Requisite Author's Notes (again)

First: Thanks once again to my marvelous beta-reader, Tyger Dracofire. You make my fic a better place. m m

Next: Well, here it is. Part Five. I don't know why, but "Part Five" has always seemed like a great stepping stone to me when fic writing. Perhaps it's silly, but it always seems to me to mean something more than any part previous. Odd, ne? Oh well. For this part, there are actually a few very important notes:

1: This part is NOT from Ryou's POV. It's (mostly) from Malik's. Don't worry, the next chapter will pick up in Ryou's POV again, but this was… necessary.

2: This is actually a note I keep meaning to put up, as it applies to the fic as a whole, but I keep forgetting. I am something of a "purist." In spite of that, I have refrained from using the appropriate Japanese terms ("Sennen," "yadonushi," etc.) for a very good reason – the environment that the characters are in is NOT Japanese. I would use Arabic (or, in some cases, Ancient Egyptian) terms, but I am familiar with neither of those languages, and, being a purist, it would cause be great personal pain to mis-use a word or phrase. Another thing: this is a fic written in English for an English-speaking audience. Unless thematically (or artisticly) appropriate, I generally tend to refrain from using any other language. Like it, hate it… that's the way I am.

3: There is no number three. However, when this lawyer I know was telling me about speeches and testimonies, she said that things should always be grouped in threes. …Oh. Here's one: Barakah is Bakura. Remember that.

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The bandage peeled away with a wet, tearing sound, and the semi-conscious Rishid groaned. Isis winced. It had been four days, and his back still looked like nothing so much as a mound of raw meat.

"Will Rishid be okay?" Although he obviously tried, Malik failed to completely conceal the tremor in his voice. Isis hesitated momentarily, glancing over at her brother. She suppressed a shudder at the sight of the Millennium Rod hanging in his hand. He was still her brother, her sweet, bright little brother, but… sometimes, she couldn't help but see the dark, twisted reflection of himself that he had become. It was as if it was superimposed over Malik's form.  Isis bowed her head, and squeezed her eyes shut, trying to hold back the tears that she felt building. She started in surprise, as she felt her brother's arms wrap around her in a hug.

"Don't cry," he said, taking her tears as despair at Rishid's situation. "It'll be okay. We can take Rishid to a hospital on the surface. They'll be able to fix him there, right?" Isis opened her eyes, saw Malik's look of almost despairing hope, and remembered that it had somehow been Rishid who had returned her brother to himself. She wrapped her arms around Malik, holding him tightly, unable to stop her tears. He held her as she wept for all the things that had been broken and lost these past days.

"You're right," she said, some time later. "No matter what the traditions say, we have to take him to a hospital." Malik pulled away in sudden anger.

"Damn the traditions! They don't matter anymore!" he said, tightening his grip on the Rod. "Father's dead, and that makes me the leader, and I say that there's no good in rotting down here anymore. We need to leave, find a better place to live. Eat different food, travel to far-off lands," he ranted. "See things, do things, and-" his voice caught, and he grit his teeth, holding back a sob. He refused to cry. Isis cleared her throat.

"We should bring Rishid to the hospital now, before he gets any worse," she said. "Help me prepare his for the trip." Malik nodded, and moved to follow his sister's instructions.

Why? he thought, as he handed her the things she needed. What did we ever do to make the pharaoh hate us? He wasn't able to dwell on his resentment any further then; it took most of his concentration to help Rishid walk. Isis would have helped, but Malik insisted on doing it himself. He was very careful to offer support without touching Rishid's back; he remembered quite clearly how much his own back had hurt when his father had carved that tattoo into it, and he knew that Rishid's would be feeling much the same. Of course, he reflected bitterly, there was no hospital for me.

It seemed as if it took hours to even reach town, and almost as long to find their way to the hospital. They were slowed by the frequent stops needed to keep Rishid from collapse, but some time that afternoon, they finally made it.

