Meh, I'm finally finished with this. thing xD And I had to break it :/
Obviously, it's an AU. More obviously, I own nothing xD Bleach belongs to Tite Kubo
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Gather, children, gather. Listen carefully and remember the story I am about to recount now, and use it as a lesson when later on you go on with your lives. Don't bulge, lose yourself in the words…
This fable is probably as old as the world we are living in. Who knows, maybe long ago people had told it in front of a dancing fire, maybe long ago mothers had told it in the mystery of the gentle shadows before putting their children to sleep and kissing them good night. Maybe long ago a special book was written about it, with amazing drawings and the curve of the script whispering lines to the fog. Maybe the ice knows, maybe it spins the tale in the morning frost on the windows. And young children look at the images and smile as they read the symbols, as every little piece finds its place in their little minds, like a miniature puzzle of belief and cold.
Maybe, maybe, maybe. The possibilities are endless. The 'what if'-s will always be here, tugging, yelling, trying to get our attention. But don't pay attention to them. Listen.
This is a story about magic. This is a story about sadness. This is a story about a boy with shining eyes.
This is a story about an ice princess who could reduce anyone to an object with a heart.
Once upon a time…
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A young man, just gone from adolescence to adulthood, looks up to the fog. There, there, somewhere in the fog, an icy tower (ice, ice, so much ice, that the air looks like milk, ice, ice, so much ice that it freezes courage in your heart, his grand-mother used to say) stands proud, housing a creature that has to be killed.
A monster, a calamity to have fallen upon these peaceful lands. A witch who has stolen the tower from the villagers, men from their wives' embraces, children from parents' houses. No one knows exactly what has happened to those lost but a big share of rumours has been flying about, none of them true.
Fog is spreading its white tentacles around him, rendering him unable to see. Everything is but a white concoction, white as snow, thick as milk. It has engulfed his world; there is nothing more to it but the small path leading him to the end. To the tower, where it is waiting. Waiting, waiting, waiting, empty minutes, filled with a deafening silence and ice crashing.
His hand tightens around his sword and he swears that he will kill the creature.
Seconds pass, melted into each step he takes and there is no noise, it is deadly quiet as he makes his way towards the building, legs becomes shakier and shakier moment after moment.
In no time he reaches the door. It opens with silence and quiet promises of bloodshed. The inside of the tower, every single object that is scattered around glows with a certain aura of sadness, melancholy and hope.
The floor is wet and cold and crystalline and it's obviously made from ice, but his footsteps don't slip on it. He manages to walk on it, a childhood dream come true (when they were kids, yes, they wanted to be able to run on the frozen lake and laugh, laugh, laugh. Now he barely finds the power to will his scowl away and force a small, fake smile.) The place is imbued with magic: even the air feels sweeter, fouler.
He doesn't slip on the stairs that lead up to the tower (up, up there, it waits, trying to fool us that living high into the air means that it is a pure being, his grand-mother used to say as a good night tale, before going to tuck in his sisters too). In fact, he feels livelier than before, stronger and more powerful. His sword doesn't weight so much now. But he mustn't let his guard down – this might be a trap that would make him feel more comfortable and full of himself before stripping him even of the power he had before in the magic-less world.
There are no windows in this tower of ice but there is no sun to pass its rays through them either. Vaguely, from the haze of his mind, he wonders what the significance of that small detail is and receives an answer from his memories almost momentarily. She doesn't want the sun. It burns her with its cheerfulness. She doesn't want to see the sky. It pains her with the clear colour. She has locked herself from the world, not wanting to face it and instead lives with the illusions of her magic. She is just one lonely girl who needs a friend.
His mother has always been a forgiving, beautiful woman. She strongly believed that the witch of the ice tower was just a victim of loneliness. Her naïve beliefs didn't save her when she disappeared, kidnapped or killed by the witch.
No, he is sure as he nears the last floor, the creature that inhabits this monstrous tower isn't a lost girl. It is a fiend, a man-eating monster that will destroy his village if he doesn't kill it. Right now.
There's a lonely door at the end of the stairs.
It stays in the room at the top. It takes the form of a young, beautiful maiden to fool the young heroes who come to slay it. Captured by the beauty that stands before them, they give into it and forget their quest. Once they give into it, it turns them into its slaves, used to say the old women of the village, all in quiet voices and hushed whispers. Are they right?
The door opens quietly, just like the one down there, at the entrance. There's no sound, nothing, but there is a thick smell in the air. It stinks.
