I UPDATED THIS STORY A MONTH BEFORE THE ONE-YEAR MARKER! VICTORY IS MINE!
I cannot apologize enough for ANOTHER almost year-long wait for this story to be updated! I really can't! All the credit gotes to BakuraFangurl: we had a conversation about updating old fics and I realized i hadn't updated this fic in a year this MAY! I was furious!
I have no excuse other than job-hunting, work, Grad School and finishin DR and FK just kicking my ass, but FK has only one chapter left and once that has been posted I plan on working soley on thisd story (and on and off with AIEW) because I need a SERIOUS break from heavy romance, fantasy and emotional puzzleshipping: phew!
Also if you haven't voted on my poll it's still up!
Dedications got to My wonderful friend Bakurafangurl for not only reminidng me to update this but for editing it in one day (I got it written in two!)
Disclaimer: Takehashi owns the Cast, the inspiration for the plot and story line belongs to Viktor Hugo and the Disney corporation, the only I did is write it and create the differnt archs and plot twists
WARNING: Religious extremities, mention of character death, sexual assault and violence and eventual Tendershipping: DO NOT READ IF YOU DON'T LIKE!
As always, read, review, comment critique and feel free to yell at me for making you all wait. lord knows i deserve it.
Chapter Nine: Lust
Bishop Marik descended down the steps of the North Tower with a well-deserved sense of pride in each step. He normally wasn't so lenient with his ward for disobedience but given that he had baited the boy he could let it slide, and he was honestly in too good of a mood to truly punish him. Today was a victory after all. His Glory had redeemed the sins of his youth and proven his purity before the Lord and to himself. An almost sinful giddiness made the Bishop tremble with delight. His Glory or his Defeat: those were the words the Archdeacon had spoken when the child's fate was to be decided. Marik had sworn on that faithful day when he had been confronted with his own sin that the child whom he was to adopt would be his Glory and he was. He had proven it to day. Ryou Glory was indeed just that. The child had earned his name.
He had recalled that day so many times in his mind and all with mixed emotions, but never before had he done so with such pleasure. His first vision of the stunning child still burned in his mind, and every day he'd recalled it with horror and disgust. Horror that such a beautiful child had existed and within minutes of its life was already seducing men with its beauty, and disgusted with himself for falling victim to such temptations and, worse, believing the only way to cure it and free the child of his sins was to kill it. He cursed himself to this day for forgetting the word of the Lord was to help the sinner not kill them—even the worst of Paris were imprisoned, not killed. Only the Judges had that power and even then it was only to obey the laws of God.
But he had risen above those ranks, the Bishop recalled with pride. Risen above those sins he'd felt for the child he now loved. Risen above those sinful thoughts and desires, and had reared and raised a being the very image of purity and goodness. Oh yes, the Lord had given him this child as a test, and he had succeeded. The child was indeed his Ryou Glory: Ryou had freed himself from the sins of desire and so had he.
The Bishop paused in his step when he reached the end of the stairs. A black gloved hand weakly supported himself against the wall. The second slowly rose to cover his heart as if the aged organ were suddenly struck by an attack spurred by shock. He quickened his step until he found himself at the base of the Galerie des Chimières. The cool, midwinter air, pouring through the open windows and flying buttresses, was a welcome relief to his suddenly hot and heavy heart. Harsh, ragged breaths expelled from his trembling chest and a free hand rose to clench the loose platinum strands of his hair. What was this? He couldn't fathom the sudden cause of the attack. How could it have come so swiftly? Had the Lord sense some sort of impure thought in him? Was this punishment for his pride? Had he let it swell beyond what was allowed? No, he had been fine then. It had to have been something else? What had he been thinking? He tried to recall but all that came to mind was his joy that Ryou had resisted the sins of temptation and desire…just as he had.
Realization crashed into the man like a blow to the chest. He wondered out of the shadow of the North Tower base and into the open air of the Grand Galley. The flaming colors of the setting sun blared in his eyes though the open pillars. The gargoyles held an ethereal glow in the faded light, waiting for the night to envelope the church and begin their duty of warding off any evil that sought to invade the most sacred and holiest of all God's houses. He gazed at the beautiful explosion of flaming scarlet, deep crimson, ocher and gold and mesh misty purples and lavenders painting the sky and bleeding into the fading violets, cobalt and blacks of the coming darkness.
Normally, he loved the beautiful shining symbol of God's light: his silent promise to return the sun the following morning. But seeing it now filled him with nothing but horror. Gazing upon the glowing lights, he did not see God's love nor did he see the shining promise of hope. He saw no holiness in the colors: only painful reminders of the object of his desire, the gypsy called Bakura Esmeralda, the Glorious Emerald.
