Pairing: Citronshipping (Thief King Bakura x Marik Ishtar)

Premise: In a desert town, two boys grow up in two very different circumstances. Marik's familial problems begin to creep into his life, and he tries to find ways to adjust. Featuring genderqueer!Marik.

Summary: How can he follow the wisps of silver when they slip through his fingers? When, if he touches it, he burns? Marik struggles to separate right from wrong to find his place in his village society. He, like it, is split into two parts that desperately want to fit together, if only he would be allowed to.

Continuity: Pure AU, baby, though there are very small references to canon. Not sure how else I'd get these two in the same time period otherwise, haha.

Notes: I'm dead after writing this. It was exhausting and OMG I AM DYNG. In other news – I understand that everyone experiences their queer-ness differently, but I tailored this one to the setting and it may not match yours or those of people you know.

I also want to note that this is basically a very loose re-working of Marik's backstory, heavily influenced by the presence of TKB.

Reminder that the YGO Fanfiction contest is in its second round! Please take a look at the other entries if you like this pairing! We're located in the forums!

Warnings: Abuse, Prostitution, Pre-mediated crimes (mostly theft and murder, though also resisting arrest), vague setting information.

I.

The first time they saw each other the Thief was kicking and screaming. Two of the city guards had him by each arm. They had to half-drag and half-carry him, because he was not giving up without a fight. It looked like he was trying to make off with a loaf of bread, going by the harsh whispers of the throng behind him. The whole bazaar seemed to halt business just to watch the dust covered child be brought to justice. Apparently, this boy had been terrorizing the shops for weeks.

"Bastard cur," Marik's father hissed, and spat on the ground for emphasis. "You'll never see any son of mine bringing on such shame to me."

Nearby, Rishid looked uncomfortable. Maybe, if he hadn't been so lucky, he could have ended up just like that Thief. At least, that's what their father thought. Rishid was only good because he was being raised to be good. Their mother thought differently. She always knew that Rishid would be a wonderful son, she told them.

But Marik and the kid looked about the same age, and didn't think taking one loaf of bread was that bad. If the guards were handling him, instead of yelling at his parents, it probably meant that the boy was an orphan. Maybe he needed the food – no one talked about how the village orphanage was run, because it was all charity. But a single look at any of the children wandering the streets could tell the difference, and this Thief met the description: thin as a leaf and lanky because of it. There was no doubt as to why he had tried to steal any bit of food.

What Marik thought was most striking, however, was the boy's hair. It was reddened and caked together with dirt and sand but the white was still visible underneath; the most beautiful he'd ever seen – and both his sister and mother had very impressive hair. If nothing else, he wanted to get to know the other boy for that alone. Wherever his family was, did they all have white hair? He wanted to touch it and wash it and plait it. If this Thief was as meticulous about his hair as Marik's mother was about his own, he was positive it would be gorgeous. A person with such lovely hair couldn't possibly be awful, he thought.

Ishizu giggled at him for staring, and he realized with a start that he was being left behind. His father wouldn't forgive him if he ended up getting lost.

II.

That was not the end of the Thief.

Soon enough, there were posters everywhere demanding his arrest. The boy, for as long as he was one, was a menace. Authorities couldn't detail how he escaped but the signs on nearly every edge of the bazaar made it clear. He was on the loose and, as reports of missing items remained constant, was never caught again. Among the children the Thief became something of a legend. The very few times that he was spotted, were considered miracles.

Lower families never reported him. The Thief had never stolen from them, they said. There was nothing to report and no reason to reveal his whereabouts. He had no name and no one knew what to call him. Not a single person in the village could call him family, and he seemed more mysterious because of it. No matter how anyone looked at it, there was little to give away. The bounty on his head climbed and climbed.

Rishid's treatment became worse as Marik grew up, and his father named the Thief as the cause. He couldn't allow the boy he'd taken in to be compared in any way. So Rishid had to work hard, work harder, do all the work - that was how it progressed.

Never had he been a brother, their father claimed. They shared no blood.

But Marik didn't believe it. Rishid was good, and had always been a brother. They traveled together, shared stories together. It was his big brother who warned him about idolizing the Thief, who told him that good people did bad things. Stealing that bread, those years ago was wrong, even if he was hungry. Children could work too. That Thief should have worked for his meal, and their father wasn't wrong about that. Taking more was worse.

There was no arguing with that. Good people did bad things all the time, Marik knew. He knew when the Thief was around. Covering that pure halo of hair did little to hide it - he could spot the wisps, silver in the wind. But that was his secret, even if it was a bad thing.

Over time it became habit to look. Though the scarves changed color the hair remained the same. Once he was old enough, Marik could spot it no matter what shape it was in. Caked in mud from who-knew-where, shining under bright sun (he imagined that, on those occasions, the Thief had been forced to wash it), blurred in motion like bullets seeking shelter in flesh. It no longer held the wonder it did when he was young.

Each sighting became a warning. The Thief, as he grew, also developed his proclivities for crime. When his targets resisted, he did not always retreat. Despite a lack of bulk in his frame, very rarely victims were left in his wake. There was proof now, that the Thief was not as beautiful as his hair. The same tales that had his eyes full of stars as a child now spoke only caution. This man had no family, no name to be called. Nothing to lose. Loaves of bread were no longer what went missing: money, works of art, clothing – and people's lives, too.

They were always men much wealthier than Marik, men in fact that he did not like. Most of them were men who were greedy and had much too much to not share. But he couldn't imagine that he would be exempt. His father lived beyond his means and would never let him leave the house without adorning himself to make others envious. Ishizu had to find a husband, after all and Marik, his own lovely wife.

It was enough to make him nervous, even if that wasn't what they wanted. The Thief wouldn't know the difference.

III.

When by some stroke of misfortune, he had the opportunity to clear his name from the list of potential victims, he didn't.

More often than not, Marik spent his school days in deep thought. His marks weren't nearly as high as Rishid's (his father wouldn't accept less from the boy he'd taken in, regardless), but they were satisfactory. The topics were boring to him and he couldn't see himself in any of the roles picked for him. Though some of the girls in his class were pretty, they weren't always distracting. The few allowed to attend school weren't focused on him, anyway. They had bigger aspirations.

Marik pondered colors and fabrics and his mother and sister – about things that would look good on them. It was a much safer path of thoughts than what was hiding underneath. Picturing himself in bright hues, hair done like Ishizu's but with many more trinkets woven in, being considered eye-catching to anyone who looked… sometimes thinking of one thing led to the other.

He wasn't a man, his father would tell him. What scared Marik the most was that he was okay with knowing. Not caring would make things much worse.

Swordplay lessons after class, he told himself, to reinforce the person his father wanted him to be. He pictured the clash of weapons, mentally recited foot placement positions, the wave of triumph he felt when he downed an opponent. These were things he also enjoyed, though killing other people was not what he wanted to do with his life. Being able to defend himself was just fine.

The sound of footsteps, thunderous in their numbers and kicking up sand, caught his attention. Even the teacher stopped speaking to listen. Against instruction all of the students washed over him like a wave moving to see. There was only one person that Enforcement would chase like that.

For the first time, Marik's heart skipped when he thought of the Thief. It was just the sort of thought that would free him from his own sins. He rose, after the others, but didn't move towards the window like them. The Thief would never hide so close to a building unless he was desperate. Around the perimeter of the school stood columns, connected by arches, that were present only to give shade. But there was no way to hide behind them and wide gaps stood in between. Obvious spaces wouldn't do. Nothing near their school offered much cover – what little fauna the village produced was near the Springs, where the water was.

Where the wealthy lived.