The room is completely white, with almost no furniture, save for a stool, a small table and a pile of books, some of which are worn, some of which – completely new. There is nothing more to it, no other objects, unlike the rest of the tower, where he has been seeing much and much objects, all so different, all having the same feel (sinister, familiar and so sad. those things can make you scream – you can feel them staring at you, boring into the depths of your mind and making you go insane, the survivors of one attack used to say and truly, they did go insane.)
He notices the creature quickly and finds out that the rumours are true. Her dark hair stands out in the thick whiteness of the room and her eyes are big, big, so big you can lose yourself in them. She isn't very tall – after a quick calculation he figures that she is roughly as tall as his sisters. She appears fragile and small and demanding to be protected.
The smell in the room starts getting sweeter and sweeter until the air is thick from fragrance. Sleepy.
Beautiful.
… a young, beautiful maiden to foul the young heroes…
A monster…
He feels sleepy. He just wants to let everything go and succumb to peace. He doesn't care. The sword is too heavy. He doesn't need it, does he? He can't even remember what it is for.
The fingers, once grasping tight and sure, now loosely let it go. It falls down to oblivion and makes no sound.
… once they give into it, it turns them into its slaves…
His eyes are closing.
And she smiles at him, a sad, secretive gaze tearing through the worlds, making magic with a breath.
.
When he comes back to consciousness, there are a lot of things that have changed. He can't see or hear – there is a void around him. After finding out, he freaks out for an unknown amount of time. What is a warrior to do without his sight or hearing? He is as helpless as a newborn baby. He can't feel the outside world (out of touch with the world, out of touch she is and that's from where she has got that cruelty, the villagers used to whisper, before he embarked on his journey), he doesn't know what happens.
He hates being weak and for some time he succumbs into an uneasy trance. He doesn't know for how much time he has been in it, trapped in his own mind's twister. He doesn't understand the strange voice that talks in his mind, burying it deeper and deeper. He tries and manages to shut the voice up and soon the initial unease fades as he notices that he has a new type of sense. It's strange.
It is neither hearing, nor seeing. All around him, there is a thick aroma of a flower he can't identify, so sweet and heavy that it makes his head swim. It takes some time before his head gets used to the blanket of smell and finally he can focus once again. It takes some time until he gets used to this sense too, but after some time he feels as if it has always been with him, a sixth sense.
But the most stressing thing, the most hideous thing is what he has been turned into. The fact that he can't exactly see what his new body is exactly doesn't help either. He can feel it. His whole shape is deformed, it is not human anymore. He doesn't have legs or hands. Where his flesh and muscles have felt soft, warm there is now a metallic feel, as though he is made from steel. His heart feels as though it is captured in a steel cobweb.
This new body tries to take a hold of his mind, tries to make him forget about all his resolve and reasons to be here. It tries, it really tries and it's a large mental battle between the two until he manages to overcome the stupid parasite. Probably, it would have gone even deeper, rendering him unable to feel emotions like that icy witch but he has been able to fend it off, before it could damage his humanity.
But some damage has been done – his human body, his lovable human body of a young adult is gone now. And only that witch can turn it back. If she can. And, if she can, there is a big chance that bitch refuses.
Soon he starts noticing things around him. or, rather one thing. It has the form and the taste of a mirror. Old and forgotten.
And laughing.
"Our mistress has gotten a new toy," the mirror giggles after some time, voice thin and glassy, "Ohoho."
He refuses to answer that thing. If he has gone down to this level, he'd pray for a quick death.
"Ohoho," again, it persists, "You think you're very high and mighty, mister Shiny?"
From the words he realizes the mirror can see him and decides to answer this time – he'd love to hear what his new form is.
But then comes another problem: he hasn't said anything in quite some time. The first few syllables that he forces out of his mouth aren't understandable but after some time he is able to talk. But the second they are out, he freezes because of the voice: his normal, human voice, the voice of a young male, it is gone. Instead, there is a robotic voice: a voice with the edge that he has come to acknowledge as his. It takes him quite some time to get his mind around the idea that even his voice has changed, but he doesn't shy away, he chases away the parasite in his mind again. It had gotten slightly more powerful.
There's an annoying laughter in the background.
"Can you see?" he finally rasps out and once again there's laughter.
"Of course, mister Shiny. I live for that," there's a grin in that voice and it's obviously mocking him. His words are eerie, "To see. To observe."
"What do you mean?"
It's strange how easy the words come out around this mirror.
"What I said," it cackles, "I live to see, to watch. This is my life: I wait for my mistress to come and look at herself in my mirror. When she looks into me, I can see my beauty reflected in her own prettiness. Only for that amazing moment, I haven't crushed myself to dust in the hands of my mistress."
