Enjoy!
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Auburn Strands and Red Threads #4
His first mistake was going into her house.
It was stupid, and he knew it was wrong once his feet started to move, but it was impulsive nonetheless. There was something about her eyes that made it hard to cope. When he looked at them—right at them—it struck a chord so deep within him that he forced back every tremor that came his way. There was no way he could force himself to look long enough to find out what it was about those shimmering, grey eyes that gave him chills, but he could no longer convince himself it was all trickery.
The next hindering factor was her scent.
He'd been following a hint of it, and he now realized that he wasn't just tracking her down. No, in the back of his mind, he knew he was being pulled in by the tantalizing smell he only had a memory of from the other day. It eluded him at times, yes, but when he did catch a whiff of it, it sent off signals in his brain that blinded him momentarily, and he followed it with the sole purpose of getting more. Of course, he would not think about this in depth. He ignored every time he had to refocus, but then it was all around—that sweet, intoxicating aroma.
She must have made some type of potion . . .
She knew he would be coming, so she made sure she would stop him . . . right?
That's what he convinced himself in this overwhelming instance. Even though, he had thoroughly smelled her body and the scent would hit him at random moments, he needed a reason to justify his actions. Why else would he feel light-headed? Why else would everything blur for a moment?
His second mistake was looking at her eyes—again.
He thought he was doing well; he had yelled at her and felt himself getting a hold on his mind again. Then he turned around to glare at her because he felt he could do that much.
He was wrong. Dead wrong.
He looked into those eyes and felt he was being drawn into them. For a moment, he felt himself about to shut down and just stare into those silver pools and fully accept any attack she inflicted. He thought many things—things that were highly out of place considering all that was going on. He was convinced she was a witch of sorts, and her foolishness was pissing him off. She had him completely under every one of her invisible spells, and he wasn't strong enough to overcome them.
He had to kill her.
No matter how all this ended—jewel shard or not—he had to kill her because he never felt more compelled to do whatever anyone wanted until this very moment.
His last mistake, the one he felt he shouldn't have failed, was his hesitation.
When she ran forward, coming towards him, he hesitated. He wasn't scared, but he wasn't being defensive. He wasn't sure what he was feeling, it all happened so fast, but he knew that was a big mistake.
That's why he acted impulsively, again.
He chased her instead of drawing his sword.
He should have taken her down, but he could only think of righting his wrong.
He had to catch her.
He did catch her, but . . .
He wasn't sure what she did, but he knew she had fired something at him, and it went right through him. His heart was gone, he knew that, and all at once breathing was something he couldn't do. All he could hear was a waterfall roaring close by, and all he could feel was that pain—that raw, sickening pain as if he were doused in acid and then set on fire. He would gladly get stabbed through the stomach a thousand times if he didn't have to endure this pain.
The last thing he remembered were those eyes shimmering like polished silver in the moonlight and how he would have done anything for them.
For those . . . beautiful eyes.
She had not moved for thirty drawn out seconds.
She was sure she was going to faint or wake up with a bad headache. She would have been willing to deal with a migraine if it meant this was all a horrible, twisted nightmare. Hesitantly, she looked down. She saw the top of his head, ears not as high up as they usually were.
Why was he just sitting there?
Yes, she hurt him, but that was the thing: She hurt him. She was not capable of hurting people as badly as she would hope—and she didn't wish to hurt people at all. She hadn't wanted to hurt him at all. So . . . again, why was he just sitting there? How badly could he be injured?
She noticed a sensation trickling down her legs. Her eyes wandered to the outskirts of the boy's feet; a dark liquid was starting to pool around him.
His blood was pooling around her own feet.
"No," she whispered, breath gone.
Suddenly, the weight of his body became more than she could bear; she could feel herself struggling to keep her balance, but the fight was coming from a different world. Her eyes saw his motionless body through clouded, tunnel vision. Her senses were sending her messages through fried nerves and broken passage ways. Her mind was miles away where nothing ran through rational logic.
She snapped back to reality—every part of her being running on overdrive. With a pounding heart, and breathing that was beyond her control, she knew she had to help him. She was a healer, which was her specialty, so she had to do something for him.
She slowly bent down, ears ringing, mind fogging to a point where she kept questioning this reality, and placed her hands on the boy's shoulders. "I-I'm sorry for hurting you," her voice shook uncontrollably, "b-b-but I-I can help you if you would just . . . just . . ."
