Book I | What Luxury
Duelist Kingdom Arc
Part II
Seto Kaiba: 18 years old
Kisara Pegasus: 16 years old
…
Kisara woke with a gasp. She blinked at the ceiling for a few moments, and then groaned as the pain, which had briefly left her in sleep, now returned to her in full force, as if it realized she would be able to now appreciate it, awake as she was. She tossed her head to the side. Those rocks… so many of them… from everywhere… the sand in her mouth… The shouting!... The way they all leered at her… The water… she… they… him…
Again, she opened her eyes, and found herself staring at her own, pale blue, William Morris Wallpaper. She blinked. Rocks? Had she been dreaming? No… No… She had been attacked. Hurt. And then… She had woken up to find…
Barely daring to touch her torso, she fidgeted beneath the covers of her bed. As if in affirmation to her curiosity a shooting pain racked from her right shoulder, down to her left hip, and then coursed across her back, as if she wore a sash of pain. Kisara let out a wheeze. The pain cleared her head a little. What rocks? What delirium had she been in? This pain…This was…
Kisara swallowed. She had been walking up the stairs and then… She closed her eyes, and groaned softly to the empty room. Her bedroom. What was happening to her? She didn't know how long she lay there. How long she had lain there. The curtains were drawn. Her clock was on her bedside table, which would have been fine, if it had not necessitated every muscle in her back to twist into position to see it. Delirious, pained, tried and confused, she wafted in and out of dreams and realities. …But which are which?
She didn't know how many hours she lay there. Hours? Days? It all blurred together. This was all so strange. It wasn't that Kisara hadn't had lapses in memory before. False dreams. It was the reason she was so afraid of water. Both her father and Croquet had tried again and again to take her swimming in the lagoons around the island. But it was always to no avail. Kisara could swim as naturally as though she was born on an island. But she never ventured into deep water.
Strange dreams, déjà vu, half-thoughts that were almost memories – these were all too familiar to Kisara. Her father had often said she had an imaginative mind, and an imaginative mind could not help but wander. … But this was different. It was as though someone had torn a hole in the fabric of her consciousness– her very soul. A dam had come down, and she could not keep the flood at bay any longer.
A thousand images flooded her thoughts. Was this the delirium? Was she hallucinating? She could make sense of none of it. Different places, different times, nothing stayed the same. There seemed to be only one constant. One face that appeared over and over again, each time of a different race and era, but familiar in his constancy and in his ever-piercing blue eyes. "…Seto…" The moment the name was out of her mouth Kisara blanched with her own embarrassment. Where had that come from? She closed her eyes momentarily, trying to burn the shame out of her throat. Why did she turn to him? Was it because he had once saved her? Was it because he had refused to see her since? How many years was it now? Decades? Centuries?
Millennia?
Even if Seto Kaiba had never intentionally avoided her, he had never intentionally sought her out either. And then there had been the Intercontinental Duel Monsters Tournament, a year ago. One of the most humiliating experiences in her memory. The way he had looked at her. What an idiot she had been then. No. He had saved her. And then abandoned her… to her dreams. She was such a weak little fool. Now her one consolation on the matter of Kaiba was that she never had run into him again, and never had managed to make any more of a fool of herself than that day through the bars, so long ago.
So long… ago…
Kisara was so tired. The pain exhausted her, even in her moments of wakefulness. And she still didn't know what time it was or how long she had been there. Why had no one come? Indeed, why wasn't she in the hospital wing? Why… what was happening?
And Kisara dreamed. And in dreams, remembered.
Again, she was walking up that staircase, and again the pain rent through her. Only this time, she had time. Time, as she fell through the air, to feel all over again the agony as the flesh on her back was ripped, just between her shoulder blades – between the wings. Time, to hear the defining shatter of the scales on her chest as they gnashed against each other, and splintered. Time, as what should have been a final attack, a final beam of white-hot lighting, smoked within her throat, and instead became a pitiful cry. A roar as great in magnitude as the size of the creature from which it was torn. She fell.
Kisara recalled, in a half-dazed state, as she was carried from the scene. As Croquet, her father's personal bodyguard, and her own longtime mentor, ran to her side as she was laid in her bed. Remembered – no, dreamed – how he held her hand. She convulsed in her bed, as the vision of three dragons swam before her eyes. Three dragons. No. Three mirrors. And in them, three dragons. All destroyed in one blast of power. The pain invaded her dreams.
As she fell back into the bed, so he fell to his knees on the podium, staring at the place where his beloved dragons had been. Why had they failed him? Because of you! How could you expect me to protect you, three times over, after what you did to me mere moments before!? After you rent me in two!
Kisara did not know what was dream and what was reality. It all swam before her eyes as one, as if her wound was oozing memories instead of blood. Perhaps they were one and the same. She threw her head back. She felt the pillow against her face but when she opened her eyes all she saw was sand. Did she have a fever?
All she knew was that everything was tinted with William Morris wallpaper.