He looked for the thread. The bit of silver that would always gave the Thief away, if anyone cared to look. When he didn't spot it immediately, Marik thought he'd simply missed the opportunity. After several minutes, the other students grew bored and returned to their seats. Their instructor was not happy one bit, and he never did regain control of the class. They were dismissed early, and without homework.

It was only while gathering his things that he spotted it: A twinkle in the light where there shouldn't have been. He stared, hard, but the sharp light didn't fade. Moving his gaze down, to the sand below, the shadow for the arch didn't seem quite right. There was something caught in it at the top.

He washed it!

As the classroom emptied Marik finished packing his bag, intent on simply climbing through the window to shortcut his way outside. But he wasn't quite sure he could fit, and he didn't want to get stuck. Others were still leaving and his teacher wasn't packing fast enough to leave him alone.

Torn between an opportunity and the possibility of making his father upset, Marik knew which was more important. It upset him to simply let it pass, to let the Thief go, but there was too much at risk. Having his father become suspicious of his behavior was something he had to avoid at all costs. By the time he arrived outside and looked up, between the arches, the space was empty.

But their encounter was meant to be.

Marik passed the slums on his way home, just the edge, and he felt much safer there. It was a well-known fact that the Thief didn't strike there – in fact, there was nothing to take – and it was something that he would never forget. Being who he was, traveling in too far would be a hazard, but the few minutes it took to cross the river that separated the higher and lower parts of town would be enough. Taking this path would bring him closer to the bazaar, and he could look at some of the wares before practice.

A strong gust of wind bade him to stop at the top of the bridge. He wanted to enjoy it. Looking out at the river made him feel sad, but the momentary relief from the blazing heat was well worth it. This day, being the closest he had ever been to the Thief, it seemed worthwhile to take a good look at his feelings, too. Perhaps it was a sign from the gods. Distraction was not what they wanted. It wouldn't make his problems go away.

He was not fond of the fact that the village was physically separated. Rich and poor, privileged and lacking – it was an awful system. People were thrown together who didn't like it. They were forced to follow rules to look a certain way, and the approval they sought didn't help improve their lives. The wealthy didn't do anything for the good of it. Like his father, with Rishid.

His mother had from come closer to the center of the village, near where they lived. His father had been the youngest of several siblings, and although he was from the rich part of town there was not much to spare for him. He'd had to work harder for his place and he had always been angry about it.

Ishizu was smarter than either Marik or Rishid. He had seen her in action, helping Rishid with bookwork. She sometimes helped him, too, when he wasn't being too proud to ask. Not only could she do numbers, but she loved to read and was good at understanding, too.

"Comprehension," she called it.

But their father didn't want her to become a Teacher. Instead he wanted her to be pretty and kind and quiet. He wanted to marry her off to someone rich and ignore her talents.

At first, Marik had thought he and his sister were the same. Ishizu was great with book-learning and, when he snuck out to spar with her, even the knife. Anything taught to her was picked up quickly. Despite this she liked being a girl. When he asked to look at her clothes, or to be taught how she did things with her hair, the expression he got in response made it clear. But, she was kind; there were never questions or doubts – and after the first time, he never saw that look again.

Being alone felt more okay with Ishizu next to him.

He crossed the bridge and saw the few bushes that signaled entry into the part of town he was supposed to belong to. The sun was beginning its descent, though it was still pretty high up. Tents began popping up; the far edge of the bazaar faded into the landscape, and Marik resisted the urge to stop by. He'd only have the urge to buy things he didn't need.

One of the tents, as he passed, was erected against a large, thick tree for stability. From the shadows in between slithered a small bit of silver, hiding in what looked like a pile of rugs.

But he knew better. Marik froze, unsure if this was planned, or coincidence. Glancing around, he could see that there weren't many people about. The good stores were closer to the middle of the bazaar, or where the richer lived. There wasn't much to steal here; most of these booths were for trading lower-grade items or having small things repaired for cheap. It was a perfect place.

Suddenly, it all seemed unfair. The Thief didn't have to know his misery – he did whatever he wanted, took what he wanted, got what he wanted. Marik wished he could not care about what others thought.

"Why don't you just work?" he asked, seemingly unto himself. He was careful not to look directly at the mound of fabrics. Despite all the envy in his heart he couldn't wrap his mind around the idea of turning the man in. A part of him liked knowing that at least some other person had managed living outside of the law – outside of the silly rules that they were all expected to follow.

There was a shift in the pile – it was so minute, Marik didn't actually see it, only heard the materials shift for a few seconds.

"Or at least," he suggested aloud, "you could stay out of sight." This was the man who had made everything harder for his family. Rishid, Ishizu – their father was harder on all of them just to prove that the Ishtars were better, different, from the rest. Did he want this Thief to thrive, or suffer? Marik couldn't make up his mind.

"What happened to only taking bread?"

This time, the shifting was more noticeable. Patterns rippled with the effect of the movement. The bit of silver hair from earlier disappeared.

"Do not presume to know me," a raspy voice said. "Now leave, before I kill you."

Marik didn't need to be told twice.

IV.

There were no excuses.

No one was supposed to be home. Ishizu and Rishid were out shopping. His father and mother had gone to appeal before the Council for more land. Their collection of horses was growing fast and there was the possibility of making a business of it, if they were allowed. This branch of the Ishtar family was known for their knowledge of old, for being able to recite the old stories and recognize items and concepts from them, and it was not lucrative; valuable according to tradition but not much else. And furthermore, despite being prestigious, it was not what his father wanted to be known for.

It was a horribly-kept secret that his father's plan was to thrust the physical responsibility of the family duties to Rishid, so that Marik and Ishizu could find more profitable futures. His mother was opposed, of course. She always was. But Rishid accepted the responsibility given to him, and none dared speak against the head of the household.

Now it was clear to all involved that no one else saw their father's vision; even months ago, Marik hadn't noticed the way his sister and brother looked at each other. He could safely say that their longing was for more than escape.

The knowledge stirred feelings in him that he'd been trying to bury for such a long time. Despite their quirks, they fit more into the Ishtar family than he ever would, 'heir' or not. They were comfortable in their own skins, all the time. Neither Ishizu nor Rishid wished to become anyone else. Their only wish was for freedom. And they were perfect for each other. Both smart, resourceful, dutiful, capable – things that Marik knew he lacked.

He was broken, and didn't know how to put himself back together. Sometimes he loved being on his own, excelling at the tasks he'd been assigned. There was nary a partner he couldn't fell in his combat training, and he was proud of that. Marik was supposed to be proud about that.

But he felt his most confident when he was pretty.

The idea of turning heads in public was empowering to him. Demanding attention, being noticeable, felt impressive. When Ishizu went out, everyone looked because she was gorgeous. At times, he helped her get ready, and was proud when a new style he tried on her hair, or colors that he suggested for her received compliments from even their father.

On this night, his parents were gone, and Marik decided to finally test the limits of his fantasy. The dress that he borrowed was plain but light in color, lavender like some of the flowers he'd seen in the bazaar, a shade close to his eyes. Though he loved bright, eye-snaring hues this was his favorite. A little shy, like him, but vibrant underneath. It was too long for him, but he liked the small train that fell behind him when he walked, the way the sleeves swallowed his arms.

When he stood in front of the mirror, he cried. And laughed. And loved what he saw.

Immediately, hands set to his hair, to shape it, style it, make it softer. If only it was as long as his sister's. The lavender complimented it well, though, and after weaving in a few beads and clasps he was satisfied. He was beautiful.

However long he'd taken to admire himself was too long. During one of many twirls, just to watch the dress catch and rise, there were steps outside the door. He panicked just as Ishizu burst in, eyes lit by some exciting detail she wanted to share with him. That light faded as she caught a glimpse of him, and he hurriedly forced the door closed, used his own body to barricade it. Marik sunk to the floor in front of the door and cried for the second time that day.

