Disclaimer: I do not own Bleach or any of its affiliates. Anything that you recognise is property of its respective owners. Any relations to persons living or dead are purely coincidental.

Base/s: Bleach

Title: Stainless

Summary: Some things are buried deep for a reason. But he just can't stop digging, no matter how much it hurts him. The woman who had given, hated and ended his life. His mother. Death fic.

Music used for inspiration: Moonlight Sonata – Beethoven, Right Here Waiting – Richard Marx, Secret Love – Ali Kamboh

He had known that his mother wasn't like the others. He watched the other children being picked up, hugged and scolded for staying out late.

He loved to watch people. He would never talk to them, he could never do that, but he enjoyed seeing the snippets of their daily lives. He would sit, in his favourite tree, overlooking the village and watch for hours on end.

He didn't live in the village, although he wished he did. It seemed so nice there, hard work but honest and simple. The people brought together by hardship and yet creating something wonderful from it.

He would never have that. The place in which he lived was one of games and image. Politics. Social standing. Scandals. He was a scandal. The bastard son of a concubine in service to Lord Togo.

He shamed his mother with his very existence. His mother was a beautiful woman, long dark hair and exquisite brown eyes set in a fashionably pale face. Omoe Hitsugaya was the envy of the castle. Until that fateful day when she tried her Lords patience. The man was a wandering Samurai, disillusioned from his Lord and walking the land. Toshiro didn't know his name. He was dead after all. Having found out about his favourite concubines betrayal, the order was given for the wandering Samurai to be tracked down and brought before the Lord. He wasn't even given the honour of ending his own life. His head cut off and mounted atop his own spear, it was left outside the castle for all to see.

His mother had been beaten until she could not stand, in front of the other concubines as both a punishment and a warning. Shamed and divorced of her Lords favour, Omoe had found she was with child.

When the child was born, it was clear that it was not of their Lords get. His skin was far too dark and his eyes a piercing teal. From the moment Omoe had set eyes on the child, she had hated its very existence.

The child had gown slowly, unnaturally slowly. When he lost his baldness his hair was the same as his mothers, thick and dark. But he was always small. Born too early and no doubt influenced by the beating his mother received, the child was barely four feet high when he reached age ten.

Omoe pretended her son did not exist. He, to the best of her knowledge (although she distained to keep track of him), stayed within the castle walls and hid away from people.

He had been ordered to reveal to no-one of his existence. No-one knew who he was, no-one knew his purpose. No-one cared.

He had been unable to deny his mothers attitude towards him by the time he was seven. Only ever called 'boy' by her and anyone who had to address him, it took him until he was four to learn his name. Toshiro. He had no last name.

"Mother? What is my name?"

"What? You know your name you stupid boy."

"Yes, but what is my last name? Can I have yours?"

"No."

He was an intelligent boy, learning quickly and efficiently whatever was thrown at him.

He spoke well, a by-product of the environment he grew up in. He learned whatever he could from whoever would let him. He learned to read and write from a kindly scholar, he learned to fight from a bad tempered guard and he learned how to cook (barely) from a kitchen boy.

From his Lord, he learned how to hate.

When he was seven, his Lord had visited his mothers living quarters. He had been washing some clothes when the company had arrived.

"So this is the child she bore. Pathetic thing he is."

He had almost scowled from his position bowing to his Lord. But he restrained himself.

"Looks like her as well, I wouldn't be surprised if there are more running around, the whore."

How could he not respond?

"My mother is not a whore my Lord."

Still respectful, always respectful.

He was sent sprawling by a heavy boot kicking him in the crook of his shoulder. He cried out in pain.

"You insolent whelp!"

He flinched and hated himself for it. The boot kicked his shoulder again.

His cheek stung from where his mother had slapped him.

"Do you know what you've done boy? You have angered our Lord! You have brought shame upon me once again!"

From the villagers, he learned cruelty.

When he was nine, he had gone to watch the people again. Sitting in his tree, his legs were swinging below him as he revelled in the warm breeze fluttering against his skin. He closed his eyes.

A cry, and a ball smacked against the trunk of his tree. He hadn't noticed the children getting closer. He opened his eyes and met with the confused brown of one of the children, coming to collect the ball.

"Hey!" Who're you?"

"I'm Toshiro."

"Never seen you before."

"I live elsewhere."

"Want to play with us?"

"Really?"

"Yeah, we're short one player."

He had never had more fun in his life. They stayed late, playing and laughing. Toshiro felt content, he loved this. He didn't want to go back.

He got no choice in the matter.

"Toshiro! How dare you sneak out of the castle? You stupid boy, all you can do is bring attention to yourself. Come on, we are leaving this filthy place."

"But mother-!"

"Don't argue with me boy!"

His arm hurt where her nails dug into his skin. He shot a forlorn glance at his new friends but they were staring at him. He was dragged away. His mother slapped his again, her nails cut his lip and he felt tears spring from his eyes.

