Previously, on Stars From the Gutter...
The thieves' sojourn in Italy continues, despite Ryou's protestations that it would be far wiser to curtail it. Marik and Bakura insist that dining is much higher on their list of priorities than making a clean getaway. However, at the restaurant, Marik's behaviour takes a turn for the unsettling; he appears to be in acute pain. Bakura drags him back to the Diabound, with Ryou in tow – all the while attempting (and failing) to project the veneer that nothing is amiss. When they reach the ship, Marik's condition appears to improve. After a long, rambling story, he retreats back to bed. After some dancing around the issue, Bakura admits to Ryou that when Marik healed him, there were consequences – his energy was drained, resulting in sporadic 'turns' of weariness. In England, Ishizu, Mana and Atem discuss the theft from the Sistine Chapel in Rome. Atem gently teases Mana about her infatuation with the culprit. In turn, both Ishizu and Mana persuade Atem to talk to Yugi at a later date. Will this ever happen? It is highly doubtful. We cut to Pegasus and his super-orthodox-Victorian-butler-with-aspirations-to-financial-management in time to catch a somewhat whimsical discussion on the nature of the Gothic genre – and also to appreciate Pegasus' interior decorating which is, naturally, immaculate. Incidentally, we also learn a fair bit about his motivations. We then conclude with a conversation between Marik and Ryou, during which Ryou chastises Marik for keeping his alchemy-induced weakness from him. After much dancing about the issue, Marik apologises, and swears that he has nothing further to hide.
This should bring us quite nicely onto the next chapter.
BUT BEFORE WE BEGIN, AL AND I HAVE AN IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT TO MAKE!11
Stars From the Gutter is going to take a two week long holiday from updates, during which time Al and I will be, uh, taking a two week long holiday in California. Let me assure you now that this does not mean we will fail to update regularly in the future; it's just that we will have practically zero internet connection for a while. Regular updates will resume again on Thursday the 11th August. Apologies for the delay!
And thus, without further ado, we move along on the timeless wings of narrative to check out events in England...
xXx
Mana clenches her fists ferociously, suppressing, with some effort, the urge to slam them on the table. Here it approaches: the distant reckoning; the silent dread of politicians in Albion and Kemet alike – that irrepressible, impersonal force which none can predict and few can contain. Rebellion. The word, hot and fiery, seems to choke her mind.
That it has come to this! It was quite, quite inevitable that upheaval should occur – yet she, and Mahaado for that matter, had always predicted it would happen in Albion, where the grasp of imperial rule was tighter; suffocating.
Flash of the apocalypse, perchance? The world, she thinks, is shuddering at its foundations – and echoes that resound overseas will soon spill over in seismic waves to one's home shore. She cannot help but characterise this tremor as prophetic; the beginning of the end.
And that their only link with events should be impersonal telegrams! Like peering at an inferno through a crack in the wall – eyes stinging, and powerless.
She wonders abstractedly how Mai Kujaku's Privy Council will be taking all of this.
xXx
Yugi huddles in his wide, four-poster bed, backed up against a pillow, blankets clutched hotly about his knees. The curtains are drawn carelessly around him like an ethereal cage, fluttering slightly in response to the breeze from the open window. He is finding it very difficult to remain thinking. And yet, the thoughts continue to assault him regardless, with no respect for his conscious commands. It is the middle of the day, but for once he cannot bring himself to leave his room after being informed by a stony-faced Regent of the current state of affairs in foreign policy. He knows he ought to be facing his duties; conferring with various advisors, assessing possibilities and keeping abreast of the latest information – but weariness and panic crashed over him like a colossal wave and weighed down any resolve he might have conjured. The immensity of his responsibility overwhelmed him – and thus, once again, he passed it on to his mentor, like a figurehead or – a child...
Yesterday, he turned to his friends with imploring eyes and asked them: "Do you really think revolution could ever happen in England? It could never – right?"
