"Freedom", a fanfic
Not to burble right at the beginning, I present my latest fanfic. Nothing original and inspired by oh-so-regrettable events in manga.
Title: Freedom
Rating: T
Summary: Even Kira Izuru can be defiant.
I don't await the surprise.
I don't hold my breath.
I want to leave everything behind.
I've run enough.
I'm not brave.
I'm not immortal.
But I know this one thing,
that my heart knew long ago.
Running away has ended.
- Kaija Koo, "Vapaa"
He was tired.
Perhaps, as Shinigami, he shouldn't admit it. Like the warriors from the other world, carrying the same swords by their waists, perhaps he should look proudly into the future, fight for the victory to the last breath, and die an honourable death should his time come. Such should be his ideals.
He did look into the future, even if only the near one, even if only metaphorically, just round the next corner. He did fight till the last particle of reiatsu. And, the death seemed an understandable option should it came in the right moment.
It didn't change the fact he was tired and he had enough. The feeling of duty didn't affect his feelings - after all, he was allowed to feel one thing and do another.
He stumbled over another piece of rubble, almost falling down. He didn't even bother to raise his head and learn where it had come from. There was nothing to see on the battlefield. He dragged his feet and proceeded at a slow pace, stubbornly, ahead.
He hadn't met any problems in the passage. Even the presence of the Guardian had ceased. Perhaps it had been taken care of - nothing was impossible any more. The passage had been dead, but he hadn't felt up to analysing it, focused on each step throughout the dark corridor. He had provisionally healed the worst injuries, which had depleted reserve of his reiatsu, but as long as he kept resting now and then - to take couple of deep breaths, to lean himself for a while - he was able to move forward. Because he had to move forward, such was his destiny, glistening with silver on the edges of his mind.
Only... Had there ever been something like destiny to begin with?
He shook his head, walking carefully - as much as he managed on his numb legs - down the damaged street. He was tired. Taking the direct blow in the chest was one thing, but, in all honesty, his fatigue had much deeper reasons. He was tired due to the fact he had never been told a word; that he had never been told a word beside the veiled suggestions that hadn't necessarily had to be the truth, and the open lies that were the truth after all. He was tired of playing a pawn that no-one had ever looked seriously at and whose life had been managed at one's own discretion. He was a soldier, all right. He was to carry out the orders, all right. But it still was his life, right?
He stumbled again; it was time to rest.
He shouldn't be so frustrated. He wasn't the first treated this way. He only regretted one thing: that no-one had ever seen him trustworthy and reliable. On the other hand... Perhaps he had deserved it himself - always hiding in someone else's shadow, always looking for support and approval, comfort and care. Some had regarded it a fault, that best to do is to stay away from. Others had regarded it a virtue and hadn't dared to spoil it. They had let him run away, for it had fitted everyone best.
He clenched his fists. It was high time to grow up and take the responsibility for his life. It was never too late for it.
Karakura or Soul Society - this one reiatsu he would sense everywhere. Sometimes, he had even thought he could locate it in Hueco Mundo, an obvious delusion that made him feel... he didn't even know. However, now it was almost palpable, here. Barely existing, flickering with the faintest flame after the earlier explosion of supernova. He sighed, going around another building marked by the fight of giants.
Over the continuous rumble of battle, more or less loud, here and now interrupted with the rustle of falling rubble, he heard another sound: crying and lament. He took a deep breath, trying to hold his coughing when the dust irritated his already hurt lungs. He lifted his eyes, raising his head and brushing the hair from his forehead.
Rangiku-san never cried; no-one would call her drunken wailing a crying. In his case it was probably a different story, but it didn't matter. He came closer, looking with his stinging eyes and swerving - just trying to keep his balance - between the rocks that had once been a wall of a building. Grey blocks of concrete made not-very-beautiful rubble under the leaden sky. Actually, everything seemed to lose its colours. Black shihakushō was subdued by the dust; hair was matt, and the ragged scarf was only the memory of a pink. Gin Ichimaru, stretched on the ground, seemed the brightest point of the scenery, as if he was lightened by the single ray of sun from behind the thick clouds.
He came near, limping after having stepped on the sharp rock. Rangiku-san was crying; her tears were flowing down her face in two clear paths and dripping on the white robe, on which the drying blood created its own patterns, unique just like the snowflakes.
What was it for?
He was tired.
He wanted to finish it already, that way or another. He looked his former commander in the face, surprisingly calm. But, he realised then, Gin Ichimaru's face had never ever shown anything past the specific calmness, why should it be any different now? Before he realized, he was already staring at the well-known features, an image he had carried behind his eye-lids since their first meeting. Now that he thought about it, no good ever came from it for either of them.