Blaring white sunbeams darkened with the palest of gold's and fanning over the darker colors mimicked the flowing quicksilver strands of the dancing gypsy. The blending ochers were eerily similar to the sun-kissed caramel skin shinning with sheens of sweat and glistening in the sun, revealing more and more of it with each movement. The stream of cool colors blending together formed the shapes and shadows of the dancing boy's curves. The colors outlined each perfect curve, each toned muscle and each chiseled feature. So vivid were the memories that Marik could see them taking shape before him. The memory of Bakura's moves and tricks: every flick of his bell-clasped wrists and ankles, every roll of his hip and turn of his sides, every flip of his back and bend of his body in a perfect arch. He could see it all so perfectly as if the boy were dancing in the sunset before all of Paris.
A scream tore itself from the Bishop's rough throat, his back arched forward to bury his head in the crook of his elbows, his hands wove through his hat, gripping short platinum strands of hair and pulled viciously. His knees buckled under his weight and his body pulled into a pathetic curl. He shook his head in despair his lavender eyes shut, feeling the chiseled frowns and stone eyes of the gargoyles and saints glowering into his back with scolding glares: Judgment before the eyes of Notre Dame.
"Why! Why! Why!" He pleaded to the heavens in meek, choked sobs. Why was this happening? He was not a weak man! He did not have a sinner's soul! He was a righteous man. He did not give into the temptations of the flesh or allow himself to be swayed, so why? Why was this gypsy haunting his thoughts so long after he'd seen him. Why were these sickening thoughts filling his mind? Why was he feeling these repulsive desires that exhilarated him just as much as they disgusted him? He had never been tempted before, not since that night, and yet this…temptress…this siren; who used his body instead of his voice, made him want to forfeit his vows of chastity and drag the boy into his bed and do unspeakable things to him; and, worse, a boy? But why?
He had willing taken his vow of chastity when he had joined the church. He'd felt nothing for women and saw desire as disgusting. A life of virtue was a pure life. The Good Book said so, didn't it? He had never felt such things before so why now?
A sudden realization made him shoot up. His hands remained in place, his body became rigid and with an elegant step, he stood and regained his perfect composure, save for the enlightenment beaming in his face. "Fool that I am," he scolded himself, giddily, "of course, how could I not have missed it?!" He chuckled before they erupted into laughs. "It's the only thing that makes sense, how else could one capture so many and inspire so much lust? Huh-ha! Very clever little siren, very clever, but this one man you shall not ensnare in your spell so easily." The Bishop declared boldly, spinning around to face the approaching darkness and clenched the banisher with the grace and elegance of a King chosen by God. He felt the Divine Right enter him at that very moment, watching as the sunlight faded into darkness.
"Your witchcraft will not touch me, gypsy, for I am a righteous man! And I shall ensure you pay for your crimes. The sin you spread will not corrupt my glorious city!" He sealed the declaration by making a fist and raised it to meet the heavens, a silent request for the Lord to bless his cause and his mission. So strong was his conviction that he almost didn't notice the lone figure running through the streets of the empty plaza, but a flash of silver caught the man's eyes.
Curiously, he lowered his chin and gazed upon the streets. His heart jumped at the sight of the very object of his desire running into the plaza like the devil was on his heels, stopping every few minutes before throwing himself to his knees upon and ground and arching back and forth in an unspeakable way before getting up and moving to another location.
But instead of the bittersweet curl of lust pooling in his belly, the Bishop felt t a smile slit his face, a swell of pride invigorated his heart.
"Yes, I understand," he directed the words heavenward but spoke with closed eyes and a bowed head. "I understand perfectly!" With a new giddiness in his step and a fire of determination in his being he rushed down the spiral stone stairs to the choir with haste. "I will catch this creator of sin and bring him to justice."
Now all he needed was to get Malik.
It was a common rumor that God would strike the wicked dead if they dared attempt to enter his house, or so Marik had told him numerous times. Thus Malik wondered how he, himself, was able to not only walk past the portals but inside the Church and down the choir without bursting into flames. Quite the opposite, he even felt a chill and not a sinister one either.
Perhaps God did play favorites, Malik smirked, but it quickly turned to a hiss when the soap burned his wounds. He growled as the red liquid festering from the open cracks in his skin pooled over his skin and dyed the water in the basin a pale rusty color.
Fortunately, his earlier fit had not broken any bones according to the Archdeacon, but the bone bruises and open abrasions still demanded attention. The wounds weren't deep and years of guard work and battle had made him a fast healer. Once the blood final stopped, he pulled out a bottle of alcohol he'd bought earlier and smothered the wounds. He twitched at the burning of his skin and growled at the wasted liquor. Once both hands were drenched he grabbed the lint bandages provided by the Archdeacon and bound his fingers and knuckles with just enough force to keep the wounds from opening. A flex of his hand confirmed his fingers could still be used, even though they screamed in protest with each curl.
"Better," the Guard Captain scoffed, before replacing his gauntlet.
"Take those off!" The sharp order came from a woman's voice. Normally, Malik would've ignored it but he recognized this one and instead of obeying arched his neck over his shoulder. The Abbess stood in the doorway with a disapproving glare and a snarl of hatred on her face. Her aged face still held the beauty of her youth and her sharp eyes were dark from the countless years of suffering her life had endured. "You are in a house of God, how dare you bring your weapons here!"
