monster permeated the dusky gloom under every tree, between every branch, beneath and above the blades of grass whipping in the night breeze and stirring the dead leaves on the forest floor.

The watcher in the shadows, for the first time in his long, unhindered life, experienced a sense of disquiet. He lifted his large head, flexing lion-like claws as a strange, dark presence passed overhead, faster than the eye could see, the soft, seductive whisper sharpening his hunter's instinct. The scent of his prey grew stronger, alluring in the extreme. He quickened his pace, aware of the forest life stirring around him, the almost hostile hissing and snaps he received going unregistered. He was their guardian, he protected them from harm, from trespassers such as this. He was not concerned in the slightest. Ah, but you should be . . .

Deeper and deeper Bakura led the watcher into his own domain, laughing as he went. Your duty shall prove your own undoing . . .

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A steep flight of stairs, the hushed voices of his captors, the damp stone walls of his cell and the roughness of the straw pallet beneath his knees was all that Seth registered in his exhaustion and famished state. The blind-fold was removed and he squinted against the sudden light within the cell. Before he was given a chance to adjust, the cell door clanged shut sonorously and the heavy bolt shot into place. Lowering his head between his knees, he wretched emptily, stomach twisting in pain and hunger. He had only been given a single ration of bread and water per day during the course of their journey here. They had spoken to him only in whispers, of his preparation for perusing the texts of enlightenment, of the readying for the first test.

Starvation and forcible confinement must be an essential part of their highly recognised religion, he thought dryly I wonder if they all live in cells like this one. A grim smile passed across the High Preist's guant face. I'm not nearly done for yet.

It was only the following day that his cell door was unbolted once more. A hooded figure slipped into the cell and blindfolded him once more.

"Where am I being taken?" he demanded.

"You are being taken nowhere, initiate. The High Master is paying his respects. You cannot look upon him until you have been accepted into the Brotherhood."

Seth snorted. "Paying his respects?" he asked, voice heavy with scorn.

"Hush!" was the admonishing answer, "You must not speak unless spoken to."

Deciding to keep his own council for now, Seth waited in silence as he heard the slow, heavy tread of many approaching footsteps. The creak of the cell door was heard once more as a number of shuffling feet entered the cramped space. There was another silence, graver than before, and a single man drew nearer until he stood directly in front of Seth.

"Initiate." The voice was deep, slightly cracked with age, but with a great sense of command and authority. Seth did not deign to reply. He hated self-appointed leaders. The solemn voice continued, apparently unconcerned at the lack of response.

"You wonder, no doubt, as to why you are here. I can provide both answers and enlightenment, you have but to listen and learn."

"I would rather you killed me than force me to adopt your twisted, criminal principles, old man," said Seth sharply, straightening in his seat.

A hushed whisper of scandalous shock flitted around the cell, but the High Master seemed not in the slightest offended when he spoke again. Rather, he sounded quite pleased and impressed.

"I see the starvation has quickened your thinking, as it should have. You are a promising initiate indeed."

"It has not," returned Seth, "My wits have always been this sharp. You have much to learn yourself, it seems."

A soft chuckle sounded in the dead silence within the cell. "Indeed . . .indeed. Well, as you seem ready, the test will be performed right now. Bring the tablet, brother."

The sound of scurrying feet heading out of the room and Seth felt hands turn him roughly such that he was facing the wall. "Now, brothers, he still has much to learn. Do not treat him harshly."

Seth smiled to himself. These brothers may not so enlightened after all. After a period of waiting, the blindfold was removed and Seth found himself confronted with an ancient clay tablet, still nestling in the soft calf-skin wrapping, placed such that the sun's rays illuminated the etched script and cast the verses on the tablet into sharp relief.

"Read," he was commanded.

Wondering what this was all about, Seth allowed his eyes to travel over the tablet. "Aloud," was his second instruction.

It was a simple thing indeed, but Seth was wary, his mind traveling back to the alive, and yet lifeless priests in the infirmary at Ur. "Why should I read this? It is an incantation, I can see that."

"But only by reciting will you acheive true enlightenment."

I am stronger than that, thought the High Prist, it will take more than a simple enchantment to addle my mind.

Taking a deep breath, he read.

Sins of the father, visited upon the son

Blood spilled by steel, flesh consumed by fire

I hear your cries, child of death

of dust

of ash

Your justice, wreaked upon the living

Your rage, unleashed upon my kin

I listen, but I do not

I judge, but I see not

I hear your plea, child of hate

of fear

of cruelty

Your love, lost in a life passed

Your hope, crushed yet again

I listen, and I hear

I judge, your soul

As I do my own

He went under faster than conscious thought could process. The cell disappeared, leaving him in endless, sightless darkness. A pin-prick of light appeared ahead, growing until he was entirely enveloped, falling into a world not his own. The heat hit him first, the sweeping bite of the desert sand.

