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Chapter Text

I like this as much as any other lawyer who dresses professionally and has to go into a ghetto building in the outskirts of the shadiest suburbs, but this is, unfortunately, part of my work.

I really do not trust the elevator, which probably smells like piss, cigarette smoke, and cheap perfume, so I take the stairs instead. If the walls were painted, the paint would be chipping off, but some architect had the common sense of leaving the concrete raw. Concrete doesn’t get old, it gets graffititied, though. A passing thought. Seven flights of stairs, lit just by the light of a few, sparse and narrow clerestory windows. Will I find the person I’m looking for, at the end of these neglected stairs? The private investigator I hired sounded sceptical about what she’d found out, suggested even that I might not want to go alone.

I took her warning. Across the street there’s a nondescript car, and in the car there’s a hired security detail.

The hallway I reach is miserable. I find the door I’m looking for at the end. Do I hesitate to knock? (there’s no doorbell)... Perhaps. But I knock, nevertheless.

Regardless of what I might have expected to see, or whom I might have expected to find, I am extremely confused when the door finally opens. When I finally come over my shock (and passing terror) at the empty eyes that stare back at me, I take some seconds to let my years of experience tell me who this man is. He is in his thirties, I believe, and quite tall. A tan shirt, rolled up his elbows, and he apparently follows the family custom of wearing gold jewellery –bracelets, earrings, a thin necklace. Only one word flares in my mind: dangerous. Pale hair, shoulder-length and rather wild, that doesn’t seem dyed contrasts weirdly with his dark skin. In short, he looks rather exactly like...

But I was not made aware that there was a twin.

My profession requires of me that I have a good poker face, and I have it. But I get an eerie feeling, as if he could see through it.

‘Mr. Ishtar, I presume...?’

And although my voice falters imperceptibly, he notices everything. What an unnerving character. He quirks an eyebrow.

‘That’s a name I have not heard in a while,’ he says, with a condescending sneer. His voice is very deep, and that’s when I begin noticing the differences: the solid build, the way he carries his bearings, which makes him seem taller, threatening.

‘I assume you were sent by my sister?’ he inquires, in a way that should have been pleasant, but I know better.

I frown. ‘In a way, you are correct. I’m her attorney. May I come in?’

He shrugs, I cannot read him. Moving aside, he lets me in, closes the door. In a place like this, in a neighbourhood like this, one would expect locks and bolts. Nothing. Not even half a turn of the key. I hear this, rather than see it, because the sight before my eyes has me speechless for a heartbeat.

Polished rosewood floors? In the ghetto...?

The house is very sparsely decorated and furnished, but everything looks expensive. Exclusive. Priceless, even. There are one or two statues that must be ancient Egyptian, from what I know of having worked with his sister, and one of the walls in particular has me looking at it with unease. By all looks, someone lifted the whole relief from an Egyptian tomb, or temple, and mounted it to take up the whole surface. Utterly impressive, most certainly illegal, and the scene it depicts troubles me in a way I cannot understand.

‘Lovely work, wouldn’t you say? Ammit devouring the hearts of those who do not pass Ma’at’s judgement.’

I look at him, trying to further my character study, but he only seems amused.

‘Tea?’ he asks.

‘Well, I...’ I don’t mean to stay that long. In fact, I want to turn tail and leave this very moment. ‘Yes, thank you,’ I say instead. You don’t say no to this man, and his little humoured smirk seems to know it.

‘Make yourself at home.’

At home, in this millionaire’s penthouse undercover in the city’s most dangerous slums. Which is not even locked. I’m curious as to whom this man might be, but at the same time I know I really do not want to know. As I take a seat on an antique, French baroque armchair, the thought of the strangeness of the situation plagues me. That this man, with this undeniably... illegal, lifestyle, can be related to Ms. Ishtar, a stately, righteous museum director who rigorously donated 50% of profits to charity work... Puzzling.

I text the security detail an update of the situation.

Hanging on a wall that is otherwise empty there is an impressive painting of a river flanked by palm trees, reeds and rock outcrops. I guess it must be the Nile. The painting is framed by the most exquisite, wood-carved frame I have ever seen. If someone would have described to me a situation like this one, I would have assumed that they were speaking about the den of a nouveau riche thug, but this is something... different. Old. Poised. Even if the owner is fond of gold jewellery.

I am given tea in a delicate glass cup with a golden rim, which looks like real gold. It is easily the best tea that I have drunk since I arrived in this city, and in this city everyone drinks tea.

I progressively understand less and less.

My host sits opposite me, an elbow on his knee, his chin on his hand, and looks at me with some amusement, but the glint in his eyes is hard, calculating.

The contour of those eyes is tattooed –an odd procedure, which I have rarely seen around, but which the Ishtars seem to share. He raises a cup to his thin lips, takes a sip, blinks perhaps less than he should.

For goodness’ sake, I am a lawyer, I am a good lawyer, what has me tongue-tied like this? And then, I notice –the source of his amusement seems to be me. My discomfort. My fidgeting and stalling. I find myself slightly shivering, as though the air were cold, which it isn’t. I clear my throat, although it feels like I have done so already, very recently.

‘You were a hard man to find, Mr. Ishtar,’ I begin, cautiously, ‘some warned me even that you did not exist, not for real. Whatever that means.’

His expression betrays nothing. Surprise at this information is non-existent.

‘I have met your brothers, as well. Even they seemed reluctant to believe you were…’ I struggle to put into words the reaction that I had gotten from Mr. Malik and Mr. Rashid –‘alive’; is what I settle for, although both siblings had looked at me very strangely, when I had mentioned their third brother. “Real” would have definitely been a better word… But, family histories can be convoluted, I pass no judgement. And the man before me certainly bears an undeniable family resemblance… Again, the thought occurs me, that I was not made aware of a twin, which is hardly the kind of information that people forget to relay. Curious.

