Warnings: Shonen-ai, character death.
Pairing: Bakura/Ryou (though there are a lot of background pairs)
Told from Ryou's point of view.
For me it was never a poisonous root with a bell shaped flower. Belladonna is one of two seasons I know in my life. Years, days, months, hours, minutes, seconds, all things that where never spoken of. I'm sure it would be a sin if it were.
The time was always now, never later, never before. But there were seasons. The first has no names. The only name it could be given would be serenity, a time of peace but there was never any true tranquility in my life. It remains nameless. The second was belladonna, as I have said before.
I could tell when the seasons changed when he became restless. The way my life flowed did not work by the weather, but by his moves. He was one that let the wind guide him, embrace him in its arms, leading him to unfamiliar places. First Denmark, then France, Germany, Britain and last, Belgium.
Denmark is where he found me. Scrawny from lack of food, face sunken, hair scraggly, I was running from a local merchant. Hunger's effects had me to where I could barely walk. My judgment was impaired. All I could think of was getting something in my stomach.
So I had run up to the stand and snatched a loaf of bread without even having the smarts to wait until the owner looked away. I ran as fast as my feet could carry me, surprisingly it was just faster then he was. Adrenaline is such a wonderful thing.
I was so caught up in trying to escape with food; I didn't bother to look where I was going. As most would suspect, I ran strait into him. My head was pounding, my butt aching, and my hand still desperately grasped around the loaf of bread.
"I've got you now, little thief," the merchant snarled. One of his hands grasping my hair pulling on it, hard. I screamed in pain as he started to drag me away. My eyes watered from the vigor of the grip.
Through my tears, I could see him. His thick silver hair, draping down over his face, falling over his back like a cascade of gray, his eyes distant, harsh but a rich brown such as that of the finest French chocolates, the curve of his face, sleek but powerful; he was beautiful.
Never in my life had I seen a creature such as him. My tears stopped, my jaw falling open as I gawked at him. "Wait!" He cried out, his voice like the silk, low pitches of a viola. He spoke English, but I could tell it wasn't his first language. Each tone held a thick Russian accent, and I wondered why he spoke English instead of his home language. "Unhand him! I will pay for whatever it is he has stolen."
The merchant stopped and turned, sneering at him. "Will you pay double?" he asked. Filthy scum merchants are, they always try to earn a buck more then everything is worth.
"If you hand him over to me, yes, I'll even pay triple." I looked at him astonished. He was willing to pay triple price for someone he hadn't even officially met. Even if it was only bread, I had never felt more valuable in my life.
"Triple, eh?" The merchant's brow scrunched in thought. I was dropped on my butt, again. I yelped as it still hurt from the last time I had fallen. I watched in wonderment as the beautiful man and the merchant exchanged the money for my life.
A snarl came from the merchant, his hand raised to strike me, to punish me. It was always like this in Denmark. You stole, you paid the price in flesh. To only get smacked a few times and dragged was a blessing. In fact, it wasn't only Denmark that was like that, any place you went.
My cheek stung from the slap. His hands were callused, so it hurt more. I was sure to have a handprint embedded in my face for the next few weeks. He raised his hand to slap me again. My eyes squeezed shut in preparation for the blow. It never came.
There was the sound of something flying quickly through the air, then a harsh hiss. Had the merchant hit my savior? That was what I had thought. My eyes opened, then widened once more.
Blood poured from a new wound on the side of the merchant's face, a blade to his throat. "Even try to hit him again, and I swear on all the stars in the sky I will not hesitate to slit your throat." My breaths caught in my chest. His drab eyes narrowed with the ferocity of the raging sea. His voice was venomous, thick in his words but it stopped my breaths. If I hadn't before, I had fallen in love with him right then.
I wanted to laugh as the merchant scampered away in fear. But I was captured by the way my rescuer had closed his pocketknife on the front of his thigh.
He knelt before me, cupping my cheek in his hands. They were soft like the petals of freshly bloomed roses in the summer. The soft scent of lilacs radiated from him, as he turned my head from side to side, the gaze from his umber eyes tickling my skin.
The ball of his thumb brushed lightly over the bruise, then he frowned. A frown didn't suit him. A sneer of anger, a devious grin, a smile, maybe, but not a frown; he was far too dazzling to frown.
"Are you all right?" He asked me, still tilting my head in every angle. I assumed it was to figure out exactly how large that bruise was going to be.
