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"You know, if death isn't really the end of everything then the first time we met might not have really been the first time. For all we know, we might have been connected from way before that. I'm not really sure, but I think maybe once a bond is formed it can never disappear. And if that's the case even if we forget everything we'll all be connected again somewhere in the future." - Kurosaki Ichigo, Fade to Black
In ancient times, the forests grow tall and vast, rising to the heavens. Fog clings to the trees in the morning, bathing the world in an otherworldly light until the sun rises high in the land and burns it away. The prominent Yamato clan brings others into an alliance: the Soga and Mononobe, the Otomo and Haji. There are others, as well, as they consolidate their power. Though the common people still live in homes dug down into the earth, the wealthy have begun to build up instead, raising wooden and thatch-roof homes above the ground.
Gods walk the land, spirits that live among the trees and in every living thing in the nation that calls itself Japan. There are other things, too: monsters that leave bodies intact even as they devour the essence of their victims. Graves rise from the earth, kofun shaped like keyholes and squares that house dead members of the aristocracy.
There is life, as well. If the ancient myth of the akai ito, the red string of fate, is to be believed, fate itself decreed that two souls will meet and part and meet again. Eventually, they will go on to change more than one world, wielding soul-swords and demon magic to fight any man who would place himself upon the highest throne.
But that will not be for millennia, and even the kami do not yet see what will become of them in that far-away time.
Before the blade swings down, before power is shared and a daring rescue is made, before all of it, there is this: there is the very first time.
It almost doesn’t happen at all.
A babe comes screaming into the world, letting his whole village know that his lungs are strong and that he is unhappy about being in the cold world instead of the warm place that was his cradle before his mother’s arms. That beautiful woman sags in relief into the arms of the other women helping her give birth, and soon she rests, holding her newborn son close.
All is well, and the men of the village toast the new father until he is almost too drunk to wobble home.
It isn’t until later that the father realizes his son will be trouble. The boy’s hair, sunset bright, is something that doesn’t belong in Japan in a time when demons roam the land unpunished and the Soga clan is aligning itself with the Yamato clan. Not that his father knows anything about the Soga clan or the Yamato. No – all his father knows is that his son has inexplicably bright hair. His woman is loyal and faithful and even if she wasn’t, there’s no one within leagues who has hair like this.
But his mother is a clever woman and his father is cunning, and the village shaman easy to bribe. There is no one to gainsay them when they – and a carefully placed ally or three – declare that the child must be touched by Inari, for who else could give the child hair the color of fox fur? There is a healthy combination of fear and respect for the kami of rice and other things, and so rather than an outcast the boy grows up loved, learning to cultivate rice from his father, to catch fish in the river and fight with a staff and a spear, to hunt with a bow and arrow.
And then – his mother dies giving birth to a second child, and the child dies with her. He and his father are left to mourn them both, to adapt to a life without her. The women in the village help, cooking what the boy catches in the river or forages in the forest. Eventually his father takes up with another, a dark-eyed woman whose man died of wound rot. She bears him children, three in quick succession, and soon it’s clear that she would prefer her babes take precedence over the Inari-touched boy who has become a young man.
That is why he leaves his village for a larger settlement, seeking his fortune beyond the village boundaries.
But – something happened, before the boy with hair like fox fur arrived in his new home.
It almost doesn’t happen at all. It would not have, if the boy hadn’t been raised by his mother to be fierce as well as gentle and raised by his father to be protective as well as industrious.
The frightened bellow of a beast alerts him to trouble up ahead on the dirt road, and he ducks into the forest instinctively even as he follows the noise. There’s a wagon, turned on its side, and an ox struggling in its traces against the downed vehicle. A riderless horse – so a wealthy traveling party, he surmises – whinnies with equal fear and paws at the fallen form of a man clad in far better garments than he wears.
“Kill the ox and mount the girl on the horse,” a harsh voice calls.
Bandits. The boy breathes slowly. He could go through the forest to avoid them; there are at least three of them and only one of him.
“And what if I want to mount her instead?” a second voice asks.
“Tch. Don’t rough her up too much. She is worth less if she’s half-dead.”
“Come here, pretty girl,” the second voice croons.
His breath catches in his throat, and before he is fully cognizant of it, he has his bow in hand and an arrow nocked. His feet are silent on the forest floor, having spent years in these woods. His arrows aren’t meant to punch through armor; he will have to aim carefully.
Fortunately for him – less so for them – they make no effort to hide themselves, only circle the wagon to reach for, presumably, the girl. He lets an arrow fly.
It strikes the first bandit’s neck dead center with an awful thud, and he claws at the arrow instinctively, choking on his own blood as he falls to the ground.
He already has a second arrow nocked and fired as the second bandit turns to find him. The second arrow takes him in the eye, and the boy silences his gagging with a hand over his mouth.
“Show yourself!” a third bandit commands.
The boy hurries forward, nocking a third arrow as he goes, and crouches. The third and – he thinks – final bandit reaches into the open wagon and drags a girl out of the overturned wooden contraption. Even with her hair in disarray and her face smudged with dirt, he can tell from here that she’s not a peasant like him; she’s a member of one of the clans, maybe the Soga. Her clothes are fine, her long mo beautifully patterned and the pale jacket she wears clearly woven from silk.
That’s not why he wants to save her, though.
He just doesn’t like the idea that she’ll get hurt, if he doesn’t. As the bandit turns, looking for him, he lets the final arrow fly. Sadly, this one only catches him in the arm and though he grunts with pain he doesn’t fall.
The boy grabs for his staff and emerges from the undergrowth. “You should let her go,” he suggests. “Before you meet the same end as your friends.”
“Tch. A boy with a piddling little bow like that killed two men?” the remaining bandit scoffs. “Only because you hid like a coward.”
The girl’s eyes meet his, the deep blue of the sky at dusk, and his world tilts and then rights itself, as if someone has picked him up and given him a shake. When it does, she raises her foot and stomps on her captor’s instep as hard as she can.
He lets her go with a pained grunt and she takes advantage, hurrying away from the wagon to the boy’s side. “Give me your bow,” she demands. In his experience – limited, he’ll grant – girls do not know how to shoot arrows or otherwise fight. But he lets the bow drop from its place on his shoulder so that she can grab it, and she reaches for one of his remaining arrows too, nocking it with confidence. “I am Rukia of Nokata,” she says, glancing at him though the arrow stays aimed at the bandit.
“Ichigo,” he offers in return. “You should leave,” he suggests as the bandit stares at them, “Before she decides to shoot you.” And Ichigo raises his staff threateningly, falling into an easy stance.
The bandit decides to cut his losses, and grabs for the horse’s reins, trying to mount it. But the horse is having none of it, and with a snarl of frustration he makes a run for it instead, leaving his dead comrades behind.
“Well,” Rukia says, lowering the bow in her hands. “We should continue on to Nokata, if that is where you were traveling?”
