Yu Yu Hakusho Fan Fiction / Yu-Gi-Oh! Fan Fiction ❯ And This, the Plighted Vow ❯ Part I ( Chapter 1 )

[ T - Teen: Not suitable for readers under 13 ]

Author's Note: As a general rule, we roughly settled for the Yu-Gi-Oh anime canon as well as certain manga adaptations; also, the events of the fic would be placed somewhere around those of the Yu-Gi-Oh episode 200, and in Yuu Yuu Hakusho time interval between the invitations and the actual Dark Tournament.

Rating may vary in later chapters, and enemies of such, beware the slashy hints! The three clowns who wrote this like to think they treated the subject with enough elegance to allow for non-pairing readers to enjoy this, in any case.

A more detailed author's note concerning several of the references and concepts used in the following can be found at the end.

Small Disclaimer: The title is something we can't lay claim to - we'll gladly leave the laurels to the kind master, Poe. The quotes marked as such are from the Book of the Dead. All recognizable characters and concepts belong to their respective creators and the adjacent organizations associated with them.

Hail, Unas, thy two jaws are unlocked. Hail, Unas, the two gods have opened thy mouth.

The King of Dust and Shadows

The main difference between kidnapping and theft, as Bakura saw it, was that in one case the object had to be knocked out, whereas in the other there was no such need. Then there was also the fact that kids were often not guarded quite as well as family heirlooms. Though considering how valuable and precious this child was to one of the most influential people in the industry, the abduction really should have been more difficult. On the other hand, it was of advantage to him, even if Bakura did feel slightly cheated by the ease with which he infiltrated Kaiba Corp., by-passed the guards and other security devices, hijacked a camera, and finally escaped to the rooftop. Of course, it might have been more of a challenge if Kaiba had deigned to include magical traps and curses, but since he did not believe in such `nonsense'…

Bakura snorted, running a thumb over his deck.

Well, that would soon change.

“Mokuba!”

Very soon. But for now… eyes shining bright with anticipation, Bakura let go of the little pest. Gravity did the rest and delivered him right into Kaiba's arms.

It was plain that the priest was not amused as he caught his brother. Tch, absolutely no sense of humour - a trait shared by both him and the Pharaoh. `Rob and drop' was one of Bakura's favourite manoeuvres. He'd done it in the past, stealing a body and dropping it at the feet of a relative or, as in this case, into his arms. It presented a very, ah, cute picture.

“I've been waiting for you, Director.”

If there was one redeeming quality in Kaiba, it was his vengeful nature - something that Bakura understood only all to well. Unfortunately, Kaiba was also very predictable and not all too original with his threats. It was so very -

“Duel!”

- tiresome. Well, seemed like he was finished now. Finally.

Calling upon the powers of his Ring, he watched Kaiba tense. It seemed as if the one-time priest was not as unaware of these things as he would like everyone, including himself, to believe.

“Don't act so surprised. You experienced this game 3000 years ago, after all.”

And of course, Kaiba refused to believe him, but Bakura had other tricks up his sleeve. In the meantime…

“I fuse Headless Knight and Dead Spirit of the Earl to summon Dead Spirit of the Duke!”

The duel was challenging as could be expected, for Kaiba was a champion, after all. Naturally, he lacked the experience Bakura had gathered over the last millennia and even as Kaiba summoned his famous Dragon - and wasn't she such a beauty? So powerful, the only monster able to defeat a god -, he played right into Bakura's hands. Diabound really was a useful and, above all else, resourceful creature. A loyal servant to his master, Bakura, The King of Thieves.

There was a reason why he carried that title: to say that Bakura was good would do him an injustice. He was the best and he planed to prove it again tonight, for as soon as Diabound defeated the Blue-Eyes White Dragon, her power and abilities would be absorbed, making his own monster all but invincible; perhaps enough so to take on the Pharaoh's deck.

“Horrible Burst Stream!”

Bakura frowned as his life points went down, the Rules of the Shadow Game dictating that it should take rather a big chunk out of his energy. Time to end this. This body would need a while to recuperate, and knowing his host, Bakura was certain the boy wouldn't do the intelligent thing and stay at home instead of going to that damned school of his.

Speaking of which, the sun was about to rise. Fitting, for Diabound rose, as well - and destroyed the Dragon.

Bakura chuckled. Well, his task was complete; now he could-

“Blue-Eyes is immortal. Magic card, Raise Dead!”

What the hell!? He started as an energy, so incredibly strong it stole his breath, swept over the duelling arena.

Could it be…? But Kaiba looked as surprised as he was. The priest needn't be aware, though, even if it was his own doing. It might have been done on a subconscious level.

Then again, there was this probing at the back of his mind. No, not a probing. More like a full assault; it almost felt like the Rod was involved but, then, Kaiba didn't have it - and the power level! Even if he had a way of tapping the Rod's abilities, it couldn't have come from Kaiba alone.

However, if the dragon …

Bakura's eyes narrowed. Well, well. Now she had decided to save her master… tch, he had not time for this.

While the priest sputtered, affronted that Bakura would simply stop the duel, he rummaged in the pocket of his coat, feeling for a round-ish shape. Ah, there. The Millennium Eye. As he threw the item to Kaiba, he was a little sad to see it go. It had made such a nice souvenir; and so tasty, too. The blood, a left-over from Pegasus, had had such a lovely flavour. Sinful. Wicked. Deliciousss.

"What?!" Kaiba stared at the Eye, which he seemed to have caught hold of reflexively.

“It's an invitation, Director, to the ultimate Dark Game.”

Kaiba sneered. “I'm not interested in that occult crap.”

Of course he wasn't. But even if he refused to acknowledge this, there was always one thing that Kaiba was ever so curious about. Having a back-up plan really paid out.

“You might not be interested in it, but I'm sure you want to know more about your connection with Blue-Eyes.”

Before Kaiba could do so much as blink, Bakura had disappeared. A nice exit, he reflected, climbing down the fire ladder at the outside of the building; not overly dramatic but Diabound's Spiral Wave had added a nice touch.

Huh. On towards his host's flat then, and the bed, or wherever Ryo would decide to park their body. Not that it mattered much to him, Bakura's job was done for the day.

I am the great One, son of the great One; I am Fire, the son of Fire, to whom was given his head after it had been cut off...

The Sleeper in Waking

Come play with me, my newfound friend, stillborn child of feverish wantings and told-untold ambitions - wanton beat and wanton heart, the chords to be ripped from open throats, devoured - I'll make you, break you, will you true, offer blessings, seduce you anew - such is the style of it, this Makai game, such is the style of war paints on untainted ceramics.

Don't break.

Don't falter.

Clap.

The rhyme goes like this:

Epur si muove, the wheel of pain, and then the wheel of fortune.

Round and round, the merry hound, its eyes appraising torture…

Makai chanting, Ningenkai words, the beat reigns supreme. We clap to it, clap to the air, don't falter, don't break. Children's game, Ningenkai game, clap and clap and clap to the words, don't falter, don't break. Play with me, my newfound friend, each slash and each bite forsaking a glint of expectation.

You wore the cloth of night and blood, but a secret now, a secret for newfound friends and endless courtships, a secret for would be masters. Black is blood and blood is dirt, and snow hides dirt, snow does not erase it.

But fire kills.

The one tiding, so onerous: don't falter, don't---

Listen. Clap and listen:

Laying claim to the kill, the hound and its game, caught and held and caught and held and-

Silent and still.

Caught?

He lies silent.

When was it…

And still.

Caught…?
He does not heed the bare tremble of soft, soft lips. A summon. Silent.

Was it ever…

He does not waver in his touch, so cruel, so kind, watching, waiting, we burn. And still.
…caught…?

There for hours, there for the night, heeding the beat, when did he begin? Silent.

…and held?

There for hours, there for the night, screams in an orchestra, a single musician. He does his waiting. And still.

Round and round and caught and held and - stop.

Come dawns, you clap, come nightfall, you clap, come the material finitude, you clap to the hound and its prey and the hunt. This is the game. Your answer?

…unwilled, there can be only one.

Silent.

Crushed to the floor, in each bone an aching. His time shall come.

Clap and clap and clap and don't falter, don't break, don't-
And still.

“I shall only suffer absolute devotion or absolute betrayal.”

A summon.

…and the answer?

“It lives,” say the priests as their lips breeze over open hands, meaning to kiss the rings on his fingers.

