Hello people! Please don't kill me for the one-day-late update! I was really, really busy this week. As in unable to write at all busy. So I managed to get this done in a short time after all that. I hope you guys don't come after me ready with explosive kido.
Oh, and don't worry, guys, that Ichigo and Rukia are separated at the moment, or that pacing seems slower in this chapter. Soon things will get very sped up, I promise. I have the grand finale mostly planned out. And it will be angstily epic.
Thanks to reviewers: Faia Sakura, MugetsuIchigo, MerryKitten, Gentmaster3000, Phantom Claire, ilovebks, IronEclipse, DLC2904, BleachFreak16, CrystalShardsofRain, KJC2025, brialees, chasingdragondreams, UseYourImagination, Darkness9825, Guest, CodeGeasslulu, Mtmeye, La Wei, uzuki-chan, Taichichaser2000, ellecasszio, NarutoLuver896, Orange3WhiteSkew, Qwerty321, poooy200, Tsuki no Yukihime, Hinata001, 00closetFreak00, NobodyEpic, Hinata001, laughingspider, Chirpy Hitomi chan, silverscribbles, Miss Namikaze, mypupps1.
I don't own Bleach, I hope you guys like this chapter!
The sky is dark that night. Contrary to popular belief, darkness is seldom absolute and uniform – night as opposed to day is, of course, dark, but in detail there are a thousand different skies that drift over a silent Seireitei over the space of a decade. This particular eve is utterly and completely black, the celestial arc an impenetrable stretch of heavy sable, moonless, starless, an oil-thick suppressed weight in the air. The orbed circle of silver, so beautifully round and symmetrical but a cycle before, is hidden, shrouded by a darkness that envelops the world and creeps like a venomous insect into hearts.
It is that specific hour of the night when even the hardest-working shinigami have collapsed at desks or beds, and the earliest risers who train in the early morning are still sound asleep, covered by the mantle of dusky cloth that is the cloaked robe of the heavens. The last lights in the Gotei have long since spluttered out. All is still, bated, silent.
The shadows rest especially heavy within a particular room in the Fifth Division barracks. Two figures lie slumped on their respective beds, one with flaming red hair a spectacular mess over his pillow, limbs spread in a gangly sprawl half-off the cot. His head is tipped back, mouth hanging open, a line of drool issuing from one corner, and deep snorting snores drift towards the ceiling. Zabimaru is placed carelessly leaning against his feet.
The other, wrapped in haori and sandals still on, could not be more different. He sleeps like a soldier, so quiet and still that one would think the room held one shinigami and not two. Even in slumber, there is a hidden tenseness in his limbs, an unconscious readiness, and he frowns in his dreams. Zangetsu stands upright by his head, the white silk ribbon caressing his metal-cuffed wrists.
The seconds and minutes trickle past unheeded. The quiet continues. The dark continues.
A spark of light in sable, an eyeblink of what should not be.
The ribbon on Zangetsu's hilt shifts. Wake up, Ichigo! But the zanpakutuo's voice is muffled, suppressed by the cuffs.
Ichigo turns over in his sleep, choking on nothing. His frown deepens, and a line of sweat runs down his hairline. The bright singularity hovers above his chest, a pulsing star wreathed in blue reiatsu, humming a dangerous frequency. It casts a shivering cerulean shadow on Ichigo's face, rivulets of watery luminescence playing across his skin. The wavering light trembles, then begins to grow, feeding greedily on his reiatsu. A hole begins to appear in the center of the brightness, a yawning entrance into a nothingness deeper than the darkness of the sky.
Zangetsu's ribbon snaps taut, tightening painfully on Ichigo's wrists. WAKE, Ichigo! The warning reverberates in his consciousness.
Ichigo snaps awake with a strangled gasp, springing into a sitting position and nearly colliding with the half-open portal in front of him. "What on earth –" he manages, then a colossal flood of agony swamps him like a wave, as the portal sucks away at his already minimal reiatsu reserves as if it is some sort of parasitic leech. Momentarily unable to do anything other than clutch at his head, Ichigo rolls of his mattress with a groan, hitting the floor with a thunk.
