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Fic - Second Chance - 1/4
Title: Second Chance
Author: Evandar (yamievandar / hikarievandar)
Fandom: YuGiOh!
Rating: R
Pairing: Bakura/Ryou, Yami/Yugi
Genre: Romance/Drama
Warnings: Yaoi, spoilers for the whole series, copious amounts of Egyptian mythology.
Disclaimer: I do not own YuGiOh! and I am making no profit from this story.
Summary: When Yami passes into the afterlife, Bakura's soul is dragged with him. But instead of passing on completely, the gods offer them the chance at a second life.
AN: What the hell's with all the WIPs lately? At least this one has a set number of chapters.
White light engulfed him, and searing agony shot through him. Deep inside of the Ring, Bakura cringed and clenched his teeth to suppress a scream. Then, just as suddenly as the light had appeared, it left. He sat crouched for a moment, before lifting his head to look around, only to find that he was no longer in his Soul Room.
He was sitting on a dock. Small black waves were lapping at the wooden posts behind him, though most of the water was hidden in thick mist. It was cold, and Bakura found himself huddling into the folds of his…robe? He looked down at himself and blinked in surprise. He was dressed in a loincloth and shenti, with a red woollen robe over his shoulders. His feet were clad in leather sandals held together with bronze studs. His skin was tanned, his hands were calloused, and when he raised a hand to his face, he could feel the shiny-smooth texture of scar tissue under his fingertips.
His soul had taken the shape of his original body.
He stood slowly and looked around the dock, peering through thick shadows in search of anyone else. He knew that he was dead: that was the only way he’d take the form of his original body, and he knew that the only way he could get to the afterlife was if the Pharaoh had decided to kick the bucket as well, but it didn’t look like the Pharaoh was there.
Bakura resisted the urge to kick something, instead choosing to huddle deeper into his robe. Was this dock for the commoners then? Or the sinners? He shivered – not entirely from the cold – and tried not to think of the stories he had heard of the afterlife during his childhood, or even the ones that his host had read when he had been the spirit of the Ring. There was no way that his heart would be lighter than the feather of Ma’at. No way at all.
He really, really didn’t want to think of spending eternity in the stomach of Ammit.
So he stood and waited. He didn’t know how long he waited, or what he was waiting for, but he waited. He watched and listened to the black waves of the river? Sea? Ocean? Lake? They were the only thing to watch and listen to since he was the only one on the dock, and most of that was obscured by shadow.
He tried, once, to summon his ka to him – Diabound – but there was no response; just a pang of something where his heart should have been. He tried to call out to his host, but there was nothing other than an overwhelming silence. He really was all alone. There was no way for him to escape.
‘And even if,’ he thought, ‘Ryou had replied, would he have helped?’
He felt a surge of loathing rise up inside of him, though he wasn’t sure if it was for Zorc or himself for not fighting the damn thing off. He kicked one of the wooden posts in anger, the low thud of his foot against the post sounding incredibly loud, but there was still no response. He sat, slumping to the wooden decking, his legs folded underneath him, and waited.
What felt like hours passed, and nothing changed, but then Bakura heard a change in the rhythmic lapping of the water. He lifted his head and stared out over the black waters. Nothing, nothing but the sound of waves and the sound of something splashing through them.
Then, out of the mist, the prow of a boat loomed. Bakura gulped nervously and stood. His legs were shaking, and he growled at himself for showing that sign of weakness. He forced himself to remain calm as the boat swung round, presenting him with a view of its side. He could see the forms of people on the boat, mostly obscured by shadow. He shivered: he could feel them watching him.
A scraping sound, and a gangplank was pushed over the side of the boat to rest on the dock. Bakura steeled himself, and placed one leather-clad foot on the wooden board. It didn’t give way. He walked up it, moving as quickly as he could in case they changed their minds and tried to dump him in the water. They didn’t.
Once he was on board, a shadowy figure drew the gangplank back into the boat and they set sail again, vanishing back into the mist. He twisted round to look back at the dock, and watched as the mist took it from his view.
Lanterns sparked, shimmering white lights lighting their course through the darkness. He looked round at his fellow passengers: those towering, shadowy figures that watched him in the darkness. Looking at them, he found himself wishing that they’d left the lights off.
