Disclaimer: I do not own Yugioh or any Yugioh character portrayed in this fic.

Jabberwocky

It came as a surprise, even to him. The soul room was a reflection of one's true nature, the place in which one felt most at home. When the spirit had first wielded the Millenium Ring as a young man, that place had been Kul Elna. Not the ghost town it had come to be, but as it was when he had run, dusty, dirty, full of youthful joy, through its crowded streets. There was nobody else there, that was always the case. He was always alone. But the spirits that inhabited the Kul Elna of his soul room were not vengeful and cold. They were as they had been as people, some loving, some cunning, some industrious and some brave. He never saw them, but he could feel them, brushing his thoughts with comforting fingers of companionship. And he was never truly alone.

And, as the years had passed, and then the decades and the centuries of his imprisonment, that place had faded away. He no longer had a place in his heart for such memories. Those things would only weaken him, drive him from his true purpose. He had sacrificed his soul to remain here in order to take his vengeance. Another, small sacrifice it was to make, to forget this place. And yet, it had not felt like one. Even at the height of his hatred, in the deepest, most convoluted machinations of his plotting, there had always been a small part of his mind that preserved this memory. A part that regretted the darkness that swallowed his soul room, that made it a true reflection of the creature he had become. Over the years, the soul room had become one with the Shadow Realm, an indication of how far he had fallen.

And now the dark place had gone. His soul room was as he remembered it, so long ago. His shock was immeasurable and that was saying something. For a whole minute, he stood, his mind blank. The dust of the empty streets, the breeze that swept his shaggy hair back, the burn of the sun and the open windows that looked into rooms, empty, but still clean, almost as if waiting for the inhabitants to return at any minute. He closed his eyes and shivered imperceptibly as he felt the brush of his peoples' spirits against his thoughts. Their presence was so sudden, so familiar, that he felt a prick at the corner of his eye which he quickly dismissed. Welcome back, they seemed to say, welcome back, our brother, our son, our own.

He ventured a little further, towards the well at the centre. A fear built inside him, that this place would disappear and leave him with cruel, dark reality at any minute. He stopped just before the rocky lip of the deep bore and his thoughts recalled him to the boy. Where was Bakura? He needed to orient himself to these new surroundings before he set off in pursuit. Can this all be because of him? he thought with a startled jerk. Could my connection with the boy have changed my very soul? It was certainly a strange thought, one he would spend much time dwelling on, but now was not that time. Turning slowly on the spot, his gaze returned, almost unwillingly, to the well. He knew that this was it, the focal point of this place. Water. It was the most jealously guarded asset of his village, despite the fact that they were a community of thieves and had caches of valuables stashed throughout the town. He had found all these hidden stores himself, a long time ago, when he had returned to his village during his years as a masterthief-in-training.

He took a step further, peering into the depths of the well, willing it to show him what he wanted.

Where is he? Show me, tell me, help me . . .

The answer that came was not one he had been expecting. The spirits that inhabited the soul-room village became silent and still, an almost apprehensive feel to their presence now. He realised that they were waiting . . . he stood still as a statue, his own posture rigid and alert.

So, you return?

That voice . . . he spun on his heel, the dark, haunted eyes wide. Impossible . . .

Impossible? No. Surely you have not become so dense with age?

He shook his head as if to clear it, the customary snarl back in place. Where is the boy?

He is here . . . and he is not.

The spirit was silent, waiting. He knew that further questioning would gain him no further knowledge.

A chuckle. The voice had taken on a sneering note. My, my. So patient. Your prison has taught you well. Tell me, mighty spirit, is it true? Have you really come here for the boy?

What is it to you? He already knew the identity of the voice; he had no reason to be afraid, but this had never happened before. He did not know what new challenge this might present.

It is everything to me. Softer now, the rage and madness all apparent. You were the one who cast me away here, the one who threw away the key. Did you think it would help? Did you not realise until now of what value the child is to you? To US?

That is no business of yours! the spirit spat in response, beginning to pace to and fro. You want revenge, do you not? You would do anything to achieve those ends, would you not? You would have done as I did . . . you did do as I did, hah!

I am not you and you are not me. And yet, we are one and the same.

