A/N: Okay, so there's an internet outage at my place for at least a few days. I've smuggled my teeny tiny netbook into work and I've squeezed myself into the least noticeable corner to jack the internet at my workplace to try and get this posted on time. My netbook hasn't been connected to the internet in YEARS and has no virus protection, so I'm praying that A) this works and everything goes up smoothly, and B) my poor little computer doesn't catch interweb plague. Fingers crossed.

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, violence and death/near death.

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

Haunted

Part XV

Raven Ehtar

Bakhura knows as soon as he returns that Iumeri is dead.

He's not entered the little hut that is their current home, but he doesn't need to. He knows what he'll find inside. Dogs are pawing at the door, trying to dig their way inside. There's evidence that this has been something they have attempted numerous times. As Bakhura approaches the hut, slowing his 'borrowed' camel, a couple of cats leap out of the window.

Bakhura knows what it is he will find inside the hut that had so recently been their home, their place away from the rest of the world. He knew before he'd even begun the long trip back. He'd felt it in his heart that something was wrong. He'd known even before he'd left, in a way, that his goodbyes then would be the last time he saw his teacher and friend alive. He'd known, and still he had obeyed Iumeri's instructions to leave.

Iumeri's fevers had become so frequent that they were nearly constant. One long fever broken by moments of lucidity, the man who had rescued him from the river and reminded him of his name had disappeared, glimpsed only briefly when the shadows cleared from his eyes. It was during one of those breaks that he told Bakhura to leave, to go and fetch him more papyrus scrolls, more ink and reeds, more jars to store his completed writings.

He was no fool, nor was he blind. He saw death hovering near his mentor, could sense that the time of his crossing was swiftly approaching. It was not a difficult thing to see, the specter of it had been hovering for some time. And even had Bakhura been so blind as to miss it, Iumeri had not been. Even riddled with fever and long stretches of obsessive preoccupation, the old scribe still knew what was coming. That was what Bakhura had seen in his bright, bloodshot eyes, clear for the first time in days. Iumeri had seen his death coming, and had sent Bakhura away.

Bakhura gets down from his mount slowly, looping the reins to a bit of broken wall not far from the door. This home that he and Iumeri have claimed for themselves is a crumbling old heap, one of a half dozen poor old structures which might have once belonged to an extended family. There is evidence that at least one home had been that of a potter, and another a weaver. The rest looked to be farmers, working to bring life to the land around them.

He cannot guess what it was that could have motivated them all to drift so far from the river, so far from neighbors and safety, but he does guess that is why they are all gone. Bandits, animals, weather, hard conditions, or just loneliness, something happened to those who had once lived here to drive them out and leave their homes to crumble.

Whatever it was that drove them away, Bakhura is grateful for the lack of residents to fight for the space, and he is grateful for the long distance from any other human beings. It's difficult to bring water so far, but it's worth the privacy it affords. Privacy to come and go, to hide, to plan…

For Iumeri to make his final journey.

He does his best to prepare himself for what he knows he'll find inside, but his guts are already turning to water. He tries to detach himself, reminding himself that he knew this moment was coming, knew that this would be his homecoming, his final homecoming to this particular home. He knew it all the moment he'd left, had heard it in the old man's voice that he was sending him away deliberately so he wouldn't be around during the moment itself. So he could die alone.

He knows all of this, but it does not make the walk into the little hut any easier. The knowledge of what must be is not the same as confirming it with one's own eyes, and there is still a small, childish part of him that wants to believe that if he does not see the truth, it will not be.

His feet carry him forward, even as his head tries to form some sort of excuse not to, to turn away and never return.

The smell comes to him before the sight does. He cannot be long dead, but the days have been hot, even indoors in the shade. Iumeri is, just as Bakhura thought he would be, kneeled before his little writing desk, his upper body thrown across in and any writing he had been laboring on when the moment finally came. Even sick as he had been, Iumeri never ceased in his writing, his task of ensuring that truth be remembered. Bakhura was of the opinion that his ink and brush were all a part of his sickness. The only way he could envision the old fool dying any other way would be by physical force, by someone dragging him away from his palette. Even then, it would be a question who would win.

Standing in the door, staring at the body of the man he'd known since he was barely more than a child, Bakhura is struck dumb with a strange sense of… emptiness.

After some time passes, he doesn't know how much, he realizes he has work to do. He cannot leave Iumeri as he is. It would not be right, it would insult his ghost… and Bakhura has enough hungry ghosts riding his shoulders as it is. Steeling himself, Bakhura sets to the task of readying his friend for burial.

