All the news at the door
Such a revelry
Well, it's hocked inside of everything you said to me

It was found, what we orphaned
Didn't mention it would serve us picked
Said your love is known, I'm standing up on it
Aren't we married?

Beth/Rest — Bon Iver

When Atem looked upon his wife again, he wondered how he ever could have forgotten her.

Satiah was radiant. Even dulled by grey clouds and city lights, her spiritual form glowed as if she were holding the sun in her heart. She looked perfectly content sitting in her host's apartment, her hands layered neatly on the small table in front of her. She had even dressed her spiritual form in Satsuki's wardrobe; Atem thought it suited her as well as any gown she'd ever worn.

She was smiling, and had been since she stepped onto the plane of the living — as much royalty here as she had been in her first life. When he lowered himself into the seat across from her, she regarded him slowly. The look needled him with the most pleasantly painful feeling, like bleeding a poorly-healed wound.

"You look well," she said. Even her voice carried with it that familiar, curative salt — burning in his heart until all he could feel was the blunt ache of shame. It forced him to look away, over at the bed across the room where his partner lay in a tangled mess of sheets and limbs. His face was tucked against Satsuki's shoulder, his arm thrown loosely over her middle, just as Atem had left them.

"Was it you?" he asked, watching his wife's host draw in and let out deep, steady breaths.

When he looked back, Satiah's smile grew. "Alas. I am only a passenger."

The knife of guilt twisted deeper. "She doesn't know?"

Satiah shook her head.

Atem felt a thousand words rushing up from his heart, but none of them reached his lips. Instead, he simply breathed, "I'm sorry."

The rain blew harder against the window, thrashing in elegant, chaotic waves.

"For what, my love?"

What else could he say? How ashamed he was for letting her walk alone into the next life? For abandoning her to the ceaseless tides of time? For denying her to his closest friends, his dearest companions? No, even this was not enough. There was nothing for which he wasn't sorry, just as there was nothing he could say to make her understand this.

"Atem."

He looked up, first scorched, then warmed by the fire in her eyes.

"I forgive you." Somehow, he knew it was not a lie, but the way her voice thinned spoke infinitely of the pain behind her words. "You have paid your penance. I beg you — do not make yourself suffer needlessly." He jolted when she leaned forward and rested her hand over his. The metaphysical energy sparked like lightning between them. "You deserve happiness as much as anyone."

Suddenly, the dull knife of guilt withdrew itself from his heart. Lightened as he was without it, he still felt incomplete — like his spirit was seeping out through the wound left behind.

"Are you happy?"

His eyes were torn back to the bed again. He thought at first his partner might be looking back at him. Smiling. Waving. Cheerful. Kind. Everything Atem was not. But sleep still embraced him, and would continue to, until Atem saw fit to release him from his soul room.

"I thought I was," he said at last.

"Before you remembered?" Satiah took her hand away and stood, moving into the grey spear of light pouring in from the window. She looked down on Yugi, smiling in an almost motherly fashion. "I am so thankful to him. For taking care of you. For healing your soul." She glanced back. "I know you love him."

Shamefully, his eyes fled from her again. He felt her moving closer, the ashen light tinted gold by her aura. When her fingers brushed his cheek, the spark of it pulled his gaze back up to hers.

"I can see it in your eyes. I still remember the first time you looked at me that way. But my dear — as you are, neither of you can ever be what the other truly needs. What you deserve."

The longer her touch lingered, the less of it Atem could feel. He tried to find her eyes again, but all he could see through her translucent form was his partner. Looking at him from behind her gilded lens forced Atem to consider all the times he'd wanted to be something more than just the other side of Yugi's coin: how badly he'd wanted to hold him the day Anzu moved away; to share in the joy and celebration when he and his friends had walked across the stage to accept his college degree; to wipe away his tears after he'd laid his grandfather to rest. Instead, all he could do was watch, and seal away his feelings inside the heart they shared.

Slowly, Satiah knelt before him, cradling his head in both her hands.

