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princess-of-wakanda · 4 years

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Lost Ones: Chapter 3

They weren’t gone long. Okoye, her lieutenant, who I learned was Ayo, and my son returned with a suitcase and his bag of art supplies. “Where are we going, Mama? And who are these people?”

T’Challa knelt down in front of him and placed his hand on his shoulder.

“What is your name, Little One?”

Xavier looked to me for approval to answer. I always knew that I would be returning to Wakanda one day with him. I did my best to teach him everything I could about our beautiful homeland. His eyes would light up when I mentioned the rhinos that my friend, W’kabi, was raising before I left or at hearing of the breathtaking waterfalls that cascaded over seemingly bottomless cliffs. He knew everything that I could convey of our culture and heritage through my words…this is why he knew not to mention who he is and what he knows unless I tell him.

“Tell him,” I started. “Your real name.”

He and T’Challa looked at me before turning their attention to each other. His eyes gleamed at the opportunity to be able to tell someone else about his name.

“S’Yame,” he beamed before pulling on the corners of his bottom lip and exposing the markings on his pink flesh.

“S’Yame? That is a strong name. How old are you, S’Yame?”

“Eight”

“Eight years old?” T’Challa exclaimed with wide eyes, making S’Yame laugh. “You’re eight years old. Do you know what that means?”

S’Yame shook his head.

“It means,” T’Challa continued,” that you can visit my sister, Shuri, in her laboratory. Do you like science and technology?”

S’Yame nodded. “We build robots in my school.”

“Shuri has many robots in her lab. I am sure that she will love your expert advice in building a new one.”

My son’s beautiful brown eyes gleamed. I knew from our bedtime talks about his home that he’d never seen that he was bursting at the seams with anticipation of seeing Wakanda in person. While beautiful, the dated holograms of my kimoyo beads didn’t do the land justice…and now, it was finally time for him to see our home.

*****

Being in the Royal Talon Fighter again after all of these years was a strange feeling. The aircraft is unlike any other that modern technology in the world outside of Wakanda possesses. When you’re in the craft, you feel as if you’re gliding through the sky. The open view makes it seem as if you’re one with the clouds.

I sat quietly in the back and watched. Ayo sat resting upright near Okoye who sat cross-legged in the pilot’s platform. S’yame was in the front near the window. T’Challa had given him his helmet to sketch into his pad.

“Xiza,” T’Challa spoke softly as he sat on the bench next to me. “I must ask-“

“You have consumed the heart shaped herb, is that correct?” I cut in.

“I have,” he replied with knitted brows.

“Then you should be able to tell by his scent that he is not your son,” I continued tersely.

My heart panged. I knew that delivering news to him that the child I had was with another man would hurt him. I wanted to be gentle, but I guess deep down I wanted him to know the pain of your love finding another…just like he did to me.

“I cannot,” he sighed. “The only scent on him is you.”

“Oh…”

The silence between us seemed to drag on forever when in actuality only a few moments passed. S’yame was still diligently sketching, Ayo appeared to be asleep, and Okoye was now standing in front of a glowing table.

T’Challa cleared his throat. “The boy’s father. Where is he?”

“I don’t know. He’s not in his life. S’yame doesn’t know a thing about him.”

Thinking about my child’s father was another source of my pain that I didn’t want to address today…or ever. T’Challa was my first heartbreak, but him? He was my greatest.

“Please, can we change the subject?”

I could feel his eyes boring into the side of my face, begging me to look into them

“I understand,” he replied. “When we reach Wakanda, there will be an incoronation ceremony to officially declare me as king”.

My heart sank at the sorrow dripping from his voice. T’Chaka was like a father to me, but he was T’Challa’s actual father. Ever since I met him, he looked up to his father and hung off of his every word. He always said that he would want to be the exact type of ruler as T’Chaka when the time came for him to assume the throne…nobody ever could have guessed that his time would be this soon.

“T’Challa,” I grabbed his hand and interlaced his fingers with mine. He welcomed my touch…almost as if he were longing for it. “You will be a great king. No doubt Bast and our ancestors have given you their blessing. I mean…”

I nudged his knee to bring attention to the suit of Wakanda’s guardian, the Black Panther, that he donned. Many have consumed the heart shaped herb in an attempt to claim that power, but if Bast doesn’t approve, then their bodies are rendered incapable of containing the power that it gives. They either die or mutate into bloodthirsty creatures who are no longer human.

He pulled my hand to his lips with ease and left a gentle kiss on my knuckles. It was enough to send a jolt to my core and reignite years of suppressed emotions that I harbored for him, but right now in this moment, I just wanted to be there for him. To console him.

“We have arrived,” Okoye hummed.

******

The soft chime in my suite alerted me that I had a visitor at my door.

Apparently, T’Challa had been away from Wakanda for a while and hadn’t been home since King T’Chaka’s death. There was a grand reception awaiting him complete with what appeared to be the entire force of Dora Milaje, the spiritual guides, Shuri, and Queen Mother.

(Earlier that day)

Shuri and Queen Mother immediately greeted T’Challa. It was Shuri’s eyes who spotted S’yame and me first. She had to do a double take and stared at me. Once realization set in, she launched herself at me, jumping into my arms and knocked me to the floor.

“Xiza? Xiza!!!!”

“Shuri, what has gotten into you?!”

The Queen Mother was mortified at how her youngest child was behaving until shock overtook her at seeing my face as well.

“Xiza?”

She helped me off of the ground and stared into my face with tears brimming her eyes.

“My child! You’re finally home,” she exhaled as she hugged me.

“Hello,” Shuri sounded from behind us. “Who is this?”

All eyes fell on S’yame.

“This is S’yame,” T’Challa spoke up. “He is Xiza’s son.”

“A son?” Queen Mother gasped.

Her reaction was one of pure surprise. She didn’t seem to be disappointed in me at all, even though we all knew that I was bound to face repercussions.

“Hello, S’yame,” she cooed as she knelt down to my son’s level, stroking his cheek. “I am Ramonda.”

His eyes grew. He knew from the stories that I told who she was, and now he was face to face with a real-life queen.

“You’re the queen? You’re so beautiful.”

