A/N: Hello all! This is the third chapter of Oblivion, a story that will be a total of thirteen chapters. I wanted to thank you all again for reading and reviewing, and hope you enjoy this!
Rin Sessys Girl: Ulquiorra is in fact a demon, to answer your question, my flamer-killer! Hahaha X)
smylealong: I'm glad you are enjoying it so much! It makes me really happy that people can enjoy my work :D

Ironworks

Ichigo Kurosaki got up a bit late that morning, despite the fact that he had been intent on going to the smithy to temper his blade a few final times. Now that it was midmorning, he'd have little time for personal interests, Rukia included in that category, as he'd have plenty of requests to fill: farming tools, kitchen knives, spears, hunting equipment and the like.

In another part of the house he could hear his sisters and father, rushing about in the room that had been reserved solely for physician's work. The spiky haired boy made a face at that thought; he really was useless when it came to patching people up… he excelled in dealing damage, not reversing it.

He hurriedly pulled on his tan kosode and a pair of trousers, stepping into his sandals and hastily out the door, calling a farewell to his family, which he heard faintly echoed by Karin as the door shut behind him.

He had only made it a few paces down the stone paved path, however, when a voice halted him in his tracks.

"Kurosaki!"

Thinking it was the scribe, Ishida, Ichigo turned with sigh, preparing to snap at the assailant and go about his work, but instead he found himself face to face with Tatsuki, his childhood friend.

"Tatsuki?" he cried in surprise, backing up a bit as he found himself nose to nose with the girl, "You usually don't come over here, what's up?"

"Did Orihime come home last night?" the black haired girl asked with mild panic, her usually untamed black hair more wild than usual. Orihime lived in the house next door to the Kurosaki family, so they had become her unofficial caretakers, helping her with cooking and cleaning when she needed it.

Ichigo scratched his head thoughtfully, eyebrows furrowing lower than his typical frown.

"Well…. Now that you mention it, no…" he said with realization dawning on his features, "We figured that she had stayed with you, but… when was the last time you saw her?"

Tatsuki looked extremely worried. She clutched at the sleeve of her kimono and stared at the boy in front of her.

"Last night, when she walked home by herself, that fool!" Her voice was harsh, but Ichigo knew that she was worried. Very, very worried.

"Who's a fool?"

The pair turned to see a bruised, disheveled Orihime stumble out of the bushes with only one sandal. Though she had a cut on her knee and scrapes on her hand, she sounded as if she had done nothing more than go for an evening stroll.

"Orihime!" Tatsuki shouted, jumping the rickety wooden railing that guarded the cobbled steps to Ichigo's house. The red head in question smiled and opened her mouth to speak, only to cry out when Tatsuki smacked her upside the head.

"Ow!"

"Do you have any idea how worried I was?"

Ichigo came around the railing, rather than jumping it, for fear that as weak as the wood was that it would break under his weight.

"Were you lost in there all night?" he asked. Orihime flushed as she heard his voice, and she was glad that her face was covered in cloth and dirt to hide it.

"Oh, I got lost, but there was a house with a nice man inside, and we had rice, but he couldn't eat because I used his only pair of chopsticks, and…." Orihime stopped babbling and checked herself for a moment. Talking to Ichigo always made her sound like an idiot. Clearing her throat with embarrassment she said, "As you can see, I made it through the night alright."

"A man?" Ichigo wondered as Tatsuki wiped dirt of Orihime's face in a very motherly action, "What was his name?"

"When I asked him, he simply said," Orihime changed her voice, imitating the flat, slightly melancholy tones of her host from the night before, "'No one important,'"

She burst out laughing, as if at some inside joke, Tatsuki and Ichigo exchanging glances. Ichigo raised an eyebrow and Tatsuki shrugged, shaking her head.

"So you stayed with a stranger?" Tatsuki poked Orihime in the forehead, "That's dangerous."

"Well it's not really my fault… I found his house and was about to go in, but he thought I was a thief! So then he went inside and said that there were wolves around where he lived and that I should go inside…" Orihime pouted slightly, "I can take care of myself!"

Tatsuki laughed, "I wasn't trying to imply that you couldn't." she took her friend by the wrist and began to lead her away from Ichigo, "We should go see Chizuru, she was practically in hysterics when I told her I couldn't find you."

"Oh… bye, Kurosaki-kun!" she called over her shoulder as she was pulled away. Ichigo waved before looking stupidly at his hand and realizing that she couldn't see it.

"Bye!" he shouted almost too late. He smacked himself in the forehead for his own forgetfulness before remembering that he was supposed to be in the smithy.

He didn't think he'd ever run that fast in his life.

….

Ulquiorra stared at the papers scattered over his desk. The ones that had been flecked with blood he had thrown out, as they'd been useless; writing on soiled paper was like fighting with a rusted blade: doable, but annoying.

He sighed, narrowing his vibrant eyes with a small show of frustration. He didn't have enough paper now, though he was loathe to go back to the village just for that. Out of habit, he loosened his blade in its scabbard with a soft snick. The habit was so thoroughly ingrained in him that he didn't notice he'd done it until he heard the familiar sound. Looking down at the sliver of gleaming metal that was now visible, Ulquiorra came to a decision.

He'd go to town to buy paper, but also to get his blade patched up. It hadn't been used in a long time, and the crack it had received in the final battle he had fought was still there. The katana would shatter if it took more abuse, so it had to be fixed.

The demon sighed again, more annoyed than frustrated now.

How he hated dealing with humans.

…..

