Disclaimer: I do not own Yugioh or any Yugioh character portrayed in this fic.
Jabberwocky
"And, has thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!
He chortled in his joy"
"Jabberwocky" - Lewis Carrol
Here it was again. That feeling. Elusive, intangible, snaking its way through his mind, leaving a poisoned trail of doubt in its wake. He never doubted himself. Not since that day, the day his mind had been possessed. And yet, watching the boy with the newfound concern and protectiveness, he felt it coiling within him once again. Oh, how he hated it, how he hated Usi, how he hated feeling again. Emotion was once for the weak. What happened to your philosophy, wise one? Do you even remember it? How you never feel for anyone but use everybody? What is it that you want, tomb robber? Or more rightly, who wants what of you? In finding hope have you made yourself a bigger fool than the Pharaoh and his loyal mindslaves? Who pulls the strings this time, is it you? I think not, King of Thieves, Pharoah's bane, Scourge of Egypt, weakling . . .
Snarling, the spirit pulled himself away from such thoughts and concentrated on his host once again. He would not lose the battle with himself so easily. Too long had he suffered, the pain and torment all self-inflicted, all that he had brought upon himself through ingoring where the real power lay. It was within him, a withered little speck of almost nothing, a pulse beating where he had severed all links before. It was blossoming with every day since he had spoken to his host, pulled him from the shadow realm. Blossoming within with a radiance, a brilliance, the hope flaring through his long-dead veins like nectar. So different from the cold, distanced plans he had drawn out so many times in the vast, empty loneliness the Millenium Ring had afforded him. He had had no hope, just a sense of vindictive satisfaction when one more piece fell correctly into the pattern he was weaving around his hapless victims. So different from the strength he now drew from this new connection. How can this be wrong? How can I find the answer so suddenly and lose understanding just as quickly?
It had been so long ago. The experiences of that lifetime, of that man, were simply a distant dream, one he had used to feed his desire for vengeance. And so, exceptional and cunning as the spirit of the ring was, he did not recognise the emotions stirred by his newfound trust with another human being, did not register their familiarity. It brought him joy; he did not understand. It brought him hope; he was afraid to accept. It brought him belonging and safety; he mistrusted with an age-old sense of paranoia. He did not equate this heady sense of venturing forth without a plan, the consequences be damned, with the reckless, adrenaline-fueled escapades of his youth. Slowly, change reasserted itself, one excruciating step at a time. As his young host embraced the shadow that would forever be part of his soul, so did the ancient spirit fall into a rythym that had more influence over him than he could possibly imagine. The Thief King, the ancient bandit who had clung to the shreds of his short, magnificently violent and revolutionary life, could now momentarily be glimpsed in an action, a gesture, a word. That man, long buried, yet so full of burning vitality that he haunted the present with his panther's grace and burning eye, was returning to restore the balance.
He was alert today, paying attention in class, taking notes diligently. It was a strange breath of fresh air, to fall into an old pattern, the pattern that had prevailed before he was aware of the true nature of his curse. Curse? Was it really defined as such? Could something so integrated into the fabric of his being be defined as evil? Nevertheless, his attention did not drift and he bent his mind to the diagram of the male reproductive system he was sketching in his biology book. The spirit was watching him. He could feel the ghostly attentiveness, and strangely, he did not find this frightening or discomforting. He snuck a surreptious glance across the room at Yugi. The spiky-haired boy was smiling to himself, nodding slightly as if thoroughly understanding and enoying the lesson. Bakura knew better; the Pharaoh was active today. On impulse, he tentatively opened the mind link to the spirit within his own mind. The wall of cold indifference he was accustomed to was absent, instead, he sensed curiosity and a small sense of trepadition similar to his own.
Yami?
Yes?
Are you listening to the lesson?
Somewhat. Why do you ask?
Is it accurate?
A trickle of amusement reached him across the mind-link. Not particularly. I could teach your friends a thing or two about reproduction they won't hear in this class . . .
Bakura grinned internally. You mean things Yami Yugi wouldn't be able to tell Yugi?
Naturally. Mr. Holier-than-thou probably died a virgin . . .
