The Third Sarcophagus
When Marc opened his eyes, everything was black.
He was encased in darkness, his limbs prevented from moving much by…something. Marc pushed his hands up frantically, realising with a surge of panic that he was, in fact, encased. The air left his lungs as he pushed on whatever was above him, but the lid containing him in this makeshift coffin was heavy, and it took all his effort to get it to budge. Marc yelled in frustration, now using his legs to push – finally, thankfully, heaving the lid clear off and bathing him in harsh white light.
He was in a room of all white, the fluorescent lighting searing his eyes as he practically stumbled out of the container, frantically glancing around. No, not just a container – a sarcophagus. Marc swore. If he ever did see Khonshu again, he really was going to break his stupid beak off and shove it where the sun don’t shine.
To his genuine surprise, the door opened easily, and Marc found himself in a sterile white hallway that mirrored the room he’d just been in. Considering he was dead, he felt strangely normal – well, sort-of dead, as Zara had put it. His limbs still worked, his brain still bombarded him with its usual echoing thoughts, threatening to drown him as they often did in the silence of the empty hallway. Except now, it was missing one (much kinder) voice. Marc walked down the hallway, peering into each seemingly empty room. Though he’d never admit it, it deeply unnerved him to not hear Steven in his head, not to be able to feel him in that space they shared. He felt like a piece was missing from the puzzle of his brain, and he was left staring at the empty space behind it.
Finally he heard something – a voice, strained and muffled, coming from one of the rooms – and Marc rushed towards it. He burst through the door to see a sarcophagus almost identical to his own, a frantic voice shouting from within. Marc locked his hands around the lid and pulled, Steven practically spilling out of the coffin and onto the floor, scrambling backwards.
“Bloody hell!” Steven exclaimed, and his face had gone white. “Did they have to put us in those things? I couldn’t breathe in there!”
Marc’s breath caught in his throat, and Steven looked up, the two of them staring at each other. It was like looking in the mirror, if the mirror had a mind, wardrobe, and English accent all of its own. Steven slowly stood, his eyes wide. “Marc…?”
“Steven.” Marc breathed. He’d known it was going to happen, and yet, he couldn’t quite bring himself to believe it.
“Marc!” Suddenly Steven rushed forward, slamming into him, knocking the breath from Marc’s lungs in an embrace. Marc laughed, throwing his arms around him.
“It’s so good to see you, buddy,” Marc murmured into his shoulder. “My head was way too quiet.”
Finally they pulled back, Steven staring at him in awe. “I can’t believe it worked. Zara really pulled it off.”
“She did.” Marc huffed a laugh. “Come on, we better get started.”
Anubis was waiting for them in the hallway, of what Marc now recognised as a psych ward. The god stood tall, his jackal head watching them intently. Steven Grant, Marc Spector. I’ve been expecting you.
“Anubis,” Steven breathed, his eyes lighting up with what Marc could only describe as complete giddiness. “I can’t believe it. I mean – I know I’ve seen you before, but to be this close, just – wow.”
Marc set his jaw. “The psych ward is a bit of a low blow.”
Human minds cannot fathom the true nature of this plane, Anubis responded, watching him with his dark eyes. If your mind creates this setting for your afterlife, you have only yourself to thank.
Marc groaned. “Of course. Thanks for the insight.”
Steven shot him a warning look, but Anubis only seemed mildly amused. Steven nudged him. “Maybe don’t be rude to the god who popped Ammit back where she belonged? Just a suggestion.”
Marc bristled. “I said thanks.”
Steven shook his head, before glancing back at the jackal-headed god before them, watching them bicker with curious eyes. “Thank you for helping us, Anubis.”
Anubis considered him. I have a deal with the Avatar of Sekhmet, and this deal only lasts for as long as I can prevent Osiris from noticing your presence in the Duat, he stated, his obsidian eyes flicking between them. Your time is limited.
Marc’s head was still spinning, but Steven had lit up like a flare. “The Duat…” he turned to Marc, his eyes alight. “I really can’t believe it.”
Marc put a hand on his shoulder, glancing back at the god. “What do we need to do?”
Anubis gestured to the doors behind him. Each door holds memories. Use them to find what you seek.
Marc and Steven glanced at each other, then back at the god. “Okay, so – ”
But Anubis was gone.
“Right,” Marc muttered. “Good talk.”
Steven had already moved on, humming as he peered through the glass pane of one of the doors. “Well, he’s probably busy – you know, with all the souls that come through. And keeping ol’ Gator-Breath in line, now that she’s back.”
Marc eyed him, raising a brow. “Gator-Breath?”
Steven paused a moment, then shrugged. “Well, I guess she’s technically a crocodile – ”
“What’s in there?” Marc cut in, peering through the pane. Sure enough, a memory was playing out through the glass, like a scene from a jarringly familiar movie. He watched as the jackal chased Steven through the museum, the destruction of the bathroom playing out almost comically.
