Title: Dusk Crept Through the Greenwood
Contest Theme: Shadows (Originally written for the IchiRuki LJ community Fall 2006 Fanworks Contest)
Dedication: This one's for Tenebris, who is kin and gets this.
Disclaimer: Bleach is rightful property of Kubo Tite, Shounen Jump and TV Tokyo. I promise to put everything back when I'm done.
Rating: Mature/R (horror elements, violence, language)
Genre/Pairings: one-shot, gen, plot, Ichigo&Rukia=one true partnership
Timeline: Set during the one-month time-jump between manga ch. 228 and 229. Spoilers up to those chapters.
Summary: A chance chase after a lost soul leads Ichigo and Rukia beyond the woods we know. (9,978 words)

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o o o

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Rukia stretched her arms above her head, and let her gaze wander the cityscape beneath her. The street lamps shimmered through the fog that had cloaked Karakura. The autumn dark had fallen early; even in calmer days, it would be a time to be wary of Hollows.

Others watched over the town tonight: she would be returning to Soul Society. Karakura had become a top priority area with the revelation of Aizen's plans. Only months ago, she had roamed the streets with just Ichigo, whom she'd armed with attitude and her own lent powers, to track down stray Hollows as they showed up on her mobile phone. Those times now felt a fond childhood memory, but they were the beginning: they had redefined her life.

With a sigh, she began to summon the swallowtail that would take her back. Instead of the cool whisp of wind as worlds brushed together, instead of the smooth creak of the wood-and-paper doorway, a high, soft wail was carried up to her. A spirit pressure flashed through the fog some way off as she went to the edge of the roof to see.

'That's not a Hollow. It's a Plus.' She could have gone back to Captain Hitsugaya and reported the sighting, but it would only take a moment to give the spirit a soul burial.

Rukia dropped down to the street. The reiatsu felt erratic, wavering even as she honed in on it. It was always possible and even probable the soul was injured; however, any Hollow responsible should not escape the patrols. The spirit swerved behind a house, dwindling as it went. She poured on speed.

Another aura billowed up against her side and obstructed her view of the Plus. She whirled around in alarm and irritation. "Hey, do you mind—Ichigo!"

His feet struck the street in mid-stride, and he threw her a lopsided grin. "Hey, Rukia."

Ordinarily, he would have got a foot in the face for fouling her chase. Now, as her surprise abated, she found herself cracking a crooked smile. She trusted he had vanished for good reasons. Regardless, she had not seen him in weeks, not since leaving with Inoue. She had missed his scowling and snide remarks.

"Rumour was you'd turned tail on us," she quipped. "It seems reports of your desertion are greatly exaggerated." She turned to go, partly to rein in the dozens of questions raised by the sight of him. He would tell her when he was done and ready—or she would punch it out of him, either way.

Ichigo fell into step beside her. "I've been training." The retort was less vehement than she had expected. Rukia hoped he at least harboured some guilt for little sisters left in the dark when he'd gone.

She eyed him critically: he was clad in shinigami black, hair tousled from running, his gait springy and easy. His reiatsu was as untamed as ever; she pushed it below her notice as she scanned the vicinity. "Uh-huh? Your aura's still loose as a first-year's, at least."

Ichigo scoffed. "Good to see you too, Rukia. What're you doing here anyway? I heard you were in Soul Society—that is, uh—" He bit off the end of the sentence. She decided to let it slip.

"Order dispatch to Captain Hitsugaya. The butterflies aren't safe anymore. There have been interceptions."

"The war, right?" Ichigo's voice fell just a little. Funny, how that one word could bring the banter to a screeching halt.

"Yes," she said, and after a pause, continued, "Is this nighttime jaunt part of your new regime?" There, she could feel something dead ahead, a few blocks away...

"I gave myself a break. Actually, I was looking for this ghost..." She made a sign for him to be quiet. Someone was crying again: the hiccuping moan of a very small child, with little strength left to cry.

"Do you hear that?" Rukia whispered. Ichigo had leaned closer; he nodded in reply.

"It feels too weak to go much further," she went on, and then nudged Ichigo in the forearm. "Let's see this soul home."

He grinned archly at her. "Just like old times, eh? Come on."

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o o o

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The street gave way to a park, nestled among the buildings. Rukia cleared the steel fence, Ichigo close on her heels. Their sandals ground into the gravel of a path that wound lazily off among the trees. Ichigo nudged her shoulder and jerked his head to the left, where a thick bank of mist shrouded even the lamps that hemmed the path. As they moved on, she threw her senses open to catch whatever trace had alerted him. If the soul was, as she suspected, weak or damaged, it might try to hide even from benevolent searchers.

The foliage whispered with movement just above her; she hissed out, "Over here!" Something tiny and fleet flickered among the branches: a golden sheen skimmed Ichigo's upturned face as it went past him and into the mist.

"What's it so scared of?" Ichigo asked as he took off at a half-run. "We're the good guys, right?"

Rukia was almost leaping to keep up with his loping strides. "I think it's a very young ghost—a child, maybe recently dead. They're very easily frightened. Even by shinigami."

"So, quiet and easy." Ichigo took the lead, without preamble; untrained as he was, the acuity of his natural talent would sometimes surpass her honed perception.

"You catch on fast. When you do."

He huffed at that, but amiably. "Gotcha."

They had veered off the path a few moments ago. The trees pressed closer on each side; the withering grass rasped under their feet. It seemed to Rukia the park was stretching further and further before them, contorted out of its niche between the buildings. Ichigo moved without hesitation, though, so she chalked the sentiment up to the distorting effect of the fog.

Ichigo spoke up, then, "I think it's just up ahead." He slowed his steps. "Something feels weird, though..."

Rukia closed her eyes to let her other sight focus. There was Ichigo, his power tinting the vicinity a warm, opaque red; the trees were rough silhouettes, veiled by the mist. She drew her own reiatsu in and reached further, grasping at the subtle textures of life all around her, sifting, sorting.

"There it is!" She barely remembered to keep her voice low. "It's very faint now. Go carefully." Eyes still shut, she went towards the pale flicker; the spirit thread was frayed and thin, as if hanging together half by chance. Ichigo followed her silently. She let the world slip by, shrugging through the trees.

The ground made a sucking, squelching sound and her foot sank to the ankle. Her eyes snapped wide open.

