#here take this while i shower ill draw the old men later

[mushroom-winners-proof]

i really liked how the commission i got to do for @fiveais turned out so with their permission i now present it to all of ye as well :)

commission info (as of 5/16/22)

#commission #kh #kingdom hearts #kh3 #kingdom hearts iii #xion #roxas #axel #lea #snap sketches #here take this while i shower ill draw the old men later #QUICK CONTEXT for the g's who read the tags #i like to do this thing where i give xion doll joints because im vile like that #and since kh3 roxas is also in a vessel yk.. we're here :) #and ais really liked that i did that so they asked me to draw these three together an all and BOY was i hyped to do it #cause i truly do love my goofy lil doll bs and having the opportunity to draw it is always good for my soul #but yeayea i really liked how this turned out- mostly the bg LMAO BUT ITS STILL CUTE #i never draw these three together..... criminal...... #well hope yall like this :) im gon go step in the freezer thats my shower now #its like 6AM this is a terrible time to see it but ill bump it later or something

[junquisite]

Mine

WORD COUNT : 2.6K

GENRE : Vampire! OC X Human! Junhee, Suggestive/Smut (Implicit)

WARNING : Well first of all, blood, blood drinking, Bootlicking/Bootkissing, mention of violence.

REQUEST : “Can i request a Vampire! OC X human Junhee smut”

NOTE : Thank you for this anon, i literally dropped all the fics i was workiong on for this and i have absolutely NO regret. It wasn’t an explicit smut but it’s.. there. feel free to send me more requests anon!

"The villagers must be feeling generous, they sent 4 boys this time." The countess said from the top of the stair and within a blink, she was standing in front of them.

"Let's see.." she whispered as she assessed the 4 men, the first one catching her eyes by how agitated he was but she passed it for nerves as she crossed him.

The last one though, she stopped to take a whiff and then turn to him. He smelled delicious.

"How old are you?" She asked as she pulled his face up with her finger. Black hair, high cheekbones, sharp features - he was beautiful. Then she looked down - slightly dirty common clothes - a peasant boy.

"22." He answered and she raised an eyebrow at him. Most families are not willing to let their kids go so early when they could work and earn them some money.

Her mind was brought back when she heard the heartbeat rising of the first guy and then felt a slight sting in her shoulder.

 She felt the boy in front of her stiffen up and her loud sigh resounded in the room. She turned around to stare down the shaking man with his hand raised as she pulled out the knife that he plunged in her back.

"It was not the villagers, they wouldn't have sent a measly man to kill me. This was personal." She said and Byeongkwan came forward.

"It was not the villagers ma'am. Do you want me to throw him out? Kill him?" He said calmly and she stifled a chuckle when she felt the other three boys shivering in fear.

"You killed my brother!" The man in front of her screamed, ready to fight her with bare hands when she waved her hand and in a second, he was at her feet, Byeongkwan's foot on his back keeping him down there.

"I did no such thing. I paid full price for him, your parents chose to do that. He had a peaceful death but.." she leaned down to his level and gave him a cold smile.

"You're not going to." 

 She got up, eyes trained on the last guy who caught her attention.

"Byeongkwan, get that boy in my room for tonight. And this-" she said as she kicked the first man with her boots, his groan resonating in the room, "-you can do whatever you like." 

Byeongkwan bowed at her as he picked the guy up, his eyes gleaming red as he looked at his prey.

"I'll be right back." And in a woosh, the three new boys found themselves alone at the bottom of the stairs of the huge Countess's mansion.

 In a world ruled by Vampires, having a certain Vampire ruler for your village was a blessing. The ruler would stop any rogue vampire from harming their village, keeping it safe in return for a few persons once a month. But they won't do that for free, they'll pay a heavy compensation to the family for the loss incurred by the loss of a member.

Junhee's village had the Countess who kept them safe. And the money was what brought him here. His sister was ill, she needed treatment from the capital which was too expensive for his family. For the heavy compensation, he was ready to sacrifice himself for his sister's life.

 After Byeongkwan had returned from wherever he took that man, he led them all in separate rooms they were to live in for whatever time period they will be here. The rooms were lavish, the mattress so soft Junhee could not hold in the sigh that left his lips. He thought If he was going to die soon, maybe that same night, Atleast it'll be in a place like this and with a full stomach as he looked at the trays of food for him.

After he had filled his stomach to the point of not being able to move, a knock was heard and Byeongkwan entered with a few garments in his hand.

"Please take a shower and wear this. The countess will like you to be in her room in an hour. I'll be here to pick you up a few minutes before an hour." And he left.

 A while later, Junhee found himself buttoning up the silk shirt he was brought and the loose pants. A knock resounded again and Byeongkwan stepped in to stare at him.

"You look nice, the countess would like it." He said as he stepped closer only to unbutton a few buttons of his shirt as he smiled. “She’ll like this more.” he added with a smug smoke and Junhee nodded,  not like he had any other option.

 He was led to the countess’s room and Byeongkwan left him there. A few minutes later the countess entered the room from a door on the other side, water dripping down her neck and changing the colour of the silk robe she was wearing, a contrast from the suit she was wearing when he first saw her. Junhee found himself standing up involuntarily when she waved at him, “Keep sitting, I’’l be there in a moment.” she said as she seated herself in front of her vanity and he hesitantly sat back on the bed.

“You’re awfully young to be here, what's your story?” she asked and Junhee wanted to lie, tell her he wanted to be here but he felt like lying was not his best option. “I needed the money.”

“Why?”

“My sister needs medical help in the city.” he said, choosing to look at the ground as he heard her humming.

“And what is your name?”

“Jun. Junhee.” he said and heard her getting up.

“Junhee~” she said it in a musical voice and he looked up when he felt her finger lifting his face up.

“That's a pretty name for a pretty face.” she said as she smiled and in a split second, she was in his lap. Her legs on both sides of his, she pulled back a little to appreciate the quickly turning red face of his. 

“Aren't you cute, turning all red like this.” she cooed as she bent down to nose around his jawline, enjoying the shudder that she felt from him and the quick intake of air.

Her hands were quick to slip from his neck to his shoulders as the unbuttoned shirt gave her the chance to feel his soft skin. She swiftly unbuttoned the rest of the shirt and discarded it away, her mouth attached to his neck before the shirt even touched the floor and Junhee jerked to grab her waist.

“Oh no no baby.” she said as she pulled back, one of her hands going in his hair to pull his head back as he whimpered, her other hand grabbing his hand on his waist and pulling both of them behind his back one by one. 

“You don't get to touch me until I say so, you got it?” she asked and he nodded, the blush still on his face as he looked sideways.

She leaned down to brush his ear with her lips as she whispered a soft “good boy” and a moan escaped his lips.

She chuckled as her lips caught his lobe, slightly pulling it for him to moan again and she smiled as she pulled away, fully sitting in his lap now and grinding slowly, low moans leaving Junhee’s mouth like music to her ear. 

“Someone is enjoying it.” she whispered as she felt him hardening under his pants with her head buried in his neck as she felt his hands coming to her waist and stopping midway. 

After marking his neck and chest up to her satisfaction she pulled up to look at his face - he looked positively debauched. His red face, a slight sheen of sweat glistening his skin, blown pupils and lips slightly open as he panted, she couldn't hold herself as she leaned in to capture his lips with hers, a gasp left his lips that she swallowed. 

Her hands grasped his own as she placed his hand on her waist now, pulling away from kissing him only when she felt like he needed to breathe. As he panted and she stared at him, she bent down to bite his lower lip, pulling at it as one of her hands went into his hair, gripping them slightly harder as she felt him buckle up against her. Her sharp teeth managed to draw blood slightly which she licked and pulled back.

“You taste different. Enough foreplaying now.” and with that warning out and about, Junhee felt her lips on his neck, his grip tightening on her waist as her teeth finally pierced skin and the pain registered. Her hand came up to clamp it on his mouth as he almost yelled, but went back to his hair when his screams turned to moans. It was painful, yes, but the pain and pleasure were taking over and with her hand in his hair, pulling them every now and then and the delicious pressure of her grinding on him was bringing him so close to pleasure.

He found himself chanting “please dont stop!” but alas, as all good things come to an end, as his vision had slightly started getting blur from the edges, she pulled back.

“I don't want you slipping out on me okay?” she said as she held his face by his chin, his eyes going in and out of focus as he nodded at her and she smirked.

Her other hand softly gripped his neck as it went down, pressing on the bite marks she left every now and then as it finally reached the waistband of his pants. Her hand slipped past it and he thrusted in her hands as she gripped his cock.

“I still have to help you out with this.”

 ~

Junhee woke up feeling a slight dizziness and found himself wrapped in the red bedsheets of the countess, and nothing else. 

He found a folded pair of clothes and was just thinking of what to do when the door opened and Byeongkwan walked in.

“You can use the bathroom and those are some fresh clothes. Please come down for breakfast.” and he bowed and left. Junhee stared at the door Byeongkwan had pointed to and remembered how the countess had walked out from there and with blood rushing to his cheeks, he went in to freshen up.

 About half an hour later he found himself alone at the dining table and munching on breakfast, feeling conflicted about whether he was happy being alive or not. What if the countess had decided she didn't want him and sent him back, without any money? He refused to think about yesterday lest he turned red here under the careful gaze of the Countess's right hand man, Byeongkwan.

When he was finished, Byeongkwan came to give him a hand to stand up which he considered refusing but took anyway.

“There's a letter in your room for you from your family.” he told him and when Junhee was about to go to his room, he was stopped.

“Your luggage has been moved to the room beside the countess on her floor. That’ll be your room from now on.” and Junhee nodded as he took the stairs, eager to hear from his family.

“One more thing” he heard Byeongkwan say and he turned around to see the hint of a smirk on his face.

“Her study is the room on the other side of your room. She’ll be there right now if you’ll need her.”

Confused, Junhee nodded and left, only to stop at the entryway of the room he was shifted to now. If he thought the room he was allotted last night was lavish, this was double, no triple it grandeur.

His appreciation of the room was cut short when he saw the letter on the table and he grabbed it.

 Dear Junhee,

Me and your mother couldn't be more thankful to have a brave son like you. When this morning  the countess’s guards borght the other two men who had gone with you,we were scared. And when only her guard came to us, it scared us more thinking either you died or they were sending you back too.

We had not expected to hear that the countess had arranged for the treatment of your sister. Yes! The countess had sent her regards and a carriage with a man of hers to escort us and get your sister treated.

We wished you could have come too but we are going to believe on countess’s words that we could see you when we’ll be back. We will be the first family to see our son after sending them to the countess and we are so proud of you Junhee.

Keep her happy and take care of yourself.

Your father.

 For a few seconds Junhee could not believe what his father had written to him. The countess, not only let him live but also helped his family? And promised them that they can meet him when they'll be back? And the other boys were sent back? Well that explained why he was alone at the breakfast table but still.

Why Byeongkwan had told him where she was made sense as he quickly went to the adjacent room and knocked, waiting with his bated breath for her voice to say “come in.”

And then he was blessed by the vision of her in her glory - her suit and boots and hair prim and proper - exuding grace and the power she holds, especially on him, and she looked up at him.

“Yes?” she asked and he felt his face turning red.

“I got a letter from my family.” he said and she nodded, getting back to the document she had in front of him.

“Thank you so much for this. I can never repay you for this.” he said and she looked up at him again.

“Oh but you can.” he saw her signalling at him to come closer so he walked, behind the desk, in front of her as she faced him.

She pulled his shirt so his face was in front of her and she nosed along his neck and he shuddered.

Leaving a small bite near the puncture wounds from yesterday which made him gasp, she pulled away to smile at him, her eyes glowing red.

“Be mine.”

Almost as if his legs lost their strength, he fell on his knees in front of her and she looked at him, amusement clear on her face.

He wasn't sure if he was still drunk on her from yesterday or if it was the gratitude surging in his veins, he found himself bending down to her boots as he placed a soft kiss on them, a sign that he was at her mercy.

“I’ll be at your service as long as you'll need me.”

 In the blink of an eye he found himself with his back on the floor of her study with her on top of him, not even one hair out of place as she looked down at him. The sound of fabric tearing brought him out of his daze as he looked at the shreds of whatever was left of the shirt barely covering him any more as she threw the rest away.

“It was in the way.” she murmured as she mouthed along his collarbones, already purple and red from yesterday and then her mouth reached the wound from yesterday.

“Mine.” she whispered as her teeth sunk in his flesh again, but surprisingly it was less painful this time as he gripped her waist.

#a.c.e #a.c.e smut #junhee smut #park junhee smut #park junhee scenarios #junhee #a.c.e jun #a.c.e junhee #a.c.e scenario #a.c.e scenarios #a.c.e imagine #a.c.e imagines #ACEWRITERS

[coreshorts]

Chance

Wind whipped through the drahn’s hair, violent and unabating. The smell of the sea, the silence of the rock, of the motionless water, washed over her senses. She descended rapidly, eyes closed to the blinding, unnaturally-radiant light that suffused the sea around her and her horns, through the whipping of the wind, the shouts and angry clamour of men from above as it grew more and more distant, eventually drowned out entirely by the rush of air.

Below her lay not water, but rock. She knew well where she was destined to touch down, headfirst. She knew she would not survive. Doubts welled in her mind, but she tamped them down. She wanted to struggle, to stop her descent, but failure, in her mind, rage in her soul, and a horrible, aching corruption welling in her body for not the first, but the second time, all told her one thing: death was her best chance.

Taking a breath as the rocks grew closer, she held it, squeezing her eyes shut as she felt the presence of the ground drawing near…

Holly Morningtide, known once as Hali Naras, or even Asashio no Haruhi, had been given an assignment: as a guard of the Crystarium - the last bastion on Norvrandt against the force of primordial Light and its terrible sin eaters, creature much like voidsent, but aspected to the light, rather than a corrupted, dark nothingness - she was tasked with gaining information on Eulmore.

Tensions had been growing thicker over the last few years, Eulmore’s trade becoming somewhat-strangled by its lord, Vauthry, whose decree had been to focus on enjoying the supposed last days the world had. Eulmore’s Free Citizens and their “Bonded” - indentured slaves, as Holly understood it, bound to their masters for a chance at a “better life”, or at least to spend their last days in relative comfort as they worked for those who did nothing - made the woman somewhat ill, the more she watched them. They had no interest in trade, anymore, but, military might they once were, some still engaged out of courtesy. She was to figure out why things had taken such a turn. No other could enter - not without becoming a citizen - and so it was that she would become one… after gaining entrance.

Trained as a shinobi, a ninja, she made a good spy for the Crystarium Guard. She touted her skill and showed it well, earning her a place of importance as the first of the Crystarium’s agents to sneak into the island. She was to observe the citizenry, to emulate them and take on a persona for as long as she could that would get her ingratiated, then slip away once she could find any information on the goings-on.

For three days, by her reckoning, did she watch the city, hiding amongst the shantytown nearby, watching and listening. She gathered information as best she could. The city itself was accessed by a single bridge, leading to a guarded stairwell. The beach around the small islet was best by yet more of the shantytown: The Derelicts, she learned. She’d find no allies, here. To a man, she surmised, any of them would sell her out for their place amongst the elite, living easy in the gaudy city above. Swimming up to the shore would be difficult without being seen. However, there would be no easy way to get past a guarded gate with nothing but cliff to either side. Being noticed would not be to her advantage, and she was not to cause a fight. Thus, for two more days, she waited…

After nearly a week of camping in squalor, dirty and uncomfortable, she witnessed a ceremony at the gates that drew her attention and gave her what she needed: her in. A pair of jesters, dressed in red and blue and speaking in insufferable rhymes, presented themselves to the shantytown’s residents like saviours, handing out a strange food that felt strange to her. It felt of nothing, and even beholding it from afar, it turned her stomach. They called it meol, and the people were elated. They lined up for it, then they performed, promised, begged to be let in, to earn their keep. In the end, one was chosen: a young drahn girl - a Xaela, she’d have been called back home - was taken in for her cooking skill, presenting a dish she’d made from gathered herbs, meats and vegetables. It was deliciously fragrant, gaining the attention of quite a few, given the living situation. She had to have been saving those ingredients for some time. Holly gazed on from her place in the shadows and felt a pang of familiarity with the girl. Despite the ragged ingredients, the dish was expertly-made. For a moment, she even felt proud of the girl. Then, she was let in. At that point, the guardswoman followed from the shadows. Following them might be her way in, so long as she could remain unnoticed.

Undetected she remained. Up through the doors into the bottom level, she had to take a moment to slip aside and allow herself a moment’s respite from the culture shock. In an instant, she had passed from broken stone and wooden planks from the derelict military ships that once served as part of the nation’s great navy to a decadent, colourful - garish, even - and altogether clean place. All-too-suddenly was she aware of the smell she’d accumulated while hiding with the paupers of the shantytown for so long. Stealth would avail her no longer if she could be sniffed out. She would have to make her entrance somewhere…

She found it. A queue for registration. It was unsupervised once behind the city walls, and so she slipped into the line where a gap formed only briefly, just behind another blonde woman. She quickly patted her hair about to make it as close to identical as she could, given her silver streaks, and there she stood. She encountered little resistance, the man seeming to be preoccupied with the riches that had already surrounded him - promises of a better life… while it lasted - and before long, she was at the registration booth. The other drahn girl had already come and gone, hurried along to meet with her new “owners,” as Holly understood it.

“Name?” rang the bored, vapid question, rousing her from her thoughts. She found herself before a rather well-to-do-looking mystel man with blue hair and very a look on his face of boredom surpassing even his tone.

“...Leah,” she spoke quickly, assuming a familiar role - the anxious, shy girl, so similar to how she’d been so many years ago - before she cleared her throat and stuttered, “L-Leah Arlon.”

“Talent?”

The first word to her mouth wanted to be “chef,” but with the dark-scaled girl having come and gone, that might be too soon…

“Songstress.” This gained a pause from the man, who checked his records then shrugged. Holly’s heart raced.

“Uh… to whom?” he asked, gaining a bitten lip from her in response.

“I-I don’t remember, sir, I… I-I-it was… only mentioned once.”

The man sighed, then pulled up a monocle to check the papers, muttering, “...well, we’ve… two Citizens expecting a songstress. In high demand of late, aren’t you…? Anyhow, you’re either for Ryn-Tokka or Madame Haylin.”

“O-oh! I- I was to see M-Madame Haylin,” she says quickly, “S-sorry, I, ah-”

“Mgh,” the man muttered, looking irate, “You weren’t scheduled until the morrow… Well, whatever. I can take it up with them later. Go on, then. Get yourself made proper. Madame Haylin is on the north terrace, all the way up the stairs once you’re… presentable.”

The man’s disgusted face at her made her want to snap back, but she kept the persona intact, nodding and sputtering apologies before being lead, blessedly to a room with showers and fresh changes of clothes, where some other number of Bonded milled about, ushering those who had been registered along. She, too, was hurried on and shown to a shower and given new clothes into which she could change with some additional commentary on her state of cleanliness. Again, though, she bit back comments and hurried along, eager, really, to get cleaned and refreshed. When she changed her clothes, she bundled up her old pauper disguise and left it. It had nothing she needed, given her gear and weaponry were hidden beneath, in bands of kunai and shuriken. She had elected not to carry any larger weaponry, given the nature of the mission.

So it was she was shown up to the upper levels… and that was where she disappeared once again. The Mistress to whom she was supposed to report, undoubtedly wouldn’t know any better, though she had to feel sorry for the registration clerk who had to explain the next day why a slot had already been filled by someone who wasn’t there. Regardless, she had her mission. It was time to find what she needed to blend in.

A trinket here and there, stalk this woman or that man, then take a bauble or an outfit from their drawers when they’re not looking… and there she was. In just under a couple hours, she’d assembled the perfect look for a free citizen. She restyled her hair, pulling it back out from the long ponytail it’d been in before and up into a tight Ishgardian-style chignon that Dahlia - Odellia, here - had taught her, and, with a bit of pilfered makeup, she was a different woman. Finally, the air was hers to take, and so she puffed out her little chest, lidded her eyes ever-so-slightly, batted her eyelashes and took to a confident swagger around the city. 

The difficult part of the mission was over. She was in, engaging in small talk with the citizenry, snooping with what her sense for aether could tell, every little detail finely standing out for inspection in such a barren, sleeping world, so frozen as it was by the Light, and taking notes in private. A day passed, and she remained awake for the whole time. Exhaustion wore heavy, but she continued with her mission. 

She’d learned much, and all of it was written in her notes. She was resolved to hear more of their Lord Vaurthy, though, and so she stayed a bit longer… and then she saw her once more: the waifish, black-scaled drahn girl - the chef - from before was being lambasted by a lanky man with a grating voice and an all-too-familiar sneer, both speaking on a nearby balcony.

She knew the sneer. A man, once, with such foul intentions as to traumatise her at every turn, to belittle and crush her as best he could with every step, had worn the same. She dared not recall the name for the fury it brought in her. Fury, however, would not be denied.

“And you expect to call yourself a chef?” the man asked, a mixed drink in his hand, freshly delivered by the girl, “The dodo was good, of course...”

The girl looked confused, piping up as if to ask for clarification, a confused look on her face. She didn’t get a word in before the drink was splashed on her, staining her shirt, soaking her hair, and pelting her with ice. She gasped, flailing as if to try and defend herself against the liquid offence.

“Do I look like I want good, girl?” the man hissed in her face as she began to sob, shaking her head and giving a choked “no, sir,” as she reeled from the suddenness of the assault.

“I want phenomenal. We are going to have another talk,” he said, grinning sadistically, pointing to her, then grabbing her roughly by the wrist, which, Holly noticed, was already bruising, the girl’s pale blue skin already mottled with a few bruises that briefly flashed in the part of her dress as she was yanked along.

Fury, however, would not be denied. She was too tired, too worn from the atrocious, ignorant opulence of the place. To see such an abuse, the threat of more atop it, brought back memories within her that brought a terrible flame to her heart, dark and angry and vengeful.

Vengeance, too, came quick, nor would it be denied. She’d already drawn stares as she felt herself move. She was no longer in control. The dark craved vengeance. It called for blood. The girl was no longer real, but a spectre of her past, whimpering and struggling, soaked in alcohol and fruit juices. The man became as Crawford.

The drahn saw her advance first, eyes wide at the woman who approached, wreathed in darkness that drew hushed stares from nearby and eyes ringed with hateful red that caused people to part like butter for a knife. A knife.

That was all it took. With one practised, fluid motion, she loosed a kunai into her hand and let it fly with deadly aim. As the man turned to see the cause of the hush, he found himself struck dead, a black, foreign blade lodged in his temple and out the eye of the other side of his head. His grasp fell limp and the girl was the first to scream. As she scrambled, a panic ensued, and guards came storming the area, several spears thrust within inches of her head before she could react. 

The Might of the Eulmoran military… she thought to herself, then raised her hands in obedient surrender.

“Move!” She was jabbed roughly in the back. Though it didn’t tear cloth, it hurt.

“Now!” A soft cry rang out from elsewhere.

“Take them to Lord Vauthry!”

Them? she thought, then froze, realising the other cry, causing her heart to skip a beat and her blood to chill. Looking toward the girl, she, too, had been surrounded by guards, and in much the same manner. There was no choice but to go along. She would damn the girl if she fought, let alone her mission. Even if she escaped, which she could have, the innocent girl whose life she had just taken from bad to worse in the sake of deluded vengeance would suffer even more. Slowly, she began to march in time with the soldiers, on across the balcony, up a lift, and toward a massive room.

Her senses burned. Sin eaters were surrounding the room. Sin eaters. At the other end, across a vast, empty floor, sat a man more gargantuan and more grotesque than some monsters she had seen: Lord Vauthry sat, reclining against a great, winged lion of an eater, another stroking its plaster-like mane softly.

“Hm-hrmh?!” the man exclaimed in surprise, massively obese form wobbling from the shocked motion he made as the doors were flung open, “What is the meaning of this? Explain!”

“My Lord,” the guard at the head explains, “This woman has murdered a fellow Free Citizen in cold blood. The deceased’s Bonded was brought, as well.”

“Well, what do you expect me to do about this, hrm?!” the man rumbled irritably, “You are here for a reason!” “Y-yes sir, but… she is clearly guilty. Many here witnessed it. It was done in plain sight.”

“Wha- how unbelievably brazen! I can’t believe my ears! You! Woman! What is your name? Speak, this instant!”

She spat the first pseudonym that came to mind: “Vivian Blake.”

“And why, Miss Blake, are you under the presumption that your magnanimous lord would allow you to… to murder another? In my paradise?”

She remained silent, the red still burning in her eyes, ever so faintly. The man felt an awful presence. It was like he was part sin-eater, though, with the whole room practically withered with static, Light-seared aether, it was hard to tell.