Steven shuddered. “Not my finest moment.”
“And not what we’re looking for,” Marc muttered, taking Steven’s arm and pulling him along behind him. It felt so incredibly foreign, for Steven to be physically next to him, and he let go of his arm, pushing the thought away. He peered into the next door. “Ah, fuck.”
Through the pane stood a slightly younger Marc arguing with Khonshu, the old bird looming over him as if to intimidate him. Steven came up beside him and Marc flinched – he didn’t think he’d ever get used to seeing Steven outside his body, instead of just hearing him in his head. Steven nudged him. “What’s all that about, then?”
Marc grimaced, unable to tear his eyes away from the scene. He remembered that day like it was…well, a recent thing, and not five years further into the past than it should’ve been. The two of them watched in silence as memory-Marc threw his hands up at Khonshu, turning away with a huff of breath that fogged up in the crisp air. Khonshu tensed suddenly, his booming voice reverberating through the walls, so that even behind the door, he could still be heard.
Marc –
“What?” The Marc in the memory growled, turning on him. “What the hell do you – ”
Suddenly memory-Marc froze, staring at his hands as if they weren’t even his own. Marc felt the bile rise in his throat as he watched on, absently putting a hand on Steven’s shoulder, anchoring himself. It had felt like moments. Moments, not years.
Memory-Marc watched in horror as his hands turned to dust, the colour draining from his face with record speed. Khonshu reeled.
Something terrible has happened.
The terror that he felt that day caved his chest inward, his younger self evaporating to dust before his very eyes. Marc suddenly staggered back, shaking his head, and Steven reached for him in concern. “Marc – are you all right?”
Get your shit together, he told himself, looking away from Steven. Marc clenched his jaw, nodding stiffly. “Fine.”
Steven merely watched him for a moment. “We were lost in the blip, weren’t we?”
Marc hesitated, then nodded again. “Yeah.”
What else was he to say? Steven had seen it with his own eyes, and Marc fought the wave of dizziness that came with his alter’s realisation. It was getting harder and harder to protect Steven from the realities of his – of their – lives. Marc grabbed his arm, moving further down the hall without another word. He had to be careful what Steven saw, he couldn’t let him come undone the way Marc had been for most of his life. Marc knew there weren’t many things he’d done right, but Steven – protecting him was always going to be one of them. It had to be. But in a room full of memories, very few of which weren’t Marc’s own, he was going to have to be cautious. He couldn’t afford to fuck this up.
This, of course, did not last very long.
Steven suddenly pulled back as Marc moved him down the corridor, squinting through a doorway. “Hang on, what’s this one?”
Marc caught a glimpse of it then – the scene that always preluded his nightmares, the ones that echoed through his days even when he woke – and his heart almost fell through his gut and onto the floor. Steven smiled warmly as he peered through the glass pane, and Marc felt the icy wave of sheer panic begin to surge up his spine. Steven’s breath fogged up the window as he spoke. “Is that Mum?”
Marc opened his mouth to respond but the second he saw her, his words jammed themselves in his throat. Something had pulled the air from his lungs, those icy fingers crawling their way back up his spine. Steven pulled away from him, and Marc’s hand shot out frantically, pulling him back. Steven whirled on him. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“You don’t need to go in there.” Marc tried to sound confident, but his voice shook. “There’s nothing in there.”
Steven frowned. “We need to find this bloke, Marc. Whatever it takes. And besides, Mum’s in there – our childhood is as good a place to start as any.” He turned back to the window then, wistful hope lighting his eyes. “Besides, I feel like I haven’t seen her in ages.”
If Marc’s heart could drop any further, it did. “No – no, Steven. You can’t go in there. There’s nothing in there.”
Steven didn’t take his eyes off their family. “I literally just gave you like, three reasons why we should see what’s in there. I’m going in.”
Steven grabbed the handle and Marc’s instincts kicked in, yanking him backwards. “No!”
Steven staggered back, staring at him. “What the bloody hell is wrong with you?”
“It’s – I – ” Marc stammered, then yelled in frustration. “Why can’t you listen to me, Steven? Why do you always have to have your own goddamn way?”
Steven stepped back as if he’d struck him, and an arrow of guilt shot through Marc. “You can’t control what I do, Marc.” Steven’s voice dropped. “Not anymore, anyway.”
Marc flinched, his hackles going up. “You don’t get to see everything, Steven. It’s my memory. You don’t get to see my memories just because you feel like it.”
“Why not?” Steven’s expression hardened, but his eyes were sad. “You’ve gotten to see all of mine.”
