Soooo, I'm writing citronshipping. I know, I know, I have other unfinished stories… *hides* but I have actually half-finished this one already (as in, it's all typed up ready to be edited and posted), and the other half should be finished tomorrow. It's currently at five chapters, so I estimate about 10 in total? At least you know you won't be waiting around for this one ^_^ – Jem

Disclaimer: Yu-Gi-Oh! is not mine, and nor are Marik and Bakura. They are the creations of Kazuki Takahashi

Marik's eyes were wide, his hands shaking. The knife clattered out of his grip, sliding down to the ground, slicked with bright red blood that wasn't his. There was no pain anywhere in his body. Adrenaline pumped through his veins, making him feel as if pure, white-hot fire had replaced his blood and his body was fuelled purely by rage and panic and madness. His head felt too hot. Sweat curled on his skin, crisping the edges of his being in the hot humid darkness of the tomb. Pressure crowded in on him from all sides, imagined shadows swinging wildly from the lamp that lay softly burning in a corner, its little light flickering and swaying as if panting for breath.

Marik took a step back. Panic was beginning to cloud his head. The stench of the blood was overwhelming, crowding him, tightening his chest and forcing his face to screw up. He could hear high-pitched breathing coming from somewhere, and it must be coming from him. No one else was alive down here. Not anymore.

Marik's breathing sped up again. His thoughts were tumbling over themselves, all rushing and clamouring to be heard, but he couldn't pause for long enough to focus any of them into making sense. Instead, he stood, caught in a welter of confused emotion of which panic was still at the forefront. Panic that tore through his skull and left him closed and tightened to anything else.

However, something else began as a dull throb in one corner of his mind – a dull throb of fear that was beginning to grow in intensity. It contained the knowledge that something was definitely wrong, that he had gone too far this time, that this time there was no turning back and no way forward either. His thoughts turned into a screaming, babbling mess again. You've gone too far, you've gone too far, you've gone too far…!

Marik gripped at his hair, tugging in an effort to get something coherent through his skull. He pulled hard enough for his scalp to erupt into a thousand different pinpricks of white-hot pain, jerking his mind somewhat back to reality and to his current situation. When he lowered his hands, they were full of fistfuls of his own hair.

Marik shook his head. No time for panicking. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, feeling his chest inflate, his body fill up. Adrenaline was still pumping through his veins, his heart thudding far too loudly. The stench of blood weighed heavily in the air; it settled as a metallic weight on his tongue. Marik swallowed with difficulty, and felt like he was swallowing a sword.

He couldn't face the mess at the end of the passage. He couldn't. Instead, he turned his back, forcing his feet to take him through the darkness. The airless tomb was stuffy and silent, quieter than the dead, and the stench followed him no matter how far he walked. Darkness pressed around him. He had left the lamp by the … at the end of the passage, he remembered, but his entire body shuddered in revulsion at the prospect of going back there. No. He had started walking now, and he wouldn't stop until he was out. One step after another Marik walked on, placing one foot in front of another in front of another in front of another, going on and on, faster and faster, until the passage was long behind him.

The scent still clung to his clothes, however, like the blood that dripped steadily from his fingers.

Marik shook. He knew he had committed the greatest sin imaginable. He was a tombkeeper, designed to watch over the dead, not add to their numbers. His hands fisted tight by his sides, his nails digging into his palms hard enough to draw blood. It dripped down to the ground, mixing with the stench still coating his fingers and arm. Blood with blood with blood. Blood will find blood, that's what he had always been taught.

He doubted his teacher had meant it quite like this.

Marik took in another shuddering breath. His chest felt too tight. The musty, stuffy air of the tomb crowded around him, pressing against his eyes and wrapping itself around his limbs until they felt too heavy to move anymore. But Marik forced himself onward. He remembered the way, and he knew it couldn't be too much further, even if he hadn't been this way since first getting trapped down here, all those years ago. Surely it can't be much further…

Another turn, and another, and then the floor began rising. Marik could have cried with relief. His mind still rushing in its tumult of thoughts, he fought his way up to the surface. He scrabbled around when he reached the top, his fingernails gritty with the dust and the soil, until finally, finally, he found the lever operating the trapdoor. He pulled on it, sweat and dust setting into his skin, and heard the satisfying creak as it started to move.