Vauthry flailed his meaty arms in anger, setting himself aquiver again, “Answer me, you harlot!”

“I beheld… a wicked man who would harm an innocent. A criminal in, as you say, your paradise,” she said in a low rumble.

This brought a befuddled noise from him, though he looked no less angry.

“You are not here to serve as a guard, woman!” he shouted, already throwing aside her name, “You are here on my good graces to live out your remaining days in PEACE! PEACE! And you have the gall to bring violence upon another? Bring her to me! At once!”

“W-what of the girl, Lord Vauthry?” asked one of the guards. 

The globular man turned his head back to look at the guard with a suddenly-bored expression, then grunted, “There’s no more use for her. There is no place in my paradise for the worthless and the craven. She goes over.”

The girl began to weep bitterly, begging for her life, and as she was ushered out into the room and beyond the line of lounging eaters toward the edge of the open-air room’s edge, Hali shot forward an ilm before she was clubbed on the back of the head and sent staggering forward, dazed.

“Ohoho! So eager to see the death of the girl you damned?” crooned Vauthry, “No. You must be… redeemed…! Come! Come to me, my pet.”

At his command, the eater that had been stroking the lion rose and gracefully stepped through the air as if walking on land to float at the grotesque lord’s side.

“You-... this is… insanity…” Holly grunted as her head spun.

“No, my dear Vivian,” the man retorted as his guards escorted the girl to the edge, “This… is paradise.” 

A trailing scream from off the side of the balcony was suddenly met with a sharp one from Holly as the eater reached out and sunk spindly, gold-tipped fingers into her chest as though they were knives. They felt like knives - worse than knives - and she knew what was happening immediately: she was being corrupted.

“Leave her with me,” Vauthry commanded, “I will watch her redemption… myself.”

The hand pulled back and she slumped forward, gasping for breath as the guards filed out of the room in an orderly fashion. A hand gripped at her chest, no open wounds of which to speak as the gleaming, burning light from the touch faded.

“What- what did you do?” she barely wheezed. Her chest burned within like something had been left in her.

“Redemption, dear Vivian, is an agonisingly slow process, normally, but within my company, and that of my sin eaters, you will turn more quickly,” the man explained with a ferocious grin that plastered his several chins together against his chest and spread his overfull cheeks into a bizarre mockery of a hume’s face, “Oh, it will be gruesome and painful, but when it is done, you will have atoned for your grievous sin… this… atrocity that you have committed against me. Then, you will ascend.”

The Seed of Light, as it was called, was a slow and torturous way to die, body and soul. Those afflicted were doomed to spend days, weeks, even months, sometimes, in horrible agony as their skin began to petrify and their minds slipped away. It was so similar to that day that she had met an eater bearing what felt like a fragment of herself. She had died, then, too, infected with the Light, only saved by her wife’s grief and rage, destroying both Holly and her killer and fusing them back together in a maelstrom of tormented magicks. She had no such saving grace, this time.

“Holly,” Vauthry cooed. She looks up, only to see him, hands resting on his gargantuan gut, a smug look of satisfaction on his face.

“Yes? If you wish to thank me for this chance, you may,” he said, then chuckled, wobbling about as he did.

“-Holly.”

Before she could retort, she heard her name called again. Looking out of the corner of her eye toward where she thought she’d heard it, she spied a brief glimmer.

“Mum!”

“Mum…!” “Hali. Mes etoiles. Come home safe,” Dahlia cooed softly as Light began encroaching upon her vision. Two young half-drahn girls stood with her, one on either side: their twins, Suisei and Ryuusei. When she looked straight at them, they vanished.

Vauthry laughed, “Yes. She’s gone. Over the edge to oblivion, if she’s lucky. Go. See for yourself... while you can.” The smug look made her want to drive a kunai right between his eyes, but she barely lacked the strength to stand.

She glanced back once more. The images were gone, likely a hallucination from the searing pain blossoming in her chest. However, the flame was lit once more. With a groan, she lifted herself to her feet and began to stagger over toward where the girl was thrown. Slowly, she paced toward the edge and leaned against the railing. The girl was gone.

“You see? Consider yourself lucky,” Vauthry said from behind her, still lazing where he was on the great bed-like couch.

One foot made it up onto the railing.

“What are you doing?”

She pulled herself up to kneeling.

“Get down from there.”

She turned. “What are you doing?!”

She looked directly at Vauthy and croaked through the searing pain climbing up her throat from her chest, “Defying you… my Lord.”

“What?!” Vauthry roared in anger, his corpulent arms slamming down on either side of him, causing a surprising amount of rumbling that caused Holly to stumble, “You would cast aside this gift?! My mercy?!”

“Oh... Just... you... watch me,” she rattled, arms outstretched… and plunged backwards off the balcony, eyes closing…

Taking a breath as the rocks grew closer, she held it, squeezing her eyes shut as she felt the presence of the ground draw near. Was it too late? Would she turn anyway? Would she come back at all this time?

No, she thought, No time for questions.

Her final thoughts had her body dashed against the rocky beach below, a gruesome cacophony of crunching and splattering heralding her end. Then, moments later, in wisps of darkness like smoke, all that she was coalesced into a barely-visible ball of writhing darkness that drifted off to sea… and down into it.

Within time, her soul found what it sought: the girl, half-drowned already, her body beaten and bruised as if from a bad impact from the water, and her leg twisted and maimed. She would die within minutes just from the lack of air.

There were no thoughts that passed through her disembodied soul. She had no time to deliberate in that strange liminal space in which she existed. A moment of thought could be hours that the girl could drift if she was unlucky. Within the space of a moment, the soul met the body of the younger drahn… and flesh began to twist. Slowly, painfully, it reorganised itself. Slowly and painfully, the leg mended wrong. Slowly and painfully, lungs filled with water began to function in a new way, for which she had to thank the Kojin of the Blue and her history in Blitzball back in their old home, wherever - or whenever - that was.

Pain shocked her awake as she drifted. Reforming a leg so had left it still mostly shattered and even more deformed. She swam as she could for the surface, but with the strength that she had expended to get where she was in the first place, she couldn’t keep going. As her arms gave out, unable to be aided by one twisted leg, all went black.

“You,” said a familiar voice, “You ruined my life.”

When she opened her eyes again, all around her was yet another familiarity: a manor room, massive and sprawling in every direction. Behind her was a long carpet, two bodies lying on it, spaced out a ways behind her, one crystalline and the other a mangled form of burning, gleaming light that barely looked human. More littered the carpet much further back, but they were shrouded in a strange shadow.

“Are you listening to me?” came the voice - her voice.

She turned forward and peered down at herself. This version of her was slightly shorter, hair tied in a chignon, makeup running, glasses broken, and a simple, but almost gaudily-ornate sundress, splattered with stains of alcohol and fruit juice. Her horns were adorned at the base with golden earrings, set in the centre with black pearls with an amethyst and ruby dangling from the hoop of each. Beneath her were two legs, on which she could only stand on one, the other mangled and twisted.

“You ruined my life,” the smaller Hali repeated.

“I… I’m sorry,” she replied, looking visibly confused.

“I’d waited to get in for so long,” the younger said, and, as realisation dawned, she found herself looking at a different figure altogether: the black-scaled girl, “Why? Why did you kill him?”

Hali found herself unable to respond.

“I didn’t need saving. I… I could’ve made it.”

Hali nodded in concession, sighing and looking away, “I… suppose I should understand that.” “Then why, damn you? How could you do such a thing? Even if he was cruel to me in that moment, you didn’t know him! He was a person, just like you or I were!”

She didn’t have a chance to respond before the girl cried out, accusingly, “Revenge! Is that all you cared about then? Was I just… just some bystander for you to toss aside?”

“No, I-”

“Am I just some body for you to claim?”

“N-no! Listen-”

“What gives you the right?” the girl spat, gritting her teeth and taking a step forward on that maimed leg as if nothing was wrong with it at all.

“I’ve-”

“Got a family. You’ve your… your wife, your children. I see that, now. You do it because you can, because you’re some… bloody pompous immortal creature. How are you any different than the people up there? Better than people like me because you have what I wanted! What I could have had!”

“No, you don’t-”

“No, I get it. Deny it all you like. I see you now, Hali Naras,” the girl seethed, “That was your name right? Your original name. Not any of those fake ones you spout.”

“How do you-?!”

“Know? You made me part of you,” the girl said through clenched teeth, though her lips quivered, betraying the tears that would start soon.

“Not your soul!” Hali protested.

“No, but mine isn’t gone yet… Not yet... “ the girl relented, taking a step back, then asked again, “What… gives you… the right? I didn’t want this…”

“Nothing,” came Hali’s voice again, though it came from beside her.

She turned and saw a most horrifying sight: the remains of her last body, seething with darkness, nought more than splatter and gore with clothes loosely fitted around it, though it soon began to congeal into a single creature. That creature, however, was decidedly not her, but the elven bandit whose body she last stole.

“You have no right,” the man said in Hali’s voice, “Don’t deny your guilt. You’ve gotten too good at forgetting, Hali Naras.”

“Too good. Too good for us, too good for anyone,” the younger girl continued, “What happens to your family? Will you be too good for them, too?” “No!” Hali spat in anger, now, “How dare you!” “How dare I?” the girl said in shock, “How dare you! Thief of flesh, murderer!”

“Murderer!” the elven man echoed.

The guilt was overwhelming and the darkness in the room grew thicker. She sank to her knees and looked up. For the first time, she saw what was behind the girl: a door. A great door that once stood chained before her. She had broken those chains long ago, but still, she had no way of opening it.

“Murderer! Monster!” the two chanted, their voice beginning to echo with the phantom of others’ from long, long ago that she didn’t even recognise.

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry… I… what choice did I have?”

“Let go, Hali Naras,” the bandit said softly.

“N-no… no, I- why damn myself when…?” she practically wept in grief over the guilt weighing on her, crawling across her back and threatening to crush her wholly.

“Why damn us?”

“I- I didn’t want to! I didn’t! I- y- you were- the things you did! A-and you would’ve died in any event!” she protested in tears, pointing at each of the two.

“That does not make us yours,” the girl said.

“No… It… it doesn’t…,” she conceded, “It doesn’t…”

There was a long pause where the two left her to weep, her sins weighing on her as she was lost to reflection, before the girl spoke again, “I cannot stop you.”

“Just as I could not,” the bandit added.

“So what will you do?”

“What?”

Hali knelt on that carpet in silence, darkness closing in as she muttered, shaking her head, “I don’t know…”

“Your selfish fear and desire for vengeance nearly drowned you once,” the bandit spoke, “Look around you.”

Raising her head, the drahn peered about, watching as the room was slowly being devoured by writhing black darkness, as if smoke filled with hues of crimson and violet had begun to choke out all in sight.

“You would return to your family. We no longer can,” the elven man said, shaking his head.

“Remember us, Hali Naras,” the girl said, “Remember that we lived.”

Every life is sacred, she had been taught by Kaori long ago, Even if you can’t comprehend them, you must respect them. From her knees, she fell prostrate, forehead touching the blood-stained carpet as she wept, “Forgive me…”

“Forgive yourself,” the two said in unison before, though she couldn’t see, she knew, they crumbled to black ash, leaving two more bodies behind her, “Learn...”

Slowly, she rose, a hand over her face.

No more, she thought to herself in that encroaching darkness, No more. Their names… their faces… I can’t let them be lost. Not like they were. No matter who they were. They died so I could live. No more.

The guilt weighed heavy on her as she stood straight again, saying aloud, “I won’t be a monster to protect those I love. I’ll live to protect them. I’ll live to honour those who I took away that I could live.”

With a shuddering crack from before her, a flood of darkness came pouring out of the great manor doors as they came slowly swinging open, the doors themselves just barely brushing past Hali. The wave of darkness washed over her, but beyond, she saw that flame once more. Crimson and violet in the black, burning bright, were four figures: Dahlia, Vivian, Suisei, and Ryuusei - her flames, her life.

She reached for them, staggered forward against the flood of darkness that threatened to devour her for her avarice, her hubris, and all faded to blinding white.

“Hali, mes etoiles,” echoes Dahlia’s voice in the recesses of her mind, “Come home safe.” Then, white melted away and left only the cold blackness of oblivion.

The door is open, but, this time, I have to earn this chance.

#hali naras #hali #dahlia blake #hali dahli #dahlia de bellechier #dahlia asashio #haruhi asashio #asashio no haruhi #eulmore #vauthry #sin eaters #ffxiv #Final Fantasy XIV #Final Fantasy 14 #balmung #rp #roleplay #backstory #timeskip #norvrandt #crystarium

[feelingfredly]

Burning Hearts and Burning Souls a.k.a Shiba Fever

For days his skin had felt like it didn’t fit right—too tight and too loose, sunburnt, and freezing all at the same time.

“I am sorry, Ichigo, but I cannot find anything wrong with your human body. Even your iron levels are good, and you know how we had to fight that with iron pills after you hit puberty and had that first growth spurt. You were constipated for months…”

Ichigo pulled his shirt closed as his father dropped his stethoscope.

“I thought we’d agreed never to discuss that again.” He growled the words out over Isshin’s embarrassing catalog of his childhood illnesses. “You’re sure I don’t have a fever?” He rubbed his hand over his forehead. It didn’t feel hot, but every other symptom just screamed fever.

“Ah my son, I know you have very little faith in my abilities as a physician…” the drama king was at it again, and Ichigo was tempted to add to the list of things about his father that he had little faith in, “but even I can take a temperature. Unless you’d prefer I try the rectal thermometer?”

Ichigo scooted back violently and held up his hands in defeat. “No, no that’s okay. I believe you. It’s not a fever. Not a fever.”

He slid off the exam table and finished putting his clothes back in order.

“Thanks for checking me out,” he said, sighing. “I just can’t figure out what’s wrong with me.”

Isshin hesitated a moment. “Well, I’ve taken several blood samples and sent them off for testing.  We will keep watching, and hopefully we’ll figure out what’s causing this discomfort sooner rather than later.

Ichigo nodded and grabbed his bag. He’d promised Chad they’d meet up at the gym.

“I’ll let you know if anything changes. I’m going to be over at Chad’s this afternoon. We may get dinner. I’ll call and let Yuzu know if I’m not going to be back in time to eat with you all.”

With that and a wave, he spun on his heel and headed out the door, into the sunlight.

Isshin reached for his phone and dialed a number he hated. “Kisuke? I think Ichigo has a problem.”

***

Ichigo pushed open the door to the boxing club. The smell of leather and rubber and sweat was strangely pleasant, and it was nice to hear the healthy sound of fighting without the accompanying panic of having to win or die.

“Hey Ichigo,” Chad called from the ring in the center of the room, and then lashed out in a sharp one-two punch, knocking his opponent off-balance. “Be there in a minute.”

He watched the big man square off against a smaller but much quicker opponent, and a wave of dizziness threatened to bring him to his knees. His skin was on fire, and swirling gray encroached on his view of the black and red ring.

 He’s fast.  Damn he’s fast.  STAND AND FIGHT LIKE A MAN! What’s he even doing here.  He isn’t Shiba. Looks like one of….

“Ichigo.” A deep voice called him back from the edge of unconsciousness, and then there was a cracking sound and the terrible smell of ammonia. “You with me, man? Come on, shake it off.  Take a deep breath. Yeah, that’s it.”

Ichigo grabbed his stomach trying to stop the bleeding, grab the black handled tachi that had sliced him in half, to keep his insides inside… but there was nothing there. No tachi. No blood. Just the ghost pain from the vision and the searing image of the face of the man who’d killed/not killed him.

Sweaty arms held him propped against a bare chest. Chad. Just Chad.

The bright lights hanging above him looked like multiple suns, each one surrounded by a halo of color that slowly faded as his vision came back to normal.

He sat up and the little trainer next to him pulled his eyelids back in a cursory examination.  He grunted and nodded to Chad. “Should be good. But he isn’t fighting today. I won’t clear him for the ring.”

Ichigo could feel Chad’s agreeing head shake as an earthquake through his chest. “That’s cool, Hoda-sensei. I’ll get him up and feed him. He forgets to eat sometimes.”

The trainer looked at Ichigo and the redhead shrugged and pushed himself. “Been fighting off an inner ear thing. My balance is all screwed up. Sorry for the trouble, Hoda-sensei.”

It looked like the little man was going to say something else, but a head shake from Chad stopped him and he looked between the two men a moment before coming to some decision.

“Okay, Kurosaki-kun, if you say so.  Have your dad look you over if it doesn’t get better, yeah?”  He looked at Chad. “You need to get your rub down and your shower. You’re going to lock up if you sit here and let your muscles get cold. Kurosaki-kun, you can sit in the locker room while Yasutora-kun finishes up. Now get going.”

He pulled Ichigo to his feet and watched as Chad rose smoothly behind him. “Next time, don’t just cold-cock your sparring partner when your friend goes down, Yasutora-kun. It’s hard enough to find someone willing to let you beat up on them regularly.”

Chad just rumbled something agreeable and the trainer made a frustrated sound. “Fine, fine…  locker room. Now.”

With that the little man wandered back to the ring-side and starting barking directions at another pair of fighters warming up.

“You good to walk, Ich?” Chad picked up his gloves from the floor where he’d apparently thrown them.

Ichigo rolled his head from side to side, but the swirling gray didn’t reappear. “Yeah, I think I’m good. The dizziness is gone at least.”

They made their way to the outside of the mats on the wrestling area floor and headed to the locker rooms in the back.

“What happened?” Chad asked.

Ichigo shook his head, still feeling a little discombobulated. “I don’t know. One minute I was watching you take on that little guy, and then the whole world got weird. The ring and the gym were gone, and I was outside with some little guy in black attacking me. He stabbed me in the stomach… it was… bad.”

“Bad, huh?” Chad didn’t say anything else. He didn’t have to. For Ichigo to say something was bad, it had to be really bad.

“Yeah.” Ichigo pulled a deep shuddery breath and pressed his hand again his abdomen. He could still feel his intestines, hot and slippery, as he tried and failed to hold them in. He could feel the blood dripping through his fingers. Hear the scream of someone else in the distance and see the satisfied face of his killer. “Bad.”

He pressed a hand to his own forehead, but even with the shocky feeling making his fingers cold, he didn’t feel any hotter than before. This was just crazy.

“You talk to your dad about the fever? You said you were going to.”

Chad had argued that he check in with Isshin for a while, ever since the sensitivity had started, but he’d refused until now.

“Yeah.” He sighed and followed Chad further into the locker room. “He can’t find anything wrong. No fever. Nothing obvious.  He did take some blood samples and is going to send them to the lab. If he doesn’t find anything there, I don’t know what I’m going to do. This is getting crazy.”

Chad splashed around for a few minutes before coming back out, towel slung low on his hips, and hair dripping long down his back.

“You scared me, Ich. Your face lost all its color. You were looking at something, but I couldn’t tell what.” Chad didn’t push, but Ichigo knew he would wait until he got an explanation.

“It’s like I told you before,” he said. “Different person this time, though. And I saw who killed me.”

Chad grunted and put a hang on Ichigo’s shoulder. “You didn’t tell your dad about that part, did you?”

Ichigo flushed a little and looked away. “If it turned out to just be a fever from some human disease, there was no point.  He wouldn’t need the details of my hallucinations to treat what’s causing them.”

Chad pulled his street clothes out and got dressed in silence. It comforted Ichigo to know that he would always be there, supportive and strong without feeling the need to manipulate. He didn’t put up with lies or shitty behavior, but he wasn’t a hypocrite about it, unlike most people Ichigo had worked with over the past few years.

“If the blood tests come back negative, you’re going to have to talk to him, you know.” Ichigo sighed and banged his head back against a metal locker, the sound a strangely appropriate punctuation to what he wanted to say to that. “I know.”

Chad pulled him into a loose embrace and patted his back. “You won’t have to face him alone, though. Promise.”

Ichigo pressed his forehead into the clean smelling corner of Chad’s neck and shoulder and breathed deeply. “Thanks.”

***

Kisuke flipped another page and frowned.

“And he hasn’t explained these to you?” Accusation laced his question and Isshin had the grace to look embarrassed.

“He doesn’t know I found them. You know I haven’t always been the most… attentive parent. I don’t think he ever expected me to notice.  But the drawing started about the same time he started complaining about feeling dizzy. Then the fever symptoms started, and he was drawing more and more. Last week he made the trip into Tokyo to pick up better pencils and a couple of sketch books.  He shoved these old notebooks into the drawer when he got those.”

Kisuke frowned. “You really shouldn’t have brought them to me without his permission. This is Personal Space Violation 101, Isshin-san. Plus, you don’t know for a fact that they’re connected to whatever this illness is. It could just be coincidental.”

Isshin reached out and snagged one of the spiral notebooks that Kisuke hadn’t gotten to yet.

“He’s getting better. The drawings look less like Rukia trying to make battle plans, and more like actual people.” He opened the slim book and flipped through a few pages before finding what he was looking for. He slid the open notebook back across the table.

Kisuke froze.

“Who told him about this?” he asked.

Isshin shook his head, “No one. It isn’t something that just comes up in dinner conversation, you know.”

Kisuke nodded faintly. It wouldn’t. The assassination of the children of a clan, dead before they could even begin to understand why they were targets, was something that couldn’t be forgotten, but couldn’t be treated lightly.

Ichigo had understood that.

The drawing was rough. Ichigo wasn’t trained, but that didn’t matter.  He’d caught the scene in its entirety. Bodies scattered in the darkness, the only light the flames rising behind them, but the buildings were unmistakably the Shiba compound. And there, scattered like abandoned toys, were six children that would never fulfill their potential as scions of the Shiba clan. They’d been pulled from their homes and schools and brought to the Shiba compound as a protective measure when it became clear that for whatever reason the Shiba were becoming targets for both violence and gossip.

The compound had become their killing ground.

“There were six children.” Kisuke said and Isshin nodded, unable to look at the picture on the table. He had been on assignment for the Gotei 13 when the killing happened, and he’d never forgiven himself for not being able to stop it.

“Six.” Kisuke was staring at the drawing. One long finger traced the outlines on the page and Isshin huffed.

“Yes, you morbid bastard. Six of them. The oldest was eleven. He was supposed to start at the Academy that year.”

Kisuke hummed. His finger trailed across the cheap lined paper, careful not to smudge the pencil lines, until it landed on what looked like a hand reaching out from the space outside the picture.  Reaching forever for the others lying across from it.

“There are five in this picture.” Kisuke tapped his finger on the outstretched hand. “And this is drawn from the perspective of the sixth. Like he watched it happen.”

Isshin looked at Kisuke and frowned. It made no sense.

“There’s no way for him to have seen it, Kisuke,” he said, “it happened almost fifty years ago.”

Kisuke slowly flipped more pages and shook his head. “Something is going on, Isshin-san, and if this is any indication, Kurosaki-san is right in the middle of it.”

Isshin sagged in his chair, the painful memories of his clan nothing compared to his worry for his son.

“Again.”

***

He’d fallen asleep between Chad and Orihime about halfway through the movie. Uryu turned the volume down a little so they could talk without waking him.

“He’s lost more weight.”

Orihime nodded. “I tried to heal him of whatever this is…” she waved an impatient hand, “but nothing changed. Again.”

She’d been trying to reject whatever was plaguing the redhead each week, but except for solving some of his exhaustion, it hadn’t changed anything.

Uryu shook his head. “His body isn’t the problem.  His reishi levels are getting higher every time I see him. I don’t know how, but it has to be what’s causing his symptoms. His soul just isn’t designed to hold so much.”

Chad shifted and wrapped his arm around Ichigo’s shoulder. “Can you teach him to bleed some of it off? Can he focus it like you do with the arrows?”

Uryu shook his head. “No. The problem is that it isn’t just about the reiryoku around him, or the reishi in him. It’s become part of him and is exerting its own spiritual pressure. He was strong before, but this…” his voice faded. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”

Orihime glanced back and forth between the three. “Have you seen the new sketches?”

Chad shook his head, “No, but he collapsed at the gym earlier. He didn’t want to worry you, so that’s why he didn’t mention it. He has, apparently, talked to his dad about it finally. Shiba-san can’t find anything wrong. He drew blood for some tests, but I can tell Ichigo doesn’t think he’s going to find anything.”

Ichigo groaned sleepily and rolled away from Chad’s hold. “If you wanted to know, you could have just asked me. You didn’t have to wait until I was out for the count before discussing things.”

Orihime rested her hand on his knee. “You needed your rest, Ichigo-kun. We were just talking.”

Ichigo covered her hand with his own and gave it a squeeze. “Yeah, well, the time for denial has passed. Even Goat Face thinks so.”

Uryu’s lips twisted. “I could get you in to see Ryuuken. Maybe he could figure out what’s wrong.”