And it has not. Night follows day; hours chase each other by the heels; snow melts, recedes and lightens into faint spring showers – and peace continues to embrace the Albion Empire. The situation in Kemet has none of the same tranquillity. A week ago, the peasants in Prussia rose up in revolt against Kemetic rule. There remains little to be done, save wait, lend comfort to the Ambassador and High Priestess, and pray that the mutiny does not spread to Albian borders. It remains to be seen whether the other Germanic states will respond with similar sedition. Yugi shudders, feverishly. How can I be a King, and yet feel so powerless...?
There is a soft tap at the door. Barely pausing for invitation or response, it swings open, and in tumbles Jonouchi. "Yugi!"
"H-hello."
Jonouchi bounds hastily across the room. Swiftly, he yanks the curtains aside to see Yugi's face: light spills across a weak smile; almost battered looking. "Sophia..." he murmurs, helplessly. "Don't look like that. This doesn't affect us, remember? Things in Prussia won't change anything in Albion. We can't do anything except stay well out of it."
Yugi shakes his head. "You're right," he says, somewhat contradictorily. "But you're also wrong! If Kemet becomes unstable, it could endanger the diplomatic talks. And if rebellion spreads to Albion..."
"Stuff's not as explosive as all that," Jonouchi assures him. "It's insurrection, not dominoes."
Yugi sits up with sudden force, flinging the covers away. "No, that's true," he says, with a touch of confidence. "I should be out there nonetheless. Doing... whatever it is I'm supposed to be doing at the moment."
"Lady Mai will deal," Jonouchi reassures him.
"Mai can't always do that! When I'm eighteen, I'll have to make decisions on my own – and that's not far off! Only a few months," says Yugi, wonderingly. Has it really been so long since Atem – left...?
Jonouchi shrugs, haphazardly. "Like I said – there's nothing you can do. We've just got to wait for the next telegram, is all. And they're already sending in airships to evacuate Albian citizens before the fighting gets too intense."
Yugi is on his feet now, drawn up to his full height, and determined. "That's something for which I ought to have given the order."
Jonouchi's face yields to an odd expression: somewhere at the midpoint between scepticism and pity. It is a combination which, in truth, irritates Yugi to no end, for he has seen it mirrored on many others'. "Does it really matter so long as it gets done?" Jonouchi asks, quietly .
Yugi shakes his head in an effort to clear it; to dispel some of this hopelessness. Today has been drenched in an obfuscating mist – and, indeed, so have all other days since he acceded the throne – but today it has been denser and more foreboding than ever before. But now, this instant – the fog lifts. His purpose – shadowy and blurred – resolves. Clarifies.
"Take me to the Kemetic consul," he says, with sudden resolution, "and we will discuss the impact of Prussian insurgency on the peace settlement."
xXx
"Well, I don't know what you're all looking so miserable about," mutters Mai to herself, as she departs from a room of flustered advisors. Oh, but she understands well enough, in truth. Imperial stability is today's byword – and if in Prussia, why not in Albion? the oft-quoted truism. That unfortunate little upstart state has unlocked fears that were hitherto safely boxed in unchallenged prestige – yet prevalent in the subconscious of every conqueror. One challenge surfaces, and mass panic rears its head out of the depths of political repose in response. Like a shark writhing in horror at the sight of rebellious plankton, she reflects, sardonically.
Mai knows better. This situation presents much more of an opportunity than it does a threat. Prussia is conveniently locked in: an island of Kemetic influence amidst a sea of Albian territory. Hence why she is now conferring with her foreign advisor on the matter: a stalwart, stout sort of man; ruthless in a manner that belies his somewhat fleshy looks – and, as such, possibly the only person besides herself who has not dissolved into a flurry of panic at the thought of a handful of peasants taking up their broken pitchforks.
"Quite right, Your Highness..."
"Indeed... and whilst we're on the subject of broken pitchforks – I believe they could do with a little aid, equipment-wise, would you not agree?"
Mai can scarcely believe that they appear to be the only two people in all of England who have managed to deduce that a successful revolt in a Kemetic state might bring about considerable gain. No matter, for the ignorant shall nonetheless reap their reward along with the more perspicacious; and is this not continually the case besides?
"Nothing too rash, mind," she warns. "Just see if we can get some weapons past the borders, is all. Least we can do is arm them, to my mind. Needless to say, discreetly."
