Christina: … We're back.
Ono: Yepppp. Didja miss us?
Readers: Nope.
Christina: ...Oh, love you too.
Ono: To be fair, we DID get a couple of lovely reviews. xD
Christina: For which we are eternally grateful... your souls shall be saved.
Ono: Congrats to NushiKasai and GirlWhoHasNoName. ;P
Christina: You're awesome. ^_^
Ono: And so, we present another lovely chappeh. One which, unfortunately, has only the smallest dose of Zorc. WAHHHHH.
Christina: However, it does contain copious amounts of pain and mutilation. Joy!
Ono: We're Bakura/Ryou fangirls. We really cannot help ourselves. :')
Christina: And so, the story continues...
Vitiate
Two - In Which Substitutions are Made
The living room of the Bakura household had been thrown into disarray within a short period of time. In addition to the broken fragments of diorama littering the floor, cupboards had been opened and their contents emptied out, with all unwanted objects merely being thrown into a pile and forgotten about.
Ryou needed ingredients.
Of course, the actual ingredients for the spell he'd discovered were almost impossible for him to acquire with any sort of haste. The first on the list - a vial of water from the Nile, specifically during the flood season - was deceptively innocuous. As his eyes travelled further down the page, past blood of a female jackal, left eyeball of a priest of Osiris and other such unsavoury things, it became clear that a certain degree of substitution was in order.
The spell itself was simple enough, thankfully, and didn't appear to be dangerous (then again, gaudy pieces of gold jewelry never looked dangerous to him before he learned of the spirit that the Ring contained, either). There was a short incantation - written originally in hieratic, but translated into English - that wouldn't prove too difficult to master. Almost like a children's nursery rhyme.
He hoped that the spell would have the desired effect.
'A ritual commonly used to exorcise demons,' the book had stated. Ryou thought that the Spirit of the Millennium Ring would most certainly fall into the 'demonic' category. He could only hope that the ancient spell would work for him, what with all of his makeshift ingredients, and that he didn't end up turning the spirit into a vicious animal or some other such thing. Best/worst case scenario, nothing would happen.
For what seemed like the hundredth time Ryou found himself distracted from reading the book by a low rumble accompanied by a twinging pain in his empty stomach.
He put a hand to his midsection and attempted to rub it into quieting as he scrutinised the text some more, but his stomach's complaints won out. Eventually he couldn't bear to read any more about having to use a portion of a partially mummified brain while subconsciously thinking about food and put the book down.
Time was of the essence, but it would only take a few minutes, at most, for him to cram half of whatever sustenance in his apartment offered into his mouth.
He arrived in front of the fridge and tore it open before remembering that the Millennium Ring was still inside. The eye in the centre of the pendant glared at him accusingly and for a moment Ryou found himself wondering whether or not the thing would spring up and plunge all of the pendulums into his chest as they had so very long ago.
With this thought in mind he slammed the door shut once more and resolved to eat a piece of fruit instead.
Upon reaching the well-stocked fruit bowl on the other side of the small kitchen, however, the hungry teen was met with a dilemma. In the four days that he'd been trapped inside his soul room, the bananas, apples and oranges had grown discoloured, and a slightly fuzzy growth had begun to form across their skins. It wasn't exactly appetizing, to say the least.
Picking up the banana, and peeling back the bruised, brown skin, he noted the soggy consistency of the flesh; could this possibly work as a substitute for a decomposed brain? Deciding against it, he dropped the mouldy mess back into the plastic container and proceeded to dump the entirety of the bowl's contents into the rubbish bin.
Five minutes later and he was sufficiently satiated, thanks to the box of cornflakes he'd discovered that - although incredibly dry without any milk - seemed to be the only edible thing within the apartment at this moment in time.
Stomach temporarily filled, he crouched on the floor of the living room, amongst the wreckage, and looked over the ritual once again, attempting to decide on suitable substitutes for the foul ingredients listed.
River water from the Nile would be simple enough. Some tap water would suffice; maybe he'd boil it in the kettle for a little while (because, well, it was hot in Egypt). There was something about the bandages of a mummified serpent, but some ripped-up articles of clothing could probably work.
