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.

………….