"I understand, Milady," he assures her. "It will be done."
They depart with the air of conspirators. Mai chuckles to herself.
xXx
The haughty Egyptian princess saunters across the stage, smirk partially hidden behind the trailing strands of beads adorning her headdress. Behind her, passive guards stand masked and emotionless; before her, face clouded in grief, a slave – the captive daughter of the king of Abyssinia. Radames observes them both from stage right, near angelic in armour that gleams brilliantly under the harsh lighting - resolute to his purpose, yet moved by Aida's resilience and beauty.
Over the course of his stay in London, Atem has acknowledged the existence of many things that, during his time in Egypt, he had blotted from his mind. The climate, for example: Mana had once inquired as to whether the British preoccupation with the weather was due to its unmitigated bleakness or merely an inexplicable fixation on the inevitable. Atem had said, rather coldly, that it was neither, and had refused to elaborate on the matter. Today, he has been forced to remain indoors due to perpetual rainfall, and he has begrudgingly conceded that Mana was right on both counts.
However, some things remain constant on either side of Europe. Atem is loath to believe that it has escaped his mind that Londoners often see fit to abduct visiting ambassadors by way of anonymously hired coaches – and all in order to deposit them unceremoniously at the Royal Italian Opera for an evening performance of Verdi's Aida.
That said, the box that Atem's mysterious, coach-hiring kidnapper has booked for him (under Atem's name, no less – the box office was informed to look out for a slightly confused man with concealed hair), does have a surprisingly complete view of the stage. The production is new, attempting to capitalise on Albion's current obsession with Kemetic culture, no doubt. The stage is lavishly painted in blinding gold; the costumes threaded with intricate sapphire embroidery. A mockery, Atem thinks, of the luxury and beauty of the true Egypt – though he cannot help but admire the cast. Stolz's performance as the heroine, the eponymous enslaved Abyssinian princess, is flawless, and despite his reservations, by the end of the first act, Atem has found himself hopelessly engaged in the plot. He wonders vaguely if ancient Egypt and Abyssinia's fictional war is supposed to be evocative of the tension between Albion and Kemet, but is far more interested in Aida's own plight. She must choose between her love and her devotion to her country. To hope for Radames – commander of Egypt's army – to be the victor of the impending battle would be to wish defeat upon her father and Abyssinia. Atem is only glad that Mana is not here to see him: she would call him a terrible romantic. Certainly he is happy that the discreet daubing at the corner of his eyes with an embroidered handkerchief goes wholly unnoticed – that is, by anyone other than his fellow members of the audience, who are much too busy staring at one another's outfits to notice the weeping (yet dignified) man with the voluminous hood, at any rate.
"Enjoying yourself, Your Majesty? Personally, I feel that the mezzo is excellent – such a rich voice! – though I have heard Verdi had his reservations about casting her."
Atem leaps out of his seat to face the intruder. Even had he not recognised his voice, the man stood before him with the conceited smile, casually proffering a glass of red wine, is unmistakable. Maximilien Pegasus, Duke of Wellington. At his service, apparently.
Atem collects himself. (Subtly, the handkerchief drops to the floor.) "I was rather fond of the soprano, myself," he grits out, attempting to remain composed. "Her solo at the end of scene one very nearly made me forget why I was here. Not that I was clear as to the purpose beforehand."
"How absentminded of you!" responds Pegasus, the picture of courtesy and tranquillity. Steadfastly ignoring Atem's hostility, he takes a seat. "Really, though, you must have a sip – this is Tuscan. It might calm you down. Assuage the paranoia, perhaps." A pleasant smile.
Surveying the crowd spread below them, Atem can see no obvious threat. Which is unsurprising, given that, from box seventy-six, there is an impressive view of the deep crimson stage curtain, and little else. The crowd in the stalls are reduced to immaculately dressed figures the size of dolls, one person near indistinguishable from the next, and the entire balcony is obscured from view. Atem grips the gold rail. The door to the box is shut; it is most likely locked. He has been reduced to a caged rat – and on account of his own stupidity. He should have run as soon as he was dropped at the opera house, and now a mixture of curiosity and hubris has become his downfall.
