Love-Sick
Genres: Romance / Humor
Rating: T
Summary: A wayward spell, an eccentric fortune-teller, and Kisara—Priest Seto finds his health, sanity, and heart challenged in the same day. / AE, Mizushipping, Priest Seto x Kisara
A/N: Written for the YGO Fanfiction Contest, Season Eight, Round Two—the pairing is Mizushipping (Priest Seto x Kisara), although this story also contains the unnamed shipping of Priestess Isis x Priest Shaada (work with me here, ok? xD). Setting is pre-series AE. I also prefer to use some of the more unconventional spellings of the character's names. In this story Kisara never knew Seto's name (and vice versa) when they met as children.
Enjoy!
Love-Sick
The Prognosis – in which a fortune is told:
Close to the city center the streets were filled with people, citizens and foreigners alike, dressed in loose, colorless linen, blending together amongst the sand that swirled through the sky with each new sweep of wind and the rows of buildings, from markets and shops to dwellings. Further towards the fringes of the city the population became more sparse, the inhabitants more prone to illness or violence. This was where the poorest of citizens lived.
While it was the responsibility of the Priests and Priestess of the Pharaoh to guard and protect the city through such efforts, High Priest Seto found that it was he who most regularly seemed to get stuck with this particular task. It did not matter to him—he would do his duty without complaint. That, and he enjoyed his time spent outside of the Palace. He felt comfortable among the people of the city, although there was still a clear divide between the Priest in his decorative robe and head-piece and the analogous populace that watched him with a mixture of curiosity and trepidation.
"High Priest Seto!"
Seto turned his head to witness the elderly woman hobbling up the street towards him, a gnarled wooden cane held in equally wrinkled hands.
"What can I do for you?" Seto's voice was short, his horse's reins held loosely in one hand. He would be easily recognizable as one of the Pharaoh's priests by his robe and the merit of his Item, but that the woman had recognized him as the High Priest—well, that was both interesting and suspicious.
"You are wondering how I knew your name, are you not?" The woman asked. "I tell fortunes and offer herbal remedies for sale. I have cast the fate of powerful warriors in my time, but never have I come across as strong a ká as yours! Please, come with me and let me divine your future!"
Well, Seto had to appreciate her shrewd business technique. She'd trapped him quite cleverly, and he could almost believe that the heavy flattery she was speaking was the truth—and if he declined, it would almost be like he was dismissing her praise as false. He glanced upwards, finding the sun not-quite descending from its place at the height of the skies. He had the time to spare, and the money that it would cost him.
"I would be honored to hear about my future," he said, trying his best not to sound too skeptical—Seto had often heard words of the future from Priestess Isis' vision, and he found it impossible that an ancient woman could have a similar ability.
"Excellent." The woman bowed before him as Seto dismounted from his horse. "Follow me."
Her dwelling was not far, and the woman showed Seto where to tie his horse's reins before following him inside. The ceiling was low and the room was dark, although there was a low table and two cushions set up against the far side of the room. The smell of incense filled the small space.
Seto was beginning to doubt coming here. What could this woman possibly tell him about his life that he didn't already know? He desired nothing more than what he already had.
The woman was moving some things in the back of her house; Seto could hear the sounds of clanging metal and pottery. "Would you like some stew?"
"Uh…" Seto did not want to refuse her hospitality, but the old woman was already hobbling back towards him with a small clay bowl, filled with some kind of unidentifiable stew. The woman waited until he had begun eating to continue speaking.
"I will read your palm once you have finished eating," she said. "Tell me about your family, High Priest."
"All dead," he answered in-between mouthfuls. The food she had given him was not bad, but it was unlike anything he had ever eaten before. "I have no family here."
"So you say." The woman watched him critically. "You have come for my assistance, High Priest, in determining your future, and one must be in control of their present and aware of their past for such a thing to first be possible. I will tell you that I think it is you who does not know your true self. But let us work on that." She reached across the table for Seto's hand, which had just finished resting his spoon in the empty bowl.
She studied his right hand first before asking for his left, prodding the palms and fingers until Seto's patience had dwindled so low as to be subterranean. By the time she had told his future, it would be the future already!