"Atem. Don't you remember? Our child?"

And suddenly, he was there on the banks of A'aru again, warm sun at his back, cool earth underfoot. Satiah was crouched at the water's edge, cradling her child — their child — close to her side. Soft words brought out innocent, musical laughter; it rang as clear as a bell on the gentle breeze. After a moment, both turned, but the glare of the sun on the surface of the water blinded him and sent him plummeting back to the present.

There, Satiah's translucent features ran black with rain. "Her name is Meritites."

She took her hands away, and Atem felt the prick of tears at the corners of his eyes. But it was dark and dull — like everything in the metaphysical realm.

Meritites. 'Beloved of her father.'

The tears came full and fast now, fleeing down his cheeks. When they fell, they never met ground — simply passed through it, as if they might be making their way to the very center of the earth.

"A girl?" he breathed.

Satiah nodded. "She is so bright. So joyful. But she longs to meet her father." She smiled, though her own eyes were glimmering with tears now. "The years spent in paradise have been easy on us. But they grow harder the longer you spend away from it. The time is coming, my love. I have to let her grow up."

A trembling breath made its way out of her mouth; it washed over Atem like the same warm wind which had caressed him in the field of reeds.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, lowering her head. "Gods know I have tried to learn to live without you. And the truth is, it's not even my place to ask you to come home. You let me make my choice — now I must let you make yours. But Atem … remember that this is no longer your decision alone."

He trailed his eyes toward the bed once more, to where the glow of Satiah's spirit washed the lovers in tones of gold. Satsuki twitched in her sleep, pulling his partner's arm tighter around her middle.

"You must tell him." When Atem looked up at his wife again, her eyes were clear — two bright beacons against the empty sky. "Till we meet again, my love."

She turned and walked toward the window, her form melting into streaks of twilight.

"Sati—" He stood, stumbling, reaching — but she slipped through his fingers like sand, swept away to infinitude.

When Satsuki awoke at dawn, her dreams chased her into the waking light: warm sun beating down on her, glittering water lapping at her ankles, the feathery caress of reed stalks across her wrists. The place had felt somehow both familiar and foreign, as if it were home to some deep, intrinsic part of her — perhaps the same part which had spoken so clearly through her the night before.

The thought jolted her fully awake; she turned gently beneath the sheets, smiling as she set eyes on Yugi's sleeping face. He looked utterly at peace — as if he, too, had found his way to that sunny paradise in his dreams.

As much as she wanted to join him again, the call of sleep was already fleeing her as fast as a speeding train. With some careful maneuvering, Satsuki managed to untangle herself from the sheets without rousing him. She rose, dressed, and put on a kettle, making sure to remove it from the heat before the steam began to whistle this time.

As she divided the water equally between two mugs, her eye was drawn to a subtle glimmer on the countertop beside her: the Millennium Puzzle. She placed the kettle down and moved to inspect the pendant while her tea steeped. It was truly breathtaking up close. In the soft morning light, she was able to see the outline of each and every piece, slotted together with flawless precision.

Stranger still was how untouched it appeared. If Wikipedia was to be believed, the Puzzle was more than three thousand years old — but looking at it, Satsuki thought it could have been forged only yesterday. Back during the heyday of Duel Monsters, there had been no shortage of bizarre tabloid articles covering all the urban legends attached to Puzzle: that it gave Yugi extrasensory perception, or that it allowed him to travel back in time whenever he wanted. Satsuki smirked at these ridiculous notions, but in the back of her mind, she couldn't help but wonder why he treasured the Item so dearly. She remembered with a shudder how he'd clutched to it the night before, as if taking it off were the equivalent of losing a limb.

Satsuki was halfway to touching the pendant, but she pulled her hand back sharply at the sound of rustling sheets on the other side of the room. When she looked over, she saw Yugi turning away from the sun in his sleep. A smile broke unbidden across her face. She picked up both mugs of tea and wove her way back over to him, sidestepping the trail of discarded clothing as she went. After setting the mugs down on her nightstand, she lowered herself carefully to the edge of the bed.