“It lives,” says the now-so-fortunate company, singing their praises in sheer adoration.

“It's dead, you fools,” I say, the Fool of the Deck, because this is the summon caster, and his every fibre is being drained him with the mercy of a still hungering parasite, and he claps.

Fire that kills, fire denied.

…we stopped clapping.

Silent.

And still.

And claimed.

This body knows no pain, no gain, no game. No summon. No casting.

- and you watch and you sing and you clap, and you wait -

A brush of energy.

A chance.

- no faltering, no breaking, no rhythm, no rhyme, no summon, no answer, no -

I have no memory.

There can be no claim.

Claim what you can catch.

Falter.

Break.

Run.

His heart obeyeth him, he is the lord thereof, it is in his body, and it shall never fall away therefrom.

The Puppet on Past's Strings

Thunder illuminated the office on one of the upper floors of the Kaiba Corporation building where Seto Kaiba was going over various statistics that, to the normal eye, would seem incomprehensible. Contrary to popular belief, he didn't enjoy this sort of work, but it was calming, in some strange fashion - probably because it was something concrete and real, and it kept his mind away from the recent unnatural events that, inevitably, had involved him. These were no prophecies and destinies; just numbers and graphics.

As another lightning bolt flashed outside, Seto was suddenly very grateful for the place's choice of soundproof windows. His company still hadn't fully recovered from the ... Paradias fiasco. It wasn't a surprise, really. Had Seto been in his sponsor's shoes, he would have immediately cancelled any contract with a company that had been almost taken over twice in less than a month by two low-profile organizations - one of which American. Judging from Siegfried von Schroeder's moves via the Industrial Illusions, he almost expected the man to either imitate his formal commercial conduct or hope for a merger. On the flipside, though, the Grand Prix in the States had cleared the pathway for expansion beyond Kaiba Land and miscellaneous contracts.

Just as he was browsing the stocks for another company working on similar holographic technologies, the electricity in his office went out.

He frowned, letting his eyes get used to the sudden darkness: blackouts weren't supposed to be possible where he lay, what with the innumerable emergency generators he had installed almost everywhere. He had personally ensured that those were highly functional, no more than a month ago. Could bugs or generic system errors have been at fault? No, not likely - this was just plain incompetence on the supervisor's part, and he would be firing Kawakita if he didn't solve the problem, preferably in the next five minutes. Or maybe this was that foreigner's, Gaburieru's shift - if so, the man could be sure to take the first plane right back to New York.

He gritted his teeth and tried to contact his secretary, but the phone line conspicuously dead. (“What the...!”) Sabotage. The American and Ueno (the head of security) were both going to be fired - if this was anything worse than a simple robbery, then into high space on one of Gozaburou's old rocket launchers.

Or - the remaining possibility which he had yet to consider: the power outing could have been limited to his office. ( Even stranger, since he hadn't informed anyone he would be using this room in particular, and the mere reason why there were a multitude of unused offices on the upper floor was that Kaiba always insisted to do most of the work himself, instead of relying on potentially treacherous subalterns).

The computer screen flashed - Seto drew back slightly as his eyes tried to readjust to the light - and the screen-image buzzed for a few seconds before focusing on the face of one of the more strange participants in the Battle Ship stage of his last tournament in Japan. (Wrong, Seto thought with vague amusement, there hadn't been any participant there that hadn't been strange. He didn't count the mutt by default.)

“Yo, Director - thanks for working overtime!”

“You are - Bakura.” Seto stated, remembering his name. This one used an occult deck based on demon main-type monsters and an Ouija Board combination, but had all the same lost to Yuugi upon his summon of `The Saint Dragon of Osiris'. If rumours served, had afterward been blasted out of existence by Malik Ishtar's God Card.

Bakura's smirk widened somewhat (Kaiba had the eerie feeling that he could either hear or see him or both, although that was improbable at best) and he stepped back. Seto recognised the roof of the building, though how he had managed getting out there was beyond him. The dangling old pendant also caught his attention for a brief moment, but-

Kaiba went deathly pale.

“Mokuba!”

Bakura held the limp figure of his brother by the scruff of his shirt almost carelessly.

“Don't worry, he's just unconscious,” he mentioned casually, gaze mocking, before throwing him to the side.

How dare he!

“You-” No, he had to calm himself, this was a game, he should see it as a game (Gozaburou had unintentionally taught him that, one of the man's few useful lessons).

“What do you want?” It was only after asking that he - yet again- realised that he probably couldn't be heard; he glared at the screen instead.

“Oh nothing much. I would simply like for us to play a Dark Game - let's duel, great Seto Kaiba,” Bakura cackled like a madman (an increasing probability). The screen went blank, but the echo of that shrill laughter lingered in the office.

Seto gritted his teeth. Adding offence to injury. Nobody had the right to call him by his first name. It was ridiculous how Bakura had managed to infuriate him in less than two minutes. He stood, clutching the side of the desk and wrenching the suitcase holding his deck out of one of the drawers. In a matter of minutes he had changed into his duelling trench coat and was striding towards the elevator through the dark hallways.

Flipping open a small computer pad on the side of the automatic doors, he typed the activation code to the elevator's emergency generator, a distinct unit with no real connection to the other means of energy supply. As he had expected, it activated; he stepped in.

There were only three levels to the roof, so Seto used the time to fixate his Duel Disk and shuffle his deck. He was ready by the time the doors slid open again.

…he wasn't prepared for an armful of Mokuba, however; the boy far too pale in his grasp -

“Mokuba!” Seto quickly checked his vital signs and ascertained that his kidnapper hadn't lied.

Bakura would pay.

“I've been waiting, Director.” The words reeked of irony, accompanied by a light `tsk tsk'. “Are you ready for the Dark Game?”

Seto set Mokuba down gently, then turned.

“A game, you say?” He had been right - he narrowed his eye. “Your luck runs out here! Don't think you're going to leave unharmed!”

Bakura chuckled darkly.

Kaiba made a few threatening steps forward, stepping into a duelling pose almost unconsciously.

“You're going to regret this.” As his Duel Disk snapped into place, the other followed suit, still smirking.

“Duel!”

Kaiba drew the customary five cards (Perfect, he thought, with a glance towards them) when he felt something gather around him. What was this painful feeling…? He looked around, seeing black mist thicken - and tensed.

“Don't act so surprised. You experienced this game 3000 years ago, after all.”

Kaiba raised his eyebrows in annoyance.

“Three-thousand years ago?”

Ridiculous.

“I look towards the future. The past is only made meaningful by the victory of today.” And nothing else. He was the wrong person to share these imbecilic stories with.

“If you want someone to tell these meaningless things, go find Yuugi.”

Bakura laughed, and Seto grimaced - the insane little sound seemed to be a characteristic feature.

“Yes, Yuugi is also going to join the Dark Game.”

“What?!”

A smirk.

“Draw!”

For all his other failings, his opponent had managed to summon a 2000 ATK fusion-monster by the end of his turn, and Kaiba supposed that If he was going to use Dark Necrophia again, it was an excellent way to get rid of two of the three necessary monsters required to call it. The Dead Spirit of the Duke alone, if not defended by magic or traps cards was frankly unimpressive. Even more unimpressive, however, he thought with disgust, was the fact that it couldn't be destroyed in battle - but, by the second round, its continued presence was taking a hefty toll on its user's life points.

Bakura got rid of it in his turn, using it to call on a monster that was weak as far as ATK was concerned, but possibly interesting in terms of other abilities - it managed to destroy his Blood Vorse. Kaiba drew exactly the card he needed in his turn - triumphantly, called it:

“I summon Lord of Dragons!”And as long as it remained on the field, she would be invincible.

Bakura's smirk (which had subsided when his first creature had eaten almost a quarter of his life points) returned full force.

“And I activate the Flute of Summoning Dragon from my hand!” he continued.

Yes, now it was time to summon it - her. The card that would bring him victory, his beloved-

“Come out, my strongest, lovely servant, Blue-Eyes White Dragon!”

He almost felt like laughing, in sweet victory as the eruption of bright light announced her arrival. It was such joy-

(Pulse)

- a sudden pain flared in the back of his mind - what was happening? His eyes widened as old, old images resurfaced-

(Pulse)

- a dry plateau, covered in dust and sand. He - no - someone with darker complexion and a faint resemblance - was kneeling in front of a tablet, odd clothing hanging limply on his form - almost like the corpse he cradled in his arms.

