A/N: At last, after many promises, I have managed to write and upload the first chapter of my new multi-chaptered story, Hybrid Darkness. I can say with certainty that it is going to be long - probably 80,000 words or more. I have already typed around 40,000 words, which unfortunately are middle chapters which nobody is going to see for a while.

This is...not a sequel to Northern Darks in the strictest sense of the word; it has the characters portrayed as a little older than before, but the only thing I really kept from ND is the fact that Bakura Ryou has shadow powers. Besides, I hate ND with a vengeance. It shocks me that my style was ever that bad, that immature... This is, hopefully, going to be a hell of a lot better. It feels better; most of this chapter seemed to flow. It just seems a little ironic that I wanted a short, snappy first chapter, when in fact it is in excess of 5000 words. Bah.

And I have finally found a few websites with a decent amount of Arabic vocab, so now I can put it in all the words I somehow managed to miss out. And all reviews are going to be answered personally at the bottom of the page from now on (and flamers beware: I can have a hell of a sharp tongue at times).

Hybrid Darkness

Chapter One: Opening

It was five thirty-two in the evening, and twenty-seven degrees Celsius.

Bakura Ryou gave another desperate tug and at last succeeded in heaving his suitcase off the endless conveyor belt just before it disappeared behind the plastic strips and began another cycle. He had already attracted plenty of glances during his struggle, and managed to earn even more as he dragged his baggage painfully across the slick airport floor. Perhaps his yami had always been right and he was just weak. The thought made it a little easier to endure the pitying/exasperated glances of onlookers, even though he knew that they themselves would have struggled with such a load, had they cared to try. Too many knives and not enough clothes. He had only just managed to squeeze under the twenty kilogram limit for suitcases, (that was officially: in reality, he had had to do a lot of pleading and relaying of stories involving musical instruments and other heavy but accepted objects before they had let him through). The actual weight of his suitcase was closer to a formidable thirty kilograms and, at only barely more than double that weight himself, his slight frame rippled with exertion at every metre he covered. Not that he could really explain any of this to his audience. He paused for breath, leaning against his baggage as his heart throbbed against his ribs.

The heat certainly was not helping, serving only to contribute further to his fatigue. He had taken the advice of his hosts and purposely chosen a flight predicted to arrive in the late evening, so that he would avoid most of the heat – which was why, of course, his plane had landed early. He downed another draught of air, and resumed dragging.

He had almost reached the door when his fingers treacherously uncurled, and his suitcase slipped from him. He scrabbled, and almost succeeded in bursting it open, which would have been a fitting, if undeserving, end. Somehow the sides clung to each other and his possessions remained inside and intact, much to his relief. He was quite certain that if he ended up spilling everything all over the very clean floor then he would be in a lot of trouble, from quite a few people. God knew it had been horrifying enough trying to get through Customs. He was carrying more weapons than the average terrorist and could probably have used them better. The knife strapped to the inside of his calf alone was enough to land him in an interrogation room for a good few hours, and that would be before they discovered the others. Ryou thought that the other side of him would have intervened if the situation came to that, but he was not completely certain: it would have struck him as rather amusing. And there was always the possibility that he would just have left his lighter self to deal with things – "just to prove that you can actually do something with those knives apart from polish them."

He strained his way over the last few metres and to the doors, secretly relieved when they slid open before him: he was not quite sure if he would have managed to push them open. And it was not just that he was tired, he thought defensively – dammit, doors were heavy. Especially big, solid glass ones.

He half-fell through the opening and onto the pavement. His legs wobbled threateningly and he sat down heavily onto the cause of his exhaustion, feeling the plastic sides buckle a little more under his weight. His throat felt as dried out as the meat one sees hanging in butcher shops, and the subsequent air he breathed in was a shock, not icy but instead sapping the very last of the moisture from the inside of his mouth. Almost ridiculously humid: well, he had been warned. And he had come prepared, but it was still a surprise. Just the beginning of the great fog of unfamiliarity he would be engulfed in over the next few weeks. And so he closed his eyes and gulped down great mouthfuls of Egyptian air.