Ichigo snorted. “Yeah, that’s about a mile past my last resort, Uryu. But thanks for the offer.  Really.”

They all settled deeper into Chad’s immense sofa and turned the movie back on as Ichigo sighed in resignation.

“Time for a visit to the Shōten.”

***

Ichigo thrashed in his bedding, fighting the blankets as if they were trying to kill him.

“Ichigo,” Uryu reached out and touched the redhead’s shoulder. “You’re okay. It’s just a dream.  Try to calm down.”

It didn’t help. A well-placed elbow caught Uryu in the jaw with a crack, and he saw stars. He knew that if he didn’t calm Ichigo down, that was going to be the least of his injuries.

“Why are you doing this, Rin-chan?” The high-pitched cry pierced the dark room, far from Ichigo’s normal voice. “You said you wanted to speak to my father. You said you wanted me to…”

Ichigo screamed, and Uryu had never heard anything more terrifying. Ichigo didn’t scream. Nothing frightened him. Nothing.

“Ichigo,” he pushed across the cushions separating them on the makeshift futon where they’d crashed a few hours earlier and shook the redhead hard. The earlier elbow was accompanied by flailing legs and a sharp right hook that Uryu barely dodged. It would be easier if Ichigo knew what he was doing, but he couldn’t fight someone who was so helplessly caught in the maze of his own mind. “Wake up, baka.” He gave his friend a sharp slap, just enough to cut through whatever nightmare was running his body at the moment, and Ichigo sat bolt upright in his blankets.

“Otōsan! No!” The high-pitched voice faded as consciousness crept back into Ichigo’s eyes, the foggy amber brightening as he came back to himself.

“Shit,” he hopped to his feet and ran for the bathroom, retching into the sink, the afterimages burning themselves into his memory. Blood from a beautiful mouth, and an unfeeling face behind a deadly dagger thrust up through a white chin. The knowledge that a beloved father was next on the devil’s hit list and guilt that she was the one who opened the door for him.

He came back out of the bathroom to see Uryu waiting patiently, one of his new sketchbooks in hand, holding it and a pencil out.

“Get it out, Ichigo,” he said gently. “I’ll keep watch for a while.”

During the war they’d watched each other’s backs like that, and deep inside he knew that if Uryu was standing guard he didn’t have to. He nodded gratefully and flipped through until he found a blank page, the pencil and paper becoming the focus of his whole world.

There was no fire this time, just silent death, efficient in its betrayal of a woman’s trust and heart.  So many hopes snuffed out with that life.

He sketched the woman’s kimono, the garden, the blood on her fingers as she touched her face in disbelief, but mostly he focused on the killer’s face.  It was one he’d seen countless times. The same man wielding a black blade that held not only death but utter destruction for any soul it touched. A man intent on destroying the Shibas, not just in this generation, but forever.

Who he was Ichigo had no clue. At first, he’d hoped it was just an over-active imagination, a savior complex suffering with no one to save, but the face hadn’t faded. Instead, it had become so clear that he felt like he could smell mint tea on his breath, and the peppery scent of his hair oil.

It took an hour for him to wind down, another fifteen minutes for him to put a few more details on the image so he could be certain he wasn’t missing anything important. Uryu sat with his back to him, their feet barely touching, as Ichigo hunched over the kotatsu, the Quincy making certain that nothing would disturb his friend while he couldn’t defend himself.

“Finished?” He asked when he sensed Ichigo’s movements slowing.

“Yeah,” the redhead cleared his throat. “Never been female in one of these before.”

Uryu glanced over his shoulder and down at the sketch. Definitely a woman’s point of view.

“That’s the same guy you drew yesterday,” he said. Ichigo nodded.

“He’s been in a lot of these dreams. I don’t know who he is any more than any of the others, though.”

They put away the drawing supplies and straightened the blankets again, the warmth from the kotatsu a pleasant contrast to the rest of the cool apartment.

“All good?” Chad’s voice came from the door to the bedroom and they could see Orihime’s shadow in the hall to the tiny guest room waiting to hear the all clear. Ichigo couldn’t imagine going through this without them.

“Yeah, I think so. The worst is over. Just a little tired now.”

“Ichigo-kun?” Orihime asked quietly. “Would you like me to…”

He smiled at his friend but shook off her offer. “Thanks, but I think this time I’m just going to roll with the tiredness and see if I can’t fall asleep.”

Orihime pushed a strand of hair behind her ear and gave him a hard look. “Okay, but if you can’t get comfortable, or if you have another vision, wake me. I can at least take the physical pains away.”

They shared a smile and she headed back down the hall with a little wave to the others. He hated how he’d become a burden to his friends, but they’d made it clear that after all the time he’d spent saving everyone else, it was their turn to take care of him.

***

Kisuke didn’t think of himself as an artist, but after a few centuries of life before cameras one developed certain skills.  

“This is what he drew?”

Yoruichi had one hand outstretched, and Kisuke could feel how much she didn’t want to touch the sketch pad but couldn’t keep her fingers from reaching for it.

“It’s a fair representation. It doesn’t have the power of the original, but the details are pretty much there.”

Kisuke didn’t say it didn’t feel like the artist was screaming, or that it was missing the sheer hopelessness behind that other outstretched hand, small and uncalloused by life. He couldn’t find the words.

“He isn’t going to appreciate you having this, even if it is just a copy of what he drew. This is Ichigo, Kisuke. You need to be careful you don’t push him too far.”

He knew. There was enough between him and Ichigo already. He was trapped again, though. He couldn’t do what he needed to do without doing things that he really, really shouldn’t be doing.

Again.

Yoruichi shivered, still looking at the sketch book. “I knew a couple of these kids. They were a lot younger than Kūkaku, but we looked out for them occasionally. Played with them sometimes. The littlest, Ai-chan, didn’t like being at the compound. She wanted to go home so badly, but her parents were certain she’d be safer there.”

Kisuke sagged in his chair. He’d done things he would never be able to reconcile with, but there was always a reason. There was no reason for this.  

“What happened to them, Yoruichi? And why?”

Long dark limbs dropped into a chair across from him, and his friend sighed deeply.

“I don’t know, Kisuke. Kūkaku doesn’t talk about it much. She gets so angry and sad.” Her voice hardened. “I can’t imagine it happening to the Shihōin. I wouldn’t stop until I’d killed everyone responsible or died in the attempt.”

Kisuke nodded. He had no problem imagining that outcome, and if something like this happened again the Shiba Clan head would no doubt shove her Kakaku Hō up their collective asses and shoot off every firework in the Seireitei. But Kūkaku had been young when the Shiba had been targeted, and back then she wasn’t nearly as blood-thirsty as her Shihōin friend.

Isshin had been with the Gotei 13 already, although in retrospect he’d been sent on many missions that were better suited to others, and his absence meant that there was less force behind the Shiba outcry that they were being targeted. Kaien… well, Kaien had done what he could.  He’d been constrained by the rules of the Gotei 13 as well, but as the head of the Shiba Clan he was forgiven for some of his outbursts.

“Kaien was convinced there had to be someone in the Central 46 targeting the Shiba. He couldn’t prove it, but he told Kūkaku not to trust anyone from the Gotei 13 or Central 46 until he could dig a little deeper.  Unfortunately, he was killed before he came up with any proof of his suspicions.”

Unfortunate indeed.

Kisuke pulled the sketch pad across the table, once again focused on the faceless hand reaching out to his cousins.

“I think Ichigo is having visions of these killings.”

Yoruichi stilled, her little self-soothing movements stopped like a cat catching view of prey.

Long slender fingers picked up a pencil and sketched a small image on the corner of the pad.

“All of his drawings are from the victim's’ point of view. And this.” He pushed the pad towards Yoruichi. “It was on several pages of his sketchbooks, even as far back as his earliest drawings.”

The twisted emblem marked only a few items in Seireitei, and there was no reason for Ichigo to have ever recognized the significance of it, even if he had once seen it etched into the side of the Sōkyoku.

Ichigo had made sure that Twinned Punishment was destroyed, but there were other, smaller items that could destroy a soul without the burning power of Sōkyoku’s phoenix. It was only the most powerful souls that needed its sun-hot scourge.

“You don’t think someone…” Yoruichi started, but she didn’t finish the thought. “Tch. It would have to be, wouldn’t it?”

Kisuke nodded. There were only a few places a shinigami could find a soul-destroying weapon, and the Onmitsukido was by far the easiest.

“It looks like someone was using the Onmi, or at least the Onmi’s weapons, in their attack on the Shiba clan. It doesn’t get us any closer to why, but it might explain what’s going on with Ichigo.”

Yoruichi raised an eyebrow, invitation enough for Kisuke to launch into his favorite pastime.

“I have a theory…”

***

“Inoue-san.” Tessai didn’t blink but it was clear he was surprised to see the young woman standing in the Shōten.

“Tessai-san,” she said, bowing deeply. The two had developed a deep bond during the fighting for Karakura Town, and Orihime had great respect for the quiet man.

“Is Urahara-san in?” She was proud that her voice didn’t quaver. Even after a year without seeing the man, it was hard to say his name. “I would like to speak with him if it would be possible.”

Tessai stood a little straighter and Orihime could feel the weight of his silent questions bearing down on her, but as much as she would love to share her problems with him over a cup of wasabi-liquorice tea--it really was wonderful for headaches--as they had done during the dark days, today she had to be strong. For Ichigo.

“Please.”

It must have settled an unspoken concern in the man. He nodded once with a short bow of his own and silently moved towards the back of the store.

He was gone for a few minutes, no more, but to Orihime it felt like an hour. An hour for her to reconsider the wisdom of bearding the lion in his den, and start shaking in her mary janes.

“Inoue-san,” Tessai’s voice calmed her and she turned to face him. “Urahara-san is in the kitchen making tea. He asks that you join him.”

Orihime nodded. “That is very kind of him, Tessai-san. Thank you.”

She forced herself to put one foot in front of the other until she reached the beaded curtain that separated the shop from the living space, and then, with a deep breath, she pushed through.

It looked exactly the same. The shelves were still cluttered with everything from half open boxes of stock for the shop to exotic bottles of ingredients Urahara used in his experiments, and the kitchen smelled of curry powder, matcha, and incense.

“Inoue-san! Such a pleasure to see you.”

Orihime jumped and blushed. “Hello, Urahara-san.” She bowed. If it was a little less respectful than the bow she’d given Tessai, well, Urahara wouldn’t know. “It is very kind of you to allow me to visit without an invitation.”

Urahara tsked and waved his lotus fan. She hated that fan. “You are always welcome, Inoue-san.  I had hoped you and the others would know my door was never closed to you.”

Orihime fumed at his careless tone, the total glossing over his betrayal of Ichigo threatening to bubble up and choke her, and she forced herself to focus on the matter at hand. It wouldn’t help anyone if she let her feelings get the better of her now.

“You are gracious as ever, Urahara-san.” She moved toward the burner where the kettle had begun to boil. “May I?”

Urahara waved his permission with that damned fan and she set to pouring the water over the tea leaves he’d already spooned into the blue porcelain pot.  She breathed the steam in, the slightly astringent smell of green tea an instant relaxant for her overwrought nerves.

The green-robed man moved to his normal perch, a ratty old cushion on the floor next to the kotatsu, his bare feet tucked under the edge of the blanket there. His eyes were hidden under the edge of his hat, as usual, but somehow Orihime felt like she had more of his attention than she’d ever had before.

“Here we go.” She brought the tea tray to the table and started pouring. “The tea smells wonderful. Thank you for allowing me to share it with you.”

Urahara nodded, the fan disappeared in some deep pocket for the moment, his hands using the teacup as his camouflage instead.

It was ironic that the scars that lined his face were never the reason that he hid from the world.  No. He’d hidden his true feelings the whole time she’d known him. The scars just gave him a new excuse.

“How are your studies, Inoue-san?” The blond always insisted on chit chat. For once, she didn’t mind. It gave her time to get her thoughts in order.

“I am happy to say that I will finish my degree next term.” She inclined her head briefly. “It is amazing how much focus one learns through surviving conflict. It made university… much less intimidating.”

She didn’t point out that she was two years ahead of schedule. That she’d doubled up courses whenever possible. That the extra work soothed her during the nights when she couldn’t sleep, or the days when every crowd supplied showed her faces of people that she knew were dead. “I am supposed to start my practical rotations at the hospital after that. Dr. Ishida has guaranteed me a place.”

Uryu’s father was a terrible parent, but he cared greatly about the hospital and its patients. Working with him would allow her to use her spirits when she could, without all the explanations that would be necessary when dealing with someone who was unaware of the spirit world.

Urahara nodded slowly, following the unsaid messages easily. He knew how Ryuuken worked better than most.

“I thought perhaps you would go to work for Isshin-san at the Kurosaki Clinic.”

Orihime held her face blank, the calm visage covering the fierce frown that wanted to make itself known.

“No.” She gently placed her cup on the table, the careful motion a necessary focus. “I decided that was not the best fit for me.”

It had been her dream. She’d imagined a life rolled into the rambunctious embrace of the Kurosakis. A life where she and Ichigo married and, if they were lucky, had children that were just as honorable and awkward and wonderful as Ichigo was. When it became clear that he didn’t return her feelings, she thought she’d shatter with her dreams, but she realized fairly quickly that she didn’t have to grieve the loss of Ichigo. He loved her, it just didn’t take the form of her childhood dreams. That said, the constant reminder of what might have been didn’t sound like the best way to put the past behind her, so when Ryuuken had approached her with his offer, she’d accepted with no regrets. Shiba-san had known how she felt, and when she informed the collected Kurosaki/Shiba/Yasutora/Ishida/Inoue family over one of their group dinners that she was going to accept Ishida-sama’s offer of a position, he’d met her gaze with a seriousness he rarely showed and told her he was happy for her, and that if things didn’t work out she should come back to him because she’d always have a place at the clinic if she wanted.

It was good to have family.

She looked up from her tea and caught Urahara’s eyes. Urahara didn’t understand that. Didn’t understand what he threw away. Baka.

The blond’s ever-present bucket hat was tilted back far enough to show dark circles under his eyes. He looked older, which made no sense. Not only was he shinigami, but he was in a gigai. Still, there was a bone-deep weariness about him.  

Was it wrong that she was happy to see it?

“What about the others? I saw that Yasutora-kun won another of his matches. I told Tessai-san that I wouldn’t be surprised if he was chosen for the Japanese Olympic boxing team.”

Orihime wasn’t sure, but she thought Urahara was babbling. That couldn’t be right, though.

“I don’t think Chado-kun would feel comfortable with that. He says professionals are even paid for losing, so if he wins it isn’t as if they’re suffering unduly. He is very aware of his talents, and how some might feel he has an unfair advantage.”

She tapped a pale pink fingernail nervously on the tabletop, took a deep breath, and jumped in.

“I know you’re wondering why I came to see you today.”

One green shoulder rose a fraction. “Friends are always welcome at the Shoten, Inoue-san, but if there is something I can help you with, I do hope you won’t hesitate to ask.”

Her teeth were instantly on edge. That answer that wasn’t an answer thing he did was so frustrating. He was such a coward.

She was looking around the room trying to calm her thoughts again when her eyes fell on a sketchbook open on the shelf beside Urahara. It had several things stacked on top of it, but there was an edge visible. With a hand. A hand she’d seen before. A hand she cried over.

“How did you get that?”

All thought of politeness fled. He would tell her how he got that picture, if she had to use her spirits to take him apart and put him back together over and over again, his Crimson Princess be damned.

“Inoue-san,” he said placatingly, but she wasn’t going to let him run this time. Not this time.

“Tell me.”

Sparks haloed her head, her Shun Shun Rikka practically vibrating at her temples, and Urahara bowed his head and shifted to pull the sketchbook off the shelf.

“Should have made a more thorough effort to put this away, but as you can see,” he waved a hand in her direction, “I wasn’t exactly expecting company.”

Orihime grabbed the book and pulled it closer. “Ichigo didn’t draw this.”

Urahara hummed in agreement. “No. I did.”

Brown eyes flew up to pin him in place, and her voice dropped dangerously. “Are you saying that you sent these visions to Ichigo?”

If possible Urahara looked even more tired.

“I know you and your friends have issues with me, Inoue-san, but in this let me reassure you. I do not know why Kurosaki-san is suffering through these visions.” His voice was as bland as rice porridge, but there was a glint in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. “I didn’t even know they were happening until Isshin-san called upon me yesterday. That is when I saw the picture I copied.”

Orihime snorted. “Shiba-san was snooping through Ichigo-kun’s belongings I suppose. Not a huge surprise, and not his best choice of action, but at least he’s trying.”

“We are all trying, Inoue-san. Kurosaki-san has earned our efforts a hundred times over.” He shifted on his cushion and turned the sketchbook to where the symbol he’d drawn was foremost. “I believe this has something to do with what is happening. I noticed it on several of the drawings Isshin-san showed me.”

Orihime translated the kanji entwined in the little cartouche. Tamashī Mekuri. “Soul Stripping.”

Urahara made a disapproving sound and nodded. “One of the forbidden inventions of the Kidō Corps. Tessai-san outlawed its use when he was promoted.”

Orihime just happened to be looking down when it happened, or she’d never have noticed Urahara’s hand as it fisted along the inside of his thigh.

“What does it do?” She was almost afraid of the answer. If the Kidō Corps had forbidden it, it couldn’t be anything good.

“It does exactly what it sounds like. A soul is stripped from its consciousness and cast out. It dissolves into mindless reiryoku and has no chance at reincarnation. It is a final punishment for souls that are determined to be irredeemable. Polluted. Whose consciousness would poison the whole of the cycle if it were allowed to remain intact.”

Orihime considered this for a moment, horror beginning to dawn. “Like the Sōkyoku?”

“Not exactly.” The blond sat back on his cushion and gave another little half shrug. “It doesn’t have that kind of power behind it.”

He didn’t come out and say It doesn’t summon an enormous phoenix to destroy everything in its path, but he didn’t need to. That kind of thing got noticed, and whatever Urahara was chasing was more subtle than that.

“For Kurosaki-san to be seeing it in his visions, it has to be connected. There are only a few still living in Seireitei that know this spell, and even fewer weapons that have been imbued with its power. It is, at least, a place to start.”

“Can you help him now? While you’re chasing whatever kidō casting phantom is out there?”

The tiredness was back, and Urahara shifted awkwardly until he was almost curled in upon himself.

“I do not believe Kurosaki-san is interested in whatever aid I might provide.” He flipped open his fan, but not before Orihime saw the frustration on his face. “I will do what I can through Isshin-san. Dragging him here against his will would only add to his burden when he is already so clearly suffering, and I refuse to be a party to that. He has enough bad memories of this place already.”

For a year Orihime had struggled with her feelings about the man across from her. She’d practically hated him at times, but now… she admitted she’d been denying something all this time, and it was time to stop.

“Ichigo-kun collapsed yesterday.” She dropped it into the middle of the conversation with an almost audible clang. “That’s why I’m here.”

All pretense of disinterested calm drained from the shopkeeper, and he leaned forward against the table’s edge, her words bringing him to total attention.

“Collapsed?” he asked.

“Yup,” she picked up her tea cup and sipped the cooled brew. “He was watching Chado-kun spar, and then *bang* out for the count.” She watched the blond intently. “It took almost ten minutes for them to bring him around, and then he was wiped out all evening. Uryu-kun says his reishi levels are rising at a dangerous rate, but he can’t figure out how to make it stop.”

The blond was always pale, but he got noticeably paler as she shared more details about Ichigo’s declining health. His fists clenched reflexively, and his breathing was a little faster. If she wasn’t mistaken, and after four years of training as an ER nurse she felt fairly confident in her skills, he was on the edge of a panic attack.  

The mighty Urahara Kisuke, panicking over Ichigo. It was about time.

“He is okay now, I assume? No lingering effects of the collapse?” his questions were practical, but the tone in his voice was personal, and Orihime decided to be merciful.

“He was fine when he went to sleep last night. I’ve been using my Shun Shun Rikka to make sure that whatever is affecting his spiritual pressure levels doesn’t harm his body, but I can’t stop the images from affecting how he feels, or what he thinks.”

Silence fell between them for a moment.

“If he is somehow reliving these events, I can only imagine the toll it must take.”

It wouldn’t take too much imagination, Orihime thought. Urahara had his own demons, his own visions of death to deal with, but he had always been the killer not the victim, and so he made peace with his visions through guilt. It was a miserable peace, but it was more closure than Ichigo had, and Orihime figured he knew that, too.

“He’s coming here this afternoon.” She put the tea down and looked straight at the older man. “He needs your help Urahara-san. Will you turn him away again?”

Urahara stiffened. “I never turned him away, Inoue-san. Never.”

The sneer on her face was even more powerful because it was so rarely seen. “You can lie to yourself, Urahara-san,” she snapped, “but I saw what he was like when you sent him away the last time. I held him as he cried. Chado-kun had to be stopped from coming here and shoving that striped hat up your ass where your head was. You broke his heart, and then you told him to come back once he’d gotten over his adolescent hero-worship.”

She stood, too angry to remain any longer.  Understanding that the feelings between Urahara and Ichigo weren’t as one-sided as she’d thought only made the hateful way the older man had pushed her friend away even harder to swallow.

“How could you?” she whispered. “He loved you. Loves you, still. And here you are, pretending it doesn’t matter, letting him suffer alone. Again.”

She wiped away a tear. “You’re both fools.”

“I have been called worse, my dear,” he said, “and truly. However, if Kurosaki-san wants to come and let me examine him, I would be happy for the chance to help him. Please tell him that.”

She started walking for the front of the shop and flipped her hair back over one shoulder as she sent him one last look. “Tell him yourself. If you want to help, get over your pride or your shame or whatever is causing you to be like this and help. He needs you, and you owe it to him.”

And with the clicking of the beaded curtain she was gone.

***

“Kurosaki Clinic, how can I help you?”

The bright voice cut through the line like sunshine, and Kisuke smiled. Nothing would ever change Yuzu.

“Ah, Kurosaki-kun,” he smiled into the phone, putting his best foot forward, “it has been a long time. This is Urahara Kisuke. I’m trying to reach your brother.”

The phone dropped its connection and he was left speaking into dead air.

He dialed again.

“Kurosaki Clinic, how can I help you?”

“Kurosaki-kun,” he started again, “I’m sorry, I had a problem with my connection. I am trying to get-”

“It was no problem at all,” she said, overriding him. “I hung up on you. And I’m going to do it again. Goodbye.”

And she did.

Kisuke didn’t dial the clinic again. He, instead, called Isshin directly. “Hello, Shiba Isshin.”

“Isshin-san,” he said, his tone a little less cheerful than it had been for Yuzu. “I do hope you don’t intend to hang up on me.”

Isshin grunted. “Why would I hang up on you?”

“I don’t know, but apparently your daughter had a reason.”

It didn’t matter. It really didn’t. He knew that when he refused Ichigo’s advances there would be sides taken. It was just… unexpected.

“Ah, Yuzu,” Isshin made understanding noises. “Yeah, she hates your guts. Pretty sure Karin does, too.”

Kisuke didn’t pretend to be surprised. Karin had always been the volatile one of the twins. If Yuzu had shut that door on him, Karin would have slammed his foot in it given the chance.

“Well, regardless of my standing with your daughters, I am actually calling about your other offspring. I need to get in touch with him, but it seems the phone number I have for him no longer works.”

There was another uncomfortable silence. “Yes, about that… I’ve been thinking. You were right when you said I shouldn’t have gone through Ichigo’s things, and I think that unless you’ve already got some idea of what is going on, we should put this whole thing on the back burner until I get the results from the blood tests back from the lab. We really ought to rule out any--”

Kisuke cut him off. “Inoue-san came to see me this morning.”

Apparently, that news was as surprising to Isshin as the event had been to Kisuke. The other man sputtered and coughed into the phone.

“She what? She swore she’d never…” Isshin realized what he was saying and tried to dial things back but it was hopeless. “I mean…  oh hell, Kisuke, you know what I mean.”

He knew.

“Nevertheless, she came to see me. She told me Ichigo collapsed yesterday.”

“Collapsed!” The worried parent voice would never sound normal coming from Isshin, but it happened often enough now that Kisuke didn’t look for the lie in it. “He didn’t say anything to me. After promising to let me know!”

“Calm down, Isshin-san. I’m sure he will tell you, he just needs time to recover. However, if he is physically unable to deal with the strain of these visions… if he is collapsing from them… I don’t believe we have the luxury of waiting and seeing.”

He thought about the next words carefully. “Inoue-san indicated that he meant to visit the Shōten this afternoon.”

This time Isshin didn’t burst out with denials. “Things must be worse than he told me.”

