Disclaimer: I don't own Yu-Gi-Oh! or Vampire Hunter D.
Thank you once again for your patience. Always feel free to leave a review of how you're feeling.
Aside from that, enjoy!
Chapter Sixty-Four: Preparation
Weeks later, the chilly dawn found Bakura standing beside their benefactor, a loop of leather in his hand. He let out a frustrated grunt as he fumbled with balancing a smoothed rock in the pliable pouch pinched between his thumb and index finger. The woman chuckled and bounced a nearby low-hanging branch so that the stacked snow would clear off it. Offhandedly, the man noticed that there were additional gray streaks in her hair compared to the last time he had really looked at her, but his attention swiftly returned to the task at hand. They had to make use of this time now that the worst of the storm had let up and allowed them to traverse out of the cavern once more.
"My brother, Yan, was a professional at this," she said slowly for Bakura's benefit.
"And here I am making a mockery of it," he groused, but did not stop his attempt. He hoped he had said that right, for his kinetic efforts were failing spectacularly.
Her smile widened. "Only as much as a child who has never cracked an egg before taking their first go at it. Be patient with yourself. There is time. There is always time."
"It…does not feel like it."
A gentle hand rested against his shoulder. As the days had gone by, what had once seemed to be irritated pity had taken on another shine. Marta seemed to like him—a far better outcome than the barely tempered tolerance (or complete loss of faith) from before. "It's that weight that you carry," she said. "Your burden."
"Everyone has burdens."
"You know what I mean." She sighed, then tugged him towards her. "You may have only shared the surface of what you face and explained only the barest details of the strange ability you have, but both are unique situations. One's that many others could not or would not face the call to. It is almost…fear inspiring. I think even the wolves can sense it. I would argue that they listen to you far better than to myself. And as for that boy…"
"I do not want anyone or anything to fear me. Or him. Anyway, I cannot imagine how anything fears me when I…" he lifted the sling at rest and watched the stone slide from it to create an indent in the snow. "Cannot even manage this."
"Yan was a professional," she repeated, "eventually. He broke many a window and missed many a target."
"He could swing it."
"Focus on what you asked of me. Versatility. Don't fret over what you must learn to get there."
And so, he did. He practiced until his fingers felt numb and a path had been worked down deep into the mud for his back-and-forth amblings. Marta watched his progress, leaving once or twice to bring him some tea for warmth, and shocked him with her hoot of approval as he finally was able hit the side of the dead tree trunk he was aiming for.
"See! You're doing it!"
Bakura gave her a noncommitted half-nod before turning around to toss the next stone. He heard the icy crunches of her footfalls but did not expect her to snatch his wrist and wheel him around as she did. Crow's feet deepened with her set scowl, and she seized his lower jaw in her hands.
"This is why your children can't take criticism," she said, gripping his face. She shook it as far as his surprise would allow. "And why one fails to appreciate praise half of the time."
"Wha—?" Bakura managed to eke out in his shock.
"Take a damned compliment! You can dole them out but to watch you can be infuriating! What kind of role model is one who can't recognize when their best is fine for now? Who wants that sourness constantly in their lives? You'd drive any future wife of yours crazy with that!"
"No," he said, tugging his face out of her grasp with a rough jerk of his head.
She blinked and rubbed at her fingers. "No?"
"No. No wife. No spouse. I just want my kids to be safe, and to be left alone."
She rolled her eyes. "Fine. My message still stands. You will drive your friends crazy with that attitude, as well."
"Maybe," he said with a wry grin before flicking his next shot at the wooden target. The sound of the snapping slender branch made him jump back in surprise and was once again reminded that sometimes danger came from simple things. Turning back to where the woman observed him expectantly, he made a little "ta-da" gesture and promptly slipped on the muddy slush beneath him. He tumbled to the ground, the muck soaking into his pants and coat arm.
Marta laughed at his show. "Winter is such a fickle thing, isn't it? Makes everything unpredictable, from your footing to your everyday meals."
"My footing is more my fault than anything," Bakura groaned, rubbing at his scraped elbow.
"I love the spring," she said as if he had not replied. "And I cannot wait for it to come. I'm sure that you feel the same at this moment."
"I…" the man paused and wondered if he did. It would mean their moving along, of course (he doubted she wanted them there much longer), but while he felt the pull and the responsibility of going onward, a part of him wished to remain—to continue to live this simple existence. Or perhaps it was just difficult to imagine leaving a rare welcoming individual behind. Tugging off one of his gloves to assess the damage to it, he fought back the thoughts of "better times". At the time that they had occurred, he had not seen them as so; and better times were yet to come. He had to believe in that.
He had made up his mind, after all.
"Oh ho, not sick of me yet?" she beamed and pat him on the shoulder. "Come now. Let us go inside. You've improved quite a bit in such a short time. Soon you will be able to save your bullets for more dangerous foes, and your element of surprise will be improved, just like you wish."