He shifts awkwardly in the light, before resigning himself to his fate, and sitting. He has come this far, and now he must find out what the Duke wants of him. There is no reason to panic: knowing Pegasus' whims, he may have simply caught wind of Atem's presence in London and decided to reminisce with him about his reign.
Alternatively, Atem has been manoeuvred into the perfect position for blackmail. He knows the Duke of old, and would put very little past him.
"Your Grace," Atem begins tentatively, wondering how best to broach his enquiry, "what is it that was so important as to merit my abduction?"
"Your Majesty," Pegasus rejoins immediately, "I have an offer to make. It concerns your brother."
As if on cue, the curtains part, the overture signally the beginning of act two. Pegasus places a finger to his lips, and, much to Atem's annoyance, focuses his gaze pointedly on the stage. Atem can scarcely register Egypt's victory and Aida's broken heart. He is far too preoccupied.
The same cannot be said of the Duke, who appears most infuriatingly riveted.
It seems an age before they may talk again. As Aida and Radames die in each other's arms, and Amneris, Princess of Egypt, mourns her unrequited love's execution, Atem is torn between wishing that they would all die and be done with it, and paradoxically hoping that the final bars will continue forever. He has no desire to hear Pegasus' views of Yugi, nor of any offers he might make concerning him.
"I assume you have met with the King?" Pegasus asks through the applause, glancing at Atem sideways.
"Not yet." Atem suppresses a shudder. Pegasus is sat to his left, and from this angle, only his false eye is visible, gold and unblinking. If Atem stared at it for long enough, he is sure that he might catch it moving.
"Of course. It must be difficult to arrange an audience with him, when you are… lying low." The statement is pointed, but meaningless. Atem has no idea how Pegasus found him. To the best of his knowledge, he has remained well hidden. Certainly he has not yet made an obvious blunder, or every newspaper in the country would know. Oblivious to his discomfort, Pegasus continues. "To be frank, the King is struggling. His reliance on his Regent may have been acceptable a few years ago, but it is almost his eighteenth birthday."
"I have every faith in Yugi's-"
"Your Majesty," Pegasus interjects smoothly, "I did not wish to offend you. Of course, the King has done the best job possible, under unfavourable circumstances, but Albion needs a strong leader – and he is simply not qualified."
Atem grinds his teeth. "If you are implying, your Grace, that there are others better suited to the title of King, than my own brother-"
Again, he is cut off. "Have you ever considered returning to the throne?"
The golden eye glares at him, and Atem reels. Returning to the throne would be preposterous – absurd. He had left in disgrace, and there is not a person in Albion who would take him back. Excluding, apparently, Maximilien Pegasus. "The circumstances of my deposal would not allow for my return."
"Yes," Pegasus replies thoughtfully, "it was quite the scandal. Our monarch, enlightened, attempting to convert the nation to the church of Kemet. The result was…" He seems to search for a suitably delicate term, with no little amusement.
"-disastrous," finishes Atem, before Pegasus can be granted the pleasure of his own adjectival precision. "I could never return."
Pegasus picks up his empty glass, tilting it to the light so the rainbows refract against his sleeve. "No," he muses, "by attempting to renounce the Church of Sophia, you made an error of judgement. It ended badly. Having spent some time repenting, your return as a suitably experienced, undoubtedly pious King, would be entirely preferable to the alternative."
"The alternative?" Atem asks quietly. He finds that it is difficult to keep his hands steady, and clasps them in his lap. Beneath them, the audience has long since filtered away, and the hall is eerily quiet.
"Power in the hands of Mai Kujaku," affirms Pegasus. "I am sure you would agree that, of all possible results, that would certainly not be among the most desirable."
"No," says Atem, darkly.
"Indeed," he adds, "that woman has tasted far too much power already, for my liking-"
"No," Atem says, a little stronger. He meets Pegasus' gaze, hands shaking in rage. "Yugi is the rightful King, and he will bring about peace. I will make sure of it. He will usher in a new age, in which Albion and Kemet may coexist in harmony, and he will be seen by all as a great King." The emphasis he places on those final words is such that they resound throughout the capacious hall.
