Marigold

Introduction

This has been lurking on my flashdrive for ages, but I've kinda prevaricated with it, because Sukuse and Fourth Maki happened. Since the Meifu stories are not entirely with canon now, in the case of Unohana, this one might sway away a little from manga canon too, because it does involve some loose connections to Meifu, simply because its an easier thing to do, to keep within the same mental mindset.

I already wrote Aizen's backstory, and this is in some ways a continuation. But you'll notice that the title of this story isn't relating to Aizen at all. The marigold is the flower of the Third Division, and the central character of this story is Rose. Everything that can be is brought in line with canon, but as with any ongoing manga, contradictions may occur during writing. The early parts of this and a lot of the concept was constructed long before the start of the new manga arc. Therefore I didn't have the most recent information available to me. Even so, I don't think Kubo has moved away from the kind of character I think Rose is meant to be, so it's all good. I've always felt the core of Rose's being is music, and this story works on that focus - with a Rose in a time before he brought everything into harmony.

Rose is joined in the story by Lisa and Aizen as classmates, as well as one other who has yet to enter manga though is officially part of canon. I have no proof or basis for Rose and Aizen being schoolmates, but have simply decided it on the basis that Aizen was a VC and Rose a new Captain at the time of the Pendulum. I could not resist including Sousuke simply because he's so fascinating to consider before he became a Captain or VC. This is a time when he hasn't given up on finding friends who will understand and accept him - before the Sousuke that Ichigo adjudges as lonely and wishing to be weak. As for Lisa, I am amazed how few people realise that the Vaizard Rose is shown with most often isn't Love, but Lisa - and the only one Lisa shows any concern for in the Pendulum arc is Rose. They act as though they have been together a long time, so I brought them together in this story. It's just as possible that relationship was forged through the Gotei, but I like the idea of them being Academy classmates.

One other thing. The link to Meifu/Sukuse is very loose but it is there, and most of all in Rose's heritage. Throughout Meifu, I said that there was a canon character who was a clear descendant of the Endou. Nobody then guessed who it was, but the answer is Rose. Rose, whose surname means Phoenix Bridge, and whose mask is a hunting bird...Rose who is gentle and laid back and artistic, but capable of a ruthlessly dark attitude when on the field of battle. I know Rose's zanpakutou isn't bird related, but he does have the same ruthless edge of the Endou in his pursuit of the enemy, and with the bird mask, it just fit so well.

Rose is Hirata's descendant, just as Sousuke is, obviously, Eiraki's. Meifu/Sukuse are set a long time before this tale and most characters from that world won't appear here simply because they are no longer alive to do so. But at least two are, and they will appear (other than Juu and Shun of course). And, just to bring it all full circle, I decided to include Ametatsu from Rain Dragon as Ukitake's VC in this story. I guess you can say this is set 250-300 years before current canon.

Disclaimer:
As ever, all Bleach concepts belong to Kubo Tite, and any of his characters that appear here have been bribed this way with copious amounts of cookies.

Prologue

The flowers stretched out as far as the eyes could see, a brilliant carpet of reds and blues that seemed to encompass the whole world.

On the grass, a small boy of seven sat cross-legged, the tips of his muzzy crop of strawberry golden hair touching against his shoulders in the gentle summer breeze. He was robed in silks of soft brown, gold and burgundy, cut from expensive cloth, but it was the simple beauty around him that had so captivated his attention. Industriously examining the nearest blossoms one by one, he absorbed their individual colours and shapes, oblivious to anything but the tiny, perfectly formed fragments of nature he held in his young hands. Each one was different, he realised – some had rounded flowers, others fell in trumpet-like bells and others had petals that tapered to a sharp tip, jagged and challenging to their milder companions.

His nanny had once likened them to a floral orchestra, and the young boy had grasped onto this idea, holding it tightly within his heart. He had never seen a real orchestra, for the manor was often silent and dark now, but in the days when his mother had been alive, everything had been different. Colour and light had filled each room from ceiling to floor, and every weekend musicians had been summoned to play at mealtimes and to celebrate special occasions. The boy was too young to remember these happier days, but even so, somehow he had felt them resonating inside of him when his nurse had talked, understanding that everything that now surrounded him was a fragment of nature's own individual harmony.