"Thank you. I do appreciate your kind words, and all of your help."
"Then act like it," she said, pinching his cheek. "Smile."
He did as she asked, and the woman shrugged. "It is believable enough," she stated. "Ah, I know what will lift your spirits. I will teach you all a song. And on the day that it is celebrated—if you decide to, perhaps, extend your stay—we can all sing it together."
"I would like that," Bakura said, and his face finally relaxed. He had nearly forgotten what it was like to not have it strained one way or the other. The stress of this winter had set his face into what felt like a perpetual scowl when not directly interacting with the children. It was nice to be in good spirits.
"Now there's a handsome boy," she said, not unlike what he would have expected from a doting grandmother. "Go and gather the children and I'll get the others to come 'round the fire."
And so, he did—much to the surprise and delight of the diligent up and coming artisans who now got to abandon their tasks without a complaint aimed their way. D was first to grab his hand and follow along, the other two latching on to create a line akin to ducklings behind him. Bakura chuckled at their antics and found himself laughing even harder later on as some of his fellow adults failed at the steps and lyrics the children found easy to catch onto. What an odd group they made, he thought. A beaten down lot picking themselves up once more: a pair of former college students, an office worker, a county file clerk, and four children from wildly differing backgrounds, with a strange woman willing to take them all in. But what a wonderful moment of peace it was.
Once more came the sentiment he wished he could push down: he would have given almost anything for this moment, this brief flash of his life with the sounds of everyone's on-and-off key singing echoing beautifully in the cavern, to last forever. This spark of hope and joy of humanity always found in songs and stories. Damn this urge to press onward, and the reason for it.
After a time, as they began to wind down and drink of the tea Marta prepared, Bakura noticed one from his growing brood was missing. He could not hear her within the rising laughter from Jounochi and Theo traded jokes, either. Rising from his seat, he found the dark-haired girl fussing with something in her pack and was about to go over and see what she was up to until she came bolting back into their circle. Her eyes were trained on Marta as she slowed.
"I have a gift for you," Amami ventured, walking up to the older woman with her hands clenched tight. She was still breathless from the dancing and singing but worry tinged her features. "It isn't much, but it means a lot to me." She nervously glanced back at D, who cocked his head in curiosity. Bakura was as much at a loss for what it could be as the boy was, so he watched the interaction with great interest.
"Oh? Then it must be much greater than you are saying."
"It was a gift I got…so I would like it if you thought it was a gift from all of us, as a thank you. For helping us. For taking care of us." She spread her hands out to offer the red ribbon that had traveled far from its origins. It was clear that the girl had been doing her best to maintain it. Any creases there were could easily be forgiven if its past were known.
"Thank you, dear girl," Marta replied, storing the small gift in her pocket. "I know just what to do with that, and by the time I plan to use it, I will have some gifts for you all as well."
Amami's eyes sparkled at the translation, not that she needed it much now. All of them seemed to have gotten a grasp of what was being said. One might argue such comprehension came at an alarming rate, but no one thought to question why. Nor did anyone much care to know the answer. Just knowing was enough for now.
The next day, Bakura once more ventured out to practice, but instead of Marta joining him, it was D. The boy watched with quiet introspection as Bakura fussed with the sling yet again, but his purpose for being there in the cold was not just to watch the man's struggle.
"Dreams?" the man questioned while he took aim.
"None," the boy replied.
"Your hand?" The shot went wide.
"Okay."
"Last time you attempted, it hurt, right?"
"Yes."
"How long did the pain last?"
"It…" D sighed. "It doesn't last too long. The pain is acute."
"Do you want to try again?" Bakura asked, slowing the swinging sling. "I'm right here. Just face away from everyone."
D nodded. Glancing toward his left hand as he let out a sigh, D lifted his arm up, pointing towards Bakura's target, the most logical place to focus on. Once it had created a suction far greater than what the hand had been known for prior, and the last time had taken him to that strange unexplainable land. It was best to remain careful. Bakura watched as his face slowly changed from his usual nondescript expression to one of annoyance, to one of surprise and pain, and finally to disappointment. He gave the boy a pat of the shoulder before he went back to his own practice. The other returned to his previous spot. The vision of D shaking his hand like one having touched a hot pan caught in his peripheral vision. Bakura's latest shot went wild as his focus was lost.
"Have you been doing what I instructed?" Bakura said, nonchalantly refilling the pouch with another stone although inwardly burning with embarrassment from another miss.
"Being more mindful of intuitive thoughts and trying to sense for that 'something more'? I have…but…"
"It isn't easy, huh?" A hit.
"No," the boy confessed, shaking his head. "When I try to just 'feel' for it, there's nothing, so I keep wanting to logically think out my next decision and actively search—which begets nothing. Then it just aches. The last time it happened I was in a panic, so I don't know what I did differently."
