Raising the Dead

Warnings: Emotional Manipulation.

1.

He thinks he is like a priest: he has free, front-row seats to watch these young punks find their spiritual selves. It feels even more – pastoral – when he has to interrupt sometimes and give instructions. Yet he knows, really, that it is a matter of time before all of them, even those two weaklings Keigo and Mizuiro when all will eventually attain their limits. It is not a question of how, but rather, when.

But still, a show is still a show. And it is the other one – the brash, intensely frustrated young girl who always gets to her feet after each battering by the Yoruichi Shihouin – who puts on quite a performance.

So he strays along the periphery of their endless sparring, like an over-possessive guardian angel. He sees Tatsuki Arisawa, as she had introduced herself, being flattened by Yoruichi's blows, being beaten back by the shunpo-inspired movements, absorbing the blows of the goddess of flash as if they were answered prayers. And then, still, returning to her feet, blood dangling from her chin like a loose tooth, and saying:

"Please. I can still continue!"

He re-configures his hat as Yoruichi obliges and the fight (a particular brutal one, he thinks) resumes. He takes in the sweaty bodies of both women as they crash into each other: the long shaft of Yoruichi's outstretched arm, every bicep visible in simple design, as it blasts past Tatsuki's scooping hands. She crumbles into the injury; her body defies gravity, before spraying itself across the ground.

Concern, that suspicious emotion, flares up in him like a revelation. He draws in his feet and strides across to where Yoruichi is standing, breathing hard. To run the goddess of flash into breathlessness certainly indicates something.

"Finally decided to intervene, Kisuke?" she says, voice pulled tight into sarcasm.

He faces the comment with an acute swivel of his head. Perhaps, he acknowledges, that his thoughtfulness for their guest is making Yoruichi envious? He observes as she levels a stare at him, then again, as she shakes the strain out of her exposed shoulders. Even in the artificial light of this cavern, the flush of too much fighting flares across her muffin-brown skin.

"Just playing the good Samaritan, Yoruichi."

"Whatever that means."

He lowers himself one foot, and his shadow extends like a tongue over Tatsuki's swollen cheek. He knows Yoruichi is probably watching, so he does things quickly. With his palm he hovers a stream of reiatsu over Tatsuki's face. He descends to it, his face at a tilt. A delicately frail face, he thinks. He thinks that, now, when she is as still as death, she regains her stubborn, attractive humanity.

As he expects, her eyes ignite, and the same, religiously defiant face gathers its composure. It turns skyward, and then seems to notice him.

"Urahara-san?" her voice floats, like footsteps on water. "Did you –?"

"Ready to continue?" he slowly, deliberately glances across at Yoruichi leaning alone against the bleak backdrop, and mutters: "The harvest here is plenty –"

He runs his fingers along the cliff-edge of his hat and nods down:

"But the workers are few."

He is pleased. As he stands, he delivers to her one of his devoutly serene smiles and retreats to his place beyond the circle of battle. He eyes her again, watches as she is collected, by the scuff of her neck, to her feet by Yoruichi. The sleek, experienced war mutters something into Tatsuki's ear before pummeling her with her elbow.

Training will continue. And now the two women blossom before him, their moves leaking stray reiatsu, their bodies spinning. But my, my – did he really step too far this time? They excite him – Tatsuki's simple worship of her own purpose and Yoruichi's dutiful disdain. For a moment, the imposing bulk of the Shihouin princess fills the scene of combat, a frown illuminates her feral face.

But, he reasons, a priest should concern himself with souls of humans, not animals.

2.

"I think we should stop now."

She is the last to leave the Shoten each night and the first to arrive. When she makes it down into the training room, Kisuke sees her – or rather feels her, first – like a flicker of light in a dark room, during his morning meditations. He knows she can see him, but he waits. He eases his conscience as he studies her reiatsu like a devotional.

When she is done with her warm-ups, her presses, her own preparation for the whole day's training, she deposits herself mathematically adjacent to him. She even replicates his pose – cross-legged, hands assembled as if in supplication, eyes shuttered – and he thinks, stealing a look, they must really look like two piously peaceful statues guarding the shrine to their selves.

