Over the years, Bakura had become indefinitely used to their visits to Luxor. It happened, perhaps once or twice a year. Malik would be needed for clan business, or so he would say, and yet so much of the visit would be taken up with reunion. With family. With Malik throwing his arms about his sisterâs waist, and the strong clasp of Rishidâs hand in Malikâs. It was a family matter.
Bakura felt distant from it. The soft-voweled arabic, strange on his ears, and the familiar heat of a Kingdom that had long crumbled.Â
With Malik away on business, or reuniting with his siblings, Bakura found he had little to do. The sands outside were the same as ever, but the sun burned quickly in his skin, he looked out of place, and he didnât speak the language. Instead, he spent his time wandering the Ishtar family home.
Strange to be somewhere so royal. Lush well-fed garden, the palatial gleam of white-washed walls, and glasswork, lazuli-blue, and lapis-green, in faience-patterns framing doorways, and shuttered windows. Mornings spent spent wandering the cool hallways, and afternoons spent lounging absently by the pool in the atrium.
It was strange how much one could long for evening, when Bakura would catch Malikâs mouth with his teeth, kiss him like the long suffusing warmth of sunset. The quiet way missing someone turned into touch, and laughter.
So yes -- Bakura had grown used to Luxor, and itâs place in his life. Was pleased by it, as much as quietened by it. It was important to Malik, and in its own way, important to Bakura. However, the days were still long, still hot, still cramped with boredom, regardless of how opulent the home was.
And never let it be said Bakura could not be self-sufficient.
Today, he had managed to not only scale most of the house without either leaving the property, or using stairs, but he had also found a cache of treasure, safely stored in Rishidâs office, and was now inspecting the gold within with hungry attention. Of course, there was no need to steal from Malikâs family, no need to offend, Bakura only meant to look.
Only look. Every intention to carefully return the find to its home, and replace each lock. Making it look like heâd never even been there was as much a challenge as the initial break-in.
Only look, but Bakura recognized the heavy shape in his hands. The gold eye of wadjet. The careful angles of the horus crown. Atemâs crown. Crowned to a peace that still drew a gush of hate and blood from Bakuraâs chest. He stared at it, holding it gingerly in his fingertips.
No, not the same-- the wings were gone. Bakura held the crown in one hand, and rummaged through the treasures, and found the horus wings entirely absent. A low considering hum rumbled through Bakuraâs throat, shifting about on the floor, still tightly holding the crown.
He had meant to only look, but- gathering the crown up under his shirt- that felt like an ambitious thing to ask of a Thief King. Carefully returning the office to its prior state, heart beginning to thunder in his ears, Bakura backpaced to his room with Malik, and only once that door was safely shut, did he pull the crown out once again.
Lying across the bed, crown held aloft, Bakura stared at it with hungry eyes until the deep amber of late afternoon turned ruby-like as the sun was swallowed into the mountain ranges. Malik would be home soon, and the gold was a little warm, a little cool, a little heavy in Bakuraâs hands.