Disclaimer: I don't own Bleach or any Bleach characters. This fanfiction is for entertainment purposes only and no profit is being made.

Warnings for this chapter: violence, gore, bad language, some sexual content

The main pairings are Rukia/Ichigo and Rukia/Byakuya.

X

Chapter 7

The wind was cold and dry on Rukia's cheek, but the sun was shining with the promise of warmer weather for later. Her hands were slowly growing numb and she rubbed her fingers together, regretting that she had left her gloves behind.

"This is the spot," she declared. Huffing a bit, she stopped and bent down, putting the wooden cage on the ground.

Ichigo and Chad stopped with her, flanking her on either side. A bit ways off behind them, their horses were tied to trees and a servant was waiting for them.

The time had finally come for Chappy to be set free, and Rukia had insisted on riding out into the middle of the forest to do so. She had ridden the whole way with Chappy's wooden cage under her arm.

Chad had accompanied her, of course, and the Warlord himself had ridden out with her on his stallion. He had said that it was because he wanted a respite from the hard work that was war, a break from depressing reports and the petitions from the navy for better wages.

But from the way he would look sideways at her face, watching the way she smiled and the way she tossed her head to keep the hair out of her eyes, she suspected he only came along to spend time with her. She caught him looking a few times, and he would quickly look away and flush. It made her feel terribly self-conscious, but a bit smug as well.

"What's so special about this spot?" said Ichigo, kicking at some dead leaves.

Rukia lifted the latch from the cage and reached in. Chappy huddled in a little brown ball of fuzz as she grabbed him and pulled him out.

"There you go, Chappy," she cooed, laying him onto the ground. The rabbit's nose twitched, and he scratched her.

"Go on, now, Chappy. Go home! I'm sure your family misses you."

They all stared in silence. Rukia was breathing hard, her eyes alight with excitement. But all the rabbit did was sniff around and slowly, slowly, hop away into the distance.

"Do you think poor Chappy will be alright?" she asked. She turned to Ichigo and saw that he had been looking at her again. His cheeks reddened and he tried to cover it up with an irritable shrug.

"Psh. How should I know?"

"Well I think that it's too cold for little Chappy. He might freeze to death before he finds shelter. Should we catch him again and make a little coat for him?"

He raised an eyebrow at this, and Rukia felt herself flush a bit at how childish the suggestion was.

"I wouldn't know," he replied. "All I know how to do is shoot and skin a rabbit. But I don't think Chappy would appreciate a coat made from, well, himself."

Rukia grimaced. "Ugh. You're awful."

She turned on the toes of her feet and started walking back. The leaves crunched merrily underneath her boots. She was in high spirits, even though she had yet to think up another escape plan, another scheme, another battle strategy. Being outdoors always lifted her mood, especially when it was cold and crisp.

"Are you cold?" Ichigo asked, coming closer to her when he saw her blowing on her hands.

"A bit. I left my gloves behind."

He took her hand in his and tucked it into his sleeve, trapping it in the warmth of his body. She grasped his bare arm, hot and strong, and a delightful little shiver ran through her body, titillating, like raindrops on naked skin.

But she squirmed away when he drew her close and kissed her on the lips.

"You shouldn't keep doing that," she said, even as her mouth moistened and her pulse thrummed with desire.

"Why not? You don't like being kissed?"

"I don't like being kissed by you," she said. She gave him a little shove and turned her face away from the enchanting slant of his smile.

"I hope you know," she said with a toss of her head, "I hope you know that I'm already in love with someone and he wouldn't like it if he knew you were kissing me."

"Oh?"

"Yes, it's true."

Ichigo bit his lip and Rukia had the sneaking suspicion he was trying to keep from laughing. He probably thought she was lying.

"What, don't you believe me?" she demanded.

"Not a bit, Mistress Kiyone," he said cheerfully, and took her arm again. Even as she gritted her teeth, she couldn't bring herself to pull away from his warmth, so she hid her pleasure by burying her face in his shoulder.

"Are you married to him?" he asked, after they had walked in silence for a while.

"N-no," she admitted. "Not yet, anyway." The color rose to her face again from the mere thought of it.

"Are you betrothed?"

"No."

"Hah. He won't mind if I kiss you, then." He stopped and turned his body towards her, and Rukia found herself pressed up against him, leaning up for a kiss before she even realized she what she was doing.

His mouth was hot against hers as she arched her back, pressing herself into the hardness and heat of him. She could feel his arm wrapping around her waist, nearly lifting her off her feet.

When they parted, she was dizzy with desire and would have swayed if he hadn't been holding her steady. His eyes were soft as he looked down at her, softer than they usually were, and she felt hot, as if she had drunk warm rice wine and the buttery heat was filling her from the inside.

"Oh, get off," she said, even though her voice was husky with her longing for him. He yielded to her half-hearted struggle and released her.

"What d'you think?" he said. The cocky grin was back. "Much better than what you get from Mr. Lover, eh?"

"Hmph." Well, that was true. In fact, it was much better than what she got from anyone, but Rukia was too proud to let him have that satisfaction.

"No, not really," she said flippantly. She spun away from him so that the ends of her scarf smacked him lightly in the face. She walked ahead of him without looking back. "In fact, you can't even compare to my true love. There can be no comparison. It would be like choosing between gold and dust. My true love is the best and noblest man in the South. One strand of his hair is worth more than your entire body. Your kisses are dust compared to just a single touch of his hand. He is gold and you are dust."

Rukia closed her eyes and imagined the gold that was Byakuya. She tried to imagine the brush of the back of his hand, the elegant sweep of his lashes, the rare moments he showed open affection for her, rare as gold.

The mere thought of him had her stopping in her tracks with a gasp as color flooded her cheeks. If she tried hard enough, she could imagine that the breeze was from the passing swish of his robe. She could almost smell the scent of his clothes. It took only a bit more effort to imagine that if she turned her head, it would be Byakuya walking behind her instead of the Northern Warlord and his smoldering stare, one that flitted between anger and love.

X

Lord Kuchiki's eyes were as hard as steel slivers. They glinted like a knife reflecting the light.

If Renji Abarai had not been away from court for the last few weeks, where the fear of treason and espionage hung like a scent in the air, he would have been more afraid than this. To Jushiro Ukitake, the travel-stained Lieutenant was not nearly frightened enough.

Renji stood alone in the center of the hushed room. All other heads were lowered or turned away as he faced the Warlord on his raised seat. There was no one who stood with him, no one who would save him if somehow, Lord Kuchiki's favor swayed against him.

"I ask you again, Lieutenant Abarai," said the Warlord in a voice of ice, "what do you know of Lady Rukia's whereabouts?"

Jūshirō could hear the heavy, almost expectant breathing of the purple-collared man next to him. He could hear the thump of Byakuya's finger as it tapped onto the wooden armrest of the chair.

"As I said," replied Renji, "she asked me to bring her closer to the Northern border. She said she wanted to be closer to the field, so she could better study the war. So she could better understand it. As she was a Lady of the Kuchiki House as well as my betrothed, I could not refuse her. I know this has gone against your wishes, my Lord. I am ready to accept whatever punishment you see fit."

Renji Abarai had no talent for lying, at least not in the face of the Warlord. He never quite learned the sharp wit that the nobles had rolling off their tongues. The young lieutenant was uncultured by a courtier's standards, but he was charismatic, bold, and loyal. Half the court loved him for it and the other half hated that a commoner had become one of the most talented and favored men in Lord Kuchiki's military.

The ones that hated Renji were now waiting with bated breath, crouched in their corners and chairs, peeking through the gaps of the doors, heads bobbing as if they were animals eager to be fed. Jushiro could see the grim delight in their beady eyes, that the Warlord's favorite lieutenant was now standing there without friends, in a dirty, wet cloak, exhausted from his travels because Lord Kuchiki had summoned him as soon as he returned, without giving him time to rest or change.

Half the room recoiled when Byakuya stood abruptly. Three steps down from his raised chair and he was standing right in front of Renji, staring the lieutenant right in the eye.

"I don't believe you," he said. "You are lying to me, Renji Abarai. Don't forget, you still owe your allegiance to me, whether or not you are betrothed to Lady Rukia. I will ask one more time, where is my sister?"

The unspoken threat was as dangerous as a naked sword blade held up to Renji's throat. The courtiers who were closets to the dais flinched.

For a second, Jushiro saw Renji's eyes shift to stare straight at him. He recognized that look, a desperate, secret look that spoke of intrigue of plotting.

But in the next second, Renji had stepped back and sunk into a low bow. "Forgive me, Lord Kuchiki. I have told you the truth. I can tell you nothing else."

For a long moment, he stayed there, bent low in submission while Byakuya stared, pale with anger. Shoulder to shoulder, Renji would be the taller of the two men, but now, it seemed that Lord Kuchiki towered over his lieutenant.

"Have you eloped with her?" Byakuya demanded. His eyes were narrowed into slits and his anger came pouring out in a cold hiss. It must have been difficult to stand up and look into that icy gaze, but Renji managed it without flinching.

"No, sir," said Renji, and Jushiro winced, that the lieutenant should forgo the title of "Your Highness," now of all times.

"Have you taken her away somewhere and married her in secret?"

"No, sir."

"Have you betrayed me? Have you?"

"No, sir." His voice trembled and he spoke and he bowed low again, and it seemed as if he was lowering his head onto the executioner's block.

"Still, you lie. So be it," said the Warlord, and his voice fell like the thud of the axe. "You have sealed your fate."

Byakuya turned and stepped back up the dais to sit in his chair. Almost collectively, the courtiers leaned forward, stretching their necks for the Warlord's next words, waiting for a sentence. But they were denied the pleasure of learning whether the lieutenant would be racked or flogged or imprisoned when Byakuya remained silent and pensive.

Jushiro decided to squelch their curiosities. "If you'll forgive me, Your Highness," he said brightly while making his way to the center of the chamber, "I fear that my sickness is upon me. If you'll excuse me, I must return to my home and rest. Lieutenant Abarai, please escort an old man to his home."

He held out his arm.

Renji looked at him in surprise. "C-Commander Ukitake…"

"Lieutenant Abarai, please escort an old man to his home," Jushiro repeated. Renji blinked and took his elbow. Jushiro dipped into a short bow and together, they left. Someone gasped sharply when they turned their backs, not bothering to exit by way of the careful, measured, backwards steps while facing the Warlord. They escaped, and the whispers behind them followed like the buzzing of wasps.

It was when they passed by the Warlord's guards, standing like armed statues on either side of the door, that Jushiro felt Renji's hand shake.

"Steady," whispered Jushiro, and he grabbed Renji's hand, holding it tightly against his arm. "Don't tremble. Don't look back. Keep your head up, or they'll devour you like the vultures they are."

It was only after they had left Lord Kuchiki's compound and arrived safely at Jushiro's own house that Renji was finally able to collapse in a chair, letting out a shaky breath. A servant pressed a cup of tea in his hands took off his rain-drenched cloak.