- then something shifted and the pale girl's face that was suddenly so close that Seto almost felt the phantom sentation of her white hair brushing against his face.

And in front of him a tablet, with a carving of the Blue-Eyes White Dragon.

(Pulse)

What - what had that been? An illusion? Caused by the strange black mist, perhaps? But this wasn't the first time it had happened - the familiar painful feeling. He clutched his head as the memory of the duel against Yuugi on the Alcatraz Tower resurfaced.

(Pulse)

Blinding light, then - and the sensation of spiralling down through space (and time). He remembered Yuugi falling beside him, screaming (or was it he who had been screaming?) - And falling-

- then it had stopped. Yuugi's Puzzle had been glowing; a golden eye bright on his forehead, the air around him thick with (darkness) a black mist covering the ancient city in its ruin. In the distance, he had seen Osiris and Obelisk frozen in stone.

“This painful feeling...” Yuugi had intoned, before space had folded twice before they had found themselves in a cavernous room where their darker-skinned reflections faced off in a mirror-image of the duel they had been fighting just minutes ago and then would be moments after.

(Pulse)

The real Yuugi who had been floating beside him vanished as the memory continued in a way Seto distinctly remembered it hadn't - his look-alike ordered the Blue-Eyes to attack.

(Pulse)

Kaiba found himself struggling to get out of the tight dark place. His gaze wandered to the other Yuu- to the Pharaoh. Mahaado's Ka, mirrorring his Highness defiant pose, starred him with disapproval - not that he expected anything else from the fool, as he would never understand the power of the true God of Darkness, Zork. He would be the new Pharaoh, yes, just like his Father had wished it, his father...

The White Dragon, the God he was to use was not reacting. “Attack!”

She turned her head back towards him, giving him a look full of - Set stumbled a few steps back. Surely not--!

(Pulse)

He gasped for breath as he felt some control returning to his limbs. The Blue-Eyes was (seemed to be) staring at him, into his very core. But - impossible. It (she) was only a hologram-

-no, wrong. No hologram, this; his pride and soul, the strongest monster. But she wasn't a part of reality-

Had that image been real? Breathe in, breathe out. His logical mind protested against the notion, but -

It must have been real, as all things tied unto it.

“What's wrong?” Bakura asked haughtily. “Your turn.”

Seto broke the line of his thoughts. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Mokuba lying on the cold floor. He clutched his fist. This wasn't the time to contemplate such meaningless things - defeating this opponent came first and foremost, and he had to do it quickly.

“Horrible Burst Stream!”

Predictably, Bakura defended himself, Kaiba noticed with no little irritation. Bakura used his advantage to reduce his Blue-Eyes attack to an unmentionable, worthless amount. He would pay dearly.

With the help of a certain magic-card, he drew three cards - two of which were Blue-Eyes, he thought with satisfaction.

“I activate Call of the Haunted to summon Blood Vorse from the graveyard, in defence mode. Then I sacrifice Blood Vorse and the Blue-Eyes to summon-” He glanced to his dragon for a moment, and her weakness sickened him. No matter, she would be reborn in a mere few seconds.

“Blue-Eyes White Dragon!”

Even his rival seemed vaguely impressed by his move. It was the only sensible thing to do - after all, of what worth would a crippled monster be to him? Bakura didn't have the skill to defeat her permanently.

“My Blue-Eyes will not be destroyed by someone like you! Horrible Burst Stream!”

Kaiba savoured Bakura's look of sheer anger as the hologram shattered..

“Not good enough!” Two trap cards: the first to bring Diabound back to the field, the second to power it up by half his Blue-Eyes' ATK point - `Not good enough' - the words replayed in Seto's mind.

“Go Diabound! Death Spiral!”

“My Blue-Eyes is immortal!” Laughter. “Activate magic card Raise Dead!”

The sun had risen in the meanwhile and had started to dispel the shadows around them. No evidence of last night's storm lingered on, and while Kaiba didn't care, Bakura apparently did.

“We'll have to finish this duel some other time, Kaiba!”

Bakura gave him a bland look, before searching for something in his coat. An object was tossed to him - he caught with a gasp. Pegasus' Eye…

“What?! Are you abandoning the duel?!”

Bakura gave him a bland look, before searching for something in his coat. “I'll be soon going on a journey. I'll leave this to you!” An object was tossed to him - he caught it with a gasp. Pegasus' Eye…

Kaiba clenched his fist around it. A trick, then; it had never been about this game, but about the game to come, a game in which he hadn't any interest and in which he would not participate, whether he was invited or not. He told him that.

“You might not be interested in it, but I'm sure you want to know more about your connection with Blue-Eyes,” Bakura bit back.

Kaiba glanced at the dragon beside him. She was beautiful, bathed in the sunlight.

“Me and… Blue-Eyes?”

Then suddenly Diabound Carnel threw his Death Spiral, filling the makeshift arena with a blinding light. Seto didn't pause to ponder the absence of a direct order.

When he regained his sight, Bakura had already disappeared and Mokuba was waking up - and though the feel of warm gold evoked a distant image of blood and pain, it felt very right in his hand.

He is the Being who cannot be known, and he is more hidden than all the gods.

The Key To Greatness

Sunlight poured through the window of Yuugi's bedroom, casting its light over the shadowed corners. The spirit of the Pharaoh was leaning against the mirror, which failed to reflect his countenance as he kept a silent watch over the young boy's sleep, a distant expression on his face.

The Puzzle had reacted strangely to something. The - pulse (for lack of a better word) wasn't strong enough to wake Yuugi, but he, as the Millennium Item's spirit, felt each tiny shift of the power in it. And it was - alarming. He didn't remember having ever felt something like this before, though, on the other hand, his memories weren't exactly ... present. He frowned. That wasn't quite right.

Yami no Yuugi unconsciously turned to look towards the window.

His memories were there. Locked away in the depths of his mind, beyond innumerable doors and strange corridors, hidden somewhere in the maze of his mind. He just had to find them. He just had to find the right door, and his partner had promised to would help him in this endeavour. Inclining his head slightly towards him again, the other Yuugi smiled. There was hope - Yuugi had made sure he saw that.

Yuugi, however, didn't notice him (was he that used to him?) as he was visibly struggling to wake up. The alarm clock had stopped ringing some while ago. Yami no Yuugi supposed he deserved the sleep he'd got, after the ... escapade with the dark Bakura last night.

Feeling his back stiffen (was he actually feeling it? Or was it an afterimage of a feeling he'd had in the past?), he walked over to the window. Something in him urged him to open it, but he knew his hand would go right through the handle. What did mornings feel like? He only ever remembered feeling the excitement, rush, anger and passion of the Games, Yuugi's kindness and trust - but all these in a foreign body, with a foreign name.

He wanted himself back.

He leaned his cheek against the window, trying to imagine its cold, smooth surface...

No matter the cost.

“Yuugi!” Someone knocked loudly on the door. The former Pharaoh backed away from the window and sat down at the desk, figuring it to be somewhat more of a ... conventional position.

“Are you up already? You're going to be late!” His mother - no, wrong, Yuugi's mother. It was so (strange? foreign?) annoying to have Yuugi's feelings and thoughts flowing so freely into him - the boy's (another person's) essence flowing so freely into him. The Spirit chased the thought from his mind: it would do him no good to pay it too much mind.

His host groaned. “I'm awake.” Stretching (and the he could swear he heard a few popping sounds), he stood up; Yami felt the other's dizziness for standing up so suddenly course through him for a moment.

(Only a moment)

He enjoyed the feeling, in an odd way.

The spirit watched with vague amusement as Yuugi rummaged for his clothes, his movements expectedly sluggish, tripping at one point over the bag in which they had stuffed the Millennium Items some nights ago. When Yuugi made to pick himself up (with what almost sounded like a muffled swear) -

He didn't manage it.

Instead, his other self stared transfixed at the bag, frozen in a position somewhere between lying over it and trying to come to his feet. Yami no Yuugi jumped up and enforced their link. It was still there but... something froze him in his place; he could hear a soft buzz in his ears, and amidst it-

(Beat. Beat. Beat.)

- his partner's heartbeat. Yuugi's mind was completely clear of thoughts.

[The boy's hand was moving, reaching for the bag. His eyes were alight with a strange fire-]

Then-

-it passed.

“Aibou!” called the spirit, fading, only to reappear beside him the small boy.

Yuugi blinked and blushed, before straightening. “I'm sorry!”

He frowned - Was he all right?