Presently, the flush calmed from his cheeks. He did not allow himself to think about how it made his skin glow and his eyes darken with vitality; if anyone had chanced to point out that he looked even more pretty than was usual, well, he would not have answered rudely or abruptly; but something would have dimmed in his eyes, and the eagerness would be gone from his voice. Keeping one hand on the handle of his suitcase, he straightened his denim-clad legs and leaned against the wall. Some of the glances he had received could be attributed to the fact that he was probably the only person in the country or, indeed, the ones surrounding it, who was clothed completely in black. He fancied that he was giving off foolish tourist vibes, and disliked it. He was perfectly aware that he would be hot in black; someone else, however, was not quite so reasonable. Well, reasonable was not the right word to use – that was disrespectful – so suffice to say 'concerned'. Better. And that someone else was more concerned that he always be seen wearing nothing other than black, and less concerned that it would result in the wearer having a thick, oily layer of sweat underneath.

Ryou was determined, though, to make certain that if he must be seen wearing black for the next few weeks then it would only be after the sun had gone down. God, he would end up overheating within nanoseconds if he stumbled around Egypt like this during the day. And whatever effect being clothed from head-to-toe in black would produce would be slightly negated by the fact that he would also be very dead.

He allowed himself to begin looking around for the person picking him up, although he did not expect much. After being informed on the plane that they were now predicted to land around forty minutes early, he had retreated to the toilet with his mobile phone – admittedly, something passengers were discouraged from doing, but the plane had stayed in the air as far as he could tell so it seemed all right – but a hasty call had led to him being interrogated by an answerphone in Arabic, so he had nervously left a message in Japanese (what else was he supposed to use: English?) and hoped he had got the right number. Granted, his other self could have taken over, being just as fluent in Arabic as he was in Japanese and English, but that would have meant making Ryou's life more convenient, and that was not something that his darker half was generally inclined to doing.

Speaking of dark halves, his was showing little interest in their surroundings at present, which was a little out of character – Ryou would have thought that his other would have preferred to make himself at ease with the new surroundings before meeting their hosts, so that when he presented himself it would be with him completely nonchalant and unperturbed. Although generally not one to show when he was excited, the long and somewhat uneventful flight had rendered the spirit indifferent, and Ryou was not even sure if he was still awake. He supposed that it was quite a prudent idea to fall asleep, so that one would awake refreshed and ready to cope with the dramatic time-difference, but sleep had eluded him on the plane and, left with no one to converse with, he had fallen to gazing apathetically at the back of the seat, reviving enough now and then to glance at his watch.

He watched as taxis drew up hungrily, waited, and then roared away, their bellies now full of people. Fragments of Arabic floated on the air, too unfamiliar for him to remember them. People gabbled to each other in a jabbing, slightly guttural tongue that he made himself listen to, so that he might get the feel for the sound of the language. He had tried, before the journey, to get his yami to teach him at least some basic words so that he might write it down and have something to refer to; within seconds, however, the futileness of this had become plain to both of them. Attempting to get a yami to teach you a language was like asking someone who had stayed in one country their entire life and never watched television to tell you what made their culture so different from everybody else's: they simply could not do it. To a yami, a language wasn't a completely different way of speaking but just something small and effortless like putting on a slightly different pair of clothes. They just took the information from their hosts' minds and after a while it became so effortless that they didn't even realise they were doing it. Ryou had seen his yami conversing with Malik once; he had been switching between Japanese, English and Arabic without so much as a pause for breath. Malik had kept up at first, but then Bakura had begun to interweave Japanese with English (which his companion could barely understand anyway) while keeping all his verbs in the same way as an English person would (Ryou had not even known that it was possible to do that while still creating a coherent sentence); it had ended in the Egyptian shrieking at the spirit to stop because he had a migraine.

One of the vehicles which had been parked at the end of the street for a few minutes now had begun to honk its horn, blasting sound-waves at everyone in proximity, and Ryou had just enough time to wonder if everyone in Egypt used their horns so vigorously before someone stuck an arm out and waved at him. His face burst into crimson and he fumbled for his suitcase.