The street lamps were gone. The tangled branches of the trees hung low, bristling with needles, obscuring her vision. She smelled sap and standing water, laced through with the pungent tang of decomposing plant matter. Wetness crept up the leg of her hakama; she yanked her foot up for a more solid spot.

"Rukia?" Ichigo called, with a note of hesitation, from her right. Rukia exhaled sharply, realising with unexpected elation that he was still there.

"Here," she told him. "Don't move, I'll come to you." She held out her left hand and whispered the incantation to the thirty-third demon art, the familiar syllables a mantra to compose herself to. Something had gone wrong. Badly.

"Soukatsui." A fist-sized orb of blue flared into being above her palm. The shadows shrank back like crouching beasts. The light licked at brambles of thick needles and gleamed off pools of still, black water in the mossy ground. Larger conifers loomed at the edges of her illumination.

Ichigo interrupted her inspection; the mound of wispy grass shifted under his feet as he alighted next to her. He looked her up and down, lingering on her face. She nodded, to both acknowledge and dispel the worry in his eyes.

"Where the fuck are we, Rukia? What happened?" His hand hovered on Zangetsu's hilt; she loosened her own sword in the sheath.

"I don't know," she said honestly. "I was following the soul." Anxiety stifled any urge to contest her slip of attention. The orderly park had become this wild, dank wood, in the blink of an eye for all she knew. That now trumped everything else.

"Well, shit," said Ichigo, summing up her feelings. "This sure as hell ain't Karakura, though. And where'd that ghost go?"

Rukia raised a hand to silence him, biting her lip. "Ichigo—what can you sense? How does this place feel to you?"

He sighed, then concentrated. His breath fogged, silvery in the light; Rukia was becoming conscious of how cold it was. Shinigami were more or less immune to the natural elements, but here a humid chill pervaded the air that sent goosebumps creeping up her arms. She tossed the fireball higher up. They were standing on a tuft of land in what looked like a densely forested swamp, cupped on all sides by wide, grey fingers of woolen mist. Gnarled pines rambled over the ground wherever it was firm enough for their roots to burrow in.

"It feels... like Soul Society." Ichigo looked up; his voice was rough, unsure. "Except... kinda shifty around the edges. I mean, it's hard to get a hold on shapes."

A sharp gasp escaped Rukia before she could control herself. Her hand flew to the phone secured away in her sash even as she cursed her slowness, her stupid, stupid lapse that might...

"Rukia?"

"Shut up, I'm trying to—" The display lit up, thankfully, and she willed her fingers not to shake as she brought up the number. 'Come on, damn it, prove me wrong...'

Static crackled in her ear for a moment. Then the phone let out a plaintive, keening noise and the connection went dead. "Shit."

The fireball still floated where she had sent it overhead: by its light Ichigo's face was pallid and alien as he bent to her. "The hell's the matter? Mind telling me, too?"

She glared at the phone as if it was the culprit of their predicament. Her voice was now hushed by more than anger and worry. "We're not in Soul Society. This is a skerry. I can't think of anything else."

"A what now? I didn't go to your Academy, y'know." Judging by the lack of expletives, he had sensed her mood, even though his irritation showed readily. His hand rose to touch Zangetsu's hilt again.

She had to think clearly now. "We're in the dangai. This is an islet of solid—well, mostly solid—" she glanced down at their wobbly standing place "—spiritual matter. It most likely floats free in the borderland."

"Can't we just go back, then? We haven't come far."

Rukia slid the fireball in the direction they had come—she hoped. Only more trees came into view. A chill scrabbled up her spine as she made a full circle around them with the light.

Ichigo came closer. The heat of his reiatsu washed against and over her, but she had little inclination for her usual tart remarks about his lack of control. He was there. "There's nothing."

She exhaled slowly. "Let me try the phone again. If I can get through, they can locate us."

"Should we find a, ah, firmer position?" He made a face. "If there's something—out there, I'd rather kick its ass while not up to my knees in swamp goo."

"Good point." She raised the phone to her ear, waiting.

He lowered his voice, as tense with hope and dread as she was, and motioned to their left. "I think the ground rises that way."

Rukia nodded and sent the fireball gliding ahead. A beep trembled up from the background hum in her ear. She held her breath as the sound came again.

"I've got something!"

He was already picking footholds across the swamp: a skip landed him on a knoll crowned by twisted junipers. "Well, great—what the fuck?" He scrambled back all of a sudden. Zangetsu's hilt wrap whipped open as he swung the blade down over his shoulder.

She nearly dropped the phone as she rushed to change hands, to tug Shirayuki free. "Ichigo?"

"There's—a thing—" he began ineloquently, hand over his mouth as he parted the thicket with his sword.

A shrill noise cut into her ear again. Swearing, Rukia shoved the phone into her sash. As soon as she reached Ichigo, the smell of the swamp was eclipsed by another: the stench of rotting flesh, heady and choking. The husk lay slumped into the undergrowth.

"It's dead, Ichigo," she said, with as much calm as she could muster.

"I-I knew that!" he barked at her. His eyes were very wide. Poking him gently aside, Rukia used her sword to lift the branches from the body. It was human-shaped, face down to the ground, clad in furs and rough, undyed cloth. The tunic was in ribbons, the strips of wool stiff with old blood. She pulled the light down by her shoulder. The back of the corpse had been torn open, evidently by talons. The flesh beneath was too decayed already to tell much more about the wound—and she really didn't care to look too closely.

Probing under the ruined clothing revealed a belt, hung with leathern pouches and polished bones of various shapes. Shirayuki chimed on metal, and a tiny, thrumming pulse beat through the sword and against her palm. 'What...?' Braving the stink, Rukia pulled out a solid copper tube fastened to the belt. It was speckled with green from the damp.

Ichigo stood a nervous guard as she turned the tube in her hand. She shared his unease; the cause of death was as plain as it was menacing. However, here was another immediate mystery: her soul cutter had reacted to this item. Her gaze moved up to idle on the knots of the junipers as she dwelt on the question.

A flicker above the body caught her eye. The corpse was... a corpse, the spirit long gone. Still, she could have sworn...

The merest vestige of an aura was still undulating around the dead man. She shook her head; the perception stayed the same.

"Look at this." Ichigo turned at her whispered words. Squinting, whether in distaste or concentration, he crouched down next to her.

"It's red," he said at length, and confirmed her suspicion.

"It's a spirit guide," she murmured. "Was."

"A shinigami?"