Illuminated by the lanterns’ glow, the towering figures showed themselves to be gods. Heru, decked out in fine linens and shimmering gold stood to Bakura’s left, watching him over the cruelly sharp beak of a falcon. Under the shelter, Bakura caught a glimpse of an old man clad in fine linens. His wrinkled skin shone like silver and gold eyes stared back at him from under a huge bronze headdress shaped like the sun. Re. When Bakura turned to look at the prow of the boat, he saw the huge, muscled figure of Setekh: his square-tipped ears facing forwards and his spear gripped in his strong fingers. The chaos god turned to look back at him, and Bakura shivered as glowing red eyes met his gaze. Setekh was the one god he’d ever truly had respect for.
He found a seat and sat, huddling into the shadows of the belly of the boat. No wonder they had stared at him: true gods coming to face with a blasphemer. He’d done the work of Zorc – unwillingly to be true, but he’d still done it – and that made him a heretic in their eyes.
Ammit would get a meal out of him to be sure.
They sailed on through the darkness, and on, until the boat turned again. Bakura looked up, and peered over the side of the boat as Heru readied his gangplank again.
It was another dock. This one, unlike the one Bakura had become so familiar with, was beautifully ornate. It was decorated in gold leaf and carvings of the gods. Hieroglyphs were carved on the pillars, and fine purple drapes provided its sole occupant with a luxurious canopy.
Bakura’s eyes narrowed. He would recognise that hair anywhere. The Pharaoh had received special treatment after all.
The boat docked, and the gangplank was lowered. Bakura saw the Pharaoh look up sharply at the sound it made, and he felt slightly relieved to see fear flicker through his enemy’s dark red eyes. At least he wasn’t alone in this.
Then, the Pharaoh stood and approached, looking for all the world like he owned the damn place. But Bakura could see the slight tremors in his hands, giving his terror away. He leaned back into the shadows some more as the Pharaoh stepped down into the boat. Bakura let his gaze travel enviously over the rich papyrus sandals and gold anklets that the Pharaoh was wearing, before looking away. It wouldn’t do to steal anything while on a boat filled with gods.
But he could look, he supposed. He was still a thief after all.
He watched as the Pharaoh looked around, badly hiding his fear behind bravado. He watched as he sank slowly into a seat on the other side of the boat, further towards Re than where Bakura was hiding. The Pharaoh clenched his fists on his knees, trying to stop his hands from shaking, and Bakura looked away, snuggling deeper into the folds of his robe.
He wondered if the Pharaoh would pass the test; if his heart would be lighter than the Feather of Truth. The Pharaoh was a goody-goody – nothing like Bakura at all – but he was still a sinner. He’d still used the items, crushed the minds of his opponents, murdered…true, it was all in the name of justice and to protect his host, but it had still happened.
Heru drew the gangplank back onto the boat once more, and they set off again. Bakura closed his eyes and listened as the boat travelled through the darkness. The only sounds were the sounds of the waves against the sides of the boat and its oars, and the gentle creaking of the sails – Bakura wondered why they were creaking when there was no wind, but he decided not to question. It wouldn’t do to draw attention to the heretic on board.
Then, the rhythm of the waves changed again. Bakura cracked his eyes open and looked towards the front of the boat. He saw the thick muscles in Setekh’s back tense, saw him shift his grip on his spear, just before a monstrous shape loomed out of the mist.
Bakura had previously thought that Zorc was the ugliest thing he’d ever set eyes on, but in that one moment he was proved wrong. The shape that rose up out of the water was a huge, hideous serpent. It was covered in thick, ridged scales that gleamed blackly in the light from the lanterns. Huge yellow eyes stared down at them, and Bakura recognised the true evil in their depths. The serpent opened its mouth revealing long yellowed fangs dripping with slick green venom that hissed and spat as it dripped onto the wood of the boat.
It lunged, and for one terrible moment, Bakura thought that it was going to swallow the entire boat. Then Setekh moved, thrusting his spear arm forwards and up before twisting violently. A horrendous, blood-curdling hiss split the air, sounding almost like a scream, and the serpent drew back. The blood that splattered over the deck was black and shiny as oil and it burned as much as the venom had.
The serpent reared back, oily blood dripping from its gaping maw. At the prow of the boat, Setekh drew his lips back, revealing rows of needle like teeth that gleamed white in the lamplight. His square-tipped ears had flattened back against his skull, and the hand that was clenched around his spear was beginning to turn red as the blood that had dripped onto it began to burn him.
The serpent sank back into the water, defeated, and Bakura thought he heard Heru – still standing next to him – sigh faintly in relief.