Again, my head was fuzzy, spinning from the heat of his touch. My eyes were half lidded, though he probably thought it was from dizziness. "I'll be fine as long you don't take your hands off me," I had said out loud, unfortunately. I had meant to merely think it.
His eyes glimmered with bemusement. I thought he was going to hit me like the merchant had, but the most he did was smirk. "I'll think you'll be all right,: he said, chuckling and kissing my head. He pulled me to my feet, his hand holding onto mine. "Come along," he said, I could do nothing but stare at his face. The way his jaw and lips moved with he spoke, the different glints of emotion in his vivid eyes. He was mesmerizing. "We'll get you washed up, then we'll head off to Toulouse."
I pulled down on his arm, stopping him from walking. "Toulouse?" I all but cheered the city's name. He chuckled and nodded at me. "But, that's in France!" I was cheering this time, overwhelmed by the surprise of it.
"So, you'll come then?" He asked me. Would I come? Of course I'll come! It's France! I wanted to yell. Instead I only bobbed my head up and down again approvingly. He smiled, and I later came to notice that like that one, his smiles where always deceitful. He always looked like he was plotting the destruction of the world. "My name is Bakura, by the way," he said to me pulling me back along through the Denmark crowd.
That was how our journey together had begun. He had taken me to the place he was staying, a refined hotel room overflowing with maids at his every beck and call. Bakura had me washed, clothed in the finest of suits; my hair pulled back by a white silk ribbon tied in a bow with my own silver hair cascading over my shoulder.
"Lovely," he had said gathering me up into his arms, kissing my hair, my cheeks, my lips. I had melted willingly into your arms, breathing in his lilac smell, tasting the belladonna on him. I was the only one he ever kissed in such a way. The placid push of his lips against my skin, each kiss carefully placed, each one with meaning. He never kissed anyone else like that.
We headed off to Toulouse, "La ville rose", arriving on a small train with nothing but the clothes on our back, the money and belladonna in Bakura's pockets. Neither of us spoke more then a few words of French.
We stayed the first few nights in a bed and breakfast, Crowne Plaza Hotel Toulouse, for £53.25 per person a night. We never once ate in the restaurant. I was worried that he was spending too much money for neither of us working, but when I'd ask him about it, he'd smile and laugh saying, "Don't worry your pretty head."
Still I worried. I worried until the day he took me to one of the many theatres in Toulouse. I don't remember the play, the people in it, or the people around us. The only thing I watched that night was him carefully studying the curve of his neck, the shape of his face, his eyes, his lips. The pink tint to his cheeks and the palm of his hands, the way his hair fell over the sides of his shoulders, bangs falling into his face but not covering an inch of his umber eyes.
Every so often he'd turn to me, kiss my cheek, then tell me to watch the show. He knew I wouldn't listen to him, but he told me to anyways. By the end of the play, he wasn't watching either. His eyes were set upon an obviously wealthy man, a bottle of sherry in his hand.
He sat at one of the dinner tables. Blossoms of oleanders in the center, white candles all around them putting a slight auburn tint into his chestnut hair. He had blue eyes, a deep azure that was frosted, made love to by the snow of his heart. You could see into the very depths of his soul when you looked into them. His face was not strong nor highly defined like Bakura's. Rather, it was smoothed as if chiseled by a professional sculptor, such as Michelangelo.
Bakura couldn't take his eyes away. The look in his eyes was something I hadn't grown used to knowing. It was the look of pure lust, burning deep inside of him. He wanted him, and I knew it. I could feel the sharp stab of jealousy driving it's dagger-shaped self down into my stomach, twisting until the blood was pouring out into a puddle on the floor.
The curtains fell, bringing the play to an end. The crowd clapped, cheered, whistled, screamed and made any other noise you could think of. I sighed in relief. The show was over, we could leave without the man in dining section of the hall.
Everything was going to be fine, the blade of jealousy out of my stomach, taking the knots it had formed in my back with it. I headed for the entrance, but he pulled me the other way. Bakura wanted to talk to the blue-eyed rich man.
He approached him, and they talked. They talked about everything, sitting at his dinner table, sipping their sherry. Bakura introduced himself, and me. I was his younger brother; yes, sweet, naïve younger brother Ryou. Seto, that was his name, the CEO of a big company and owner of a restaurant chain that spread as far as Belgium.