This was absolutely ridiculous, Seto thought. This woman obviously had no talent—she was so old she could probably barely see what she was looking at, and what was that nonsense she spoke of before? No one knew Seto better than he did—who was she to say otherwise?
"Ah—so who is this girl that occupies your thoughts?" The woman asked knowingly.
"What?" Seto was so surprised he practically shouted at the fortune-teller. "You are to be telling my future, not making wild speculations. There is no girl."
She tsked in disapproval. "What young man such as yourself has no girl in your life? It's not because—there's not a young man, is there?"
"No!" Seto could feel his ears burning behind his ceremonial head-piece. How dare she—
"It's perfectly alright if there is—" the woman began, tightening her fingers around Seto's hand as he tried to jerk his palm out of her grasp. For such a frail-looking woman, she was strong. She smoothed out his palm with the fingers of one hand, keeping the other locked around his wrist in an iron grip, all the while giving him the most knowing gaze. Seto scoured his brain—there was not a woman he had known that had inspired his interest, not since…her…
"There used to be a girl. Are you happy?"
"Hm," the woman muttered, resuming her work. "You sure don't seem to be. What is the girl's name?"
"I do not know," Seto spoke. "And there is more to a person's future than their love life!"
"Is there?" The woman did not look up. "When you are in love you will think the exact opposite, you know. And the girl in question's name begins with a K. You remember her, don't you? She had quite distinctive hair."
—Yes, of course he remembered her. It had been years ago, but he remembered their meeting more clearly than any other moment in his life. He had found her beautiful even then, and had often wondered what she would look like now, and if her skin was still as soft and her smile as bright, and if she would still remember him the way that he cherished her in his memory, and—
"High Priest, pay attention!" The woman commanded, and Seto blinked at her, suddenly brought back. He was not in the middle of the desert in the middle of the night, rescuing a young girl's life; he was in an old woman's hut, being told things both so far from the truth and so close to it as to make him uncomfortable on both fronts.
"What?" He asked.
"Your life line breaks here," she said, pointing with a bony finger at the place on his left palm. "It means there will be a drastic upheaval in your life. If it hasn't happened yet, it will soon." She pointed to another line. "This confirms what I said earlier—your ká is exceptionally strong, and you are under its protection as well as that from other forces."
The Millennium Rod? The circle of the other Priests? The Pharaoh's power and support? The woman was spouting speculations again.
"I know that my ká is strong, and anyone could tell the same," Seto replied. "Tell me something I do not know."
"This line symbolizes your heart." The woman pointed to another incongruous line on his palm. "And this line represents your ba. You will have a long life, High Priest Seto."
"You say that like it is a bad thing," he responded.
"Your hands confuse me," she admitted. "Your heart is strong, but the line curves in such a strange way. You will live long, and your life will see many accomplishments, but I cannot gauge your happiness. The line breaks, here." She jabbed a spot near the top of his palm. It was difficult for Seto to see anything she was pointing at with it all looking upside-down to him.
"Let me tell you a riddle," she said. "A young man is asked the question: would it be better to live a long life free of adventure, fame, and love, or a short life filled with these things. The young man chose the former. An old man is asked the same question, and he chooses the latter. Which one chose correctly?"
Seto pulled his hand free of the old woman's grip, and she accepted the small bag of coins he set on the table before her.
"The question is flawed, as the story shows that both men did not know any of those experiences, and as such each coveted what the other had. And happiness was never included in the bargain—that's what I would choose. Sorrow is no substitute for life."
"It is a shame there is no way to measure wisdom from a person's palm." The woman nodded at him sagely. "Did you learn everything you wanted from yours?"
"Yes," Seto answered automatically. "Thank you for your hospitality." He bowed his head slightly to her before leaving the house, freeing his horse's restraints, and resuming his patrol of the city. He could see the palace looming before him in the distance, and he knew they would wonder why he was late—he had spent just enough time with the old woman that his delay would be noticed. Strange riddles, grand leaps of speculative predictions on his life and fortune—some fortune-teller she turned out to be.
If any of the other Priests—or Ra forbid, the Pharaoh—ever found out about this, they would tease him for the rest of time.
The Transmission – in which a malady is inflicted:
"Have you seen Mana?"