“Why thank you,” she chuckled. “I am the queen, and this is Princess Shuri.”

Shuri waved to S’yame with a smile.

“Today is a very special day, S’yame. You will go with Dyalla to get you prepared for the upcoming ceremony.”

“It’s okay, Sy” I assured him when I saw nervousness begin to crawl across his features. “We’re home now. I will see you soon.”

All eyes watched as Dyalla and the Dora Milaje made their exit. Okoye made sure to whisper to me that I would be debriefed on my mission immediately following the ceremony.

“Shuri” “Yes, Mother?”

“You go get prepared, as well.”

“Mother-“ she started in protest.

“You may speak with Xiza afterwards, child,” she tutted.

Shuri hugged me one last time and jabbed at her brother before making her exit.

“I will speak to you later, as well, my child,” she smiled while cupping my face. “Welcome home.”

(present)

“Yes? Come in!” I called.

The grand doors hanging on the walls slid open as T’Challa entered. He was fully decked out in ceremonial war paint and garb. The confidence in his stride commanded the room around him. He was like a moving masterpiece who was setting my heart ablaze while simply doing nothing at all except existing.

“My king,” I greeted him with a smile while simultaneously trying to quell the rapid thumping in my chest. I was sure he could hear it.

“Xiza,” he sighed. “Please. You do not have to be formal with me.”

“I apologize. Old habits die hard.”

“You have learned many American customs and phrases, I see,” he teased, gently pulling me into his firm body. “Besides, I am not king yet.”

“Do you believe that you will be challenged?”

“It is the right of all Wakandans, Xiza. Even you.”

I’d be lying to myself if I didn’t notice the way his fingertips caressed the lower part of my bodice when he touched me or the way that his eyes lingered on my lips before meeting mine.

“I would like to spend time with you following the ceremony.”

“I-“

I hated how his simple request sent my heart fluttering and butterflies to swarm in my stomach. It was the same look that he gave me after I’d boldly stolen our first kiss as teenagers. When he got over the initial surprise of the moment, he matched my effort with much more passion without hesitation.

“I, uh,” I stammered. “The debriefing…and Shuri and Queen Mother.”

“You can say ‘No’ to me. I would never force you-“

“That’s not…I know you wouldn’t, T’Challa. ”

“It’s fine, Xiza,” he smiled politely.

I missed his touch the second it lifted from my lower back. My heart and body were both betraying everything that my mind knew to be true. T’Challa was my best friend. He was my first love…and he broke my heart.

*****

The ceremony was beautiful. The waterfalls were lined with Wakanda’s people and their colorful garb. I stood proud that S’yame was finally able to take it all in and finally experience a part of our heritage. Every tribe declined the invitation to challenge T’Challa to battle once the power of the Black Panther were stripped from him. Shuri, of course had to make a spectacle, which made S’yame laugh. It looked like he would go unchallenged until M’Baku, the leader of the isolated Jabari tribe, arrived and threw in his bid. The combat was intense, but T’Challa pulled M’Baku into submission. T’Challa was led away by his most trusted advisor and Wakanda’s lead spiritual guide, Zuri. The Dora Milaje began to take me, but an urgent alert put my debriefing of my 10-year mission on hold.

S’yame was holed up in Shuri’s lab with her and was bound to be there for a while. She was fitting him with kimoyo beads, but from what I hear, Shuri is going to have him busy with her experiments and gadgets.

There were hours before the sun would set, so I decided to get some training in, but first, I would see Queen Mother. She was in her private garden, tending to crane flowers and lavender. The years have been kind to Ramonda. She arrived at the palace shortly after me. King T’Chaka had gone on a diplomatic trip with T’Challa when he was a boy. Somehow, they got separated, and T’Challa ran into Ramonda. She brought him to the Wakandan embassy, reuniting him with his father. Of course, King T’Chaka was smitten by her and she by him. They married some time later in a grand ceremony. T’Challa has no memories of his birth mother. She died days after he was born from illness, but he keeps one of the first prototypes of kimoyo beads developed by her on his wrist. It contains a message from her. Nobody besides him and King T’Chaka have ever seen it. I’ve always respected his privacy and never asked what it was, but he holds it dear to his heart.

“There you are, Xiza,” Queen Mother smiled.

Her smile was radiant. The rays of sun dancing across her immaculate skin seemed to magnify its brilliance. The atmosphere around her was regal, and she beckoned me to enter into that space. I found myself kneeling at her feet.

“Queen Mother,” was all I could manage to get out.

She motioned for her attendants around her to leave us. Ramonda knelt in front of me, taking my face into her hands. Not only had she taken T’Challa as her son, but she accepted me as her daughter…unofficially of course. I could never be considered a child of the royal family, but Queen Mother treated me no different than T’Challa, his older adoptive brother, Hunter, or Shuri. We were all loved as Ramonda’s children.

“Calm your tears, child”

Her soft, melodic voice was like a soothing balm to my soul. She wiped my tears that fell in an endless stream.

“I missed you,” I managed to squawk out.

“And I, you, Xiza. Ten whole years,” she gasped. “And a son?”

Ramonda led us to sit on a nearby bench.

“He’s beautiful. His father-“

“He is an American. He won’t look for him. He’s not in his life.”

“That is unfortunate. In the short time that I spent with S’yame before he went with Shuri, I could see that he is an amazing boy.”

“Queen Mother, I know I haven’t reached out to keep in touch-”

“Please, child. I knew what it would mean for you to become a war dog,” she cut in, waving off any attempt to apologize for my absence. “I will say that I am curious. Your departure was so sudden. Did something happen to prompt your decision to leave?”

She placed her hands-on top of mine, which were busy fidgeting with the hem of my training shorts. She brought my attention to her eyes and caressed the side of my face.

“Perhaps…love?”

Hearing her utter that one word seemed to make what I was feeling even more real. I was hurt and angry when I left Wakanda. He hurt me, and I haven’t spoken to him since, but the second I saw him a decade later, he still made my knees weak and my kitty quiver.

“You know, Xiza,” Ramonda cut into my thoughts. “T’Challa would never want you to know this, but he was devastated when he found out that you had gone, and each year he would pester T’Chaka to try to find out where you were placed or when you would be pulled from your post.”

