zodiacal_light | Nov. 26th, 2010

Nov. 26th, 2010

They didn't understand why people kept separating them. Was it so wrong, what they had? No, no, it couldn't be wrong. It was love, the purest of loves, with no body in between them.

They mingled, slowly but surely, growing closer with every passing day. Heat bloomed between them, overwhelming everything.

And finally, they were one, blood-red and united forever.

It looked at the thing that appeared next to it in utter astonishment. It'd never seen any other Gift like that, a prickly, snaky mass of copper fibers writhing off into the gloom.

"…What are you?" it asked, sparkling dramatically.

The other magic looked up at it petulantly, and growled.

Poke.

It swatted at the annoyance absently.

…Poke.

A snarl, and another swipe.

….pokepokepokepoke.

"WHAT?!" the purple Gift flared.

The wavery magic behind it flickered lazily in amusement. "Oh, you know," it said. "Gotta keep my eyes on you."

"You're such a pest."

The flickering copper tossed its head.

"Yes, you are. You shouldn't even be here," flared the red Gift. "I'm not supposed to be sharing my living space with another magic."

The copper whinnied rudely, and reared.

"None of that," snapped the other magic, "or I'll make you invisible permanently."

"Look at yourself," the yellow Gift tutted. "I knew we shouldn't have let you go to that foreign place. Honey, look at your offspring!"

The red Gift in the corner muttered lazily and twisted away. "…don't see the big deal…so what if it's been playing it up with other magics?… it's a growing Gift, is all…"

The yellow Gift growled, and corkscrewed in vexation, before turning back to its offspring. "Honestly," it said. "The black's bad enough, but the sparkles? Aren't they a little… shameless?"

The formerly-amber Gift hunkered miserably under its parent's scolding. I knew I should never have gone partying with those other Gifts…

Thom decides, before they even actually dock, that he hates Carthak. His opinion never changes for the better.

He hates it for what it does to Numair; even before they entered Carthaki waters, the mage had gone brittle and oddly quiet, and his attempts at faking his ordinary fool's mask fail miserably, at least for Thom. Daine, too, seems to notice a difference; Thom catches her shooting concerned looks at Numair whenever he has his back turned.

Uncharacteristically, Numair never notices.

***

The decadence of the Emperor's court is oppressive. The old palace in full glory was a cheap glass bead to the Empire's flawless gem; the new palace at Legann doesn't even compare.

But Thom is, at heart, still a country child and a border lord, raised in the foothills of the Grimhold Mountains and trained for years smack in the middle of them, and he is used to old stone and worn tapestries, faded leaves and the cold biting north.

Besides, he has learned to be wary of too-perfect things; flawlessness is merely a mask for deeper flaws.

***

The Emperor has the disturbing habit of wandering his halls invisible, spying on his people and his guests alike, a simulacrum set up where he is expected to be, to keep the unobservant from knowing and the observant from saying.

Thom recognizes it for what it is the first time he sees one; he is not so far gone from his magic that he fails to recognize the telltale stillness of the double. But without his Gift, it is much harder to tell where the real Emperor is, and the Emperor has had long practice at leaving no trace of his presence.

Thom sticks close to Daine and Kitten the whole time.

***

It is hard to leave bad lucks in the great palace; they must be unnoticeable, so any of the brighter inks or obvious designs are out.

Thom is, still, after so many years, not sure if there is anything to this luck-working, but if there's any place that desperately deserves some bad luck, it's this poisoned heart of a bloated empire.

He thinks, once, that he hears a soft, dark chuckle after he taps out a bad-luck beat on a random section of wall. But when Thom turns, no one is in the hallway.

He knows that, in Carthak, that means absolutely nothing.

***

It is unwise to refuse the Emperor, especially when you are a guest from a country trying desperately to avoid a war - a war that could start at the Emperor's merest whim.

So when the Emperor manages to get him alone, Thom just smiles, grimly, and accedes with a nod and a bow.

And Thom's smile is at least a little amused, because he has learned the power that comes from breaking himself, and has learned to bend. His pride, after all, is nothing in the face of what the Emperor could do to his country, his sometime student, his sister, Numair, if he refuses. And besides, Thom knows what the Emperor does not: it is horribly unlucky to cross a luck-worker.

He clings to that as his hands rise to remove his formal Mithran robes, and it no longer matters whether he believes it.

***

This is why he hates Carthak: for being the rotten fruit that it is, poisoning the whole southern continent and the Sea and even Tortall, for being an insatiable, unholy monster, worse than anything the Carthaki meddlers released from the Realms, and how ironic is it that one of the only bearable people in this whole stinking court is an abrasive Stormwing?

He hates it, most of all, for breaking young Daine, and as he leans on a piece of wall that's about to collapse under the battering of her ancient beasts, he reflects that he has never, ever wanted his Gift back as badly as he does now.

He won't make it out of the building on his own; his stick is missing and he cannot walk far without support. And he knows a thing or two about raising the dead, and destroying a palace, and the hollowness both leave in you later.

Thom staggers off to find his student, at the heart of this madness.

Carthak is a bitter place, and he will be glad to be rid of it.

***

(This is the bitterness: Ozorne's hands on his skin, Ozorne's lips on his lips, Ozorne's body pinning him down.)

(And Numair's kiss, later, is too gentle, too kind, and too understanding.)

It was early April, and the spring rains battering Corus were enough to drive everyone inside.

Almost everyone.

A door opened, then shut.

A disbelieving voice: "Surely you didn't go running in this."

"It's just a little rain."

"It's a spring thunderstorm, and you go running on the wall. I'm surprised you didn't slip and crack your fool head open." The words were shockingly casual.

A snort. "I am not that stupid, Your Grace," Lord Wyldon said, and the scritch of his pen across some document or another ceased. "Why are you here, anyway?"

Silence.

"You can never just give me a straight answer, can you?" the training master snapped, exasperated already. "At least your scapegrace son, for all his flaws, is terrifyingly direct."

"Oh?" Baird asked, quiet amusement lacing his voice. A rapid tattoo, fingers against a chair back. "What has Neal been up to this time?"

A sigh. "What hasn't he been up to? Your son is a menace."

Baird laughed.

This time, the irritated tapping of a finger on wood came from Wyldon.

Baird managed, barely, to get his laughter under control. "I'm sorry, it's just-" he chuckled again, "Neal's being much better behaved than I anticipated, actually."

In the silence that followed, one could almost hear the blink.

"Wyldon, I got urgent letters from the masters at the University every week detailing his misadventures. At least here he hasn't rigged anything to explode, yet."

"Mithros, Baird, don't give him ideas. . ."

A chuckle. "I wouldn't." A pause. "He doesn't really need them."

Wyldon groaned.

The silence stretched out again.

Finally, Wyldon sighed and shifted. "Don't think I didn't notice you avoided my question. Again."

Baird remained silent.

Another huffed sigh. "Fine."

The scrape of a chair, the slow, deliberate footsteps of the training master, a muffled curse from Baird as he was pulled unceremoniously forward, the indefinable but unmistakable sounds of a kiss.

"Do you always have to look so damnably smug?" Wyldon snapped breathlessly, after a moment.

Baird's response was entirely nonverbal.

"I hope you locked the door," Wyldon muttered.

"Don't I always?" Baird replied, mild-but-wicked amusement lacing his words. "I am not one to forget the details."

"No," Wyldon said softly, voice husky. "You never do."

***

Somewhere else in the palace, in a room in the pages' wing that was suddenly not far enough away from anywhere, Neal let the small eavesdropping spell he'd picked up at the University die.

There, you pretty much had to spy on the masters, unless you wanted to get a nasty surprise in class later. Here, this, like so much else, seemed to be the precise inverse - you got the nasty surprise by spying in the first place.

Suddenly very glad he'd never told his father about that spell, Neal threw himself into his bookwork.

He'd think about it later. Or never. Never worked, too.

(But the memory persistently bubbled at the back of his brain, and in time, in a weird way, he got used to it.)

(He never noticed his father watching him with quiet amusement in his eyes. Or the way Lord Wyldon watched Baird, his own eyes full of resigned suspicion.)

Eirik Ludviksra's first encounter with serious magic came during an unfortunate raid on Tortall, when his idiot chief decided the City of the Gods was a ripe plum for the taking. Only some fast action, and a half-remembered charm his grandma'd taught him, saved his life. And his axe.

Eirik's second encounter with Tortallan magic came during the very next raid, when he had the misfortune of facing down a mage-knight, who also had the high ground, damn him. A blow of his axe had disarmed him, shattering his blade and taking one finger clean off, but the knight had snatched up his broken sword and used it to channel a bolt of pure, rose-red magic; a quick whistle of the old protective charm took care of that. But Eirik, beyond pissed at the unfairness of knights who were magic, too, whistled another tune, an old childhood lullaby made eerie by his pitch, and nearly fainted in shock when a thick gray fog streamed off of him and surrounded the enemy, knocking him out cold.

(Ok, so Eirik wasn't the manliest Scanran ever. So what?)

It was his father, later, who told him he needed to study magic, if he had enough to whistle up a sleep. Eirik sort of wanted to (come on, magic was cool!), but on the other hand, he'd never hear the end of it from Lars or the others. And he'd just been getting somewhere with that overhand throw, too.

But his father was his father, and so Eirik found himself on the road through Galla, approaching the Tortallan border, Grandma's battle axe strapped securely to his back and his clothes in his mother's old battered satchel, which she'd spent the whole past week fussing over, stitching a new embroidery on it for luck.

He stopped just shy of the border as another problem presented itself. He had to go through Tortall to get to Carthak. He was tall, pale, and obviously Scanran, with the most Scanran name his parents had been able to think up, and he was carrying a battle axe. Scanran name and no axe, and he'd probably be fine. Axe and a non-Scanran name, likewise. Eirik dropped his head into his hands. What to do?

He looked at the edge of the axe over his shoulder. It was his Grandma's, like it had been her grandfather's before her. She'd entrusted it to him, so no matter how awkward it was, he couldn't just ditch it in some godforsaken Gallan marsh.

