What remains of freedom
A.N.:This is a continuation of my fic "Evasions". It's supposed to work on its own too, but some of Kisara's thoughts (and the fact the two of them even know each other) make more sense when you've read that story...
All Memory-world stuff is anime-based. Reference to more ancient events will be partly manga-based; the existence of the Doma-arc will be ignored ('cause I have seen way to little of it. Not that lots of other things won't be ignored as well, so chances are no-one would have noticed anyway, but since the filler arcs, just like Kisara's thoughts, are all about Kaiba, I thought I should mention it.)
This is set after the dark alley scene between Yami Bakura and Yugi. However, after it, they both went home, and time passed.
Chapter title means "two old friends", and is the title of a chapter in Dumas' "Le Vicomte de Bragelonne" (which, incidentally, is so the best book ever, OMG!), namely the one in which Aramis and the Duchesse de Chevreuse meet again after many years. Not that it's really fair to compare Kisara to either of these two.
There will be three chapters.
Disclaimer: I don't own Yu-Gi-Oh or any of its characters.
/A.N.
Deux vieux amis
It was a dark night.
Nights were, by definition, dark, or at least they were here in Domino city, which didn't happen to lay anywhere close to a pole any more than Egypt – well, it was closer to the pole than Thebes, but...
It didn't matter. The darkness shouldn't matter to her at all.
The fact remained that it was, all in all, a really dark night.
If she was naive, she could put the fault on the closeness of new moon – she'd seen the thin golden crescent peer out from behind heavy clouds earlier – and the bad weather. But in truth, she knew very well her sight would not be as drastically affected by exterior factors as – lake of light. The truth was that she shouldn't have slipped away like this, shouldn't have allowed herself this vulnerability – at least she supposed it was, for it was how it was feeling, what else would have caused her to suddenly notice the darkness? – and, most important, she shouldn't have deserted him, even so briefly, even when sure to remain undetected...
How little things changed in three thousand years. How much more she knew, now, and yet-
And yet, she was repeating the past.
Back then, she didn't now better, so she told herself. She'd been naive, she'd been isolated, and no-one had bothered telling her the truth or let her find out for herself.
She had lost her way a few times, in the small streets she had thought she would know well enough now, but she had calculated her travelling time generously, and she was not standing in front of the high building later than she had thought she would.
After all those years, she had not yet managed to get used to how large everything was; and she knew that she would never get used to those high buildings that left only such a little space in-between, and blocked out the sky.
But she had to. She didn't need the sky.
Didn't need to look up at it from far beyond when he had mastered it without her help.
It wasn't even one of the larger houses, it had only five floors; on the fourth floor, light came from behind closed blinds, and she thought she could see a human form move behind.
He was living on the third floor: the small spaces on which the names were inscribed seemed to glimmer at her tauntingly, refusing to be as dark as the surroundings, shining in a warm yellow light that was strong enough to illuminate part of that wall around it. She had the impression that it was stronger than the street lamps on the way, but she supposed she was fooling herself.
It was, unexplainably, the same name. She couldn't pretend innocence to herself. There were more warnings than needed.
She pressed her lips together, sighed, and finally decided to walk upstairs: the faintly illuminated staircase in its peaceful, unchanging setting, exactly the same over three floors gave the brief journey an odd, surreal feel. She didn't think the way would be so long...
And yet, she was standing on front of the door sooner than she was prepared for: she would have liked to stop for a moment, to recollect herself, but a new impatience stopped her from it. Instead, she opened her mouth as if to take a deep breath, and, literally, stepped through the door.
The blinds were only half-closed, and the light from the street lamps outside was just enough to let her guess the meaning of the forms that were surrounding her. She looked around, made a step forward, suddenly timid, feeling like an intruder, not to him, but to the one whose apartment this really was, and whom, if she was honest, she hadn't taken into account at all.
She had, though until now she's never, even in thoughts, put it into such clear words, doubted his very existence, taking the boy who'd had a life before having the ring and was still existing, for a lure of the thief, maybe because it had made things easier.
