Author's Note: This… doesn't really make sense, because no one gets hurt in the actual fight. But I felt like writing it anyway. :shrugs: Sorry, y0. nn
If you don't know who it is… shame on you :0
Words: 371
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Fire.
Cold, icy fire, lashing against your nerves, fighting against the surge of adrenalin that pulses to oppose it.
That's what a slice from a sword feels like; keen narrow acid fire laced across your skin, deep into the muscle. It's not like a bruise, or a tear; there's more blood, more dull throbbing from those, but they rarely go as deep.
To be cut by a sword is painful.
But when you're shinigami, that doesn't happen much; Hollows don't carry edged weapons, and when you train amongst those of your own level, you're lucky to lay a scratch on each other. And when your level is of the highest calibre….it can be years between feeling such.
Which is why the icy fire that is spreading through his veins brings a stab of fear, and a stab of cold rage.
He curls his arm instinctively to his chest, whirling his own blade to clash against the lightning fast following attack, thin bright sparks falling through the night air as metal screeches against metal. They slide apart, jump back; feet landing with a soft thump on the boards, eyes locked in a searing gaze between foes. The fire still burns in his arm as he throws it sideways for balance; blood is flowing there, thin and fast for the moment, leaving a sweeping spatter against the harsh contrast of white and black that he wears, starting to trickle down towards his hand, though he can barely tell. The nerves on that side are still screaming, but they are muffled, pushed away, by the cool anger and intent to kill that swells to fill his soul.
Betrayal, murder.
And twisting an innocent's heart and mind until they no longer knew what way to turn.
There is no forgiveness in his stare as he raises his blade steadily, moonlight turning the dull sheen to liquid ice white, glinting and throwing ripples across the surroundings, their colours already leached away by the night till nothing but black and white shines.
Down the length of the blade, his opponent smiles, and the fire in his arm flares, though his voice remains as cold and deadly as a winter night.
"Your true regret…. has not yet begun."
Ichimaru.
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