Disclaimer: I do not own Bleach. I make no profit.
Theme: Japanese Myth.
Warning: M. myth modifications.
*i edited c 1. that was an 11-pm idea, written at 5-am, posted at 6-am chapter. so sorry, i was random.
Steel and Silk
II. where the sun dies
appleschan
For his enemies, Ichigo burns, with danger and rage, like the sun, fierce and blinding. The heat burns the flesh from the bones with the force of thousand degrees, to those who witness him, it leaves a lasting after image. His presence is too consuming, too looming –impossible to miss the poised threat that seemed to weave itself in the very stance he carries himself with, in the currents around him, in the swift whip of his scarf in the air.
For his allies, Ichigo burns, like the sun on a fresh morning, the first sun rays of a new day. The light that slowly rises from the horizon, and gives everyone a renewed vigor, a soft, warm glow -a hope.
Today marks the third year of his clash against the entirety of Hell.
In the land where the sundown is permanently etched in the sky and its red-tinge stretches horizon to horizon, he walks. Brisk walk focused on a straight beaten path, not stopping to acknowledge those emaciated souls forced to bow down along his path by their Oni escorts –for he is a respected yet unpopular warlord.
The Oni themselves –red, blue, green, those who are escorts to the souls- eye him carefully, they know, the news about him already reached far places like Meido, they are wary of him, mainly now, his sudden appearance to the realm beneath Hell. The demon warlord with the fire-like hair has come for a soul, who, bypassed all the common rituals of going to the Underworld along with its trials, arranged, of course, by the demon warlord himself.
The deed itself is punishable. And that them, the Oni, couldn't stop him, even if the warlord has no authority in the Underworld.
The air burns as well, nauseating from strong scent of burning bones and flesh beneath, but sweet from red campanula and tiger lilies. This place is evocative of the Human realm, the mountains, the farms stretching beyond, the forest, the worn-out huts near the trees. The first Judge ordered this, the human-likeness, in consideration of the souls passing, to ease their transition, but maintained the sundown, to remind them of their deaths, the end of their human lives -their sundown.
He rarely visits this ground, rarely stares into the eternal sundown, rarely hears the fresh cries of souls, for it rejects him as he rejects it, this is the receiver of souls new to afterlife; he is already more than a thousand year resident of Hell. Its fires already flow in his veins steadily, much like his own blood.
Ichigo walks fast, swift and unconcerned to his surroundings. His destination is the edge of the river. The end point for passing souls.
This is where the sun dies, the underworld they call Meido.
This is where souls rest after their seven-day journey, where souls desperately seek escape, or hope to be reborn in one of the five realms, or wail dreadfully; this is where the souls pass for the first judgment.
And every one of them crosses the river.
There are several ways to reach the end of the river, based on the souls' deeds during their lifetimes. The most uncommon of which, by the boat, because no one is privileged enough to use the boat that passes the river from life to death end to end and avoid the harshness the common souls face, except for some.
Ichigo stops walking, the currents around him intensify as he scans for any demon near.
Hell is never a place for security, more so, Hell in uproar.
He stands at the edge of the river, on top of a construction of wooden platform and a similarly wooden shabby boat loosely tied to one of its post. Ahead is the river that connects both realms, unsullied and untainted by any numinous means; its appearance is identical to the other side.
Ichigo steps closer, one foot ahead of the other, anticipating her arrival.
There is sublime rhythm in the air that lets him understand it, see the underworld from every angle, hear the beings loudly, all these make his already heightened senses more efficient than any demon's.
It is minuscule, but each ripple in the water, each leaf that falls in it tells him her location. And by now, she has seen the candles.
His vision focuses on the water and riverbanks beyond, to a place unreachable by others' simpler, less gifted eyesight.
There, in his mind, through his eyes, he sees the violet eyes that haunt him, he sees her petite form clothed in brightest red. He feels the familiar wave, the pull of what they call kindred soul, or simply, mate.
Ichigo draws his katana slowly.
He draws his katana slowly from its sheath, savoring it; he draws it with the intent to kill, and to kill fast.