Bakura's snort of laughter reached the front of the class. The teacher turned with a frown and he hastily composed his features. Returning to his sketch, he felt a few stares in his direction. Looking up, he saw Yugi and Joey staring at him with questioning expressions. He paused, unsure of what response to give, feeling slightly guilty. Yugi lifted his chin once, as if asking what the matter was. For a moment, Bakura saw a flash of something darker behind the large, innocent gaze, a sudden narrowing of the eyes, a piercing scrutiny. To his surprise, he felt a surge of rebellious annoyance. He gave the two boys a cocky grin and a wink, lifting his sketch book and mouthing "Mine's bigger than your's."
Joey sputtered and immediately scribbled frantically on his own page to rectify the problem while Yugi turned scarlet and giggled nervously. Their attention momentarily diverted, he returned to the mind-link, pleased to find it was still open. The spirit was sniggering.
Diversionary tactics . . . well done, boy.
He received a rough poke to the back of his head. Turning, he met the icy glare of a thoroughly irritated Seto Kaiba.
"Keep your schizo conversations to yourself, Bakura, or I'll personally see to it that you end up institutionalized."
The white-haired boy stared at Kaiba then downwards at the taller boy's desk. For once, Kaiba was not tapping away on his ever-present lap-top. He glanced up with a solemn expression of apology. "Sorry, old chap. Won't happen again."
Grunting with annoyance, Kaiba returned to his sketch and froze in disbelief. His painstakingly neat drawing had been replaced with a huge, untidy scrawl of a clenched fist with a raised middle finger.
Did you see his face?
Kicking back on the sofa, not even bothering to take off his shoes, Bakura put his feet up on the coffee-table and laughed so hard, tears formed at the corners of his eyes. The spirit appeared on the cushioned seat opposite him in an identical position, grinning like a Cheshire cat.
Indeed. His ancient counterpart was just as emotionally constipated.
Bakura rose to fetch a soda from the refrigerator. You knew him?
As well as one can know an enemy, I suppose. We certainly didn't socialize.
The boy returned with a thoughtful expression and resumed his position on the couch. The spirit realised with some surprise that they were still communicating through the mind-link even though they had long since passed from public observation. It just seemed more . . . right this way. Paying no more attention, he caught Bakura's next question.
Did Malik Ishtar also have an . . . ancient counterpart?
You mean the psychopathic blonde with daddy issues? No. Priestess Isis, however, was a trusted advisor to the Pharaoh and the only female member of his inner council of High Priests. He shot Bakura a meaningful look.
The boy nodded slowly in understanding. Ah. Ishizu Ishtar. Of course.
He lifted the soda and drank, aware of the spirit's scrutiny. What is it?
Is that any good? He was referring to the drink.
I suppose. He paused, not quite meeting the spirit's eyes. Do you want to try it?
A silence met this statement. Bakura still did not look up. Then, If I may, that would be . . . welcome.
The boy nodded wordlessly. Opposite him, the lean figure of the thief vanished. He felt the presence slowly steal into him, almost cautiously. Bakura caught his breath. It was different from before, unlike the rough, mentally wrenching sensation he was accustomed to. They were both unused to co-operation; it was difficult at first, but soon the spirit's control flowed smoothly through Bakura's limbs. First to the fingertips, feeling the biting chill of the can, to his arm, raising tentatively for a sip, to his mouth and throat, tasting the sweet, carbonated liquid, wrinkling his nose as gas sped upwards in the wrong direction, stinging and sudden. Bakura laughed, a burp escaping his lips involuntarily.
That wasn't too bad. I've had better, said the spirit, non-committently.
A broad grin made its way across Bakura's face. So this was what Yugi was accustomed to. Companionship. Belonging. A friend. He guarded his thoughts carefully as the thief re-appeared in his previous position and he regained full sensation in his body. The brief possession had left him feeling slightly groggy, though. Heady. Like he was on a high. Was this what taking drugs felt like? It wasn't half-bad . . .
The thief certainly caught that. His head snapped around, the dark eyes narrowing as he looked the boy over.
What's that?
What's what?
What did you just say?
I didn't say anything.
Don't get smart with me, idiot. What was that about feeling giddy?
Nothing . . . I just . . . after you got into my head . . .
You feel dizzy? Consternation passed across the spirit's face. That never happens. Was it that drink?
No, it wasn't! Bakura countered indignantly, shaking the can so that the contents sloshed around. See, I've only taken two sips. And it's a soda, for Heaven's sake . . .