Sunlight inched into the tomb.

Marik tumbled out onto the surface as soon as there was enough space for him to make it. He sprawled flat-out on the ground, panting and gasping, drawing great lungfuls of the pure, clean air into his burning chest. The air felt cool to his feverish skin. He lay face-down for what felt like an eternity, willing his body to cool, his rushed heartbeat to slow down, and his thoughts to slow in their endless cycle, tripping over themselves as they clamoured for intention. He squeezed his eyes shut and just lay still.

The quiet of the desert soon settled into his skull. It was louder than the tomb. The rustlings of the grains of sand as they knocked together in the slight breeze that occasionally washed over the desert; the hum of the scarabs that busily rolled their way across the surface; the endless, unforgiving beating of the rays of the sun; all were loud to Marik's tomb-deafened ears. He drew in another shuddering breath, and relished in the fact that he was alive.

Alive and out.

The surface.

Slowly, painfully slowly, he cracked one eye open and turned his face up. The sky rolled on forever, stretching out above him without end, its bright azure reflecting in his violet eyes. His face dropped into one of awe. He remembered the sky, from his time out on the surface before he was sent down to the tomb, but he had forgotten how endless it was. There was so much he had forgotten. The breeze on his skin, the sand encrusted in his nails, the fresh air on his face and in his hair. So much he had forgotten, so much he had given up – well, it was given back to him now.

Marik got slowly and unsteadily to his feet. The world swayed around him, sunlight beating down like a furnace, and slowly he realised he needed to find shelter. He turned his head. He remembered the oasis from the journey here, years and years ago when he had been but a child. And yet, the route was ingrained in his memory. As if I knew I'd be coming back this way. As if I've always known.

Marik's footsteps were ragged, leaving his tracks in the sand. He didn't care. None but jackals and thieves came out this far, and they were the last thing on his mind as he found his way towards the oasis. A few meagre plants grew up, striving for life in this wasteland, but the thing Marik was most focused on was the water. He ran to it as soon as he saw it. It was warm and tangy, probably filthy, but to Marik it was the sweetest thing on earth. He drank down huge gulps until his body was finally sated, and then he plunged his head in it, unable to stand the burning itching of his scalp and head anymore. Then, he decided he might as well go the whole way, and he cast off his white tombkeeper's robes and plunged his whole body into the water. He tried to ignore the way it stained red as soon as he entered.

Hours later, Marik felt refreshed and cool, if not clean. He clambered his way back out of the water and lay on his back on the sand, staring up at the endless reaches of the true-blue sky. The water had allowed his hot head to cool, and his thoughts had finally settled. He took the image of what he had left behind him at the end of that dark passage, and locked it up firmly in a corner of his mind, placing it behind several walls never again to be opened. He screwed his eyes shut. For better or for worse, now he was out, and he had to decide what to do next.

He couldn't go back to the tomb. That wasn't even a question in his mind. He didn't care that he was breaking tradition, or ruining his honour, or even disobeying a direct order from the Pharaoh. He couldn't go back down there. He refused. The Pharaoh would understand, surely? Once Marik found him and told him what had happened, he would have to see that Marik had only had one option. Wouldn't he?

Marik gave a firm nod. That was to be his plan of action. Find his way back to the Palace, demand an audience with the Pharaoh, and explain everything … well, a version of everything. Then it would be up to him to decide where best to place Marik next. Although Marik did not relish the thought of going back to the Court, he would not survive alone out here. And he would be able to see Isis again.

As he lay staring up at the sky, Marik's mind was finally able to rest and he sank into a deep, dreamless sleep.

…

The Thief King's men galloped through the desert like the very winds of hell were behind them.

Their horses' hooves tore up the sand in a whirlwind of flying dust, choking anyone who might dare to follow their path through the endless sighing sand. They fanned out, riding in an arrow shape with their leader himself at their head, cutting a straight, determined path through the endless sand. The thunder of their hooves echoed out among the silent reaches of the desert, heralding the sun as it wheeled on its weary route across the burnt blue sky. The Thief King's eyes were hard, his features set in determination. Nothing would dissuade him from his goal today.

"Hold up!"

Cursing under his breath, Bakura tugged on the reigns of his great black stallion, a huff of impatient air escaping his lips. "What is it?" His tone dared the answer to be anything but a matter of utmost importance, and when he turned his head to glare back at his men, his expression clearly showed his displeasure.

