Author's notes:
Disclaimer: I do not own Yu-gi-oh, nor the song "Sweet Dreams" by Eurythmics.
Note: The featured character is mentioned throughout as "him". Any paragraph that
says/starts with 'He… etc etc..' (outside of a paragraph containing dialogue) is
referring to said character.
Warning: Minimal coarse language. Excessive philosophical ideas. Lack of plot x.X
Events take place during/right after Duelist Kingdom
*******************************************
Golden Bridle [1]
Part 1 of 2
Emerald trees. Sapphire cloudless sky. Sunshine of purest goldenrod.
He rubbed his sore eye with hands plastered in a rainbow of grime and tried
again.
Soft emerald-seafoam trees. Sapphire-lilac sky. Sunshine laced with goldenrod
and virgin white.
He was still missing something.
~*~
Sweet Dreams are made of these
Who am I to disagree?
Travel the world and the seven seas
Everybody's looking for something
~*~
Calmly he stood up. His muscles protested, the sudden pain jolting up his
spine where it registered half-dull in his mind. The feeling echoed and stung for a few
more moments before giving a satisfied flicker and disappearing.
The paint-created tree seemed to take a life of its own. Its branches began to
bob listlessly up and down like a children's carousel, dressed in its Sunday best of
speckled leaves. Rays of sunlight weaved into the humble trunk to form a
vainglorious shade of honeyed-brown.
The tree glistened like a jewel. It stood, stoic and proud against the lolling
green landscape. The sealess sky lay behind it.
His trembling fingers seized the paintbrush and dipped its dew-covered tip
into another colour. There were many on the palette, some smudged and mixed so
piteously that nothing of their true hue remained save a mass of clear liquid.
~*~
Some of them want to use you
Some of them want to get used by you
~*~
He brought the brush to grace it against the edge of the canvas. One more
stroke of green to bedeck the tree's crown, one more spot of vanity on those quivering
chestnut branches.
The tip of his brush soared upwards with a flicker of his wrist. He immediately
swivelled his hand forwards and backwards faster than he could command. It danced
businesslike in front of the growing canvas.
Green trees. Blue sky. Gold sun.
~*~
Some of them want to abuse you
Some of them want to be abused
~*~
The feeling was simple at first; simply an untended subtle ache in his heart. He
ignored it and continued to work. His hand chose another colour.
Fangs bared, it struck, rendering his self-appointed hand frozen. The poison
spread like wildfire through his spine into the very recesses of each nerve until his
whole body bathed in paralysis.
His single pupil dilated, lids twitching uncontrollably in protest. It had sealed
his mind entirely.
His paintbrush clattered noisily as it fell from the nerveless hands. It traced a
small arc of seafoam-green on the white marble surface.
The pain dug into his flesh with teeth of razor steel. He fought to suck just one
breath into his agonized lungs. Blood gurgled and foamed out of his half-open mouth
and trickled gently down his chin. Sweat collected in thick beads to slide greasily
down his long bangs. The damp substance graced his coveted fake eye.
An eye made of gold and metal, forged over five-thousand years ago and
tempered on power and will alone. His fake eye could feel the liquid brush against it,
and it took a conscious life of its own to flicker in protest.
No, not just an eye but the Eye. The Millennium Eye bestowed with a most
ambiguous gift of mind-sight. It was the power of the despairing and lost.
~*~
Sweet Dreams are made of these
Who am I to disagree?
Travel the world and the seven seas
Everybody's looking for something
~*~
The poison abated, withdrawing with it its paralysing effect.
He collapsed onto his knees. They scraped painfully against the marble ground
and allowed his satin-red pants to collect some of the paint still smudged against the
tiles.
It wasn't right. He shouldn't be able to feel pain; he couldn't feel pain. He was
the antagonist, the evil mastermind whom everyone sought to defeat. He was the
drunkard immersed in vats of wine and archives of children's comics.
But he was also the artist who sought to control his fleeting shadow of self-
expression and freedom.
He inhaled again and clenched his right fist into a tight ball. In, out, in, out.
His calloused white fingers flexed in compliance, the blood draining slowly from his
palm to the very edges of his fingertips. He did the same thing with the other hand.
It was amazing what one would do for a single moment of pleasure. If he
could pay to live in blind happiness, he would write off his soul to Amun[2] with
blinded longing.
How could he plead happiness when he couldn't even envision it? He wracked
his vast recesses of memory, and then invoked his muse of creativity in hopes to
capture its essence. There was nothing but simmering pools of ignorance and
pretences.
