Disclaimer: Yu-Gi-Oh! is the intellectual property of Kazuki Takahashi and Konami, and is being used in this fanfiction for fan purposes only. No infringement or disrespect of the copyright holders of Yu-Gi-Oh! Or its derivative works is intended by this fanfiction.

Description: An epilogue, starring a certain inconsistency of canon.

Note: The anime's version of the Duelist Kingdom post-tournament wrap-up deviates from the manga. I'll discuss the differences in my DW/LJ post, but for now know that this epilogue tends to the anime version.

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From Page Forty-one, Chapter 7: Epilogue
by Animom

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He'd had bad hangovers before – enough of them that he'd finally started being careful to stop drinking well before room-spinning and nausea – but never one like this. Not only did his body feel faded and half-vaporous, but the light was was much, much too bright. So bright it was painful to think.

The phrase if the light can't get to me it can't hurt me floated by, offering relief. Moving his arm was impossible at first, but as his eyelids continued to broil he became annoyed, which seemed to help him concentrate, and finally the numb limb attached to his shoulder obeyed his command and swung up and across his face.

Shading his eyes lifted him across a threshold of some sort, and made him aware of two things. First, feathery air currents were skimming over his skin, tickling areas that generally weren't open-air; and second, as far as he could tell his back – and backside – were on a rug. He wiggled a little. His skin pronounced the rug to be a very, very expensive silk Tabriz. He wasn't quite sure how he knew that, but he did know that an expensive rug promised that he was probably indoors. Which was reassuring: the only thing that could make being naked and half-blind worse was being run over by a bus or trampled by cattle.

Still, he didn't think it was wise to lie still and wait for events to come to him, so he gathered his resolve, lowered his arm, opened his eyes and, squinting, slowly took in as much of his surroundings as he could without moving his head.

To his right was the frame of a window just at the edge of his field of vision: the source of the hurtful light. Beyond his feet, a jumble of yellow and tan and black and reddish-purple was decoded after a moment into the drawers and underside of a large desk, behind which were fringed magenta draperies, curving away to the left and around a corner into an alcove. Where the drapery ended was a column of white, and to the left of that –

"Cyndia?"

He sat up, the abruptness driving a figurative spike though his head. Groaning, he rested his forehead on his knees until the pain subsided enough for him to risk glancing up – and then he felt silly. It wasn't her. Of course. It couldn't be. It was only a painting … one that he had painted himself, in fact, and hung in his sanctuary at Duelist Kingdom.

He leaned forward slowly until the edge of the desk was within reach, and then used it to pull himself up.

On the desk were six cards: three empty Soul Prison cards –

(he'd used two before he left, one to hold the soul-spark from Yugi-boy's grandfather and one for Kaiba's little brother … but where had these three blank ones come from?)

– and three Duel Monster cards he didn't remember leaving out: The Happy Lover, Mask of Darkness and Doma, the Angel of Silence. Confused, he heard footsteps coming up the spiral staircase behind him, and so he hurried around the right side of the desk and slipped behind the draperies in the corner, holding them across his chest and lower body like a toga.

Croquet's head rose from the stairwell. When he saw Pegasus he stopped and jumped a little. "Mister Pegasus, sir … the winners are looking for you."

It was amusing, the way that Croquet didn't question what his employer was doing lurking naked behind a curtain. I wonder if I pay him enough. "Why?"

"Yugi Mutou wants his prize money go to Joey Wheeler."

"How generous of him." So the tournament is over, and little Yugi won. Interesting. I can't wait to watch the tapes.

"Should I tell him you'll mail it?"

"No, I'll write a check." I wonder how Kaiba is handling being defeated again. Poor boy – clearly he fumbled that duel on the roof.

Croquet was looking at him quizzically. "Are you alright, sir? You don't seem … quite yourself."

"Of course I'm myself. Who else would I be?" Seeing the relief this sharp reply seemed to bring to Croquet was a bit disheartening. "Fetch my checkbook from the desk. Top left drawer."

"Of course," Croquet said as he came the rest of the way up the stairs.

"And a pen?" Pegasus explained. "I … I don't have one on me."