"This is disgusting," he doesn't want his thoughts to show but he slips even before the actual thought is registered in his mind.
"Oh-ho, mister Shiny is playing high and mighty again," it pretends to be sad, but he can still feel that edge to the voice, "With mirrors, it's vanity. With blades, it's bloodlust. With ice, it's coldness (what, you thought, all this ice is natural?), with sofas, it's the sloth. And so on and on. Everyone has a weakness, I believe you know that, right? Objects like you and me, we aren't like humans – our weaknesses take a form, a shadow in the back of our minds and whisper to us to give into our inner desires and leave any humanity we still have. It's just a matter of time before we give up."
The tone is too cheerful when talking about such things so he doesn't believe it. He will never believe it, he decides.
He mumbles something and internally sighs, wondering how a conversation can evolve like this – he simply wanted to ask the mirror what he looked like but it spiraled into another direction. Apparently his companion likes being evasive.
"What do I look like?" he tries once again; bluntness is the best weapon against evasiveness.
"Easy, my buddy for talking," there's another grin in his voice, bigger and more amused, "You are shiny!"
It sounds like a small child – no, a toddler, - showing its father a gray, common stone that it's found somewhere in the rubbish.
And then, suddenly he wishes to bang his former human head against the ice, so hard blood begins pouring down. He wishes for the mirror to shut up and the witch to come. At least she won't make fun of him in such a way.
The thing shuts up and some time passes. From time to time he feels despair welling up (his new body's way of trying to dominate), he feels the same voice from the inside trying to pull him into the dark. He is sure that if he were to start thinking pessimistically, it would try to get the hold of his mind. So he stays firm on the belief that the witch will come. Oh, yes, she will come and he will make her pay for everything she has done to him, his family and his village.
(And that thing, that mirror is still quiet and doesn't say a word. He wonders what is its problem.)
He keeps his death threats fresh and sometimes fantasizes about how he is going to kill her. Each time, the way of killing is different. Sometimes he will jump and squeeze her throat until her eyes pop out and every shred of whatever life she may still have goes away. Sometimes it'll be slower, sometimes faster. He wants to torture her, to punch her over and over again and feel her blood on his hands.
And he will if he's patient.
Sometimes he thinks about how he is going to meet her too. Will she be quiet, sad or cruel? Will she beg his pardon or will she torture him? Whenever his mind tries to do that, he wills those thoughts away. Of course, she won't ask for forgiveness, she will mock him, he is sure.
But none of his fantasies meet up to the actual meeting.
He can feel it somewhere close to him. He can sense a figure of ice-cold and secrets and power and it tastes almost like the fragrance of that unidentifiable flower that made him go to his last sleep as a human. It tastes like lies and cruelty. It tastes like secrets.
Secrets, hidden so deep that even the one hiding them eventually believes they don't exist: that they're lies.
She is here, but apparently still doesn't feel the need to present herself to him. She stays there, in the periphery of his senses and reeks of the same heavy aroma. She stays there, for an unknown amount of time. All the time he can feel a smirk playing on her lips and slowly his anger gets bigger and bigger. He wants to kill her more and more. He wishes, he gets angry that he can't reach her, he fights with his new body when hopelessness becomes too much and he becomes too powerful to be put in the back of his mind.
She stays there for so much that, in the end, he gets used to that presence.
And when she finally starts talking, her voice isn't mocking or cruel or loud. Instead, it is simply thoughtful.
"You seem more powerful than common humans," there's something in her voice, but he can't quite place it, "By now, most would have succumbed to the call of despair."
He knows that voice, he has loathed it ever since he first heard it (and probably even before that).
He doesn't respond to that, but figures that it is sort of a compliment. He doesn't respond but he agrees that it really is hard resisting 'the call of despair', as she had put it. He alone has to consciously infuriate himself in order to keep that evil at bay.
Seeing that he won't answer, her face wrinkles into something that he would have called 'pout' had she been a human.
"Usually, around this time, they have succumbed to the desires of the object they are turned into," her voice gets the thoughtful edge again; apparently, in some facts that mirror bastard has been right "Yet, still, you stand strong. The anger can't be the source of your power…"
This time he decides to answer her.
"What," he spits out, "what are you talking about?"
Drop after drop and a lake is formed. He will squeeze out enough information and he will learn enough and probably he will find a way to return to his human self and kill her and escape this hellhole. And he will remain human.
(And it is funny in a way how he constantly asks what they're talking about.)
