Tidal Forces

by Erik's Champion

After years of travel and uncertainty, Seto and Mokuba know they only have each other. So what can they do when, thrust into unfamiliar territory and put at the mercy of the future Lord Voldemort, the world seems so determined to tear them apart?

(content warning for brief depictions of violence)

'Mrs. Cole took another swig of gin, slopping a little over her chin this time—'on the summer outing—we take them out, you know, once a year, to the countryside or to the seaside—well, Amy Benson and Dennis Bishop were never quite right afterwards, and all we ever got out of them was that they'd gone into a cave with Tom Riddle. He swore they'd just gone exploring, but something happened in there, I'm sure of it.''

- Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, Chapter 13: The Secret Riddle

''He is with me wherever I go,' said Quirrell quietly. 'I met him when I traveled around the world. A foolish young man I was then, full of ridiculous ideas about good and evil. Lord Voldemort showed me how wrong I was. There is no good and evil, there is only power, and those too weak to seek it…''

- Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone, Chapter 17: The Man With Two Faces

-xxx-

"Too old—that was a common one. Of course, it was never something that anyone dared say out loud. They said it with the way their mouths turned down at the corners, with their stilted laughter and soft, dry palms that gripped Seto's hand just a touch too formally before they quickly pulled away.

'A smart, handsome young man like you will have no trouble finding a home, I'm sure.' One man had said while clapping him on the shoulder. 'It's just that…' his voice trailed off and his eyes darted around the room. 'Our house...is very small—and…'

Seto balled his hands into fists and seethed. A ship ride, two train transfers, and several hundred miles through unfamiliar countryside hadn't put enough distance between him and that memory. Seto still felt hot and red on the back of his neck. His ears were still ringing. He ground his shoulderblades hard into the leather seat and scowled.

Adults who came to the orphanage forgot that it wasn't a petting zoo. They weren't looking for children, they were looking for playthings—wind-up dolls. Pearly-pale creatures with bright, shiny skin and sparkling eyes, small polite motions and unchangeable smiles. They wanted someone still young enough to control-someone still young enough that their memories could be overwritten. A pet that would curl in their lap and gaze up at them adoringly, and in their helpless loyalty their so-called parents would see nothing but their own reflection. It didn't matter what they said as they stepped over the threshold and filled out their paperwork-everyone always came in looking for the same thing: a shiny, gold, living, breathing, laughing testament to their own righteous virtue.

Seto could see through all that, and he wasn't going to fall for it. And they could tell. He was too critical of everything, too smart, too opinionated. Too old. He was a lost cause. He was already set marching down the path to adulthood and now there was nothing anyone could do to stop him. Seto chuckled under his breath. When they said 'too old' what they really meant was 'too dangerous.' They were afraid.

'We'll have better luck at the next place,' he had told Mokuba after the latest couple had left. Mokuba had nodded earnestly, either not remembering that this is what Seto had said about the last three 'next places'—or choosing to forget. In any case, he hadn't raised a fuss three days before when their caretaker had wrenched them from their beds and ushered them into the back of a cab.

'Where are we going this time?' Seto had asked.

'Wool Orphanage.'

'Where is that? I've never heard of it.'

'England.'

Seto had furrowed his brow. 'There wasn't anywhere closer that would take us?'

The caretaker had given him a skeptical look then stared firmly out the window. Seto had glared and sucked his teeth. Adults were always pretending that they couldn't see him, the moment he started showing signs of being difficult.

Their guardian had remained silent and immobile. As they rocked over the water on their way to the mainland, watching the lights of the city jump up and down along the horizon. As the grinding of the train against the rails picked up and the city began to turn tail and retreat from them. The streets and the shops and the office blocks had run up the hillside and vanished, chased off, perhaps, by the train's horn that rent a hole in the cold quiet, by the billowing tail of thick black smoke that coiled around and choked them. Seto could feel the rumbling beneath him all the time. He kept his body rigid in his seat and every jolt set his teeth. Mokuba, in contrast, had melted into the motion and fallen asleep on Seto's shoulder, just after they had boarded the ship.

And that was how he had remained throughout their journey. The cities and fields and small lonely houses rushing past their window had all consumed each other and ceased to exist. The sun had circled them again and again and pinned them to the earth. It had stared at them as they slid over valleys and tunneled through mountains, melting Seto's clothes down his back. And even at night he kept squinting, kept his eyes shaded, certain that they were being stalked.

Mokuba had missed all that. Their bodies were on the shores of Shanghai, making a midnight transfer in Minsk, and then they were in Paris and preparing to burrow like an earthworm under the English Channel, but Mokuba had shut his eyes and remained huddled and trembling on the docks of Yokohama, alternating between trying to make out the stars, trying to listen for the foghorn, and gazing up at Seto's face. Their fingers had been intertwined and icy cold, and then they had boarded the ship, locked behind an airtight seal, and Mokuba had fallen asleep. From then on, Seto had carried him.

Seto pressed his hand against his forehead. It was hot, and some of his fine dark hairs clung to his skin, shiny and damp. Seto watched as his eyes moved behind his eyelids and his lips quivered, as if he were struggling to speak. Seto reached for his hand and squeezed it—that was hot, too, and slick, almost too soft.

'We're almost there, Mokuba,' he said. Or tried to say—his throat was dry and he spoke in a hoarse whisper. Seto nudged his shoulder. 'It's time to wake up.' Mokuba twitched but didn't wake. Seto coughed and repeated 'Mokuba,' a bit louder, just as the train came to a stop that sent them all sliding forward.

Mokuba's eyes flashed open and he gasped, flailing for Seto's arm and shoulder. He blinked several times then rubbed his eyes and blinked again. 'Where are we?'

'Almost there.' Seto sighed, glancing out the window. They were in a city again—the buildings so alarmingly close together and tall. 'Can you stand?' He asked Mokuba quietly, casting a glance at their caretaker, who was unloading their bags.

Mokuba nodded.

'Are you sure?'

Mokuba didn't reply, but slowly eased himself out of his seat and onto his trembling legs. He thrust his hand out behind him for Seto to hold then squeezed it, leaning heavily into the crook of his arm.

'Alright, just follow me,' Seto muttered, leading him to the train door. 'Try to walk quickly.'

They stumbled out of the train and into the back of another big black car. They kept catching glimpses of the last of the evening light—burning a bright, smoky blue—sneaking between buildings and lurking down the long, narrow streets. But as the car continued on all the color slowly drained from the sky until all that was left was a rich, deep black, and—when they passed under a streetlight—streaks of sallow off-white that stretched over them like the long bars of a cage. They slipped over a river and began to peel away from the center of the city.

'I was asleep for a long time, huh?'

Seto nodded. 'Yeah, you were.'

'So where are we?'

'In London, I think.'

Mokuba wrinkled his nose. 'That's so far.'

'I know.'

Mokuba bit his bottom lip and wriggled his fingers against Seto's palm. They rode in silence for several minutes, gliding through the dark. Mokuba pressed his head into Seto's shoulder. 'I want to go back to sleep.'

'You have to wait until we get there.'