This close, he can see that he was mistaken: though her height makes her seem like a child, she lacks the plump cheeks and high voice that would mark her as one. He takes the bow back when she offers it and returns the arrow to his quiver.
“Where is your escort?” Ichigo asks.
“Dead,” she says bluntly. “I was attempting to drive the wagon myself to get away from those bandits.”
The words remind him that he’s killed two people today and injured another, and he swallows down the sudden nausea. “We should – see if the dead bandits have anything we can use. And get them off the path.”
“And you expect me to help you with that?”
He scowls down at her. She really is tiny. “Well, there isn’t anyone else here,” he points out.
Though her expression is one of clear distaste, she rifles through the belongings of one bandit while he takes the other, and then helps him drag both men from the path, one after the other. The third body – one of her escorts – they treat far more gently, carrying him deeper into the woods and digging a shallow hollow in the ground in which to place him.
He watches in silence as she performs a rite over his body, head bowed solemnly. Though she does not cry, Rukia’s eyes gleam suspiciously as she turns away. It didn’t occur to Ichigo that she might be a shaman, and an important one if her clothing is anything to go by.
They return to the path and make their way to the overturned wagon and the ox, which has ceased its struggles. He has in mind the idea of righting the wagon, but when he gets there two of the wheels are smashed; without those, they won’t get far. With a small hunting knife, he cuts the ox free, letting the beast stand and shake itself. It snorts with irritation but stays still. “Is there anything you want from the wagon?”
Rukia frowns. “The wagon contains provisions for the remainder of the journey. It is five days to Nokata, but it could be longer.”
“We’ll salvage what we can, then,” he decides. “I don’t suppose there are spare wheels?”
There are not, when they check the contents of the wagon, and Ichigo swears under his breath before shooting her an apologetic look. “Does the horse know you? Can you ride?”
“Yes, and yes. Can you?”
He frowns. “I’ll have to walk, to keep control of the ox.”
They pull what they can from the wagon, and fill one of the dead bandit’s packs full with provisions. He fills his own pack near to bursting, and use ropes to pile more onto the ox. Still, there is much that doesn’t fit, and he frowns down at the waste. Depending on how fast they can travel, he may have to hunt.
But there is nothing to be done about that. “We should get out of the area as fast as we can, in case he tries to return with friends,” he says, and turns to help her mount, only to find her already ahorse.
And so, they leave the wagon behind, traveling north along the road. Rukia keeps the horse traveling at a pace that matches the ox, while he walks alongside. “Why are you traveling to Nokata?” she asks after a time. “And alone, at that.”
He looks up from his position on the dirt road, one hand on the cut traces of the ox to guide it. “My father’s second wife prefers her children to me,” he says with a shrug. “So, I’m seeking my fortune in a larger village. And you, Rukia?”
“It’s my home,” she says briefly. “I was returning from a visit to an allied clan when we were attacked on the road.” She pauses for a moment to adjust her seat on the horse. “There is plenty of work, if you are willing to do it. Though some may take issue with your hair.”
He scowls up at her. “I was born with this hair,” he grumbles. “The shaman in my village claims I’m kami-touched, by Inari.”
Her lips curve in a smirk. “Clever,” she remarks. The ox balks, then, and they both fall silent while he calms it.
After another hour of travel the sun begins to go down. “We should stop for the night,” he points out. “Before the sun sets completely and we can’t find a good location off the road.”
“Agreed.” Rukia dismounts before they leave the dirt road for the forest, pushing through the undergrowth to find a small clearing not too far into the forest. He hobbles the ox and she does the same to the horse, giving the creature a long enough length of rope to crop at the grass around them.
The wagon contained bedrolls, waterskins, and food, and he tosses a waterskin to her from the back of the ox. “I’ll gather wood for a fire,” he volunteers. “See what you can find from your provisions to cook.”
“And you think I am going to cook?” she asks imperiously.
He snorts. “I don’t care who cooks.” He stalks off into the forest, searching for fallen branches and twigs to use for kindling.
She has two cloth-wrapped packages in hand when he returns, and she watches in silence as he builds a small fire. He pulls a pile of greens from a sack at his side and digs around for his bowl in his pack. “I foraged some greens,” he offers.
“There’s cured fish and rice,” she says in turn, “if you can rig up the trivet.”
That takes more digging around in the packs, but eventually he has a metal trivet over the fire and an iron pot with rice boiling away inside. Once the rice is cooked, he slices the cured fish and throws it on top and the greens with it, and fills a bowl for each of them. They eat silently, chopsticks clacking lightly against the clay bowls, and she cleans the pot and bowls without being asked, when they’re done.
The horse and ox eat their fill of grass, and then of the grain she carefully portions out from the sack that will need to last at least five more days.
“I’ll take first watch,” he offers.
“I’ll take first watch. You walked the entire distance today.”
“Tch. Wake me in a few hours,” he orders, and banks the fire before he spreads out a bedroll near it. He falls into sleep quickly and does not wake until her hand touches his shoulder and shakes him. He yawns enormously and rises from his bedroll to have a long drink of water while she settles down in her own bedroll for the night. “Sleep well,” he mutters, and hears her soft murmur of thanks.
He patrols the perimeter of the clearing – taking the opportunity to take care of his body’s needs once he’s certain she’s asleep – and stays watchful until she wakes just past dawn.
They eat a cold breakfast, and then return to the road, him once more leading the ox and her mounted on the horse. “We need to find water soon,” she observes. “We emptied almost a full skin last night, and there are only two more.”
“You have traveled this way before. Do you remember where you stopped to find a river or stream?” he asks.
“My escort kept track.” Rukia glances away. “I was not as attentive as I should have been.”
“Hn. We’ll look during the noon meal and again at night,” he decides. She nods her agreement, and they press on.
It’s when they stop for their noontime meal that he realizes they are being watched. Ichigo straightens up and looks around carefully, finally spotting the faint outline of the shade that’s staring at them.
“Ah, so you can see it,” she observes, and he starts.
“You can see it?”
A scoff. “I am a shaman, of course I can see it.” She waves her hand in dismissal. “But you – your shaman was clever, but he was right, too.”
“It’s not exactly something I share with anyone,” he grumbles. “There is a difference between being kami-touched and telling anyone that you see the dead.”
She rises from her seat on the grass-covered ground and hunts in her pack, eventually pulling out a wooden tile hanging on a thin rope.
“What are you doing?”
“Encouraging it to pass on,” she explains. “I have done it before; left alone, spirits like these can become prey for monsters, or turn to monsters themselves.”
He watches curiously as she walks fearlessly towards the spirit, charm in her hand swinging slowly like a pendulum. She speaks in a low voice, using words he doesn’t understand but that send a chill down his spine. It only takes a few dozen of them before the spirit bows to her and vanishes, leaving the little clearing empty save for the two of them and the animals. “Can anyone learn to do that?” he asks when she returns to her seat and picks up her bowl of rice and sliced venison as if it never happened.