He has not been long dead. While there is a heavy smell of death, the… body… is in relatively good condition. No vermin have desecrated it save a nibble or two from the cats and a few flies.

Moving him away from his table, Bakhura sees that Iumeri must have seen the very moment. There is nothing held pinned beneath him, no final papyrus over which he had been working when death stilled his heart. All of his scrolls have been moved carefully away, the labor of his life safe from his final throes. All, save one small scroll, barely as wide as Bakhura's spread hand, held tightly in Iumeri's. Prying it loose, he sees his own name inscribed in a shaking hand on the outside.

Bakhura stares at it, and then thrusts it away. It can wait. There are more important things to attend to for now.

He has never prepared a body for burial before, but thankfully the needs of a common man are not so arduous as those of a Pharaoh or even a highly ranked politician. All that Iumeri needs to make a safe journey to the afterlife Bakhura can provide.

He undresses and cleans the body, using some of the water he had brought back with him and a few sweet smelling herbs. He tends to the small wounds done him after and before death just as he would were Iumeri still alive, and then grooms him, shaving head and face and cleaning his nails. In a few hours, Bakhura undoes the ravages of many weeks upon the old man. As he does he tries to ignore the unnatural pallor of his skin, the way the flesh beneath his fingers does not move the way living flesh does. It's like working with a doll made of heavy clay, cold and stiff, and it's easier than ever to forget that this is Iumeri's empty corpse.

When he is finished cleaning the body, he dresses it in the finest of clothes Iumeri owned, the best shoes, the wig he loved the most, and the few bits of jewelry that they had not already sold. Then, working carefully, he paints Iumeri's face as it would have been done were he calling on some great person.

It is the finest Bakhura has ever seen him.

He is tired, but still he is not done. Carefully, Bakhura arranges Iumeri's limbs and wraps him in blankets, cocooning him from top to bottom, totally concealing him. Once wrapped, he secures the wrappings with ropes.

Bakhura looks up from his work. It's getting dark outside, the shadows racing across the desert. The burial itself will have to wait until morning.

Certain he will be unable to sleep with Iumeri's body so close at hand, Bakhura instead sets about organizing the few belongings he and the old man had. He won't be returning to this place, he might as well prepare for it now.

When Ra once again mounts into the sky in His chariot of gold and scarlet, the hut shows almost no sign it had played host to a couple of wandering vagabonds. Bakhura has gathered all of their pathetic belongings into bundles, and all of Iumeri's precious scrolls he has organized into jars and sealed to protect them. Even with how little Bakhura owns, the jars will put the camel to the test for how much it can carry, but he cannot leave them behind.

Before he can leave the hut forever, though, he must attend to Iumeri. Lifting up the bundle that is all that remains of his friend, he slings it as gently as he can over the camel's back. Unlike the jars he will have to load up later, there is no question of the beast handling this load. Iumeri weighs practically nothing. With a few other items and a shovel, Bakhura mounts up and rides out to the desert while Ra is still low on the horizon.

Bakhura, while aware death had not been far away, had not been quite so morbid as to pick out the spot where Iumeri would be buried ahead of time. Still, it does not take him long to find a suitable place. They are already far from the river, and a nearby rock outcropping serves as both a marker for the grave and provider of stones to lay over and protect him from scavengers.

The jackals will not have him.

The ground here is not the best for digging, but Bakhura still makes short work of it, and soon Iumeri's final resting place is prepared.

Iumeri looks very small in his grave. He was not a large man, but the last few years had seen a reduction of him, a lessening which had only sped up in his last weeks. As though he were losing more and more of himself until at last there was no more body to give, and so his spirit had finally broken free.

Is your ba fluttering near even now, iawi rehew, he wondered? Are you watching to be certain I will not forget you? Well, fear not, sesh. I do not think I could forget if I tried.

After a few moments of staring down at him, Bakhura climbs down into the grave with Iumeri and gently rearranges him so he lays slightly curled on one side. He climbs back out, decides he looks more comfortable that way, curses, and jumps back down with his knife in hand. Very lightly, Bakhura touches Iumeri with the knife point at ears, eyes, nose and mouth. He doesn't know the proper spells to accompany the ritual, and hopes the motions and intent are enough to open Iumeri's senses in the afterlife.