Mahaado supposed these were some of the most spoken words of his life, second only to, 'What has Mana done now?'
Isis shrugged. "I do not know. She is your apprentice, Mahaado, and your responsibility."
"Can't you use your tauk to find her?"
Isis fixed him with a critical stare. "Why would I waste my power in that way when you have two perfectly good eyes. Use them."
"Are you…angry at something, Priestess?" The more likely answer, Mahaado thought, was that Priestess Isis was angry at someone. A very specific someone. "Do you think Priest Shaada would know where Mana has gone?"
"I do not know," she replied frostily. "If you wish to know you must ask him yourself, as Iam certainly not speaking to him at the moment and do not care what he does or who he chooses to spend his time with!"
Mahaado sighed, already feeling the stirrings of a headache that had absolutely nothing to do with the prospect of the likely catastrophe that Mana was causing somewhere in the palace. He did not think he could handle it if any more of his friends were in a relationship—or in denial of one—as they all seemed to flock to him for advice or support—what did he know? He could barely control his apprentice, he didn't have time for romance!
At least he didn't have to worry about the others. Karim and Seto seemed so absorbed in their work, and Akunadin and Siamun were far too old for that sort of thing.
"Where haven't you checked?" Isis asked. "The courtyards? The armory?"
"I haven't checked the armory! Thank you, Isis! Good luck with your…problems." With that, Mahaado raced—with as much dignity as he could muster, considering his panic—down the hallway, stopping outside the open doorway to the armory to witness a bright flash of light and hear Mana's voice speak the one word that Mahaado least wanted to hear:
"Oops."
The Affliction – in which everyone blames Mana:
When Seto arrived back at the Palace and entered the throne room, he was half glad to find most of the other Priests already there, arguing over something, each trying to shout louder than the other—whatever it was would distract them from wondering why he was late. Something in Seto's stomach twinged painfully, but he shrugged it off. It was probably something he ate.
"What do you mean, you don't know what spell you cast?" Shaada's voice seemed to carry across the large room.
"Do you have to keep repeating it?" Mana sulked. "I've told you the same thing at least a half-dozen times! I don't know, I just opened the spellbook to a random page and thought, 'why not?'"
"Why not?" Mahaado's voice was even louder. "Why did you think that was a good idea? Do you remember what happened the last time you decided, 'why not?' We're still cleaning up the mess!"
"—If you let me clean it up with magic, it might go a little faster—"
"—Who knows what you could have done! Whole kingdoms have been—"
"—arguing has never solved our problems in the past, so there's no reason to think it will do anything for us now—"
Seto approached Akunadin, the only one of the Priests present who wasn't pointing fingers at the others. "What's going on?"
"It seems Mahaado's apprentice was practicing magic unsupervised again," the eldest Priest said calmly. "No one seems to know what spell she cast, but considering her track record, Mahaado is right to worry. Do you remember the time she transformed all of the animals in the royal zoo into chickens?"
"I try to forget, Akunadin," Seto answered, looking around the room for the one member of their group who was conspicuously absent. "Where is Isis?"
"No one's seen her since this afternoon," Akunadin replied. "Are you sure you're feeling well, Seto? You look ill."
Something just above his stomach throbbed again, and Seto clenched his teeth at the reminder of the pain. "I don't know…whatever sickness this is has come upon me recently, and should leave me just as quickly."
Suddenly, Siamun Muran ran into the room, pausing to catch his breath before addressing the gathered Priests. Everyone fell silent at his entrance.
"It's Priestess Isis! She collapsed in the courtyard, and the physicians have brought her to the infirmary for treatment…I thought you should know."
"What?" The level of noise restored, the Priests' conversation turned to Isis' health, and as they began to argue amongst themselves once more, no one seemed to notice Seto's eyes close and his body relax until he had hit the floor, unconscious.
The Prescription – in which everyone pretends to have some idea of what's going on:
When Seto woke up he found himself in a bed in the infirmary. He had hoped never to have to see this place from this angle, but his muscles felt heavy and sore and his chest ached painfully—he was in far too much pain to complain about it. He tried to sit up, but Karim rushed to his side from a bench by the door, pushing his shoulders back into the pillows.
