[February 9th] [Yu-Gi-Oh!] Paradise Lost

[insaneladybug.livejournal.com]

Title: Paradise Lost
Day/Theme: February 9th - So Eden sank to grief
Series: Yu-Gi-Oh!
Character/Pairing: Yami Bakura, Ryou Bakura
Rating: T/PG-13

This is a blurb for a fantasy AU world that takes place post-series. It was based on an RP. I hope it will be easy enough to follow. The prompt fit it so well.


Notes: The characters are not mine and the blurb is! This is Paradise Lost by me, Lucky_Ladybug, and it was heavily inspired by the 31_days' prompt So Eden sank to grief. It takes place in an AU/fantasy/fairytaleish verse I created based on an RP. One other blurb for this AU exists, on yugioh_contest. The verse started with a version of my post-series timeline where Yami Bakura, as the Thief King, survived Zorc's destruction. Then it branched off into this.


The boy was laying so still on the cold metal slab.

It was so wrong. So wrong.

The time-worn man stood over the lifeless form, hesitant, his eyes filled with a mixture of anguish and disbelief. He knew the boy was dead. It would be impossible to not know, since he had died in his friend's arms. But even now, as he lay naked on the table (covered to the waist by a sheet), the horrifying wound in his heart clearly visible, he looked like he was sleeping.

With one hand the man reached out, as if to touch the teen's neck in search of the pulse that should be there. But he withdrew it almost instantly. There was no point. He had checked in vain for a pulse so many, many times on the flight back to safety. Ryou Bakura was dead.

It was because of him, because he had gone seeking revenge against the tyrannical ruler who had driven the boy mad. Because he had been captured and about to be executed in the public square.

Because Bakura had regained his senses enough to realize what was happening and had run to stop it.

Heaven knew how he had gotten out of the dungeon where he had been imprisoned. But he had escaped, getting in front of the thief right as the spear was being thrown. They had only been able to exchange one last look before he had crumpled to the ground, dead.

The man stared at the gaping wound in the silent chest. He had witnessed far worse, really. He had seen---even caused---so much carnage through three millennia. And he was no stranger to pain; he was a masochist. But the sight of this fatal hole was too much to bear. The spear had pierced him even though it had only physically hit the boy.

It was not a pain in which he delighted.

Gingerly he laid his finger on the edge of the wound, tracing it with a shaking hand. "This should be me," he said bitterly. "Not you. Never you." He slammed a fist on the slab. "You fool! How could you give up your life for me?!" He barely noticed the stabbing sensations in his fist.

But he did notice the voice in his mind, though he would have rather not.

"So it would have been better for Bakura if he had been left without you? Is that it?"

A dark curse. "He wouldn't have been alone," he muttered, without really knowing why he was addressing the voice in his head. "He would have had his little friends."

"If he had ever regained his mind."

"What good was it to regain his mind if he was just going to lose himself a moment later anyway?!" The tan-skinned man whirled, breathing heavily, his eyes wild and filled with fury. But of course no one was there. The pathology lab in the rebels' underground base was empty save for him . . . and the body.

"He saved your life, you ungrateful wretch."

He sank into a chair, running his hands into his hair. It was his own voice berating him, his own feelings with which he was struggling. Yes, Bakura had saved him. But it was not that he was ungrateful . . . was it? To wish that an innocent boy had not died, and that his own, wretched life had been taken instead. . . .

Well, maybe it was. But how could he ever be grateful that Bakura, the one who deserved to live, had been silenced?

He stood again, gazing down at the cold shell. Gently he brushed the white bangs away from the closed eyes, then laid his hand on top of Bakura's head.

He had never thought it a good idea, for Bakura to become so actively involved in the rebel movement, even leading it himself. Now look what it had done.

"I'll kill him," he hissed. "He'll never get away with what he's done."

It was hard to know whether he was speaking of the ruler or the executioner. Both were foul beings in his mind. And both deserved to die. He wanted to personally send them both out of this world.

