I think, in some ways, a more knowledgeable author could have made a vastly different and more complex journey up a difficult mountain. I kind of wish I was that author. I wish I could go out and climb mountains myself, so that I knew how to describe it in a way that rang true to me. It's something I find important.
But it's equally important to acknowledge one's limits.
I think this is one of them.
I don't mean to downplay the story as I've written it. I'm proud of this story, and I've written it the best way I know how. I just want you to understand, if you wonder why this trip up Kisara's mountain is so quick, it's because I'm trying to make sure I move things along in such a way that it all gels with my style.
I hope y'all enjoy, regardless.
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It felt like they'd been living on the Mountain of Furious Lights for months. The wind was brutal, the air was thin, and Sotaro could barely move anymore. The snow was simply too thick; he sank into it up to his waist, and that was if he was lucky. He'd spent most of the journey, it seemed, on his parents' shoulders.
He resolved to use his magic to help the others along. The queen's lightning melted through the snow with a singular precision borne out of its response to his will; or so it seemed. Sotaro didn't understand magic any better than the others did, and the knights could only offer his status as the queen's chosen as an answer; the mountain knew, just as the queen did, and bent—as much as a mountain could—to his wishes.
They only talked when they found a cave for the evening, as it was only then that they could hear each other. Anri and Sieglinde would only let them progress during the peak of the day. Time was an enemy, they said, but speed would kill them. The knights showed no real concern for their own lives; they had spent most of their time training for just such a mission as they were on, and falling in the service of their goddess's champion was perhaps the holiest death they could ever hope for.
But they knew well enough that their charges had a lot more to worry about.
Sotaro was quick, and capable, and it was easy to forget he was only seven.
Even bundled up in several extra layers, the poor boy shivered constantly.
One bright morning, so close to the summit that they could see the queen's lair, the shadows returned.
On a limitless expanse of blinding white, just steep enough to sap the strength from one's legs, they stretched out into seething abominations, and let out scratching, rasping, hideous laughter as they took full physical form in front of their prey.
Beset on all sides, exhausted, going numb from the sapping cold, the little company stood dumbfounded and unable to move. Yuki would later realize, once she was conscious enough to remember, what the twins' actions in that moment had to mean. The way they looked at each other, the way they set themselves in front of their charges and settled their weapons just so.
They were ready to die.
They were ready to sacrifice themselves for the cause.
Yuki managed, just barely, to draw out her weapon; it was a much more momentous victory than it should have been that she kept hold of it. She wondered if her corpse would rest on this snowscape with the knights before long. Hadn't Seto Kaiba said it? Wasn't she supposed to be dead soon? How much longer did she realistically have?
Maybe this was Fate.
Maybe this had all been written; maybe everything they'd been doing was going to amount to nothing but blood soaking into the crystals that kept crunching under their boots. Maybe fighting was just delaying the inevitable, and only ensuring that her son had more trauma to process later in his life. Assuming he lived.
Yuki found herself remembering the exhaustion, the fear, the rage, she saw boiling over in Seto Kaiba so often. She thought of those same scars, those cares, those worries, on her own son's shoulders. Her baby. Her little miracle. She found herself barely able to hold back tears, which would doubtless freeze on her face as soon as they fell.
The shadows loomed closer, slowly, so slowly, like they were soaking in the moment.
Their limbs stretched out, twisted, sharpened into spikes of pure darkness. Ready to pierce, to rend, to rip. Ready to slash them to pieces and throw them across the snow like grisly performance art. The twins closed in, but their movements were stiff; they were nearly as sluggish as she felt.
She sought out her husband.
Kohaku had a look on his face that was utter anathema to everything she could spy on the twins. His eyes were wide, bright, blazing; his teeth were bared. He held his weapon in both hands, his body was tense and ready, and Yuki realized all at once that Kohaku intended to fight. He wasn't going to lay down and die. Not today. Not when he could see the queen's throne.
Kohaku Yagami intended to stand against the tide.
Kohaku Yagami intended to win.
Yugi's face was untouchable, unreadable, but his hands were touching the Millennium Puzzle. His body was tense, like Kohaku's, ready to spring. He meant to fight too. This boy who didn't know them, who hadn't even signed on to help them, who'd only been hijacked by a spirit. But he'd helped them, because it was the right thing to do.
He was going to fight, too.
Yuki berated herself.
This was no time to wax poetic on defeat.
This was no place to give up.
They were so close.
They'd chosen this path, they'd made it this far, and no shadow—not even her own—was going to stop her from seeing the light of dawn.