Jushiro stood patiently and waited for the lieutenant to get his color back. He watched Renji rub his cheeks, run the back of his knuckles over his chin, shake his head as if he were numb and was trying to get some feeling back into his body.

"Commander Ukitake," he said hoarsely, and took one of Jushiro's hands.

Jushiro felt the cool smoothness of a folded square of paper pressed into his palm. He opened the little white square and his breath caught. Instead of a message, there was bird of paradise drawn in ink, the symbol of the Kyoraku house.

"I see," said Jushiro. "So, you've met Shunsui Kyoraku, haven't you? What did he say? Is it about Lady Rukia?"

"Y-yes," Renji replied. He looked around furtively, as if checking for hidden assassins.

"Then am I right in assuming that what you told Lord Kuchiki was a lie? That Rukia is actually somewhere other than where you claimed?"

"Yes," Renji whispered.

"Where is she?" Jushiro demanded. "Is she safe?"

"She's safe."

"Where is she, Lieutenant?"

"I… I can't say."

"Excuse me?"

"I… General Kyoraku says that her safety depends on her secrecy. If anyone finds out… she could be killed or imprisoned. He said that if Lord Kuchiki knew where she was, he would do anything to rescue her. But that in turn would inform the captors of her true identity, which would be very bad for her. He asked for you to trust me on this."

"Unacceptable," said Jushiro, and crumpled the paper in his fist. "I don't care what Shunsui said. If Rukia is in danger, then you need to tell me."

"I cannot."

"Listen to me, Renji Abarai," said Ukitake. He stepped close and saw Renji flinch at the power behind his weak frame, a power that not even decades of consumption could have dimmed. "Rukia Kuchiki is a child. And not only that, she is my pupil. Whatever danger she's in, she needs help. Tell me where she is."

Renji shook his head. "I cannot. Please, Commander, trust General Kyoraku."

For a long moment, they stared at each other. But Renji refused to give in and Jushiro found himself staring at stubborn, youthful pride, the same pride that he had once recognized in Byakuya's eyes.

He sighed. "Alright, then. I won't force you to talk."

He walked over to the window so that Renji couldn't see the pain on his face. His chest was aching and he longed for the cool soothing mix of his medicine.

"So it's true, then?" Renji said softly. "I didn't believe it at first, but it's true. You are plotting with the Northerners. You are a traitor. Goodness, I suppose I am too. Have you really done treason, Commander? You, of all people?"

Jushiro laughed. His voice came out flat and humorless. "Treason? Yes, indeed. But plotting with the Northerners? No. I've only plotted with one Northerner, and I would never plot against Lord Byakuya."

He turned to look at Renji, who was watching him with wide eyes. A drop of rainwater ran down the lieutenant's face, like a tear.

He is young, Jushiro thought. He is rash and young and bold, and has been friends with Rukia since childhood. They always hung around each other, and everyone at court knew that Rukia adored him. No wonder Byakuya thought they had gone and eloped.

As for Shunsui Kyoraku, he wouldn't put it past the man to have a personal agenda for keeping Rukia's location secret.

He sighed and rubbed his forehead, trying to smooth out the furrows. "Shunsui should not have drawn you into this. You have so much more to lose than either of us. For that, I'm sorry."

He watched Renji's posture slump, saw him put his face in his hands, breathing hard.

"You can stay here with me," said Jushiro. "You can stay here as long as you want. That way, if Lord Byakuya does send his men to arrest you, I'll offer you whatever protection I can."

Renji shook his head. "No. If you don't mind me saying so, Commander, I'd rather not hide like a coward. If they come for me, then they come for me. I'm ready to die for her sake."

He stood and drew himself up, as if bracing himself. The manservant came and put the cloak around his shoulders. He drew it tight about himself, as if it were armor.

"Besides," said Renji, "I wouldn't want you to get into trouble on my account."

This drew a short bark of laughter from Jushiro. "Oh, no worries there, Lieutenant. I'm already in trouble with the Warlord on my own."

"Is it because of…?"

Jushiro shook his head. "It's because I wouldn't support His Highness' decisions as of late. And I have refused to contribute to his campaign in the North."

"But surely he wouldn't arrest you, Commander. You're his oldest and most loyal friend. Everyone knows that."

"Hmm." Jushiro smiled and nodded, but he knew that even old and loyal friends could be replaced. The image of Gin Ichimaru's claw, perched on Byakuya's shoulder as if it belonged there, came to mind.

"Well, I suppose I'll be off now," said Renji. "Thank you, Commander Ukitake. I'm headed off to the barracks. I guess if I'm to be arrested, my men deserve to know ahead of time."

X

It had rained again. Rukia had watched it come down, perched before the crack of an open window.

The rain had frozen overnight. The trees in the little garden were coated with ice and had bulbs of ice dangling from their branches, as if they were laden with crystal fruit.

Outside, it grew cold enough to set her temples aching whenever she took a walk. The winds came down in great gusts and stirred the frost up from the ground so that it stung her face and she could hardly see.

Soon, Rukia had to give up her daily walks. It grew colder and colder as the world around her tumbled into winter.

She huddled by the fires of the kitchen hearth whenever she could. Sometimes, she would even nap there until late in the afternoon, her face propped on one hand and her shawl folded over her lap. She grew used to hearing the sizzle of the skillets, the splash of the basins, the heavy thud of the cleavers on the wooden boards.

Everywhere else in the house was cold and damp. The Warlord and his advisors met in their coats, bundled up to their ears in wool and fur, their breath coming out in white puffs as they argued and debated.

The heat of the kitchen enticed everyone, drew the off-duty guards and the other servants to sit around the hearth and warm their hands, while the stuffier nobles lingered at the threshold. Rukia's favorite place to nap became crowded and noisy with the buzz of conversation.

But when the Warlord himself entered, shrugging his coat off with a roll of his shoulders, the room was filled with the sound of respectful greetings and the rustle of cloth as everyone stood to bow. The kitchen girls would drop their tasks and rush to spread a rug over the stool, produce a cup of tea, a bowl of soup, hot and sweet.

And always, whenever he came, and all the scattered conversation stopped so that everyone could regroup around him, his eyes flicked towards Rukia, even as she huddled in a messy little bundle by the fireplace, dirty-faced and bleary-eyed. Always, he would stand so the rug fell from his lap and make his way towards her. It always set everyone whispering, how he would take his seat next to her, how they would talk and he would sometimes hold her hand.

The courtiers and his advisors all gossiped that he was courting her, that he had made her his mistress. Whenever she bumped into any of them when she was walking, they would cast cold, disapproving looks at her, then turn up her noses as if they had stepped in something particularly nasty.

One day, she heard a whisper go past her like the breeze as she walked, "Whore of the South."

She would have whirled around and chased after whoever dared to say such a thing, if Chad had not caught her arm. She promptly went back to her rooms and destroyed two pillows, which made her feel somewhat better. Still, the statement left her furious and hung around her all day as if it were a stench.

It was another reason to be annoyed at Ichigo, since he never took the time to dispel the rumors. It made her life just a little bit harder.

But it was always a treat when Orihime Inoue visited. Whenever she had the time, Orihime would steal away from her own quarters and come to Rukia's rooms. For a short while, the bleakness would be interrupted by an adorable pink mouth and eyes that never seemed to stop sparkling.

Orihime Inoue could sing and dance, joke, play cards, and pluck a biwa, and always smelled sweet and fresh. She was pretty and happy, lovelier and plumper than Rukia, and brightened any room like a rosy lantern.

"When I first saw you," Orihime said excitedly, "I never would have guessed that you were a noble! This is so exciting! And you're a Southerner too! You know, I've never been to the South before, but I hear that it's absolutely delightful, with lakes as clear as glass and the loveliest houses, and all kinds of shops too! Tell me, tell me, where did you live? Did you have a great big house like this one? Of course you did, you're a noble after all! Did you have maids to wait on you? Did you wear pretty dresses, made of silk?"

And Rukia could not help but giggle when she giggled. She could not help clasping Orihime's hands as if they were children and telling her all she wanted to know.

"Yes, I lived in a house. A grand house, even bigger than this one."

The pink mouth opened in a gasp. "Really! And did you have servants?"

"Dozens of them. Dozens and dozens. They all had to bow to me whenever they passed me in the hallways. They all had to call me Lady R-… Lady Kiyone."

"And what did you eat?"

"Oh, all kinds of things. Sheep's meat, made a hundred different ways. White rice and eels from the river. Fish, fresh from the ponds. Vegetables, still glistening with dewdrops from the day they were picked. And miniature houses made from sweets."

"And did you have friends? Were you a great, popular lady?"

This would make Rukia sigh, and her lashes would flutter with the ache of nostalgia. "I had a few very close friends. I loved them a great deal. I wonder how they are now."

But there was no lingering on such things when Orihime was around. There was always something to do, some game to play, some piece of music to be sung, some poetry to be recited and then twisted around into a word game.

They fought with pillows until they collapsed from laughing. They cajoled Chad into giving them piggyback rides around the house, one of them riding him like a steed while the other one gave chase, shrieking with laughter. With Orihime, Rukia could do something she had never done before: be as silly and as carefree as she wanted. She could be a silly, indulgent girl, and let down her hair. She could forget about the formality of her upbringing. She could forget about the rigorous training of a soldier.

And in the quieter hours of the night, after Orihime had gone to eat her dinner with the other dancing girls, after baths were taken and pajamas were donned, she would sometimes sneak back into Rukia's rooms with a candle in her hand. Chad would let her pass, without a word.

She would brush out Rukia's long, black hair, still wet from the bathwater, and plait it into a shining rope. They would lay out cards or a board game on Rukia's bedspread and play their games in hushed voices until the late hours of the night. They would lie side by side, pillows pushed together, and talk until they fell asleep.

Orihime would always be gone in the morning, and Rukia's sheets would smell faintly of flowers.

But those days were rare, like the occasional bursts of sunshine in a cold, bleak winter. Most days, Michiru the kitchen girl would be called up to be her bedmate instead. She wasn't as wonderful as Orihime, and went to sleep as soon as the covers were pulled up to her chin. But she was pleasant company and body heat at night saved coal.

Another visitor she sometimes had was Ichigo himself. He took to dining in her rooms several nights a week. Though it galled her to welcome the company of an enemy, she had to admit it was livelier than dining alone with Chad, who barely spoke at all.

On the nights Ichigo visited, the better candles were laid out. The servants dressed better and stood by the table during the meal, jugs in their hands in case they wanted refills.

There was almost no meat for their meals now. In the leanest of months, the best cuts from the hunting parties were sent to the military officers' kitchens. The bones and legs and broken bits were sent to the lower-ranked soldiers.

The Warlord himself went without. It was a time-honored tradition in the North for the ruler to forgo meat when meat was scarce, as a symbol of sacrifice for his men. Ichigo's entire household lived off a vegetable, grain, and fish diet. The indoor ponds were nearly fished clean.

"And what have you been doing when I'm not around?" he asked her. "Not planning something reckless again, I hope?"