Across the room, Renji jolts awake with a startled "Mmphwah?", hair in violent disarray and blindly reaching for his sword.
Groaning, Ichigo struggles to his knees, using Zangetsu as leverage. The portal is juddering now, lacking the reiatsu it needs to stay open. No, no, no, Ichigo thinks past a haze of pain, reaching for the whirling space. The portal throws dancing turquoise shadows onto the ceiling and walls, cavorting madly around the room.
"What is that?" Renji's outraged hiss sounds from beside him. The tip of Zabimaru wavers in his shaking hands.
Ichigo has no time to answer him, for at that moment an echoey voice emanates from the spinning depths of the portal.
"Hello there! Can you hear me, Kurosaki-taichou~? Ichiigoo-san?" Urahara's singsong tones.
Ichigo pours every last drop of reiatsu he possesses into the portal, gasping as he stumbles towards the tiny maelstrom. "URAHARA!" he shouts back, breaking off into a coughing fit at Zangetsu shakes under his palm.
But the scientist a half-century ahead in time makes no indication that he has heard Ichigo's plea. "Mayuri-san. Is there any way we can sharpen the transmission? No? Aiyah," Urahara clicks his tongue unhappily. His next words strike a chill into Ichigo's heart. "I'm very sorry, Kurosaki-taichou, it seems that the machine is misbehaving. We will have to try again after repairs."
"No – Urahara," Ichigo chokes, Hang in there, Zangetsu, just a bit more…
"Oh, we've got next to no power left. Sorry again, but at least the readings show that the portal is active and functional, if unstable. Please note that next time you need to supply a steady stream of reiatsu for the portal to bypass the initial fluctuation. We'll contact you shortly, Ichigo-san, so not to worry, not to worry."
The portal dwindles. Ichigo's hope dwindles with it. He is on the verge of passing out.
Rukia.
He is not going to let her stay in this hellhole.
In a burst of movement fueled only by adrenaline and immense determination, when his skull feels like it is going to split in two and the bile has risen up in his throat, Ichigo snatches up a piece of notepaper from the writing desk. His shaking hands pen scarcely legible words on the scrap, and the tosses the paper into the portal with the last of his strength.
Reiatsu cuffs. He knows. Be ready.
Urahara's voice is nearly indecipherable now. "Turni – off – achine – stay – safe – goo – luck – what's – paper – through…"
With an understated pop, the portal disappears altogether.
Ichigo collapses prone on the wooden flooring, sucking great heaving gasps of air through the gap between his teeth, glorying in the leftover throbbing in his brain that is no longer howling agony. The room is dark again, and his vision blurs in and out of focus, and he just lies there, the cold, sweet night air drying the perspiration that drenches his face. Urahara got the message. A glow of victory in the haze that is the world.
For a moment, all is silent. It is a miracle that none of the neighbours had been woken.
Renji is still staring wide-eyed at the heap that is the captain of the Fourteenth Division, Zabimaru gripped so hard that his knuckles shine white in the shadows.
Ichigo could care less about him right now. He closes his eyes against the calm, concentrating on breathing in, and breathing out.
Renji breaks the quiet with a bout of incoherent noises.
Ichigo hides a pained grimace. So much for the peace.
"What in the name of…what was that?" Renji says, trying to hide the shake in his voice.
There is no answer for a few moments, as Ichigo tries to prise himself off the floor. It shocks him for a moment when his elbows tremble and threaten to give away under his weight.
A hand enters his vision.
Ichigo looks up blearily to find Renji standing above him, hand outstretched and with a dubious expression. He takes the hand after only a moment's consideration, allowing himself to be tugged upright with a grunt. "That," Ichigo says tiredly, slumping back against the wall, "was a reiatsu portal. Me and Rukia's ticket home."