Once Iumeri himself is ready, Bakhura lays his grave goods with him. There isn't much. The old man's most prized possession, his palette box, lies close at hand. A small statuette of Thoth depicted in his baboon form is also lain near at hand, where Iumeri will find it even in the dark. He will have to find everything in the dark, now.

Beyond those two prized items, there is only what remains of Iumeri's clothes, a couple of scrolls not penned by his own hand, and a few blank papyri. Then Bakhura sets within a few small sealed jars of water and beer, and a few parcels of food - bread, some onions and lotus roots, a fish he had cooked that morning, and one precious duck egg. Bakhura wishes he had some sort of fruit to add as well, such as dates, but it is already a lean year and fruit is scarce to those who cannot afford luxuries.

By now Ra is riding high in the sky, and Bakhura is sweating freely from the heat and his labors. He sits down in the little shade the outcropping still provides and sets about enjoying his final meal with Iumeri.

He thinks about the old man as he eats and drinks, as one does to ensure the dead may still taste as the living do. He tries to remember those times when they shared pleasant, peaceful moments, memories that involved laughter or at least some small measure of happiness… But like a tide, his thoughts are always drawn back to the moment when Iumeri told him to leave, to travel far away and leave him alone. The last time he saw Iumeri alive.

Why did you want to die alone?

It's a question which sticks in his heart like a thorn. Why, at the end, had Iumeri wished for such solitude? Iumeri had never been the most sociable of people, often running to the cantankerous, a product of both personality and age.

Still, had Bakhura's presence been so reviled that he would wish to die alone rather than in his company?

His mind thus filled, Bakhura finishes his small meal, then sets about filling the grave, the dust and the brightness making his eyes sting and water until tracks ran down his face.

Kul Elna is the same as it was the last time Bakhura visited it. Still empty of life, still crumbling, and still full of the same sensations of not being alone.

Bakhura walks along the streets, leading the tired camel, who occasionally will snort and toss its head as the muuet come near. That is perhaps the one thing Bakhura can say has changed since his first visit to the village of his birth, and it is a change within himself, not one of Kul Elna. Now he is aware, more aware of the spirits that wind through the dead village, so much so that out of the corners of his eyes he can catch the movement of them. But while he is aware of them, he does not need to acknowledge them. For now, he ignores their whisperings, their ghostly touches, his mind preoccupied with the task at hand.

It's important that he find a good place.

Bakhura had spent a lot of time and thought to the problem of what to do with Iumeri's scrolls. They were the man's life's work and arguably the method of his death; they must be treated with a level of respect for that reason alone, even if their actual contents meant little to Bakhura. But while there is no doubt that the scrolls were Iumeri's most prized possession, burying them alongside the scribe outside a forgotten settlement seemed wrong.

He had considered sending the scrolls to some library or temple to be stored, as such places rarely passed up knowledge of any sort. He'd also considered simply destroying them to save himself the trouble of preserving them. The thought of burning the scrolls or simply leaving them to the elements twists his guts, though, and even sending the scrolls to strangers seems a questionable course at best. There is no knowing for sure whether or not those within the temples will protect the scrolls the way they should, and he knows that the information held within them will attract the wrong sort of attention. That is the whole point of them, after all.

There is only one other option Bakhura can think of. Bury them just as he buried Iumeri.

The question of where to bury them was not one Bakhura spent much time considering, at least in broad terms. There were very few places that he considered even in the least ways suitable, and of those, this was far the best. Iumeri had spent the last fourteen years of his life dedicated to 'the truth of Kul Elna,' putting down that truth on the papyri Bakhura now carried with him. Within those scrolls also lie many other secrets, none of which the ostensible rulers of the land would wish known. It seems fitting to Bakhura that the truth and history of Kul Elna should lie with the village itself. Perhaps, in a way, keeping the record of what happened so near would give back some of that life which had been ripped away from it. Perhaps the scrolls would serve the village itself as a reminder, so that the spirits within would not forget, fade, and drift away.

He just needs to find the right spot.

In a way, he wishes it had been possible to bring Iumeri here as well. After spending so much of his life on the secrets surrounding Kul Elna, it would have been fitting for him to be interred here as well. He would have appreciated it, Bakhura thinks, and it would have suited him better than some unmarked outcropping of rock in the desert. But Kul Elna lay more than a week's travel over land from their hut, and a body would not have survived such a long journey. Where he lay now would have to suit him. Bakhura hopes that his spirit understands that well enough, and is not annoyed with him.

