Disclaimer: I do not own Yugioh or any Yugioh character portrayed in this fic

A/N: I make use of a different name for Bakura in this chapter, one of many bestowed by his 'men'. His real name in Ancient Egypt is never revealed in canon, but I find it highly unlikely that he would be called Bakura.

Chapter 6

He had never thought that he would be the helpless one. Sitting here, esconced in apathy, Seto Kaiba really had no idea what on earth he was to do. He had schemes in plenty, all thought out with his usual clarity and directness, but none of these would be to any avail without the shadow magic wielded by those who called themselves priests in this place. And that very reliance, that need for the forces beyond his comprehension, was what settled this pall of horrifying uselessness on him.

He was Seto Kaiba, third most powerful business magnate in the world, CEO of the giant, far-reaching Kaibacorp, genius designer and programmer with a precocious intellect and little social skill to speak of. At least, on an emotional bonding level. Lord knew, he used to be able to charm the socks off investors when Gozaburo had been CEO. He didn't need to do that anymore. And here he was, the once powerful and influential business man, reduced to this. Unable, even, to give the one person he cared about the most the reassurance he needed that everything would be all right.

It was in this, slightly catatonic, state that Merawhat found him later. The page had been overwhelmed by curiosity when it came to the tall, strange foreigner who resembled his master so closely and who had hugged him with such abandonment and conviction. Already rumours were rife around the palace, some saying that he was the High Priest's long lost twin brother from across the seas, other's saying that he was an evil spirit sent to impersonate Seth and amongst the children, the most common being that he was actually Seth's illegitimate son who had undergone a magically induced growth spurt.

Whatever the case may be, Merawhat knew that the stranger was no evil spirit, nor was he Seth's brother. A spirit would not be so tangible, nor display such genuine distress at the sight of some lowly servant. And anyone related to Seth would be of high nobility. They would not mistake their brother for a palace page. Whatever the stranger was, Merawhat was very interested in finding out more about him, or even about the brother the man had said so resembled him. And so the boy had invented a plausible excuse, bringing the stranger his evening meal, to try to talk to him again.

His service under Seth had prepared him for the needs of lords and distinguished guests. He did not know if the man fell under either of these categories, but something in the prideful, dignified, magnetic aura about the foreigner told him that he was someone of importance, wherever it was he had come from. He went to the kitchens and began to set up a platter, a centrepiece of fruit surrounded by exotic meats, freshly baked bread, sweet cakes and honey. A good thing about serving under his master was that nobody questioned him about when he helped himself to food. Seth was known for his unpredictable, somewhat strange eating habits. Sometimes the High Priest would forget to eat for a day, and sometimes he would develop a peculiar fixation on a specific food type. Like that time with rice shaped into equal-sided triangles. Needless to say, Merawhat had been forbidden to talk about that particular incident.

He brought the platter to the guest's room, surprised to find two burly palace guards standing to attention outside the door. He's a prisoner?

He trotted up, clearing his throat. Without allowing him to get a word out, the guard on the left said, "Enter. And make it snappy." Merawhat gulped, nodded and made his way in. Ahead, he could see the dim figure of the foreigner, sitting straight-backed and elegant in the same wicker chair. He had never drawn the linen curtains over the window, and the lamp sat, dark and inert at his side, unnoticed.

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"For God's sake, woman, they were just feet."

She was trembling, hands clutching her shoulders convulsively as she glared at him.

"Just feet? Just feet? W . . . What the hell are you?"

He grunted in scorn before turning his back on her and kneeling. "Get on with it, fool, we don't have all night."

Cursing under her breath, she fumbled with the key, the metal still sticky with Khalid's congealed blood. Her hands refused to obey her and the key slipped and stabbed at everywhere on the intricate collar except the small, designated hole. Giving a growl of exasperation, the white-haired prisoner reached up and grasped her hands roughly. Ignoring her gasp of fear, he held her there for a few minutes, wordlessly, the warmth and strength from his none-too-gentle grasp slowly stealing into her numb digits, giving them renewed activity. Mai stared at the back of his head before dropping her gaze. Her hands were steady once more.

"I'm . . . fine. I can do it," she mumbled.

"About time too. Move it!"

Taking a breath, she inserted the key successfuly and was about to turn it when he rose abruptly. "What are you . . . "

"Stand back," he commanded.

