When That Time Comes
When that time comes
Author: Roguish Smile
Fandom: Bleach
Fiction Rated: T
-…-
This is a little grim in parts, and… in a very round about way… deals with some self-harm issues. Be warned.
This was originally going to be two parts of three, the third being about the cuff he used in the bount arc (I watched the anime before reading the manga, so sue me), but it almost felt like an add-on (somewhat like that whole arc) and so I left it at this. I'm thinking about doing the same for Chad and Inoue. If you enjoy, then watch this space.
-…-
There comes a point in every life when you realise that unless you grow, your future ends here. He stared into the box knowing that this was his time, and wondered what that meant. He was only fifteen, and this moment was the end of so many things.
The glove - beautiful in white and black - would represent the rest of his life. If he passed this point now, he would never take the glove off again. It would be in every part of his day; at school, at home, when he took a job, when he died. The rest of his life. And without it, he would die.
It was made of a fabric that he couldn't identify by touch, and hidden beneath it in the box were two rods of what looked like some kind of metal. One was thin and black and the other was metallic and wide, but tapered at each end. There were obvious holes in the glove for where the rods were to go. His stomach turned at the thought, but he didn't need to ask anyone to know how the glove would go together. He would insert two pieces of metal as thick as his finger through his wrist and then for seven days he would drain every ounce of spirit power out of the surroundings and himself. He couldn't do this with Chad and Inoue nearby, not even that strange cat, because it would consume their spirit power too, and they would need theirs if they were to follow Ichigo. And he… well he just had to survive seven days. How hard could that be?
He had decided to do the thicker bar first, because he knew he would need the reassurance of 'the next one will be easier' after this. He hesitated with the point of the bar against his inner wrist, knowing that he would need to feed spirit power into the material for it to puncture all the way through. He tried to breath regularly. If he didn't made the seven days… He stared at his hand, curling it into a fist inside the crisp white fabric of the glove and savouring the feeling. If this went wrong, would he still be able to use his hand? Would the glove just disappear along with any wounds associated with it? He couldn't be so naïve, not even to calm his own nerves. He had to do this. He had to do it right.
He positioned the point against his wrist, calling spirit particles to the point and forming a sharp edge, he forced himself to relax. A breath, and he pushed.
When his voice was too broken to scream anymore, he lay curled in a ball in the grass, his hand limp and unresponsive at his side, listening to the pounding in his head and concentrating on breathing. His arm felt like lead, but he could still feel the spirit particles clustering around his Quincy form. The glove wasn't complete yet. It occurred to him, distantly, that once the glove was complete there would be no way for him to rest his hand against any surface without resting on one of these spikes. He wasn't planning on testing the idea, but he was fairly sure he wasn't going to like anything touching his hand once this was done, let alone the metal bar jutting out of his wrist. Perhaps there was some way to retract these spikes, just as his bow disappeared from the Quincy pendant when he wasn't using it. He blinked and sat up, feeling vaguely like a rag doll, animated by some outside force as he reached for the second bar. He wasn't even shaking this time.
"Grandfather. I hope I understand soon."
-…-
There comes a point in a life or death situation when you realise that there's no way you're walking away from this alive. It's times like these that you take those risks that you know won't leave you unscathed because, frankly, what's the point of worrying about a hand if you're about to loose your life and your pride. You just want to do as much damage as possible to the enemy and hope that it will be enough to keep one threat away from your allies. And maybe there's some hope - somewhere in your mind - that going all out will be enough to get you through this. Maybe not unscathed, but alive.
He reached for the metal bar through his wrist that was concealed except for when he drew his bow, much to his relief. To his ungloved hand, the metal felt cold and he wondered why it didn't feel cold against his skin beneath the glove. He had stopped feeling the way the metal moved against the bones of his wrist, stopped remembering the days of agony he had suffered to make this possible. To allow him to stand here and face off against his grandfather's killer. It wasn't enough. It was never enough.
"I'm sorry Sensei. Just once more I must disobey you."
The skin ripped as the glove shattered, and it felt like gaping holes had opened in his wrist where those bars had been. White hot flames engulfed his right arm and only the web of spirit force held him from falling. The power rushing through him was dizzying but the pain was equal to it, and he wondered if the spirit threads would hold his hand to his body if it were severed, and whether he could live like that.
He knew he could not. Before long, he knew, this overwhelming power would begin to fade and he would slip away from the Quincy world. Then he would have nothing, not even his pride. Because whose was it, that pride? It belonged to the Quincy. Before the end of the day, he would not even be one of those.
Closing his hand tightly around the bow that had materialised in his hand he vowed once more. He would have his pride before the power faded. His Grandfather would be avenged.
