Citronshipping (Marik Ishtar/Thief King Bakura)

. . .

"Tread carefully in these halls, son...there are bones here that should not be disturbed."

The words of his father twisted around him, making Marik take a pause, his flashlight flatering in his hand. He closed his eyes against the memory. No. He was not controlled by that any longer—it had been twenty years since he was a prisoner of these tombs. He didn't need to follow their rules any longer.

His skin crawled, however, at the cold and dusty, the thick scent of must and dry, untouched air. Why was he doing this again? Why had he been the one to volunteer to go back down into the catacombs and make sure there wasn't anything of import that couldn't be left behind?

This is important,he reminded himself. So that no one can use our knowledge or our power for the wrong choices ever again. So that...

So that he wouldn't fail to protect the world again, as had been his fate since he was a child. He pushed down the stab of guilt, and stepped further into the tunnels.

I know this place the best, he reasoned. I was the heir. I was taken into tunnels that others weren't allowed. I know where to look.

He had searched most of the place already, burning old tomes that were better left unpreserved, shattering tablets and scratching words of power off of walls. On the very likely chance that some dumb archaeologist stumbled across this place in the near future, they wouldn't find anything that could put the world back out of order again. Not here. He made sure to disable the magical wards and the traps he came across, too. He might feel anything for bumbling foreign archaeologists, but these tombs had claimed enough lives.

There were only a few tunnels left to check. The Unlit Corridors.

He shuddered softly, standing at the head of them. He had the urge to turn off his flashlight before he walked inside—no torches had ever burned here. It wasn't allowed. This was where the darkness must remain untouched, his father had said. So that what lies within it won't be tempted to leave it's bubble of comfort.

He shoved the thoughts aside. There was nothing left here. The pharaoh's passing had taken away any other ghosts that lingered in these halls, they, too, released from its stone and dirt. There was nothing here left to fear.

Nothing...nothing except Marik's own creeping dread...

He shook his head. Stupid. He was stupid. There was nothing here.

He marched into the tunnels, his flashlight swinging across the walls to check for hieroglyphs. His skin crawled a bit—these walls were blank. The rest of the catacombs had been lined with paintings and glyphs, wards and spells that would protect the tunnels and those that rested within in. This section seemed...untouched. As though no human had ever disturbed the dust and dirt here.

The air was getting thinner. He didn't think he needed to go too much farther. He planned on pulling the failsafe on this back section anyway, to make the whole thing collapse after he left. It wouldn't be found. He didn't even haveto be back here.

He wasn't sure why he was.

No, that was a lie. He knew why he was coming down here.

"Because you want to stick it to your old man, right?"

The voice was thin and cold as it whispered past Marik's ear, so faint that if it hadn't been so deathly quiet down here, he would have thought he imagined it. He actually let out a thin scream, leaping back to put his back to the wall, his flashlight held out like a weapon.

A thin, cold laugh wove through his ears—oh god—it was him, it must be him, somehow he was back, that dark persona of his was back in his head and he—

"Shh...sh...don't cry little tombkeeper...I don't bite..."

No, it wasn't—the voice was different. A ghost? There shouldn't be any ghosts down here, not anymore.

"Did you come to play, little tombkeeper?" the reedy voice whispered. "It's been so long since anyone's tracked through my dust...I've been so lonely down here."

The laugh indicated that he hadn't been quite as lonely as he was indicating, and Marik's stomach did flip flops. There was something vaguely familiar about the voice. As though he had heard it in his own head before—

"Bakura," he whispered, it coming to him all at once.

The air hesitated, and he could almost feel it swirling around him.

"You know my name," the darkness whispered. "That's interesting...have we met before?"

This part of his soul didn't remember Marik—this wasn't Bakura. Or at least, not the one he had known.

The air dragged along his jaw and he felt something like cold fingers at his throat—but there was nothing in his flashlight beam.

"Won't you stay a little longer?" the voice crooned. "It's been so long since I had something to toy with...I've been so bored."

Marik couldn't fight something that was already dead. Couldn't beat back something that he couldn't see.

So he just bolted.

A laugh echoed behind him as he ran.

"You can't hide," Bakura laughed. "I'm always there, in the darkness—this is my tomb too, you know!"

Marik didn't listen.

He already knew there was no point in listening to ghosts.

He pulled the failsafe on his way out, hearing the tomb groan and crack overhead. Air whooshed past him as he ran down the rest of the halls to the stairs—to the light, where the sunlight leaked down over the hole, hearing everything collapse and crumble behind him.

His brother's and sister's faces met his as he stumbled free of the dark, flashlight clattered out of his hands. They were asking him if he was okay, what was wrong, but Marik couldn't hear over the feel of his own heartbeat.

Warm, he thought, as the sun beat down on him, washing away the cold and dark of the tomb and the ghost below. I'm...safe...right?

But the sun would always set sometime...he wondered if the ghost's dust had trailed after him in the wreckage...

. . .

A/N: I never know what to do with TKB tbh. Next is Circleshipping (Jonouchi x Honda x Miho).