Bleach Fan Fiction ❯ Bleeding Love ❯ Memories Talk ( Chapter 1 )

[ T - Teen: Not suitable for readers under 13 ]

When the moon cries, the sky opens up in angry criss-crosses and lets the rain fall. But when the sky cries, it’s different. There is no sound of the ghostly fluttering that denotes a breaking heart. There isn’t even a trail where tears usually lead and end in desolate, concrete walls. There is only the troubling presence of tortured souls that linger; a stain that marks the injustice of the primordial circle that is life.
It is where justice failed, and by her own fading light, she sees the pendulum swing lower and the clock hand still of its own accord. It is the way life envelops itself in matters concerning death, and how (if one listened closely enough) you could hear the tear, a rip, in age itself. (The space and time continuum, if you will.)

Rukia Kuchiki’s first memory was all of these things.
First the snow had fallen.
And blood bloomed crimson on the frozen ground.
Then what else?
Of course.
Questions.
She wasn’t quite sure why things had turned out the way they did, but she did know how they had played out. Slowly and agonizingly. Over and over again, in what she could call neither dreams nor nightmares.
She remembered the corsairs’ faces clearly; tattoed, grisly faces with mean, deep-set eyes that glowed bony amber. They had wide, calloused palms that had curled cruelly around her arms and wrenched her away from her sister’s side. There had been the gleaming and telltale singing of blades crossing. In what seemed like an instant, it was all over. She recalled the blood, running in rivulets by her toes, staining the soles of her feet. A massacre.
And then darkness, when they bound her with salty ropes and promptly broke a piece of driftwood over her head.
Nothing but sadness here.

He had awakened, as the sun was oft to do in the mornings. But there were no rays of light to greet him; his family was gone. He called out their names; Yuzu? Silence. Karin? Heartbeats. Isshin? Gone.
With fear rising within him, Ichigo had dashed out of the makeshift tent shelter that had been their homes for several moons. He circled the pitiful abode, looking about frantically. They weren’t playing in the creek nearby, no-one was arriving back with a bucket of water for the morning soup, and the campfire had not been recently lit. Ichigo stirred the ashes of the fire with his toe; unsure of his seven year old self and what to do.
He had deducted several things, and all of them ran the wrong way and hit the wrong walls and didn’t make sense. Especially his family leaving him. They couldn’t have been kidnapped; no signs of a struggle here. But yet they were gone.
They had promised, too.


The wall guard stared down into the plunging darkness at the base of the fort he was guarding. Various forms of vegetation restricted omniscient viewing, but one could tell they would meet certain death should they fall over the edge.
He sighed, twirling his spear experimentally; it was a brand new weapon that had been issued just this morning. If only there was something to alleviate his boredom…
Oh.
He straightened immediately as another guard, stationed approximately ten feet from him, frantically waved at him.
Lord Aizen was here.
The intimidating man was heading towards them, stalking forward in a frosty robe that rippled and gave him the appearance of a prowling snow leopard. He cut an impressive figure as he glided by, everything about him at right angles.
Each guard he passed bobbed his head nervously in greeting. He merely acknowledged each one with a curt blink then moved onward.
He finally passed into the sentry tower, and the line of wall guards breathed--gasped in relief. This was one of two effects Sousuke Aizen had on people. The other reduced you to a open-hearted, painfully obedient lackey.
But things were not going according to Aizen’s plans. And that in itself was a wonder-inducing enigma and the very realistic source of pain to everyone in his vicinity.

“What do you mean he was standing here a minute ago? I didn’t see anything!” The baker cuffed his assistant’s right ear. The scraggly boy screeched and jumped back, protesting and punctuating his statement with more (achem) colorful language.
“He wuz right her’! I saw him wit’ my own two eyes!”
“You’ve only got one,” his master growled, pointing at the boy’s left socket, which was covered by a poorly-sewn, leather eye-patch.
The boy’s lips upturned into a scowl.
“But, but, you know wot I’m sayin’! There wuz this kid rite her’, and he had som’ of the brightest hair I’ve ever seen in my life!”
The baker snorted, dusting his meaty hands on his flour-covered apron and turned back to his oven, “Well, you don’t really get out much, do ya? Try n’ get more sleep tonight, Kentaro,”
“But ‘tis true!”
The large man wheeled on his assistant, boxing both ears soundly, “No more ‘buts!’ I want to see ya tendin’ this oven here without another sound about a lad with bright hair!”
The boy whimpered, prodding the fire with a bamboo stick.
Fire. The color of the boy’s hair.