"No," said Rukia. "It's too cold out. I'd rather wait until spring." Sullenly, she poked her chopsticks into her rice. There were stews of bean curd laid out on the table between them, and slices of salted fish, but she wasn't hungry.

"Oh, good," he said, and smiled. "I have until spring to enjoy this peace between us, then." His teeth gleamed in the candlelight and Rukia had to duck her head so that he wouldn't see her flush, concentrating on the gold embroidery of his sleeve.

She jumped when Ichigo reached across the table and tugged playfully at her fingers.

"You have such small hands," he said. "Soft, too." He pushed his fingertips under hers and extended, spreading her hand out to its full size. The heel of his palm touched hers, warm like a fire. She looked up into his eyes and saw them smoldering, like coals.

Rukia pulled back, feeling burned by his desire.

"Kiyone, why don't you ever come down to the main hall for dinner? It's where everyone else eats every night. It's a lot livelier than sitting here by yourself. And I'd get to see you more often."

Rukia sniffed. "It's not my fault you don't get to see me. You're too busy making war, locked up in your conference room with all your advisors and generals. And when you're not talking and planning, you ride out to who knows where and I don't see you for days."

"So why don't you dine with everyone else, then? We'd get to see each other more often."

"You know why," said Rukia. She suppressed an angry little shiver at the thought of the whispers and vulgar slurs.

Back at Byakuya's court, she had been called beggar, gold-digger, peasant trash, painted beggar, coddled beggar, beggar in silks. But the perfumed, dainty nobles had never quite stooped to calling her a whore, and while the gossips may have been vicious, there was always the comforting reminder that she had power over all of them, as Lady Rukia of the Kuchiki house. Here, she had no power, and her only security lay in the fiery, fickle passion of Ichigo Kurosaki, her greatest enemy.

One of the maids stepped up to the table and presented a platter of beautiful, fat pears.

Ichigo pointed lazily at one and she lifted it, turning it this way and that for him to see. When he found no blemishes, he nodded and the maid handed the fruit to a servant boy who put it on a smaller plate, tied a red ribbon around the stem, and presented it to Rukia.

Rukia sucked in her lower lip. There was a thin, gold necklace making a ring around the platter. A small red jewel dangled over the edge as a pendant and the pear sat in the middle like a ripe sacrifice.

"See, this is exactly it," she said, not touching any of it. "Everyone thinks you're courting me and no one likes it. It's all very well for you, but I'm the one they're talking about. While you're having your fun, I'm the one who's being slandered. I can hear them whispering whenever I leave the room. Going to dinner in the hall would be like stepping into a den of snakes!"

He laughed, making her anger flare up even hotter. "Don't be so dramatic. Please, how bad can it be? You're a girl, aren't you? Aren't girls used to this sort of thing? It's always 'slut' this or 'whore' that or 'bitch' or whatever, always behind each other's backs. You shouldn't be bothered by it anymore."

Her eyes narrowed into slits. She watched him take a pear for himself, then cut into it with a paring knife. She watched the juice run down his hand, dripping onto the tabletop.

"Of course," she said. The urge to anger him as he had angered her was rising up like bile. "You're right. I have nothing to fear from these people because I'm just a shallow, witless little girl. And besides, the rumors that you're courting me are completely baseless. You haven't the wit or charm to court a sow in heat."

His right eye twitched at that.

"That's the difference between you and the man I actually love," she continued, relishing the venom in her voice, knowing that Ichigo hated to hear about her supposed other lover. "You may be the ruler of the North, but he's a better man, a better lover, and a better warrior than you'll ever be. He's as eloquent as the wisest sage. Compared to him, you bray like a donkey."

"I don't want to hear about him," said Ichigo, a dangerous purr in his voice.

"And he's a genius on the battlefield. I've seen him butcher hundreds of Northerners with little effort, but he's the most gentle lover when he takes his armor off. He kisses like a dream."

"Be quiet."

"Or what?" she shot back.

He glared at her. The paring knife in his hand clattered to the table, leaving a trail of sticky juice. His eyes gleamed as he raised the gouged fruit to his mouth and took a bite. She could hear it crunch between his teeth.

Deliberately, he brought his dripping fingers to his mouth and licked them. She saw his tongue dart out and lap at the juice, his eyes never losing that intense stare.

"You know," he said silkily, "just a few days ago, I led the charge on the western part of the 60th. We laid siege to the town of Tōma for a week."

He got up and stepped around the table over to her side. Rukia gritted her teeth as he reached over her shoulder and picked up the necklace on the platter.

She felt the metallic coldness of it like a knife as he drew it about her neck, stepping behind her to fasten the catch.

"We killed many Southerners the day we finally broke through," he said, his voice as low and husky as a whisper.

She shivered when he slid his fingers down the length of the chain, as if to adjust it on her neck. His fingertips were sticky. She could smell the pear juice on his skin. She could feel the excess of it lingering on her neck. Little sticky drops.

Her throat caught and she couldn't say a word, but she wanted him to wipe it off, not with his hand but with his tongue, as he had lapped it up on his own hand. She could feel the teasing ruffle of his breath on the back of her neck, and knew that his face was bent low over her. If she turned just a little, she could have kissed him full on the mouth.

"Your people put up a good fight, of course," he said. "But they died. They all fell, trying to defend that town. The ground was strewn with them, their purple cloaks all blood-stained."

She could feel her fingernails threatening to break from how hard she was grabbing the armrest. Her jaw ached from clenching. He was speaking in that voice again, so twisted with seduction that she couldn't tell whether he was lying to rile her up or telling the truth.

"There was one man in particular," he said, right in her ear so that she could feel his lips moving around every word. "Handsome. Dark-haired, gray-eyed. He was the last of them. Quite ferocious, really. I killed him myself. I wonder, could that have been your lover, hm?"

He kissed the side of her neck.

"He was brave, up to the very end, when I killed him and his pretty head rolled away on the ground. Was it him, Kiyone? Was it your lover that I killed?"

"Bastard," she growled. The little paring knife glinted invitingly, so she snatched it up, fully intending to pin his stupid, sticky fingers to the table.

"No, Mistress, you mustn't!" shrieked the serving girl, as Rukia brought the knife down.

But Ichigo had effortlessly caught Rukia's wrist and held it so tightly she dropped the knife back onto the table. His other hand came down on her shoulder, holding her down in the chair.

The maid, pale as paper, made as if to approach, but Ichigo shot her a look. "No, don't you move. Or do you think I can't handle a little girl on my own?"

"Y-your Highness…!"

"Let go!" Rukia cried out, wriggling in his grasp. "I'll kill you! I'll rip your eyes out!"

To her surprise, he released her and she surged to her feet. She spun around with her hand curled into a fist, but he simply grabbed her arm as she faced him.

His cheeks were red and his jaw was clenched. Her other hand was poised to slap him but she let it fall to her side. There was a vicious pleasure curling up inside of her when she saw his face. She could see it in his eyes: the venom and spite that was born from jealousy.

Her lips twisted into a smile. In an instant, his arm came around her waist and she was pressed close to him. She heard him groan deeply as he bent her backwards so that she arched into him.

He kissed her harshly and she buried both hands in his hair, gripping tightly enough to hurt him. Her rear bumped into the table's edge as he pushed her backwards, bending her so that the two of them swayed like twisted saplings in the wind. His thigh pushed apart her quivering knees and pressed up against her groin.

She gasped and fought the urge to rub up against him like a cat, like a sow in heat. He sucked at her mouth as if he wanted to drink her up and she dragged her nails down the back of his neck.

He was hurting her, and she knew she was hurting him. But it was an intoxicating, addictive pain, and it set her heart beating so fast that she knew they had to stop. The heat in her belly would consume her if they didn't stop. She would forget every bit of her good breeding and tear the silk between them to pieces if they didn't stop.

With a wrench, she tore her mouth away from his. "Let go," she demanded.

He groaned again and buried his face in her neck, as if he couldn't bear to let her go.

"Let go, let go, let go!" she said, and cuffed him.

He thrust her away from him and they staggered apart, panting and red-faced. She saw the sweat drip from his hairline down to his chin. His teeth were bared. She could see the tendons in his neck, as if he were straining to keep himself back, straining to keep from flinging himself at her.

He made a lunge for the table and snatched up the knife. She flinched, wondering briefly if he would actually kill her.

Instead, he turned and slammed the knife down into the beribboned pear. She gulped and fisted the folds her clothes as the blade sunk into the fleshy curves, all the way up to its hilt. A spout of juice dribbled out and she could smell the ripeness of the sticky, pulpy fluid.

Ichigo uttered a low guttural curse, then stormed out.

Rukia released her breath in a huge, panting sigh. She realized that she had nearly bitten her lip to shreds and wiped at the thin dribble of blood with her sleeve.

"M-mistress?" the maid whimpered.

"Get out," Rukia snapped, too unsettled to bother with being courteous. "Leave me!"

"B-but…"

"Leave! Go on, go!"

The maid and the servant boy made to clear the table but Rukia put a hand on their backs and practically pushed them out the door.

"You too, Chad," she ground out, when she saw Chad waiting by the doorway. "Just… stay out there! Don't come in!"

She slammed the door so hard it shuddered.

With a frustrated cry, she ran to her bed, flung the covers aside, and threw herself onto the mattress.

Shuddering with the memory of his hands on her, she wrenched her robe open and reached inside to tweak at her breast. She moaned as she hiked up her skirts and thrust her other hand between her legs.

She was sweating, nearly mad with desire as she touched herself. Furious with herself, furious with him, she turned her face into the pillow and muffled her scream.

He was the only one who could do this to her, make her like him, then make her hate him as easily as pulling a puppet's strings, then seduce her with a single glance so that she wasn't sure whether to kiss him or strike him, whether to run her fingers through his hair with all the affection of a sister or slit his throat. He tormented her, made her crave him, long for him, hate him, until all the different emotions curdled together in her stomach like sour milk.

She wanted to kill him, even though she knew she'd grieve if he was dead.

She wanted to kiss him, strip him naked and curl up in bed with him, even though she knew she'd hate herself afterwards.

She didn't love him. She didn't love him. But for now…

For now, she desired him and it burned her up like fire.

X

There were dignitaries arriving. Trains of soldiers and horses and carriages had been coming in droves to the Red Maple. The castle gates had been thrown open to admit them: nobles, minor princes who owed their allegiance to Lord Kurosaki, mayors of large towns, magistrates, rich men.

Chad wondered if it was wise to let so many strangers in at once, especially with the number of people in each retinue. It was the perfect opportunity for spies to sneak in.

They had been invited to Ichigo's fortress, both as a celebration for the solstice and as a show of allegiance. The Warlord needed each and every one of the Northern states to be loyal beyond question. He needed men and funding for weapons, and those would have to come in part from the various leaders under Ichigo's rule.

Chad knew Ichigo hated the posturing and the pomp that went along with greeting all of the dignitaries. He knew Ichigo would be in a foul mood just anticipating it, and would be forcing his smiles all day. Ichigo had always been more at ease with military men, being a warrior from birth.