A shift in the fabric of reality, of this reality, and the ancient spirit's head snapped up, shock and disbelief momentarily clouding his vision. The street before him took on a hazy appearance, as if a great wave of heat had rolled across the parched earth. A figure appeared, vague and indisinct, the shimmer of the strange haze distorting the swifty striding form. As the man, for it was most definitely a male, came closer, his form became clearer. Straight towards the immobile spirit he came, puffs of dust rising from beneath his slippered feet with each confident, prowling footfall. The fiery desert sun struck and reflected off the sword and throwing daggers at his belt, the hooked staff strapped across across his back, the quiver of arrows and the hunter's bow in his hand. A regal, blood-red robe swayed hypnotically with each movement, draped across the broad, slightly bent shoulders, the powerful arms and the strong, long-fingered thief's hands; his hands. The gleam of hair as he came closer, white hair underneath the protective shora. And finally the eyes, grey as the cloudy mountains he had seen in his travels to distant lands, blue lurking beneath, vivid, shadowed, filled with memories he thought he had shut away. A gaze infused with steel, passion, cunning and a depth few had courage to plumb. The eyes of the man he had left behind. Khemnebi, Lord of all Thieves.

He let out a breath he did not know he had been holding. The Thief King smirked.

Well met, Spirit.

Well met, Thief.

Where is the boy? That was what you wanted to know.

Yes. I know that Usi has him.

Khemnebi smirked. I know where to find him. He gestured to the well and gave a mocking bow.

The spirit approached the well again, looking dubious. His counterpart seemed to find this very amusing.

What's the matter? Don't you trust yourself?

No. That's rather the point.

The spirit paused as a portion of the rough-edged, rocky wall surrounding the well crumbled and fell away, giving him just enough space to pass through. Without glancing back at Khemnebi, he stepped forward, no hesitation or fear apparent, and dropped through the gaping hole like a diver. Left alone in the streets of Kul Elna, the Thief King stared at the mouth of well, his expression distant and thoughtful.

The place he found himself in created a strange sensation in his chest, one he did not entirely recognise. It was Bakura's soul-room as it had appeared, after his months of possession. When the comfortable cosiness of the family study had morphed into a dull, featureless room with no personal touch. When the boy had become aware that there was something inside of him; something which was dark, cold and hurt the people he cared about. Something that had driven him away from others even when his desire for companionship and an end to his perpetual isolation were the wishes he needed to fulfil the most. Guilt. Strange how soft-footed and gently it came to the spirit now.

There was a man standing at the window that looked out onto a small lawn. On this small piece of turf, the spirit had sometimes caught Bakura (on the rare occasions that he returned to the boy's soul-room to check on him) watching his family; mother, father and younger sister, play together and talk. The mother lounged on her stomach, elbows balancing her weight as she squinted into the sun, her wide, lovely smile enraptured, enrapturing. She laughed, a high, merry, clear sound at the younger, less careworn and beaming version of Bakura's father as he chased the little girl around her mother's reclining form. The child was shrieking with delight, her short legs barely carrying her beyond her father's footfall. Bakura himself had never been near or with them. He would stay at his window in solitary vigil, his expression one of wonder, softness and sweet memory, as if he could not believe that he had once had such people to love and to be loved by in return. The spirit had aways mocked him for this mentality. Only once had he been curious as to why Bakura never felt bitter, angry or lost when he looked on at this scene. He now knew the answer, with sudden certainty. Real love, the type that binds even when you have long passed from the earth, that love could never be tainted by recollection. It was the spirit's own fault that he had chosen to be tied to his fate by hatred; bitterness was a natural phenomenon for him.

And here was this man, this stranger cloaked in concealing shadow, looking out at the empty lawn in the very spot Bakura had occupied when he had been here. An intruder. And the spirit had a very good idea as to who he might be. The old rage built within him, only this time it was stronger, more primal, an overwhelming sense of protectiveness and responsibility for the boy who had been imprisoned by this creature.

You came. A pause. You seem angry.

Where is the boy?

I can feel it. You are furious.

Hand over the boy and I may consider shortening your suffering. And you may cast off those shadows. I know very well who you are.

Do you indeed?

The man turned from the window, his face, form and voice blurred and distorted by rampant Shadow Magic. The spirit sneered.

