Revision notes: The full unedited and uncensored version of this chapter can be found at the-tower-room dot livejournal dot com (no spaces and replace "dot" with period; there's also a link to it in my profile since I can't put a link here :/ ).

A/N: Ahahahaha haha... I'm really sorry. I didn't mean to disappear for a bit and not update. To be honest, I got burnt out of writing ― churning out thousands and thousands of words in a short period of time hadn't happened since my university days. And even though my brain was clamouring "write more! must continue!", the rest of me just wouldn't relent, and since March I was stuck with less than 2000 words that really didn't want to form cohesively together enough to be workable. Gomen ne *kowtows*
It's kinda funny looking back to when I first started this fic, I figured it'd be short and only have 7 chapters at the most. And now it's double that estimated amount *insert Kenshin's ORO emoticon*
Although I must say that I was pretty surprised at the direction this chapter went.

In any case, thanks to anyone who's still sticking around, for all your PM's and reviews and questions about the story. I am, as always, grateful for sharing your thoughts and support :)

In more exciting news, who else is ecstatic about the new Rurouni Kenshin anime that was announced? Who else raised their fist and screamed HELLS-to-the-YEAH for Orihime's badassery over the latest Bleach chapters? Who cried watching the ending scene to Final Fantasy X because it reminded them of the season 2 finale of Buffy when the main couple they're rooting for can't be together?

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*ahem*

Flashback order: 14, 2, 9, 13, 3, 11, 8, 7, 6, 5, 12, 4, 10.

Disclaimer: Bleach belongs to Kubo Tite.

Chapter 14: Account

And then he woke up.

Sora scrunched his eyes from the pain, wincing at the feeling of new bruises on top of the not-quite-healed ones. A small, soft hand was gently smoothing his hair, and he would have smiled at being soothed in such a way were it not for the pain from his swollen cheeks. He settled instead for a sigh that indicated he was alright; it was better that he got the brunt of their father's fists―at least, he was old enough to take it and somewhat survive, having been their father's punching bag for most of his life―than have those land on his not quite three-years-old younger sister. Tenderly, he tested the rest of his limbs: no broken bones this time, and for that he was thankful.

He reached up with a shaky hand and gently took hold of the small one over his head, tears springing up as her other hand covered his. A thousand times he prayed for the Death God to claim him, and in those thousand times he couldn't finish his prayer, knowing the kind of life that would be in store for his sister if he should perish.

But this, this couldn't keep happening. He was close to breaking and their father would soon turn his eyes over to his sister, and he knew, as weak as he was now, he wouldn't be able to protect her from him. He had a little bit of money hidden away; he had been saving up for a long time, in order to free himself and Orihime from this life that they led, but he knew that they wouldn't be able to flee as far away as possible in the state he was in.

Sora carefully turned his head to the side and gestured weakly at the book he had been reading to Orihime that had been thrown to the floor when their father barged in. The image of the Death God stared impassively from the page. He always wondered which of the other gods he'd angered to warrant them to grant him this kind of life. All he could seem to feel were the deep, dark claws of the God of Despair clenching relentlessly over him. And torn was his heart with the belief of the salvation and release that the God of Death could provide him if he ever had conviction enough to finish his prayer.

But his sister anchored him to the world of the living. He couldn't give up yet. He had to take a gamble. They both deserve a better life than this. Safe somewhere outside of the city, out in the open air where they could breathe freely and not have to worry about where their father's drunken fists would land. He would need to be strong for his sister and himself. He had to.

Ichigo opened his eyes. Back in their chamber, they lay on their side facing each other. The scent of her hair wafted up to his nose, and he buried his face among the auburn tendrils as though to hide from the issue that was insistently pressing on his mind. He encased his arms tightly around her. Seven days, he thought. Only a mere week until the full moon. He knew that that day, when it came, would be the longest day of his life. Maybe it wouldn't be such a bad idea to extend their stay here, for at least, should something happen, Orihime would be well protected within the fortress of his father's house and surrounded by gods who knew how to wield their powers well.

She stirred in his arms, turning so that she lay on her back on the bed, fire-light from the hearth dancing along her skin. He watched the rise and fall of her chest, the tangle of her long hair wove over and under and around her arms and torso, like autumn on the snowy hills and fields of her body. His hand hovered, scant millimetres from her soft skin, a finger over her heart vibrating with its constant, even pulse.

