A/N: This chapter is over 13K, all set in ancient Egypt and with multiple time jumps. It shouldn't be too hard to follow, as the exact years between each jump isn't really important.

As always, translations are at the end.

Historian's Note: This story takes place before, during and (eventually) after the original story through Millennium World, following the canon established in the manga. There will be spoilers, so proceed with caution.

Soundtrack: 'Haunted' on 8tracks.

Beta: SkyTurtle.

Warnings: TRIGGER WARNING. Fairly graphic descriptions of wounds, injuries and death/near death.

Disclaimer: Yu-Gi-Oh! and related characters are © to Kazuki Takahashi.

Haunted

Part XI

Raven Ehtar

Many are the pleasures and securities that life has denied me, thinks the boy as he proceeds at a leisurely trot down the path that curved round the temple. But there are none, I think, who could have such fun as I on an errand.

The boy steps aside as a small procession of younger children led by a man with a sagging mouth troops past him. The boy waits until they are all out of sight, only the sounds of sandals on the earth reaching back to him, before he continues on his way.

Certainly more fun than that poor gaggle, he thinks with a smile.

Bakhura is pleased, and pleased with himself. He is an infiltrator in a world far removed from his own, the nearest he ever ought to have gotten was not even within a stone's throw. And yet here he is, walking amongst strangers as though he belongs, weaving in and out of the buildings and people as though he were not a thief come to pillage.

Bakhura stalks through a cluster of three buildings, a temple to Amun, a workshop and a school, surrounded by small, outlying structures that. Of the three the temple dominates, of course. It's only correct that the house of the gods, and particularly of Amun, should be impressive. The workshop and the school are relatively the same size to each other, though on opposite sides of the temple. Bakhura has disguised himself as a student of the school so he might walk about with virtual freedom. He has washed his body, scrubbing it free of any stain of dirt, cut his nails to smoothness, torn the tangles from his hair and bound it back so he might wear a simple head cover to hide its color. He's donned a clean kilt and new sandals, and decorated his wrists and throat with beaten silver. To anyone observing him, he should appear as nothing more than one of the older students of the school, perhaps a low to middle ranked official's son come to learn the fundamentals of his education before returning to apprentice under his father. The only part of his appearance which disturbs the illusion is vivid, unmistakable scar running over his right eye and down his cheek.

Two years have passed since that time, when it seemed the dead were rising all about him to claim him as one of their own and drag him down to the underworld. Two years since his face had been opened by the iwiw's whip, and since he had then cut open the wound himself to drain the festering poison within. Two years, and still the scar was with him, distinctive and unshakable as his hair, and much harder to hide.

Though others might disagree, Bakhura is grateful the river is so full of dangers, as are the villages and cities that dot its length. It is easy to think of reasons why he should bear such a mark, plausible even for the son of an official. It is easy to conceal who and what he is, even when surrounded by enemies.

It is the best, most thrilling game he has yet played.

The boy rounds the side of the temple and is forced to squint as he faces into the sun. Ra is fierce this day, and he is glad not to be one of the many students who must sit in suffocating rooms, listening to old men lecture characters and mathematics. Not that path for him, whatever he may look like at the moment.

He continues in the direct path of Ra, away from the pillared building of the school, every outside surface covered with the hieroglyphic teachings of the priests, scholars and scribes of the past, and towards the plain, squat structure of the workshop. It is there, inside, where lies his prize.

Bakhura dares not perform this trick very often, but this is not his first time coming to this workshop. He knows which way to turn his sandals to get where he wants, knows what it is he will find within.

Like the school, the workshop is meant to service the temple. Within are dozens of laborers and craftsmen all working to create those things which allow temples, schools, and many other such places to function. Pottery, furniture, clothing… and papyrus.

It is the papyrus which draws Bakhura. There are many surfaces suitable for writing, the most common being stone or shards of broken pottery, which have the added advantage of being very easy to obtain. Hardly anyone cared should a damaged pot or plate go missing, and not even the gods tracked the movements of common stones. But these are low quality mediums for writing. Papyrus, made from reeds and rolled into tight scrolls, are much to be preferred, especially for important writings. It is the only thing upon which Iumeri trusts his words of history to be kept, the only thing to which he will put a brush to for his own words.

Unfortunately, even with the combined income of Iumeri's commissioned writings and Bakhura's more… eclectic skills, they cannot afford the precious scrolls.

Which is why Bakhura has come himself to where the papyri are made. Disguised as a student, none will question his presence so near a school and the little clay tablet he wears round his neck shows him to be a student of Thoth. A future scribe, far enough into his years to no longer wear the childish lock of hair beside his right ear, it would raise no suspicions that he would be trusted with various errands about the complex in addition to his regular duties.

Errands such as fetching rolls of papyri for his teacher or his class.

The boy continues on his way, his steps confident. The temple and school are sizable enough and the number of people going about their business great enough that one stray face is easy enough to lose. No single teacher or priest can know every child and adolescent around them, and so it causes no alarm to find one which is not so well remembered. As he has grown in age and somewhat in wisdom, Bakhura has learned that at times the best way to hide is to be seen. Just so long as one is seen as belonging, it's as good as not being seen at all.

Deception is as good or even better than invisibility.

The inside of the workshop is cool after walking beneath Ra's glare, but stuffy. The high windows allow for light and breezes, but with so many working bodies confined within, it's more than can be compensated for. Bakhura does not hesitate, but makes his way to those chambers where the papyrus reeds are cut, lain, beaten and dried to the sheets scribes so valued. The true key to his disguise, even more than his clothes, hiding his hair, or even the little clay tablet at his throat, is to look and act as though he belongs. A boy who walked with purpose and just the touch of urgency of one on a mission was a boy who was ignored, left to go about his task. A boy whose steps faltered or whose eye wandered too much was clearly one who was some place he did not belong.

Bakhura walks with purpose and direction, his sandals striking the ground with loud reports, his eyes never straying from his path.

He is ignored by every worker and every overseer he passes. Though he's done this before, his heart still leaps and pounds in his narrow chest at another successful deception. If they but knew who he was, and what he intends. The desire to laugh and to cry it all out, to shout to the ceiling and all who could hear that he has tricked them all courses through his whole body, and he must clamp down hard on the impulse lest he lose control of his tongue.

In the chamber where is made the papyri, he is at last recognized.

Mereruka, the overseer for the making of papyri, spots him as soon as he enters through the door. Bakhura has come to know him through his handful of visits as surprisingly jovial, pleased with his position in the world. He seemed to find the work of making papyrus and of the ordering of such work fulfilling. Bakhura can't understand the appeal himself, but appreciates the attitude in Mereruka. It makes speaking to him and stealing the fruits of his hard work right out of his hands all the easier.

"Rudjek!" The overseer approaches him, hands spread out in greeting. He is a relatively young man for his position, but already the fewer demands of his job are softening his body. He wears a finely woven belt with his kilt, a more elaborate headdress than those of his workers, and wide bands of worked metal at his wrists. The little tablet he wears about his neck, Bakhura can just make out, proclaims him an honored overseer, ending any doubt one might have on that point upon meeting him.

Bakhura returns the smile given to him. "Good morning, Mereruka. How do the gods find you today?"