"Emergency Room," Isis read the sign. "I think that this would be the right place." Whether it was a whim of fortune, or pure chance, Malik didn't know, but he was grateful that there was no one else in the room when they arrived.

"What is your emergency?" asked the man behind the counter.

"Our brother is badly hurt," Malik heard Isis say, as he helped Rishid into a chair. Rishid clenched his teeth, obviously holding back a cry of pain. Malik paid little attention to what else passed between Isis and the man; he was sure that his sister could handle it, and Rishid was on the verge of falling unconscious. Isis had said earlier that they had to keep him awake, if only until they had gotten him into the hands of a doctor. It would be very bad if he passed out.

"We're at the hospital now, Rishid," Malik said, an earnest look in his eyes. "Just stay awake a little longer. The doctors will be here soon, and they'll take care of you. It'll be okay." A hand fell on his shoulder, and he jumped, half-reaching for the Millennium Rod. It was hidden at the small of his back, under a new over-robe. He stopped when he realized that the hand belonged to Isis.

"The doctors are here, Malik," she said softly. Reluctantly, he allowed her to draw him away from Rishid, so that the doctors could get to him. She wrapped her arm around his shoulder.

"Will he be okay?" Malik asked, as they prepared to wheel Rishid away. One of the doctors turned.

"Probably," the man said. He had an odd accent, and his skin was paler than Malik had ever seen before.

Not that I've seen many people, he thought. But I think he's a foreigner.

"We can do a lot with modern medicine," the doctor added. And then they were gone.

"They said that we could wait here," Isis said. Malik nodded, and stepped away from her to sit on a chair that was out of easy earshot from the man behind the counter. Isis followed, and sat next to him.

"What did you tell them?" Malik asked quietly.

"That our father had whipped him for disobedience," she replied. "As for our father, I told them that he had been interrupted by an intruder, who he then chased after. I told them that it's been more than a day, and so we decided to bring Rishid to the hospital." Malik nodded. It wouldn't be difficult to remember. He settled down to wait for word from the doctor. To his right, he noticed on a side table a stack of glossy books – magazines like the one he had found the other day. Curious, he began looking through them.

It quickly became apparent that they were all aimed at a particular interest. The first three were of little interest to him – one was actually in a foreign language. The fourth and fifth, he set aside as possibilities, but the sixth… In spite of all that had happened, the sixth managed to bring a smile to his face. The entire thing was dedicated to motorcycles. He had been captivated at his first sight, and now wasn't any different. He opened it, almost as reverently as he would an ancient text. It was a thick magazine – the cover had labeled it as a "special edition," and so, for the next couple of hours, Malik was able to lose himself, and forget all the strifes that had plagued him and his family.

By the time he had finally finished, the sky outside had turned a deep red. Although Malik himself had never seen a sunset, he knew that the reddening of the sky was a sign that night would soon be falling. For a moment he was surprised; then he realized that by the time they had gotten to the hospital, it had been late in the afternoon anyway.

So no wonder that it's almost night. But I've never gotten so caught up in reading before. Glancing to his left, he noticed that Isis had fallen into a light doze. He poked her in the shoulder.

"Mmm… uh?" she replied, coming awake. "What – oh," she continued, seeing the colour of the sky. "It's gotten late. Haven't they had any word yet?" As if in reply, the sound of a throat being cleared drew both of their heads toward the doors that lead into the hospital proper. Standing there was the same doctor who had answered Malik before.

"I was just coming to tell you, actually," he said, once he had their attention.

"What is our brother's condition?" Isis asked, interrupting whatever he had been about to say next.

"I was getting to that, young lady," the doctor replied, with a slight smile. "Your brother will be fine," he continued. Malik breathed a purely mental sigh of relief. "I'm glad that you decided to bring him here though. What your father did was wrong, and if you had waited any longer to bring him here, his situation would have been much worse." They nodded. The doctor looked at them, and sighed, muttering something in another language. "He should stay here for at least a week," he continued, in Arabic once more. "After that, you should be able to bring him home." He looked outside, and then back at Malik and Isis. "It's getting late. If you'd like, I can arrange for a cab, or for you to stay here for the night." Isis shook her head.