Behind him, someone was hurrying up to him; he could only tell that they were moving in haste because of the rate of their footsteps, as when he looked up they were standing there in a demonstration of perfect composure, every strand of long dark hair in perfect parallel to its neighbour. "Allow me to help you with that, Ryou-kun." The speaker, clad in a low purple top and jeans, contemplated briefly whether '-san' would be more appropriate; Ryou was, after all, nineteen now.

The slender figure straightened. "Oh…aa, arigato, Isis-san." He gave her a self-conscious little smile. "Konbanwa."

So polite still, she mused. And so cute. Still. Restrain yourself now, woman, she thought good-humouredly; he's four years younger than you. "Let me bring this to the car for you. In Egypt, by the way, we say 'Marhaba.'"

"Marhaba," he repeated dutifully, and she laughed.

"Inta betettallam. See? You are learning already."

While dragging the suitcase over to the car (she was doing a better job than he had done, he noted ruefully): "Did you have a good flight?"

"Yes, I think so."

She heaved his baggage into the boot. "Japan is about seven hours ahead of us, isn't it? So, almost two in the morning…by Osiris, you must be exhausted." She indicated for him to settle himself in the back of the car; he sank gratefully into sagging material. "I am afraid Malik-chan won't be with us until a little later; you see, you weren't originally due to arrive for a while, so I sent him shopping for supper."

"That's fine. So you found my message?"

"Yes." She smiled at him. "You sounded very embarrassed."

His cheeks glowed and he retreated back into the seat. Isis gave another smile and told herself to stop teasing him.

They conversed little during the journey; Ryou was, indeed, exhausted, and found solace in a comfortable dent of material at just below head level. He was just beginning to doze off; thus, fate dictated that he would be disturbed, and disturbed he was, by the sound of Isis' mobile phone tinkling away from somewhere under the seat. She plucked it out neatly and spoke some words in Arabic, while continuing to drive with one hand.

"Ryou-kun?"

He raised his head in drowsy obedience, eyes half-open.

"My brother wishes to know what you would like for supper." Isis passed him the phone; he took it with a fumbling white hand.

"'Lo?"

A low, amused sound emanated from the speaker into his ear. "Ra, you sound shattered. Although I don't think I am supposed to say that…etiquette demands that I ask how your flight was instead."

"It was all right." The conversation was forcing him to wake up; he had to concentrate a little more than usual, due to the familiar light lacing of accent running along each word. He found that he still liked it.

"Do you think you can manage anything to eat? Don't worry if you can't. You can go straight to bed if you wish."

He rubbed his eyes firmly. "Iie, I'll have something. I want to try and get into Egyptian time as soon as possible."

"Good idea. So, what would you like?"

"I don't really mind. Something Egyptian…what would you usually have for an evening meal?"

Silence while the other thought. "Hm. There's Kosheri; that's quite light, it's rice and lentils with a tomato sauce. Or Ruzz Bi-l-khudar, which is just rice with vegetables. Or Ful Medammes, which is fava beans cooked with parsley and garlic, and sometimes chilli."

Uncertainly: "What are fava beans?"

"Nani? Jaa… I don't know what one would call them in Japanese. Ask nee-san."

Ryou held the mobile away from his mouth. "Isis-san? What are fava beans?"

She considered for a moment. "…Broad beans. Soramame desu. Similar, at least."

"Like soramame," Ryou informed the Rod-bearer.

"Ah. And I thought I was going to be teaching you some of my language."

"That could actually be quite likely. I only know 'yes' and 'no.'"

"Maalish. There's another word for you. It means 'never mind.' Anyway, what would you like?"

"Um…Ful Medammes?" Ryou answered tentatively, selecting the only one he could still remember.

"Okay. I will try and have it cooking by the time you arrive. Ma'assalama. See you in about half an hour."

He handed the mobile back to Isis, who stowed it absently in the side compartment. "What are we all having for supper then?"

"I…think it had those fava beans in it."

