Acqua Alta
Genres: Drama, Romance
Summary: Venice, 1794: After acquiring the Millennium Ring, Dartz travels across Europe when rumors of a second Item resurface during the French Revolution. / Vassalshipping Dartz x TKB, Dartz x Iona
A/N: Written for the YGO Fanfiction Contest FINALS, Season 10, Round Twelve, with the pairing of Vassalshipping (Dartz x Thief King Bakura), although the story also contains traces of the currently unnamed pairing of Dartz x Iona. This takes place post-AE/pre-canon, and takes some historical liberties with the events at the end of the 18th century in Europe. I hope you enjoy the story.
Dedicated to Mandolina Lightrobber and all of the participants of Season Ten, it has been an honor to write alongside all of you. Thank you for giving me the opportunity to do this one last time.
Acqua Alta
"So people down there dream while wide awake,
Believing or not believing they speak the truth,
But there is more blame for the unbeliever.
Below you do not journey by one path
You do not think of how much blood it costs." – Paradiso: Canto XXIX
2960 BC, Egypt
When he finally stands above the trunk, his fingertips pressing back the heavy lid of it, the moment is exactly like he has imagined. It is as if time has slowed to his senses—an impressive feat, considering how little time means to him already and how slow it travels from his experience—and even his breathing stills, his entire being focused on the way the gold shines in the thin light, flecked with dust motes. The utter silence of it is as ceremonial to him as any fanfare or ritual.
His lips draw back in a smile and he exclaims, triumphantly:
"Oh, how long I've waited."
The Ring itself is nestled in cloth; he wonders if the High Priestess herself had packaged it or if it had been the young Pharaoh's doing. Her order would have seen it buried, instead of merely safeguarded, and then it would never have had the chance to come into his hands.
Leaving the lid propped open, he reaches for it. The metal is oddly warm to the touch, but the voice still surprises him when it appears from behind, in the doorway he knows is empty.
"And just who are you?" There is a cough, and when he turns to observe the speaker he sees a man on the very edge of substance, his body and clothes lighter than the painted wall at his back.
"You have the great honor of being able to address Dartz, the last King of Atlantis." He speaks it with a rhythm of practice and disregard. "And you're the man with that infernal gray monster. Because of you, I missed a grand opportunity."
"What interest do you have with my Ring?" he asks. At the mention of the monster his posture shifts, he straightens and his eyes narrow, and Dartz is easily able to recognize the changes even through his best efforts to conceal them.
"Your prior master is dead," Dartz tells him. "She died forty-five days ago. Her funeral procession is likely crossing the Nile as we speak."
"I have no masters." His voice sounds gravelly from disuse.
"You will answer to me. I will make sure that you never interfere in my plans again. I hope you enjoy the darkness, because you will not see light again for a very long time."
At this he laughs loud enough for the sound to echo in the small chamber. It worries Dartz that perhaps someone else could overhear, but he doubts the spirit's presence is notable to any other than the owner of this golden Ring.
"You could say it would be almost like going home." He laughs again, the effort worsening the hoarseness of his voice. "You should know that controlling the Ring is very different from controlling me."
"Oh, I have no desire to control you," Dartz says. "Like I said, I just want you out of my way."
"So you don't want the power of the Millennium Items? That would be a first." He walks forward, his hip disappearing through a table. As he moves his hair and clothes seem to shift, as if he was affected by wind or the effort of movement. It is a strange thing, Dartz thinks, for a spirit to do, and very human when the impression he got the first time he saw this man and his monster was that he was anything but.
"Power? What power?" It's curiosity that makes him hesitate. "I felt something from your soul, certainly, but it was nowhere near the power of the Pharaoh's."
His lip curls at the resulting insult. "He had one as well—one of the Items. But I do not think the others will be as easy to obtain." He casts a scathing look at his prison, the ring still clasped in Dartz's hand.
"Tell me more. Do you know where I can find them?" he asks.
"Hah. My services are not free, King. And I would hardly know." He glances away, in that sly way that makes Dartz think he means the opposite. "Several of them were stolen, maybe half a dozen years ago. Or so I heard. Things like these just don't go missing."
Dartz grins at him, pulling the Ring free from its confines, replacing the trunk's lid with a satisfying thunk. "This one will."
"How clever of you." The spirit begins to waver at the edges, before disappearing completely into the shadows. "I wish you the best of luck."
The Ring makes its way into his pocket. Dartz pulls the hood of his cloak back up to cover his hair, and walks from the room.
1794 AD, just outside of Marseilles, France
Dartz waits for a manservant in the second-floor drawing room, a cup of steaming coffee on the table in front of him. He relaxes against the back of the sofa, crossing his legs. Influencing the Committee of Public Safety was such hard work…
A knock, and he calls for the man to enter; the door hits a pair of muddy boots left carelessly on the floor as it opens. In his hands rests a box of plain but study wood, and he sets it on the table before retrieving the boots and departing.
Dartz sighs; he had forgotten the rest of the costume, a rough carmagnole and a red cap draped over the back of a chair in the opposite corner. He considers calling the manservant back before remembering the box before him.
The latch is a turn-lock, and he opens it to reveal the Ring, pulling it out and idly playing with a few of the spines, waiting for the spirit to show itself.
"It's been a long time, King. What do you want?" He appears over by the far window; a curtain blows through one arm, the white fabric making his skin look sickly. The spirit himself looks well, if bored—the subtle glances he throws around the room are proof enough of his interest in the world outside the Ring.
"I've heard rumors. Strange rumors." Dartz chooses his words carefully, remembering the letter he'd received from a contact in Italy not even a week ago. "About a man who is able to…look into other men's souls, so they say. He has an almost precognitive understanding of people and events to the point where he has used the growing revolutions to his advantage in trade and military encounters." A pause. "He is defined, they say, by an eyepatch that conceals a golden eye. I thought to myself, where have I seen this before?"
The spirit, who had been contemplating the spines of a line of books on a shelf behind Dartz's sofa, stills, his attention now fully focused on the man sipping coffee, the fingers of the hand not wrapped around the mug casually stroking the points of the Ring.
