Darling Darkness
by Gewlface
It was such a long time ago.
Sometimes the memories of the olden days return, if only for a few brief, nostalgic moments. The comforting caresses of a mother with silken silver hair, the clipped voices of childhood playmates; all memoirs of a time long forgotten, of people who's names no one knows.
My mother was beautiful, from what I can remember of her. Most of the few years I spent with her are a blurry, warped, and distorted mess that I once tried to forget, to toss aside in hopes to make the pain of loss subside. Yet even if her appearance has mostly faded from the confines of my corrupt and muddled mind, I can still remember her voice. She'd a lovely, melodic voice, one that made the Gods stop in their day to day duties and listen, if only for a while.
She used to sing to me. It was always the same tune, a sweet, wordless lullaby that never ceased to put me at ease. Every night as I lay my head upon my pillow, there my mother sat at my beside where she hummed in her soft, melancholic voice until I drifted into the land of hopes and dreams. Even after her passing, the tune stuck with me. As I lay my head against my cradled arms in the cold of the evening desert, I would begin to hum a familiar, comforting lullaby. My voice never sounded nearly as good as hers did, especially during puberty, always cracking and breaking and completely wrong in pitch, but it still never failed to sooth my troubles.
It's been thousands of years since then. My mother's ashes are non-existent, her memory living on in only my undead heart.
Sometimes my Yadonushi has nightmares. In the dead of night he'll awaken, tears streaming down his pale cheeks like rain on a window. He'll clutch his duvet to his chest, bony fingers gripping the fabric tightly, almost desperately, and his gaze will shift to his bedroom door. He'll call for his mother in a broken whisper only to receive deathly silence in return.
And after an agonizingly long moment, he'll breathe out a trembling sigh and bury his face into his pillow, silently weeping into the plush cotton. Sometimes he falls asleep quickly, and other times he'll lay awake for hours, his breathing uneven as he spills his emotions into the cotton.
There's one thing I've always admired about my host; he was never one to let his sadness show. No matter how many times I tried to break him, to bend him to my will, he would always remain strong. In the face of fear, of death, he would simply smile with determination, always keeping that fire in his eyes burning brightly.
But I suppose even the strongest of people have their weak points.
Perhaps it's because I take pity on him, as both of us have lost our families. I understand his pain better than anyone, know his suffering. Maybe it's because he dreams of me sometimes. I haunt his nightmares, dominate his biggest fears. Perhaps there's simply no other reason except that his incessant crying annoys me, but I often find myself humming a familiar tune during these nights.
I sit beside my Yadonushi, just beside his head, and the melody that carried me through even the toughest of times begins to slip from my vocal chords. If I'm feeling generous, I run my translucent fingers through his snowy hair soothingly.
I'm but a spirit, and alas, he does not see me nor feel me, not even hear me. His soul, however, is aware of my presence, and without him realizing he's doing so, he calms and soon drifts off, back to the land of hopes and dreams.
During meals, Yadonushi likes to speak to himself. It's a bit odd, but I'd be lying if I said I'd never done so in my lifetime.
He likes to think that his family lives on even after death, that they're still with him, watching over him silently. He thinks they're by his side, guiding him. Sometimes I wonder if I'm the cause of this idea. He assumes that I'm not the only spirit that haunts him, that the ghosts of his mother and sister also live in the human realm.
I've never found the time to tell him that this is completely and utterly false.
Yadonushi always cooks enough food for four people. Four places are set at the table; one for himself, one for Amane, one for his mother, and one for his father. Four dishes are set out at breakfast, lunch, and dinner, three remaining untouched throughout the duration of the meal. He'll sit in his seat (the one furthest from the window, because Amane always liked the outdoors and therefore deserved the window seat), bless the meal ("thank you for the meal, and for my loving family"), and then proceed to speak to them as if they'll listen and answer him.
"How was your day?" He'll always ask them first to be polite. "Mine was good." Even if it wasn't, he'll always try to find the better, more positive sides of things.
