Bleach Fan Fiction ❯ Moving Forward ❯ To Descend ( Chapter 5 )

In which peering into the darkness allows the darkness to peer back into her.

 

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So serene breeds my darkness

 

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For the first time since that night fifty years gone when she slew her mentor, Rukia was bloodstained when she entered her inner world.

 

It was hot and sticky - cloying, the coppery scent too thick in the air and choking at her chest and nostrils. The wind in her face was bitterly cold; the howling wind echoed of a little girl's wails. A little girl who would never again draw the breath to cry aloud; who would never again have the chance to walk and laugh and smile and live her life like all humans should. They were meant to be protected from these things -

 

Who could have ever known the child would have needed protecting from her?

 

She was hyperventilating, she realized - this time, alone. Shirayuki's cool fingers were not upon her face, and her icy breath was not whispering soft words of comfort in her ear. Once, Shirayuki spun a layer of cold, perfect glass over her, so as to preserve her and prevent her from breaking. But this time there would be no happy ending.

 

`Why won't it come off?' Viciously tearing off a sleeve, Rukia rubbed and rubbed until her own blood rose to her battered hands, and still she was not clean. Bright vermillion had marked her - permeated her - soiled her, and she needed desperately to be clean. `Why won't it come off?' she hissed, mind clear of everything but panic and guilt and shame. It was burning her. She was a coward, a traitor, and a murderer and yet all she could think of was the mark it left upon her…

 

Branded, for all to see and know what she had become… (or had she truly been this way all along?)

 

“Shhh, Rukia …“ Cool hands pressed to her cheeks - large, calloused fingers tracing the line of her jawbone as a black shock of unruly hair peeked into the corner of her vision. He knelt behind her, leaning his body into her, pressed his nose into her ear and tried to whisper sweet nothings that she wanted desperately to hear, even knowing she could never believe (what a beautiful, ugly obsession, these warped ties between them - that he should know - that he should come to her, like this).

 

But he was bloodstained too, and suddenly, she could not bear it.

 

“Don't touch me!” she shrieked, and when she stumbled forward to whirl and face him, he was too surprised to follow. His eyes were wide with innocence and shock. But he deserved neither, and suddenly, Rukia hated him more than anything else, even herself. She wanted nothing more than to hurt him - twist him. Destroy him.

 

(And in doing so - perhaps in hurting him - she might -)

 

“You are not Kaien-dono,” she hissed, and she knew the words hurt them both - not because they were lies, but because they were true. “You are not Miyako-dono. You have no heart or soul, and not even their stolen faces can mask that eternal shame!”

 

He stiffened, but she told herself she felt no strange twang in her chest when his eyes flashed with hurt. She felt nothing. He was a Hollow, nothing more - pride and feeling and concern over him was too much. These were things too good for him - too good for such a filthy, despicable beast. He deserved not even scorn, as that was too much effort to be wasted on such a vast nothingness.

 

(These things were too good for her as well, but they festered and spoiled inside her regardless.)

 

He deserved even less than she, and all she deserved was pain and agony for being the kinslayer she was. She had severed ties with Renji, the only true friend who had survived long enough to see her descent. She had killed the true Kaien, the only man who had taken an interest in helping her overcome her shortcomings. She had taken away the chance at a normal life from Ichigo, a human she was sworn to protect, and now, she had even stole the breath from a child. A child.

 

And if she was blood-cursed, then what was he, a hollow creature who had known nothing except kill and maim and gorge and serve only his own ends? He should not feign injustice or concern at her words, because he, like her, should realize the truth: he deserved this punishment. They both did.

 

(And perhaps… perhaps if she could make him understand that… Perhaps they could fall together, rather than she descend alone into a darkness where he already awaited… Perhaps she could save him from something. And in doing so, save herself.)

 

If he could not feel these things for himself… then gods help her, she would bring them to him. He would know her shame. He would know her pain. He would know her.

 

(He was already damned, and he did not even know to lament it. How could one grieve their depravity, when they've known nothing else? But if she was to be damned, then by the gods, he needed to be something more so he could share in her eternal despair.)

