Vibrant Spectrum here again, writing my first songfic, although I don't know whether only one chapter with a song counts as a songfic. Yes, this means that there will be more chapters. I also have another one that I am currently working on, but this one feels more natural to write. Well, you readers know what most of us authors are like. Plain lazy.

Disclaimer: I do not own Bleach, but I think I have privileges on the plot for this fic. If you see any fics with roughly the same idea as mine (for example, the song), please tell me and I will check it out. I need inspiration.

Deliver Us

Cracks pierced the hustle of the workers, followed by an occasional cry from a loved one. Sometimes, a scream and a cruel laugh, before the harsh cry of "If you don't want to end up like him, stop staring and get back to work!"

With the sting of the whip on my shoulder
With the salt of my sweat on my brow
Elohim, God on high
Can you hear your people cry:
Help us now
This dark hour...

As they worked, the villagers spoke in their native tongue. If they were caught speaking, the guards used their whips on them without hesitation. While the rags were torn off the victim's back, he would cry out, pleading …

DELIVER US
Hear our call
Deliver us
Lord of all
Remember us, here in this burning sand
Deliver us
There's a land you promised us
Deliver us to the promised land

"Please! Help Me! Anybody, please help me! Dear God Almighty, I know you're listening! Please, I beg you, send someone to help us all!" The whip would crack, harder and more often, for acknowledging a God other than their beloved leader.

Feet thudded across the dusty ground, coupled with heavy panting. A rustle in the bushes and the sound of men of a manhunt before complete silence. A woman crawled along a river bank, dragging a basket with her, with a little girl following behind her. The woman opened a reed basket and brushed her fingers across it lovingly for a moment. Then, sobbing lightly, she closed the basket and floated it on the river, singing all the while.

Yal-di ha-tov veh ha-rach
Al i-ra veh al tif-chad
My son, I have nothing I can give
But this chance that you may live
I pray we'll meet again
If He will deliver us

Hush now my baby
Be still, love, don't cry
Sleep as you're rocked by the stream
Sleep and remember
My last lullaby
So I'll be with you when you dream

River, o river
Flow gently for me
Such precious cargo you bear
Do you know somewhere
he can live free?
River, deliver him there...

The woman watched as the basket longingly as it drifted off and almost reached out and pulled it back. She did not notice her daughter scamper off, all the while keeping an eye on the basket as it floated downstream…

Brother, you're safe now
And safe may you stay
For I have a prayer just for you:
Grow, baby brother
Come back someday
Come and deliver us too...

She watched the basket bump on the shore of the King's personal beach, where his daughter usually visited on a daily basis. His sister smiled to herself. There was no better place to grow up then in the King's own household, and his daughter was one of the kindest people in the tyrant's kingdom. She turned and left, returning to her mother's side to comfort her.

Hours later, the Princess approached her usual spot on the shore. She noticed a brown basket resting on the sand, with a muffled crying emanating from it. Opening it, she gasped as a baby was revealed to her. When he saw her, the boy stopped crying and smiled up at her, reaching up for a hug. He laughed at her surprised face, not knowing that it was his shockingly white hair or his teal eyes that made her so astonished to begin with.

The Princess lifted the child from his basket tenderly. She summoned two servants to her side, and handed the baby to them, giving them orders to feed and clothe him. As they took him from her arms, she searched her mind for a suitable name for him. She never came up with a name, and when she wanted him, she simply called him "Boy".


A Few Years Later…

Before the King had passed away, he had made sure that he had chosen a suitable heir to his throne to marry his daughter. The second King was similar to his predecessor in every way; the only difference was their name. His bride, now Queen, was unconcerned with her spouse – she was content as long as she was continued to be pampered. Unfortunately, all the riches had made her heart rotten, and she eventually became the cruellest Queen in the history of the village, even sentencing innocent servants to torture chambers for her own amusement.

