Yu-Gi-Oh 1. Opening

A/N: At last, after many promises, I have managed to write and upload the first chapter of my new multi-chaptered story, Hybrid Darkness. I can say with certainty that it is going to be long - probably 80,000 words or more. I have already typed around 40,000 words, which unfortunately are middle chapters which nobody is going to see for a while.

This is...not a sequel to Northern Darks in the strictest sense of the word; it has the characters portrayed as a little older than before, but the only thing I really kept from ND is the fact that Bakura Ryou has shadow powers. Besides, I hate ND with a vengeance. It shocks me that my style was ever that bad, that immature... This is, hopefully, going to be a hell of a lot better. It _feels_ better; most of this chapter seemed to flow. It just seems a little ironic that I wanted a short, snappy first chapter, when in fact it is in excess of 5000 words. Bah.

And I have finally found a few websites with a decent amount of Arabic vocab, so now I can put it in all the words I somehow managed to miss out. And all reviews are going to be answered personally at the bottom of the page from now on (and flamers beware: I can have a hell of a sharp tongue at times).

**Hybrid Darkness**

Chapter One: Opening

It was five thirty-two in the evening, and twenty-seven degrees Celsius.

Bakura Ryou gave another desperate tug and at last succeeded in heaving his suitcase off the endless conveyor belt just before it disappeared behind the plastic strips and began another cycle. He had already attracted plenty of glances during his struggle, and managed to earn even more as he dragged his baggage painfully across the slick airport floor. Perhaps his yami had always been right and he was just weak. The thought made it a little easier to endure the pitying/exasperated glances of onlookers, even though he knew that they themselves would have struggled with such a load, had they cared to try. Too many knives and not enough clothes. He had only just managed to squeeze under the twenty kilogram limit for suitcases, (that was officially: in reality, he had had to do a lot of pleading and relaying of stories involving musical instruments and other heavy but accepted objects before they had let him through). The actual weight of his suitcase was closer to a formidable thirty kilograms and, at only barely more than double that weight himself, his slight frame rippled with exertion at every metre he covered. Not that he could really explain any of this to his audience. He paused for breath, leaning against his baggage as his heart throbbed against his ribs.

The heat certainly was not helping, serving only to contribute further to his fatigue. He had taken the advice of his hosts and purposely chosen a flight predicted to arrive in the late evening, so that he would avoid most of the heat – which was why, of course, his plane had landed early. He downed another draught of air, and resumed dragging.

He had almost reached the door when his fingers treacherously uncurled, and his suitcase slipped from him. He scrabbled, and almost succeeded in bursting it open, which would have been a fitting, if undeserving, end. Somehow the sides clung to each other and his possessions remained inside and intact, much to his relief. He was quite certain that if he ended up spilling everything all over the very clean floor then he would be in a _lot_ of trouble, from quite a few people. God knew it had been horrifying enough trying to get through Customs. He was carrying more weapons than the average terrorist and could probably have used them better. The knife strapped to the inside of his calf alone was enough to land him in an interrogation room for a good few hours, and that would be before they discovered the others. Ryou thought that the other side of him would have intervened if the situation came to that, but he was not completely certain: it would have struck him as rather amusing. And there was always the possibility that he would just have left his lighter self to deal with things – "just to prove that you can actually do something with those knives apart from polish them."

He strained his way over the last few metres and to the doors, secretly relieved when they slid open before him: he was not quite sure if he would have managed to push them open. And it was not _just _that he was tired, he thought defensively – dammit, doors were heavy. Especially big, solid glass ones.

He half-fell through the opening and onto the pavement. His legs wobbled threateningly and he sat down heavily onto the cause of his exhaustion, feeling the plastic sides buckle a little more under his weight. His throat felt as dried out as the meat one sees hanging in butcher shops, and the subsequent air he breathed in was a shock, not icy but instead sapping the very last of the moisture from the inside of his mouth. Almost ridiculously humid: well, he had been warned. And he had come prepared, but it was still a surprise. Just the beginning of the great fog of unfamiliarity he would be engulfed in over the next few weeks. And so he closed his eyes and gulped down great mouthfuls of Egyptian air.

Presently, the flush calmed from his cheeks. He did not allow himself to think about how it made his skin glow and his eyes darken with vitality; if anyone had chanced to point out that he looked even more pretty than was usual, well, he would not have answered rudely or abruptly; but something would have dimmed in his eyes, and the eagerness would be gone from his voice. Keeping one hand on the handle of his suitcase, he straightened his denim-clad legs and leaned against the wall. Some of the glances he had received could be attributed to the fact that he was probably the only person in the country or, indeed, the ones surrounding it, who was clothed completely in black. He fancied that he was giving off foolish tourist vibes, and disliked it. He was perfectly aware that he would be hot in black; someone else, however, was not quite so reasonable. Well, reasonable was not the right word to use – that was disrespectful – so suffice to say 'concerned'. Better. And that someone else was more concerned that he always be seen wearing nothing other than black, and less concerned that it would result in the wearer having a thick, oily layer of sweat underneath.

Ryou was determined, though, to make certain that if he must be seen wearing black for the next few weeks then it would only be after the sun had gone down. God, he would end up overheating within nanoseconds if he stumbled around Egypt like this during the day. And whatever effect being clothed from head-to-toe in black would produce would be slightly negated by the fact that he would also be very dead.

He allowed himself to begin looking around for the person picking him up, although he did not expect much. After being informed on the plane that they were now predicted to land around forty minutes early, he had retreated to the toilet with his mobile phone – admittedly, something passengers were discouraged from doing, but the plane had stayed in the air as far as he could tell so it seemed all right – but a hasty call had led to him being interrogated by an answerphone in Arabic, so he had nervously left a message in Japanese (what else was he supposed to use: English?) and hoped he had got the right number. Granted, his other self could have taken over, being just as fluent in Arabic as he was in Japanese and English, but that would have meant making Ryou's life more convenient, and that was not something that his darker half was generally inclined to doing.

Speaking of dark halves, his was showing little interest in their surroundings at present, which was a little out of character – Ryou would have thought that his other would have preferred to make himself at ease with the new surroundings before meeting their hosts, so that when he presented himself it would be with him completely nonchalant and unperturbed. Although generally not one to show when he was excited, the long and somewhat uneventful flight had rendered the spirit indifferent, and Ryou was not even sure if he was still awake. He supposed that it was quite a prudent idea to fall asleep, so that one would awake refreshed and ready to cope with the dramatic time-difference, but sleep had eluded him on the plane and, left with no one to converse with, he had fallen to gazing apathetically at the back of the seat, reviving enough now and then to glance at his watch.

He watched as taxis drew up hungrily, waited, and then roared away, their bellies now full of people. Fragments of Arabic floated on the air, too unfamiliar for him to remember them. People gabbled to each other in a jabbing, slightly guttural tongue that he made himself listen to, so that he might get the feel for the sound of the language. He had tried, before the journey, to get his yami to teach him at least some basic words so that he might write it down and have something to refer to; within seconds, however, the futileness of this had become plain to both of them. Attempting to get a yami to teach you a language was like asking someone who had stayed in one country their entire life and never watched television to tell you what made their culture so different from everybody else's: they simply could not do it. To a yami, a language wasn't a completely different way of speaking but just something small and effortless like putting on a slightly different pair of clothes. They just took the information from their hosts' minds and after a while it became so effortless that they didn't even realise they were doing it. Ryou had seen his yami conversing with Malik once; he had been switching between Japanese, English and Arabic without so much as a pause for breath. Malik had kept up at first, but then Bakura had begun to interweave Japanese with English (which his companion could barely understand anyway) while keeping all his verbs in the same way as an English person would (Ryou had not even known that it was possible to do that while still creating a coherent sentence); it had ended in the Egyptian shrieking at the spirit to stop because he had a migraine.

One of the vehicles which had been parked at the end of the street for a few minutes now had begun to honk its horn, blasting sound-waves at everyone in proximity, and Ryou had just enough time to wonder if everyone in Egypt used their horns so vigorously before someone stuck an arm out and waved at him. His face burst into crimson and he fumbled for his suitcase.

Behind him, someone was hurrying up to him; he could only tell that they were moving in haste because of the rate of their footsteps, as when he looked up they were standing there in a demonstration of perfect composure, every strand of long dark hair in perfect parallel to its neighbour. "Allow me to help you with that, Ryou-kun." The speaker, clad in a low purple top and jeans, contemplated briefly whether '-san' would be more appropriate; Ryou was, after all, nineteen now.

The slender figure straightened. "Oh…aa, arigato, Isis-san." He gave her a self-conscious little smile. "Konbanwa."

So polite still, she mused. And so cute. Still. _Restrain yourself now, woman,_ she thought good-humouredly; _he's four years younger than you._ "Let me bring this to the car for you. In Egypt, by the way, we say 'Marhaba.'"

"Marhaba," he repeated dutifully, and she laughed.

"Inta betettallam. See? You are learning already."

While dragging the suitcase over to the car (she was doing a better job than he had done, he noted ruefully): "Did you have a good flight?"

"Yes, I think so."

She heaved his baggage into the boot. "Japan is about seven hours ahead of us, isn't it? So, almost two in the morning…by Osiris, you must be exhausted." She indicated for him to settle himself in the back of the car; he sank gratefully into sagging material. "I am afraid Malik-chan won't be with us until a little later; you see, you weren't originally due to arrive for a while, so I sent him shopping for supper."

"That's fine. So you found my message?"

"Yes." She smiled at him. "You sounded very embarrassed."

His cheeks glowed and he retreated back into the seat. Isis gave another smile and told herself to stop teasing him.

They conversed little during the journey; Ryou was, indeed, exhausted, and found solace in a comfortable dent of material at just below head level. He was just beginning to doze off; thus, fate dictated that he would be disturbed, and disturbed he was, by the sound of Isis' mobile phone tinkling away from somewhere under the seat. She plucked it out neatly and spoke some words in Arabic, while continuing to drive with one hand.

"Ryou-kun?"

He raised his head in drowsy obedience, eyes half-open.

"My brother wishes to know what you would like for supper." Isis passed him the phone; he took it with a fumbling white hand.

"'Lo?"

A low, amused sound emanated from the speaker into his ear. "Ra, you sound shattered. Although I don't think I am supposed to say that…etiquette demands that I ask how your flight was instead."

"It was all right." The conversation was forcing him to wake up; he had to concentrate a little more than usual, due to the familiar light lacing of accent running along each word. He found that he still liked it.

"Do you think you can manage anything to eat? Don't worry if you can't. You can go straight to bed if you wish."

He rubbed his eyes firmly. "Iie, I'll have something. I want to try and get into Egyptian time as soon as possible."

"Good idea. So, what would you like?"

"I don't really mind. Something Egyptian…what would you usually have for an evening meal?"

Silence while the other thought. "Hm. There's Kosheri; that's quite light, it's rice and lentils with a tomato sauce. Or Ruzz Bi-l-khudar, which is just rice with vegetables. Or Ful Medammes, which is fava beans cooked with parsley and garlic, and sometimes chilli."

Uncertainly: "What are fava beans?"

"Nani? Jaa… I don't know what one would call them in Japanese. Ask nee-san."

Ryou held the mobile away from his mouth. "Isis-san? What are fava beans?"

She considered for a moment. "…Broad beans. Soramame desu. Similar, at least."

"Like soramame," Ryou informed the Rod-bearer.

"Ah. And I thought I was going to be teaching you some of my language."

"That could actually be quite likely. I only know 'yes' and 'no.'"

"Maalish. There's another word for you. It means 'never mind.' Anyway, what would you like?"

"Um…Ful Medammes?" Ryou answered tentatively, selecting the only one he could still remember.

"Okay. I will try and have it cooking by the time you arrive. Ma'assalama. See you in about half an hour."

He handed the mobile back to Isis, who stowed it absently in the side compartment. "What are we all having for supper then?"

"I…think it had those fava beans in it."

"Ii desu ne."

Ryou leaned back against the seat and let his eyes flutter shut. The next few weeks were going to be strange, undoubtedly. But they also felt as if they were going to be quite enjoyable.

"Sugoi na," he mumbled sleepily.

His other prodded him. ((I think you mean 'kowiess.')) He yawned, turned over, and went back to sleep.

………

Weariness proved to be every bit as contagious as it was supposed to be, and this, combined with his original fatigue, resulting in Ryou doing exactly what he had lectured himself not to and falling asleep in the back of the car. The stuttering of the car engine roused him just as they pulled in, much to his subsequent relief. Isis seized his suitcase at once, and although he made a half-hearted attempt to convince her that he was not pathetic to the degree of not being able to pull along his own luggage, he was secretly glad. His other self was now awake and belatedly showing interest in the fact that they were now in Egypt – at least, that was what Ryou inferred from his alertness and the stirring feeling in his mind that told him someone was sitting up and looking around. It helped: at least with part of himself awake it meant that his eyes would stay open. How rude it was for him to be so tired; he felt ashamed, without knowing quite how he could do anything to resolve it.

Isis was unlocking the door of the museum now and he hurried after her, stopping immediately after entering to gaze around in wonder. Although clear enough to show off the frayed wall-hangings on display, the quality of the lights was so soft that it was almost as if they were not electrical but something more natural and akin to candelight, so far away were they from the harshness that he was accustomed to from typical electric lighting. The light did not appear to be directed at one thing but instead spread gently around the entire room, except at odd points where it had been carefully placed to emphasise something of particular interest or worth. The effect was almost to make it seem as if all the lighting was from a natural source, and to lend the place an air of timelessness, as if it had not been _erected_ in the middle of an overcrowded city but had always been there and had simply grown and developed over time, and while it might be nudged to lean a little more in one direction or another by a neighbouring building it would still remain adamantly as it had always been, largely overlooked by time and the things it brought.

And then, of course, there were the things inside, the things it had been created to display. Paintings, carvings, wall-hangings, busts of Pharaohs of long ago with gold in their hair and around their necks and their eyes painted with kohl; photographs of things that could not be brought here, such as the insides of tombs; little pieces of jewellery that might have adorned the neck of some Egyptian women a few thousand years ago, and the carefully placed displays of the things that would have adorned her home – tiny statues, painstakingly carved, of the family Gods, Anubis and Bast and Amun and Ptah; a number beyond overwhelming, and yet only a fraction of the things that could be used to represent the Egypt of ancients. Ryou stared around him, trying to see it all at the same time, and wishing that the sketchbook locked not-very-securely inside his suitcase could be in his trembling hands; even knowing that he had weeks and weeks to scrutinise the objects around him with the time they all deserved was not enough to lessen his longing. How lucky the Ishtars were to always have such a beautiful slice of history around them; and he thought that years and years could go by before familiarity was established enough to breed contempt within him, as the old sayings said it would. Certainly Malik did not talk often of the treasures his family had access to; and Ryou knew that, at one point at least, the Rod-bearer had tired of guarding such things. Yet Ryou's more recent memories of him contained moments of his eyes lighting up when he spoke of the Pharaohs' riches, voice now finally beginning to reflect that same muted fervour that his sister's always had.

But even his most recent memories of the youngest and most volatile member of the Ishtar family had been stored over three years ago, and Ryou was uncertain how to act when they were finally brought together again. They had parted friends, of a sort – well, at least not enemies; although Isis was treating him now with unfluctuating respect, Ryou had no idea whether her younger brother would do the same. There had been a defined awkwardness between them during the last few times of chance meetings, and he knew that Malik was always going to be more comfortable around the presence of his other self, which was why Ryou was always too eager to retreat at the earliest opportunity. After all, the initial invitation to come to Egypt had been offered to the spirit of the Millennium Ring, and not his host. It was merely taken for granted that Ryou would come, contributing to the pile of baggage. And now Isis was acting as if he were just as welcome, and it confused him a little.

He broke his gaze away from the vast, vast array of ancient objects surrounding him, and meekly followed his hostess to a side-door on the far side of the hall, keys chinking emptily against each other as she unlocked the door to reveal a steep staircase leading up into darkness; he stepped uncertainly after her as his footsteps echoed hollowly off the marble floor, leaving the small piece of history behind him.

…………

There were hanging dishes for incense set into the walls, explaining at once the lingering aroma of sandlewood he had detected while ascending the stairs. He had expected to see rigidly traditional décor, but instead found something that, while probably not available at the nearest furnishings shop, was just as modern as the laptop shoved haphazardly on the sofa; a tasteful and effective blend of white-painted walls and paintings done in the old styles by long-haired, uncommissioned artists crouching in their undersized, overpriced studios. Here and there were suggestions of what was displayed on the floor beneath, and of the most valuable objects, not displayed at all; small figures of gold gleamed secretively from mantelpieces, and a trio of large, deftly-sculpted cats observed everything from within their solid stone bodies.

Ryou reached out – it seemed disrespectful to go too near their eyes, behind which something seemed to gleam, so instead he lowered his arm and placed a long-fingered hand behind the largest's black ear. The delicate pad of his finger was cushioned by a slight, though not generous, layer of dust. He smoothed it away.

"Ahlan wa sahlan. Welcome to our home." Isis accompanied the words with a slight smile, and Ryou hastened to focus his attention more appropriately.

"Thank you for letting me stay here. It really is kind of you."

"I'm sure it will be a pleasure to have you stay with us."

"Your hospitality is appreciated." It wasn't, but if such words mollified mortals then that was all very well. The Ring's entity, clothed in his usual quietly menacing black, stood a few paces behind his host. He graced Isis with a brief glance, the gesture customary and only to accompany his words, before folding his arms. His close-fitting shirt was rolled up to the elbows, revealing the gleam of preternaturally white skin as his arms, slightly scarred, settled fluidly into place.

To Isis, Ryou appeared both reassured and flustered by the eventual appearance of his darker self, glancing at him for a moment, hopefully, it seemed, before turning back to his hostess with slightly nervous eyes.

A door slammed, and the two mortals twitched. Unseen by them, Bakura smirked a little.

Isis leaned over the banisters, the move appearing to all eyes casual but in reality a carefully calculated rearranging of her limbs to ensure that everything stayed firmly in place. She called a long string of Arabic down the stairs, and there was a faint reply.

There then came the regular stomping of feet on stairs, the rhythm of someone who would walk far faster and more jauntily if they were not weighed down with unnecessary baggage. Malik Ishtar fought his way to the top of the stairs, pushed his tousled blond hair out of his eyes, and said, "Hey."

Bakura smiled.

Someone else was delighted to see him: there came the pitter-pattering of scrabbling claws, and something leapt up at the Egyptian and started trying to wash him. Malik let out an exclamation in Arabic that caused his sister to glower and say "Ahkii…" at him, as he attempted to hoist the new arrival out of his shopping bags. Ryou obliged by reaching out for this wriggling thing, and was astonished to find himself fishing out a large Siamese cat. It had moved so such speed that he had not even registered what it was.

Isis contented herself with removing the bursting shopping bags from her brother and taking them off to the kitchen, muttering darkly.

Malik smiled at them, while Ryou found himself being washed fastidiously by the cat. "Don't mind her. She's hungry; I was intending to feed her before I went out." He scooped his pet off Ryou, and tucked her carelessly under his arm as he shook hands with them both. He was a lot taller than Ryou remembered – probably over six foot now. He returned the handshake almost shyly.

His other showed no such lack of ease; although there was certainly nothing approaching warmth in his manner, there was a definite lack of coldness, which amounted to much the same thing. He nodded briefly at Malik, and then held out his hands for the cat, making the Egyptian laugh wryly.

"Nice to see you too." He handed the animal over, though. "She's called Layla. I don't think they had Siameses three thousand years ago?"

Bakura grunted non-committedly, engrossed in examination. He held one of the bemused cat's paws between his long fingers, looking with intrigue at its chocolate colouring, and the way it contrasted with the milky-cream of the body, before releasing it and scratching her head. Layla lapsed into confused purring, deepening into a more throaty sound as the scratching intensified.

The two lighter halves exchanged looks, one tentative, the other amused. "Shall I give you a tour of the house?"

Ryou nodded obediently, and the Egyptian led him off. The spirit of the Ring stood there for a few moments, lost in thoughts of another time, where creatures such as the one he bore now would be the objects of worship, of whose reverence the world would never see again. Surprised at himself, he rubbed the top of the silky head in a dismissal both of the cat and of foolish nostalgia, and released Layla, who slid in disappointment to the floor. He wiped the hairs off his shirt in quick, disdainful movements, and wandered after his lighter half.

"This is Isis' room," Malik was saying. "The bathroom is just here. The lounge and kitchen are at the end; Rishid's room is on the left, and my bedroom is just here." The spirit of the Ring could detect more of an accent lining the Egyptian's words than before, suggesting that someone's Japanese had become a little rusty. Not that this led to any increased disdain on the spirit's part: he liked Malik's accent, although he could not have said why.

He sauntered lazily in after the two lighter halves. A person's bedroom could tell you plenty of interesting things about them: like a soul room, but easier to read. And you could always learn more about a person by witnessing them in their home then you could ever hope to do by seeing them in other people's. Three years was a long, long time; in an odd sort of way, it was more difficult to adjust to than three millennia, for in three millennia continents could change shape, ice ages could happen and new Gods could be thought up and duly worshipped. So many changes occurring that you could merely resign yourself to being permanently behind, and not become surprised by anything anymore. But after only three years, you could be deceived into thinking that nothing much of worth had occurred; thus, changes were more startling. You had just started to wonder if you had finally got the hang on things, and then it all changed again, with some tiresome person inventing the wheel or monotheism or technology or something similar. Typical.

Malik's bedroom was a little on the small side, and densely personalised in the way that larger rooms sometimes are not. The walls were white, papered thickly with posters like a huge example of paper-maché. To the left of the bed slumped a desk buried under magazines and CDs, with a computer monitor poking out at the end. A cat-bed lay squished between the desk and the wall.

Malik was showing Ryou where to dump his baggage, clearing a space in the tiny wardrobe so that his guest could put his clothes away. The spirit of the Ring did not like to see the bag storing his knives shoved carelessly to one side as if it were only containing Ryou's possessions, and strode over to remedy the situation. He considered briefly whether or not to leave them in there for tonight, before silently berating his own assumption that the evening would be uneventful and carefully sliding out his weapon-laden belt. Malik would no doubt expect Ryou, at least, to want to venture around Cairo to experience the culture and all that wishful nonsense, and during that time the entity would don something a little looser, under which the slight bulge at his hips would not be noticed. But tonight something more careless and close-fitting would suffice. There would actually much less protrusion than one might expect, thanks to his deliberate choosing of the very slimmest and lightest of blades; it served to make the entire thing less bulky and more elegant. He strapped it on at an angle, a walking tribute to all things sharp and pointy, and only then turned the greater part of his attention back to the two lighter halves.

"Dinner is ready!" Isis called in Japanese from the kitchen, having checked up on what her brother had come up with just to make sure it was actually edible. Bakura proceeded to the lounge a dignified space of time after the two mortals, just to define the fact that his entrance was to be made separately from them and thus could be acknowledged more easily, if the viewers chose to do so. Isis had laid three places on the table; she came out bearing enough cutlery for a fourth, and asked the Ring-spirit, voice carefully pleasant, if he wished to join them. Bakura had already mentally decided not to deign to do such a thing…yet something in the woman's eyes made him accept. There was a hint of something in them, something that did not yet extend to dislike, but was akin to that aura which he had already detected emanating from her a few minutes ago. It was…disapproval. And a certain wariness, carefully cloaked. He did not need any reminders that spirits would never be greeted with anything more than strained hospitality, and at the worst open hostility, in this household. So did this mean…his eyes alighted thoughtfully on Malik for a few moments. Well then, he would dine with them, if only to piss the Seer off. Flicker of a smirk, carefully suppressed. He brought out a chair, and with dignity seated himself, while adding Isis Ishtar to the list of people he could provoke into potential humiliation when bored.

Ryou prodded a fava bean cautiously with his fork (although experienced with using both types of utensils, he felt a little ungainly without chopsticks) and, after a nervous nibble, decided that he liked it and tucked in. His other self scrupulously dissected one of his, enjoying watching Isis twitch in the corner of his vision, before becoming bored and eating it. The chilli took him by surprise, and it was with tremendous effort that he forced himself not to start coughing. He thought he saw, through his watery vision, Malik smirking a little on the other side of the table, before hiding it behind his hand.

After sipping a glass of water with as much delicacy as his burning throat would allow, the spirit leaned back and watched his lighter self valiantly battle his way through the meal. He kept yawning, putting up a hand to belatedly hide the aforementioned yawn, and then apologising for his slowness. "I'm so sorry."

Isis took pity on him: "It really is all right. Ahkii, would you like to change the sheets so that Ryou-kun can get to bed?"

"I've already done it. Come along, Ryou."

The Ring-bearer focused his bleary gaze on him and carefully pushed back his chair to follow Malik into his bedroom. His other self, though also choosing to rise, lingered momentarily; his scarlet eyes met Isis' just for a moment, so that he just caught a glimpse of the naked dislike in them before the startled veil slammed back down. Her expression tensed, becoming fixed.

_Such a display of dislike, and so soon._ _Why, I haven't been here even for an hour._ He considered her expression again, and it was with a delighted shimmer of amusement that he speculated on what he could have done to produce this. Why, perhaps this stay would be interesting after all.

……………

A/N: A little longer than I originally planned; I was working on developing the characters properly, and just making up for the crappiness of Northern Darks, which I have not yet got round to burning and tearing off this website with something sharp. It just appalls me that I could ever write like that...

xOwlx: Yes, I'm concentrating hard on my style. I think I can draw it out a bit too much at times...if I write more, then I generally write better, because I anaylse more; but at the same time, it sometimes turns into rambling, and I get so carried away that I don't notice.And yes, I forgot some words…they were underscores in the original document, but this website doesn't show them. Now that I've found some good Arabic translator sites, I can fill them in. Ugh. So humiliating…I was wondering why more people didn't comment on it.

dreaming silver: (is blushing) it's great that you're excited. I'm just glad it's going okay…although I've probably jinxed it now. But chapter two is powering along, so…(crosses fingers) And no, no visits from Lyra and Will. I toyed briefly with the idea; but this isn't really a sequel to ND. Ryou is only going to use his powers a few times: the point is why he doesn't, and I'll explain that as I go. Also, I don't have such an interest in Lyra and Will, and tend to neglect them. I don't want to include them because I know that I won't do them justice.

PharaonicWolf: Those were a really astute couple of points. (is pleased that you were being an active reader; it really feels like you were picking up on some of the less obvious aspects, and I like that).

Firstly, languages: in this story, readers will notice that Dark Yugi and Dark Bakura speak fluent Arabic. I do know that Arabic was not spoken in Ancient Egypt; this seeming flaw is actually part of the story. I promise that it will be explained satisfactorily later. But as for in other stories…heh. Okay, maybe those were ignorant mistakes. I wasn't really thinking about it. But rest assured that a hell of a lot of thinking (and research) is going into this story.

Next: Ugh. Yes, Northern Darks consists of a rather immature style, particularly at the beginning. Several of my friends have commented on it. For that, all I can say is to beg your indulgence, and ask you to remember that it was written almost two years ago, and that I have matured greatly since then. For me, it is both a source of revulsion that I could have churned out such utter _crap,_ and surprise at how much I must have improved. Although, sadly, I am still not at the standard I would like to be.

redconvoy: Yup. Got to do what the yami says. Actually, I'm going to be exploring that later on, so keep reading…


	2. Iteru

A/N: Updated 28th February - was intending to do it earlier. Have embroidered a little on cheroot and galabiyeh descriptions, having actually done some proper research on those two things, and considered changing Malik's personality, but have decided to leave it until chapter three.

Chapter Two: Iteru

After first shooing his lighter self into the bathroom to get changed and then ensuring that he was safely tucked up in bed, Bakura stepped over Malik, who was already in his sleeping bag, and settled himself by the door. There, he adopted the lotus position and prepared to enter a state of meditation. With the lights off there was strictly no need for him to close his eyes, but long habit decided for him. He exhaled slowly and silently. With breathing no longer a necessity, it had dwindled to an occasional habit and, as he relaxed, it ceased altogether. It was easier to meditate that way, without one's body occupied in movement.

He sat up straight, gently holding the white space in his mind's eye, as his body fell into stillness. He found it an interesting paradox how not thinking could cause thinking to become easier; with no deliberate thoughts or opinions in place, subconscious notions could rise to the surface, and thus the day's more troubling thoughts could be examined and resolved more easily.

He had formed this habit a few years back, finding it one of the more immediately effective aspects of Ryou's morning yoga activities. He found it calming, letting himself be lost to the stillness that he found, and enjoying the refreshing tranquillity left behind. With his different sleeping habits he required some way to occupy his time, and it was convenient, as well as useful, to be able to entertain himself in this fashion.

Thus, when he emerged from the cloud many hours later, it was with a clear idea of what he aimed to accomplish throughout the new day, and his crimson eyes refilled gradually with focus. He rose with his usual care, and crossed the room until he reached the window, where he might watch Ra rise in the beginning of his long journey across the sky, rolled onward by his faithful khepera. Resting his elbows gently on the sill, he gazed at the growing ripples of orange, gaze unflinching until Ra attained his full shape, and then found that he could no longer look upon him.

"Omoshiroi-na?"

He shrugged carelessly. "It's just a sunset. It looks the same in Japan, or anywhere else."

Malik nudged his sleeping-bag to one side with his foot. He had not yet applied eyeliner, and Bakura glanced briefly at him before turning his gaze back to the flaming sky. "You think so? It never seemed the same in Japan to me. It was one of the things I missed." His violet eyes scanned the sky again. "There's more importance attributed to it here, I think. Or was. After all, it is one of Ra's forms."

"I don't believe in the Gods anymore."

"Is that so?" Malik did not sound surprised, for some reason.

Evenly: "Do you?"

"I don't know. I think it's harder to believe in them now. It seems that we were so much closer to the Gods three thousand years ago. They were in our homes, next to our beds….Now they're just names."

"Perhaps they are better just as names."

"Perhaps." He looked away from the window. "One can't get as good a view from here. Cairo's too densely populated: too many houses."

"Are we going to venture round Cairo today?"

"Oh yes. There's so much you have to see. The markets, the pyramids, the Nile…you can't go home until you've seen them, at least."

"I would like to see the Nile," Bakura allowed himself to say. Then: "So the pyramids are close?"

"We won't see them today, but yes. Cairo's on the very edge of the desert; it seems to slip further into it every day." He smiled a little. "You will have to tell me how much has changed."

"You know I can't remember anything."

"Well, maybe seeing everything will bring something back. You would be surprised how much has survived." Malik went over to a drawer and took out an eyeliner pencil. While applying eyeliner in the mirror: "Anyway, it should be interesting for you."

Bakura was provided with a reason for not having to answer in the form of his host, who requested the time in a sleepy mumble.

"Half-past eight," Malik answered him. "You can have a little more sleep if you want; we probably won't leave until at least nine-thirty."

Ryou stretched and sat up. "Where are we going?"

"Around some markets. We need to get there reasonably early to avoid the midday sun, unless you want to feel like you are in a toaster."

Ryou nodded meek assent, and slid out of bed. He rummaged quickly through his clothes before emerging with a pale blue shirt.

With obvious disapproval: ((How did _that_ find its way into there?)) _It's hideous._

The host looked at him pleadingly. (I can't wear black…please…) _Everyone will laugh…and besides, it's **hot.**_

((Fine, fine.)) Bakura waved his hand dismissively.

Over Ryou's very much audible sigh of relief, Malik asked: "What would you like for breakfast? I bought a pineapple yesterday, if you would like some of that."

"Okay. I'll be along in a few minutes."

Their host wandered off to prepare breakfast, and Ryou began clearing a small patch of floor. His yami perched on the edge of the bed and scrutinised Ryou's whale pose with a critical eye, before taking out a knife and proceeding to sharpen it. It was tucked back into his belt when he was finally satisfied, and the black and yellow Nirvana t-shirt he was now wearing was pulled over the top. The long knife strapped to his calf was removed - he was going to be wearing shorts - and placed carefully in a drawer.

Malik came back in. "Breakfast is re- what is that Ra-awful smell?" He had changed into his native dress, the loose-fitting linen galabiyeh robes which Ryou had already unknowingly glimpsed on others the previous night.

Ryou's face was enveloped by pink. "Sun-cream."

From the end of the bed, his yami let out a snorting sound that could have been laughter. ((Sun-cream?))

Defiantly: (It's so I don't come back with a nose like a tomato.)

The image was largely lost on his other self, who had no idea what a tomato was. ((Please yourself.)) He tucked a pair of wrap-around shades into his hair, and stood back to admire the effect.

Isis was setting up the museum to prepare for the day's visitors when they came down forty minutes later, and smiled briefly at them before disappearing back behind the till.

"You can see the museum properly later." Malik beckoned to Ryou, who followed him meekly to the side-door.

The Ring-holder blanched when he saw the motorbike propped up outside, with no other method of transport in sight. (C-Could you take over?)

((Baka-no. It's time you grew a spine, anyway.)) The spirit snorted and withdrew into his soul room, leaving his white-faced host to gulp and look around in barely-contained horror.

"Come and be introduced to my motorbike." The Egyptian handed him a helmet. "…You aren't afraid of travelling on them, are you? You look quite interestingly pale."

"I'm fine," his guest gasped. _Oh Kami-sama… _He closed his eyes and seated himself.

"Well, that's okay then." Malik turned the key, and at the roar of the engine Ryou shrieked and grabbed hold of Malik's waist.

"Yeees, it does help rather if you actually hold on." And off they went.

Half an hour later, they had arrived at the edge of one of Cairo's many markets. It took Ryou several minutes to dismount, owing to the fact that he refused to believe that they had stopped moving and was insisting on clinging to Malik in case he fell off.

"Ra, the way you were screaming everyone must have thought I was abducting you. Haven't you ever ridden one of these before?" The Egyptian started trying, without success, to prise Ryou's hands off him. "I think my waist has gone numb."

"I'm dying," the Ring-bearer mumbled brokenly.

"Well hurry up and get reincarnated, because we're here."

Ryou peeked tentatively under his eyelids. "Oh." The heat was already kicking in; his shirt was glued to his ribs with sweat even though the heat here was dry and thus theoretically he shouldn't be sweating, and he felt as if he might be stuck to the motorbike. It was this thought that made him hurriedly stand up, and he gazed around in awe at the new scenery. It was not merely hot but _sweltering: _the combination of the unfamiliar surroundings and the overpowering dry burn of the sun caused his head to spin in crazy circles, adding to the dream-like quality of it all. He gaped at the oceans of people flooding past, immense crowds of dark faces spilling by in an instant. And him standing out as effectively as if there were a spotlight drilled at him; he flushed, suddenly completely aware of his pale complexion and strange clothes. Hopeless foreigner indeed: he couldn't even speak the language, not one word.

"Ready?" In his galabiyeh and comfortable expression, Malik appeared right at home, and Ryou wondered how completely the Egyptian had experienced the utter disorientation of being in such a exotic environment when he had first come to Japan.

"I think so." They both plunged into the crowds, and at once he was engulfed with Egypt, his senses overwhelmed as they sought in vain to register this gaping gulf of unfamiliarity. He took a breath and gulped down great steamy smells of hot meat, intertwined with dung, bitumen, and fragmented smoky clouds of cheroots. His other self let out a contented sigh from somewhere within their mind.

"Where are we going first?" His brain felt thick and stupid from the cloying waft of nearby incense.

"Anywhere you want." Malik grinned happily at him. "You'll come to love all this. The cheroots do your head in until you get used to them, though."

"Sheruuta-ka?" The word translated easily into katakana; he tried to say it the way Malik had, with a long drawl of accent.

"Egyptian cigarettes, sort of. Crushed tobacco and wood chips in tha nat phet leaves. Delicious, but the smell is somewhat strong."

"I like it." It was so crowded that one simply did not register a few more or less people, even if they appeared out of nowhere. Bakura was gazing around with a hungry look prowling his eyes, as if every second spent not tasting Egypt was an even bigger waste of time than usual. "I'll reunite with you both sometime later." He was instantly absorbed into the crowd; it was mesmerising how everyone blended into a huge throbbing mass.

"And off we go too." The Egpytian seized Ryou's wrist and launched them both into the melee. The Japanese teenager could scarcely breathe from the glaring blaze of the sun, and soon such trivial matters like breathing quietly dissipated from his mind as he was pitched into a bewildering rainbow of colours, dazzling his eyes as he gaped at stalls staggering under the hefty weight of souvenirs, fruit, baskets, silk…it was a pickpocket's heaven, and he had no doubts as to the degree of his yami's ecstasy at the ripe pickings. The incessant storm of Arabic grew to a roar that drowned out every other aural input, the garlic infected his clothes from several stalls away and refused to leave, and fresh smoke plunged down his nostrils with every inhalation.

"Tell me if you want to buy anything!" Malik called cheerfully over the babble of Arabic around them.

Ryou harboured doubts as to whether they would actually manage to approach any of the stalls, but retained his bloodless grip on Malik's arm and was astonished to find himself in front of a stall almost at once. The population here seemed to have evolved a way of moving through such crowds while still retaining speed, and also enable themselves to be heard above the general mayhem, something that Ryou, who was a great deal less gregarious and outgoing than his guide, could see himself developing problems with. He resolved to stay glued to Malik at all costs - if he let go, there seemed a terrifyingly real prospect of being trampled into the ground. How many people were crammed into Cairo? If the capital city was anything to go by, Egypt probably had more people squashed into every square mile than Japan and all the countries surrounding it.

Malik cast him an amused glance - Ryou's eyes were bordering on onion-sized as he turned his awed stare on his surroundings. "Like it?"

"It's…amazing." He began to scrutinize the objects on the stall more closely. Tendrils of spices tumbled down from their loose hangings; shaky hooks of garlic cloves, onions, curves of bananas poking out; reek of exotic things pungent and compelling as grapes brushed against melons. He could vaguely see Malik snatching up a clatter of garlic and tossing over Egyptian pounds in exchange. Of course, to someone from Japan, everything in Egypt was dirt-cheap, usually even cheaper - he could glimpse the seductive shimmer of stones as heavy jewellery was eagerly exchanged for a handful of pounds. Despite this, voices were raised in haggling or dispute - "Everyone haggles here, you never pay the displayed price for anything," Malik assured him - and Ryou soon found himself, through his interpreter, joining in with the rest. At some point in the bustling yet oddly efficient mayhem the spirit of the Ring showed up, voraciously gulping down enthusiastic chunks of some sort of meat speared on a stick. The smell of sizzling flesh was instantly added to his lighter half's already overloaded senses.

"Sore-wa nan-da-ka?" Ryou queried as Malik made a face.

"Pigeon," his other self informed him happily. "It is even easier to buy some of the things cheaply here than it is to steal, so get your own."

"Pigeon?"

"It's quite a common snack here," Malik assured him.

After accompanying his request with a sufficiently puppy-dog expression Ryou was granted a taste. "It's…actually quite nice. Smoky."

Bakura continued to devour his snack, fending off his vessel with his other hand. "Get your own."

"Have you bought anything yet, apart from that?"

"I don't buy things."

Ryou rephrased the question. "Acquired anything?"

"Of course. Plenty of purses. Some of them look like they might be worth something."

"Well, while you busy yourself in bankrupting my city's occupants, Ryou and I are going to go over to some more stalls."

Ryou just had time to wave goodbye to his other before being dragged away by Malik. "As you are going to be staying here for a while, you should think about getting some Egyptian clothes. Much cooler than what you are wearing at the moment."

The temperature seemed to be yanked up ten degrees. "Okay, if you think it a good idea."

"Oh yes."

Minutes later, Ryou was staring at all the different types of robes available; he eventually settled on the typical white, almost peasant ones he saw most of Egypt's occupants clothed in. After witnessing Malik and the stall keeper embroiled in an enthusiastic argument over money for what seemed like an unearthly amount of time, Ryou tugged on his guide's sleeve and whispered, "You know, I did bring plenty of money."

"I know that: and so does he. That's the point. They always try and rip you off if you aren't from around here. Foreigners are regarded as having bottomless wallets. And why pay more than you have to?"

"I suppose…"

Malik smirked easily and turned back to the energetic discussion. Eventually a price was agreed, and money handed over to a satisfied stall keeper.

"Here is your bag. Make sure you don't let go."

"I w-" At once it was nearly tugged from his hand. "Kami-sama." He yanked it firmly back. "Does that always occur or it just because I look so foreign?"

"Oh, it's quite frequent." Malik shot an Arabic insult at a quickly-retreating man, and was promptly cursed back. "It's how everything works around here. The other you is going to discover that he has quite a few rivals."

They browsed more stalls, with Ryou signalling where he desired to go and Malik pulling him there in the effective mixture of muttered-apologies and ruthless shoves so effectively adopted as a method of efficient transport by the proportion of Egypt's population which wished to actually go anywhere. It felt like being pulled through a shredder, with Malik tugging him through spaces which did not look as if they would allow a scarab beetle through, let alone two nineteen-year-olds.

"Still intact?"

"It appears so." And what was more, with his purchases and wallet as well, which was overall quite commendable, even if he felt that his lungs' capabilities had been reduced somewhat by the excessive smoke and incense.

At the next stall he brought a long queue of deftly-carved stone scarab beetles, ranging in size from half the size of an Egyptian coin to as big as his closed fist. For something so delicately-formed they were surprisingly heavy, and he could feel them weighing down the bottom of his bag from where they were tenderly wrapped in his new robes. He also topped up his supplies of incense, which would also serve to please his other self, who liked to have one smouldering during his meditation; and bought a pair of leather sandals, to solace his trainer-suffocated feet. He did, however, choose against 'real Egyptian mummies!' - "Fresh from the vats next-door," Malik muttered darkly; "I'll show you those sometime and I assure you that the smell is atrocious" - and the ornate knives gleaming knowingly from their velvet displays, trusting his darker half to stock up if it was necessary. They were very, very tempting, and made even more so by his awareness that he knew how to use them; but it was with regret that he decided that he did not trust his knowledge enough to tell the good from the bad in the way that his other self could.

Malik, after running an experienced eye over what was on offer, bought a large melon, various dried leaves and plenty of fava beans. The crowd was thinning now, retreating to their homes as the heat reached its peak, and Ryou started looking around for his yami. He coped with the heat as best as he could, sipping at one of two bottles of water he had brought with him, the liquid seeming to run through his body without the slightest effect.

The spirit of the Ring made a reappearance, even more laden down with bags than them. "Good haul today." He smirked from behind his sunglasses. Ryou noticed, a little disgruntled, that he wasn't even sweating.

"Do I take it that Egypt is noticeably poorer?"

"Absolutely." He was in a very amiable mood, almost startlingly so. "Where are you two planning to take yourselves next?"

"Hm. A café? I'm sure an iced drink would not go amiss, judging from the interesting hue of Ryou's face. Egypt will be at its hottest in the next few hours, and we may as well find ourselves a seat in the shade."

"Did you notice the knives?" Ryou asked his other as they trotted along the side of the road.

"Oh yes. I could hear you debating over those." His yami gestured to one of his bags. "Interesting designs…some of them were extraordinarily light. Reasonably sharp, but that can be remedied anyway."

Ryou was a little startled at how willing his dark was to converse with him; rendered shy by his yami's uncharacteristic attention, he fell into a bemused but happy silence.

They ambled along, eventually finding refuge from the by-now severe glare of Ra in a little café down one of the side-streets. There, Malik ordered them all iced drinks, which Bakura sipped readily enough despite being seemingly unaffected by the sweltering heat, and his lighter self drained within seconds. He was almost unspeakably glad to be out of the sun; despite his typical lack of complaint, he had been suffering severely in the heat. He smeared on another generous layer of sun-block, while hoping that it would be enough. His darker half, meanwhile, appeared completely unaffected, still as defiantly pale as ever. He and Malik regarded Ryou's religious application of sun-cream with amusement.

The spirit of the Millennium Ring leaned back in his seat, while adjusting his shades. "Where next?"

"It depends on how many bags everyone has, and whether you want to continue carrying them around or not. I am considering whether we should stop by the museum and drop everything off - Ryou can also get changed - and then we can wander down to the Nile without having to worry about anything getting stolen."

Something flickered in the spirit's eyes at the mention of the ancient river, but he said nothing.

Ryou nodded emphatically. "Aa, I think that is a good idea. Also, I can get my sketchbook." His eyes lit up.

"All right then." They got up, Malik leaving the money on the table.

"Ah, that reminds me - when do you tip in Egypt?"

"Usually just in restaurants and hotels. Oh, and taxis, not that you'll be using them. The usual places. Foreigners are expected to be generous, by the way."

"Okay." Ryou added to Malik's small pile on the table as he went out, leaving the bemused owner grinning happily behind him.

The Japanese teenager's face fell somewhat as Malik led the way back to where his motorbike was chained up - when the word 'wandered' had been used, he had allowed himself to hope that it meant no such vehicles would be involved.

Humbly: (I know I need to develop a spine, and I know that it does me good, but -)

The Ring-spirit vanished, making his host sigh in resignation.

Malik was bundling bags onto the handlebars. "Perhaps we will have to travel a little more slowly than usual." He grinned as Ryou brightened a little. "…Seeing as it is so obvious that you dislike this particular mode of transport, why does the other you not take over and spare you the misery?"

The vessel blinked. "That's…an interesting question. Why do you ask?"

"Merely because it seems obvious."

From his soul room, the spirit of the Ring frowned thoughtfully at Malik. _Before, I could have considered myself mistaken, but now…_He sat back, and waited for his host to deliver the answer expected of him.

"Because it is what he wishes, and because I know that he knows what is best for me more than I do."

The spirit granted his host a brief nod of approval.

Malik shrugged, and gestured for Ryou to get on the motorbike. _And to think that I had wondered if maybe they hadn't become any stranger. _He busied himself with ensuring that their bags were secured.

A little disconcerted, Ryou looked everywhere except at Malik, and got a generous eyeful of sun.

"Coming?"

"Aa, of course." He hurried over to where the Egyptian was perched on the edge of the seat, leaning back into the curve of the handlebars as if they were a particularly comfortable sofa. Ryou settled stiffly into place, feeling still partially blinded by the sun. Noticing suddenly just how many bags were heaped onto the keening bike, he tentatively questioned, "Is this…legal?"

It was, at least, what he had intended to say. In actuality, his mouth was in the process of forming the second syllable when Malik gave the keys a firm twist, and the words tumbled unspoken back down his throat like building bricks. They soon piled out again, but seemed to have morphed into a shriek on the way.

………….

The motorbike was brought to a halt in an awful sort of ninety-degree turn which seemed to involve an unnecessary amount of spinning - Ryou was certain there was a technical name for it, but it was quite beyond him to consider such things at this moment in time. Shakily, he stood and parted himself from Malik's back like an exhausted leech.

They hurried through the museum to deposit their bags upstairs. Ryou fumbled his way into his robes, needing quite a bit of help from his other self and Malik. The spirit vanished and then reappeared, and was revealed to be wearing identical clothes to his lighter self.

Bakura watched with disdain as both mortals took the opportunity to freshen themselves up before venturing outside again, wondering to himself with uncharacteristic impatience when they were going to proceed to what he perceived as being the only actually necessary event of the day: an encounter with the Nile itself.

………….

The dark entity slowly slipped his hand into the sparkling water. He closed his fist abruptly, silently, and watched the bright liquid squirt out from between his thin fingers. He relaxed his grip, and found the water still present in the glimmering sheen shivering in his palm. He stared at it.

It was uncertain to him why such a trivial and even slightly clichéd action should suddenly mean so much to him: it wouldn't achieve anything in the long run, wouldn't aid the destruction of the world, wouldn't even contribute to a death or anything else that promised interest. So why then did he lean forward to dip his hand in again and scoop up another miniscule portion of the Nile? Closing his eyes, he allowed his hand to trail through the water, moving against the flow so that it felt like fighting treacle. It was here, now, in this gentle yet firm way that the river did not permit him to move against it, that he felt the possibility of sluggish consciousness of that same primeval force from too long ago, understanding all over again how tightly the river was bound together around the people. He frowned and withdrew himself suddenly. Such a strange feeling, this; like being confronted with an old master, ancient and perhaps senile now, but still able to remind a person why they had served under them. And troubling suddenly to experience this willing deference of his, when he sought to maintain control over such trivial things as impulses; why still this archaic urge to submit? He certainly never experienced anything of the like when faced with the Pharaoh.

All this stemming from dampening his hand in a dirty old river. It was laughable, in a quietly empathetic way. Turning his gaze back down, he surveyed the glistening beads adorning his skin. Pretty, if you cared for that sort of thing. He raised his head and stared blankly at the painted boats trudging through the water, at the people aboard smiling and laughing; a skinny figure wrapped in peasant robes, slightly sun-bleached hair a ragged tangle down his back.

He knew Malik was watching him, and was vaguely irritated, sure that he was expecting him to react in a certain way; it wasn't the steady observation that dug at him, but rather the knowledge that he was expected to act in a certain way and, not knowing what that certain way was, could not plan his reaction so that it differed accordingly. He had anticipated feeling disturbed at this…meeting, without quite knowing why he had expected to feel that way; unable to recall anything, anything at all about the Nile, he had been unable to predict his response, and thus was less ready to control it.. As a result, although he was habitually controlling his outside manifestation of his emotions, inside confusion mingled with his thoughts, polluting them.

Malik was taking his sandals off now and allowing his feet to slide into the cool water; the spirit found it suddenly outrageous, a basic level of sacrilege. And this was a common thing to do now; and the cheap crisp packets and the plastic wrappers floating innocently by…he swiped one up, on impulse, and crushed it within his hand. And then releasing it and watching it fall back in – because this was turning into one big cliché anyway; surely he could not have treated it much better. He remembered, suddenly, how people would wash their clothes in this water. It was sullied from the beginning, so why was this a fresh outrage that bubbled viscous and vicious within?

Yet despite this the Nile appeared so, so much older; showing its age now in the crumbling, eroded banks and sluggish, reluctant movement of water that surely could not have been like that before. It was supposed to be a provider of life and instead it appeared ancient, decrepit, thick flow wrinkled by millennia.

"It's so beautiful, isn't it, koe?"

The spirit grunted, finding his lighter self's presence more of an irritating matter than it usually was. Ryou clutched a sketchbook in one hand, and some 4B, 2B and H pencils peeked nervously out of the pocket of his robes. He wavered uncertainly for a moment - he was well-trained in realising when his presence was not wanted - and then shuffled meekly away. If he had had a tail it would have been drooping. Like an eager-to-please puppy, the spirit reflected briefly, he would probably perk up again in a few minutes.

His presence was soon replaced by someone a little more difficult to get rid of – Bakura groaned inwardly, not sure what he wanted but certain that it did not involve the company of others. His irritation stemmed mostly from the fact that he was finding himself unable to judge his mood, as if he had become a stranger to himself; why was he suddenly finding himself embroiled in this childish display of sociopathy? It was something that he was generally able to keep to himself, but now this indecision was causing it to become more apparent. He cast a dismissive glance at Malik, now sitting beside him, while managing to keep it neutral. The successfulness of the expression pleased him; it meant his self-control was returning.

"You don't like it?"

He glared at the Nile. "I never said that." It was as if nostalgia was making him grouchy; but then how the hell could he be nostalgic for a time which he could not remember?

"I thought you would…" Pause, as if offended. "Has it really…changed that much?"

He didn't know; it seemed as if perhaps it were he that had changed instead. But then, perhaps they both had; and he didn't like what they had become, either of them. He certainly knew that he should not really be here; what he wanted was for his body and soul to be crumbling together miles under this brittle soil. Three thousand years later and now it was a pair of ghosts that regarded each other – what little was left of the old Nile and what little was left of the old him. What existed now was the modern version, a plastic façade. If water could be diluted then that was what the Nile was, at least in spirit and power. He too was diluted, a pale imitation mixed into a host body. Perhaps…it was time for them to both fade away. He stared at the Nile, seeing the flow as filthy and jolting, and felt suddenly, hideously, old.

This was why looking at the river made him uneasily angry. He could barely remember its prime and yet he knew that it had passed. And if the Nile had degenerated into this senile, passive tourist attraction, what had he become?

"It feels like is it…dying." Stupid thing to say. Pretentious too, to his ears.

Yet Malik seemed to agree. "Its role has changed so much since you were last here. It isn't the centre of our lives anymore, you know…Egypt no longer depends on its floods for crops. There's a dam built; it's called Sadd el-Ali -the Aswan High Dam. It regulates the flow of the Nile."

"'Regulates?'" An incomprehensible idea. To interfere with the Gods' dictation of how the _iteru_ should flow? But that was blasphemy, it was…

"It's just how it is now."

Appalling.

Malik smiled, sadly. "It is sacrilege really, isn't it? We even have to use fertilisers now. The soil is almost entirely sterilised from the salt; the Nile no longer flows strongly enough to prevent saltwater from the Mediterranean clawing its way up the banks. All the fertile soil is deposited at Lake Nasser now."

"What was that called…before?"

"Ah…it wasn't called anything: it's man-made. It's in Southern Egypt, far from here."

"Is that so." Desperate curiosity brimming, wanting to know more. The extent of the damage, if you like. "Tell me more. Tell me about…" He gazed flatly at the Nile, straining to remember anything at all, yet finding that if he relaxed, the knowledge appeared to become more natural, as if it had always been there, instead of being yanked urgently into a frantic existence. "…about the three distributaries from the north that converge to form the Nile. Are they still there?"

"Mm. Two out of three. The Rashid and the Damyut are still flowing."

The Arabic names meant nothing to him. Where were the waters of Pre, of Ptah, of Amun? Even the source of the Nile arrived through a different path from before.

"They are very near to Cairo; you can see them if you want."

He didn't want to see them. Like a disappointed child who has found that the outing to the amusement park is to see a broken-down carousel, he just wanted to run home. Home to Japan. He had never anticipated this queasy feeling of feeling a foreigner in his own country; it was supposed to be a long-awaited chance to see his rightful home. And now he didn't want it.

At least Japan was utterly paved over in technology, at least on the surface. This excuse for Egypt had looked too untouched; it wasn't until you looked closer that you realised that it too had been slyly touched by Modernism. It was like being in a memory game where someone moved things around while you looked away, and then when you were granted a second glimpse you couldn't work out what was supposed to have changed or not.

The spirit was silent for several minutes; five, perhaps, or even ten. Malik looked around for Ryou, and located him trailing a scarab beetle; he swivelled his legs round and watched, amused, as the Japanese teenager intently observed its movements, sketch book wobbling on his knees. The sturdy insect scuttled a few feet, before pausing to clean its antennae; Malik looked on as Ryou edged forward a pace and settled into a crouch, redefining a portion of his sketch. Then the subject moved off again and Ryou was forced to stop and follow it.

Malik stretched out and captured the beetle in one hand. Ryou, engaged in correcting a line, failed to notice until he looked up again, and then his gaze started frantically sweeping the soil before him in a bid to locate the subject of his drawing. He saw the scarab beetle probing its way up Malik's olive arm, and his expression softened in relief.

Malik deftly halted the insect's passage up his sleeve and held it loosely in a cupped hand. He held it out to Ryou. "Do you want it?"

"Oh…okay." The beetle was tipped into his uncertain hold, where it promptly began to examine the contours of his hand like an amateur fortune-teller.

Malik peered at his guest's drawing. "That's quite an impressive likeness."

The scarlet overpowering Ryou's complexion appeared to be spreading even to the hand clutching the scarab beetle. "Thank you."

The spirit of the Ring returned unwillingly to life, uncrossing his legs to get up and pick his way over to the pair. The animation had not returned to his face, however, of which a distinct lack of expression was present. He took his place next to his lighter half, and was tentatively offered the scarab beetle, the action like the ashamed peasant with his meagre sacrifice for the Gods. He accepted it with no obvious interest. "A khepera."

"So-da." Malik paused briefly, before continuingly, daringly: "I don't think you will find that _they _have changed particularly in the last few millennia."

Ryou offered the Egyptian a questioning look, and was given nothing in response. Meekly accepting this as an answer, he attempted to finish his sketch by futilely trying to discern the beetle from between his yami's fingers.

Bakura did not answer or in any way acknowledge this comment, holding up the scarab beetle between two fingers in an effort to survey it better. He gazed in lacklustre fascination at the terrified flailing of the antennae, their frantic lashing like two tiny whips, before slipping into disinterest and holding his outstretched arm to one side, the beetle still pressed unrelentingly and casually between his fingers like a forgotten cigarette. After a moment he relinquished it to his lighter self, who received it gratefully and set it back on the ground, where he set to happily finishing his drawing.

As the beetle and Ryou moved off again, and Bakura continued to gaze at nowhere in particular, Malik fell to shaking the soil out of his sandals. As he concentrated on trying to evict a particularly stubborn stone from where it had become ingrained in the leather, the Ring-spirit suddenly asked, "Why did you let it change?"

"What, me personally?" He shook the last of the grains out, and put his sandal back on. He cast a curious look at his companion, before laughing a little and throwing up his hands. "Don't blame me; it was like this when I got here." He peered again at the person sitting opposite him, who was still apparently awaiting a reply. "Do you mean to ask why Egypt has modernised?"

"Yes."

"Well…do you really need me to tell you? A country changes over time. It develops new things, new ways of living. It evolves." Some part of him was suddenly loath to use that word; it implied improvement and, as well as insulting the way the Ring-spirit would have lived, it also suggested that this way of life was entirely better, and Malik wasn't sure that it was.

"Perhaps it has evolved. I was wondering what the rulers thought their country was evolving towards being, that was all." _But it wasn't a country: it was a world, my whole world, and now it has dwindled into a mere country. That isn't evolution._

"Do you not think it unrealistic though, to expect Egypt to stay exactly as you had left it?" Malik prodded.

Wearily: "Yes, yes. I don't possess that naivety; it's that…" He trailed off, plucking absently at the just-unfurling leaves of a Poinciana that was doggedly making a home for itself in the soil.

Prompting: "Because, when one takes into consideration the way other countries have thoroughly modernised or buried their heritage beneath mountains of technology, for example, Japan-"

"Japan has not deigned to turn the remnants of its heritage into an all-year-round tourist attraction," Bakura snapped, so suddenly that Malik jumped. "That's the point." In a bizarre revelation of logic, he could see now that in one way it was not that Egypt had changed too much but rather not enough; if it _had _become a place of endless grey apartments then in a way that would have been very satisfactory, because he could have told himself that it was no longer Egypt, that the old Epypt was dead and buried. Yet like him the spirit of Egypt had never seen fit to lie pacified in its grave; it remained, baffled at what had been done to it, and that was what hurt the most.

"And what else were we to do with it?" Unconsciously he had followed Bakura's adoption of 'we', so that now it was as if two representatives of ancient and contemporary Egypt were arguing their case. "You want us to preserve it, yes? That costs money, and we're a poor country. At least if it is on display to the world then the world can appreciate it, and pay money to see it." He could infer at once from the sudden narrowing of the spirit's expression that he did not approve of the idea of having Egypt's history on show. "Would you rather that all that happened was forgotten? Or even that we denied the existence of Pharaohs and pyramids? And of the Nile as anything other than a dirty old river?"

"It's reassuring that someone else, at least, has noticed that."

Snort. "You can't talk; you probably bathed in it three thousand years ago. But yes, the endless tourists do take their toll."

Bakura considered all this. With wry amusement: "You are very quick to defend your…country."

"As are you of yours. It's natural, is it not?"

"It feel ironic to me that I can suddenly find this patriotism for a place which I cannot remember." His tone was intended to be wry but it descended into bitterness. _I cannot even recall the ideals and ways of the life I am defending._

Malik shrugged, feigning a casualness that he did not feel. "Even though you cannot remember, you do appear to still retain some basic feeling of what it was like. I don't know if that has always been with you or if it is only communicating itself now; but it's that basic feeling which counts, is it not? I'm not an accurate representative of Egypt's state as it is now in that I'm not heavily informed about the politics or the laws or anything like that. I'm just one of the masses, like you were. So I probably don't really know a lot more about the things I am defending than you do."

The spirit examined this idea. "Yet you probably know more about how I lived than I do; does it not strike you as ridiculous?" He really was becoming quite gregarious, he reflected. It seemed to be the effect Malik had always had on him, and which stubbornly remained despite this change which he had detected within minutes of seeing him again; he was certainly more talkative with him than he ever was with Ryou.

"Hm. Ridiculous? No. It isn't ideal, perhaps, but maybe it is just intended to be one of those shitty little ironies the Gods see fit to hand out. Really all I can do is just tell you about how you might have lived in the hope of triggering some dormant memories. If you want them reawakened, that is."

"Perhaps. For curiosity's sake."

Ryou rushed up to them in excitement, robes flapping comically behind him. "I found a scorpion!" He brandished his drawing materials in the pair's direction.

"Kowiess. Better not get too close; akrabh have this _little_ deadly sting on the end of their tails, you know."

"I'll be careful." Having habitually shared the excitement of his discovery with the first person who would listen, Ryou rushed off again.

After a few moments, Malik pronounced thoughtfully, "So you really do find us a 'modern' country?"

"Perhaps not to the same extent as Japan, but yes."

"Heh. In case this hasn't become apparent yet, Japan is pretty much a living definition of the word 'modernised.' Whereas…" He shrugged. "Of course, I can't verify this, and I am sure that you will disagree, but I feel that the spirit of the old Egypt is actually rather well preserved. Especially when one considers that, relatively, we are still rather 'backward.'" He laughed, the sound a little forced.

"How so?"

The Egyptian shrugged again. "The average person here probably has about a sixth of the amount of money as they would have in Japan…barely half of the population can read or write…the only thing we can boast of beating the Japanese at is earthquake frequency, and even then it's probably close."

Bakura did not appear affected by this. "And for half of the population to be able to read and write is…shameful?"

"Don't go on about it too much, please, but yes, very much so."

"Perhaps things _have_ improved then." After a moment: "So how much of Japan's population is supposed to be literate, then?"

"Oh, everyone, basically. I think the official statistic is 99.9 or something."

For the first time Bakura appeared genuinely startled, if only for a moment, as his features narrowed into a more neutral scowl. "Everyone? But then…" He trailed off. "…So it is considered appropriate for knowledge to be accessible to all?"

"But of course."