"The same as anyone else, young scribe. By shouting."

The man laughs heartily at his own joke, and Bakhura laughs along with him. He likes the overseer, possibly only because he has seen him so seldom and he always seems more than willing to give him what he asks for. An apparently ignorant or willing victim of theft is always more agreeable than one who struggles.

"So. Has your master sent you to fetch more papyri, or have you decided you would rather pound reeds than paint them?"

"I am a well learned hound, sent to do the bidding of my leash holder," Bakhura replies, hardly needing to strain to put in an appropriate level of weariness in his tone. "I pray you have baskets, overseer. This time I am sent for two dozen finished papyri."

The brows of the overseer rise up to meet the band of his headdress in surprise. He whistles lowly, hands coming to rest at his hips. "So many all at once? Does Ibebi intend to copy out every text in the House of Life?"

Bakhura shrugs and does his best to only look put out at the size of his task and disinterested in its meaning, and not anxious that Mereruka might decide to check with 'Rudjek's master Ibebi' to be sure the order was right.

"It must be a project of some size," the overseer muses on. "For I recall now that not two days ago another boy came from Ibebi requesting a large order of papyri. Not so large as yours, but it makes one wonder what it is he is writing."

This time Bakhura must hide a wince. He knew that asking for so many papyri at one time would present a greater risk than before, but it seemed a risk worth taking. He has been to this workshop half a dozen times, they recognize his face and know his (false) name and which of the masters is supposedly his. He has yet to be questioned or even looked at askance, but the boy feels it is only a matter of time and of luck. This is meant to be his last time coming to this workshop, this temple and school. It will mean finding some other source to keep Iumeri happy and writing, but that should not prove too difficult. To tide the old man over until then, he intended to make off with as many papyri as he could carry. Doubtless this amount will cause comment - even now Bakhura can see the overseer planning to go to Ibebi to ask him why he needs so much material. Return will be impossible after today, but Bakhura is accustomed to that idea. He just hopes now his deception lasts long enough for him to leave the complex. He does not wish to fight his way out, not even through scribes and priests.

"Who can say?" Bakhura keeps his voice steady. "It is not my place to question the actions of my master, only to fulfill his instructions." He tries another smile. "Perhaps he does intend to copy the library, but to have his students do it!"

He is rewarded with a smile from the overseer. "If that is so, then you have my sympathy, and my pity! Two dozen, you said?"

Bakhura nods, the sweat at his brow and in his hair beginning to prickle. "Yes. And a basket if you have one, Mereruka."

The overseer nods as he turns away to gather up his request. It's not long before a large basket stuffed full of scrolls is slung over one of the boy's shoulders and he is giving his farewells to Mereruka for the final time. There is no sadness in the thief's heart as he leaves the workroom, only relief as he walks away with his largest prize yet, and all without raising suspicion. His steps are light under the weight of the basket, his mind spinning a little in the euphoria of his success.

It is perhaps this euphoria which, when his eye wanders to the temple, turns his feet to follow the direction. He has been into the temple before, and in the guise of a student he is able to go those places a common visitor cannot. There is one thing within the temple he had thought of taking again and again but never had the daring to attempt before.

Today, his last day of coming to these buildings, he has the daring.

The temple is not so familiar to him as other places, but it doesn't take him long to find his way to the room he wants. The library. The House of Life.

Within are rows, stacks and jars all stuffed full of rolled and carefully preserved papyri, all of them full of writing, all of them meticulously organized. There are also many students, ranging in age from perhaps a year younger than him to a mere two years older. All of them were seated at low tables, their palette boxes open, brushes out and working diligently. All of them work at individual scrolls, while referring back to other, complete papyri.

All of them scribes in training, just as he is meant to be, and all of them set to copying to improve their skills.

After a moment in the door to orient himself, Bakhura strides in and begins searching the shelves. Iumeri has told him much of what goes into the formal education of young men, and of scribes in particular. Bakhura suspects that he enjoys using the tales as an example of why he should be grateful his own education is so comparatively lenient; or he might simply enjoy reliving his glory days and uses those tales as his excuse to speak aloud of them. Amid all of his rambling he also told Bakhura a great deal on the keeping and organization of libraries. Along with his beloved Thoth, Iumeri is a devotee to Seshat, the archivist to the gods and mistress of organization.

Not every library is exactly the same, but the rules of organization all follow a similar path, or so it is according to Iumeri. As Bakhura walks along the rows, squinting hard at the scrolls, reading what he can of their attached tablets that give their contents, the old man appears to have been right.

Save for the incidental noise of a dozen or so students at their work, the library is silent. Everyone is too concentrated on their tasks to note one more seeking out a scroll, yet Bakhura feels the pressure to hurry building. He could have been well away by now, and yet here he still is, surrounded by enemies, risking all for what might not even exist.

He does not give in to the mounting paranoia that his deception has already been discovered, that in moments a search will reach him, discover him, and he will be taken. He puts down his heavy basket and, working as quickly as he can dare, searches the scrolls.

At the end of half a sun length the boy is gathering up his basket once again. He did not find what he most wished to, but he found other prizes. Those he stuffed deep into the basket; hidden among twenty-four blank papyri are four filled with writing. Filled with knowledge that will soon be his, as soon as his skills improve.

Settling the weight of the basket across his shoulders, Bakhura leaves the library, the temple, and finally the compound, and heads back to the temporary home where he and Iumeri stay.

For them, all homes are temporary.

Bakhura isn't sure he will ever be comfortable in the desert. The gaze of Ra is harsh and unblinking and the breezes few. When they do come, sand is blown into faces, eyes, clogging noses. It is easy to see why the people of the desert adopted their face wraps, and while he and Iumeri travel with them he wears the same cover.

They have stopped for the day, the tents have been put up, offering shelter and shade, and the camels lain down. A few goats, really a small herd, is being fed and watered, the children of the desert people running in play or assisting the adults to settle for the night by turns. Small fires are being set and dishes brought out to prepare the evening meal. The pot of water is already out and awaiting the heat that would brew the hot, bitter drinks the travelers seemed to favor so much.

Bakhura helped as he could, as he was asked, but he is for the most part superfluous and knows it. The little tribe is well organized and each member knows what they are meant to do. An extra pair of hands is more of a hindrance than a help, and he knows to step away. Instead of assisting the tribe, Bakhura assists Iumeri, who shares his distaste of the open desert, but whose body is much less capable of weathering its punishments.

The old man had endured well enough on the first day, but by the end of the second he had slid off the back of his borrowed camel like a limp rag. Bakhura had been riding in front of him on the same mount and had to get down quickly in order to help him, preventing him from collapsing completely into the sand.

Now the disgraced scribe is sitting deep in the shadows at the back of a tent, a cup of water held limply in one gnarled hand. Bakhura examines him for a moment, judging his condition. He does not like what he sees. Iumeri's skin is pale and hangs too loose on his frame, the khol around his eyes smeared with sweat, and his jaw is slack. He sits loosely on the tent floor, the cup in his hand wavers through the air, the desire to drink at odds with his weakened body.

This may be the last time they can travel among the desert people. The old man is too weak to handle the heat and the physical deprivations. When next came the time for them to find a new home they would have to remain close to the river, where even in summer it was more forgiving than the desert sand.