Complying, Mai watched as he glanced over his shoulder, grasped the thin metal projection and twisted. There was an implosion, dark shadows that seemed to originate from the prisoner's still form, wrapping around and melding with the heavy collar, reducing it to dust in a matter of seconds. He let out a low hiss, straightening, rolling first one large shoulder until it cracked, then the other. He raised a hand, flexing the fingers slightly, smirking as a small, flickering burst of darkness swirled into existence above his palm and dissipated just as quickly.

Mai stared, transfixed. Shadow magic. The same kind that had been used to send her here. And he was wielding it without a millenium item. How is that possible? Now she realised the true nature of that collar. Not just a form of physical restraint, but a leash on his shadow abilities as well.

He had noticed her rapt gaze, eyes narrowing in unspoken warning as he strode over to her. "Well, now that that's done, let's get a move on." He caught hold of the reins of one of the camels he had led over and smiled with sudden, alarming charm, dropping her a gallant bow.

"After you, sweetie pie."

"Uh . . . "

"Get on."

"What?"

"Get. on. the. camel, woman."

She shifted slightly, mumbling something. He bent his head, squinting at her. "I can't hear you, speak up!"

"I don't know how to ride a camel!" she burst out, face red.

He smirked. "Come here."

"N . . . no . . . why, what are you . . . put me down!"

The last part of her sentence was cut off in an indignant squawk as he grabbed her around the waist, slung her over his shoulder and deposited her gracelessly into the saddle. Breathing hard, she fumbled with the reins, muttering to herself in reassuring whispers that everything was going to be okay.

Ha. Who am I kidding? Here I am, about to run off into the desert with the biggest, bipolar psychopath in the history of violence.

He climbed up onto his own mount with the ease of long practise. She watched him out of the corner of her eye, mimicking his motions with her hands and feet. Catching her look, he grinned. "At a loss, are we?"

Mai deigned not to reply, opting for dignified silence. She yelped a moment later as her neck was wrenched backwards, the animal beneath her breaking into sudden swift motion. He had slapped her camel on the rump. Hard. Jostled and thoroughly disshevelled, her bottom already painful from the continuous bumping motion, Mai could have murdered the man. And yet, she was fully aware of their need for haste. Those sleeping pills would not last forever. And when a few of their number awoke, sans feet, to a dead captain, it was not something they would take lightly.

Glancing over at her traveling companion, she noticed the open wounds on his back and legs. He had not donned the cloak, like she had. Presumably he was accustomed to the cold. She assumed that he would treat himself when they stopped for a rest, whenever that would be. And there was something else, something that had been nagging at her mind for some time.

She was now fully aware that he was no geriatric, contrary to her earlier observations. When she was free to watch him like this, no longer under the petrifying paralysis of his direct stare, she could see that he was a young man. Young in the physiological sense of the word, of course. There were years of experience behind that gaze, of a life of constant violence and brutality, of chance and adrenaline. Experience of things she would probably never know and had no intention of trying to deduce. And there was a foreigness about him, a strange sense of otherworldliness. His skin and the fact that he spoke the local dialect told her that he was definitely a native of this country. And yet, he stood out from the others she had met thus far, possessing a strong energy, almost a magnetic field, making her senses hyper-aware of him. That, surely, could be attributed to the shadow magic, combined with his air of command and hypnotic influence. She wondered what exactly he was, when he had taken the first step down this path, and what he was guilty of to have earned such torturous punishment.

And then there was that other something, that sense of familiarity. She had not made the connection in her mind until he had looted the caravan, shoving those supplies into the sack she had held open. She knew another someone with white hair, also young, no more than a boy. He had been at the last big tournament Kaiba had hosted on the blimp. During that dark time when the Rod-wielding, possessed Malik had imprisoned her mind in a place she would rather forget and leave far behind. Bakura. Ryou Bakura. That was his name. A polite, soft-spoken, British-born boy with large, warm, brown eyes and a gentle smile. And if her memory served her correctly, Yugi and the others had mentioned that he had also, somehow, come into possession of a millenium item. One that had housed the spirit of an ancient tomb robber, the king of thieves . . .

Oh no. Nonononono . . . It's not true. Not possible. My luck simply cannot be that bad.