She blinked. Her bedside lamp had been lit. Not only that, but something had been laid on her bed, judging by the weight on her blankets. She shifted, and let out a low hiss. The pain, again noting that its victim was properly awake, returned with full force. She grit her teeth – this is going to hurt – and wrenched her left arm out from underneath her covers, to fasten around whatever it was that had been left there. Her jaw clenched, her eyes squeezed shut, Kisara's back arched involuntarily, as if it could so escape the pain. Her nostrils flared, and she exhaled loudly. For the second time, she had to wonder that she had not been sent to the hospital wing. Almost delirious with the pain, she lifted the object to her eyes. And blinked.
It was a brace. It was made of firm plastic, mesh wire, and hospital cloth. An ordinary waist-brace. But why was it here? And then a realization came to her. Kisara looked about her. Not only had her bedside light been turned on, but a tray of food had been placed upon it. She was not going to be sent to the hospital wing. She had been left here alone.
She was alone.
Again.
Kisara opened her eyes, her mind attempting to catch up to her emotions. Again? Kisara had never had a family before Maximillion Pegasus. As a child, she had been told that a clean-shaven man in a white turban and a cream-colored gown had appeared at the doorsteps of the orphanage with a baby in his arms. Most curious about him, Kisara's supervisor had said, was the great, gold-plated key he wore around his neck. Of course, she had laughed, it could not have been out of solid gold. To wear such a thing, and in public for no occasion, would have been ridiculous. However, he had not given his name when asked. He had, however, given the baby's.
Kisara.
Beside this vague description, Kisara had not the vaguest idea of a family. Because of her strange appearance she had never been adopted. Even when searching parents had addressed her they had always found reason to move on to another child quickly. Kisara never blamed them. How could she? Apart from her strange appearance of long white hair and almost unnaturally light blue eyes, Kisara soon became aware that even her outlook and manner of speech was somewhat different from that of other children. She was strange and unpopular. Alongside the physical bullying that accompanied them, such notions only contributed to her quiet nature, her outward sullenness, and the peculiarity of which she was accused.
Until he came.
Kisara had, once again, snuck out of lunch early. This would give her a chance to climb into one of the three trees on the playground, and hide from the other children. A strange observation, but a very useful one, was that people very rarely looked up. And Kisara, who had always been slender and small, could climb to the nie-top of the trees, and remain hidden until the bell rang. It was when, her hands already reaching for the first branch, she had looked about to make certain that none of the councilors had seen her–
–that she saw him.
Standing tall, hardly blinking, next to that limousine that appeared so shiny, he looked absolutely miserable. She knew. She recognized it in herself. No child should have to look so strong as he did. In that very strength, unyielding, he betrayed himself. She stepped away from the tree. She walked towards him, completely without the usual fear and agitation with which she normally approached other children.
She reached the bars, and wrapped her hands around them. "Hey," she called out quietly, sucking in her lower lip, which an older boy had broken on her a day earlier when he had shoved her face into a wall.
And when the boy by the limousine looked up at her, Kisara knew for certain: His scowl was just as hollow as her smile. For inside, they were both screaming in pain.
Again, Kisara blinked at the William Morris wallpaper. But… why was this all coming back to her now? And why did she feel such… fear? Even now she could see her own hand – the one which held the brace– trembling. Why did she fear for her safety now? And why did she fear for her family? The family she had now had for six full years. And why was the pain of such thoughts acute enough that it brought tears to her eyes, as if she was all too familiar with such a pain. Surly, while Kisara had gone through many trials at the orphanage, she could at lease claim that she was one orphan who could not remember being orphaned?
She blinked, and the tears rolled down her cheeks. They trickled down the sides of her face, and into her ears, leaving an uncomfortable and salty wetness in their wake.
Her vision blurred. For only a moment, but it was long enough. For only a moment the William Morris disappeared completely. For only a moment she was looking up at the stone ceiling of a one-window cell, where flickering torch fire served as the only light. Kisara convulsed. Gasped. How had she gotten here? All she'd wanted was a drink of water! Wait…what? Blink. William Morris. There was absolutely stillness in the room. Kisara did not dare blink. What happened to me on that staircase? She needed to know. But to whom could she go? Her father? No. Something told her… No. …Then she would just have to go to her father, without going to him. Kisara fixed her eyes on the framed poster of Dragonheart that hung above her desk, on the other side of her room. It was a new blockbuster film that had just come out last month, starring Dennis Quaid as a knight and Sean Connery as the voice of a dragon named Draco. Kisara had already flown herself to Los Angeles three times in her jet to see it in theaters. With that mundane little thought, Kisara closed her eyes, blocking out the poster, her mouth contorted into a smile. One more time– this is going to hurt.
A tightening of the jaw. An intake of breath. Kisara wrenched herself from the bed.