 

And yet, even as she prepared to drag him down with her - prepared to make him hurt, and weep and cry and understand, the weight of his gaze stole the breath from her. He simply stood there, staring, waiting…

 

Accepting.

 

Something twisted and cracked within her. (But wouldn't she be saving him? In knowing his sin - knowing his errs - might he also strive for something greater? The pain and the regret - he needed that punishment, to purify himself -)

 

She could not do it.

 

“Be gone!” she shrieked, and it was her soul breaking, not her voice. When she opened her eyes again, her cheeks were stinging with cold tears, and she was finally as she was meant to be all along:

 

Alone.

 

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She had thought she was a broken thing, but it was not until three weeks later when she truly, irrevocably broke.

 

`I won't go back,' she told herself, and for the first time in months, she forwent her internal world. But time passed as nails on a chalkboard, and on the morning of the twenty-first day she found herself kneeling in stony silence across from Byakuya, staring disinterestedly at the ornate breakfast laid out between them. The display of delicacies was clearly designed to entice her to eat - Byakuya was, against all odds, a man of simple tastes when it came to nourishment.

 

It was a shame the servants' painstaking efforts would go for naught. The thought of eating only turned her stomach, and Rukia had no desire nor need for the nourishment. In the stonily awkward silence, she suddenly realized what a ridiculous farce the entire ordeal was.

 

When was the last time she had eaten, in this world? (When was the last time she had cared to?)

 

Byakuya's eyes - though cold and guarded as ever - seemed to leak just a hint of concern now and again, but the sensation was not pleasant to her. His mild gray irises burned her. His watchful gaze angered her (shamed her), but it was not until he spoke that she realized perhaps the concern was meant less as a reproach and more as a plea.

 

“It is pleasant, to be in this way again.” (It is pleasant, for you to partake in this world again.) He did not murmur it - Byakuya would never be uncertain in words of his own design, or anyone else's for that matter. He spoke loud and clear, as if daring her to challenge the sentiment.

 

He watched her carefully, waiting for some reaction - some indication that she had even heard him. When none came, he carefully finished. “You should eat.”

 

`Or you will waste away, Rukia,' her mind supplemented in snide overtures. (But if only that were true.) To have the world of the living (this place she was no longer a part of - this place she no longer deserved to be a part of) fade away…

 

It was only a stroke of fortune that Ichigo managed to show up as the servants scurried this way and that with the mostly untouched remnants of breakfast. She jerked in surprise when he just appeared, and couldn't stop herself from looking accusingly at Byakuya. Why had there been no ruckus of shouts and challenges outside - how had he slipped past the guards and into the mansion with nary a warning?

 

The older Kuichiki only sipped his tea mildly, as if Ichigo's presence was a normal thing. “He sometimes visits,” the captain finally spoke, confirming just that. A rush of panic (annoyance?) swelled in her chest, but Rukia forced herself to remain calm and unruffled.

 

“I cannot imagine what you two could possibly have to speak of,” she replied mildly. The tea was of fine quality, she knew, but it tasted unnaturally bitter in her mouth. Suddenly, she felt an overwhelming pang for that stuff from her inner world…

 

Byakuya was already on his feet moving with graceful listlessness towards the door by the time her soft retort reached him. He paused, looking thoughtfully over his shoulder. “He visits you,” he said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world, and then he was gone.

 

Ichigo slid onto Byakuya's abandoned cushion across from her and grunted a quiet, “I can't stay long,” as easily as if he did it every day. As if she hadn't said such harsh parting words the last time they had met. As if she hadn't fled to Hueco Mundo in her unending thirst for something substantive every time she thought she felt the flicker of him entering Soul Society. As if -

 

Nothing had changed.

 

The irrational surge of emotion returned again. She knew she could only drag him down, and she had tried to warn him off, and yet here he was -

 

Amber eyes were boring into her, and in a corner of her mind, she noted that they flickered back and forth in a teetering battle of being guarded and not - of judging or accepting. And in that same corner of her mind, she realized that were those eyes a few shades different (not amber, but blue) - a little more cheerful, veiled under hair a little less bright (not orange, but black) - that she would have felt more comfortable. And she hated that realization.