Renji hovers for a bit, then decides to sit down opposite, although he still clutches Zabimaru carefully. He considers this piece of information, and decides to accept it. "Umm, okay," he says cautiously. "Is that how you got here? Like, here, in this time?" He looks at Ichigo warily, as if still undecided whether he should go bolting to the nearest seated officer and give a report.
"Yeah."
"Is that how you're going to go back?"
Ichigo nods, more like an uncontrolled falling forwards of his head than a sharp affirmative.
Renji fiddles with Zabimaru's sheath. "Er…It closed though," he says hesitantly.
A dangerous glint appears in Ichigo's eyes, and Renji would have been severely intimidated if the man in front of him wasn't slumped like a rag puppet against the corner. No duh, genius, the looks says.
"Um," Renji says quickly, "is it going to open again?"
"Yes."
Renji gives Ichigo an appraising sort of look. Unsure as he is about the physics of the entire time-travel area of science, the "portal" had looked hazardous enough just now. If it were to open in the training grounds, for example, it could cause no small injury to shinigami standing in close range. Aizen-taichou's kind reminder the day before resurfaces suddenly in his mind.
If you see anything that bothers you, please do not hesitate to contact me directly.
This entire portal thing definitely classifies at something that bothers him. And Aizen-taichou had said it in such a trusting way, as if happy to give him the responsibility of making sure things in the division went all right…
Renji's eyes flick towards the direction of Aizen's office momentarily.
Ichigo notices, and his fingers clench.
"Are you going to report this?" Ichigo says quietly, bringing Renji's attention back to him. The tone of his voice surprises Renji – there is no belittling sarcasm, nor threatening undertone, only calm resignation and something resembling… disappointment?
Renji stops in sudden confusion. Why would this man be disappointed in him? He doesn't even know him. It makes no sense.
"I'm sure Aizen told you that he's always open for you to come and voice your concerns," Ichigo continues conversationally, staring at the ceiling. "He's a nice captain, after all. Totally selfless." There is the sarcasm, twisting his lips into a bitter grimace.
Renji looks at him, really looks at him, and sees the dark shadows under his eyes, and the slight shaking of his hands, how the cuffs bite into his wrists, and the thin trickle of blood dripping onto the dusty wooden floor, down into the cracks between the panels. The thin, raised blood vessels that are massive bruises on his hands, signs of reiatsu overuse near the manacles.
With a start, Renji realises that this captain in front of him really is no more than a prisoner trying to escape his cell.
And Rukia.
Rukia needs the portal open as well.
That cements the decision. Renji meets Ichigo's gaze levelly, and says clearly, "No. I'm not going to report this." My decision, he thinks silently, not yours.
Ichigo sees the abrupt hardness in Renji's eyes, and a corner of his mouth twitches upwards. He nods slowly, a hint of approval in his expression. They have come to a new understanding, Rukia being the center of it. So this Renji has some of Pineapple-head's backbone, after all. Good.
But the solidarity does not last, for just as Ichigo is taking stock of Zangetsu's presence in his mind, and assessing his reiatsu levels – almost nil, after that ordeal – Renji's voice sounds out again, forcing him to open his shuttered eyes.
"So…um…do I know you in the…um, future?" The question is again hesitant.
"Aa." A monosyllabic answer.
So that's why he seemed disappointed. "Oh. Just asking, do I ever get anywhere as a shinigami? Especially against…" Renji pauses, fumbling with his words.
Ichigo sighs, opening one eye. "You're fukutaichou under Byakuya. He appreciates you, even though he doesn't show it that much. Happy?" Maybe if he gives him a good bit of information, he might stay quiet for a while.
Renji blinks twice, then practically glows, stretching back with his head propped up on his hands, showing a delighted grin. Fukutaichou, eh? Not bad, not bad – Rukia's a fukutaichou too…maybe he's not that far from Rukia as he had previously thought.