…
"Seto, you've got to leave now if you're gonna make the boat for the big Tournament at Duelist Kingdom." Mokuba, Seto Kaiba's younger brother, wrapped his knuckles on the door to Seto's office. No answer. Mokuba was little for his age, which was all of eleven years old. Unlike his brother, who had cut an imposingly tall figure as young as fourteen, Mokuba seemed in no rush to grow up. That luxury was part of the life Seto had wanted for his little brother, and for which he had fought so hard. Mokuba had long black hair, which Seto allowed, with the understanding that Mokuba brushed it every night before bed. He had eyes that were too green not to remind both boys of their mother. "Seto, open the door!" He reached for the handle, knowing his big brother's propensity for isolation and locked rooms. The door handle gave way to his touch, and the door creaked open. Somehow, this unnerved Mokuba even more than if his way had been barred. "…Ah…"
Seto was sitting at his desk, with no sign in the least of being packed or ready for Duelist Kingdom. He looked disheveled, his usually carefully brushed hair was matted, his clothing hung askew on his gangly frame. He was… just sitting there, his briefcase of cards open. The only sound was the rustling of him fretfully shuffling and reshuffling his deck. He looked unnerved. It was disconcerting. The unease already building in Mokuba's chest swelled. "…Seto?"
"I'm not going, Mokuba."
Mokuba did not – could not – even let that phrase sink in. "Not going? Why not?!"
"There's no point!" And Seto tossed, tossed, his deck onto the table. The cards scattered. Everywhere.
"…What do you mean, 'no point?'" Mokuba asked quietly. This wasn't Seto.
Seto closed his eyes. He was… shaking. "Kid, I am in no condition to duel anyone." His hands were trembling. Those same hands that had held cards in them for as long as Mokuba could remember. Those same hands which had dragged them both from obscurity, and had taken down their step-father. Those hands were shaking. Something was wrong. It was as if… as if he'd done something. Something terrible. But this was Seto! No matter the costs, he never regretted anything. And yet… He looked as if… Something was very wrong.
"What are you talking about?!" He had to snap him out of it. Mokuba had to snap Seto out of it. Whatever 'it' was. "You always say: cards are power! And you've got all the strongest cards!" Remember? Remember how unrelenting you are? This… this was just weird. Frightening.
Mokuba could tell that he wasn't the only one that was frightened.
"…Since I lost my duel with Yugi, I just don't know what I think anymore. Everything's different. It feels as if I lost a piece of myself that day!" He almost chocked on the words. His eyes went wide. It almost looked as if he was about to have a fit. The closest Mokuba had ever seen Seto come to this was when there had been a risk that they would be separated in the orphanage. Adopted by different couples. When Seto had realized there was the very real chance he would lose his little brother. But Mokuba was here now.
Seto hadn't lost anyone this time. A piece of himself? What was Seto talking about? He… He was here, in one piece. No one had lost a piece of themselves. No one had been torn in two. Everyone was still whole.
"…But Seto, you're the best! You're the champ!"
Shakily, Seto rose from his seat and pulled a card from inside his trench coat. He seemed delirious. Sick, even. "…Not since the day I was defeated by Yugi," he muttered, as much to himself as to his brother, his eyes fixed on the card. "Here, Mokuba," a flick of the wrist. Mokuba caught the card deftly. "I'm going away for a while," Seto went on, his eyes shifting to different corners of the room, looking everywhere except at Mokuba. "I don't know how long I'll be gone. Keep this. It was always your favorite."
Mokuba hardly even looked at it. It didn't matter. What mattered was that something was very, very wrong with Seto. "Why? Why are you leaving?" They had never been apart. Never. Not even the orphanage had been able to separate them. What part of you did you lose? He was scared. They were both scared.
Seto wasn't even seeing him. It was as though he was far away, replaying some memory he couldn't actually remember. "Because I don't know who I am anymore."
And that was that. He just walked out the door with a final, "Take care, kid." No way of reaching him. No explanation. With that briefcase in one hand, and the clothes on his back, the CEO of KaibaCorp. walked out of Mokuba Kaiba's life.
"Seto, don't go!" Mokuba reached out his hand, just as the door shut. "…oh…"
The luxury of not growing up was over.
…
She stood in the library. Kisara had managed to pull on a baggy burlap sack of a dress, which hung loosely on her, avoiding any points of injury. Avoiding the brace. She couldn't remember the last time she'd worn it. Something she'd picked up in an Anthropology outlet the last time she'd been on the mainland. Over it, to keep out the chill that kept seeping up her spine no matter what she did, Kisara had pulled a large, knitted dark blue cardigan. In the doorway, she now shuffled in her simple flats, the fear of falling again instilling an absolute need for steady footing. Steady footing… wouldn't that be nice, in any sense of the term.