Pegasus looks startled, as though he had never anticipated Atem displaying anything so crass as loyalty. Slowly, he begins to laugh, bringing his hands together in applause. The sound echoes again, blending with the words, but Atem ignores him. He stands, making his way to the door. The handle gives – it was never locked, merely another bluff. Atem has no time for these petty games.
"How," Pegasus calls mockingly, "do you expect him to establish your paradise? He is a child!"
Atem does not answer. Instead, he steps out, closing the door behind him with a satisfying click. If he hurries, he might be able to call a taxi and find his way home. Being kidnapped is a disorientating experience, it seems.
With Pegasus' laughter still ringing in his ears, he departs.
xXx
Ryou dozes in mellow darkness, the haziness of sleep giving way luxuriously to meandering, semi-conscious thought which shall disperse like the morning mist upon waking. He has attuned himself to the Diabound's irregular tremors, learning to let them lull as opposed to startle – occasionally even allowing himself to indulge in the illusion of sinking, with each juddering wrench signalling further and further loss of altitude. Plummeting through perpetually bottomless air; forever encased amongst the clouds...
...Marik has commented frequently on his alleged morbidity of mind.
All night they have been flying through a layer of rainclouds, and an all-pervasive spattering, like dozens of glass beads cascading against a tiled floor, is layered onto the usual thick cast of sound. All of this, once so claustrophobic, denotes a form of friendly enclosure. Ryou wonders if the thieves ever feel the same way about the thicket of wind, rain and mechanistic clashes: like a solitary world suspended amidst a mesh of chaos.
One particularly emphatic burst of turbulence causes the teetering stacks of crates that line the room to shudder, violently. The topmost box falls with a resounding crash, spraying twisted metal vessels, shards of glass and loose, handwritten pages across the floor. At this, Ryou shudders awake and snaps upright.
"Mnnh..." he comments, with eloquence. Blinking through the gloom, he takes note of the situation and wearily collapses back against his pillow, with the gradual beginnings of a headache, and a half-formed resolution to clear up the mess at a more hospitable hour. He rolls over, cocooning himself in the blanket.
In doing so, he catches a glimpse of a silhouette, leaning starkly against the doorframe.
Ryou sleeps with an open door, a quirk formed partially out of necessity and partially of habit: in truth, he needs both the capacity to hide alongside the ability to escape in order to feel comfortable. It is not unusual for him to observe snatches of the thieves' late night wanderings. They drift about the ship at will, often at the most absurd of hours, as though compelled to move by currents in a trickling stream of shadows. Scarcely concerned, Ryou squeezes his eyes closed once more – and, sure enough, after a few bleary seconds, when he peers out towards the door again, the figure has vanished. And yet, curiously, the light which habitually streams out from underneath the thieves' closed door has once more been extinguished.
A rush of thunder assaults the ship, followed shortly by a soundless explosion of light. Ryou gives a feeble start – and, an instant later, feels the warm, unexpected pressure of a hand against his cheek. Panicked, he twists about in a tangle of covers, until he is able to face whoever managed to slip through the door.
"M-Marik?" he whispers, but he gets no further, nor is he graced with a reply, for his chin is cupped deftly in one – familiar – calloused hand, and he is silenced with a searing kiss.
There is a moment during which he imagines his chest is about to split apart from shock, or from – and this is wholly new, and stifling in a way he cannot quite categorise effectively as claustrophobia or solace – and then Marik bites, and Ryou gives a strangled yelp in the back of his throat, wrenching himself away.
Low, appreciative laughter. Ryou's heart judders with as much irregularity as the Diabound, and his ears roar an inchoate warning, flooding external sound. Perplexed, he touches a finger to his raw lip, as though assessing the verity of the previous, confounding moment – excluding the possibility of dream or fancy.
Another shock of thunder tears through the pattern of the rain, like a blunt knife dragged through fabric. There is a momentary, almost unregistered tussle in the gloom, and Marik is all of a sudden on top of him, hands at either side of his head, entangled carelessly in his hair and pinning him against the sheets: struggle arrested no sooner than it began. Ryou assesses the situation, somewhat grimly. If hours of pickpocketing training have taught him nothing else, it is that Marik is most assuredly stronger, swifter and smarter than him. Doubtful then that he could ever hope to escape by force, particularly in such close proximity. It is like a bewildering parody of lessons, and wholly unfathomable – yet the reality of the situation demands hasty acknowledgement.