While these happy thoughts race through Renji's head, Ichigo winces as he examines his inner world. He had been unprepared for the portal opening. If he had released his reiatsu in one controlled burst, he might have had a chance of forcing open the cuffs – in sheer agony, of course – but it would have been possible. The slow leeching of his reiatsu just now had prevented him from reaching the peak he needed. No matter. He will not make the same mistake again.
"Er…Ichigo?"
He doesn't shut up, ever, does he?
"What."
"So. I know this isn't really the best time, but, ah…are you and Rukia, like, you know…?" The question is admirably vague.
You've got to be kidding me.
Ichigo springs up so fast, Renji jerks backwards.
"Whoa," Renji says placatingly, "I was just asking."
Ichigo gives Renji a long, level look. He had always suspected that Renji cared a lot more about Rukia than he cared to admit, but then again, didn't they both? It hadn't interfered with their friendship; it had always been a mutual understanding that Rukia was to be protected at all costs. But now…if this, younger, Renji is already so…involved…what does Pineapple-head feel?
Renji shifts under Ichigo's gaze.
Finally, Ichigo looks away into a far corner, folding his arms, and says irritably, "It's none of your business." His foot twitches involuntarily, and he stills it forcibly.
That gets under Renji's skin. Taichou or not, he is not going to be dismissed like that by this man. "Oi," he growls, "Don't you give me that crap. I'm her best and only friend. Of course it's my business."
Ichigo glares at him. Renji glares right back, a vein throbbing at his temple. This continues, as if they are daring each other to blink first. Neither pauses to consider just how childish their squabbling is.
Then Ichigo realises that he is suppressing a grin. Their arguing is so familiar to him that for a moment he half-believes that the Renji here is the one he knows so well, and would trust with his life. A typical stare-down.
But this Renji doesn't scowl and fire back another insult, like Ichigo expects him to. Instead, the first expression of true anger rushes across his face, and he stands abruptly, reaching for Zabimaru and his shihakushuo.
"I'm going out," Renji snarls, and in an eyeblink, he is out the door, stomping to the communal changing rooms. The morning light drifts weakly into the room, bringing a cold current of air with it.
Ichigo is left alone, the grin slipping off his face. No, he is most definitely not the Renji he knows. The different reaction is like a punch to his chest.
He looks in the direction of the Kuchiki compound, where Rukia is. We need to get home, he thinks. If he concentrates, he can just pick out Rukia's reiatsu signature, like a match-light in the distance. The signature is small enough to be invisible to shinigami any less familiar with Rukia's reiatsu. Byakuya must have reduced the setting on the cuffs.
Ichigo rests his head in his hands, trying to knead the growing migraine, a remnant echo of previous pain, from his temples. He forces himself to think, to reassess their position in the light of Urahara's imminent contact. What he needs is some way of contacting Rukia, to warn her to be ready without Aizen overhearing…
A tiny flicker of an idea.
Could that work?
Ichigo rechecks his reiatsu levels, and grimaces. Barely enough. But it could be possible.
Taking slow, deep breaths, Ichigo cups his hands together and breathes his reiatsu into them. Inside his mind, Zangetsu wearily shifts, and adds his strength to their bond.
In the pallid light of early dawn, a muted brightness shines from a dormitory window.
(BerryBREAK BerryBREAK BerryBREAK BerryBREAK BerryBREAK BerryBREAK)
The halls of the Tenth Division are lit only sporadically by flickering lights as every shinigami from footsoldier to captain – especially captain – sleep soundly in the hours drifting between night and dawn.
All is quiet, well, mostly, anyway.
For great, heaving snores float through a number of halls in the innermost sanctum of the division's corridors, obscenely loud and very much in disregard for anyone's comfort, much less propriety. New recruits are fed the story that a hulking, snorting duck-like yokai haunts this section of the barracks, and most actually believe it until they discover that this "yokai" magically disappears whenever Isshin-taichou is on-mission.