“I have kept my distance,” Mr. Ishtar says coolly.

‘Your sister, however, has kept you in her mind, regardless,’ I inform him. His mouth twists into some sort of wistful sneer that feels out of place, somehow. His face does not look like it is familiar with such sentiments.

‘I can’t say I’m not curious,’ he says, casually sipping his tea, ‘My sister sends me her lawyer. Why?’

I look him in the eye, never thrilled about this part of my function: ‘Because she passed away last week.’

The way he repositions himself on his seat, and a slight widening of the eyes are but minuscule, visible expressions of shock, but I can read them well enough. Understandable reaction –truly, Isis Ishtar was too young.

Most people, when they receive these kinds of news, will have questions. Any questions. This man, however, looks out of the window for a long while. He is far away, and I do not dare bring him back here. Not for a long time, not until I feel that my tea has gone cold, and so has his.

‘Mr. Ishtar,’ I say, firmly but quietly, ‘She has bequeathed certain possessions to you. Moreover, it was her wish that her ashes would be ceremonially scattered over the Nile, but not without your presence.’

His eyes narrow. He stands up, takes some steps away, and off him radiates a kind of… darkness, that terrifies me. Throughout this all, he has chosen silence, but I see his jaw is set and his countenance is –angry, perhaps.

‘Malik and Rishid will be there, surely,’ I hear, finally. He stands facing the ample window, bathed in crisp afternoon light that somehow makes the shadows feel sharper.

‘All three of her brothers, she requested,’ I acquiesce.

 ‘Three brothers…’ he snorts. And then, as though he were speaking to himself- ‘It must surely be bad luck, to refuse the dead their wishes.’

He looks me dead in the eye, expressionless, but thoroughly intense, in a way that I have never been looked at before. ‘You will leave me the details for the ceremony, and the copy of her will.’

‘Of course,’ I say, reaching into my portfolio for the documents, which I place on the coffee table. There is, as well, an envelope, which Ms. Ishtar had left together with the papers for her third brother. I would lie to say I did not look –it is an old photograph, of Ms. Ishtar, together with the two other brothers I met before, when they were children. Surely this brother was taking the picture, since he was not in it. Slightly odd, that it was addressed to Malik, since I had already met him and given him his due. Perhaps, in the final stages of her illness, Ms. Ishtar had suffered some confusion.

I realise, too late, that I do not know this brother’s name. To ask now feels supremely incompetent, so I forego it.

‘Is that all?’ he asks.

I nod. Gone is the dangerous glint in his eyes, or the slightly cruel amusement that curled his lips. The face that regards me seems preternaturally blank.

‘Then leave,’ he says.

Again, I nod, for lack of anything to say. Actually, in the presence of this man, silence feels more like self-preservation.

‘Well met, Mr. Ishtar,’ I say when I am leaving; and although I see myself to the door, his eyes, touched by a light that seemed fey from the beginning, feel like they are following me all the way down all those god-forsaken flights of stairs, across the battlefield-like expanse of the broken ghetto street, and into the car that is waiting for me.

Chapter Text

The first time I see him it’s under the blazing after-noon sun, head wrapped in a typical scarf done in an atypical way –almost anciently, timelessly, like, who does that anymore, except for the paintings on the frescoes of the tombs of the ancient pharaohs? I know –after all, in my profession, I’ve seen my share of those.

On this flimsy wooden pier, 20 kilometres south of Luxor, the Nile flows hazily, and it is easy to think it might be the same as the ancients beheld thousands of years ago, if one forgets about the dam in Aswan, and the pollution. There are other people hereabouts, probably also waiting for the ferry over to Armant island. Perhaps also going where I am going.

A slight breeze, seemingly coming from nowhere, catches the edges of that man’s uncommonly tied scarf, making its edges flutter over dark skin and a shirt made of natural linen. But that is not what catches my eye, not really. Not either the strangely pale hair that escapes the cloth around the dark skin of his face. Not the significant, stylized tattoos around his eyes; which I had not seen before with exception of the Ishtars.

That is what catches my eye; that I knew them. Briefly had I had enlightening but unsettling dealings with the former patriarch, and, after his untimely death, with his three children. My colleague, Ms. Ishtar had been, because of evident circumstances, the one that I was closely acquainted with, but I had caught glimpses of her brothers, through the years.

The oldest, Rishid, is to my knowledge still living in the family home in the desert. Malik, the youngest, has some sort of tourism venture in Cairo which, Ms. Ishtar liked to brag, is doing quite successfully.

The man standing to my right looks like them too much not to be related, but…

Maybe… a cousin? I speculate.

I fancy myself subtle, but the man notices me. I find myself acknowledged with a light bow of the head, accompanied by a slight, diverted upturn of thin lips. The relentless sun catches on gold earrings –another family resemblance, in a way. I return a polite smile. The Ishtars normally feel homely, welcoming in a very open way. This man feels nothing like such.

A distant relation, then, maybe.

Our ferry can be seen slowly making its way towards us, a white shape cut against the luxuriant green of the trees on the island. The time until it arrives feels stretched, protracted, and I stand under the relentless sun under the halo of my hat and feel rooted to my place, pinned like some of the items in some collections in the museum.