His memory chose that moment to throw up the serpent’s name, recalled from a half-forgotten myth he’d heard in his childhood. Apep: the god of chaos and evil.
He shivered and looked away from Setekh, who was now cleaning off and binding his wounded hand with strips of linen he’d torn from his own shenti. Instead, he looked up towards Heru, and found the god’s eyes fixed on his comrade, an expression of something like relief on his beaked face.
Bakura had heard myths about the two of them warring against each other. He wondered, as he looked up at Heru, whether the priests had got it wrong.
The journey after that was quiet and brief. It wasn’t long at all, in comparison to the wait on the dock, before they docked once more.
This new dock was made of stone. Its huge pillars rose up and up and vanished into the gloom. It was carved and painted with Hieroglyphs, and Bakura could see from the huge images that went with the glyphs that the words told stories of the gods. The Pharaoh, he noted, was puzzling at the Hieroglyphs, beginning to read them, and Bakura sneered at his back.
He, unlike the Pharaoh, had never had the chance to learn how to read. It was one of the things that he’d liked about Ryou’s time: he’d had the chance to learn things that would have been restricted to priests when he had been alive.
He watched as the gods tied the boat to the dock and lowered the gangplank again. He watched as Re disembarked, his entourage following him, and vanished from sight. Heru went next, but he stopped and turned once on the dock instead of vanishing. He beckoned to them, and once the Pharaoh had passed him, Bakura slipped out of the shadows and straightened. He followed the Pharaoh silently down the gangplank, hyper-aware of the looming bulk of Setekh bringing up the rear behind him.
They walked silently through the halls of Duat – the land of the gods – the only noise the whispers of their footsteps over the stone floor. Bakura noted, with no small amount of glee, that he walked far more quietly than the Pharaoh, though he supposed he could blame that on his past career.
He kept his eyes forward, fixing his gaze on the back of the Pharaoh’s spiky head. He didn’t want to get distracted by the beautiful art on the walls and the tales it told; didn’t want to lag behind. But at the same time, he didn’t want to go forward. He didn’t want to be devoured by Ammit. He didn’t want to have to suffer an eternity in torment just because he’d been stupid enough to get himself possessed. He wanted to run, but he couldn’t so he walked on and on and on, each step taking him closer to his fate.
Author: Evandar (yamievandar / hikarievandar)
Fandom: YuGiOh!
Rating: R
Pairing: Bakura/Ryou, Yami/Yugi
Genre: Romance/Drama
Warnings: Yaoi, spoilers for the whole series, copious amounts of Egyptian mythology.
Disclaimer: I do not own YuGiOh! and I am making no profit from this story.
Summary: When Yami passes into the afterlife, Bakura's soul is dragged with him. But instead of passing on completely, the gods offer them the chance at a second life.
AN: What the hell's with all the WIPs lately? At least this one has a set number of chapters.
White light engulfed him, and searing agony shot through him. Deep inside of the Ring, Bakura cringed and clenched his teeth to suppress a scream. Then, just as suddenly as the light had appeared, it left. He sat crouched for a moment, before lifting his head to look around, only to find that he was no longer in his Soul Room.
He was sitting on a dock. Small black waves were lapping at the wooden posts behind him, though most of the water was hidden in thick mist. It was cold, and Bakura found himself huddling into the folds of his…robe? He looked down at himself and blinked in surprise. He was dressed in a loincloth and shenti, with a red woollen robe over his shoulders. His feet were clad in leather sandals held together with bronze studs. His skin was tanned, his hands were calloused, and when he raised a hand to his face, he could feel the shiny-smooth texture of scar tissue under his fingertips.
His soul had taken the shape of his original body.
He stood slowly and looked around the dock, peering through thick shadows in search of anyone else. He knew that he was dead: that was the only way he’d take the form of his original body, and he knew that the only way he could get to the afterlife was if the Pharaoh had decided to kick the bucket as well, but it didn’t look like the Pharaoh was there.
Bakura resisted the urge to kick something, instead choosing to huddle deeper into his robe. Was this dock for the commoners then? Or the sinners? He shivered – not entirely from the cold – and tried not to think of the stories he had heard of the afterlife during his childhood, or even the ones that his host had read when he had been the spirit of the Ring. There was no way that his heart would be lighter than the feather of Ma’at. No way at all.
He really, really didn’t want to think of spending eternity in the stomach of Ammit.