“I-I never knew, Queen Mother.”

“I always thought that T’Challa would make you my daughter under the blessing of Bast.”

“Queen…Mother…”

“What?” she chuckled. “I know love when I see it, and as discreet as you two tried to be, it was obvious. Well, it was obvious to me, but I left those matters for you two to decide.”

She stood to inspect the honey flowers.

“Even now,” she sighed. “I do not know if your feelings for him have changed all of these years, Xiza, but I could see in his eyes that nothing changed for him.”

“I don’t know anymore, Queen Mother,” I huffed out. “When I saw him again…it’s like everything in me wanted to pick up where we left off, but then I remember why I left, and…I just don’t know anymore.”

“I see,” she pondered. “This offense that T’Challa committed. Is it an unforgivable offense? Have you talked to him? You do not need to forgive him if your heart does not desire it, Xiza, as much as it pains me to say. Follow your heart and your desires, but you do need to speak to him about what is troubling you to free your spirit.”

Ramonda’s kimoyo beads chirped with a communication. When she answered it, T’Challa’s face appeared.

“Mother”

“Welcome back from the Ancestral Plane, my son.”

He looked at peace. The grief that was plaguing him and hardened his soft, brown eyes was gone. Those eyes found their way to me, and he seemed to freeze.

“W-welcome back,” I added, bowing my head.

“Those clothes. Are you training?” he inquired.

“In a bit. I’m spending some time with Queen Mother right now.”

“No, no,” she sang with a gleam in her eye. “We will speak more during tonight’s feast. Go and do your training. T’Challa, you should join her.” Ramonda’s eyes met mine. “She will be at the entrance hall, my son.”

“Mother, I do not want to impose on Xiza’s training if she does not want me there.”

“She does.”

Queen Mother looked to me to confirm her statement, and I dared not go against her…because in all honesty, I wanted him there.

“I do, T’Challa.”

“Okay,” he hesitated. “I will be at the entrance hall.”

Once the call disconnected, Queen Mother ushered me out of her garden. She just said that she would stay out of the situation between us, yet here she is pushing us together.

He was already waiting by the time I reached our meeting place. He donned a slick, black suit that conformed to his body. The suit nearly mirrored the Black Panther armor.

“Shuri created training gear,” he began to explain as if reading my mind. “It is compact and molds to fit your body over any clothing that you have on. May I?”

He reached his hand out for mine, which I held out for him. He delicately placed a vibranium ring onto my left ring finger. It was a simple band that glowed in the engraved marking just as our kimoyo beads.

“All you have to do is command it to go on. The entire suit is inside of the ring,” he continued. “It allows any amount of flexibility, protects you from heat and cold, and absorbs sweat.”

He held my left wrist containing my kimoyo beads up to my right ear.

“I am pairing the ring to your kimoyo beads so that it only responds to you. Go on. Try it.”

As soon as I formed the thought “Go on”, my hand became engulfed in a black and gold weightless material. The material traveled over my entire body from my neck down to my feet. It was a strange sensation because I was covered, but I couldn’t feel anything on me.

“Whoa,” I gasped. “Technology in Wakanda isn’t anywhere how I remember it.”

“Shuri has made many advancements after you left. She has been working in the lab ever since she was 7 years old.”

“She’s only 16 now, T’Challa. That’s amazing.”

“Shall we get to training?”

I nodded. “We will begin with a jog down through the border village into the jungle.”

“Lead the way,” he smiled.

***A/N: I apologize if any of this seems rushed. I’m lowkey rushing because I don’t want to take months/years to write this story because I am back in the saddle to finish a couple of big projects. Pray for me, y’all. lol***

#black panther fanfic #black panther fanfiction #Lost Ones Black Panther fanfic #bp fanfic #black panther fic #black panther fics #lost ones fanfic

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doublesidedpan · 6 years

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black sun, white moon (alternatively, of monsters, swords, and colors)

Pairing: Kurosaki Ichigo/Kuchiki Rukia Rating: Teen and Up Audiences Genre: Magic Realism/Urban Fantasy Word Count: ~4600 Author's Note: very loosely based on the characters and events of the substitute shinigami arc. the use of artistic freedom may cause a difference between the attitudes of the original characters and the characters of this story. some dialogue has been lifted directly from episodes 1 and 2 of the anime.

All his life, he’s known one thing. That one thing is this – everyone sees in black and white until they meet their soulmate. (He doesn’t really care; nobody really needs color, anyway. Even without it, the world goes on like clockwork.)

Violet It’s the first color he sees when she slides into his monotonous life. Jumps inside his window on a January night, actually, would be a more accurate phrasing. There’s a monster lurking somewhere, and she’s been tasked to go after it. Or so she says. (Though for the record, he has no clue what the hell she’s talking about.) But the first thing he mutters is this:

“Why can I see the color of your eyes?”

(It doesn’t occur to him until much later that he’s seen the most vibrant shade of violet possible.)

Red The first splash of blood nearly startles him into shock. So that’s how it looks like. There was a monster, just not one that he was expecting. He couldn’t believe that he was actually seeing this but – no. Get it together. She was still here, wounded, barely able to fight, and all because of him. Because the monster was near his house, the monster was near his family, and he may not be much but he is a son and a brother, and in his stupidity, he’d thrown himself in between the monster and their front door with every intent of protecting his father and his sisters. But she was faster.

“Idiot! What made you think you could face that thing yourself?!” She props herself against a road post, her breaths ragged and shallow.

He’s speechless – he’s stupid, he knows, but he’s impulsive, and his family is one of the only things he’s cared for in this world of routine. “Please”, he begs, “you have to help me save them.”

She stares at him in deep thought, but only for a while because the thing roars in fury, and he fervently hopes to God that this was just some stupid dream, there’s no way his family would actually die, none of this could be real, it can’t be God please –

She pulls out her sword, a sleek, wicked-looking thing that she’d used to slash at the creature even as it had her between its teeth. It had staggered away, limping, but somehow he knew that its first taste of blood would draw it back soon. “Then I must give you the means to protect them.” She holds the sword steady until the point is square at his chest, the cold metal prodding unflinchingly towards the skin behind his shirt and no, there’s absolutely no way she’s thinking what he’s thinking because it makes absolutely no sense at all, why can’t she just give him the damn sword –

She must’ve guessed what he’s thinking because she shakes her head weakly. “It doesn’t work like that.” Her grip on the hilt tightens. “This is the only way. And if it fails, then it won’t matter because we’ll both be dead.”