Expectedly rag-tag and ancient, the ferry is makeshift tied to wooden cleats on the docks, securely enough for the sole ferryman to help us board, kindly extending a steadying hand to all of us. When he is about to reach out to help the man with the scarf, he falters; and in that split-second, the man gracefully slips onboard. Docking unmade, the ferry starts to traverse the muddy, gently rolling waters of the Nile.

A pleasant scent of the sun on water takes over.

The ferry is small. Across me, the man undoes his scarf, shaking off the stiffness from a head of longish-uneaven pale hair. Now, it has been a couple of years since I saw Ms. Ishtar’s younger brother, but my memory overlaps this man with that one. But of course, this cannot be. I was on the phone this morning with Mr. Ishtar, and he said he would be going ahead to start with the preparations, together with their oldest brother Rishid.

“Am I truly so interesting?”

I come back to myself. The man has propped an elbow on his knee and, resting his chin on his hand, is looking at me with a measure of amusement. None of it reaches his eyes, which are very strange. Empty, I am tempted to think. I do not like them –they are unsettling. “You will forgive me,” I acquiesce, “I was staring rudely, I believe.”

He seems to smile, very faintly.

I might as well reveal my thoughts: “Are you related to the late Ms. Ishtar?”

“My sister of the heart,” he replies, easily. He speaks Arabic with a very faint Saharan lilt. In the curve of his lips and the gleam in his eyes there is a certain something, that I could translate as dramatic, or flairful, but I do not know this man.

Truly he has not told me anything at all.

“Yourself? How did you know Isis?” he asks, pleasantly going about making a small talk that I do not feel myself comfortable with. But in a way, I did start it.

“My name is Amaan, I have been the manager of the Luxor Museum for over 10 years, now,” I sigh, “If I’d had my way, Ms. Ishtar would have taken over long ago. She was a stellar conservator, still.” When I think of Ms. Ishtar, I feel a lot of regret. Perhaps it shows? She was so young…

“Ah”, he says, his eyes looking out to the horizon and the approaching island, chin still resting on his hand.

“She did always take her work seriously,” he says, and the wind takes away his voice.

I do not hear him speak again until much later, when we have gotten off the boat and walked, in a small, non-cohesive group of around 6 people, towards the gathering point, at the island’s very edge. I see the two Ishtar siblings standing at a secluded distance, speaking to whom I assume must be the director of the funeral services. I make my way over to them, since I was asked by the younger Mr. Ishtar to say some words in remembrance of his sister. It is to my understanding that the ceremonial rites will be conducted by the older brother, who has continued to faithfully observe all the family traditions and uses. The younger Mr. Ishtar, I see, holds the urn very close to his chest, and looks haggard, like he has been dealing with this situation in a very emotionally honest way.

“So little changes,” I hear, faintly, tinged with a sliver of wistfulness.

I curse myself when I, for some reason, take another look at the man who travelled with me. I cannot compare him with the younger Mr. Ishtar so much now, because that ample scarf is in place again, and it manages to obscure his features.

I make my way over to the Ishtars. Ah, but now that I see them more closely, the tattoos around the eyes look the same.

The ceremonial rites are completed, the ashes of Ms. Ishtar scatter over the Nile in the fluttering arms of a very gentle wind. I was always of the impression that Ms. Ishtar would have favoured a more traditional rest, folded into the family sepulchre that I knew the Ishtars have, somewhere secret close to the Valley of Kings. I fancied she would have appreciated a burial like her ancient forbearers, surrounded by ritual objects of the kinds that the soul was meant to carry over across the judgment of Ma’at, further beyond the Field of Rushes.

Her ashes disperse in the wind, and I think, this mysterious, formidable woman was perhaps a rebel in her heart, in spite of it all, and somehow fooled us all.

And, perhaps, in death she will still watch over her family, from an elemental seat in the waters of the Nile.

I might not be the only one carried along such avenues of thought: I see the man in the scarf standing alone on the verge of the river bank, after most guests have already dispersed, looking out at the waters where the ashes were just scattered. He says his farewells, surely, but who knows what else he might be saying. I find him fascinating, in spite it all. His forearms bear bracelets, much simpler than what Ms. Ishtar wore, or what the younger Mr. Ishtar wears now, but, still, unmistakably Ishtar in their appearance.

As I stand close to the Ishtar siblings, who have only now finished talking to the funeral director, I turn to the younger Mr. Ishtar, and say,

“You will pardon the odd question, but do you happen to have a cousin?” Of course an old historian like me cannot be anything if not curious.

“A cousin?” he asks, surprised, “No… not at all”. His eyes find his brother, nevertheless, as if waiting for confirmation.

The older Mr. Ishtar does not see him, however. He is looking, gobsmacked, at the man in the scarf.

His mouth opens, as though he meant to say something. But says nothing, except look on, in a mixture of disbelief, fascination, confusion. I find the reaction extremely… well, strange. I turn to look at the younger brother –he looks alternatively between his brother and that man, but focuses on his brother’s own reaction more, sparing the man a passing glance.

“Rishid…?” he asks, tentatively.

“M… Malik…” the older brother’s voice is something lower than a whisper.

His younger brother frowns –“what…?”

But then I see him –he looks: the younger brother looks properly at the man in the scarf, and I take a step back, because I clearly do not know what is going on here, but it is… It goes beyond me.

I do not recall the last time I saw someone so shell-shocked in my life, someone whose eyes seemed to be beholding a thousand ghosts, someone who could look both so enraged and so terrified at the same time. While the older brother is standing there, tethered to the ground in surprise and confusion, the younger strides towards the man in the scarf, breaching the distance in a couple of strides, and grabs the man by the lapels of the pale linen shirt.

They are not so far away I cannot hear the younger brother hiss, “YOU!”