“Any shaman could,” she agrees. “Perhaps you could as well, given that you see shades and spirits. It is a teachable skill.”
“Hn.” Ichigo glances off toward the spot where the unsettled ghost stood. “Could you teach me? Just enough to settle ghosts to rest?” he asks. “They tend to follow me.”
Rukia purses her lips. “If you truly wish to learn then yes, I will teach you.”
He nods shortly. “We should keep traveling north. There’s no water here.”
They mount back up and move on as quickly as they can, periodically taking advantage of the daylight to search for any hint of a stream.
“There are ritual words to settling an unquiet ghost,” Rukia explains the next morning over breakfast. “The charm focuses them on something of the living world, and so I use it to keep their attention, but it is the words that are the important part, and the power you put forth when you use them.”
He listens in silence, spooning out more rice from the pot and adding more dried fish. There are foraged mushrooms to go with it this morning, sauteed in the pot before he added the rice. He offers her one bowl and a set of chopsticks and cradles the other in one hand. “How do you… use power?” Ichigo asks after she has eaten a few mouthfuls.
Rukia hums thoughtfully under her breath. “When my grandmother first taught me to focus and develop my power, she taught me to think of a fire. Of kindling a small blaze and controlling it, of directing the heat where I want it to go,” she explains. “I do not know if you have the makings of a shaman, Ichigo, or whether Inari’s touch only extends to the ability to see ghosts. But it is worth trying to harness what power you may have.”
He thinks on that while they eat, and reaches for her bowl when it’s empty to fill it with the last of the rice from the pot.
“Aren’t you still hungry?” she asks with a frown.
He is, but. She’s so tiny. “I’ll take the bigger portion when we stop in a few hours.”
Rukia wipes out their pot as best she can – they still haven’t found water – while he puts out the fire and makes certain that every spark has been doused. He rises, and swears under his breath at the sudden pain that shoots through his heel and ankle.
“Ichigo? Are you injured?” Rukia asks, immediately attentive.
“It’s nothing,” he mutters, even though the pain is still present. “We need to get moving.”
But she forces him back down and, over his grumbled protests, pulls his shoe off and examines his foot and ankle. The touch of her fingers on his bare skin is deft and surprisingly gentle; Ichigo suppresses a shiver and digs his hands into the grass beneath him when she touches a particularly sensitive spot.
Deep blue eyes meet his and she frowns. “I want to wrap this. And I think you should ride the horse for a few hours today.”
Ichigo doesn’t protest when she grabs a roll of bandaging and a clay jar from one of the packs that hold their supplies. He watches curiously as she spreads a thin, sticky paste from the jar over his skin and then wraps his foot and ankle snugly but not too tight. “What about the ox?” he asks.
“I’ll lead the ox this morning. Come, we still have at least three days of travel.” Rukia holds out her hand for him to take.
He pulls his shoe back on and levers himself up with her help, then ties the packs and supplies onto first the ox and then the horse. This time Ichigo takes the horse’s reins to lead them back onto the road once he has pulled his quiver and bow over his shoulders and handed her his staff to use as a walking stick. “We’re nearly out of cured fish,” he remarks as they push through the forest undergrowth. “I’ll have to hunt, tomorrow. I hope you eat deer.”
Rukia huffs under her breath. “I will eat whatever you kill so long as it is not human.”
Ichigo opens his mouth to answer, but a roar splits the air, silencing him. The horse rears and bolts, knocking him off his feet, and the ox bellows in fear and follows, both animals surging deeper into the forest and trampling the ground before them. “What was that?” he demands, pushing himself up and climbing to his feet.
The roar echoes again, like no animal he’s ever heard, low and high at the same time, reverberating through the forest and his very bones. Ichigo pulls his bow from his shoulder and tosses it to Rukia, followed by his quiver; he catches the staff when she tosses it his way.
“I’ve never heard anything like it,” she says, an echo of his thoughts. “I don’t see anything.”
They stand in wait. The roar is louder the next time it comes, shaking the trees around them and sending a flock of birds from the trees in a panicked flight. Ichigo inches closer to his traveling companion, staff still at the ready.
Out of plain blue sky and swaying trees steps a monster.
Ichigo blanches. Rukia swears and readies an arrow.
Though nothing was there only a moment ago, the creature towers more than a meter higher than them. Gray skin covers misshapen legs and arms, hands groping for them as it roars again. On its head, where a face should be, a white bone mask shaped much like a bear covers the skin. Its eyes glow yellow as they fasten on Rukia.
She whispers something under her breath – benediction or curse, Ichigo can’t tell – and looses an arrow. It strikes the beast head on but does nothing, only bounces off the white mask harmlessly.
“What,” Ichigo demands under his breath, “is that?”
“I have no idea,” Rukia whispers back. “I’ve never seen such a creature.”
“I hunger,” it seethes, high above them, and its gleaming yellow eyes focus on the two humans far below.
Rukia looses another arrow, hitting it in the shoulder joint, and this time the arrow flies true, severing the limb and causing the monster to roar with pain. Strangely, the limb does not fall to the ground but dissolves in the air. She breathes a faint sigh of relief – too soon, because the limb grows back as quickly as it dissipated, and the beast charges her.
She dodges and Ichigo swings with his staff, impacting a leg with enough force that the beast stops its pursuit of Rukia – and swipes for Ichigo instead, sending him flying. He hits the ground so hard that it drives the wind from him, and he struggles to stand and take in air. Rukia’s scream drives him, and he drives the butt of his staff into the ground to lever himself up.
He runs to catch up to them both, watching Rukia loose yet another arrow to no effect. “How are we supposed to kill it?” Ichigo asks, panting, after dodging another swipe. The beast roars and grabs for him; he dodges, rolling out of the way and coming up with his staff pointed threateningly at the creature.
“Can you hold it off while I bless your arrows?” Rukia asks. “It may be a demon, and purified arrows should drive it off.”
“I’ll try.”
It’s not easy: the beast swipes for him and dodges his staff, and it’s all Ichigo can do to keep the thing’s attention on him instead of Rukia. A huge hand bats at him again and this time he ends up against a tree, skull rapping hard against the bark. Worse, blood spills from an open wound where the beast’s claws have torn through fabric and skin. “Rukia,” he whispers, and struggles to stand again.
“Sai!”
Blinking the haze from his eyes, Ichigo watches as an old man – or a young man? His face is youthful but his hair is pure white – lands gracefully before the beast, placing himself between it and Rukia. He draws a blade from a sheath at his side and pays no attention to either of them. “Hado number thirty-three: sokatsui!” he calls, and a blast of red energy drives the beast back as Ichigo watches slack-jawed.
Then the man leaps into the air and brings his sword down, cutting easily through the beast’s white mask. The thing gives a scream and disintegrates into nothing. The white-haired man sheaths his blade and smirks in satisfaction. Then he turns his attention in Ichigo’s direction, and frowns.