"Yes, and not dead for overlong. Sometimes, the reiatsu leaves a residue, even after death." Rukia held up the tube. "It's a wild guess, but I suppose this is something like a soul cutter. Shirayuki seems to... recognise it."

"You're kidding."

"I most emphatically am not, Ichigo. Something killed this man. It's still out there." She got to her feet. The strap of the copper tube came loose as she tugged on it, so she folded the object into her sash. "As is the soul."

"Wait-wait, hold on—we're stranded in the middle of nowhere, and—" Ichigo stared at her.

"And we have a duty to do, as shinigami," Rukia bit out. "In addition to finding a way home. Which way did you say was higher ground, again?" The fireball had faded when her attention had diverted; Ichigo was only a shape in the gloom, better visible through his aura. She spoke the spell again.

Ichigo frowned even deeper than usual. "Rukia..."

"Let's find that firmer position first, Ichigo." Her hakama clung to her shin, sopping and icy, and her sandals chafed through the soaked socks. She squared her shoulders. "Lead the way. Keep an eye out for that soul."

He let the wrap wind around Zangetsu with obvious reluctance, but turned to go without another word.

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o o o

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This was insane. It was possible they were really screwed, even if Ichigo didn't draw such conclusions lightly. Even if, up until now, they had run into nothing but the dead man in the swamp. The ground sloped upwards: dense scrub brushed at his wet feet. At least the forest floor itself was drier now, littered with deadwood and mossy rocks between the teeming spruce and pine. The fireball Rukia had cast deepened the shadows just as much as it kept them at bay.

He paused to feel about them again. Beside him, Rukia punched in the same number she'd been trying to call for the past—he had no idea how long. She had a look on her face like she might want to fling the phone into a tree instead of listening to it a second longer.

The air was rank, the wood eerily quiet. They had seen no sign of animal life, save for the claw wounds on the body. Neither did there seem to be spirits around. That was unsettling. He hoped Rukia knew what she was doing.

Rukia's voice was not loud, but Ichigo started all the same. "Ichigo, I got through!" She grabbed his sleeve even as she spoke, a bit breathlessly, into the mobile. "Yes? This is Kuchiki Rukia of the Thirteenth. I need to talk to someone who can trace my position, please. It's urgent."

Her fingers tightened on his sleeve as she went on to recount their situation, her entire frame taut. Ichigo felt a stirring of hope himself. Not being scared didn't mean he wouldn't like a swift return to Karakura.

A pinpoint of reiatsu pricked at him. Ichigo snapped to attention. The soul, by now familiar, fluttered among the trees in an uneven zig-zag. It took him a moment to be sure, but it was nearing them. He pried Rukia's hand from his sleeve. She glanced at him; he pointed. "It's the ghost. Hang on, I'll go look." She nodded in agreement, apparently waiting for someone on the other end.

The darkness was a wall and he walked straight into it. Even in the dead of night, the streets of Karakura opened under his shinigami senses: now he had to stand in place a minute outside the sphere of the light and adjust. The soul provided a good focal point as it moved like a shy bird. He crouched down and held out a palm, really feeling like he was coaxing an animal. "C'mon, it's okay. We're trying to help."

The soul flitted closer, and his thought proved right. It was a bird, small enough to fit inside his fist, its feathers the colour of honey under the light it glinted with. Ichigo stared. For all he could tell, it had the exact, if very feeble, feel of a dead human soul. The form did not match.

He turned his head to call, "Ruki—"

The bird plunged away from him like a slingshot. Wind roared through the trees. Something big eclipsed the fireball's light and bore straight into Rukia. She fell with a startled cry, taken unawares in the middle of her call.

"Rukia!" He tore Zangetsu free as he roused to meet the creature. He glimpsed a trailing garment, a warped human shape. The wavering light outlined a naked, splotchy white body under what he had thought a cloak. It spread into bristling wings as the creature snapped forward with a hiss.

Its reek of rot almost smothered him; Ichigo twisted his sword between them and shoved at the thing. A pale female face leered at him as it shrank back, clawed hands still grasping at him. He knew now what had killed the spirit guide in the swamp.

He swung Zangetsu again. The thing jumped above his strike with disturbing grace. He saw sinewy legs ending in wicked bird's feet; then it beat its wings and rose above his reach. Rukia still hadn't got up, and her black uniform blended her into the undergrowth. Without her to guide it, the fireball was giving out fast.

It seemed like a Hollow, but he couldn't be sure. The reiatsu was strong enough to all but choke his strained senses. The creature was nightfire and deep, old hunger: a deadfall of brambles that would trap anyone foolish enough to venture into it.

In a flash of shadowy wings, the woman-bird was above him. Ichigo snarled, and gauged the angle best as he could. "Getsuga Tenshou—!"

The crescent cleaved through their meshing spirit pressures. The thing dove cleanly under it—at him, claws leading as he ducked—and away, the tips skimming his clothes.

Then something jolted through him with nauseating force. His entire body crawled with spasms of heat: not pain but wrongness that sent him reeling. His knees crashed into the ground and he heard as if from far away the wind of the creature's wings. 'Oh fuck—'

"Dance, Shirayuki!" A blast of clear, frosty air washed over his face and cleansed his senses. Rukia stood over him, Shirayuki white and keen in her grip, as he stumbled to his feet. The fireball burned more brightly again. He could not see the creature just now, but its choking tang lingered.

"Ichigo, I lost the phone!" Rukia seemed torn between scouring the ground and the trees. "What is that thing?"

"I dunno. It feels like a Hollow, but it-it—" He found he had no idea what had just happened. The wooziness was abating and he actually felt fine.

"Can you keep it occupied? I need to find the phone."

Ichigo drew a breath, hard. Zangetsu was a familiar weight in his hand. "I'm on it."

.

o o o

.

Rukia had combed the brushwood where she'd tumbled over and over. Heartbeats stretched into hours; she could not have said how long she had really searched. Ichigo swore behind her and cut another Getsuga. A treetop collapsing some way off was the only result; the creature harried him as it pleased, much more mobile in the confines of the tar-black forest. Rukia was beginning to hate the cawing, throaty laughter that accompanied most of Ichigo's fumbled attacks.

At least he was keeping it off her. The phone just continued to elude her.

"Watch out!" Ichigo dove headlong past her, tucking himself into an impromptu somersault. She danced back as the broad wings swooshed over her light. The fireball climbed at a flick of her hand: as the grisly game of tag moved around, she tried to keep Ichigo from fighting blind.

