Characters: Yamamoto, Retsu
Summary: Small white birds of hands beckon onwards.
Pairings: None
Warnings/Spoilers: None
Timeline: pre-manga, way pre-manga
Author's Note: I cherish the crackbrained theory that Unohana is Yamamoto's daughter. If that is crazy, I need to be committed.
Disclaimer: I don't own Bleach.
The day is laden down with water—it has rained the night before and has combined with all the dew to carpet the quiet world in a sheen of glass. The sky, overcast is a glassy shade of blue gray and threatening to rain again, soft footsteps of thunder in the distance.
"Retsu, don't venture off the path again."
"Yes, Otousama."
She's more trouble than she's worth when it comes to finding her in the forest, and Yamamoto has no desire to make a foray into the dense wall of leaves and branches again, especially considering Retsu's superior agility.
Thankfully, she complies—in such situations Yamamoto knows he can count on Retsu's sense of propriety (dutifully indoctrinated into her by her mother) to kick in. She knows exactly where to draw the line.
Even for such an overcast day, Yamamoto is a bit taken aback at how deserted the forest-side road is; traffic is usually greater than this. However, none present are complaining—neither Yamamoto nor Retsu are at all averse to solitude, and actually like it better this way. No one to pester them out here, no unwelcome voices.
"Otousama, come look at this." Small pale hands are beckoning on as usual—Retsu is always calling to someone, demanding somewhat imperiously that they come to her instead of having her come to them. She won't settle for anything less, a trait inherited firmly from her father.
White hands are beckoning, little birds insistent in their chatter. Yamamoto limps slightly as he makes his progress forward, deciding to humor her.
Retsu is leaning downwards on the edge of the road on the side with gloomy forest looming towards them—the other side has a grassy field and a village beyond. The skirt of her yukata is clasped in one hand to keep it from trailing n the mud. She is bending over a plant with blue flowers, one hand stroking the petals probingly.
Retsu is—for the most part—a calm, quiet, even-tempered young child. She has the sort of temper that is not easily arouse but, when sparked, is nearly impossible to extinguish; her rages are the stuff of legends that no one forgets even years afterwards (This is how Yamamoto suspects it shall always be). This morning, however, she is simply the placid child Yamamoto is used to. Black hair wound tight in a braid down her back, fair skin and keen, observant blue eyes.
She looks up at him when he comes, motioning to the flower. "What is it?" Is her simple question.
"Delphinium, called larkspur. Now come along, Retsu. It's going to rain again."
Down the path they walk in the quiet morning as thunder walks above them.
Retsu's hands beckon on, little white birds that flash in the dim, blue watery half-light.