Da Capo
Genres: Supernatural, Mystery
Summary: "You will be given a place to stay for the night, but only if you do not leave your room from sunset to daybreak, no matter what you hear. Do I have your word?" / Victorian Gothic AU, Thiefshipping Yami Bakura x Marik
A/N: Written for Round One of the YGO Fanfiction Contest, Season 9. The pairing is Thiefshipping (Yami Bakura x Marik), although the story also contains Psychoshipping (Yami Bakura x Dark Marik). This is very clearly an AU and takes place in a Victorian Gothic setting. Thoughts are italicized. I hope you enjoy!
Da Capo
The sky starts to grow dark at six o'clock exactly, visible through only a few patches of sky past curving trees that line the dirt road on this section of the journey from Derbyshire to London. To move faster he rides without carriage and few belongings, the majority of which have already been moved to his new apartments, his equipment already set up in his new laboratory, purchased with private funding. He gives an indolent glance towards his hands, imagining the skin peeking through his gloves still soot-stained from the fire that took the first laboratory. He'd bought very good soap to clean them, the best he could buy with the not-substantial income he made.
At first, unencumbered, the feel of the wind against his face, blowing his hair and scarf around his neck, is welcome and liberating, but now it is colder, harsher, the truth of the reality after all of the varnish has fallen away from his eyes. It is much like life, he reflects, how wisdom is only gained after the passage of time.
He does not reflect for long on the cold or the steadily encroaching darkness, searching for any signs of an approaching town. The last settlement had been passed hours ago, and if he has time to regret his decision to not stop then, he would.
He has almost given up hope of finding an inn or a suitable place to rest for the night when he spots the lights from a house set far in the valley of a hill, barely visible amongst the trees save for the lights and a crumbling wall closer to the road, dictating their property. He advances towards the house, moving from road to grass and back to road again, following indentations in the ground made by wheel-marks that loop across the plain and towards the house.
The door is thick wood, polished to shine, and he raps it with the knuckles of his right hand twice. He waits on the doorstep, pulling the edges of his coat more tightly around himself, and wonders if anyone inside has heard him. Enough time passes that he considers knocking again, and raises his hand to do so when the door is suddenly wrenched open, a serving maid's young face brightened by the warm light pouring out from inside the entry hall.
"I'm so sorry," she says, the words hushed and delivered quickly. "We cannot take guests here, you'd best be on your way, traveler."
He tries to wedge a foot in the door. "Please, if you can? Just a meal and a place to sleep would be welcome, this is the only house for miles! I'll pay well for your troubles."
"I cannot give you either—" she begins, but a voice cuts her off from inside.
"Who is it?"
He hears footsteps, and more muffled whispers, before the same voice barks again, "Let him inside."
The door creaks on its hinges as the girl opens it slowly, allowing just enough room for him to pass, standing in the entry and feeling the warmth flood back into his stiff fingers. For the first time, he turns his eyes to his host, a well-dressed man nearly as tall as he was, with slightly disheveled hair the color of bone and tired eyes.
"Master Marik," the girl says, bowing to him as she closes the door.
"Please, sir, I require…" A commotion from the flight of stairs at the end of the hall draws his attention, as two others, clearly Marik's siblings, enter. Puzzled, he wonders what expressions to name in their faces, and decides that he sees both anger and a touch of fear. "I don't understand—"
"We cannot have visitors, Marik, what were you thinking? It is almost—I mean to say, we are not prepared for it! Tell him, brother!" The woman scowls at them both, while Marik continues, unruffled, his cool eyes never leaving his face.
"Can we turn him out into the cold?" The deep voice of the eldest helps to sooth her, but it is still wary.
"Your name, sir?" Marik asks.
"Ryou Bakura," he answers. "Of Derbyshire."
"Profession? Titles?"
"Scientist," he says.
"Science?" Marik scoffs. "Witchcraft. Magic. Black magic, if we're to be believed."
Bakura frowns then, inclining his head as he pulls both gloves from his hands. "Does my profession matter to you if you'll still accept my gold? I guarantee you, it is no different from those a banker or merchant would pay you."
The two oldest glance at either other at the words science and magic, but the woman straightens her back and turns to him, gesturing towards the rising stairs as she flips her curtain of long, glossy black hair over one shoulder. "If you accept our terms, you may stay here for one night, and one night only. Am I understood?"
He nods, unwilling to say anything more until he has heard their terms.
"You will be given a room and food will be brought to you. There you will remain until morning, after sunrise. You will not leave that room, on your word. Is that acceptable?"
"And the price?" he asks, the hand in his pocket already counting the money inside.
"We do not need your money. Marik, show him the way." She turns towards the girl. "Send someone to care for his horse."
"This way," Marik says, grabbing a lit lamp from a side table and climbing the stairs. "Follow me."