 

He opened his mouth to speak, but she felt the need to interrupt. “Shouldn't you be at school?” she snapped, and immediately kicked herself for such an inane observation. Things were not normal - things would never be normal again, and to slip back into such petty little arguments would be alluding at such a façade.

 

He rubbed the back of his head, his brief smile uncertain. The fluttering in her stomach was from agitation (and most certainly not endearment).

 

“It's exams this week. We test in the morning, and get out early to study.”

 

`Run away from me, Ichigo,' she begged inside - she needed to tell him -and yet when she spoke, the words that came were only a half-snappish, “Then shouldn't you be studying?”

 

Something shifted in his gaze, and the fluttering became an unbearable ache. “Why are you acting like this? Aren't you even a little bit happy to see me?”

 

Something inside of her fell. She wanted to weep and cry and throw her arms around him - to scream and shout and kick at him. She wanted to do anything except what she had to.

 

Her hands tightened on the teacup; she shifted her gaze away. “Was there a misunderstanding between us the last time we spoke?”

 

She waited to hear him rise to his feet and flee - or to leap up and lean over the low table and shout at her. Instead, he chuckled, unsettling her. “Was there a misunderstanding between us when I told you all your opinions are rejected?”

 

She laughed, and then choked on the sound because it felt so foreign bubbling up from her chest. From the corner of her eye, she could see him smiling warmly, and she felt desperate. `Make him go - make him get away, before I suck him in -`

 

But as hard as she tried, the harsh words and indignation and anger simply would not come, and when he finally did rise to his feet (slowly, calmly, and completely of his own accord), she hated the way that panic welled in her chest yet again, twisting this time in a way completely unlike the first.

 

“There'll be a little ceremony next week; the school year is ending. I mean, we aren't seniors or anything, but… well… there'll be some parties and get-togethers and stuff. Some of the others have been wondering where you're at.” It was a roundabout invitation, as such things always were with Ichigo, and she twisted uncomfortably in place when he paused for a moment longer -

 

Just to look at her -

 

(Could he see it inside her?)

 

It was only after he left that the heavy, suffocating silence of the mansion settled over her for the first time. She told herself that her insides were twisting and stirring wildly because of her disappointment in herself for not doing what she should have done (most certainly not out of longing for his presence, gone for but a few hours). Later, wildly, she even fingered him in accusation - if he had even a whit of concern for her, why would he come and then just as easily leave her alone?

 

True, she wanted them gone… she needed them gone, away, to give her space to flex her razor wings and protect them from herself - but did that really mean they needed to leave her alone? (Alone, alone, was that truly what she wanted? Certainly it was what she needed, but the mere thought of now drove her near mad with desperation.)

 

That evening - after twenty one stolid days of exile from her inner world, from the terrible things she housed within her - from the terrible thing she was becoming - she slid shut the door to her chambers and left Seireitei for the first time since the last. In doing so, that thing inside her that had been only twisted before now broke - and in going back to him, she acknowledged herself as a broken thing.

 

She was drawn to him like a magnet - she did not even feel the proper shame for crawling back to him, eyes woeful and heart screaming for forgiveness she did not want, but needed more than air in her lungs. She had spoken the truth - by the gods, she knew it was the truth - and she had meant only to speak more, only to hurt him and make him realize his shame - and yet, she could not bring herself to care.

 

He wore Kaien's face, today, but was uncharacteristically melancholy. It unsettled her unduly to see him slip from character, but she did not wish to examine why.

 

They sat across from each other, cross-legged and stiff backed with the low cherry-wood table between them. The tea artfully laid out on the table steamed, though the air wasn't particularly cool.

 

He was silent, contemplative for some time, and so she did not speak. Rather, she listened, and damn if she didn't sit perched at the edge of her seat, as desperate for his words as his touch.

 

“I am Metastacia, who absorbed the shinigami Kaien and Miyako among many others,” he finally began, and the words stung like a blade beneath the ribs, though she could not imagine why.

 

“Yes,” she replied, and wondered why the tea scalded at her tongue and throat even in this, a domain crafted entirely to her whim. Surely that was the reason her voice sounded so hoarse.