"You should not be moving," he advised. "Tell me about your illness. Where are you hurt?"
"How is Isis?" He asked. His throat burned, causing his voice to sound raspy and unfamiliar. It was not so much that he was in pain—he could deal with pain, quite well—but it was unfamiliar pain. It did not feel like pain should in that it did not hurt much, but it seemed to sap him of his strength, leaving him weak and feeling confused, lightheaded, and burning, even with the cool breeze from the open window.
"She has yet to wake up. Shaada has fallen ill as well. They're keeping you in separate rooms," Karim explained. "No one knows if it's contagious or not. Truthfully, we don't know why you're sick at all, or how to cure you. I'm sorry."
"And…the Pharaoh?"
"He's in quarantine, just in case."
Seto smiled faintly. "I'm glad. I refuse to let the Pharaoh or myself die from such ridiculous circumstances. I'm fine, just let me sit up…"
He tried to move once more and found the burning sensation doubled in his chest. He winced, but managed to sit up enough to lean against the wall behind him. Why hadn't the fortune-teller warned him about this? He grimaced—absolutely ridiculous, and now three of them were sick…
"Mana." The conclusion came to him so easily. Karim shifted from one foot to the other, looking guilty.
"Yes, well—she and Mahaado are trying to figure out what spell was cast. If it was some kind of epidemic spell…well, that's the worst-case scenario. At best, it's just a coincidental flu."
"How many others are sick, Karim?" Seto asked.
"We don't know the strength of the spell, either," Karim hedged. "How much of the city could have been affected…"
"How many infected have been brought to the palace?" Seto knew that the first place anyone would go with an unknown, seemingly incurable illness was the palace.
"Four, as of yet. You've been out for several hours. Tell me, where is the pain the strongest?"
Seto pointed to his chest. "Here. It's getting worse with time. Tell Mana to hurry."
Karim nodded. "Let me bring you some food. You should try to sleep a little more."
"I'll try."
The Therapy – in which another fortune is told:
The old fortune-teller hobbled up the street under the support of her cane, watching the small crowd of people in the open square. She could hear taunts and jeers, and noticed with growing alarm that several of the spectators held small stones in their hands, ready to inflict physical pain on-top of the emotional abuse of their words.
She batted her cane to part the crowd, moving into the circle to see a young woman crouched on the ground, her pale arms thrown over her head for protection, her unusual appearance surely the cause for their scorn.
"Don't you know," she shouted to the crowd, "that for each stranger you curse, a curse is delivered onto your own household, and for each stranger you bless your family receives their blessing? Go home, all of you! Find some way to entertain yourselves that does not resort to violence!"
She made her way to the young woman's side, pulling her arms to stand up, tsking disapprovingly. "There are no shortage of idiots in this city, and they all expect to have bright futures without paying me for my services! Bah!" She studied the young woman—if she was she far too delicate-looking to be from this part of Egypt, she hardly belonged on the streets in this area of the city.
"Thank you," the young woman replied. "How can I repay you for your kindness?"
"Kindness shouldn't need to be repaid," the fortune-teller answered. "Would I be right to assume that you have no shelter for the night?"
The young woman nodded slowly.
"Then it's settled!" The woman gripped her cane with one hand and the stranger's elbow in the other, and took off at a brisk hobble towards her house. "You will be eating dinner with me and will rest in my home. Perhaps I'll even read your fortune!" Her laugh was more of a cackle.
"Thank you," the young woman repeated.
"Tell me your name, child—no, let me guess. It begins with a K, am I right?" The fortune-teller laughed again, almost missing the stranger's quiet response:
"My name is Kisara."
The Symptoms – in which the afflicted discuss their affliction:
High Priest Seto regarded his new roommates with derision. It was decided that to free up space Shaada would move into a spare cot, and with no progress made on the source of the strange illness that had overtaken them, Mahaado hovered around the two, constantly asking questions and asking them to perform simple tasks to gauge their reactions or level of pain.
"I'm feeling better, actually," Shaada said. "Really—there's no need for any more of this."
Mahaado felt his forehead, and frowned disapprovingly at the other Priest. "Don't lie—any bit of information can help us. We're trying to find a common link between the unwell, but it's proving understandably difficult."
