Characters/Pairings: Ichigo/Rukia
Words: 1160
A/N: A one shot. It's a very odd way of writing, and I can't say I'm too fond of this. But it tells a story, which I suppose is its purpose.
How is it that most stories begin? With a strong sentence, sometimes, other times with a common thought or phrase. "He had been dying for a long time." That's quite a way to start a story, isn't it? But it's been done before, so many times. We could start with a cliché 'once upon a time', but this wasn't upon time, it was in it, holding on to it, praying to it. Cursing time for being what it is: infallible. So we can't really use that line either. I suppose the best start the story is where it begins, really.
Alas, the beginning certainly wouldn't be best! Telling the story in its entirety would take pages upon pages, and you don't to have to read for that long. Besides, you already know their story. A boy who wanted nothing except for the power to save the ones he loved. The woman who had the power to save, but found herself lacking people to love. A sad beginning, but then they find each other, and the stories of their lives takes its first step.
Yes, you've heard that one. Everyone should have. So you're familiar with our characters then? Good, good. But where were we? Years after that other story took place, to be sure. He was no longer the young boy of fifteen, ready to take on the world with nothing but his fists and a well-worn scowl. She was no longer the scared girl in borrowed noble clothing looking to find her footing, trying to please everyone and quiet her own desires. He had grown into a fine young man, strong and capable, able to defend those he cared for and keep his vices at bay. And then he grew older still, losing some muscle here and some hair there, watching as the corners of his world began to grow blurry in the frustration that was his failing eyesight. She was old (so very old) when they had met, but now she was even older, yet always young. She had changed little on the outside, besides longer hair (now worn tied back in a neat bundle at the back of her neck) and the addition of lean muscle to her arms and legs (years and years of training could do that). The scar down her cheek across her collarbone and ending above her heart was nothing new by then – a reminder of the battles she had fought, the lessons she had learned. But on the inside she had changed greatly. The noble lot had never accepted her, but now she found herself not caring. She had friends (some new ones and the same old one), a brother who was increasingly there for her, and was a very capable seated officer: ranked fourth chair within her division.
What was that? How many years had passed? Well… enough to matter. Enough to cover that horrible bloody war, the restoration of order that came after. Enough to appreciate the sacrifices everyone had made to acknowledge they would never be recognized for their actions. To see that one boy (with is sewing and his awkward habits) and the kind girl (with her blustering about and caring for everyone but herself) married, to have several children who carry on their abilities and appearances. Enough had passed to see the fighting girl (such spunk and dedication) be rewarded with the truth, and surprise everyone by knowing all the answers first. She had already done so much for them, and they hadn't even realized. Years enough to see the strong boy (with the coin around his neck) find kindness and someone else to use his fists for. Yes. So many years, so many events.
But our story, however short, begins after those events. As you learned, the one with orange hair is older and the one with violet eyes is older still. It was funny, they had not spoken in years, a mutual agreement on both their parts – it's easier to live a life if you aren't always looking towards death, she said – and yet here they were, together again.
They were dying. He wouldn't have cared so much if it had just been him. He knew what happened next, the period of darkness where it feels like you're falling and falling and falling, without stopping and your stomach just won't stop dropping and you hate it hate it hate it until you open your eyes, and… you're there. You see yourself lying (sitting, standing, whatever you were doing at your last moments) there, and you realize that the fleshy heap isn't you anymore. That you're something more, something else entirely. Next: the sword (which doesn't hurt), the entrance (with permission this time – an odd thought), and the society (so different now, but so much sameness sill exists). The second life you never thought you deserved. Yes, he knew what was coming, but that didn't change his urgency, the feeling of panic buzzing at his senses. He could die, that was fine. But she wasn't allowed to. Not ever.
She hadn't come to do to the sacrifice maneuver again. She'd had enough of self-sacrifice for one lifetime, thanks very much. It was supposed to be a basic mission: go back to the same old streets, greet an old friend (friend? Is that what they were now? Only friends?), welcome him to the next phase. No one had thought there would be another party waiting for him, to bring him to someone else's side. A miscalculation, she had thought, for it was. Silly to assume that all the Arrancar were gone. Just because they weren't attacking didn't mean they didn't exist. Of course they would want his strength, his skills. How stupid we were. She kept thinking, over and over. She was stronger than this! She knew it, he knew it. So why was she losing?
He wanted more than anything to be able to switch, to leave his wretched pile of failing flesh behind and gracefully run around as he once had. But he didn't have the means to anymore, there was no point in it after they had finished the war. He was to live his life, as normally as he could. They were to regulate hollows and everything else he wasn't to be concerned with, like they always had. So he had retired (given up). His companion (the damned old man) had gone to sleep with a critical gaze at the stupid young man. And now, when he could make a difference, here he was gasping for breath, on his knees watching her get torn apart.
She could not lose, not in front of him. She'd been doing that for far too long. She fell onto one knee (so tired, so very tired) and looked up, vision hazy with red (a disturbing yet somehow beautiful sight). She glanced to him and saw worry in his golden eyes. It was a familiar feeling, stirring up memories long since buried of a stupid night where she had been far too distracted (arrogant) and almost lost everything. But by almost losing, she had gained so much more.
He could die. That was fine. But she had been dying for him since they had first met.
Slashing and stabbing, Violet eyes saw through the moves and the tricks of the enemy. But seeing through and avoiding are different matters completely. She had lost too much blood, you see. That slows a person down, tricks them into slumber.
And so, exhausted and out of options, she cried a word he had never heard her say before. A word that carried power and prestige. A word he hadn't known she was capable of. You've already guessed, haven't you? Of course, the word was "bankai"
His world went white. Her world went black.
Now tell me, how is it stories end? Some end horribly, where he wakes up in a mask of bone, seeing nothing but her cold body upon the asphalt and the rain that has begun melting the coffin of ice that surrounds her. Other stories, of course, are far more ambiguous: he wakes up in walls of white, familiar faces looking at him in concern, and we hear nothing else of her. There is also the nostalgic kind of ending, where she picks herself up and brushes the snow from his head, asking him if he can trust her just one more time. She sends him through, and he waits until she can meet him there.
But my favorite kind of ending has always been the happy one. He awakens to find her smiling through a grimace, but she's still there (still here) He springs to his feet (something he hasn't been able to do in many years) and smiles at her (something else he hasn't done in so long) and hesitates. He wants to tell her so many things, how stupid she is, how sorry he is, how much she's grown and changed, how glad he is that she's here, but in the end, he closes his mouth. It is she that says the first thing.
"Still a fool." And he smiles again, for she hasn't changed that much, apparently. He picks her up, she resisting too much of his help (as she's always done), and she smiles back. She pulls that white (so white, even now untouched by the red of her wounds or the crimson of the Arrancar) blade out, and points it at him. They say nothing, but communicate everything.
And so they take the first step of their second story, together.
Yes, happy endings have always been my favorite.
Please Review! Let me know what you think: is it horrible, do you not get what's going on? Did you hate it? Of course, good reviews are also welcomed as well. Thanks for reading!