Not to mention, the entire house had been in chaos for the past few days. Before, Ichigo, his men, and his advisors had only used up a quarter of the Red Maple's full capacity. All the other rooms had remained vacant to conserve heat.

Now that important guests were arriving and needed accommodation, whole wings of the house needed to be aired and prepared.

Doors were thrown open for the first time in years. Floors were scrubbed vigorously until they shone. Great wooden logs were thrown on the fires to drive out the chill. Incense was burned in every room to rid the musty smell.

More money was pinched from the Warlord's purse to hire temporary servants from the surrounding towns. Many of them, peasants mostly, were happy to come and earn a few coins, happy to sample a slice of good living.

Chad sighed and leaned against the wall of the hallway. They were fighting again. They hadn't bothered to close the door and Chad could hear every word they were saying.

He peered into the open doorway. Ichigo and the Kotetsu girl were raising their voices to each other again, but haven't quite gotten to the level of shouting. There were clothes and yards of fabric thrown over the bed. There were scarves and colored ribbons flung over the backs of chairs. Baubles and all sorts of hair ornaments covered the tables.

He knew what the problem was. Probably the whole household knew what the problem was, as gossip traveled like the wind.

The Warlord had invited Mistress Kiyone to dinner in the main hall. After much arguing and griping, she had finally agreed.

Days later, when she found out that in fact, the dinner was to be held in the presence of dozens of Northern nobles, she fumed and accused Ichigo of wanting to show off, of wanting to parade a Southern hostage in front of the crowd, of wanting to mock her friendlessness.

Ichigo, in turn, had been affronted and accused her of being a coward and an ingrate.

Kiyone had not taken kindly to that, and called him a pigheaded, cud-chewing, carrot-top sot with half the brain of a particularly dim-witted dung beetle. A shouting match had broken out shortly afterwards, then slowly dissipated. Another erupted the following day and the day after that.

She conceded, then changed her mind, then conceded again. And now, on the day of the solstice, it seemed like she had gone back to refusing.

Chad watched her face Ichigo, small hands clenched and teeth bared, with the dignity of a princess and the stubbornness of a spoiled child.

"You're sending me into a snake pit!" she snarled at Ichigo, who snatched up a length of fabric just to shake it at her. "You know they'll eat me up as soon as I set foot in there. I hate them and they hate me!"

Ichigo looked ready to tear his hair out. "Argh, you're impossible! You're being stupid, you stupid, stupid…!"

"Don't call me stupid, you milk-faced…!"

She lashed out and caused a shelf to tumble down, scattering bracelets and rings.

"Stop breaking things!" Ichigo shouted. "I'm the one who pays for all this, you know. And shut up! How the hell would you know if they hate you? You've never even met them!"

"If how your stupid advisors treat me is anything to go by, then I'm sure these so-called princes will hate me on sight!"

As they continued shouting, Chad sighed and looked rather sadly at the fierce little girl. She was right. Ichigo had no idea.

Even though the Warlord might have turned a blind eye, Chad was the one who saw the angry, jealous stares, heard the vulgar rumors that followed her. The advisors that Ichigo kept in his service were shrewd and ambitious men, who hated the thought of a Southerner, especially a girl, taking up the Warlord's attention. They hated that she had charmed him with a sweep of her eyelashes, with a toss of her head, with the roll of her exotic accent.

Every time she passed by them, there was always a ripple of discontent. There was always a snatch of a whisper that they made sure she caught. And though she never broke down, Chad always saw the slight quiver of her shoulders, the thinning of her lips. He knew it hurt her and made her feel all the lonelier, all the more powerless in an enemy's land.

The bickering came to a lull as they both stopped to catch their breaths. Kiyone went to slump down on the bed.

"Here," said Ichigo, picking up a cherry red kimono with the tips of his fingers. "You should wear this one."

"Don't tell me what to wear," she growled. "And I never said I was going."

He shook out the garment, letting the light catch the silky fineness of it. The red, his red, flashed merrily.

Chad recognized it as a new one. Ichigo probably bought it for her.

"I think it's just the right size, too," said Ichigo.

"Even so…" Kiyone muttered. A second later, her head snapped up and a blush started to bloom across her cheeks. "Wha-! How the hell would you know if it's just the right size? Have you been spying on me while I change?"

In an instant, Ichigo turned just as red and dropped the kimono as if it had burnt him. "NO! You're crazy!"

"You have, haven't you? I knew it! You pervert!"

She sprang to her feet and went for him, fists out.

"Oh, a pervert, am I?" Ichigo growled, and easily caught her by the wrists.

She said something low and husky that Chad couldn't make out, then Ichigo was leaning into her and saying something in that same husky voice.

They grappled and Ichigo seemed to wrench her arm. She cried out sharply, as if in pain, and Chad tensed, wondering if he should intervene.

The thought quickly perished when he saw her reach up and grab a fistful of orange hair, yanking Ichigo down for an open-mouthed kiss. Ichigo made a deep groaning noise and his hands went down to her hips, patting her sides, pulling at her clothes. She reached downwards for the crotch of his trousers and writhed against him like a cat.

Face burning, Chad darted forward and shut their door with a click, then leaned against it to keep anyone from going in. He refused to think about how careless or shameless they were, how easily they fell into each other, again and again.

Chad, who watched them, knew how it was like. It would always start with sweetness between them, then a spark would set them off. They would fight, she as barbed as a poisoned arrow, he as fierce and cruel as wildfire. It might come to fisticuffs, it might not, but it always ended up in a terrific blaze of passion.

Then, they would simmer down and smolder into sweetness again. They would pet and kiss and smile, acting as if they adored each other. This would last until the next spark, the next fight, and the dance would start again.

They always stopped short of actually having each other. Though they would wrestle and fondle and she would moan and he would pant like a dog, they always stopped short of tumbling into bed. She probably feared for her dignity and her Southern allegiances, and he probably feared for his sanity.

Chad thought it was either a very good match, or a very bad one, but either way, it was destructive. For the both of them.

There was a sharp gasp from within and a deep, guttural groan. There was the sound of rustling cloth.

Chad moved away when the door was opened from the inside. Ichigo stepped out, a dizzy look in his eyes. There was a fresh bite mark on his neck, red as blood. He left without a word to Chad.

Inside, Kiyone was casually flinging open chests and drawers, tossing clothes about as if she were an ordinary girl, getting dressed for an ordinary dinner on an ordinary night. She had a smug look on her face and a rosy blush on her cheeks.

Chad saw her pick up the red kimono and lay it down on the bed. He watched her run her hand down the front of it, smiling at the silky feel.

She turned and took three swift steps to the wooden chest on her right. Out of it, she pulled another kimono. It was deep purple, as dark as the plums that flourished in the mild weather of the South. She hugged it to her chest with a happy little sigh.

She spread both kimono out on the bed, the red and the purple.

She lifted the red one and slipped it on, folding the two sides over her breasts. Ichigo was right: it was a perfect fit. A little twirl had the bright red skirt flaring out like a banner, the light flashing on the fortune's worth of gold embroidery.

If she wore it, the red of his household and the red of his generals' cloaks, everyone would know that she was his girl. Everyone would know that she had accepted her place in his house, that she had accepted him.

She shrugged it off and let it pool in a crimson heap on the floor. She chose the purple kimono, and when she turned her head to the side to look in the mirror, her violet eyes blazed with defiant satisfaction.

Anyone else might have picked a different color altogether, perhaps blue, as a sign of serenity and peace. But with her, it was either one or the other and nothing in between, either complete submission or open defiance.

The servant girl, Michiru, arrived shortly and helped her tie the embroidered obi. She combed out Kiyone's hair and held it back as she washed her face in a brass basin.

After she was done, she perched herself over the narrow window and watched the people arriving. Sounds of happy laughter and the smell of wine drifted up from the floor below. She leaned on the window frame so that her face was thrown into shadow and sighed. Her breath came out in a little white mist.

"Well, I suppose it's time," Kiyone said finally. She smiled and Chad saw the slight quaver in her lips.

He escorted her down the stairs and to the main hall. The happy, joyful noises got louder with each step and Chad saw her shoulders stiffen.

She paused slightly at the entrance. He saw her straighten, saw her roll her shoulders back and smooth out the front of her clothes. She took a deep breath, as if fortifying herself, and stepped in.

The table ran the length of the dining hall and Ichigo sat at its head, like the head of a lazy dragon stretched out to its full length. The princes and the nobles were all decked out in lovely clothes, and the jewels that peeked out from between fasteners and clasps shimmered like scales. The polished tabletop was aglow, reflecting the soft light of the candles and lamps.

Ichigo was smiling his courtier's smile, nodding at whatever joke or piece of news someone shouted up to him. His head turned like a sunflower on its stalk when he noticed her. His eyes lit up and he looked like he was on the verge of rising, but then caught himself.

Someone at the door announced her arrival, introducing her as Lady Kiyone Kotetsu, a noblewoman of the South.

She was motioned to a seat that was quite close to the Warlord himself, quite close to the very crown of the North. She sat rather unsteadily and Chad saw her hid her hands in her sleeves, probably so no one would see them tremble.

The princes and mayors, the fawning nobles, the gentlemen in their high headdresses, the ladies with their puckered mouths hidden behind fans, all turned to look at her. Their gazes were lazy and measuring. They rolled their glances off her, arched their brows as if they knew every sordid detail of her supposed relationship with the Warlord.

She didn't flinch. Instead, she half-stood, squared her shoulders, and returned their languid, judging gazes with the look of hardened soldier.

"Good evening to you all," she said, her voice as clear as water, smooth and exotic. She sat again, sweeping the hem of her kimono aside as if to flaunt her choice of color.

This drew some reluctant mutterings of "Madam," and "Good evening," from the assembled guests. They all quickly returned to their conversations, utterly ignoring her, unwilling to give her the honor of being something pretty and interesting. It was unacceptable to resort to insults and name-callings at the Warlord's banquet, so her enemies chose the next best thing: ignoring her presence and by doing that, robbing her of any importance.

Not that she was any worse off for it, from what Chad could tell. She was perched at the table like a dark little raven, eyes so intense that there was a violet blaze whenever she turned her head and the candlelight reflected off them. Next to her, the painted, perfumed people of the court were as insubstantial as smoke.

Chad stood with the other guardsmen and watched the musicians tune their instruments from behind a silk curtain, watched the dancing girls lean over their own table in the corner and smile coquettishly at the gentlemen, watched the servants bring in dish after dish to lay on the polished table.

The air was warm and sweet with pinches of herbs thrown into the braziers. Ichigo had lifted the meat ban from his household for the banquet, and there were great roast birds and cuts of beef and boiled meatloaves brought in. Rice wine was poured into delicate cups and jugs of it were poured and poured again so that the heady perfume of it lingered in the room.