She turned to see another light blink between the trees: the golden gleam of the spirit that had lured them here. Still, she was positive it was just a lost human soul. Now it was approaching again, as if beckoning her.

Well, the soul was there. The phone was lost. Ichigo had yet to go into bankai, so he could handle himself. She slunk away from the tangling combatants and towards the spirit.

It was a tiny bird: it shone with a smoky sheen in the dimness. Trying to frame the sounds of the fight off her mind, Rukia opened her left hand. "Here. Come on here. I'm a friend."

After a few hesitant skips across the exposed roots of a pine, the bird landed on her hand. Its delicate feet pinched her palm; the beady eyes snapped to her.

Her throat went dry. She found she could only stare back, transfixed. The memory rose with overwhelming force and dragged her under.

The child was born in the cold. The voices around it were hushed and bitter; the mother wept even as she held it. The world was framed by snow and walls that did too little to keep it out. Always, always it was cold.

Soon, the baby could no longer be hidden. The mother ran away from the houses in the night, past the holy ground guarded by the shade of the cross, past the old burial trees. She could trust the child to neither.

The forest was glazed with hoarfrost. The child had no vigour left to cry by the time she stopped: they were deep in spirit country already, where even stolid hunters were sometimes lost to the folk in the wood and stone.

Rukia heaved herself away, panting. Shinigami had an empathy for the dead, for understanding was required for guidance. Even so, this vision, the wisdom of the soul-bird enmeshed in the fragile memory of the child-ghost, imprinted itself on her mind like a brand.

The mother strangled the child and buried it under a cluster of rocks. It was a kinder fate than leaving it to the beasts. Her hands tore on the icy stone, leaving red stains on the black and white ground. The forest watched in silence.

The memory subsided; Rukia gathered her wits. "You're... a jigokuchou," she muttered. The bird regarded her. "You—and that child—are trapped here. That winged Hollow..."

Ajattara. The rasping word sounded like a name. The bird pecked on the hem of her sleeve. Time-sprite. Beldam of this wood. Cruel, hungry, ancient.

A savage shove threw Rukia tottering back. The bird shrilled, high and hopeless, as the—Ajattara—snatched it from Rukia's grasp and soared up and away. The crowing laughter echoed.

A patch of moss cushioned her fall. She leapt up, sword at the ready, but the creature was already beyond her reach. Her shout for Ichigo went unanswered: he had to be down. She did not dare to release a Hakuren with the risk of striking him, too.

The Ajattara veered in a circle. Its spirit pressure seemed to meld and snatch into the wood itself, obscuring its position. But the thing was not fleeing; it was baiting.

Rukia went breathless with sudden fury. How dare that beast—It cawed out again; its pallid flesh flashed glossy in the bird's glow. It had flight and far better night vision than hers, in this murky, confusing place, but she was not without devices of her own.

She threw herself forward with hardly a glance at the footholds. Trees hummed past her as the flash-step bridged the distance to her opponent. Under her breath, she began, "First dance, Tsukishi..."

The world went mushy and gooey and grey, and she inhaled it in a great, amazed gulp as ground dissolved under her feet.

Comprehension dawned too late. 'Stupid, stupid, stupid! The dangai's not stable—' She was sinking as if through loose rice dough: she spit and kicked as her senses revolted. She must push herself back, she couldn't breathe, which way was up, where was Ichigo—

Her throat locked and things went black.

.

o o o

.

Ichigo forced himself onto his feet and swiped the blood from his eyes. His power slurred and lurched. He bit back a wave of light-headedness. The Hollow—even though something was wrong about its reiatsu—had disappeared again. He scanned the pines: the fireball still shed wan light over the clearing of sorts where he stood.

"Fuck. Where'd it go?" It was even more unsettling to be harried from the dark. He raised his voice as another thought hit him. "Rukia?" She'd been out of his sight when he'd taken that hit; his scalp still bled profusely.

Then he had to breathe deep to contain the mounting nausea again. "Dammit, Rukia! Answer me!" He groped around hastily, and there she was, some way off behind him.

Ichigo turned around—and she winked out, her aura deflating into nothing. The winged woman's laughter rang out, raucous and merciless.

Rukia was gone.

His face hardened as he stuffed down the wooziness. He spoke the words clearly, "Bankai, Tensa Zangetsu." and braced himself for the furnace-blast of clean, distilled power.

Instead, he staggered sideways as the escalating reiatsu inverted and pressed back in. His bankai, a state by now as natural as breathing, was crushed down on itself. The weight of his sword wrenched at his arm.

The sword in his hand was the oversized katana that had held Rukia's borrowed power. Numbly, he recognised Shirayuki's crossguard. For all appearances, his reiatsu had rolled backwards.

"What the hell..." he managed aloud before the Hollow surged from the trees. Ichigo sprang to a hurried defence, the feel of his sword suddenly unfamiliar. Zangetsu would have been an extension of his will: another ally now lost. The fireball guttered as he ducked back past it; the light was down to a wintry dusk.

The Hollow darted aside as he struck back. It was more limber by far, especially now. He spun the sword around and beat the thing back, but could not connect. It could harry him like wounded prey, and he was icily aware it would as well.

The long scratch in his temple opened again as he almost stumbled into a pine. With a snarl, he thrust the grasping boughs away. His heart hammered in his throat.

The fireball sputtered out.

The Hollow smashed into him and sprawled him into the underwood. The impact emptied his lungs, and before he could react, impossibly strong hands seized his wrist and tore his fingers from the sword's hilt.

Ichigo hissed as blood flowed from his hand. The creature grabbed his sword—the contact speared through him and he had to choke back a cry—and flung it away like a stick. Its weight on him pinned him down, but he was restrained by more than physical force. This close, she was overwhelming: like the forest itself, as old, as twisted, as dark. He kicked up as hard as he could. She shifted and straddled him, trapping his legs.

The first nail of fear dug into him. Finding strength, he yanked his wrist free and struck at her. His fist sank into flesh like the surface of a mushroom, pliant and clammy.

Her wings swished above as she wrested his hands above his head in one effortless motion. He could breathe nothing but the drugging deadwood smell of her. Her warmth was palpable through his dishevelled clothes; her nails sliced into his wrists.

"Get off me, you freak—" Ichigo started at the terror that hitched his voice. The ground bruised his back as he thrashed against her, every muscle taut with the need to get her off. Her power seeped into his and clamped down on it, draining his strength.