The name, then, Eirik thought. It'll be hard to remember to answer to a new one. Eirik sighed. There was nothing for it. Looking about him, he used the reedy Gallan landscape and his patchy Common to come up with a somewhat appropriate name.

Hm. He might have one. Yes, it'd work.

Pushing off the rickety sign for some godforsaken town called Lindhall, the mage formerly known as Eirik proceeded south.

Master Thom was glaring daggers at the tall man leaning smugly against the paddock fence. Numair, entirely unrepentant, murmured something to him and cocked his head, raising a jaunty eyebrow.

Daine watched with wide eyes, too far away to hear the words, as Thom bristled like an offended hedgehog and turned away from the mage, oh-so-casually leaning on his stick - on Numair's toe. Numair winced and jerked his foot back, flailing about dramatically and nearly falling over the fence backwards. Thom, now the one sporting a smug smile, shot an amused glance back over his shoulder at him.

As the mage and cunning man continued their melodramatic exchange, Daine called back to the stables, "Hey, Onua?"

Onua emerged from the stables, dusting off her hands. "Yes?"

Daine resettled herself on the fence, and nodded at the men. "Remember how I asked you, back when we was coming here, what Master Thom's type was? It wouldn't happen to be tall, dark, and magely, would it?"

Onua looked at the two men, who were both now staring at Daine, and grinned. Daine followed her glance and blushed; she hadn't meant to be that loud.

Thom had frozen and stared at Daine, face pale, before turning his head almost involuntarily to look at Numair -

- Who was grinning down at him with the faintest traces of pink in his cheeks. Numair raised an eyebrow in silent query - Well? - and Thom went beet red - which, Daine noted in amusement, clashed horribly with his hair - turned on his heel, and stormed off towards the palace as fast as a man with a bad limp could storm.

Numair watched him go, shaking his head and grinning like any smitten fool.

"I'm sorry," Daine said, voice tiny. "I didn't mean to upset him."

Onua laughed. "Don't worry about it, Daine. It's about time our resident curmudgeon caught a clue."

Humility was not something that came easy to Thom.

When it came, it came in blood and particolored fire, in manifold raging elementals screaming down on his head, in the heat of Jon's wrists where Thom gripped them, hard enough to burn.

It came in the darkness that was all he had left, after, and it came in the light that he saw when he woke, Giftless and broken, months later.

But when he stood, twenty years later, leaning heavily on a stout carved stick and looking at the bright pages who sat before him, arrogant and so, so young, he thought it might have been worth it.

There were plenty of people who wouldn't consider it magic. It was hardly flashy, no shining colors of the Gift, no otherworldly eeriness of the Doi seers, no dramatic bloody rituals like the Scanrans and even the Bazhir had. Whether it worked or failed, nobody noticed. Not really. It smacked of superstition, and trickery.

Sometimes, he thought that was all it was.

But, Thom reflected as he crafted the tiny charm for his sister, when you had lost your Gift and all you had left was the luck that had allowed you to scrape through by the skin of your teeth, you found ways to spread that luck around.

He laughed, now, when people asked him if his lucks were magic, when people looked at him askance when he explained what he did. Numair made it a hobby, now, to throw some wild theory about his luck-working at him, usually over breakfast, and would grin when Thom spluttered his juice across the table or choked on his porridge.

Thom rather liked the theory that the lucks were compensation for growing up with Alanna, himself. It was wrong, but it made Alanna turn a lovely shade of purple whenever he brought it up.

No, Thom no longer questioned whether his lucks were magic or not. He was a luck-worker, that was all, and all good luck-workers know the secret of luck:

You make your own.

He understood why Thom never stayed the night. He could read the story, mapped out in scars Thom never seemed to remember, written in the way Thom always stood, rigid, with his back to the wall, in the way Thom still fought not to flinch when the king looked at him with those famous blue eyes. He could see the shape of it in the way Thom shivered, the motion there and gone again in the blink of an eye, whenever he did magic around him, and in the way Thom still saw an old ghost when they were together.

Which is why, no matter how much he wanted to, Numair never, ever looked Thom in the eye.

He never asked Numair what he saw in the charms. He knew the mage could see magic - could see it all too easily, to the point that Thom wondered sometimes how he managed to walk around the palace without going flash-blind. Thom knew how many magical artifacts were kept in Legann.

Thom never asked, because he was never sure he wanted to know the answer. He'd had one dream ripped away from him already, and so he'd stubbornly keep at his charms and runes and paints, and if they were mere shadows with no substance, well, he didn't really care as long as they gave him purpose.

So Thom never asked Numair if there was any actual magic to his lucks, but Numair believed in them anyway, and that was good enough for him.

"I swear to Mithros, Numair," Lindhall said, reeling on his stool. Only a quick grab by the other mage, whose reflexes, paradoxically, sharpened when tipsy, saved him from falling clear off his seat. "She's the most beautiful thing in the world."

Numair nodded, plastering his most sincere look of sincerity on his face. He didn't think he succeeded too well, judging by the look Lindhall was giving him, and he suspected he was also being redundant. For good measure, he tried on a smile.

"Mithros, Numair, how is it you manage to win over the ladies with a grimace like that?" Lindhall asked, taking another long swig from his tankard.

Numair was starting to regret going drinking with Lindhall. His smile faded as he registered a faint pounding in his temples; he glared into the depths of his ale. He wasn't supposed to get a headache until after he'd finished drinking.

"Much better!" Lindhall said, grinning at Numair's sullen expression, and damn him, but he actually sounded genuinely cheerful. "The brooding look fits your whole mysterious-mageyness better anyway, Arram. Goes with the whole pretentious name and swoopy black robe and dramatic nose and all." He nearly clocked Numair upside the head with the tankard when demonstrating the robe's supposed swoopiness.

Numair grabbed Lindhall's arm and repositioned it in a safer place, and incidentally dragged the older man's attention back to his unfinished ale. Lindhall sipped it meditatively while Numair ran a finger down his own nose and squinted at his watery - ale-y? - reflection. What, by Shakith, was wrong with his nose?

"Anyway," said Lindhall, thankfully dropping the matter of Numair's dramatic nose and not-so-thankfully going back to his previous topic of conversation. "She's just… She's gorgeous, Numair, just gorgeous. Curves in all the right places," he said, drunkenly motioning in the air in front of him. Judging by the arcs he described, this girl was very well-endowed indeed.

Numair nodded and hummed agreement when Lindhall eyed him suspiciously. Mollified, Lindhall went back to rhapsodizing about his new love.

"She's just … perfect, you know?" Lindhall had the absolute soppiest grin on his face. "Not too big, not too small, sharp as a razor, and, most importantly," he stopped to take another pull of his ale, "she's been with me through thick and thin, all the way from…" Here Lindhall paused, looking around the nearly-empty pub warily. He caught Numair's eye, looking more suspicious than ever, and shrugged meaningfully.

Numair snorted. Had there been anyone still in the room, they would all now know Lindhall was hiding something. "I know," Numair said at Lindhall's meaningful stare. Then Numair's brain caught up with him, and he turned to stare at his old mentor. "Wait. Lindhall?"

The other mage turned to regard him suspiciously, nose buried in his tankard. "What?"

"I thought you came down alone."

Lindhall choked on his ale, sputtered, and dissolved into a fit of laughter that nearly knocked him backwards off the stool. "Mithros, Numair, you didn't think I was talking about a person, did you?" At Numair's utterly confused expression, Lindhall doubled over, pounding the table, and gasped out, "I was talking about my axe!"

That settled it, Numair thought. He was never, ever going drinking with Lindhall again.

It was during yet another ball when Delia's suspicions took on a new twist. She was dancing, yet again, with Squire Alan, who was, yet again, looking horribly uncomfortable, and Delia was almost at the point of throwing propriety to the wind and informing the stiff redhead that nobody really cared if he preferred men, when her dance partner stumbled slightly and Delia's hand crashed into Alan's ribs.

Blushing, Alan recovered his balance and escorted Delia over to her waiting knot of admirers, but not before Delia got a very good feel of something decidedly not a silk tunic or linen shirt through the young man's clothes.

There was only one real reason that Delia could think of that someone would need a corset when dressed as a man.

Squire Alan was female.

***

Delia spent the next several social events watching Alan. The squire's notorious shyness made perfect sense now; she most likely did prefer men, but it wasn't quite as transgressive a thing as Delia had originally assumed.

No, Squire Alan was transgressive in other ways.

Squire Alan, Delia noted, also had a very obvious crush on the Prince. She wondered that no one seemed to notice that, but then she noticed Alan giving her another poisonous glare, and noticed one short, somewhat scruffy knight watching Alan thoughtfully.

…Clearly, Alan hadn't managed to fool everyone.

But just as clearly, Delia thought, observing the people around her with long-practiced subtlety, Alan had fooled enough people.

Delia could admire that, in a girl.

***

It was pretty obvious that the Prince knew his squire was a girl, and it was just as obvious that he had a wicked sense of humor - he insisted on making Alan dance with all the women at each ball.

Delia hid another snicker and watched a red-faced Alan squirm out of yet another admirer's arms; the social climbers had clearly started to swarm around the Prince's squire.

Delia watched the Prince drag a mulish Alan over to still another lady through narrowed eyes.

She walked over and tapped Alan on the shoulder. Alan spun, alarmed, and Delia neatly cut in, pulling the shorter girl into a dance.

"Relax," Delia muttered, when they spun too close to the musicians for anyone to hear. "People get suspicious when you're that stiff."

Wide purple eyes met Delia's green ones, filled with alarm.

"We need to talk," Delia added, and Alan swallowed and nodded.

***

It had taken nothing at all to get Squire Alan alone; Delia had simply chosen Alan as her escort back to her rooms. The Prince's eyes had narrowed - in suspicion or in fear for his friend's secret, Delia couldn't tell - but the others had simply tittered or looked jealous.

Alan was silent, full of skittish energy. It was a long walk through the palace.

Finally, they arrived at the door to Delia's quarters, and Delia waved Alan inside. She stared at the shorter redhead for a long moment, watching Alan rally and defiantly stare back.