The implication that only something extreme could drive Ichigo to the Shōten was a bitter truth, but Kisuke couldn’t deny it. He remembered the look of utter betrayal on Ichigo’s face from their last meeting. He lived with the memory of it every day.

“Indeed,” he agreed. “That is why I wanted to contact him first.  If meeting him someplace like the clinic would make it easier for him… Well, Tessai-san and I can take readings anywhere.”

Kisuke swallowed the lump that was trying to block his throat. “You know I’d do whatever necessary to help him, Isshin-san.”

A rough voice sounded behind him. “It was never your help I wanted, Kisuke.” Ichigo laughed bitterly. “And I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that you and Goat Face are conspiring behind my back, again.”

His arms were too thin. Muscles from years of sword work were still there, but there was nothing but a layer of skin covering them. His face was drawn, too, amber eyes dull and huge in his face, and Kisuke ached to see the pain in them.

“Kurosaki-san,” he said.  “As a matter of fact, I was trying to contact you. I tried the clinic first, but Yuzu-kun refused to speak to me. So, I called your father.”

Ichigo crossed the small living room and placed a key on the table.  He’d had it all this time but had never used it.

“Orihime told me she came to see you this morning.” He was looking around the room like he didn’t know what to do, and it hurt almost more than the lost look on his face.  Once, he’d considered this almost more a home than his own, but Kisuke had taken that from him, too.

“She did.” The shopkeeper disconnected his call and laid the phone on the shelf beside him. “I spoke to your father yesterday, though.  He was worried about what was happening to you and thought I might be able to help.”

Ichigo chose Tessai’s seat and lowered himself onto the pale pink patterned cushion, moving slowly and carefully like someone more than twice his age.

“Well, for once I’m glad people are doing all the talking for me.  Makes this whole reunion thing a little less awkward don’t you think?” He smiled, but it was a stiff and unnatural thing. “See the thing is, I almost didn’t come today anyway.  Probably would’ve chickened out if Uryu hadn’t threatened to jab me with his sewing needles if I didn’t.”

Kisuke understood.  He’d been avoiding this moment too, but time for avoidance was past.  Ichigo needed him, needed him in a way he could actually give him, and nothing was going to stop him now.

“Well, I will have to thank Ishida-san the next time I see him.”  He moved closer to the redhead and sat on the floor in front of him and spoke softly. “I am very glad to see you, Kurosaki-san.”

He took Ichigo’s hand in his and just held it for a moment, letting his own skin warm it, and he felt the faint tremor that shook the fingers.

“Kisuke,” Ichigo’s voice cracked. “I know I shouldn’t be here, but…” he raised his eyes to the blond’s and swallowed thickly, “I think I’m going crazy.  I’ve fought wanna-be gods, and killed monsters, but I can’t fight this.  I don’t even know what it is.  Please.”

Kisuke’s fingers were crushed in a painful grip but he didn’t try to pull them back. This little bit of pain was nothing compared to what he’d tolerate if it meant he was helping Ichigo.

“Stop that.” He said firmly. “You are not going crazy, and we will find a way to fix this.” He wrapped his free hand around the two clenched ones and squeezed encouragingly.  

“Tessai-san!” He pitched his voice in the sing-song that cut all the way through to the shop, but he knew Tessai was just in the next room waiting.  He knew his kidō skills were going to be an important part of fixing whatever was haunting Ichigo. “We have work to do.”

The large man appeared silently in the doorway and he bowed.

“Welcome back, Kurosaki-san.” There was a world of quiet emotion in those three words, and Ichigo nodded at the big man.

“Good to see you, too, Tessai-san.” He started to say something else, but the words garbled in his throat, and the little bit of color in his face drained away.

“Kisuke--” he whispered. Then he fell.

***

 The little man in black swung his tachi with a vengeance, his face a rictus of hate. The weapon flashed in the low light and the young man fell, blood spurting across the frost covered ground, the redness fading to black as it melted into the grass. Miyake-sama. Master. He did nothing. Let me call for the healer, maybe he can…  No. No!  You can’t!  Please!  PLEASE!!! The shield he summoned wasn’t fast enough, and he felt the burning bite of the tachi shatter his focus and the spell unraveled around him.

The metallic smell of blood faded with the screams in his head, but Ichigo couldn’t move. His body was as frozen as the corpse he’d just been.

“Kurosaki-san,” Kisuke’s arms were wrapped around him but he could barely feel it.  His skin was cold, so cold. “Kurosaki-san!” Kisuke was getting louder, his fingers checking his pulse and tapping his face sharply, but Ichigo was still too far away to respond.

“Ichigo!”  Kisuke picked him up as if he weighed nothing and carried in through the mini-maze of the living space until he reached the sleeping quarters, and then Ichigo was lowered to a futon and covered, the soft gray blankets the same color as Kisuke’s eyes.

“Miyake-sama,” he forced the name through stiff lips, convinced it was important. “He killed me. Killed the others, too.”

“Shhhhh, Ichigo, I’ve got you,” Kisuke murmured the words of comfort as he started setting a pair of kidō seals at the head and foot of the futon. “Just another minute.  Just stay with me. Please. Just another minute? You can manage one more minute, can’t you.  Just one more.”

Then he was yelling for Tessai, the large man moving around in the hallway doing something Ichigo couldn’t see, but he could feel the wall of reishi that was being raised.  It felt like the shield that Hachi placed around the Visored’s warehouse, but smaller.  Tighter. A dome around this room, and him, and Kisuke.

Ichigo shivered as goose bumps raced across his skin, the feverish feeling was almost overwhelming, but he focused on Kisuke’s voice, that voice he’d dreamed of, calling his name, asking him to stay.

“Kisuke.” He fought the vision for control, and he could feel it receding a little. Then, just as Kisuke finished setting the second kidō seal, the hold it had on him disappeared in a flash.

He was himself again.

His throat was raw, and he realized he must’ve been screaming again, “I hope the neighbors didn’t call the cops when I started screaming.”

Kisuke shook his head at the redhead. “Don’t worry about that.  If they haven’t called the police about Jinta and Ururu’s battles royale, a little screaming wouldn’t cause them to blink an eye.”

Ichigo was so tired.  He tried to focus on Kisuke, but his eyes had other ideas. “Whatever you and Tessai did helped.  I could feel it.”

Kisuke looked at Tessai still standing in the doorway and they exchanged some silent kidō master information and Ichigo sighed. He just wanted to sleep.

“Can I just rest here for a little bit?” He tried not to sound pathetic, but he was comfortable for the first time in months, and the feeling of something scratching at his reiatsu was gone. “I promise I won’t stay long. I don’t want to be a bother.”

And if he heard Kisuke whisper he could stay forever if he wanted to, well…  apparently, some hallucinations were better than others.

***

“I think he’ll sleep for a while, Tessai-san,” Kisuke quietly joined his friend in the hallway.  “It’s fairly clear that our theory of Ichigo being the center of a confluence of conscious reishi was right.  Hopefully, that also means that the seals will keep him protected from it,” he sighed.

“Did you notice the barrier he was summoning?” Tessai’s voice was dark. “Kurosaki-kun doesn’t know that spell.  That had to be something he was acting out from the vision.”

“Yes,” Kisuke said. “I’m lucky he didn’t manage to finish the spell.  I was close enough it would have done quite a bit of damage.”

“Also, I heard what he said. Miyake-sama killed me.” Tessai looked down, a rare expression of anger on his face. “The Miyake family has deep roots within the Kidō Corps.  I personally trained two of them before our escape to the living world.  They didn’t have the focus to become great, but they had impressive natural talent. There was nothing to prevent them from reaching officer level if they’d wanted it.”

That made a sort of sense. “Have any of the Miyake ever been members of the Second?”

“Not as far as I know,” Tessai shook his head. “They had no connection to the Shihōin. The men I knew were very proud of their samurai ties. They claimed that their grandfather remembered his life before Seireitei, and that he was so deeply tied to his honor that the knowledge of that past couldn’t be erased by anything short of the Sōkyoku itself.”

The shopkeeper walked down the hall to the kitchen and lit the fire under the kettle.

“So, we have a kidō wielding family talking about honor and the Sōkyoku. Sounds like perhaps someone decided to use their skills to take their revenge against the Shiba, and somehow, through whatever misbegotten method they were using to try to destroy the connection between the Shiba and their soul particles, they’ve left them wandering loose in some sort of limbo, unable to re-enter the reincarnation stream, but still aware.  Still Shiba.”

Fifty years of only being able to remember what was lost.  To remember the betrayal of death. The fear.

Tessai agreed. “Kurosaki-kun must be acting like a beacon for them.  Drawing them to him, as only an incredibly powerful Shiba force could.”

Kisuke laughed under his breath as he scooped matcha into the teapot.  “Why am I not surprised? Ichigo has always been a neon sign in the darkness calling to the lost.”

He had called to Kisuke, pulled him from the shell he’d built around himself. Forced him back into the light. Back into life. Even Benihime sang his praises, and Kisuke wasn’t foolish enough to argue with her.

“It doesn’t explain how the particles are entering his personal reishi pool and affecting him physically?” Tessai frowned. “Nor does it explain why the Shiba’s were targeted in the first place.  However, our first priority is to stabilize Kurosaki-kun and prevent any more damage.”

***

When Ichigo awoke, he wasn’t alone.

“Ichigo-kun!” Orihime excitedly moved to sit beside him on the futon when he shifted. “You look much better!”

“I feel better,” he said, and it was true.  The echoes in his head were gone, and the raw feeling under his skin had faded almost completely. “A lot better, actually.”

He sat up and rubbed the back of his neck, the last echoes of the vision of being killed much farther away than usual at this point.  “I collapsed again, didn’t I?”

“Technically, no,” she said, pushing a piece of hair behind an ear, making one of her hairpins glint in the low light. “Urahara-san said that you were exhausted after the last vision, but that you didn’t lose consciousness due to the changes in your reiatsu.”

Uryu was sitting by the window. “The shinigami was able to stabilize your reiryoku.  There are some interesting protections weaved into the walls of this room already, but I think the kidō seals they placed around you were the real key.  They effectively stop any reishi from entering this space, so while your reiatsu isn’t affected, there’s nothing extra bombarding you.”

Ichigo remembered Tessai’s mad dash to raise the shield just as he was about to collapse again, buried under a reishi-slide too powerful for him to handle.  It was a close call, and he didn’t want to think of how long it would have taken him to recover if he hadn’t managed it in time.

“So, you’re basically a boy in a bubble.”

He looked around at the room, littered with Kisuke’s personal things and sighed. A sandalwood incense, and Kisuke scented bubble.  Why couldn’t the Universe just kill him already?

He must’ve made some sound because Uryu let out a little snort of laughter.  “Yeah.  Someone out there loves fucking with you, Kurosaki.”

Another laugh rumbled in the distance. Goat Face. Of course.

“Your dad got here just before we did.” Orihime grimaced. “Apparently he panicked when Urahara-san hung up on him. He told Yuzu-chan to close the clinic and shunpo’d over here. He’s already received one Jigokuchō since he arrived.  I’m assuming it’s for breaking the shinigami laws of concealment, but I didn’t ask.”

His dad was many things, but restrained and logical in the face of trouble was nowhere on that list. He had to admit, though, that it was nice to finally feel important to his old man, even if it did mean he had a brand new helicopter parent in his life at twenty-three.

“At least he hasn’t run in here and tackled me.”

Orihime grinned.  “He tried.  Apparently Urahara-san put a little extra anti-Shiba kick in the shield.  He can’t get in.”

“And the best part, is that because the problem you’re having is directly connected to Shiba energy, there’s nothing he can do about it.” Uryu said.

Ichigo burrowed back into the blankets, sucking up every ounce of comfort he could.

“Shiba, huh?  So the visions?”

A dainty hand reached out and patted his arm, and he knew Orihime was trying to find a way to tell him what he needed to know gently.

“It’s okay, Orihime,” he said. “Just tell me. Can’t fight it if I don’t know what it is.”

Uryu saved her. “That’s just it.  We’re not sure it’s something you can fight. When we got here we saw that you’d dropped your pack by the back door, so we pulled your sketchbooks out and let them look at them.  All three of them recognized someone in those books, and every single vision was the murder of a Shiba.”

Ichigo had often wondered what had happened to his father’s clan, but it wasn’t something Goat Face was comfortable talking about.  He carried as much guilt over it as Kisuke did over what he’d done for the Onmitsukidō, or during the wars against Aizen and Ywach.

“Did any of them recognize the killers?” he asked.

“Tessai-san.” Orihime looked solemn.  “They were students of his at one point apparently.  He was most… disturbed.”

“I can imagine.”  Ichigo had only seen Tessai lose his cool twice during the war against Aizen, but he’d been a demon in the fight against the Quincy.  The big man did not take kindly to betrayal, and he would destroy anyone who attacked an innocent. Many of the Shiba he’d seen killed were innocents.

His stomach growled and he realized he was hungry for the first time in weeks. “Am I really stuck in this room?” he asked. “I’m starving.”

Orihime beamed. “This is the safest place for you, but Tessai-san told me they set up a slightly less intense barrier around the building.  You should be safe as long as you don’t leave, and I know for a fact that there’s a big pot of Yuzu’s curry out there keeping warm on the stove.”

Yuzu’s curry and Kisuke’s bedroom. Ichigo could think of worse ways to recuperate.

***

“So, as much as I hate to admit it, I am partially to blame for Kurosaki-san’s current state of disability.” Urahara said, voice heavy with guilt. “The sword used to return his powers to him during the conflict with Ginjo, was designed to allow many different types of power to be absorbed into his soul, recharging it.  It had to open a pathway for the reishi to travel and the spells I worked into its surface acted almost like the drugs used in a human organ transplant surgery.  I had to make sure the new energy wasn’t somehow rejected by his soul before it could be absorbed and accepted as Kurosaki-san’s own.”

Uryu caught on quickly. “And that pathway is still open?”

Kisuke nodded. “It seems likely, yes.  Tessai-san is going to examine Kurosaki-san more closely now that he has rested and there is no foreign reishi clouding the readings, but that is my best guess.”

The room was crowded, and it felt almost like the old days. Everyone focused on solving a problem, brought together by conflict, but kept together by something stronger.  That something had almost always been Ichigo.   It didn’t seem wrong that he was again the reason that the ten of them were once again around his table.  It felt even more normal to realize that his mistake was what caused part of the problem in the first place.

“Stop blaming yourself, Kisuke,” the redhead said. He was sitting slouched against Chad’s side, his burst of energy from earlier waning as the discussion progressed.  He would need to be forced to rest soon, but from the look on Orihime’s face that wasn’t going to be a problem. “Even if you’d told me at the time that this was a possible side effect I would have grabbed that sword with both hands and stabbed myself if I had to.”

He probably meant it, but that didn’t mean it was the wise choice, or that he knew what he’d have chosen if he’d had the choice.  Ichigo was too ready to just gloss over the details.

“Regardless of what caused the path, what is this energy that is attacking Ichigo-kun through that path.  You keep saying it’s Shiba energy, but unless I’m mistaken souls that have that much awareness reenter the reincarnation cycle, and the ones that don’t just become reishi.”

Tessai spread his big hands. “The kidō corps has invented many spells over the ages that affect reishi and reiryoku.  It allows shinigami to perform the konso that releases souls to come to Soul Society, and on the other end of the spectrum it is used to restrain a soul’s spiritual pressure, or even destroy it in cases of capital punishment.”

“The Sōkyoku.” Ichigo said it like it left a bad taste in his mouth, but Tessai nodded.

“Yes, the Sōkyoku had several different spells embedded in it, one of which was Tamashī Mekuri. The symbol of which is scattered throughout the drawings you’ve made over the past few months.”

“Soul Stripping.” Isshin ground the words out. “I thought that had been made illegal by Central 46.”

Tessai shrugged.  “I am the one who declared it illegal to teach to the Kidō Corps, and Central 46 supported my decision, with a few noted exceptions. But, that doesn’t mean that the skill disappeared.  There were many who already knew how to cast it, and several weapons that had it embedded in them.”

“Let me guess. One of which was a black tachi with a white tassel on the pommel and that symbol stamped in the side of the blade.”  Ichigo’s voice was perfectly flat, but Kisuke could hear the pain in it. He’d seen what the weapon could do up close and personal, and there was nothing that would make that less horrific.

“Yes.” Tessai didn’t dance around with his answers. “Someone used it to not only kill the Shiba living in Seireitei, but attempted to destroy their spirits completely, preventing them from reincarnating, and thereby removing their power from the Shiba forever.”

Yoruichi pounced onto the important part of that sentence. “Attempted?”

“You’re saying they’re still conscious out there.” Isshin sounded appalled, and Kisuke couldn’t blame him.

“Yes.  The killers didn’t have enough reiatsu to activate the full effect of the weapon.  It takes a particular kind of person to be able to completely destroy a soul.  There can be no question in their mind, or they won’t be able to completely strip the consciousness from the energy.’

“Instead of destroying the Shiba energy, they just sent it into limbo, and it has been there ever since. It has coalesced into a metaphysical stream of reishi that identifies as Shiba, and it is still picking up any stray bits of soul that survived the extermination.”

“Because Ichigo has so much Shiba energy of his own, he’s acting like a magnet. It wouldn’t matter except for the hole we punched through his souls protective outer layer. It started as just a trickle, so it wasn’t noticeable. Now that the stream has started moving, though, it is continuing to gain strength as it pours into him.  That is why his reishi levels were rising so rapidly for no reason, and if we don’t close the pathway it will keep happening, until finally it overwhelms his own soul particles.”

“Which I would really like to skip, if possible.” Ichigo sat up, eyes glassy. “But if we close the pathway, what will happen to them?”

“Them who, Kurosaki-san?” Kisuke asked, but he knew the answer.

Ichigo yawned a jaw-cracking yawn and leaned forward on his elbows. “Don’t play dumb, Kisuke.  The souls that are hitching a ride with me.  What will happen to them?”

Kisuke sighed, he knew this was where Ichigo would get stuck.  “Nothing.  They will remain as they have been since they were killed.”

Isshin shifted uncomfortably, and Yoruichi hissed under her breath.  No one liked the answer, but that didn’t change it.

“They’ll just stay…  lost?” The young man looked like the bottom had fallen out of his world, and Kisuke wished he didn’t always have to be the voice of doom.

“Without an anchor, the energy will continue to move through the currents of reishi that flow around us.”

Ichigo pushed himself up, sleepiness gone and a determined look on his face. Kisuke couldn’t help but smile; it was exactly the reaction he’d predicted to Tessai that afternoon.

“Well, screw that.”

***

Kisuke rubbed his eyes and bent back over the table where he and Tessai had God knows what spread out.  It looked like parts of a gigai, and a whole lot of I-have-no-idea-what-that-is.

“But if we open the pathway with the same set of spells….”

He let the actual words fade out. They’d been at it for a couple of hours, and Ichigo didn’t understand any more of it now than he had when they’d started.  It was just nice to hear them in the background, that familiar sound that he hadn’t realized he depended on for peace of mind until he’d lost it.

Everyone but Yoruichi had gone home after the meeting, although getting Isshin to leave had been a struggle.  He seemed to think that his presence would be soothing.  Chad and Uryu had frog-marched him out the door with Orihime close behind to make sure he didn’t bolt.  They were good friends.

He closed his eyes and drifted.

 Shiba-san. Can you hear me now, Shiba-san?

The voice was small and melodic, tickling the back of his mind like a distant whisper.

 Please, Shiba-san.  Please try to listen.

Ichigo’s eyes were so heavy, but he couldn’t ignore the voice in his head. If I’m not dreaming, he thought, then I can hear you.

He could almost feel the relieved laughter that burst in the back of his head. I don’t believe you’re dreaming, but after all this time I feel like I must be.  

Ichigo groaned.  Now his imagination was talking to him instead of just showing him horror movies on the back of his eyeballs.

 Not your imagination, Shiba-san, and I am very sorry that you’ve been subjected to so much unpleasantness recently.

Unpleasantness.  Well, that was one word for it.

Who are you? Ichigo thought loudly, and the voice tittered a cultured little laugh. You do not have to shout.  I can hear you perfectly well.

Fine, he thought again. Who are you?

And she told him.

***

“She says she is Shiba Shiori.  She married into the Shiba clan about the time my dad was born. She was Yamamoto’s niece or something.  I didn’t really follow that part.”

Kisuke sipped his tea.  If this got any more convoluted, though, he was going to shift to sake.

“She said she found me first, and the others followed her.”

Tessai grunted. “A relative of Yamamoto-soutaichou would probably be quite powerful in her own right.  It would make sense that she would have a greater chance of surviving the soul stripping process.”

“She said the reason I can hear her now is because there’s no more new reishi coming in, and she seems to be the most…  coherent of the souls there.”

They might be able to use that. If Shiba Shiori was this successful with contacting both Ichigo’s conscious mind, and the soul fragments clinging to him, she could be a gathering force.  That would solve the problem he and Tessai were having about how to separate Ichigo’s reishi from the foreign parts.

Yoruichi stretched out on the low couch next to them.  “Her name rings a bell, but I’m sure Kūkaku would remember her.”

Ichigo laughed. “She remembers both of you.  And all the trouble you caused.”

Yoruichi just grinned. “Youthful exuberance. Nothing more.”

That was it! How could he have missed it!

“We need to go to the Shiba compound.  Send a Jigokuchō.  We need Isshin-san, Kūkaku, and Ganju.  Tessai-san?  Gather up the gigai we were working on, and bring that, too.  Oh, and we should probably send a message to the Soutaichou that there’s a pair of murderers in the Kidō Corps, but we can deal with that later.”

He stopped and looked around.  Everyone was staring at him.

“What? Haven’t you ever seen genius in action before?”  He snapped his fan open and shooed everyone into action.

Ichigo didn’t move. “You’re sure this is a good idea?” It was clear he was nervous about leaving the protection of the sealed Shoten.

Kisuke looked him square in the eyes. “I promised I wouldn’t lie to you again, Kurosaki-san. Do you really want an answer to that?”

Ichigo sighed. “This is really going to hurt isn’t it.”

“Probably.” The blond nodded, but reached out a hand and patted his shoulder lightly. “Hopefully, it will be the last time, though.”

Yoruichi stood up and stretched. “Famous last words, eh, Kisuke?” She wrapped her arm around Ichigo’s waist and herded him towards the senkaimon in the training area. “At least we’ll all be here to tell him I told you so, Ichigo-kun.”

Ichigo brightened a little, and the blond hid his smile behind his fan.  It was good to see that he still had a sense of humor, even if it was at Kisuke’s expense.  

Time to work.

***

“So, I want you three to focus your reiatsu into the Reishūkaku.  Focus as much as you can, without blowing it up, of course.”  With Kūkaku, that last part was sometimes necessary.

Isshin and Ganju stood on either side of the glowing orb, their faces works of concentration, and when Kūkaku added her reiatsu, there was a noticeable rise of temperature in the room.  

Shiba’s really had more reiatsu than was good for them.  Or anyone, as they were discovering.

It only took five minutes for the three to begin sweating and shaking from the effort of pouring more reiatsu into the Reishūkaku, but Kisuke waited until he could feel the surface of it start to vibrate before he called a halt.

“That should do it.” Kūkaku handed the cannonball back to him, and he frowned.  This was the tricky part.  Or one of them, at least.

“Tessai-san, if you’d do the honors?” he asked, stepping away from the gathered Shiba.

Tessai silently nodded and then set to work, raising two interlaced shields that would protect those in the area from both physical and spiritual damage.

“It’s ready, Urahara-san,” he said, and the blond bowed a little in thanks.

He hadn’t focused any of his personal energy into the reishūkaku because it was important that it contain nothing but Shiba vibrations.  This part, however, was just a matter of wrestling it into shape.  Kisuke didn’t have a huge amount of reishi to work with like Ichigo did, but he was very good at using what he had.

Reishūkaku typically were enlarged after being filled with reiatsu.  This time, though, Kisuke was going to collapse it in on itself.  He needed it small enough to fit inside the gigai he’d constructed.

“Be careful Kisuke,” Yoruichi was standing next to Kūkaku, not touching, but comforting. “You’d be hard to replace.”

Kisuke nodded once, but this wasn’t about him.  It was about Ichigo, and he would be much harder to replace.

There, he thought finally. That should be small enough. Plus, nothing had exploded, which was always a good sign.

“Tessai-san,” he said, holding the now palm-sized orb up. “I think it’s safe to take the shields down now.”

***

Ichigo felt like he was going to throw up.  The feverish feelings were back and worse than ever.  His head was pounding like he’d drunk too much sake the night before, and the day before that, and the day before that.  He wasn’t sure he was going to make it through this.