"It is a Millennium Item, the Eye," he finally answers.
"I never would have guessed." Dartz blows on the surface of the coffee; steam still rises from it in lazy curls. "Please, you are being no help at all, spirit. What you told me when we first met—I've had those words stuck in my mind as of late. We both want the same thing, don't we?"
"That was thousands of years ago." He points out the obvious with a flourish of movement as he seats himself on a chair opposite Dartz. "I'm flattered you remember. And it's Bakura, not spirit. Remember that."
An artful shrug. "I had almost forgotten about you entirely."
"Do you know where this man is?" he asks.
"I do." His smile then is an infinitely smug, indulgent thing. He seems to stare straight through Bakura to the line of stripes on the chair at his back. "He's in Venice. I've already arranged passage."
"You wouldn't have called me here just to tell me that." Bakura stretches in the chair, making himself comfortable in furniture that was not designed for it, draping his arms over the armrests and spreading his knees. "You went to so much effort, after all."
"I want your assistance in finding it," Dartz tells him. "I don't want these Items loose. Better they are in my control—I suppose you would feel the same? If it was mine you'd at least know where it is."
"I can do better." He sniffs, loudly, and tilts his head away from Dartz, observing him only out of the corner of one eye. "Agree not to use it, and to hide it in a place of my choosing, and I will find it for you, and tell you anything you need to know about it."
"Deal." He returns the mug to the table; his other hand never leaves the Ring. Dartz's grin widens at Bakura's displeasure. "I could not use it anyway—the Orichalcos will not let me, as it already possesses one of my eyes."
"What did you get for that trade, I wonder?" Bakura tilts his head, for the first time observing Dartz with interest. "Or, more likely, what more did it cost you?" He laughs at Dartz's reaction.
"Oh, I think I understand you perfectly, now," he says. "We are not so dissimilar. When are we leaving for Venice?"
"Tomorrow." The answer is clipped, further conversation halted while he takes another sip of coffee. "The timing of this is actually quite nice. It'll be best to get out of France for awhile…at least, until the revolution catches up with us."
He stands on the deck of the xebec, one of the newest packet boats in the water, skimming along the Mediterranean with a quickness that only hastens his exhilaration.
"King." Bakura's voice sounds from behind him, although there is no body to match the words to; the spirit has been in a strange mood since they left. "You must put the Ring on for it to work. This particular power will not work if you just hold it."
Dartz has taken to carrying the Ring around with him, enjoying the way the light reflects off it—gold is an appropriate weakness to have for someone with the funds to indulge it—but so far he has restrained from wearing it. Displaying it proudly on his body, he feels, would give Bakura a greater claim to him when the very opposite should be true.
"Very well." And he slips the length of rope over his head, setting the Ring against his chest. He can feel the warmth of it even through his clothes. The gold stands out too much next to his dark waistcoat, and it is too tight-fitting to slip the Ring underneath. He will have to invest in some new clothing to accommodate the Ring if Bakura continues to insist on his wearing it.
One by one, the spines begin to vibrate. On instinct, his hands come up to grip the sides of it, and as he holds it out he notices one spine in particular pointing out, steady even with the rocking of the ship.
"See, King? It is like a compass, it will guide you towards the Eye." Bakura solidifies into being beside him, resting his arms on the railing. The other spines continue to pulse, and as he tilts the Ring the leading spine remains pointing in the same direction. How useful.
"Seasick?" Dartz asks with a smirk. Bakura gives him a sour glare.
"Your body is accustomed to this. I would adapt much better if you would let me into your mind." The resentful whine sounds so genuine that Dartz believes him.
"So you can possess others? Another power of this Ring?"
"Of my Ring, yes," Bakura answers. "But only of my hosts. I tried to enter your mind, when you first touched the Ring. Obviously I was unsuccessful—it must be that strange stone on your head."
"I can think of no other explanation." His smirk widens, but he reaches up with one hand to lightly touch the stone dangling from a chain around his forehead. It is so ever-present he sometimes forgets it is even there.
"Just you wait." Bakura straightens, frowning, his body passing through a stack of barrels and a coil of rope on the deck as he circles Dartz. The wind picks up, the cool air ruffling his hair, blowing it into his eyes. He tosses his head to clear it. "If you succeed, I will recover another Item. And if not, I will enjoy watching you fail."
"I am quite adept at waiting." Dartz turns to watch him, his own vision marred by a curtain of teal hair, his bangs fluttering before his eyes. With every blink, the edges of the spirit seem to waver and flash, distorted by fog and the spirit's own transparency. "I am a patient man. I have waited longer than you have been alive, and you have lived for far longer than any other man on this planet."
"We really do have too much in common," Bakura says. "If we ever found ourselves as enemies, there's no telling what would happen. How about another deal? If you relinquish the Ring, I promise that neither my true master or myself will harm you."
"You must hate it, having a guardian you cannot control." Dartz laughs as Bakura's expression grows even more sullen. "You bargain for everything. You are the kind of man to get me into danger just so you can offer me salvation. I will have to watch my back."
"I would watch it for you, for the right price."
"That assumes I would trust you with it."
"Suit yourself." Bakura slides backwards, disappearing into air as a voice from the front of the ship calls out that they have sighted land. Dartz squints into the fog, wondering how any of the sailors can even see a thing. No matter.
The spines of the Ring still shake from where they rest against the ruffles of his jabot, each one turned to point towards Venice, and the Eye. The warmth of it is comforting against the cool air. A deceptive comfort.
He thinks he can hear Bakura laughing at him somewhere from up high, the sound masked by the creaking of sails and the shrieks of birds overhead.
October, Venice
Le Danieli is as beautiful a property as he has heard, an old palace of the Dandolo family turned into a hotel, and he has left his belongings and headed for the Piazza San Marco, following the pointed spines of the Ring, itself hidden inside his largest frock coat. Beside him, Bakura sulks, walking through lampposts and other travelers in his efforts to keep up.