She managed to get him off of her only to have his head loll back.
Her stomach tightened and produced decaying bile, making her want to tear out her innards. His mouth had ceased its spewing of blood and had settled to a steady trickle of what remained. His eyes were wide and dim—no glow whatsoever—no glimmer of irritation—no burning fire of rage—no spark of recognition.
Lifeless.
Emotions of varying degrees rushed to her. She screamed, strength draining from her body as trembling hands tried to push him away from her completely. Her hands kept slipping from his shoulders, and in her failed, feverish attempts, his body slipped past her fingers and came crashing back into her thighs. Her knees buckled instantly, and she fell backwards, landing on her back after being shocked by the impact. She was sent into a new wave of terror when she realized his head was now resting on her knees. She kicked her legs rapidly—weakly—and struggled to pull herself up and away from the body. She scrambled back, the head of the body landing with a thud, and stared wide-eyed.
She . . . had to help him.
She caused him to be . . .
She caused his . . .
His . . . heart . . .
Orihime made a low, continuous noise, almost as if she were trying to hum with her mouth open. Her mind kept racing, but it was not on any course. Could she heal him? She's never been in this kind of situation. She's never caused this kind of situation, and now she had to find a way to fix it, but there was no way she could. The power needed to heal him was years off from what she could currently do—she was told that . . .
Shun'ō said that she couldn't heal him if his body was too decomposed to heal.
Back then, the worrying factor was the goop on him, but now there was nothing to aid in the accelerating process of any breakdown that might be taking place.
She reached for her hair clip, filled with a sense of relief that made her feel insane, but stopped. What if something shot out again? There was still an unchanged clip on her desk. Would that work?
She brought her hand down and tried standing up, but her feet kept slipping on the accumulating blood. Orihime tried desperately to stand, becoming distressed and more fearful, but nothing worked.
"I need help." She began to cry. "I really need help!"
She felt it again, the sensation that killed the boy. Instinctively, she tried to stop whatever was about to happen; again, her fingers failed to do what she wanted them to and the power she felt was released. She flinched, screaming, when she saw the light she was unaccustomed to.
"Well, that's a very new resp- Orihime! What happened to you?!"
Orihime stared at the little being floating in front of her face. It had blond hair that flowed passed its shoulders with the right side pinned back in a zigzag design. Its legs with the odd shaped feet were black with a red spiral wrapping up and around each leg. It wore a red poncho with orange stripes fanning from the shoulders—but upon further inspection, this poncho appeared to be an over-sized half shirt with long sleeves, which extended past its hands—that covered a black shirt.
She's never seen this being before, but it sounded a lot like . . .
"Shun'ō?"
"Wha . . . ? Don't you recognize me?" He caught a glimpse of his new appearance and gave himself a quick look over. "Ah . . . ? Oh . . . So . . . ?" He shook his head. "Never mind that! Why are you covered in blood!"
She gasped. "Th-that boy from the other day!" She pointed to the body. "I-!"
Shun'ō gasped. "Orihime, what-"
"I killed him!"
His gaze shot back to her. "You? You did this?"
"It was an accident! My clip, it blasted all of a sudden-! He wasn't going to hurt me-! I-I just wanted to protect-!"
"Orihime, please calm down! Just . . . Just breathe for a second." He wanted to ease her, but he had trouble easing himself. She said she killed him, but that couldn't be possible. Orihime refused to hurt anyone, yet she's claiming she killed this boy? A boy that wasn't going to hurt her?
And the blood . . .
Her shirt was covered, there were splatters on her face, and her legs were painted with it. The boy himself was surrounded—drenched. Then there was the hole through his chest—right through his heart.
She . . . couldn't have . . . But she's covered . . . And he was shot in a place that would have obviously resulted in certain death.
He tried to wrap his mind through every scenario possible, but her confession kept popping back up.
She killed him . . .
She killed him?
"Orihime," Shun'ō said slowly, forcing himself to realize this was still the girl he was loyal to, "I know there must be a reason for all of this, and I know there's more to this than what I can see. I also know that you called me here. You want to heal him, right?"
She nodded, her head appearing to be loosely attached to her neck. "Y-yes! I need you and Ayame to-!"
"It's okay," he said soothingly. "I can do this on my own."