"I thank you for the offer, but we should go home." Malik bit his tongue; he would have liked to sleep above ground, and he didn't feel comfortable leaving Rishid alone, in the hands of strangers. But there were, he knew, several compelling reasons to return to the crypt that had been their home. For one thing, something had broken the ancient magic that kept it hidden from outsiders, and Malik couldn't bear the thought of thieves coming and rifling through his belongings. And they had brought Rishid here to get help.

Besides. The Millennium Tauk is still there. That at least, can't be left unguarded. He knew that he was dragging his feet. Trying to convince himself to go back there, when he really wanted to never return again. But he had to; for now, at least, he had nowhere else to go. Staying one night in the hospital wouldn't change that.

"Let's go, Isis," Malik said, standing up. He took her hand. "Before it gets too dark."

"If you're sure…" the doctor said uncertainly, looking back and forth between them.

"We're sure." Isis spoke for both of them. Malik could tell that she was relieved that he hadn't protested. The doctor sighed, and told them the visiting hours. Isis nodded. "We'll be back to visit. Good night, doctor." The doctor wished them a good night as well, and told them to be careful. A few minutes after they had left the hospital, it was dark.

So this is why they say that night falls. One minute, there's plenty of light. The next, it's pitch black.  There wasn't even a moon, which disappointed Malik. There were some stars, but aside from them, the darkness was only broken by a few house lights, and the occasional car. Isis tightened her grip on Malik's hand, and he gave her a reassuring squeeze back. He slid his other hand under his over-robe, and touched the Millennium Rod. The metal, warmed by his body heat, was comforting.

Although they remained tense and wary, Malik and Isis made it to the outskirts of town without any incident. It was still a good walk home, but Malik felt Isis relax minutely. Malik still felt tense. Something was happening in the dark. The silence of the night was suddenly broken by an angry shout. It was followed by a high, dark laugh, that was somehow triumphant, and then there was the sound of heavy steps moving rapidly across the ground.

"Move!" The voice that called out matched the laugh, and seemed familiar to Malik beyond that. He turned to where the voice had come from, and, seeing a dark, white-topped figure coming towards him, started to move. Unfortunately, he wasn't quite quick enough.

"Oof!" The grunt came from two throats, as Malik found himself sprawled on the ground, with the person who had collided with him half-lying on top of him. The Millennium Rod dug painfully into his back.

"What –" he started, pushing himself up on one elbow.

"No time," the person said, pushing himself to his feet. Before Malik could reply, the person had ducked into the shadows, and seemed to vanish. "Don't tell them where I am."

That was Barakah! That boy in the bazaar! Malik thought, as he suddenly connected long white hair with that vaguely familiar voice. He wasn't able to do more than pull himself into a sitting position though, when a trio of men came out of the same alley that Barakah had run from. He noticed that Isis – who hadn't been knocked over – had edged over, so that she was standing next to him again. She offered him a hand up, and he took it quickly, as the men noticed that their quarry had apparently escaped. They turned to Malik and Isis.

"Hey," said the one who appeared to be their leader. "Boy. Tell us where that scrawny little brat went." They seemed to be ignoring Isis, focusing their attention on Malik. A heavy taint of alcohol stained the leader's breath.

I thought that Muslims weren't supposed to drink, Malik thought. A wave of disgust passed over him. He had the sudden urge to grasp the Millennium Rod, and take their minds. Take all of their pathetic minds, make them bow to him, and force them to become something that didn't offend him. His mouth stretched into something that wasn't a smile. Take them, and break them, and if they still offend, kill them. The leader took a step back, and then another. Malik moved forward, his not-smile growing wider. There was something building in the back of his mind. The men ran then, but the thing kept growing. It was a pressure, building, and building, and –

"That was a close call," Barakah said, stepping from the darkness. And suddenly, the pressure in Malik's mind was gone, fled back to wherever it came from.