Bleach Fan Fiction ❯ Invisible Writing ❯ Chapter 1

Invisible Writing

by debbiechan

Disclaimer: Kubo Tite owns Bleach, and Incandescens owns the imagination that gave me the scenario for this particular fanfic.

Description: Orihime acquires a slave in Hueco Mundo--Ishida.

Warnings: Although this fic is A/U (heaven help me, I’m not an A/U writer!), it may contain slight spoilers for Bleach post Soul Society arc. References to violence and sex will be not be explicit--probably R level. Given my predilections, however, NC17 is possible in future chapters.

For Incandescens, whose reiatsu is like Ichigo’s and causes others’ creative energy to grow

Finnigan Geist is my trusty beta, and I will never misspell your name again, honeybun.

Part One

Wherever she went, Hollow merchants recognized the white robes of Aizen's chosen Arrancar. At every table, the Hollow bowed, offering their finest goods and asking for no capital. Before Orihime now, prostrating its eight squirming limbs, was one calling itself a soul seller.

"Does Madam want a slave?" Its thin voice fawned. "Fresh from the Living World, fresh hot souls, still unbroken, still untouched--I have newly dead, I have Shinigami, I have all manner of souls . . . ."

Until that moment, Orihime had believed that the glum-faced beings who waited upon her in Las Noches did so willingly. She put down the spool of blue thread she had been examining and swept her gaze over the mass of collared souls. They were chained to one another by their necks, arms, and feet. She wondered how they had learned to walk in unison and if they were all friends.

There are too many. Aizen-sama will notice if I bring them all back with me.

Hand trembling, she pointed to one who was staring at her with the most abject expression. A black-haired boy--mouth dropped open in horror, dark red wounds showing though holes in his sleeves and pants-legs. He wore rectangular eyeglasses that had survived, amazingly, whatever had shredded his skin and clothes.

"That one."

"Excellent choice." The Hollow yanked a chain, and the boy stumbled forward. "Looks skinny but it’s a tough soul. Found it on a pile of slain humans after yesterday’s battle, and its reiatsu is formidable. Is Madam looking for a palace sentinel?"

"No," Orihime said in a tiny voice. "I was looking for curtains." It was the first time she had ventured outside Las Noches. She had been wanting to decorate the palace for weeks now, and Aizen had suggested that the Hueco Mundo Open Market could provide her with novel materials. "I could use …" Orihime didn’t know what she was going to do with the boy once she got him to Las Noches. "He might …"

"No need to explain." The Hollow swept a hand over the boy’s head--a fond gesture--and the boy jerked away, eyes narrowing.

What am I getting myself into? The cool defiance in her new slave’s eyes frightened Orihime a little. What if he’s dangerous? What if Aizen-sama finds out?

"Orihime-sama," spoke the white-robed Arrancar at her side. "Shall I have the soul seller deliver the slave or will you be taking it now?"

"Deliver him." Orihime looked away from the rows of slaves. Her world was turning upside down, and she had no idea why. "Have him brought directly to my rooms." Her voice did not sound as trembly as she felt, so she continued with deliberate casualness. "I want the wreathes of plastic flowers too. All of them … and the reams of fabric and the spools of thread and all the cups and mirrors, even the broken ones." She gestured to a table of goods. "Bring it all."

She turned to walk away.

"Inoue-san!" The shout was loud enough to hurt her ears. She looked back to see a Hollow arm strike the boy across the head.

"Don’t hurt him!" Orihime gasped. "Please!"

"Forgive me, Madam." The Hollow’s hand was clasping the slave’s head. The boy was on his knees, staring at Orihime with such an odd expression--frantic, enraged. What did he call me?

"This spiritedness is common in new captives," the Hollow said, "but if Madam would prefer a less insolent servant--"

"No, I want that one." Orihime averted her eyes from the boy’s burning gaze (Why is he so angry with me?) and gathered her long white skirt. "Have him brought to my rooms and have someone draw a bath."

A bath, she thought as she hurried back to Las Noches, the only haven and home she had ever known. Yes, he is filthy and needs a nice bath.

**

The dust and darkness of Hueco Mundo had been shrouding his grief.