He was silent as he considered this, face lapsing into carefully concealed thoughtfulness, while choosing to distract a viewer from this by occupying the exterior of his physical manifestation in coldly shredding one of the dark twists of Poinciana leaves, delicate webbing submitting meekly to his distracted destruction. After a few moments he leaned forward a little so that he might grab another clutch of plant, signalling that the conversation was ended.

Malik was unsure whether or not to feel relieved at this; such unwarned bursts of communication were disconcerting when emitted from this source, and it was reassuring, if of course a little disappointing, to see that whatever inclination that had birthed this brief gregariousness was now summarily snuffed out. Because if it had not, then who knew what might have gone on to happen? They might even have talked a while longer, and that, he knew, uneasily, would be a bad thing. A very, very bad thing. He felt darkness stroke his shoulder for a brief instant, jumped, and looked round in surprise at the expanding shadows eating up the earth around them.

The Ring-spirit raised an eyebrow in laconic knowingness at him, eased soft strands of hair off his shoulders, and leaned back to watch the sunrise. The Poinciana leaves tumbled gently from his hand, to lie like fresh tears across the darkened earth.

……………

A/N: I was intending to alter my portrayal of Malik, seeing as it deviates a fair way from what I intended, and isn't going to fit in with certain things later on; but his speech is so blended into the story that I can't extract it easily for editing - whether I like it or not, the story actually has a reasonable flow to it now, and I don't like disrupting the flow of a story. Damn: hope this doesn't affect chapter three too much.

Eek - I forgot to mention the timeline for this. It's based after Battle Ship, i.e. the Ishtars are minus their Items, plus Ishtar Malik is minus a yami no jinkaku, and our most Holy and Revered Pharaoh is in possession of the God Cards, although not his memories. However, Bakura Ryou still has the Ring, obviously. (scratches head) It'll all make sense later on…next chapter, to be exact.


	3. Eryx colubrinus

**Chapter Three: _Eryx colubrinus_ **

It is a sad but undeniable fact that one _cannot look evil in shorts._

People have tried. Oh God, how they have tried. But even if your eyes are the colour of fresh blood and you are screaming hysterically about taking over the world, put on a pair of shorts and wham! -everyone ignores you.

Every comic-book super-villain discovers the power of the ü ber-long cloak at some point in their short lives. There is no single piece of clothing more guaranteed to get your arch-nemesis' attention than a thick wad of cheap material tied hurriedly to your body which billows out impressively behind you whenever you make a speech.

The Dark Bakura was not a huge fan of cloaks, having found that they made him break out in a rash. Nonetheless, he was not prepared to spend any more time in a pair of shorts than he absolutely had to, hence his reversion to some skinny black jeans that clung to his skin with the sort of suffocating persistence that should have caused any person to break in a sweat. Being a spirit, however, his sweat glands appeared to be strangely malfunctioned, and thus he was able to trundle happily around the museum clad again in his usual half-heartedly gothic wardrobe. Not that he was the sort of person to follow trends - it just had to be black and tight.

Certainly, he could have continued to wear a galabiyeh. It would probably have been more comfortable - not that such trivialities were chosen to be included in this argument. If questioned, the spirit would not have been able to produce a completely understandable answer as to why he doggedly chose to continue to wear his usual all-black concoctions - which in a way was understandable, because it was not something that he had chosen to make entirely clear to himself either. Something to do with the fact that he would have worn the robes that he saw all around him all those years ago - despite its continued usage, a galabiyeh was very much associated in his mind with the past, and the past was something that he did not care to deliberate on at length for now. He would show himself able to walk free, and not held back by this tiresome burden of a previous life. And besides, he would wear whatever the hell he wanted to. Unless, of course, the host was wearing the same thing.

"-So the Pharaoh Neferefre here ruled during the 5th Dynasty, which is when most of the pyramids were built. His reign was between…2419BC and…wait, I know this…"

"2416BC," his sister provided with a wearily condescending smile. She was over on the other side of the museum, gliding a broom with effortless meticulousness over the smooth tiled floor. Looming piles of miscellaneous dust and dirt particles, the results of her labours, lay heaped around her like molehills.

Deflated again, Malik turned back to Ryou apologetically. "It's been a while since I revised the history of everything here."

"It's okay; I'm not as interested in dates anyway. Please go on, Marik-san; it's fascinating." A bulging sketchbook was clutched, temporarily forgotten, in his hand.

"Oh…well then, there is a lot of debate surrounding Neferefre's reign, because although he only ruled for three years-"

It was at this point that Bakura chose to tune out the Egyptian's voice and replace with a more temporarily pleasing sound – at the moment, this was Nightwish's "Pharaoh sails to Orion", which appeared to have stubbornly latched onto some inner crevice of his mind, where it revelled in replaying itself infuriatingly over and over again in the way that songs so often do.

_Slumbering with the ebb and the flow of this foaming tomb…Thou art born for Seteh dwells in Thee…_

He strolled leisurely over to an interesting display of papyrus - although he certainly had not deigned to accompany the lighter self in his miniature tour round the museum, he preferred to keep his Ryou in sight, where he could be sure that nothing was happening to him that he should know about.

Now he brushed the tips of his white fingers against the glass, lightly pressing so that they ballooned alarmingly, and with eyes for now a more muted hue of pale red keenly surveyed the contents behind a languid physical exterior. He gazed over every millimetre of the crumbling papery material, at the dulled scrawls of hieroglyphs crowded in so much that they seemed almost to be falling off the page, and wondered how it would feel to hold that sheet of papyrus in his hands as he surely must have done before, with the whisper of wind just rippling the top of the page so that it waved to and fro like a tentative young sapling which had not yet established itself. His fingers twitched with longing. Despite his initial resolution to maintain a degree of aloofness from all these icons of the past, to not allow them to affect him to the point where he might say or do something which he would almost certainly regret later, there remained a certain magnetism between these objects and himself: something which rendered them irresistible, infuriatingly and baffling so.

And yet still barriers remained, of various forms and subtleties. His long, mirrored nails tapped the glass for a moment, and again his fingers slid down the surface in baffled determination. In purely practical terms, it was unnecessary for him to acquire physical contact with this artifact when he was unable even to read it, every potential tumble of memory restrained and captive in a place unreachable. What little recollection he had ever owned was now - thanks to this place - even more obscured than before, with little bubbles of memory now mingling with all this accursed hindsight, so that he could now no longer distinguish what he had always known and what he had been told.

He shrugged away the irritation and tuned back into Nightwish, coolly thrusting away all the new thoughts that jostled eagerly to the forefront of his mind, pushing others in the queue aside as they called to be examined. Humming now, pulled into an un-reluctant union with the music, he eased himself determinedly into a state of unconcern, until eventually the pretence became real and he moved away to another exhibit, re-occupied and content.

Just as the atmosphere threatened to lapse into something resembling peacefulness or, if not a certain tranquillity, then at least a slight lessening of tension, there came a baffled shriek from the far side of the museum. "_Beset help us!" _

After a few moments, when it became clear that the originator of this sound was not going to shut up in a hurry, Bakura sighed and turned slowly around, distantly irritated at being roused from his previous pleasant calm, and moved to investigate the source of the disturbance with the weary gait of an adult who knows that some tiresome child has got themselves into an easily-avoidable mess again.

"Is such a noise really necessary?"

Isis did not answer him, currently engaged in blunderingly beating away something with her very large broom. Her brother and Ryou had emerged cautiously, and were now with doubtful caution surveying the scene. Malik's expression was that of the mildest form of scepticism; then he uttered an exclamation in Arabic and stepped back as a thin, aggravated hiss issued from somewhere within the vast weapon that was Isis' broom.

"It's a…snake," Ryou concluded with dim surprise. Nervously and at once he looked towards his darker self for guidance on how to react appropriately to this event. The spirit was not looking at him, however; with a lightly derisive snort he crouched down and, after a moment's burrowing, extracted a stringy something from the great expanse of broom bristles. He curled it into his hand, and deposited it in his pocket.

Both Egyptians gawped at him as if he were some kind of insane god. At length, Malik suggested: "You _are_ aware that snakes are dangerous, yes?"

Dismissively: "This one isn't."

"Oh." Then: "And you know because…?

"Because it's mine," Bakura told them patiently. His hand returned briefly to his pocket, and then his fist uncurled to reveal a tiny snake, barely any more substantial than a piece of string with eyes, curled comfortably in his palm. "I found it by the Nile, so I brought it back with me."

"You…brought it back," Isis echoed faintly. Her brother, who had expected an explosion, was a little disconcerted, and looked at the snake in an effort to hide it.

"Daijoubu, minna. It's only a sand boa."

"A sand boa," the Ring-spirit repeated thoughtfully, rubbing the mailed head with the tip of a white finger. The splodges of mud on yellow were striking; rather like giraffe print, in fact. He watched the tiny tongue glide in and out, a whisper against his fingers. "So it isn't poisonous?"

"No, Ra be thanked."

"How disappointing. No venom sacs, no defensive mechanism of any kind?"

"Absolutely harmless, I'm afraid."

Bakura frowned. He watched his little toy coil itself around his wrist like an ancient Egyptian bracelet, feeling for a moment the suggestion of strength as it tightened, and decided that he still liked it after all. "And…what are _your_ feelings towards snakes?" Neatly, he plucked the creature from his arm and dangled it in Malik's face. The Egyptian shrieked at a pitch uncannily like his sister's, and backed hastily away. Bakura smiled, deciding that he definitely liked this new pet of his.

"And you, my Ryou?" He did not, however, thrust the animal at his lighter half in the same way that he had shoved it at Malik, but rather held it out in the way of an offering.

Ryou's large, almond-shaped eyes rested hesitantly upon his dark's hands for a moment. "It isn't…dangerous, then?"

The spirit smiled, to all appearances easily and naturally, although there was a force in his expression that no one else would ever detect. "It won't hurt you."

"Oh." Reassured now, content in the deep knowledge that his koe would never allow harm to come near him, Ryou stood and watched the dark empty the snake into his pale hands. Their gazes locked for a moment, blocking out everything else, and in that instant the trust between them was renewed and strengthened afresh, as Ryou was reminded of how he would always be safe as long as he belonged to his other. He gazed solemnly down at the miniscule snake wriggling in his palm and, as he looked on, it began its slow journey up his arm.

Bakura smirked: this time the expression was directed at Isis. "Happy again?"

As if she had had a state of happiness to return to…her eyes, bluer even than the headdresses of the Pharaohs, rippled, as if the emotion behind them threatened to spill out, to flood them all in a great monsoon of withheld anger. There were plenty of other things crowded behind those orbs also; nothing, though, that he could, for now, discern. Well, it would not do to have everything explode now: why exhaust all the fun at once? And besides, the situation was not right; these emotions of hers should be left to ripen, until they threatened to burst out of her like fruits exploding from their green wrappings.

"Are you in the habit of performing such tiresome pranks?" Her voice was iron, yet trembling, although he was not naïve enough to suppose it was from fear or shock.

"Oh…_absolutely."_ He smiled again, letting her know that he recognised the challenge. "I…suppose I'm that sort of person, na?"

Isis snorted and turned away, clutching her broom as if warning him that she was prepared to knock him down with it as soon as he tried anything; she then resumed cleaning the already-spotless floor, swiping viciously at non-existent dust. It really was as if she genuinely believed that he had positioned the snake there on purpose, Bakura thought with a thick and pleasing feeling of amusement. Well, let her think that if she so wanted to; it certainly did no harm. And it was surely not his fault if his pet preferred to do a little wandering - in fact, had it not, he might have had to encourage it.

An uneasy silence hung in the air; yet it existed solely between the persons currently capable of registering it: that is, Malik and the spirit of the Millennium Ring, for Ryou was engaged in diverting the snake from its intended path up into his sleeve and beyond. Bakura gave no sign that he felt it; Malik, however, looked deliberately down and away; he had had enough of having his thoughts read to last several lifetimes. He was uncertain how visible his current thoughts were, since he had concentrated on keeping them hidden from himself: but he was aware that such a thing was unlikely to deter the Ring-spirit, and he was not willing to take risks. Besides, he was sick of penetrating stares: why could people not just look at you in a way which showed them to be merely scrutinising your exterior, as opposed to what it hid? Weren't some things allowed to remain withheld?

The spirit of the Ring seemed to shake his head, very slightly.

……………

Preparing vegetables did not come naturally to Ishtar Rishido. Nevertheless, three years of being ruthlessly made to peel carrots and scrub potatoes had ensured that, while he might never discover a natural aptitude nor an inner liking for such a task, he would at least develop some degree of skill where the matter was concerned. Enough, at least, to temporarily appease his sister Isis, who, comfortable and realised in her role as domestics tyrant of the Ishtar household, was not willing to allow the entire burden of menial tasks such as washing up or preparing dinner to fall on her alone. Never would it be admitted that she enjoyed such tasks, although such a thing was certainly true: the feeling of pleasure and fulfilment as she succeeding in separating a saucepan from a particularly stubborn piece of dirt would always remain unrivalled, but there was no need for anyone to know. Hence, her brothers learned early on to scurry meekly before her, arms laden with pans, and woe betide either of them if they dared to leave the most miniscule speck of dirt on her shining silver saucepans, or chop the carrots into less than perfectly parallel and equal slices. Then the full fury of the goddess would be unleashed before them, reducing them to quavering excuses for human beings - and they had realised quickly on that such a fate was not desirable.

The immense Egyptian painstakingly dropped each precisely-measured chunk of carrot into the saucepan, almost painfully careful not to splash the teeniest droplet of H2O onto the unnaturally-flawless surface of the worktop. Mission now completed, he glanced nervously around to triple-check that he had not overlooked some tiny fragment of food-particle, before taking the broom leaning knowingly against the fridge and sweeping the undersized kitchen into which his wide frame was squashed like a human hand in a doll's house. There was no particular shortage of brooms in the Ishtar household - on the contrary, they seemed to be hovering around every corner, as if a reminder that you hadn't swept up after you. Having thoroughly cleaned up after himself, Rishid exited the kitchen.

The master was slouched on the sofa, with their guest seated next to him and - Rishid squinted, trying to work out whether the other figure was whom he had initially suspected it to be. It was hard to make the person out though from the back: especially what with his master absently gesturing with the can of coke in his hand every few moments. Deciding to attempt to identify the figure at the same time as delivering his message - a rather complicated bit of thinking, considering who it was coming from - Rishid crossed cautiously over, halting a respectful distance from the sofa and its occupants. Remembering the nationality of their guest(s?), he switched to his strongly-accented Japanese out of courtesy.

"Marik-sama, would you prefer to have potatoes accompanying your meal?"

'Marik-sama' halted mid-syllable. "Oh, na'am - I mean aa…uh, what does everyone else want? Wait, potatoes as opposed to what?"

Rishid thought for a moment. "As opposed to no potatoes?"

The figure stretched out to the left of Malik snickered, still leaning back against the arm of the sofa. "Well, you know I don't care much either way, _Marik-sama."_

"I would quite like potatoes, Marika-san," Ryou answered politely, either innocent of his other's sarcasm or managing to hold back a blush.

Malik shrugged at Rishid in reply. "I guess that's a 'yes', then."

Rishid nodded, slightly bemused at all this. At that moment the sarcastic one gave an exaggerated stretch and sat up, and his features were at once thrown into focus - Rishid half-started, having heard wild tales of this one from the rest of the family, but never having had the dubious pleasure of meeting him in person. The shadows flattered him, softening the contours of what was otherwise a perhaps too-sharply formed face, and a pair of wickedly crimson eyes gleamed behind hair that was of the same creamy tint as the softer person close to him. Another spirit…he unconsciously stiffened, and his stare fled at once to his master, involuntarily confirming to himself that he was apparently safe. Yet how could he be, with this person here…? The Egyptian's hand brushed the dagger clumsily fastened to his belt - and then he jumped as Isis' searching voice was emitted from behind the far door.

"I'm coming-" Hastily he retreated out of the room; yet still his gaze remained drawn to those eagerly-glowing crimson-eyes, which lingered in his mind as he fled the room.

…………

Isis had grown tired of waiting for him and had begun to clean some of the statues in the hallway; she did not immediately straighten when he put in an appearance but rather remained kneeling down with the cloth for a moment longer, standing only when the stone had evoked her temporary satisfaction.

"There you are. I wanted to ask - could you possibly go down to the store and purchase some chopsticks?"

Rishid blinked. "Chopsticks? You mean, those sticks-"

"Yes, of course; is there any other kind? I think our guest feels more comfortable with them than using a knife and fork: although he is far too polite to say so, the dear boy." Isis' eyes grew misty. "He really is lovely to have around, isn't he? Nothing like how our young brother used to be…although he seems to have gained some idea of how to behave now. But have you seen his hair? It's so white…like the hair of Arsaphes! And so soft…not that I would know, of course, but it looks as if it would be so lovely to touch…" She trailed off, a smile lingering on her lips.

Rishid, having lost the direction of the conversation some time ago, struggled to resume it by picking up from the point which he had last understood: "So…you wanted me to buy some chopsticks?"

"What? Oh yes, yes…" Isis looked as if she too were struggling to remember at what point the conversation had diverged.

Deciding to pursue a question of his own. Rishid queried, "Who is that man…the one who sits with Marik-sama and our guest Bakura Ryou?" It was only at the last moment that he managed to summon Ryou's name from his memories, despite Isis having told him several times when the young Japanese was expected to arrive.

A vein twitched in his sister's forehead; at once her face hardened.. "Another spirit. Although residing in the Ring, he has Egyptian origins. And according to our brother, he is to be treated with the same degree of welcome that Bakura Ryou is." Her finely-plucked eyebrows drew together, testimony to her disagreement with this.

Rishid's face too had become hard, granite-like, any expression absorbed into a blank. "Why are we allowing a _spirit, _a spirit of darkness, into our midst? This house was to remain pure; we were to leave all of that back in Japan."

"I know. And I don't like it, Rishid. This…situation." Isis' voice had become very soft, yet underneath it was hard, nonnegotiable, immovable.. "The way he struts smarmily around our house as if we are the guests and not him, and the way Malik-chan acts with him: I don't like it all."

"What do you think should happen?" It made sense to Rishid that his sister should dictate their movements: she was, after all, the planner, the one who had envisioned Battle City and then found the means to make it real, to make it work as a way of restoring their brother to them.

Isis gave a short, grim laugh. _As it is, we can't do anything much. But if circumstances should so offer…_ "It depends on how the situation proceeds. But I will ensure that he realises his place." She paused. "I don't want Malik-chan…_our_ Malik-chan - to be compromised in any way. Any way at all."

………….

Having succeeded in pleasantly disconcerting yet another mortal, the spirit of the Millennium Ring settled back down into the sofa. His lighter self and Malik were engaged in some sort of meaningless chatter, he discerned vaguely; such things were not of interest to him, however; and he could feel himself growing drowsy. Possibly it was more a reaction to boredom than anything else, since the five days' sleep he had granted himself before arriving should have been sufficient to last him that time again, at least.

A vibration sizzled through the sofa; the spirit's eyes unglazed as it persisted. Ryou blinked in bafflement and, with a hurried 'sumimasen' he retrieved his mobile from his jeans - which were noticeably, though not considerably, less tight-fitting than his other's - just as some Lacuna Coil tune filtered through the material of his pocket. His darker self sat up with a disgruntled little muttering sound, making a mental note to crush Ryou's phone.

Tentatively: "Moshi moshi?"

"Ryou-kun!" someone exclaimed enthusiastically.

"…Ano…Yugi-kun! Genki-da?"

At this point Bakura let out a pointed groan and slid down the sofa almost to the point of falling off, while Malik looked vaguely attentive.

Yugi replied in his usual overly-delighted tone that he was fine; in fact everything was going very well; and how was Ryou-kun's holiday?

"Phone him back: it will be cheaper," Bakura advised distantly from the floor. Then, aloud: "Matte-yo - why do I care?" Damnit if he had not just destroyed the perfect opportunity to bankrupt the Pharaoh's little pet.

Ryou was scouring his mobile for his friend's number. "Koe, is it the mobile or the home numbers that are free?"

"Free? What's free? Home numbers are 4 yen a minute, and mobiles are 6 yen," the spirit recited without looking up, stabbing a tine of the Ring, unnoticed, into the soft underside of the sofa. Ignorant of the destruction being performed upon his host's furniture, Ryou chattered gaily and almost non-stop to Yugi as he reacquainted himself with his old friend.

……………

Faintest whisper of wind…easing itself cautiously through the window, ruffling the hair of the two sleeping occupants so that defiantly multi-coloured strands were lifted up, down, up, waving like blades of grass bowing to the wind. Someone pulled the duvet back over in a drowsy shield, and contact was broken.

It is not always disturbing to wake up and not know exactly where you are; certainly, the more-awake of the two occupants was not in any way disquieted. Consciousness was taking a pleasantly vague and fuzzy form, so that he need not have troubled himself to try and think, even if he had been so inclined. He thought that perhaps he was in a bedroom - was reasonably sure that he was lying on a bed, at any rate - and was absolutely certain of the sleeping form curled so close to him that he threatened to slip back within again; and that was all he really minded about right now.

A pleasantly faint flickering throb of light in the corner – that was the candle, wasn't it? He wasn't quite sure what it was doing here, and only just awake enough to identify it as such anyway. Well, it was some sort of light at any rate – and a little bit of light was tolerable, even enjoyable, even if this turned out not to be an innocently melting lump of wax but instead the distant light of a hell or something. He could think of plenty of things done in various lifetimes which, in some lesser people's eyes, would be enough to send him tumbling into damnation – but because he could justify all these actions to himself, and because he knew that the masses did not occupy a place high enough to judge him anyway, he was able to sweep it all amicably away.

He wrapped the duvet around so that it cocooned his lighter half and himself in a close, dense warmth, and so that Yugi's hair just tickled the underside of his chin. The touch of his lighter self and the reassuring rub of fabric that engulfed them both and held them close felt pleasant against his skin; he was reasonably sure, in a dim cloud of hazy logic, that he was wearing either nothing or something that amounted to basically nothing, and it made sense to keep warm. It satisfied the host body – not that he would ever call it that.

This unfamiliar sensation of peacefulness was oddly enjoyable, and best when enjoyed in a suitably passive way – namely, lying there and doing sod all – possibly the reason why he allowed it to caress him so was because it was so desirable, yet so unfamiliar: because how many times over the past few years had he had cause to feel peaceful? Being Pharaoh was pleasing and right: yet after a while it became tiresome when one psychopath after another was running around braying for your blood. It was so…_childish._ It seemed like almost every other moment one of the discontented masses was lining up and taking it in turns to offer their attempt at assassination; and while he welcomed this, because it then gave him the opportunity to purify them into willing servitude and to show them where they had gone wrong, and to add another worshiper to the throng, eventually it all started to feel a little tedious.

But then one could not blame them, really – for was it not fascination also that drew them to him? For who could not be fascinated by him…Yami smiled into the duvet.

And it wasn't even as if he were 'taking a break' from this – how scandalous, to suggest a deliberate withdrawal from his duties! Circumstances merely dictated that, for now, the world had run out of psychopaths and all those people to duel for the fate of the world. But then…perhaps he _would_ take a little bit of a rest, just for a few weeks…after all, the world could rule itself, albeit much less successfully, without him.

He yawned in a most un-Pharaoh-like way and, pulling his aibou closer to him, went back to sleep.

…………

Yugi eventually woke, pottering around the house and looking for breakfast long before his other felt the need to arise from bed and locate his clothes (what the hell were they doing in the kitchen anyway? He couldn't remember getting _that_ carried away…). The Puzzle-holder chattered away as he prepared breakfast, leaving a bleary-eyed Pharaoh to yawn again and consider hibernation – only for a month or two – and shake his head when asked if he wanted breakfast. They usually ate together, but this time the spirit sat slack in his chair, gazing at the edge of the table in a selective sort of fascination.

"...Daijoubu, mou hitori no boku? You're…slouching."

"Hm?" Damn this requirement of maintaining of a decent regal posture…he forced himself more properly upright. Perhaps a holiday was necessary, as opposed to merely desirable and deserved. Recharge the spiritual batteries and all.

The day commenced at a different speed to normal, or at least so it seemed – hours seemed to dash by before he could even look at them. He retired to an armchair after a little while, sinking gratefully into the vast and comfortable expanse of material pressing all around him.

Yugi wandered in, burbling away on the cordless phone which generally lived somewhere between the coffee table and the sofa, before hanging up and clutching it in one hand as he settled habitually onto his other's lap.

"Ryou-kun is so lucky, isn't he?"

"…Mm? Why?"

"You know, going to- oh, that's him again now!" And he replaced the cordless phone on the floor and retrieved his mobile.

His dark sighed and sat back; when there was finally a gap in the incessant chatter passing back and forth, he enquired lazily, "So what type of holiday is he enjoying?"

Yugi briefly held the phone away. Enviously: "He's in _Egypt. _With Mariku-san. Doesn't it sound so fun? They've been down to the Nile and _everything."_

"Egypt? The Tomb Robber is in _Egypt?" _The Pharaoh sat up, all thoughts concerning holidays squashed as abruptly as if they had been hit with a very large stick. While he sat here rotting away, eternally _bored_ (for he could see now that that was what he must have been) the Tomb Robber had had the _audacity _to bugger off to their homeland (with Malik, of all people) without even a taunting farewell? This was not envy: he would never deign to possess an emotion of such crudity; this…this was Righteous Indignation, the justifiable ire of slighted royalty. His fingers twitched, yearning for a neck to break or a mind to crush.

…………...

Bakura was just near enough to hear his Pharaoh's incredulous cry, and a grin split his face into two smirking halves. This felt so good that it would have been worth coming for the Pharaoh's reaction alone.

"Give me the phone, Ryou."

His light handed it over with the instantaneous obedience born from long training and lack of thought or questioning, although he did question timidly: "Why do you want to talk to Yugi-kun?"

"Maa ii." The spirit's tone changed as he addressed the Puzzle-holder. "Do I receive the pleasure of addressing our most revered King?"

Back in Japan, Yami reached up and relieved his aibou of the phone, shooing him off his lap. "Tomb Robber."

"Ohayo, ou-sama-yo. How is Japan? Any less mundane than usual?" Voice laughingly mocking, cheerfully disrespectful. The other spirit, resigned to this, ignored it.

"Perfectly adequate, although I'm sure it doesn't compare to Egypt." There wasn't much harm in admitting it, especially as they both knew it already, and to deny it or wait for it to be pointed out would just emphasise his desire to appear unaffected while secretly burning with-

"Sou-da-na." The Ring-spirit's voice was that of delighted triumph. Even having several hundred miles between them was not enough to dissuade him from indulging in his favourite pastime of winding up the Pharaoh. He meandered over to the window. "I can see the pyramids from here, ou-sama. Such vague silhouettes…yet even if there is no intention to look, the eye is still inexorably drawn to them….that's how much power they still exude." He heard the Pharaoh give a longing sigh from the other end of the phone. One of the pronounced skills at the spirit of the Ring's disposal was that of having great control over which emotions were manifested in his voice, and he drew on this now, letting a marvelling tone edge his voice. "The smells, the colours…You would like it here, ou-sama." Continuing on this note, detailing other things that he had seen, listening to the quickening of breath coming down the phone. Then, forgetting himself a little, just to the extent of unconsciously allowing a note of wistfulness to creep into his murmuring tone. "You can close your eyes and tell yourself nothing has changed, and then, when you open your eyes, for a moment you can even believe it…you don't need memories to remember…"

Yami closed his eyes; Bakura gazed out of the window. For a long, long moment neither spoke. Then the spirit of the Puzzle murmured in a low tone, "I would very much like to be where you are at the moment, Tomb Robber. Ensure that you appreciate it all enough for the both of us."

"You would, wouldn't you?" the other spirit replied almost absently, referring to the first part of the speech. Mind snapping into Scheming Mode, while ensuring that his voice remained suitably dreamy and unconcerned, he suggested innocently: "Perhaps something can be arranged."

In any other circumstances Yami would have jumped on this at once, all too aware that the offers and suggestions of one as slippery as the Tomb Robber were never to be taken at face value, and in fact should be squashed out of existence at once, lest they flourish further. At this moment, however, he was, despite himself, pulled into a desperate longing from the images running through his head, and was willing to at least listen to the Ring-spirit before silencing him. "And that something would be, at the least, highly dubious, and in all likelihood very much illegal and something I would frown upon?"

"No, _no."_ Bakura's tone was a perfect mixture of earnestness and hurt. "All that happens is: I buy you return plane tickets to Egypt." He thought about adding _My **dear** Pharaoh _but decided that he would definitely be told to shut up. He waited. White noise in the background consisted of Malik saying, "Wait, _what?"_ and his own lighter self remarking, "That was a…nice thing to say…" while looking very confused.

Eventually, Yami said suspiciously, "Aren't flights to Egypt expensive?"

"On the contrary, my dear Pharaoh; and besides, _you_ can fly economy class."

The Puzzle-spirit narrowed his eyes in no lessening of suspicion as familiar snorting sounds which sounded all too like the Tomb Robber trying in vain to suppress choking laughter crackled infuriatingly down the phone line. "I will do no such thing."

"At least you still get pillows, na?"

Yugi tugged at his partner's sleeve plaintively. "What's going on, other me?"

"I…think that the Tomb Robber just offered to pay for us to fly to Egypt."

Yugi's eyes lit up. "Honto-ni? That's so kind of him!"

"Hm." Holding the phone back to his mouth, Yami interrogated in a sharp tone: "Why have you offered to do this for me? If I find a bomb or-"

In melodramatic and scandalised tones: "But my dear _Pharaoh! _Your suspicion is so wounding. I have so much kindness to offer the world; can't you see that this is merely out of the generosity of my heart? I suppose this all stems from the fact that I miss you so much. It simply isn't the same without you; it is as if a piece of me is lost forever."

Malik sighed wearily, certain that he knew where this was leading and equally adamant not to have any part in it. Ryou looked politely baffled; in an uncertain tone, he ventured, "Ne, koe…"

"It _is_ a bomb," Yami told his lighter self in resignation. Yugi's eyes widened and he clung to him. The spirit continued, "While I cannot help but be satisfied at how you have finally realised the vitalness of my presence, Tomb Robber, I hardly think that I should be expected to drag myself over to the other side of the world just for your spiritual fulfilment. What _are_ you planning?"

Bakura gave up on both persuasion and humour, resorting to the crudest and sadly most effective method of enticement: "Well, you might even find something here that will help with unlocking the true powers of the Items…or even your own memories. I know how much both of these things mean to you."

Yami almost rolled his eyes - _almost._ He was not quite ready to descend into such common manifestations of exasperation just yet. "And that is why you want me to come?"

"If it is indeed the only way by which you can be persuaded to, then yes."

In order to make himself feel more comfortable with what he was agreeing to, the Pharaoh structured his next sentences so that he could feel that it had been his own suggestion all along, thus restoring his feeling of having control over the situation and rendering it so that he would not merely be coming across as submitting to the thoughtless commands of the masses. "If you feel that it would benefit you so highly to be graced by my presence once again, I suppose I could consider putting in a brief appearance." He did rather hope that he would turn out to have some role or purpose awaiting him in addition to his usual one of guiding the people, as it would result in a distinct loss of face if he were to turn up on the doorstep with nothing to do. "May I speak to Marik-" while clipping the final 'u', he extended the hard 'k' sound to compensate, so that what came out sounded more like _Marikk_ - "just to ensure that this is not some whimsical farce?" Normally, of course, he would not condescend to justify a request to someone as low down the social hierarchy as a common robber of graves, but he added this all the same just to let the other person know right from the beginning that he would not tolerate childish mischief-making.

Face flushed with delight at his prolonged delinquency, Bakura turned to Malik and offered him the mobile. "May I present our most revered, our most honoured -"

"I know who it is," the Egytian answered wearily, cutting him off. Aside: "Must you really work so hard to portray yourself so childishly? It doesn't reflect well."

The spirit folded his arms in an unperturbed, almost satisfied manner.

"Faro-sama-ka?"

Yami settled back comfortably. Now, _this_ was better. "Marik."

"Despite any concerns you may understandably have formed while listening to that tomb robber over there, I can assure you that your presence here will be greeted with nothing less than the utmost respect. The Ishtar family will always recognise you as their Pharaoh; we will always be more than happy to offer the reverence that others insist on withholding." He didn't look at the spirit of the Ring. The note of zeal in his voice was trembling, a little awkward. His assurances came across almost as apologetic, not for Bakura but rather for himself, as if he knew that the Pharaoh couldn't possibly really want to talk to him, and was indulging him by pretending to listen.

Then the Puzzle-spirit's voice filtered through, low and reassuring. "Thank you, Marik. Although I admit that I previously possessed doubts, I can now say that a stay in Egypt under the hospitality of your family sounds deeply pleasant."

"Thank…thank you."

Although having previously decided against it, Yami decided, on some reflection, to bring the God Cards Oberisuku-no kyoshinhei and Oshiris-no tenkuuryuu with him; perhaps this would be an opportunity to learn new secrets after all. He distantly heard the Tomb Robber conversing quietly with his lighter half and remarking idly, "You had better mention that it will take at least four days for the ticket to arrive."

_Quite possibly he will make me pay him the postage costs when I appear,_ the Pharaoh mused. He continued talking for a few moments longer, suggesting that he phone when the ticket arrived, before thanking Malik again and hanging up. He sat for a while in stillness, with his lighter settled back on his lap, and frowned thoughtfully at the phone.

…………

Having become assured that his Pharaoh would now deign to put in an appearance next week, Bakura continued to maintain a light-hearted exterior for the next half an hour; although it was anyone's guess as to what his actual feelings were underneath this unnerving cheerfulness, one would suppose that they were either the same, or so strikingly opposite that they thus needed to be concealed under a façade such as this.

After the call had been ended, the spirit at once departed to the bedroom, leaving Ryou to pocket his phone and pull out the now-familiar sight of his sketchbook, which seemed to be visibly increasing in thickness with every passing hour. Gazing around the lounge at all the objects on display, he tentatively questioned his host on their history: Malik answered his questions almost absently, clearly absorbed in something else; Ryou, too timid and polite to comment or even fully notice, accepted his occasionally brief answers without questioning.

The spirit of the Millennium Ring settled himself comfortably and cross-legged on the floor. He was soon surrounded by a forest of wires - network cables and USB extension leads threatening to cut off a non-essential blood-supply as they swathed his slight frame, crawling over the marble floor like a thousand miniscule snakes. He pulled the laptop closer to him. With only a thirteen-inch screen, it was compact almost to the point of appearing undersized; weighing in at just over a kilogram, it had been designed for portability as opposed to power, although he had remedied that quickly enough. He had a hulking seventeen-inch widescreen back in Japan for watching DVDs and the like on but, at over four and a half kilograms, it was not convenient to cart around.

"Now, to reacquaint myself with an old nemesis."

He fished a pen drive - all 1GB of it crammed full of useful little programs - out of his bottomless pockets, and prepared to get down to some serious hacking.

……………

As everyone who had ever heard of him knew, Kaiba Seto was a man who could afford the very best of whatever he wanted. In this case, as one of his regular "customers" was rediscovering to his disgust, this mean having some rather good security measures wrapped around online access to his bank accounts. To put this in perspective, it was not the first time he had succeeded in causing our dear tomb robber distinct frustration, as one by one his programs were bounced tauntingly off the various firewalls and circular links that were all that the stubborn log-in page deigned to yield.

"Damn you and your 512-bit encryption," the spirit muttered in an almost admiring tone. He had been raiding Kaiba's various bank accounts and transferring funds over to his own various accounts since the dawn of time, or so it felt, and although he had succeeded nearly every time to date, there had been increasing evidence of late that the CEO was losing patience with whoever insisted on regularly and systematically emptying his bank accounts. This had resulted in increasingly sophisticated protection being put into place - it seemed every time he went on in an idle moment that the encryption rate had doubled yet again. It was considerably harder than, say, hacking into the FBI's online databases, which Bakura had taken upon himself to do in a moment of boredom.

He watched his various dubious devices flit back and forth between the server and his own computer - no unique IP address rendered him comfortably untraceable - attempting to gather enough packets of data to allow him to work out the key, only to be frustrated by some unfathomable method which Kaiba appeared to have placed on the computer which somehow encoded the password even when viewed in its source form, rendering his traditional methods limited, if not obsolete.

His chin rested thoughtfully in his hands as his crimson eyes scrutinised the screen, seeking some loophole, something overlooked - when a string of repeated numbers suddenly caught his eye. "Ah, so it's like that now, is it, Seto-sama?" He grasped the laptop and pulled it closer to him, typing feverishly. After several minutes of jabbing more keys, he ran a finger lovingly along the top of the silver screen. "My thanks, Seto-sama, for your generosity." His eyes gleamed appreciatively.

Ryou tiptoed tentatively in, recognising at once that his other was embroiled yet again in draining Kaiba-san's hard-earned cash, and did not require distractions. The spirit sat back, watching contentedly the rightful moving of money into the hands of someone who had the capacity, not to mention the intellect, of being able to use it far more effectively than it previously had been. As he prepared to tiptoe out, the lighter half caught a glimpse of the screen, and his eyes widened a little despite himself. Although usually disregarding of the opinions of others, and rarely going out of his way to seek praise or approval, the Ring-spirit was at the moment in a mood to appreciate wonderment at his considerable skills, and lazily beckoned his light towards him. "Clever, na?"

Ryou murmured a few appreciative comments, not being especially good at demonstrations of intense appreciation other than exclaiming "Sugoi!", and shuffled away. His other half sighed regretfully, wondering when the day would come when his un-debatable genius would finally be acknowledged more satisfactorily.

"Where are you going now?"

"I thought I would go into the kitchen…Malik-kun is finishing off the preparations for dinner, and I thought I could offer to help him-" He looked nervously at his dark for approval.

"Sou-ka." He pondered fleetingly whether Rishid would be dining with them. If so, then perhaps it would be prudent to deny them his presence just for tonight; it would not do for Isis to embarrass herself in front of her beloved family now, would it…? "Matte-zo, my Ryou. I am sure that our host's mind is still sufficiently intact for him to scrub potatoes without help."

The lighter half looked uncertainly at him for a moment, as if wondering what he was implying. After an unsure pause, he ventured tentatively, "…Malik-kun is so kind now, isn't he? He acts so pleasantly towards me…"

"You think so?" The spirit's voice held no obvious agreement or disagreement.

A little encouraged, Ryou nodded, timidly emphatic. "He's so informative about all the fascinating things here - and always polite. Never…never sarcastic, or…bitter…" The last word was whispered.

"Bitter…" his dark repeated idly. "No, he doesn't seem bitter, does he? So, 'Malik-kun' is polite and kind then?"

Ryou nodded nervously, as if being tested on something that he hadn't quite revised properly for. The spirit of the Ring gazed at the screen of their laptop, watching data flash by, and rolled a re-writable DVD between his fingers. After a moment, Ryou blurted out: "He seems sad though."

"Hm?" His other did not look up.

"They all seem sad," Ryou continued in a tone of soft wonderment. "The whole family. Like…trees in winter. It's as if they don't know what is happening to them, as if they exist only in a state of resigned bewilderment…" He trailed off, embarrassed.

The dark placed the DVD carefully back in its case,. He replaced it next to its companions, and then turned to gaze thoughtfully at his host. "Trees in winter…I like that image, my Ryou. It's very apt." Stretching a little, Bakura rose, while his host blinked in confusion. "You have done enough drawing for today, haven't you?"

"I think so."

"Then you need something else to do." Gesturing elegantly to the laptop and the various removable media scattered around it: "You may clean that up."

Ryou scrambled to his feet, grateful for unambiguous instructions and something to do. Without giving him another glance, his yami turned and left the room, a sense of languid purpose hanging lazily about him.

……………

Ishtar Malik was not, as they had supposed, scrubbing potatoes; he was actually preparing what would eventually be dessert. Bakura stepped lightly behind him, close enough to discern what seemed to constitute a defiant, almost desperate sense of purpose and willingness to lose himself completely in any task that offered itself before him - and close enough too to appreciate the smell of something sweet and sticky. He waited until the Egyptian had moved away, still unaware of his presence, before dipping in a curious finger - only to have it promptly slapped away.

"I thought food was beneath you?"

"Taitei…" He satisfied himself with breathing in the sticky, syrupy aroma. "Oishisou. Sore-wa?"

"Wait and see." He began slicking sheets of phyllo with melted butter so that it wouldn't fall apart.

The Ring-spirit watched in waning interest for a few more moments, focused more on the bowl stuffed full of cinnamon, sugar, walnuts and mazahar and smeared with more butter. Leaning lazily against the counter, he considered briefly whether to fold his arms would make his stance forbidding, and only encourage the setting up of more defensiveness. Ah, but it was fun when they tried to resist, wasn't it? And besides, was he going to make compromises now, of all times, and for this person, of all people? He smiled, and his arms weaved together to fold back comfortably against his chest.

The person next to him gave a small, wearily exasperated sigh and tried to chop a few more walnuts without making it seem as if he were trying to actively destroy them.

Bakura smiled again. "Ah, do you find me childish now, Malik?"

The disdainful air didn't suit him; it did, however, make him appear very like his sister. "A little."

"You don't like me enjoying a little light banter with the Pharaoh?"

"No, I don't."

"You don't approve?"

The knife hovered briefly, like a guillotine, before smashing decisively down. "No."

"And why not? Is it the casual disrespect of a God-like figure? Is that what irks you?"

"Is this an interrogation?"

"Well, no. Unless, of course, you want it to be." Then: "I am your guest. I am curious. And I have been around for a little while now, and life can get a bit trying occasionally. Humour me."

"What irks me? You said it already. The disrespect."

"Of course it is. You wouldn't want to see them brought low, would you? But the Gods are dead, Malik. They died back when _I_ lived in Egypt."

"That is what gives them their power."

He liked that. And all this verbal fencing, the desperate stalling, pleased him. "That may be so, Malik-_kun_."

"Don't use that suffix towards me."

"Does it make you uneasy when my other uses it? When he says your name with trust?"

"If you use it with such sarcasm then it either becomes patronising or just plain insulting."

"Sou, sou. But the trust is pleasant, isn't it?" He casually yanked open the cutlery drawer with a clang of metal that made the Egyptian give a little jump, and began heaping knives onto the counter. "Or don't you consider yourself worthy of it anymore, Marik-chan-yo?" The 'r' sound emerged a little rolled, as if he chose to play with the sound before releasing it.

Malik did not choose to concede an answer. Why did he always have to play around like this; couldn't he just get to the point? Perhaps what he had to say was of such inconsequence that he felt the need to disguise it with digressions, he thought with uneasy irritability. And that mode of address, too, felt strange when slipping casually from someone else's mouth, even if it _was _only used as a diminutive: only Sister ever used such words as "Malik-chan" or "otouto-chan" towards him; Rishid still persisted with the "-sama" and that was worst of all.

"The dessert is burning," the spirit remarked nonchalantly.

Malik let loose several Arabic expletives that had been worming their way up for quite a few minutes now and turned back to the oven. He stopped abruptly.

"You bastard, I didn't even put anything in…"

"I know," Bakura answered calmly.

Malik spat out something that sounded distinctly like, _alf zobr fe teezak - _roughly translatable to "a thousand cocks in your arse", making the Ring-spirit grin despite himself.

"A truly delightful way to express anger."

"It's better than some ways I know. Just what the _hell_ do you want?"

Shrug. "I'm a curious person, and I'm sating my curiosity."

"You know what I think?" Malik snapped. "I think the reason why you conceded to come to Egypt was because curiosity wasn't the only thing you were hoping to sate. And if that is true, then you can just bugger off _home_ to _Japan."_

A quick snatch of silence. He even thought he heard the other spirit breathe, an abruptly snatched fist of air that was just as abruptly exhaled. Bakura did not look at him.

Eventually, still staring at the floor, he pronounced in a soft voice kept forcibly even: "That…is a decidedly different attitude to the one you held before."

"Oh, it's the same one." _Everyone has something in them that can be manipulated. Perhaps your weakness was allowing me to find it. _"You aren't the only person who _concedes_ to do things, you know. Especially out of pity."

Bakura's nostrils flared and he straightened, searching at once for the something within the sneering expression that would reassure him that what had just been uttered was a falsehood. "_Pity?"_

"For your weakness."

"My…" For a moment the spirit looked as if he were going to strike him. Malik tensed but did not draw back. Then the pale fists relaxed, and ceased to tremble.

"Yes," the Ring-spirit said after a moment. His voice was soft again, controlled. "A contemptible moment of weakness it surely was. Well, I certainly will not make such a mistake again."

_I threw it away,_ Malik thought, but he did not really agree. The spirit had been thrown off balance for a split-second, enough to cease the amused sarcasm, and that was worth a lot, considering his usual complete self-control. There was still the faintest remnant of a tremble, a shiver of unease, in those now loosely-closed fists. And that was the second time he had seen ever him shiver like that, wasn't it? Enough for the inference that someone had not dismissed this quite as easily as he said.

_I think the past means a tiny bit more to you than you will admit, doesn't it?_

Bakura slowly unfolded his arms. He laughed, briefly. "But points of weaknesses, once identified, are well on their way to becoming remediable. Thank you for drawing mine to my attention. The point is, are you just as ready to accept your own?"

"Yes, actually. It prevents me from the same downfall that awaits you."

"And that is…?"

"The ultimate punishment from the Gods. To judged corrupted by Anubis and Thoth, and to have your heart consumed by Ammit. From a failure to realise your place. To recognise just how often you strayed from it. And to identify which individuals are worthy of truly unwavering respect as opposed to petty insults."

He was amused now. "Oh Malik-chan, that punishment you are so enthusiastically describing would be far more meaningful if the Gods actually still existed. Although -" he cut the Egyptian off just as he began to protest - "I must confess a certain fascination for the way you talk now. Interestingly reminiscent both of your sister and of our Pharaoh. And could it be that that same punishment is the same one which you believe you yourself have so narrowly avoided? Which you believe you still deserve, even now? Perhaps any punishment you _would_ receive would be purely psychosomatic."

Coldly: "Don't turn your psychological mind-shit on me."

"The problem with my psychological mind-shit, Malik-chan, is that it is usually correct." His voice took on the faintest edge of ice. "And just so you know, Malik-_chan,_ it isn't necessary to tell me the rules of _my _religion. Having been born into it a few thousand years before you, I dare say my own views are a great deal purer than someone who has been living in a confused mess of ancient Egyptian Gods, Tomb-Keeper-brainwashing, Islamic surroundings and Seth knows what else for the entirety of his young life."

The Egyptian turned pale with anger. _It's fine; he's only being patronising, nothing more; you can deal with being patronised…_

"What to say now?" Bakura was watching him very closely. "After all, how do you reply to something like that? Something really cutting, to put him back in his place? Or seek sanctuary in dignified silence? Now, what would your sister do?"

"She would never have invited you in the first place," Malik muttered thickly, spiking anger turning each syllable staccato.

"Hm. Possibly. I have certainly felt more welcome before."

The Egyptian suddenly sounded very tired. "Look, I'm sorry about that. You know I am. Perhaps if I had known they were going to be quite so…_resentful_, I would not have invited you. I do want you, and Ryou as well, to enjoy yourselves here. But if you think that you would enjoy yourselves better elsewhere, then…well, I would understand."

"Oh, I am sure that you will find my lighter self much more tolerant than you imagine. He finds everything here a potential source of pleasure…it is almost an enviable attitude. As for myself…I merely take it upon myself to wonder occasionally."

"About…?"

"Just…people's attitudes. Their characters…I find them fascinating. Tell me, purely to satisfy my truly _insatiable_ curiosity: why is such resentment harboured against me in this household? No one bothers to deny or even hide it."

Malik looked at the half-finished dessert spilling over the counter. He began to spread the walnut-mixture over one of the layers of dough, turning the knife back and forth. Bakura made as if to try and break a bit off, and Malik exclaimed exasperatedly: "It really doesn't taste particularly nice raw."

"Oishisou…" the spirit repeated longingly.

Immovably: "Oishii-kara. But that still doesn't mean you can have any _until it is cooked."_ He started melting the rest of the butter to pour over the phyllo dough. Then he took a knife from where the spirit of the Ring had arranged them in order of size (or perhaps sharpness) on the adjoining counter, and carefully proceeded to cut them into generous-sized squares. As he put the tray in the oven, he said in the quietest tone possible: "Maybe it isn't resentment they are habouring. Maybe it is hate."

"You don't have to share in it. Now tell me the reason for it."

Malik sighed. "Sister thinks…she thinks you are a bad influence. On me."

Bakura smirked broadly. "Ahhhh. So that is how it is."

"It isn't funny. She really doesn't want you to come anywhere near me."

"Lest I corrupt your poor little soul of the last of its innocence?"

"Something like that." He now looked distinctly uneasy. "That isn't all of it though, 'Kura. If it were just that, then perhaps I could try and talk with her. I think…" His voice became even lower, barely audible. "I think she _knows."_

The smirk on the spirit's face slowly disappeared. "That…explains matters. However, it also complicates them."

"Somewhat, yes."

"Shit," Bakura pronounced thoughtfully. "…Are you certain? Moreover, does she have evidence?"

The Egyptian shifted uncomfortably. "I'm not entirely certain that she knows. But…it's in the way she looks at me sometimes. And, when I…when I came back into the room afterwards, I think she was still awake. So no; it isn't certain either way."

A little shrug. "Then it doesn't particularly concern me. Furthermore, it adds a little interest."

"I don't think you want to be the subject of her interest." He turned the temperature of the oven down, glancing at the clock.

"Having that particular pair of eyes continually fastened on you could become a little trying, couldn't it?"

"Yes-" He stopped. Turned around. Took a step towards the spirit of the Ring. "What are you trying to make me say?"

"Oh, but I am not _making_ you say anything. Even so: don't you ever feel that she watches you? More often that is easily excusable?"

"No more than, say, Rishid watches me. Or _you."_

"I like watching people."

"What you mean is that you like watching _me._ All right then, perhaps they are a little over-protective. What of it?"

"What do you think they are watching for?"

"Well, considering past events-" They had initially been conversing in Arabic: the Ring-spirit felt that it would be prudent to use the language in which the subject of his interest could best express himself. However, he himself could never stay in one language for too long and often dropped back into Japanese, with Malik shrugging inwardly and following him. They were currently back in Japanese again, and as the mortal pronounced the words _past events_, the withheld emotions associated with all that these words had to convey expressed themselves in a leaking of accent so pronounced that he felt it at once and switched back into Arabic. "-it is only natural that they should feel concern."

"And to such a degree - this is excusable?"

"In those circumstances, yes."

"Ah, now here we disagree." He looked almost pleased. "The past does not interest me to _that_ extent, Malik. I am talking about the present. About the _present_ circumstances. And I think you will agree that they vary considerably from the situation you were referring to. You spoke of your family keeping watch on you in a vague fashion, attempting to discern anything that might be problematic. Have you not considered that perhaps the gaze of Isis is more sharply focused?"

"On what?"

This time the spirit of the Ring certainly did exhale, leisurely. His eyes, the rich crimson of wine, held the Egyptian's attention; for a moment he explored the other's defensive gaze, violet surface broken by the occasional careless fleck of black floating across like a lonely bird skimming an empty sky.

"What?" Malik repeated.

"Oh, just a few small things." He breathed in again; what should have been a sound so familiar it was automatically blocked out was rendered hypnotic by its rarity. He hadn't breathed so much in _years. _"Despite what you might argue, Malik, I am not a fool. Neither am I blind. Even a person who comfortably fulfilled both categories could scarcely fail to notice that this household is not a happy one. Although please don't assume that your happiness is at the top of my current priority list. I just can't help noticing things sometimes."

Folding his arms, trying not to tense: "And what things do you notice?"

"The _strangest_ things, Malik. For example, take a look at what I found a few hours ago." With lazy gestures suggesting that it were of no more consequence or important to him than the weather, he slowly drew out the Millennium Rod. A half-moment later, the God Card Ra no Yoku Shin Ryou appeared. "Rolling around in a drawer as if they were mere objects! A locked drawer, admittedly, but a rather dusty one nonetheless. Peculiar, the things a paperclip can yield."

"…I should have known you would have no respect for privacy," the Egyptian muttered.

"Hm?"

"It doesn't matter. Get those things away from me."

"Such a puzzling attitude! You used to enjoy owning these things, didn't you? And I know there is a part of you that still enjoys them."

"I don't own them anymore."

"I know you don't. They are merely…" He thought for a moment, before continuing in the same relentlessly cheerful tone. "…Temporarily bequeathed back upon you by a lenient Pharaoh, aren't they? And why not? After all, he has no use for them. Seeing as the Items and Kami-no Cardo have been shown to reveal no great secret when collected after all, at least none that has chosen to make itself clear to him, why should the Pharaoh not humour himself and establish a tolerant, even liberal image by loaning the objects back to their previous owners, who are now safely-established servants of his? Except, of course, people like Kaiba Seto, but we don't talk about that, do we?"

Malik decided that at the moment "we" were not going to talk about anything. The spirit's ruthless method of summing up a situation and then forcing him to confront it was not something that he was particularly happy participating in. Moreover, he was not happy at all at the direction in which the conversation was leading. However, it could only work properly if the other person was offering an opinion, so he decided to stop doing so; also, seeing as his opinions apparently counted for something vaguely equal to horseshit in Bakura's eyes, he decided that a cold silence would be the best defence, at least until the spirit latched onto this and began to pick it apart too.

"Piercing through stages of denial can take a while, so if you want to stand there with that amusing scowl on your face then just carry on."

_You know what, you bastard? I think I will._

"Just standing there, you see, provides me with lots of interesting possibilities. I could even indulge in something as puerile as waving the Millennium Rod at you to see how much time passes before you snatch it back. And when you do, you will feel that satisfying right feel of ownership. And you will be glad to have it back."

_I don't **want** it back._

"Let us continue the childishness further. I am betting that I will be relieved of this by the second swipe." He extended the Item towards Malik, who took a step back, out of range.

"I don't fucking _want_ it back so stop _waving _it at me. Do you _want_ me to take it back? Because if you do not rediscover your maturity in the next five seconds I am going to take my Item back, and I am going to kill you with it."

Bakura considered this with a thoughtful "Hmmm" that succeeded in pissing the Egyptian off even further. "So…if I returned this Millennium Rod to you at this very moment, then you believe that that is what will happen?"

Malik closed his eyes. "…No."

"Very true. Then, one more question." He paused, looked down at the Rod, and then back at Malik. "At what point did you discover that the darkness within you had returned?"

The Egyptian became very, very pale. He took a step back, found himself to be up against the door, and let out a low sound of dismay.

"Let's make it easy. Was it, for example, before or after we were invited here?"

"…After," he whispered at last in a hoarse, high sound. "That is…after the initial invitation, but that was months ago. Before the final one."

"I see. When did your sister find out?"

"Soon after. She…she could tell. What are you going to do? You won't…" He trailed off, black-flecked eyes growing hopelessly round.

"Well, there don't appear to be a particularly large amount of options. Either you let him out for me to deal with, I extract him from you forcibly, or I kill you to make sure he can't come back." His gaze grew thoughtful. "Personally, the lasting effectiveness of the latter makes it rather appealing…"

Malik was at the stage where he might have raised his hands and spluttered, _let's not get hasty,_ especially seeing the utter, dead seriousness in the other's eyes. As it was, he mumbled, "A fourth option always remains…" Ra knew he had been over the first three possibilities enough times. "You could…you could just leave him."

The Ring-spirit, who had for a split-second looked attentive and interested at the possibility of a fourth option, now dismissed this timid proposal with a laugh, wild and excited. "Hell, no." His words grew more serious, although the excitement remained, to a degree.

"I mentioned before that your happiness is not dominating my list of priorities; I wish to reiterate that now. Basically put, you don't have a say in this."

Malik _did_ splutter this time - an unrehearsed, indignant splat of sounds that caused Bakura to look at him in interest. "That's _bullshit._ He's in _my_ fucking body!"

Dismissive wave of a white hand. "Pre-cise-ly. He requires that you, or at the very least your body, remain intact. Therefore this does not directly concern you. Besides, the use of your own body might tempt you to act in your own best interests-"

"Doesn't _concern_ me?" Malik exclaimed in a bellow, almost destroying the spirit's eardrums. "What about if he finishes off the rest of my family: does his fate concern me then?"

"Possibly. What I am more focused on is the possibility of any more immediate threat emerging concerning myself; or rather, that of my host, seeing as in spirit form I can take care of myself very well."

"You," pronounced the Egyptian in a tone of the very deepest and basest disgust, "are the most repulsively self-centred _bastard_ that I have ever met."

"Well then," the spirit said in a conversational tone, "at least now you can say that you have seen everything."

Malik let out an exasperated sound and crossed over to check on dessert. Without turning to face the other: "Even if hell froze over and people there started requesting hot drinks, there is no way that I would go to the trouble of forcing him out just so you can attempt to kill him, fail and then add another event to your list of personal fuck-ups."

"You wouldn't relinquish him for your sister, so you certainly won't do it for me?"

"Absolutely."

"Then," Bakura answered delicately, voice dancing lightly and easily over each syllable, "have you considered the possibility that you are protecting him?"

Malik slammed the oven door shut. "Maybe so. But I have had _enough_ of my life being disrupted, especially by people like you. And if it is less trouble to leave him in there then fine, so be it. He's like a fucking leech - you can't just pull him out if he doesn't want to come out. But if he is an inactive leech then what is the point in dragging everything back up? Maybe you don't get tired of messing up my life, but people like my sister and the Pharaoh get tired of sorting it all out again afterwards."

"Even if he were as passive as you seem to think, people get bored being passive." The spirit's voice, growing ever quieter and more controlled, was a direct contrast to Malik's steadily-increasing snaps.

"Well, he doesn't. He just sleeps. Every once in a while he wakes up, and then he's a catatonic mess for a few hours, and the he gives up and goes back to sleep. It isn't as if he could ever take over again."

"Then why do you distance yourself from the God Cards and Items if you do not fear they will act as triggers?"

An angry beat of silence. "I don't see the point in waking him up."

"But if he supposedly doesn't do anything-"

"It's just easier!" Malik snapped at him. "Some of us _like_ to have days where life is noticeably easier than before! Not everyone gets pleasure from creating chaos if there isn't any around. I _like_ my life how it is now."

"Of course that, like everything else, is relative."

Ra, he just wanted him to shut up. "Are you trying to push me until he takes over and then you can settle all your petty grudges? I know you are implying that life would be better if he were not in any state of existence and I agree with you, but the hassle required to attain such a life just isn't _worth_ it!"

"Perhaps because you don't know what you are missing." Then, as the Egpytian made as if to yell at him - and he was _going _to yell this time, he was going to fucking scream and scream until his vocal cords snapped - Bakura shrugged and raised a hand in the beginning of an attempt at pacification.

"Very well. You can continue that winding path if you don't think it will disrupt anyone. I won't make any active attempts to remove him. However -" as Malik's mouth suspiciously formed the word 'active' - "in the seemingly remote chance that he _does_ emerge, I wish to make it clear that I will not hold back in any way in order to protect my host."

"That…seems reasonable." He managed to make his voice controlled.

"Then, an understanding has been reached." Bakura turned to go.

After hastily peeking into the oven to check that nothing was burning, Malik followed him. "And you are just going to leave things there?"

"Mm-hmm. Ah, but of course; you expect me to replace these before anyone sees them, na?"

"Not that. I mean, naturally I want you to that in addition; but what I was referring to was…you know, the atmosphere…between us…"

Bakura waited patiently until he trailed off. However, he then also appeared to be unsure what to say. "…If you are referring to the possibility of awkwardness, then you don't need to worry about me."

"I- oh, shut up. You know what I mean."

"Awkwardness is counter-productive. If you so wish, we can continue the pleasant façade maintained until now. We can be 'friends.'"

"I suppose it is logical."

"Logic should not have to supposed to exist." He locked the two objects back into the drawer. "You should think about getting a more secure lock."

"Well, you see, most of the time people don't go through my things."

Bakura smirked easily. He strolled back into the lounge, and Malik, with nothing better to do, followed him. He watched the spirit settle comfortably into the sofa.

"What is Egyptian television like?" He picked up a remote-control and idly flicked through channels.

"Oh…well, I suppose that it is like Japanese T.V, only in Arabic. Probably not so good, either."

"Sou-ka…" More flicking.

"Do you even know how to work that thing?"

"I could work it out if I tried hard enough."

"I can't believe you can hack into someone's computer but you can't use a T.V remote. Doesn't Ryou ever watch anything?"

"Mm. Not really." He pushed the remote into Malik's face. "Show me," he commanded.

Sigh. Malik showed him how to select channels and adjust the volume, and the spirit snatched it back. "I can work it now."

"I wasn't finished, actually-" Malik tried to fish it off him to complete the education a little more thoroughly, but it turned into a wrestle for ownership as the spirit hung on.

"You can't make me give it back-"

Malik promptly smothered him in a cushion, and was rewarded with the spirit relinquishing the prize. Not content to leave it there, the Ring-spirit pelted him with more cushions. It degenerated into a mock-wrestle on the sofa, both trying to suffocate the other.

"You know what this is?" Bakura said in a hopeful tone through a mouthful of cushion. "It's fuckin' kinky."

"Shut up. Shut up." More suffocation. "You said _friends._ That's all we are. I don't want anything else. And I don't give a damn if you do."

There came a muffled "Humph" from somewhere within the sofa, although one could suppose that it could just as easily have been "And what then?"

The tussle continued.

Isis, passing by with an armful of laundry, was at once made aware of sounds that, in her experience, constituted either a brawl or some other desperate attempt to prove manhood, and cautiously, with a laundry basket held in front of her for protection, poked her head around the door. "…Oh."

"Isis-san, can I help you with the laundry at all?" Seeing that she was distracted - well, standing in the doorway with an eyebrow raised - Ryou peeped in.

Isis rolled her eyes and turned away. "What do you think, Ryou-kun? Some bizarre manifestation of macho maleness that you miraculously missed out on?"

"I…think so."

……………

(cheers wildly) I did it! 12700 words plus, not including author's notes. (Wow, with author's notes included I break 13000 words…) And I was so nervous about writing the conversation between Malik and yami-no Bakura; I thought it could so easily go wrong. I only worry now that it drags; I don't think so, however. I mean, it's so long…

Lots of sub-plots have either been established or the foundations for them laid down in this chapter; I am going to continue to do so throughout the tale, because it is riddled with sub-plots to the extent that I am not entirely certain which is supposed to be the main plot. I wanted to increase the pace in this chapter, which I hope has happened. It has certainly turned out to be less based on description and more based on dialogue than chapter two. I think it is actually noticeably wittier as well, although that is probably my hopeful imagination.