"Logic has its place, so it isn't as if you're wrong to try it out that way. As for sensing whatever magic—"
"If that is so, Bakura-sama, why is it that magic defies it?"
Bakura hesitated, glancing back at the boy before launching a half-thought-out throw that ended up hitting the target right on the mark. The pair sat in silence as they observed the struck piece of bark hang by a corner before falling to the ground. "I suppose it's like that," Bakura replied with a shrug. "Logic would dictate I miss a target if I'm not paying attention…"
"That was probability," D argued. "You've missed it so many times, you had to hit it at least once."
"By accident?"
"By accident."
Bakura lifted another rock, palmed its smooth and flat surface with mild awareness, before twisting around and chucking it at the tree trunk. It smacked into the same spot that he had hit prior, with less force. He looked back at D, who shrugged.
"At this point I should be good at what I'm doing without guess work—but I'm not," Bakura said, pointing back at the tree. "I should have missed that, logically. But for some reason it's only when I actively think about aiming and hitting the mark that I do. What I just did right now was follow whatever my body wanted to do. It makes no sense. I'm not sure how else to explain it, but that's essentially how you'll tap into that magic."
"Wouldn't that be instinct?"
The man shook his head and gathered the rocks from their resting places a few paces from the trunk. "What instinct? I've never been particularly adept at anything we face. Whatever 'skill' or feeling that's manifested could be a remnant from something I don't even remember, although that does not explain how I've had to fight to gain these abilities up until now. However," he waved his hand and Diabound shimmered through the trees. Its large head turned in their direction before facing north. D examined the creature as Bakura continued to talk. "I can do this with a thought and a feeling. It took me a lot of introspection, and probably a lot of strange face making. On top of that, it is still new to me—it isn't like I was able to do this when I had the Ring.
"What I mean to say is you'll get it eventually. I have faith in you. Feel for it, like how, I don't know…a wave or something…rolls, and don't force it. Let it carry you."
"I like how you tried your best not to use a swimming analogy but still ended up there."
Bakura grinned. "I will never say I'm eloquent."
"You are, though."
"Yes. Of course. You're right. Is that before or after I shove my foot in my mouth with every interaction I have?"
"That's an image," the boy said, looking down at the man's muddied boots.
"Anyway, you're doing fine is what I'm getting at," Bakura said, thinking back on Marta's words. "Don't expect perfection. This skill…What you're able to do now is more than sufficient."
"I can't even do anything yet," D snorted.
"You can do plenty."
"Plenty isn't enough," he groused. The tone of his words rang between a fought back whine and anxious impatience. "I need to get better. Now."
Ah, so this was what she had meant.
"We're together again, D-kun," Bakura soothed, "and I'm serious when I say I'm not splitting us up anymore—for any reason. You have time, and my full confidence in your abilities. I can rely on you for what I can't do, and you can rely on me for all the rest. We can learn from each other. It isn't as if I think you are incapable…
"For now, though, enjoy what you can of your childhood in this rare lull that we've been lucky enough to stumble into. At least we are together."
For a moment D said nothing, but Bakura waited patiently, aware that what he could see of the pensive and far-away expression meant there was something unsaid that had to be. Still looking down, he finally asked, "Do you think the others are okay?"
"I don't think it's your fault one way or the other, if that's what you're asking."
"But…"
"No," Bakura said, silencing him with the negative. "No buts. It isn't. We made this choice—the adults—regardless of how much we understood the situation. If it went wrong, it is on us and only us. We were all stressed and tired and poised to make a mistake…We can't know how it would have gone if another path were chosen, but at least it isn't as bad as it could be."
"Oh?"
Bakura jerked his head back toward the cave. "None of us here are dead."
D opened his mouth, his words faltering, stumbling into silence.
Bakura moved to clap him on the shoulder, to tell him not to worry, yet suddenly those brooding dark eyes lit up. With a quick twist of the head, he scanned the area, much to Bakura's bewilderment. Then he tried at speaking again.
"This is unrelated, but when are we going to read that book?"
Unrelated indeed. "What book?"
"That strange, large, leather-looking one that is in your bag."
Bakura paled and quickly corrected the flash of shock that might betray him; he should have known better that even omission of such things from the likes of D was pointless. It had been only a matter of time before he noticed, but Bakura could not fathom how to even begin introducing what he held in his care. D had been nervous about the voices, and this was something far worse. Part of him wished to protect the boy from the mere knowledge of it, seeing that the intrusive dreams and a new enigmatic power already plagued D—said introduction no doubt Bakura's own fault. Somehow.
Still, if he were honest with himself, no one other than D would really understand the gravity of the object in question at this point. Jounochi would get the gist of it due to his familiarity on past dealings, but Bakura had not told his friend about everything that happened to him since then. D knew.