Strong, dark hands reach up and cover the younger brother’s hands, lowering them, forcing them to let go.

“Indeed, I,” is the simple answer. There is not much emotion in the man’s face, just the same brand of jaded amusement I have been treated to on the ferry. I look at the older Ishtar –he looks marginally more composed now, and observes them, just as I did, although his jaw is set in determination.

Years of dealing with people at work have made me aware that, should I try to leave this private interaction and thus remind them of my presence, whatever transcendental thing that is taking place before me would be warped. So, immobile, quiet, I stay beside the older Mr. Ishtar.

The man in the scarf lifts a hand to younger Mr. Ishtar’s chin, grasping it rather gently, turning his face lightly. Looking at him.

“You look well,” he says, at long last, rather as one says to a relative one has not seen for a long time.

It happens so fast. One second, Mr. Ishtar is frozen, the other, he is hitting the man on the jaw, I think, making him stumble half a step backwards, knocking off the scarf. Long-ish, uneaven hair spills over his face, his shoulders. Indeed, it is the same shade as younger Mr. Ishtar’s.

The situation feels very strange. Face to face, the two men seem the same and not at all, as if they were reflections of each other in distorted mirrors.

“How dare you show your face here, today!” Younger Mr. Ishtar roars. The other man rightens himself, wearing only the shadow of a scowl where another would have been outraged. His fingers reach up to his jaw, probing slightly. Open and close his mouth, regally. Eventually spits out some blood.

“I was invited,” he says, in an impassive manner.

Younger Mr. Ishtar, however, looks very shaken. “Invited by whom?! You’re insane! HOW ARE YOU EVEN ALIVE?”

Those words are seemingly dismissed by a flicker of the man’s hand, as though everything means nothing. “My teenage years were rather… wild,” he says, “can you hold it against me?” A shadow of a smile finds its place on his lips again, “As for who invited me… sister did.”

Sister. Hmm. ‘Sister of the heart’ my foot, think I. These two are twins. I should be no longer surprised that the Ishtars’ secrets have secrets, think I.

This information has made the younger Mr. Ishtar sober up, and appraise the man with reluctance and mistrust.

“Please, excuse me,” I hear next to me, and the older Mr. Ishtar finally steps forwards, towards them. It is now, I know, that I should take my leave, turn around and find my way back to the pier, wait for the ferry, return home to Luxor. But you do not become the manager of one of Egypt’s most important museums by doing what you are supposed to do, or by not being inquisitive. I might have been called a wizened old fox by these young men’s sister at some point. Might have.

The memory of Ms. Ishtar’s wit and spirit is what makes it so that I cannot leave. I oddly feel indebted to her to stay, to learn some more, to have witnessed this strange reunion that she seems to have carefully orchestrated before she left us. I wager she must have known that, had she not done it this way, this might not have happened at all.

The three men stand on the banks of the Nile. The man with(out) the scarf looks at the other two, nonchalantly, it seems, but it might also be wariness. Younger Mr. Ishtar alternates between glaring at him, and searching his brother, looking for answers.

In the green thicket behind me, some parakeets are making a bit of a ruckus. Still, I hear the younger Mr. Ishtar say, maybe pained, maybe affronted,

“Rishid… you knew.”

The voice of the older Mr. Ishtar carries no regret. “Still, I’d thought him dead. Sister did, too.”

Ah, well, the Ishtars’ secrets have secrets even for the Ishtars. But, what do I know, of a bloodline as old as theirs? Younger Mr. Ishtar looks troubled; older Mr. Ishtar, however, holds back a smile that could be fond. Could be proud. He takes a step forward still, towards the other man, who has watched this exchange in silence. Raises an arm, in a gesture evidently meant to become a hug, but too slow and deliberate not to be a way out.

The man’s heretofore schooled features betray puzzlement for a fraction of a second, before it fades to nonchalance once more, but the hug is accepted, if not returned. Younger Mr. Ishtar looks troubled still, but, when older Mr. Ishtar pulls him by his shoulders into the hug, he only puts up a token resistance.

With the gentle lull of the waves of the Nile masking the steps I take, I furtively turn away, slowly to return to the pier.

Chapter Text

For starters, I do not know what kind of parent names their kid “thief king”. But very much against my own wishes, I find myself thinking that he might be aptly named, which is, of course, a ridiculous thought to have. Shame on me! Little Lassah must have it rough at home… or have had it, I guess.

I often find myself pulling him down from the upper window ledge, where he climbs with startling ease, for an eight year old. He rallies the other children behind him for different reasons several times a week, coaxing them into some sort of childlike mutinous sentiment against homework, classwork, groupwork, anything. If I confront him, he becomes defiant. If I isolate him, he will cause a ruckus.

Truly, an elementary teacher’s worst nightmare.

And yet, he is brilliant. I am patient with him because I’ve realized he’s mostly bored.

I have tried discussing this case with the principal –has he been homeschooled? I’ve asked, and no, he hasn’t. Does he come from a rough background? The principal doesn’t know, but it doesn’t seem like it at the moment. Lassah’s meals are always neatly packed, and he is always picked up on time… unfortunately, I have never managed to have a proper word with his parent.

Soon, it will be time to go home. I instruct the almost 30 children to pack up, and help tidy the classroom before it’s time to leave for the weekend. My eyes drift to Lassah out of their own will, almost, but I justify it because it’s easy for the sight to fasten on to his wispy, curiously silvery hair –a genetic condition, for sure; since in every other aspect of his appearance he is dark-skinned, lithe, like the others. Well, excepting the scar across his face, of course. He is looking out of the window, defaulting to looking bored as he does when he is not up to some mischief. Absentmindedly skritches the side of his head. He can be cute too, this little devil, I think fondly. The bell rings, and the children spill out to the halls, running despite knowing that they should not run.