'I know.' Mokuba swallowed. His throat was burning, and the inside of his nose. He tried to swallow up all of the strange, cool air around them, but it didn't soothe him. 'I had the weirdest dream…'

There was a hard tap on the window and a flashlight pointed into their faces that turned the world a dizzying white. A figure in the window moved its arm, gesturing for them to get out of the car.

The door opened and Seto took a cautious step out onto the pavement. He looked up and down the road then motioned for Mokuba to follow, guiding him by the arm.

They followed their guardian's silhouette down a long, narrow hall to a narrow wooden desk with a stack of leather-bound books and a luggage cart. She was standing at the desk, talking to the manager and showing her Seto and Mokuba's papers. They leaned above Seto and Mokuba's heads, signing forms and stamping all the appropriate boxes to transfer the two of them into someone else's control. Their faces were obscured and they seemed to share one broad back, one sharp pair of shoulders, and four long arms that moved quickly in all directions.

She motioned for them to step forward. 'Seto,' she announced, setting her hand on the top of his head and digging her fingers into his scalp. 'Mokuba.' Her other hand clenched around Mokuba's shoulder.

The manager pointed to Mokuba and said something.

'She wants to know if he's sick.' She titled Mokuba's chin back and brushed the hair away from his face, then turned his head from side to side. 'He looks sick.'

'He's perfectly fine!' Seto snapped, trying to push her hands away. 'Don't touch him!'

'He looks sick. Didn't he sleep the whole way over here? And he feels hot.'

'He's fine.' Seto repeated. 'Right, Mokuba?'

Mokuba nodded quickly. Too quickly. His vision went dark in the corners and he began to tilt backwards. Seto tugged him forward.

The manager was staring at them. 'He's not sick,' Seto said. She continued staring.

'She doesn't want him here if he's sick,' she said. 'He will infect the other children.'

'I know that! But it's not a problem because he's not sick.'

The two women continued talking.

Seto tugged Mokuba closer and locked his legs straight, trying to plant their feet into the floor. We're not leaving.

'She says that you can stay for now, but he has to stay in a separate room. Away from the other children.'

Mokuba's eyes widened. He pressed into Seto's side.

'I'm staying with him.'

'You will get sick, too.'

'Then I'll be sick.'

'And you will stay away from the other children.'

Seto nodded. 'I stay with him.'

The women exchanged a look and shrugged. Their old guardian left and the manager stood on the other side of her desk. Her entire face was frowning—even her shoulders slumped down in discontent. She jabbed a thermometer under Mokuba's tongue and pressed her hand against his forehead. She said something and when neither of them responded she said it again.

Mokuba's eyes were slipping closed, his skin was pale, hot, and shining. The walls around him were soft and swimming, and gently telling him that he could be soft and swimming, too, if only he would close his eyes a little bit further. Seto was shaking his arm, telling him not to do that. The manager was walking away and then motioning for them to follow.

They were standing, shivering, under a big yellow-green light dangling from the ceiling of a big dark white room. Seto was holding his hand with one hand and covering his pocket with the other. She looked down at them, scowling. She held out her hand, palm up. Give it to me.

Seto had swallowed all the color out of his face and he was shaking his head and trying to stand taller and cower away at the same time. She shook her head harder. You can't take that with you.

This orphanage said they weren't allowed their own toys and that woman wanted it. She didn't know that it wasn't a toy. She kept holding out her hand and it seemed to grow larger and larger until it was the only thing in the room.

And then they were sitting on the end of the bed. Mokuba slowly turned his head to Seto's face—dark blue and black and white in the darkness. He was twisting and untwisting the sheets, his nose wrinkled and mouth curled down in a large, jagged line.

'Seto...did they take our card away?'

Seto nodded. He thrust the sheet away and flung himself back on the bed, arms sprawled at his sides. He slammed his hands against the bed and it jumped.

'Adults are the worst.'

Mokuba nodded and lay down beside him. They were sharing one pillow. So close that Mokuba could feel Seto's heat seeping across it, and the large dent he made in the mattress. It sagged in the center and that pulled them even closer together. His skin was buzzing.

Seto was scowling at the ceiling. 'I want it back! She had no right!'

Mokuba nodded again, his head leaning against Seto's shoulder. 'Am I sick?'

'Of course not.'

'They said I was sick, didn't they?'

Seto seethed for a moment before replying. 'They were only saying that. Adults will say anything.' Seto swallowed then fell silent.

Mokuba could feel it when Seto's eyes closed. When Seto's eyes were closed the room became larger and their bed sank further into the floor. When Seto's eyes were closed Mokuba felt like he didn't fit any of the furniture. Mokuba couldn't think of any sound that was louder than the absence of Seto's voice when he should have been able to hear it. No one was stiller than Seto when he should have been moving.

Mokuba nudged him. 'Are you asleep?'

'No...of course not…' Seto spoke like he couldn't feel his tongue. Maybe he wasn't using it at all.

Mokuba shook Seto's arm. 'Don't fall asleep!'

Seto's mouth opened and closed. 'I'm not.'

Seto was disappearing. His breath was slowing down. His eyes were sealing shut. One by one his limbs were shutting down. His arms and legs jerked right before they froze in place, as if some part of them were making a final effort to escape, to avert the catastrophe. And Seto must know that he was melting down, Mokuba realized, because his mouth was still moving but he wasn't speaking any words. He was snapping his jaw, making strange shapeless noises—as if me was speaking with his liver instead of his mouth.

'Seto…' Mokuba didn't like that he could still see Seto while Seto couldn't see him. He didn't like that he could keep calling his name and Seto wouldn't hear. He didn't like his still face. Mokuba reached for his shoulder, to try to shake him awake, and found that his hand sunk deeper and deeper into an intense, cool feeling without ever touching anything solid. Seto was a shadowscape of light and darkness that dissolved between his fingers, nothing more than a heavy fog.

'Seto,' Mokuba said again. 'I can't sleep. Seto!' He couldn't hear his own voice clearly—it was either far too soft or unbearably loud. He felt like he could yell until his throat was raw and Seto—no one—would ever hear him again. 'Seto…' he said again. 'Please wake up…'

Mokuba may have squeezed his eyes shut and buried his face in the crook of his arm. He wasn't sure what exactly he had done, but the room was suddenly darker and harder to see and Mokuba only wanted to see less of it. He bunched his shoulders up around his ears and tried to make his body rigid. Even breathing would expose him. But now he regretted not crawling under the blanket when he had first lied down because his wrists and his ankles were small and pale and entirely exposed and far too large to go unseen. He tried to reach for the blanket now but his arms were frozen at his sides, his fingers immobile and impotent, his eyes glued open and fixed on the ceiling. He wanted to close them. He thought that he had.

'Are you afraid?'

Mokuba didn't know where that voice had come from. He felt it coming from all directions at once, but especially from the water stains on the ceiling. Mokuba stared at the biggest one, looming right above his head, and could tell that it was glaring at him. And getting bigger.

'You'll only become more afraid.' The voice said. 'Coward.' It added.

Mokuba wanted to say something to argue but his mouth was sealed shut. He couldn't even feel it.

'Mo-kuuuu-ba…' He had never felt so repulsed by the sound of his own name. Ashamed. 'Do you think that I would not know you were here?' It laughed. 'Oh no—you can't hide from me. You're a stupid, dirty, careless little creature and I WILL FIND YOU ANYWHERE YOU GO.'