Duel? For what? For that simple moment of satisfaction into achieving a lofty,
most likely futile goal?
It would be a bitch to bring Cyndia back from heaven into this self-appointed
hell of his. It was a fool's game to simulate perfectly preserved beauty.
He was a fool in a fool's game.
~*~
Have your head up
Moving on
Keep your head up
Moving on
Have your head up
Moving on
Keep your head up
Moving on
~*~
In a paroxysm of pure willpower, he grabbed his discarded paintbrush and
wrenched it to life back into his trembling fingers. Three inches away from the canvas
he stopped. There was no paint left on the tip.
~*~
Have your head up
Moving on
Keep your head up
Moving on
Have your head up
Moving on
Keep your head up
~*~
For some unknown reason, his palette was unspoiled. It still rested in his left
hand as innocuously as before, bland face painted in a ridiculous tirade of colours.
He dipped the tip of the brush three times and then twirled it madly against the
palette until the green collided with the white. It continued its trajectory along the
palette face and collected consecutive hues of yellow, grey, and blue.
At last the brush parted and struck the canvas in firework of splendour. The
tree looked a bit better.
It looked much better.
He repeated it again. Again and again he shoved the paintbrush facedown onto
the palette and remorselessly forced some thick oily hue onto the horsehair. The brush
would linger just moments on the expanding canvas before ramming into the palette
again.
Palette, canvas, palette, canvas, until both were alive with a whirl of colour.
They danced like multihued fireflies against the moonless sky, miniature angels
glowing brilliant white.
~*~
Some of them want to use you
Some of them want to get used by you
Some of them want to abuse you
Some of them want to be abused
~*~
The colour was everywhere at once. It burned into his eyes and left permanent tattoos
of red, green, yellow and blue. They collected around his vision like the aurora
borealis.
The concocted hallucination suddenly jammed itself down his throat. There it
shot purposely up through his skull and into the very recesses of his mind. His eyes
began to tear uncontrollably with the sudden impact, vision dulling completely until it
was dominated not by shapes but colour.
There was colour everywhere. It was plastered in etchy lines and large
globules. They collected in fat pools and clashed angrily for dominance against a
limitless canvas.
He forced the colours to concede back into the basic contours of his room.
There was the forlorn painting still propped in front of him. He held the palette in his
left hand though the paintbrush had once again fallen to the ground.
As he knelt down on the smooth marble ground, he saw the reflection of a
ghostly figure beneath him. He thought it was perhaps a mythical creature, its long
silver main billowing behind it, eyes belligerent and brilliantly untamed. The tile
tapered into a crevice to create the appearance of large white wings fanning out from
the creature's back. It's mouth distorted to form a snow-white muzzle.
The creature had only one eye. It was covered with a thicket of lustrous silver
hair that danced below head level. He could envision it swaying just slightly in the
wind, strands falling apart in purely symmetrical arcs.
The creature was beautiful.
~*~
Sweet Dreams are made of these
Who am I to disagree?
Travel the world and the seven seas
Everybody's looking for something
~*~
He placed a hand to stroke the elegant muzzle but jolted to a stop as they hit cold
marble. The reflection flickered hesitantly before disappearing altogether.
With a dismayed cry, he leaned closer to the tiles to find any traces of the
beauteous creature. None remained.
~*~
Sweet Dreams are made of these
Who am I to disagree?
Travel the world and the seven seas
Everybody's looking for something
~*~
The paintbrush clattered onto the ground again, complimented by the
secondary clunk of the heavier palette. Smudges of colour flew onto the marble floor
to paint it more vainglorious and complete. Some of the paint squeezed out from the
upside-down palette.
~*~
Sweet Dreams are made of these
Who am I to disagree?
Travel the world and the seven seas
Everybody's looking for something
~*~
He brought his dirty, crackled, brightly masked hands to his face. His single eye
allowed only one trail of tears.
They dropped, void of colour onto the smooth marble ground in sickening splatters.
Some of them travelled along the tile crevasses to mix amongst the discarded paint.
***********************************
End notes:
[1] Yes, I'm referring to the golden bridle used to tame the flying horse Pegasus. It's a
Greek Mythology reference, for those who are really lost.
[2] Egyptian mythology reference. Amun was half-crocodile, half-hippo creature who
would devour the souls of the impure before they entered the underworld.