Ishizu whispered sweet things to him until he finally let her in. Not that there was much choice – she could ruin his life, if she wanted.

"I knew. And Rishid does, too."

His sister lied to him, and told him that things would be okay. That they would protect him. They would protect each other, she said. If they wanted to survive their father, they would have to work together. Then she called Rishid in, and they held him. Marik tried to bask in the moment, in the fact that he had his brother and sister's blind, unwavering support. But what were they supporting? He didn't quite know.

This wasn't so clean-cut, the way the two of them were. Marik wasn't one thing or another – he was both. He felt comfortable in his sister's clothes and just as comfortable tending the horses, riding, fighting. Marik was all of those things, and neither because of it. How could he explain that to them, that he didn't want to be his sister; that he only wanted to be more like her?

He avoided both of them, after that incident. Never could he allow himself to be put in that situation again. Marik was too fragile, too isolated, and he wasn't strong in the same way his siblings were. Instead, he skirted the very edge of his desires: when he had a bit of extra money, he would go to the bazaar and look for things he wanted to wear. The store owners were quick to compliment him on his choices – to them, he was obviously courting some young woman or other, and the gifts had to be just as lovely as the beauty he wanted, after all. They were small things, typically, like hair ornaments. Such small pieces would be easier to hide in his room, easier to play off as a potential gift for someone else.

It was on one such trip that, for many times too many, silver caught his eye in one of the alleyways. Almost like polished smoke, the strands wafted in the wind from one of the crates between tents.

This time, there was no fear. The Thief had threatened him already, and his secrets were out. Marik had very little to lose. Rather than a lovely broach set with a small ruby, he kept most of his money and purchased a loaf of bread and some fruit. He felt the Thief watching him the entire time, though the crate didn't move to show it.

He was bolder than he should have been, just like before. Rather than simply leave his spoils, Marik carried them all the way to the crate and casually tossed them in. Yes, I can find you, he was saying. In reality, the gesture made him feel good. Some bad people did bad things, and some good people did bad things – but he was neither. Marik Ishtar was a good man, he told himself, and he did good things.

After that, he didn't feel comfortable going home, so he didn't. His mother would be worried but his father wouldn't mind. The more time Marik spent away from the house, the more likely there was a woman involved. Ishizu would complain about not being allowed out, and she would promptly be told to shut her mouth.

But she had Rishid, at least.

In all honesty Marik wouldn't mind finding a woman of his own. He wished he had one, to help distract him from the things he liked. A few in the village had caught his eye before but not many of them could hold his attention. The few who could came from families with other plans for their daughters. And it wasn't exactly as if he was much to look at. Rishid had a much stronger masculine presence. Excelling at combat wasn't enough to make him look bulky or strong.

The alternative was also appealing, though. Courting or being courted was all the same to him, and he imagined that, had he been born a girl he would be just as unsatisfied. Marik would have never been taught the sword or how to tame animals or hunt to take care of others. Those things were important parts of him, too. And in his deepest, most private thoughts, he didn't think he would make a good woman. He would have certainly ended up like his sister, unhappy with her role – just not quite as gorgeous.

When the sun set, he was still in deep thought, on the bridge – it had become his favorite place. The brick bridge was what divided the village, and Marik constantly felt in the middle. Not a man but not a woman, not rich but not poor; not good and not bad.

You shouldn't have given it to him, he concluded.

"You're an idiot," said a voice from nearby.

It was the first time the Thief was nearby, but Marik couldn't find him. Pale eyes scanned his surroundings, but there was too little light to find the wisps.

"You won't find me this time." There was an edge to the Thief's declaration. He was clearly upset. "I don't care what magic you use."

The idea of being able to use magic couldn't be anything other than a joke. If it were possible for him, he would have left this village behind a long time ago. He laughed.

But Marik didn't want to lie, and made his "magic" clear: the only reason why he could spot the Thief so easily was because his hair was so unkempt. If he would take time to take care of it, maybe plait it or pin it, he wouldn't be so easy to find.

Apparently the Thief found this funny – raucous laughter echoed around them, and Marik watched as those walking in the distance paused to react to the sound. In fact, with the stars beginning to twinkle in the sky, it was a bit too late for him to be out, anyway. While the bridge was lovely, it was on the edge of the lower parts of town. He turned and left without another word.

The next day, returning home from the bazaar again (he'd spotted a lovely, bright orange dress with blue trim, and he really wanted it), the Thief confronted him directly.

Like before, he seemed covered in different sorts of fabrics, and it was nearly impossible to see his face, as it was covered. Was he masquerading as a woman? It was hard to tell. Whatever he was wearing, it didn't quite touch the ground, and the bottoms of his trousers could be seen underneath. Flyaway strands still wafted from the sides of his head wrap, and Marik could do nothing but tut.

"Follow me," the Thief rasped.

Marik weighed his options. He could have said no and simply gone home. Even if the Thief could easily escape the Enforcers upon being discovered, having to do so must've been a pain. Would he really be in danger for refusing to obey? Did it matter?

Waiting for him at home was nothing but unwanted pressures – his father wanted him to be a man, his mother wanted him to be happy, and his sister and brother wanted to understand something that they never would. All loved him in different ways and each type of love was just as suffocating as the next.

So he followed.

The Thief led him back to where they had been the night before, across the bridge and into the lower part of town. Marik had been there before, but only with others and for very specific reasons: seeing a man who made special medicines, a woman who was the best at picking herbs, no matter what the apothecary in the bazaar said. The lower parts of town housed some very talented and even beautiful people. However, Marik's father would never allow him to marry a girl from the slums no matter how good she looked.

As they traveled he removed his jewelry, the pieces his father wanted him to wear to show the family's wealth, and stowed them away in his robes.

They wound through a few streets and Marik was not happy to be reminded of the conditions there; homes were crammed together, stacked on top of one another to make maximum use of space. He knew that large families lived in most of the square, small buildings. Some of the sides of the homes were cracking and in disrepair.

When they reached their destination, a small hut near the back of the slums, Marik finally felt uncomfortable. The hut was a single room full of holes that were covered on the outside with randomly collected materials. Lifting a sheet of metal, or a small cut of cloth, would create a window. The floor had no coverings what so ever, despite the room being full of rugs. Marik had expected more, somehow. Where were all the riches the Thief had taken? Why live in poverty when it wasn't necessary?

And then the realization: getting back would be difficult without help.

But the Thief wasted no time settling in, tearing off layers of clothing. Indeed some of them weren't even clothes, just raw swatches that were uncut, untailored, and layered over him. Once his upper body was bare, he said,

"Show me," and tugged on a fist full of white hair.

The Thief looked the same as what Marik saw all those years ago. Though his childhood memories were a little murky, the lithe form in front of him helped clear it. The boy he remembered grew into an adult who looked just the same. Marik recalled those long limbs, twisting and turning as they were dragged through the dirt. The only difference that he could see was a long scar over one of the eyes.

Maybe it was proof that the Thief could be injured, that one of his victims had fought back and won. "And if I don't?"

The response was a sly smirk. When the Thief removed the hand from his hair, there was a knife clutched between the fingers.

"You won't leave."

Marik could only sigh. "That's part of the problem," he said. "You can't store weapons in your hair."

Brown eyes said back as they narrowed, I do what I want.

There were no more words exchanged between them after that. Only hours. The Thief kept that knife at the ready and Marik, for once, wasn't forcing someone to cate to his whims. He recalled, quite suddenly, that as a child he'd fantasized about this hair and about holding it in his hands. A dream realized, even if so many others wouldn't be.