Malik was torn between rolling his eyes and snapping at her for daring to speak to him in such a manner. Part of him wondered if it was worth the risk to do so. He knew full well the Abbess and her brother only, reluctantly at best, tolerated the other, but she was still a woman of the cloth and he knew full well Marik's devotion to the church outweighed whatever, if any, devotion the Bishop had to his brother. Instead, as a strong, silent reproach against the woman, he gathered the basin and objects he'd used to treat his wounds and un-ceremonially dumped them on the floor, causing glass and liquid to splatter.
The Abbess said nothing, did nothing, and only shook her head with disgust. "Such a child," she held her head high and walked past the man, not even glancing at the mess. "Were you not a Guard and a monster like the lot of them? I'd pity your soul the day the Second Coming arrives, but such sentiments would be a waste on you." Her words were sharp and cruel and laced with such hate that even Malik felt their sting. The Abbess may have tolerated the Bishop out of a begrudging respect for the church, but for him, a debauchery guard as she saw him, she had none.
"You should be thanking me Abbess, is it not my Guard who keep this city safe? Is it not us who capture the wicked and imprison them for their crimes and clean the streets of the filth and rats that populated it? Who else frees this city from the gypsies that infest it?!" Malik bragged, arrogantly, the action more to fuel his own pride than to lower hers.
He hadn't expected a reaction, but was surprised when the Abbess spun on her heels and delivered a sharp blow across his face. The slap was so sudden and unexpected it knocked him off his feet. He saw the Abbess make a sign of the cross across her face before scowling at him. "I trust gypsies far more than I trust guards! It was gypsies who showed me kindness in my darkest hour, and brought me here when I sought penance for my life of sin. Where were your guards when I had been abandoned by my mother and disowned by my father who considered her nothing but a passing fancy? Were your guards righteous when they called me whore and ripped my children from my breast, and killed them without even leaving me their tiny bodies to bury? Where were your guards then? No, I do not trust guards, boy. They are monsters consumed by power and greed and always have been and you are the blackest of them all."
Her words were sharp and dangerously low but held such force that even the dead quivered in fear at the echoing volume of her rage. But all Malik could feel was the painful throb in his cheek and the sheer humiliation of it.
"What's going on?" The Bishop descended down the stairs of the tower and into the choir, fiercely surprised to find his brother and the Abbess in the same room and immediately decided that he did not like it.
"Nothing," said the Abbess calmly. "I was just leaving." She strolled passed him making the sign of the cross as she did so.
Once she was gone, the Bishop turned to his brother and watched the man pick himself off the floor with a sort of swagger. "I think the Abbess needs to leave the church more often. Isolation has made her senile."
Marik was clearly not humored by the joke. "Don't jest," he snapped, until he caught the bandages decorating his brother's loan naked hand, his other gauntlet held in the other. "What happened to your hand?"
"Hands," Malik corrected, pulling on the other gauntlet. "And nothing you need to concern yourself with. I just got into a scuffle, is all."
Marik narrowed his lavender eyes darkly, his brows furrowed in disbelief. "I think a more truthful answer would be you attempted to whore yourself with some girl against her will and being a smart woman she rejected you, and as a result you lost your temper."
Malik bristled with rage and scoffed at the comment. "I was not," he said insulted, it hadn't been a girl he was charming after all, but Marik's remark about being rejected stun. The fact that it was true made it worse. His own lavender eyes sharpened, identical to his brothers. The same frazzle blond hair, the same features that arched when angered, the same pale eyes. It was disturbing to both brothers how eerily similar they looked yet how vast their personalities differed.
Dismissing another fight, Marik rolled his eyes and said, "I care not for whatever liaisons you engage in, you abandoned your post this afternoon-"
"If you mean the search for your runaway ward, don't make me laugh. I'm not his caretaker and if you will recall, you specifically ordered me to stay away from your brat. I simply obeyed your wishes."
A twitch of Marik's brow was the only flaw in his composure. "Be that as it may, you still left your post, and I do not much care why you did only that you did, but." The pause in the Bishop's voice sounded a little too giddy for Malik's comfort. "No matter, your penance has already been decided." The Bishop spun around, his smile unusually happy, so much that Malik felt disturbed by his brother's sudden change in demeanor. "It seems one of the gypsies was foolish enough to stay in the plaza after dark, a boy with white hair." The bishop took small steps towards his brother until he was towered over the other man even though both brothers were the same height. A gloved hand curled into a point and jabbed the pointer finger in his chest which Malik felt even through his thick armor. "I want you to go into the plaza, capture that boy and bring him to the Palais de Justice. Arrest him on the ground of alleged witchcraft and public indecency. I will see that he is tried upon my return. And do it now, while he's still in the Plaza!" There was a sudden urgency in his voice, as if he was suddenly overcome by a nameless dread. "Go! Now!"
"Alright!" Malik said finally, securing his last gauntlet, if only to silence his twin's screams. "Alright!" He secured his belt and sword, and refastened his discarded mantel as he thundered from the church his metal sabatons making loud, crashing metallic screeches against the stone floor. "But forget the penance; I'll do it as a favor." Anything to keep Marik off his back, thought the Captain. A mock act of kindness would certainly earn more credit in the Bishop's eyes than a reluctant act of penance would.
