Chapter Nine: Broken Orbits
Hisana stops practicing after cleaning the dojos. She stops going for walks on the servants' trails. She stops eating. She stops doing anything that isn't a must to finish this job.
Her world has become a sunken, shrunken thing. And, so she, too, becomes a sunken, shrunken thing. When she isn't working, she either sleeps or sits in a tree near the river, hoping that if she stares at it or listens to it long enough, the less frightened she will be when the day comes and she must dip her bucket in it.
That day is careening toward her. As spring gives way to the heat of summer, the boggy overflow areas begin to dry up, forcing her closer and closer.
Exposure to the river isn't really helping her mood. Dread crowds her every time she hears the static of swiftly flowing water, even when she is safely nestled in the crook of a tree. The knife of fear strikes her heart cold whenever she attempts to inch toward the bank. The closest she has gotten so far is ten feet before unbidden memories bubble up to steal her senses, forcing them to the time she drowned. The time she died. Not in Soul Society. But before.
The visions of her drowning grab her so tightly, so thoroughly, that the seams of memory and reality blur until there is no difference, until she can feel her breath give away to water, until her heart hammers so hard, so fast, before stopping, afraid it may never to start again.
The second Hisana feels the vague sensation of fear scratching at her brain, she practices breathing through the feeling. It's a technique she learned to deal with extreme pain. It sort of helps in this case, too. Sort of, but not completely.
When the scratching quiets, she goes back to staring at the swollen river from the safety of a willow tree. Her right leg dangles off the edge of the branch, and the hem of her kimono hikes up a little on her thigh. No one is around. It doesn't matter.
And, yet….
Reflexively, her fingers wrestle the hem back down.
Just in case.
She hasn't seen the lordling for a month. They're avoiding each other. It's a mutual thing. Perhaps it didn't start off that way. She thinks he wanted to make amends, at least on his own terms, but she wouldn't allow it.
Then, she burned the page of poetry that she gave him. He made the mistake of leaving the Seven Anthologies of Bashō in the Small Study, or, perhaps, he left the collection there for her to find as a truce flag. Either way, she took the book in hand, plucked the page out, and burned it using one of the room's lanterns.
She hasn't seen him or countenanced his intrusions until now.
He's not here for her, though, which she considers a win. By the sounds of it, he's here with Lord Kuchiki. The two are shouting over the white noise of the river. She can't make out the words, nor does she particularly care.
She keeps her gaze on the river, like it's some wily predator that might pounce on her if it isn't actively pinned.
The lordling appears at the bank. His hair is pulled up into a ponytail. His sleeves are tied back with a gray tasuki, and the kosode he wears is the same faded blue one he wore when they first met. Judging by the number of flyaways, he's been training for a while.
He bends down and splashes water on his face. When he turns, he finds her. She knows because he stops, and the hollow at the base of his throat deepens. Lord Kuchiki's voice tears his attention away for a second. A second, though, is all Hisana needs to vanish.
When summer's eve finally comes, she is exhausted from worry and the heaviness of feelings. She should be excited. Nosing around. Trying to determine when the art will arrive. She thinks she knows when Lady Seijima will return based on instructions to pack up a few of the fusuma for her to restore. Only a few more months. Then, this job will be over, and she will be a lot richer, have her zanpakutō returned to her, and maybe—if she's lucky—she can reunite with her sister.
The fucking bucket, however, steals what little joy tries to spark in her heart at this news.
The time has come.
She knew it would.
Her hands grip its wooden handle, and she stares at the river. Her mouth dries up. A lump grows in her throat. Breaths come quick and sharp. Her heart drops a few beats from its rhythm.
You got this, she tells herself, closing her eyes and inhaling as deeply as her lungs will let her.
She's made it this far. Hasn't drowned yet in this life. This is a river, not a flash flood.
All the beautiful logic and reasoning in the world, however, cannot convince her brain to settle or her muscles to relax.