He ducks into the tent and snatches the cup from Iumeri, who startles as though he were dozing.

"Water is precious out here, iawi rehew," he says, with less violence than he normally would. "It would be a shame, not to mention an insult to our hosts to waste it on their floors."

Iumeri's eyes are bright and seem to have trouble focusing on him, his head weaving on the end of his neck like an overripe seed pod on a reed. "Think you to teach me the ways of the Bedu, Sebau," he replies, his voice weak but still managing to snarl. "Twas I taught you their ways, how to gain their trust and hospitality without earning the edge of their knives, oh yes. Forget not who it is that is older and wiser."

The boy sits down beside the old man, not minding his lecturing tone. He is used to it by now, and if he still possesses the strength to gripe he cannot be so very ill. It is a small comfort he takes gladly. "I am not like to forget, Iumeri. One fact is impossible to escape, and you are fond of reminding me of the other."

The old man only grunts. He may be capable to speech, but he is exhausted, and conserves his strength. Without speaking another word, the boy holds up the cup to Iumeri's lips, encouraging him to drink. The old man accepts the water, sucking at the moisture greedily.

Bakhura grimaces at the spectacle but continues to assist his elderly companion. He has no particular love for the man, but he does not hate him and is grateful for what he had done for him over the last three years. He has no desire to see Iumeri suffer, and watching as his body flags bothers him more than he cares to admit. The desert is too harsh for him anymore. They will have to remain close to the river from now on, even if it did present a different kind of risk.

A trickle of water escapes Iumeri's lips, and the boy catches it on his fingers, rubs the moisture across his wrinkled brow. He hums a little when the boy fans at his face with his hand, cooling him for a moment. A small skin of water sits near at hand, and Bakhura carefully refills the cup once it is drained.

"Can you eat? They're preparing the evening meal, and I believe there will be a little meat."

Iumeri stirs, opens eyes he had allowed to drift closed. Bakhura is relieved to see that they already appear less fevered than before. "Goat meat?" He asks, referring to the small herd the Bedu keep with them. Bakhura shakes his head.

"A couple of the boys felled a hare this afternoon. Do you not remember?"

Iumeri's face clouds for a moment, and then clears. "Ah. That commotion this afternoon, yes? Well, good. I think we could all use the strength meat could provide, oh yes."

"Have you the strength to eat? I can assist you if you require."

The words stir the old man back into wakefulness, and he looks sharply at the boy. Moving with more speed and coordination than the boy would have credited him, he takes the cup back from his hand, spilling a drop or two in the motion. "I am not some invalid to be cared for or spoon fed, boy. 'The only thing that is humiliating is helplessness,' and I am not helpless. Understood?"

The boy holds up his hands in a placating gesture. "Nor ever did I think you so-"

"Find your palette box, Sebau. As you have no use about the camp and no need to nurse me, you may as well practice what little I have managed to beat past that thick skull of yours."

Bakhura sighs, but moves to obey. Iumeri is right, though he is also irritable. With nothing else for him to do he might as well practice his writing. Out of their few possessions, most of which were rolled papyri, he finds his little palette box which contains his brushes made of reeds, a hard compact of pigment and a hollowed out tortoise shell. In addition to this he finds the shards of broken pottery wrapped in a cloth and a rolled papyrus.

He settles himself as well as he can on the floor of the tent, setting his supplies out in a familiar pattern. There is still enough light to work without lamps, and the boy is soon ready, reed in one hand, pottery shard in the other, tortoise shell with a few drops of water in its bowl to wet his brush and then the pigment, and the papyrus open where he can see it.

This papyrus is one of the four he stole from the House of Life nearly a year ago, and while the simplest in contents, has proved the most useful to Bakhura's education. It is a scroll full of symbols and signs arranged in rows - all of those needed in order to write and to understand what was written. There are many Bakhura still does not know, but those grow fewer every day, and in the space of less than a year he has learned more than half of what was previously unknown to him. Soon he will be able to read those other scrolls he took from the House of Life.

He works for a time in silence, copying out characters and reciting their sounds in his mind, all the while watching Iumeri with half an eye. The old man, while still obviously deeply fatigued by their journey, is holding himself more comfortably than before, and he looks less as though he might collapse at any moment.

After a little time, as the shadows begin to lengthen in earnest and the sounds outside the tent to quieten, the boy speaks without raising his eyes from his work.

"Tell me again about the Millennium items, iawi rehew."

The scribe grunts. "Have I not told you all there is to know, all that I know, khered? Concentrate on your brush, lest you shame Thoth with your inattention."

"I can practice my letters without the use of my ears," the boy retorts gently. "Fill the silence, Iumeri. Tell me of them, what it is they do."

The old man sighs and shifts in his place. A moment passes as he drinks from his cup, and then begins to spin a tale Bakhura has heard many times, and yet never tires of. Iumeri tells him of the seven magical items created by the Pharaoh's brother, created in a time of great need for the whole land. Seven golden items which possess the power to turn back armies, as well as smaller but no less impressive feats. A pendant, an eye, a ring, a scepter, a tauk, a key and a set of scales made up the Millennium items, and they had been bestowed upon six high priests, save the pendant, which belonged to the Great Pharaoh himself. These are the items for which the village of Kul Elna was sacrificed; these seven trinkets are all that remain of the ninety-nine souls that once resided there.

Listening as Iumeri's words filled up the tent with a comfortable roll, his reed brush moving across the surface of broken vessels, Bakhura feels the dull, constant rage set in his bones begin to flow with new life. It is good to remember, to recall what and why was done to his people and to feel the fire flow afresh within him. It reminds him that he, of all his people, is the last. That he is alive, and by that gift of life he was given an obligation. An obligation to see that those deaths did not go unheeded, unheard, unanswered. Unavenged.

He listens, the rage trickling through his veins and his hand steady in its work. In his mind he constructs scenarios on how the spirits of Kul Elna might be avenged, how those who took their lives might be made to suffer. None ever quite fit, none seem plausible enough to be achieved, but still he dreams. One day he will be strong enough, smart enough to bring home justice to the murderers of Kul Elna, and on that day his dreams will be the plans to a new reality.

Deep in his belly, he feels the little god stir, feeding on the hate and rage that quietly fills him.

On the day when justice is at last brought to those who deserve it, Bakhura knows he will not be alone.

When the shadows become too deep to make out his own brush, the boy cleans his tools and packs them all away. He might use one of the lamps even now being placed in a few key places around the camp to work by, but he can smell the food, hear the clink of plate and ladle.

Before the old man can protest, he helps Iumeri to his feet and leads him to the fire, where their hosts are already gathering. Bakhura does not think he will ever understand the way the Bedu dress, the amount of cloth they drape over their bodies even in the desert. He and Iumeri have both donned head wraps and long, loose robes as a way to protect their flesh from Ra's unforgiving eye, but beneath those additions, they each wear as little as possible. The Bedu, on the other hand, prefer to layer themselves in cloth from head to toe, with hardly an inch of skin to show beyond their faces and their hands. Bakhura cannot comprehend it, and shudders to think how uncomfortable it must be.

