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where the curtain falls another rises

If I am wrong then strike me for my sins

But I believe our acts and thin disguises

Where but a prologue to what now begins

Chapter I: Alas, My Love, If I Could Make You Live

Zaraki Kenpachi was not a man who would succumb to the games of the mind. He saw things as they were. When he first caught a glimpse of her in the woods, he did something he had never done in his life – he fell into a state of feverish denial. A pale and soft face, a coil of back hair… and she was gone. No! It was not her, it was a white doe and a black crow flew by, obscuring his sight, making him see ghosts of ghosts. Her form had been a figment of his imagination. Kenpachi had always known sanity was a worthless thing. For all he remembered he had never been truly sane. But she was dead; he had killed her. His sword had pierced her chest, a bloody flower blooming on her breasts and on her mouth.

One glimpse was enough – seeing was believing; he could not stay away from the forest. It was spring now, the weather getting warmer, but the Winter war had left him cold, cold as he had never been before. His wanderings became frequent, noticeable to his subordinates, yet he could not find her. Of course he could not – she was dead; he had killed her. Therefore, when the wind blew a long black hair into his face he dismissed it as a spider web. Truth was he missed her – she had been the one who had changed him forever, the first constant in his life; he missed her sword in his throat, the ache of his scar to the sound of her voice.

When he finally saw the woman in the woods, he was certain that the murdered haunted their murderers. She was always there, in life and in death, in day and night. Kenpachi tore his eyepatch away, ignoring the pain that followed, as if a thousand little hooks were gnawing at his flesh. He needed to see her with both his eyes, just as he saw her last time.

Blinded, he wondered if he had gone too long without light. An apparition, she was lying on her side on a moss-covered rock, bare as her name day, looking as nothing less than a forest nymph, an otherworldly creature. Her long black hair was sprawled around her and managed to shield her chest from his prying eyes. Black dirt stained her hands and feet, blue bruises marked her ivory skin but she seemed untroubled in her sleep. Or was it sleep? If she was dead, then Death dared not lay a finger on her. The captain knew she was a monster just like him, but she was named the most beautiful woman in the Soul society, so different from him – the ragged, scarred, giant beast of a man he was, all muscles, sinews and bones.

Kenpachi had to get closer. She could not be real. The ghost of a ghost. The soft forest turf engulfed his every step as he approached her, captivated by her image and drowning in the memories of her dying in his arms. Dying by his hands. Could she be dead now too? Did the most beautiful woman make the most beautiful corpse? He could hear himself begging her, time and time again, but was it centuries years ago or mere weeks ago? Was it now?

He put his palm over hers – it was cool but not cold. Not a corpse's hand. The touch, however, startled her out of her peaceful slumber and she leapt to her feet, trying to run away.

"Yachiru!" Kenpachi used the name he came to know her by as he held her wrist firmly. How could a name carry so much weight yet slip past his lips so easily, in a mere breath? An accursed name, since they both left him. Or was he the cursed one? Perhaps he was the oni his bankai turned him into.

Retsu trashed around, like a captured wild animal, her hair flowing in the air like a swarm of hell butterflies yet it was her face that shook the captain. The expression of sheer horror, pain and fear. No, she was not supposed to be afraid. Of nothing, she was fearless. Most of all she was not supposed to be afraid of him. He was the one who cried when he was about to die to her. He was the only one who never feared her. However, he was afraid now. Afraid to lose her again, now that he had found her. Afraid not to hurt her again. The man could not sense a drop of reiatsu in her. Did he indeed held the ghost of a ghost?

"I don't want to hurt you." Zaraki swallowed at his choice of words. Had he ever wanted to truly hurt her? He claimed to have hated her; perhaps, just perhaps, in order to show her some of the suffering she had been inflicting on him during all those years, but never, never...

He had wanted only to fight her, to win over her; to know that he had grown strong, as strong as she had been. He could hear how his jagged sword had gone through her sternum, slicing through the bone like a saw, piercing her windpipe as she had drawn in one last breath before the blood had started overflowing from her mouth. His blade had exited through her back and he had felt the weight of her body on his weapon. In one swift motion, the man had pulled out the sword and bone and steel had met again to produce the most silent but deafening sound. He remembered suddenly feeling sick.