It was time to sever this bond.
Rangiku-san's shoulders were shaking from continuous crying. She hadn't even noticed his presence. He put trembling hand on her back, trying not to rest his body against her, although it kept begging for it. She turned around, squinting her red-rimmed eyes to see clearly. She wasn't surprised - but he didn't suppose anything could surprise her now, either. Or touch her. Or anything.
"Please, move aside, Rangiku-san," he spoke in a quiet tone, but firmly.
Something flashed in her gaze - insult, disappointment, fear, grief - perhaps all of them at once.
"Kira, what...?" she whispered in a broken voice.
"Please, Rangiku-san," he repeated patiently, knowing he didn't have enough strength to force her.
She looked at him with hesitation, then she pressed her lips together and moved away. He fell to his knees, trying to calm his breath when his lungs started to demand some air again. Once more, his eyes went to the pale face under equally fair hair.
Dashed dreams. So beautiful, so appealing, but - in the end - only dreams.
What was it that you wanted? Was it worth it...
He forced himself to look lower. The bleeding from the arm didn't need any extraordinary measures. The left side was in a bit worse shape - the cut was expert, just like in textbook: from shoulder up to abdomen. The subclavian artery, lung, intestines, pancreas probably. The following thrust, precisely in the potential heart, not to play any more, but to finish, for one had been already bored.
...to play a hero?
Of course, he had missed the target - why to explore the anatomy beyond the regular atlas? He cast a glance at the general view of catastrophe. Nothing he couldn't fix - especially when one was still alive. You can get everything if you pay enough, can't you?
His eyes came back to the face that - more than ever - seemed an illusion. Face of a child that had probably always existed inside him. Face of an angel he had never been. He looked so vulnerable, yet seemed completely pleased - with death. He reached and touched, hesitantly, the cold cheek. He should roll up his sleeves, but they were already in shreds, so it wouldn't help anything.
The right arm required a single dressing. A puncture wound would be healed along with the rest - the blade missed the heart for a millimetre, or even less. But all the other pieces needed to be put and get stuck together. He laid his hands on the man's chest...
"Kira..." came from Rangiku-san. He looked up through the fringe. She regarded him with the eyes deprived of illusion and hope. "You should rest. He... already..."
He must have looked as bad as he felt if he managed to evoke such reaction in her, here. It was possible that some bleeding had begun anew, but it didn't matter any more.
"Kira...! He's already..."
"Rangiku-san," he interrupted and noticed how emotionless his voice was. To tell the truth, he didn't feel any emotions, so it made sense. "Don't you sense his reiatsu?"
She gave him the same look: hurt, pain, anxiety... jealousy? He almost smiled, but the everlasting dust irritated his throat again and forced him to cough. Well, it didn't help his broken ribs... He didn't mean to hurt her, only... it was all the same to him. He looked at his trembling hands. He couldn't vouch for his body, but he knew he wouldn't fall short of determination. It was what mattered.
The green light, faded as everything here, appeared over the multicoloured mosaic. He felt dizzy and closed his eyes to focus. It was better that way; now he could clearly see the silver flame and the gold threads of reiatsu that kept saving it from dying. He bowed his head, his reality narrowed to these two colours.
It seemed to him that he heard her asking, "Kira... why...?" and his own answer, "He doesn't deserve such pointless death." And then the world was again the silver and gold in the darkness.
I want to tell you I can finally go my own path. I want to tell you I will do without you. It's what you always wanted to do, didn't you? To tell you "goodbye" and look with my own eyes.
He ceased feeling anything: numbness in the legs and arms disappeared; he felt so light. The silver flame was flickering stronger now. Wistful and mischievous, it was almost reaching towards the gold light surrounding it. It was so easy to get absorbed...
The muffled cry brought him back to reality. He opened his eyes with a feeling they were full of sand - it was probably true. He straightened up, wincing as his spine reminded him of itself. His forearms were burning, as if someone had whipped them. He coughed, feeling the taste of blood in his mouth. He tilted his head, looking into the bright face. The flash of blue seemed an illusion, but then Rangiku-san screamed again, covering her mouth and holding back her sobs. Gin Ichimaru was lifting his eye-lids, millimetre by millimetre, having all the eternity at his disposal.
With that astonished look he seemed like a destiny child he could be or he had never actually been. It didn't matter in the slightest. Despite himself, Izuru felt like smiling.
"You were never fond of sad stories... Captain," he whispered, or he thought he had.
In darkness, he reached for the silver flame, saying the words of farewell. Of apology. Of gratitude. Of forgiveness. The blue soothed everything, as the last the certainty that should they meet next time, he wouldn't be Gin Ichimaru's shadow any more.