She takes another step forward. Then, stops, tensing. Then, breathes. Once she masters the initial wave of panic, she repeats the process.
It is probably going to take her an hour to walk three feet. And, that's fine, she tells herself. Progress is progress.
She breathes. Big breath in. Holds it. Then out, slow and steady. Once her head clears a little, she reminds herself to look at the trees, to take in the scent of the honeydew and pine, to hear the faint sounds of birdsong and the rustle of the leaves. She reminds herself that she's here, not in the World of the Living, that she's in the woods, not in the middle of a flood, that she's a woman, not a girl, that she's alone now, no one to protect.
The wind picks up, tossing her hair. It sends a shiver down her spine, and, reflexively, her eyes find the river. She takes another step. Fear grips her hard and fast. Her brain begins searching for ways to make this work without her actually getting that close to the water. She knows some wind-based spells, maybe she can use one to create a waterspout. Her heart trembles at this thought, and she shakes her head.
No.
She needs to confront this thing.
Another step.
The process restarts.
Hisana is closer than she has ever been. Maybe she can do this. The fear is there, sure, but she's managing it.
This ray of optimism, however, dims when the lordling crashes through the brush.
Breath rushes out of her, leaving air-starved lungs to choke. She wants to leave, but she can't. One look reveals that she's trapped. On the path a few yards away stands a gaggle of nobles who appear to be around the lordling's age. There are five of them, two ladies and three lords. All are dressed in glossy silks and bejeweled.
There must be a party at the estate.
"Oh, look, a little maid!" says the lady dripping in yellow silks.
Briefly, Hisana considers the odds that anyone would mourn the children gathered on the path if she needed to put an end to a few of them. They all look pretty soft. No callouses on their hands. Only one of the lords-the one with short brown hair dressed in an orange kosode-carries a weapon on his hip. It's a sword, she thinks. But, he doesn't have the hardness of someone who practices with it. This makes her nervous. The nobles in the Academy who caused the most trouble were the ones who carried their weapons like playthings. They weren't hard to defeat, but they almost always served as catalysts for the worst ideas.
Byakuya's lips part, and she thinks he is about to turn away and return to the path. That's what she would like him to do. Before he can, however, the boy in the orange silks stops him.
Just as she suspected. Leave it to the sword-wearing bastard to start shit. "It's hot, isn't it?" he asks, exchanging a dark glance with the other nobles.
"Sweltering," says the other lady, dressed in red. She flutters her fan in front of her face and cuts Byakuya a flirtatious look.
"Maybe the maid should fetch us some water then," crows the boy in orange. Hisana's eyes land on the tattoo swirling up the back of his hand to his arm. It's of a tiger, she thinks, but his sleeve obscures most of it from view.
"Oh, that would be so nice in this heat," continues the lady in red.
Hisana averts her gaze to the ground and bows her head.
"You heard the lady," says Byakuya, voice low. His stare is just as bloodless as his voice.
Hisana glances back at the river. The sky goes gray in her mind. Storm clouds roll in. She swears she feels the pounding of hard rain. She swears she hears the echoes of cries and screams. She swears-
It's not real, she reminds herself with a shake of her head. It's just a memory. It can't hurt her, even if it feels like she's being ripped in half.
Hisana sucks in a deep breath and bites the inside of her cheeks until she tastes blood. No matter how much she tries to shackle this fear with hopeful platitudes, she can't shove down the feeling that each step brings her closer to death.
When she reaches the bank, she stops, hands trembling. Desperation drives her to glance back at Byakuya. A silent plea. He sees it and takes a step before the chain of his peers' censure yanks him back.
Hisana can't hear much of the nobles' conversation. The roar of the river drowns out their words and most other sound. But, she feels the prickle of the tattooed lord's reiatsu as it knocks against hers. Reflexively, she shoots the boy a sidelong glare before sending a blast of her reiatsu his way. He isn't prepared for the impact, which causes him to stumble back.
