#anyways apprentice william. he’s so miserable

[rubydoobles]

time to spread the jigsaw apprentice william easton propaganda. do you see my vision

[woodrokiro]

Hollowed (fic), Part Eight

Fandom: Bleach

Pairing: IchiRuki

Summary: They call her a miracle, but he looks at her as if she’s normal. It scares her. Fantasy/Futuristic/Zombie kinda?AU. Read Parts One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, and Seven. 

It’s the same dream, each and every goddamned time.

It starts out simply and true and horrid enough: the night he last saw her. His mother put him and the girls to bed, kissing each on the nose and wishing them sweet dreams. There is wetness on her cheek from when she briefly nuzzles her son--but it’s quick, and her expression is as peaceful as it usually is.

Was.

But in this dream, he gets out of bed.

His father isn’t in the living room, for whatever reason--but he’s too focused on his mother’s retreating form out of the house to really think about that detail. He starts to follow her--nine year old feet silent as they can while still trying to catch up. He thinks maybe she’s going outside to the safety cellar--even though there has been no Hollowed alarm, even though they haven’t had enough food to store there for ages--until he sees that she’s drifting toward the river.

His heart stops beating so quickly, because the river is a sacred place to Masaki. It’s where she taught her children how to swim, where they catch most of their food, where she has taught him that water is life. So long as they have this river, she says, they need to keep fighting for their lives, for their happiness.

But when she reaches the silt at the water’s edge, she suddenly stops.

“Ichigo,” she calls softly without turning around. Her voice is oddly distorted. “Get away from here.”

He is about to ask why, why would he ever leave her here when she knows the tide gets so high at night and then she turns.

Half of her beautiful face is mangled into a grimace, the other half covered by a Hollowed mask. Her body bubbles and blackens, and she reaches out a hand--gnarling into a claw--toward him.

“Run.”

--

Why he’s awake far earlier than the rest of the group is never questioned, and he’s glad. 

He doesn’t know how he’d answer, anyway.

--

He finds out soon enough that Rukia likes books. 

He guesses it’s not too surprising: he can’t imagine there’s much else for her to do, after all. 

But about a week after he starts, when he realizes there really isn’t much to do except sit around, ask what she’s doing (to which she may or may not answer), and watch dust filter through the screen, he makes do on his oath and brings a book. Well. His only book. It’s not gonna last him long, but hey. Something to do is something to do.

He’s about five pages in when he hears a creaking of the screen and looks up to find her hands gripping through the holes, eyes peering curiously down on him.

“What are you reading?”

Unnerved by her sudden attention, he slaps the book closed. “Look, I told you I’d bring something to read if things got as boring as they have been--”

“No, no. Of course.” She waves her hand impatiently. “I understand. What’s the name of your book?”

Slowly, he raises the tattered cover for her to see. “It’s… Hamlet. By William Shakespeare. Do you know it or…?”

She grins from ear to ear, clapping once in obvious pleasure. “Know it? Well, I know of it. They talk about it in a book Lord Yamamoto has of Shakespeare, but no one’s ever been able to find a copy for me. Is it true? That it’s his best, darkest work?”

“Well… I definitely don’t think darkest. Titus Andronicus is pretty dark, I hear--”

“Titus Andronicus is a travesty amongst his writing. Dark, yes: but no substance.” She sniffs with visible distaste, but Ichigo is intrigued with this conversation. Sure, he loves this book--it’s the one personally prized possession he was able to grab before fleeing his village--but he’s also fascinated with the sudden light in her eyes, the excitement in her voice at having someone to talk about an interest with.

The thought slips in uninvited that this glee suits her.

He shrugs, feeling a heat rise up his neck. “I wouldn’t know. I only have this one. I read All’s Well, once, but the copy was lost a long time ago. I had a book on his biography, too. Would love to find his other work, someday… But there’s more important things to ask for.”

Her fingernail scratches the screen in thought before she quickly glides over to a huge bookshelf in her section. Ichigo watches her: he’d be lying if he said he’s never noticed it before.

“What are you…?”

She trots back over, shoving a beautiful book through the larger exchange slot in the partition. “Here. I’ll trade you. I’ll take care of yours if you take care of mine.”

He eyes the cover. King Lear’s title is stitched in fine gold thread and he gulps. Although tempted, he shakes his head.

