Bronze and blood and fire and sweat and Marik always forgot that he wasn't ten anymore when his nightmares came.
It had to stop. The pain had to stop somehow, by any means. The binds around Marik's wrists snapped and he reached out for the Rod, gold blade hidden at the tip gleaming in flax-oil lamp light. Marik squeezed the Rod in his hand, leaping at the attacker carving the Pharaoh's memories into his skin. He stabbed until the golden Rod, greased with blood, slipped out of his hand, and then Marik collapsed on the corpse. Marik wailed.
He felt arms wrap around him. Marik struggled for a moment and woke to Bakura rocking him.
"I hate this!" Marik shrieked.
"I'm here."
Marik felt boneless, slumped in Bakura's arms. "Don't leave."
"What do you mean?"
Marik shuddered. "I mean don't leave."
Bakura sighed. "Marik, why would I leave?"
"I've become boring."
Bakura chuckled. "Haven't you noticed? So have I. I'll never leave you, idiot."