He continued to sleep soundly. Half of her wanted to let him rest a while longer, but her other half — that mysterious, inscrutable part of her — was already guiding a hand to his shoulder. Gently, she rested her palm against his bare skin, feeling the warmth; the slight ripple of gooseflesh that came a moment later, ushered in on the tail end of a deep, inward breath. He stirred, lashes fluttering open to reveal dream-clouded eyes.

"Good morning," she whispered, finally lifting her hand away.

"Satsu?" he rasped, pulling himself up on his forearms and looking around. When he turned his eyes to her again, they were narrowed with confusion. "W-What happened?"

The panicked tone of his voice caused Satsuki's idle smile to fall away. She forced a laugh and wrapped her arms around herself. "I think we both got a little drunk last night."

"…What?" He sat up fully, pressing a palm into his forehead. "No, no, no… This can't be happening."

Satsuki's heart fell through her core. Perhaps his judgement had been more impaired than she first thought. "Hey." She reached out to lay a hand on his shoulder again, only for him to jolt away from her touch.

"I-I'm sorry." He threw the sheets back and stood, scrambling for his clothes.

Dumbstruck, Satsuki surged up to follow him. "It's fine—"

He rounded on her. "No — no, it's not." Frustrated, he gave up on the buttons of his shirt and spun around, grabbing his Puzzle off the countertop before rushing toward the door. He jammed his feet into his shoes, not even bothering to tie them, and turned around one last time. "I … I just—" He took his coat in his free hand and threw open the door. "I'm sorry."

Without another word, he was gone, leaving nothing in his wake but the sharp slam of the door and the dull echo of his footsteps.

Yugi trekked through the streets of Domino, his breath crystalizing into thick puffs of vapor with each stride. He'd pulled on his coat after a few blocks, though his blood was running hot enough not to need it. At his side, his hand dangled white-knuckled and trembling, clutched around the chain of the Puzzle; just the thought of lifting it over his head sickened him.

Unfortunately, it was an empty gesture. As he turned the corner toward the office, he felt the warm flash of Atem materializing at his shoulder, his spiritual form tugged along in his periphery.

'Wait, partner—'

"Don't," Yugi spat. He strode up to the side door of the office and banged it open, stealing a glance around the bottom floor to make sure none of his friends were already lurking. He then fled up the stairs and into his room, slamming the door behind him. But still, Atem hovered, even as Yugi threw the Puzzle onto his bed and spun to face him. "How could you?"

'Partner—'

"No," Yugi cut in. "Partners don't do that to each other, Atem."

Atem stood frozen, his eyes a cold abyss. 'I'm sorry.'

"Is that all you have to say?"

Atem's mouth fell open, but the only thing that came out was a thin breath. Chest hollow, he whispered, 'What do you want me to say?'

Yugi curled his hands into tight fists. Part of him hoped Atem could feel the pain of his nails digging into his palms. "I want you to tell me why."

Indigo eyes fell away — a last-ditch attempt to conceal the answer Yugi sought.

"Why, Atem?" he demanded. "You haven't locked me out in years. Not since…" He paused, the time compounding in his mind. "Not since you got your memories back."

Atem looked up, guilt painted clearly on his features.

"Yeah," Yugi scoffed. "I know about that. And the thing is, I wasn't even mad at first. You'd just—" he released the iron grip of his fists and shrugged sharply, "—you'd just become another person, Atem. I could have understood if you needed some time to yourself. But that's not what this is … is it?"

For the first time in as long as they'd been tethered to one another, Yugi saw his own fear reflected in the eyes of his other self.

"Who is she?" he breathed. More silence followed, but his anger seemed to have escaped along with the words, like poison drawn from a wound. Slowly, he lowered himself into the chair beside his desk. "Maybe this is my fault. For always making you feel like a passenger. It's gotten worse over the years, but I didn't want to say anything." He dropped his eyes to the ground, staring at the matted blue carpet beneath his desk. "I think … because I hoped you'd tell me yourself someday. When you were ready."