Seto would look at me; ask me questions, his gaze burning my skin as he interrogated me. I still smiled sweetly, answering him in the polite way Bakura said I had. When they got caught up in conversation, I muttered a small goodbye, saying I was going to sit outside and wait for Bakura to come get me.
Neither of them heard. They didn't give a wave of their hand, a nod of their head; they just continued their friendly chatter. A second dagger plunged deep into the pit of my gut.
I sat outside the theatre, curling my knees to my chest, my back against its dingy red brick walls. My insides were burning with an intense fire, one created by my jealousy, then fueled with each word he had said, throwing another log into the flames for it to devour. I didn't know him but I hated him already. I didn't want to feel that way. I had never hated anyone, but I hated him.
I laid my head on my knees, letting my muscles relax. Tears stung the corners of my eyes, clouding my vision, threatening to fall over. I didn't want to hate anyone. I realized Bakura brought out the worst in me, a side that I didn't want to show anyone. I was as he had described me to Seto: the sweet, innocent, and naïve younger brother. Younger brother. The thought made me want to scream, but it made my heart lighten at the same time. I didn't want to be his brother, yet, the thought of him saying that, that I would be something so important to something so beautiful, brought joy to me.
We ended up living with Seto. Bakura had told him we were only going to be staying in France for a few months, so he offered to let us stay there. Living in his house wasn't so bad. It was spacious, making it easy to avoid him. I began to tolerate him more the less I saw him. I still hated him for taking Bakura way from me just after I declared myself his.
There was nothing to do around the house. I spent the first week staring at walls, off into the clouds or at night into the stars. Seto bought me some art supplies, a sketchbook, various types of pencils, oil pastels, an easel, paints and canvases, everything I would ever need.
He told me I had a natural talent for art, even though the only thing I ever drew or painted was Bakura. Nothing could compare to his beauty, so nothing was worth putting in my art aside from him. I told him tha t, and he laughed. Seto never laughed.
The second week, Bakura switched rooms. He was no longer sleeping in the same bed I was snuggled up in against me, his lilac scent filling my dreams. Instead, he slept in Seto's bed, snuggled up against his broad, finely toned chest, stealing kisses during the day when they thought I wasn't looking.
At the same time, whenever Seto would look away, he kissed me in the ways he never kissed him. The belladonna he used to get sleep (that he was starting to get me addicted to along with him), was plush in his lips. I wondered if Seto could taste the belladonna on him, or if he even knew what it tasted like.
When night would fall, he'd return to Seto's bed, filling the room with non-too-subtle passion. Their small cries filled the house.
Sometimes I'd watch them, not really them, but watch Bakura. Mesmerizing... the way he moved, the way his lashes would flutter over his fine chocolate eyes, the curve his neck adopted when he threw his head back. He'd sleep with Seto, but he didn't kiss him or touch him.
The first week of the second month, his brother moved back in. Apparently, he had been away on a trip to Paris. He was an artist, like I was becoming, but when he wasn't around, Seto would tell me he enjoyed my work better. My work had heart where as Mokuba's were blank.
Once, I drew Bakura, as he was the day I met him in Denmark, the way he looked as he knelt down beside me, kissing my face, the soft but distant look in his eyes. I didn't draw myself in there. Only Bakura was worthy of being immortalized on canvas.
"I see you finally decided to do a self portrait," Seto had said, walking up beside me, a glass of brandy in his hand. My brows furrowed, looking over the picture. It was too beautiful to be me. So that's what I told him. "You are that beautiful," He had said to me. I looked at him, completely shocked.
I looked at the drawing again, frowning. It did look more like me. I went to pull it out of the sketchpad; Seto covered my hands with his own, stopping me from doing it. "Don't destroy it." He told me, removing his hands from my hands, placing them on my face. "I want it, if that's all right with you."
His hands were soft, softer then Bakura's even. He kissed me, but not in the ways Bakura does. There were no placid kisses before he captured my lips. He just went for them. Sucking on them, nibbling, letting his smooth teeth run over my bottom lip. He was passionate, but not overwhelmingly so.
I willed myself not to give into his kiss. I wanted to, it would be so easy. He called me beautiful, something Bakura's never done, him and no other person.