Author: Roguish Smile
Fandom: Bleach
Fiction Rated: T
-…-
This is a little grim in parts, and… in a very round about way… deals with some self-harm issues. Be warned.
This was originally going to be two parts of three, the third being about the cuff he used in the bount arc (I watched the anime before reading the manga, so sue me), but it almost felt like an add-on (somewhat like that whole arc) and so I left it at this. I'm thinking about doing the same for Chad and Inoue. If you enjoy, then watch this space.
-…-
There comes a point in every life when you realise that unless you grow, your future ends here. He stared into the box knowing that this was his time, and wondered what that meant. He was only fifteen, and this moment was the end of so many things.
The glove - beautiful in white and black - would represent the rest of his life. If he passed this point now, he would never take the glove off again. It would be in every part of his day; at school, at home, when he took a job, when he died. The rest of his life. And without it, he would die.
It was made of a fabric that he couldn't identify by touch, and hidden beneath it in the box were two rods of what looked like some kind of metal. One was thin and black and the other was metallic and wide, but tapered at each end. There were obvious holes in the glove for where the rods were to go. His stomach turned at the thought, but he didn't need to ask anyone to know how the glove would go together. He would insert two pieces of metal as thick as his finger through his wrist and then for seven days he would drain every ounce of spirit power out of the surroundings and himself. He couldn't do this with Chad and Inoue nearby, not even that strange cat, because it would consume their spirit power too, and they would need theirs if they were to follow Ichigo. And he… well he just had to survive seven days. How hard could that be?
He had decided to do the thicker bar first, because he knew he would need the reassurance of 'the next one will be easier' after this. He hesitated with the point of the bar against his inner wrist, knowing that he would need to feed spirit power into the material for it to puncture all the way through. He tried to breath regularly. If he didn't made the seven days… He stared at his hand, curling it into a fist inside the crisp white fabric of the glove and savouring the feeling. If this went wrong, would he still be able to use his hand? Would the glove just disappear along with any wounds associated with it? He couldn't be so naïve, not even to calm his own nerves. He had to do this. He had to do it right.
He positioned the point against his wrist, calling spirit particles to the point and forming a sharp edge, he forced himself to relax. A breath, and he pushed.
When his voice was too broken to scream anymore, he lay curled in a ball in the grass, his hand limp and unresponsive at his side, listening to the pounding in his head and concentrating on breathing. His arm felt like lead, but he could still feel the spirit particles clustering around his Quincy form. The glove wasn't complete yet. It occurred to him, distantly, that once the glove was complete there would be no way for him to rest his hand against any surface without resting on one of these spikes. He wasn't planning on testing the idea, but he was fairly sure he wasn't going to like anything touching his hand once this was done, let alone the metal bar jutting out of his wrist. Perhaps there was some way to retract these spikes, just as his bow disappeared from the Quincy pendant when he wasn't using it. He blinked and sat up, feeling vaguely like a rag doll, animated by some outside force as he reached for the second bar. He wasn't even shaking this time.
"Grandfather. I hope I understand soon."
-…-
There comes a point in a life or death situation when you realise that there's no way you're walking away from this alive. It's times like these that you take those risks that you know won't leave you unscathed because, frankly, what's the point of worrying about a hand if you're about to loose your life and your pride. You just want to do as much damage as possible to the enemy and hope that it will be enough to keep one threat away from your allies. And maybe there's some hope - somewhere in your mind - that going all out will be enough to get you through this. Maybe not unscathed, but alive.
He reached for the metal bar through his wrist that was concealed except for when he drew his bow, much to his relief. To his ungloved hand, the metal felt cold and he wondered why it didn't feel cold against his skin beneath the glove. He had stopped feeling the way the metal moved against the bones of his wrist, stopped remembering the days of agony he had suffered to make this possible. To allow him to stand here and face off against his grandfather's killer. It wasn't enough. It was never enough.
"I'm sorry Sensei. Just once more I must disobey you."
The skin ripped as the glove shattered, and it felt like gaping holes had opened in his wrist where those bars had been. White hot flames engulfed his right arm and only the web of spirit force held him from falling. The power rushing through him was dizzying but the pain was equal to it, and he wondered if the spirit threads would hold his hand to his body if it were severed, and whether he could live like that.
He knew he could not. Before long, he knew, this overwhelming power would begin to fade and he would slip away from the Quincy world. Then he would have nothing, not even his pride. Because whose was it, that pride? It belonged to the Quincy. Before the end of the day, he would not even be one of those.
Closing his hand tightly around the bow that had materialised in his hand he vowed once more. He would have his pride before the power faded. His Grandfather would be avenged.