A/N: Hello and welcome to this decade old fic :)
With the news that Bleach is about to resurge with the coming anime of the Thousand Year Blood Arc, I figured: "why not finally get around to muck about with this fic like I'd been wanting to do for a while now?"
Hence, the title is captioned with "Revised" because this fic is also undergoing some overhaul. Fixing some word choices and sentence structures and hopefully making some images and descriptions more clear. Since this story was originally published as I was writing it, and I was more about concentrating on the stuff happening (especially in the early chapters that were originally published within days of each other), this will hopefully be a way for me to better tie things up and make everything more cohesive, and expand upon the stuff that I felt really need work. So here's to hoping I actually succeed in doing that instead of making readers more confused lol.
And with that, there's also the hope that I'll finally get around to continue writing the extra chapter I'd been attempting to write since this fic ended. An epilogue, if you will, since I know a lot of readers weren't satisfied with the ending when it first went up. But I haven't been writing for so long that I don't know if that will actually happen, so uh...good luck to all of us, I guess.
Oh, and yeah, just to err on the side of caution the version here in ffnet will have the smut edited. The uncensored version will be up on ao3.
And to those that want to read the original, it can still be accessed through my profile.
And now onwards to an appreciation for the Em dash...
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Chapter 1: Sacrament
"The plague has taken over the village―"
"―We really have no choice about it―"
"―We must do it―"
"―For the village―"
"―It's the only way―"
"―A sacrifice―"
"―Yes―"
"―We must offer a bride to the God of Death."
Such finery she wore―the best the village of Karakura could scrounge up on their meagre means on such short notice. The dressmaker's best silk dress with its lovely embroidery and beadwork on the hem and sleeve cuffs didn't really fit Orihime―the sleeves a tad long, the shoulders too wide, and the bust slightly tight―made for another young woman who never got to get married in it, having succumbed to the plague that had wrought upon Karakura. Even the dressmaker never got to see their work chosen to be part of the oblation to the God of Death, another casualty of the plague. But it was the best dress—that just happened to be a wedding dress—left behind in the empty, dusty shop―and nothing but the best had to be offered in order to appease the god.
Today was Orihime's wedding day, and yet on her face lay solemnity, and the procession that accompanied her seemed more like a funeral march. There were no smiles on anyone's faces, no congratulatory gaiety in the hollow eyes and gaunt cheeks of the villagers surrounding the rickshaw that was drawing her to the Karasu River, only the fervent prayer that, with Orihime's departure, their suffering would finally end.
She pulled the hood of the red velvet cloak farther down over her eyes, not willing to see more of the same faces carrying the same expressions, knowing that the faces she wanted most to see had been gone long before this moment.
She was alone.
No family or friends left.
And with those fulfilling criteria, by unanimous vote she had been bestowed the honour of becoming the bride of the Death God.
It was just as well. Not that she could remember her parents anyway, her brother having taken her away from them when she was a child, fleeing through the long stretch of miles from their old home in the city of Inuzuri, and finally alighting upon this village. Karakura.
And for a time the rest of her childhood had been free of the abuse they'd both suffered at the hands of their father and mother. For a time, she had been happy. She had her brother. She made precious friends. She'd never felt the loss of their parents because her brother had become her parent, and the only one that ever mattered.
But then, suddenly, she no longer had him or her friends. They'd succumbed to the sudden death brought about by the very plague that ailed their village. As the rest of the villagers had not been willing to sacrifice what remained of their own family members, they deemed her the best candidate as she had no one to make an opposition for her.
Orihime herself had not protested. The only thought she had was that she would be with her brother soon, and that this way she could make amends for the harsh words she'd said to him prior to his death.
Soon, brother. Soon.
She was surprised by the sudden trail of wetness down her cheek, and she quickly wiped it on her sleeve with a sniff. From what she could see of the ground and what sound she could hear beyond the rolling wheels of the rickshaw, they were close to the river.
Raising her head, Orihime glimpsed a simple boat, recently repainted into a warm white, with a bouquet of cream-coloured flowers at the bow.
So it is to be a barge, then, she thought. A funeral barge. Somehow she had imagined the sacrifice would happen on an altar where she would lay, prone and waiting, for the sacrificial knife to descend to her heart and spill her blood. Or maybe even a shoveled opening on the ground where she would be buried alive, suffocating among the dust and earth.
