Fic: The minutae of magic
Jan. 15th, 2011 12:39 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
amazing_e_koWritten for the ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
bad_shield prompt community between the hours of three and about half five in the morning. I had fun.
“Consider magic as the minutae of things. Not the grand, flashy gestures you have thought of it as before now, but as smoke and mirrors, the three knots that untie the wind and the hollow stone that reveals hidden worlds. If you cannot love the extraordinary in the mundane you will not last a year here, and for this reason, all of you will obey three rules during your time here and after you graduate. You will never meddle with life and death unless you are utterly without choice. You will never, ever, touch another person’s mind, for that is worse than death. Finally, you will never induce hatred or love magically.”
The words of Unohana-sensei echoed in Orihime’s head as she sat on the summer-dry grass, eating her lunch. She was utterly absorbed in weaving a minor grass-net illusion, and was definitely not covertly watching her classmate Kurosaki Ichigo as he played football across the playground.
When Unohana-sensei had warned them of the three rules of magic on the first day, Orihime had privately thought that Ichigo would not last a week, less still a year. It was one thing for him to be her odd, wanderly next door neighbour, but it was quite another for him to be her fellow apprentice who could not even be bothered to take notes on the first day.
It was only later that she had realised that Ichigo had not needed to take notes. It was not that he had an especially good memory, or that he already knew the rules by heart. He was simply such a good natured and kind person that he would never have broken them. Oh, Orihime was quite aware that he maintained an effective façade of distance and aloofness, but she had also seen him charm cherry blossoms to pink and silver birds just to delight small children in the neighbourhood. At that moment he had become something of a project for her, and she had vowed to match him in every subject, in order to understand him.
It proved somewhat harder than expected.
Orhime was skilled in healing magic beyond belief, and at every minor charm and cantrip she excelled. In those areas she not only matched her private rival, she far outstripped him. On the other hand, when it came to aggressive magic – summoning darkness so that your opponent would wander in a maze of their own fear or turning the glance of sunlight on water into a blade that might pierce even the hardest armour – she collapsed. Orihime, no matter how she was assured that it was only practise, no matter how well prepared her opponent was, struggled to inflict harm. And so she watched idly from the sidelines as Ichigo played haunting melodies that would drive a man to despair, as he fashioned black swords of heartbreak, their hilts bound with silence and secrets.
If you had been in a position to ask the sixteen year old girl exactly what it was that drove her in her rivalry with the red haired boy, she would have blushed and squirmed, and finally, cautiously admitted that maybe what she felt was not hatred, or anything like it. Orihime would have loved not to know what she felt for Kurosaki-kun, but the first precept of magic is know thyself, and she was a magician.
The worst part of the whole situation was that Ichigo himself was calmly and obliviously unware of it all. He had never once recognised Orihime, even as a rival. He was too caught up in his own quest, and Orihime, though she shone in her own way, was too demure to force recognition upon him.
It was a delicate situation, and it changed on the day of the summer festival.
The sky was clear and blue, the sun a bright disk of power in the sky. Solar mages, their golden pendants flashing in the light, hummed hymns of praise as they wandered among the brightly decorated stalls, while lunar mages scowled in the shadows, wan under the light. As she walked among the stalls, Orihime heard one of the latter folk, her upper classmate Kuchiki Rukia, complain bitterly that this would put her off her game and make winning the tournament impossible.
The apprentices’ tournament. That was what today was all about. Today was the day that she would finally prove to Kurosaki-kun that she was his equal (No! His superior.) and force him to recognise her. Today she would win.
Orihime wandered along the crooked alleys and the wide avenues of the festival town. Lemon verbena and cinnamon scented the air, honey and musk and frankincense (at a most reasonable price) wafted this way and that. Bottles of dried frogs lined up beside wool thread in a thousand and one colours and copies of magical texts, common and rare. Tiny jewel-like sweets were piled in shallow copper dishes, skewers of tofu and pepper twirled on wooden skewers.