I stand behind him as he eats and makes small talk. There was a time when I would silently mock him, when I would sit in his family's seats just because I could and they couldn't. But I don't do these things anymore, for whatever reason. Maybe it's because I grew bored of these antics; after all, he can't see me, so there's really no point.
"How was your day?" He asks. Today is no different than any other day.
"It was boring, especially while you were at school." I reply. He listens intently despite the fact that he can't hear a word I say.
"Mine was good," he murmurs, taking a bite of his food.
I scoff. "Liar. You failed a maths test. I know you're upset over it."
He continues to speak to his family, and I, as the only other presence in the room, listen, occasionally offering a comment or answer of my own.
He doesn't mention the maths test.
In my time, an unmarried woman who has been bedded was considered spoiled goods. It was nearly impossible for someone labeled as such to find herself a suitor, for no one wanted a whore for a wife.
It has never ceased to amaze me how far society and morals have progressed over the millennia. Or perhaps decreased is a more suitable word. At ages of sixteen and even younger, women are having children. They bed far before they wed, and often with multiple people. Such a thing is typical in this time.
In a culture that so widely accepts sex, it's only natural for someone as physically appealing as my Yadonushi to have passes made at them. He's popular with the opposite gender, and is even such with his own. Whoever isn't drawn to his looks are captured by his enticingly sweet smile and kind brown eyes. Some would dream to marry him one day.
Yet some only want him for bodily use. I've seen the hungry looks in other mortals' eyes, be it at a mere passing on the street or in a school classroom. His delicate features are something to be desired, and some people let their desires lead them to do foolish things.
I always walk beside my Yadonushi. Down the street, in the halls, anywhere; I'm always at his side. I'll be there to protect him from harm, to make sure that not a single hair on his head is misplaced. His body is my body too, after all.
There's been multiple times where strangers would approach him. They would ask for directions, claiming they were lost; make pointless attempts at conversation, trying to play the social type. Anything they could think of to take advantage of Yadonushi's naive and accepting nature they would do, and of course he would extend immediate friendship and kindness unto them. I would stand at his side, waiting for the inevitable advance to be made. And then it came; the outstretch of a hand attempting a grab, the reach for a weapon, the beckoning of a companion who'd been lurking in the shadows.
Immediately they would come face to face with someone who was most definitely not the innocent Bakura Ryou. This person was terrifyingly ruthless, releasing an aura of confidence and sadism that one could nearly choke on.
I didn't hold back as I broke their fingers and gouged out their eyes, took their souls and trapped them into game pieces to play with at a later time. And I laughed. I laughed as they screamed, as they begged and pleaded. Hysterically, maniacally, uncontrollably. My laughter didn't cease even as my host faded back into consciousness, his eyes widening and hands flying to cover his mouth as he tried not to gag, as he doubled over and slid to his knees, dry heaving and retching.
"Y-you monster!" He would scream, clutching his head as if it would hurt me. I would appear before him in spirit form, unseen by his eyes, and only now would my laughter begin to die out. "Why, Spirit?! Why do you always kill them?! Am I not able to have a single friend in my life?!"
"I'm sure they were intending to be more than just your friend," I sneer back at him. "Was I supposed to let them rape you? Let them violate you? Why can't you see it my way? I'm protecting you!"
He doesn't listen. "I wish you would just go away! You ruin my life!"
A while later, when he finds the strength to stand, I walk at his side once more as he makes his way home.
Consumed with immeasurable agony, he tosses and turns within the confines of his hospital bed, his brow slick with sweat and his slender fingers fisted in the sheets. My singing doesn't help him tonight. The tears that slip from his eyes are revolting, and I wish more than anything that they'd simply disappear.
This is my fault.
My eyes wander to the bandages wound around his left forearm, specks of crimson dying the white fabric in a bloody canvas. It's hurting him. Yadonushi sobs in his sleep, barely distinguishable words pleading and begging for the pain to subside. Painkillers didn't work on him, and now his body is paying the price.
