I make a habit on my blog, or rather I used to make a habit before I basically stopped engaging in fandom arguments at all (mostly for my health), of specifying my preference for the Seto Kaiba we see in the Duel Monsters anime.
I don't like the Seto Kaiba that we meet in the manga.
But the thing about that is, he's still a kid. He's still 15 years old, and he's still been through way too much trauma and hardship. So, at the end of the day, just because I don't like him doesn't mean I won't defend him.
And it doesn't mean he doesn't deserve help.
.
She returned to the room quietly, with a gentle air that belied just how many men she'd ripped open with her teeth in the past hour. He sat cradled by the moonlight, slumped over in an industrial wheelchair that looked like it belonged in a hospital from at least two centuries ago.
He hadn't even been moved to the bed.
Kisara knelt down by Seto Kaiba's right hand, reached up, and brushed his hair out of his face; revealing his wide, unseeing eyes.
"You are deeper in the vast crevices of darkness than many of your mirrors," Kisara whispered, "but you are still my prince. Though your sins weigh heavy, your shoulders are broad. The judgment of gods is powerful, but you are a dragon."
He flinched. His eyes, still vastly unaware, blinked. A voice crawled out from deep inside him, pushed out past his teeth, barely his own: "W-Who . . . ?"
"I am your sword," Kisara said softly, remembering the oath she'd sworn to the boy this man had once been. "You have been condemned to tests and burdens by one who knows not your scars. I do not accept his judgment. Listen to me. Hear my voice. Follow me. Find me."
"My . . . b-bro . . . th . . ."
"Mokuba is safe," Kisara whispered, gently stroking Seto's cheek. "You needn't worry for him. No. This is your time to focus inward. Listen to me. Just listen. That's right. Follow my voice, sweet prince."
She watched, waited, spoke kindly. Her voice was softer, gentler, than it had ever been. She spoke to this boy the way she had once spoken to the king carved upon her soul. Her guidance was easy, soft, like a gentle breeze upon a quiet lake. He flinched, he fidgeted, he brought up his fists and crunched them against the wheels of his chair.
But slowly, so slowly, he listened.
Slowly, so slowly, his words became coherent.
Slowly, so slowly, the fire returned to his eyes.
Eternities passed, and he slumped forward. Seto reached up, wiped his eyes with his hands, and groaned like an ancient work of wood in a haunted house. "How long . . . have I been gone . . . ?" he rasped.
"One hundred days," Kisara said, still kneeling.
"How did . . . you find me . . . ?"
"There will be time to explain these things," Kisara said, "once I take you where you must go. Look upon me, my prince." He did. "You wish to see your brother, yes?" He nodded. "Good. That is good. Settle yourself, and I will take you to him. Trust in me."
"Who . . . are you?" Seto asked. His voice had none of its usual anger; in its place was longing.
Kisara smiled as she rose to her full height. "I am your sword," she said again. "I am your dragon. When you cannot stand tall, I am who you lean upon." She held out a hand. "You and your brother have a lot of healing to do, if you are to rebuild your lives. I know where you will be given the time and space to do it. Tell me, my prince: will you let me guide you there?"
Still staring, breathless, lungs rattling against his ribs, unable to comprehend anything except the singular woman in front of him, Seto nodded. "Yes," he said.
He took her hand.
Kisara nodded. "Good boy."