Finally, she reached the tournament tent, an open-walled affair of red and blue cloth. Signing her name on the release and entry forms, Orihime walked into the champion’s ring and ran smack into Kurosaki Ichigo.
“Inoue?” His voice was surprised, his eyes hardly less so. “What are you doing here?”
“Um… that is… well, I’m competing in the tournament.” Inoue tried to sound firm, but felt that something was lacking in her delivery, because Ichigo did not seem pacified.
“You’re fighting? Are you sure?”
“Of course I am,” Orihime responded indignantly, though by the softness of her eyes she might have been professing undying friendship.
“It’s just that you never seem to like fighting much at school.”
Orihime’s instinctive reaction (he notices me!) rather conflicted with her previous indignation, and she was utterly unable to come up with a legitimate response.
“I’ll see you in the tournament, Kurosaki-kun,” she gasped out, and with that, she turned and fled.
After the sign-ups had ended and the fierce heat of the sun had waned, the lists were posted, and Orihime was called to her first match. She was not due to meet Kurosaki until the third round, if they both won, so she was grimly determined to resist her own inclinations and beat her opponent. Luckily, the timid boy, Hanatarou Yamada, was a delicate weaver mage, and Orihime defeated him quickly and efficiently with the first sacred flower bind, which sent him into a pleasant dream of his heart’s desire. She even got to see Ichigo’s first match, against the notorious Abarai Renji. Ichigo prevailed by using an illusion of the moon to dazzle Renji before striking him with one of his trademark black swords. Orihime thought bitterly that it was not for nothing that Ichigo was noted as the most promising Dark mage for half a century.
Her second match was more difficult, and she missed Ichigo’s entirely, though she heard that he fought a barbarian man who used blood magic to chilling effect.
She herself faced Ulquiorra Schiffer, a slight, dark-haired boy with green eyes and an expressionless face. His fear sword effortless split the first sacred flower bind, and when she drew her own weapon, the Withered Camilla blade, he struck at her relentlessly.
Orihime leapt about the arena, watching his footwork carefully, hoping that she could set up a circle, but he seemed to expect that, and touched the earth as lightly as possible. Orihime’s victory was half luck – Ulquiorra, casting a nightmare bind, missed the flower petals that landed on his back one by one, sending him into a slumber of some hours.
There was a short break before the third round, though Orihime would rather have skipped it, for all that a healer saw to her wounds – anticipation was strumming her body like a harp string.
“Will you please welcome to the arena Dark mage Kurosaki Ichigo and Flower mage Inoue Orihime?”
The audience applauded. Orihime hardly heard them, though she heard Ichigo greet her clearly.
“The best of luck,” he said.
“Break a leg, Kurosaki-kun!” Orihime sounded as cheerful as she could with her trembling voice and hands.
A red light flashed and the bout began.
They circled each other warily at first, testing each other out. Ichigo seemed curiously reluctant to strike, which Orihime decided could only be to her advantage. Let him think you’re weak. You won’t get past this one with a direct attack, no matter how quick, so make him underestimate you. Raising her hands in front of her, Orihime summoned her magic energy and chanted her private incantation.
“Light of the rising sun, bring forth the Withered Camilla blade!” a short white sword appeared in her hands, the hilt surmounted by a golden pommel. Without pausing, she charged Ichigo, who quickly drew his own sword and struck back. Orihime had anticipated that, and her feet sank into a wide stance, absorbing his energy and dissipating it. Below them, their shadows grew and wavered as Ichigo’s Dark magic poured into the ground.
They clashed back and forth. Orihime knew that Ichigo was by far the better and more ruthless swordsman, and even their swords proved it, for the Withered Camilla blade would only dispel the evil in someone’s heart; Ichigo’s Sky Chain would paralyze an opponent with overwhelming grief. At just that moment the tip of the Sky Chain cut her arm, and she felt just a touch of grief, a grief that seemed as vast as the sea. Orihime shuddered. She could not win this as a battle.
