Sympathy for the Devil
Even I didn't think this would continue. Thanks Fiver, for looking over this and the last chapter!
Weeks had passed before Marik finally tried to make his escape from the Ring.
Ryou had not been completely ready for it. To be honest, he did not even know what it was he was expecting – not to mention that it was entirely unreasonable to think he would be paying attention to other things while studying for the upcoming test. But as his pencil touched the scrap paper after a particularly hard problem, he felt it: a pressure in his chest, where the Ring lay, built up in a second and released the next. His confusion lasted a bit longer, but once it cleared he panicked, upturning his fold-up desk and sending everything on it crashing to the floor as he made a grab for the air.
It should not have been possible for him to catch a soul with his hand. Then again, most of the events of his life should not have been possible. Malik's soul, impossibly light, smooth and soft, wriggled desperately – little wisps of it skirting its core stretched through the cracks of his hand before breaking off and disappearing in the air. Ryou held onto it as tightly as he could and ignored the pain of an old scar flaring up again.
"Where," he said loudly, just as desperate as the soul was, "where are you, where where where –"
His free hand was practically floundering on the ground, and the hand holding his soul was starting to burn. Had Ryou left it in the other room? Could he risk making the dash to his cabinet? – but it was locked, and that itself would take another precious minute, his key was in his bag, wasn't it? – ah, wait! – there it was on the floor, hidden under the leg of his chair – !
There was no time for hesitation. There was a flash of light from his chest, and he slammed the soul into the figurine.
… The world was still – holding its breath with Ryou, who had frozen, waiting for some indication of success or failure. Then his legs cramped and he tumbled gracelessly onto the floor.
"Ow," Ryou moaned softly – not at the trivial ache in his legs, but the hand that had started bleeding since the moment he had driven his hand into the tip of the doll. He cradled it softly and tried putting pressure on it with the palm of his other hand. Was it in the same spot as his previous injury? How ironic.
Underneath a fold of his shirt, a tiny curse rang out, and the little 'pitter patter' sound of wooden feet moving on the tile floor. Ryou held his breath and watched as a little blonde head – hair spiked wildly, stained a bit with his own blood – popped out from the fabric and peered around warily. It let out a low growl unbecoming of its size.
The little doll looked up.
"Why are you here?" he spat in disgust. "What do you want from me?"
"Don't you know?" Ryou wore a gentle smile, and his eyes glittered with a strange sort of delight as his lips moved around his next words. "You are dead. And – for now –
You are mine."