He hesitates.

The he breathes once.

Twice.

There’s a second, chilling roar, followed by a shrill scream, and this time, his eyes set with a steely fire. Carefully, he wraps his hands on hers. . .

. . . and guides the sword through his heart.

The world disappears in a flash of blinding light.

Black He’s familiar with this color. Of course, he’d see it again. It was familiarity, it was comfort, it was a reassurance that everything was alright. That he was dreaming. That maybe the dullness of repetition had caused his imagination to become too active to the point that he had conjured up a girl in dark robes with a sword in her hands and a monster to slay. He scoffs at himself. Some dream. Still, the sight of colors for the first time leaves a painful pang in his chest.

He doesn’t really care, he tells himself. Nobody really needs color, anyway.

(He wakes up with a jolt to violet eyes and a family that knows nothing about a monster from the previous night. There’s an ocean of emotions roiling inside him, but he keeps his mouth shut and simply tells his father and his sisters that his class would be starting soon.)

Grey The rough hilt of her sword – wait, it’s not hers anymore, it’s his – feels heavy in his palm. What’s worse is that he hasn’t even unsheathed the stupid thing yet. He grits his teeth, looking onward as the boy trips on his shoelaces, leaving him defenseless in the path of the charging monster.

Since that fateful night, she’d been everywhere, his school or his home, as she kept insisting that he take over her duties since she was “still too injured to even try to fight, I mean, what the hell were you thinking when you did that?” It was embarrassing, how his friends would fawn about how quickly he’d fallen for the new transfer student (what strings she pulled, he doesn’t even want to know) or how his father would tearfully rejoice about how he’d finally have grandkids (whatever that was supposed to mean).

Three days later found them both on the school balcony, his hands in his pockets and her hands on a phone.

“I told you, I’ll be damned if I ever fought something like that again!”

“That’s absurd. Three nights ago, you fought magnificently!” He shrugged his shoulders. To be honest, he can’t even recall what truly happened the moment after he’d helped her plunge her sword into his chest. All he remembers is how it felt like liquid power had flowed into his veins, helping him wield the weapon in his hands as if he’d done it a thousand times before. And then. . .

Darkness.

“I only did it because my family was attacked.” He looked away, hands fidgeting. I’m not even sure if I’m still dreaming right now. “Not to be cruel, but I don’t think I could fight for total strangers.” He was a son and a brother, and sometimes he was a friend. But he wasn’t much apart from that.

“How –” The air around them chilled to a horrific rate. Violet eyes firmly met his own as the bloodcurdling roar of a monster pierced the air. Again? No way. . .

She quickly turned on her heel, head bowed and shoulders hunched as she sought out the creature’s trail. “Let’s go.”

For some reason, he didn’t argue.

“Hey, did you hear me?!” Her voice cuts through his reverie. He hasn’t seen it yet, but he’s pretty sure his hands are raw and red from how tightly he’s gripping the hilt of the sword. As soon as they’d come to the park, a little boy had burst from the trees running, a monster in hot pursuit. He was just about ready to slay it himself until, until –

She had stayed his hand.

“Stop!”

He whips his head towards her, enraged. “What?”

“Why should you save this boy?”

. . .What?

“Why should you save him? This child is a total stranger, right?” The hilt feels as if it would break any second in his grip.

“What the hell are you talking about?” He raises his voice, acid in his words as he practically shouts at her. There’s a bitter taste behind his tongue as he finally unsheathes his sword, order or no order. “That doesn’t mean I can’t just not save him! Not when he’s being attacked right in front of me!” He can feel it now, a strange fire in the pit of his stomach that’s rising faster than he can tell, spreading to his limbs and filling it with the desire to protect. His feet shift as he prepares to raise his sword. . .

One.

Two.

“Don’t you dare be selfish!”

All the air is knocked from his lungs in a single, crucial moment. He freezes.

Selfish?

“You should be fair to everyone!” In a haze, he could hear the boy’s cries as the latter struggles to get up, still out of range of the monster’s reach, and maybe it’s the stupid soul bond that they have, but his feet refuse to move no matter how much he wills them to despite knowing that every second he stays here listening to her is wasted –

Stop it!

“Do you think this work is that convenient for you? You wanted power to protect your family, and I gave that to you. Wanting to save only those you can reach, only those you can see. . .now that you have the means to protect, do you think you can do that?!” There’s barely a few meters between the boy and the creature now, and he knows for sure that if he doesn’t step in right now goddamnit –

“Don’t save that boy!”

Shut up, shut up, shut up!

“If you do, then be prepared to save everyone that needs your help! Be prepared to save them even if it means sacrificing yourself!” The fire is no longer just a fire now, it’s an inferno that’s engulfing him entirely and it’s furious and . . . and . . .

And in one graceful move, he leaps, slashing cleanly through the monster’s face before landing right next to the frightened boy. The monster bounds away, wounded, but he’s seen enough now to know that it would take one more strike to end it all. And try as he might, he can’t help but see the impressed glint in her eyes when he raises his face.

“So. . .are you ready?”

He twists his wrist resolutely, the sharp edge facing him as his reflection gleams on the blade. It dawns on him then, how stupid that question was. How stupid he was, because the answer to all her questions were as clear as the fire that was consuming him.

“I sure as hell ain’t!”

“. . .what?”

There’s that same, blazing determination in his eyes as he soldiers on, oblivious to her stunned gasp. “What makes you any different?” He turns his back to her, ready for the killing strike. End this now. “The other night, you risked your neck to save me. Were you thinking about your duty, then? Or did you do it because you wanted to do it as a person?” He encourages that fire, basks in its warmth. “If I’m doing this, it’s because I want to, not because it’s a damn job!” He breaks into a sprint before swinging down the sword in a final, deadly arc of metallic grey, the ripping sound of steel cutting into flesh echoing in the air.