Egypt! He staggered to his feet, noticing immediately that his strength had fully returned. His clothes were unsoiled, in perfect condition. Reaching up, he gingerly felt his headdress and looked around. The sand dunes extended for miles around him, featureless, dead. Trudging up a slope, the sand sifting through the straps of his sandals, Seth wondered what on earth this 'test' signified. Utterly pointless, moronic and, I must say, singularly unimpressive . . .

Cresting another dune, he stopped dead in his tracks. A small village lay in the lee of the hill below, smoke rising from multiple campfires scattered between the houses. A high wall punctuated with crudely erected watch-towers belted the outskirts, the shadowy shapes of watchmen indicating that a vigil was in place. What is this?

Approaching slowly, Seth was startled when a shape detached itself from almost beneath his feet. He stumbled, knees bent, ready to defend himself, but the concealed man did not even glance at him. Seth had a momentary impression of swarthy skin, the strong smell of sweat and dark, fearful eyes before the sentinel turned on his heel and half-slipped, half-ran down the sand dune behind him, back in the direction of the village. He heard a shout go up as the man neared the walls.

"The Pharoah's men! They arrive!"

The alarm was carried all along the wall, signal fires blazing into existence as other crouching shapes materialized all around him and on the opposite hill, all hastening to the central point of the village. Seth was completely confused and disorientated. Does nobody see me?

It certainly seemed so. He turned his attention back to the rapidly arming walls of the small village. Archers had taken up positions at regular intervals and the stamp and snort of the prepared cavalry sounded from within the fortifications. Then he heard it, the steady pound of hooves. Turning, his eyes widened as he beheld the gleaming shields, spears, scimitars and helmets, the golden crest of the Pharoah emblazoned on the herald's standard floating in fiery glory at the head of the galloping column. He backed away, out of the direct path of the soldiers to avoid being trampled as they thundered past him, the clouds of dust raised by their charge blinding him temporarily. Still, nobody registered his presence and he began to realise that this was probably part of the test. He was here in the role of observer.

Swiping at the cloud around him, he came further forward to watch the spectacle unfolding before his eyes with growing doubt and incomprehension. Why was the Royal army marching against their own citizens? This was definitely Egyptian land. Perhaps they were rebels . . . But I recall no revolts in our time, not even on the outskirts of Upper Egypt. Why am I here? More precisely, when?

As suddenly as it had come, the scene of violence and bitter conflict before him changed. Startled, Seth spun in a circle. What in the name of Ra . . .?

He inhabited exactly the same position as before, on the same hill offering a vantage point over the small village. But this was different. Slow realization dawned over the High Priest as he registered the deserted streets, the burnt, still smoking walls, the empty, soulless homes, splintered beams rising like the skeleton of some ancient, forgotten beast above the once teaming streets. It seems as if all's over. I can make a rough guess as to which side won, he thought as he approached warily. There was not a soul present to challenge him as he passed the gates, torn down and cast away from their defensive position. A small sound, carried by the wind ghosted past his ears. Head snapping sharply in the direction from which it had come, Seth broke into a swift trot, peering between the ruined buildings for the source. It was so small, he nearly missed it.

In a corner, almost completely concealed by the rubble that had collapsed into the street from a neighbouring house, a small, dirty bundle. He stepped closer, treading softly although he knew that there was no need for this. Another sound, now recognisable as a child's soft sob. Stretching his neck, he glanced over the shattered remnants of a clay oven and felt his blood run cold. A boy, no older than five, lay curled into a ball, two tiny, bloody fists bunched in the material of his torn, soiled garb. Sobs wracked his thin body, tears creating a dark patch on his knees where his head rested. Covered from head to foot in blood, dirt and soot, he had no distinguishing features. Seth felt an odd clenching sensation in the pit of his stomach. Did he see all of this? Is he the only one left?

Reaching out, he carefully placed a hand on the child's head. As expected, the boy felt nothing, simply sitting in the same position and crying jerkily. But Seth could feel. His fingers brushed soft hair, traced down over the shape of the small, fragile head. Why? Why am I here? A strange feeling this, this lump in his throat. He felt pity, but something else too. The narrow shoulders, the bones standing out such that he felt they would break if he exerted the slightest pressure. What test is this? Regret. That was the elusive emotion. He regretted his invisibility, the reason he could not pick up this defenseless little child and take him far from here, to where he would be safe and warm.

The boy shifted, sand scattering from where it had gathered between his thick locks. In the dim light the portion of hair that was revealed looked almost . . .white. White? What on earth? . . .no, no, never . . .

Seth withdrew his hand as if he had been burnt, fear clasping an icy hand over his heart as he watched the child raise his head, blood streaming from a hideous gash across his puffy, swollen, right eyelid. No, it cannot be . . .