My heart fluttered. Surrender was a wonderful thing. Letting go of everything you've been clutching so hard onto, just disappearing. Everything that was in my grasp, held so tightly its blood stained my hands; they were all dropped on the floor. My hands were now free, running through his hair. Each strand was a new style of silk, smooth, perfect. He was perfect.
I didn't hate him any more. He pulled away, and looked into my eyes. There was something he wanted to say, but he couldn't. He believed it would hurt him to say it aloud, so he just stared at me, as if mesmerizing my face before leaving the room.
That was the last week of our second month. A few months, that's how long Bakura had said we'd stay there. It was almost over and I was just starting to get comfortable.
The next day Seto fell asleep in his chair. His head fell to one side, his cheeks slightly red from too much alcohol, his lips parted, noticeably, but barely. I grabbed my easel, my paints, and painted him that way.
The way he looked had surprised me. Maybe it was the events that happened the day before, but I couldn't help but think he looked more beautiful than Bakura lying there. He slept long enough for me to finish. I put the painting on the bed, along with a note. "Zest is the secret of all beauty. There is no beauty that is attractive without zest." Christian Zior had said that. It fit Seto perfectly.
It was getting late, so I decided to retire for the night. Seto was still asleep in his chair; Bakura was nowhere to be found. I pushed the buttons of my shirt through the tailor-made holes. I felt his hands on me, the gentle brush of his skin against my own as he pushed the garment off.
Startled, I whirled around, my chest heaving from the shock. My eyes caught the cavernous umber ones. Bakura looked so pale, like he was afraid. He lifted his hand, gently stroking my face. "Ryou," he whispered placing one of his docile kisses on the side of my face.
His hands touched my bare skin, pulling me towards him, pressing our bodies together. With a growl, he caught my lips with his own, kissing me with a ferociousness that he had never done before.
My world flipped upside down; it was the season of belladonna, only I didn't know what it was at the time. Bakura was restless, he wanted out. He growled again and pushed me back on the bed. My eyes widened, looking at him timidly. He was never like this towards me.
He kissed me again, his hands wandering down to my pants, fumbling with buttons. I wanted it, but I couldn't take it. I pushed him off of me, glaring. He turned his head to the side, refusing to look at my face. "Pack your bags, we leave tomorrow evening," he told me. It was the season of belladonna…
The next morning I awoke to the soft smell of breakfast being made. Bakura was cooking, preparing tea. I didn't even know he could cook, but I was glad he was. Never I would I have suspected what he was doing it for... until he mixed the tea. He fixed mine, then his and Mokuba's, then Seto's. Seto's had a lethal amount of belladonna in it.
He died by noon, heart attack, they said. I would've laughed if I hadn't been crying. "Come on," Bakura said, pressuring me to get out before he got caught. I placed a small kiss on Seto's dead, cold lips. They tasted of belladonna.
I could feel my sanity slipping away from me after then. I clawed on it desperately trying to make it come back to me. It never worked! I would slump to the floor pathetically, my eyes overflowing with tears. "Why?!" I shouted at Bakura. It made no sense to me! Why would he kill him? Or better yet, why had I let him? I knew he was going to do it! I could've dumped the poisoned tea so easily!
I felt the slender frame of his arms wrap around me. His fingers digging into the soft tresses of my hair as he kissed my forehead in attempts to comfort me. I hadn't stopped him from killing Seto because with Seto dead, I would have my Bakura back.
"Ryou," Bakura whispered into my hair. Not even the slightest bit of sorrow or remorse was present in his voice. Will he not mourn for Seto's death? Has he done so already or does he just not care? He pressed his lips firmly against my cheek. His hands cupped the side of my face, making it easier to look me in the eye. "This is what I do," he told me, "I rid the world of those easily corrupted by beauty. The world needs nothing of the sorts wondering its streets! Greedy vermin like Seto should mean nothing to either of us!" He smiled at me, a genuine smile and kissed the corners of my mouth.
I was drunk on him then. I foolishly soaked up every word he said to me, believing it with all of my heart. He was a virus, but one I welcomed with open arms! "Our beauty is all we have Ryou." I was a sponge doing as told absorbing everything to keep it from the outside world. So many could have Bakura for a short while, but I knew I would hold his heart when they died. "Our beauty and each other."
We arrived in Bitburg not too long after Seto's death. Had I ever seen a more glorious place? Nothing could compare to the stoned castles of Germany or its wide grassy plains! The thick words of their language were wine for my ears; sweet, rich and made that much better when spoken by Bakura.