“Uh, yeah. I just spaced out for bit...” (What was that dark ... feeling ... pull…) He shook his head.

“Dark pull?”

Yuugi gave him a bewildered look, before remembering their bond (he chose not to bring to mind too often just how close their connection was). Oh. “I... um?” Yuugi sat down on the bed, cross-legged. “That's what it felt like...”

The spirit stepped back a bit, trying to sort his thoughts (Was this similar to what he had felt at sunrise? But in such a short span of time?)

Mou hitori no boku? What happened?

“I'm not sure,” he said after a few moments, so quietly that Yuugi had to strain to hear it. The Other Yuugi heard the familiar echo of his own voice through the link - for his partner's sake only, he raised his voice: “The Puzzle was reacting to something.”

He started to pace. “I don't remembering it doing this for all the time I've been with you. I mean, it's reacted before, when there was a game or in the presence of another Item - but this was too soft. And too clear.”

Yuugi frowned. He's contradicting himself..

It seems I am. But the timing...

Yes, the ultimate Shadow Game is starting soon. Mou hitori no boku?

“I don't know what the powers of the Puzzle are. I don't remember. All I know is that something is not right.” He frowned, running a hand through his spiky hair.

Yuugi cupped the Puzzle in his hands. Foreboding. That was the feeling it was giving off. He looked at the spirit.

I don't know, aibou, I don't know.

It's no use to worry - not when we yet don't know what this is about. Yuugi smiled lightly, Worrying only makes us afraid of what we have to face. Don't worry, mou hitori no boku.

“Whatever it is, we'll get through. We always have, after all, haven't we?”

Yami no Yuugi stopped pacing, but didn't look towards Yuugi. He didn't need to. The bond told him all he had to know.

“And if worse comes to worst, we'll always have our friends to rely on!” Yuugi added, standing up and gathering his school uniform (which he had dropped upon his initial tripping over the bag).

“You're right, aibou.”

A few moments passed, filled only with the rustling of clothes and the distant hum of idle conversation downstairs.

It must have been very lonely in the Puzzle, Yami no Yuugi heard Yuugi muse.

Don't.

What?

I don't want you burdening your thoughts with it, aibou. Please.

Yuugi blushed. “Sorry.”

Luckily, Yuugi's mother called again, breaking the awkward moment; Yuugi, in turn, glanced at the clock - and yelped - I'm going to be so late. He grabbed his bag, running out of the room, and Yami no Yuugi saw this as his cue pull himself back into the Puzzle.

Some twenty minutes later (which had his thoughts filled with variations of `faster', `I'm too slow' and phantom cramps in his lungs), he resurfaced.

Yuugi's upper body was slumped on his desk, head tilted to the side.

“You're five minutes early, aibou,” stated Yami no Yuugi, floating behind Yuugi who buried his head under his hands, making him chuckle lightly.

Just what is so amusing? It's so early!

“Don't sulk, aibou, it doesn't become you,” he chided, before fading out of view and settling himself to watch from behind Yuugi's eyes.

“Morning, Yuugi!” called Jounouchi's chipper voice.

Yuugi raised his head. Eaaarlyyyy!

The other Yuugi could, suffice to say, hear his partner's thoughts perfectly from his position.

“Good morning, Jounouchi...”

“You look like a zombie - didn't sleep?”

Yami no Yuugi smirked. Yuugi didn't. “Well, um, many things happened last night...”

You do realise how wrong that sounds, aibou?

Jounouchi winked. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Yuugi said without thinking. Yami no Yuugi chortled - Yuugi caught his thoughts and blushed. “Not like that!” (But this blush was nothing like the one Yuugi sported a minute later when Jounouchi told him he wanted his video back.)

Anzu arrived a few moments later, followed by Honda and Bakura. Bakura's greeting was the least enthusiastic, the other Yuugi noticed. Or had Yuugi noticed? It didn't matter.

“Hey, Bakura! You didn't sleep either, did you?” Jounouchi asked.

“Um... I felt tired when I woke up,” Bakura said, rubbing his eyes; he gave them a strange, tired smile and went to his desk.

Jounouchi blinked at him. “Odd guy.” Anzu swatted him over the head for the comment. Yuugi exchanged an amused smile with Honda when Jounouchi complained.

“Anyway...” Anzu started, looking at him expectantly. “What happens now?”

“Yeah,” Jounouchi continued. “You've got the three God Cards and a bunch of Millennium Items. Isn't it about time to get the Other Yuugi's memories back?”

Yuugi shifted uncomfortably; Yami no Yuugi bit his lip - or rather, Yuugi's lip.

“Are we sure that's all we need to get them? I mean, it's just too simple,” Honda stated.

“Why don't we go check it out at museum?” Jounouchi asked.

“Remember what happened last time?”

They all shuddered.

“Well, great idea, but - the exhibit's over. Isis Ishtar took it back to Egypt at some point during our stay in America,” Anzu said.

Yami no Yuugi knew that, and, by extension, Yuugi did too - of course they knew where the game was to be played (there was only one logical conclusion...). They also knew that the Ishtars would show them the way once there, as demanded by their duty. Yami no Yuugi both feared and longed the return to his homeland.

“We need to go to Egypt.”

The three stared at him - at them.

The place of bondage is opened, that which was shut is opened; the place of bondage is opened unto my soul…

The Keeper of No Gates

Stigmata on thought and sight - past sins now forgotten; all was for Rastaltan, once come the night.

When he was young, he would smile for silver. They had placed a load of them in his greedy, feverish hands, they had unlaced his chemise, kissed his closed eyes, and they had said, “Smile for us.”

Coins could be worthless.

But hunger killed.

Those days were lost to the Makai, and now he had the veils to mask the decadence, and then the dagger. White over hair, white over skin, white and nothingness, only the dance and the bindings of cannabis sativa - a cautious seduction.

The wave of sick pleasure, white pleasure, the blessing of root and leaf and smoke and sensation. Then he was standing, somehow, waving around and fighting the dance. He'd almost mastered the haze and how to walk unaffected, how to ignore the precious lights and the substance's ruling.

He had to go to Kurama. Had to tell him, had to explain how perfectly alive he felt because of this - how these sensorial stimuli too were something to be dominated, controlled, just a new sort of power and a feeble passage to that plane that Rastaltan so favoured.

But not now.

Now, the hunt. The signature had placed its greeting early on: half-human, half-demon, his for the taking. A pity for the innocent life, but this blood, he yearned for.

Too many humans to intrude by the grace of daylight, but Ningen had inoculated a fear of darkness in their young, and so only the obstinate or the foolish lingered past moon fall, past the Witching Hour, into the woods. This one Hiei searched for, he was no fool, and he had little to fear from humans.

When Hiei roamed the outskirts of the city, he was a different creature: extravagant, poised, enticing, but first and foremost dangerous, and that was what these humans were prone to forget. It was coincidence, perhaps, or simply the strangeness of this world that he should find them quite near by, in the forest too, also lovely, also playing and doing the vile little acts that shadows adored.

He did not mean to draw them out as he passed them by, but he knew it was impossible. And his visible circumstances already had many gazing onto him enviously: no parents, no restrictions, only a succession of benign favours curried with whatever god had deserted them and found a truer prophet in pale eyes and pale skin and limbs lacking their life.

They were young, and they were human, and they thought he was human too, and a pretty catch.

“Pretty birdie, don't you wanna have a little fun?”

“Come on, don't be mean to us, pretty birdie…”

They leered his way and offered small, kind suggestions that had little to do with ambition and dignity, or character, and far more with the light sway of hips and doe eyes and an impossibly narrow waist - and then they followed him, fumbling, whistling, calling on the great Baron Samedi for protection and wisdom and altogether charm. Oh, if they only knew…

But Hiei did. He knew these Ningen games, and he knew these Ningen wantings.

“We'll make it worth your while!”

There were rules there, as in all else. Obeisance was everything - and he had been obedient, for Koenma had had no reason to call him out throughout his entire stay; but the intent would also have to be clear, and of own volition - and so he did them the only honour he could fathom and waited for-

A hand on his waist.

“Come sing us a pretty tune, pretty little bird…”

“Pretty lady, give us a kiss!”

So be it: he let himself fall into their hands, corpse's pallor, warm with sin.

If time stood still, this would be perfect: wanted, baited, trapped by hungry eyes and hungrier invitations. They looked, they wanted to touch. But time did not indulge.

