A/N: As I was going through notebooks and typing up their contents and recycling them away, I was pleased to find this story lying around. I liked this story when I wrote it and still do, but the problem is that it's an AU and I'm not overly fond of writing those. Also, I was in a bad place when I began it. I'm perfectly fine now, but I wanted to convey the feeling of being trapped by circumstance throughout this whole fic. As such, and since it was an AU, it was very experimental. I only wrote two chapters for it but I do remember where I was going with things, so here I will kindly ask for your input. If people seem interested in the story, I will continue it (expect long periods of time between this posting and the updates to allow me time to write it however). If not much interest is shown, I will let it drop. I'd appreciate your views on it very much. The setting is supposed to be similar to Feudal England but it is set in an AU so it's not exactly the same.
(PS, if interested in IchiHime at all please go vote on the poll on my bio page! PLEASE!)
Her head hung heavy as she was dragged out of the dim lights of the caravan to stand around a glaring fire. The hand on her arm pulled, rough and insistent, but she didn't care. She allowed herself to be paraded and placed in a line. She was to be presented, inspected. She was to be merchandise for sale. It was all she had become. And she felt nothing about it.
She stared at the ground. She noted, without much thought, that the earth wherever they were was gray and gravelly. She'd lost track of their whereabouts long ago. When you rode every day with no known destination in the end, it didn't matter where you were.
To one side of her she saw a hand hanging. That woman was badly malnourished, but it didn't especially come as a surprise. The bigger surprise would be finding any one of them who wasn't, at least a little bit. The hand was shaking. She didn't know who stood next to her; she didn't even bother to look. In the past, she might have taken that hand. Not now.
To her other side, a woman's feet shifted. She recognized the tensing of the calves. Fool, she was going to run. Surrounded like this there was no way it would work. A few times all of the women had tried running at the same time. In the confusion a couple had actually escaped. But the rest of them paid for it dearly. She'd tried running several times. Before that, she'd even tried fighting her way out. But with no weapons in her possession she couldn't defeat a group of armed men. And when the running, her second option, kept failing again and again, she finally had all of the obstinacy beaten out of her. She had nothing left, neither fight nor flight. Only monotony, only complacency. She hated the beatings but secretly hoped every time that they would end her life. But no, they wouldn't kill their precious merchandise. So all she had left to do was exist.
The girl next to her who had been steadying herself to run finally did so. There was an urge, however slight, to look up and see if she made it. She heard feet pounding, getting farther away. But she also heard men shouting and horses being mounted. She wouldn't make it. An abused woman could not outrun a horse. She flinched as she heard a whip crack and a cry in the distance.
"Raise your head, woman."
A shadow obscured the fire's light. There was a new pair of feet in front of her. A customer. Her body involuntarily stiffened. How had they gotten to her so quickly? Her eyes hadn't even yet adjusted to the bright moon and the fire's light.
"I said raise your head!"
A rough hand grabbed her face and pulled it upwards. She could not see the man in front of her. She didn't need to see him, it didn't matter what he looked like. If he decided to buy her the question from then on would be for what purpose. A farmhand laborer? A maid? A slave? Or something worse? Customers were all out for different kinds of purchases.
"This one can be stubborn, but there's not fight left in her. Found her in the western country. Name's Rukia," a gruff voice behind her said.
She detested her name being used by them. It was all she had left, could her name not still at least belong to her? But no, it couldn't. If she was purchased her buyer could even take her name, making it into whatever he chose. She tried, tried to make herself feel empty inside.
"What common street filth is this," the man spat, "Your selection is pathetic!"
She was grateful to be called street filth, grateful to be cast aside. Her part for tonight was over as she once again got to hang her head. But she heard a sound in the distance. Hoof-beats. Many hoof-beats. Perhaps her part in this night was not over.
Next she heard calls and whinnies. There was shouting and the beginnings of chaos. Men were trying to herd all of the slaves back to the caravan, but there weren't enough men to do it. If she'd thought of it she could have run but her curiosity was peaked for the first time in a long time. She looked up, this time of her own free will. Before her was a vision.
A man, adult yet slim, tall and sleek, rode before her. His armor was white and had the marking for six on it. It shone in the moonlight along with his swinging sword. And, like dark tendrils of night, his hair gleamed with a similar shine of the look in his unphazing eyes. She thought he looked noble, and she was not wrong. It was then that she realized that all around men were fighting, and she was in the midst of it.
"By order of the royal family!" he hollered over the clatter, "These practices will stop!"
Her eyes widened. The monarchs knew? They cared? How did royalty how about such lowly dealings as this? But, she thought bitterly, how would they have power to actually put a stop to it?
Her body worked faster than her mind and she began to dodge as men rode dangerously close to her. Women were running. And escaping! This could be her chance too. But she was caught in the middle of the fray. When she found one escape route a horse blocked it, or a blade; and though her small size landed her the fortune of not being in the range of the slicing blows, it also made both horses and the men's feet and knees who rode them extremely dangerous.
Dodging a horse's buck, she was struck from behind and to her horror she fell to the ground. She crawled frantically. Surely she would be trampled. She scrambled this way and that, fearing for her life. She couldn't rise, couldn't escape. Desperate, she hugged her knees to her chest and then tucked an arm around her head as she curled into a ball and waited for it all to be over.
After what seemed like an eternity the chaos lessened. Dust began to settle. She dared to open her eyes, praying that the last thing she saw wouldn't be a horse's hoof bearing down on her. She could see shapes through the dust but couldn't make out much else. They were men. What of the women? Had they escaped? Or been taken back and chained in the caravans?
Feeling the slightest flicker of hope, she knew this was her last chance. Carefully trying not to draw attention to herself, she crawled in a direction that she hoped was away from the caravan. After a moment she saw a boot shining directly in front of her. She swallowed heavily and looked up. It was the pale, dark haired man with the serious, unfeeling eyes; the one that had led the attack. Though right now, those eyes looked extremely surprised. It didn't suit his face, it was as if that look seldom tried to mold itself there.
"Hisana?" he breathed. He narrowed his eyes and shook his head viciously, just once.
"No, you're..."
Rukia wanted to get up, wanted to flee. She knew this man was the cause of her liberation, but watching his eyes on her set off alarm in her mind. And although she didn't feel that he was exactly evil, she wanted to run. These were the circumstances under which she first came face to face with her rescuer.