Croquet gasped, staring at something in Cyndia's alcove.

"Well?"

Croquet swiveled his head to looked at him. "Sir … " His face was pale, almost sickly looking. "Where is your Eye?"

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Pegasus decided half an hour later that he really wasn't paying his people enough.

The sight of a second Pegasus slumped on the floor in front of Cyndia's portrait had shocked them both, but oddly Croquet seemed to take it in stride. He'd moved to the body to check for a pulse, and then, shaking his head, had pulled the corpse's hair forward, layering it over the bloody face to hide the horribly-empty left eye socket.

"Who is he?" Croquet had asked, as if he already considered the "dead" Pegasus a copy.

Pegasus had been considering how to answer this. "Well, he's me, in a way, but it's not something that I intend to explain to you at this time."

"Do I need to dispose of the body?" Croquet had asked.

This hadn't occurred to him, but he supposed that the fewer people that saw two Pegasi, the better. "Well, of course."

Croquet had suggested that, after Pegasus was hidden upstairs in the private garret-bedroom at the very top of the sanctuary tower, he would order Kemo to carry the body – which he would say was "Pegasus, unconscious and in shock after a brutal attack" – to the helipad and fly him to a hospital on the mainland. However, once Kemo was en-route he would be told to jettison his passenger into the bay, land the copter somewhere remote, and then lay low for a week.

Pegasus had expressed skepticism at this wild plan, but Croquet had assured him that Kemo was a thug who wouldn't have any qualms about "murdering" Pegasus, especially since he'd assume he could claim that Croquet had ordered him to do it.

"I see," Pegasus had said. "And once I recuperate, Kemo won't bring up the body-dumping – he'll just assume I recovered from the attempted murder and swam to shore or was rescued." It was really quite an elegant plan, although it was dismaying to know that his underlings would be so willing to do away with him.

At any rate, now here he was, Maximillion Pegasus J Crawford, hiding in his garret, waiting for the duelists to leave. He could hear Yugi and his friends milling about in the room below, reading the diary entry he'd quickly written to explain his cruel actions toward Yugi's grandfather.

He strained to hear what they were saying, but it was all a low mumble. He wondered if Kaiba was with them – no, probably not. The silly boy was so anti-social.

Pegasus phoned Croquet. "Did Kaiba leave the island yet?" he asked in a whisper, then listened for a moment. "Wait, what? Let him out of where? Oh, never mind. After you give Yugi-boy the check, give him one of the cards from the armoire in my office … no, it doesn't matter which one. Revolutionary Toon Girl, or Silver-Haired Warrior or Ties of Friendship or Lover's Embrace …. no, on second thought, any of them except that last one. Put it in one of the nice presentation boxes. Make sure to tell him it's one of a kind, and that I wanted him to have it."

He hung up the phone. The card wasn't much, true, but its exclusivity might help soothe a bit of the burn Kaiba must be feeling after being defeated by Yugi for the second time. Perhaps, if he was lucky, Kaiba wouldn't tear the card up, but see it as the combination apology-overture it was meant to be; perhaps, if he was luckier, in a few weeks he could send Kaiba a letter, and perhaps for once it wouldn't be returned unopened, with "REFUSED" written like a faceslap.

He wrinkled his nose. He'd donned a painting smock from the easel downstairs so as not to offend Croquet's tender sensibilities with his nudity, but the fabric reeked of turpentine and he couldn't stand the smell another instant. He slid off the bed, unbuttoning the smock as he and tiptoed across the floor to the wardrobe. As he reached for the wardrobe door he glimpsed his reflection in the mirror.

There was something in the center of his chest.

He opened his smock to get a better look. The smudge was actually a pattern of tiny dots of dried blood overlaid on a blue-violet tint, as if something had been pressed into the skin of his chest hard enough to bruise and abrade, leaving behind the faint but unmistakeable imprint of a butterfly.

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~ The End ~

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A final thank you to Shirohime, who triggered the idea of this epilogue, and to Dark Rabbit, who beta'd and made key suggestions.

Additional author's notes at Dreamwidth and LiveJournal.

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(04) 18 October 2011