In a space beside my window, where the sun's rays stream through the overhead skylight, glittering in the afternoon, there lays a gold frame. It houses a photograph from years back, when I was sixteen, shortly after Battle City, right before my seventeenth, a time I find myself drifting back to more and more often every day. Each time I look at it, I close my eyes and try to picture the memory inside. Yet another year will go back, but the image is still clear in my mind, clarity that exists for all of past when dealing with him.
He's in control of me, at the time, reminding me once more that I was his host – a vessel to a hero, which he claimed, he never was. I highly doubt that of all the times he saved me – saved us – that he never could be considered anything less, but if he never saw that, at least we still believe it. We still remember it. It is such a small word: hero; merely four letters in length but it speaks volumes to a room of voices. When people are asked to describe "hero", he'd most likely be the ideal motto for such a word. Don't get me wrong, he was never perfect. He had many, many faults to his name. However, in the end, it wasn't his past actions which defined him – it was his heart.
His heart was always reflected in his eyes. In the photograph, the amethyst orbs that belong to me (which he owned five thousand years ago) are gleaming with self-confidence, oozing with comfort, and wide with love. They always say that eyes are the window to one's soul, but for him, he only ever was a soul. I was the only one to witness his true soul, and to this day, I am extremely grateful. In the depths of the Millennium Puzzle, in the shadows of his soul room, his real self existed. I still remember, some time after Battle City, shortly before the picture was taken, I caught him in a small alcove just beside his "temporary soul room" (this housed his current memories while his actual one housed his identity, name, and past; we only ever found it when it merged with the rest of the rooms that meant anything to him – after the Memory World adventure).
"Pharaoh?" I questioned, cocking my head in curiosity when I had mistakenly discovered his hiding place. A single candle existed in the midst of the Puzzle's darkness, and its flame flickered a pure black light, filling the room with light, however. "What are you doing? What is this place?"
His eyes were sources of genuine tears – something I had never seen before. "Yugi…" he muttered, the tone shaky under his breath. I assumed that he had meant to keep this space hidden. It was the one thing we were never meant to share, but he wasn't able to conceal it any longer. "I…"
For the first time since I had met the five-thousand-year-old spirit, he had never been speechless. Most of the time, he walked about with a smug but understanding smile adjourning his lips, like he harnessed a secret that could destroy the world. But as I stood there, he merely shook his head, ushering me into his veil of mystery. When I pressed myself into the small space, the fire seemed to sense my presence, glowing brighter automatically, the black light burning away and a pure white existed.
"This is my heart," he explained, gesturing towards it. When he attempted to touch the candle, the black light appeared once more, dimming the purity my company had ignited. "It shows my true self, Yugi…"
At the time I didn't understand, and the Pharaoh never elaborated on his information. He just stared at the candle, a dark diamond in the center of the shadows. Rivers of sadness streaked is face, and I never asked him about it. I turned to leave when a strangled sob had escaped his mouth, and I gave him the privacy he deserved. His heart – my heart: they belonged to us – we didn't have to share them. Later on, the night before he passed, he had told me that the candle replicated his heart. The black flame had represented the torture he had endured in his short life, blocking the pure light of life (which my flame resembled) from his soul.
After retrieving his memories, name, and identity, his soul room had changed from the labyrinth to a single area much like mine. Its walls were the golden color of the blazing, Egyptian sun; the floor was a simple ivory, representing his newfound freedom. Sand much like the dunes of his home country existed as well, covering the floor, twinkling like the night's stars. A mahogany bed had been placed in the far corner of it all, Duel Monsters cards strewn across the black bed spread. Fluffy pillows adjourned the bed and stitched into each were threaded faces of his friends and family. Joey, Tristan, Tea, Grandpa, Duke, Mai, Rebecca, Dr. Hawkins, Mokuba, Kaiba, Marik, Ishizu, Odion, and Bakura were easily recognizable. On the other hand, many I had no knowledge of existed as well; the Pharaoh had introduced each separately, dragging memories from his past life to use as a reference: Aknamkanon, Mahaad, Mana, Seto, Shada, Isis, Karim, Shimon, and Aknadin. These pillows were his thoughts – ones he never wished to forget. Other various items were scattered about: a deformed toaster symbolizing his harsh experience with modern technology; ancient Egyptian text; hieroglyphics were eteched into one wall while the Japanese and English translations covered the other two. The last wall was painted pictures – specific memories he never wished to forget from his past and from his present. His room was full of pictures, I noted, and it made me happy to see him tryly content. And, in the corner of the room, there existed that candle – only this time, the hardships were sheathed, and it was only a pure flame.
His soul room is gone now, much like he is. But before it transformed, all he had was a maze of confusion. His eyes don't show it in the picture, though, and I thank him endlessly for that. In that one moment captured, I know it's him. People may assume it's me, but I know the truth. The people who knew him best know it's him. Perhaps it's the way he stood beside Tea and Joey, arms crossed and weight on his right leg. The stance was typical for him, a regal appearance for the Great King. The magic of the Millennium Puzzle was showing its true form as well, another easy identifier (the blonde spikes of mine had been captured by the magic's energy, standing up versus my usual fringe which remained buried under layers of spikes.
The Millennium Puzzle was still hanging around his neck, sparkling under the sunlight, as if winking at the observer. That was me.
When I reminisce on the memory of us together, when he was here with us, I never recognize him as the savior of everything. Yes, he was a hero – yes, he was real. But most of all, he was a boy. Just a simple boy who had stepped into a complex world, achieving greatness because he was meant too, because he wanted to, because he had too. Malvalio once said, "Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them." He was all three. As I set the frame down, the light is fading. Night was slipping in as tears slide out of my eyes. They weren't acidic as they were the first night; no, now they are cleansing, clearing away all my pains and healing the scars I had reopened with the memories. It doesn't hurt anymore, though, to remember. It's just an instinctive reaction, crying that is. Perhaps it's because he meant too much to me. I can't stop them, because as I remember, I am reminded of the times we didn't share with another. My graduation; my wedding; the rest of my life. As partners, we were entitled to stand by one another's side. I am constantly reminded that while I am living my life without him, he will never get to live his life without me. However, I reassure that none of it matters. He was a hero. He was a boy. He is at peace, and now, I am as well."I remember," I whisper at last, to the space where he had existed, once in my heart so many years ago, where he would never be again. "I'll always remember, Atem."