Waking Dreams
Bakura sensed that the Thief was going to speak, and yelled, "Shut up!"
A dog started barking outside. Bakura let his head fall into his hands.
How are your friends?
Bakura whispered, "Leave me alone … please …"
I cannot leave my permanent host.
Bakurashuddered and ran his fingers over the palm of his hand where an ugly, circular scar showed white against the pale skin. He closed his eyes and sighed. He wanted more than anything to just be rid of the ring, but whenever he tried to throw it away he felt an aching tug on his heart. He couldn't just let the Spirit go like that.
For one thing he might find someone else to haunt. Bakura didn't wish the Thief-King on anyone …
"You hate me."
Bakura shuddered. The Thief-King had taken on his 'physical' form – transparent and insubstantial as a ghost to all but Bakura, his figurines and his new Duel Monsters deck. Bakura looked up and took a moment to look over the Thief's form. We could be twins, he though, if he didn't look so … different.
"I am not all that different to you."
Bakura growled, "Why must you listen to everything I think?"
The Thief shrugged and came closer, moving to sit beside Bakura. Bakura moved away, sliding along the sofa until he was pressed against the arm rest. The Thief sighed. "You shouldn't fear me. I can't – won't – hurt you."
Bakura snorted and held up his hand to show the scar to the Thief. He winced and grabbed Bakura's hand. Bakura tried to pull away, but found the thief's transparency and apparent lack of muscle to be bad indicators of his strength. The Thief-King pulled his hand close and ran his fingers over the scar tissue. Bakura scowled, but allowed him to continue.
Bakura tried to jerk back when the Thief-King pressed his lips to the scar. However, the spirit's other hand moved like lightning to grab his wrist in a gentle but firm grip, holding him still. Bakura growled, "What are you doing?"
The Thief looked up at him, his eyes dull. "You hate me."
It was a statement rather than a question. Bakura paused a moment and decided not to reply. The Thief released his hand and leant back against the sofa. "It matters little. My hosts have hated me before, but they come to tolerate me eventually. I am used to hate, little one. In Egypt everyone hated me. They didn't know my name, or my face, but they hated me still. They used to whisper about me, fearful of the Tomb-Robber who took the treasures of the Kings. They hated me because I was sacrilegious – disrespectful to the dead, and to the Gods."
"One day you'll regret everything you've done," Bakura hissed, standing up and walking towards the kitchen. The Tomb-Robber's eyes followed his every movement.
"What makes you think I don't already?"
Bakura didn't reply. He pretended he didn't even hear. He simply ignored the Thief for the rest of the day until finally he could stand it no longer. The Spirit had been trailing him from the moment he emerged from the ring. "Have you nothing better to do than follow me around and get in my way?"
The Tomb-Robber frowned. "I have not gotten in your way once. I moved before you turned, I never stood in your path, I let you do what you will –"
"You were watching me!"
"What is wrong with that? You seem to dislike me watching your thoughts, host, so what can I do but watch your actions?"
Bakura ran his thumb over the scar on his palm, then turned on his heel and went to bed. He started to pull the ring over his head, but it's points suddenly pressed into his skin.
Do not take it off.
Bakura hissed and let the ring fall to his chest. After a moment, the points began to press against his skin again, almost drawing blood. "Please – make it stop!"
Relax. Don't fight it and it will stop.
Bakura closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He felt the pressure subside and relaxed. He pulled on his pyjamas and lay back on the bed. "Why do you do this to me?"
You do it to yourself, my host.
Bakura huffed and rolled to face the wall. The Spirit of the Millennium Ring watched him from the shadows on the other side of the room. Once hw was sure his host was asleep, he padded silently across the room and stroked his pale hair. He remembered that he had once had hair like that, only not half so clean. Bakura was meticulous when he washed, making sure there wasn't a speck of dirt in his snowy hair. The Thief-Skin chuckled. He was a far cry from the Spirit's old self – hair slightly matted; sand everywhere, itching his scalp and rubbing against his skin until it turned red and sore; clothes scruffy and unwashed …
An old King's gold dripping from his fingers.
The Thief-King smiled to himself. He had only been a King of Thieves – a no one, a nothing – but he had owned enough gold to make the Pharaoh's eyes widen. The Spirit closed his eyes and remembered the feel of the gold clinging to his neck, the armbands heavy on his biceps and wrists, the rings on his fingers warm to the touch …
The Spirit lost himself memory, letting himself into a waking dream of rough sand and priceless cloths, glimmering jewels and gold that warmed as it caressed his skin and glowed in the light of a sun dying behind the pyramids.
Ryou Bakura watched, from a shadow of the Thief-King's dream he had yet to notice. The Thief was dirty, his hair matted and frosted with sand and his clothes ragged, but the gold shone against his bronzed skin and he looked at peace. Bakura sighed.
The Thief-King spun around, his suddenly purple eyes wide. Bakura caught a glimpse of the ghost of a scar over his right eyes that vanished as the rest of the Spirit's waking dream melted into a wash of gold and disappeared.
Bakura fell once again into the blackness of restless slumber.