The next part uses the same song, following as the conclusion of this part. There's at
least more of an attempt at plot in the next ^^;;;
Disclaimer: I do not own Yu-gi-oh, nor the song "Sweet Dreams" by Eurythmics.
Note: The featured character is mentioned throughout as "him". Any paragraph that
says/starts with 'He… etc etc..' (outside of a paragraph containing dialogue) is
referring to said character.
Warning: Minimal coarse language. Excessive philosophical ideas. Lack of plot x.X
Events take place during/right after Duelist Kingdom
*******************************************
Golden Bridle [1]
Part 1 of 2
Emerald trees. Sapphire cloudless sky. Sunshine of purest goldenrod.
He rubbed his sore eye with hands plastered in a rainbow of grime and tried
again.
Soft emerald-seafoam trees. Sapphire-lilac sky. Sunshine laced with goldenrod
and virgin white.
He was still missing something.
~*~
Sweet Dreams are made of these
Who am I to disagree?
Travel the world and the seven seas
Everybody's looking for something
~*~
Calmly he stood up. His muscles protested, the sudden pain jolting up his
spine where it registered half-dull in his mind. The feeling echoed and stung for a few
more moments before giving a satisfied flicker and disappearing.
The paint-created tree seemed to take a life of its own. Its branches began to
bob listlessly up and down like a children's carousel, dressed in its Sunday best of
speckled leaves. Rays of sunlight weaved into the humble trunk to form a
vainglorious shade of honeyed-brown.
The tree glistened like a jewel. It stood, stoic and proud against the lolling
green landscape. The sealess sky lay behind it.
His trembling fingers seized the paintbrush and dipped its dew-covered tip
into another colour. There were many on the palette, some smudged and mixed so
piteously that nothing of their true hue remained save a mass of clear liquid.
~*~
Some of them want to use you
Some of them want to get used by you
~*~
He brought the brush to grace it against the edge of the canvas. One more
stroke of green to bedeck the tree's crown, one more spot of vanity on those quivering
chestnut branches.
The tip of his brush soared upwards with a flicker of his wrist. He immediately
swivelled his hand forwards and backwards faster than he could command. It danced
businesslike in front of the growing canvas.
Green trees. Blue sky. Gold sun.
~*~
Some of them want to abuse you
Some of them want to be abused
~*~
The feeling was simple at first; simply an untended subtle ache in his heart. He
ignored it and continued to work. His hand chose another colour.
Fangs bared, it struck, rendering his self-appointed hand frozen. The poison
spread like wildfire through his spine into the very recesses of each nerve until his
whole body bathed in paralysis.
His single pupil dilated, lids twitching uncontrollably in protest. It had sealed
his mind entirely.
His paintbrush clattered noisily as it fell from the nerveless hands. It traced a
small arc of seafoam-green on the white marble surface.
The pain dug into his flesh with teeth of razor steel. He fought to suck just one
breath into his agonized lungs. Blood gurgled and foamed out of his half-open mouth
and trickled gently down his chin. Sweat collected in thick beads to slide greasily
down his long bangs. The damp substance graced his coveted fake eye.
An eye made of gold and metal, forged over five-thousand years ago and
tempered on power and will alone. His fake eye could feel the liquid brush against it,
and it took a conscious life of its own to flicker in protest.
No, not just an eye but the Eye. The Millennium Eye bestowed with a most
ambiguous gift of mind-sight. It was the power of the despairing and lost.
~*~
Sweet Dreams are made of these
Who am I to disagree?
Travel the world and the seven seas
Everybody's looking for something
~*~
The poison abated, withdrawing with it its paralysing effect.
He collapsed onto his knees. They scraped painfully against the marble ground
and allowed his satin-red pants to collect some of the paint still smudged against the
tiles.
It wasn't right. He shouldn't be able to feel pain; he couldn't feel pain. He was
the antagonist, the evil mastermind whom everyone sought to defeat. He was the
drunkard immersed in vats of wine and archives of children's comics.
But he was also the artist who sought to control his fleeting shadow of self-
expression and freedom.
He inhaled again and clenched his right fist into a tight ball. In, out, in, out.
His calloused white fingers flexed in compliance, the blood draining slowly from his
palm to the very edges of his fingertips. He did the same thing with the other hand.
It was amazing what one would do for a single moment of pleasure. If he
could pay to live in blind happiness, he would write off his soul to Amun[2] with
blinded longing.
How could he plead happiness when he couldn't even envision it? He wracked
his vast recesses of memory, and then invoked his muse of creativity in hopes to
capture its essence. There was nothing but simmering pools of ignorance and
pretences.
