Fic: Bleach // A Dream
This is for 31_days, even though I didn't do any of the other ones. o_x;
Title: A Dream
Day/Theme: August 31st; Tell me, beloved rarity / tell me, rare love / where are you now?
Series: Bleach
Character/Pairing: Aizen, Hinamori
Rating: PGish?
Warnings: Vaguely massive spoilers as per chapter 169+ or so.
This is, she thinks, a dream. A field of wildflowers at the edge of a cliff and Aizen smiling that familiar, benevolent smile. The scent of sun-warmed blossoms fills the air and the too-green grass is slippery beneath her hands as she scrambles for purchase, dirt that seems too dry to support any life (much less these flowers, much less hers) caking under her fingernails. She feels as if she should ask him why but her nerves are screaming, her arms are straining, there's nothing to catch her if she loses her grip.
Once, not long ago, she would have faced this precipice without fear, would have known he would save her if she fell. Even now hope stirrs in her heart, tiny and thrilling as he steps forward, the same easy-elegant gait he's always had. His face never changes as he breaks her fingers, one by one.
She makes no sound as she wakes, pulse racing, lungs aching, alone. She cannot kill this longing curling inside her or the treacherous trembling happiness that, somewhere, he lives.
Ummm. Not sure about this. I think it may cross over into the purple a bit. Meh. Vaguely inspired by the title page for Vol. 12, "Flower on the Precipice,"
The reason we think the flowers on the precipice are beautiful
is because we are standing on the edge as well.
Do not fear, for we are like the flowers.
We do not step off.
Also, any ideas for a better title? Eh.
Title: A Dream
Day/Theme: August 31st; Tell me, beloved rarity / tell me, rare love / where are you now?
Series: Bleach
Character/Pairing: Aizen, Hinamori
Rating: PGish?
Warnings: Vaguely massive spoilers as per chapter 169+ or so.
This is, she thinks, a dream. A field of wildflowers at the edge of a cliff and Aizen smiling that familiar, benevolent smile. The scent of sun-warmed blossoms fills the air and the too-green grass is slippery beneath her hands as she scrambles for purchase, dirt that seems too dry to support any life (much less these flowers, much less hers) caking under her fingernails. She feels as if she should ask him why but her nerves are screaming, her arms are straining, there's nothing to catch her if she loses her grip.
Once, not long ago, she would have faced this precipice without fear, would have known he would save her if she fell. Even now hope stirrs in her heart, tiny and thrilling as he steps forward, the same easy-elegant gait he's always had. His face never changes as he breaks her fingers, one by one.
She makes no sound as she wakes, pulse racing, lungs aching, alone. She cannot kill this longing curling inside her or the treacherous trembling happiness that, somewhere, he lives.
Ummm. Not sure about this. I think it may cross over into the purple a bit. Meh. Vaguely inspired by the title page for Vol. 12, "Flower on the Precipice,"
The reason we think the flowers on the precipice are beautiful
is because we are standing on the edge as well.
Do not fear, for we are like the flowers.
We do not step off.
Also, any ideas for a better title? Eh.