So he stood and waited. He didn’t know how long he waited, or what he was waiting for, but he waited. He watched and listened to the black waves of the river? Sea? Ocean? Lake? They were the only thing to watch and listen to since he was the only one on the dock, and most of that was obscured by shadow.
He tried, once, to summon his ka to him – Diabound – but there was no response; just a pang of something where his heart should have been. He tried to call out to his host, but there was nothing other than an overwhelming silence. He really was all alone. There was no way for him to escape.
‘And even if,’ he thought, ‘Ryou had replied, would he have helped?’
He felt a surge of loathing rise up inside of him, though he wasn’t sure if it was for Zorc or himself for not fighting the damn thing off. He kicked one of the wooden posts in anger, the low thud of his foot against the post sounding incredibly loud, but there was still no response. He sat, slumping to the wooden decking, his legs folded underneath him, and waited.
What felt like hours passed, and nothing changed, but then Bakura heard a change in the rhythmic lapping of the water. He lifted his head and stared out over the black waters. Nothing, nothing but the sound of waves and the sound of something splashing through them.
Then, out of the mist, the prow of a boat loomed. Bakura gulped nervously and stood. His legs were shaking, and he growled at himself for showing that sign of weakness. He forced himself to remain calm as the boat swung round, presenting him with a view of its side. He could see the forms of people on the boat, mostly obscured by shadow. He shivered: he could feel them watching him.
A scraping sound, and a gangplank was pushed over the side of the boat to rest on the dock. Bakura steeled himself, and placed one leather-clad foot on the wooden board. It didn’t give way. He walked up it, moving as quickly as he could in case they changed their minds and tried to dump him in the water. They didn’t.
Once he was on board, a shadowy figure drew the gangplank back into the boat and they set sail again, vanishing back into the mist. He twisted round to look back at the dock, and watched as the mist took it from his view.
Lanterns sparked, shimmering white lights lighting their course through the darkness. He looked round at his fellow passengers: those towering, shadowy figures that watched him in the darkness. Looking at them, he found himself wishing that they’d left the lights off.
Illuminated by the lanterns’ glow, the towering figures showed themselves to be gods. Heru, decked out in fine linens and shimmering gold stood to Bakura’s left, watching him over the cruelly sharp beak of a falcon. Under the shelter, Bakura caught a glimpse of an old man clad in fine linens. His wrinkled skin shone like silver and gold eyes stared back at him from under a huge bronze headdress shaped like the sun. Re. When Bakura turned to look at the prow of the boat, he saw the huge, muscled figure of Setekh: his square-tipped ears facing forwards and his spear gripped in his strong fingers. The chaos god turned to look back at him, and Bakura shivered as glowing red eyes met his gaze. Setekh was the one god he’d ever truly had respect for.
He found a seat and sat, huddling into the shadows of the belly of the boat. No wonder they had stared at him: true gods coming to face with a blasphemer. He’d done the work of Zorc – unwillingly to be true, but he’d still done it – and that made him a heretic in their eyes.
Ammit would get a meal out of him to be sure.
They sailed on through the darkness, and on, until the boat turned again. Bakura looked up, and peered over the side of the boat as Heru readied his gangplank again.
It was another dock. This one, unlike the one Bakura had become so familiar with, was beautifully ornate. It was decorated in gold leaf and carvings of the gods. Hieroglyphs were carved on the pillars, and fine purple drapes provided its sole occupant with a luxurious canopy.
Bakura’s eyes narrowed. He would recognise that hair anywhere. The Pharaoh had received special treatment after all.
The boat docked, and the gangplank was lowered. Bakura saw the Pharaoh look up sharply at the sound it made, and he felt slightly relieved to see fear flicker through his enemy’s dark red eyes. At least he wasn’t alone in this.
Then, the Pharaoh stood and approached, looking for all the world like he owned the damn place. But Bakura could see the slight tremors in his hands, giving his terror away. He leaned back into the shadows some more as the Pharaoh stepped down into the boat. Bakura let his gaze travel enviously over the rich papyrus sandals and gold anklets that the Pharaoh was wearing, before looking away. It wouldn’t do to steal anything while on a boat filled with gods.
But he could look, he supposed. He was still a thief after all.
He watched as the Pharaoh looked around, badly hiding his fear behind bravado. He watched as he sank slowly into a seat on the other side of the boat, further towards Re than where Bakura was hiding. The Pharaoh clenched his fists on his knees, trying to stop his hands from shaking, and Bakura looked away, snuggling deeper into the folds of his robe.