Though it looked soft when the wind was playing with it, the truth was that the Thief's hair was wiry and brittle despite being long. In a few places it had matted together but Marik didn't mind – working through it was therapeutic. He had to do his best to dismantle it with his hands because trying to separate it more thoroughly before washing it would be impossible. And he was right – after dousing it with a pot of water (one of many that the Thief kept crudely in a corner of the dwelling), the going was much easier.

Marik found himself taking the task more seriously than he had any other. There was a goal in mind this time, which was to keep the wisps from giving the Thief away. To make it so that he wouldn't be able to search for the man any longer. It was for the best, he decided. He plaited the hair into a long braid down his back, centered like a fish's tail, and twisted the edges before tucking them inside. Fumbling through his bag he uncovered a few gold clasps to weigh down the twists – hair pulled down by weight wouldn't float off at the end. A large, fuchsia broach was pinned to the bottom of the large braid in the back – one that he'd bought weeks ago, but had never unpacked.

"I look like a woman," the Thief told him, when it was done. The moon was becoming visible by then, and there was hardly any light left on the horizon.

For a moment, Marik was jealous. To him, it wasn't so plain as that. The Thief didn't even know what the style looked like – but he knew it wasn't masculine. He didn't have to be told it wasn't. There was a dividing line between what was 'okay' and what wasn't, an intuition that Marik wished for daily. Knowing only what he was taught made things difficult, when he wasn't too sure.

There was no reason to respond. Either it would keep or it wouldn't. The Thief shuffled through the room to find a reflective surface, and settled on an old pan. The image was distorted, but as he shook his head, he could see a bit of the tail whip around with the motion. It was long enough for quite a bit to rest on his shoulder, if he wanted. Thumbs pressed against the edges, saw that there was no hair sticking out, and it seemed that somehow, the style was approved.

Marik had to assume that was the case, since he wasn't dead quite yet.

He thought it every time they saw each other. The Thief was not content with being dealt with only once, and as their visits continued Marik soon realized he was dumb to think so. Every few weeks, sometimes only once a month, he could spot the strands again. Instead of being a sign of danger, it was a sign that he would be approached again if he waited for too long.

After the first few times, the Thief began to pay him. He did not like being in the debt of others. It was the only proof Marik had of him being effective at his occupation – no matter where he was led, where they met, it was always the slums. Sometimes they made due with an empty home, an empty alleyway, the same hut from before. There were never signs that the Thief stole anything at all.

But the coin was good, and always plentiful. It was so much more than his allowance, and Marik felt the constricting hold of his father lighten just a little. He was encouraged to go out, to stay out, if it would perhaps lead to him meeting a girl. With all the money he made he could buy things to show his father – knives of his own, gloves, jewelry that wasn't just rings and necklaces. And he would still have some left over for his desires – he amassed a small collection of dresses, in secret. Looking at them, owning them, gave him relief. It was enough.

After many moons Marik simply met the Thief at the bridge on the nights of days they saw each other. He didn't need to be called or confronted.

V-I.

Money was not freedom. Marik needed to remember that.

Sin and crime went hand-in-hand. The moment he'd thought of it, he wasn't sure how it had never occurred to him: at night, in the slums, no one knew him. Why not be who he wanted when no one was watching? His traveling robes would cover what was underneath, at least while he was on the street. No one would be the wiser.

Though his father didn't stop him from going out, he didn't seem happy with the lack of proposal. One day he took Marik aside and made his thoughts clear. "A few people have seen you near the lower parts of town," he warned. "You can spend your time with their whores as much as you like, son. But remember that leisure is not life. Don't forget that one day, you'll have a family of your own. It will not be with one of them."

Marik was not foolish enough to seek out the Thief when he wasn't wanted, and that worked to his advantage. In the weeks between, he worked hard to please his father. He was much more studious, much more enthusiastic. Books were no longer his priority – he was expected to learn stories, now, to memorize the tales he and his sister would pass down. She had a head start, already knew most of them, so she was expected to tutor him. Little did their parents know Rishid was learning as well.

Their brother was little more than a house servant. An intelligent one, their father boasted, and loyal despite never being trusted. His only saving grave was Ishizu. Father wouldn't marry her off until they found someone worthy of her, and that would take time. For the moment, they could pretend their love would last a little longer.

But still, they protected each other. Ishizu didn't know his whereabouts, but she knew something was happening. She kept it to herself. And Marik didn't hinder what time she spent with Rishid, in fact, when he was bored, he made time for them – promised their father to study with her and left them alone. Those were the few times he felt like a competent brother, when he was helping them.

The warm glow from those moments gave him courage.

When he wore a dress for the Thief for the first time, the man didn't notice. Their visits had a uniform pattern: Marik would show up, and everything he needed would be ready; the Thief would sit, he would do his work and afterward, he would be paid. Sometimes there would be silence as he talked out his frustrations from the month, and other times the Thief would hiss and howl and make it clear that there was no patience that evening. Occasionally, Marik would bring a meal and they would share.

Since this night was just another, the Thief sat and didn't seek out any other interaction.

But that wasn't acceptable in the least. There was some part of Marik that wanted to capture his attention, the way that silver hair had all those years ago when they were children. So he made sure to be flashy for once in his life as he shed his robes to reveal the prize underneath. It was the same dress he'd fallen in love with before, the orange with bright blue trimming. It was slimmer than his sister's, clung to what form he did have and began to flow at the hip.

The Thief grunted acknowledgment and wasn't very interested. Marik pouted.

This time, he didn't remain quiet, as he knew was expected. "Nothing?" To not even hear an expression of disgust was disconcerting. But Marik wasn't offered another response, and he wasn't going to beg for one.

Neither of them said another word. It was what he should have expected, and yet, it still felt liberating. Marik felt that the Thief was being sincere, that divulging his secret meant literally nothing. They wouldn't stop meeting because of it. It was simply a fact, a thing about him to be known. The Thief now knew. And it made no difference.

He wore more of them, and their visits soon became everything Marik could wish for. The urges to sneak, to feel bad, to put himself down faded across each color he displayed. There was a new one every time they met: Black with silver trim, Apricot; a bright, fiery Red. Being able to express his inner passion lifted his spirits. Even if it was a lie, he could look his father in the eyes, be proud of the other areas of his life without remorse. For the first time in his life, both sides of him were bridged and not simply broken.

The next color was Lavender – his own, not his sister's – with black trim, and it proved to be particularly auspicious. Marik could only assume that the Thief liked it; in that dress, while he was being paid, there was an additional question:

"Do you want to earn more?" Brown eyes roamed more than they ever had, and made the meaning clear.

It gave him reason enough to pause and think. Marik knew, without question, what he would do with the extra money: give it to his siblings. He was already saving, in fact. If there was enough the two of them could leave, and be together. There wasn't a single thing that they couldn't do, he knew. They were both too smart to not make it outside of the village.

Marik almost forgot to breathe in the seconds before he answered, "How much?"

The Thief let him keep the dress on the very first time. It was rough and painful and he didn't enjoy it at all. Braced against one of the gritty walls, back arched low, he bit his lip and contained his cries. While his companion grunted and growled out pleasure atop him, Marik focused on what small bits of satisfaction he could grasp. When he jutted his hips a certain way, it felt a bit better, became a little more comfortable even if aches remained.

And there were other things. Marik liked the possessive grip on his waist, pulling him back for each stroke. He imagined those sounds were so loud because it felt good, because he was acceptable. His body bounced with the force of each one. They were deep and powerful because the Thief desired him. No matter what he wore, his body could bring thrill to another and that was enough. That was something he could take pride in. Whether it was a man or a woman hardly mattered, and he had always seen the Thief as more legend than man.