"Ii desu ne."

Ryou leaned back against the seat and let his eyes flutter shut. The next few weeks were going to be strange, undoubtedly. But they also felt as if they were going to be quite enjoyable.

"Sugoi na," he mumbled sleepily.

His other prodded him. ((I think you mean 'kowiess.')) He yawned, turned over, and went back to sleep.

………

Weariness proved to be every bit as contagious as it was supposed to be, and this, combined with his original fatigue, resulting in Ryou doing exactly what he had lectured himself not to and falling asleep in the back of the car. The stuttering of the car engine roused him just as they pulled in, much to his subsequent relief. Isis seized his suitcase at once, and although he made a half-hearted attempt to convince her that he was not pathetic to the degree of not being able to pull along his own luggage, he was secretly glad. His other self was now awake and belatedly showing interest in the fact that they were now in Egypt – at least, that was what Ryou inferred from his alertness and the stirring feeling in his mind that told him someone was sitting up and looking around. It helped: at least with part of himself awake it meant that his eyes would stay open. How rude it was for him to be so tired; he felt ashamed, without knowing quite how he could do anything to resolve it.

Isis was unlocking the door of the museum now and he hurried after her, stopping immediately after entering to gaze around in wonder. Although clear enough to show off the frayed wall-hangings on display, the quality of the lights was so soft that it was almost as if they were not electrical but something more natural and akin to candelight, so far away were they from the harshness that he was accustomed to from typical electric lighting. The light did not appear to be directed at one thing but instead spread gently around the entire room, except at odd points where it had been carefully placed to emphasise something of particular interest or worth. The effect was almost to make it seem as if all the lighting was from a natural source, and to lend the place an air of timelessness, as if it had not been erected in the middle of an overcrowded city but had always been there and had simply grown and developed over time, and while it might be nudged to lean a little more in one direction or another by a neighbouring building it would still remain adamantly as it had always been, largely overlooked by time and the things it brought.

And then, of course, there were the things inside, the things it had been created to display. Paintings, carvings, wall-hangings, busts of Pharaohs of long ago with gold in their hair and around their necks and their eyes painted with kohl; photographs of things that could not be brought here, such as the insides of tombs; little pieces of jewellery that might have adorned the neck of some Egyptian women a few thousand years ago, and the carefully placed displays of the things that would have adorned her home – tiny statues, painstakingly carved, of the family Gods, Anubis and Bast and Amun and Ptah; a number beyond overwhelming, and yet only a fraction of the things that could be used to represent the Egypt of ancients. Ryou stared around him, trying to see it all at the same time, and wishing that the sketchbook locked not-very-securely inside his suitcase could be in his trembling hands; even knowing that he had weeks and weeks to scrutinise the objects around him with the time they all deserved was not enough to lessen his longing. How lucky the Ishtars were to always have such a beautiful slice of history around them; and he thought that years and years could go by before familiarity was established enough to breed contempt within him, as the old sayings said it would. Certainly Malik did not talk often of the treasures his family had access to; and Ryou knew that, at one point at least, the Rod-bearer had tired of guarding such things. Yet Ryou's more recent memories of him contained moments of his eyes lighting up when he spoke of the Pharaohs' riches, voice now finally beginning to reflect that same muted fervour that his sister's always had.

But even his most recent memories of the youngest and most volatile member of the Ishtar family had been stored over three years ago, and Ryou was uncertain how to act when they were finally brought together again. They had parted friends, of a sort – well, at least not enemies; although Isis was treating him now with unfluctuating respect, Ryou had no idea whether her younger brother would do the same. There had been a defined awkwardness between them during the last few times of chance meetings, and he knew that Malik was always going to be more comfortable around the presence of his other self, which was why Ryou was always too eager to retreat at the earliest opportunity. After all, the initial invitation to come to Egypt had been offered to the spirit of the Millennium Ring, and not his host. It was merely taken for granted that Ryou would come, contributing to the pile of baggage. And now Isis was acting as if he were just as welcome, and it confused him a little.