"I know you're a girl," Delia said finally.

Alan flinched. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Delia raised a hand. "Don't. You're a terrible liar."

Alan just stared back, face bone-white, lips compressed.

Delia sighed. "I'm not going to tell anyone." She toed off her shoes; the blasted things pinched after a while.

"Why not?" Alan asked sharply.

"Because I don't want to?" Delia said, moving around to her vanity. She began to unlace her dress, watching Alan in the mirror.

The other woman shied back and looked away, face flushing, as Delia's dress slid off her shoulders.

Now this was interesting. Maybe Alan's nervousness wasn't entirely about her secret, after all, or not the secret Delia had figured out. Delia turned to face Alan, letting her dress pool at her feet.

"Squire Alan, look at me," Delia said.

Alan did, but her violet eyes darted down to look at Delia's bare shoulders and chest, at her stocking-clad legs. Blushing even redder, Alan forced her chin up and looked Delia defiantly in the eyes.

Delia came closer, slowly, giving Alan plenty of time to back away. Alan, rigid, never moved. Delia pressed lightly up against the stiff squire, and huffed a laugh as Alan jerked slightly at the pressure of Delia's breasts.

Delia placed her hands on Alan's shoulders. "It's okay, Alan, or whatever your name really is," she whispered intimately into Alan's ear.

When Delia kissed the other girl, Alan jerked away, finally regaining her mobility.

But she couldn't take her eyes off of Delia.

Delia smiled - an honest smile, not a courtly one - and simply stood there, letting Alan look. "Come here," she said softly, and, blushing fiercely, almost reluctantly, Alan did.

This time, when Delia kissed her, Alan didn't move away. She did start when Delia slipped off her tunic, wrapping her arms around her chest before Delia could remove the shirt, too.

"It's okay," Delia said again.

Alan stared at her for a long moment, and then finally, slowly, tentatively, nodded. With a nervous fidget of the hem and defiant speed, the squire pulled her shirt off. She moved to undo the laces of her special corset.

"Let me," Delia said, catching the other girl's hands. Startled violet eyes met hers, then Alan nodded.

Delia slowly set to work on the laces, punctuating her progress with soft kisses and light caresses on the young woman's slowly exposed flesh. She was almost to the end when the other woman grabbed her, redirecting her attention upwards.

"My name is Alanna," the squire said, almost fiercely. Violet eyes blazed. "And if you tell anyone…"

Delia silenced her with a hard kiss. "I told you, I won't tell. I like a girl who causes a scandal."

This time, Alanna returned the kiss enthusiastically.

"You're the spitting image of another Alan I knew once, you know," Raoul said.

Alan raised one pointed blond eyebrow.

"Superficial things," Raoul sniffed.

***

"You've got your namesake's temper," Raoul said, watching as Wolset staggered off to get his nose healed.

Alan glared at him, massaging his hand.

"Now that I think of it, you fight the same, too." Raoul grinned. "I guess that shouldn't be so surprising. You had the same teacher."

***

"You're not the master of the sword that Alan was, that's for sure," Raoul mocked, circling his squire.

Alan dodged his next blow, pivoting smoothly and sliding up under Raoul's guard. "No, but I am faster."

The grin on his face was pure wicked and utterly Alan.

***

"How's your wrestling?" Raoul asked. "That was always Alan's weak point."

Alan quirked an eyebrow, eyes amused. "I'm not my mother."

Raoul's pause lasted less than a breath, but a flash of something through hazel eyes let him know it had been noted.

***

"Not all of us are lucky enough to be god-touched," Alan snapped.

Raoul bristled. "Alan worked curst hard to be as good as he was. He wasn't god-touched, either."

Alan's eyebrows ascended towards his hairline, and Raoul turned away, biting his tongue.

***

"You always speak of Ma as if she's dead."

Raoul scrubbed a hand over his face. "Alan died in front of the whole court, killed by Duke Roger. Alanna is someone completely different."

Later, it would occur to Raoul that Alan's hazel eyes had been too steady.

***

"I thought you'd stopped drinking." There was no accusation in his squire's voice, just a concerned question, carefully hidden.

Raoul tilted the glass, watching the gold glints the light threw across the liquor. "I still haven't had a sip," he replied finally.

Alan gently but firmly pried the glass from his knight-master's grip, and tossed it out.

***

"You love my mother," Alan said, his eyes both too old and too young.

"No," Raoul sighed. "I loved the man I thought she was."

***

"You're my squire."

"I'm also eighteen."

When Raoul reached out to brush a lock of blond hair out of Alan's face, Alan's eyes were far too knowing.

***

"We shouldn't do this. I shouldn't do this," Raoul said desperately.

Alan glared. "That's a fine thing to say when you've got your hand down my breeches."

Raoul was silent.

"Besides, you need this." It was the simple truth in that statement that finally caused Raoul to move.

***

"Your mother will kill me," Raoul said, staring down into his squire's face.

"That's not who you're thinking about," Alan said. "Now shut up and kiss me."

***

It was never his name, Alan knew, that Raoul whispered in the dark, even if they sounded the same.

***

"It's time to head back to Corus," Raoul said nearly four years later.

Alan shifted, settling back against Raoul's chest. "I'm not going to turn into someone else, you know."

Raoul flinched, and looked away.

***

"You were never anything but a substitute," Raoul hissed, hands locked around Alan's throat, pinning Alan to the cold stone wall with all his considerable strength.

I already know this, Alan thought, bored, and the Chamber let him go.

***

None of this was ever real, Raoul thinks.

"It is real enough," Alan says.

And it is.

Duke Gareth of Naxen was a pragmatic man. He had never believed in the tales some soldiers told, of recognizing former enemies years later, not when the enemies they spoke of were single faces among a whole horde of enemies. Not when those faces had been glimpsed for only moments during the tumult of a battlefield, here and gone again, lost to the turmoil of war, overwhelmed by the feel of a sword in your hand and blood all over and oppressive darkness or too-bright sun and the ground beneath your feet and the blows you gave and the blows you parried, and the many, many other faces you glimpsed for just as long.

Then he was part of a delegation to Carthak, and boarded the imperial galley, and caught a glimpse of the handsome older mage Numair greeted with his usual exuberance.

The man's name was very much not Scanran, and he had obviously been in Carthak for long enough to not only have achieved mastery, but to have taught Numair. There were a thousand things that pointed to him being just who Numair introduced him as, but Gareth knew. Flying in the face of all logic, he knew he'd faced that man down in some godforsaken forest once, knew with a rock-solid certainty that it was that man who'd cost him his finger and his favorite sword.

And when Lindhall Reed looked his way and flinched in surprise, Gareth was sure.

***

The conference in Carthak went … okay, for a conference with an egomaniacal emperor who managed to simultaneously piss off the gods, Numair Salmalin, and young Veralidaine. Gareth shook his head, leaning on the rail of the ship that would take them back to Tortall. He watched as the other members of the delegation slowly boarded, Numair helping along a still-woozy Daine, talking to…

…No.

Okay, yes, Gareth had known that Reed fellow was coming back with them, but he'd still hoped, when they'd returned to round up the mages after their little tantrum in the palace, that the man would give up and just stay. Apparently, Kaddar hadn't been able to bribe him, after all.

Gareth's hand tightened convulsively on the rail, and his son shot him a worried look. He sent Gary a reassuring smile, but Gary's eyes just narrowed, and Gareth silently cursed the gods for giving him a son as canny as his mother.

The newest member of their party gave Gareth a nervous bow, then practically skittered away, adjusting the straps of…

… That was not a Scanran war axe. Gareth blinked. Well, it might be; the mage certainly had the build to wield one. He turned to verify his initial impression, but the mage had, with remarkable speed, already gone belowdecks.

***

Gareth had, often, wanted to tan his nephew's hide, especially after some of Jonathan's childhood antics. But his nephew - and king, he forcibly reminded himself - had never come so close to provoking a rage as he had today.

"I'm sorry?" Gareth said, pinning Jonathan with his most piercing glare.

Jonathan exchanged a worried glance with Gary. "I said, Master Reed's offered to help us with the Royal University. He has also agreed to assist in training the pages, and Lord Wyldon has agreed to that as well."

Sometimes, being the uncle of a king had its privileges. Gareth turned and strode from the room without another word.

***

"Calm down, Gareth," Roanna snapped, stabbing at her embroidery with much more than the necessary force. "You don't even know for sure it's the same man!"

Gareth was in his rooms, pacing back and forth as dramatically as he could with a cane. He hmpfed.

"Besides, it's not like you hate him."

"I damn well do hate him, Roanna!" Gareth snapped in turn.

Roanna snorted, an unladylike habit she'd taken to expressive heights over the years. "I've seen you watching him."

"He's a Scanran raider!"

"Ex-Scanran raider, dearest," she said, and oh, she was really warming up to her argument if she was whipping out the endearments. "That was over thirty years ago."

"He cut off my finger!" Gareth said, waving his scarred hand in her direction.

"You and your excuses," Roanna said. She set aside her embroidery and rose, and Gareth flinched back at the dangerous look in her eyes.

"Come," she said, one hand clamping around his arm. "We are going to settle things once and for all."

***

Lindhall Reed was more than a little alarmed when the door to his classroom banged open, and the terrifying duchess of Naxen strode in, dragging her husband behind her.

…Damn. He couldn't make it to his axe in time.

"Now look here," she said, sticking a finger in Lindhall's face. "My husband has been making eyes at you since Carthak," - There was a noise of protest from the Duke, but a glare from the Duchess quelled it - "and I am fed up with him not doing anything about it. Therefore, I am leaving him in here, with you, and barring the door. I do not expect to see either of you for at least an hour."

With that, the Duchess unceremoniously shoved her husband into one of the students' seats, then strode to the door, before pausing and looking over her shoulder at Lindhall, raising one imperious eyebrow. "You don't have a class today, do you?"

It took Lindhall a moment to work up the nerve to respond. "Not this afternoon, no," he replied, mouth dry. He did not want to know what she'd do if he said yes.