The creature laughed huskily and moved to hold his hands with only one of hers. Ichigo jumped.

She dragged her nails down his chest and stomach. Cloth parted; his blood welled hot onto his skin. For a moment, fear froze him into place. "Let-let go of me—!"

Her grip on him was iron and root. Her skin slid along his, smearing the blood into a film between them. He wanted to gag or to scream or to run.

Soul shepherd. Shaman. The voice was tart as frost, but soft with awful promise. Ichigo neither knew nor cared if it spoke aloud or inside his head. I hunger.

"Leave me alone—fucking creepy bitch—" Her mouth on his broke his words. The kiss was like a wound gouged into his face; her claws pressed into his hip.

The tarry darkness resolved itself into a haze of reds. He felt the woman pull back. His eyes shrank to slits as his power uncoiled like a riptide. White froth rode the dark red wave in his vision, a fragment of an image. The world warped into jellyish slowness as time for him became supple and graceful, a hunter about to pounce.

Power, raw and brilliant, blazed in his hands. It sang with intent of its own, echoed his own fury.

He let it burst forth.

.

o o o

.

Everything had contracted into a tiny black space. Rukia willed it to expand again: she couldn't die here, not in this pathless void and not so foolishly. That lifted her above her panic.

'You can breathe. You can do this. You're a Kuchiki. Kuchiki Rukia.'

The dangai had shifted. She had to backtrack.

Desperately, she thought skerry and darkness and pines. In her mind, she fumbled back through her footfalls. Moss and earth and rock.

Ichigo.

The world snapped back with stunning vividness: Rukia collapsed on all fours and let the sensory overload even out. Her fingers clutched at the moss that stained her knees with damp. The smell of rotting leaves seemed sweet and rich. Bathed in sweat, she still shivered as her body reminded itself of its limits and shape.

Ichigo. She didn't even have time to focus as his reiatsu leaped up at her. It flowed wild and harsh—she flinched at the brutality twined into it. Yet, it was unmistakably Ichigo. Her senses could not be that addled.

Rukia stumbled onto her feet and sprinted towards the source of the aura. Branches scraped at her and her heel slid on a slick rock; however, the sudden dread in her heart overrode caution. What had he done? The undertow of hunger and malice in his spirit pressure sped her pulse and her steps. With sweat-slippery fingers, she gripped Shirayuki tighter.

The ground jutted up in a small rise; she hopped over a patch of rocks. Then the glen just ahead burst with a conflagration of white-red light. It broke tears from her eyes as she skidded to a halt. A dissonant, high-pitched roar drove needles into her ears. She doubled over with a groan.

She only knew one thing that looked and sounded like that. Ears ringing, Rukia flew over the top of the rise. "Ichigo!"

In the dying glow of the Cero, something scuttled backwards: the Ajattara. It ran black with blood all over, looking barely conscious by its faltering steps.

A ragged creature plunged from the underwood and ripped into the bird-woman. Dark, rent clothes hung on its frame. The Ajattara screamed: its attacker flung away a stringy gob of flesh.

For an instant Rukia thought her heart had stopped. The name left her lips a strangled prayer. "Ichigo."

A monochromatic monster leered up at her, the mask an unearthly, lambent white, striated with crimson. The Ajattara spread its wings and launched into wobbling flight. Rukia barely noticed. Only the stiffness of shock kept her knees from buckling. "No, no, please no..."

Shirayuki thrummed in her slackened grasp, her presence a cool glade of equilibrium in her mind. Rukia had been here before. She knew... she knew what had to be...

The rift in the trees overhead let down just enough grey light for her to see. The Hollow crouching in the glen had paused to regard her. The dregs of the uniform rustled as something moved in its chest, beneath the fabric. The carved mask splintered in two and arranged itself into the bones of Ichigo's face. He gave Rukia a look of wide-eyed astonishment and toppled backwards into the dry grasses.

.

o o o

.

The sand-bottomed spring warbled like a blessing. Rukia folded her white sash into a makeshift rag, dipped it into the water and brusquely told him to sit. Ichigo leaned bonelessly against a rock and laid Zangetsu—in his shikai shape again, for now at least—down next to him. He was only now beginning to shake, minutely, tensely. It felt like his reiatsu had exploded all over and was just starting to gravitate back to him. Which was, by Rukia's curt, subdued explanation, pretty much the case.

Rukia pulled his robes out of the way and ran the wet cloth over the claw marks. Ichigo settled for wincing when she probed at the deeper slits. His heartbeat was easing; the sense of calm still seemed unreal. Rukia moved on to his face, wiping away the clotting blood with light, meticulous motions.

Quietly, he drank in the crisp serenity of her aura. He felt the tension in her hands, but her spirit pressure was placid as a moonglade on ice. When she finished, her hand lingered on his bare shoulder. He clenched his teeth to suppress the image of her thin, strong hand twisting into a cruel, taloned one. She applied the healing kidou with a low word: Ichigo tried to subsume himself in the unfurling lifeheat of it through his limbs.

Once the healing was complete, she knelt down next to him. He opened his eyes. Her renewed fireball illuminated the vicinity. Rukia's gaze was inquisitive; she had twigs in her hair. He reached to brush them away.

"Are you feeling any better?" Her hushed tone betrayed unease.

"Yeah," Ichigo said softly, in part truthfully. "Thanks."

"You're welcome." She gripped Shirayuki, resting sheathed in her lap.

"You okay?"

"I'm not hurt."

Ichigo nodded, not quite reassured. "What happened? You just... vanished back there." It was the only part of what had just taken place that he felt in any way ready to face. He stifled his disgust and anger at the rest.

Rukia grimaced, but looked up at him. "One should never shunpo near the borders. They are... unstable areas. I... I forgot that."

Ichigo was almost thankful for the concern that displaced the other emotions. "You fell through this... skerry?"

"For a moment, yes. I was able to pull back from the flash-step in time."

"Well, that's good." The night air nipped at his skin. Despite the tears, he tucked his kosode back into place. "So... shouldn't we move on? I think that—oh yeah." He sharpened at the recollection. "Rukia, the ghost. It was this small bird. Shouldn't it be shaped like a kid?"

She looked so unfazed he had to frown in annoyance. "I'm sure that bird is like our hell butterflies. The jigokuchou are manifestations of dead souls—and their guides to Soul Society."

Ichigo sighed, unable to muster much surprise any more. In a creepy sort of way, this whole place was almost familiar. Just not quite. However, they could sort the details out later. After they got home.

