Aria of the Divine

Rating: R

Disclaimer: Yu-Gi-Oh! And all related characters therein do not belong to me. They belong to Kazuki Takahashi. No copyright infringement is intended.

Summary: From the moment of birth, Marik Ishtar has been bound to fate. As he struggled to forge his own path...to regain a lost power...he becomes entangled in a war between gods, and the Millennium Rod may just have a plan of its own.

Author's Note: Wow. I'm finally posting the story that I've talked about for months! Welcome to Aria of the Divine, which is essentially a novelization of Marik's life, with of course my own interpretations, twists, and back/side stories. This story will be updated with a new chapter every two weeks, so I hope you all enjoy!

Aria of the Divine

By, Banjodog

Chapter One "Solemn Overture"

Overture: introductory piece designed to initiate an opera or other dramatic piece

The pain was excruciating. Shallow, raspy breaths filled the room as ten year old Marik Ishtar clutched the sweat soaked linen bedsheets. Platinum blonde locks fell across his violet eyes, but he made no movement to brush them away. The world consisted only of the pain, and the too bright firelight that seemed to give off no heat.

Marik grimaced as he rolled onto his side, clenching his eyes tightly shut. He reached a shaky hand out towards the glass of water on his bedside table, but the red pain that rippled through his shoulder ceased the effort. His hand swept across the glass, knocking it off the table even as he fell back onto his stomach. He missed the dark hand that shot out and caught the glass in its descent, spilling only a little of its contents.

"Mother...hurts...It hurts," Marik whispered as he fought to bring his arm back up to his pillow.

"Lord Marik," a steadier voice responded. Marik's eyes flew open, now fully aware of the gentle touch that tucked the stray strands of hair behind his ear.

"Odion."

"Yes, it is I."

"What...what are you doing here?"

Odion, Marik's servant, bowed deeply in atonement for his entrance without permission.

"I wanted to know how the ritual fared and if..." a glance at the glass in his hand. "If you needed anything. I can change your bandages."

"Don't touch me! If I needed anything, I would have called for you! Now leave!" Marik snapped, trying to reach behind him to swat Odion away, but another flash of pain stopped him short. A cry tore itself from his throat, but Odion did not move.

"Tell me, Odion. Who should I hate? Who should—"

Marik's statement was cut off with a gasp, the pain momentarily forgotten as it was replaced with astonishment. He had twisted again to snap at Odion when he saw the servant's face was covered with bandages.

"Odion...what..."

Odion slowly reached up, pushed back his hood, and unwound the bandages. He let the reddened cloths fall to the ground, and let his master see what he had done. What before had been a flawless, beautifully carved face was now broken by a tattoo that started halfway down the line of his nose, and spread to the left temple and down to the jaw. The tattoo consisted of several lines of heiroglyphics, but they were too small for Marik to clearly see. The marks were red yet, glowing and harsh looking against his milk chocolate skin.

"I couldn't stop your pain, my lord. But at least now, I can swear my loyalty to you."

Marik was silent for a long time, his energy too sapped to react with any great emotion.

"You are dismissed, Odion."

"My lord..."

"I said—"

"Yes, Lord Marik."

Odion set the glass of water down, closer to his master than it had been, and with another bow, he left the room. The candle wicks were small, and they would burn out soon on their own.

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"How is he?" a soft voice inqueried. Odion turned to see Marik's older sister, Isis, standing a few feet away. Her large blue eyes were wide with concern, and she had her hand clutched at her breast.

"Lord Marik is hurting, my Lady. The engraving was not gentle on him."

Isis frowned, her gaze moving to her feet and her hand falling back down to her thigh.

"As I feared."

"He will heal, my Lady. He is strong, and I believe there will be a quick recovery."

"It's not...as simple as that..." Isis' voice trailed off. There was a long pause, and just as Odion began to shift uncomfortably, Isis looked back at him. "And you, Odion? How are you faring?"

"I am well."

The corner of Isis' lips quirked slightly, but it faded just as quickly. She took a few steps forward, bridging the gap between them. She reached out a hand towards Odion's face, but stopped before any contact was made.

"It's all up to you," she said, bringing her hand back down. "It's your heart that will keep him safe."

"I'm not sure of your meaning, but if, as you say, this will keep master Marik safe, then I will not question it."

Isis gave a true smile that time, and gave a small nod of relief.

"I know. You may go, Odion. I'm sure there are some herbs in the kitchen that can ease the ache for you."