It was Menes again. He stood apologetically by his grey, gesturing to her hoof. "She's lame."

"Again?"

"I don't think we rested her enough before." Menes rubbed the back of his head, his smooth, unlined face a little nervous. "I tried to say…"

"Enough." Bakura grunted, and swung down from his stallion. He strode back over to Menes, inwardly smirking when the boy shrank back from him a little. Sometimes he wondered if it had been worth bringing him along with them – Menes was young and inexperienced and quick to fear, but he also knew respect and he was good with his letters. Bakura had deemed him valuable enough to travel with them. Plus, the Thief King was loath to leave any man behind, even if he would never admit it aloud.

"Let me have a look at her." He gestured for Menes to move out of the way, which he did. Bakura approached the horse and surveyed her calmly. Menes was right; she looked exhausted. Picking up her back left leg, Bakura noted the raw pinkness of the hoof, and deduced that she would need at least another hour's rest before she was able to keep their pace.

"We're stopping," he grunted with a nod to Menes. "And tell me sooner next time she gets into trouble."

His throat closing up, Menes could only nod.

Bakura turned his back and gestured for the rest of the men to dismount. They would stay here only an hour at the most – it didn't do to dwell for too long in one place, and especially not in this close proximity to the city. Bakura would rather not have stopped at all. Their mission was supposed to be a quick one, and then back out to the far reaches of the desert to make camp, but they couldn't do anything with one horse lame. He stamped off with a low growl.

"Hey." A low voice by his ear made Bakura turn, and he found Anen by his side with his usual calm smile. "Relax."

"Easy for you to say," Bakura snorted. He folded his eyes and glared impatiently out at the desert. "We've got quite some way to go."

"A journey never goes as smoothly as the one leading it would wish."

"I've had about enough of your witty comments, too," Bakura snapped. He turned his head sidelong and smirked at Anen. "Unless you've got any bright ideas?"

Anen lifted his hands. "You're the leader, Thief King."

"Hmph." Bakura grunted, his eyes playful. "As you never fail to remind me."

"I'm just a simple follower doing his job."

Bakura outright snorted at that one. Although Anen was extraordinarily loyal, having been with Bakura longer than any of the other men, he could hardly ever be called simple and he knew it. Anen's dark hair was greying at the temples, his face lined and wrinkled, and he was by far the oldest out of the group of wayward men Bakura had following him. And yet, Bakura trusted his advice over any other – as much as he trusted anyone, anyway.

Bakura turned back around to see the gaggle of his men settling down on the sand. They sat in clumps, two or three at a time, exchanging gruff laughs or harsh words that grated through the otherwise silent desert. Bakura smirked down at them. "Don't get too comfortable – we've a job to do, remember."

"As if you'd ever let us forget." A slight man, thin as a whip, glanced over with laughing pale eyes.

"Whatever do you mean by that, Seti?"

"He means you'd slaughter us all in our sleep if we did," grunted a huge, brawling man hulking in a corner.

"And don't you forget it." Bakura crossed his arms and took to pacing about the makeshift camp, his eyes flicking left and right, his body coiled with tension as it always was. The desert felt quiet today, but Bakura couldn't help but feel as if something was … off. His body was filled with anticipation, and it wasn't just the normal excitement he felt before a raid. No, this time, it was as if something was trying to warn him, as if they would have to watch their steps. Bakura cast his eyes skyward. The jagged scar on his right cheek ached numbly, but he dismissed the pain with his usual impatience. He had no time for such things. His eyes fixed out on the horizon, his brow furrowing, feeling the burning blaze of revenge constantly alight inside him. Soon. Soon they would be one step closer.

"T-Thief King?"

The stuttering voice behind him could only have come from Menes. Bakura heaved an impatient sigh, speaking without turning. "Stop moping. It isn't your fault."

"…Oh." Menes still sounded hesitant. "I just wanted to apologise…"

"There's no need. These things happen."

"…Thank you."

"I have even less need of your thanks." Bakura turned his head just enough to raise an eyebrow at Menes, noting his slightly trembling form, his nervous glance. "Neither they nor your apologies will get me to the tomb any quicker."

