Yu-Gi-Oh! Fan Fiction ❯ Honor Among Thieves ❯ Prologue: Betrayal ( Prologue )

Honor Among Thieves

 

Drof: I know, I know, I'm horrible. I get it. However, this fic deals with some characters that need explaining. Well, mostly Nikio….It's how he came to be. Well, how he came to be with Ryou, at any rate.

 

BHS: *sighs.* What she means is that this is the fic in which Nikio first makes his appearance as a character. When Ryou gets the CD and all that.

 

Drof: Yeah! We own most of the stuff in the first part. Lessee….We don't own London, or the Medieval Era….or whoever it was….We own the OCs, and that amounts to: an angry mob, Nathaniyl, and Nikio. *That's just like Nathaniel, if you couldn't tell. I just like to spell it that way.*

***

Prologue: London, A.D 1015

 

 

He ran. He ran through the streets, ducking into secret alleyways that only he knew, running flat-out, never slowing down. He ran as if his life depended on it, and indeed, it did. They'd finally found him out, and there'd be an execution if they caught him.

 

His execution.

 

He really didn't want to die. Not that he particularly liked his life, but it was his, and besides, it would be a shame to lose it all after he'd come this far.

 

He turned into an alleyway and scrambled through a hole in the wall that no one else would be able to fit into. The people chasing him were mostly grown men, and the hole would have been a tight fit for most children. He was sixteen next week, but very small for his age, and always had been, so the small entrance wasn't any trouble. He sat back in the little room, his back against a rough-cut wooden wall, and thought about what exactly had gone wrong.

 

“It was just one job,” he muttered to himself. “It wasn't even a hard one. No one even liked the guy. But his `loving' wife had to go and bring up evidence and say it was me killed her son, when he wasn't even the one I killed. No, I got dear old daddy….He's the one what killed the boy, and she knows it. I watched her watch him do it. But she decides to get the blame away from her and hers entirely and get the love of every person of mention behind her.” He sighed and ran a hand through his long, messy hair.

 

That hair was probably his most distinguishing feature. A pale, delicate sort of icy blue, it tumbled like a waterfall down to the middle of his back, cascading in waves down around his face and over his shoulders. He usually rubbed soot into his scalp to keep the color from showing through, so he couldn't be easily identified—there were any number of black-haired urchins with hair as long as his, and he looked younger than his age—but there'd been rain yesterday, and he'd been too busy fleeing every living person he saw to notice.

 

Then people had begun staring at him as he walked through the crowds, and one woman had gasped out that `That's the little beggar what killed my boy an' my husband!'

 

“If I get out of this alive,” he vowed, “she's my next target. Then no more. I'll get my payment, move somewhere else, and settle down. Live out my life in peace.” Now that was a pleasant thought. “Or maybe I can live with Nath. Yeah. That'll do just fine.” He leaned his head back and let his eyes close. “An' no one'll e'er bother me again, yeah…” His smooth, cultured accent, which had been faltering all the while, dropped from his speech entirely, leaving his tone rough, coarse, and very cockney-sounding.

 

“I'll not miss this, f'sure,” he murmured. “Always running and hiding….Never able ta even use a shilling o' me earnings…f'fear of bein' caught…An' here I am now, holed up like a badger, f'somethin' I din't e'en bloody do.” He gave a bitter laugh, surely too cynical and harsh a sound to have issued from such a pretty, slender white throat. “Ah well,” he said, “it'll work out, one way or t'other…”

 

He didn't have many other thoughts, none quite so coherent, after that. Finally, the sleep he'd been denied for weeks (for all his life, really) overcame him, and he fell into an almost coma-like state, completely unaware of all that was going on.

 

He dreamt of nobles and beggars, of cabbages and kings, and of many other things. He dreamt of the man he'd killed, and how he'd been caught at it…

***

 

“Now, why should I do anything for you?” he wondered. The boy said he was almost sixteen, but the man didn't believe him. He looked twelve, at most. He didn't even look like a boy. He had long hair, a slim figure, big eyes, and he was pretty as any girl. He'd have been beautiful if it weren't for the grime on his face and hands, and the soot that still streaked his marvelous hair.

 

“Well, Lether?” the boy questioned. His smooth, cultured voice and accent belied his beggarish appearance. He sounded like a noble, not like a street-urchin.

 

“Because,” Lether said, “if you don't, I will tell everyone who you really are. You've killed some very important people, you have. Sir Bafford, for one. His family's on the look-out for you, they are. He was a very high-up lord.”

 

“He was a bastard and a bugger,” the boy replied coarsely, “and I'd kill him all over again if I could.”

 

“He died a very violent death, you know,” Lether remarked after a moment of staring at the boy. “His stomach and throat were in shreds.”