"It was your hatred that got you captured and Bakura killed."

His shoulders slumped as he spread his hands on the slab. It was always him, always his hatred. He had nearly destroyed Egypt, and consequentially, the world, because of his rage.

Now he had destroyed his world.

They had been happy once, before any of this madness with the despot conqueror had started. Even he, drowning in hatred and sorrow for three millennia, had found acceptance and salvation in Bakura's compassion and friendship. But when tyranny had descended on their country, and Bakura had decided he needed to be the one to organize a rebel alliance, everything had begun to unravel before the thief's stunned eyes.

He had been worried about the boy, worried that he was getting in over his head. He had tried to tell him to leave it up to someone else; wasn't Yugi Muto always the one to lead a resistance? And in his absence, one of his closer friends? But Bakura had been insistent. This time, he would not stand by and watch helplessly as everything came down around him; he would fight.

To some extent, the other had understood. After all, he certainly recalled his own helplessness when his village had been massacred. But at the same time he had not wanted to lose his new family, especially to a war that seemed as pointless as this.

And yet he had brought about their friendship's crumbling all on his own. Opposed to the fight all the way along, he had created increasing friction between the two of them. The last time he had ever spoken to Bakura before the boy's capture and subsequent loss of sanity, they had suffered a bitter argument.

"You don't understand, Yami!" Bakura had burst out at the end. "Don't you believe in fighting for anything decent?! Or is your philosophy to stay out of 'other people's' problems?! That everything is fine as long as you're safe?!"

The words had stung. The thief had flinched. Then his lavender eyes had narrowed.

"No," he had snarled. "But I suppose you wouldn't understand wanting to keep one person safe as opposed to the entire world. You wouldn't understand not caring if the world fell into darkness, as long as that one person lived."

Bakura had blinked in surprise. But then his expression had softened, his eyes and smile kind and sad.

"Yami . . . I know it's hard. I've felt like this myself sometimes, but . . . you can't try to hold onto someone that tightly. They'll only slip away for certain. Yami . . . please . . . let me be free."

Those words had pierced him. He had let the boy go, realizing he was being selfish. And only a few hours later, he had learned that Bakura had been caught. All attempts to save him had failed. Eventually Bakura had gone mad from the mind-warping torture in the dungeon.

All because he had wanted freedom.

Freedom.

"Freedom? Bah! I should have kept you from going, even if you would have hated me for it," the heartbroken man said aloud to the lonely room. "You would have had more freedom that way. At least you would still be sane and alive!"

It was far too late to think of what-ifs. He straightened up, his eyes flashing as he glared down at the lifeless body.

"And are you happy now?!" he roared. "Are you happy I let you be 'free'?!"

He overturned a box of tools, barely listening as they clattered to the floor. He was already shifting his attention to the scales and other equipment. In a mad fury he sent one device, then another, then a third, to the floor. Blinded by his emotions, he kept going, throwing everything that was possible to throw. Metal crashed to the tiles, scratching and cracking them. Glass shattered into particles. Papers and folders scattered every which way.

At last he stood, breathing heavily as he gazed at the disaster he had made of the pathology lab. No good had come of it. Bakura was still laying on the slab, unaffected by the noise or the mess. He was locked in the sleep from which he would never awake.

Yami Bakura sank to the floor, his hands dug into his wild whitish-lavender hair.

He was the leader now, having taken up Bakura's mantle after the boy had been captured by the king's men. But he was not cut out for this kind of position. He had become the rebels' leader solely in order to try to free Bakura and to have his revenge. And his reckless nature had directly led to Bakura's death.

No more. He wanted no more of this. He had already made such a mess of his life and now had decimated Bakura's. Why did it have to continue? Why couldn't he accomplish anything of value? Why did his every attempt at seeking justice always turn upsidedown in the worst possible way?

He hated the king and his executioner. He hated them more than most people would even think possible for one man to hate.

But even so, there was still someone he hated even more than either of them or anyone else.

Himself.