Disclaimer: I do not own Yugioh, any Yugioh characters portrayed in this fic, or 'Lamashtu'
Author notes: I noted some confusion over the last chapter, which I apologise for. I really didn't know how to write this without over-explanation, thus ruining the flow of the story. Basically, Ahum-waqar has harnessed the power of creation through the ancient tablet, but requires Seth, since he was the only Priest they had tested who had passed the ordeal of understanding (burying his mortal grudge against Bakura when he witnessed what had actually occurred at Kul Elna). Although Ahum-waqar was High Master, he would not subject himself to the risk of madness, that goes without speaking. However, only Seth, amongst them all, could actually comprehend the scale of this power, thus when he persuaded Bakura to mind-control Ahum-waqar, the command was to not understand. Once this flow of understanding between Seth and Ahum-waqar was cut off, the High Master no longer could control the force he had harnessed. I hope that provides some clarification sheepish laugh.
The River of Thought
The immense force, shooting through the already fragile link between their minds was the first thing that Seth became aware of when his soul inhabited his body once more. Afterwards came the agony. Ahum-waqar was doubled over behind him, his fingers still occupying their intrusive position in Seth's mind. The energy flaming from one to the other built and built with fierce, joyous disregard for the screaming, thrashing form of the High Master. The spell encasing Seth's body had long vanished. With more strength than he knew he possessed, he reached up and grasped Ahum-waqar's wrists, forcing the man's hands deeper into his consciousness. The old eyes widened at the High Priest's actions, a snarl of rage contorting his face, unable to hide the growing panic in his heart. He wrenched, each jerk eliciting a tortured cry from Seth, but still the High Priest held on in a grip that seemed forged from iron.
This is my final test. I will not fail you, my Pharoah, I will not shame the gift of your pride . . . Remember me, as I was, a man who strived to bear honour in all that he did . . .
The link between himself and Ahum-waqar was weakening, as was his access to the tremendous energy coursing through every limb. A silence was descending over him, one of his own making. He was no longer aware of Ahum-waqar, but his gaze lifted slightly, beholding the tall form of the Thief before him. Bakura's stood, rooted to the spot, his eyes wide, an almost child-like wonder in their hooded depths that he was sure he would never witness again. Seth's vision began to fade, darkness stealing in softly at the edges, and he barely made out the shapes unfurling and racing around, above and far past the Thief, the Millenium Rod, lying limply, as if forgotten in the large, sinewy hand grasping it. Let me not fail you, enemy of mine, let hate fall away, even if it is for a moment . . .
The last thing he recalled was the rocking motion of flight, a cold grasp surrounding his body and two, rough, none-too-gentle fingers resting on his open eyelids, drawing them shut accompanied by a low, raspy "Ra take you, you stupid bastard." He smiled.
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The Thief had watched Seth's struggle with a strange emptiness of mind. Here was the man, the same who had been the bane of his existence for the past few months, the same who had sealed his Ka monster away with such effect, the same whose words had struck Bakura at his very core. And yet, watching his suffering, his sacrifice, his incomprehensible desire for self-destruction all for the sake of others and the even more bizarre wish for understanding between them both, Bakura could not feel the satisfaction he would have liked to experience. He would certainly not risk his life for the sake of the High Priest. His sense of self-preservation was too great and he did not want to tangle with forces beyond his comprehension, like the strange energy pervading the room, all stemming from Seth. And yet . . . He is my enemy! Does he think that displaying his awareness of what occurred at my village will turn my judgement of him and all that he stands for? He is a fool. A far greater fool than I or even the Pharoah.
Bakura gritted his teeth, anger burning in him at his own indescision as Seth reached up, the tortured anguish in his drawn face clearly visible as he grasped at Ahum-waqar, drawing him further towards his fate. A silent explosion rocked the very foundations of the ziggurat as Ahum-waqar lurched slightly forward, naked fear on his face as he thrashed and twisted to escape the High Priest's clutches. Bakura stood motionless, his grip on the Rod tightening as he felt Diabound approach him, ready to encircle his Master should any harm befall him. You have returned to me, my Ka, my companion, my faithful one . . .
He reached out a hand, fingertips barely brushing the cold scales for some means of reassurance as Ahum-waqar's head snapped back, scream after scream volleying from his throat as something shifted behind his burning eyes. The High Priest looked up then, the waves of energy, so foreign and yet so familiar brushing Bakura's mind as if the man himself looked into him, tried to see past his enemy's hatred, into his soul. Let me not fail you, enemy of mine . . .