"Boy! Where are you? Wretched son of mine, show yourself!" The Queen yelled as she stormed along the corridors. Her second son, born from her, wanted someone to 'play horsie with him'. The Queen would often go to great lengths to please her favourite, even to the extent of letting her first son be treated like an animal.

"Boy! BOY!! If I find you, you'll get into BIG TROUBLE!" screamed the Queen. There was a crash around the corner. The woman hurried to investigate the source, and found her son amidst broken pottery. Apparently, he had taken to squeezing himself into the decorative jars which had been placed throughout the palace.

The boy stood up and scowled at his mother. After spending most of his 8 years outdoors, his skin had become a sun-kissed golden-brown, unlike the rest of his royal family, who preferred to rest under the shade. He had been hiding because he knew his mother was looking for him, and he wanted to annoy her as much as he could before he got in trouble. He found her despicable, and was glad of any respite from her harsh ways.

"Boy. My son is waiting for you. Go to him now, but remember that once he is done with you, I will be waiting to deal out your punishment for keeping the royal heir to the throne waiting." She returned his scowl with double the venom, and shoved him towards the Prince's playroom.


Several Hours Later…

The boy limped out of the room, groaning with every step he took. Not only had the young prince demanded that they play 'horsie', but he also wouldn't leave his adopted sibling alone until he was lifted so that he could touch the ceiling, or until they played one-man twister, or until he had done a proper handstand for a full two minutes.

The eight-year-old dragged himself to his tiny room. He turned a corner and almost walked into his mother. His teal eyes widened as he remembered her promise from earlier, and he took several steps back. His mother matched his steps forward. The boy turned and fled, with his mother, usually so dainty, chasing after him down the halls.

Down this corridor, up that flight of stairs, round and round and round. Finally, the Queen managed to corner him on the top floor. She hunted in every pot, looked behind every door. Every door, except for the one that led to the balcony. It was in the middle of winter and her 'son' was only wearing thin cotton which was absolutely unsuitable for the cold. Surely her son did not have the guts to go outside.

Behind that one door through which she did not bother to look, the white-haired boy stood shivering, sifting through his options in his head. The only escape was to jump, but they were about five storeys above the ground. If he went back, he would simply be admitting defeat, and would never be able to pull something like this off again. However, if he continued to stay, it was very likely that he would freeze to his death.

The boy glanced down. If he was careful enough, he just might be able to climb down using cracks and footholds on the building. Better than standing here and waiting for her to find me, he thought to himself as he clambered over the railing.

Slowly, he inched his way down the side of the building, clinging for dear life onto the cracks. When he managed to get down to the third floor, the boy stopped, pausing to catch his breath. He hung by his fingers, which were already numb with cold, from a windowsill and stopped for a moment.

Before the eight-year-old could react, the window slammed shut on his fingers. He hissed and chewed his lip to stop himself screaming while he tried to free his hands. While he worked, a pipe leading to the fourth-floor kitchen rumbled. That day was garbage day, and the Queen's first son was directly below the garbage pipe.

Unfortunately, the first thing that the chef decided to get rid off was some hot tea with too much sugar in it. The boy squealed and wrenched his fingers free. He fell down all three stories, and landed in the garbage pit below him. Hard. The rest of the garbage landed around him, but the boy was too tired to care, or try to climb out of the pit.

He spent two hours just lying there, until the blizzard came. Then, the boy saw white. He was completely surrounded by white, even after he closed his eyes to the world.

Grow, baby brother
Come back someday
Come and deliver us too...

-0-0-0-O-0-0-

Sorry if this fic was too short, but it was more of an introduction for my idea than anything else.

Wow, you actually made it to this paragraph! I hope you enjoyed reading this. Again, if you do see something like this something like this anywhere, please tell me. I NEED IDEAS. Also, if you have any feedback, comments, constructive criticism, songs (for the next chapter), suggestions or something I forgot to mention, please feel free to review and tell me, or message or email me.