Disclaimer: I do not own Bleach, or anything associated with it whatsoever. Alas, and woe.
Tea-House Moon
Sterling, twinkling raindrops fell in a gentle cadence, steadily drumming out a soothing rhythm of pattering tranquility. The tiny water droplets nearly floated through the air, the gentle shower a serene symphony of fine rain, before alighting on the lush green leaves, the delicate blossoms, the softly tinkling wind chimes, and the edge of the gently sloped roof. Fresh waters descending from the skies of the retiring evening landed on the roof with a series of light, steady beats, clustered on the deep eaves, collected into aqueous beads, then glimmered in rivulets, before dripping over the clay tiles to cascade through the evening air in silvery rivers before tapping against the ground in individual droplets. Each minute splash made it's own individual, musical tone, as distinct and clear as that of the tinkling and chiming of a choir of dulcet bells.
The summer storm seemed drowsy, almost slumberous, it's gently rolling thunder akin to the docile murmurings of peaceful somnolence.
Hisana gazed tranquilly at the misty shower watering and refreshing the flowers and grasses of the private garden in the secluded courtyard. Crystalline tears of a comforting sky, weeping with solemn release after enduring the trials of merciless day, descended faithfully to cool and refresh all that lay beneath it's eternal guardianship. Verdant, velutinous foliage and recherché flowers, painted with the soft-hues of nightfall, including the deep blue Chinese bellflowers nearest to her, trembled beneath the soft touch and kindly brush of the euphonious, restoring rainwater.
Hisana breathed in deeply, her smoky fan of feathery lashes closing slowly over indigo eyes. The air too was cleansed by the harmonious sonata of the quiet storm. Light and clear, fresh and cool, stirred by only the softest of whispering breezes dancing among the rejuvenating silvery mist. Cool air brushed over the thin fabric of the yukata resting on her weary shoulders, breathed in a gentle caress of kindness against her mournful face, and ran insubstantial fingers lovingly through her dusky hair as if in an attempt to reassure her, to set her at ease.
A clearing in the cottony wisps of clouds revealed the benevolent, watchful gaze of the opalescent moon, softly bright, glowing with a serenely blue halo in the velvety blackness of the heavens. Pristine illumination entered unobtrusively into the nighttime retreat, causing sparkles like iridescent fireflies to shimmer on the suspended water droplets, inviting a glimmering response from the raindrops resting on the melodious wind chime. The instrument of the sighs of nature sang a lullaby to tell of eddies of breeze that harmonized with the purring rumbles from the clouds above.
Fine mist like a dusting of glitter collected on the sable lashes of the delicate lady before she raised them again to view the moonlight garden decorated with starry crystal spheres and their accompanying prismatic lunar rainbows.
The feel of a deeply powerful but equally placid reiatsu, deep and silent like the most distance depths of bottomless blue ocean, drifted gently into her awareness, as though unwilling to disturb her moment of repose. It was possible that was much true. He always treated her with such adored reverence; her thoughts, emotions, her spirit more precious to him anything he could be offered, could ever find, would ever know.
Byakuya settled down onto his knees on the woven, soft rush mat beside his beloved wife, neatly tucking the clean, white fabric of his yukata beneath him. He was already in his sleeping attire, having discarded the many trappings of nobility, accomplishments, and rank. His ebony hair hung free from restraint, and his shoulders were free from the often-suffocating grip of his inherited scarf, the symbol of the head of the ancient and inflexible Kuchiki family.
He turned to tenderly regard his wife with eyes as calm and undisturbed as deepest midnight, before he gently extended a large hand toward the one of her narrow shoulders that wasn't leaning against the fragrant cypress wood that comprised doorway of the humble teahouse attached to their private apartments. He awaited her consent, never simply taking, assuming, or even suggesting he be granted such an undeserved honor as her honest, loving affection.
His wife shifted her petite frame away from the solid doorframe and into the equally solid and profoundly more supportive embrace of her husband. He was warm and solid, and she fit so well into the curve of his side, embraced by a sword arm made powerful by the drive to protect and defend all he was charged with, to stand sentinel over what was precious to him. He rested his chin gently on her hair and inhaled her scent, needing familiarity and relief, seeking respite in her kindness and unconditional sanctuary.
Hisana relaxed comfortably against him, trusting completely and without reserve, her soul quietly grieving. She left her words unspoken.
I didn't find her again. I have failed her another day.
The faithful fall of the merciful rain continued to wash away the residue and remnants of the day; it's gentle song drowning out the disappointments and fears, the lilting sonata soothing the long-suffering and offering a moment of peace. The thunder rumbled high above in the downy clouds blanketing the slumbering night, and the moon continued to glow serenely to illumine the paths for those who would never stop seeking.
AN: This piece was inspired by and the title taken from the instrumental Tea-House Moon by Enya (which I in no way own). This particular piece is an experiment in atmospherics; hopefully it was successful.
Review if you like it.