"Looking Glass"
by: falsechaos
email: falsechaos@mail.com


Ghosting along forgotten territories. He curls into (so easy to so easy to fade back into) a fetal position. He is lost (my godking, forgive) in endless passages of gray and darkness. (my pharaoh,) Coherency and sanity in this place would be a

"Curse of Dragon switch to defense mode!"

(defense? defend? protect? forgive me my) Something shines in the darkness, golden (eyes the color of blood and wine) flares reflecting off surfaces nonexistent. And still it (shines, burns, blazes, not the puzzle, but your) continues to char away the shadows that cling to this dark. Like (crimson, push aside the amethyst of your station, my Pharaoh, crimson is your true) riddles written in a dead language, like an innocent on an altar sent to the

"...sacrifice my Curse of Dragon and Horned Imp to summon the Dark Magician!"

A sudden implosion of power and focus and sight! (I am summoned!) The world comes crashing down and around and inside of him. He stands tall, slender, and regal in his amethyst garb, staff extended before him. (Thank you, my master, for this brief rebirth.) Reality snaps tightly into being and existence is stripped down to this small field and the smirking player facing his master. A sulking Summoned Skull glowers and glares at him. They are perfectly matched. He allows himself a slight smirk. (It would seem my master is about to play another trick.)

A sharp bark of laughter from the player who dares stand against his master. "Go ahead, Motou, you idiot! Destroy them both or stall for time! I'll still be able to reduce your lifepoints to zero on my next turn!"

By the lifegiving sun, he can feel the smile gracing his master's lips. He has never seen his master's face. But he knows that no matter the color of the hair or skin or eyes, that smile would flash the same sense of crimson and gold as his pharaoh's smile. "I've barely started my turn. I equip my Dark Magician with the Sword of Dark Destruction!"

The staff he holds in his hands quivers for a brief moment and becomes something new. Neither staff nor sword, but a lance, its tip wrapped with sparks of power. He holds up his free hand and wags a finger back and forth. (Someone may yet defeat my master, but it will not be you.) It's a gesture he usually saves for his master's more clever tricks, but he cannot contain himself this time. The command of his master rings a glorious tone in his ears. "Now! Dark Magician, attack the Summoned Skull!"

He raises the lance and ribbons of shadow streak outward toward the creature. It scatters into an infinite number of shattered pixels. (I once controlled such an illusion; now, I am part of it.) Numbers spin down to zero. He has claimed victory for his master. With his monster gone, his master's opponent has no reason to remain and stomps away from the dueling arena. The platform lowers to the ground, ready for the next duelist to arrive.

A shudder chases down his spine and he knows that this time is subtly different from the others. He remains for a few brief seconds after the duel ends. He can hear the muffled sounds of reality outside of the arena. (What is this!?) He drops the lance and doesn't watch as it dissolves into oblivion. (At last, will I see..?) He whirls around the face his master, this master who resonates so strongly of his pharaoh.

Crimson and gold and ebony flare up and away from a face that has burned in his mind for so long. Startled joy spreads across wine-colored eyes framed by kohl dark lashes. A breath quivers with the exhalation of a name. "Dark Magician?" The graceful duality of the rising and setting sun flickers in the eyes of this beloved stranger. Innocent and beguiling and worldly and cynical. It is the sacred duality of mortal and deity. His master and pharaoh.

He reaches with trembling fingers towards his master. (It is too much to ask, too much to bear if I could touch him.) The rushing heat of blood floods his very being. A throb and rhythm that at last aren't the echoes of his body's lost memory. Gravity tugging him down to his feet. Wind skimming strands of hair from his face. All of this from the simple brush of his master's fingertips. From the heartbeat of his master.

"Master..." The word drops from his lips like the peals of temple bells. "Pharaoh..."

Computer failsafes seize and sputter in their own cold, silicon way. The duel has ended and the program must cease. The edges of his robes evanesce into pixilated dust. (Please not now! I beg of you... whoever you are...) Heavy armer and helmet fall from his shoulders and his brow and into chaos. But still he clutches at his master's hand.

Darkness and light explode and fade into shadow.

He curls into a fetal position. (I heard his voice.) Gray twilight settles about his form in a familiar embrace. Endless passages of dusk. Barest warmth of sunkissed rock. It is familar to him. And yet... A slick surface underneath him. A sudden flare of sunlight pressing incessently against his eyelids. (So gloriously bright...) The faintest scent of leather clinging to the soft jacket drapped over his hips.

A tender bud unfurling it's petals could not have opened more gently than his eyes. He peers through cerulean eyes at the slender form kneeling beside him. He struggles to move despite the protests from his master. It is ungainly and awkward, but he clutches his master to him, burying his face in the crook of shoulder and neck.

The wind is suddenly chill and biting. Lavender hair whips about his face. Long fingers reach forward and brush the strands behind his ear. He leans into the touch, his voice a low murmer. "I promised I would find you, my Pharaoh, my master."

(I promised.)