Chapter One

Ishizu

The next morning dawns fairly peacefully, but I am not at peace. Sunlight sneaks through my window, gracing the room until it has reached the bed where I am. When it touches upon my face, I awaken completely from the partial slumber I am in. And again return the memories of the previous night. The memories I have been dreaming of now.

Something is haunting my younger brother Marik. Rishid and I have both seen this, but we do not know how to help him when he won't speak of it. So often he has tried to keep his feelings bottled up inside, afraid that to let them out would be weak. My heart breaks for him. It seems that some of the wounds our father inflicted may never truly heal. Though Marik knows Rishid and I would never, ever punish him for being scared or frightened, he remembers that Father did. He remembers all the pain and anguish that was poured upon all three of us and that he vowed at last that he must always be strong. What he does not fully realize is that showing fearful or sad emotions is not a sign of weakness.

Slowly I climb out of the bed and cross the room to the window overlooking our backyard. The sun kisses the grass and trees calmly, never suspecting the uneasiness within these walls. I lean against the window slightly, my mind unwillingly turning back to our old life in Egypt. I had been allowed out of the underground home several times, since I was not the long-awaited heir. Before Marik had been born I had seen sunlight, flowers, even televisions and motorcycles. But after my brother's birth our father began instigating the harsh rules of the Tomb Keeper clan. Marik was never allowed out, and after a while, neither were Rishid or I. The first time Marik had seen the sunlight was when he was eleven years old, on one of the darkest days of all our lives. I shut my eyes tightly. I have no desire to remember that now.

Marik has been ashamed of what happened last month. In the past, I have sensed it in his behavior. For days afterward he had retreated completely into himself, barely speaking at all. He felt that he had failed where he shouldn't have, but in reality he had come through for us when we needed him the most. Though he had been fearful of zombies since that one had attacked him, he had bravely descended into an entire nest of them when they attacked us as we were fleeing our home. He had been much more concerned about saving us than he had been about his own frightened feelings.

But are the past month's events truly what trouble his heart now? I cannot be certain. However, the dream of him meeting his younger self and then our father returned again when I went back to sleep after talking with Rishid. Somehow our past is what is torturing him. Something in it has returned to his mind and heart.

In determination I straighten, preparing to go check on him and perhaps try to gain knowledge about what is happening to him. But I am certain I will not find out.


When I come to Marik's room, I find him still asleep and burrowed deep within the gentle covers. The pillow is held tightly in his grasp and he is breathing softly. He seems peaceful enough. I smile at the sight. So rarely did he sleep peaceably in Egypt. And then there had been Battle City. . . . I sigh, deciding to enjoy the peace while it is here to behold.

Rishid comes and stands in the doorway with me. "Marik awoke not that long ago," he tells me quietly. "I could tell he had been having another dream, but he wouldn't say much of what it contained." He crosses his arms, a tender look coming over his strong face as he gazes at our beloved younger brother. "He did say that he had seen his younger self and that the child seemed to be crying and beckoning to him."

I frown. Though the dream sounds strange, this makes me believe all the more that something from Marik's past is attempting to come forth. But what could such a thing be? I had thought—had hoped—that between Rishid and I, we knew all of Marik's secrets and experiences. Has he been keeping something from us both? Or perhaps—more likely—this something has been kept from Marik as well, locked deep in the recesses of his mind. Now something happened that has triggered the remembrances. Could it have been what happened last month? If so, what could it have triggered?

Rishid puts his arm around me gently. He says nothing, but from his comforting touch I know that he believes we will find out what is happening to our brother.

"Halima called."

I start at his sudden words. He speaks in such a calm tone, though I am certain he doesn't feel calm about this occurrence. Halima hasn't tried to contact him for over a month now. Why does she suddenly want his attention again? I do not know that I trust the woman. Her story, perhaps, could make sense in light of what we now know about Rishid's father. But she could only be fabricating it all to attempt to redeem herself in Rishid's eyes. "What did she say?" I ask softly.

Rishid stares ahead, the emotionless mask that he wears so often coming over him again now. "She wants to tell me more about my father and about myself," he replies. He focuses on Marik's sleeping form. "She said she will come sometime in the afternoon. But what could she possibly reveal about me? She knows nothing about me." His tone has grown dark, belying his true anger toward Halima. "She was never there for me. She abandoned me when I was an infant."

