Constantshipping (Priest Karim/Rishid Ishtar)

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((this is an old one; it was originally called Oliveshipping and was renamed because of its somewhat racist undertones. I'm just moving it into place.))

. . .

Sometimes, at night, Rishid would hide a candle flame under his hand and sneak out of bed, trying to conceal the slap of his bare feet against the cold stone as he ventured into the dark catacombs. It was only at night that he was able to sit in the Hall of History and stare at the ancient writing. Lingering in the hall during the day meant a beating – he was only a servant, and servants weren't meant to stay in the tribe's sacred halls.

So Rishid would light his candle and sneak through the darkness, trying to find where he had left off. The stories called to him. They were an itch that he could not scratch unless he was seated in front of the words and reading the ancient tales from the wall. Stories of a great pharaoh who sacrificed himself to save the world, and of his six high priests, guardians of the Millennium Items and of the pharaoh. The tribe was descended from these great priests. Rishid often liked to pretend that he was as well.

The stories were glorious ones, of adventure, and honor, and loyalty. That brave, brave pharaoh, willing to give up everything to save his people. Any day Rishid longed to go up to the light, he would remember the pharaoh, and he didn't feel so caged anymore. He was glad to belong to a tribe that would protect the eternal soul of such a great king. Rishid loved to imagine that he was one of the great priests in the stories, holding a Millennium Item, surrounding the pharaoh and protecting him from harm. He must have been an awe-inspiring king. Imagining what he might have looked like in life, and not just in paintings, was a favorite game of Rishid's.

Tonight, he found his spot, right in the middle of the War of the Shadows. He had read this story several times, always returning to it after deciphering a different story, about other pharaohs and other times. The pharaoh's assault on the remains of Kul Elna, to confront the Thief King Bakura and stop him from raising the god of evil from the darkness. Rishid's heart beat a little faster. The ruins of the Kul Elna seemed to rise in his mind. He could almost see the cocky smirk of the Thief King, although his features were never quite clear in Rishid's head. He could see the pharaoh riding as fast as he could to the ruins. His high priests came ahead of him. They engaged the Thief King in battle – his ka was just too strong.

Rishid reached out to touch the small paintings of the high priests. Mahad, Isis, Shada, Set, Akhenaden, Karim –

His finger hesitated on the picture of Karim. He looked to be a strong man. He wore a short wig. In one hand he held the Millennium Scales. To hold those, he needed a strong and balanced heart. Just Karim, Upholder of the Law. More than anything, Rishid had imagined holding the Scales. To have such an item resting in his hand, to be able to see the hearts of those that might want to hurt those he loved – it was an intriguing power. The stories said that Karim was kind. Strong. Impartial. Always willing to see both sides of the story, to bring justice. It was the kind of person Rishid wanted to be. Someone who could protect his siblings. A leader that was kind, and understood the hearts of people.

Rishid's finger fell away from the wall. The image of Karim flickered in the candlelight.

Hieroglyphics ran down the wall beneath his image. Rishid moved the candle to read it better.

Karim...gave...his energy...to...Isis. He mouth the words silently, slowly deciphering the old language that he wasn't supposed to be able to read. He...was...thought...dead. But it...was...not...so.

He had read these words a million times. He could recite by heart now.

Karim was severely weakened by the transfer. He himself expected to die. But although weak, he recovered, some days after the pharaoh's death. He remained a steadfast supporter of the new pharaoh, Set, and a defender of peace and justice, until his death.

At the very bottom of this inscription was another painting of Karim, this time with a woman beside him. The olive colored paint was chipped, but Rishid could see the small bundle in the woman's arms – a baby. Rishid chewed on his lip. He knew he would be beaten to near death if he ever spoke his wish, his hope, his dangerous idea aloud.

Karim lived on. Karim had a child.

Maybe...it could be...that Rishid was his descendant...

. . .

A/N: Next is Conspireshipping (Yami Marik x Yami Bakura x Marik x Ryo).