Now that I have firmly established the personalities of the protagonists (I'm actually particularly pleased with Rishid, for some absurd reason. I was so cruel to him, mostly because he annoys me - so far in this story though, he's like this retarded little worshipper of Malik. Hee.) and have lots of sub-plots, I can really get going with the action. I just didn't want to rush into anything; and besides, I'm enjoying it too much to want to rush it or get it over with too quickly.

Ah, and the title is the Latin name for the Egyptian Sand Boa, and the name of Malik's dessert is going to be mentioned in the next chapter. I spent a while looking for vegetarian Egyptian recipes online, so it is perfectly authentic. Oh, and readers will probably notice a steady increase in the sophistication of the Japanese bandied around, reflecting my progress through my books. I'm on chapter eleven out of twenty - and can tell the time! And know a few tenses, and the three meanings of "-kara" and three of the five meanings of "-ni" and hopefully lots more.


	4. Darkness' Prelude

A/N: Yes, it has been a long time since I last updated. Chapter four was getting long, so long…when I reached 20,000 words I decided that enough was enough, and made the reluctant decision to split it into three chunks, in order to make it more readable. Let's face it: after the first 19,990 words, one's attention generally starts to wander. I still haven't finished 'chapter four' as such - most of the way through the second part. I just have to decide where to split it again. Therefore, naturally, this might seem a bit of a strange chapter - it certainly is a prelude to the main action. But I needed to establish a few more things, so it was very much necessary. The ending…it's not where I intended to end at all, and makes it pretty clear what is going to happen next, but it was sort of obvious anyway. But as to _exactly_ what will happen next - I hope that no one could possibly guess. If you do…heh, present-fic written as a prize for the winner? I'm going to regret saying that…

**Chapter Four: Darkness' Prelude.**

The sandpaper-scrape of the blinds did not wake Isis, even when their irregular clashing together unintentionally yielded access to the drills of light that had been pounding the glass outside for almost three hours now. Yet she felt compelled for some reason to react as though they had, closing her eyes as the beams, now having finally charged their way in, slowed uncertainly to lap at her face.

There comes a time, or perhaps more than one, when light must give way to darkness, acknowledging that it is not as uniform as first perceived but instead exists in all sort of daring hues; there are so many shades of darkness, casting so many different shadows, while light…well, it's all been seen before, in ultraviolet and infrared and mundane colour of day. It is time again for the spotlight to be focused on dark, and then to shy away in awe.

The sunlight could not comprehend this; it drummed, baffled and stubborn, upon the blinds hanging there like sandpaper-coated wind chimes, scraping out a muffled melody. And the darkness crept behind the blinds and nudged them to, so that an abrasive resistance was summoned. Encouraged at this resistance, certain now that it was doing the right thing, the sunlight tapped insistently and irritatingly at the window, as if to question whether the person inside wanted to be left in a time-warp while the rest of the world gave in to light's inevitable and rightful domination and continued their lives under its smug gaze.

_Yess, yessss, _came the answering hiss, shown only in the way a sudden swarm of black reared up and cloaked the window, possessively.

Recognising that a fight was imminent, the light puffed up its chest and prepared to reclaim some territory. What an infringement of universally-understood rights and hierarchies, indeed. Now to kick some dark arse.

Well, something like that. It had degenerated a bit towards the end. And she was not sure why she had chosen to think of it in terms like that; it was as if she did not want the light to win, for Horus' sake. In fact, it was almost a view that one of the spirits could have come up with - and damn if she didn't know Kauket, eager ruler of darkness and chaos, was behind _them. _She honestly did not know how she would last the rest of the first week, let alone an hour today in a car, with that self-elevated tomb-robber. She particularly disliked his easy yet controlled composure, maintaining an exterior that hovered between - dare she say it - _lightness, _and of tight, unreachable shadow. To her he appeared to be a vessel himself, one filled to the brim of the blackest, purest dark, and which threatened at any moment to spill, to gush over the sides of its confines to drag them all under.

Well, she certainly wasn't going to let him do any spilling over _her._ And he could damn well clean up the mess. How she worried though that it would seep, deep and tainting, into each and every one of them, and especially into her Malik. She thought she could understand a little why he did not reject this dark representative as easily and unthinkingly as she and Rishid had done: he _could _be beguiling at times, affecting an attitude infuriating in its casualness, and making light of things which would normally be considered serious. Yet whenever she herself wondered if she was not being affected by this to a degree, her gaze would be brought back to the knowing glint of blades slung around his waist; they could only be there for a reason, and she supposed that he was skilled enough with them.

What sort of effect was this having on Ryou-kun? The poor child followed the spirit everywhere; he obviously adored him. Every word spoken, every gesture carelessly directed at him, seemed to generate an internal explosion of delight. He seemed to be immune to any interpretation of his other self as anything other than…no, not God - throwing the idea of a God at them seemed to upset the balance established. Benevolent master? Surely not. Yet this manifestation of disdainful master and adoring servant which she had seen before, playing out forever between Malik and Rishid, seemed to apply only partially here; the context was different, the balance too tipped. It seemed to need something else, some other hybrid glue, to produce that restricting tight bond. Some other layer of the relationship yet to manifest itself clearly to her, then. Perhaps it would be made apparent later.

She sighed and looked briefly, expectantly, at the blinds. At once they swung open; her breath caught in her throat as the light pounded through, brutish blast swathing her face in a crude halo. Dark slunk into corners.

Well, what better demonstration did she require? Light's dominance was natural and inevitable and welcomed. Dark in comparison was weak, reduced to the sidelines: just look at the way it climbed those walls, consuming quietly, progress slow and hushed and driven - light would always stamp it down.

She kicked off the covers, and began to dress quickly.

………….

The spirit of the Millennium Ring was, most conveniently, in such a mood of lightness at the moment. His meditation of the previous night had made everything clear; it had taken several hours, and two packets of sandalwood incense, but now he felt he could see a little more into himself, and that of a few other people besides. He hummed more Nightwish as he circled the lounge, the emergence of his other self and Malik - well, perhaps he could refer to them mentally as the two light selves now - not yet having happened. His gaze lingered briefly on all the objects which had so fascinated his lighter self the previous night - the tiny statues, old and new, of ivory and soapstone, hewed into more icons of this past of his. He could see now that while they need not be discarded, they should not be the subject for excessive concern on his part, certainly not to the extent of recreating his overly-strong reaction two days previously. The past was safely past, memories of it residing only in long-rotting mummy brains. Oh, but not even that: was not the brain smashed into mush and pulled out through the nose during embalming? Everything else shoved into canopic jars - except the heart of course; no one would ever disturb that. Anubis only knew what happened to the brain; in all likelihood, shoved in some ancient rubbish bin. No danger there, then.

The humming evolved into soft singing, as he cast a last thoughtful glance at a small carving of a sleeping cat - wooden, so it was obviously modern, given that nothing made of wood could ever have hoped to survive all these years. He swung away, dismissive air absent just as he had promised himself, voice rising just a little as it approached the end of the first verse of "Tutankhamen". Singing was something that the Ring-spirit enjoyed, although he did not have that many opportunities to demonstrate such an enjoyment. Nonetheless, lack of practice had not noticeably degenerated his efforts; his voice danced appreciatively through each note, hitting it squarely far more often than not, and producing a sound that was just noticeably, although not considerably, higher than what might have been expected.

"_Hear the cats meowing in the temple…they yearn the milk you cascaded, as I yearn that promised treasure…_Nyan-nyan-da-to?" He looked down, amused, as Layla head-butted his legs while mewing plaintively. "Tabetai? Or perhaps you only understand Arabic?" He hoisted her into his arms, and strutted casually into the kitchen. "Eeto…what do cats eat nowadays?" He raided the fridge doubtfully. In disapproval: "No meat." How ridiculous, to have an entire family of vegetarians. It made man's position as towering atop the food chain completely irrelevant.

He peeked in the freezer, just in case, before turning doubtfully back to the expectant Siamese. "Jaa, dore-ga ii? Show me." He was used to his commands being obeyed, especially when accompanied by a suitably strong suffix such as "-ze" or "-yo", and thus it came as no real surprise when Layla, as baffled as he was and far more hungry, leapt up to the counter and batted a cupboard with a chocolate-tipped paw.

"Sou-ka." He approached the cupboard, and sniffed the air. "Meat!" His eager red eyes went straight to the precisely-aligned tower of tins nestled in the corner. Recognising them after a moment of blankness as 'tins', he peeled back the aluminium cover and tipped the contents of one into the bowl on the tiled floor. Need finally recognised and fulfilled, the Siamese leapt neatly to the floor, to pad silently across. Bakura watched for a few moments as she cleaned out the bowl, proceeding afterwards to lick her sleek chocolate paws until they gleamed like jewels, before lapsing back into soft singing.

"_Three millenniums it took me to guard your rest, your slumber in mighty Phoenix's nest;  
but tonight the darkness in the tomb has perished…" _He stared abruptly at the empty tin in his white hand, before flinging it in the bin. "Three millennia of slumber. They make it sound so peaceful, so renewing, in the songs…but I hope that the darkness in your tomb lingers a little longer, Pharaoh. Our business together is not yet finished, even between our…_renewed_ selves."

Layla mewed again; he did not look at her as he walked out of the kitchen, shaking her coldly off as she sought to entwine his legs in a gesture of gratefulness.

……………

"Ryou, are you certain it hasn't rolled under the bed?"

"Iya; I just checked." Flustered, he checked again. "I _do_ actually need this one; it's one of my favourite shades…" He trailed off, looking around in bewilderment.

Malik was taking the opportunity to top up his eyeliner as Ryou scrabbled desperately around him. "Well, we still have a few more minutes before nee-san finishes breakfast, plus the extra quarter of an hour she needs to put on all her makeup, so don't get too anxious just yet."

Ryou did not look reassured at all; when he turned round, his other was holding out a pencil in "Burnt Carmine" in his outstretched hand. "On the windowsill."

"Oh…thank you so much, koe." He took the pencil, demeanour unconsciously wilting just a little as he registered that the spirit's previous lighter, more buoyant air was now coldly dissipated. At once he worried that he was the cause of it, and his dark eyes grew beseeching and fawning. He had been exuding this anxious desire to please in steadily increasing dollops throughout the past few days, appearing to be confused by the unfamiliar tones in which others communicated with his koe, whether it be Malik's unbothered casualness or Isis' stiffly-condescending disapproval, the latter of which, although he did not entirely understand, had been made subconsciously aware of nonetheless. So baffling to him was this constant exposure to the lack of respect which his other now received that he seemed to have made up his mind to atone for others' ignorant offending by offering an intensified version of his own adoration as compensation. Now it seemed as if this was inadequate: should it be intensified further, or a different method attempted?

None of this took the form of conscious thought; it was all much too deeply ingrained for that. Nonetheless, everything was quite clearly and unintentionally communicated to his other, through the way in which his chocolate eyes were darkened by a hue of distress at his awareness that he was not fully fulfilling his role – the spirit turned his stare impatiently away, not in the mood to indulge him through automatic reassurances, leaving his light to stare at the floor in a state of temporary utter disconsolation, before the desperate yearning reasserted itself and he promised himself yet again that he would do better next time.

Malik had finally succeeded in applying eyeliner to his satisfaction, and stepped back for a moment to inspect the effect. "How much longer do you need to get ready? Not that we will probably be leaving any time soon." The black flecks in his eyes had thickened into splinters, and their presence was in fact emphasised by the surrounding kohl, so that from a distance his eyes appeared to consist more of dark than light.

"I think I'm nearly ready…is it very far?"

"Memphis? No, no; about twelve miles from Cairo. Nee-san will drive us there." He looked towards the spirit of the Ring, who had now realised the most probable reason why Isis had glowered so openly at him this morning – sharing a car with him was probably not top of her To-do list. With rising intonation causing a little twist of accent: "The Ancient Egyptian name for our destination is "Ineb Hedj", if that is any more meaningful to you?"

Bakura frowned and felt around for the lingering scent of sandlewood. "…White…the white walls. The words don't bring any associations, however."

Malik echoed his tone with a shrug. "Seeing as you don't know exactly where in Egypt you lived, there isn't any way of knowing whether you would have known of its existence anyway. Well, whatever. Would you care for some eyeliner?"

"Nan-da?" He was certain that he had misheard.

"It would be quite pleasingly symbolic if you trotted back to Memphis with the same abundance of kohl that you would have had before, wouldn't it? But, my fancies aside, you could try it anyway. Or re-try it, depending on what basis we are working on."

"You appear to be slightly more fixated with my past than I myself am," the spirit remarked dryly. "Considering my relative status, wouldn't the Pharaoh be a little more interesting to investigate?"

"_Hell,_ no. I've done the Pharaohs to death. And having to memorise all their birth dates and exactly when they ruled and who was the son of whom causes most of them to lose their appeal." Snort. "And also you have the rest of the family gushing over certain ones, saying, oooh, Hatshepsut or Amenhotep was the _shit_, while really –"

"_Oops,"_ the Ring-spirit interjected. "I think _someone's _façade of adoration just dropped." He smirked. "But yes, continue, continue."

Malik flushed. "It's not…a façade. And you can't try and cause me to…to…" He stopped, searching for a suitable Japanese word.

Offered with another knowing smirk: "Diss?"

Pointedly: "I was attempting to find something a little more respectful, not to mention mature, but fine then. You can't try and cause me to diss the current Pharaoh that way."

"Oh, I'll find another way."

"The hell you will. So, eyeliner?"

The offer was considered, slowly and not without suspicion. "Very well then."

Ryou, who had sat staring at Malik for most of the conversation, not least because of the casual tone which now appeared to be _deliberately_ maintained – a voluntary withholding of respect! – gaped further as his other proceed to darken his eyes with kohl. It was done curiously but relatively efficiently, Bakura having watched Malik sufficiently enough to have amassed a reasonable idea of what to expect. He stepped away from the mirror, blinking several times at this strange new presence lining his eyes. He fancied that he could just discern the actual particles of kohl at the very limits of his vision, like the slight and distracting overlap of nose that could be made out if you starting crossing your eyes, and when he looked down he actually looked into and through the pigment, so that his vision was darkened and everything acquired a slight edge of black mist. It was for some reason exciting, this adjustment to his vision, as if a sense had been actively enhanced.

The two lighter selves were staring avidly, and with something akin to awe, especially from Ryou. Timidly, he proposed, "It…it looks nice."

At length, Malik added to this. "It…suits you. You do, however, look quite like a goth."

This was not of particular concern to the spirit of the Ring, who had secretly possessed a great desire to parade around Japan in full gothic ensemble for quite a few years now. And the Japanese were so good at the gothic too; the Lolita fashions in particular were something that he had always been privately entranced by. And now he had added an edge of such a thing to his appearance, without going far enough to seem in any way conformist; it was oddly pleasing. He resolved at once to buy an eyeliner pencil of his own, and as soon as possible.

He peered again in the mirror, and again was pleased by what he saw: the contrast between this body's pure white skin and the black clothes that clung so closely and elegantly to it like a second of skins was now reinforced by the darkening of his eyes, so that now they were like two darker holes in his pale face, large like his lighter half's; but, unlike Ryou's, lacking the intensely almond shape that was so at once recognizable as oriental. If it were not for the undismissable crimson smouldering in his eyes like two dying fires then he would have appeared to have stepped straight out of a black and white film, such was the starkness of the contrast between these two skins of his. Yet, although colour should have added a reassuring sense of reality to his outward manifestation, instead it served to intensify the aura of surreality about him; and if you looked deeply enough into those eyes, not that he would ever let you, you would see that eventually that the flicker of uneasy life dwindled and instead it was like encountering the back of a deep cave, where only darkness could ever hope to reside.

……………

"What? _What?"_

Rishid cringed, and shuffled hastily back out of range from any impending brooms. "I can't help it…"

"And how long did you say you would be?" She glared again, eyes like lasers.

More cringing. "A week…maybe two…"

"Two! Two _weeks!"_ Isis looked around as if expecting that all her imaginary spectators would begin to mutter amongst themselves at this scandalous revelation. "You think that you can…you can just _leave?" _She made as if to jab a finger at him. "No one leaves this house without my permission! And in this case my permission is explicitly withheld! Two _weeks!"_

He winced at her tone and attempted to placate her, but the fury of the goddess was not so easily vanquished. Isis' most commonly-assumed tone, and which was presumed by most to be her only one, was that of calm dignity, wrapping around a will of pure, unalloyed iron. Now, however, indignation had warped it into a furious screech, the cheated scream of a harpy. "You think you can abandon us like this?"

"But…but-"

"You're not going." For a moment her voice was very calm. It rose towards the end, however, threatening to break once more into that uncontrolled screech.

He winced again. "Isis-sama-" – although they were, of course, 'conversing' in Arabic, he included the Japanese honorific particle in an attempt to convey his respect and desire to please – "It isn't anything I have a great deal of choice about." He rushed quickly on before she could insert a derisive "too right": "They are desperately short of employees in that area, and with the recent crisis, they need all the help they can mu-"

"But in _Luxor? _It's hours away!"

He shifted uncomfortably. "That isn't my fault…"

"Would you like to know what I think?" Isis was in full flow now: Rishid baulked as he saw this. The sky could fall down twice and she would still keep going. "I think that you engineered this entire ridiculous situation on purpose! What is more, you are perfectly prepared – perhaps even _too _prepared – to leave me alone in this house with – with _him!"_ More shameless guilt-tripping followed, heated Arabic flowing thick and fast and unstoppable. "You are prepared to leave your sister as the sole barrier between our Malik and that…that _fiend! _It's shameful! Are you really content to offer Malik to him like this? You know what he is like; if he senses that – if he hasn't already – "

"I would _never_ do that." Rishid was now roused enough himself to attempt, successfully, to get a word in edgeways, while his sister registered in disbelief that he was _interrupting_ her – "You know that I would sacrifice –"

He stopped abruptly; they both halted, turning slowly. Malik stood in the doorway, one eyebrow raised. "I _do_ know what an argument is, you know. Feel free to carry on; you can just ignore me. But if you are both that desperate that I don't overhear, I'll only be a moment anyway." Languidly he opened the fridge and selected a beer, before leaving, not bothering to conceal his scorn.

After a moment in which they both stood frozen, unsure whether he had really left, Isis turned, seething, to Rishid. "You see? How already that uncultured, uneducated thief of tombs is influencing him - _corrupting_ him? If you leave, in two weeks he will be unrecognisable!"

Rishid blinked several times. "Isis…do you not think…perhaps…you are…?"

"I'm not over-reacting," she snapped in his face. "He'll be coarse - hardened - _dark."_

They both stared at each other. Eventually, Rishid said quietly, "That won't happen. Not to him."

"Why not? What makes you think that?"

"He's strong. Hardened, like you said. He won't let anything happen."

"He doesn't always end up having much _choice._ And if you leave…" Her voice shook.

Rishid touched her arm, tentatively. "I've been away before. Nothing happened."

"But it's so different this time. And…there are so many reasons for revenge." Her tone softened, becoming more familiar, more saddened. "Don't go, Rishid; please. I…won't be able to contain everything on my own."

The sudden change in tone took him aback; it shouldn't have, because he was used to her methods of persuasion, but just as bad at resisting them nonetheless. "I…I have to go."

"You don't."

"Yes. Yes, I do." What he meant but did not know how to convey was that it had become oppressive here, stifling. He needed to see somewhere new.

Some realization of this registered in Isis' eyes. "Go on then. Go." She moved away a little.

Helplessly, he stared beseechingly at her.

"Just remember what you are leaving behind." She stalked out of the kitchen.

He stood, frozen, an immense useless statue, before moving predictably after her. "Wait…You know I don't mean to run away…I just…" Again, helpless, he stood, not knowing what to say.

She sighed and turned, before reaching up to tenderly touch his face for a moment. Startled, terrified to move, he stood paralysed. "I know, I know. I suppose…after all, it is only four hours away by car…you will keep your mobile phone on, won't you? Just in case?"

Guiltily, nervously, he nodded.

Malik peeked around the door just in time to see them embrace, Isis anxious but consoled a little, Rishid guilty but relieved. He sighed and allowed himself to relax; yet, he wondered, for a while afterwards, what they could have been discussing; and, when he had appeared in the doorway like that, just what emotion had stolen their eyes…for, to him, it had appeared almost to be fear…

…………

For a person who possessed an immensely unshakeable faith in one single thing, and in one respect considered the world to revolve around the reassuring dependability of this single thing, Bakura Ryou was dismayed to find himself inhabiting a state of confusion which, if solely his outside symptoms were taken into consideration, could be classed as something veering nervously between "mild" and "moderate", yet in this respect represented such a potential apocalypse of his labouriously-constructed world as to be considered severe beyond any method of measurement or classification. Having said that, it was more the potential events that could ensue, and not those which had already occurred, which worried him the most.

He had enjoyed Memphis; two 512MB memory cards squashed full of photos bore testimony to that, as did the ever-bulging sketchbook. And he had loved the way they strolled through this city of dust and rubble which must have so long ago been a bustling and screeching world; on one hand a decaying carcass, too fragile to touch lest it crumble further, like a fallen butterfly, sapped of movement and colour; yet on the other hand resurrected, if not restored: and people lived in it still. He wanted to touch it all, to hold everything in his trembling hands and sigh at their headscarves, brief dashes of colour almost an afterthought; their rickety trembling stalls, smooth steel poles scraping unsteadily in the dust like hobbled donkeys; the shallow trenches of roughly-hewn hieroglyphs filled in by time but still running down and all over the pillars and pots like tiny frozen rivers. And in the end all he could do was take: snapshots of photographs and memories, like stealing a little pile of dust to put in your pocket on the grounds that there was so much more. He certainly did not view himself as having any greater understanding or, indeed, "connection" to these things than anyone else; perhaps even less so, because at least Marik-kun and Isis-san _lived _here. He had no less right than anyone else to be called a tourist, because in essence that was what he was, wasn't it? Just a curious intruder, who sought to view and perhaps to attempt to understand these silent ruins which impassively and patiently tolerated the prods and pokes and stares of the unwashed masses, the gawpings and "oohings" and flash after blinding flash that were all that they had to offer; he could not assume that he had anything new to give. He could reassure himself temporarily that he would not sink that low by substituting awe and respect, but he was still, essentially, a trespasser.

Thus, Ryou did not view himself as having any particular reason to supposedly feel any vestiges of a deep connection with Egypt, and certainly not with these ruins, merely because an Egyptian spirit happened to have chosen to dwell inside him. It seemed to him pretentious wishfulness to assume that the existence of the spirit in him meant that he himself had any subconscious empathy with anyone or anything here; and such hopeful elevation was one of the few things that he unquestioningly condoned, because it seemed to him so unforgivably wrong to aspire to any status higher than that which you already were; such a belief was not rooted in fate so much as a pessimistic but contented acceptance in a complete social hierarchy, not pre-ordained as such but nonetheless earned.

This belief extended to the idea that, although naturally one's rank would appear to differ depending on the company, being lowered or elevated accordingly, it would remain the same relative to its ultimate place in the hierarchy i.e. a person's status would appear to be diminished in the company of their superiors, but ultimately they would still retain that status. Or, to give an example more appropriate to himself: he could be in the company of kind and understanding friends who appeared to treat his opinions with serious consideration and respect, but he would still remain just as unimportant as before. They were not supposed to actually suffer a permanent _loss_, an _alteration _of their position, because that would suggest that some deep change had occurred within themselves. And it was for this reason that Ryou was confused, feeling that he was observing from an uncoverable distance the slow disintegration of someone else's significance. And his koe seemed distantly aware of it too, and almost resigned to it.

It was not as if he meant any less to Ryou than he always had; rather that he seemed diminished in and by his surroundings, that his autonomy and level of control over his surroundings was failing, and instead they exacted a greater hold over him than they should have. But if their positions relative to each other were the same, while his other's grip appeared to be deteriorating generally, did that not mean that they were falling together? Strangely comforting, this: and because he was lower down, he would fall first, and then his other could catch him, just as he always did.

But then it seemed to Ryou that his other appeared ever more distracted, torn between a reluctant grief and terrible fascination with this new world; a world where Ryou had no place. And this worried him most, as if he were not truly on his koe's list of priorities any more, as if he were being left to fend for himself. He was certain that he could not look after himself if utterly alone; and, what was more, he did not want to try. He _liked_ this dependence, often trying to reassure himself of its continued existence by extending it to the little things as well as the big. For was it not a display of loyalty? - he didn't _want_ to be self-sufficient. And now, with this distance between them, it was as if he were being forced to be.

He had just…wandered, his koe. Sandals scuffing the dust, always the _dust,_ and then watching it spiral listlessly away, as if it symbolised ashes. His own private pilgrimage; and when Ryou left the temple of Ptah or the few tombs at Mit Rahina he would look around and never see his other, and what was terrifying was that he could not _sense_ him, and eventually a search would yield a thin figure who flickered between ethereal and reassuringly solid, slumped in a corner of some temple or lying against a ruin of a column, always in the dust, hands describing incomplete circles, dark with dirt. And even when Ryou called for him, calling, calling over and over again, he never looked up, and even then, with his other before him, for a frightening moment Ryou still could not feel him, as if this was just a holographic projection of his other's most commonly-assumed exterior, and his spirit wandered some other place, far from here. Then there was nothing to do but to gather him up while no one noticed, so that by the time anyone had arrived he was ready to face them.

He did not know whether it was reflection, memories, regret, what type of contemplation had consumed his other so utterly back in Memphis; he did not wish to know, either, for was his other not deserving of privacy? And, more than that, what right did Ryou have to know his thoughts, his concerns? His other would tell him if he so wished. But it was not his automatic right to know, nor to wish to know.

It was not his right, either, to question what abrupt change of mood had led to this development which Ryou now found himself involved in; he was merely to offer his sweaty compliance.

"That was a tap, not a kick. Harder."

He brought up his guard, pivoted on his rear leg, and tried again, so that the instep of his foot connected with the shield by his other's head with a dim and satisfying thwack.

"Better." The spirit moved the shield lower, stretching out his arm so that the target was now just below shoulder height. "From now on, I want you to forget about height and concentrate on power. I'm just as aware as you that you can reach my head, but loss of power is inevitable at that height."

Ryou blinked, adjusted his stance a little, and ventured, "Why…"

He saw his other's fingernails dig into the foam like claws. "Is that an objection?"

"N-No…" Blushing at his own insubordination, he swung his leg into the shield as hard as he dared, unwilling to dedicate his full strength lest it be interpreted as resentment.

"Harder."

Smack. Ryou hastily moved his fists into the extended guard position after impact, although not quickly enough to escape detection. Unbidden, he repeated the kick, legs aching from fifty minutes of extremely vigorous training. He was clothed in an old, loose white shirt and trousers, not bothering with his gi. He had not, however, dispensed with the worn silk belt slipped around his waist, distinctive colour advertising his rank as a 1st Dan.

"Now, to finish this area of training, roundhouse kick off the rear leg, spin, then roundhouse off the other leg, double backfist, and reverse punch."

He complied, stepping back slightly to give himself room. The first kick was in the air, then carried through and round. Although a spin was not half as hard to carry off as some people assumed from the impressiveness of the word, it was sometimes hard to maintain balance and control when changing legs so quickly. This time, however, he managed perfectly. He even saw his other take a conceding step backwards from the impact.

"Good." He nodded, a signal for a water break.

Despite several rebukes at his inquirement, one severe, Ryou could not help but eye his koe curiously and wonder why he had suddenly declared to him that Ryou should practise his karate skills. Was he anticipating something? Then why was it Ryou, and not his other, that was practising? Unless…the spirit thought that he might not be able to completely defend his host? Beneath his sweat, Ryou shivered a little, not from fear but from the fact that he dared to think of such blasphemy.

"Ima-da. Kumite-yo." The Ring-spirit tossed aside the shields, fists held loosely at his side.

His light's eyes widened almost into mudpools, such was their size. Albeit very pretty mudpools. "Kumite-ka? You…you want me to spar with you?"

Shadow of a grim smile, existence brief and flickering as dying ashes. "I wish for us to spar together, yes."

"…Why?" Ryou whispered. "I don't want to fight you! And…it's not as if I could ever win…"

Quietly: "That is inconsequential. I want to see if you can defend yourself."

He gulped a little. "Okay…" Shakily, he assumed the basic guard position, left foot forward.

"Chotto matte-yo." Bakura stepped forward, running an ever-appraising eye over his host. "Hm. Reverse-punch."

He did so. Then the spirit brought out his own hand to meet Ryou's and pushed, not excessively hard but steadily. As the lighter half's arm began to bend - "Deeper stance."

He hastily resumed the position but went deeper, bending his front leg more.

"Better."

The Ring-spirit stepped back until they were perhaps a half-metre apart, then took up the guard position. "Hajimeru-ze."

Ryou baulked inwardly as they circled, each looking for an opening. He feinted a lead-hand punch and to his amazement his other fell for it and double-blocked it, enabling him to get in a side-kick - or so he thought, until it was blocked by a knee.

He stared. "You could have blocked that much more easily with your arms."

"I know. For the moment, assume I have little, if any, knowledge of martial arts, and am fighting with instinct and spirit-reflexes alone."

Uncertainly: "Okay." He came in again with his fists, his other blocking each punch as it came but offering nothing of his own for a few moments, before striking with two swift dashes of his fists that sneaked underneath his light's guard and sent him staggering back in surprise.

"_Always _keep your guard up."

Ryou raised his fists after a moment and came back with the intention of regaining some ground (and, in his mind, a few points); his other allowed the hook-kick curving around his neck, but halted him at the jumping roundhouse-kick: "No jumps. Not now." Then, almost as an afterthought: "And more impact. You can't hurt me."

"Then, full force?"

"_Controlled_ force. But, as long as it is controlled, then it can be as full as you want."

The host responded with a double side-kick, spinning into a hook kick that his other barely blocked. "Much better." He let Ryou attack him for a few moments more, blocking without a word, before feinting a roundhouse kick but transforming it into a snap side-kick of his own; his light, unable to block it quickly enough, was sent sprawling.

Bruised and shaking, he looked up at his darker self standing over him, rolled away from the axe kick coming down to finish him, and leapt up to deliver more punches with his aching fists. Each was calmly and decisively deflected, and then the final kick delivered - because a kick was far easier to knock someone away with - and Ryou dropped, drained, to the floor.

He lay there, corpse-like and exhausted, raising his head a little to whisper, "I can't fight you anymore."

Impassively: "Get up."

"I'm tired…koe, you're too _fast…"_

"Get up." Bakura's fists twitched; his voice shook a little, although with what, Ryou could not tell. "You think because you are tired, because you are weak, that you can't beat me?"

"…Yes…"

With soft contempt: "Then you are already dead."

His muscles were red spikes lining his arms as he shakily put weight on them and rose. Slowly, shakily, he raised them. And the small nod of acknowledgement that he received made the ache vanish, if only for a moment, and he moved towards his other self. Again, a hook-punch, feinted. Again, a roundhouse kick - and he saw now, because he anticipated it, the slight blur of movement that was his yami's block - and then he pulled his leg down and away in a sweep, and then the spirit was on the floor. There followed an undignified crash.

Ryou stepped forward and placed his foot on his other's chest to symbolise the axe-kick he would have performed, before respectfully withdrawing.

The spirit of the Millennium Ring lay there for a moment, before giving a small laugh that was both baffled and satisfied. "Good, my Ryou." He rose. For a brief instant, it seemed as if the intensity of some of his thoughts which Ryou had sensed earlier had been calmed. He sniffed the air.

"You're bleeding."

Ryou drew off his hand mitts, revealing bloodied knuckles. He offered his hands timidly to his dark, and the spirit cocooned them in his own for a long moment, feeling the uncertain contours of broken skin, uneven eruptions in the smooth plain that stretched as pale and unblemished as silk over bones that felt as fragile as a hare's. When he drew away, the skin had closed.

"…There's nothing I can do to help…?" Ryou trailed off.

"Where is that new incense you bought?"

"Oh…in a paper bag, there." He gestured, feeling clumsy.

His other half smiled and briefly touched his face, fingers leaking that mixture of absentness and indulgent fondness. His touch was of a delicateness that no mortal body could have managed, the soft stroking of a feather against his cheek that died away almost at once. And yet, despite this, Ryou loved it as a method of reassurance of his other's continued existence as a physical sensation manifesting itself in so sympathetic a way, as if his yami was reassuring him that he was still there to look after him no matter how looming his deficiencies.

"Are you going to meditate now?" he mumbled.

"Mm. Oyasumi."

"Oyasumi nasai," he responded, opting for the slightly politer version. He watched as his other settled comfortable between the bed and the sleeping bag, although closer by far to the bed, and reached for his favourite incense holder.

…………..

A moonless night, tonight, where dark swallowed the sky. And inside the light was muted, soft - not comforting but weakened; and the walls were ringed in shadow. It stroked his face and hands when he moved, and if he sat still then it seemed that its hold was only strengthened and more of his expression was lost to dark, and his eyes had long since become darker holes than the black around him.

Supper had ended hours ago but still he moved aimlessly back and forth in the tiny kitchen, tidying things away. He noted that they were out of syrup since the baklawa last night - the spirit of the Ring had finished up what little there had been left over the instant that Malik had turned his back. There were perhaps a total of five crumbs still in existence on the entire table, crouching furtively at a corner, and he crushed them into the bin with vicious satisfaction.

The closed door of his bedroom was no barrier: incense was oozing, rich and heavy and unstoppable, from the gap between the wood and the marble floor. It was a vague annoyance, adding to the stuffiness of the house, and made him want to fling open a window, even though there were none left to open. He contented himself with flicking on an old electric fan, and felt the oppressive weightiness of the smell break down like old wool fibres.

He couldn't stall forever; he would have to troop back to his bedroom at some point during the night, to face the cool stare of Bakura, and his own dreams. They weren't vivid or exciting enough to think about afterwards; they just left with an uncomfortable, uneasy feeling, of being accused of a crime which he had not yet committed but was planning to carry out any day now.

He opened the door - the thick, dull thump of incense, previously restrained, was now released and rushed, huge and heavy and smothering, towards him. He took a step back, and felt it meet the onslaught of the fan. After a few moments the air began to thin and become a little more breathable, and he went in.

Ryou had been asleep for a while - soft, snuffly breathing was just discernable from the bed. The other part of him appeared just as unresponsive, yet Malik glanced uneasily at him all the same - motionless, incense clinging to him like moss to a statue, palms up and resting lightly on his knees, which were folded under in the lotus position. And although he was still it meant nothing: Malik retained an irrational certainty that this figure was observing him from under closed lids. His expression was utterly relaxed, lending the position credulity.

He fancied that before he had entered there had existed a sort of purity in this room, created by the calm existence of these two selves, and that now it hovered tainted and cloudy. He felt like a vessel, not again but for the first time, a carrier of something that could taint those around him. And it was not through the shaky clinging to broken existence of his other self that he felt he was infecting everyone in this house, but rather that something that was purely himself was responsible; as if whatever had maintained his other was now finding a more sturdy home in him. It seemed to him that his state of corruption was so advanced that it oozed from him like noxious gas, and over and over again now he would feel a chill of surprise when people touched him, and then retreated their hands, and those hands had not turned black at coming into contact with this despicable thing.

He looked towards the drawer: a long, blank stare that saw not the flimsy wood barrier but the forbidden Item crouched knowingly inside, like an animal in a cage soon to break free. And next to it - the God card, the only piece of card he knew which could call down lightning, real jagged bolts, from the sky, and strike down those he whom cared about. It was not a long list by any means; but it had grown a little longer of late, and he wanted it to be left alone, perhaps to grow again.

He had made up his mind. It was giving in (to whom?) and it stank of cowardice, but it just seemed the safest option. Next week, when the Pharaoh arrived, he would relinquish the hated objects. If questioned…well, he would just mumble something about having no use for them. It was true, he supposed. They were just there to remind him again of his rejected past, and to entice him to resume it where it had left off.

Ra, no wonder Bakura had turned so weird. And _he_ certainly could not give the _pyramids_ away.


	5. A Most Curious Dark

A/N: At last! I have been working on this for so long…I wrote it about a month ago, and bits of it were so achingly shit that I couldn't bear to upload it. I even went ahead and wrote the next chapter, in just two sittings - I'll upload that very soon. But today I finally got my act together and sat down, and began to go through this and weed out the crap. I thought it would kill me to delete whole paragraphs like this, but instead it feels so liberating. And it's 17,000 damn words, and took a month just to write it the first time, let alone the re-drafts. So here it is. And I am going to finish this story: it takes so much out of me sometimes to write it, but abandoning it, even in the worst moments, seems inconceivable.

Chapter Five: A Most Curious Dark

It was not that he could not see anything at all; rather, it was as if he were viewing this world through darkened, one-way glass, and he could make out objects but everything seemed slightly beyond reach and beyond comprehension. And when it finally dawned on him, it had not dawned at all because there was no sun left, no light at all, and even the pain came late and far-off, like watching the demise of someone else while captive in a wonderful high. And he tried to touch the glass, but even that was now beyond reach.

It was so, so bright. He felt as if he were trapped inside a giant light bulb, with the whiteness bouncing off his glass prison and drilling into him, and there was nowhere to look because the light was everywhere and with the light there was nothing.

He narrowed his eyes, and vision was reduced to two painful white slits. He didn't like it; he wanted to go back, to have the darkness cradle him and sooth him and hide him away from that horrible, horrible brightness. It hurt his eyes; he backed away, frightened by this invincible enemy. And the Item in his hand emitted a darkened, sympathetic glow, and he drew away further as a black mist choked the room. He huddled into the corner and wished he could just go back, and he closed his eyes against the room and clutched his head, and wished and wished for it to just go away.

Presently, he peeked through his fingers, and found himself still here. If he had been a different sort of person, he might have let out a low, baffled sound of dismay; but such a reaction did not come naturally to him after years of being ignored, and it was not in his nature to make much noise. His eyes cleared a little, tinted with the faintest of purple, and as the mist lifted, remaining enough only to dull the lights, he began to look around.

It was all a nonsensical huddle of colours which he had no idea how to interpret; the body's eyes knew how to focus on each object but he had no idea how to identify them, or even recognise them as separate objects. Blankly, he looked at everything with no idea of what he was seeing, and it started melting together into sinister blurs that circled him tauntingly, closing in on him as he tried to work out what anything was. He wanted to go forward, to look at one thing at a time, and when he thought that his feet moved, and at once he froze up on registering this movement, frightened by his lack of comprehension over even his own body. Shakily, he looked down at himself, watched himself lift up a foot and place it back down, and became slowly reassured as he remembered that this was Walking. Then he re-remembered its triviality, that everyone did it, and his eyes narrowed a little, suddenly aware of his own lack of awareness. He began to feel a little cheated at his own disadvantage.

He walked with cautious, annoyed steps towards the nearest thing - a row of small exhibits, samples from a typical Egyptian peasant home and encased in glass, which he found less threatening than the huge looming silhouettes of statues placed like guards at the doors. And as he moved he became aware that focusing was become easier, that what was previously just another blur was taking shape into an outline. It was against a backdrop of other outlines, and hard to distinguish. When he moved, some of the outlines moved too, and some stayed where they were. And he remembered about distances, and about how objects can hide behind other objects. Each little blip of memory felt satisfying, grabbing back something which had previously been his, and he wondered how much longer he had before all of his knowledge would return.

He reached the sandals. And for several minutes the browns and the greys captured his attention so entirely that he forgot about the weighty prison around him and it was only when the body's own panicked instincts took over that he was made to involuntarily gulp down air, and that sensation too arrested his attention for several more moments. He looked at the frail pieces of material connecting the sandal straps to the sole, and bent down to look at it from another angle, fascinated by the way all the little gaps and angles changed. The body seemed to possess a will of its own, and although he sought to eventually subdue it and impose his full control, for now he allowed it, because it could teach him things, and even a body without a brain knew more things than he did. He recognised his ignorance, but could not measure the full extent of it; he saw it as a huge immeasurable void which he could creep into and feel safe and defended by.

He reached out - towards the glass. Staring at his hand as it stretched out, a huge abstract of blue and green lines, quite tanned. The fingers were very thin, and his wrists felt vulnerable and stick-like beneath the gold bands, which felt too big, but still a form of armour. The body was thin, and he had unknowingly made it so: it reflected the stretched-out weakness of his own spiritual existence, which grew stronger by the minute, but was still so much less than it had been. He was a shadow of what he once had been, true enough; but that had been a shadow too, so that he was a shadow of a shadow, and that was almost nothing.

His judging of distances was almost non-existent. The delicate tips of his dark fingers collided brutally with the glass, so that he let out a frightened half-sound - a sort of hoarse gulp - and yanked himself away to safety, sensation burning on his fingertips. But the fire itself fascinated him; like a cat he was drawn to it, and reached out again, more slowly still this time, letting himself register how far away it was - perhaps four hand-spans. His finger was flattened against the glass, and he watched the skin spread out a little. He pressed his whole hand again it now, and felt a smooth, emotionless surface - shocking his palm in its slight coolness, which to his highly-strung senses was as an iceberg consuming his hand. Touch was a more delicious dish even than sight - he spread both hands over the glass, letting every molecule touch the smooth surface, while looking all the while at the object safely within which he could not get to. And he looked around again, and his eyes were wide and wondering, soaking up the feverishly vibrant colours which gyrated around him in delirious dances.

He had to squeeze them shut for a moment, overwhelmed; but then had to return, to gaze around him again. He stumbled back without realising, collided with the wall - and then he was running his hands all over it, feeling all the lumps and bumps and crannies, examining it like the hide of a prized animal, pressing himself against it. And then breaking away - because he had to touch more things, he had to touch _everything - _gait slightly drunken, not quite fully in control, hands spread out in front of him as he strained to have everything at once.

Because this, after three more years of crouching in his little void, was not even heaven; this was being alive, and he wanted all that it entailed. The Rod was tucked into his belt, forgotten; and as he finally slumped, exhausted, in the middle of it all, it poked him in the side like an insistent child, wanting more fun.

……………

Even when in the grip of such agitation, the Millennium Ring, like its host, knew its place. Thus it managed to merely wave its tines in the restrained manner of a wind-chime, and not start up a raucous jangling. When this failed to attract attention from its wearer, however, it did an Item-equivalent of losing its temper, and jabbed itself into the body behind it. It did this for rather a long time.

When held in the drowsily-iron grip of the deepest meditation, it could be said that revolutions could happen, apocalypses could come and go, and beautiful and ecologically-friendly aliens from exotic planets could conquer the Earth a couple of times before the person meditating would notice. It could also be said that this is a load of bollocks.

The result was that it was perhaps thirty minutes, give or take a few revolutions, before the spirit of the Millennium Ring happened to become aware that there was a rather irritated Item embedded in his chest. He ripped it out absently, and gave it a little shake to remind it of its place. His shirt was ruined: five prominent holes carved into it, and drying blood from his chest, which had opened up again when he had removed the Ring. He sighed at it all, body still torpid although his mind was clearer than ever, and went to find a clean shirt.

He buttoned the new black shirt over his Item, which at once pointedly oozed through. It was still sullenly pointing towards the door.

"Mm. I know."

He pulled off his socks - he would get better grip without them, as well as being used to fighting barefoot - and checked his reflection briefly in the mirror. He touched up on his eyeliner, and paused to check that he was wearing a looser pair of jeans, to allow more flexibility, without compromising on appearance.

"Perfect."

One last glance in the mirror, before he left the room. He did not have to check the Ring again - after all, there were only so many Items in this household.

…………

It did not really make sense, when he thought about it - his senses were so hopelessly overburdened, and yet single sensations were still able to cut smoothly through, overriding everything else. In this case he was not sure what the dominant sense in question was. It was not smell, for nothing had changed; it was not sight, for some things were invisible. And it was not sound either, for some things could move without it. It was…touch, in a stranger, more sensitive form, the stirring of air molecules. Molecules onto which had rubbed off the essence of somebody else, like personalising the air around you. Almost subtle enough to just be called feeling, and yet this feeling was physical.

He gripped the Rod, and tensed himself against the wall, finding it a calming inanimate presence behind him. More highly aware than ever of his own vulnerability, of how little he had yet adapted to this environment.

He moved slowly forward, bathed reassuringly in his own darkness.

…………

The spirit of the Millennium Ring descended the stairs delicately and in utter noiselessness, his temporary manifestation moving fluidly and with infinite grace, slipping down to each stair more in the manner of a liquid than a solid. The host body was cumbersome, ill-suited to this sort of activity, which was why he was content to leave it upstairs. What was more, when possessing a physical body he was confined to the physical limits of that body, its speed, strength, weight. His spiritual form he was free to refine as much as he wished, being a much truer and purer manifestation of his actual appearance. It was also a little more resistant to tiresome forces such as gravity and friction, making it far faster and more versatile, although in the end it too had to conform to the laws of physics, at least to some degree.

He was not surprised at what he expected to find; in fact, the whole experience promised to be quite enjoyable. Malik's whinings had quickly grown tiresome, and although he did not care particularly for the other aspect of his personality either, at least it made a welcome change. There was also an old grudge to settle there - something to do with the most humiliating duelling loss he had ever experienced in either life - and opportunities to settle old grudges always put him in a good mood.

In fact, the only real surprise was that Malik had even managed to hold out for this long: from what the Dark Bakura had concluded from his single encounter with them both together, the host was not particularly good at putting up much of a resistance. He just churned out sentimental mush about dead fathers and similar, to the extent that the spirit had actually briefly considered changing sides. Fighting on Malik's side had not necessarily meant he had had to support all of his morals too, and for a supposed trouble-maker the brat had far too many of them. And the fact that he could have sworn the darker personality saw him cringing only added to the humiliation.

He was not actually able to see where the steps ended: the entire ground floor of the museum was choked in smoke so thick it did not even appear breathable; not a problem for himself, but possibly a slight disadvantage for any discarded host bodies lying around. There was no doubt that Malik was probably lying unconscious around here somewhere in his typically useless fashion - he would not have been able to use the Rod in such a way as to make the Ring react so strongly.

Funnily enough, the Ring-spirit was not particularly eager to step straight into a cloud of opaque smoke. On one hand, yes, it was interesting; but on the other hand, obviously, there could be something waiting for him, and he did not plan on handing them an advantage so easily. And yet to use the Ring would mean the equivalent of a neon light advertising his presence. He frowned thoughtfully for a moment.

Abruptly, the smoke thinned; not exiting entirely, but more a shadowy mist, more translucent and more strange, like viewing the world through frosted glass. His self-control was too complete for him to start or back away, and he looked coolly through this new development, now able to recognise shadowy shapes through it. He knew the museum well enough, and using his light's memory was as perfect as an electronic map - he tuned briefly into it, and knew at once where everything was. He also knew which of the shadowy shapes was out of place.

He did not hold the Ring - he wanted both hands free - so he followed its plaintive tug forward, feeling the cold smoothness of many sharp blades against his skin with every step.

There was a place where the darkness thickened again, becoming impenetrable, and it was at this point that he stopped, to look coldly upon, and then to stare, at the man-shaped piece of darkness before him. They both stared at each other, openly looking the other up and down. It seemed to the spirit of the Ring that the other person was far thinner than he could ever have recalled, kohl-edged eyes eating up his face. Although this did not change any of his long-term emotions, it did cause him to consider whether this apparent diminishment stopped at physical appearance, or meant that he was, in fact, weaker than he could ever have hoped him to be.

The other spirit narrowed his eyes and seemed to tense under this scrutiny. He was trying to work out what the Tomb Robber might want, apart from revenge. Or maybe it really was as straightforward as that. But with his host personality no longer a whining parasite within the Ring spirit's body, it meant that this would appear to be revenge on a much more personal scale. He didn't think he would stoop to avenging the insult of others anyway.

He tried to work out why he didn't feel like fighting him, but couldn't seem to get the logic to arrive at its conclusion. It just felt as if he was being invaded, as if someone had intruded on to a piece of territory which he had only just claimed as his own, and although he wanted to establish his dominion he also really just wanted him to go away. He felt cheated out of the time to explore which he saw as his right. And if anything _did_ happen now, it meant he would be forced to negotiate forces and sensations which he had not yet become re-accustomed to. He wasn't even sure if he could kill someone yet - the manipulations of the body involved appeared far too complicated.

Well, he would work something out. He just needed a bit of practise.

………….

Ryou did not like being a light sleeper; if he had had any choice in the matter, he would have chosen to be able to sleep through almost anything. He often thought how nice it must be to be able to sleep through something like an apocalypse, and then when you wake up all the unpleasant parts like the boiling lava and floods and earthquakes are all over and you are presented with a wonderfully clean new world. And because his koe was usually near him when he fell asleep, it meant that his last conscious sensation was that of his other's comforting nearness, and that feeling would remain with him while he slept, purifying his dreams. If he woke, and his koe was not there, he would fall asleep again all too quickly, but not with that same contentment. Even in the mornings, when his other was held in meditation or contemplation, he still had that feeling of closeness left over from the previous night to hold close to him like a security blanket, to help him get through the next few hours.

He was dismayed to find himself awake yet again tonight; and unhappier still to find his other self gone. He would never seek him out - he knew, even without having been told, that his darker self's business was private and no concern of his, and now there was nothing to do but either to fall back into restless slumber or crouch on the bed like a faithful puppy, awaiting his master's return. A prickling thirst denied him the first option, but made the second uncomfortable. Yet if he got up for some water, there was the chance that he might encounter his koe, who would be angry that he was still up and making the body unfit for use.

He gathered the blankets unhappily around him, feeling their warmth artificial and shallow and comfortless, and wished with all his heart that his koe would soon return.

……….

In the act of falling, he was able to transfer one of his knives to the other hand, thus leaving him one hand free with which to break his fall. It certainly was not dignified, but it was better than ending up with a sore rear. He leapt back up at once, readjusting his grip.

He had not yet attempted to throw his knives; for some reason, he felt reluctant to part company with any of them, as well as providing his adversary with another weapon. Not that he really required one. And he was still trying to absorb the fact that the other spirit was faster than him even with a unwieldy mortal body to cart around. It was not by very much - but enough to block all of his kicks, and almost all of his knives. He was forced to admit that, if the Dark Malik had chosen to forsake his host body, he would be quite challenging to fight. But he showed no sign of wanting to become separate, and the Ring spirit understood this feeling himself: if you had just regained control of the host body after a period in your soul room, you became rather reluctant to relinquish it. You were weighed down by dragging the tiresome flesh around with you, but you had so much more highly developed senses, and besides, it punished the host more. Especially if the body became injured.

Perhaps it was these more highly-attuned senses that explained those ridiculous reflexes.

It was close-range fighting, which the Dark Bakura enjoyed because he could incorporate a bit of karate into his movements; he got the feeling, however, that his opponent disliked such frequent close-contact, preferring to blast him with the Rod from afar. He had grabbed him a few times, but had not held on for very long before thrusting him away.

The spirit of the Ring came in again, using close-range slashes with his blades. Each one was blocked cleanly and decisively with the Rod, and then the spirit grabbed his wrist and snapped it backwards like a biscuit. He snatched up the knife and thrust at Bakura's neck, who ducked with a hiss and then dealt him a side-kick. Both were sent flying.

Bakura looked at the bone protruding from his wrist for a moment. Then he moved it back into place, and the skin at once healed over it. A party-trick, but a useful one; however, it did require magic, and he was not sure how much more he could dredge up. Constant healing of such wounds drained magic in a way nothing else did, not even a dark game.

The Dark Malik straightened, staring at his mortal body as it healed around him. "Going to offer me a decent fight, Tomb Robber, or should I just snap your skinny arse in two right now?" He could hear his own breathing, an irritating noise and one he longed to stop.

"You are the one who is panting."

"Whereas if you had deigned to use a mortal body, it would have expired long ago." He gripped the Millennium Rod a little more securely, speeding up the healing of the body. Magic, for him, was not a problem: he had plenty of his own, and the Item merely added as a magnifier for it, channelling it into something more useful. "Better go back to your soul room for a few weeks and stock up on shadows next time. This can't really be all you have." Tendrils lapped at his feet; all the excess darkness which he had brought from his soul room had been leaking steadily from the body ever since he had come out, and, as he had enough of it already, he let it go. "You can't be any more powerful than a mortal, surely. Even Sister would put up more of a fight."

"I could be drained and still not touch on mortal weakness," the Ring spirit shot back. "Whereas you resupply your magic endlessly with that Item because you know you would not last a moment against me without it."

"Is that…so?" He gazed levelly at Bakura for a moment, before shrugging and tossing his Item over his shoulder. "Not that I need to prove myself to you, Tomb Robber. But if you really want me to expose your weakness like this, well…"

He selected two new knives, both serrated, and tested their sharpness. "Come on then."

………..

Isis Ishtar, on the other hand, was rather a sound sleeper. Rather, once she had made up her mind on something, say, getting a good night's sleep, nothing was going to stop her from doing so. Running the museum meant she had to function on relatively little sleep, and she always managed to make the best of any that she had.

Thus, it took the best part of ten minutes for the tiny knocking at the door to wake her, and when it did, her first instinct was to ignore it and go back to sleep, and deal with the culprit in the morning.

"Isis-san…"

She sighed, and creaked out of bed. Quick check: what was she wearing? A rather skimpy nightdress, all black lace and silk…oh well, he would not mind. She opened the door, delicately flicking sleep from her eyes while looking around for the mascara.

"It's a little late, isn't it, Ryou-kun?"

"Um…" A little flustered, he looked everywhere but at her, while holding out his hand. "The box over there was glowing, and I had a look, and it was the Tauk…I thought you might want to know." He held it out anxiously.

She smiled at him. "Oh, you needn't worry about it; it happens occasionally. Just ignore it."

"Oh…okay."

There was a distant bang from downstairs, as the spirit of the Millennium Ring was slammed against all four walls of the museum, one after the other. They both looked at each other.

"It could…be your cat," Ryou suggested hopefully.

Isis looked across the hall at Layla, asleep on the forbidden sofa. "I don't think so."

"Oh. Well, I need to get to bed…" He sidled away.

"Yamete kudasai, Ryou-kun," Isis said sharply, and he flinched. "What if that tomb robber is skulking around down there?"

"You mean…boku-no koe…?" he corrected tentatively.

"Him. What might he be up to?"

"But…it isn't any of our…I mean, I should be going to bed…" He looked around unhappily.

Isis was beginning to feel that a conspiracy was going on, and one she should know about. "What about my brother? Where is he?"

"In…bed?"

Isis let out a deeply disbelieving snort, which caused Ryou to jump and look around in bewilderment, and strode off towards the bedroom with a pair of jeans. She marched back a moment later, dressed, and hands on hips. Ryou quaked.

"Where are they both?" she demanded.

Unhappily: "Wakaranai…"

In a tone of soft menace, which strangely suited her, Isis whispered, "I am going to _ground _him." She fastened the Tauk around her neck in a business-like fashion, and began to march towards the stairs.

Ryou blanched. "W-Wait! Isis-san, you can't go down there…my koe is down there…"

She looked back at him pointedly, one eyebrow raised.

"But he will be angry…"

"Come along now, Ryou-chan." She grasped his arm and began to steer him towards the stairs.

"B-But-"

"Either you come with me, or you stay up here on your own. And you don't want to stay up here on your own."

"But…I…" Very flustered now. "He will be _angry…"_

"So will I in a minute. Hurry up now, Ryou-chan. You can do better than that, can't you?"

…………

"You can do better than that, can't you?" He poked him distastefully with the tip of a sandaled foot. "Or…not. How disappointing."

The spirit of the Ring grabbed his foot and twisted it around, bringing his opponent crashing to the ground. On top of him. And for someone who looked half-starved, the Dark Malik was rather heavy. The other spirit gasped hoarsely for the air which he had never thought he would need, and crawled painfully out, only to have his face rammed into the dirt-coated floor. He grabbed the wrist holding him down and twisted it around, thumb digging into a pressure point just below the palm, and was able to struggle free as the other spirit let out an exclamation and withdrew. Bakura smiled grimly, then let out a weary murmur of pain as he was seized and thrown into the corner.

"Kisama…" The word was hissed tiredly out.

The Dark Malik went over and retrieved his Item. "Why getting so bitchy all of a sudden? You asked for it. Literally. People who do that are usually able to defend themselves. Not my problem if you can't."

The Ring stirred, tines now pointing towards the stairs. Both spirits stared at it.

"The Seer," Bakura murmured, in a low, surprised sound.

The other spirit suddenly became very alert. It came to him that, if there were any grudges around really worth settling, then the one between him and his host's sister certainly was. But still…he looked longingly down, wanting to do everything properly.

Bakura pulled himself into a sitting position. "Go get her, tiger." It would be the highlight of what was rapidly becoming a very bad day.

He shrugged, and looked towards the stairs. At once his eyes lit up; that is, they crinkled up at the corners into an expression of delight, but their hue grew a little darker, a little more black.

…………

Isis swept down the stairs without so much as a glance either side, as if the walls themselves would pull hastily away if it seemed she might come too close. There was an almost queenly air abut her, an eagerness to the ruthless marching of her feet, that suggested not only that punishment was imminent but also hoped for, a grim pleasure in the thought of catching a subordinator or two red-handed and having a chance to display the authority bestowed upon her. Of course, it would be better still if no one ever attempted to thwart her in her first place - or would it? Because if they did nothing wrong then she could only threaten; there was no chance to demonstrate what might happen when the righteous ire of Isis Ishtar was aroused, and her ability to reduce any Egyptian, mortal or otherwise, to jelly quivering and green at her feet. She breathed in deeply, registering the scent of disobedience, and welcoming it with a grim smile. She would certainly get to put her feet up in the next few days, she believed; just thinking about the sheer amount of chores that could be forced upon unsuspecting dissenters produced a perverse feeling of excitement.

Stumbling hurriedly behind her, like a page whose mistress' train has just slipped out of his fumbling hands, Ryou thought miserably to himself how angry his koe would be at finding out he had disobeyed an unspoken rule and attempted, voluntarily or otherwise, to discover his business. Loyalty was an uncomfortable and immense stone tied around his neck, dragging his feet and tugging him backwards, as he himself must surely be doing to Isis, himself a clumsy stone around her dark and graceful neck as she strode purposefully on. Agitation shimmered in his eyes like light off bubbles, bouncing and returning and eternal, waiting for the orbs to explode.

An annoyed murmur rose in her throat as the Tauk encircling it reacted to the darkness encircling her: a reminder, perhaps unneeded, perhaps not, that the Item was impervious to her charms, her pleadings, an impassive piece of gold with its own sullen agenda. But an onlooker could not necessarily infer from this alone that she was not in control of the Millennium Tauk chained to her again, and besides, it was the impression that was important. Just having it there boosted her confidence: had she not controlled the future, once? And the sight of it would startle her two victims, and that in itself was satisfying enough.

Ryou was left behind as the woman's pace increased, slippered feet tapping the marble floor like soft taps of a drum, the echo running across the smooth floor like a snowball down a hill, gorging on itself and growing bigger as it went, until the drums were not soft but heavy, heavy; slaps of sounds ringing out as the fists beat the animal skin beneath them into a fleshy, mashed-up pulp.

……………

He was quite far away, most of the way across the museum, and to him the sounds were still a little muted, darkness gulping down echoes before they could completely make their way over to him; and so the sound of the woman's careless footsteps sounded brisk and sharp and decisive, like someone banging a mat against a wall as they cleaned it. He, however, did not compare it in such a way as that, for he had never yet heard such a sound; and besides, for him, in this new body with the senses clean and fresh and sparkling and just itching to be used, there was no comparison to be made. For him every sound was unique, and quite wonderful in its uniqueness, although it was in a way that inspired excitement rather than appreciation in any beauty that there was to be found - for if every sound was unique then did that not mean that he had endless discoveries to be made? For how could he ever hope to be bored, with this ever-shifting world sitting before him like a chocolate rustling in its wrapper, waiting to be unwrapped? He was going to rip the wrapper off, and delight in the crinkles, the folds of foil and the shimmering on its surface as it caught the light, and then he was going to run his starving hands all over its smooth creamy surface, and then he was going to eat it, he was going to fucking make himself sick on it if he wanted, and there was no one whom he would allow to deny him this pleasure.

He had never heard music in the strict sense of the word, but to his fascinated ears Isis' feet seemed to tap out a most wonderful melody, life singing from every note. He stood very still, absolutely captivated as he had been captivated by every single thing in this room at some point, and then at last the spell's hold lessened a little, and he began to tiptoe towards her, giggling inwardly at his own sneakiness. He knew everyone liked surprises, because he did himself, and so he decided, sincerely, to give her one.

……………

With Isis' disappearance into the foggy mist before them went a large proportion of Ryou's steadily decreasing urge to please her; or rather, because he rarely experienced an actual _decrease_ in a desire to please anyone at all, it was overwritten, in emboldened type, with several sentences stating the extent of his loyalty to his other half, what such loyalty involved, and the consequences of betraying it. Yes. Just being here was a potential betrayal…he whimpered unhappily and began to edge back up the stairs, eyes fixed on the spot where his hostess had last been, while his feet, which knew better than the rest of him, began to manoeuvre him expertly backwards, Even this part of him, however, halted for a moment as his ears detected two things, one after the other. Firstly, he heard a sharp intake of breath, as if someone had gasped in shock, or fear. And secondly, he realised, after a few moments, that the sound of this breathing had stopped and he could now hear nothing at all.

…………

He moved the Millennium Rod to his left hand, so that he could raise his other one and give her a little wave of greeting, from the wrist, the way you wave to a child. It was quite a friendly sort of gesture, and he even managed a little bit of a smile to match, his eyes black and mocking. "I missed you, sister…a world of darkness gets so lonely without you." The Arabic dripped sarcasm in the way that an overloaded cake drips cream and custard in sickly-sweet dollops.

"I wish I could say the same for you." Her tone was low, choked full of hate. The spirit of the Ring, too, had begun on a cliché. He wished they had spent the last few years improving their verbal repartee a little - if it continued, the lack of wit present might become trying. Of course, he could always be depended upon to make up for it, but did he always have to do everything himself? It seemed the only way to get things done at all nowadays.