"What? No, this is serious! We're running out of time and-!"
"Trust me." He smiled softly. "Just . . . promise to tell me all that happened afterwards. And pay close attention to the words I speak."
Orihime watched in confusion and growing worry over the time, as Shun'ō floated above the body. He closed his eyes, extending his arms down and breathing evenly. He began to float upward, and the body floated up with him; it was slumped over, back arching towards the ceiling, but slowly started to curl until it was in an upright position. Orihime cringed slightly at the sight of those dim, lifeless eyes and the hole in his chest, taking little notice of the bright, transparent pink light that illuminated from her transformed fairy, and she almost missed the yellow veil that was engulfing the body. She jerked once she realized Shun'ō's hair steadily grew and cocooned itself around the corpse, all the while the pink light remained shining.
Shun'ō breathed in again and exhaled evenly. "Riko-tekina yōkyū: Return this soul."
The light surrounding both fairy and corpse became unbearably blinding, but Orihime could not feel her eyes squint or look away. She was mesmerized by the events taking place, and her senses were still having a hard time recovering from what she had done. After it dimmed, and after her sight could focus without seeing splotches, she managed to see the body floating back on the floor so that the boy was lying on his back, away from the puddle he had rested in, and Shun'ō's hair retracted.
"Okay, Orihime," Shun'ō said calmly, opening his eyes, "you need to seal the soul so that it will settle."
Her heart constricted tightly. She didn't know what he was asking of her. "I . . . I . . ."
"It's okay." He floated over to her. "I'll walk you through it, but we can't waste time. Extend your hand."
Numb and confused, she did as she was told without missing a beat. Shun'ō floated over her palm and slowly descended, sinking into it like water. Her nerves panicked, but she watched without flinching. Her hand began to pulse pink and yellow lights, and there was a pressure, a type of numb throbbing, that was now her entire hand.
"Alright, Orihime," Shun'ō's disembodied voice said, "I know this is coming at you all at once, but please do as I say. I need you to go to him."
"O-okay . . ." She quickly crawled over to the body and was struck by the state of it. Other than the blood on the floor, the body itself had none on him, and the spot on his clothes where the blast hit was repaired. "He . . . he's-"
"Running out of time. Pull back his clothing."
She hesitated, but did so. His chest was also repaired; there was no hole to speak of, but there was a white light, about the size of a baseball, glowing weakly.
"What you're looking at is his soul. I've called it back, but it is out of place. It knows that its owner has died, and it is trying to return to the process of leaving the World of the Living. Draw a circle around that light with your index finger and an X through that circle."
"G-got it." She quickly, meticulously, did as she was instructed. What she drew was able to be seen, outlined thickly in black.
"Now, in the four sections that have been made within the circle, draw smaller circles with dots inside of them. The four sections are equivalent to the four worlds a spirit can pass through, and as you know, it signifies death as well. The circles within these sections represent the body and the dots are the souls. Depending on which world, we are either asking for the soul back or for the soul to enter."
"Right," she said softly. She made the circles with the dots as he explained the reason to her.
"Finally, do you remember what I said earlier while I had him wrapped up?"
"U-um . . ." She thought hard. "Y-yes!"
"I need you to say that right now, word for word. Do you think you can do that?"
"I . . . I don't know," she said shakily. "Can you repeat it one more time?"
"I'm sorry, Orihime. This is all new to even me, but if I say it for a second time, I don't think this will work. Think hard. You can do this."
Her eyes began to water, the pressure building at a crippling rate. "I don't know . . . I don't think I can-"
"You can. Just think. Think."
Furrowing her eyebrows and slumping closer to the ground, she thought and thought to make sure she got this right. She had been listening, and it had not been that long ago, so she knew the words were still with her. She had to do this.
For him.
If she never had to look at those eyes again, so be it, but she wanted her last memory of them to not be of shock, confusion, or accusation.
"R-riko-tekina yōkyū," she began, throat tightening, eyes stinging, "Return this soul."
The light of his soul shone brightly, and the black markings dissolved. There was an undeniable thump she felt come not only from the body under her fingers, but from her own. The boy's chest rose, taking in a deep breath, and settled into easy breathing.
Orihime stared, no real emotion attached.
He was breathing again.
She felt his heartbeat.
