Bleach belongs to Kubo Tite; I do not own. Lyrics are from "The Last Night" by Skillet; I do not own either.
WARNINGS: AU. May include RenRuki, one-sided KaienRuki, and eventual IchiRuki.
...
Portrait of a Prince (Who Would Be King)
Chapter 1: When he was only paper
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In all the fairytales she had ever read, they began with "Once Upon A Time." She never thought that her fairytale would begin with an ending… the act of saying goodbye.
......
You come to me with scars on your wrist
You tell me this will be the last night feeling like this
"I just came to say goodbye
I didn't want you to see me cry, I'm fine"
But I know it's a lie.
When she was still a child, Rukia dreamed of a prince who would rescue her from the pits of her despair.
It was harmless enough for a dream—hasn't every little girl at some point wished for a strong heroic figure to sweep her away to some castle in the sky, where she'll be adored and protected and cared for? And after all Rukia was a rough little street-rat, weaned too early from the milk of human kindness… an orphaned guttersnipe who spent her days stealing and running around with decidedly similar company. While she could take care of herself from day to day, one would expect that loving adoration was a hard commodity to come by.
One day she was scooped up from the gutter and transported to a beautiful mansion, all cultured garden and gleaming wood and polished silver, and she thought her dreams had been answered.
Rukia was adopted into the noble family of the Kuchiki, on her dead sister's behalf… and yet no matter how hard she looked, her prince was simply not there. Her older brother (-in-law) Kuchiki Byakuya was handsome enough for the role, but far too forbidding. When his eyes passed over her she felt like dust, swiped away by the sheer dismissiveness of his gaze.
So she ran away, and made her way back to the streets she had once freely roamed. Her best and oldest friend Renji sheltered her for a while in his gang of fighters-for-hire, but (as he all too often reminded her, especially when he stumbled in while she was changing) it was no place for a girl.
"I'm sorry Rukia," he apologized finally, scratching the tattoos that arched just shy of his hairline and trying not to stare below her neckline, "but Ikkaku's been complaining, and Hisagi and Kira and the others have been making comments. You'll have to leave."
"Now?"
"Not right away," he added hastily, flushing (the comments had mostly been directed at the nature of the relationship Renji and Rukia shared, and some of them had been sufficiently lewd that Renji had made his decision to remove the rumors at the root). "I-I mean… Yumichika doesn't mind sharing his room, so there's no time limit. Still, I think you're better off where you were—living in comfort, with your new b-brother."
Her violet eyes seemed to dim, and the fiery-haired youth felt his heart sink with the knowledge that his words had saddened her. "…Do you truly think that, Renji?"
No, I want you to stay, to be at my side always… like you did in our younger, less complicated days.
"Yes."
"...I see." Rukia rose to her tiny feet, and instinctively Renji held out a hand to help her. Not because she needed it, but because he needed to show her that he was still her friend, and that he cared for her (more than he'd ever admit).
She brushed him off coolly at first, which was only to be expected. Still, he persisted, clutching her arms with his broad-knuckled hands. "Rukia—"
"Don't."
"I DO want you here, okay?" burst out of him in desperation, because she wasn't looking at him and she stood still and pale and cold like an ice sculpture, except for her ebony-feathered hair and deep exotic eyes, the color of amethysts and bruises.
I want you. Please, understand…
"I know." She turned a little in his grasp and smiled at him—it was a light, brittle smile, but tempered with a softness that was not ice or hatred (yet cut all the deeper because of it).
I understand your betrayal, and I will forgive you… because that is all I can do, because you are my friend.
"Thank you for everything, Renji. Farewell."
So she was alone again, wandering aimlessly… thinking, I wish you could have been my prince, Renji, but that would have been too simple, wouldn't it?
"Yo. You've got talent, girl."
"What?" Rukia blinked and raised her head, looking up into guileless blue eyes rimmed with eyelashes. She'd been lost in thought over her paper and pencils, letting her mind drift while her fingers worked to recreate the play of shadow and light on the chisel-faced man who sat at his usual corner, fingering his battered sword with a lazy hunger and glaring at all passersby.
"You. Talent." The dark-haired, blue-eyed man bent over her drawing, removing a hand from his sleeve to point at the lines of her unfinished sketch.