 

“Their memories and abilities are as my memories and abilities.” He paused, but he was not waiting for an answer. He leaned forward, voice filled with anxiousness and passion and insistence and all the things a Hollow's voice should not. “Rukia-sama... what makes our heart and soul truly ours?”

 

She stilled; waited. He continued.

 

“What makes our heart and soul truly ours, if not our memories and abilities?” he tried again. The profoundness of the question came seconds later, like an overwhelming wave, pulling her under - pleasantly drowning her in the velvet soft embrace of asphyxiation.

 

Staring fixatedly at the prim expanse of table between them and her white-knuckled hands lying upon it, Rukia realized she did not have an answer.

 

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That night, she dreamt of the day she sparred with Renji. Only in her dream, she did not hold back. She did not run when she could fly; she did not slash when she could cut. She drove Shirayuki into his chest and carved out his heart in slow, measured motions; she felt only glee and relief when his eyes faded and rolled into the back of his head.

 

The dream was not hers. Of that, she was certain. She did not dream anymore - not once in all the long months since her death (she no longer thought of it as her rebirth… to do so felt like a betrayal, somehow). But just the same, her answers lay within - here - and she would have them one way or another. “Why did I dream of hurting Renji?”

 

Surprisingly, her companion did not even make an attempt at ambiguity. “Because he loves you,” he-who-was-not-Kaien replied without hesitation. When she only continued to stare at him blankly, he continued without prompting.

 

“You are this realm. You are the breeze that cools us, the sun that warms us. You have delivered us from our blind nightmares, and given us back hope. Every second you spend elsewhere is agony. Can you blame us, for lashing out when you bestow your favor on another?”

 

The jealous sentiments made something twist oddly in her gut, and the kink was both pleasure and pain. Almost (but not quite) uncomfortable, Rukia shifted her gaze from him. “So you can now see what I do beyond this place?” Once, she could come and go as she pleased, and the worlds were distinct - separate. She could at least pretend.

 

Gravely serious, he dipped his head in affirmation. “You are the fabric of our dreams, flitting restlessly behind our eyes as we have that which we thought was lost to us forever returned one stitch at a time. Our humanity, Rukia.”

 

`So they can not only influence me during battle, but now they are aware of what I am doing in Soul Society and the real world as well?' She would always be left wondering, now. How much of what she said or did was her, and how much was them, bleeding through?

 

(How long would it be, before they could influence her at any time? How long until their jealous wrath shifted more solidly to the living souls she still cared for? And how long would it be before they used the two in tandem?)

 

Bitterly, she averted her gaze. “At the cost of my own?”

 

“What is there to mourn, if you transcend humanity? Shirayuki was once a blade who led as unsung an existence as you. Look now! She is our undisputed queen. She reigns over this realm as our warlord, when necessary; as an angel of mercy or vengeance in turn.” He paused, gaze locking with hers meaningfully. “And while Shirayuki is our queen, you, Rukia-sama… you are our god.”

 

She wanted to be repulsed and reject his words - she honestly did. But the feelings wouldn't come, no matter how hard she searched for them. “He could never love you as we do,” Kaien finished meaningfully. “No one could.”

 

She believed him, and she somehow felt relief at his words. And for that, she realized, she was truly unforgivable.

 

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“They would have killed you?” he-who-was-not-Kaien asked offhandedly; the steam rising from the cup hid his face from her. The question was deceptively neutral; her mind became a blur of excuses. “Even your nakama?”

 

“With Renji, it was… a misunderstanding. And Nii-sama… he had his reasons -“

 

“What reasons matter more than your heart-family?”

 

`None,' her mind instantly supplied. To cover the impulse-reaction, she sipped delicately before speaking. “You would not understand.”

 

“And I hope I never will,” he responded easily.