The Thief's eyes widened as Seth slumped, the last of the strange, wild magic dissipating from his gaunt form. There was an almost audible crack as the connection between himself and Ahum-waqar severed and he fell forward, limp as a marionette from which the strings have been cut.
Let hate fall away, even if it is for a moment . . .
Bakura took a step back, Diabound's tail curling around him as Ahum-waqar staggered away, clawing at his face where green tendrils were snaking out of his mouth and nostrils. The ancient eyes turned to Bakura, pleading to know what was happening to him. The Thief backed further into Diabound's protection, his uneasiness growing as he felt the power charging the very atmosphere within the room transform to something different. He could not remove himself from this place, something greater was occurring here, something which held him spellbound. Ahum-waqar wailed in despair as the tendrils spiralled out of his gaping mouth, gaining in length and thickness and Bakura realised with shock that they were some kind of vine, pointed leaves unfurling at the tips of each shoot. An ominous rumble sounded, stones raining from the high ceiling as the High Master's panicked motions suddenly ceased, hands snapping to his sides, back rigid and stiff as a tree trunk. There was a profound, pregnant silence, Bakura crouching in readiness, and then the very air around them imploded.
The Thief was flung backwards straight into Diabound's coils as a massive blast of energy rocketed outwards from Ahum-waqar's violently shuddering form. A blinding glow lit the entire interior of the vast chamber as every aperture on the High Master's body, every pore on his skin, erupted with shooting, winding vines. They spread across the floor, clutched at the walls, surrounded Bakura and his Ka monster, magnificent bursts of colour and scent as huge flowers, green tree saplings and swirling creepers blossomed and rose like beautiful spectres from the ever growing greenery engulfing them all. Bakura lowered his hand from before his eyes, watching as Ahum-waqar's screams echoed hauntingly, flesh, bone, marrow and sinew unravelling, each component giving rise to new life, new splendour. Hyacinths, roses, lilies, lotus buds and strangely shaped wild species he had never seen before curled and wound around his Ka beast, running delightfully across his bare chest and legs, a crown of crocuses raising their delicate, sparkling yellow heads above his snowy hair. A final drawn out wave and the green magnificence drove straight through the crumbling walls, funnelling past mortar, bricks collapsing under the weight of the raw natural power.
Diabound lifted his Master with swiftness born of the urgency he read in his mind, scooping up the High Priest's lifeless form carelessly between his claws at a curt afterthought. They followed the destructive path the strange foliage had carved through the ziggurat, the entire structure slowly collapsing inwards behind them. With an almighty crash and groan, thundering boulders the size of a house rolled past them below, rapidly covered by the spreading brush. A cohort of hummingbirds whirred past them, the bright shades of their wings reflecting off the Thief's face, azure, purple and gold. Enormous petals of some monstrous bloom burst open beneath Diabound's soaring frame, releasing perfumed clouds of pollen dust, gilt flecks settling on the iridiscent scales. Bakura glanced down, indicating a landing place in a clearing not far away.
A heavy landing released small clouds of dust where Diabound settled, the sweep of his large wings causing the nearby trees to creak and groan in protest. The clawed hand stretched open, the High Priest tumbling limply onto the grass where he lay still. Approaching warily, Bakura unceremoniously turned the prostate, emaciated figure over with his foot. Seth's face was deathly pale, his breathing barely detectable; Bakura could see that he did not have long to suffer if denied proper treatment. Kneeling, he prodded Seth's ribs with the tip of the Millenium Rod. There was no response, not even the faintest flicker of Shadow magic. Frowning, the Thief lifted the rod, experimentally directing it toward a small bird preening in the branches of a nearby beech sapling. Still, no effect. The bird remained as it was, head stroking back and forth rapidly under an outstretched wing and the Rod remained dormant, unresponsive under his fingertips.
A cold feeling gripped Bakura's heart as he tried again and again, channeling some of his Ka monster's strength, but the Rod would not function. Why will it not work? It has already recognised me as the wielder, else I would not have been able to control the old man.
Frustration grew in his breast as he pushed with all his might, willing the Rod to display even the remotest signs of life, all to no avail. Snarling, he kicked Seth in the side, arousing as much response as he did from the Rod.
"You damnable son of a bitch! You knew this would happen! You lied to me!" he roared. Unsheathing his dagger, he approached the unmoving form of the High Priest, pausing as he looked down on the fleshless face.