“I am not meant to interfere,” he mutters to himself, but he crosses the space between them, reaching for Ichigo.
Until Rukia steps between them, another arrow at the ready. “Who are you?” she demands. “And what are you planning to do to Ichigo?”
“Oh!” The white-haired man laughs gently. “I did not realize you could see me. You must be a shaman. I am going to heal your friend, now that the danger has passed.” He offers her a gentle smile.
Ichigo groans faintly on the ground behind Rukia, and she cautiously lowers her bow. “Heal him,” she repeats slowly. “What are you?”
The white-haired pan pushes past her and kneels at Ichigo’s side, gently pulling his hand away. “Ah, the hollow did some damage. I meant to purify it much earlier,” he says, as though either of them understand a word he is saying. A blue glow emits from his hands and Ichigo jerks in shock.
And then a second time, in relief, because the wound on his stomach is beginning to close up even as he watches. “How…?”
“Ah, he can’t see me then,” the white-haired man remarks.
“I can see you,” Ichigo grouses.
“Oh? How interesting, to find two humans with spiritual awareness in the middle of nowhere. And…” He looks between them both. “Hmm, yes, I see,” he says, as if his once-over explained anything.
He helps Ichigo to sit up once his wound is healed enough, and performs the same magic on the back of his head. “I am sorry about the hollow,” he says, and takes a wooden charm from the strange white uniform he wears. “You will not remember this in a moment. Your horse and ox aren’t far.”
“Won’t remember…?” Rukia asks.
The world goes white and when they can both see again, they are alone. Ichigo climbs to his feet and helps Rukia do the same. “Are you hurt?” he asks, one hand rubbing at the sore spot on the back of his head.
“No. Thank you for saving me from that wild boar. We should find the animals,” Rukia says. She picks up the arrows and bow that have fallen nearby, and returns the former to the quiver.
Ichigo picks up his staff. “We still need to find water, too,” he points out.
But the horse and ox have done that for them: when they catch up to the spooked animals, both are drinking their fill in a deep stream further into the woods.
At that moment, Ichigo realizes just how bad they both smell. Traveling in the same clothes for three days straight, and being attacked by a wild boar, has done them no favors. “Why don’t we rest here?” he suggests. “We can fill the waterskins and clean up a little.”
Rukia nods in agreement and they unsaddle the horse and strip the supplies from both animals. Ichigo finds the three empty waterskins while Rukia grabs for the pot she could only wipe clean earlier, and they spend the next while at the stream, gathering water and cleaning their belongings.
“I won’t look, if you wish to bathe,” Ichigo offers. “I’ll give the horse and ox a rub-down so you can have some privacy.”
The look she gives him is an appraising one. “Very well,” she agrees. “And I will give you privacy as well, if you wish to clean yourself.”
He hunts down a brush from their supplies and gives first the horse and then the ox a brushing, removing dirt, dried mud, and other debris from their coats. Though Ichigo does not look he still hears, and his cheeks flush at the thought of what must be happening behind him: Rukia, naked and rinsing her body and maybe her hair free of the sweat and dirt of three days’ travel.
Ichigo waits until she has given him the all-clear to do the same, stripping his ruined shirt from his body and then his hakama, to splash in the stream. When he looks, she seems to be occupying herself with organizing their supplies; a good idea, given that he certainly doesn’t know how much they have left or how useful each item might be.
He dresses in fresh blue hakama and a fresh kosode as well, smoothing down the simple fabric. Next to her, he is dressed very plainly: the clean mo she wears is decorated with wide stripes, and her wrapped top is a pale, pretty lavender.
But she doesn’t seem to mind; when he joins her in going through their supplies a few minutes later, she smiles in welcome, and they work in companionable silence. She re-bandages his heel and ankle when their work uncovers the bandaging and salve.
Three days’ travel has significantly reduced what they carry, and when they redistribute the packs and bedrolls on the horse and ox, the burden on the horse is significantly lighter.
They move on, him mounted on the horse while she leads the ox this time; between his ankle injury and the developing heavy bruising from the wild boar attack, Ichigo subsides when Rukia insists on it.
“How long have you been a shaman?” Ichigo asks after a while. His inner thighs are already sore – he’s ridden only rarely – but at least his ankle seems to be on the mend.
“Mm. My grandmother began to teach me when I was just a little girl, but I formally became a shaman when I turned fourteen. That was six years ago,” Rukia muses. “Our branch of the clan rarely breeds shamans.” She glances up at him. “You have always been able to see ghosts?” she inquires.
“Ever since I was small,” Ichigo confirms. “I see kami sometimes as well, mostly the spirits of trees and forests.”
Rukia hums thoughtfully under her breath. “I would like to test you, when we stop for the night,” she says plainly. “You may have the makings of a shaman; it’s unusual in a man, but not impossible.”
“I don’t think I’m cut out to be a shaman,” Ichigo grumbles. When she gives him a curious look, he admits, “I want to learn how to lay ghosts to rest. But I’m impatient. I was never good at listening to people when they whine, unless it was one of my siblings.”
She snorts and smacks his calf lightly. “Perhaps your shaman did that, but I certainly don’t. I have no patience for whining or malingering, and the people of my home know that. But, if you do not wish to be a shaman, I will not force you,” Rukia agrees.
“I make a better hunter,” Ichigo says after a while.
“Mm. The village needs hunters and guards, if you feel that is your calling.” Rukia rests a hand on the ox’s shoulder as they walk; she is much shorter than him, and shorter than the beast too, but she handles it well enough.
“More than being a shaman or farmer,” Ichigo allows. He adjusts his posture and grimaces as the saddle digs in somewhere sensitive. “As long as you don’t make me join the horse guards.” She laughs, and it’s such a pretty sound even if it’s at his expense. But he scowls down at her to hide the smile that wants to curve on his lips.
“You’ll grow used to it,” Rukia promises.
“If you say so.” Ichigo adjusts his grip on the reins. “Let me know when your feet start to hurt, and we can switch. My ankle isn’t so bad, especially with whatever you put on it.”
Rukia keeps them on the road later than they have stayed moving the last few nights, until finally she calls a halt in the darkness. Ichigo has a makeshift torch in one hand while the other stays on the ox, having ceded the horse to her before sunset. “There,” she says. “There is a spirit here, and you can practice.”
They move off the road and into the woods, finding just enough open space to be able to sleep upwind of the ox and horse. Ichigo hobbles both animals while Rukia retrieves a waterskin and the makings of dinner; she cooks, this evening, while he retrieves the bedrolls and gives both animals water.
He tries to ignore the shade he can feel just beyond the glow of the little fire in their encampment; like the other spirit it doesn’t feel malicious, but it still unnerves him to feel it staring at them, like a cold prickle between his shoulder blades.