Isshin sleeps deeply in his duck-patterned pajamas, sucking his thumb, his blankets all kicked about like a child's. He hugs a fluffy stuffed duckie to his chest – Mr. Waddle – which, along with its master, is the happy origin of the yokai rumour.
A sharp rap on the closed windowpane.
Isshin shifts, stuffed duck tumbling out of his arms to the floor.
A series of sharp raps on the glass.
"Mmmpfh, it's not time to wake me up yet, Masumoto-chaaan!" Isshin whines plaintively, shoving a pillow over his ears. "Go handle your paperwork…mmph."
A hiss of frustration at the window. A rock flies through and smacks Isshin right in the middle of the forehead.
"Owww, Masumoto-chan…you're so cruel," Isshin complains, sitting up and rubbing his eyes, still half asleep. He takes one step, and promptly squishes the stuffed duck into the floorboards underneath his feet.
"NOOOO~! Mr. Waddle!" Isshin grabs the toy and smoothes its fur. "ARE YOU ALIVE? TALK TO ME!"
Mr. Waddle is silent, squished face slowly re-inflating.
Isshin strokes it, mumbling, "Yes, you're okay, Mr. Waddle…"
A voice sounds from the window, torn between laughter and sarcasm. "Do you know how disturbing that is, Uncle?"
Isshin narrows his eyes, peering at the window.
"Uncle, we need to talk."
(BerryBREAK BerryBREAK BerryBREAK BerryBREAK BerryBREAK BerryBREAK)
The heavens are an artist's palette that dances to the colours of deep winter. The sky spins slowly from sable to navy to deep, clear blue, great, heavy brushstrokes of a celestial painter as dawn creeps like a stranger into the great arc above. But even the day is as forbidding as the thick dark of the night, for that morning is an unforgiving slate grey, bare wisps of clouds but crystalized silver on a sky as cold, and the exact colour of, her brother's hard eyes.
So thinks Rukia as she lies curled on her bed, staring through the open window at the world outside, and herself detached in a half-suspended haze of exhaustion, not even feeling the frigid air streaming through the opening.
She has not spoken a word to anyone after her brother had left her choking for air, cuffed, on the gravel pathway near the entrance of the Kuchiki compound. The younger Rukia had helped her to her room and dithered for a while, asking the servants to bring some hot tea, and caring for her as if she were an older sister.
Rukia had stayed completely silent through all these ministrations, and at length, her younger self had left, despondent. The tea, not drunk, is now stone cold on the desk.
But the reiatsu cuffs on Rukia's wrists are colder. Rukia has never been afraid of the cold – her zanpakutuo is an ice-type, and somehow snow and ice have always felt familiar to her. But not so these cuffs, for they emanate an artificial, unsettling, wrongness that freezes her skin and runs artic in her blood. The aching reverberation of pain is constant in the back of her mind, and Sode no Shirayuki, her constant friend, is muted and silent, locked away.
Rukia had been unable to sleep. So she had lain in the same position for hours, vacant violet eyes watching the paling of the sky, trying to keep her mind blank and away from the tiny raging part of her that is terrified for Ichigo, and the emptiness that is her brother.
I'll be okay. Wait for me. Ichigo's brown eyes, determined.
A rustle of wind bears a present through the open window. A plum blossom, silvery-pink, silky and delicate. It drifts into her motionless hands, resting quietly against metal and skin.
The touch is gentle, but it jerks Rukia from her half-stupor. She suddenly has an image of Hisana fading in her illness. She must have looked upon the plum blossoms just like this.
A sudden wave of surprising disgust floods through Rukia. What is she doing lying here like this? She's not dying of an incurable illness – what excuse does she have? The cuffs are debilitating, yes – well then, she will just have to train herself to ignore them. She's done more difficult things before.
When Ichigo comes – when he comes – I will not be a useless lump of baggage.
Decision made, Rukia springs upwards, tucking her legs underneath her as she tries to get out of her blankets.