I simply embrace him in reply.

Marik whimpers in his sleep, bringing both of us to attention. He clutches at the pillow as if it is his only lifeline to reality. Then his terrified, heartbreaking words fill the room as he cries out in Arabic.

"No! No, Papa, stop!" He tenses, curling up tightly in a ball. In a moment he is weeping, the tears spilling down from his firmly shut eyes and onto his pillow. "Leave me alone!" he pleads, his voice shaking with the agony. "Just leave me alone!"

Instantly both Rishid and I come to him. I touch his shoulder gently, attempting to wake him. "Marik? It is us. Father is not here." I wonder what he is dreaming of. To my knowledge, Marik has been able to put the ritualing ceremony behind him. Could something have made him dream of it again? Or . . . or is this something else?

Marik flings his arm out at me, attempting to shove me back. He is still lost deep in his nightmare, unaware of my presence. My heart is pricked. Gently I reach for his hand, holding it firmly between my own. "It is Ishizu, Marik," I whisper. "It is your sister."

Rishid watches in silence, his golden eyes filled with anger toward our father. "Marik?" he says at last, laying his strong hand on Marik's scarred back. Our brother tenses even more, fearing that it is Father touching him. I bite my lip.

But Rishid is not willing to give up. He leans down, whispering softly in the ancient Egyptian language. I can only barely hear what he is saying. "Be at peace, my brother. I am here, as is Ishizu. No harm will come to you while we are here." His voice lowers further and I cannot hear what he says next.

I smile as I feel Marik starting to relax now. Rishid is almost always able to calm his troubled heart. They have shared so many years together, even more than I have shared with them. Rishid was the one accompanying Marik all throughout Battle City. And Rishid carved those marks into his face in order to share Marik's pain. Undoubtedly they are extremely close.

Once someone asked me if I was jealous of the close relationship my two brothers share. Of course I am not. Marik and I have our own special bond, as do Rishid and I. But Rishid knows more about Marik's pain than even I could. He was with Marik through all of his darkest hours. It is only fitting that Rishid is the one to calm Marik now if he is remembering once again what Father did to him. I am able to comfort him at times as well.

Slowly Marik's eyes flutter open. He gazes about, focusing on us both. Then he takes a deep breath, his shoulders shaking, and rolls onto his back, gazing at the ceiling. Tears sneak from his eyes and roll down the sides of his face. I am certain he is not aware of them. Still he seems lost in whatever dream he was having.

"Marik?" I call softly. When he doesn't respond, I reach out to brush his bangs back, a comforting gesture I had done often when he was small. What could be wrong? What could be tearing at our brother's peace so viciously? If ever I wished my Millennium Tauk would work, I wish it would now. But I do not even have it. Still it is in the possession of Rishid's birth father. He stole it from me after abducting me last month. Since we do not know where he is, we do not know how to go about finding it.

Marik closes his eyes, willing the tears to stop. Indeed, he has noticed them. Slowly he pulls himself into a sitting position, running his hands through his hair in desperation. The scars on his back become painfully visible again as he does this. Always he will carry those marks with him through life. So much of his personality was changed when he received them. But now, after Battle City, so much of it has become unburied once more. He has been the sweet child Rishid and I remember from years past. "I was dreaming," he says at last, not offering an explanation as to what he saw. He shudders, obviously disturbed by the experience.

Rishid looks at him with concern. "But about what, my brother?" he asks softly. Slowly he sits on the edge of the bed, wishing that Marik would look up.

Marik shakes his head. "It was nonsense," he replies quietly, still studying the folds of his quilt. "None of it could have happened." He grips a handful of the material, quaking once more.

I reach out, laying my hand over his. "None of what could have happened, Marik?" I want him to tell us so badly. If only he would, perhaps we would be able to quell his fears! We might be able to reassure him that, No, what he had seen wouldn't or couldn't have happened.

But he offers no such information. At last he looks up, his eyes bright and seemingly normal, though I easily pick up on the sadness and fright within. "Don't worry, sister," he tells me. "I know it's all in my head." In a lower voice he adds, "It must be because of what happened to me last month."

Rishid and I can only look at him and then each other helplessly. What does what happened last month have to do with our father? It doesn't make sense. Oh, Marik, what plagues your heart and soul so?!