Well, I have a preaching scion of the gods of anarchy in my class, so I do not expect any better. Kids will be kids, it’s not bad that they’re street smart too. I… guess.

I follow them outside to the exit, where parents cluster to find their children. Some children go home on their own, too. Again, without really looking for him, my eyes spot Lassah and his distinctive mess of pale hair. It could be expected that he would go home on his own, but he is leaning against the school’s wall, thumbing at the keyboard of a very old cellphone –waiting for someone.

The dim dies out gradually, as parents and children find each other and leave. I approach Lassah with a measure of curiosity.

“Isn’t that phone a little old?” I ask. Nevermind the rule that phones are not allowed in school; as if this kid would deign to give a figment of a care.

He looks up at me with his sharp eye, where I expect to see the usual bratty attitude, but I do not see it. I think he knows I don’t have any real authority outside the school, and much less on a Friday afternoon.

“I like it,” he says, “it’s got the snake game. Snakes are cool.”

I nod in complete agreement. “It was an awesome game. I haven’t seen it around for a while.”

He flashes a self-important grin. “I know. Super-old. Super-rare. I had to fight for it, but finally I got Malik to get it for me.”

The afternoon rolls by, and most kids have been picked up by now.

“Malik?” I ask.

Lassah nods, focused on the tiny screen of the old Nokia. I do not have the ability that some younger teachers have, to remember the names of every parental figure and relative of my students. But the way he says the name, with familiarity and taken-for-grantedness, I guess that Malik is probably his sibling. Would fit a theme, actually –a child named king, the other thief king. Maybe their mother was fond of adventure tales. Maybe the father had great aspirations.

Soon, Lassah and I are the only ones left outside the school. The doors will soon close too, I think. Lassah has managed to build a very, very long snake, I see when I peek at the screen, most unsubtle.

“Do you want me to phone someone for you?”

“Nah,” the child says, still undefeated, “it’s fine. Malik will come when he’s done.”

So the kid knew he’d have to wait? Good. Households with good communication are actually rare. “Oh!” I’ll fish for some more information, “What did he have to do?”

“Dunno. Stuff, whatever.”

My fishing does not go so well.

Almost an hour passes where I cannot let myself leave the child alone, leaning against the school wall, even if it means cutting my Friday afterwork a bit short. In that interval, Lassah wins a couple of times, if it is even possible to win at snake, and I learn that his parents died many years ago, and that Malik picked him up from the streets two years ago, after he did a poor job of trying to pick-pocket him.

I have formed a rather saintly image of Lassah’s Malik, but it does not match whatsoever the man that finally arrives on a very sleek motorcycle. He parks sharply and efficiently, and takes off a black helmet to greet the kid. His hair is very pale, a stark contrast with his dark skin, but golden where Lassah’s is silver, and around his eyes there is a set of strange tattoos, very unusual, like the ones one would see in hieroglyphic frescoes. He wears gold –earrings, bracelets, a thin necklace. I’m no expert, but it looks real, and I would personally be afraid to walk around like that.

For someone who has done such a kind thing as taking a boy off the streets, he looks nothing like a well-doer, and much like someone dangerous, someone to be wary of.

“Took your time,” Lassah complains, sullenly but subdued –a world of a difference with the Lassah that preaches revolution in my class more often than not.

Malik takes a couple of strides towards his ward, and ruffles his head, making no more of a mess there than there already was. I see that, very faintly, his thin lips curve upwards –“Apologies. I was held up.”

“Held up?”

“Family matters,” Malik says, zipping up the boy’s hoodie.

“You don’t have a family,” the boy states, matter-of-factly.

Malik hums, retrieving another helmet, a small one. “Maybe that’s not true anymore,” he says, thoughtfully, like he hasn’t made up his mind. I see Lassah eye the man dubiously, before his face is obscured by the helmet.

“Are we getting pizza tonight?” the boy asks, from under the helmet. Malik’s half-amused smirk (because that’s what it is, right? a smirk?) can be heard in his voice,

“We’ll see.”

I thought I had gone unnoticed in this exchange, but when he is satisfied that Lassah is properly seated on the bike, with his schoolbag properly secured, Malik, helmet under his arm, turns to look at me.

I am sure he means this amicably, but I shiver, for some reason. I think it might be because of his eyes, or the way he looks.

“You were waiting with him for a very long time,” he observes, casually.

I sigh. “It didn’t sit well with me that he should wait alone.”

He looks at me for a long while, blinking, every now and then, as if he were thinking and not-thinking, simultaneously.

“Thank you,” he says, at length.

I bow my head slightly, in acknowledgement, but feel at a loss for what to say, really. The exchange feels very strange, although, objectively, it should not be. I want to wish them a good weekend, or something along the lines, but I just stand there, as though rooted in place, as Malik puts on his helmet and gets on the bike.

Lassah’s arms go around his waist, circling it gingerly, but holding on tightly. I have not spoken particularly much to either of them, today, but still I feel like, come Monday, the Lassah I will meet will be a completely different person to me.

I stay there, lost in thought, until well after the motorcycle has carried Malik and Lassah away.

Chapter Text

There is Another Malik in our living room.

He’s fidgeting with a cup of tea, clearly not comfortable at all, but they’re never comfortable here anyway. But, seriously? How is… how… another one? I’d say it’s bad enough with the one, but, eh… I mean… Lassah, be honest, I tell myself, the one is not so bad, really. He buys me clothes and lets me choose them. And he got me the snake game, almost like the one dad had on… well. And pomegranates. He gets me cool cereal and pomegranates.