It had been bad in the living world, the constant scratching at his soul, but here in Soul Society it was hundreds of times worse.  He supposed that made sense, though.  There would be weaker soul fragments that were never able to leave the area where they were killed, and now that he was there, right next to them, they, too, wanted to join the party.

Isshin notice him swaying on his feet. “Hold on, Son,” he said, slipping a hand under Ichigo’s elbow to steady him.  “Not much longer now.”

Ichigo laughed, a strangled sound.  Not much longer now. That’s what Isshin said to women delivering babies, or when he was putting in stitches in an emergency when he didn’t have anesthetic nearby. But what choice did he have.

Kisuke glanced over at him, concern clear on his face, but he didn’t stop what he was doing.  Tessai had placed the gigai in a chair, a gaping hole in the chest where the soul-chain of a real human would be. That was where they were going to put the reishūkaku.

“Tessai-san,” he said, holding the now palm-sized orb up. “I think it’s safe to take the shields down now.”

Ichigo let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.  He’d been scared that something would go wrong with this step and Kisuke would be hurt, but he didn’t have any other suggestion of what to do, so he’d just tamped the fear down into the box he kept all his Kisuke related feelings in.

Pretty soon he was going to need a bigger box.

“Okay, let’s see how this works.” Kisuke covered the distance to the gigai in a few steps and gently tucked the glowing ball of spirit into the opening.  Ichigo had never watched the animation of a gigai before, but he knew the basics.  This didn’t look like the basics.

The opening tightened on its own, pulling the not-skin together like a zipper over the reishūkaku, and the skin began to warm, but where a normal gigai would change to reflect the reiatsu powering it, this one didn’t take on any of the physical characteristics of the three Shibas that contributed to its activating force.

“Tabula Rasa.” Kisuke stood and watched the process for another long minute, before deciding it was safe to move to the next step.

Another wave of nausea and dizziness hit him, and Ichigo fell to his knees.

 Why? How could you? You killed him! I love you, please don’t do this. Please, no... Betrayer! You’re a weakling! Stand and fight like a man! Nii-san! Help me…  please help me…  someone.  Someone! Anyone!

The voices hammered at his mind, a hundred strong, every one trapped as they were calling out, pleading, dying.

“Hurry up, Kisuke,” he gritted out.  He didn’t know how much longer he could take it.  Gray was already encroaching on the edges of his vision.

The blond was busy finishing up whatever arcane crap he had to do, but he still managed to snark back at him.

“Youth. Always so impatient.” His voice was light and sing-song, but his face was transfixed on the gigai he was working on. “You must exercise restraint, Kurosaki-san. You can manage one more minute, can’t you. Just one more.”

Ichigo gritted his teeth against the disorienting feeling, and clung to the memory of Kisuke saying that to him before, holding him in his arms, carrying him to his bedroom, protecting him, the way he’d always protected him.

He loves you, you know. Shiba Shiori’s voice cut through the whispering roar. He thinks he’s protecting you.  Keeping you separate because separate is safe.  We did that with our family.  With our children.  We were wrong.

Ichigo rubbed his face. There were tears, squeezed out between tightly shut lids, and he could only suck in short panting breaths. He clenched his fists, trying to hold his body together against the strangling force of the Shiba power around his soul, and heard Kisuke’s voice.

“Focus your reiatsu, Kurosaki-san. Pull it tight into yourself.  Focus.” Strong arms lifted him to his feet and supported him as they brought the gigai next to him, and he looked around for Kisuke.

He was there, standing behind him.  His arms were the ones holding him up.  He always did that.  Maybe that’s why Ichigo wanted those arms around him all the time.

“Hey Kisuke.” It didn’t sound like his voice. “You know that hero worship thing you told me to get over?”

Kisuke’s grip tightened but he didn’t say anything.  

“This isn’t the way to convince me I’m wrong.” He coughed, and felt something suspiciously like blood on his lips. “Shiori says you’re wrong by the way.”

Kisuke grimaced, and Ichigo laughed a little.  Bastard was terrible with emotions. But that was okay. He loved him anyway.

“Is the gigai ready?” He gripped Kisuke’s hands so tightly he was surprised the blond wasn’t complaining. That wasn’t his way, though.

“Yes.  Are you?” Gray eyes bored into his and he thought, now or never.

“Always.  You know that.” He tried to smile, but his mouth wasn’t cooperating.

One of the hands holding him pulled back, and reappeared with a white handled tachi, a black tassel on the pommel and another symbol stamped on the side.

“I’m sorry, Ichigo,” Kisuke whispered, and then a white hot pain sliced through the world.

“You need to work on that.” Ichigo leaned in and pressed a kiss against his pale cheek, and let go.  He would convince him he was wrong later.

Much later.

***

“Sorry for the invasion, Shunsui,” Ichigo tried to push himself up from the cot Hanatarō had procured for him, but between his dad and Kisuke that idea was squashed pretty quickly. “But I get the impression that if we didn’t deal with this sooner rather than later, there wouldn’t have been as positive an outcome.”

Remembering the swirling chaos that had overcome him at the end still set his teeth on edge, and it would have happened whether he’d stayed in the living world or not.  It just would’ve taken longer for it to destroy him, and they might not have been able to help Shiori and the others.

“I have summoned the Miyake brothers as requested, but remember, the Kidō Corps is not actually under my jurisdiction.”

Yoruichi stepped forward. “Suì-Fēng has been informed of the charges being brought against them and will oversee this questioning.  I am certain that after all the facts are laid in front of her the the Commander-in-chief of the Onmitsukido will know what to do.”

When the Captain of the Second appeared, she had two tired looking Kidō Corps members in tow.

“I have brought the men as requested, Yoruichi-sama, Kyōraku Soutaichou, but I must insist on an explanation.  This is most irregular.”

Ichigo laughed and Isshin patted him on the shoulder.

“The assassination of a clan is quite…  irregular, indeed.”  His voice held none of its normal geniality, and Ichigo recognized the steel that was required for him to have achieved the rank of Captain of the Gotei 13.

“You’re saying that these two,” she pointed at the men who were now kneeling in front of Tessai, neither arguing or defending themselves, “killed the entire Shiba clan?”

“Well, their father started it, but yes.” Isshin stepped forward, his shihakushō, stark against the red in his neck and face. “Their father was proud to a fault.  He was convinced their ties to the Miyake samurai made them special, more honorable. More valuable.”

Ichigo hadn’t seen his father this upset since Aizen had been unmasked as a traitor.

“The truth was, that just made them vulnerable to Aizen, back when the bastard was setting his chessboard for taking over Soul Society. Tell me,” he spoke to the two men, “what did your father tell you?  That the Shiba had offended his honor in some way?  What?”

The two men barely turned their heads, but the larger of the two spoke.

“He was betrayed. The woman he loved, who had promised herself to him, was convinced to marry a Shiba instead. She humiliated him, and it was all for a Shiba.”

The second man moaned and dropped his head into his hands.  “Aizen….  Aizen told him that the Shiba were trying to destroy his honor. The honor of all of Soul Society.  He said they’d infiltrated the Gotei 13 to prevent law enforcement from being able to stop them, and that they were forcing women to marry into their clan against their will. Every sin against the soul was laid at their feet, with examples and proofs and a constant stream of inflammatory discourse until my father snapped.  He begged Aizen to let him help excise the cancer in Seireitei, to allow us to help, and Aizen was more than happy to agree.”

A hand reached out from one brother to the other, a clear attempt at comfort.

“It wasn’t until after,” the dark little man whose face had haunted so many of Ichigo’s nightmares looked like he was going to be sick, “after Aizen was defeated that the lies started to fade from our minds, and we became aware of what we had done as his puppets.”

They dropped their foreheads to the grass and prostrated themselves in front of the remaining Shiba.

“We have been living with the guilt of our actions since Aizen was defeated. Our father could not face himself after he realized that he had killed the very woman he’d loved, all because of his hurt pride and willingness to listen to Aizen’s lies.”

“Well, your family wasn’t alone in being fooled by Aizen,” Ichigo snorted. “The whole Central 46 paid for it, too.”

Kūkaku sucked on her pipe a little harder but didn’t say anything.  She didn’t have to.  Anger radiated from every line of her body, and Ichigo knew it was taking every ounce of her control to prevent her from pounding the two little men into so much Kidō Corps Dust.

“It makes sense in a way,” Kisuke said, his tone as noncommittal as ever. “The Shiba were the keepers of the gate to the Soul King’s palace.  If he could destroy the clan--or get someone else to do it for him--it would remove one more of the barriers to his end goal.”

Isshin’s fingers were so tight on Ichigo’s shoulder that he was certain he was going to have a bruise.

“How many did you kill.”

The brothers looked at each other and then back down at the ground.  

Ganju asked again, the pain in his voice undeniable. “How many did you kill?”

“I’m sorry.” The Miyake looked at him, shame in every line of their bodies. “It’s just that we don’t know for certain.  Our father was a madman.  He killed every Shiba he could get alone.  He slaughtered…  children.  My brother and I didn’t have his conviction. But from what he said, I would estimate twenty-four or five.”

A strange warbling voice piped up from behind them. “Thirty-one.”

Shunsui turned so quickly that his pink kimono flared. “Who’s there?”

A woman--or almost woman--stepped out from behind Tessai.  Her hair was long and black, pulled back in the style of many ages past.  Her face was smooth, but her eyes held the weight of age.

“Greetings, Kyōraku-Soutaichou,” she said, bowing deeply. “I am sorry to have interrupted, but the answer to the question Shiba Ganju-san asked is thirty-one.”

Shunsui took a few sliding steps towards the newcomer, and Ichigo could tell that he was trying to assess what or who the woman was.

“I am afraid you have me at a disadvantage,” he bowed low, a rakish smile offsetting the weighing glance. “You know my name, but I do not know yours.”

Kisuke moved forward and held a hand out to the woman. “This is, Shiba Shiori, and others, but Shiba-san is the strongest soul present in the gigai, so she is who the body attuned itself to.”

“A gigai?” Shunsui looked surprised. “Why would one need a gigai here?”

It was a good question. Spirits had no limitations in Soul Society, but Shibas were always difficult like that.

“If I could ask Miyake-san one more question, it might make the explanation of the other factors of this situation a little clearer.”

The Soutaichou nodded his agreement, but Suì-Fēng frowned.  “I don’t need any more information.  These men have already admitted to mass murder, to the attempted destruction of a noble house.”

Kisuke hummed and the tiny woman vibrated with annoyance.  Ichigo had a little sympathy for her.  No one could annoy quite like Kisuke when he was in a mood.

“That is true, yes.” The blond had dragged his fan out from somewhere and was lazily waving it back and forth. “The devil is in the details, though. Miyake-san.  Would you please tell the Soutaichou how you committed these killings?”

The older man sat back into his seiza, back straight, eyes forward as if he was braced for what came next.

“Aizen gave my father a tachi. I believe he stole it from the armory of the Onmitsukido.  Nobody but the Punishment Corps has needs for that type of weapon.”

Shunsui stilled. “What type of weapon?”

“A Soul Stripping weapon.” The man seemed to collapse in on himself with the admission. “We didn’t just kill them.  We destroyed them.  Everything they were.  Everything that was Shiba.”

Shiori laughed, a tinkling bell-like laugh that hid the edge of a knife. “Such ego.  Your father had it, too.  He couldn’t believe that I would choose someone other than him to share my life with.  Couldn’t believe that his samurai legends wouldn’t be enough to lure a woman with twice his power into his bed.   The fool.”

She held her hands out, and the long blue sleeves of her kimono spread like wings. “He tried to destroy us, but he made the mistake of the egotistical.  He didn’t understand that he was dealing with a power greater than any of his samurai ancestors knew.  He was dealing with Shiba.  My husband was a good man.  Our clan--my clan--has honor and power even after being targeted so shamefully.”

Tessai raised a hand. “Soul Stripping was one of the kidō that I outlawed in my time as Commander of the Kidō Corps.  It was only to be used as the most extreme of punishments doled out by the Punishment Corps.  Aizen took advantage of his access and liberated a few of the spelled weapons, including the one he gave to Miyake Rin.”

Shunsui and Suì-Fēng  shared a look.  “Where is this weapon now?”

“It is buried in the courtyard behind the main house of the Miyake compound.  It has been buried there since my father killed himself with it.”

A low gasp was heard.  He’d killed himself and destroyed his own chance of reincarnation because he couldn’t face what he had done, leaving his two sons to live with both his death and their own dishonor.

Shiori spat on the ground. “Ever the coward.  Condemning his own children with his poison, and then taking the easy way out himself.”

Kūkaku walked over and stood shoulder to shoulder to the woman who wasn’t a woman. “You put it well.  He was a coward, and if destruction was what he wanted, then that was what he deserved.”

The two women looked so much alike it was uncanny, even with Kūkaku’s wooden arm and Shiori’s unnaturally still face. Ichigo tried to imagine what it would have been like coming to a Soul Society full of Shibas. It would have been a much different place.  He couldn’t imagine Rukia or the Visored being condemned to death.  He couldn’t imagine them putting up with a lot of things.  That was probably as much a reason why they’d been targeted as their role as gatekeepers.

“So, Aizen killed Kaien and Miyako, and then arranged the murders of all these other Shibas.” Ichigo watched the faces around him as he summed up what they were all thinking. “And since he’s back in Muken for another 20,000 years, that kind of puts a damper on the whole find the bad guy and punish him thing.”

The Miyake brothers were still kneeling in the center of the crowd, and Ichigo waved a hand in their direction.

“These guys weren’t even in their right minds when they were involved.  I mean, Aizen managed to screw with everyone’s brains even after we knew he was a bastard.  Two mid-range Kidō Corps members? They didn’t have a chance against him.”

Suì-Fēng looked outraged. “Are you out of your mind? They slaughtered a noble house!” She looked at the Soutaichou. “Surely you see they must be punished.”

Shunsui shifted his straw hat and looked at the surviving Shiba. “What do you all say?  Is Ichigo right?  Were they not responsible for their actions?”

For a moment Ichigo thought they were going to fight him, but in the end they didn’t disappoint.

“I once said that if the shinigami that killed my brother said one word of apology for their actions I would forgive them. She had much more control over her situation than you’ve had over yours.” Kūkaku chewed the end of her pipe and stared at the men on the ground at her feet.  “I don’t like it, and I can’t say I like you, but I don’t blame you. Aizen is to blame, and perhaps your father for being an easy target to begin with, but not you.”

Ganju frowned at his sister and thrust both hands in his pockets. “Killing you won’t bring them back. Just don’t ask for more than that from me.  I’m not as forgiving as she is.”

Isshin stood there. “I think I would like to hear what Shiba Shiori-san has to say.”

The gigai turned to him and bowed before answering.

“We Shiba fight.  Face to face. With honor.  Killing you would bring no honor.  You are weak, but you are not our enemy.  Aizen is our enemy.  I look forward to the say that his soul is scattered to the ends of creation so that the Universe can make something better of the power he has wasted.”

“So,” the Soutaichou arranged his cherry blossom kimono carefully, “it seems to me that without the Shiba clan calling for blood, we really don’t have anything to pursue.”

Sui-Feng looked like she could bite through nails.  Ichigo expected her to stomp her foot in anger. “As Soutaichou you have to…”

Shunsui cut her off. “As Soutaichou, I have to follow the laws handed down to me by Central 46, and do what I believe is right in situations where there is no clear law in place. And, as far as I am aware, you are not in a position to contradict me, Taichou.”

The Captain of the Second clenched her fists and inclined her head. “As you say, Soutaichou.”

Yoruichi sauntered over to the younger woman and put a long arm around her shoulders.

“Come along Little Bee,” she said, steering her protege away from the group with a smile. “Let us spar like we used to.  I will let you exorcise some of your blood lust.”

She took two steps forward. “But you have to catch me first.”

Yoruichi disappeared in a flit of shunpo, and after a second of being clearly torn between staying and arguing with Kyōraku Soutaichou and chasing after her mentor, she gave into the inevitable and shunpo’d away as well.

The Miyake brothers stood shakily, and wiped tears from their faces.

“We can never undo the damage we have done to the Shiba.  We know that.   Your decision to allow us our continued freedom is worlds beyond anything we had a right to hope for.”

Kūkaku turned her pipe over and knocked the ash out against the heel of her sandal violently. “If you make a fuss about it, we might change our minds. It’s best if you just accept it and move on.  I don’t want to stew in this sorry pot of misery any more than I already have, and I can’t believe any of the others do, either.”

Shunsui motioned the men to stand next to him.  “I will escort these two back to their compound and retrieve the sword they described.” He tilted his head in a nod to Tessai.  “I agree that such a thing should not be easily accessed.  Or accessed at all.  But that is a question for another day.”

He turned to Kisuke. “Will Shiba Shiori-san be staying with us?  Or perhaps returning to the living world?”

Ichigo snorted.  The man was a terrible manipulator.  He quite admired that about the new Soutaichou.  It made the maze of Seireitei much easier to navigate.

“Shiba Shiori-san has graciously agreed to allow me to konso her and the other souls with her. Tessai-san and I have altered the kidō necessary and we believe it will free them all to enter into the reincarnation cycle.  They are Shiba, but some of them have been tied in a loop of suffering for fifty years now.  They are tired and wish to find peace.”

The Soutaichou bowed deeply to the Shiba-spirit entity. “In that case, please allow me to say that it has been a pleasure knowing you.  You have proven yourself to be as noble and as honorable as I know the Shiba to be.”

When he left, the gigai allowed itself to sag a little, and Kisuke led it to a low chair. “Is the reishi getting to you Shiba-san?”

The dark head nodded. “I am beginning to feel my grip slipping.  I believe that if we are to make the konso successful, we need to do it now.  I’m not sure I will be able to free the others if we wait any longer.”

Tessai stepped forward and handed Kisuke the white tachi, and with a minimum of fuss and a maximum of gentleness he touched the pommel to the gigai’s chest, right over where he had inserted the reishūkaku. And then, the gigai lost its features, sliding back into the blank slate it began as.

Shiba Shiori and the others were free.

Ichigo wasn’t ashamed to admit his eyes weren’t dry, but then no one else’s were either.

***

“Hey!  Can someone come hold the door for a minute?  My arms are full!”

Kisuke heard Ururu’s light steps as she ran for the back door. “Kurosaki-kun!” She sounded excited.  She had missed Ichigo. “I didn’t know you were coming.  Urahara-san didn’t mention it.”

Ichigo pushed in through the open door, a box in his arms, and toed off his shoes in the genkin. “I didn’t tell him. It was a surprise.”

A surprise?  It most certainly was.  After the trip back through the senkaimon Ichigo had collapsed, the exhaustion of it all finally catching up with him, but he’d headed home the next day and Kisuke had settled in to re-accustom himself to a quiet Shōten without Kurosakis and Shibas and even Shihōins for a while.

“Are you going to hold the door for your old man, Ichigo, or just leave me out here on the step like yesterday’s trash?”

Isshin’s voice boomed through the partially open door, and Kisuke’s eyes widened.  What were they both doing here?  Was something wrong with Ichigo again?

“Kurosaki-san,” he said lightly, coming around the corner to see the two men and Ururu wrestling with two bags and a large box. “Have you had a setback in your recovery?  I have sent Tessai-san out for a few things, but he should be returning any time now and can run another diagnostic scan of the wound pathways.  If we haven’t managed to seal them properly, we can try…”

“Oh yeah, Tessai knew I was coming.  He said he’d pick up pork for two more, since Goat Face was helping me bring some things over and we’d be here for dinner.”

Tessai knew Ichigo was coming and was making extra dinner.  That was…  unexpected.

“And just what are these things you’ve brought?” he asked, trying to figure out what was happening.

“Oh books, clothes, my computer…  you know, regular things.”

Ichigo carried his box down the hallway past Kisuke’s room until he reached a little store room at the end of the hall.

“I’m afraid I am still at a loss, Kurosaki-san.” He followed Ichigo into the small room only to realize that it had been cleaned out and a single futon folded in the corner.  Apparently Tessai had kept more than just today’s extra dinner shopping from him.

“Don’t try to argue with him, Kisuke.  You know what he’s like when he gets hold of something. You can’t change his mind no matter how hard you try.”

The blond looked at Isshin who had come up behind him and shook his head in confusion. “I am familiar with Kurosaki-san’s…”

“Ichigo’s.” The redhead interrupted.

“I’m sorry?” he asked, flustered.

“My name.  Ichigo.  You’ve used it before.  No sense in stopping now.” He turned back to the room, stacking his few things on a low table against the wall. “I’m going to have to get a rod to hang my clothes on.  I’m terrible with an iron.  Easier if I just hang things out of the dryer.”

Isshin made a noncommittal noise. “I don’t know.  A rod takes up a lot of room.  It isn’t like you’re going to have to iron much.  You only brought two pairs of trousers.  The rest are jeans and t-shirts, and even Yuzu doesn’t iron those.”

Kisuke pinched himself.  No.  Not dreaming. Maybe he was having a stroke.

Ichigo caught a glimpse of the look on his face and took pity on him.

“Kisuke, it’s like this.” He moved to stand in front of the taller man. “Last year when I told you I had feelings for you, you made it very clear that I should get over my case of hero-worship before I came back. So, I have.”

Isshin had dropped the two bags he was carrying in the corner and slid past the others standing in the doorway. He patted Kisuke on the shoulder as he passed and gave him a look of commiseration.

“You have?” Kisuke latched on to the last thing Ichigo had said.

“Yup,” the young man nodded. “Totally over the hero-worship thing.”

Kisuke felt oddly disheartened by that.  He’d wanted Ichigo to move on, he just didn’t realize how even just hearing the words would hurt.

“So, I am assuming you’re looking for a room to rent and Tessai has volunteered the Shōten?”

He hated feeling like he was missing something, but he definitely felt like he was missing something.

Ichigo moved closer and Kisuke imagined he could feel the warmth of him even at that distance.

“Not really,” he said, his voice a little softer.  “It’s true that I’m over the hero-worship thing, but that’s only part of what I felt for you.  A year hasn’t made that go away.  Hasn’t faded it at all, actually.  And, to top it off, this last catastrophe just reminded me how time can be stolen from us in the most bizarre ways.  I don’t intend to let that happen to me.  To us.”

Ururu appeared in the doorway with another small box, and Ichigo took it with thanks and put it on the table with the other things, before turning back to him. His expression was wide open, and Kisuke could see the intensity there, the sheer determination to make him understand, and he shivered a little at knowing he was that important to this amazing man.

“I know you.” Ichigo looked him in the eye until he had to look away. “Not Urahara Kisuke the hero. Not someone I’ve stuck up on a pedestal. Just you.  Urahara Kisuke mad scientist, shinigami, and handsome candy store owner.  And you know what?  I love you.  So, until you convince me that I’ve made a mistake, or I convince you that you’re wrong to not give us a chance, I’m moving in.  I’ve arranged with Tessai to pay rent, and I am on the chore schedule for dinner twice a week and whatever random errands need to be run. I don’t intend to push you, and if it becomes clear I’m not wanted, I am reasonable enough to understand.  I know that just because they labeled me savior of three worlds, doesn’t mean I appeal to everyone.”

Kisuke’s mind was spinning.  He couldn’t mean this.  Moving in?  His father would kill them.

“Isshin, surely you…” he started but the older Kurosaki cut him off.

“I told you.  You can’t reason with him when he gets this way.  He could give stubborn lessons to a mule.”

Kisuke laughed in spite of himself.  “Typical Shiba, hmm?”

Isshin shook his head. “Shiba?  No way.  This is Kurosaki through and through.  Masaki could make a grown man weep with frustration when she got an idea in her head, and did, on more than one occasion.”

“So… you’re alright? With this?” He waved a hand at the room, and the boxes, unable to find the words.

“Kisuke,” the big man was serious for once. “I have watched you save Ichigo’s life. I think I can trust you with his heart.” Then he patted the blond enthusiastically on the back and grinned. “Plus, as an older more experienced lover you can teach him a few things in the bedroom I’m sure.  I will have to buy a nice big bottle of that lovely almond oil Masaki used to…”

Ichigo moved between them and punched him. He laughed.

“My son! So strong in defense of his love! Your mother would be so proud.” He winked at Kisuke and then turned back to Ichigo in time to ward off another right hook. “I think that was everything you wanted to bring over.  Send me a text if you’ve forgotten anything.” He tried to hug the redhead, but he just got a friendly cuff on the ear for his efforts.

“Thanks Goat Face,” Ichigo said, and he clearly meant it.  “Tell the girls I’ll be back for dinner on Saturday, okay?”

Isshin agreed and let himself out, with a loud, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!”

And then it was quiet.