The library was dark, musty, and oak paneled. There were paintings on the walls, but it was too dim to see them properly. Too murky for a library. Kisara had never understood it. Sometimes she wondered if her father had not wanted surplus lights because he did not want the paintings exhibited. There was such a wealth of knowledge here. Old volumes gathered through the generations, brought here by the Pegasus patriarchs over the years – she could always feel the pedigree of her father's family when she stepped into this room. There were heirlooms covered in dust and shadows peering out from between the shelves – an old armchair, a wicker basket full of canes. Perhaps that was the reason that, despite her enjoyment of reading, she rarely did come here. The bloodline, firm, strong, confidant… it wasn't hers. She stood out like a white blotch against the dark mahogany, oak, and leather. Indeed, considering her father's humor, it was the most austere room in the castle. Even he could not go so far as to completely dance over this shrine of his forefathers. Though he had, not so much changed, but added some things. His own touch, as it were. Alongside the massive stuffed buffalo and tiger heads that hung along what little wall was not covered by bookshelves, and standing side by side with the great stuffed grizzly bears in the corners – were duel monster statues.
Looking up at the great-antlered buck over the fireplace – which she doubted was lit even in winter, let alone this fast-encroaching summer warmth – Kisara couldn't help but think that he seemed rather glad of the company of the curled-up stone Guardian of the Fortress that was nestled atop the massive fireplace itself, looking up at his head-of-a-friend.
And one other thing had changed since Maximillion Pegasus had taken up ownership of his family estate on this quaint little island just off the west shore of the United States of America – The Egyptian Collection.
"Kisara…"
Kisara wiped around. A shiver ran down her spine as pain shot up it. She gripped at her hips. "Ah!" The gasp seemed to fill the entire room. The moment was broken. She panted, took a deep breath, and straightened up as best she could. Her waist was strapped tight with the brace. She could move. But how long it would be until she could move… she couldn't say.
Kisara looked about herself, into the darkness in the room, everything there telling her – you shouldn't be here. You're not a Pegasus. Not really. She was scared. She was genuinely scared. She had been scared getting up, scared of the pain. Scared of leaving her room, almost as if she had expected someone to stop her. To question her. To hurt her, as they had in the orphanage. To lock her up. She could take it then. She had expected it then. She… she didn't know if she could take it now. Over the last many years she had become soft. Had become used to the luxury of not having to grow up too quickly. She was scared of this room. But most of all… most of all… she was scared of…
Kisara blinked. Somehow, in a daze, she had managed to place herself in front of the towering south wall that housed the bulk of her father's literary collection on Egypt, accumulated during his travels and research. She felt nauseous. She could feel herself shaking. She couldn't focus on anything. It was as though she was wading through a fog of thought and memory, and every time she tried to concentrate on any one image in her head, it would disintegrate, like sand between her fingers, or like the ruins of a structure. It was as though she had lost a piece of herself. As though she didn't know who she was anymore.
And then the idiocy of what she was doing hit Kisara like a ton of bricks. What? What on earth was she thinking? There… there was nothing to it. And, and if she went now to her father and explained to him how hurt she had gotten, he would ship her off to the best hospital in Los Angeles without a second thought. Yes. She was making something out of absolutely nothing. There… there was nothing to it…
Kisara swallowed. She tasted blood and sand. With that, she took a book off the shelf. By Dr. Arthur Hawkins, she read off the cover. Kisara walked over to one of the great windows that spanned up twenty feet, shoved open one of the moth-eaten curtain, and let the light strewn into the long abandoned, dark chamber.
…
It was a small house on the Pacific Ocean. It would do. No one would ever look for him here. From the outside, it looked like a very lovely, two story upper-middle class dwelling overlooking the sheer cliff to the sea and the rocky shoals below. Inside, however, instead of the retired fishing couple and the five cats, there were wires covering every surface.
And all of it, for the first week of its occupation, remained untouched.
The inhabitant, so recently arrived, spent his days by the window, staring out at the waves. Comatose. That was the only way one could describe the state that the young man was in. Had he committed himself as opposed to hidden himself, there is absolutely no doubt that he would have been placed in a wheelchair by the third day of his isolation. He did not eat. He did not sleep. His eyes, deep blue as they were, seemed to turn grey and lose more and more of their color with each passing hour. His breath was ragged. It almost seemed as though he withered away as he sat.
Bloodless and memoryless.
Then…after one such day… sleep finally took him. Though, in all honestly, the difference between wakefulness and sleep for him was hardly noticeable. Except for the dreams. The dreams made the difference. In the dreams… "Seto, don't go!" Mokuba's voice. "I'll protect you too, Seto." Whose voice was that? "Thank you, Seto! I promise, I will return the favor! Thank you!" He was so sure that he knew that voice.
"Seto, help me!"
The young man jolted awake in his seat. It was pitch dark, both outside and in the house. The only sounds were of the waves and the quiet humming of unused but alert machinery. He blinked a few times. How long had he been sitting here? He mopped a hand over his face, settling his fingers to pinch the rim of his nose. Too long. Too long he'd spent in this comatose state. His mind scrambled, forcibly clearing back the fog. He took a steadying breath, and hauled himself out of the armchair.