I take my time to spy, undetected, of course, as expected of Yours Truly. Before turning this corner, I get a perfect angle of Malik’s profile (he looks like he showered, otherwise, as droll as always, I mean, with the cool jewellery, the clothes that fit really well and really effortlessly, meh.) The Other Malik, though… so weird. He’s got shorter hair, some trendy haircut, jewellery too, but more sparkly, (probably a different kind of gold, methinks); bracelets only on his left hand, on his right one, he has a watch. It’s a nice watch, huh, very nice. Of course I get the snatching feels, but Malik would really not be cool with that… I mean it’s not like Malik ever gets angry, but he will look at you with that expression, the really scary one, and then, you know… you just really don’t feel like doing what you were doing before. Mischief an’ all. You know. Cause Malik can be real scary, and that’s saying something, coming from Yours Truly. What else? Let’s see… dark clothes, and… he doesn’t look good at all. Terrible, even. Like he’s been having a really bad week.

You’ll never catch Malik looking like that, that’s for sure. So yeah. They look exactly the same, but at the same time, nothing alike at all. Sneaky Malik. He said he ain’t got no family, well he must surely have lied, that can’t not be his brother, or something.

I keep on looking at them, trying to talk about this and that, Other Malik all like, “where have you been” and all that. But eventually, the reason why I came out of my room makes me continue onwards.

To the kitchen –I’m hungry. Malik said we’d get pizza, but then this Other Malik arrived, and I know when to scram. I’m training myself to be extra sharp, you know. I am aiming for greatness, since the gods plucked me out of the mucky streets. Malik doesn’t like it when I say that I’m the future King of Thieves, says that if I’m like that then I have to study hard in school and go study “finance” afterwards; whatever the hell that western stuff might be. Blah blah.

I carry on to the kitchen like their business is none of mine, which it’s not, but Malik always goes on about me greeting the guests (… regardless of who they are. I think the fact that I live with him creeps the people out even more, and I think he enjoys it. I mean, it’s fun to watch).

So I walk past them. “Yo,” I say, perfunctorily (I learned this word the other day. Whacky. I like it).

Malik nods shortly, acknowledging me. But the Other Malik?

Woah. I look around me, first left, then right. Nope, no one else, no ghosts, either. Just plain ol’ Yours Truly.

“What?” I snap. I don’t like to be paid the wrong kind of attention; this dude looks like the gods rose up to collect him, or something.

Now he’s alternating between looking at me like I’m the ghost, and looking at Malik like what the hell, and I’m just standing there, mighty confused.

“…Bakura?” he says, really looking lost.

I side-eye my… what’s Malik to me, anyway? Master of the dark arts? (Ha! as if!) Caretaker…? Landlord…? Aaaanyway, I side-eye him:

“Malik, this dude ain’t right in the head.”

“Isn’t,” Malik rights without even thinking about it –ugh, even now, he’s always correcting me. Some criminal boss. Whatever. I feel a slight pang of betrayal, too –“You told him my old name?”

I have his full attention. I don’t think he can do sympathy, but he’s doing the closest he can. “Now, why would I ever do that?”, he shakes his head, somewhat entertained, “I think you remind him of an old pal of his.”

Out of the corner of my eye I spy that the Other Malik is looking very strange, like weirded out, freaked out, and sad, all at once.

 “Who’s he, anyway.” I might be pouting. Malik looks unusually thoughtful.

“I’ll let him answer that one,” he replies, at length, kinda-smiling like he does, like he knows something other people don’t. “Get some snacks, we’ll be a while,” he then says, dismissively, “And ask the guest if he wants anything.”

I glare at Other Malik. “Want anythin’.”

Other Malik blinks at me, but Malik, oddly enough, says nothing. Usually I’d be getting a “Lassah…” said like a warning, because yea, I’m being rude, so what. But then I guess it means Malik’s okay with me being rude to his pretty boy alter ego.

Weird Friday.

“I… ah… no, thank you,” Other Malik says, finally. His voice is nothing like Malik’s though… it’s clear and charming and… nice, I guess. Malik’s has always been kinda gritty, rough-around-the edges, deep, dunno, jaded.

I shrug.

When I’m in the kitchen, I hear Malik say, “Bring some pomegranates.”

“Yea!” I call out, loudly like I do.

When Malik’s got guests over, which doesn’t happen so much anyway, I don’t fancy hanging around. Most are shady, and all look terrified of Malik, and I don’t got nothing to do thereabouts. But today it’s weird different, like Malik doesn’t care that Other Malik sees what we’re like when it’s just us. It’s not normal like… like it was… I mean, when mum and dad were, when we… Yeah, well, before. But Malik would be alone without me. And I guess I… well anyway we get along. And he never lets me win at cards. I beat him at domino, though.

He’s really bad at domino.

Since it’s gonna be a while, I make a sandwich.

Damn, I was really hungry.

 I munch while cutting the pomegranates in fours with a very pleasingly sharp knife, then I put them on the first plate I grab –one of those ancient-looking terracotta ones. There’s lots of odd things in this house. Nevermind the huge mural of Ammit the Devourer of Hearts that takes up the whole of the living room wall. Malik told me the story of that one, once… of the myth, and of the heist; and of all I heard, the most dubious was for sure the way he got it transported all the way up to the seventh floor of our charming ghetto residence.

Many odd things, here, from all over the place, and with the weirdest histories. I noticed something, though –in this house there isn’t anything from when Malik was a kid.