Duel? For what? For that simple moment of satisfaction into achieving a lofty,
most likely futile goal?
It would be a bitch to bring Cyndia back from heaven into this self-appointed
hell of his. It was a fool's game to simulate perfectly preserved beauty.
He was a fool in a fool's game.
~*~
Have your head up
Moving on
Keep your head up
Moving on
Have your head up
Moving on
Keep your head up
Moving on
~*~
In a paroxysm of pure willpower, he grabbed his discarded paintbrush and
wrenched it to life back into his trembling fingers. Three inches away from the canvas
he stopped. There was no paint left on the tip.
~*~
Have your head up
Moving on
Keep your head up
Moving on
Have your head up
Moving on
Keep your head up
~*~
For some unknown reason, his palette was unspoiled. It still rested in his left
hand as innocuously as before, bland face painted in a ridiculous tirade of colours.
He dipped the tip of the brush three times and then twirled it madly against the
palette until the green collided with the white. It continued its trajectory along the
palette face and collected consecutive hues of yellow, grey, and blue.
At last the brush parted and struck the canvas in firework of splendour. The
tree looked a bit better.
It looked much better.
He repeated it again. Again and again he shoved the paintbrush facedown onto
the palette and remorselessly forced some thick oily hue onto the horsehair. The brush
would linger just moments on the expanding canvas before ramming into the palette
again.
Palette, canvas, palette, canvas, until both were alive with a whirl of colour.
They danced like multihued fireflies against the moonless sky, miniature angels
glowing brilliant white.
~*~
Some of them want to use you
Some of them want to get used by you
Some of them want to abuse you
Some of them want to be abused
~*~
The colour was everywhere at once. It burned into his eyes and left permanent tattoos
of red, green, yellow and blue. They collected around his vision like the aurora
borealis.
The concocted hallucination suddenly jammed itself down his throat. There it
shot purposely up through his skull and into the very recesses of his mind. His eyes
began to tear uncontrollably with the sudden impact, vision dulling completely until it
was dominated not by shapes but colour.
There was colour everywhere. It was plastered in etchy lines and large
globules. They collected in fat pools and clashed angrily for dominance against a
limitless canvas.
He forced the colours to concede back into the basic contours of his room.
There was the forlorn painting still propped in front of him. He held the palette in his
left hand though the paintbrush had once again fallen to the ground.
As he knelt down on the smooth marble ground, he saw the reflection of a
ghostly figure beneath him. He thought it was perhaps a mythical creature, its long
silver main billowing behind it, eyes belligerent and brilliantly untamed. The tile
tapered into a crevice to create the appearance of large white wings fanning out from
the creature's back. It's mouth distorted to form a snow-white muzzle.
The creature had only one eye. It was covered with a thicket of lustrous silver
hair that danced below head level. He could envision it swaying just slightly in the
wind, strands falling apart in purely symmetrical arcs.
The creature was beautiful.
~*~
Sweet Dreams are made of these
Who am I to disagree?
Travel the world and the seven seas
Everybody's looking for something
~*~
He placed a hand to stroke the elegant muzzle but jolted to a stop as they hit cold
marble. The reflection flickered hesitantly before disappearing altogether.
With a dismayed cry, he leaned closer to the tiles to find any traces of the
beauteous creature. None remained.
~*~
Sweet Dreams are made of these
Who am I to disagree?
Travel the world and the seven seas
Everybody's looking for something
~*~
The paintbrush clattered onto the ground again, complimented by the
secondary clunk of the heavier palette. Smudges of colour flew onto the marble floor
to paint it more vainglorious and complete. Some of the paint squeezed out from the
upside-down palette.
~*~
Sweet Dreams are made of these
Who am I to disagree?
Travel the world and the seven seas
Everybody's looking for something
~*~
He brought his dirty, crackled, brightly masked hands to his face. His single eye
allowed only one trail of tears.
They dropped, void of colour onto the smooth marble ground in sickening splatters.
Some of them travelled along the tile crevasses to mix amongst the discarded paint.
***********************************
End notes:
[1] Yes, I'm referring to the golden bridle used to tame the flying horse Pegasus. It's a
Greek Mythology reference, for those who are really lost.
[2] Egyptian mythology reference. Amun was half-crocodile, half-hippo creature who
would devour the souls of the impure before they entered the underworld.
The next part uses the same song, following as the conclusion of this part. There's at
least more of an attempt at plot in the next ^^;;;