The pain hits her like a full-on reiatsu wave. Her muscles scream in protest at movement after hours locked in the same position; her heart struggles to pump enough lifeblood to her head after getting used to its slow rhythm; her sight tilts alarmingly as black spots swim across her vision.
Breathe. It probably wasn't such a good idea to get up so fast.
A minute later, Rukia is able to place her feet on the floor, albeit unsteadily. As she takes her first unsupported steps, she finds her legs alarmingly shaky. Her wrists throb. Gritting her teeth, she ignores this and slowly makes her way out to the courtyard, bringing Sode no Shirayuki with her. The sword is unresponsive, a cold length of metal that is foreign to her.
Stumbling to a halt next to the first tree, she holds onto its rough bark for support, leaning Sode no Shirayuki against the trunk. First things first. Shunpo.
Rukia lowers herself carefully into a basic training stance, one of the first pieces of footwork any shinigami student is taught in their first week at the academy. Like a novice, she aligns herself with a clear path in between the plum trees, slowing her breathing. In, out. In, out. If she closes her eyes, she can almost imagine the bark of their houhou instructor, and the ruffled breathing of a dozen other students lined up in a hall, ready to take their first shunpo.
Right. Let's go.
Rukia snaps her eyes open and wrestles the fabric of the air to her will, shoving reishi against her back like she has done thousands of times before, gliding effortlessly forward –
Her knees hit the dirt with a muffled thud, her hands barely coming in front fast enough to catch herself before her face connects with the dust. Her wrists scream in the dual agony of taking all her weight on the hard landing and the spiking ache of the reiatsu cuffs.
Rukia takes a look behind her. A grand total of…ten feet. Approximately the result that any average first-year shinigami student would achieve in their second houhou lesson. Well, at least she hadn't slammed into a tree.
Rukia tries not to broadcast her self-hatred loud enough to wake the entire household.
Forcing her frustration into a controlled knot in her stomach, Rukia stands painfully. She can do this – no, she must do this. If she remains at this level of control, she might as well acquiesce to Ichigo scooping her up and carrying her like an invalid. Shunpo had never been her strong suit – at least, not until extended training sessions with both her brother an Ichigo rectified that. Her previous level had almost reached a master's proficiency. It is humiliating that she now has to struggle to even reach the basics.
But pride has no place here. Rukia picks out another line through the trees, and readies herself. The scent of the plum blossoms wafts through the air, a calming current of peace that stills her anger. Breathe.
Brow knitted in intense concentration, Rukia attempts to take another flash-step. Her feet gouge a long scar in the morning-dewed grass, revealing the hard soil beneath. She manages to not fall on all fours this time, arms windmilling until a semblance of balance is restored.
Better.
Fired with a new determination, the weariness seems to flow away from Rukia's aching limbs as she repositions herself. After she gets shunpo to a manageable level, getting Sode no Shirayuki to respond will be second on the list, she decides conclusively.
A few shuddering shunpos later, Rukia deems her skill to have reached what she internally calls barely acceptable. The small glimmer of victory is marred by the fact that her wrists are now burning with sharp discomfort, her legs shake underneath her weight, and a glimmer of sweat is on her brow. But the pain is strangely therapeutic. It is the proof that she is actively doing something to improve her situation, and somehow makes her feel less useless when imagining what Ichigo might be going through right now…
Rukia slams the thought into nothingness, her throat constricting.
She grasps a low tree branch for support as once again she stands. Her body spasms in protest at the movement, but she wills herself to ignore it. One more. Rukia forces herself to relax. Breathe.
The moment she gathers the reishi behind her back, her knee crumples and she jolts dangerously to the left. Unable to stop her momentum, Rukia can only watch in a strange sort of detached fascination as she careens towards the rough bark of the nearest tree. The frost-ridden edges of the trunk would surely take skin off her hands. She wonders how blood would look like on the fallen plum blossoms, crimson against pink. The forewarning of pain only dimly registers in her tired mind.
