Chapter Text
Bakura didn’t expect to wake up again. He’d lost. It was over. It was meant to be over.
As rivers of blood dripped from the dozens of wounds marring his soul, as his knees weakened and he fell to the ground, his fingers scraped against the stone, and he understood. Destruction would have been a mercy, and Bakura was born to suffer.
Bakura wandered through the shadows, his consciousness drifting between his prison and this realm of nightmares, unmoored and unfocused. He walked across a solid black sea, nothing more than a wraith among ghosts, forever haunted, taunted by the things which squirmed beneath his feet.
The first time he stumbled upon the throne, noise erupted all around him, and it made no difference when he shoved his hands over his ears.
Sit.
Sit.
Sit.
The throne is empty.
There is no lord.
No shepherd for—
“Fuck off!”
They chattered on as he moved away, an endless stream of sound accosting his every step. In time, his wanderings brought him back, and he sat down on the ground, leaning against the seat of power. A statement of rejection as much as a chance to rest his feet.
It didn’t matter in the end. Ryou robbed him of his choice, and the shadows claimed them both.
Bakura’s whole body ached, throbbing in time with his pulsing heart. He…
Wait.
“Welcome back, Thief,” said an unfamiliar voice with an all too familiar cadence, smugness practically dripping from his words.
…Fuck.
Bakura opened eyes that weren’t his, blurry vision solidifying into an unexpected image. Instead of resting in a hospital bed, he sat on the floor of a warehouse, his back leaning against the wall. The Millennium Ring hung from his neck, radiating an unnatural warmth, combatting the chill from the too-thin covering of his hospital gown. A figure crouched in front of him, their identity unmistakable thanks to the memories he’d pilfered from Ryou.
Diva. Zorc. His master. His tormentor. The one who had left him to die yet again, replaced by that thrice-damned priest the moment the Thief King lost his use.
Bakura closed his eyes and tipped his head back, reaching for the other half of his soul. This was Ryou’s bullshit. He could deal with it.
“Now, now…” Fingers gripped his chin, forcing his head back down. He met a golden gaze, gritting his teeth as Zorc placed a hand over Bakura’s heart, applying a subtle pressure. “No need to run away just yet.”
Bakura opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out, his throat weak and dry. When he tried to lift his arm, it didn’t do more than twitch. Muscle atrophy, it had to be. An inevitable result of the host’s coma.
Bakura honed in on the hum of the Ring, channelling Ryou’s magic through it as he moved his arm. Grabbing Zorc’s wrist, he pulled it from his face, chest heaving from just that simple effort.
“Go fuck yourself,” Bakura said, no more than a pained rasp, but damn if it didn’t feel satisfying.
Zorc laughed, and Bakura winced, the sound too loud in his ears. A fist bunched in white hair, yanking his head to the side as Zorc leaned closer. “I suggest you choose your words more carefully, Thief. You wouldn’t want to give off the wrong impression.”
Zorc released him, running fingers through his hair as if to soothe the damage. “You should be grateful. By stealing you from your place of healing, I removed you from the darker Marik’s grasp. I do not think he would have been amused by which one of you surfaced first.”
Bakura remembered howling winds and the feeling of his body disappearing piece by piece, consumed by darkness. His left wrist tingled, and he looked down to see a bracelet of black wood woven around it. He was still tethered to the throne. Perhaps he could just—
A grip closed around his throat, applying only the slightest pressure. Bakura froze. “None of that now.” His warning imparted, Zorc drew back his hand. “Why, it almost seems as if you are displeased by our reunion.”
Bakura swallowed, an attempt to ease the passage of his voice. “What… do you…”
“Want?” Zorc finished for him. “I should think the answer is obvious. I want to help you, Bakura.”
Dread pooled in Bakura’s gut as the fingers of his left hand twitched. “No.”
Zorc smiled, teeth flashing. “Oh, Thief.” He grabbed the cord of the Ring and yanked Bakura forward, sending a fresh wave of pain crashing through his body. “I wasn’t asking for permission.”