"Surely that's a little harsh, considering the blood ties that sadly exist between us." _Blood is thicker than water, etc. etc. _It passed, irritated and unacknowledged, between them. He did not have to look down to know that the blood of Bakura edged his clothing like fur trimming, although with a better overall aesthetic effect. And, not that he made a habit of noticing, but what in Ra's name was she wearing? Did she strut down the streets in that get-up? Why, one could practically see through it, particularly with his enhanced senses, and he did not particularly want to. He certainly could not imagine why any onlooker would ever find such clothes attractive to look at. Really, they barely qualified as clothes. Not that he cared, one way or another: few mortal quirks or rituals were capable of capturing his interest or disbelief.. But this tradition of wandering around all but naked really seemed to have no rational explanation. Were they so weak, that they grew exhausted even when dragging their mortal bodies around with them, and so sought to lighten the load as much as possible? He could think of no other reason.

"Sister dearest, do you always wander around like that, or did you dress up specially for me?"

She was not listening; her cobalt eyes were fixed on him, on eyes which had once been her brother's and, depending on which technicality you were following, could still possibly be classified as such, albeit modified. Hate brimmed behind her own eyes, the blue growing sudsy as the monsoon of anger, of hate, foamed at the mouth, clawing at its glassy prison, and he saw the urge, still contained in her rigid body, to rip, to claw him apart.

_That is rather dark coming from **you, **sister, isn't it? _He chuckled a little.

"You just don't die, do you?" she whispered, voice a strained, snakey hiss. "You can't just stay in your darkness for once and leave us alone for once. You just _won't lie down and die."_

He considered this for a moment, then laughed in delight. "I know! That's just it, isn't it? The fan keeps on spinning, and the shit just keeps on coming, doesn't it? I don't seem to be very good at staying dead." His eyes, dead and black and dead, grinned at her. "Fortunately, your body is a little more obliging."

He brought up the Rod, and slashed across her body once, twice, three times. Bright, hot fire gushed out of her, a liquid fire that was more like molten lava as it spilled onto the floor, to drip, to drip into the silence.

Her eyes stared at him, uncomprehending and unseeing, cobalt cracked into useless shards. He could still see through her top, but now the blood obscured her breasts, flooding the cleft between them and the shallow trenches between her ribs and the veins in her neck so that now her body was a vessel for all this blood and it held it as it had always done, but in plain sight.

He was about to sheath the Rod but then thought better of it, taking care to wipe the bloody blade into a dirty smear across the fragile lace of her top. He could see it wilting and folding like flower petals under the unanticipated soaking and subsequent weight it had received, now curling underneath and away to reveal the body underneath, whose modesty was preserved by its own blood.

What a productive day. He felt quite cheered, quite satisfied; now that the people who had threatened to interrupt his journey of discovery were gone, he could get back to what he had been doing before. It might take the whole night to really touch every object here, but that was all fine, because he had time.

He felt, suddenly, his body reacting around him, and froze mentally, trying to work out what this ungainly lump of flesh had detected, and was trying to communicate to him. No new sights, no stirrings or moans of agony from over in the corner, no-

Shuffling. Little whispers of leather, of sandals rubbing against each other, as feet shuffled slowly away. He felt the body tense in response to the tensing of his spirit - such an action was unconscious in that it was not done by him but by the body, for he was too newly-returned to physical sensation to remember to tense a body when he was alert. He felt the body aroused in some way, and let it be, irritated at his own acceptance that it knew what was best for itself. Again, he was frustrated that a brainless hunk of flesh retained the instincts to fend for itself, while he, the brain alone, had nothing but a vague urge for self-preservation that was so faint that it could not even be called primitive.

He was no longer in a mood for stealth, and hence resorted to a more natural gait, which in this case happened to be something vaguely akin to a lazily curious saunter. There was a person on the stairs, he could now see; a person who had been sneakily edging back and away but now froze upon discovery, vibrations of guilt rumbling steadily off him.

He approached; and, upon seeing them close-up, did the thing which came most naturally to him in the entire world, and stared.

"…Who the hell are you?"

………….

Ryou chose to blink while looking and feeling confused, also resorting to something that came very naturally to him. The person in front of him…looked a little like he might have been a Malik on speed, except that he looked as if he had realised when the high was leaving and had taken some crystal meth to boost him back up again. It looked like a pattern which might have been repeated a few times.

He was also speaking in Arabic. Not having his yami there to translate for him, Ryou sweated and wondered when he was supposed to wake up and discover this was all a garbled dream, a result of his yami's hangover being transmitted through the mental link again.

"Um…excuse me…?" He mumbled this very humbly, as if it were his fault that this person and himself were obviously not quite on the same wavelength.

"What the fuck?"

Still very much Arabic, but the tone was universal, and succeeded in delivering its message. Ryou gulped a little, and, dredging up his seldom-used honourifics from his brain, whispered in Japanese so polite that his yami would have vomited involuntarily upon hearing it: "I…I can't understand Arabic…I'm sorry…"

The other person continued to stare, even putting the Japanese people, with their infamous habit of greeting anything strange or unfamiliar, to shame. "What language is this?"

Ryou became a little flustered, disconcerted by the fact that this was now asked in his own language and thus perfectly understandable, if heavily tinged with accent. "This is Japanese."

Slowly: "…Sou…ka." The Ring-bearer could hear the Arabic sounds in the long "o". "Ahh…koko-ni aru-ze!" The other person let out a long, satisfied sigh. "I found it." It was like tuning into a radio, as he attempted to identify the location of the part of the host's brain that would allow him to slip in perfectly to a different wavelength, a different form of understanding, that would allow him to rattle off the infuriatingly perfect speech that the spirits had become famous for. As he spoke, Ryou could hear the Arabic inflection draining noticeably away, like a snake shedding an unwanted skin, and by the time he added the last triumphant particle, there was nothing of it left at all. A voice unmarked by countries, by culture, by years. There was nothing bland about it; it was a distinctive and personal voice, but made chillingly distant and eternal but the complete lack of clues of origin or country, when just a moment ago his Arabic had been every bit as natural.

The voice itself, in terms of tone, was quite low, with the suggestion that it could become quite sinister and menacing if it wanted to, but for now was happy to stay in a zone more comfortable to the listener. It was also quite hoarse; there was an almost Hannibal Lecter-style metallic rasp to it, that spoke of a voice seldom used and seldom listened to, as if the person had had no need for talking for a long time, and in fact had forgotten even how to talk, so that all he had to build on was a shaky memory, and was relearning as he went. Or perhaps he had inhaled shadows for so long that they had begun to corrode his throat as they corroded the rest of him; but then that was a more symbolic and corrupted idea because he had no need to inhale, and in fact had forgotten how to until the body, gasping and desperate, had forced him out of the way and done it itself. Or perhaps it had always been like that, not quite croaky because that would have introduced an element of ridicule, but instead a little strained, permanently a little out of practise.

The hoarse voice came out of the darkness again: "Temee-wa dare-da?"

Ryou put out a hand and felt around for the wall, steadying himself. He did not like being caught unawares by a stranger on a staircase, of all places; his position, like the situation, seemed to him to be very precarious and liable to toppling at any moment. And he was not used to a complete stranger using such rough Japanese with him; what sort of person threw words like "temee" and "kisama" around like that? They were not yet enemies…were they?

"Boku-no namae-wa…Bakura Ryou-desu-kedo," he whispered. He couldn't remember the last time he had used "Desu" in a conversation - perhaps Isis was rubbing off on him. But then this was merely a little more extreme form of his natural reaction to fear or unease, apart from looking anxiously around for his other: he liked to become very polite and muted, so that there was no chance of the other person assuming he was arrogant or unapologetic.

The other person repeated his name slowly, firstly with a deliberately Arabic tone, then giving it the proper Japanese inflection. The method appeared to make him more comfortable; Ryou could almost see the words rolling around on his tongue as he tasted them curiously.

"So…who _are_ you then, Ryou?"

No answering introduction; he was taken aback, having expected one. And the use of his first name, so unquestioningly and so soon, made him uneasy, rather than embarrassed. "I…what do you mean…?"

"I mean, who _are _you? What is your place in the 'great scheme of things?'" Impatient quotation marks in the air accompanied this, snatches of air as fists were quickly opened and closed. "Are you a threat? Someone I should know about?"

He had absolutely no idea how to answer, and so, anxious to come up with a reply quickly, lest it be interpreted as rude, said the first thing that came into his head: "I…I'm not really anyone. I just sort of exist…it sometimes feels like an accident."

He watched a sliver of blonde eyebrow go up and down. "I didn't ask for a fucking philosophy lesson."

"I'm s-sorry."

The apology was somewhat ignored. "In conclusion, you are not actually important?"

"…Not really."

"I see." He wondered what had ever happened to straightforward answers. It did not occur to him to doubt the boy's opinion - a true threat, or at least someone with a bit of shadow powers, would never have been permitted by their ego to make that kind of answer. But Gods, this was tedious company. He would rather go back to mangling the Tomb Robber - at least he came up with some creative insults while being strangled with his own intestines.

"Just for the record, I have met sandals that were more interesting than you."

Ryou was not sure how to take this. "Um…thank you."

"Shit, and he's _polite, _too," the other person said to no one. "Has anyone told you how much that really starts to grate after a while?"

Silence. Polite silence.

The black eyes rolled. "Fucking mother of Ra. _And_ you sound like a damn girl. Even more than that…what's his face…tomb robber."

Ryou's eyes widened; his voice took on a note of shrill, nervous indignation. "That…that isn't true."

The spirit, who had just prepared to depart, swung back round. "Are you contradicting me?" Then, ploughing on before Ryou had a chance to reply: "Ah, that's it! I knew you reminded me of someone…it's that same girly voice. I actually thought you _were_ a girl when I first saw you, but you don't have the right speech patterns."

"It isn't true," Ryou mumbled in a small voice.

"What?"

"He…he doesn't sound like…like that…his voice is fine…"

The Dark Malik cocked his head to one side curiously. That ridiculous tomb robber did not seem the type to attract queues of worshippers or adoring masses, unlike their beloved Pharaoh, so why was this particular weakling so desperate to defend him? If such a half-hearted bleat constituted "defending", that is.

He let out a snort. "Then _who_ are _you_?" He said it in a sing-song fashion, trotting back down the stairs with a disdainful toss of his head at having been provided with such poor-quality entertainment.

He was out of sight, and almost out of earshot, when Ryou whispered into the darkness, "I'm…his."

He looked over his shoulder, very slowly, and saw the wide, sincere eyes of Ryou gazing back at him. They seemed for a moment to glow in the darkness, and he absorbed for the first time the expression of hungry faithfulness set deep into the massive eyes.

"You are…?"

He leapt back like a wolf that has realised there is plenty of meat left on the carcass, and it is all for him. Ryou didn't quite have time to jerk back in surprise as the spirit covered the distance between them in slightly less time than it took for Ryou's brain to send out a command to move, and he was seized roughly around the throat.

"_His!" _The word erupted in a rage-filled hiss, like lava swelling from the pregnant volcano. His fingers were very thin and very dark and they were closed around Ryou's neck at first almost absently, but then he began to squeeze and Ryou's world de-evolved into one where the only colours were red and black. He struggled, weakly, pawing uselessly at the other's arm.

The Dark Malik looked quite disgusted, and suddenly shoved Ryou away as if Ryou had approached him and not vice versa. It was a rough, careless gesture that sent the lighter self spinning back against the wall and scrabbling for a hold before he fell down the stairs. He had realised that the spirit could have used far greater force than he had so chosen, and so he did not run but instead clung to his selected corner, watching him warily like a very small and prized animal that too many people were hunting.

Had he thought the other person had been staring before? Because this gaze was a thousand times more intense, a thousand times more interested; this time, he was being _scrutinised,_ not looked at. He was being examined with all the thoroughness that a spirit was capable of, and the examination was not just physical.

At last, the black eyes returned to meet his. Ryou was fascinated by that gaze: he could not stop watching it. There seemed to him to be two small, self-contained voids swivelling around in that head, two orbs filled with a blackness so complete that it went past inky, went past Oriental, was so black that it was…blackness itself. Within them, or behind them, there seemed to be simultaneously intelligence and nothing at all, although he could not tell whether or not the two were in conflict or partnership: although he could clearly discern something in those eyes that was looking at him and thinking, he could just as clearly see nothing - and this troubled him, for how could he see nothing? What was there to see? Yet it seemed to him that there was indeed something there to be seen, something great and terrible and very important, like a great yawning void, and this void was so immense and so unique and so black and so full of nothing that it deserved a new name of its own. And he was not sure which of the two he was talking to, and what the thing that he was talking to even really was.

The thing…whatever it was…this spiky-haired thing looked closely at him once more, before pronouncing judgement. "So…you are the host for the Tomb Robber's spirit."

He was not sure where this was going, but was happy to confirm it anyway. "Yes."

The eyes narrowed a little; Ryou tensed and swallowed, before registering that they were narrowed in thoughtfulness or further scrutiny as opposed to something more negative. "You really are a pretty little thing, aren't you? Not that I care, one way or another. Even so…letting someone like you wander around like this…? I admit, I am surprised he isn't more careful."

Ryou sacrificed half of a lungful of precious air to whisper, "My koe takes very good care of me."

"I doubt that, considering he can't even take care of himself." The Dark Malik had resumed gripping his neck, although it seemed more of a guarantee to ensure that Ryou would not run away rather than any serious attempt to kill him. He appeared to forget for moments that he was even restraining Ryou at all, and when he grew more excited, as he was doing so now as memories of beating the thief into a pleasing pulp resurfaced, he was apt to unconsciously tightening his grip on his victim's neck, leading to an increase in struggling which he utterly ignored. "But if you really are his…you're the host everyone talks about, aren't you? The one with-" he snickered briefly - "_powers."_

He waited. Ryou said nothing, but the light had dimmed from his eyes, and he looked dully away.

"It's true?" When he received no audible confirmation of this, he concluded, "That's some pretty random shit! I wonder who was responsible for that…"

"Doesn't matter." His voice came out in little muttered bursts, as if even his vocal cords refused to acknowledge the fact, and were trying to stop functioning so that he would not have to affirm it himself.

"So…when are you going to show me?"

Surprised for a second, he raised his head, only to look hurriedly away again. For when he had looked up, he had seen that the stare of his captor had not fluctuated for a moment, and if he had had the need to blink at any point then Ryou certainly had not registered it. Although his eyes were so focused upon Ryou himself that it should have fitted into the category of 'his eyes were burning into him', whatever that was supposed to mean, the nature of his stare was such that, even though Ryou could tell that he was taking in every inch of his him, he could not _feel_ the force of the stare glancing off his skin or even penetrating it, in the semi-imagined way that one can usually tell when someone else is giving them a Proper Ol' Stare. It was as if it was a long, long shadow of a stare that had no form - if a 'normal' stare could be supposed to have any sort of form - and instead drilled straight through him and out the other side. He was not sure what conclusion his mind was trying to come to. He only knew that meeting those eyes and that blank gaze frightened him more than anything else that he had ever encountered, and the possibility that his other half was not here to rescue him contributed to a fear so overpowering it took the form of an unconquerable paralysis, that he gave into unthinkingly and at once, because he was not supposed to be the one who fought things like this.

The pain came again, a long curling ribbon of red that wound around his body and his bruised, aching neck. And it occurred to him that for one treacherous moment he had imagined that his koe was not going to save him, and the self-disgust that he felt at having dared to let this thought take shape meant that he recognised and welcomed whatever punishment could now be offered to him, and so he closed his eyes and tilted his head back a little to expose more naked, unmarked expanse of white neck, and waited only for something to happen. Whatever would happen, he would not instigate it himself - it was not his role, his place. His role was to be saved, not to save. Not even himself. A deviation showed a rejection of his place, of his other's, some urge for adjustment of their relative positions.

He felt the puzzled grip relax, ribbon uncurling, loosening, to settle somewhere near his collarbones. "Why won't you use them?"

He did not open his eyes; the darkness felt pleasant, cooling. "They aren't mine to use."

He could feel the puzzlement clustered around them both, like dazed moths with a waning source of light. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

He smiled a little, although his eyes remained closed. "I don't need to use them. My koe is going to come. He'll come back and he'll save me and he'll hurt you; and everyone will hear you scream." He smiled again; and his faith, as solid and unshakeable as the silly hand around his neck, pulsed within him still.

A taken-aback silence - not fear, but startled at this unexpected declaration - and then he laughed shortly. "Is that so." Then: "What was that you called him? Koi?" He started laughing properly, adding to the distant and unimportant pounding in Ryou's eardrums.

"You'll regret mocking him," the host murmured. His tone just hinted of pity. "Everyone does in the end."

"Oh, they only regret that there are too many things about him to mock, and that they could never fit them all into one breath. A pity, really: it spoils the impact." He chased the word around his mind like a persistently disobedient dog. "Koi…koii…koe? Oh, _sawt?_…Mm. Mm." He tapped the Millennium Rod a little with his fingers. "Someone… saying all the things you want to say…and someone who says all the things you don't even know you wanted to say…someone who can give shape to your thoughts…? How tedious."

"It's not."

But he was only mortal, and he was suffocating, and despite himself he could feel the faith trying to erode again; he clutched at it desperately, like a rubber ring, his last lifeline and the only thing which stopped him drowning. With the Rod's golden darkness lining his brain like a sticky, impenetrable mucus, it was as if all his thoughts were passing through a very old and mucky sieve - so that of all the things he tried to think about, like how his koe would never abandon him, and how he would always come back and save him because that was what he always did, and how Ryou would always belong to him and no one else, only a few got through, and the rest were stuck behind this huge holey barrier, creating a pressure that was both painful and incomprehensible. The desire for air was so strong that he became quietly convinced that waiting for all the pressure to build up until his head finally burst was the only solution, because then his brain would be exposed to the air that it so ferociously craved.

"It's cute that you have a nickname for him. Does he actually permit you to call him that in public? I would have to do some very fun things to my surface personality if he ever tried to come out with something like that."

Ryou blinked his eyes open, his head twisting around like an owl, and succeeded in snatching another mouthful of oxygen. "Omote-no…jinkaku?" He let out a little owlish sound of belated realisation, a sort of confused twitter. "Malik-kun has another personality?"

The Dark Malik cocked his head to one side again, this time in wonder. "You _are_ a little behind the times, aren't you? I was going to ask if anything interesting had happened in the past few years, but I can see now that you wouldn't know anyway."

Stoutly, if slightly shaken: "My koe decides what I need to know. If I didn't know about your existence, then it obviously wasn't…" Suddenly the danger of saying aloud whatever came into his mind became apparent, and he snapped his mouth shut like a beak, leaving the conclusion unfinished.

_Wasn't…what? What does my existence lack, in the good Tomb Robber's opinion?_ Trickling through the Rod, his voice was a low, biting murmur into Ryou's ear, like the slow burn of acid.

"I-Importance," he croaked.

For a long dark moment, nothing happened. He decided he felt a little confused. Then fingernails dug the skin of his neck, carved it open, and he was choking and struggling and trying to push the fingers away but could find only blood.

The spirit's voice clung to his ear drums again, the low strained hiss strained even further, to the limits of what any voice, mortal or spirit, might be expected to achieve. "Zannen-da-na, _Ryou._ I was just going to kill you and move on. But now you are starting to piss me off." His voice grew almost silky, cloying. "Just so you know: if you don't use those famous little powers of yours very soon, I am going to open up every vein in your neck. I'm not too sure which ones are the important ones, so I'll carry on tearing until I know I have got them all. Happy? I thought so."

He let out an unhappy gurgle.

"I couldn't have put it better myself." His nails began to gouge away precious layers of skin.

He struggled, just a little, and wondered what had changed. He didn't like change - everything was supposed to repeat the same, proper format. Someone threatened him, his koe came along, his koe introduced the offending person to some thrilling experience of agony and darkness, and Ryou stood by, saved. It was not supposed to be like this. He felt some distant feeling of injustice bubble in his blood, now naked and exposed for anyone to see.

"Now…now, I can see why they think you are pretty. You _are_ pretty."

His eyes wanted to close, but he wouldn't let them.

"In fact, it almost tempts me to…"

He heard blood flow. He wasn't sure where it came from anymore.

"Get your filth-infested hands off my Ryou."

The blood slid from his vision as he blinked it away. He raised his eyes, and saw a figure comprised of red mist in the red mist, whose blood-slicked hair was loose and tangled, yet flowing over his shoulders, and whose black shirt was ripped in a thousand and one places at least - possibly more - and yet covered white and unbroken skin, which strained to cover fully the thin frame over which it was stretched. And to Ryou, he appeared the most beautiful person in the world. The host managed a little smile, although who knew whether it was one of greeting, acknowledgement, relief, or just the mindless stretching of a few confused muscles.

He did not ask again. Although he did not deem it necessary in this particular situation, he would have said it again and again if he had to. The fire in his eyes was dead, crushed out; and that was what gave him his power, for now his eyes blazed black as the last barrier to all the shadows that the Dark Bakura had to offer was removed, and his gaze was naked and furious.

The Dark Malik considered him, taking him in with scorn and not without a little weariness - some people just did not know when to stop - before brightening as he realised that he was winning by miles anyway, and so had nothing to feel vaguely concerned about. He uttered his first cliché of the evening, thereby bringing himself equal with the spirit of the Ring and with his sister. "Make me."

The spirit standing at the bottom of the stairs unfolded his arms. He was not going to ask again.

A little shrug. "Oh, whatever. Have your little mortal pet back. It seems to be the latest fashion among spirits to cart these little things around with them: I wouldn't want to damage your credibility." He glanced dismissively at Ryou, who gave a faint little smile.

"He came for me."

_I always do._

_I know…_

He took a half-step forward, then heaved Ryou down the stairs. He went down rolling and tumbling and bleeding like a ball, bouncing off every stair and trailing blood behind him in the steady zig-zag of a snail leaking its liquid silver slime, to land with a final fleshy thump at his koe's waiting feet.

Ryou cast an adoring gaze upwards. His other, however, still seemed to be waiting for something.

"You should be careful down there, Ryou," the Dark Malik called down in his sing-song fashion. "I hear there is all manner of shit lying around and just _dying_ to be trodden in."

He looked around, the wariness a little forced - what was there to be wary of anymore, now that his other had returned to claim him? - and let out a hoarse little scream of surprise as he discovered what - or perhaps that could still be _who _- he was lying in.s

"You had best make yourself comfortable," came that giddy, sing-song voice. "I was thinking of starting a pile of bodies right there, and you ought to find a good position to lie in."

Ryou backed away in a stumbling crawl, gulping down huge hoarse gulps of air as he registered he was now soaked in someone else's blood as well as his own.

The Dark Bakura looked at the mangled corpse of Isis Ishtar with only marginal interest, and even that appeared to have been somewhat effortfully summoned. "You accepted my invitation then. I can't say I blame you."

Irritated toss of the head. "She got _rather _boring." No Arabic sneaking into the long sound this time; this was pure, colloquial Japanese. _Tsumaranai-yooo…_

"I can imagine." With a discreet flick of two fingers that the other spirit nonetheless noticed, the Ring-spirit indicated silently where his lighter self was to remove himself to. Ryou stumbled obediently away, clinging to the wall as he settled into a corner. He liked corners.

"What I find a little harder to accept, however, is the damage you have inflicted upon my host body."

Nonchalantly: "You'll accept it in time. Besides, aren't we forgetting someone a little more important? Someone much more necessary than -" he put on a high voice - "'o_re-sama-no Ryou.'_ You seem to have left your much-loved self out of the equation."

"A petty play-fight. Nothing more."

"It's funny how it only becomes meaningless once you lose."

The spirit of the Ring closed his eyes for a moment, and for that moment darkness was shielded from the view of the innocents one final time. Then he opened them, and through the burn of black whispered, "Let me tell you why it was meaningless. It was because, up until then, you had not been so pitying foolish as to drag my host into this. But now you have hurt him, _marked _him. And I - I am going to _tear you apart."_

Ryou smiled.

…………

On the whole, though, Ryou was not very able when it came to being a good audience. He was not quite sure why this should be, since it seemed to him that he had spent most of his life being an audience, watching his life and that of others go past. He always felt like a spy, a constant intruder in these lives so much more fascinating and separate from his own. Relatively speaking, it was a passive role, just as being a host to someone else was - you didn't have to do the quick talking or the fighting or anything like that, and that was why he liked being Passive. It seemed safer that way, for everyone; and besides, he was good at it, in his little inactive way. It was when he had to be…_actively _passive, as he did now, an appreciative audience, that he started failing. He was perfectly happy just to stand there and watch life saunter contemptuously by. He had always thought that if he achieved a state of true Passiveness then that would be it, and he could do nothing wrong. But now it seemed that there were degrees of passiveness, and he was currently lingering in the wrong one. He was just so terribly conscious of being out of place - not in the way that he usually was, but even more so.

He was a little puzzled as to why he should feel like this - after all, he was being Protected, and the mere sound of that word inside his head sent a little shiver of ecstasy to shock his brain - and yet at the same time the ecstasy never seemed to properly take off, and he found himself questioning what it was he actually wanted.

His throat hurt a little; he rubbed it uneasily, and felt the flesh peel away in thin ribbons. He wasn't sure what to do about it: he wasn't sure what to do about anything anymore, and so he edged unhappily back into the corner, eyeing his other self with a sort of tired hopefulness.

It wasn't a case of winners and losers. They were just…fighting, not for the sake of it, but just to inflict as much hurt as possible: after all, how could there be a winner when neither would lie down and die? It was a choice that was denied to them, most certainly, and surely there would approach a climax at some point, with one slightly nearer to death than normal - but what else did they hope to achieve?

The Dark Bakura was fighting because he was avenging the insult that injuring his host body had caused. That was clear enough. But the Dark Malik's motives appeared far less clear: perhaps it really was just a case of enjoying it all, as some people said. But that was a cop-out answer, as Bakura himself had said scornfully, once: what aspect did he enjoy? The enjoyment of a struggle, be it life-and-death or otherwise? The thrill of pain shivering down every single one of his body's mortal nerves? The removal of some miscellaneous weaker character? Or something else entirely? But he didn't really know, and neither did anyone else.

For surely there must come a point when even an author, that person who holds a million lives in his or her fist and in one swipe of a pencil or computer key can erase them all, must admit that in knowing a character they know that there is a part of them that can never be known. The idea that there is something within a person, fictional or otherwise - and really, aren't we all fictional in some sense? - something so tightly curled up that it can never be identified or pinned down, never restrained. The thing that gives us true unpredictability. And, if you like, darkness.

If this is all true, then it certainly meant that Ryou, who in his own bumbling, biased way was probably as close to his darker self as anyone could ever have hoped to get, was in these moments forced to admit to himself that he did not _know_ his koe, for he had absolutely no idea what was going on here; he had thought he knew his other's motives, at least, but now even these appeared doubtful. Was it really to assert his ownership of his host that the Dark Bakura fought? Or did he 'give in' to the pure enjoyment to be had, or was something else at stake? For it certainly seemed to Ryou to be true; watching the two struggle and slash and punch, he had the strangest feeling of déjà vu, or some relation of it: he felt vaguely that it was not the first time that these two had clashed, and nor was it to be the last.

But who knew? After all, he wasn't a very good audience.

He almost certainly failed to fully appreciate the way in which his other, upon finding his first hook kick blocked, spun round and delivered a second one off his rear leg, knocking the Dark Malik between a pair of stone statues, so that first one and then the other fell to the ground with an eardrum-rupturing smash. The latter certainly did not fail to appreciate it; it was gazing, intrigued, at such a manoeuvre that had caused him to be caught by it.

He was intrigued, too, at the Tomb Robber's sudden change in tactics, changing from the controlled force of before to something that was basically openly aggressive, very much in an enraged-wild-animal sense. It was a great deal baser, more primitive; and yet in its rage a great deal purer, every back-fist and hook-kick a manifestation of emotion.

Honestly, the Dark Malik thought, this was almost maternal anger. Like a mad mother elephant or something. He wondered briefly what an elephant was, found a mental picture, gazed at it in awe for a nanosecond, then went back to mauling the Tomb Robber properly, with the thoroughness he deserved.

Those knives were an annoyance - as well as having to resort to using his wrists to block them if there were multiple attacks, he found the Ring's light glinting bouncingly off each one _so_ distracting. He kept letting his eyes stray to where the light went, and then the Tomb Robber would cut him, or try to, and he had to get out of the way again.

He stepped out of the way as one whizzed past his ear in a bright, beautiful flash of silver - and he thought he had dodged it, he assumed so: but there was blood on it when the Dark Bakura held it up again, and the blood was not his own.

Well, whatever. He could still hear, anyhow. Only the hair next to his ear was slick and cold and slightly matted, and it dripped when he moved. It was an annoyance - he could no longer move in silence, and this was one of the things that had unnerved the watching Ryou: apart from the occasional hiss or gritting of teeth, there was almost no sound emitted from either of them. He supposed most people did not get into deep, philosophical conversations with those they planned to kill; but even so, it seemed a little odd to him. Not that he was not granted any clue whatsoever to their emotions: their eyes alone were more than enough for that.

Bit bitchy, anyway. He thought he might break a wrist or two again for that. He could not really tell where he had previously struck and drawn blood, such was the thickness and impenetrability of the painty substance clinging to every molecule of the spirit of the Ring. His opponent's wounds weren't healing half as well as before - he could see that clearly enough, just as he could see the dull pulse of defiantly functioning arteries, carrying on as normal, and now and again the occasional ghostly glint of bone. Surprising that he could even fight at all, really, considering he did not appear to have any magic left whatsoever. Perhaps the close proximity of his host was to blame? Was that why the Tomb Robber had not shooed him upstairs, had not hidden those big innocent eyes from witnessing such a sight as this?

Or perhaps he had decided that it was finally time that the weaker self learned that such events happened, and this was how? The breaking of the last of his innocence, so to speak? How flattering, to be chosen to be present when such an awakening took place. Although he doubted that such a plan would really work with the host of the Millennium Ring, especially given his mentality: his type would cling to innocence, or rather innocence would cling to him. And surely it was some of that innocence which kept him clinging to his darker self. No, he wouldn't want to shatter that, would he?

"So, do you fuck your host often or only when you're pleased with him?" His tone was light, conversational, pleased.

He felt a tense second of unwilling connection between the pair, the flicker in their eyes as emotions were exchanged, before the Dark Bakura spat out tersely: "I don't feel it necessary to engage in such acts with my Ryou."

There were still disorganised fragments of the Dark Malik's mind hanging around in the Ring spirit's host body, and through the jittery communication of the atoms of him in Ryou to the atoms of him in his own host body, he was made to feel that the Tomb Robber was not the only one angered by this suggestion. Ryou was keeping himself just as physically passive as before, but the meekness had departed from his expression and he seemed unsure as to what to replace it with; he looked like a very small wild animal who was surveying its enemy warily and wandering whether it was supposed to run or fight. The Dark Malik supposed that in his own little way Ryou was probably now just as emotionally aroused as his darker self, and just didn't realise that what he felt now was anger. It interested him: he had seen many people's responses to their own anger, but never puzzlement.

"_Is that soooo?"_ Despite the absence of any definable accent, there was one characteristic of his lighter self's speech which still remained detectable, although neither of the other two people in the room happened to notice it. This was the old habit Malik had had of holding the long vowel sounds in his Japanese a little longer than was necessary, as he strived to remove any doubt as to which word he meant. His speech was now generally quicker and more confident as the sounds blended together in a contented, natural-sounding chatter, but it still came out when he talked more slowly or was forming a sentence that might otherwise be ambiguous, and this quirk appeared in his darker self's speech now. It was unclear, however, whether the spirit was subtly mocking his host's effortful language or whether his current language, like his current form, was unconsciously twisted so that it tightened around him in a more comfortable shape. "I was wondering whether you enjoyed all the hosts you happen to meet, or if mine was just lucky."

Ryou was trying to block this out, because he could tell from the spirit's tone that this was not the sort of thing that his koe wanted him to listen to, and he wanted to show his other that he could detect such things without being told; but even so, the words squirmed uncomfortably beneath like a snake beneath his foot that he had instinctively stamped upon, and now he was afraid to remove his foot because the snake might not be dead, and that shudder of movement might have been a death shudder or a restless wriggle. And he wanted to _see…_he wanted to see the words again in his mind, to acknowledge their existence and ponder their meaning.

Bakura glanced briefly at his host, who looked hurt that the spirit should feel that even this reminding glance should be necessary; the world produced for him by his other's selective handing out of knowledge was far more comfortable to exist in than any world tainted by unpleasant truths and disloyalties. Ignoring the question posed by the other being's words, the darker self said with a voice holding satisfaction at such a pleasing display of his light's loyalty: "I don't believe that is something that needs to be discussed here. In any case, I hardly think something like you could even hope to begin to understand the reasons behind such an action."

The Dark Malik was not impressed. He was not the type to get impressed anyway, but this hopeless type of ambiguous, wordy excuse generally made him wonder why they bothered opening their mouths in the first place. _You're pretty touchy over a one-night stand. Did he give you an STI or something?_ As far as he could see, this type of person, who got so haughty over such things, was basically a step down from the Pharaoh, who after all also made generic, similar-sounding speeches about honour and self-control before proceeding to fuck his host senseless. And then everybody else. It made him wonder what the point of this "honour" was supposed to be, if even someone like the Tomb Robber could claim to have it. It was a one-word attempt at justification, and he found it rather pathetic. After all, he could produce a much-better-sounding excuse in only one word more: "Why. Not?" Claiming to have honour was basically admitting to conceding to a certain breed of rules, which happened to flex and bend with you just enough to cover the current situation.

Well, at least the wordiness of that reply meant Ryou had effectively been tuned out, at least. And himself too, really - he liked to get to the point every once in a while.

"Fuck that."

And with that appropriate conclusion he swung the Millennium Rod towards Bakura's head, not waiting for him to react before slicing away and towards his arm; the other pulled back just enough to give his knives momentum, before plunging it towards the exposed stomach.

Fingers were instantly clenched around the hilt, jerking as the tension pulled the bright little blade closer and closer and further away and closer again. He could feel metal in his fingers; it was like gripping a grim handful of ice cubes. He pushed, feeling the paper-thin blade shivering between them as they stood locked. Then he threw up his arm to block the other blade coming in lower, and with a snarl used his body weight to throw the other spirit away.

The spirit of the Ring landed silently and perfectly balanced, feet finding the floor before his eyes did. It was beyond catlike; he picked up his bare feet, pale and gleaming in the dark like two thin knives, and his toes curled briefly as they touched the marble tiles, hugging the floor. His hair, too, was beyond catlike in the way it spiked around his face in an inferior mirror of his opponent's: it called to mind the way a cornered cat will puff up its fur in order to make itself look bigger. There was certainly that same primitive edge to it; normally, he had a little more control.

He discarded his used weapons without looking, tossing them to the floor behind him like rubbish not worth recycling. And for a moment he held in his fingers two new ones, heavy in his hands, weight tugging at his fingertips and pulling them plaintively down. Then they were gone, and the skilled way in which he took a half-step back and stretched his other arm back a little in aim could not be seen, for it was not until after the knives took flight like two clumsy geese now embracing their new form that a sudden weightlessness stripped them of their restraints and sent them rocketing and hurtling like two precise, deadly missiles knowing only how to kill. And if a mortal person had blinked during that time, or even a spirit, with all the speed that a spirit-blink surely has, had closed their eyes for any amount of time that could be measured, then they would not have seen anything of what happened.

But it is not in the nature of a spirit to blink, not even when they are inhabiting a mortal body. The Dark Malik looked at the knives hurtling towards him and he looked and looked and looked at them and how clean and bright and sharp they were and how the light reflected off them and then he reached out and _caught_ them, he caught them in mid-air handle-first, one in each hand, and with a deft, almost puzzled little flick of each wrist he sent the bright little blades whizzing back to their owner like deadly boomerangs.

The first knife tore through the Dark Bakura's left wrist in a dizzying explosion of cartilage and skin, blood vessels hanging out of the hole like those bootlace sweets that look like long red pieces of string. And it seemed to him that there were little fireworks in the air, and those fireworks were parts of him being torn apart in a most gallivanting and outrageous display. And then the second knife ripped apart his right wrist, and he felt the most enormous crack split his arm like lightning splitting the great oak into two broken halves, and the bone hung out like frozen foam, stiff white fragments. And then the path of the missiles was broken and he was pinned and semi-hanging against the wall like a crucifixion re-enactment - and Ryou watched his god as he prepared to die.

The self-declared owner of the Millennium Rod swayed triumphantly towards him - and indeed through Bakura's vision he appeared to be most stupidly swaying - and the Ring-spirit clenched his teeth in a grind that was angry but not defeated, and with a snarl so silently deafening that his light cringed before him turned his shoulder and wrenched his left arm free. Flaps of bloodied skin and gristle and hair flew from his arm as if it were being pulled through a human cheese grater as the blade, the hilt, the handle passed through his wrist, and with a low hiss he yanked the other blade from his right wrist with numbed fingers. He half-fell to the floor, feet finding their place even though nothing else did, and with a hoarse, thin breath stood, his wrists in tatters and his knives lying around him like unacknowledged corpses.

The Dark Malik uttered a laugh that stopped just short of marvelling, although it was certainly appreciative, and stepped forward anyway. And with an energy no less than enthusiastic he grabbed his adversary and began to crush him against the wall, superior body weight causing the other spirit to writhe in useless struggle as his strips of wrists trailed from his arms into stupidly dangling hands. Bakura's eyes were widened in bloodshot panic as he twisted and wriggled like a snake in someone's distant crushing fist, poison drained. The Dark Malik waited in patient silence as the spirit somewhere beneath him first thrashed and hammered like an enraged bull, before his thrashing became weak struggling became convulsing, and he twitched and cringed away like a puppy.

The Ring spirit let out a tiny, constant sound that was like a mew or pleading, his movements reduced to something like shivering, and just as weak and inconsequential. His captor looked down curiously, and with sudden daring reached out and touched him - not the face, that was still too much, but the neck, oh yes, he could manage that, and it was flimsy and naked underneath his shaking fingers - and he touched him _properly_, and was amazed at how suddenly easy it was.

"You aren't really anything after all," he told him.

He could see the agreement in the tomb robber's eyes, see it taking form on his lips. And as he watched it lift away, become the whispered echo of words, hear him _say_ it, everything turned red and black and faded in and out like a poor radio signal, the one which tied him to this world, and he saw something grow in his vision.

It looked like a dagger.

He turned his head very slowly, preparing to look around. And in the split second before he saw it he saw it again, but in his mind, and when the image was replaced by a real one it was the same. And that image was of Bakura Ryou standing on the other side of the room to him, his posture soft and natural and completely un-self-aware, and his arm still up in the throwing position, and the straps which had held the dagger against his calf were now lying discarded around his feet. And his eyes were bigger than ever, but more focused than usual, and purposeful. And his mouth moved to form Japanese syllables, and he whispered in a voice trembling with shaky strength: "Get your filth-infested hands off my koe."

Yami Malik very abruptly stepped away. In doing so he released the spirit of the Millennium Ring, who slid trembling to the floor like jelly off a plate. He turned fully around.

"You little shit," he whispered. His eyes locked on Ryou's terrified face, and at once they filled up with black like someone turning on a tap, the colour rushing away so that his gaze was of the purest darkness. It was a nothing, a gaze devoid of emotion, of everything - and yet in doing so it created a new thing, a Something. He took a step forward. "You….little…_shit."_

His left hand went up and plucked the dagger from his shoulder. It was in up to the hilt, and came up sheathed in thick black blood. He dropped it abruptly, without noticing. He stood on it when his foot next came forward. He didn't notice that either.

"…Good," he whispered. "That was _good. _For a moment there I even thought you had hurt me." He took another step towards Ryou, who heard a thin screaming sound rise like smoke from his throat, yet could not move, he _could not move._ He watched the spirit come closer.

"But I allowed my hopes to get a little high, as usual," continued that soft whisper. "Because there is only one person in the world who can give me the gift of pain.

And that person is myself."

Ryou knew that he was not allowed to move, because only one person was allowed to save him. And that person stumbled between them like a leaf in the wind, stumbling and forever falling and still putting his shredded arms up in front of Ryou until the other Malik simply struck him and he crashed through rows of exhibits in an explosion of crimson glass, exhibits erupting one after the other until they sounded only like echoes, and the figure who lay limply at the end and all covered in glass was the most silent echo of all.

"And that…that makes you worthless to me."

And the Dark Malik took Ryou around the neck and looked at him with that blank black stare and with a silent rush of fury swung him into the wall so that bricks crumpled sorrowfully around them. And Ryou screamed properly, and he screamed for his koe and for the betrayal they had both committed, and he screamed as his ribs connected with the brickwork and he was dashed against the wall again and again so that each thud was duller and louder until it filled the whole of his head, and then it became so loud that it felt as if his head had burst open from the pressure, and he lay quietly as the blood pumped vigorously around him and his skin felt sticky, wondering if he was dying and, if that was so, what had happened to his koe…?

He blinked very slowly, confused as everything acquired an odd red tint, like a photograph that had been wrongly developed . Vaguely, he became aware that Malik-kun's other personality was crouched next to him, watching him curiously, and that he himself appeared to be leaking vast amounts of previously-withheld shadows all over the floor, polluting the tiles like oil on water. He was also dimly aware that there were clots of blood gathering in uncomfortable knots on his face and in his hair, and that his other self would be angry if he saw this; guiltily, he realised he must be getting blood simply _everywhere._ Then it struck him that maybe his koe didn't care after all, because he had not fulfilled his half of their eternal bargain, and had instead allowed harm to come to him. And if his koe had promised to protect him, and had failed to fulfil that promise, then…what did this mean for both of them?

His eyes wanted to close again. And, feeling a little defiant, he decided that his own wishes were going to come first for once; he could not rely on himself to _protect _himself, but at least he would do what he thought was best for himself, and that seemed better.

So he smiled a little, and then closed his eyes.

The Dark Malik cocked his head to one side again, intrigued at the way things were developing, and watched puddles of darkness lap hopefully at his feet, searching for a new master. He stirred patterns in them with the Rod for a few moments, before placing a palm on the cool, darkness-drenched tiles and allowing it to soak into him.

"Sort of ironic, na? In refusing to use these against me, you unwittingly allow me to take them for myself." He shrugged at it all, before raising a blackened hand to drip onto the lighter self's face. Hell, the host could take them back if he wanted; he could only fit so much in one body. And it didn't look as if someone was in much of a condition to use them anyway, even if he had been so inclined.

Thick, scummy drops, as black and ugly as tar, began to cover Ryou's face like oily tears.

"Get…away."

He looked up enquiringly.

The spirit of the Millennium Ring was staggering towards him - really, it was not much more than an attempt at a stagger, seeing as he was too weak to even to do that properly - and as he moved glass crunched under his bare feet, creating little red footprints behind him that became brighter with every step. Skin hung from his arms in strips and patches, as though someone had started papier-mâché-ing him but become bored half-way through, and just slapped the rest of the skin on any-old how. His eyes were like the blood-drenched glass around him, the colour a bright, sick over-richness. His hair, when viewed from a distance, appeared greasy, but as he came nearer it could be seen to be slicked thoroughly with blood. There was far too much on him for the eye to accept; it looked like a bucket of stage-blood had been emptied over him, and then another, and another.

He sucked in a thin, shuddering breath. "Get away from him."

"This thing is _male?"_ He snickered, feigning astonishment as he casually swiped up the Dark Bakura's host body and waved him insolently from one hand. Then he grinned, shrugged, and tossed the limp remains onto approximately where he judged his sister to be. Her body bucked briefly as the weight landed on top, already probably stiffened from rigor mortis.

Anger twisted the Ring spirit's face into a furious swirl. Low hiss just whispering from his bloodied lips, he staggered forwards another step. "You…_dare_ to hurt him…"

He raised an eyebrow as the other spirit continued to make his unsteady way forward. The odds seemed good that he would expire before he actually made it over, which was a bit of a pity really. "And what are you going to do? _Hurt_ this poor little mortal body of mine? You seem far too kind-hearted a person to do something like that." He snickered again.

Bakura's voice was in just as many rags as his arms; it was hoarse and rasping, with a dark throb of anger shuddering beneath it all. "You fucking dare…to think I value…your surface personality's body?"

Smirking openly. "I think you value _him."_

His voice was too far gone to manage a snarl, but the other spirit could hear the remnants of it nonetheless, hear the shuddering grate of what would have been a full-bodied scream of anger pinching his vocal cords in odd places, pulling every syllable tense and staccato as he rasped, "Of all the mortals…in this over-populated world…there is only one that I have any use for. As for the rest…they can go to hell." He drew a rasping breath. "And the same applies to spirits."

The tiny blade rubbed a little more skin off and he winced involuntarily, feeling it as sandpaper against now-naked bones. He tightened the pressure, and the little silver knife wedged between his arm and waist moved snugly above his hip, waiting.

He was still grinning, the arrogant fuck. "Sure? I would have thought my surface personality would prove to be the better in bed…but, unlike you, I'm not able to speak from experience. Tell me: what is your verdict?"

"My…verdict." He whispered the words, but they rose uncontrollably in volume. "I would let my host die, pure, rather than defile him. But I have reason to believe that he is now slightly less than pure. And you…you will burn in the Underworld for what you have done to him."

He brought up his arm, and hurled the knife at him. And the Dark Malik had not noticed, and his lips moved to voice the words, _Superstitious fool. _But then, just as the knife stroked the air in front of his face, there was a slight breeze and then some other sound, and the colour rushed abruptly into his eyes as he collapsed.

He looked, and saw with surely malfunctioning eyes that his knife was driven deep into the wall at exactly the spot where the spirit's head had been a moment before, and the spirit himself was lying unconscious on the floor with no visible evidence of fresh knife-wounds. The Dark Bakura's expression slackened, and he whispered with a voice all crammed full of hopeless, cheated rage: "What. The. _Fuck?"_

"I'll thank you to mind your language. You happen to be in someone else's house." Isis dusted off her hands in a satisfied, business-like manner, and placed them on her hips.

He nearly fell over. His legs had been buckling already, but now they seemed to have lost any last remaining will to stand. He locked his knees, and made himself stand absolutely straight. "What…what…"

She looked politely contemptuous. "I'm sorry? Are you trying to say something?" Her face suggested that it wasn't anything listening to anyway.

He heard bones in his fists splinter as he clenched them. In an indignant splutter he choked out, "What in Ra's name did you do? You…you _stupid bitch!"_

Her expression turned prim, and possibly even more contemptuous. "You aren't the only person who happens to know karate. And I already told you to curb your language."

He gripped his anger, holding it tight and bubbling within him. "It appears some people enjoy interfering in matters which are not their concern." One furious thought circled within him: it had been _his_ fight - and _she_ had taken his victory from him.

Her eyebrows arched. "Oh?" She was angry too, he noticed; it made him feel about one per cent better. "He happens to be _my_ brother. I believe the blood tie gives me priority."

He snorted. "Priority? Are we queuing up to kill him?"

She advanced, jabbing a furious finger at him, and almost making him flinch. "We are queuing up to save him. And I just happened to get a fast-track ticket at the last moment."

He looked away, towards the bloodied remains of his host. Shadows were still spilling frantically from him; dully, he watched them colour the floor. "…I see. How unfortunate."


	6. Veils

**A/N: First update in…I don't even want to think about it. Must be about four months…my God. Well, here it is. And I've got chapter seven all ready to post up, so I'll add that in a few days. And now, I'm going to bugger off and finish chapter eight. If there are any people left to read this who have not lost all faith in me…thanks for any reviews.**

**Hybrid Darkness Chapter 6: Veils.**

The Dark Bakura had come to the conclusion that the idea of Pain was inconveniencing, ill-planned, and outdated. Punishment need not always be so tiresomely complex: in the past, there had just been straight-forward execution, be it with a hangman's noose, a rifle or a cyanide capsule, before someone had decided that simple death was, well, too simple. So they had invented things like Pain and Torture. These two things did not necessarily involve the other; you could torture someone without there being pain involved, and pain as a process did not necessarily constitute torture. Nonetheless they appeared inextricably linked, he reflected bitterly; in the end, it seemed, the other one always had to get involved.

Not that he was applying any of this to all situations, mind you; pain certainly had its uses, as did torture. It was just that now it seemed utterly irrelevant, not to mention humiliating. He was watching now his lighter self biting his lip into shreds as he struggled against it, struggled against humiliating himself by showing everyone how he could not even cope with this, let alone control it. He could see their thin hands slicing further chunks out of the sofa like knife blades, searching for something to squeeze the life out of. And he himself felt pitying exasperation for his light, for what else was the poor, silly mortal supposed to do? He did not know how to cope with this; he had never dreamed that he might have to be able to. He was not the one who was supposed to cope with things like this.

The darker entity could feel himself fighting his helpless frustration. He wanted to seize his light and steal his pain away from him; he wanted to take over the battle which his host stubbornly refused to acknowledge that he had already lost. There was a need now to prove to someone that one of them was capable of getting the situation under control; and the thought that he had already used up his turn in failure only contributed further to a maddening, blistering anger that was entirely different in nature to the slow-burning throb of hatred that he held deep within himself, nurturing and tending to like a host body.

And it angered him further because Ryou would not ask for help; he simply sat there shivering with the overwhelming enormity of the hurt which was beginning to eat him up like a cat would a mouse; teasing him and drawing back a little, only to extend still further. He would not even look up towards his other, the person who had goddamn tried to protect him, instead smiling feebly at Isis as she drowned him in bandages like a mummy. No one looked at Malik, and he wasn't complaining.

What the Dark Bakura wanted right now, what he really wanted, was for his light to reach timidly for his hand, and find absurd comfort in this physical re-enactment of their link. He wanted it not because it would have made himself feel better, or because he enjoyed indulging his host's wish for token physical acts of reassurance; he wanted it because it would have made it a little easier for Ryou to deal with the pain ravaging his body, this sensation he was thinking about so much that it risked rendering it trivial and meaningless. He wanted Ryou to deal with the pain because it reflected better on them both, but especially on the darker half: it lessened the crushing indignity of his defeat, and that of his knives, just a little.

But the silly little fool would not comply. And his other was trying to decide whether it was out of some sudden childish urge for self-assertion, or because the host no longer believed that his koe could offer him the promised reassurance. And out of these he tried to decide which was less undesirable, before realising that, although one was short-term and the other threatened something more long-term, they both constituted rejection.

He extended his hand perhaps an inch along the seat of the sofa - after all, perhaps it was mere shyness that caused him to abstain from the reassurance that the Dark Bakura knew he must by now surely crave - just to offer him a way in. And his host looked deliberately at the blood-stained fingers, dyed with not with his or his but with _their_ blood, and then looked very clearly away.

Fuck this. He glanced up, very quickly, trying to see whether anyone had noticed. It seemed to him that right now this second life of him was a little necklace of humiliations and defeats all strung together with his own blood. And he wanted to break it, but then there would be more blood. And he would be left with nothing else.

There was a little path of red dotting its way from the stairs along the hallway to the bathroom, as if someone had been carrying a ball of red wool that had unravelled as they went. How peculiar it seemed.

He closed his eyes against it; for the first time that he could ever remember, he was sick of the sight and smell of blood - even of the sound of the word. Blood, blood, fucking _blood. _He had less of it to contend with now, but its lustre seemed to grow even more vivid when locked away in memory. All he could recall, when he had ascended the stairs with the huddle of his host body pressed against his chest, was the way the _blood_ had dripped and danced and rolled down his side and his legs so that it fanned out behind them in a crimson spray, and he had kept thinking that surely it would stop any moment now: because how much blood was in the human body anyway? But there seemed to be so much, and more coming out every second. And even though Ryou appeared to be unconscious and limp he shivered still in his yami's arms, so that with every little movement more ran out, and he had held him tighter to try and stop him moving so, but when he did he felt the grind of bones sliding against his arms, and stopped at once, anxious lest he cause further damage.

Ryou blinked hair from his eyes, and his other saw him, but instead blinking blood away just as he had done in the bathroom. His gaze had been slow and sleepy and a little puzzled, as if even in this state he had registered that this was not the place he had expected to be taken to. And his eyes had widened in confusion, in tired astonishment, as the spirit had gently lowered his head against the bath, and with slow sweeps of the silver shower head relieved his hair of the dried blood clotting it into knotty clumps. Just rinsing was enough for most of it; but some of it had been stuck, clinging there still, and he remembered his koe reaching in with his hand and gently coaxing it all out. And he remembered the distant perfume of shampoo, and the way the water had been so warm, like hands caressing his face…he had fallen asleep then, he supposed. Certainly, he had no memory of what might have happened afterwards, of his koe fluffing his hair dry with soft towels, or lifting him back up into his arms. He knew only of here, of lying back against the sofa and feeling a steady ache building in his chest, like someone thudding a drum just behind his ribs.

His other self was at the end of the sofa, thin and elegant as always; to Ryou he appeared less substantial than usual, ghost-like and diminished both in form and in character. He saw him extend a hand…oh God, he wanted to take it. He needed, now more than ever, for his koe to hold his fingers lightly within his own in that soft, special way he had of simultaneous delicacy and security, and tell him without words that it would all be okay. But something seemed wrong with it now, with this ritual: for the first time he wondered what went through his other's mind when he did it. Was he happy, that he was offering security to his weaker self? Or impatient, merely tolerating his weakness? Or…did he feel nothing at all? Was there not even any thought present when they went through this ritual? He shuddered a little beneath his wrappings, and huddled back into the benign squishiness of the sofa - here, at least, was some comfort that he could rely on always being present.

Lying back, he could feel Isis's fingers at work, steadily suffocating his body in bandages. She was a very practical, matter-of-fact sort of person, which he felt grateful for because right now it was the sort of thing he needed; she was not the sort of person who would allow you time to brood or mourn, but instead prop you back up and point you in the direction of the world again. She had spent the first few minutes just examining him, feeling the area with her fingers, and asking him to breathe in and out. He did his best to obey, but it hurt, and he was distracted by what seemed to be only half of his chest rising, while the other half seemed to fall. Did that mean it was serious? He had assumed he was not going to die, because otherwise his koe would appear far more angry than he currently looked.

And it was sort of funny in a way, because although he knew that his koe must be angry now, and in fact felt fairly certain that he was, the spirit gave no indication of it, and had not done since they had arrived upstairs. Even in the bathroom, when Ryou had started coughing and could not stop, his other had not become angry. And he had tried to stop, he really had, because every time he coughed his chest went up and down and it seemed like he could grab less and less air with every breath. But he had not, had not become angry…not even when Ryou started coughing so hard that he had began bringing up blood. The spirit simply held him against the bath so that he could let it all out. Then when Ryou was finished and couldn't do anything anymore except slump there and sip air gratefully, his koe eased up his shirt and looked at his side, all dark and swollen with bruising, and without a word had put his hand there, just let it rest there. And it felt cool and pleasant; and his other half had looked silently at him, and Ryou had no idea what he was thinking.

And Malik…he could see him, just, in the corner of his vision. He had already inferred that it was not appropriate for him to feel any sort of emotion towards Malik right now; and this was one order that he was still more than happy to comply with, because he would not have been sure otherwise what sort of emotion he should have been feeling. All that came to mind was a sort of nervous embarrassment, and, despite everything, a comfortable sense of pity. Surely Malik was worse off than he himself was, anyway, what with all that emotional turmoil and so forth that he would surely be going through - and besides, he had the as-yet withheld wrath of the spirit of the Ring to cower beneath. Ryou held no illusions as to what was in store for the youngest member of the Ishtar family as soon as he himself had left the room, both from his koe and from the unfortunate Egyptian's older sister. Getting sent to a world of darkness somewhere _and_ getting grounded would be getting off very, very lightly.

This matter had not yet entered the Dark Bakura's mind for proper consideration, but would do so in due course, during which it would receive all the necessary attention. He resisted an urge to crack his knuckles at the thought.

During the final few minutes he watched his host patiently endure the last bandage as it was wound around his torso, before being neatly clipped off. Eventually, Isis sat back, and put the scissors to one side. When she spoke it was clearly addressed to Ryou, and the Ring-spirit bristled at once; he viewed such matters as the body's health to be far more his business than Ryou's.

Gently: "You have four broken ribs. I think there is the possibility of a fifth fracture as well, but I can't tell very easily."

His eyes grew round and interested as he considered this. "So…is it bad?" Her ears must have been deceiving her: she thought he sounded almost hopeful.

"Well, it isn't ideal," she answered, and saw him smile weakly. "But there isn't a great deal that you can do for fractured ribs, apart from waiting for them to knit back together. I've put some padding against them so as to try and protect them from getting knocked about any further; you can just pull your shirt over them and no one will be able to tell. If the pain becomes any worse, I can give you some ibuprofen, although I'm not sure if it will do your breathing any good."

He nodded, knowing that he was never going to be allowed to resort to painkillers.

The Dark Bakura sat forward a little. "…Will this scar?"

Isis looked at him with an expression that said scorn was too good for someone like him, and at the last moment prevented her tone from becoming scathing. "Oh, it's always good to know _someone_ has their priorities in order. And, most likely, it will."

His sour scowl said that this was the worst news so far, short of having to spend another night under the same roof as her. It was not acknowledged by the intended recipient, however, who had now decided to bottle up the rest of her disgust and leave it to mature for a few hours before release. She cleared the table of supplies and left the room to put them away; after a moment Ryou too rose, and hobbled carefully across the carpet.. Malik's eyes watched him all the way across the room.

When he reached the doorway of the bedroom he stumbled a little, and automatically put out a hand to steady himself. There didn't seem to be anything there to lend support though; nothing that he might be able to lean against for a moment and rest, except for his other, who reached out and tried to close his thin fingers around Ryou's without asking.

_Why won't you look at me?_

"I don't…" he tried to say, and then found that he couldn't see any point in finishing, and pinched the words out of existence like tiny candle flames. He let his hands drop down and away to his sides, so that he was not actively pulling away, and went over to the bed. He felt so light now that it was as if he had floated over to it, a tiny, groundless shadow that hovered above the carpet but never quite touched it. He looked around in a puzzled way for his pyjamas, and then sat down on the bed with them. His other was still hovering, left behind in the doorway, and Ryou wondered what the spirit thought he was supposed to be doing. He regarded him one last time, in a faintly curious sort of way, as if he still might have some sort of plan regarding anything, and then watched the other part of somebody wander slowly away.

……………

He had never been sure who he was supposed to think of himself as - a part of somebody else, he supposed. And when you took out the somebody else, all you had was a part, an incomplete fragment, something that could no longer fulfil its function because it no longer had one. It seemed fairly clear to him that he was that fragment. And if it was fairly clear to him, everyone else could probably see it declared in a big neon sign floating above his head. And they didn't seem surprised either - it was as if they had all been party to this biiiig, big secret that he was not supposed to know. He wondered how long they had all known for.

He saw Malik come back into existence from where he had established himself in the armchair, all small and huddled. He knew. He was in perfect position to see the great big incriminating sign.

"Um…"

He wondered how long he had known for. Had he been laughing about it, secretly? How many people had laughed when he turned his back?

"I don't know who to apologise to first."

Maybe even Ryou had thought about it. Maybe he laughed about it too, in his innocent, careful little way.

"I mean, I know you are technically one person, and saying something to either of you is just as good as saying it to the other, but in this case I really think I should do it separately."

And they would keep on laughing, faces all stretched and plastic like balloons, grins painted on.

"But right now-"

He would rip apart their stupid smiling balloon faces like the silly toys they really were. He would rupture their silly plastic casings, banish the air from their bodies and their heads, explode them open so that they would fly everywhere in bright bits of rubber. He would do it until they stopped their grins and their nods and their tuttings like record players jammed on the same infuriating and senseless note. And he would not let himself remain meaningless.

"-Can I talk to Ryou?"

He surfaced slowly, raising his head, and was confronted by Malik standing _right in front of him;_ he had to raise his head a little more to pretend to make eye contact through his hair. Bad enough to be forced to concede the extra few inches to any person - and he himself was not tall, for such a characteristic did not become his light. Although he was permitted another precious inch and a half, he still felt himself to be diminished by barely managing to nudge the six-foot marker, (and that was with his hair). Yet worse still to have to look up in any way at this person, whose appearance he did not wish to be granted sight of anyway.

"No."

Curse him. Curse him and his height and the clear definition of muscle in his arms that only grew clearer as he grew darker, and curse everything else too about him, his stupid purple eyes that had to look at him in that perplexed way, his lips, slightly parted in puzzlement: curse everything that was above the belt and below the belt and fitted snugly just beneath.

Malik appeared to be genuinely confused. "But…why? I want to -" His face flushed a little. "I want to apologise to him. Can't I do that?"

Abruptly: "I don't think he wishes to hear such things at the moment."

"No…" Malik pronounced slowly. His tone was pondering. "What you mean is that you don't wish him to hear such things. You don't know what he thinks about it, do you?"

The Dark Bakura looked up slowly, and his eyes met Malik's for the first time. They were a pale, washed out red, all the colour wrung out. His lips moved but a little. "What are you implying?"

In a startled tone: "I'm not implying anything."

"I said," snapped the spirit in a low, suddenly vicious sound, "Just _what the fuck_ are you implying?"

"Wha-"

"What does it matter if it is myself or my Ryou that decides something? Why should it make any difference if I act on his behalf? I know what he thinks, don't I? I know what is best for him, don't I? _Don't I?"_

"I only thought I would mention it because it didn't seem enough time for you to ask him…that was all." His voice was very neutral, very controlled. Intended to be the most unoffending thing in existence - and yet, by the Gods, the Ring spirit wanted to rip his vocal cords out now even more than ever.

He gripped his emotions, holding them down yet feeling them wriggling like little poisonous snakes as he spoke. "That is _your_ opinion. Which, fortunately, is not valued very highly by anyone in this household, mortal or otherwise."

His expression changed. "Now wait a-"

"In fact -" and he had given up all attempts to control the intensity of his feelings: the little snakes were bursting out from him and they were huge now, and not poisonous but crammed with so much venom that they themselves choked on it - "in fact, that's probably the real reason you have that other self, isn't it? So he can justify you receiving the attention you are so desperate for. Pretty fucking convenient, isn't it? He certainly makes a more memorable presence than you do - I wouldn't mind knowing _him_ in private. At least he doesn't try and pretend that there is anything else to him. He might even be called the better half of you two - at least he lacks your hypocrisy, your cowardly double-dealing, your hasty return to the side of the Pharaoh, your _despicable-"_

"You can shut the fuck right up now," Malik snapped. His apologetic manner seemed to have disappeared intriguingly quickly - which was a good thing, because it did not suit him.