As Kiyone picked up her ivory chopsticks and put clumps of rice in her mouth, witticisms and snatches of courtly talk flew between the guests and Ichigo. He would laugh and joke with them and speak to them as if they were friends, he needing their allegiances and military power, and they desiring whatever favors and land he could grant them, and all of them wanting to prove that they were the richest, most beautiful, and most charming courtiers ever to set foot in the Warlord's house.

Topics ranged from last year's crop, to the declining horse trade in the Northern districts, to the newest pieces of work offered up by the popular essayists. There were hints of small uprisings in the far North, and Ichigo laughed it off, shrugging his shoulders.

Talk of the war was discouraged. No one wanted death with their dinner, so strategizing and treaties would have to wait until tomorrow.

A loud, boorish voice drew Chad's attention to the middle of the table. He recognized the rather gangly, big-toothed man as Nnoitra Jiruga, the son of a magistrate. Chad had to suppress a feeling of uneasiness when the man stood on his spindly legs and loudly toasted to the Warlord's good health.

Ichigo saw the gesture and raised his cup with a nod.

"… and to His Highness' good fortune in finding a wife!" Jiruga finished with a flourish. Some of the ladies tittered and Ichigo himself laughed heartily.

"Unfortunately, Mr. Jiruga," replied the Warlord, "it's quite difficult for me to marry while I'm in the middle of leading a war."

"And besides," shouted someone else, who was clearly slurring with drink, "His Highness has had plenty of women without the need to be married! There's no need to bottle up the honey when you can suck it straight from the hive." He made an obscene slurping noise and the others laughed, appreciative of the bawdiness.

Another magistrate spoke up, shaking his head. "No good, no good. When Lord Kurosaki wins the war, he will be king. A king can't make do with bastards. He needs a legitimate heir to come after him. And I say the sooner the better. Being a Warlord is dangerous business and we need someone to lead us if he falls."

"I thank you for your sentiments," Ichigo replied. "But I'm afraid I have no need of an heir just now. My sisters back home shall take over if I am to die in battle, Heaven forbid."

"Heaven forbid," echoed the courtiers, nodding dutifully.

"But Heaven knows that our beloved Warlord has the virility to sire as many heirs as he wants!" declared Jiruga, laughing with his teeth bared. "Just ask any of the chambermaids!"

A roar of laughter followed. The talk quickly descended into bawdy, open humor, which made the ladies giggle and fan away their blushes with their hands and the men slap the table with mirth.

"Yes indeed!" said Jiruga. "Lord Kurosaki is certainly doing his duty to provide his future kingdom with heirs. Why, in the absence of a wife, he's doing twice as much tupping to compensate for her share!"

A dark-haired woman next to him gave a scream of laughter. "I bet the woman His Highness finally marries will be satisfied from day till night!"

"He's certainly doing better than Byakuya Kuchiki and his shriveled prick!"

The other men had the dishes rattling with the pounding of their fists, guffawing at the mockery of their enemy. Chad shot a worried glance at Ichigo and sure enough, the Warlord had a frosty look on his face. Ichigo Kurosaki might not have much sympathy for his enemies, but he always maintained a certain respect for them.

"No heirs to speak of for the Kuchikis, in all these years," continued Jiruga. "His late wife probably died from lack of pleasing. Poor woman's cunt must've been dried up like a prune when they put her in the ground. Perhaps her husband preferred to tup his pet hounds instead."

Chad caught it before everyone else, as everyone else was staring either in amusement or disgust at Nnoitra Jiruga. Chad was the one who saw that Kiyone's shoulders tensed, like a bowstring being drawn tight to the breaking point.

Like a spark, she shot up and Chad realized that she was going to do something utterly reckless. He started running across the room just as she planted both feet onto the table and lunged over to Jiruga's side. Kicking over plates and cups as she went, Kiyone punched the man right in the face.

No one at the table had time to react. The man went down under her small fist with a screech of shock and pain. He crashed to the floor like a spider that had its strings snipped.

In an instant, Chad had rushed over, pushed past two of the silk-clad ladies, and snatched Kiyone up into an unbreakable embrace. Just in time, as she was already pulling her fist back for another pummeling.

She was white-faced with rage. She didn't struggle or even speak, but Chad could feel her trembling in his arms.

The whole room erupted into shouts and exclamations of anger and disbelief. Ichigo was standing up, flushed and shouting for Chad to remove her and shouting for one of the servants to fetch a physician. Jiruga himself was howling, clutching both hands over his face while blood streamed from his nose.

Out of the corner of his eye, Chad could see Orihime Inoue stuffing her scarf into her mouth, to keep from either screaming or laughing, or a mix of both.

"Get her out of here! Chad, take her away!" Ichigo shouted, gesticulating furiously.

Chad could see two of the magistrate's hired guards making their way menacingly towards them, so he hefted Kiyone up in his arms and whisked her away in a whirl of purple cloth.

He tried to set her down as soon as they left the hall, but she was unsteady on her feet and banged her ankle on the stairs. He grabbed her up again and didn't let go until they reached her room.

She broke away from him as soon as the door was shut. One of her hair ornaments scratched his cheek as she lurched away.

With a sharp, frustrated cry, she threw herself across her bed and hit the mattress with clenched fists. The cloth of her kimono pooled around her, seemingly too big for her body. Her head, buried into the comforter, looked heavy and tired with the weight of the tinkling hair ornaments. She turned her head to rub her cheek on the smoothness of the comforter, and her big, watery eyes made her seem even more childlike than before.

She didn't speak for a long while, just lay there, trembling like a bowstring after it had been plucked. She didn't speak, but sniffled once or twice. She looked like she was listening for the sounds of the party from below, but the sounds of mild music and drunken laughter was now muted.

He felt a pang of sadness for her, this fierce little child whose passion was like fire, flaring and dimming whichever way the wind blew. Ichigo would lock her up again for this, no matter how out of line Jiruga might have been. Whatever favor she had garnered from him before would surely be lost.

"Perhaps," Chad spoke up, slowly and gently, "that wasn't the wisest thing to do."

"I know," she said. "I hurt my hand. That stupid, bony scoundrel has a hard face." She sat up and showed him her bruised knuckles. She had a plaintive little pout on her face, but was otherwise unapologetic.

"Shall I get the physician for you?" Chad asked.

"Hmph. No. The physician's probably busy with Mr. Bone Head."

Chad couldn't be sure, but there might have been some smugness in those words.

She brought her hand to her mouth and sucked on the knuckles.

Chad sighed. "Ichigo will be angry with you," he remarked. "I think you embarrassed him. He might confine you to your room again."

"Ichigo can do what he likes to me," she said. The lazy roll of her voice and the slight thrust of her chest was oddly suggestive. "I don't care. That pig deserved it for insulting Lord Kuchiki. And Lady Kuchiki."

She gazed up at him. "Thank you, by the way," she said. "I… I'm sure I would have gotten myself into bigger trouble if you hadn't stopped me. Thank you for getting me out of there before the other guards could arrest me or, hell, even kill me."

A smile tugged at the corners of Chad's mouth. "You're welcome." In all honesty, the guardsman couldn't be certain that he had not hesitated to stop her, just the slightest bit so that she had time to deck the man.

X

It was sunny that day. The window was cracked open and the chilly outside breeze made the dust motes dance in the light.

Jushiro Ukitake truly felt like an old man then, as he breathed in the familiar scent of incense on the brazier and remembered better, more peaceful days.

He thought of the days when Byakuya Kuchiki was still the young, handsome ruler that married for love, valued honor as gold, and took over the title of Warlord with all the poise and grace of a prince. Byakuya had been so young, so promising, so very new and alive after the grim reign of his father. Everyone had loved him, genuinely loved him, from the highest magistrates to the lowliest peasants. From the corrupt courtiers of the previous generation, with their jeweled fingers and their trickery and their double-dealing, to the fishmongers in the streets, stinking and with their hands covered in scales, everyone had adored Byakuya Kuchiki.

Jushiro remembered the peace treaty that had been signed between Byakuya and Isshin Kurosaki, when the court was at its height of elegance and culture. Even now, as he nodded over stretched strings and curled his fingers to pluck at them, Jushiro remembered the happiness and the quiet prosperity, a feeling as sweet as the thrum of music.

So, it was an odd mixture of horror and resignation that Jushiro felt when he saw the two long, silver strands amidst Byakuya's raven hair.

Byakuya Kuchiki had aged. Something within him had grown sour and bitter over the years, and the good times had gone the same way.

Isshin Kurosaki was dead. In his place, like a spark from a fire, Ichigo had sprung up in all his glory. He was virile and young and an expert in combat, more than 20 years Byakuya's junior. He was hot-blooded, hot for the battle, so terribly hungry for glory and honor, so terribly hungry for everything.

And Byakuya had aged. Hisana had died, and part of him had died with her. Love turned into suspicion. Honor turned into stubborn pride. He became wary of traitors and spies in his own midst. He became less scrupulous in battle, out of a desperate need to prove himself better, more worthy than the young upstart of the North.

And Jushiro was pained when the arrests became more and more frequent, when books were banned for being unpatriotic and military decisions became reckless, staked on pride. Jushiro, who had loved his pupil like a son, was pained when Byakuya drifted further and further away from his true friends.

There was a loud knocking. The last note hummed, like the buzz of a bee, as Jushiro's front door was thrown open.

Standing there grinning, as if the music had somehow lured him to Jushiro's doorstep, was Gin Ichimaru. Behind him, were purple-clad guards.

The manservant was rushing forward, demanding to know why they were intruding.

"Hello, Commander," said Ichimaru pleasantly. He ignored the indignant cries of the manservant. Without bothering to remove his shoes, he stepped in and approached the tatami mat where Jushiro was sitting. "I see you have been playing the Qin. How very cultured of you."

"What is this, Ichimaru?" Jushiro said angrily, standing. The guards that Ichimaru had brought with him were making their way into Jushiro's home, busting into rooms and scrambling up stairs.

"Oh, nothing to worry about, as long as you're not hiding anything" Ichimaru replied. "It's just a search."

"I won't allow it."

"Hah! How amusing, that you think it's your choice. Lord Kuchiki has ordered it. His Highness would be very much at ease if he knew his friends were free from the suspicion of treason and espionage."

The brightly colored badge on Ichimaru's arm caught Jushiro's eyes. It named Gin Ichimaru as an official, giving him the honor of being called "Mr. Inquisitor" whenever he took on the role.

So there it was, Jushiro thought. They had come for him at last. They would find something to incriminate him. It didn't matter what, but they would find it. Arrest and shame would follow shortly.

Ichimaru was smiling again. But it wasn't the courtier's smile or the wicked little smirk Ichimaru reserved for taunting people. It was a full smile, brimming with sadistic pleasure at the sound of breaking crockery and smashing wood from within.

"And what have I done to deserve such suspicion?" Jushiro said, glaring and nearly shaking with anger.

"Oh, I think you know."

"Why don't you tell me? With all the other arrests going on, and all the other men you so delight in taking into custody, I'm not quite sure what treason is anymore. Is breathing considered treason?"