As soon as the door closed, Ichigo lost some of his bluster. “Look. I know this seems sudden, but after the whole thing with Shiori... I needed to take this chance.   Do you remember when I first came back? It was crazy. I was so miserable, but walking through that door, listening to you talking to Tessai, hell, sleeping in blankets that smelled like you…  I realized I hadn’t been that happy in a year.  I don’t want to go another year denying what I feel.  If that makes you uncomfortable, if you truly can’t see a future together, I’ll take my gear and go.”  He laughed a little sheepishly. “That’s why I only brought one box of books.”

Kisuke looked at the little room, and then back to the man in front of him. It was time to stop hiding.

“I sent you away once. I told myself it was for your own good, but it was still the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.”  He leaned in and dropped the lightest of kisses on Ichigo’s lips, letting him feel how just that little act left him breathless and shaky. He stepped back and looked down into wide amber eyes. “I think we can make room for a few more boxes of books. Ichigo.”

Ichigo’s smile blazed at the sound of his name, and he slid his arms loosely around Kisuke’s waist. “That’s good.  I have a lot of books.  It may take some time to move them all in.”

Kisuke kissed him again and pressed their foreheads together, his heart more at peace than it had ever been.  “That’s okay.  We have time.”

#Bleach #UraIchi #happilyeverafter #ichigo kurosaki #Urahara Kisuke #ShibaLore

[quranreadalong]

#128, Surah 24

THE QURAN READ-ALONG: DAY 128

We’re in for a real treat this week fam. An-Nur (The Light) is from Medina, around 627-628 AD--a few months before or after the failed siege of the city. It has less than 70 ayat, but what it lacks in numbers it makes up for in Quality Content. We have a lot to talk about here. Mohammed’s family drama included!

In fact, we get started on that topic right away. To start us off, Mohammed offers the following:

The adulterer and the adulteress, scourge ye each one of them (with) a hundred stripes. And let not pity for the twain withhold you from obedience to Allah, if ye believe in Allah and the Last Day.

Oof! Bad! For a detailed discussion of the many accepted forms of punishment for zina, or sexual indecency, and how they came to be--including house arrest, financial punishment, death, and the corporal punishment indicated above--pls check here for fun stoning times. We have juicier topics to cover today.

No one should marry men or women found guilty of zina except fellow adulterers or idolators.

(For the record, I’m using “adultery” because it’s the nearest English equivalent, but Mohammed used zina to describe all sorts of things, not just PIV intercourse. While zina was a terrible crime that was sometimes punished by death, Mohammed said that as long as you’re a Muslim and not a polytheist, Allah will still let you into heaven even if you're guilty of it, so!)

Now then. Why are we talking about adultery today, exactly? Well, that brings us to an episode of The Prophet Mohammed Presents: All My Wives.

Let me quote from this long hadith narrated by Aisha, who at this time was around 14 years old.

Whenever Allah's Messenger (ﷺ) intended to go on a journey, he used to draw lots among his wives and would take with him the one on whom the lot had fallen. Once he drew lots when he wanted to carry out a Ghazwa [military expedition], and the lot came upon me. ... We carried on our journey, and when Allah's Apostle had finished his Ghazwa and returned and we approached Medina, Allah's Messenger (ﷺ) ordered to proceed at night. When the army was ordered to resume the homeward journey, I got up and walked on till I left the army (camp) behind. When I had answered the call of nature ... A necklace of mine made of Jaz Azfar (a kind of black bead) was broken and I looked for it and my search for it detained me. 

Aisha was the wife Mohammed chose to accompany him on some exciting adventure of terrorizing Bedouin clans. She was carried around in a covered seat called a howdah (or hawdaj) on the back of a camel, which looks like this.

This is because Mohammed had ordered his wives to totally seclude themselves from men by this point, which we’ll get to later.

When their task was accomplished, the group returned home. On the way back, Aisha got up to go to the bathroom one night and lost part of her necklace. The men in charge of her camel didn’t look inside to make sure she was in the howdah (because they were not supposed to look at her), so they took off without her.

those people did not feel the lightness of the howdah while raising it up, and I was still a young lady. They drove away the camel and proceeded. Then I found my necklace after the army had gone. I came to their camp but found nobody therein so I went to the place where I used to stay, thinking that they would miss me and come back in my search.

Aisha lingered nearby, assuming that the men would realize their mistake and come back for her soon.

While I was sitting at my place, I felt sleepy and slept. Safwan ... was behind the army. He had started in the last part of the night and reached my stationing place in the morning and saw the figure of a sleeping person. He came to me and recognized me on seeing me for he used to see me before veiling. ... he made his shecamel kneel down whereupon he trod on its forelegs and I mounted it.

One of Mohammed’s soldiers, Safwan, had been separated from the rest of the troops and came upon her while she was sleeping at the campsite. He gave her a ride.

Then Safwan set out, leading the she-camel that was carrying me, till we met the army while they were resting during the hot midday. Then whoever was meant for destruction, fell in destruction, and the leader of the Ifk (false statement) was `Abdullah bin Ubai bin Salul. After this we arrived at Medina and I became ill for one month while the people were spreading the forged statements of the people of the Ifk, and I was not aware of anything thereof. But ... I was no longer receiving from Allah's Messenger (ﷺ) the same kindness as I used to receive when I fell sick. Allah's Messenger (ﷺ) would enter upon me, say a greeting and add, "How is that (lady)?" and then depart. That aroused my suspicion

She returned to Medina and fell ill, but while she was sick, schemes were afoot. The “ifk”, also known as the slander, is the topic of this part of the surah. Unbeknownst to her, some of Mohammed’s men had accused her of sleeping with Safwan the night that she was separated from the army. Aisha noticed that Mohammed was not treating his beloved child bride in his usual way, and was acting distant. She finally learned of what was going on when another woman told her, then she told her mother about it. Her mother suggested that one of Mohammed’s other wives, or one of their family members, was behind it.

My mother said, "O my daughter! Take it easy, for by Allah, there is no charming lady who is loved by her husband who has other wives as well, but that those wives would find fault with her." ... That night I kept on weeping the whole night till the morning. My tears never stopped, nor did I sleep

Mohammed’s pride was badly wounded by all this, so he consulted with some of his bros concerning the topic--how to determine Aisha’s guilt (Allah was in the shower at the time and couldn’t answer the phone) and what to do with her if she was in fact guilty. Ali said that it would be no big deal if Mo just tossed her aside regardless of the truth (Aisha would never forget this), but suggested asking one of Aisha’s slaves if she’d seen anything.

while I was still weeping, Allah's Messenger (ﷺ) called `Ali bin Abi Talib and Usama bin Zaid when the Divine Inspiration delayed, in order to consult them as to the idea of divorcing his wife. Usama ... said, "O Allah's Messenger (ﷺ)! She is your wife, and we do not know anything about her except good." But `Ali bin Abi Talib said, "... Allah does not impose restrictions on you; and there are plenty of women other than her. If you however, ask (her) slave girl, she will tell you the truth." `Aisha added: So Allah's Messenger (ﷺ) called for Barira and said, "O Barira! Did you ever see anything which might have aroused your suspicion? (as regards Aisha)”. Barira said, “... I have never seen anything regarding Aisha which I would blame her for except that she is a girl of immature age who sometimes sleeps and leaves the dough of her family unprotected so that the domestic goats come and eat it.”

The slave called Aisha immature but said she has never seen her with any men. Mohammed was now very irritated at Abdallah ibn Ubayy--who you may remember as one of the “munafiqun” who helped the Jews and didn’t want to go to Tabouk. He was the chief of one of the tribes of Medina, the Banu Khazraj.

So Allah's Messenger (ﷺ) got up (and addressed) the people an asked for somebody who would take revenge on `Abdullah bin Ubai bin Salul then.

This set off an argument between the Khazraj and the other main (formerly) polytheistic tribe of Medina, the Banu Aws. Mohammed just sighed and presumably began banging his head against a wall.

So the two tribes of Al-Aus and Al-Khazraj got excited till they were on the point of fighting with each other while Allah's Messenger (ﷺ) was standing on the pulpit.

Aisha, meanwhile, was miserable and still locked in her house, spending all her time crying and fearful. Mohammed came to Aisha and told her to confess to Allah if she had done something wrong, but she refused, because she wasn’t guilty of anything. At that exact moment, Allah finally got out of the damn shower and informed Mohammed that Aisha was innocent. The story’s epilogue states that Mohammed never did “deal with” Abdallah, who never admitted his “guilt” and could never be proven as the source of the rumors. Because he was the leader of one of Medina’s important tribes, killing him without evidence would have been an issue. Some others did admit to spreading the gossip, though, including the sister of one of Mohammed’s wives, as Aisha’s mother suspected; a poet named Hassan ibn Thabit, who was a messy bitch who lived for drama; and, curiously, a man from Aisha’s own extended family. They were admonished but Mohammed told everyone to just forget about all of it and never speak of it again.

As for the truth of what happened that night, look, idk. This hadith is from Aisha herself, and she would obviously want to present herself as innocently as possible. There are other ahadith where she seems to stretch the truth a tad in order to protect her reputation, like this one, which we’ll see much later on. Maybe Safwan was really hot and Aisha was sick of being married to an old guy, I wouldn’t blame her. But it’s more likely that she really was innocent--I mean the girl had been indoctrinated and brainwashed since childhood, the concept of infidelity probably never even occurred to her. And Safwan would’ve had to possess balls of steel to screw around with Mohammed’s youngest and favorite wife. So I tend to believe the allegations were false rumors. Whether Abdallah was truly involved or whether he was just the Token Guy To Blame as always, I can’t tell you.

Let’s get back to the Quran now. In 24:4, Mohammed says that people who accuse “honorable women” of adultery without evidence/witnesses/proof should be lashed 80 times, unless they say they’re sorry and repent. Uh... I guess that’s neutral, altogether? Corporal punishment is bad, but falsely accusing women of being adulterers is also bad, right? It evens out.

If you are accusing your own wife of zina, though, then your own testimony is all that’s needed. A man has to invoke a curse upon himself, called lian, saying that Allah can punish him if he’s lying. But if the wife says she’s innocent and also invokes the curse of Allah upon herself, telling Allah to send his wrath upon her if she’s lying, then what?! It’s a curse-off... one’s gotta be lying, but Allah’s punishment isn’t coming down upon either, so who is the truthful one?! Lo! It is like one of those games with the two-headed dragons, with one head that tells the truth and the other that only lies. Ibn Kathir collects some ahadith on this matter here if you want to see how Mohammed “resolved” this issue, though that one was only “resolved” because the woman was pregnant and her kid was obviously not her husband’s. Without that evidence, you’re just left sitting around waiting for Allah’s curse to materialize upon the liar. Tbh because it’s all so circular I feel like it’s ultimately neutral?

Now then... let’s talk about “the slander”. In 24:10, Mohammed thanks Allah for revealing the truth to him. Those who spread the lies, he says, are a “gang” and the one ultimately responsible for starting the rumor will be met with The Doom. He scolds the Muslims in general for not immediately shutting down the rumors, given that the accusers couldn’t identify any witnesses to the alleged affair. It’s a good thing that Allah is in a good mood today, he tells them, or else they’d all be doomed for their gossip, which was a grievous sin. They shouldn’t have even dared speculate about it, and they must never do this again.

Like... this is a bit much, but in context it’s at least understandable and neutral. You don’t accuse a cult leader’s child bride of being a ho and expect him to take it well.

This has been a long section because of that hadith, so I’ll leave it there for now.

NEXT TIME: We finish up the Slander Debacle and move onto forced modesty rules!!!

The Quran Read-Along: Day 128

Ayat: 17

Good: 0

Neutral: 15 (24:1, 24:4-17)

Bad: 2 (24:2-3)

Kuffar hell counter: 0

⇚ previous day | next day ⇛  

#quranreadalong #surah 24 #an nur

[poorquentyn]

Men’s Lives Have Meaning, Part 7: Conclusion

Full series here

A Dance with Dragons begins, appropriately enough, from the point of view of a dragon. 

Before Mance, Varamyr Sixskins had been a lord of sorts. He lived alone in a hall of moss and mud and hewn logs that had once been Haggon’s, attended by his beasts. A dozen villages did him homage in bread and salt and cider, offering him fruit from their orchards and vegetables from their gardens. His meat he got himself. Whenever he desired a woman he sent his shadowcat to stalk her, and whatever girl he’d cast his eye upon would follow meekly to his bed. Some came weeping, aye, but still they came. Varamyr gave them his seed, took a hank of their hair to remember them by, and sent them back. From time to time, some village hero would come with spear in hand to slay the beastling and save a sister or a lover or a daughter. Those he killed, but he never harmed the women. 

That’s what Varamyr was: an archetypal monster-in-a-cave, the classic village dragon that every RPG needs. The Sixskins preyed on all life within a prowl’s reach, his entire life a tribute to domination of others on every possible plane, breaking every border that another being might think to set around themselves. He began feeding on those unlucky “dozen villages” after killing his mentor and eating his fuckin’ heart, and they’ve been living with the monster in the woods ever since. It’s not something anyone ever has to talk about. It’s something that everyone simply knows, out here in this particular stretch of the wild. A fact of life, a splinter in your mind, a fire behind a shadowcat’s eyes, and the fire whispers walk with me...

Varamyr thus combines the ruthless exploitation of your average feudal lord with supervillain powers and a serial killer’s personal life; even the Boltons would have to doff their caps at the pain-racket the skinchanger had going north of the Wall. Mance shoulda killed him and threw his head at the villagers’ feet, but the temptation to use him as a weapon proved too strong. After all, who needs the real Horn of Winter when you have an apocalypse that walks like a man, the closest approximation we get to the nuclear-fired cthuloid maw of a Euron Crowseye POV? Varamyr was It, Pennywise the goddamn dancing clown, for a generation of wildlings across a dozen villages. He was the darkness at the edge of town, feeding off of them and among them at will. He’s there to...what’s the phrase...ah yes: “to give the heroes something to fight.”

It was only natural, then, that they started showing up at his doorstep. Never quite as tall as they thought they were, these heroes, the dragon would sigh every time as he uncoiled and moved towards the door. Never so strong, nor so quick. They must have thought it would feel differently than this, he mused as he approached them. They thought they would be able to hear the songs to be written of their triumph in their ears, rather than their own heart drumming a nervous beat and the shrieks of their companions (those that had made it this far). They thought the gods would guide their hand to strike the beast true, or some such rot, never realizing until it was too late that the gods weren’t home and it was just them and the nightmares. They are (the dragon would always pause to think in the heartbeat before he began bathing in their blood) doing what they think they’re supposed to do, the best thing they know how to do, as far as their cattle brains are concerned. Scared, maybe--certainly--but they were there. They were going to save their lovers, avenge their families, slay the feared and hated Sixskins, or die trying. They were ready, in the name of Story, to dance with dragons. 

The dragon was only too happy to oblige. He killed them as they came, one by one, ultimately putting about as much effort into it as you or I might put into scrubbing dead skin away in the shower. Like the Wild Hares, their songs and screams waft together, blurred, intertwined, one amidst the brittle branches, before slipping up, out, and away, caught on the stiff morning breeze. In a tossed-off paragraph, Varamyr offers us a glimpse of dozens of Hero’s Journeys that he personally short-circuited.

So begins A Dance with Dragons, the book named in tearfully ironic honor of Quentyn Martell’s quest--from the perspective of the abyss into which a hundred such quests stared and wilted. The monster from the cave is dying now, lost and hungry and far from the people he fed upon, fearful that his long red reaper’s bill has finally come due. He whispers his story to us, his bloodshot eyes holding ours but seeing past them; he makes one final attempt to dominate (poor Thistle, who risked her life for him!) and having failed that, is forced to cross the astral threshold to another kind of life entirely.

What makes this chapter not just a nightmare (though it is that, and a peerlessly skin-crawling eldritch nightmare if ever I was jerked awake screaming from one) is the many-layered resonances it has with the book that follows. I’m not talking here about the setup Varamyr’s Prologue does for Jon’s character arc, nor for Bran’s, as both are well-trod territory by now. I’m talking about Quentyn, because I see him and his dead friends in the trail of skeletons outside Varamyr’s lair. A book later, we have been shown (not just told, but shown) that every one of those nameless Not The Heroes whom the skinchanger dispatched with such swift and terrible ease had a story. They had friends, every bit as much as those heroes who succeeded. They ate and slept, yelled and sang, wept and laughed and farted. They lived, they died. They were only just born, they were just here I’m telling you, my boy Quent and those older boys he runs around with! I saw him waving when they went off to fight the monster to get justice for his auntie, he was so scared but trying to be brave, just wave, just wave and you’ll be fine, he’ll be home by nightfall, you’ll see...

But they never come home. We know all this about these Not The Heroes because we spent the book with one of them. GRRM zoomed us all the way in on the bones Bran saw in his dreams, the bones of a “thousand other dreamers” who failed to fly. We got in close enough to realize one wasn’t dead, not yet; he craned his face desperately to us in his dying throes, struggling to form a few words, to tell us (or rather, Missandei) what had happened to him and why. We have danced the dance, and so did Quent. He died dancing.

After the girl was gone, the old knight peeled back the coverlet for one last look at Quentyn Martell’s face, or what remained of it. So much of the prince’s flesh had sloughed away that he could see the skull beneath. His eyes were pools of pus. He should have stayed in Dorne. He should have stayed a frog. Not all men are meant to dance with dragons.

And so, the book that began by drawing us inside the unholy fire burning in a nightmare-shaman’s eyes writes its thesis statement in the pus and blood leaking out of where Quent’s eyes once were. Not everyone had their third eye opened. Some of us...most of us are just humans, and for all our follies and failures and warm little fires, “just humans” can’t contain the deadlights. They eat you up inside. 

It is quite fitting that Barristan Selmy has the last word on Quent’s quest--fitting, moving, and sad at a level I don’t think I’m going to fully appreciate until I’m as old as Barry himself. The white knight, for all his many sins and mistakes, is a decent-hearted old man desperately trying to do some good before he dies. As we see with his squires, he wants to leave a piece of himself behind. Barry did his best to warn Quent, telling him that his adventure was a sham, the Stranger was coming for him, and he should go home while he can. Note the terms on which Quentyn refused this wise advice:

Before he had gone three steps, Quentyn Martell called out to him. “Barristan the Bold, they call you.”

“Some do.” Selmy had won that name when he was ten years old, a new-made squire, yet so vain and proud and foolish that he got it in his head that he could joust with tried and proven knights. So he’d borrowed a warhorse and some plate from Lord Dondarrion’s armory and entered the lists at Blackhaven as a mystery knight. Even the herald laughed. My arms were so thin that when I lowered my lance it was all I could do to keep the point from furrowing the ground. Lord Dondarrion would have been within his rights to pull him off the horse and spank him, but the Prince of Dragonflies had taken pity on the addlepated boy in the ill-fitting armor and accorded him the respect of taking up his challenge. One course was all that it required. Afterward Prince Duncan helped him to his feet and removed his helm. “A boy,” he had proclaimed to the crowd. “A bold boy.” Fifty-three years ago. How many men are still alive who were there at Blackhaven?

“What name do you think they will give me, should I return to Dorne without Daenerys?” Prince Quentyn asked. “Quentyn the Cautious? Quentyn the Craven? Quentyn the Quail?”

Now Barristan is staring down the results: a stinking horrorshow of a corpse, gazing back with condemnation. Your life is a mirage, the dead man whispers past what were once lips. What worth the songs and stories of Barristan the Bold when following them led me here? Quentyn made it to Dany’s bed after all...only to die in it, soaking it in fire and blood. The Windblown promised to save him from such a fate, only to deliver him to it: “Do you want to die abed?” Barry can’t know all of this, of course, but as he gives the book its name, he senses it, all of it. He knows the stories too well not to. As such, the scene is a quietly heartrending portrait of existentialist melancholy, painted in gray as the rain lashes down. The old bury the young, and everyone who was at Blackhaven is gone.

Later on in “The Queen’s Hand,” the mournful tone shifts into bitter irony. The white knight pays a visit to Quent’s companions, imprisoned for killing four Brazen Beasts and letting Dany’s children loose. Drink and the big man have mostly stayed in the background of Quent’s story. One gets the sense that Cletus and Maester Kedry were the core of the group, whereas Drink and the big man are basically sidekicks who never expected to be in charge. To borrow from @racefortheironthrone, it’s as if Gandalf and Aragorn were (permanently) killed off in a literal random encounter two days outta Rivendell, and Pippin and Sam had to take over. Indeed, Archibald Yronwood displays Gamgee-esque devotion in one of the most heartbreaking images of the series, one with the primal pull of a pieta: 

Archibald Yronwood had been cradling his prince’s scorched and smoking body when the Brazen Beasts had found him, as his burned hands could testify. He had used them to beat out the flames that had engulfed Quentyn Martell.

It’s only now, with Quent gone, that these two come to the fore and we get a sense of who they really are. Drink protests too much; it’s pretty clear from his dialogue that what he’s most concerned about is being blamed for this whole ordeal, and is desperately trying to frame Quent’s death as being Dany’s fault. The big man finally has enough of his sanctimonious bullshit, telling him to “shut your bloody mouth before I put my fist in it.” He shrewdly notes that Barry could’ve already let the Shavepate execute them both for killing his men, and so he must want something from them. Barry internally compliments him, and the two of them are able to cut a very significant deal:

“What did Prince Quentyn promise the Tattered Prince in return for all this help?”

He got no answer. Ser Gerris looked at Ser Archibald. Ser Archibald looked at his hands, the floor, the door.

“Pentos,” said Ser Barristan. “He promised him Pentos. Say it. No words of yours can help or harm Prince Quentyn now.”

“Aye,” said Ser Archibald unhappily. “It was Pentos. They made marks on a paper, the two of them.”

There is a chance here. “We still have Windblown in the dungeons. Those feigned deserters.”

“I remember,” said Yronwood. “Hungerford, Straw, that lot. Some of them weren’t so bad for sellswords. Others, well, might be they could stand a bit of dying. What of them?”

“I mean to send them back to the Tattered Prince. And you with them. You will be two amongst thousands. Your presence in the Yunkish camps should pass unnoticed. I want you to deliver a message to the Tattered Prince. Tell him that I sent you, that I speak with the queen’s voice. Tell him that we’ll pay his price if he delivers us our hostages, unharmed and whole.”

Ser Archibald grimaced. “Rags and Tatters is more like to give the two of us to Pretty Meris. He won’t do it.”

“Why not? The task is simple enough.” Compared to stealing dragons. “I once brought the queen’s father out of Duskendale.”

“That was Westeros,” said Gerris Drinkwater.

“This is Meereen.”

“Arch cannot even hold a sword with those hands.”

“He ought not need to. You will have the sellswords with you, unless I mistake my man.”

Gerris Drinkwater pushed back his mop of sun-streaked hair. “Might we have some time to discuss this amongst ourselves?”

“No,” said Selmy.

“I’ll do it,” offered Ser Archibald, “just so long as there’s no bloody boats involved. Drink will do it too.” He grinned. “He don’t know it yet, but he will.”

So...let’s be very clear about what’s being agreed to, here. Barry’s offering to genuinely make good on Quent’s promise of Pentos--something which, let’s be honest, Doran Martell would be very unlikely to do. There is no lack of crystallizing moments in Quentyn’s story which neatly summarize the whole, perfect little twists of the searing deconstructive knife, but this is the filet of the Quentyn tenderloin. The devil won. Quentyn’s story: qui bono? The Tattered Prince. Doran’s out a son, Drink and the big man are out another friend, but the painter-in-red Prince who taught Quent what hell looked like, what he gets is Pentos back. All the trappings of a perfect fantasy quest, my poor boy, but you see, you weren’t the one being empowered by your storyline. Fucking Mephistopheles was! You’re the Dorian Grey portrait in his attic now, and-- *fingers fly to earbud* and I’m being told we have live footage of Tatters’ coronation as Prince-for-life of Pentos...

But what will fully and finally embed Quentyn’s story-within-a-story into the overall pattern of ASOIAF is the fate awaiting his family back home. Tragedy is built in large part on asymmetric information: someone doesn’t know something until it’s far too late, with Romeo and Juliet providing only the most obvious example. In this case, Quentyn’s big sister Arianne thinks he’s still alive, that he succeeded, that he’s coming home with Dany and her dragons. And she is not remotely happy about that. 

“I would sooner it were Quentyn who’d returned.”

“Or so you say,” said Daemon Sand. “Good night, princess."

He bowed to her, and left her standing there. What did he mean by that? Arianne watched him walk away. What sort of sister would I be, if I did not want my brother back? It was true, she had resented Quentyn for all those years that she had thought their father meant to name him as his heir in place of her, but that had turned out to be just a misunderstanding. She was the heir to Dorne, she had her father’s word on that. Quentyn would have his dragon queen, Daenerys.