Once or twice it struck Ryou how pathetic he was being with his sad attempts at a grotesque spell in order to destroy an ancient spirit, but it was brushed away in light of his despondency.
Everything that hadn't been thrown directly into the assorted mess of the huts and other broken objects were meticulously arranged on the game board, sorted according to the book's instructions. It required a bit more destruction to the buildings, but Ryou had little problem with that. The carefully sanded pyramids soon joined the wreckage along with more than a few obelisks. (He made sure to leave the palace fully intact, however, just to spite the Voice.)
And the next ingredient was... the hand of a thief.
It was with no small measure of relief that the Spirit of the Millennium Ring stumbled into his soul room. His spirit was as exhausted as he had left his host's body and he wanted nothing more than sleep. He had always been of the opinion that slumbering the hours away was a waste of time (he'd spent thousands of years in an almost hibernation-like state within the Ring and figured that he had done more than enough) but at the moment he felt tired enough to set aside this such thoughts. He would just... take a little nap. Just as much time as it would take for him to get rid of the fatigue that had settled like a heavy quilt over his body.
The darkness that permeated his room quickly swallowed him up as he let the door fall shut behind him, cutting off the tiny ray of light that had spilled in from the hallway. By memory and touch he walked into the blackness towards where he slept, hunched over and blinking his bloodshot eyes rapidly to keep them from drooping shut.
He collapsed on his bed upon reaching it, drawing the heavy comforter around himself to keep away the chill that permanently existed within the space. The warmth that he discovered such bedding provided was much appreciated - though he would never admit to getting the idea to have this particular kind of bedclothes after seeing that his host sleeping with them. It would be downright embarrassing if someone were to realize that the "evil Spirit of the Ring" actually rather liked being kept warm after so much time spent in the frigid regions of the desert at night.
The spirit turned onto his side, further bundling himself up. Despite how weary and worn out he was, he felt satisfied with his completion of the Ancient Egypt model. Soon, so very soon, his plans would come to fruition. He would finally destroy the wretched Pharaoh.
A little smile, the mixture of a twisted smirk and a more genuine expression, curled his lips just before he fell asleep.
The blood drained from Ryou's face, leaving him ashen as he stared at the yellowing page. Why? Why, of all things, did it have to be that?
Not to mention that the book recommended that it be fresh. Fresh. Like it was a vegetable or some other such thing instead of a human hand.
The half-digested corn flakes in his stomach began to swirl around uncomfortably as he found himself examining his own hands, still spattered with paint and dried blood. They were delicate things, slender nearly to the point of being bony. The only callouses he'd ever developed were as a result of holding a pencil or paintbrush. As far as scars went... well. The large white mark in the center of his left hand never ceased to remind him of just how abusive the Voice was willing to be with his body. His fine motor skills were completely shot in that hand.
The overall appearance aside, however, they did technically belong to a thief.
The Voice had stolen plenty using his hands - whether it be objects, souls, or oftentimes both. Ryou swallowed the bile rising in his throat as he found his gaze drifting to the kitchen where he kept knives... they weren't meant for chopping, but... if he were to saw above the joint in his wrist with one of the serrated ones...
Ryou squeezed his eyes shut and simultaneously balled his hands into fists. Just how desperate was he to rid himself of the Spirit of the Ring?
… Pretty desperate, he realised, as he looked downwards at the sharp blade now being grasped with his right hand. Maybe just a finger would suffice; he wasn't sure if the exorcism of the Spirit of the Ring was worth a whole hand.
He swore he'd read somewhere that cutting through a finger required approximately the same amount of pressure as slicing up a carrot. He'd chopped quite a few carrots in his time, so if he just closed his eyes and carefully positioned the knife just so -
"Ah!"
His eyes snapped right back open the moment after the blade hit the table with a sickening thunk. A strangled whimpering noise made its way out of his mouth as he slowly looked down to survey his handiwork.
For the second instance in a short time bile swam in his throat as he looked down at the bloody stump that was left as evidence that his pinkie had once been attached to it. He hadn't cut cleanly... the ligament was splintered, though it was barely visible beneath the thick coating of blood. It gushed out at a rate that seemed ridiculous considering how small the laceration was.