Slivers of violet-grey peeked out from behind heavy eyelids, his irises flickering red as Bakura struggled to maintain hold of himself. A foot nudged his side as if checking for signs of life, disrupting his concentration. Clenching his fist, he forced his form into submission, and a red robe materialised, covering his battered body.
Zorc, still using Diva’s appearance, stood over him, a familiar dissatisfied frown on his lips. “Why must you always insist on using that form?”
“Ryou likes it.” Bakura pushed himself up, gazing over the ruin of his soul, more rubble than a room. Zorc placed a hand on his shoulder, bracing him as his balance wavered, an uncharacteristically considerate gesture.
Blood dripped from his fingers, splashing a pattern onto the rock. Open wounds mixed in with covered ones on the canvas that was his flesh, the older bandages stained with fluids, concealing the foul underneath. Piles of shattered stone surrounded him, all but a few pillars destroyed. There was no lake of tar, no lingering traces of Zorc’s essence outside of the figure beside him.
A tree stood where one hadn’t been before, ebony wood branching out into dark, wispy leaves. Misshapen fruit hung from its boughs, lumpy and unappetising. This newest addition must be a product of his link to the shadow’s throne, a match to the bracelet around his wrist.
“Move, Thief. Your healing lies in front of you,” Zorc said, impatience creeping into his voice. He shoved Bakura forward, who stumbled, summoning a wooden staff to brace against.
“No. I won’t become your puppet again.” Bakura lifted his head and glared, pouring every ounce of hatred into his gaze. “I’m here now. Your bargain with Ryou is done. Leave us be.” His hands tightened around his implement. “Let’s face it. You’ve never been one to hold on to a broken tool.”
“That would be the point of fixing you, yes,” Zorc said dryly, then he shrugged. “Fine. If you wish to be reminded of who you are, I am more than happy to oblige you.” Bakura hesitated, taking a half-step back, supporting his weight with the staff.
Zorc’s image shifted, Ryou’s body replacing Diva’s. Horns sprouted from his head, a purple-scaled tail slinking out behind him. He raised a clawed hand, examining sharp points, then smirked.
Bakura dropped his staff and fell to his knees.
Reptilian feet clicked against the stone, announcing Zorc’s approach. Bakura’s form flickered as his sense of self slipped like snow melting through his fingers. A black coat enveloped him, his scarred left hand spasming as the memory of self-inflicted agony punctured his mind. That was how Zorc dealt with resistance. He couldn’t afford to forget.
Claws slid through white hair, a grounding touch. “Good boy,” Zorc murmured, and Bakura almost sagged in relief. A misstep, but not a costly one. “Now, remove your shirt and coat, and we will mend your soul’s deterioration.”
Zorc gathered fruit from dark branches as Bakura pulled his blue-striped shirt over his head, revealing a pale, bandaged chest. He resisted the urge to cover himself with his arms. It didn’t make a difference. He was already laid bare before his god.
Zorc sat beside him, taking his wrist in hand as a claw sliced dirtied wrappings down the middle, prying them from his flesh. The smell of rot invaded his nose, stirring the distaste of his stomach. In Zorc’s other hand, fruit writhed. He split the peel, spilling worms into the putrid wound.
And that was his limit. Leaving Zorc to his self-appointed task, Bakura turned his head away.
His host’s heart beat, the repetitive spasm in Bakura’s chest matching the tempo of the shrill noise beeping in his ear. Zorc must have returned him to the hospital after cleansing his soul’s decay. The tapping of shoes against tile alerted him to another’s presence, and he struggled to open his eyes. They remained sealed shut.
“There are flowers around your bed. Bouquets mostly.” A feminine voice, vaguely familiar. “They wither and die, and are replaced. Even after a month, you do not lack visitors.” A few more steps echoed as the woman approached his bedside. “But they’re not really here for you, are they?”
The Millennium Ring’s weight shifted, pushed to the middle of his chest, brushing over the wires that attached him to the heart monitor. “When this Item disappeared from the museum, I knew there could only be one outcome, only one place for it to return to.”
Bakura finally wrenched open his eyes, meeting a steady blue gaze. Strands of black hair framed a conventionally attractive face, notable for the features she shared with her brother. Her neck was bare, without even mundane jewellery to cover it.