The High Priest raised his hands to either side of his head as a small sniff echoed from the boy's nose. The narrow face crumpled again as he turned his head, one eye shut, the other showing dark, slate-blue depths of bottomless terror and loss, a grief so agonizing that Seth let out a low animal moan of horror in response. Let me out . . .

The boy rose to his feet on wobbly legs, feeling his way to make up for his loss of eyesight, a soft wailing escaping the small mouth drawn in anguish. Staggering back Seth could not tear his eyes away from the diminutive, trembling form, innocence, shock and need radiating from its every pore.

"Help," the voice, so young, so helpless, "Please help me, somebody . . ."

Knees gave way beneath his weight as Seth sank to the ground. "Somebody . . ." wrenched from the bottom of a growing well of despair, the desire for another's presence, an adult to hold and comfort . . .

No, please, enough! Let me go, I beg you . . .

He awoke to screaming, pleading, a strange dampness on his cheeks. Many hands were restraining him, holding him down on the rough straw pallet. A strong, gentle grip lifted his chin, tilting back his head and a pair of old, searching eyes stared into his own. A smile spread across the face that watched, etching deeper wrinkles into the ancient skin.

"He has passed the test, brothers! The madness has no grasp over his mind!"

Exhuberent chanting filled the tiny cell as Seth pushed himself upright shakily on his elbows, the weight of the stone tablet in his lap recalling him to its presence. Looking down, he saw that the markings had vanished. No trace of the incantation he had read remained. The High Master's gaze met his incomprehending stare.

"It is different for everyone," he explained, as if he were speaking to a child, "Each person defines their own test, the thing they would find most difficult to confront, to overcome. All thus far have been driven mad, but your sanity remains. You are the one we seek."

Seth remained silent. Enlightenment . . . the truth. The thing which they seek. I witnessed the truth . . . my truth, everything I stand for, everything I defend. My test was . . . to see my enemy as he stood once, to pity, to forgive . . .

He resisted the urge to scream again, to shove away the kind hand on his shoulder, but suddenly he lacked the strength. What have we done? My Pharoah, my King . . .

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Moonlight brushed the now gleaming strands of white hair, once so matted and covered in dirt. Teeth gleamed in fierce exhilaration, the tear-stained, blood-streaked face long forgotten as his horse carried him at full gallop along the twisting path ahead. The wind caught at his cloak, whipping it out in a dark river behind him, exposing the broad-shouldered torso rippling with corded muscle, no trace of fragility or innocence remaining. Thief King Bakura raced ahead of the ravening monster, hearing the heavy, rapid thud of following footfalls shaking the ground beneath his steed's feet. Come to me . . . You desire blood, as do I . . .

A large, clawed hand swung out, nearly catching the hem of his cloak and he laughed, eyes sparkling with madness and dangerous delight. Race me! Faster! I'm right here . . . keep up now!

The sound of a river sounded ahead and his manic grin widened. Catch me . . . rip me apart . . . my heart beats faster than yours . . .

The trees thinned ahead and he gasped. Freezing water flooded over his thighs as his horse plunged into the swift current ahead. Bakura swung sharply, grasping the reins firmly as hooves slipped slightly on the rocks below. The watcher was fully revealed in his entire, nightmareish glory as he reared, a thundering roar escaping his jagged maw and his claws flashing like deadly scythes in the brilliant light. The scimitar was drawn with a metallic scrape as Bakura faced him, no fear in his eager, shining eyes. Come and get me . . .

Diabound's shadowy essence loomed up, gigantic against the backdrop of the forest, and yet barely there, undetected by the guardian of the cedar forest. The Ka beast whirled around the monster, flooding his vision with aggravating darkness as the claws swiped and struck out in frustration and fury. A swift swing of the sword, fur flying, blood spraying in a wide arc and another roar echoed out, this time in pain. Maneuvering his horse skilfully against the rapidly flowing waters, Bakura dodged, ducked, lunging forward whenever he saw an opening whilst the creature blundered, floundering against the blindness that had descended so suddenly.

Managing to claim a position behind his opponent, Bakura spurred his horse dangerously close. The scimitar flashed, once, twice, severing hamstrings at the back of the trunk-like legs. With a scream of agony and rage, the guardian of the cedar forest stumbled forward, pitching into the treacherous waters. Talons scrambled for a grip on the smooth rocks, but Bakura was there again, heavy blows dealt in swift succesion slicing through flesh and bone, cleaving fingers from the creature's massive, hairy hands.

Water poured down the gaping, wretching thoat as the swirling current swept the great body downstream, down to the jagged, waiting rocks below. Alone, the Thief stood oulined against the night sky, dampness gleaming on his heaving chest, eyes shining with triumph. I win the race, you lose your life. How tragic this world is, my poor, dead friend. He threw back his head and laughed.