'Sure,' he thought to himself with a bitterness, letting his gaze drop to the floor. 'Let's just make his life ten times more difficult. You've no right to lean on him any more than you do. You should be ashamed.'
It was his fault (and his fault) that had put the boy in this perilous situation…with that creature's attention. Why would he ever want to invoke more?
"Ah…that…isn't a book for reading." Bakura dropped the stones he had into a carrying pouch tied to his belt and wound his sling to follow. "Let's play a game instead."
"What is the book?" The sheen in his dark eyes flickered with his interest, and Bakura realized that D had been waiting for some time to ask. Great.
"Something the vampires had and shouldn't have. My possession of it is to keep the information within those pages away from them as long as possible."
"Why?"
He gave the boy a stern look. "Do you want them to know about our abilities before we get the hang of them?"
The boy's face scrunched in recoil, flabbergasted by Bakura's tone. "No?"
"The book might contain…something to tip them off," he said, "…probably. It's not like I can share much at any rate."
"Why?"
"Because I can't read Ancient Egyptian," he stated flatly and lifted a mound of melting snow into his palm. He saw the boy's countenance shift as the man's words dawned on him in his periphery while his own chilled hands formed the icy mush. He felt an approval from deep within and while he questioned divulging even this much on the child, he knew there was no helping it. What harm that could have occurred likely would not arise since they were hidden, and this answer might quench D's desire to find out on his own. At least this way he had less of a chance to stumble upon something unsavory and perhaps make matters worse.
"Why didn't you tell me sooner?"
"Why would I?" Bakura asked, still turned away at an angle. "We've had so much to focus on already. Even then, I haven't given it much thought myself."
"Bakura-sama…"
"D-kun," he returned emphatically. "Tell me, if we are being completely honest with one another, why have you chosen not to tell me about what more appears to be written in your gift?"
"I—what?" the boy stuttered. "How did you—?"
Bakura smiled to himself, wound his arm back and spun in near sync with his previous action, pelting the stunned boy in the shoulder with the crafted snowball. Water droplets caught the light before they spattered against the stunned boy's cheek, jolting him out of his stupor and setting his eyes alight. Although the need for an answer still pressed on in the moment, D seemed to have forgotten about it in the flash of his tested pride.
Suddenly, Bakura was attacked with half-scooped snow mounds that hit with the force of a hardpacked snowball based on speed alone. For every projectile the man managed to dodge and slip—literally—past, he was hit with five more. A battle cry eked out of the child and Bakura returned it in kind, trying to match him in the amount that was steadily coating him. He could not.
But he could run towards his playful adversary to stun him. He might not have been quick enough to lift him bodily into the air or shock him past the slow trust-based reaction, but he did catch the side of his coat and the pair fell to the muddy, semi-frozen earth. They faced each other, laughing, the older one in far worse shape than the younger.
"I didn't know, by the way," Bakura gasped through his mirth. "It was a guess based on how your eyes kept flicking back to certain spots as you read. But see? Don't act so hurt when you're actively holding things back yourself."
"I wasn't holding it back," D said, although his brow furrowed with an apologetic tilt as he spoke. "I just…wanted to be sure that it mattered or meant something before I said anything about it."
"Uh huh. That is holding something back."
"When is a code not a code?" D asked, cocking his head to the side.
Bakura raised an eyebrow. "You got me. What's the answer?"
"When you don't know if there is one."
A heavy pause filled the air. Then the man chuckled before pinching the bridge of his nose. "Would you feel better if I showed the book to you?"
"Yes."
"And you will show me this code you think you found?"
D nodded vigorously. "Of course!"
Clapping a hand on the youth's shoulder, Bakura nodded. What harm could there be if he was right there? It was not as if the boy could read it either. Nor did he know of what lay within. To the child, it was just a strange tome of pictures—maybe he was making it out to be a larger problem than it was.
He hoped.
The rest of the day went on without incident with Marta taking them on a hike to have the children get a better lay of the land now that their frozen landmarks were thawing. They had a stew of something best not shared aloud with the youngest—lest a tantrum be called forth—for dinner. Claire bemoaned the loss of her guitar, for she wished to play, but quickly assured Amami that the way it had "gone down" was well worth it. The fire burned low with the adults and children all finding their places in their makeshift bedding, each one drifting off to pleasant dreams and wishes for tomorrow to be more of the same.
Bakura stared up at the irregular ceiling less exhausted than he should have felt, sensing that this would not be the end of his night. When he caught a glimpse of the shift of the shadow by the ember-light, he held back a sigh, marking that he had been right to the presence in his mind. Taking care not to wake anyone, Bakura lifted his pack and tiptoed out of the cave, aware that he was being followed, and that light would come from the coal the other had plucked from the remains of their fire.