They take the same relative positions around the fire as they did the night before, close to the leader of the tribe that he might speak with his guests easily. He nods to Iumeri, and soon the food is being passed around. Again before Iumeri can think to protest, Bakhura settles him down to the ground and goes to retrieve their plates. On his walk back he carefully eyes the plates and hands the one in which he sees more meat to the scribe. The old man needs the strength more than he, and if he collapses Bakhura will not be able to carry him.

Chatter fills the dark, quiet and easy as bodies cross the fire, fetching food, finding places to sit. Out in the night Bakhura can hear the sounds of the goats settling, the camels complaining to each other. Occasionally a silhouette in the fire will flash with a metallic reflection - the jewelry worn by the women of the tribe, and any sense the boy might have had that he might, given time, come to enjoy the lifestyle of the desert dwellers evaporates.

As soon as the last of the Bedu is given a plate, the leader calls on Iumeri in a voice meant to be heard by all, requesting he share tales of the cities, of the people he has known, the events he has seen. This is a portion of their payment to travel with the tribe. To share their food and their water, they must trade with news and stories. Fortunately it falls well within Iumeri's inclinations and his skills, and he readily obliges.

Bakhura tunes out his voice now. These tales do not interest him, and he would rather continue his daydreams of the future, gazing up to the heavens as Nut's body became bejeweled with stars.

Almost as soon as Bakhura enters the little hut he and Iumeri are camped in, he knows that the old man is seized in one of his odd fits.

Sighing, he puts down his burden of food and wine. They are supplies he has bought rather than stolen, but bought with stolen coin. It is a matter of opinion if it still counts as theft to Bakhura's way of thinking. He listens for a few moments to the sounds coming from deeper within the hut. He pours a little wine into a cup and tops it up with water and grabs a loaf of bread. Bracing himself for what he knows he will see, Bakhura walks into the main room, where the two of them worked and slept.

Seated on the floor at his low table, his palette box burst open and contents strewn haphazardly around him, the old man writes in the center of own storm of chaos. Jars stuffed full of papyri surround him, some opened so he might refer back to them, some still rolled but close at hand. The scroll beneath his brush is already half full of the old man's neat, detailed characters. Looking close he can see that Iumeri has chosen to write in hieroglyphics rather than hieratic - the easier, flowing script. Whatever it is he has decided to write is obviously of great import. Bakhura is a little surprised. When such fevers take hold of the old scribe he is often in such a hurry to pour words onto the scrolls that his reed brush flies. For all their beauty, hieroglyphics are slow to write legibly.

He comes in quietly, settles into a crouch within Iumeri's sight and waits. He has seen the old man in the grip of such fits many times, and knows better than to interrupt a flow of thought before he is ready. He also knows that, even though he might see him, Iumeri may not notice him for several minutes. So he waits, listening to the sound of brush across papyrus and the near constant, distracted muttering.

It is not too long, not as long as it has been in the past, before the old man's eyes, dull with the cloud of what he is writing, turn to Bakhura. His mouth convulses. It might have been a smile.

"Khered," he rasps, and Bakhura knows that he is deep into the fit. It has been years since he has called Bakhura a child - not since he surpassed him in height.

The old man coughs, and Bakhura hands him the watered wine silently. It would not surprise him if Iumeri had not drunk all day. He often forgot to when in the grip of his fevers. The man takes the cup and drinks. Given that he does not pause for breath until the cup is drained, Bakhura knows he is right that Iumeri has not drunk since he rose just after sunrise.

When he is finished he takes a deep, shaking breath, coughs, and hands back the cup. When he looks at Bakhura his eyes have cleared, showing almost too bright beneath his heavy brows.

"What is it that occupies your brush today, iawi sesh?" He hands the man the loaf and turns away to refill the cup, this time with a touch less water. Wine is expensive, but its muddling effects will be good for Iumeri, to calm his mind.

Iumeri looks over his scrolls, as though taking his eyes away for even a moment caused him to forget. "I am recording the histories, the private histories of Aknamkanon and of Aknadin, oh yes. As much as I know and can recall, yes, all of their lives to be put down and remain forever."

Bakhura scowls as he turns back, casting his own eye over the papyrus where the ink still shines wetly. Hieroglyphics still offer him challenge, even after five years of study, but he is able to read well enough to see that what Iumeri writes has to do with the named brothers and how they interacted with each other as young men. He passes Iumeri the cup, scowl still in place. "Why bother?" he asks, his own voice gruff. "Why put down what those assholes were like in private? All that matters is what they have done to others, the things they have done."

The scribe shakes his head. "Not so, Sebau. All futures have their pasts, all presents their reasons for being what they are. Oh, yes. To know which way the path bends, one must also know the shape it has taken before."

Bakhura snorts. Iumeri has tried to tell him tales of the brothers before, tales of them as youths, before Aknamkanon took the double crown. He seems to find that time of their life fascinating, and the time just after Aknamkanon became Pharaoh, and Aknadin his advisor. He seems to think that period important, having some bearing on what came later, on what came so many years later in a small village in the hills, on the edge of the desert.

He does not agree. To Bakhura's mind all that matters is the moment in which they decided that the murder of innocents and the enslaving of their souls was justifiable. Whatever came before that moment is so much sand on the wind, useless and lost. What does it matter that once they were men, when now they are monsters, their hands reeking of blood?

The old man drinks again, more slowly now, and chews into the loaf of bread. Bakhura takes the moment to pour himself water and wine as well, his own cup having far more water than wine, at least for now. They eat and drink in silence, and Bakhura is pleased as Iumeri's movements become slower, heavier than they were when he returned. Wine alone will not be enough to completely disrupt the fever of writing, but it will be enough to slow it down, to prevent it from injuring the old man.

"The path matters little," Bakhura says when his cup is dry. "And the origin not at all when the destination is filled with the ghosts the villages one has burned along the way."

"Mmm…" The wine seems to have taken its effect already on the old scribe. Bakhura's words take some time to reach him, and then some time more before he is able to respond. "One cannot… know a man by his actions alone. One must not judge the body of a man by the shape his sandal leaves in the sand. No man is the sum of a single act, but greater than the sum of all." Iumeri squints at him, wine and tiredness making him nearsighted. "What would your sum be, khered, if one took only what they could see and none of what is hidden?"

The question catches him off guard, and he blinks. Memories of the last few years come alive on the inside of his mind, and he cannot help but note a theme to what he sees. Theft, vandalism, deception… a few dead bodies…

He knows the reasons for all he has done; the consequences that would have come had he not acted as he had, as well as what would happen were he ever caught. To anyone other than himself and to Iumeri, though, he is little more than a disturber of Ma'at, a spark of chaos threatening the fabric of order that they all clung to. Nothing but a villain.

"Tcha!" Bakhura stands, his previous desire to simply sit washed away. "It doesn't matter! It doesn't matter what others see, what they think, when I know the truth!"

"Yes, yes! Truth!" Iumeri's previous energy, muffled by wine, returns all at once. "Truth, Bakhura! That is what matters! To know, to understand and acknowledge the truth! It is what I write, boy. The truth. Oh yes, the truth. Written down, formed in words, given shape, and by its shape given more truth." The old man's hand comes down on his arm, hot and dry and heavy, fingers gripping him hard. "Words, Sebau! Words give shape to our world, our reality! It is by words that others will remember, and cast you into a shape as well."