He wondered if the Pharaoh would pass the test; if his heart would be lighter than the Feather of Truth. The Pharaoh was a goody-goody – nothing like Bakura at all – but he was still a sinner. He’d still used the items, crushed the minds of his opponents, murdered…true, it was all in the name of justice and to protect his host, but it had still happened.
Heru drew the gangplank back onto the boat once more, and they set off again. Bakura closed his eyes and listened as the boat travelled through the darkness. The only sounds were the sounds of the waves against the sides of the boat and its oars, and the gentle creaking of the sails – Bakura wondered why they were creaking when there was no wind, but he decided not to question. It wouldn’t do to draw attention to the heretic on board.
Then, the rhythm of the waves changed again. Bakura cracked his eyes open and looked towards the front of the boat. He saw the thick muscles in Setekh’s back tense, saw him shift his grip on his spear, just before a monstrous shape loomed out of the mist.
Bakura had previously thought that Zorc was the ugliest thing he’d ever set eyes on, but in that one moment he was proved wrong. The shape that rose up out of the water was a huge, hideous serpent. It was covered in thick, ridged scales that gleamed blackly in the light from the lanterns. Huge yellow eyes stared down at them, and Bakura recognised the true evil in their depths. The serpent opened its mouth revealing long yellowed fangs dripping with slick green venom that hissed and spat as it dripped onto the wood of the boat.
It lunged, and for one terrible moment, Bakura thought that it was going to swallow the entire boat. Then Setekh moved, thrusting his spear arm forwards and up before twisting violently. A horrendous, blood-curdling hiss split the air, sounding almost like a scream, and the serpent drew back. The blood that splattered over the deck was black and shiny as oil and it burned as much as the venom had.
The serpent reared back, oily blood dripping from its gaping maw. At the prow of the boat, Setekh drew his lips back, revealing rows of needle like teeth that gleamed white in the lamplight. His square-tipped ears had flattened back against his skull, and the hand that was clenched around his spear was beginning to turn red as the blood that had dripped onto it began to burn him.
The serpent sank back into the water, defeated, and Bakura thought he heard Heru – still standing next to him – sigh faintly in relief.
His memory chose that moment to throw up the serpent’s name, recalled from a half-forgotten myth he’d heard in his childhood. Apep: the god of chaos and evil.
He shivered and looked away from Setekh, who was now cleaning off and binding his wounded hand with strips of linen he’d torn from his own shenti. Instead, he looked up towards Heru, and found the god’s eyes fixed on his comrade, an expression of something like relief on his beaked face.
Bakura had heard myths about the two of them warring against each other. He wondered, as he looked up at Heru, whether the priests had got it wrong.
The journey after that was quiet and brief. It wasn’t long at all, in comparison to the wait on the dock, before they docked once more.
This new dock was made of stone. Its huge pillars rose up and up and vanished into the gloom. It was carved and painted with Hieroglyphs, and Bakura could see from the huge images that went with the glyphs that the words told stories of the gods. The Pharaoh, he noted, was puzzling at the Hieroglyphs, beginning to read them, and Bakura sneered at his back.
He, unlike the Pharaoh, had never had the chance to learn how to read. It was one of the things that he’d liked about Ryou’s time: he’d had the chance to learn things that would have been restricted to priests when he had been alive.
He watched as the gods tied the boat to the dock and lowered the gangplank again. He watched as Re disembarked, his entourage following him, and vanished from sight. Heru went next, but he stopped and turned once on the dock instead of vanishing. He beckoned to them, and once the Pharaoh had passed him, Bakura slipped out of the shadows and straightened. He followed the Pharaoh silently down the gangplank, hyper-aware of the looming bulk of Setekh bringing up the rear behind him.
They walked silently through the halls of Duat – the land of the gods – the only noise the whispers of their footsteps over the stone floor. Bakura noted, with no small amount of glee, that he walked far more quietly than the Pharaoh, though he supposed he could blame that on his past career.
He kept his eyes forward, fixing his gaze on the back of the Pharaoh’s spiky head. He didn’t want to get distracted by the beautiful art on the walls and the tales it told; didn’t want to lag behind. But at the same time, he didn’t want to go forward. He didn’t want to be devoured by Ammit. He didn’t want to have to suffer an eternity in torment just because he’d been stupid enough to get himself possessed. He wanted to run, but he couldn’t so he walked on and on and on, each step taking him closer to his fate.