They were young, bodies thinned by vice, vice fed from the cigarettes rolled in haste and of curious making, though similar smell: marijuana, hashish, something equally potent that thrilled the air; their ki was a masquerade of constancy and fluctuation: energy spiked by the smell of death and its woes. Human, with a singular exception, and it was outrageous how easily Hiei would cling to him.

He knew.

“You smell of home...” This one's broken whisper was a torrent against bared skin, but Hiei looked for a name, and the name found him as no more than an impression of this body and its childhood denied and then an early adolescence spent in the ill company of maudlin books and less pragmatic dear friends - and then ruin. Daisuke, or so the humans had styled him.

“A smile, pretty lady? Or a sweet secret, then?” This one's hands were daring; he must have known how Hiei shared his secret, Hiei who was not at all weak, and who would make such an auspicious patron for a half-breed. Hiei, who only craved his blood.

“No secret… a kindness.” For Hiei could be kind too, and so he allowed the teeth and the lips and the hold on his throat, the sparkle of devilish intention. To Daisuke, a secret whispered in eager ears: “You're already dying.”

Mild interest. “Heh… how do you know?”

Hiei's voice was hoarse, but he had to say it. “This one knows. This one sees…” A tap to his forehead, to the joy behind the white band - and the reward in Daisuke's gasp of recognition. The hold strengthened, but a pulse of ki heralded the jungle law, and this Daisuke submitted to the prospect of death in early resignation. Jagan, yes, Makai's gift to the terribly wicked. There could be no escaping it. Hiei doubted there was a need, but he consoled him all the same, in the only way he knew. Despise a tyrant, honour an enemy, but pity a sacrifice:

“It's rotting in you, as it is. Whatever body you took… it was already meant to die.” He felt this Daisuke's energy now, not human in its finery, terribly strange. Another, the trueborn name: Adassarai, or at least, he conceded, the phonetics granted by the Makai trading dialects that Hiei spoke, which did not include the tribal fares of shape-shifters.

The rest was, as they say, history. No, Adassarai would not resent the course of things, for he did not have the strength, and his kind had been taught to worship the Jagan and the mighty Rastaltan. No, he had not seen other demons for his twenty years in this life; he was anxious to have been found by Hiei before his human demise. No, the possession had not been forced, but swift and upon an already decaying body. Yes, he would do as Hiei - as Rastaltan asked.

But this one too had questions.

Had Hiei come for him in particular? Had he expected such a finding? Adassarai had a very special wish - and wouldn't Hiei please grant it?

He had no answer, but somehow Hiei found himself allowing the bites and the sighs and the touch and he related the whole story to this first come, drawn on by eager questions or obscene remarks or sanctions of admiration. He told them, the human boys, in slow word, how he intended to kill their mate. It was not a confession, no regret, no choice.

It was Adassarai who ushered them away, in Daisuke's voice, and with Jagan induced somnolence. The Ningen did not argue; they left in a haste.

Another kiss, and Hiei pulled back, his eyes on Daisuke's lips and the sickening ki, and the blood beneath them. “Brother, this has nothing to do with you. But Reikai watches, and their sort has feeble blood for Rastaltan's taste.” No humans would satiate Rastaltan. It was known.

Both of them soft and human looking, if Hiei much younger, and in a body of his own; both finding the other intimately familiar in a brave new world, if seldom kind; both knowledgeable of Makai and her call, and seeking some escape in foreign brews and distinct aromas.

They had so much in common; they couldn't be more unlike.

When Hiei brought down the blade through the heart of the half-ningen, half-demon, all nothing but putrefaction - when Hiei ended yet another miserable existence, he liked to think he was being kind.

All gestures were warnings to be heeded.

It began one afternoon as he wandered the Free Cities after a three-day incursion to the west of Anu'manah. He hadn't Kurama's qualms, nor his human propensity, and so it was for Koenma to arrange the kill and for Hiei to see to the deed. He never met his eyes when he was whispered the order, and it was their understanding that just as the princeling would not remark on the prolonged delay - just as he would ignore the little straying from boundaries - just as he would never consider Yukina's right to know of her brother's circumstances - Hiei too would keep his silence and never remind him of what needed be done to maintain Reikai's fickle balance.

With boyish glee, he examined the trinkets on display: gems and silvers and blades - polished horns, young Master? This beauty, forged in the black pits? This dagger, yes, this very one! It served Raizen once, wouldn't its cut speak for the young Master from now on?

They would sell their souls in the commerce of the Free Cities, and their tongues would sweeten the deal to such an extent that even Hiei would be in doubt to acquire it. Already, his hands were drowning in metals to be exchanged for a thousand fold their worth in the Ningenkai, and he even carried a pint of highly distilled dreamwine for Kurama's latest whims.

The merchants were many, but there were always those willing to take things beyond attraction and offense and casual drama.

“Have you ever seen something so fierce that it would bring even the unfeeling Koorime to tears?”

Hiei paused by the stall, from habit, if nothing more - though the question was not addressed to him, and curious onlookers found it oddly proper to make way for the bearer of the Jagan.

“Yes, my little master! That is the might of the Holy Beast, the Dark Flame Dragon, Rastaltan, and these are his amulets! Wear them, and you shall vanquish all your enemies! As young and pretty as you are, wouldn't you like a God's protection?”

The highest-ranking nobleman stepped first and raised a hand: “I'll take two! I've sons in the war with Yomi!”

“And I!”

“Good! Good! Rastaltan will guard their sleep and give his bite to their swords!”

“I'll take a dozen! To make the troupe merrier!” The Lord Commander's ruffled voice was still breathless from a run, but he had taken the time to relieve his uniform of the proper insignia. No war in the Free Cities, no memento.

A Tyrraen female great with spawn bit her lips shyly: “And…one for me, if it please my good sir. So that Rastaltan will make this one in my womb a son and good heir to his father.”

And it was later, under the omen of golden coins that Hiei could ask at his leisure:

“Tell me more.” And then under the tip of sword, for no merchant would part with the secret of his trade, and no true secret was bought but at the expense of blood - “Tell me everything.”

In the end, they told him little, though the tale was indecently simple.

He learned it in his pilgrimage to Ktahal, the frozen fortress of kings; he did not search, but with the knowledge of the name came the tales on every road, the proof, then, small, but there; and then the temples, scattered throughout the Makai like ancient pearls awaiting an oysters' make-believe domestication.

Eleven temples now, and this the twelfth. (Not that Hiei was counting.)

It was to pleading that the old priests answered, and not to oppression - and it was not pleading that Hiei did best, though they kept him on his knees for an obnoxiously long time.

“Rastaltan, the Holy One, the Bringer of All Thirteen Mights.” He learned, it was crude to address him as the “Holy Beast”. Offensive. When he asked for such, they meant to cut his tongue, but his fist had plied one's sternum before the blow could land.

“A misunderstanding.” Of course.

They did not spare him the theatrics, though he was easily fascinated by what religious emphasis would do to the credulous of nature. “Rastaltan, the Devourer of Worlds! He who was born before times from the Sacred Fires, he who burns the world and swallows the moons at every century's pass, he who has blessed the rule King Arulah-“

Arulah, that time, Quatranareth earlier, and the Council of Ten before them. He had no god of his own, and so Hiei believed determinedly not in the god, but in the power that had bidden its presence. There was no magic, but there were always patterns, and magicians could be made, if not born.

That time, and every time, a thought was formed.

He mentioned it, at first, in passing.

“Absurd! Can you imagine the amount of energy for such a Summon? Can you? No one metal would do! Only life's blood would pay for this! How will you finish it if you are dead? The Order of Alchemists of Tiamat revealed the calculus to him in cries of indignation. “You mean to capture gods! Rastaltan, who is king among kings!”

There could be no such Summon; they would not suffer such heresy. Hiei would have to leave now, lest his presence incur the god's wrath upon them all.

But Hiei did not leave, and Hiei found what he sought, those as unholy and almost as forbidden as he.

“You would need a metal, yes, something to carry it out. And the blood? Perhaps…wait…but to reach the astral plane, by your formula… An involution of the mind. How can you accomplish that feat?”

But he had this answer too, and he was beaming over Kurama and trying to hold a green-gold-green gaze, and saying, “Cannabis Sativa. Can you do it?”

Kurama could do anything.

At first it was a tentative smile, and a bashful brush of consciences - Hiei compared it to his Jagan's first taste of another's mind, but he knew it to be a poor match in terms of the wildness and the fire and the passion.