"Fine, fine," the Bishop said shaking his head. "Just get it done! I'm leaving tonight."
"Alright," Malik finally snapped and stormed outside. Deciding that existing through the portals would do little in catching a thief; he slipped out the side entrance of the church and slipped into the shadows of the ally. His black and purple armor hid him well in the darkness and slowly, so his armor would not make any metallic sounds and alert the unsuspecting gypsy that he was being stalked. Years of training had taught him the arts of silence and the art of sneak attacks.
He peeked through the corner of the church, smirking when he caught site of his prey. Only one person remained in the Plaza after the end of the festival and darkness had quickly fallen over the city. Only the boy's distinctive white hair seemed to shimmer in the darkness and torchlight. Using the shadows as cover, Malik swooped into the Plaza, hiding behind any stray object he could find, his unsuspecting victim, clearly too distracted to notice his movements.
The boy suddenly shot up and flung himself onto the ground, kneeling with a frantic shriek. His knees buckled against the ground as he dropped to all fours, his fingers smoothed across the ground and nails dug into the crevices like a blind man looking for stray change. He dropped to his knees and arched his back to look under stones and crevices, giving the Captain a delightful view of the curve of his bottom.
Malik rolled his eyes, typical gypsies. Probably looking for any spare change the nobles dropped during the festivities. What Marik wanted with him was beyond Malik, but he didn't care. A job was a job after all. Quickly he cut a piece of his cloak, and pulled a small bottle from the belt of his armor with a smirk. He uncorked the stopper and grimaced before holding his breath, only a whiff of the stuff was needed to knock him out. Quickly, he poured the noxious-smelling liquid into the cloth and crept deeper into the darkness.
Bakura could've screamed when night crept over the plaza leaving him to search alone in only torchlight. "Damn it to hell!" he cursed and continued his search. He dropped to his feet, ignored the horrible ache of the bones in his knees crushing against the stone and began searching with his hands. Blindly, feeling each stone and crevice and ceasing any foreign object he could find for examination and cursed loudly when it proved to be little more than trash.
"Damn it, where it!" he cursed over and over. "Where is it?" His heart sank at the thought that someone had found it and taken it for themselves, but he quashed those thoughts beneath his head. Just the thought made him feel violated. That emerald symbolized his parents' dying devotion to one another, his mother's sacrifice to keep him alive the day of the massacre, her warm smiles and loving songs. Just the thought of those precious memories wrapped around some fat, meaty, noble woman's neck made him feel sick enough to vomit.
"It has to be here, please God, if Mama Silence was right and you can hear even our prayers, please, I beg you help me find my mother's emerald!" He pleaded but only half expected it to do anything. If he was lucky, morning would come and he'd be able to see the Plaza better during the day. With luck, it had slipped out of anyone's site and was still in that hidden resting place waiting for him to find it. With less luck it was in some noble home or had fallen down a gutter and was taken to sea, where it would no doubt sink to the bottom of the bay. Bakura shook his head and cursed his own imagination.
He would find it. He had too.
A rip and shallow pop snapped in Bakura's hears and instinctually he shot up and whirled around. His hands reached for his knives, only to realize with horror that he'd left them behind. "Who's there?" Bakura demanded, letting his anger and rage bleed into his voice. The more dangerous he sounded the better. The shadows didn't answer. He hadn't expected them too. What concerned him was that he couldn't see anything. Even in the darkness thieves and gypsies were notorious for the sharp eyes: came with the territory, avoiding law officers was necessity above all else. But now he couldn't catch a single shadow flickering in the darkness, not a single flash betrayed a movement.
Something was wrong.
His ears had never failed him before. "I know I heard something," he whispered to himself. "Where are you?" he demanded louder.
In answer, his assailant threw an arm around the boy's neck and another around his waist pinning his arms to his side, the hand around his beck pressing a soaked cloth to his nose and mouth. Too late Bakura realized his mistake, so focused on the sound behind him that he'd failed to realize once he'd turned around he'd fallen into a trap. Realizing what the liquid was, Bakura struggled to hold his breath and thrashed his limbs. His strong arms flexed, he kicked one leg behind him bashing into his assailant's shin, but instead bit his lip to suppress a hiss when his heel his solid metal.
A guard, he concluded. Who, he didn't know, but it didn't matter. He knew full well what happened to the gypsies captured by guards and had no illusions of the fate awaiting him if he passed out now. He flexed his arms, slammed his elbows into the armored chest and stomach, and continued to kick, even lifting his leg to kick the back of his foot against the man's unarmored thigh. He thrashed will all his might hoping to at least turn around but none of his actions helped relive him of his predicament. The guard held strong, the arms tightened around his neck and waist, making it even harder to hold his breath. Armored feet kicked his unprotected legs and knees causing his bones to ache and his body to weaken. The tightening grip on his neck and the cloth pressing harder against his nose and mouth made it even worse.
