Day 2: July 13
Prompt: "Red String of Fate"
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"Symposium"
summary: Everyone is born with another half. … Sometimes, we're just born a few thousand years apart.
rating: T
warnings: canon age gap, canon age difference, Bakura meets Ryou when he's a little kid, canon compliant character death, the massacre of Kul Elna is very much a thing that happens, many people are murdered, Bakura is not a nice person, more people are murdered
tags: Tendershipping Week 2020, Yami Bakura/Ryou Bakura, soulmates au, wild misuse of Plato's 'the Symposium,' Bakura just wants a hug honestly, conveniently Ryou is also tired and wants a hug
word count: 1,898
written on: July 9, 2020
originally published on: July 13, 2020 (on AO3)
When people were created, Mother used to say, they were beings of duality. They had two faces, and walked on four legs, and carried things with four arms. Each one was a pair, and each pair was one. And they were happy this way. It was impossible to feel lonely or singled out when there were two of you.
But, the gods decided that they knew better. They decided that the humans shouldn't be born in pairs, and should instead be born as one, and only one. So, humans became creatures with one face, two legs, and two arms. Their souls were halved, with each half entering its own body.
And that's how you'll know when you've met the person you'll spend the rest of your life with, Mother would say as she blew out the lamp. She'd cuddle Bakura and his sister close, pulling them into her lap and kissing the tops of their heads, making them giggle with delight.
The person you'll spend the rest of your life with is the person who holds the other half of your soul. Whether that's a lover, a friend, or even a family member... that's the person your heart will sing for.
That's what Mother used to say, when Bakura was small, and when she was alive, and when all seemed right with the world.
And then the soldiers came in the night, forcing the people out of their beds, dragging them out of their homes and into the street, tying them up and throwing them alive into the golden, liquid maw of death. The streets ran thick with gold and blood, and the sky filled up with smoke, the sounds of sobbing and screaming and dying filling the air.
Bakura sat in his hiding place, curling himself up tighter into a ball. He didn't want to watch, but he couldn't look away. He couldn't close his ears to his sister's screams of pain as she was thrown into the vat, and he couldn't close his eyes to his mother's horrified, frantic face, tears running freely down her cheeks.
Tears began dripping down his own cheeks. Big boys didn't cry, but what else could he do?
One by one, his people were massacred, and the only witness remaining was one small, scared little boy. He saw the cruelty, but was powerless to stop it. He saw the gold trinkets that were carried off by his people's killers, but he didn't understand the significance.
Finally, after several hours of sitting and hiding in his small, cramped position, Bakura was free to stand up. He walked into the street, where ash hung in the air like an evil cloud, and stared at the nothingness that surrounded him, and listened to the deathly silence of the air.
Tears welled up in his eyes, and he screamed to the heavens, torn apart by the cruelty of the gods.
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There was no one like him. This was the conclusion that Bakura had come to as a teenager, when he roamed the streets of Khemet and stole food for his meals.
How could there be anyone whose heart and soul was a match for his own when he couldn't even find people who looked like him?
Everywhere Bakura went, he stood out as unusual, his white hair making him an easy target in a crowd. He began dirtying it intentionally, giving it a dull, brown-ish gray color, just so people would stop staring at him.
He silenced every emotion that wasn't anger or hatred, choosing not to waste his time dwelling on things that could have been, and focused all of his energy on avenging his people.
But, he was still young. And sometimes, his own heart would betray him, crying out for a closeness it would never feel, aching for something to fill the hole that had been left by his family. But it never came. The gods were too cruel, and enjoyed his pain too much for that.
Sometimes, when he lay awake at night, he would sing his mother's lullabies to himself, or he would recite the stories that she used to tell him before bed.
But that's just what they were: stories. They held no meaning, and they carried no weight. Their words were pretty but altogether meaningless.
Bakura had no 'other half.' The lot he was given in life was to have everything taken from him, and then to become a cruel, sadistic killer, if only to get some of it back. He wasn't given a fate that was to be shared with another person.
His road was long and hard, and he would have to walk it alone.
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A man was screaming in pain, and children were crying out.
Bakura arose from his slumber in the Millennium Ring, his eyes narrowing as he took in the surrounding chaos. It was easy to see that Shadi had found some other poor fool who was willing to put the Ring on. A man who was eager for power but heedless of any dangers that the Ring came with. And now, Bakura supposed, the fool was paying the price.
Only the strong could wield the Ring, Bakura thought grimly, sneering to himself from his ghostly prison. And this old fool with fading hair and fancy clothes just wasn't cutting it.