Mokuba wasn't sure if the voice was getting louder of if he was getting smaller. He felt like he was about to be crushed by it.

'DO NOT THINK THAT YOU CAN EVADE ME. I AM MUCH OLDER THAN YOU. I KNOW EVERY HIDING PLACE ON EARTH.'

Mokuba remembered a summer afternoon sitting on the back patio. He had been leaning against the fence while the other children played, and he could see their feet flashing across the yard, approaching him, then quickly turning and drawing away. A long line of beady black ants was crawling on the ground. He had put down his thumb and squashed one.

'I WILL OUTLIVE YOU AND SEE YOU GROUND TO DUST.'

There was a small, sticky black smudge left behind on the pavement. The other ants subtly diverted their path in order to avoid it, but they kept coming—in one continuous, unstoppable stream. They were moving faster now, if anything. Mokuba kept trying to turn his head but no matter what direction he tried to look the sight followed him—no matter what direction he tried to face he saw nothing but that black, beady line of ants crawling and crawling across the ground, their heads tilted down, antennae twitching, completely unaware of and indifferent to the murder that had just transpired before them, paying only enough notice to solicitously step around it.

'Are you afraid?'

Mokuba felt a door flung open. The sun and the ants were gone, and the close dampness of his bed and the darkness of the room were a sudden relief. The voice was gone, and replaced by a small, pale pink face that was gazing down on him. Mokuba did not recognize him, but he felt familiar. He tried to squint up at that face, but it never fully resolved.

'There's no need to be afraid,' he said. 'Now that I'm here.'

The boy pressed his hand against Mokuba's forehead, and at first Mokuba couldn't feel it at all, then his entire face began to tingle.

'Something terrible has been here,' he explained. 'But I will send it away for you. But you have to help me.'

Mokuba nodded.

'Good,' the boy sighed. 'All you have to do is keep calm, and breathe gently. There is a powerful dark spirit in your body; I am going to draw it out.'

The tingling feeling spread down his shoulders and his spine, down the backs of this thighs and into his toes, making his entire body feel warm and prickly. Then the feeling passed, and he was completely silent and still. Now he could feel the boy's hand on his forehead—dry, warm, and soft. He could map out the lines on his palm. He realized that he was cold and tugged a blanket around his shoulders and hugged his knees to his chest. He glanced to his side and saw Seto sleeping. Mokuba watched his chest rise and fall for a long time.

'Do you feel better now?' The boy asked.

Mokuba nodded. 'How did that thing get inside me?'

'It happens around here quite often. This place is haunted, you know.' Mokuba must have looked shocked, because the boy laughed softly then continued to explain. 'Thirty years ago there was an outbreak of pneumonia and nearly half the children died. The rest only managed to survive because they happened to get adopted right before the worst of it hit. Or they ran away. I don't know what happened to them but it can't have been anything good. And the whole thing was covered up right away—I'm sure you can imagine. The spirits of the ones that died here still reside in this building. They try to sneak into the bodies of unsuspecting children such as yourself and—it's good that I was able to find you in time.' He paused for a moment. 'You just arrived here, didn't you?'

Mokuba nodded. 'My brother and I just arrived last night...or this morning...I couldn't really tell…'

'You weren't feeling well when you arrived, were you?'

Mokuba looked away and shook his head, but said nothing.

'Why was that?'

Mokuba's mouth suddenly felt very large and very clumsy. But he cast a quick glance at the boy, who smiled, and this made him smile as well—if only a little.

'I don't like moving…'

'Why not?'

'I miss being at home…' He hunched his neck into his shoulders. 'I miss having my own home.'

'How long ago did your parents die? ...Or—I'm sorry—perhaps-?'

'I don't remember.' Mokuba said, somewhat louder than he had intended. 'It was a long time ago...and I was really little...I don't remember a lot about them…'

'So you've been an orphan for quite a long time.'

Mokuba nodded. 'We've been to a lot of different places, but we've never come this far before.' He wrinkled his nose. 'I don't like it here.'

The boy laughed and sat down on the end of the bed. 'Can I tell you a secret, Mokuba?' He leaned forward slightly. 'I don't like it here, either.'

Mokuba pulled himself up slightly to kneel on his knees, blanket still wrapped tightly around his shoulders. 'How long have you lived here?'

He scoffed. 'If you could call it living—too long. My first night was terrible, like yours. Mrs. Cole kept insisting that I had headlice and wouldn't let me go near any of the other children until she had been given the opportunity to nearly boil all my hair off. And she was so afraid that I might contaminate the others that I had no pillow, no blanket.' He scoffed, and ran his fingers through his hair. 'I didn't even have headlice. It was all in her deranged imagination...it took me quite a while to set her right.'

'She said that I was sick, too!'

'And wouldn't let you meet the others?'

'No...she even wanted to split me and Seto up…'

'I'm not surprised. That's what they do here. They try to take away everything that matters most to you—so that you have to prostrate yourself before them and beg to get it back.' He inhaled sharply and his entire body tightened, his back and arms locked and rigid. 'They want you completely at their mercy—ignorant, helpless, easy to pack up in boxes and move...I still remember...when I arrived here she took away my books and my pens, just because she could..'

'I know!' Mokuba surged forward and almost grabbed his wrist. 'She took away our card! The one I drew for Seto of our favorite dragon! For no reason!'

His voice softened. 'I'm sorry. It sounds like it was very important to you.'

'It was…' Mokuba slumped back down. 'And to Seto, too. It keeps us together, and without it...' His voice broke and he could just barely glance at Seto's strange, immobilized body. 'I hate it here…'

The boy was watching Seto, but then he turned back to Mokuba. 'Neither do I. It's terrible here. The staff and managers—they take away the things you love with no prompting and for no reason, other than because they can and they know we can't do anything about it. They will disappear completely, just for the pleasure of leaving you to fend for yourself.' For a moment the boy seemed very cold and rigid. Then he edged closer, and put his hand on top of Mokuba's, and his eyes were very bright. 'They're wrong, though.'

'Wrong about what?'

'Adults are not as powerful as they think.' Mokuba could just see the glint of his teeth as he smiled. 'They're...not as powerful as me.' He paused. 'Mokuba, what if I told you that there was a way to get your dragon back—and keep you and your brother together?'

Mokuba started and clutched his hand. 'Is there?'

The boy narrowed his eyes and slowly scrutinized Mokuba's face. 'There might be, if you're the kind of person that I think you are. You see, Mokuba, I can do things that most other people can't. I can hear things that other people don't hear, and see things that other people don't see. I can make people do what I want, and I can make things come back to me…' There was a strong gust of wind just outside the window. The air whistled and rattled the glass against the frame. 'I think, if you let me teach you, I could show you how to make the things you want come back, and send the things you hate away forever.'

'How do I do that?' The boy's face was so close to him now that Mokuba could feel his breath on his cheek. It was cool, and made him shiver. His hand felt cold as well, and Mokuba wondered if he should draw away. But just as the intention was beginning to cross his mind the boy's skin suddenly heated up; it almost seemed to glow.

'Stand up,' he said. 'And follow me.'