So, this is what becomes of spirits who choose . . . lesser items to bind their souls in. I know you Usi. The stink that surrounds all your schemes, if I may dignify what you do by calling it as such.

Why are you angry?

This dogged persistence only served to infuriate the spirit further. He growled and took a step towards his opponent. A shadow battle? I'm more than ready. State your terms and let's be over with this.

Usi made no move. What makes you think he wants to be rescued?

What? The spirit was thrown off balance by this, but hastily recovered his composure. Are you mad? I've been preparing him against you for some time now. He knows all about your history, your betrayal . . . your little wager. This last was hissed out with a venemous snarl. If you think you can gain his trust, think again, guttersnake.

What I have done to the boy is no worse than what you have done. I have imprisoned him. I have not stolen his life, cast him away in misery to live as a shadow. What right have you to be angry?

He is mine, we are one and the same. I will not let you use him, as you did me.

You mean the way you used him?

ENOUGH! Shadows leapt, flaming with dark energy, from the spirit's hands. His eyes grew darker, narrower, embers of hatred burning in their depths until they appeared almost scarlet. Release him. Now.

Instead of answering, the shadow-man raised an arm and the walls of the room around them began to flicker. The spirit's eyes widened slightly. What was this new trickery? How could Usi have gained such a level of control in Bakura's soul room? Images began to pan across the spirit's vision, images that were terrifying in their familiarity. A young boy, white haired, bare chested and barefoot, being soundly spanked by his raging father, tears and mucous forming a sticky medley on his swollen-eyed, bawling face. The desert sand rushing up to meet him, the darkness over his right eye, blood running freely down his face from the shot of the crossbow bolt. A dark night, the screaming, the thud of arrows meeting flesh, the tearing of swords through clothes and limbs, the whoosh of torches as they set light to the thatch roofs, the blood that ran in thick, dark rivers through the streets of Kul Elna.

What do you think you're doing? Where did you see this? The spirit took a step back, bringing his hands up to the sides of his head, disbelief written all over his features. Usi made no reply. He maintained his posture, completely disregarding the spirit's outrage.

I SAID WHERE DID YOU FIND THESE THINGS? A wall of crackling energy shot from the spirit's body, crashing into the rigid form of Usi. Staggering back under the force of the spirit's fury, his opponent countered with a shimmering defensive wall. The torrent of images flashing along the walls did not cease. A tomb, dusty, claustrophobic, one of his first, the crushing weight of the rock trap against his leg. The heat, delirium, the pain! He was being dragged behind the horses of the Pharoah's men, rocks cutting mercilessly into his flesh, grit gathering in the wounds, the hooves of his tormentor's mounts flashing dangerously close to his unprotected face. The agony of the whip as it bit into his back, the knotted tails catching in his flesh . . .

STOP! NOW! Another pulsing burst of shadow magic crashed into Usi's shield and an enraged scream from the spirit echoed around the confines of the soul-room. The defensive barrier held strong and the memories that were driving the spirit to distraction suddenly ceased, to be replaced with endless darkness, stretching away on all sides. It was as if Bakura's soul-room had suddenly ceased to exist. Seeing the spirit's sudden disorientation, Usi stepped forward.

See? I have complete control here. I know the power of my soul . . .

What have you done with him? The spirit's voice had begun to waver, the madness in his eyes growing with every minute. Where is he? This is his soul-room.

Yes, it is.

No more riddles, Usi!

What will you give? What will you give for him?

A lifetime of hatred, of bitterness, of thwarted fate and isolation seemed to compound itself into this single moment and the spirit clenched his fist, his eyes wild, his breathing laboured. What would his life be without Bakura? Empty, dark, stretching on through the cold vastness of eternity, his own bonds of misery and hopeless attachment keeping him here forever. For the first time, the spirit truly realised what the boy had felt during his possession. Without the scheming and hatred that fed the spirit's malevolence and kept his mind alive for centuries in the Ring, what sustained Bakura? Was it this beacon of hope, so small, so fragile, so easily shattered? That there was something better waiting for him at the end of all this suffering and pain?

