Would it be so Bad if we Were?
"Why should it?" Bakura asked serenely. "Is there someone who's going to challenge me for the right?" He still wasn't clear on exactly what dating was, but what he had found had told him that it was basically a sort of light-hearted courting. When he'd accepted her invitation he hadn't been thinking of courtship or romance, but since she had brought it up he had begun to do so. Now he absently brought up the conclusion which he had come to. "Would it be so bad if we were?"
Myrtle's cutlery dropped and she stared at him as though she'd never seen him before. "No." She whispered finally, blushing a furiously red color. "I… I'd like that."
Several seconds passed in silence as Bakura watched the colors changing in her face. She'd gone first white, then red, and the color was now fading to a delicate shade of pink. It still felt strange to see the peachy color that people's skins were here rather than the shades of bronze he was used to, but he was growing to like it, and the dark brown of Myrtle's eyes was a familiar and welcoming shade.
Deciding to change the subject before Myrtle could get more unsettled than she was at the moment, Bakura spoke again quickly. "So do you want to pay another visit to the kitchens after class?" He thought that Myrtle would probably want to do something a bit less practical, but it was all he could think of to say at the moment, and the bell would ring in a few minutes.
"Sure," Myrtle stammered over the word and blushed again. "I mean – that sounds great!" Bakura's smile became rather strained and he bent his head and continued eating again, trying not to pay attention to Myrtle's self-effacing behavior. After all, she had agreed, and she was getting better. Perhaps that was why it annoyed him so much when she showed that she was still uncertain of herself.
Shrugging, he offered her a quick smile and headed off to get his things. He didn't think he could manage to keep from snapping at her if he had to listen to her apologizing for being herself any longer. When he got to his room there was a note on the bedside table, and Bakura snatched it up and stuffed it into his pocket as he yanked on a cloak and practically threw his books into his bag before heading out for his Herbology class.
As he strode towards the first of the greenhouses, Bakura pulled out the note that he had found and smoothed it out so that he could read the message on it. The words are short, telling him nothing of what is wanted of him, but he feels his heart rate increasing despite that, in dreadful anticipation. The very fact that the paper tells him so little makes him certain that it has happened. They know.
Shoving the thought out of his mind as much as he could, Bakura pulled on thick gloves and followed the teacher's directions as they added thick black compost to the dry brown soil in small pots and poured out small glassfuls of water to give the plants life. He thought of the rich dark color of the earth after the Nile floods, and the pale white sands, and the water that gives life to everything, and wondered whether he would ever get to see his homeland again, and what had happened to it. Did the Pharaoh still rule as the god-king, the son of Re, the living Horus?
Thorns scratched his hands as he dug under the plants to make sure that the soil he was giving them reached the roots and nourished them, but he barely noticed. His mind was in Egypt, remembering the warmth of the sun by day, and the cold chill air of the night when Amun-Re no longer drove his chariot across the sky. The rich soil covered his hands, and he knew with a sick sense of certainty that he would never be what he had been once. He would not be able to plant himself in the fertile soil and rise up grown into someone strong and tall, as his mother had always whispered to him.
Water poured over his hands, and his next class went by in a blur of words, Binns' voice droning on like the insects that Bakura had always hated. His skin was still wet, and he stared in fascination at the water droplets which slid down his wrists and were absorbed into the thick fabric of his school robes. It should have felt soothing, a change from the dry heat that was the desert, but the water was cold, and his skin rose into tiny bumps that made him shiver.
Finally his duties were done, and he fled, running to the spiral staircase with his schoolbag still slung over one shoulder, and whispering the password he had discovered on his first day of exploration before running up the stairs. He could have stood and waited for the movement to take him to the top, but he was too agitated and restless to simply stand and wait so he ran. In front of him, the door opened, and Headmaster Dippet stood up and gave him what was meant to be a reassuring smile.
"You're not in trouble, child." He began, as Bakura sank into the too-soft chair in front of his desk. "Atem has been talking to the Ministry, however, and they wished to confirm his story. Is it true that you tried to kill him?"
"Yes." The word came out stronger than Bakura had hoped, and he sat up straighter, feeling the old familiar rage beginning to rise in him. Clenching his fists in his lap, he beat back the icy fire that tried to fill him, and stared into the professor's eyes, widening his own to hide the stinging that had begun. "It is true." He would still do it if he could. If the Pharaoh were here now Bakura would tear him apart with his bare hands. The images of blood and muscle and bones being pulled apart made him feel sick, but he merely opened his eyes wider and concentrated on his hands.
When he had woken up without that familiar presence – when he had heard that the Items were gone – Bakura had thought it was over. No, he'd hoped it was over. He had pleaded with Ma'at to make it so, to restore the balance so that he was alone. Now he knew that she hadn't listened, and the darkness was rising once again.