Predictably, this enrages the noble who draws his weapon in retaliation. "You know what my family does with useless staff?" he calls out, eyes gleaming with white-hot fire. "We terminate them."
How original, she thinks and frowns.
The lord then flourishes his sword. Sunlight clings to the naked blade, revealing each jagged movement he makes. She thinks he seeks to cower her, but his lack of skill is so apparent that all she can feel is bitterness at his display. How can one with so much power be so stupid at wielding it? It isn't fair.
None of this is fair.
Hisana rolls her eyes, part of her tempted to toss the bucket into the river and flash-step away. Escape, however, would be futile. Byakuya could out-maneuver her on his worst day, and, by the looks of it, his pride would demand her punishment for that sort of insubordination.
Goaded by the other nobles, the tattooed boy steps off the path, looking far too eager to teach her a lesson. Byakuya, however, intervenes.
Hisana presses her tongue to the roof of her mouth and braces. The muscles in her shoulders, neck, arms, and legs go rigid. Her eyes slide back to the river. The water races past her, dragging deadwood and heavy logs with ease. If she faltered, the current would suck her down in an instant. There's no way she could fight it with a clear mind let alone while in the midst of panic. She's not a strong enough swimmer.
Her heart rattles in her chest and stops. Coldness sets in next, paralyzing her. She can't take another step. Her body simply will not budge. She's found her limit.
"What is wrong with—" Byakuya begins, voice demanding, but he stops himself the instant he reads the lines of her face.
Hisana can't speak. Fear has stolen her words. All she can do is stare at him and hope he understands.
"You're afraid." His gray eyes shift to the river. "Of the water."
"I drowned once," she whispers this confession on a broken breath. Tears prick her eyes at the shame of it—of her fear, of her death, of her impotence. Perhaps most crushing of all, this is who fate has decided who will be the first to learn her death-story.
Byakuya glances back at the path with the nobles, who watch them like wolves pacing for the kill.
Hisana prefers her odds against the nobles. She's fairly certain that the asshole with the sword will injure himself given enough time. The rest of them would flee at the first sign of blood.
Byakuya stares at the river for a long moment. His eyes slip shut, his lips pull into a compact line, and a deep furrow appears between his brows. He doesn't want to do this next thing, but, with a heavy breath, he reaches for her bucket.
Sweet hope fills Hisana, and she reaches back. Before she can hand it to him, he stops short. Confusion comes for her first. She stares at their hands, eyes wide. The distance between them suddenly feels yawning, an unbridgeable thing. A sharp breath knots in her throat as sweet hope gives way to the gnawing of fear.
The calls for her death intensify. Hisana is not surprised. Such random acts of violence are par for the course based on the stories that she's heard. They think she's only a maid, after all, and plenty of servants have their lives taken for less. At first, Hisana thinks the nobles' cries for vengeance are what sway Byakuya to pull away. A stray sideways glance, however, betrays the real source of Byakuya's hesitance: his father.
Hisana's gaze chases up the path to find Lord Sōjun Kuchiki standing at the top of the hill. He watches the commotion below, unflinchingly. He's too far away for her to see his face well enough to determine whether he approves of what he finds. The only guide as to what Lord Kuchiki may be thinking is Byakuya, as none of the young nobles cheering for her "termination" appears to notice him.
While Byakuya's expression is impenetrable, his shifting gaze gives away at least three of the variables that he is weighing and measuring: the nobles, the river, and his father. He keeps his eyes off her, though. She wishes he wouldn't. She wants him to take a good look at her, to look her in the face long and hard.
"Someone once told me that the thing about fear-" begins Byakuya.
Hisana stares at him, willing him to look at her. When he doesn't, her heart sinks like a stone. "Byakuya, no," she pleads, voice a raspy whisper. Tears spill down her cheeks.
"-it worsens with time." With these words, the light leaves his eyes, and he shoves her into the river.