Neither spoke until they were far enough away to avoid an echo, with their small torchlight gaining enough strength to see each other in the night. Not that one of them actually needed it.
"So?" D questioned, leaning toward the bag with an expectant hop.
"Patience, D," Bakura said, in a bit of awe that he even had to say it. When was the last time that D had to contain his excitement? Had he ever?
Without flourish, he procured the book from his bag. Its leather held a disquieting warmth, and even as he tilted it toward the boy who acted as if he had performed some magic trick, he kept a vicelike grip upon it. Unsure of the physical reaction the child would have, he did not want him snatching for it. Just in case.
Bakura watched as D's eyes trailed over every detail of the front cover—over the golden eye, the strange staff-like objects at each corner, the locking strap. Eager young hands reached out in a request to get a better look even though his keen vision made it unnecessary. The man shook his head. The question hung in the silence between them. Dark eyes, innocent and wide pleading in the child's mild way.
Why not?
"This…particular item might be considered religious, to some," Bakura said, although the idea of people praying to such a beast or to anything that could have come about from between those pages left a bad taste in his mouth. Shifting in discomfort, he hoped he had not inspired further interest by mentioning such a fact.
"If a bible didn't kill me," D replied with a chuckle and a smirk. "Can I at least try?"
"I would rather you not."
"Bakura-sama," he protested, "I can use the same 'magic' you can with my newly acquired ability, right? Shouldn't that have some severe effect on me if it was religious? Didn't you, yourself, say the magic itself had little religious sway—that it isn't inherently good, or bad?"
"It doesn't cause pain?"
"No more than any of the stories you have told me of your experiences. Regardless, it isn't as if we know what exact use this book had, other than some otherworldly information neither of us can decipher due to a language barrier, right?"
Bakura sighed through his nose. If he did not let D try, he might be setting the scene for an unsupervised shot at it later. "One hand, and you may touch the book. Don't take it."
"I don't think I could with the way you're holding it," the boy joked.
Bakura relented with an annoyed toss of his chin. Tilting the book toward the boy just a little more, he said, "One hand…first."
Tentative fingers brushed the cover of the text, lifted as if in surprise and then rested down on the cover completely. He watched D's expression for any sign of pain as the boy traced what he could reach with purpose. None manifested; his face remained serene, if not more inquisitive.
"It…tingles?" D said after a few seconds that seemed to drag like hours.
"Are you okay?" Bakura asked. He was ready to jerk the book away at the very notion of anything amiss.
"Yes, I'm fine. It's like…it doesn't feel 'good', but it isn't exactly like…oh!" The boy jolted after catching sight of his hand. Bakura tilted his head to get a better look. Fingertips once pale and even-colored greeted the pair with splotchy red markings that trailed down to his upper palm. The boy rubbed his affected fingers together almost amused, although Bakura felt an immediate sense of regret. Why did he keep making stupid decisions when it came to D's safety?
"Huh…maybe this is what a sunburn feels like?" D asked. He offered Bakura his rare, unbothered grin. "It did something, but nothing of substance. Can I look through it?"
"I'd rather you not," Bakura said, shaking his head. "It hurt you."
"Bakura-sama, it hurts worse to walk around in the daylight. Can I please just see it?" Seeing the look of sheer distraught on the man's face, he let out a huff. "It isn't your fault. Did you have a hand in my conception? I was going to feel like this eventually if I ever left the house."
'It just happened sooner rather than later,' the pair thought to themselves in tandem without realizing.
"I…" Bakura drew in breath from clenched teeth. "Fine."
With great reluctance, he handed the book over.
Moonlight shifted the shadows as minutes ticked on. D perused the bound papyrus pages with an expression that Bakura found to be surprisingly familiar. Much like a child in awe of the wonders spread throughout the museum (with Bakura musing that Claire might have fit the bill for the unimpressed one looking for the candy section in the gift shop if she were present), D's eyes flicked not in acknowledgement of textual understanding, but rather in the amazement of being before something so aged. One day he might appreciate the reach of human lives that lived thousands of years ago through viewing the contents of the book, but at present he stood as an eleven-year-old probably wondering what it was like to hold the brush that had created the stroke of a particular hieroglyph. With the way D handled the work, Bakura's concern petered into mild background noise, not unlike the occasional hum of the voices that never quite left him.
"Satisfied?" Bakura asked with a smile and a nudge after some time had passed. The chill had reached deep into his bones, and he longed to be back under the protection of his sleeping bag.
"Yes," D replied, closing the book once he had flipped through to the last page. "I feel like I am positively holding fire, of which I have enjoyed every minute…although…"
"Although?" Bakura frowned; first at the notion the boy's hands hurt so terribly, and then having the curve deepen at his strange addition.
"Something seems off about this book. It's…as if there is something inherently wrong with it."