Mokuba followed him into the center of the room. A circle of light fell upon him. It was dim at first, but then began to brighten. Mokuba looked out the window and saw the moon rise, closer and larger and more intensely bright than he had ever seen it before. The boy watched Mokuba watch it.

'The moon moves water all over the surface of the earth without ever touching it,' he said. 'If you want your dragon back, you will have to learn to move things the same way. You can move anything anyway you wish, without ever going near it, if you use the right kind of force. Start here—' he pointed toward the center of the ceiling. 'Touch that.'

Mokuba was still for several moments, considering. It was too high to jump, and something in the smug curve of the boy's lips and the pinpricks of light in his eyes told him that he would laugh at him if he tried. Then, the boy began to levitate. His feet were swinging above Mokuba's head. He looked down on Mokuba and his smile, now painted in crisp moonlight relief, grew wider. He tapped the center of the ceiling.

'Do it, Mokuba!'

Mokuba bit his lip. He tried to think light thoughts. He tried to think of his feet lifting gracefully off the ground. He tried to think of himself sailing through the sky, buoyant as a cloud. None of it worked, so he tried to think harder. The boy was looking down at him and urging him upwards, but at the same time his face was falling—he was losing faith; and Mokuba's chance of reclaiming the dragon that was rightfully his was slipping away.

He tried jumping. He did not make it far. And he was right: the boy did laugh at him for it. Mokuba hated the sound of his laughter. It was loud and humiliating. It sounded like the bells they rang to call children to dinner or send them off to bed—it was the sound of being at someone's mercy. Mokuba scowled, and balled his fists, and thrust up his arm to try and hit that boy in the jaw, but instead he grabbed hold of the ceiling and yanked it down to his feet.

There was a loud crash and a rush of air. Mokuba's eyes had been closed, and when he opened them again there was no ceiling anymore; they were standing under the stars, surrounded by a fine silver mist. Mokuba looked over his shoulder—Seto was still sleeping.

'That was very good,' the boy chuckled, straightening his clothes. He nodded approvingly. 'You're quite clever, after all.'

Mokuba squared his shoulders and didn't quite look back at him. His back became a little straighter, but he certainly did not smile. 'What does this have to do with getting my dragon back?'

The boy smiled and stretched out his fingers and gently floated back down to the floor. 'You take that feeling that you used to get hold of the ceiling and direct it at a different object.'

'I just think it?'

He shook his head. 'No, you don't just think it!' He leaned in closer, till their foreheads nearly touched. 'You want it.'

'Alright.' Mokuba took a step away and cleared his throat. 'I don't need you telling me what to do!' He thrust out his arms, as if trying to draw a circle between him and the rest of the world that would keep all distracting thoughts away. He tried to remain calm, to breathe slowly and precisely. But that, of course, didn't work. His body didn't still under the pearly moonlight; his breath didn't slide evenly and invisibly into the silence. He felt torrential. I am going to get it back.

Mokuba closed his eyes and reached out his hand. His fingertip just grazed the finest of threads, so thin that he almost missed it completely. He gently stretched out his fingers, one at a time, and let them rest at the very edge, then pulled. The thread was strong, and springy, and when he pulled it he felt the whole room shift and cinch tight around him. This thread was tied up with another, and another one to that, and they stretched and slid past each other as Mokuba continued to pull. He was the center of their web, and the card was out there somewhere, tied to a thread that was wrapped around the door handle, that ran down the floor and clung to the wall, up the stairs, between the floorboards, and under the door of the manager's office, that wound itself around the leg of her desk and fit through the keyhole of the large center drawer. All he had to do was open it.

With a twist of his fingers, he could unlock the drawer. It made a clicking sound that should have awoken her, but she was tired and continued dreaming. Bending his wrist, he could twist the threads and the drawer slid open. His card was buried under paperwork and other confiscated goods, but these items slid aside and let the card fall onto the floor. Into the hall and down the stairs, the card should have attracted the notice of the cleaners and the kitchen staff and the few children who were tossing and turning on their beds, unable to sleep. But they rubbed their eyes and blinked slowly and let it pass, perhaps with a shiver, perhaps with a dazzled and disbelieving glance, and they let it continue on it's way, perhaps because they were not used to this sort of thing happening and they did not know how to respond-or perhaps because they were far too used to it already, and preferred to let it happen quietly.

The thread vibrated against his fingertips, and as a card grew closer it began to heat up and shake. His hand was burning, his eyes flew open just as the dragon was beginning to descend upon him.

He felt it first as a gust of warm, dry wind that whipped across his face. Then he saw the undersides of its wings stretched out above him. The dragon was so bright and blazing that it washed out the stars, or perhaps, Mokuba thought, it had tempted them out of the sky completely. For when it turned in mid-flight to face him Mokuba saw that it's eyes were like the sun. They were brilliant and so fire-hot that Mokuba could not bring himself to look at them directly; it made his eyes burn. And when it opened its mouth—the most incredible sound—a roar like a thunderclap—the immense sound of a large, angry sky.

Mokuba shuddered as it landed at his feet. The whole world shuddered. Then it kneeled before him, and bowed. It was still breathing hard, and it was hot—Mokuba could tell just by looking. Its skin was slick and shiny with semi-transparent sweat, a long trail of milky saliva was dangling off its chin. When it shook and folded its wings Mokuba could feel the air sweep over him and sweep him up, and felt, for a moment, that he was soaring.

He wanted to touch it.

'Look! Look, Seto!' He cried, rushing to the side of the bed. 'Look at what happened! I wanted to bring our card back but—look!—it's a Blue Eyes! A real one!' He reached for Seto's shoulder to shake him awake, but his hand continued reaching and reaching and merely plunging further into the darkness. He couldn't reach him. 'Wake up, Seto!...Wake up…'

Mokuba turned from Seto's face to the dragon beside the bed to the boy who was standing to the side, watching it all.

'Why won't he wake up?'

The boy came closer and leaned in close over Seto's face, watching him breathe.

'Why can't I touch him?' Mokuba's voice rose. 'What's wrong?! You said that if I brought our dragon back, then—'

'I know what I said, Mokuba,' he snapped. 'He must have taken this harder than I thought.'

'So what—'

'I'm thinking!' The boy paced the room with his hands clasped behind his back, hardly taking note of the dragon still crouched in the center of the room. With a flourish of his hand it disappeared, immersing them again in darkness.

'What did you—'

'I have another idea: tomorrow, they'll wake us all up early to take us to the coast. There's a beach there, and a cliff. I'll meet you there, and I will show you what you need to do to really get your dragon back. Do you understand?'

Mokuba nodded.

'Good. Now then,' he was back at Mokuba's side, leaning into his ear. 'WAKE UP!'

-xxx-

The road was rough. Seto and Mokuba jostled together at the elbows and knees and clenched their jaws shut tight. Seto's eyes were open now, but barely, and unfocused. He stared straight ahead, at the back of the head of the woman who had taken his card away. His gaze never shifted, and every time she turned to speak to one of the children his back stiffened and his lip curled.

Mokuba watched him. Under the dim light of the early morning he had been gray and blue and still somewhat soft and untouchable. But as the sun climbed higher and the narrow streets opened up and gave way to the countryside the bags under his eyes grew deeper and darker, the skin around his forehead thinner and papery. He looked like the first layer of skin on his face had been burned off in the night, and now what remained was raw and ugly, unfit for exposure to the sunlight.