But a barge...
That was something she hadn't expected.
So, she was meant to be burned in a pyre on the boat, her and the boat's remains scattered naturally on their course on the water.
A stuttering exhale escaped her, and Orihime raised her hand to still her suddenly trembling lips, blinking rapidly to stop the onslaught of tears.
This isn't for me, she tried to convince herself. This is for Karakura. The village that had taken me and my brother in when we had nowhere else to go. This is repayment for that kindness.
The rickshaw stopped, and from the spectators that watched her, she felt the weight of their expectation and prayer. Their wish for the end of the nightmare. This is it. My end for their salvation. The final—and only—death they're more than willing to offer – went her thoughts as she stepped down, the fingers of one hand curled tightly on the skirt of her dress, the other on the wooden frame of the rickshaw. She felt her hand tighten momentarily on the wood, but then forced herself to let go, that hand rising to hold onto the ties of her cloak, and she marched down the path marked by the villagers lined on either side of her.
She must be brave. Strong. Her end was near. It would all be over soon.
As gracefully as she could without assistance—for no one dared to come close to the one being sacrificed—she got on the boat, and laid down, hands resting over her stomach.
Closing her eyes, she waited.
For the kindling. For the fire.
But instead, the boat was pushed, and she was on her way with the flow of the river.
With a gasp, Orihime's eyes flew open, saw only the sky above, a gloomy gray, and cloudless. Confusion furrowed her brow. What was happening? Was she to be left to her fate on the boat? Was she simply there to wait for the river to flow onto the ocean or down a waterfall? What about the plague and the Death God—?
Oh.
That's right. Regardless of her questions, whatever was at the end of this boat ride, there would only be death to greet her. So her questions and confusion really did not matter at all.
She dared not move to sit up. Dared not look back; couldn't bear to anyway. There was nothing left for her in that village. And by the silence that followed, she knew that no one mourned her.
Resignation engulfed her, and with a heaving breath she allowed the tears that had gathered in her eyes to finally fall.
The sounds of crepuscular cicadas pulled her back to consciousness, and Orihime rubbed her eyes. She had fallen asleep; the gentle rocking of the boat had lulled her. Above, the sky was awash in the flames of the setting sun, the orange and red spreading to the blue of the hottest fire and onto night. Stretching, she arched her back and reached out her arms and legs, willing the blood to pump through a body that had been laying prone and unmoving for what seemed to be most of the day.
Rising to sit, Orihime only noticed then that the boat had stopped, docked against what seemed to be white stone steps that rose from the water, leading up to a grand pavilion made of the same white stone, its roof held up by intricately carved columns, with railings as a boundary that overlooked the river.
Taking stock of where the boat led her, Orihime eyed the white balustrade that surrounded the dock, continuing up to encompass the pavilion and further on into the palaces beyond. At the top of the steps, there stood a lone horned statue, on guard as though to intimidate any trespassers from entering the place. It was pale; a white mask with twin black stripes running over its face; lengthy white hair falling from its head; black fur along the edges of the collar and cuffs of its white coat; white hakama that ran down the length of its legs. The familiarity of its appearance tickled her memory, eyes widening as she realized at once that it was carved in the image of the God of Death.
Gaze roving once more, Orihime noted that amidst all the white of the structure, colourful flowers grew along the columns, walls, canopies, and roofs; so much green and delicate blues, reds, and pinks in contrast to all the white stone. Quite a juxtaposition for the place to be the house of the Death God: to be unusually surrounded by life.
"Is this the Lunar Palace?" mumbled Orihime to herself, remembering what it was called, for this God of Death was also the God of the Moon.
Oh dear, thought she, hands curling into fists to rest over her heart. This is it. She heaved a shivering breath, tried to still the sudden trembling of her chin with an effort. Time to face my death.
Heart beating with trepidation, she nervously rose and stepped off the boat, and hesitantly ascended the stairs, careful to not get the hem of her clothes wet despite the fact that that might not matter anyway. Such worries and trivialities were of no significance to one who was meant to soon be dead.
Orihime watched her feet move up the steps, watched them move her closer and closer to what awaited her at the landing, until the clawed feet of the statue came into view.