But only looking around in the small apartment was enough to definitely convince her this could not be Bakura's doing, that someone else must have set all this up, curtains before the windows a vase on the clean table wood figurines on a cupboard...
She had thought about turning back, but now here she was, in what was the boy's bedroom; she froze where she was in the middle of the room, the soft breathing of a sleeping human being the only sound around her. Far away, a car passing on the street, its light briefly flashing up. Silence. Wooden dolls, fluff animals, many books on a bookshelf that covered almost a whole wall, clothes carelessly thrown on the floor, all of it small, cosy almost, and personal.
"Kisara."
She turned round.
And there he was, standing in front of the door through which she'd entered, very dark, completely black seeming eyes looking straight at her, shadowed even more by the long white hair that framed his face; pale skin, not an illusion created by the spirit form, not a single scar. He was wearing, if it could be called that, the same blue and white t-shirt and blue jeans than at battle city.
That would teach her to try to take a thief by surprise.
She couldn't see the expression in his eyes, different eyes than those she knew, not of a stone-like, hard and immutable grey, but of a plain, warm brown colour, and, now at least, very dark and deep. Slowly, she turned back to the sleeping boy, as if to assure herself he was still there, before looking back at the spirit.
The latter raised his head a little, so his face became, freed of the hair, a little more visible, and made a step in her direction.
Instinctively, she stepped backwards, then stopped, to study him again. She's never really had the occasion to, had only seen him through brief glimpses, had never had a chance to find out if he was aware of her. He was, she thought, a little less tall than the Thief King had been, very thin and less maculated , and the air of danger that was still surrounding him was different, a less powerful, more insidious feeling...
"What, pray tell, are you doing here?"
It was the same voice, she was certain of that, but back then it had never sounded so smooth to her, so strangely drawling. He was smiling slightly, in a pleasant way.
Three thousand years.
She'd had her moment of powerful heroism, and before a real life – in between, there were the anxious hours in the prison, and after all of it, this phantom life, another isolation.
And again, there was Bakura.
Strangely enough, the nights during which the thief had visited her had remained, over the years of aloneness, her most vivid memory. Or, at least, he'd stated out in those memories like no other person did, not even Seto. Seto, she though, whom she'd met only a few times in her life, to whom she'd never been able to talk, unlike the thief who's listened to her for many hours he should be far away fighting. Seto, whom she loved deeply anyway, or for exactly that reason.
She was surprised by the ease with which she responded:
"Coming to see you..."
She let the phrase open, as if she might add something.
The smile remained, but through narrowed eyes, he threw her a sharp, calculating glance, and she reminded herself to be careful: this was not the thief she had known. This was someone different, who had been locked away – or, maybe, even lived – for thousand of years, someone who's carried on the fight after her death, after his own... A dark spirit who'd chased the pharaoh with terrible patience and persistence, and who had managed to master those shadows...
Not that trusting the thief she'd known would have been any safer. Not until...
She shouldn't have come so unprepared. But she'd been invisible for so long...
The smile changed into a mocking sneer as he answered, clearly showing he was not believing that she just came for a chat. As if the idea was all that absurd. She was lone, after all, very, very lone.
"I'm... flattered?"
She looked away, her own lips twitching slightly, compelled to mimic his expression, for some reason, maybe for the pleasure of being noticed. She wondered what she looked like to him: she hadn't changed, of course, frozen in this appearance of a young, frail girl with a dragon for all times. She had abounded the rag she'd kept together with her appearance for so long, it seemed absurd after a while, and had replaced it with a white t-shirt and a black skirt that was falling a little over her knees.
"I've wanted to talk to..." she hesitated. "Someone."
Despite of herself, she dropped her gaze when, as she looked back up, he hadn't moved at all, was still staring as if he could drain her of her thoughts.
"I see." Her head snapped up. He seemed to think for a moment, before he added, in the same tone: "Please, be my guest."
