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Her hands were sure, moving with infinite elegance and a touch as light as raindrops on one's skin during autumn showers. Manoeuvring with care, she delicately placed his limbs in a more comfortable position than they were, then torn part of her right sleeve from her attire. Fingers dancing like kisses, she wiped the blood from his face in slow motion, cleaning ever so unhurriedly the cuts and bruises that messed the color of his air, that tore at her memories.
Ichigo was the sun made flesh, a golden beacon in a world of greys, a spark of flame that ignited everything it touched. Even now, despite his stillness, the ashen tinge of his cheeks and the amber of his eyes stolen from her sight by fair lashes, she felt herself blaze from her very depths.
"This is not the man I remember."
Her fingertips traced his brows, now relaxed and neatly arched, promising ample expression. They trailed the outline of his jaw, brushed his slightly parted lips, went up the ridge of his nose, danced near the closed lids, and then swept to his fiery curls, burying themselves in the spiky, unkempt hair, caressing them.
"It's not right for you to sleep so."
The intense violet orbs, always full of life, blurred and hid a fraction of a second while Rukia blinked. They woke again, mesmerised at the sight of him so close to her, his head resting near her lap, and then brimmed with tears.
"Did I kill the one I cared most about yet again? Did I fail, again?"
The mere fact of stating these words out loud brought a lump in her throat, choked her heart with rusted, iron claws. Was she fated to bring only death to this world? Was this the true reality of her purpose? Perhaps this whole business was only an excuse to drown oneself in battle; a false principle with a hidden goal, a quest for power laced with pretty words like protect, save, defend.
Memories of these instants, so many years ago, when she held the bloody, fatally wounded corpse of Kaien in her arms, were violently brought back to her. The guilt of that moment had never left her; she would forever blame herself for taking his life, no matter if he had told her that her acts had freed him for the hollow's grasp. Her sword, words or thoughts always killed those she held dear in her heart, always chastised her for simply feeling.
"I could not protect you from myself…"
Defeated, he let her head hang lower, her chin resting closer to her chest, her hands stopping their motion in his warm, bloodied locks. Her tears fell like shooting stars, too long kept inside, wetting his lips, bringing a taste of salt to his mouth.
"I should have… I…"
She buried her pale visage in shaky hands, crying her heart out in sheer depress over all of it. Shiny drops raced down her unclothed arm, down her neck, quenching her skin like a sweet balm, yet never bringing peace.
………………………………………………………………………………………………
Yoruichi glanced toward her companion from her perch in the window's frame, feral eyes shining in the dark room. Urahara, face half-hidden by his headwear, returned the gaze with silence, and then turned toward Isshin, who simply looked up at the stars, his expression unreadable.
"Did he…?"
Her soft voice seemed to carry far into the night, echoing on the walls of the small, simple room, easing the atmosphere with its life. The exiled captain looked back toward the boy's bed, taking in the spectacle of his statue-like body and the female spirit, entangled and bloody.
"Yes…"
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