There was so much sunlight here. It shimmered on the grass and made it glow golden. It bounced painfully hot and white off the slick black hood of the car and made every surface too hot to touch and every color too bright and brilliant to look at. Mokuba squinted and tried to shade his eyes and turn away, but Seto continued looking ahead, even as if eyes began to water.

The silhouettes of the other children sizzled in the air around them. Mokuba couldn't make out a word that they were saying—the unceasing chatter made his head ache. He was hot and itchy and felt fit only for attracting flies. And then he heard it, a cool rush of a voice in his ear: 'Just wait, Mokuba, we're almost there.'

He tried to keep his voice low, but there was no point—Seto wasn't listening. 'How will I find you?'

'Don't worry about that. You will recognize me.'

Mokuba nodded. His eyes, still half-closed and unfocused, slid around the interior of the car, over the faceless figures. 'Where are you now?'

'For now, I am wherever you are.'

The car stopped in a wide green field and the children staggered out. Mokuba and Seto climbed out together and stood in the knee-high grass. They were facing each other, but Mokuba could not see him clearly. Seto had no outline. He was green like the long grass and brown like the dust wafting off the road. He was silver like haze that stretched over the sky. He might have opened his mouth to speak, but Mokuba could only hear a dry, endless rushing, like a wasp. He took a step closer and tried to look in Seto's face, but the harder he peered up into it the less of a face it became. He was just swathes of color, a mirage that, upon close inspection, dissolved into steam.

Mokuba stumbled backward. He clutched his chest and was breathing hard. He wanted to scream, to point and call everyone to come running and look. But his throat was dry and his voice was a small, pathetic croak. He wrung his hands and tried to run, but the ground pooled around his feet and held him there. He stood breathless and stammering, too heavy to lift and with no one to lean on.

'Breathe, Mokuba,' the voice enjoined. 'It's time for us to go.' When Mokuba hesitated, he said it again, somewhat less patiently. 'Come with me.'

Mokuba was walking across the grass and Seto became a thin shadow standing among the trees."

"Seto…" Seto started. He must have lost track of time—it had become very dark. And quiet. The silence, and the way that Mokuba's voice broke it, disturbed him.

He whispered, so that Mokuba would know to whisper, too. "What is it?"

Mokuba didn't whisper. "I-I wouldn't just leave you like that!" He was almost sitting upright in bed now, and looked very far from falling asleep.

Seto paused. He could hear a clock ticking somewhere downstairs. "Even if it was to help me? To get our dragon back?"

Mokuba paused for longer. "You wouldn't leave me."

Seto shifted in his chair. "It's a story. Do you want to find out what happens?" Mokuba nodded. "Good. Just keep listening." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Where was I…?"

"We were standing in the grass."

"Right. Mokuba was still standing in the grass.

'I can't just leave Seto here,' he said.

The voice sighed. 'Do you want to break the curse that is consuming him?' It asked.

'I do! But…' Mokuba reached for Seto's wrist but didn't quite touch it. 'Seto wouldn't leave me…'

'Even if that was what he had to do to save you?'

'He wouldn't!' Mokuba insisted.

'Are you so sure about that?'

'He would find a way to take me with him.'

'Well, Mokuba,' the voice said. 'The path that I want to lead you down is only wide enough for one. That is the way that I am going—you can follow or not, as you like.'

Mokuba could hear his voice grow smaller and more distant as he spoke, and the grass seemed to bend over in the places where Mokuba imagined his feet would be as he walked away. Then he was alone, surrounded by a circle of children kicking a ball around and calling to each other like birds, accompanied only by Seto's mute and shapeless face. Mokuba couldn't bring himself to look at anything. He couldn't stand to leave it, but he couldn't stay, either.

'Wait!' He called out, unsure if the boy would still be able to hear him. 'Wait for me, I'll follow you.'

He walked away.

The air was different here. It was clear, fast, jagged, and cold. It whipped and roared and chapped his face. He continued walking, following a pull coming from the center of his chest, until he came to a line where the earth suddenly stopped.

'What is that?' He whispered. But he could not hear his own voice. He only heard the rushing.

Mokuba bent forward and peered over the edge of the earth, down, into the rushing. He saw and endless swathe of dark blue, almost completely smooth, at its furthest reaches all but indistinguishable from the sky. And then directly below his feet, the blue was broken and snarling, foaming at the mouth and barring an endless row of sparkling white teeth. Mokuba stared down into it. The blue would peel away from him, exposing the rough, naked surface of the land, then, after a tense silence, would thrust itself forward, higher, and higher, reaching and reaching up for him before finally collapsing under its own weight. Mokuba could feel the collapse inside him, too, and was surprised that he did not go careening forward and down, headfirst into the water.

He took a step backward and his foot shattered something small. He looked down and saw a row of small white bones. He crouched down and parted the grass. Under the grass and a thin layer of dirt there was an irregular matrix of sunbleached fishbones and fragments of shiny, pale purple-pink shells. There were strange yellow chunks of rock that Mokuba had never seen before—light and porous and pummeled through with smooth black stones and ridged chunks of calcium carbonate.

The boy spoke to him again. 'A thousand years ago this whole area was under water. Can you imagine that?'

The voice told him to follow a steep, narrow path down the face of the cliff. He slipped often and had to grasp at exposed roots and protruding rocks. He pulled them loose occasionally, and flinched at the flood of hot, dry dirt that poured down his arms and shoulders. Occasionally he was not able to reach a hand-hold quickly enough, or the hand-hold itself did not prove stable, and he skidded downward several feet, badly scraping his palms. All the while, the field and the car and the brother that he had left behind were compressed into a thin black edge, the other side of which he could not see.

The tide had gone out by the time Mokuba reached the bottom of the cliff. The rushing had succumbed to a barren silence. He had no idea where the boy might be trying to lead him, beyond the shadow of the cliff there was nothing.

'It's this way,' he said, as if he has heard him. 'We have to move quickly—it's a secret place, and we can only reach it when the tide is out.'

Mokuba was walking on the ocean floor with no ocean. Air bubbles popped under his feet, leaving small, black holes that gaped open like open mouths. The sand, too, shifted and shivered as he walked on it, first softening his footprints and then erasing them completely.

The ground was pockmarked with puddles, smooth and pale as mirrors—but not still. The bottom of every puddle was crawling with small semi-transparent creatures that shuffled over the grains of sand, looking for a place to hide. They were shaped like things that ought to have remained hidden, and Mokuba shuddered to look at them. Schools of small fish that moved like soft, brown shadows, long, oily ribbons of seaweed that were already attracting flies, and, stuck on its back, a small white crab, whose thin, too many white legs flailed in every direction as it struggled to right itself—furiously, as if it were possessed. Mokuba watched it for quite a while as it struggled, then continued walking.

He didn't think to look back. Everything that was behind him seemed to no longer exist, or to only exist as a kind of distant blur. It was only him and the boy's voice out on the wide, open sand, and the voice was becoming stronger. It rung all around him, wordlessly, in the blue that thickened on the horizon, with a metallic, hollow sound, as if Mokuba was circling the inside of an empty drum whose top was being covered with sand. Mokuba had to bite back his hand from reaching out to touch it, so intently did he feel that the slightest movement of his finger might cause the boy to crystalize everywhere around him.