"Not talking to me, are you? I suppose not—it would look strange, like you were speaking to thin air." He grins, and Dartz considers it a testament to the spirit's interest that he continues to watch Dartz when every other sight, however indirectly, is competing for his attention.
The spines point towards the Basilica. Of course he should have known—it was Sunday, and likely their target was in Church, as a member of the nobility—perhaps even a member of the Doge's council.
"The Chiesa d'Oro…" He mumbles, studying the exterior of the basilica. The inside of it was supposedly covered with golden mosaics. He would very much like to see it, but right now he must wait for the service to end so he can locate the owner of the eye.
There is a small coffeehouse by the side of the square, and he locates an outside table to wait. Bakura settles into the empty chair opposite his, resting an elbow on the table. "I would not want to live in a place as noisy as this."
"Then you would not have liked Paris," Dartz replies, sotto voce, remembering the Terror with fondness. "It was noisy, too."
They wait until the doors open and a crowd begins to form as the people—their dress suggesting they belong to the nobility—begin to leave the Basilica. Dartz has a hand tucked inside his jacket to hold on to the spines of the Ring, to monitor their movement without making it visible, but the spines have not moved.
"He is still inside," Dartz says. "Or perhaps, he has entered the courtyard of the Doge's Palace."
"We should follow him." Bakura's impatience makes Dartz grin. "Can you talk your way inside?"
He responds in Italian. "Certamente, gente di poca fede. Oh, ye of little faith."
"Ah—this contact of yours?" He drums his fingers on the table as Dartz stands. When Dartz pays and moves back into the square, Bakura takes his time, weaving through the railings to stand beside Dartz. The spines move slightly, pointing towards the Palace, and Dartz's belief is even stronger that their target is inside.
"My contact is a member of the Council of Ten," he says to Bakura, heading for the Palace's entrance, its gates staffed at each side by guards. He approaches them, removing and presenting the letter he had been sent.
"I have a meeting with Zorzi Venier," he tells them.
Inside, the courtyard is empty, but he follows the spines towards the back wall and up a staircase. It has been years—centuries, even—since he was last here, but the Palace's layout is still familiar enough. There are voices coming from the Antechamber to the Hall of the Full Council, and the spines begin to tremble.
"Shall I investigate for you?" Bakura slides through the wall, and returns seconds later with a grin. "Oh yes, they are inside! Three men—one is certainly your target, with his right eye covered by a patch."
He chances a glimpse himself, spotting the three gentlemen in a mirror hung on the side wall of the antechamber. What little he can see of the frieze on the walls is lovely. For a moment, he considers the possibility of relocating to Italy after all of his business in France is complete.
"I suppose I should tell you about the true powers of the Millennium Eye." Bakura's drawl is so deliberately unhurried that it instantly rouses his suspicion.
"It can see into men's souls," he continues. "It can read the minds of anyone he chooses. Which will certainly be you, if you barge in there without a plan."
His hands drop the Ring to ball themselves into fists. His mind was too vulnerable to a power like that. A single glimpse would reveal far too much; he could not afford that. If he walked into that room, he would waste his best opportunity.
"I could help you out." Bakura is enjoying this, Dartz knows. "If you let me into your mind, we could switch back and forth. You can still find out what you want to know, but he would be unable to know your secrets."
"You agreed to help." The whisper is forced out through clenched teeth. "So help."
When Bakura speaks, his voice is louder for effect, echoing off the tall ceilings of the corridor. "Ah, but that was not our agreement! I have found it—there it sits! Go and retrieve it yourself." His body shakes with silent laughter.
"Is this my only solution? What is your price?" He finds, to his displeasure, that he has underestimated Bakura. And from the spirit's continued hilarity, he knows it.
"My final deal—I will assist you in any way required, including retrieving the Eye and offering my services in evading his mind reading, if you agree to return the Ring and the Eye to Egypt when we are done here. I require a host that is…not as willful as you. No offense meant. In addition, you will not remove the Ring without my approval—I can only appear to you while you are in contact with it."
He has little choice in the matter. "Done—on the condition that from this point onwards, you or any power you command will never interfere in any business of mine. Including my pursuit of powerful souls. I lost the Pharaoh once, and it will not happen again."
"Then I will be your most loyal servant," he says, the scorn accompanied by a slight bow of the head and his most teeth-baring smile.
Bakura disappears; the next second Dartz can feel something pressing against his head, the pressure not unlike a headache, not unlike the feeling of floating away on sweet oil of vitriol—he is still there, but now it is Bakura controlling his limbs and arms.
The conversation inside is still going strong. He walks inside, his thoughts a swirl, and finds himself back in control again.
"Signor Venier," he says, addressing the man closest to him, dressed in dark clothes that are a near match for Dartz's own in style. "I have been looking for you! You were not thinking of missing our appointment, were you?"
"Ne jamais, Monsieur Dartz!" He reaches out to shake Dartz's hand—Bakura's grasp is rather tight by the expression on his face—and turns towards the others. "Signor, may I present Alessandro Loredan and Tonso Christofalo Contarini." He gestures towards each in turn, and Dartz's mind slips away as his thoughts become violent; he has a name now—Loredan, the owner of the Eye.
"Signori, this is Dartz, an old friend of mine. He is a diplomat," Zorzi tells the others, to explain his accent and the ease in which he slips from Italian to French and back, yet looks like he belongs from neither country. "You will be staying for some time, yes? How are you liking the city so far?"
"It is very beautiful," he confesses.
"Yes, yes, we have need of your expertise!" Zorzi continues to talk in bombastic fashion, sweeping his arms out as he speaks. "The revolution…your country is in some trouble. Quite a state! And you know what they say, trouble spreads. I do not want us to have a Robespierre on our hands. Ah, but he is dead now. The guillotine—even the word is dreadful!"
"If you will be staying for awhile, you must come to the Ridotto with us." Alessandro had been quiet until then, but now he stares at Dartz with a muted curiosity. "Do you play basetta?"
"I admit I do not," he replies.