Interlude

Bandit Keith got off the bus slowly, hiding his ice blue eyes behind his favorite sunglasses. So here he was in Domino City again. The last time he had been here was when he had been mind-controlled and forced to duel against that punk kid Yugi Muto. Now he was back, ready and willing to deal out his cold brand of revenge upon his hated "master," Marik Ishtar. It wouldn't be hard to find out where he lived. And if all else failed, Keith could simply go to the Domino Museum and abduct the brat's sister. He would take great pleasure in doing such. And having a woman around sounded like a good prospect.

"You look like you've got something on your mind," a dark voice purred from the nearby shadows. Keith whirled, looking for the source of the sound, and saw a tall silhouette leaning against a wall. As the figure stepped out, Keith took in his naturally tanned skin, rough beard, and flashing golden eyes.

His eyes narrowed in distaste. "Is this town crawling with Egyptians or something?!" he burst out, pointing his index finger in irritation. People nearby turned to look, but no one apparently wanted to get involved with this scene.

Instead of being offended, the man let out a low chuckle. "I've been expecting you, Keith Howard," he announced, drawing closer. Now Keith could see that around his neck the man wore an object made of pure gold. It looked like some freakish piece of native jewelry to him—but upon seeing the mysterious eye in the center he remembered the same symbol on the Millennium Puzzle—and even upon the odd robe he had found himself wearing after being released from the mind-control! What was going on? Suddenly Keith was extremely attentive.

"You have?" he growled, looking at the man over the rim of his sunglasses. "Why? And how would you know I was coming? I guess you probably know why I'm here, too," he added in sarcasm.

The strange new acquaintance just smiled in an uneasy way. This was exactly what he wanted. Bandit Keith Howard would be the perfect pawn in his new scheme. "Yes," he sneered in assurance, "you're here to enact your revenge upon one Marik Ishtar for 'getting the better of you' and putting you under his mind-controlling powers." He inwardly was amused as he saw Keith's expression of dumbfounded disbelief. "And I'd be happy to tell you all about how I know and why I was expecting you. But this isn't the right place. Let's go somewhere . . . more private."

Keith frowned, unsure of whether to go with this person or not. But then, he decided, what could he lose? He definitely wanted the answers to his questions. No one had known that he was coming here to get revenge, after all. Keith felt he needed to know how this man knew. And maybe, if he was lucky, this person would know exactly the best way that Keith could get at Marik.

And so Keith did follow, never realizing or caring that he was sealing several people's fates.

Marik

I sigh as I sit in the window seat, being bathed by the sunlight. I didn't even know what the sun felt like for eleven years of my short life. And for the next several years after that, I had yet lived in darkness, both physically and emotionally. Now I love to be in the sun, letting it soothe my flesh and sometimes cause me to doze from its warmth.

I want to tell Ishizu and Rishid about what I've been dreaming. I want to so badly. But I don't want to burden them with the strange images and implications. I know it's all fake. Father never did that to me! . . . Did he? I've gotten so confused these past days. Part of me is starting to doubt what is fact and what is fiction. It's a horrible feeling.

The sun touches me with its radiant beams, giving me the urge to lay down in the window seat and doze. I have no intention of actually going to sleep as I stare out at the tops of the trees through the glass of the window pane, but that's what seems to be happening. My eyes are closing, as if by some unseen force placing its finger over them and forcing them shut. I curl up slightly, hugging one of the cushions, and then I am lost again in my nightmare.

The scene was different now. No longer were there any people around, but I was there, alone, walking down a deserted, ancient corridor. Everything looked so familiar and yet so surreal. Still I had the feeling of being in the scene but yet being detached from it.

I walked around a corner, becoming aware of running feet somewhere nearby. As I passed under a flickering torch, a small figure came into view. He was sobbing almost hysterically, running as if to get away from some great evil that was chasing him. Tears splashed down from his eyes, darkening the cold floor and the off-white clothing he was wearing. As he ran, he suddenly crashed into me and fell backwards, sitting down hard on the floor.

I frowned, kneeling down beside him. "What is it?" I asked, holding out my hand to help him up. For some reason he looked familiar to me . . . and yet he didn't. I couldn't place who he was, but I knew that I knew him. "What's wrong, child? Tell me. I swear I won't hurt you."