"Then the bird was taking us to the ghost," he said, convinced.

"I believe so. It must have been looking for help for its ward." Rukia stood up. She was haggard and rumpled, but steeled by resolution. He had come to rely on that resolve so much, he realised, and quickly shook his head. "The Hollow—the Ajattara," she tasted the strange word, "frightens it very much."

"Well, didn't she just limp away?" His nonchalance was brittle and he knew it.

"Yes, after you fired a Cero at it," Rukia deadpanned.

"Look, I don't know what the hell that was!" he retorted with heat. His spirit pressure had stabilised—Zangetsu was proof of that—and he just did not want to think about it. Not now.

Her expression mellowed. "Yes. You need Inoue or Captain Unohana." She sounded all but soothing. "You're somehow knotted up, but I cannot unravel it. Especially not here."

Ichigo rushed to change the subject. "The phone still dead?" That had, by some miracle, survived his struggle with the Hollow without being trampled. Rukia had plucked it from the underbrush not far from where he'd fallen. Of course, it still would not connect them to Soul Society.

"I will keep trying if we find more open ground."

"Let's go then. Bet you that bird will come calling soon enough." Ichigo let his mouth curve into a grim sort of grin. Rukia offered him her hand and hauled him up as he clasped it.

.

o o o

.

Ichigo was the first to catch the bird's child-voice drifting through the silent wood. Rukia followed him easily: all other concerns had been swept aside for the time being. They had work to do.

The forest was mostly spruce now; they could hardly weave between the trees without tangling in the spreading boughs. The forest floor grew damper. As the ground began to slant downhill, Rukia moved past Ichigo. She sent the fireball as far ahead as she could without their having to proceed blind. Her pace picked up as if with anticipation.

The bird cried out: a short, pleading note. Ichigo could just make out its glint in the gloom, still a ways off. He hastened after Rukia.

The clearing they entered could hardly be called such. It was faint as a child's fingerprint among the trees. A cluttering of stones broke the underbrush; above them, the bird hovered, wings a bright blur, calling. Ichigo halted to take stock of the place.

Rukia bent down over the stones. The bird hopped onto her shoulder, clinging to her robe. "Ichigo, here." Briskly, she turned a rock and pushed it aside to clatter to the ground. In spite of the noise, the ghost didn't even stir. Ichigo bent to study it over her shoulder: a tiny infant, curled tight inside frayed swaddling, almost translucent in the wraithly, mingled light of the bird and Rukia's spell.

"Is it... alive?" Could souls die in the first place? He had to ask, though.

Rukia caught his eye as she nodded quickly. "He's just very weak." She took the child in her arms, and loosened her robe so she could fit it close to the warmth of her own body. Then she straightened herself. "We need to bring him with us, so he can be taken where he belongs."

Ichigo knit his brows. "Didn't we—I mean, we can't just do a soul burial? Why?"

"A burial by either of us would send this soul back to our Soul Society." Rukia had grown very grave. "The Royal Guard used to perform burials for... the dead from other countries, but they're sealed away with the King."

"It makes sense, I guess." There was nothing to do now but roll with the punches. "So, the burning question. How do we get back? What do we do in case the—the Hollow comes back?"

"This skerry must have its limits. We might get through to Soul Society from an edge. If they can fix a stable point, they can open a gate."

Ichigo worried his lip with his teeth. Rukia had entirely skipped the Hollow, but he could still feel it: a residual taint on the far end of his senses, so mixed in the feel of the forest as to be inextricable. He glanced at the bird that sat on Rukia's shoulder, crooning at her or the child. "What about that? If it's like a butterfly, can it lead us out?"

Rukia's eyes brightened. "Oh, that is right. I hadn't thought of that." She murmured to the bird and stroked its breast with a finger. It dashed up into the air with an eager chirp. It no longer sounded quite so much like a baby, Ichigo noted. "I think it wants us to follow."

He reached back to free Zangetsu. He had to stop to heft the sword testingly, just to check on him. "Okay. You take the kid and follow the bird. I'm gonna make sure we aren't followed."

She bristled up at once, but there was a vein of naked anxiety in her tone. "Ichigo, no."

He spread his hands in frustration. His voice was level, but forceful, or so he hoped. "Look here now. You're the one who can talk to the bird and knows all these things about the dangai. Without shunpo and—and my bankai, you're even faster than me." 'Plus, if she comes back, she'll go after me.'

"I also have the only light we have."

"Maybe that's our mistake. This place's made of spirit matter. I'll get used to seeing that way."

Rukia scoffed incredulously. "Let me get this straight—you'll blindfold yourself and prance through the creepy woods without even being sure your reiatsu will stay in check?" Her face twisted. "Oh, Ichigo, you idiot."

He groaned in his throat. "Can't you listen to me for once in your life? You'll find us a way back much faster than me. I'll keep that bitch off your back until you do."

"And how will we make sure we'll find each other once I do that?"

Ichigo tilted his head, chin rising. "I found you in Soul Society. You telling me I can't find you on one little isle?"

Something gave in Rukia's expression. She held his gaze as she unsheathed her sword, eyes flinty, fierce with emotion. "Don't do anything stupid. If you—when you finish, come find me right away."

"Same to you," he said, swallowing, and checked on her, too, before looking away. "See you soon."

She whisked off after the bird. Ichigo shut his eyes and let the slumbering forms of the wood take shape in his sight.

.

o o o

.

The bird scurried from tree to tree, as if checking that Rukia would not lag behind. Its glow had brightened enough that she had eschewed the fireball; she had Shirayuki out in one hand, her other arm cradling the soul inside her kosode. The child-ghost was stone-still, all but weightless. Its reiatsu waned so weak she had to stop every now and then to check that it still burned.

Those who died in Soul Society were born back into the living world. What happened to the dead who never made the crossing to the beyond? The question hadn't really occurred to her before.

Supple ferns swished around her legs. The bird perched on a spruce; the needles gilt by its shine, the boughs spread lush and soft. She realised the darkness around them had lessened. The trees stood sparser now. Craning her neck, she glimpsed a gloaming sky above the patchwork of branches. The air smelled cleaner, of recent rain and growing things.

Water lapped against a shore somewhere nearby. Rukia started as the bird let out an abrupt noise, the squeal of a delighted child. Then it took flight; she ran after it through the bracken.