"Ah, do not gamble with Alessandro! He will take all your money." Zorzi grins at the two of them. "But we have a meeting to get to, don't we, Dartz? Another time, Alessandro, Tonso."
He waits until they are out of earshot before turning towards Zorzi. The exterior corridors are still empty, as is the courtyard. "We can walk around the piazza," Dartz says. Beside him, Bakura reappears, and the pressure on his mind is lifted.
"I want you to tell me everything you know about that man. Alessandro Loredan."
The Ridotto has a rule, a very formal dress code, and requires the wear of a cape, mask, and three-cornered hat to participate in the games. Bakura had laughed at him as he donned them, and continued to laugh for most of the journey to the Palazzo San Moisè. Inside, however, when each gentleman is better dressed than the next, Dartz stands out above them all. He had commissioned a whole new wardrobe over the past weeks—coats cut in such a way as to hide the Ring, and styles that are fashionable by Italian standards. The hats he can do without, but Dartz finds that he rather likes the masks.
His own is a dark black, bordered in red, and fits smooth to the face. Others are far more elaborate—the colors are more daring, the materials reflecting both sparkle and shine. Younger men, he surmises, far more likely to lose all of their money here tonight.
Zorzi's hat is too large for him, but he has stuck a feather in the top to match the blue of his mask. "What will your game be tonight?" he asks. "Biribi or Basetta?"
"I would like to watch, first," Dartz says. "Then I will decide."
The Biribi game is one of chance, not unlike the French cavagnole, with a choice of seventy numbers to bet on, and the winning number pulled from a bag. Basetta takes a few turns to understand—the stakes are much higher at these tables, and as in most card games, the advantage is to the dealer.
Zorzi leaves his side to attend one of the tables, and Dartz decides on Biribi. Bakura has been watching the tables with poorly concealed interest.
"You know, if you wanted to play the other game, I could tell you what cards everyone has." A game of chance would not interest him as much, Dartz thinks. There is no challenge or honor in his proposal, and Dartz would take very little pleasure in that kind of victory—unless his opponent is Loredan, but so far he has not spotted the other man.
He bets modestly for a few turns, losing each time. He bets higher on number one, and is pleased when that number is called.
"You know," Bakura comments, his tone conversational, "if you win sixty-four times your bet, and there are seventy numbers, the odds are not all that bad if you keep playing that you will lose money overall. Of course, that assumes you won't have to split the prize."
He plays a few hands of basetta, growing more frustrated at the game with each turn. He disliked any game where he did not have the advantage. Zorzi's laughter is the loudest thing in the room, but his next words, in a scandalized whisper, are even louder to Dartz's ears.
"My lady, you should not be here!"
"If I was to wait for my husband I would be waiting until next Ash Wednesday. Let me through, please."
The voice shocks him, stills him to the core. It is all he can do to turn around, his body feeling heavier than a cannonball. Before him, dressed radiantly, stands a woman he thought he'd never see again, her brown hair done up in curls and her face masked in red and silver. It cannot possibly be Iona, but here she stands.
He can feel Bakura pressing on his mind again as she makes her way towards a back table, where Alessandro is playing basetta. Dartz obliges, glad to have these particular memories submerged deeply.
Then, her words catch up to him. If I was to wait for my husband, she had said.
Her husband.
An overwhelming rage threatens to overtake him. He wants to overturn the tables and chairs, scatter all of the cards and the coins and sink the building to the bottom of the canal. But instead Bakura reigns him back, keeps his hands stiffly by his sides and his chin down, even as he listens with an intensity that reduces everything else to inconsequence.
"You are not wearing my present." He looks up from his cards for barely a second. "Wear it next time you go out. The masque, perhaps."
"Alessandro—"
"Why did you come? You should not be here." He raises a hand, gesturing for a friend—Zorzi answers, his current game over. "Someone, take her home."
"And when will you return?" Dartz tries to pretend he imagines the pain in her voice. "Tonight? Tomorrow?"
"I will return when it pleases me. Goodnight, Iona."
Seizing his chance, he folds, gathering his paltry winnings and following Zorzi out of the Ridetto.
"Signora Loredan?" They both turn at his words; Zorzi looks surprised but has the grace not to interrupt him, and he congratulates himself for finding such a good associate. "As I was leaving I saw you with my good friend Zorzi, and I thought to myself, two escorts are much better than one. Will you allow me to join your party? We could all share a gondola?"
"This is Signor Dartz." Zorzi makes the introductions as hastily as he can. "He is from France!"
"And how does Italy compare?" she asks.
"The wine here is inferior," Dartz responds, "but when it comes to the women, France cannot compare." He wonders how his boldness will be received. "Your husband is a fool for ignoring you."
"He is a fool in many ways, signor, you would have trouble naming them all." Oh, she is exactly as he remembers her. "But he is determined, and resourceful."
Zorzi successfully hails a gondola, and Dartz offers her a hand to help her in. "I would not return home just yet," she says. "Let us travel and see if there are any parties first."
"Carnevale will not really pick up until closer to Christmas," Zorzi tells her. "If you are so troubled, throw a party of your own! Spend all of the money your husband makes at the basetta table."
"He made much more in dismantling the Venetian merchant ships. He controls much of it—did you know that?—and his whispers in the Doge's ears will lead to war. Piedmont will fall should your general Buonaparte decide to invade. I know this, but no one listens to me."
"Of course, my dear, but you will not find sympathetic ears at a party!" Zorzi's humor is light enough that she only frowns slightly at his complete dismissal of her pleas.
"I have heard rumors, signora, that your husband has a golden eye behind his patch." Dartz does not add that he heard these rumors from Zorzi, and that they have been all but confirmed. He has only to see the Eye for himself to know for sure. "If I had something like that, I would not hide it behind an eyepatch."
"Remove your mask for me, please," Iona asks. Dartz obliges, hooking his fingers around it near his ears and removing it, taking the hat off too to make it easier. Her mouth drops when she sees his eyes, but the expression quickly changes into a smile.
