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polarissruler) wrote2021-02-08 12:27 pm
Heaven's Feel (Fanfiction)
Author/Artist:
Title: Heaven's Feel
Characters: Kisuku Urahara; Justeaze Lizrich von Einzbern
Rating: T
Word Count: 689
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Summary:
A/N: So, guess who watched Bleach and found himself a bunch of new favorite characters? This plot bunny refused to leave my brain until I finally sat and wrote it. Hope you like it. All comments are welcomed!He has been dispatched to observe since the first ritual.
Read on AO3, FFN or here!
The mages fiddle around the carven, shaking with ancient anxiety. If their argument escalates, if their alliance breaks, perhaps Urahara would avoid so many deaths. But it is not meant to be. Their master - who has seen that possibility - walks in and his mere presence ends the fight.
His eyes fall on Urahara. No hiding place protects against that kaleidoscopic stare and - with his cover blown - the shinigami considers escape. He would rather explain himself to Central 46 than catch the interest of a dead man and his mortal followers.
Zelretch turns his head. Urahara sighs in relief.
A miracle is happening. The Clock Tower had to send one of them to watch. Or he is there on his own violation, seeking a cure for his slowly dying soul? Urahara can only spy and speculate until the answer reveals itself.
“Now they will kill me.” A bright soul perches next to Urahara. Her dead body lies on the altar. The mages perform the last rites for their sacrifice. “Payment for the miracle.”
“It will fail,” he replies because it has to fail. The world will reject any attempt at immortality.
“We can guess. Only he knows the future.” She spins on her toes and her white gown flutters like a butterfly’s wings. “But I have succeeded. Only the scale changes.” A knife pierces in her body; a lip service to ensure her death.
“They could have killed you,” Urahara notes.
“Have you learned of my defect, mister shinigami: to wake up every day without a memory? Countless can be said that countless Justeaze have died for this day. I am the end of a chain, long started before my birth.”
One mage - blue-haired - carries the corpse.
“She will be recycled,” Justeaze narrates. “Even if tonight the ritual fails, Echt will create a new Justeaze with her. We broke the veil.” She smiles. “You have lost, shinigami. Humanity will overcome death.”
Urahara tips his hat. “I will wait for that.”
He has never imagined humans would come close. Nor that they would become such a stubborn thorn.
Urahara takes some time to note the second War and by the time he has arrived, all participants have died.
A prime chance to dismantle the Grail while nobody can catch him. No matter how low is the risk, humans should not possess the Third Sorcery.
In his report, Urahara notes it will fail, anyway. He recommends only close observance.
He does not have to visit for the third war. His job is terminated, for the eternity and after that. If he dares to step out of his secure space, his afterlife might end bloodily and suddenly. Following his sense, Urahara should hide.
But the sense is one thing he lacks in abandon.
The War proves to be as sudden as the previous. Two of the Servants have died before it could start properly. One Romanian mage summons the army, giving unfulfilled promises. Their uneasy alliance flirts with falling apart, and one loss too much dissolves it.
In the end, nobody summons the miracle.
If all wars will stay as boring, then Urahara might avoid the next one.
He almost did. But his curiosity, building up for half a century, demands an answer. And with a bit of luck, this war will end as fast as the other ones.
It does not. In fact, he stays there for two weeks. The mages find newer, crueler ways to kill.
The Grail reveals itself for a first time and Justeaze's purity glows for a moment, followed by a torrent of black mud. A greedy fire spreads out, pushing the swamp everywhere and poisons the air.
A few times Urahara had observed the gates of Hell, wondering what lies on the other side. Whatever it is, this inferno will beat it in horror. There’s not a trace of Hollows; there’s not a trace of anything. Living dead with burnt souls crawl and drag themselves through the ash. Red mist fills the sky and repeats curses, whispers of poisonous past.
And Urahara knows that he must come for the next war. Because the miracle bears no repeating.