Yes, Bakura had his family to look forward to. That was what had held him at the window for the long days of his possession, what had anchored him to reality, to the life that may yet be returned to him. But what of himself, the spirit? What did he have to keep him here? His mind flashed to the Pharoah, to his lifelong quest for vengeance, but just as quickly another image came to mind. One of the boy. It was a simple enough scene; Bakura, in his blue school uniform, walking along a sidewalk, his backpack on his thin shoulders. But it was not the boy's actions which seemed to arrest the spirit. It was his posture, his expression, the way he walked. There was an upright quality to his mannerisms, so different from the shy, shrinking child he had known. His eyes looked outwards at the world, bright, gentle curiosity and a luminous intellect, open for all to see. Such a contrast to the introspective, farway quality his gaze sometimes held. His smile was genuine, a softer projection of his mother's cheerfulness, and all who would be on the receiving end of such pleasant, sweet emotion would feel uplifted somehow, as if the things which troubled their minds were somehow trivial when the world around them held such beauty. This the spirit knew. Contrary to what he often said to Bakura about weakness, he knew the strength, the power of the kind heart beneath, one that would forgive and accept even one such as himself.

And in that moment he knew with definitive certainty, that Bakura had so much more to accomplish, so much further experience to take joy from in his young life. Yes, the thief had stolen so much of that time from him in his endless plots that seemed so distant to him now. But there was always redemption for those who had sinned. Bakura had shown him that in all his compassion and vulnerability. And he would repay that favour with all that he had to give.

Usi's voice came to him again, prompting him make a decision on the offer at hand. What are you willing to give for the life of Bakura?

Myself. I offer myself for him. It's more than a fair bargain. You want your revenge, take it. The spirit came closer, trembling with the effort of maintaining his composure. Let him go. You can do whatever you want to me.

Silence stretched into seconds and then minutes as Usi regarded the white-haired man before him.

Are you certain of this? Once you accept, Thief King, there is no going back.

I am certain.

You are willing to give your life for the boy?

I am willing to give anything.

In the central square of Kul Elna, the man in the red cloak raised his head suddenly as if listening. The spirits which wandered past him drew closer suddenly, their excitement palpable. He stood and picked up his hunter's bow and pack, pausing momentarily before the lip of the well.

A voice seemed to echo in his mind, a young, timid voice. The voice of the boy, Bakura. Khemnebi closed his eyes, remembering the uncertainty, the fear when Bakura had mistaken him for Usi, the sudden hope that had flared when he had told the boy that his yami would be coming for him and the fear when a trap for the spirit was suspected in the young, vulnerable mind.

What did you do? What did you do, King of Thieves, murderer, plunderer of all that is sacred, master of shadows? How did you gain such trust and so firm a place in the heart of one so good?

The eyes opened, the slate-blue gaze was raised to the heavens and Khemnebi laughed, the pure, untainted joy rising in a deep, sonorous melody, ringing through the empty streets of Kul Elna.

The darkness was endless, as seemed this silence, the cold which seemed to chill the spirit's soul almost like the depths of Shadow Realm itself. And then Usi spoke, and the words he spoke were not words the spirit expected.

Thank you.

What?

Thank you. For showing me how you are now equal.

What do you mean? Where is Bakura?

He is here.

ENOUGH OF YOUR GAMES! I TOLD YOU I WOULD GIVE MYSELF . . .

As would he.

The spirit stopped, shock reverberating through his mind. What did you say?

As would Bakura. Your lighter half. He has proven himself your equal, and your heart has proven to be just as strong as his. You are both a perfect balance of light and darkness, and I have proven it.

Bewildered, the spirit took a step back. Proven what? What do want from me? SPEAK USI! Give Bakura back!

Gladly.

And the spirit watched in growing consternation and bewilderment as the shadows surrounding Usi began to shimmer and fade, receding as the darkness around them resolved itself into the lighter forms and solid shapes of the study in Bakura's family home.

Usi is long gone, spirit, dead for centuries. He never was here, nor did he hold sway over you or I.

The last of the lingering obscurity dissipated, leaving behind a single figure, arms outstretched towards the spirit, soft white hair catching the sunlight that burst through the high windows in a fiery halo, a face alight with pride and gentleness.

The face of Ryou Bakura.

A/N: Bet you weren't expecting that. And never fear, for those that are experiencing a healthy dose of confusion, all shall be explained in the next chapter :)