Gray eyes rose, taking in the black hakama that covered the legs of the statue, up to the black coat over its torso and up finally to the masked face. Eyebrows crinkling, Orihime stepped back. Was it a trick of the dusk light? She could've sworn that statue had been white save for the black trimmings, but now the colours seemed inverted: what had been a black mask with parallel white stripes down over its face was now white with black stripes, and the long fall of white hair now was bright orange, with the black tuffs of fur on its wrists and the base of its neck turned to red. It seemed as though colour seeped back into the statue as the sun waned from the sky.
Peering for a closer inspection, she gasped, even more frightened than when her eyes first fell upon the statue as she saw the head move. Beneath the white mask she saw eyes of gold with black sclera, and she realized that she had been mistaken; it wasn't a statue at all. Pulse quickening, she turned, feet taking her to the top of the steps, wanting to flee back down into the boat.
But she faltered to a stop. What about the village, and the plague? came the thought. She was reminded of her duty. She had agreed to become the sacrifice in order that the village could be saved, and however engulfed she was with fear, she had been ready to face death. She couldn't just leave and the let the village perish. It had, after all, accepted her and her brother. This was payment for their kindness in taking them in.
Trying to even her breathing, she turned back and came face to face with the statue. When did it get here? she wondered with surprise. It had moved quickly and silently, and she barely had time to stagger back and scream when it grabbed hold of her waist and hauled her over one broad shoulder, and with a flash, seemed to have flown her inside the palace.
Finding it hard to breathe, the wind got knocked out of her with the speed of the god's passing, and she could only clutch at its side in panic. Everything passed by in an upside-down blur, and Orihime thought the flight would never end until suddenly, without much ado, it stopped finally at a balcony of what seemed to be a bedchamber farther and higher into the palace.
Contrary to its earlier action, this time as it let her slide down its body, it was gentle, and she couldn't help the blush that entirely heated her at the full intimate brush of her body against it. She could feel her nipples harden, her pulse quickening to a different rhythm as it kept its hold on her tight against it. As she became aware of their location through her periphery, she could only now process one thought:
"You're really the God of Death?"
Her voice was husky and tremulous; her throat parched.
She was still having a hard time processing that what she had taken for a statue was the actual god she was sacrificed to.
It gave a single nod in answer.
Her eyelids fluttered; she could feel the harrowing events of the day finally catching up to her. Her vision of the Death God blurred, and she could only remember those piercing golden eyes being overtaken by the black, as she too, succumbed to its darkness.
Orihime awoke to the feel of hands on her. Eyes still closed, she felt exposed, feeling air against her skin. She moaned as those hands stroked down her body. Her eyes flew open as she became fully aware of what was happening.
Candlelight flickered in the chamber, the shadow of the god before her dancing on the walls and ceiling. Her garments had been ripped straight down the front, and the remaining tangle of fabric pinned her arms down at her sides. The Death God knelt between her spread legs, wearing only black hakama. On its chest was a circular hole with black lines raying out of it symmetrically, and despite those unusual markings, the god seemed an almost perfect specimen of masculinity and beauty. She writhed helplessly as it pushed against her, and she shook her head as she groaned out, "No."
As if in anger at her rejection, it planted the long horns of its mask on either side of her head, pinning her hair in place and she could only gaze up at it in fear. Above her, it moved its head, dislodging the mask, and she saw the Death God at last.
It seemed that doffing the mask triggered a transformation, and she could only stare in wonder. First it was the eyes: the black from the sclera ebbed, and with it, the gold faded to brown. The long curtain of hair flared out behind him before receding into his scalp, leaving him with short orange spikes. The deathly, marble-like pallour of his skin had taken on a more lifelike tan hue, and the black marks and red fur faded. Most inscrutable of all, the hole in the middle of his chest healed itself. The weight on her hair disappeared as the horned mask dissolved away.
His head descended to capture her lips, and she closed her eyes tightly. She frowned at the feel of his heart beating at the press of his chest against hers. At the back of her mind sprang the incredulous thought that a death god had a heart, and that it pulsed to match her own.
Could that even be possible?
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A/N: I have no set schedule for updates. I can only publish whenever I get around to finishing the next chapter being revised.
Thanks for reading :)