He holds the old man's look for some time before shaking off his hand. "What does it matter what shape I am given when I know what shape I have always been?"

"So says youth," Iumeri mutters to himself, loud enough to be heard. Bakhura freezes as he remembers Iumeri's position; his disgrace, and how that disgrace has followed him, ruined him, and all because of how he is perceived by others. By the shape he has been given.

An uncomfortable feeling settles in the pit of Bakhura's stomach. Suddenly angry with himself and with Iumeri for making him feel so, he snatches up the vessel of wine and strides to the door, intending to spend the rest of the evening on the roof of the hut, in the breeze, away from old men and their words that make him question everything he knows is true.

Before he can quite make it out the door, Iumeri calls out to him, his voice cracked with tiredness and slurred with wine.

"You are no longer a child, Bakhura. You are a young man, and every day the path you set yourself, it firms beneath you, becomes harder to turn away. …I worry for you, boy. I have seen some of the ends to your path, and I don't believe any serve you as you believe they will."

Bakhura grips the frame of the door, halfway between the inside and outside, between shadow and light. He stares at the lintel, at his dirty and cracked nails rather than at the old man.

"What would you have me do," he whispers.

"Know yourself, and know your path." He pauses, and Bakhura begins to wonder if the wine he has taken a firmer grip on him. When he speaks, it is to recite one of the many proverbs he loves. "'If you would know yourself, take yourself as starting point and go back to its source. Your beginning will disclose your end.'"

After a moment, the sound of a brush on papyrus, moving slower than before, begins again.

Bakhura listens for a time, and then steps out into the dying light and lengthening shadows to be alone with his thoughts.

It's emptier than Bakhura remembers it, and much smaller.

A wind sweeps through the hills, through the abandoned village, moaning as it explores the empty and crumbling houses. In the eleven years since the death of everyone who had once lived here, the land has worked hard to reclaim it. There is no sign left at all of the tiny gardens and irrigation systems that he dimly remembers. There are no cloth hangings left after so much time, and while there had never been proper doors or shutters before, it seems as though there are more cracks in the crumbling walls than he remembers.

He breathes deep, closing his eyes as he casts his mind back in time, further back than he has dared in years.

It has taken him much time to find this place, the empty shell of Kul Elna, his once home.

He had never really planned to return. There seemed little point when he knew there would be nothing but vague memories from his youngest childhood and one very vivid night. Why return when there is nothing to return to, when nothing awaited him but empty sand, emptier buildings, and the bleakness of an empty future? It is only due to Iumeri's occasional urging that he is returned now. Left to his own… no, he does not think he would have come.

Simply finding the dead village had proven a greater obstacle than he had thought it would. The path backwards into his past was thickly shadowed by long years and terror. He can barely remember those days and nights of flight, when he had run blindly into the darkness, away from the light bearing torches that brought death. What he does remember is the muddled confusion of a child, hardly a reliable map. Bakhura had not even dared to ask anyone along the way which way to a village called 'Kul Elna.' He doubts that anyone will remember a village so long gone, and which had been so insignificant before it had been destroyed; but anyone who would remember would know it as a den of thieves rightly destroyed by Pharaoh. They would remember also any tattered youth asking for its direction, possibly mention it to others, so news of him travelled to the wrong ears. No, he dared not ask the way to his doomed village.

Bakhura relied on his memories, confused and dark as they are to find his way back, and now, at last, he is here.

Home.

As he forces his feet to make the journey from the edge of the village to walk between its buildings, along narrow gaps which had once been roads, his heart thumps hard in his chest. The sun is high in the sky, leaving only slivers of shadows, save inside the buildings. There the shadows nest together, forbidding his eye to see anything within. Small signs that, though humans have long been gone and never returned, animals have used the empty village over the years can be seen. Small bones, the leavings of predators, tracks of paws coming and going. Bakhura does not doubt that the empty village has acted as a kind of haven for the various wildlife over the years. With no men to drive them away, the empty homes would provide them the same they once had their original inhabitants - shade, coolness, some protection against other hunters.

Some protection, Bakhura thinks, stepping over a skull sporting fangs. But not always enough.

He wanders through the village slowly, cautiously. Now he is here, he has small idea what it is he wishes to do. Iumeri's instruction, such as it is, is only to return to his beginning so he might better know himself, and somehow better know the path to his future. How he is meant to determine so much from a collection of crumbling jackal burrows, he does not know. He had been so focused on how he was to find his way back, he had given no thought to what he would find in Kul Elna itself. Perhaps he had hoped that on returning a memory might be triggered, or he might have some sudden insight to his people and that of the Pharaoh and his dogs? He does not know what he had hoped to find before, but all that awaits him in Kul Elna is ghosts.

There's a clatter behind him. Bakhura leaps, turning in midair, his hand at the knife tucked into the waistband of his kilt. His eyes darting, heart pounding in his ears, he looks round for the danger, the threat come to claim him, claim him at last in this place he escaped once already-

There is nothing to meet his eye. No threat, no jackals or lions, no omen with flashing blades, no looming shadows come to swallow him whole… Nothing at all.

All that might have been the culprit is a chunk of wall of a small house, fallen away from the rest to the rocky ground.

Bakhura trembles in place, his breath coming too quick and harsh, pulled in and out through clenched and bared teeth. It takes some time before his muscles unlock, allowing his body to move again. When he can move, he continues slowly, even more cautiously than before, his eyes flicking to every shadow, scrutinizing every stone.

Bakhura is afraid. He had tried to deny it before, but the village of his birth terrifies him. It is not the threat of stumbling across a den of lions or jackals, nor the entirely ludicrous imagining of there being, after all these years, one last dog of Pharaoh waiting for him to return so he might finish his task at last.

He does not fear hungry ghosts, those spirits of the dead who had not been properly lain to rest and whose souls wandered, searching for the warmth of life to consume. If there is anywhere in the land where they might be present, than this is the place, but it is not for fear of them that Bakhura's blood runs cold and his limbs all tremble.

With no other goal in mind, he tries to locate the empty shell of a home which had once been that of himself and his family. He has at best only dim memories of the place, but perhaps if he sees it again, stands inside its walls, something will happen. Perhaps he will gain whatever it is he has come for and he can leave again, this time never to return. His memories, though, while just enough to lead him back to the village, are not enough to recall the house in which he once lived and slept. He passes by every one, and none call to him with even vague familiarity.

Bakhura tries to remember, or even to just imagine the village as it must have been. Never very bustling, it is - was - too small for that, but there would be people. Faces he would have recognized, names he would have known, perhaps even friends he would have played with. He casts his mind back over the years. Had there even been children other than himself? There must have been. However hard he tries, though, he cannot picture it. He cannot see anything but an old, empty ruin, and cannot feel anything more than what he already does for the people who had once called this place home. The anger remains, the memory of their screams, of their bones and flesh being rendered with terrible magic, those do not allow his rage to die. But he feels no pity, no anguish, no pain for their loss, and the loss of whatever love he might have held for any of them. He still feels only hate and rage, and the abrasive wind offers no balm.