"He's alive," she whispered. She stared at the rise and fall of his chest. A small smile began to creep upon her lips. "He's alive."
"It appears so." Shun'ō resurfaced from Orihime's hand, causing her to jerk her hand open and face it towards the ceiling. "Orihime, now that . . ." He was taken aback by the tears streaming down her face and the smile that was present.
"Th-thank you, Shun'ō." Her smile slipped and she began to sob. "Thank you so much!" She grabbed him, hugging him close to her face.
"O-Orihime!" He blushed, not expecting this contact. "Th-there's no need to thank me. I-I was just doing what I ought to."
"But i-if it w-weren't for you . . . I-if it weren't for you-!"
"Really, Orihime, you shouldn't thank me just yet. We have sealed the soul, but there is a chance it may not latch on how it's supposed to. If that happens, the balance between soul and body will become unstable, and it will force its way out."
"So . . . s-so he may not be . . . ?"
"It is a possibility. We have to wait and see."
Orihime was silent, but her body was shaking. This was all her fault. She released Shun'ō. He faltered in the air, not expecting the sudden freedom, and looked at Orihime, who was now hunched over on the boy's chest; she was sobbing uncontrollably.
"I-I'm so sorry I did this to you!" she said to the boy. "I didn't mean to hurt you! Please be okay . . . Please wake up . . . Please don't die!"
Shun'ō watched with a heavy heart and a heavy mind. He must admit he had his doubts about her actions even as he healed the boy she claimed to have killed, but now he felt angry with himself for thinking poorly of her. If she had killed him for no good reason, she would not be a wreck like this, would she?
Of course not.
There was no way she would kill senselessly in the first place. Still . . . none of this made sense. His own appearance and this new source of energy was overwhelming enough. He, and the rest of his companions, had felt the change a while ago, but they couldn't place it; there was no telling where it came from or what had happened. After the feeling came, they all fell unconscious. Then he heard– No. He sensed Orihime calling for help, and he had jumped into action before he was fully conscious. Moreover, he had no idea where the knowledge to do all he did came from—he just knew. It all came to him as soon as he thought to do anything, and he went with it.
Why, though?
He wanted to discuss this with Orihime, but he couldn't will himself to do it now. Not when she was like this.
"Another time then," he said to himself, returning to her hair clip.
Inuyasha was sure he had been somewhere before this darkness consumed him again, but he couldn't remember where.
He arrived in a closed, dark space, then he didn't remember anything. When his mind was aware again, he was journeying through another space that took him to a different darkness. Where these spaces were exactly, he could not recall at the moment. All he knew was that he felt heavy yet light at the same time, and he couldn't find the will to want to move. He was at peace, sort of, and there was nothing to make him want to remember or figure out why he was in this state.
However, there was a problem with the darkness: It made him remember his past.
He wasn't used to being an outcast then. Kids his age, even the adults, were so cruel to him, and he never knew why—never understood why no one wanted him around. He had tried his best to make friends and be as kind as possible, but nothing worked.
And then. . . . there was the time he saw his mother cry.
He had asked her what a word was—a half-breed—and she had been full of such sorrow. He didn't understand that either; he didn't understand a lot of things then, but that's when the anger in him had started to grow. She wouldn't have cried if he hadn't asked her, and he wouldn't have asked her if people had not called him that. It must have been something derogatory, and it only added to the confusion he felt for people hating him so much. After that, he adopted the coarse, cynical attitude he had today. He stopped caring why people felt the way they did and gave them reasons to hate him.
It was years later before he found someone who actually treated him like someone normal, and, yes, he found himself falling in love for the first time, but nothing ever came of it.
She died while he was . . . stuck in time.
Things were okay now. The people he knew were accepting of him, but sometimes . . . he felt like he should be different—like being who he was wasn't good enough. He wanted to feel like he was good enough for someone—like his first love made him feel all those years ago—but he wanted to be just the way he was.
No changing.
Just him.
"I'm so sorry . . ."
Sorry . . . It was starting to occur to him that he wasn't good at some things. Saying what he actually felt was one of things—and listening to what he really wanted to do, like, finding-
the girl with the eyes
-the jewel shards effectively.
". . . I didn't mean to hurt you . . ."
If the pressure of life was finally cracking his sanity, he wished it didn't happen when he was starting to finally rest. He didn't want to—didn't need to—have a heart to heart with himself.