The trees—a birch or a willow broke the row of conifers here and there—bent over a bank that petered out into whispering water. Statuesque reeds, the tallest of them topped by dark cat's-tails, rose well above Rukia's head as she halted at the shore. The grey of the sky was woven through with bony shapes, warped and sculpted by the wind that blew between worlds. Where water became sky, she couldn't tell. Her people had built warded routes through the border, but no human hand had moulded this wilderness of the far dangai.

The reeds rustled. She dropped into a ready stance; her arm curled tighter around the child.

The bow of a boat slid out from the reeds. It was a long, low craft, the curved planks of its sides matted with tar. The rower drew the oars to rest along the boat: it thudded against the stones and floated still barely three strides away from Rukia.

The bird soused down from above with another joyful cry. It alighted on the bow like a living lantern, wings now blazing with a vibrant dying-fire gleam. Somewhat eased, Rukia took a step forward. "Um, excuse me?"

The rower stood up; a heavy cloak fell down in folds around it. It extended an arm, and metal tinkled; the forearm was laden with tarnished, intricate silver jewelry. The fingers looked atrophied, but the bones stood out through the brown skin fine and long: a woman's hand. Rukia peeked at the hooded face. The figure seemed cautious, but had none of the unbridled hostility of the winged woman—Rukia quelled a surge of worry for Ichigo. He'd be okay. He had to be.

She walked closer until the water licked at her sandals. The child on her arm made a whining noise; the bird twittered. She gasped as the figure opened her arms, reaching forward. A waxing spirit pressure brushed against Rukia, disconcertingly familiar: the rower felt almost like a shinigami, down to the burnished copper hue of her aura.

Rukia cleared her throat. "I am shinigami of the Gotei Thirteen of Soul Society. My name is Kuchiki Rukia, of the Thirteenth Division." After a moment's deliberation, she presented her sword, the flat of the blade turned towards the rower. Shirayuki was the only emblem of her position she had at hand. "This is Sode no Shirayuki. She is my companion."

The figure laid a fingertip, the nail chipped, on the blade. Shirayuki rang with a flawless, crystalline peal. Rukia flinched; then her alarm gave way to realisation. Her sword's reaction, and acceptance of the contact, supplemented long-ago lessons at the Academy.

'She's a ferryman! A wanderer of the dangai!'

The rower withdrew and again held out her arms. The child squirmed inside Rukia's kosode, a frail hand rising to grasp at the air. She looked down at the infant, then at the ferryman.

"You want to take the child, right? You can see him safely home." Rukia had no idea if they shared a language; the ferryman had recognised Shirayuki more than Rukia herself. Still, it seemed very important. Someone, somewhere, had to want this child. She swallowed to compose herself. There were other things she had to consider, equally crucial.

Rukia sheathed Shirayuki and indicated herself. "Could you also lead us out?" Urgency rose as she probed around for Ichigo—and found nothing. She gestured back at the forest. "My partner is still out there. I can't go without him."

The figure had not moved, but appeared to listen. Twin sparks of bluish light glimmered in the cowl of her cloak.

She still could not feel Ichigo anywhere. That decided Rukia. She spoke with exaggerated clarity, as if that could make the other understand. "Take the child. Please wait for us. Please. Wait." She pointed at the spot where she stood, hoping the emphasis was enough, and passed the child-soul to the rower.

With utmost care, the ferryman opened her cloak and hid the tiny form inside. The last wispy tatter of swaddling slipped from Rukia's fingers. Her breath shuddered into and out of her lungs. The woman folded herself onto the rower's seat, but kept her eyeless gaze on Rukia.

"Wait." Rukia drew her sword. Then she summoned the blue fireball and bolted back uphill, raking through the thickening atmosphere for any sign of Ichigo.

.

o o o

.

Rukia might as well have walked in soup. The drifting mist was becoming impermeable: it cramped her visibility to a few steps that her spell did nothing to widen.

'Ichigo, where are you?' Shouting was useless; the fog only lured her with false echoes of her own voice. She would kick his ass for this stupid stunt. The idea was cold comfort while she could not locate him.

She tried to stay cued to the lay of the land, for as long as she found the shore again, she could follow it back to the boat. She hoped. For now, the ferryman was still a vague presence in her mind, but the mist obscured even reiatsu: here everything was of spirit. She paused again, allowed her awareness to sweep about in the hope that it would snag on something familiar.

Rukia? Someone spoke her name, very near. She jerked out of her scrutiny. The endless layers of needles in the trees were rippling, as if to a single, unheard note. Hand on her sword, she waited, breath bated, not daring to speak as the silence stirred into a rush of motion through the wood. Tendrils of mist melted from the thicker masses to float round the trees.

Soft footfalls rustled towards her. She spun around to meet them, almost glad to be up against something she could stick a sword in.

"Rukia!"

She gaped. Then she stepped up to him and socked him in the arm. "Never, ever spook me like that again."

He blinked at her in utterly Ichigo-ish bemusement, and her tension unwound into relief. He was a remarkable mess: his sleeve was ripped, his hakama glued to his leg and spattered with bits off moss. His face was barely visible under smudged dirt. Zangetsu was out in his hand.

"You look like shit." It was a Renji turn of phrase, but the fit was undeniable. Unasked, she patted across his sides for injuries. He nudged her away.

"It can wait. Are you okay?"

"Yes," she replied, then went on in the same breath, "We should go."

"I know." Ichigo's voice caught. "She's... pretty riled up."

Rukia glanced at him at that, but did not dispute what he'd said. The forest was coming alive around them. Something skimmed through it, in whispers and gloatings of omen she did not want to study too closely. "Ichigo." She stressed his name on purpose. "What did you do?"

He grit his teeth. "I, ah... ran into her again. She..." He cut himself off and tugged on her shoulder. "Rukia, not now. Come on." His grip was needlessly forceful.

"I'm coming. I found someone who might be able to help us..." She squinted at him, concern vying with prudence. To say the least, he was acting strange. "Really, Ichigo. What happened?"

He gave a sigh that emptied his lungs like a blow. "Just lead the way. Explain later." His hand on the small of her back propelled her into a run, and not a moment too soon.

An all too familiar spirit pressure, white bone and black thorn, bloated behind them. The forest scratched and moaned with the Ajattara's passage. The storm of its wings bent the trees into their path. Only Ichigo's swift pull sideways saved Rukia from colliding with a riven rock. They were both panting soon. It was all she could do to steer them downhill, back towards the water.