He knew what he had to do now.
The next morning Seto Kaiba sat at a desk in an office with a window that overlooked the ocean, the cliff, and the rocks below. He looked terrible. His usually immaculate attire of green and dark blue trench coat and dark green colored shirt looked more crumpled now than when Mokuba had last seen him. And his usually steady hands were still shaking just a little.
For hours, his sleep starved brain worked, guiding his emaciated fingers. For the first time, he allowed his thoughts to wander into the past.
It's no use. I've gone over it a dozen times in my mind, but I still can't figure it out. How was a kid, who came out of nowhere, able to defeat a champion like me? He chanced a glance away from his latest invention, to the endless number of wires that he had surrounded himself with over the last few days. I've run computer simulations, probability scenarios, and quantum analyses of our duel, but I still don't have the answer. He narrowed his eyes, trying to concentrate. I had clearly been dominating the match. My Blue-Eyes White Dragon ripped through his forces–
Kaiba blinked. Damn. The miniature screwdriver had slipped in his hand. Gently, lovingly, he removed the tarnished wire, and replaced it, his long fingers flying across the machinery that he knew so well. I was on the verge of winning. …But Yugi wouldn't give up. Against all odds, and with absolute faith in his grandfather's deck, he somehow drew the one card that assured his victory.
Kaiba took a breath, reliving the moment. All three dragons… He shuddered. I had always believed that Duel Monsters was a game of sheer power, but Yugi claims that the cards have a heart. Immediately, his mind was drawn to his own beloved Blue-Eyes. Blue…eyes… a smile, through the bars. He swallowed. Paused in his work. Continued.
It sounds crazy, I know. But could Yugi be right? Is there really a heart of the cards that can affect the outcome of a duel? Is that how he won? …that smile… The only way I'll know for sure is to face Yugi again. And these new portable holo-generators will enable me to challenge him no matter where I find him. He screwed the metal plate over the wire-belly. Done. He inspected the two circular contraptions that he had been laboring over. Done. …and not a moment too soon. He could hear movement outside the door.
So much for no one finding him here.
If I could just get to…
There was a loud knock on the door. No, not the front door. The door to his office. Well, whoever it was, they were confident that he would never sue them for trespassing. That was encouraging. "Seto Kaiba!" A fist fell on the door outside, the frame trembling with the impact. "We know you're in there! Open the door or we'll break it down!" The door buckled on its hinges. Calmly, Kaiba packed first one and then the other holo-generator into his suitcase, which he had lined appropriately. He would have to carry his deck in his coat pocket. Which reminded him–
With an almighty crack the door burst open.
…
With an almighty crack the heavy tome hit the floor, raising dust and memories as one.
Kisara sat in the dark leather chair, her hands still holding the phantom of the book now on the ground. Her fingers twitching at phantom remembrances. Her mouth was dry. She closed her eyes.
She could read the hieroglyphs.
No, not the neat little English words filed into paragraphs, which were accompanied by pictures of hieroglyphs. Nor the Japanese of her orphanage days. Not the little cheat sheet provided in the appendix, created by Jean-François Champollion over two hundred years before as a simplified demonstration to receive more funding from the French monarchy– classifying the little wiggling line as 'water,' or the little circle as 'sun.' Kisara could read the hieroglyphs themselves. Not symbolically, but alphabetically.
What is going on.
Kisara's father had many books on Egypt. And why not? His fortune had been made in a game that started in Ancient Egypt – Duel Monsters. It's date of origin was clouded, even by Ancient Egyptian standards. Historians could not even be certain if the game had come into prominence during the Old or Middle Kingdom eras. A vague reference would be made to it on a tomb wall, before it would vanish from the records for centuries, only to crop up again on a papyrus scroll. It seemed that the game was as old as Egypt itself.
Despite, or rather, perhaps because her father had been the game's creator, Kisara herself had never mastered or even taken great interest in Duel Monsters. She did not have a knack for the rules. And while she could follow who was winning or losing by their amount of lifepoints, or whether someone had played a particularly clever move because of the cheers and cries of admiration it evoked from those around her in the audience, she was no pretend-champion herself. No. As with her appearance, Kisara had come to terms very early on that she was a very little scrawny girl who, by some strange chance of fate, had been thrust into a far more glamorous world that she was fit for.
Duel Monsters had no definite beginning. The power of this… 'shadow realm' seemed the best translation… spanned as far back as memory. It was quarried from the 'darkness,' just as the stone that made the great pyramids was quarried from the mountains east of the Nile. This game was molding into building blocks, however, at a very distinct time in Egyptian history. Distinct, because of how little evidence there remained of it – the time of a nameless Pharaoh who lived after the time of Ramesses the Great, during the 19th Dynasty, in the New Kingdom era of Egypt.
And now she came to details.