"Roujuu-sama!"

The voice of his nanny drew him from his reverie at that moment, raising his head to see her coming across the grass towards him at some speed. There was a harried note in her tones, he realised, and he scrambled to his feet, instinctively dusting himself clear of the grass and leaf litter as he realised what it meant.

His father was home, a day early. And, no doubt, had called for him.

"Roujuu-sama, the master is here." As she reached him, the young woman's words confirmed his fears, and she grasped him by the shoulders, giving an exclamation of horror as she saw the wide green stains spread up across the delicate fabric of his clothing.

"Roujuu-sama…your robes! Those stains…oh, and there's not time!"

She was frightened now, and with good reason, for on the horizon the young boy had seen the reason for her panic all too clearly. He was following her, broad frame striding with confidence and determination through the rows of flowers, trampling them underfoot without so much as a second glance as he made his way towards them. Roujuurou found himself trembling with fear and anticipation as the soldier lord drew close to them and then, without a single word, he pushed the nursemaid away, sending her flying backwards onto the grass. There was a long moment of silence as he surveyed his young son, then,

"What is the meaning of this?"

His words were barked out as though giving orders to his men, and, terrified, Roujuurou could not find a way to answer. His throat choked up with fright and guilt, his hands sliding behind his back instinctively, as though he could somehow protect the delicate blossoms from the fallout of the older man's temper. Out of the corner of his eye he could see his nanny scrambling to her feet, yet his father ignored her, grabbing the boy by the arms and giving him a hefty shake. The blossoms fell from between his fingers, discarded and folorn on the grass, but Roujuurou had no chance to even glance at them, for he could sense the crescendo of his father's anger and he knew that there was no way out.

"Speak to me, unless you've lost your tongue," he snapped. "Why are you here, playing with the flowers like some girl instead of practicing your swords like I charged you? You are not going to be seven years old forever – do you think I can tolerate it, having a sissy for a son? I will not. I cannot! You are forbidden from coming to this place – so why are you here?"

Roujuurou quailed, terror in his gaze as he stared up at the immense form of his formidable father. Then, in a soft, choked whisper, he said,

"I like the flowers, Otousama. They're pretty."

"Pretty?" The word was almost roared out, a heavy hand swinging down at speed towards him and before he could register what had happened, the young boy's entire frame was shaking with the force of the impact. Somehow he stayed on his feet, yet the stinging sensation in his cheek and jaw caused tears to glitter in his frightened eyes.

"Flowers and pretty are for daughters. Not sons." His father bent towards him, a dark glare in his unreadable eyes. "Your name is Roujuurou, not Roujuu-ko. Do you understand me? You are not to play here. It is not appropriate for boys to play with flowers."

"Nakahira-sama, Roujuu-sama has trained very diligently with his sword after breakfast each day, before his classes." The nurse had managed to get to her feet, slipping bravely in front of her young charge as she realised the danger of the situation. "He only came out to get some air before returning to the schoolroom – since the day is a hot one, and…"

"I do not remember asking you to speak." Nakahira turned on the nanny, and she cowered back away from him as though afraid he would next strike her. "You are too soft on him, Meiko. Far, far too soft. I have warned you before, do not mollycoddle the boy. He has the name of this family to uphold – the proud heritage of this family to consider. He is my only son, and I will not have it said that the boys of the Ootoribashi-ke play with flowers and skip around gardens like young hime. What kind of a laughing stock would that make us then, descendants as we are from one of Seireitei's greatest ancient warrior Clans?"

His eyes became slits of derision.

"To think a child of mine..." he murmured, censure clear in his tones. "A child born with the spirit potential to be one of the greatest warriors our family has known for generations, and yet I find him here, making daisy chains instead of attending to his family obligations! I blame his mother - cursing him with such a silly, sissy name then dying and leaving me to beat sense and discipline into the result. I won't have it any more. I won't!"