When he finds the place that feels right, it's outside of the town itself, beyond the furthest building, and along the path leading to the hidden temple. Rather than on the path itself, the place lies in a small offshoot, nearly invisible, which leads to a blank box of stone. Altogether the place is no larger than the smallest of rooms in the village from wall to wall, but with each of the 'walls' rising up high over his head before opening to the sky. Standing there, Bakhura decides it's a good place, it feels like the right place for the jars to rest. The tiny space and dryness will protect them, and if ever looters are desperate enough to find either temple or Kul Elna, who would ever think to look here for something buried in the ground?

Bakhura dismounts, offloads the jars and his own bundle from the camel, who immediately lays down with an air of one who does not intend to rise again anytime soon.

He sets about his digging. In some ways, it's harder labor than Iumeri's grave had been. Working in tight quarters as he is, and the number and bulk of the jars means that their 'grave' must be even more spacious than had been the grave of he who wrote them. Iumeri's work outstripped him.

Once he is done and the jars are lowered within, Bakhura contemplates them. Iumeri had spent so much effort in their writing, in their accuracy and honesty, all in the interest that Kul Elna, the acts of the Pharaoh and his advisor might be known… and here he is, burying them all where none will think to look. Still, the possibility exists that someone might find them, someday. Someday long hence, when the current Pharaoh and his circle of double faced priests were long beyond the point of punishing anyone for such 'slander.' It is possible that one day will come when Iumeri's scrolls will be discovered, and a long buried truth will at last come to light.

Digging into his own small bundle, Bakhura pulls out one last scroll. The last scroll. The last scroll Iumeri ever wrote, with Bakhura's name scrawled on the outside in a failing hand.

Bakhura had yet to open it, and has long contemplated on what its contents might be. Given the old man's state of mind, it could be anything, from a fond farewell to a lifelong curse to a rambling account of his life as a young apprentice scribe. There is no knowing for certain without reading it for himself, and seeing Iumeri's final words.

It is a long, silent time before Bakhura, with great deliberation, opens one of the jars in the grave and drops in the little rolled papyrus, unopened and unread.

If you wished me to know your final words, iawi rehew, he thinks, then you should have been brave enough to say them to my face.

He takes a deep breath, exhales in a rush.

He had known when Iumeri had sent him away that the task of fetching more supplies had been a blind. The old man had been dying, known it, and sent him away to be alone in that hour. Bakhura had seen it for what it was, had nearly refused to leave and stayed with him the whole time, be damned what Iumeri wanted. But he had gone, had not even put up a show of resistance before leaving on a pointless chore. He'd even felt relieved as he'd left the hut behind him, knowing he would not be there for the last moments.

He is just as much a coward as his mentor.

Nodding to himself, Bakhura pulls out his own palette box and a small scroll of papyrus and folds himself to the sand. He goes through the familiar ritual of preparing his ink, using the little bottle of water and wetting his reed pen. He doesn't offer a prayer to Thoth or to Seshat. Given his activities these last few years, he doubts there are many Gods who would be pleased to hear from him.

By the time he finishes the blind corner of cast deep in shadow, Ra at too far an angle to reach the bottom with His light. He waits for the ink to dry, then rolls it up and puts it in the same jar as Iumeri's letter to him. His final words to the old man will go as unknown as his words were to Bakhura. They are both cowards, let that be their final legacy to each other.

After a moment's more consideration, Bakhura packs his palette box carefully, and sets it inside the jar as well before sealing it closed.

It takes comparatively little time to cover the jars with soil and sand, and then to heap stones over the disturbed ground to be certain they were protected. Only those who truly wished to know the truth of Kul Elna would ever discover Iumeri's scrolls, and even then they would need the luck of the Gods to find their resting place.

Even when Iumeri had lived, Bakhura had been more or less free to go about as he wished. The two of them together held no more ties to any community than either of them had separately. They had been free to move about the lands as freely as the Bedu, and with even fewer ties, as the only 'family' they had was each other. No community, no tribe, no family, Bakhura and Iumeri were beholden to none.

Now with Iumeri gone, Bakhura somehow feels as though he's been cut free of a great weight, even more free than before. He had never felt so before, but it was as though Iumeri had been acting like a millstone round his neck, holding him to stillness, keeping his wandering feet in one place and his wandering thoughts on the mundanity of the reed pen and food gathering.

