Sleeping Sun

"All he same", he said, "it's good to see someone like you again. If only the fire in this world had more of a sense of humour, and a troll or a glass man would look out the trees now and then – well, perhaps I could get used to the rest of it after all, the noise, the speed, the crowds - and the way the nights are so much lighter..."
                                                                                                  Cornelia Funke, Inkheart

Bakura sat on the cold, empty roof of his host's apartment building, staring into the glowing horizon. Even though it was late at night, much too late for most, the sky was still lightened by the people below in the streets. Instead of the absolute curtain of black he was used to seeing, he saw an almost pink hue cast into the night, as though someone had cast a bucket of paint at it, covering all, including the stars.

Of all the things he hated in this modern world, it was the fact that the presence of the damned mortals was now invading everything the world had to offer. First the trees, then the earth and seas, and now not even the sky was untouched by their filthy hands. He hated it.

Of course, he had seen the mortal world get worse and worse as time went on, as he had had many hosts over the three thousand years he had survived (he couldn't really call it living...). He had seen humans grow more powerful and more foolish, as he witnessed whole generations burned away by their actions. The destruction of all life on earth was no problem for him; those were his goals anyway, and he saw no problem in watching them burn slowly before crushing them completely. He knew and had seen human decadence and depravity, and he loved it. He loved the dark side to human nature, and their duality. He liked to watch mortal life flicker and die out. Yes, he loved the slow destruction they were inflicting on themselves. What annoyed him was one thought: Must they take the sea and earth and sky with them? The natural earth, which he recalled having once seen as being beautiful, was being crippled and murdered before his eyes. He hated it.

He closed his eyes, feeling the light evening breeze ruffle his hair and clothes (horrid, modern clothes which gave him no comfort), half imagining that he was back in Egypt, where the cool night sands would cause his sandaled feet no discomfort as he ran, a heavy sack of gold on his back and nothing but the shadows to hide him, where the only light hanging in the sky would be the pale white disk of the moon and the golden shine of the eternal stars.

Bakura frowned to himself. Whilst his world - his time - had been blacker than the dark carpet of night and more dangerous than the wildest of beasts, it was still his home, and he knew he didn't belong anywhere else than in those bipolar sands which were both scalding and soothing. He never had belonged in the times afterwards - while he somehow made a living in medieval Europe, had an immense amount of fun as a Victorian noble and managed to avoid two world wars, he knew he was simply adapting. He simply acted and dressed the way he had to so he could fit in, whilst quietly exacting his revenge one piece at a time. He was an outsider, an outcast. Always had been, always will be. And he longed, more than most, to be home. There, he could breath without toxic gases poisoning him slowly, he could walk at night and not be constantly aglow, and he could be as dark and twisted as he liked without being noticed too much. There he could be the Thief King Bakura, a man to be feared and respected with equal measure. There, he could truly be as wild and free as he wanted to be. He wished for the Pharaoh to hurry up and get back to town so he could find the memory world. That way, he'd finally be able to go home, at least for a little while, before his life came to an end. For he knew his life would end that day, whether he liked it or not. Either the Pharaoh would kill him or the Dark God himself would devour his soul in his resurrection. He would die, but that was all right with him. As long as he took the rest of this miserable world down with him...

Bakura didn't bother to look up as he heard footsteps approach, nor did he turn to face the stranger as he sat down next to him. It was only when the visitor spoke that he turned and looked.

"If you stay out here too much longer, you'll catch your death. What is it you're thinking about that requires such isolation?" Marik Ishtar said to him, his voice light-hearted, almost jovial. Bakura studied the soft, expectant face carefully before answering.

"Home. I'm thinking about my home." The blonde boy laughed softly.

"Home? If you want to go home, go down the stairs you're sitting next to. You're sitting on the roof."

"No, you fool, not that place. Definitely not," he snapped, causing the boy to flinch. "That room...is not my home. I may live there, but it is not my home. It's about as far removed from my home as possible."

The Egyptian native relaxed slightly, holding eye contact with the centuries-old being beside him before speaking again, softly, full of charisma and comfort.
"Tell me about it."