A second burst of light momentarily floods the room, in time for Ryou to perceive a face distorted, like a shattered mirror, as it leers above him, harsh, narrowed and hideously inquisitive: a man who is not, cannot be Marik; seems to be a creature of the lightening itself... Ryou shudders, forcefully. It is incomprehensibly grotesque, like some malevolent ghost, or reanimated corpse.
"You aren't..." murmurs Ryou, against uncomfortable weight and warmth. He really is far too close. No doubt remains that he is trapped, not sheltered.
A twisted half-smile, visible through the dark. "In a manner of speaking." The voice is Marik's, and yet it is not – it is more abrasive, yet simultaneously somehow aerial – just as this man is Marik, and yet he is not.
And now he swipes a thumb along Ryou's cheek, close breath hot enough to bring a flush to its surface. "I've been unforgivably silly," Marik continues, blithely, pressing insinuatingly closer. Ryou tries to sink back into the covers, away... "You can't mentor someone at the same time as protecting them from yourself."
"I - don't need protecting. Why would I need that?" asks Ryou, willing his voice not to waver. At once, fingernails scythe into the sides of his face. More echoing, demonic mirth. The resultant jolt of pain seems to underline the surrealistic quality more than it does the threat; as it is, no blood seems to have been drawn. Ryou is acutely aware that he ought to panic, but strangely unable to respond with anything other than unearthly stoicism. He blinks, once, twice, waiting for the pain and the laughter to ebb away.
"I really couldn't say," replies Marik, darkly, after a while. "Sometimes I simply get... bored." He grazes a sharp fingernail across Ryou's jaw line, insufficient to elicit pain – only a rough tingle, like the scrape of skin against clay. "People make a fuss."
"What do you want from me?" asks Ryou, dazedly.
"Same as the other one," laughs Marik. Ryou can feel his chest hum against his own. "Except opposite. He wants to take your inherent worthlessness and sculpt it into something diverting, like a little toy puppet. Me? I tire of toys. I cut the strings. He has his chaste little adoration; always was one for idolatry. Ithink purity is the greatest shame."
Ryou makes an indignant noise. "I am not a doll."
Marik wrinkles his nose, and gives a frustrated hiss of breath. "You're boring," he sighs. "Too wretched to lower. Not enough pride for an entertaining fall. The Thief – now he has many interesting shortfalls. Perversions. Worth toppling – or tackling. As far as minds go, yours is quite puny. Not worth the effort. I don't ruin his toys; I just borrow them. And yet – some things are too sickeningly pristine to leave undamaged," he says, with a mournful air that is not laden with as much irony as one would suspect.
Ryou follows the brief tract with disgust. He finds that he is sweating. On the one level, he is terrified. Clearly this monster has no intention of leaving him unscathed. Yet beneath the frantic surface, he is entertaining much darker notions. This is no impersonal threat. This is Marik – warped beyond recognition or no. The loss of trust cuts far deeper than the danger. Suspicions of which he was only subconsciously aware have been dredged remorselessly to the surface: Marik does not see him as a human, but an experiment; he is Frankenstein's creation; a personality to be detailed and shaped, rather than admired for any inherent virtue it might possess. Marik was simply living another act; Ryou scarcely more important than a wealthy victim to be robbed – and ten times as foolish.
Ryou sees it. The rottenness beneath benign veneer. The shadow self. As this decaying fiend lowers its mouth to ply destructively against his, he murmurs against its lips: "You win people's trust..."
The room is awash with light again – not from the outside, but the close, chaotic illumination of a lamp swinging wildly. Ryou feels the weight ease off his chest, as Marik props himself up on one elbow to observe the intruder. "Why, Thief, must you continually cut short anything shaping up to be an interesting conversation?" he drawls.
