"Who said that love was fire?

I know that love is ash.

It is the thing which remains

When the fire is spent,

The holy essence of experience."

~Who Said That Love Was Fire? By Patience Worth.

*** AN: Between this and some of my other fics, I've read so many articles on Egyptian myths that I forget that it's not common knowledge, so here's a crash review on the Egyptian Soul. There will be a quiz at the end of this chapter (j/k). The problem with Egyptian mythology is that it's not very consistent; there were different sects and cults (much like the YuGiOh fandom), and their myths evolved over time, but for the most part Egyptians believed that people had five parts to their souls:

1) Sheut - shadow
2) Ib - heart
3) Ren - name
4) Ka - life force
5) Ba - individuality

In Trigger, these parts are more symbolic because this is a story, but to people living in Egypt they were also literal. So, for example, the Ib was one's physical heart, so when they melt everyone in Kul Elna down into gold it's not just the bodies being destroyed, part of their souls went into the items, and we've seen what happens to what's left – they're stuck and can't pass on.

Also, Egyptians believed that you had to write, speak, or have someone remember your name to keep that part of your soul alive. If your name was lost, you experienced "the second death" (I'm mentioning this since, if you've noticed, there's only one name Bakura remembers in this story from his childhood).

Anpu is my cat :) More importantly, Anpu was the Egyptian name used for Anubis. I like associating Yami Bakura with Anubis and Ma'at because they were deities that involved death, balance, and justice. One of the reasons Anpu became a deity concerning the afterlife, is because actual jackals would hang around burial sites. (Again, explaining this because it gets mentioned in the chapter).

Okay, sorry this AN was so long. ***

They stayed at the park until the batteries died on their laptops and the sun grew orange and fat on the horizon. At the store, Marik noticed Ryou stealing a package of nori. He shot Ryou an inquisitive glance, but Ryou only grinned and shrugged. Bakura took over then, winking at Marik as if asking him to keep a secret. Marik didn't pursue the matter.

They returned home, Bakura curled up on the couch and read Maiden Rose while Marik went to the kitchen to prepare dinner. Marik looked around the apartment, and the realization of how much he'd miss everything if he failed to retrieve Bakura's ba struck him hard. The sofa with its hidden treasures, Ryou's craft area with the finished Egyptian diorama (they just needed to write the ending), the dinning room table where he and Bakura often sat and drank tea and argued about nothing just for the entertainment of arguing. Even the kitchen, where Marik knew the location of every pot and pan, overran him with memories. Marik had spent hours watching Ryou cut vegetables to prepare meals. He and Bakura often raided the fridge at two in the morning to stay awake because Marik didn't want to go to sleep and have nightmares. Marik didn't think there was a single foot of floor, wall, counter, or furniture in the entire apartment that they hadn't made out against, fucked on, or in some way marked with pleasant experiences.

He couldn't give it up. If Marik lost he'd be trapped again. This time his own body would be the tomb imprisoning him, and worse, Bakura would be gone. Marik's hands started shaking. He tried to think of a plan, but the probability of losing kept nagging at his thoughts. He didn't want to deal with it. His mind kept pushing the situation to the back of his thoughts.

Marik grit his teeth, stirring lentils in one pot and tomato sauce in another, and forced himself to stay in the present instead of compressing everything thought of what Ryou said about symbols and ceremonies. Hadn't that been how Bakura gave Marik his ka? The ceremony, tackling Marik to the ground and drawing on him, and then the symbol, the picture of Diabound still on Marik's chest. What was the symbol of Bakura's ba? Birds with human heads represented the ba, but that didn't remind Marik of Bakura in the slightest. It felt like the wrong symbol. The ba was the most important part of Bakura's soul, that which gave him individuality and made him unique, but Marik couldn't think of a symbol for that. His mind instead wandered to the color of the tiles, the seasoning on the bottom of the pots, anything else.

It was because Marik was fighting the urge to block everything out and hide in the safe, black spot in his mind, and because his hands were shaking as a result, that he knocked the boiling pot of lentils off of the stove. On reflex, Marik jumped away from the scalding water, but as he did, his hand shot out and the heel of his palm hit the hot metal wrack on the gas stove. Marik's hand recoiled to his chest, but the burning sensation didn't leave; instead, it locked into his skin and the pain caused the last cords in the back of Marik's mind to snap, releasing the final blocked area of his memories. The pain in Marik's hand and the rush of memories morphed together, creating a maelstrom of rage.