He held his breath as long as he could, but between his thrashing limbs and the assailant's grip he could only last for so long. Finally, he could stand no more and against the will of his mind, his body rebelled and he took a breath of air, only to inhale the foul stench of the chemical. His nose and throat burned, his lungs felt like they were on fire and his mind suddenly became hazy. Still, he continued to thrash, even as he felt his arms and legs weaken and his body going numb from the infectious sting. He eyes watered, and he shut them tightly out of pride more than anything else. He felt his body going numb as if his limbs were freely floating in space, but it was an awful, helpless, infectious feeling. A sudden drowsiness washed over his mind. He fought it bitterly but secretly he knew he'd lost the battle and would soon lose the war as well.
"Well, well, isn't this a surprise…" The humor in the words was like a faint echo in his ears, even as his body fell limp at his sides and his weak legs buckled beneath him. He felt the guards grip loosened but it did nothing to aid him. His body collapsed into a mess of appendages.
"Looks like I get you all to myself." The last thing Bakura heard was the man's familiar but cruel and lecherous laugher following him into darkness.
Malik couldn't stop laughing. "Huh-ha! I can't believe my luck! Oh brother, if only you could see how mistaken you were!" He laughed like a child with a new toy. And, oh, what a delectable toy it was. Even unconscious and sprawled on the floor he looked provocative and desirable: his body limb and facing him, his cheek pressed against the ground, his arms sprawled at his sides and his legs parted slightly, his gorgeous hair fanning that chiseled face. Oh, if only those eyes were open. Those glorious green eyes who he wanted to see with desire, but for now he would take what he could get. He would not let this one escape his grasp. Not again.
That realization suddenly struck him. He promised to bring the beautiful gypsy to the Pailis de Justice, but he knew full well the tonic would not last long. It was meant to stun and knock out them long enough to detain them for travel. It would never last long enough for him to take the brat all the way there, let alone have his fun. Unless….
He turned around, his eyes following the cobblestones to side door he had used, and followed up the ancient stone of the church to the empty upper towers that housed only birds and bells. The caretakers had already gone to bed. No one would notice the Captain sneaking in with his latest catch and slinking up to the tower to have his fun. If the boy woke up, he could just drug him again and take him to the Pailis when he was finished. The boy would never know. His brother would never know, and by morning they'd all go on with their lives, none the wiser.
He grabbed the youth by the front of his shirt, slung him over his shoulder, and made his way back to the side entrance of Notre Dame.
"Oh blast it!" Ryou swore for the tenth time in the last hour and tossed the broken block of wood over his shoulder. It landed with a soft 'thunk' before rolling down the rest of the accumulating pile before finally rolling off into a corner. "Why can't I get this one right?"
"Because it is the middle of the night and, for some reason I cannot fathom, you refuse to go to bed." Atem answered stirring the wood paint with one hand and pouring water into the thick colors with the other.
"And being good guardians we've decided to stay up with you until you either collapse from exhaustion, or finish your current project and go to sleep on your own," Yami added painting the wood carving of a gypsy caravan with bold colors.
"He was being rhetorical you too," Yugi teased with a chuckle before gazing down at his own poor attempt to turn a block of wood into something elegant.
"Whatever, I can't sleep anyway, and I am not going to bed until I get this carving right!" Ryou said boldly, grabbing another block and attacked it with his blade. Normally, adding to his collection of wooden figures and working on his Paris model relaxed him, but this current project did nothing but frustrate him. For all his talents, this one simply refused to be carved. "Hopefully, I can get this one to look somewhat like Bakura."
"Speaking of which, have you decided what you're going to do about that emerald?" Atem asked.
Ryou paused, his blade cutting a rather deep nick in the coat of the figure. "Not a clue," Ryou signed, giving up and starting over with a new block of wood. "The Gypsies are already gone and I have no idea how to find Bakura. And unless I do, I can't return it to him." He paused. The image of the emerald resting peacefully under his pillow filled his mind with shame. Even more since the Bishop gave it to him as a gift. The man had earnestly believed it to be a sign from God? How could he keep it, let alone wear it, knowing who it belonged to and how much it meant to him.
"What about that pendant you said he gave you?" Yugi asked, sending his adopted son's distress.
"I have had no luck deciphering it," he said pulling on the cord and removing the pendant from the security of his shirt. It was clearly handmade from two woven bands tied at the top and end. A cross was its heart, surrounded by a blue line oval, and next to it was a white circle with a black x with a series of surrounding threads tied in crisscross lines and all had odd angles. Lovely, but he had no idea what it meant.
"I know Bakura said something about it but I'm not sure what it means." He pondered until a loud clang like wood and iron slamming against stone echoed through the top of the tower causing the four occupants to jump.