"Depends on who's doing the breathing, my dear Commander Ukitake," Ichimaru said pleasantly. He took a step closer, the heel of his foot scraping against the tatami. "Or should I say: Ex-General Ukitake? That's what you are, right? An ex-general, well past his glory days, confined to his bed most of the time, probably resentful. An ex-general who has refused to support His Highness' latest campaign in the North, who stirs up unease and rebellious attitudes among the people. Someone who is part of an ancient noble family and oddly, has much to gain if His Highness should ever fall from power. Someone who has been known to have sympathies for the Northerners, going so far as to take in a fugitive from the North as your manservant."

Jushiro saw said manservant pale and shuffle nervously. He glared at Ichimaru. "I do not stir up unease among the people. And I have made it abundantly clear why I don't support Lord Kuchiki's latest campaigns. Attacking a town full of civilians before they have a chance to evacuate is thoughtless and cruel!"

"Northern civilians, Mr. Ex-General."

"Any civilians! And to attack while Kurosaki's forces are already pinned down by a rebellion from the Far North? It would be like stabbing an enemy from behind!"

"My, my, how dangerously honorable you are," purred Ichimaru. "Careful. You almost sound as if you have more sympathy for our enemies than for our own troops."

One of the guards descended the stairs, carrying a rolled-up scroll in his hands.

"Oh!" exclaimed Ichimaru, looking like a child about to receive a gift. "What have you brought me?"

"I found this in one of the upstairs rooms," said the guard and let the scroll unravel into a painting. The broad, bold brushstrokes and vibrant colors were painfully clear: it was a painting in the Northern style. The other guards all gathered around to look, some of them clutching broken pieces of pottery and looking resentful that someone else had found the most incriminating piece of evidence.

"My, how very interesting," said Ichimaru. He stepped deliberately over the tatami and leaned down to peer at the daring sweep of each brushstroke. His smile was widening, stretching over his face like the unfurling tail of a scorpion. "And how did you come to own such a thing, eh Commander?"

"It was a gift," said Jushiro in a clipped tone.

"From General Shunsui Kyoraku, I presume? I understand you and he were friends?"

Jushiro gritted his teeth. "When he gave it to me, it was not yet illegal for us to be friends."

"But you still kept it, all these years?"

"It is considered rude to return a gift, Ichimaru, even if alliances and treaties change."

In response, the grinning man threw his silver head back and laughed. "Oh no, no. I wasn't suggesting that you should have returned it. You should have burned it, my dear, dear ex-general. You should have burned it, and maybe saved yourself from being burned instead."

"How dare you!" Jushiro snapped. Immediately, the pressure and pain built up in his chest and he pitched forward with a gasp. Loud, hacking coughs shook his body so that he swayed like a drunkard.

"Sir!" exclaimed the manservant and he rushed to Jushiro's aid, but two of the guards grabbed hold of him and kept him from going to his master.

When Jushiro was finally able to catch his breath, he found that he was bent double and staring down at Ichimaru's shoes. The man had come to stand in front of him as he coughed his way through blood and phlegm, so that when Jushiro rose, it looked as if he was rising from a deep bow.

"You are a scoundrel, Gin Ichimaru," said Jushiro, voice creaking and husky. "Tell your dogs to unhand Mr. Kotsubaki. He hasn't done anything wrong."

Jushiro knew that he and Sentaro were outnumbered. The guards surrounding them were armed. He was weak and light-headed. One signal from Ichimaru could have the both of them arrested and shipped off to be tortured or killed.

Gritting his teeth, Jushiro swallowed down the pain and the fear, and the awful sense of betrayal that it was Byakuya who had ordered this. He drew himself up to his full height and stared Ichimaru down. "You have no evidence against me. Get out of my house."

"We shall see," the other simply replied. He waved his hand lazily, trailing his long-nailed fingers through the air, and turned to leave. The guards followed him, releasing Sentaro but taking with them the bits and pieces of Jushiro's house that they would no doubt break apart, looking for something that would put Jushiro's head on the block.

X

"When can I go out again?" whined Kiyone Kotetsu. The plaintive pitch of her voice would have tugged at his heartstrings, if Ichigo's patience wasn't already on edge from the headache-inducing smoke that trailed upwards from her pipe.

She probably only smoked to annoy him, he thought.

"You can'tgo out," he said. "That's the point. You're being confined for assaulting the magistrate's son."

She was sprawled on the bed and she looked up at him with those large violet eyes. "He deserved it."

"He did not, you reckless idiot. But regardless, he's now demanding your head on a platter. He's saying he'll refuse to support me in the war unless I give him satisfaction. You're lucky to get away with just being confined. You have one of the most powerful and richest men in the land after your blood. Think of that!"

She blinked up at him and stretched out on her belly, like a cat sunning itself. Ichigo felt his anger spike.

"Well?" he demanded. "Don't you have anything to say?"

"What? You want me to say I'm sorry? I'm not."

"I meant that you should thank me. You do realize that I'm the one keeping you safe? That I can just as well have you thrown in prison? Or just let Jiruga cut off your head?"

She threw him a long, languid look and rose from her bed. She was wrapped up in shawls and scarves, all the way up to her throat, but her feet were naked as she padded her way over to him. Ichigo caught himself staring down at those little naked feet and he remembered the feel of her heel in his hands, the curling toes.

"Do not kiss me with that mouth," he said, when she leaned towards him. He held her by the shoulders as she tipped forward. "Not when you've been smoking. You taste like ash."

She frowned at him, brought the pipe to her lips, and blew smoke in his face. It set him coughing furiously and he felt his annoyance wash over him like a wave. He grabbed her harshly and shook her.

"I don't know why I keep you," he growled. She was limp under his hands, lolling like a wide-eyed doll. "I don't know why I put up with you, pay your bills, feed you. You're nothing but trouble. You embarrassed me. You cost me an ally. You!"

You. The word fell like hammer.

Her. She infuriated him. Only she could do this to him, make him want her and hate her and loathe himself for both. Only she could make his desire feel like a knife wound: sweet and painful and hot.

He had her life in his hands. In an instant, he could have guards drag her out, set her on a plank, and behead her. He could strangle her. He could run her through with a sword. He could kiss her. He could embrace her and lose himself in the unique feel of her: soft and warm and bony all at once.

It was a terrible feeling, an awful feeling, to mix up the sweetness of love and the hot sharpness of hate.

He pushed her away from her and she went, flailing, to fall on the bed. The ash was knocked from the pipe and she tossed it into the small ceramic dish on the side table.

"So kill me, then," she said nonchalantly, shrugging. "Or flog me. Or drown me. Or piss in my tea. Who cares? I'm stuck in here, being slowly bored to death anyway."

"Well, you should've thought of that before you went and punched someone. At a festival banquet, no less."

He turned on his heel to leave, but then stopped. "Oh, by the way, give it back."

"Give what back?" she said innocently.

"You know what. My journal. I know you've taken it again."

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said, and widened her eyes like a child.

He made to grab at her and she backpedaled away from him.

"Oh, fine! Here." Reaching under a pillow, she drew out his journal and flung it at his chest. "Take the stupid thing. I can't break the code, anyway."

"Well, that's good," he replied smugly. "But if you can't read it, why keep stealing it?"

"If you know I can't read it, why not just let me keep it?" she shot back.

"Because," he said, turning his back, "I don't trust you not to get someone else to break the code for you."

"You know, Ichigo," she said softly, just as he was about to cross the threshold, "if someone insulted you like that, I would punch them too, festival banquet or not." Her voice was thin, like a little girl's.

He didn't allow himself to pause. He didn't allow himself to linger at her doorstep or else he would have been tempted to stay, and that made him all the more irritated. Instead, he shoved his journal down the front of his clothes and let the door bang on his way out.

"Oh, put that away," he growled, as he strolled into the study, where General Kyoraku and Sosuke Aizen were waiting. Kyoraku was smoking a pipe. "You know I can't stand the smell of it."

Ichigo went to throw open a window and sucked in a great deep gulp of air, trying to dispel the mild nausea. He sucked in the cold, trying to dispel the memory of her warm body.

"Tell me about the uprisings in the Far North," he said curtly.

Aizen stepped closer and straightened the glasses on the bridge of his nose. "According to reports," he said, reading from a sheaf of papers, "the rebels have been increasing in number ever since the last company was sent to subdue them. They are mostly from the 13th and 15th districts and they have been mobilizing in great numbers, attacking our supply routes and waylaying passing troops."

Ichigo waved his hand impatiently. "So send another company," he said. "Relieve the officer who was in charge of the first one for being an incompetent fool and send someone who can deal with a bunch of rowdy peasants."

"Perhaps you should be more cautious," Kyoraku said gently. "I don't think these are just a bunch of rowdy peasants. If the reports are to be believed, then the leather for their boots and the steel for their swords have to come from somewhere, or someone. I'm worried there are people acting against you, Ichigo, people more powerful and treacherous than peasants."

Ichigo shook his head in annoyance. "That's your answer to everything, isn't it?" he said nastily. "It's always 'someone' or 'something' that isn't happy with me, and everything is conspiracies and plots. Maybe you're the one who's unhappy with me."

Aizen stepped forward, smile ready, and said, "Your Highness, I'm sure the good general isn't displeased with you. And I'm sure he doesn't mean to insinuate that Your Highness is not a competent ruler."

"Oh no, Mr. Strategist," said Kyoraku. "I do mean to insinuate. And I am displeased, as is natural whenever His Highness is foolish enough to needlessly put lives at risk."

"Watch your tongue!" Ichigo snapped. He hadn't forgotten his anger towards his old mentor for the failure of the peace treaty, and it galled him to see Kyoraku still so self-assured, even when he had been brought low.

"Or what? You'll cut it out? Come now, Ichigo you're not a child anymore. Tantrums will get us nowhere."

"Well what the hell do you want from me, old man? You want me to ride out and make peace with the peasants myself?"

"I want you to send a full battalion. Every instinct tells me that this so-called minor uprising is more than what it seems. We need to crush it before it has a chance to spread."

Aizen chuckled at this. "How very heartless you are, General. I always thought you had more sympathy for the commoners."

The look Kyoraku threw back at him was hard and cold. "A rebellion is a rebellion," he said simply. "Whether it's commoners or nobles who rebel, people on both sides will get hurt. The uprising needs to be crushed. That's all there is to it."

"I'm not going to send a full battalion," said Ichigo, shaking his head. "I won't waste my troops and resources over a matter like this. It's just a simple uprising."

X

It was only a week later that the "little peasant uprising" turned out to be much bigger and deadlier than anyone had expected. These men, armed and mobilized, were an organized fighting force, not the ragtag group of farmers that most of Ichigo's men were led to believe.

And it was only a week later that they struck.

Rukia, who had been allowed out of her rooms for the afternoon, was playing a game of dice in the parlor with Orihime and Shunsui Kyoraku when the messenger arrived. They were in the entrance hall of the Red Maple, where the large windows would let in more light.