Death was supposed to be gruesome. Ugly. Some men shat their pants in its face. Other panicked at the sight of their wounds and tried to plug them up, as if their hands could stop the red liquid from seeping out. They never succeeded. Some cried and begged for their lives. She did not. Instead, he did. Going into a fight one had to expect death, to desire it upon his rival. One had no right to beg his opponent to live.

"I'm not going to hurt you." It changed nothing. Retsu still tried to yank her wrist out of his grip to the point she was about to break it. If his hand were a trap made of steel, she would have torn her hand away. But he could not let her go. His other hand reached out and, taking advantage of the differences in their physique, caught her by the shoulder, pulling her closer to him in a devouring hold. What did ghosts of ghosts say? She said nothing, nor did she scream; she tossed and turned in his arms with the desperation of a captured beast. There were no accusations, no desire for vengeance, just her heavy breathing as she tried to escape. He could not let her go; not again.

Kenpachi let her trash and hiss, hit and kick, bite and scratch him with her broken nails until she became exhausted or saw that no harm would come from him. When she finally gave up, going limp in his arms, he knelt down on one knee, supporting her upper body.

"Retsu…"

She reacted to the sound of his voice, looking him in the eyes, but words had no other effect on her, as if she was deaf and mute. Could ghosts of ghosts go mad? For a moment, his eyes roamed over her face and body, seeking the answers for the questions she could not answer. Her tar-black hair was reaching just below her thighs and it framed her pale face as beautifully as ever.

Retsu stared at him with eyes full of fear and ferocity, glazed over by the rage. She had never cried, not even when she was dying. Now there was a wet trace down her face, left by a single tear that smeared and cleared the dirt on its path before reaching her jawline. The clean trace perfectly mirrored the bottom part of his scar, the one she inflicted upon his face. But there was hers – slightly above where the groove that went between her breasts started; a second fresher flower had withered over the old one. The flesh was twisted and gnarly, red, pink and pearly white, almost translucent. Kenpachi wanted to put his palm over it, to heal it somehow as she would, but it was a power he did not possess.

He took one of the overlapped ends of his loose kosode, taking it off in a single motion and covered her with it. He picked her up then, her flesh soft in his arms. Retsu let herself to be carried away by him, cradled to his chest. Distrust filled her eyes still, her small hands clasped over her scar. It hurt Kenpachi to see her like this. Weak. A harmless monster.

If someone had seen them along the road, they would have thought fairy tales were true – a monster was carrying his bride, his prey to his lair. The house was empty. He still wondered why he kept the place now that Yachiru, the pink-haired, mischievous, always craving sweets Yachiru was gone. He could just live in the barracks with the other soldiers. Perhaps he hoped she could still return. The captain placed the woman on a pillow with a gentleness he did not think he possessed. It was hard for him to deprive himself of the sensation of her, as if she would disappear the moment he lost contact with her. Retsu sat and hugged her folded legs, letting the kosode slide away, leaving her bare once more. She did not seem to mind her nakedness, no more than a wild animal would. Her hair shrouded her and pooled on the floor. She still watched him with eyes full of wariness and defiance. Kenpachi wanted to talk to her, to give her comfort but how could you soothe the person you murdered.

He put a sheet in the large wooden bathtub to shield her from any stray splinters and filled it with hot water. Returning to the room, he offered her a hand to help her stand up. Retsu simply stared at him, seemingly weighing his actions for a thousandth time; still, her thoughts were a mystery to him.

"Come with me. You need a bath." She winced at the sound of his voice but took his hand rather on instinct than because of his words. As she carefully stood up, still weak from exhaustion and agitation, the woman stumbled forward. Kenpachi caught her before she could fall and helped her straighten up. He and led her to the bathroom held her tighter. Her feet left black footprints on the floor.

When Retsu saw the water, she looked at the man as if he was mad.

"There is nothing to be afraid of." Afraid. She should not be afraid of anything. Kenpachi submerged his hand in the water and swayed it around. "See?" He brought his palm to her face and washed it clean.

"It's warm and pleasant, isn't it?" The pain was evident in her eyes but she lifted her foot and with his help got into the large tub, submerging her body in the clear water. He let her relax for a while, hoping that she would start washing herself so he would not have to touch her, but her hands merely swayed in the water.