With him gone, he feels free in a way he had not felt since childhood on the banks of the river. There is nothing holding him down, now. He might travel anywhere; do anything, without even the small weight of the old scribe to slow.

So it seems strange to him that, with this new level of freedom, he feels more stuck in place than he ever did before. Freedom, it would seem, is its own kind of burden, the burden of endless choice, and faced with it with no old scribe to guide him either by word or by need, Bakhura finds himself at a loss. With all the world opened up to him, he cannot decide where it is he wishes to be.

Trapped in a web of possibilities, frozen by his own freedom and with nothing to guide his steps, Bakhura decides on nothing, and allows his camel to choose its own way once they are within sight of the river again. The ever present need to avenge his village, overlain with the newer desire to take hold of the power of the god Zorc presses at the back of his mind, more strongly now that he has just revisited the dead place again, but it is not a drive which guides his footsteps in any particular direction. Revenge is not a destination, hatred and power are not oases to which one might point their feet. Those desires press against him, disturbing his thoughts, but give him no guidance.

Perhaps it is simply because it lies so close to dead Kul Elna, a few days' travel on a mount and lying astride the river itself, that the camel speeds to Waset, the capital of the land and seat of power. The home of Pharaoh. Or, perhaps, there was a part of him that knew where he wished to go, and steered the argumentative beast to its edge without the rest of him being aware.

Waset, the home of his enemy.

He has never been to the capital before, at first because it was too large and full of people competing for space and food. For one lone and small thief trying to survive on his wits it would be all too easy to fall prey to the other human predators of a city, or to be flushed out by the dogs and taken. Then, as he grew older and knew the true danger of being so close to Pharaoh and his people, of his being so close, he had avoided it even more pointedly than before.

He feels no such compunction now. The terrible liberty he has been blessed with has freed more than just his feet. His mind has also been cut free of its traces, to take wing and leave all his fears and trepidations behind. As he walks the streets of Waset, all full of jostling people and decked with colorful flowers and streamers, he wonders why it is that it has taken him so long to come.

There is nothing ominous to the city besides its size, and size is a thing which can lead just as easily to a city's downfall as to its protection. Large cities mean many mouths to feed, many faces on the streets, all the easier for a stranger to slip in and go completely unnoticed. Easier in a large city to lose one's self, to become lost.

Even more along this vein, Waset appears to be in the midst of a great celebration. The place is festooned with flowers and streamers, but also with the scents of burning incense in the streets, of dozens of food stalls at any given place. Dancers cavort along the roads in costumes of bright, diaphanous fabrics, male and female bodies glimmering with sweat. Priests chant at corners, each to their own Gods and each accompanied by their acolytes, bobbing and joining in as required. The people themselves are carefree, almost insultingly so. They smile and clap each other on the back, their children run riot, shrieking and waving sticks with ribbons as they weave in and out of the legs of adults.

Inexperienced as he is with the day to day dealings of such a large city, Bakhura knows that this cannot be the norm. He's come to Waset on a day of celebration, obviously, but he can't recall the day, or even the month for certain, and is at a loss which holiday it might be to gather so many. Usually the priests and their prayers would be some clue, but there are representatives for far too many, all wearing their ceremonial masks, for it to be a specific holiday for any of them. The prayers that they chant are also of no use to him, as they all speak of prosperity, protection and glory, but all to only a vague point, not to any specific target.

He thinks of asking someone, to make some excuse of long travels and of losing track of the days - it's not entirely a lie - but stops himself before he can. Bad enough to be within Waset, prudence if not fear dictated some level of caution. Instead of asking any of the passersby, he makes himself as much a part of the crowd as he can and listens to what the people have to say.

"-how much do you want for this scrap-?"

"-auspicious day, the gods smile on us all-"

"-the best honey cakes in Waset-!"

"-back here, you little hooligan-!"

"-Aknamkanon was so wise, turned back the enemy hordes, you know-"

"-son will be just so, once he is accustomed-"

"-priests surround him as his father, there is no need to doubt-"

"-praise our new Pharaoh-!"

Slowly, but with increasing certainty, Bakhura comes to know what it is that has the capital in such an uproar, and with no holiday on which to place the blame.

The old Pharaoh, Aknamkanon, has died. He died more than a month ago, and the country is only now coming out of its forty days of mourning. Today, of all days, is the day when his young son will take up the double crown and be named Pharaoh of the lands, a living god for the people to worship.

