Disclaimer: I do not own Yugioh, any Yugioh characters depicted in this fic, or 'Lamashtu'
Author notes: It draws to a close in these final chapters, readers. Remember to leave reviews or comments, everything is welcome! They make me very, very happy indeed!
The River of Thought
There was a stillness, an awareness of the chamber closing high above his head, the feel of the tablet beneath his fingers, the light touch of Ahum-waqar's fingers on the top of his skull, the breath of the gathered brothers ghosting out in fine vapour. He was apart, and yet connected to each and every one of them through the strange, wild magic running through his frame, a whisper, a promise of what was to come.
A hush descended amongst the softly chanting brothers as they all raised their cowled heads, shaded eyes bright with anticipation and wonder. And it was not surprising. For centuries, they had waited, watched, learned, collected, cutting down their opposition, doing all that was necessary to bring the power of truth, of enlightenment to their brotherhood. And here it all ended, here it all began. In this man, this High Priest, lay the key to all they had endured through the ages. He was a brother now, he had become one in the sacrifice of himself for the holy knowledge and immeasurable energy bestowed by the ancient text. Their High Master, supreme to all the brothers, would reap the force, leading them into a new dawn for mankind, mankind under their rule. All would see truth, and if not, they would fall to their might.
Seth's breathing quickened as he felt Ahum-waqar's grip tighten on his skull. A strong, but steady stream of energy, the same that had been used to battle his shadow magic during his capture, passed from the splayed fingers and gently stirred his hair in an unseen breeze, making him feel strangely vulnerable. This was it, and he knew it well. The moment that all his mental and magical strength would be required for; his resistance. Gritting his teeth he firmed his mind, but even then he was unprepared for the thing that happened. Ahum-waqar's gentle chanting suddenly escalated in both volume and intensity. No longer did an ordinary human clasp keep his head fixed in position, his entire upper body felt as if it were encased in a shell of hardened iron, impossible to make a single movement within its confines. The High Priest's eyes widened as he struggled wildly against the rapidly restricting coils binding him in place.
And then PAIN! His entire body twisted as white-hot, lancing arrows of pure fire exploded in his mind. Agony beyond anything he had ever known, greater than the knowledge that he would fail, greater than the thought of never feeling the sands of Egypt beneath his feet again, greater than the wrench in his heart at the sight of those pleading, sightless, slate-blue eyes in a face too young to know sorrow and loss . . .Please, help me, please . . . somebody . . .
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Lamashtu was careless. Caught up in the spectacle before her, her eyes gleaming, lips wet where she had licked them over and over in anticipation, she had not noticed when he had slipped away from his post behind the column beside her. Stealthily, he approached the man bearing the tray on which the Millenium Rod sat. The hooded figure of his target swayed slightly, his voice joining in with the low recitation reverberating throughout the room. Easy now, stay as you are . . . A gleam in the shadows as his dagger was drawn . . . As you are, my good brother . . .
The scream, drawn out in unearthly torment, despair and anguish, magnified thousandfold by the blast of raw energy spilling from the central pedestal brought him to his knees, clutching at his head to maintain some level of sanity. The dagger dropped from his grasp as he buckled under the force, waves of the High Priest's torture striking out, clawing into the mind of every person in the chamber.
Growling, sweat pouring from his chest under the effort, Bakura opened his eyes once more and staggered upright, focusing on the collapsed shapes of the brothers around him, all writhing and twisting under the amplified outpouring of Seth's emotions. Behind him, he heard Lamashtu's shriek of fury as she registered his absence.
Damn it all to Ra . . . Lunging, the Thief barely escaped the sweeping claws of the enraged demoness as he skidded towards where the Rod lay, discarded on the stone flags where it had rolled from the quivering grasp of its keeper. Roughly kicking the robed man out of his path, he had just touched the item with his fingertips when a sharp pain tore its way through his calves. Shouting in fury, he drew his blade and stabbed wildly at the source, earning another shriek, this time in pain. The grip on his legs ceased. Rolling over onto his back, he beheld Lamashtu rear upright, a black, steaming liquid running down her wrist. Ichor! Clenching his teeth against the High Preist's roars, he sprang out of the path of the fluid as it streaked in a wide arc with the passage of her arm, burning a sizeable trench in the stone pillar which it struck.
My love . . .the abominable crooning mingled with the cacophany surrounding him, somehow managing to be heard as an individual voice . . .why do you run? Together we can have this power, rule together as one . . .
"Never!" Darting forward again, he snatched up the Rod, his blade singing as it sliced through the air, drawing black poison once more.
A laugh escaped the demoness. You make a foolish decision, dear one. I can offer you much, much more than that fool of a priest can . . . Faster than a bolt of lightening, her arm shot out again, tracing three thin scores across his cheek; if he had not dodged, it would have been his eye. He was under her flailing limbs even faster, the blade arcing across her stomach, flecks of ichor tracing a burning path up his arm. Ignoring the pain, he stumbled away from her, lifting the Rod once again in his right hand and spinning towards Seth.
The sight that met him caused his eyes to widen and the outstretched hand to fall slightly. Ahum-waqar still held his position behind the High Priest, hands clasped to the head above the arching neck, mouth gaping with ecstasy in the ancient face. The coursing energy sang along Seth's unnaturally positioned and rigid limbs, builiding to blazing, diamond points of blue brilliance behind his wide, sightless, staring eyes. It was the point of contact, however, the glowing join between Ahum-waqar's fingertips and Seth's skull which caught and held Bakura's stare. The ends of the High Master's digits where embedded under Seths skin, knuckle deep in the man's mind itself. There was no blood, it was an invasion, a ghastly wound of one's magic against the other.