Kisara gingerly picked the book up off the floor. The pages rustled in the stillness of the room. The dust, disturbed for the first time in an age, wafted in and out of the light. Like memories. Kisara let out a shuddering breath, disturbing the air even further. She… she couldn't really have more than one past… could she? Her fingers tightened on the spine of the book, and the leather groaned with all the secrets that it held.
…
Her grip tightened around his waist as the horse moved beneath them. She pressed her face into his back and breathed in deeply. How could this be? How could he be here? She had seen him vanish in a sea of storms, only to see him rise again in an ocean of sand. I don't understand. And, after everything she had been through, she did not think she wanted to understand. Wasn't it enough that he was here? For her? That they were both here, and safe.
"Memphis, the old Capitol, is dead ahead! Just follow that constellation, The Soul of Osiris!" His muscles shifted beneath her touch as he pointed. She didn't even look. No. Don't leave me. "Then make your way back to your own country!" A shudder wracked her body, and it had little to do with either the cold, or the movement of the horse. Suddenly, she was wide awake.
Of course. What was she thinking. Did she want the same fate to befall this boy as had befallen him? Did she want to bring a curse on him, as she had the others? No. For his sake… hesitantly, stiffly, her limbs still sore from their stagnancy in the cage, she braced to let him go. However, first, she simply could not help herself. She leaned in close to his ear one last time, "What is your name?" He fell away from her, and she did not hear him hit the sand. An eon passed. Had he not heard? Surly… surly she couldn't leave without hearing his name. …Not that it really mattered. She knew by what name to call that face. His name was Cr–
"Seto!" reached her ear against the hammering of hooves. "SETO!" broke the night.
Kisara smiled, whipping her face around. So… your name is Seto. She twisted in the saddle and, unseeing, waved into the blackness. "Thank you, Seto! I promise, I will return the favor! Thank you!" Kisara did not know how she would repay the favor. But she felt that, somehow, that promise bound them.
…
Kisara's fingers quivering at her sides, she stood in front of the bookshelf– every book once more in place. Gently, gingerly, Kisara snaked her arms around herself, and laid her hands on her shoulder, and her hip, remembering with what ease she had twisted in that saddle. And I did… I did return the favor. I'm not yet sure how, but I did. Which could only mean…
Kisara closed her eyes as another shot of pain wracked through her. You… It was you that did this to me.
…
"Let's go, Kaiba."
Calmly, Seto Kaiba bolted his suitcase shut, and turned in his office chair. His feet scraped the floor. He took in the sight of his unwanted guests. Thugs. Two of them. Both wearing horribly fitted suits. Not that he was really in a position to judge. Hell only knew the last time he'd had his shirt ironed. And the thugs both had guns, which they were pointing directly at his un-ironed shirt. That seemed worth noting.
"On your feet."
Of course, they both needed to get a word in. It wouldn't do for just one of them to tell him what to do.
"Mr. Pegasus," sneered the smaller, greasier one over his gun, "would like to have a few words with you." Alternatively, 'Come with us quietly so that we can shoot you deep in the forest surrounding this isolated house which you, in your infinite consideration, picked out yourself. We wish to bury you there, and would like you to save us the trouble of having to drag your dead weight from the second story of this residence.'
Kaiba smirked and, with a sigh, he swiveled back to face his desk and stood. The office chair creaked beneath him. He supposed saying that Pegasus wanted to see him was the simpler explanation. "Huh. I bet he would. But it'll take more than you two goons to grab me." He checked that the clamps on his briefcase were secure, not even sparing a glance for the men or their guns. Seto Kaiba, age eighteen, had seen much worse in a corporate office than either of these middle-aged washouts could ever offer up to him.
The greasy one growled. "This can go easy, or we can snap you in two, wise guy–"
"You'll never take me alive!" Kaiba turned and slammed his foot into the office chair with enough force to send it careening into the two men. A gun fired. Kaiba deftly blocked his head with the bulletproof suitcase. He heard the bullet ricochet off and felt the shockwave run up his arm. With the two men blocking the door, there was only one way out of this room. Without hesitation, Kaiba took it. He threw himself out his office window, down the sheer cliff.
…Why? What a stupid thing to say. 'You'll never take me alive.' As if that had ever been their intention. Why? Why had he lost his cool like that? He had plummeted half way down the cliff, the wind snapping at his hair and coat, before Kaiba even realized that he'd left his deck in the office. Damn. He snapped a hand out and clutched at an outcropping. The stop wrenched his whole body, but he held.
It was the mention of being snapped in two.
That was what got him. Who… why did the man have to say that? As if anyone would actually snap someone else in two. Here. Now. Again… Those blue eyes. That smile.
The pain registered in his arm. The spray from the sea below swept over him. Kaiba's mind caught up to his body. He looked up. He couldn't see his office window from here. Good. He looked down. The rocks that appeared and disappeared out of the waves in the shallows were unforgiving, and everywhere. They'll think I died in the fall without a doubt. He hung there a while longer, wanting to be certain that the men had left. Blood trickled down his hand where the crag had bitten into it. He felt a speckling of it on his face when he looked up. It smeared red against the white stone of the cliffside.