Odion bowed again and quickly strode off. Isis leaned against the wall, ignoring the chill of the stone and took several deep breaths to calm her nerves. When her heart was again steady, she made to leave when the torch nearest her flickered, dangerously close to going out. Narrowing her eyes, Isis straightened, and, gulping, headed down the corridor in the opposite way. Each torch she passed dimmed considerably, and all their warmth seemed stolen away by the darkness.

She walked through the labyrinth of corridors to end stopped in front of a plain wooden door. It looked ordinary enough, but Isis could feel the deep pulse of magic through it. Steeling her nerves, she pushed the door open.

The room was large and roughly octagonal, large pillars rising against the walls to support a high, vaulted ceiling. There were no decorations save for a large case that held two golden items: one a necklace, the other a small staff. Both held the symbol of the Eye of Ra upon them, and they glittered darkly in the firelight of their shrine. Isis' breath seemed caught in her chest as her attention was snared by the staff.

"My lord," she said, getting down on her knees and extending her arms out to touch her forehead against the ground. "I have done a great wrong. When you seek your revenge, I shall ask for no mercy."

She tried to keep her humble position, to reinforce her promise, but the negative energy in the shrine became far too unbearable, and she fled back to her own room. Once inside, she collapsed at her bedside and began a fervent strain of prayers.

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When Marik awoke, everything was pitch black. It was an all consuming darkness, but he knew this meant nothing. The Ishtar family lived deep underground, beneath the Egyptian desert, so night and day passed without consideration. He had only been aboveground once, and that action had cost him dearly. He was no longer allowed to see or talk to his sister, and several areas of the complex were off limits. However, since he had just received the mark of the Ishtar legacy, this held the hope of changing.

Marik winced as he thought of the tattoo that now spread from both shoulder blades down to the curve of his lower back, and a deep hatred boiled deep inside him. It was the mark of enslavement, a binding which no Ishtar could escape once it was placed upon them. He was now a Tomb Guardian, and he now carried the memory of a Pharaoh three thousand years dead. It was that Pharaoh that imprisoned Marik's ancestors, and bound their fate to not only his own, but that of the Millennium Items as well.

Commissioned and forged by the same Pharaoh that demarcated the Ishtars, the Items were a set of seven objects, each containing their own magical properties. Two of them, the Millennium Tauk and the Millennium Rod, were entrusted with the Ishtars, and were the reason for Marik's very existence. They were the reason that his family had to hide underground, forever alienated from the world. They were the reason that he could not speak with his sister, ride a motorbike, or even stand up to leave his room.

The familiar heat of anger churned in his stomach, but he was too tired and sore to follow through on it. Instead, he pushed himself off the bed and groped for the set of matches that he had seen a servant place on the bedside table earlier. Upon finding it, he quickly lit an unused candle and let it burn a moment while he caught his bearings. Once he was sure he could walk without collapsing, he made the trek out of his room and noted that the mess he had made from an earlier rage had been cleaned.

The hallway was abandoned, silent and dark, but that still told Marik nothing about the time of day. Everyone's sleep cycle changed at his father's whim. Only when he slept could anyone else do the same.

Not even sparing a glance towards the shrine, Marik limped down the opposite way, taking the path to the great well—the only part of the underground palace that the sun was visible through. The complex itself had been originally carved out by a long dead sub-terranean river, and the well had been built to tap into that water source, but was forgotten about after it ran dry. The tunnels were rediscovered by a second generation Ishtar after it was realized that the family had needed to go into hiding.

Each succeeding generation continued the construction, covering the walls with large stone bricks as well as lengthening and expanding the corridors. Rooms were also carved out, each one laced with powerful sealing magic to discourage intruders, enemies, and any other unlucky souls who were lost in the desert. The complex was now a veritable fortress, and its grounds had remained undisturbed for centuries.

However, the manor still had poor ventilation, and though the river was long dry, a thick moisture would sometimes seep through the walls and create a near unbearable humidity. It was through one such night that Marik travelled, the water sticking to his clothes in thick beads and making them feel heavy and uncomfortable. His breath was strained by the time he reached the well, but he forced himself to the far wall where he could finally kneel and ease the ache. Moonlight was streaming in through the well's opening, and Marik found an odd comfort in the fact that it was indeed nighttime. Settling himself back on his heels, Marik ran his fingers down the rough stone and searched for the faded heiroglyph of a man whose head was completely worn away. At his feet was a white hound, whose careful gaze kept true even after all these millennia. Along the hound's back, Marik's fingers settled into four shallow grooves and, gripping it, he pulled the stone out from the wall. He reached into the hole, and pulled out a water-damaged wooden box.