He had to have more - and when he did, it was to the smell of his own charred flesh, delicious and alive and in unthinkable pain, but he was Master.

Soon he was standing in Kurama's rooms, and holding a burned arm for display too, like the amulets, like the gems, only it was real, and it was Hiei's.

“I have him, and he has me, and this is their god! Their god lies in my hand. Don't look at me like that, I'm fine! Perfectly fine!"

Moments later he was unbearably sick, throwing up blood, and his meals, and more blood, while Kurama soothed him with milk-of-the-poppy and called him horrible names: “Their god may be lying in your hand, but you're lying on my floor!”

When the dragon's fire came, and with it the fever, Hiei burned and begged for more.

A flash - and a thought - and he was here - finally - and whimpering - slowly - and pleading - softly - and he couldn't help it.

Any of it. Each second burned, had been burning since - how many days? Centuries? Millennia? It was an all-encompassing sensation, and he revelled in it, the pain that reminded of absence, the absence that reminded of absolute power detained within a careful fist.

The bond was frail. He did not need the weakening Jagan to notice, or the consuming of his ki, or the reduction of strength to dust. He danced, did they know this? On this world, where Rastaltan and he were one, and now parted - he danced.

He had felt the energies not seldom - a drawing of ki, and then something more, an imperfect violation and therefore such a temptation - but Rastaltan within him would stir.

And a little while before, yes, he had felt that too, breathed it, lived it and left it behind. Yet Rastaltan is not as he: it did not forgive; it did not forget.

A few nights ago, Hiei knew, a new era had begun.

And when had it started to go so horribly wrong?

Rastaltan was a desperate cry and a feeble dream and a desire so vivid that it tore him apart. And he didn't know if he wanted to own it, to be it, or to be devoured by it - but in his fondest visions, he'd put all three realms through sword and plunder and place them within Rastaltan's fire. For his return, he would do all this and more.

No time, and no thoughts. Hiei had to dance, and he did it with the perdition of self and vanity and will - until finally there were only the formulas around him, and Sygma and Hi and Alpha in between, and circles and drawings, in old Makai tongue on this new, human soil. The forest did not care for him as it would for Kurama ; there was no stolen grace as he called onto his fire and burned the incense - true incense, this once - and he let perfumed droplets slip past the circles; some he drank away from rough, calloused hands, some he mixed with the blood of wrist and Jagan.

Metals, now, the grasps of matter: human gold, scattered to the West, Makai silver, and all around was the ministry of coal, which, he knew, he should not have used, for he was Master already, and this was command and not request - but much like all else, he could not help it.

This was despair, he knew. This was weakness.

Half moon flourishing in its ascension - an amplifier of blood and metal alike, though the metal in particular. An odd phase, and a conjuncture with Mars - metal again, but he had brought fair blood, strong if ignoble.

The words now: some sung, some whispered, the majority raw and shredding his throat and marking the clouded mind with the miasmas of Ktahal's Twin Towers. He conjured not the gods, nor the elements, but that which the moon would keep in her sanctuary.

Only life's blood would pay for this! How will you finish it if you are dead?

There was a way - there was always a way. Katana steel and wakizashi length and shape-shifter's blood all over it - the life it had taken might pass Koenma's gates under the name of Adassarai, but the shadow he stabbed was Hiei's and within the Summon, that was what mattered, it was the sacrifice of his other self.

It was the greatest game he had ever played.

And the greatest conquest.

For a second, he was not himself.

That second grew to monstrous proportions - a maelstrom of malign intentions, and he was falling into the plane too fast, too deep, too far, too hot -

The Jagan was a pulse and a guide and a failing in his inquiries, the sinister extent of a faltering bond in near suffocation.

He lived - he died - he burned. Forbidden, he would forbid himself again, forbid Rastaltan, forbid this fury of rich impatience and fear and vanity that mirrored one soul within the other.

Pain.

It pulsed through him. Pain. A voice. More than one. Pain. Child's laughter. Pain. Then only a stranger's afterthought, lively thief's energy, a sensational corruption for one who already detested the pact.

Pain-

Rastaltan…

pain -

Had to have an answer to clever subjugation.

-pain.

Denial.

He woke to negligence and consternation, to the blood of a weeping Jagan. Blood. And pain. And fear.

No glorious return. No completion. The end of a failed Summon. The end of everything, if Hiei would only open his trueborn eyes from their Sativa bewitched stupor.

Birds fly away, don't they know?

Little birdies too.

And dragons have such strong wings.

It was no lace, but he clawed at dirt and mud and paints that glittered in the dark light of more blood that still tainted his blade and the corner of impromptu white-now-white-no-longer veils.

The whiteness, Hiei realized. The end of an inexistent purity.

He took a shuddering breath and willed himself as somewhere above this, beyond this, somewhere without pain and where Rastaltan's allegiance was not the coin of the Dark Tournament's survival, of power and life.

“I am still Master...”

This was his truth, his only truth. He could have no other, for it would break him. And now was not the time to hurt again; now he must heal.

He did not want to assess this situation, his damage.

He did not want to think.

He did not want to be.

Let not him that would do harm unto me draw nigh unto me. Let me walk through the house of darkness.

The King No Longer

…pound. Pound. POUND. pound. Pound. POUND.

3x^2 - 7y + …

Ryou squinted at the board: 7y + many wriggly lines. Might even be 7x and not y…uh. It all started to swim… probably because he was moving, swaying, wasn't he? Or was the earth? No, no earthquake, there wasn't a panic, the teacher wasn't calling for calm, it must be him.

Ryou moved forward, it felt like it anyway, but he was still in his seat, and, boy, wasn't it cold in here! Goosebumps on his arms, a feeling like icy wind caressing his torso, kissing a path down his spine. He was shaking, his fingers were shaking and he was still swaying and cold - but his face was hot, his neck burnt. And the letters and numbers danced like a multitude of leaves in the autumn breeze. Or snow flakes, yes snow flakes, for the chalk was white and they fell down upon a black, tarred road like so many pieces of that noodle soup with the letters his mom had made when he was feeling ill. His legs were freezing now, but he was dressed; it wasn't like in that dream that everyone says is so cliché, about the nakedness in school but he'd never dreamed that. Was he dreaming now? Maybe that was the reason?

Ryou looked down. Nah, wearing clothes, but the floor rose up and…

Had Ryou blinked, he was sure he would have missed it. One moment he was moving down and the floor up, and the next, all was as it should be. No vertigo. No shaking. All was normal save for his tiredness. And the general lack of energy. The Spirit must have stayed up all night.

Ryou sat back in his seat and turned towards the blackboard again. It was odd. He picked up his pen from the desk - when had he dropped it? - and copied the problem. Strange… hadn't they been trying to solve the equation on page 13? This one looked decidedly different. He can't have missed that much, it had only been a few moments… hadn't it? Hadn't it? Ryou checked his watch. Ten minutes left, they'd been right in the middle when he'd last checked. Had the other him taken over?

Ryou looked around cautiously. All present and accounted for. No deadened stares. No figurines. Hm. If he had, there hadn't been any casualties. Or perhaps…

Was Yuugi looking a bit paler than before? Was he throwing strange glances in Ryou's direction? Had the Spirit done something to him? Or maybe it wasn't because of that. Perhaps the earth had indeed moved and he just hadn't noticed that everyone was… no, he was sure it had been him. But if there hadn't been an earthquake, it must have been the Spirit and Yuugi was really looking at him and Jounouchi, too. They all were. The whole class was looking at him! They could see what was inside him, who was inside him. They all could, they all knew. He had to get away. Now. He couldn't bear to have them look at him with pity and fear and anger for it was his fault he wasn't strong enough, couldn't hold the Spirit back.

The Dark Bakura had taken over last night again, a Voice in his head, a Voice he was too weak to fight…

And they saw it in him. They saw the evil that had taken possession of his body. They were shying away. That was good, though. Away with them, lest they get hurt like his friends at his old school, the same he had left because people had known, had looked at him as everyone was looking now.
No. No! Now Anzu was standing up, coming closer. She mustn't. Why was she rising, anyway, had the bell rung already? She wouldn't stand up otherwise, would she? But everything was so silent. The whole class was silent. Not even the teacher was speaking.

Ryou stared at her. She was mouthing something at him. He concentrated on her lips trying to make sense of it… might be his name but he couldn't be sure. And something else… what?

“…u okay? Bakura?”

