Disclaimer: I do NOT own Bleach or any of its characters.

Here we go-

I thought I enjoyed being alone. I'd believed it was where I was most comfortable, where I could finally relax. I suppose too much of anything can turn even your favorite pastimes sour.

Staying still did not come easy to me. Though I knew my body needed time to heal, my mind told me to walk, to run. To find my way into the fighting ring and force my body to work like it once had. Yet the moment I tried to rise, my arms would give out beneath me, and I'd plummet back into my pillow.

My strength had not returned in full. It would come in waves, usually late in the night, when nothing productive could be done with it. The pain was something I could endure, quite easily. Far easier to take than Ichigo and Ryley's hovering. They were never together, of course. Ichigo was always careful in that aspect.

Though, his caution meant I was never alone. Ryley spent every morning beside my bed, helping me eat and changing my dressings before being forced away. He had been chivalrous enough to overtake our wedding planning- yet only until I felt well enough to resume the burden.

And the moment the door closed behind him, Ichigo would stroll in from the balcony, where he'd probably been perched on the railing, listening and judging every word that left my fiancees mouth. Ichigo would stay far longer than Ryley, simply because he had nowhere else to be, which he reminded me every time I demanded some time alone. Yet, though I would never admit it, I looked forward to our time together. Because, towards the late evening, Ichigo would tell me stories he'd stored away while growing up in Bellator. He told me of when Kisuke had fallen down the palace steps, and how he'd had to stand beside the throne for two weeks because his injuries wouldn't allow him to sit upon it. He told me of winter, when the whole city had a towering bonfire, and the women had started a new tradition of throwing their cheating spouses clothes into the flames, and dancing on the ashes.

Ichigo was a natural story teller, throwing in just enough of himself to make the story fun and fresh.

Nights were the hardest to bear. When Ichigo departed, taking all the light, airy stories with him. Leaving me with a head full of terrible thoughts and a body unable to run away from them. How do you escape something inside your own head?

I found a small solution in the form of paper and ink.

I had never claimed to be a poet, or a writer, but somehow the words flowed quite easily. I wrote to anyone and everyone. I wrote a story to my people, telling them about everything I had tried and failed to do for them. I drafted a letter to my mother, making myself write only about all the happy times from my otherwise traumatic life, so she would not feel sad for her only daughter. I even wrote to Ryley, apologizing for how cold I once was to him- though I still sometimes was.

These were all things I would never let anyone see. They were written only to console myself when the nights were long and lonely.

And yet, I crafted many poems for Ichigo. All written in response to the one he'd slipped under my door, what felt like years ago. I threw most of them into the fire, hating how the words felt jumbled and sloppy, while his had been smooth and elegant. I felt myself trying to force the words to fit, trying to pretend them into truth. But you can not force poetry.

It had taken me days to find the truth within myself, to find the words, and when I finally did, in the soft embrace of early morning brought after a sleepless night, I felt accomplished and grand.

And when it was time to throw that one good poem into the waiting flames, I couldn't bring myself to release my hold. I tried, struggling to hold up my own weight, for many minutes.

It was only paper, only words and ink, I tried to tell myself. Just because its physical form is gone does not mean the expressed feelings will be erased…

I hid that paper in the crease of my pillow case. Just in case.

It was on a good day, when I could sit up in bed without feeling ill, that Sam found his way to me. I had heard him pacing outside my door for a long hour before he could bring himself to knock.

It was taking him even longer to find the proper words once he was standing before me, he stood, on the opposite side of the room, his hands being rung in front of him as he looked everywhere but at my face.

I knew it would remain that way if I did not speak, "I want to thank you," I began, and his eyes at last snapped to mine. "For counting the lashes." I would have been lost without his quiet tallies, I would have gone mad wondering if each strike was the last.

Sam shook his head, sucking his lower lip between his teeth. "Don't- don't thank me. I already feel sick enough."

I tilted my head.

"Are we destined for this?" He burst out suddenly, his palms moving up to dig into his eyes roughly. "Are you destined to bleed, and wither away, to be broken and remade again and again? Am I destined to watch, to pretend I don't see it? Were we born to fight the battles of higher men; only to die on a field far away from home?"

Soldiers die. It is what we raise them to do.

I did not have an answer to give him, and if I told him what I believed, I was sure it would do nothing to console him. I was slightly surprised by his words, his emotions. Sam had always been quiet when not laughing or joking. He had been a sturdy stone in the rushing waters of the High Courts.

"We are soldiers, Sam. We will do what we must."

His hands lowered, revealing eyes too dead to belong to him. "That isn't good enough for me. Not after-" He cut himself off, to take a much needed steadying breath. And I realized, water strips away even the strongest of stone, if given the time to do so. "Aren't you angry? Look what he did to you!"

"I've had worse."