"Nngh... Spirit."
He calls for me to help him.
Marik, my partner in crime, enters the hospital room, wrinkling his nose at my host's mumblings of pain. He glances about as if looking for me, the fool, and I reluctantly allow my consciousness to bleed into Ryou's head. His eyes open, voice falling silent, and stares bitterly in Marik's direction.
I have full control over my host. I wiggle his fingers and curls his toes, blinking his eyes and licking his lips. "What is it," I say alas, satisfied with my experimenting.
The Egyptian rolls his eyes, sending me a look as though I'm supposed to know already. I don't, however, and I send a glare right back at him.
"We need to get a move on with the plan, Bakura," he elaborates eventually, having put up a valiant effort but giving up in the end and stating his business. Business that does not appeal to me in the least.
"In case you hadn't noticed, Yadonushi is still bedridden. He's not to leave the hospital for another few hours at the very least."
"And?" Marik's eyes narrow in what I assume is supposed to be a threatening manner. "The boy doesn't matter. You can still operate the body, can't you?"
The pain in my host's arm is suppressed by Shadow Magic when I am in control, thus allowing me to go about as though he were in perfect condition. It would, however, explode as though a dam were broken once Ryou was given control again.
Perhaps I fear that my host will go into some sort of shock when this happens, because the idea of following through with Marik's plan doesn't feel like a swell idea.
I tell him this. "Yadonushi will stay here, lest I cause harm to our body by moving him."
Marik does not look pleased in the least bit. His teeth grit, nostrils flaring, and for a moment I wonder if he'll try to brainwash me with the Millennium Rod. Instead he gestures angrily at the window, implying the outdoors, and says, "We don't have time to wait, Bakura. If someone gets to the finals before us, we lose everything we've built so far! We need to find the Locator Cards."
And he has a point. Every minute counts, and spending extra time in the hospital would waste far too many. So, somewhat reluctantly, I agree.
Looking back, perhaps I should not have saved Yadonushi from Osiris. Doing so lost me far more than just the Battle City tournament, and it seems as though he's grown more comfortable with my presence somehow because of it.
He'd looked so frail out there, confused and pained, and I knew he likely wouldn't make it through the attack. Despite Marik's yelling, I took over Ryou's body, taking the damage so that he would not have to. I need him to survive, need his body, and so it was the only logical thing to do.
I had no choice.
But he dreams of me now. He'd always dreamed of me before, of course, but it's different now. I'm no longer the monster under his bed, no longer his worst nightmare. He doesn't dream of me murdering his friends, taking him over, or hurting him like before. Instead, he almost depicts this dream me as some sort of savior.
I see myself throwing my translucent body before him, arms outstretched like a barrier, expression fierce and determined. I see him watching me, eyes wide, as a burst of light crashes into my chest, engulfing me, chipping away at my form until there's nothing left but a memory. It's a rather dramatic event, but it has an ethereal beauty to it as well. I often wonder if that is what he saw; me, giving my life for him, arms opened to death, uncaring; if perhaps he's exaggerating.
He sets a fifth place at the table in the kitchen now as well, and I've long since decided that it can't possibly be for me. Yadonushi is supposed to hate me with all of his being. He would never imagine himself sharing a casual meal with me.
When he is approached on the street, he turns away from the seemingly kind people with an apologetic smile and continues on his way. Perhaps he has learned his lessen by now. Perhaps he has realized that they merely want things from him, things he should never give away willingly. Perhaps he wants to protect them from me.
I walk alongside him; always, always. He doesn't notice, or perhaps he does, but I'm always there, always watching, protecting. I need his body too.
Our body.
A/N: One and the Same should be updated sometime this weekend. For now, have this random oneshot I wrote over 2 years ago that I found in my OneDrive earlier today.
Any feedback or criticism is appreciated. Review(?)