This is going to hurt. He gritted his teeth, and swung his briefcase onto the flat of the ledge. He hauled himself onto that same ledge, staggered, and stood. Kaiba still had a long climb ahead of him. He was rather certain that his deck would not still be waiting for him at the end of it and, judging from what the gorillas had said, Maximillion Pegasus was at the bottom of this attempt on his life.
His lip curled. Ever since he and Pegasus had entered a partnership a year ago in New York, Kaiba had known that Pegasus was threat. This however, was unprecedented. To murder the CEO of a partner company… Something was driving him. What had they promised? Money? Surely the CEO of Industrial Illusions had enough of that. And how was he planning this takeover? As per the corporate bylaws, only a Kaiba could legally be at the head of–
Mokuba.
The crashing of the waves went mute in Kaiba's ear. The only sound was the drip, drip, drip of the blood running down his clenched fist, and falling onto the handle of his bullet-proof suitcase.
…
"Well, well, well. You're awake!" Pegasus exclaimed with seeming genuine amusement as he tucked into his tiramisu dessert. "And you're walking too!"
"Yes," Kisara answered quietly. Her father had always said that the calm of her voice had its own imposing quality to it. Like a single, drawn out note on a flute or a pipe. She used that calm now. "I have been awake for some days now." She was confident that, though she was leaning against the doorframe at one end of the Dining Hall, her father could hear her quite adequately from the other end, seated at the head of their long table. Croquet shifted behind him, seemingly uncomfortable at Kisara's unblinking gaze – another thing that her father had always said was intimidating.
How much did he know?
"And spending time the library," Pegasus said, washing down the phrase with a glass of wine. She said nothing. He swallowed. "So, what have you learned?"
He was wondering the same thing as she. How ironic.
Kisara blinked across the room at him, her face betraying nothing. "Learned? Nothing." Remembered? …a little.
"I am curious as to what prompted this sudden studiousness on your part."
"I am my father's daughter. Questions are answered by research."
Pegasus's fork paused on the way to his mouth. The tiramisu quivered in place. He looked up at her and, for a moment, he seemed to stop laughing. Not that she minded. The laughter in his eyes was no longer as it had been. It had become a cold, chilled laughter. "What do you know?"
Again, no answer. Pegasus set his fork down, and touched his left hand below his bangs, to where Kisara could not see, but the contents to which she knew too well. The Millennium Eye. One of what? Seven? Millennium Items. That much at least he himself had told her during bed-time stories. As for the rest… It could not be said she was not a fast learner. Learner? No. Perhaps a better term would be… Rememberer.
"Kisara, what do you know?" A moment passed. He pressed his hand to his Eye. Nothing. And the same realization came to them at the same time. Pegasus's face darkened. Kisara inhaled sharply. "…I see." Once again, he picked up his fork.
Never had the silence been so thick between them as it was now. Then, it was broken. A door opened. Kisara heard footsteps. Who was disturbing them? The attendants knew to stay out until Pegasus was done eating, and Croquet was standing sullenly in the shadows.
Before Kisara could turn, a man came alongside her in the doorway. She looked up at him but he, dark glasses still on even though he was not only indoors but night had fallen some time ago, had eyes only for her father, to whom he looked across the Dining Hall. She realized who he was almost immediately. Who could forget that ridiculous head of brown hair, gelled to a point. It was– oh, what was his name? Kemo. One of Seto Kaiba's bodyguards.
Seto Kaiba… A name that now churned Kisara's stomach.
She opened her mouth to ask what he was doing here, in the Pegasus Castle, on Duelist Kingdom island, when somehow she found herself incapable of closing her mouth at all – let alone speaking. Her eyes focused on what the big man was caring.
Draped over his shoulder was a small boy. A great mop of raven black hair hid his face, but there was only one little boy it could be. There was only one little boy with hair like that whom her father could possibly be interested in. Mokuba Kaiba. …Seto Kaiba's younger brother. Kaiba's younger brother was draped over this man's shoulder, unconscious, in her home.
Slowly…. Kisara turned her head back to look at her father. She, who rarely showed emotions above slight surprise or gentle amusement, knew her face must now be shining forth nothing short of abject horror. Kidnapper? Her father was a kidnapper?
Was this… Is this all part of the reason that you did not send me to the hospital? Though she knew now who was responsible for her injuries, Kisara could not help but think, Was it so convenient for you that I was rendered immobile? Would admitting me for proper medical care have garnered too much attention from the public?