Thankfully, that was not all it could be.
Magic is in the little things. Orihime began to throw illusion after illusion at Ichigo, growing the grass roots at his feet into impenetrable forests, the odd daisy into a flaming sun. They were simple tricks, but they distracted the boy, and allowed Orihime a strike. She raised her sword, swung it, reminding herself that this would be the only chance she got, that this was her one hope of ever making Kurosaki-kun see her – and pulled back. Her timing on the strike was slightly off, and the tip of the white blade nicked Ichigo, but it did not matter. She had failed. Even in a mock battle, she could not bring herself to hit Ichigo.
The fight began to go badly for her. She was pressed back, harried, hounded, no longer even attempting to do anything but defend. She would have lost within a minute had Ichigo been more eager to deliver a finishing blow. And yet, though Orihime had been listening to him talk about how much he wanted to win this tournament for weeks, he would not use a finishing move. He would not hit her in earnest.
Suddenly, irrationally, Orihime became angry. He’s patronising me! And just like that, it occurred to her that she might defeat at least bow out with grace.
“The opening flower, the falling rain, winds of the east and west.” Two yellow rose petals on her palm spun into the air, became transparent golden halves of a shield, and sealed Ichigo within. “Healing flower bind.”
There were whispers and laughs in the audience, but Orihime ignored them. Ichigo himself seemed confused, until he tried to move and realised he was sealed in place. His magical energy might be replenishing, but he was trapped.
She did not have long – Ichigo would be through her shield in a minute or so. With a flick of her hand, Orihime spread black seeds about the arena. Where they touched the pools of Ichigo’s discarded Dark magic, they became black vines, where they settled on her own dispelled energy they were white. Orihime was barely finished when Ichigo broke out of his temporary prison, and swung his sword fully at her, magic trailing from the blade. He was taking her seriously at last, and though Orihime raised the Camilla blade, she knew it was useless. Ichigo’s sword pierced her through the shoulder, and her heart was filled with an awful and immense grief.
Orihime barely managed to keep her eyes open. The entire arena was waiting for her to fall, but she drove her sword into the ground and leant all her body’s weight on it. Ichigo stared at her with something like disbelief, and perhaps because of that he did not hear the soft popping sound around him. One by one, the vines had produced seedpods, and now those seedpods opened to scatter a shimmering silver pollen. Orihime breathed it in gladly and fell to the ground in a swoon. She did not see how Ichigo reacted.
She was standing on a high cliff, and Ichigo was at her side.
“I love you,” Orihime said simply, knowing that she was in a pollen dream.
“I know.” Ichigo grinned at her and pressed his lips to her forehead. “I love you too.”
Below them the sea dragged out a lonely song.
“Let’s travel the world,” Ichigo said, “in a flying coach drawn by silver swans.”
“That sounds fun.”
Orihime awoke. Ichigo was staring intently into her eyes. For a long moment, she felt that this was the continuation of her fever dream, and then reality reasserted itself.
“What are you doing here?” she asked him. “Shouldn’t you be fighting?”
“Well, no.” Ichigo laughed, but it was little hollow. “The match was declared a draw.”
Orihime felt guilty, and bit her lip.
“Sorry,” she said. “I couldn’t stand that you weren’t taking me seriously.”
“Well you weren’t taking me seriously either. At least I don’t think you were.”
Orihime looked down at the blanket.
“It’s not that. I just can’t attack anyone.”
She could not meet his eyes.
“Really?” Ichigo wasn’t laughing, as she had thought he might. His voice was very gentle. “I suppose that makes sense. You’re far too kind to have any killing intent.”
Orihime’s head jerked up. Ichigo’s brown eyes were smiling at her, the kindest smile she had ever seen on his face.
“I knew it,” he continued, “because your sword was so kind. It made me feel so… happy, when you cut me.” He lifted his bandaged arm.
There was silence for a moment.
“Kurosaki-kun, why is your blade so full of sorrow?”