"Well, items like these tend to be misused by the power-hungry and greedy," the man said, slipping the book back into its allotted place amongst the clutter of his bag. "I wouldn't be surprised if such malice rubbed itself off onto it, or if there are good and bad ideals mentioned in here. No matter what is in here though, the question of 'Should I?' would best be considered before making morally bankrupt decisions. Just because you know you can do something doesn't mean you need to do it, or that it is the best way…but those with the power tend not to care. Even more reason to keep this safe and away from those types."
"I can't think of a better person to hide it," D boasted for the other's benefit. Bakura wrapped the boy in a tight hug before setting them on the path back to their current lodgings. While there were promises from the boy along the way to share the mysteries of the coded folktales, the man's mind wandered back to the symbols that had strewn across the middle pages.
The visual repeated, repeated, repeated, like an echo as he lay amongst his sleeping peers, and before the man had even begun to dream, he had taken control of his state of mind to fixate further.
So much for a good night sleep.
"How's it going with the kid's training?" the once the disembodied voice, now mirror image, asked Bakura in his self-imposed tomb.
"I don't know if he would call it that," he mumbled, his focus elsewhere. "But he's making some type of progress."
"Hm?"
"He knows his limitations—a good start."
"Is that all you remember," the spirit groused at him, changing the subject while Bakura sat with his tongue stuck out, his hand holding the imagined stick like a paintbrush. Along the black sand that had manifested at his command were fuzzy etchings of what he could recall from those tantalizing pages within the book.
"Sorry," he returned, albeit his tone provided more annoyance than a true apology. "I was unaware you had the superior memory."
His copy floated to his side; its nose curled in disgust. "Bad enough this was made purposely difficult to read. Now we have to use shitty drawings to parse out what it says."
"It isn't like we are going to use it, anyway," Bakura countered with a scowl.
"Yes, we just happen to be trying to understand this text that took however many priests years to decode for fun."
"For precaution," he clarified. "We need to know what that book promises. It will let us know of the risks."
"Like we don't know them already?"
"Oh, so you've read the whole thing front to back, have you?"
The pair stared at the symbols in aggravated silence. To Bakura, the words held no meaning anyway, so he allowed his gaze to wander over his unsure lines, to haze, until—
He blinked; it was suddenly like he was staring into two windows of reality. On one end, he saw unfocused symbols that presented him with a fascinating mystery, but ultimately nothing worthwhile. Yet, he also saw the opposite; the script looked clear, less questioned, and something told him, no…he just knew…
He knew what the phrase said.
"This is," Bakura gasped, shaking his head then looking once more at his not quite failure of a replication, "this is part of the spell! The spell that—!"
"Caused the death of so many innocents," the Spirit of the Ring finished in affirmation, rubbing at one transparent temple as if to fight off a headache. "I never expected to see it with my own eyes. It feels almost clinical to…"
Unprompted, Bakura wrapped his arms around his other half, squeezing them together as close as he could, trying to express in their nearness and how he was there in this time of need. He could not imagine being in a position where he got to see the very thing that pinpointed the destruction of his entire life, his future, his dreams—or the type of reckoning that could have on a soul.
But thinking on it long enough he supposed he existed within that very situation.
"I read that," Bakura said aloud, mystified.
"Yes, we did," the voice said in sheer mimicry of his own high-pitched whisper. "Or more like you somehow leeched the information off me. How does it feel to have the tables turned, O Landlord?"
"It wasn't intentional."
"Much like many skills you've acquired."
"I'd be curious to know as to how you know what it says."
A scoff. "I wasn't completely unlearned. Just 'mostly'. Memories of my family—of watching my father as he worked his other craft—and of what the Dark God deemed necessary to share allow me to determine the meanings of what is in those pages. In turn—"
"I can read them," Bakura breathed. "I can now read it."
"Ah, but how well, dear landlord? And just how much?" it tittered from within his compassionate hold. "Are we really so lucky to be bound so tight that you can simply waken and read those passages as if they were in your native tongue? How many words can I still recall over these millennia? Do I remember every trick to unlock the true meanings? Just how useful am I still?"
"It still would have been fine if you couldn't read them at all," Bakura soothed, surprising himself with his own words, and surprising the spirit further with the unexpected support.
"Well," it cleared its throat in its half-hearted attempt to shrug the man off, "thankfully I'm not that useless. Unlike someone who can barely remember half of a page."
Bakura shook his head, unbothered. "It's as Marta says: We have time. Now, there has to be something in that book that can send Zork back from where it came from…"
The fading winter wind whistled against the tucked away cave entrance, a low lullaby to the sleeping figures nestled under their warm covers. A lonely tune that pitched high at one point and punctured Bakura's rest just long enough to have him hastily glance around with sleep-sighted eyes before collapsing back into his dreamworld in exhaustion.