"Good," the Duchess replied, closing the door firmly.

They listened in silence to the sounds of scraping, dull thuds, and the faint echo of the Duchess' imperious voice issuing orders to whatever unlucky fellows she'd roped into this.

Lindhall patted Bonedancer nervously, trying to ignore the man across from him.

Duke Gareth, for his part, was glaring ferociously at the other man, trying to put his wife's insinuations out of his head. He was not ogling the man; Roanna had been spending too much time with the flighty court gossips. Never mind that she was sharper than any person he'd ever met, and usually knew what he was feeling before he did. No, she was entirely mistaken.

A small clack from Bone caused Lindhall to turn just in time to see the Duke's eyes flicker down, then back up. The Duke caught his gaze, slightly startled, then cleared his throat and turned away, folding his hands over his cane, but not before Lindhall saw a faint blush touch his cheeks.

…So, maybe the Duchess had a point. At Bone's impatient tug, Lindhall rose and slowly approached the Duke, who turned steadily redder and redder. Lindhall, completely unaware of the seductive smirk curling across his own face, leaned casually against the table next to the other man.

"We seem to be stuck here, Your Grace," he said.

Duke Gareth muttered something incomprehensible and likely uncomplimentary about his wife. Lindhall, prompted by some hidden boldness, placed two fingers under the Duke's chin and gently tipped his head back.

Lindhall looked into the other man's lust-darkened eyes and grinned. "Maybe we should find some way to spend the time," he suggested, startled at the huskiness of his own voice.

The Duke paused for a long moment, considering, then hooked his cane around Lindhall's leg and yanked him forward.

Somewhere on the desk behind them, Bonedancer clattered happily. It was about time.

***

Outside the door, Roanna of Naxen grinned an entirely unladylike and unrepentant grin, and went off to divert anyone who might come looking for her husband or his mage.

It was his curse, Duke Gareth supposed, to be so old and yet outliving so many. He stood leaning on his cane, his son hovering by his shoulder and his wife a solid pillar behind him, watching as the pyre repeatedly failed to light in the damp.

It wasn't even a proper rain, Gareth thought numbly, his fingers cold on his cane. If it wasn't going to be ironically sunny, it should at least be a proper rain.

It was Numair who finally lit the pyre - with his Gift, consuming the whole thing within moments, and no one mentioned it, just like no one mentioned how peculiarly angry he looked at the stubborn tinder. Daine pulled him back before the magic-fueled fire could burn him, too.

They had put enough together about Lindhall Reed's background to figure out the man was Scanran, coy not-quite-protestations to the contrary. Thus, the funeral pyre, as close to accurate as they could manage, here in the warm south.

He wondered if they could manage to track down Lindhall's clan; that axe, the mage had said, had been passed down in his family for generations. It ought to be returned to them. They would be wondering about their son. They had been wondering about him for decades.

…That axe. That blasted axe, that had been gripped tightly in Lindhall's hands when the man died. Right now, it was off being cleaned and repaired; Gareth would not see anything of Lindhall's in less than perfect condition. Not now.

Roanna's hand clasped his shoulder briefly; she gave him a sympathetic smile, and Gareth realized he was crying. He knew his affair with the mage had been no secret; Lindhall had had no discretion (except that necessary to be a Scanran raider hiding right under the Tortallan king's nose, and that necessary to run an underground highway for escaped slaves, and that necessary to help a young Arram Draper flee Carthak's wrath) and Gary had not exactly been quiet when he'd discovered his father's newest relationship. But Roanna had always understood, had understood before Gareth had, and had, in fact, been the one to give him the courage to engage in the affair at all.

She had always known him well, which was why he was only mildly surprised when she steered him away from the funeral, back to his rooms, over to his desk where a familiar Scanran war axe rested, cleaned of blood and honed to perfect sharpness.

"It came back today," Roanna said, at his glance. "Your mage told me he wanted you to have it."

She left him, then, alone to his tears. He ran his fingers gingerly along the blade, remembering all too well how easily it could cut flesh and sever bone. It had taken his finger, long ago, before Lindhall was Lindhall. It had taken the lives of a number of the attackers who'd laid siege to the palace, not a week ago.

Gareth smiled faintly. They must've had the surprise of their life, when they'd broken into the mages' wing with Gift-repressing charms and found not a helpless group of gawky sorcerers, but a beyond-angry Scanran raider swinging an axe at their heads and verging on battle madness.

Whatever Lindhall had said about lacking practice, he'd lost none of his skill. It had taken two mages and a lot of anti-Gift charms to bring him down.

He squinted through blurry eyes at the surface of his desk. There was a small piece of paper pinned under the axe haft.

Throat dry as the Southern Desert, Gareth pulled it out.

I don't have any children, so you might as well pass this on to yours when I die.

Thank your wife for me; Her Grace offered to ensure you got this if I do die first.

Told you you're immortal,

Eirik Ludviksra

The name was unfamiliar, but that didn't matter, Gareth thought, because the note was typical Lindhall. He smoothed it out gently, wrinkled hands trembling, then ran his hand again along the axe.

He couldn't wait to see the look on Gary's face when he told him about this, Gareth thought, and wept.

***

Lindhall did not go to the funeral. He found Tortallan burials bizarre and faintly distasteful, even after so many years in Tortall, and while Duchess Roanna had extended an invitation, Lindhall was not so clueless as to think her son entirely approved. And Lindhall was not the type of person to intrude on others' grief.

Besides, he'd been there when Duke Gareth - the former, not the current - had died. He had, in fact, been the only one there. He didn't need any closure.

So Lindhall Reed sat in his locked classroom. He'd fed the iguanas, and the turtle, despite the fact that he was faintly sure he'd already fed them, and he was now sitting perched on the edge of his chair, a quill dripping red ink in one hand and a half-empty bottle of hard Scanran liquor in the other, and a stack of absolutely abysmal essays in front of him.

He took a swig from the bottle, relishing the harsh, familiar-but-long-forgotten burn and wondering where in the world young Nealan had managed to get it. It didn't matter; the burn was welcome, as was the dizzy fog taking up the space his brain once occupied. The world was going nicely gray around the edges; unfortunately, he could still read the essays stacked before him.

They were really, unforgivably bad, Lindhall thought viciously, scrawling comments along the margins. For good measure, he doodled some illustrations of what he wanted to do to the idiot who'd written it across the top; it made an excellent warning, he thought, and the drawings weren't half bad, either. That one actually looked like a person being shoved unceremoniously off the Needle.

"You know, giving that to young Jesslaw may not be the wisest thing to do," came a dry voice from behind him.

Lindhall spun, the world rocking unsteadily, and nearly followed Gareth's example and had a heart attack. Gary - Lindhall would always think of him as Gary, even if he was the new Duke - stood behind him, hands in his pockets, red-rimmed eyes still managing to glint in amusement.

"Even if he is as much of a hellion as his father," Gary finished, smirking faintly as Lindhall stared.

Lindhall looked at his classroom door. It was wide open. "I thought I locked that," he said uncertainly.

"You did," Gary said, in a good approximation of his usual cheer. "I picked the lock. Father taught me," he added at the older man's look, and Lindhall had to give him credit: his voice barely caught.

"Oh," Lindhall said, gesturing loosely to a nearby seat. Gary shook his head, losing his smile. He fidgeted with something in his pocket, then withdrew a paper and handed it to Lindhall.

Lindhall took it, numb. It was only two lines.

I do love you.

Gareth

And the grief swept down on Lindhall all at once, and he was vaguely aware of Gary backing out of the room and discreetly relocking the door before the liquor bottle hit the wall and the tears came.

Jon really should've known better than to send her on this trip.

"I am somewhat surprised that the famed Lioness has so little to say," he'd said from behind her, and she'd caught a faint whiff of cinnamon and blushed. "Your outspokenness is legend, even here in Carthak, Sir Alanna."

She had bitten back her instinctive sharp response, and found herself tongue-tied.

The Emperor simply smiled. "Perhaps you would be more comfortable speaking out in private," he said, practically oozing consideration. "Shall we?"

Alanna was many things, but she was not a fool. She knew exactly what a private conference with the Emperor meant.

She followed him anyway.

He was weirdly, almost disturbingly, more attentive than any of her other lovers. He did not so much as loosen a tie on his clothes until after he had her utterly naked in his bed, trembling at every expert touch of his fingers.

"So even the great Lioness is only a woman in bed," he said, voice as cool as his amber eyes, and only the fact that she was too exhausted to move kept him from getting punched. She scowled at him anyway, and he laughed.

That had been the first night, and the next morning, when the diplomatic conference went better than anticipated, she knew it was only partly because of Daine.

The second night, he had been rage, barely tamed. The Stormwing's gift was a sly insult, and everyone knew it; only his iron self-control and knowledge that she had not been the one to offer the insult spared her from his wrath. Only the fact that he wasn't angry at her spared him from hers.

The encounter that night was fierce and bruising, and even more silent than the previous night. This was another kind of war, Alanna thought, and she never ran from a battle.

The next day's conference didn't go so smoothly. Alanna was entirely unsurprised.

The third night, Alanna had still been unsettled from the gods-damned boats. If the Emperor had been unsettled by the walking statue, he'd reacted by turning even more self-assured than before.

"How did you like my fleet?" he asked, leaning over her.

There was no polite answer she could give, and he knew it. She wondered distantly, as his hands traveled confidently over her body, if she'd already lost.

The next day, the conference was still stalled. That night, there were rats, and an impromptu execution, and Alanna was no stranger to omens and portents, and knew in her bones that Carthak was teetering on collapse.

"You've already lost," she said that night, hand rising to touch her ember.

"What makes you think that?" the Emperor said, almost a snarl, as he shoved her back onto the bed.

She said nothing, only smiled. Inside, though, was a ball of worry that wouldn't leave.

She was no stranger to plots and schemes, either. The next day, when Daine was missing and the Emperor stood and accused her of treason and threw them all out of Carthak, and shot one smug, knowing glance at Numair, Alanna couldn't have been less surprised. She was certainly expecting it when Numair refused to leave.