Her father smiled and leaned back in his chair. "Ah," he addressed Kemo, "at last." He beckoned the man and, as he himself got up, he turned his attention on her one last time. "You are good, Kisara. But I always knew that. You are so mild, and so quiet. It really is a mercy that you do not realize your own power. If you did, I'm very much afraid that the gods themselves would bow to you. However, you do not you are the better for it. Go back, my little Kisara. Go back to that charmed little world you have enjoyed for the past few years – that world of parties and flying. A world in which you have the luxury of not growing up. After so much pain, surly you know better than to invite it back upon yourself?"
He was threatening her. As she stood there, a great Dining Hall away from him, and looked into the smile of the only father she had ever know, Kisara knew that he was threatening her. She? Powerful? Alone, in pain, and confronted by her father, Kisara had never felt weaker in her life.
Then again… she could not account for all of her life yet, could she.
"There is, of course, the irony, in that which we do not know. Isn't there?" Her father wiped his mouth with a napkin before folding it meticulously. A shiver ran down Kisara's spine, her stare fixed on the Eye which she could not see beneath his silver hair. Then his eye – his flesh eye – met hers. She did not look away. "The irony," he broke off, looking to the inner wall of the Dining Hall, away from the windows, "of what we cannot know." She followed his gaze to two paintings. Now that she thought about it, these were the only two paintings her father painted that she had ever gotten a good look at. They were both portraits, and they held well-lit places of honor in their lives – greeting her as she came to breakfast every day, day in and day out. "And it is quite ironic, that even the brightest minds – such as yours, my dear – are blind to what they know, when it may endanger their luxury."
What could he mean? Kisara looked to the paintings again. One was of Cecelia, her father's love. Beautiful, blond curls cascading over her shoulders. Angelic face. Kisara had wondered more than once if Cecelia had truly been as beautiful as her father painted her here. Well, shehad been to him and, Kisara supposed, that was all that mattered in the end. Cecelia – the reason her father never remarried. The reason he never had children of his own.
The other portrait was of the man who had delivered Kisara to the orphanage in Japan when she was just a baby. She had always assumed that her father painted him from a description given by the orphanage supervisor, as a gesture to his newly adopted daughter. A way of making Kisara feel more connected to an otherwise entirely disconnected past. She had been touched the first time that she saw it when she had been… what? Eleven? It made her feel welcome on this strange island, surrounded by water, in this strange castle, so far from all that she knew.
Her father had painted the man as a gentleman of Egypt, the way Jean-Léon Gérôme painted men and scenes of the desert land in the 1800s. If she did not know better, the seeming realism of this portrait would have been so staggering that Kisara could have mistakenly thought it was this stranger, not her father's dear Cecilia, that Maximillion Pegasus painted from life– rather than from hearsay of some orphanage employee. Her father had captured every fold of his turban. His clean-shaven jawline. The ruddiness of his face. And, of course, the great golden key that hung around his neck, so bright it seemed to shine off the canvas.
The realism of the painting was too staggering.
Kisara blinked. Her eyes trailed up to the man's face, where every line and every crease was accentuated, as they could only be accentuated on a real face. Except for the eyes. Kisara's lips parted infinitesimally. For, despite the realism of the painting, the man's eyes had no pupils. They were just two round golden disks, like the hieroglyph for the sun, for Ra. Two abstract disks in an otherwise all too real face. It was almost as though… they held no living soul. Kisara's gaze again flitted down to that golden Key around his neck. The Millennium Key. The realization crashed upon Kisara like a wave. She had not seen this painting at the age of eleven. She had seen it when she was ten, when she was confused and disoriented and new to Duelist Kingdom. Her father had not painted it after he adopted her, but before. Her father knew the man from the painting.
"…No."
"Oh yes, my dear." Pegasus sneered as he looked from portrait to daughter. "And I assure you, by my vanity as a painter, it is an accurate depiction. He is the same. The same man who, your caretaker told me, left you on the doorsteps of that orphanage and revealed to you your name– I knew the same man, from some time before. Thus, my hunch as to who you were when I heard of you was proven accurate upon meeting you. You are," he smiled. Kisara's heart leapt into her mouth. Who was she? "Kisara."
Eyes glazed, she stared at the painting, no longer the work of an artist's imagination, but a face to a name she did not even know.
"You're out of your depth, child." The words fell like a rock into the pit of her stomach. "Forget. And think. Why would you want to remember? To help him?" Her father tossed his head in the direction of Kemo, who had taken a stand by Croquet, with Mokuba Kaiba still draped over his shoulder. "For him, when his brother did this to you? Oh yes, I know all about it. You know how it happened, my dear? Hm? He tore it in half. Yes. Your gift. Do you even know what your gift to him was? No? Well then, let us be blunter – your soul. Yes. He tore your soul without a care."
Her father chuckled. Actually chuckled. It rumbled through the room. The chair scraped as he finally got out from behind the table and moved to leave. "Oh, and whatever promises he made you the day he met you at your orphanage, you would be well served to forget them as well. It's not like they are worth anything now," he called back in farewell. "Go back, darling girl, to the luxury of not growing up. And forget."
The door slammed shut. Kisara stood alone in the Dining Hall.