The seed was spilt on the ground, not inside of him. Marik thought it was peculiar, to turn and see the orgasm spam through his companion's body, but he watched. With his hair done in such a lovely way, the view was exquisite, especially since he had been the one to bring the man to completion. They both panted and heaved for breath after – it was just as exhausting to be used, he found.

He was not allowed to rest. The Thief wasn't through yet. A show of strength had Marik's back pinned against the wall the second time, knees linked in elbows as his hips were held up for consumption. This time was better and somehow hurt less despite being deeper. They stared at each other and Marik was pleased to not find shame lurking in those eyes. He blushed at the lack of it. Though he wasn't sure what to expect when he looked at the Thief – malice, hate, murderous intent? – but what he found was rather pleasing. Those brown eyes were honest, and this was just an experience, one of many. A man's need had to be sated and that was all. Then hips swiveled against his own and his eyes were shut, mind drifting in momentary bliss.

That night he earned the extra coin he was given. Marik had expected to feel much worse after selling himself, discomfort aside. He could hear the insults other men would throw if they knew. But it was hard to be made to feel like less of a man when he already didn't feel like one.

More colors passed, and he grew bolder, buying a few dresses with patterns – things that Ishizu would even wear: a gorgeous dark blue with gold inlay, plum with a sheer white overlay, sunny with intricate black stitching.

His time with the Thief became more complicated. Few words were exchanged between them and that made things more …difficult. Marik was paid for both jobs, each time, and was worked until he was sore. That was fine, and expected. It was their interaction that gave him pause. After that first instance, the Thief seemed to want to possess him. Hands roamed and squeezed; they sometimes shared coarse, hard kisses and at their most intimate he'd caught a glimpse of a smirk. He was no longer allowed to wear clothes while he was being taken.

Maybe it was a natural development, he'd thought at first. After all, most people had a desire to share intimate space with someone else. Knowing that the Thief was alone, pretending wasn't so bad. For so many years, Marik had pretended a lot of things about himself. Common sense told him that the less he knew about the Thief, the better, but these specifically had to do with how they treated each other.

How did sexing a man not bother him?

So he played dirty, waited until they were in throes to ask. They were pausing to change position from the wall to the ground, and it seemed the perfect intermission to receive an answer. "Do you think of me as a woman?"

The Thief was taken off guard, at having a conversation started so soon after climax. Brown eyes blinked three times and then narrowed. Marik didn't want there to be any doubts (they weren't stopping) so he sunk down to all fours, like he knew was expected. A few seconds passed as the Thief took a moment to oil up – upon Marik's insistence, it made penetration less painful – and then he heard, with a wry laugh,

"Should I?"

A question answered with a question, and in less than five words, at that. Perhaps the Thief hated talking, but this topic was important. Had Marik found another person who understood? It seemed too good to be true. Maybe this man was just another person like Ishizu – strange in a different way, but empathetic.

He clutched at loose tufts of fabric as he was entered, and his patience was rewarded after a few more strokes.

"I don't care what you are," the Thief told him. Hands set to wandering again, this time pressing down on Marik's thighs and dragging upwards. "You're mine." They pulled him back, hard, spreading him. His whole body jerked with the force of that thrust, and he was rendered helpless to reply.

The words were so powerful that Marik didn't speak another of his own for the rest of the night.

V-II.

There was always someone nearby to take a shit on what a person held dear. That was why good things didn't last forever.

Lately, time had passed in two measurements: jobs, and colors. There was one too many, but he convinced himself that he didn't mind. The sex was good and he got a thrill out of taking advantage of such a trusting person. No one should trust anyone else, and that's where others went wrong.

It wasn't a one-sided exchange. Somehow that kid, the Ishtar boy, could spot him when he was hiding. A liability, and he couldn't abide by those. He didn't kill for sport, though, and that would be messier anyway. The boy's father didn't have enough authority to deter him, but it would make things more difficult than it had to be. That man was loud and boisterous despite not even being able to bribe the Enforcers. Worthless.

To find out that his hair was his weakness was hard to believe. At first. But the boy wasn't lying. Very rarely were they within thirty feet of each other could he go unnoticed. Their eyes would meet and it was clear. For whatever reason, Ishtar wasn't interested in collecting the bounty. The father had little influence, it seemed.

What bothered him most was that he hadn't slipped through memories during the years. Ishtar specifically mentioned seeing him when they were younger. The only time he'd ever been caught, taking that stupid bread. It made him furious to think that anyone recalled him so clearly in such a state of failure.

Them seeing each other served two purposes: it guaranteed that he could keep an eye on things, and it solved his problem. The Ishtar kid was talented. When they were through, he couldn't be spotted by anyone. And to make things even better, it guaranteed silence. If he was betrayed in 'secret', he would know, and he would just kill the boy next time they spoke. Likewise, absence would indicate that something was wrong.

…it was why he was worried, in fact. Quite some time had passed since he had spotted Ishtar anywhere in the village. That was enough reason for concern. Not visiting him was one thing, but missing the sight of those lilac eyes staring fondly at the booths in the bazaar was strange. The kid was always admiring clothes, debating about buying something or other and furthermore, lying about the reason behind the purchases that were made.

Again, he counted the months in colors: Orange, Black, Peach, Red, Purple, Blue, Dark Purple, and Yellow. Had it really been so long? The rainy season would arrive soon, and there should be another color before it did.

If he was honest, having the kid around was nice. At times the chatter could be a bit too much, but usually it was tolerable. Anyone who could look into the face of a madman with a knife and criticize manners was either also mad or a fool. He thought Ishtar was a bit of both. A lost lamb looking for a shepherd – it was a role he had never played before, one with potential. Never would an opportunity for resources slip by him. He couldn't afford not to, really, since he could be spotted more often when he was unkempt.

What companionship he received was worth the money, and he had purchased more expensive partners before. Knowing that, at least for the moment, the boy hadn't turned him in when he could have was encouraging. And, begrudgingly, he would admit that Ishtar was nice to look at too. With or without clothes. It made what he was doing a little more awful than usual. Stealing, sure. Self-Defense, always. Attachments that wouldn't last? Tricky.

He couldn't risk giving away any details about himself, but the two of them had a language of their own, and that concerned him too. The kid knew what to do and when to do it. No price could be put on that kind of obedience, and he was growing dependent on its consistency.

Otherwise he wouldn't be prowling the streets, looking for answers. Not directly, of course. He had other sources. If something happened to his Ishtar there would be hell to pay, for multiple reasons. The chances of finding someone else to deal with his hair would be nigh impossible, and another prostitute would be difficult and unpleasant.

It would be really inconvenient, and aside from keeping out of sight in higher parts of the village he didn't know the meaning of the word.

He was owed a few favors and news came back quickly. No word floating around the city officially, but the boy's father was angry about something. Ishtar hadn't been seen by anyone in weeks, and neither had the other children. Most of the other nosy villagers were waiting to find out what it was, but quietly. Scandal amongst the middle families wasn't uncommon – illegitimate children being raised in the slums was the norm. Many men had second families there, daughters being involved was considered worse but it also happened, then there was accidental death over feuding and the like. Those things were taken up with the village council – bastards – and dealt with in the worst way possible if the family didn't have money.

Waste of a favor, in any case. He'd have to check it out himself.

Getting near the place was easy enough. Moving through the village was never difficult for him. The place was cluttered and dusty, no matter how spaced out the homes were on the other side of the bridges. So long as he kept his hair covered, he found, he was not wholly recognizable. Enforcers weren't always out looking for him, and between jobs he always had coin. When he was buying, no one was the wiser. The prominent scar drawn on his posters didn't matter.

