A young child watched through eyes that were no longer his own. It felt so strange, and yet, so familiar, as though this situation had happened before. He listened to a voice that was his, but not controlled by him, scold a father whose murderous eyes were showing something the child had not seen before. Was it confusion? Maybe, but there was something else, too. Something the child had felt many times but never dreamed he would see on his father's face. It was fear. And then, before the young blonde knew what happening, his arm had come down and lodged the bladed end of one of their family artifacts into his father's chest. In his mind, the child screamed. Out loud, the being born of hatred and loneliness uttered an insane laugh. Sounds of flesh being ripped and blood being splattered echoed in the dank, underground room as his arm removed the blade and came down again… again… all while that blood-curdling laugh tore up from his young lungs. Before him, his father's mutilated body jerked. Behind him, screams of another variety could be heard – a female wailing in distress; another male attempting to calm her, despite his own shock. Yes, the child realizes, this has happened before, many years ago. It's just a nightmare, now, and the worst is over. His father's body lies against the wall in a pool of the same blood that courses though the child's veins and, at that moment, decorates his face. The child does not believe the actual event resulted in such a mess, but each time the nightmare gets worse. He continues to watch through eyes that he cannot control, as the body that once belonged solely to him turns at the will of the dark spirit he himself spawned. Typically, this is where the nightmare ends; the child cannot seem to recall what occurred next. However, this night is different. This night, the spirit's bloodlust is not yet satiated, and the child feels his own lips curve into a sadistic grin. He screams his sister's name, and then the boy's, but they cannot hear. Only he and the dark spirit can, and the latter only feeds on his screams. The taller boy urges the girl to run, but she is convinced she can get through to her brother. She calls his name and in his mind the child hears her voice, murky as though he were underwater. He cries out her name, calling back to her in that voice she cannot hear. The elder boy tries again to move her but she fights him and approaches her younger brother. Her voice is gone, but the sound of torn fabric and broken flesh rings loud and clear. Her eyes narrow in shock, her mouth hangs open soundlessly, and the sadistic spirit returns his body to him so that he may feel his sister's body shudder in his arm while his own hand grips the Rod now stored inside of her. Painfully, she speaks her brother's name, but he is unable to reply. He feels frozen in time as he watches the light fade from her eyes. Yet, she smiles. Her trembling hand offers his bloodied face a feather-light caress and she opens her mouth but no further words are said. Her eyes go dark and she falls forward, her body suddenly much greater in weight. It takes him mere seconds to realize she is no longer alive, and then he screams.
Marik shot up from his sleep covered in a hot sweat. His breath came out in jagged pants but, thankfully, it didn't look like he'd screamed out loud.
Bakura lay beside him with his back turned to the Egyptian. His lighter frame rose and dropped slowly, rhythmically; a good sign that he was still asleep. Marik slowly calmed himself until he, too, was breathing normally again, then he swallowed hard in an effort to moisten his dried mouth.
His hands shook in his lap and he clenched them to steady the movement. Continually, his eyes trailed to the entity lying beside him and, once he recovered from the initial shock of his nightmare, the Egyptian stretched out behind his bedmate and slipped their figures together like pieces of a puzzle.
Bakura gave a light groan but showed no other signs of objection to the motion. Marik felt a small smile cross his lips as he cradled the other boy and buried his face in a pillow of soft, white hair. He drew in a slow, deep breath and closed his eyes, chuckling lightly. Bakura's hair smelled of lavender.
One tanned arm draped over a much paler frame and came to rest against the spirit's chest, remaining that way for many moments. The taller male was fading from consciousness when he was startled by a sudden grasp on his wrist.
Marik made an effort to pull away, thinking for certain that he'd angered Bakura, but the latter resisted the pull then slid his hand over the back of Marik's and interlaced their fingers. In that simple motion, the sleeping spirit unwittingly wiped the teen's mind clear of his nightmare. Gently, Marik folded his fingers down and locked them with Bakura's, holding the spirit close and feeling more secure than he had in years.
With Bakura in his arms and his face nested in floral-scented white hair, the Egyptian would fall asleep knowing the nightmares couldn't hurt him anymore; as long as he held onto his dream catcher.