Bakura x Reader
I'm adding reader inserts now! But it's still semi-OC, sorry! ^.^ Also, I edited a little more
I apologize for certain inaccuracies in Egyptian culture, such as the fact that children in Ancient Egypt did not wear clothes until they were over twelve, and the fact that she actually would have started fetching water at four or so, but I needed to make it a bit more compatible with Western culture, so please bear with it those of you who are more educated in Egyptian matters!
Alright, my original character's name is Tadina (full name Tadinaferer, but that's far too wordy), and she has dark hair and blue eyes, but I'm adding reader inserts after becoming more aware of their prominence in fanfiction, so use the OC or yourself mentally, whichever you prefer! Alright, this character's grandparents migrated from the Apennine peninsula to escape a tribal war, so the character does have a lighter complexion than your average Egyptian's (and this is a plot point, but ignore it if you need to), and it is my impromptu explanation for the cultural inaccuracies.
(Eight years ago) You were going to fetch water at the river as you did every evening since you'd turned nine. Toting the jar precariously on your head, as your mother had done every day before you'd taken over the duty, you walked to the nearby stream that ran off the Nile, relieved when you were able to take the weight off your head. Dipping it in the stream, you sighed an impatient, nine-year-old's sigh. Your father still had not come homehe had become a foot soldier some number of years ago and rarely came home. It provided good money for you and your mother, but you missed him, and you certainly weren't getting any little siblings to keep company from what your mother called her "now barren womb," whatever that meant. Dragging the homemade clay jug out of the water, you glanced up and noticed a minute white speck on the horizon. It grew larger, and you could soon make out the speck as the outline of a boystumbling in your direction. Quickly setting down the liquid-filled burden, you crossed the stream, soaking the bottom of your white tunic, and ran to the half-conscious figure. The little of his hair that wasn't matted in various sinister looking dark substances was as white as a new lamb's fleece, and his skin, though dark, was burned and scraped.
Seeing you in front of him, the boy, who could be no more than twelve, grabbed to your somewhat lower shoulders desperately, doubling over on his already slouched posture. Dark, congealed blood ran from his cheek down onto his chest from under his half-lidded eye, and though its surface was cracked from the heat of the sun, the sheer amount of the deep red mess betrayed its freshness.
You nearly cried out in shock, but utter fear kept the noise in. "C-can you hear m-me?" you stuttered anxiously.
The white haired boy glanced up at your face, breathing hard and fast, but said nothing. Alarmed and uncertain, you took the only logical steps your young, vacillating mind could assemble. You turned to his side, shifting all of the boy's weight that you could handle onto your shoulders and lumbered awkwardly towards the stream. When you arrived at the water's edge, you put him down as gently as you could, which really was not much gentler than a flop, and began to pour handfuls of water on his overheated body, as your typical nine year old is not wary to the possible shock-inducing consequences of drenching an overheated body in cold water. You were simply empathetic to his predicament, as your pale skin also tended to burn quite often.
The boy yelped weakly at the first abrupt splash of coolness, but eased into simply wincing as the water doused his burnt skin.
"Sorry," you whispered nervously, afraid to speak aloud for reasons you weren't entirely sure of.
When satisfied that he was cooled off, you knelt down beside him and dipped your hands into the stream. With the utmost care, you let the water dribble from your small hands onto the blood stains, and delicately rubbed the caked blood off with your wet fingers, working from his right pectoral up to his cheek. He watched your progress suspiciously, albeit groggily. Eventually you were able to get enough off that you could see the source of the flaking red mess. A long, double-crossed gash had been carved into the other child's flesh just below his half-open eye. You gasped as tears ran down your little cheeks. Sobbing quietly, you continued to work the remnants of blood off. You knew the wound that caused this must have been ugly, but this was horrible! He would never be the same again. Where was his mama or papa? What if they were... dead? If your mama and papa were dead, you didn't know what you'd do Th-that poor big kid!
You sniffed the last bits of your weeping away as you cleared off the last of the blood from the boy's face. Then, over a hoarse cracked throat, you heard him rasp, "Why are you crying?"
"Y-your mama and your-r papa!" You burst out at his first words, renewing the tears you'd just managed to choke back. "Where-where is your home? Why did someone d-do that to y-you?" You fell into an uncontrollable bawling, you're oversensitivity agitated into irrational grief. Tears leaked out of his eyes too, but they went away quickly. Maybe he just didn't have enough water inside him to cry. With shaky hands and tears streaming down your face freely, you crossed the narrow stream and picked up the water jug and took it back over to the boy. The physical exertion calmed you somewhat, and you were able to shift the boy onto your knee and tip the container into his mouth without quavering too much. He drank deeply, sputtering to a stop after a full thirty seconds of choking it down at an unhealthy rate.