It wasn't enough to simply look – the property was well kept and although the house was simple, it had been fixed up to look like perhaps it was worth something. A few statues here and there, some ornaments above the door, a few more potted plants outside in an attempt to spruce things up. He wasn't fooled, but a lesser thief might be. Someone new, maybe, who hadn't lived nearly their whole life there. The Ishtars were a middle family and everyone knew it. Their home only had one story and a basement and there was no point in robbing one of those. Especially theirs, since there was no telling what they kept in that crypt underneath. If the old ancestors had anything of value the council had taken it centuries ago.

Surveillance was the most difficult part of every job. He loved action, even when he was being caught. Sticking in one place was not his forte. But it was a necessary evil. He didn't move in any place he knew nothing about. There weren't any obvious hiding places around the premises and probably wouldn't be, until he had time to do a thorough walk-through. During the day, however, he managed to observe the boy's father coming home to bark orders at his wife from the door.

Lovely family.

Ishtar had said something about the father at some point, he thought. Unfortunately, he tended to not focus so much on what the boy was saying as he did the feel of his fingers. Having hands in his hair was quite a positive experience. He'd recommend it to anyone who had a boy of their own. Either way, it didn't take much to discover what made the home so tense. Aside from the father, no one entered or exited the premise all day.

He made sure to force his own patience and waited until nightfall to do any real searching. A few Enforcer patrols were out but most of them were far away, lamps signaling to everyone in the cover of night where they were within nearly a league.

Entering a home with so many people inside was unwise, but the structural weaknesses were noted. Several of the windows weren't well kept and he could manipulate them with ease. Behind the property was a small stable – an excellent place to hide if he didn't mind the stench of horses. The support beams also offered more hiding space – safer space, since people weren't as likely to look up as around or behind.

Still, one night and day weren't enough. He would need another to be sure enough to enter. It was irritating for him to go out of his way. Another day of watching helped him discern a few more important details – the boy's father's typical departure and arrival times, and which room he was looking for. It seemed most of the members had their own which did add a bit of value to the place overall but not much.

The mother frequented two rooms most often and it was obvious that the Master Bedroom would also be the one the father would be sighted in. Located near the back of the house, it made sense. The other he assumed was a kitchen or small room entertaining or sitting. The brother stayed in what looked to be nearly a closet nearby. The sister constantly paced in a room on the right side of the home in the front.

Boring, and typical.

Another go around on the second night revealed the obvious: one of the windows on the left side of the house was hammered shut from the inside. Perhaps it was new, but either way, worth the wait. If the brother lived in a cubbard and was allowed to open the window, he'd found his prisoner. The room was too dark to see into, unfortunately, and that made it a death trap. He'd need more assurance before venturing there at night.

Day three he returned to make his move. The father left again for who knew what and, this time, the brother left too. Wonderful. Women tended to be more frightful but these two should have been easy enough. There were measures to deal with them forcefully if need be.

The back door would be his entry point. From there he knew the direction of the other windows, including the kitchen window nearby, which was almost always open. Those stables were empty of bodies and missing one or two horses, which gave him good cover. He got into position and waited a bit longer for any undue surprises – stray deliverymen, random event in the near vicinity – he could never know, but his intuition served him well. He tended to move in plain sight, when things were busy and people were distracted.

It took a couple hours, but a fairly good one did show. They always did. A trading caravan, three carts long, passed by on the street. Passersby were forced off-path to let it through and quite a few people were clamoring for deals before they settled in.

Unfortunately, the unexpected waited until after to also show its head: the boy's sister stepped out of the house. In the back. Where he was. To make things worse, she seemed to be searching intently for something or someone. Self-consciously he tucked his hair back and growled in frustration.

If every single one of these Ishtars could see him he would just fucking kill them all. Gods help him.

But, no, she never quite donned that look of satisfaction his boy had when he was discovered. She simply couldn't see the right angle into the stables to find him and, while she considered re-entering the home he moved into a nearby pile of loose hay. It was a little noisy, but the distance and the commotion nearby seemed to drown it out. She never looked in his direction again.

"If you are here," she said aloud, "show yourself."

…maybe she didn't need to. The Ishtar boy could have lied – would have. Everyone would for the right price. Maybe it wasn't his hair giving him away. He didn't like this at all. A family of magicians was not what he expected.

Her expression grew pained, and she said, "Please."

That wasn't enough to move him. Anyone could cry. If he hit himself in the face, he could cry. It meant nothing, especially to women. Another few minutes passed in silence. The caravan was beginning to leave. Distraction wasted.

"I am not sure how to prove to you that you're safe," she said. "But only my mother and I are home. It's as safe as it will ever be. My brother, he – he needs your help."

Soon enough, those walking by would hear her talking. It could still be a trap. Pretty, crying women were good for traps. Her mother, though mentioned, was not visible in her window. Unaccounted for.

More seconds passed and he knew a wasted opportunity. Getting in while she was more anxious about her father returning (if he hadn't already done so in secret) would be worse. He emerged from the pile of hay as cleanly as possible and began brushing himself off. She did not have patience, and while she seemed intimidated she beckoned for him to come inside.

The woman was smart, he would give her that. She held the doorknob as she pulled the door closed before turning the latch. It made their entry silent. That same hand parted with the door only to reveal a knife. Hers was longer and newer, and she held it like she was ready to stab, not hand it to someone. What was going on with this family? Would their mother come out swinging kopeshi? It seemed like the entire unit had been manufactured just to thwart him.

He was impressed nonetheless, though he didn't reveal his own weapon. If she was trained (and he had reason to believe that she was), the element of surprise was perhaps all the stood between her and his life.

"Your mother?" he asked.

"Sleeping. Grieving," was the answer. "Otherwise I wouldn't have spoken aloud. Hurry."

There were no questions until they reached the room he was looking for. Once they stood in front of the door, and he wasn't being greeted excitedly by a boy stuck in his own house for too long, he began to worry. The girl knew that he was here – why didn't her brother?

When she reached for the door handle, he stopped her. She didn't react well to that, brandishing the knife, keeping it poised.

"I am called Ishizu, if you are that upset about it."

He could care less about what her name was. He didn't even know the boy's name. What he wanted to know was how she had known he was there, and he said as much. Obviously, she and the boy didn't use the same abilities. Not once had she focused on either of his locations. Perhaps hers was less precise.

"Mother could awake at any time and you're worried about something like that?"

Yes. Because his livelihood might depend on it. His expression seemed to make that clear, because she added desperately,

"Sometimes I have visions. I knew you would be here, today, and I don't know anything else. Now please," she gestured at her hand.

He nodded, and she opened the door. Clearly, he was outclassed. Her brother could apparently spot thread-thin strands, why not a sister with visions. This family should have been running a heist of their own.

The light had been left off – maybe busted. He didn't turn it on to see. A lamp wasn't necessary to see that perhaps this had once been a room. It was certainly big enough, but had been stripped of nearly everything inside. No rugs, not even a bed. It looked empty. The girl stepped in behind him, and closed the door the same way she had before – cautiously.

"…Shizu…" a voice croaked from the far end, the other side. There was a closet in the back, darker-than-dark since it was set into the wall.

He had seen worse, but couldn't say that he wasn't stirred by the sight of the small body crawling out of its hiding space. The Ishtar boy looked terrible but the bruises stretching across both chest and back looked worse. That face was too pretty to be swollen, but it was. When they saw him, those pale eyes burst into tears. The kid curled up on the ground, and didn't say anything else. At least the sobs were quiet.

Right. So the girl was expecting him to do something about this? Yeah, right. How did he get pulled into this mess, again?