From his own cot, Seto scowled. They were still able to talk quite fine, but there were moments when Seto felt like he could barely move, let alone tune out their bickering.
"How is Isis?" Shaada asked.
"Priestess Isis is also feeling better, so she says," Mahaado added. "She's in the room next door."
From the heat or from the illness, Seto's palms were sweaty and they itched. He rubbed them against the sheet, but Mahaado snatched one hand away, turning it to assess the damage.
"Your hands are swelling, Priest Seto."
Seto snatched his hand away. "I've had enough of people looking at my palms for one lifetime, thank you."
It was clearly the wrong thing to say. With nothing to talk about save their own conditions, they latched on to Seto's problems with clear interest.
"Oh?" Shaada asked. "What do you mean by that?"
Seto scowled again. "Nothing. I merely…visited a fortune-teller yesterday."
He was expecting the instant laughter that his response garnered, but not for Mahaado to snatch up his hand again, this time looking at the lines and wrinkles on his palm.
He pointed to a random spot. "This line represents your heart," the Priest joked. "Note how uneven and crooked it is."
Shaada pointed to his own hand. "And this tells me that the sky is blue and that the sun will fall tonight and rise tomorrow!" He laughed.
"Wait," Mahaado interrupted. "You saw a fortune-teller, and they didn't warn you about this?"
Seto shrugged.
"Some fortune-teller."
He couldn't agree more.
The Remedy – in which two people are reunited:
Seto opened his eyes again to blissful quiet. He was surprised to find that the pain he'd felt in his chest earlier had receded to only a dull ache, although the quiet and the lack of sharp, stabbing pain only seemed to make him more suspicious.
He sat up and looked around the room. No Mahaado. No Shaada. Perhaps he wasn't truly awake at all, but was only imagining this peace and quiet in a dream?
He was able to swing his legs over the bed and make his way to his feet, stumbling across the room to a small table that held his head-piece and bracers. He slid them on methodically; to him, they were as essential as the clothes on his back, and to go out into the Palace without the symbols of his rank made him feel vulnerable and unprepared. The metal was a heavy reminder of his responsibility to the Pharaoh, the people of Egypt, and himself.
As he passed the doorway he almost ran into Mana, who stopped in her place and looked up at him with bright eyes. "Priest Seto! How are you feeling?"
"Where is everyone?" He asked, avoiding answering her own question. He did not know how he was feeling—true, the discomforting pain had fled, but it was replaced with a dull feeling of emptiness, deep in his chest.
"Well, by everyone I'm assuming you mean Priest Shaada," Mana answered, "and he's…found a cure?"
She said the words with an uplift at the end, like it was a real question and not a deceptively simple statement.
"What do you mean, a cure?"
"It's like this," she explained, lowering her voice. "Priest Shaada was feeling well enough to walk around, and he met Priestess Isis in one of the exterior courtyards! I was practicing my magic—don't tell Mahaado—in the kitchens and I could see out the window, and Priest Shaada abandoned all sense of decorum and—"
"Stop," Seto insisted. "I think I feel ill again."
"And then Priestess Isis kissed him, and they were obviously feeling well enough to—"
"Mana," Seto interrupted. "A cure. What is it?"
The apprentice giggled, clasping her hands behind her back as she rocked on her feet twice. "Why, the cure is love! Priest Shaada and Priestess Isis were love-sick! Isn't that so cute?"
"That doesn't make any sense."
Mana shrugged. "You don't have to understand a spell to cast it!"
"Mana, that makes even less sense—"
"But if you ask me," she continued, "I think that Priest Shaada and Priestess Isis were ill because they were denying their feelings towards each other! They're so stubborn and difficult! Nothing like you, Priest Seto!"
"Mana, I don't…"
"Yes?" She asked.
Seto sighed. Mahaado truly did have an unending well of patience. "Nothing, Mana. Go practice your magic."
She left his company happily, no doubt fueled by the excuse he'd given her—no matter what she set on fire or transformed into a chicken, she would claim that Seto had encouraged her to do so. It was worth it for at least a few moments of peaceful contemplation.