"What was that?" Yami demanded as Ryou shot up and leaned over the wood beams and gazed into the lower rafters. "I'm not sure. It sounds like it came from downstairs." Ryou said, climbing over the railing, and with a jump grabbed the rope and started climbing down, letting go only when he was low enough to land on the rafters without hurting his knees. Overhead, he heard the Grigori's wings. "Stay above, he told them "In case someone's here," he ordered racing across the open gallery with minimal effort and hid in the shadows of the corkscrew stairs. He could see his own room was intact and left alone, but the closer he got the more the louder he could hear the sounds of metallic metal and the soft thump of a body. Quickly, he climbed the rafters and into the high ceiling of the stone chamber.
His suspicions were confirmed. Someone was in the tower. Now the question was who?
Malik entered the high-ceilinged stone chamber and deposited his beautiful burden on the floor with little regard for its care. 367 stairs he'd climbed. In heavy armor, with a body nearly his own height and weight slouched over his shoulder. Already exhausted and furious, he growled and pulled off his gauntlets and dropped them to the floor with a loud metallic clang, then dropped his mantle and heaved off his chest plate and threw it in the corner. The loud clang of each garment was nearly enough to stir his captive but the tonic did its job well.
"367 steps, how the hell does Marik do this?" he asked no one in particular and continued to strip his heavy armor. A long, pleasant night awaited him and he'd be damned if he spent it heavy and tired and covered in chainmail. Once stripped to his clothes, he turned to his beautiful captive still on the floor and took long strides towards the body a devilish leer in his eyes.
He turned the boy's cheek to face him, wishing so much those precious emeralds would open if only to see their beautiful fire and resistance turn to pleasure and begging. He stroked that cheek, taking in every curve of his face, every crook of his neck and leaned forward to taste it. He felt the creature stir with a faint squirm under his touch. A stressful arch of his unconscious brow expressed resistance even in slumber, so Malik's touch. It made the Captain angry. How dare he resist. How dare he deny him what he wanted! Didn't the boy know how lucky he was that he, The Captain of the King's Guard, had taken an interest in him?
"Oh if only you were awake," the Captain moaned in wicked delight, maneuvering the boy's hands above his hand with a simple, flawless stroke of his bandaged wrist and gripped them tightly, a silent warning to the boy of who exactly was in charge. His free hand stroked the lean chest, taking in the curve of every muscled even through the thin contours of his raggedy shirt. He stroke up the chest with rough fingers then down his side to the curve of his hip. He pushed up the rough fabric licking his lips maliciously. The strong skin felt hot and strong beneath his fingers. He indulged in the firm muscles, firm and warm and begging for him to touch them.
His knees caged either side of the boy's hips, pressing his lower half against the boy's hips. Slowly, his hand wondered towards the hem of the boy's pants, teasingly, fingers brushing against things they shouldn't, all while the boy's stress marks grew worse and worse but all Malik could envision was the boy writhing under him.
So caught up in these lecherous thoughts was he, that he didn't hear anyone else enter, or notice the boy climbing through the rafters above. But Ryou swiftly pushed through the forest of wooden beams with the accuracy of a primate in a tree, weaving until he could see what was happening. His suspicions confirmed he was torn between seeing who it was and retreating back to the safety of the Upper North Tower, but his inner fears and caution compelled him to stay.
Something's not right. He told himself. No one comes up here unless it's to see me. Whoever it was that had entered hadn't left the stone room which was little more than an entrance, why? Silently, he weaved closer, and hoped for a better look. He soon made out two bodies in the darkness and moonlight pooling through the open windows. The position was a strange one for him, the way their bodies were positioned: one on top of the other, but one wasn't moving by the looks of it and that concerned him. Was the other one wounded? Had the second brought him here for treatment? It sounded too whimsical, even for him. Carefully, Ryou climbed deeper into the rafters until he was just above the bodies.
He watched as one leaned over and pressed his mouth to the other's neck. Realization hit Ryou with horror. Were they? No! They couldn't! Not here! In the house of Our Lady! Would anyone willing commit such a sin! He opened his mouth to scream until the upper body pulled away, moonlight suddenly illuminating the face of the, who Ryou now realized, unconscious boy. The familiar white hair, the gold skin, the arched cheeks: there was no mistaking it, and horror compelled Ryou to scream.
"BAKURA!"
"The hell?!" Malik spun around at the sound and looked around but Ryou had already fled into the shadow of the rafters. He stiffened when he felt the body beneath him stir but with more force.
"Owe, my head," Bakura stirred, his head pounded loudly in his ears, his throat was dry and raw, and his nose burned. He pulled on his hand to rub his head but found it trapped above him. His eyes suddenly flew open and he yanked on both his wrists but the slumber had weakened his limbs and the grip was like shackles of iron. Panic flooded through him when he felt an unusual weight on his middle and looked up and down. His worst fears confirmed.
"Get off!" Bakura screamed and thrashed in a vain attempt to get the body of his attacker off him. Damn, him if he let himself be raped by a guard.