Then a gale of air knocked him forward into her back; she dug her feet in and thrust him back upright. "Rukia," he grated out between gasps, even as they raced onwards. "We won't make it, not like this!"

"You—" she vaulted over a clump of junipers—"you saw what happened to me! We can't—"

Without breaking stride, Ichigo grabbed her by the waist and hauled her up over his shoulder. She yelped in surprise. "What—"

He spoke under his breath. "Bankai." His power swelled across her senses and her hair whipped into the draft of air as Ichigo pitched into a full-tilt run. She let out a disbelieving chuckle as the trees swam past in blurs. It was almost worth hanging upside down along his back to realise that the Ajattara's aura was tapering away in her sight.

Then the feel of the creature burst into Rukia's face like a shattering beehive. "Ichigo!" she grit out, but he had already noticed.

"How the fuck can she be there?" He sounded short of breath. "Are we going the right way?"

"You hoist me up like a sack of rice and expect me to—ah, damn it. Just make for the shore! Downhill!" Rukia weighed her chances of using kidou in her present position. Her aim would be shot, but she could do the incantations. She prayed Ichigo's bankai would hold as he careened through a batch of fog: it shaved chilly and damp over her cheeks.

It felt like the forest itself were casting out grasping fingers at them. Ichigo swore as he nearly stumbled over a root. She craned her neck in an attempt to see, but all around them was streaking darkness. The Ajattara seemed to envelop them, enmeshed in every tree and rock: any step of Ichigo's might hurtle them both into her.

The scent of water stole up to her nose. Tenuously, another spirit pressure lapped at her. 'Oh, she waited, thank goodness...' He bounded down a slope. The gloom was lifting.

"Ichigo, keep straight ahead! There's an aura—"

"I feel it," he shouted back. The Ajattara gave a horrible, bone-scraping shriek. It rent into Rukia's ears and made Ichigo falter, but only for an instant. He sped straight through the line of trees and into a jump. She just had time for an undignified shriek before they crashed down with a flat, wooden thud. The boat rocked sideways as she squirmed up from under the heap of Ichigo on her.

"Next time, aim."

He gave a grunt by way of comeback.

They were moving already, the craft gliding towards open water. The ferryman pulled on the oars with the steadfast demeanour of someone with all the time in the world. Rukia scampered up, not quite so temperate; but they drew away in smooth strokes. Ichigo drew himself up beside her.

Along the hanging trees, the Ajattara circled, a blemish against the darkness of the wood. Ichigo's face became strange and pained. For a moment, he was looking past her and seeing only the distancing shore. Then he flopped onto his back on the bottom of the boat and rested his forearm across his face.

The ferryman kept rowing. Understanding no help would come that way, Rukia crammed herself in the space between the back thwart board and Ichigo. He rose enough that she could cross her legs and angle her back against the thwart. Wordlessly, she let him lean his shoulder and side into her chest. The boat smelled of tar, not unpleasantly; Ichigo's hair prickled her chin. She linked her arms around his shoulders and closed her eyes.

.

o o o

.

The drone of a car engine filtered through the grey dimness. Ichigo stirred. Rukia was already clambering onto the thwart, elbowing him up as she did so. They stared up at the support beams of a concrete bridge, seeming to solidify only as it appeared into view. The street lamps topping it cast a string of trembling pools of light into the water. Grassy banks rimmed the waterway on both sides; beyond them, roofs rose through whorls and eddies of mist.

He let out a long, light sigh. "It's the Karasu River, Rukia."

We're home. That he left unsaid, but it was writ large on his face, anyway. She smiled at him.

They hopped ashore as soon as the bow of the boat thumped on the bank. Rukia turned back and bowed silently; Ichigo raised his hand in goodbye. The ferryman gave them a last glance, then turned the boat to slide downstream. The oars plied the murky water nigh without sound as it was swallowed by the fog.

He sat down on the tall steel fence that separated the river from the street that ran along it. Rukia crouched on top of a post next to him. She took out the phone, chose a number, and waited.

"This is Kuchiki Rukia of the Thirteenth reporting in."

She gave a smart, brief account to the Twelfth Division dispatch. A full report apparently could wait: for his part Ichigo was simply content he didn't have to make it. He rocked back on the fence as she tucked the phone back into her kosode. She looked at him out of the corner of her eye.

"You feeling all right?"

"Yeah. Fine." He was beginning to believe he really was.

The mist made curling ghosts on the empty street, opalescent under the lamps. They sat quietly for a while.

Rukia coughed. "You'll go back to your training, then?

"They're probably already pissed at me. M'late." Ichigo found he didn't mind that much. He would be smacked when he got back, but a few hours' absence ought not to shake anyone's peace of mind. "And you? Back to Soul Society? You're gonna brave the trip, after this?" He tried to put a note of irony in the question; still, it came out soft.

She smirked, kindly. Only she could make such a face. "Of course I am. It's a shinigami's job." She shuffled closer to him, one hand on the railing for balance.

Despite their exchange, they both stayed on the fence. It was just as well to steal a bit out of time in good company, before stepping back into the world again.

o o o

P.S.: I owe a huge thank you to the sexy awesome crew o' ladies that saw this boat safely into the harbour: Raynos and Tenebris and Jaina, sine quis non. They cheered me on and took ungodly delight in Ichigo getting molested in a creepy forest, and pulled off betas for me on notice no one should endure. All mistakes left are mine alone.

I really snatched the Bleach cosmology and ran with it this time. I hope you've enjoyed the journey. To any folklorists in the audience who might want to smack me for my poetic liberties with my native myths: they were willing sins, and that is all.

For the curious, a very quick and dirty breakdown would be as follows (I may do a more in-depth dissertation later and put a link here. This will hopefully do for now.):

a) The Ajattara [AH-ya-ttah-rah] is based on a wood-devil of the same name in Finnish myth. The version seen here is an unholy union of several incarnations of this creature.

b) The soul-bird is a feature of Karelian folklore: a wooden bird that is thought to help the dead find their way to a peaceful afterlife.

c) There are many creatures in Finnish folklore that are said to be the wailing soul of a dead child. Such a child had not been buried in properly blessed ground, which caused the soul to go wandering.

The title is a bow to Johanna Sinisalo, author of the novel Not Before Sundown, which was a wellspring of inspiration. It is also a translated line of a Finnish children's song, Päivänsäde ja menninkäinen ("Goldwing and Troll") by Reino Helismaa.

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