It was the very same tune that helped carry one other to their desired destination.
D sat cross-legged in meditative contemplation, his eyes closed, his other senses scanning for a change, a shift, anything. One moment he could still smell the scent of the cool cavern floor: dirt, wet at the edges, tracked by many others. The next, the scent of salt, faded animal trails, and a dryness that made his nose burn. The cold air cut to a stifling heat; breathing once easy to human lungs would have become labored with the weight of the atmospheric shift.
When the boy finally opened his eyes, he was pleased with what he could see.
A caving system unlike any he had ever seen lay open to him. Its limestone walls were natural hollows, creating jagged walls. The boy stood, flexing his ally-less hand before making his way down the only path available to him. He might not have understood how he had done it, but for once his wishes had been granted. Once more he would face the one known as "The Darkness".
Reflecting on the area, he was surprised their meeting would be in such a "bright" place. For as dark as the unlit cave was, the stone itself held a lighter color, something that would positively impress the most discerning eye even if the stone itself was not marble. He found himself sightseeing as he continued his descent down, watching the qualities of the stone shift the deeper he went in. Or maybe further out. He could not rightly tell.
Eventually, the hall deposited him into an arena-like cavity, the rock and sand gritting beneath his feet in a springy fashion. Here was where light shone, torches lining the rounded walls, the smoke of the flames wafting up and out of a crack within the bunched ceiling. And in the center of it all sat the very individual he needed to see.
"I am not here to hurt you," D began, taking a cautious step forward. The fretful reminder of their last meeting had the boy grasp at his left hand, wishing that it would manifest so that he was not alone against this being.
The boy, appearing maybe a year or two older than he at present, turned his head and blinked those darkened purple eyes at him with intent. "Many have said that, and I know now that all have spoken lies. What are you?" he asked. "A spirit?"
"No," D answered, watching as those richly dark, sand-dusted hands rose to create a rest for the other child's chin. "But…aren't you?"
A scowl formed on the full mouth. "No. Well, no. I don't think so."
D cocked his head, his only indication of confusion, but also a request for a response. This meaning did seem to register with the other, albeit the narrowed gaze and deprecating sneer that replaced his former expression did not express an inclination to answer. They stood in this impasse for what felt like ages, enough that D began to feel the effects of the dreamless land. Still, even feeling that heady weight that smacked of being between a headache and the feeling of what he could only assume to be drunkenness, he did not waver. Or so he thought, until the boy before him perked up with a blink, brushed his hands against his knees, and stood abruptly.
"You're affected."
"Yes, to put it lightly."
"So, you're actually trapped here?" the one he searched for breathed in shock.
"Kind of, but not really," D replied with a taste of the boy's own medicine, only to immediately offer the being a small grin. Spend enough time in this land and no doubt one would be cranky, if not distrusting. He could not be too angry about that—but he could be cross about the former's attack. "I just 'learned' I guess you could say, how to come here. I'm only 'trapped' here because of a promise I've made."
"Aren't we all," his companion in this strange land stated with a lilt.
"Indeed," the boy said. He took a step forward and when the other individual did not flinch or step back, he moved closer. "I want to preface this by saying we have met before."
"I know," they replied. "You were the strange creature that kept following me, asking me about my business. I figured you were with 'them'."
"Yes, and no. I am not 'with them' if you mean your…former friend, but I was asking you questions, and I'm not a creature—entirely," D bit at his lip. The spirit-child was not far off with his assumption, he considered, feeling the sharp point of his canine pierce his soft flesh. "I'm partially human."
"Oh…and the other part?"
"Vampire."
"I…," the "Darkness" frowned, his lips pursed where they met at the center, "don't know what that is."
D blinked and paused his advance a few feet away from the other. "Really?"
"Really. What is it?"
The dark-haired boy shook his head. Now was not the time to waste on such things; especially when he worried for his own ability to recollect the past accurately. "Before I explain, I want to tell you that the time I am referring to meeting you was not the day you attacked me. We have met. You told me I was dying."
"Oh? Oh…Oh! You were that man that wasn't!" the spirit-child gasped, pointing at D with a vehemence that mirrored Claire's energy. "You are stuck in here!"
D watched the display of rampant gesticulation until the other slowed, aware of the absurdity of his wild motions in a room of only two. "I'm sorry," he finished, sheepish buddings of red forming on his cheeks. "Can you forgive me for being jumpy...and rude?"
"Yes," D said, surprised at the relief that hit him in that instant. He would not be attacked. "I can. And please take no offense—I promise what I'm about to say has relevance, too—but…can you read?"
The boy cocked his head. "Yes," he said slowly. "Not too well, but enough."
"How did you come by learning how to?" D could not help but to inquire. While he did have little time to enact a plan regarding the actual purpose for why he had tried to manifest this world—he could feel the exhaustion tugging at him with insistent limbs—straight answers were hard to come by. Also, knowing more about this child might help him uphold the promise he had made in some other way. "A school?"