The mouth of the cave also looked like something that ought to have remained hidden. It was an open wound in the cliff face, still dark and dripping. And it smelled rotten. Mokuba hesitated at the threshold, one hand on the jagged wall, peering into the wall of black. He asked the boy how far he had to go. The boy told him he would know when to stop.

'Are you afraid to go inside?'

Mokuba shook his head. 'Seto needs me to do this.' He said. 'He wouldn't be afraid—if he were in my place.' But he didn't move.

For a moment everything was quite still. Then the boy spoke again. 'I think that he would be quite afraid...without you, he is more vulnerable than you think.' Mokuba did not understand how this could be. 'Do you know, Mokuba,' the voice continued, 'That you would have already been adopted if it weren't for him?' Mokuba shook his head. 'Oh, but it's true. At your last home, in Matsue, there was a young couple that came in looking for a sweet, young child of just your age and temperament, and they would have loved to take you home, but Seto insisted that the two of you had to be adopted together. He was too forceful, too persistent, and he succeeded in only driving them away.' He paused. Mokuba could hear water dripping off the walls of the cave. 'You're here now because of his selfish interference. He is the originator of all your unhappiness and all your fear.'

Mokuba felt dizzy. The boy's voice was unrelenting. 'If you can face the challenge that waits for you in that cave, and if you can come out of it, then you'll have such immense power that your brother will no longer be able to control your destiny.'

Mokuba was shivering now, and his voice trembled. 'I don't want to lose him.'

'Oh, no!' Mokuba felt a soft, salty breeze caressing his face, like a gentle hand passing over him and petting his hair. 'You won't lose him, Mokuba. Just the opposite. You will find a sweet, happy family that will want you forever—a family that will want both of you. And Seto will know that it was you that refused to abandon him as a lost cause when you had every opportunity to leave, and that it was you that sacrificed your every available opportunity for happiness. And he will love you—forever.' Mokuba felt something kneel at his side and tuck a strand of hair behind his ear. 'The two of you will never have to be apart. You would like that, wouldn't you?'

Mokuba nodded. He felt as if a lake had pooled in his chest, and his heart rippled with emotion.

'Alright. All you have to do is go into the cave. You can still hear me, can't you? I'll tell you what to do.'

'I can hear you.'

'Good.' The boy's voice picked up and began to float away from him. 'All you have to do is follow my voice.'

'Why can't I see you?' Mokuba kept one hand against the wall of the cave. 'I can't see anything!'

'Be patient. Your eyes will adjust—you'll be able to see everything that you need to. Take your hand off the wall.'

'I-I'm afraid that I'll get lost…'

Mokuba felt something come up behind him and hold his hand.

'Just follow me, Mokuba. Don't worry about anything else.'

He nodded, and continued walking, his hand still held out before him. The mouth of the cave diminished into a small white point over his shoulder; if he kept his breath incredibly quiet he could hear the metallic rush of water against the cold rock—he couldn't tell if the sound was coming from beyond the cave or somewhere deep inside it. The ground was damp and uneven, as was the ceiling, a subtle tingling along his spine was often the only warning he had that he was about to hit his head on a low-hanging rock. He tried to keep his eyes focused on his hand out in front, but it looked like little more than a strange pale shape floating against a background of solid black. He could feel his arm twist slightly as he was pulled along the curving walls of the cave, but it was a remote feeling, as if it were happening to someone whose arm he simply happened to be attached to. When Mokuba thought to bend or straighten his fingers then those on the hand in front of him would move as well, but that seemed little more than a happy accident.

'Was I sick?' he asked. 'Maybe I'm still sick now…'

'Of course you weren't,' the voice snapped. 'They told you you were sick because they wanted you to be afraid of yourself and discount your own judgment.' As he spoke Mokuba felt his pace quicken until it seemed that they were nearly running. 'You know yourself, don't you?'

'I think so—'

'Then there's no need to listen to whatever idiotic thing anyone else has to say. Now—,' they halted. 'I will show you what you're truly capable of.'

Standing in silence, Mokuba noticed that the quality of the air had changed. The cold rushing of the ocean air had been choked out by a fog of warm, putrid air that felt thick, sticky, and foul from his nose down to the very bottom of his lungs. The quiet, too, was oppressive. It was a reminder that the outside world—his one and only outlet-was now so many hundreds of feet of solid rock above his head that Mokuba would sooner die of hunger than find his way back to the surface unaided. The stillness was absolute—he could hear water dripping off the roof of the cave. He could hear his own heartbeat. At last, he noticed that the ground beneath his feet was soft and wet. He curled his toes and felt them dig into the earth.

Mokuba knelt and dipped his hand in water. He was standing at the edge of a lake. If he squinted hard he could just see the surface ripple around his hand. I want to see where I am, he thought. And the water began to glow—first from the bottom up, in thick patches of bright green and electric blue. Some of the lights began to float to the surface and Mokuba saw that they were not points of light, but soft, squirming creatures with long trailing tails, speckled with slowly swaying filaments, faceless. Some of them seemed to have no shape at all, the light simply swam inside them, and the places the light didn't touch were another shade of shadow.

One creature then another broke the surface of the lake and swam through the air towards him. Mokuba directed them around him, the light they gave off permitting brief glimpses of the high, toothy ceiling. They were not enough to illuminate the further reaches of the cave, nor even the complete surface of the lake, but looking closely, Mokuba thought that he could catch the faintest glimpses of the face and figure of the boy standing before him—but he couldn't be sure if he was seeing the boy as he really was, or, like the creatures of the lake, he was seeing only the parts that the light allowed him to distinguish.

When he noticed that Mokuba was watching him, he seemed to glow brighter. 'Are you ready to begin?'

Mokuba nodded.

'Step out into the water.'

Mokuba knew that he couldn't show any hesitation. He kept his eyes set straight ahead as he walked into the water, trying not to feel the way his feet stumbled and stuck in the slimy mud, the water so cold that it made him numb. He kept walking. Until the water was up to his knees, his waist, seeping up past his chest and encircling his neck. He thought that he could hear whispers bouncing off the walls of the cave, but it could have been the undulating of the water. It could have been his mind playing tricks on him, the same way it awoke him in night sometimes, the same way it sometimes made him feel so unbearably alone. But then the darkness on the water called out to him directly.

'Is anyone going to come for us?' 'They must notice that we're gone, won't they?' 'They have to look for us...right?'

'Who's there?' Mokuba called out. The voices stopped. He took another tentative step forward. 'Is anyone there?'

Mokuba extended his arms and the lake creatures began to float towards him. They made a faint cloud around a shape floating on the water, and Mokuba could see that the shape was a boat and that there were two small children inside, hugging their thin shoulders and shivering. They had small faces and big eyes.

'Don't worry,' Mokuba said. 'I'm here to help you.'

But he didn't do that. Mokuba tried to pull the boat towards him, but he only made it rock and nearly overturn.

'I'm sorry!' He cried. 'I didn't mean to do that—I'm still figuring this stuff out…'

The children didn't hear him. They were screaming and clinging to the edges of the boat. Mokuba stumbled forward and pleaded with them to listen to him and be calm, but they did not listen, and this made the boat rock harder.