The spirit was at his side immediately, making him jump slightly. Holy mackerel, will you . . .
Shut it! snapped the thief. Give me that can!
But . . .
Give it to me!
The note of panic was evident. Bakura stared up in growing fear, his thoughts growing cloudier by the second, and handed over the can wordlessly. It hovered in mid-air then tipped over, the liquid contents spilling out and remaining airborne as if under zero gravity. Before the spirit had a chance to examine the swirling brown vortex he had created from the floating soda, the boy keeled over and collapsed heavily on the sofa.
Boy! In a flash, the spirit was at his side, phantom currents of air jerking Bakura's head sharply to and fro in an effort to wake him. He sagged limply against the cushions, his face pale, his breathing dangerously shallow.
Bakura! Wake up, idiot!
The mind-link was shut completely; he had no access to the boy's mind. This was no ordinary fainting spell. He tried possessing the boy's body in an attempt to extricate him from the effect of whatever he had drunk. He could not. It was as if there were an invisible barrier separating them. For the first time in many long years, the spirit tasted pure fear. Impossible! I am part of his soul, this cannot be . . .
Silence. Then the temperature in the room dropped until the boy's shallow breaths misted before his face. Outside noises were muted, darkness rippled sinuously across the room and the thief's eyes narrowed until they were mere slits, cheekbones standing out from the tautly stretched flesh as his jaw ground out a low hiss of cold, absolute, undiluted fury.
Usi . . .
The drink must have contained some magically-infused ingredient, undetectable by taste. There was no time to examine it any further. Only a Shadow battle would release Bakura from the creature's clutches. Oh yes, Usi was clever. Creating a threat in their minds, urging them to work together, creating a bond that could only be acheived between two halves of the same soul, forging trust, acceptance, friendship. And just when they let their guard down, just when they were least expecting it, he would strike, forcing them further apart than they had ever been once more. Why? A simple enough question. There was an equally simple answer, now that he thought about it. This was the way it would hurt them the most. This was his form of revenge. Not humiliation, not allowing the Pharaoh to gain in any way, not even a blow to his considerable pride and intellect. Usi would use the boy, the one person the spirit had always dismissed as a vessel, as a weaker being of lesser consequence, only fit to channel his considerable will. He had made the boy so much more, humanized him and yet brought them closer, made him more than a tool to be used at will. The spirit knew that whatever followed, he could never go back to the way it had been before. It was too much to give up, and yet, he now knew that this was no weakness. Together, there was strength.
The spirit was not impetuous. He never threw himself headlong into any situation without thinking matters through carefully, without weighing every option and determining the best outcome. That was his nature. But not so the King of Thieves. Khemnebi thrived on risk, on adrenaline, on the heady rush of sensations that came with never quite knowing what new turn fate would take. Revenge was his ultimate goal, and he was willing to take it by any means necessary. Khemnebi was, inescapably, human. Khemnebi had never had a friend, never trusted a soul. But he would not kill women and children, would not take the life of civilians that were separate from his cause. Bakura was a child; more importantly; he had the thief's trust. He was part of his very soul. And he'd be damned to devouring eternity if Usi would steal that too.
The Millenium Ring flared into existence on the thief's chest as his wiry frame, taut with rage and deadly purpose, vanished to the only other place from which he had access to Bakura. His soul room.
It was dark when he awoke. Awoke was not the word to use, in any case. When he regained a sense of self would be more accurate. He was not even sure what defined 'him' or what separated him from the endless stretch of shadow that furled around his weightless presence and stretched ahead as far as the eye could see. His body, if at all present, was non-functional. He could see; but with what he saw he did not know. His mind, however, was fully intact, that afforded him some small relief.
Where am I?
The silence extended beyond and around him, the desolation and abandonment it represented shouting to him louder than any vocal answer could.
Yami?
Still silence. Not even his own pulse thundered in his ears, the way it did when panic set in, like at present.
YAMI? Where are you?