"You have the…most intriguing eyes I've ever seen," she says. "Yet you hide them behind a mask! Is that not the same? Let me see them again, closer."
Iona leans forward, coming uncomfortably close as she looks into each eye in turn, from green to gold. "How strange," she whispers. "How beautiful."
She sits back, straightening her dress; Dartz can still smell her perfume, and he wishes for her to move nearer again.
"To answer your question, he does." The gondola passes the Danieli, and with regret Dartz announces his stop, asking the gondolier to pull up alongside it. "I far prefer your eyes to his golden one, signor."
Dartz attempts to act embarrassed, but he cannot manage anything less than delighted pride. "Then I will endeavor to make sure you see more of me." He bows, thanks Zorzi and the gondolier, and wishes them all goodnight.
With little room inside the felze cabin for him, Bakura had been perched on its roof, and gingerly makes his way to the dock after Dartz.
"Who is she?" he asks, making his impatience clear as Dartz waits for the gondola to travel out of sight before walking inside the hotel. "You acted like you knew her, but she clearly did not know you."
"Thousands of years ago," Dartz says, "she was my wife."
"She must have been reincarnated, then." Bakura gives him a rare look of pity. "You must ignore her if you wish for your plan to succeed. Should Loredan read her mind, he will grow suspicious of you. You can't hope to have what you once had with her."
"Do not presume to tell me what I can and cannot do." Dartz's voice is oddly steady as they climb the stairs to his suite of rooms. Perhaps from the window he can see their gondola? Ah, but it might be too late, if it already turned the corner on the Rio del Vin.
"You're crazy. I can almost respect that." He doesn't wait for Dartz to open the door, instead passing right through it. Dartz considers taking the Ring off and throwing it aside, if only so he doesn't have to listen to him anymore, but it would go against their agreement.
"I will have all of them. The Eye, the life of Alessandro Loredan, and Iona."
"And how are you going to manage that? It seems to me like wanting one will by nature hurt your chances of obtaining another." Bakura is thinking again of the games, he knows, the games of chance and of strategy. He should discover if Bakura is good at these games.
"I'll start," Dartz says, "by attending a masque."
November
He dresses in colors much brighter than he is used to, in an attempt to look less like himself. The deception would hardly last for long, as his mask has holes cut wide to display his heterochromic eyes—a color he did not have when they last knew one another. As for the Ring, it is hidden beneath his shirt; he finds it difficult to get used to its strange warmth when it is this close to his skin. He supposes he should consider it like a constant reminder from Bakura not to do anything that could jeopardize the two of them.
"If we are working together," Bakura tells him as he puts on his mask and hat, adjusting the cape so it covers his hair, "then I can count on you to focus on the task at hand and not on that woman."
"Do not worry so much, it only makes you look jealous." Satisfied with his appearance, he turns away from the mirror, opening the windows on the far wall to look out at the canal.
"Jealousy? The excuses you come up with." Bakura folds his arms across his chest.
"When I get there, I can learn if Alessandro is there or not by studying the Ring." He puts on his gloves last. "If he is not there, I will not require your services in shielding my mind."
"Hah. I'll stay with you, if only to keep you from doing anything unwise. I know you, remember?"
"Perfectly, you said." He pauses at the door. "Well, let's not keep Venice waiting."
The masquerade is so shockingly vibrant and loud that he cannot take it in all together. For someone who has lived for so long, never, he thinks, has he seen people live so much all at once. It's not just the masks, that make everyone look the same and yet so different, or the bright fabrics on the women and dark, moody colors for the men, or the dancing and the music and the drink. It's the way they act, so unrestrained, celebrating life and enjoying the best of it. It makes him feel old, truly old, for the first time in what might be centuries.
He passes men in masks with pointed noses like beaks, in the Medico della Peste style, fashioned after a mask worn by a doctor who treated plague victims, and the Bauta masks that cover the entire face. He had worn a Bauta maskback at the casino, but now he wears a half-mask, something less cumbersome, in creamy white.
He asks several women to dance, to re-familiarize himself with the dances of the time. With every turn, the colors of the ballroom swirl together, and combined with the music the effect is truly dizzying. On one turn, he spots a familiar face lounging against the wall—Bakura, looking uncomfortable and out of place next to all the spectacle. He's wearing red, like so many others in the room, but with nothing to do he can only watch, and his preferred target always seems to be Dartz himself.
The Ring had pointed straight as he paused at the threshold to the ballroom, one hand over his chest to hide where the spines threatened to poke through the front of his shirt. Still he could feel them, shaking every so often, pointing in one direction before turning suddenly to point at another. He cannot see any sign of Alessandro, and he is considering asking Bakura to find Alessandro for him when the spines jerk backwards violently. He turns, expecting to see Alessandro, but instead finds himself looking at Iona, walking right towards him.
"I knew it was you. I didn't even have to see your eyes." Neither of them seem to care that they are standing in the middle of the floor, and couples are returning to form as the music starts up again.
"Well? Aren't you going to ask me to dance? People are beginning to stare."
Bakura certainly is, but Dartz acquiesces and grasps her hands in his, moving to catch up to where the others left off, spinning in circles.
"I don't understand it, but I find myself drawn to you," she says. "Perhaps you could explain it?"
"Do you speak French?" he asks.
She laughs. "No."
"Je suis ton grand amour, c'est pourquoi. That is my best explanation."
The remainder of the dance passes in silence, and it is only at the end, when he bows to her, that he looks down from her eyes and finally sees the necklace she is wearing.
A thick golden band with a stylized eye in the middle, so familiar and unexpected that he holds the bow far longer than he should, thinking how fortunate it is that another of the Millennium Items has fallen into his grasp so easily.
"That's a beautiful necklace," he says. He casts a few furtive glances around, looking for Bakura. He needs to be here, to see this.
"Yes. It was a gift from my husband." She reaches up a hand to touch it, her fingertips lingering over the Wedjat Eye. "It's a shame he is not here to see me wear it, after he insisted so much. What should I care? I can find appreciation elsewhere."