Kill him and be done with, he serves you no purpose. But Bakura was not entirely given to irrational impulse. A warning flashed through his mind, recalling him to Seth's plea, his sincerety. Sincerety, my arse. He is one of them, part of those you hate, those you must defeat and punish . . .
And yet, another portion of his mind reminded him of the true nature of the man lying helpless beneath him. A man who had sacrificed his life, his status, even his sanity for the sake of a cause even Bakura was uncertain of. Would this man consider it worthwhile to behave dishonourably towards the very enemy he sought reconciliation with in his last hours? Would he betray the one whose suffering he had witnessed, for whom he felt this much guilt and dismay? Bakura's features twisted as an internal battle raged, between his anger at being foiled and his logical thought. Finally he lowered the blade, a slight expression of distaste crossing his face. This man holds the key, yet again. I cannot kill him. To do such a thing would be dishonourable in his eyes. It felt strange to the Thief, who had never thought twice about slitting an unsuspecting throat in the dark, that such a thing should concern him. But he clearly recalled Seth's aristocratic sneer, his condescension in their last battle. He would not give this man, dead or not, the satisfaction of considering him below judgement.
You will not win, High Priest. A twisted smile appeared as he glanced down, a fresh gleam in his eye. I will prove myself far above your, or anyone else's expectations. Then you will see me as I am, as an enigma beyond your comprehension or ability to condemn. You will realise the true nature of your foe, one that cannot be defined by a single night in Kul Elna, but by the lifetime of harship and suffering that had to be overcome. A lifetime of pain that your Pharoah's kingdom has condoned as righteous although it was solely due to their past atrocities. Once you have grasped that, once you have addressed that along with your own conscience, then only can I consider the hand of reconciliation you offer. You have handed over the Rod to my keeping, and by Osiris, you will make it work for me someday, you son of a whore. I'll see to that.
He leant over Seth, not registering the flicker of momentary consciousness behind the High Priest's eyes and drew his fingers over the half-open lids.
"Ra take you, you stupid bastard."
Tucking the Rod into his belt, Bakura beckoned to his Ka monster, the giant wings beating the air as they ascended once more, the High Priest still clasped in the mighty talons.
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Ibbin-adad had taken up inhabiting the infirmary for prolonged periods of time, immersing his mind in the procurement of treatment for the invalids. Seth's disappearance had taken its toll on the Ur high court. A heavy silence lay thick in the corridors, a fog of despair and fear lay on all within. The implications of his abduction and the immensity of the consequences was a unspoken dilemma in every court hearing and assembly. Relations with Egypt were already tentative, and with war brewing on their country's very border, the last thing they required was a new source of hostile concern. Despite protests amongst many members of the court that delay was best, tidings had been sent to Egypt, informing the Pharoah of his High Priest and Ambassador's fate. No reply had yet been received, and Ibbin-adad was fully aware that this was probably due to the fact that the Egyptian royal court would not reply by a like message, but possibly with a fleet of well-armed war-ships. It was a well known fact that Seth was the most highly valued of Pharoah Atem's advisors.
Sighing, he put aside the clay tablet, massaging the heel of his palms over sore eyes. And that was when the runner burst in, panting with exertion. Ibbin-adad rose to his feet, clearly expecting the worst. They seemed to receive nothing but ill tidings recently. He was not prepared for the sight which met him just behind the runner, the make-shift stretcher born by two hefty mine-workers who had been appropriated for the task. A long-fingered hand dangled over the edge of the linen, a much bruised and lacerated wrist rising upwards to where the sheepskin covers began. Ibbin-adad took a step forward, mouth opening in a cry of despair when he took in the corpse-like features and starved appearance of the High Priest. He stopped short however when he beheld the hope in the runners eyes, the urgency of his carriers' movements. And he caught sight of the gentle, barely perceptible rise and fall of Seth's chest.
Impossible . . . he lives . . .
A groan escaped the High Priest as his eyes fluttered open, focusing on the Sumerian Ambassador's anxious visage. Sound emanated from the dry, cracked lips and Ibbin-adad leaned forward rapidly to catch what was said, fear curling in icy tendrils within his stomach as he expected the delirium and gibberish of all that had gone before.
"F . . .Fetch me some . . . Ra-damned w . . . water . . ."
Joy exploded in Ibbin-adad's chest, the greatest he had known in months. He threw back his head and gave vent to his renewed hope, praising Inanna at a volume that rivalled the city crier as Seth winced and cursed under his breath.
Holy Ra, somebody make him cease that awful noise.