Roujuurou flinched, shame in his eyes as he lowered his gaze to the ground. He had heard this many times before. In his schoolroom, the crest of the hunting bird glared down at him accusingly as he wrote out lines of neat, carefully rounded kanji, and in his History lessons he was used to hearing about the ancient Clan – the family who had once ruled a whole swathe of Seireitei and who had held their tenants in constant fear. They had once been the equals of the Great families of Kuchiki and Shihouin who still held their lands with such pride and splendour, and even at such a young age, Roujuurou knew that he had had great ancestors. Even though now, his family's standing had slipped to below the Great Nobility, they were still noble blood – Clan blood – and they were still powerful landholders in their own particular demesne.

Yet Roujuurou didn't care about all of those things. He trained with the sword because he feared his Father, not because he wanted to hold the weapon in his hand and learn how to cut the throats of anyone who crossed his path. The tales of slaughter and destruction haunted his nightmares rather than give him any sense of Clan pride – and at night he would often watch the shadows dance across his bedroom wall, afraid one of them may break in and swallow him whole.

Still, more than the shadows and the nightmares, Roujuurou feared his father. More than anything he was afraid of the great man who had complete control over every aspect of his young life. He was the only son, yet he would be made into a son the Lord could be proud of, no matter what lengths had to be gone to to achieve it. And, as he felt the bulky man grab hold of him once again, Roujuurou knew beyond all doubt what was about to happen.

Here, in the open gardens, surrounded by so much peace and beauty, his father was going to beat him. And he would draw blood – blood that would splatter the pretty blossoms and taint their colours with the dull red that Roujuurou associated with violence and despair.

It had happened before, .

And it would no doubt happen again.

Roujuurou screwed up his eyes as the first explosion of pain came against his gut, his father pummelling his fists against the young boy's stomach. He smashed the hard, ring-laden knuckles against his son's ribcage, once, then again, and again as in the background Roujuurou was aware of his nanny's screaming and begging the Lord to be merciful. The Lord did not listen – he never listened – and Roujuurou was too enveloped by pain and terror to be able to form words or even whimpers of his own. A violent crack, then a shriek told him that Meiko had tried to intervene and had been struck down, the sharp gust of her body falling to the ground alongside him casting further fright into the young boy's soul. His father was truly angry this time – not just cross, but angry enough to kill him – maybe angry enough to kill the both of them.

A fresh explosion of pain jolted him from this line of thought as the Lord threw him down to the ground like a rag doll, stamping his foot against his son's fingers and then kicking out at the young boy's head. Roujuurou was crying now, tears rolling soundlessly down bruising cheeks as from all corners of his awareness he saw shadows closing in on him, stifling him in between the thunder-claps of agony that wracked through his small, delicate frame.

As the shadows closed in, Roujuurou was aware of something else, stirring, deep down inside of him. Something dark and determined, something thicker and blacker than the shadows that tormented him.

As Nakahira brought his foot down for a final assault, Roujuurou was no longer in the gardens. Roujuurou was no longer feeling pain – any pain. In Roujuurou's world, all was darkness…darkness and a slow, silent sinking into an oblivion from which he could not escape.

In the garden, Nakahira's frenzy was over, and he gazed down at the battered, bloody form of his young son. He was broken and bruised, but breathing, and as he bent to touch the boy's cheek, two fuzzy eyes focused towards him, no emotion in their gaze.

"You understand, now," Nakahira spoke softly, but the boy did not try to open his already swollen jaw, merely staring at his father in unspoken accusation.

Nakahira turned to glance at the fallen form of the nanny, taking into account her pale stillness and the blood that trickled from the corner of her mouth. Her neck was bent at an odd angle, and without moving closer he could tell that she was dead.

He sighed, grasping his son by the fabric of his stained kimono and hauling him up over his shoulder as if he were no more than a sack of potatoes.

"No more of this," he said softly. "From now on, no more of this. You will learn, my boy, what it means to be a descendant of the Endou Clan. And you will one day make this family proud."

The boy did not speak, yet in the depths of his gaze, out of his father's view storms began to gather in the darkness.

And then, for the first time, a voice spoke deep inside his head.

Not if I don't kill you first, old man. Not if I don't kill you first.