"I could, yes." He leaned close. "But guess what? I'm not going to."

The Egyptian forced out a short laugh. "Well, you aren't too dependable yourself, are you? Your opinions seem prone to change at rather short notice - and I'm sure you felt quite differently about me on the Battle Ship. Someone regretting a few things, then? We _were_ a little rash, weren't we? Rather…uncontrolled?"

He had a moment, eerily similar to a few days before, when he was certain that the spirit would strike him. There was a sudden movement and he stepped back at once, bitterly aware of how slow he was without his other reanimating the body - and Bakura stood there with his arm raised, but held, and was breathing more rapidly than any mortal body would have put up with. With an effort, he lowered his arm, still holding himself back with an obvious effort, last shreds of self-control still binding him. Then he thrust a finger into Malik's face. "Fuck you. _Fuck _you. You think you were great once. You think you still are now. But all I see - all I ever saw - is an overgrown mortal child crammed full of his imaginary self-importance who thinks that, just because his other half happens to be more skilled at dispatching civilians than him, it means he automatically gets the sympathy vote. Personally, my sympathies go out to that poor spirit, locked inside that roomy vacuum where a brain should dwell - it must be so tedious having been there for nine years, and yet still have more deeds to his name than you ever will."

It seemed almost funny to him that he could still manage to have any anger left - and yet, strangely enough, he found plenty ready and waiting to be released. His voice was a strained note of fury, all stretched out of tune, as he managed hoarsely: "All this from someone who is quite happy to deride the shortcomings of others, but is still in denial about a mortal crush from three years ago - _very _laudable."

The spirit turned his head to one side in an expression of disgusted exasperation. Then he seized Malik's gaze and spat, "Don't flatter yourself. You're still that same loud-mouthed brat, the one who has the sheer fucking _audacity _to imagine that a one-night stand means that I ever possessed any feelings towards you other than indulgence at your dirty purity. The only thing you have to feel proud about is your naivety."

"It's better than arrogance," he muttered sullenly, anger dulled despite himself.

"At least _I_ am not in denial." And with that parting statement, hung with every honourific particle he could fit in (the -o, the -sama, the -go…) - he turned and stalked back into the bedroom, shutting the door behind him with a bang that echoed both finality and the beginning of something else.

Malik looked blankly at his bedroom door - it appeared smug in its utter blankness, a big white rectangle of unaccountable self-righteousness. Ra, even his own house was personified into somebody against him. He sighed, and looked hopelessly towards the sofa.

He had just begun the process of dragging across sheets to form a makeshift camp - his sleeping bag was in the bedroom, and therefore off-limits - and was in the middle of moulding cushions into a more comfortable sleeping shape, when for no justifiable reason that he could think of, the phone rang. He blinked several times, trying to identify the sound beyond mistake, before trudging over. Three o'clock in the Ra-damned morning - or, actually, 12 minutes past - and that, of course, was the time when everyone always chose to rang…

"Who is it?" _Just leave your address and preferred method of execution, and then leave me to sleep._

"Ano…kimi-wa…Rishido-san…?"

"Don't think so." He stifled a first yawn, failed entirely to block the second one, and tried to think in Japanese. Pretty demanding at this time of morning, especially since even Arabic was all but beyond him right now. "Hello, Yuugi." Was he supposed to be adding all the honourific particles now that he was officially "good" and everything? _Sod it,_ the other part of his brain ordered tiredly.

"Marik-kun! It _is _you! Hello!"

His brain was detecting the Japanese's voice as being too polite, and thus kept automatically filtering it out. "Uh. Hi."

"I couldn't tell just now, you see - you know, when you were talking in Arabic." (Malik had no memory of what language he had happened to answer in - he could have been talking in Swedish for all he knew.) "Just that…please don't be offended, but all Arabic sounds the same to me. I can't tell the difference between you and Rishido-san. I could probably barely tell if Ishizu-san came on the phone instead."

"Mm. Good. I mean, oh."

"Are you okay? You don't sound very…" He rattled off various colloquialisms that Malik's brain refused to try and translate. "Oh goodness! It _is _evening over in Egypt, isn't it?"

"Uun…Well, the sun has set, if that is what you mean."

Gasp - so surprised that it sounded almost theatrical. "Oh no! But I thought Egypt was seven or eight hours ahead of Japan: I thought it would be early evening for you."

"Oh." Then: "It isn't. I think it's Japan that is supposed to be seven hours ahead of Egypt." He yawned again, and looked longingly towards his half-prepared sofa-bed.

He could hear Yuugi counting in a low voice, agonisingly slowly. "Ichi-ji, ni-ji…san-ji gozen?"

"Apparently."

"I rang you at three o'clock in the morning?" He sounded very distressed now.

"Uh. Don't worry about it. Anyway, what were you…?"

"Oh, of course. Sorry. You must be desperate to get back to sleep-" Malik managed to stop himself from croaking a strained _Yes! Yes!_ down the phone- "so I won't trouble you for much longer. I…I just thought it would be polite…to let you know that we could be here the day after tomorrow, if you still want us."

"Asatte? Getsuyoubi?"

"Yes. Or…do I mean tomorrow? Kyou-wa tatta nichiyoubi-da. I think I mean the day after tomorrow by my time, and tomorrow by yours? In the evening? About…ten o'clock, I think? I'm nearly packed already."

"Huh?"

"So, do we see you the day after tomorrow?"

"See…?"

"You know - fly over?"

"Oh…that. Sure. Be wonderful to have you." What he forced down now was not a yawn.

"Are you sure?"

"Of course. I sort of need sleep now, so…see you soon, I suppose."

"Un!" He giggled a little. "I'm really excited now, Mariku-kun. I've always wanted to see the pyramids. And I think the other me is really looking forward to coming too, although of course he won't say so. And mummies, and deserts, and the Sphinx! And camels! Do you think we could see a camel?"

"Eh…sure. You could probably have a ride on one around the pyramids, if you want."

Sharp intake of breath down the phone, as if he was sucking up all the air from Egypt as well. "Honto-ni daijoubu-ka? Oooh…"

For some reason, he found Yuugi's enthusiasm dispiriting. "I promise, Yuugi-kun. Now, if it's okay, I really need to go…"

"Of course, of course. Thank you so much…you're a good friend, Marik-kun."

He couldn't find anything to say to that.

"Sore-ni…mou sugu-yo!" With a last squeal, he was gone.

Malik looked at the handset, wondering why he felt expected to do something else to it, and then set it back down with a sigh. Sinking down into the sofa, he tugged the blankets around himself, and felt cushions dissolve around him. Before he gave himself up to sleep, however, he discerned a silent rustling of consciousness deeper in his mind, and felt his other shuffle around a little, before curling back up into himself.

……………

When the spirit of the Millennium Ring re-enters the bedroom, his host is not yet asleep or even properly in bed: he sits in an odd sort of calm upon the bed, trussed up in his pyjamas. He is gazing through the window, observing the star-starved sky with mild curiosity and slight guilt, as if he might be able to account for the loss of some of them. When his other finally speaks, he gives no indication that he has heard, but instead continues to focus his fascinated attention upon the window with an interest so entire that it somehow avoids rudeness.

"We can leave tomorrow, if you want. We could be gone by midday; I could pack for you, and it would not take long to get to the airport."

Ryou's eyes begin to pick out something that looked hopeful enough to be a star. It seems too bright though: an aeroplane, perhaps? He is not sure if it is flashing, or if it simply slid in and out of focus.

"I know you think I don't want to go. You think I want to stay here, that I want to see the pyramids."

Ryou narrows his eyes a little, trying to bring the elusive object into focus. Was that a flash?

"But I don't care. In terms of importance, they have ceased to matter."

He thinks it might be…he leans forward a little, and felt bones touch.

"I want to know what you want."

It isn't. It is just a stupid planet. Venus, perhaps? But that was only in the mornings, wasn't it? It is this silly time-difference: it messes everything up.

He steals his first look at his host, now sitting back, and passive again. "Why don't you tell me? Why don't you _ever_ tell me _anything?"_

Ryou looks up. Surprise widens his eyes. _I tell you everything you need to know. As do you to me. I thought that was how it was supposed to work._

"But who decides what is necessary knowledge?"

He shrugs, smiles a little: it is a bitter, rueful expression. He nudges hair away from his eyes, carefully, not with his usual absentness. _That's the crux of the idea, isn't it? We get to decide ourselves._

"I think perhaps we need to rethink this." It is surprisingly hard to say, but why not? He is, after all, on the verge of renouncing his entire life-philosophy.

_Now?_

"No. I don't feel now is the right time."

Little smile, nod of agreement. He observes him, very briefly. Looking at the blood on his clothes, on his face.

The spirit sits down on the bed next to him. "I think the most urgent question is whether or not you wish to leave."

He doesn't like the question; his other can feel him touching it suspiciously with his mental fingers, examining it for traps, trying to find a way to avoid answering. "I…don't know. I don't think so," he concludes softly. "At least…not yet. I want to wait." He does not mention what for, and the spirit does not ask him.

"Are you ever happy?" he asks at last.

Ryou does not answer at once; he appears flustered. "Sometimes…" His face is split into a little broken mirror of distress. "There's blood all over your face…in your hair…"

He puts up a hand automatically - feels the uneven surface - laughs. "I knew that, my little Ryou. Hard not to feel it." He probably smelled of it too; the smell would attach to him like a wounded leech for days and days.

"I don't like seeing it on you like this…" Distress swims in his eyes; they are so deep that emotions could drown in them, one by one. He touches the smooth whiteness of his yami's cheek, drained almost translucent. "I should wash it off for you." He half-rises, torn between fetching a flannel and staying with his other.

"You don't need to."

"Koe-"

He captures his light's hands in his own. "I don't want you dirtying our hands with my blood." He kisses Ryou's fingers, seeming almost to stroke them with his bruised lips. "Later, when you are in bed. Then I will wash it all away."

He hovers, indecision twisting his face this way and that, before flinging his arms suddenly against his koe: his arms fill the air, they overtake everything. His darker self holds him, tenderly and very, very carefully. And when they separate there is blood again on Ryou too, from both of them, but he does not mind.

"You'll stay here, won't you? Next to me?"

"Always."

"And when I wake up - you'll still be here? You won't be - gone?"

"Always. Always here."

He breathes a little sigh of satisfaction, but only a little one, because a bigger one stretches his chest and drags his ribs in funny directions. And he lies down and lets his other fuss over him, tucking in sheets and pulling them back so he can tuck them back in again, and all the while making sure Ryou doesn't put any pressure on the left side of his chest. Then he is finished, and draws up a chair so that he can sit by his host and hold both of his hands in his. They are warm, and he cocoons them with his own so they can merge.

The air is warm too, suddenly; it hums, as if the molecules themselves are enveloped in heat and brushing against each other, sharing comfort.

Ryou murmurs suddenly. _Sing to me._

_What song?_

_Anything._

So he sings him Leaves' Eyes, "The Secret," and every word is so quiet that it could blend with the air itself. And Ryou stays still, listening; and then his koe goes on to the rest of the album, and Ryou closes his eyes and slides into the pillow, his hands still safe and warm.

The Dark Bakura draws to a close when he senses that the breathing of his light is even and not quite so careful; he can hear the occasional hitch or tiny cough trickle out, and puts his ear against the bandaged chest to feel it more clearly. He tries to work out why it is so important for a person to pretend they are happy, what they imagine it does for them. He wonders why Ryou's eyes always appear like veils, hiding the truth yet hinting at it. Then he draws his chair away a little, too rammed full of intensity to meditate, and too keen to preserve his emotions to want to. He sits there, head bowed, for all that is left of the early morning, and all the while hatred seeps from him like disease.

_I'm moving away,  
But captured in your chains;  
I saw you in those waves -  
Those eyes, such pain…_


	7. A Royal Inspection

Chapter Seven - A Royal Visit

The spoon drifted hesitantly along the undisturbed surface, for a moment reluctantly diving down into the milky depths, before almost at once dragging itself free. The bowl's contents were now a whirlpool of appetising orange and yellow mush, which he eyed with a wan satisfaction: perhaps now he would not be made to eat it.

"Ryou-chan? Is there anything wrong with your cereal?"

He gave an unhappy "mmm". "It's fine…"

"Would you like something else instead? Is there anything at all that we can get you?" Isis hovered anxiously at his elbow, her brother behind her, expressions showing their desperation for some sort of assertion or, failing that, a clear answer.

"I…I don't think I'm really very hungry." He looked hopelessly at his other self, a shadow in the corner of the over-bright kitchen, for aid.

_For fuck's sake, eat something. Anything. Even the table. They won't shut up unless you do._

Ryou sank a little lower into his chair and tried to merge himself into it, so that people could sit on him or ignore him or at least perform something that was a little closer to normal treatment. Despite his awareness that Mariku-kun and Isis-san were doing their very best to show him how apologetic they were - no, perhaps it was partly _because_ of that - he was coming to feel increasingly uncomfortable by this "special" treatment. Their attention was like a blinding spotlight focused exclusively on him, and whenever he tried to look up it would blind him in its intensity, and he would feel weak and disorientated. He lacked the experience - and the wish - to be able to deal with this kind of constant, nagging attention; he would much rather prefer to slip down from his seat like an unnoticed shadow and join his other in the corner.

If it were not for his blank expression - a usual thing, but on some days projected more effortfully than others - one might have inferred from the glances sneaking his way that the spirit of the Millennium Ring had committed some slightly offending deed and had been banished to the corner by way of punishment. This inference, however, would be false in more ways than one. The spirit was, for instance, occupying that particular square foot of the kitchen entirely out of choice. Secondly, the offending deed was not, in some eyes, deemed to have been slight. Whether or not it outranked several other slightly more outrageously executed actions was not seen to be relevant; the other culprit, although close enough, was not currently available for punishing.

As it was, when Ryou helplessly flung a miserable look in the direction of his other self, the recipient did nothing more than stare coolly back, having made the decision to allow Ryou to rediscover his place. Not that he made a particularly impressive sight himself today. There was nothing so humiliating as, say, a black eye, present; yet his manifestation today appeared battered and degraded - not in a way that the eye could specifically pin down, but apparent still in the overall presentation of himself. He knew this projection of himself to be thinner even than usual, knew the limbs to be eaten up by scars yet to soften to silver; and still at the moment cared little for it, merely bearing the indignity of his state with gritted impatience. For it was not something he had any control over - a thing he disliked in itself - but merely what happened to be the most accurate and direct representation of his current state. Resentful weariness, bitter anger - he knew himself to possess these emotions because of their faithful reproduction onto this image of himself that the world could see, and because he was having to rally all his mental energy into suppressing any visible signs of them.

He watched his host glumly spoon the orange lumps into his mouth, swallowing with an all-too-visible effort. Difficult to believe that there was any nourishment for the body whatsoever in those soggy flakes - they were even more limp and pathetic-looking than Ryou. A bizarre concept indeed, he reflected: that, after a while, one began subconsciously seeking out foods that were similar in make-up to one's own personality.

Then he remembered that he needed to eat nothing.

……………..

The day passed like snow in a snowglobe - idly for a while, then a big shake-up and four more hours would run by. Meals were a milestone - a sign that he was making progress, wading his weary way through the dull mud of Today. He trudged along the way he knew best - eyes fixed on the ground to make the time pass faster and the day less memorable, carving his lonely way through dense, dense air. In front of him and behind him and all around him dotted footprints: the haphazard, occasional imprints of his koe's bare feet, when he could be bothered to come out, coming round and round Ryou in looser and looser circles until it became hard to see where he had been, and the shallow, anxiously hurrying patter of his two gracious hosts like desperate-to-please dogs, scurrying behind him.

Isis coped by becoming almost ferociously eager to attend to him, hovering just behind him or right beside him or a second's dash across the room; her constant close proximity was claustrophobic and unsettling, but he couldn't find it in himself to dislike it or ask her to stop. He tolerated her and Malik with a patience that was almost painful, meanwhile feeling some portion of himself to be a twisting, confused mess of thoughts all trying to define themselves, while the rest of him dwindled quietly away.

The next big shake-up occurred just before dinner time, which seemed a little early. Nonetheless, he did not question it. He could tell that Isis had been thinking about saying something to him for most of the day - she would catch his eye and hold it a little too long, or open her mouth as if to say something, and then find something else to fill the space with. Now, she intended to follow it through, he saw, with a dismal sinking feeling that bobbed back up again somewhere too near his injured ribs.

"Ryou-chan…are you…"

He cringed back, and at that moment Malik announced suddenly, "Ah - there was something important I forgot to tell everyone."

"Something else?" muttered a dry little voice from his current corner. It went unheard.

"Last night…no, asa-no kyou-ni…Yuugi phoned. He mentioned that he would probably be able to arrive sometime late tomorrow night."

Various people blinked - probably at the same time. Ryou was the first to speak, surprisingly: he emitted a startled little, "Yuugi-kun…?" before Isis drowned him out.

"Yuugi-kun…and the _Pharaoh_? Coming to this house?"

Her brother remembered, somewhat too late, that she had not yet been informed of this development - not something Isis generally took well. He tried to speak, to insert a necessary apology or excuse, but was at almost at once quashed by the indignant exclamation that someone as slight as Isis Ishtar could always seem to summon all too easily. "The Pharaoh is going to set foot in this house in less than thirty-six hours and you had _no intention of telling me?"_ She glared accusingly round as if it were an uncovered conspiracy. Ryou let out a mumble that could easily be taken for an apology - which it wasn't, exactly, but his mumbles were so versatile that he had come to depend on them for most occasions now.

Malik was also putting on what was presumably his apologetic face. "Nee-san…a lot of things have happened, in case you didn't notice…we all just sort of forgot…"

She turned her glare on him; he cowered.

A faint, almost-smirk was edging its way along the corner of the Dark Bakura's mouth. "Such wonderful things, secrets," he said softly. "Pity you aren't invited to share in more of them, really."

Something flashed in Isis' eyes. "_You_ invited him."

"Perhaps. I don't recall the exact words of the conversation, of course-" (a lie) "-but I do seem to remember someone inviting someone else to a place around here. It might have been your baby brother, I suppose." He had deliberately and flagrantly avoided mentioning Malik's name - yet even so, his fingers twitched a little.

She ignored the expression of protest thrown in her direction by her hapless brother, and concentrated on steadying the tone of her voice into unquivering steel. She did not bother trying to stare him down - it was childish anyway, and pointless on a spirit. "I doubt it." She turned to the youngest member of her small family. "Was any specific time given?"

His nonplussed expression told her enough, as did the slight, satisfied smirk creeping its way into full view on the face of the spirit of the Ring. "Oh dear. Let's say between 5 and 11p.m, shall we? Just to be safe?"

Isis' brain whirred, cogs clacking furiously as she performed terrified sums. As little as twenty-two hours. In that time, she had to hover the entire museum, wash every single floor and window, polish all four hundred and fifty-eight exhibits, and do something about her hair. Taking into account when some of those windows had last been washed - she was thinking around 1810, but it seemed a bit optimistic - that left…

"Two minutes and twenty-six seconds per object…" she whispered to herself. A vein was begin to twitch in her forehead; the Dark Bakura watched it with interest.

"But, factoring in the lacklustre contributions of two other people…that means…almost eight minutes per task. Yes." Her brow uncreased; her expression became almost pleasant. Considering that five seconds ago it had possessed a murderousness to rival the Dark Malik's, this was a frightening transformation.

Malik saw, too late, where this was going, and attempted to sidle off. The Dark Bakura casually put out a foot and tripped him up. The sharp rap of his elder sister's voice brought the Rod-bearer back to attention, and he cringed before her, knowing what would follow.

"Otouto-chan. Ryou-chan."

Her pale-haired guest bowed nervously, and tried to look beyond usefulness of any sort.

Now her expression had become that of a grim, fiendish excitement, that of someone staring face-on at their lifelong challenge. "We are going to clean the museum."

…………

Trying to resist, the Dark Bakura mused, was about as time-efficient and useful a task as trying to papier-mâché a pyramid. Nonetheless, he witnessed various vain attempts at this during the next few hours, the crux arriving at around dinner time when Malik, almost hysterical at realising that he and Ryou still had two hundred and fourteen tapestries to dust, attempted repeatedly to bribe the spirit of the Ring into helping them, his offers becoming more fantastical with each repetition. The unfortunate matter was that the spirit could only raise his eyebrows so many times in answer, before appearing idiotic. He had to resort to verbal communication when the begging morphed into whining.

"_Hard work? _You have no idea what hard work is. I spent at least ten years of my life trying to build a pyramid - don't talk to _me_ about hard work."

He received a short, satisfying pause while the Egyptian tried and failed to think of a reply to that, before giving up and re-commencing whining. Ryou was meekly stacking miscellaneous old and valuable objects in well-intentioned piles, although he did look up briefly at the sound of his other's voice. For a moment their eyes met, and he smiled hopefully; and then the spirit looked past him and away.

……………

They finished cleaning late afternoon the next day - somewhere around four o'clock, when the sun was not yet sagging below the horizon but still drifting longingly downwards. They were actually thirty-eight minutes ahead of schedule: due more to Isis' taking over of everyone's jobs than to the fact that the Dark Bakura actually deigned to join in and offer help in the last few hours. He actually did little more than shuffle a few things around so that they were in much the same mess as before, only in slightly altered positions. No one wasted any precious time in pointing this out, however; there was far too much to be done. Ryou had allowed himself to hope that this might be it, but now it transpired that there was cooking to be done and a suitable feast prepared. Fortunately, this required little input from the bearer of the Ring or the spirit inside: one had no experience whatsoever in Egyptian-style cooking, and the other's knowledge was a few thousand years out of date. Thus, they could now do very little except stand around and look either awkward or disdainful, depending on which half you were interested in.

The darker one certainly wondered wryly whether half so much blood and sweat had gone into preparing for _their_ arrival. He also wondered, a little later, whether it had actually occurred to either member of the Ishtar family that the Pharaoh was just as stubbornly immortal as the Ring-spirit himself, and was about as interested in eating real food as he was in camel dung. He was sorely tempted to point this out to them, but decided to let the Seer realise for herself. He would, however, ensure that he put in an appearance, just to witness the Pharaoh's expression upon seeing all the food that he was expected to eat: not even a roomful of Yuugis could be expected to demolish it, let alone one rather less than hungry spirit.

After the lavish food preparations came the individual Tarting-Up Rituals, and, inevitably, a fight for the single shower. Isis got there first - a fortunate thing, since it meant that she could devote as much time as possible into ensuring that her three layers of mascara were exactly even. It was a feat she usually succeeded at, but should not be underestimated nonetheless. The other three individuals, being male, had limited options available, but each tackled this problem in his own unique way. Ryou put a superhuman effort into brushing his hair, until it exploded around in his face in a static white mane; Malik was probably wearing more eyeliner than his sister, a truly impressive achievement. The spirit of the Ring, although outwardly inclined to sniff disdainfully at all this "feminine preening," nonetheless changed his shirt for a smarter one (which in his case meant something even more black and tight-fitting than usual), and even thought about putting on some shoes. He wore sandals, occasionally - the rub of the leather made him feel oddly nostalgic - but mostly he rejected modern shoes, and was content to pad around the museum as bare-footed as Layla. Finally, he decided against shoes, but did chalk on yet another layer of kohl. It was addictive stuff, eyeliner - he could see himself getting through a pencil a week, at this rate.

Isis, meanwhile, having sorted out her mascara, was now facing a crisis of different nature but equal severity: what to wear? This top wasn't low enough, this one was a bit _too_ low, this dress was too…well, dressy…

Ignorant of his hostess' agonising, Ryou was becoming anxious that the outline of his bandages could be seen through his shirt. "It's really obvious, isn't it koe? _Really_ obvious?"

"No," replied the spirit, calm voice belying a growing exasperation. _Now stop whin-_

"I don't know what to wear…" Malik dashed in, absently ransacked his wardrobe, and then rushed out again.

_We're all turning into girls, _the spirit of the Ring thought in a wondering tone. Aloud: "As long as it doesn't show your midriff, I really don't think the Pharaoh will care."

Malik stopped. "You think the Pharaoh objects to seeing my stomach?"

"I'm sure he finds it just as distressing as everybody else does."

The Egyptian blinked at this revelation, and promptly tossed about six shirts in the laundry basket. "Now I _really_ don't know what to wear."

Twenty harassed minutes later, and everyone looked reasonably ready. The only slight problem was that they still had no idea when the Pharaoh and his vessel (because that was how everybody, with the possible exception of Ryou, currently thought of the pair as) were due to arrive. Bakura had already realised this, and was busy smirking at the walls.

Isis fumed in his general direction, gaining no response whatsoever. "Nobody thought to ring them and ask when they intended to arrive?"

Ryou proceeded to look both insignificant and apologetic; Malik tried to copy him, but managed only to look more guilty.

Eventually the Dark Bakura gave a very exaggerated sigh. "The plane was due to arrive at the airport twelve minutes ago. Perhaps you ought to give some thought as to how they are to get here instead?"

Isis's face began to turn slowly purple. It didn't manage to get all the way to maroon, but was passing through the deep red stage when Ryou's mobile started playing Epica tunes, and then it turned almost white. "He-he's calling us!" It was, quite literally, as if God were on the phone. She sounded as if she might faint with reverence.

The Ring-spirit sighed again. Lacuna Coil was his landlord's current ringtone for actual calls - this was just a text message, and no reason to try and break all of the host's fingers in the scrabble for the phone.

He had no intention of telling her so, but Isis Ishtar's kanji knowledge was rather impressive: she read the text message aloud with almost no pauses. "Gomen ne, hikouki wa chotto osokatta na n da yo. Tabun takushii de itte iru. Nijuugofun gurai kakaru rashii. Jaa na."

"It makes sense," Malik said after a moment. "Taking a taxi. It isn't as if there is a single taxi driver in Cairo who doesn't know where this place is, anyway."

His sister was busy looking scandalised. "This is terrible! I should be going to fetch them, not leaving the Pharaoh to rely on public transport-" She started looking around, presumably for her car keys.

_I thought a taxi didn't qualify as public transport…_

The Dark Bakura heard his host's murmur and snickered, the sound just covering the jangle of the car keys hidden behind his back. _Welcome to Egypt, Pharaoh._

…………

Dim, the light - soft and grey and dusky, like an animal skin that you wanted to rub your cheek against to feel its soft velvet. It stroked you as you went by, a touch so light that it was more individual fingers than grasping hands, and you felt as if it knew you.

He wound down his window in a muted squeak of rubber and glass, and the light drifted dreamily in, circling the space around him sort of absently and then leaving again, like a person wandering in and out of rooms trying to remember where they had left something. He fancied he saw it swirling against his skin in little gusts and eddies, brushing the Puzzle for an instant before at once veering away, respectfully, as if casual touch might diminish it, might smear a surface already untouched by millennia. And the item itself seemed to appreciate the gesture. He cupped it briefly in a pale hand, feeling the bizarre, unbalanced weight of it, before letting it slip from his hand and clink back into place in a rustle of chains. He looked around in an embarrassed, helpless manner for his luggage, which was already being heaved from the boot. "Ah…thank you." His tone was soft and respectful, like his friend Bakura Ryou's; unlike Ryou's, however, this voice contained a brighter note, a relentless optimism bubbling stubbornly under every syllable. He was going to be happy, said that tone, and there was nothing anyone could do about it. Often he could not even remember why anyone would want to.

"I mean, um-" He cleared his throat and said carefully, "Sho…khran…Ga…zillan." Sunbeam smile, as the man opposite him stared blankly back. There was a muttered rush of thick syllables; Yuugi made a little gulping noise. He had not expected to end up being pulled into conversation. He started looking wildly at the Puzzle for help.

The taxi driver fixed accusing inky eyes on him, and made a stiff gesture with his fingers. Yuugi stared. Tipping was not a custom in Japan; indeed, to many it was a virtually unknown idea. Yuugi had heard of it, vaguely, and had gathered that some countries liked it, but was feeling a little reluctant to be separated from any more of his money. Besides, it was sort of insulting, just giving them extra money like that, wasn't it? Kind of implied they looked in need of it. He didn't want to offend anyone.

So he bowed deeply and said, "Arigatou gozaimasu" in a very polite voice, bowing once more just to be sure, before seizing his case and running up the steps of the Cairo Museum, leaving the driver staring open-mouthed after him.

………….

A strange world sometimes, ours, in which immortals who murder cheerfully and often without discretion or discrimination are not incarcerated but rather worshipped by ever-forgiving hosts, and ridiculously small people are not crushed underfoot but rather elevated head and shoulders above everyone else just because they are the voice pieces for ancient kings. Newly-arrived aliens would be forgiven for presuming that this planet's dominant race was de-evolving into swarms of psychotic midgets, although, being aliens, they would hopefully have brought over from their far-away galaxies mysterious and useful cosmic weapons for preventing such a takeover. Having saved our planet from such humiliating treatment, however, if they had any sense they would then proceed to take over the newly-cleaned plant themselves. Seeing as various laws of ironic probability dictate that they would probably be small and violent in character themselves, one begins to wonder why we didn't just blow ourselves up in resignation when the first short person was born.

The Dark Bakura did not generally consider himself to be particularly short. He wasn't exactly _tall_, and certainly not as much as he would have liked to be - why, he was only two inches above the Seer, which quickly became negligible if she wore heels, as she was doing now. But he wasn't a "short-arse" in the way that Mutou Yuugi was considered (although he _had _been branded a "skinny-arse" by the other Malik - interesting, the parts of the anatomy by which we choose to define people) and held every bit of his five foot something (he wasn't sure exactly what that something was, as it seemed to differ on a day-to-day basis, and anyway he had barely grasped the metric system, let alone the imperial, but it was a _high_ something) with defiant pride. What worried him now, however, was that the Pharaoh would reveal himself to now be taller than him. Ouch.

These concerns of his existed only on a superficial level, however; yet usually they hardly existed at all, and although he knew the reason for it, he was grimly determined not to do anything about it. He _enjoyed_ having all this emotion at the forefront of his mind, letting it take a role in dictating his actions: as far as impressions went, at the moment he was not concerned as to whether he was creating a good one. He was concerned only that this hate not be stored somewhere safely in the back of his mind, but rather was active and burning right in the middle, and like a fire he could feed it and nurture it, and silently encourage it to grow.

Normally, this kind of route was one which he explicitly avoided going down. The icy exterior, the meditation, the presence of his host: all these were things which usually could prevent emotion from snarling too loudly from its lonely cage in the back of his mind. Now, however, he _wanted_ it to flourish, to make itself known; fearlessly, he would approach the wild animal from time to time to observe it, or to taunt it; anything to make it wilder and more angry. His projection of utter self-control was still more or less intact, although beginning to show telling cracks; but it was the lack of meditation which was really grinding away at him. Choosing to pass the nights without sitting down and pushing all the emotions into his void meant that they frequently jostled and nudged at him throughout the day like tiny children, so that a thin film of irritation ran constantly over his thoughts, and he could feel the wild animal snapping at every provocation.

None of this had so far been apparent in his demeanour, at least not enough for a mortal to have noticed. He just wondered how much the Pharaoh would notice…and how much he would say.

Malik was also worried as to what the Pharaoh would say - partly because if the food was burnt or a speck of dust clung maliciously to some expensive rug, nee-san was going to get pissy. Not in front of the Pharaoh, obviously, but as soon as he was out of earshot. He started making plans to remain a minimum of three metres away from his sister at all times, at least until she seemed satisfied that all was going well.

Taking chunks out of her brother's self-worth was not the thing currently on Isis' mind: _she _was just concerned that the food was going to be absolutely perfect. _Delectable,_ even. Their two and a half hours of labour was not going to be in vain. Hence she was anxiously jerking trays out of ovens every ten seconds to make sure there was not a hint of black to be found, with the consequence that nothing much had cooked.

At first Ryou had tried to help her: it soon became clear, however, that she preferred to be in absolute control of the culinary side of things. Moreover, he realised belatedly that if he did not help then he could not be blamed for mishaps - and Sod's Law demanded that one would probably occur, be it using the wrong type of flour, or salt instead of sugar. Thus he was reduced to hovering by everyone's elbows looking generically nervous and anxious to help, which, while cute at first, does eventually end up causing shoe-shaped objects to be thrown in your direction. Marik-kun had the right idea, he saw: he wasn't going to make Isis satisfied right now no matter what, so he may as well make himself scarce.

Therefore, when the doorbell rang there were plenty of people available to get it; they were all unceremoniously elbowed out of the way by Isis, however, who tore off her apron and almost her dress too as she clattered down the stairs, a deafening accompaniment of saucepans and jingly earrings trailing in her wake. Her speed was so unreal that you almost expected to see little movement lines in the air.

The other three expressed various stages of bemusement and/or disdain, before descending a little more slowly. Layla leapt onto her favourite spirit's shoulder as he went through the door, and he tickled her briefly under the chin as a reward for her loyalty.

Isis breathed in slowly, and four millimetres of foundation rose and settled again in a little olive cloud. Then, hand quivering, she opened the door, and at once dropped into a bow so low that her nose almost touched the pavement. At length, when unmistakable vibes of bemusement began to emanate in her general direction, she looked up.

The small figure in the doorway smiled, rather awkwardly, and bowed himself. "Ishizu-san…um, hi."

She straightened up at once. "Yuugi…kun." She managed a radiant smile. "How lovely to see you again."

He returned the smile, less awkwardly this time. "You too."

She paused, pointedly. "Please, do come in. Both of you,"

"Both- oh. You mean the other me?" Looking down doubtfully: "I thought he might want to wait a while…you know, in case he gets cold. It's sort of chilly." He was shivering himself; Isis, whose mind was fixed on rather a different person, didn't notice.

"Nonsense! It's perfectly warm outside-" - six degrees wasn't so bad for an evening in Egypt- "-Unless it's any trouble for him, of course. I don't want to inconvenience him in any way-"

Yuugi either got the hint or just wanted her to let him in. "I guess I could call him, if you want to see him."

She waited; then without warning Yuugi's outline began to blur, and she immediately dropped to the ground, in a full-length bow this time, heart thumping out a drum-roll of anticipation. Yuugi's outline stretched and warped, as if he were suddenly a Siamese Twin, and then with a single clean, precise movement the Pharaoh peeled smoothly away from his host like a layer of luxurious clothing. His eyes, a rich wine colour that was deeper and less bright than the Dark Bakura's, seemed to briefly stroke every inch of her form like a long red tongue.

"Isis."

She raised her quivering head, and saw that he was offering her a hand, fingers long and white as the spirit of the Ring. Her fingers trembled through the air that was between them - they were going to miss - and he enclosed them in his own, like encasing a pearl. She rose, shakily, trying to meet those eyes.

"M-My Pharaoh…it's such an honour to… "

He raised her fingers to his pale lips and kissed them, very softly; the sensation was exquisite, like the rub of velvet against her skin. "The honour is all mine." He kept hold of her fingers for a moment longer, before his touch slid away like a velvet glove. "All mine." His voice was deep and smooth and unhurried, like a bottle of vintage wine being slowly poured.

"I am sure that our stay here will be most pleasant."

"Yes…" Isis replied dreamily, her voice swirling giddily around her until it found his. She finally managed to meet his eyes, and felt his gaze grip her, gently but firmly, the deep crimson darkening almost to black as it met the pupil, and then blending with it entirely.

He placed an affectionate, fatherly hand on his host's shoulder. "Go on in, aibou. You're cold."

Yuugi murmured a sound of relieved agreement and hurried in past Isis, to where the rest of the occupants were just coming over. "Ryou-kun!"

Both faces lit up, Ryou's not quite as carefully restrained as usual, and they both rushed up to each other. Malik hovered awkwardly, unsure which half of Yuugi to greet first, while the Dark Bakura sniffed disdainfully and parked himself in a corner, out of range of hugs or duelling challenges. He noted that Isis had snapped out of her initial daze enough to begin fawning over the Pharaoh - as if he were still really a king, the spirit thought in disgust - while the spirit himself appeared, to Bakura's more experienced eye, to be pleased but largely unmoved by such unashamed grovelling. Indeed, he even looked away from Isis, to scan the three lighter selves. The Ring-spirit noticed that his gaze lingered on Ryou a little longer, and scowled.

Isis was speaking in a huge rush, more of a borderline-hysterical gabble than coherent speech. "You can see the museum as much as you want, great Pharaoh; but if it pleases you, we have food prepared…menial offerings to compensate for your journey…" She paused, awaiting approval, and when he nodded she fled to open a door for him. He was thus able to finally move _into_ the museum as opposed to standing in the doorway for another ten minutes, which he had nonetheless managed to do with considerable dignity. With a beckoning motion he engaged his partner's attention, and Yuugi promptly made up the steps with Ryou, Malik trailing uncertainly behind them. Not wishing to be stuck between a grovelling Isis and the Pharaoh while ascending the steps, the Dark Bakura slipped after them. As he went up, one hand keeping the cat steady on his shoulder, he felt a twang of something from the Ring, and automatically put up his other hand to grasp the tines. For a moment it glowed, and a low voice told him, _We talk later._

He glanced behind him, casually, and saw the Pharaoh still waylaid on the second step, path somewhat blocked by Isis. He was nodding and murmuring in acknowledgement to her, and then stared coolly up and towards the other spirit, and his gaze was calm and collected, but not happy.

…………..

It was only natural that the Pharaoh would sit at the head of the table. He seemed to expect it; and no one exactly had a problem with it. On his right was seated his partner, and his best friend adjacent to him. Malik sat opposite Ryou, and his sister was next to him, and the Pharaoh. No one seemed to have any sort of expectations regarding the spirit of the Ring, which his pride disliked even if his mind reminded him that it was more convenient if he was not required to make conversation or even eat, and so he slid into the chair at the foot of the table, because it was near to his host and because it was the only one left.

The Pharaoh seated himself last, in a somehow elegant jangle of buckles and spiked bracelets, thereby ensuring that all eyes were on him even from the start. He liked having all their rapt faces focused on him; it was like a scaled-down version of having the population of his country before him, all ready to be governed. With slow graciousness he raised the wine bottle and began to fill every glass. No wincing "ching" of glass on glass shattered the warm and easy silence; his hand was perfectly steady, the skin a very pure paleness that yielded no delicate tracery of veins or any other uncomfortable reminder of age. As the liquid sloshed and settled comfortably to the bottom of each glass, he leaned back and settled, still standing, at the end of the table. His chin tilted slowly upwards as he looked up and over the table; his gaze was simultaneously precise and vague, so that you were never completely sure which person he was looking at, but you knew that they had his full attention; and the effect of this was that you were free to imagine that it was you that he was looking at, and never anybody else.

"My friends. Delegates. Associates." His gaze briefly moving outwards and then back in, like the momentary sweep of a royal cloak, rippling and then settling. "It has been a while, I believe, since we have gathered together like this. Hopefully this time the atmosphere is more understanding, more relaxed, than any of you could have imagined it would be possible to become, and exactly that which I wished it to be. There exists now, I feel, a desire for co-operation and harmony between us, and that is what I work to achieve. For only through co-operation can we produce results that we are proud of. By following the commands of Ra even in this different age, we work our way towards satisfaction, towards the eternal reward, towards that patch of grass reserved in the Underworld only for us.

"Yet, in our search for wisdom, we must beware those that care to distribute it in corrupted form, and use our new strength to purify them. We will seize new challenges and opportunities with ever-replenishing vigour; we will listen to the words of the Guided. Our number is small, yet I believe our combined strength is worth that of a hundred lesser beings. If we Believe, if we stay strong, we may accomplish anything, any task, any labour.

"Now," his voice lightening a little in tone, although still retaining that deep intonation that caused every one of his words to be like bells ringing out their rich and single notes; "I believe our first challenge is to attempt to do justice to this formidable display of culinary excellence laid before us." He gave a little nod, a little smile. "In short, _Itadakimasu."_

For a moment a bewildered stillness, like grass waving doubtfully after the storm. Then the hasty scrape of chairs and muttered Japanese and Arabic grace-equivalents, as the rest of the individuals stood, clashing their glasses hurriedly together in a toast.

The Dark Yuugi bowed his head for a moment, for now quite content with the effect he had produced, and took care to sit himself quickly, so that everyone else would manage to sit down after him even if they were not trying to. He engaged in conversation at once, so that attention would be directed towards his expression and voice rather than his plate, and under his careful tending a controlled hum sprang up around the table like successful crops in a talented farmer's field.

Yuugi turned to Ryou, eager for news of his friend's exploits - the word being an unfortunately accurate one - and was offered excited but careful answers, pruned of all the wrong facts. Malik, seeing that his sister was talking to the Pharaoh, or rather being talked to, for she was much too bedazzled to offer much in the way of intelligent or original replies, turned doubtfully to the last free occupant of the table. The spirit of the Ring ignored his tentative suggestions of acceptable conversation, his thoughts turning to inducing a soothing alcohol-fuelled oblivion as quickly as possible - difficult, considering there was only wine present, and premium wine at that. He started calculating how soon he would plausibly be able to make an excuse to leave the table - if it had been a few days ago, he would have simply pushed back his chair and walked off, but now the Pharaoh was here, and he was unsure as yet what he was going to be allowed to get away with. He could be socially acceptable if he so wished - which was seldom - yet recognised with resignation that it would be inappropriate to act any other way. The Pharaoh was, he reminded himself musingly, big on appropriateness.

So he sighed inwardly and, ignoring his distaste, finally made a reply to one of Malik's nervous and increasingly quiet mutters, and thus managed to pull them both into an uneasy conversation. Not that there was any uneasiness on his part - he simply detached himself utterly, choosing to tell his brain that it was a particularly mundane patch of newly-painted wall that it was talking to. In this way, topics passed without too much discomfort. Malik, sensing that this conversation was just for show, grew increasingly fidgety in his chair, discomfort all too evident. Unlike his sister he was not enthralled by the Pharaoh in such a direct way, but rather balanced out his awe with feelings of guilt and inadequacy every time he looked at him. It was such a cliché for his mind to fall back on, but it really was as if the Pharaoh was looking right through him - right behind his eyes and to the other spirit stuffed hurriedly behind them, tossed back to whatever part of Malik's mind was most dark and unknown. The thing inside him had not moved in three days; had not _thought,_ had made no effort to continuing existing and yet, for all his passive resistance, had remained infuriatingly alive, and infuriatingly captive. Bad enough to be living; worse for it to be in here.

Malik wondered how things would change now the Pharaoh was here: how he would continue to react to Sister, to the other Bakura Ryou, to himself. What would the spirit of the Ring say to him, if anything? Would his pride demand that he keep silent, or anger and desire for revenge compel him to speak up? What happened if he said something now, at the meal? No, no, he wouldn't do that…he wouldn't…

He huddled into his chair so that he became that much smaller and harder to hurt, and tried to think of something bland and acceptable to say in answer to the Dark Bakura's bland and acceptable question, concentrating only on the maintaining of an artificial conversation, and on meeting no one's eyes.

Leisurely, the Pharaoh speared his first mouthful of the evening. There were instincts active that urged him not to eat, that he didn't need it and that his immortal form would not welcome the mortal fuel; and then there were other instincts, dulled by time, that whispered that this would make him more human, more real. He closed his mind against them, against all of them; he would not be dictated to by basic compulsions based on need. He could choose; and he chose to eat, at least a little. The fork glinting silver in the light as it moved through the air…delicately and deliberately he chewed, teeth working cautiously through this unfamiliar substance. Crumbly, it seemed, yielding almost at once to molars not grounded down by time; some sort of national Arabic dish, he supposed. Best not to try to savour the flavour too fully: his system was getting enough of a shock as it was. He had anticipated being expected to dine with them at least once, and consequently had in preparation made an effort to eat with Yuugi several times over the last few days. But those had been Japanese dishes - sushi and ramen, mostly, flavours that were undemanding of him. This was more spicy, more electrifying to the startled surface of his tongue. He would have groped for some wine, but that was unseemly, very much so, and so he reached easily and unhurriedly towards the nearly empty bottle, willing to tolerate the dregs lurking at the bottom if it meant soothing his throat of its protests.

Ahhh, better. And this was good wine too, confident in its price tag and ability to satisfy: a dry, commanding white that whispered of fruit in its aftertaste. This, he could enjoy. And barely had he set the bottle down before it was whisked away by Isis and replaced with a just as expensive relative. He barely noticed the wine, allowing himself to focus on her hands respectfully cradling its glass body to hers, watching her colour-tinged nails uncurl and retreat. Long, dextrous hands, as smooth as a spirit's, but not as sun-starved. He caressed them with his eyes, fancying he could see beneath the skin to smooth, strong bone.

He smiled as she meticulously filled his yawning glass, gesturing with an elegant flick of his fingers for her to pour some for herself as well. She looked startled for a moment, before complying. He settled back, content, and watched as she sat herself back down, dress clinging to one and then both of her legs.

Yuugi thought to himself that this was going to be rather fun; after all, they were going to see _Egypt._ How many people could boast of that? He could go round with Ryou in flopping leather sandals and they could touch the pyramids together, gaze upon the blank, wind-effaced smile of the Sphinx, nudge and stare at the dark-skinned locals Arabicing their conversations back and forth…it was going to be fun. He said as much to Ryou, who smiled, a little nervously. And the two others thems could wander off together too, and compare palm trees to the size they were _back then,_ and maybe reminiscence about people and places that no longer existed and nobody else had ever heard of, and maybe his other would show him which pyramid was supposed to have been his, and Mariku-kun could tell them who had ended up in there instead. And they would all tumble back sun-blackened and roasted into the cool museum, where Ishizu-san would cook them lovely meals and they would talk and talk all day long.

Confident that he had planned out their holiday for the next week or so at least - how long were they supposed to be staying for, anyway? No one had mentioned anything; were they just going to be kicked out when they all ran out of money? - Yuugi turned back to Ryou and began comparing plans and souvenir lists. He noticed that Ryou-kun shifted a lot, as if he found it uncomfortable sitting still for such a long period of time, and attributed it to all the good food they were receiving.

The Dark Bakura had noticed it too, although he was not prepared to dismiss it as easily. He frowned a little at his host, mentally, who swallowed hard, one hand resting on his ribs. He breathed out carefully, a shiver of a wince escaping, and hastily shuffled his cutlery around, as if debating what to eat next.

The spirit of the Ring had eaten too, a little - which was a little more than he usually cared to. He managed perhaps a third of his food, and by idling sculpting his mashed potato was able to clear over half of his plate. He had passed the boundary of social acceptability in terms of eating what was on his plate, and had perhaps overstepped it in terms of alcohol consumption; but when applied to an immortal, such comparisons were largely irrelevant. Food was broken down largely indifferently by the magic parading around their systems, and alcohol too passed through mostly without consequence or even acknowledgement. It was debatable whether it was time or their spiritual senses which so dulled them to taste and food; probably a combination of both. Their senses, which in many ways surpassed their hosts, had not been delegated in order to enjoy food. Hearing was better; vision, further reaching but less rich; touch, infinitely more controlled and delicate. Smell has never really been of priority for humans of any age or status of mortality, and could be said to be equally dulled in both spirits and mortals.

The Pharaoh, however, was for some reason on his third or fourth course. The Ring spirit felt irritated upon first noticing, as if the Pharaoh were somehow shaming the name of immortals by wading steadily through the endlessly arriving dishes, and then curious. How _was_ he doing it? Did he practise: was that it? Did he sit down every evening with his aibou, and munch his way through tedious mortal fodder, and smile and nod as if he enjoyed it? Perhaps he even _did_ enjoy it. He seemed to enjoy most things, the Pharaoh. Or at least be willing to take measures to ensure that they _became_ enjoyable.

Feeling somewhat uncomfortable, _bloated,_ even, the Dark Bakura leaned back in his chair and tried not to give a small sigh. He was definitely feeling bloated now; as artificially inflated as a balloon, and wishing for someone to come and stick something pleasantly sharp into him to relieve the…pressure? That made it sound like flatulence, and not mere-overeating: he grimaced inwardly, and looked around for Malik's cat. He needed understanding company, dammit, even if it was four-legged. And at the moment he sympathised with his light, if only because now he knew the maddening itch that is the urge to fidget, and the only thing that suppressed him now was that, if he made any sort of move to adjust his position, that would be both of them fidgeting at the same time. Good Ra, synchronised fidgeting. Why was the thought suddenly so disturbing? Perhaps he _had_ had too much wine. But the Pharaoh had had easily twice the amount, and showed no sign of it whatsoever, so that obviously was not it.

Where was that confounded creature? Discreetly, he cast his eye across the kitchen, to the long licked-clean food bowl, to the deserted lounge, and the stairs. He knew she would come running at the sound of his voice, but wasn't about to yell out the name of Malik's cat at the dining table.

Keh. Feeling deserted and betrayed on a grand scale, he slumped back in his chair. The Pharaoh was still conversing - briefly, with Malik, and then his aibou, and then back to Isis, who seemed to require a minimum of four mini-speeches and two big ones during every course. What did the Pharaoh find to talk about for so long? Himself, perhaps: now there was an inexhaustible subject. As the other spirit watched, he raised the fork to his mouth, gesturing with his other hand as he did so…and then he had taken a bite, and was laying the fork back down…Wait! The food was still on the fork, although the Pharaoh continued to act as if it were already eaten. And then, with the Dark Bakura watching, he casually slipped his hand beneath the horizon of the tablecloth, kept it there for a moment, and then replaced the empty utensil next to his plate.

The Ring-spirit quietly moved his chair back on the pretence of stretching his legs a little, and glanced idly under the table. A pair of blue eyes stared curiously back at him, and he almost jumped. Then Layla bent her sleek head and resumed disposing of the Pharaoh's current offering. A miniscule chomping sound from under the table almost caused the spirit to laugh out loud - he glanced over at the ever-talking Pharaoh, marvelling a little at his gall.

The Siamese swallowed and then trotted neatly over to saw hello to her other favourite spirit, who noisily pulled his chair back in as he pulled her up onto his lap. She lolled over his legs, her little belly as round and tight as a drum, looking almost as full as he was. He saw the Pharaoh sit with his hand extended under the table again, before withdrawing and looking, for a moment, puzzled that there was still food to be eaten, before discreetly transferring it to a napkin.

The rest of the meal passed with the spirit of the Ring quite content, as the tightness in his stomach eventually subsided and he was able to ease it further with more alcohol. Layla spent the remainder of the meal languishing contentedly on his lap, happily moulting creamy hairs all over his black shirt and jeans. He noticed, after a while, but didn't mind.

…………

The average gardener and the "average" king, (if such a thing could be supposed to exist), although each belonging to very opposite furthest corners of social hierarchy, could actually be said to have quite a bit in common, at least regarding their expected functions. Each must take standards of life that are far beneath them in intelligence and stature, and cultivate each one, lovingly guiding and tending them into maturity and enlightenment. Their job never really ends as such: the difficulty and the effort required only waxes and wanes, eternal and unforgiving as the moon, with the current prospering or otherwise of the people. Their ambitions and aims, too, must fluctuate depending on the situation: if all is well, then they may consider bringing in a new, riskier species to inter-mingle with their disciples; if times are difficult, however, they must concentrate on maintaining the faith of the current population. They must decide, too, how to divide up resources: should the last of the water go to the most faithful, who surely deserve it more, or the most troublesome and needy, who will appreciate it more?

Truly, it can be difficult being depended on by so many. But, if your faith in yourself and your decisions is strong, which the Dark Yuugi's invariably was, then you were usually able to manage quite adequately.

He had used dinnertime as an opportunity to assess his current level of influence over the subjects present, and was pleased to note that it did not appear to have waned over time at all; on the contrary, their feelings of devotion appeared only to have intensified. And the meal itself had been largely a source of pleasure for him: granted, it offered little in the way of physical nourishment, but in showing off their desperate eagerness for his attention, however temporary, it had proved psychologically rather delightful. Not that he technically _needed_ the reinforcement, of course; but oh, how he did enjoy it.

Not only was he able to judge the feelings of the group as a whole, but he was also able to pick up on individual notes of need and, in a few cases, discord. Which was good, too, because it meant he was actually _needed _here, that he could clearly benefit them all in some way. Like a piano tuner he was ready to move smoothly between them, testing and re-tuning any hesitant voices back into the pleasing note of group harmony that he ultimately aimed for. It outlined an aim for the stay, giving him a sense of purpose, and that was always pleasant, because individuals such as he _lived _for such things.

And now the sky had turned the hazy shade of evening, thick folds of grey like a luxurious pile of dark velvet folded over itself, that smothered out all the stars so that they faded away like tiny dying candles. Sounds of sloshing, of bubbles and frothy water, as Isis began washing up. His partner was unpacking in Rishid's vacated room: his two friends were helping him, or standing around, or both. He could here their chatter even from here, muffled and harmless.

Very soft footsteps, attention-grabbing in their almost-silence, more like echoes of steps than actual ones. The Tomb Robber was proceeding out from the kitchen, fingers loosely curled around a tin of cat food, the recipient eagerly pursuing him. Even when running, the cat scarcely made any more noise than he did, a light pit-pat-pit upon the floor boards. He knelt down and began opening the tin.

After the animal had begun to feed, the Pharaoh crossed over, not moving in so quiet and understated a way as the other spirit - although he told himself that he could have done so if he had desired, and most probably he could have - but instead a more toned-down version of his usual stride. Something told him that, in order to get the Dark Bakura's loyalty or, for that matter, attention, he would have to appear to be even more subtle than usual, for the spirit was of the type to appreciate control and subtlety…and yet simultaneously, he would perhaps respect someone more who would not modify himself for anyone, who did not perform a veritable shape-shift in personality depending on his current intention. Hm. A paradoxical situation: and therefore an interesting one.

He did not want to crouch on the floor as the Tomb Robber was doing: despite Isis' best efforts from earlier, he still saw such things as a little dirty, a little common. So he relaxed his posture a little, just to show he had no intention of moving, and after a few minutes, when the cat had finished eating, the Ring-spirit scooped her up in a big soft bundle in the crook of his elbow, and stood up.

"A fascinating animal. She belongs to Malik, I take it?"

He made a non-committal sound. "For now. I might smuggle her back home with me."

_So Japan is still "home", then_, the Dark Yuugi thought. He wondered if the other spirit realised what he had said: as ever, there was no sign of it in his eyes. He mused that the Tomb Robber was as difficult to read as ever; you could not just assume, as with the Dark Malik, that whatever he was thinking, it was something on the theme of destruction and mass chaos, because his mind did not necessarily work like that. And he knew the other spirit disliked total chaos almost as much as he did. It was so _inefficient:_ impossible for one to get anything done when the masses were running around in their headless-chicken hysteria. They had to be harnessed together, to be pointed in the right direction. Here, at least, was someone else who understood that.

"May I?" He extended an explanatory hand. With a shrug she was handed over, and for a moment he inspected her with the same meticulousness that the spirit of the Ring had done upon first seeing her, marvelling at the sharp colour contrast of paws, body, eyes. On one level he was just as entranced as the Dark Bakura had been, albeit in a more seemly, dignified way. But on another level she was just one of many ice-breakers that he had been implementing since his arrival, as he attempted to assess the other spirit: his mood, threat level, current aspirations.

For the two spirits were not currently sworn enemies in the way that some people supposed; they were not constantly at each other's throats, or constantly seeking the other's destruction (indeed, the Pharaoh thought of himself as being responsible for the Tomb Robber's eventual redemption), and time spent together did not necessarily mean Shadow Games or trading insults. Their relationship now was uncertain: time had diluted the most concentrated of their emotions, and they were now watered down and ready, perhaps, to be mixed with other things. They were certainly not "friends", and perhaps never would be. The truth was a great deal less certain than that: now they were almost courting each other, advancing some way and then retreating, not wanting to demonstrate too much power or intensity of feeling, simply trying to judge the current situation, to grasp how the land lay. Small talk would serve for the moment: below the inconsequential speech they could both secretly assess one another, probing for information.

"Did you enjoy the meal?" The Dark Bakura rarely engaged in truly meaningless small talk: he liked the things he said to have a provocative edge.

He acknowledged the jest with a little smile. "Oh, I think so. It offered sustenance on many levels."

"Hm."

"Tell me, though: are we both expected to participate in every single forthcoming meal?"

"I doubt it. If you inform the Seer before the start of a meal whether you feel inclined to join, I'm sure she will make every effort possible to ensure your wishes are heeded."

"The…? Ah, Isis. Yes, she will, won't she?" He didn't mind acknowledging his power over her; it was quite plain to see, anyway. She wasn't exactly a secret weapon. "As for yourself?"

"I don't particularly consider eating worth my time."

"I see." He rubbed a finger along Layla's tiny furry cheek, and she pushed her head into the half-open fist of his hand. "Where in Egypt have you been to so far?"

"The Nile. Memphis. And most of Cairo, naturally."

"Ah, so you've been exploring quite a lot. That explains it, then." He added, in an off-hand tone: "You've got a tan."

The Ring-spirit appeared startled, for a moment out of his self-possession, and the Pharaoh fancied he was able to see quite a lot in the few moments it took for the other spirit to banish the emotions present in his face. "I? Tanned?" Yes, he really did look startled: he was looking down at himself, at the backs of his hands, at his bare feet, at his reflection in the Pharaoh's eyes. His expression was now of displeasure: he could not imagine such a thing afflicting him.

"Only a little. It is only evident at all because you were so white before; in fact, one might say it suits you."

He did not look consoled in the slightest: in fact, he appeared rather cheated, as if his skin had betrayed him. "I can't say I care for it." Considering his expression, this was somewhat of an understatement. Ye Gods, he might have to join his host in piling on sun-deflecting chemicals every morning: such a thought was horrifying.

"No matter. Hopefully I too will catch a little of the sun; and then you can go back to being the palest of us once again."

"You're welcome to all the sun in Egypt: I certainly don't want it."

Yami was silent for a moment, pondering the connotations of these words. "Truly, I find your attitude towards our country perplexing." It was not in his nature to admit to being confused: but he felt that it might tempt the other spirit to enlighten him and thus demonstrate his supposed superiority.

"_Truly,"_ the Dark Bakura replied, mocking the well-spoken tone; "I find it perplexing how you so readily assume this to be _our_ country."

Now it was the Pharaoh's turn to be startled: here was a turn that he had not considered events taking, and he was unsure how to reply, lest he show more surprise and therefore concede a point to the Tomb Robber. "I think I will wait until tomorrow evening before replying to that observation."

He nodded, signifying that he would not forget this promise.

The Dark Yuugi decided that it was time that he took back control of the conversation and began to steer it back onto a more interesting path. Setting Layla down, he directed her towards her bed, so that she could not provide any distractions. "Very well. Now, tell me about what has happened while I was away."

"Tell you…? I have already told you." His soft voice picked up a tone of monotony. "Cairo, Memphis…all the tourists' favourite places. Go find a brochure."

The Pharaoh held up a hand. "I didn't ask about that. I want to know _what happened while I was away."_

The other spirit glanced up, and found that his Pharaoh was looking at him; he did not want to take the easy way out and look away, but at the same time did not trust his eyes not to reveal anything. His expression and tone became careful. "Was that a hopeful stab in the dark to see if I would confess to any crimes?"

In a low tone: "I'm not accusing you of anything. I was merely wondering if you wished to tell me anything."

"Then, the answer is that I don't." He finally broke eye contact, almost bristling but not quite.

"I think you have an obligation to answer more truefully." His tone hardened a little, becoming more commanding. "Now look at me. And tell me why Ryou, and you too, despite your best efforts, both smell of blood."

The Dark Bakura's head jerked a little, and he let out a terse sound.

"I'm sure you hoped I wouldn't notice. But we both know very few things are completely below my notice. Now, explain."

The spirit folded his arms stiffly against his chest. Naturally, he had very little desire to tell the Pharaoh absolutely everything, or indeed anything at all. But although that was his conscious desire, like everyone else he was subject to subconscious urges too, and the lack of recent meditation meant that he felt less attuned to these urges, and less aware of their nature. He was also less able to resist them. For, for all his dislike of the Pharaoh that had formed over the past few years, there were other feelings that had been cultivated over a much longer period of time, and were much more innate. Like every single other person born in Ancient Egypt, he had been brought up to serve his Pharaoh, to _worship _him, to _love_ him. Any sort of negative thought against his ruler went against his most basic instincts, and although he would never admit it, it took so much effort not to fall in with everyone else and start praising him, because he had been doing it longer than any of them. As for hating him…his brain struggled against the emotion as treacherous and unnatural, and maintaining it was almost the most draining thing in the world. No wonder, then, that he had eventually allowed his dislike to become blunted. He had reached a sort of angry compromise within himself: neither to hate nor to serve the Pharaoh, but rather to distance himself from him whenever possible, so that he would not be required to feel any sort of emotion towards him at all. But now that the Pharaoh was here, and within a few feet of him, his entire mind felt as if it had been plunged into civil war.

Meanwhile Yami was nodding as if he understood totally, as if all he wanted was to step into the Dark Bakura's mind and soothe the two conflicting sides, so that they could both settle down under his loving reign once more. And it was annoying to see, and at the same time brought on a peculiar ache, because all the little fragments of himself left over from Ancient Egypt which had never really settled down in this time seemed to be responding to him, to be calling out to be saved.

When he was ready to look back up again, he found that the Pharaoh had done him the courtesy of looking away, allowing him time to collect himself. Then the two pairs of scarlet eyes, one very dark and rich and the other pale and diluted, met again, and the Puzzle-spirit said in a voice of surprising gentleness, "Would you mind showing me your arms?"

He tensed a little, little waves of reluctance and reluctant antagonism shivering off him. "Why?"

"Would you?"

The Dark Bakura's expression became unreadable again, and he silently pulled back the long black sleeves of his shirt. There was a large, dark wound, barely closed, adorning the inside of each of his wrists. Answering holes on the outside showed that the weapons had penetrated all the way through. It was a wonder he could still move his fingers at all; even now, the tips were numbed of all but the most crude sensations, and twinges ran continuously through every finger like tiny electric shocks.

The Pharaoh indicated these. "Knife-wounds. From your own weapons?"

His expression turned sullen, and he said nothing.