The monster falls, then melts away into ashes.

He breathes once. Twice.

“I’m going home. See you tomorrow.”

(She was three things today.

She was right – he should be ready to save those who would need him. She was also wrong – it wasn’t because it was his duty, at least not just because of that, but because he wanted to save. But most of all, she was a spark. She’d awakened something within him, something he’d always felt inside of him but never truly acknowledged in a mundane world that made it difficult to care. The desire to speak for those who couldn’t speak for themselves. The desire to fight for those who couldn’t fight for themselves.

He may not be much, but today, he is three things too. He is a son and a brother. Now, he is also a protector.)

Orange Somehow, she’s wormed her way into his life, he thinks as they watch the sunset together. It shouldn’t be at all that surprising, really. In school, she’s a classmate. At home, she’s a neighbor. (She’s managed to rent out a room in the small but decent building right across the street from him. If anybody thinks about how curious it was that she was almost never seen without him and he was never really anywhere without her, they don’t say anything.) In the battlefield, she’s a mentor. But to him, personally. . .

What was she? He leans against the railings of the school balcony and looks on as the sun sets the sky ablaze, brilliant shades of pink, red, and orange painting the world in a masterpiece that he didn’t know was possible. That’s all it takes to push his mind back to several weeks ago, when he’d unearthed an unbelievable strength within himself. A fire.

He flexes his fingers, calloused now and uncomfortable without the hilt of a sword in its grasp. It’s been weeks too, since he’d first seen the likes of her, since he’d first held a sword in his hand, and since he’d first slain a monster.

You know how your life changes, but nobody really sees it? How different it is now, but how it feels like you were meant to do this the entire time?

Maybe that’s why he hasn’t turned himself in yet – to the hospital or the police, whichever. Were they both losing their minds? Did shared delusions actually exist? His family had no idea they were about to die that night, while news reports stated that it was a large truck that had rammed into their house that caused all that damage. The boy in the park – a supposed eyewitness swore that it was a freak explosion caused by nearby gas pipes. “It was pure luck that these two were there when it happened. God knows I wasn’t fast enough to get to that kid.”

(Although a few days after the incident, they both found the little boy again in the park, this time with his mother. It didn’t take very long for the boy to run up to him and whisper in his ear.

“Thanks for making the monster go away, mister.”)

His gaze gravitates toward her as she sits serenely on a stone stairway. And then there’s the whole soulmate bond to worry about.

“Hey.”

(“Where’d you say you were from, again?”

“Far away from here. Trust me, the commute isn’t something you’re going to enjoy.”

“. . .fair enough.” Silence. “Are there other. . .you know. . .” He trails off, the thought still too ridiculous to actually voice aloud.

She hums in response. “Mmhmm.” There’s a beat. He waits.

“Well?”

She huffs in annoyance. “You’re really nosy, you know that?” Still she stretches her arms, crossing them behind her head before leaning on them. “Everyone’s like me. Where I’m from, that is.” She raises her eyebrows as if to end the discussion. “Is that good enough for you?”

This time, it’s his turn to huff. “Fine, fine, I get it. Mysterious girl with a sword and all that. Don’t want to ruin your image.”

She laughs at that, and that warmth that radiates from the center of his chest quirks his lips into a soft smile.)

“What?”

He pauses, drinking her in as the most dazzling bursts of color bathe her entirely. She’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

Could she see it too?

There’s too many things he wants to say all at once, all of them fighting for the way out, but the one thing he says is this:

“Let’s go home.”

She smiles.

“Ok.”

Blue It’s way too early for this bullshit, he thinks as he slices through another monster. Today, the clear afternoon sky is peaceful, and the scene in front of him is anything but.

It was a good thing everyone had cleared out before the real fight had begun. Five down, one more to go.

“Behind you!” He hears rather than sees the giant claw headed right for him, dashing out of the way just as it lands with a heavy thud on the spot he’d stood on a split second before. Opening – strike through left arm. He springs to the side, turning at the last second before cutting through the monster’s left arm. There’s red everywhere. With both hands on the hilt and all the strength he could muster, he thrusts the blade as deeply as he could into the monster’s belly, uncaring of the way it squirms futilely or of the blood that splatters on his face and clothing.

Pathetic.

Serves you right.

The creature wails one last pitiful scream as it disintegrates into a pile of dust. Satisfied, he takes one steady step in her direction . . . right before his knees give in and he surrenders to exhaustion.

“No!”

Damn it. That was a lot more difficult than he thought it would be. He could feel her small hands trying desperately to block the flow of blood from the gash on his arm, and despite his best efforts, he sneers. He was barely the problem here.

“Don’t,” he mumbles, the ground before him giving way to his blade as he throws his weight against it. “Just don’t. Please.”

Her hands falter.

Bloodlust.

They both knew how close he was to losing her today. In a strange reversal of events, she’d found herself on the opposite end of the monster’s rampaging path, weaponless and vulnerable. She’d been all too ready to go down fighting – he’d seen it in her eyes – and the cold, suffocating fear that squeezed around his heart told him he couldn’t bear to let that happen. The red had seeped into his vision without him knowing it, as he hacked and slit and cleaved with no care at all, not even when sharp fangs snapped at his arm with a sickening crunch. No logic, no pain. Simply the basic instinct to kill.

His hand trembles on the hilt of his sword.

“Why?” she whispers, her voice thick with disbelief. Sadness too, he thinks.

“Because. . .” Because we’re comrades, because we’re soulmates, because even if you barreled into my life without any warning, I don’t think I could stand to see you die.

“Because you’re my friend,” he says. “You’re my friend,” he repeats, and he doesn’t know if he imagines the flicker of disappointment that crosses her face. (He doesn’t know, either, if he repeated himself for her sake or for his.)

He looks up.

The clear afternoon sky coaxes his thoughts into words.

“I don’t think I could stand to see you die.”

She says nothing, choosing instead to wrap his arm around her neck and her arm on his waist to shoulder his weight.

(This time, he doesn’t imagine how tight her grip on his hip is nor the caress of her thumb on his hand. He definitely doesn’t imagine how she whispers those same words back to him when she thought he wasn’t listening.)

