Atem had never learnt how to read the name on his wrist.
It was okay, though. Normal. Barely anyone could distinguish letters, let alone read them. Even if they could read the name permanently marked on their wrist was usually never recognised. Atem counted himself as lucky, at least he knew it was a name with letters. One written in letters similar to his own alphabet, with similar symbols yet indecipherable words.
He had asked his father about his mark once whilst young, not knowing yet what the marks meant out there, for people, for society. His father had just looked at him with heavy eyes, unwrapping the piece of linen tied around his left wrist to show Atem the design of his own name. It was intricate and foreign, the letters neither in Egyptian or Greek, with lines resembling familiar shapes and things.
His father had then covered it after a minute or two, the clean linen again the only indication of there being a name at all. He kneeled in front of Atem and took his right arm, turning it to look at the symbols. The heavy look was still there, unmoving and unchanged.
"Somewhere in the world," he started saying "these are the letters of someone's name."
"Why are you sure? They could just be ordinary pictures or words," Atem had just asked. Familiar, but still pictures.
His father took a breath in and stood up, turning to look at a nearby window. The exterior was dark, the fires inside the room not reaching to light the darkness outside. He looked back at his son and smiled briefly. "For many they may be unreadable, but they are always a name," he explained. "Your mother had a Greek name."
Atem's face lightened up, "so she knew who it was?" He looked down at his own name, wondering about what it read and meant.
"She could read the name, but nothing more," he said, pausing. "Besides, Atem, one can't ask others to show you their name. It's bad manners."
Atem looked up from his wrist to look at his father. "But what if it was your name?" he asked.
"What if it was?"
That idea had made him stop. As far as he knew, most people, no matter from where, covered the names on their wrists, didn't talk about them with anyone, and didn't discuss or ask about them. No one knew what they meant. Whether they were one's soul mate, ally and friend, or greatest enemy was anyone's guess. It didn't matter if the name was of one's greatest love, or of one destined to kill you. People covered them and didn't bring them up in conversation.
He wondered if it was like this everywhere, and perhaps if in other distant places they held other meanings, if they were important. Perhaps the purpose of the names varied for each person, for some being their soul mate and others an enemy. Perhaps they could be the names of gods or important reminders. Sometimes, years after having asked his father about it, he wondered what the name on his wrist read and who the person could be.
When he got used to the linen wrapped around his wrist he began thinking less about it. Even if he could read it, and even if it was Greek, chances were he'd never meet the person.
Bakura had been six when he finally learnt to read the symbols on his wrist. He had been able to recognise them as Egyptian before, but hadn't been able to read them at all, much like it was for many people. He had been told early on by his father that it was the name of a person. Something important that shouldn't be shown to others. He couldn't remember what it had read anymore though.
He wouldn't have cared if it had been Greek or another language, or even if by some chance he had no name at all. Instead, it had been Egyptian. A name divided into several parts. Not a common name, or a name for common people.
That had been enough for him.
He was glad he had done it too, before he could have remembered it and have it affect him. He disliked having to cover it with something which only was a burden to care about. Hated being reminded of events gone by. He was concerned with different things, greater things. The scar stopped people from asking him anything, and he had never regretted burning the name off. Ironic, with how what most people wanted was to understand the name on their wrist. To know who the person was, and if the names matched.
Whenever someone asks him about the scar he says it was always there. No recognises his lie, however, and only Zorc hints at knowing who it might be.
He's never asked, and doesn't care for it. He forgets about it. Whomever it is of is either dead or soon to be dead. Likely to hate him for what he is, or simply never to be met or recognised. It is a fact of life that, much like the rest, doesn't seem to hold meaning, and at any rate it doesn't change a thing about what he plans. The scar always remains unchanged and the name forgotten, a visible reminder of how things change and what he must do.
That is, until a day after assaulting Pharaoh Atem's Palace and demanding the return of the seven Millenium Items.
He is treating his wounds and preparing for his next steps, when blood in an area he hadn't received any wounds at. A thin trail of it coming from an even thinner gash-like thing on his wrist. He moves his arm to examine it, expecting it to be a cut, but cleaning off the blood reveals no such thing.
Instead, what he finds is a neat scrawl of Egyptian. A part, or new part, of what he had burnt off so long ago. He squints and looks at it closely, the word unmistakable.
The symbols read 'Pharaoh'.
Weeks later, after Bakura has acquired the Millennium Ring and raids the city once more, Atem learns what the name on his wrist says, and Bakura confirms what once was on his.
They match, but neither knows what that means or their purpose. The fight goes on as expected, but neither know what to do.