Yami no Fics, Pharaoh Atemu & Thief King Bakura, The Land of Sand
Title: The Land of Sand
Theme number and theme: #46, Egypt
Genre: general
Rating: M
Warnings (if any): (mentions of) blood and violence
Characters: Thief King Bakura, Pharaoh Atemu
Short summary: No one sees their homeland in the same way.
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“How long has it been?”
Too long.”
“So, how do you feel?”
“Like anyone else with a dagger to his throat.”
“Come come, Pharaoh, don’t be modest.”
“Bakura…”
“I always shiver in delight when you call my name.”
“Stop this.”
“Don’t worry. This will stop soon enough. I’ll stop soon enough. I just wanted to give you one more chance to look upon your Kingdom and mourn for what you’re going to lose.”
He pressed the dagger even closer to his throat, the sharp blade nicking the skin. Bakura licked his lips; he wondered how the Pharaoh’s blood tasted. It had to be sweet, without the common metallic tang to it, and he hungered, no, he longed to sample it. He tugged at the Pharaoh’s hair with his other hand, jerking his head back, exposing his skin. Unabashedly, Bakura dipped his head and licked over the injured spot; a bare scraping of flawless skin, not even close to a real cut. It wouldn’t even leave a scar, if the Pharaoh would survive long enough to let it heal. The blood… spicy and sweet, delicious sweet, yes, exactly the way he liked it.
“Stop,” the Pharaoh’s voice reached his ears, not to plead, but to command. “Unhand me.”
“You sound a little weak,” Bakura grinned. “A little disorientated, even. What happened to you, oh Exalted One? Did I exhaust you?” His grin widened. He had been mercilessly attacking the Royal Palace, exactly with the goal to exhaust the Pharaoh, his Priests and his people - relentless, continuous violence, barging into the Throne Room, having his Diabound roam the area and attack everyone on sight. He never gave anyone a moment of rest, not even himself; but where the Thief King was energetic and running on adrenaline, he could see the weariness in his opponent’s eyes, the fatigue showing in his lackluster posture. His hand was on Bakura’s wrist, but there was no real strength behind it. He could take everything from him: his jewelry, his dignity, his life. How long had it been since he had such an advantage? How long had it been since he could actually win?
“Do what you want,” the Pharaoh said. The determination in his voice was unmistakable. In any other circumstances, Bakura would’ve admired the smaller man for his mental strength and unflappable willpower. “Do whatever you want to me. I ask of you to not harm my friends, my Priests, my people…”
“You’re not in the position to make demands, my King.” Bakura tugged harder, forcing the Pharaoh to tilt his head painfully and his body reacted with a violent shudder, his skin scraping past the dagger again. A small gasp of pain escaped him. Bakura enjoyed his position. To have the man responsible for all his pain, all his misfortune, all his nightmares, so close to him, at the point that taking his life would be just a breeze… but it wouldn’t happen this day. The game would end too soon, and without the Eighth Key, the Pharaoh’s name, the game would even end without achieving his final goal: resurrecting Zorc. “Pity. However, there’s going to be another opportunity for you to beg for your miserable life, and that of your friends and your people.” He snorted. “Enjoy your last days in your beloved Egypt. The nation won’t cry for your demise,” he added, “for there won’t be a nation to cry at all. The world will be dark, darker beyond your cruellest nightmares!”
He moved the dagger away from the Pharaoh’s throat, only to quickly slice through the rope holding up the Sennen Puzzle. The heavy golden object fell to the ground and the Pharaoh’s body jerked again, this time from the sudden loss of the weight. Bakura pulled him closer, bringing their faces together like two lovers about to kiss each other passionately. For a brief moment, he actually considered kissing him, if only to rile him up even further. He moved up the dagger, pressing it against the Pharaoh’s cheek. Remarkable. Of course there was anxiety visible in his eyes, but no fear. He really was ready to exchange his life for his friends, his Priests… the entire nation…
With a crude push, he threw the Pharaoh away from him. He stumbled and fell, onto the sand, dazed and confused. He was convinced he’d be killed… Bakura didn’t care for his confusion and instead, picked up the Puzzle.
“This is mine,” he said. He expected a storm of protest, but no word left the Pharaoh’s lips. “You don’t want it back?”
“Bakura, if the Puzzle is what it takes for you to leave…”
“Oh no, don’t count on it. This is just the beginning. I have a lot of plans for you, and everyone close to you.”
He tried to get up. Bakura watched him attentively, curious if the Pharaoh would muster up enough strength to fight him. However, he heard noises in the far distance. It had to be the Priests, looking for their Pharaoh… well, he would allow his King a moment of rest, a little breather for now, before he would come back with a vengeance, literally. He wasn’t interested in fighting the Priests, he had other matters to attend to. Bakura held up the Puzzle, its weight surprising him. It wasn’t about its value, about the gold in itself, but what it represented. One by one, he would collect all the Items, until it was time for the last, missing piece of the entire puzzle: the Pharaoh’s name. He took a few steps towards the battered Pharaoh, still bleeding from the small cut on his throat, looking worse for wear, but oh so delightfully defiant, so much willpower. It was going to be utter joy to break him, and Bakura was looking forward to it. The Pharaoh’s eyes weren’t on him, but on the Puzzle. He didn’t want to part with his beloved Item, of course. He was in no condition to fight it, even if he clenched his fists; Bakura just laughed.
