Okay so here's my first try at a fic involving some well-known characters. I'm a complete noob at this, so please be gentle. This story is a complete fantasy, AU and disticntly not Canon. It will likely be a lengthy affair, so bare with me. There will likely be adult themes later in the fic, so if your underaged or not into same sex relationships, I suggest you steer clear. For now I just want to put this out there and see how people respond.

Note: Bleach and its characters is the property of Kubo-sensei. I do not own them, unfortunately.

Anyways, hope you enjoy. TW

Great King! Great King!

Why should you die?

Why should we lose something so dear?

Tear out our hearts, tear out our souls

We lay our shattered dreams upon your bier.

Great King! Great King!

Our hope is burned to ash, Our dignity is shorn

What shall we do, O fate?

A precious life is now unborn.

The Lament of Adar

(Book of Kings, Concluding verse)

Prologue- Lament

Grimmjow had been tracking the boy for half a mar before he found him in a small clearing. To his keen senses the dark night appeared as a cloudy day, where the sounds and scents of the Valdaerian woods were more than familiar to him, they were home. He could track anyone here blindfolded, maybe even trussed up with only his nose to guide him.

Following the dark spatter of a blood trail, Grimmjow stopped briefly to gain his bearings when he heard the boy's voice floating on the breeze. Why was the fool singing?

The lament of Adar rose and fell softly with the night air, almost lost in the cadences of the leaves in their swaying boughs. Nevertheless, Grimmjow heard him clearly and followed the song to its source.

A boy had collapsed on his knees in the soft grass of a glade, his outline visible to Grimmjow in the near pitch hours before dawn.

He stood observing the small frame quietly from the tree line, listening intently as the boy sang a lament to mourn the passing of a king. In truth, tonight the boy sang to the passing of an entire race. A truly beautiful piece of poetry skillfully blended with a haunting melody. The boy's voice brought it to life, so pure and filled with such tremendous sorrow the heavens would weep with him.

It was near impossible for Grimmjow to keep his resolve and he desperately tried to remain apathetic in the face of such visceral grief. He felt tears rise unbidden to the corners of his eyes, flowing warm and freely over his cheeks. Ignoring the unwelcome show of emotion, he closed his eyes and breathed deeply, composing himself, filling his lungs with the cool night air.

The fresh scents of the forest and Cereus blossom, a sweet amber flower that only blooms once at night, filled his nose. Called twilight peace in the common tongue, the flowers were a fit companion for the metallic tang of fresh blood that now clung to the air. A fit flower for a grave, he mused.

He had to end this as soon as possible. Grimmjow's elders would have little sympathy if he defied them.

With a strange mix of trepidation and excitement he crouched low on padded paws, his tail flicking from side to side. He crept quietly closer to the boy, using the deep shadows cast by the new moon to his advantage. Always hidden, always silent, as his training demanded.

He was upon the singing boy in moments, rising to his full height in plain view, a wraith in the darkness. However, the boy simply continued with his lament, as if Grimmjow was not there at all. Even after he took hold of the boy's face and raised it so that their eyes met, the boy didn't flinch or stop singing.

Half-naked, his clothes almost torn from his body, the younger boy was almost bathed in gore. An unruly mop of fire-tempered hair framed a handsome face lined in pain, caked with soot and dried blood. His tears had dragged horrid streaks across his cheeks and hazel eyes stared vacantly as he sang on and on, verse upon heart wrenching verse. A large gash in his side was spilling precious blood down his waist and thigh and Grimmjow knew he would die soon if left unattended.

Grimmjow took a moment to collect his thoughts and looked to the Southern skies, just visible through the treetops. An evil orange glow colored the air there, where great black clouds were billowing up to blot out the moon and stars. He felt torn between his duty and the boy in front of him. This boy was probably the last of his kind, a race almost as old as his. Should he spare him or release him from his misery?

The moral conflict that raged within him was almost too much to bear. He was still young himself. If only an elder was present, Grimmjow would defer to his wiser kinsman and all he would have to do is act accordingly, if at all.

He flicked his tail from side to side again lost in thought, his brow furrowed. He was so distracted that he almost leapt out of his fur when suddenly the boy leaned forward and embraced him, grabbing fistfuls of his hair as he clung to him, still weeping and singing. A deep growl escaped his lips, before he could stifle his quick fire temper and tried to pry the waif off him. Grimmjow hated being touched without invitation. But the effort proved futile and the boy was not hurting him as such, only burying himself into Grimmjow's fur as if he could find salvation there.

He let him be for the time being and frowned again at the little bastard clinging to him like a barnacle. This situation was vexing and quickly spiraling out of control! He eventually had to act. Sitting around waiting for a solution to present itself just wasn't his style. Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez is simply not patient enough for that.

On and on the lament went, the verses flooding from the ginger boy's lips like water. With an irritated huff, Grimmjow tried to suffocate the boy in his fur. But it felt wrong and he just couldn't abide it. The temporary muffled silence did bring a short reprieve however, allowing him to think more clearly. He released his hold and the boy continued his song after some short gasps, his ardor quickly failing as his life's blood flowed from him. His voice, no less beautiful than moments before, had reduced to almost a whisper as it faded into the cool night air.