“Ishizu Ishtar,” Bakura said, forcing the sound through his throat. He channelled the Ring’s power to aid in lifting his arm. Locating the button on the side of the hospital bed, he raised its angle so he could sit upright. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I have a question,” Ishizu said, her hands clasped neatly behind her back. He didn’t like that he couldn’t see them. “If Seto is taking the role of Isis, reassembling the pieces of the Dead Osiris, who does that make me?”
Bakura searched her face, his own wrinkling in confusion. “What?”
Her shoulders relaxed, just slightly. It must have been a test then, a probe to seek out knowledge that he clearly didn’t possess. Ryou was out of the loop. Bakura would have to fix that as soon as possible.
“I have something to pass onto you, a gift from my brother.” One hand withdrew from behind Ishizu’s back, and Bakura stared into glassy red eyes contained within a white-furred face. She pressed the stuffed rabbit into his hands.
“For Ryou,” Bakura said, just to confirm. “From Marik.”
“One of them,” Ishizu answered with a slight nod.
Fantastic. Bakura inspected the toy’s seams, then squished it between his palms, making sure there was nothing hidden within. Deeming it safe, he let it fall into his lap. Ryou would love it. Maybe Bakura could use it to lure his host back into control and let him take a fucking break.
Bakura glanced around his hospital room, silent except for persistent beeping. An IV fed into his right arm, held in place by tape. It must have been reattached after Zorc brought him back.
“Where’s the nurse?” There should be someone here, babbling into his ear, asking him if he knew who and where he was. He’d just woken from a coma, for fuck’s sake. This place should not be quiet.
“I believe she had business in another room.”
Bakura knew that tone, recognised it from his time working with Marik. A perfectly rational explanation delivered in a casual manner, and one that he could not trust.
Ishizu watched him as he lifted a hand, grabbing hold of the wires taped to his chest, imparting his vitals to the monitor. If he yanked them out, it would flatline and medical personnel would come running. “It took Marik years to master that Item. How good are you at controlling many people at once?”
Ishizu hid her surprise well, but he caught it in the slight widening of her eyes. His other hand moved, and gold warmed beneath his fingertips, sharp tines pointing to a predictable source. Ishizu pulled the Millennium Rod from behind her back, an objectively terrible hiding place, and it glinted in the fluorescent light.
“Those Items are mine by right,” Bakura sneered. “Did you really think I wouldn’t notice the presence of one in the room?”
Ishizu’s thumb brushed across the golden Eye of Horus. “You have no claim to them. The Millennium Items belong to the Pharaoh.”
Bakura laughed, and it scraped in his throat. “I knew Atem would be too much of a fucking coward to impart the truth. Why acknowledge his family’s shame when he could simply let it be buried with him? Those little friends of his would eat up anything that spewed from his mouth.”
He used a hand to prop up his chin. “I would’ve thought that you would be more clever. Haven’t you noticed the glaring hole in this entire story? What would drive a lowly thief to challenge a god on his bloody throne?”
“The allure of power has deluded many men. You tried to release the Dark One and destroy the world. The reason hardly matters.”
Bakura gritted his teeth, forcing sense past the triggered memory of his tortured kin. She was baiting him, trying to provoke a reaction. Why?
“Bakura?”
Not now, Yadonushi. For all he’d coveted his host’s presence earlier, he couldn’t afford the distraction.
“But she—”
I can handle it.
Indignation struck him through their bond. His left hand moved without his input, gripping the wires connected to his chest. Ryou yanked, and a piercing tone split the air.
“You shouldn’t have to.” Ethereal arms curled around him, enveloping him in a faintly glowing embrace. Ryou pressed an invisible kiss to his forehead, and Bakura’s anger dissipated, its foundation crumbling.
Medical personnel rushed in, the nurse in charge quickly taking stock of the situation. He wasn’t dying; he was conscious, and for a coma patient that was far more noteworthy.
Ishizu slipped out in the confusion, her grip tight around the gold in her hand. Bakura hoped it burned.