He broke his gaze away from the vast, vast array of ancient objects surrounding him, and meekly followed his hostess to a side-door on the far side of the hall, keys chinking emptily against each other as she unlocked the door to reveal a steep staircase leading up into darkness; he stepped uncertainly after her as his footsteps echoed hollowly off the marble floor, leaving the small piece of history behind him.

…………

There were hanging dishes for incense set into the walls, explaining at once the lingering aroma of sandlewood he had detected while ascending the stairs. He had expected to see rigidly traditional décor, but instead found something that, while probably not available at the nearest furnishings shop, was just as modern as the laptop shoved haphazardly on the sofa; a tasteful and effective blend of white-painted walls and paintings done in the old styles by long-haired, uncommissioned artists crouching in their undersized, overpriced studios. Here and there were suggestions of what was displayed on the floor beneath, and of the most valuable objects, not displayed at all; small figures of gold gleamed secretively from mantelpieces, and a trio of large, deftly-sculpted cats observed everything from within their solid stone bodies.

Ryou reached out – it seemed disrespectful to go too near their eyes, behind which something seemed to gleam, so instead he lowered his arm and placed a long-fingered hand behind the largest's black ear. The delicate pad of his finger was cushioned by a slight, though not generous, layer of dust. He smoothed it away.

"Ahlan wa sahlan. Welcome to our home." Isis accompanied the words with a slight smile, and Ryou hastened to focus his attention more appropriately.

"Thank you for letting me stay here. It really is kind of you."

"I'm sure it will be a pleasure to have you stay with us."

"Your hospitality is appreciated." It wasn't, but if such words mollified mortals then that was all very well. The Ring's entity, clothed in his usual quietly menacing black, stood a few paces behind his host. He graced Isis with a brief glance, the gesture customary and only to accompany his words, before folding his arms. His close-fitting shirt was rolled up to the elbows, revealing the gleam of preternaturally white skin as his arms, slightly scarred, settled fluidly into place.

To Isis, Ryou appeared both reassured and flustered by the eventual appearance of his darker self, glancing at him for a moment, hopefully, it seemed, before turning back to his hostess with slightly nervous eyes.

A door slammed, and the two mortals twitched. Unseen by them, Bakura smirked a little.

Isis leaned over the banisters, the move appearing to all eyes casual but in reality a carefully calculated rearranging of her limbs to ensure that everything stayed firmly in place. She called a long string of Arabic down the stairs, and there was a faint reply.

There then came the regular stomping of feet on stairs, the rhythm of someone who would walk far faster and more jauntily if they were not weighed down with unnecessary baggage. Malik Ishtar fought his way to the top of the stairs, pushed his tousled blond hair out of his eyes, and said, "Hey."

Bakura smiled.

Someone else was delighted to see him: there came the pitter-pattering of scrabbling claws, and something leapt up at the Egyptian and started trying to wash him. Malik let out an exclamation in Arabic that caused his sister to glower and say "Ahkii…" at him, as he attempted to hoist the new arrival out of his shopping bags. Ryou obliged by reaching out for this wriggling thing, and was astonished to find himself fishing out a large Siamese cat. It had moved so such speed that he had not even registered what it was.

Isis contented herself with removing the bursting shopping bags from her brother and taking them off to the kitchen, muttering darkly.

Malik smiled at them, while Ryou found himself being washed fastidiously by the cat. "Don't mind her. She's hungry; I was intending to feed her before I went out." He scooped his pet off Ryou, and tucked her carelessly under his arm as he shook hands with them both. He was a lot taller than Ryou remembered – probably over six foot now. He returned the handshake almost shyly.

His other showed no such lack of ease; although there was certainly nothing approaching warmth in his manner, there was a definite lack of coldness, which amounted to much the same thing. He nodded briefly at Malik, and then held out his hands for the cat, making the Egyptian laugh wryly.

"Nice to see you too." He handed the animal over, though. "She's called Layla. I don't think they had Siameses three thousand years ago?"