 

“I get the job done.” The boy said it with a shrug, casually, but Lether thought he might have seen a flicker of nervousness on his face. He decided to pursue the subject and see if the boy gave any clue as to why Bafford had been killed so violently. Lether had greatly understated it. The man's remains were barely recognizable. He'd been castrated, too, just as violently.

 

“What did he do to poor little you?” he asked, leaning forward to look into the boy's eyes. “Your other victims have been murdered quickly and efficiently, with no real connection. Except, of course, the hearts are always gone. Every time. They found Bafford's heart nailed to the wall, shredded. So, tell me, what did he do?” Lether leaned forward more, putting a fatherly hand on the boy's shoulder. The response was nothing like the casual, half-bored air the boy had been putting on until then.

 

He jerked away, glaring at Lether, his teal eyes blazing with hatred and fear. Lether drew back, half fearing that the boy might bite off his fingers if he didn't.

 

“You want to know what he did?” the boy asked in a low, dangerous tone. “He put his hands where they didn't belong.” It was a thinly veiled threat, and the boy's eyes were just as threatening as his words.

 

Lether drew further back, actually stepping away from the child. It was ridiculous, he knew, but there was such hatred in the boy's eyes. Anyone else would have been afraid, too. This child was scary. He wasn't like any normal little boy. Not for the first time since he'd first received word of the boy, Lether wondered what had happened to make him like this.

 

“Now,” the child asked, “can we stop talking about it? What is it you want me to do?”

 

“There's this man—“

 

“Yeah, yeah, you don't like him, he stole your wife, he seduced and impregnated your daughter, get on with it.” The boy made an impatient twirling gesture with his finger. “Who is he, where's he live, and would you like his heart delivered to you or not?”

 

“No,” Lether blurted quickly. “No hearts. And as for who he is and where he lives, I've got it written down.” He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to the boy. The boy examined the name and address scrawled onto the parchment, then nodded and slipped it into a pocket in his ragged breeches.

 

“And if you get caught….” the man warned.

 

“Yeah, yeah, I know, I've never heard of you. I've done this before, you know.” The boy sounded insulted. “Is that all you want?” Lether nodded. The boy walked out of the room, closing the door behind him and leaving Lether behind.

 

When he was sure the boy was gone, Lether sank down into a chair and ran his hand through his short brown hair with a sigh.

 

“Glad that's over,” he said. He shuddered, thinking of the look in the boy's eyes when the subject had turned to Bafford. “I've just gotta pay him, and it'll be all over with….”

***

 

“Coward…” the boy spat, looking back at the house. “Nothing but a damn aristocrat. They're all the same. All talk and no action. Of course, this'll be my last job. I'll move away, live somewhere else…” He took note of the ominous-looking storm-clouds, and stored the sight away in his mind. `Better hurry,' he thought. `If it rains…' He didn't finish the thought. If it rained, his cover would be blown. Soot washes out, especially in rain, and it would look suspicious if he went about with blue-streaked hair. He'd look like himself, then, and he certainly didn't want that.

 

He gave a bitter laugh at that thought. “Rich men kill each other over whores, and the victor is honored. I kill to survive, but I am reviled and hated. Had I been born into royalty, perhaps I would be a hero for my deeds, for ridding the world of cruel men. Alas, I was born into the society of gutter-crawling, and a gutter-crawler I remain. No matter how much money I have, how many women swoon over me, how many servants I may own, I will never be more than a gutter-crawling urchin, an orphan, lower than the worms themselves.” A bitter, self-deprecating smile spread across his face as he considered his words.

 

“A right poet, I am,” he mused. “I should write my words down and sell them. For is it not the truth of the human condition? No matter how far we rise in life, we are in the end always shackled by the circumstances of our birth. Rags to riches is wonderful for stories to tell children at night, but it's not true. Born into the gutters, I'll stay here. It's easier than living in a constant political battle, anyway.” He bit his lip as he thought about that.

 

“No, perhaps that would be easier than this,” he decided. “I seem to have a talent for intrigue. How many years have I lived like this? It's been ten…Ten years since my first murder. And ever since, I've been living as two people. One of me is feared and hated, the other unknown. But which is truly me? Am I the assassin, full of hatred and bitterness for the world, and all who have wronged me? Or perhaps I am the lonely orphan, simply trying to get by in a world made for the rich.” He shook his head, banishing such thoughts.

 

“Right now, I've got a job to do. No time for thinking,” he told himself. “Now, where was it again?” He pulled the paper from his pocket, and peered closely at the badly-written words. “Alright,” he said to himself. It wasn't a hard job. He'd certainly gotten into the houses of aristocrats before, and although this man was one of the particularly rich ones, it would be basically the same.

 

`These rich bastards think they own the world,' he thought contemptuously, `so they think they're immortal. Well, my friend, today's your day to die.' He strode purposefully down the street, not bothering to pretend he belonged. When you tried to fit in, he'd found, in places like this, people began suspecting you.