The same hand reaches up further to tilt his hat up so she can better look at his eyes. "Dance with me again?"
He does, and the dance after that. Her eyes are darkened around her mask, and her hair is covered with so many jewels and feathers that it barely resembles the style he remembers, but he can see her mouth, smiling and laughing as he spins her. That sound, so familiar. He thought he would live forever and never hear that sound again.
She surprises him by standing up on her tiptoes and pressing a kiss against his mouth, as the other dancers continue to spin around them in a flutter of twirling skirts and capes.
"Can I see you again?" She continues to grasp his hands in hers, only releasing them when he pulls them away with reluctance. "I would like to. Before St. Stephen's Day? I'll send you an invitation to a party."
He nods and she smiles, before turning away and disappearing into the crowd. He does the same in the opposite direction, searching for Bakura. It is not long before the spirit finds him.
"Well done. You've found another Millennium Item."
"And what does this one do?"
"We hardly bargained for that, but I think I'll add it in for free." Bakura follows him as they enter the densest part of the crowd, where they can talk at leisure, their voices blending in to the dissonant chatter around them. "It can see the future."
He nearly trips, but catches himself before he bumps into a man in a tricorn hat and volto mask. "That's…quite powerful."
"Retrieve it. If she's learned of its ability there's no telling what she could have seen," Bakura says. He pauses. "If she has been reincarnated, that means she died. How did she die?"
Whether he asks out of curiosity or to twist the knife of his remorse in deeper, Dartz doesn't know. "I killed her. She turned into a monster, and attacked me. I killed my wife."
It is not the answer Bakura expects. "This woman may look like your wife, but she isn't. Try to remember that."
"It's a second chance, Bakura. How could I not take that?"
"Take it, then. Or find someone new. Or live alone—there's nothing wrong with that. As long as you fulfill your promises to me, I do not care what you do."
"Do not worry, I—"
Bakura has already disappeared, his body shimmering into nothing like the crystals lining the hems and bodices of every dress in the room, sparkling with a sharpness that is almost blinding.
"I keep my promises." He whispers it, not that anyone besides him hears it. These Items are far more trouble than they are worth. Bakura himself is proof enough of that.
The Ring pulses above his chest, still warm. Its presence now is so natural that he hardly notices it; he has not taken it off since he first put it on, true to his word. He wonders if that warmth comes from the Ring itself, or from Bakura. He wonders if the Necklace will be the same. He is eager to find out.
"You're very tense," Bakura remarks from his position lounging on a sofa, watching Dartz as he sorts their mail at the desk. One card stands out in particular, something on thick paper with embossed words, an invitation to the Palazzo Vecchio's Christmas party. From the address, the palazzo is right next door. "If you sit like that, your shoulders will tire and stiffen."
Dartz opens the invitation, reading it to himself. It asks him to bring a wrapped present for a gift exchange, but other than that it gives no indication of the size or scale of the party. Is it for family or friends? Dinner with almost certainly be served—
Startled, he almost drops the letter when he feels Bakura's hands on his shoulders. One of his thumbs digs into a muscle at the juncture of his neck.
"What are you—doing?"
"Tilt your head to the left." He continues to work on Dartz's shoulders and neck, pushing his hair out of the way with a hmph of annoyance. "You need this. How many centuries of tension do you have built up in your body?" He rolls a thumb up the back of Dartz's neck to his scalp, and he shudders.
He would pull away, but what Bakura is doing feels remarkably good. When Bakura stops to switch to the other side, he lets out a whine of protest.
"Demanding, aren't you?" His fingers smooth over Dartz's left shoulder, and he tilts his head to the right for better access, sliding the silk banyan he's wearing off one shoulder to get it out of the way. "Still, you get the point. Think about yourself for a change—only yourself, and your needs. Don't think about anyone else. That's what people like you and I need to do. It's how we keep ourselves alive—we have no time to worry about anyone but ourselves."
If Bakura truly believed that, he would not be here, sitting on the arm of a nearby chair, his talented hands all but wrapped around Dartz's neck. It's disconcerting, for the brief moment before he relaxes to it again, how much implicit trust that had taken.
As if reading his mind, Bakura leans closer, increasing his pressure as he kneads Dartz's shoulder with his thumbs. It feels very much like a reward.
"I saw some strange things the last time I was in your mind." The comment is almost offhand, and it takes a few seconds for Dartz to register it.
He straightens and pauses before tilting his head back towards Bakura to see him better. "And what did you see?"
"Lots of dead bodies. A city not half as beautiful as this one. Your home, I take it?"
"I think about it often. It does not surprise me you would come across it in my mind." The invasion of privacy doesn't sit well with him, though, and he wonders if that is an added trade-off to having Bakura help him evade the Eye. The price just keeps growing.
"We really do have too much in common." He laughs at the irony. "I can't wait until I'm free of you. The last thing I want is to spend the rest of both our lives at your whims. I want a host I can control for a change."
"And how will you find them?" Dartz asks.
Bakura's fingers are moving unconsciously now, the pattern mechanic as they work on his shoulders. "Fate will bring them to me. As long as you do not interrupt."
"I interrupt everything. But I will make my best effort. I did promise."
A laugh escapes him as Bakura withdraws his hands. "I know what I said before, but I was wrong. I don't understand you at all."
"That's good." Dartz leans back against the chair, as if seeking Bakura's touch again. If anything, his posture is worse now. "I wouldn't want to bore you."
"What are you thinking of?" Bakura asks. "Right now."
He considers the question for a moment. "I was thinking about the sea."
Bakura pauses. "I hate the sea."
Dartz does not comment. The oceans and seas are too vast and too empty, but the distance they provide is appealing. "I have no opinion on the matter," he finally says.
"Sure you don't."
They fall into a companionable silence, but Dartz's thoughts drift from the sea, back to himself, and on to count the days until December twenty-fifth.
Christmas, December
The rain has been steadily falling all day, but when he enters the Vecchio ballroom it's to music and laughter; the table is as large as he'd thought it would be, set with large plates and flickering candles, but the crowd is smaller. He knows almost no one there, but he is glad that Iona has arrived first and makes the necessary introductions between him and his host.