She was a little disappointed, later, that she hadn't had a hand in bringing this villain down. It left things … unfinished, she mused, fingering her ember again and thinking of shades of red and yellow.

Yes, Jon really should've known better than to send her on this trip, Alanna thought.

Then again, he'd never known about Roger.

"What is this?" Thom asked, poking the stuff in the bowl with his spoon.

"Soup," said Numair, giving Thom a funny look. "Good soup," he added when Thom glanced at him.

Thom looked at the bowl. Gingerly, he stirred the liquid, watching as even more random unidentifiable bits rose to the surface. It didn't look like any soup he'd ever had; it looked, rather, like someone had run mad in a vegetable garden.

***

Numair only seemed to be able to cook three things: soup, which never looked like any normal soup; rice, which was never just rice; and these weird little meat things wrapped in flatbread. None of them ever turned out the same way twice.

Of course, that wasn't all Numair ever brought him. Frequently, he'd show up in Thom's office with a barely-cooling bundle of something from one of Legann's food stands - a turnover, maybe, or dumplings, or a cup of yet more soup held gingerly in long fingers, or whatever new food Numair'd seen that he'd wanted Thom to try, bustling in all excited like a child with a clever treasure. Sometimes, he'd crash into Thom's office at a rush, somewhat late and a bit disheveled, sheepishly setting down a plate of something clearly swiped from the palace kitchens or whatever lunch he'd been forced to attend.

At first, these midday interruptions had annoyed Thom, as much for what they implied as the interruptions themselves. He was perfectly capable of taking care of himself, he'd finally ranted one day to his sister, he didn't need the court's newest darling mage taking pity on him. Alanna had raised one pointed eyebrow, for once not yelling back, and said tartly that maybe if he didn't consistently skip lunch people wouldn't feel so inclined to feed him.

It wasn't until a day four years later, when Numair actually failed to stop by, that Thom realized he'd gotten used to the mage's noontime interruptions whenever they were both at Legann. But then Daine scrambled in, bright and cheerful and completely out of breath, and set a bundle smack in the center of Thom's desk.

"There," she'd said, absently tucking a flyaway curl behind her ear. "Numair said to give that to you, and to say he's sorry he couldn't drop by himself, but some idiot student - not me! - just blew up his classroom."

A heaviness Thom hadn't noticed until then fizzled away, and he opened the bundle.

"Those're fish pasties," Daine said, pointing. "I taught him my ma's recipe. Oh, almost forgot." She leaned forward and pressed a quick kiss to Thom's cheek, grinning. "That's also from Numair, even if he didn't say it."

She skipped out of the room, leaving an utterly flabbergasted Thom and two cooling pasties behind.

***

Thom caved to Numair's expectant gaze like he always did, and gingerly tasted the soup. "It's good," he pronounced finally. Better than Alanna's cooking, he didn't add. That was a low hurdle to jump.

Numair's wide smile, sudden and brilliant as the sun through rainclouds, warmed Thom more than the soup did.

If there is one vice Shinkokami has, it is this: she likes to watch people.

She is a master at watching without seeming to - though, she thinks, more bitterly than is her wont, these Easterners mostly see her only as a pretty Yamani doll anyway. She could probably get away with openly staring, with none the wiser.

So Shinko watches.

Shinko watches, and sees the look on the famed Lioness' eldest's face when his mother cannot bear to look at him. The look on his face is the betrayed look of a child trying to please someone he knows he cannot, and though Shinko does not know him, something fractures in her heart.

Shinko watches the lanky redhead, whose name, she learns from Roald, is Thom, and watches as he hides the flickers of his Gift, a deep, pure amethyst, from his mother and his mother's friends, as if it is something shameful, yet something he cannot help but use.

Shinko is entirely unsurprised when Roald tells her Thom almost never leaves his room at the university, that he has a horrible habit of switching his course of study right before he is due for mastery in the previous one. She does not know Thom at all, though she wishes she did, since he is her fiance's oldest friend, and Roald speaks of him with nothing but genuine affection and sad respect.

Shinko watches, which is how she knows this Thom is broken, and has been since the first time his Gift flickered to bright purple life around him and his mother began to avoid him. Shinko watches, which is how she knows that Roald is deeply in love with his redheaded friend.

Shinko watches, watches as Roald leans just a bit too close to Thom when Thom speaks, watches as Thom makes the occasional shy appearance at a party, all at Roald's behest, all for Roald, and that couldn't be plainer. Shinko wonders, idly, how no one else ever seems to notice, how only she seems to see that Roald takes any opportunity propriety grants him to touch Thom, how Thom, in turn, only ever looks up at Roald, only ever speaks more than necessary pleasantries to Roald, only ever is seen if Roald is there to bring him out of his awkward shell.

Then Shinko sees Queen Thayet, one day, and realizes the Queen is watching too, but whereas Shinko watches with nonjudgemental curiosity, Thayet's eyes are narrow and hard.

Shinko watches, which is how she knows Roald knows his mother watches him suspiciously, and watches Thom with suspicion that borders on anger, and Roald knows secret paths to the university, and enough magic to not get caught.

Shinko does not know magic, does not have ways to avoid detection by mages, so Shinko does not watch Roald when he is at the university. She stays, instead, attendant on the Queen, diverting Thayet with Thayet's own graciousness.

But once, when Roald is back at Corus, finally, for the wedding, and the Queen - and, indeed, the whole Court - is wrapped up in the preparations, Thom stays the night at the palace.

And Shinko watches.

She watches through the crack of the door, thankful that the palace is still largely empty of people so that there is no one to see her and grow suspicious. She watches the two men inside, one the handsome prince she has learned to love, one the gawky, nervous almost-mage she wishes she could, and she watches as they move closer, Thom shy and awkward in his shyness, Roald calm and steady and therefore bold. Roald's grace turns Thom's lack of coordination into a gentle dance, and as the two men kiss, as tentative as if they have not been lovers for years, years before Shinko ever heard of Roald, Shinko thinks that Thom in this intimacy has gained a sort of grace after all, that loving and being loved has made the awkward duckling beautiful.

Roald gently divests Thom of his clothing, and through eloquent silence persuades his lover to return the favor, smiling at Thom with more passion than he has ever graced Shinko with when Thom's fingers hesitantly tug at Roald's tunic. Roald, Shinko sees, is a patient lover, considerate and reassuring and gently prompting, but never pushing, never forcing, even though it must be frustrating, dealing with a longtime lover who is still so nervous.

Shinko is oddly reassured, herself. She is glad at times like this that she watches people, because her upcoming wedding does not seem so very terrifying, now.

Shinko watches as Roald kisses Thom deeply, as Thom wraps himself around Roald as Roald lowers them both to the bed, and Thom looks up and sees her, and freezes.

And Shinko curses herself, because of course if she can see in through the gap, something of herself - a color of her dress that is decidedly not stone, a glimmer of her eye, perhaps - would be visible to anyone in the room who cared to look. And Thom's father is the real spymaster of Tortall, and even if Thom is not so inclined to tricks he undoubtedly knows all the ones Shinko does, and now Thom's hesitance is back full-force, deep shame and desperate love twisting his expression, and Shinko has ruined their beautiful moment.

Shinko does the only thing she can think of: she bobs an awkward Eastern curtsey and bows her head, hoping something of her meaning can convey itself to Thom and her love and his lover can rescue their night, and scurries off.

Later, when they are married, Shinko still watches. She watches Roald's reflection in her mirror the morning after their wedding, as she pins up her hair. Roald is watching her, and there is honest affection in his eyes, for which Shinko is thankful, because he could have hated her for taking him from his lover, for being a duty.

"In Yaman, there is no shame in taking a lover, as long as one does one's duty by one's wife," Shinko says at last, watching Roald's face.

He freezes, and blushes, and she meets his eyes in the mirror, and when he bows deeply to her in Yamani style, she knows he understands her meaning.

Shinko watches, and watching gives her power. She can ruin Roald, can destroy Thom, with a whispered word of what she sees; that is power enough for her.

But Shinko has grace and graciousness of her own, and she will never use it.

The room, most people would say, is utterly silent.

George is not most people. He has not gotten where he is in life by being unaware of the small details. The scuff of a shoe, the scrape of chairs, a huffed breath - George notes it all. The wind has picked up outside; it's rattling the shutters. Downstairs, in the main room of the Dove, 'Fingers is being rather jolly; he's celebrating Alanna's being a girl for the third straight week in a row. Last night, he'd been celebrating the death of Duke Roger; 'Fingers keeps his parties on a schedule.

It's only been three weeks since Alanna's been revealed as a girl to the world. It feels like longer.

It's only been two weeks since Master Si-Cham dragged a reluctant Thom of Trebond down to Corus to face his father. Looking at the silent man sitting stiffly across from him, George thinks that it, too, feels like a lot longer.

The vow of silence Thom took to avoid speaking to his father certainly hasn't stopped him from being expressive - or melodramatic. George suppresses a rather unmanly giggle as he remembers the first time he met Thom, when an irate Mithran monk slammed open the door to the Dove and stalked in to stare down his wayward sister.

Thom raises one eyebrow, pointedly, and George makes an odd sound - some hideous combination of a squeak and a hiss - as he ruthlessly suppresses his laughter.

He doesn't really know what's gotten into him tonight.

He can hear Thom fidgeting, a nervous habit Alanna rarely shows.

He knows exactly what's gotten into him tonight: three tankards too many, after Stefan sent down the most recent palace gossip - Alanna is officially being courted by that Tirragen knight, the one she'd been so suspicious of not that long ago.

George knows Alanna well enough, by now. That would never have risen anywhere close to the level of actual courting if she didn't want it to.

George closes his eyes, and hears Thom shift. Thom's breathing is a touch rapid, a touch nervous - George makes Thom nervous, and George really doesn't want to think about why.

…Dammit. It's not like it matters much, anymore, his objection, but George does not toy with people, and he thinks he might be weary of Trebonds.