“Sorry. That thing’s in mint condition, but this copy is pretty important to me for sentimental value--”

“No, not literally trade, fool.” She rolls her eyes as if he’s the idiot being unclear. “Trade for reading. That thing isn’t deserving to be in my book collection, but it’ll do so I can finally read it. And when you finish this one, you can borrow another. I have near all of his work.”

He’s unsure, but finds himself putting his Hamlet copy in the slot too. “Okay… But I can’t really give you anything else, that’s the only one I have--”

“It doesn’t matter.” She’s grabbed his Hamlet, already finished with the conversation. “I like reading something a few times over anyway. And besides… It’s nice. I mean. To have someone to talk to about it with. I hope.” 

And with that, she walks her way up to her seat next to the window, curls her feet beneath her, and starts to read. 

He opens his own borrowed copy, starting a couple pages before he hears a sound.

Humming.

Strangely, he thinks, that suits her too.

--

“I just don’t get why she’s so… Isolated? But weirdly idolized? Like… She’s an imprisoned queen, or something.” Ichigo picks a piece of lint off his shirt. “Not to be dramatic. It’s just weird.”

It’s his day off, and he’s decided in his boredom to mosey over to Chad’s masonry unit and hang out. He and Chad don’t talk a lot (well, Chad doesn’t talk a lot), but he knows he can count on his friend for advice or venting whenever he needs.

Even when Chad’s pipsqueak boss glares at him from across the room the whole time he’s there.

“If you’re going to distract my apprentice,” the kid calls out, “you can at least be useful and help him in his work.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know the drill sir.” Ichigo hops off his stool, stands next to Chad to half-assedly polish weapons while his friend pounds away at hot iron. “Jesus. How this tightwad place managed to hire a runt as the head of masonry is beyond me.”

Chad stops his work momentarily to wipe the sweat from his brow. “Hitsugaya’s a good boss. He’s taught me a lot in a short time, and besides. He lets you in here while I’m working. Can’t say the kitchens or Ishida’s units would allow for your company.”

Ichigo huffs, but doesn’t disagree. As little as Chad may speak, he has an annoying habit of being right. 

“Yeah, yeah. Still can’t imagine it feels great being bossed around by a twelve-year old, though…”

The two work in companionable silence for a bit, and Ichigo can’t help but think that they really did match Chad to the best job for him. He’s glad someone in his group has found a job that makes sense, at least.

As if reading Ichigo’s thoughts, Chad clears his throat. “Have you talked to Karin recently?”

“Nah. I haven’t really had a chance to. Why?”

“Nothing new, but Yuzu mentioned to me she’s struggling.” Chad keeps his eyes down on his work, but Ichigo can read a tinge of worry. “Been messing up a lot in the kitchens, she says. Inoue makes some… Strange choices in her cooking, we know--but at least she enjoys the work, and is quick to correct her mistakes. She’s well liked there. But Karin…” He stops, not needing to say more.

“Karin’s got a temper.” Ichigo sighs and runs his fingers through his hair. “Fuck. Okay. I’ll--I don’t know. I’ll figure something out.”

“I’m sure she’s doing her best, but…”

“No, I know. But it’s not fair to her. I didn’t drag you all here so that any one of you could be miserable. ‘Specially my sisters.” 

“Why don’t you put her here?” Hitsugaya suddenly pops up beside them, carrying a couple of buckets of water to cool the iron. “Sado here says she’s almost as good with weapons as you are, and Old Man never gives me enough workers. We could use her help.”

Ichigo blinks. “Don’t you have some sort of… Weird sexist rule here? That women aren’t really allowed in the military?”

“You obviously haven’t met Captain Soifon… But I guess she is a special case. Anyway, I don’t have that rule.” Hitsugaya grunts while he pours the water. “If someone can do the work, who cares? It’s Old Man’s preference that things are the way they are. Comes from his religious background, having been a monk and all.” 

Ichigo’s jaw drops. He gives Chad a look before hounding on Hitsugaya. “A monk? Are you fucking--why are you so nonchalent about this? Aren’t they--weren’t they supposed to be peaceful ‘n stuff? How is he the HEAD of this entire military institution--”

“Don’t go screaming at me just because you don’t know the history of this place! It’s not my fault you didn’t educate yourself before you got here!” Hitsugaya crosses his arms and glares reproachfully up at him. “Whatever. I guess it’s not that long of a story. Basically, this place was a monastery when the Hollowed first appeared. A big important one. It’s debated whether Yamamoto was head monk and all, but then I guess it doesn’t matter. Anyway, what’s left of the military scampered up here, and Yamamoto took over as Head General. Some sort of ‘God’s Will,’ thing in his mind, probably. The rest is, as they say, history.”