Standing amid the bright colors and loud voices of celebrating people, sweat running freely down his body, Bakhura suddenly feels a chill. It's as though a coil of cold night has wrapped around him, defying Ra's gaze to freeze his bones and muffle his senses. The crowd seems far away, himself detached from all that is going on around him as realization crashes over him.

Aknamkanon is dead. The man who had ordered the slaughter of his village, dead. Dead before Bakhura could kill him, before he could grip the old man's throat in his hands and watch as understanding bloomed in his eyes, as he came to know just who it was that was taking his life. Already dead.

Bakhura's stomach twists painfully, dangerously, and suddenly all of the voices, the smells, the people are all too much. There is too much going on around him all at once, all demanding his attention, all pressing on him, jangling his nerves to sing out: threat!

Moving as quickly as he can while avoiding drawing attention to himself, Bakhura leaves the street he is on in search of some other, less crowded place where he can breathe. He is disappointed, however, in that he cannot find any place that is free of bodies, of people celebrating their new Pharaoh taking the double crown and claiming his godhood. The city teems with people, even more than live here. Travelers have come to witness the ascension for themselves. At best Bakhura finds a place where the closeness of human flesh is not so much that he can feel it even through his robes. It is enough for now, and he stops, and tries to breathe.

With the Pharaoh already dead, then how is he to take his revenge for his village? How will all of those souls ever be laid to rest if the one who had slaughtered them escaped the justice he so rightly deserved?

Stupid old men, dying on him at every side! Bakhura tightens his fists until the knuckles strain, his palms stinging with the press of his nails. His stomach churns with rage and deep inside he can feel the shifting of coils, of Diabound waking to his fury.

The people around him flow away, sensing his anger, feeling it radiate off of his body, but none speak to him, hardly anyone spares him a glance. It suits Bakhura fine, too consumed in his own turmoil to care what the people see of him. He allows the rage to course through him, contains it, and slowly it begins to dissipate as other, more ordered thoughts come to him.

Aknamkanon may be dead, but his brother and advisor, Aknadin still lives. Iumeri told him, again and again, that it was Aknadin who planned the massacre, and that Aknamkanon had only approved it. That man must surely still breathe, and the same of the priests, all who held one of the Millennium Items, who used the blood of his people to rule. They all still lived when they had no right to, they all possessed the items which he must take to unleash the power of Zorc. They are all still alive, still vulnerable to his knife.

And as for this new Pharaoh…

A sudden commotion around him draws Bakhura out of his thoughts. Those around him have begun to move in one direction, voices raised excitedly, words layered over each other so he can make out none of them. He raises his head, trying to see why the sudden tide in the sea of people, but all he sees is that the shift is not just around him, it spreads out to every street he can see. Even merchants and stall owners, the frolicking children and the wizened elders, all follow the current, which seems to lead towards the center of Waset.

With almost no input from his thoughts, Bakhura turns to follow as well, his steps slow and measured to the mad dashing of every other pair of feet, so that by the time the tide slows to a stop, he is far at the back of the crown. It suits him, as the crowd has grown boisterous and unbearably close. They have gathered before the Pharaoh's Palace, standing amid many tall, angular buildings of officials in order to stand before the Palace itself.

The Palace is a monolith of two great square halves come together to make a whole. Where the two sides meet lays the great door leading inside overhung by a wide balcony. It is this balcony which draws all eyes, including Bakhura's when movement is seen there.

From within the Palace emerge more priests, each resplendent in their spotless white linen and fine wigs, though these do not wear the masks that those nearer to Bakhura do. They take up positions along the balcony, barefaced, and slowly the clamoring of the crowd dies down to a dull murmur. When it feels as though Bakhura just might be able to hear his own thoughts again, the shortest of the priests takes a step forward on the balcony and raises his arms. The noise of the crowd dips down further.

"Good people! Today is a day of joy and celebration! For today we welcome not only our new Pharaoh, but a new age of prosperity in our lands! Today we welcome the new god on the nomes and keeper of our safety!"

It is obviously an old man's voice which speaks, and yet it reaches out to every corner of the square, leaving none ignorant of what he says. Some minor heka, Bakhura decides, carrying his words out to every ear that might hear. Surely no old man could speak so clearly without the use of heka.

"Behold our Mighty Bull of Ma'at, Beloved of Amen-Re, He Who Causes Hearts to Live, The Glorious One of the Double Crown, Lord of the Two Lands, Pharaoh, Living for Ever!"