"Marik?" Bakura called from the couch.

Marik screamed and swore. He smacked the tomato sauce off the stove and punched the nearest cupboard, breaking the cabinet door. With his un-burned hand, Marik grabbed Ryou's tornado glass filled with spatulas and ladles and chucked it against the wall. The utensils flew in every direction as glass shattered and rained to the floor in a glittering shower. Then Marik threw the wooden knife block and the electric can opener. The can opener smashed to pieces and the knife block cracked, knives scattering across the floor. He was in the process of kicking in the bottom cupboard doors by the time Bakura reached him, grabbing his shoulders to try and subdue him.

"Marik. Stop it now."

"No!" Marik screamed, trying to push Bakura away from him. "It fucking burns. I hate burns!"

Bakura fought to hold Marik's hand enough to examine the two blisters swelling on his red, irritated skin. "Okay, we'll put something on it. Calm down."

"It doesn't matter what you put on it – it still burns!" Marik shrieked. "Creams and salves and poultices are all bullshit. Nothing makes it better. Nothing fixes it. The knife has to be hot to help cauterize the scars or you'll bleed out. Then they keep writing and writing on you, and burning and burning you like you're a piece of leather instead of a child, and you can smell the stench of skin and blood and fat smoldering as they cut. Do you have any idea, Bakura? Any idea how bad it smells? The smell of burning flesh. But they don't stop." Marik screwed his eyes shut, teeth clenched so hard he feared chipping the enamel. "No, not they – him, him, m-my, my father. He did it. He cut me. He burned me. I cried and screamed and puked over the stone table but he wouldn't stop. And, and then – when I went outside – I came home and found Rishid. And his back, fucking blood everywhere, and that smell, all over again that smell and the blood and the knife. I tried to stop it. I ran and grabbed my father's arm to stop him from hurting Rishid anymore, but he punched me off of him and I hit the wall. Then my father cut into Rishid again. And my father's face – how did I forget the look on his face? I couldn't see his face during my initiation. I thought it'd be somber, because he had to do it, because he didn't have a choice. But when he cut Rishid his face was eager – shit." Marik rubbed his face with his free hand. "Rishid screamed and dropped to the floor and, and, and I thought he was dead." Marik used his free arm to smear the tears on his cheek, Bakura still holding Marik's damaged hand and watching Marik as he spoke.

Marik sunk to the floor and Bakura was there with him, scooping Marik in his arms and squeezing him. Marik felt warm water from the spilled lentils soak into his pants and the broken, splintered cupboard door they leaned against was splattered with tomato sauce that looked like drops of blood. Marik cried until he choked. He felt hot bile rise up his esophagus, but swallowed and forced the acidic mixture back down his throat. "He was dead and it was my fault because I wanted to go outside. He covered for me, and when we got caught, my father tortured him to death. And everything was dull brown and sick red, and the burning smell gets in your nose and you can't get it out. And my father put the knife back in the fire until it smoked from all Rishid's blood burning away, and then father turned to me with the knife and said I was next." Marik gasped, held his breath, exhaled, and continued. "I was scared. I wanted to run. Run back outside. I wanted to be outside. I didn't want to be underground. I didn't want my father to be walking towards me with a hot knife. I thought about running, but he'd grab me and drag me back underground. There was nowhere to go. There was nowhere safe." Marik's speech slowed down as he took deeper breaths. He started speaking in sentences instead of a frantic string of words. "Except in the back of my mind. There was a black space, a small space I could crawl inside and sleep and dream about being outside. I found it during my initiation and continued using it whenever I couldn't remember my lessons and my father would hit me. That's, that's why . . ." Marik blinked realizing several things at once. "That's why my alter knew things about the Winged Dragon of Ra Card that I didn't know. That's how he beat us during Battle City."

"Like you've said." Bakura ran his fingers through Marik's hair. His voice was quiet. "If we won that battle, we would have destroyed your body, so let's not worry about it."

Marik nodded, returning to his original story, answering the question that Bakura asked him months ago. "I didn't have anywhere to run, so I went to that secret space in my mind, and then I was safe. I was me, but I wasn't me, and I wasn't afraid anymore. I was angry. I was always angry, but I could never do anything about it. The one time I tried, when I was eight, my father cracked my ribs and broke an arm he beat me so bad. After that I never got angry. Until that day. He was going to cut me with the knife again. He was going to burn me until I was dead in a tomb that wasn't mine. So I laughed, and laughed, and took the rod and decided to cut him instead; cut him like he'd cut me, hurt him like he hurt me, give him a blood ritual that he didn't want like he did to me. Ishizu was screaming, but I only laughed and carved my father's skin off his back. That fucking tattoo! He was so proud of it, so I took it from him and threw it on Rishid who only ever wanted to be accepted as part of the family."