I asked him once, he said it’s because he’s travelled so much, he can’t go around moving everything with all the time. But I think he was lying, like, everyone has something… I have, and I lived like half a year in the street. Plus I know he’s from here, or close to here, he could have just gone and picked up some stuff, right? From his home?

But maybe he don’t have no home. Maybe he’s had it worse than I… I mean, could be, criminal boss and all…

I take another bite from my sandwich. A damn nice sandwich. I also put some dates on the plate, next to the pomegranates. Whatever. Malik likes them.

“Here,” I say, leaving the plate on the coffee table between Malik and Other Malik, who looks mighty weirded out. His old pal must’ve reeeeally looked like me. I’m about to ask, but then I don’t, dunno why. But I’m still curious about this whole thing, and Malik doesn’t kick me out, so I sit on the armchair’s arm, next to him. Never too close, of course.

They stopped speaking, when I came. Malik is picking up a date; Other Malik holds a pomegranate fourth, but doesn’t eat, just fumbles with the seeds, staining his fingers like he doesn’t know what to say. So it’s up to me, huh?

“So,” I say, halfway between the last bites of my sandwich, “Is this the ‘family matters’ why you were late to get me from school?”

Malik looks vaguely amused –“can’t hide much from you, eh, kid?”. I puff my chest rather proudly. As I said, can’t be future King of Thieves if I ain’t sharp, eh?

Other Malik gapes: “…he goes to school?”

“Of course he does,” Malik deadpans, “All children have to go to school. Or do you want him to be like us?”

Contemplative silence ensues.

“I told him many times to leave me alone,” I say, critically, “but it’s a lost battle.”

Other Malik looks at Malik a bit strangely. “He’s persistent, that’s for sure,” he concedes, as if he’s reluctantly saying something, in spite of himself, not really sure himself if it’s a good or a bad thing.

This confirms it, I think, one; they’re related for sure, two; they knew each other at some point. I mean I cannot fault Other Malik, everyone’s scared of Malik anyway, it’s not like he’s special or anything. He’s just… an acquired taste… maybe?

Other Malik finally addresses me directly: “And he… I mean, you live here, right?” he passes his hand through his hair, nervously, “He treats you right?” He winces, steals a glance at Malik who defaulted to half-amused nonchalance, adds, even more nervously, “…you’re not here against your will…?”

I look at Malik. Malik looks at me, with his kinda-empty eyes I no longer pay any attention to. “Well?,” he asks me, “Are you here against you will, Lassah?”

I feign to think for a while, stroking my chin. “Nope,” I say eventually, with a bit of mischief, “and you ain’t… aren’t… getting rid of me anytime soon either.”

Malik pointedly looks at Other Malik.

“Forgetting things does not become you. I was born to take care of you, why wouldn’t I do the same for someone else?”

That’s a bit of a strange thing to hear, I think, but don’t think about it too much. Other Malik looks sceptical, though.

“It’s all very questionable. I mean, can you cook?”

Malik chuckles under his breath –like he normally does when he’s amused for real, “I don’t know, brat, can I?”

Oh. He’s talking to me.

“Yeah, for sure,” I shrug, but look at him with some trepidation… “Should you not be able to cook?”

There again, that chuckle. Malik is having the most fun he’s had since I’ve met him, I think. Well, since the future King of Thieves –meaning, this most wondrous me- can feel feelings, a shady criminal boss like Malik can for sure have some too.

I still know nothing of who Other Malik’s name is, or who he is, I just see that slowly, slowly, he looks more lost and confused, but also… lively? He’s asking Malik some downright impertinent questions, affronted as if Malik had done him some personal wrong; although to be honest that might be true, as I said, Malik can be really scary.

Whatever. I’m bored.

“Call me for dinner,” I say, getting up, snatching the last of the pomegranates from under Other Malik’s very nose.

Chapter Text

Beloved shadow,

I know I do not have much longer left. I know, too, that you are alive.

I remember all those years ago, in the desert, when I saw you the last time. I had found you awful for so many years, but when I saw you… I was so sorry, that I had been so blind.

I have had a lot of time to think, reflect, regret. I had the hope, that I could have reached out, before I left, but I have run out of time, so it will be up to my lawyer to find you, and deliver this letter. He is a competent man, and I have no doubts that he will find you. Brother.

It has been more than 20 years since our father initiated you into the family mysteries. Almost 20 years when you have been on your own, roaming the world like a dispossessed creature, when you should have been home with us, who have done ill to repay your sacrifice.

Who but you has loved Malik the most?

Of course, you wouldn’t call it love. Maybe you don’t even know exactly what love feels like. We have been very lacking in that respect, as your siblings.

Dear shadow… Malik –since I’m sure that’s the name you still use, please forgive me. I was young, I was scared, and I did not understand. My brothers did not either. But little Malik would not have made it without you. I know it. He knows it. We owe him to you.

The debt of a life is hard to repay. We should have brought you in from the dark, given you warmth and affection. I am so, so sorry.

Please, do not live alone any longer. Rishid will always welcome you, and Malik will come around, I know. He has a kind heart, if a bit pigheaded. But you –among us, you’re the most persistent. You will find a way to fit, if that is what you want, and I hope, I really hope you do.

Because you deserve this family, although this family ill deserves you.

From my heart, I will be guarding you after I am gone, because although I have been distant and stupid, I swear, these days I often think of you, and I love you.

Fare well, little brother.

Yours always,

Isis

Chapter Text

I never gave much thought to what I would be doing when I were 40, but traversing the slums like this, for this purpose, would not have been my first thought.