'Stop screaming!' Mokuba yelled. 'Just do what I say or you're going to get hurt!'

Mokuba's head was hurting again. He felt dizzy, like he could just dissolve in the water where he stood. He tried to think about the feeling he had had standing on their bedroom floor the night before, where everything had seemed to connect in a neat, tractable network that brought him exactly what he was looking for. The environment was different here; he was inundated and couldn't make anything out of the briny murk. It surged around him like a sudden fis. He couldn't move to dodge or duck it; the force pummeled through him.

Mokuba was standing on the tips of his toes, craning his neck, reaching forward to steady the boat, but the boat continued thrashing, throwing the two children from one side to another, and when Mokuba was close enough to reach out and grab it, it tipped over completely and sent them into the water. They flailed on the surface of the water, gasping. The water kept holding their heads below, and they kept writhing and struggling to the surface, burning off all their strength in the cold, deep water.

Mokuba watched as one of the children, then the other—a pair of limp, white shapes—slipped below the surface and didn't fight it anymore. He looked at them and reached for them, and under the force of his hand the water heaved apart and spit them back out. They shot up above Mokuba's head. He could not see them hit the ceiling of the cave but he could hear it: a cold, heavy thud. He tried to pull them back down, and their bodies slapped the water and sank. They were screaming.

He was breathless and exhausted and couldn't quite feel anything below his neck. He shut his eyes, and tried to breathe. He was exhausted, and that seemed to exhaust whatever powerful wanting he had inside him, because the children finally settled on the water, though they could barely float.

Mokuba waded out to them. Their eyes and mouths were wide open, Mokuba thought, just like a pair of dead fish. But they were breathing. Swollen with bruises, he could still see their chests rise and fall, and as he moved towards them they followed him with their eyes.

'You did quite well with them.'

Mokuba turned and, there, standing in the center of the boat, marbleized in writhing coils of the blue-green light, was the boy who had led him down here, looking down at him and smiling.

'Bring them onto the boat.'

Holding his breath and clenching his fingers, Mokuba screwed up his mind to lift the children into the boat. The boy gestured for him to follow them. He collapsed onto his hands and knees and remained there for a moment, dripping, panting, and cold. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the boy kneeling between them, waving his hand in front of their eyes and feeling their wrists for a pulse.

'I didn't know what I was doing,' Mokuba said.

'Well,' the boy said, looking over his shoulder to grin at him, 'That makes you all the more impressive. I had to practice for months to induce an effect this large—even on a rat! But you—you are truly gifted.'

'But I wasn't trying to do anything!'

'Weren't you?' He turned away from Mokuba again and went back to tending the children. One of them began to groan. The sound seemed to come from the very bottom of the lake.

'Don't worry about them,' the boy said. 'No one will even notice that they've gone.' He was touching the children's faces with his fingertips.

Mokuba staggered over to him. 'What do we do now?'

'The next stage of the process is to gradually induce full-body paralysis. Watch,' he said. 'I'll demonstrate for you.' He stood over one of the children and made a series of motions with his hand. The child began to disappear, just as Seto had. The limbs jerked then simmered down, the breathing slowed, but the eyes remained wide open. For a moment no one made a sound. Then the child began to scream.

The boy was towering over the child's contorted face. 'Are you frightened of me?' he asked. When he spoke Mokuba felt like he was being towered over as well. The boy continued. 'You have such a small, stupid mind—you have no idea what it means to be frightened.' The child's head was flung back, it was writhing at the bottom of the boat.

'Now, Mokuba,' the boy beckoned him forward, and had to speak louder to be heard over the noise that his child was making. 'You do the other one. Just as I did.'

Mokuba took a step forward and stared down into the face of the other child. He stood and stared and when it was clear that he was hesitating the boy turned to him and asked, 'You can do it, can't you?'

'Can I?' He remembered the way he had hurled this child against the ceiling of the cave.

'If you can, then you should.' The boy said."

"Seto," Mokuba was sitting up in bed again. "I'm not really going to hurt those kids, am I? What does that have to do with making you better?"

Seto coughed. "These children have the same curse that I do. You're learning the techniques to cure it, so that you can cure me."

Mokuba nodded weakly. "I guess that makes sense…" he murmured. "But it seems so bad."

Seto watched Mokuba's face. "...Don't you want to help me?"

"Of course!"

"Then keep listening."

"Okay." Mokuba turned away as he said it.

"The boy was inching towards him, narrowing the space between Mokuba and the edge of the boat.

'Do you think that you don't have the strength?' he asked softly. 'Think of this, Mokuba: think of your brother all alone up there, sick in the head—weak. He doesn't know that he's counting on you to save him because he's too sick and weak to think—but he is counting on you. And just imagine how wonderful it will feel when he wakes up from the nightmare that is consuming him and the two of you will be able to see each other again.'

Mokuba could not speak above a whisper. He didn't look at the boy, but at the small soft creatures floating out along the water, glowing. 'But won't it hurt him?'

The boy placed his hand on Mokuba's shoulder. Mokuba felt warm and dry everywhere that they were touching, and he couldn't help but lean gently into his hand. 'Doesn't it hurt you both to not have a home?'

Mokuba was standing over that child's small, pained face. He moved his hands the way the boy told him to move, but the magic—if that was what it was—didn't come from his hands at all. Mokuba didn't think that it was magic. Because it felt so natural and so easy. He felt like he could do it in his sleep, like perhaps he was asleep now and it was a dream that was moving through him. It was a wonder that he hadn't figured it out before. His child screamed so loudly that it looked like its jaw might break split down the middle. It looked like he might spit his tonsils out. Mokuba thought it that it would be a wonder if anything could ever get him to stop.

The screams scared the creatures of the lake away—the faces and bodies of the children faded into darkness and Mokuba could no longer see them at all. Their voices echoed on.

'You've done well,' the boy said. 'I'm sure that your brother will be proud when he wakes up.' Mokuba could no longer see his face in the dark, but he could hear the silkiness of his voice that seemed to warm him from the inside out. He felt like he was glowing, now.

'How do I wake him up?'

'First, you have to practice one more time.'

Mokuba gulped. 'I have to do this again?'

'It won't be any harder than the first time, I promise,' the boy assured him. 'You didn't struggle much with it before, did you?'

Mokuba shook his head.

'Then there's nothing to be worried about. Now,' he said, making the boat rock as he stepped away. 'I am your new target.'

'B-but, you're not sick, are you?'

He laughed. 'I'm as sick as those children were.' When Mokuba didn't move he called out: 'Come on, Mokuba—it will be fun!'

Don't hesitate! Don't give up on your brother now!

Mokuba felt static electricity dancing between his fingertips. He could feel all the creatures in the lake halt in their paths and begin to swim back towards him. The boy cried out.

Is that the best you can do! You must act now! Don't let them see you falter!

Mokuba stepped towards him. It felt like the boat had gotten longer because he kept stepping forward and he didn't seem to being any closer to the end of it. He jerked his wrists and the boy kept yelling and Mokuba wasn't sure if he was laughing or not.

Are you considering giving up? Why stop now when you can still do so much more?