Green He takes her to a field just outside of the city, random clusters of trees dotting rolling fields that stretched out as far as the eye could see. It’s so tranquil and pleasant, in fact, that he falls right onto the picnic blanket the first chance that he gets. “Quiet, isn’t it?”

She sighs contentedly in agreement. It’s been a week since the last attack, and more than a few days since the term ended. It was then that he’d announced, loudly and almost irritatingly, that a break was in order. And so he’d arranged it with his father and his sisters, who had all been too welcoming of the fact that his new “friend” would be joining them. (He staunchly ignores whatever suggestive winks or nudges are thrown his way.) And in any case, future attacks would be dealt with using the sword carefully concealed in his duffel bag.

It would give them time to rest. And probably to settle whatever it was between them.

“Don’t run off too far.” He says, eyes closing as he lazes in the gentle warmth of the sun.

He vaguely registers her retort that she wasn’t a child despite her height, and really, was this warmth coming from the sun or from the inside of his chest?

He closes his eyes.

It's only moments later when a shadow falls on his face, and he grunts in mild annoyance, compelled to look for the offending stranger. “. . . hmm?”

It’s her. She plops down beside him, with neither a word nor regards for personal space, and hides her face in his chest. “Don’t say anything, you idiot. I’m cold and tired, that’s all. Let me sleep.”

He rolls his eyes in pure and utter doubt. Cold and tired. It’s summer, dummy. And you slept a solid twelve hours the night before. The corners of his lips turn up in a small smile. Yeah, right.

It doesn’t stop him from lightly hooking his arm around her waist, just so that she wouldn’t fall off.

She doesn’t stop him, either.

Maybe they don’t have to do anything to settle it.

(He catches her in the kitchen of their rented cottage, his duffel bag open on the table. The shouts of his father and sisters could still reach them here, even as they chose to enjoy the bursts of cool summer air longer.

“Were you talking to someone?”

She scrunches her eyebrows. “What do you mean? I was here by myself.”

“. . . sorry. Guess I was hearing things.”

She sighs exasperatedly, but he knows her enough to hear the undertones of fondness in that single breath. “Tch. I wouldn’t be surprised.”

He doesn’t bring up the fact that she’d answered a beat too late.)

White He wakes up with a start, limbs flailing around and head almost becoming cordial with the shiny wooden floor of his bedroom. Strange. This is the first time in months that he’s done that, the most recent one occurring right after she’d come into his life.

He’d awoken because he’d felt cold and clammy – no, that wasn’t even the best way to describe it. Unpleasant, but not entirely painful. More like . . . like . . .

Like something important had left, and he was here grasping at straws, desperate to fill that gaping hole. He scratches his neck and yawns, debating whether or not he should go back to sleep when his eyes flit lazily to where his sword was propped. Or, rather, to where it should have been propped.

No.

He runs.

“Please, let me in!” He bangs his fist relentlessly against the metal gate of the house where she was staying. Or used to stay. It doesn’t take long for the owner to show up – an old lady in her sixties wearing a pale nightgown.

“Wait a second kid, geez, want me to call the cops on you?” Her annoyance is clear as she peers at him sullenly through a small hole in the gate.

“Oh.” Her tone turns soft, and he doesn’t know if that should relieve or scare him. “It’s you.”

“She left in a hurry, you know. Wouldn’t tell me why.” The landlady unlocks the door on the far right of the second floor. “She told me to let you in here as soon as you came by.” The sound of a key being dropped on a table is heavy in his ears. “Paid a good price for the room, so I didn’t pry. Lock up when you’re done.”

“Thank you.”

There isn’t much left, just a folded piece of paper sitting on the bed that used to be hers.

He sits quietly, clutching the paper with trembling hands, until he unfolds it gently, smoothing out the creases.

Hey.

By the time you read this, I’ll have gone back to where I came from. I can already see the gears cranking in your head so my answer is this.

NO.

Don’t follow me there. I wasn’t kidding when I said the commute wasn’t something you’d enjoy. Also, you should stop thinking because you’ll hurt yourself if you keep doing that.

He scoffs, but he doesn’t deny the wry smile that spreads across his lips. I can’t believe you still have the guts to make fun of me right now.

I’ll cut to the chase. I wasn’t supposed to stay here long. At least, I wasn’t supposed to stay here and . . .

He could see the dark ink blot from where she’d scratched the lines over again and again, as if she couldn’t find the words to write down.

. . . get attached.

His heart sputters, pumping suddenly in a staccato beat.

No acquaintances, no friends. No one. An in-and-out job, if you will. But I got distracted. I wasn’t fast enough, and the rest is history.

“But you were,” he murmurs. “You were fast enough to save me.”

Those monsters may not be like anything in this world, but they’re like animals in a lot of ways. For one, they don’t go where they sense danger. So if you’re worried about that, then don’t be. No one of them would be stupid enough to come here after how many you’ve killed.

As for me . . . in some ways, I’m like those monsters too. In which way, I think you could already figure it out. I’ve already said it anyway. But fair enough, I’ll say it again.

They don’t go where they sense danger.

You don’t know how relieved I was when I realized that I could hold my sword again. I was strong enough to fight, but what was there left to fight when you’ve already finished them all? In this case, I was strong enough to go back home. I was strong enough to leave. You’ve already finished my mission here anyway.

But I was scared. And I don’t know which scared me more. Leaving or staying.

Because I heard you the first night I saw you. You said you could see the color of my eyes.

I didn’t tell you that I could see yours too.

That’s all it takes to knock the wind right out of him again.

Because of her. It’s always been because of her.

I know I told you not to come looking for me, but I know we’ll meet again. Because there’s a bond between us now that can twist and turn, but wouldn’t be broken. Because we’re soulmates. Don’t look so surprised, I can be poetic when I want to be. The language classes in your school aren’t so bad either.

This wasn’t the best way for me to say it, but we don’t always get what we want. Sometimes, we have to sacrifice things. I’ve told you that once, remember?

We’ll see each other again. Until then, she’s yours. Keep her safe.

Her? He shakes his head wildly, sweeping the entirety of the room until his gaze zooms in on a familiar outline in the corner of the room.

