Poetry
And thou art dead, as young and fair
As aught of mortal birth;
And form so soft, and charms so rare,
Too soon return'd to Earth!
Though Earth receiv'd them in her bed,
And o'er the spot the crowd may tread
In carelessness or mirth,
There is an eye which could not brook
A moment on that grave to look.
- George Gordon, Lord Byron
Bakura sighed silently to himself as he read the poem. Like all the others he had received it was chosen far too well for his peace of mind. For several months now he had been finding these notes in his locker, on his desk, tucked into his lunch, and almost everywhere else he might conceivably look. It was sweet in a way, and Bakura knew that he would miss them when they stopped appearing, but it was still far too dangerous to leave someone who knew as much about him as the sender of these notes obviously did alive.
Biting his lip, Bakura cleared his mind and placed the trap card face down on the shelf of his locker, sealing it with a touch of shadow magic. He had planned this out yesterday, when the implications of the note had finally driven him to do something about the dangerous knowledge the sender held. After reading all the notes that had been sent to him he had begun to feel something for the writer who had chosen their poetry so well, but he learned long ago not to let sentiment get in the way of doing what he had to.
Wistfully tucking the note into his bag, Bakura let his fingers caress the light blue paper of what was probably the last such poem he'd ever receive. He had thrown away the first ten such notes, but after that his interest had been piqued, and he had kept the rest in his room at Ryou's apartment. Whoever was sending him these, they knew what he liked. There was not so much sentiment in the verses to disgust him, but they all had a meaning to them that made him feel like he was truly a young teen again and was able to indulge in the luxury of love.
His classes that day went by in a sort of daze, and more than once he found himself the target of the hikari's worried looks. More notes were found in his lunch bag, and tucked into the pocket of his jacket, but he refused to read them and distract himself still further from his purpose. When Yugi caught his arm after school and asked him if he was all right, however, he managed to dredge up a smile to reassure the anxious light. There was nothing wrong with him, he was simply allowing himself to indulge his foolish sentimentality now so that he would be able to do what must be done the next day.
Nightmares plagued his dreams that night, and he finally gave on sleeping altogether and pulled out all the notes he'd saved to go over once again. Each one was written out with beautiful penmanship in dark blue ink on that special light blue paper, and each one had the eye of Horus drawn carefully on the other side.
Finally he gave in and pulled out the two notes that he had stubbornly denied himself during school. Slowly his fingers found the first, caressing the thick, textured, square before bringing it out of its place to read. His eyes misted, and he angrily dashed the liquid away before beginning the poem.
And now I see with eye serene
The very pulse of the machine;
A being breathing thoughtful breath,
A traveler between life and death;
The reason firm, the temperate will,
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;
A perfect being, nobly plann'd,
To warm, to comfort, and command;
And yet a Spirit still, and bright
With something of angelic light.
- William Wordsworth
By the end of the verse, his eyes were clouded again, and he bit his lip until the blood came in order to gain control of himself. His fingers tightened on the paper, tearing it slightly at the edge.
"You don't know me, do you?" he whispered finally, shaking the incriminating tears away. "After all that I've done the last thing you could call me is an angel."
Noticing the damage he had done to the paper, Bakura quickly dropped it on top of his ever-growing collection. Almost unwillingly, then, his eyes were drawn to the final square. Reading it wouldn't make the ache in his chest any less painful, but at the same time, he wanted nothing more. Taking a deep breath, he focused once more on the beautiful handwriting, wanting somehow to prolong the sweet agony.
Entreat me not to leave thee,
Or to return from following after thee:
For whither thou goest,
I will go;
And where thou lodgest,
I will lodge.
Thy people shall be my people,
And thy God my God.
Where thou diest, will I die,
And there will I be buried.
- The Bible, the book of Ruth
Smiling mistily, Bakura lay down, letting his cheek rest against the textured square and slept. If he dreamt, he didn't remember anything but a sense of peace that remained with him throughout the morning. The calm lasted until he reached his locker and remembered what he had done. There stood Honda, frozen in place by his magic, leaning into Bakura's locker with a square of paper in his hand.
The swift intake of breath was entirely involuntary, and Bakura noticed with astonishment that his hand was shaking as he reached out to touch the note, releasing the spell as he did so. Honda looked up at him and Bakura found himself wondering why he had never noticed how dark the youth's eyes were before this. Both boys found their breath coming faster, and Honda quickly looked down at the paper trapped between their hands.
"I –" the boy stammered, "I –" Then he gave up, and took a deep breath, summing up his courage and began reciting Robert Herrick's poem, the poem he had spent all night searching for, in a soft, hesitant voice.
"Bid me to live, and I will live
Thy protestant to be:
Or bid me love, and I will give
A loving heart to thee.
A heart as soft, a heart as kind,
A heart as sound and free
As in the whole world thou canst find,
That heart I'll give to thee.
Bid that heart stay, and it will stay,
To honor thy decree:
Or bid it languish quite away,
And 't shall do so for thee.
Bid me despair, and I'll despair,
Under that cypress tree:
Or bid me die, and I will dare
E'en Death, to die for thee.
Thou art my life, my love, my heart,
The very eyes of me,
And hast command of every part,
To live and die for thee."
Wonder filled Bakura's eyes as he stared at this mortal who had just given him a pledge that he had never thought to hear from any man. He didn't try to speak. Speech would have destroyed the enchantment that hung on this moment. Softly, tenderly, he leaned forward, and pressed his lips against the lips of his love.