But here – yes – is where he can feel the remarkable potential she has. As she meditates, reiatsu drenches the atmosphere, establishing its own chapel between the two of them. The intoxicating pressure from her licks at his skin, sometimes threatens to topple his hat. But he does not mind; he actually feels slightly pleased that his disciple is sprinting up the highway towards enlightenment.

Today, though, he decides to try something different. He detaches himself from his place of repose and walks towards her, Benihime smoothly sliding in his hands like a talisman. And with an excessive release of his own energy, he trespasses into hallowed ground.

He sees Tatsuki is still alert enough to rise to her feet and meet him. Even better.

He sees a crucifix of sweat across at her throat like a necklace as she tries to defend herself from his presence. Their contest, for the first minute, is merely staring each other down. But he moves – so fast – he sees his entire world readjust itself, and he fastens an arm to her neck.

"Is this part of the routine?" she demands.

"Ask and it shall be given," he specifically prolongs the final word.

This close he can feel her breathing, see the dimpled delta of sweat fanning from the back of her neck. A hurricane of reiatsu expands around them: his confident plume embracing her anxiety like an outstretched arm. This close he can detect every single pulse, every single movement.

"Urahara-san –"

"Shhh – imagine I am Kurosaki."

Through her translucent, sweat-streaked shirt he outlines the undulating surface of her spine. He runs his fingers over them, like stones in shallow water, moving with the sanctity of examining something holy. He follows the trail of her spine up to the muscular groove which connects backbone and neck. And there he divides his hands equally for each of her shoulders – delicately frail, he thinks again –

"Imagine these fingers belong to him –"

She has remained still until now, until he pauses, both arms draped down, fingers squirming at her throat. He is poised to let them dive, submerge into the open collar of her shirt to reach to the fleshy sacrament that is her heart, when she clamps on his hand. Startled, the cocoon of reiatsu collapses and all he can feel are the clammy press of her fingers over his hand, weighing him down like a fouled confession.

"I think we should stop now," she insists. When she turns, her face is almost immaculately anointed in sweat, and he thinks she is on the verge of giving him a sermon for his behaviour. But all she says is:

"You shouldn't tempt me."

3.

And there is the final step, the step of conversion – from corruptible body to incorruptible Soul Reaper, which he oversees.

She does not flinch like Kurosaki when the chain self-consumes. Instead, her shining, almost divine patience endures, even up to the moment when the binding spells holding her back erupt in an explosion of spiritual energy that sends tremor across the cavern. The blast makes him think it is the end of the world.

He feels proud that he has possessed such a disciple, and even before the smoke clears he says aloud to the pair of her stunned classmates: "And this is the day when the meek shall inherit the earth! Just you watch."

But Yoruichi is not convinced. Rightly so, too. Because, to Kisuke's shock, the first thing that emerges from the smoke is a lithe figure crowned with a hollow mask like a veil concealing everything but her eyes, with legs curled at right-angles at the knee. Her knuckles shine with white, unblemished bone.

It takes both the combined effort of him and Yoruichi to restrict the Tatsuki-turned-hollow into a small square of space. He believes, radically, that the human side of her is still fighting for control in there. Yet, he knows that, when events transgress into such chaos, there is only one option left. He draws Benihime, awakens the blade as the hollow advances.

"Think not about peace," he mutters. "I came, really, to send a sword. A sword to cleanse you of your evil."

Whether or not the hollow understands is not of his concern. But another blast of reiatsu throws him to his knees – the hollow's yells from within are almost demonic, and without waiting he charges in, slashing –

Then a voice rebukes him:

"Why look for the dead among the living?"

Wait –

Benihime is answered by metal.

And there, one knee blown and bleeding, she holds his swipe in place. From her raised hand stretches a thin, curled blade – so bent it seems to mimic the arc of her arm. Blood stains her forehead, fragments of something brittle dust the ground. He looks at her and thinks, really, the grin she is trying to put on is heavenly.

He risks a question, slackening his hold on his sword:

"How does it feel like to be raised from the dead?"

"Blameless, save for one thing."

And he sees an interval of black, as she deals a horizontal blow square between his eyes. In between the hazy inversion of his vision and Yoruichi's arm steadying him to his feet, he hears her say righteously:

"Imagine yourself as Kurosaki."

Edited: 23.07.09.

NOTES: I tried to get inspiration for Tatsuki's hollow form from Clare's awakened rampage in Claymore. Looks like I failed quite badly.