"That settles the question of 'who' - not that I was ever in much doubt. There are no mortals fast enough to use your own blades against you."

It could have been taken as a compliment, the Dark Bakura supposed bitterly; he chose, however, to find it insulting instead, because there should be _no one_ fast enough to escape his knives, not just no one mortal. He yanked back down the sleeves of his shirt, wishing he had never complied with the order to pull them up.

He was still staring, Ra damn him, as if he could somehow see through his clothes. (What a thought - it was exactly the sort of ability someone like the Pharaoh might try to develop.) "And scarcely healed, too…I suppose that solves the question of why you allowed your host to be so grievously harmed. You ran out of magic-"

"That's not it," the Dark Bakura near-snarled. "That's not fucking it _at all._ I don't consider that an adequate excuse for him being touched by anyone. Especially not that _thing_."

"Neither do I," answered his Pharaoh calmly. "Because there is no adequate excuse. And yet you did allow harm to come to him. How did that come about?"

He let a bitter choke of anger. "I didn't _allow_ harm to come to him. You suggest that I would _allow_ such a thing? That I would consider it permissible?"

"I state only that, despite what were obviously your best efforts, Ryou has been seriously injured."

The Dark Bakura gave a low, hissing sound. "My _best_- don't you use fucking use that patronising tone on _me._ If you can't follow this conversation through without feeling the need to patronise someone thoroughly, go seek out one of your beloved subjects in the interval. I'm sure they won't mind." He stopped abruptly, alarmed at how his tone was so quickly rising out of control; he felt as if he were skidding, and dizzy already from the fall yet to come, and more than anything else he felt irreparably wounded, and that in every word he spoke he betrayed himself further, almost as if he were proud of his weakness and wished to parade it before others, as it had already been exposed anyway. He felt his behaviour to be like that of a wronged child, defiantly parading his injuries before the patiently-suffering parent as he simultaneously asked for help and rejected it, all the while wanting them to do something just to make it all go away.

The Dark Yuugi now wore the calmly sympathetic face of someone who knew exactly what the other person was thinking, and who in fact wanted nothing more than to be able to work with that other person, guiding them away from the wolves and the angry thorns and onto sweet green pastures. This did not necessarily mean that he _did_ know exactly what the Tomb Robber was thinking, or indeed that he had any inkling whatsoever - he was simply good at looking like that, and had perfected such an expression because it tended to lead to Progress of significant sorts. As a matter of fact, he had managed to judge the other's moods quite accurately, and was currently working on exactly how much of the thief's fury was due to the desecration of his host body, and how much to his own humiliation. It was a very fine balance, and not one that remained constant, but he felt he knew which one was most probably dominant.

Incidentally, he was not particularly interested in pursuing exactly what had happened between the two spirits, for that to him was not important; what was more significant for him was finding out the triggers behind the spirit's re-appearance, and how long he had actually been re-instated for. For this was potentially quite an embarrassing situation for Yami: he had, after all, been the subject of much applause and generic worship after his disposal of the Dark Malik to the nearest branch of hell. Now the spirit had somehow managed to wriggle back onto this plane after having supposedly been banished for eternity, and the Pharaoh was keen to get round to re-purifying Malik Ishtar's body as soon as possible: after all, you were supposed to get these things right the first time. Being sent off to distant worlds of darkness wasn't supposed to be a day-trip, it was supposed to last forever; or at least for the life-span of the mortals who had been around to witness it at the time. Things would be a lot more convenient if the Dark Malik could be persuaded to remain dead or, failing that, conveniently obscure, for another fifty years; regretfully, however, it didn't seem like the sort of thing he would agree to out of the goodness of his heart.

All in all, his existence was a nuisance, an inconvenience to people who were trying to rule a country peacefully and without too many deaths. It seemed to lack any point whatsoever; his original function, as far as the Dark Yuugi could see, had been to manifest someone else's spare pain and fear and fury in a physical form, and this he had quite thoughtfully done. Now this role was no longer necessary; his existence was no longer relevant in a world such as this; and, most importantly, in personality and motives and aspirations he was utterly incompatible with the Pharaoh, and that meant that he had to be Removed. For convenience's sake, if nothing else: his little outbursts of miscellaneous violence were tiresome to continuing covering up, especially as he himself showed no inclination to do so. Now that the Ishtars had been officially brought back together as a family, it was time for the reason for their original break-up to be tuned out of their lives once and for all. After all, they were entitled as much as anyone to happy little lives, weren't they? All the masses were; and it was his job to provide them. Spirits' entitlements were different, and in this case non-existent; he had had no right to exist in the first place, and so should be content to return to the inexplicable blackness from whence he had come. In the great Pharaoh's mind, it all made perfect sense.

Hence, when he looked up again, both spirits were calmed, and more aware of their individual goals, and more willing to tolerate the (in each of their minds, considerable) failings of the other person.

The Puzzle-spirit said, "I don't want to interrogate you over exactly what happened. There is relatively little that I could gain from such an action. I merely wish to know what caused him to come out, and whether you feel he did so with ease." He had added in the last bit so that the other might feel that his opinion was being sought, and thus become flattered; in reality, however, he doubted that such simple tactics would work on one himself so used to manipulating others.

He could read little from the other's expression that said he was indeed flattered, or even remotely placated, by the choice of words: his tone of voice was, however, steadier and much more controlled than before. "Earlier, when I confronted the weaker side over his renewed existence, I sensed his state to be weak beyond all measure; he seemed to be barely clinging to the borders of existence. Yet when he emerged a few hours later, he was significantly stronger. Something therefore happened in the few hours in between to boost his strength to the extent that he was able to take over. Most probably a surge of Malik's anger acted as a stimulant: we all know how he feeds on it, like a virus. As for whether he came out easily: his control was absolute when I arrived; he could strike the Seer without any interference from the host."

He stiffened a little. "Isis was…I felt nothing, nothing at all." His eyes flicked at once to the kitchen.

"There was nothing to feel," the Ring-spirit informed him sourly. "My host managed to revive her. Quite inadvertently, but it was a regretful development nonetheless."

"I see…"

"That thing mashed her up quite impressively; it's a shame all his hard work was for nothing."

He would not allow that. "I don't feel that this is a particularly helpful contribution. Kindly continue from where you were before."

"What, there's nothing else to tell," the Dark Bakura concluded indifferently. "Just a waste of time on everybody's part, and none of the right people hurt. Rishid probably won't even be very outraged when he finds out."

"Yes, that reminds me." The Pharaoh adjusted the chain of the Puzzle around his neck very slightly, seeking perfect hang with just a hint of jauntiness in the angle. "Is he not here?"

"No. Gone to work in some part of Egypt that isn't worth us visiting. Handy, really, since it removes any excuse to pretend to want to visit him."

"I did wonder…well, it's a useful thing to know."

"Mmm, quite. If he were not away, the Seer would have had to sleep on the floor, and we all know what a sacrifice that would be on her part. The dust build-up in her hair would have been quite considerable. But I suppose she would have got a head start on the cleaning each morning."

He raised an eyebrow inquiringly.

"My Pharaoh, do you really think that your adoring Egyptian hosts would let you sleep on a sofa? If Rishid's room were not conveniently vacant, the Seer would have given up her own quite enthusiastically. A theory to test at some point, perhaps."

"Hm." He let it go at that.

One half-expected the Dark Bakura's skin to glow in the hastily-gathering gloom prompted by the dwindling of the scattered torches, but instead the shadows settled themselves most comfortably around him like respectful hands laying countless cloaks upon his thin shoulders. His nails shone a little, though; oval mirrors gleamed through the darkness like ten unblinking eyes. He examined them briefly, trimming a little dirt from one of them, before enquiring carelessly, "So have you tried any new tricks with your Items, now all safely gathered back to you?"

"Not yet, no." Isis and Malik had both relinquished their Items to him almost at once, the former presenting it to him like a humble gift while the latter seemed to treat the whole affair as an old curse which he could finally push upon someone else. It brought the number in his current possession up to four - quite a tidy little collection, with four single eyes recording his every perfect movement.

"It really was quite kind of you to loan us all back our old Items, wasn't it?" One finger just stroked the furthermost tine of the Ring, light glimmering off his nail. "What can I say? - the privilege is greater than ever. Have you decided that you want this back yet?"

The Pharaoh inclined his head a little, choosing to show amusement rather than annoyance at the recurring note of sarcasm. "I think I can afford to let you keep it for a little longer."

"Your generosity is overwhelming, as usual. Although I hardly think you want to cart my soul around in your jacket anyway - it gets heavy."

He smiled a little at that. "So your mass is given to fluctuation? Sounds enjoyable."

"Perhaps." The ironic fact that at the moment he probably weighed more in the Ring than he did out of it was not lost on him. He probably weighed less than Yuugi right now: he was so thin and stretched-out he felt like a ridiculous caricature of himself. "But before we depart for bed, which I have no doubts about you wishing to do, I wish to make one thing clear, if I may."

He was granted a slow nod; but it was troubled, and he could feel the Pharaoh watching him closely.

"I know you want to dispose of him yourself. I'm sure you feel it reflects badly on yourself and your ability to obliterate someone if they end up coming back afterwards. I hope you do feel that, because it does. But I don't care about you strengthening that aspect of your reputation. I want to emphasise that that son of a bitch that we have been discussing is going to die, and die by my hand. I don't want you making your big speech about how he's perverting the laws of peaceful existence or any such shit, and then making a show of sending him painlessly to a world of darkness. I want to see him writhe in something other than laughter. He's mine to kill, and when that moment comes, I want you to stand aside and admit it."

"I quite understand," the Puzzle-spirit answered him mildly. "In fact, to borrow a mortal colloquialism, I believe you have "first dibs" on him. And I believe also, in fact, that it is your duty to do so."

The Dark Bakura eyed him suspiciously for a moment, before relaxing very slightly. "All right. As long as it is clear."

His Pharaoh smiled as if amused, and bowed. "Indeed."

Bakura bowed back; not very _very_ low, but low enough to relieve some of the urges to show respect that had been digging away at him through most of the evening like maggots. "Then I am going to tuck my host in for the night. I'm sure you wish to do the same."

"Just a moment." His voice was still that same mild, neutral tone as before. "…You've stopped meditating recently, haven't you?"

"What of it?" he replied shortly.

He smiled again, as if even more amused; it seemed there was something about the Tomb Robber that could not help but amuse him. Perhaps it was how someone obviously so much lower than him could imagine himself to have priorities equal in importance to the Pharaoh. "You need to start again."

"What?"

Full-blown pleasure this time. "I can always tell; it causes you to act in a way my aibou might describe as "cranky." Now say goodnight to the cat, light your incense, and go meditate for a few hours. It will be better for all of us."

He let out a little "keh", perhaps of exasperation, perhaps of unwilling laughter, and with a bow that was more definitely ironic this time, left.

The other spirit continued to watch the space where he had been for a few moments. At first there were the remnants of a smile still present, but then they were gone, to be replaced with the thoughtful, calculating expression of one who has discovered the right tool for the job but is still not quite sure how to use it.

When he went back into Rishid's room Yuugi was sitting up in bed, cleaning a Duel Disk and getting dirt all over his blue starry pyjamas. They were too big for him: the sleeves hung comically over his hands, so that he kept having to stop and pull them back up again. He carefully put the Duel Disk back with all the rest of their gaming equipment, lined up in alphabetical order along one side of the room, and ran over to his other half, who caught him in his arms with a little smile.

"I'm sorry, I took a while."

"You know I don't mind." He led him over to the bed. "It's sort of nice, right? I get to talk to Ryou-kun and Mariku-kun, and you can talk to the other Ryou-san. Then no one gets lonely."

"Lonely…I suppose not." He sat down on the edge of the bed, folding his long, leather-clad legs. "So is the Tomb Robber the only person I am permitted to talk to, then?"

"And me," Yuugi told him hastily. "But…you can talk to everyone, really. It's just that the other Ryou-san doesn't seem to have anyone to talk to. He did have Mariku-kun, for a little bit, but they don't seem to really like each other anymore, do they?"

"It seems that way, aibou, yes."

"I hope they become friends again," his lighter self mused. "Then the holiday will be more fun. But it's going to be so fun anyway - has the other Ryou-san told you about everywhere they've been? It sounds so exciting!"

"He said a little. Has Marik mentioned where we are going tomorrow?"

"Un. We're going to visit the pyramids." He wriggled a little way down into the covers. "Kiss."

His other kissed him, almost absently.

"Hug."

He leaned over and wrapped him within himself. "Hug in progress."

Yuugi giggled and snuggled against him, pulling covers around them both. "Oyasumi, mou hitori-no boku."

"Yes, of course…" He had been staring off into the distance, and now glanced back down, startled. "Good night."


	8. Place of Sunrise and Sunset

A/N: Apologies for the (very) late update. The good news, though, is that I have finished chapter nine as well. I'm off to Spain tomorrow (Friday 13th…heh) so no more updates for two weeks, but I'll put chapter nine up as soon as I get back - it's in about four different documents right now, and I need to piece it back together.

Thank you for any reviews that you might care to leave.

Chapter Eight: Place of Sunrise and Sunset

Music. Feathered harmonies, deeper undertones; and in the background, leaves. If each note is a colour, then a million different attempts at rainbows are twisting the air outside the window into unnameable hues.

"Aren't we going to wake him?"

Sunlight pounding at the curtains, demanding to be let in. Someone must release it from this indignity, this undefiable wall of cloth and glass. Can't they hear it calling?

"He isn't asleep."

For a moment the muffled light behind the curtain ceases to burn them, as if it has given up and moved on.

"Well…he sort of is, isn't he? He looks like he is."

It's dark again now, with the departing of the light; it's easier on the eyes, less invasive.

"That doesn't matter."

"But we aren't going to just leave him here when we go, are we? I don't think he would like that."

He doesn't answer at once, but it isn't from lack of feeling: Yuugi's innocently confident "we" is beginning to grate. No one apart from Ryou is allowed to use "we" when talking about his koe, even if they are only referring to themselves and Ryou interacting with him, as Yuugi was. He knows that it is the obvious pronoun to use, and that Yuugi means nothing by it, but even so it feels as if he's encroaching on a private bit of territory, the bit that no one else is allowed access to. The use of careless familiarity in his tone, the implied presumption that he knows as well as anyone how the Dark Bakura might feel about something: these are things that Ryou does not view as even his own right, and by extension, therefore, certainly not anything that other people should think about.

And he doesn't like Yuugi in the room like this, not when his koe is meditating and so…no, not vulnerable, because he is completely closed to the world right now…it's just that every further second spent here is a further intrusion into the small world that they have created for themselves, and a reminder that currently his other's mind is wandering some other place. If he were here alone then he could pretend that he is just sitting very very still, and that if he goes up to him, and he needs it bad enough, his other will return and reassure him. But with Yuugi here, and trying unsuccessfully to communicate with him, he is unwittingly poking the wound created by the spirit's absence. He doesn't need reminding that his koe is not here for him, even if it is only for a short time, because he doesn't need to think such thoughts at all.

"He will come back when he wants to." That was an adequate answer, suggesting that he respected his koe's decisions, and would not make any attempt to influence him. But did it perhaps sound also a little resigned? Even…resentful?

"Perhaps if we do something about this incense…the room is really starting to smell, anyway."

"Don't touch it!" Ryou flushed at his own tone, softening it with a quiet, "Please. He always has it just there."

Yuugi looked at it doubtfully, and shrugged his small shoulders. "Okay, if you really want me to. Are you ready to leave, though?"

"Mm. Just need to find my camera."

This reminded Yuugi that he not yet packed his, either, and he promptly ran off to do so.

Ryou was left hovering, uncertain yet again of what he should be doing. If he were Isis, he was sure that he would be bustling around the room, tidying objects into different places and needlessly adjusting the angle of some ornament or other, doing nothing at all while still giving the impression of efficiency. But he wasn't really very good at looking like he was doing things even when he was doing them: he doubtfully stirred up some non-camera-shaped objects into a large blot-shaped mess on the carpet, before giving up and pushing them back into a pile. Then he dutifully found his camera hiding under the bed, and put it neatly into his bag.

"Waiting for me?"

He jumped a little, and slowly let his eyes move upwards. "Um…" Unsure, as ever, how to react: and sure only that his reply would be the wrong one. He cringed at himself and his own limpness, sure that his other was as usual partially disgusted and partially resigned towards it; yet any demonstration of anything approaching a backbone would have been viewed with, at best, suspicion, and at worst…at worst…

"Sorry." He resisted the urge to shuffle his feet, and tried to pick up his bag without letting his eyes stray back towards his other, so that he wouldn't have to see the slight raising of a disappointed eyebrow.

But he only gestured to the door, a movement which Ryou fortunately saw at the edges of his vision. The spirit of the Ring left the room last, pausing to smother the only candle still burning with his scarred, cupped palm.

………….

It was about half-past ten when they had all made their way outside. The heat struck them the very second that they opened the doors of the (only now did they realise) thoroughly air-conditioned museum. And now their cool, comfortable world was melting quietly away behind them.

Malik was hard at work on their right, scrubbing determinedly away at what appeared to be a car-shaped lump of mud. On closer inspection, this appeared to actually be the case. On much closer inspection, however, it seemed that the car was merely rather accurately (and authentically) mud-coloured. It looked filthy, scratch-adorned, and on the verge of falling apart. What it did not look like, as Ryou realised by holding his nose and leaning closer, was driveable.

"Um…don't most cars have a steering wheel?"

"I'm getting to that." Malik absently waved a distinctly oval-shaped object that just might have been a steering wheel once upon a time. "Just let me finish putting everything together and it'll be fine. We've driven this old thing hundred of times before, and it's never broken down. Well, not properly."

It was Yuugi's turn next. "Aren't you going to…wash it?"

Malik's eye twitched a little. "I already have."

The Dark Bakura took the door-handle between a fore-finger and a thumb and delicately opened the door. He closed it again rather quickly. "It smells," he announced. "Of…fish."

"It actually does," Yuugi supplemented in a fascinated tone. "I mean, I know everyone says automatically that things which smell bad smell of fish, but this car actually does."

The spirit ignored him, and with a sigh opened the door again so that the worst of the smell could filter out.

The Pharaoh was standing a safe distance away. "So when will Isis be joining us?" He glanced casually over at the museum window; Isis waved coquettishly back.

"Oh, nee-san has to look after the museum, so she can't come. But she did provide spending money." Malik triumphantly waved a fistful of Egyptian pounds, which the Dark Bakura immediately removed from him for safekeeping. "So if this wire goes here - ha!" The car spluttered into life, coughing miscellaneous noxious fumes everywhere and over everyone.

The Dark Bakura delicately waved them away. "I presume you are driving, then?" He raised an eyebrow as Malik went suddenly quiet.

"About that…anyone here got a driving license?"

"I…have a previsionary," Yuugi offered nervously. "But…I can't drive a car in Egypt! I won't be able to read any of the road signs!"

"Well, I suppose it can't be _too _different from a motorbike…" With a sigh, Malik climbed into the driving seat. Ryou, looking terrified, shakily slid into the back behind him. Yuugi dragged his other self in with him, and the spirit moved so that he was sitting in the middle. "Now, now, aibou. We must believe in Malik, mustn't we?"

The spirit of the Ring snickered at this as he slammed the front door shut. He was not too impressed at having to be in the front with Malik, but was sure he could make the Egyptian's journey sufficiently tortuous as to make the concession worthwhile.

Eight long and significantly tortuous minutes later, Malik was still working on reversing out of the space. "So if I pull this…and then…_Right,_ whoever is making fake snoring sounds will stop _now."_

"Yuugi-kun?" Ryou touched his shoulder cautiously. "I don't think he's faking them." He jumped back and against the window as his friend jolted awake.

"Ah…sorry…other me kept me up all night long…"

"Hurry up," the Ring-spirit told their driver curtly. "We could have walked there and back by now. Twice."

"Whatever," the Egyptian muttered back in a surly tone, still trying to manipulate various wires that were poking their way inquiringly out of the dashboard. He wasn't particularly delighted at being seated so near to the Dark Bakura either.

"You can sulk later. I'm getting bored."

"Ra, sometimes you can talk _exactly_ like the other-"

"Shut up; get out." He yanked the keys decisively from the ignition. _"I'm_ driving." He opened the door and gave Malik a push to get him started. By the time the Egyptian had stomped round to the other side, the new driver had rammed the keys back in, fixed the dashboard, adjusted the mirror, wound the window down, and had the engine revving impatiently. "Hurry up, hurry up."

"Your seatbelt?"

"What's a seatbelt?" He had pulled it out and was using it to hold his chair together. With a flourish, he tossed back his hair and adjusted his sunglasses. "Let's go, assholes."

"This will not end well," Malik muttered forebodingly.

"I feel as if I am in a mortal gangster film," the Pharaoh remarked mildly from the back.

The other spirit slammed his foot down on what was probably a pedal, and the car lurched forward and, more significantly, onto the road. "What's a gangster film without a little music?" He shoved a walkman lead into the cassette player, and at once twenty types of drums raped the air. "This track, I think."

"I like this band," Ryou murmured contentedly to Yuugi above the frantic din now assailing their ears. The spirit of the Ring was happily yelling along, yanking at the steering wheel with one hand while counting the beats with the other. His driving being somewhat…erratic, the other occupants of the car were continuously tossed and back and forth from one side to the other as if inside a giant ping pong ball, and the music was frequently punctuated with angry grating sounds as they bounced off every kerb. Nonetheless, they were undeniably making progress towards their destination…if that destination be a quick and messy death, that is.

Malik felt obliged to occasionally scream out warnings when they appeared marginally closer to a crash than usual; the majority of these were answered with either blatant disregard or twisting the volume of the music up another twenty decibels.

"Watch out for that dustbin! I said _that_ dustbin!"

"I don't see any dustbins," Yuugi remarked conversationally, looking at the bits of twisted plastic left in their wake.

Occasionally the Dark Bakura would swear and swing the car ninety degrees round a belatedly-discovered turn, at which point everyone would tumble to the extreme right or left side, and the car would tilt on two wheels for a few seconds before bumping back down. When this happened, Mutou Yuugi would be thrown on top of his other self, and the Pharaoh would end up squishing Ryou against the door. After several rounds of this, after which Ryou was beginning to look very hard done by, the Pharaoh decided it was time to take action and Protect the Innocents. Being in the middle of the back seat, he pushed his long, leather-clad legs to the furthest part of the car to steady himself, and gathered the two battered lighter halves into his arms. Thus, whenever the car lifted up, everyone escaped unharmed, and he received the added reward of having twice as many people as usual clinging on to him. Yuugi, finding himself in a very familiar set up, giggled and wondered if now was the time for a tickling, while Ryou felt…well, he wasn't sure. But it was definitely sort of nice having such a confident and warm presence holding him, with no conditions to worry about fulfilling or rules to remember not to break. He smiled and, closing his eyes, leaned a bit closer, and the Pharaoh touched his hair affectionately.

The Dark Bakura, not having heard any screams from undersized Puzzle-wearers for some minutes now, glanced back suspiciously over his shoulder. His eyes widened to chibi proportions, and he yelled, _"Mine!" _He slammed his foot down on the brake with such force that the Pharaoh - who had not known what a seat belt was either - was thrown forward between the two seats and almost through the windscreen.

"Change of plan," the Ring-spirit said in a conversational tone, albeit with gritted teeth. "Our Most Revered _Pharaoh_ can drive."

With tremendous dignity, the former ruler smoothed the creases out of his leather jacket, and eased his hair carefully back into place. "I don't believe there is call for such actions."

A knife was pointed at his throat. "_I _believe there is."

The Pharaoh looked at the weapon for a moment with very little interest - such mortal toys were mostly below his notice - and then his gaze travelled thoughtfully up to the small gash in Bakura's right wrist, looking at how the wound went all the way through to the other side.

Scowling, the Ring-spirit withdrew his weapon. He then thrust open the front door, stepped out, and folded his arms. Wearing a very tiny smile, the Dark Yuugi gestured for his partner to get out of the car, before emerging himself. Without a word, the other spirit got in the back next to his own host, who greeted him with a nervous attempt at a smile.

Seeing that he was now expected to sit next to the other Ryou, who was now not looking particularly happy, Yuugi appealed to his other self with a trademark display of puppy dog eyes. However, he was merely patted on the head and told to sit down quickly. Feeling a little put out, Yuugi clambered obediently back into the now rather animosity-filled vehicle, and at once found himself greeted with a pair of crimson eyes that were so narrowed in anger, they were rather like how the Dark Malik's could be. He swallowed a whimper, and found himself exchanging worried glances with Ryou-kun, who was already clinging to the door in preparation.

…………..

"Aibou, your driving is so…relaxing!" Yuugi enthused as they turned the last corner into the car park.

His other passed him a small smile. "It's just like Mario Karts, really. But with lower speed limits."

"Ne, mou hitori no boku, do you think you can find a parking space? It's…a bit crowded."

"Hm."

"It could be a game! Like, who can find the first-"

"There! I win!" The Pharaoh skilfully manoeuvred into what was probably the only free space left in the entire park, while Ryou looked curiously at the fuming queue of people behind them.

Yuugi slowly pushed open the car door. The heat seemed to press against him like a thick smothering blanket, and he felt as if he were pushing against it when he stood up. Sand seeped at once into his sandals; he could feel tiny, fiery grains trickling between his toes. For some reason the sensation thrilled him; it was so unlike anything he had ever experienced before. "Mariku-kun, we're really in the desert now, aren't we?"

"Yeah."

"How do we get - ohhh! Are-o mite!" He was almost jumping up and down in excitement. "Camels! Real live camels, with humps and everything! Can we ride them?"

Malik seemed a little bemused at his reaction; he glanced around in an embarrassed manner, before shrugging and answering, "If you want to, sure."

The Dark Bakura was already strolling over for a look at the nearest one. He and the camel eyed each other with mutual distrust, before the latter threw back its head and snorted derisively all over him, making him jump back. "What is this creature?" he wondered aloud in Arabic.

A dark-eyed man who had been tending to one in the corner pointed to a poster. "Over here we call them _c-a-m-e-l-s. _Hence the sign."

The spirit narrowed his eyes. He didn't need any attitude from the locals, even if he would have counted himself as being one a few thousand years ago. "I hope that insolent tone was not directed at me."

"Hope all you like, you'll still be-"

"'Kura, are you falling out with the locals already?" Malik had decided to bear the spirit's wrath and come on over to rescue the situation before someone ended up getting sent to a world of darkness. "People answer you back sometimes. Get over it." In Arabic: "So, are you going to try one out?"

"You mean, these "camels"?" He gestured disdainfully in their general direction. "What is the purpose of that disfiguring lump on their backs?"

"It stores water. So that they can survive in the desert for ages without needing a drink."

"So if I-" He made a poking gesture with his finger.

"Don't even think about it."

"Perhaps I will pass, for today."

"Koe, may I ride on one?" Ryou was looking longingly at a small one in the corner. "This one's sweet. Look, it even has a sort-of fringe." He reached out to touch its head; the camel glared suspiciously at him for a moment, before kneeling down. "And it even wants me to ride it…"

His other self sighed in a long-suffering sort of way, before pulling out a wallet that, if it were alive, would have been deemed clinically obese. "You. How much?"

"For two?" The dark-eyed man was observing Yuugi, who was letting out little gasps of delight at being so close. "I'll let them both go for eighty."

The spirit of the Ring held out a five-hundred pound note. "Keep the change." At least that way they would get looked after, perhaps.

"May Allah bless you and your family!" the camel-owner exclaimed, seizing the money as if it would disappear.

"Insulting the locals, and then bribing them…" Nonetheless, Malik didn't look particularly disapproving. "That was pretty generous, coming from you. Might feed his kids for a week."

"Whatever." He looked up and towards the pyramids silhouetted against the dry desert sky. "Come on, Pharaoh."

The Puzzle-spirit glanced at him briefly, before his gaze too was drawn back to the spiky shadows stretching over the sand.

………….

Yuugi had never, as anyone whom even vaguely knew him would attest to, been particularly tall of stature. In the last few years, he had regretfully resigned himself to the fact that he would always be the one jumping to reach half-way up the blackboard, the one male in the class who had not been out with at least one girl, merely (of course) because he could never find one that was shorter than he was who was not still in primary school. But now, he was over two metres high - maybe even three metres - and loving every centimetre.

"Look, Ryou-kun! It's the Sphinx!"

The Ring-bearer twisted round in excitement, and in doing so almost fell off. "I can see it too!" He waved happily back to Yuugi, who looked as though he might be about to drop his camera again.

It wasn't exactly a relaxing experience; his koe's driving had involved less bumps and jolts than this. Perched precariously on the hump that wobbled forever beneath him, Ryou was doing his utmost best to hold on - but to what, he had no idea. He had at first gripped the makeshift saddle below him, but doing so would make him wobble so much that he felt as he would eventually fall through it, like sitting on a massive lump of camel-coloured jelly. Now he was trying to grab the bristly bits of hair that clung to the camel's neck in beigy tufts like dried-out clumps of grass - but he didn't want to _hurt _the poor camel, because it probably had enough to do just carrying him around. So he was reduced to reaching forward and clasping the base of its neck, which was as hard and yellow and wobbly as an old tooth, and trying to make it look like he was swaying with enthusiasm, not dizziness from the ride and the heat.

"You okay up there, Ryou…um, Ryou-kun?" He seemed unsure whether or not to add a friendly particle or not. "You look a little precarious."

He waved a little too enthusiastically, and nearly fell off again. "Un! It's so surreal, though. Malik-kun, is my camel a boy or a girl?"

The Egyptian raised an eyebrow. "You expect me to know that just from looking? What do you think I do in my spare time?" He conversed briefly with the camel-owner, who started laughing. "I think you've got two girls."

Ryou smiled. "I hoped so…this one's eyelashes are so long. I think she's pretty." He started gently rubbing the camel's neck. "Do their eyelashes keep the sand from getting in their eyes, then?"

"Guess so."

"I wonder what her name is…"

"Please don't make me ask."

………….

Even if it had not been for the fact that the pyramids at Giza were all over one hundred metres high  
(with the tallest actually one hundred and forty six metres), the solid mass of people around them meant that they were not easily missed. Tourists swarmed around the bases of each like thousands of tiny scuttling insects, trailing dirty footprints in their wake. For several moments the two spirits stood and surveyed the site from a distance, two thin, black figures that from a few metres away looked more like trees or rocks or nothing at all. The dust-clad air streaming around them lashed the soft exposed skin of their faces, and the throbbing eye of the sun burnt their shoulders. Each bore it silently; it was true even to say that they did not register the wind rubbing itself against their cheeks like sandpaper, for something else held their attention entirely.

At length, the former Pharaoh took a slow, hypnotised step forward.

"They look like children's toys from here," his companion said softly. His words went unheard and the wind, finding them discarded, snatched them away. "Or like the hunched backs of old men."

He turned to his left, and found his Pharaoh gone, already crunching through hot, hot sand towards what he had imagined to be the symbols of everything left behind them. The Ring-spirit looked after him, and his look was almost that of pity.

……………..

Normally, the spirit dwelling inside the Millennium Puzzle enjoyed attention. Although that simple statement did not really do his character justice: he _thrived_ on like a parasite, seeking to suck more and still more from beings around him. His pleasure was childishly enthusiastic, tempered by an adult's experience of knowing when enough would have to be enough. It was not just approval he sought, but rather awe and recognition - that people would realise who he was and how he could improve their lives. He could be content sometimes just to stand back and absorb the glow of his own spotlight, smiling and nodding and making every member of a crowd think that he was looking only at them. In this life it was a little harder, admittedly; no longer universally recognised as the supreme ruler of a proud and feared country meant that he was starting off from a slightly lower base. This would result in the job being prolonged in length - but he could hardly complain at that! Ra, so many souls, and _so much time._ Immortality was, for him, a rather welcome development.

So, he was attention-savouring, if not attention-grabbing. (As if he would ever wish for such a crude, primitive word as "grabbing" to be used in connection with him, anyway - the scandal would have turned him a royal blue in the face.) But at this moment, right now, he was greeting the crowd of potential converts with a most marked indifference, for his current audience was much less easy to engage with, and he needed all his concentration.

"So beautiful, as always…" He runs his long spirit fingers down the flat, indifferent face. "No one left to have to share you with, this time. Now, we-"

"Ou-sama, are you molesting a pyramid? I've heard there are laws against things like that now."

"Ssssh." He places an ear against the side, straining to find the voice again, but he gets for his pains is an earful of sand. The spell is broken now and he turns, sighing because the other person obviously wouldn't understand, and delicately brushes sand from the side of his face. "You never had any respect for your elders."

The Tomb Robber did not look particularly impressed. "My elders are all dead. You could probably find some of them round here to confirm that fact, if you dig deep enough."

"All…? There is very little around us that is truly dead, Tomb Robber, or so I feel. Although your sensitivity, perhaps."

He flicked an eyebrow in amusement. "Come now, my Pharaoh, you know I'm a very sensitive person." Humour just as quickly dismissed like a used knife, his voice finding some different note. "It's hideous, isn't it?"

"Hm?" He looks around, expectantly. "I'm afraid I fail to see-"

"This." He interrupts partly because his feelings are so intense, partly because if he lets the other spirit continue then he won't have got to the point for another twenty words. With an arm that almost shakes with disgust he sweeps it in a jagged shape that encompasses everything: sand, pyramids, people, all the disappointments within reach. His gesture is almost a swipe at the very air itself, so viciously does it slice, and his actions are compounded by his eyes, which speak of so much lost.

"You don't like it," the Pharaoh sums up with maddening calm.

"It isn't a matter of whether I like it or not. The point is that, as you can clearly see, the place where we used to live is gone, and we are the two pathetic survivors, who even then have transcended millennia to hang on this long. There wasn't anything to come back to."

"Gone," Yami repeats thoughtfully. "You really think so?" His tone does not invite dissent; but then, neither does it yet suggest agreement. "I have to wonder." Bending down, he scoops up a careful sample of sand, and examines it. Grains shimmer in his palm, and his wine-coloured eyes rove over them, picking up details that no human eye would register.

"This is all that's left," Bakura concludes in disgust. "The greatest of nations, the home of so many people, our Radammned _world:_ these are just crumbling fragments of the little that's survived. They symbolise nothing except how far Egypt has fallen. The old world has slipped from us the same way that that sand flees from your fingers. And in a few years, perhaps a few decades, even the little that remains will be gone."

"You make it sound so final, so inevitable…"

"Naturally. Because it is."

"…Yet…" And he looks up, and clenches his fist against what is left of the sand. "Yet this is merely the attitude I would expect from one who is used to having others do the thinking for him."

"I beg your-"

"The thinking, the ruling; these do not come naturally to you. Of course they don't. I would be concerned if they did. It is not an innate ability for you to be able to see a solution in such a situation as this. Whereas I…I see this new world a little differently."

He decided, for now, to overlook the immensely patronising first few sentences, and instead ask the question that was expected of him. Not that this meant that he intended to let this go altogether, by any means; part of his brain was already quietly formulating insults in preparation for a verbal duel some other time. "How can this be seen as anything other than a museum, an innocent and bumbling acknowledgement of past superiority?"

Yami closed his eyes for a brief moment and, when he opened them again, they glittered with an overwhelming intensity. "But that is it! A museum, a tribute to the past, an _acknowledgement - _Tomb Robber, do you not register what an achievement even that is? That after so many millennia and so many nations, ours - mine - is the one that Egypt remembers? In their innocent and bumbling way, these people are _honouring_ us, they are acknowledging how great we once were! This is confirmation that our way of ruling was correct - that our technology has lived on to benefit so many millions, that our graves are visited by billions! We were the greatest people that the world has ever seen, and even today these poor people cannot help but be drawn to the symbols of that greatness. It is all that they have left, and they honour it! This urge for self-purification - that it could still be present, even today - is it not truly wonderful?" He broke off to gaze at Bakura, the emotion spilling from him as if the Nile still lived within him. "How can you not see this? But - no, perhaps I insult you yet. You see this, don't you? You see how the spirit of Egypt lives on?"

"L-Lives on?" A tiny fragment of a whisper. "In these impostors, in a false form?"

"It resides in them still. These are _our _people. My people. Yours."

__

"These are not my people!" the Ring-spirit screamed at him. Citizens and tourists alike turned to stare briefly at their strange, pale person, all in black and with hair white and streaming behind him. "They never were, and you insult us all by saying so! How can you even want to believe that any sort of connection exists between them and us?"

The Pharaoh did not reply immediately, but chose instead to gaze out, lovingly, over the people he had already claimed as his own - counting them, perhaps, like a shepherd with his flock. The enforced pause has the effect of calming the other spirit, to let him be horrified at how out of control he has become.

Quietly: "Why are you so eager to believe that everything is dead? Is it because you have already mourned and moved on?"

The Ring-spirit began to touch the blank face of the pyramid in the same way that Pharaoh had done. After a moment, he replied evenly, "Or perhaps because I have encountered enough Death to be able to recognise it by now. And I don't believe that the dead should be revived. It…is not our place to do so. Nor yours." And by that simple addition of two words, he showed that his world was still divided into two: that there were still peasants, commoners, disciples, and on the other side were the kings. He believed that he could speak for all of his class, just as the Pharaoh could do for his.

"But if you find a body lying in the dust, how do you know it is dead unless you turn it over and look? If you hurry by, hoping that what is left will have the consideration to let itself die, is it actually dead yet? Or by hoping do you merely make it easier for yourself?"

"Look around, then!" He spreads his arms wide. "Look around and see the bodies you walk over. The spirit of Egypt is crushed out; all you see are its ashes."

Yami passed a hand over his face. "Your stubbornness vexes me, Tomb Robber. I could go as far as to call it frustrating." It truly gave him very little in the way of satisfaction to have to step in and correct the other immortal in times such as these, even if he _was_ ultimately helping him along the right path. Some individuals, such as the one who glared icily at him now, really were hard work. Like hardened children they fought you at every lesson, to be dragged kicking and screaming to the crossroads, and then chose the wrong path almost as if to spite you. It was frustrating indeed, because he viewed the Tomb Robber as a highly intelligent person (although naturally not as high as himself) and someone with whom he might, in another world, have chosen to work with. Instead here he was, having to explain himself. It was sometimes, on the more complex issues, when they challenged him so angrily and so convinced, that he found himself doubting for a moment the legitimacy of his own point of view - and that was not something that he was happy doing.

Sometimes, what you had to do was back away and approach the issue from another angle - one that was unexpected, and startling to them. He tried this now. "It both surprises and worries me that you are prepared to give up on your own civilisation so easily. Indeed, it could almost be called unpatriotic."

The Dark Bakura did not give the other spirit the satisfaction of appearing startled, but his eyebrows did give a surprised little twitch. "I am allowing Egypt the dignity of resting, albeit fitfully. If you really think it was so great, perhaps you should be prepared to do the same."

"I believe that Egypt can rise again."

"Then you're in denial. And you've given up, in the same way that you clearly want to claim that I have. You give in to these…these _things_ that dance on the graves of our families, who saunter ignorantly around the pyramids with the bones of our country splintering under their feet. By claiming that their actions are anything but inherently wrong, you betray the name of our people!"

"They dance on our people's graves, yes," the Pharaoh said softly. "But their dance is that of worship, and their speech is that of celebration. This is the way of honouring the dead in this new world."

"They don't honour the dead, my Pharaoh, they desecrate them. The smell of their sin is rank and overpowers even that of the corpses themselves. If you choose to overlook that-" He gave a short, bitter laugh. "I don't even want to discuss this, so badly does it sicken me. If you want to raise the dead, be sure not to do it in my presence."

"As to that, I can only answer-"

"Mou hitori-no boku!"

He turned a dignified half-circle, perfectly in time to catch Yuugi in his arms and swing him the rest of the way round. "Well, aibou, what have you been up to? Tormenting the camel population?"

"You have no idea." Malik was trudging wearily over, followed by a Ryou who kept looking over his shoulder hopefully. "I think Ryou-kun's planning to adopt one. He had that look in his eyes."

"I wanted to, but I wasn't sure how we could get it back to the museum." Ryou looked very put out for a moment, before brightening again. "Koe, we saw so much! And we learnt all the names of the pyramids, and Mariku-kun showed me how to write them in Arabic! And the camel was so sweet and before we had to say goodbye she licked my hand and I got to feed her weird camel food and it was so very fun, and can I do it again?" And before the spirit had managed to decipher the first sentence he found himself mirroring the Pharaoh's current position - that is, of having an ecstatic host body wrapped around him in a very tight hug. "And I've filled twenty-four pages of my sketchbook with camels. Look -" and he thrust it at his koe - only, being Ryou, it was a very polite thrust. "Do you like it?" He finally broke off, huge eyes desperately seeking approval.

The Dark Bakura cleared his throat to check that it still worked after being squeezed so, wriggled around a little bit to get some room, and succeeded in pulling enough fingers free to pat his host's hair. "Yes, my Ryou." To his slight alarm, this only resulted in the hug becoming tighter, and he sighed, deciding that some of the Pharaoh's little pet's traits had temporarily rubbed off onto his own host body. Being confronted with a Ryou that was anything other than injured/frightened/averagely miserable always made him feel slightly alarmed, as if some of the excess delight would be transferred to him and cloud his thinking.

Yuugi was busy being praised by his partner, who was telling him in a most sincere tone how proud of him he was for managing on his own. The lighter self was giggling quite a bit, but that was probably more due to the sly white hand that the Puzzle-spirit had down his trousers than anything else in particular.

For once, Malik looked quite relived that none of the attention was focused on him; he looked as if he had just flown back from his holiday to Hell, and was still surprised he had survived the journey. It had been enough of a trial having to answer all their questions - who could have known that the guidebook would be so brief on all the interesting parts?

"Did you have fun too, other me? Did you get to talk to the pyramids?"

"A little," he answered with a smile, aware that the pale eyes of Bakura were on him. "They didn't have very much to say, though."

"But did you remember anything? About your past?"

"Well, who knows?" He smiled again and shrugged a little, the gesture carefully offhand.

Ryou looked up, about to ask his own yami the same question, but found the spirit's eyes averted. He took the hint and pushed the question away, already shrinking back into himself and his safe little shell like a timid tortoise.

"So, does everyone want to go home now?" Malik had discovered that his eyeliner was slightly smudged, which is an easy way for a person to suddenly become irritated.

"Home…? Oh." The Dark Bakura suddenly began checking his own eyeliner with great fastidiousness, unusually conscious of his rare verbal blunder.

"It would be nice if we could all go to see the Sphinx together before we leave, wouldn't it? She's really close by, right next to the Temple of Khafre." Yuugi tried to pluck hopefully at his dark's clothes, but they were too tight. "Could we?"

"Of course, if everyone else would like to."

The Dark Bakura glanced up. "And then?"

"And then we're going home. Naturally."

………………


	9. The Bakuras Idiotas

**Chapter Nine – The _Bakuras Idiotas_**

Malik Ishtar received a very pleasant four hours of alcohol-aided sleep, which was why it was such a shame that he had to be woken up in such an unsatisfactory manner.

It started like this: Bakura Ryou had awoken to find another man in his bed. For some strange reason, he found this revelation to be both startling and rather terrifying, and proceeded to shriek his surprise to the entire street. His other self, being the unfortunate other occupant, groaned at the noise and whacked him with a semi-drunken hand, knocking the mortal off the bed and on top of Malik. He also brought the lamp down with him, and the bulb shattered with a shrillness that, to the soon-to-be hungover other occupants of the room, was translated by their brains as something approaching a banshee cry. Ryou hastily got up, and realised that the reason for his swift rising was the fact that he had used Malik's head as a step. The Egyptian yelled a novel's worth of curses and shoved him away, succeeding in poor Ryou being delivered back onto the bed.

"Will you bitches…cut out…the Ra-damned _noise…"_ The spirit of the Ring's voice degenerated into a croak and he rammed his face into a pillow in the vain hope that he would be sucked in to some cotton-coated world of peace and quiet.

Ryou stumbled to his feet and this time managed to stay standing, bowing apologies over and over again. Malik waved him away. "Just…don't talk. Go fetch some paracetamol or something."

The Dark Bakura groaned in agreement, and pulled the duvet around himself. He could already tell that this was going to be a bad one, and he hadn't even tried sitting up yet. Soft sounds told him the curtains were being pulled shut, and there was a painfully loud "clink" as someone set a tray down next to him. Ryou, having recognised the signs from the outset, had applied his considerable experience to compiling survival gear for the afflicted. A clean bowl, warm toast, a large jug of water, lots of kitchen towel and even more painkillers were the main necessities - his koe opened his eyes in appreciation and surveyed the offerings.

"You're getting good at this, yadonushi…" He put out both hands and sat up, before falling back down again. It felt as if his brain had turned into a minefield, and any tiny movement would set a corner of it off.

"This is good." Malik sprayed crumbs approvingly as he began munching his way through the Ring spirit's toast. "And I don't actually feel too bad. Your eyeliner is smudged, 'Kura, by the way," he added in a conversational tone.

The spirit muttered obscenities back at him, before his arms gave way and he fell back down on to the bed yet again. There was an unnecessary and disgruntled, "Ooof."

"Still smudged." Malik was starting to sound almost chirpy. He smirked as the Dark Bakura glared back.

"So we're not going out today?" Ryou ventured.

"Does he even look like he can walk?" Malik asked. "That was rhetorical, by the way."

The Dark Bakura tried to look threatening, but his eyes were too bloodshot. "I don't need to be able to walk in order to kill you."

"Sure, because you really look like you could hurl a knife at me right now. Hey, Ryou…kun, is there any more toast?"

"There can be." He meekly picked up the used plate and glass and went to put them in the kitchen.

"'Kun'?" Bakura raised an eyebrow at him.

Malik shrugged, glad the spirit was not exactly analysing his every movement right now. "The bringer of toast is always honoured with a 'kun.'"

The spirit of the Ring rose, very shakily, and proceeded to stagger over to the mirror. "Bugger," he pronounced, upon seeing the eyeliner all over his face.

Malik's voice took on a mocking English accent. "And over here, you see a very rare species of panda, the _Bakuras Idiotus_, who only emerges after gorging itself on the substance which forms a staple part of its erratic diet: alcohol. Left to its own devices, this panda will wander to and fro in a pre-determined zig-zag pattern, pausing at length to-"

The Dark Bakura tried to stab him with the eyeliner pencil, missed by about a metre and a half, and nearly fell over. "Insolent…brat…no respect…for elders…" He began rubbing his eyeliner off with the back of his hand. "Bugger this. Where's your shower?"

Malik pointed casually with his finger, and, as the spirit narrowed his eyes and tried to line up the finger so that it corresponded with the constantly-swirling doors, slowly began moving his finger downwards until it pointed at the floor.

Ryou blinked several times as his koe stumbled past him, muttering fragments of Ancient Egyptian curses that all seemed to have Malik's name in them. "Where are you going, koe? Don't you want toast?"

"He's going to be gone for a while," Malik told him in a conversational tone. "In the mean time, I'll be having his toast." He took three slices. "Is anyone else up yet?"

"I think Isis-san might be-" there was a scream, followed by Isis' indignant cries of "Pervert! Pervert in the house!" and the Dark Bakura's answering curses at the loud noise.

Malik: "Guess she got to the shower first. And Yuugi-kun is almost certainly still in bed. But I never imagined the Pharaoh being a late riser…well, whatever. It doesn't look we will be going anywhere much today anyway, so we should probably leave them be for a bit."

Twenty minutes later Isis emerged from the bathroom, resplendent in her white silk dressing gown and ready for a new day spent running around after the Pharaoh. The spirit of the Ring, who had been waiting outside tapping his foot to the pounding in his head, at once disappeared inside.

Isis had forbidden anyone from so much as knocking on the bedroom door to check if Yuugi and his other were still alive in there, so it was well after ten o'clock when the shorter of the crazy-haired couple toddled out, still wearing his (blue and star-sprinkled) pyjamas. He appeared to be slightly flushed, but then even at this time the weather in Egypt was very hot, of course. His partner was busy packing away used equipment, already clad in the leather outfit that seemed to grow tighter by the day. He straightened as Isis came forward, to stop respectfully in the middle of the door.

"My Pharaoh, would you like anything to eat? To drink?"

"Ah, thank you, but I feel myself to be quite satisfied for now." He strode out of the bedroom, pausing briefly to curl a finger under Layla's chin.

"She's certainly turning out to be nice and healthy, isn't she?" Isis peered innocently at the family pet. "I'm sure she's put on weight the last few days."

The Pharaoh looked quite convincingly astonished to hear this. "I hadn't noticed anything of the kind myself, but I'm sure such beautiful eyes as yours miss very little."

Isis blushed in surprise. His gaze ran over her appreciatingly, as if he wished to coax the colour into her cheeks only to leech it out again, and pull it into himself. He did so enjoy thinking that, at this moment, even more blood lay under her skin than usual, and that he was so close to it.

With a slide of his gaze to the side and away he dismissed her, intentions now forming of inspecting the other two host bodies and hearing their plans for the day. Once he had approved them - as he expected to, for he was fully confident that their actions could be nothing more than innocently harmless - he would appraise his own programme, and perform any necessary revisions.

Distant sounds of a door opening, and someone staggering out. He frowned a little, mentally comparing the sound to his knowledge of all the occupants' particular gaits and manners of walking. Finding no match, his mind murmured an intrigued note, and he set off to investigate.

Upon his arrival, the Dark Bakura glanced up, glared generically and gripped the black towel around his waist a little more grimly. His other hand was on the wall, presumably in an effort to maintain his shaky attempt at balance. He gave no verbal acknowledgement of the other's presence, however, choosing instead to wobble defiantly back towards the bedroom.

The Pharaoh followed him, more out of a general enjoyment of seeing him unguarded and somewhat humiliated than out of any concern for his safety. He was just in time to hear Malik conclude, "I love how I outdrank you and yet still emerged with less of a hangover," and the thief's answering growl.

"You always were a lightweight," Yami remarked from where he was now leaning in the doorway.

"Which, considering he was probably brought up on bread and cheap beer, just makes it more funny."

The Pharaoh raised an eyebrow inquiringly, and Malik tossed him a textbook. "Page twenty-five."

The spirit began delicately turning pages, but had not gone past more than a few before something in the Arabic text caught his attention, and he began to peruse the book more slowly. "Hm."

"I'm not convinced that you outdrank me," Bakura was muttering sullenly into the bowl.

Malik rummaged around in his combats, and after a few moments triumphantly pulled out a very smelly scrap of what might have once been paper. "According to this, I did. Look-" and the Ring-spirit leaned over despite himself- "Up to here, we were equal. Nine vodka shots, six whiskeys and either two or twelve rums - I can't read my writing here. Then I had all those beers, and you had the amaretto - I lost track but I think you had three or four. Hm, I remember remarking on how girly a drink it was. Then you threw a bottle of beer at me, and missed. I think you hit some random old guy, but he didn't seem to mind. After that, you seemed to be more interested in other things, so I just kept going. And won by about eight beers."

The other person digested this slowly. "…So you cheated."

"Well, now, I wouldn't necessarily say that. We both knew I would probably win anyway, didn't we?"

……….

Ryou was fairly sure that there had to be some advantages in being short. In fact, he was almost certain of it: why else otherwise would Yuugi have such close friends, a guardian spirit that never let him out of his sight, and an uncanny ability to win a children's card game with a lack of effort matched only by his other self? It had to be the shortness, he had long since concluded, for everything else about the two of them was so similar - they both had Egyptian alter-egos, both were painfully effective bully-magnets, and both were frequently asked how many products they had to use on their hair to get it to the level it was currently at. The only thing that really differed was height. That, and general niceness. Ryou wasn't sure that he was a particularly nice person - why else could he count the number of people he considered as friends on only one hand? Yuugi was more fortunate than him in many ways, which was okay really because he deserved to be.

However many advantages being short presented, on the other hand, were certainly accompanied by several distinct downsides. Take day-to-day moving around, for instance. Not so bad when you were strolling merrily down a street or slipping under ticket boxes - however, when it came to negotiating terrain that was slightly more crowded, Ryou wondered if Yuugi had been handed a little bit of a short straw. So to speak. When a squeal issued from somewhere in front and beneath him, he or Malik would at once dive into the frantically rushing crowds and pull a semi-crushed Yuugi to the surface, keeping a tight grip on his hand for a good few minutes afterwards. The rescued one would murmur a breathless "Thank y-" before inevitably disappearing again moments later into the unending sea of people.

Ryou did not know whether the markets were even more packed today than they had been when he had first come, or whether it was just that having more people to keep track of created the illusion of having even less space than before. He could not even manage to finalise an opinion on the matter, for his thoughts had dissolved in a confused and swirling mess very much resembling the people flowing past him. Faces were blurry, people rushing past in a swirl of coloured material and then gone, so many eyes and none of them looking at him. That was something to be grateful for, at least.

"Monday's market was cancelled, so this is the first big one of the week," Malik yelled across to them. Ryou looked over enquiringly, and a moment later was seized by the wrist and dragged back into the main body of the crowd, now surging down the centre of the stalls. It was like being a piece of driftwood in the Niagara Falls or some other waterfall - you could either be swept along with everything else or be dashed to pieces trying to resist. He fancied that he could already feel his body splintering under the constant pressure of bodies around him.

Mariku-kun seemed to be slightly more in control of their journey than some people, though. His eyes were constantly darting around, assessing the points of highest and lowest flow, and where they could squeeze through into side-stalls. It seemed that the most effective method was to be in harmony with the motion of the group, and yet at the same time not to lose oneself in it: they bobbed along like bits of flotsam and jetsam, sometimes sinking below the surface but always popping back up, with the Egyptian carefully steering them like a pair of oars in the right direction.

After this casual mayhem had endured for some time, the Pharaoh split off in a bid to inject some efficiency into their movements. His host now clinging tightly to his arm in the matter of a near-drowning swimmer hugging a rock in order to prevent themselves from being completely swept away, the spirit stood grimly in the middle of the crowd, grimacing inwardly every time someone touched him - normally, he could extend some indulgence towards accidental contact, but on this scale it all felt a little…well, unsanitary. He loved his people, of course; it was just that they didn't seem to have become any cleaner three thousand years on. All these hairy fingers brushing past…it was no better than the grubby hands of his previous population pawing in their uneducated but well-meaning way at his fine attire, dirtying his sun-coloured robes. At the end of the day, he was perfectly content to rule them, as long as they didn't come too close to him. It was the sort of situation that, in his last life, would have had him calling quite loudly for his guards to come and cart these people away out of his sight.

By the time they had driven back the heat had reached its peak, Ra now firmly established in the middle of the glistening sky. The shimmering produced by the incessant warmth was such that Ryou fancied that it meant even the air was sweating too. Not that he was glad - he believed that the less amount of people who could get away without suffering, the better; and it was best of all if only one person could be volunteered to bear the entirety of any one burden. That meant that the pain would not be shared, which always made things more complicated, not least because it diluted the appropriate emotions. It wasn't that he believed that this one person would be any better a person for taking all of the suffering - just that it was logical to keep affected persons to a minimum, and for sources of corruption to be safely stored within one or two readily-avoided individuals.

Yuugi wanted to get back inside as soon as possible; not just to get out of the monstrous heat, like they all did, but so that he could try on his new galabiyeh as soon as possible. Ryou was wearing his too, and it struck him suddenly how strange they would all look when seen together, with the non-Egyptians masquerading as ones, and the two longest-living citizens of Egypt shunning anything that might suggest they were not complete foreigners to this queer and shameful country that pretended to be theirs.

The Pharaoh had not, at least to Ryou's limited knowledge, removed any of his leather articles since his arrival. The Ring-bearer even briefly wondered what, (if anything), the spirit cared to sleep in. Yet he appeared as flawless in appearance as ever; while there was nothing obviously "well-groomed" about him, everything appeared to sit with just the right note of nonchalance, and the Puzzle seemed to be fixed into hanging at a certain angle, slightly to one side. Sometimes the Pharaoh would wear a slightly different tight black shirt - although you could never really tell what was actually under all those chains - or a variation on his standard leather, maybe studs in a different place, or collar turned up just a little higher than usual. But despite this, he did not really seem given to change - he came across as the sort of person who has come to terms with themselves quite a long time ago, and is now prepared to embrace that persona and that persona only, for however long they cared to live.

Moreover, the fact that his personal appearance was not given to drastic change only served to exacerbate the feeling he gave off of being very solid and reliable and _real,_ of being someone you would actually enjoy being dependent on. Besides, such was his aura of smooth and easy confidence that you wanted to be draped in it too, like velvet sheets. He did not really require a very detailed physical appearance: his eyes, and his almost-smile, were all you ever really needed to look at. And, of course, once you did, you could not possibly look away. Never with anyone else was addiction in this form so thrilling. Ryou sometimes liked to sneak glances at him, so that he could steal just for a moment a little of that thrilling feeling, and hold it within himself like a tiny stolen flame, to lean briefly into the suggestion of warmth before it burnt itself out.

It wasn't that he was dissatisfied with his koe, of course. He could _never _be, because he knew that he belonged to his other and his other owned him and only him, whereas the other Yuugi seemed to be able to own anyone he chose. And people were always throwing themselves down at his feet, begging to be able to do something to please him. And Ryou sometimes felt what was almost a very faint, perhaps obligatory, sense of injustice when he saw this, the pangs pinching different nerves to usual: because his koe could have this sort of adoration too, if he chose; Ryou was sure of it. And because he didn't throw himself out as a receiver for all these excess yearnings that people had, they just assumed that he couldn't attract them if he tried. Which was wrong, wrong, wrong. His koe could do _anything_. The other Yuugi could do…everything, but in a different way…

But the difference was that the Pharaoh chose to exude feelings of dependability which anyone could pick up, whereas Ryou knew that any suggestions that came through in his koe's actions that hinted that he could protect people too were meant just for him.

He had to admit, though, that the Pharaoh did look the part a little more. Even when mostly submerged under generic jangly objects, his shirts still clung to the outlines of his muscles, and his arms looked not unpleasantly hard. Sometimes, when he got up, you could see the ripples run across his back, like little waves of assurance. Ryou longed secretly to touch one, to see how hard it would really feel. It would be like having strength right under his fingers.

And his koe…not quite the same build. Ryou had resigned _himself_ to always being a laughably skinny little thing, insignificant in yet another aspect, but he had sort of hoped that his koe would be a little different. Not that it was the spirit's fault, of course - Ryou supposed that it came through from the host body, and in this way he had imposed yet another initial disadvantage on some unfortunate other. But at least the Ring-spirit was still physically strong - he may have been built like bits of wire stuck together, but it was pretty unbendable wire. It was a thin, gritty sort of strength, good for taking people by surprise with, but not the sort of thing that would break a stalemate. And all Ryou's yoga that the spirit often cared to join in with meant that sometimes the host could imagine (strictly hypothetically, of course) folding up his koe's limbs into a neat pile of nearly-parallel bones and packing him into an envelope.

For all this power that he was now attaching to his other half, Ryou did not particularly desire to break his self-conjured spell by factoring in interaction with other immortals: he especially did not care to think of this other thing inside Maliku-kun. It scared him, mostly because everyone seemed to have known about it all this time, while he had not. He was used to missing out on important events - having done so, in one way or another, for most of Battle City - so it was not that which distressed him: it was that no one seemed to care very much one way or the other about this spirit, and Ryou worried about things which other people liked to easily dismiss.

But come, come; he was inside now, and had been thinking this nonsense all the way up the stairs, rudely ignoring the gentle verbal prods of others at least twice while doing so. He flushed and tottered a bit and stammered his way into familiar red-faced apology, and thus met everyone's low expectations once again.

The spirit of the Millennium Ring was found, by Malik, napping lightly on the bed, a bottle of opened Absinthe wedged in the crook of his arm. The Egyptian prodded him awake with a dry, "Soothing a hangover with alcohol. What an original idea."

"It didn't work." He sat up, and surveyed Malik. "You only have two heads now instead of five, however, so perhaps there was some effect."

"Unfortunately." The Pharaoh shooed the two other hosts away - Malik may have been too socially hardened to do much about, but he didn't want his partner exposed to the effects of drink. "I feel obliged to confiscate this, Tomb Robber." Removing the bottle felt good - he hadn't confiscated anything in a while, and the Ring-spirit's round "o" mouth of reply was worth it on its own.

"Confiscating? Are you aware of that object's cost?"

"I'm sure the flavour will speak for itself." Yami tucked it into his jacket, where it would never again be seen by mortal eyes .

Bakura yawned, conceding the fight as he covered his mouth, and started looking around for the pillow. His search was rudely interrupted, however, by some shrill and unfamiliar tune which made all three individuals look around in surprise. After several moments of blank expressions by all, Malik decided to enlighten him. "'Kura, that would be _your_ phone ringing."

The spirit hissed, insulted, and groped for a knife to threaten him with. "Listen to it. It's some sort of generic pop. Or worse, this "R'n'B" development. I do not own anything which fits into either genre."

"Then, why is it coming from _your_ backside?"

Reacting instinctively to the remark, Bakura reached into his back pocket, then the other one. When his search yielded nothing, he cast a dubious look at the other two people and began awkwardly patting his rear. "I…have it." It was, for some reason, lodged in his underpants. _How__…__utterly pleasant. _He could understand _some_ minor mortal habits rubbing off on him, but he was also sure he would have noticed getting into the habit of keeping his phone somewhere like this.

"Yes?"

There was a rustling sound, several loud thumps that made Bakura frown and press his ear to the phone, and then a very overloud and hoarse mutter of, "Darling, you said you would call. You _said_ you would call-"

"Who…is this?" Perhaps he had acquired someone else's mobile again? It happened often enough. He could add it to the growing pile back in Ryou's bedroom.

"You _said-_ I was going to introduce you to all my friends. They really liked you, baby. What's happened?"

"I think you have the wrong number," the spirit said in a very steely, controlled tone that had murder intentions running all the way through it. He hung up, and made a point of wiping the phone _and_ changing the ring-tone before replacing it in his jeans. To his curious audience: "Wrong number."

"I wonder." Malik, for some indiscernible but nonetheless very infuriating reason, was smirking. "Were they over or under fifty?"

"What, pray, does that have to do with anything?" He was getting a very…_prophetic_ feeling about something, and suddenly wished like hell that the Pharaoh could just fall into a nearby black hole. "Do you know this person?"

"Oh, hell no. But you do. Rather well, judging from how you were getting on."