As if someone had thrown a switch the sound came back on and Ryou started. What was wrong with him?

“Bakura?”

Anzu seemed concerned. Ryou swallowed, then put on a smile.

“I'm fine, Anzu. Really.”

She wasn't convinced, that much was obvious but he couldn't tell her more. After all, he didn't know what was going on either.

“If you're sure…?”

“Yes,” he said and left.

On the way to the toilet, Ryou's mind was in turmoil and his thoughts kept circling.

So, the Spirit had returned, had done something in the last ten or eleven hours. Something that was making Ryou feel sick and making him deaf, temporarily - at least, Ryou hoped so. But what had he done?

Ryou stopped and retraced his steps. He'd walked past the toilets.

Right, what was it… ah, yes. What had the other him done? Which use had he put Ryou's body to? What would make him feel… oh.

Entering the bathroom, seeing a few of his classmate there smoking - smelling it, actually -, Ryou almost hit himself. Of course! Now that he thought about it, it was so obvious. The Spirit had probably smoked some illegal substance, or swallowed something, or whatever it was one did; and Ryou was experiencing the after-effects.

“Ou!”

“Get out of the way, idiot.”

Eyes closed in pain, Ryou edged away from the entrance, rubbing the back of his head, where someone had hit him with the door. Ngh. This really had hurt but there was no blood - always a plus -, so it should be alright.

Ryou finally opened his eyes.

… or maybe not.

He blinked, then blinked again. And again. Ryou rubbed a hand over his eyes, pinched his cheek and blinked again. It was perhaps too much to hope for that there'd been a short-circuit in the electricity system. He turned towards where he remembered the window being: a short-circuit combined with an eclipse.

Ryou wasn't expecting an answer to his unvoiced question and he was actually glad that he didn't get one. He didn't think he could deal with the Spirit now. The other him would probably just laugh at him anyway.

Oh no, oh no, oh great god no. This couldn't be happening. He couldn't be blind. He -

… could see again.

Tiled floor, toilets, students, basins, taps, mirrors. Everything there, clear as day. He twisted around: single stalls… right, he needed a bit of privacy for now. Who knew what would happen next.

Door closed and locked, Ryou sat down on the lid of the toilet and took a few deep breaths. Calm. He needed to be calm. This would pass. He just had to hold out like he'd done before. It wasn't so different from the sudden lapses of memory, the hours he never recalled, the things he never remembered doing. Just something that would pass or that he would get used to.

Thing was, he hadn't wanted to get used to the other things and certainly didn't want to get used to this. He should talk to the Voice… but what would he say?

Actually, maybe this was revenge. The Spirit hadn't been in the best of moods, when he'd taken over… when Ryou had fought him. He groaned, closing his eyes, then opening them right away. He didn't need a repetition of the earlier episode.

So, what was he supposed to do now? He couldn't very well stay in the stall till the end of lessons or skip away. All his things were still in the classroom, including the key to his flat. And how would that look on his school record anyway?

But, on the other hand, what if he only went back to have another, uh, attack? Ryou shuddered. It didn't bear thinking about. What were his options then: Return to class and hope for the best …?

That did seem to be his only option. Great. Just great. Well, there was nothing else to be done but bravely venture forward. Ryou stood and opened the door - and walked straight into the Domino Museum.

Not exactly the museum, though. One room in particular. He'd spent some time in it right after the exhibition had opened, because it had been just strange. There was a stone tablet in it and Ryou could swear the people on it looked like Seto Kaiba and Yuugi. He was standing right in front of that tablet now as he'd done back then and… now, he was standing in front of another one. It depicted … a duel monster!

Right, this was just too weird. He'd been at school before, he couldn't be anywhere else.

Splash.

Ryou shook his head, looking about. He was back in the bathroom and around himboys had gathered, laughing. A bucket - from the cleaning supplies - was being put back in its place. His hair was dripping wet, as were his clothes.

“Seemed like you needed a wake-up call, Bakura,” someone called. The laughter increased.

Ryou sighed. One more reason to skip - screw his record, he'd go home.

I have illumined the blackness and I have overthrown the destroyers. I have made obeisance unto those who are in darkness.

The Sinner on Cursed Ground

Crickets chirped, the wind blew, and a fox lay in waiting. For hours now, he'd been lying on his bed unmoving but for slow and even breathing, an imitation of restful sleep. Sparse light from the window, courtesy of a half moon, illuminated his still face. There was a hint of colour, for the alarm clock, digital, showed off its numbers in glaring red: 4:03 a.m - the time when any guard would be the least attentive. Kurama knew this, had used the knowledge to his advantage on many occasions. He would not be so easily caught unaware. In fact, he would do the catching.

The room darkened suddenly, and Kurama heard the soft sliding of a window. Something - someone climbed over him, almost stepping on his hand, missing barely. The intruder moved away then, presumably to the desk. Kurama opened his eyes a tiny bit, squinting through the slits. Yes, the desk, as expected. And contrary to his usual habit, the intruder was not wearing a black cloak but something white… so this was where the bed sheet which his mother had declared missing had disappeared to.

It wasn't just the sheet which had gone missing, though. Some of his plants and potions had suddenly found themselves able to walk away on their own, as well, and tonight one more would have joined their ranks - if he hadn't kept it underneath the blanket, right by his side.

“Looking for this?”

The intruder jerked around, coming face to face with Kurama, who had sat up in bed. Chin to forehead, anyway. Hiei wasn't quite that small. They eyed each other - or better put, Kurama watched Hiei sway on his feet, staring fixedly at the vial of restorative draught he held in his left hand.

“Last I knew,” he continued, a bit put out at the lack of reaction, but even more at the gall Hiei had shown, “my things were not public property.”

That did indeed prompt a reaction, only it was not quite the one Kurama had expected. Instead of replying - be it with a lie or scathing retort -, Hiei dove at him sending them both to the floor. For a moment they each sought to take the upper hand, but Kurama held out and finally had the fire demon pinned down. Glaring ensued, which Kurama answered to with an impatient, “Well?”

Hiei swore, falling back to his native Makai dialect. If Kurama had needed any other indication of his state - in addition to the low ki, the blood, and the amount of noise Hiei had made during his breaking and entering -, this would have given him enough to conclude that he was a hair's width away from toppling over; if they hadn't been lying on the floor that is.

“Release me now and I won't kill you.”

Single minded and stubborn to the last. Well, Kurama could be just as obstinate. “No.”

Hiei blinked. Once. Twice. Then his brows creased and the glare, which had already been quite impressive before, intensified. “Then prepare to die.”

There was a lengthy pause during which nothing happened. A smirk began to grace Kurama's lips. “That will be before.... or after you have freed yourself?”

Hiei snapped at him, using what little mobility he had, and clamped his jaws down on Kurama's neck, sticking there as fast as a pit bull. Kurama held back a curse of his own, but barely. It hurt. He did not loosen his grip on Hiei's hands, however, and neither did he shift his weight and give the terrier a chance to turn the table.

After a moment in which it became clear that this wouldn't work, Hiei let go, grinning, and licked the blood off his crimson lips. This was a challenge if ever there was one, and Kurama would answer it. With his free hand - more or less free, since he was still holding the vial - he tucked a strand of his hair away from his mouth.

The way was clear now, unobstructed. Kurama retaliated.

Force was not needed to initiate a kiss but Kurama used it, anyway, parting Hiei's lips before he could recover from the surprise attack. His lips would be swollen, bruised even, but right at this point Kurama didn't care about anything past getting his point across. He would not be treated like this. He would not be challenged on his own territory. He -

- would be surprised that Hiei actually kissed back.

Uff!

And they said he fought dirty. As Kurama lay on the floor, trying to recover his senses and understand what had happened, he thought that he probably shouldn't have gotten quite that caught up in the kiss. If he hadn't - or so he reasoned, when some of his said senses did return - he'd have noticed when Hiei had wriggled free, and thus would have not been hit so hard that he was seeing stars.

Not that such musings mattered much now, at least not when Hiei was standing over him, vial in hand and an expression on his face that was both smug and promising much (painful) retribution.

Hiei lifted the vial, inclined his head towards Kurama, and spoke a quite morbidly twisted toast.

“To your funeral.”

Kurama watched Hiei uncork the vial and drink the draught in one go.

Then he watched him keel over.