And yet everything about this man screamed that her suspicions were true. When dawn came, the thin, iridiscent rays of the red sun spreading their shimmering tendrils across the horizon, and the first heat haze appeared in the distance, the thief, as she had now dubbed him, drew to an abrupt halt. She tugged at the reins of her camel, coming to an ungainly stop a few feet away. She was tired, her body sore and her eyelids threatening to close at any minute with the lack of sleep and constant motion. He was pulling one of the sacks open and, she saw, bringing out two lengths of white material. He threw one to her and she saw that it was a head to toe garb, much like a burka.

"Put it on," was his command, "It will help with the heat."

Nodding, Mai removed her cloak and fastened it to one of her saddle straps. She looked up, saw his eyes on her, watching her with brazen curiosity. "Bakura," she said, experimentally.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"You said something, woman. What's Bak-u-ra?"

"I thought . . . nevermind. I must have mistaken you for someone else."

He let out a bark of laughter. "That's the stupidest name I've ever heard."

Yeah, buddy, just you wait. She turned slightly to face him. "So then, what do I call you?"

He was now sitting in a strange posture in his saddle, head thrown backwards, looking directly up into the sky. He squinted, as if thinking deeply. "You may call me . . . God."

"No way!"

His head snapped back into position, eyes boring into her. "What did you say?"

Cursing herself for her big mouth, she nudged her camel away from him. "I . . . come on now, no disrespect, but . . . God? Seriously?"

He grinned, canines glinting predatorially, and urged his camel forward, ignoring the rapid increase in the pace of her breathing. He stopped only when their knees touched, his roughened skin against her own, and looked down at her, the deep-set eyes burning with deadly amusement.

"And why not, woman? I have defied them, at every turn. My very existence is an abomination, a direct thwarting of their will. Do I, then, not deserve that honour?"

"Wh . . . I . . . I don't know." Her voice suddenly sounded small and thin.

"Of course you don't. Now get a move on."

He moved past her and she exhaled, releasing the reins that had dug into her palms so deeply, they had left ridges in the flesh.

"Khemnebi."

She looked up, confused at the word he had tossed over his shoulder. "It's what my men call me. You might as well know me by that name."

Surprised at the sudden opening, she picked up pace so that she was alongside him. "Khemnebi," she said, tasting the word.

"And if you misuse it, woman . . . " was the answering growl.

"No, no! Just . . . what does that mean? Khemnebi?"

"Shut up."

"Aw, come on, buddy . . . "

"And what, pray, is this perpetual, fucking 'buddy' you speak of? You will address me as 'Master' as befitting a woman of your station."

"WOMAN OF MY STATION? Just what exactly are you . . . "

"SILENCE!"

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Merawhat stared at the foreigner. The foreigner stared back. The boy began to feel more than slightly nervous, a tingle of unease playing up and down his spine as the man took in his features with minute scrutiny. Finally, the High Priest doppelganger reached out towards him, ignoring his nervous flinch and gently pushed the hair away from his brow. A long, warm finger traced an area just beneath his hair line, a sigh falling from the foreigner's lips.

"My brother had a small scar there. On his forehead."

Merawhat shifted his feet, somehow feeling as if he had disappointed in some way. Kaiba looked away from him, towards the drawn curtains, out to somewhere beyond the boy's sight and comprehension.

"He got the scar when we lived at the orphanage. I left him to play with some children his own age. I thought it would be good for him to spend time with someone other than me, for a change. And then some others, older, closer to my age, came along. They saw an opportunity, now that I had left him alone for a while. They dared him to climb through the fence, go down a steep bank and pick up a stone from the drainage pipe."

He turned back to look at Merawhat, the left half of his sharp, aquiline features cast into gaunt shadow, the eyes that met his distant with recollection and suppressed emotion. "When I came back he was waiting for me in the infirmary. He was covered in mud. There was a gash across his forehead where he had hit his head on the edge of the pipe. And he was smiling."

Merawhat, who had been paying rapt attention to the tale, inhaled sharply when Kaiba paused, leaning forward. "Honourable Master?" he asked softly.

"He was smiling because he was proud. Proud that he had accomplished something without my help. He was happy too. Because he thought I would be proud of him."

Merawhat looked down at his feet. "And were you, Master?"

Kaiba stared down at the child, expressionless. "You're very different from my brother. What's your name?"

"M . . . Merawhat," was the answering whisper.

Kaiba frowned then tapped a finger on the boy's head to get him to look up. "The High Priest's page, right?"