In Sunspear hung a portrait of the Princess Daenerys who had come to Dorne to marry one of Arianne’s forebears. In her younger days Arianne had spent hours gazing at it, back when she was just a pudgy flat-chested girl on the cusp of maidenhood who prayed every night for the gods to make her pretty. A hundred years ago, Daenerys Targaryen came to Dorne to make a peace. Now another comes to make a war, and my brother will be her king and consort. King Quentyn. Why did that sound so silly?

Almost as silly as Quentyn riding on a dragon. Her brother was an earnest boy, well-behaved and dutiful, but dull. And plain, so plain. The gods had given Arianne the beauty she had prayed for, but Quentyn must have prayed for something else. His head was overlarge and sort of square, his hair the color of dried mud. His shoulders slumped as well, and he was too thick about the middle. He looks too much like Father.

"I love my brother,” said Arianne, though only the moon could hear her. Though if truth be told, she scarcely knew him. Quentyn had been fostered by Lord Anders of House Yronwood, the Bloodroyal, the son of Lord Ormond Yronwood and grandson of Lord Edgar. In his youth her uncle Oberyn had fought a duel with Edgar, had given him a wound that mortified and killed him. Afterward men called him ‘the Red Viper,’ and spoke of poison on his blade. The Yronwoods were an ancient house, proud and powerful. Before the coming of the Rhoynar they had been kings over half of Dorne, with domains that dwarfed those of House Martell. Blood feud and rebellion would surely have followed Lord Edgar’s death, had not her father acted at once. The Red Viper went to Oldtown, thence across to the narrow sea to Lys, though none dared call it exile. And in due time, Quentyn was given to Lord Anders to foster as a sign of trust. That helped to heal the breach between Sunspear and the Yronwoods, but it had opened new ones between Quentyn and the Sand Snakes… and Arianne had always been closer to her cousins than to her distant brother.

“We are still the same blood, though,” she whispered. “Of course I want my brother home. I do.” The wind off the sea was raising gooseprickles all up and down her arms. Arianne pulled her cloak about herself, and went off to seek her bed.

King Quentyn. It still sounded silly.

King Quentyn. Will I need to kneel to him?

I think this resentment towards the brother she barely knows will drive Arianne to bind her family and people’s fortunes to Aegon in hopes of pre-empting “King Quentyn.” The horrible irony is not only that Quent’s already dead, but that he had no interest in being Dany’s consort, nor in one-upping Arianne. That, however, won’t save Doran and Arianne when Dany, having embraced “fire and blood” on the Dothraki Sea, comes for the “mummer’s dragon” and his backers. 

“They were dancing. In my dream. And everywhere the dragons danced the people died.”

“You could have died,” said Arianne again. Her words echoed off the cavern walls. “…died… died … died…”

Enough speculation. Ultimately, the overall point of this and all previous and still-to-come series on ADWD is that this story never stopped being good. The bones are still there. There is still a structure to this song, a rhythm, a dance. The characterization is strong, the worldbuilding is superb, the prose is GRRM’s best yet, and there really is a payoff: it’s Barristan looking into what’s left of Quent’s eyes, knowing mortality, and giving the book its name. 

Dragonfire burns hot and bright, but Yronwood at night is smooth sky and still water. The air snaps clear and perfect into your lungs. There are no dead friends, no adventure to go on nor princess to wed nor dragons to tame, no stories. Just the air, the trees, the water, and you. That’s where I picture Quent. I hope he was thinking of something like that before George finally let him rest. In the end, my boy was glad to go; like I’ve said, he knowingly walked into the fire. Take me home, Stranger! Send me back to Dorne, O winged chariot, burn me clean of accumulated sin and then fly me back to the forest of my youth...

The tiny Naathi scribe looked up at his approach. “Honored ser. The prince is beyond pain now. His Dornish gods have taken him home. See? He smiles.”

...and just like that, he’s gone. The drip is removed, the bereaved notified, the body covered and wheeled out. All that’s left to show he was ever alive is the dull blare of the TV in the hospital room. Ah shit, I left it on! It’s some cheesy fantasy movie from the ‘80s, a dragon and a sword, shit like that. I’ll get it later, after I drop off this poor stiff downstairs. Let it drone on into the empty air where the dead man was. Let the fading echoes of its song slide down his dead ears as I ferry him across the Styx; let ghosts bloom behind his dead eyes as I wheel him into that steel coffin. What’s the harm? What’s one more ghost in a series full of them? Father Mackenzie, wiping the dirt from his hands as he walks from the grave (no one was saved), muttering to himself, who takes that sort of story seriously, anyway...

All that’s left in the end is the gravestone, and this is what the stone says:

QUENTYN NYMEROS MARTELL

283-300

HE TRIED

Centuries later, the local children solemnly/excitedly tell each other about the Frog Prince, the ghost haunting that big old gravestone set off way back by itself. The stories, as with Varamyr, all go the same way. One moment, you’re leaning against the stone trying to catch your breath from one of the make-believe games (Dragons and Walkers was always popular, Rose Thorns and the Crowseye fiercely beloved by a few), and the next there’s a boy hiding behind it who wasn’t there before. I am the Frog Prince, he whispers like a decaying orchestra, a cry of grief heard at a great distance through seas of saltwater and grass. I have a quest for you. A bright shining adventure, forever just over the horizon, worth every corpse you step over, or make. It can be yours, everything can be yours, if only you guess my true name. 

If the children choose not to guess, they can walk away, knowing no loss but the certainty (even without turning back to confirm) of his pale pus-colored eyes watching them reproachfully as they go. After all, if no one ever guesses right, he’ll be tied to his quest forever, unable to pass on, trapped in in a cage made of pure uncut diamond-hard Story. The only way he can sleep (perchance not to dream) is to find another vessel for the fire, keep the story going, keep the singers singing, on, on, the show must go on...

But if the children guess wrong, the Frog Prince sucks out their innocence through their brain stems like marrow. What the stories don’t tell, can’t tell, but I can, is what the ghost says to his victims right before he severs their heads. You all guess Quentyn, he sighs as they gaze into the nothingness behind his eyes, but the fire got him. I’m what was left. I keep telling you: my name is Frog. 

#quentyn martell #quentyn in adwd #a dance with dragons #varamyr sixskins #asoiaf meta #barristan selmy #archibald yronwood #gerris drinkwater #the tattered prince #arianne martell #twow spoilers

[lickstynine]

Can you talk a little about Kazu's background? I'm curuous about him.

Alrighty, I am down for this! This is gonna be super long, and chock-full of triggers, so the faint of heart should probably cop out now!

TW: alcohol, child abuse, death, drug abuse, fire, homophobia, mental illness, rape/noncon, underage sex, violence

Kazu’s mom was a cheating whore. He was conceived during a one-night stand while his mom’s husband was out of town. This wouldn’t have been a noticeable issue, except his dad was Russian, not Japanese, and so he came out super tall with blue eyes. So of course husband realized Kazu wasn’t his kid, and hated him for it. Mom hated him, too, but for different reasons. She was just a selfish bitch that never wanted kids. They were negligent of him at best, and abusive at worst. Now, something very important to note here is that Kazu is super smart. He was very mentally advanced for his age as a child (and physically advanced - boi was huuuuge), and when he was four, he got sick of being treated like shit, and set their house on fire in the middle of the night.

With his mom and her husband dead, Kazu wound up in an orphanage. He was the definition of a problem child. He broke shit, he lit things on fire, he got into fights, and he never went to school. By age 8, he was getting in trouble for drawing dirty pictures of the other boys at the orphanage. Around this same time, he started getting bullied for being gay. Like, bullied bad. So he gradually learned how to fight, after getting the shit beaten out of him many a time. He and the rest of the boys were basically at war though the rest of his time at the orphanage. I should mention, they never ever got him to go to school. That just didn’t happen. The people running the orphanage gave the fuck up.

Okay, so at about age twelve, Kazu got into a really bad fight. Like, by now he’s about the size of your average Japanese adult, and he fucked up the other kid. He realized he was old enough that he’d probably face serious consequences, so he just said fuck it and ran away to live on the streets. He spent the next few months picking pockets for money to buy food, before realizing he could do better. He started saving up money he stole, and used it to buy a fake ID (I know 12 seems young for that to be effective, but keep in mind he’s like at least 5’6” and looks about five to ten years older than he is). Now he could get into nightclubs, and he executed his master plan: find a guy, go home with him, sleep with him, raid his wallet, raid his fridge, use his shower, and leave.

This brilliant technique worked for him for about six months, until one very bad night. It was late June, like a Wednesday night at two in the morning, so there was nobody in the bar cause it was fucking closing time on a Wednesday. The few guys in there he’d struck out with, and he was about to give up and go sleep on a park bench. He really didn’t want to though, because a bad storm was starting to roll in. As he was about to call it, this 30-ish woman approached him. She was like “You ever slept with a girl?” and he was like “No but I’d rather try it than sleep in the rain.”

They go back to her place, and things start getting hot and heavy. Before they can actually do shit, he chickens out, like ‘Nope. Can’t do this. Strictly into dick. Sorry.’ Luckily, she was like “That’s fine, I get it, just crash on the couch. I won’t kick you out at three am in the rain.” Now, this should have been the happy ending, but Kazu, what with his unchecked BPD and current drunken state, had a better idea. He realized he could still steal her wallet, so that’s what he tried to do. Exceeept… unlike men, women keep their wallets in their purses. So now he’s in her room, desperately digging through a purse full of shit while trying not to wake her up. After a few painfully long minutes, he finds it and turns to leave. And she’s right behind him.

Kazu ofc immediately panics. “I’m so sorry! Here, have your money back! Take everything I have, just please don’t call the cops!”

She shakes her head. “Oh, honey, I’m not calling the cops. In fact, you can have the money. But you have to earn it.” At this point, he tries to make a break for it, but she grabs him and they end up fighting. He gets slammed facefirst into the nightstand, leaving a huge gash that later became that scar down his face. She managed to get control over him, cause even though he had some fighting experience, he was still a drunk scrawny preteen.

So uh, we’re gonna fast forward a bit here, but I’m guessing you all know exactly what happened next. Three days later, Kazu was dumped onto the street, miserable and sore and fucking traumatized. If it were up to him, he would’ve just laid around doing nothing until he wasted away, but by now, the local bums were pretty familiar with him. They brought him food and water when they could, and generally just made sure he didn’t drop dead. After a few weeks of just sitting around praying for death, he went back to frequenting bars, mostly in hopes of drinking away the memories of what had happened. It didn’t work entirely, but it helped, and he slowly slid back into his former routine.

However, after a while, the alcohol just wasn’t bringing him enough solace anymore. So what does he go for? Heroin. Fantastic idea, right? Well, funny enough, keeping up a hard drug habit takes a decent amount of money, so he finds himself a ‘real’ job. He starts working as muscle-for-hire, working his way up the ladder of the underworld until he was the best hitman in the city. He was about sixteen or seventeen at that point, and he basically just stuck with that job for a few years.

Age 19. Kazu was just wandering around the shitty parts of town at midnight, as homeless junkie hitmen do, when he comes across a group of thugs about to beat up what looks like a fucking child. Deciding that he didn’t really approve of the odds here, and knowing how much he loved kicking ass, Kazu interfered. He kicked the shit out of a couple of the guys, which scared the rest off. Now, the kid that was about to get beat up? Actually a 21-year-old Minato.

Grateful for being rescued, and being Minato, smol one invites Kazu back to the little bakery he owns, and gives him cookies as thanks. He tells Kazu to come back anytime, that he was always welcome. Kazu, of course, had no intention of actually doing so, but a few days later, a mob boss he had really pissed off caught up with him and had him beaten fucking senseless. Clearly in need of help but semi in denial about it, the very beat up Kazu made his way back to the bakery, claiming he just needed a snack and some water. Minato, of course was like “Are you fucking kidding you’re bleeding in nine places come upstairs I’m taking care of you.” Kazu reluctantly agreed, and Min ended up nursing him back to health.

Once he was feeling better, Kazu ran off again, but he kept periodically dropping by the bakery to say hi, steal food, hang out. After a couple months, he finally got the balls to ask Min on a date, and they ended up going out. It was never really casual, they fell for each other hard and fast. Minato was and still is the only person Kazu has ever truly cared about, and Min believes Kazu is his soulmate. They stuck by each other through all sorts of bullshit, from the bakery almost going under, to Kazu getting clean (from heroin, at least. He’s still an awful drunk.) They were dating for about two years before Kazu proposed, and obviously, they got married. About two years into their marriage, they ended up moving into a real house and adopting Takao (more on that here: https://lickstynine.tumblr.com/post/164083978393/whats-the-story-behind-kazu-and-minato-adopting). Their sixth anniversary was April 22nd of this year.

So yeah, that’s the story of Kazu. Hope you enjoyed!

#tw alcohol #tw child abuse #tw drug abuse #tw death #tw fire #tw homophobia #tw mental illness #tw noncon #tw rape #tw violence #kazuhiro #kazu #yokota #backstory #oc backstory #minato kurosawa #lickstynine characters

[mactirefckr-blog]

General Information

Name: Devin Kelly Pronunciation: “DEV-in Kehl-lee” Name Meaning: “Devin” as a given name has mixed origins; according to behindthename.com, it is an Anglicized version of the surnames, “Ó Damháin” or “Ó Dubháin,” though the “Ó” prefix means “descendent of.” “Damhán” means “fawn” from Gaelic “damh,” for “stag, ox” with a diminutive suffix. “Dubhán” means “dark, black” combined with a diminutive suffix. “Kelly” is an Anglicized version of, “Ó Ceallaigh,” which means “descendent of Ceallach.” “Ceallach” (again, according to behindthename.com) is of uncertain origins, but traditionally said to mean, “bright-headed.” Its origins could also either be from the Old Irish word, “ceallach” meaning “war, strife,” or “ceall” for “church.” Name Origin: Irish, Gaelic Nicknames: He also responds to the nickname, “Dev.” None too many other nicknames have been given to him, though. Gender: Male. Titles: Garden witch; he grows various herbs for potions and salves most commonly used in an assortment of spells, thus the title “garden witch.”

Birth Name: Fíona Kelly. Birth Date: February 4, 19 years prior to the current year in the canon timeline for Arcana (making him 19 years old, of course). Birth Length: 18” Birth Weight: 6 lb 2oz Birth Place: Devin was born in an island country far north of Vesuvia. Birth Order: The youngest of three; he has an older brother and a sister.

Laterality: Somewhat ambidextrous, though favors the right due to conditioning at an early age. Had he been left to his own devices, he’d likely have been left-handed. Astrological Sign: Aquarius. Autograph: A scribble, honestly. How can anyone read this?? Handwriting: Not that much more legible than his signature, if you ask Devin. Though others like to compliment his handwriting for being “graceful;” it has a loopy quality, half-cursive & half-print— though sometimes, if he feels the need to make it more legible (such as his notes and recipes for various spells), he will also write in all caps as he has an easier time reading it.

Appearance

Picture: I’ll link to some sketches and drawings here in time.

Height: 5’0” or ~152 cm Weight: 118 lbs or ~53 kg Species: Human Race / Ethnicity: Irish Blood Type: AB

Skin Color: Pale white boi Birthmarks: One small birthmark on his left butt cheek Somatotype: Ectomorph

Hair Color: Chestnut brown with red highlights. Hair Length: He has an undercut with the top a varied length. The longest lock reaches just above his chin when completely straightened, or about his cheekbone when styled as per his norm. The back is cut to about a half an inch long along his crown and faded to blend. Hair Type: He has naturally really tight, frizzy curls that he often straightens into gentle waves with the aid of magic. When he wakes up, his hair is a mess of curls everywhere. Hair Style: An undercut, parted to the right with the shaved left side exposed. Widow’s Peak: He has a small widow’s peak that is only visible when his hair is pulled back (which is pretty much never) Ear Shape: Slightly pointed at the tips, but more or less average size Ear Type: Free lobe Eye Color: Hazel, changes color depending on what he’s wearing— from gray, to light brown, to green or blue. Eye Type: Downturned Eyebrows: Somewhat thick, gentle arch Nose Shape: Button-nose Teeth: Slightly bucktoothed, crooked bottom teeth Face Shape: Oval Complexion: Fair; some acne, but not a lot. He does what he can to take care of his skin Facial Hair: Patchy af, he’s still growing it in so he just keeps it clean-shaven.

Hat Size: Small Shirt Size: Small Waist Size: He wears juniors 8 or 9, depending. Shoe Size: A size 5 in men’s/boy’s (these are US sizes)

Health and Image

Diet: Devin… forgets to eat a lot. And when he does eat, he’s usually snacking on quick, easy to eat things such as bread, fruit, vegetables, and nuts. He very rarely eats meat of any kind, and when he does it tends to mess with his digestion— especially red meats. Exercise: He doesn’t exercise much, but he’s always active and working— whether it’s gardening or crafting things, most of what he does involves a lot of menial labor. Fitness: As a consequence of his work, he’s somewhat fit, though perhaps not overtly muscular. Maximum Load: Perhaps between 50 and 60 lbs? He could probably lift more, but it’d take effort.  Either way, the max he generally lifts are 50 to 60 lb bags of potting soil and fertilizer. Running Speed: Whatever the average is for someone who doesn’t run a lot? lmao Posture: He slouches a lot, which he knows is probably bad, but he’s usually bent over his work since he does a lot of close work, too. Dexterity: Pretty dexterous; he has to be Reflexes: Above average; he needs to have good reflexes with what he does.

Handicaps: No significant ones, though he is partially deaf in his left ear and this effects his ability to discern the direction sound is coming from. It also has the affect of throwing him off balance sometimes when there are loud, sudden noises. Crowded places can leave him feeling overwhelmed and overstimulated, particularly if they are loud. Aids: He opts not to use any as he has has full hearing in his right ear and has adapted to his handicap well enough to function under most circumstances. Medication: Self-medicates via magical potions to manage his anxiety & PTSD. Augmentations: None. Allergies: Minimally allergic to pet dander, though this is manageable even around animals. Diseases: None. Illnesses: None. Disorders: General anxiety disorder and PTSD. Imperfections: Various scars along his legs, arms, and back from instances in the past where he had fallen and been cut as a consequence of his past abuse. Broken Bones: In the past, he’s broken his right arm and fractured his left fibula just above the ankle. Both have healed moderately well, though if he spends too much time on his feet, he’ll have a slight limp by the end of the day. Reason for Health: Numerous reasons; he was born with the hearing problem, which affected his development in small, but significant ways— he also had frequent ear infections as a child. Coupled with childhood abuse and neglect, this was never looked after as it should have been, thus the permanent damage to his left ear, his scars, and the past broken limbs.

Wardrobe: Devin is very often sharp dressed while working in the shop or out in the city— button-ups with patterned vests, ties and bowties.  He also often wears shorts,  Accessories: He likes pocket watches, more for the aesthetic than anything. Equipment: He uses a number of various tools for his work? Wardrobe: Devin is very often sharp dressed— button-ups with patterned vests and bowties. Accessories: He likes pocket watches, more for the aesthetic than anything. Equipment: He uses a number of various tools for his work? Musical Instruments: He knows how to play the flute and ukulele Amulets: A few. Piercings: Earlobes, left eyebrow, and cartilage (both ears, twice?). Hygiene: He is very much on top of this. He cannot stand the feeling of being dirty for too long. Showers a minimum of once daily. Makeup: None. Perfume / Cologne: He likes earthy scents. And mint. Scars: Already mentioned his scars somewhere. Mostly his legs, arms, and back. His hands hand little scars and callouses as well, but these are work-related. Tattoos: Yes! I will provide refs eventually.

Voice

Accent / Dialect: He speaks with a thick accent respective to his native country. He fluently speaks the common tongue within Vesuvia, while also fluently speaking his native tongue and couple other major languages. Voice: A low alto/high tenor. He practices daily in an effort to deepen his voice. Range: Singing range is poor, though he does practice daily as it helps with his ability to control his speaking voice. Volume: He tends to talk quietly, and his voice doesn’t carry much— this is in part due to insecurities as well as a conditioning growing up not to speak unless spoken to, and to speak quietly as not to speak over others. Laughter: He does not laugh often, but when he does it is a full laugh, right from the gut. Impediments: He grew up with various set-backs in terms of speech, though they are mostly unnoticeable now. Sometimes he will stutter over words and mix up his consonants or become generally tongue-tied— especially if anxious or sleep-deprived— though this is the extent of his speech impediments now, as an adult.

Psychology

IQ: He would perform absolutely dreadfully via standardized testing, so this would likely reflect poorly on his IQ. However, his is definitely intelligent. Casual reminder that IQ (and any form of standardized testing) is a terrible, terrible means of measuring one’s intelligence. Languages: He speaks a total of three or four common languages within the Arcana universe. Vocabulary: Above average. Memory: Highly dependent. He remembers certain details extremely well— especially numbers— but easily forgets other things. Not to mention the bout of canon memory loss— large chunks of his memory currently ripped from his consciousness. Temperament: Placid; he rarely emotes, often coming across as rather deadpan and monotonous. Learning Style: Hands-on, visual. Emotional Stability: Despite how calm he always visibly seems, he’s often rather anxious or stressed about one thing or another. Mental Health: He has PTSD and GAD, both of which he manages through the use of magical potions. Instincts: He has a habit of immediately drawing up into a defensive stance. He’ll duck or dodge when something is tossed toward him, or curl in on himself.