She blinked. Only now, she became aware he'd been blocking the door the whole time, and only now moved away from it. Not that he could have locked her in, even if he had wanted to, but the fact he was moving away, and sitting down on the edge of the bed took away the impression of a dangerous confrontation between enemies that had met on the spot. He motioned a chair with his head; she hesitantly made a few steps towards it, then stopped and looked back at him. His face didn't show anything, as he still eyed her intensely.
"Thank you."
She looked out of the window: the situation was oddly similar, that enveloping darkness spoiled only by the never changing light of the street lamps far bellow. It was a nice room, different from all those she had seen in Seto's house, even Mokuba's that was stuffed with playthings, from fluff-animals to high-tech products that were most certainly not meant for a child.
"How do they live with it?" she murmured.
He raised an eyebrow, that obviously wasn't something he'd been expecting, and it seemed to her as if there was true emotion in his voice this time, a little irritation, when he asked:
"What do you mean?"
"The light. They always seem to have light." She stopped. Sound as well, seemed to be so constantly present, but she's learned to fear silence.
Bakura's lips curled again, as if her words contained a joke she wasn't aware of herself.
"I guess. But there are compensations."
"I know..." she murmured. Towers that defied the sky, aeroplanes, computers, very real secrets hidden in small medallions... artificial, to everybody visible images of the creatures ripped from humans' souls...
"What are you doing here, dragon-girl?" He was losing his patience, the friendly mask slowly wearing off, though he still smiled creepily pleasantly. "Switching sides? Might be a little late for that, hm?"
Had she not been angered by his words, she might have paid more attention to the emotion they seemed at least to hint.
"I'm not."
She'd not betray him, never, that much she knew now, if nothing else. Even better now that she sometimes doubted he deserved such loyalty (but she was lying to herself in her bitterness, he'd never given anything but devotion, and could neither deserve nor accept less).
She could have pointed out, she thought, that he'd never offered it this way back then, that he could hardly blame her for having refused – was it what it came down to, to chose a side, had it been that simple and she'd exaggerated its meaning? Caught between forbidden love for a dangerous and yet close outlaw while loyal to a just and unreachable noble, simple old clichéd overdone story, not matter from which side one looked at it, it never ceased to be banal and true.
"Then why are you here now?"
"I need your help in something." And I wanted to see you, she added silently, the thought appearing in her mind in unexpected clearness. Of course she's wanted to see him. Even if he had been any random person from the same time as her, she would have whished to speak to him at some point.
Odd how much easier it was to say the first phrase than the second. Not stirring up old wounds. She might have had another choice back then – the past was gone.
Same feeling of simplicity and banality. Love. Simple sincere love, or at least the memory of it. She was more disconnected from the dragon than ever before – did anything she might do count still?
Bakura didn't answer, and Kisara suddenly wondered about the "now" he'd added to the question: was it a slip and could it mean that if she had come sooner...?
"Really?" was finally all he said, in a perfectly even voice. She had the feeling he would bust out laughing anytime.
"I need to talk to Seto... Kaiba."
The hesitation before the second, the stolen name was minuscule, but she's said them in the wrong order and he noticed anyway, she was certain. It didn't matter: it couldn't surprise him that it still made her uncomfortable, and saying only Seto would have created an intimacy that would have felt – treacherous.
She couldn't tell towards whom.
Again, a long silence followed, as Kisara decided not to ask further until he said something.
"You want me to pass a message," he finally conceded to remark.
She narrowed her eyes slightly, beginning to be irritated with his calm, though she wasn't sure what she'd expected. If she'd thought he could harm her, she wouldn't have come.
"If that is the only way, yes."
"I see." A pause. He looked at her with a curiosity that was somehow easier to bear than the friendliness, because it seemed less fake. "What do you want me to tell him, then?"
That seemed a little too easy.
"Will you bring him the message?" she asked.
He smirked, leaned back a little, clearly pleased.