"Here, let me put that in the urn." Iona takes his present, adding it to the pile already gathering inside a large, ornamental bowl. "It's a tradition," she adds. "We'll each pull out a present after dinner."
She's wearing the Necklace again, to his satisfaction, and he has to stop himself from staring at it all through dinner. He'd settled for a gift of candy and fruit, and receives something similar himself. Bakura stands off to the side, watching the festivities and amusing himself by exploring the house.
The rain is falling so hard that they can hear it, the downpour like a waterfall in its intensity. When their host re-enters, wringing his hands in apology, and exclaims that the canals have flooded over, Dartz bases his reaction on those of everyone around him. Iona is oddly calm, but the others are much more vocal, inquiring about gondolas and asking about the depth of the flooding.
"We will try to get you all transportation. Please wait here if you like—there are a few bridges still above water, and a fondamenta right outside. Those of you who live close by can consider that an option."
He remembers that the Danieli is right next door. "I live all the way across town," Iona tells him. "Do you think I could walk with you? It will surely be easier to arrange transportation from a hotel."
The rain is so forceful that he knows every minute he wastes could mean the complete flooding of the pathway. "Come with me."
He can barely see out in the storm, and she clings to the back of his jacket. Once inside, they drip all over the marble floors of the foyer and Iona asks, not unreasonably, for a towel.
"No one will expect me with this weather," she says.
It occurs to him that she has firmly planted herself in his suite with a smoothness that is so natural he has almost failed to notice. The palazzo was right next to the Danieli. Somehow, she had known. About that, and the storm.
He remembers the necklace.
"May I stay?"
He could always refuse her nothing. "Of course."
When she reaches for him he does not stop her, and with every kiss, every touch, he realizes just how much he'd missed her. No one could ever compare.
She unclasps his cape, heavy and wet with rain, and it falls to the floor. He reaches for her Necklace and unclasps that next, moving with care to set it on the desk, beside a pile of letters. It is not as warm as the Ring, but it is still noticeably different from any ordinary piece of gold, reacting to his touch as if it was organic.
He has to unwind his cravat and unbutton the top of his shirt to reach the Ring.
Bakura stumbles through the doorway the moment he reaches it, tugging the rope over his neck. Of the three of them, he is completely dry, and the expression on his face is livid.
"Remember your promise! What are you—"
He disappears from sight the second the Ring leaves his fingers.
Dartz tosses the Ring aside, into a pile of clothes, and reaches instead for her.
She has his banyan wrapped around her shoulders. It's too big for her, but the green silk looks pretty against her skin. The rain stops with the morning light, and Iona turns towards him.
"I saw what you were wearing," she says. "That strange, golden circle. It matches my Necklace. You know about it, don't you?"
To call him surprised would be an understatement, before he remembers that she likely had fully grasped the power of her Item. "Yes. I understand what it can do."
"I saw you in my future," she says with a smile. "And the rain. I saw Buonaparte, and war, and chaos. My husband causes so much of it already. He wishes to become Doge—that will not happen. I even saw one future where he died. I did not tell him of this—secretly, I would not mind if it happened. Not that I would encourage such a future, either."
He wants to tell her that by telling him of this, that is exactly what she is doing.
"I do not want such a power. Would you like it? I saw a vision of you with it, in a desert. Otherwise, I think I might throw it into the canal."
"I will take it." Retrieving it from the canal would be nearly impossible.
She moves from the bed to the far window, opening the latch and peering outside. "Come look!" she calls. Before them, spread out in glassy smoothness, water stretches in all directions, covering the piazzas and the foundations of every building.
"The water is so high," she says, turning towards him as he joins her to look out the window. "It looks like glass, or a mirror. I look at it, and I feel like I'm looking at something I'll never truly know the depth of."
Her smile could shatter him. "Your eyes make me feel like that, too. This one more so." She reaches out to tap his cheek below his left eye. "I have never seen anything like it. How are your eyes like that?"
"I lost this eye"—and he reaches up to cover his right—"trying to save someone."
"What was she like?"
Dartz looks away, and Iona reaches out to him again in apology. "I am sorry if I made you uncomfortable. I could tell from the way you said it that it was a woman."
"Yes." She is so much like the Iona he remembers it is painful. "You remind me of her."
She blushes, before reaching up and grasping the sides of his face in her hands. She kisses him, once, before moving up and kissing the back of the hand still covering his right eye.
"Let me help you forget her, then." She kisses him again.
He can refuse her nothing.
1795 AD, January, Venice
He has not seen Iona in two weeks. For that time, Bakura has hardly spoken to him, save to give him directions on the best way to subdue Loredan.
"Epiphany has come and passed." Dartz has become very good at counting dates as of late. "The next major feast day is St. Anthony's Day, on the seventeenth. Two days from now. We'll call him to the Compass Room in the Doge's Palace on some pretext of a meeting between the Council of Ten—Zorzi can arrange that."
"You will give me full control of your mind when we confront him," Bakura says. "Hah. Like I would let you handle something so delicate."
"Any particular reasons?"
"Your recklessness knows no bounds. Loredan will have surely read her mind and will know everything you've told her. And I can command the Millennium Ring. You do not know the full extent of its power."
"I have used the necklace." Dartz's tone is sober, his expression withdrawn. "Only once. I understand why Iona wanted to be rid of it. But I have seen our success, if that was what you were worried about."
"You can arrange passage to Egypt, if you want to be useful." Bakura paces the floor of the bedroom, moving through the furniture as he repeatedly walks from wall-to-wall. His aggravation is evident in his every gesture. "We leave as soon as we have collected the Eye. I will hold you to your remaining promises."
Dartz looks up at him from the desk. "What happens to you when I am not in contact with the Ring?"
"I return to the darkness," he says.
"Is it…unpleasant?" It sounds it; he cannot imagine someone referring to such a thing as home.
"Very much so."
