Disclaimer/Notes: I do not own Yu-Gi-Oh!, or any of the characters mentioned here. They belong to Kazuki Takahashi, and no money is being made off of this piece of fiction. This story was written solely for entertainment purposes, and no copyright infringement was intended. Please, do not sue. All original ideas are original (duh) and belong to me, unless otherwise mentioned. This story is unbeta'd, but otherwise needs no warnings. Enjoy.

A Tragic Sentence

She knows that she is supposed to only use the Tauk to see into the future or to pull others into the past so that they can understand the weight of their destiny. It is not just a luminous piece of jewelry; it is a powerful tool and a dangerous weapon in knowing hands. But there are some days when she needs it for more personal reasons than saving the world, and even though she can feel the disapproving glare of her ancestors at her back, Isis clasps the gold choker to her throat and closes her eyes. They would not have wanted her to have it all, regardless of what she used it for, she reminds herself. No one seemed to think that it was wise to hand over something as destructive as a Millennial Item to a teenage girl.

Today is one of those days when she needs to hide in the memories of her past lives. She wants to forget for a moment that her brothers are trying to unleash a torturous Hell upon the Earth. Isis swallows hard, and focuses her attention into the Millennial Item.

It pulls her back into the deep recesses of her soul, drags her through hundreds of years of pain and death and sorrow. None of her past lives ever seemed to end well. She was afraid to go searching back far enough to find out why she was trapped in this cycle of tragic penance. Whatever she had done, it must have been very, very bad.

Isis opens her eyes again as the power of the Tauk drops her in what appears to be an old castle corridor, the walls and floors made of cold grey stone. She is somewhere far from Cairo and the sands of her homeland – the architecture and layout of the castle gives the place a distinctly European atmosphere – and although she is not entirely sure of the date, she remembers hearing that a war was going on the last time she peered into this lifetime's memories. Quickly, Isis moves down the long quiet hall, the echo of her footsteps and the dark smear of the shadow she should have cast oddly unaccounted for.

Looking into the past is, perhaps in a way, a bit like dying, she thinks as she rounds a corner and heads through a large set of doors to a covered walkway leading out to the gardens. At least, she thinks that they must be gardens, because the courtyard is lush and green, even when it snows in the winter. This place has a winter, an awe-inspiring fact that is sometimes hard for her desert-mind to fully appreciate. She notices that there is still frost on the trees and grass, but for the most part, the snow has melted.

Standing in the courtyard is a young man, and although he is dressed in this country's strange accoutrements – thick, warm clothing beneath strange silver armor that catches the light with its elaborate and ornately draconic shoulder guards – she knows that he is a priest, or at least, he was once a priest. A deep frown is etched upon his features; his head is tilted down as he regards a white rose in one gauntlet-clad hand and a letter held in the other. Isis stops, her breath catching in her throat with a tiny hiccup. He is beautiful and imposing; there is a magnetism that always draws her back to him. Isis cautiously takes another step forward and places her hand on one of the walkway's columns, leaning into it. There is no sound to alert him to her presence, but the priest looks up suddenly, and for a brief moment, she is certain that he can see her. It is a nonsensical notion, of course: this is only a memory and he is long dead. But she can feel the weight of his narrowed lapis blue gaze on her skin, as if taking in her appearance.

And then, as amazing and wonderful as her first snowfall, his eyes soften and lips part ever so slightly into a smile. As soon as he does, she is reminded that he is not looking at her but rather through her. Her heart beat skips, a stuttering falter that mirrors the one in her gut. A cool, misty feeling passes through her, like walking through low-hanging fog, leaving her mind tingling. Appearing in front of her vision is the figure of a young woman rushing towards the priest.

The woman is a priestess, or at least, she should have been, Isis cannot help but tell herself. The gown she wears is heavy and white, the long skirt trailing behind her as the priest moves the rose to his other hand so as to have one free to brush back a few stray locks of black hair once the woman is close enough. There are smiles and murmured greetings passing between them, a tender moment of intimacy that Isis knows she should not be privy to.

It makes her feel like a voyeur, but she does not turn away.

The priest is touching the woman's face softly; the priestess is leaning into the caress, saying his name over and over again. He presses his lips to hers. Isis finally closes her eyes, shaking her head and ripping the Tauk from her throat.

She had been so absorbed in the memory that she had not been aware of the golden choker growing steadily warmer against her flesh. Isis drops the Millennial Item down on the table in front of her: the castle and gardens are gone, and so is her priest.

It is the cruelest memory that she has the strength to uncover. She was, several hundred years ago, that dark-haired woman in white. The girl knows that the next day, after the priest leaves in the afternoon for some great journey, her life ended in burning when the war reaches their castle haven. It was another fifty years until they were reborn into lives that met. They fell in love, and then it inevitably ended in tragedy once more. She wonders if she will meet him again in this cycle, and her heart aches with the knowledge that there can be no room for tenderness between them while she is focused on uncovering the Pharaoh's true name. Her fingers curl around the Tauk and she holds it close to her chest. She has taken her personal moment, and now it is time to return to the present.

Isis puts the necklace back on, her touches lingering on the metal as she struggles to put the memory out of her mind. It is a cruel memory, but it is also one of her most cherished. In all the doomed lifetimes that they were reborn into, that is the only kiss she remembers sharing with the priest.