The light was growing brighter around him and there was now no doubt that the boy wasn't laughing. But he was right, it was easy. He was the one that was laughing."

"Seto…"

"Every move brings you closer to your perfect world—where the two of you will never have to be apart again…

Mokuba had finally reached him, could just barely see his buckled body glowing blue-green around the edges. He was breathless, clutching his chest. The light became brighter, and the boy looked up.

Mokuba shook with recognition. For a moment Mokuba thought that he was looking at his own face, bruised and battered before him, veins of light and darkness streaming across the forehead, with a dark trail of blood dribbling down the chin. But then he realized that it was someone else.

'Seto?'

'You're not finished,' he growled, then huffed. 'I'm still conscious aren't I? Continue!'

Mokuba almost ran to him, but backed away instead. 'Are you Seto? Have you been Seto the whole time?'

The boy arched his back backwards and cackled. 'Does it frighten you—seeing me this way?'

'No!' Mokuba shook his head.

'And yet you hesitate to follow my instructions.'"

"Seto!"

"Mokuba lunged—"

"Seto!"

Seto took a breath and blinked slowly several times. His eyes had become unfocused. "What is it?"

"What's going on? Why is that boy pretending to be you?"

Seto stared down at his hands for a moment. "Why do you ask?"

"He's not a good person."

"But he's trying to help us."

Mokuba pressed the back of his head firmly into his pillow. "He's not a good person."

"Do you think that you should stop?"

Mokuba bit his lip and was silent for several moments. He tilted his head from side to side, as if weighing the options in his mind. "Well, I want to help you, but…"

"But what?"

"Is this really the only way?"

Seto nodded. "I'm afraid so." He paused, watching Mokuba's face. His eyes seemed to have gotten larger and darker as the night had progressed. He was frowning, but he didn't argue. Seto began again.

"The boy stepped forward and Mokuba cowered back, but he couldn't not look at him. Even with his eyes shut tight he could see nothing but that boy's face with his brother's mouth—curled into a malicious smile, with Seto's bright eyes, now narrowed and illuminated with anger. Mokuba clapped his hands over his ears but he still heard Seto's soft sweet voice—Seto had always spoken sweetly to him—screaming at him.

The boy who could not be Seto continued. 'So what it will it be, Mokuba? You know your brother is waiting for you to save him, he would die of despair this very moment if he knew that you were considering abandoning him to his curse. That's not what you want, is it?'

'Of-of course not!'

'Then your choice is simple.' His face was so close now that Mokuba could almost feel it. His breath was washing across his face. 'You remember what Seto was prepared to do for you when you first arrived here, don't you?' He took a small step away and deliberately fell silent.

'He...they wanted to split us up but Seto said no. Seto has always said no when people tried to split us up...'

"Did I make you sick?"

"Seto stamped the bottom of the boat. 'Quit stalling! Or, perhaps you will be moved if I finally tell you the truth? Your brother is the reason that you have never found a home because he doesn't want one. Your brother has rejected or scared away everyone who has ever approached him with an open hand because he does not want to be loved because loving is subjugation. And the longer you remain attached to him the more true that will become for you.' He paused, breathing heavily. 'Seto is the one who made you sick.' He laughed and licked his lips. 'It's time to destroy that sickness, Mokuba Kaiba.' His voice grew louder. 'Fight me!'"

"I don't want to fight him."

"But you have to. Mokuba cast his eyes about the boat, looking for a trapdoor. 'Isn't there another way?' he asked.

'No!' Seto shouted. 'You must attack me—now!'

'But why?'

'Because I told you to!'

Mokuba stood up. Seto was watching him. He smiled wider as Mokuba walked closer.

'Are you ready now?' He asked. Then he collapsed again. He was screaming, and his eyes rolled back. His entire body shook. And Mokuba didn't even notice that he was doing it, he barely had to think about it. It was just like nature—moving around him, changing all on its own."

"I don't want to hear any more."

Seto stopped, startled. "What did you say?"

"Please stop. I-I don't like this story anymore."

"I thought that you wanted to save me."

"I do!" He and Seto both flinched when they heard how loudly he was speaking. "I do," he repeated more quietly.

Seto tried to make his own voice soft. "You remember how the boy from the story woke you up when you were scared?"

"Yeah."

"That's all you're doing right now. He is asleep just like you were. You're just helping him wake up."

"But it's hurting him."

"The sickness hurts, too."

Mokuba bit his lip and hunched his shoulders forward. When he spoke again his voice was unsteady and it almost cracked. "I just don't want to hurt you." He stole a glance at Seto, firmly looked away, then looked back at him and didn't turn away again. He kept looking.

"What if I promised you that the story has a happy ending?" Mokuba didn't respond, so Seto kept going. "This is what happens: you're about to finish doing the magic on that boy, when suddenly there is a loud sound from behind you, and the whole cave floods with light. You turn away, and you see me—fully awake and healthy now—swooping in on the Blue Eyes White Dragon! It howls and—lighting attack!—he hits that boy square in the face and he falls over and dissolves into dust. Then the dragon and I come for you, I help you on the dragon's back, and we all fly far away together." Sometime in the telling Seto's eyes had slid up to the corner of the ceiling and Mokuba's had fallen back down into his lap. He looked back at Mokuba now. "You see, you didn't really hurt anyone." His arm twitched at his side, but he kept them both pinned to his sides. "Does that make you feel better?"

Mokuba nodded.

"Good." Seto sighed, brushed at his thighs, and stood up. He glanced at the clock hanging on the wall and yawned. "It's late—go to bed."

Mokuba nodded.

"Good night, Mokuba." Seto turned towards the door and had his hand on the knob when he jumped, his entire back suddenly heavy and immobile.

"I love you, nii-sama," Mokuba whispered into the small of his back. His forehead was pressed into Seto's back. His arms were clenched around his waist.

"I love you, too," Seto gently untangled Mokuba's fingers and listened to his feet thump back on the floor. "Now go to sleep."

"You know I would never have wanted to get adopted without you, right?"

Seto nodded. "I know."

Seto closed the door behind him. He was standing alone in the long, dark hall. Every door along the hallway was shut with no light slipping out from under the doorframe. He turned around and began to walk up the flight of stairs. He tried to hold his breath and to make his footsteps as small and soft as possible. He kept one hand firmly on the bannister, just in case he tripped on something in the dark. He turned right on the landing then walked past three more closed doors, another cold and untouched hallway, before he came at the right door. He started to breathe again. He squinted through the keyhole then whispered through it. "Open the door."

Otaki opened the door. He ushered Seto into the room with a finger pressed against his lips. Before he closed the door the checked the hallway.

Seto was having trouble seeing in the light. They were standing in a circle around him, staring at him, and the desk lamp was shining directly into his face. Seto could feel the pressure building in his ears. His eyes were watering. He didn't know it, but he had gone quite pale—almost green.

"Well," Oka asked. "What is it? Is the plan still on? Can we still count on Mokuba to turn his shares over to you?"

Seto nodded. He lifted his chin, rolled back his shoulders, and grinned. "The plan should go off without a problem. Mokuba will do anything I say," he said. He closed his eyes, and tilted his face away from them. He opened his eyes again and stared into the dark corner of the room. "He has complete faith in me."