"No," he admitted calmly.
There was no answer to that: she should have known, name of the gods!
Bakura watched her reaction and went on in one breath:
"What do you want me to do? Run to the high priest, tell him of his ancient past, pass him a love letter you wrote, tell him the white dragon will desert him if he doesn't do everything to revive the one whose soul it is?" He laughed out harshly, but his voice hold a hint of genuine interest, as he went on: "Why come to me? Why not seek help in the pharaoh?"
He smirked. She supposed he found the idea of the pharaoh telling Seto Kaiba he had a message from the white dragon for him amusing...
She didn't answer, but she shuddered despite of herself. The pharaoh was – in another sphere, had nothing to do with this, didn't know her. And he had no knowledge, no memory. Why would he believe her?
"What do you want to tell him? And..." He paused. "What makes you think he'd listen to anything?"
She made a movement, as if to stop his next words from coming, but he went on:
"Because-" He narrowed his eyes at her. "– you know he won't. You know perfectly well he wouldn't have three thousand years ago, and that he won't now. Do you really think he doesn't believe what the pharaoh tells him about his past? He does. He's seen the evidence. He's no such fool. But why concede to remember something that would bring you into an inferior position? Of course he'd believe you. I can give you a way to show him. He won't want to know. He won't listen to anything you say. You don't matter. He has the dragon now. You've stopped to exist."
"He..." She made a step back, a little shocked, not as much by the words, even though they hurt, but by his vindictive demeanour. "He could remember..."
"Remember what? Do you think he'd have done anything else, back in Egypt? He hunted down the cards, didn't he? What is there that Akunadin wouldn't have done as well ?"
His eyes seemed to glitter, and again, they reminded her of Akunadin himself. It was one of the worse things, possibly the worst, he could say about Seto, and they both knew it. She didn't manage to bring up anger inside her. She felt the unfairness of both of their situation, much sharper than back when she's been alive, when the order of things, in which Seto, the priest, had the power to save or destroy her seemed, not fair, but normal, but natural; as well as the impossibility for the pharaoh to by the one to give up and seek forgiveness first.
Not that Bakura would have accepted such a thing. Not that he was any different now, that the power had shifted to his side, and this time he was the one who would refuse any sort of reconciliation, and feel he had the right to it.
But Seto... Seto had saved her, had spared her, had risked everything to save a single person.
But this was not Seto, as much as she wished to think so. This was him, with another, a worse past, a past less surrounded by mystery than the first one, in which secret guardians (if they could be called that) had been looking out for him, evening him the way for a faith greater than what he wished to accept. But in this life, there was no mystery, no hidden identity, no revelation of royal blood in the veins of that orphan child. In this life he too, had stolen, rather than earned, everything he had, had been forced to be sharply awake for every minute, and no white dragon had appeared in the sky to blast his enemies when he would have needed it. Not until he had conquered it himself.
And while this wasn't true, while she had given herself to him, for all future lives, forever, while those dragons had been his right to possess, he didn't know any of this.
Mokuba had given him the first card. Mokuba had been the reason why he'd accepted to go through so much and who had kept him alive, and maybe human, through it the way.
And she couldn't help feel both grateful and jealous.
And she wanted to meet himor to have him hear her voice, at least once.
Bakura was waiting, smiling, and her heart arched at the sight. She'd lost Bakura, she couldn't get back to that, there was no connection left...
Maybe she should have sought help in the pharaoh instead. If there was any affection for her left in him, her action was cruel. And in a way, she was taking advantage of that.
"He's not like Akunadin," she murmured. "He's not ambitious like he was – he's not – everything he does, he doesn't do for himself. He's protecting his brother."
Bakura smiled. It was a quite creepy sight. He looked as if he had just drawn an unstoppable card in a duel against Yugi Motou.
"Akunadin was his father," he said.
Her eyes widened. Akunadin – of course, that was why, instead of attacking him... But that wasn't!...