People laugh whenever Bakura would speak it. His voice was thicker, his Russian accent made it hard for the Germans to understand him! I would laugh each time, bowing my head and tell them, "Vergeben sie ihn; er ist nicht sehr vertraut mit ihrer zunge!" (1)
The Germans would always laugh and nod their head. Bakura was furious the first time I spoke to them. "Why hadn't you told me you speak German?" He yelled at me.
"You never asked!" I ran away after that. He later asked were I had learned it from. A girl named Isis, Egyptian by blood but a German citizen. She had come to Denmark with her younger brother Malik when I was eight. She had taught it to me then.
My eyes widened as I spoke. Isis lived in Bitburg! I told him we had to visit her. He laughed at me and told me we might as well since we had nothing better to do anyways. My heart skipped a beat in joy. I was going to see Isis and Malik once again!
Four days it had taken us to find them! Bakura was fine, but I was exhausted to the point where I could collapse upon their steps. When she emerged from the door I was in awe with her beauty. She had not changed the slightest bit! Her hair was fine, black and luxurious, straighter then any other's! Her face well defined, the bridge of her nose sharp and her cheekbones clear as well as round. The brown hue of her skin contrasted elegantly with the white dress that slung of the curves of her breasts and round of her hips. Her blue eyes clear as sapphires.
Sapphire was the color of Seto's eyes! I greeted her then broke down into her arms. I was happy to see her but her eyes reminded me of Seto. How much I hated myself then would be impossible to measure even over a thousand years. I was there before the beautiful Isis, one truly deserving of the black goddess's name and all I could think about was a man I had loved for a few days but wished death upon every single one before.
We went inside, Isis still cradled me in her arms. Her frail hands ran through my hair as she whispered to me that everything is all right. She had not known how horrible I was, poor blinded Isis! How I loved her! She was the mother that I had been deprived of, the goddess that would watch me murder a man then say I am the sweetest being on the planet. In a mother's eyes no matter how fowl a child may be, they will always be seen as perfect. How I longed for such a love but we would not say but a day.
A day is what I wish we had stayed. "Ryou!" Malik had called to me in his feminine voice, grinning madly at me. "It has been to long!" He pulled me from Isis's arms, hugging me closely to him. He smelt of the wildflowers growing in their yard! I wrapped my arms around him, hugging him tightly. Over his should I could see Bakura, with an odd look in his eyes and looking right at Malik. (2)
I pushed Malik away from me. That look was the same as when he had seen Seto! "No!" I yelled at Bakura. I wouldn't have it! He would not harm them! He just threw his head back and laughed as Isis and Malik looked upon me in wonderment. I was insane in their eyes! Oh how right they were!
We ended up staying with them. Nine long months we lived in that house. Bakura told me he'd stay longer because he knew of my love for them. Ha! I wanted to slap him. Did he not know that every second spent inside of those walls was a knife to my heart? These people were the ones I had loved in my childhood. Bakura was killing my past!
I did my best to live normally. I would lock myself away with Isis, brushing and braiding her hair. Sometimes I would even paint here. The room I lived in was covered in her. I no longer cared for painting the beauty of Bakura. Isis was a Goddess and my brush would only be used for her!
At night Malik and Bakura would fight. It was like watching your parents slowly kill each other. They would throw things, insults, bite, kick, punch then when it was all over they would fall into each other's arms and lose their selves in passion.
At night Isis would hold me in her arms, my head pressed against the soft pillow of her breasts. She kissed my forehead and whispered into my ear. Everything was going to be okay. How wrong she was. My love Isis, she died along with Malik!
"I hate you!" I whispered to Bakura as I clung onto the locks of Isis's black hair. She was gone! I couldn't believe it. I didn't want to believe it. My Goddess, my mother, slain by the man I loved!
He laughed his rich laugh. I couldn't believe it! I told him I hated him and he laughed. "Oh dear Ryou," His shook his head, then threw it back in another bout of laughter. "You can not hate me! Open your eyes Ryou, you could not live without me!"
They say the truth hurts, and that truly did. I need Bakura. I didn't hate him; I hated myself for needing him. So we were off to Yorkshire, with my paintings of Isis that would be sold when we got there. Frequently Bakura kiss me, hold me in his frail arms, tell me everything that I wanted to hear. I was drunk on him again! He was a drug I could never get enough of. Even the power of ecstasy or heroin could not live up to the high he gave me.