"See, I especially like how you captured his wild hair, and the muscles—whew, tough guy—and the danger signs of his body language. Angles, scars, eye patch… you look at him and you just KNOW that he's bad news. He's not looking at you now, but you get the feeling that if he turned his head this way, you'd be skewered by the daggers in his gaze.
"Yet, you also managed to capture the more hidden things—loyalty, and kindness." His finger moved, indicating the little pink-haired cherub who nestled in the crook of the man's left arm and leg, her eyes closed in slumber, sweetly unaware of the world around her.
Delicately tracing the curve of the child's cheek and the loose protective fingers of the arm she used as a pillow, he remarked, "Not many have your talent, or your eyes. It's a rare gift you have, you know!"
"Aah… t-thank you, milord." Rukia dipped her head in embarrassment and a little panic, for she saw by the insignia on his sleeve and the intricacy of his sword guard that he was a noble, and she cursed her inattentiveness. "This, your miserable servant humbly thanks you for your—"
"Che! None of that," tsked the man, cutting her off with a gesture and sitting down on the crate her customers sat on to pose for drawings. "It's a compliment, a compliment! From one amateur artist to another. None of this superior-inferior, 'Your Humble Servant' stuff. Okay?"
"O-Okay."
"Good." The stranger sat back for a moment, studying her closely. Flustered, Rukia lowered her eyes to her drawing, but for some reason she couldn't focus. Her head was awhirl and full of questions.
Who is he? What does he want? Does he recognize me?
"…Tell you what. You look like you've been living hand to mouth, with all respect, and from what I can tell you've been selling your art to make a living. Is that true?"
Rukia nodded—unable to speak, unable to lift her eyes.
"Then I'm going to commission you to draw my portrait." The man smiled as he said it, leaning forward to recapture her sight. "I've always wanted something for my family to remember me by, when I'm gone. Depending on how you do, I might even commission another one, to send to my sister and brother!"
A portrait? He wants me to…? Rukia gaped at him, stupefied. I'm not nearly qualified! One part of her mind babbled, while another part of her swooned at the thought of commissions and what she could EAT on a payment like that.
(Yet another part revived an old, half-forgotten tune about fairytales and princes, but was promptly shunted aside for later recollection.)
"Of course, I'm not expecting it to be done immediately. In the meantime you can come and live with me, or study under my sensei. He can help you to refine your already remarkable skills, Miss—er?"
"Rukia."
"Oh? Rukia… no surname? Just Rukia?" The man's eyebrows climbed, but he grinned all the same. "Well, I'm one to talk. Name's Shiba, Shiba Kaien… but you can call me Kaien-dono, or Kaien-samaaa!"
He chuckled as he said it, and in the midst of her shock Rukia felt herself lifted by the sound of his laughter.
He's so strange, this noble. He's nothing like my (adopted family, adopted) brother at all.
"Sooo… what do you say, Rukia?" He said her name slyly, with something of a jokingly roguish air, but she didn't mind the implied intimacy. In fact she was past minding, and into wishing it were true.
"Yes."
Shiba Kaien (or "Kaien-dono," as she came to call him) was as good as his word.
He installed Rukia in his sensei's house, with promises to build her an abode of her own whenever and wherever she pleased. His sensei, a kind but ailing man, treated her well and taught her to the best of his ability (and his health, which was most often the issue). She shared her days with two fellow acolytes, Kiyone and Sentarou, and found them friendly and affectionate, and zealously eager to help her or "Ukitake-sensei!" in any capability.
Best of all, Kaien-dono came by often to see her and observe her progress, and, on occasion, to sit for his picture. These, Rukia treasured as the best times of all.
"You're getting better, Rukia," he'd say admiringly, posed in various attitudes as she sketched busily away (sometimes in pencil, sometimes in charcoal or when she was daring, in ink). "You're a better credit to Ukitake-sensei than I ever was."
"Oh, no," Rukia would always demur, fighting the flush of pleasure that always surfaced when he praised her. "I couldn't possibly—"
"None of that false modesty, Rukia-chan!" he laughed, ruffling her hair with almost paternal fondness. "You've got more heart than a lot of artists out there… I can see it in your art. You're just that good."
"I—"
"Aah, but that's enough for today! Come on, Rukia, let's go outside and get some fresh air. I'll teach you to fight with a sword—did you know swordplay and art, if done well, are similar in their aesthetic beauty? No? Well, then!" And then Kaien-dono would drag her outside, leaving the sketch unfinished. Later Rukia would come back and put it in a portfolio, and store it for the next time (which never came—she always used a fresh sheet of paper, every time he visited).