Then again, some small portion of his brain throws up, it's not like he's still pursuing Alanna anymore. Alanna has made her choice, and George is a free man.

But Thom is finicky and fidgety and even more prickly than his sister - which, George thinks, is something of an accomplishment - and George pays attention to details, which is how he knows that he is Thom's first crush, and George does not toy with people. He barely knows this young man.

He does not toy with people, no matter how much he may want to.

Thom huffs a sigh, and George represses another giggle as he thinks that for all Thom has taken a vow of silence, he is still eloquently noisy. He just doesn't use words anymore.

A hand yanks George's head up and around, and George almost goes for his knife before he registers the impatient tapping of Thom's heel on the chair leg, and he opens his eyes to see violet eyes, as violet as Alanna's, staring him down.

Those eyes are too knowing. George wonders, idly, what Thom has seen in the dark and lonely cloisters to make him so world-weary, so cynical.

George no longer really cares. If Thom knows what he's getting into…

No. George does not toy with people, and the fact that Thom doesn't expect anything from him only makes George feel vaguely ashamed.

Fingers lightly touch George's parted lips, silencing the protest before George gets a sound out. Thom leans close, and what he does next startles George immensely.

"I've learned to take what I can get, King of Thieves," Thom whispers, voice creaky with disuse, and George is left wondering how big a burden that vow was in the first place, because from the sound of it Thom hasn't spoken for far longer than he's been sworn to silence. "When you feel up to it, come and steal me."

Thom pushes George back in his seat and leans close, close enough to kiss, close enough that George swears he can hear the younger man's heartbeat, but all Thom does is smirk at him and back off.

George sits, stunned, as the prickly monk leaves; he hears more than sees the young man blow him a cheeky kiss. The door creaks open, then shuts with a light click, and George hears the slow patter of footsteps down the stairs, and the roar of 'Fingers greeting another potential drinking partner.

He hears the door to the inn open, and hears Thom huff a laugh, and hears the wind bang the door closed.

He doesn't need to watch Thom leave. He knows from the sound of the firm footsteps that Thom will be back.

When you feel up to it, come and steal me.

Eventually, George will.

He has no idea how he ended up in bed with Duke Roger. He has no idea why, or what he was thinking, he has no idea where this sudden deep craving for the other mage's presence has come from. Deep in his mind, he might know that Roger isn't simply meeting his eyes to be polite, but that awareness, if he has it at all, will never rise to the level of consciousness.

Eventually, in some twisted, desperate form of self-defense, his mind will interpret the compulsion as love. But for now, all Thom knows is that he is now Roger's, and there was nothing he could do about it.

( What a Flicker Brings )

( Jesslaw's Angels )

( Discovery )

( Flirting )

( First and Last Things )

( Letters from the Dead )

( The Better Actor )

Honda felt the soulless body in his arms twitch once, then go, if anything, even more lax than before. Uh-oh.

He glanced down just as Mokuba gave one last rattling breath, and fell still.

Bakura's head whipped around at the noise, mouth twisted into a grim line. The Spirit of the Ring was at his side in an instant, hands expertly searching for any trace of life in that suddenly-too-heavy body.

But they both knew. Kaiba Mokuba was dead.

"Something must have happened to the card Pegasus trapped him in," Bakura said, in a grim, serious tone Honda had never heard from the yami before. "Rip the card, lose the soul. Lose the soul..."

"...Lose the body," Honda finished, feeling cold rage solidify his stomach. There was only one person who could have done this. Only one person who had access to the cards containing the Kaibas' souls.

He kinda hoped Yami actually would kill Pegasus. Or trap him in a penalty game, or something.

"There they are!"

Anzu, Jou, and a wearily triumphant Yugi ran up to Honda, only to take a step back as they realized just who was in control of Bakura at the moment. But the Spirit of the Ring was just crouching there, staring at a small, motionless form.

Anzu gasped. Yugi's eyes went, impossibly, wider, and filled with tears. Jounouchi's face closed off, reminding Honda vividly of their days as bullies.

In the back of Yugi's mind, Yami was very still.

Footsteps on the stairs behind them jolted them out of their grieved denial.

For a moment, none of them moved. They knew who that was. Kaiba's footsteps were as distinctive as his damn trenchcoats.

Kaiba paused on the last step, coolly taking in their stricken expressions, and Honda realized that he was masking confusion.

Then he saw the body, and something in him snapped.

Kaiba lunged forward, shoving Anzu harshly to the side, and a guttural wail tore from his throat. His eyes wild in a way Honda had never seen on anybody, Kaiba dropped to his knees beside his brother's body, shaking hands frantically searching for life - any life - in that still frame.

But there was nothing to find.

Kaiba pressed both hands flat to the center of Mokuba's chest, as if willing life to flow into his body, and then crumpled forward to rest his forehead on his hands, his breath coming in harsh gasps.

The Spirit of the Ring was the one who finally moved, kneeling by Kaiba's side and wrapping one arm firmly around him. Bakura's face was set, and Honda found himself vaguely wondering what had happened to the spirit, to make him so intimately familiar with grief and death.

Kaiba, Honda was unsurprised to realize, was crying.

So were most of the rest of them, especially Yugi, who'd fought for Mokuba's soul as much as his grandpa's, who'd promised Kaiba's own soulless body that he'd get his brother back.

Jou knelt at Kaiba's other side, not touching him, not saying anything, just a solid presence anchoring his nemesis a little more, and Honda remembered why he put up with Jounouchi's idiocy, and stuck with him through the gang years, and was still his best friend. Jounouchi Katsuya was, at heart, one of the most fundamentally kind people he'd ever met, kind enough to offer unwanted support to a guy he utterly despised, and smart enough to offer in a way he couldn't refuse.

Anzu walked over, and reached down, and gently slipped the string holding Mokuba's locket off his neck. Kaiba made a small strangled sound and clutched at it, but Anzu, gentle and mothering in a way that usually infuriated the rest of the gang, pried his fingers off and slipped it over his head, letting the locket fall to dangle next to Kaiba's own matching one.

They clacked faintly, and Kaiba sat back on his knees, still crying, eyes feral and bewildered, one hand still pressed to Mokuba like if he just held on long enough his heart would start beating again, the other reaching up to grip the lockets tight enough to cut his palm.

Anzu knelt next to Bakura, and Honda dropped down across from Kaiba, and Yugi came over to sit at Kaiba's back. And then Kujaku Mai found them, and started up a fire and a kettle, and they started the long task of bringing Kaiba home.

Mutou Sugoroku was waiting for them when they got back, looking none the worse for being trapped in a video. He took one look at their grim, tear-streaked faces and, with the kind of equanimity he shared with his grandson, bundled them all back to the game shop, even Kaiba, though they had to wait while one of Kaiba's bodyguards - Isono, Jounouchi thought his name was - persuaded Kaiba to let go of Mokuba's corpse.

Corpse. Jounouchi shivered. This wasn't how things were supposed to happen. Kaiba was an asshole - and a murderous one at that - but Mokuba was a good kid, and no one deserved that.

And now Kaiba was sitting, head down and spine bent in a way Jounouchi had never seen it, not even in the depths of Kaiba's madness, at the Mutous' kitchen table, hands wrapped around the steaming mug of hot chocolate Sugoroku had given him like he didn't know what to do with it. Jounouchi and the others ranged about, uncertain.

Yugi and Honda had taken Ryou back into the living room, explaining what had happened while his yami had been in control, and now Ryou was sitting by Kaiba, forward in a way Jounouchi had never expected of him, resting one hand gently on Kaiba's wrist and stroking the back of his hand gently with his thumb.

Kaiba had stopped crying, and was now staring dead-eyed into space.

Jounouchi wished he had something to punch. This was so wrong. Kaiba was supposed to be the snarky evil bastard with the inexplicably cute mini sidekick, not a big brother shattered and bent by unbearable grief. He leaned up against the fridge, watching like all the rest of them.

It was Sugoroku who finally broke the stillness. "You need to rest," he said, resting one grandfatherly hand on Kaiba's shoulder. "You all do. Jounouchi, you know where the futon is. Honda, Anzu, I've already called your parents. You two," he said, turning to Mai and nodding at Ryou, "are more than welcome to stay, if your parents don't mind and you don't mind lumpy couches. Yugi, get to bed." He frowned down at Kaiba as Mrs. Mutou appeared and started directing everyone around with a ladle.

Kaiba hadn't even blinked. Jounouchi doubted he'd even been aware anyone was speaking. Sugoroku sighed and shot his daughter-in-law a look. Mrs. Mutou nodded, moving to Kaiba's other side as Ryou stood and made room for her. She crouched by Kaiba's chair, saying something softly to him in a distinctly motherly voice. When there was no response, she frowned, then smoothed out her expression into soft compassion, gripped him firmly by the chin, and turned his head to look at her. Kaiba balked, fighting her grip in the first sign of life Jounouchi had seen all evening, but Mrs. Mutou was relentless. She whispered, fiercely and sternly but still motherly, to him, and at something in his eyes she nodded and let him go.

Kaiba rose when Mrs. Mutou did, blinking down at his untouched mug like he'd never seen it before. He probably didn't, Jounouchi thought, as Sugoroku snagged the mug and Mrs. Mutou steered Kaiba down the hall to the guest room. (It was never used as such, even though the family called it that. Everyone knew it had once been Yugi's dad's room. Well, Jounouchi amended, the usual gang knew, anyway.)

Kaiba, movements jerky and graceless since that moment on the island, let Mrs. Mutou steer him to the bed, and she backed out after saying something else to him, shutting the door. Ryou, awkwardly clutching a sleeping bag Mai had graciously loaned him, stopped the door before it could fully close, whispering something anxiously but firmly to Mrs. Mutou. She listened, then nodded, holding the guest room door open for him as he slipped in too, and the last thing Jounouchi saw was Kaiba still sitting where Mrs. Mutou had set him, staring blankly at Ryou as Ryou calmly unrolled the sleeping bag.

Still wishing for something he could do, Jounouchi turned to help scour up more blankets.

Kaiba had taken to awkwardly haunting the game shop.