Suddenly, Atem approached and laid a gossamer hand on his shoulder. Yugi felt the weight of the spiritual energy, but only just — like it was an anvil that weighed no more than a feather. 'Partner,' Atem started, then, backtracking, 'Yugi… Please — you can't blame yourself for this.'

"No?" Yugi said, pulling back sharply. "Then look me in the eye and tell me you wouldn't be happier in your own body."

Atem said nothing, but he didn't have to. The answer glowed like dying coals behind his eyes.

"You're not a coward, Atem," Yugi said, his voice thin now — almost tearful. "So what are you afraid of?"

Slowly, Atem turned and lowered himself heavily to the edge of the bed. His far-off eyes gazed through the angled skylight above. The way he sat, posture stiff and hands gripped lightly to his knees, Yugi thought he looked almost kingly. He still remembered the regalia Atem had worn in his memory world — cloud-white tunic, regal violet cloak, rich, shaped gold encircling his arms and legs and head. It was the only time they hadn't been near-perfect reflections of one another. But Yugi remembered, too, how Atem had asked — no, begged them not to recreate his pharaonic image as a character in the RPG. They'd all laughed about it then, thinking he was just too humble to want the attention or glory that might come from being one of the brave protagonists in a video game. But all of a sudden, it hit Yugi: Atem didn't see himself as a hero at all, even in his own tale.

With a quiet inward breath, Yugi rose up and joined his other self on the edge of the bed. He was surprised by the gentle bowing of the mattress beneath him — almost forgot that he was still in the physical world. "Who is she?" he repeated, soft and genuine now.

'Satsuki is…' Atem began, hesitating. 'She's like you. A vessel. A partner.'

"For who?"

Atem smiled. 'For my wife.'

Yugi turned his head away. He felt all the air leaving his lungs, like a thousand tons of earth were pressing down on him.

'Her name is Satiah.'

When Yugi looked back, Atem's smile remained; perhaps even grew. But he said nothing else. A story painted itself behind his eyes — a story of pain, of loss. Of agonizing growth and change.

Of joy.

"We didn't meet her," Yugi said simply, remembering how little happiness had touched the memory world.

Slowly, Atem shook his head. His lips parted in a rare, full smile. 'Gods, how I wish you had.'

Yugi felt the dull throb of tears behind his eyes. He wasn't sure where they were coming from — if they were tears of joy or tears of sadness. He sensed both emotions thrashing in that part of his heart he shared with Atem; saw them glinting on the glassy surface of his eyes. Swallowing down the knot in his throat, Yugi shifted himself against the headboard of his bed and hugged his knees. "…Will you tell me about her?"

Atem spared Yugi a fleeting glance. With a small nod, he lay down in the free on the bed, lifting one arm to prop up his head. At this angle, his gaze was turned away slightly, but Yugi preferred it this way. It was like watching a film — experiencing everything for the first time, letting the hero's story unfold before his eyes.

Solemnly, Atem began to weave Satiah's tale. He told of how they'd met: of her father's — Metjen's — rebellion, her brother's untimely death, and the cruel terms of their betrothal shortly after. He laughed when he spoke about their painfully awkward first meeting — her coldness, his careless inattention. But his tone grew dark when he recounted the events of their wedding, and the long, gruesome days afterward, when the thief king Bakura had cut short the lives of Atem's brother and nephew, forcing him to the very front of the line of succession. Atem recounted somberly how this shared pain had brought him and Satiah closer, only for their progress to be undone when Bakura nearly succeeded in murdering yet another prince of Egypt.

Here was where Yugi truly began to get a sense of Satiah's courage and loyalty. Atem explained how she'd helped him recover from his injuries, both earthly and spiritual — and how just when love seemed ready to blossom between them, tragedy had struck yet again when the gods called Atem's father home, much too soon. Now laden with the titles of king and queen, and the heavy burden of preparing for Zorac's return, Atem and Satiah had become more partners than husband and wife.

