Bakura, "King of Thieves" (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
onlymydiabound) wrote2012-03-09 09:35 pm
onlymydiabound) wrote2012-03-09 09:35 pm
Entry tags:
Fiction ☼ 013. Hope
Three days had passed since the silence fell, but the small boy still refused to move.
He lay in an alley and listened for noises that no longer came. Grooves of sand, borne by wind, blew through the village. The sun baked the sand and the boy it nestled. The boy coughed, tasting dust.
Beyond his alley only hyenas prowled, adding their soft prints to those left by rows of sandals marching in time. The pack mothers sniffed the air, smelled residual, smoldering fires. They licked the dark stains on the walls, then bayed to their brothers in disappointment: nothing remained to feast on here.
Though the boy lay still, watching a row of ants who'd come to explore in the hyenas' wake, the alley before him tipped and swam. The village's silence echoed in his hollow ears. The boy blinked, but dared not close his eyes. He watched the ants and waited.
Night fell. The boy numbed, as he'd numbed the three nights before, without shivering. His dry throat felt rough, speckled with grit. He didn't think of water.
The boy floated beyond himself. He fancied he could lift his spirit right out of his body and float down streets still bustling with life. Torches crackled in welcome at tavern doors. Wives called to husbands and children, haggled over the spoils brought home from raids. Children watched as their fathers gathered around a warm, open fire, feeding golden trinkets to the hungry flame.
"You melt them down, if you want to sell them," the boy's brother informed the clamoring throng. "No one can prove where they came from, then."
"But they're so pretty!" the boy's half-cousin pouted, her hair stuck up in tufts just like his own. Had he been among the crowd, the boy would have tried to pat the girl's hair down for her, as he always did when she was being a fool. But the boy was a ghost. He floated on.
He rose above the rooftops, above newlyweds making love on the coolness of the mud-brick roofs. He drifted the length of the valley, listening to cries of anger and joy, exultation and love. He paused behind one building, where a tall, muscular man was adjusting the stance a small child had adopted.
"Legs spread wider," the man advised, everything about him solid and square. Even the gap where his nose had been formed an ugly square of absence in the center of his face. "Brace yourself. Always prepare, and let the target come to you."
"But if the first blow's true, the fastest man wins!" pouted the man's small companion, eyes bright beneath a mop of dirty pale hair. "I want to fight, not stand around!"
"And you will," said the man. "Assault me."
The child's mouth split in a feral grin. "As you wish!" he cried, and charged.
His fist connected, but the child's wrist was grabbed; two motions, a pivot, and the man had the child flung over his shoulder, then pinned breathless to the ground below. "This is a thief's way of fighting," the man advised as his opponent, winded, gasped and heaved. "You've already incited your opponent. That's enough. Never make the first move."
"Never make - the first move," obediently panted the child on the ground, face dark with wonder at the older man's wisdom. The boy watching the scene turned and floated away. He could no longer reenter that smiling, bright child, though their faces were the same.
Dawn rose above the valley, interrupting the shadowed fantasy. One by one, the phantoms faded, until only the boy drifting above the village remained. The village itself lay silent in the light of day, thresholds turning into dark mouths struck dumb.
The boy gazed deep into the rising sun. He drifted towards it, feeling himself fading within its rays. The feeling wasn't unpleasant. He'd let the light swallow him, and carry him off.
A new light - silver, and harsh - stabbed into his eyes. The boy blinked hard, saw a faint silhouette forming in a silver blaze, blotting out even the sun's welcoming light. The silver light floated, waiting, just outside the alley, fixed upon the body that lay within.
The boy squinted and spat, head reeling as his spirit snapped back to its senses. Lifting his head, he saw the glowing shape still paused outside the alley's entrance. The boy leaned on the wall and climbed to his feet. He stared at the glowing form. Its forked tongue flicked.
The glow faded. A silver snake glided down the street on delicate wings. The boy followed on feeble, faltering legs. He paid no attention to the dark gaping doors. He didn't smell the last tendrils of sharp, acrid smoke.
The snake guided the boy down away from the village, along the path used by merchants from the outside world. It led him out of the bronzed, barren rocks of the desert. Dark eyes facing forward, the snake showed him the river, glittering like jewels streaming forth in the sun.
The boy heard joyful voices, took in the delta's green richness, smelled the fresh river silt. He staggered to the bank, knees sloshing through water. The snake fluttered its wings and rose high above a boat. The boy watched and stared. The men in the boat, plying nets along the river's surface, felt his eyes upon them and turned to see. With a clamor, they steered to the riverbank and hurried to the boy's side.
"Whatever are you doing on this side of the river, child?" one asked. "There's only desert for miles around - and you, so unkept on such a glorious day!"
"Smile, boy," the other fisherman advised, clapping the boy on the shoulder. The boy barely moved. He was looking for the snake, but the snake had gone. "You should celebrate with your brothers and sisters in town! Our Pharaoh has vanquished the enemy at last!"
The fishermen brought the boy onto their boat and gave him a jug of water to drink. The boy held it thickly in both hands, but took a deep swig.
"I don't recognize you," the first fisherman said. "What's your name, child?"
Putting down the water jug, the boy coughed. It took the fishermen two attempts to realize he was saying his name.