Marc wished Steven would’ve hit him. He wished Steven would’ve just walked up and punched him square in the nose, or in the jaw, or…anywhere, done anything other than say that. His words winded Marc like a blow, the arguments he’d been ready to lash out with dying on his tongue like the ashes of the blip. Steven furrowed his brows, his eyes darting to the side – and before Marc could react he’d rushed through the door. Marc desperately surged forward after him – but it was too late. He heard the click of a lock as he reached the door, pounding against it in vain. “Steven! Steven – let me in!”
But Steven was gone – and all that was left was the empty corridor, bathing him in harsh white light.
All that was left was all that Marc had ever truly had – himself, standing alone.
* * *
Steven had learned several things in his short time being sort-of dead.
One: He was not the original alter in their system. A reality he’d started to suspect since the day Marc had told him some of his history on that plane to Cairo, but a punch to the gut all the same.
Two: Their brother had died, and their mother had hated them. Steven hadn’t even known that he’d had a brother. The elation had risen and come crashing down as he’d had followed the boys into the cave, sure he was watching just another childhood memory – until it turned for the worst. Steven had screamed his voice raw, but he may as well have been screaming into a black hole. Their little brother had drowned, and he’d watched on helplessly as Marc bore the brunt of it for the rest of his life – their mother’s wrath bearing down upon him physically and emotionally, a young Marc Spector then carrying the weight of the world on his tiny shoulders. Steven had almost passed out as he watched the horrors unfold in front of him – he didn’t remember her like that, he didn’t, he couldn’t. The betrayal that simmered his chest at the depth of Marc’s lies could not come close to overpowering the sheer grief – the grief that he now saw in every facet of Marc’s life, every molecule of his very being. Marc had been wrong to shut him out, to lie to him, to hide him from it all. He was wrong. But he’d done it to prevent Steven from ever feeling the leaden grief that had weighed him down like an anchor for most of his life.
Three: Their mother was dead. Steven had stumbled on through the scenes of the past, to find Marc standing in an empty street, dressed completely in black. He’d seen their father beckoning him inside, Marc’s refusal. It was a funeral. Marc had collapsed in the street, and Steven had instantly rushed to meet him, almost physically knocked back by the sheer anguish in his eyes. Marc had muttered helplessly as he’d hugged himself, kneeling on the cobblestones, tears streaking lines down his face – his desperate attempt to mimic the love he should’ve received his whole life. But there had been no love in Marc’s life for a long time, and Steven’s chest had felt heavy as he’d watched him, that realisation hitting him with such force it almost knocked him down with him. And then the switch happened. And Steven felt like his eyes were open – truly open – for the first time in his life.
The scenes faded away, and Steven found himself back in that jarringly white hallway, the pristineness of it all practically blinding him. It felt as though someone had carved his chest hollow, and he stumbled down the corridor, not really sure of what – or who – he was looking for, not anymore. His whole life had been a fantasy, a lie, and yet he couldn’t bring himself to hate the one who’d lied to him. Marc was stoic, and stubborn, and a gigantic protective pain in his ass – but he was a part of him. Steven had been created because Marc had needed him. Now, as Steven wandered aimlessly through the corridors, his mind ricocheting through its thoughts, he could only pinpoint one thing that rang unconditionally true: he needed Marc, too.
After a seemingly endless corridor of nothing but white walls, Steven finally came upon a door, sitting slightly ajar, leading into a white room identical to the one he’d woken up in. A knocking sound emanated from the room and he froze, slowly pushing the door further open, his voice a whisper. “Marc?”
What he saw almost pulled the breath clean from his lungs. The third sarcophagus stood upright, rocking violently, almost tipping over. Something – no, someone was pounding on the inside, trying to force the lid off – the top of the sarcophagus groaning under their force. Steven’s breath hitched in his throat. “Bloody hell,” he breathed. “I’m about to die while I’m dead.”
But being with Marc for so long had obviously rubbed off in him in some way, he realised, as he swallowed his fear and walked towards the coffin. It still rocked violently as he locked his fingers around the edge of the lid, pulling with all his might.
The lid came clean off, almost knocking him to the ground. Steven staggered backward under its weight, twisting to the side so that it fell, clattering onto the tiled floor. He brushed himself off, a voice echoing through his sterile surroundings.
“Finally, hermanito. I was in there for ages.”
If seeing Marc outside of their body was like a slap to the face, seeing this man was like looking both ways before crossing the street, and then getting hit by a train. He’d known, he’d known there was a third alter – that was the whole reason they’d come here in the first place. And yet when Steven looked at him, at the man who’d defied both himself and Marc and left them both in the dark, who’d left them to wake up bloody and had shot Arthur Harrow and always just disappeared without a trace – he felt his throat instantly close up, blocking his breath. Steven just barely got the words out, stepping back defensively. “Who…who are you?”
The man grinned at him, shark-like, spreading his arms. “Lovely to meet you too, hermanito. I’m Jake Lockley.”