There was more silence. Silence and darkness, for the sun was well below the horizon, and the lamps were just flickering on.
“I made that sword from my mother’s death,” he said eventually. “Inoue, I don’t know why you entered the tournament, but I’m sorry you had to fight me. Someone like you shouldn’t feel sorrow like that.”
“My brother died, you know, when I was nine. He was my legal guardian – our parents were killed in a magical experiment when I was two.” Orihime giggled at Ichigo’s mortified expression. “We’re not so different. You are very kind too. You made birds from the cherry blossom, just to make the children happy.”
Now Ichigo was a very bright red.
“You… You saw that?”
“Yeah.” Perhaps it was the fever dream, perhaps it was simply the unbearable weight of secrecy, or perhaps it was some instinctive knowledge of Ichigo’s expression, but Orihime finally took her courage in both her hands.
“I did. It was what made me like you.”
Above their heads, little fireflies danced. Orihime lured one to her fingertip with the smell of roses, and used it to look at Ichigo. He was looking away from her, but his words were clear.
“I always liked you. Ever since I first saw you.”
The noise of the fair and the tournament swelled over them. They sat together in the dark, hand in hand, in the cool silence of the tent, with the smell of fresh cut grass blowing up towards them from the long fields below the town.
*
Notes (of interest or not):
"Know thyself" was carved above the door to the Oracle of Delphi. It's always seemed useful advice.
Hanatarou was an obvious first opponent for Orihime, who could really only beat weak or foolish oppenents, but I wanted to get a little jab in at Ulquiorra. He's not half as powerful in this AU, and like Ichigo, he really underestimates a Flower mage.
Originally I was going to imply that Ichigo and Orihime had had a shared dream, but I couldn't work out how to do it. Whether or not they will eventually realise that is up to you.
Their swords are based on what I remember the names of their weapons in the original manga being, just as a pun.
Finally, I quite liked this AU, and I know all the rules of it, even if I didn't include them, so if you're dropping by the journal, feel free to ask me a question and I'll answer it with a little drabble in the comments.
bad_shield prompt community between the hours of three and about half five in the morning. I had fun.“Consider magic as the minutae of things. Not the grand, flashy gestures you have thought of it as before now, but as smoke and mirrors, the three knots that untie the wind and the hollow stone that reveals hidden worlds. If you cannot love the extraordinary in the mundane you will not last a year here, and for this reason, all of you will obey three rules during your time here and after you graduate. You will never meddle with life and death unless you are utterly without choice. You will never, ever, touch another person’s mind, for that is worse than death. Finally, you will never induce hatred or love magically.”
The words of Unohana-sensei echoed in Orihime’s head as she sat on the summer-dry grass, eating her lunch. She was utterly absorbed in weaving a minor grass-net illusion, and was definitely not covertly watching her classmate Kurosaki Ichigo as he played football across the playground.
When Unohana-sensei had warned them of the three rules of magic on the first day, Orihime had privately thought that Ichigo would not last a week, less still a year. It was one thing for him to be her odd, wanderly next door neighbour, but it was quite another for him to be her fellow apprentice who could not even be bothered to take notes on the first day.
It was only later that she had realised that Ichigo had not needed to take notes. It was not that he had an especially good memory, or that he already knew the rules by heart. He was simply such a good natured and kind person that he would never have broken them. Oh, Orihime was quite aware that he maintained an effective façade of distance and aloofness, but she had also seen him charm cherry blossoms to pink and silver birds just to delight small children in the neighbourhood. At that moment he had become something of a project for her, and she had vowed to match him in every subject, in order to understand him.
It proved somewhat harder than expected.
Orhime was skilled in healing magic beyond belief, and at every minor charm and cantrip she excelled. In those areas she not only matched her private rival, she far outstripped him. On the other hand, when it came to aggressive magic – summoning darkness so that your opponent would wander in a maze of their own fear or turning the glance of sunlight on water into a blade that might pierce even the hardest armour – she collapsed. Orihime, no matter how she was assured that it was only practise, no matter how well prepared her opponent was, struggled to inflict harm. And so she watched idly from the sidelines as Ichigo played haunting melodies that would drive a man to despair, as he fashioned black swords of heartbreak, their hilts bound with silence and secrets.