"What is this place?" Bakura asks. "Why do you live so far from any town? Not that I'm complaining, of course." A row of portraits line one wall, and Marik continues past it, staying on the stairs as it climbs another flight.
"My sister would not like me to tell you," he says, "about the secrets of our house." He enters the first room on the right of the stairs, opening the door and placing the lamp on a table. "I will return with food, and to lock you inside."
"What?" Bakura glances sharply at him, disbelieving his own ears. "Lock me?"
"Oh yes." And Marik's grin turns wider as he reaches for the door and pulls out its key, turning the heavy piece of metal around in his hands. "You'll see."
The food Marik brings him is cold, but Bakura does not mind it. He sets the plate next to the lamp, watching as Marik closes the door behind him. He listens for the sound of his footsteps walking away, reciting the sister's words in his head. You will remain in your room until morning, after sunrise, and you will not leave it. From the single, small window next to the bed he can see the blood-red rays of the sun dip below the horizon, and pulls the curtain closed to cover it.
Later, the room is already dark when his head rests against the pillow, the blankets already drawn up against his shoulders, but he knows when nighttime hits. His entire body feels strangely hot, but the second he considers tossing the blankets away he feels cold instead, sweat beading across his forehead and sticking his bangs to his face. He thinks he might be sick.
If I am sick, I should fetch aid, Bakura thinks, already imagining sliding out of bed, imagining the acrid taste of medicine on his tongue. I should go, and if not one of the Lords of the house, at least I can awaken a servant.
He rolls over sharply, burying his face in the pillow. No-! No, I shouldn't. I can't. Miserable, he twists again, feeling phantom pains shoot down the side of one arm. He raises the limb to glance at it in the dim moonlight, stretching his fingers to hear the joints crack. He shudders.
A strange noise pierces through the darkness. It sounds like an animal, but no animal that Bakura has ever heard of. Rather, it sounds too sorrowful for an animal, the kind of sorrow a human might know. A second screech joins it, the loud shriek of a bird. Within an instant, the curiosity overcomes him, pulling him from the edges of sleep and filling him with awareness.
I could go exploring while the rest are sleeping, he thinks again. I can see what they are trying so hard to hide.
The pillow muffles a strangled groan as he wars with himself, lifting his head to focus dazed eyes on the door. I made a promise not to leave. I gave my word.
But this is different, he reasons with himself. The pain moves to his back, to his spine, to his brain, until he can barely think from it. It's enough to make him feel like a different person. Perhaps if he is not, he has no need of honoring the words he spoke barely an hour before.
More sounds join the others, strange, dreadful sounds, haunting the air. Bakura watches with a vague sense of detachment as he slides his feet to the floor, letting the blankets pool around him as he makes for the door in his nightclothes, grasping the doorknob with a firm hand, not registering the cold of the metal against his hot palm, slick with sweat. Marik had said he would lock the door, yet Bakura had heard no click of the lock, only his receding footsteps. Perhaps he had forgotten? Perhaps it was an invitation to explore the house, to sate the curiosity that flooded every nerve in his body?
He feels trapped in his own skin. It is like being under a frozen lake, pounding at the surface but unable to break through, feeling the cold sharp as a knife sear through every single limb, lighting his skin on fire with frost. Go, he urges, wondering in unison where his conscience has fled to. Go, and seek with your own eyes. Go. Go. GO.
He twists the knob and opens the door, turning to spy the key lodged inside in the dim light, unturned. It has not been locked, only giving the appearance of having been done. He creeps down the hall and stands at the top of the stairs, looking down. The noises are louder here, and he notices two stairs beneath his feet a turtle crawls across the wood.
He steps cautiously over it, continuing his journey and stopping at each floor to listen before reaching the main level. In the entry hall, a raven flutters in the air, beating its wings against the wall and screeching as it struggles against the equally loud cries of a smaller blackbird, pecking at the banister, ruffling its glossy black feathers. Bakura stares at the two, and the screeching grows infinitely louder when they see him. He does not run from their wings, beating them back with his arms, but as he stumbles into a sitting room he hears raucous laughter coming from an adjoining room.
Around him the birds squawk, but Bakura walks steadily towards the closed door, pushing it open to reveal the source of the laughter. At the far side of the room, both hands bound above him in chains, rests the house's youngest son, the one called Marik, looking excessively comfortable as he lounges on one corner of the rug, a Turkish design in varying shades of red and white.
"I knew you would come, traveler," he begins, studying Bakura anew. "But then again, I've been waiting for you. Sit." He nods towards any one of the chairs in the room, but Bakura takes a seat on the floor in front of him to see him better, just out of reach. The dwindling stub of a candle throws the profile of a salamander crawling across the wall into sharp relief, but when applied to Marik it only warps his grin, twisting the shadows of his hair until they remind him of the encroaching branches of the trees above him on the road to London, blocking out the sun overhead.
"I suppose you have a great many questions for me," Marik continues.