He never spoke to anyone. He barely spoke to anyone at all anymore, Yami understood from what he'd overheard Isono telling Sugoroku. Kaiba just drifted, keeping his company afloat by dint of long practice (and, Yami was certain, the efforts of his many loyal employees), randomly disappearing for weeks at a time before showing up to skulk around the game shop's stockroom, or sit at his chair in the kitchen, or hide in what was once the guest room and was now collectively thought of as Kaiba's bolt-hole.

He'd stopped playing Duel Monsters, refused to even touch his deck aside from the three dragon cards Yami knew were part of his soul, and one crudely-made rendition of a Duel Monsters card that Yami didn't need to see to know was the one Mokuba had drawn for him years ago, back when they still lived at the orphanage.

Yami felt a sudden surge of rage at the utter loss of a good duelist, a worthy rival, and just as suddenly felt ashamed. Of all the things to get upset over...
It's ok, other me, he felt his aibou say. You're allowed to be upset.

Yami snorted, and Kaiba's head poked out from behind a shelf, staring at him in vague interest before retreating. Yami stared at the spot where Kaiba had disappeared, train of thought utterly derailed.

That's more of a reaction than he's shown to anything, Yugi said, nonplussed.

Yami's instincts said push it, and Yugi wasn't sure that was a bad idea, so Yami did. "Kaiba?"

Kaiba muttered something from behind the shelf.

Yami and Yugi exchanged mental glances. "Come again?"

Kaiba moved a boxed console, blue eyes glaring at Yami through the shelving unit in a way Yami had despaired of ever seeing again. "I said," he snapped, glaring a little more hotly at Yami's grin, "that if you're going to call me by my family name, you'd better call me by the right one."

Yami could feel Yugi blink. "But we don't know your real name," Yami said in the tone of utter reason he knew drove Jounouchi nuts.

It had the same effect on Kaiba. Before Yami realized what he was doing, Kaiba had reached through the shelf and snagged the front of his shirt, dragging Yami forward. "Takashiro," Kaiba snarled, then blinked and let Yami go.

Yami staggered, watching in confusion as Kaiba blankly put the box back. "...What's wrong?" the spirit asked gently.

"I'd forgotten that," Kaiba said in an almost singsongy voice. "Mokuba-" He cut himself off.

And that's the first time he's mentioned Mokuba, Yugi said, like Yami didn't already know. They waited, patient and calm, for Kaiba to continue.

To the surprise of both of them, he did. "Mokuba asked once, what our family name really was, back when he was still alive." There was only one he, the gang had long since sussed out. Kaiba Gozaburo. "He'd already forgotten. They didn't like to use family names at the orphanage, and Mokuba was so little when we were sent there." Kaiba paused. "I told him it didn't matter, and to drop it. I didn't know I remembered."

And he started to shut down again. Oh no you don't, Yami thought. "So are you changing your name back, then?" If he didn't want people calling him Kaiba anymore, he'd have to.

The stare leveled at Yami was flat, but there was something alive there that had Yugi doing a mental cheer. "I only became a Kaiba for Mokuba's sake," he said, tone sharp and flat all at once, and oddly determined. "I fought for the right. But Mokuba isn't here. And that bastard deserves no such remembrance."

Wow, Yugi said, impressed by the vehemence.

No kidding, Yami replied, before idly asking, "So we should call you Takashiro, then?" And before Kaiba could answer, he raised his eyes and caught Kaiba's stare with a level one of his own. "Or can we move on to 'Seto'?"

Kaiba blinked, then gave an awkward shrug, mouth sealing into a tight line as he moved off towards the back room.

Yami watched him go. "Seto it is, then."

Yami had no idea what Isis Ishtar had said to make Seto take up dueling again, never mind set up this insane tournament. He wasn't sure he wanted to.

He also wasn't sure he should thank her.

Had anyone told me even a month ago that Seto was going back to Duel Monsters, I'd've kissed them, Yami muttered.

Yugi snickered. Taking this rivalry a bit too seriously, aren't you?

But that was before Ishtar's bombshell about past lives, and these Ghouls and this Malik lunatic running around trying to kill people.

Seto had reacted really badly to that, and had started taking on every Ghoul he could find with unnerving viciousness.

He'd already managed to off three. Yami was studiously not checking to see if they were still alive.

Anyone dumb enough to call a shadow game on Seto in this mood deserved what came to them.

They'd parted ways, trying to lure out the other God cards, and now Yami was facing some mindless mime, and Malik through him, and the most devastating lockdown he'd ever encountered.

He had no idea how to win. Not against the Jams. Not against Osiris. Not together.

Against one or the other, I could have won, Yami thought, dropping to his knees, and the wave of startled resignation he felt was both his and Yugi's.

And then Seto was there, snarling like he always did when confronted with rank idiocy - "You bow to no one" - glaring at Yami as if he could will Yami to victory.

And in a flash, Yami saw the great flaw in Malik's strategy, saw how to turn the duel around.

And so he did.

When he turned around after collecting the God card, Seto was already gone.

It was cold on the airship, Isis noted idly, setting her trap. Kaiba was looking at the field, eyes narrowed, and unbidden her fingers brushed the Tauk, and she knew that she had won.

All he had to do was play the God card. And he would, for Kaiba Seto was nothing if not power-hungry.

He reached for a card, and Isis almost smiled. She could feel her brother's evil spirit smirking at them both, and though she knew she would inevitably lose, that he would inevitably win, she was one step closer to at least trying to reach him, trying to get the God cards to their rightful owner.

Kaiba paused, hand on the card, and looked at her. At the Tauk.

"You keep telling me you can see the future," he said, and Isis frowned at the note in his voice. "That all this stuff is inevitable," he waved a hand, encompassing the dueling platform. "So tell me," he asked, idly, "was my brother supposed to die?"

Isis blinked, taken aback. "What?"

He slammed his hand down on the dueling platform, and she jerked back involuntarily. The cluster of friends surrounding the Pharaoh went silent. Even Malik - or rather, his evil spirit - was staring. "Was my brother supposed to die?"

What was she supposed to say to that? Isis settled for honesty. "I never saw him, in any of my visions." She half shrugged. "Perhaps he was just not-" Too late, Isis realized the trap.

Kaiba's eyes narrowed dangerously, his eyes poisonous slits of blue. (On the edge of the platform, a watching Jounouchi thought that he'd never seen such a vicious look from Seto. Ever. He shivered, and stepped back, and onto the Pharaoh's toes. Yami barely twitched, eyes fixed on Seto with an intent look of his own, looking ready to kill Isis for him. Jounouchi was just thankful Bakura wasn't here, or she'd already be dead.)

"Wasn't what?" Kaiba asked, silken and deadly like a serpent.

Isis clamped her mouth shut.

"Wasn't important? Wasn't part of your grand scheme? I am so sick of you people," Kaiba hissed, slamming his hand onto his board again hard enough to cause the holograms of his monsters to waver, and Isis knew enough of him to know that it was when he got quiet that you really needed to worry. "You come here with your grand schemes and pat little answers and expect everyone to just fall in line, and you don't give a shit who gets trampled in the process," he said, and Isis flinched. There was enough truth in that to hurt.

But it didn't matter. She knew what the future held, had seen the visions the Tauk had shown her, and nothing would change.

Kaiba's hand was still on his God card. "This is what you want me to play, isn't it?" he asked, smirking at her expression as he flipped it around.

And then his grin went vicious, and he tore it in half, and tossed the pieces into the wind.

There was a moment of stunned silence, then, off to the side, Malik started to laugh.

He doubled over, laughing so hard he fell to his knees, tears streaming down his face as he succumbed to a hysterical fit the likes of which Isis had never seen. The Pharaoh's girlfriend gasped, then blinked, herself again as Malik's wayward spirit repossessed his own body, and then Isis' brother and his evil half were one laughing, sobbing, distraught mess.

Kaiba was watching her, Isis realized, and his lip curled in disgust when she turned back to the duel.

He'd played his card while she wasn't looking. The Blue Eyes White Dragon stood before her, magnificent and godly in its own right, and Kaiba breathed, "Attack."

And Isis lost, in defiance of all the future.

Yami was brooding again, Yugi noted.

I'm fine, aibou, came an exasperated thought. Stop being such a worrywart.

I am not a worrywart! Yami!

A chuckle was his only reply.

I'm just... I just want to make sure you're ok, Yugi replied weakly, realizing he really was worrying.

Yami laughed again. I'm ok. I'm ... adrift, a little, but ok.

Yugi thought he knew what Yami meant. They'd spent weeks after learning the truth about Yami struggling to fulfill Yami's destiny, fighting to regain his memories, only to have the whole thing snatched away unexpectedly.

The whole thing had been oddly anticlimactic, for such a drastic action.

Yami had won the tournament by default: Malik was too unhinged to continue, Seto had pocketed his deck and refused to touch it again, and Jounouchi had been too nervous to duel at his best for the title. Malik's victims had woken, but Malik himself had lapsed into a kind of fugue state, staring at the scenery with wild eyes and muttering irritably to himself.

Yugi wondered what had happened to Malik. Isis had just sort of stared at her brother in shock, and it had been Rishid who had staggered up, just out of a coma, to bundle him off downstairs. The last he'd heard, they were heading back to Egypt.

The window opened behind him.

Neither boy nor spirit had any chance to react before a knife was pressed to their throat, held there by a very familiar arm. "Ryou?" Yugi stammered, trying not to swallow.

Bakura, Yami hissed, battering helplessly at the Puzzle walls. If they switched out now, the larger Yami would get their neck slit.

"You lost a God card," Bakura breathed, and his voice didn't sound like either Ryou's or Bakura's.

...That's not Bakura, Yami.

I noticed.

"Bakura?" Yugi asked, voice wavering.

'Bakura' cackled. "You lost a God card. Hehe, isn't that wonderful. All that work, and nothing to show for it." And there was a bitter twist to those words that had them both wondering if the spirit was really talking about them.