Ra has passed His zenith by the time Bakhura has explored all and seen all. Kul Elna is dead, as he knew it was, its corpse picked clean and lived in only by scavengers. Coming back after so many years has done nothing to reveal his own nature to himself, save perhaps to convince him of just how much of a fool he is, to follow the mutterings of old, sick men. There is nothing, Kul Elna is nothing. The one human soul that might have given it some life has gone for eleven years, and no longer considers this place home.

Kul Elna is dead, a tomb for memories.

Looking around the old husk, Bakhura is disappointed. He cannot shake the feeling that in coming here something ought to have happened, that he ought to have gained something. That he would be returning to Iumeri exactly the same, unchanged in every way, frustrates him. What was the point in returning? He feels no real connection to this place, only a nagging fear telling him that he should be gone.

Even the fear is becoming easier to ignore, and Bakhura makes what he decides will be his final circuit of the village. The entire trip, all the effort in rediscovering his lost village, is all a waste. It's frustrating, and yet Bakhura does not feel angry. He has been led astray by memory and proverb, hoping to find more meaning in his own life, in himself, and found nothing but emptiness. What he is, is all that he is. There is an odd kind of comfort in the thought.

As Bakhura makes his final walk around the perimeter of Kul Elna, something catches his eye. It is not much, not even an old, disused path, but more a place that would be easy to walk along. If it could be said to lead anywhere when it is so indefinite about its own shape, it leads away from the village and into the hills. Into the hills, Bakhura sees as he shades his eyes, and between two that seem particularly steep, the maybe-path diving between them like a frightened hare.

At last a memory springs up at the sight. It is a not-really-there path leading between two hills in a place where there are many nearly identical hills, but to Bakhura it is all distinct. Unique. He remembers that path and where it leads. He remembers, and in that memory his fear finds a new hold and grips his heart.

For an instant the world before him changes, takes on a new shape. Ra is gone from the sky. Instead the moon hangs overhead, casting the landscape in silver-edged shadows. Bakhura shivers; the air has lost all of its warmth, the darkness pulls away at him like a ravenous thing. Around him the empty homes have become hollow-eyed skulls all staring, accusing him of he knew not what. But he feels the weight of those stares across his shoulders, pressing him down, pressing him forward. Down the narrow path that is no true path, he thinks he can see something - a waver of gold amid the slivers of silver and soft pools of black. Down that way that was so familiar, he can hear the sounds of voices echoing back to the emptied village. Voices calling for mercy.

Only Bakhura hears them, and-

-he blinks, Ra returning to the sky, his skin burning under His eye-

-and he is far too late to answer them.

He folds at the waist and only just avoids collapsing to the dirt completely. He has not moved, but his heart is racing and his breath is ragged and labored as though he's just run a mile. His limbs are shaking, and though the sun is hot on his skin he feels cold, the sweat clinging to him chilly.

When next he raises his head, the path between the hills has not changed in the least. It is as unremarkable as before, empty and barely distinguishable. There is no hint of fire light, no whisper save that of the wind, which stirs nothing but dust. There is nothing there but his own memories. Ghosts of the past.

He knows what is down that way, what he will find should he decide to follow that half hidden path into the hills. There is no way he would ever be able to forget what lies that way, what he saw the night of screams when he had decided, against all of his instincts, to follow the soldiers dragging his people away into the night. He has not forgotten, nor ever believed that it had all been some warped product of his own imagination. It happened, and if he found the way back to that underground place, he would be able to stand in the very place where his friends and family had been reduced to something less than human.

He never thought he would find the way back so easily. Even after so much time spent in searching for Kul Elna, Bakhura had not spent much time in considering the secret temple, nor in the idea of finding it. Even as he stood in the streets of his once home, his thoughts had not turned that direction.

Now his thoughts are facing that way - there is nowhere else he can look.

And still he hesitates at the idea of following that path. He can think of many reasons why such a venture would be pointless; how it would merely be an extension of his experience in the village, how no new memories would spring up if he went, how there would be nothing at all to find, the soldiers would have cleaned it out entirely before they left…

But it is the trembling which truly stops him. The trembling and the cold feeling he can feel even now as it crawls up his spine. He does not wish to see that place again, not ever. And yet, if he does not, then will the entire point of returning to Kul Elna be lost?

If he runs away from them again, will the people of Kul Elna rise to consume him?

Before he can think too much on it, he straightens and begins to follow the faint line which might, possibly, be a path.

The way is not so long as he remembers it. He wonders if any at the village ever knew of the existence of the temple tucked in the hills so close to them. He had not, but he had still been very young. If they had known of it, what had they thought of it? What had the temple been used for before it had become their slaughter house?

The way is curiously empty of even any sign of life, even more so than the village itself. It's an observation which does nothing to settle Bakhura's nerves.

When he is faced with the temple itself he freezes. In the light of day it should seem less imposing, less threatening than it had that night when he had been no more than a child, but it does not. In Bakhura's mind, it's just as it was all those years ago, and it's harder than ever to think a good reason to continue.

He inches forward, eyes and ears open, his head growing lighter with every step.

When his sandal takes the first step across the threshold, there is a familiar but unexpected feeling of tearing, of separating from himself.

A moment later, Bakhura is looking into a face of fine white scales and a pair of violet, reptilian eyes.

A little of the fear crawling under his skin leaves at the sight of the serpent. He sighs, and reaches for the triangular head. "Little god," he whispers fondly.

The serpent, who is far from 'little,' accepts the caress silently, the violet eyes slipping closed as Bakhura's hand roughs its scales. Since its first appearance to him as a child, the little god has grown well beyond the proportions of any snake Bakhura has ever seen. When it rears up as it is now, its head comes up evenly with his own, making it so they can look one another in the eye. If he were to spread out his palm and fingers across the top of the little god's head, the tips of his fingers would not reach the outside edges of its skull. His most trusted companion and guardian, the little god has rescued him or assisted him in countless adventures over the years.

It is good to have the little god with him now.

He looks back into the temple. The light does not go far before being pounced upon and smothered by shadows, and Bakhura can no longer make out more than dim outlines of the walls. He also sees, though, a few old torches lying on the floor. Doubtless they had been cast aside there by some of the soldiers as they were leaving the temple.

Moving slowly, as though something still lurks in the shadows, waiting for him, he retrieves one of the torches. As he squats down to attempt lighting it, the white serpent follows him, and after a brief moment goes on into the darkness without waiting for Bakhura. He feels the loss of his companion immediately, but does not wish the serpent back. The little god is intelligent, and has scouted ahead of him before. He trusts his ethereal companion, that the serpent goes ahead of him to protect and not to abandon.

Once the torch is brought back to life, Bakhura follows after the little god, red-golden light spilling over the walls and floor, chasing back the darkness. There is not much to the temple before he comes upon the stairs leading down into even deeper darkness, just a large and empty chamber of stone. In the fine drifts of sand that the winds have blown in, Bakhura can make out the unmistakable track of the little god slithering down the steps. The torch throws only enough light for him to see four of the steps before the blackness becomes impenetrable. Of the little god itself, there is no sign at all.

His heart beating so hard it makes his limbs tremble, Bakhura descends the stairs, the crunching of sand beneath his soles echoing.

When his feet reach the bottom at last, Bakhura stops and looks around. Somehow the light seems to cut into the darkness more now that he is within the underground chamber, and he can see as well as feel that the space around him is vast, open and… empty.