Marik leaned against Bakura and whispered. "Then Rishid woke up and I changed back to normal, but I couldn't remember anything and my father was dead. And I was so sad. I really was sad. I'm still sad. Because you still want a good father even if he's not. You still want parents you can love. And then the man I saw at the village was there, the one with the Key and Scales, and he rambled something about the will of the Pharaoh, and I misunderstood, and all the hate I should have put on my father – I put on the Pharaoh. That way I was able to pretend my father was good. I blamed the Pharaoh. I vowed revenge, but really, I just wanted to die."

Bakura swallowed, tucking a strand of hair behind Marik's ear. They looked at each other. Marik blinked and looked around the destroyed kitchen. "Shit, I'm sorry. I'll clean it u—"

Bakura grabbed Marik and pressed their lips together. Marik closed his eyes, sinking into the feeling of Bakura's hands on his face and lips against his. The moment somehow reminded Marik of the first time he ever experienced rain.

Twelve years old, he started a base for the first Rare Hunters in Munich with the help of Rishid. It was late and Marik went outside to stare at the lit-up city, admiring how bright a place could be, even at night. A breeze blew his hair and he felt something light and cool kiss his face. He looked down at his arms and watched small beads of water gather on his tanned skin as they fell from the sky and landed on him. He blinked, looking at Rishid for an explanation.

"It's Rain," he'd answered.

Marik had stuck out his tongue and licked the water from his skin. Laughing, he spread his arms out and spun and danced in the street as the rain grew heavy and soaked his clothes and hair, but he didn't care, because that night he felt free.

It was like that with Bakura now.

Bakura stood up and grabbed a clean dishcloth. He soaked it with cool water and wrapped three ice-cubes in the center, pressing the towel against Marik's burn. "Just sit there. I'll clean up."

"But—"

"Don't argue this time, Marik."

Marik blew air from his mouth, capitulating to Bakura's request. Bakura gathered the knives first, placing them into the cracked woodblock and setting it sideways on the counter; it was too damaged to sit upright. "I understand," Bakura whispered, thinking to himself more than talking to Marik as he grabbed the dissembled can opener by the cord and dropped it into the trash bin. "I mean, about the burning smell. It doesn't go away. Even if you go to the river and scrub mud into your skin and hair, as soon as you go back the ashes are still there, and the odor haunts worse than the ghosts that can't pass on because their bodies were defiled."

"Bakura."

Bakura turned to the sound of his name.

Marik watched him from his spot on the floor. "Tell me. Then we can be even."

Bakura sighed, but nodded in agreement. "This will be the first time even I've heard the full story spoken out loud, because I've never said it to anyone."

Marik gestured for Bakura to go on.

He frowned and thought about where to start. "You remember the picture of my mother, standing at the doorway and feeding Tiy?"

Marik nodded.

"It was dusk. Most of the village was outside because the weather was good. My father and his father and some of the neighbors were playing mehen, and my mother watched them from the doorway. I wanted attention, but she was nursing the baby and told me to go play ball with the other boys." A small smile took Bakura's lips. "Even then I wasn't a social person, so I sulked off to a hidden spot my friend and I, the one that starved, had discovered when we were very small. We had a collection of beetle shells there that were our 'treasure' and I arranged them in a pattern on the dirt. I was bitter because he wasn't there to play with me anymore. I heard my mother calling for me, but I was still sulking so I ignored her. It's funny. I remember her voice, and her calling me, but I can't remember what she called out, the name she used, but then she said my name and added son of followed by my father's name and I jumped to my feet. I knew better than to ignore her then."

Bakura retrieved a broom and dust pan from a small closet. He worked on the shattered glass first, the task difficult because of the pieces hidden under ladles and in corners.

Marik stood up. "Let me do it. You're going to cut your feet."

Bakura shot Marik a peeved look. "You sit back down or I'm not finishing this story."

Marik set his jaw in place, but used his good hand to hoist himself on top of the counter. "You really are a stubborn jackass, you know that?"