The man fell, clutching his chest as his heart threatened to give out on him. The Ring escaped from around his neck, coming to a stop on the floor several feet away. Bakura was vaguely aware of Shadi watching, the priest's eyes set sternly on the Ring and its would-be bearer, judging the outcome in his own way. The horde of children Shadi had collected all cowered in a cluster behind the priest, peeking out from between their fingers; they'd seen too many people already fall to the Ring.
Bakura watched the man lie on the ground, struggling to breath. He expected the old man to die at any second.
"Father!" a child's voice cried out. A small boy ran over to the man on the floor, crying and pleading with him to hold on.
Bakura's eyes widened. His eyebrows raised. And his jaw slackened.
The boy looked... remarkably like himself. Almost exactly the way he had looked as a child.
"The... the Ring..." the man stammered weakly, and Bakura's lip pulled back into a snarl. Didn't the man know he was dying? Shouldn't he be more concerned about living or caring for his kid or something?
Then again, if the man wanted power, if he had a purpose for it... Bakura could respect that.
The boy climbed to his feet, running across the room to the Ring, reaching for the thing his father wanted so much...
As soon as the boy's fingers closed around the Ring, Bakura felt a jolt, a shock that shook his innermost being. And he grabbed at it. He heard the boy cry out as the Ring threw itself around his neck, the sharp tines pressing themselves into the child's skin...
Bakura was in the boy's head then, and he did what he could to soothe and quiet the boy. He gentled his voice as best he knew how, and spoke with soft, consoling words.
"Who are you?!" the boy demanded, and not wrongly. "Why are you in my head?! What is happening?! What's wrong with my father?!"
"Don't worry about it," Bakura answered. He didn't have time to play Twenty Questions with a preteen. Quickly, but carefully, he slipped into the boy's body, taking control of his little arms and legs.
"What... What are you doing?" The boy was crying in his mind. Bakura turned, giving the boy a light hug and a kiss on the forehead, the way his mother had always done. "Why can't I feel my arms anymore?"
"It's alright," Bakura promised. "Your father will be fine. I just need to borrow your body for a little bit. I need you to take a little nap, alright?"
The boy hiccupped, gazing up at Bakura with tearful eyes and quivering lips. But then his small spirit tucked itself into Bakura's side, and he curled into a ball, closing his eyes and growing quiet.
Bakura spared the little one a quick pat on the head before rising to his feet.
He couldn't believe his luck!
This child was young, and pure, and moldable... and he was Bakura's elusive other half! A perfect host to bear the Ring!
Unable to keep from laughing out loud, Bakura turned to Shadi, expressing his glee at having a body by throwing the useless priest against the wall. There was a sickening sound as the man's neck snapped, and Bakura began to laugh even harder. The cluster of children were next, their screams all silenced at once as they fell like dominoes.
"I'm going to like this new host body!" Bakura cried out with delight. He smiled at the boy, pleasantly surprised to find the boy watching him with wide, curious eyes. The boy held no fear, even after witnessing Bakura's actions – he just watched, chewing his lower lip in a way that looked more puzzled than afraid.
Bakura put his hand to the boy's cheek, delighted and amused when the boy leaned into his touch.
When he spoke again, it was with a promise. "... We're going to have so much fun together!"
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"I need your help," Bakura began.
His other half, a small boy named Ryou who had grown into a young man named Ryou, continued to stir the soup he was making for dinner.
"What kind of help?" he asked without turning around. He tasted the soup thoughtfully before adding more pepper to it. "Is it the kind I'll regret giving you later?"
A stupid question, really. Even if it was something he didn't like, Ryou always helped his other half. He was nice like that.
Bakura smirked. "Mmm... probably?"
Ryou cast him a tired, sideways look, but otherwise said nothing.
"Come on, little landlord," Bakura wheedled, using his pet name for Ryou that he knew the boy found endearing. He floated up against his host's back, pushing Ryou's hair aside and pressing soft kisses into his neck. "I just need you to make a little diorama for me... You're such a talented artist, after all..."
Ryou chewed his lower lip, frustrated, but Bakura could feel the boy relaxing into his touch. "I'm definitely going to regret this, aren't I?"
"And you may have to break into your father's museum. Maybe steal a body." Bakura shrugged. "And, if I fail, there's a sliiiight chance that your friends may hate you."
His 'landlord' turned and fixed him with a stern look, his lips puckered into something like a pout. "Why are you so determined to get me in trouble?"
His answer was immediate and matter of fact. "Because you look cute when you're in trouble!"
Raising his ghostly hand, Bakura ran his fingers down Ryou's cheek, amused when the boy leaned into his touch.
Ryou sighed. "What do you need me to do?"
A cruel, delighted grin split across the face of Bakura, the Spirit of the Ring. When he spoke, it was full of that same cruel delight, but also a decent helping of pride.
"That's my good little other half!"