After their meal, Rukia retrieves her charm and has him sit across from her, cross-legged on their bedrolls. “This,” she explains, “Is the charm I used to settle the spirit we encountered earlier. But it is merely a focus. Tonight, I am going to start teaching you how to focus your power, and then you will watch as I settle the ghost yonder.”
“I understand.” This close to her, even tired and decently full from their meal, even knowing that they both smell, Ichigo can’t help but let his lips curve. She’s beautiful even given all of that, firelight flickering on her pale skin and her eyes relaxed as she looks at him.
Rukia presses the charm into his hand. It’s a simple thing: wood and rope with a few characters written on it in black ink. The brushstrokes are neat and tidy. “Early in my training, when my grandmother was still teaching me the very basics, she gave this to me. Do not break it,” she warns.
Ichigo cradles it in response, keeping it close to his body so that it won’t drop onto the forest floor. “I’ll be careful,” he says gruffly. “What am I supposed to do with it?”
“For right now, you are just going to hold it while you practice settling yourself,” Rukia explains. “Take a few slow, deep breaths, and close your eyes.”
He does as she asks, filling his chest with fresh air and expelling the old slowly several times.
“Empty your mind,” she instructs, voice low and a touch hypnotic. “Focus only on the wood and rope in your hand. The world around you will disappear, and my voice with it. Focus only on the charm you hold.”
Ichigo breathes slowly and tries to do as she says. The night buzzes around them: the animals chew loudly on grass and occasionally stomp their hooves; bugs buzz in the trees; the call of an owl echoes through the sky. But slowly, as she speaks to him, those things fade into the background. So, too, does the feel of the bedroll and the hard ground beneath him, and finally, the searing ache in his legs and thighs from riding much of the day.
Rukia’s voice remains, smooth and low, reminding him to focus and forget the sound of her voice. Time stretches out; all Ichigo knows is her voice and the feel of the wooden charm in his hand. “Feel for the power that sits inside you,” she instructs. “It sits beneath your breastbone, just here.”
Her whole hand presses against his chest. It’s just a light touch, a soft press, but time speeds up again and Ichigo gasps for air. The feel of her hand on him, even through the fabric of his shirt, is enough to make his breath catch, but her fingers shift, and one touches skin – and his eyes fly open at the spark that follows. “Rukia,” he breathes. His heart must be racing beneath her palm, because she presses more firmly before drawing back, puzzlement filling her eyes.
He already misses her touch.
“What happened? You were doing well.” Rukia settles back on the padded fabric beneath her and frowns up at him. “Did a noise distract you?”
“Ah. No, I – when you touched me,” he admits, cursing the way his cheeks warm. Maybe she’ll think it’s the heat from the fire.
Her frown deepens. “You should not have been able to hear my voice or feel it when I touched you,” Rukia muses. “Could you still hear other things?”
Ichigo shakes his head. “Just the sound of your voice. I couldn’t feel or hear anything except – except you.”
She blushes, this time, and it relieves him that Rukia isn’t entirely unaffected by whatever he might be implying. “I see. We will try again.”
He closes his eyes obediently, and once more she guides him deep. Once more all other sounds disappear and so does the feel of the world around him. Once more her voice is the only thing that stays, her touch the only thing that he still feels. She uses a single fingertip this time, and though it does not jolt him the way her touch first did, Ichigo still needs to take a moment before he can reach for whatever power she has identified.
It’s too much, too fast, like a flood that moves through him, and the wood charm in his hand rattles of its own accord before he manages to stop the flow of power, eyes flying open and breath heaving like he’s just run a race. “It’s too much,” he gasps out.
Her hand rests on his, over the charm. “So I see,” she agrees, and Ichigo’s fingers twitch beneath hers. “We will send the ghost to its rest, and then you will try again.”
His muscles burn when he rises, but he holds out a hand to help her up and follows her the short distance from the clearing to meet this ghost that has been watching them for well over an hour.
The shade that stands before them is pale and faded, like it is no longer fully tethered to this world. She, Ichigo corrects himself. A woman, and a young one, judging by her appearance.
“You have lingered long in this world,” Rukia intones when they reach her. “But it is time to rest now.” She holds out a hand and Ichigo places the charm in it.
Rukia looks down at it and then up at him once more, blinking with confusion. “This…” But then she clears her throat and returns her attention to the spirit. “Come,” she offers. “I will help you to rest, for I can see that you are tired.”
“I cannot,” the spirit whispers, though she does not look at them. “My bones lie unburied and my death unavenged, for the Haji are powerful and none would stand against their youngest son.” She quails back from Ichigo.
“I won’t hurt you,” he promises, his voice as gentle as he can make it, the tone mimicking the one he uses with his youngest sisters.
Rukia’s expression is thunderous, but she lifts the charm. “Where is your body?” she asks. “Ichigo, go get the shovel.”
He hurries back to their supplies and grabs not just the wooden shovel he’s been using to bury their waste, but another torch as well. When he returns, the spirit leads them a short distance away, to bones half-buried. Thankfully, it is just bones. Ichigo doesn’t need instruction: he quickly sets about digging, burrowing beneath the bones until they sink lower, and then covering her remains with the dug up soil. It’s hard work, and Rukia is too busy talking to the spirit and holding the torch so that he can see, to help him. His already aching legs burn, and his back aches from bending low and shoveling soil over his shoulder.
Ichigo wonders what it means for his future that in the short time since he has left home, he has killed two men, saved a shaman from bandits and a wild boar, and now buried the body of an unquiet ghost. He’s not sure he wants to know the answer.
There is nothing he can use for a grave marker, but Ichigo spots some wildflowers beneath the torchlight and drops the shovel to pick a handful, laying them gently at the head of the new grave.
“Will you rest, now?” Rukia asks when he is done and has sweat through his clothes.
The spirit looks down at the grave before her. “Thank you,” she murmurs. “But the youngest son of the Haji…”
“I will take care of him,” Rukia promises. Her lips curve, and the smile on her face is not a nice one. “You may rest, Kiyo, knowing that I will keep my word.”
A sigh leaves the ghost’s lips, and she bows in thanks. “Then I will,” she agrees.
Rukia raises the charm in her hand and passes the torch back to Ichigo. He watches as she swings it gently, catching the spirit’s attention and keeping it. “Then go,” she murmurs. “Go to your rest, your body buried, and justice promised.”
Slowly, so slowly Ichigo isn’t sure it’s even happening, the spirit disappears from their view. As soon as she is fully gone, Rukia sags and he catches her, a hand beneath her arm to keep her standing. “Let’s go back to the fire,” Ichigo suggests, and Rukia doesn’t protest. He uses the torch to light their way and makes sure Rukia doesn’t stumble when she lowers herself back down onto her bedroll. “Something happened with the charm, when you tried to use it,” he says when he’s doused the torch and they are both sitting down once more.
Rukia purses her lips. “You’d filled it with some of your power,” she explains tiredly. “Ordinarily I would have to cleanse it, to use my power instead, but I was able to use yours as if it were mine.”