She looked the same, but there was something about her that incessantly clawed at his mind, something suddenly different. He sensed it the night before when he opened the gate to his father's garden to find her waiting for him. It was new, a divine light that suddenly brightened her even more in his mind. As much as he would like to attribute it to her requited feelings for him, he knew that it wasn't the case at all. The difference he could feel in her was caused by something else.

He traced his finger down her chest, ensconced between her bountiful breasts, further down to the dip of her navel. His fingers spread over her belly, sensing the tiny grain that had been seeded there by their coupling. For that one day, he thought, will you protect her in my place? He lay his head on her stomach with a soft chuckle, feeling rueful at the thought as he closed his eyes. Currently, what she'd begun to house inside her body was nothing more than an idea, a potentiality, still simply a mass of dividing cells, insubstantial and inconsequential. Perhaps it was merely this that he was sensing as different about her.

Ichigo wondered how soon was too soon in broaching the subject of godhood. Kisuke did say that any time before Orihime gave birth would be a good time to have her drink the draught, and with the worry over the coming full moon he felt he really ought to run the idea by her. Just in case. He truly didn't know what was in store, but the heavy, foreboding feeling he had since he spoke with Ulquiorra had not abated. And it wasn't merely the usual residual feeling one got from meeting with the God of Despair.

With these restless thoughts still swiftly churning in his mind, he fell asleep.

The night ended, and took with it the God of Death.

Sunlight dappled through the curtains of their bedchamber, and Orihime stretched, her limbs spreading through the expanse of the bed amid the tangle of sheets. Although she felt a modicum of emptiness at finding herself alone, she knew that unlike the night before where despair hung so heavily upon her, Ichigo would return later at sunset. The worry over his absence wasn't acute, as she was filled with the knowledge that this morning was just as with all other mornings: he was off into the mortal world to fulfill his duties as the God of Death, and at sunset he would return to her.

With lightened heart, she rose from the bed and wandered over to the adjoining bath to wash up. Sighing over the long day ahead of her, she couldn't wait to see her husband again.

The room was spacious and quiet but for the chirping of the birds outside the open windows. There were only two occupants in the room, and both wished that they could be elsewhere but in each other's company.

She kept her hands in her lap, glanced at him from beneath her brow and looked away quickly. He sat just as rigidly in front of her, fist gripping firmly at the quill, avoiding eye contact at all cost.

Every time Orihime's eyes landed at the numbers tattooed on his left cheek, however briefly, she could feel herself colouring, her body temperature heating up at the reminder of what she'd tried with the Death God earlier in their bedchamber.

She could tell that the Scribe hadn't really wanted to continue their interview so soon either, especially with how their first encounter had turned out, and she couldn't blame him. She felt just as embarrassed. But their feelings upon the matter shouldn't get in the way of his job...right? She didn't want to get him in trouble.

She heard him clear his throat and take a breath as though to begin to speak, but choked on the words before he could utter them.

The silence stretched between them, and the birds outside chirped merrily in a mocking way.

"So. Um."

She looked up, met his eyes for an infinitesimal moment before parrying away again, their faces both reddening anew.

She bit her lip as flashes of the Death God's texture and taste invaded her memory, covering her face with her hands out of mortification and shaking her head vigorously to disperse them. Shuuhei made a sound of alarm at her display, almost forgetting his own ongoing embarrassment and made as if to rush over to check on her, before realizing who she was again and remembering. He crouched frozen, eyes wide.

"Mei-eeh shuddoodis acing ah-wei fumitchodda."

The low, mumbled words penetrated her hearing, and she retracted her hands from her face enough to stare at him puzzledly.

She could only reply just as intelligently. "Eh?"

"Maybe-we-should-do-this-facing-away-from-each-other?"

Odder still, she actually understood him and complied, turning so that she sat with her back towards him. She heard a shuffling behind her as he repositioned himself, a sigh (possibly of immense relief) and another clearing of the throat.

"So. Um. About you and the Death God..."