"Getting…on?"

"Maybe off," Malik corrected himself thoughtfully. "…You really don't remember any of last night, do you?"

"Shut up and enlighten me."

"In how much detail? Never mind, actually; I don't think anyone wants to know. But sufficient to say that you made a lot of new friends last night, and most of them had wrinkles."

The spirit was already looking uneasy - he wasn't use to seeing people that old. In Egypt, (_proper_ Egypt, that was, not that watered-down product that was being forced on him currently) most people had died of one thing or another before getting old enough to have things like _wrinkles. _As far as he was concerned, they were just another modern development, albeit one of the more unpleasant ones.

"So yeah, anyway. They kept murmuring that you were a pretty little girl and all sorts of things like that. 'Kinky' might have been one of them, too. One of them was that really hairy one - you have to remember him, you practically put him in a wheelchair at the beginning - and also that bald one. Do you remember that bit, really early on, when we were chatting and then you suddenly said, "Put your fingers anywhere near my leg again and I will make you break them yourself"? He gave this really foolish grin, and buggered off for a bit, and then came back later, and you…seemed to have forgiven him, so he made the most of it. I wouldn't blame him, really, considering the signals you were putting out."

Bakura had now concluded that if the Pharaoh did happen to start falling into a black hole, it might be necessary to yank him out so that he could sink into it himself. "I…see."

Having adjusted his expression of disapproving resignation to the appropriate degree, the Pharaoh now chose to exit the room. As soon as he did this the two host bodies on the other side of the room made a beeline for him, with Yuugi almost running. "Other me, why am I the only one who had to leave? Are you hiding a secret from me?

He selected an appropriate smile: one of slight surprise at such an idea, coupled with strong overtones of reassurance. "Of course not. No one is hiding any secrets from you." He already had his arms half-held out when his partner rushed to press himself against the leather-clad chest.

Voice slightly muffled, Yuugi persisted, "You know when I ask a question, and you ruffle my hair and say I don't want to know? Is this one of those times?"

"It might well be." The spirit's fingers started twisting the little floppy bangs at the side of the small face. "You are rather cute, aibou."

"Am I really really? Or just sort of?"

The long fingers resting on his head drummed for a moment in thought. "I think there could only be a few people in the world who manage to look quite so cute all the time. And it's pleasant when I am permitted to look at one for so long." He raised his eyes, and they found Ryou, awkwardly hovering and not sure where to look or go or think. After a moment the mortal too raised his head as if a clumsy moth drawn to those flame-coloured eyes, and he found the Pharaoh looking at him and smiling. After lingering for a moment in that smile, Ryou blushed and wrenched his gaze away, feet pawing nervously at the carpet.

The spirit of the Puzzle rarely encountered people strong-minded enough to look away first when he turned the more persuasive form of his expression on them; he liked to hold it just a moment too long, a slight indulgence on his part, and satisfy himself as to the true level of control that he held over them. Yet Ryou's hesitance to look at him and be looked at seemed not to be due to strong-mindedness on his part, but rather stemming from either timidity or feelings of undeservedness. This was interesting, because normally Yami was capable of making people forget such thoughts when they looked at him; the weak-minded were often unable to hold any thoughts at all. Perhaps they were too deeply embedded to be dislodged like that, which meant that Ryou had potential in other ways.

He smiled again over the top of Yuugi's head, and with his fingers still in his hair said in a soothingly confident manner, "Any doubts that you retain don't matter, because I'm here now. And that means everything is going to turn out fine."

"I know," Yuugi mumbled from deep inside the spirit's jacket. But Ryou looked uncertain - although he had started blushing again.

……………

He knew it had been a bad hangover because it was still hanging around by the evening, in the persistent way of a dog that won't stop nipping at your heels and yapping its stupid head off. And you want to just kick it out of existence, but the damn thing is still attached to your leg in true dogged fashion.

Well, it was mostly gone, anyhow. Still a dull ache in most places, and a sullen pinch at his temples every now and then to remind him of its continuous existence; but, other than that, it seemed to have retreated. Every time, he had thought - hoped - that the dulling of taste would extend to a dulling of alcohol-related effects as well, which to a degree was what happened, but he would then decide it meant that he was immune to alcohol full-stop, and would carry on drinking. And then the next morning would always come around to prove him wrong.

His stomach still did not feel particularly pleasant, which was why he was now in the kitchen, rooting around for a cure. He wasn't hungry as such - indeed, to be honest, he couldn't really recall what the sensation felt like: it had been so long ago - but by making a small offering to a redundant organ he hoped to make it shut up for a few more years. If only everything else were so easily dealt with. His heart, for instance - didn't need that. Brain, despite what others might argue, was well-used. But everything else could be stuffed back into canopic jars - just like they were supposed to have been. Maybe some organs just weren't meant to have survived this long: it would explain why he almost never had a need to eat. Or feel.

"Hm." He had found some dried fruit. Not too demanding, if a bit chewy, and lots of sugar. The spirit of the Ring held the packet up briefly, inspecting it further, and then commenced nibbling.

"Impressive, how you scorn my homemade cooking, and then find room for snacks." Isis had put her hands on her hips, presumably just to emphasise her irritation, rather than being foolish enough to try to intimidate him.

He spared her one look - a brief, pitying one - and continued eating, more out of a desire to infuriate her than any real wish to eat further.

"Although, seeing as virtually everything you have done so far seems to have been to annoy me, I don't really know why I'm still surprised."

Bakura pondered briefly that, in her attempts to make _him_ sound petulant, she was not presenting a particularly favourable or mature image of herself, either. So this was the person from whom Malik had learnt that whining was such a good persuasive tactic.

"Please, don't worry yourself." He turned a dried apricot in his fingers, feeling the crinkles. It was like a wrinkly, discarded skin, all ridges. "I wouldn't dream of going out of my way to annoy you; I can scarcely believe that you think I would spend such effort on you. I'm actually trying very hard not to exert myself at all in that direction, but clearly I need to try a little harder."

"Such manners," Isis muttered. A little louder: "I can only hope they won't rub off on Ryou-chan."

"Oh, they won't." Ryou was like a whiteboard with his entire personality and thoughts and behaviour patterns written down in permanent marker, the spirit reflected. There was no room for anything new to be added - and what was already there would never change. It was too constantly reinforced.

"It's just fortunate that he is completely dissimilar to you. You could be two completely unrelated people."

Oh dear. Trying to touch a nerve, and failing, because he and his Ryou fitted together like two pieces of the same jigsaw. This was obviously where Malik got his verbal dexterity from, too. "Don't try to understand us. You'll only strain something." He moved to go, found his path blocked, and sighed. "Oh dear. Here we go."

"Why do you have to act like that?" she demanded. "Why can't you be more like…like…"

"I'm not the Pharaoh," Bakura filled in coolly; "And neither do I wish to be." She still hadn't finished the sentence, which was understandable. People like Isis devoted themselves to a single person, not two. And asking the masses to adore two people was a little much, considering the relative amount of worship involved. Give it a few weeks, and you'd have a lot of dead disciples, most of them from exhaustion. And part of the Pharaoh's charm lay in the fact that he was so obviously unique, at least to those who loved him - admitting that there might be others out there capable of nurturing an ego so tremendous had the danger of stripping away his immortality as a God figure. Not that there were any obvious rivals around - hell, you could build monuments to his ego alone. It was almost like one of the Seven Wonders of the World - it was that big, and that indestructible.

He started picking out the bits that he liked more - the strips of mango, the pineapple - and put the rest away. "It isn't even that you actually dislike me so much - you just want to."

"What are you talking about?"

He wished that she were talking in Japanese, so that he might witness her slip from rigidly formal and honorific-coated language into something a little more telling. And then she - oh, but wait, she was still talking.

"Believe me, I dislike you quite strongly, Tomb Robber. I just don't use it as an excuse to be so openly and constantly rude."

Airily: "Oh, but I don't believe you." He moved chunks of sugar-coated pineapple around the kitchen counter. "I believe that you dislike me, yes; but not as much as you think you do. The true object of your hatred is not present, so you project your repressed emotions onto me as a form of release. Rather primitive, I might add."

Isis' eyes darkened; her expression tightened and her carefully-painted nails dug for a moment into her palms. The intensity was pleasing to feel, but otherwise it was all rather boring and expected forms of showing fury, and he decided he could not be bothered to watch. The fridge was just next to him and he opened it, skin shivering as it was blasted with the chilly air, and took out a beer.

"Yes, go on and drink yourself into oblivion again," Isis near-exclaimed, her voice high and slightly shaky as she fought back down the emotions he had aroused in her. It wasn't even as if he wanted to play with those particular ones - just that he wanted to see them present.

Another pitying glance, but more scornful this time. "Ah, of course. I forgot just how vulnerable _immortal beings _are to liver cancer. How silly of me."

_"__You_ may be immune to such things, but _he_ isn't quite so lucky!" Her voice was definitely shrill now. "And one day he is going to kill himself trying to keep up with you!"

"'He'," the Tomb Robber pondered. "He. He. …What a loving term of address. Personally, I think it sounds like someone laughing." He started sucking on a piece of mango. "You certainly don't give the mortal in question much credit, do you? I am certainly not saying that he deserves any, merely that you don't seem prepared to give him much more."

"Don't talk that way about my brother!"

Ra, he was getting a little fed up with these dramatic sentences of hers, all demanding to be end-stopped with an exclamation mark or two, to say, "Look at me and how much I care!"

A growing boredom made him brief, more eager to end the conversation than to prolong the fun. "Stop infantilising him then. It's _my_ job."

"How…how in the name of Bastet do I do such a thing? My point is that you encourage him to go down to the pub when he is vulnerable _and _underage!"

The spirit threw up his hands in mock-horror. "But that's not what he told me!"

She took a step forward. "Don't you dare mock me like this."

The Ring-spirit swallowed the last of the mango, and strode coolly past. "I have no more to say. Actually, I have a great deal more to say, but not the patience to say it. If you need further enlightenment, seek the advice of the nearest Pharaoh. You seem particularly comfortable with this one already, it seems."

Isis' face turned quite suddenly maroon. It was not one of Bakura's favourite shades of red, and it certainly didn't flatter her, so he stopped looking at her. He didn't bother looking back even as he reached the stairs, merely disappearing down towards the museum which, in the waiting dark, had more the feel of a giant tomb.


	10. Of Supermarkets, Stealing and Sarcasm

A/N: Weeee! And if this wasn't the quickest-written chapter so far, I'll eat Ryou! (The implication being here that his yami would rip my throat out very soon after). Written in just two sessions, in about four days, I think - one of 800 words (up to the first scene break), and the other an amazing 4200 burst that only took me until 2.30 in the morning. Wohoo! So, with this chapter the story takes a purposeful turn towards one of the main subplots - or should that be plot? I'm not sure what is plot here and what is subplot anymore…I just know that it was so fun to write. (is happy happy happy)

The chapter title is a bit cliché in its format, but I'm not in a mood to linger on titles right now. Might change it later, though.

This chapter is so sarky! Seriously, it's the most sarcastic thing ever. I think I put wit above psychological analysis and description this time, which is faintly shocking. There's less detailed venturings into characters' minds, but next chapter is probably going to compensate, if the likely content is anything to go by. I just need to ensure that I don't neglect my descriptions again - but generally speaking, if I'm emphasising the wit, things tend to move a lot faster, but at the same time have more dialogue, so description gets left behind a bit. Hope conversation doesn't dominate this chapter too much, however.

Chapter Ten - Of Supermarkets, Sarcasm, and Stealing

"Will it…hurt?"

The movements around him slowed and ceased, instead of halting abruptly, which would have been a sure admittance of guilt. The Pharaoh found Ryou's gaze - wary, a little anxious, but not doubting or frightened - and held it unblinkingly. An easy enough thing for any spirit to do; but mortals seemed always to forget this, or so it would appear from the effect such a gaze had upon them. They seemed to find it reassuring of truthfulness, as opposed to merely unnatural.

He smiled fondness - and it was entirely genuine, if not planned and controlled. "Of course it won't. I wouldn't let you ever be in pain, would I?"

"No…" Ryou answered obediently. The idea was, at this moment, unimaginable. How lucky he was, that such a person was here.

Cool spirit fingers brushed his side again. "All you will feel is a tingle."

It was more of a brief fizz, not quite as unpleasant as a jolt, but enough to make him look around automatically for reassurance. But instead of the Pharaoh, he somehow ended up looking at his koe, observing them both from the doorway of Rishid's bedroom. The Ring-spirit's eyes were a brighter red than yesterday, a shade that suggested vitality or at least recovery, and when they held Ryou's gaze he felt a tug of expectation, similar to when the Pharaoh had looked at him just now but striking different notes, wanting different things. Ryou was relieved to find that he still liked those eyes better.

"All good as new."

He jumped up, and found the Pharaoh smiling at him again - it felt strange to be at the centre of both spirits' attentions, as if he were struggled between the two forces. The thought was faintly panicking, and he found it was less complicated to rip his gaze away from the Dark Yuugi's at once, before anything could happen, and run up to his koe's side. At once everything became better, and he felt relieved that the right thing to do was still so clear.

The Pharaoh was a little startled at such decisive breaking away, and it was possible that some tiny iota of this was manifested in his expression, just as some hint of satisfaction, bordering on smugness, may have in turn been present in the face of the Dark Bakura. Certainly, he seemed to relax just a bit more. "Yuugi is waiting for you in the lounge, my Ryou. How about going off and playing with him?" Oh, and was there the _tiniest_ extra bit of stress than usual on the "my"?

Yami does not bother watching Ryou run off, being content to leave him for now. The eventual outcome is inevitable, anyway, and thus he does not feel the need to rush.

"Are you expecting to be thanked?" Dark Bakura's tone is not ungracious, or demanding - it's a pretty good imitation of an innocent enquiry.

"Not in any way that you would feel happy with."

He folded his arms. "Are you trying to ensure that I am indebted to you? I remind you that this action was not even necessary."

His Pharaoh's gaze swept over him, like sweeping of a cloak before it was folded back around its owner. "It certainly was, if you will insist on continuing to channel all your magic into the maintaining of a healed _appearance_, and none of it into the fulfilment of such. If physical appearances are that important to you, I suggest that you give your host's a little more priority."

"I was intending to." Bakura's voice had grown very cool, implying a rising of emotion. "If you insist on persevering with such blatant _interfering-" _

"Oh, do be quiet." This was said in such a tone of seamless calm that the Ring-spirit stopped dead. "We both know that my role is to be "interfering" - if that is what you call sorting out the problems of the people."

"I can sort out my own problems;" and here the Ring-spirit's voice was so calm as to rival that of the other spirit's, and any bystander who was not quite close enough to hear every word but nonetheless could pick up the general tone, would have assumed that they were discussing very bland topics indeed, if it required so little emotion to be expressed.

Yami's voice picked up a note of pleasure - here was an opportunity for correction on a significant topic, something that he particularly enjoyed. "Your problems, as ever, are my problems, and thus I will continue to do you the service of sorting them out for you."

"Such kindness." And with this, the Dark Bakura left, feeling that smile follow him every inch of the way, as if it had attached itself to him like a watchdog, waiting for him to go wrong.

…………

"Where are you going?"

Malik paused, head poking out inquiringly from under his purple hoodie, which was only half on. "Do I look suspicious?"

"Always," the spirit of the Millennium Ring assured him. "Moreover, you answered my question with a question, which is always suspicious."

"…Oh. Well, I'm only going to the store to pick up some more food. Do you want anything?"

Dark Bakura's eyes took on a thoughtful tint, turning darker. "Something to clean metal with." Still in that same thoughtful tone: "Blood-stains can be very stubborn sometimes."

"I'm…glad to hear that. So, is this steel we're talking about?"

"Yes. 440 stainless steel. Maybe some oil too." He rose. "Perhaps I should come with you."

"Still suspicious? Do you think I'm visiting a brothel on the way?"

"If I thought that, then I would definitely come with you anyway. As it is, I haven't seen Cairo at night time yet. Any further objections?"

"Not yet." He stretched delicately, reminding Malik of his cat yet again this visit, and followed him out the door.

"You…ah…are going out like that?"

He trails Malik's gaze until it leads him to the belt at his hips, filled rather prominently with knives. "Naturally." To the teenager's relief, however, he rescues his trench coat on the way out.

……………

In terms of the atmosphere between them, the walk to the supermarket was one of the most successful interactions he had carried out with the Dark Bakura since the first day. It was almost miraculous what a night out at the pub together could do to re-ignite the friendly banter between them that had been almost completely stamped out by the events of the past few days. Conversation flowed easily, and Malik was reminded how he had used to enjoy this person's presence for a time, before one late-night visit had complicated everything. There was no mention of that made now, however: no talk of other alter-egos or Items or sex or sex plus something else or anything like that; just pleasant and, frequently, amusing conversation. If pain were left out of the mix then they had rather similar senses of humour: when he chose to, Bakura could present a view of things that was wry and pleasingly sardonic, rather than overly cynical and harsh. Not that, when holding back, he necessarily gave the impression of holding back, of course.

The light flooding the supermarket was even more cutting and overpowering than Bakura's wit, and caused them both to blink repeatedly; the spirit's eyes reflected the light and became red slits as he half-closed them against the brightness.

"You look even more obviously an albino than usual. Are you making your eyes do that this time, or is it just a reaction to the light?"

"I am _not_ an albino," the Dark Bakura corrected, somewhat irritably, disliking what appeared to be a full twenty-four hours' worth of light being inflicted upon him in a few short minutes. "I'm a spirit: I have red eyes. And why would I bother make them glow in the light, when it obviously looks so much better in semi-darkness?"

"I don't know, do I? And I though Ryou-kun was an albino too."

"No one around here is a Ra-damned albino. I'm a spirit, and he's just…Ryou. And, for your information, albinos do not even have red eyes, but blue or grey, or occasionally pink."

"Mattaku na, you're testy. Did you look that up online on Wikipedia or something?"

"What is this "Wikipedia"? It sounds far too legal to be the sort of thing I would do online."

"It probably shouldn't be. I don't think you'd like it: too many people claiming to be knowledgable on certain subjects, and the few that know what they are talking about never get found because there are ten million hyperlinks to idiots standing between you and them."

"This is why knowledge should not be accessible to everyone. What right do they think they have to try and know everything anyway? Why can't they accept what others tell them, and let that be their only truth?"

Startled by this, and the slight note of vehemence accompanying it, Malik cast his eye around for a suitable excuse not to answer, and found it in the form of noodles. "Hang on, I'm supposed to get some of these. How much do you think is needed to feed all of us?"

Bakura thought about how much weight Layla had put on recently. "…Maybe not so much. I don't think the Pharaoh and I will manage more than a little. Just get enough for four."

"Okay. I need sauce too, and I'm really, really choosy over sauces, so how about you go and get your knife-cleaning-whatsits? I'm sure I won't be done by the time you come back anyway."

With a smirk and a shrug, and much flailing of trenchcoats, the spirit went off.

Malik set his basket down and started studying the nutrition information of various jars with a critical eye. Isis had entrusted with this task, and he would not let her down.

After eight minutes he had, with some great difficulty, narrowed his choices down to two. Now that he had got this far, however, a decision seemed impossible. With or without extra tomatoes? Was four grams more of fat cancelled out by the other jar having five point one grams more of sugar? Was a difference of eighty piastres okay if it also had two hundred grams more?

"Why am I so indecisive?" he wondered, wishing the Dark Bakura would come back and tell him, in no uncertain terms, to stop arseing around and pick one. But which one would he tell him to choose?

"Decisions are such tricky things," an amused voice commented from behind him. He heard footsteps as the Ring-spirit approached.

"Oh, you're back already, are you?" He nudged around for his basket with his foot, and knocked a bottle of lurid-coloured something or other to the floor. "Crap."

"Allow me." Just out of his field of vision, Bakura bent and picked it up.

"You're being unusually helpful. Is there something you want from me? Besides sex, I mean." He finally turned, just to make sure he accompanied the words with a slightly smug smirk. It shrivelled on his lips, however, as he realised that he was not talking to the spirit of the Ring. Nor, unfortunately (and this was about the only time that this word would be used positively) was it a total stranger.

"Considering the age gap, Tomb Keeper, I might have to say no. The offer, however, is appreciated."

"Oh no. No. No way in hell is it you." _And no way did I just offer you sex…_

Shaadi looked quite flattered. "This method of speech is considered affectionate in this current time, isn't it? I'm not sure I know what to say."

Malik was not in quite so much doubt. "No. No, this isn't happening. Why the hell are you here? I've finally sorted my life out from the last time you were here, so does that mean you felt obliged to come back and screw me over again? Why does this happen to me?" He turned his barely-contained horror on the two jars of pasta sauce, as if they might contain the answer. As it was, their labels reminded him yet again that the only thing they did contain was organic, homegrown tomatoes fresh from some farm on the other side of the country. "What do you want, and how do I convince you that I don't think I want it?"

He wasn't expecting the half-joking question to be considered with such a serious expression. "With great difficulty, Tomb Keeper, as I am very convinced that you do."

Why did he have to lay that "Tomb Keeper" crap on so thick? Malik wondered. And why the hell was the spirit of the Ring taking so long? "Okay, I know you want me to ask, so here it is: What are you talking about? What do I supposedly want? Apart from, naturally, wanting you to go away?" Enforced time with the Dark Bakura hadn't done much for his manners, he noted dryly; but then, he didn't want to make any secret of the fact that he really did prefer Shaadi when he wasn't around.

Shaadi said, "I would like to talk about the other aspect of you."

Malik was so taken aback that he put both jars of sauce in his basket. "What about it…him?"

…………

The spirit that dwelt inside the Millennium Ring had already found what he needed to purchase, when the tine of his Item lit up and started doing what looked like St. Vitus' Dance on his shirt. "Interesting." He set off back to where he had left Malik, acquiring four wallets as he went.

………….

"What makes you think I want to waste words discussing him?"

"Actually, I was planning on doing most of the talking."

"Really? Then would you mind talking yourself over there, to the next aisle? Then I can't see you. Who knows, maybe I won't hear you either. I could even pretend you weren't here. Hm, maybe you could help me take it a bit further by actually not _being_ here."

"You're angry," Shaadi observed calmly.

"No, I'm not. If I was angry, people would be dying. At least, that's what seems to have happened so far. I'm just…_pissed_ that you're still here - in fact, that you were ever here. Go find someone else's life to mess up. You can't exactly be short on candidates."

"And mistrustful." Shaadi was taking out the Millennium Scales, and frowning slightly as he found a scratch on one side.

"Why would I trust someone who hangs doughnuts from their ears? That can't have been fashionable for about two millennia. Oh, and did I mention that you messed up around six years of my life with just two sentences? If it weren't for you, I wouldn't have tried to teach myself fluent Japanese at the age of ten." He broke off. "…Well, that was maybe one of the few good things that came of it. But on the other hand, if it weren't for you, I wouldn't have caused those strands of grey hair that my sister keeps denying she has. I wouldn't have caused others to try and take my pain for me, because there wouldn't be any. And-" his voice grew tight- "I would still have a father. So forgive me, _please,_ if I don't greet you with a hug."

"On the other hand," Shaadi interjected in a conversational tone, "You would still have a darker self inside you."

"Oh yeah, because I completely forgot about that bit. Happens a lot, in fact." He couldn't remember when he had last had an opportunity to flex his sarcasm muscle like this: it almost felt good.

The priest (if he could be categorised as such: Malik was tempted to use certain four-letter words instead) looked a little concerned. "I'm not sure how sincere you were being just then. Could I possibly persuade you to clarify for me?"

"It was sarcasm. Another expression of affection in these times, as you like to call it."

"Excellent. Then you won't mind me using this." Having finally finished smoothing out the slight mark along the base, Shaadi held up the Scales. As he raised his arm, his cloak rose up slightly too, revealing the Millennium Ankh swinging slightly within.

…………..

The Dark Bakura cursed thoroughly in Arabic, exhausting his vocabulary in that area as he grimly tried to move through the packed aisle ahead. Apparently, there was some sort of sale on vodka, hence the millions of teenagers blocking the way. At any other time, he would cackled and joined them. Now, however, he regrettably had other, more urgent, places to go. It looked as if this was going to turn into one of those scenes out of a book or film where the character was held up just long enough to make sure he arrived at his destination just as the action was over. He was going to end up looking very foolish, apparently.

The hell he was. The Ring was rising into the air - it was all he could to stuff it back under his shirt before some of the teenagers who had not yet purchased and immediately consumed the discounted vodka in front of him noticed. He rolled up his sleeves, and began pushing hapless wannabe-drunkards aside - in each case engaging in a little light robbery - deciding that not drawing attention to himself was no longer such a high priority.

………..

"Get those things away from me." Useless words - why had he been so desperate to surrender the Millennium Rod to the Pharaoh at the very first opportunity? All he had left was his fists, which, if his recent experiences were anything to go by, were not exactly the most desirable weapon to be had when dealing with magical Items. He strained his mind, trying to recall what exactly Shaadi's items could do. For Ra's sake, the guy had _two _- wasn't that overkill, considering the amount of times he had seen what just one could do? He had seen his other self decimate whole rooms of people with his.

…Damnit, and here he was thinking about that person again, and it was all because of Shaadi. As if he needed any more excuses to dislike him.

Through considering the likeness between the Millennium Scales and the various artefacts cropping up in ancient history lessons, he was able to create a rough idea of what they might be able to do. Something about judging him…he wasn't sure what he would be judged on, but if failing meant something akin to Am'mit eating his heart, he wasn't sure he really wanted it to happen. And the ankh…wasn't that a symbol of life? And maybe sexual organs too… Although, he could vaguely recall from Jounouchi's residual memories inside him that it could do something along the lines of brainwashing.

Oh Ra. Despite having addled a lot of minds in his time, Malik did _not_ like the idea of such a thing happening to him, thank you very much. He didn't want his soul room redecorated - and he didn't think whatever was left of his yami would take kindly to the idea either.

He took several steps back. "I'm warning you, I'll do…something. Something bad." Oops. Looks like his wit had departed along with his anger, and fear had taken its place. It was not a welcome switch.

"Oh dear. It seems we are experiencing a bit of a misunderstanding." Shaadi tried for a reassuring expression, and failed - he couldn't really manage anything apart from enigmatically solemn - so decided to tuck the Scales back into his cloak. "Please be reassured that I do not intend to feed you to Am'mit. He assures me that he is feeling quite full from my last purging session."

Malik blanched and held up his basket as a shield. "If that was intended to be reassuring, I think you need to go back to your evening classes. As a general rule, mentioning soul-eating crocodiles doesn't make me all that relaxed."

"Oh dear."

"Stop saying that."

"Then, I will get to my point."

"If doing so means that you will go away straight afterwards, then please hurry up and get to it." _And if that doesn't invite prevaricating further, what does? Maybe people have been telling me to think before I speak for a reason._

Shaadi's hands folded into his sleeves, giving an impression that the upper part of his body was a long circle with his head perched on top - Malik felt like laughing at this thought. Shaadi had impressed him far more on the last visit - but now he was eight years older, and it all felt faintly comical. Besides, he had just spent the past four days in the same house as the Pharaoh - and after that, no one else really seemed all that impressive.

If only the Dark Bakura would hurry up and return - he would be able to read Shaadi, to tell what his intentions were. Malik peeked furtively around, to see if he was in luck - but no.

"Very well. Tell me, what is your actual opinion on his personality?"

"What?" Having just returned from a muse on Yuugi's alter-ego, and then Ryou's, Malik was not entirely sure what person he was supposed to be talking about.

"I refer, naturally, to the other soul inside you."

_Naturally,_ Malik thought in irritation, as if that was who everyone always meant when they didn't bother mentioning names. _Why does he keep returning to this subject_? _In fact, why does he keep returning to my_ _**life**__? He's got to have better things to do with his time…or actually maybe not._

"Why am I required to give an opinion?"

"Because I'm sure you have one, and I would be delighted to hear it. All your opinions so far have proved to be rather entertaining, if a little predictable."

Ra, that sounded as if it had come straight out of the mouth of the Dark Bakura. "Fine. I hate him; I can't think of anyone who doesn't. I think he's almost as good at wrecking lives as you are. And he's sociopathic and crazy - oh, and did I mention that I hate him? Anything else you need enlightening about?"

Shaadi's eyes were a cloudy darkness that kept shifting in tint so that they could not be pinned down as one specific colour - sort of blue, but maybe with bits of red in as well. They looked curious. "You genuinely believe him to be insane?"

"Not properly," Malik clarified impatiently. "He's probably no more full of murderous intent than any of the other spirits; he's just less able - or less willing - to control it. Maybe it's even a bit admirable to care that little about anyone else's opinion, to be so confident in your own. I don't care. I don't want to talk about him. Can I go now, or will you?"

And it was at that moment, when Shaadi looked as if he actually was considering leaving, that the Dark Bakura ran by, skidded to a halt, and made a show of panting. "One rescue mission, coming right up." He saw who he was supposed to be "rescuing" Malik from, and all the humour vanished from his face, to be replaced with an almost enthusiastic animosity. "Should I act pleased to see you?"

"It might make a welcome change. I'm started to feel quite disliked so far." Shaadi sounded concerned.

The Dark Bakura approached, and with every step his posture and expression became began cooler, as if he were systematically shedding all his emotion like an unwanted skin. "Is there anything I can do to help you? I would like to know as soon as possible, so I can be certain not to do it."

"No, no." The "priest" did not appear particularly dismayed by the spirit's tone. "I feel that I have almost everything I came for - ah, that reminds me. How fares our immortal Pharaoh?"

"Not quite as immortal as you would like to hope." The Dark Bakura ran his left hand up and down one of his knives. "I'm sure the benefit of your counsel would only send him to an earlier grave."

Shaadi smiled but did not reply.

Slightly hoarsely, Malik snapped, "I believe you were on the verge of leaving."

"Yes, please don't let my presence delay you." The spirit of the Ring came a little closer, as if to give the impression that his "quarry" was surrounded. The number of knives in his left hand had now increased to two. "If you have some trouble in leaving, I can always be of assistance."

"Thank you, but I believe I will manage." He looked at the spirit. "We will, I feel certain, meet again very soon." He nodded to them both, and vanished.

Bakura's eyes narrowed, although it was unclear whether it was from irritation or disappointment. Malik dropped his shopping basket, ignoring the clang. "Fuck it, I _hate_ it when he does that!"

"Are you referring to screwing with your head, or vanishing?"

"I don't know. Both. Mostly the latter."

"It _is_ very rude. Perhaps tired cults of aged priests don't include manners in the joining requirements. We shouldn't blame him."

Malik laughed: it sounded so forced and bitter and devoid of humour, he wondered why it even qualified as a laugh. "We should blame him for everything."

Bakura glanced at him. "Well, maybe so. Although your father would still be dead even if Shaadi _had_ kept his advice to himself. You just might have been a bit quicker to work out who was actually responsible."

"What does it matter?" Malik snapped. His eyes were hard, and for a moment flecked with the beginnings of black. "He would still be dead, wouldn't he? I would just have had one less person lie to me about the details! All I need to hear now is that he thought he was protecting me, and then he'll be ready to move in!"

The Ring-spirit was staring carefully at Malik's eyes, trying to discern whether the flecks he thought he had just seen were really there. This was a moment where he could do with having his host around, to borrow his vision. There was nothing wrong with spirit vision: it just picked up on different things to a mortal's. Reluctantly, he left it, resolving to use Ryou's body the moment that they got back.

"And stop looking at me as if I'm about to go crazy," the Egyptian ordered him through clenched teeth. "I'm allowed to be _angry,_ aren't I?"

"No," the spirit replied, almost absently. "In any case, aren't we going to the tills fairly soon? I have money to spend."

Malik glared at him resentfully. "You don't have to keep paying for everything. I'm not _that_ poor."

"Neither am I," the Dark Bakura concluded contentedly.

…………….

The tills were almost empty when they got there - although there was a rather harassed-looking assistant sellotaping a hurried, "There are pickpockets working in this area" sign to the wall opposite.

Malik only sighed and rolled his eyes at his companion, who was looking unaccountably smug. "See how quickly my fame spreads?"

"It had better not spread too quickly, or else you'll end up in jail."

"Then I only hope I don't end up with a life sentence. Ra knows there are better places to spend the next few millennia."

"You'd send the entire building into a world of darkness in the first five minutes, anyway. Why waste time sitting there pretending to grow old?" Malik retorted.

"I like having lots of time. It means I never have to rush anything, except emptying my bank accounts on a regular basis in case I have withdrawal problems again."

"You got found out? Did Kaiba hire someone to get you?"

"Oh no, no." The spirit looked at him pityingly. "As if that would happen. No, it was too much money being put in at once. I kept freezing up the machines, apparently."

"Wow."

"Um, excuse me, sir…" The checkout girl had a large, round face, and her thin hair was plastered back into two stumpy ponytails, which had the unfortunate effect of looking like ears on a pig. "This isn't from our store."

"Oh…right." Blankly, Malik took the item from her. It didn't look like it was even his - he couldn't think why he would have a brown paper bag on him. "Is this yours, 'Kura?"

"No." He was busy paying for their other purchases, and didn't deign to look round. "What is it?"

"I don't…know." He peeked cautiously inside, saw what looked maybe like a canister or bottle, and shrugged.

"Maybe Shaadi gave you your Valentine's gift early this year," the spirit offered with a snicker. When Malik continued to look blank, he reached out to take it, but it was pulled out of reach.

"Forget it. I'll look at it later. Do you think he actually left it, though?"

"Perhaps. Probably something else to screw with your mind. But if I'm right, and it's chocolates, then you have to promise to share them."

"Um, sure. Whatever."

The Dark Bakura began passing him plastic bags to carry. "Are you still sure this much alcohol will last us all until the next shopping trip? The Pharaoh's a heavy drinker too."

"Probably not, but hey." Malik glanced around. "It must be about ten o'clock if the store is closing already. We should probably get back."

Maliciously: "Wouldn't want Isis grounding us both now, would we?"

"She can't ground me - I'm eighteen, for Ra's sake."

"Do you have your own set of keys?"

"Of course."

"Then you're safe - for now. So, are we going back, or not? I thought you mentioned earlier that the Two-Headed Sphinx has a special offer on cocktails on Thursdays?"

"That is very true. But do you want to carry these bags to the pub and back?" Malik gestured with his, to complete the point.

"We'll go home, drop this lot off, and then go. Sound good?"

"It sounds like suicide, but I'm guessing that's what you mean."

"Then it's a date. Metaphorically," the spirit added hastily, as Malik gave him a Look.

"It had better be."


	11. Kaihou shita

**A/N: Long, long time since my last update…between 3 and 4 months. And I hadn't done any writing at all for at least two of those months. Mostly due to lack of confidence…wasn't sure if I could do this chapter justice with my meagre abilities. But today I just sat down and decided to do it, and for some reason it worked…7630 words, in six hours straight. That was the final third of this chapter, and all of the next one. Well, I might add around 300 words to chapter twelve - I don't know yet. I'm hoping this isn't too sluggish for the first two thirds - I could really tell where I got into it in the final third, because the pace picks up and it sounds more confident. Not sure if it's obvious to readers, though. **

**Ah, and "shujinjaku-sama" is what the Dark Malik calls his surface personality in the anime, at least as a form of direct address. It sort of translates to "master-personality-honourable", and of course is used sarcastically. He refers to him as a yadonushi (host) and omote (surface) a few times, but shujinkaku-sama recurs most often. I love his tone when he says it, too. Just a final warning: my interpretation of Dark Malik has a filthy mouth, because that's how I imagine him being, and because a lot of his Japanese translates that way (although in the anime the Dark Bakura is even worse…and the Dark Yuugi, for a supposed hero, is a rough speaker too.)**

**Chapter Eleven - Kaihou shita**

"Fresh fruit every day? Was the whole palace really so rich?"

"Of course." The Pharaoh's voice was maddeningly matter of fact as he added, "Sometimes, I would even have beef."

"Well, I certainly don't believe _that. _I only ever saw a cow once, and it was about to be offered to Het-Haru. It's food for the Gods, and no one else."

Yami settled more comfortably against the back of the sofa, the movement accompanied by plenty of squeaky rubbing sounds as his leather slid across cotton. "I'm not so sure of your logic. Beef was quite popular amongst some of my viziers; I certainly enjoyed the taste on many occasions. Just because it was a dish out of your reach doesn't mean it was out of mine."

The Dark Bakura twitched. "But the fact remains that the cow is a sacred animal. Only the Gods are supposed to consume it. You are-"

"Yes?"

He fell silent; Yami could see him struggling with the idea, trying to make it fit. This was why, in his opinion, it was best for the common people not to attempt to question established ideas like this too often, or learn of the lives that the upper classes and royal family led: it produced a lot of confusion, and pointless debate of concepts which ultimately they had no hope of understanding. Moreover, they didn't _need_ to know; it was much easier all-round if they accepted what others told them of their world. This was an idea which the Dark Bakura had instilled very effectively into his host body, but was still - for some reason - having trouble with himself. He seemed to know what he _should _be thinking; it was as if he just couldn't quite bring himself to actually accept it unquestioningly.

"You're…not a God," the spirit of the Ring said finally. He was looking away, at his bare feet, as if to try and dissociate himself from what he was saying. It felt like it was something that needed to be said, for the sake of sorting things more clearly in his own mind. "Not…not like They are. A representative, the closest one there is, and maybe with divine elements, but not…not completely. A Pharaoh is a Pharaoh; a God is a God. There's some overlap, I think, but not…" He broke off, looking uncertain and vaguely uneasy. If you magnified the faint traces of these expressions present on his face by about a thousand, you would come somewhat closer to registering the inner turmoil that these slight physical details represented. Because he strived to show the minimum of certain emotions at all time, a knowing observer like the Pharaoh could understand at once that the actual intensity of the feeling was great, even though only a slight suggestion of it was shown.

If it were someone a little more simple-minded, he would simply have stepped in with the recommendation that they try to discard such thoughts, and allow themselves to be comforted by something vague and reassuring. But he was not convinced that the Tomb Robber would be able to be swayed by such a idea- even if he wanted to be. Besides, it would almost be a shame to quash the questionings of a keen mind with such effortless propaganda. It was in cases like this, after all, that he received the chance to clarify and reinforce his own beliefs, which were, after all, Truth.

"I admit that the precise details become a little hazy when examined closely. However, I believe that I was placed in Egypt three thousand years to rule over the people in the place of the Gods, and that my right to rule can not be questioned."

Bakura shifted a little. "I didn't mean to come across as questioning it."

"That's quite all right then."

Another ambiguous topic concluded, at least for now, the pair turned back to the television. The presenter was now going into further detail about everyday life in the home, continuing to contrast the details between rich and poor life. He was barely able to deliver four sentences, however, before Bakura was again questioning his accuracy.

"Gilded sandals? What good would they be?"

Yami's fingers drummed a low, thudding sound of impatience onto the arm of the sofa. "Those who are exempt from tedious physical work are able to wear clothes more suited to their status, more pleasant to the eye, than the plaited palm leaf-affairs that I imagine adorned your labour-hardened feet."

In a mutter: "At least I was outside doing my bit for the empire while you rested your _poor_, overworked self inside your _tiresomely _luxurious palace."

"Ruling the empire constituted more work than you could ever dream of," the Pharaoh informed him, a little sharply.

"I can imagine. All that money to count and spend…it must have been so exhausting."

"I should order one of my priests to cut your nose off for such insolence."

Malik snickered behind them, one hand balancing his laptop along the top of the sofa. "I thought that punishment was only doled out to unfaithful women."

Both spirits turned round, having forgotten his existence yet again despite having badgered him for facts countless times during the documentary.

"I could always make an exception."

"You could," Malik agreed, in the voice of someone whose mind is already somewhere else. He was already tapping away again at his laptop, which wobbled dangerously beneath his fingers. Originally, he had been quite happily established in his room, right next to the router where signal was strongest, but after frequent calls - or rather summons - to the lounge to confirm a fact or statistic emitted by man on the television screen, he had reluctantly concluded that it was better to just stay here.

He was being frantically shushed - "The break is over!" - and both spirits fell at once into a reverent silence. Despite their (numerous) reservations about the accuracy of the documentary, they still seemed to be viewing the indifferent screen as an authoritative window into a shared past, a way to help them claw back the knowledge that was so rightfully theirs.

"Perfume made from hippopotamus fat?"

"If the man says so, it must be right," the Puzzle-spirit said doubtfully.

"And ebony beds? He must be lying."

"No," his Pharaoh corrected him, not without relish. "I remember I had one myself…a splendid creation. Like black gold, polished so highly that you could see your own face in it every morning; it was so smooth that you could run your hands over it again and again, not believing that it was wood because there were never any splinters or bumps. Truly beautiful." He gave a distant smile that for a moment was pure pleasure, before turning slightly smug. "I presume that you never had the pleasure. What did you lie on at night, a straw mat?"

His tone was sarcastic, but unfortunately Malik glanced up and said, "It probably was woven rather than straw, but otherwise yes, it sounds likely."

The Dark Bakura scowled slightly, convinced that his life of crime was becoming more and more justified with every second. He may as well aim for the finer things in this life, seeing as the odds were pretty high that he'd missed them all in his last.

"What is this 'henna'?" Yami was wondering aloud. They both exchanged blank looks.

Malik was consulting a (very limited) Arabic-Egyptian dictionary that he had lying next to his laptop. "Does 'henu' sound more familiar?"

"Yes." Bakura's attention was immediately snatched away again, however. "Why is he talking about 'wesekh' again? What is that supposed to mean?"

Yami gestured at his throat. "The jewelled and beaded collars worn by royalty."

"Then isn't it _weh-sek _and not _wi-sek_?"

"Exactly. His accent is quite terrible."

They both shook their heads, exchanging expressions of weary hopelessness. The spirit of the Ring was sending the presenter a look of pitying scorn, as if the poor man could never hope to say anything really consequential about Ancient Egypt, but nonetheless should be applauded for trying. Yami quite clearly shared his feelings: for he pronounced, "I think we should be prepared to disagree with potentially every word he is saying. He even has a beard: he's obviously a barbarian. Probably descended from the Hyksos."

"Good grief," Malik murmured to himself. Aloud: "Before you dismiss the poor guy as unclean and primitive just because he has a beard, you should probably consider first that nearly all of Egypt's population has beards. All the males, that is. It's what happens in a pre-dominantly Muslim country."

"You don't have one," Bakura observed approvingly.

"That's because if I did, it would be blonde, and that _never_ looks good."

His companion smirked. "Sometime, when you're really pissed, I'll get you to write an oath swearing to grow a beard. And I'll make you sign it in blood, and you won't be able to go back on it."

Malik winced. "Um. Right. By the way, I don't think I'm going to be drinking around you again for a while."

Snort. "Don't say that. You know you'll be doing just that in probably-" He consulted the sphinx-shaped clock on the mantelpiece- "Five hours."

The teenager sighed loudly, resigned to the pleasant inevitable, and went back to consulting his laptop. Bakura found his Pharaoh still disapproving over the presenter, who was now talking about the use of perfume cones. His scratchy voice proclaimed that, "These lumps of incense-laden fats were placed on the head with the idea that they would melt and the body gradually enveloped with the sweet, sticky substance. They were used by both men and women to disguise the body odours which, most probably, were considerable-"

"Such casual insults! He would have all of today's Egypt believe that we were no more than poor, primitive, smelly, …" Yami searched for a word with which to round the mini-rant off, and settled on "fish!", it being the most impure animal that he could think of.

Nod. "I wouldn't be surprised to find that he uses five fingers to eat with instead of three."

Both shuddered openly.

Malik smiled briefly at their reactions, although his online work was taking up most of his attention. What had initially seemed like a logical enough idea was now starting to seem, ironically, quite insane. After all, this stuff was toxic in large doses… He frowned, finding a paragraph that stood out as being particularly relevant, and began re-reading it more closely.

"Nani-o yonderu deshou?"

He started, guiltily, and at once Ryou's face rushed full of a guilt overtopping his own. "Oh, you know, Ryou-kun…research and stuff." He quickly switched to another web page, full of images of hieroglyphs and other carvings, in order to back-up his story. The host of the Millennium Ring was already nodding, reinforcing Malik's relieved realisation that to him the page was full of nonsensical squiggles.

"I'm sorry if I startled you." He was all hasty apology now, eyes carefully avoiding the spirit nearby who was surely listening to every word.

"It's fine; I had no idea you were nearby, that's all." Malik closed the lid of his computer - it had suddenly occurred to him that, if he so chose, the Ring-spirit could take a casual glance through Ryou's eyes at any moment, and he didn't really want anyone who could read Arabic seeing what sort of things he was choosing to "research". "I haven't heard a sound from you all evening - what have you been up to?"

Ryou's expression relaxed a little now that conversation was firmly back into the realms of the familiar. "I'm playing Mikado with Yuugi-kun. He keeps winning, though…"

Relieved at an opportunity to leave the room quickly yet without arousing suspicion, Malik tucked his laptop under one arm. "Can I come watch?"

…………

"Wow. This room is so…peaceful."

Yuugi smiled, almost mischievously. "That's what Isis-san said." In a high voice: '_Ara, nodoka na fun'iki desu nee,'_" .

Ryou smiled too at the memory of such polite Japanese: not a particularly big or noticeable smile, yet natural and less nervous than usual. Malik found himself trying to count on his fingers exactly how many times he had seen Ring-bearer smile like that since he had arrived, and couldn't even make it onto a second hand.

"It's still my turn, isn't it?"

Yuugi nodded from where he was sitting cross-legged on the floor, and shifted across to make more room. He noticed that Malik was still hovering, and looked up enquiringly. "Are you okay?"

"Um. Yeah. Look, is it really okay if I stay in here?"

Both Japanese looked up now, faintly surprised - the almost soporific calm of the room did not seem to allow a display of anything stronger. From Yuugi: "Why wouldn't it be?"

"Well, it's just…it's all so calm in here. And I'm not really a very calm sort of person. I might…you know…taint the atmosphere or something." He gave the obligatory laugh, but it came out a bit shakier than he had imagined it would.

Yuugi was at a loss; Ryou, on the other hand, was looking at Malik as if he were re-evaluating everything he had ever thought about him. His tone was respectfully muted, as ever, and yet there was almost sympathy in it, a quiet understanding that was mirrored by every object in the room. "I…don't think you will taint anything in here, Mariku-kun. I don't think you could ever taint anything at all…" And adding, very quietly: "At least, not in the way I do…"

"Okay." He sat down. "Thanks."

Ryou had gone quiet in the way that he usually did after making any remark that was even vaguely personal or attested that he might feel anything in the way of emotion. Malik had perhaps two seconds in which to begin concluding that he had ruined everything already, before the other teenager declared, "Got it!" and, leaning forward, deftly flicked a wooden stick into the air with a twist of two fingers. "I knew I could get that one if I went underneath."

"Huh?"

"I told you just now, we're playing Mikado," Ryou said simply, as if that explained why he and Yuugi were throwing bits of wood everywhere.

When the blank look persisted, he elaborated. It was also known as Jackstraws, or pick-up-sticks, and you had to try and pull the coloured sticks out one at a time, without causing any of the others to move. If you did, the turn passed to the next player.

"See, this one has orange stripes, so I get lots of points." Ryou carefully marked a tally on a nearby piece of paper. "Twelve for me! And Yuugi-kun still has twenty three…" He sighed regretfully. "I don't see how I can win even if I get the Mikado stick…oh well."

Malik leaned back against the bed. He could feel his mind beginning to wander already, and tried to fix it firmly on the game; but as a spectator, it was difficult to maintain a close interest. The trouble with such a relaxing atmosphere, he soon realised, was that it left his mind free to roam wherever it wanted, and it inevitably ended up coming back to the same things as before.

Why could he never think about just one thing at a time anymore? It was as if the time spent swaggering around Japan swearing revenge and fury at the Pharaoh had used up all his one-track-mindedness for the rest of his life, and now he was doomed to never being able to block out the niggling little thoughts that were wriggling all over his brain like worms, itchy and persistent.

He couldn't banish the concern that his friends from the other side of the planet seemed to feel more at home in his house than he did. After all, that was it was called feeling "at home" - because you were supposed to feel as comfortable as if it were your own home. But he couldn't recall ever really recall feeling comfortable in this place - it was just somewhere that he was expected to return to. It always felt like there was so much missing, from the unfillable chasm that was parents, to little things which he couldn't even give names to, let alone mourn properly.

He just felt…unbalanced. Not in a raving mad sense, but definitely a feeling that something was mentally out of place. It was as if he were a weight on one side of a scale, and he needed another weight of the other side to stabilise him, to cancel out particular deficiencies and drag him closer to a stable middle. Yuugi-kun and Ryou-kun had that stability, he was sure; whenever their world rocked it just meant that someone had to shuffle a little to one side or the other, and all the while there was that comforting weight on the other side like someone holding a kite, ready to restrain or encourage them as necessary. He wasn't sure if he felt himself to be the kite or the person holding it, so to speak, but he was pretty sure that he needed to feel a reassuring tug from the other end now and then. But there was nothing, and he was drifting, listlessly, waiting for something to happen.

There lacked an instigating force in his life, he was sure of that now. Some sort of motivation or reason to do things: the driving force behind his obsession had been taken away, and now there was nothing left to want to steer. He…just couldn't think of anything left that he wanted to do. Everything around him was moving on without him, and he wanted to catch up, but there didn't seem any reason to bother doing so. He needed a new goal - a new long-term project, basically. And if this _thing_ he was thinking about was started, then it would be a _very_ long-term project. One he wasn't sure he could handle, but was determined to give a damn good bash anyway. After all, it wasn't as if he could think of anything else to occupy his mental energy, which had first been sizzling and pent-up and raring to be used, and now was beginning to turn in on itself like a frustrated greyhound with nothing to pursue, chasing its own tail and beginning to tear it off in its exasperated boredom.

He exhaled a long, bewildered sigh, causing the stick that Yuugi was trying to tempt out from underneath its brethren to shudder and be blown back in. The two players looked at each other and then at Malik, who was staring at a patch of wall.

"Anou, daijoubu na no, Mariku-kun?"

Unaware that he had just unwittingly reduced Yuugi's lead by about six points, the Egyptian glanced around in a startled sort of way, before identifying the person who had yanked him out of his thoughts. "Oh, sure. Hey, is Ryou actually winning?"

The Ring-bearer cringed slightly. "Um, unintentionally." He shot a guilty look at Yuugi, who waved his concern away.

"It's okay; I'll make up for it next turn."

"Did I do something?" Malik inquired, as Ryou sighed in a resigned sort of way. He was at once assured that he had done nothing at all, and shrugged.

"Only eleven sticks left…and if I get the mikado or least three bouzu, I win the game!" Yuugi managed to make this sound both like a very exciting and completely usual thing to happen.

"Game? Win?" Like a genie summoned by sacred words, the spirit of the Puzzle materialised just in front of the closed door. "Did I hear the tell-tale signs of a game being played?"

"And lost," Ryou finished in an almost inaudible tone. Malik gave him a glance that was full of nothing but sympathy.

Yami seated himself, as ever, like he was on a throne, despite having squeezed onto the edge of the bed, legs beside his partner's head. He leaned forward in interest, and, one hand beginning to lightly massage the back of Yuugi's neck, asked, "So. What is the game, what are the rules, and need I ask who is winning?"

"Mikado, picking up lots of coloured sticks, and probably not," Malik supplied concisely.

Yuugi felt an inquiringly mental touch, and at once obligingly opened up his thoughts to his other self so that he could register them the moment that they formed. Within a few moments the spirit was aware of the rules, points system and scores of both players, and his gaze grew even more interested. "So you only need two more of the orange ones… sasuga aibou da ze."

"But I don't know if I can get them this turn." The host's voice grew mournful. "Look, the end of that one is trapped…and that one's buried completely…"

"Hm. May I?"

Yuugi at once handed over the black stick used to tease out its unwilling siblings, but the Puzzle-spirit shook his head and slid a lightly-tanned finger into the middle of the pile. His skin was but very slightly darkened by the sun, possibly to the same degree that the Dark Bakura's was, but not much more. Everyone else leaned forward despite themselves as the Pharaoh's impossibly steady finger slowly withdrew, a single stick balanced on the tip. The movement appeared almost more mechanical than human, for there was not the slightest hint of a tremor. The absolute control that the spirit held over his body was almost eerie.

"Suman, aibou." He places the stick in the large heap by Yuugi's side. "I couldn't reach the orange ones, either."

Yuugi did not look too displeased. "Other me, that's a Mandarin! It's worth twice that of the orange ones!"

His other self let out a low chuckle, and proceeded to look marginally more pleased with himself than usual - no minor feat. "I know."

"You're screwed now," Malik told a now rather despondent Ryou. "I mean, if the Pharaoh's going to get involved…there's no way in hell you can win."

"Of course he can't," confirmed a cool voice from the doorway. "After all, he's only human." The Dark Bakura managed to saunter over with all the carelessness of his usual gait, without causing a single vibration upon the carpet. "Others, however…" He crouched down, and, with three indifferent movements of his index finger sent three orange coloured sticks catapulting through the air one after the other, before catching them all and setting them down next to his host body. "I believe the situation is now a draw. Congratulations."

_No way is the Pharaoh going to let that one pass by, _Malik predicted to himself. Surely enough, the Pharaoh was shifting his other self to one side to give himself more room. "Yuugi isn't going to settle for a draw."

"And neither will my Ryou."

Both spirits would have rolled up their sleeves at this point, had their clothes not been too tight to allow it. Black smoke was beginning to roll in around them; Yami was saying something about basic Game of Darkness penalties, which Malik didn't catch because he was too busy being incredulous. "They're really going to do this?" he asked aloud.

"It makes them happy," Ryou offered in explanation. He was shuffling closer, in order to see better.

The next twenty minutes were possible the most surreal that Malik had experienced since his experiments with vodka and whiskey in Battle City, of which he had few clear memories anyway. Both spirits were lying almost flat in order to get the best angle, and every turn was accompanied by a sharp interjection of, "That moved."

"No, actually, it didn't," Yami replied calmly.

"Are you blind as well as clumsy?"

"My word is law."

"Not in a game of Mikado, it isn't. Ryou, did that move, or did it move?"

"Um…" The Ring-bearer tried to compare his two options, before deciding to just agree. "Yes."

"Ryou, you don't always have to agree with him, you know."

Bakura shot his Pharaoh a poisonous glare. "He doesn't _have_ to, but he will anyway."

Ryou was nodding vigorously, while his friend offered, "I think maybe it did move…sorry, mou hitori no boku."

A hurt sigh. "Aibou, you can be very disloyal." The Puzzle-spirit gestured with his hand, conceding the end of his turn. "Show me how a _proper_ commoner does it, then."

The tomb robber did just that, winning another two points. "Don't push yourself now."

"In order to beat you, I have no need to." Another five points.

Exactly seven and a half minutes later, and there were just two sticks left. It was Yami's turn: he needed nine points to win; however, there was only eight points' worth of sticks left. Bakura was already starting to hum triumphantly.

"My win. You might be all-powerful, O my King, but you cannot create points where there are none."

The Puzzle-spirit was staring thoughtfully at the pile. After a moment, he retrieved the helping-stick from where it had lain discarded for most of the game. With a single, clean movement, he hit the uppermost-stick, a bouzu, right in the middle. It flew up in the air and, upon hitting the shadow-suffocated ground, broke neatly into two pieces. Yami picked them both up, retireved the final stick, and placed them on his pile. "Two bouzu and a kuli - twelve points. My win."

"What?"

"Surely you can still only count it as one bouzu," Ryou reasoned slowly. "Two halves can only be equivalent to one whole, surely." He noticed, however, that his yami's eyes were narrowing.

"No one bothered to specify the length of the sticks that we should win," Yami answered in a matter-of-fact tone. "A stick can be of any length; it's as futile as asking the length of a piece of string. I have two bouzu sticks here; therefore, I win." He gave a self-satisfied smile. _I win, therefore I am._

The Dark Bakura noted silently that the main reason why his Pharaoh's smirks of victory were so infuriating was because everyone saw them so often. Not that anyone expected otherwise, however: it would have been unreasonable, after all, to expect to win against a representative of the Gods.

…………

No one noticed when Malik slipped out of the room almost immediately afterwards, which was fortunate, as otherwise they might have felt the need to enquire why a laptop was necessary in order to go to the bathroom. The person who would have been most likely to read anything into it or question him afterwards was currently being made to brush down every single item of leather that the Pharaoh owned as punishment for losing the game and, judging from the slight scowl touching his lips, would be occupied for several more hours.

The Egyptian quietly put the lid of the toilet down to function as a table for his computer. Beside him he placed the contents of the brown paper bag from the previous night. They had spent the day hidden safely in the pockets of his combats - he wasn't willing to gamble that the Dark Bakura would not go through his bedroom drawers again. He trusted him on many things, but honouring his privacy was not one of them.

He was not intending to think this through right now, because if he did then he would be sucked back into the same endless wheel that he had spent most of the day in, like a hamster in an exercise wheel, trying to convince himself that if he kept ploughing through the same tired facts that something would change. But the only way something would change was if he took steps to make it do so, and so now he had decided to make that step. And every time he tried to think through what would happen afterwards, all he could come up with was a blank, waiting to be filled.

"Just…as long as no one gets too hurt this time."

He closed his eyes, and from within his closed fist came a satisfied gleam of silver.

…………..

Dark. But, quite specifically so. Not the deep, even blackness of absolute night, like someone spilling a pot of ink to stain the sky. That way, the darkness is rich and even and seems almost soft, like a heavy velvet sheet stretched over you, maybe at some moment doomed to fall and envelop you totally and noiselessly, the ultimate predator. Not like that.

This was a flat, muted grey in various unremarkable shades, dulling the room so that even the little crimson lamp in the corner was toned down to a dusty red, and the few stars peeping tentatively through the window were lost in murkiness. It was as if the artist in charge of painting in the sky every night had run out of paint, and smeared the dregs around the edges in order to avoid waste, so that even patches of the bedroom which should have retained the most colour even in this light were morose and faded.

It was some time early in the morning then; not especially early, but perhaps a little after five. Ryou had gone to bed earlier than usual, and yet as usual still found himself unable to sleep - even now, the uneasily shifting outline of the bed bore testimony to his fitful rest. He wouldn't remain asleep for much longer, and when he finally would get back into his bed, it will be to spend what is left of the morning wide-eyed and shaking, gripping the sheets like he wish he could his koe's hand. The spirit, however, was unaware - one is tempted to say blissfully, but in his current meditative wanderings he felt little emotion, only a dull surprise at how much things are beginning to make sense. It will all click soon, but not soon enough, and then he too would awaken. His hair seemed to glow in the faded darkness of early morning, like a beacon, or perhaps a target.

Malik lay perhaps half-awake, vaguely aware of himself and his surroundings as he flitted listlessly from one dream to another like a tired bird seeking a sturdy branch, with the same imprecise feeling of progressing but not sufficiently awake to ponder where he might end up or what he might do when he got there. All the while he was aware of something crouched furtively at the back, like a tumour or parasite, but didn't dare approach it, at least for now.

An hour or so passed - it was hard to tell, for the face of the clock was turned away from him as if in displeasure, and he was too well established within his sheets, like a caterpillar in a satisfyingly sturdy cocoon, to want to move and find out. Consciousness spiked again, tiresomely, and he felt the urge to open his eyes.

There was nothing interesting to stare at, his head being roughly level with the bottom of the bed or the Dark Bakura's knees, and tilting it upwards required expenditure of too much energy. So he retreated inwards, lowering his eyelids and enjoying the dark refuge in the space just behind them. In time even that became too bright and he withdrew further, trying to find a nice quiet space in his head to inhabit for a while. There was one area that felt as if it had particular potential, somewhere he could lodge in a snug little mental ball for a few hours - the only trouble was, it seemed as if someone else had already claimed it. A sharp, bright pain flashed in his head as something in it lashed out at him, and then with a sound of surprise he was hurriedly backing away. A moment later, though, he was doggedly shuffling back - this was his head, after all, and he would be damned if he was to be denied access to any part of it. It wasn't as if _he_ was the trespasser, after all.

He gradually detected a simmering resentment, accompanied by the feeling of something burrowing deeper into the space. Curious despite himself - the same strain of curiosity which had lead him to beg Isis to let him see the outside world just this _once_ - he began to approach, very carefully. The simmering feeling intensified, and as he took a step forward he caught a stray fragment of thought

…_fucking leave me alone…_

that existed for only a second before dwindling back into nothing. Astonished at this snatched demonstration of consciousness, he remained standing where he was in a wondering silence. Presently he felt the irritation beginning to grow - it was such a peculiar sensation, for he knew the exact nature and extent of the emotion, could feel it present all around him, and yet it did not originate from him. It was like a low reverberation throbbing through him over and over again, as if he were in a room where loud music was being played below, and the vibrations ran repeatedly through his feet and up through his entire self.

He crouched down and tried to peer further into the gap where some fragment of his darker personality appeared to have lodged itself, but it was so faithfully dark that he could not hope to distinguish if there were anything other than pure shadows residing there. _Oi…are you there?_

No answer, which was exactly what he had anticipated. He had only gone so far as to use "omae" as the form of address, which wasn't all that rude for a male: after all, the Pharaoh and the Dark Bakura used it everyday. What was disturbing, though, was the complete lack of movement discernable from where he supposed the other personality to be residing; at least when dealing with another mortal you had the reassuringly regular heaving of the chest in breath. Here, there was nothing at all.

Frustration tinged his former calm: he came here to try, after all, and his efforts are going unappreciated. And just as he had this thought he caught for a moment an outline, dark against the darkness but clearly there, as if someone was holding up a piece of holographic card and tilting it teasingly, waiting for him to catch on.

_So you **are** here._

After a moment paler patches appeared in the darkness, and it become possible to see how these might be the whites of eyes - if such a pair of eyes were coloured the same black in iris as they were in pupil, and were narrowed as if only half-open, as if the person were still only half-awake, or half-alive. Malik felt relief at first, because it was good to have somewhere to focus his own eyes, and to be reassured that there was indeed somebody here. But then memories began to awaken of those flat black eyes lighting up in excitement, and he found that he had to look down and stop his fists shaking, all the while being stared at with almost perfect indifference.

_What do you want_? He could be being asked about the weather for all the interest in that voice.