Bakura grunted non-committedly, engrossed in examination. He held one of the bemused cat's paws between his long fingers, looking with intrigue at its chocolate colouring, and the way it contrasted with the milky-cream of the body, before releasing it and scratching her head. Layla lapsed into confused purring, deepening into a more throaty sound as the scratching intensified.

The two lighter halves exchanged looks, one tentative, the other amused. "Shall I give you a tour of the house?"

Ryou nodded obediently, and the Egyptian led him off. The spirit of the Ring stood there for a few moments, lost in thoughts of another time, where creatures such as the one he bore now would be the objects of worship, of whose reverence the world would never see again. Surprised at himself, he rubbed the top of the silky head in a dismissal both of the cat and of foolish nostalgia, and released Layla, who slid in disappointment to the floor. He wiped the hairs off his shirt in quick, disdainful movements, and wandered after his lighter half.

"This is Isis' room," Malik was saying. "The bathroom is just here. The lounge and kitchen are at the end; Rishid's room is on the left, and my bedroom is just here." The spirit of the Ring could detect more of an accent lining the Egyptian's words than before, suggesting that someone's Japanese had become a little rusty. Not that this led to any increased disdain on the spirit's part: he liked Malik's accent, although he could not have said why.

He sauntered lazily in after the two lighter halves. A person's bedroom could tell you plenty of interesting things about them: like a soul room, but easier to read. And you could always learn more about a person by witnessing them in their home then you could ever hope to do by seeing them in other people's. Three years was a long, long time; in an odd sort of way, it was more difficult to adjust to than three millennia, for in three millennia continents could change shape, ice ages could happen and new Gods could be thought up and duly worshipped. So many changes occurring that you could merely resign yourself to being permanently behind, and not become surprised by anything anymore. But after only three years, you could be deceived into thinking that nothing much of worth had occurred; thus, changes were more startling. You had just started to wonder if you had finally got the hang on things, and then it all changed again, with some tiresome person inventing the wheel or monotheism or technology or something similar. Typical.

Malik's bedroom was a little on the small side, and densely personalised in the way that larger rooms sometimes are not. The walls were white, papered thickly with posters like a huge example of paper-maché. To the left of the bed slumped a desk buried under magazines and CDs, with a computer monitor poking out at the end. A cat-bed lay squished between the desk and the wall.

Malik was showing Ryou where to dump his baggage, clearing a space in the tiny wardrobe so that his guest could put his clothes away. The spirit of the Ring did not like to see the bag storing his knives shoved carelessly to one side as if it were only containing Ryou's possessions, and strode over to remedy the situation. He considered briefly whether or not to leave them in there for tonight, before silently berating his own assumption that the evening would be uneventful and carefully sliding out his weapon-laden belt. Malik would no doubt expect Ryou, at least, to want to venture around Cairo to experience the culture and all that wishful nonsense, and during that time the entity would don something a little looser, under which the slight bulge at his hips would not be noticed. But tonight something more careless and close-fitting would suffice. There would actually much less protrusion than one might expect, thanks to his deliberate choosing of the very slimmest and lightest of blades; it served to make the entire thing less bulky and more elegant. He strapped it on at an angle, a walking tribute to all things sharp and pointy, and only then turned the greater part of his attention back to the two lighter halves.

"Dinner is ready!" Isis called in Japanese from the kitchen, having checked up on what her brother had come up with just to make sure it was actually edible. Bakura proceeded to the lounge a dignified space of time after the two mortals, just to define the fact that his entrance was to be made separately from them and thus could be acknowledged more easily, if the viewers chose to do so. Isis had laid three places on the table; she came out bearing enough cutlery for a fourth, and asked the Ring-spirit, voice carefully pleasant, if he wished to join them. Bakura had already mentally decided not to deign to do such a thing…yet something in the woman's eyes made him accept. There was a hint of something in them, something that did not yet extend to dislike, but was akin to that aura which he had already detected emanating from her a few minutes ago. It was…disapproval. And a certain wariness, carefully cloaked. He did not need any reminders that spirits would never be greeted with anything more than strained hospitality, and at the worst open hostility, in this household. So did this mean…his eyes alighted thoughtfully on Malik for a few moments. Well then, he would dine with them, if only to piss the Seer off. Flicker of a smirk, carefully suppressed. He brought out a chair, and with dignity seated himself, while adding Isis Ishtar to the list of people he could provoke into potential humiliation when bored.