I watched as his small, tanned hand grabbed mine. Then, slowly, he looked up, my own lavender eyes staring back at me! This was me, as a child! Why hadn't I seen it before? "He's after me," the boy sobbed, not seeming to realize that he was gazing at the older version of himself.

"Who is?" I demanded, helping him to his feet.

Immediately he clung to me in terror. It was then that I saw the fresh wounds in his back, the wounds that I still bear now. They were just barely starting to heal, though of course they would leave scars. But some were oozing blood, having torn open again. "Papa," he whispered in a hushed voice. Occasionally I called him this, though usually the title I used was "Father." It sounded more formal, and he always liked formalities like that. He hated to be called "Papa."

My frown deepened. "He hurt your back, didn't he?" I asked, though of course I knew the answer.

"Uh huh," the younger me replied, shuddering. "But . . . he . . . he hurt me in other ways, too. No one's gonna love me now! How . . . how can they?" He sniffled furiously, the angry, frightened tears continuing to fall. It's obvious what he meant. "I feel . . . I feel so filthy!" Again he looked up at me, the eyes bright and clear and full of an agony I cannot begin to describe. "But . . . there's nothing I can do!" he wailed.

Suddenly I felt an anger come over me. "It's not true!" I screamed at him. "Father didn't do that to you—to me! It's all a make-believe illusion! Don't you understand?!" I pulled away from my younger self, glaring at him, as if wanting to convince me of this. But did I know it was really true?

The child looked down, studying the floor. "But . . . if it's an illusion," he said, looking up, "why would you have created it?"

My eyes fly open and I am awake again, still laying in the window seat of my room. Disoriented at first, I nearly fall against the glass, but then I pull myself up, breathing heavily. What is happening to me?! I feel like I'm simply going mad! It's all nonsense! I know it is!

As I did the previous night, I run into the bathroom, staring at my reflection. I look pathetic and pale, as if I don't know what to make of anything any more. Tears are running down my face, seemingly put there by the younger me I had been talking to in my dream. My eyes are wide and helpless—the eyes of a weak, confused person. And, without even quite realizing what I'm doing, I am overcome by a burst of anger and I plunge my fist into the glass, sending shards flying in every direction. Blood goes flying as well, but I ignore it, as I usually do.

Instead I grasp both sides of the sink, shaking, trying to ward off the madness that is coming over me. The tears come again, spilling freely, and splash around in the sink. "No," I whisper, "no. . . . Someone tell me it isn't true! TELL ME!" For, as I plunged my fist into the glass, something like a memory of a past incident has started to take shape in my mind. Or past feeling would be more accurate. I feel a foul touch on my body and a cold chill goes up my spine. I am the only one in the room. And the touch, though real, is from the past, not now. What if . . . what if it is true? The younger me was right—why would I create such an abomination out of my own mind? The thought is preposterous! There's no background for such an illusion . . . unless it's actually real.

"Marik?!"

I hear Rishid vaguely and this time I turn to face him, my eyes most likely still wild and crazed. Blood drips from my cut hand, getting redness on the sink and on the floor. Rishid stares at it and at the broken mirror in alarm, then back at me.

"TELL ME!" I cry again, pointing my index finger at him shakily. "Tell me. . . ." I trail off, my shoulders slumping.

Rishid takes me into his arms. "Tell you what, Marik?" he asks softly, holding me as if I am the child that I indeed feel like. He doesn't ask about the mess or about why I broke the mirror. He waits patiently for me to speak again.

"Tell me that . . ." I look up at him desperately, the tears continuing to fall. "That Father didn't molest me!"

Rishid stares at me, every expression of surprise, shock, horror, and alarm coursing across his features. He seems to be trying to speak, but isn't sure how to get the words out.

"Please, Rishid," I sob, clinging to my strength, my anchor, my precious beacon of light—my elder brother. "Please! If you know the truth, please tell me, because it's driving me mad!" I bury my face in his shoulder.

Rishid rocks me gently. "Marik . . . no," he whispers, "of course it didn't happen. Of course it didn't. . . ." He lays a hand in my hair, holding me close. Somehow . . . I don't know why . . . but Rishid's words don't convince me. If it is true . . . maybe he never knew.