"You suppose correctly," Bakura says.
"Then where to begin?" Marik feigns at yawning, although from the deep circles beneath his eyes Bakura knows he is not craving sleep.
"Start with the most obvious. What is wrong here?"
"You call it wrong." He laughs again, deeply. "I would claim the opposite, you know. Something is right, you can feel it within your head, can't you? It's so right it burns." Beside him, a curl of smoke rises from the candle stub. "A curse was placed on the Ishtar house, a curse which transforms us at night into the creatures you see before you."
"You call yourself a creature and claim the right?" Bakura stares at him, his words finally catching up. "Wait. The house? Your curse…is it affecting me too, is it not?"
The word leaves his mouth like a hiss. "Yes."
"Why not burn it to the ground?"
"Do you not think we haven't tried that?" Marik tells him, grinning again. "Not a piece of wood or fabric burned, although fire and smoke engulfed the property. But please, I would love to hear the opinion of a scientist. Tell me how you are feeling, Mr. Bakura."
"I feel…" He pauses, searching for the right word, finding it in Marik's indolent smirk. "…Right."
"Indeed. And would you like to feel that way, forever? Or would you lose it come morning, when my household regains their shape and sees you to the door?"
"What would you ask in return?" he asks. "What could I possibly do for you?"
"Free me," he says. "Just one hand. And in return, I'll tell you."
"You'll tell me first." Bakura leans forward, stretching out his legs. Too close, he feels it in the back of his mind, yet the rest of him feels refreshingly alert and dangerously careless.
"Then I will." His eyes all but glitter in the dim light, and he leans forward to match Bakura, the chains binding his arms clinking with each movement. "I have waited too long for the opportunity."
Bakura waits, finding all attempts at patience leaking out of him. He feels it happening, yet cannot stop the change in himself—changes, if he is to be honest—and the more he reflects, the more he thinks to himself that he would not wish to change it, that he prefers this new edge. Perhaps, he even tries to convince himself, nothing at all has changed. But he is not honest, not know, and Marik begins to talk.
"It is the house that the curse is placed on, and all who reside within it. It is our burden to bear, or so the others would believe, so they choose to stay here rather than inflict such a curse on others. Keep a part of the house on your person, and when you leave its grounds you will remain as you are."
Bakura frowns, glancing on either side, and Marik laughs, the sound hollow and derisive. "The key from your room should do. Symbolic, isn't it? Just tuck it in your pocket. No one will even miss it, other than me."
Bakura moves to stand, and Marik jerks forward, the chains rattling. "Your end of the bargain, sir," he says, his voice low.
He receives a smirk in reply, as Bakura reaches for the chains. "The key?"
"The drawer in the side table behind you. Quickly."
Bakura finds it easily enough, returning and selecting Marik's right hand, clicking the manacle open. Quick as a flash, the hand snatches Bakura's wrist, the skin warm against his own. Bakura follows his gaze to the key held within his fingers, and he inclines his head. "I promised you the freedom of an arm, but never the key that freed it." As he pulls his hand away, Marik's fingers follow the length of it, skimming as if committing the feel to memory.
He replaces the key in the drawer as he leaves, closing it tightly behind him. Even through the closed doors and flights of stairs, he can still hear Marik laughing long before he falls asleep, the key weighting his pocket.
He wakes refreshed, feeling like a new man. It is not Marik who retrieves him at dawn but the eldest brother, telling him his horse has been readied for him, and he is to leave their company within the hour. He takes his time, repacking his few belongings and taking the stairs one at a time. At the main level Marik stands, his face tired and his hair as disheveled as he'd first seen it, but none of the malice of the previous night rested in his eyes. Bakura grins.
"Good morning, Marik," he greets him.
"Is it? I suppose so," he says. "The morning is always good."
"And this one in particular." As they pass he thinks of reaching for Marik's arm, grasping his wrist as the other had done, or pressing a coin or two into his pocket to mock payment for his stay. He does neither, grinning at the man, and wondering when the next traveler will happen upon them and be transformed.
"Goodbye." He does not sound saddened by it, and why should he? Bakura takes his horse and rides down the long road, continuing his journey. His mind rides with him, freely, seeing more than feeling. Through layers of scarves and sleeves he does not feel the cold of the morning.
It is fascinating—this house, this curse. He thinks of his studies, and his experiments, and ponders a way to combine both with this new venture. He thinks of Marik, and the house hidden in the hill. He will always know where to find both.
The key rests heavy in his pocket, the weight constant and comforting.
End.
Notes:
1) I have a tradition of writing Regency AU's for the first round of the YGO Contest, but instead I decided to go with a more 'Jekyll-Hyde' style Victorian Gothic, I find it suits the characters much better. The lack of line breaks in the text was intentional.
2) Da Capo is a musical term, meaning "from the beginning."
3) Thank you for reading! I would appreciate and value your reviews.
~Jess