It was better this way, she found as her eyes wandered over the colourful expanse of the mosaic walls and the draperies hanging over the ceiling and windows. Conducting a non-face-to-face interview with Shuuhei was definitely easier. She was surprised at the number of questions they managed to get through: what had her life been like prior to becoming the Bride of the Death God? What caused her village to offer her? What caused the plague (to which she had no answer, only speculations made from what the Snow Goddess had insinuated, and to which Shuuhei made a note to consult with said goddess at a later time about the matter)? Had she had any past lovers? What had her friends been like? Her family? How had she felt when she learned she was the sacrifice? What was she expecting to find at the house of the Death God? Had she known that the Death God was with someone else before their marriage? And so on.

And with all these questions, more in a similar vein arose in her mind. What did cause the plague? Ichigo might look human, and sometimes innocent, act kind and gentle towards her but he was still a god, and gods were easily angered. He hadn't shown her that side of him yet, but to other gods, then definitely yes. What was to become of her, a mere mortal, in the face of the Death God's wrath?

At the sobering thought, she grew silent, and laid a hand on her still-flat belly. The scratching of his quill upon the scroll continued as Shuuhei wrote her responses.

Anger...the driving force behind the punishments the gods mete out upon her kind. The question of "why" was something she tried to bury inside, for the asking of it might shatter whatever newly discovered love there was between her and Ichigo. And yet, could she really live with not knowing the answer to that question? It would be another loss to add to the many losses she'd had.

Rukia had mentioned that plagues usually only happened when Ichigo got in a certain mood, namely when his relationship with a lover ends. However, another way that plagues could commence was if another god asked him of it as a favour, which very rarely happened.

Orihime wondered at this mysterious past lover, and contemplated the wisdom of asking the Scribe of what he knew. It wouldn't be wise at all. It would be best for her to remember her place in the hierarchy of gods and mortals. At the lower end of that spectrum, she must be discreet and she mustn't question. The business of the gods was theirs and theirs alone, and as a mortal, all she could do was accept it, regardless of the fact that she was the bride of one. What was past was past and better left as such.

But she found that she couldn't hold the surge of jealousy she felt at the thought.

"What was this...person...like?"

The sound of the quill ceased.

"Hmm?"

"This lover?"

Seconds ticked by, and she closed her eyes, wishing she could swallow the words back.

When Shuuhei finally spoke, his voice was quiet, guarded, as though he barely opened his mouth to utter his answer.

"A goddess."

His writing resumed, as though in an effort to drown out his next words.

"Senna, the Goddess of Autumn."

There was neither fear nor reverence in his tone, but the underlying cautiousness piqued her curiosity. She mentally scrambled over the pages of her brother's book for the image of the goddess in question. Her memory was hazy but she could make out a slim figure with purple hair and wide, orange eyes, with autumn leaves swirling at her feet.

Another memory surfaced, of the village, a clear vision of a time of celebration, just before the plague, of words spoken by one villager in an offhand manner, lacking foresight at the consequence of saying them, and her eyes opened wide with realization.

Was that it? she wondered worriedly. Was that the reason...?

Her friends...her brother...the whole village suffered... Just for that?

She clutched at her chest, finding it hard to breathe, but grateful that in this silent, private room, there was only her and the Scribe, and with their backs facing each other he couldn't see her, couldn't witness her grief.

At last, she thought. This was the wrath of the Death God. His vengeance for the Goddess of Autumn.

―"You will go beyond"―

She silently scoffed at those remembered words that rose to the surface of her mind, feeling the hope and naivete of the young, foolish girl she had been, shattering.

―"...and be loved"―

She hugged her knees to her chest in an effort to quell her growing despair, finally accepting those words for the lies Tatsuki always claimed them to be. Here, within the house of a god, there was nowhere for her to hide. Here, she felt all the more small, lower than an ant, and much humbled. Lost and ever more alone.

In the end, she was as she always had been: a pawn in the game of gods.

She felt as though she had finally woken up.

APPENDIX

Ichigo - God of Death and the Moon
Orihime - formerly a human
Hisagi - a Scribe (servant to the gods among whose duties include the recording of the gods' lives to distribute as stories to humans)
Senna - Goddess of Autumn (filler character from Bleach: Memories of Nobody movie)

Thanks for reading :)
May/2011; revised 2012