“Is that unusual?” His heart speeds up again; something about the way she says it feels important.
“My grandmother always said such a thing isn’t possible.”
Ichigo huffs out a breath. “Did she ever try it? Maybe there’s something about my power that’s… similar to yours.”
“Perhaps.” Rukia uses a hand to cover a jaw-cracking yawn with her mouth. “We should sleep. Aiding that ghost took much longer than I thought it would.”
Obediently, Ichigo banks the fire and they lie down, bedrolls close enough that they could touch.
They finally arrive in Nokata three days later, dirty, footsore, and with their supplies almost completely depleted. It’s a much larger settlement than he expected: five times as big as his old home, and with buildings that rise above the ground rather than sink into it. A half dozen guards meet them at the gates.
They bow low to Rukia as she dismounts, so low that suspicion pricks at him. She is a shaman, yes, but in his village the shaman would not rate such a greeting.
“Shaman,” one of the guards greets. His head is shaved as bald as a baby’s and he wears better armor than the rest; a higher-ranking guard, then. “We expected you back days ago. Where is your escort? Who is this strange man?”
Rukia does not bow in return, but offers a shallow nod. “Ikkaku,” she greets. “I was ambushed on the road by bandits who slew my escorts and destroyed the wagon. This man fought off the bandits and helped me to return home safely.”
Murmurs break out among the guards, and a familiar itch starts between Ichigo’s shoulder blades. He can hear them: they are remarking on his strange hair. But he stands silent at a look from Rukia.
“We will take care of the ox and horse. Your brother asked that you find him as soon as you arrived,” Ikkaku says after a time.
“Very well. Come, Ichigo. Allow me to introduce you to my brother.” Rukia sails past the guards without waiting for an answer, and Ichigo follows awkwardly in her wake, conscious of the bows she receives and the stares that greet him as they walk through the settlement.
It’s clearly a prosperous place: some of the buildings are actually quite tall, rising high above the ground as if there may be two or even three levels to them. The people they pass are well-dressed, bodies clad in colorful fabrics and shoes far better than what he is wearing. Ichigo squares his shoulders and keeps pace with Rukia easily; in fact, her legs are so much shorter than his that he needs to shorten his stride to avoid overtaking her.
When they enter the open doorway of the largest building in the settlement, however, Ichigo swallows – hard – and glances sidelong at Rukia. She looks as serene as a still pond, not at all intimidated by the finery around them: the delicately crafted clay pots that sit on the wooden table they pass; the patterned fabric hanging from the walls meant to insulate from the cold; the pillars of wood that hold up the building.
“Rukia,” he says under his breath. “Your brother is important.” It isn’t a question.
She merely smiles up at him. And then they are through a set of screens and standing before an imposing man in colorful, elegant clothing. “Brother,” she greets, and does not bow.
A swift nudge of her foot against his startles Ichigo out of his shock, and he bows respectfully.
“Byakuya, allow me to introduce you to Ichigo.” Rukia gestures in his direction, and he stifles a wince. Days more of switching between riding a horse and leading an ox, of sleeping rough in the woods – he must stink, and look, like he feels.
The tall, slender man before him looks Ichigo over with eyes that seem to see everything. A slight sneer curves his upper lip before he stifles it. “The guards informed me that you were returning with a… guest,” he says carefully. “I did not think they meant a commoner.”
He bristles at that. “I am a commoner,” he agrees, ignoring Rukia’s look of warning. “But a commoner was good enough to help your sister.”
Rukia tuts under her breath. “Ichigo saved my life,” she clarifies, and her brother’s eyes widen. “Did the guards tell you I returned with no wagon and no escort? We were attacked by bandits. Ichigo slew two of the bandits, and chased off the third. We have traveled together since, and it is only because of his help that I have returned safely.”
“I see.” The look in his eyes warms. “Then you have my thanks and the thanks of our people, for saving the head of our clan.”
Ichigo feels his jaw slacken and he turns his head to stare down at Rukia. “You didn’t tell me that you were…”
Rukia laughs at his expression. “I did not want you to treat me as though I was fragile, or worse, as someone to be ransomed off.” She holds up a hand when he scowls. “I know, now, that you would never do that. But I didn’t know you, when we first set out together.”
She has a point. Ichigo rolls his shoulders, deliberately pushing them down from where they’d been trying to rise toward his ears. “I only wanted to ensure your safety. And mine,” he adds as an afterthought.
“You have strange hair, brighter than any I’ve ever seen,” her brother observes.
“He is Inari-touched,” Rukia supplies quickly. “Though I don’t think he has the patience to be a shaman, he sees more than most.”
And that, too, is the abbreviated version of the story, and Ichigo is grateful for it.
“Very well. The settlement always needs farmers and laborers, or hunters if you have the skill for it.”
Rukia hums thoughtfully under her breath. “We need additional guards as well,” she muses. “Before I left, Ikkaku complained of the lack of strong guardsmen in his corps. Ichigo is highly skilled with both the bow and the staff. And I will train him in those shamanic arts for which he is suited, which will be a boon to us as well.”
He catches the careful look she gives him and offers a nod in return. “I would be honored to be a guard, and to accept your tutoring,” Ichigo affirms.
Rukia’s brother looks between them, but he gives his nod of approval as well. “Then you will join the guard, Ichigo. And as thanks for saving my sister’s life, you will be given a reward that will settle you comfortably here.”
“I didn’t do it for a reward.” Ichigo scowls at the thought of it. He did it because he couldn’t let an innocent woman come to harm. He did it because it was the right thing to do. And if his world also tilted and righted itself the first time he saw her, well. Ichigo keeps that to himself. She is a shaman and the ruler of this place; he may have saved her, but he is not fit for more than that.
“It is settled, then. Welcome, Ichigo, Inari-touched,” Rukia says, and a smile plays on her lips, as if she knows what he is thinking.
Time passes, first weeks and then months. Ikkaku readily accepts him into the guard, and though he has no skill with a blade, Ichigo learns quickly. Many of the men among the guards know little of fighting with a staff, and so he trades lessons with the staff for extra help with his swordplay.
With membership in the guard and the reward for saving Rukia, Ichigo settles easily enough into the village. He lives in the barracks with the other men for the first several months, but then Rukia summons him for the first time.
“You agreed to let me teach you how to harness your power,” she reminds him, and when Ichigo agrees, rather than sending him back to his barracks she assigns him quarters within her home, the multi-story building he entered during his first day in the settlement. They’re tiny: there’s space for his bedding and clothes, and little else. But they’re his, and he no longer sleeps underground with a dozen other men surrounding him.
He trains with her a few times a week, learning how to focus his power properly, until she grants him a charm of his own, one with characters written by her hand. Ichigo secretly treasures it, carrying it with him wherever he goes: on his shifts as a guard, to meals in the barracks, to the woods when he hunts to supplement the settlement’s food stores.