Menes had no answer for that other than to smile weakly. He pushed his glasses up his nose; a rare, expensive item, one acquired from his time in the Scribe school, no doubt. The other men had attempted stealing them many times before, but Menes clung to them with something akin to desperation until the others took pity on him. Bakura remembered the whole encounter with a wry chuckle.

Menes fiddled with the bottom of his long robes, following Bakura's gaze far out to the desert. He was probably searching for something to say to fill the awkward silence, but Bakura felt no need for such trivial things as small talk. He crossed his arms and continued to glare out towards the tomb. He knew where it was, but how well guarded it would be remained a mystery. It was one of the more recent ones, but that meant next to nothing when it came to the traps and the guardians. He wondered which family had been sent down to become its tombkeepers for the rest of time. Poor, stupid fools.

"How much further do you think it is?"

Menes' voice broke into Bakura's thoughts again and he shook his head, casting a slightly irritated glance to the short young man behind him. "Four more hours at least, if not a little more."

"Ah."

"And with no more interruptions along the way." Bakura's smooth, fluid voice darkened with amusement.

Menes' face coloured slightly. "I didn't…"

"I know. Just tell me sooner next time; I don't want to have to leave a man behind."

Menes looked even more stricken at that prospect.

"Hey, chief!" Seti's voice boomed across the desert again and he came closer. "Looks like there's some movement behind us."

Bakura's face darkened. "Where?"

"East, towards the city."

Bakura grunted. "Time to get moving then." He headed back towards his great black stallion, lightly stroking his mane. One deep brown eye met Bakura's, burning with the same fire that constantly blazed within Bakura. His coat was soft under Bakura's brown fingers, made coarse with sweat, but the horse's eyes were steely. Bakura matched the expression as he vaulted up onto his back again. "Let's hope your mare is ready, Menes. She's had all the rest she's getting."

Menes stammered out something that might have been another apology, but it was lost in the rustle of the men's practised movements as they readied themselves to leave again. Bakura drove his heels into his stallion's deep black flanks, launching straight into a gallop that threw up the sand behind them. His men scrambled to follow them, but Bakura didn't wait. His eyes were set firmly forward as he dove on through the sand, the desert echoing its empty call around him.

…

Marik awoke again as the sun was beginning to dip towards the horizon. His head felt groggy and heavy, his limbs aching from the weight of the sun and warmth of the desert. He stirred slowly. He knew that when the sun began to set like this, darkness could not be far behind, and whilst that didn't really bother him – it had always been dark in the tomb – he wasn't sure what else he might be sharing the night with. It was better to get moving now if he was to reach the Palace by morning.

With a low groan, Marik forced his legs to move. He got his feet under him and wobbled his way upright, still dizzy from the events of earlier. But he would not think about that. He had nothing in the way of supplies, but there were reeds growing by the oasis, and he knew enough to fashion a water container out of them. As he sat on the bank weaving the reeds together, his mind began to wander, but Marik kept his thoughts firmly out of the tomb. Instead, he focused on what may happen when he arrived at the Palace. He was sure he would face some repercussions for deserting his post, but once he had told the Pharaoh what happened, he was sure he would be spared his life. At least, with the version Marik planned on telling. His eyes narrowed. He refused to be sent back to a tomb.

He had little other choice than to return to the Palace, though. He would never survive alone in the desert, and he had no friends elsewhere. He had few enough of those in the Palace itself, of course, but there was his sister. She was bound to speak up for him. And the Pharaoh was not a wholly bad man – bound by his duty, yes, but not wholly bad.

Marik was counting on that.

With trepidation still itching away at his stomach, Marik finished his simple flask and filled it up with water, arming himself with plenty for the journey ahead. It would be a long walk back to the Palace, but he knew he needed to make it back there before he could truly count himself as free. His life hinged on whatever verdict the Pharaoh gave him. Marik hated that he had to be so dependent on another person, but he knew he had little choice in the matter. That merely irked him more.

He set his feet towards the Palace, eyes constantly forward as he began his solo trek across the desert.

And an end to chapter 1. Thoughts? I hope it isn't too confusing, I promise I'll explain everything eventually ^_^. Also, this isn't actually based on Ancient Egyptian culture – I'm just twisting things from the anime dub and kind of rolling with it. Aheh. *hides again*. Update out tomorrow~ - Jem