“So Lord Yamamoto didn’t come from the military directly?” Chad vocalizes Ichigo’s next question, however scrambled it might be in his mind right now. 

“No. But to be honest… Look, Yamamoto’s done some disagreeable things. Frankly I don’t trust a lot of his decisions, but without him the entire human population could very well be dead right now.” Hitsugaya shrugs, picking up the emptied buckets. “Anyway Kurosaki, if you want to get your sister over here, I’ll take her. But I wouldn’t recommend asking Yamamoto directly. He’ll probably say no. I’d ask Lady Rukia to request the transfer.” 

Ichigo’s mind takes a minute to process the mention of the name and frowns in confusion. “Rukia? Why would she change his mind?”

“It may not seem like it, but she does have some input here. Not to him directly--through her brother. Whether you call it Byakuya’s guilt or affection, who cares? Anyway, it’s helped me get a friend from the valley into the service sector.” He twists his mouth thoughtfully. “She’s much kinder than the whispers say she is.”

Before he can ask the pipsqueak about that story, the kid turns and walks out the front door to (presumably) get more water.

Ichigo turns to Chad and his friend shrugs in response.

“It’s worth a shot,” he manages gruffly, and Ichigo can’t help but agree. 

--

Later that night, Ichigo approaches Ishida about it.

He doesn’t want to get Karin’s hopes up quite yet, just in case it doesn’t happen. Instead, he wants Uryuu’s input: Uryuu--who he definitely still thinks is an idiot--is at least a good sounding board for ideas, and he can count on him to be blunt.

Plus, it’s been a while since he talked to the guy. 

He’s been quiet ever since he started his part time shifts on the medical grounds two days ago, and hasn’t really been speaking to anybody except Orihime. He’s never been exactly chatty in the first place, but this…

When Ichigo tells him his idea about asking Rukia for the change, Ishida’s eyes flash strangely at her name. 

“I wouldn’t ask her during your shift tomorrow. I don’t know that she’d be… Up for it.” He says quickly before focusing back on mending a shirt. There’s a brief silence before he stops, sensing Ichigo’s stare.

“What?”

“I mean… That’s a weird thing to say. What do you mean she wouldn’t be ‘up for it?’ You meet her without telling me, or something?”

“No I didn’t meet her, and if I did I wouldn’t need to tell you--anyhow.” Ishida pinches his forehead and breathes in. Ichigo frowns.

“Everything okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine. Really. Just… You’ve mentioned she’s tired after your days and nights off, right? Maybe you won’t catch her… At her best. That’s all. Just give her a break tomorrow morning.” 

He gets up and is about to walk out of the room when Ichigo calls out to him.

“You said we gotta keep each other updated about this place. Is there anything you’re not telling me? I know we argue… But you can talk to me, Ishida.”

Uryuu doesn’t turn around to answer him for a minute. When he does, his face is solemnly thoughtful. “I know. But I’ll have to let you know when I’ve figured out what exactly is going on myself, Kurosaki.” 

He shuts the door, and wonders how many more secrets his group is keeping from him. 

[verritytorres]

post tbk depression - unfinished mini fics

“At least we’re going to die together,” Aaron said. Each word was like a knife, cutting deeper and deeper in his chest. His small, sad smile was the final blow.

“Bullshit,” Call hissed at him with a conviction he didn’t have before. He squeezed their laced fingers. “You’re getting out of this alive—”

A blast of heat interrupted him. Tamara flung a fireball at Alex, her face contorted with righteous fury. Alex scowled and flung out his hand, using his air magic specialty to throw the fire right at the boys. Call barely ducked in time, grabbing Aaron’s shirt and pulling him down.

The masked man holding Call screamed as Tamara’s fire ate at his shirt. He let go of Call and he jumped away, wincing at his leg. He yanked Aaron away with him, and the blond boy staggered to his feet.

“Havoc, get him!” Tamara screamed, summoning another fireball.

Havoc’s snarl echoed throughout the abandoned village and he launched himself at Alex. Aaron tried to take away his hand—to fight back, no doubt—but Call tightened his fingers, holding him in place.

“No heroics,” Call said, pinning Aaron in place with his blazing eyes. He opened his mouth to say something else, but a blinding light interrupted him.