I vowed when we arrived that I would not let the virus called love overcome me again. I was only fooling myself. I feel in love with Yami the first time I saw him. Yami with his distinctive hair of red, blonde and black, his crimson eyes like blood sweet to the vampire's and sweet to me.
Yami was kind in ways I had never experienced. He protected me from everything; at some points when I was with him I believe he could save me from Bakura. Again how idiotically blinded I was. No one could protect me from Bakura because I was his! He owned me and he would not let anyone else have me!
How quick Yami had left me. Not as quick as Seto but quicker then I would've liked. The fourth month I had woken up to feel Yami's dead arms around me. He had held me as I he died.
The time with Yami is one I do not care to think about. The poetry he would write for me, the sweet kisses he gave me. Everything was too painful for me to recall. I banished him to the corner of my mind and let Bakura take me to Lux, Belgium where my heart was sure to be broken again.
The severity of what was going to happen never occurred to me. We arrived in Belgium, Bakura charming the locals as normal while I watched on in awe. How ironic it was that a colleague of Seto's would be in the same place! He was on vacation with his family, eating in a dinner when he saw Bakura.
Mokuba had seen Bakura put the belladonna in Seto's tea. He had known Bakura killed Seto and told the police. There was a warrant for his arrest through out France. He had killed the CEO of an important company that happened to be going through a huge corporate merger!
I wanted to weep as I watched them take my lovely Bakura away. I couldn't weep at the time but I could laugh. So I laughed in the face of my fate until I was blue in the face. I laughed until I couldn't laugh anymore. Then the tears finally came.
I had completely broken down, rocking back and forth in a ball on the floor crying for Bakura. How could they take him away from me? Did they not understand that I could not live without him! No matter how much he had damaged me he was still my everything! They had taken him away from me and threw him into a prison in Paris.
It wasn't until his third month in prison that I was aloud to see him. His face was beginning to thin from lack of proper nutrition, his hair had lost some of the volume it had to it but it never lost its shine, his eyes were distant in a way I had never seen them. He looked broken, but I had never seen him more beautiful.
The guards let him through the gates. He ran to me, taking me in his arms and kissing my face like he always had done. My face was buried in his hair. He still smelt of lilacs and his lips tasted of the over strong herb belladonna. "I miss you Ryou," Bakura whispered into my hair.
Oh how I wished I could stay in his arms forever, but he had something to say. He withdrew from me, guiding me over to a shaded spot by the tree. His deep russet eyes were brimming with the faintest sign of tears.
My heart stopped then. Bakura was going to cry. Bakura who kills without even the slightest bit of remorse was going to cry! I threw my arms around him, urging him not to weep. I ended up weeping myself. Even the thought of him in tears broke my heart.
"They've given me to death penalty," he said to me, his hands cradling my face as he kissed my tears away.
I wanted to scream. They couldn't take him away from me. They could lock him away forever and forbid me to see him for months but they couldn't murder him! I wouldn't let it happen. "I'll get you out of here," I told him. He laughed. It never sounded so sweet ringing inside of my ears. It was a fresh mountain breeze on the hottest day of summer. I loved the sound of his laughter.
I needed to hear that sound some more. So I said everything that came to mind. "We can go to Russia, you can show me where you're from!" I declared clutching pathetically onto the fabric of his jail suit. "Or even to China where we can live amongst the monks in peace. You needn't die now!" He laughed still. I savored every last second of it.
When he was done his placed a last kissed on my lips, he was smiling. "Ryou," he whispered to me, hugging my closely to his chest. I could hear his heart beating loudly. "I have accepted my fate and so should you. I must die, but it will not be by the hands of those who do not know me." He pulled away from me.
"I love you, Ryou," He said to me as he pushed a vile into my hand. It had a small label that said in his thick handwriting "belladonna". I glanced up at him again just to see a solitary tear trail down the side of his face.
That was the last time I had seen him.
"Bakura died in his sleep," the guard had told me. I could hear the true meaning of the words though the guard could not. My love Bakura had killed himself the way he killed so many.
Belladonna… it took everything from me.
(1) Forgive him; he is not quite familiar with your tongue.
(2) Malik was not given a description on purpose in case any of you were wondering. I did it to show how much more important Isis was to Ryou then Malik. Ryou was too lost in her to properly take in his features.