Kurosaki Ichigo stood an offending five feet and nine inches. He had to stoop to enter the entrance to the abandoned mine. It was sparsely lit by wick lanterns that were placed at irregular intervals along the treacherous path. Oily rivulets of water snaked across the stony surface. Moss carpeted the walls and roots hung from the ceiling like strands of grimy hair. It was a disheartening place.
“Hisagi?” he called, his deep voice echoing and rippling about the vast tunnel system.
“Here!” An answering voice sounded from behind him. Ichigo whipped to the side just as his friend charged him, snatching at the loaf of bread he possessed firmly under one arm.
“C’mon, I’m starving’!” the raven-haired boy panted. He glared at Ichigo, tapping at the bandage that ran horizontal across the bridge of his nose.
“I fend off a bunch o’ townspeople from our mine and you reward me like this?”
Ichigo smirked in disbelief.
“They had pitchforks, dammit!” Shuhei Hisagi whined.
His orange-haired friend held the loaf well away from his prying fingers, “It was a bear attack last week, and the week before that, you had supposedly fought off the Seireitei Horde with one hand tied behind your back.”
Hisagi settled on crossing his arms menacingly across his chest.
“You’re a cold-hearted, lily-livered ass, Ichigo.”
“Hmm. What? Did you say something?”“That’s it, you’re gonna get it!”
A new voice entered the verbal fray, “Do you mind actually moving into the room and sharing the bread before we all starve to death?”
The boys grinned sheepishly at the scowling face of Ayasegawa Yumichika . His decidedly-feminine face was scrunched in annoyance.
Hisagi was the first to spring around Ichigo and down through the narrow entrance. Ichigo mimicked his actions to enter the low-ceilinged room. The dirt, sepia walls were dappled with flickering shadows as the small fire in the middle of the room muttered to itself in an old man voice. The ceiling was supported by wooden beams that had been deftly nailed into place. Coils of sandy rope hung like snake tails from pegs on the walls. Broken beer bottles were strewn about; the ones that weren’t shards of hard candy on the straw-matted ground held herbs and brilliantly-colored tonics.
The three boys were quite proud of their surroundings; it had taken a long two years to fill it with so many valuables. They had even been able to discover a spring underneath them and dug a well from which a bucket could be lowered and dragged up to fetch water. Ichigo set the loaf of bread on a terracotta plate, handing it to Yumichika. Hisagi crouched nearby, licking his lips in anticipation. With precise movements, Yumichika sliced it into thirds with a sharp blade he kept conveniently in his sleeve. Ichigo shrugged off the wiry goat-hide cape he had been wearing. It was a thing meant for deception; tufts of grass and sprigs of branches poked out at odd intervals in the muddy fabric.
He rolled the sleeves of his worn, black yukata upward, salivating himself at the first sight of food in nearly four days.
“Itadakimasu,” he murmured under his breath, then tore off a massive bite of his portion.
Yumichika watched in disgust as his two companions wolfed down the bread.
“Certainly not beautiful,” he sighed, proceeding to take dainty bites of his food.
Hisagi rolled his eyes, stumbling onto his feet.
“I’m gonna see if I can’t steal some apples. The farmer there is as blind as frog in a pickle barrel.”
Ichigo wrinkled his nose, “A frog in a what?”
Hisagi shrugged, pulling a book out of his ratty, ink-blue yukata and tossing it to his friend.
“I read about it in a Western book. The Mariel? I think that’s what it’s called?”
Then he was gone, the only evidence of his being there the swaying of the willow tree branches they called a door.
Ichigo turned the worn volume over in his calloused palms. He brushed off some dirt with a thumb and attempted to read the old English text imprinted on the russet cover.
He grumbled in annoyance when he failed and tossed it aside on a rock shelf.
Now there was only the sound of the crackling fire and Yumichika’s quiet chewing.
“So.” Ichigo ran his fingers through his hair. “What should we do?”
Yumichika nodded his head at the entrance, “Wait.”
“I guess that’s true,” Ichigo sighed, slumping down and resting his shoulder blades squarely on the boulder behind him.
Today was going to be a slow day.