She forbade him from leaving the castle. Three days later, he was back at the village. He couldn't stay away, he just couldn't. He felt so alive there, playing with the other children. He could let himself go, be a child and he loved that. He didn't want to grow up, ever. Adults were hateful and they didn't understand.

The moment he set foot in the village he knew something was wrong.

People stared at him and muttered darkly to their neighbours. He shrank under their angry focus. He didn't know what was going on, he didn't like not knowing things.

He spotted one of the children he had played with, he called out and they turned. Toshiro stopped dead. There was fear on that face, and hate.

"You! Get out of our village!"

"You're just like the rest of them!"

"Leave!"

"We don't work for you! Go back to your Master and your castle!"

"All you people are the same. You think we're filth, below you. But we're not!"

"You can't fool us!"

"Get out of our village!"

Toshiro dared not tell his mother about his broken wrist. Those stones had hurt. But not as much as his heart did. People were cruel, they let you trust them and then they turned on you and stabbed you in the back.

Children were just as bad as adults. If not worse. They didn't think, they just did. They took orders and obeyed, taking no notice of that the consequences might be. They were weak. Toshiro loathed being weak.

From his mother, he learned how to deceive.

"Yes my Lord. I serve only you."

"My life is yours my Lord, to use how you see fit."

"You are of true wisdom my Lord. I am honoured to serve you."

He hated saying those words. They made him feel sick. But the look on his mothers face was worth it. She looked approving.

Deceiving was part of his world. It only made sense that it be part of him too. After all, he learned from the best.

"Well done boy. I'm proud of you."

By age twelve, Toshiro hated. He hated the way people who deserved respect never got it, and those who paid the right people where akin to gods in human form.

He hated his Lord. Arrogance, haughtiness, honourless. His Lord was all these things and he hated them too.

When he was thirteen, his Lord went hunting. Needing someone to tend to his horse and himself, he took Toshiro along with his mother out with him.

His mother spent the day attached to his arm, playing the part of the perfect concubine. Not once did she look at her son.

It was cold. Bitingly so. The sky was grey and steely and ice covered the puddles in the road.

He walked behind his mothers horse, his Lords animal ahead of her. He kept his head bowed and ignored his aching feet and shivering.

They finally stopped to make a camp for the night, his Lord entering his elaborate tent already set up by the servants. His mother followed, not sparing a thought for her son as she pulled the curtain closed.

He shivered again and rubbed his arms to warm himself. He hated the cold. It reminded him of his mother. She was so cold to him. So very cold.

The sky was pitch black outside, the stars were out and it was a beautiful evening save the cold. He curled up in his own tent, it was small and thin and offered little protection from the biting wind. Even the servants got better than this. He was sure if he hadn't grabbed it before they left he would have had nothing. He was forgotten. Again.

Unable to sleep for the cold. He curled up and listened to the noises coming from his Lords tent. There was the sound of bottles clinking and raucous laughter. His mothers delicate, bell light laughter was heard thought the deep sounds of his Lord and his companions.

The clinking died down and he could hear grumbles.

"More sake! Bring us more sake! Boy! Bring me sake!"

He closed his eyes briefly and picked himself up and went to the supply tent. Noticing that it was snowing and his feet were painfully numb he cursed his thin clothing.

Fetching a large jug of sake that was almost too heavy for him to carry, he hauled it into his Lords tent. Covered in snow and shaking violently, he set it down.

"About time boy! What, were you making your own sake?" they roared with laughter and his mother let out that beautiful laugh once again. She clung to their Lord, dressed in a stunning kimono in various shades of pink. Her eyes landed on her son and lost their warmth. She made a shooing motion, her attention was off him again. Forgotten.

He waited in case he was needed.

"What are you still doing here boy? Get out." His Lord said. His eyes were wild and unfocused. His breath reeked of the alcohol and his words were slurred. Toshiro left.

Curled up once again, he tried in vain to sleep with the noises of the revelling.

"Boy!" came a drunken shout.

He gritted his teeth and get up. His limbs were stiff and his breathing came in painful gasps. He couldn't feel his lips.

It was a blizzard outside. He could barely see the other tent not six meters from him. Ankle deep in snow, he fought his way over, his small frame trembling like a leaf caught in wind.

He entered and tried to remain standing. His limbs were so weak. He hated it. It was warm in the other tent, thick expensive fabric covered the walls and throws lay scattered around. A merry fire was going in the centre.

"Yes my Lord? Is there anything you require?" he asked, cursing his wavering voice and chattering teeth.

"Come here boy."

He walked towards his Lord, keeping his head down. Respectful, always respectful.

"Bow to your Lord boy! Show respect!"

He did so, ignoring the horrible feeling in the pit of his stomach at the action and the pain in his frozen joints.

They laughed at him. He clenched his jaw.