Bakura tossed a wooden spoon in the sink, resting one hand on his hip while the other held the broom. His expression asked Marik if he'd have it any other way. Then he fidgeted with the broom and frowned at the floor, his tone somber. "I stood up to go back home and heard the first scream. It sounded like a hyena, but then there were others, and horse hooves, and bronze striking bronze. I crept up to the edge of my hidden area in time to see a royal soldier on horseback run my grandfather into the ground. My father killed three soldiers before one caught his neck with a sword stroke." Bakura drew a line across his neck, shoulder, and chest with the broom handle. "But it wasn't a clean cut, so my father fell to the ground and twitched, kicking with his right leg even after he'd bled out. My mother dropped to the ground, curling in a ball to protect Tiy. A man on horseback punched his spear into her side and I saw the blood pour from her mouth – Tiy screaming beneath her."

Bakura kept his breath and his words steady. He didn't sob, but he felt tears rolling down his cheeks that caused his skin to itch. He focused on picking up dishes and sweeping glass and smashed lentils from the floor in order to continue talking. "Part of me wanted to stay where I was and hide. Part of me wanted to run away as far as I could. More than anything I wanted to stop it. I kept telling myself to get out there and fight, take my father's sword and kill them all for hurting my family, but what could I do? My father had been the strongest person in the world and he laid there and twitched in a puddle of mud made from his own blood. What could I do? So my legs froze and I stood there, holding the wall for support, and watched everything because I couldn't move. They built two pits of fire and divided the bodies."

Bakura paused, looking at Marik. "They didn't know, you see, didn't know if it made a difference or not what kind of sacrifice they used. I'm sure you've read, in those stupid tomes your father made you read, that Kul Elna was a thieves' village, but it was still a village. As the grain dried to dust under the drought-searing sun, the men stole from dead kings to keep their children from starving in their arms because they were fathers as well as thieves. Kul Elna was home to children, and elderly, and sick, and young brides, and the Pharaoh's mages weren't sure if the strength of the sacrifice would change the outcome of the ritual, so they chose ninety-nine of the strongest villagers, like my parents, and mixed them with gold, pouring everything together and creating the Millennium Items."

"Shit," Marik swore, shutting his eyes. His skin pale like sand.

"But the rest of the villagers were dragged to the other pit. They weren't mixed with gold, merely burned. Bodies don't burn easily – too much water – so they popped and cracked. Yes, I know the smell of burnt flesh. I will never forget that smell. Every time I curse the Pharaoh I can still taste the ash of my family on my tongue, and smell them burning, with or without gold, all burning, and Tiy— Tiy was still screaming, sc-screaming. I was going to run and get her. I was bracing my legs, getting ready to spring forward, to push my hand off the wall. I didn't look at the guards, just my baby sister crying in the dirt in front of our doorway. I focused my entire world into her. I was going to grab her and run, but before I moved, a soldier grabbed her ankle and flung – fucking flung – her into the fire pit. Still. Screaming."

The world slowed down for a moment as Bakura felt himself dropping to the floor, screams still in his mind, the broom dropping out of his hand. He watched Marik fly from the counter, the impromptu ice pack falling to the floor, and flash towards him, catching him before Bakura's knees hit the ground. Bakura allowed his head to rest in the crook of Marik's neck and shoulder, and he properly cried, just as Ryou cried in the back of his mind. "I was too slow. I took too long to move. I should have saved her. Big brothers are supposed to save—" Bakura couldn't speak because the wails coming from his mouth. He gasped for air until his crying stopped and he spoke without pauses or breaks. "I passed out and when I woke up, nothing was left but ghosts and ashes. I sat there, against the wall, and watched the ghosts circle the village and wail. They were confused and hurting; their bodies had melded together in the items so their spirits were also bound in a hive-minded state. I watched them and realized I couldn't bury any of them. We built tombs for kings, gave them grand palaces for their afterlives, but how do you bury bodies burned and mixed together, no more organs, nothing left for their afterlives, no hands or mouths or eyes, just ash. I prayed to Anpu, I prayed and prayed and prayed, but no jackals visited Kul Elna after that. It was unclean. The only things I could do were vow to redress them and remember Tiy's name. I said it every night before bed even years after forgetting my own, and I hoped that it kept her from the second death."

***AN: I hate to do this, but next week's Thanksgiving. I'll try to get the last chapter out on time, but if it's delayed a week that's why.***