I am in blood
Stepp'd in so far, that, should I wade no more,
Returning were as tedious as go o'er.
-Macbeth, Act III, scene iv
He stared.
He really should not have been surprised, should have expected it really. The thought 'Of course she would sustain injuries' was overpowered by a more painful observation as she stepped out of the blinding white light between the portals of this world and the next.
'Is that the same girl he knew?' She was still not aware of him, not yet, so he took the time to look – to really look. He was first drawn by the black eye which seemed to blossom across the left side of her face, swallowing it whole. Dark, angry bruises splotched across her bare arms and calves, peeking through the ripped white fabric of her dress. Naturally, he would give her a uniform. The boots on her feet were a hair's breadth away from collapsing at the seams and soles.
Is she … actually missing a patch of her hair? He cringed - not an internal wince, but an actual, physical cringe. He could feel the shift in stance and surprise of his companion standing beside him. After all, he never did wear his heart on his sleeve – not like her. At least he never displayed the emotions that mattered.
The feeling began. Voices were starting to flicker near the periphery of his mind. He repressed them. He continued observing.
She's thinner. Her hands were trembling. He would later learn that was not from her kidnapping, but from the interrogation which followed her rescue and the final Victory. A familiar someone from another Lifetime had drilled the thunder into her temples - to make her speak, to make her confess (when there was no more to be said).
The whisperings within him grew louder. He ignored them still. He had difficulty swallowing.
Her skin has become so pale, so diminished from its lively, sun-blush hue – a stark contrast to its condition mere months ago. What did you expect? There's no sun there. Combined with the shadows beneath her eyes, she looked nearly gaunt as though her skin was stretched too tightly across her high cheekbones.
"… your …" Sweat beaded the back of his neck. He continued onwards with his looking. "Yes, such a scientist… such a brilliant scien-"
Finally, he looked at where he feared most. Her eyes. Truth can always be found in the eyes. The one saying that held true, even for him, that stood the test of centuries is: the eyes are the windows to the soul. Dear Kami…
"poor, shattered, broken soul…"
Exhaustion. Exhaustion flooded those beautiful – yes, they are still beautiful, but the damaged sort of beautiful – grey, amethyst hues. The haggard expression, which told of a burden beyond grief, beyond words, weighed down in her eyes. Not her posture, which regardless of her tiredness, was still upright, dignified, intact, unbroken…
"It's your fault."
"Yes, it is" he numblyanswered his inner demons, feeding them. The feeling, the guilt from his past experiments gone wrong, grew. That expression should never appear on anyone, much less the face of a sixteen-year old girl, one who has already suffered and admirably borne loss.
"It's your fault. You've killed her."
He could not argue against that. As the doors slid shut, he remembers this same girl no a different girl from months ago bringing him leftover pastries from her part-time job at the bakery. He remembers spicy food, laughter, an unchained Imagination which never checked itself despite skepticism, indifference or hostility.
She has finally noticed him. He tenses, preparing himself. Recognition dawns in her eyes. For one long moment, he waits. Then to his horror, she smiles.
She smiles at him.
She smiles at him.
"Urahara-san! Yoruichi-san!"
Inadvertently, she has silenced his inner demons. He and they were numb, shocked, surprised at her warm greeting. He cannot hear what he says, barely taking note of Yoruichi's words, but he hears her.
"It's good to be back." This was accompanied by an exhausted smile, a genuine, but slipping, sad smile. He cringed once more at her choice of words. Thankfully, nobody notices.
But the numbness grows. As Orihime hugs Yoruichi, and returns the hugs from Tessai, Ururu and Jinta, Urahara watches this with inner mounting numbness. He had to excuse himself after Yoruichi decides that Orihime and her nakama should stay the night. Bracing himself against the wall of his room as his legs give way, Urahara Kisuke indulged in a moment of weakness and uncertainty. This was the position Yoruichi finds him in later. She waits for him to speak, although she already knows.
"Tell me, Kisuke."
She…
She doesn't…
"She doesn't blame me…" Was that honestly his voice? Oh how the mighty have fallen. Yoruichi does not affirm or deny. She waits as she has done all these centuries, just like when he fled the Seireitei. She waits for him before she follows.
And for some reason, the lack of blame feels worst. Sure, one tiny part of him the coward within him is momentarily relieved, but he knows. He knows that unless he apologises and receives her forgiveness he will forever be haunted.
Urahara learns the extent that Hueco Mundo continues to hang over and blanket Orihime.
He sees it in her inability to stomach meat and her formerly beloved spices and wasabi.
He sees it in her abhorrence for white clothes.
He sees it in her tears when she fingers green beads and threads.
He sees it in her sleepwalking and nightmares, recalling the night she first stayed over how she had pushed the shelves in the shoten around and asked him and Yoruichi with blank eyes to please help me find the door.
He accepts all this, and continually watches over her. He shows up at her apartment, whether she realizes or not, to make sure she has not injured herself while sleepwalking. He invites her once a week for dinner at the shoten, making sure that Tessai makes more soup on that day while slowly reintegrating her to wasabi, red bean paste, leeks, etc. He does all this without question because he wants her forgiveness even when she has not lay the blame on his shoulders.
He underestimates her, as he shamefully did once before the Winter War. One evening after dinner - somehow they were alone - she takes his hand. With a solemn gaze, she announces:
"Urahara-san, I can't forgive you" the feeling seizes him by the throat at that one moment. One moment, he despairs and drowns – "because there is nothing to forgive," Orihime finishes with a gentle smile.
At that moment, Urahara realises he does love Orihime. Not in the same way that he loves Yoruichi. No, it is not a sexual, physical love. Nor is it the gratitude-love of the forgiven. Neither is it the tough-love he regularly dishes out to Ichigo.
There is no name for this love. This Love is the kind reserved for someone who never judges him, who never makes demands of him. This Love is the type given to that one Hand which forever holds a palm out, whether he is deserving or not. He isn't.
And Urahara knows, knows with a certainty beyond any of his experiments past or future, as he hugged her, that he will forever protect her. Always.
Not only because she deserves protection…
Nor because she has forgiven him…
But for simply being herself, being kind and offering him atonement, redemption, a second chance…
She is his tenuous link to Humanity when he should passed on centuries ago.
She is his Conscience.
So how can he not protect her?
A/N I do not own Bleach.
I feel that the anime and manga do not develop Orihime's character sufficiently post-Winter War. An event like Hueco Mundo is bound to leave an imprint on her.
Just in case, you were wondering, the 'familiar someone from another lifetime' is Kurosutchi Mayuri.