"He found the dresses?" It was less of a question and more of a fact, but he wanted to be sure. If this was how people were treated in association with him, instead of the myriad of other issues the Ishtar boy had, that man would have to be taken care of on general principle.

Ishizu gasped. "You knew-?"

The boy shivered on the ground and tried to move closer.

She didn't want to know what he knew. Or what they'd done. He took her answer as confirmation, and looked at her expectantly. What exactly did she want him to do?

But she collected herself quickly. "I wasn't sure what to think when I saw you in my visions. I knew he was seeing someone, but I didn't think—" she paused, and corrected herself. "I didn't think. Things seemed to be going so well. I never bothered to check on this. I didn't know he had so much."

He hoped she didn't expect him to update her. He wasn't planning on it.

"…did he steal anything?" That question had an edge to it, a familiar one. Some sort of decision would be based on the answer, he was sure. Did she have anything of value to offer for him to consider answering?

Since she had accurately predicted his whereabouts with a vision, he opted for yes. To back up his statement, he pulled back his hood enough to reveal a rapidly loosening braid. "Your brother never took a single thing. He provides me with a service, and I pay him." Everyone always treated stealing as something beyond its actual scope of damage, but he wasn't going to debate about it with someone like her. Not here, in the house of man who would opt for stealing if he were cunning enough (who wasn't, and took that out on his children).

Ishizu relaxed considerably, and then said, "…your hair." Good. She could add things together; that was better than most girls already.

The boy coughed, and she went to him, helped him sit up and move closer.

"I think you should take him with you," she said.

He scoffed and crossed his arms. Not going to happen. Their father would never let this go and he didn't have time to take down some nobody. Every time there was a mass search for him he had to start over from scratch. Dump the gold, the trinkets, abandon the safe houses, and lay low for weeks. What coin he kept on him would have to be for bribery.

No.

The silence after her suggestion made his answer known.

Another cough, and then Ishtar asked, "…what are you doing here?"

'Finding out why my cock isn't getting sucked' was not a polite answer, so instead he said, "Making sure you're not dead." Waving the loosening end of his hair made the other reason easy to read, and better, all three were true. Everyone could pick whichever answer they liked best. There was one for each of them.

He looked at the sister again, waiting. She had visions, right? Maybe she should envision them finding the solution to this problem.

Ishizu did indeed seem to be thinking hard. "…do you care about Marik?"

Not the question he was expecting to answer and complicated, to boot. In his heart of hearts he wanted to believe that this was some sort of elaborate ruse. Actually, it'd be much more convenient for him if this was some sort of elaborate plot to take him down. At this point, he might even go quietly.

When in doubt, avoid the question. He locked his eyes on the boy, and said, "That's his name." She could take it any way she wanted.

"You didn't know his name?"

Marik, eyes nearly glassing over, chuckled. It seemed to hurt, though, because arms soon crossed as the boy cradled himself some more. Breathy lilts tumbled out of him, tinged with painful laughter.

"You didn't… I never…"

This entire time, he'd thought the boy merely cautious, like his sister. But it seemed that their lack of introduction was only lack of consideration. Sure, if the kid wasn't on the floor, nearly coughing up blood, it would have been funny.

He couldn't bring himself to laugh, though. Ishizu didn't see the humor either. So he decided to be blunt. "I could kill him."

Short of leaving town, there wasn't much else to be done. Really, all of their options were bad. Unless the man was poisoned in his sleep there would be suspicion, and while access to certain …potables might be easily found, they didn't come cheap. Marik wouldn't have enough to purchase it even if every scrap of coin he'd earned had been saved.

That was a completely different request than keeping out of sight for a while. He'd learned early on that he didn't have the stomach for assassinations. Literally, having to starve himself to stay away from taking food and being found was something he could not take. Even the villagers in the lower end had mixed feelings about death unless it was absolutely someone universally despised. Many of his resources caved once someone dropped dead for fear of implication, and rightly so. It would devastate his entire enterprise.

"Kill him," Marik whispered.

If nothing else, Ishizu looked appalled. It actually made him feel more comfortable, to have someone level-headed there. Because without her expression he would have been considering following that through. The expression on the boy's face was dark, and he could only imagine what the father had done to him to get that kind of response.

But a bit longer than he wanted passed before Ishizu finally said, "That's… that's not an option. We can't do that."

Something stirred outside and immediately, he hid, backed into the closet, pulled on his makeshift hood. Just in time, too. He was several seconds early, but the door swung open and Ishizu swiveled to hide her knife. It was the mother, of course, awake and roaming about as people did when they were distressed. She seemed shocked to see Ishizu and Marik together, talking, and from his space in the closet he watched her.

She looked like Ishizu, but a little more delicate in the face. This was a woman who had seen things in her life but they held her back. Those experiences hadn't been used to make her stronger. He knew many like her. A survivor, but not a fighter. Her bruised, demure face made this fact clear – the regret showed. Though it was bandaged, it didn't hide much. Despite it all, she tried to smile as she looked upon her children.

"Marik, darling," she said. Just the sight of the injuries had her fighting back tears. The mask, barely there already, was slipping. "Can I—May I tend to your wounds, please?"

Ishizu didn't say anything. Just waited.

"Please go away," the boy told her, with a sob.

She opened her mouth to say something, glancing at the two of them, but her tears began falling and she quickly shut the door.

Even after Ishizu began to speak again, he remained quiet, just in case. "I don't understand." Her voice was beginning to grate on his nerves. "Can't you just …take what money you have and leave?"

But Marik understood the implications. "What about you? What about… Rishid?"

Ah, right. The brother. No one would be safe for long. He emerged from the closet, finally. From the ground Marik sought his gaze.

"Kill him."

It was said with such conviction that he was almost sold on the idea, regardless of the complications. That voice was filled with the kind of hatred he could empathize with. Nothing in this boy's life would be the same again until that man was dead, either way. Maybe he could get behind that. After all, if the choice was the old man or the boy… his preference was already set.

"I don't work for free," he told them. Buying that poison would clear out more than half his stash. More than half.

Ishizu was worked up, too, wiping her face. No training could prepare one person to do away with another. He knew that first hand. Instead of voicing her fears of being caught, of the pressure of having to live with the fact that she had helped commit patricide (or hadn't stopped others from doing so), she said,

"We don't have enough for that."

Could he convince her to do it? The conversation was quickly turning into a game. He pretended to weigh his options, but there was no doubt as to their only bargaining chip.

"Sell him to me," he said.

For the second time, he caught the girl off guard. She clearly hadn't predicted his response. "You—what—?"

He was speaking too much, now, wasting words, but he felt it was worth it. "If you sell your …Marik to me, I'll do it. No loose ends. No strings attached. I'll get you poison. You'll have to serve it, but…"

The boy in question seemed out of words but wasn't opposed. His sister, however, was stubborn.

"Why do you want him?"

Just when he was going to let loose a rather snappy retort, Marik interjected.

"I'm his."

Which was not nearly as witty as what he'd come up with. He didn't particularly care to put such a sentimental spin on it, but he wouldn't deny it. It was something he'd said, after all, so it'd have to be sufficient.

She didn't understand it, and he was fine with that. That was for the best. There'd be more than she could handle on her plate soon enough, if they were going to follow through. And there was more planning for him to do. A botched job could be the end of him. He would need contingencies, ones that didn't include Marik.

"Is this a deal?" he asked. That was really what they needed to know.

She swallowed thickly, still unsure. "I… bring the poison. I'll need time, because I can't …the visions don't come when I want them."

Hm. It seemed to give them time for provisions as well. But he needed assurance. "Once I buy it, I don't care if you use it. He's mine." Nothing more needed to be said.