"Shit!" Malik cursed and looked down, struggling to regain control of the flailing body under him. "Shut up!" he delivered a backhanded slap across Bakura's cheek with enough force that Bakura's cheek rolled and his head smacked against the stone, making him feel dizzy all over again. He tried to scream when he felt the man's hand on his chest, but his throat burned and no sound came out. The rip of cloth and panic fired his veins, his heart beat so fast it threatened to burst from his chest. Bakura half hoped it would. A quick death would be much better than this shame. He tried to scream again, but the guard beat him to it and covered his mouth with a rough, callous hand. "Oh no, you don't," he mocked. "I'll be damned if those nuns hear you and ruin my fun." Bakura shook his head ferociously and tried to bite but his attacker's was strong and even his assailant releasing his mouth did little to help Bakura find his voice. The air raw his throat and robbed him of his voice and words formed unreadable rasps. He tried to kick his legs, fail his arms but something in his body had weakened him to the point he could barely move them without feeling exhausted. He sealed his eyes shut when he felt that callous hand move towards his pants.
Ryou felt himself freeze for a moment, paralyzed when the rapist turned his attention towards him but the shadows hid him well. Fear and horror at what he was witnessing paralyzed him. No longer was he himself, but the fourteen-year-old child, powerless in the face of the ungodly men who attempted to use him in the sickest, vilest and most evil of the Devil's sins. Only now did he realize he was witnessing a rape, or an attempted one, and that terrified him more than anything in his entire life. Crippled by fear and memory, Ryou could do nothing but watch, even as his mind screamed at him to move his body betrayed him. His heart stopped all at once and froze his limbs in place. Tears pricked his eyes and once more he felt as though he were the child wishing he'd never left the church in the first place and begging for a miracle, for his master to save him.
Only Bakura's voice broke his terrified trance. The voice he recognized but no longer was it the cocky, cynical, baritone swank it was before. No, now it was high with terror and a weak, helpless squeak. Bakura scared: if Ryou's childhood memories scared him, that realization terrified him.
With a shove that he didn't know if it was the wind, his own body rocking forward or the hand of God himself, but Ryou felt himself fall forward and he landed with a loud thump not three feet from the attack and with all the strength Ryou screamed "No!" and with closed eyes and shaking arms, shoved the stunned rapist from his only friend outside his family.
Malik was so stunned by the sudden attack he put up no resistance against it and sprawled against the floor. Paralyzed for only a moment, Bakura didn't move, until he felt someone grab his hand, kneel at his side and ask "Are you alright?"
Terror still fueling his veins and shock keeping him paralyzed, all Bakura could afford was a weak nod, until his mind cleared its haze. He pushed the stranger away and back peddled in to a corner, reaching for the knives he knew wasn't there.
Ryou didn't blame him for being scared but before he could say more a strong hand gripped his slender neck and lifted him off the ground with a swift pull. Ryou tried to scream but sound was literally chocked from him, rendering him silent. His hands clawed at the attacker's hands, and his slim legs kicked but they did nothing. He didn't dare open his eyes and face the demonic eyes he knew he'd see if he did.
"You'll pay for that." The threat was laced with venom and scared Ryou to his very core. His lungs ached for air and the crushing pressure against his neck was so painful he couldn't even scream.
Bakura reacted on instinct and lunged towards the one being attacked, but his sense were dulled and his reflexes were slow and the second he grabbed the man, he was struck with an elbow to the chest and spun to the ground.
"Ryou!" A cry echoed above, but none of them could see anything.
Overhead, Yugi screamed in horror at his son being strangled and tried to fly but his wings became caught in the rafters. Atem's eyes widened in horror before he leaped up and with a powerful flap, shot through the air like a rocket and when he was level with the first bell he could find, slammed his fist into the heavy brass with such force its bellow echoed with a fierce sound wave.
So loud and low was the ring that Malik thought his ears would explode. He screamed and dropped the interloper to cover his own ears. Bakura did the same, and curled into a ball to deafen the sharp sound. Ryou, on instinct grabbed his earplugs and stuffed his ears with cotton. Quickly, he ran to Bakura who reacted like a wound up spring and jumped until he saw it was not his attacker but his savior helping him.
"Come on!" He called but the words were deafened by the echo of the ring. The two tried to flee but their assailant lunched at his prey like a wild animal and grabbed Bakura's hair. He screamed as he was yanked back with enough force to drag Ryou with him. The assailant, grabbed the smaller boy and though him to the ground behind him. Thinking quickly, Ryou looked around for some sort of weapon and grabbed the first thing he could find, a metal breastplate on the floor and, with as much strength as he could muster, swung it over his shoulder and prayed to God for accuracy.
BANG!
A loud thump compelled Ryou to open his eyes, the breastplate still in his hands. He found Bakura sprawled on the floor, shaking and panting but alright. In front of him the body of his assailant laid unconscious on the ground. A tiny bead of blood stained pale hair where the breastplate had contacted with his skull.
The breastplate slipped from Ryou's horrified fingers. Trembling, the boy fell to his knees and made the sign of the cross touching his forehead, chest and shoulders with a little more force than necessary. "Good Lord, what have I done…" he crawled to the unconscious body and carefully rolled it over to check for a pulse.