"You didn't know?" He started to laugh. "Do you even have any idea why you died?"
She recollected herself quickly. The revelation might have been important back in Egypt – but then, she could have done nothing of it, how was the fight between the priests and who they really were any of her business? – but now, it didn't seem to matter all that much. Bakura could draw any strange parallels between Seto and anyone, and she should know better than to fall for it.
"Do you have any idea why you died?" she asked.
"I," Bakura drawled, and she could see a faint glimmer come from where the boy was laying – from the ring, she understood, "am not dead."
She bit her lips.
"It... the differences are evened out. It's thousand of years and maybe countless reincarnations ago. It doesn't matter anymore, now."
"Doesn't it?" He seemed animated again, now. "Is there nothing left of it?" He laughed and went on in one breath: "Kaiba has been allowed to deny everything of the past and have a fresh start. The pharaoh has had three thousand years of blissful sleep and now a host who's willing to help him... Now, look at you." His tongue flipped over his lips briefly, and his voice softened. "How is that fair? How has there been a change to the way things have been?"
"What about you?" she asked again.
"Me? I have nothing that I haven't stolen. And if-"
He stopped suddenly, the animated, somewhat smug expression disappeared form his face, changed to alert; automatically, she tensed up, as if there was still anything she could fear.
"What...?"
She froze when she felt, rather then saw, the body of the boy – she'd almost forgotten him – moved, and watched in strange fascination when his eyes, of the same colour as Bakura's were now, blinked open sleepily, peered around the room, seemed to rest on her, but that had to be an illusion. Then the boy pushed himself up by an elbow. Bakura had turned towards him as well, looking, as far as Kisara could tell, irritated.
"Dark..." the boy murmured.
At first, Kisara thought he meant the oppressive darkness she had felt so strongly when coming towards the apartment; but a moment later, she understood that it was his way of calling Bakura.
"Go back to sleep," the spirit snapped, a dangerous edge to his voice.
The boy didn't seem to notice, or decided to ignore it. He sat up completely, and blinked at her.
"Dark," he repeated, and now his sleepy gaze seemed to focus at last. "Who is this?"
Kisara's eyes widened, she didn't notice the way Bakura tensed; she stared back at the boy in amazement. It couldn't be...
"You can see me..." she whispered.
Bakura had caught himself while, in her surprise, she had paid no attention to him, and he did, again, seem nothing but detached as he remarked sarcastically:
"It would be pointless to have a conversation in which one of the parties can't see or hear one of the others."
Kisara turned her gaze away from to boy and towards him with difficulty, strangely entranced – it was like seeing a ghost, only the other way round.
"Is this your doing?" she asked suspiciously.
The thief merely shrugged, his attention focussed on the boy beside him, who looked back at him with an unreadable expression, and Kisara felt a sudden jolt of jealousy at the intimacy the look seemed to bear, as if a secret communication passed between them, only through the eyes.
Bakura was right: it wasn't fair.
"Someone from the past," Bakura said in an oddly soft voice; Kisara jumped, didn't instantly realise it was an answer to the boy's question. "Be quiet."
"Bakura Ryou," Kisara murmured, tasting out the name she couldn't recall knowing, not the first name, until she had been reading it at the door.
"A spirit," Ryou murmured, looking at her again, with a strangely longing expression, before forcing his eyes back on the ring spirit. "Another item?"
Bakura snorted, but didn't bother to answer: apparently, he had decided that once he'd told his host to be silent, anything he now said could be considered inexistent. He narrowed his eyes at her.
"So, what you want is a meeting with Seto Kaiba, correct?"
She thought for a moment. The wish alone was simple enough.
"Yes."
"Very well. I might be able to arrange that..."
I hope this does make a reasonable amount of sense. I'm thinking that Kisara might have become a little bitter in this situation, but I'm not really too happy with her voice.
There will be further explanations to why she's there, and what's possessing Bakura to be so conciliating by the end of the chapter later.
Please tell me what you think?