To kill fast. And efficiently. He does not hope to spare the woman the pain of ultimate death by killing her fast, he does hope for, however, her complete and quick disappearance the minute his blade cuts her flesh. To shatter her complete being, split every particle that makes her soul and vaporize it. In his hands, there will be no rebirth, no cycle for her to re-enter. He'll damn her soul along with his. No rebirth for the both of them. He prefers it this way, over the plague she'll bring him with her existence.
"You await her,"
He pauses mid-breath, he hears a voice, old, raspy, a forced gurgle, "No need for your blade; it won't cut her."
Ichigo's grasp around the hilt tightens. He glances sideways and sees the seer-corpse smiling toothily at him from her position, sitting under the shades of a red-tinge sakura tree in full bloom.
He forces himself to acknowledge her. "Ba."
"You plan to strike her fast, as swift as a hurling wind, as quick as a viper's bite,"
He glares at her, hateful. The seer-corpse knows everything.
"I tell you, young warlord, it won't happen. Your hostility won't work."
The seer-corpse is a spirit, shifting in between realms, enjoying itself by watching all kinds of beings struggle and occasionally interfering -like now. It takes the most grotesque form it could conjure. Now, it turns to a she, or at least, taking the form of a barely-clothed female, old Oni corpse; rib cage showing, emaciated with red skin and brittle gold hair –much like Datsue-ba's form, except that the old skin-flayer Oni's form is legitimate, and this one, the seer-corpse, just likes to play horrific visuals.
"I have reasons to doubt your motivations, young warlord." She begins. The legs of her rotten Oni form is severed, the bones hanging by thin threads of tendons and rotten muscle, making her stationary in her position under the tree a few meters away from where he stands, yet her voice echoes like she's beside him, her tone audible.
"Say what you will." He turns away. He hates its wisdom and eyes -even the voices it uses right now.
"I watched you kill the rogue Oni by the river." She says wryly.
Ichigo briefly glances back at her, as if the matter is of no importance.
The Oni in the river that flows from the Meido to the little human village that runs parallel with its waters, the one who asks for female sacrifice, is dead.
The Oni in the river isn't a real one, but a malicious, rogue one who pretends to be a superior demon who anathematized the entire village and uses it to demand human sacrifices in exchange of forgiveness and lifeline for over centuries. And the humans, its current generation is scared, single-minded and easy to sway, believed the Oni and sent offerings for centuries, not believing the warnings of their forefathers. And the lowly Oni raped then feasted on the human female offerings.
He killed the waiting Oni and took his place just recently, but not for the same lewd reason.
"I did." He whispers quietly, turning his darken glare towards the seer-corpse.
There is Ichigo, the demon warlord from the deepest hell, relatively human in appearance. He who stands tall, carrying a black katana, clothed in black clothes; black hakama and gi, its right sleeve always down, revealing black bandages tightly wrapped around his upper torso up to his chest, shoulders, down to his whole right arm. His hair, the shade of the sun, reaches past his amber eyes and stops an inch beneath his shoulders.
Ichigo is The Riser from the mugen-jigoku the deepest hell -the only who ever did. His fall took two thousand years, his climb took one thousand years. The kings who passed him judgment let him regain his status. It required souls for his complete restoration, but he never completed it.
"You're dying."
Never wrong and never opposed, the seer said he has one weakness.
"She's a-" The seer turns to him.
"-human girl." Ichigo supplies the words.
The seer-corpse says again, "I doubt you and your motivations."
"Don't doubt it." He says dismissively.
He looks back at the water, he sees her seeing the riverbanks where different kinds of Oni stand, watching her. Oddly, he finds no trace of fear on her face.
The seer-corpse says, "You made a deal with Orochi's offspring, keeping the usually chaotic river undisturbed while she pass, for her to see none of the giant serpents lurking beneath her boat, the poor souls that were crossing the river were all unable to swim, chained at the bottom, twisted and mangled by the violent serpents underwater, helpless while waiting for her to pass."
"They asked for the massacre of those left in her village in exchange, you agreed despite knowing its ramifications."
A brief silence ensues, broken by the seer-corpse.
"Yes, I doubt your motivation."