Right. His sword – no, not his. Hers.

He gives it a small, experimental swing before falling back on the bed.

He breathes once. Twice. And then he decides.

He’ll wait.

(It’s there that he realizes just how strong she’s helped him become.)

He’ll wait not just because their souls are fated, not just because he doesn’t want to be alone when he’s already found her.

He’ll wait, because no matter how long it will take, no matter how painful it could be, she’s taught him how to overcome it. Taught him about the strength he possessed, taught him how to use it, taught him how to wield it better than any blade he could ever hold.

She’d helped him realize who he was, how he stood out in this world of clockwork and routine.

A protector.

The colors he sees are muted now, their vibrancy slipping away as quickly as she’d left.

If his will was any weaker, he would’ve wondered if this was any way to live. Seeing in black and white would be better than this. Much less painful too.

Could I keep up with the speed of the world without you in it?

He will. He has too.

For her.

And for everyone who needs him.

Since then, he’s known three things. One thing is this – everyone sees in black and white until they meet their soulmate. The second is this – sometimes, soulmates don’t always stay. The last and the third is something he learns a little bit later on, and it is this – that soulmates always, always come back.

Author's Note: This was honestly supposed to have a different ending. Supposedly, the characters of Byakuya and Renji would come to take her away, just as in the original story. However, I wasn't sure how to translate that here as Rukia's character doesn't outright mention where she comes from. (Also, I was pressed for time as this was a requirement.) Still, I'm quite proud of this story, but I do still plan on changing the ending to one that I feel would be better for it. (Also, posting this because I want to compare it to the future version.) Thank you so much for reading.

There are several soundtracks that helped me write some scenes. All of these music belongs to the Bleach OST (in part because they may have already been the music to the episode the scene was based on). Red was influenced by On the Precipice of Defeat, while Orange and Green were influenced by both Going Home and Peaceful Afternoon.

#ichiruki #ichigo kurosaki #rukia kuchiki #bleach #gonna do this several times but yes #very very very loosely based on the substitute shinigami arc #so things will definitely differ #sa akin

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theliterateape · 4 years

Text

Running from Grief

By Don Hall

I’m not entirely certain that this is my story to tell. I can’t refrain from writing it as the experiences are searing scars in my flesh and they are there to see. If I’m stepping over some sort of line, I offer my apologies in advance.

Synopsis: Meet Don Hall, a casino manager from Las Vegas during the 2020 pandemic shutdown, and his wife Dana. When Hall gets a late night phone call from his niece about the death of his nephew, the stage is set for this story of grief, crematory logistics, and a spastic pug hellbent on crippling Hall’s mother on Mother’s Day.

Police investigating body found in west Wichita

Wichita Police are investigating after a body was discovered in the 200 block of S West St.

Police said a body was found in a vehicle in a restaurant parking lot just before 6 p.m. Tuesday. Wichita Police Officer Wheeler said, at this point, no foul play is believed to be involved, and investigators are trying to find out what caused the death.

The person who died is believed to be a man, but Ofc. Wheeler said the body was "too far decomposed" to tell any other details before an autopsy.

If you’re the sort who combs the news for these sorts of blurbs, this was right there to see. No foul play so it doesn’t get any viral videos online. The description that the body was in the full force of decomposition to the point that the sex was almost indecipherable is grisly but couched in language that tamps down the horror.

This person, found in his car dead for days, was my nineteen-year-old nephew.

His mother, my only sister, knew he was missing six days prior. We all knew. A missing persons report was filed. His older brother, older sister, and I jumped onto his media accounts and tried to see if any one of his friends had a bead on him. No one did.

We constructed hopeful fictions. He was high (he smoked a lot of weed and dabbled in other drugs) and was sleeping it off. He decided that his life in Pandemic Wichita was too much, hopped in his car and was en route to Vegas to hang with his uncle. He lost his phone and his car was stolen. He’d been arrested and was too embarrassed to call anyone.

The thing about hopeful fictions is that they turn out to be just that—fiction.

The truth was harsh. My nephew had called off work and hung out with friends. On the way from one place to another whatever drugs he’d taken made him sleepy enough that he pulled into a parking lot of a restaurant closed by COVID, fell asleep, and never woke up.

My niece called Tuesday night. I was at work, staffing the empty casino as management, and her wavering, tearful voice (“We need you here. He’s dead.”) was all I needed to move my ass. Dana and I were on the first flight out of Vegas, COVID be damned.

When we arrived, we headed over to my sister’s home. I felt like tits on a bull. I didn’t know what to say to her that wouldn’t feel like an intellectualizing of death or trite self-help pablum. Losing a child has to be on the far end of tragic and I have no experience in parenthood and little when it comes to death. Grief is an alien presence. I’m like my mother—in lieu of dealing with our emotions, we want something to do.

So I waited.

Eventually, once done adjusting to the strange pattern of what felt like normal conversation doing normal things broken up by one of us stepping on a landmine of grief, bursting into hot, angry tears for a spell, then returning to the faux normal again, the doors began to open. I could see tasks in front of me. I could be of use.

HOW TO CREMATE YOUR NEPHEW

There’s an odd disconnect between dealing with legitimate grief and typing “budget cremation wichita” into the search bar.

Turns out that the average price for a basic cremation (transport of the deceased, alternative fiberboard receptacle, simple cleaning of ashes of things like shirt buttons and buckles, basic plastic box for completed service, and copies of both the death certificate and coroner’s report and release) runs about $3,000.00.

After a few hours I found a reputable service that would do it for $1,100.00. I called, explained the situation (“Oh. That was your nephew? I read about that.”) and booked the service. For a bit of time I filled out the online form for the death certificate. Some basics and then the out-of-left-field birthplace of the father question and his Social Security Number that I had to then call my niece to fill in the blank fields.

All in all, this was an essential and very clinical start to my avoidance of the feelings.

As I got on the phone for the forty-five-minute call with the crematorium, Dana and my mom decided to go for a walk to my sister’s place. My sister was still in a deep sleep so Dana grabbed her six-month-old spastic pug to give him some pooping time.