Ryou prodded a fava bean cautiously with his fork (although experienced with using both types of utensils, he felt a little ungainly without chopsticks) and, after a nervous nibble, decided that he liked it and tucked in. His other self scrupulously dissected one of his, enjoying watching Isis twitch in the corner of his vision, before becoming bored and eating it. The chilli took him by surprise, and it was with tremendous effort that he forced himself not to start coughing. He thought he saw, through his watery vision, Malik smirking a little on the other side of the table, before hiding it behind his hand.

After sipping a glass of water with as much delicacy as his burning throat would allow, the spirit leaned back and watched his lighter self valiantly battle his way through the meal. He kept yawning, putting up a hand to belatedly hide the aforementioned yawn, and then apologising for his slowness. "I'm so sorry."

Isis took pity on him: "It really is all right. Ahkii, would you like to change the sheets so that Ryou-kun can get to bed?"

"I've already done it. Come along, Ryou."

The Ring-bearer focused his bleary gaze on him and carefully pushed back his chair to follow Malik into his bedroom. His other self, though also choosing to rise, lingered momentarily; his scarlet eyes met Isis' just for a moment, so that he just caught a glimpse of the naked dislike in them before the startled veil slammed back down. Her expression tensed, becoming fixed.

Such a display of dislike, and so soon. Why, I haven't been here even for an hour. He considered her expression again, and it was with a delighted shimmer of amusement that he speculated on what he could have done to produce this. Why, perhaps this stay would be interesting after all.

……………

A/N: A little longer than I originally planned; I was working on developing the characters properly, and just making up for the crappiness of Northern Darks, which I have not yet got round to burning and tearing off this website with something sharp. It just appalls me that I could ever write like that...

xOwlx: Yes, I'm concentrating hard on my style. I think I can draw it out a bit too much at times...if I write more, then I generally write better, because I anaylse more; but at the same time, it sometimes turns into rambling, and I get so carried away that I don't notice.And yes, I forgot some words…they were underscores in the original document, but this website doesn't show them. Now that I've found some good Arabic translator sites, I can fill them in. Ugh. So humiliating…I was wondering why more people didn't comment on it.

dreaming silver: (is blushing) it's great that you're excited. I'm just glad it's going okay…although I've probably jinxed it now. But chapter two is powering along, so…(crosses fingers) And no, no visits from Lyra and Will. I toyed briefly with the idea; but this isn't really a sequel to ND. Ryou is only going to use his powers a few times: the point is why he doesn't, and I'll explain that as I go. Also, I don't have such an interest in Lyra and Will, and tend to neglect them. I don't want to include them because I know that I won't do them justice.

PharaonicWolf: Those were a really astute couple of points. (is pleased that you were being an active reader; it really feels like you were picking up on some of the less obvious aspects, and I like that).

Firstly, languages: in this story, readers will notice that Dark Yugi and Dark Bakura speak fluent Arabic. I do know that Arabic was not spoken in Ancient Egypt; this seeming flaw is actually part of the story. I promise that it will be explained satisfactorily later. But as for in other stories…heh. Okay, maybe those were ignorant mistakes. I wasn't really thinking about it. But rest assured that a hell of a lot of thinking (and research) is going into this story.

Next: Ugh. Yes, Northern Darks consists of a rather immature style, particularly at the beginning. Several of my friends have commented on it. For that, all I can say is to beg your indulgence, and ask you to remember that it was written almost two years ago, and that I have matured greatly since then. For me, it is both a source of revulsion that I could have churned out such utter crap, and surprise at how much I must have improved. Although, sadly, I am still not at the standard I would like to be.

redconvoy: Yup. Got to do what the yami says. Actually, I'm going to be exploring that later on, so keep reading…