"Please be okay."
That voice . . .
He became ashamed—ashamed at his ease. Why was he thinking of her? Why hadn't he noticed sooner that he was attaching these apologetic words to that girl? Why-
"Please don't die."
-did he want to hear these words from her? There would be no reason for her to say them, and there should be no reason for these words to get to him.
He really must be stressed.
The fact that the next day managed to come was nothing short of a miracle to Orihime.
After she had calmed herself down last night, she convinced herself that the boy would need a more suitable place to rest than her floor. She had considered putting him on her sofa, but found that to be insulting in every way possible. She struggled to get him to her bed—she hadn't wanted the help of her fairies because they were in an unpredictable state—but she somehow managed to get him there all by herself. A part of her had expected him to be awakened by her sloppy efforts, but he remained asleep.
However, maybe unconscious was a more suitable term.
Next, she found herself cleaning up the blood from the hallway floor. She trudged through two hours of scrubbing and soaking with what limited cleaning products she had. For the most part, her actions were on auto-pilot. She needed a distraction from her thoughts, but this did nothing to help. She was washing away what she had caused, and the fact that no one knew of what heinous act she committed made her feel like nothing more than a murderer covering her tracks.
If she didn't have the ability to heal, she would still be a wreck on the floor. Ultimately, she would have had to turn herself in to some sort of authority. She had taken a life, but she could mask that fact simply because her abilities allowed her to do so. Where was the justice in that? How was it possible that a more severe punishment was not in order? She knew she had to atone for it somehow, some day.
After she got her hallway clean, she took a long, hot bath. She scrubbed herself clean three times and washed her hair until she could no longer stand to touch it. She remained in the bath for little over an hour—replacing the water twice. Her school uniform, she vaguely noticed, was far too covered in blood for her cleaning abilities to recover, but that was the least of her worries. She knew she wouldn't attempt to clean them, and there was no way she would keep them.
She lied on the sofa for the remainder of the night. Occasionally, she found herself checking on the boy to make sure he was breathing. Each time this was confirmed, she felt more grateful than the previous, but the fact that he was not waking up brought her to tears. She would give anything if he were to make it through this.
All these events brought her to her current situation.
She left for school early, arriving twenty minutes before anyone else, in her winter gym uniform. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail because she couldn't bring herself to touch her clips. When she left, the boy was still resting, but . . . she wondered if he was truly healed. The method used to heal him . . . she had never seen or heard of it before.
How did it work?
How could she be sure that it could work?
His wound was gone, but he had definitely died. His soul had to be brought back . . . but what all did that mean? Was that even the best option?
She didn't know.
She didn't know who she could turn to so she could get a better understanding of things. Ichigo had been an option, but there was no way she could look him in the eyes and tell him what she had done. Rukia had also been an option, but she didn't like the cowardice that went with the decision.
How she wished . . . she could have a little help.
"Orihime!"
Her head jerked up from her hands. She found herself squatting on the floor with her back to the wall. She looked down the hall to see Tatsuki running towards her. "Ah," she said, throat dry. "Morning, Tatsuki."
"Don't give me that!" Tatsuki scolded once she reached Orihime. "Where have you been?!"
"Wh . . . ? I've . . . been at school."
"Bull! Ritsko came running up to me before I could even get in the building convinced something horrible happened to you. Then I find you in this secluded area, on the floor, grabbing onto your head. Do you have any idea what was going through my mind? Do you have any idea what's going through my mind?"
Orihime had a hard time following her friend's rant. Not only was Tatsuki hyped on adrenaline, but the lack of sleep was starting to release its effects.
"Ah . . . I'm . . . I'm sorry."
Tatsuki sighed harshly. "You know I'm looking for a little more than that. What are you doing all the way over here? What's going on with you?"
Orihime stared up at her dark-haired friend. There was so much she wanted to say—so much she needed help with—but she didn't know where to start. How could she explain that she had unknowingly gotten herself tangled up with that boy from the other day? How could she go on to explain how, in the course of one night, she had killed that very same boy and brought him back to life?
She couldn't explain any of it.
Instead, she did what she knew best.
She smiled, ignoring the fact that it felt extremely out of place, and looked her friend in the eyes. She forced her own eyes to shine with what last bit of gleam they had left to say, "Everything's just wonderful."
And Orihime fell over.