It took a few moments before he finally could be bothered to get off the floor, since it was nice down there and it wasn't as if Hiei was going anywhere anytime soon. Not after the sleeping mixture Kurama had slipped him at the beginning of their kiss. It could knock out Godzilla-sized oni, a little Forbidden Child didn't stand a chance, especially considering that his energy had been depleted quite heavily… on the other hand, this was Hiei. Kurama sighed. He'd better start right away before he awoke, ruining his plans.

First things first, divesting Hiei of his sword and putting it out of reach - want any accidents to happen wouldn't want any accidents happen when the potion wore off.

Secondly then: preparing himself and removing the headband that served as a ward. Carefully however, since when its master was not conscious the Jagan had an inclination to look out for him - and it would not take kindly to curious foxes poking around in the energy flow and thus learning a bit more about what was going on; importantly, discovering the reason why Hiei had indeed returned for a restorative draught as Kurama had hoped but not quite believed he would. He had wanted to catch Hiei in the act since he hadn't the first time the demon had broken in. None of his traps had worked, in fact they'd been disabled, and no alarm had sounded for the same reason. In other words, Hiei had managed to hit Kurama where it hurt the most: his reputation as the King of Thieves had suffered.

Still, even though his pride had wanted Hiei to return, his common sense had been against it since there could only be cause for such a night time visit: something had gone wrong during the summoning.
This meant, of course, that Kurama needed to find out just what that was, one way or the other, for if the problem persisted, their chances of surviving the Dark Tournament would decrease dramatically.

Kurama knelt down next to Hiei, hand hovering over the headband.

Hiei being Hiei wouldn't just tell him what had happened and admit to a mistake - too proud, too stubborn.

Too leery and suspicious.

With reason, naturally, since Kurama was not someone who inspired trust in those who knew of him and his past. Indeed, he was still as sneaky as ever - in and out with no one any the wiser. It took skill, though - Kurama pulled off the ward and revealed the Jagan -, to move about and search unnoticed. Often sacrifices had to be made, as well, like in this case, where a steady stream of energy had to be fed to the Eye. Kurama had to insert himself - or better put, his own energy - into the flow between Hiei, Jagan, and the being Hiei called a god so as to be able to read the exchange.

At the same time he had to fight the Jagan back, what with it being a greedy little thing and wanting to replenish its energy by every means possible. Although, if it received too much, Hiei would realise for sure that Kurama had messed with it and he wouldn't be happy, to put it mildly.

Kurama tweaked the flow a bit, then concentrated on the feeling, at last. Hm, both Hiei and the Jagan were considerably weakened - that was to be expected - and the Dragon was… not exactly there. It was still connected with Hiei, yes, but it was hardly participating in the exchange of energy, and what it did send felt dark, peculiar, but strangely familiar. He had come across it before.

Kurama frowned, trying to come up with a clue. It was buried somewhere in his memories, he was certain of that, and it must have happened in his old life… a long, long time ago.

“… such a presence …”

“… magic darker than…”

“… they also call him the King of…”

Son of Author's Note:

There's three of us trying our hand at this, so we figured we should try to extend either greetings or an explanation for our references. Feel free to skip, of course, and many thanks for reading this!

Viridian Magpie

Hallo there, this is Viridian Magpie, your personal purveyor of everything foxy, thieving and white-haired - or in other words, our dearest thief kings plus host. Ah yes, poor little Ryou-chan. He's just so lovely torturable, isn't he? Though, truth to tell, I do believe him to be a strong person. After all, he does bear his sufferings like a man. Either that or he's a masochist… well, Bakura is sadistic and they're two corresponding halves…ahem. This may not be the place for such musings, I guess.

Back to the topic at hand, then, this being just a general notice, in fact. As I said, I'm responsible for the characters I've just listed, so if there's something you want to comment upon in regards to them, I'm the one to address it to. Mhm, that's all.

Ancalyme

Hello, Ancalyme speaking, the person who hopefully won't be eviscerated for our very own CEOs and ex-Pharaoh midget POVs. I'd say more, but I haven't the faintest what, so I'll conclude with a `send all flames and roasted chickens for those particular characters to me'.

ego

Hullo - meet the urchin to blame/kill/torture for Rastaltan and Hiei and their respective babbles. Seeing how we're all responsible for what we do with our prose, ego alas feels the need to pin-point and explain the adjacent references that self made use of during self's parts.

Ah, but where to begin?

There are many things to say, and I fear I've been quite receptive in terms of influences.

I. Rastaltan

Rastaltan is a reminiscence of old tongue, and is meaning is simple: Snake. A Snake is not a Dragon, but there is a certain resemblance, and I admit to have fallen in love with the phonetics.

Rastaltan's tale is neither canon based nor particularly mythological - it was just so very fun to think that there'd be those who'd imagine the Dragon as a God, rather than a weapon to be conjured. The cult of Rastaltan was born of a whim, though no doubt I'll weave around it. As for Rastaltan's “personality” - well, let's just say that thing has a conscience of its own, and not one that's particularly easy to write, at that.

II. Epur si muove, the wheel of pain, and then the wheel of fortune

Epur si muove - “And yet, it moves” - Galileo's famous last words in defence of the fact that, contrary to the Church's insistences, the Earth was not at all flat, and did indeed move. He was burnt on the stake. The line was thrown in more or less as an emphasis of Rastaltan as an omnipotent and all-knowing creature, be they demon or human or cosmological matters.

The “wheel of pain“ wants itself as an oh-so-pretty reference to the Inquisition, whereas there is little to be said of Boethius' “wheel of fortune”.

III. The plants: Cannabis Sativa, dreamwine, milk-of-the-poppy

Nostradamus is said to have used Cannabis in his little endeavours on the plane of “visions”, and I was partial to having Hiei exploit the same plant for similar devices. There were three very grand options, but I decided against C. Ruderalis almost immediately - not that potent, and had C. Indica removed from the list the moment it was black on white that, while the strongest of the three, Cannabis Indica gives off the “happy feeling”, but not as many hallucinatory experiences. Sativa, however, was strong, and said to encourage “cerebral” responses. Thankfully, we had Kurama to produce it. [Bless his black little heart.]

Dreamwine and milk-of-the-poppy are more or less curative. Dreamwine is often used as an anaesthetic, and milk-of-the-poppy is a play on words on the name of a diluted opiate substance.

IV. The Summon

…was a mess of alchemy and voodoo and pretty Hiei-in-sheets-oooooooh images. [The fangirl in self was v. happy] Hiei's summoning Makai fire, which I equated with cold fire, and then metals. Hiei had an energy amplifier, the Jagan, and so we needed the metal amplifiers, which I admit I borrowed from general astronomical supposition. [Am not very content with the half moon. Would have needed an eclipse to work truly nice, but I doubt Hiei'd wait for one those between Summons]

Hiei offered some blood, but the life's blood came from another [half]demon. He killed his own shadow as a representative of his material ego. That is not the alchemical way, nor should there be a sacrifice - but, frankly, I've never heard of alchemists trying to summon a Makai dragon, nor did I have an accurate foundation.

That Rastaltan would take his chances and run towards the equivalent of a summon energy produced during the Kaiba - Bakura duel is a question of “personal choice” rather than intention. Neither Kaiba nor Bakura were probably heading out to give a hand and seduce a Makai beast, but Rastaltan does seem to have a mind of his own. [See above…]

Hiei's trance and Rastaltan's plane are adaptations of the Visionary Planes, and no more, whereas the white “veils” make up the invariable circle of age and maturity: purity, and the end of such through death.

V. Miscellaneous

Baron Samedi will probably be known to you in connection to a certain Io of the Voodoo methods; no distinct association with the religious practice is meant by this, other than the obvious.

The Wakizashi length part is owed to a private belief that Hiei's blade is not a katana. I think that Hiei's entirely too fond of parrying and limited distance attacks in order to chance working with a sword that's mainly used for offensive. If that were a katana, I maintain Hiei'd be short of an arm on regular occasions - and Wakizashi, while not only retaining parts of the katana shape but being thinner, smoother and more elegant, also have their own meaning and utility.

I am mentioning all these, and probably making it a very tiring Author's Note because I understand that there are probably far better read people in several of these topics, and if they find any irregularities, I would be as indebted to them should they mention it, as to the casual reader who would mention what he/she doesn't approve with in terms of my drugged Hiei or annoying dragon.

Thank you kindly for your attention, and I do hope you had a pleasant reading. If possible, review? If not, much dragon love! [Oy…should install a “references forum” or some such…]