Ichigo slammed his hammer down in another fierce stroke, spraying sparks into the air like tiny fireworks, a drop of sweat falling from his bared chest onto the cherry red metal and turning to steam, hissing for an instant like a viper. He thrust the crimson bar into a trough of water, the hiss rebounded a thousand fold and causing the liquid to boil. The instrument he was making, an actual sword this time, was beginning to take shape. It was still rough, but it would get there; the customer who had ordered it had sent the request through the mail, asking for three blades, all of his best work. Ichigo had then moved those three works to the top of his priority list. He liked making swords better than forging kitchen knives any day.

He turned to the bellows, the loose kosode tied around his waist swinging as he moved. Pumping his arms in a steady rhythm, the fire began to flare hotter… but it still needed more fuel and time in order for it to hit just the right temperature. After adjusting the inferno, the red head walked over to the entrance of his shop, leaning against the doorframe and taking a swig from his flask of fresh water, mopping sweat off his brow with a rag tucked into his obi.

He was about to turn back to the forge when he heard a tide of whispering, like wind in the trees. Turning his gaze back to the street, he caught sight of a drifting male figure, face hidden by ragged black hair, hands covered by his black sleeves, the crowd parting before him. He seemed to be coming in the direction of the forge.

Ichigo caught sight of the scabbard hanging at the man's waist, as well as the shamisen slung over his shoulder by its strap, the instrument itself across his back. He was a short man, shorter than Ichigo, that was for sure, and slighter too…. But that was no gauge of strength. There was a wiry, dangerous feel about the man that Ichigo all at once respected and hated.

The man raised his face, and the red head noticed first the deathly pallor in the man's skin, for it was bone white; then the marks upon his face, two thin, dark lines trailing from the rims of his lids and down his cheeks like inky tears; finally his eyes, which were a piercing, icy emerald color.

Was he perhaps the demon everyone spoke of?

A firm believer that one should never be judged by appearance, but not one to trust easily, Ichigo nodded to the man just as the papermaker in the shop next door exited his building. The pale man gave Ichigo a dispassionate stare and returned the gesture after a moment's deliberation. The papermaker, Kobayashi, started violently, paper scattering across the cobbled street.

"U-Ulquiorra!" he gasped violently, "W-why… you were here just yesterday!"

"Ah," the pale man, Ulquiorra, Ichigo surmised, answered in a flat, depressing tone that was somehow familiar, "the paper from yesterday was… soiled; I had need of more." Those unnerving green eyes lit upon Ichigo, "And also, I have a blade in need of repair." He gestured to the katana at his hip.

Ichigo nodded again, this time in affirmation rather than greeting.

"Don't do business with this…. This…. Thing!" Kobayashi, "It's not human! But it's neither animal, nor spirit, nor god! A demon, through and through!"

"Say what you will," Ulquiorra said coldly, "I care not for you petty humans, you trash. If you insist, I will take my coin elsewhere."

Kobayashi swallowed nervously, and Ichigo did nothing but watch the exchange, ignoring the fact that the forge was either overheating or getting cold. This was the first he had actually seen the demon that everyone in town was talking about. Sure he looked a little different, and he was definitely not the type of person to trifle with, and rude, certainly, but all the same…

"Well," Ichigo sighed, "Come in I suppose."

He turned and reentered the forge, leaving Kobayashi sputtering in the street with shock as Ulquiorra followed the blade smith into his shop.

"Draw the blade and tell me what you want done," the young smith told his customer, "and I'll tell you the price and how long it will take."

The katana rasped on the sheath as it was drawn, a sound only produced by the best of materials, only to be used by those trained to the highest degree of blade mastery. The steel shone almost blue, proof of how well it was tempered, the trademark cobalt waves shimmering along the edge as a testament as to how often it had been heated and refolded. It was a beautiful instrument, one that made Ichigo almost jealous of whoever possessed such skill in crafting.

Ulquiorra laid the blade out, and the bladesmith gazed on it with dismay. A long, jagged crack ran across the blade, near the hilt; it looked as if one more battle might finish off the masterpiece blade.

"Murcielago," Ulquiorra murmured.

"What?"

"The name of my blade," the demon stated, jade eyes flicking up to meet Ichigo's gaze, "is Murcielago."

"How did it get this fracture in the metal? It's a beautifully crafted weapon…" the sword smith wondered.

"I tried and failed to protect my lord," Ulquiorra replied emotionlessly, "and as the rest of my kin, once the master was dead, we scattered. Unfortunately, in the fighting, many of us lost or broke our weapons… they are dear to us, as they were given to us by the master."

"A feudal lord that you served under?" Ichigo asked, examining the blade closer.

"It is unimportant," again, Ichigo had the feeling that he'd heard something similar to the before, "How long will it take to repair?"

"Hm…. Well, I'll move it up to my priority list, but the earliest I can get it to you is three weeks, maybe a month; I have an order for three swords stacked up already."

"I see… then I will anticipate seeing my newly repaired Murcielago in three weeks time."

The pale man exited the forge, leaving Ichigo confused, and slightly annoyed.

Such a short man… in both height and in personality.

…

"Orihime, where are you going?" Tatsuki asked, noticing her friend loitering near the edge of the woods. The red head turned to face the brunette, and Tatsuki narrowed her eyes in sympathy pain; Orihime had removed the rag covering her eyes for a moment's respite.

Eyes that had once been blue were now pale gray, and a thin, jagged scar extended across the bridge of her nose and formed a small spike at the outer corner of each eye.

"I'm…. well, it's nothing," she answered with a smile, heading back toward her friend.

In truth she had been listening.

Listening in the hopes that maybe, just maybe, the wind would turn in such a way that it might carry the melancholy notes of a shamisen out of the forest.