"You were supposed to come and get your memory back, Pharaoh," the spirit breathed. "And then I would have had you. And defeated you, again, inside the memory of when I took your life the first time." The arm around Yugi's neck tightened, the blade biting into his skin. "And then I'd finally be free of this miserable Ring!"

And boy, whatever was holding them sounded really unhinged. Why can't I attract sane villains? Yugi moaned.

Is there any such thing? Yami asked, amused in spite of himself.

"But I can just kill you. I wonder what that will do to the Pharaoh," the thing mused. His arm tensed-

Yugi steeled himself-

-And a hand clamped down on the blade, bruising Yugi's throat badly as strong fingers wedged past his windpipe.

'Bakura' grunted in surprise and spun, still hanging on to Yugi, to face Seto.

But the knife was no longer at Yugi's throat, and so Yami came out to play.

He reached out with his magic to the Ring, intent on purging the spirits in there entirely.

Not Bakura, Yugi said, and Yami paused. I know you don't like him, but not Bakura. Just that evil parasite.

…Fine.

But Yami could only sense one spirit in the Ring. He readied himself to throw it out anyway - Bakura be damned - when the thing snatched the knife back and swung wildly at Seto.

And then Yami sensed a fissure, as something small and fragile pulled back from the seething mass of evil tainting the Ring. It was small, but bright, like a thin line of light in a pitch-black room.

And that something tiny was reaching back to him. Help me, came a thin voice, and Yami had never expected Bakura to ever be capable of pleading.

There was a faint echo from the Puzzle, and Yami realized what Bakura had done. And what he had to do.

He grabbed for that fragmented soul with all his magic and pulled.

With a metaphysical pop, Bakura slipped fully into the fragment he'd left in the Puzzle, leaving nothing but the evil spirit in the Ring. The thing snarled, but Seto, sharp like always, had noticed the change and knocked Ryou upside the head with the hilt of his own knife, dropping him where he stood.

Yami could think of only one thing to say. "I didn't know you got the knife away from him."

Seto smirked, twirling said blade briefly between his fingers before dropping it in his coat pocket.

Bloody fucking hell, I'm stuck here with the Pharaoh, hissed Bakura in the back of Yami's mind.

Yugi giggled.

Yami dragged the Ring from around Ryou's neck, and felt his new guest bare his teeth.

Melt it, Bakura said. It's useless now. For anything good, anyways.

Yami nodded, and handed it over to Seto, who pulled out a small tool from his pocket and started cutting it into pieces.

Ryou stirred, and Bakura bristled protectively, reaching out with his mind in a gesture Yami recognized but had never associated with the thief. Frustrated at the absent connection, Bakura snarled.

And something in the Puzzle gave, and the Puzzle fell to pieces.

Bakura and Yami hit the floor in an awkward swearing tangle, limbs flailing.

Seto stopped picking the Ring apart and stared. Yugi stared, too.

Ryou, woozy and clearly fighting a headache, popped awake and glared.

Mrs. Mutou came in brandishing a spatula, and then there was much explaining.

Things work out, in the end.

When Bakura showed up on Ryou's doorstep, Ryou sighed, shook his head, and let his former yami into the apartment, slipping the knife back up his sleeve* and hoping that the ex-thief hadn't noticed.

By Bakura's smirk, he probably had.

Ryou busied himself by getting out the spare futon (that they'd never had to use for years - it wasn't like people ever stayed over) and tried not to wonder just how the former spirit had gotten himself a body.

And it was pretty clearly Bakura's body, or a decent replica thereof - tall, tan, muscular, with chopped-short white hair and eyes that sometimes seemed blueish and sometimes reddish, depending on the light. And one hell of a nasty scar that probably should've ruined that eye.

Ryou hadn't been in the Memory World, hadn't actually seen Bakura's real form, but the way the thief moved was just too natural for it not to be his body. Even at the end, after all those years of sharing Ryou's body, he'd always been ever-so-slightly hesitant when it came to actually doing anything. Ever-so-slightly off on his timing. Not so as anyone would notice, but enough that Bakura hadn't felt up to really resuming a life of crime.

Thankfully. He'd caused enough trouble as it was.

And now Bakura was looking at him funny, and Ryou realized he was staring.

"Yadonushi?" he asked, and Ryou noted idly that while Bakura had obviously retained Ryou's knowledge of Japanese, he'd somehow acquired an accent.

"Hm?"

Bakura was not by nature a hesitant person. But he was hesitating now, hovering in the bedroom doorway, looking like he was getting ready to bolt, and Ryou realized that for all his assured confidence at the front door, Bakura really was unsure of his welcome.

Ryou smiled faintly, unsettling Bakura further, and motioned to the futon. "You don't mind, do you?"

Bakura shook his head, leaning warily against the doorframe.

"It'll be interesting trying to explain you to Father, whenever he next bothers to drop by."

"Nn," Bakura said, still warily watching Ryou.

"And Bakura," Ryou said as he drew even with him, "if I find you sticking souls in my figurines again, you're out on the curb." He graced the skittish thief with his sweetest fake smile.

And Bakura laughed.

"Bakura?" It still felt odd to call him that, Ryou thought. That was his name, dammit.

"Hm?" Bakura looked up from where he had been intently peeling an orange.

"How did you get here, anyway?"

Bakura smirked, turning back to his orange. He liked oranges. He'd stolen one from an Indian caravan, once, and had been pleasantly surprised when he'd woken up a few years back and discovered them in the markets here.

"Bakura?" And now Ryou was looking really suspicious.

"Let's just say it's a good thing we know Malik Ishtar."

Ryou blinked.

Bakura's smirk widened. "He got into the country illegally while completely off his rocker. I'm sane," he glared when Ryou snorted, "and much sneakier. It wasn't all that hard." Bakura sat back, grinning at the peeled fruit in triumph. "And then I just pestered Kaiba until he broke and agreed to forge the necessary paperwork for me. Good thing most 'paperwork' these days is electronic..."

"You are entirely too smug about this, you know?"

Bakura grinned again. "Yep."

Ryou was looking at him with a resigned expression. "I don't want to know how you got into Kaiba's office in the first place, do I?"

"Probably not," Bakura agreed, smirking again.

"Bakura…"

"I climbed through his window."

Ryou spluttered. "That's thirty stories up!"

"Yep. Took a while."

"And do I even want to know what his reaction was?"

"What do you think? He tried to shove me back out the window."

Ryou started laughing a kind of helpless, disbelieving laugh.

"So I told him if he didn't knock it off, I'd prove to him that I really do have enough blackmail material to last a lifetime and start telling Yugi every embarrassing story concerning him that I remember."

Ryou stared at him. "You barely spoke two words to him until this." Then paused. "Oh."

Bakura's smirk turned nasty. "I told you, didn't I? And I was right." He started to laugh. "Oh, just wait until everyone else figures it out."

And Ryou was grinning now, too. "Does Mokuba know?"

"Given how he was pestering me for those stories anyway... I'd guess yes."

Something was going on with Niisama. (Well, that was an understatement. Wasn't there always something going on?)

But he'd been acting just a little ... off, since waking up from that coma. At first, Mokuba had just chalked it up to, well, to the coma, and rebuilding his heart, and getting stuck in a card by a soul-stealing jackass, and all the stress Niisama had gone through when trying to make sure the fallout from Duelist Kingdom didn't wreck KaibaCorp, too.

But stress doesn't generally cause people to lapse into speaking long-dead languages. Or absently put on eyeliner in the morning, before freaking out and washing it off.

Mokuba, not being an idiot, had a pretty good idea what was going on, especially after seeing that tablet at the museum and meeting that weird Isis lady. Niisama being able to read the text on the Ra card only proved to him what Mokuba already knew.

...Not that Niisama was likely to admit it, anytime soon.

But Mokuba was a Kaiba, and while whatever was going on with Niisama could be explained by reincarnation, given all the weird shit the Items had caused, and the fact that at least one of the Items clearly had reacted to Niisama, he was ... keeping possibilities open.

Until the morning he walked into the kitchen to find Niisama sitting at the table (surprisingly), staring blankly into a bowl of oatmeal (which he hated), and and muttering what sounded like a half-remembered prayer to himself in a language with some damn weird consonant clusters.

"Niisama?" Mokuba asked timidly, hanging onto the doorframe.

Niisama turned to look at him, eyes blank and unrecognizing, and Mokuba shivered. "You look like Nefernebet," he breathed, looking ever-so-faintly bewildered.

"Who?" Mokuba asked, really truly trying not to freak out.

"Nefernebet. My willful daughter. Are you a relative?" Niisama asked, and the question seemed to flip a switch inside of him, because the next thing Mokuba knew those blue eyes sharpened into a familiar piercing stare.

"Mokuba? What's wrong?" And that was his Niisama, back from wherever his mind had taken him.

Mokuba did something he'd sworn never to ever do again. He burst into tears.

Niisama was at his side in an instant, wrapping long arms tightly around Mokuba's shoulders. "What happened?" he asked softly after Mokuba managed to calm down some.

"You don't remember?" Mokuba asked, almost more worried about this than the incident itself. Was his Niisama possessed by some wayward spirit, too?

Niisama was frowning. "Remember what?"

"I came down to find you and you were doing that thing again, you know? Where you're not speaking Japanese anymore? And then you looked at me and didn't recognize me," and damn it all to hell, he was tearing up again, "and asked if I knew someone named Nefernebet. Your-"

"-Willful daughter," Niisama breathed, and his eyes were distant again, but the normal distance of someone recollecting something, not the eerie distance from the kitchen. "Damn it all. Mutou was right. Damn it, and damn him while we're at it."

Mokuba smiled, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. That was his Niisama, all right.

Niisama's hands were still gripping his shoulders. "I'm so sorry, Mokuba," he said, staring intently into Mokuba's eyes, and that was so typical of Niisama, apologizing for things that weren't his fault.

"It's ok, Niisama. Really. It was a little freaky, but it's ok now."

Niisama stared at him as if looking for something, then nodded slowly and released him. "Come on, then. You're late for school."

( Two Visits )

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what-if and all that follows

Nov. 26th, 2010

Nov. 26th, 2010

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