If you had been in a position to ask the sixteen year old girl exactly what it was that drove her in her rivalry with the red haired boy, she would have blushed and squirmed, and finally, cautiously admitted that maybe what she felt was not hatred, or anything like it. Orihime would have loved not to know what she felt for Kurosaki-kun, but the first precept of magic is know thyself, and she was a magician.
The worst part of the whole situation was that Ichigo himself was calmly and obliviously unware of it all. He had never once recognised Orihime, even as a rival. He was too caught up in his own quest, and Orihime, though she shone in her own way, was too demure to force recognition upon him.
It was a delicate situation, and it changed on the day of the summer festival.
The sky was clear and blue, the sun a bright disk of power in the sky. Solar mages, their golden pendants flashing in the light, hummed hymns of praise as they wandered among the brightly decorated stalls, while lunar mages scowled in the shadows, wan under the light. As she walked among the stalls, Orihime heard one of the latter folk, her upper classmate Kuchiki Rukia, complain bitterly that this would put her off her game and make winning the tournament impossible.
The apprentices’ tournament. That was what today was all about. Today was the day that she would finally prove to Kurosaki-kun that she was his equal (No! His superior.) and force him to recognise her. Today she would win.
Orihime wandered along the crooked alleys and the wide avenues of the festival town. Lemon verbena and cinnamon scented the air, honey and musk and frankincense (at a most reasonable price) wafted this way and that. Bottles of dried frogs lined up beside wool thread in a thousand and one colours and copies of magical texts, common and rare. Tiny jewel-like sweets were piled in shallow copper dishes, skewers of tofu and pepper twirled on wooden skewers.
Finally, she reached the tournament tent, an open-walled affair of red and blue cloth. Signing her name on the release and entry forms, Orihime walked into the champion’s ring and ran smack into Kurosaki Ichigo.
“Inoue?” His voice was surprised, his eyes hardly less so. “What are you doing here?”
“Um… that is… well, I’m competing in the tournament.” Inoue tried to sound firm, but felt that something was lacking in her delivery, because Ichigo did not seem pacified.
“You’re fighting? Are you sure?”
“Of course I am,” Orihime responded indignantly, though by the softness of her eyes she might have been professing undying friendship.
“It’s just that you never seem to like fighting much at school.”
Orihime’s instinctive reaction (he notices me!) rather conflicted with her previous indignation, and she was utterly unable to come up with a legitimate response.
“I’ll see you in the tournament, Kurosaki-kun,” she gasped out, and with that, she turned and fled.
After the sign-ups had ended and the fierce heat of the sun had waned, the lists were posted, and Orihime was called to her first match. She was not due to meet Kurosaki until the third round, if they both won, so she was grimly determined to resist her own inclinations and beat her opponent. Luckily, the timid boy, Hanatarou Yamada, was a delicate weaver mage, and Orihime defeated him quickly and efficiently with the first sacred flower bind, which sent him into a pleasant dream of his heart’s desire. She even got to see Ichigo’s first match, against the notorious Abarai Renji. Ichigo prevailed by using an illusion of the moon to dazzle Renji before striking him with one of his trademark black swords. Orihime thought bitterly that it was not for nothing that Ichigo was noted as the most promising Dark mage for half a century.
Her second match was more difficult, and she missed Ichigo’s entirely, though she heard that he fought a barbarian man who used blood magic to chilling effect.
She herself faced Ulquiorra Schiffer, a slight, dark-haired boy with green eyes and an expressionless face. His fear sword effortless split the first sacred flower bind, and when she drew her own weapon, the Withered Camilla blade, he struck at her relentlessly.