The change was so sudden, he barely had time to catch his breath, if air was what he inhaled in this place. Light flashed past him, images, he realised, images of another's life. They streaked past too fast for him to resolve any definite pattern, but he glimpsed white hair, dark skin. His mind shrunk from the coldly inevitable. Yes, he had called, but this was not the answer he expected. Why was he here? He couldn't really remember. He recalled himself, laughing, a soda, the thief sprawled nonchalantly opposite him, but afterwards . . . was blurry at best. How did this happen? Where was he? Surely . . . no, the spirit had warned him, had protected him. Usi, yes, Usi, the man his yami had spoken of. He must be responsible, but how? Bakura swung between panic, misery and a desperate attempt to regain control of his emotions which were spilling from him like sand from a broken hourglass.
You wouldn't do this, would you? You wouldn't deceive me? I know we felt . . . something. Kinship. I know you felt it too! You left the mindlink open on purpose, so that I could see . . . so that I knew you were honest with me.
Pain, more heavy, more twisting than he had felt in a long time spiralled through his unguarded mind at the possibility of the thief's betrayal.
You wouldn't . . . not again . . . please . . .
And a voice, harsh, grating, edged with the roughness of one who is unaccustomed to everyday pleasantry, echoed through his wheeling thoughts.
What's the matter with you, boy? Get up, get a grip on yourself. You think sitting there, yowling like a wolf cub will strengthen you? GET UP!
Bakura's attention snapped to full alertness, his awareness seeking desperately out, questing towards the source of the one who addressed him.
Hello? Even as a thought, his mental voice quavered.
A derisive snort greeted his attempt at contact. Is that the best you can do? Come on, you stupid little runt. Hold yourself together, don't lose your mind to the Shadows. Didn't anyone ever teach you?
Who . . . who are you?
Hah. Who am I. Who are you? Can you answer that, whelp?
Bakura. The moment he said it, he felt a slight warmth re-enter his loosely scattered essence, bringing him slowly together. Bakura, he said, more firmly, I'm Bakura.
Hmph. Bakura. Not much of a name. Not much of a boy. A darkness crept into the voice, infinitely sinister, deathly soft and terrifying. And why do you intrude, here, Bakura? This is my domain, the penalty of trespass is to be consumed by the Shadows.
Panic set in once again, but he held himself firm and stayed focused. Think about now. Tell the truth. Think about consequences later.
Laughter echoed around him as his stray thought was picked up with effortless ease, demented laughter, uninhibited, a slight gasp before the sound indicating the owner's genuine, unrestrained merriment.
You have some rudiments of sense, stupid, little one. How is it that one such as yourself comes to me? You would not have lasted a few moments under the . . . protection surrounding this place. I confess myself curious.
The flashing, darting images around Bakura did not cease their endless motion. No matter how hard he tried to focus, they seemed to move faster when he looked at them. Firming his resolve, he voiced the suspicion he had been harbouring.
Usi? Is that your name?
A profound silence followed this. The light cast by the fleeting memories was suddenly extinguished as they disappeared, leaving him in the dark once again. Except this time, the darkness seemed alive, aware, pushing against him with the malevolence of a shark drifting beneath a fragile fishing boat, poised to emerge and engulf him.
Usi . . . came the voice, and Bakura shrunk as deep within himself as posible at the tone that sent spikes of icy terror ripping through his mind. Usi. Now that's a name I haven't heard in a long time. Where did you hear it, sweet one? Was it he, himself who sent you here?
NO! In sheer horror, Bakura opened his mind fully, allowing the dark voice to see that he told the truth. No! Never! The spirit was trying to stop him, to teach me shadow magic so I could defend myself . . . Usi is trying to . . . get to me. That's what he . . .
Enough. The quiet finality made Bakura comply hastily. That does not mean he is not responsible for your presence. It still does not explain why you are here. Or how you know of him.
The spirit! Bakura marshalled his thoughts into some working order. The spirit of the Ring. He told me about Usi. The spirit will come to fetch me, I know he will. Then I can leave and you will never hear from me again.
That does not answer my question, imbecilic one. How did you come to be here?
I . . . I don't know. His voice sounded very small, even to his own ears. I was with the spirit, we were together. Then I was here. I don't know how.
Another profound silence. Then, with a cunning that sounded oddly familiar, So . . . this spirit, you and he are well acquainted?
Suspicion flared in Bakura's mind once more. The spirit may have abandoned him. He may also be seeking him this very minute. That should have no influence on his own decisions regarding their partnership. He had felt it to be real. That is what he would go by. He would not betray the thief, no matter what the cost to himself.
With far more bravado than he felt, he asked, What business is it of yours? He is coming to fetch me, he will not leave me here . . . wherever this is.