With this long proclamation, the old priest steps to a side, revealing a new figure stepping out onto the balcony.

The crowd around him cheers for their new Pharaoh, but Bakhura can only stare, his heart a stone, his guts a tangled nest of serpents. He stares up at this man, barely more than a boy, who has taken the place of his rightful prey, and his lip curls in a snarl of disgust.

It is difficult to see while so far from the Palace, but Bakhura's eyes are sharp. He can see the youth of the new Pharaoh, can see how the double crown on his head wants to slip down his brow, can very nearly see just how this so-called Pharaoh trembles in place on the balcony as he raises his hands in acknowledgement of the cheers. This is the man - if man is the word to use - who Bakhura must consider his enemy? This stripling who wears the baubles of his dead father, as though by adding them he will add the years and experience of the departed Aknamkanon? What is this boy to him, a boy so young Bakhura doubts he drew his first breath by the time of Kul Elna's slaughter?

The boy Pharaoh turns on the balcony, taking in all of the crowd that has come to witness his taking of the double crown, and a flash catches his eye. A golden flash, a small twinkle as something at the boy Pharaoh's chest catches Ra's eye.

Iumeri's descriptions of the Millennium Items are patterned too firmly in Bakhura's thoughts to mistake it, even at so far a distance. It is the Millennium Pendant. A thought occurs to him, and he looks to the priests, the six priests that share the balcony. He does not find all he seeks, as some are too small or just not in line of sight, but he sees enough. A set of gold scales, another pendant in the shape of a ring… these are the other six holders of the Millennium items, Pharaoh's closest and most trusted advisors. There, on that balcony, are all seven of the Millennium items. The items his people had died for. The items which would bring them peace, and give Bakhura power.

His eyes are drawn back to Pharaoh, and his Pendant. Did the boy know its history, its potential? Or was it simply another bauble picked from his father's corpse, just another tool with which to wield power? Even had he lived the day Kul Elna died, he could not have been more than a babe. What are the Millennium items to him, what part could he possibly play in their legacy?

He is too young to know what it is he holds, yet hold it he does, as though he has earned it. As though it is owed to him.

The hatred in Bakhura's heart, never really gone, swells up once more to drown him. He looks on the new Pharaoh, and any sort of leniency he might have been tempted to feel evaporates. He may not have ordered the slaughter of Kul Elna, but in some ways his ignorance of those past crimes, crimes which he is reaping the benefits of, is even worse.

He sits on a throne so gilded with gold he doesn't even realize that it's crafted with bones. The bones of his own people - of my people.

The coils of the little god twitch within him, seeking release, to be let free so it might set upon those that cause his rage to boil. Bakhura holds it back. He would glory in the demise of Pharaoh and his closest priests right now, on the very day he has ascended the throne. Truly, what better way to show the people of the land the future they could expect than a ghost from the past, painted in their Pharaoh's blood, taking back those items that had been meant to protect him? What better time, what greater irony?

But he cannot. Diabound has grown stronger, but not strong enough. Against seven Millennium items, all at once, they would stand no chance.

Before his control can slip, Bakhura turns away from the Palace, the balcony, the sight of those who held all that remained of the people of Kul Elna in their hands, and walks away.

He had felt directionless when he came to Waset, beset by terrible freedom that held him trapped in all its manifold options. Now he knows for certain where he must be, or if not where, then what it is he ought to be doing.

Getting stronger. Getting ready. Preparing himself for the fight that was coming, for when he came back to wipe the Pharaoh and his people off of the face of the earth. To win, they would need to become stronger, he and his little god both. He would become stronger. He would become an agent of chaos, an apprentice to Sutekh Himself. He would tear away all that this Pharaoh tried to do, rip asunder the precious Ma'at he and all the people clung to so desperately.

And when the time was right… he would be back.

A/N2: Dun dun DUN.

As a personal aside, it is a pain in the butt keeping track of Bakhura's age throughout the timeline. It might not have been so bad if I were actually writing in a timely fashion, but I'm not, so here we are.

Burial Rites: As accurate as I could make it while keeping in line with Bakhura and Iumeri's circumstances. Normal folk got much simpler burials than Pharaohs and the like.

Buried Scrolls: Not foreshadowing.

Inauguration Celebration: There's not much in the way of specificity wherever I looked for what actually took place during these, so I took what I found and embellished with what I thought would be fairly likely.

Thank you for reading, everyone! Next chapter in two weeks!