Grimmjow roared his frustration to the sky. He could just let him flow quietly into The Lady's embrace, but something inside him just did not sit well with that choice either.

"Damn it all!" he spat out through clenched teeth, sounding loud over the boys dying voice. Why couldn't he just end it quickly? Why? He's too damn young for bullocks like this!

Concentrating deeply, Grimmjow closed his eyes and focused his will. The air around one of his paws started to shimmer and glow softly in the darkness. The light grew brighter and turned pale blue in his cupped paw. He extricated the boy from him with less effort this time and placed him on his back in the grass. He looked deathly pale and was mumbling incoherently now, all meaning lost to the night wind as his strength waned.

Placing his paw over the wound, Grimmjow extended his senses into the boy's body, tracing the trauma inflicted on the small frame. He slowly released the collected energy, drawing more from the boy's stores of body fat, as well as his own considerable reserves. He let the healing fade flow over the open wound, an angry hot sensation to his senses, willing torn flesh to heal, muscle to knit and skin to close up. Setting broken bones, mending torn blood paths and restoring lost blood require a great deal of energy and complete focus, straining Grimmjow's reserves.

Finally releasing conscious hold of the spell, Grimmjow opened his eyes and inspected his work. The boy was unconscious, breathing evenly and for now still very much alive. He had never treated such a serious wound and Grimmjow felt tired but quite proud of his effort. The spell's glow had faded, revealing a neatly healed wound, with only a silvery line from armpit to bellybutton. The thin scar would likely fade over time, he hoped. It would however always be a mute testimony of the fuilhoíche, the blood night.

Grimmjow regarded the prone boy for a while and watched as his chest rose and fell slowly. He listened to his heartbeat, a rhythm that played proudly behind fragile bones. Reaching around to his back, he opened his málá go deo, a finely crafted leather satchel attached to a sturdy girdle around his waist. The satchel contained a piece of folded space, able to store a large amount of objects without becoming cumbersome to carry. Everything depending on whether the object can fit through the opening of the pouch. An additional crafting also ensured that no other hand but its masters could withdraw anything from the bag.

Calling up a mental image of the object Grimmjow wished to extract, he reached into the málá go deo, to withdraw a patch of pure darkness from its depths. The scáthclóca or shadow cloak, an essential tool for the stealth required in recognizance. The delicate construct consisted of an intricate weave of bent light and the hair of a shadow cat that could hide its wearer from enemy eyes. Grimmjow being a natural adept had not required its use until now.

He wrapped the boy in the cloak, hiding him from sight and constructed magical tethers to tie him to his back. It would allow Grimmjow to move more freely and keep his charge hidden from prying eyes. He would take the boy back to the ancient capital and present him to the elder council and his father. They can decide his fate, though it was a discussion that he dreaded whole heartedly. Grimmjow doubted that his father would be particularly pleased with his actions tonight.

What will be, will be, he thought gloomily. Whether his decision would proveto be ill-conceived or just, in the end Grimmjow felt that it was the right thing to do regardless of what anyone thinks. Taking a deep breath to calm his frayed nerves, Grimmjow stood up and adjusted the bundle at his back.

He left the glade at an easy lope, heading deeper into the wild heart of Valdaera. His home.

Some time had passed and dawn was breaking over the Middlen plains and the great port city of Maecea. Grimmjow was entering the mountain pass of Plythh when he turned to steal a last glance at the greatest city ever built.

The once proud city was a writhing inferno and great billowing clouds of smoke rose to the sky and spread out for many mar on the prevailing breeze, spewing ash and windblown debris as it drifted on. The great towers and parapets that once shone like jewels and challenged the sky, were now smoldering ruins crumbling in the light of dawn. Their thunderous crashes could be heard even this far from the walls of Maecea.

So ends the days of the Macedine city-state, Grimmjow thought solemnly. It was the most tragic scene he had ever seen and his heart ached. History will always remember what happened here and he had a terrible feeling that this night will haunt his people for many ages to come.

The boy was sleeping soundly, his breath warm between Grimmjow's shoulder blades where he had probably buried his face in the longer fur. Grimmjow had to shift the unseen boy a few times more to make the burden a bit more comfortable to bear. But overall the journey had been uneventful.

He was surprised at how light the boy felt on his back and his small stature seemed uncharacteristic for his race. The Macedines were a tall race, taller than most other races and at a height with most elvi. The tangerine seemed a runt by comparison.

Were..., Grimmjow felt a chill in the pit of his stomach when he realized that he was already referring to the Macedines in the past tense. It made the predicament of his charge even more distressing.

By all his ancestors and The Lady, he hoped he was doing the right thing and that he would not come to regret his decision. He turned and travelled further into the wooded realm of his people, leaving the towering inferno that was once the great metropolis of Maecea raging at his back…

So there it is. Only a tentative begining with much more in store. Comments/ reviews?

All the best, till the next chapter! TW