"We didn't get to hunt today." His Lord said, a scheming look in his eyes. "I think we get to hunt don't you?" his companions shouted their approval, all as drunk as the next. He noticed his mother had no drink in front of her. She looked to in possession of all her senses.

"Well boy? Do you think we should get to hunt?"

Toshiro felt the lie slide off his tongue like so many before.

"Yes my Lord."

His Lord made an approving noise.

Toshiro had his head bowed again, eyes on the floor and he heard but did not see, the sword being drawn.

He stayed put, believing that they were getting ready to slay some poor beast.

The blade sliced through his arm and he cried out. Falling back and clutching his arm to his chest. Blood was rapidly staining his clothing from the deep cut.

He looked up with confused, desperate eyes. Why?

His Lord smiled, it was the smile of a predator that had its prey in a corner, unable to escape.

"Run boy. We want a bit of fun and you will provide it. Hunting is such a wonderful sport don't you think?"

He turned desperate eyes to his mother but she wasn't looking at him. When she did, her look was distanced and she soon looked away again.

"My Lord-"

"I said run!" his Lord roared. Toshiro flinched.

"My Lord please-"

The sword caught his leg. He yelled in pain and struggled backward.

"I told you to run!"

He sent one last pleading glance to his mother but she pointedly looked away. Eyes prickling with tears he turned and ran as best he could with his injuries from the tent.

Joyous calls and yells came from assembled. The hunt was on.

He dragged himself through the snow. Trees bathed in moonlight and podwer like snow threw shadows on the white ground. He clutched his arm to his chest and tried to ignore the stabbing pain from his leg.

He could hear the yells and laughter that followed him.

Tears ran hot down his cheeks before freezing on his skin.

He kept going, the moon lit his way through the non path that was the dense forest. He could feel the blood dripping from both his wounds, no doubt staining the pristine snow and leading his hunters right to him. He could do nothing, yet he refused to give up.

His pace slowed although he tried not to.

His vision was going black and he caught his foot on a tree root and was sent sprawling. He cried out as the hard fall aggravated his wounds.

"He's here! My Lord! Over here!" he heard and shout and tried to drag himself up. He could not, his limbs would not support him. So he crawled, at a snails pace, the undergrowth starching his face and sending blood into his eyes.

A heavy boot shoved him into the ground.

Another cry tore itself from his through before he could stop it.

The foot roughly turned him over, through his fuzzy vision, he could clearly made out the figure of his Lord. Another figure was there, on horseback and wearing pink. His mother. He tried to reach out to her but he couldn't.

"Well now, it looks like our prey has finally given up!" his Lords voice boomed.

"Get up boy." And the foot was removed. He tried, he really did but he could not move to obey the command.

"I told you to get up!"

A sharp kick was delivered to his side and he gasped. He still could not move. Another kick, stronger this time. And another. He coughed and felt something splatter from his lips. He could taste blood in his mouth.

"You dare defy me!" his Lord shouted, his eyes wild and drunken.

Toshiro lay motionless.

Cold. Something was wrong with his chest, it wasn't supposed to be as cold as it was, despite the weather.

He cracked open his eyes (when had they dropped closed?). His Lords sword was buried in his chest. He screamed. Words could not describe the pain. The blade had punctured his lung and he tried to draw breath.

Tears streamed from his eyes and he looked desperately, frantically for someone to help him. Someone. Anyone.

His mother dismounted her horse. He fixed his eyes on her as his Lord yanked the blade from his chest, sending blood spraying from the wound. Toshiro screamed again. His blood stained his mother's kimono, spoiling it. He looked at her. Begging.

"My Lord," she said. "I am cold. May we return now your sport is over?"

He gasped for air and managed to gasp out a word.

"Mother." She turned and looked at him dispassionately. "Please." He said.

She hooked her arm around her Lords and he patted her head like one would a dog.

He spat on the ground.

"Pathetic. That was barely a hunt."

He turned and shaking his head in disgust, walked away. His companions followed him.

His mother never once looked back.

He lay there, in the silence. The snow falling on and around him as he gasped for air.

Blood flowed continuously from his mouth and he choked on it. The movement sent spasms of pain through his broken body.

Tears still leaked from his eyes. His small body was shutting down, he could feel it. He didn't want to die. He was afraid, so very afraid. He wanted to see his mother again. He didn't want to die.

His vision was failing him. The world was white and black. The snow was piled on him and it made it even more hard to breathe.

He wanted his mother. He wanted her to come and to hold him like he had seen the villagers do with their children. But he wasn't one of them and he wasn't part of the nobility. He was just a forgotten child left to die in a forgotten place. Part of him hoped his mother might shed some tears. Toshiro, the boy with no name. Left behind to die in some meaningless forest for some meaningless reason. There would be no grave for him, no one to mourn his death.

He was and would forever be, forgotten.

About the spear? Samurai traditionally carried spears, not swords. Please tell me what you think!