A flash of black to Rukia's right, and she collides side-on with something warm and rough as she misses the trunk by mere centimetres.
As the whirl of the world slows to a stop around her, Rukia finds herself enclosed in a soft circle of arms that feels achingly familiar. And the reiatsu-signature… For a moment, disoriented, her heart leaps as a wild hope surfaces in her chest; and then the world sharpens, and air rushes into her lungs, and she knows it is not him.
Rukia looks up to the faintly accusing green eyes of Shiba Kaien.
"Kindly explain what you were thinking, Kuchiki?" Kaien growls, his eyes angry, although he carries her exceedingly gently to the edge of the porch. "Training for a clearly extended period of time with reiatsu cuffs on?" His tone is once again that of a commanding officer.
"Kaien-dono…" Rukia says, trying to quash a rising tide of disappointment so strong it hurts. Her head still spins from the exertion of shunpo, and in the haze her mind wanders. Why had she ever thought that Kaien and Ichigo looked so similar? Looking at Kaien-dono now, she can see where Ichigo's jawline would be different, and how the edges of the eyes that should be brown not sea-green would be softer…
Someone is shaking her. "Oi. Kuchiki, you still here? Breathe. Look at me."
Rukia blinks. "Oh, yes, Kaien-dono. Sorry." She rests her back against a pillar gratefully, shifting away from his touch.
Kaien is unconvinced. "I expected better of you – training with limited reiatsu reserves! I had thought you would've known better with your experience." He retrieves Sode no Shirayuki, slipping the hilt into Rukia's small hand.
"I'm sorry." Rukia says quietly.
Kaien barely hears as he bustles into her room and finds a light blanket, throwing it over her shoulders, before sitting down opposite her. Her fingers curl into the cloth. Rukia is conflicted about his sudden appearance. On one hand, it gives her some comfort to not be alone, but on the other, with him here, she cannot take her mind off Ichigo.
Giving her an evaluating look, Kaien carefully asks, "Are you alright?"
"I – Yes," she answers simply, tonelessly.
A shadow passes over Kaien's face. "I wasn't referring to just now, Kuchiki," he says firmly, "I'm talking about this." He leans forward and taps the steel cuffs twice. "I heard from my uncle that they slapped these on you at full power."
"Nii-sama changed the settings." Rukia looks away.
"You aren't answering my question." Kaien is insistent.
Rukia swallows. "They're…" she searches for words, "bearable."
Kaien examines her bruising wrists with an expression bordering on disgust. "It's barbaric. They were designed for Level A criminals. You shouldn't be walking, let alone training in them."
Rukia props herself up so her back is straight, lifting her chin and trying to ignore the trembling in her hands. "I'm going to try nonetheless," she says in a tone of steel. "I will not be reduced to a student fresh out of the academy because I can't handle them."
Kaien gives her a level look. "I understand," he says gently. His words hold no anger. He comprehends her overwhelming need to do something useful, instead of sitting and waiting for a rescue that may not come. He also realises that she hasn't been looking at him directly, as if his face gives her some deep inner pain. That, too, he understands. Kurosaki Ichigo.
Standing suddenly, he casts his eyes and reiatsu around in a quick scan for the presence of any servants or shinigami. It is still relatively early, and the house is quiet. Rukia gives him a questioning glance.
Crouching, Kaien whispers, "Kurosaki-taichou contacted my uncle and me." Rukia's breath hitches, and her fingers clench white on her blanket. She leans forward imperceptibly.
Kaien reaches into his shihakushuo, and withdraws a hell butterfly. But not just any hell butterfly, for this one is elaborately beautiful, trails of luminescent scarlet streaming across its delicate paper-thin wings, the crimson veins twisting to form a very recognizable crest hidden in the whorls of the primary flaps. The butterfly shines with Ichigo's reiatsu. And as the light shifts across the back of the insect, it almost seems to fade in and out of the background, as if the sunlight is a cloak that prevents Rukia from concentrating on it.