The messenger burst in through the heavy doors, pale as death and with a trickle of blood down the side of his face.

"You must sound the alarm!" he gasped, as the guards caught him before he could fall. "You must warn Lord Kurosaki!"

There was an odd sense of dread spreading through Rukia's body as she watched Kyoraku bend down to pat the man's cheek, chafe the man's frozen hands. She could see it in the man's eyes, a horror that had stolen the very breath from him, a horror he had brought back from the battlefield.

Rukia felt a tug at her arm and saw that Orihime, who had lost her bright and happy smile, had come around the table to cling tight to her.

"They are here!" wheezed the man. "They are already here! More than a thousand men. More than we'd imagined, heavily armed. They are… they are here!"

He fainted away, and Rukia wondered if he was dead. Orihime cried out softly. The grip on Rukia's arm tightened to the point of pain.

Kyoraku set the man down and stood. His lips, which had been curved into an easy smile just minutes ago, were now hard and thin.

"Miss Inoue, Lady Kotetsu, perhaps you should-"

The warning froze on his lips when a shout was raised from somewhere deep in the house. It was followed by a great clamor and panicked screams. There was the sound of wood breaking and the thud of metal.

"Impossible!" Orihime gasped. "They've infiltrated the house! That's-!"

With a tremendous bang, the front door burst inwards in a golden explosion of fire and smoke. The two guards were knocked off their feet.

Momentarily blinded, Rukia heard Orihime scream, felt a splinter of wood strike her in the head so that she staggered.

There was a crash as the table was toppled over. She coughed desperately, horror threatening to choke her as coarse, black-clad men fought their way in through the remains of the door.

Through the haze of pain and smoke, she saw Shunsui Kyoraku throw off his heavy haori and fling it into the mass of intruders. Metal glinted as he drew both his swords in one fluid motion and slashed the air, splitting the cloth of his haori and splitting the limbs of the enemy.

In an instant, Kyoraku was engulfed. Dozens of them were pouring into the hall, breaking the windows, gouging the wooden walls with arrows. They were furious. They were screaming with rage and Rukia could smell nothing and hear nothing but the stench of smoke and the shrieks of those that were caught in the attack.

"Get down!" Rukia gasped, and dragged a trembling Orihime to huddle behind the overturned table. There was a heavy thud from somewhere, a teeth-chattering impact, and then another explosion.

She could barely breathe through the stink of sulfur. How could it be, Rukia thought wildly, that a handful of peasant rebels could have gotten their hands on explosives?

"We'll all be killed," moaned Orihime, a soft, shaking mass in Rukia's arms. "We'll all be killed, or worse!"

Death had never seemed so near as this, with only the cracking wood of a tabletop between them and the angry hoard. Even on the battlefield, Rukia hadn't felt so helpless, so vulnerable. But she wasn't about to go down without a fight.

"Orihime," she croaked, wiping her streaming eyes. "We're going to have to make a run for it. The little door that leads out from the kitchen! We can escape through there."

Where's Chad? Rukia thought desperately. Oh, of all times for him to leave her alone!

"Come on, Orihime!" she cried. With the other girl's hand crushed in her own, Rukia jumped to her feet and ran. She flailed her way through the confusion and the smoke. Everywhere, people were running and screaming. There were guards milling about, shouting at each other and hearing nothing.

Raggedly, she ran and she dragged Orihime mercilessly behind her. Twice, Rukia had to drop to her knees shielding her head with her arms because another shattered bomb had gone off, raining them in fire and broken debris.

Her face was cut. She could feel the blood dripping down into her collar. She felt numb, almost as if someone else had taken over her body and was screaming in her voice, running with her raw, scraped feet, because it surely couldn't be real, could it? Not this nightmare of death and fire.

"What about Ichigo?" Orihime gasped, as they finally reached the kitchen, dropping before the smoldering hearth in a heap of exhaustion. "Wh-what if he's…"

"Sweetheart," Rukia ground out, "I'm sure he's fine." She panted for breath and drew a sleeve across her face. It came away dark with blood and soot.

"B-but what about Michiru and the others? What about Madame and Chad and-"

A man with his face half blistered off barreled into their hiding place. Orihime broke off in a scream as he raised a bloody sword high over his head and brought it down. She tore away from him but the blade caught her sleeve, tearing it.

There was the glint of blood lust in the man's eyes. It was the look of someone bent on killing, someone who had been driven into a frenzy of excitement and twisted anger, someone who didn't care who he killed as long as his sword tasted blood. He was dressed in black, like the rest of them, and the front of his clothes were soaked.

Rukia scrambled for a weapon, heard him pant like an enraged bull, and grabbed a skillet off the shelves. It was heavy, and she swung it with all her might, hitting the man in the side of his face. He dropped like a brick.

But there came more to replace him, swarming in through the kitchen entryway like wolves on the scent.

"Run! Run!" Rukia screamed, until her throat was raw. She saw one of them seize Orihime by the hair. She heard them laugh, the coarse, lusty laughter of men half-crazed with violence.

Someone had come up behind her and caught her up in a headlock. She choked. She wriggled and kicked out but to no avail.

But the pressure was gone in an instant and Rukia dropped to the ground, retching and banging her knees. She raised her head and saw the glint of a sword, the twirl of someone's kimono. Shunsui Kyoraku was there, swords bloodied and a trail of blood trickling down from his hairline, but otherwise quite composed.

It was a few seconds later, as he was raising Orihime to her feet that Rukia understood that he had rescued them, dispatched their enemies as easily as if they were children.

Then, he was taking her elbow and pulling her to her feet, gently but urgently.

"Back into the battle, I'm afraid," he said. "May I entrust Miss Inoue to you?"

"Y-yes," Rukia said, teeth chattering with exertion. He slung a near-fainting Orihime over Rukia's shoulders.

"Make for the stables," said Kyoraku. "Take a horse and get away from here, if you can. Make for the nearby villages and warn them. Take refuge with them. And take care of her, will you, Rukia? I'm rather fond of this one."

He gave her a roguish wink and was gone with a flick of his kimono.

"Alright!" Rukia called after him. She turned and dashed out the side door, with Orihime clinging to her. Something nagged at her as they ran. Something was off about the way Kyoraku had addressed her. But in the frenzy to escape, Rukia thought no more of it.

They trudged through an ankle-deep pile of garbage, ignoring the stink and the slime. It was the dump behind the kitchens, where the scullery maids threw out the slops and the cinders from the day's cooking.

They broke out into a run as they reached the openness of a courtyard. It was a cold day, and each breath seemed to ice the insides of Rukia's chest.

They stumbled and fell into each other, grabbed each other to get up again. Rukia's nostrils were filled with sweat and soot, and the overwhelming crush of fear. This wasn't her battle. These weren't her people. She didn't want to die in this place, caught up in a battle that she had no place in. That thought spurred her on, made her want to survive.

"Come on," she muttered grimly, and they made a dash across the courtyard, past the frozen garden, towards the stables.

But it was hopeless. Even before they got within 10 yards of the stables, they could hear the clang of metal, the shouts of battle, and the shrieks of frightened horses. There was smoke in the air there as well, along with the stench of charred horseflesh. The rebels had fired the stables, trapping the animals inside, and probably the people too.

Rukia felt sick. She wanted to vomit.

Beside her, Orihime doubled over and groaned. "This can't be happening," she whimpered. "Where are our men? Where are the soldiers that were supposed to protect us? How could this happen?"

"No choice," said Rukia. "We'll have to escape on foot. Look, that's the way to the woods. We'll make a run for it. Maybe they won't find us there, and we can get to the nearest village to warn them."

"You'll have to leave me. I… I can't run anymore."

"No choice," Rukia repeated. She wrapped both arms around Orihime's waist and tugged the girl back up into a standing position. "Come on."

They broke into a jog.

"Oh, look!" Orihime shrieked suddenly, and grabbed Rukia's arm. Against the backdrop of chaos and fire, Chad was there, armed with nothing but his bare fists.

He was alone, magnificent in his quiet fury, beating back the rebels from the main house, even as they piled on him and struck him with their weapons. He was bleeding. Rukia could see the tears in his flesh. It was a wonder that he was still standing.

It was a terrible thing to see. He was like a great bear being attacked by an army of jackals, harassed and slowly brought down with vicious little bites.

"Oh, how terrible," gasped Orihime. Her voice cracked on a sob.

And then, suddenly, it was no longer a distant, meaningless battle that had nothing to do with her. Chad was her friend, her silent, infuriating, loyal friend. He had protected her. He had guarded her. Rukia felt the stirring of anger in her belly and felt her bruised hands clenching into fists.

"I have to go help him," she said. "You stay here, Orihime! I'm going to go help him!"

It was odd, really, how confident she sounded, even though she had no weapon and didn't dare use her kido in front of so many people.

"Give me a sword!" she shouted at the guards who ran past her, some running from the battle, some toward. "A sword! Someone give me a sword!"

No one listened to her and her voice was carried away on the rank wind.

"I'm… I'm coming with you!" gasped Orihime.

"What? Have you gone mad? Stay here!"

"I said I'm going with you!" said the pale, shaking girl, who had never wielded anything bigger than a dagger. She grabbed at Rukia's arm, pulling and keeling forward as Rukia tried to push her back.

"No, no you mustn't! Stay here! Stay here!"

In the midst of all the frenzy, they grappled like schoolchildren, two unarmed, frightened girls who couldn't bear to stay away from the danger even though they were sick with fear.

A horseman passed by, cursing and drawing blood from the stallion's side with merciless kicks. He was dark-haired and his voice was shrill. Rukia recognized him as Nnoitra Jiruga, riding as fast as he could away from the danger.

"Stop!" she shouted, waving her arms. "Hey! Stop! Take Orihime with you! Take her to safety, please!"

Jiruga spat down at her. "Out of the way, girl! I don't bother with whores."

She made a lunge for his foot, fully intending to pull him down if she had to. He kicked at her and caught her in the chin, but she clung to him like a hungry dog.

"If you won't take her with you then give me your sword! Don't leave us here defenseless!"

"You can die for all I care! Die and rot in hell!" he screamed at her.

He jerked suddenly and pitched forward. Rukia looked up and was struck with horror when she saw an arrow protruding from his left eye. It had gone straight through his head.

He crashed down on her and her vision was filled with his bloodless face, twisted into the ugly grimace of death. She buckled under his weight and fell, both hands planted on his chest as he slumped down. The arrow tip from his eye stopped just an inch from her own and she had to bite her lip to stop a scream of pure terror.

The brown stallion, flanks bleeding and sweating, reared up and shrieked with pain. It convulsed in the air, like a dancer twisting, and fell down in a dead, bleeding mass. When Rukia looked up, the lovely winter sky was dotted with the black points of arrows.

"Get down, Orihime!" she screamed, so loudly that her voice cracked. The redhead fell down beside her and they held each other, burrowing into the carcasses of Nnoitra Jiruga and his poor horse.