Ravens aren’t lucky. Neither are starless nights, or a black cat. But that was precisely what color Kuchiki Rukia’s hair was. She ran her slender, pale fingers through her stubborn, shoulder-length hair. Cursing, she tried to brush that one single bang that always crossed her forehead and bothered the side of her nose.
“When is he gonna get back?” she muttered, giving up on the bang.
She rested her hands in her lap, then decided that she wanted to feel the smooth, slate-grey boulder she was sitting on. To be more precise, it was a marker into which ’10 MILES TO HUECO MUNDO’ was imprinted on. Rukia glanced backwards into the inky, mist-covered horizon of Hueco Mundo. Just the sound of it sent chills up her spine. No-one dared venture into the place; it was generally accepted that the place was haunted, blood-stained, and filled with barbaric lunatics--no questions asked. Therefore, she couldn’t help it that she issued a loud, shrill scream when a large hand settled on her shoulder.
“Shut it, Rukia! It’s just me!”
Abarai Renji dropped a knapsack he had hauled all the way from the marketplace on his shoulder to the ground. He sighed, tugging irritatedly at his precariously coifed, scarlet hair that was arranged in a hairstyle not unlike a red pineapple. It had caused him to be the target of many bullies on the streets of Rukongai.
“Well, I can’t help if I actually have natural instincts that work,” Rukia defended herself, “unlike a certain someone who can’t tell that when someone’s fist is flying at your face, it means you should probably run!”
“Hey! I wanted to fight, s’all!” Renji growled.
Rukia could hear her own eyes rolling; she got up off the rock, using Renji’s shoulder as support, and stooped down to the knapsack.
Her violet eyes narrowed in concentration as she gingerly untied the knot in the archaic bag and shifted out the contents. Two flasks of wine and three apples.
She snarled, her brows knitting into a furious expression. Summoning all of her well-known ill-intent that was known as the Kuchiki Fury, she punched Renji, who had been crouching over her shoulder, in the face.
He leaped back, howling and clutching the throbbing, red area on his jaw line.
“What the hell, Rukia!”
She sighed exasperatedly and launched into a furious tirade, “Do I look like an alcoholic to you? All we have is fucking wine and apples!” She snorted, “So you mean to say that we can survive off of this for a week?!”
Renji stopped to ponder the question.
“Well, if we split the apples, and I figured one flask would last, oh, say two--”
An emerald firework of glass exploded behind him on the rocky, showering frothy wine everywhere. Renji didn’t have the nerve to look at what he knew would be Rukia’s frightening complexion.
He sprung to his feet, dashing back the way he came just as another firework decimated the spot he had been a second before.
“And don’t come back until you’ve stolen something decent!” he heard her call. He gritted his teeth, “Tchtya! Who does she think she is?”
Despite the violent turn of events, Renji smiled to himself.
At least she was behaving more like her eccentric self now.

“Honestly, who does he think he is?” Rukia rubbed her temples forcefully, willing her blood pressure to go down to a normal level.
She was tired of his foolishness; last time, he had insisted that they could survive on a week-long trek with the pineapple he had stolen from some exotic flea market. She had asked him if it had anything to do with his hair, and proceeded to drag him (with a perplexed look on his tattooed face) back to where the spiky fruit had originated from.
She settled her back against the boulder, her palms flat on the dewy ground. She let herself relax and meld into the abundant flow of nature about her. Birds whistled and warped at one another, producing trilling, musical passages. The trees all about her sighed and waved lazily in the wind, which carried the loamy scent of spring-time earth. There was the freshness and purity only a rain shower could bring, lingering on her face and smoothing out her eyelids. Rukia was tempted to sleep here. It was too peaceful for its own good. As one is oft to do when in a comfortable position and with plenty of time on hand, Rukia began to remember.
Memories of the past ten years she had spent with Renji began to run in their awkward, tick tick tick way. Like old film.
Except everything was precise, and she could even remember the color of the lollipops they had treated themselves to on one warm, summer evening. Orange.
And tangerines; the smell of the citrus fruit when the troublesome pair had clambered onboard a tangerine cart to hitch a free ride to Karakura.
Warm, rippling streams where if you relaxed and dipped your feet in, you felt your tongue loosen and every story you knew slip through your smiling mouth.
Crackle.
Rukia snapped upright, tensing against the cold rock.
Snap!
Someone was heading towards her in the woods. Their heavy footsteps marked that there was no disguise in their tread.
Perhaps an animal?
Crinkle.
A deep, bass voice.
Who was it?
Crunch.
The heel of a steel-soled boot clicked behind her on the dry grass.
“Rukia?”
The person in question turned, her eyes widening at the man now standing over her.
His name snagged in her suddenly-dry throat.