Chapter Text
Last Exit For The Lost
Would you pay life’s pleasures to see me?
Does it hurt, for I want you to remain?
Chapter 1
Empty
Something has left my life,
And I don’t know where it went to
Five years had passed since the Millennium Items had been returned to their rightful place. Five years since the thief inside the Millennium Ring had finally left Ryou at peace. Five years of quiet, blissful normalcy - boring, everyday life.
Aside from no longer losing possession of his body on a regular basis, Ryou had not changed overmuch. His baby fat had thinned, leaving his face somewhat gaunt thereby completing the haunted look that his tired eyes, with their dark circles and heavy lids, invoked. Ryou still spent many sleepless nights, sometimes for the usual reason of getting too carried away on a project, and sometimes for the nightmares he still faced, though the being they truly belonged to was long gone.
Ryou’s hair was still long and thick and unruly. On the rare occasion that he went out for a social gathering, he would tease it out, almost as a reminder to himself that once upon a time, this body knew how to be the bold center of attention, even if its current driver was more than happy to keep to himself and to his work. Despite the excitement of his later teen years, these social gatherings came infrequently. His group of friends did not dislike him, but they had never had a good opportunity to grow close over the course of the events that had brought them together. And if Ryou was totally honest with himself, he would also have acknowledged that many of their actions, especially concerning ideas about right and wrong, and how they dealt with his own particular parasite, did not sit well with him. It was hard to believe in their brand of justice when he would often wake before dawn with the image of Kul Elna burning fresh behind his eyelids.
As such, Ryou busied himself with work - namely, working on exhibitions at the Domino City Museum. He had completed his college education, studying equal parts art and history - and with the practical experience on the archaeological field granted to him by his father, he had easily insinuated himself into the background of the museum’s goings-on. Ryou, for all his dreary appearance, was actually rather happy with his job. It afforded him the luxury of working within his interests, creating reproductions, drafting plans, building dioramas - all things that would otherwise be in short supply since he didn’t have friends who were interested in his tabletop games anymore. (And who could blame them? Ryou had to face the ugly scar on his left hand every day, admonishing him for being bitter when friends didn’t come around.)
The normal, pleasant, humdrum life he had yearned for in the years of his sporadic possessions was now his. This pleased him nearly as much as it frustrated him. To say that he was merely lonely would not quite cover the issue at hand, for he frequently sought out seclusion. It would be more accurate to say that he felt lost or invisible; the one person who knew him better than anyone else, the one who had no choice but to acknowledge his existence and live with it, was gone.
~*~
The Afterlife, Bakura had discovered, was like a long, drawn-out, and nearly impossible tabletop game campaign. Time passed differently here, but still Bakura sensed that he had been wandering for years through mazes and tunnels and traps, answering riddles and accepting strange challenges so that he might finally have his heart weighed by Anubis. All this work was just wasted time, he figured, since he would be devoured by Ammit anyway. Zorc had dissipated and left the vengeful thief with his own lonely soul, but Bakura wasn’t convinced that it was untarnished. Zorc had simply fueled his own rage and grief - the desire for revenge had been his own; though perhaps, he had to admit, he wouldn’t have acted so rashly if he hadn’t had all that power at his disposal. Perhaps.
But now was not the time to dwell on regret. He was finally standing before the giant scales, standing before the towering, jackal-headed god of the dead. The monstrous Ammit had posted herself behind Anubis, her narrow maw open to reveal twisted, pointy teeth slick with saliva. This was more or less the image that Bakura had expected. He had not, however, expected the tall black woman, naked to the waist and sporting more gold necklaces than her neck should have been able to support, standing off to the side. And beside her, a small, pale young girl with white hair - a girl Bakura knew well, for he had hidden her watchful presence from his host on many occasions in an effort to spare the poor boy the agony of recalling his grief and loss. She had every right to be there, to watch him as he was devoured for his crimes, chief among them bringing terrible personal turmoil to her beloved brother. Despite being incorporeal at the moment, he felt a sensation similar to his stomach seizing up and fluttering with guilt.
“Hello, Thief,” the child said, and although she bore the body of a girl, her eyes and her voice betrayed her as being far older and far wiser. Bakura swallowed drily.
“Hello, Amane,” he said. His voice was his own now, as was his appearance - lean build, shorter hair, lilac eyes, tanned skin, vicious scar.
“Thank you for taking care of my brother,” Amane replied. When Bakura stepped back with a stricken expression, she continued, “He was very lonely when you came to him. He needed companionship.”
“All I did was bring him pain,” Bakura replied, wondering if perhaps Amane had grown up less than he had thought. The girl shook her head.
“He would have died without you. His grief was pervasive, and his need to be understood left unmet. You kept him living, even if it was often for selfish reasons. So thank you.” Bakura just grunted softly and looked down at his feet. It’s true that it was him, and not Zorc, who had pushed to protect his host even when his own parasite had railed against that wisdom. They had spent too many thousands of years being shuffled from host to host, with none of them being strong enough to house their combined dark thirst. But Ryou was strong enough, and Bakura had found that fascinating.
He looked up again when he heard the jangling of gold jewelry making its way toward him.
“Do you know who I am?” the woman asked when she was standing no more than three feet away from him. She, like Anubis sitting quietly behind his scales, was larger than life-sized; Bakura’s face was met with the soft curve of her belly, which he stared at to avoid looking her in the eye.
“Yes, Great Mother. You are Isis,” he whispered, and he felt ready to cry. How many times had his own mother told him the stories, of Isis and Osiris, of the evil Set, of Ra and Nut? Her soul was now at peace, and his would be tossed into the void. Maybe Isis herself would feed his body to Ammit, piece by piece, for the shame he had brought to Kul Elna. It was more than he deserved.
“Do you know why I am here?” the goddess asked, crouching so that her face was level with Bakura’s, giving him no choice but to look straight into her eyes. He merely shook his head. He had never given much thought to women or to beauty, being far too preoccupied with his mission. But in this moment before damnation, he realized that Isis was beautiful. Dark arching eyebrows hovered over painted eyes and followed downward to a broad, flat nose and full lips; her mahogany skin gave the impression of softness, and her thick hair was heavily perfumed with sandalwood and patchouli oils. Her eyes, deep and dark, were gazing at him kindly, and he could not fathom why.
“Because,” she began, extending a large hand to cup Bakura’s scarred cheek, “Anubis and I have been talking and discovered that you cannot be judged yet. You have not had the opportunity to live your life without a dark influence meddling with your desires.” Bakura began to furrow his brows, his eyes darting from side to side as though he was attempting to read the words she had spoken on the air between them.
“What?” he finally breathed. “I can’t just be devoured? Surely I -” but one of Isis’s dark fingers pressed against his lips, and her eyes twinkled. Amane came forward to stand beside her.
“Ryou needs you. Again,” the girl reported, matter-of-factly.
“Yes,” Isis confirmed, “And you need to live the life you were meant to lead. So you go back.” Bakura whipped his head around to look at Anubis in disbelief. He had long since made peace with his fate, and long had he awaited death.
“It is true,” the imposing god intoned. “You can only be judged by your own intentions, and those have been compromised.”
“I can’t,” Bakura muttered. “He will hate me. I hate me! This...there’s a mistake…”
“Mothers don’t make mistakes,” Isis responded, smiling warmly. She leaned forward and whispered his true, given name in his ear. Bakura felt himself pitching backwards, and the chamber began to fall away.