The deadly bolts impacted the sweaty corpses and the earth around them. They ricocheted off the saddle horn. Orihime cried out once and trembled, and Rukia knew she had been hit.

When the terrifying sounds of whistle and thud finally stopped, Rukia dared to look up. She dared to disentangle herself from Orihime's clenching hands and sit up, bit-by-bit, praying that she wouldn't get an arrow between the eyes.

With a hand buried in brown mane, Rukia pulled herself up. She saw them coming, the black-clad rebels with their crossbows. She heard their low laughter, and the mocking way they were approaching, and she was furious. She hated them in that moment, hated them for hurting Orihime.

"Oh, Kiyone," moaned Orihime. She was biting her knuckles. Tears were streaming down her face. An arrow had struck her slim calf and it lay limp and bleeding on the grass.

The enemy was approaching. Two of them had their crossbows out, but were deliberately hesitating to shoot, taunting the two girls with their helplessness, their inability to escape.

Rukia clenched her jaw and swore she would make them regret it. Her hands went to Jiruga's belt. She fumbled and found the hilt of his sword.

With her leg curled under her, she pushed herself up into a leaping lunge, simultaneously drawing the sword at an upwards slash. She tore the nearest man's chest open and he went down, flailing.

The other one fumbled with the trigger on his bow but she sprang at him and took out both his weapon and his right arm with a swing of the sword. It was heavy and unwieldy in her hands as she plunged it through the man's belly. Blood splashed her as she drew it out and she had to spit the bitter taste of it from her mouth.

"Orihime!" she gasped hoarsely, and ran to her fallen friend. Upon inspection, the arrow wound wasn't serious. Rukia could tell that it hadn't hit bone.

"You must stay here," she said. She tore a strip from the hem of her kimono and wrapped it across the streaming wound, criss-crossing it over the shaft of the arrow. "I'm going to help Chad. Stay here and stay down. Play dead if you have to. I'll come back for you and we'll get out of here."

Rukia took off at a run, heading for the main house. She was shocked to see the windows alight with fire. There were people running back and forth, carrying pails of water. There were guards banging on boarded-up doors, some trying to get in, some trying to get out.

"Chad!" she shouted. "Chad!"

He was still there, his body stretched out against the frame of the door. There was a pile of them, clinging to him. Rukia saw him struggle, saw him throw them off, but they came at him again. She wondered for a moment why he didn't try to run away, then she saw that he was blocking the doorway. He was creating a living shield, preventing any of the rebels from chasing the survivors. The space behind him was brimming with enemy bodies, all squirming to escape.

Rukia turned to see Orihime struggling to one knee. The girl had her hands in Jiruga's belt, tugging at the hilt of the long knife he carried. Her face was red with exertion, neck corded and straining. Orihime fell back on her rear when the knife finally came loose and Rukia saw her begin to saw at the shaft of the arrow.

"Don't!" Rukia cried out, realizing that she meant to get up and follow. "Stay there! Stay there!"

She clutched her sword in both hands. With a scream, Rukia ran forwards and slashed at the nearest man so that he fell back from Chad. Using the momentum, she spun around and buried the blade into the next one.

Her stolen sword glinted red with blood as she brought it up and down. Chad's fists swung and broke faces, crashed into stomachs and groins. He swung some of the men together so they hit each other, then tumbled towards Rukia's sword, dazed. It was almost too easy, and there was the terrible lingering thought in the back of her mind that these men were farmers, peasants, and tradesmen, inexperienced with battle. That they had been civilians, and now they were dying like so many cattle.

Soon, all the enemy before them were lying dead and Rukia dropped her sword from her aching arms. Elsewhere, the battle still raged. She could hear the roar of the fires. She could hear the shouts.

Chad was battered and bloodied, but steady on his feet.

"Thank you for your assistance," he said, "but I must go now. My apologies, Mistress. I know it is my duty to protect you, but my first loyalty is to Ichigo. I must go and rally to him. Please go and escape with the rest of them now."

With that, he turned and disappeared back into the smoky house, leaving Rukia standing rather numbly among the dead. She gasped and jumped when she felt a tug at her elbow.

Orihime had limped up, knife in hand. Her face was pale but she had a wild glint in her eyes. "Are we going to save our friends now?" she asked, as blandly as if she were asking for a cup of tea.

"What are you doing here?" cried Rukia. She winced at the sight of Orihime's leg, crudely bandaged with part of the shaft still sticking out. "Doesn't that hurt terribly?"

"Terribly," said Orihime. "But… I'm alright now, I think. I feel as if I can bear it." She smiled. It wasn't the sweet smile that Rukia was used to, but a fey, warlike one.

A long, silent look passed between them.

Rukia bent down and picked up the sword, gripping it tightly in both hands, tight enough for a killing blow. "Alright, then. We'll go together. You stay behind me."

Orihime replied with a simple nod, and both of them dashed in after Chad.

The inside of the house was swarming with people. The rebels were running about in all directions, aimlessly and out of control. The guards of the Red Maple were in a likewise chaos.

Rukia could hear women screaming. Ichigo's guests were either running as fast as they could towards the exits, or being cornered somewhere by the enemy. Piles of expensive cloth and furniture were thrown down stairs and upper landings, carried away as plunder. Doors were being forced open and people were dragged out, screaming and too terrified to defend themselves.

Orihime and Rukia ran through the kitchen and out into the hallway. Mahana, one of the kitchen maids, was on the floor, crawling away from a man who was dragging her back by the ankle. Her kimono was torn from the shoulder and her breast was exposed.

With a cry, Rukia leapt at him. She swung her sword but the narrow hallway prevented her from hitting the target. The man ducked and her blade sank into the paneled wood of the walls.

As she grunted and tried to yank it out, he drew his own weapon. Hot pain lanced across her arm and Rukia turned to stare disbelievingly at Orihime, who had jumped forward to attack the enemy but had cut Rukia instead.

"Damn it!" she ground out, and pulled her blade out so that she recoiled and slammed into the opposite wall.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" whimpered Orihime, looking horrified.

"Sorry doesn't stop the bleeding!"

Rukia parried a blow from the man and knocked him across the room with a kick to the gut. She groaned and clutched at her bleeding arm. It would have been funny, if it had happened to anyone else.

"I'm sorry!" Orihime repeated, eyes wide with remorse.

"I'm fine," said Rukia. She flicked wood splinters off her sword. "Take care of Mahana, would you? I'm going ahead."

She ran the length of the hallway and out into an open foyer. She head the thud of many footsteps and the unmistakable bellow that was Ichigo's.

There he was, sword drawn high and rallying his men to him, commanding them with his sheer determination. Rukia felt like shouting. She felt like laughing.

He really was a sight to behold, all energy and heat and blood and lust.

He didn't have Zangetsu in his hands, but an ordinary katana. He wore no armor, but the black silk robes that clung to him like water.

The guards were listening to him. They had stopped running around in a blind panic. He was there, their leader, their young Warlord. They circled him and listened to his commands, shouted over the chaos of everything else.

Ichigo barked out his commands, sharp and accurate over the shouts and the wood breaking. The guards now spread out, organized at last, swarming up and down the landings with confidence. They moved in on the unfortunate, inexperienced rebels and cut them down ruthlessly.

Bit by bit, the enemies were either rounded up or killed. The screaming stopped. The plundering halted. He stood there, in the midst of it all, commanding and strong, like a pillar of stone.

"Ichigo," Rukia called out, and ran across the room to him.

Startled, he whirled around and swung his sword at her. She yelped and brought up her blade to deflect the blow, which knocked her back a few paces. The clang of their swords made her ears ring, but he immediately leg go when he saw that it was her.

Weary, she dropped Jiruga's sword to the floor.

"Kiyone," he whispered, like he was drinking in the sound of her name. "It's you."

He reached up and touched her throat, her bruised face, ran his fingers through her disheveled hair.

"All that blood…"

She shook her head. "It's not mine."

He took her by the waist. He had that hungry, desperate, tired look in his eyes. He looked like he wanted to seize her up, press her to him, and kiss her. But he settled with lowering his forehead to hers.

"I'll come see you later," he whispered into her hair. "Oh, Kiyone. Be my enemy if you must, but I'm glad you're safe."

He released her and turned away. With a smile on her face, she watched him walk across the room and demand a status report from a battered-looking soldier. She adored him then, the line of his shoulders, the passion in his face. She wanted him.

A scream was torn from her throat when someone seized her from behind. Her arm was grabbed and bent back painfully. She didn't have time to reach her sword. She didn't have time to react.

A knife slid across her throat, drawing a shallow cut with it. It rested on her rapidly contracting windpipe. A deadly tickle.

Ichigo turned sharply at her scream. Everyone in the room turned to look at her.

"No one move," rasped the rebel who had taken her captive. "I will slit her throat." A small handful of his companions were behind him, weapons out and ready to fight. Slowly, they maneuvered themselves and Rukia over to the far wall, where the exit was.

Rukia could feel the cold winter air from the open doorway. Fear ate at her when she realized that they were going to drag her off, perhaps take her hostage. She couldn't speak. She barely dared to breathe.

Her captor backed himself into a wall and snapped at his companions to take what they could and escape.

"No one move," he repeated. "I will cut the bitch's throat if anyone so much as tries to stop us."

Rukia saw Ichigo move forwards, face dark with anger.

"No one will stop you," said the Warlord. "I promise it. Now, let her go."

The man holding her laughed shrilly, a desperate, chilling sound. Rukia could smell his sour breath, feel the frenzied throb of his heart.

"No. She comes with us."

He gave her arm a yank and she gasped, rising to her toes to take the pressure off her shoulder. She shot Ichigo a wordless, desperate look. The knife was cold against her throat. The man could have her dead in an instant. One move, and she would be flopping on the floor like a bleeding fish.

The man was short, even shorter than she was. No part of him was exposed for a dagger or an arrow. He hid himself completely behind her, using her body as a shield. It was with a cold sinking feeling that she realized there was no escape.

Ichigo was staring at her. He was frowning. From across the room, she saw his fingers tighten around the hilt of the katana. She thought his lips moved to form the words, "Forgive me."

He moved so fast that he became a blur. One second, she was staring across the room at him. The next, he appeared in front of her and her body convulsed with searing pain. She cried out sharply.

Uncomprehending, she looked down. Ichigo held the hilt of the blade that was buried in her, piercing her through. His sword had gone clean through her body and out her back, then into the body of the man behind her.

She barely heard the man shriek, barely felt his hand fall away from her throat. She stared down and saw her face reflected at an angle. It was her blood on the blade, on Ichigo's blade. It was his sword, his hard, cold steel that had impaled her, sunk so deeply in the fleshy curves of her.

She drew in a shuddering breath and swayed on her feet. She wouldn't, couldn't believe it: she had been run through!

She didn't know whether it was blood running down her legs or if she had wet herself. Her vision dimmed as she looked up at Ichigo. His face was strained.

"Wh… you…"

X

Sorry for the long gap between chapters. Thank you all for reading! Please review and let me know what you think!