The colour of the butterfly seems horribly suggestive of…"Is – is that –"
"Yes. It's a blood-signature butterfly enhanced with a cloaking kido." Kaien snorts. "Terribly difficult to create – I don't know how he even managed it in his condition."
Rukia looks up sharply, face white.
"No no no," Kaien covers his slip quickly, "He's not injured or anything, I meant considering he has the cuffs on, and at full power at that."
Some blood returns to Rukia's cheeks, although her lips are still unhealthily pale. She nods, shakily.
"Anyway," Kaien hurries on, "it can only be activated by someone who is a close blood relation. I had to bring it to Uncle Isshin – my blood didn't quite work." Kaien glosses over the fact that this all but confirms Ichigo's relationship to Isshin. "Anyway," he says in a quiet undertone, sending another look over his shoulder to check for eavesdroppers, "he sent us a message."
Rukia's knuckles are the colour of freshly fallen snow. She nods quickly, unable to find words.
"Apparently the portal opened – briefly – in the early hours of the morning."
Rukia stifles a sound behind her hands.
Kaien continues, "He wasn't ready for it, and in his reiatsu-deprived situation was unable to keep it open long enough for anything other than a quick note he dropped through warning – Urahara-san, is it? – of your current situation." Kaien pauses. "Ichigo-taichou believes it will open again very soon, and he tells you to be ready. The main problem that faces us is keeping Aizen-taichou and Kuchiki-taichou occupied long enough that he can, uh, force –" and here Kaien winces, "the portal open. Uncle Isshin can probably hold off Kuchiki-taichou, and Ichigo-taichou says that he has 'other plans' for Aizen-taichou."
Rukia, listening intently, frowns. Other plans? Relieved as she is to hear that Ichigo is alright, this new information is not completely reassuring. "Wait a moment," she says, cutting Kaien off. "So his grand plan predominantly consists of waiting until he senses that the portal is about to open, and then breaking out of the Fifth Division, somehow picking me up on the way, forcing open the portal with reiatsu cuffs still on, and hoping that two captain-level shinigami don't get involved?"
Kaien grimaces, then nods ruefully. "Seems like that, yes."
Rukia throws her head back in a short bark-like laugh that echoes harshly in the still morning air. "Baka, baka, tawake," she whispers under her breath. But she is faintly smiling.
"I take it this is usual for him," Kaien says.
"Yes, it is," Rukia says, a hint of fondness in her tone.
"One more thing," Kaien says. "He basically ordered – threatened me – in fact, to watch over you until the time comes. And he told us to tell you that he's okay, not to worry about him, and that he'll come for you." Kaien looks faintly embarrassed at the last bit.
Rukia is silent as she holds the butterfly in her cupped hands, stroking the silky wings with the tip of one finger. No wonder that when Kaien had first caught her, she had mistaken his reiatsu signature for Ichigo's. The butterfly is like a warm, glowing lamp to her, a comforting beacon in a sea of darkness. Ichigo's reiatsu. The butterfly rests in her hands, and it's almost as if he is cradling her tiny hands in his broad ones. Suddenly the air doesn't seem so cold anymore.
"Thank you," she whispers. Kaien nods solemnly. She folds the butterfly gently into her shihakushuo, where it rests, a flare of comforting light beating in tandem with her heart.
I'll be ready, Ichigo.
Whew. I hope that you guys don't mind the separated!IchiRuki fluff for the moment. Don't worry, there will be some proper fluff later. And I do apologise for the lack of Aizen in this chapter. I wanted to put him in but then the chapter got too long…so next chapter. :) Ichigo's run-for-it-and-hope-it'll-work plan isn't really the best idea, and there's going to be some trouble there. See you guys soon!
Please review! It makes me happeh :)
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Guest: Thanks for the review! I hope you liked this one!