Title: Freedom
Rating: T
Summary: Even Kira Izuru can be defiant.
I don't await the surprise.
I don't hold my breath.
I want to leave everything behind.
I've run enough.
I'm not brave.
I'm not immortal.
But I know this one thing,
that my heart knew long ago.
Running away has ended.
- Kaija Koo, "Vapaa"
He was tired.
Perhaps, as Shinigami, he shouldn't admit it. Like the warriors from the other world, carrying the same swords by their waists, perhaps he should look proudly into the future, fight for the victory to the last breath, and die an honourable death should his time come. Such should be his ideals.
He did look into the future, even if only the near one, even if only metaphorically, just round the next corner. He did fight till the last particle of reiatsu. And, the death seemed an understandable option should it came in the right moment.
It didn't change the fact he was tired and he had enough. The feeling of duty didn't affect his feelings - after all, he was allowed to feel one thing and do another.
He stumbled over another piece of rubble, almost falling down. He didn't even bother to raise his head and learn where it had come from. There was nothing to see on the battlefield. He dragged his feet and proceeded at a slow pace, stubbornly, ahead.
He hadn't met any problems in the passage. Even the presence of the Guardian had ceased. Perhaps it had been taken care of - nothing was impossible any more. The passage had been dead, but he hadn't felt up to analysing it, focused on each step throughout the dark corridor. He had provisionally healed the worst injuries, which had depleted reserve of his reiatsu, but as long as he kept resting now and then - to take couple of deep breaths, to lean himself for a while - he was able to move forward. Because he had to move forward, such was his destiny, glistening with silver on the edges of his mind.
Only... Had there ever been something like destiny to begin with?
He shook his head, walking carefully - as much as he managed on his numb legs - down the damaged street. He was tired. Taking the direct blow in the chest was one thing, but, in all honesty, his fatigue had much deeper reasons. He was tired due to the fact he had never been told a word; that he had never been told a word beside the veiled suggestions that hadn't necessarily had to be the truth, and the open lies that were the truth after all. He was tired of playing a pawn that no-one had ever looked seriously at and whose life had been managed at one's own discretion. He was a soldier, all right. He was to carry out the orders, all right. But it still was his life, right?
He stumbled again; it was time to rest.
He shouldn't be so frustrated. He wasn't the first treated this way. He only regretted one thing: that no-one had ever seen him trustworthy and reliable. On the other hand... Perhaps he had deserved it himself - always hiding in someone else's shadow, always looking for support and approval, comfort and care. Some had regarded it a fault, that best to do is to stay away from. Others had regarded it a virtue and hadn't dared to spoil it. They had let him run away, for it had fitted everyone best.
He clenched his fists. It was high time to grow up and take the responsibility for his life. It was never too late for it.
Karakura or Soul Society - this one reiatsu he would sense everywhere. Sometimes, he had even thought he could locate it in Hueco Mundo, an obvious delusion that made him feel... he didn't even know. However, now it was almost palpable, here. Barely existing, flickering with the faintest flame after the earlier explosion of supernova. He sighed, going around another building marked by the fight of giants.
Over the continuous rumble of battle, more or less loud, here and now interrupted with the rustle of falling rubble, he heard another sound: crying and lament. He took a deep breath, trying to hold his coughing when the dust irritated his already hurt lungs. He lifted his eyes, raising his head and brushing the hair from his forehead.
Rangiku-san never cried; no-one would call her drunken wailing a crying. In his case it was probably a different story, but it didn't matter. He came closer, looking with his stinging eyes and swerving - just trying to keep his balance - between the rocks that had once been a wall of a building. Grey blocks of concrete made not-very-beautiful rubble under the leaden sky. Actually, everything seemed to lose its colours. Black shihakushō was subdued by the dust; hair was matt, and the ragged scarf was only the memory of a pink. Gin Ichimaru, stretched on the ground, seemed the brightest point of the scenery, as if he was lightened by the single ray of sun from behind the thick clouds.
He came near, limping after having stepped on the sharp rock. Rangiku-san was crying; her tears were flowing down her face in two clear paths and dripping on the white robe, on which the drying blood created its own patterns, unique just like the snowflakes.
What was it for?
He was tired.
He wanted to finish it already, that way or another. He looked his former commander in the face, surprisingly calm. But, he realised then, Gin Ichimaru's face had never ever shown anything past the specific calmness, why should it be any different now? Before he realized, he was already staring at the well-known features, an image he had carried behind his eye-lids since their first meeting. Now that he thought about it, no good ever came from it for either of them.
It was time to sever this bond.