 

The boy stared up at the grey sky as he walked, but his thoughts weren't near there. They were concentrated on the murder of the man he'd been assigned to kill.

 

If someone had told any of the people who passed him on the street that the short little boy who just walked by them, the one with the dirty black hair and the blue eyes, was, in fact, an assassin, they would have laughed. They would have suggested that the person saying this needed psychological help.

 

If they happened to look at the boy's face, however, and if they looked into his eyes, they would see the truth. The eyes of a killer are very distinct. No matter how the killer looks, their eyes will always give them away. There's demons deep down inside the soul of a murderer, and this boy's demons showed in his eyes, encouraging him and egging him on.

 

Later that afternoon, the boy got into the house. He was delayed a bit, as the man he was supposed to kill slit his own son's throat, but it was only a momentary delay, and soon he had made his way to the man's room and was waiting for him when he came in to wash the blood off his hands.

 

The man begged for his life, and was given no mercy. His throat was slit, and his heart cut out. In a moment of odd, sick humor, he decided to deliver the man's heart to Lether anyway.

 

The boy slipped out of the house just as easily as he'd slipped in, and was, unfortunately, seen for a moment by the woman of the house. The sight of him told her that she was now the sole survivor of the family.

 

As he always did, he'd let his hair regain its natural color. It was sort of a tribute to those he killed. The woman recognized him, and began screaming for the servants and the authorities and whatever deity happened to be within hearing range to strike this impudent little gutter-rat down.

 

Of course, that didn't happen, and he got out unhindered. One of the maids even opened the back gate for him. The man hadn't been well-liked.

 

And, a little bit after that, the boy was walking the streets again, just another grubby little urchin trying to eke out a miserable existence on the streets.

 

Then it started raining, and he'd been caught…He remembered the woman shouting, remembered wondering how she knew him and then realizing what the soft drizzle meant. He remembered running away, only in his dream he stumbled and fell and they caught up to him, and they dragged him off to the gallows and suddenly he was standing there in front of the crowd, the rope around his neck and his hands tied in front of him, and the man opened the trapdoor under him and he fell and the rope jerked and he felt his neck snap…

***

 

He awoke with a start, gasping and panting and clutching his neck.

 

“It was a dream,” he said, “just a dream. Nothing more.”

 

Still, his heart didn't stop racing for a long time.

 

After several minutes of reassuring himself that he was fine, he realized that it was nearly dark out.

 

“How long have I been asleep?” he wondered. Suddenly, before he could answer his own question, a face stuck itself into the hole in the wall.

 

“What have I told you about talking to yourself?” it asked. It was a slightly feral-looking face, with deep blue eyes and topped by messy brown hair. The most notable features were probably the snout-like nose and the long whiskers.

 

“Nathaniyl” the boy cried happily. “How have you been? I was looking for you!”

 

“Yeah, you and a few mobs,” Nathaniyl responded. He had a rather Oriental accent, although he also sounded British. “I was hiding. Did you know that people are looking for you?”

 

“No, Nathan, I didn't,” the boy replied sarcastically. “That's why I'm hiding.”

 

“Well, come out of the wall. Staying in these places is bad for you. You'll catch your death,” Nathaniyl said.

 

“Staying in these places,” the boy retorted, “keeps me from catching my death at the gallows.”

 

“Good point,” Nathaniyl conceded. “Now, come out.”

 

“What if the mob's still there?”

 

“Would I be here if they were?”

 

“Alright, good point.” The boy walked forwards and squeezed through the small hole in the wall. “It's dark,” he said, blinking.

 

“The sun's going down,” Nathaniyl said. The boy held up a hand to silence him, and looked into the distance.

 

“I think I see something,” he murmured slowly. “Looks kind of like torches.” A sudden thought struck him, and he turned to the man beside him. “Torches!”

 

“Hey…” Nathaniyl gave a sort of apologetic grin. It would have worked better if it weren't quite so fangy, but he was already changing. “It's near to the full moon, so this is easier than normal…I'm sorry.”

 

“Nathaniyl!” the boy cried. He reached out to grab at the man's shirt, but caught only handfuls of fur. The person beside him was now more wolf than human, although he still stood upright.

 

“Sorry about this,” he said again, and finished the change.

 

When the mob got there, they found the boy kneeling on the ground, his eyes wide and terrified. The cornered him, and beat him severely, until he couldn't struggle, and then began dragging him to the gallows.

 

He was standing there, in front of the crowd, with the rope around his neck and his hands tied in front of him, and the man opened the trap-door under his feet, and he dropped, and he shut his eyes tight, waiting for the pain and the sharp `crack' that would signal the end of his life, and he felt the pain, searing-hot pain and it was worst on the left side of his neck, but the `crack' never came and the last thing he thought was `What happened?' and then everything was black.

***

BHS: ^^ So, how does everyone like it?

 

Drof: It sucks I know.

 

BHS: Review, okay?