“There is a beast in the forest,” Ikkaku warns him soon after he moves into the clan head’s home. “It’s killed two hunters in the last week. They say it’s gone mad and can’t be killed. Be careful, or the shaman will have my head.”
Ichigo’s cheeks warm. “I’ll try to avoid it,” he agrees.
“Good. Herself is frightening enough without her favorite guard getting injured.”
He hears more murmurs of that as he walks to the gates. It’s no secret that he’s one of only a small number of guards who live in the clan house, and as usual, Ichigo’s hair makes him stand out. He ignores the murmurs and checks his quiver and bow. He’ll avoid the beast, if it keeps Rukia from getting upset.
The beast finds him, and a flash of memory nearly gets him killed. Twice as tall as he is and gray-limbed, the creature is like nothing he’s ever seen before, except that he has: in the forest, months ago. The wild boar wasn’t a boar at all, he remembers with a sudden burst of clarity. And there was a man with white hair who leapt impossibly high to kill the strange beast with the white mask.
Ichigo dodges with a yell as the beast roars, the strange, high-pitched noise reverberating through his bones. The mask, he remembers. It can be killed by cutting through its head, through the mask. He abandons his bow in favor of his sword, turning to face the creature as it lopes towards him.
His strike misses, taking off an arm that disintegrates before it touches ground. The strike barely seems to phase the monster, and Ichigo stumbles as he lands. The arm grows back as quickly as he destroyed it.
“What are you?” he demands, and the monster laughs in response. It’s sentient, then. Even better.
A huge arm reaches out and bats at him, sending him crashing to the ground and sliding backwards, undergrowth tearing at his clothes and skin. He just barely avoids cracking his head open on a rock, and dodges again with a pained grunt as the monster lunges for him. But Ichigo takes advantage of the beast’s lunge and swings his sword around, taking off half of its white mask.
And – oh. “You’re – you were human?” he stammers, after dodging another grab. The wooden charm from Rukia, hanging from his belt, bumps against his hip and Ichigo snags it. Maybe his power can stop this thing, at least long enough for him to escape it.
“Once,” it rasps in agreement. “But now I am something more, something stronger. And I am hungry.”
Ichigo swears under its breath and focuses on the charm in his left hand. He’s had months of practice; he doesn’t need to sink into a meditative state to focus anymore. But he still thinks of Rukia’s voice as he does it, of the hours she’s spent teaching him even when he’s too impatient to sit still.
Power fills the charm, and Ichigo swings it. “Come,” he says. “Come, you can rest now.”
The monster laughs again, and its footsteps leave deep gouges the forest floor as it stalks him. “What a funny little man you are. You want to distract me with a wooden tile?”
“You have lingered long in this world,” Ichigo says, voice growing stronger. “Let me help you rest.”
A howl splits the air and Ichigo goes flying again, blood spraying in an arc as one of the creature’s claws tears into his shoulder. He lands hard, but bounces up quickly, grimacing as blood stains his clothes. The chant isn’t working; this creature is far more feral than the few ghosts he has dealt with under Rukia’s tutelage.
The sword the white-haired man wielded. Ichigo grabs for his sword, which has fallen beside him, and takes a breath. He hangs the charm from the hilt and holds it tightly in both hands. The monster taunts him again: “I will rest after I have eaten you.”
Ichigo leaps, sword held high, and roars as he meets his target at last, cutting through the white mask and then its gray body. The creature shrieks with pain and then disintegrates before his very eyes. He slumps, suddenly woozy, when he realizes that he’s alone. Blood drips down onto the forest floor and Ichigo reattaches the charm to his belt. He presses his hand to the wound on his shoulder and hurries home, trailing blood the whole way.
“What happened to you?” a guard asks when Ichigo limps through the gate. “Call for the shaman!” he demands of his companion, who takes off at a run.
“Killed that beast Ikkaku was talking about,” Ichigo explains, hissing in pain when his colleague chivvies him along toward the barracks. He keeps pressure on the wound with his opposite hand until Rukia arrives, out of breath from running. Her skirt flares around her legs and she carries a bag in her hand.
“What have you done to yourself?” she demands, ignoring the snickers around them.
“Do you remember that wild boar that attacked us?” Ichigo asks. He grunts in pain when she pulls his hand away and shoves his clothing down off his shoulders.
“Yes,” Rukia agrees, though her expression is puzzled. She pours water over the wound. “This is going to hurt,” Rukia warns, grabbing a clay jar from her bag.
Ichigo braces himself, and stifles a scream as the pungent-smelling fluid burns into his wound. “What… is that?” he asks when he can speak once more.
“It keeps wound rot away,” Rukia explains. She dabs at his skin with a cloth and leans in close, so close that his nose would brush her cheek if he turned his head. “This is deep – I’ll have to stitch it.” Rukia wraps a swath of fabric around it and pulls tight. “Come back home with me, there’s not enough light in the barracks for me to work properly.”
There is more snickering, and when Rukia straightens up she silences them all with a single glare. “You can tell me more about this beast you encountered later,” she decides.
“Who says he actually killed it?” a guard mutters nearby. “There’s no proof, just a gash he could have given himself.”
Ichigo allows Rukia to help him to stand, using his good arm to lever himself up. “Why would I make it up? It would only get more of you killed if you let your guard down.”
“Maybe you want more of the shaman’s favors,” another guard offers, and smirks when Ichigo levels a scowl at him. “More than you’re already getting. That’s the only reason you’ve got Ikkaku’s favor, right?”
But it’s Rukia who reacts first, placing a calming hand on Ichigo’s good arm. “You should be careful,” she warns pleasantly, voice pitched higher than usual – so much so that Ichigo darts a look at her in surprise. “I do not take kindly to men who insult me, or who insult the kami-touched.” She looks up at Ichigo, dark eyes calm. “Come. I need to stitch that. Keep pressure on it as we walk.”
He follows silently, doing as she says and keeping his hand pressed firmly against the bandages wrapped around his shoulder. He waits until they’re inside to say quietly, “That is not the first time I’ve been accused of benefiting from your attention.”
Rukia shoves him down into a seated position and kneels at his side. She unwraps the bandages and examines the wound once more, before offering him another stoppered jar. “Drink that.”
Ichigo opens the jar and sniffs at the contents. “What is it?” It’s a pungent brew, herbs mixed with the distinct odor of poppy and honey.
“It will dull the pain. Take one good swallow,” Rukia instructs while threading a bone needle.
He does as she says; it tastes awful, and he gags before managing to swallow it down. Ichigo stoppers the jar again, setting it aside. It starts to take effect immediately: the pain from his shoulder dulls and his body loosens, until he’s leaning back against the wall behind him.
“Hold still,” Rukia instructs.