Rangiku-san's shoulders were shaking from continuous crying. She hadn't even noticed his presence. He put trembling hand on her back, trying not to rest his body against her, although it kept begging for it. She turned around, squinting her red-rimmed eyes to see clearly. She wasn't surprised - but he didn't suppose anything could surprise her now, either. Or touch her. Or anything.
"Please, move aside, Rangiku-san," he spoke in a quiet tone, but firmly.
Something flashed in her gaze - insult, disappointment, fear, grief - perhaps all of them at once.
"Kira, what...?" she whispered in a broken voice.
"Please, Rangiku-san," he repeated patiently, knowing he didn't have enough strength to force her.
She looked at him with hesitation, then she pressed her lips together and moved away. He fell to his knees, trying to calm his breath when his lungs started to demand some air again. Once more, his eyes went to the pale face under equally fair hair.
Dashed dreams. So beautiful, so appealing, but - in the end - only dreams.
What was it that you wanted? Was it worth it...
He forced himself to look lower. The bleeding from the arm didn't need any extraordinary measures. The left side was in a bit worse shape - the cut was expert, just like in textbook: from shoulder up to abdomen. The subclavian artery, lung, intestines, pancreas probably. The following thrust, precisely in the potential heart, not to play any more, but to finish, for one had been already bored.
...to play a hero?
Of course, he had missed the target - why to explore the anatomy beyond the regular atlas? He cast a glance at the general view of catastrophe. Nothing he couldn't fix - especially when one was still alive. You can get everything if you pay enough, can't you?
His eyes came back to the face that - more than ever - seemed an illusion. Face of a child that had probably always existed inside him. Face of an angel he had never been. He looked so vulnerable, yet seemed completely pleased - with death. He reached and touched, hesitantly, the cold cheek. He should roll up his sleeves, but they were already in shreds, so it wouldn't help anything.
The right arm required a single dressing. A puncture wound would be healed along with the rest - the blade missed the heart for a millimetre, or even less. But all the other pieces needed to be put and get stuck together. He laid his hands on the man's chest...
"Kira..." came from Rangiku-san. He looked up through the fringe. She regarded him with the eyes deprived of illusion and hope. "You should rest. He... already..."
He must have looked as bad as he felt if he managed to evoke such reaction in her, here. It was possible that some bleeding had begun anew, but it didn't matter any more.
"Kira...! He's already..."
"Rangiku-san," he interrupted and noticed how emotionless his voice was. To tell the truth, he didn't feel any emotions, so it made sense. "Don't you sense his reiatsu?"
She gave him the same look: hurt, pain, anxiety... jealousy? He almost smiled, but the everlasting dust irritated his throat again and forced him to cough. Well, it didn't help his broken ribs... He didn't mean to hurt her, only... it was all the same to him. He looked at his trembling hands. He couldn't vouch for his body, but he knew he wouldn't fall short of determination. It was what mattered.
The green light, faded as everything here, appeared over the multicoloured mosaic. He felt dizzy and closed his eyes to focus. It was better that way; now he could clearly see the silver flame and the gold threads of reiatsu that kept saving it from dying. He bowed his head, his reality narrowed to these two colours.
It seemed to him that he heard her asking, "Kira... why...?" and his own answer, "He doesn't deserve such pointless death." And then the world was again the silver and gold in the darkness.
I want to tell you I can finally go my own path. I want to tell you I will do without you. It's what you always wanted to do, didn't you? To tell you "goodbye" and look with my own eyes.
He ceased feeling anything: numbness in the legs and arms disappeared; he felt so light. The silver flame was flickering stronger now. Wistful and mischievous, it was almost reaching towards the gold light surrounding it. It was so easy to get absorbed...
The muffled cry brought him back to reality. He opened his eyes with a feeling they were full of sand - it was probably true. He straightened up, wincing as his spine reminded him of itself. His forearms were burning, as if someone had whipped them. He coughed, feeling the taste of blood in his mouth. He tilted his head, looking into the bright face. The flash of blue seemed an illusion, but then Rangiku-san screamed again, covering her mouth and holding back her sobs. Gin Ichimaru was lifting his eye-lids, millimetre by millimetre, having all the eternity at his disposal.
With that astonished look he seemed like a destiny child he could be or he had never actually been. It didn't matter in the slightest. Despite himself, Izuru felt like smiling.
"You were never fond of sad stories... Captain," he whispered, or he thought he had.
In darkness, he reached for the silver flame, saying the words of farewell. Of apology. Of gratitude. Of forgiveness. The blue soothed everything, as the last the certainty that should they meet next time, he wouldn't be Gin Ichimaru's shadow any more.