"Bakura," the boy replied, his eyes as dull as the river's silt - but with a glimmer of silver life peeking through. "And I want to go home."
He lay in an alley and listened for noises that no longer came. Grooves of sand, borne by wind, blew through the village. The sun baked the sand and the boy it nestled. The boy coughed, tasting dust.
Beyond his alley only hyenas prowled, adding their soft prints to those left by rows of sandals marching in time. The pack mothers sniffed the air, smelled residual, smoldering fires. They licked the dark stains on the walls, then bayed to their brothers in disappointment: nothing remained to feast on here.
Though the boy lay still, watching a row of ants who'd come to explore in the hyenas' wake, the alley before him tipped and swam. The village's silence echoed in his hollow ears. The boy blinked, but dared not close his eyes. He watched the ants and waited.
Night fell. The boy numbed, as he'd numbed the three nights before, without shivering. His dry throat felt rough, speckled with grit. He didn't think of water.
The boy floated beyond himself. He fancied he could lift his spirit right out of his body and float down streets still bustling with life. Torches crackled in welcome at tavern doors. Wives called to husbands and children, haggled over the spoils brought home from raids. Children watched as their fathers gathered around a warm, open fire, feeding golden trinkets to the hungry flame.
"You melt them down, if you want to sell them," the boy's brother informed the clamoring throng. "No one can prove where they came from, then."
"But they're so pretty!" the boy's half-cousin pouted, her hair stuck up in tufts just like his own. Had he been among the crowd, the boy would have tried to pat the girl's hair down for her, as he always did when she was being a fool. But the boy was a ghost. He floated on.
He rose above the rooftops, above newlyweds making love on the coolness of the mud-brick roofs. He drifted the length of the valley, listening to cries of anger and joy, exultation and love. He paused behind one building, where a tall, muscular man was adjusting the stance a small child had adopted.
"Legs spread wider," the man advised, everything about him solid and square. Even the gap where his nose had been formed an ugly square of absence in the center of his face. "Brace yourself. Always prepare, and let the target come to you."
"But if the first blow's true, the fastest man wins!" pouted the man's small companion, eyes bright beneath a mop of dirty pale hair. "I want to fight, not stand around!"
"And you will," said the man. "Assault me."
The child's mouth split in a feral grin. "As you wish!" he cried, and charged.
His fist connected, but the child's wrist was grabbed; two motions, a pivot, and the man had the child flung over his shoulder, then pinned breathless to the ground below. "This is a thief's way of fighting," the man advised as his opponent, winded, gasped and heaved. "You've already incited your opponent. That's enough. Never make the first move."
"Never make - the first move," obediently panted the child on the ground, face dark with wonder at the older man's wisdom. The boy watching the scene turned and floated away. He could no longer reenter that smiling, bright child, though their faces were the same.
Dawn rose above the valley, interrupting the shadowed fantasy. One by one, the phantoms faded, until only the boy drifting above the village remained. The village itself lay silent in the light of day, thresholds turning into dark mouths struck dumb.
The boy gazed deep into the rising sun. He drifted towards it, feeling himself fading within its rays. The feeling wasn't unpleasant. He'd let the light swallow him, and carry him off.
A new light - silver, and harsh - stabbed into his eyes. The boy blinked hard, saw a faint silhouette forming in a silver blaze, blotting out even the sun's welcoming light. The silver light floated, waiting, just outside the alley, fixed upon the body that lay within.
The boy squinted and spat, head reeling as his spirit snapped back to its senses. Lifting his head, he saw the glowing shape still paused outside the alley's entrance. The boy leaned on the wall and climbed to his feet. He stared at the glowing form. Its forked tongue flicked.
The glow faded. A silver snake glided down the street on delicate wings. The boy followed on feeble, faltering legs. He paid no attention to the dark gaping doors. He didn't smell the last tendrils of sharp, acrid smoke.
The snake guided the boy down away from the village, along the path used by merchants from the outside world. It led him out of the bronzed, barren rocks of the desert. Dark eyes facing forward, the snake showed him the river, glittering like jewels streaming forth in the sun.
The boy heard joyful voices, took in the delta's green richness, smelled the fresh river silt. He staggered to the bank, knees sloshing through water. The snake fluttered its wings and rose high above a boat. The boy watched and stared. The men in the boat, plying nets along the river's surface, felt his eyes upon them and turned to see. With a clamor, they steered to the riverbank and hurried to the boy's side.
"Whatever are you doing on this side of the river, child?" one asked. "There's only desert for miles around - and you, so unkept on such a glorious day!"
"Smile, boy," the other fisherman advised, clapping the boy on the shoulder. The boy barely moved. He was looking for the snake, but the snake had gone. "You should celebrate with your brothers and sisters in town! Our Pharaoh has vanquished the enemy at last!"
The fishermen brought the boy onto their boat and gave him a jug of water to drink. The boy held it thickly in both hands, but took a deep swig.
"I don't recognize you," the first fisherman said. "What's your name, child?"
Putting down the water jug, the boy coughed. It took the fishermen two attempts to realize he was saying his name.
"Bakura," the boy replied, his eyes as dull as the river's silt - but with a glimmer of silver life peeking through. "And I want to go home."