Orihime leapt about the arena, watching his footwork carefully, hoping that she could set up a circle, but he seemed to expect that, and touched the earth as lightly as possible. Orihime’s victory was half luck – Ulquiorra, casting a nightmare bind, missed the flower petals that landed on his back one by one, sending him into a slumber of some hours.
There was a short break before the third round, though Orihime would rather have skipped it, for all that a healer saw to her wounds – anticipation was strumming her body like a harp string.
“Will you please welcome to the arena Dark mage Kurosaki Ichigo and Flower mage Inoue Orihime?”
The audience applauded. Orihime hardly heard them, though she heard Ichigo greet her clearly.
“The best of luck,” he said.
“Break a leg, Kurosaki-kun!” Orihime sounded as cheerful as she could with her trembling voice and hands.
A red light flashed and the bout began.
They circled each other warily at first, testing each other out. Ichigo seemed curiously reluctant to strike, which Orihime decided could only be to her advantage. Let him think you’re weak. You won’t get past this one with a direct attack, no matter how quick, so make him underestimate you. Raising her hands in front of her, Orihime summoned her magic energy and chanted her private incantation.
“Light of the rising sun, bring forth the Withered Camilla blade!” a short white sword appeared in her hands, the hilt surmounted by a golden pommel. Without pausing, she charged Ichigo, who quickly drew his own sword and struck back. Orihime had anticipated that, and her feet sank into a wide stance, absorbing his energy and dissipating it. Below them, their shadows grew and wavered as Ichigo’s Dark magic poured into the ground.
They clashed back and forth. Orihime knew that Ichigo was by far the better and more ruthless swordsman, and even their swords proved it, for the Withered Camilla blade would only dispel the evil in someone’s heart; Ichigo’s Sky Chain would paralyze an opponent with overwhelming grief. At just that moment the tip of the Sky Chain cut her arm, and she felt just a touch of grief, a grief that seemed as vast as the sea. Orihime shuddered. She could not win this as a battle.
Thankfully, that was not all it could be.
Magic is in the little things. Orihime began to throw illusion after illusion at Ichigo, growing the grass roots at his feet into impenetrable forests, the odd daisy into a flaming sun. They were simple tricks, but they distracted the boy, and allowed Orihime a strike. She raised her sword, swung it, reminding herself that this would be the only chance she got, that this was her one hope of ever making Kurosaki-kun see her – and pulled back. Her timing on the strike was slightly off, and the tip of the white blade nicked Ichigo, but it did not matter. She had failed. Even in a mock battle, she could not bring herself to hit Ichigo.
The fight began to go badly for her. She was pressed back, harried, hounded, no longer even attempting to do anything but defend. She would have lost within a minute had Ichigo been more eager to deliver a finishing blow. And yet, though Orihime had been listening to him talk about how much he wanted to win this tournament for weeks, he would not use a finishing move. He would not hit her in earnest.
Suddenly, irrationally, Orihime became angry. He’s patronising me! And just like that, it occurred to her that she might defeat at least bow out with grace.
“The opening flower, the falling rain, winds of the east and west.” Two yellow rose petals on her palm spun into the air, became transparent golden halves of a shield, and sealed Ichigo within. “Healing flower bind.”
There were whispers and laughs in the audience, but Orihime ignored them. Ichigo himself seemed confused, until he tried to move and realised he was sealed in place. His magical energy might be replenishing, but he was trapped.
She did not have long – Ichigo would be through her shield in a minute or so. With a flick of her hand, Orihime spread black seeds about the arena. Where they touched the pools of Ichigo’s discarded Dark magic, they became black vines, where they settled on her own dispelled energy they were white. Orihime was barely finished when Ichigo broke out of his temporary prison, and swung his sword fully at her, magic trailing from the blade. He was taking her seriously at last, and though Orihime raised the Camilla blade, she knew it was useless. Ichigo’s sword pierced her through the shoulder, and her heart was filled with an awful and immense grief.