The seer-corpse seems very confident in her assumption, but Ichigo flinches not.
"Aren't you worried about the ritual?" he asks her, hoping to sway her attention for a moment.
The real ritual happens every one thousand year.
"I do not." The seer-corpse smiles, her rotten fleshy lips pulled up to reveal blackened teeth. "I never worry. I see everything."
"If you see everything, then why are you here convincing me?"
"Because I saw myself persuading you," her horrendous smile grows wider, "And I saw myself succeeding."
"No, you're only delaying me a few minutes. This is useless-"
However, she continues, interrupting him. "You initially thought of hiding her in one of the sixteen hells-"
"Lies." Ichigo fully turns away from her and steps into the shallow water -the river that denies his presence strongly, but he succeeds in hiding whatever painful effect it has on him.
"You cannot step into the Human Realm, but your enemies can."
At her words, his senses immediately flare, angrily searching for any spying ears or eyes, sparing only a second to glare at her. An ordeal that she laughs at, or whatever rough sound her rotten windpipe could produce. What she said is true and that it is one of his limitations. Limitations that none of his enemies know. Limitations that she would happily tell anyone who asks –regardless. Dealing with the seer-corpse is like dealing with a double-edge sword -with careful deliberation.
Steeling himself after finding no one in the vicinity, he chooses to avert the current subject before he leaves for the human soul.
A sardonic smirk.
"I conquered two divisions of Hell."
"You conquered only two divisions, two levels of Hell, my young warlord. Fourteen more are still after you." is the seer-corpse ready, equally sardonic reply.
Tilting her rotten head to the side, so that the fleshier part of her face where her red skin recedes from the muscle and visible cheekbone turns to him, "My dear, despite my appearance, I feel like you are trying to impress me." She jokes, under such horrible context.
"I'll kill her." He says firmly –no, reiterates firmly, ignoring her little comment.
"Your blade won't."
""I'll bring you her head."
"You cannot."
"I'll bring you her head," Ichigo stares at her bulging, rotten eyeballs, "Once you get a good look at it, I'll take yours." He says with finality, preparing to leave the seer-corpse.
"I am neither dead nor alive. I am neither of these states."
"Then I'll choose one for you."
He's gone. The last of his words meant as a threat remain an echo, yet the seer-corpse remains smiling toothily, its eyes bulging and rotating at his direction, towards the riverbanks.
When Rukia opens her eyes after being forcibly closed, she, again, sees the stars above her.
Rukia's arms move aloft and feels glacial currents move around her, all over her –she's underwater. Her hair and red clothes sprawled in every direction. She's laying inches beneath the water gazing out in the stars, the same stars she has seen but clearer and closer, their spiral branches more definite and move in faster pace, she stares, momentarily ensnared.
But she's no child -not anymore, and the fascination she held moments ago was gone. The demon.
She tears her eyes from the stars, forces herself to move, and she tries to scream, no words come out. She finds herself floating; there is no palpable ground beneath her. Where she lies, there is nothing but bottomless water.
Then she notices him, standing beside her lying form, towering in his height, looking down at her. A poised black katana on his hand.
Rukia feels a terrible energy, his is the oppressing kind of darkness that she never felt before.
He angles his black katana. Her eyes widen in its familiarity, it is the same one that reappeared beside her for three nights.
He points it down at her, immersing it inches beneath the water until it reaches her neck, sliding the tip of the blade from her neck to her chin, creating minuscule ripples in the water, tracing her jaw line upwards slowly, it reaches her left eye, the tip hovering just above the pupil of her violet eye.
The woman looks at the tip of his black katana then her eyes slide up to him. She stares up at him dreadfully, locking gazes with his amber eyes.
His answer is only a cold stare of his down at her.
This is the violet that haunts his waking and dreaming hours. The brightest, clearest shade of violet –he never hated a shade of violet this much.
She is said to be his mate, a word that he has learned to hate because of its accompanying implication;
"You're my defeat."
For a warlord, this is everything.
To be continued.
from a fangirl's pov, i think dangai!ichigo and mugetsu!ichigo are the best looks.