Call and Aaron whipped their heads at Alex, horror striking their hearts when they saw the metal of the Alkahest glowing with power. Alex raised his arm, his face alight with cruel victory.

It’s been two years.

It’s gotten to the point where everyone doubts you. Hell, they probably even doubt your mental state. You’ve gone on endless rants about how “—I can feel him, Tamara, I can’t explain it, but he’s there—“, her warm brown eyes filling with fucking pity, and her soft voice telling you for the umpteenth time that Aaron was dead; his soul was taken by Alex Strike; that there’s no way for him to come back, even under normal circumstances. But you resent that.

First of all—and you hate yourself for thinking this, she’s your best friend, for fuck’s sake, and the only one available at the moment—who’s she to say what’s up with souls? She’s not a Makar. Sure, she’s read all the books about it, but she’s never known what souls look like—what his soul looked like. A thousand colors at once. It was warm on the outside, caring, kind, the Aaron everyone knew and loved; but you saw something else, too. Something that somehow, you can’t really explain—that seems to be a prominent issue with all this Makar-void-soul business—but it sure explained his occasional bouts of aggression.

Second—and this might come as a surprise to people���you’ve read the counterweight theories. You’re not completely hopeless in class. You know your shit. And in every reading about counterweights that Rufus assigned to you and Aaron, it always said: The Makar and their counterweight’s souls are forever linked. So if that “link”, or whatever, was severed, you of all people would know. You would stop feeling that rubber band. You would stop feeling these flashes of phantom pain. You wouldn’t feel anything at all, just a gaping hole you can never fill. Besides, when a Makar dies, they take their counterweight down with them; that’s a known fact. That’s why Aaron didn’t want you as his counterweight at first, remember? He was so worried you’d die. But you decided to do it anyway, and now he’s gone.

But you’re still here. Why are you still here?

Why are you still alive if he’s not?

Simple. He’s not fucking dead.

Tamara says differently. Rufus says differently. Alastair says differently. The whole fucking World of Mages says differently, with their memorial statues and grand funeral (with no body to speak of, by the way.) Your own brain says differently. It plagues you at night with constant replays of that fucking beam, of Alex’s cruel expression, of his hand in yours. Aaron blames you for it every night in your dreams.

(You don’t get much sleep these days.)

It’s been two years, and you still think he’s alive, somewhere, somehow.

But now you’re on your way to his grave with flowers.

The fallen leaves crunch under your boots. The winter chill came early this year, biting your face in sudden gusts. Students are already wearing their warmer uniforms. Yours is red this year, and your wrist glistens with gold. It was supposed to be your senior year—all three of you, finishing school with a flourish. The plan just doesn’t work with two.

His tomb is a bit extravagant for his taste, you think. Aaron wouldn’t want a statue of him like Verity. “I didn’t earn it,” he’d say. He’d want a small modest little stone, engraved with his name, the dates, and if he died honorably or otherwise. But the Assembly insisted on a big memorial near the Mission Gate with a plaque underneath.

You don’t really like it. The sculptor got his nose wrong.

The platform by Fake-Aaron’s feet is littered with dead flowers. A rumor went around that leaving a little token by Aaron would give you good luck on your mission. Even the Gold Years did it sometimes. And you can agree that Aaron always did project good vibes.

You gently set your small bouquet next to his left foot. It’s a bit miserable—colorless bluebells, pink lilacs, and a weird purplish one Tamara called “hyacinth”—but you grew it yourself. Gold Years learn to use earth magic to cultivate things at speed. Aaron would have loved it; he always did appreciate earth magic right after chaos.

You take a deep breath and whisper, “Aaron.” A gust of wind buffets your face, and you pull up the hood of your coat, shivering slightly. “I—I know you’re out there. I don’t know how I know, but I…” You open your mouth to say more, but the words catch in your throat. You swallow thickly. “At this point, I might just be imagining it. I’m sure everyone thinks that. So please—please—if you can hear me, tell me. Send a counterweight sign or whatever. Just—show me.”

Something rustles behind you. You whip around and stare wildly around because holy shit, what if he actually heard you, is that him, finally—

But there’s nothing there. You wait a few minutes more, eyes and ears peeled for something, anything.

Nothing. It was the wind.

It’s been two years.

You start to think he might not come back after all.