Marik had found the box during one of his explorations of one of the less developed areas of the complex, and though there was nothing special about the box itself, it was perfect for the job of holding the few treasures he had acquired on his short excursion aboveground. He crawled into the corner and leaned against the wall, stretching his legs out so he could rest the box on his thighs.

Pausing for another moment, Marik listened intently for any sign of others nearby. When he was sure of his safety, he quickly opened the box and pulled out a well-thumbed magazine with a picture of a motorcycle on the cover. For the first time in over two weeks, Marik smiled and began flipping through the pages, not caring if they were smudged or had rips in them. It was an american magazine that a tourist had thrown away, but Marik did not care that he could not understand the words.

Marik had fallen in love with motorcycles the moment he saw one: when Isis had led him on that forbidden trip above, and as dazzled as he had been by the expanse of sand and sky, he had become hypnotized by the lone traveller on his bike who allowed Marik only a fleeting glimpse before disappearing back into the night. For the rest of the day, while he and Isis explored the nearby village, he searched for any sign of the traveller and his bike, but he found none. He had just about given up hope when he saw a tourist throw a small stack of newspapers and magazines into a trash bin. While Isis admired some jewellry, Marik quickly dug out the magazine and hid it in the folds of his clothes. She had strictly told him not to bring anything back, but he could not resist.

No one knew of Marik's treasure box, which held not only the magazine, but a pocket-sized travel book on Cairo, an empty bottle of Coca-Cola, and some of the jewellry that Isis had liked so much. He had taken it while the merchant was busy, and was keeping it until Isis' next birthday, when he planned to give it to her as a present.

Marik continued flipping through his magazine, stopping on the images that he really liked. It was an old magazine, though, and he was sure that newer, better models had come out. He would love to have another issue, but he was banned from going above. Perhaps if he bribed one of the servants beforeone of their trips for provisions...

A muffled sound halted all of Marik's plotting and he froze, keeping as quiet as possible. There were definitely footsteps, and, as softly as the shadows, Marik hurried his treasures back into the box and stuffed it all back into the hole, resealing it with the white hound's stone.

There were voices then, and realizing that he had no time to escape, Marik quickly hid behind a larger boulder, squeezing himself into a narrow crevice and making sure no moonlight touched him.

"I have not sensed this," came the harsh voice of Marik's father, and Marik gave an involuntary shudder. Abdul-Qahhar was a powerful man, one whose very essence demanded respect. He had often made sure Marik and everyone else knew him as the ultimate law: the patriarch of the Ishtar family. He had no time for anything other than his duty, and he had no qualms about dragging his unwilling son down with him.

There was a moment of silence, and just when Marik began to panic over the thought that perhaps his father knew he was there, another voice interrupted, this one far richer and smoother.

"There's been no real change...I just mislike the feel of it."

It was Badr, Abdul-Qahhar's personal servant. Marik rarely saw Badr, but his presence followed Abdul's through the complex, and where there was Abdul-Qahhar, one could be sure that Badr was nearby, lurking unseen. "It's dark...full of hate," he continued.

Marik frowned, unsure of what they were talking about, but curious nonetheless.

"It's confined."

"I know....but I can't help but feel as though it's waiting....waiting for us to drop our guard."

"Nonsense. It's broken, and the seals are strong."

"Hmm..." Badr sounded unconvinced.

"I will go to the shrine tomorrow, and check it for myself, Badr."

A sigh of relief.

"Thank you, my lord. The Millennium Rod will surely bow to you."

Marik started. The Millennium Rod...he had only seen glimpses of it, and he was never allowed in the shrine itself. One of the Seven Items was causing worry to Badr? Surely it had not enough magic to break free of its bonds, and it knew who its keepers were.

He waited until Badr and his father were done taking the lunar measurements, for that was why they had come to the well to begin with, and once they had gone, Marik emerged from his hiding spot. The pain in his back was forgotten as he pondered over the new mystery. He hated the Rod...it was the reason he was doomed to a life of hiding and servitude, but now there was something wrong with it?

A soft whispering sound then seemed to leak through the walls, thoroughly startling Marik again. He made to hide, in case it was his father and Badr returning, but the whispering grew far more chaotic and maniacal..becoming the sound of a madman's laughter.

"Someone there?" Marik called out, no longer caring if someone found him. He could make an excuse.

The laughter seemed to split Marik's skull, and the air in his lungs turned thick and unbreathable. The pain in his back flared, and giving a small cry, Marik tore from the room, running back to his chamber and diving into his bed, leaving the laughing room far behind.

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To be continued.

The meanings of the names are thus:

Abdul-Qahhar: (arabic) "Servant of the subduer/almighty."

Badr: (arabic) "Full moon."

Marik: (arabic) "Master, Angel, King."