Orihime barely managed to keep her eyes open. The entire arena was waiting for her to fall, but she drove her sword into the ground and leant all her body’s weight on it. Ichigo stared at her with something like disbelief, and perhaps because of that he did not hear the soft popping sound around him. One by one, the vines had produced seedpods, and now those seedpods opened to scatter a shimmering silver pollen. Orihime breathed it in gladly and fell to the ground in a swoon. She did not see how Ichigo reacted.
She was standing on a high cliff, and Ichigo was at her side.
“I love you,” Orihime said simply, knowing that she was in a pollen dream.
“I know.” Ichigo grinned at her and pressed his lips to her forehead. “I love you too.”
Below them the sea dragged out a lonely song.
“Let’s travel the world,” Ichigo said, “in a flying coach drawn by silver swans.”
“That sounds fun.”
Orihime awoke. Ichigo was staring intently into her eyes. For a long moment, she felt that this was the continuation of her fever dream, and then reality reasserted itself.
“What are you doing here?” she asked him. “Shouldn’t you be fighting?”
“Well, no.” Ichigo laughed, but it was little hollow. “The match was declared a draw.”
Orihime felt guilty, and bit her lip.
“Sorry,” she said. “I couldn’t stand that you weren’t taking me seriously.”
“Well you weren’t taking me seriously either. At least I don’t think you were.”
Orihime looked down at the blanket.
“It’s not that. I just can’t attack anyone.”
She could not meet his eyes.
“Really?” Ichigo wasn’t laughing, as she had thought he might. His voice was very gentle. “I suppose that makes sense. You’re far too kind to have any killing intent.”
Orihime’s head jerked up. Ichigo’s brown eyes were smiling at her, the kindest smile she had ever seen on his face.
“I knew it,” he continued, “because your sword was so kind. It made me feel so… happy, when you cut me.” He lifted his bandaged arm.
There was silence for a moment.
“Kurosaki-kun, why is your blade so full of sorrow?”
There was more silence. Silence and darkness, for the sun was well below the horizon, and the lamps were just flickering on.
“I made that sword from my mother’s death,” he said eventually. “Inoue, I don’t know why you entered the tournament, but I’m sorry you had to fight me. Someone like you shouldn’t feel sorrow like that.”
“My brother died, you know, when I was nine. He was my legal guardian – our parents were killed in a magical experiment when I was two.” Orihime giggled at Ichigo’s mortified expression. “We’re not so different. You are very kind too. You made birds from the cherry blossom, just to make the children happy.”
Now Ichigo was a very bright red.
“You… You saw that?”
“Yeah.” Perhaps it was the fever dream, perhaps it was simply the unbearable weight of secrecy, or perhaps it was some instinctive knowledge of Ichigo’s expression, but Orihime finally took her courage in both her hands.
“I did. It was what made me like you.”
Above their heads, little fireflies danced. Orihime lured one to her fingertip with the smell of roses, and used it to look at Ichigo. He was looking away from her, but his words were clear.
“I always liked you. Ever since I first saw you.”
The noise of the fair and the tournament swelled over them. They sat together in the dark, hand in hand, in the cool silence of the tent, with the smell of fresh cut grass blowing up towards them from the long fields below the town.
*
Notes (of interest or not):
"Know thyself" was carved above the door to the Oracle of Delphi. It's always seemed useful advice.
Hanatarou was an obvious first opponent for Orihime, who could really only beat weak or foolish oppenents, but I wanted to get a little jab in at Ulquiorra. He's not half as powerful in this AU, and like Ichigo, he really underestimates a Flower mage.
Originally I was going to imply that Ichigo and Orihime had had a shared dream, but I couldn't work out how to do it. Whether or not they will eventually realise that is up to you.
Their swords are based on what I remember the names of their weapons in the original manga being, just as a pun.
Finally, I quite liked this AU, and I know all the rules of it, even if I didn't include them, so if you're dropping by the journal, feel free to ask me a question and I'll answer it with a little drabble in the comments.
