Disclaimer: I don't own Yu-Gi-Oh, I don't own the characters, I just borrow them for fun, not profit.
Note: There will be two unrelated one-shots in this, until I eventually write more that fit the theme (the second one is probably a lot lighter).
Victory – one
He was still resisting.
After all he had done to him, after all he had tried...
... still resisting. Still refusing to break.
Large violet-colored eyes were looking up to him with pure defiance. One of them slightly red, bruised and never going to heal; not totally blind yet, by chance at first, because he had hit it that way, and then because he thought that this alternated vision – trying to see, on the edge of succeeding, yet always failing – that now was his other's, was even worse than blindness. He could always correct it.
And he could feel, through the link they shared, all the pain only from that single wound.
And yet within the bruised eye, a fierce look of promise of revenge, and the savage hope to fulfill it.
He had granted him with this body only to torture it, kept the "light" part of himself alive, in reach, in chains. Destroying it, now that he had won, now that he had everything, wasn't enough. He wanted to break it completely. Slowly. Painfully.
How he had regretted the too fast death of the pharaoh and his light, the impossibility, even with the so total power he had gained, to bring them back... He took revenge on the others, one after the other, slowly, enjoying their fear and their pain. Mokuba suffered most, probably: with the pharaoh gone, Kaiba was the most entertaining of them.
Ah, and Isis... their dear sister...
He kept her for the end. Made his light watch, loving his fading yells and his angry tears, his powerless rage. As he later enjoyed his screams of agony, the taste of his blood, the fear in his eyes...
Of course he had begged. Of course, he had thrown himself to his feet, had pleaded for mercy, had vowed submission, called for dead; of course, he'd promised everything, renounced to everything, said anything.
But he was lying.
Inside, always, he was full of burning rage, anger and hatred.
It should be enough. He should enjoy this as well, should be glad it took his light so long to break – didn't it mean he could continue to make him suffer for so long, didn't it mean that the victory would be even sweeter if the hope had still been there for so long?
His light glared at him with a coldness he, the light, should not posses. A glimpse of a thought, a silent order would be enough to make him drop this proud gaze, to make him disown it.
And it would make the hate even stronger.
He had followed the line of Malik's not even always conscientious thoughts, through the pain and helplessness, over regret and sorrow, rage and desire to rebuilt and destroy, and not in this order, down to the very beginning of the fissure in his mind that should already be reduced to nothing but fear. There, there was a single word, a name, mentally spoken in furious hope and a sort of mockery that angered and – he had to admit it – scared the dark more than anything.
Rishido.
Rishido, just as the pharaoh, had died too fast. And Malik knew, and all his power over the light's mind could not erase the memory, even though – or because – it was buried deep in the light's mind. He had not killed Rishido as one more obstacle, not killed him because he simply enjoyed killing. He had killed him because Rishido was a mortal danger to him, someone whose mere existence was enough to destroy him, a Damocles sword he had to remove from above his head. And Malik knew, deeply aware of his past vulnerability and fear, the fragility of his power, and his eternal revolt started there.
And because he was not one to admit defeat, and because he could not repeat that mistake, because this thin note of contempt in Malik's thoughts would haunt him even when he was gone, he had refused to destroy the light completely, to release him of pain before he had broken him.
And even while he knew he was digging his own grave, he could not go back.
And he knew he should have been more careful, should have remembered that he was born of this same rage Malik was now directing against him; knew that when he had been ordered to vow his life to another, had been locked in and tortured, it had made him reach out for power and control, had only given him more strength, had brought him to create him.
He should feed on this anger, on this pure darkness inside the light, should be draining him.
Instead, he felt his own strength betray him, felt himself fade, and he understood too late that he was nothing but a small part of Malik, that the light – consumed by darkness a second time, but he would not feed on this darkness – was recreating him, turning into him, and about to destroy them both.
And because he was only rage and hate himself, he could not stop the process, could not try and save Malik's light, could not protect himself from the slowly building darkness: he could only increase it while he knew what he was doing, prisoner of what he was, could only watch himself fall, only human enough to be destroyed, while hatred resumed dominion in Malik's eyes, while it became dark and irrational after he had pushed away sorrow and sadness about the deaths he'd caused.
And even when Malik's eyes turned into a mirror, when a wicked, mad smile appeared on the edge of his lips, when he could feel his content over the darkness he had brought upon the world, he could not wish for the other to disappear, could not even hope for an even so thin ray of light to balance the darkness which was consuming him. Even when he knew that Malik would use this small amount of freedom he still possessed – the freedom the give up to this if he wished – to take his place, he could not make a single move; could only watch himself and his light melt into shadows.
Reviews are nice.