"Don't you know what happens to those who come to my tower, seeking murder?" she asks with a smile, "The rumours hold some truth in them too, you know. Don't you feel it? Can't you feel what you have become?"
At those words, he stops and perks his ears up. The mirror hadn't said anything (aside from him being shiny) and he truly wonders what his shape is. But, that thing can be whatever.
Yes, he has already accepted the fact that his new body is different, that it isn't human and he won't get depressed, he won't get angry. Whatever she tells him, it will just be giving a name to something he already knows.
She bows her head until her face is too near to him and pokes him with a finger.
"You're a blade," she says slowly, thinking that he will probably throw a tantrum or something else, but he does nothing (a finger of hers is too close for his own comfort). So she continues on, trying to annoy him, "A really inelegant one on top of that. No hilt, no- Oww!"
She retreats her now bleeding finger and even though he desperately tries to tell the colour of the blood and fails, he can't help but gloat a little. Her figure gets a little bit redder as anger laces the white of her usual calmness (nothing, nothing, it feels nothing. It is a statue, carved out from the same material the tower is made, he remembers someone saying this, but he can't recall who. That someone apparently is wrong).
She stops examining her finger after noticing he is the mocking one now. And suddenly a small smile spreads out on her lips and the witch, the creature that did so many unforgivable things is back.
"Quite barbaric, I see. No hilt, no decorations. All sharp edges, nothing soft," she summons something white, something like a bandage and wraps it around a part of the... the blade, probably the one where the hilt should have been, "No weaknesses, a heart of stone. Am I right… sire?"
He knows she is trying to get a rise out of him and he tries not to get angry, even though, as he now finds out, it is hard not to get angry. Quickly he makes a small calculation and within a second he has found the best answer.
He attempts to add in as such spite in his words, posture and mood as possible. She has to feel it deep into her chest, in the hole of her disappeared heart. It has to sting her in the way the killings of his neighbours and friends stung.
"No, I believe I do not have a frozen heart, my lady. Please refrain from mistaking your heart for mine."
That surprises her into staring blankly at him for a fraction of the second and then, suddenly whatever goes for his face is pressed between the cold, icy floor and her foot. It doesn't hurt though and somewhere, deep within his mind, he can hear someone laughing and curses his condition. Even his body is an enemy.
She lifts her choice weapon for torturing and stomps on him again. He can feel her fuming with anger, he can almost see, almost imagine, a small vein popping on her forehead. It doesn't feel like strong anger however. No flashes, no lightning, just soft, homely annoyance, the one between siblings, between a husband and wife, between people who understand each other (he shivers at the truth and pushes it back and pretends that it doesn't exist but it is still there). He knows she will try to get an apology from him (a prideful beast she is, who said that has been right), but grins on the inside all the while.
He doesn't regret saying it.
.
She doesn't come for a long time and he starts craving for talks, conversations to fill the silence and that idiotic mirror doesn't help him at all – one might think headaches would go away when he got a metal body but no-o, they get even worse and there's no way to cure them.
He has never been a person who'd survive away from people.
He wants them, he needs to feel like a protector, to feel the loyalty (because, for him, loyalty is the most amazing emotion in the world), he wants humans breathing his air and generally annoying him but to be here. In their presence he derives his comfort and now he has only a vain mirror as company. He sighs for the nth time.
"Ohoho," there it was again, laughing stupidly and generally not giving him comfort, "Our mister has been sighing for quite some time now. Is it that he doesn't like it here?"
He merely growls in response. As if he'd ever like it here.
"Oh, don't be such a party pooper," this time he can safely say the tone has enough 'pout' in it, "After all this'll be your new home which you'll never escape. Never ever."
At these words, despair starts swelling in his mind, but he destroys it, presses it until it evaporates. He has already understood that despair is a bad thing.
The words rise a question.
"How long exactly have you been a mirror?" he asks, wondering how much time it takes for the soul to give into, to desert.
"Who knows," the answer is ambiguous, filled with a sarcastic tone and he can't tell the lie from the truth, "Maybe I have been here for all eternity, maybe I have been here for a few hours, maybe we're trapped in a time twister, a moment different from all history."
At those words his mind starts off thinking at a pace that frightens him. He can't even catch his thoughts. Everything is just a mix of ice, a killing witch and smashed mirrors.
"Will she ever let go?" he mumbles to himself, not even noticing he does, what he says and jumps with a soft clink when he hears a reply.
"Would a child let go of its toys?"
It'll be 2 or 3 chapters, I'm still not sure C:
So-o, what do you think of it? Good, bad, OOC, IC, idiotic etc. I'd love to hear what you think, so review :)