Twenty minutes later, my phone indicated Dana was trying call me. I couldn’t answer as I was in the middle of cremation speak. She called again. Then she ran into the house. “Your mom broke her leg!” And she grabbed keys and bolted.

The dog got under my mother’s legs and she dropped like a wet bag of cement, fracturing both her right leg and left wrist. 911. An ambulance. The hospital that, due to COVID, allowed no visitors.

When it rains, it pours.

My sister was still in a place of disbelief. Her son was gone but she hadn’t seen his body. She spoke about him in the present tense. She wanted some visual confirmation but the only photographs of him were taken after five days of decomposition by the police. She wasn’t going to see him. Even if she desperately needed to.

“It’s like the people who died on 9/11.”

She wears his clothes. She sleeps. She picks out and orders an urn for him that she thinks he’d like (“I just want him home.”). My niece and older nephew drove down to stay with her. When she sleeps, her face is full of tension and her mouth is fixed into a hard frown. The nephew has to go back to work but my niece is staying for a bit longer.

HOW TO DISPOSE OF A VEHICLE CONTAMINATED BY DECOMPOSITION

There was some discussion about his car. My sister thought she could give it to her eldest son or sell it but it was locked up in an evidence impound and was a serious biohazard. I called AfterMath, the nationwide company law enforcement frequents to clean up crime scenes.

Four thousand bucks to remove all the parts of the automobile contaminated plus whatever it would cost to replace those parts. Keeping the vehicle was not an option. Despite this, it was in my sister’s name and we were responsible for getting it out of impound before she was saddled with liability.

The National Auto Charities deal with this sort of thing. I arranged for a tow a few days later, transferring a salvage title for a tax credit and removal of the car. We guessed the title was in the glove compartment because no one could find it but I used a bill of sale to verify ownership. The charity will file for a duplicate title.

Having to explain, over and over, how he died and the circumstances of the vehicle have a numbing effect. I am successfully avoiding grappling with the grief that sits under it all, like a viper waiting to strike but biding its time. Grief is biding its time until I’m done doing things to distract. It wants all of my attention. It wants to cripple me.

The plan was to hold a memorial in the park for family on Saturday but with my mom in the hospital and effectively hobbled, my sister decides to hold off until his grandmother can be there. She asks if I can make a memorial video for the future service and AirDrops hundreds of photos for the task.

HOW TO MAKE A MEMORIAL VIDEO OF YOUR LOVED ONE WITHOUT CASCADING INTO A NON-STOP FIGHT WITH CRUSHING SADNESS

You can’t. Or at least, I couldn’t.

The dispassionate focus on the timing of the pictures in sync with the three songs chosen held me for a bit. Expanding or contracting transitions, using the Ken Burns Effect on faces via iMovie, using quotes Dana found to transition things. Very technical. Very distancing.

But, in order to complete things in the pieces necessary, the filmmaker (using that title loosely and with some irony implied) has to go back and preview things. And the first look at the first ten years of his life took my legs out from under me. My face clenched like a fist and I tried to bar fight the tears and lost.

Of everything I found myself doing to run from the well of despair and horror, this ten-minute video was the most difficult. I’d argue in this moment it was one of the most difficult tasks I’ve had to do in fifty-four years. I’ve heard the phrase “gut wrenching” but never understood it until now.

One of the unrealistic things my mother tried to instill into my evolving psyche was what she called the Three Days Rule. The idea is that no matter what befalls you—death, the loss of a job, a divorce, whatever—you have exactly three days to grieve, mourn, piss and moan. On day four, get up offa your ass and get back to Life.

As unrealistic as it sounds (especially in the Age of Victimhood and Social Media Therapy) the lesson tends to stick. It also creates a strange barrier within me that prevents the grieving from commencing until long after the tragic circumstance.

What occurs to me is that my experience, my sister’s loss, the labyrinth of strange tasks associated with the death of a loved one, are all incredibly common. According to the internet, 150,000 people die globally every single day; 150,000 mothers deal with loss, 150,000 uncles grapple with cremation or funeral arrangements. While each death is highly specific to the people most affected, living through death makes no one unique or special.

See what I meant when I mentioned the intellectualizing of death...?

I frame my nephew’s passing as death by misadventure. The drug thing is so laden with blame and rage but, at its heart, drugs were his way of recreation. Really no different than alcohol, gambling, sex, playing football, working out, or rock climbing. If he had been rock climbing and accidentally fallen to his demise, no one would seek revenge or accountability. Death by misadventure. No judgment.

Dana found a box in mom’s basement marked “Don.” It was filled with crap from my senior year in high school and freshman year in college. She wanted to go through it and I had no interest. Eventually, I did go through it with her and I realized why it seemed so odious to even consider. These were photos and effluvia from when I was my nephew’s age. These were old college IDs, prom pictures, a self-made time capsule of me before I really started to experience life.

He would end just as I was beginning. I took some time looking at myself at eighteen and nineteen years old and pondered all the life I would have missed had I inadvertently died in my car six months before my twentieth birthday. While life is short, as they say, it can be full. My life has been incredibly full and the gratitude I feel for the opportunities to make mistakes, love, lose, work, create, and bathe in my small corner of humanity is astounding.

Unlike the mourning of someone who has had that fullness, the mourning for someone so incredibly young has a different flavor. It doesn’t taste of the tried and true, but of the life unlived. The memories of him are brief and each has a more pungent quality for that brevity.

I am reminded of a scene from the film Minority Report. A child has died early, his father and mother unable to move past the grief. A character with pre-cognitive abilities takes a moment to describe the boy as he grows up and becomes a man, lives his life, giving the parents a moment to see in some way the possibilities.

I see my nephew’s future in a similar way. Accomplishments never realized, love he will never feel, birthdays, holidays, and experiences he will never have. My sister tells me there is a hole in her, a vital piece of her that is gone. When she tells me this I understand that most of the tears I have angrily shed are for her.

As for my grief (because I can’t write about the mourning of my sister, his siblings, my wife, my mom and dad with any expertise), I suspect that while the landmines will thin out some, I’ll still find myself stepping on one from time to time and being overcome.

The thing about running from grief is that it is patient and will always catch up.

#Death #grief #Cremation #Crematorium

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