_Just…to talk._

A slow shift of shadows, as limbs that were previously not there were now being rearranged so that they were as far away from Malik as possible. _I don't like talking. And I don't like you. _His voice was dull.

Malik found himself marvelling at how his other self was finally beginning to flicker into view - and marvelling too at how he could ever have been afraid of him. Why, every movement was as stiff and effortful as that of someone far older, and his voice contained just as little vigour. It was difficult to believe he could even stand, let alone pose a threat.

For a moment his yami's eyes reflected anger, before lapsing back into a blanks. He pulled his legs up to his chest, one at a time, movements jerky as he pushed against the lethargy that had enclosed him in its casual yet complete grip for the last week. His anger, floating undirected for a while now, found a welcome target in his weaker personality standing obliviously before him, and he used it as a focus point for his growing emotions as he reacquainted himself with each of his limbs.

Malik could see his other's movements becoming less sluggish, just as he registered a fluctuation in the emotions swirling around him. Deciding this might be a good thing, he approached closer. _What I was wondering was-_

Sharp fingers seized his shoulder. The movement was accompanied by sharp cracks, and their eyes widened at each other, one pair in sudden fear, one in surprise. Then Malik was shoved roughly back, barely managing to keep his balance. When the follow-up blow never came, he looked up in astonishment, and saw his other self still in the same place, body elongated into a backwards s-shape as he gave a long stretch. A ripple shook the spirit's form as every muscle and joint cracked and stretched, back curved in effort. Finally he stopped, satisfied. _Better._ There was almost relish in his tone now. _Much better._

He walked over to Malik, pausing briefly to stretch again. Then he took the other's shirt and dragged him forward so that their noses almost touched. _Well then, weakling. Start talking._

The spirit then released him and, stepping back so that he was almost back up against the wall again, promptly sat down and crossed his legs, as if preparing to watch a form of fairly mediocre entertainment.

Malik smoothed down his shirt with as much dignity as he dared to muster. Although he had not yet consciously registered the extent to which his own mood influenced his other's, and how much his anger and fear contributed to the energizing of the spirit's strength, he was still vaguely aware that things had a better chance of remaining non-violent for longer if he took pains to remain calm.

_I'm not here for a confrontation. I wanted to see how you'd react to a certain…bargain._

This was greeted with a shrug, as if Malik could hardly hope to offer him anything of any value.

_Fine, be dismissive. But my bargain is this: how would you like to come back outside? And stay out, maybe for ever?_

He saw the spirit's hand, previously stifling a yawn, pause in mid-air. It was then slowly lowered. For a moment it was as if a shadow flitted over Malik's mind, as his other half quickly scanned the surface of his thoughts. He could feel each stub of a thought bristle as it was raked over, examined for glimmers of deception or trickery. As the shadow withdrew, he couldn't help flinching at the unfamiliar invasion, which he supposed Ryou-kun and Yuugi-kun were used to. It was like someone extending themselves into the most intimate and private parts of you, and looking around with detached precision, before just as cleanly withdrawing.

Then: _No._

_What_? _Why not_? He had so expected a positive answer that he couldn't halt the surprise escaping his lips. Well, metaphorical lips actually, seeing as they were communicating solely in a silent, mental fashion, but the meaning was still the same.

_So far it isn't a bargain. Such a thing requires sacrifice on both sides. You haven't yet stipulated what you will take from me. _He paused. _Although I applaud your naivety in supposing that I will allow you to take anything more._

Malik noted silently that this short speech was the most clear communication he had received so far - but it seemed that the limit was nearer than he supposed. _He wasn't lying when he said he disliked talking, at least to me. And what is he referring to when he says I took things from him? Would it be wiser not to ask? Is that what Bakura means when he talks about tact? But he pushes things all the time. Why shouldn't I?_

He altered the level of his thoughts so that his other would hear them, although he had to admit he was not sure whether this was not already happening. And it was not until after he had finished speaking that he realised the "you" addressed to himself had been plural, and by then it was too late to change his question. _What do you think I took from you_?

The reply was slow in coming, as if the spirit were already lapsing back into lethargy. But there was nothing tired in the emotions conveyed. _Everything. Even…my loneliness._

Malik couldn't think of anything to say to that at this moment. He resolved to maybe give it some thought later on, but for now was determined to plough on. _So you want to know what I want in return_?

A snicker in the darkness, barely audible. Then, tone distinctly amused: _Please, do tell me._

Ignoring a sinking feeling that murmured of just how likely his darker self was to meekly agree to comply with these "rules", Malik valiantly began. _Firstly, no reading my thoughts all the time like you just did. I want my privacy respected. Secondly, you have to rein in the casual murder. I can't have bodies turning up on my doorstep every morning._

He felt something suspiciously akin to laughter bubble up from in the corner. _Understood, master._

_Third, I don't want you hurting my friends again. Or my family._

_Then, I will endeavour to steer clear of anyone resembling a sentimental fool. _The Dark Malik was laughing quite clearly now, and it was getting louder with every passing moment.

_Lastly…_Malik hesitated, unsure about how to phrase this. Meanwhile his other self's laughter was still ringing in his ears like a bell tolling out a note of certain doom.

_There's something Shaadi gave me…something for you._

The spirit stopped laughing and shifted a little, curious at this unexpected development. He didn't speak, but instead communicated a questioning thought quite clearly, clearly enough for even this idiot to register sufficiently. He had long since realised that while each of his weaker personality's thoughts were as visible to him as if they were laid out on a table, the mortal could only pick up on the crudest, most basic emotions, while at the same time not even realising that he was missing out on anything. To Malik, the message almost took the form of a question mark forming just behind his eyes.

He said, _it's called lithium carbonate. It's generally used to stabilise moods. But Shaadi said in this letter that it will help you distangle your moods from mine, so that they don't switch as strongly whenever I feel emotion. It seems like how you act is dependant on how I feel…but it gets magnified along the way._

There was a long, uncertain silence, which this time Malik met with relief because it was anticipated, whereas a reflex sarcasm or cutting remark would have baffled him completely. He allowed himself to observe the spirit, how he was slowly moving out of his cross-legged position and trying to stand, and wondered if these movements were actually as distracted as he believed them to be, or if he only saw distraction because he was unwilling to consider that someone could so quickly adjust and become indifferent to such an idea.

Again, the darker self scanned the thoughts of his surface personality, and found words which baffled him, words like _drug_ which he had to look up in deeper recesses to see what was meant by them. And he was limited to Malik's interpretation of words too, because there were so many words that he had never used and thus had no meaning associated with them.

Eventually he looked up from the floor - it was troublesome enough having to rake through someone's mind without having any sort of visual distractions - and said slowly, _So, four conditions._

From Malik: _If you can count that high, I guess this has a chance of going somewhere._

He didn't even acknowledge the sarcasm, it not being one of his priorities to derogate his weaker self's wit: anyone with an IQ above fifty would be able to do that for him. _Is that all_?

…_It's not enough_? Malik thought to himself in confusion. He had anticipated a great deal of arguing, most probably some shouting, and in all likelihood some sort of violence. But his other self seemed to be finding it more amusing than anything else, and that was making Malik feel distinctly uneasy, especially considering the things that the spirit usually found amusing.

The Dark Malik was, indeed, rather amused, once he had got over the indignation of having the weaker personality barge his way in here after a rather long silence and start dictating rules to him. After all, there were more loopholes in this "bargain" than there were plot holes in a Dan Brown novel, and he considered it his role to demonstrate each and every one of them. And if it gave the surface personality the illusion of any sort of hold over him…well, that was going to turn out funny no matter what else happened. Because then, he might play along for a bit before teaching the little shit how he was accountable to no one; and, if he was expected to be constrained by a few feeble _rules…_well, that was just insulting.

_Then it's a bargain, shujinkaku-sama-yo._

_All right, _Malik agreed after another pause - he was definitely starting to feel that there was something he had left out. _But you can stop calling me that - I'm not anyone's master._

His yami gave a wide grin, clearly visible through the darkness. _That wasn't in your precious rules. I can call you whatever the fuck I want to, shujinkaku-sama, and you should be grateful that it isn't any more insulting. It's clear to all that you're not anyone's master, anyway. Especially not of yourself._

Malik Ishtar took a step back unconsciously, fingers gripping the pockets of his combats. _You know, when you talk like that, I start to get this feeling that maybe I've made a really big mistake._

The dark personality stretched one final time, savouring the feeling of having every muscle at its limit. _Oh, I wouldn't quite say that. After all, I'll keep to the rules, won't I_?

_I hope so._

_Then let me out, shujinjaku-sama, so that you can keep to them too._

……………

He opened his eyes, and everything looked much the same as he remembered it, except maybe a bit lighter - it must have been about half past five in the morning now, and soon the sand-coloured light of morning would be spilling through the windows and waking all in its path. He glanced around, uncertainly; already the sensation of his other self was growing stronger, as if he were squeezing through a doorway that was slightly too narrow for him but would in a moment struggle through, and into the physical world again.

A shadow in the corner was becoming darker and more prominent, and as Malik continued to stare it grew larger and more man-shaped, and then the darker aspect of himself was staring at him, at the room around them both. The rest of his face was expressionless, mostly from long habit and a lack of need to show expression because there had never been anyone to show it to; but his eyes belied any indifference that this implied through their relentless darting to and fro, taking in the whole room over and over again. He blinked frequently, trying to adjust himself to having so _much_ in one place - the sheer amount of objects was overwhelming, the still morning air painfully loud, and the colours, even in semi-darkness, were blinding. Senses screaming in overload, he hugged his knees to his chest and scrunched his eyes shut, trying to wish it all away.

"So first," Malik was saying, voice far away but still too loud and grating in his ears, "I thought we should-"

_Get rid of the light, _his other mumbled, trying to steady himself in his growing delirium.

"…What?"

_Get-rid-of-the fucking **light!**_

For an instant, Malik might even have felt something close to what his darker self did, as the message slammed through into his mind and smashing everything in its path. He stumbled over to the window and yanked the curtains together, almost tearing them off. _Happy_?

The spirit still had one hand to his head, his eyes widened slightly in pain. _Anything but._ He uncurled tentatively and tried to stand, but found that stretching inside someone's head was very different to doing it in the real world, and let out a little sound of surprise as his legs failed to accurately follow his commands. He was going to need a few tries at this, it seemed.

Back over by the bed, the Dark Bakura's eyes were slightly open; a glimpse of crimson could be seen from under each lid.

Malik was tentatively holding out a hand; his other gave him a look of such pure loathing that Malik backed away. "Don't think this little bargain of yours changes anything, shujinkaku-sama. You're just not worth me killing. In fact, no one in this house is."

And that was when the spirit of the Ring hurled himself at him, a stream of knives announcing his arrival.

………….


	12. An Adjustment of Priorities

****

A/N: I know, I know. The chapter which was supposed to come out "sooner" ended up being "later". Well, at least it's here. And what I thought would be a quick last paragraph extended itself into another 500 or so words, which was encouraging, if a little unexpected. Also managed to mark yet _another_ turn in the relationship between Ryou and his yami - which was very cool, because I was worried I'd analysed it to death.

This is my shortest chapter for a while - only 5000 words, but it marks a turn in the story, and the swinging to a new sub-plot, so Yay. And lots of psychological analysis re-surfacing in the second half, which is sort of a relief, because I felt that recent chapters had been a bit light on it. Maybe that's just my imagination, though.

Chapter Twelve - An Adjustment of Priorities

The light spread across Cairo was a soft, balmy yellow-grey that was concentrated on the roofs of houses in stronger, buttery shades; dawn's orchestra was soon to begin, and the odd, unharmonised notes emitted by solitary birds was but a warm up, each hanging for a moment in the air as if in anticipation of what was to come.

The Dark Malik crashed back against one of the drawers, four knives embedded in his shoulder and two in his left arm. He rolled to one side to avoid the three aimed at his face, and swiped at the Dark Bakura in a movement which would have torn his chest open, had it made contact. But the Ring-spirit was not going to give him time to counter-attack or even to angrily yank the blades from his still stiff body; each of his blocks extended into another punch or throw, and the air was thick with knives, and with blood. Bakura's eyes were utterly black, and his knife movements were not so much coldly methodical as they were wild and hacking; but they were making contact, and a wide grin split his face almost in half, each sharp tooth glinting as if they too were tiny blades. And saying all the while, "I'm going to hurt you, Psycho. I'm going to hurt you so much that the concept of not being in pain will be unthinkable to you."

The other spirit's anger had awakened more fully, and he too made contact with many of his blows; but his enemy's body was supple and as slippery as quicksilver, and his rage remained unparalleled. The Dark Malik was having trouble executing his instantaneous dodges that appeared to onlookers only as blurs in the air - but his powers lay unaffected, and he had just decided to use them. Shadows erupted from him in a force that blasted the spirit of the Ring back across the room, although a moment later he was rushing back for more, and blue flames were beginning to lick across the floor. Dark Malik reached for the Millennium Rod to finally put this Tomb Robber back in his place - and his hand closed on air. His expression, even when Bakura side-kicked him into the wall, remained baffled.

"What the fu-" He looked around: his eyes found Malik, and narrowed in sudden realisation, and fresh fury.

The next moment, he was slammed to the floor, and the Ring-spirit held three knives to his throat. "My win, Psycho." His black shirt was ripped almost to shreds, and through every gap there was red. "Do you know, perhaps, what I'm going to do now?" His voice was breathless, but he was still grinning. "I'm going to cut off your balls and fricassee them, one by one. And then I'm going to make you eat them. I'll even make you say you enjoyed it."

His enemy looked down the knives, and then closed his fingers around them, feeling the blades hit bone. "What the hell does fricassee even mean?" He bent his hand back and snapped each one, feeling several of Bakura's fingers snapping with them. "I'd be content just ripping your throat out, Tomb Robber. That would be less pretentious. And also a little more likely to happen." He lashed out, Bakura swore viciously, and then someone yelled, **_"Mind Crush!"_**

Both spirits threw themselves to the floor, and the curse dissipated harmlessly into what was left of the wallpaper.

The Pharaoh re-adjusted his leather jacket. "Run along to bed now, aibou. This won't take too long." He ushered him away, expression still benevolent, and then it hardened into something stronger, more regal. "Now that I have the full attention of all my subjects…"

Yami Malik snorted, although whether it was not clear whether it was in amusement or just scorn, and hurled the fragments of the Tomb Robber's knives at Yami. Bakura at once struck out, but found the blow already dodged.

"Now, now, childrenThat…was not wise." Yami's regret sounded quite authentic. He extended his hand in the same way that he would normally perform a Mind Crush, but this time both spirits were pinned against the wall. The size of the glow emanating from within various layers of leather hinted that this was the work of several Items. The two spirits struggled like wild animals, but the Pharaoh's attention was focused on the fact that more reason was visible in the eyes of the Dark Malik than the Dark Bakura. A surprise, and not a welcome one. Yet he also was closer to breaking free - even with four Items, it would be difficult to restrain this one for much longer. Better to release the Tomb Robber, who was almost as much of a threat at this moment, and hope that he would manage to find himself before the other spirit broke free.

He lessened his hold, and at once the Ring spirit dropped to the ground, eyes blazing at receiving the same treatment as a fucking _Psycho._ "You _dare_ to-"

The Pharaoh held up a hand, asking more for patience than silence. "We will talk, I promise."

"What good is talking when _he_ is here?" Bakura whispered. The shadows filling his body caused his voice to come out much lower and hoarser than usual, and magic spat from his fingertips in sparks, desperate to be used. "What good is it talking until _he_ lies _dead_?"

"'Kura, stop it," Malik muttered. He was staring most avidly at his feet. "We all know you want to fight him, but it's not going-"

"You," his best friend replied with vehement sincerity, "Will honour us all by keeping your _fucking nose out of this."_

The Egyptian was surprised into looking up, His mouth moved, but words were not yet ready to come out.

__

Goddamn fucking treacherous lying back-stabbing pile of shit-

His yami's input did not help much either. Malik's toes dug at the carpet as if wanting him to just crawl underneath it and make it everything go away. _I thought I could make things right again but all I've done is make it even more wrong…_

"Firstly, what we all need to do," Yami was saying, "Is just all calm down, and listen to me. You too, Ryou." And he smiled kindly at the white-faced Japanese teenager huddled in the corner, whose duvet was drawn up around him like a shield, eyes flicking over the bloody walls, the furiously struggling spirit, and his koe, his eyes so black and unfamiliar…Muffled whimpering sounds were coming out, but he seemed unable to stop them.

"Now. Tomb Robber, you will regain control of yourself at once. That is what I wish you to do. If that is not enough of an incentive - and it should be - then consider for a moment that it is what Ryou wishes as well."

The spirit of the Ring closed his eyes for a moment, and when they re-opened the black was giving way to crimson, albeit still darkened in shade. He allowed himself to look over to his host - shivering and wide-eyed at such a display of animal violence - but was not yet ready to speak to him, to give him the comfort that he needed.

"Ryou, I want you to stop making such noises at once. They displease me."

The host stuffed the duvet into his mouth in a bid to stop, his whole frame still quivering from fear.

"Thank you, Ryou. I appreciate that. Now, Malik, I am going to release this-" He broke off, and smiled oddly. "Well, he doesn't really need a name, does he? But I shall release this creature of yours, and then you get to explain to me what has been going on. I really would like to know."

The already-weakened bonds restraining the Dark Malik dissolved into pools of golden shadows, and at once purple-tinged fire sprang up around his outline, eyes flat and furious at such prolonged humiliation. "You'd better think of another fucking name for me, _Pharaoh. _I don't feel that "creature" is adequate."

"Well then, what would you prefer?" The Puzzle-spirit's voice was very _reasonable, _giving the other sprit the urge to throttle him.

"I'm not a fucking animal," the Dark Malik snapped back at him. "And not human either, thankfully, or else I might have ended up more like yourself. Also, animals aren't intelligent, and I think it's clear that I'm probably more intelligent than you - and certainly more so than the fucking Tomb Robber, although most mere animals fit that category too."

The Dark Bakura let out a snarl of fury that was quite arguably more animal than human, and took a step forward, but Yami gave him a look and he reluctantly came no further.

"I see. Malik, would you enlighten us as to how this…most distinguished person came to arrive in our midst?"

Malik looked up dully, and began mumbling sentences into the carpet. He would have said more, but those few sentences were as far as Dark Bakura allowed him to get before interrupting. "Shaadi gave you some drugs and you just _used_ them? Have past experiences taught you nothing about his reliability?"

"I didn't just use them," Malik snapped at him. "I did research first-"

"Astounding. And what exactly did you type into Google? 'What happened to other people whom Shaadi "helped"?'" Oh, but wait, because you already know first-hand what happens to people that he "helps", don't you? They end up with things like _that_-" he jabs a thin, bloody finger at Malik's dark personality - "stuck in their heads, dead fathers, and a three-year revenge campaign hunting down the wrong person! Bet you were just _dying_ to try that all over again, weren't you?"

Malik didn't recognise his own voice when it came out. "Say anything like that again, Bakura, and I'll kill you. I don't care how much like him it makes me, fuck it. I'll do it. So just shut up. For your own fucking good."

"Scary," the Ring-spirit breathed. "It almost makes me frightened to go to bed at night." He casually blocked Malik's furious fist with his open palm, an inch in front of his face. "Don't do that again, na? You're angry, but you're also mortal. You could never beat me." He pushed back, lightly, but it was still enough to make Malik almost overbalance and take a step back in order to steady himself.

The other spirit, meanwhile, grinned wolfishly as Malik's anger filled him to the brimful, making him feel so utterly alive he knew he could take down the Tomb Robber without blinking. Hell, he could probably bust the Pharaoh up pretty good too. But still, with four Items versus none, it wasn't a risk he would take yet.

The Pharaoh watched all of this with the air of a Roman watching the daily slaughter of the arena: interested, and certainly entertained, but hardened against the emotion and the hurt and all the messy little things that threatened to spoil a quite wonderful show. Normally, he would have let the scene play out to its bloody end; today, however, he sensed that more usefulness could be gained from inducing an interval. "If I may interrupt?

Dark Malik snickered. The Pharaoh was a bastard, sure, and he was so far up himself he was probably going to get altitude sickness, but he was also fucking funny to listen to, as long as not too much of it was levelled his way.

Both Egyptians, though of very different Egypts, turn to him, bristling.

"Thank you." Always thank the subjects for carrying out orders, was one of Yami's rules - especially if it was well within their capacity. That way, it made them feel far more capable than they really were. Unless, of course, it was a situation like this, in which case it just served to infuriate them further - which could be just as satisfying, if not quite as productive. And although he generally placed productivity over personal satisfaction…well, sometimes even he could not resist. After all, it was the satisfaction of a Pharaoh that was the end result, and that was always a thing worth working towards.

"Before we proceed further…Tomb Robber, may I have a moment of your time?"

The Ring-spirit didn't bother looking at Malik before turning away. "Fine. Whatever you please." On the way out of the room, he passed the darker aspect of Malik as well, who grinned and murmured, "Lovers' spat?" The Dark Bakura's eyes turned black again and his face clenched in silent rage, but he managed to stalk past in silence.

He was seething by the time Yami had closed the door on them all, a fact that went anything but unnoticed.

Sharply: "For fuck's sake, Tomb Robber, get a hold on your emotions."

Such phrasing from the Pharaoh was the equivalent of a slap on the face for someone like Bakura. His face went briefly white in further fury, before colour began to tinge his cheekbones. "I just want to kill him. You pro-"

"Frankly, I don't care. What do you think would happen to my reputation as Pharaoh if I were seen to support someone like you, and in a state like this?" Yami exhaled slowly. "The mere fact that you have driven me to express myself in this colloquial, inappropriate fashion…it displeases me, Tomb Robber. I want you to think about that for a moment."

Bakura thought about it. But then he also said, "You promised me that I could do whatever I pleased with him. I'm just a _little_ pissed that you appear to be reneging on your…"

"Do go on, Tomb Robber. Tell me how I do not fulfil my promises."

"I didn't intend for it to come across like that," the Ring-spirit defended in a snap. "Though, to tell the truth, _my Pharaoh_, I'm starting to feel a little disillusioned."

"Then _that _I can do something about that." Yami folded his arms - it would not do for something like a reassuring touch to happen now, not when he needed to demonstrate how strong - and, if necessary, how distant - the Pharaoh as a figure was. "I seem to recall that I said you could have "first dibs". Colloquialisms are not my preferred method of communication, Tomb Robber, but they seem to strike a chord with you. And if my interpretation of this particular slang expression is correct - and please do inform me if it is not - it means that you have been given priority in carrying out your little revenge crusade. Happily, it is not quite as misdirected as Malik's, as you have just given him the favour of telling him. But priority does not mean exclusiveness. I can, and shall, step if I feel the situation is getting…out of control. As it was just now."

"Out of control?" the other spirit repeated incredulously. "I was winning! I could have killed him!"

"We both know that it will require more spilling of blood than that from a few knife-wounds to end the existence of that thing in there."

The Dark Bakura's expression turned sullen, defensive.

"And a person who is berserk with rage can protect no one. Any mortal can work that out."

More anger, but turning inward now - visible in the way he was beginning to dig his already bloodied nails into the soft flesh of his palms.

"Furthermore, and here I come to my main point, Tomb Robber: there is an appropriate time, a place, and most of all a method, to carry out an effective execution. You managed to fulfil none of these categories."

His subject was silent, and Yami sensed that he was almost tamed - almost. He continued, voice taking on a grander note as he began to preach of the way ahead. "You have to consider those around you, and whether they are ready to witness such uncompromising acts. You should ensure that your choice of location can endure such carnage, or not be prized highly enough for it to matter. And you should never again lose yourself in the way you did just now. You were willing, Tomb Robber, to cut someone apart in front of your host body, in the bedroom of his friend. And you didn't care." He came closer. "And that is unacceptable. Can you see why?"

"…Yes," the spirit muttered into the floor. It was as if he were being made to answer for his actions to a parent. He looked up, and met the eyes of his Pharaoh, expression still slightly resentful. "Yes. I see that now."

Yami nodded, satisfied. Now was the time for the friendly hand on the shoulder. "Good. That's what I wanted. Because almost as great as your duty to me is your duty to your host. He needs your reassurance, and so far he hasn't received any. And if you don't give it to him, Tomb Robber, then I will." In order to counteract a building resentment within his listener, he softened his tone, but not his words. "If you had continued like that, I really think it would have destroyed him."

The Ring-spirit stared down at the floor again, eyes pale red and downcast. The hand on the shoulder, previously comforting, now felt worse because he was no longer sure he deserved the comfort. Yami, aware of this, was satisfied.

"All right, that's enough." He released him, his hand lingering in a way that could only be fully appreciated between two spirits, because every molecule is registered and felt.

"I'm going to talk to my host now," Bakura concluded in a low, subdued tone.

"I think that's a very good idea. I have a few people to talk to as well, so I think I'll come with you." Yami smiled a little at him, and received a nod back, which was enough.

Back in the bedroom, Malik's dark side sat almost touching Ryou, his black eyes making the teenager shiver with every inadvertent glimpse. "It's been a while since I last talked to you, Ryou. I just thought I'd play catch-up for a bit. How have you been? You haven't been hurting too much, have you? I wouldn't want to think you'd been hurt." Ryou can smell the blood on his arms when he leans forward, and can't stop himself shuddering.

Malik was protesting weakly, his voice holding no more power than the mews of a kitten for his indifferent yami. "Can you just get away from him? You can see he doesn't like it."

His dark side turned to him. "But _I_ like it."

The door hinges groaned, and at once the Dark Malik's form melted away, re-forming on the other side of the room as if nothing had happened. The first thing that Bakura took in was his host body, mouth moving in a silent scream, while an irrelevant Malik radiated waves of guilt and sympathy.

The spirit perched on the edge of the bed, and Ryou at once pulled the covers up so that they covered his face. No need now to look at any more deranged black eyes or bloody arms or sly spirit smiles. Bakura's expression changed - how many other times had his host been afraid, even disgusted, to look at him? The red smears on his arms began to feel like some primitive warpaint, no longer relevant or welcome in this time.

Slightly stiffly: _It's…all okay now, my Ryou. No one is going to hurt anyone else, at least not for the moment._ The bed had shifted more than he expected under his weight when he sat on it. And when he reached out to touch his host body, he found that he had misjudged the distance slightly and the final force exacted by his fingers was greater than he intended. For his fingers collided with fragile mortal skin and it felt almost as if it might break at the touch. He had forgotten for a moment how easily mortal bodies break; no wonder Ryou could manage to be so afraid. It hadn't been fair to ask so much of his host, not when he knew he wasn't strong enough. He was shaking so much that for a moment his dark just wanted to gather Ryou into his arms in a big soft bundle and whisper _Sorry_ again and again. He couldn't, obviously, because then the host's respect would dwindle; he had to keep some distance, even at a time like this.

__

Mou, ii yo, yadonushi. The phrase has several meanings, but said softly enough, it conveys everything that he wants: _It's fine already. It's over._ His fingers found bare skin, on the side of his host's arm, and he fell to stroking it softly, letting his movements find a natural, calming rhythm. He would much rather touch Ryou's neck, or face, or hair, but knew that that would be too much for him right now. Maybe even for both of them.

The mortal's shaking had become less regular now; his yami slipped his other arm around the pyjama-clad back, each section of backbone a clearly-felt knobble under his fingers. The duvet was still a barrier between them, preventing his form from entirely touching Ryou's, but he ignored it, sitting there in a matter-of-fact way until it became clear that he was there and not going to go away. He said his host's name, a quick murmur of sound, and his breath came out cool and calming against Ryou's neck. The mortal was still trying to stay tensed in a half-hearted show of reluctance, but his yami's arms were now wrapped tightly around him and for some reason he wouldn't let go, so that eventually Ryou's muscles refused to tense any longer and his body gave way, just as it always did, and he knew that his mind was about to follow suit. It wasn't fair really, how he could never manage to resist his dark half properly in any way: at the rare moments when Ryou wanted to be separate, the spirit would simply hold onto him in a grip that surrounded you and felt completely inescapable, and it was always such a relief to just stop struggling and let him take you over again.

It was happening now, pale fingers claiming the side of his neck, and hot veins pumping frantically underneath them as if to scream out their vulnerability. After enduring a few moments of this, Ryou took his other's hand - his movements feeling very heavy and clumsy in comparison - and placed it against his hair. It was a strange example of how they both managed to manipulate the other; with the ghostly fingers now idly fluffing his hair, Ryou could manage now to feel only the tenderness in the actions, and not the strength which could so easily snap his neck in two. Yet his yami's smile was now of conquest, for he could read far more ownership into the casual ruffling of hair, like a favourite pet, than the inspecting caress of a neck, like a favourite victim…or could he? Who was really fooling whom? Perhaps they were both allowing themselves to be taken in, at least a little; maybe they even wanted to. Exchange of smiles now, both relieved and a little uncertain.

On the other side of the room, Yami Malik rolled his eyes and muttered loudly and pointedly about "Sentimental shit"; it was likely that he could not read anything below the surface of the moves exchanged, although he may also have been being ironic in his simplistic conclusion; there may have been a mocking knowingness in his tone. The Pharaoh, who had previously been gazing fondly at the pair in fatherly approval - although this may too have been only on the surface - now frowned and turned to him. "Out."

"Willingly." The Dark Malik was starting to feel cramped in this room, with so many people, and so many emotions being exchanged; and the sustained presence of both the darkness and his host body is distracting, and divides his attentions.

"Your presence taints this room," the Pharaoh added, a little primly.

"Disrupts the fawning, more like."

"Would you get out? Now?"

He shrugged, and sauntered out, pausing to roll his eyes one last time. Then he remembered that there were still mortals that lay sleeping in this house, and that he had better go wake them up before they overslept. He might even enter their dreams first. Well, only their nightmares, obviously.

Snickering, he headed to Isis' bedroom.

Minutes later, there was screaming.

Yami had been sighing and saying, mostly to himself, "It's a pity that just because some beings exist that are incapable of intimacy, they assume that everyone else is happier that way too."

Malik shrugged helplessly, and was glad when the Pharaoh didn't appear to notice; he was beginning to decide that being ignored was, for now, the best reception he could expect.

"Still, at least we have the beginnings of-"

It was at this point that the screaming started.

The Pharaoh, who was psychologically programmed to respond to any indication of distress from his subjects, was striding towards the door almost before it had begun. Malik stood paralysed for a moment, before concluding, "Nee-san!" and running after him.

Ryou stirred a little, his chocolate-coloured eyes flicking to the door. "I hope Isis-san is okay. She's always kind to me."

His other gripped him a little more tightly, in case he was about to run to her aid. "The Seer'll be fine. She has the Pharaoh to take care of things, after all. And her brother. We all know how he always does the right thing."

Ryou tensed as his koe's expression grew hard. But then the spirit was stroking his hair again as if nothing had happened. "It's fine, my Ryou. I'm not about to go save anybody else."

"You look well, sister. Rather too well for my liking, although I anticipate that I will be doing something about that very soon. And besides, too much pain at the start limits the potential for damage, doesn't it? It would be less satisfying to stretch you to your limit if you were already half-way there." The Dark Malik was rediscovering a liking for speech: something to do with the way her eyes widened a fraction more with each word. And the fluttering of her scanty vest as her breathing quickened was most appealing: the sexual side, however, mostly passed him by. It was just her fear that he liked; the air was thick with it, so that if he breathed in he could almost taste it, could drink it down and make it a part of him. Although breathing had fallen down his list of priorities again with the return to a non-mortal form, and memories of what it was like to need oxygen or to be made clumsy with human flesh were already being overwritten.

Isis's eyes were disbelieving - they were _actually_ disbelieving, though, because the haze of sleep still lingered and she was still hoping this might be a nightmare. And it was, but of a distinctly physical and undeniable kind.

"You…aren't here. How can you be here? You can't be. Therefore it stands to reason that you aren't." She shakes her head to emphasise her conviction to herself, and two drops of scarlet blood silently streak the blanket. She looks down at them blankly. A narrow ribbon winds its way quietly down her left cheek; she can't even recall seeing him move. But he's standing a little nearer than he was a moment ago, and his smile looks a little wider.

"Don't worry, sister. You'll see the next one. It'll be slow that even you will see it, I promise."

He stepped forward, and the next moment a golden light filled the room; it was in the nature of the Pharaoh to always announce his arrival, even in such a time as this. "I don't recall this being part of my order."

"And I don't recall being bound to your orders, no matter how badly-phrased."

Yami did not take kindly to his articulacy being brought into question. "I'll thank you to step away from Isis."

Sneering slightly, the Dark Malik's eyes went to the rapidly-forming glows of the four items on the Pharaoh's person. He took an exaggerated step backwards, and then followed it up with an insolent, "So? What about the 'thank you' you just promised?"

The Pharaoh had already decided that several things about this creature needed addressing before he might become useable, but at the moment his manner of speech was topping the list. "I think you need to start thinking about your own health, and how it might diminish if you don't become silent. That is not, incidentally, an idle threat." He made a show of taking out the Ankh and inserting it under one of his three leather belts, ready to use.

The other spirit scowled, but the expression quickly changed to nonchalance as his lighter self decided to bother everyone with his presence. "Nee-san! Are you okay?" He broke off. "You're…bleeding…"

"Really? Why, what a good thing you pointed it out. We might have all stood here for hours otherwise without noticing. She might even have bled to death in front of our very eyes. Lucky that you came along and saved her, darou?" The sarcasm in the dark's tone was so pronounced that Malik flushed despite himself.

__

What the hell are you playing at? You promised me that you wouldn't hurt my family.

His yami's tone turned suddenly slow and dreamy. _I was only going to cut her. I never said it would hurt._

Shut up.

The Dark Malik's form had up to now retained a slight transparency; as the link between them throbbed with Malik's anger, the spirit's appearance became entirely solid, and the muscles on his upper arms and chest hardened as his physical body refined itself further. He smiled.

The Pharaoh sensed a change in the quality of the shadows emanating from the spirit opposite him, and for a moment the word _rival_ rippled through his mind, before being firmly replaced with another one: _project. _This was to be a true test of his ambition and abilities; something that he would put all his energy and resources into; something that, one way or another, he would be responsible for finishing.

Isis's blood glowed faintly on the sheets; no one acknowledged it.


	13. A Long Dark Day

A/N: OMFR, an update! I'm just as surprised as everyone else, believe me. That is, if there is anyone left… (look at the tumbleweed rolling by)

I haven't actually read "The World of the Pharaohs: A Complete Guide to Ancient Egypt", but decided that it was an appropriate title to mention because Yami and Bakura would be sure to pick holes in anything claiming to be a "complete guide." I also read an interesting page about when to use "lie, lay, lain" etc. because I am far too preoccupied about stuff like that. ~_~;;; And Amenhotep is one of the Gods of buildings. All the mentions of Egyptian Gods so far have been because their uses were linked to the situation at hand - I didn't just pick the names randomly.

……………….

Chapter Thirteen: A Long Dark Day

He had lain in this bed for seven hours now without sleeping, and the desire to stand up and stretch every muscle to its limit was growing more insistent. But stirring might just mean waking Yuugi, even though the mortal slept like…well, "like the dead" lost its impact when you considered just little sleep Yami, who could reasonably categorise himself as dead, needed. Anyway, he could not yet bring himself to risk it.

His host had curled around a (significant) corner of duvet, and was chewing it protectively as he slept, to the extent that it was probably contributing towards his daily calorie intake. Yami lay with his partner's back pressed into his chest, so that that when seen from above the effect was of two c-shapes, one tucked inside the other. Because his mind was wandering quite randomly, it made him recall a fat slice of melon that he had seen the other day in the kitchen fruit bowl: the strong rind enclosing the softer, more vulnerable flesh. The image made him smile a little.

Not requiring sleep in the same doses as his mortal half, the Pharaoh had long since become accustomed to nights in which he lay awake, staring at the ceiling and counting down the hours until Yuugi saw fit to get up. Both he and the Tomb Robber had developed various pastimes over the years to pass the time - meditation, contemplation and a good selection of Nintendo DS games had all played their part in slowing the rate at which both spirits went slowly insane from the boredom. The fact that Yuugi expected his other half to share a bed with him every night limited options further - not that the Pharaoh would ever begrudge him this, of course, especially when the pre-sleep rewards were so great.

And even if he could manage to keep his mind occupied for the entire duration, his body protested every time: just as it was doing now. He thought half-heartedly of _The World of the Pharaohs: A Complete Guide to Ancient Egypt_, splayed out on the floor where he had rudely discarded it, but he had read it twice already, and found more mistakes every time he opened it. There was a large pile of such books in a careless heap by the bed. Most of them were passed on to him by the Tomb Robber, who had ringed each "error" as he found it in unforgiving red marker. Yami owned one too, and had been writing in corrections at the back, as a sort of afterword.

He couldn't find the motivation to continue with it at this moment: the books were like a dirty veil separating His Egypt from the one of today, and between them they had picked countless holes in it, like birds pecking irritably away at food which offered them little in the way of substance, but had to be approached anyway because at least it was food.

He had reached a conclusion several hours previously regarding action towards the other Malik, and was looking forward to watching it play itself out, for it promised worthy entertainment. All that remained was for him to keep an eye on the weaker subjects, and make sure they didn't get caught in too much of the crossfire. He knew that Isis had slept with a knife under her pillow last night. And Ryou had probably had just as little sleep as his other half: Yami knew he had spent the night sitting on the bed next to his host and sharpening his knives, the constant brisk rattle of metal on metal like a rattlesnake in the dark, fangs poised. But Yuugi had slept wonderfully, as ever, his trust simple and unthinking; and at this thought the Pharaoh drew himself a little tighter around his weaker side, so that they were like two jigsaw pieces fitting snugly together. One hand just rested on his leg.

And ironically, it was this that caused Yuugi to be disturbed from sleep - not his darker self pulling away, but pushing himself too closely against him, to the extent that he was nudged out of his comfortable position with a sleepy squeak of dismay. He rolled over, slowly and effortfully, as if in slow-motion, and his eyes were gently reproachful.

_Samui yo, sono te. Why do you always feel colder in the morning?_

_It's you that is warmer, _Yami responded. At first chiding himself for disturbing his other, his mood now grew more tender, and more teasing, and he reached out and ran a white hand very lightly up the exposed back, like a violinist rippling the strings of his instrument. As he expected, the mortal drew back in a tangle of squeals and writhing limbs. "Cold! Too cold!"

With a smile in his eyes, the Pharaoh pulled his lighter half towards himself and encased him in a strong and very cold grip, which Yuugi struggled away from for about ten seconds until his body grew accustomed to the unwelcome change in temperature. "Heat-stealer," he mumbled into his yami's chest.

"I certainly am." He touched the warm arm briefly, as if he were a dead battery that needed to be charged with warm life, and then at last stepped out of bed and into a blissful stretch. His body groaned and creaked like a piece of dusty machinery that barely knew how to work anymore, yet the feeling of stretching each muscle to its limit was quite delicious. He gave a contented sound of exertion, and then sat back down on the bed.

Yuugi was stretching too, but the execution and effect were completely different: while his darker half's movements were like that of a predator, of something large and powerful giving a brief glimpse of its strength as it carefully and deliberately uncoiled, the mortal was more akin to a puppy bouncing out of its bed, ready to be loved by everyone who handled it.

"I slept really well, mou hitori no boku."

"Hm?"

"Did I snore again? I think maybe I did." He looked a bit embarrassed, but in a comfortable sort of way.

"Perhaps a little."

Yuugi smiled winningly. "See, I know what that means. It means, "Yes, Yuugi, you did snore, just like you always do, and one of these days I'll tell you just how much sleep I've lost because of it."

"You think so?"

He nodded vigorously in conviction. "Yeah. It's like you're speaking in code sometimes, other me, because I get the feeling that maybe what you say is a bit different from what you're really thinking. But I'll still work it out."

Yami ruffled the spiky hair affectionately. "You've got me all worked out, aibou." Interesting, how Yuugi would use his own name to refer to himself, almost unintentionally like a reminder, and yet his other would always respond with the nameless "aibou", turning him into just another noun. And it's amusing how, for once, Yuugi actually managed to put his finger on something. But he didn't realise it, so it was all fine.

He fiddled with his fingers a little. "Actually, I feel sort of bad about how well I slept. Like maybe I should have found it harder to relax, because, you know, _he's_ here. But it never really occurred to me to be worried. Is that…silly?"

Quite satisfied at the depth of his aibou's trust - a depth that the mortal himself didn't seem to realise - the Pharaoh patted him on the head in a fatherly fashion. "Not at all. Surely this knowledge that everything will turn out fine could even be interpreted as wisdom." And having endorsed naivety in the most successful way possible, he stepped back and let Yuugi pull on his clothes, his thoughts already turning to the day ahead.

……………

It was Ryou who found him. Although "found" was perhaps not the right word, because it seemed to imply that he had been hiding. He had no reason to hide - he had done nothing wrong. Or so Malik was continuing to tell himself, with levels of success that were even lower than trying to get that Ribena stain out of the carpet the other day. He rolled his eyes at the random memory inserting itself into his thought - Ra, his head was even crazier when there was only him in it.

When Ryou asked him if it was okay to make breakfast, Malik shrugged and made a gesture towards the cereal cupboard, in a movement which unleashed an army of suds and foam, and thus in a bubbly sort of way seemed almost threatening. It certainly resulted in the target taking a hasty step back.

The Egyptian finished washing up the current plate with a flourish, and turned it around to put in the drainer, only to discover that the reverse side had a hitherto undiscovered layer of dirt clinging smugly to the bottom. He banged it against the side in frustration, and promptly succeeded in breaking it into two neat pieces.

Ryou turned enquiringly round at the gritted string of Arabic, a cereal-sized box tucked inside each arm. "Mariku-kun?"

"Yes?" It came out more snappily than he had intended, mostly because his speech coincided with the decisive dropping of both plate fragments into the already bulging bin.

"I like the look of these two, but could you please tell me what flavours they are? I can't…um, read the names or anything." He helpfully held them both up.

Malik felt amusement mix confusedly in with his annoyance - it was like oil on water, for the humour sat uncomfortably on top, forming a fragile veneer. "I'm not sure if I can break this gently to you, Ryou-kun, but those things aren't cereal. They're dishwasher tablets."

"Oh…" Face turning predictably pink, Ryou now held the packets slightly away from himself, as if they had set out to deceive him. "I thought they were some sort of Arabic version of frosted…um…never mind." He pushed the dishwasher tablets swiftly back into the cupboard and stood in front of the counter in the exact position as he had been in the beginning, as if to persuade them both that it had never really happened.

Malik decided that it was easier now to push the remainder of his anger into light-seeming exasperation. "Baka da yo na, kimi." Gods, that "kimi" was forced. "It's a good thing you actually asked me: you could probably have poisoned yourself." He reached across to the next cupboard along, and pulled out the right box. "Here you go. Mattaku naa…"

Ryou looked a little deflated - but the Egyptian didn't care, for his anger had been safely channelled out of him. Besides, Ryou nearly always looked like that: like he was constantly expecting someone to tell him how stupid he was being. It would be a shame to waste all that anticipation.

He dumped some food in the cat bowl on the way out - a bit less than usual, because Layla had been looking distinctly podgy of late, and he was pretty sure at least one of the spirits would provide her with second helpings later. Already, his over-fed excuse for a housepet had slouched out of nowhere to receive her offering, to an affectionately-grumbled greeting of, "Yeees, you still come to me for food but that's about it now, isn't it? Yes it is, yes it is…"

The cat purred distractedly in response, and then her ears twitched and she was running - properly running, not the nonchalant gait of just now - and with a flying leap that, with her newly-added weight turned her briefly into a dangerous missile, she had landed in the arms of the Dark Bakura. He greeted her in a low, pleased murmur that was mostly Arabic, but with a few off-sounding words. His left arm was held carefully away from the rest of his body, with the dark flicker of movement briefly encircling his wrist soon explaining why.

Malik stood. "What, so tombs aren't enough to rob anymore?" What had sounded light-hearted enough in his head came out sounding confrontational: he tensed, and knew the spirit would have seen it. After a few moments of cool silence - not icy, because Malik was not worth such a strong reaction - the spirit ceased his thoughtful rubbing of Layla's furry head, and glanced briefly at Malik in an way which expressed mild surprise that he was expected to actually acknowledge such an outburst. He then resumed stroking, causing a feeling of confused anti-climax to dominate the mortal's thoughts.

_Well, it could be worse,_ piped up his first thought. _At least he isn't angry._

_But this is beyond anger, isn't it_? suggested a second one uncertainly. _It's like he doesn't want to waste emotion on me anymore. _

Feeling caught-out now, and at the corner of his eye seeing the tiny snake endlessly looping the spirit's wrist over and over again, he began to think of retreating to his room. He had almost reached the door, when the Dark Bakura spoke. It came out like an afterthought, but naturally had been anything but.

"Ah yes…where did _that thing _go off to again? I can't seem to remember."

Malik slowly lowered his hand from where it had been, inches from the door knob: he knew that if he reached for it now, it would turn into a clumsy swipe, probably even missing. The words had been in Japanese, and he was not quite sure what connotation was supposed to be present: the word "mono", which the Ring-spirit had used to refer to Malik's other self, could be used as a low word for "person", or for "object". He mentally retrieved the two kanji and held them side by side, trying to make a decision. _Ano mono…doko ni itchatta ka naa… _

"I don't know whether it will affect the speed or truthfulness of your reply, but I, too, wish to know its whereabouts."

Malik turned around, and saw them standing side by side. It was horribly intimidating, for some reason. And he had no idea where to look, because meeting the Pharaoh's eyes was something which he had learned not to do casually; and looking anywhere near Bakura seemed to beckon a cold draft into the room. He settled for the gap between their heads, where the peeling wallpaper was just visible.

"Funny that. I don't know either."

They were both trying to make him meet their eyes, he knew, and he redoubled the intensity of his study of the wallpaper. The sound of footsteps penetrated his concentration. He knew that both of them could move silently when they wanted to, therefore they _wanted_ him to know that they were both approaching, whether or not he choose to look.

He knew it was coming, but nevertheless jumped like a guilty child when the Pharaoh placed a hand on his shoulder. "Malik, no one is blaming you. I simply wish to know where he is."

Such was the slow, persuasive note in that voice that Malik found himself wishing for a moment that he did know, just so he could help that calming, reassuring voice with its search. He looked slowly up, making sure not to take in the whole of that gaze at once. "I honestly have no idea." Pause. "I think we both know that I would tell you if I did."

Yami nodded, accepting his answer. "It is encouraging to see that I can still trust you as before."

Turning around leisurely, in order to allow the guilt to seep thoroughly in, the Pharaoh glanced at the Dark Bakura, who was still holding Layla loosely to his chest. "It seems that we have a missing object on our hands."

The Ring-spirit released Layla, and the snake vanished back up his sleeve like a magician's prop. "That's fine. I don't want to rush this."

Foreboding now trailing after him like a cloak, Malik slunk at last into his room, wondering what the hell he had started.

……………..

Minutes passed, more slowly than waiting for Isis to finish in the bathroom every morning. Malik wondered if he should pick up a book or something, just so that maybe, if he made a show of ignoring time, time would ignore him too and rush obliviously past like it usually did. The bed groaned from under him, a slow mournful sound that seemed to stretch out for far too long.

"Oi."

He looked up dully. Then his eyes widened, and he leapt up from the bed like a mad thing - which, to tell the truth, he was starting to feel like. _For the love of-_

"Oiii." The black eyes, which had witnessed his antics just now with a brief puzzlement, were now purposeful. "I don't know what the hell you're doing, shujinkaku-sama, but I need a top-up of that stuff. And you would happen to be in the way."

Malik had begun, automatically, to reach for the bag of lithium before higher levels of processing kicked in. _Wait. Where have you been? I've just had the Pharaonic version of the Spanish Inquisition as to where you buggered off to, and now-_

"What the hell are you, our mother?" The darker side neatly swiped the bag back. "I never got the impression that your love for me ran this deep. It's making me reconsider my whole life." He took the glass vial and a syringe out, tossing everything else onto the bed.

_Wait, you've used up that much already? At that kind of rate it'll only-_

The Dark Malik gave him a hard, flat stare. "And fucking quit that already. If you want to speak - not that I want to listen - at least do it out loud. I don't want your whiny voice trespassing in _my_ head." He had been speaking automatically up until now, but this lower, more dangerous tone suggested that he was now paying much more attention to his lighter half. "I don't think I need to say that again. Or do I? Did it perhaps not go in? Say, you know what _would _go in quite nicely? One of these needles, right in your eye. It would be like making canapés. I bet they would taste like shit, though."

Malik shifted uneasily. "What…whatever. Just get out of here already. I feel like I'm harbouring a criminal. And if those two see you in here with me, that's exactly what they are going to think I've been doing."

"Aw, wouldn't it be upsetting if you actually got the blame for once. I'll make you a commiseration card. Now, where's the door…?" He stretched with visible relish - Malik noticed that his hair briefly became even more spiky, as if it too were stretching - and chucked the remainder of the lithium back onto the bed so that it joined everything else in the bag.

"Wait…you can't do that teleport-thing again?"

"Not _away_ from you," his yami retorted impatiently. "Only back into my soul room and out again. I'm going to have to walk back. Honestly, whatever God-wannabe that designed this really didn't put a lot of fucking thought in, did he?" He shoved open the door. "About as all-powerful as the _Pharaoh_ is, and we all know he can't do shit except make speeches and play some child's card game."

"I'll try to make up for such disappointment." The Pharaoh's voice was steady, mostly, but the pulse of light that came from the objects within his leather jacket was rapid and threw frantic shadows around the room. The Dark Malik discerned three…no, four separate sources, including the Puzzle. And the Ring's glow was unusually blatant too: normally the Tomb Robber preferred something a little more subtle. But then it seemed like subtle wasn't really making an appearance right now. The spot where the Dark Malik was standing was the only consistently dark place in the room - fat beams of light stripped the room again and again, but could never quite penetrate the mass of shadows curling at his feet.

His lighter self clapped a palm to his face, and tried to tell himself that maybe they could still solve this through talking. Even though five Items didn't seem like they would really enhance the communication process in any productive way.

The Dark Malik slouched easily against the door frame, watching. He could feel the Millennium Rod, no doubt secreted deep within the Pharaoh's person, and its cry was muted but just audible, like a subdued child whisked from its parent. Normally he would ignore it, but with four other items… he considered briefly. The Eye's power was all but negligible, surely. The Tauk had always been weak at this sort of situation. But the Puzzle was a real bother, and if he was going to have that silly Thief and his Ring trying to snipe at him from the corner, things might get sticky. Yes, sticky with the blood of certain people… Anyway, the Rod would co-operate with the Pharaoh - it didn't have much choice - but he felt confident that it would reassert its original allegiance if he got close enough.

Malik, meanwhile, was edging out of the door and towards Yuugi's bedroom in that stereotypical tiptoe movement a person performs when they really don't want to be noticed. Whether it is because resorting to such movements makes one more clumsy than usual, or simply because one gives off such strong "please-ignore-me" vibes while doing so, the process rarely works. Three pairs of eyes, two various shades of crimson and one black, watched him make his guilty way across to the bedroom. Bakura looked as if he might say something, but in the end stayed silent.

As the bedroom door slammed triumphantly shut, the Pharaoh pulled out an armchair to the corner of the room and sat down, in a manner which suggested that that he expected to be sitting there for a while. "As we discussed, Tomb Robber, you may go first. Be sure to leave some shreds for me, however."

The spirit of the Ring could now barely suppress the grin eating up his face. "I'm not sure if I can manage that, Pharaoh." His palms rested on the handles of his throwing knives, very lightly. "I don't know if there will be anything left of _it_ at all."

Yami Malik looked slowly away from the light dancing over the walls, and towards the other spirit. "_'It?' _Oh well, I guess it can't be helped. If _I_ were more girl than boy, I suppose I would have troubling accepting other people's genders as well. But those rags _really_ don't showcase your curves enough, Tomb Robber. Perhaps a nice dress…?" He dodged left, and then right, and seven knives lodged, quivering from the speed, in the wall behind him. "What about that little pet of yours? Is _it_ a girl as well? And many times did you have to fuck _it _before you were sure?"

He smirked as the knives rained down on him, clattering off the floorboards; then the Tomb Robber materialised in the middle of them and threw in a side-kick off his left leg, sending the other spirit spinning across the floor. The Ring activated, and the Dark Malik was pinned to the floor, with a terse Tomb Robber holding three knives to his throat.

"I don't recall you being this slow." Emotion strained his voice like stretched violin strings, so that the words came out off-key and strange. "Feeling a bit drugged up, are we? How much do you have to take before you're even considered sane?" He began to push the knives in, carving red holes into the other spirit's throat.

"Plenty." Yami Malik kept his voice low, mostly so that the Tomb Robber couldn't hear the Shadows building up behind it, almost ready to break out. "I don't really know what reality is anymore…is it that you're a girl? Or just a high-pitched-"

At that moment Bakura slammed his hand forward, and in that same moment shadows erupted from the Dark Malik's body and hurled themselves at his enemy. They both sprung back, as if jerked away with invisible threads. The Tomb Robber's arms and shoulders were an intricate cat's cradle of slashes; crimson threads wound around the other spirit's throat and down his shirt. Neither were using their host body, and thus there was a heavy silence where both of them should be panting.

Bakura recovered first, and leapt forward: a moment later the Dark Malik was slammed against the wall, though just managing to block the punches that followed.

"This," the Ring-spirit told him in a hiss, "is the bit where I ask you what your final words are. I really want to, believe me. But it would just be too clichéd. Shame."

His opponent struggled against the Ring, which held him almost paralysed - all he could manage was one hand, and he still wasn't anywhere _near_ the Millennium Rod. "Don't let me spoil those fantasies of yours, Tomb Robber. You can ask me. Besides, I have a really good word prepared."

"Oh yes?" His face still had that grin painted on. "What is it?"

The Dark Malik leaned in close. Close enough for one swipe, which snatched from Bakura's wrist the tiny sand boa from the Nile. Holding it for a moment in his open palm, he whispered, _"Oops." _And clenched his fist shut. There was a muffled sound, like an egg cracking, and slippery globules of snake pulp erupted from between his fingers. Tiny splinter-like bones exploded over them both like fireworks, leaving only a jelly-like ooze that glistened faintly on his fingertips.

……………

"Ahlan wa sahlan. Welcome, everyone. Today's tour will be focusing on Ancient Egyptian clothing." Isis steered the small group over to the exhibits with the same firmness that she had used to steer Malik towards the bath as a child. "In Ancient Egypt the climate was perhaps even hotter than it is today, and hence most clothes were made of linen. This was made from the small flax plants that grew along the Nile. This case contains a portion of a votive linen tunic, which would have been offered to the Gods instead of being worn, and hence is a little more ornate than what most people would have worn everyday. The cow represents the goddess Hathor, coming out of the mountain of the west in a typical Thebian motif of burial -"

There was a heavy thud from above their heads; people looked up cautiously, as if wondering whether Hathor and her mountain were wandering around.

"-and rebirth." Isis finished her sentence with a forcefulness that caused most of the tourists to guiltily return their attention to her. "She was a deity with wide responsibilities-"

There was another thud, followed by repeated thumping, as if rocks were piling from the sky like Ra's final judgement. Visitors were starting to look nervous.

Isis's smile was forced to the point of looking threatening. "Anaa muta'assif, everyone, I am extremely sorry. We…are having some slight building work carried out upstairs. I should have mentioned this earlier, of course, but I did not realise it would be quite so…demanding. As soon as the tour is over I will ensure that my builders correct their behaviour."

……………

For Yami, it was definitely a moment where he should be reclined in his armchair, eating popcorn and nodding in appreciation at the show unfolding before him. He had the armchair, and the appreciation, but lacking knowledge of popcorn's existence meant that the image remained tragically incomplete.

The Tomb Robber's inability to maintain the upper-hand in a fight was something that had occupied Yami's mind for a few minutes now. It was almost as if the Tomb Robber didn't feel comfortable in any position other than as the underdog, and had to frantically throw away any advantage that accidentally came his way. Somewhere along the way, the emphasis had shifted from winning outright to doing both himself and his enemy as much damage as possible, as if the results could not possibly be legitimate if they were too clear-cut. This was illustrated, for instance, in the way both chose to block Bakura's knife-swipes with hands rather than arms, which resulted in those superficial cuts where the pain is disproportionately sharp. It was as if there were an imaginary quota of blood spillage to be met, and the fight could not end until then. Certainly, the other Malik could have snatched the Ring from Bakura's throat at any moment, effectively postponing this little brawl. But then perhaps he was reading too much into this: perhaps they had both, for the moment, merely lost their minds.

This reluctant conclusion (reluctant, because it meant their characters were rendered significantly less interesting than he had hoped for) was sadly strengthened around the time that Isis' "building-work" had taken place. The euphemism was, unfortunately, appropriate, if a little skewed in meaning.

Malik had never been partial to sitting around while things happened; he reached his limit, however, when turning up his hi-fi to its maximum volume still meant he could not hear the music. He stormed over to the door, wondering why the hell two people had to kill each other so damn _noisily,_ and then realised that he really shouldn't have bothered using the door.

"Oh for the love of…Amenhotep…"

Bakura was regarding his handiwork with infuriating satisfaction. "I'd like to see him survive that one."

Malik knew this was all a dream really, which was why he felt no qualms about walking up to the spirit of the Ring and grabbing his torn shirt so that they met eyes. "I'd like to see _you_ survive what Isis is going to do when she sees what you've done to our house."

"A, sou. Warui na." There could not have existed a more offhand tone in the whole of Cairo.

Malik breathed in deeply, and was disappointed to find that he was still alive. "That's all you can say?"

"Merely consider your bedroom a casualty of war." Bakura dusted off his hands, and folded them, unperturbed, against his chest.

"You bastard, last time I checked, bedrooms were supposed to have _four _walls! Four! Not three! It's a good thing you got all that building experience making those pyramids because you're really going to need it."

There was a cough, and both turned to watch the Dark Malik struggle out of the bloody rubble like a dusty phoenix returning labouredly to life. He coughed several more times, each one sounding more frustrated. His whole body was pale with dust, like a bag of flour had been thrown over him.

"For…fuck's sake…" If only he get this damn dust out of his lungs. "What kind of idiot misses and knocks down a wall instead? If _I _had gone in for a shot like that, you could be sure…" More coughing. "…Most of the city would be in piles." He stumbled free, making a point of kicking the rubble aside. A dark glow sprang up around him as his magic rushed to help. "Are you incapable of finishing anything you start? Or did you just think that something like that would kill me?"

Bakura's brief good humour vanished. "What makes you think that I intended to kill you outright?" He wanted to drag this supposed showdown out for as long as possible. Because if it ended, no matter who won or lost, he might then have to consider that this was not the only thing that had caused him to doubt himself, his abilities. This was perhaps the one thing on which his conviction was utterly decided, unshakeable; he would cling to this world of certainty that he had created for himself for as long as he could. Right and wrong were two separate things, unable to mingle or even touch, like the two sides of a coin, divided safely by the strip that ran between them. But then what did that strip contain…?

At this point an interval was declared in the form of the Pharaoh, who stood up from his seat and stretched. Gods, he had done a lot of stretching today, a lot of preparation for situations to come. But the stretching itself was perhaps even more enjoyable than the actions which it anticipated. And it was right that the joy of setting something up should rival that of seeing it executed. And watching that execution occur less than perfectly was a joy, too, because it meant that his brain never had an idle moment and was continuously rushing to adjust the situation, to improve things, to steer them along in the direction that he had planned for. "If I may offer my humble contribution, I might suggest that this is taken to another level. The repercussions of this approach appear to have reached the limit of acceptability."

Irritation threatened to display itself in the Dark Bakura's features: the spotlight seemed to have moved, yet again, back to the Pharaoh.

"I propose that this situation is settled with a duel."

For a moment, the only sound was of dust settling. The only reason that the other Malik got in his objection first was because disbelief had rendered the spirit of the Ring temporarily mute. "At least have the guts to call it what it actually is, Pharaoh. Trying to make a children's card game more adult and noble by using the word "duel" instead really doesn't work. Duels involve swords. Games involve cards. I'm sure even you detect a slight difference here."

Bakura, too, was slightly irked by the frivolity that was implied in using a game to settle differences, when scratching a person's eyes out was clearly more manly. "The mere fact that I am driven to agree with that thing over there infuriates me, Pharaoh. Not to mention, of course, the fact that this isn't really the time to be playing around with imaginary monsters like children."

It was impressive how Yami managed to seem unconcerned by fact that the enthusiasm which should have greeted his proposal had instead gone into tearing it apart. In his mind, the stringent rules, clear-cut results, and optional yelling that the game incorporated seemed an ideal medium in which to play out one's grievances. "I would point out that the enclosed and somewhat indestructible environment of the Dark World offers a tempting alternative to the house of unfortunate mortals. Furthermore, you can exercise your imaginations and come up with a nicely complex punishment system regarding lifepoints and monsters. Also, there will be a clear winner and loser."

He could see both pairs of eyes light up briefly: a defined set of rules would appeal to the Tomb Robber, and the other Malik would get to break things without there having to be cleaning up performed afterwards. And both would relish the opportunity to inflict the most imaginative ways of harming each other that their minds could come up with. Of course, this had to be balanced against the risks that both would associate cards with losing - never something which Yami ever had to take into account, naturally, but then he understood that no one else was fortunate enough to share his skill in this department. But then of course both spirits presumed from the outset that they would win.

Bakura's resolve against the proposal began to sway as his mind started already to formulated pleasing plans of torture. "Perhaps…"

"One condition, ou-sama." The Dark Malik, tone heavy with irony, raised his hand as if he were in a classroom.

Yami inclined his head slightly, as if bequeathing him with the privilege of speaking further.

"The only limit to the punishment games will be our own imaginations. No other restrictions will apply."

"That…appears reasonable in this particular set of circumstances." Someone was obviously still fuming about some (admittedly barely warranted) intervention in the duel against Kujaku Mai.

The spirit in question was already pulling out the Millennium Rod. "Then let's hurry up and start already. We're wasting precious moments of potential agony."

As the usual black smoke came rushing out of nowhere to surround them, Malik felt the urge to finish this chapter of his life with something suitably cliched, such as a 'facepalm'. He resisted gamely for about three and a half seconds, and then gave in.


End file.
