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: Brothers in Arms

Summary: They were friends, comrades, brothers in arms. Nothing more, nothing less. And, in the end, they were content with that.

Music used for inspiration: Muridke Boy – Ali Kamboh

They swung their swords, shouting commands and loosing themselves to the violence.

The battleground was an oil painting, smeared in black, white and red occasionally mixing into grey.

It had been a long time ago when they had lost count of how many they had slain, the number didn't matter, only that they didn't stop.

Neither knew how long it had been, how many were left or if aid would ever come. Nor did they have the strength to care. There was only the fight and the blood, and each other.

Somehow, they had managed not to get separated, and so here they were, hacking and slashing through faceless marionettes in an equally faceless landscape.

The ground was riddled with craters and ice and blood. Their voices were hoarse from overuse and bellowing of commands.

One got a lucky shot in and three were decimated on the spot, four more taking their place. The other was not so lucky, catching a strike on the arm and sending him backwards, blood spraying onto already stained sands. He cursed but the other didn't turn, too engrossed in his own battle was he that sounds didn't make sense anymore. He re-entered the fray and with a cry, downed two of his foes and a third who had almost got a hit on his comrade. Said comrade had done the same countless times and would likely do so again, as would he.

The sky hung above them like a blanket, heavy, yet far enough away to be uncared for. The moon provided them with light, staining the few untouched patches of sand a brighter white. Blood splashed across it, ruining it's colour but it went unnoticed as they danced.

The foes were thinning out and soon almost stopped entirely and the two pushed them back as far as they could before retreating themselves, into a small rocky shelter.

They stood, leaning against the rock, catching their breaths and cursing their burning lungs and aching muscles.

One poked his head out but drew it back in hurriedly as a shot blew slivers of stone into the air. He cursed softly and his partner gave a small snort of agreement.

The air was cold against their flushed and damp faces and their throats were sore.

"There are too many." The taller said, leaning heavily on his blade.

His companion hummed in response as he tended to a wound on his side. He hissed when he wrapped the makeshift bandage around it and tied it tightly.

"You alright?" the taller asked in concern.

A dirty look was shot his way and if he had had the energy, he would have chuckled.

"Of course I'm not." The shorter snapped. "What about you?"

His companion shifted and winced.

"Not great, I can't move my left arm."

He heard a grunt and assumed it was in sympathy.

He spared a look at his shorter companion and noted the tattered, gore soaked coat that should have been white, the white hair, still standing up as wild as ever against all the odds and the young (yet somehow so very old) face that was splattered with blood. He sported a vicious cut across one eye that had rivers of red running down his jaw. The eye the cut was over was barely open, bright teal peeking out from red inked lashes.

He saw the object of his scrutiny give him a once over and knew he must have been looking at the large gash on his bare torso, the limpness of his left arm as the wound on his shoulder steadily dripped blood into the sand. He was beaten black and blue and he could feel the ache in his body.

"Who's left?" he asked gruffly, he had always been short of skills in sensing others presences.

There was a pause before the answer came, choked.

"Us."

Biting back a painful cry, he nodded jerkily.

"So we're the last."

The shorter didn't answer with words, just a nod, eyes closed. He watched for a moment before turning away, not wanting to intrude on private grief. He had his own.

Gone. All of them, so confident a few short days ago before they were thrust into battle. He didn't doubt his companion, he didn't make mistakes.

She had been the first to go, surprisingly. He would have thought she would have been there in the end. After all, that's how stories are supposed to go. But she wasn't, she was lying somewhere out there, broken and cold. He didn't know where she fell, he didn't know where any of them fell. He had a strong wish to seek out their bodies, to look at them one last time, even if they were not how he wanted to remember them. He just had to see.

A choked noise came from the person to his side and he saw tears rolling down his cheeks, dropping from his jaw and falling as red tinted hailstones to the sand.

They had both lost those they loved. Although not all. He still had his sisters and his father, whom he had begged to stay and protect them. He wanted nothing more than to be in his house, warm and fed, arguing with his father and doting on his sisters. He still had the hope for their lives.

His comrade had no-one. Nothing left. All those he loved were dead. His lieutenant was lying not far from their position, her body unrecognisable, her eyes open and glassy. He had never thought he would ever see him cry, he was too strong for that, too apathetic. But he was crying now, soul tearing tears tinted with blood, and sobs that wracked his body.

He bowed his head and let his own tears fall. Memories flashed before him, brighter than they were in real life and he felt almost sick with longing to see the places again, the people.

He felt a hand on his shoulder. The shorter was looking up at the him with solemn eyes.

"They're coming."

They both felt it, the next wave was arriving and their brief reprieve was over. They pushed themselves up with effort and tried to ignore the shouts of pain their muscles were sending them. It was a frightening thought, that they were alone. That was no-one left, that no-one was coming to save them, no remarkable power could be pulled out of the bag to save the day.

He spoke then, in a small voice unlike him.

"I'm glad you're here." he said softly, watching the young face soften and nod firmly.

They readied their swords and brought their power to bear, they shared a look. They would not be leaving this desert. They were the last.

"Let's kill these bastards." The taller said in a hard voice, a growl barely hidden.

A hand clamped around his forearm and stopped him from throwing himself into the fray.

"Ichigo,"

Eyes filled with far too much hidden by a glass wall of determination stared up at him, jaw set and free hand clenched around the hilt of his faithful sword.

He looked back, the look in his eyes matching the one blazing in the shorter warriors gaze.

They grasped forearms tightly, two strong warriors against insurmountable odds. Two men who knew they weren't coming back, who would fight until they were cut down and even then they would drag themselves back up and continue until they were too broken to lift their swords. Freinds, comrades, brothers in arms.

"It has been an honour." The Captain said, managing to convey everything in those simple words.

They nodded to each other, respectful and glad to have a comrade with them in these last hours.

In almost eerie unison they each took a breath and with one last fleeting look at the other, broke from their cover, war cries ringing in their ears.

End

A look at what 'last stand' could mean. Partially influenced by the ending to butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.

This was rattling around for a while and it needed to be written, I hope I did a good job!