And he did. Before he could really think about what he was doing, he began to craft his own story, spinning grand tales of his past exploits, not paying attention to the words pouring out his mouth. As the words tumbled out his mouth, Marik simply sat there, taking in every word, each line of liquid prose enchanting him, hypnotizing him so meticulously he felt that he was sitting on soft sand, a nearby fire roaring, the red tint in the sky erased so thoroughly as though it had never been. And before his eyes, Bakura himself seemed to change. His skin darkened to a shade not too dissimilar to Marik's own brown flesh, his face lost the feminine touch his host had given him, his eyes were now pale amethysts and his right cheek gleamed with the smoothness of the scars that tarnished his beauty. Before he knew it, he wasn't talking to Bakura anymore, but Akeifa, prince of rouges and lord of the eternal damned. And as Akeifa spoke, Marik couldn't help but be enchanted by the stories he crafted, so thoughtlessly and so beautifully. He could see Akeifa's true home so clearly, he smiled. It was harsh. It was dangerous. And it was stunningly beautiful.

But then, without warning, the spell was broken, for Bakura had nothing else to say. He stopped as suddenly as he started, and in a flash he was simply Bakura again. The boy, who was now pale as the moon itself, turned to look back over the dirty city beneath them. Marik blinked, before breaking the sudden, unwanted silence.

"Your home...it reminds me of my own home. I know what you meant about the sun and the sand and the chill of the night, because that's how my home was." Bakura looked over at him, a strange distrust in his eyes.

"Do you miss your home at all, Marik?" he asked accusingly. Marik shook his head, a sad smile replacing his cheerful grin from before. Bakura's eyes narrowed.

"Why not? This place is so different from the place you call home – look at the earth, the sky! What is there to like here? Why choose a dirt pile such as this over your true home?!" he reproached, indignation clear in his voice. If he was homesick for Egypt, why wasn't he? Marik smiled again.

"This place isn't that healthy, that's true. And of course I miss the desert, the blistering sun, the perfect blue of the sky - everything. Of course I miss it. But I feel like this place is a home away from home, you know? I am as free here as I was there, possibly even more free! I can do whatever I wish here, and that makes me love this place. Of course I do miss Egypt sometimes, but…" he paused, hugging his knees, his voice almost whispering, "with everything that happened to me there...can you blame me for wanting to stay away? Far away...?"

Bakura understood. Being scarred and injured is never fun, no matter how many times it happened to him. To be in a place where he felt free of such feelings...

"No, I can't blame you. Tell me, what was your home to you...?" he asked, not knowing whether the boy would open up to him or not. But he did. Perhaps because he hadn't hesitated in telling his own story? He didn't know. But now, as the silver-haired teen sat in the cold, his ex-co-conspirator crafted his own vision of what "home" was, a place where he could do as he pleased without his constant watching, without the pain and torment those chambers had been filled with over the years. As he fell into silence, Bakura smiled slightly.

"It sounds like home was hard on you," he said, his voice lacking his usual sarcasm. "Yet you still miss the land itself.  Your home is not those caverns you were forced into, it's the place you have chosen yourself, your freedom – am I right?" Marik nodded. Bakura laughed quietly.

And as the two boys looked out over the city, Bakura turned to look at his friend.
"I guess everyone gets homesick every now and then, eh?" he said, the sarcasm having returned in the night's stillness.

Marik grinned. "Yeah, I guess so," the blonde said, an amused smile on his face.

Bakura laughed. He had to, for he suddenly realised that he could do more than adapt to a place like this; he could live. He could steal, he could run, he could do what he wished, he could be...himself. He could be himself, and who cared if he didn't belong? That was the way it always had been, and it always would be, right up to the last.

The silver-haired boy stood without warning, then turned and walked towards the stairs. Marik spun round, calling out to his friend before he left.

"Hey, where are off to? Off to get some sleep, I hope," he called, his sweetly dark grin back on his face. And Bakura smiled in return, a smile that contained none of his mocking or sarcasm or cunning. It was a triumphant smile.

"I'm going home. I'm going to my home-away-from-home. Goodnight to you, Marik Ishtar."
He descended the stairs, and he blended into the shadows like a black cat. Marik smiled again.

The Thief had hope yet.