Ichigo does as she tells him. Rukia is practically in his lap as she stitches, needle pushing through his skin in small, even movements. He doesn’t watch her hands; instead he watches her, watches the way she focuses so intently on her work. It still hurts to have a needle puncturing already-injured skin over and over, but the tincture she gave him reduces just how much it burns.
After a while he closes his eyes as the battle-fever leaves his system and fatigue sets in. He feels bandages being wrapped around his shoulder, and then slender hands gently push him to lie down and tuck a blanket over him.
“Rest,” her low voice murmurs.
Ichigo does.
He gains a reputation, after that: not just as a hunter but as a bounty hunter. Ikkaku rewards him handsomely for taking out the strange monster that killed two of his comrades, and Ichigo finds himself taking on more dangerous jobs that other men have failed to complete: routing out bandits from the surrounding forest, killing monsters like the two he has now encountered, and occasionally putting down an actual wild boar.
It’s lucrative, and in a year, suddenly Ichigo is no longer a poor commoner but a prosperous guardsman, though he lives modestly.
He gains a second reputation as well: as the man who holds the shaman’s very highest favor. The other guards whisper about it when they think he won’t hear it; Ichigo picks up on it, though, from time to time. It doesn’t sit well, hearing them accuse Rukia of favoring him as a bedmate or of showing favoritism because she’s sleeping with him.
And it’s not just because Ichigo has never even held her hand.
“They are talking about you again,” he grumbles one morning when she is once again stitching him up: this time it’s his forearm, scored deeply by a bandit’s sword.
“Let them speak,” Rukia murmurs, clearly unbothered. She has his arm braced with one hand while the other works the needle. “We both know that your deeds are real. We both know that you do not ask me to treat you differently than any other man. And given how many of them hop from bed to bed, I hardly think they have room to criticize you.”
Ichigo hisses when the needle pokes a particularly sensitive spot. “I don’t care what they think about me. I care that they insult you,” he admits.
“Mm.” She completes another stitch, and those beautiful eyes look up, meeting his. Again he is trapped by them, and his heart skips a beat. “You are very respectful of me.” Rukia focuses on her stitching once more. “And you do not approach the other women here. You have a reputation for not going nightcrawling,” she muses. “Some say you would prefer a man, but I don’t think that’s quite right.”
He stifles a snort. “No,” Ichigo agrees. “There is only one woman I would… approach, to use your word. And she stands far above my station.”
Their eyes meet, and Rukia reaches for cloth bandages to wrap around his arm without looking away. “Not so far,” she says. “And were you to find your way to her bed in the night, you would find it warm.”
His cheeks heat and there is a telltale color in hers, as well. “I will keep that in mind,” he murmurs, and his good hand clasps hers. Their eyes meet, hers darker than usual, and Ichigo hesitates for only a second before he leans down and presses his lips against hers.
It’s a relief – and anything but – when she returns his kiss, lips soft and warm on his.
Later, Ichigo barely waits until the clan building has gone dark to find her; he knows the way to her bed, though he has never been in it. But Rukia is waiting for him when he steps past her screens, wearing only white linen, and Ichigo blushes at the sight of her lit by lamplight.
“You took my hint,” she says approvingly, as he comes closer on bare feet. His forearm still hurts but he barely feels it over the pounding of his heart.
“It wasn’t exactly a subtle hint, Rukia,” Ichigo teases gently. He reaches her and cups her cheeks in both hands. He leans down to kiss her, and his eyes meet hers just before their lips touch.
Rukia leans up into his kiss and her hands grab at the fabric of his shirt to pull him closer, lips meeting and parting and meeting again in the lamplight. “It wasn’t meant to be,” she agrees when they part for a breath.
He keeps his hands gentle wherever they touch her, skimming over soft cheeks and slender arms, over her small waist. “May I?” he asks, fingers lingering over the knot belting her linen kosode shut.
Rukia pulls him closer in response. “Please,” she murmurs into his mouth, and Ichigo draws her down to her bedding.
“Show me,” he whispers, when there is no more fabric between them, and her lips are swollen from his kisses. His are, too.
And. “Ichigo,” she gasps a time after that, hands in his hair to keep him close when his lips find other places to kiss, to touch.
“Rukia,” he rasps even later, voice low and rough in her ear when they lose and find themselves in one another.
Soft fabric cradles them when they rest, his long limbs wrapped around her and holding her close, hearts beating in sync.
Fifteen years pass, both slower and faster than they expect. There is little in the way of ceremony for becoming husband and wife; after sharing a bed for two months they sit before her brother and agree that they are married. A child follows later, a daughter, strong and beautiful like her mother and with eyes like her father’s.
The Yamato clan gains more power, and there is relative peace for years, until.
Until cries of alarm come from the gates, and Ichigo hurries into his armor and kisses his wife and thirteen-year-old daughter. “Keep safe,” he orders. “I will come back to you both.”
Until the gates are breached, and the guards hurry to defend the settlement against a threat they did not expect. A dozen men fall repelling the invaders, and Ichigo orders the other guards to fall back to the clan compound, where the women and children have been gathered.
Arrows fly over his head and he knows she is there, defending her clan, her home, with her bow. Ichigo is terrified and unutterably proud of his wife when power crackles and their enemies fall. But they are pushed back, still, and he has only a panicked moment to throw himself before Rukia when the sword of one of their enemies swings down.
Blood sprays. It takes a moment for the pain to hit, for him to realize that it’s bad, for him to hear Rukia scream – a more frightening sound even than the cries of her childbirth pains so long ago – and the world to go dark.
He swims back to consciousness to the sound of her voice, demanding to be brought to him, and Ichigo raises his head weakly at the sight of two villagers carrying Rukia between them. Pain arcs through him and he groans aloud. His stomach is one mass of agony and his shoulder – Ichigo struggles to turn his head and grimaces. Someone has bandaged him, but he knows it’s too late for him. The bandages are soaked through with his blood.
But she is there, beside him, scrambling up to her knees despite her own injuries, and Ichigo strains to grab her hand with his. “I’m sorry,” he groans, voice hoarse with pain. “I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you.”
“Fool,” she whispers, and there are already tears streaming down her cheeks. “You did protect me. And now—”
“I know.” His hand tightens around his. “I swear to you, Rukia.” Their eyes meet. “I swear, I’ll find you in every lifetime.” There are flashes of light before his eyes, and Rukia’s face is growing hazy, blurred. “No… no matter what you look like. N-no matter where… you are. I…” He chokes, and a stream of blood spills from the corner of his mouth. “I will find you.”
Her hand tightens around his. He can barely feel it. There’s no pain, either. “I know,” she whispers, and her lips touch his.
It’s the last thing he feels before he dies.
They lose Rukia to her injuries less than a week later. Her brother orders the creation of a grand kofun for his sister and her husband, and with great ceremony their bodies are interred, surrounded by dozens of haniwa. Their daughter, their only child, becomes a shaman in her own right, known for dealing with the unquiet dead.
In a new place, a woman opens her eyes.
And time begins again.