The reply was rapid, eager nodding. "Yes! I'll be chamberlain someday. I just need to train and work really hard!"

Kaiba grunted. "I don't envy you. WIth an asshole like that for a boss."

"Wha . . .?" The boy's mouth fell open in shock. "Master! You cannot disrespect the High Priest with such language! It's forbidden!"

"Yeah, yeah, spare me, kiddo. Do you even like him?"

"O . . . of course, he's High Priest and Advisor to the Pharaoh and head of the Royal Scribes and - "

"Do you like him? Simple question. Cut the resume crap."

"Resume?"

Kaiba sighed. "Nevermind. Just . . . grow a backbone, all right, Merawhat?"

"But master, I already have a backbone."

"No, I mean stop groveling so much. People do that when they have no self-respect. Carry yourself with some pride."

Merawhat hung his head. "But I'm a servant . . . I . . . "

"So?"

He looked up, startled at the sharp reply. "I'm a . . . a servant, Master. I'm expected to obey without airs."

"I didn't mean aping that pompous jackass." Kaiba gave a short laugh and reached out, tugging the boy closer. "This is what I mean."

He placed a firm hand on Merawhat's back, straightening his posture. He pushed the boy's chin upwards so that his gaze fell straight ahead. He also gripped his arms, pushing slightly upwards so that the shoulders fell back, giving a relaxed, confident posture.

"There. Now stay that way. And always enter this room like that. Any room, for that matter."

"Yes, Master."

"And no more prostrating yourself whenever some big shot walks past."

"But - "

"Bow. From the waist. Far more dignified."

"Oh. All right."

"And thank you for the food."

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Some time later, the council came to an end. There had been many differences in opinion amongst the royally appointed priests. Some had opted to have the foreigner, Seto Kaiba, imprisoned until they could ascertain the correct manner in which to establish his origin. Others, including Atem, were in favour of keeping him at the palace as a guest, while subjecting him to questioning on the same subject. On majority vote, the latter option was eventually decided upon. When they took the headstrong nature of the subject into consideration, it was generally agreed upon that use of force would not avail them in a quest for useful information.

Seth had been strangely quiet during the gathering, something that had been noted by a few. Atem gave a subtle nod to Mahad afterwards, and the magician immediately picked up on the hint to follow the distracted High Priest. He caught up with him some minutes later, predictably en route to Kaiba's chamber.

"High Priest," Mahad slowed his pace, slightly out of breath from attempting to match the longer strides of his colleague.

"What is it?"

"Is something the matter?"

Seth paused, staring down at him impassively. "Why do you ask?"

"Well, you seem rather distracted and I . . . "

"And you saw fit to ask. Indeed."

Something in Seth's tone caused Mahad to glance at him sharply. He sighed. "All right, have it your way. Our Pharaoh was . . . concerned."

A ghost of a smile crossed Seth's shadowed visage. "I'm perfectly fine, thank you. And I would like to resume questioning our . . . guest."

Mahad looked hesitant. "Maybe I should accompany . . . "

"That won't be necessary." Seth turned and strode off down the hall, the torches that had been lit for the evening casting a soft, reflective glow across his gilt-embroidered cloak. He paused slightly further on and glanced back at the still stationary form of Mahad, a smirk etching itself onto his features. "You needn't look so worried. We won't attempt any kind of physical confrontation."

Mahad gave an uncharacteristic snort. "Tell that to someone who didn't play witness to the last time you gagged him and dropped him like a rock."

Their exchange was interrupted by an unusual phenomenon, the arrival of the young page, Merawhat. The arrival of the boy itself was not an oddity, rather it was the manner in which he made his appearance. Head held high with a stateliness fitting of the Pharaoh himself, his normally windblown clothing tied neatly around his form and a linen napkin draped demurely over one arm, he strode up to Seth with placidity and a conviction of purpose that made both men stare. He bowed.

"Honourable High Priest, allow me to escort you. I will serve your dinner during your interview, if that is to your liking, or perhaps afterwards, in your chamber?"

"I . . . in my chamber, if you please." Seth cleared his throat hastily, examining the boy from head to toe. His scrutiny was rewarded with another bow.

"Of course. Have a good evening, worshipful Master."

With that, the small form turned and strode purposefully away, leaving a suitably gobsmacked High Priest and mildly impressed magician in his wake.

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