Musical Accompaniment: "At the Beginning with You" on the Anastasia Soundtrack


You are the beginning of my life, the first true step I ever took, running forward with you without a thought in my head but the sound of your laughter.

A boy with ash blond hair and remote gray eyes wore a cloak too fine for his ignoble position in life—the garment won in game of riddles with an arrogant man. This child survived on games of riddles, a means to earn food, shelter, and the necessities unique to those with innate power. And he enjoyed those games of riddles too.

The blond boy meandered aimlessly, lost in fleeting thought. Barefoot and hungry—always hungry—he mused on the discrepancy between objectives and outcomes. In light of the bare facts, did the intention matter when the action often yielded an unintended result? Did motivations matter when outcomes hardly ever reflected the motives?

This was a meaningless dilemma, but that made little difference to the boy. He wasn't one for practicality, his unorthodox way of thinking bored with the mundane elements of life. The boy was too bright for the dim district of his birth. And his spirit refused to be shaded by it, although his past had not been kind.

The young boy—a true child of the Rukongai—had never met his father; so he had been christened with his mother's surname instead: Urahara. Because feeding a perpetually hungry offspring was beyond her means, his mother had abandoned him as soon as he was old enough to look after himself. Sometimes, he suspected his mother had been afraid of him, confused and wrong-footed by his inquisitive mind and unable to answer his unending questions. Why? All the time "why?"

The blond boy was forever probing the just is, too curious for his own good and scaring the neighbors with his frequent experiments.

And the pragmatic concerns—water for the thirsty and blankets for the cold—did not agree with his idealistic nature. It hurt too much to compare the world as it was to the world as he thought it should be. So instead, he mused on the fridge of reality, wondering what it was all for. Searching, always searching, for a purpose to put one foot in front of the other.

On this day like any other, unremarkable in every way, the boy ambled past the ramshackle houses and downtrodden citizens, doing what he did best: pondering. Then, suddenly jolted out of the cotton clouds, the boy fell hard on his butt. Someone had collided with him from the opposite direction.

An impressive bruise pending, he looked up slowly to find a small hand, brown sugar and firm, reaching out to pull him back up onto his dirty feet. How odd. Who would bother?

Disoriented by his fall and lost in study of this helping hand, the boy almost missed the velvet voice to which the hand belonged. "Well? Are you going to take it or dissect it?"

The boy lifted his shaggy blond head marginally to find a pair of liquid gold eyes set in a heart-shaped face. A violent torrent of purple hair framed the girl's face. On her beanpole body, she wore the garb of a princess at play, breathable fabric stitched in a sturdy pattern and, yet, undeniably fine.

"Right," he said, sounding more confident than he felt, a latent talent for deception the boy valued. He grasped her tan hand, using his own leverage to lift his abused rear off the dirt road. Dusting off, he could not believe his luck, privately pleased despite his bruised butt. Some sort of goddess had just knocked him to the ground. And then she'd paused, sacrificing a second of her divine existence to help him. She must be the most beautiful girl in the world.

Her golden eyes—vaguely feline, he opined—crinkled, amusement evident. "Make it a habit to walk around not looking where you're going?"'

Considering the matter critically, the boy answered, "… Yes, I suppose. I never look where I'm going because I'm never really going anywhere."

Then, they smiled at each other, she deciding this boy was strange and he conceding the point. A silent moment of understanding, a first for both of them.

'"Well," she amended begrudgingly, "I wasn't really watching where I was going, and I don't know where I'm going either. I'm kind of running... from somewhere more so than to somewhere. So I guess I can't fault you." Her wavy bangs shimmering in the harsh sun, she blushed rose gold, suddenly bashful, peering out from under her fringe tentatively. A rare expression for her.

Clearing his throat impressively, the boy nodded. "Quite so, that would be most hypocritical of you, Hime." Then, her chagrin overcame her embarrassment just as he had planned—she obviously didn't like being called a princess. He winked slyly, revealing his ploy and earning her laughter. He heard it with ears unaccustomed to such a sound.

Her mirth was honest, so pure the boy yearned to pray. And her gold eyes stirred like flying high in the air never fearing the fall, validating her bid for freedom. Freedom from what, he could only wonder.

An instantaneous conclusion, the boy decided that this girl—some sort of goddess—was the most alive and the least tethered. And he wanted to keep her forever because no one in this battered, defeated town could laugh the way she did.

Her eyes holding freedom, she grinned, informing him importantly, "I am Shihouin Yoruichi. What's your name?" In a flash, an indistinct premonition occurred to the boy—something about a reason to put one foot in front of the other. This flash of foresight inspired an experiment.

Only half aware his arms were thrown wide, he grinned hugely, delighted by her apparent curiosity. "My name is Kisuke," he told Yoruichi, secretly speculating and filled with unfamiliar hope. "I'm Urahara Kisuke. Come on, Yoruichi, let's have a race, you and I! Let's run together!"

He spun to face the opposite direction, absolutely sure she'd follow, that she would rush forward with him, never questioning his conviction. "Ready—"'

'"Wait!" Yoruichi yelped in sudden dismay.

'"Set—" Kisuke yelled over her protest. "Go!" He sped ahead, laughing the whole way.

'"You cheated! I wasn't ready!" she exclaimed, thoroughly scandalized and giving impressive chase.

Soon enough, Yoruichi outstripped him, turning over her shoulder to stick her tongue out at him. Rather than resenting her victory, Kisuke was intrigued. She's so cool!

Reaching a nearby field of tall grass beside a small ravine, they collapsed in a breathless heap, sprawled head to foot and completely unaware they'd appeared little more than insubstantial blurs to the confused citizens they had swept past.

For hours passing like seconds, Kisuke and Yoruichi lounged in the tall grass, guessing what it would feel like if the wind blew up and down instead of sideways and sharing secret dreams. Unintentionally, making memories that would define their future.

Finding in one another a purpose, a reason to race forward one foot in front of the other.


Past tense is not my forte but...

~Mare