A raspy chuckle greeted his ears. Indeed. You seem to have faith in this spirit of yours. Has he given you reason to trust him? Are you . . . close?
The manner in which the question was phrased made Bakura frown internally. Yes, we are bonded. He will come for me. I trust him. Deciding that he would take a small risk, he added, And he is powerful. Very powerful. He will not be pleased if I am . . . harmed in any way.
The chuckle deepened to another hysterical, frighteningly pitched laugh. Bakura shuddered and tried to close his mind to it. Angry? Oh, I'm sure he will be, precious one. I'm sure he will. Tell me, do you know who Usi really is? Has the spirit told you what Usi has done to deserve his vengeance?
Vengeance? Yes . . . he betrayed him. A long time ago. Then tentatively, But then . . . who are you?
A very good question. One you should have made sure you knew the answer to long before we had this conversation. You are trusting, too trusting. But considering the spirit you are bonded to, I am not surprised in the slightest.
Wh . . . what do you mean?
I know the . . . nature of your bond. The way you speak of him tells me much of your association. What is the phrase? . . . once bitten twice shy, am I right? It took much for you to trust him . . .
I have no idea . . .
Oh come off it! The voice snapped irratibly making Bakura wince. You have your role, he has his. And, oh the irony of it all, so do I have a part to play.
But . . . but then you are Usi!
Never call me by that name! The growl sounded everywhere and nowhere, deepening to an ominous rumble of rage. Another laugh, one that terrified Bakura with its barely contained insanity and fury. You think to equate me to that . . . creature? I had a cause, a just one. One I do not need to account to a mere mortal such as yourself. But you are here for a reason, that much I can tell. And from your ridiculously unguarded conversation with someone you cannot even see, I have deduced what needs to be done. Maybe you should practise caution, little cockroach, it might serve you well in future endeavours.
Bakura listened in growing disbelief, unable to grasp how he had not seen . . . not realised before now. This . . . was most certainly not who he had thought it had been. This was . . . impossible.
But how? His fear, suddenly forgotten, was replaced by pure bewilderment.
How indeed. Use your miniscule faculties. I am a memory, a powerful one at that. And I have a task.
A . . . task?
Oh yes. Hah. You didn't think you would enter my realm and simply . . . leave again, did you?
But it was unintentional!
I know that, witless. Isis's holy tits, did you think you would even be conscious here, let alone speaking to me if you had come here with intent?
Isis's what?
Oh dear, your spirit will kill me for cursing in front of you. Shut up and pay attention. Then you will know what to do.
What is it that I must do?
You must save his soul. He has locked me away, here, for more than a necessary time . . .
No! Let him be!
Why are you telling me? Protest to the one who has been stalking his dreams . . . and yours.
Usi?
That's the one.
Where is he? Panic flooded his mind once again. Where is my yami? He's coming for me, isn't he? I'm the bait! What have you done?
Listen. The voice took on a quiet intonation. Watch. You will see exactly what must be done to save your spirit from the one he fears.
Bakura was suddenly plunged into brilliance once more, his thoughts scattered and reeling as memories, shreds of a long dead life swallowed and regurgitated his struggling conscience. From one through to the other he sped, for no more than a moment in each, yet gaining knowledge that seemed to come from a place an eternity away from his small, sheltered existence. He saw a boy, young, wild, slate-blue eyes flashing with excitement and exhilaration as he raced ahead of a group of youngsters, just as dusty and ragged as himself. He saw the boy laugh, he saw him furious, now sulky and now full of childish wonder. He saw him cry, bleed, shout in ecstasy, the rays of a glorious, foreign sun burnishing his white hair to a regal red. And he saw a shadow that stalked the boy, a man's form, one that watched with strange detachment and a painted smile. He saw the hatred that followed the boy as he passed from haunted childhood to bloody adolescence to dominating adulthood. The last memory that came to him, that lingered long in his mind, was the scene from his dream. The chill desert night, the dust in the air, the red cloak that danced in the wind and the hulking shadow beside the man he had come to trust, to believe in above all others. And a thought came back to him, the realisaton of something the spirit had said to him long before.
Yami . . .
It will not be long. Prepare yourself. Today, your fears will be conquered.
A/N: And so the final battle begins :) All feedback appreciated!