Ishida Uryuu knew his own name, that he was a Quincy, and that his body stung from cuts and bruises, but he wasn’t sure if he was alive or dead. The reiatsu-dampening collar around his neck made it impossible for him to measure his own power or that of the souls bound to him by chains.

A snap of a bolt and he was separated from the other slaves.

"You’re a lucky kid," said one. "Off to the palace to serve a beautiful girl. The rest of us will probably be eaten if we can’t be sold as slaves."

Eaten? Ishida’s mind stored away that puzzle for later. Right now he needed to figure out how to help Inoue-san recover her senses. He had not wanted to say a word to her, to reveal her identity in case her very soul was in peril, but then that Arrancar had called her Orihime-sama and Ishida had known.

She’s lost her memory. Her eyes, although full of concern for him, did not recognize him. And the way she had gathered the fabric of her cloak in her fingers--as if she’d been comfortable in those clothes for some time, as if it mattered to her that the hem not drag the dusty ground as she walked away.

Was she a ghost? Was she an Arrancar? Did she remember anything about her life in the Realm of the Living? It could not have been pure chance that Orihime-sama had chosen him for a slave, could it?

Pure chance or not, Ishida felt a thrill of possibility after so many hard hours of defeat. He could accomplish something here. He could protect this Orihime-sama even if he had failed to protect… . He grimaced as he was being led through dusty streets by the soul seller’s two-armed assistant. It would do no good to think about the weeks of hard battle--Ryuuken dead, Kurosaki missing, the reason Ishida himself had been captured…

At the palace entrance, a guard tried to take Ishida’s glasses.

"They’re mine," he said as the Hollow’s hands reached for them.

"You don’t own anything," the Hollow said.

"Actually," came a light female voice, "they’re mine."

Ishida was shocked to see her. Apparently she had been waiting for him. She was smiling, infinitely happier-looking than she had been outside. Her cloak was gone, and the white sheath she wore was tight-fitting and sleeveless. Her upper arms looked pink and healthy.

She’s been cared for here.

Ishida’s gaze traveled down the length of her white dress. A narrow skirt fell to ankles that were covered in thick black stocking material. She wore odd black, low-heeled slippers. They were made of a glistening material like patent leather.

They haven’t ruined her. Thank God, they haven’t hurt her.

Ishida stayed with his head down, staring at Inoue-san’s feet. For some reason, the moment was truly humbling. Here, standing before him, was a reason not to despair. She was alive. He would find a way to get her out of Aizen’s clutches.

"He’s mine and so are his eyeglasses and all the things I got at the market today," the airy voice went on. "You don’t have to register him with the other servants. He’s staying with me."

Ishida felt his collar being tugged, and this time he was being led by his new owner through a high-ceilinged, austere corridor.

She was laughing. It was the laugh he had heard when she spotted classmates in the hallway before lunch and the adventure of free period was before her. "Hi Totopo!" She waved at Hollows standing guard at doorways. "Hi Menudo!"

"You don’t have to worry about anyone taking your eyeglasses," she said in a quieter voice, obviously addressing Ishida although she was still waving at the guards. "Aizen-sama makes the servants wear ugly short skirts, but he is a kind father to me and lets me around the rules a lot. I can make you a new outfit with some of the fabric I got today."

Ishida tripped on his chained feet, causing his owner to brake and look at him.

"Father?" he said. His voice sounded parched and tired.

"Yes, Aizen-sama is my father. Many of us here are made by him. There’s a huge secret room where that happens, I’m told, but I only know this part of the palace. Oh look at you! Why are you so sad? Do you miss your home?" She turned and continued to lead Ishida through another less populated hall.

"I’m going to be kind to you, you must know," she said in a bell-like voice. "My rooms are not far from here, and my servants live with me althoughhhh …" She placed her finger on her lip. "I suppose you must have your own room since the other servants are girls. I think they might be scared of a boy… Over there is where Gin-sama lives--he’s hardly ever there, though--he’s always with my father--and beyond that, this hallway opens into the Assembly of Loyalty--Tousen-sama was in charge of that place before he was killed in the war--and just beyond that is where I live. I’m redecorating it. There’s not enough color in this place, don’t you think? Aizen-sama is so fond of white…."