She still dreamed of her prince, even in this happy golden life. Not because she was dissatisfied, no, not at all… but because these days, more often than not, she found that said prince wore Kaien-dono's face, his mannerisms, and his smile.
"Oh? Rukia… no surname? Just Rukia?" he'd ask like he did when they first met, except this time he was carrying her away on horseback, her arms around his neck and his long-fingered hands hooked behind her back and under her knees. "If you want a surname, you can have mine," he'd say with a wink, and Rukia would wake, blushing and hot and with a lingering sense of embarrassment that made it near impossible to concentrate on art for that day.
It was impossible, anyway. Rukia was already adopted…
Just like Shiba Kaien was already married.
What was worse, Rukia could not find it within herself to find fault with Miyako, his beloved wife. She was tall yet graceful, slender and fair—she did not draw, but she wrote the most beautiful, most simply intricate calligraphy Rukia had ever seen.
"I first fell in love with Miyako's wrists," Kaien-dono confided to Rukia once, as they watched her prepare tea a little distance away from them.
"Look at them, the way they bend and move so smoothly through the air—how white they are. Even if it wasn't for her obvious intelligence and beauty, I think I'd have proposed marriage because of those wrists alone."
"You really must love her," Rukia remarked quietly, her heart aching for reasons she would not voice, except in her mind: I envy you (her). Her own wrists were thin and bony, and in shame she hid them in her sleeves.
"I do." Shiba Kaien smiled softly. "But our hearts are not our own, you know, when one begins to love."
"What do you mean?"
"Our hearts beat in time with those of our fellows, our dear companions. Miyako… Ukitake-sensei… Kiyone, Sentarou… and most recently, you, Rukia." He ruffled her hair with affectionate ferocity, as was his habit.
"I can relax, knowing my heart is safe with all of you."
It was a shock to everyone when Shiba Miyako suddenly died—like a flower in full bloom, its pale blossom snapped cleanly off its stem—and none mourned her death more so than her husband.
"They had been so close, and so devoted to each other," sighed those who were tasteless enough to discuss it mere days after the last rites had been conducted and the funereal offerings were made for her soul. "Such a tragedy."
Not long after, less savory rumors traveled: that Shiba Kaien had taken to wandering the darker alleys and sections of the city after dark, seeking the shade of his dead wife ("to follow her, most likely"). Unable to find her with the fuzzy sight of mortal sobriety, he'd summoned spirits (of the alcoholic sort—"shameful, for a man of his status!") to focus his eyes to the realm of the dead.
Maybe he'd thought he'd find her, still in the grips of the demonic agents who would lead her ethereal soul to the underworld. It was said that Shiba Kaien was a master swordsman, and doubtless it would be simple enough for him to take care of a couple of little devils. He'd carry her back gently but firmly, holding on tightly enough that the wind wouldn't blow her away.
Rukia imagined that if ever there was a man (no, a prince) who would fight to the gates of Hell and back to rescue the woman he loved, it was Kaien-dono.
Yet, even princes are mortal. And sometimes…
They fail.
"Kaien-dono!" she screamed, clutching the wakazashi he'd tossed her to her chest, like it was a protective talisman. "Stop this!"
"Take back what you said, you misbegotten son of a—!"
"What? Which part, milord?" sneered his opponent, parrying his wild slash. "The part where I said I know the truth about your wife's death, or where I called her a faithless harlot?"
"Both!" The ringing clash of steel on steel, punctuated by screams of terror and of drunken rage. "How dare you slander Miyako?!"
"No slander, milord," the man grimaced as Kaien drew blood, the honorific twisted into a curse.
"For it was no other than I who killed her. I left her the way you found her, naked and strangled on her futon—"
"No—"
"You must have noticed the bruises on her wrists as well? And her lovely thighs… I'll admit, she was much more difficult to compromise than I thought she would be, for a genteel woman." The self-confessed murderer bared his teeth in a lecherous grin, apparently enjoying Kaien-dono's expression and building fury.
"But as I've found, it's hard to argue when you're running out of air."
