Title: Risker, Risk
Fandom: Bleach
Pairing: Ichigo/Rukia.
Rating: PG
Word Count: 505
Summary/Description: I intend to turn a sky of tears, for you.
Warning/Spoilers: Spoilers for about up of Chapter 268. Some strong language.
A/N: Written for the 2007 IchiRuki Fanworks Contest over on LJ. Prompt used: Fury. This fic was also heavily influenced by Martin Carter's poem, For Walter Rodney (http://sahara-storm . livejournal . com/115495.html, copy and paste, remove the spaces). I am such a ho. (hangs head in shame)
Disclaimer: I do not own Bleach.
He picks up the body.
It is harder than he had anticipated. Her body is stiff with rigor mortis, hard to position and manoeuvre, and he knows that he is many hours too late. Her wounds no longer weep; the blood stains look like tracks of dried tears against her clothes and skin. Shirayuki's remains are clasped tight between her cold hard fingers. He does not try to prise it free.
His arm goes around her back and loops under her knees, and he presses her body to his chest. Their blood mingles, and behind him, Orihime's tears are soft and muffled. She cries like this world is ending.
Her blood is splattered all over the floor like a sacrifice. Deep gouts of red are stark against the floor like rain against a black sky. He presses his lips tighter together, and his throats irritates him, like a scream is trying to claw its way from the inside out, like no fury in this world will ever be enough. The dead weight in his arms threatens to bring him to his knees. She did it for them, he knows. She tried, and she gave it away for them.
Before he acknowledges what he wants, it comes to him. Hollows are crawling their way out of their holes and hiding places, dragging leers and garish grins onto their faces, roaring silently, complacently. He feels their reiatsu; some of them feel big enough to be ranked. He recognises Noitera's; flagging, but bright. He is glad the fucker is still alive. He cuts a smile onto his face, eyes flint hard and cold, and Orihime gasps a little.
Remembering her, he gestures with his head that she should stand behind him. She refuses politely, even as the tears still glisten and shine in her eyes, and she stands next to him instead. A few hours ago, he might have protested. As it is now, he nods, and looks down again at the body in his arms. Her features are frozen and dull and he can feel his ire raising. His strength is failing and his eyes can only see one thing but he can almost feel the heat rising off of his skin and wild noise rushes in his ears. He looks at her.
His body surges with satisfaction as the creatures begin to come into view. Blood pumps in his veins and in his head and in his heart and he does not allow himself to think. He is going to kill and creatures are going to die. He is going to shake this world out by its dirty stinking lapels, and it will never be the same again. Her body is so stiff, it is hard to hold with only one arm, but he holds her so much tighter and grits his teeth.
The time for mourning will come later. Right now, he is just really fucking mad.
He draws her nearer, and draws his sword.
I intend to turn a sky of tears, for you.
A/N: This did not turn out exactly like I wanted it to. I mean, I was really trying to convey blind anger that was only just being controlled. I dunno. But your comments are invaluable to me. :) Tell me how I did?
And you should really read the poem.