Ishida didn’t know what to think. All he knew was that he would follow this vision of Inoue Orihime anywhere. Between the waves of horror he felt as she guided him through Aizen’s palace, he tried to believe with a resolute joy: It’s her. She’s alive. She’s alive, and I can still save her.

**

When Orihime thought about it at all, she assumed that she was happy. No one but Gin-sama smiled more than she did, and Aizen-sama was a patient teacher and an indulgent father. He told her that the universe was going to change for the better, that there would be no more suffering forever and ever, and that the war was a necessary, temporary unpleasantness.

Stop trembling. The pain is inevitable, and the soul is immortal. Your kindness and grace restore patience and hope. You and I will re-invent whole worlds.

Blood was spilled on occasion on the frosty floors of Las Noches, but Orihime had learned to avert her eyes. She knew how to perform when called upon to summon her healing shield. She knew not to hold her head too proudly when the Espada cast her envious glances.

You are my chosen one, my princess. I, your father, treasure you above all the Arrancar in Las Noches.

Time passed in an endless, monochromatic stream--white clothing, gray shadows, and the ceaseless night above. One time, she had complained to Aizen-sama about the absence of color, and he had touched her bright hair, rubbed a strand of it between his fingers.

You’re different. A special child. You create your own energy instead of reflecting it.

A silver faucet was singing a current of steaming water, and the tub was almost full.

"Orihime-sama?" Almatriste leaned into the mist and made a skeptical face. "This water is too hot. It would melt an Espada. It’s going to kill that boy."

"No it’s not." Orihime unsnapped the collar around her slave’s neck and handed the metal object to her Arrancar servant.

"Querida, what are you doing? He’s fresh from the Living World! He could be--I’m not a fighter! What if he gives us trouble?"

"He won’t."

Orihime touched the dark flesh where the collar had pressed against the boy’s skin. A sudden pinkness flushed the area--as if the touch had embarrassed him. Orihime looked up to see that the boy’s whole face was red.

"You’re a living soul," she said, surprised. She could sense his reiatsu now. It was as great as any of Aizen’s generals.

The boy was looking at her as if asleep with his eyes open. "I am?" His gaze was mild compared to the defiant stare he had given the soul seller earlier. There were whole worlds in those dark blue eyes. He was innocent--Orihime was certain of this--and yet she felt afraid. Her hand pulled away.

The collar snapped back on--surprising both the slave and slave-owner.

"Aizen-sama would not approve!" scolded Almatriste. She was a tiny Arrancar--the spirit hole in her neck reaching only to the slave’s midriff--and she had to stretch her arms to adjust the collar back onto the boy. "It’s a male, and it’s untamed. You shouldn’t go around bringing creatures like this home, Querida. It will be a bother for me to train, and look at it--skinny and useless. Lastimada and I can attend to you perfectly well without it and--"

"I know," said Orihime, her eyes still locked with the strange boy’s. What does he know?

"You can send it back," huffed Almatriste.

"I know," said Orihime. "I still want him."

The boy lowered his eyes. Orihime had the feeling that he was eager to say something to her but that he wouldn’t speak in front of the other servant.

"It’s alright, Almatriste." Orihime reached for a washcloth. "I’ll train him myself and you don’t have to do anything."

"Are you serious?" Almatriste snatched the cloth from her mistress’ hand. "Get out now. Washing a thing like this is my business. You’re our princess. If you want to make yourself useful, you can go find him some clothes that fit, and then you can heal these ugly marks he has." The old servant turned to the new one. "You! I’m going to un-cuff your hands and feet, but if you try anything funny, you’ll be fed to the Hollow outside the door, hear me?"

Before Orihime left the room, she turned to watch the boy compliantly remove his tattered clothes.

There was a poignant arch to his spine as he bent to remove his shoes. A captive now, he had certainly been a great warrior once. There was no doubting the stunning reiatsu Orihime had felt right before the collar was snapped back on.

A living soul….

There was no Arrancar hole anywhere on his white, thin body.

Orihime turned around and felt her trembling start again. The room was hazy and warm from the steaming water, and worlds, whole worlds, of questions were lost in the mist.

~TBC~