 

`None could love you more than us,' he promised over and over again. `We would never leave you, even if we could. We are a part of you, and you of us…'

 

These were not the meaningless, flippant words of `undying' love spouted in silly mangas and tawdry romance stuff. It was something dark and needy - possessive and as ingrained into her and into him in a very real sense. She was not Hollow. She had become something different than Arrancar and Vizard, which were variations on Hollow. She had become something more - whereas Hollow fed upon human souls, absorbing them and morphing them into themselves, she had become something that fed upon Hollow souls. And each day that passed, they were mingling further into her, interweaving to the point where it was hard to tell where one began and the other ended.

 

He could have been just a faceless source of power (should have been, oh gods, he should have been!) - as Hollows simply sucked dry the souls they absorbed, she should have sucked him dry, and tossed him aside as a dried husk. But it was too late now, and he had a face, and he had a body, and he had her -

 

`We are a part of you, and you of us…' The words came more singsong - a habitual, grunting promise, as he flipped his hips and she did the same. It was true, and when they joined together in a muss of sweat and moans and cries, she wept in both joy and anguish, because she knew it was true.

 

`None could love you more than us,' he promised, and when she laid in his arms at night, stifling her moans as though anyone could hear them here, she began to believe.

 

But belief and resentment came as twin sides of the same coin, for others had spoken these words love and family and somehow fallen short of that offered by one who was hollow. But… perhaps it took a void inside to reach one just the same…

 

That night, spent and sore and exhausted in the most pleasant way, she dreamt of Ichigo.

 

Dying.

 

And this time, she realized with sorrow, the dream was just as much hers as the Hollow's.

 

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“Oi! Rukia!”

 

His voice was an excruciatingly wonderful jolt of electricity tickling through her body, as it ever had been. She stiffened, freezing for just a heartbeat to savor him, though she knew she shouldn't.

 

“Oi! Rukia!” he called again, a little more out of breath and more agitated this time, and damn if he hadn't improved his shunpo yet again. She realized her mistake, but the realization came too late. She had dawdled too long, she knew, when she felt his rough grip tight around her arm.

 

She would not look directly at him, though from the corner of her eye she could see that his amber gaze was filled with all the eager hopefulness of a puppy-dog. “We graduated last week. The others were asking where you were. We sorta thought you'd come, y'know?”

 

The real words were easy to hear between those spoken. `I sorta thought you'd come.'

 

“I was otherwise occupied,” she offered with shallow crispness. `I owe you nothing,' the unspoken words echoed more loudly than the audible ones. She forced herself not to share his flinch, and certainly not to echo the sudden hurt in his gaze.

 

She jerked her arm from his grip, and felt disappointed when he didn't lunge for her again. Immediately, she chastised herself for her foolishness.

 

`Protect him, Rukia,' her mind commanded, and it was an order she could not refuse (had never been able to refuse - would never be able to refuse). “The war is over. Soul Society has little need for your services any longer,” she announced, the words as empty as she was. “And neither do I.”

 

“RUKIA!” He was furious with her - he was moving to grab her, but she was no longer the weak little shinigami he had once known. His face angled towards hers, and absently, she realized he was going to kiss her. But instead of the cool flesh of her lips, he was met with the cool bite of Shirayuki, unsheathed and pressed to his throat in an instant.

 

He froze, and the betrayed look in his eyes was the mark of her success. Absently, she wondered if when he looked at her now, if he could separate her from the sin.

 

She hoped not. “This is the end of this unconventional bond between us. Our meeting was a fluke. Our acquaintance was a mistake. And all mistakes must be eventually be corrected.”

 

`Protect him… from yourself.'

 

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Leaving vitality

Entreating winterwinds

 

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Author's Notes: Huge thanks to Kilonji, my awesome beta (and an amazing writer to boot). And for those of you who haven't noticed, an amazing artist did an art piece dedicated to this story! Check out I will make you cold and tempered steel by denebtenoh. She's great, and having someone do an unsolicited piece based on something I wrote has been a lifelong goal of mine. So this update is dedicated to you, denebtenoh!

Feedback appreciated. (If everyone who has faved this story would review just once, the total reviews would almost double! Come on guys, make me a happy Melitza-san!) Was going to split this chapter into two, but then I thought of all you guys who wrote such good reviews and asked updating, so I kept it together for you, Vorani and Pepprie and Mitsukai and Jaderent and mojo and everyone else! ^_^