Bakura advances - and his eyes seem to flash fire. Ryou is almost frightened by the intensity of their glare. He leans across the edge of the bed, catlike, practically nose to nose with Marik, who has crept forth to meet him. "Give. Marik. Back," he hisses through his teeth.
Marik practically chokes with laughter – rough, and grating, and jarringly insincere. "Astonishing how fond you've become of us!" he cackles.
Ryou takes the opportunity to inch out of the way, whilst this creature's attention seems to be wholly captivated by Bakura. The two are fixed upon each others' faces, matching glare for glare with a smouldering heat.
"It's not 'us'," snarls Bakura, vehemently. "You're an anomaly. A cancer. You're an unpleasant offshoot of him, but he's got nothing to do with you." They are so close, and yet unflinching.
"Wrong," says the other, with a twisted smile. "Wrong.," he repeats. "Wrong."
In one, phenomenally swift motion, Bakura seizes him furiously by the shoulders. For a tantalising moment, he seems almost feral – ferociously liable to snap, to maim – to rend, tear and destroy. It has a powerful affect upon Marik. Initially, he matches like with like, returning Bakura's look with double the venom – and the struggle seems set to become a match of wolf versus serpent. But a change occurs. Marik's eyes first flash, then dim, as though all his anger has been abruptly sapped away. Like the lightening itself, all malice recedes in an instant – soon to be replaced by a clouded haze of confusion. He seems to visibly diminish: lines sharpen; angles minimise and soften; all irregularity and distortion smoothes. It is unmistakeably Marik – on the surface, that is to say; Ryou feels unfit to judge the state and quality of what lies beneath.
Marik blinks anguished up at Bakura. "Oh Gods," he says – and the words emerge more as a gust of air. "Oh Gods."
"Some atheist you are," says Bakura, gruffly. "Oof," he adds, as Marik half-tackles, half-embraces him, burying his head in Bakura's shirtfront, and stifling a sad, tear-blotted smile.
"Every time," says Marik, voice muffled. "Every time, I wonder if I'll ever make it back again..." A muted sob.
A spark of anger flares in Bakura's expression once more. "Look at me," he demands. No movement from Marik. "Look at me," he repeats, not so harshly as before, but no less imperative. A moment's pause, and Marik obeys, lifting his head up just below Bakura's chin. "Do you really think you're as weak as all that? Do you honestly believe you could just disappear?" An emphatic shake. "Never. He's not significant enough, and you're not so pitiful as to let him."
Marik sniffs, with an air of trepidation. "How is it that every time you say that, I'm snivelling into your collar?"
"Coincidence," says Bakura, with a rueful smile - which seems to be a tactful, generalised method of admitting that he has no counter-argument.
Marik inclines his head with hesitancy towards Ryou; carrying out the movement seems to terrify him, and Ryou flinches accordingly, as though his gaze holds physical weight. "Gods, Ryou," he breathes. "I am so, so sorry..." On the last word, he chokes; seemingly, it is so insufficient as to be unpalatable.
Ryou cannot speak. He huddles against the sideboard of the bed, unable to respond, or perhaps even blink. He is trapped in the instant, an insect in amber; a victim encased in a glutinous mixture of time and verbal poison.
"So sorry..."
Ryou rejoins the scene with a tremulous shudder, which seems to startle the thieves with its violence. He closes his eyes. One. Two. Open. "Please leave," he says, and the words seem another facet of the silence itself.
xXx
- ...So yeah. Yes, the magic-weakening-Marik spiel was something of a red herring. This has been foreshadowed for a long time, so kudos to anyone who picked up on it! (LadyBlackwell: this is three-quarters of what I meant when I said one and a half of the statements were right. :D Or... close enough to three quarters, at any rate. Damn fractions.)
- Aida was... actually written a year later than this story is set. For the purposes of narrative, let's handwave it and say that due to complex historical changes, Verdi worked a little quicker and finished it in 1870. XD
- The reason this chapter is early, by the way, is because there was no way we could post it on Thursday, due to annoying passport-related circumstances. So... yay? Meh. Messed up update schedule is messed up. Hopefully it shall return to normal in time.
But for now... ENJOY THE SUSPENSE. *Cackles evilly*.