A keening howl erupted, shattering the night air like shards of so much grief and heartbreak and blind rage that it seemed to literally pierce the listener. Rukia trembled, bracing her legs against the wall and unsheathing the wakazashi. It was only a short blade, but seemed oversized in comparison to her fists clenched about the grip. Right now it was all she could do to stay upright, let alone run away.
"Why did you kill her?" said Kaien in a voice Rukia did not recognize, rasping and hoarse with sheer hate. "Tell me, before I split your belly and leave your innards for the dogs to eat, your eyeballs and bones for the crows to pick at. WHY HER?"
"Why?" The man stood straight, his sword held steady in front of him, and smiled. "Because no one deserves to be so fortunate, when misery is all around us. Only in death are we all equal."
"…Is that your reason, then? Is that all you have to say?"
"All that I'm going to say. What did you expect, an apolo—"
SHUNKT.
Rukia's eyes widened.
"Then hear THIS," Kaien snarled softly in the man's face, each word lingering indefinitely in the suddenly hushed alleyway. It was, Rukia thought, almost as if the ghosts themselves had drawn close to listen, and thus had blocked out all unnecessary sounds.
"Even in death you are not, and will never be, equals with my wife. She, who was all that was good and kind and beautiful…! May she ascend to the heavens unsoiled by the dross of this world, and crush your head underfoot with those of the sinners bound for hell."
"Heheh… it may be as you say." The murderer grinned weakly as he coughed, a trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth. "Neither of us… will outlive this night.
"But now you're also a murderer, so together we'll go to hell. So much for your peerless Miyako!"
"Perhaps hell is our destination. But not together—you're going first." Kaien freed his sword from where he'd run it through the man's ribs, spilling a fresh gout of blood on the ground and eliciting a choked gasp—and for the first time Rukia noticed the identical gash that marred his torso.
The blade slipped from her bloodless fingers, to clatter uselessly on the ground.
"Ah, there you are…" At the sound Kaien-dono turned to her, sounding mildly disapproving. "I thought I told you to run, didn't I?"
As if he didn't just willingly incur a fatal wound to avenge the death of his wife, some part of Rukia (which was not dazed with horror) fumed.
"I… Kaien-dono—!"
"Eh… well, it's good this way too," Kaien continued heedlessly and cheerfully, stepping forward with agonizing deliberateness. With each step, the cloth of his dark hakama slapped wetly against his skin.
"At least, this way… I won't have to die alone," he finished with an effort, just as his legs gave way and he fell to the ground.
"Kaien-dono!" Rukia ran to him, turned him over to see his face.
There was no need to examine the wound again—with this degree of injury, it was clear medical help would be useless. Even though she knew that he had at the most mere minutes to live, Rukia couldn't help but vent:
"You… of all the reckless, stupid—!"
"Yes, yes… I know, I'm an idiot." Kaien chuckled hollowly, the air rattling his throat as he breathed. "If I'd been thinking, I wouldn't have made you accompany me tonight—this burden shouldn't rest wholly on your shoulders."
"A BURDEN?! You, you describe your death as—" Rukia choked back her indignation and wiped furiously at her eyes.
What was this? She never cried... not when her brother rejected her, not even when Renji turned her away.
Damn this sudden rain, falling on her cheeks and rolling down like tears.
"I'm sorry, Rukia… now, don't look like that. Sorry I couldn't stay longer… I'd have liked to see…" His voice faded, and he smiled gently, beatifically. "…Miyako's waiting for me."
He died a few seconds later, his wife's name on his lips like a final prayer. This left Rukia alone with the bodies of two dead men, in the solitude of an alley, in the midst of a downpour (slowly washing away the blood and the horror and the words).
My heart... safe with you.
I'm sorry.
It was only then that Rukia allowed herself to weep—for the deaths of Kaien-dono and Miyako-dono, of innocence and her hopes for the future, of dreams of princes.
"Kaien-dono," she whispered, her broken hiccups gradually crescendoing into a shrill, harsh sob, drowned in the rush and patter of the falling rain.
"You FOOL."
...
TBC.
A/N: My first Bleach attempt. Trying out a new fandom for 'fic!
And yes, the ironic bit is that Rukia in canon universe is a rather, er... terrible artist. (Although Kon disagrees with this statement!) As the first chapter, this is mainly setting up the premise of the plot-- the next chapter should make it clearer.
Please review if you read, and tell me what you think? Thoughtful critique is always appreciated.