Bodily-Kinesthetic: Slightly above average. His muscle memory is excellent; he’ll start to do things he has no conscious memory of how to do, but finish without any hiccups so long as he trusts in himself. He’s also good with his hands, crafting things and is very much a hands-on type of learner. Interpersonal: This is what he struggles most with; interacting with too many people at once can be overwhelming. He’s also rather awkward around people he is unfamiliar with, and some people just aren’t sure how to read his sarcasm. Intrapersonal: This he struggles with, as well. Often times, he just simply doesn’t want to feel anything because it’s confusing and/or overwhelming. When overwhelmed, he dissociates. Linguistic: Here he excels. Despite his setbacks developmentally due to his hearing loss, Devin is rather good at learning & understanding languages and stringing meaningful words together. Logical-Mathematical: Average, I’d say? He is a logical thinker and can easily understand and follow numbers & mathematical problems when presented a certain way. I wouldn’t say he excels in this area, though. Musical: He’s well-taught and, while he does not excel (much like the above), he is good— especially considering his early struggles with his hearing problems. He has a decent singing voice and is able to string melodies together easily enough, though he’d find writing his own music difficult. He does not play much because he is self-conscious, but it is a sort of therapy for him when he’s by himself. Naturalistic: Here he also excels. His two talents, language and nature. He understands plants and animals in a way he does not even understand himself, let alone other people. As a consequence, he cares for his garden far better than he cares for himself sometimes. Spatial: Existential:

Perception

Audition: Gustation: Olfaction: Tactition: Vision: Intuition: Synesthesia:

Philosophy

Religion: Devotion: Superstitions: Spirit Animal:

Allegiance: Political Party: Political Awareness:

Morality: Etiquette: Alignment: Attitude: Outlook on Life: Perception: Philosophy / Motto: Taboos: Vices: Virtues:

Character

Primary Objective: Secondary Objectives: Priorities: Motivation: Self Confidence: Self Control: Self Esteem:

Quirks: Hobbies: Closet Hobbies: Guilty Pleasures: Habits:

Desires: Wishes: Lures: Manias: Afflictions: Traumas: Worries: Nervous Tics: Instigators: Soothers: Savvies: Ineptities: Soft Spots: Cruel Streaks:

Accomplishments: Greatest Achievement: Failures: Biggest Failure: Obituary:

Most Prized Possession: Most Valuable Possession: Collections:

Mannerisms: Humor: Secrets: Pet Peeves: Phobias: Greatest Fear:

Confidence: Creativity: Generosity: Honesty: Loyalty: Insecurities: Patience: Predictability: Reliability: Respect: Responsibility: Trustworthiness:

Common…

Compliments: Insults: Expletives: Farewells: Greetings: Mood: Words: Emotional Status:

Preferences

Likes: Dislikes: Favorites: Least Favorites:

Combat

Ability: Element: Martial Arts: Immunities: Resistances: Strengths: Weaknesses: Restrictions: Origin: Source:

Specialty: Signature Move: Special Attack: Courage:

Home, Work, and Education

Abode: Hometown: Citizenship: Culture: Traditions: Routine: Sleep Patterns: Eating Habits: Pets:

Employer: Job Title: Experience: Community Service: Rank: Supervisor: Hours: Work Ethic: Transportation: Criminal Record: Dream Job:

Income/Salary: Net Worth: Budget: Debt: Savings: Dependents: Splurges:

Elementary School: Middle School: High School: Colleges: Special Education: Extracurricular Activities: Graduating Year: Study Habits: Grades: Degrees:

Social

Mother: Father: Guardians: Siblings: Children: Close Relatives: Distant Relatives: Ancestors:

Best Friend: Close Friends: Confidantes: Friends: Allies: Acquaintances:  Followers: Subordinates: Rivals: Enemies:

Inspirations: Role Models: Heroes: Mentors:

Family Dynamics: Communication: Discrimination: Reputation: Dominance: Expression: Cooperation: Sociability: Status: Class: Livelihood:

Memberships: Community:

Romance

First Love: Flirtiness: Turn-ons: Turn-offs: Fetishes: Virginity:

Reactions

Angry: Anxious: Conflicted: Criticized: Depressed: Embarrassed: Excited: Frightened: Guilty: Happy: Mistaken: Nervous: Offended: Praised: Rejected: Sad: Stressed: Thoughtful:

Impressions

First: Self: Family: Lover: Friends: Associates: Authority: Strangers: Enemies:

Personality

MBIT Personality Type: Anima: Personas: Idiosyncrasies:

[lamiahypnosia-blog]

The Story of Brizulon

The story of Brizulon, my draenei paladin. Ooowhee, my first full blown RP character bio. This took me months because I wanted to get all the details right. Brizulon was born on Draenor, in Shattrath City. His father Makuus was a traveling merchant and was often away while his wife Yima cared for their son. Yima was extremely overprotective of Brizulon to the point where she taught him herself rather than attend lessons with the other children. Brizulon was born with an abnormally long tail - a trait leftover from the days before the naaru’s influence on the eredar- and Yima reasoned he would be bullied for it. That was only partially the case- the main reason was because Yima had suffered a string of miscarriages and infant deaths. Brizulon had been her healthiest child and she was paranoid at the idea of losing him.  Growing  up sheltered and even a bit selfish,  Brizulon  was constantly clamoring for attention- especially during  his father’s rare visits home. After much begging and arguing sometimes Brizulon accompanied Makuus to Elodor. Free of his mother’s apron strings he made friends with many of the village children who despite his fears were fascinated by his long tail, even utilizing it in jumping games and his small size to spy on the adults. He became fast friends with a girl named Lu’sha when a pair of boys stole her favorite toy and threw it up a tree to make her cry. Lu’sha also was the first to call him Breezy. Brizulon wished he could move to Elodor, or Lu’sha could move to Shattrath so they could spend more time together. His parents teased him often about his ‘girlfriend’.  Lu’sha grew in beauty and grace, and Brizulon became jealous of the attentions she lavished on the other young men. Still, she treated him gently as a brother to his frustration. As always he brought his troubles to his maternal grandfather, Vindicator Haras. The patriarch of the family told him it was merely his teenage hormones- if they had some great love it would be simple as that. They would be together, but they weren’t. Brizulon did not like this harsh truth in his perfect world, but swallowed it all the same, bitter as it was. What they had was special, Haras went on. A close friendship many did not have and he should cherish it always.    As he grew to manhood he had no ambitions, content with being a layabout- spending his days flirting with girls and gambling away his father’s money. Yima denied her precious boy nothing, but discouraged him when he thought about taking a trade or leaving home. Vindicator Haras had had enough of his grandson’s laziness and his daughter’s coddling.  He had Brizulon enlist with the holy order  feeling the strict regimen would aid his grandson in some way- give him purpose it and of itself or at the very least give him time to rethink his life. Brizulon found himself tested in ways he never thought possible, but Haras would not let him give up, even if he was hated.  One day when Brizulon visited home on leave Makuus had some startling news- Brizulon was betrothed to a girl named Neera, the daughter of a longtime business partner of his father’s. While less than thrilled, Brizulon consented to the match if only to make his mother happy with promises of grandchildren.  Neera was dutiful and kind but there was nary a thought to be found in her pretty head.  They married in a lavish ceremony, but Brizulon spent his wedding night far too drunk with his friends to perform his marital duties and soon was back at Karabor, leaving his new bride alone. Neera showered him with love letters which he even answered sometimes. She had dreams of a big house full of children but grew more and more resentful that her husband was gone so much. Though reassured he’d come to love her in time, Brizulon felt no romantic feelings for Neera. He promised to make her happy however he could. Neera however did not return the sentiment and grew increasingly bitter toward him - his constant promises, next time, next year, someday… He assured her he was forming a business plan soon enough, but he still turned to his grandfather for advice. Haras was admittedly ‘old school’- believing a woman’s place was in the home- and his advice to Brizulon was to get Neera with child as soon as he could.  In the meantime he tried his best to get expelled from the order, even showing up for drills half an hour late, almost too drunk to stand and clad in one of Neera’s gowns. The perfect  formation tried to stifle their giggles but soon the entire unit erupted into laughter. A simple tap of Haras’ lance on the ground silenced them. He casually  inquired if he and Neera were trying something new in the bedroom, which brought more snickers.  Brizulon was too drunk to form a coherent sentence but Haras ordered him to fall in, cheerfully adding that his antics were helpful to morale, but he should probably wear his fatigues and not his wife’s gown next time or she will be cross with him. Truthfully Haras was hounded by the high vindicator and the exarchs to dismiss  Brizulon for his disrespect. Finally Haras sat down and informed his grandson he could feel free to quit but he would not be returning home to mooch off mommy and daddy.  Life on Draenor was difficult and everyone was needed to make it a proper home for the draenei. Their work as soldiers, as upholders of the Light was more important than ever before. As part of the new generation it fell to him to play his part in the future of their people. He’d been given plenty of opportunities- a place among the vindicators who were held in high esteem, a pretty wife to give him many children –and get on that soon, our numbers were dwindling since the Genedar crashed- but Brizulon cut him off. What about what he wanted?  Haras looked at him sternly, his face lined and scarred.  He didn’t  fit in, and he didn’t like Neera, never mind love her. They had nothing in common.  The elder draenei continued to stare at him expecting a more satisfactory answer, but Brizulon was  at a loss. He had no clue what he wanted. He envied his  friend Xenthion- a born vindicator, good looking, who had a way with women. They practically threw themselves at his hooves. He was more than a little resentful when Xenthion joined the long queue of men seeking the favor of Lu’sha. Xenthion was more clever and witty, he discussed literature with her, wrote her poetry…and she liked his pretty hair and pretty face.  Brizulon and Lu'sha remained good friends regardless, and they often sought one another for advice.  One day though he came across Lu’sha crying and asked her what was wrong. She insisted it was nothing but the fear in her eyes told him otherwise. After swearing him to secrecy Lu’Sha confessed Xenthion had pushed her during an argument. Angry, he confronted Xenthion who told him Lu’Sha was none of his concern, and furthermore belonged to him. Brizulon countered that Lu���sha was a person, not an object and Xenthion was an entitled elekk’s backside. Xenthion rushed at him with his practice sword and swatted him easily to the dirt, declaring his skills made him special and Brizulon was little more than a spoiled rich boy only here because his grandfather pitied him.  Vindicator Haras happened upon the scene and berated the two, helping Brizulon stand- then put a practice sword in his hand. If the were to fight alongside one another they must set aside their petty quarrels now.  In his rage, Xenthion wore himself too quickly and the much smaller Brizulon evaded him easily except for a sharp kick that broke three of his ribs, which was not quite fair. He did get his revenge by pulling out Xenthion’s earrings –though he didn’t mean to do so- and the match was declared a  draw.  He learned later that Xenthion and Lu’Sha had quarreled about his hatred and mistrust of the orcs. What was to fear, Brizulon thought to himself. The orcs went about their own business , and the draenei were little more than a myth to them. A single whisper, a tiny seed of doubt took root and Xenthion’s mistrust was not unfounded. Kil’jaden the Deceiver turned the orcs against them, fueling their hatred with the blood of the pit lord Mannoroth. Brizulon resolved to become a true warrior of the Light and his wife, father and mother looked on with pride as his grandfather personally anointed him Vindicator Brizulon.  Then the refugees poured into the city. Shattrath had the best defenses, and as the orc clans united and closed in around them it was only a matter of time before Shattrath would  be attacked. While no fighter, Brizulon’s faith lent him wisdom and comfort to pass onto the refugees. By day he made sure they were fed and comforted but by night he could not sleep, haunted by the cries of the bereaved and injured. Then there were less and less coming. The draenei were fighting a hopeless battle- the orcs were unstoppable.  Karabor had fallen, every settlement between Nagrand and Shadowmoon Valley had been reduced to ashes,  every man ,woman and  child butchered.  Haras had fallen ill as well from a festering wound- though he insisted on having a hammer close to hand even while he lay in his sick bed- and was not long for this world. He refused treatment- the young soldiers needed aid, not an old man but he was too weak to move and die a warrior’s death.   A select few of the draenei had fled to the wilds but most  were to remain in Shattrath to make one final stand and let the orcs believe they exterminated them. A grand sacrifice for the good of all, to hear them tell it. Brizulon would have none of it. There must be some other way.  He was to escort the last of the refugees to the outskirts of the city and return, to take down as many orcs as he could before he fell himself. Part of him wanted to go with them. If he was to garb himself in normal clothes he could blend in among them. But he had to at least tell his grandfather goodbye and not shame him. With days until the Horde marched to Shattrath, Brizulon  sat at Haras’ bedside.  Haras had fought long and hard to protect his people- lost his wife when the Genedar crashed, seen his daughter wed and give him his grandson. Haras apologized for his harshness throughout the entire ordeal- he’d rested far too much on Brizulon’s shoulders. Now for all their running they were to fall here. For the first time in his life, Brizulon saw the old draenei break down and weep.  Haras wiped his face and ordered him out. Brizulon assured his grandfather that this was not the end of the draenei. They would find a new home, perhaps find allies and beat the Burning Legion wherever they went.  He’d grown concerned when he had not received a letter from Neera in some time. She was to leave with the rest of her family, though she did not wish to be parted from him. Her parents were still at their home- his father in law met him with a scowl, his mother in law in tears. He demanded to know where Brizulon had been.  Brizulon stammered he’d been at his grandfather’s bedside here in the city. Then her heard a small metallic clank and an object clattered to the floor. Confused, Brizulon leaned over to pick it up- a ring  identical to his own, yet stained with blood. From what they’d learned, Neera was attacked by a young orc on her way to Elodor. Brizulon hadn’t been there in weeks but lied and told her he was there –and quite busy- so she would not hound him. Before, some of the orcs had a rite of passage into adulthood –om’riggor- where once an orc reached the age of twenty he or she would bring a single weapon with them, hunt and kill a talbuk and smear its blood upon his or her face. The shaman would taste the blood to be sure it was from a fresh kill, then they would be considered a full member of the clan. Nowadays, they hunted draenei. Brizulon reeled. The word ‘why’ was out of his mouth before he could stop it. Why did she come to find me. To tell you she was with child, his father in law spat. Brizulon did not hear his father in law’s bitter hatred- he simply took the ring, bowed and left. Soon after he learned Haras had passed on. He barely heard the condolences, either. Haras was a great draenei, a paragon of the Light, a soul so great his body could not contain it.  The hasty funeral was a blur, though many vindicators showed up to honor his grandfather. The orcish host would be large. The beasts would sweep over the beautiful city of Shattrath and leave nothing but blood and ashes. Brizulon no longer cared. He approached the city gates where an officer moved to stop him. Where did he think he was going. Brizulon had seen enough. He’d had enough of fighting a losing battle. The Light was supposed to be with them, was it not? Then why lay down and die here? He would sooner bide his time. What time did he think they had? Coward, they called him. Traitor, fool, unworthy. They were the cowards, begging at their superiors hooves. Self righteous fools, all. Then begone, they said. Oh he was leaving. What else did he have to lose? Besides, his mother was with the refugees and she needed him. Stripping off all his holy vestments, his fine armor, even leaving his hammer in the dust Brizulon left, clan only in a simple tunic and breeches. He saw the fire from his shelter. He was not sure but he thought he heard the screaming too. The wind carried the scent of blood. At last he found them, the refugee camps. He’d found a pickaxe to defend himself with on the road, and had fashioned himself a large cloak out of coarse cloth to conceal his identity. His tail would have been a dead giveaway and he left it coiled around his waist. No one spoke much anyway, and he helped when he could and ate as little as possible. Though his charitable side came out once he was certain his identity was unknown, no one suspected he was a vindicator. But then he discovered his in laws were in the same camp and left one night- he could fend for himself and should not have been taking food out of anyone’s mouths, besides. Brizulon spent most of his time in solitude, trying to gather what food he could. He’d always been fond of fishing back in those long ago carefree days but the waters were more often than not full of bloated corpses…if there was any water at all. In time his body languished, losing the honed musculature of a warrior and his beard and hair grew long and wild. Still he huddled under his cloak and hid in the marshes only sometimes bringing much needed food and fresh water to the others. He passed on messages from families who’d been separated in the chaos. They were  hungry for news most of all. Then he came across a camp and heard a voice hoarsely call his name. It was Yima. Instantly he was at her side. In her delirium she didn’t recognize him. Brizulon asked her where was his father, where is your husband Makuus. Yima didn’t answer.  Taking his cloak off Brizulon swept it about his mother’s shoulders.  Brizulon nursed his mother back to health, unable to sleep at night as she cried almost endlessly or groaned in pain. She’d caught some illness that spread throughout the camp and to the anger of the others he burned all their food and poured out their water stores. Brizulon worked hard -even as he fell ill himself- to restore their supplies. His salvation came when he came across draenei who’d escaped Shattrath. They were twisted and mutated. He stood ready to fight but they threw up their hands in surrender. Just as he raised his pickaxe he collapsed. When he returned to his senses, the mutated draenei asked him why he’d strayed from the camps. He explained about the sickness and they told him he was right to throw out the food and water. They had herbs that could cure it, as well as rations. But the other camps turned them away.  A strange red mist had been released in Shattrath. Inhaling it turned them into what they were now- Broken. Severed from the Light. Brizulon spoke on behalf of the Broken but they were turned away. He took his mother and they left with the outcasts. Brizulon never learned what became of his father. As the Horde withdrew, turning their gaze towards a new world to conquer, for decades the draenei lived in hiding. Then word spread that the naaru had returned to Shattrath. People began to return to the once great city and Brizulon and his mother Yima had hands in the restoration effort. However, Brizulon knew he’d be recognized as a deserter and to keep his mother safe he left Shattrath. Years in the marshes taught him how to survive on his own. The blood elves came led by Kael’thas. Then followed all races of this new planet called Azeroth. Brizulon met goblins, humans, elves and somewhat ironically followed in his father’s footsteps as a travelling merchant.  Always he kept his eyes open for news of his father. He learned the common tongue and became a drifter, sometimes traveling with a group or alone, wheeling and dealing with  everyone he met on the road. He came to love the high stakes of the gladiator matches though the ogres came often to shake him down or break his legs when he couldn't pay his debts. Brizulon did meet up again with his old friend and rival Xenthion, now calling himself Adiantas.  He’d been killed by blood elf assassins when the Exodar crashed and when the Lich King stirred in the north the Scourge in their cruelty raised him as a death knight. Once a proud champion of the Light he was now a killing machine,infused with plague and wielding dark magics. Adiantas never returned to Shattrath after all those years but finally he asked Brizulon about Lu’sha. Brizulon simply told him she was gone. How, Adiantas wanted to know. He had to know the fate of his beloved but Brizulon couldn’t bear to tell him. Adiantas insisted-he deserved to know every moment of her suffering. Brizulon quietly told him he had enough of a burden but.. he had not seen Lu’sha but a handful of the now Broken had- she’d suffered the fate of the other women- dragged off to be ravaged before her throat was cut and her body thrown onto a pile of corpses. The death knight’s hand was suddenly around his throat, his unnatural strength fueled by his rage. He’d expected unbridled fury and profound sorrow in his old friend’s face but to his surprise there was nothing there- Adiantas’s face was a blank slate but his eyes- those cold eyes robbed of the soft glow of the Light-blessed draenei – those baleful eyes were ablaze with unholy light, and for a moment Brizulon  was afraid that hellish glow would be the last thing he ever saw.  Brizulon tried to speak, tried to choke out the words- what words, that he was sorry? You asked and I told you? Just before he passed out Adiantas released him. Brizulon doubled over coughing and gasping for air. Adiantas had always been jealous of how close Lu’sha and Brizulon were. Brizulon told him she was more the sister he never had, that he, Xenthion, was her one true love. Xenthion was dead, he said. From then on Adiantas spoke of Xenthion as if he were a separate man, long dead, thirsting for vengeance.   He provided for his mother amply- he still felt a twinge of guilt for leaving her all alone but  he suddenly decided his father must have gone to Azeroth. Brizulon arrived to discover many other draenei had settled there aboard the broken naaru vessel the Exodar. Throughout all the conflicts Brizulon has maintained a low profile, preferring his trade to battle.  He does not seem to be particularly loyal to the Alliance as he is known to trade with every race and faction. This has made him plenty of enemies…and coin. Old friends, old foes. The draenei endure.  Just as Brizulon promised his grandfather all those years ago.

[ktkski2017-blog]

Life in Chogoria

February 6, 2017

Today was day 7 in a row of working at PCEA Chogoria Hospital. For the previous six days Dr. Clark and I have been rounding on the men’s ward (the males and females are split between two inpatient wards – the other wards include surgery, pediatrics, OB/GYN, and private). Over the weekend the coverage reduces and procedures, discharges are somewhat on hold – which makes inpatient medicine with sick people very challenging. We have had several deaths on the men’s side that have been challenging to bear – in Traverse City I have only had one patient pass away on my service and he was very ill in the ICU and opted for comfort measures. Since being in Chogoria there have been six within the last 7days. I take them very personally and a dark place in your mind wonders "is it because of me?” – but then I remind myself how much I advocate for these patients during the day and just how sick they are. We had one guy with a hemorrhagic stroke who had expansion of his bleed due to resistant hypertension – in a ward where the blood pressure cuff works 50% of the time and there is a delay of hours to days when a new medicine order is put in, and where we do not have access to percutaneous intervention. Another patient had severe nephrotic syndrome with recurrent ascites filling his abdomen that was resistant to treatment. He passed away from respiratory failure prior to being placed on dialysis because the machines had been broken for a while and the technician/specialist who could initiate dialysis wasn’t due to arrive for a few more days – he was in his twenties. However - undergoing dialysis is not comfortable. Patients often feel sick when they get dialysis and it usually lasts up 4hours every other day - for the rest of your life - which is ultimately shortened anyways due to the severity of disease required to consider even initiating dialysis. If he had survived long enough to get dialysis, it is quite possible that it would have been an unpleasant and still very much shortened life. Another twenty something year old was emaciated from HIV and the lab technician missed drawing his labs for three days despite reminders and pointing out the patient. I have noticed that patients with known HIV that has progressed to illness and malnutrition tend to get less attentive care from nursing and ancillary services like xray and laboratory. In a system where it is not common for very ill people to not get labs drawn for a few days, this can certainly accelerate patient mortality. However, if you calculate a patient’s prognosis (expected life outcome) due to the severity of their HIV illness, even with top notch medical care you may not extend their lifespan more than a few months or a year once they have become so ill. So perhaps it ends up being the kinder end to pass away with an acute illness rather than drag on living in a hospital for 12 more months with such poor quality of life. It certainly depends on your outlook on life because this can look suspiciously like neglect and bias against those with HIV. In Kenya the idea of Do Not Resuscitate does not work, because culturally this looks like neglect. Palliative care has similar negative connotations in the US and Kenya however is perhaps less welcome in Kenya – in the US I think if more people were educated in what it truly means there would be little resistance whereas here in Kenya, if people were more educated on it they would still resist it.  

While the patient deaths and hospital inefficiency challenges have been difficult (albeit not unexpected), I have had some really great experiences too. I really enjoyed working with Janet and Musa while on men’s inpatient ward. We created a nice team of collaboration and were all engaged with the patients and patient care. There was no oppressive hierarchy – we were all contributing to improve patent wellness. We went out to dinner at Lenana’s with the clinical officers and visiting medical students on Thursday night and had an interesting discussion regarding strikes and protests internationally, prompted by a new national nursing strike in Kenya on top of the already going physician and university strike. The food was lacking (and this was the second time we went to Lenana’s and they had run out of food) but this might be biased by the fact that we asked for pilau w vegetables and received chicken rice with cabbage. We returned for lunch the following day (we had heard their lunch menu typically was more robust) and I was not disappointed with a mashed root vegetable with spinach-like greens. They also have fresh squeezed tropical fruits (sooo good). On Saturday afternoon we hiked the ravine behind our apartment compound to look for a waterfall. Due to the drought we found some boulders and mosquito breeding cesspools, but the view at the top of the boulder pile/head of the ravine was beautiful as we got our first glimpse of Mount Kenya in the background. Chogoria rests in the foothills of the mountain so it is hard to see it with the intervening hills. We had to shower after the walk back on the dusty red dirt road. On Sunday evening we lounged for several hours in Dr. Clark’s backyard, picking vegetables and herbs, reading on her swing, basking in the sunlight (slathered in SPF 30), and she made us dinner that we ate on her front porch with a dessert of papaya, passionfruit, lime, and freshly picked mint. We then played cards until the sun went down while listening to the a capella singing of the several surrounding girls’ schools. We have also been eating significant amounts of tropical fruit (perhaps spurred on by reports of winter storms and below-freezing temperatures back home). Today I had half a mango for breakfast (with yogurt) and probably one third of a yellow pineapple for dessert. Not to mention my avocado grilled cheese I also had today and the taste/trial of horny melon that we had prior to dinner (I think it wasn’t ripe yet – unless it’s supposed to taste like a sour cucumber). Jen picked a papaya from the tree behind Dr. Clark’s backyard and we have our eyes on the avocado tree and neighboring mango trees.

Today we went to Chapel in the morning (every Monday this is a time for the hospital to make announcements and introduce new people). Although the prayer was appx 10minutes long I did stay focused long enough to hear the sermon – there was mention of Trump and his ridiculousness name calling this “so-called judge” and fear mongering in the context of Kenya’s election coming up later this year. The message was focused on putting God first during this challenging time however the guy lost me when he started mentioning the evils of homosexuality and taking religion out of schools. Instead of rotating on the men’s ward today I followed Jason for the morning in the NICU and on pediatrics.

In the NICU incubator is a 35day old infant who was born between 24-26week estimated gestational age by spontaneous vaginal delivery. Today is the day we are going to see how he does outside of the incubator as he is now 1.7kg.

On pediatrics we had to inform a mom that her 11month old had end-stage liver disease. The patient had evidently presented with hepatitis and diagnosis of biliary atresia approximately 6months ago and was referred to Nairobi for a stent placement (to drain the blocked duct) – however when the surgeon opened the abdomen it was obvious that the liver had suffered too much damage so they had to close the abdomen without placing the stent. Since that time the family has been home, however the mother re-presented to Chogoria due to worsening jaundice and poor feeding. The poor baby had ascites, venous congestion with veins criss-crossing the abdomen, jaundice, and was small for her age. The process of explaining the disease and need for palliative care to the mother was challenging to begin with but almost impossible when there was a language barrier. The clinical officer tried however I am unsure whether the empathy was well transmitted.

Another 6year old kiddo who has mysterious systemic lymph node swelling, low platelet counts, hemoglobin, and no obvious derangement on peripheral smear was scheduled for a bone marrow aspiration today. Provi – a US trained physician who was raised in Kenya as a young child – showed such care for him as she carried his small frame from the pediatric ward to the minor theatre (operating room) and held him tight while he had his IV placed. He did so well with the bone marrow aspiration; we did sedate him with ketamine but prior to that he lay calmly on the operating table next to his dad, gingerly holding his new IV site. He has the thickest eyelashes I have seen so far while in Kenya.

Afterwards I rounded with Provi, Lena, and Eric on female medical ward, so I spent the morning getting to know the new group of patients. I was again impressed with Provi’s compassion with patients – it really helps when you are able to speak the same language and you have such good bedside manner. I couldn’t help but duck over to the men’s ward a few times today to check on the status of our more ill patients and wave/smile hello, habari to a few others. This is when I heard of the passing of one of our mystery illness patient’s. He had been encephalopathic for several days after previously being able to chat with us and developing renal failure after we diuresed him from heart failure exacerbation. He likely had severe sepsis from an unknown source, likely meningitis, however the empiric antibiotics we started were not sufficient to overcome his illness. A point-of-care cardiac ultrasound performed earlier today showed a barely pumping heart. We actually received some lab results back on him after he had passed away – he had an INR of 50 suggesting systemic coagulopathy. We were unable to perform a CT scan of his brain to rule out stroke versus infection as he was not on the national insurance plan and his family had not come to visit him so we had no one to pay for it – in Kenya you pay for the procedure or imaging prior to it being performed. If you cannot pay, you cannot get the procedure.