He and Bakura both screamed when they saw his face. Lying there unconscious but alive was a face mirroring that of Ryou's Master and one Bakura recognized as the Guard who fancied him only hours before. The Captain of the Guard, the Bishop's younger twin brother: Malik Ishtar.
"Sweet Mary, mother of God," Ryou made the sign of the cross again, folded his hands and immediately started praying, too shocked and horrified to believe anyone kin to his beloved Master could commit or even think of committing an act as foul and severe as rape. In the Church of Our Lady no less!
"No. No. No." Bakura chanted over and over, staring unblinking at the unconscious face. "No, no, it can't be him." Shame, anger, stupidity burned his pale cheeks red. Anger at himself for letting his guard down and thinking a guard could ever be a friend. Shame that he allowed himself to end up in this position and the sheer stupidity of his action crashed against him making his chest ache with things he hadn't felt in years.
"Bakura?" A soft voice broke Bakura out of his thoughts, followed by the gentle shaking of his shoulders. "It's alright, your safe now. It's me, Bakura." The other attempted to mollify, but Bakura could barely see through the darkness and his own hazy eyes.
Fear, terror, shock, horror, confusion and uncertainly all spiraling into one and his mind unable to process them all and his body still delirious and weak from the drug, Bakura collapsed in the man's arms, but somehow, this time he knew when he woke up again he'd be safe.
"What's happening, what's happening?" Ryou panicked, until he felt the soft air of wings flapping at his side. Yugi hugged Ryou tightly while Yami checked the unconscious Bakura's vitals.
"He's alright," the Grigori confirmed. "He's just passed out from shock."
"Can you blame him," Atem stormed over to the unconscious body of the Captain. "What should we do with him?" The eldest Grigori asked with a dark smirk, his mind spinning with fitting punishments.
"Leave him," Yami said. "He's not dead and if the noise didn't wake someone up, those bells you rang sure will. Someone will find him soon enough."
"So we just let him go!" Atem said furiously.
"His people will judge him, Atem, we're Angels. You know that isn't within out power." Yugi warned, but his eyes held a secret message reminding his eldest lover to focus on what was really important.
"He better," Atem scoffed but obeyed, purposely stepping on Malik's hand as he walked over.
"We can't stay here," Ryou said immediately, stroking a hair out of Bakura's face. "He can't stay here."
"What are we going to do?" Yami asked, rhetorically. "It's not like we can bring him home. We could search this entire city and never find the Gypsy Court of Miracles."
"City!" That word set off a bell in Ryou's head. He pulled out the pendant dangling from his neck and held it to the moonlight. "When you hold this woven band, you hold the city in your hand—it's the city!"
"What?" the Grigori all said at once.
"The pendant, it's a map!" Ryou said laying it in his palm. "Look, here's the church," he pointed to the cross, "and the river" he pointed to the blue oval encircling it. "And these are the roads, so this." He pointed to the white circle with an x that he now realized looked more like an arched cross. "Must be where the Court of Miracles is." He pronounced proudly.
"You're certain of this?" Atem asked raising a skeptical eyebrow.
Ryou spun to him with a glare in his eyes. "I've lived on top of this city for eighteen years, I think I know what it looks like from above, and if I'm right, these roads lead to Lorrette!"
"A cemetery?" Yami gasped, incredulously. "That's an odd place for something supposedly called the Court of Miracles?"
"Perhaps, but it's my best bet," Ryou said, carefully lying Bakura in Yugi's lap and running into his room to grab his cloak.
"What do you mean by that?" Atem asked, afraid he knew the answer already, but prayed he was wrong.
"Isn't it obvious?" Ryou said as though he were commenting the weather, tying the cord of his mantle shut and pulled the hood over his white locks. "I'm going to bring Bakura home to the Court of Miracles."
Well, if I didn't make you hate Malik before I hope I did no. I have to say that attempted rape scene was super hard to write snd it wasn't even that graphic, still anyone who knows me knows those are the one thing i REFUSE to write so i was pretty proud that I not only managed to get past it but with how well that scene came out, specifically with Ryou's bout of heroism to save his friend despite the resurfacing Tramua of his own past.
Also what happened here WILL come up next chapter: you guys know i NEVER use things like this for plot device (i honestly did it cause given Malik's character this was the most realistic scenario even though it's better for his ego for him to seduce his captives rather than rape them, he decided not to take any chances with Bakura.
I was also super nervous about Bakura this chapter since he's in a lot of "helpless" situations and we all know he is anything butt, but with a drug pumping through this veins someong his own height and weight on top of him and the shock of it all, I think i got it pretty well, also why did he faint? like i said the drug's still in him and I think the shock of the whole situation and figuring how who it WAS that tried to attack him would be enough stress to knock anyone out.
So as always read, review critique and commnet and this TIME I WILL UPDATE FASTER! I have finals right now and am trying to finish FK before Summer, so I can't make any promised but I WILL update this story within the month and following that I want to update every other week if I can! so THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH FOR YOUR PATIENCE! Fans of this story if you're still reading it: God Bless you (and if you don't beleive in God) THANK YOU ALL FORM THE BOTTOM OF MY HEART!