No, this I would not have foreseen at all. Sister Isis might have… once. Ah.

Once. So many years ago.

It’s easy to find the building –half-derelict, ashen, like a carcass. Half of the windows outside are broken, most are dark; clothes hang out of others, or tattered, fluttering curtains dancing to phantom breezes.

What a grim place. I shiver, in spite of myself… and I do live in a tomb, for reference.  I guess I am not out of place with my hood pulled well over my face, over my hair, that I’m wearing long and loose, these days. Malik laughs at me, sometimes. Says that he can’t believe my baldness was a fashion choice. Hah! Well, it was.

Such thoughts distract me, make me smile although now I am making my way in the near-darkness through a disgusting hallway that leads me to the staircase, and I am going up, up, for a long time, passing by graffitied concrete walls, straining my muscles tired from this long, long day.

But I wouldn’t trust that dubious elevator with my life whatsoever.

Seven flights of stairs in a tenebrous half-light are manageable for someone who grew up underground, but I wonder how the people who live here do it… assuming that people live here at all. Well. The one that I am going to see would be the exception to my misgivings.

Although I do not understand why he chose to live in a place like this.

Maybe it gives him lair feelings.

Or maybe he very precisely chose this: an almost-abandoned mastodon building in a nondescript slum, out of some warped version of nostalgia for our tomb-home, but up in the air, so that it would never, ever suffocate him with underground entrapment again.

Maybe, I will ask him. Although I doubt that he will answer.

At last, I am up on floor 7 (a proper number, the number of perfection, completion); and another depressing hallway greets me, with some doors that lead to apartments I can guess without needing to look must be empty, unusable too, probably. I walk, cautiously, towards the last door at the end of the corridor.

There is no doorbell, understandably, so I knock.

When the doorknob turns, I feel my heart beating rather erratically.

Am I nervous?

I didn’t feel nervous coming here.

I thought… I mean, why should I be? I have seen Dark Malik only this afternoon, and he looked like he might be interested to talk to us, after so---

Whatever it is I was expecting, it wasn’t this.

A child opens the door, with a scowl, looking up at me wholly unimpressed, like I’m not at all (all in all) a questionably hooded man, with a face shadowed by hood and hair, and half of it tattooed.

“Who’re you?” the child asks. I take a good look… he looks familiar. But I have no time to think about where I have seen him before.

I am at a loss, what to say. “I’m looking for… for Mr. Ishtar?”

“What?” he asks, cheekily, “You not sure?”

“Well, that might not be his name these days…”

The kid sasses me with his eyes. “How can I know, if you don’t know?”

A voice is heard from inside –“Lassah, stop tormenting the guest. Let him in.”

A familiar voice, that one. Deep, raspy, jaded. And amused.

The child, who was having a laugh at my expense, moves to the side, letting me in with a badly executed theatrical bow.

I am taken aback enough to gape at the interior of the house –an unbecoming gesture, I am aware, but my surprise is honest. Somehow, hidden in the depths of these slums, there is an undercover luxury penthouse, with expensive polished parquet, huge windows that overlook both the surrounding misery and the lush river beyond, and deliberately rough walls that accentuate the sparse, yet very fine, decorations. Most of them are grave plunder or contraband –no one can own treasures like these legally, it is just not allowed by national legislation.

I sigh. Our father would have had opinions about all this, of course. With some sort of macabre sentiment, I try to imagine him standing here, now.

No. Even my imagination cannot conjure such an event.

“Done gawking?” the child asks, hands on his hips. He has messy hair, a gruesome scar crossing his eye, and a well-worn red Dragon Ball t-shirt. He’s barefoot. And he really reminds me of somebody… who, though? And, clearly, he lives here.

I sigh, thinking a bit belatedly that I should take down my hood. “Sorry,” I say, “This place is very… impressive.”

He smirks. “And you haven’t seen Ammit the Devourer yet. Look behind ya.”

I do.

Holy… for the love of the gods, what…? That… In a private house?! IN A LIVING ROOM!?

Madness. This is madness.

“That’s gotta be the best reaction I’ve seen yet,” the kid comments, amused. Demon child!

A warning voice drifts from another room –“Lassah…”

“Geez,” the kid mouths, but looks slightly repentant, “Come on, old dude. Come with,” he says, and ambles into another room, which turns out to be a kitchen.

If I thought my surprises were over this evening, oh, no, they are far from over.

There is a table, which could comfortably seat 6 people. On it there are some plates, some glasses, still half a pizza in a box. By it, sit two men.

One is my brother, Malik.

The other one is… also my brother. Malik.

Ah.

I look between them, and I don’t understand.

I mean, of course, of course I understand…. but …

And then, the child goes along and sits next to my brother who wears a natural-coloured linen shirt, less jewellery, has longer, wilder hair; and eyes that effortlessly look empty and menacing. Whose posture speaks of danger, who seems taller, whose shadows feel, inexplicably, sharper. And, ah. Yes. The child. That thief, from all those years ago, that Malik sort of hung out with during that crazy stunt in Japan. I remember now.

He picks up a half-eaten slice of pizza, and presumably picks up where he left. “Pass me the juice?” he says, to this brother I just described. This brother looks pointedly at the child-thief. Child-thief scowls, averts his eyes, and says,

“Please.”

He gets the juice.

My other brother, with the trendy haircut and bolder jewellery, who is incidentally also still dressed for a funeral, and who is a thousand percent undoubtedly my little brother Malik who cried together with me the whole of last week after Isis left us, is watching that exchange with as much trepidation as I.

“Welcome to my humble home,” says Dark Malik, at length. “Please, do take a seat, brother.”