It was the Darkness' turn to shake his head. "School? You mean that expensive place in the cities where everyone with better fortune than me had the option to go to? No. My father was a painter—I heard him once be called an artisan—and very popular in town. I mean, he did other things, but that was his day-to-day job. So, he knew a lot and taught me some stuff. Then I picked up more later on."
D bit back the slew of questions that answer manifested—What was his father's other job? What was the Darkness' mother like? How did he come by this place, and have the shapeshifting creature become his friend? Was he also trapped here?—knowing if he lost focus, neither his idea nor many of the answers would come to pass.
'In time,' he thought to himself, 'Patience.'
"That's neat."
"Sure," a curious gaze set upon him. "But why do you care?"
"I know you've apologized, and I've forgiven you…" D began with care, monitoring any irritation or distress that manifested in a hidden muscle twitch. He felt safer, but that did not mean he could afford to drop his guard.
"I'm sensing a but," the Darkness said with a soft snicker.
D smiled. "You caught me. If I drew out symbols on the ground right here," he pointed at the sandy space that marked the distance still between them, "would you be able to tell me what they meant?"
'I could find out exactly what the text says about our powers,' D rationalized to himself, 'I could help Bakura-sama, and find whatever that shapeshifter is hinting at that's hidden in that leatherbound tome that will improve relations between the warring pair. They said I should ask the Darkness, and so I have. Let's see if this benefits us all.'
"Well, if that's all your asking for in return," the spirit-child drawled as he swayed to-and-fro. "Deal."
"Wonderful." A step complete!
By the time the boy awoke his head was swirling with information gathered from the few pages he could copy and translate in the time he had there. Only the swelling ache of staying too long had forced him to turn his head away from his stubborn task and awaken find it upon the cool fabric of his pillow, as if his experience had been no more than a sleeping mystery borne of an overtaxed mind.
D bolted up and leapt with his alarming grace over the sleeping figures, soon rifling through his bag for his journal. In quickly devised poetic nonsense, D hid what he had learned to ensure that anyone—not just Claire—would remain unaware of the true worth of the words he scribbled down. While he had not found what he had been looking for yet, he had struck an accord with the being who had, until recently, despised him for something not remotely his fault. As he wrote, he took the time to add one unrelated thought to his reflection: the story about the scar on the boy's cheek.
According to the one known as the Darkness (the only name he had available to use, an issue of manners D planned on rectifying one day), he had been running from a soldier when the first cut had been slashed into his cheek. The boy assumed the slightly older child had received the first blow from this individual chasing him, and the way he raised his hand to the tougher skin with an unconscious tell relayed as much. The dirty, pale-haired individual did not, however, clarify why he had been chased, just that he had fretted over the pain and worried that he had been partially blinded in the attack. Since he could not open that eye, he had been unable to discern the jutting metal from a fallen farmer's tool in his path. Two other gashes had joined his cheek then, and for a long while he had sat fevered and alone in the very cavern that they had resided in…save for his only friend. However, the moment he mentioned the friend, the one that D had promised to aid, the boy had clammed up with a grimace and refused to tell anything more.
In the present, D chewed gently on the end of his pen as he thought on the other's resistance to the topic, and their oddly familiar scar. The scar!
D jolted with a gasp, caught the pen he had launched in his involuntary reaction, and hunched in on himself to quell his overexcitement. Albeit excitement was perhaps not the most appropriate word. A fine sheen of sweat coated his forehead even for the chill.
Having recovered his faculties, he crawled back toward his sleeping spot, careful not to clamber over anyone with anything less than grace. He was like a large spider dutifully marching across his carefully constructed web as he inched his way back to his sleeping bag. When he did, he stared intently at the marred face of Bakura in what remained of the reflected light, his dark eyes mirrored obsidian in his concentration.
It was no question. The markings were the same. But how? To what end?
What did it mean? Similarities aside, D discounted the notion that the child and Bakura could be one and the same. The Darkness, while helpful, was aggressive, and a little brash in his actions. He also was willing to provide details for any words that D had scratched out in the fine grit of their flooring. Bakura, on the other hand, had been closed-mouthed and obstinate about the book and its contents. He wanted D to have little to nothing to do with it, that much was clear. Not that it would stop D from helping. Yet to continue his train of thought, Bakura was not naturally antagonistic; no, his Bakura-sama was sweet, caring, and all too ready to ask questions before going on the offensive. He refused to believe that Bakura of all people would attack him. Regardless, there was a connection between the two individuals, and the boy intended to find out what. Why else would that monstrous being smile so when bringing up the book?
D slid back under his blanket, inched as close to Bakura as he could without waking the man, and willed himself to dream of other things.