There was a large room down the corridor where the physicians would have treated the citizens who came for assistance from Mana's strange illness. Seto could hardly believe that Isis and Shaada had cured themselves that way, and observing the others in the infirmary would tell him what he wanted to know—that it was some sort of fluke illness that needed several days of rest before one became healthy again.
The doorway leading to the infirmary was unobstructed and Seto could hear no noise coming from the space, yet he paused before it, unsure why he felt this apprehension. He was hesitating for no reason—he was the High Priest, and he couldn't cross a doorway?
Seto crossed into the room, feeling lighter and more clear-headed with each step that he took. Cots were pressed up against the walls, some with occupants, some without. Everyone seemed to be sleeping, except for one person who was merely sitting on their cot with her back to him, but he could clearly make out her long, white hair—
Seto nearly choked on the air he had been breathing as his chest contracted again painfully, but this time he knew its source.
He had found her beautiful even then, and had often wondered what she would look like now, and if her skin was still as soft and her smile as bright, and if she would still remember him the way that he cherished her in his memory.
"You remember her, don't you? She had quite distinctive hair."
As if sensing his presence she turned, and Seto knew it was her—the same girl he had rescued when they were both children. Their eyes met—she had such beautiful eyes—and her jaw dropped in shock.
"It's you," she could only say.
"It's you." He nodded.
She flew from the cot and into his arms almost faster than he could hold them out for her. They stayed like that for several moments, him just holding her while she clung to him, both unwilling to let the other go until they could be sure that the other would not disappear.
"Are you…real?" He asked. She laughed, as lightly as she could with her face still buried into his shoulder. He pulled away slightly to look at her, wiping the remnants of tears from her face with his thumb.
"Yes. I'm real," she answered.
His heart ached just looking at her. She was everything he never knew he wanted and never hoped to have. There was just one thing…
"What is your name?" He asked.
"Kisara," she answered.
"Kisara," he repeated, trying the name out for himself. It fit her perfectly.
"And there is more to a person's future than their love life!"
"Is there?" The woman did not look up. "When you are in love you will think the exact opposite, you know. And the girl in question's name begins with a K."
"I am the High Priest Seto," he said. She flinched at the mention of his title, but he soothed her by grasping her hands in his.
"I missed you," he continued.
"So did I," she admitted. "I often wondered if—"
Seto cut her off by placing a soft kiss to her forehead. "Show me."
She wound her arms around his neck as he kissed her, all thoughts of illnesses and the future erased from his mind and replaced with the constant that was Kisara.
The Recovery – in which a story is ended:
Seto switched his glare from Mana to Mahaado.
"What do you mean, there was no spell?"
Mana laughed weakly, trying her best to edge away as Mahaado kept one hand clamped firmly on her shoulder to keep her from moving. "It's just as you said…I found the spell I cast earlier, but it was just a simple gardening spell! Ehehehe…"
"So why was everyone sick?" That was the one thing Seto could not wrap his mind around; he had begun feeling ill that very day, after he returned from the fortune-teller!
"Actually, there were only a dozen or so people who were ill," Mahaado explained. "Everyone complained of eating the same stew at a mystic woman's house…"
From his side, Kisara piped up, "The fortune-teller? She gave me some chicken stew…"
"Chicken?" Mana looked alarmed. "Well…that explains it, then."
"I don't believe this," Seto insisted. "Then how did Shaada and Isis become ill?"
"Must have just been a coincidence," Mahaado said lightly. "You shouldn't be so angry—there was nothing actually wrong with you in the first place."
Mana tugged on Mahaado's sleeve, whispering to him. "Maybe we should leave before something bad happens to us."
Seto pretended not to have heard her as Mahaado steered his apprentice out of the room, waving goodbyes to Seto and words of welcome to Kisara.
"You said you had met the fortune-teller, too?" Seto asked her.
Kisara nodded. "Do you want to know what she told me?"
"It doesn't matter," Seto told her, leaning in to steal another kiss.
"But Seto…"
"It doesn't matter," he repeated softly. "We make our own destiny."
End.
A/N:
1) I made up everything in this story with regards to the palm-reading and fortune-telling.
2) I would appreciate and value your reviews. Thank you for reading!
~Jess