Before he left, he dug the knife out of his sleeve and handed it to Marik. Might as well give their father as much hell as possible.

"No," Ishizu said, and nearly cut herself in the attempt to bat it away. She looked pale, almost scared, as she did. "No. That cannot be the way."

Getting him out of the home was equally frustrating as getting in. Mother Ishtar was pacing the house, still in tears, but was still of sound mind enough to ask Ishizu why she was going into the stables. He didn't hear what was said after he left, but he assumed it was passable as an excuse. Once he was clear it was no longer his concern.

The rest was careful planning, and patience, as the slums had everything he needed. One of the women in there was well known for her knowledge of herbs. Since she hadn't been murdered yet, it seemed her penchant for discretion was trustworthy. She had always lived there and if she had more money than she let on, he didn't know – secrets weren't hard to come by in this village, so she must've had friends in high places. Her reaction to his request would be a strong indicator of whether or not he dealt with her.

The old woman was stoic as she calmly scrawled her price onto an old piece of cardboard for him. It was more than he'd thought.

…of course. I do a bit of charity work and it costs me more.

They needed an agreement, as well. Exchanging goods when they both knew what was about to happen was not good practice for either of them. Regardless of whether they cared or not, the Enforcers would go to all obvious avenues if anything was suspected. This woman was a game-changer, a tool for those near the top. It would not be wise to follow her lead.

She would receive a small amount up front – much too small for something like this – and the rest would be delivered later. Some of the extra fee was for other items – if he paid her in installments, she would give him other items and that's how it would go on her books. They would never speak of it.

He threw in a little more, since he was giving his fortune away, to find out whether or not the Ishtar father was off limits. She had no reason to tell him otherwise and he preferred not to walk into a setup. So long as the children remained in the city, particularly his daughter, it seemed not. The storyteller branch had to remain for posterity. Other than that, the man was more annoyance than asset. Refusing to leave the city had been a good call.

The mixture would take several days to make, during which his first installment was due. Calmly, he began his preparations, reached out to most of his contacts. If he was lucky, the Ishtars would remain low on the priority list. It'd be really frustrating to be sold out for a higher price on such a mundane job.

Especially the men he'd bribed at the village entrances. Horses he could do without, even food for a certain amount of time, but escaping the city was especially imperative. He'd already charted out his destination. Far. It'd take a lot of discipline to make it to another village that wouldn't help this one find a fugitive. If he couldn't grab his travel pack that would make it harder. He'd have to stop and steal food while everyone was on high alert. Not fun.

When it was ready, he was still skeptical. He was instructed to use half of a minuscule bottle, and keep the other for some other occasion. It would take a few days to degenerate the subject, the woman said. A small group of rats in the gutter were his test subjects. They ingested it without a problem and he was not happy.

Only when the children complained about dead rats in the streets the next day did he deliver the potion.

He was still careful; he only left it on the edge of her window, signaling with a soft tap in the cover of night. The temptation to check on Marik was stronger than it should have been, but it was important that he not be linked to the home for any reason. This was only the beginning. It didn't matter how he may have felt about the boy. The only life he had full control over was his own. Children with shitty lives died all the time – once he'd almost been one of them. That made it very hard to even picture valuing someone else's over his own.

He kept his ear low, moving around in the village himself for several days after that. Asking too many questions or paying for information would leave a trail, and so often people spoke loudly enough for others to hear. For the first week after, there was nothing. Another week and still, not a single word.

Typical jobs didn't keep him as occupied the way they used to. He was too busy worrying about his hair about whether or not it was giving him away to some other innocent but talented villager. Someone who wasn't as kind, as smitten or foolish.

Ishizu hadn't looked like the type to follow through with something like that. It was a frustrating concept. At the very least, he was out of a ton of money and Marik being captive was still a problem for him. His pride wouldn't allow him to let this go. If they didn't kill their father, he would, and take what belonged to him if the boy was still alive.

A few nights later he was delivered a surprise. Though there was no real buzz going through town, he spotted Marik crossing the bridge to his part of the slums. From the rooftops he followed along, made sure that no one else was following him. Even when the boy reached the hut and went inside, he waited.

Why would he be allowed to leave? He needed details to put himself at risk.

Marik still looked awful. There were new bruises on his face that hadn't been there when they saw each other. He couldn't imagine what lurked underneath that cloak.

Yes. If the old man wasn't dead he was leaning very heavily towards finishing the job.

Rather than call for him, like the girl had, Marik simply sat inside and kept quiet. Good, because he kept his guest waiting. A tour around the slums was in order, just to make sure. Maybe the Enforcers had wizened up. Maybe the boy had been forced to help them. There was no way to know until he checked.

But the area seemed clear. No obvious stirrings. What signals were in place hadn't been set off. None of the villagers appeared disgruntled outside of the norm. And when he returned, Marik was still waiting for him, sitting silently on the ground inside. Though he waited for the smile, the triumphant, "it's done," he received neither. The boy simply looked sad and unsure.

After weeks of planning and putting things together, he finally reached a level of patience he couldn't overcome. "Well?"

Marik scrambled for an explanation, and stuttered several times before managing, "…she had a vision."

Hmph. Excuses.

Several seconds lapsed, and the boy realized that he wasn't going to get a response. "I… she… he's not…"

He lost his patience. "Why. Are. You. Here. Then?"

Though they'd been in contact with each other for long, he'd never seen that expression on Marik's face. Not agonizing pain, like before – it was some soft, emotional sort of thing. "Ishizu gave him your poison but only in pieces. Last week. So he's …he's sick."

He sighed. They felt bad about their decision, is what the boy was saying. Couldn't see it through. The girl kept him waiting idly for weeks while she built her courage, and even that wasn't enough.

"She said her vision showed her what happened if he died quickly. She didn't want that to happen to me. I have to look at him, while he's dying, and we have to face what we've done."

He hoped his scowl correctly conveyed his feelings on the matter. "You cheated me." Those visions meant little to him if they weren't about him. His concern was with what he was owed.

"No!" Finally, reassurance about something. And that something could only be spoken about in his favor. "You haven't seen him. I… I'm not sure he'll make it. I have to keep going home, for now. Mother is… she's not handling it all very well."

Wasn't much room for doubt there. That woman didn't look like she could handle rain, so far as he was concerned.

"Fine." What other response could there be? Unless he was going to kidnap the kid of an old, dying man he would have to wait it out. More waiting. Wonderful.

"I thought you might be worried. Or gone."

Should he be commended for that little prediction? "Almost."

Silence became awkward between them. He didn't feel comfortable asking such a battered victim for service. Looking at Marik honestly just made him sad, reminded him of old pains that he'd worked hard to forget. This meeting just lack so much of what he'd grown used to. No big reveal, no big stupid grin on his boy's face, no blush as they undressed.

And to top it all off, his hair looked awful. The braid might be matted together at this point.

"Tomorrow," he said. "There'll be work for you."

Marik nodded, enthusiastically, and rose to leave. "Yes."

He felt whatever soft spot that had grown for the boy glow with warmth. It made him strangely …happy that they could see each other again. Not that the situation was finished, per se. These situations took a toll on everyone involved Marik and the Ishtar siblings, the mother... they would all need to recover. He was still tempted to have a chat with the boy's father. A very short, very effective chat.

But for now, he had to focus on rebuilding. He had riches to regain, and… "I'll have a dress for you, when you come. A new one."

Seeing mirth in those lilac eyes, even while they were recovering, felt worth the addition. "Only if you buy them."

{FIN}

So exhausted. I'm sorry it's so long. Thank you for getting all the way here, somehow.

Oh, for those of you may have made the correlation, there was definitely a connection between the length of each part, and the age/mindset of the character involved. If you noticed it, good job!