Ryou dimly realised that he didn't have anything to staunch the wound and pressed his hand to his shirt. A red stain quickly blossomed on the fabric as he dropped the knife with a metallic clatter in favor of picking up the limp, dead little finger in his other hand. It was still warm.
He threw it dispassionately on the table amongst the other less repulsive substitutions for the ingredients the book dictated before wrapping the now-ruined hem of the shirt more tightly around the wound to stop the flow.
After a moment he reconsidered and let the blood puddle onto the table, squeezing around the rim of the stump to cause more to ooze out. His lower lip was also sufficiently bloodied from chewing on it to keep himself from screaming while he underwent this process, but eventually he had what he deemed enough. Mentally, he crossed blood of a female jackal from the list.
Scanning the ingredients page - now splattered with thick gouts of blood - he noted the only thing missing was the eyeball.
Okay, a line needed to be drawn somewhere. He was not gouging his own eye out. No way in hell.
He cracked an egg into a bowl; the discoloured yolk emitted an odour so foul he gagged and nearly retched his cereal-dinner into the kitchen sink. The gooey consistency would work as an effective replacement. Holding his nose, he placed it at the centre of the table.
Ready.
The Spirit of the Ring felt a shooting sensation that roused him prematurely from his much-needed slumber. It seemed as if he had only been asleep for a short while, and his mood was decidedly soured because of it. And that was before he became aware of the source of pain.
After a moment of muttered cursing he reluctantly threw the covers off of himself and sat up, rubbing at his eyes with one hand - shit that hurt! He immediately pulled his the hand away when he unintentionally ignited another bout of pain. He held up the hand again but didn't immediately become aware of the problem. It most definitely hurt like hell, but why it was hurting was beyond -
Four. Why did he only have four fingers? He counted again, to be safe, then held up his other hand, by this point sufficiently awake. Nine fingers. He appeared to be in possession of only nine fingers. Now, that begged an important question; where the fuck was the tenth one?
Had someone assaulted the vessel while he rested? If an idiotic mortal had damaged his Landlord, then there would be hell to pay, that was for sure.
The searing pain at what was once the base of his missing finger only served to piss him off further; if he was suffering, then the vessel - weak, pathetic little creature that he was - must surely be hurt badly.
Host. Has someone injured you?
The receiving end of their link was unresponsive, save for an intelligible muttering. Bakura strained slightly, breaking through the virtually ineffective mental barriers the vessel employed, and listened:
To cleanse the filthy darkness from thine soul,
If banishing a demon be thine goal -
The host appeared to be chanting an incantation of some sort...
Moonlight shall purge thee of the beast,
And the grip of the shadows shall be ceased -
The spirit instantly decided that he didn't like the sound of that. More than once the words "filthy darkness", "demon", and "beast" had been applied to him, and he certainly wasn't looking forward to being "banished".
What angered him the most, however, was the familiar voice reciting the treacherous spell. The spirit ground his teeth as he headed for the door of his soul room, intent on asserting his authority over his mutinous - and clearly somewhat suicidal - vessel.
What appeared on the other side of said door certainly wasn't what he expected. What should've been stony-walled corridor, dimly lit by sparse mounted candles, dripping their glutinous wax onto the cobbled flooring, was simply nothingness.
A thick, omnipresent blanket of darkness, threatening to envelop him as soon as he stepped out of the confines of his pris- home, awaited him.
In spite of himself he squinted a bit as he peered into the darkness that most definitely should not have been there. He couldn't shake the feeling of familiarity that flooded him as he stared out, four-fingered hand resting against the door frame.
The chilled, dry air stung the inside of his throat as he took a slow breath and surveyed his surroundings - or, rather, the lack thereof - only to be jolted out of his concentrated state as the silence was shattered.
Words. After a moment of standing frozen and listening intently, the spirit made out the guttural rumbling - coming from deep within the gloom - to be words.
And this time the one speaking was most definitely not his host.
Ono: Evil cliffie is evil.
Christina: Too right... and we cut off poor little Ryoukins' finger! D;
Ono: Hee~ That was so totally my genius idea~ ;)
Christina: *whispers* she's totally a closet psychopath... help me.
Ono: Who's a CLOSET psychopath anymore? *openly threatens readers with chainsaw* You should reviewwww.
Christina: You totally should, because I fear for my life right now *hides*