Disclaimer: YuGiOh belongs to Kazuki Takahashi.
A/N: Depressed...again...damned school, lookie what it's done to me. Am going to do my first POV ficlet. One-shot. Not sure of plot; write-as-I-go strategy.
Sweat stands out against my back like the prickling hair of a terrified kitten. It's uncomfortable and wet and cold; I hate it. Wind smacks against my face and lifts my hair, lets it fall, stinging, back onto my shoulders. It's an unbelievable risk that Isis would yell at me for, riding a motorcycle shirtless.
I haven't worn a shirt since I lost the duel. Yes. Let the whole world see. Traditions engraved forevermore on my back; behind me, with me, trapped with me. Let the whole damn world see. See what my father believed? Do you see?
I grip the handles until my fingers ache and the blood has left them, and I don't think I'll ever be able to uncurl them. Push the machine further. Speed past ridiculous children. Anger more safety-conscious drivers; leave them all swearing at me, far behind. Let the sun beat down on my back, powerless to touch me because the wind whips away its warmth.
I should feel free. I know that. The little pharaoh-boy has the epitomy of evil in his grasp; he's taken it from my hands. Yes, I should feel free.
I don't.
Because it was never the Rod, never the magic, never the power that made me what I am. It was, from beginning to end, all me; I did it. I killed my father out of anger, a burning white flame which I will never be rid of no matter how far down I press it, no matter how many cloaks and smiles and tears I hide it under.
Isis is waiting with Rishid at the airport, a distant strip of concrete miles and miles from me. I can't close my eyes, though I want to, badly. I'm too afraid. In response, my mind drifts. Back and back and back, years ago....
The ice cream was really starting to melt. It had been in a small paper cup, peeking almost two inches above the rim to further tantalize a buyer. Mint chocolate chip, going under the name "Grasshopper"; suddenly, the chocolate mocha seemed more appetizing.
The precious bites already taken settled in an icy block in my stomach and I swallowed several times, against tears and to warm myself.
'Why are you making me choose?' My mind screamed.
Outwardly, I just slipped another spoonful of liquid ice cream into my mouth.
"Talk to me, dammit!" My father snarled
In answer, I turned my face away and shut my eyes. I found that my lashes were wet.
I really didn't want to talk. I'd made my choice; there was nothing more to talk out. All that was left was staying silent.
Or I could tell the enraged figure next to me just what I was expected to say.
I struggled with the decision, and scratched my thumbnail along the paper cup, a thin layer of cold wax flaking off as I did so. A drop of green cream fell onto my hand, and I licked it off. Still I said nothing.
"You can't go yet!" Father's voice cracked. "You can't!" I didn't offer so much as a glance.
Instead, I sighed and looked away completely. "It's my decision." He needed to hear something, or else he was likely to slap me.
"You're too young. Too damn young to understand what a *stupid* mistake this will be!" But at least he didn't touch me. That would have been really stupid.
"You were never very good at thinking on your feet, or thinking ahead of time, or choosing the best outcome, were you?" My reply was flat and soft, ironically the same tone many parents use on their children when arguing is futile. I saw then; that tone was used to oblige the argument.
"You ungrateful little-"
"Silence!" I was aware of the coldness behind my own eyes; I could see them reflected in my father's features. Once, long ago, they had been kind and inquisitive, shining up at Isis's loving face. "This isn't just about *you* anymore! If it's not the *tribe* it's just *you*!"
I tried, and tried, and yet felt nothing besides certainty that what I was doing was right. I wanted to be angry, for father's sake. I even wanted to feel bad that I was turning my back on my life as it was, forever.
I tried to feel, and didn't manage so much as irritation.
Slowly, I turned back to the ice cream, since it was the only thing to see. I forced a spoonful of the cold, soupy mess down my throat for every word I wanted to say but wouldn't.
"It is about the tribe! Haven't I taught you anything?" No answer to that. "Don't ignore me. Don't you *dare* ignore me!"
"Speak, then." My voice was eerily quiet, even to my ears.
A sigh. "You can't forsake our tribe's honor."
I looked up and stared at the orange sand blowing through the canyon below. The cliffs were such a nice place to think, when one could be alone. But I never was.
I shook my head of the resentment, and looked up. "What about your honor?"
"My honor rests with the tribe." Dark eyes lowered to mine. "As does yours. Your fate is in protecting the memory of the Pharaoh."
I knew he was hoping he could reach me through soft, calm tones. But neither of us were calm or soft, and I was keenly aware of this.
"Do not try to dissuade me, old man." I finally stood, clasping the Millennium Rod in one hand. "With this I will destroy the Pharaoh for his betrayal. Our pain will be a faded memory; our suffering will end. I know you are disappointed, but you won't be for long. That I promise, Father."
I left him screaming and crying, tearing at his clothes as if he were in mourning, but I didn't look back and I didn't shed a tear. It was the last time he would ever appear to me. Never again would my father come to me.
Up ahead, the end of the city is blurring. Briefly, my thoughts turn to my sister and Rishid, faithfully waiting for me. I go just a little faster, desperate to get past the city limits. I want to be out in the country, near the ocean, in the heart of mountains. I tremble at the thought of Egypt, the vast desert and its people waiting for me, just like my family.
Never again would I come to them.