When last he had crept down the stairs in the dark and looked into this chamber, it had been full. Full of soldiers and priests, full of bodies both struggling and still, full of flickering shadows, moist heat, incomprehensible chants and noisome smells. This was a chamber which had been crowded with death and evil magic. Now it is utterly empty.

Even in the furthest recesses of his imagination, where wild speculation is wont to roam freely, Bakhura had never expected there to be any sign of human remains in the underground temple. Anything that survived whatever arcane rituals the priests had used would have been taken away with them for some sort of disposal, either to hide them, attempt to appease the dead or both. They would not be left in the temple. But he had been expecting some sort of evidence that people had been here, some kind of sign of what had transpired eleven years ago. It seems wrong that such a thing as that night of screams could occur and leave no mark behind.

But there's nothing. No dropped weapons, no abandoned scrolls, no discarded bit of clothing… even the great vats are gone. Bakhura is very glad that those, at least, are gone.

In the darkness he sees a glimmer, which is quickly followed by the head of the little god. It looks up at him with an expression he feels to be curiosity rather than reads. God or not, it is impossible to read the expression of a serpent.

He takes a moment to breathe, to steady the hammering of his heart which has not calmed since seeing the façade of the temple. When the torch in his hand is no longer trembling so violently and the shadows stilled in their dancing, he takes the last step into the chamber and begins to walk through the room. The little god comes close and keeps pace beside him, the white gleaming bulk of its body a silent comfort to him.

Bakhura and the little god make a complete search of the chamber. It is large but uncomplicated, a few pillars scattered around offering the only real variation. There are no side rooms, no furniture, no signs of the horrors committed here so long ago. It's not until they come near the center of the chamber, away from the walls, that they find anything besides pillars and a few hieroglyphs chiseled into the stone. Here the floor rises up in a kind of square slab, and atop this is another, round slab of stone. A little apprehensive, Bakhura climbs it to look upon the second slab, which even in the darkness appears more complex than a simple circle. When he sees what rests there, awaiting him, his breath catches.

Made completely of stone, there's what looks like the outermost layer of a sarcophagus. Face peaceful, eyes closed and hands held close to its chest, it certainly looks like a sarcophagus. There's an air of ceremonial finality about it which speaks to Bakhura of ritual death. It's not until he's examining the writings carved into the stone that he realizes that there are odd, deeply cut depressions into the figure. The depressions are far too deep for the stone he sees to be the lid of a container - it would be penetrated all the way through.

He examines the depressions, which are really more like holes. There are seven of them, and while the shapes of some of them give him very little idea what they are meant to be, some others are clear. A scepter, a scale, a ball, what might have been a flail…

Suddenly he realizes what these depressions are for, and he stumbles back, away from the slab, nearly tripping over the little god and tumbling from the raised area.

The holes in the sarcophagus are places where the Millennium items may be placed. Now he knows what it is he is looking at, he can see the sense of the other shapes - a ring, a pendant, a tauk, and what he thought was a flail must be the key. Bakhura stares at the sarcophagus, his mind racing. Why would such a thing be here? Why would the soldiers and the priests leave behind something that is obviously closely connected to the Millennium items they slaughtered an entire village for? It looks as though it's important, as though it serves some function requiring the items. Why would they not take it with them?

He examines the hieroglyphics in the sarcophagus, but the reading of much more than a few words is beyond him. There is a ring of other symbols set in the stone the sarcophagus rests on which he assumes is writing, but every character is unfamiliar to him. He silently curses the years of teaching he'd received. Why hadn't Iumeri taught him the words he needed? If some clue as to the function of the sarcophagus and its places for the Millennium items is left in writing, those secrets are still hidden from Bakhura.

There's a pressure at his knees. The little god has come close and is pressing itself to him. The violet eyes flash in the torchlight, a black tongue flicks out into the dead air. Looking into the eyes that are his own, Bakhura feels a measure of comfort, but also frustration. In coming to Kul Elna he had hoped, though not much expected some sort of clue to himself. Some glimpse into his past that might provide a guide to his future. He had come and found nothing but the echoes of memories that were never very far from him anyway. There was nothing in the village to give him any peace or insight, and though the place made him tremble, the same is true for the underground temple.

Or at least it was.

When all there had been to find was emptiness, that was less than he had hoped, but it also made things simple. All he had to learn of himself was that all he was he already carried with him, then. He is no more or less than he always was, and while that can be its own problem, it made things simpler. There was no need to rethink who he was.

But now there is a mystery. Even worse than discovering a forgotten truth or gaining an insight, a mystery throws him into uncertainty with no kind of handhold to steady himself.

Distractedly, Bakhura strokes the smooth, warm scales of the little god's head. "What is this place?" he whispers to the serpent, who does not respond other than to tickle the underside of his wrist with a tongue flick. "What is this thing, and what does it mean that it is here? What purpose does it serve?"

He does not expect an answer to his question. In all of the time Bakhura has known the little god it has never been able to communicate with him, though it has often given the impression that it wished to. This time, he is shocked when his question is answered, and even more so when he sees that it is not the little god who replies.

This is the key to the revenge you so crave. It was an instrument in the destruction of Kul Elna, and it will be an instrument in the destruction of your enemies.

This time Bakhura does stumble back. His feet tangle around each other and he falls backward, off of the slab and to the stone floor. The torch flies from his hand, clattering to the ground as weird shadows flicker around the empty chamber. He tries to sit up, to reach for the torch, which is already diming as it lies on the ground, but he cannot move. He landed heavily, stunning himself and knocking the wind from his lungs. Instead he can only lie still, eyes flicking from side to side, trying to see what it was that spoke as the torch he cannot take hold of slowly gutters and the darkness crowds closer.

When something light and slightly cold brushes his cheek his heart freezes. In the dimness he is just able to distinguish the little god's triangular head, the dull gleam of an eye. For a moment he thinks the voice he heard came from the serpent, but he does not sense that from the little god. The strange, subtle connection which they share does not resonate in that way.

Finally his body thaws, and he sucks air into his starved body, throwing himself into a coughing fit. When at last he can breathe easily, Bakhura rolls to his feet, crouching in the darkness. The torch is several feet away, out of his reach, but he dares not rise to retrieve it, even as it continues to dim and the shadows lengthen. The little god slithers around him, forming a protective loop of coils, his head weaving in the dark, tongue flicking as it seeks the source of Bakhura's distress.

There is nothing. Nothing that can be seen falls into the dying light, no sound other than his own labored breaths can be heard.

With the threat of complete darkness making quick strides towards them, Bakhura makes a decision. "Who is there? Who is it that lurks in this cursed place?"

I? I am one who exists only due to the meddling of those you hate. It was my power whey wished, and yet my power they feared as well. They abandoned the final magic, that which would have given them all they could desire. Fools, all.

Bakhura listens to the voice, his head swinging back and forth in the dark in attempt to locate where the speaker must be standing, but no direction is louder or clearer than any other. As he listens he realizes that the voice had no echo, no hollowness as his own does, as should any while in this chamber.

The voice is coming from within his own skull.

"Your power…?" He breathes out harshly, one realization coming hard on the heels of another. "They- the priests, the soldiers- they were summoning something? I thought that all of this was for the Millennium items?"