"I know." My body stilled and I watched him slowly. "I've been with you since the beginning, Hime. I remember you thirteen and wild, I remember your life and spirit. Your incredible laugh, your caring soul. And I also remember when you were gone for weeks, gone without a trace. And when you emerged as something else entirely."

"That's enough." I demanded.

He continued as if I'd said nothing, "I've heard rumors about your time down in the pits. From people who claim to have been there, to have watched as you ripped those men apart." I was shaking my head, my chest suddenly tight, leaving no room for air. "But I know you, Orihime, more than you think. So what truly happened down there? What horrors did you see in the dark? I need to know, then I-"

"Don't you think there's a reason I don't talk about it?" I yelled, shocking even myself. The room suddenly looked different, it morphed into darkness and stone around me. "If you knew even a fraction of what happened down in those tunnels, you'd never look at me the same way. It would be all you saw."

"I already know-"

I cut him off once more, "No. You don't."

"Then tell me, make me understand. I've been your friend, haven't I? I've watched your back, fought beside you in the South, taken over training the new recruits. I've done everything you've ever asked of me- just let me help you."

"And how exactly can you help me?"

He opened his mouth, no sound coming out, shaking his head as a million and one possible solutions flew behind his eyes. "I don't know. I mean, sometimes talking can help. Maybe, just talking about it will move along the healing."

I'd considered that. Long ago, when the wounds were fresh, all I'd wanted was to talk about it. To scream until my voice grew hoarse. But then, time passed, and the cuts turned to scabs, and then into scars. I pushed everything down. Shoving it into such a dark part of my mind, so the light could never reach it. I had wished it away, and now it flew back up, flashing before my eyes in a whirlwind of anger and pain. "It will never heal, it is forever engraved on my body."

The simple fact was, Sam was too late. Seven years too late.

And now, there was nothing left for him to save.

Understanding dawned in the lines of his rugged face, "The scars…" I did not say anything, knowing there was no need. We had both tortured prisoners in war and we both knew the marks such torment left.

He went to walk towards me, then stopped, thought better of it, and stayed put. Hands fisted tightly at his side, head bowed slightly. "I can never forgive what he did to you; What he made me do to you. You understand what that means, don't you?" Though his voice was quiet, it was also stern. The tone of a man who'd made up his mind and would not be talked away from the ledge.

I had heard it in his voice only once before. The night he'd gone searching for his mother's murderer. When he'd forced me to stay behind, insisting it was a journey he needed to make alone.

Normally, I would respect such a decision- much like I had that night. If not for the feeling that, this time, he would never make it back down. I had lost many companions over the years, some more heartbreaking than others. Yet, Sam had always survived. Sam had always found his way back.

And because he had counted, I took one step onto that ledge with him.

"You know, I don't remember much of that day. I remember the heat, and the smell, but most of all, I remember my father's words. He called me his enforcer, his servant. And in a way, I suppose he has a point." I sat up, cringing with the strain. "For what good is a General that does not serve. What good is an Heir that does not learn from the mistakes of her father. I have understood your words, Sam Cortman. And now I ask that you understand mine." I slipped off my bed, the ground cold against my bare feet. It shot chills up my legs, yet I did not allow that to slow me down. I took one step towards him, then another. Struggling with every inch gained, but Sam did not try to assist me, he knew where these steps were leading me. "I have led men to die. I have watched our friends be cut down. And I have abandoned the idea that I can be redeemed." I finally reached him, my entire body shaking, whether it be from the anger rising inside me or my muscles about to collapse, it didn't matter. I fisted my fingers in his shirt, and snarled, "If you think I will allow you to destroy the one good thing that's managed to survive in the hollows of this place, all because you think it will gain you some sense of redemption, you truly know nothing about me. If you want forgiveness, then you shall earn it by remaining by my side. You shall earn it by saving the lives of our recruits."

My legs had gone numb, somehow remaining under me in the moments that followed. Sam never took his gaze off me, never altered his blank expression. And for one agonizing heart beat, I thought it would not be enough. That my words had come too late. Always too late.

But then, he reached up, untangled my grip on his tunic, and clasped my forearm tightly. Clenching to it like it was his lifeline. As if it was the only thing tethering him to the earth.

"I will stand with you, Orihime Inoue. The steel of my blade will strike at your enemies. The beat of my heart depends wholly on the thumping of your own. And, even if it takes the remainder of my life, I will repay every drop of your blood that was spilt by my aid. If I ever stray from my oath to you, then I ask for you to bear witness as Sancus, Goddess of Oaths, strikes me dead."

His words were ancient, having not been spoken since long before even my grandfather's time. And they could not have been spoken at a more perfect time.

"Good." I smiled, returning his forearm grip. "For we have work to do."

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Another chapter down. I can't believe how far this story has come, and I just want to thank all of you who have supported it.

It means so much to me- really.

Till next time-