“Your fine Priests are coming for you,” he said. “Bask in their love and attention for as long as you can, Pharaoh. It’ll end before you know it!” Cackling, he held up the Puzzle one more time, right in front of the Pharaoh’s face. He turned around, his long red coat swirling behind him and he walked away as if he had all the time in the world. The endless desert was in front of him; nothing but hot sand, a barren landscape that was hard to navigate. Egypt. Khemet. It was his home, his everything, until it had been ruined by the Pharaoh. Now Egypt was nothing but blood and burned bodies to him, the scent of death permeating the sand, and the vast, desolate nature of the immeasurable desert a perfect reflection of his own heart: emptiness.
Was this Egypt, the same way the Pharaoh saw it? With all of his gold, all of his servants, all of his friends and loved ones? The Pharaoh looked up to the night sky to admire the stars, Bakura only saw the darkness and the huge, empty void. The Pharaoh enjoyed the warmth of the sun; Bakura only suffered from the heat, the intensity reminding him of the bright fire that burned his village down, no escape possible…
Maybe he was jealous of the various cries for the Pharaoh, the Priests calling him, with obvious worry and distress in their voices. From where he was standing, he could see them surrounding their King, brushing off the sand, gasping at and inspecting the cut on his throat. Once, in a long forgotten past already, his mother would wrap her arms around her, in a rare moment of empathy and comfort (softness didn’t get you very far in the village of thieves) and she would talk to him, gently, with a similar care and attention.
He couldn’t remember the sound of her voice, though. He couldn’t remember her touch, her face, her name. Bakura gritted his teeth. His Egypt had been taken away from him, with the violence and force of a thousand angry gods, and he would spit into the gods’ faces and laugh at them, when Zorc would banish them all into oblivion, into never-ending darkness, and he would dance on all of their graves, including the Pharaoh’s.
This land was godforsaken. This land was dead. It was no longer Egypt. It was his personal hell.
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This entry was originally posted at http://the-goldenpath.dreamwidth.org/90516.html. Please comment there using OpenID.
Theme number and theme: #46, Egypt
Genre: general
Rating: M
Warnings (if any): (mentions of) blood and violence
Characters: Thief King Bakura, Pharaoh Atemu
Short summary: No one sees their homeland in the same way.
---------------------------------------------
“How long has it been?”
Too long.”
“So, how do you feel?”
“Like anyone else with a dagger to his throat.”
“Come come, Pharaoh, don’t be modest.”
“Bakura…”
“I always shiver in delight when you call my name.”
“Stop this.”
“Don’t worry. This will stop soon enough. I’ll stop soon enough. I just wanted to give you one more chance to look upon your Kingdom and mourn for what you’re going to lose.”
He pressed the dagger even closer to his throat, the sharp blade nicking the skin. Bakura licked his lips; he wondered how the Pharaoh’s blood tasted. It had to be sweet, without the common metallic tang to it, and he hungered, no, he longed to sample it. He tugged at the Pharaoh’s hair with his other hand, jerking his head back, exposing his skin. Unabashedly, Bakura dipped his head and licked over the injured spot; a bare scraping of flawless skin, not even close to a real cut. It wouldn’t even leave a scar, if the Pharaoh would survive long enough to let it heal. The blood… spicy and sweet, delicious sweet, yes, exactly the way he liked it.
“Stop,” the Pharaoh’s voice reached his ears, not to plead, but to command. “Unhand me.”
“You sound a little weak,” Bakura grinned. “A little disorientated, even. What happened to you, oh Exalted One? Did I exhaust you?” His grin widened. He had been mercilessly attacking the Royal Palace, exactly with the goal to exhaust the Pharaoh, his Priests and his people - relentless, continuous violence, barging into the Throne Room, having his Diabound roam the area and attack everyone on sight. He never gave anyone a moment of rest, not even himself; but where the Thief King was energetic and running on adrenaline, he could see the weariness in his opponent’s eyes, the fatigue showing in his lackluster posture. His hand was on Bakura’s wrist, but there was no real strength behind it. He could take everything from him: his jewelry, his dignity, his life. How long had it been since he had such an advantage? How long had it been since he could actually win?