Kenpachi began with her hands and arms, taking each one of them and rubbing the dirt off with his own hands while she watched him, not making a single sound. It had been more than a century since he had last bathed Yachiru and she never stayed put. She never stayed silent either. 'Ken-chan, your hands are too rough!', 'You're scrubbing too hard, Ken-chan!', 'Ken-chan, you're pulling my hair!'. He always replied with an irritated 'Shut up, brat' and always tried to be gentler. Soon enough they had met Ikkaku and Yumichika and sometimes the latter would take the duty of bathing the little girl. Eventually, the pink-haired child learned to wash herself without the help of his calloused hands.

Were they still so rough? Perhaps, even more now that Kenpachi was a soldier and trained from dawn until dusk. Still, Retsu did not protest. She moved like he wanted her to, obediently stretching out her arms and turning them slightly so he could get every spot.

Then came her back. The man grabbed a roughspun washcloth and swept her hair to the side, uncovering a ghastly exit wound. It was located a few centimetres higher than the scar on her chest, clearly showing the upwards motion with which he impaled her. It made him nauseous. The man could not tear his eyes from it as he scrubbed her back.

Then he moved to her feet and legs and silently worked his way up, catching a close glimpse of the black wiry hairs that grew at the juncture of her thighs. Kenpachi felt his mouth going dry with the unfamiliar feeling of embarrassment, but she did not seem to notice anything unnatural about this. His jaw clenched as his hand brushed against her core, sinking in the softness of the flesh there, and he cursed himself when he felt his cock stir. The male quickly withdrew his hand as if burnt – this poor excuse for washing would have to do; he was not a man as good as he wanted to be. Her soft flesh succumbed to the pressure of his calloused fingers and the rough washcloth as he continued up the curves of her hips and stomach, up her ample breasts and small shoulders.

The scar he had left her bothered him much more than the reactions of his body. The only dent in her porcelain skin, it was a terrible mark that sat beneath her collarbone. Kenpachi dropped the washcloth in the now turbid water and reached out to brush his fingers against it, as if to confirm that this really is her and that he really did this to her, not once but twice. The first time he did not regret, he was a child, and she was an unscrupulous criminal, which sought only a challenge from him; she made him what he was, she made the blood in his veins boil as if it was her bankai inside him, ready to melt his flesh off his bones with burning rage and bloodlust. The second time was the sole definition of madness – rage, hatred, pain. Loss.

The sudden movement in the water and the feeling of her fingers on his skin interrupted his thoughts. Retsu jerked up to her feet, sending the water splashing around the tub, over the edges and onto the captain. Water was dripping down her bare body as she was holding his wrist with more strength than he thought was left in her. Do not touch it, her fiery eyes said, looking down on him as if he was a beggar and she was an empress, you have no right to touch it. He rubbed his palm against his own scar; it had not hurt since he drove his sword through her small body. He bore that pain for years, decades, centuries and the moment it was gone it left a terrible emptiness. Kenpachi could not fight the urge to ask her.

"Don't you recognize me?" he feverishly demanded answers but the woman only let go of his wrist and covered her scar with her palms. Silence was filling the room, interrupted only by the sound of dripping water. Then he realized – it was his voice that caused her pain. In return, he felt none. She did not speak.

"Forgive me." He spoke again, involuntarily, briefly pondering what he was begging forgiveness for. Murdering her was beyond it. Kenpachi bit his tongue.

Retsu sat down in the tub again, leaving him uncertain if she understood him or if she was able to read the remorse in his features. Kenpachi took a bar of rough lye soap and started washing her hair. After it foamed up nicely, he made her stand, supporting her by holding her forearm and rubbed the soap all over her body. The woman stood still as he poured water over her, rinsing the soap from her hair and skin. He helped her out of the tub, her wet hair clinging to her body, making her look like a mute siren. Kenpachi wrapped her with a sheet and led her away, still unsure what had happened or what was he to do.7

A.N.: Please, comment if you liked it, I'm on the verge of killing myself in the wasteland that is the KenUno ship. Tell me if you're aboard for this ride to hell and back again!