And then something shifted and his gaze met Seth's.
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Seth soared above the men below, their souls still earthbound and conscious of the feelings radiating from his physical body. He, however, had left that far behind. The verse he had read from the tablet had taken his soul to another place. He watched the chamber recede, not in the least surprised when he passed through the ceiling, beyond the weathered, rugged walls of the Ziggurat, higher until the temple was a mere speck on the landscape and receding at an accelerating pace. The softly enclosing atmosphere enveloped him as he sped even further, the distant greens and browns of the minute landscape showing through the misty, rolling clouds. Higher and higher, further into a different realm, one of silence, surging power and all-awareness. The sun was clearer than ever, the giant moon hurtling toward him, every pitted indentation and scar clearly visible on its surface. Seth laughed, rapture and delight shining in his eyes as other spheres swam into his view, colossal, more wondrous than anything to be seen in his world. Sweeping, multi-coloured discs, stretching for many miles, belted some, and he saw storms that made him gasp in awe, their destructive force raging across barren landscapes as far as the eye could see with enough power to reduce Egypt and all surrounding kingdoms to dust within a fraction of a second. He beheld the noxious vapours, acid-drenched atmospheres, blizzards blasting across icy surfaces at speeds too great for the mind to fathom. And the driving force, the dark energy suffusing all the spectacles he watched, greater than Shadow magic, greater than the magic used to bind him or any used by a mortal man or ethereal being. The power of creation, the power that drives the universe itself . . .
And he understood, with enough shock to nearly expel his soul from his conscious body altogether, the scale of that which he witnessed. The truth! The relevance of mankind's existence to all that I see here. We are nothing, not even a drop in this infinfite ocean. The power that resides here, that fuels the functioning of everything, far too great for any mortal man to comprehend, let alone wield . . .The full implications of what he had just discovered struck him then. Creation can be reversed . . .some things can be destroyed to generate the new . . .
Horror flooded his being as memory returned to him, recollection of the dark rope connecting him to the High Master of the Order, no doubt seeing all and experiencing all that Seth did now, along with the great enlightenment, the knowledge of the universe. He felt an impatient tug on the river of thought connecting his mind to Ahum-waqar. And realization struck him.
The High Master could not perform this ritual by himself for a reason. This is why they needed me! They cannot grasp the highest truth, how insignificant they are in the context of the universe if they plan on dominating mankind! They are clouded by their own ambition, something they fail to see. Thus they searched for the right man, the man with enough perceptiveness, with enough strength of soul to let all worldly emotions and ties go, one who could bury a mortal grudge in the face of saving that which is most important to him . . .me. And I am the only one who can stop them, if I simply cut off my flow of understanding. Ahum-waqar may acheive his power, but he cannot use it if he does not understand its true nature . . .
For a second, he looked back, a beautiful terror clasping his flitting soul with icy hands when he saw how far he had come. And then he pushed with all his might, thousands of miles pouring rhythymically past him as he fought to return, to give the Thief his final instructions.
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Just for a single moment, Bakura saw a clarity in Seth's eyes, one that had never been deeper.
And the pain, the suffering, the terror, all was gone. His ears were as clear as if he rested in the ruins of his deserted village once more. The High Priest was before him, and yet not. He realised with a jolt that there were words, whispers travelling to him borne on a wispy thread of thought. Seth's thought. They caught at him, wrapped around him, their urgency demanding his attention above all else.
Thief . . .hear me . . . he narrowed his eyes . . . you must do as I bid you! Hurry!
Why? Bakura snarled, his grip around the Rod tightening as he realised that this was the medium of Seth's communication. Why should I trust the man who took my Ka beast? The man who assists the King who stole my village, my family, all that was dear to me . . .
No! The vehemence in the voice nearly keeled him over. Images flickered across his vision, not of his own manufacture. The deserted streets, the collapsed houses, the tiny alleyway in which a small shape crouched, quivering . . . The Thief's eyes widened at the true meaning of what he saw . . . a hand, not his own, lighter skinned with long, scribe's fingers, the hand of the High Priest, stretching out, gently tracing over the silvery hair, cupping the tiny scalp with a tenderness he had not experienced for many years now . . . Bakura let out a low moan, hating with every fibre of his being and yet unable to tear his eyes away from the boy who lifted his torn face, the tall man who knelt, the agony plain on his face as he stretched out his long arms to the stumbling, calling, unseeing child . . .
Stop! He wheeled away from the terrible knowledge of his foe, the man he had hated for so long.
Thief! You must do it! Use the Rod! He must not understand . . . Help me . . . The plea was his own, the same he had called to the empty windows, the sightless, mocking doors so many years ago . . .
And without conscious thought, momentarily strengthening his heart to forget the identity of the man who pleaded with him, Bakura beheld the soul of the man, not the enemy. A door opened in his mind, light, knowledge blazing like a beacon as Diabound roared into life, into freedom, as his Master's soul was whole and free of doubt once more.
Lamashtu's scream of rage echoed through the chamber as the Ka monster wrapped his magnificent, towering frame around her, crushing the very air from her lungs. The serpent's tail raised, targeting her directly, and a blinding arc of light crashed into her writhing form. Her eyes igniting with the flooding energy, she cast one last, desire-filled call of longing in Bakura's direction before her body imploded, a shadow of vapour flitting to the ceiling until it was no longer visible.
Bakura raised the Rod, aiming not for the High Priest, but for Ahum-waqar. He knew not what it was he did, nor why he was doing it. For the first time in many years, Bakura gave himself to a moment of complete trust, of faith in the knowledge of another. The Rod was warm and responsive under his fingers. A single command, forceful and unwavering.
You shall not understand.