“Do what you want,” the Pharaoh said. The determination in his voice was unmistakable. In any other circumstances, Bakura would’ve admired the smaller man for his mental strength and unflappable willpower. “Do whatever you want to me. I ask of you to not harm my friends, my Priests, my people…”
“You’re not in the position to make demands, my King.” Bakura tugged harder, forcing the Pharaoh to tilt his head painfully and his body reacted with a violent shudder, his skin scraping past the dagger again. A small gasp of pain escaped him. Bakura enjoyed his position. To have the man responsible for all his pain, all his misfortune, all his nightmares, so close to him, at the point that taking his life would be just a breeze… but it wouldn’t happen this day. The game would end too soon, and without the Eighth Key, the Pharaoh’s name, the game would even end without achieving his final goal: resurrecting Zorc. “Pity. However, there’s going to be another opportunity for you to beg for your miserable life, and that of your friends and your people.” He snorted. “Enjoy your last days in your beloved Egypt. The nation won’t cry for your demise,” he added, “for there won’t be a nation to cry at all. The world will be dark, darker beyond your cruellest nightmares!”
He moved the dagger away from the Pharaoh’s throat, only to quickly slice through the rope holding up the Sennen Puzzle. The heavy golden object fell to the ground and the Pharaoh’s body jerked again, this time from the sudden loss of the weight. Bakura pulled him closer, bringing their faces together like two lovers about to kiss each other passionately. For a brief moment, he actually considered kissing him, if only to rile him up even further. He moved up the dagger, pressing it against the Pharaoh’s cheek. Remarkable. Of course there was anxiety visible in his eyes, but no fear. He really was ready to exchange his life for his friends, his Priests… the entire nation…
With a crude push, he threw the Pharaoh away from him. He stumbled and fell, onto the sand, dazed and confused. He was convinced he’d be killed… Bakura didn’t care for his confusion and instead, picked up the Puzzle.
“This is mine,” he said. He expected a storm of protest, but no word left the Pharaoh’s lips. “You don’t want it back?”
“Bakura, if the Puzzle is what it takes for you to leave…”
“Oh no, don’t count on it. This is just the beginning. I have a lot of plans for you, and everyone close to you.”
He tried to get up. Bakura watched him attentively, curious if the Pharaoh would muster up enough strength to fight him. However, he heard noises in the far distance. It had to be the Priests, looking for their Pharaoh… well, he would allow his King a moment of rest, a little breather for now, before he would come back with a vengeance, literally. He wasn’t interested in fighting the Priests, he had other matters to attend to. Bakura held up the Puzzle, its weight surprising him. It wasn’t about its value, about the gold in itself, but what it represented. One by one, he would collect all the Items, until it was time for the last, missing piece of the entire puzzle: the Pharaoh’s name. He took a few steps towards the battered Pharaoh, still bleeding from the small cut on his throat, looking worse for wear, but oh so delightfully defiant, so much willpower. It was going to be utter joy to break him, and Bakura was looking forward to it. The Pharaoh’s eyes weren’t on him, but on the Puzzle. He didn’t want to part with his beloved Item, of course. He was in no condition to fight it, even if he clenched his fists; Bakura just laughed.
“Your fine Priests are coming for you,” he said. “Bask in their love and attention for as long as you can, Pharaoh. It’ll end before you know it!” Cackling, he held up the Puzzle one more time, right in front of the Pharaoh’s face. He turned around, his long red coat swirling behind him and he walked away as if he had all the time in the world. The endless desert was in front of him; nothing but hot sand, a barren landscape that was hard to navigate. Egypt. Khemet. It was his home, his everything, until it had been ruined by the Pharaoh. Now Egypt was nothing but blood and burned bodies to him, the scent of death permeating the sand, and the vast, desolate nature of the immeasurable desert a perfect reflection of his own heart: emptiness.
Was this Egypt, the same way the Pharaoh saw it? With all of his gold, all of his servants, all of his friends and loved ones? The Pharaoh looked up to the night sky to admire the stars, Bakura only saw the darkness and the huge, empty void. The Pharaoh enjoyed the warmth of the sun; Bakura only suffered from the heat, the intensity reminding him of the bright fire that burned his village down, no escape possible…
Maybe he was jealous of the various cries for the Pharaoh, the Priests calling him, with obvious worry and distress in their voices. From where he was standing, he could see them surrounding their King, brushing off the sand, gasping at and inspecting the cut on his throat. Once, in a long forgotten past already, his mother would wrap her arms around her, in a rare moment of empathy and comfort (softness didn’t get you very far in the village of thieves) and she would talk to him, gently, with a similar care and attention.
He couldn’t remember the sound of her voice, though. He couldn’t remember her touch, her face, her name. Bakura gritted his teeth. His Egypt had been taken away from him, with the violence and force of a thousand angry gods, and he would spit into the gods’ faces and laugh at them, when Zorc would banish them all into oblivion, into never-ending darkness, and he would dance on all of their graves, including the Pharaoh’s.
This land was godforsaken. This land was dead. It was no longer Egypt. It was his personal hell.
-------------------------------------
This entry was originally posted at http://the-goldenpath.dreamwidth.org/90516.html. Please comment there using OpenID.