Master North had gone on a long spiel about the untrained Makars—or Makar, as of late—being a danger to the whole school; Alma kept trying to convince everyone of her outrageous conspiracy theory. Rufus was exhausted, both mentally and physically. He had spent most of this meeting loudly and vehemently protesting everything his students were being subjected to.

When the mages arrived at the Order village, Callum had been immediately clapped in irons and sent to the Panopticon, no questions asked. Tamara had been ushered away and locked in her dorm with the Chaos-ridden wolf, isolated from all contact, but at least she was safe. Rufus’ main argument throughout this arduous meeting was Callum’s ordeal. He was a child, for God’s sake. He may be the Makar, but he means no harm, and he certainly did not kill Aaron. And he most definitely is not the Enemy of Death. Rufus, of all people, would know.

As soon as the Masters’ meeting was dismissed, Rufus all but ran out of the room. He couldn’t manage to bust Callum out of prison right now, Master North made sure of that. But he had time. He would pull strings in the Assembly, anything to get the boy out. But right now, something else was on his mind.

“It’s history repeating itself!” Alma had screeched. “Constantine Madden had killed his counterweight too—“

“A terrible accident,” Master Milagros said coldly. She didn’t like Alma.

“Maybe, but it was his fault nonetheless! When counterweights die, Makars are weakened but not killed. Makars, though—when Makars die, they take their counterweight down with them. Does anyone remember Verity Torres?” Alma waited half a second before continuing, “She was murdered, and her counterweight fell dead on the spot at the exact moment. So tell me, peers,” Alma stared around the room, her eyes piercing daggers at every Master, “why is Callum Hunt not dead?”

Alma was raving mad during most of her speech, but she had a point there. Something wasn’t right.

As he hurried down the halls, Rufus noticed everything was quiet. Usually the cavernous halls of the school echoes with laughter and the sounds of elementals and magic, but all he could hear now was the occasional drip of water and the swift pattering of his own feet.

He got to the small docks where the small boats let into the underground river system. Rufus swiftly stepped onto one and didn’t bother sitting down. He closed his eyes and focused his thoughts on the water, feeling its need to flow, and willed it to take him to his office. The water happily complied, and Rufus sped down the river.

Rufus took the few minutes he had to organize his thoughts. [hackshshd]

 He would have to look at Aaron to be sure. Rufus flicked his fingers and created a small air-phone in front of him. Master Amaranth appeared, feeding eyeless fish to her python. She didn’t notice him until he said her name.

Amaranth jumped, clutching her heart. “Rufus! Don’t scare me like that, how many times do I have to—“

“I’m sorry, Amaranth,” Rufus inclined his head. “But I have an urgent request.”

Amaranth sighed and wrapped her snake around her neck. “Well?”

Rufus made an effort to make his face look grief-stricken. It wasn’t hard. “I’d like to see Aaron.”

Master Amaranth was silent. Rufus wasn’t known in the Magisterium for being emotional. His tragic backstory was well known throughout the school—a Devoured Master, his first apprentice group dead or ostracized, his second going on that same path—but so was his seeming apathy. William Rufus showing emotion was as rare as two Makars in a generation.

“Okay,” Amaranth said. “They put him in the infirmary. You have five minutes.”

Rufus thanked her and changed the boat’s course.

   It was summer again. Call lay on the grass, basking in the sun. And Aaron was with him, their palms together, their fingers loosely laced, and everything felt right.

Aaron squeezed their hands a little. Call turned his head to look at him, smiling softly. But Aaron wasn’t looking back at him. He kept staring at the sky.

“Hey,” said Call. “You okay?”

Aaron didn’t respond. Call propped himself up on his elbow to take a closer look at him. Aaron’s green eyes were glassy and dull.

“Aaron!” Call jostled his shoulder but Aaron still didn’t look at him. “Aaron, answer me—“

Aaron shot up abruptly, gripping Call’s throat with a vengeance. Call scrabbled at his fist, but only felt metal, and suddenly Call was back at the Order village. Aaron’s face melted into Alex’s and he said in a voice far too sinister for a sixteen year-old boy, “Power.” Light flooded out of the Alkahest and burned like hell, and Call was thrown back. Aaron lay there beside him again, but he wasn’t there, and Aaron’s hand was cold, Aaron wasn’t breathing, Aaron was gone—

 Call has always been the kind of person that knew when he was dreaming and when he wasn’t. He knew he was dreaming when Master Joseph came to him and splashed snow on his face. He knew he was awake when he saw Aaron die.