"Good?" you asked. He nodded, and struggled to his knees, pausing there, clearly exhausted. Looking slightly more rejuvenated, he stood on his feet gingerly.
"What's your name?" You asked, amazed by this feat of will.
Looking at you with hard, pale, still slightly clouded violet eyes, he replied, "Bakura."
"I'm _______," you returned out of childish habit. When you looked past his exhaustion and the fresh, angry scar under his eye, he looked familiar.
"Thank you _______," he croaked forcefully over his damaged throat, "but you can't tell anyone that I was here. I might be killed if you do." Frightened by this information, you nodded.
He glanced behind him at the setting sun. "I have to go," he muttered, mostly to himself, "I can't go back west, to there, but the Pharaoh is ahead, north, and accursed his cities to the east. I don't even know what's south. What do I do?" Bakura pinched his nose between his thumb and forefinger, looking suddenly like your father did shortly before he'd decided to become a soldier.
"Well, if you go south, caravans pass by every day or so on the road to Ezbet Gin and Sinai, but my mama says they have a lot of ruffians in them," you offered.
Bakura looked up at you. "That's where I'll go, then," he growled with dark enthusiasm. The white-haired boy turned to face the southern desert. "Due south?"
You nodded and said, "Yeah, I-I think so."
Bakura began walking the direction of your suggestion without further comment, a stumbling stride full of anger and pride. He turned back once to look at you wistfully.
"I will... remember you," he stated with hesitance. You gazed at his scarred face, mesmerized. "Don't. Tell. Anyone." he added once more. You wanted to ask if they'd before, but as you watched Bakura's thin legs carry him steadily towards the horizon, you couldn't bring yourself to question the boy any further.
(Three years later) You now made money for your family as a servant an old nobleman's childless widow. It was boring, tedious work, mostly consisting of waiting outside her room and delivering make-up or excessive amounts of food to the awaiting hands of older maids, who did most of the actual work. You didn't care; it got your parents money. Your father had been crippled in one leg during a border dispute and had since been useless for labor. You and your mother had been left to pick up the slack. You'd opted out on marriage, and gone to work two cities away for this noblewoman, Anahashpat, instead. It seemed luck favored you, though, because the large noblewoman's larger (and poorer) cousin lived in your village, so you were given the opportunity to wander the familiar little town and get away from the stifling caravan.
Night had set in, and the first stars were beginning to peak out of the inky sky. You sat down on one of the familiar, sand-worn boulders to stare at them. Suddenly something large stirred in the rocks. You bolted upright, eyes straining for movement in the shadowy outlines of the rocks. Was it an animal? A person? One of the many things you didn't want to run into out in the dark was a stray beast, but a stray bandit would be worse. Before you could either move to inspect it or run away, however, two things happened at once. An angry uproar started in Anahashpat's camp; the metallic clattering of weapons and the guards' bellowed orders resounded from the direction of the town. At almost exactly the same moment, a tall, lean adolescent stepped out from behind the surrounding stones. His hair was wild and pure as the white lotus, tossed about a dark, scarred face. The two pale, gemlike eyes that set his hardened face shone maliciously, a bright vengeance glinting in them. His arms were draped in treasures, gold and silver studded with lapis lazuli, turquoise, and the imported gems your mistress so jealously coveted and collected.
"Bakura?" you whispered. The change in his demeanor from your last meeting was shocking. Bakura just laughed softly, the chains of precious metal that hung from his arms and neck shaking slightly with him. The commotion from the caravan became louder.
"_______," he commented as casually as if they'd visited just yesterday, "it seems I'm in need of the services you provided me so kindly a few years back. Would you mind terribly pointing the way out? The way that isn't guarded, obviously."
You walked up to Bakura, staring at his embittered face. Gently, you placed your hands on either side and traced the double-crossed scar under his eye. Although you'd only known Bakura a few moments three years back, it seemed to your childhood memory as if you'd spent many winters playing with him. Bakura was frowning.
"Don't cry for me this time, girl," he growled lowly. You're head fell on his open chest, and you took a deep breath. He grabbed your hands, and you looked up.
"Go west until you see the where the desert meets the grasslands of the Nile," you sighed in resignation. He'd stolen, why were you helping him? You couldn't answer that, so you just continued, "Two miles north from there, there's a town full of smugglers and thieves. My lady got jade through them from the far eastern lands."
He was pleased. A smug grin on his lips, Bakura dropped a thin silver chain around your neck. From the bottom dangled a beautiful tear-dropped sapphire.
"It's not from your mistress, don't worry," you heard him say.
"Bakura, it's..." you looked up, but he had already slipped away. You took in a shaky breath and hid the necklace under your short white dress' high collar. Bakura, you thought, Oh, Bakura... What are you fighting?
Sorry if it was boring, the next one will have a lot more action (and romance)!