So it was, the voice says, and Bakhura trembles. The voice is deep and rough, like the grind and crack of boulders, and sinks straight down into his guts. And where is it you think such pretty trinkets get their powers, their heka? The items are all keys, keys to this lock you see before you. To he who can unlock this door, he will receive all of my powers of darkness. Enough power to achieve anything. Anything they wish.

The light continues to gutter and to dim as the torch dies, but he cannot force himself to move, to leave the coils of the little god. His eyes are drawn, almost unwillingly, back to the sarcophagus, now lying above him.

"Anything?"

Anything they could wish.

The rise and fall of the little god's breathing is steady, reassuring in the near blackness as he listens to this strange, grinding voice in his own head. With everything else feeling as though it is coming apart at the seams, Bakhura is glad for its scaly presence. "It was for you, then, that Pharaoh's men came. It was for you my village was killed. And then they did not even take you?"

Fools, all, the voice repeats.

His heart is still beating hard, but now it beats with anger as well as with fear. The memories of that night have been brought close, so close that he thought he could see the shadows of his past out of the corners of his eyes. And with the memories has come the old fear and the sickening taste of bile, the rage at what had been done to him and his family. The rage chases back a little of his fear, enough so he can rise out of his crouch and stand tall in the pressing shadows. He turns his face towards the sarcophagus, choosing to treat it as a 'source' of the voice.

"If it was your power that they wished for, then it was for you that all in Kul Elna was killed! You are the reason they were all murdered in the night!"

To reach my power requires sacrifice, the voice rumbles, unconcerned by Bakhura's rage. Your Pharaoh chose who it was to make that sacrifice, made it, and acquired all he needed to take my power into his hands. And yet he did not. He chose the paltry powers of the keys, of the Millennium items instead. The true power he could have taken remains.

Bakhura comes up short. "The power remains?"

Indeed it does, child of Kul Elna. The power remains for any who wishes to take it. The voice of grinding stone takes on a coy tone. And who better to claim this power, paid for with the blood of Kul Elna, than one of Kul Elna?

Bakhura tries to think. It is strange, speaking with a disembodied voice, deep underground as he is. His instinct tells him that the voices is far from benign, that it has wishes and desires of its own, and those run deep and dark, however it might be presenting itself. He does not trust this voice, and yet what it is saying to him, it tugs at him. More than it should.

"How would one claim this power for their own, then, Kheru? What other village would you have slaughtered and drunk before such a gift be given?"

An odd sound comes to him then, which he decides is a chuckle. None, child. The sacrifice is made, the blood all drunk. All that remains to be done is the unlocking. He who brings the seven Millennium items to this place and places them all within the sarcophagus shall unlock the door and receive my power.

Bakhura frowns in the dark. The torch is nearly gone out, but he no longer cares. It does not seem so important anymore, the light. "That is all?"

Do not take the task so lightly. 'All' will include gathering those items for yourself, and those who hold them now will not give them up so easily.

This does not phase Bakhura much. He has always known that any revenge he wished to take would eventually involve the Millennium items. Even were they not so powerful that they would be best in his hands rather than those of his enemies, they are inexorably bound to the fate of Kul Elna, and so to himself and to those who he wished to punish. No, the theft of the Millennium items does not bother him. Something else bothers him more.

"And what are you, Kheru? What are you that has so much power that all would desire? A monster, a rogue ka, a demon?"

It is not like a shout, for there is no sound, only what he hears in his own skull, but that is suddenly loud, reverberating in his mind so strongly that Bakhura falls back to the ground, clutching his head to keep it from flying apart.

I am the great God, Zorc Necrophades. I am a God to rival all who sit in Their miserable heavens, captured and bound in this prison. Release me, child of doomed Kul Elna, and I shall see that they who died will at last rest.

Bakhura lies still in darkness which is now complete, panting from whatever it was that washed through him. Bound or not, this god is strong. It feels as though the river has raged over and through him, leaving nothing behind but a vague memory of who he is or even what shape he is meant to be.

I saved you once, child of Kul Elna, the voice - Zorc goes on, quieter. Though you may have no memory of it. I saved you that night, and I can help you avenge the deaths of all the others.

The little god is coiling close, concerned and confused, hissing into the dark against a threat it cannot see. Bakhura tries to laugh, to laugh at the unbelievably of it all, but can only cough. "And what a 'great god' you are, Zorc Necrophades! Save one child while all the rest are killed, and offer revenge for them later. What good is revenge to the dead?"

Why do you not ask them yourself?

The chamber, one moment so dark there was no hope of seeing his own hands, lights up with an ethereal light. Bakhura looks up, and skids backward on his hands before slamming into the solid side of the little god, who is hissing fiercely.

All around them are blue specters, glowing gently as they swoop around the chamber, around pillars, about the ceiling, through the walls. They are mostly shapeless, but each possesses a face, a horrid, melted parody of what they must have been in life. Eyes empty, cheeks hollow, and jaws stretched in silent screams, the dead of Kul Elna swirl around him, the last survivor.

Bakhura shrinks back, away from the muuet of Kul Elna. He was the only one to survive the massacre of the village, do they resent him for it? Will they consume him now so that their number might be completed at last?

Kul Elna, he thinks. My beginning and my end.

Fear not, child of Kul Elna. You do not end here, not now. The spirits here bear you no grudge. They know who it is that has earned their wrath. Their grudge is your grudge.

You are far from friendless, Bakhura. Together, we may bring justice long denied upon those who truly deserve it.

Bakhura looks about him, the chamber now full of the muuet of Kul Elna, his people. They do seem uninterested in him as prey. A few come close, loop around him before moving on, their faces never changing from their frozen anguish. None move to harm him, and after some time he even begins to think that they are almost friendly to him. The little god at least does not appear to be bothered by the spirits, merely tracking their movements but never lunging when they come close.

Perhaps the old man and proverbs have at last been useful, and he's found the path to his future by returning to his past.

Lit by the light of the underworld, encircled by the scales of the little god and the voice of a greater god in his mind, Bakhura smiles.

A/N2: For anyone who is actually trying to keep track of how old Bakhura is at this point, he's sixteen. Which just happens to be the age Ryou was when Yami Bakura began speaking to him. What a coincidence!

Seshat: Literally 'the female scribe,' She's a goddess of all forms of writing, but especially official writings and building plans. At various times She was said to be Thoth's sister, consort or daughter.

Bedu: Better known to English speakers as 'Bedouin,' these are nomadic peoples of the desert. Their history and organization is complex, and they still exist today. I'm deliberately leaving them as fairly vague here to avoid completely misrepresenting them.

Iwiw: Dog.

Iawi: Old.

Rehew: Man.

Sebau: Student/pupil, and, confusingly, teach/teacher.

Khered: Child.

Sesh: Scribe.

Kheru: Voice – but this is an educated guess on my part. It comes from 'maa-kheru' which means 'true of voice,' which in turn is a phrase used to describe those who have passed the tests to reach the afterlife. I'm hoping the 'Kheru' makes sense as 'voice.'

Muuet: 'Dead ones,' those spirits which have not passed on to the afterlife.

Thanks for reading, everyone! Next chapter we're back in the present, so less butchered non-English. I think.