"But you said—"
"I know what I said. I spoke nothing but the truth. I may be a thief, but I prefer not to lie."
He certainly does not know Bakura as well as the spirit knows him, but for a moment, there is a glimmer of insight into Bakura's mind. "Then I'll trust you with Loredan. If he is to die it won't even matter if he reads our mind."
"Our mind? You've grown attached."
No, Dartz wants to tell Bakura, it is the other way around. Perhaps that is what Bakura meant when he advised him to seek his own interests first—if you spend too much time around someone else, you allow yourself to become attached. For someone with a probable immortality like theirs, attachment is a dangerous thing.
How fortunate, he thinks, that they have collided with one another. These Millennium Items might have even given the Orichalcos some competition.
When he stands amid the Saint Day festivities, looking up at the scalloped edges of the Doge's Palace, Bakura's voice is light in his ear.
"I'm going to take over now. Just relax."
His consciousness evaporates into an ever-present darkness, with the sweet, soothing sensation of being carried away by ether. When he next wakes, he is standing in the Compass Room over Alessandro Loredan's body, a golden orb streaked with blood in his right hand.
The Compass Room is said to be dedicated to the administration of justice. How appropriate, Bakura thinks. Justice will be carried out there that day.
He arrives early; a half-hour earlier than scheduled, just so he can wait. True, his patience does not rival that of the man of the ten-thousand-year-man, but when there is something he deeply wants, Bakura will wait for it as long as it takes. Thievery is just as much about the observation and waiting as it is about the act of stealing.
Dartz's body is an unfamiliar thing to inhabit. It is too lanky; the arms are not as strong as his. But they do not need to be for this.
When the door opens and Loredan walks in, his eyes unused to the dimness, Bakura swipes his feet out from under him with a kick. He hits the stone floor hard, the sound of his body falling as satisfying as the sound of his pained cries. He calls out for help.
Bakura steps on one of his outstretched hands, pressing down until he hears a snap. Probably one of the smaller fingers.
With Loredan's fingers ruined, Bakura reaches forward and tugs off his eyepatch. The golden eye gleams back at him. It has been so long since he has last seen it.
"You-! Dartz! You want my power for yourself, don't you? I should have known, you were using Iona to get to me—"
Bakura increases the pressure on his boot, replacing Loredan's words with more shrieks of pain.
Through his haze, he manages to stare up at Bakura, confusion written out on his features. "Your thoughts…I can't…what language is that?"
"Egyptian," he says. He has garnered enough Italian from his time in Dartz's mind, enough to converse in the small amount necessary to communicate his intentions towards his prey. "I figured you wouldn't be able to make sense of it. I will be taking your Eye now."
He groans as Bakura lifts up his foot. "Why-?"
Bakura removes the knife from its sheath at his hip, wrapping the fingers of his left hand around the hilt. "Why? Because I am a thief, and you have something I want."
1796 AD, Egypt
He can never truly forget just how hot the desert is. It's oppressive where the warmth of the Millennium Ring, still snug around his neck, is comforting. Dartz is sharing his mind with Bakura again; the spirit knows how to direct their camels, and he knows where they are going.
The Village of Kul Elna, he'd called it.
The Necklace and Eye rest in small sacks, wrapped in fabric to keep them from shifting. Dartz wonders how he's ever going to get out of here without Bakura to guide him. He supposes however long it takes him, he has the time.
Bakura insists on placing the objects himself, although it is Dartz's hands that move them to a tablet in the middle of what must have been a temple building. Bakura scowls at the missing spaces, pointing them out with Dartz's tongue. "Puzzle, Key, Scales, Rod…"
"There." The Ring lingers in Dartz's hand as he sets it over the tablet. "My promise is fulfilled."
"And you have my word I'll never interfere in your plans. Collect as many souls as you please." His mouth rises in a grin. "Even the Pharaoh's, if you can. It's sealed into one of the Items, as mine is."
This grabs his interest. "If I run across it, I will."
Bakura's voice turns lightly mocking. "I wouldn't have offered such a thing if I thought it possible for you."
"Gente di poca fede," he says. "Oh, ye of little faith."
"Perhaps we'll meet again," Bakura tells him.
Dartz thinks of the one vision he saw in the Millennium Necklace, before he'd torn it off and thrown it aside. "No," he says. "We won't."
His fingers release the Ring, and Bakura disappears.
End.
Notes:
1) Acqua Alta is the phenomenon of high water (the translation of 'acqua alta') due to "exceptional tide peaks that occur periodically in the northern Adriatic Sea" (Wikipedia). This did occur on Christmas of 1794. The quote at the beginning is by Dante, from the Divine Comedy. I mixed two different translations, since I liked the way each dealt with different lines.
2) This story was inspired by a quote from Episode 180, spoken by Dartz after Yami asks him why he didn't just take his soul in Ancient Egypt: "Because there was another individual threatening to destroy the planet and quite frankly he was in my way. But I knew my day would come. And it did. But the time wasn't right. So my wait continued."
3) I consulted a number of sources regarding canal geography, period clothing, and Venetian customs, but while my approach was to make the details as accurate as possible, I took a few things out of their original historical context. The Danieli, while a beautiful hotel, did not become one until 1822. The Ridetto, while the "West's first public, legal" casino, closed in 1774, although the details regarding the games played there are accurate (Wiki). Zorzi is the Venetian form of the name Giorgio, and Tonso is a nickname that refers to a short haircut (xD). Sweet oil of vitriol is the name for an anesthetic used at this time. Coffeeshops were very popular in Venice; the first European one opened in 1645! Gondolas of this time did have little cabins (a felze) and all information about the masks and clothing should be accurate. A banyan is a kind of dressing gown. It was very common for married women at the time to take a Cavalier Servente, or another lover outside of marriage. My understanding of Italian and French is very minimal, and I hope those translations are accurate as well. Je suis ton grand amour, c'est pourquoi translates to Because I am your great love, that's why. All other instances of gratuitous Italian and French should be translated in the text of the story.
4) Thank you for reading. I would appreciate and value your reviews!
~Jess