It was only through the trials of the Holy Gods that they learned to be more. Yugi found himself rapt by the tales of their descents beneath the pyramids — their struggle to claim the allegiance of Obelisk, Osiris, and Ra. He couldn't help but recall his and Atem's parallel journey to secure the cards that had been created in the image of the Holy Ka; similarly, Atem's and Satiah's journey had been marred with scars of triumph and defeat.

But Yugi was not prepared for the sudden, shocking end of Satiah's story. Tears once again raked into his eyes when Atem told how she had stepped bravely into Ra's light, laying down her life — and that of her child — to ensure the survival of her nation. Solemnly, Atem tried to describe the last glimpse he'd been given of his departed family. 'I couldn't even remember,' he whispered, 'if our child was a boy or a girl.'

Painful as it was for Yugi to hear this, what set his tears freely flowing was how Atem spoke of these faded memories with such indifference. Yugi could barely fathom: five years spent holding this pain inside. He sobbed and buried his face in his arms, thinking about all the quiet nights Atem must have spent steeping in the truth of his past — and suffering in solitude.

Suddenly, it all made sense: Atem's slow descent into reclusion. His air of humility surrounding the RPG. His hesitancy to take control even when prompted. In his mind, he hadn't simply become another person on that day five years ago — he'd become hardly better than a villain.

Yugi jolted at that feather-soft feel of a spiritual hand on his shoulder again. When he looked up, Atem was sitting upright, gazing at him with a gentle, pitying smile on his face. 'Don't cry for her, partner. Satiah's story is one that ends in light.'

Yugi didn't have the heart to admit that his tears weren't for Satiah. Deep down, he got the sense that his other self knew this, but they still turned away from one another, propping themselves up against the headboard to stare at the blank wall across the room. Yugi wiped his face on his sleeves, swallowing back all the tears he knew Atem was too drained to let fall.

"Last night," Yugi finally said with a sideways glance. "Did she …?"

Atem was quick to shake his head. 'Without a Millennium Item, Satiah doesn't have the power to take over her host's will. I don't even think Satsuki knows about Sati's presence.' He paused and closed his eyes, his lashes fluttering in fond remembrance. 'But … while you two were asleep…'

"Her spirit."

Atem nodded.

"What did she say?"

When Atem looked back, his eyes had turned into deep, swirling pools. Yugi thought he might fall into them, forever lost among the lies and truths that battled in his soul.

'She told me … how much she missed me.'

Yugi lowered his head, but in his own solitary heart, he knew Atem was holding back again. He'd been separated from his wife for over three thousand years; it seemed unlikely she would cross the plains of death itself just to deliver such an empty message.

As much as he wished to press his other self, Yugi took a deep breath to settle his nerves. They'd already spent well over an hour picking at old scars. Proper healing would come with time and patience — both of which Atem deserved in spades after so many years spent holding his pain inside.

Just then, Yugi became acutely aware of a loose end left further frayed by their deep and lengthy conversation. He cleared his throat. "So, about Satsuki…"

Atem snapped to attention, eyes wide in alarm. 'What about her?'

"You said she doesn't know about Satiah. Don't you think we should tell her?"

Atem's jaw tightened. Yugi knew that look of uncertainty, even though it had been years since he'd seen it. Though their minds had grown more aligned over the years, there was once a time when he and Atem had been as different as night and day.

"She deserves to know," Yugi went on, softer now. "We owe her that, at least. After last night."

Atem made a low sound: ambivalence at best, derision at worst. 'I suppose you're right,' he said. 'But partner … We should tread carefully. I don't want to hurt her.'

It seemed almost a laughable notion, after they'd just spent the morning purposefully hurting themselves — even if it was for the sake of future healing. But Atem was right. Satsu was an innocent bystander in all of this, and despite the complexities introduced by Satiah's presence, Yugi still hoped to maintain some semblance of a friendship with her after all was said and done.

"Neither do I."